When stories die

By Shevlin Sebastian

On some evenings, when I approached Sunny Uncle’s house, on my two-wheeler, I could sense my wife sitting behind me, making a movement. When I turned to look, she was waving at Sunny Uncle.

He sat in a plastic chair on the porch of his house and waved back with a smile. Sometimes, when she waved, he did not wave back. That’s because he had nodded off. Sunny Uncle was not in the best of health. His wife had died four years before, a victim of cancer.

He lived alone, this broad-shouldered man with curly hair. Like many Keralite families, his children lived abroad with their wives and children. A maid came during the day, swept and cleaned the rooms, provided meals and left in the evening. Then her husband came to spend the night, so that Sunny Uncle would not be alone. Like most men of that generation, he found it difficult to cope without the emotional anchor of his wife.

Over 60 years ago, like many Malayalis, Sunny Uncle travelled to Kolkata to seek his fortune. Once, he told me that my father had helped him at the beginning. He would never forget that. Alone, in a strange city, a stranger reached out to befriend him. Anyone who moved to a new city knew that at that moment, you were searching for companionship, preferably from your home state.

Who could have imagined that decades later, they would build houses less than 500 metres from each other in Kerala? Both had done well. In the end, Sunny Uncle had to spend his time alone. In the earlier years, Sunny Uncle would head out for a morning walk. I would see him from my first-floor veranda. If he looked up, I waved. Otherwise, I would let him be with his thoughts. Then the walks stopped. And he remained house-bound.

A couple of months ago, Sunny Uncle was not on the porch. There were several people in front of and inside the house. Then we got the news that Sunny Uncle had passed away. He had spent a few days in the hospital because of heart ailments. Then his heart stopped beating.

He was 86.

On the morning of the funeral, I stepped into the house. Sunny Uncle was lying on a flower-bedecked table. He did not look sad or happy. Maybe he was happy to leave the planet. Sunny Uncle may have felt the time had come. And he was ready.

I don’t know Sunny Uncle’s children, as I have never interacted with them.

Today, the house is shuttered. But the chair remains on the porch. It looks forlorn without its occupant. My wife feels distressed when she sees that. Being reminded of death isn’t always pleasant.

Sunny Uncle’s children have re-entered their lives abroad. They may come later and dispose of the building. Their father lies six feet below, his coffin surrounded by mud.

But what we rarely reflect upon when a person dies is the hundreds of stories, from his life’s experiences, that have vanished into the ether.

When you grow old, you move from the centre to the periphery of the family. You can see this at family gatherings. The older generation sits to one side, next to each other, watching the proceedings. Meanwhile, the youngsters dominate the conversation and are the centre of attention. And they tell their stories animatedly.

They are not interested in the stories of the elders. And they don’t care. The youngsters have money, power, and jobs. They don’t need to show any deference to the old. The subtle message is goodbye, old man, it’s finito. Head to the shadows, uncle. We love you, but you had your time in the sun. Now it’s our turn.

This is a loss for the younger generations. The elderly have fascinating stories to tell. The young could learn valuable life lessons from them.

The other day, I met CV Anthony, 75, a retired contractor, who lives in our area. Every morning, for the past 10 years, the grey-haired man has been feeding stray dogs at dawn. And, as we started chatting, he told me a lot about the psychology of dogs. When they see you once, they will not bark again. Anthony said they had an excellent memory.

When asked why dogs attack people a lot these days, in Kochi, he said it was because of starvation. Anthony said that, in the olden days, people would place leftover food outside the gate. The dogs would come and eat it. Now they put the excess food inside a packet, make a knot at the top and throw it away. As a result, the dogs cannot access it.

He also said that if a dog growled at you, it was wise to stand your ground and make a clicking sound with your mouth. The dog will relax immediately. Anthony said dogs respond to the tone of voice. If you talk roughly, they will get aggressive.

Anthony is brimming with stories. He told me the economy is in such terrible shape that many poor people cannot feed the dogs. In urban areas, it is the poor who care for dogs, not the middle class or the rich, he said.

This conversation proved enlightening for me.

A few days later, I stumbled on to another story.

Annamma (name changed), a lady in her mid-sixties, lived in our area. She asked whether she could go with us in the car, to attend a wedding reception for the son of a former neighbour. The event was taking place 30 kms from the city.

So, when we were travelling, my wife asked about her daughter. For the next hour, Annamma spoke nonstop about her daughter. At age six, she contracted meningitis, and became paralysed, but her brain was intact. She could not speak, but could hear.

Annamma had been looking after her daughter for the past 28 years. She said that she always picked up her daughter from the bed to place her in the chair. But many years later, as her daughter grew and became a woman, Annamma experienced severe pain in her arms. She sought treatment, but the pain persisted. Now, her son who lives abroad, has sent a manual pulley. Annamma can lift her daughter using this system.

You can imagine the mental strain of looking after somebody 24 hours a day for several years. Annamma told us many stories about her daughter. Whenever Annamma stepped out, she would have to come back and talk to her daughter about all her experiences.

As for Annamma, it was clear she never told her story to anybody outside of her family. And there was a feeling of catharsis in her. She had all these intense stories bubbling inside her mind, but nobody was there to hear them. Now, finally, there was a group of people who were interested.

We were glad we could hear it.

Finally, Annamma turned to my mother, who was sitting near her and said, “Amma, you have not spoken.”

My mother, a dazed look on her face, said, “I was listening to you.”

On another occasion, during a family get-together, I met a distant relative who works in a bank. When I asked which section he worked in, he said it was in the loan default section. “That would be interesting,” I said.

He nodded and told me a story.

A resort near Kottayam had taken a loan. The owners kept defaulting on payments, even though the company was doing well. There were guards outside the resort. They prevented bank officers from entering the property to submit the repossession letter.

One day, an ambulance, with sirens blaring, approached the gate of the property. The driver told the guards that he had received an emergency call. So the guards opened the gate. A few bank officers, as well as private guards, were inside the ambulance. They entered and captured the property.

The owners immediately agreed to a compromise. They cleared the dues. It appeared they had the money but were investing it in the business. So, using an ingenious method, the bank settled an outstanding loan.

So, friends, this is what I learned. When you meet anybody, be it a friend or stranger, we should look to ‘hear’ stories rather than tell ours. That will make the encounter far more enriching. You will be able to avoid the tittle-tattle that we usually do at get-togethers.