From & To Sathish #6 - Page 23

Avan, Aval Adhu 493

“We all have our time machines, don't we? Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward, are dreams.” ― H.G. Wells

Dharmalingam looked at all of them and then resting his eyes on Ravi, ' I was the last one to see Sundaram. I was the last one to see my own son take his final gasp of breath. I, his father, who gave him life and a body from my own body, held my son's lifeless corpse and held him until the warmth faded away from him and from my soul'.

Ravi grabbed his uncle's hands in anger and in frustration, ' You saw Meenakshi slam a rock into Sundara Lingam and murder him and yet you did nothing, said nothing and remained quiet all these years. Why?'

Dharmalingam smiling a painful and pitiful smile answered, ' The same way that you have remained quiet all these years, son. Why didn't you come to me that very night that all this happened and why did you stay quiet without confiding to your own parents? Why?'

Sighing loudly, he shook his head and once again looked at all of them as if he wanted all of them to believe what he was telling them and said, ' There were several reasons why I have stayed quiet all these years. But, the most important reason is that none of you would have believed me. Forget our family, and think for a second what the world would have thought of me if I told them that my son was murdered and that my daughter might be involved in his death.'

' Iyaa, why would you think that no one would believe your words? You were and still are one of the most respected men in the whole of Madurai and probably in this world. If there is one person who is as honest and decent as you, then it is our master sir.'

Dharmalingam nodded sadly, ' Guna, it is only now that all of us finally know what happened that fateful night. But, imagine my plight and also stop and think for a moment what your thoughts and actions would have been if you saw your near-naked murdering your son, yelling, ' You dare attack me, your own sister'.

Daksha waded in with her thoughts, ' Seeing is believing. Any person would have immediately assumed and jumped to the wrong conclusion. They would have thought that Sundara Lingam tried to molest his own sister and that she defended herself by killing him.'

She looked at all of them, ' I would have assumed that and the law would have assumed that and knowing Meenakshi, she would have put on an act and convinced everybody. I have seen enough cases like that where innocent men have been sent to jail after being falsely accused by women and also by their own wives

Dharmalingam raised his hand towards Daksha, ' The law itself has spoken and then you have the situation as to how I would have gone ahead and proved my son's murder for it would have been a very confusing situation for everyone involved '.

Ravi looked at him sharply, ' Why do you say that it would have been confusing? At least we could have given a burial and a sendoff to Sundaram Anna

' How would you have done that, Ravi? How could that have been managed by all of us if there was, no body to be buried in the first place?'

' I was coming to that, uncle ' Ravi said and asked him, ' Where is he? Where have you buried him? Where have you hidden him away all these years?'

Dharmalingam Thevar smiled, ' My son lies hidden somewhere. Of that I am sure but it was not me who did it?'

Madhurima taken aback by this confusing revelation, ' Uncle, but you just said that you were the last person to arrive on the scene and you were the last person Sundaram Bhaiya spoke his final words. So, you must know what happened. What is going on?'

' I am telling the truth, child.'

Ravi nearly lost it and controlling his already volcanic emotions, seethed his words, ' Uncle, it is obvious that you are hiding something from all of us. What is it? Please, just say it and put yourself and all of us out of our misery. Enough, we have suffered enough with all these secrets.'

Dharmalingam smiled lamely, ' I will tell you what happened but it will only leave you more confused and leave you asking more questions.'

All of them looked at him anxiously and waited impatiently for him to speak and speak he did and left them all confused but for one person who finally realized what might have happened that day

' As I entered the forest, I suddenly recollected an old man who had come to our village when I was about 10 years old. His name was Pazham Swamy don't know why he suddenly popped up in my head but pop up he did and then I heard Meenakshi's loud screams and curses and then stumbled upon her and saw her murder my son, her own brother. I held my son as he died and totally lost and in great pain and anger, yelled helplessly at the forest for not doing anything to save my son.'

Dharmalingam stopped and looked at them, ' Then, I suddenly remembered something, some names that the old man called Pazham Swamy whispered secretly to me and called out to that forest God or the so-called angel of Perumalvaram'.

