Life in a Faceless World: Based on the lost and found diary of a girl named Nila by Mukalel Cyril

Author:Mukalel, Cyril [Mukalel, Cyril]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Potter's Wheel Publishing House LLC
Published: 2019-08-09T16:00:00+00:00

Unable to hinder the magnificent glory,

Desolate clouds part in reluctance.

Stunned by the crimson carriages drawing

Night’s agony fades to distance.

Rustling breeze hugs the fruitless

Easing the pain of barrenness

Blessed ones dance to the magic winds

Spills all over its enticing fragrance

Empty pews strain listening to unsung hymn

Stained shadows gasp to live another moment

Moth-eaten stumps began to dream

A new shoot, a new life, graceful and vibrant.

Neelan (The Blue Man)

H e was filthy and stunk like a water buffalo but, still, no one wanted him to be thrown out from the temple junction. The moment he placed his lips on the reed, the entire place paused for a bit before getting back to the routine.

“No one could ever play a flute like him; no one could ever play such divine melodies!” Some even believed he was the manifestation of Lord Krishna; even his physical appearance didn’t change their perception. In fact, that was the only reason the police did nothing when the nearby shopkeepers and the influential bank manager, Jose Chandy, filed a complaint against Neelan for being a public nuisance. The police knew he was not breaking any laws or creating a traffic jam. “Just a nuisance for some… not all,” they responded verbally. Then they reported that there is no enforceable law in the Indian Penal Code against someone previously determined by the court of law to be mentally unstable just for being a nuisance.

Everyone referred to him as Neelan (the blue man), the nickname for the blue-skinned god, Krishna, who plays the never-ending love songs to his fervent devotees. Like the god, he wore nothing above his waist except for the one-day-old garland, made out of marigolds and hibiscus. The temple priest tossed them away at the end of each day. He collected the garland before the rodents and the temple cows ruined it. The flowers on the garland didn’t lose their fragrance for another day and suppressed the odor that engulfed him. On occasions, like exams and birthdays, some school girls threw jasmine ropes at him. He strapped them around his wrist. He always wore the same torn camouflage pants with both legs rolled up to his knees. Ex-military man, Narayanan, had gifted him the pants a while ago when he was going to the local police station to give a complaint. It was a petition to find Radha, his wife-to-be, who had gone missing. An ardent fighter against class wars and a silent supporter of local labor movements, Narayanan encouraged Neelan to wear them. He thought, someone like Neelan, and all Untouchables , who slaved for a family for generations may get a bit of respect by ditching very informal lungi , a long piece of cloth wrapped around the waist, to the police station. Wearing modern dress worn by Europeans and upper-class Indians really didn’t work out for Neelan. Sub-Inspector George Joseph ridiculed him by saying “Did you run away from the circus? Go back and clean up elephant droppings.”

Every morning when Kutty Chettan opened his stationary store, he squeezed a bit of blue fabric whitening dye into Neelan’s palm.

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