The scandal at the fertility clinic

Dear Chacko,

In your mail you had made a casual reference to certain unethical practices allegedly followed in some of the fertility clinics in Chennai. Those allegations might turn out to be true. However, I recall the services of one Dr Nair, an expert gynecologist who practised in Trivandrum in the 1960's. He could bring hope and fulfillment to many a troubled couple there; yet, he too had come under the cloud from time to time for alleged unethical practices. 

Trivandrum Fertility Clinic

This Doctor had a brilliant career as professor of gynecology at a reputed medical college in the North. Soon after retirement from there he shifted to Trivandrum, his home town, and there he set up practice. His initial expectations were rather modest and he began with a small ten-room clinic.

From the beginning he had good many outstation patients, mostly from the North, and he was obliged to admit them as in-patients for the period of their diagnosis and treatment. It was clear that they had followed him from the North because of his high reputation there as a fertility expert. Local people took immediate notice of his Northern popularity; and his reputation soon spread in the city and beyond. And in no time the Doctor found it necessary to expand his room capacity. So he built an annex with thirty more rooms. However, after its construction, it seemed to him that it might take a little while to achieve full utilization of the rooms. So, in the meantime why not let out some half a dozen rooms for lodging by single men on a strictly temporary basis, so they would move at short notice?

I take lodging at the clinic

It was thus that I became a ‘guest’ in the hospital. (You are probably aware that I had a brief stint at a Trivandrum-based bank then.) There were some five others too like me lodging there. One was a professor in zoology attached to the university; another a young medical representative; there was a junior lecturer in the engineering college; then a senior journalist representing a well known newspaper published from Chennai (an Armenian gentleman); and there was a reputed cartoonist who regularly contributed to an elite Malayalam weekly - all of them friendly and socially agreeable persons.

Trivandrum was a small city then with limited scope for social and cultural entertainment. Television had not made its entry into India except in Delhi. So days would wear on for the inmates (i.e. the ‘inpatients’), without anything worthwhile to do. They spent their time by reading newspaper, listening to the radio, playing cards and indulging in gossip. Often they were seen sharing their problems and concerns and suspicions among themselves. Obviously it had not occurred to them that such uninformed sharing carried the risk of worsening their confusion. We the lodge-mates had several occasions to observe this firsthand.

Misunderstandings

To quote but one instance, a fine Sunday morning one such patient, a bank executive from Coimbatore, Ramachandran by name, approached us lodge-mates with his problem. This was the issue troubling him. He and his wife were childless for ten years after their marriage. They had consulted several doctors. None of them could identify the cause. “They said they could not detect any defect in either of us; so, both of us are perfect. In that case how is it that we don’t get children? Ten years simply wasted! Is this not time enough for my wife to become pregnant? None of the experts had an answer. Their standard explanation was that some thirty to forty percent of childless couples are individually fertile but together they are not! One pervert explained to us that if such couple would change partners, they could both have children! That means, I could get children from another woman, and my wife could have children from another man! Nonsense!! …. Now this Dr Nair has come out with a bizarre finding. He says my wife’s fallopian tubes are blocked. They need to be unblocked through an expensive operation.”

“So, you have got the answer now!” joined the medical representative with enthusiasm.

“That, you say, is an answer? This answer is worse than the question. You see, you are a bachelor. You won’t understand. I am a married man of 10 years’ standing. All these years I have come across just one fallopian tube in my wife. And my wife too swears by one tube. I have also consulted my fellow-inpatients here, especially some of the senior ones. They too are absolutely firm that a woman can have one and only one tube.”

“Then why don’t you ask the Doctor himself straightaway? Instead of taking the direct route, you blind fellows are seeking guidance from other blind guys?” observed the Armenian journalist. “If the Doctor has referred to any such tube in plural, he might have meant something else, some tube other than what you guys imagine within your limited horizon.”

Ramachandran was agitated. “No, no, no. It is not that simple. Now I’ll startle you with a secret about the Doctor himself, carefully kept by him under wraps. This man is childless himself, you know that?? He is purposely hiding this secret from his patients. It was his driver Gopalan who whispered this into my ears yesterday…. So, some of us have started wondering if the Doctor is not a fraud himself! Your Jesus Christ said a physician should heal himself before attempting to heal others…. Or, does it mean that his wife is a special woman equipped with two tubes and he thinks that every woman ought to have two like her?”

One of his friends, a school teacher from Trichur, now joined the conversation. “The strange irony is that this fertility expert could not father even one child from a woman gifted with two tubes! And he is the one who is treating ordinary women with just one tube to make them fertile!!” added the school teacher with sarcasm. “If this doctor has diagnosed a woman for two fallopian tubes instead of one, something is wrong with him. And we should leave the hospital forthwith.”

Our cartoonist-friend was busy all the while drawing something in his notebook.

Misunderstanding cleared

At this point the zoology professor appeared on the scene. He had just returned after attending the Sunday services at the Church. He could easily see that something was causing discomfort to the assembled group. The Armenian journalist explained the problem. The professor responded with an empathetic smile. And he proceeded to educate the agitated Ramachandran about fallopian tubes with the help of a diagram. I brought pencil and paper for him to draw.

The banker closely scrutinized the diagram and lifted his eyes to the quietly smiling professor. All of a sudden it dawned on him that fallopian tubes were really internal organs not visible from outside; that they were very fine tubes serving as conduits for conveying the eggs released every month from the two ovaries to the uterus; and that they had nothing to do with the ‘tube’ that he was familiar with!

The young engineer exclaimed, “What a bio-engineering marvel this!”

The cartoonist showed us the picture he was drawing. Ramachandran and his friend were turning their heads with a sheepish smile as they realized their mistake. He had caricatured that very scene, magnifying their extreme embarrassment.  Everyone had a hearty laugh.

Now, Chacko, I can see you laughing at the ignorance of even educated persons like the bank executive and the school teacher about things that have become commonplace knowledge these days. The explanation, to my mind, is simple. In our younger days the finer details of medical science had not reached the common man. And the people were not familiar with their body parts. You and I were delivered at home with the help of countryside midwives. And no one taught us human anatomy in school or college.

The bank executive left the clinic soon after the operation of his wife; and the teacher couple too left soon after.

A vicious scandal brewing in the meantime

The Doctor was methodically following up his patients after they were discharged from the hospital. The bank executive’s wife conceived within a month; and the teacher’s wife too. His success rate was better than expected. Soon this became the talk of the town. Then someone suspected something unethical in it. The earlier argument was revived. The doctor and his wife were themselves childless; and still he was good at his job with others. How could he be successful with his unsuspecting clients while he could not do anything for himself? There must be some foul play somewhere. His high success rate needed investigation!

We the lodgers were unaware of these gathering clouds. I heard it first from none other than my boss in the Bank. He was living in the neighborhood of the hospital, and it was he who initially suggested temporary lodging for me here pending arrangement at a regular lodge. However, for sometime now he had been suggesting that I should shift soon. And he sounded much concerned. I didn't know why. One Sunday evening he visited me at the lodge. And, taking me for a tour of the premises, he whispered it into my ears. It was a shock. The scandals were centred on us the bachelors lodging in the hospital complex. The gossip-peddlers had spread the canard that we were directly responsible for the Doctor’s unusual success.  I immediately shared this information with my lodge-mates. They were shell-shocked. All of us left the lodge within a week. The innocent doctor didn't know what hit us all at the same time!

