Mammadukutty

It was a cold, breezy Saturday night. A chill hung low in the air as two twenty-something brown girls huddled close together, soaking up the scent of peace and quiet that bubbled around them like freshly exploded bath bombs in the shower after a testing day of corporate gymnastics.

Or I imagine this is how some stories would begin. But not ours. Not when you are sandwiched like meat in a six-foot giant subway in the intersections of one of the busiest streets of all time in the city of namma ooru, Bengaluru.

The Bollywood music belting out of garish green nightclubs, and the disharmonious buzz of young women and men swarming like bees to gather midnight nectar was enough to give me and my friend a splitting headache that would overstay its welcome for the next couple of days.

We stood drenched under the glaringly bright street lamps, peals of laughter, the nose-tickling fumes of steamed momos and fried chicken from the knit of food joints, and the occasional wisp of someone’s untimely nicotine rush.

Our fingers dangerously close to a nervous breakdown, phones open to a buffet of ride-sharing apps, we prayed fervently, against all odds, to be charioteered away from this mind-numbing scene of glitzy chaos, when finally there it was. A sliver of hope. M. Muhammad Kutty, a little blip on the screen announced his arrival, emanating a collective sigh of relief from the two of us.

The charioteer deftly manoeuvred his three-wheeled drive through the hubbub of other rickshaws, bikes, cars and pedestrians who were endowed with the sudden realization that their legs were also built for sprinting. He halted to a stop in front of the two of us and turned on newly tweaked hundred-watt bulbs on our faces.

“Madam OTP?” After we uttered the four magical numbers that would carry us to safety, we sunk into our seats, our animated chitchatter freely floating over Malayalam movies, why malabar biriyani reigns supreme, how Onam would never be the same without homemade sadhya (a meal served on leaf) and last-minute flower shopping for the attha pookkalam (a festive flower carpet) painstakingly engineered by your mother, when he whipped his neck around superseding our excitement.

“Malayali aano?” (Are you a Malayali) his deep-set eyes lit up, almost instantly putting his toothy grin from moments before to shame.

“Athello” (yes!), we chirped back in unison. The familiar childlike wonder of waking up to shiny wrapped presents under the Christmas tree and fortifying our faith in Father Claus revisited us for a minute as we, after more than a year since settling down in Bengaluru, could finally ease into the comfort and comradeship of a Malayali rickshaw driver.

“Naatil evideya?”(Where do you hail from) His next question did not take us by surprise, and let me tell you why. Imagine all the Malayalees across the world seated in front of the greenest, dew-kissed banana leaf, heaving a mishmash of hands and tongues into Kerala porotta (a flatbread quite popular in the South) and beef, decked up in sarees and mundu, with women weaving a flowery necklace of mullapoo (jasmine flower) through their thick, black, rigs of coconut oil and men wearing a pair of the Spadikam fame Mohanlal Ray Ban aviator glasses that masks three-fourths of their vastly bearded faces.

But what brought them together in the first place was not the porotta, nor the beef, nor the oily coils of hair, or mullapoo, or even the Ray-Ban glasses, or which of the men can sprout the largest beard (Nivin Pauly from Premam still stands undefeated there), but this one sentence, “naatil evideya?” So as typical as this visualization of Malayalees to the rest of the country sounds, this one phrase can single-handedly sign a communal peace treaty and unite Malayalees from across the ocean lines to the dunes.

And that is precisely what occurred as it broke down the invisible barrier between M. Muhammed Kutty from Kozhikode and two young girls from Kochi.

“Njangal Kochinna, ningalo?” (we are from Kochi, and you?)

“Njan Koyikodu” (I am from Kozhikode),  we leaned forward and our noses were met with a sharp hint of jasmine with undertones of a more nerve-soothing herb oil, perhaps sage. Attar, and memories of a faraway hometown washed us further ashore to the world of Mammadukutty.

“Ningal entha ivide, padikkuvano?” (what brings you folks here, is it studies?) he probed with genuine curiosity.

“Illa njangal joli cheyya. Ippo ivide ethre naal aayi und?” (no we are working, how long have you been in Bengaluru for?) we responded.

“Njan ivide moonu varsham aayi, pakshe orikkal polum naadinem naatukkarem orkathe oru divasam koode kayinju koodiyittilla.” (I shifted three years back, but even now not a single day flies by when I do not reminisce about my home and the people) His voice faltered from the field trip of memories, but the smile on his lips refused to part from the present.

