Vasanth’s childhood bedroom tells me his many secrets
At Vasanth’s bookshelf in Thamaraikulam, one can find copies of books I would never imagine him reading today. There is Chaucer’s The Prologue, Jesus’s Holy Bible, Science’s JEE entrance test papers and some odd proverb collections.
The rest of this rectangle shaped room of his childhood is sparse yet full of small articles from his past that he often refers to with some form of bitter sweet remembrance. “That bull sticker on the mirror you see there.. that’s mine. I stuck it there ages ago. I can’t believe it is still there,” he says.
Vasanth has spent the whole of last week in his village after nearly 15 years. Now that he is here, he has parked himself a number of times in his room on the first floor- the terrace area or the ‘thattu’. He now seems to have had the time to notice these small things he unfortunately could not do before. His other trips to Thamaraikulam have usually been short. A maximum of 4 days complete with visits from several other people.
This week though, he has taken time to mourn his aachi who he dearly loved. He has also been determined to saunter about about doing nothing except occasionally reading his book on V P Singh. Nothing special has happened. Just some short walks, elaborate lunches, moist eyes occasionally when encountering grief and feelings without words.
The feeling and words he chooses to verbalise, usually manifests in the form of discussions with his father about local political leaders and their role in the Tamil Nadu of today; with his mother about local family leaders and their role in general destruction of peace; and with me about this fairly quiet childhood and adolescence that he now has time to discuss. I hence get to see more vulnerable versions of this already sensitive and kind man who says just enough but never much.
When he doesn’t say anything and stares into his dream world, I choose to engage in some voyeurism.
In his room, I see Vasanth’s first ever group photo from his days working at Infosys. The photo has been laminated, framed and placed by his bed side but has somehow still grown dusty with time. It is old enough to see an occasional brown spot but important enough to still be retained on the shelf. It reminds Vasanth’s parents of a time when they were probably the most proud of him. A job at an MNC with an onsite project in another country.
There are two beds- a steel and a wooden one- that have been with the family for years. The wood has no shine anymore. It instead takes on the prideful coat of overuse. The steel one seems relatively new though. Functioning optimally with just the right height and space to accommodate two people who like to hug before sleeping and distance immediate after.
The windowsill has a bottle of coconut oil. This is present in every single bedroom of the house. Aunty thinks he has lost a lot of his hair after he stopped using coconut oil when he was working in Australia. Some gel ruined her son’s once stunning hairline.
The windows are covered with large nets which we think helps keeping lizards at bay but not the mosquitoes. The number of reptiles inhabiting the thattu have reduced, says Vasanth. He has had several unpleasant memories of having to throw away bodies of squelched lizards that were unfortunately in the way of one too many opening or closing doors.
Through these windows, one can hear and sometimes see everything that happens in the next street. During our stay here, we hear wails and whispers regarding a neighbour who died after drinking rat poison. Her daughter cries loudly “Nee asa pattu valatha magane unna konnutane ma,” (the son you brought up with so much love has himself killed you). At home though, we hear more theatrical versions of this death through hushed voices. The truth, no one really knows.
But enough of this.
Through these windows, Vasanth’s neighbours have been subjected to his long and lovely shower concerts. Aunty says that when they were in school, Vasanth and his sister Nila would fight everyday. “Vasanth will take his own sweet time in the bathroom, singing Raja songs. Nila will bang the door as she would not want to be late to school, annoyed about the music. Vasanth would be unfazed. Our neighbours have complimented him many times for these kutcheris. ‘Supera padariye maka’, they’ve told him,” she recounts with loud guffaws.
There could have been a time when the room might have gotten the opportunity to house their family’s first computer. Vasanth was very excited about the prospect. Imagine, he could have been able to chat, browse, play minesweeper and even watch some NSFW content at ease with a new internet connection. However, uncle veto-ed the decision as he feared that the rains might somehow ruin the wiring someday. That call was right.
Today, the curtain rod in the room holds drying jettis as it is raining. The terrace which is right outside the room is flanked by an ever blooming mango tree, a portion of a roof from next door, a view of the other houses of neighbours and a usually cloudy Kanniyakumari sky. The floor is red everywhere and there’s clothes strewn around when we come for our visits. Everything stays as is when we leave.
Actually, no. It is far cleaner. Sometimes, there’s a fresh coat of paint, a new pipe in the bathroom. There is always new sheets but the rest remains.
Vasanth wonders aloud what his relationship will be with Thamaraikulam and his house when everyone he knows and loves, leave. He gets flashes of old friends and nearby tenants. He knows everyone but also, doesn’t.
What will his relationship to Thamaraikulam be? What of his bookshelf a macaw poster saying ‘Made for each other’? And what of the bull? What of the mango and the neem and the nellika trees in the thattu?
In Thamaraikulam, where nothing is a secret and nothing really changes, Vasanth preserves pockets of himself in his silence. His room tells us the rest of his story.