The clinic thrived in spite of the scandals, and soon the room occupancy was full. There were patients in queue for admission.

Malicious driver checked out

Chacko, you must be wondering if I had had any contact with the Doctor after I left his lodging. Yes, I continued in touch with him. One day he informed me that he had checked out his trusted driver Gopalan. The man was interfering with his patients and dissuading them from continuing their treatment at the hospital on the grounds of alleged foul play by the Doctor. Then I remembered how cleverly this driver could fool even a hard-nosed banker like Ramachandran. I asked the Doctor what was his grouse. The Doctor showed no inclination to go into it. One might as well imagine it was some kind of genetic malice some people harbor against their employers and benefactors.

And, for the first time I wondered if it was not the genius of the same Gopalan that was behind the scandalous rumors concerning us who were lodging at the hospital!

A wedding reception

The last time I met the Doctor was just a month before I left Trivandrum for good. The occasion was his son’s wedding reception. The bride was his colleague at Harvard, a French national. The stellar attraction was his daughter. She was seen moving gracefully receiving guests. A stunningly beautiful young lady. As a bachelor I could not take my eyes off her. But her Punjabi husband was always around her. She was a university lecturer and he a medical doctor; they had come down from Delhi for the occasion.

So, my dear Chacko, one needs to be cautious about such scandalous stories. Given the opportunity, tongues tend to wag. More so in matters one doesn't understand. You must be familiar with the famous line in the book of James in the New Testament: "No one can tame the tongue; it is a restless evil and full of deadly poison".

The Chennai clinics you mentioned about might be employing unethical practices in their treatment of patients; but one may give them the benefit of doubt pending inquiry. Meanwhile, never take chances with them.

Trust things are fine with you.

Warm regards,

K X M John

18/06/2011

A Platonic affair

He was the teacher, and she his student. When she was introduced to him for the first time, she was a shy girl, perhaps a bit coy. The girl was reportedly a leader among the girls, apart from being an accomplished artist and an avid student. So he found it a bit strange that she was also shy. Or, perhaps she was coy before him only? No, that was unlikely. After all, there was a generational gap between them. So he dismissed that possibility out of his mind.

It was a residential academic set-up, with teachers and students living in the campus. This gave the students plenty of time and opportunity for interaction with the teachers and to learn not only from the lecture sessions but also directly from the mouth of the teachers through personal discussions. Students by and large made use of this opportunity. New students would begin their interaction with the teachers with some natural timidity, but eventually they would find their comfort level with them.

In the case of Shiny, her initial shyness in approaching Professor Raj was eventually replaced by a quiet confidence in him. And as she came closer to him with the passage of time, he was convinced of her sincerity and seriousness in her academic pursuit. She would often approach him with the right kind of doubts and questions on the lessons he had taught in the classroom. Students would customarily keep some distance from their teachers even in such residential campuses especially if the teachers were of opposite gender. But Shiny was of a different make-up. She was not hesitant to approach Professor Raj whenever doubts assailed her mind. As a matter of fact, she had questions surfacing in her mind all the time; and those questions were not of a bookish nature; they were intelligent questions; they had originality and a character of their own. And that meant she had a personality of her own, distinct from the generality of the students. And the Professor used to say that doubts were symptomatic of genuine knowledge; doubts came only from minds hungry for knowledge.

Student turns faculty

It was a coincidence that, after her postgraduate studies and marriage, she joined her alma mater as a teacher.

Her day one in teaching career was marked by a minor accident. She and her husband were alighting from the bus at the College gate that morning. In his effort to steady her from a possible fall, he himself slipped from the footboard of the bus and sustained a foot injury. He had first aid from the nearby nursing home, but was advised not to exert his foot for a while. So he rested there, and she proceeded to the campus without him.

The first thing she did on arrival at the campus was to seek the blessings of Professor Raj. As she bowed before the guru, he noticed that she was trying hard to hold back her tears. From now on, the Professor and his sishya would have a new equation; they were colleagues from now.

Soon, Shiny shifted to the campus as required of her. The campus was on the outskirts of the city, not far from the airport. It was a picturesque site, sprawling over some four hundred acres of land gifted by the British Governor. Once a reserve forest, bulk of its area was still covered with natural forest.  The developed area extended over some forty acres, accommodating the several departments of the College, its well equipped auditorium, student hostels and residential quarters for the faculty and non-teaching staff, besides an indoor stadium and a few playgrounds and play courts. There was also a chapel in the premises. Its several well laid-out and well maintained gardens were a pride of the College.

There was a web of jogging trails winding around the buildings and the gardens. These trails had several narrow extensions in the form of footpaths disappearing into the forest. A casual look at them would convince any one that these footpaths were rarely used. Professor Raj once took it upon himself as an adventure to follow one of these footpaths. His exploration eventually took him to a brook deep inside the forest, which he easily crossed over; from there he moved on and passed through the narrow gaps in some of the hills in the area. These hills were the high points in the campus, from where one could gaze over the city and the airport below. The Professor found it an ideal spot for meditation and spiritual regeneration. Since then, he would often visit the place and spend some of his evenings on one of the rocks there, surveying the vast sky over him and the lighted city below. This high point had given him many of his inspirations and ideas.

A friendship develops

One Sunday evening, the Professor was leisurely watching the descending flight of an airplane that was about to land at the airport. His solitary preoccupation was abruptly broken by the sound of someone approaching from behind. Startled, he turned around. It was none other than Shiny! She too appeared startled on seeing him there. It was the first time that she had come to this spot. She agreed with the Professor that, hidden away from the campus buildings and unseen to any one there, and exposed to the sky, this place was ideal for solitude and meditation. It looked a world apart, “far from the madding crowd” as phrased by Thomas Gray and given wide circulation by later novelist Thomas Hardy. She regretted she had not thought of exploring the forest area during her student days. There they sat together, in each other’s company, forgetful of place and time. There they discussed an array of subjects, ranging from philosophy and poetry to science and politics, oblivious of the passing time. They sat there in their twosome world till dusk. And that was the beginning of a warm, personal relationship between them.  They would meet there over and over again. It was a friendship free from guilt. They could look into each other’s eyes for long without embarrassment or troubled conscience; it was a mature relationship between two human beings notwithstanding their age difference.

On one such occasion when they were together, he declared to her that they were in a kind of platonic love with each other. She said she had often wondered about the mystery and depth of this nebulous concept and asked him what it really meant. The Professor said, “It means a pure, spiritual affection, subsisting between persons of opposite gender, unmixed with carnal desires, and regarding the mind only and its excellences”. “Oh! Then, I agree with you. We are in love, devoid of any non-intellectual nuances to it.” He explained to her that this kind of love was advocated by philosopher Plato in the fourth century before Christ, and hence the name “platonic love”. And they sat there together with a new confidence and a new boldness, with a new joy and a new freedom.

One evening they sighted a huge peacock on top of a nearby hillock. It sat there motionless, in a tranquil spirit, as if in meditation. Shiny said with a twinkle in her eyes that the peacock was a good omen. The bird was sighted on several more occasions, and each time they saw it, there was much rejoicing between them.

