The Elixir

By Sreekumar Ezhuththaani

He hadn’t travelled to this part of the country. He didn’t even care such places existed. He had to book a taxi, board two buses and catch a train, all in a day. He found the taxi driver disagreeable, and the co-passengers in the bus loud and dirty. The train was fine. An old man going returning from one pilgrimage and going on another was a great solace. He used to know all about how to be on a train.

Maheshwar heaved a sigh. What if he was not lucky enough to have had such a companion? How could he foresee where to get water and where to get water to drink and where to buy food?

Maheshwar would not have gone on such a long and hazardous journey had it not been for his wife. His love for her was not much but her headache had become too severe for her to give him any peace of mind. They had consulted several specialists and surprisingly it was one of them who told Maheshwar to try a tribal cure. The tribals living in the Western Ghats had strange elixirs for a few chronic illnesses and this kind of headache was one of them. And here he was. He got off the bus at a desolate place that he thought was at the foot of the hill at the top of which the Adivasi Mooppan, the tribal chief lived. He was believed to be more than a century and a half old. When many people half his age could no longer see or hear, this medicine man had no such issues. If all had he heard were true, his wife's headache, which was his headache too, could be cured forever.

Maheshwar was shocked to find that he was nowhere near the foot of the hill where the medicine man lived. There was no way he could reach there and return that day. He had to find a place to stay and continue his journey the next day. Find a place to stay in a village like this. Nobody seemed to have a place of their own there. What people called their homesteads were not even eligible to be called huts. He was not surprised or notably thankful when almost everyone in that village offered their place for him to stay. There was nothing much in the offering anyway. But that was not the case with the food they brought to him when he finally told them he would sleep in the open, under a banyan tree outside their tiny temple. He had never had anything so tasty. When one is hungry, anything tastes great, he remembered.

He was unceremoniously woken up the next day by a dog whose place he had usurped the previous night. However, he was ceremoniously greeted by two people each of whom had brought him a cup of tea. The super strong tea was mostly thick milk. They said the tea was homemade. He thought of buying some on his way back. He told them he was sorry he could not accept their invitation to breakfast. He wanted to start before sunrise. They showed him a mud road that disappeared into the morning mist.

He said bye to them and took the muddy path. He took a stick with him just in case something wild stood in his way. He was still tired and using the stick to support him made him look pretty old. As he hurried down the path, he could hear the villagers laughing out loud. Why were they laughing while saying bye to him? How mean! Was that the right path? Was it possible that they would play such a prank on him? For all these reasons, he felt when they left him alone. He enjoyed his solitude. He was one with nature now. He sensed the blood of some wild animal streaming in his veins. He felt so relieved. He could be what he really was. He thought he was the wild animal that might impede the path of another animal now. He threw the stick away and flailed the mist with his arms. He dropped all his inhibitions and engaged in fist fights with the low branches of trees and kicked with his boots every stone as big as his foot, like a coach passing the ball to his players.

He met five people at different spots along his way. They all assured him he was on the right path. Could he trust them? What if this was a trick the villages play to anyone who intruded into their life, just for fun? four to validate the information given by the first was sheer stupidity. If one could cheat, all of them could cheat him. Still, he hoped for more people to get their assurance too.

By noon he reached the top of the hill. He looked down the steep cliff on the other side. Trying as much as he did, he could not recall the name of the madman who rolled a stone up a hill to let it go down the other side. The face of one of his old colleagues who used to carry a heavy load of files from the office shelf in the morning only to carry them back to the shelf in the evening without checking even a sheet in them came to his mind. His name was Narayanan. Where could be that drunkard now?

He felt a jolt as a frail hand fell on his shoulder. He suddenly turned around and saw a weak old man, in tattered clothes facing him. He looked exactly like the picture of the madman rolling the stone uphill in the comic book he had read as a child. Could this be the real Madman of Naraanathth? He was amused to see how the name came to him when he was in the least trying to recall it.

"Are you mad to stand here carelessly on this cliff?" asked the old man with an air of authority that one could least expect from such a figure.

“I am sure I am insane. Not because I stood here carelessly on this cliff. But because I climbed this hill in search of a medicine man. No one seems to be living here. Are you from around here? Do you know such a medicine man?”

“I know who you are talking about. But I don’t know him personally. If you are here looking for a herb, maybe I can help you.”

“Forget it, I am going back. It was a waste of my time. I don’t want to waste your time too.”

“Remember, you can’t go back without the herb you have come here to collect. Your patient will be mad at you. And else is time for, unless it is to waste. Come on tell me. Is it backache or tummy ache or cramps?”

“None of them. It is my wife. She has a really bad chronic headache. I heard that there is an elixir here, some herb known only to the Moop- pan here.”

