The post office in Pallavur never had its
own building. I have not figured out why, perhaps nobody would sell land to the
postal department. Anyway, right from my childhood, I have seen it as a
transient affair, first it was somewhere near the lower primary school, then it
moved to houses across the temple and later to the larger home near Company
Babu’s homestead. These homes did not afford the post office a sense of
formality and the officers operated through modified windows and from behind
closed doors. As soon as its door opened, there would be people trooping in,
and the meeting of these souls in waiting increased the clamor in the small
anteroom of that ad-hoc post office.
As you can imagine, the PO dealt with monetary objects such
as money orders and stamps, postal orders and hundis. Well, the last word would
not be understood by many and I may even be accused of talking about one’s
posterior, but let me hasten and explain – the hundi has nothing to do with any
posterior, it was a monetary instrument, like an IOU, payable on a certain
date. The kitchen counter was where the post man stamped the letters (again
stamping is affixing the letter with a black circular ink seal over the stamp,
showing the origin location and date) with loud thumps. They were originally
muffled when he had the cloth pad underneath, but the cloth pad had become
ragged and the jute inside had become muslin thin, so the muffling effect was
long lost. The ink was still jet black and solid, at least in the beginning of
the month and then got dimmer as the days passed by and the stocks declined.
The post man explained to me once that some months had so much letter traffic,
especially during the wedding months when many cards were mailed, that the
erratic ink supply from the head post office made life difficult for him, he
added ‘you people have no idea about the difficulties we have in the post
office, once I had to steal my wife’s kanmashi to tide over a period of crisis’
(kanmashi is kajal).
Ah! I am drifting, as most old timers do, so let me cut to
the chase and get to the story I have to tell you today, of course it has
something to do with letters in post. Most of the villagers know it, but since
many of you are not, you may find it original and amusing. This took place many
years ago and both the protagonist and the antagonist of the story are no more,
so you have no choice but to believe what I have to say.
Madhavan Nair, the big burly man with a lot of hair all
over, the ex-military man is the protagonist. He was some character, and even I
who have travelled long and far have found his stories fascinating. His
stories, or shall I say exploits during the 2nd World war, the Indo
China war and the Pakistan wars are stuff for the legends. Most people would
agree that he was prone to exaggerating a lot, even though they did not have
the guts to question him or disprove his words, they just agreed if only to provide
salubrious company, for he did dole out small quantities of military ration
issue Hercules rum to his favored and regular listeners, while his wife
Deviamma provided freshly fried ‘touchings’, to enliven the occasion.
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| Temple pond |
His morning bath at the temple pond (when he was on a
furlough – that is) was an occasion, my cousin Mani told me, many a young woman
of the village did not miss! He explained to me that the sight of him applying
copious amounts of gingelly oil on his body excited some of them. I did not
believe Mani though, he was probably envious, though Madhavan Nair was rumored
to have many ‘affairs’ of the physical kind all over the countryside.
Nair, I will call him so from now on, did have about him this
inspiring aura, perhaps due to his military airs and absolute confidence. He
was always at the forefront when some kind of leadership was needed in the
region, be it a temple matter or some dispute which needed resolution. He was
around to take care of snakes and wild animals, he would come rushing if a fire
had to be put out. A popular man indeed. He retired after the 71 war and was a
regular at Pallavur where Deviamma had her home. His booming voice was as
always optimistic and sure, his bearing ramrod straight. But his hair had
become snow white and if you observed carefully, you could see him drop the
pose and start to slouch in relaxation, perhaps which is age catching up.
I would always meet him at the post office where I went to
pick up the letters as it was an occasion to meet many of my village friends.
Now you may ask me why went to the PO, well, it had always been a custom since
my uncle set it, to get the letters fresh from the post, since he had little
faith in the post man who would start his rounds, traverse all the distance to
Kumaramputtur, Thaloor and then finally come to our house to drop off the mail
there. By the time he reached it was well past 3PM and it would be bang in the
middle of my uncle’s siesta, something he did not want to be disturbed. So we,
when we were kids, had to make the trip and pick it up from the window as soon
as they were stamped. And as I said before, half the village had representation
at the PO with just the same intent. And, as the waiting kids played around,
the elders in waiting gossiped.