On another occasion a nightingale sang. Shiny remembered John Keats’ famous lyrical poem, “Ode to a nightingale”. There was much discussion. That led them on to discuss another beautiful poem of the same poet, equally famous, named “Ode to a Grecian Urn”. The Professor explained that “urn” meant a vessel, a vase, a container. Urns were in use in ancient Greece for various purposes. Mostly they were used for decorative purposes in drawing rooms. They were also used as depositories for the ashes of the mortal remains of royal personages. Often huge urns containing royal ashes would be hoisted on exquisitely wrought pedestals reverentially placed on altars in royal temples. Such urns would be made of special kinds of porcelain decorated with beautiful paintings and frescos. Several such ancient Greek urns had been excavated in recent times, and the best of urns with undamaged paintings on them had been auctioned in the auction houses in London and Paris for hefty sums, ranging over millions of dollars apiece!

Keats might have seen one such urn on his visit to Greece. The exquisitely beautiful paintings covering that urn probably inspired him to write this lyrical poem. “And, as you very well know, ‘Ode’ is a kind of lyrical poem”.

“Yes, yes”, Shiny enthusiastically responded, “as a student I had learnt it from you, and I had memorized for exam purpose that an Ode meant a lyrical poem, usually of a serious or meditative nature, and having an elevated style and a formal structure, expressive of exalted emotion.”

“Well said, Shiny. Here, in this case, the poet sees a picture on the urn, depicting youngsters deliriously singing with pipe instruments, like flute for instance. The poet can see them singing, but can’t hear their music. So he says,

‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on’…”

“Let us also join with Keats and say, ‘You go on playing your pipes… forever … and ever … time without end’…” Professor said.

Then there was the painting depicting a pair of happy young lovers, a handsome youngster chasing a beautiful nymph. The poet says,

‘Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!’

The lovers would go on merrily chasing forever, without ever aging, eternally within hand’s reach of each other, yet unable to catch. She will never fade, his ardor will never cool, and their love will forever be alive.

Shiny said, “They are chasing; they will go on chasing till the end of time; yet they will never possess each other. In a way, that is better. Chasing is more pleasurable and joyful than possession!”

Confusion about the relationship

The Professor would retire soon. One Sunday evening, he took his esteemed guest, a retired Vice Chancellor, for a walk through the forest. They reached the hilltop. There they sat for a while. Prof Raj casually said, he would often sit there and enjoy the virgin air in the company of an intelligent and mature girl who was once his student and now a colleague. Dr Saxena was aghast. “It is a mystery to me that you have escaped detection by others in the campus for so long. Had anyone seen you here with the girl too often, it would have created the scandal of the year!”

“No, Dr Saxena, our relationship is pure.”

“Pure? What is pure? There is no relationship that is pure or impure. You know that very well. She is a woman today. And you are a man. Age difference is immaterial. Are you not both physically capable of joining together as man and woman and begetting children? …. So, don’t tell me all this bullshit. But, what is worrisome is that, if you continue in this habit, you are running the grave risk of scandalizing the College at the end of your career!”

Dr Saxena continued, “It had never occurred to me you could be such an old-fashioned prude. Don’t you realize that you are simply suppressing your libido because of some kind of complexes you are suffering from? Had I been in your place, in spite of being older than you, this kind of friendship would surely have transgressed to the physical level. You are a silly fool, Raj, to go on entertaining such obsolete platonic concepts! And, who knows, even your girl might be taking you as a fool by now!”

Dr Saxena added, “It is important that a person of your position and status should never cultivate this kind of exclusive relationship with one person. Spread your affections as wide as possible. You must be near to every one, yet away from them. You know, that is the way authority figures should conduct themselves.”

Prof Raj saw common man’s logic as articulated forcefully and rather bluntly by his ex-boss. But Shiny was not a “common” person and he himself not a vulgar one to consider such close relationships as potentially scandalous. However, it occurred to him for the first time that the generality of the student-teacher community in the campus, more so his boss the Principal who was a strict disciplinarian, wouldn’t have the fineness of mind or the required sensitivity to understand the situation in a benign spirit. He felt perplexed as to how to break the habit without taking her into confidence with what Dr Saxena said.

After some serious reflection, he took a firm decision to break it to Shiny. To his utter surprise and relief, she took the matter with great calm and maturity beyond her age, and consoled the Professor that their relationship transcended their rendezvous at the hilltop; it was firmly rooted within their selves. Now the Professor saw in her a greater teacher than himself and, for the first time, he saw her as his guru!

However, on the eve of his final departure from the campus, they decided to meet at the hilltop for one last time. There they sat, together in reflection. Then they got up to leave. However, on a sudden impulse, they fell into each other’s arms, and they remained thus, reluctant to separate. It was a royal, dignified hug. They felt each other’s heartbeat, they experienced each other’s warmth, and it was as if they were one soul and one body then. Her head rested on his shoulders, and he felt her warm tears falling on his neck; tears mingled with joy and pain, he thought. Instinctively, he affectionately kissed her on top of her head. Thus they remained there, oblivious of space and time, defying gravity. It was supreme bliss; it was ecstasy of the highest order. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to press his lips against hers. Quick in a flash, Dr Saxena came alive from within and warned him – “Take care! Underneath your flimsy professorial exterior, you are essentially a man and she a woman.” He recoiled in horror. A swift recollection that even Jesus was severely tested with irresistible temptations from the devil took away his momentary guilt.

They heard the dinner bell ringing. Oh! They were there for too long. Disengaged, they moved, she leading from the front in the dim moonlight that painted weird and confusing patterns along the footpath. She was bubbling and chirpy, and he rather thoughtful. They chose their separate ways once out on the open jogging trail.

The Professor bids adieu

Next morning, he was about to enter the car that was to take him to the airport. A tearful crowd had gathered. Professor Raj never knew he had so many ardent admirers. Amidst the sad faces he saw a lone shining face, glowing triumphantly. She had never before appeared so cute, so beautiful, so beatific. Raj instantly guessed the reason. Instead of sorrowfully dwelling on his departure and on her personal loss, she was determined to keep her cheer level high and to be grateful for the blissful days he had presented her. Silently he said, “Thank you, Shiny; thank you very much, for the good great days you had presented me especially towards the end of my days at the campus. And, if you want to cry at all, have a good cry later, leisurely, in private.”

The car moved, and there was a kind of deliciously painful music in his soul. But the seed of the devil that Dr Saxena had planted in him suddenly sprouted. He asked, “Was she not mocking at you with her triumphant smile while bidding you adieu?”

K X M John

22/11/10

The queenly 'Nun’

In age she was younger; in behavior she was protective as an elder sister. And her love and concern were akin to those of a human mother. She joined the family as a young chick. In a couple of months she became a full grown hen, broad and large in size, with a prominent comb and wattles. Buff in colour, she had a few black feathers in her wings and in a few other right spots, which added to her personality. Majestic in demeanour, she soon became the undisputed numero uno in her flock in social equations and pecking order. Other hens deferred to her and always kept a respectful distance from her. She had a queenly bearing, and the regal charisma in her personality made even the male members of the flock treat her with utmost respect. This was such an unusual phenomenon amongst this fiercely polygamous species, that a local poultry expert thought that perhaps this amazing bird was a Vestal Virgin in her previous birth. My mother suspected her of having had some kind of convent education in her formative months under the personal care of nuns vowed to celibacy.

And she named her “The Nun”.

