I turn to my left, and there’s Prof.Sandy Plum with his blank poker face. Could it be him? Could he have done it just after we had finished playing cricket in the morning, when we had to take turns to bathe before lunch? He would have been all alone then…

Next to me, Miss Shruti G Scarlett was eyeing me with suspicion. Gulp, I was not exempt either. I am not the murderer, I am not! I am an old lady with a rather innocent name, Mrs.White. But it is me that she accuses.

“I think the murder was committed by Mrs. White (a flashing look at me), in the conservatory with a knife.” The knife lands thunk, on the little conservatory square. Not me! I don’t even know what a conservatory is, much less commit a murder there.

Colonel ‘Periamma’ Mustard comes to my rescue. At least, I think that is what her inscrutable face encodes as she leans in close to Miss Scarlett and whispers something to her and shows her a card. Across me, Reverend Adit Green has something to show as well. They conspire among themselves as the rest of us try to figure out who the murderer was, and where they had killed Mr.Black.

It is quavering Mrs.Peacock’s turn next. Mrs. Chinky Peacock noisily scrunches on a piece of ‘thakkali vadaam’ and goes to the kitchen. “Kitchen,” she thinks a bit. “Knife and Miss Scarlett.”

Ah! But it was not in the kitchen; I know that. I flash a card at her, and Reverend Green also has something to show. So we all know something now!

Reverend Green speaks next from the library. “It was in the library,” he says, in his thick American drawl, “Miss Scarlett and rope.” Only the good Colonel has something to say. The plot thickens!

Colonel Periamma plays next. She taps her little yellow figure over the squares till she reaches the library too. “Library, rope, Colonel Mustard,” she says, blaming herself first before pointing accusatory fingers. Ah, but I know that it is not her.

Now, it is a mad rush to the library as everyone is impatient to accuse. But we have to take turns. Next to me, Prof. Sandy Plum is nowhere near the library; he is near the ball room. But he steps in there, and accuses Miss Scarlett, and drops a little rope in the room. Reverend Green and Mrs. Peacock both have something to say to that. OK. So, now, I know.

Mrs. White goes to the library. “I did it here with a rope,” she says. Her confession is evidence proof; no one has anything to say! Colonel Periamma takes out three cards from under the game board, and I see my own face stare at me, and the library, and that coil of rope.

“Yay!! I won,” says the murderer, putting her hands in the air.

We kids plead for another game, but my aunt would not let us play at murder until we’ve had the rendam-tharam food – the second meal of the day. We down soft balls of rice with a boiled pea in the centre of each, and squabble over who gets the kottai and kadippu of the mango. That was one thing we had not murdered back then, our innocence.

(May does not only mean murder to me – figuratively, the large number of Agatha Christie and Nancy Drews that I downed then. May was the summer, the time of the year when all of us cousins would get together under the common roof of one aunt or the other to play and eat and squabble and fight and be friends again. We were patrons of venerable institutions like the Dolls Unity Club and occasionally we acquired special Superhero power to fight crime. On nights the grown-ups went out, we played Dark Room. Clue (also known as Cluedo) was one of our favourite games; the game board itself belonged to my aunt. Her sons played with it, and then we played with it. Now, my cousin who is nine has exclusive rights to the board. I grow tired of bowling to him sometimes, or even telling stories, but I never grow tired of Clue!)

Raghuram Godavarthi

I was 9. School had closed early, and He had offered to drop me home, on his way home. It was the monsoon, and a cyclone was expected. Already, the first rains had hit the city with a foretaste of the disaster to unfold. The stagnating rainwater was just beginning to lap at one’s ankles. As I waved goodbye to him from the arms of my mother, he smiled, kick-started his scooter and was gone. School was closed for the month that followed, first due to the rains, and then due to the heavy amount of repair needed on some of the buildings. When I finally went back, I was eager to see Him again. They told me he was gone. I ran home crying. Mother and Father came to school the next day, and the principal told them simply that he was dead. They tried to explain that to the 9-year old me.