Ravi's heart nearly jumped out of its rib cage and he felt a sudden bolt of electricity hammer into his brain as he asked in a frightened but enlightened voice, ' What were those names, uncle?'

' Pagalon ' Dharmalingam started to say and stopped for Ravi had raised his hand and after looking at Madhu said, ' Maasilan, Mamannan, Kathiravan, Meykandan, engal kula deivam Kavin'.

Dharmalingam stared in horror at Ravi, ' How do you know those names, Ravi? Have you also meet Pazham Swamy?'

Ravi smiled, ' I met him. Both me and Madhu met him'.

Parthiban looked at his friend, ' Dei, enna. Who did both of you meet and where da?'

Madhurima smiled and said, ' Not just me and Ravi, but all of you have met him and know him very well.

Rasaathi Ammal who was already swooning in confusion with all the new information, felt her head getting ready to explode and to avoid that, she exploded with her mouth and with her questions, ' Aiyo, I think my heart will burst into pieces with high blood pressure and with all these tension and suspenseful half-hearted answers.'

She begged Madhu, ' Ammadi, please, explain what is going on and where you met this person and how do we know him when we have yet to even meet him?'

Ravi smiled and said, ' Amma you have met him. He was here just a few hours ago with his wife for the wedding.'

Everyone there arrived at the same conclusion and all their thoughts arrived and met at the junction and all of them yelled the junction's name, ' Spartan? Spartan and his partner, Malar?'

Ravi smiled, ' Yes, the very same Spartan who came here to protect Madhu and all of us and the very same Spartan who quietly went about creating magic by summoning a lion and an elephant from the forest to our village'.

Rasaathi Ammal totally confused, ' But how did he manage that? Who is he really ?'

' Amma, his real name is Azhagan and he is the forest God and guardian angel of Perumalavaram forest and the king and leader of the forbidden and secret village that lies deep inside it'.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18xtRjeO2c4

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The Little Boat That Sailed Through Time by Arnold Berwick

There is nothing for sale that can compete with what you make by hand with the guidance of your grandfather.

I spent the tenth summer of my childhood, the most memorable months of my life, in western Norway at the mountain farm where my mother was born. What remains most vivid to my mind are the times I shared with my Grandfather Jorgen.

The first thing I noticed about Grandfather was his thick, bushy mustache and broad shoulders. The second thing was how he could work. All summer I watched him. He mowed grass with wide sweeps of the scythe, raked it up and hung it on racks to dry. Later he gathered the hay in huge bundles tied with a rope, and carried them on his back, one after another, to the barn.

He sharpened the scythes on a grindstone, slaughtered a pig, caught and salted fish, ground barley in a water-driven gristmill and grew and stored potatoes. He had to produce enough in the short summer to carry the family and the animals through the long, snowbound winter. He stopped only long enough to eat and to sleep a few winks.

And yet he found time for just the two of us. One day after a trip to a faraway town, he handed me a knife and sheath, saying, “These are for you. Now watch.”

With calloused hands, he showed me how to make a flute.

He slipped his own knife from its sheath, cut a thin, succulent branch from a tree and sat down beside me. With calloused hands, he showed me how to make a flute. Even today, 63 years later, whenever I hear the pure note of a flute I think of how he made music from nothing but a thin branch of a tree. Living on an isolated mountain farm, far from neighbors and stores, he had to make do with what he had.

As an American, I always thought people simply bought whatever they needed. Whether Grandfather knew this, I don’t know. But it seems he wanted to teach me something, because one day he said, “Come. I have something for you.”

I followed him into the basement, where he led me to a workbench by a window. “You should have a toy boat. You can sail it at Storvassdal,” he said, referring to a small lake a few miles from the house.

Swell, I thought, looking around for the boat. But there was none.

Grandfather picked up a block of wood, about 18 inches long. “The boat is in there,” he said. “You can bring it out.” Then he handed me a razor-sharp ax.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so Grandfather showed me how to handle the tool. I started to chop away to shape the bow. Later, after he taught me the proper use of hammer and chisel, I began to hollow out the hull.

