THE HUMAN TOUCH

By VALLATHOL VASUDEVA MENON

(Translated by the author from the Original in Malayalam)

Krishna Menon decided to retire from public life. After all it had been very tiring. He deserved some rest now. ‘I shall sit down and write my story’, Menon seemed to have thought. But to write one’s story one required, above everything else, peace of mind and a quiet place. Can there be peace in a busy town? Not at all. One should therefore escape from this wretched town and settle down in a quiet corner. Menon had earned enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life; and, as for family, he had none to look after. Although past sixty-one Krishna Menon was still single and unmarried.

After considering the pros and cons of every desirable place, he selected, in the end, Kaladi, the birth place of Sri Sankara. Menon had a great admiration for Sri Sankara. In fact Sankara was the only great person he cared for. And Kaladi, the famous village, had a restful, languishing appearance, skirted, as it lay, by lush green meadows on one side and the sleepy river on the other. It was an ideal place to rest and ruminate. So thrilled by a new ardour of impending authorship, Menon hastened to buy a bundle of writing paper, pencils and a sharpener and left for Kaladi.

He settled down in his study and pondered over the subject: How shall he begin his story? Like the vague echoes of a Gurkha night watchman’s distant footsteps, memories of a dim past reverberated in his mind. But they were confused and none appeared to be clear-cut. He got up and went to the window and looked out. Far away, the indistinct contours of the imposing ghats were visible, partly merged with the clouds. How tiring it is to keep looking out, he thought. Slowly he brought his eyes nearer home and looked over the fence at the neighbour’s compound. Involuntarily his eyebrows twitched as they described lines of disapproval on his forehead. Scattered all over the neighbor’s compound were lying all sorts of articles made for children to play and create noise with. A couple of drums, musical instruments, toys, whistles, a rubber ball and a toy-house built of sand and flimsy wooden pieces. Evidently, Krishna Menon ruefully thought, noisy children are about! That would be a nuisance indeed! With noisy children around how can one obtain the necessary frame of mind to sit and write? Gosh. It is going to be hell here. With a disturbed feeling he went back and sat on his chair and kept sharpening his pencils. While doing so his thoughts aimlessly wandered round the sharpener. Years ago, while he was a small boy, Krishna Menon had longed for such a pencil sharpener. But how many years it took to have that wish fulfilled! Strange, indeed; and he sat writing.

About writing, however, he had fixed ideas: His story should be lofty; the style should be terse and crisp; and, above all, there should be nothing ‘small’ about that contents. So it was amazing for Krishna Menon to read what he had already scribbled. It was in a style exactly opposite to Menon’s settled notions of writing, and read:

“The earliest memory I have of my mother is a scene where she is giving me a bath. I had scabies all over my body. Using some kind of a pulp made of the bark of mango tree mother rubbed my body vigorously. The treatment was prescribed by a local vaidya; curse be on him! I used to curse everybody and cry aloud mustering all my vocal strength. Perhaps it was from this that a habit of talking aloud developed in me in later years. I was reproached several times for this habit. Why, I was even censured in court once by the learned Chief Justice...!”

Krishna Menon sat back on his chair, unbelieving...! Did he write that paragraph? “What rubbish! What reminds me of these silly things now, anyway?” he seemed to ask himself, un-believing and bewildered.

But it was true. That was his earliest recollection of life. Trailing on this memory came innumerable little, like incidents: His attachment towards the neighbour’s pretty daughter, his own age; how they played, “Dad and Mum” etc. Krishna Menon could not understand why he, a serious-minded man, should waste time writing and ruminating over such trifles. Nonetheless he could not resist the temptation to write in that strain. Will anybody read this rubbish? Will it be interesting? What foolish things to write, Krishna Menon again thought.

At that very moment there came, from the adjoining compound, terrific shouts of a boy and a girl. It was the spirited shouts emanating from the powerful lungs of Kuttikrishnan and his sister who were till then held in bondage by their mother to give them baths, but now released after bath. They came running, took drums and whistles and musical instruments and started an orchestra of the most infernal type. Krishna Menon got furious. Evidently, a man who came in search of peace cannot be expected to compromise with that sort of hellish noise. He called his servant and asked him in a loud tone of rebuke, audible to the neighbour: ‘Look, what type of life exists there?’

‘A schoolmaster and his family, sir,’ the servant replied. ‘They have come to spend their summer-holidays.’

‘But can’t they live without disturbing other people? Tell them to keep their children under check, anyway.’

A little later the soft reproaching voice of a woman was heard from the next door: ‘Kuttikrishna, be a good boy and don’t create so much noise. Our neighbour seems to be getting angry.’

‘Why, mother, is he afraid of sound?’

