Theeyoor Chronicles Read online

  Yet, Gopalan did not make any effort to change Draupathiyamma’s new behaviour. He did not take much interest in Sunil either, accepting that his dream of developing a loving relationship with him was unlikely as the boy withdrew more and more into a world of his own. The realization that he had become completely alone both within his family and in the outside world pressed down on his heart like a cold, heavy, dead hand. Gopalan avoided, as far as possible, running into his old friends and acquaintances. He even suppressed his desire to see Devu edathi, although he was certain that she still loved him.

  On the first or second of every month, he went to the bank with a cheque Draupathiyamma gave him, withdrew money for household expenses, oversaw the work that needed to be done in the fields and compounds, and in an attempt to forget the increasing frailty of his body and the deepening emptiness of his mind, kept himself occupied. A constant fog of dejection settled over him and a lassitude cast its shadow upon his face.

  Draupathiyamma had developed a disease that made the skin on her shins itchy and break out in weeping sores. No treatment worked, English medicine or local medicine, and as she continued suffering, Gopalan had a sudden inspiration one day which finally brought him out of his dejection. He dug a four-foot hole in an open area around five metres away from the bank of Vayalumkara River. He collected some soil from this hole, carried it home in a brand-new wicker basket, and sifted it, removing all stones and lumps. ‘If you let me,’ he said to Draupathiyamma, ‘I can cure your sores and itch with this soil.’

  After almost two and a half years of suffering, Draupathiyamma was at the end of her tether. No matter how much she washed and cleaned the sores, after a while they would weep a gooey substance which would tighten as it dried, pulling at her skin painfully. Not a day went by without some sort of medicine, tincture or injection, each new treatment bringing new hope, only to be dashed as the treatment stopped working after its initial promise. The piece of an old sari that she spread on her bed under her shins in the night would be sticky by morning and emanate a nauseating smell. Her heart cried out for some respite from this agony. If it came from mud, so be it. God willing, she would be cured. So she agreed to Gopalan’s offer.

  The treatment started early next morning. After her morning rituals, Draupathiyamma washed her legs in cold water, dried them and sat on an easy chair in front of Gopalan. Gopalan mixed the sifted mud with water in a terracotta pot, and slowly applied the paste to her legs from just below the knee to her feet. He made her sit with the mud cast for an hour, before washing it away with water which had been boiled with neem leaves. The first application was an hour and a half before morning coffee, and it was repeated an hour after breakfast. After a week of twice-daily treatment, the oozing ceased. In another three weeks, the sores healed and the itching stopped, and all that remained on her fair shins were a few dark marks.

  During the treatment, Gopalan put Draupathiyamma on a strict diet. She was allowed a glass of cold water in the morning and breakfast at 9 a.m., but he forbade her from having tea or coffee with it. From the fourth day on, he gave her unsalted kanji instead of the usual breakfast dishes. After one week, this too was stopped, and except for small portions of uncooked vegetables and fruits, Draupathiyamma was put on a fast. Even after she was cured, Gopalan removed fish, egg, meat and processed snacks from the bakery from her diet, and told her to reduce the use of spices, salt and tamarind. He was able to enforce this strict regimen without difficulty, as he had taken over the kitchen and the preparation of food while she underwent the treatment. Knowing that Draupathiyamma and Sunil could barely eat a meal without fish, Gopalan made an exception for river fish, but put a ban on the purchase of all other fish, especially oily sea fish such as mackerel and sardine.

  The amazing success Gopalan had with the mud treatment and Draupathiyamma’s recovery became the talk of the neighbourhood. The news eventually reached Dr Ravikrishnan at the primary health centre where Draupathiyamma had sought treatment for over six months. He got in his car and drove to Gopalan’s house with his compounder, Chandran, to find out more about the miraculous recovery. Astounded by the sight of Draupathiyamma’s legs, he interrogated her on the details of the treatment before turning to Gopalan and questioning him as though it were a cross-examination in court.