“Enikkum oru mol und. Bharyayum makalum ippozhum naatila. Njanum monum mathram ivide”. (I have a daughter. She lives with my wife back home. My son resides with me in Bengaluru) he continued.

And I witnessed the spirited glee of an adult man in his late forties, with the first shake of gray peppering his hair and finely trimmed outcrop of beard drowning out the incessant horns and squeals of rubber, clearing a way for peace to set down camp between my nerves.

“Mol kku ippo ethra vayassayi?” (how old is your daughter?) We matched his enthusiasm.

“Pathinalu. Kunju kuttiya, dha itha ente kudumbam” (she is 14, this is my family), he fished out his phone from the depths of his pants pocket. After a sequence of swiping through his gallery, his fingers ceased to a stop just as his three-wheeled chariot parked near the traffic lights.

A cherubic young girl with her hair pulled back in a ponytail with brown doe eyes underlined with kanmashi (eyeliner) as if someone drew them with a wax crayon, and her lips frozen in a smile stared back at us through his side of the world.

His grin pulled his cheeks even apart and us, even closer to this man we had met just a couple of minutes ago.

“Onathinu nattil onnu poyi, vayaru niraye sadhya kayichu. Madangi vannappo ithiri veshamam undayi, pakshe evide chennalum Malayalikale kandu kayinjal athoru prethyeka samadhanam thanne aanu.” (I returned home for Onam, and had my fill of homemade sadhya. It hurt my heart to return, but the relief that one feels  on stumbling across a Malayali simply cannot be described through words).

“Mol enthu sundariya. Athu paranjappozha. Njangalum ippo Onam kayinju naatinnu madangi vanne ullu. Ithuvare angane oru Malayali auto chettane kittitilla. Adyam ayitta, ippo sherikkum naatil ethiya oru feel thanne und.” (our daughter is gorgeous. Even we just came back after celebrating Onam at home. And as you rightly pointed out, it always feels like you have been transported back home when you meet a Malayali. It is a first for us to have found a driver who is from Kerala) we were enthused before asking, “pakshe ividem okke ishtamayo?”  (do you like it here now?)

“Ivide poli alle. Enikkum kootukarude koode irunnu orennam adicha kollam ennund, pakshe kudumbathe nokkan njan mathrame ullu. Athond venda vekkum mole.” (I love it here! Sometimes, I feel like getting together with my boys and drinking a peg or two, but then I remember that if my health fails, there will be nobody else who can look after my wife and children. So, I abstain by choice.)

It was hard not to have developed respect for Mammadukutty as he bared his heart to us in that moment. The rickshaw swerved past a beetle grey Honda City car and cradled near the alleyway to our other haven.

‘How do you choose to pay your driver?’ The notification danced rapidly in front of my eyes, signalling the end of our journey together.  Me and my friend stepped out of the rickshaw and handed our new confidante a crinkly hundred rupee note with an added tip of our warm smiles to carry him back home through the wintry night.

“Appo njan pokatte. Ningale arinjathil santhosham” (I am taking off. It was nice knowing you both) We noticed how the smile had never quite really ended its trip.

“Njangalkkum angane thanne.” (Likewise) We chimed.

“Oh pinne njan chodikkan marannu poyi. Ingottu maaran ulla kaaranam?” (Oh I forgot to ask, what made you move to this city?) I asked him as we bid our final farewell.

A sentiment that had never breached his eyes until then, seized hold of them. “Ente monu oru rare type muscle disease aanu. Doctors entho atrophy ennokkeya paranje. Ivide treatmentinu vannatha.” (My son has a rare kind of muscle atrophy. We moved here for the treatment)

“Ellam sheriyakum,” (everything will be alright again) I whispered, feeling the smile dissipate from my lips.

“Ellam sheriyakand engane.” (there is no other way it would end but in joy) In that moment, I saw my smile nestling comfortably between Mammadukutty’s lips.

That night, as I lay down on my bed, the ebbs and flow of my mother’s laughter took me back in time to the lush green plains of my hometown, to the land of men and women with the kindest smiles and palms calloused by holding its people tight to their chest, I realized that not all heroes wear capes.

Some don a khaki shirt and pants and drive rickshaws through the bustling streets of Bengaluru. And they save lives, even if momentarily.

Written by Radhika R.