Mission Apollo

Easter this year did not just celebrate the resurrection of Christ for us Chandanapallians. The dance of death greeted churchgoers in the wee hours of the morning on Easter Sunday. One of my village's 'illustrious' sons had a cardiac arrest soon after he had gone to the church to light candles and wick-lamps before the 2 am mass. He was found dead or near death in his car near the church cross tower.
After the initial shock and excitement (that follows the spread of a news), people hailed it a good death. For whether he lived well or not, Apollo T..chan as he was called, had met death soon after he had prayed or had thoughts of God in his mind.
We Chandanapallians are neither too good or too bad, nor too successful or too down-trodden. We have our vices and our virtues, and our moments of success and our moments of failure. I mean, we are just an average people trying to believe that our prosperity and that of our children's (especially in the Land of Black Gold or the Land of Hope) are all god's and St. George's grace.
Nicknames were a passion for us, especially for our grandfathers and great grandfathers. Apollo wasnt exactly a derogatory nickname like many others in the village. It was merely a way of identifying him with his pick-up vehicle which he had named probably after the moon mission. An ex-military man, he ferried goods in his vehicle for a price and also did some cultivation on leased fields. Though towards the last half of his life, he didnt have to work really hard as he had one son in the UK and one in the Gulf who kept the family coffers at least half full I believe.
For one who said that the main cultivation in Chandanapally was crosses (installing cross towers was the passion of churches and even individuals at one point of time), he lived a life of religiosity like many of us who mistake piety for spirituality.
Coming from the same family tree, he had his periods of closeness with us especially during the days he chauffeured dad on some select trips. A closeness that made him make a vow that he would dedicate a sack of rice to the church if and when I had my first child. So the first perunnal after Ashwin's birth, a ceremonial chembu procession came home to collect the sack of rice. He truly believed that his prayers to St. George had worked a miracle for me.
Now as his body awaits (from the cold cell of a morgue) the arrival of his NRI sons and a daughter living in Nagaland with her soldier husband, I can only remember him with some affection the fatherly love and good wishes he bestowed on us and the mirth his good-humoured bombast gave us.