The flock grows

Initially, when the Nun arrived on the scene, the flock was about 15-member strong. These fowls were not bred in-house. They were all carefully picked from the stocks of a part-time vendor in the village. The criteria for selection were their beauty and grace. New stocks would arrive once in a while, and I had the privilege of inspecting them first; and, if any new bird appealed to my fancy, I would pick it up for myself. My selection process must have been quite rigorous, because most of the time the new arrivals were rejected altogether. And hence my bird population grew rather slowly. Eventually, over a period of some three years, the flock grew to around thirty. You would have guessed by now that these birds were being reared more as pets than from commercial considerations. And, barring two or three males at a time, the rest were all female birds. That was a viable gender-equation because, in their polygamous society, one male could easily service some 12 to 15 females.

Our female ‘pets’ were never used for meat; so they lived out their life span without human intervention even after they ceased to lay eggs. But, in those days when poultry meat was a rarity in the market, people could eat this delicacy only by using fowls reared in-house. At home we used to kill male birds on occasions, especially for treating guests unexpectedly arrived. And the stock would be eventually replenished by buying new roosters from the vendor whenever fresh stocks arrived. As a result, there was frequent turnover among the male birds; and most of them lived hardly beyond eight to ten months. At the same time, the average age of the female birds was steadily going up.

With so many females around, the new male members always felt eagerly welcomed, and had no kind of entry problems in their new territory. Even the Nun would socially welcome them with affectionate clucking sounds, but without allowing them to cross the lakshman rekha. Any ‘ignorant’ newcomer beginning his courting dance around her would get an indifferent look from her, stopping him in his advances. And if any one thus rejected was foolish enough to take an aggressive posture as is customary among roosters, he would get a response in kind. There were instances, rare though, of the Nun giving them ‘peck for peck’ kind of punishment and consummately beating indiscreet males into submission. And, once beaten, the males would reconcile with the situation and keep some distance from her.

 A day in her life

Her day began like that of any other fowl in the flock. At the peep of dawn, as the roosters gave their clarion calls from their perches, the birds would enthusiastically jump down from their trees one by one, welcoming the new day with great delight. Once on the ground, they spread their wings and run a few distance as part of their regular exercise. There in the open backyard, they would move around clucking and playfully pecking as per their established pecking order. The roosters would crow from time to time, making their masculine presence felt and declaring their hegemony over the territory. Some birds could be seen plucking at leaves of small plants in the area and eating them. Some would choose small pebbles from the ground and swallow them. Others would look for worms. Some would drink water from the container provided in the area. Roosters would merrily begin their mating game right from the morning. Some female birds start laying eggs from early morning, although majority of them would do that by midmorning to noon.

These birds were ‘free rangers’ without any coop or enclosure to limit their movement. Yet they always moved within their accustomed territory that was our backyard. At the centre of this backyard was a small hut in which their regular feed was prepared. The feed used to be given in three large-mouthed vessels so that some ten birds could surround each vessel and eat comfortably from it. It was thus that their world was limited to our backyard that was their territory, with the feed source in the hut at the centre.

Feeding in the morning

The birds were fed twice a day – in the morning at 8.30 and in the evening by 4.30.

For the first feed of the day, they would all be ready by 8. Till the feed comes they would move round and round the hut clucking and clucking. By 8.30, the feeder would appear on the scene. And the birds would all rush in anticipation to the spot where the first vessel would be placed. The moment the vessel arrives, the crowd would jump into the fray with alacrity, without any discipline or any consideration for others, leading sometimes to unseemly fights. The regular exceptions were the male birds and the Nun. The second vessel arrives and some of them would shift to it. When the third vessel has arrived, there would be some order among the chickens, with a nearly equal distribution among them. The males would move from one vessel to another in a show of supervision and patronization. But the Nun could be seen waiting for clear orderliness to set in among the birds. She would then join the least populated vessel and partake of her repast from there, the other birds voluntarily moving some distance to give her space.

Laying eggs

After the breakfast the time comes for good many of the hens to lay eggs; they go to their respective ‘clutches’ for the purpose. After laying the egg, the hen loudly clucks to announce having done her job. And one could hear a series of such tell-tale clucking from midmorning to noon and sometimes beyond.

We used to get some 12 to 15 eggs a day. The vendor would come daily to collect each day’s surplus eggs. The eggs laid by our favourite hen were never sold. They were larger in size and their contents thicker. Once the vendor inspected the egg and expressed the suspicion it was duck’s egg.

Personal hygiene

 

 And now is the time for sunbath, dust bath, and preening of the feathers. The slots allotted for these tasks vary with the seasons. Dust bath is meant to remove body sweat. The bird sits down on dusty ground and kicks up the dust on to its body. Its wings quickly wiggle and spread the dust on to its skin under the feathers. This is followed by a vigorous shaking of the body and ruffling of the feathers to disperse the dust. Such dust-baths help them keep their skin and feathers clean and dry. After the bath they proceed to ‘preen’ their feathers. The birds scratch and comb the feathers with their bill. And they use their kind of ‘hair oil’ for maintenance of their feather. This special substance contains wax and oil, and is secreted by the oil gland on their back at the base of the tail. Using their bill, the chickens nibble at this gland and spread it over their feathers by running the bill through them. The oil cleanses the feathers, keeps them moist and flexible, improves their insulation and makes them waterproof. What a marvel!

And our Nun seemed to take greater care in this daily exercise.

Feeding in the evening

This was a truly memorable experience. Awaiting my return from school, the whole flock would be there at the gate to welcome me, because I was the feeder. The impatient ones would jump on to me in a seemingly affectionate gesture, and some would try to perch on my extended hand and gently peck at me in a show of extravagant affection. The Nun would be there nearby, unhurriedly walking in step with me, like a mature lady. The males would move with the hens from a distance. The procession would stop at the doorstep of the house, and the flock would reassemble at the backdoor, awaiting my exit into the backyard after my dress-change and tiffin. Once I emerge, the flock would lead me to the feed-house, and there they would wait for their dinner with alacritous anticipation. The feed is brought out and laid out in three vessels, and the morning drama is repeated.

After the dinner, the birds are calm; and they have nothing much to do for the rest of the day. They move around, clucking at times, with no sense of urgency. Their motor activity has come down, and it is all calm.

The Nun’s friendship with the goat

When the contended birds lazily moved around after the dinner, the Nun would accompany me to the stable where my pet goat was housed. We two would together open the stable-door and take our friend out for about an hour for exercise and for grazing in the compound where grass and small plants abounded. This meandering procession of the threesome always had the hen leading the way all through the accustomed route around the house.  And towards the end of the circuit and close to the stable there was a dwarf tree.  The goat had a liking for its leaves, and I would pick some of its tender leaves for her to eat. And almost invariably before the two of us followers got to the tree, the Nun leading from the front would be there waiting for us to catch up. Whenever I playfully went past her without picking leaves for the goat, she would give me a kind of reminder clucks. After the goat had had her fill, we are almost at the end of the evening stroll. The contented goat is returned to her stable, and the evening job is done. The Nun has accomplished her task with obvious relish.

Then she accompanies me to my doorstep. From there, after seeing me off into my ‘stable’, she goes to join the flock with the satisfaction of having taken good care of both her pets.

Roosting

Soon it is time for the birds to roost. They jump on to their trees and perch at their accustomed places on the branches. Like school children occupying their regular seats, the birds would sit on their regular perches. Once the perch is chosen by a chicken, which is done with due deference to the community’s pecking order, it would continue to be its by custom, and none others would ever lay any claim to it.