  ‘So you applied the mud on her legs. Did you give her anything internally?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How far did you dig before collecting the mud?’

  ‘Around four feet.’

  ‘Did it have any kind of smell?’

  ‘It had the fragrance of good mud.’

  ‘No smell of sulphur?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you use ordinary well water to mix the mud?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you add anything to it? Potassium permanganate perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When you washed her legs, did you use any barks or roots?’

  ‘I put some neem leaves in when boiling the water.’

  After the doctor left, a rumour spread that his wife was also suffering from this disease, and that he had come to learn about the mud treatment because all other treatments had failed. No one was bothered about the veracity of this story. They believed wholeheartedly that mud therapy could be effective and that Gopalan had a special skill in it, and people began seeking his treatment in the hope of being cured of all kinds of illnesses.

  To a person who suffered from constant constipation and could move his bowels only with the help of manibhadragulam, Gopalan gave a small parcel of mud and said, ‘Take this home and mix it with pure water. Spread it on a piece of clean cloth and cover your lower abdomen with it overnight. You’ll have no problem moving your bowels.’

  When Rakesh, the five-year-old next door, vomited four or five times one day, his mother Jayasree brought him to Gopalan. He examined him, pressing the child’s stomach and laying his palm on his heart. He then took a fistful of mud, roasted it in a terracotta pan, mixed it with water in another pot, strained it and made him drink the water. And with that, Rakesh stopped vomiting.

  Although Gopalan claimed that all illnesses could be treated successfully with mud, his treatment was especially effective for asthma, eczema, back pain, and early-stage rectal haemorrhoids. Soon, the number of patients increased. Gopalan moved the treatment to a grass-thatched hut built specifically for the purpose a few yards away from the main house. Terracotta pots containing different types of mud that he had dug up from various places and prepared in different ways, each suitable for a specific illness, were stored there. All day, clad in a mud-coloured cotton thorthu, he examined his patients and prescribed treatment plans, applying mudpacks and poultices as necessary.

  After a couple of years of practising mud therapy, the realization that not all ailments could be controlled or cured by mud and dietary restrictions led him to explore the world of herbal medicine. By this time, he was also keen to acquire the skill and fame of curing at least one unique illness. His investigations and experimentations along these lines culminated in the synthesis of a special medicine for jaundice. The medicine included kizharnelli, karimuthil and a few other plants whose names he would not divulge to anyone, and ingesting a gooseberry-sized ball of this in the morning on an empty stomach for three days cured even the worst case of jaundice. Those who experienced this treatment first-hand gave it wide publicity, and patients from faraway lands, desperate for a cure, began flocking to Vayalumkara.

  Gopalan did not take any payment directly from his patients for the treatment. If they did not wish to pay, that was fine, but those who wished to pay could leave whatever amount they wanted in a terracotta platter placed in a corner of the yard. Everyone was treated the same, regardless of payment. In the evening, Gopalan would pick up the platter and place it in front of the lamp Draupathiyamma lit on the veranda. He would then have an elaborate bath, drink a pot of cold water, pull up an easy chair under the neem tree in the yard, and sit in it. This was Draupath
iyamma’s time to converse with him. Often, Gopalan would continue sitting there, his mind moving from the happenings of the day to old and distant memories, a reminiscing that became part of his daily routine. A clear and concise start to the day, and a predictable end – Gopalan’s mind was the most calm and serene in these moments. He retraced the paths of his life with no anxiety, and with no feelings of anger or resentment towards anyone or anything. From Mahatmaji, who had taken the trouble to ask him his name and whereabouts in a room at the Nalpadi Ashram in Wardha, to the nameless beggars in Varanasi, Gopalan renewed his acquaintance with a whole host of people on a daily basis, and relived the sensations of experiences long past.

