Lizard’s Gospel

Fiction

It was when the coronavirus disease had forced Ravindran to stay at home day and night that he began to understand the language of the lizards. The lizards were there all over the house ever since the house was built nearly two decades ago. Less than two decades, in fact. It wasn’t easy to forget the year.

Lizards shared the house with Ravindran right from the time he built the house. They behaved as if they were the real masters of the house. Not that they made much noise about it; they were usually quiet. Once in a while they would let out a cry, a click, or a squeak. Krishnan, one of the oldest men in the village, once told Ravindran that the sounds made by lizards have specific meanings. The meaning depends on the time and direction, he said. What time of the day or night and from which direction – east, west, etc. Ravindran dismissed Krishnan’s theory as mere superstition of an ignorant villager.

Now he understands the language of the lizards. They are saying that they are the real owners of the house. Of the earth. Ravindran is just a parasite here. A parasite that destroys the earth with filth of all sorts. As if to show their contempt for Ravindran, the lizards left their shit all over: on windowsills, shelves, behind the elegant art pieces mounted on the walls, just anywhere and everywhere. On the face of the wall clock, on the set top box of the TV, nothing was sacred to the lizards apparently.

Ravindran was a teacher in Gujarat for many years. He taught English language and literature in the senior secondary section of a reputed school in Ahmedabad. Literature is life, literature is love, he would chant every now and then to his young students who loved his passion for life and love.

Nothing can take the place of love. That was Ravindran’s fundamental philosophy. Not even gods. Especially gods that want your worship. If you want to be called by a thousand names and offered bhajans and aartis, what are you but a snivelling beggar? No, my dear boys and girls, there is no god but the love you can carry in your heart. The tenderness you feel for the guy sitting next to you, for the stranger you meet on the road as you walk back home after school, for the beggar in the city square, that tenderness is the only god worth having.

That god of Ravindran died a thousand deaths on the streets outside his school and residence after a train was set ablaze by some hooligans in Godhra. People chanting god’s name drove long knives into the hearts of their fellow beings. People chanting god’s name raped women as if it was a religious ritual and tossed little children into fathomless abysses.

Jai Sri Ram! The slogan rattled Ravindran. It was uttered by one of his own students who was tearing apart a girl’s clothes. The girl was his own classmate. Ravindran ran to rescue the girl. When he regained his consciousness, he was in a hospital bed. Helpless. Unable even to feel tenderness.

He quit the job and the place and returned to his village in Kerala. He shared home with lizards.

He cleaned lizard droppings every morning like a religious ritual. I have encroached your space, forgive me. He sought forgiveness from the lizards. They clicked or squeaked. The time didn’t matter. Nor did the direction. Ravindran understood the meaning of those clicks and squeaks. They were the real gospels. He knew.