Often Grandfather joined me in the basement, repairing homemade wooden rakes or sharpening tools. He answered my questions and made suggestions, but he saw to it I did all the work myself.

“It’ll be a fine boat, and you’ll be making it all with your own hands,” he said. “No one can give you what you do for yourself.” The words rang in my head as I worked.

Finally I finished the hull and made a mast and sail. The boat wasn’t much to look at, but I was proud of what I had built.

Then, with my creation, I headed for Storvassdal. Climbing the mountain slope, I entered the woods and followed a steep path. I crossed tiny streams, trod on spongy moss and ascended slippery stone steps—higher, higher until I was above the timberline. After four or five miles, I came at last to a small lake that had been carved out by a glacier. Its sloping sides were covered with stones of all shapes and sizes.

I launched my boat and day-dreamed while a slight breeze carried the little craft to an opposite shore. The air was crisp and clean. There was no sound but the occasional warble of a bird.

I would return to the lake many times to sail my boat. One day dark clouds came in, burst open and poured sheets of rain. I pressed myself against a large boulder and felt its captured warmth. I thought of “Rock of Ages” (… let me hide myself in thee”). Through the rain, I saw my little boat pushing its way over the ripples. I imagined a ship bravely fighting a turbulent sea. Then the sun came out, and all was well again.

A crisis developed when we were ready to return to America. “You cannot bring that boat home with you,” my mother said. We already had too much baggage.

I pleaded, but to no avail.

With saddened heart, I went to Storvassdal for the last time, found that large boulder, placed my boat in a hollow space under its base, piled stones to hide it and resolved to return one day to recover my treasure.

I said good-bye to my grandfather, not knowing I would never see him again. “Farewell,” he said, as he clasped my hand tightly.

In the summer of 1964, I went to Norway with my parents and my wife and children. One day I left the family farmhouse and hiked up to Storvassdal, looking for the large boulder. There were plenty around. My search seemed hopeless.

I was about to give up when I saw a pile of small stones jammed under a boulder. I slowly removed the stones and reached into the hollow space beneath the boulder. My hand touched something that moved. I pulled the boat out and held it in my hands. For 34 years it had been resting there, waiting for my return. The rough, bare-wood hull and mast were hardly touched by age; only the cloth sail had disintegrated.

I shall never forget that moment. As I cradled the boat, I felt my grandfather’s presence. He had died 22 years before, and yet he was there. We three were together again—Grandfather and me and the little boat, the tangible link that bound us together.

I brought the boat back to the farm for the others to see and carved “1930” and “1964” on its side. Someone suggested I take it home to America. “No,” I said. “Its home is under that boulder at Storvassdal.” I took it back to its resting place.

I returned to the lake in 1968, 1971, 1977, and 1988. Each time as I held the little boat and carved the year on its side, my grandfather seemed near.

My last trip to Storvassdal was in 1991. This time I brought two of my granddaughters from America: Catherine, 13, and Claire, 12. As we climbed the mountain, I thought of my grandfather and compared his life with that of my granddaughters. Catherine and Claire are made of the same stuff as their ancestors. They are determined and independent—I see it in the way they carry themselves at work and play. And yet my grandfather seemed to have so little to work with, while my grand-daughters have so much.

Usually the things we dream of, then work and struggle for, are what we value the most. Have my granddaughters, blessed with abundance, been denied life’s pleasures?

Working tirelessly on that isolated farm, my grandfather taught me that we should accept and be grateful for what we have—whether it be much or little. We must bear the burdens and relish the joys. There is so much we cannot control, but we must try to make things better when we are able. We must depend upon ourselves to make our own way as best we can.

Growing up in a comfortable suburban home, my granddaughters have been presented with a different situation. But I hope—I believe—they will in their own way be able to cope well as my grandfather coped, and learn the lesson my grandfather taught me all those years ago. On the day I took them to Storvassdal, I hoped they would somehow understand the importance of the little boat and its simple message of self-reliance.