The night would be calm and silent, barring occasional crowing by the roosters. The flock would be recharging their batteries for nearly 11/12 hours for their next day’s hectic life.

Breeding/brooding

A normal, healthy hen lays an egg a day for some 12 to 15 days, and then ‘brood’ over the eggs for about 21 days to give them its body heat as needed for hatching them. And till the young chicks grow to adolescence, the mother hen would be single-mindedly protecting them, to the exclusion of all social contacts especially with the male birds. She resumes ‘normal’ life and restarts laying eggs after weaning the chicks, i.e., when they are about four months old. And the cycle of life repeats.

At home, we did not resort to in-house breeding. Pursuant to this policy, the birds were not given the opportunity to brood. The easiest way to prevent brooding was by removing their accustomed clutches when they showed symptoms of the onset of brooding. The hens would then be compelled to be out in the open with the other birds, in the company of whom they would be persuaded to lead ‘normal’, active life. The bird would then quickly overcome the instinct to brood, and would re-enter her egg-laying cycle.

The Nun’s friendship with humans

Interestingly, The Nun found greater friendship and social fulfillment outside her species. She chose me as her best friend. My mother was another best friend of hers. My pet-goat was her pet too.

During daytime, when I would be away at school, the Nun would accompany Mother whenever she was out in the courtyard or in the compound, moving in step with her. Mother would feed the goat thrice a day, and the Nun would be around, not for sharing the feed but as if to witness and help Mother in the activity. She would be clucking in between, expressing her happiness and satisfaction. All the while, her fellow-birds would be in the backyard looking after their own interests.

On holidays, I used to pursue my studies while reclining on the easy chair under my favourite tree in the front yard. There, close to me, the Nun would sit down and keep company with me. On such occasions, she could also be seen preening and oiling her feathers.

The anticlimax in her life

My favourite Nun was some seven years old when tragedy struck. Fairly old she was then in chicken standards. In the normal course, a hen attains motherhood at the age of six months. On this reckoning, she could have had grandchildren of the 13^th or 14^th generation. But she would not, because she was a celibate, and successive male birds in the flock were decent enough to defer to her temperamental wishes. Even her contemporaries in the flock would not have had children in spite of their fertilized eggs, because we would consume or sell them for consumption.

And then we heard a hen had hatched a brood of chicks in our neighbourhood, and that one male chick soon grew into a dominant kind of cockerel, large and athletic in build and quite adventurous in spirit. He was the first to crow among his brothers and to go after the females with audacity and courage. We could hear his arrogant crowing from across the border fence. Sensing the presence of responding hens in our compound, he jumped over the fence to the warm welcome of an avid female crowd. He went around them and straightaway established relationship with them without encountering any material resistance from the two existing males.

Then he noticed our handsome Nun, majestically raising her head and gazing at this new arrogant brat with some empathetic curiosity. And he took a fateful fancy to this great-grandmother figure. Straightaway did he run towards her in full speed and dispatch with his wings half-extended, as if to conquer her without anticipating any resistance. Hens normally like such strategies from strong, audacious males. After an initial show of coyness and fleeing from the marauder (which itself is a way of conveying her affirmation of his macho masculinity), the female bird would gleefully surrender to the fellow.  But this young man chose a very wrong woman. The matronly lady stood her ground, cool and unflappable, in the anticipation that the guy would soon withdraw like all her previous suitors. But no. This guy would not retreat. Her indifference notwithstanding, he should have what he desired.

The Nun gave him a powerful peck. Unimaginably devastating was its consequence. It fuelled the fire of his infernal determination. “Hell had no fury like this arrogant rooster scorned.” His outraged male blood cried out for revenge to uphold his honour. Breathing fire, he arched back his neck and gave her a most vicious peck at her proud red comb. Blood spurted. Instantly did she realize, for the first time in her life, that she had become old and her power had waned. Swiftly did she grasp the hot intensity of her adversary’s determination. Terror overwhelmed her for the first time. She threw discretion to the winds and fled, and he was in hot pursuit after her. The slim, trim youngster outran her, and the moment he was on her, he plucked at her head with all his might and pulled out a mouthful of her hair. He recoiled in the process and fell to the ground with a thud, and she resumed running with all her energy to save her life. He would again run after her and pull out a tuft of feather and fall down with that feather in his mouth. This process was repeated and the lady ran thrice around the house; and the young guy must have pulled at her head a dozen times. Hearing the tumult outside the house and the unusual alarm clucks from the other birds, I came out to see what was happening. I saw the Nun running towards me huffing and puffing, with the young upstart like a tornado in hot pursuit. He plucked at her one last time in my seeing, and fell to the ground. Then she straightaway jumped into my arms; and the insolent youngster, mad with rage and blind to notice my presence, jumped up to get at her. Instinctively I raised my right foot and gave him a powerful kick. The midair kick landed at his throat, and the youngster fell to the ground in a somersault and lay there quiet.

I could feel her galloping heartbeat against my bosom, and I could also realize how much she had trusted me as a friend who could come to her rescue at that moment of her frightful agony. Mother came too and she took her in her arms to reassure her. The cock was dead; and that would be a cause for another conflict with my temperamentally pugnacious neighbor. But Mother said, let him quietly go to hell; our Nun was safe. That was what mattered. Other hens and the roosters were around us at a distance and were observing the scene with alarm.

Then, all of a sudden, did we notice some movement in the dead youngster’s legs? Yes; they moved. After several failed attempts, he was able to stand on his feet. He was jittery as he tentatively put his feet forward and it was as if he had also become blind, darkness having spread into his eyes as he received that kick on his vulnerable throat. He looked around in the manner of a blind man. And, hazily sensing the image of the hen in Mother’s arms, he slunk away in embarrassment as though it was from her that he received the unexpected kick. Slowly, under the watchful eyes of the other birds, he limped and tottered in the direction of the fence, and there he made some attempt at scaling the fence. After several tries he succeeded in landing on top of the fence; and there he rested for a while. Then he jumped down and disappeared into his own territory. We had since heard his diffident, guttural crowing for some days, his voice becoming progressively weaker. And then we heard him no more.

Our Nun soon recovered from the physical injuries she suffered from the young upstart, thanks to the herbal treatment Mother had administered on her. But her earlier sprightliness had disappeared. Her cheer level had come down. She had become a pale shadow of her former majestic self. It was as if her very outlook on life and her very self-esteem, the very paradigm of her life, had inexorably altered. She seemed to be going through the motions of her daily habits, including her fellowship with me, with Mother and with the she-goat. Apparently it was the injury her self-esteem had suffered that defied cure. She could not overcome the nagging memory of that shameful, cataclysmic experience. She became wrapped up in herself. Her appetite too suffered.

Then, one day we saw her standing alone near the hut in the backyard, with her shoulders stooping and her face drooping. We feared her end was near. It was not a misplaced fear. That evening, she could not climb on to her perch on her accustomed tree. I kept her inside the hut. The next morning we saw her lying on the floor, dead. What an anticlimax for such a dignified life!

A grave was dug for her in a corner of the backyard. The flock came and stood at some distance, emitting some weird sounds, signifying their grief and incredulity. The she-goat was brought out from the stable, and she too stood there watching the lifeless body of her companion. When her body was interred, Mother felt it was a part of her own that was being buried.

