The world, not the real one, the fictional one with unlikely tales of love, achievements, establishments, compassion and even dreams. Tales told in various literal styles, languages and genres. Told from various perspectives, of the protagonists, the antagonists, the third parties and what not. I, am an unlikely protagonist and my story is an unlikely one too, but none the less a pleasant one.
I know, I am stretching the preface a bit too long; but this is the first time I am telling a story. And an autobiographic one too. I read a lot; (I presume so!) and pass critical reviews saying the author failed to engage the writer’s interest from onset and the like. Now that I am being an author, I totally understand.
How does a dream creep upon your mind, does it right away begin with our conscious thinking or does it seep in smoothly like ink from the tip of the leaking pen into the fabric of your white school uniform shirt. Or is it like the harsh intrusion of light into your eyelids, on the morning of a late into the night married life self-indulgence. Mine was an unconscious one; I assume so as I have no clue if I ever dreamt of it before. I actually had no dreams at all before. I was born content. It seems so ridiculous now that I reflect upon it. Nothing had caught my fancy as to the prospect of being a dream or an ambition. I was born into poor surroundings, which could have been one of the basic reasons of my lack of ambitions. Unlike the rich, poor are always in large numbers, they account for the majority of the population. I was born into a world filled with hundreds who looked exactly like me. The ones I was born of were busy making more like me, or having their food, or the male partners in crime, busy having a few drinks to numb their sense of suffering.
I was entitled to a life of living underneath, of a life of being flattened against the muddy floors. I was content over the prospect of that too. I would prefer that to being torn and thrown off into the marshes or on to the railway tracks which are hot, smelly and stained. But then I believe destiny had pity over me. I was chosen to be taken into a household, where I saw the white uniform shirt I mentioned in my preface. I was a constant companion to the man of the house, whether it be on his evening strides or the rides with him and the madam of the house, over the weekends. The madam was a bright, smart lady in her mid twenties, young but I often thought her as the decision maker of the house. She never took decisions, or imposed them upon her husband, where I find her smartness adorable, she just guides him into thinking her preferable options as the only and eventual decisions of the household. She was also the more romantic of the two, her intense stares into his face as he drove the vehicle often pronouncing it, or the way her sound livens up as she hints upon a travel involving the two. My “Sir” gets very engrossed in his driving; he hums in reply to her queries, even shrugs off when she tries holding his hand as he shifts the gear. Poor lady, in her best moods, would verbally raise her wish to be held hand in hand as he drove; as they drove off on a long ride.
And she muttered for the first time, the word that eventually became a dream I would aspire over.
Manali, she blurted out enthusiastically.
Hmm, he replied in his usual way, eyes on road, he has trouble driving at night.
I was far more intrigued by what she mentioned of than the person she would have hoped for, but as always she was persistent in her efforts.
The snow clad mountain is quite a view, she said her enthusiasm intact.
The response was the same, followed abruptly by an angry cuss word at a vehicle which didn’t give a dim headlight.
My madam is good at creating castles with her words, and right then she was unfolding visuals of a placed covered in snow, with apple orchards heavily laden with the fruits, it would appear they drooped in a slumber, comfortably in the cool, sunny noon. The hotel room, she imagined, had a balcony to sit during the evening, with a hot black tea in one hand and freshly made fries in the other. You couldn’t leave it for a minute off the stove, she says, they would go cold. The romantic in her was now taking over, the cold at the night needed more than the heater in the room to comfort her. ‘Sir’ had a smile upon his lips; madam was now talking of them beneath the thick woolens, on the big square bed in the hotel suite. Beneath the white bed sheet is the brown woolen sheet, and beneath it we are. She would not stop, even as I sat there, feeling rather ridiculous.
How about a Jacuzzi and a warm bath?
It actually startled me, I never remember him speaking as he drove, especially at night. I prayed he would pull over; he was distracted from his task of driving that bulky, tailed vehicle. But he kept driving, and talking. It was a start, now each travel involved discussion about Manali. About its beauty, about the cool air, the visual bliss. I was slowly being engrossed in it myself. They were planning on a travel, I couldn’t plan one, I began dreaming of one.
