Fiction
It’s not only the gods but
the devils too have specific religions, Maria realised when she saw the devil
appearing on her husband’s face fifteen years after she had seen it the last
time.
Fifteen years ago, one
nondescript autumn afternoon in Shillong, Philip came back from the school
where he worked as a mathematics teacher and declared that he had resigned from
his job. Maria was stunned though she
had known deep within her all the time that this was coming. Reverend Father Joseph Potthukandathil, the
Headmaster of Saint Joseph’s School where Philip taught, had been rubbing up
Philip in the wrong way for a long time, years in fact, assuming that it was
every Catholic priest’s canonical burden to bring the lost sheep back to the
fold. Philip not only refused to accept
the priest’s gospel but also cocked a snook at it by guzzling peg after peg of
brandy sitting in the Marbaniang Bar that stood just a hundred metres away from
the church where the priest who dreamt of himself as the Saviour of all the
lost sheep in his parish was celebrating the Sunday evening mass.
When Father Joseph did not
succeed in his pastoral efforts vis-a-vis Philip-the-black-sheep, he enlisted
the support of the entire parish. He got
them to treat Philip with contempt.
‘Make him realise that the devil has conquered his soul,’ preached
Father Joseph to his faithful flock, ‘and treat him like a street dog so that he will feel the thirst for Our
Lord’s grace in his fiendish soul.’
‘Praise the Lord! Alleluia!’
responded the faithful flock.
The more Father Joseph and
his faithful sheep tried to induce in Philip the thirst for their Lord’s grace,
the more Philip drank brandy slouching in Marbaniang Bar. The efforts of the priest and his parishioners
eventually succeeded and the lost sheep became a street dog before evolving
into a devil. Devil, for Maria. Not for the people in the parish.
‘When you lose in the
marketplace, you come home and boost your ego by beating your wife.’ Maria whimpered first, sulked later, shrieked
in the end. ‘You are a devil. Father Joseph is right. The devil has conquered your soul.’
The drunken Philip
staggered near to his shrieking wife and raised his flaccid hand which fell on
Maria’s cheek with a force that surprised even Philip. The new strength sent some blood rushing to
his brandy-sodden cheeks. Maria saw an apparition
of Father Joseph’s devil on her husband’s face and ran away in terror.
Father Joseph’s devil had
left Philip’s soul by the time he woke up the next morning. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Maria planting a
gentle kiss on the cheek that borne the brunt of his devil the previous
evening.
‘Why do you drink?’ asked
Maria with fond longing. ‘When you don’t
drink you’re such a nice person.’
Philip didn’t know what to
say. How do you survive in the world of
Potthukandathils without some defence mechanism such as brandy? He didn’t articulate the thought, however.
In the evening he came
home from Saint Joseph’s School and declared, “We’re going to Shimla next
week. Start packing.”
Maria shrieked, sulked and
whimpered.
They had very little possessions. One thing that the ascetics and the
alcoholics have in common is paucity of material possessions. It was not hard for Maria to pack up the
possessions. What was hard was thinking
about the future that lay ahead.
Shillong to Shimla. What
difference will that make? One hill to
another. The conversion had to take
place within, inside the soul, she remembered Father Joseph’s refrain. Nothing had changed inside Philip. The faithful flock continued to sing alleluias
to the Lord.
An old friend of Philip
had arranged a teaching post for Philip in Shimla. Life carried on. Not just as usual. Much better.
Far better, realised Maria. She
did not feel the need to go to any church.
There was peace in their home.
Joy came trickling down in the simple forms of an ordinary life
uninterfered by priests and their gods.
Maria’s contentment
received the most brutal shock when Philip came home one day from school
reeking of whisky. He used to drink a
peg or two occasionally and Maria had no objection to it. But this was different.
‘He’s here,’ mumbled
Philip when she asked what made him drink like a fool.
‘Who?’
‘Potthu-kandathil.’ Father Joseph had been transferred as the
parish priest in the church near to the place where Philip and Maria lived.
‘So what? Why should we bother?’
‘Why bother?’ Philip
looked at her. She saw the fury that was
rising to his face from somewhere deep within.
The fury darkened his face. It
replaced the soddenness of the whisky.
‘Why bother?’ he asked again. ‘Do
you think I have forgotten it all? The
damned priest and his faithful flock running after the lost sheep?’
Maria watched in terror Philip’s
face contorting fiendishly with hatred.
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