In my adult years, whenever I visited home, I would also spend some time at the spot where my Nun was buried. She had taught me you didn’t have to be a human being to live a life of dignity.

K X M John

27/04/2011

Royal Award for the Old Monk who sired twenty-five children

I could not but marvel when I first heard about one of my remote ancestors who was ‘blessed’ with as many as 25 children, all from the same wife, and all living at the same time. And my curiosity got the better of my disbelief when I heard that the tale of this rare feat reached the ears of the then Raja of Cochin, who promptly awarded him a gold medal!

I. The first whiff of the legend

I was young when I heard this, and those were the nascent days of Indian democracy. The nation was busy debating over such exotic ideas as socialist pattern of development, centralised planning, commanding heights of public sector in the national economy, restriction of the family size through planned birth, and so on. Of these, family planning captured the immediate attention and imagination of the common man. For better or worse it could bring an irrevocable change in the family life and culture of the people.

 “What kind of benefits could this so-called family-planning movement bring to the people?” wondered my grandmother’s kinsman Pappu Master, a bachelor of seventy then. “Don’t you sense some kind of evil in that? It certainly runs counter to nature. All these years we have held the large family as the ideal - larger the family, greater the social prestige and economic security for the family.”

“My life experience is different, Sir,” reacted his former student Pushkaran. “Look at my family. As you know, we were ten siblings. Now seven. Three died in childhood. I am the fifth among the living. Father is doing odd jobs. Mother is in indifferent health.  And he is unable to make both ends meet. My studies were interrupted as a result. We could not pay school fees.”

“But you have the community concession. Half the normal fee. It comes to just Re 2.70 a month. You could have completed matriculation at this concessional fee”, observed his well-to-do neighbour Ravi.

“That is how you bourgeoisie think”, retorted Pushkaran. “Re 2.70 is a big amount for me. And remember, I have siblings who too would like to pursue studies.”

“It is unfortunate, Pushkaran, you could not continue studies beyond Middle School level. You were one of my smartest students”, Pappu Master empathised.

I said, “Nehru is quite right. More children means more mouths to feed. And poverty is widespread. And it can get worse with increase in population. Policy planners should think of the common people and plan for them. Hence I strongly endorse the small family.”

Ravi accepted the logic. But he qualified it as the logic of poverty. Family size simply worsened it. “Besides, I have my own personal discomforts with the small family concept. With just one sibling for me ten years my senior, my childhood was spent without any playmate experience at home. Ours is a silent family. No animated conversations at home. No laughter. No sibling rivalries that make one’s childhood memorable. In my view, there should be a minimum number of four boys and a similar number of girls in any family.  Only in such right-sized families would there be life – vibrant life.”

Pappu Master was on the side of Ravi. He said, “In the past, even larger families were preferred. Families with children exceeding a dozen were commonplace.” He then turned to me and added, “And you must be familiar with the legend in your own grandmother’s family about a heroic ancestor who had won royal favours for begetting as many as twenty-five children!”

My immediate response was one of supreme cynicism. “He must have had more than one wife for that!”

Pappu Master ponderously said he thought so too. “But, to sire so many children from more than one wife would not have merited royal attention.”

He could not throw any more light on this 25-child legend. And, as is the case with any casual wayside debate on partisan issues, it ended without anyone winning or losing. The conversation ended there. But the incredible legend of the man with twenty-five children winning the royal award excited my curiosity.

So who would be able to throw further light on the subject? I thought the best source was my mother. If grandmother was born in the line of the hero who won the award for begetting twenty-five children, my mother too might have had some tidings about that. But she gave me a huge snub – as if I were uttering blasphemy against an ancestor! I turned to my grandmother. Her response was an understanding smile. So, grandmother had heard about it after all! But she stopped with that smile.

Then I thought I should turn to granduncle Mathootty for his ‘professional’ help. With some trepidation I went to meet him in the company of my elder cousin Thomas Kutty, who was the old man’s favourite grandnephew.

II. Professional investigation sought

Granduncle Mathootty (official name: Mathew Kutty) was an unconventional character. The third amongst his five brothers, he was given to idle preoccupations such as amateur philosophy, speculative history, folk culture, research into family genealogies, and the like. While his industrious brothers were busy making money through agriculture and trade, he lived off his heirloom.

The man spoke cultured English. He was conversant with classics, both Indian and western. His only regret in life was that he could not continue his formal education after matriculation.

Mathootty was undoubtedly a charismatic figure, a genius of sorts. His philosophical discourses attracted to him many a teenager in the village. His booming voice had an affectionate timbre, and those who listened to him were dazzled by his vision and outlook. His narration had a certain dignity. His poetry was heart-warming. Youngsters would spend hours in his company. Busier people would briefly listen and pass on with a knowing grin.

It was this same scholarly man who had painstakingly gone into the genealogy of his family and reputedly identified his ancestors twenty-one generations upstream! This epic journey into the past had taken him through many years of diligent research that involved examination of ancient palm leaf records and good many visits to distant families some of whom were not exactly friendly towards him to begin with but were eventually won over through his suave diplomacy.

And Thomas Kutty was an avid listener with graphic memory. He flattered uncle Mathootty by fluently recounting the names of the forefathers that Mathootty had listed in his 21-strong hierarchy. And TK could recite the names both upward and downward with equal felicity. Once he caused his mentor blush with pride by observing that the original Matthew (the Evangelist) had identified Christ’s forefathers 42 generations above him up to Abraham, while the junior Mathew (Mathootty) could succeed at least halfway up to 21 generations over him!

So, I was confident I was approaching the right man through a most proper channel in my quest for a solution for my new puzzle.

Mathootty warms up

Uncle Mathootty’s response was spontaneously warm. Instantly his memory of his prime days came alive.

 “You know, in the course of my long study tour in search of my ancestors, I had come across diverse characters with interesting backgrounds. Some of them had heroic stories to tell about their forefathers. One such story was about a mysterious ancestor who fathered as many as twenty-five children thereby attracting the attention of the then Raja of Cochin who promptly honoured him with the rare award of Veera Shrinkhala (meaning: Hero’s Necklace).”

“The curious part is that I came across several unrelated persons living in widely dispersed locations laying claim to such a legendary ancestor in their paternal/maternal lines! Yet no one had any evidence to show..... And now you are bringing in one more claimant – your grandmother.”

Mathootty continued, “I was intrigued. The legend itself, involving 25 children born to the same man and the same woman, all living at the same time, and the royal award, had to be a rarest of the rare kind of coincidence. It is difficult to conceive of a recurrence of such a composite incident. So, if the claims of all were genuine, it meant those mutually unknown claimants must have sprung from the same source.”

TK took the liberty of interrupting the flow of his thought. “Uncle, you mentioned about the large number and the wide dispersal of persons whose one commonality was their claim to the legendary ancestor. I think this can be easily explained. The ancestor had 25 children. Assuming they in turn had fostered families of normal size, there would be about 250 grandchildren and 2500 great grandchildren for the patriarch. The population of the fourth generation (i.e., grandchildren’s grandchildren) thus becomes 25000 unless there was population shrinkage in between due to fertility problems and untimely deaths. In any case it is quite possible that a large majority of 3^rd and 4th cousins, spread over tangled matriarchal/patriarchal lines, would grow up as strangers. And we don’t know how many generations have passed since.”