Nair got a good amount of mail, which some onlookers
muttered were from his many paramours, some from remote places. He said he had
a number of dealings all over the country, he got letters from the military
offices, insurance agencies, book dealers, solicitors, temple committees and
what not. Not a day passed without him picking up at least two postal objects
from the counter.
It is time to introduce our antagonist, Chettiar - a
Tamilian with a pleasant countenance. Now Kuppuswamy Chettiar is a rarity in
our Nair village, for he does not stay at the thara (You see, the Chakkathara
is the quarter in a Nair desam where the Tamil chakkans or vanaiyars lived), he
has his large home close to the temple. I don’t really know how he managed to
do that, but Mani tells me there is a long story behind it and has promised to
give me the details if I get him a carton of Dunhill cigarettes the next time. His
Malayalam was laced with Tamil, and this genial person was well respected in
our village. Though he and his family came for all occasions and happenings in
Pallavur, they were mostly reserved. Perhaps Chettiar and the generation which
followed him were a wee bit self-conscious due to their lack of formal
education unlike others who had college going children.
This happened a few years ago, and if I remember right, it
was the year when Mohanettan, the fellow who fell in love with that Aravancheri
girl was getting picked up by the police. I was at the post office, having
arrived there at 945AM, soon to be joined by Nair. We were talking about Indira
Gandhi and the way she handled the Pakistanis and Americans during the war. Oh!
I forgot to mention, Nair has a cousin working in some top department close to
the PM’s office in Delhi, so he is privy to all kinds of information and I also
forgot to mention, Nair retired as a Lieutenant Colonel, so he was much more
than a simple soldier in the ranks. I was flabbergasted when Nair told me about
the exchanges between Nixon, Kissinger and Indira Gandhi and was ruminating on
the temerity of Nixon when we saw Chettiar coming up the staircase (the post
office was upstairs, the Brahmin home owners lived below – I don’t know how
they lived through the thumping stamping sessions!).
Both Nair and I were taken aback, we had never seen Chettiar
at the post office. But well, he was there, so as I expected Nair popped the
question if Chettiar was expecting a letter. The glum looking Chettiar said
that he was hoping to get a letter from his son who had drifted to Madras
looking for a job (I remembered the discussion between my uncle and Chettiar
the other day, Chettiar’s son was planning to go to some relative’s outfit at
the Thambu Chetty street making some spice powers, and ask for a job). That was
a fortnight ago and Chettiar’s son Alagappan had gone silent, not a peep since
he left and the poor man was worried. I imagined how it would have been
exacerbated by his wife Komathi, who doted on Alagappan. But well, the postman
loudly announced that there was nothing for Chettiar and the forlorn old man
slunk away each time, bent and tired.
For some weeks we saw the same scene, a disappointed
Chettiar. The troubled family had not received any information from his son.
Eventually we heard that Chettiar’s son was safe, the information reached
Chettiar through my aunt in Madras who came for the Vilakku. The boy had not
written because he knew his parents could not read. He located my aunt at Washermanpet (mint)
after a month and sent word through her that all was well and that he did find
a job paying Rs350 p.m.
So much so on that, I thought, but the matter never ended
there. A week later, we saw Chettiar making a laborious climb up the post
office stairs again. This time he did not go to the post office counter or
mention about expecting any letter.
I still cannot believe the conversation that ensued.
He came up to Nair and said in his sing song Tamil Malayalam
– ‘Nair, You get so many letters every day. I have a proposition, give me one
of those letters and I will pay you Rs 5/- for it’. Nair was taken aback, not
knowing how to reply. After some thought he finally said ‘yes, take any one of
my letters’.
The post man who was furiously stamping the letters did not
hear all this, not did the post master. Nobody offered any additional
suggestions, and I was bemused about the whole thing to say the least, for I
had a brain freeze at that very instant.
The post man called out for Nair and gave him a sheaf of
letters, perhaps five or six. Chettiar
stretched his hand out and picked one of them, an unmarked envelope without any
senders details – just a cream colored postal cover as you know it ,and gave
Nair Rs 5/-. Chettiar walked away with the letter, not turning back even once.
