When they came for him, Devan was clutching his grandfather’s severed hand, the skin now cold and stiff, the bits of blood and flesh that, still hanging on, now shrivelled up like slivers of dried tomatoes. Some years ago, or it could have been weeks ago, probably days, certainly not hours, Devan had picked it up from near the ravaged cot, his muththa lifeless and almost snug under it, like he was playing hide and seek with Devan and all Devan had to do was lift the cot up and say ‘boo’.
Muththa was always terrible at hiding.
Even at five years old, Devan knew it wasn’t a game. Devan knew he was all alone. He had picked up the hand, still wet with possibility, and run from there, just like his muththa had told him to. ‘When the rubble rises, you my kuttan, you will run.’
This time, Devan had nowhere to run.
All his life, Devan remembered the running. He had a mother at some point and a brother, but Devan had no memory of them or their faces. It was only through his grandfather’s stories that he even knew they existed, and the one photograph that his grandfather kept in his back pocket, a sepia-coloured studio photograph. His mother in a sari, her face solemn, a thick string of jasmine in her hair; his brother dressed in shorts and an oversized checked shirt, standing close to the wicker chair where Muththa sat, straight backed, in a white shirt and black pants, looking into the camera; and on his lap, a baby Devan, wearing a thin cotton jabla and langoti, a silver band on his left leg, mouth open, trying to catch the light. If there had been a father, Muththa never spoke about him. Devan never asked. Once, he had asked about his grandmother, but then Muththa’s face had crumbled into so many pieces that Devan was terrified, and so he broke into their favourite lullaby.
Doi doi doi, doi-ya Baba (Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep little baby)
Bai bai bai, bai-ya baba (Fall asleep, little baby)
Their only lullaby. Possibly their only song. Devan didn’t think his muththa had ever sung anything else to him. ‘Your Amma would sing this to you, doi-ya Devan she would say, you know?’ And at those moments, Devan didn’t know if he should save the words or let them go, and if there was even any merit in holding on to words that had no physical roots. But he liked the song, even if the memory associated with it was not his own, and perhaps never would become his own.
When his legs got too tired, he would ride piggyback on his grandfather and they would run, Devan giggling into the wind, trying to catch it with his mouth, the air, burning with fires of rage. And sometimes, when Muththa couldn’t carry him, he would tell Devan to keep going because, ‘When we reach Punchi Mama’s house, what will you get?’ ‘Chocolait!’ Devan would scream, giggling some more.
When they reached Punchi Mama, there was no house. There was more rubble.
Some days, they could walk. Devan enjoyed these the most. They would walk along the rivers, through mountain ranges, through fields, and camp with families, also like them, broken up into twos and threes, and eat warm fish soup and white, puffy, hot rice, instead of the dry bread and sugary tea Muththa would get for him from travellers on the road, if they were lucky. Devan almost felt like they were on a holiday. And always stuffed fistfuls of rice into his pockets, eating them slowly, over the next few days, as they dried up and became brittle like their skin.
But it was the nights at these camps that Devan looked forward to. When Muththa would dip into his shoulder bag, the strap worn thin carrying invisible indentations of his shoulder blades, and the smell of his sweat. And from it remove the last remaining mask, the Maru Sanniya, said to cure anyone from the fear of death.
Devan knew this was Muththa’s most prized possession. He knew, once, Muththa’s work had been important, that people would come from nearby towns and villages to watch Muththa perform and exorcise the demons of death or delirium or cholera or blindness. Banish the evil out of their bodies and make their body light like wispy clouds again. Tracing this ritual back generations, Muththa would tell Devan about the nights of endless music, the crowds that would assemble, their overpowering faith slipping into his skin underneath the elaborate costumes, heavy make-up and the masks – eighteen masks – Devan knew.
‘Kuttan, the demon is always hungry – eating eating eating you up from the inside. But your muththa – tchak! – is clever. I always get them out.’
‘How Muththa? You give them choclait?’
And here Muththa would laugh, the wrinkles around his eyes spreading out like migrating birds, a direction that Devan’s own laughter would then take.
‘Aye Kuttan, no choclait. Only strength and courage.’ – he would flex his arms, a hint of bicep peeking out of his loose flesh – ‘and Muththa’s special mask.’
Once Muththa wore it, he was a changed man. Devan even believed that Muththa grew in size, his back no more weighed down by the fatigue of countless journeys, his eyes peering through the mask, alight with the colour of escape, red and fiery reins holding Muththa captive in another realm. A hush would fall over the group as Muththa’s voice rang out, a little louder than a whisper, for even in the throes of a giddy performance, Muththa knew the temptation of surrender. Muththa would morph into many characters at once – the drummer, the dancer, the healer, the patient – but he kept his mask on throughout, the colours now only carrying the memory of its once vibrant self, the sides peeling away revealing distended layers of papier mache, the patterns blurry and formless like ghosts. And yet, whenever Muththa slipped the mask on, Devan felt transported to another realm. One where he could sit a while. One where he could forget about the fear of living.
Devan was crouched inside an abandoned cupboard now, the darkness comforting. His grandfather’s bag was slung around his shoulder, and he held Muththa’s cold hand in his, covering the palm with both of his, like a precious flower that had lost its original home. He started to hum, very softly, the lullaby that Muththa would sing to him when he couldn’t sleep, that he would sing to Muththa when Muththa couldn’t go on anymore.
Umbe Amma kothana giya? (Where did your Mamma go?)
Kiri-ara-gena, enna giya (She went to bring some milk)
He was afraid. Afraid of dying.