Uncle Mathootty’s smile betrayed his affection for his favourite grandnephew as much as his appreciation of his reasoning.

“But”, he said, “Population does not increase in such a simplistic manner. It gets checked by factors such as self-adjusting fertility rates, diseases and famine as the Anglican Priest Thomas Malthus said some 150 years ago. Left unchecked, population will hit the roof in no time. So, your starry-eyed leader Nehru has reasons to think of birth control, although opinions may differ as to how to achieve it without debasing human dignity.”

Mathootty resumed, “One of my important findings from my old study was that most of the families settled in any given territory eventually develop criss-cross linkages, patriarchal lines intertwining with matriarchal lines through old and new alliances. Hence, no family could remain an island unto itself; they become part of a larger genetic network. The sad part is that these links are seldom recognised beyond three or four generations, except to some extent in the so-called ‘main patriarchal line’ identified by their common family name.”

Mathootty continued, “During the study tour I had come across a young priest named Fr Bruno. An erudite conversationalist with easy manners, he had doctorate in theology from the Urbania University of Rome and was the Assistant Parish Priest at a suburban church near Cochin when I met him first. During my exploratory chat with him he came out with his genealogy too. And it was from him that I heard for the first time something definitive about the legendary man with twenty-five children. He claimed he was of the sixth generation downstream from him in the male line, i.e. his great grandson’s great grandson.”

“My God,” I could not help exclaiming, “in that case, this Fr Bruno was just one among the 2.5 million of the illustrious man’s progeny of the sixth generation! And my Grandmother could be just one of them!”

“Fascinating, no? Such simple arithmetic can be too tempting! But it doesn’t work that way. You don’t take into account circular alliances and short circuits within”, Uncle Mathootty quipped.

He said Fr Bruno had introduced him to a few unrelated gentlemen of Mattancherry who too were convinced they were descendants of the celebrity. Interestingly, all of them were in agreement that the award ceremony took place sometime toward the end of the Dutch Period and before Haider Ali’s army invaded the State from the north. But none of them had any evidence in support of the claim. Incidentally, this chronological reckoning seemed to match with Fr Bruno’s assertion that he was of the sixth generation from the great ancestor.”

Suddenly an idea hit me. My grandmother too belonged to Mattancherry. So, Fr Bruno and the other claimants from Mattancherry might be able to help in tracing her lineage? But, where was Fr Bruno now? Didn’t Uncle say he was a young man when he first met him some thirty years ago?

Mathootty said Fr Bruno had served at different parishes after he first met him. “He is now in his early sixties and is back in Cochin.” Uncle’s familiarity about the reverend father’s whereabouts was not surprising; he was well known for cultivating friendships and maintaining contacts with them. So, he might be able to approach him now without any hesitation? In any case this subject was dear to his heart too.

With some persuasion from me, and TK volunteering to accompany him, Uncle Mathootty consented to visit Fr Bruno. He instructed TK to collect and take with him all available information about my grandmother’s ancestors.

And they proceeded to Fr Bruno’s place.

Back to Grandmother

Meanwhile, I thought I must pursue the matter with my grandmother. Her initial smile had motivated me to take up the matter with the wise old granduncle. That smile was not enigmatic really; yet there was something behind it I thought. Perhaps she could be of some help in our present search for her roots?  

I began with a briefing of the support I had received from Thomas Kutty and the interaction we had with Uncle Mathootty. But when I mentioned that the veteran had welcomed it as a mission worth pursuing and that he had actually launched into it, she was surprised beyond belief. “He is a respected old man! Has he taken up this silly mission?! And at your behest?!”

Grandma recalled the teasing she had often suffered from her childhood friends on account of the legend. “And now, all you men seem to have gone crazy. Look at your handsome Prime Minister Nehru. Have you ever heard before of the family size being artificially manipulated? Children are God’s gift; and it is for the parents to look after them well. No one has the right to interfere with God’s plans.”

So, she was not going to be of any help in the mission Uncle Mathootty had taken up. Then I remembered Uncle’s friend Fr Bruno. Being in the line of the illustrious ancestor, Bruno’s name might ring some bell in her mind? No. She didn’t have any recollection of having come across any priest of that name. “But yes; I remember a cranky boy in the family of my grandfather’s cousin. He had this odd name. But he was a most unlikely candidate for priesthood.”

I gave up on my hopes on Grandmother.

III. The professional's findings

Uncle Mathootty returned a week later. TK had accompanied him. They met and discussed the subject with Fr Bruno and a few other persons who claimed descent from the legendary hero and some others who had heard the story.

Yes; Pappu Master’s assertions about my grandmother’s ancestry had received some circumstantial support to make it a plausible hypothesis.

He said he and TK were warmly received by Fr Bruno. The reverend father looked thin and frail, yet young for his age. His sense of humour was intact. When TK was introduced to him, he commented that the old Sherlock Holmes had returned now with his new Dr Watson. The ‘detectives’ stayed at the Rectory as his guests.

Fr Bruno was only delighted to return to his pet subject. He said his reasoned guess was that the great patriarch, who was believed to be six generations above him, was born around AD 1720-25. And he might have received the award by the time he was some 50 years old. Haider Ali attacked Malabar in AD 1773 and Cochin in 1776.

Mathootty continued, “Fr Bruno’s only disappointment is that while the Church records clearly showed the baptism of his forefathers up to grandfather’s grandfather, there was no trace of any of the older records concerning previous generations. Hence the difficulty in identifying the forefathers above him.”

Thomas Kutty turned to me, “And Fr Bruno promised to look into the genealogy of your grandmother and check with his other ‘kinsmen’ too who claimed descent from the award-winning ancestor. So I handed her details to him.”

“Fr Bruno suggested we discuss the matter in the meantime with one Velayudhan Vaidiar, an ayurvedic physician near Cochin, who had some information about the ancestor. He assured us we could get some material information from the physician corroborating the legend of the illustrious ancestor.”

Testimony of the Vaidiar

“We met the Vaidiar at his tiny pharmacy at Tripunithura”, TK said. “At the first mention of the name Bruno, he could guess the purpose of our visit and he straightaway went into his own family background. He said his family’s ayurvedic traditions had run through several generations. One of his illustrious ancestors – his name was Narayanan Vaidiar - had close contacts with the Royal family as also with good many powerful families of the time as their family physician.”

The Vaidiar said, “As a physician, Narayanan Vaidiar had made brief notings about his patients as also about cases interesting to his profession. A kind of diary doctors keep. One of the interesting cases recorded in his diary was that of a Mattancherry-based couple with twenty-five children. This was not in itself a rare occurrence in those days. But, what was noteworthy was that all the twenty-five children were living and in good health. Their mother too was in fairly good health for a woman of 45 or thereabouts. Of course, the man was rich, and had employed several servants to look after his children. The records said that my ancestor Narayanan Vaidiar used to regularly monitor the family’s health.”

The Vaidiar continued, “Narayanan Vaidiar brought this case to the notice of the ruling Raja, Kerala Varma, who promptly decided to honour him with Veera Shrinkhala.” 

Mathootty, “As a matter of fact, one Veera Kerala Varma ruled Cochin during AD 1760-75.”

Velayudhan Vaidiar said his ancestor’s diary had come down into the possession of his grandfather and that he had seen it in his childhood. “After his death, grandfather’s archives passed to my uncle.”