I am 23. I have come back to my hometown now that Father is retired and will not be transferred again. I visit School again. I meet the Principal, then an energetic 40-something, now a weary man waiting for retirement. I tell him I still haven’t forgotten Him. The Principal looks at me with a bemused expression. He asks me in a measured voice if I would like to know about Him. I say, unhesitant, yes. The Principal tells me of the first interview, when He first came to the school. He was all charm and kindness, a benevolent god who brought luck with him to the school. He loved the students, and the other staff loved Him. He was quickly promoted, and he took His responsibilities in stride without ever losing any of that charm or kindness. Five years on, He had become assistant-principal, and was virtually everyone’s Hero. I felt a nostalgic pang of envy – the 9-year old awakes again. The Principal continues – no one seemed to know much about His past, or His present. Like the gods of Hindu fables, He had come to the school at a time of great need. Unlike those gods, no legends were ever written about him, only one short obituary, composed by the Principal himself. His body had been found washed into the courtyard of a house the second day of the cyclone. It was presumed that He had had an accident. Then the Principal paused, looked hard at me, and said “But I thought it was murder.”

The Principal was 42. So, He must have been about 33-34. He was a champion swimmer, and if anyone could be trusted with rescue missions, it was Him. He had dropped me home, and then, reported back to school for more such trips. He had been sent by the Principal to take two other students home. All the staff had been asked to meet at the school after dropping off students, just to account for everyone. All came back, except Him. Then, the search parties were formed. They divided the city into six, one pie slice each for two teachers. That year, the cyclone eventually killed 68 people, and many more were lost. The house His body was found in was in the poorer part of town, and those stricken people had still dutifully called the municipality about His body. The crematorium staff collected His body on the first day possible, which was three days later. The full impact of the cyclone was only known eight days since it had begun, with very few services still active in the city. It was pure luck that the Principal even was called. “I went, and identified Him” the Principal almost whispered now, “and when I looked over him one last time, something caught my eye – it was a broken bit of glass near His ear – and it was jammed in His flesh. His whole body was swollen from water retention, but that piece of glass stuck – Why?” I winced, the mental image made me choke, and I shivered, not sure if I was ready to hear more. “And then?”I heard myself ask.

The Principal said he’d asked the morgue attendant about an autopsy. The morgue attendant had looked at him as if he were insane, muttered something about making a mountain out of a molehill and walked away. “Then, I called a police inspector – a neighbor of mine. It was a hard task convincing the morgue officials that it was a suspicious case, but the inspector handled it well. The autopsy confirmed what I feared.” He had been killed, his throat slit, and later left to drift with the rainwater. “The inspector duly filed a first investigation report on my behalf, but the case was never pursued, owing to lack of any leading evidence, and also all the pending rescue work –the concern for those alive or possibly so being greater than that for those already dead.” I stared, unable to believe that they had let it go at that. “But surely, they found some clue, some way of finding out who killed Him?” I said. The Principal looked at me with steady eyes, half-nodded, and then rummaging through his desk drawer, pulled out a threaded folder. He opened it, and flipped the pages, and handed me the folder, with a newspaper article stuck to it. “Perhaps,” he said” this will satisfy your curiosity”. I read the piece, a short one, but very heavy in its import. My eyes went teary as I finished and handed back the folder to the Principal, and crying, I said my good-byes and ran from the room.

Another Hero perishes

We are back and this time with an “Empty Box” . You heard us right, we are themed “An empty box” this month of april. Find yourself reading a whole bunch of entries around this abstract theme and see the different manifestations these boxes take. Read, enjoy and tell us what you think

Click on the link to read the magazine

By Manasa

Episode 5

The rays of the bright round moon slant across the beams of the narrow room. I lie on the best blanket they have to offer me, next to Kunti stretched out on my side. She is fast asleep, snoring, slightly flatulent. She’s the noisy kind, not the noisome one. That’s a relief.

Let me mention here that this is the first time in my life that I have slept next to someone; slept in a room with six people rather. Back in the palace, Shaktima used to sleep with me till I was 6, but then I insisted of a room of my own. No one minded. I was never afraid of the dark like some kids. I was not afraid of ghosts and monsters under the bed. I am not afraid of many things, actually.

But here I am now, unable to sleep on the first night in my new surroundings. My husbands snore lightly, sometimes in rhythm. That’s right, you heard me right, my husbands. Every one of the five of them.

