'The comic does not explain why he died, Ousep.'

'I know that now.'

'What you must search for is what I have told you before. Why Unni did not leave a note behind for me. That is what you must chase.'

'But what does that mean? If Unni did not explain his death to you, what does that mean, Mariammo?'

'It's obvious. I thought you would know. I thought you understood.'

'No, I don't understand,' Ousep says.

'Unni thought I would come to know why he chose to die.'

'But you don't?'

'I don't. You go and find out what it is that my child thought I am supposed to know.'

She digs into her coir bag and takes out sheets of paper that have been stapled together. Ousep can see Unni's extravagant handwriting on the pages. She hands them to him. 'This is the story Unni wrote about his journey,' she says. 'This is the story of the comic. This is exactly what he told me when he returned from Kerala.'

The story that Ousep holds in his hands is not the clue he thought it was. But his hands are not steady as he begins to read the account of Unni Chacko, who is on his way to confront a man he has never met before. The story of a seventeen-year-old boy who is about to meet a man who had molested his mother many years ago, when he was young and she was just a girl. A man called Philipose.

How To Name It BY UNNI CHACKO.

Philipose, Philipose.

I have heard your name many times. I have heard your name from the time I was a child. I have heard it from my mother. This is what my mother says, 'Philipose, you got away, Philipose.' You know my mother. I hope you are human enough to remember her.

For most of my life I did not know who you were. I thought you must be just another relative. But now I know who you are. I am coming to get you, Philipose. Finally, I am coming to get you.

I know the name of your village, I know your family name, I know your house name. I will find you. I know you are still in your village because my mother says men like you never leave. You have your land, a hill full of rubber trees that you got in dowry, and you are semi-literate. There is no respect for you outside your land, Philipose. In the big world outside your village, men like you have no respect, so you live there in your old homes all your lives, eating jackfruits and mangoes and river fish and red boiled rice.

You will see me soon. You will see me from your window, a strong athletic boy walking down the mud path to your house. You will narrow your eyes, you will get up from your armchair, and you will step out of your door and wait for me. You will ask me, 'Who are you, my boy?'

I will not tell you anything, Philipose. I will first punch you on the nose. And you will begin to see Mariamma Chacko in me. And you will run. But you won't go too far. I will hold your neck and drag you through your land and take you to the state highway outside your farm. I will beat you up until all the villagers gather around us and then I will tell them. I will tell them what you did to my mother when she was just a twelve-year-old girl. I will tell them, 'I am the son of Mariamma Chacko and I have come for justice.' I will tell them what you did.

I say this to all the men who commit such crimes. You may think you can get away, but a time will come when the girls will become mothers and they may tell their sons about what you did to them. And their sons, if they are sons like me, will come to get you, will come and beat you up and shame you in front of your own people.

I am seventeen years old, Philipose. You must be over sixty now. You are probably a strong man. I know you work in the fields with the labourers. I know you have big bones and you probably have big muscles. You may have strong sons and strong friends. But I am strong, too. You won't believe it when you see me but there is something inside me, Philipose. But it is possible that you and your sons and your village people will defeat me. There is a chance that you will hold me in your hundred arms, put me on the ground and stand with your foot on my head. But before that happens, I will have told everybody what you did three decades ago to a little girl on the banks of the white stream. I will tell all the women of your village. If you have daughters I will tell them what you did.

I am on my way. I have borrowed money from my friend for the journey. I left home without telling my mother. She would have tried to stop me because she thinks I am a child. But I am not a child. I was never a child.

I am inside Egmore station. I am waiting on the platform, in front of me is the Quilon Express. I am getting into the unreserved compartment, it is packed with men and women and children. I will sit on the floor and travel this way through the night and all of next morning. I smell piss and shit in this compartment, I smell filth. But I can sit absolutely still for many hours and when I sit that way I am not affected by anything. I am indestructible.

Many people who were sitting on the floor got off in the middle of the night and there is a place for me in the doorway. The thick iron door is fully open and I am sitting on the edge with my legs hanging in the air. The breeze is so strong that I have to turn away to breathe. I see dark forests and villages and mountains pass. The night becomes day and I see Kerala. Entire villages are rushing past me. I see green hills and wide rivers and narrow black roads. I see red roofs and there is this smell of steam. The women here, their hair is always wet. And all the men have moustaches. Do you have a moustache, Philipose? Do you feel like a man, Philipose? Like a man-man? Do you have a thick bushy moustache, which you rub fondly when you see little girls?

