The Illicit Happiness of Other People (35 page)

Thoma has heard that his father has become obsessed with Somen Pillai. At the end of all his wanderings in the night, he goes to Somen’s house and creates trouble. Mariamma gets news from the women who live on that lane. Somen’s mother herself has come and wept and begged to be saved. Thoma hears this from his teachers, too, who take him aside and ask him what is happening. But Thoma walks with his head held high, he is tired of being ashamed. If this is his life, so be it.

But Mother has had enough. She tells Ousep one morning, ‘Stop this or I will kill you one of these days.’ He says, peacefully, ‘Get me some coffee.’

She has started pouring water on him every morning. That is how he wakes up these days. Right now, she is walking purposefully into Father’s room with a bucket. Thoma hears his father’s sad yelp, sees his mother sprint towards the door, then his father’s tired, drenched appearance. But over time, Ousep is not so surprised any more. Thoma then understands what his mother had meant by the Law of Diminishing Returns. In fact, after Mariamma empties the buckets on him, Ousep does not even yelp any more. It is as if he has employed her to wake him up. He walks briskly to the bathroom and takes his bath. And she has stopped sprinting away after the punishment. She hovers around the house wondering what more she can do to control him.

One night she takes the scissors and slices Ousep’s shirt. She cuts its sleeves off and puts it on a hanger in the bedroom for him to see in the morning. But Father is not affected, he does not say anything, though he does hold his limbless shirt in his hand and stares at it for a long time, probably wondering what he should do. By the end of the week she has sliced all his shirts. So, in the mornings now, Ousep sits on the bed and sews his shirts with a thread and needle. She starts slicing his trousers, too, but Ousep has learnt how to sew. He looks like a beggar in rags these days.

Then one morning, as Mariamma is about to empty a bucket of water on him, the phone rings. Ousep wakes up and sees his wife standing with a bucket of water. ‘Can you do that after I take the call?’ he says. She steps back and lets him pick up the phone.

‘Hello,’ Ousep says.

The voice on the other end is strong and serene. ‘Ousep Chacko?’

‘Yes,’ he says, sitting up.

‘My name is Somen Pillai. Come to my home at six in the evening.’

OUSEP WALKS AS IF it is morning, with short brisk steps, his little finger sticking out, hair combed back. Ousep Chacko, finally respectable at dusk. The longest day of his life has almost passed in an unbearable wait and the humiliation of sewing his own trousers. As the stout house at the end of the lane approaches, he accepts that he has not walked so steadily in the twilight in many years. The front door opens and Mr Pillai, who is wearing a shirt this evening, stands in the doorway to receive him with a compassionate hand waiting in mid-air to grab the shoulder of his guest. Ousep goes beyond the doormat for the first time and takes in the small foyer, where two adolescent boys, in another time, used to play chess for many hours and talk about the nature of reality, and on occasion toy with the mind of a fool who had come to them seeking easy answers to borrowed questions.

The hall is dim, its walls sky blue, and there is the smell of soap.

The room has two cushioned chairs and a thin sofa arranged around a low table, a colour TV in a corner, and a dining table, which blocks half the doorway to the kitchen. Pillai leads him to the sofa and sits by his side, very close. In the blue wall that faces Ousep, there are two shut doors. Behind one of them Somen Pillai waits.

The boy’s father is not comfortable, his movements are quick and his eyes restless. Mrs Pillai steps out of the kitchen holding a serving spoon; she smiles without warmth and goes back in.

‘My boy is inside,’ the man says, pointing to a shut door. ‘He has been in that room for more than two years. For more than
two years, Ousep. He never leaves the room. He does not speak. Not a word, even to himself. Actually, it is good, isn’t it, that he does not speak to himself? We send food inside once a day. We are glad that he at least eats. That makes him shit like any of us, which is a good thing. There is a bathroom inside, so he does not have to step out. He bathes. We are grateful for that too. Ousep, do you know why he is this way?’

‘No, Pillai, I don’t.’