High in the mountain, I hesitated to speak lest I disturb our tranquility. Then Claire looked up and broke my reverie as she said softly, “Grandpa, someday I’ll come back.” She paused. “And I’ll bring my children.”

Originally published in the May 1993 issue of Reader’s Digest magazine.

Avan, Aval Adhu 494

Daksha tapping her head with her right knuckled hand, looked at all of them and exclaimed, ' People, what is going on here? Surely that man Spartan cannot be the same person or whatever the tribals call him? ' and looked at Partha who said in an unbelieving voice, ' How can that be, Ravi? How can that man Spartan be this entity or forest king when he is obviously much younger than all of us?'

Inspector Sargunam smiled, ' I agree, Parthiban sir. He must be 32 or maximum 34 years old and so we can safely assume that Dharmalingam Iyaa called out for someone else for the man would have been a kid of six or seven years of age.'

' Guna, Partha, your answers are logical but then there is nothing logical when it comes to this person called Azhagan and what he does or why he does it.'

Daksha interjected him and said, ' Wait, hold on people. Maybe, uncle here met this person Spartan or Azhagans father or some relative and not the same man who we all met here.'

She looked at all of them and exclaimed loudly, ' Guys, that must be it. For how else can a person who must have been just a kid have anything to do with Sundaram's body disappearing into thin air?'

' A valid point, Ducks but all your points and brilliant observations will fail and fall flat when it comes to this man Azhagan ' and turning to Dharmalingam, Ravi asked, ' Iyaa, what happened in the forest after you screamed out those names? Did you see him or did he tell you what he was going to do with Sundaram anna's body?'

A cryptic smile filled Dharmalingam's face as he answered Ravi with a question, ' Did he tell you what he is going to do with Meenakshis Body? ' and seeing Ravi shake his head, smiled and looked at the others, ' All I remember of that night is a voice that told me it was for the best and requested me to let go and leave the forest and not to worry about my dead son.'

He looked at Ravi and then turning to his left, he gently took his wife Thamarai's right hand and begged her forgiveness, ' I am sorry, ma. I lied to you and have been lying to you all these years. But, I was left with no choice. What could I have done? I woke up only to find out to my shock and horror that our son's body had disappeared.'

Wearing a look of stoic resignation, Thamarai looked at her husband Dharmalingam, ' I was not in the forest that night. I did not witness anything in the forest that night. But, I saw my daughter enter the house through the back door and in that few seconds, I saw the scratches on her arms and neck and also saw the blood stains on her shirt and skirt.'

She looked at all of them with a tired expression, ' What should a mother think or imagine when she sees her teenage daughter come home with scratches and blood-stained clothes? What was I supposed to think or do in that situation?'

Taking her husband's hand, she looked at him, ' Then you came home, crying like a madman, with blood all over your clothes and then like a child, fell into my arms and told me all that had taken place in the forest that fateful night. I tried hard but could not believe what you said you saw and could not make myself believe that our son Sundaram would have misbehaved with his own sister '.

She looked at Ravi and said, ' That is when the snake, the vicious serpent that my daughter truly was revealed her true avatar.'

Ravi asked her sadly, ' So, Meenakshi was still playing her games?'

' Yes, Ravi. She was and she did exactly that ' and looked tiredly at her husband.

Picking up the baton of the narration of that fateful night, Dharmalingam continued, ' I am sure that she must have heard everything that me and Thamarai had been discussing and barging into our room, told us both that Sundaram had indeed tried to molest her and she had defended herself.'

With tears blooming like little stars in his eyes, he said, ' This is what happened that night. This is all I know and this is all I saw that night.'

Slowly sinking into a chair behind him, ' This was the main reason why I left Kumarapalayam and shifted to Madurai.'

He looked at all of them and said, ' With the election campaign in full swing, the case concerning Sundaram slowly took a back seat for the time and then our DMK party came into power with a ll majority and that was the end of it.'