Rains; most people find rains stand for something romantic. I wish my lady had some original thoughts there, but the same cliché of intimate moments on bed, followed by black tea follows here too. I believe two reasons, her own unfulfilled wish to own a house located in a tea plantation, and the fact that her father is a dealer in cots, beds and couches; a wholesaler at it. I associate rains with filth and accidents. The evening strolls are intervened by down pours, the filth part herein. Accidents; personally, I was crippled by one. Sir and I had a fall when he tried to avoid a pothole. He wasn’t hurt, I was. Rains can play spoilers of dreams; the injury pushed me from being ‘his’ constant companion. My health had taken a toll, and my lady got a replacement. Servants are accomplices that can be done with or replaced, as unapologetic as it is.
The new guy was smarter looking, I never interacted with him, but an immigrant. He was from a different state, where labour was cheaper. I was now a strong supporter of a leader who strongly opposed immigrants, who was keen on building walls to protect local “breeds”. Rightly so. I always looked in disdain at the immigrant who was indiscriminately usurping my place. I still waited to be summoned into service.
I was not privy to the details of the travel to Manali. It was a distant, lost opputunity. I had whipped and whined myself into accepting the bitter sourness of the grapes.
An evening; I was comfortable in my self-pitying position, there was an unusual scramble. The man and lady; a few heavy suit cases, excited talks. I heaved a sigh! So finally it was the day!
A car drew in, the baggage quickly loaded. Before I, in my passive state of attention, had realized, I was sitting in the car. As the car rolled off into the road, in a trance, I looked at the poor immigrant who had no clue of what had happened. A moment later I came to senses. May be it was all an error. The man had in his rush took me in, by habit than upon his conscious thinking. I was now praying emphatically. Just let them be distracted so much to take no notice of me. Just this once, bless me with careless abandonment. I had considered myself to be an atheist as I was forbidden from entering temples, bodes of Gods. But in the need of hour, I pleaded no matter what my belief was.
But tragedy cannot be forth held. It happened in precise timing. As the train hootered from the turn of the station, a strange scream ripped everyone’s ears.
What are you wearing, my lady shrieked, her finger pointing accursedly at her husband’s feet.
The Man startled, looked and found me on his feet.
He had named me ‘The Pauper’, after the accident, my attire was torn and stitched up.
I won’t let you come with that on your feet; my lady had her friends on board the train. She wouldn’t have her husband let them have her legs pulled for this.
The man was suddenly eclectic, soon contained his wisdom as the lady glared at him.
I will pick up a new pair at Delhi, he was looking at me as he said this. My heart thumping at fear over being thrown into the filthy rail track.
All through two days I kept praying; I was now a devotee. I had turned into a deliberate and unrelenting believer. Pray and you shall receive, or the like; my doctrine. In Delhi too, the man kept evading the topic of a replacement.
Rohtang Pass. The man was shaking like a leaf that fell from a high rising branch, to a soft whirly wind. It was freezing cold, and he was standing there clad in woolens; with a torn and stitched up slipper on his feet. I was shivering myself, almost neck length under the soft snow. The chilly wind was not causing me any harm, the snow protecting me; ironic in the arrangement. The man could barely talk; shivering profusely. The evening sun gleamed from the half veil of the peak. The sunlight had no warmth in it, cold from travelling over the cold air.
My lady walked in silently upon him, hugged him tight from the back, her forehead rested on his back due to the height difference.
Missing the bed and the hot tea, she said in a voice husk with love.
I let out a laugh; she cannot do away with her fascination over the bed or the tea even at Rohtang Pass.
They drew into a better hugging position as she drew a blanket over both of them.
The Suite has a Jacuzzi and warm water, he muttered under his breath.
I let them be, looking around in pride.
Here I was, the Pauper who had an unlikely dream. An unlikely dream that was fulfilled.
Sajan Ramanandan
A movie buff and literarian. Took to writing in 2015, at 33. Published debut novel in Malayalam in the same year through DC Books, titled ‘പകുതി ജീവിതങ്ങൾ’. Wrote the script for a few short films including , ‘Wings of Blue’ and ‘Ambiguity’.
THE BREW 