UNDERWATER GRAVEYARD

UNDERWATER GRAVEYARD




July of 1974, recorded the highest rainfall in Kerala in more than a decade. The elders had dubbed it as the kind of rain when even crows would not be able to keep their eyes open. It was that kind of a monsoon that came down from the skies.
Three brothers came down to Tellicherry from the nearby town of Mangalore to attend their cousin’s wedding. The youngest was seventeen, already six footer, a student of electronic engineering. The middle one, a year older, shy and diffident, interested in Kalaripayattu and body building, was studying for a Commerce degree. The eldest, twenty three at the time, had graduated in Medicine and eagerly awaited one year of Internship that would give him an MBBS degree.

The boys returned to their brother-in-law’s place as soon as the wedding ceremony got over. They had a good look at the swimming pool behind the house, invitingly brimming with water.

The younger ones called out to the eldest, Etta, come, we will bathe at the pool. The eldest one cringed and replied, I will take my usual hot water bath. The youngest stripped to his briefs. The middle one sat on the topmost step which lay submerged in water.

The youngest, not much of a swimmer, dived into the pool and the next minute, the others were greeted by hoarse cries of his drowning. The middle one sitting on the steps jumped in without a second thought, still dressed to the hilt. Within the next split second, their cries rose to a crescendo. The eldest one who stood lazily in the bathroom ran out towards the pool. Dozens of hands held him as he tried to escape those arms and dive into the pool from which the last cries of the twosome could be heard over the bubbling water. He had no clue as to the dynamics of swimming. The two brothers went down the pool, in a tight embrace.

News reached the venue of the wedding. The mother of the three boys was brought back in a taxi. Alighting from it, she frantically screamed – which one – tell me please – which one of my boys – please tell me. The crowd stood around in silence. They could not have told her.

On the verandah, two bodies were laid out. The eldest one sat next to them. He could not cry. Within a year he became Dr. Santosh.

Twenty five kilometers away, I stood at the steps of my ancestral house listening to the horrendous tragedy from every manner of people passing by. On 11th July 1974, people had nothing else to talk about for days on end. At the time I did not know Santosh, but their family was well known. We had only recently from Delhi, where we had our schooling.

Santosh told me years later, after we got married, that no tears would come from his eyes. I said, I know what you must have felt. I too could not cry when my brother’s plane crashed right in front of my eyes. His mother gave up non vegetarian food, new clothes, and her very attractive smile, never wore silk saris again, was on anti depressants till the time she died of Alzheimer ’s disease. Santosh never got to enjoy those carefree days internship, the only time a medico could enjoy. His father became a mere shadow of his former self. The parents smothered him with possessive live all their lives. Santosh, already shy and introverted, became more so. He would stare at the clock for long and wonder why time dragged. When the gong sounded, he would rush to give a shot of tranquilizer to his mother, keeping vigil even at night.

To escape the tedium, he must have given himself a strong shot of morphine.

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