(one)
We touched his feet and stepped down from
the verandah to the courtyard, and then looked
back. He said:
I have neither fear nor fearlessness
of death. It is inevitable; it is a must.
All souls should know the taste of death.
We had started our conversation with a reference
to death. He was weak and was sitting on the
half wall and reading. It was the Special
of Madhyamam daily, its annual supplement.
He was reading the story by M.Mukundan; the
title of the story was Vaikkom Mohammed
Basheer. On seeing us he gestured with
his eyes to sit down. He was suffering from
acute Asthma. He said:
It is very difficult to breathe. Very
dangerous thing! A lame excuse for death to
come to me!
He asked:
Who are you? What do you want?
We introduced ourselves. We were five; writer,
Doordarshan Advisor and KPCC member Sri. R.K.Reviverma,
essayist and playwright, Sri. Rajan Thiruvoth,
Playwright and photographer, Sri Diana Raghavan,
CPM worker, Com. M.Salim, and myself.
We had reached Vylalil house at 11.30 AM.
But he was sleeping then. A peaceful, beautiful
sleep! His son Anees Basheer came out and
asked us to come by 2PM.
We spent about two hours on the Beypore beach.
We sat on the black sands where history was
sleeping. In sun and wind, we chirped like
sea sparrows. We looked at the movements of
healthy and beautiful women collecting and
gathering shells from the seawater. Hawks
were flying over our heads. We sat looking
at the fisher folk who had placed their hooks
into the water and were eagerly and patiently
waiting for the fish to bite the hooks. Blossoming
as seas, swelling as waves, and breaking as
surfs, the seawater was the most ever beautiful
sight I saw in my life.
Then we woke up from our seaside dream. It
is time; it is time we reached there. When
we reached Vylalil, it was 1.45 PM.
(two)
We were going to meet Basheer. He is our World
littérateur. What else could we qualify
the genius that wrote Anargha Nimisham, The
Goat of Pathumma, and The Walls? Could we
confine him that wrote The Noises, and The
Prostitute Of The Poor to the small round
of Kerala? His genius is the sovereign of
seasons, continents and skies. The real Jnana
Peetam of Malayalis is here at Beypore. We
could reach there through the damp lanes of
Beypore.
Once we reach there, first we are subjected
to stage fright. We knew this, we had heard
of this. So, we had prepared a few questions
to ask him. In the unwritten pages of an old
diary of mine, these questions were trembling.
However, a moment of courage dawned on me,
and I asked whether it would be right to call
him a Sufi Revolutionary.
Then everything was okay. We could ask questions.
We did not know the relevance of the questions.
We just wanted to talk to him. That is all.
A very normal situation had emerged, as a
sapling emerges, as flower blossoms, and as
sea spreads into a wave. He was ready to speak.
In between the attacks Asthma, the painful
spasm of coughing, Oh! God! Questions, doubts,
answers, what not! The River was flowing without
any obstacle.
? You address the world from
the great shore of solitude. Do you still
feel loneliness?
A- I am in solitude. I could write only in
loneliness. Otherwise I couldnt write.
Thought comes in solitude; imagination too.
? In this tense,
noisy world how do you get the desired solitude?
A Solitude is there everywhere. Only
thing is that one has to find it out. Look,
every moment umpteen millions of creatures
are killed. Do we know it? We are on our
own delta. We dont hear the moaning
of death. Each of us is a great universe,
you and I. In each of us there are multitudes
of beings, yeah, great universes! Thus,
Millions of men, cosmos, skies, suns and
stars, galaxies
I am only one among
them. Just a solitary being! Hear, you young
man! There is no nonviolence anywhere. Violence
is rampant.
? A peculiar ecological
sense is reflected in your stories. The
Inheritors Of The Earth was written at a
time when eco-sense was not so prevalent
and strong as it is today.
A didnt I tell you? Great cosmos!