I could not restrain my excitement, “I am sure you had paid a visit to his uncle and seen the records with your own eyes?”

With a Buddha-like smile on his face Uncle Mathootty said those who investigate things must exercise patience lest they should lose their objectivity. “As things turned out, we didn’t have to visit Velayudhan’s late uncle’s house. The Vaidiar had done it earlier in the company of Fr Bruno. They returned disappointed – Bruno for the loss of the eagerly awaited evidence and the Vaidiar for the loss of valuable medical records.”

Mathootty continued, “The story is that Velayudhan took Fr Bruno to his late uncle’s house where his son Raman was living. He was courteous to the visitors. As for the family archives that his father had inherited, Raman said they were accumulations from several generations and had come to occupy a whole room. His father thought it was time to tidy up the room by retaining only those records that were useful in his ayurvedic profession. And he painstakingly went through each one of them. The effort took months of patience. He chose those he thought useful to him. And they turned out to be very few in number. The others he destroyed. And Velayudhan says the destroyed ones included good many medically useful records as well.”

Fr Bruno related to my grandmother!

“Fr. Bruno welcomed us back with an understanding smile. Without waiting to hear about our encounter with Velayudhan Vaidiar, he announced the good news about your grandmother’s connectedness with him”, said Thomas Kutty. “Fr Bruno had gone through the baptism records of her ancestors maintained by two or three different parishes in the neighbourhood and discovered that he and she shared a common ancestor of the fourth order, i.e., the grandfather’s grandfather. That means they are third cousins. And Fr Bruno has expressed the wish to visit his newly discovered ‘sister’ some time soon!”

“When we brought to his notice the discussion we had with Velayudhan Vaidiar, he confirmed the Vaidiar’s story about their earlier visit to his cousin Raman’s place and the disappointment with which they both returned,” TK concluded.

Mathootty summarises his findings

“Now, listen. This is my tentative conclusion based on the inadequate data available. Sometime during the third quarter of the eighteenth century, there lived a rich and powerful family in Mattancherry. Legend has it that one of its members had attained the celebrity status by winning an award from the then Raja of Cochin for his patriotism and loyalty to the crown. What pleased His Majesty was his prolific contribution of as many as twenty-five healthy progeny to his royal domain.”

“In the course of my earlier study tour, I had accidentally come across a few persons, apparently unrelated and widely dispersed, who claimed ancestry from a person who had twenty-five children and who won a royal award for that. If true, this could be the very same legendary figure of Mattancherry. None of them had evidence. In the present trip which was specifically to investigate into the legend, I had detailed discussion with two special persons. One was an ayurvedic physician and the other a Catholic priest. The physician testified to his having seen the noting of his ancestor about a contemporary of his at Mattancherry conforming to the description of the legendary figure. But that record itself is missing.”

“The priest was firm he belonged to the sixth generation in the male line of the illustrious ancestor. But he could trace his ancestry only up to his forefather of the fourth level. He introduced to us a few others who had similar claim, all unsubstantiated.”

“Most legends suffer from internal inconsistencies and contradictions. But the good news about our present case is that we have not come across any such contradictions that might cast any shadow of doubt on its veracity. One thing we noticed is its consistent chronology. The Vaidiar’s independent testimony based on his eyewitness of contemporary record, the priest’s conviction about his being of the sixth generation from the celebrity and the reference to certain historical events made by a few others, agree on the timing of the award, sometime before AD 1775.”

“Finally, all I can say about Pappu Master’s assertion about your grandmother’s ancestry is that, although not backed with evidence, it still holds out the possibility of being true. We could go one step further in her case and could establish her relationship with another person, Fr Bruno, who has similar claims. In any case, we don’t have any contrary evidence.”

“But, as a student of history, I would have had greater satisfaction if only I could trace the Necklace presented by the Raja and read the inscriptions thereon. None of those whom I contacted had any clue about its whereabouts. A search for the Necklace at this stage would be like the endless search for the mythical Holy Grail.”

“And one more source remains yet to be explored. And that is the Royal Archives at Ernakulam. But it is not easy to get access to their collections; and to search for any unclassified document there would be, as the saying goes, like searching for a pin in a haystack. And, even if and after such a search is successfully conducted and the legendary hero eventually comes to life as a truly historical person, your grandmother’s connection with the great man would remain a question mark.”

Uncle Mathootty said he had enquired about the great mother of twenty-five. No one could provide any information about her. Sad the dear delightful lady sank into oblivion. “It was a patriarchal world. The lady had to content herself with the thought that the award was meant for her too.”

“So, let us end the search and close the chapter here.”

IV. Gossips chase celebrities

Mathootty continued, “And now we come to the lighter side of our findings. Gossips have relentlessly chased celebrities everywhere in every age. Our great celebrity too was not immune to this risk. Come to think of it, a man who was fecund enough to annually sire children from the same woman during the entire span of her reproductive life and recently honoured by the Raja with a Hero’s Necklace was a most natural prey to such gossips. Certainly his ‘accomplishments’ and the royal attention he received must have kindled both jealousy and amusement among his friends and foes alike. And it must have ignited curiosity among women in the neighbourhood.”

“Some of those whom we interviewed in the course of our investigation acquainted us with hilarious stories about their illustrious forefather.”

Uncle Mathootty instructed TK, his ‘Dr Watson’, to deal with the gossips at his leisure. “I need rest”, and he retired.

TK seemed to be eagerly waiting for his mentor’s departure to unburden himself of the juicy stories he had heard in the course of the investigation. TK’s rambling narration could be summarised thus:

Our hero was regular in his evening walk for years, his beat taking him through the main thoroughfare in the elite residential area in town. Being a familiar figure in the neighbourhood and a socially amiable and handsome person, women in the area would often stop him on the way and engage him in small talk. And on attaining celebrity status, his leisurely stroll got literally obstructed by the female folk living along the street who would surround him. Some of them would admiringly gaze at him while some crazy ones would even ogle at him. And it became difficult for him to enjoy an uninterrupted, peaceful walk.

Then some miscreants planted a canard. Word spread in no time that a single look from the superman could ‘endanger’ a woman. So women, beware - especially the maidens! At first people took this as a simple joke. But when a girl in the neighbourhood became pregnant and she swore that she had never had any male contact, someone murmured his suspicion.

All of a sudden he noticed the female folk disappearing from the street. He was puzzled at what hit them or hit him. It was then that he came to hear about the canards growing behind his back and of the ‘virgin birth’ in the neighbourhood. At first he had a hearty laugh at what he thought was a practical joke. His close friends too laughed with him.

But this cruel ‘fun’ did not subside; instead it gathered momentum and turned malignant. He even fancied that the doors and windows of the houses along the street were shut as he passed. He also suspected that the female crowd regularly seen at the Church services that he attended was progressively thinning. When his friends confirmed his suspicion, it told upon his composure. He might give up his evening walk, but not the spiritual satisfaction from attending Church services. So he sought the intervention of the Parish Priest.

TK said, “According to what we heard, the priestly intervention had its effect, and gradually the gossips lost their sting. He continued his evening walk, and noticed the doors and windows along the street open as before. The female attendance at the Church services too was restored. But the man previously known for his bubbly disposition had now become rather withdrawn. And he preferred to be discreet with his former admirers. Thus it was that he earned the nickname ‘The Old Monk’.”

K X M John

17/01/2012