Stories of the Wind

 I load my luggage on the back seat before finding a supposed-to-be-comfortable corner seat in the Mannar-Vavuniya bus. Lush green paddy fields, birds and bulls decorate either side of the A14 highway. The November climate and the beauty of nature combine to obliterate all my mental stress. I plug in my ear phones, close my eyes and take a deep breath.

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Time ticks around me.

The seat next to me is empty. As the bus slows down to a stop at Murunkan, I position myself in the middle of the double seat to discourage anyone from considering sitting next to me. A crowd of around ten climb inside, and naturally there is commotion. It takes around five-minutes-and-two-kilometres for the new comers to settle down. One man is left seat less. He lands half his weight on my lap in his attempt to seat himself; I promptly move to the corner again.

Bruno Mars is singing ‘Just the Way You Are’ in my ears. His girlish voice and the rumble of the old engine produce a sound effect no professional DJ can dish out.  I enjoy the moment. I shoot a side-way glance and catch my first proper glimpse of the stranger-next-seat: Brown of complexion; in his late twenties; over grown hair; over grown beard; blue shirt; matching sarong – blue again; a parcel wrapped in blue plastic bag rests on his lap.

He smiles at me and I catch my first glimpse of his neatly arranged and deeply betel-stained teeth. I smile back.

Time ticks around us.

The seat next to me is full of life. Music changes from Bruno Mars to Elton John. I tap on the window to ‘Sacrifice’ and pretend as though the next seat is still empty. After a little while, there is a friendly pat on my shoulder. The stranger-next-seat asks me to adjust the window pane, I do so. Some force within urges me to remove my ear phones. He queries about my destination, I start to talk and time starts to fly.

He is from Thaandikulam, a small town on A9 past Vavuniya - hundred and fifty bucks on tuk-tuk from the Vavuniya railway station. I’m curious as to his Mannar visit. Further chatter reveals that his family is part of a housing scheme that is being implemented in the Vanni. He launches into a lengthy explanation of a registration process, and why he has to spend so much time travelling. I nod my head though I understand very little of what he says. The ideal location to setup these offices where finance is handled for these housing schemes would obviously be Vavuniya. But, then, who would travel on the beautiful roads built as part of Mahinda Chinthanaya? I privately applaud the Government for kindly creating opportunities for the average man to experience and enjoy the supposed-to-be-brilliant massive development projects.

We talk at length about the housing scheme. I find his observations on the state’s effectiveness particularly engaging. He speaks at length of Technical Officers who demand a cup of tea (with sugar) every hour while working, and of bankers who never cease from reminding him that ‘they are the bosses’. I’m captivated by his stories. I turn off my music player and decide to listen to this man.

He does almost 80% of the masonry work for the new house, I learn. His wipe, actually wife, does the rest. He smiles after saying this. I, in response, scratch my head – partly due to a head louse and mostly due to the uncertainty of what the ‘appropriate’ reaction is. He, then, goes into the details of why he must, now, hire a mason for the roof work. “Heights make my head spin,” he notes. I kill the urge to ask the obvious: “clock-wise or anti clock-wise?” He tells me that roof tiles are highly expensive – one tile sells at Rs.62.50; last time I checked it was selling at Rs.60.  

I ask about his family.

 “Oru wipe, naalu pillaihal”, replies my new friend. One wife and four children.

I scratch my head again. I rule out the possibility of him becoming my father-in-law, when I learn that his eldest girl is ten-years old. He speaks fondly of his children and wipe: memories of his mother-in-law draw a touch of distaste.

The conversation gradually slides to his profession. His regular designation, I am told, is Assistant Mason; for the construction of his own house he promoted himself to the role of Chief Mason. Quite naturally, I query about his wages.

  “As an Assistant Mason I used to earn around eight hundred rupees per day, but as a Chief Mason I earn nothing”.

  “Ridiculous job promotion,” I reply.

We laugh.