I have reached Kollam. I am here. From the station I call home because I know Mother will be worried. She is hysterical when she hears my voice. I tell her calmly where I am and why I am here. She screams at me. 'Those are bad men, Unni,' she says. I tell her, 'I am no saint, myself,' and I put the phone down.

I am sitting in a packed bus. We are close now, very close to each other. I am in Patazhi, Philipose. Can you believe that? The boy who was born years after your crime has arrived in your village for justice.

I am walking down the narrow roads of the village and everybody is looking at me. They can see I am a city boy. They have so much time to stare. I ask a man who is passing by, 'Where is Valolikal, the house of Philipose K. John?'

He tells me, 'Go down this road, son, and when you see the stream to your right, walk down the bank until you reach a big yellow house. That is where you want to go. But who are you?'

'I am the son of an old friend of Philipose,' I say.

I walk down the long road. People who are standing outside their homes stare at me. People who pass me by look at me as if I am a creature they want to know. They probably know my mother. Her village is not far away. Her stupid old mother still lives but I do not wish to meet her.

I must have walked over two kilometres when I see a gushing white stream. I walk down the bank and I wonder where it happened, where exactly did the crime happen. When my mother was just a little girl and she was walking along the stream. I have walked for over forty minutes by the stream but I don't see any houses here. Where are you, Philipose?

I see it now. A big yellow house on top of a small hillock at the end of the bank. What a place to live, Philipose. A forest of rubber in front and a white stream as your backyard. I walk up the steep path towards the front of the house. Do you see me, Philipose, do you see me coming? Come out, Philipose, step out right now. The door is open but there is no sign of people. I say in Malayalam, 'Is there anybody home?'

Nothing happens for nearly a minute. I wonder if I must go in. Then a middle-aged woman appears. She looks at me and goes and fetches her glasses. And she looks at me as if she needs more glasses. I say, 'Is this the house of Philipose K. John?'

She giggles. 'That's his name but nobody says it like that.'

'Where is he?'

'Who are you, son?' she says. 'Are you from the city?'

'I am the son of an old friend of your man. Can I meet him?'

'What is the name of this friend?'

'Mathew.'

'Which Mathew? The world is full of Mathews. There are more Mathews than Anthonys. I wonder why.'

'Mathew from Kottarakara.'

'I did not know he had such a friend,' she says. 'What is your name?' 'I am Unni.'

'So, Unni, son of Mathew, why is your Malayalam so terrible?'

'I was in Madras for too long.'

'And what does Unni want?'

'Are you the wife of Philipose K. John?'

I use your full name, Philipose, because I cannot bear to use any word that would grant you a hint of respect.

'Yes, I am his wife.'

'Can I meet him?'

'What business do you have with him?'

'My father used to be with the Rubber Board and he used to talk about Philipose K. John. They had some good times together. My father is dead and he told me on his deathbed that I must inform his friends of his death personally.'

'In that case, son, Philipose K. John already knows. He is in heaven with Mathew of Kottarakara. My husband died eight months ago.'

I am stunned, Philipose. What do I do now? I don't know what to say, what to do. I just stand there. I came all the way to get you but you've escaped.

Your wife asks me to come in and have a cup of tea. Your wife, she has big sagging boobs. She must wear a suspension bridge as a bra.

She takes me into the house, then into a room, then another room. I don't know where she is taking me. Finally, we enter a dark storeroom. I can see a lot of plantains hanging from the ceiling as if they have been sentenced to death. The floor is filled with jackfruits.

She says, 'I've been waiting for days for a tall young man to come by and change the bulb.' She takes out a bulb from a box and hands it to me. 'Unni, my angel, will you stand on that stool there and change the bulb for an old widow?'

I drag the stool over and stand on it and change the bulb.

'How did he die?' I ask.

'He came home one night in the rains. He had a fever. He had some tea and went to sleep. In the morning I found him dead in his bed. It was a peaceful death. That is how we must go. Peacefully, in our sleep. His face looked so serene.'

So, that's how you went, Philipose. Peacefully, in your sleep.

After what you did to my mother, that is how you went. And I am now changing the bulb in your house.

