Mine History

 “I know he has one. I’ve seen him write on it when I was a kid,” a voice cried out from one of the rooms upstairs in that nalukettu. The house was searching itself one could say, as if a man was searching for answers within himself. 

Sun trekked through the sky and reached its peak, everyone in the house heeded the call of hunger. Except for one young man. “"Why is he so adamant about finding that old thing, assuming it even exists?” an elderly man spoke sitting down.

“He wants to show it off when he joins the party tomorrow. What else can create a bigger wave than donating the personal diary of a freedom fighter and the best friend of a great martyr?” a motherly voice spoke, coming out of the kitchen with trays and dishes of scented food in hand.

The little girl at the table took a bite out of the pappadom and smiled cutely to avoid punishment. When she felt her mother's eyes on her face she asked her father to explain why grandpa was such a big name in the village.

 Children know just what to ask.

“Grandpa was a freedom fighter,” the slouching man said, sitting straight with fire in his eyes and the history he carries in his blood. “The British took over our village. The impotent king did nothing. So the young men of our village formed a party. They fought tirelessly, but the British, too strong and the village too afraid. One night, your grandpa and a few party members were attacked by the British soldiers. Grandpa’s best friend was brutally murdered that night.” The little girl, knowing well that everyone at the table was either too immersed in the story or bored to death, reached for another pappadom only to find her hand slapped away by her mother. 

Mothers see everything.

 “The next morning, when the village woke up, your grandpa was holding the unmoving body of his friend. They were best friends since childhood and did everything together, father was not as active or charismatic as uncle Bharath but when he stood on that slave auction stage, with blood streaming down his face, and asked the villagers, how many Bharaths they had to kill before the villagers grew a backbone and started fighting for the soil they stood on, the soil that feeds them. 

I was just a kid then. My father looked like the hero of legends. His words set fire to the blood of the villagers, and they formed a mob fueled by grief and vengeance. They attacked British officials in their homes and forced them to sign a treaty excluding our village from all British activities.

 The party grew. Then the party president even became the CM for a term.

 Maybe because of his friend's absence, Father later lost interest in the party. If he had just said an "yes", we would have been one of the most powerful political families in this country.” The man looked to the old woman at the table to find that she had already finished her lunch and got up, with a face that doesn't betray any emotions. “I’ve never seen father keep a diary.” the man once again slouched back into his chair.

The rest of the lunch went silently like any other family, who has run out of jokes and stories.

 Like most Malayalis, all the people of the house went for their after-lunch nap. Except one man, still in his grandfather’s room, searching. 

Decades of dust had made its home on all that was in that room, now on him too. The image of his grandfather writing a diary sitting in his favorite chair flooded the mind of the young man. Time stole a lot from his mind but a snippet of that image, still etched in stone. He sat defeated on the chair and laid back looking to heaven like he saw his grandfather do a million times. Through frustrating tears, he saw a panel on the wooden beam, barely visible to the naked eye.

 He held that leather-bound book in his hands. The only thing untouched by dust and time in that room, house, and village. The weight of his legacy.

"Feb-29-1885

The party office was attacked; they killed Baharat."

A triumphant smile spread across his face. There was only a single entry in the diary. He imagined the impact when he donates it to the party tomorrow. He continued,

"No, I killed Bharath. I let it happen. When the president told about the value of a powerful martyr I didn’t even mock up a resistance. Maybe I’ve always wanted him dead; he was perfect revolutionary, handsome, and a strong leader. I didn’t even ask who did it; obviously one of the  party worshipping new guys.

And I sold his death to the world

 to history, to freedom.

Victory to liberty. "

Coming down the stairs, his little sister asked him if he found the storybook he was searching for

 "No." The voice came from somewhere so deep within him that he felt time itself was speaking through him.