Raman and Krishnan

I.

They are my friends of the bygone years, Raman and Krishnan. Like my eyes, twins.

When Raman hurt himself while playing outside, inside, in the midst of Geography class, Krishnan felt his pain. Krishnan’s dilemma in the examination hall, of being lost without answers, was felt by Raman too, outside.

When Krishnan stole four annas, broke the chain of a rented cycle, touched “there” while bathing and felt unhappy about the salt less porridge every morning, Raman’s sixth sense would know. Raman whispered about them in my right ear and Krishnan in my left.

When on my maiden journey to Bombay, I boarded a train; I asked Raman “Will you outshine Krishnan in the exams this year?”


II.

Krishnan was stacking the list of local Hindus after Muslims had trespassed and taken possession of the office of Vishwa Hindu Parishad. There, from that list, he came to know that Raman had joined the Khadi-clad men. Ponnani was a hotbed of revolution then, and the reasons behind Raman’s constant visits to Ponnani were now revealed on Krishnan.

In Bombay, on the third day, I received a letter from Krishnan.

“Chacko, if you listen carefully, there is a strange attraction in the Azaan calls from a mosque.”


III.

Their mother expired.

Since then, Krishnan tends the kitchen and Raman took up writing.

Of smoked eyes, burnt souls, hearths transforming into Nuclear Reactors, the countries within a country, about the languages within a language, about homes within homes, about silences within silence, Raman wrote, wrote and wrote, not for once venturing into the kitchen.

Krishnan, on the other hand, enlightened me about the peculiarities and differences between the Azaan calls in Arabia, Aligarh and Malabar. On my marriage he gifted me “A road to Mecca” by Muhammad Asad.



IV.

After the Matriculation, three of us have never sat together.

On my visits back home, both Raman and I would be sitting beside the mountain stream guzzling beer and talking about Krishnan or Krishnan and I would be sitting below the huge Banyan in front of the temple square, smoking and talking of Raman.

One night, at the beach, I kept my hands on Raman’s shoulders and looked at the moon.

“How lonely and incomplete” I said.

As if on cue, Raman started telling me about how Krishnan would be sitting on the balcony of his house and looking at the same moon that very minute.


V.

In the neighborhood, a Marathi had killed his wife and then hanged himself. I was about to leave for the funeral when the news came.

Raman had killed Krishnan.

Suddenly, India was no more my country. Mumbai disowned me. Malayalam drowned me in its Tsunami.


VI.

What was it all about?

Who killed whom? Did a Muslim kill a Hindu, the owner kill his servant, the victor kill the vanquished?

Did a brother kill another?

Did Blood spill itself?

From inside the lockup, Raman looked at me and as if to someone standing beyond me, said, “We used to spy on each other. We lived on deceptions.”


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Vijay ©

P.S:
Hugely inspired by a poem in Malayalam
by P.N. Gopikrishnan