  “I started working at the age of twelve you know. They gave me hundred rupees back then. That time I was a Just Mason”.

  “Still, better than being a Chief Mason”.

We laugh again.

After six years of working as a Just Mason, he gave up spades and took up scissors. From decorating buildings to decorating heads, the man’s journey is, indeed, worthy of the much abused cliché ‘rollercoaster ride’. He shares a story of how a bald, old man walked into the saloon at which he worked, apparently as an Assistant Hairdresser, and demanded that his hair be dried and applied gel.

His account of his encounters with the Chief Hairdresser’s daughter is better than most of the Tamil cinemas’ celebrated romantic films. However, the affair never blossomed into marriage because the traditional hairdressing community is, supposedly, of a lower caste. When the Assistant Hairdresser’s family rejected the chief’s marriage proposal, the chief immediately fired the assistant.

 “But, even today,” he says, “I cut my own hair”.

A cursory glance at his untidy mane suggests the true meaning of his statement.

Several months after being fired, he began ‘seeval thozhil’

 “Seeval thozhil enda?”  I ask out of ignorance.What is seeval thozhil?

 “Kallu thozhil”. Toddy tapping.

I stop myself from exclaiming “My Man … My Man”.

  “Big money”, he says. “Can earn around ten thousand on a good day”

  “Did you just say ten thousand?” I clarify.

He nods solemnly.

 “Kathi koodaya koluvinaa pettai naaiku pinnaala vaara maathiri varuvinam,” he declares.The moment you tie the knife-basket around the waist, men will follow you the way dogs follow bitches in-heat.

I laugh out loud at this unconventional illustration.

Upon recalling an incident from my school days – an attempt to steal toddy from a twenty-five-feet palmyrah tree – I ask about his opinion on toddy thieves.

“I don’t mind it when it happens once in a blue moon. But, I tell you, I get seriously annoyed when it happens regularly. And I have a trick up my sleeve – I simply sprinkle toddy pots with grated coconut. If anyone takes a sip, next morning he would be blowing bubbles out of the uploading and downloading pieces of the digestive system”, he finishes with a chuckle.

I look up at the skies and praise God for not letting our plan materialize.

I quickly divert the subject.

 “You told me that you don’t like heights, how do you mange climbing up and down Palmyra trees?”

 “I tie a piece of rope every time and attach it to the tree, always.  The moment my head starts to spin, I just hug the tree and sleep it off”. Experienced campaigner.

I ask him why he works as an Assistant Mason instead of doing this prosperous seeval thozhil. He tells me it is because of his mother-in-law. Dislike justified. I sympathize with him, as he recalls his history with the mother-in-law. He vows that he would start seeval thozhil next year: I support the cause. He tells me that the reason behind mother-in-laws objection to seeval thozhil is again a result of the bloody caste system.

 “Screw caste”, he says. It prompts a rather loud “cheers” from me.

“I want to leave behind some wealth to my lineage: I don’t want my children to curse me later in their lives,” he says, his commitment to his children clearly evident. I agree whole heartedly.

A few moments pass in silence before he waves the blue-plastic bag and fondly says, “Karuvaadu, wipe-uku ithu pothum”. Dried fish, my wife loves it.

I smile. My respect for the man shoots new heights.

 “How did you learn all these things? How did you manage to grasp all these professions?” I ask in lost in admiration.

 “One job for the learned; thousand jobs for us” he replies.

 I am distracted by a bunch of girls standing inside a rundown bus stand. He nudges my shoulders and says,

 “Vaaran”. Leaving

I search for the appropriate words, unsuccessfully. In the end, I just raise my hand and nod and as he climbs out of the front door.

The bus slows down to a stop at the main bus station of Vavuniya.

Time continues to tick around me.

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I walk to the back end of the bus, drag my heavy bag and climb out of the bus. It takes me a few minutes to find a bus to Jaffna. I load my bag on the back seat, and find myself a seat. A9 unfolds before me.