Nair was at a loss for words, not believing what he had
done. He looked at the letters in his hand and then at me, back and forth a few
times, then he shrugged his shoulders and went home, the letter matter
forgotten, maybe he had more pressing things to do. I was also busy with other
matters. The Mohanettan mystery was just heating up and turning out to be an
amazing story. You the reader, should read it as well, if you have not, after
you have finished this one.
Anyway I had to go back after my annual holiday and so I
picked up the threads of the story again only after I returned to Pallavur the
following year. I met Nair at the post office and he looked disturbed. I asked
him what the matter was. He explained that after a few days following his
giving that letter to Chettiar, he had met Chettiar for a wedding at the
temple.
He casually asked Chettiar about the letter. He asked who it
was from and Chettiar politely told him that he would not answer him as the
letter belonged to him. He asked Chettiar if it was something important and
Chettiar gave him the same answer and left. Nair was perplexed at first, troubled
with doubt and later quite infuriated. Now remember that there was absolutely
no bad feelings between these two blokes, no reason for any kind of antagonism,
no history of any issues between them or their families, it was just the
letter.
A week later he went to Chettiar’s house, since the matter
had stirred up all kinds of emotions in his mind and he could not simply let it
rest. He demanded that Chettiar tell him about the contents of his, i.e.
Madhavan Nair’s letter at the very least or better still, hand over the letter.
Chettiar was polite and calm, he said he would not as the letter was well and
truly his and he had paid for it in front of witnesses. It was a deal and
executed as contracted. He would not waver - a deal is a deal, it had been done
and dusted.
Nair was livid by now, all red and trembling, he stood up
tall and ramrod straight as though he was in front of his troops at a parade
ground and growled – Here is your Rs5/- take it back and give me my letter. But
then, my friends, you don’t know Chettiar, he would not be cowed, the old man
looked away and asked Nair to leave. Nair tried to offer more money, but
Chettiar was adamant.
Nair could not, try as he may, understand the terrible
predicament he had got himself into. He could not eat, sleep or drink with any
amount of joy. In fact he could spend any wakeful moment without the thought of
that letter flitting past. He finally asked my uncle, who as well respected in
the village, to intervene. My uncle called Chettiar home and asked him why he
could not divulge the contents to Nair.
Chettiar said that the contents were not necessarily
important to him personally, and that he had not opened it yet or checked what
it was, for he could not read. But he was not going to get into any discussions
on his lack of education or whatever, the letter was his. My uncle tried to
reason over and again, but Chettiar would not budge and my uncle understood
that Chettiar was well within his rights in his stand.
Even after knowing from my uncle that Chettiar had not
opened his letter, Nair could not find peace. Whether it was due to this or a
lifestyle full of excesses, Nair fell ill and was under the weather for a
while.
A year had passed and I was back home. I heard that Nair was
quite ill and dropped in at his home to check if there was something I could
do. Nair had some lung infection from which he was taking a long time to
recover and looked very weak. No longer could I see the military bearing, it
was a shell of the man I knew all these years. He talked little, and even my
nudges at getting him to talk about his war years had no effect. He would not
even tell me about the letter when asked, he said forget it, I don’t care about
that letter or that idiot Chettiar.
Down the road, Chettiar, I heard, was on his death bed.
Komathi was understandably distraught and Alagappan had come rushing from
Madras. When I went to the Chettiar home, they were hospitable as always,
Komathiamma gave me a tumbler of coffee and some thengapal thenguzhal, while
his son Alagappan gave me a tin of rasam powder, a product of the firm he was
working for. Chettiar looked like one on his deathbed would, weary and bone
tired, eyes closed and face gaunt. A couple of days later, he passed away,
peacefully.
The next day, after the cremation ceremonies, Mani and I
were sitting on the front steps and chatting away, trying to make some sense of
the Mohanettan affair, when Alagappan came. He said ‘I heard that this letter
had been a problem matter between Appa and Nair, can you please return this to Nair’?
The letter was unopened, just as it was when Chettiar
plucked it from the sheaf of letters Nair once held in his hand.