A wonderful phenomenon! In my Compartments
of Memories, I have written about
the death of earth. Not only man, but also
earth dies. Earth is not for man alone,
but all beings, all creatures
.
? - Do you believe in the
Last Day? (Khiyamam)?
A Yes, The Last Day will occur.
? You mean this universe
would be no more?
A No, Universe is eternal. Sure the
earth will be no more, sun and moon will
be no more, but the universe will remain.
(I felt that this is sheer materialism.
Materialist has more or less the same view.
Materialism is founded up on the philosophical
foundation of Matter.)
? The world is full
of sorrows. Around us are sorrowful experiences,
wars, epidemics, and what not! How could
you laugh in between these?
A I have no sorrow.
? Whenever you spoke
of time, I remember, you have said that
time is in the hands of Allah! How are you
certain about it? Did you ever see him straight?
Direct?
A No, I did not see. It is impossible
to see. Look, there are more than a thousand
religions in this world. There is as much
number of godly imaginations too. In Hinduism
itself God is envisioned in several forms,
several contents. For lower forms of Hindu
believers there are Saguna (qualified) gods,
like Vishnu, Shiva etc. But Adibrahma is
the zenith of Hinduism. Islam also possesses
the same idea of god. God has no quality,
no form, no beginning, and no end. The Great
Universe is an amazing phenomenon with millions
of lustrous globes, and constellations of
planets. This earth is just a revolving
morsel. Sun also revolves. In between the
two, there are galaxies, stars and suns
and moons. Globes and skies! Koran says:
Allahu Noorussamavathi Wal Arli
. God
is the power and light of millions of skies
and earths. Whatever we touch is God, say
Sannyasins. Sufis, too, say the same truth:
Anal Haq.
? - Do you have the power
of prophecy? You have written you have
A At times, only at certain times
An incident is described in Magical Cat.
Fabi, the kid, Paramu (Sobhana Parameswaran
Nair), and myself, all were going to Paramuss
house.
Heavy rain
floods
.
Boats
canoe fastened to coir
.
The roaring river
. I felt we shouldnt
go
I said to Fabi
We got out
of the boat
After a little distance
the boat was in an accident
Not always
Only at times a feeling comes
Some
are right, some, no. Still
.
? There is an opinion that communalism
has been dormant in Kerala and as the ripe
time came, it woke up and began to act.
What is your opinion?
A No, Communalism is not a part of
Kerala blood. It is the work of RSS. It
is not here. One day, Dr. Sukumar Azhikode
is here. Four Hindu women go along this
yard after washing and taking their bath.
How is it? Dr. Sukumar wondered. They have
no well in their houses, here they have
it. Here they have all facilities for safely
taking a bath and changing their dress with
out being seen by others. Soumini remains
outside her house when is in menstruation
here in this house. Her daughter Pushpa
has been here for the last fourteen or fifteen
years. Now she is about 20 years. She is
employed at another place. But things have
been changed. Once Mr. Gafoor Master was
transferred tot his place. Not B.M.Gafoor,
another Gafoor. He is a drawing teacher.
He rented a house. No well. There is a house
in the neighbouring house. He thought he
could draw water from the neighbouring house.
He brought his family. But the neighbours
did not allow them to draw water from their
well. If touched by a Muslim, the well would
become impure! I contacted the Education
Minister and got for Mr. Gafoor Master an
intercontinental Transfer.
Then it was a long, insufferable cough.
This body is full of phlegm. Now
no much time is left. Every night I would
think it is the last night. But when it
dawns again, all praises to Thee the Lord
of this universe! Thou have given me one
more day!
He stopped for a moment in a somewhat meditative
way. Then he continued:
There was a dog in this hamlet. Know, this
is a small place where there cannot be any
secret. Yeah, there was a dog. He lived
in style loving us and creating nuisances
to us. One day the dog was nowhere to see.
Again he was seen dead in the well. The
entire foul smells of this world! People
took him out. Was the well purified sufficiently?
