Soon it will be morning. He can’t let Elsie see what he’s done. How can he expect her to understand when he barely understands himself? If it isn’t murder, it’s manslaughter, but in any case, there’s a body to dispose of. He returns to the patio and hides Elsie’s collection of mallets and her chisels behind the bookshelves in his room.
He waits on the verandah in the predawn for Shamuel. The previous night’s storm has littered the muttam with dead leaves and palm fronds. At last Shamuel appears, standing there like a dark totem, naked from the waist up. The beedi scent Philipose associates with the old man clings to him, just like the threadbare plaid thorthu that was wrapped around his head when he walked over but is now draped over his shoulder out of respect for the thamb’ran. Shamuel’s mundu is half-hitched and his kneecaps are pale saucers. He’s all gray now, even the eyebrows, and there’s gray in the depths of his pupils too.
“Quite a rain last night,” Philipose says. He knows he’s a disappointment to this man who has loved and served him since he was born. The old man studies his sling, sees the bruising. “Let’s see, Shamuel . . . today . . . remember to take rice to the mill for grinding.”
“Aah, aah,” Shamuel says automatically, though he ground the rice the previous week.
“And ask the vaidyan to come by.” Then before Shamuel can ask why, he adds, “But before all that, get some help and move that stone that Elsie is working on.”
“Aah, a—” Shamuel catches himself. “You mean the big woman?” So he’s seen her evolution too.
“Yes. Please move it first thing. Don’t wait,” Philipose says, trying to sound casual, rising from his chair. “Drag it out of sight, maybe by the tamarind tree. But do it soon. She’ll work on it again after the baby comes.”
Philipose goes inside at once, leaving Shamuel standing on the muttam, scratching his chest.
In half an hour, Shamuel returns with two others, coiled ropes in their hands. Philipose is thankful that Joppan isn’t in the group. They approach from the outside of the semi-enclosed patio that is Elsie’s studio. They circle the Stone Woman, their feet impervious to the stone shards. Philipose watches discreetly. What do they think of the figure? Does art seem like a terrible indulgence? Especially since art has become labor for them now. They drag away the defaced stone.
Later, the vaidyan comes by. Philipose has little faith in his tonics and pills, but the man knows his fractures. It turns out that the sling Philipose fashioned is the treatment for this fracture. He must keep it on for three weeks at least.
Elsie breakfasts on plump, steamed idli, white as clouds. Then under Big Ammachi’s watchful eyes, she applies warmed dhanwantharam kuzhambu to her entire body. Every vaidyan has his own formula, but the base is sesame and castor oils, and nightshade roots. An hour later she bathes, scrubbing off the oil with green gram powder. Before her mother-in-law lets her go, she drinks hot milk infused with brahmi and shatavari roots. It’s eleven when Elsie arrives at the patio, tying an apron over her sari. Philipose is waiting. He stands, swaying from fatigue, sleeplessness, and opium.
She turns slowly from the emptiness of the patio to regard him.
“Elsie, I can explain. I put your statue safely away. Just until after our son is born.”
A fly hovers in front of his face and the mere thought of swiping at it is enough to trigger pain.
She observes his sling, the ugly blue swelling, and the bony deformity with curiosity and even concern. Then she turns back to what is no longer there. She bends down to pick up the fragment that broke off when the mallet did its work. He kicks himself for leaving it there. Holding it at arm’s length she turns it this way and that, trying to picture its origin. He wishes she would just explode at him, say what he deserves to hear.
“It was an accident, Elsie,” he blurts out. “I had a terrible nightmare.” This isn’t at all what he meant to say! “I was convinced she wanted to escape. I think I was still dreaming when I came out here. I wanted to free her.” He waits, expecting the worst.
“So, you meant well.” Her voice is flat. Not sarcastic. Not anything.
She understands! Thank goodness. “Yes. Yes. I’m so sorry. Elsie, after our son is born, I’ll bring it back. Or get you ten other stones if you like,” he says.
“Our son?” Elsie says at last.
It’s a blessing that she doesn’t want to talk about the Stone Woman anymore. “Yes, our son! He was complaining,” he says, trying for a humorous tone. “He was saying, ‘Appa, I’m looking forward to coming back into the world, but all this pounding is driving me crazy!’ ”
Elsie says, “You’re so sure it’s a son.”
It’s not a question. He laughs nervously.
“Have you forgotten the kaniyan’s visit? This is our Ninan reborn!” His voice catches when he says the name, and the expression on her face flickers. A ghost has walked between them.
“God is penitent, Elsie. God asks for forgiveness. God wants to give us reason to believe again. God gives us Ninan back so we can heal.”
She looks at the stone fragment in her hand, as though uncertain what to do with it, then places it on the ground carefully, like a sacred object. She looks suddenly weary. When she speaks, it’s without rancor, and perhaps there’s even compassion for the man she married.
“Philipose, oh, Philipose, what happened to you?” Her gaze makes him feel he’s shrinking before her, becoming the size of the stone fragment. “All I wanted,” she says, “was your support so I could do my work. But somehow you always seem to think you’re giving it to me even when you’re taking it away.”
THE ORDINARY MAN COLUMN: THE UNCURE
by V. Philipose
Stop anyone on the road and once they see that it’s not money, or their last plug of tobacco, but a story that you’re after, they’ll happily tell you the legend of their lives. Who doesn’t want to recount the bad karma, the backstabbing that stood between them and greatness, kept them from being a household name like Gandhi or Sarojini Naidu? Or wealthy beyond belief like the Tatas or Birlas? Every Malayali has such a personal legend and I assure you, it is complete fiction. Invariably a Malayali also has two other tales in their possession, as constant as their belly button: one is a ghost story, and the other a cure for warts. Dear Reader, I am a collector of wart cures. I have hundreds. If you want to scare yourself collecting ghost stories, that’s your business, is it not? So, whatever you think of my collecting wart cures, kindly keep it to yourself.
Why wart cures, you ask? Am I covered in warts? No. But I had one on this finger when I was a little boy. Naturally, I felt it was because of a sin I’d committed. Instead of telling my mother, I ran to my childhood friend, an older, confident fellow, my hero. He shared his secret cure: fresh goat’s urine before it hits the ground, applied just before sunup. Brother, you please try to find goat piss other than on the ground. Sister, your goat may piss all the time and look at you insolently while splashing your leg, but just try to catch some in a coconut shell in the dark without getting a head butt, or a kick in unmentionable places. Anyway, I managed. That’s its own story, but I managed . . . and the wart fell off! When I told my friend, the rascal fell to the ground laughing. He’d made it up! But I had the last laugh, did I not? The cure worked.