Moustache by S. Hareesh & Jayasree Kalathil

Author:S. Hareesh & Jayasree Kalathil
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: null
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers India
Published: 2020-01-30T18:30:00+00:00

15

Keeper of the Diseased

The entity known as Perumaadan was harmless enough. But if anyone thought they could ignore him when he accosted them, as they stood in desolate lanes, fields or forests, mulling over the stillness of breezeless afternoons and dreaming about daytime naps, they would have to think again.

Vavachan urinated on a wound on his leg where a catfish had pricked him, and limped along the bund of Muppathikkari. The grass on the waterlogged ground was rotted. His legs were smeared with dirt up to his knees, and a stinking infection had spread between his toes, immersed as they were in the relentless dirt. The itch, much worse than ringworm or the naikurana plant, was insufferable. It was not uncommon to see people with advanced infections willingly put their feet in burning embers. Some people tied their toes with a strand of jute, pushed the blood to the tips, and let it out by piercing with a sharp knife. Others applied the burning sap of cashew fruit, or rubbed their toes against stones until the stones wore out. It was an infection that removed all thought from one’s mind other than that of the sensation of foot rubbing against stone. But Vavachan could find no stones, so he broke off a swamp apple stem and pulled it back and forth between his toes. There were no green leaves or a single edible fruit on any of the plants, and the fish seemed to have disappeared from the canals. When the breath-giving wind blows with too much force, plants and human beings alike topple over. The rushing currents had swept up the entire fish population and transferred them elsewhere. It was a forlorn catfish, separated from its friends, that had attacked Vavachan.

Vavachan extricated the swamp apple stem from his bleeding toes. Wishing for a bit of dry, hot soil in which he could scorch his itchy toes, he walked on, and suddenly there he was in front of him – Perumaadan, a being almost as tall as a coconut tree. Vavachan could go neither backwards nor forwards until he answered his questions correctly, and Perumaadan was not one to be convinced by glib responses.

‘You are scared,’ Perumaadan said, gleefully.

Like all spirits, Perumaadan gained an inordinate amount of satisfaction from the fear human beings felt. But, in the next moment, he understood that the human in front of him was also a distressed spirit.

‘Who are you searching for?’ he asked.

‘A woman,’ Vavachan replied, ‘with very long hair. But all that comes out of her mouth are nasty words.’

‘You’ll see her,’ Perumaadan said. ‘But be warned, it will be of no use. Tell me, why do you have such long hair on your face? From afar you look like a walking forest.’

Perumaadan looked into his eyes and understood that this man had a secret he wanted to reveal, a secret so sacred that even the ink in which this is being written should not know it. He lowered his head and pressed his ear to Vavachan’s mouth.

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