‘It is not that, my son. He is an old man. And old men cannot understand children and their ways.’

Standing at his window Krishna Menon overheard the conversation which offended him considerably. ‘Imagine that woman’s cheek!’ he said to himself; ‘to say that I cannot understand children, my foot! Wish she had seen what I have written here!’ Trailing on this thought came various interesting little incidents of his early childhood. There was an old man living near his house. My God, he was the limit. He could not even think of children, let alone mixing with them. At times, during play, their rubber ball used to bounce inadvertently into the old man’s compound. He never had the decency to return the ball. Why not give a thumb-nail-sketch of the old man? It will be interesting reading.

Outside, in the adjoining compound, noisy play went on unabated. But Krishna Menon was oblivious. The soft voice of a woman went on reproaching the children occasionally but with little effect.

Before going to bed at night Krishna Menon re-read what he had written. The whole thing was written in a style unfamiliar to him. A human touch pervaded it! No, no; this won’t do, he said to himself. The thing must be revised. Then he went to bed.

Next day Krishna Menon noticed that there were much more elaborate arrangements for play in the neighbour’s compound. It was Kuttikrishna’s birthday and he had decided to celebrate it in a fitting style in the company of his friends and well-wishers. They had decided to play cricket.

This game was Krishna Menon’s favourite at school. In fact he was crazy about it for, cricket breathes, so he was told, British Character. And Krishna Menon had unbounded admiration for the British Character. He thought of his school days and the thrilling matches he had witnessed and participated in. His playmates and friends formed an interesting lot. They celebrated victories, fought matches and compromised after quarrels. What wonderful days to recount and relive! It will surely lend ‘pep’ to the story.

While ruminating over the past, a cry was heard outside: “Mother, our ball bounced into that old man’s compound. Shall I go and fetch it?”

‘No, you can’t.’

‘How can we play then?’

‘Stop your play. I warned you against this from the beginning. Did I not?’

‘Before knowing who won, how can we stop?’

‘That can be decided another day.’

‘I wish that old man was dead and gone,’ remarked Kuttikrishnan, the leader of the boys. This sent the children into roars of laughter.

‘Will you, boys, keep quiet?’ the mother rebuked and went in.

Krishna Menon came down from his room, took the ball and threw it back. Accidentally it struck a tiny girl who started crying. This made the other children furious. They took mud and stones and things they could lay hands on and threw them into Menon’s compound.

Krishna Menon recollected how he and his friends once wreaked vengeance on that old man in a like manner.

Days went on and a full moon day came. Late at night Menon stood at his window looking out. The night lay swooned in the lap of Nature, dressed in light and shade. It was an enchanting sight to watch. Krishna Menon thought he saw two figures moving in the neighbouring garden. They were talking in whispers, words of love perhaps! He closed the window and went back to bed, in a reverie. What was the name of the girl who took his fancy while young? Was it Visalakshi...or...Sarada? Yes, her name was Sarada. He could write a whole chapter on the episode. Readers relish that kind of stuff. What if the girl herself happens to read it? Well, what is there? She will come to know that after all he has not forgotten her! She might even be pleased at the thought...

The intriguing thing about the whole matter was, why and from where did he get the urge to write in that vein. Krishna Menon was of a different mould and his plan to write was different!

The days went on in this manner and the work of the autobiography also progressed. One day an old friend called on Krishna Menon. After the preliminary greetings and enquiries etc., Krishna Menon showed him, with a good deal of hesitation, the finished part of his story. The friend read it in silence, looked up, and with a puzzled expression on his face asked: ‘Did you write this?’

‘Yes; you don’t think it is good, do you?’

‘What...? Don’t I think it good? My God! It is incredible that you can write so well. I know you pretty well, don’t I? And I had never dreamed that you were capable of writing with such human sympathy and understanding. Even after reading it I find it difficult to imagine that you wrote it!’

‘I, too, get the same feeling,’ Menon replied simply.

While taking leave the friend suggested: ‘Now you have definitely made up your mind to come to Cochin? Please bring the remaining part of the story–as much as you have finished.’

The visit to Cochin and back took a couple of weeks and when Krishna Menon returned to his house at Kaladi he found that the neighbour and his family had left. Menon breathed a sigh of relief: ‘Thank God, now at least I can write in peace,’ he thought and settled down again to write. But he noticed a curious thing: Words refused to flow. ‘This must be because I have been out of touch for the past couple of weeks,’ he thought and looked out of the window. Quiet reigned there. The place was deserted. He tried again to write. After a good deal of struggle Krishna Menon brought out something. On reading it he found that it read like an affidavit! The human touch was lost. But where did it go, he wondered! The eyebrows twitched and described lines on his forehead.

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