“… we have no time to stand or stare.” We have no time or we make no time. Whatever it is, the truth remains that every one of us has a story to tell. Walk down the streets, look at people, and observe them. Some would be walking nonchalantly while others would be rushing to some place. The old man sitting on the bench in the bus stop must be eagerly waiting for the bus which would take him to his newborn granddaughter. The man standing at the corner, waiting for the bus could actually be hoping that the bus never arrives so that he doesn’t get to go back home to his troubled married life. A young girl standing in the bus stop shelter, seemingly calm while awaiting the bus, could from inside be restless to meet her friends and tell them the story of her new-found love. One should just have a little time to scratch the surface and there will be stories after stories, waiting to be told.
Everyone cannot afford time for such interesting tasks. People are more engrossed in survival, trying to improve their quality of life – merely materialistically - earn that extra buck and find happiness, though ironically they struggle throughout their life for it, thus spending many discontent and unhappy moments in their lives. For example, a family would buy an expensive home theater system, watch events (news and other events) all over the world, watch movies (mere stories told by others) or watch sports to see a fight between victory and defeat (the same old story since the beginning of the universe). How many people would know what is going on in the life of that smiling and charming new neighbor or the wrinkled widower living across the street?
I am a writer. I thank God for making my job implicitly require me to find such stories and also give me the time for it. Sometimes the purposeful observation gets to you. However one might argue, it is another regular task after all. I quickly decided that I needed a vacation. This is another luxury of my profession. I could call it a break from work to enjoy the beautiful nature. I could also use this very break to think away from the crowd and yet be working by writing something - story or a descriptive article about my trip.
On the last occasion that I made a quick decision, I found myself going to Cauvery river's jungle lodge resort. This was about a hundred kilometers away from Bengaluru, the technology capital of India. I enjoy a special rapport with the staff and the in-charge of this lodge. I called up Andrew, the in-charge of the lodge, my special friend. I gathered that he was going to be out of office for a couple of days. So the first two days of my stay for about four days was going to be without the company of my fellow philosopher with whom I shared many intellectual conversations.
Early one monday morning I kick-started my bike and, off, I set to the lodge. It was a typical pleasant Bangalore day. Cloudy, cool and gently breezy weather made riding a bike a very pleasurable activity. A cup of coffee with biscuits was to keep me going till I reached the lodges in time for a heavy breakfast. Breakfast, for the quantity, quality and variety of dishes was what I liked best about this lodge. Andrew, who is a nature-lover and who is vegetarian by choice like me, ensures that food served in the lodges is vegetarian, yet tasty. The meat-lovers never had an occasion to complain about the lack of taste that they generally have elsewhere. Stopping for photographs on the way, where the views looked breath-taking, was all that interrupted my ride.
Andrew has some creativity in his schemes, themes and work. He was instrumental in changing the interiors of the rooms and having a close-to-nature color scheme for them. The rooms were wooden and green artificial turf carpet covered the wooden floor. The curtains and lampshades were of light green shades. Upon entering any of the rooms, one would get the feeling of living in a tree house, or for a more imaginative person it would be like living on the tree. I chose Room 7, not only because I liked the number but also because that room was special for me. On occasions in the past when I was fighting states of depression or was struggling over something in life, time spent in this room triggered an improvement. This room also happens to be the one closest to the river bank. River Cauvery flows from Karnataka to Tamil Nadu. In this particular stretch, the river flows from west to east. The lodges are on the north side of the river which means that looking out from the south-side window the river would flow from the right to the left. It is surely a quarter of a kilometer wide on average and looking out of the south-side window, the opposite side of the bank is very scenic. The land quickly rises up and hardly would one see water surface level land as more imposing is the hill that sits in the background as if threatening to fall on you.
The whole bank is green. There is hardly any soil visible. The hill is covered densely by trees. It is eerie in a way because the stretch is known to be a good catchment area. Given that, it is natural to expect one of nature's fiercest and strongest predators to lurk in the waters. It is not uncommon to find carrion of deer floating by the river bank gently being tugged from underneath. In moments, the carrion would disappear. The thought of being stranded on the other side of the bank often gave me shudders. There was no place to run and escape a preying alligator there except climb a tree or the hill. The thick tree trunks surely make it difficult to climb them, especially with an alligator breathing down one's neck.
Dark nights in such forest areas are scary. It is the moonlit nights that are more terrifying. It is the partial sight of things that puts doubts in the minds. Standing at the banks of the river it gives me shudders seeing small dots glowing in the moonlight in the middle of the stream. I stop whatever I was doing and rush back towards my room when I see such things. I ordered beer for that night. A tiring day in the sun in the village area can be ended on a good note by beer. I recently tried writing when I was a little tipsy. What came out was well appreciated by people. What better than to get tipsy in room 7 to kick start a story?
As I do on occasions like these, I don't start writing until 11:00 pm, when surely all other campers retire to their rooms. That night I was going to do what I wanted to do for a long time - write a story by the river. I had enough beer to make me slightly tipsy. It was about 11:30pm. I looked outside the window. The crescent moon that night looked beautiful and the sky was studded with fine diamonds. It was only a look down at the forest that could spoil these adjectives for the night. I stood there pondering about the topics I could write about, people I could write about or just the night, to start with. I opened another bottle of beer. It looked like I had to up the level a bit to get started. I perambulated within the room for a while. It was the frustration of not being able to come up with an idea that stopped any new idea from entering. I was stuck in that rot. Strange that when some people want to tell a story they never get to tell it while others tell their stories no matter what.