I guess I should fill you in on what happened this evening.

Our makeshift chariot rolled up outside a row of mud huts. Each of the huts in the row was indistinguishable from the next. I could sense people in the huts peering out; their eyes on me, but no one actually stepped out. I wondered if I was still in Panchala, whether I was these people’s princess, whether they knew me, whether they knew that their princess was to marry the mighty Arjuna.

Arjuna held out a hand to me and helped me down from the chariot. Bhima made to go into the house, but Arjuan stopped him. “Let’s wait for them,” he said. ‘It would be unfair if we showed her to mother without all of us being there. After all they helped us win her.”

“Us?” Bhima laughed. “Brother, you won her. Next, you would be saying let’s marry her together,” he winked at me.

I laughed. I was growing to like Bhima already, that rough and ready face, the twinkle in his eye, the wide smile. He went and sat under on a boulder, tore a piece of grass and chewed on it.

I stretched my arms and walked around aimlessly, looking at nothing in particular. Arjuna was solicitous. “Would you like to sit down a bit?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry you have to wait here so. We want our brothers there when we introduce you to mother. It has always been that the five of us stick together, no matter what. That was the only way we have survived.” Arjuna paused. “After father died, mother raised us single handedly. And it has always been because we have stayed together, under her wise guidance.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Are you sure you don’t want some water from the well, maybe?”

“Well?”

“Yes, there is a common well that all of us draw water from. Mother will show you tomorrow and you can learn to work the pulley. Are you sure that you are not tired?”

There was something about the offhand way he mentioned the well, mother and my being tired in the same sentence that was a little disturbing. Why show me the well? So that I could draw water from the well? Don’t take me wrong, I am not a stuck up princess who thinks doing chores is beneath her dignity. Considering that I had never done such things, and considering that I was marrying, but you would never know it, a prince. But it was the offhand way that he said it that irked me. “Oh, you are the woman, you must work for us now.” Somehow, drawing water from wells had never been a part of the picture of my marital life.

As we stood there, we heard hooves, and in a moment we were joined by two horses. Yud rode the first one, the twins were on the second. The horses were evidently from my father’s stable.

“Good that you waited for us,” said Yudhistra, as he dismounted. He was a man of fair height, a pencil thin mustache gracing his upper lip, a riot of boyish curls on his head. Yet it was the eyes which gave away the maturity of his person; sad owl’s eyes.

Nakula and Sahadeva jumped down to, and Sahadeva rubbed down the horses lovingly. “Gifts of your brother,” he said to me, with a wide grin.

“Really?”

“Yes, it was becoming a bigger fight than we expected. Drishtadymna told us that he would take care and told us to get away,” said Nakula. ‘So here we are!”

‘Good, now we can go in and tell mother,” said Yud. Sahadeva was at the back of the house, putting away the horses and the chariot, but he did not seem to miss Sahadeva. Moreover, the horses were neighing and whinnying, so that alerted Kunti to our arrival.

“Who’s there?” we heard a female voice sound from the interiors of the house.

“Mother, it’s us!” shouted back Bhima. “Look at what we have brought home today!”

Mother Kunti’s voice sounded from inside the house again. “Whatever it is, share it among yourselves equally, children!”

Bhima and Arjuna started laughing convulsively. Nakula joined in too and even Yud was smiling. “No, mother,” said Yudhistra, and motioned me to follow him. “This is what we got home,” and opened the door. I walked in first, followed by all the brothers.

A thick haze of smoke by the fireplace parted to reveal a woman, old, yet beautiful. The elegance of her youth had not left her; the lines under her neck were the only indication of her age. She was frail boned and pale skinned, with her certain haughty air about her eyes. This woman, trying to make a fire in a mud kitchen and cook for five sons (and a daughter-in-law), was no doubt a queen.

“A woman?” she laughed. “What’s your name, child?”

“Draupadi”

“Ah, the daughter of Drupada, the Panchala princess. I knew your mother, Draupadi, a fine woman she was.” She turned to her sons. “A fine alliance, boys. So was that were you went when you said you went hunting?”

“Yes mother, though Arjuna was the one who hunted her,” said Bhima, grinning.

