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Professor T V Eachara Varier (retired),
Kerala, India
Footnote:
This is the first and second chapters of Memories of a father, by
Professor T V Eachara Varier (Asian Human Rights Commission—Hong Kong &
Jananeethi--Kerala, 2004), entitled ‘A plantain leaf and a bowl of rice kept
waiting’ and ‘The burden that the mother entrusted’. Copies of the book can be
obtained by contacting the Asian Human Rights Commission (AHRC) via books@ahrchk.org, or writing to ‘Books’,
AHRC, 19th Floor, Go-Up Commercial Building, 998 Canton Road, Mongkok, Kowloon,
Hong Kong, China. A PDF version of the book is also available online, via the
AHRC website, http://www.ahrchk.net.
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“Please
give this to our son Rajan. I trust only you.”
She
didn’t utter a word after that. Cold death had already touched
her.
The
next day after her death, I had a nap on the couch. The weight of that packet of
coins, which she entrusted to me, was still in my hands.
March 10, 1976, Manmohan Palace at
Trivandrum was quiet. The atmosphere of the Emergency even lay upon that
historical building, the residence of the State Home Minister, but there were no
khaki-clad men around.
We were not made to wait long to enter
the room of Mr. K. Karunakaran, the State Home Minister. It was one of the last
doors I was knocking at. I was at the residence of Mr. Karunakaran in search of
my son, who had been taken by the police from the front yard of the Calicut
Regional Engineering College hostel. There were two others with me: Surendran,
one of my former students, and his friend, a professor from Vennala, Ernakulam.
This professor was a close friend of Mr. Karunakaran.
Surendran and I had started early from
Calicut and reached Ernakulam before dawn the next morning. We spent the rest of
the time at Ernakulam North railway station, on a cement bench, fighting the
mosquitoes and the chilly wind, waiting for light. I was burning inside. There
at Ernakulam, some three to four kilometers away, my son’s mother and his
sisters were still asleep in our house, ignorant of what all are happening.
When the day dawned, we reached the
professor’s house at Vennala and told him of my problems. He immediately came
along with us. He too seemed to be worried about my son Rajan’s disappearance.
He was so close to Mr. Karunakaran that he had access to even the inner rooms of
the Minister’s house. Mr. Karunakaran’s wife, Mrs. Kallianikutty Amma, was also
close to him. When we reached Trivandrum, the professor went straight to the
residence of Mr. Karunakaran and arranged an appointment.
Mr. Karunakaran greeted us with a broad
smile, but as he saw me did that smile fade a little? Foolish thoughts, I
consoled myself.
He hugged me. “Why didn’t you tell me
all this earlier? I would have taken care of it then and there,” he said. A hope
flashed in my mind.
“This name Rajan seems to be familiar to
me. He seems to have got into some serious trouble,” he continued.
I folded my hands in respect. I was
unsteady with an unknown emotion.
“No, he is not capable of doing things
like that. When the extremists attacked the police station at Kayanna (near
Calicut) he was participating in the youth festival at Farooke College. He was
the Arts Club Secretary at the Engineering College he studied,” I said.
Karunakaran touched my shoulders. His
voice was very soft. “I will enquire and let you know. I will do whatever I can.
That’s the relationship we have, isn’t it?”
I paid respect to him once more with
folded hands. My eyes were blurred in the sun at the front yard of Manmohan
Palace. Was that fading too, the last island of hope?
_____________________________
It was on February 26, 1976 that I last
met my son Rajan. He was then a final year student of the Chathamangalam
Regional Engineering College, 13 kilometers away from Calicut. I was a professor
at the Hindi department of the Government Arts and Science College at Calicut. I
was staying in Kerala Bhavan Lodge, just opposite to the General Hospital near
Muthalakkulam. Rajan used to come there often to meet me. He last came for some
money. I met him in my room on February 26. I asked him to come home during the
vacation. He nodded yes.
I was born at the Thiruvullakkavu
Varriam at Cherpu, in Trichur District. After partition of the ancestral
property I left that home, moved to Ernakulam, and built a house in Parambithara
road. We named the house ‘Sauhrida Nilayam’ [‘house of friendship’]. I was
living there with my wife and three children, my sister, Kochammini Varasyar,
and her husband, Mr. Achutha Varier. He was my wife Radha’s brother. He worked
with the Railways.
On March 1, 1976, when I reached my
college as usual, I came to know that the police had taken my son into custody.
One of Rajan’s friends, Mr. Karmachandran, informed the college authorities of
this by telephone. It was 10am. With the permission of the principal, I rushed
to Chathamangalam.
The premises of the Engineering College
were as quiet as a cemetery. Rajan had been arrested on the morning of February
29. He was coming out of the college bus in the front yard of the Engineering
College, after returning from the youth festival at Farooke College. The police
were waiting for him. According to the information then available, he was first
taken to Calicut and then to Kakkayam Camp, a police camp established to
investigate the attack on Kayanna police station. Many people told me that no
purpose would be served by going to the Kakkayam camp. But I
went.
The camp at Kakkayam was established at
the asbestos-roofed building of the State Electricity Board. There was a pond in
front of the camp. Access was through a temporary wooden bridge, guarded by a
police sentry with a rifle. I spoke to him. He was very serious, but didn’t
utter a single indecent word to me. He went into the camp, and came back to tell
me that I would not be permitted inside. He told me that my son Rajan was
inside, and was well. My emotion cooled a little, but I told him, “I just want
to meet my son.” He was standing in my front like a mountain.
I felt so lonely that I shouted out. I
shouted loudly.
