October 20, 2015

'Kalathinu oru anartham (Meaningless times),' said Sethumadhavan to the Sunday air at Aura hotel on Link Road. We sit together for a chat, sometimes for a silence, every Sunday morning. Sunday evening Sethu will be flying to Coimbatore and then on to his village Kavipuram, where he was born and would like to die. 'Where would you like to die,' he smirked. 'Be buried under a tree in a green field. These are times for dying,' me said when the waiter came with two teas. Sethu has been working on the first Malayalam monograph of  Sakhave (Comrade); a persistent itch; maybe no Akademi award, no mention in literary pages; bans sure in ban times. Kavipuram village; origins vilage in French; villaticum (farmstead) in Latin; their large home with fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, sisters, brothers lived in soft conflicts of intentions; then today, the home is not; many gone; many in Dubai, some in Australia...none in India except Sethumadhavan and wife. In that crowd, there was a Sakhave (Comrade); a lone uncle, a Sethu favourite; known over three villages as Sakhave. In a white mundu, a khadi jibba, chappals, a cloth bag of Marx, Lenin, Deshabhimani (a Left paper), beedis and broad laughs. Walked, with the cycle loaned to all. Sakhave they called in Mohana raga and went to; like Guruvaurappa of Sethu. Sakhave was a school teacher in a government school, teaching Malayalam; kids ribbed his Kumaran Asan quotes; Sethu was a change, came to like Malayalam; that tied Sethu to Sakhave. What did not was the Socialism and Communism of Sakhave; today Sethu regrets not being a Sakhave, a socialist, a communist; in Bombay, working in RBI, did not help any; none in RBI spoke the poor; the rich had a powerful constituency,walletted the discussion. Sakhave never made an extra pie; well, none was offered; sometimes lost out on wages, going on strikes. He wrote a 10 pages book; printed it; funded it; sold free to a few friends. Sethu had read the book: Oru Sakhave. A line from the book still drums: Humanism cannot be logiced. Sethu is in search of the book; he is checking out; at Kavipuram, there is a marriage; the lone son of Sakhave in Melbourne will be getting his daughter married, in tradition, to a Malayali from Sydney; a 5-day affair; mehendi, sangeet, bachelor parties of boys and girls, marriage and reception counting gifts. Sakhave married Raga in a party room with Das Kapital and a candle on the table; no mangalsutra, no gods; a 10 minute fast marriage with fast food settu dosa and tea; they lived together for 50 years. None in the family and its many out-waves has a click of Sakhave. 'When I die, Sakhave will also die,' Sethu said; the Meru taxi was on time; he drove away to Kavipuram. Sakhave and Rama, in steep lie-in arm chairs, will sound out a cheerful Va, Sethu.