A project of this magnitude -- by the time I finish it, I am sure it will create ripples that measure 8 on the Richter scale -- requires a lot of preparation. I have read hundreds and hundreds of books spanning philosophy, sociology, physiology, chemistry, literature, psychology, not knowing where I will get that one spark of inspiration which will ignite a new fire in the world of literature.
No, I haven’t grown a beard, that is so cliché. Saramma advised me against it. The amount of time I spend on grooming facial hair can be much more productively used elsewhere, she argued so forcefully, I had to agree.
Now, the tools of the trade, the essentials without which I cannot embark on such a momentous venture. A computer with internet connection, a library, a pen, a pencil, a diary to keep notes. That is all.
“Kutty, have you started writing?”
Saramma walked in, back after a week’s leave.
“Not yet. Writer’s block, isn’t that what you call it?”
“Now that shouldn’t be a problem. I have brought you mutton olathiyathu. Don’t you always say food is your real muse?”
“I have changed my views since then. In fact, I stopped eating two days ago. Total starvation, Anna-style.”
“Come on Kutty, no revolution is possible on a hungry stomach.”
“I have changed my views on that too. True revolution is possible only if you stay hungry, starve to the point where you are forced to do things differently.”
“Like what? Rob the bank?”
“Yeah, anything but the ordinary. Any crime committed to feed a hungry stomach is not a sin. Who said that? Krishna? Robin Hood? Marx? Kutty? I keep saying too many things that I forget saying them. Are you keeping a record of all my quotes? One never knows what you will be remembered for.”
“It’s all safe here,” said Saramma pointing to her head.
“Do you know something? Original work needs a hungry stomach and a lot of free time.”
“So what you are basically saying, Kutty, is you don’t want to work. An idle mind is devil’s workshop.”
“You don’t get it. That proverb was the work of an evil genius. Must have been a capitalist. Force people to work. Take your brother for example. He goes to office, earns a salary, spends most of it on a home loan, by the time he pays off the loan, he will be 55 and by then it will be too late. Too late for any original work. These capitalists and communists and religions and other existing cults don’t want you to think. They don’t want competition.”
“Now I see,” said Saramma. Sometimes I think, she is my biggest fan. Such a nice woman, she knows nothing. “But Kutty what good does it do if you don’t do anything?”
“The biggest example is Buddha. When he was young, his father, who was a king, gave him all comforts of life. Food, wine, women and more food, wine and women when he got bored of them. Never got any work to do.”
“Soon he started thinking because he had nothing else to do.”
“Exactly. Does everyone eat chicken mughlai every day like I do? How long should I live eating and mating? Will this damned, boring life come to an end at all? He started thinking.”
“You are, maybe, simplifying things too much,” Saramma said.
“And one day, when he does go out on a picnic, he sees an old man, sees his suffering, what does he do? He asks the charioteer, why is there so much suffering in this world. Had he been a home loan payer like your brother, he would have kept his mouth shut and gone back to the palace to a life of sex and food.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Luckily for mankind, he was a noble man. Had he been wicked, he could have become a king, waged a few wars, killed a few thousand people. You would still have learned about him in your social studies book. There is no escaping that.”
“I can’t understand half the things you say. But now that you don’t want food I will have it.”
Saramma kept the mutton olathiyathu aside and took out a bottle of what looked like plain, ordinary water. But when she opened it, the aroma of diluted C2H5OH and undiluted pleasure swept the room. It soon tickled my nose, sending a few electric pulses to a cell in some corner of my brain which identified it as arrack. Yes, 24-carat arrack.
In life, you are presented with tough situations. Like you are in love with one woman, and God gifts you a one-night stand with another woman. Both heart and head say go for it.
“See Saramma, after some thought, I have found I could be wrong after all. May be revolutions are not possible on hungry stomachs.”
“So you are going to eat that mutton.”
“No, I will follow a liquid diet. Give me 100 ml of that.”
I poured an exact measure of charayam, the way only seasoned drunkards can do, and gulped it with a pinch of lemon pickle. The liquid and the lemon travelled from the mouth through the oesophagus to the stomach, burning every inch of the route taken.
Thhhhhmmmtttttaaaa.
No drink of charayam is complete without that sound.
Thhhhhmmmtttttaaaa.
You can try, but in normal circumstances, no what matter how accomplished a linguist you may be, you can’t produce that sound. Charayam makes improbable things possible.
“Kutty, even if you write a book, will it ever get published? Pulping is the fashion now, you know.”
“I also have fears. All of a sudden we have become intolerant of nudity in any form, not even art. My worst fear is one day these blokes are going to pull down a few old temples for depiction of nudity.”
“Yeah, all of a sudden we are shamed of our heritage.”
“The trouble, Saramma is, all the religions were founded when there was no i-Phone, no computer, no cinema. Not many avenues of entertainment were available. People spent most of their time making pots, hunting animals, and travelling from one place to the other. Eating and mating were primary concerns. There was nothing much to write about.”
“Must have been very boring.”
“If you look at it, all these religions are what? A moral code to help men keep their women from straying.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And to think of it, much of what we do even now is aimed at eating and mating. Sex, food and fame are the driving force behind our actions.”
“Now don’t tell me you are going to found a religion.”
“No Saramma. I will just write a book that will appeal to the inner depths of human mind.”
“What exactly? Have you made up your mind?”
“Yes, I am writing a porn novel.”
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