  Gopalan could decipher no connection or continuity in the diverse incidents that had taken place in his life. He thought of his life as only a string of eventualities, good and bad, and there was nothing left that would catch him by surprise. The rest of his life would be spent fighting ailments using his arsenal of mud, water and medicinal herbs. He would have successes and failures, but he would feel no pleasure or remorse. In this path that he had chosen, there was no place for highs and lows, for twists and turns, only an even, peaceful plain.

  The meditation under the neem tree in the yard would continue until around 9 p.m. Then, calling out, ‘I’m off,’ he would walk back to his hut. There, on a bed made of two wooden benches pulled together, with no mattress or sheet, he would lie down, straight as an arrow, until four in the morning, when another day in his life would start.

  Draupathiyamma watched Gopalan’s new lifestyle dispassionately. She saw that, in his old age, he had freed himself from her influence, but she was not angry. She did not expect another meaningful chapter in their life together. The recovery from the illness that had driven her to distraction for over two years had brought about a change in her comportment, and made her calm and restrained.

  Sunil, meanwhile, had been supportive of the endeavour that the man who was his guardian had started, and as the treatment became popular and Gopalan constructed the grass hut, he had helped him with it, and with creating a garden of medicinal plants around it. However, over time, Sunil lost interest, and consumed by his own worries and work, barely even visited.

  (Very little has been said about Sunil in this narrative so far. For now, we will leave him behind. His life and experiences have a significant role in Theeyoor Chronicles, but it is not time yet to engage with them.)

  Gopalan continued to be an energetic presence in the mud therapy and herbal treatment scene until he was eighty-five years old and began to be afflicted by physical ailments as well as difficulties with memory. One day, as he was treating a young epilepsy patient from Kuniyankunnu, anointing his shaven head with mud, Gopalan fainted. He was unconscious for over a week, and when he regained consciousness and the ability to walk again, he resumed his practice, and appointed two assistants to help him with preparing the mud and grinding the medicinal herbs. But he could not continue for more than a year as his memory became tangled, and he nodded off involuntarily in the middle of treatment sessions. The assistants talked to Draupathiyamma and withdrew quietly, and within a few days, patients stopped coming.

  Gopalan’s situation deteriorated day by day. He made no sense when he spoke. His actions irritated Draupathiyamma. After a while, except for the interruption of three meals a day, his life became a long sleep. It was during this period that Draupathiyamma loved him most fully, and tended to him day and night with great dedication as though she had finally come to the realization that her husband was an unusual and exceptionally saintly man.

  On 3 October 1997 – on the day I first arrived in Theeyoor – there was a book launch, a grand function, on a stage specially erected for the occasion in the grounds of Theeyoor Government High School. The function was organized by the National Arts and Sports Club, Theeyoor. Draupathiyamma had, at her own expense, reprinted copies of The History of Theeyoor, the book Gopalan had written almost thirty-seven years ago, and handed them over to the Club. She had also footed the bill for the function. The event was chaired by the president of the Theeyoor Mandal Congress Committee, C.K. Krishnan Nair. The representatives of the Marxist Party, (CPM), the Congress (S), the Muslim League and the Bharatheeya Janata Party were present and made felicitation speeches. I, too, was on the stage – ‘You must say a couple of words,’ the Club members had persuaded me. Five minutes before the event began, two men carried Gopalan onstage in an easy chair. Draupathiyamma followed, dressed in a light yellow khaddar sari and blouse.

  Gopalan was just a skeleton, dressed in a pure white khaddar jubbah and a khaddar mundu that trailed on the floor. He sat hunched into the easy chair, his head nodding as though in a dream. His twig-like hands jerked up every now and then as though flicking something away. He did not seem to be aware of his surroundings or of what was happening there.

  Draupathiyamma was fully aware that the function was meaningless to her husband, but she believed that this was something – a sacred deed – that she needed to do before his death. Her face shone brightly in the magnitude of that conviction.

