The Flood : Short Story

 

The rain kept pouring incessantly.

The streets were getting flooded.

Through the threads of water, the world was looking blurred.

What would happen if it continued even more?

My mind raced back few years; to a similar rainy night.

A phone call from my village. Far away in the south.

Ramanamma’s desperate voice.

 “Your brother Krishnamurty is sinking. Doctors lost hope. I am prepared. His voice is gone. But his tears tell me his last wish. He is pining to see Madhubabu. What can I do?” She choked…. 

Madhubabu!!

 Where can I find him and bring him to his dying father? Where can anybody find him?

 My cousin brother Krishnamurty was the first graduate of our tiny village Gunnathota Valasa.

He became the Head master of a High school in Raajaam village and was loved by the village people. A person who gives knowledge to their children and makes them earn a living is more than God to the illiterate villagers. He was married to Ramanamma. The couple did not have children for long time. After many vratams, visits to holy temples and long wait, they were blessed with a son.

The boy was named “Madhu”, the honey. The grandfather added “Babu”, an endearing word in Telugu, which means “Master” or “Little Master”.

Madhubabu was pampered by everybody in the family. The moment the child looked at something with interest, the next day it would be in his hands, be it a sweet or a toy. If he threw it and broke it, which he often did, the father would not scold him. On the contrary, he would hug him and shout with joy “Look, Ramanamma. How my son is teasing me. He is simply adorable.” If the child urinated in his arms, he would kiss him and say “Look. He did abhishekkam to me! Such a darling, I love him so much”.

 They employed a special Daadi to look after the boy the whole day.

Madhubabu was not sent to the school in the village. Chee! Not the ordinary school with ordinary kids. My son must get the best in everything. So, he was sent to the most reputed Maharajah school in the town of Bobbili, two kilometers away from the village. A cycle rickshaw was arranged to pick up and drop Madhubabu.

Even before he reached teenage, an expensive scooter was bought and given to him. It gave lot of freedom of movement to Madhu.

 Soon, Madhubabu got attracted to the glamour of films. He started spending more time watching whatever film came to Bobbili and other nearby towns.

 Krishnamurty did not mind. Madhu was still a child. We should not curb a child’s joy. He gave standing orders to his wife never to say no whenever Madhu asked for money. A child must have his fun, is it not?

 Every teenager falls in love. It is part of growing up, Madhubabu also did. But –

He did not fall in love with a girl. Not with a boy, not with a pet. He fell in love with the ‘larger than life’ image! He fell in love with a silver screen hero.

 Teenage Madhu was infatuated with Chiranjeevi, a Telugu film Superstar. He showed his commitment to his love by joining as a life member of the Chiranjeevi Fan Club. Soon he became a very active and dedicated member.

The members voluntarily promote Hero Chiranjeevi, almost fanatically. They will treat well all those who praise Chiranjeevi but beat up anybody who says even one word that is critical of him. To see Chiranjeevi’s film on the day of its release, first day, first show, is their religion. They block tickets en-masse for that show. During the show, as soon as the first Chiranjeevi scene appears on screen, they throw garlands on the screen, break coconuts, offer dhupam, deepam, naivedyam and aarati as you do to a deity in a temple. There will be more pomp and show, screaming slogans and whistling and jump dancing. It is hero worship, literally.

 Nobody dares to object, not even the theater owner, because he knows if he does, his hall will be burnt to cinders the very same day and nobody will dare say who did it.       Madhu started sleeping late and started neglecting studies. His marks came tumbling down. But Krishnamurty’s love did not allow him to scold the son. “He is still young. If he fails a year or two, what does it matter? He will pass later. Let him enjoy now. That is important for us,” Krishnamurty would say to his wife.

One day, early morning, the mother went to Madhu’s room with a cup of coffee to wake him up and to get him ready for school. He was not in bed.

She called and searched all over the house in vain. No one in the village knew his whereabouts. They discovered soon that his rucksack was missing. Every relative and friend was phoned but all answered in the negative.

Where is he? Is he fine? Why did he leave the house suddenly without telling anyone?

The whole family was drowned in grief.

Krishnamurty was shocked. He did not bite a morsel nor had a wink of sleep the whole day. He begged every friend and relative to search for Madhu. Enquiries were made at Bobbili Railway station and the bus station.

 At last there was a tiny bit of news and hope. Some shop keeper at the bus station said he had seen a boy of that description that morning with a rucksack. He could not say which bus he took.

 Krishnamurty now started worrying for the safety of his son. How would the poor boy survive without any money and without anybody to help? How could he travel without enough money for the ticket, for food and for stay? Who would wake him up from bed early in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee? If only he had asked him, he would have provided him money without any questions. Why did he not ask?

After three agonizing days, an answer was found.

The head clerk of the high school where Krishnamurty was Headmaster came to him and produced a small chit with Madhu’s signature for receiving 20,000 rupees. Three days earlier, as the head clerk had to go out of station on emergency for a few days, he had brought that cash to be kept in safe custody at the Head master’s house, as it was the custom.

Since he was in a hurry and could not find Krishnamurty, he had handed the amount over to Madhu to be passed on to the father.

 Krishnamurty was relieved a bit. His son was not starving. He told the clerk not to reveal this to any one; otherwise he would be sacked from his job. No one should know that his son ran away with school money. Poor Madhu wanted to have fun. After all, my money is his money. How dare you call it stealing? He gave a formal receipt to the clerk with his own signature. He performed an elaborate yagna at the temple for the comfort and safe return of his son.