When I looked out of my window this time, to the right, at a distance I spotted what looked like a carcass to me. It was flowing slowly downstream and it was only after fixating on the object for a while that I could discern it was a human body. A chill ran down my spine. When you see such things, you can hardly do better than that. Under ordinary circumstances I'd have watched it flow beyond my eyesight from where I was. Being tipsy removes fear. I opened the door and briskly walked towards the bank to catch a closer glimpse of the body. I could serve as a witness if there would be a case in future. The slowness of the drift seemed a pointer to the kind of death the person had. I could gather that it was a man. “Surely a sorry way to die, ” I thought. A feeling mixed with pity, eeriness and horror filled me. I only stared at the body and watched it drift closer to me from far. “I wonder if he drowned himself or he was killed,” I thought.
“He was killed sir!”
My heart seemed to come up to my mouth! With a sudden jerk I turned back. I wasn't alone? I surely heard a man! I saw a movement just as I turned back. My feet froze and my head became heavy. My heart was banging against my ribs. I stood there. I know that for sure. I couldn't think, let alone act. What was happening? Who was this? What was he doing here? He wasn't a person working at the lodges!
“He was my father! They killed him.”
It is horrifying when I recount it and I wonder why I didn't react. What if, instead, I spotted an alligator behind me. Would I have stood still while it preyed on me? Was it because I was tipsy or would I have been this way anyway?
He sounded more human than a spectre, the longer I stayed there. My frozen body slowly started to twitch. I started following his movements. I looked alternatively at the body and the man. He had an indignant look on his face.
All this was not making sense. What was the link between the man getting killed and his son sitting by the banks as if expecting the body to flow by at this hour of the night?
“He was innocent sir. They accused him of a abetting in a theft of money, jewels and valuables from the temple. When he threatened to reveal the truth about them, they killed him by drowning him.”
I stood there like a zombie. I was staring at him without reacting. He too joined me in following the body of the deceased.
I found words at last. “What exactly happened?'
“They say that when some people have some stories to tell, no matter what, they tell them. My father had a big truth, about them, to reveal. They killed him so as to shut him up. There were half a dozen of them who drowned him. They escaped sir. And the blot of the theft is on Nagappa – my father. I see this body every year on this day – the day of this brutal murder. It is as if he wants to tell a story. I can only sit here and cry my heart out, sir,” saying which he broke into subdued tears.
My heart went out to the man. I couldn't decide which part of the whole incident was my hallucination. How could I see a body of a man killed, by the words of the man, more than a couple of years ago? I could understand a grieving son imagining seeing his father. Why me?
“They stole the valuables from the temple for their own pockets. My father, an honest and God-fearing man, refused to let it pass. He threatened to reveal the conspiracy to the officials. But before he could do that...” the weeping intensified.
I continued in the flow of the chat which was more like that man's soliloquy so far. “Why don't you tell the officials? Surely you know it all too!”
“They won't take my word sir! I am just left with no one to believe me. My guiding light has been removed from my life!”
I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I couldn't believe it was just beer that did so much to my imagination. No! I surely heard so much. “It can't be my imagination,” I convinced myself.
I had nothing to say. I couldn't find words to say anything to the weeping man. I seemed in a vague sort of dream of my own where strange things appeared and disappeared. The story seemed clear. Though I didn't ask for a complete chain of events from the weeping son, I gathered enough to know that there was a murder and the murdered man knew things which weren't allowed to come out into the public.
I slowly walked back to my room. I hardly may have entered my room and mustered enough energy to lock the door behind me. I just couldn't take it anymore. I fell asleep. I don't think I dreamt that night. I woke up late that morning. There was a hangover. It was more from the disturbing night than from the beer, I felt.
I made my way to the police station. I was curious to find out about the incident. The officials there knew me as a regular visitor of the lodges.
“I was curious to know about some Mr Nagappa's case in conjunction with the theft at the temple some years back...” I asked inquisitively.
The name wouldn't have struck chords but when I mentioned the theft, the officer seemed to recollect quickly. “There were a few theories, but in any case he drowned himself. They say he stole the valuables and was planning to sell them in the city. He couldn't swallow the guilt and so he killed himself. Why he killed himself is not exactly known but the evidences we have point at that as a reason.”
My brows furrowed as I thought, “So what I heard from the son was correct? That he died was for sure. But it is very possible that he was killed. So indeed some people tell their stories in some way or the other.”
I was about to bring up the topic of the son, when the officer said, “And the very next day, his son committed suicide too. He had no one else but his father and he couldn't bear the accusation and the blot on his father (his only family member). He thought he'd always have to bear the wrath of the villagers. It was too much for him. Both the cases are closed.”
I don't remember what more the officer said. I was just nodding. That I was shaken is an understatement. Could I even say anything about the previous night there? Once again I couldn't tell a story. I headed back home by that evening. I wanted to write a story. But here I was. I wondered - through my painful moments in room 7 trying to think of a story to write - how some people tell stories when they have to, no matter what. Here was the example. Should I say Nagappa had a story to tell, which he told me and his son? Should I say the son had the story to tell which is why the whole incident happened? Let us just say it was a story by the river... A story by the river...