“I can do nothing,” He replied. Then his
face darkened.
“Then allow me to meet Mr. Jayaram
Padikkal at least,” I was adamant. Mr. Jayaram Padikkal was the camp ‘monarch’,
and a Deputy Inspector General of the crime branch.
My childlike adamancy echoed back from
the watery surface of that pond. I stood still in front of that guard. His
upright rifle wavered sometimes to the sides. He tried not to listen, or care
for me.
Waiting alone there a sob got trapped in
my throat. I felt, as though I heard a cry calling me, “Oh, father…” from
somewhere through the walls of the detention room of the camp.
I felt tired and started walking back.
Once more I turned back to look at the camp. The policeman was there still
staring at me. When he saw me looking at him he turned his eyes to the nearby
hills.
_____________________________
After the meeting with Mr. Karunakaran,
a reporter of the Mathrubhoomi daily called Mr. Sadirikkoya telephoned me. He
was one of the dear disciples of Mr. Karunakaran. I had met him three times to
find out the details of my son. “I am at it” was the only reply I got. But this
time he gave me a very different version of things. He told me that Rajan had
escaped from custody while being taken to an extremist’s secret
den.
I asked him as to where he got this
information.
“From reliable sources,” was the reply.
The source, I knew, was Mr. Karunakaran himself. Mr. Sadirikkoya’s revelation
gave me some hope. It brought along with it black clouds of anxieties too. I
continued the search.
The principal of the Engineering
College, Professor Vahabudeen, had visited the police camp at Kakkayam together
with another professor. Mr. Jayaram Padikkal’s behaviour was very rude with
these loving teachers. The students in custody peeped through the windows to see
their principal. Rajan was not among them.
I steadfastly believed that Rajan would
come back. I always asked my wife to keep apart a bowl of rice and a plantain
leaf for him. He may step in any time. He may be hungry. There should be rice
ready at home for him. Yes, he will come back. Sure he
will…
At night when the dogs barked and made
noise for no reason, I woke up and waited at the doorstep… waiting for a call of
“father”. Keeping the door open, I went back and fell tired into the bed. A sob,
“Oh my little child”, got choked in my throat. But I shouldn’t cry. I shouldn’t
allow even a teardrop to roll down my eyes, for there was his mother, Radha,
ignorant of all this…
_____________________________
People used to ask me whether my wife
became mentally ill after Rajan’s tragedy. Actually, she had started showing
signs of illness fifteen months after the birth of our first daughter. She
recovered with a course of electrotherapy. She had to be treated seven times.
Later, when she was pregnant for the third time, she again started showing signs
of mental ailment, but doctors told us that since she was pregnant she could not
be subjected to treatment. So we resorted to Ayurvedic medicine, and she got
better. After the delivery we resumed allopathic treatment, but it was useless.
“She has become shock proof,” said the doctor. Still we continued the
treatment.
She was not aware of Rajan’s tragedy.
Whenever I came to Ernakulam from Calicut she used to ask for Rajan. I told her
lie after lie. It made her uncomfortable. She started loosing faith in me, and
behaving oddly with her loved ones.
Of our three children, she was closest
to Rajan. One of the reasons, I thought, was that Rajan could sing well, as
could she. Whenever Rajan came back from college, he used to sing for her and
she enjoyed that. He used to sing only when his mother demanded. On holidays
they used to have concerts till midnight. She always took care to get ready with
new songs for Rajan. That Rajan was our only son was also a reason for her to be
more loving to him.
Rajan’s continued absence troubled her,
and I had to suffer as a result. She expected Rajan to be with me whenever I
came from Calicut, and anxiously awaited him. When she knew that Rajan was not
with me a colour of disappointment would spread over her face. The depth and
darkness of distress on her face went on increasing. She stopped talking to
others, and went into a world of silence. Sometimes she accused me of not loving
Rajan. She confided to relatives and friends that this was the reason I was not
bringing Rajan along when I came. She murmured in secret that I never loved her
or Rajan.
Meanwhile, many of Rajan’s friends got
married. One day when I reached Ernakulam she asked me, “All of Rajan’s friends
have got married. Are you not a father too? Are you not worried that he is yet
to get married?” “Oh, our son is dead,” I felt like telling her then. The
sentence got choked in my throat. At that moment I felt vengeance against her
and the world. Regaining the balance of my thoughts, I would say, “I am trying
to find a suitable girl for Rajan. But it’s not that easy, you know?” Her
response used to be a lone empty stare of disbelief.
Whenever Rajan’s friends came, she used
to ask for Rajan. Unable to face her, they stopped coming to see her. Whenever I
came to Ernakulam, she used to ask for money, but just ten rupees. Then she
bought biscuits for Rajan, and kept them safe. Only when the biscuits got rotten
did she give them to other children, who used to throw them away without her
seeing.
She also kept small coins safe in a box,
which she hated others opening. She had no more faith in anyone.
I kept Rajan’s disappearance a secret
from my family for forty days. Whenever I went to meet Mr. Karunakaran I avoided
them on my return.
On March 3, 2000, Rajan’s mother left me
forever. A week earlier I had been to see her. As I bid farewell, she held my
hands, still lying on the bed. There was a painful request in her eyes, “Will
you bring Rajan along when you come next time?” I couldn’t look at her face. The
guilt of telling her lie after lie had haunted me for years. Five days later I
went to her again. Death was playing hide and seek somewhere near her, but she
remembered everything.
She called me, “Will you do one thing
for me?”
“Sure,” I answered.
She gave a small packet of coins to me.
Those were the coins she saved in that box.
Posted on 2004-07-05
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