Killing the Red God

A serialization of my novel, "Killing the Red God". | Copyright: Hari Kumar | website: www.harismind.com | If this is your first visit, please start from the bottom (start of Chapter 1)

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Location: Singapore, Singapore

Friday, August 19, 2005

Chapter 1 -- Part 21

“I don’t believe it! The Barrister does not have tear glands!”
“You may not believe it, but that is the truth,” Amma says with finality. “…You never could see the softer side of him.”
“He never would let me see it, Amma… If, as you claim, he has one.”
“Oh yes, he has. Chellappan always says — of course, not when he is around — ‘Angunnu is like a coconut, hard and rough outside, soft, white and pure inside.’ I think it was last Wednesday. He was reading the Mathrubhoomi reclining in the easy chair at the veranda, when he fell asleep. The paper slipped from his grasp and fell on the floor. When I bent down to pick up the paper, I heard him distinctly utter in his sleep: ‘Kuttoosay, nee eviday poyi? Achante kooday olichchu kalikkathay. Achan vayasaayi poyi (Kuttoos, where are you? Don’t play hide and seek with your father. Your father is old now.)”
“Kuttoos? Who is Kuttoos?” I ask.
“You will not remember. Neither did I, for a moment. But then I recalled…that was a pet name by which he used to call you until you were a toddler.”
“O Amma, don’t give me all these stories…I know you have been trying hard to bring us together. But the ball is in his court, Amma… You know that… The wounds he gave me in that April night, thirteen years ago are still there…They some times fester and clear pus comes out from my eyes…It’s up to him to heal me…Only he can…” my voice breaks.
“How dare you say these are stories! It’s the truth… Yes, I have been trying to bring you two together. But not by spinning stories, mind you. You are being selfish. You only talk about your wounds. What about mine, caught in between, thrashed between immovable rocks…?”
I hear her cry softly. I say, “Amma, I am sorry Amma. I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t call me next week,” she says abruptly, her voice trembling, and cuts the line.
I dial her number immediately. It’s Chellappan, “Is it Dileepan kunju? Kochamma says she does not want to talk to you now. What did you tell her, kunjay? You are still as naughty as you were twenty five years ago…”
“Never mind,” I say, “I’ll call later,” and hangs up.

It’s around ten, when my mobile beeps.


(To be continued...)

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