Pakkaran's son

There were two theatres -- or cinemakottaka as we called in Malayalam -- near our house, both about 2 kilometres from our house. We favoured one of them, Sindhu Talkies, because a relative of our dad whom we called Edathitta appachen worked in the ticketing or in some supervisory role in that modest theatre with a thatched roof, and we would first visit his house before heading for the movie. The last bus passing by our house would've left by the time the first show was over, and we walked home in the dead of the night guided by torchlight and the moon on the middle of the road mostly - since there was no traffic and to save ourselves from snakes on the roadside and bushes. As it was a long walk home, my toddler brother would sit on the shoulders of our male help Paakkaran, a corruption of the name Bhaskaran (was that because Dalits weren't entitled to a decent version of the name or was it because they couldn't pronounce it any better?). 

Young Paakaran was dad's trusted aide de camp (ADC) then while his father and uncle took care of more serious chores around our house - farming and other field work, cattle rearing and rubber tapping. According to mom, when dad was building a two-storied bungalow in the district headquarters, Pakkaran would travel every day to take care of supervision and other chores on dad's behalf. He was a soft and sweet person, so it was a sad day for us when he prepared to leave for Surat to work in a textile mill in the late 70s or early 80s. Dad lent him some of his shirts and trousers, and that was the last we saw of him for many many years. Slowly, the family lost communication with him and we tried to believe that he was living happily with a Gujarati wife and children. 

However, Pakkaran returned alone in the mid-1990s if I remember it right. He hadn't got married nor had he made a fortune. His father found a bride for him who bore him two children in due course. By then, P's first younger brother KK was dad's preferred help so much so that dad donated him land and helped build a house partly with government grant. The second younger brother, Vish, who spent over 10 years of his life in our home as a live-in help cum school student - probably from the age of 10 to over 20 which won him three square meals a day - had left our nest and gone back to his parents' place and their relative poverty.

Pakkaran's stint in Gujarat remained a mystery to us - maybe he was imprisoned or went through some serious ordeal but he never revealed anything more than what we already knew. P's wife worked as a domestic help or home nurse to supplement his income as a daily wager. The daughter's wedding put the family in fresh debt and to cut a long story short, made me promise a job in V's company for her son last September. The youth was an electrician, and though an entry-level low-paid job in a factory was in no way better than what Kerala could offer, the Gulf dream of the family was rekindled. They had already lost a sizeable sum to an agent who promised them a Gulf entry. I was sympathetic and felt we needed to right certain wrongs - recent as well as from bygone days when settler Christian families must have usurped their tribal land. A Dalit family that had worked for three generations for our family (the present and 4th gen doesn't) needed justice, and last week the youth embarked on his maiden flight to Dubai with V, who had gone down to Kerala for a short vacation. A suitcase full of hopes, dreams, loan burdens came along with his new clothes, shoes and snacks the mother lovingly packed for her beloved and much-pampered son.

p.s. The boy seems happy with the job on offer and he will hopefully settle down the way Jason, who we brought two years ago, did. The gods, especially his namesake Vishnu, must be smiling on him, and life in a men's accommodation will be the bed of roses he has willingly traded for life in the Lakshamveedu colony. Before he got into his new abode, we gave the young chap a glimpse of all that Du-bai is famous for -- the world's tallest building and mall and their many attractions, followed by a hearty Kerala dinner of parotta and beef.

I took lessons on humanity from the husband and son -- who by their actions showed me that caste and class alienations have no place in a modern society. The son called him chetta and shared his bunkbed, and the husband supped with him and carried some of his luggage. The progeny of Pakkaran, whose devotion as he carried us on his shoulders on moonlit nights, deserves it from us.