I rushed to Nair’s house and told him the news of Chettiar’s
passing and Alagappan’s gesture. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out the
letter and gave it to Nair. Nair’s eyes and mouth quivered, he looked at the
cover, flipped it and looked at the smudged postal stamp, but could not make
out where it had come from. He ripped open the corner and pulled out the
content, a single sheet of cyclostyled paper.
It was a solicitation from a temple in Trichur. They had wanted
a generous donation from interested patrons for the upcoming festival.I will
never forget the emotions that flitted past Nair’s face. It showed
incredulousness, amazement, shame and finally a lot of sadness. He rolled the
letter into a ball and flung it into the far recesses of his bedroom, and
muttered – of all things, a temple solicitation!
I did not remain there, and I left. Other matters kept me
busy and soon it was time to leave abroad and the mystery concerning Mohanettan
had been solved, finally.
Glad tidings could be observed when I came next. Nair had
recovered and had become his usual self, in fact he had become a benefactor for
the Chettiar family. He had using his army connections found a good job for
Alagappan at the Army canteen in Bangalore, but with a condition, that he would
bring him a case of rum each time he came on vacation.
Nair caught up with me though, at the temple and asked me “I
still don’t understand one thing, why did Chettiar hold on to that letter, why
did he not give it back to me, in fact why did he buy that letter from me in
the first place and why did I, like an idiot ever sell it to him”?
I looked at Nair and shrugged – ‘beats me’ I said.
What do you think??
Notes
Some things happen for no particular reason. I was trying to
figure out what to write and I was researching Somerset Maugham for another
article. In his diary (A writer’s Notebook) I found the following passage which
is the reason why I wrote this story.
Did I do any justice? You tell me.
Quote
A week or two ago someone related an
incident to me with the suggestion that I should write a story on it, and since
then I have been thinking it over. I don't see what to do. The incident is as
follows. Two young fellows were working on a tea plantation in the hills and
the mail had to be fetched from a good way off so that they only got it at
rather long intervals. One of the young fellows, let us call him A., used to
get a lot of letters by every mail, ten or twelve and sometimes more, but the
other, B., never got one. He used to watch A. enviously as he took his bundle
and started to read, he hankered to have a letter, just one letter, and one
day, when they were expecting the mail, he said to A.: "Look here, you
always have a packet of letters and I never get any. I'll give you five pounds
if you'll let me have one of yours." "Right-ho," said A. and
when the mail came in he handed B. his letters and said to him: "Take
whichever you like." B. gave him a five-pound note, looked over the
letters, chose one and returned the rest. In the evening, when they were having
a whisky and soda after dinner, A. asked casually: "By the way, what was
that letter about?" "I'm not going to tell you," said B. A.,
somewhat taken aback said: "Well, who was it from?" "That's my
business," answered B. They had a bit of an argument, but B. stood on his
rights and refused to say anything about the letter that he had bought. A.
began to fret, and as the weeks went by he did all he could to persuade B. to
let him see the letter. B. continued to refuse.
At length A., anxious, worried,
curious, felt he couldn't bear it any longer, so he went to B. and said:
"Look here, here's your five pounds, let me have my letter back
again." "Not on your life," said B. "I bought and paid for
it, it's my letter and I'm not going to give it up."
That's all. I suppose if I belonged to
the modern school of story writers, I should write it just as it is and leave
it. It goes against the grain with me. I want a story to have form, and I don't
see how you can give it that unless you can bring it to a conclusion that
leaves no legitimate room for questioning. But even if you could bring yourself
to leave the reader up in the air you don't want to leave yourself up in the
air with him. ...
Unquote
It is not that I do not have a hypothesis – When Chettiar
came to the post office every day for two weeks, looking desperately for a token
of communication from his son, he developed a deep appreciation for the medium
of communication, the letter, knowing how much the receipt of one could effect
a person. If he had received a simple post card from his son, he and Komathi
would have been at peace. At the same time, he was seeing a person who got so
many and did not seem to appreciate their value. So it could have been his
simple way of teaching a Nair a lesson!
But then why did I not add this conclusion to the story? Human
behavior is incredibly complex and whatever people may say, you cannot box a
person into a situation and decide how he would react in a given situation. For
me Chettiar and Nair were equals, perhaps Chettiar was one up…
For those who want to check out the Mohanettan story click this
link