“So, sorry to hear that. I am the only Adivasi Mooppan here. There was such a herb.

Very hard to find nowadays. I used to collect and distribute it. Now I don’t do it anymore. I don’t even mention it now. You will have to go back empty-handed.”

Instead of feeling sad, Maheshwar felt that he was much relieved now. He had kept his word to his wife. He had travelled for a day and a half. It is her bad luck. What else?

“Sorry. But you look very tired. Come to my hut, it is a few steps down the hill. Have some food and drink and then you can roll down the hill.” The old man laughed out loud. Hut? Maheshwar was sure he had seen no hut on his way up. But as they walked down the hill by another path, he spied a small hut. This was not the way he went up. Even if this was the way, the hut was so much in sync with the wilderness, one could easily miss it.

The food and drink the old man offered was nothing less than a feast. He wanted to give something to the old man but there was no way the old man was going to take something from him. Proudly the old man told him, “The rich should not take from the poor.” Maheshwas chose to ignore that comment.

In every other way, the old man was very nice to him. He told Maheshwar that he had made arrangements for his stay down in the village. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” said the old man.

“And even though I didn’t accept your money, thank you for offering it. From the way you offered it, I think you are not used to such things. It is a start. Try not to take that money home. I don’t take any money home since it gives me a headache if I do.” Again the old man laughed for no reason.

Maheshwar didn't want to stay on that hill any longer. He feared the old man might push him down the hill to see him roll all the way down. Exactly then as if he had read Maheshwar's mind the old man said to Maheshwar, "Have no fear."

Maheshwar walked down the hill down the mud road rather slowly. He had decided to throw the money into any waterbody he saw on the way. He didn’t want to take it home. What if it is evil like the old man said? He didn’t want to take the risk. He wandered into the forest at several places looking for a pond or a rivulet. He could find none. He saw all the people he had met on his way up. They all smiled at him knowingly. There was no need to hurry. No matter when he reached the village, he would have to spend the night there. When he finally reached the village, he found that the old man was as good as his word. Everything was taken care of. The village people had decorated a hut with palm leaves and oil lamps to make it look like a temple. All of them looked so happy and peaceful like the old man on top of the hill. He purposely avoided mentioning the fool’s errand he had. He was sure it would make them sad. Why should it make them sad? He was a total stranger to them, just a wayfarer. He remembered the stories he had heard as a child, stories about how people used to be kind and nice to lost travellers and wayfarers. In his mother’s home, there was a huge earthen pot which was used to be filled with water and placed outside the gate for pedestrians to drink from. Later it was replaced by a street pipe. It broke and was never fixed. He made it a point to get it fixed on his next visit.

The next morning he woke up late and rushed through his morn- ing routine. He was buttoning his shirt when he heard the bus honking. He rushed out without buttoning his shirt properly. The villagers had stopped the bus for him. Seeing how he was wearing his shirt, they all laughed. They laugh at anything he noticed. He boarded the bus and said a hurried goodbye to the villagers. They laughed again. As the bus moved he realized that he had not left his address with them. He had written it down but was still holding the paper. He rolled it and threw it at the villagers. Some boys ran after it as it flew up and down in the draught made by the moving bus. Then the conductor lugged a bundle toward his seat. A gift of fruits from the villagers. He picked a few halfripe ones and gave over the rest of it to all the passengers. Travel light, he told himself. But he doubted whether that was why he gave away the fruits. He suddenly remembered the money he was supposed to part with before he went home.

Like Kuchela back in his home, he found that his house looked different. Like the hut he had slept in the previous night, all the lamps were lit and his wife was right in the courtyard, with no trace of a headache. Seeing him, she laughed like the villagers laughed when he said bye to them. She had not laughed like this for ages. It was not his birthday, he was sure. It was not their wedding anniversary, he was damn sure.

“Happy Birthday!” greeted his wife.

“Whose?”

“Why! Yours! Where is the sweet?”

“I had no money.”

“Sure you had enough when you left home.”

“Yes, but I gave it away. I had to. I was supposed to.” He could not express it properly.

“How is your migraine now?” he managed to ask.

“I gave it away, I had to, I was supposed to,” she mimicked him and laughed at her own performance. ****************************

Two years later, one morning, three young men from that remote village came looking for Maheshwar. They had brought a bundle of herbs. He thanked them and told them he didn’t need them anymore. He and his wife had breakfast with them. His wife offered them some money but they did not take it.

“The rich should not take from the poor” Maheshwar told them.

His wife was puzzled, but the young men smiled.

Maheshwar told them they could sell the bundle of herbs at a shop.

“No, we were told to throw it in the waste bin if you don’t need it.”

For no obvious reason, Maheshwar started laughing