She takes me into the kitchen, she is looking carefully around the house as if she is searching for something for me to fix before I leave. Cunning old woman. She gives me tea, which has a lot of dead red ants in it. We sit at a table in the kitchen and drink tea. She talks about you with great affection.

'He was a good man, a very good man. He was a loving husband and a good father of four strong sons and two beautiful daughters who adored him. They are all in the Gulf now, everyone is in the Gulf. Who has the time these days for their mother, who has the time for an old woman?

'They make so much money, so that's all right. They want to buy me a car. My husband, too, had made a lot of money. He bought so much land, so much land. If I stand on my land I cannot see its end, Unni. Isn't that a nice way to live? He was a rich man, my husband, but he was a good man. He started eight free schools for poor girls. He funded the college education of hundreds of girls from poor families. Do you know, Unni, the state government gave him an award?'

She takes me to a shelf which is full of awards for the social work done by you, Philipose. There is one award that has a white angel standing on a wooden stand. I cannot read Malayalam, so I ask your wife what the inscription on the stand says. She tells me the award was given by the state government for 'Services To Humanity'. She shows me your framed black-and-white photographs that spread across time. I see you the way you must have looked when you attacked my mother, then I see you as you aged slowly. You look so happy and normal. You look like just another decent man. Then I see you on the wall. A giant photograph of a kind old man with a full mop of silver hair. You are smiling at me, Philipose. I know you are smiling at me.

It is time for me to go home. I hug her, I don't know why. I walk along the stream, I look around as if I am searching for a twelve-year-old girl who might be in danger. I now say what my mother always used to say: 'Philipose, you got away, Philipose.'

You lived a life filled with love, children, wealth and awards. And you died peacefully in your sleep. I was eight months late, Philipose.

When I get home, my mother slaps me hard. She has a powerful arm, so it hurts. Then she hugs me tight. 'That's a bad man, Unni, that's a very bad man. I was so scared.' Then we sit on the kitchen floor and I tell her what happened. We hold hands and we cry together.

'But at least he died, Unni, so that's all right, so that's over,' she says.

I tell her, 'Also, I squeezed his wife's boobs.'

And we laugh so hard, with tears running down our cheeks, we do not know if we are laughing or crying.

6.

Corpse.

THE MOST TENSE MOMENTS in Thoma's life are when his mother takes him to the Sacred Heart Family Store, where the enormous bare-chested shopkeeper sits on a sack of rice, eating his own jaggery. Mariamma owes him more than three thousand rupees but the parish priest has bought her time to settle the loan. The man does not like seeing her face and he usually pretends that he has not seen her. She stands patiently as he finishes with everybody else. When there is nowhere else he can look, he asks without respect, 'What do you want?' Thoma does not like anyone talking to his mother this way. Sometimes the man says, 'You people do eat a lot.' Mariamma quietly points to what she wants.

Thoma and his mother are walking back from the store, sweating in the afternoon heat, when they see the figure of Mythili Balasubramanium coming their way. Once again in his life, Thoma forgets how to walk. He is carrying two kilos of rice and his mother is holding a coconut in her hand as if it is a shot-put. He wishes he was walking alone, and wearing a tight white shirt and tight white trousers and white pointed shoes, with a Walkman strung to his ears. He hopes she does not see them, which is not an outlandish wish. Nobody ever sees them.

Mythili is walking the way she usually walks, mostly looking down at the road. She has not spotted them yet. He throws a nervous glance at his mother. If she chews her lips and wags a finger he will die on the spot in shame. But she is only looking at Mythili with a loving smile. 'Be normal,' he whispers to her. 'Be absolutely normal.'

Mythili's eyes are still on the road. The way she walks, it is a surprise she even gets anywhere. Thoma is distracted by a sudden movement behind Mythili. A man is walking fast and is gaining on her. He is in a brown shirt and a lungi. As he passes her, he slaps her back. That gives her a jolt and she looks up. She glares at the man, who now walks ahead of her as if nothing has happened. Then Mythili, too, continues to walk as if it did not happen. But Mariamma stops. She stares hard at the man, who is fast approaching them. He looks nervously at Mariamma for a moment and looks away. 'Normal,' Thoma whispers to his mother, but she is not listening. She looks steadily at the man. When he crosses them, she flings the coconut at him. It hits his head, falls on the road and rolls away. But the man walks away as if nothing has happened. It is as if he gets hit by a coconut all the time. What is this world, exactly? Thoma wonders. A man slaps a girl's arse, she walks on as if nothing has happened. Then the man gets hit by a coconut thrown by a weird woman, and he walks away without even turning back.

