Apumaan

Apumaan was unique.

Not for his looks though. If you walk on any road in Kerala, you will see a hundred like him: he was an elderly, small fellow, thin and dark, with teeth that precariously dangled from their perch, a shiny pate protected from the sun by the ubiquitous umbrella and a handwoven mundu that defined his Malu identity.
Not for the work that he did, for he did nothing in particular.
Not even for his intellect, for after many attempts at law, he came to the robust conclusion that the examiners had hatched a collective conspiracy to suppress natural talent.

Three decades after he passed away, Apumaan remains in my memory for his unique, unsurpassed ability as a story teller.

Every year, when my family made the annual trip to Kerala from Assam, my only question would be to know when Apumaan would visit – for I had waited a year for the hour. On an evening, around dusk, he would duly shuffle in, just as we had finished our baths, a crooked smile playing around the corners, a tooth or two at a rakish angle for sheer effect. Apumaan’s entry was always dramatic in its own way. He was the only one who could call my grandmother – his cousin – ‘Mayi’; taking a chair he would rag her with outstanding good-natured ribbing, while the rest of the joint family giggled by the side. My grandmother had a wonderful sense of humour as well and, as I write this, I can see her bobbing up and down in her chair, the loose skin on her hands swaying under the weight of her laughter. Yet this adult talk was but the prelude, the overture, to something more. Turning to me, Apumaan would then say, “so, since your coming here, have you seen Gudugudu Panda walking about outside?” The children would now bunch up together, their small figures erect, eyes as large as saucers, mouths ajar, for it was a name that evoked trepidation, mystery and the horror of the omnipresent evil one. No, we would say, in unison.

“Well, I just met him,” Apumaan would continue merrily, “ and he had the little drum in his hand as always, the one that goes gudugudu-gudugudu and he was asking about all of you. (Involuntary shivers from the audience). I told him that there was a little boy who had just come from Assam,……” as I cringed, he would add “… but I also told him there was nothing much for him here. Did you know what this cunning fellow did the other day?”

…and the story would begin and go on for a long, long time, each moment challenging our imagination and moving us from mirth to fascination to consternation and then back again. As he spoke of the evil fellow's wrongdoing, his face would darken up, the pitch would lower to a whisper (for Gudugudu Panda was outside listening in) and the eyes would narrow. And, as he regaled us with how this same fellow had slipped and fallen in the banana patch of the farm, there would be the crooked smile at the corner of his mouth and a twinkle in the eye. The twinkle, yes, that described Apumaan best.

All of us children would sit transfixed, bewitched by the story and the story teller, while the rest of the family sat at a distance and marvelled at his ability. When the performance was over, the tea sipped, a last little dig taken at Mayi, Apumaan would look at us once with a serious eye, “When I meet Him on my way out, what shall I say?” and then carefully listen to all our answers and messages. He would then shuffle off into the darkness, with his torch and his umbrella, a lonely (and heroic) figure.

Could anyone have asked for more ?