Outside my window, there sways a Casuarina tree that stands athwart in full blossom. Its buds are luxuriant and even inviting. A cold front streams through its leaves every so often. Seeing this tree and the winds shimmer through it, my heart is filled with a terror-filled gratitude to the old Gods and the new. This is because, last month, I learnt that America had decided to strike decisively against the Soviet Union with a barrage of missiles.
Scene: American War Cabinet’s Emergency Meeting.
The war-mongering military generals are seated on one side.
President Johnson, Dean Rusk, McNamara and others—the doves of the American establishment—slouch in their seats on the other end. And you must all have heard the name of the Supreme Commander of the American armed forces: General Ousephunni Paailothu Vareed.
Johnson pleaded: “Ousephunni, don’t. Don’t do anything that mustn’t be done. Our God, that supreme Feudal Lord of the Heavens, shall not forgive us.”
In his inimitable Thrissur patois twang, the General retorted with an unanswerable question: “What kind of weak kneed, pussy of a President are you?”
This question was, no doubt, a first in the annals of American democracy—when a military supremo openly challenged that grandiloquent representative of the people.
“Shiva, shiva!” — Dean Rusk exclaimed anxiously.
Then, the President began to sweat.
All chatter suddenly stopped and a cloud of silence descended onto the room.
“We must, at the minimum, start the War!”, demanded Ousephunni Paailothu Vareed. And for added effect, he smashed his fist on the table.
All discussions suddenly went quiet, when an old Army chief, who now lived off his pensions, asked Ousephunni Paailothu Vareed,
“Yo! When the bombs starting going off, like jackfruit’s seedlings bursting open, is anything going to remain of your woman and that brood of yours?”
“They must be removed” — this became Ousephunni’s permanent war cry [referring no doubt to Russian missiles pointing to the American mainland].
Then, more war of words followed. Calls to battle rose to a crescendo.
As always, a ceremonial sword fight became inevitable. Ousephunni Paailothu Vareed jumped onto the table, made the swinging motions, and finally sliced down the long brass lamps that swung pendulously from the White House rafters. And in course of all this, he wounded that old pensioned Army chief.
“Oh! my ancient Gods of Parassinnikadavu, oh Muthappa” exclaimed President Lyndon B. Johnson, “save us all!”
No luck.
Ousephunni Paailothu Vareed stood there victorious. Johnson finally conceded defeat. Dean Rusk, McNamara and others finally agreed reluctantly — Let us then begin the Third World War.
But as is always the case with important matters of the State, they summoned Chaami, the village astrologer. He cast his cowries, scanned the asterisms, invoked the malefic stars, and finally decided on an auspicious date. At two hours to dawn, American missiles would take off and hit the Soviet Union.
And when these astral portents explode in Moscow, people’ll finally catch on and ask: “whassup with those missiles!”
There was, however, one small hiccup. Chaami, the astrologer who had come to officiate the date, was a Tamil Brahmin from Palakkad; and to make matters worse, he was also a paid up member of the Peace Corps.
Scene: Three days before the auspicious date.
In the evenings by the Potomac, a white bull harrumphed and strut through the streets of Washington. D.C. He was lame in one of the legs. And despite this hobble, he stomped hard and pressed forward.
Seeing it trundle through the streets, an American scientist told his girlfriend, “babe, look there, one of its feet has a limp.”
“That’s right, honey. It’s quite suspicious.”
Both of them hurriedly said a prayer and drew a cross across their chests.
The bull kicked up a fuss with his hind legs and snorted.
The next day, the city woke up to a news that alarmed all. General Ousephunni Paailothu Vareed had been assassinated. And that too within the confines of the Pentagon.
There were reports of witnesses who had seen a white bull walk out of the Pentagon, in the moments following the killing.
The next day’s New York Times asked provocatively: “Is there any connection between Ousephunni’s killing and that white bull?”
And thus began a vast hunt, from sea to shining sea, to apprehend that mysterious bovine behemoth. There was, however, no sign of the beast.
“Where’s the bull?”, or what bull!, became the open-ended question.
The old sorcerer had once again taken on an human form. Did anybody see that transmogrification? Obviously it was unlikely that anybody witnessed it. Sitting under a tree in the American capital, Chenthiyaav the Pariah, who too was originally from Palakkad, sighed in relief.
With the passing away of Ousephunni, the clouds of war had receded. At least for now. There was no longer any need for him here. Reluctant to waste another moment, he decided that it was time to head back home. But, he was almost entirely broke after this assignment. No worries tho, he told himself. All this was for world peace, after all. That said, Chenthiyaav the Pariah was still filled with some regret.
It is a truth universally known that in matters of international affairs, a private secret, however classified, is always on the lookout for a release into the open. The spies of powerful intelligence agencies from across the world dutifully reached out to Chenthiyaav. “Can you please teach us this sorcerer’s art of transmogrification? We can pay you whatever you demand.”
“Hu, Hu!”, Chenthiyaav rejected these temptations contemptuously. “I won’t teach you. Never!”
However, there was—he insisted—one demand. I want to get back home. I want to return to Palakkad.”
As is the tradition these days, the Washington Kerala Samajam decided to go on a collection drive to fund his travel expenses back to Palakkad. (Dutifully, Chenthiyaay the Sorcerer gave a farewell address. The lecture was titled “The Artist and Society”.)
Despite all these propitious events, everybody, including the dreaded agencies of the Soviet Union, overlooked a matter of singular importance. Chenthiyaav the Sorcerer was a Maoist. (Even Chaami the astrologer, who had betrayed Ousephunni to Chenthiyaav, hadn’t imagined that things could go this far.)
And so, that is how Chenthiyaav the Pariah ended up absconding to Peking with all of the sorcerer’s secrets of transmogrification.
Nowadays, when I think about all those events and all that has transpired since then, I spend my waking hours anxiously.
[Original in Malayalam by O. V. Vijayan titled: ‘Moonam Lokamahayudham’
Translated by Keerthik Sasidharan]