‘We don’t know what has happened to him,’ Pillai says. ‘One of these days a yellow halo is going to appear behind the idiot’s head. Wouldn’t that be nice? Two years ago he told us that he wanted to stop going to college. I had sold some land in Kerala and got him a seat in an engineering college, but he decided not to take it up. He said he wanted to sit in the room and do nothing. I fought, I begged, but I soon realized that I would lose my only son if I insisted. I told him that if he wanted to do nothing he was free to roam around the entire house, watch TV and do absolutely nothing. At least I could then tell myself my son had retired early. But no, he wanted to be contained in that room. He told us that if we tried to talk to him, if we bothered him in any way, he would leave the house for ever. So we let him be. We have made our peace, Ousep. This morning, for the first time in two years, he stepped out. His mother and I were sitting where we are sitting right now, and what do we see. We see our son come out of his room. The light went on in our eyes, Ousep, just for a moment. He goes straight to the phone and calls you. For the first time in over two years we heard his voice. Isn’t that nice? We must thank you, Ousep. Your trick has worked. You made such a scene every night, the boy has decided to deal with you and be done with it.’

Pillai’s body begins to shake, he covers his face with his fat
fingers and cries. ‘What is it, Ousep? What has happened to our son? Ask him to show one flaw in me, one flaw. I fed him, I loved him, I held him by his hand and took him places, I played with him. I gave him everything. And he decides to shut himself in a room for ever. You talk to him. Ask him anything you want. I know you won’t understand what he says. You will go away very confused. Trust me. We tried talking to him when it all began. But after today, please don’t come here again.’

‘Can I go in?’ Ousep says.

Pillai points to the door. ‘Don’t knock. Just go in.’

As Ousep walks to the door, his breathing becomes laboured, and for a moment he feels giddy. He pushes the door open and sees a young man in a plain white shirt and brown trousers sitting behind a wooden desk and smiling at him. He is much thinner than he was three years ago, which is not surprising. He has a thick full beard, as Ousep had expected. The boy’s hair is long, but not as long as Ousep had imagined. He has large teasing eyes, piercing eyes, but they still have some mirth in them.

‘Shut the door and latch it,’ the boy says. His voice is not deep but it is strong and clear.

Ousep does as he is told, and when the boy points to the vacant chair across the desk, he sits. Finally, Somen Pillai. He does not look mad at all. In fact, this one is going to be tough.

‘Are you afraid?’ the boy says.

‘Why would I be afraid?’

‘Sitting alone with me in this room. Are you afraid?’

‘No.’

‘I will call you Ousep,’ the boy says.

‘That’s a remarkable coincidence. My name is, in fact, Ousep.’

Somen laughs, like anybody else. ‘I can call you uncle or sir,
or things like that, if you want me to be respectful, but I would prefer to call you Ousep. As you said, that’s your name.’

‘Call me Ousep.’

‘Ousep, you see this window? I have been watching you every time you’ve come to the gate. I have seen you in the mornings, I have seen you at night. You are more literary in the nights, I noticed.’

‘I am sorry for all that I did but I had to meet you.’

‘I can see you are not drunk today.’

‘You are right.’

‘I have not spoken in over two years. I am surprised I am even able to speak. But I think my speech may sound a bit strange.’

‘Why haven’t you spoken for two years, Somen?’

‘You will figure that out as we go. But before we begin I have something important to tell you. You’ve destroyed my way of life, Ousep. You are a persistent man who has no shame. I thought I should let you ask me everything you want to ask so that we are done with it and never meet again.’

‘I can accept that, Somen.’

‘It is natural that you would attach a certain importance to the fact that I have refused to meet you for so long. But the truth is, as you will see, I have very simple things to say. The only reason I did not meet you was that I did not feel like meeting you. That’s all there is to it.’

‘That’s reasonable.’

‘There is something else you must know,’ Somen says. ‘In the time that follows you will ask me questions. I will answer them. We will talk. We will have what is called a conversation. I will tell you everything I know. You can ask me anything you want. But at the end of it all you will not know why Unni Chacko killed himself. You will fail in your mission. Because the fact is that I do not know why Unni did what he did.’

‘I can accept that.’

‘In that case we must proceed. You must first tell me what you know about Unni.’

Ousep wonders where he must begin. And how much he must reveal.