The only other time he had truly felt this was when they had reached Punchi Mama. His mother’s brother was a fighter in the war – ‘it doesn’t matter Kuttan – when people fight, dhadaam dhadaam – there are no sides, they are all the same, like this,’ and Muththa would mock-punch Devan who would then fall down in a pile of giggles. When the temporary settlement they had been at was ravaged overnight by surprise air strikes, his grandfather felt Punchi Maama could be their next destination. But once there, they had found Punchi Mama hiding in a camp with a few other survivors. Punchi Mama looked hollowed out, like someone had sucked everything out of him, slurped it up, and licked their lips, and left the shell behind. He had hugged Devan, but Devan felt like he was hugging a shadow. Muththa looked at his son and just held him as he dissolved into heaving sobs. Devan looked around the camp then – there would have been about fifteen to twenty people, all of them dressed in some sort of military uniform – green with leaves on it – scurrying around. Some on the radio, some tending to the wounded, some cooking, some just sitting and staring. Devan heard a lone crow cawing loudly over the corpse of a dead squirrel and soon, all of the other crows arrived, a loud cackling filling the air. For a long time, this was the only sound Devan heard.
Later that night, Punchi Mama let him listen to the radio for some time. He listened to a Tamil song about a man held captive by Kashmiri soldiers singing in a tempo, alternately feverish and sombre, for a country that Devan recognised. Punchi Mama had talked about this country. But the song said ‘thamizha thamizha’, calling out to the Tamils, so it must be about them, Devan decided. Muththa had told him language doesn’t make anyone different because demons couldn’t differentiate between tongues. He held the radio close to his ears, the volume low, and allowed the song to fill his head. He knew Punchi Mama and Muththa were talking a little distance away. He watched them, Muththa shaking his head in a vigorous no and Punchi Mama looking resigned, but holding Muththa’s hand. He looked at Muththa once, nodded his head and turned to Devan, breaking into a hurried smile.
‘Dei, Kuttan, what are you listening to, ah?’ Punchi Mama took the radio from Devan, listened to the song and hummed a couple of lines, before Muththa interrupted, ‘Let’s go, Kuttan.’
‘It’s late now, go in the morning. We will be getting supplies and the jeep can take you.’
‘No, we will leave now.’
‘You don’t have to. All of this will eventually end. How long will you keep running, Appa?’
‘Till my feet can hold me up.’
‘At least leave Devan behind. He is too young.’
‘Why? So you can recruit him, too? No, thank you. We are borderless. Think of us that way. You draw your lines and we will run through them. Kuttan, come. Say goodbye to Punchi mama.’
Punchi mama turned to Devan and lifted him up. ‘Oy, you are becoming too big for your Punchi mama,’ and he jabbed Devan a few times on his stomach, delighting in Devan squirming with laughter. ‘Look after your Muththa. He is very stubborn.’
‘Punchi mama, can I ask you something?’
‘Tell me, Kuttan, you can ask your Punchi mama anything.’
‘Muththa said you have choclait. Do you?’
Punchi mama looked at his father, but Muththa had turned his face away. Punchi mama sighed and then called out to one of the others in the camp and asked them to bring the blue box. When it arrived, Devan’s eyes popped out. It was filled to the brim with hard caramel toffees – the type with liquidy chocolate inside.
‘Take Kuttan, take how much ever you want.’
Devan grabbed a handful and stuffed his pockets and then took one to pop into his mouth right there, when they heard the keen of a bomb and Punchi mama jumped over Devan, pulling him to the ground. The blue box went flying out of his hands and Devan watched its ascent to the sky, like a plastic bag briefly hovering in the air, the toffees flying, and disappearing from his vision like an apparition. Through the ringing in his ears, he willed his hands to move to his pockets, but they wouldn’t and he met the fear of death, dancing in front of his eyes, wearing his muththa’s mask, realising he would die without ever having tasted a piece of chocolate.
But he did taste it, afterwards, plastered to his muththa’s back, experiencing for a tantalising moment the deliriousness of pleasure. How long ago was that? Devan couldn’t remember, and he had no more chocolates left. But Devan knew the importance of keepsakes – a photograph, a wrapper, a mask, a severed hand. He knew, sometimes, his very survival could depend on a memory withheld, chained down, boxed in. Devan could hear footsteps and voices approaching and he knew, within seconds they would open the door to this cupboard and find him inside. Muththa had only taught him to run, not to hide.
Muththa was always terrible at hiding.
‘In a war, better to keep the feet moving, Kuttan. It confuses everyone and they leave you alone. If you stop, they find you.’ But Devan always wished they could have found one spot and stayed there hidden – static, unmoving, rooted. It had never occurred to Devan to ask Muththa for that though. It was a fantasy, like the Maru Sanniya – it cured the despair of longing for Devan whenever he thought about it. It didn’t have to be true. He wondered what Muththa would have done now. Maybe he should have asked him what happens when there is nowhere to run. Where then, does the running go? Devan closed his eyes and gripped his Muththa’s hand and hummed the lullaby again.
Doi doi doi, doi-ya muththa
Bai bai bai, bai-ya muththa
When the voices and footsteps stopped outside the door of the cupboard, Devan burst out, wearing his grandfather’s mask, brandishing his grandfather’s hand, reciting the lullaby like a chant, and kept running – through the men shouting, the men chasing, the men grabbing, the men shooting. He kept running. Into the wind, the earth, the sky, experiencing once more, the deliriousness of pleasure.
*
Praveena Shivram is an independent writer based in Chennai, India. Both her fiction and non-fiction have been widely published. Her short fiction has appeared in Out of Print. Her debut novel, Karuppu, was recently published by Zubaan. Read her work at praveenashivram.com.