Shantha could if she wished. My office can have her papers registered, and she could then have her disputed land, and she can sell it. Shantha loves Usha without having seen her. Shantha’s house will be the right house for Usha. Vithal my son will inherit from his mother . . .
‘Don’t worry, brother,’ says Govindan Nair, coming in after his bath. He has
The Hindu
in his hand. The newspaper is visible truth, is one of his theories. When truth becomes visible, it is a life. So the world is a life, etc., etc.
‘As true as
The Hindu,
I tell you I will help you to build the house.’
‘With what?’ I ask.
‘With bricks,’ he says, and roars in laughter. ‘A house, dear sir, is built with bricks. In dreams you can build it in gold. In the Mahabharata you build it in lacquer. I will build it for you in stone.’
‘But stone will make it hot.’
‘Stone gives permanence to objects. You must have a house that will last five hundred years. Someone in history will say: This house of stone, in the ruins of old Trivandrum, is one thousand one hundred years old. Look at its inscriptions. They are in Roman characters. That was the character used universally for some five hundred years. It was called the period of the big empires. They set. The Indians quarrelled among themselves. Then the Huns came. We fought the Huns. Some soldiers scratching the wall found a name. It read: Govindan Nair, Ration Clerk. They thought it meant a general. Or a prince. He who gives is a prince. I give rations or rather ration cards, so I give food. I am a prince, we will therefore build a palace. The palace of truth.’
I never could understand all that he meant. He always seemed to be pulling my leg. ‘Yes, sir, the cat always meows. That is my nature, to say meow-meow. All my language can be reduced to that—meow, meow, meowooow.’
I love Govindan Nair.
Hearing I was ill, Saroja brought Usha by the morning train. It comes in at ten-ten and she left by the evening local at four forty-three. She had boat repairs to inspect—boats had to carry away coconut shells. Her land is in the Elayathur lagoon. A patch of land surrounded by water. There are such deep-bent coconut trees. And you hear the sea.
Shantha said to me one evening: ‘When my land is sold, we’ll buy this house,’ by which she meant my house. She never came inside, but it was
this
house for it was mine. That is the way with woman. What belongs to you belongs to me, what belongs to the lord alone belongs. For woman is belonging, as mind is belonging—belonging to me. You can only shine of light. The shine knows its light, but to whom does the light belong? Light belongs to light. Lord, how beautiful thou hast made woman! She
tells
you. If woman were not, would you know you were? Shantha said: ‘You,’ and I saw I. Wonderful is man. He needs to be told he is. Then he knows he is. Looking alone he sees himself and tries to say: You. He is dumb. He cannot speak. He makes a bare movement of lips. The mirror says so. There is no sound. But sound comes and tells him: ‘You.’ Who said ‘You?’ She. Thus the world goes moving on its pivot.
Usha goes along the railway line. The railway engine is kind to her. When the wind blows in gusts, and the monsoon comes pouring through the coconut trees, the train blows and blows the whistle, and says: ‘Child, child, I am coming. Please keep away from the railway line. I am your mother. I protect you, even though you see me come and go. I dream of you in my roundhouse. In the Trivandrum roundhouse there are many old hags. They were all made in foundries before this era was born. But I was born in 1921. I have grown up among coconut trees. I have played with the Kanchi and Kali rivers. I know every bridge by its sound. I whistle past Kartikura House. I know the sound of my whistle wakes up the wildcats on your roof. They have such bright eyes. I come to protect. I am the thread of your lives. What would you do without the railway
‘Don’t worry, brother,’ says Govindan Nair, coming in after his bath. He has
The Hindu
in his hand. The newspaper is visible truth, is one of his theories. When truth becomes visible, it is a life. So the world is a life, etc., etc.
‘As true as
The Hindu,
I tell you I will help you to build the house.’
‘With what?’ I ask.
‘With bricks,’ he says, and roars in laughter. ‘A house, dear sir, is built with bricks. In dreams you can build it in gold. In the Mahabharata you build it in lacquer. I will build it for you in stone.’
‘But stone will make it hot.’
‘Stone gives permanence to objects. You must have a house that will last five hundred years. Someone in history will say: This house of stone, in the ruins of old Trivandrum, is one thousand one hundred years old. Look at its inscriptions. They are in Roman characters. That was the character used universally for some five hundred years. It was called the period of the big empires. They set. The Indians quarrelled among themselves. Then the Huns came. We fought the Huns. Some soldiers scratching the wall found a name. It read: Govindan Nair, Ration Clerk. They thought it meant a general. Or a prince. He who gives is a prince. I give rations or rather ration cards, so I give food. I am a prince, we will therefore build a palace. The palace of truth.’
I never could understand all that he meant. He always seemed to be pulling my leg. ‘Yes, sir, the cat always meows. That is my nature, to say meow-meow. All my language can be reduced to that—meow, meow, meowooow.’
I love Govindan Nair.
Hearing I was ill, Saroja brought Usha by the morning train. It comes in at ten-ten and she left by the evening local at four forty-three. She had boat repairs to inspect—boats had to carry away coconut shells. Her land is in the Elayathur lagoon. A patch of land surrounded by water. There are such deep-bent coconut trees. And you hear the sea.
Shantha said to me one evening: ‘When my land is sold, we’ll buy this house,’ by which she meant my house. She never came inside, but it was
this
house for it was mine. That is the way with woman. What belongs to you belongs to me, what belongs to the lord alone belongs. For woman is belonging, as mind is belonging—belonging to me. You can only shine of light. The shine knows its light, but to whom does the light belong? Light belongs to light. Lord, how beautiful thou hast made woman! She
tells
you. If woman were not, would you know you were? Shantha said: ‘You,’ and I saw I. Wonderful is man. He needs to be told he is. Then he knows he is. Looking alone he sees himself and tries to say: You. He is dumb. He cannot speak. He makes a bare movement of lips. The mirror says so. There is no sound. But sound comes and tells him: ‘You.’ Who said ‘You?’ She. Thus the world goes moving on its pivot.
Usha goes along the railway line. The railway engine is kind to her. When the wind blows in gusts, and the monsoon comes pouring through the coconut trees, the train blows and blows the whistle, and says: ‘Child, child, I am coming. Please keep away from the railway line. I am your mother. I protect you, even though you see me come and go. I dream of you in my roundhouse. In the Trivandrum roundhouse there are many old hags. They were all made in foundries before this era was born. But I was born in 1921. I have grown up among coconut trees. I have played with the Kanchi and Kali rivers. I know every bridge by its sound. I whistle past Kartikura House. I know the sound of my whistle wakes up the wildcats on your roof. They have such bright eyes. I come to protect. I am the thread of your lives. What would you do without the railway
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