Mythili Balasubramanium stands still on the narrow rear balcony, under the festoons of white undergarments left to dry on the high, discreet wire, and she listens to the voice, as she has done many times in the past. Her head is bent in careful attention, eyes staring at bare feet, hands folded. The voice of Mariamma, as powerful as ever, the voice of a woman trapped in her own play, talking to the walls in her kitchen, talking in whispers and exclamations. What her voice usually says is nothing new, Mythili has heard the same things for years. But this evening she hears a lament she has not heard before.

‘Why, Unni, that’s what I ask myself, that’s all I want to know. Why?’

It is not surprising that Mariamma should say that. It has to be the most important question in her life. But when Mythili imagines that woman standing alone in her kitchen, wagging a finger, begging the walls for the answer, something in her breaks. Mythili shuts her eyes and feels the tears. Is there a way she can end this, lead that woman to the answer she so desperately seeks, and bring the pointless search of Ousep Chacko to a close, a search whose sad little details she hears every night when he howls like a beast from the gates below? Is there a way Mythili can end all this for ever, and let the Chacko household move on?

She leaves the balcony when Thoma comes for his tuition. He is wearing an altered shirt of his brother’s, the same shirt Unni was wearing the day before he died. She is surprised she
remembers that. They sit in her bedroom as always; the door that does not have a latch is shut.

‘If eight men can build a wall in ten days, how many days will two men need to build a wall three times as big?’

Thoma makes some calculations in his notebook. He is taking a while. ‘Thoma,’ she says. He looks up. ‘You look different these days, Thoma, you look sad.’

‘I am fine,’ he says, ‘I am strong. It has the same face as sadness but I am only stronger than before.’

‘What happened that you are strong now?’

‘Something happened to me.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘After I told you about Unni’s trick, I realized I was just a moron, like most people. I don’t want to be a petty moron any more.’

‘It’s all right. You only told me the truth.’

‘Truth is not so important. What is important is that I told you about the trick because I thought I was not good enough. I don’t want to be so afraid any more. I want to be strong so that I can take care of my mother and all the people who need my help. I want to be like Unni. I want to be strong.’

He scribbles in his notebook but she can see he is not working on the problem. He says, without looking up, ‘And I want to find out why he did what he did.’

‘What is it that your father has found?’

‘I don’t know much. I only know what I hear my father say when he is drunk. I think a few months ago my father found a comic by Unni. The day my brother died he had posted it to someone but somehow it returned after three years.’

‘So?’

‘So my father thinks that if Unni had posted a comic on the day he died, it may have some clues.’

‘What is the comic about?’

‘It is a true story.’

‘What is the story?’

‘Do you know about Philipose?’

‘It is a very familiar name. I don’t know why it is so familiar.’

‘Have you heard the name?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did you hear the name?’

‘It is a name that has your mother’s voice in it. Yes, it comes to me now. I have heard your mother mention his name sometimes. You know, when she gets into one of her moods. I used to think it was one of her relatives.’

‘He is not a relative.’

‘Who is Philipose?’

‘Something happened many years ago, when my mother was much younger. One evening she was returning alone from school, and Philipose attacked her. My mother escaped because she started screaming and people came running. But she was very shocked, and from that day she started talking to herself. She did not tell anybody about this. But one day she told Unni about him and about what had happened. Unni was so angry he took a train and went to meet Philipose to beat him up. But Philipose was already dead. He died of old age, I think.’

‘And?’

‘That’s all. That’s how the story ends. I don’t like that story.’

She turns the pages of the maths book, and tries once again to make up her mind. There is the bleak quiet of twilight all around. The children have quit their games, the birds have gone, it is as if nothing exists in the world but the two of them in a small room. ‘One hundred and twenty days,’ Thoma says. She looks at him and sees a flow of events that is now inevitable.

‘Mythili,’ Thoma says, ‘it will take two men one hundred and twenty days to build the wall. That’s a lot of time for a wall.’

‘Philipose should have killed himself, not Unni,’ she says.

‘Philipose led a normal, peaceful life, my mother tells me,’ Thoma says. ‘I don’t know if she is angry about that.’