Poor Old Uncle

There is something strange about the paddy fields of Palakkad in Kerala. They seem to go on and on, like a sea of greenery. One just cannot see where they meet the horizon. They seem to go on approaching it. Dusk accentuates the beauty of these fields by adding a disturbingly enigmatic element to it. By nightfall, the fields and the sky together look like a dust-coated impressionist painting; more so on misty moonlit nights. Even during the day, it is quite difficult to find one’s way through these fields unless one is very familiar with the labyrinth of pathways criss-crossing the fields.

The beauty of these fields was not new to Unny, nor was the intricacy of the paths. Although it was almost dark, he was sure of the way. He walked briskly through the fields; abruptly taking a turn here or there. There was the moon, of course; but it was so faint that even a gentle gust of wind could have put it out. But Unny hardly needed the moonlight to find his way through.

He carried a cloth bag with him. It contained the contraband Uncle had ordered him to buy. Two bottles of hooch. As he neared his house, Unny could see the faint glow of a lighted beedi afar. Yes, Uncle was waiting for him. That made him walk faster.

Uncle was the black sheep of the family—an aristocratic family all of whose members—except Uncle—were intellectual people, hard-working men who were committed to their families and led quiet, disciplined lives…and women who made obliging, well-behaved wives. But Uncle was a vicious exception. He was a bachelor and led a recklessly violent, wayward life. The young men of the family hardly ever dared pass by Uncle for fear of his unreasonable anger; the elders would usually stop talking when he entered, and the women always made it a point to express an apology by mildly clearing their throats and putting their hands to their mouths if they were to cross pass Uncle.

Unny slowed down his pace and slowly approached Uncle who was sitting on the steps of the huge gate.

“Late…eh?” Uncle asked gravely.
“A bit,” said Unny. “There was some last minute emergency at the factory…you see, one of the blowers…”
“Did you get my bottles?” Uncle interrupted, luckily for Unny; for Uncle never liked what he would feel were mere excuses.
“Yes, two bottles,” said Unny lifting the cloth bag for him to see.
“Good”, said Uncle “Keep one under the chest, leave one here and get me a glass, and something to munch and something to crunch.”
Unny reverently placed one bottle before Uncle and rushed in to carry out the remaining orders.
“Sit down,” said Uncle, “here beside me and relax.”

Unny sat down, but not at all relaxed, in fact, he felt like a cat on hot bricks.

Uncle emptied almost one-fourth of the hooch into the glass, lifted up the glass, closed his eyes for a moment as if he were praying and then drank the whole of it in a single, long gulp. Then he cleared his throat and spat so loudly that Unny nearly jumped out of his skin. It was like a gun going off. Then Uncle lit a beedi, striking the match so hard that it burst like a cracker.

“You said you had some last minute emergency?”
“Yes,” said Unny dolefully, for he had though that Uncle had forgotten the uncomfortable question he had left half way. “One of the blowers went off and we had to fix it.”

“Fix!” said Uncle with a derisive guffaw “Yes, keep fixing things.”

Then he poured out another quarter of the bottle into the glass; gulped it with a vengeance, cleared his throat and spat so loudly and suddenly that the explosion hung in the air for some time before it could find its way out into the fields. He then lit another beedi, striking the match with such violence that Unny actually saw sparks fly off it.

“Keep fixing things…You must not become like Uncle,” Here, there was a sudden drop in Uncle’s tone. He spoke in a tone that was very nearly sorrowful. “No….don‘t become like Uncle, my dear boy, like this Uncle. Do you know what I have done in life? Nothing…a big zero.” Uncle looked intently at Unny as though expecting him to respond.

Unny swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back apologetically as if he were responsible for Uncle having done a zero in life.

“You are right,” said Uncle, his voice dropping further to a whisper—a sad, feeble whisper. “I have done nothing in life. Not worked at all.”

He scratched his bald pate rapidly this way and that.

“Yes,” he sobbed, “Nothing…not even a grain of work! First, it was my poor father’s money…I made ducks and drakes of his hard-earned money; spending it on movies, tea, coffee, snacks, cigarettes, and what not! And after that….”

Here he filled the glass a third time, drank the content in a continuous slow sip, cleared his throat softly and spat demurely.

“After that, my dear boy, it was my sisters’ money…I squandered all of their hard-earned money spending it on gambling, hooch, biriyaanis, and worthless women. Yes, I never worked at all…and now, do I work? No! Not at all! Even now, I don’t work. I prey on my nieces and nephews like you…my dear boy! I drink and eat and smoke and swear…not doing any work at all….but you...” He stopped abruptly.

Unny felt that there were a few drops of tear in his eyes as he emptied the hooch into the glass. But once he filled the glass, his countenance assumed a diabolic glow. He lifted the glass and looked at it with pursed lips. Then he gurgled down the drink frantically, spat with such spite as if he were spitting at the devil, struck a match with all his might, and suddenly hollered so loudly and with a fiendish fervor that it terrified Unny.

“You must not become like me. I don’t like any one in our family becoming like me. Yes, on one…work! Work hard…like Appa, like Damu, like Kuttappan, like Kunjunni…fix blowers and move mountains….you are just forty after all, isn’t it? Don’t live like me! Work till some of your bones break. Why some? Excuse me please! Let all your bones break…let all your nasty little bones crumble and break from hard work. Just don’t care, just keep working…Don’t ever become like me!”

Uncle stood up. He hurled the empty bottle into the fields and said through tears, in fact, by now, he was sobbing uncontrollably. Unny too stood up.

“Now, let’s go in” said Uncle again in a small, submissive voice. “It’s getting late….Don’t I have to eat some rice, some eggs, some curries, pappads, curd, pickles…and anything else they might have cooked; and then watch the TV and then listen to the radio before I go to bed?”

Unny picked up the glass and followed Uncle, who walked a bit unsteadily. He heard him sob again. But this time he had a doubt. Wasn’t that a gleeful laugh that he had smartly converted into a sob?

V K Rajan