The Train That Had Wings: Selected Stories of M. Mukundan by Donald R. Davis

Author:Donald R. Davis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The University of Michigan
Published: 2020-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Piss

Everyone was talking about the death of Kumaran Nayar. Kunyaman the tea stall guy says it was a murder. Vasu Kurup has the same opinion. In fact the majority of the locals believe it was murder.

"It was the Naxalites who killed him," Vasu Kurup said, his dark eyes staring straight at the sun.

"It wasn't no Naxalites that got him. It was a spirit. A ghost . . ." Kannan the Kolkali dancer disagreed.

Kumaran Nayar died in the cremation grounds. And it happened at dusk. He must have been caught up in the "arrival" of some spirit.

And so it was that people were saying all sorts of things about Kumaran Nayar's untimely death. I, too, had something to add. I said:

"It wasn't Naxalites that killed Kumaran Nayar. And it wasn't a spirit."

"Then who?"

They asked in unison. A look of nervous excitement came over their faces.

"I know who killed Kumaran Nayar. I alone . . . ."

Now they were really shocked. I repeated, "I alone . . ."

"How do you know?" asked Vasu Kurup as he fixed his eyes on me, his sunlit violet eyes.

I didn't give a reply.

"Bullshit," said Kunyaman, "You don't know a thing."

Kunyaman mocked me. Only Kannan remained silent, sitting there with his legs crossed. He was staring at my face, his mouth halfway opened.

"Didja see it?"

Vasu Kurup's voice softened. His manner changed. He wanted to know the secret.

I'm a person without any secrets. My life is an open book. I don't want to conceal anything. And so I will tell you what I know about Kumaran Nayar's death. Kunyaman the tea guy, Vasu Kurup, and Kannan the Kolkali dancer might enjoy hearing it. The police at the Fifth Gate station might enjoy hearing it . . . .

Is there anybody who has never in their life borrowed some money? There comes a time when even rich people are forced into taking on a debt. At least once in their life. Through great perseverance I had managed to save up ten or twenty thousand rupees. It was all tucked away and protected in fixed deposits and the like. After I'm gone, my wife, Tangamani, my children Vatsan, Snehaprabha, Anilan, Pushpan—it was for them . . . .

Well, even though I had ten or twenty thousand rupees in savings, last Saturday I found myself in need of a hundred rupees.

I wrote out a check and sent Chattukutti off to the bank. I waited for him to return with the money.

"I didn't get the money. The bank's closed," Chattukutti said as he returned.

Then I remembered that today was a bank holiday. Tomorrow, Sunday, would be, too.

Chattukutti gave back the uncashed check.

After Chattukutti left, I sat down in the easy chair on the verandah and thought about the hundred rupees. I didn't notice that Tangamani had come out and was standing there next to me.

"What are you thinking about so intensely?"

She had just bathed and stood nearby covered in a black-bordered wrap with a black mark of sandal paste on her forehead. To see her you wouldn't think she'd had four children.

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