And we drink that water. Water becomes impure
if a Muslim touches it. There is no problem
if I drink the water unclean and dirty water
dirtied by the carcass of the dog. What
would happen if I write a story out of this
incident?
? You have several
times spoken ignoring grammar and its rules.
But nowhere have you made a grammar mistake
in your stories.
A It is right that I dont know
grammar. But I write only what I know. If
I do have any doubt at all, I wouldnt
write it. I would ask others and clear doubts.
But one thing is sure; there are several
unnecessary letters in Malayalam. Why should
there be an ntha when there
is an ndha? This is no joke.
I am very serious. One day I wanted to write
a particular letter that I did not know
to write. Somebody taught me. I would again
forget it. Again I would learn. Some times
when any such problem comes I would call
my wife very seriously and ask her in all
seriousness; the question would be in the
form of examining her. Could you write
this? Thus I would escape the ignorance.
One thing is certain; I write only what
I know; only what I experienced. Still I
too know a few Sanskrit words.
? There are characters
of characters
?
A Yeah, Umma (mother), brothers,
Pathumma, my wife, children
then chicken,
goats and all things
in my household
? Again about characters
I remember a story with the title Shadow
Vasu. I remember to have read in it
that you have written, Vaikkom Mohammed
Basheer is the sum total of all women in
the world. Why do you identify with
women like this?
A It is not necessary to be very
careful about the characterization of men.
But that is not the position with women
characters. I describe them with utmost
care. That must be the reason for this identification.
? Let scandals
go to hell. Still, is there any writer who
has influenced you?
A when you ask this, yeah, there
is one writer; no, two writers. Axel Monde
the author of The Story Of San Michelle.
I have said about this to Vasu (M.T.Vasudevan
Nair). By the way, may I ask you, is Kunhabdullahs
novel Medicine coming from The Story Of
San Michelle? Then the second writer is
Romaine Roland. The great author Jean Christoff.
I read the work only very little, only a
small part of it; still it has influenced
me very much. But I never thought that I
must write in his pattern. Still it is with
me always, it is in me. It will remain an
invisible influence. Some incidents are
also like this. The enchantress seen
in the moon (Madhyamam Special 1992)
pertains to an incident like this. Three
Kuttys, Muslim Kutty, Hindu Kutty, and Christian
Kutty, they actually lived. Every Sunday
they would steal a he-goat. They would cut
it and cook it and eat it. I have also shared
this meat once. In the Moovattupuzha (a
river), there is a hill, a hill of goat
bones. It is this incident that has now
emerged as the enchantress seen in the moon.
(three)
We were not aware of time or food. We wanted
to hear more of that voice. He, too, was
ready to speak more. But his illness prevented
us from further talk. When Diana Raghavan
took our photographs, he said:
If good, send copies to me. If I
am dead by then, send them to my wife. No,
not much time is left.
I am not afraid of death. I have neither
fear nor fearless ness. It is inevitable.
It is a must. Every soul must know the taste
of death. Let God bless you.
A dove is cooing in the chest, as I could
not sob in front of others. I stopped my
notes at the point where my old diary had
written thus:
Yesterday, a dream! I was wandering
with a guitar in my hand. A bunch of Policemen
came and hindered me.
What is this? they ask.
A musical instrument, I say.
A guitar, a gun, a pen. They isolated the
guitar.
This gun? This pen?
I did not know I had gun and pen in my bag.
They were afraid of gun; more than that,
they were afraid of pen. But suddenly, I
woke up. No pen, no guitar, no gun and no
Policemen.
This might be a coincidence, this description
of the dream and the notes on conversation
with Basheer. But the future generations
would certainly remember that a man called
Basheer had lived here in this region of
the world, in this tiny hamlet and that
he had a pen sharper than guns and swords.
But we, all five of us, were sad about the
loss of a Nobel Prize for our language.
Yesterday it was Krishnashtami. Streets
were full of crowds. We move on as sands
of the ugly time when all ceremonies that
have to be sacred have become a showpiece.
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