“No matter, what I hold still stands. Arjuna, you do understand, don’t you?” She turned her face to his and gave him The Look. “Share her with your brothers, I will arrange for all the five of you to be married to her soon.”

I stood there, dumbstruck.

There were discussions before the decision was made final. Kunti and Yud went outside and talked first. I could hear Bhima’s voice when it was his turn. “But Arjuna won him. It is not fair to him.”

Nobody asked me if it was fair to me.

Arjuna refused to look at me, and I sat silently in a corner, taking in my surroundings. Five husbands! How would that work anyway? Who was she, Kunti, to impose all of her sons on me when it was one of them who had won me by right, and when, indeed, it was one of them that I was interested in?

While Kunti spoke to Bhima, I waled over to Yudhistra and Arjuna sitting at the back of the house, talking. How would I get to tell him what I wanted to? I cleared my throat.

The two men looked at me, Yud almost embarrassed, casting his eyes to the ground almost and Arjuna giving me a weak smile. “I’m sorry it’s so confusing,” he said, always the well bred cavalier.

The words rushed out of me before I had the time to think.

“Do you think I could talk to you for a second?”

They were addressed to Arjuna. But Yud sprang forward first. “Yes, mylady, please feel free to be open with us. We shall not do anything against your wishes.”

I hesitated for a minute, not sure what to say. I fixed my gaze on Arjuna steadfastly. Never have I seen a man’s face fall so fast; that was Yud. ‘Go on,” Yud murmured, and left us in the shadow of the big tree.

“It’s not fair. Why don’t you talk to your mother?”

“I can’t,” said Arjuna. “You don’t know my mother. She always has her will. I can’t go against her. Bhima went against her and married that forest girl. She made him leave her behind. I can’t leave you behind.”

The last few words caused my head to reel for a minute, but I gained my composure. “But I can’t be a wife to you and all your brothers as well!”

“Well, if mother wills it so, then it can’t be any other way. We will see what we can make of the situation.”

This man, this warrior that men from the tips of the Himalayas all through the spread of the Ganges were afraid to duel with, the son of the legendary Indra, was this the man who stands before me so, wishy-washy, not able to make up his mind? Afraid of standing up to his mother? Indeed why did he even need to have allegiance to her? Was he not a grown man? Could he not, with his prowess, carve a kingdom for himself anywhere on earth as he saw fit? Would he rather share me with his brothers to maintain the integrity of their family rather than give his woman her due and assert his own independence? Did he even care for me, or (for the first time doubt started creeping in) was I just another trophy?

It was at that moment that I felt my most helpless and vulnerable. There was nobody that I could turn to, nobody else in the house that I trusted. My father or brother would not care; I was the wife of the Pandavas. More strength for them when my father would attack Drona.

But I was wrong, of course. I saw the strutting peacock feather first and knew from the jaunty walk who was around the corner. Kanha, of course.

“I saw the feather walk into the house through the doorway, and talk to Kunti. Poor boy, how tired he must be! There were no horses or hooves, he must have walked all the way over. I ran to the back of the house to get him some water from the despised well.

Sahadeva stood next to the well, looking at his own reflection, or at least trying to. He started when I called his name. ‘Sahadeva, Krishna is here. Could you please show me how to draw water from the well?”

“Certainly, Draupadi,” he said. I liked the way he used my name, without the averted eyes and inhibitions of his brothers. He was a boy, closer to my age than the rest of them, very conversational. “I don’t like this business one bit, Draupadi. Really, why is no one asking what you think? Do you want to marry all of us?”

This frank youth, drawing water for me, certainly pleased me. I warmed to him at once. “No, Sahadeva. Much as I like and respect all of you, I don’t know if I can find it in me to treat you all with equal fervor were I to be the wife of you all.” I hesitated.

“I will take up your case with mother, Draupadi,” said the boy to me. “She does these things at times, and I am sure she has her reasons. But your desires cannot be blown away just like that. Besides would we be happy with a wife who is not happy with us?”

I said nothing, but smiled, and took the pot of water into the house, struggling under its weight. Sahadeva taught me the correct way to hold the pot. As I walked inot the house, I noticed Yud standing by the door, lost to the world.

To be Continued ….

Next Page »