That evening, a dead body surged up near the island, got caught in the current and drifted towards the sea. It got stuck on the branches of the mangroves, creating shared moments of exhilaration for the islanders.
Before all the excitement likely to accompany a dead body found floating, Thankachan had an onerous task at hand that morning – to accompany his mother, carrying the fish basket on his head, a ritual that started shortly after his exam results had come out. Having lost hope in her younger son to get a decent government job, she had decided to make him useful by appointing him her assistant.
She woke him up with an unkind nudge. He got up, annoyed, not just because she had denied him the opportunity to grab some sleep after the fishing trip but for callously interrupting a fascinating dream in which he, as a newly appointed officer in a big firm, was about to sign a contract sitting opposite a charming woman. It took him some seconds to get back to reality. The powerful stench from the fish basket hit him and he felt depressed. He got up and walked outside, washed his face with a mug of water and looked around. From where he stood, he could make out the lake.
People were already on the move and the ferry edged forward, carrying students and people who went to work on the mainland. Trawlers moved to and fro, running nets, cleaning them before they set out for the week-long fishing out in the sea. The sun was up but remained hidden behind the clouds.
To his right was the concrete house of Terence, a schoolmate now employed in the Gulf. It was the only concrete building on the island; the rest had either tiled roofs or asbestos. He looked at Terence’s house and sighed. He too should have gone abroad after school, instead of applying to the seminary.
The islanders had looked forward with enthusiasm to seeing a priest from among the marakkans, but the prefect at the seminary, the son of an upper-caste Hindu convert, did not like a marakkan in cassock and did everything he could to make him withdraw from the ecclesiastical path. Thankachan grew more determined and scored good marks at the annual theology exams in the first two years. Nonetheless, the prefect succeeded in ending his ecclesiastical dreams when he accused him of copying in the exams. A piece of paper found near him was cited as evidence. Thankachan then joined BA but failed there too. Now his only hope was to appear for the re-exam and be the first graduate from the island.
“Why are you standing there dreaming? I have to sell this fish before it rots!” His mother’s shout brought him back to the present.
He looked at her in despair.
“Don’t look at me like that. The more we delay, the less we get.”
“I have not brushed or pooped,” he said, as he dried himself with a towel.
“That is not a big deal. You can do that any time of the day. But fish stinks if kept for long.”
She placed the fish basket on the ground and covered it with a banana leaf.
“I am the only person with a college education on the island. Carrying fish won’t suit me.”
“Do you believe they will think highly of you even if you get a job?” Tresia scoffed. “You are a marakkan, the son of a fisherman, and nothing will change that.”
Thankachan glared at her, refilled the mug from the barrel containing rainwater and walked towards the kakoos. The kakoos consisted of two planks of wood suspended on two coconut stumps that lay deep in the lake’s bed. The other two ends of the planks, fastened to the land with concrete, formed a toilet seat on which a person could squat. Plastic sheets covered it on all four sides, and the seepage fell directly into the lake. Squatting on the planks, he considered the shame he would have to suffer on the mainland while carrying the fish basket. He could spot a school of fish waiting down in great expectation and he did not disappoint them; he offered them their feast and walked out.
“There is rice and fish on the table, eat it fast,” his mother said as he returned.
Thankachan sat down on the floor to eat. His father was having breakfast sitting on a stool. He was the head fisherman and had the right to wear a turban. He was nearing seventy-five, yet was still able to guide a boat through the lake. He had stopped fishing two years ago after a cardiac arrest. In his prime, he used to go out alone on a two-plank kattamaram deep into the sea to catch the komban shravu. Now his fishing activity was limited to holding oars for Mathappan. Once he had eaten, he became eloquent.
“You know, son, I love fishing. I love the smell of the sea, to hold the fish as soon as it is caught, to feel it wriggle in my hand. I love folding the net and bundling it up neatly. I love the freedom I experience out in the sea. I am every inch a fisherman.” He paused as he got up from the stool and hovered over Thankachan.
“There is still one desire I have left,” he said. Thankachan stopped eating and looked up at his father. “The desire to go deep down into the sea and embrace a komban shravu.” He stretched out his hands in front of him as if a shark was standing there ready to be embraced, but this mono act was cut short by Tresia, who appeared at the doorway.
“Who do you want to embrace at this age, old man? Stop your self-praise and let the boy finish his food.”
Thankachan gobbled up the rest of the food and followed his mother, carrying the fish basket on his head. His mother got into the boat and helped him to keep the basket balanced in it. He untied the boat and pushed it out of the jetty into the silver waters of the Ashtamudi Lake.
Once he began rowing, he began to think of what had happened out in the lake that morning. What could have attacked Mathappan? There were no boats nearby except for the trawler they had passed before the bend. He had not seen Mathappan that morning, for he was in the habit of sleeping in the net shed. Even if they had met, he would not have responded to Thankachan’s query, for he still considered him immature. Still, he was a caring brother and did a lot for the family. With the money he got from fishing, he had renovated their house and married off their two sisters.
“When will they build a bridge and end our misery?” Tresia exclaimed, ending Thankachan’s ruminations.
Thankachan did not respond. He had heard about the bridges connecting the islands since the time he had first crossed over from the island to the mainland.
Excerpted with permission from The Dead Know Nothing, Kishore Ram, Penguin India.
