The next morning, Spider decided to take his daily walk in the same direction that Pillai had taken. He would keep an eye open for any untoward signs. He didn’t know what to look for, though. He broke into a slow run along the deserted road to get away from the worrisome thought.
It was then that he saw something that chilled him to the bones. There it was, lying a few hundred feet ahead – a black, broken thing with a small head and half-folded wings, lifeless. Spider froze in his tracks.
So, it was all over! Pillai either had an overdose of desire or had run into a predator. The eminent hangman and relative of Jesus was no more.
Warily, Spider looked around for the Enemy, but all he saw was a cyclist pedalling in his direction from a distance. Spider walked towards the still shape on the road with trembling feet.
As he got closer, the thing on the road seemed to take another form. Spider was startled. Oh! He’s still shapeshifting! Maybe he’s alive!
As he got closer, it changed shape again. “Oh, no!” Spider shouted. “Mr Pillai! Be as you were! I’ve come to save you.”
By now, it had assumed the form of a black, double-folding umbrella, unclasped, with a couple of flaps open. Spider was in utter shock. Pillai’s atman wants to die as an umbrella!
“Wait, Mr Pillai!” he shouted. “I’m here!”
He bent down and was reaching for the umbrella when there came the squeak of a sudden brake and a bicycle came to a stop beside him.
A boy jumped off the bicycle and grabbed the umbrella. He told Spider breathlessly, “Grandpa, thanks for finding it! It’s my brand-new umbrella! My mother would’ve skinned me alive for losing it!”
Clasping it in one hand, he rode away frantically, saying, “Thank you, grandpa! I’m the altar boy and I’m late. Oh, please pray Father Vicar doesn’t skin me!”
Spider stood aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears. He called me grandpa! Twice! How dare he! And precisely when I was about to pick up my friend and save him, he grabbed him! Bodysnatcher! Police, police! Where are you? Spider was unable to contain his rage. Oh, may Father Vicar catch you stealing the mass wine and burn you at the stake!
The street was empty except for a couple of cats basking in the sun. The village newspaper boy was stepping onto the sidewalk after a delivery. Just at that moment, Spider, in his frustration and rage, let out a scream. The boy walked straight into Spider as he screamed. He leapt away with a terrified look and took to his heels, looking back a couple of times until he was a good distance away.
Spider was equally startled to hear the scream. Good heavens! He asked himself, who let out that horrible scream? He looked around indignantly. People are so insensitive these days!
What surprised him most was seeing the newspaper boy run – so much so that he made a mental note to tell Rosi about it. For the boy was known to be the world’s slowest newspaper vendor. He was so slow that often, what he delivered was the paper from the previous day. Spider used to take it as the day’s edition, read all the news and feel up to date till the day Rosi pointed out the dateline.
Sometimes, the boy did deliver the day’s paper before dark. But by then, he would have done all the puzzles and games in it, filled the lucky-dip entry forms, peeled off the prize stickers, scratched the tambola numbers and defaced the portions he didn’t like, especially in the children’s section. He had also been found speaking to goats, squirrels and water buffaloes for long stretches, and sitting on the newspaper bundle under a tree, directing ant traffic.
One day, girls bathing in the village stream had seen him disappearing behind a hedge. When they investigated it, suspecting him of being a Peeping Tom, they found him sitting between the legs of a cow, suckling from her udders. The cow, notorious for her bad temper, was licking him as if he were her calf.
The cow had then turned its attention to the newspaper bundle and eaten large portions of it. That day, many subscribers, including Spider, received their newspaper with big chunks torn off and bits of chewed grass and dried saliva stuck here and there.
Though Spider was sad and bitter, the sight of the boy galloping away put some cheer into him.
Suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice.
“Oh, Mr Spiderman! What happened to you? Are you hurt? Why did you cry out?”
He looked around and saw the person who had called him: another villager – Ambujam Nair – a big, muscular woman in her sixties. She was standing at the gate of her house situated in a coconut grove adjoining the road.
It was a massive Swiss chalet constructed by her daughter, a nurse in Zurich. Ambujam had been living alone in it after her husband, a retired soldier, had left her when she insisted that he should stand at attention and salute before speaking to her and always address her as “commander”. She was a staunch patriot who believed that only military discipline provided a wholesome environment in a god-fearing family.
Spider was familiar with Ambujam Nair’s steely expression. She had read his books and sometimes had questions for him on patriotic matters.
“Good day, Mrs Nair,” Spider said.
“Oh, Mr Spiderman,” she said, “I heard you scream. What happened? Did you have an attack?”
Spider was used to her calling him Spiderman. He told her that he too had heard a scream. It was unfortunate that people these days screamed at the drop of a hat.
But he was worried by her reference to an attack. He asked, “What attack did you mean? Has World War III started?”
“Heart attack,” she said. “Lots of people are dying of heart attacks.”
He said, “But I’m careful. I exercise every day.”
“But many die while exercising,” she said.
“The exercises I do are death-compliant,” Spider said.
He added, “I read in the paper the other day that many old people are dead and do not know it. They go about as usual, but dead, causing household accidents, blowing electrical fuses and triggering various environmental problems.”
“Did they say what age group?” Mrs Nair asked.
“Sixties and upward.”
‘That’s wonderful!’ Mrs Nair said. ‘I stopped the ageing process through auto-erotic therapy at the age of fifty-two. But Mr Spiderman, if this news about the walking dead is true, I feel it’s time to start old age homes for them. My daughter runs an old age home in Zurich in her free time. She can start one for the walking dead too.’
Suddenly, Spider was overcome by the feeling that Mrs Nair was dead and lounging at the gate without knowing it. Hiding his worry, he asked her in a casual tone, “By the way, Mrs Nair, how’s your health these days?”
She said, “By God’s grace, I’m fine. My body feels light and I’m very hungry all the time.”
That’s it! Spider said to himself, shocked by what she said. She must have died during the night and doesn’t know it. She has become weightless because of death and as a result, her digestion is proceeding at super speed, giving the illusion of hunger. No wonder she’s unconsciously planning old age homes for the dead. Oh, I better get away!
An excerpt from True Story of a Writer, a Philosopher, and a Shape-Shifter: A Novel, Paul Zacharia, Penguin India.