The search was intensified. Ten agonizing days passed.

Then there was news!

A friend of Madhu’s informed them that Madhu was in Guntur, and that he could give the address. But his father should not go to pick him up; otherwise, he would not be found at the address given. The money he took away was spent and exhausted. He was afraid to come home and could not afford the ticket. What was he doing there?

“Don’t know, uncle” the friend said. But after everybody insisted and threatened to hand him over to the police, the boy broke his silence.

 “He asked me not to tell you. I swore to him. He did“Shata Ksheeraabhishekam” to Chiranjeevi in Guntur”. Hundred kalashas (pots) of milk were poured on the huge, thirty feet, plywood cut out of the hero Chiranjeevi on the main street.

Krishnamurthy could not believe his ears!

But first he had to rescue his son and bring him home. He arranged a group immediately to go to Guntur and fetch his son. But they were told to treat him very lovingly. No one should say one harsh word to him. No questions must be asked. On the contrary, they should praise his unique dedication to Chiranjeevi. Who would dare say it was foolish and downright stupid? My son would never do stupid things! He was born to me and he is special.

 Madhubabu was found in Guntur in a dingy lodge and was brought home. On Krishnamurty’s firm pleading, every one pretended as if nothing had happened. He was sent back to school with a medical certificate and a covering letter by his father for leave of absence!

 Krishnamurty neither reprimanded his son nor asked what he did and why he did it.  He did not want to hurt him by making him recount the event. Asking for the money was out of question!

Madhu failed in class that year and the next year too. The day when the results were announced, Madhu did not come home. A friend’s parent phoned and said that Madhu was reluctant to go home and face his parents, so he had pleaded to stay for few days with them.

Krishnamurthy met the high school authorities in Bobbili and was told that Madhu had been bunking classes regularly. Failure was inevitable. His name was being removed from the rolls.

 Krishnamurthy sent a relative to persuade Madhu to come home.

Neither he nor Ramanamma nor anyone else would say a thing. He warned his mother also not to say a single word. Real love forgives everything, does it not? I must be so nice to him because he is already depressed due to his failure. “We should cheer him up,” he told Ramanamma.

After Madhu finally returned home, he went to him and hugged him. He asked his wife to make his favorite dishes that day. He brought home chocolate ice cream, which Madhu loved. While he was eating he put his hand on his shoulder and told him very soothingly: “Madhu darling. Do not feel bad. I am there for you. I love you. I support you even if you fail ten times. I will put you in another school. If no school admits you, I will teach you myself. I want to see you happy always. You need a vacation to overcome this sadness due to failure. Seeing all your friends who passed makes you feel terrible, I know.  I will give you some money. Go to your uncle in Ramavaram village near the hills. It is a beautiful place with mango gardens and sugarcane fields. Enjoy the vacation well. Watch movies. A change of place will do you a lot of good. Uncle’s family is very fond of you. They will take very good care of you. You can do anything you want. Ok?”

 Madhubabu was silent.

All the time he lowered his head. He did not even nod his head.

Tears flowed from his eyes, quietly.

He was sent to an uncle’s place in Raamavaram with enough money, dresses and sweets.

Madhu still remained quiet.

He was confused. His looks were vacant. He wandered aimlessly here and there in the village. Uncle’s children took him to the fields and to their mango garden to cheer him up. It was in vain. He would not even go to see the movies. He would not touch his favorite dishes. Neither the delicious ripe yellow mangoes nor playing with other boys and girls lifted his spirits. Madhubabu seemed lost. He was listless.

Thus four days passed.

On the fifth day, in the early hours of dawn, his body was found floating in the village well on the outskirts.

 He had left the uncle’s place the previous night, saying he would spend the night with a friend in the next village. The police later recovered a suicide note, in Madhu’s own handwriting, under a stone nearby. The note simply read:

“No one except me is responsible for my suicide”.

PS: “Dear Nanna and Amma, I am not worthy of being your son. Forgive me if you can.

Yours insincerely…….. (Signed) MadhuBabu” 

Krishnamurty’s heart was broken. His loud wailing resounds in my ears even now.

“What have I not given you my son, to punish me thus? I always had forgiven you. Never hurt you a bit. Have I not looked after you with unlimited love? Why? Why? I already assured you about your schooling. Then? why? You could have told me what you wanted!”

 When I heard on the phone about Madhubabu’s suicide, I happened to be in the company of my learned friend Pulin Garg, a well-known psycho-analyst. I could not resist from narrating the incident to Pulin. I wanted to know the reason why Madhubabu committed suicide in spite of such a tolerant and exceptionally loving father. He was the ideal parent! Every parent wishes to be like that: loving, giving, forgiving and enduring.

Pulin heard me fully and calmly. He stared hard at me.

There was a brief silence.

When he replied, I was startled by the stark brutality of the reply.

 “The damn father killed the son.”

Before I recovered, Pulin got up and left, to save me the explanation.

 That night I had a dream.

I was passing through a vast, parched field. I was alone. I came across an abandoned well. I went nearer. A voice from the well suddenly caught me unawares. The weeping ghostly voice said: “Dad, Dad, slap me, dad, slap me. I want to live, dad. Please slap me.”

I fled from there: I ran through the fields. The voice haunted me. I ran and ran. I kept running. Away and away.

…  ……  …..

 Ramanamma’s phone call today brought me back to reality.

Lady Macbeth’s guilt is one kind, Madhubabu’s another.

The Rain kept pouring incessantly.

The streets were getting flooded.

Through the threads of water, the world was looking blurred.

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