  The book was released by K.S.K. Vaidyar, a well-known orator who could talk at length on all subjects. (It was because of Vaidyar’s unavailability that the function was moved to the third of October instead of the second – Gandhi Jayanti, Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday.) He began his speech with a convoluted sentence that described, in flowery language, Gopalan’s long and selfless life. Later in his speech, he made a risqué joke, comparing the old Congress with the new, which tickled the audience. Jerking awake from his sleep, Gopalan leaned over to me and said something, but I could barely hear him amidst the raucous laughter of the audience and the esteemed guests on the stage. I leaned closer and turned my ear towards his mouth.

  ‘Someone shot Mahatmaji, didn’t they?’ he said.

  INCOMPLETE

  1.

  As the function for releasing the second reprint of The History of Theeyoor was drawing to a close in the high-school grounds, a quiet death was taking place in a house a few yards away. A final murmur escaped the throat of Keezhara Achuthan, known locally as Sickle Achuettan, who had been sent back home from the hospital as there was nothing more they could do for him.

  The only other person in the house at the time was his nephew, Bharathan, who was repairing a television set in the next room. His parents had gone to the Jaseela Nursing Home in town, where his sister Rukmini had just given birth to her third child.

  Having finished working on the television, Bharathan was on his way to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea when he casually peeped into the little room off the dining area where his uncle slept. The old man was still, his mouth and eyes partially open. There was no movement in his throat, and the relentless crooning noise he had produced for the last few days had stopped. He went in and touched his uncle’s chest and nose, and made sure that he was dead. An inadvertent sigh escaped his lips, but he did not feel shock or sorrow.

  Bharathan pulled the front door of the house shut after him, and walked slowly and calmly to the neighbours and told them the news. Within half an hour, a handful of people gathered around the house. The next morning, Achuettan’s body was burned to ashes in the panchayat cremation ground. No more than thirty or thirty-five people had come to witness it. When the body was being taken to the funeral pyre, Govindan maash, a retired teacher and the secretary of Theeyoor Public Library and Reading Room, stepped forward.

  ‘This was a man who bravely faced police brutality before and after the independence struggle,’ he said. ‘Suffered so much for the country and the Party. I thought I would mention it as there’s no one else here to say these things.’

  A sudden feeling that it would be wrong to let the body burn without at least a short eulogy had come over Govindan maash. No one in the gathering would have disagreed with the sentiment.

  When Bharathan and his family returned home after the funeral, several local leaders came to pay their respects. He answered their questio
ns patiently but with indifference. And when most of the visitors left, he went into his room, shut the door, and began cleaning the underside of an iron with a piece of emery paper. There were no thoughts in his mind about his dead uncle, and he turned his attention effortlessly to the jobs he had to finish before the next evening.

  For the last thirty-odd years, Bharathan had inhabited the world of broken-down home appliances. Other than routinely voting for the Marxist Party in the elections, he had no political opinions or affiliations, or any interest in public service or in friendships. The only thing outside his work that interested him was music, and he listened to it only after 10 p.m., in bed. He had a collection of around fifty cassette tapes of old Hindi film music, mostly melancholy melodies. As he lay listening to one of them, he would feel that his day was complete, and he would enter a state of calm that led to uninterrupted sleep.

  Bharathan had the looks and demeanour of a person who made people think: ‘Here goes a man who will not allow his mind to be worried or muddled.’ His eyes, set in a face with a thick moustache and taut skin, reflected a resolute nature. His short yet strong limbs, supple muscles and wide chest reinforced his aura of self-assurance. He was not the type of person to complain about his lot in life. His life was his own, and nothing that happened in the world outside, good or bad, affected it. This palpable sense of self-reliance was mainly born out of his remarkable excellence in his chosen profession. He could diagnose the problem with any domestic appliance that was brought to him in whatever condition just by touching it. He would take it apart in front of its owner, show where the trouble lay, and give an accurate estimate of the time it would take to repair it and the cost involved.