Thoma sees his mother kneeling on the pavement. She says, 'The coconut has rolled into the bushes.' Thoma whispers to her, 'Don't overreact. Get up, get up, she is coming.'

'The coconut, Thoma, it has gone into the bushes. He is not going to give us another coconut even if Jesus Christ asks him to.'

'Get up,' Thoma begs.

He decides to pretend that he has not seen Mythili, and when he wants to pretend that he has not seen someone he always yawns for some reason. But Mythili does not walk away. She goes up to his mother and peers into the bushes with her. 'I can see it,' she says. She puts her hand into the bushes and brings out the coconut. She looks into the eyes of his mother and gives her a smile. That has not happened in a while. As she walks away he can see she is crying.

'Why is she crying?' Thoma asks.

'She still loves me, Thoma, that's why.'

'So why is she crying?'

'That is how it is.'

In the evening, Thoma and his mother are standing on their rear balcony and watching the doctor's widow below as she waters her roses. Every woman in Block A is keeping a close watch on that lady, who has decided not to wear a white sari as widows do, nor does she have a Usha Tailoring Machine on which widows sew with a sad face. That woman is under a lot of pressure to look sad, and even when she does something as ordinary as watering the plants, the women of Block A begin to murmur about her. Some say, 'But why shouldn't she be happy?', which actually sounds like a reprimand. Mythili appears on her balcony, her hair in a white towel. Thoma has never seen her this way. She looks like a woman. She smiles at his mother, but this time her smile is cautious as if she is a stranger once again.

'I will teach him,' she tells his mother as she hangs the pleated green skirt of her school uniform to dry. 'I will teach him on Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. We can start this Saturday.' His mother and Mythili decide, without asking his opinion, that she must first teach him maths, then they discuss the exact time he must turn up.

Thoma waits nervously for Saturday. He will sit with Mythili, she will look at him and he will look at her, and they will talk. She will know, beyond any doubt, that he exists. The very thought scares him. He hopes, when he walks into her home, she will say, 'Thoma, let me see how much you know.'

'Ask me anything, Mythili.'

'What does KGB stand for?'

'Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti.'

'My God, Thoma, I can't believe you are so bright. Let me try another quiz question. It's a very difficult question. What is Pele's real name?'

'Edson Arantes do Nascimento.'

'Thoma, you are even smarter than Unni.'

In the days that follow, as he waits for Saturday to arrive, he begs his mother not to be too loud when she speaks to the walls, and he prays that his father, who has started drinking again after returning from the hospital, has another mild heart attack. But life is merciless, that is one thing Thoma knows about life. His daily humiliations continue. When his mother talks to herself in the mornings, he goes to the stairway to check whether her voice travels far enough for Mythili to hear. At night, when his father screams from the gate, he hopes she is in a deep sleep.

The good thing about school is that Mythili will never know what happens to him there. No matter how well he guards himself, no matter how innocuous his actions are, he often walks into the open arms of humiliation.

He is going down the corridor from his class towards the toilet. In front of him is Matilda Miss, a short, tight woman with no moving parts really. She is walking with quick, hurried steps, which is unusual. As he walks cautiously behind her, he spots something she is leaving a trail of red dots on the floor. He stops to look at the dots and is stunned. It is blood. He follows her, and the trail of red dots. She rushes into the staff room, filled with teachers. She goes towards the ladies' room, the trail of red dots in close pursuit. Before she can open the door, he decides to shout, 'Miss.' There is silence. A room full of teachers, most of them men, look at him. He is sure that he has probably saved her life with his timely warning. He points to the floor and says, 'You are leaving a line of red dots, miss.' Everybody looks at the floor and for some reason turns away. Matilda Miss moves one step forward like a little soldier and slaps him hard. What must Thoma Chacko do, what must a boy do to be happy? Will Thoma Chacko ever make it?

When Unni was his age, he was cast as Nehru in the Independence Day play, but Thoma is now rehearsing once again to be a nameless extra, just one of the many idiots who rolls on the floor, holding the national flag, as British soldiers beat them up saying, 'Bloody Indians.'