He looked at Madhu, ' Ammadi, in all this confusion, no one paid any notice about you and your familys, sudden and curious decision to leave Kumarapalayam. '

Inspector Sargunam exhaled God, one woman and that too a young girl and she managed to create so much chaos and pain all on her own

Ravi nodded grimly

orrect, just one teenage girl managed to destroy all our lives and sadly, I was a part of it too. I am ashamed of myself and I wish it was me that had died that night.

He looked at Madhu with anger and pain and said in a bitter voice, ' You are the teenage girl. You are the one who came into all our lives and you are the cause of all this tragedy. If you had not come to Kumarapalayam, both Sundaram Anna and Meenakshi would have been alive

He looked at her sadly and with tears blinding his eyes and pain blinding his soul, he said, ' Back then you arrived and were the cause for Sundaram's death and now you returned and again became a cause for another death. I wish you had not come to our village all those years ago. I wish you had not returned once again to save me.'

Turning his face away, ' I wish you had left me to die for I would have died happily if it meant that Meena would live on

The painful and poisonous accusations of Ravi were too much to bear for all of them but they could do nothing and stood silently.

But Rasaathi Ammal did not do that and yelling his name, she delivered a few stinging slaps on his face and on his arms using both her arms.

' How dare you say such hateful words? How dare you insult your own wife like this?'

Daksha looked at Ravi and said, ' I am sorry but I don't think I would have thought it even possible to say what I am about to say to you, Ravi. '

Ravi looked at her and heard Daksha say, ' I am ashamed of you. I am embarrassed by your hurtful and callous behaviour.'

Parthiban grunted, ' She is right and I stand by her words ' and pointing to Madhu, ' Turn your words around and ask who is really to blame here. Who asked you to fall in love with her? If you cared so much about Meenakshi, why didn't you love her and marry her? Then she would have been happy, we would have been happy and importantly, Madhu would have been happy and would have lived a peaceful life

Daksha threw her hands up at the heavens, ' Master, you knew what Meenakshi would do and how she would react when she found out that the man she loved and wanted to marry was in love with another woman. Madhu did not know that.'

Tapping Ravi's chest with her index finger, ' You were the only one with the complete know-how and yet you choose to play this deadly game and so, in the end, you too are also responsible for all that has happened in all our lives. In fact, you are the chief accused and the one carrying the majority of the blame on his shoulders.

She looked at Ravi who looked at her with a strange light shining in his eyes and said, ' You too are an accessory to this crime for anyone who aids or abets a crime may be charged directly with the crime, as if the charged had carried out the act himself. So, in my book, you are guilty of the same crime that you accused Madhu of '.

Nothing can survive without food. Everything we consume acts either to heal us or to poison us. We tend to think of nourishment only as what we take in through our mouths, but what we consume with our eyes, our ears, our noses, our tongues, and our bodies is also food. The conversations going on around us, and those we participate in, are also food. Are we consuming and creating the kind of food that is healthy for us and helps us grow?

When we say something that nourishes us and uplifts the people around us, we are feeding love and compassion. When we speak and act in a way that causes tension and anger, we are nourishing violence and suffering.

We often ingest toxic communication from those around us and from what we watch and read. Are we ingesting things that grow our understanding and compassion? If so, that’s good food. Often, we ingest communication that makes us feel bad or insecure about ourselves or judgmental and superior to others. We can think about our communication in terms of nourishment and consumption. The Internet is an item of consumption, full of nutrients that are both healing and toxic. It’s so easy to ingest a lot in just a few minutes online. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t use the Internet, but you should be conscious of what you are reading and watching.

When you work with your computer for three or four hours, you are totally lost. It’s like eating french fries. You shouldn’t eat french fries all day, and you shouldn’t be on the computer all day. A few french fries, a few hours, are probably all most of us need.

What you read and write can help you heal, so be thoughtful about what you consume. When you write an e-mail or a letter that is full of understanding and compassion, you are nourishing yourself during the time you write that letter. Even if it’s just a short note, everything you’re writing down can nourish you and the person to whom you are writing.

When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability.… To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L’Engle