Novels and Notes

Appan always wanted to write. He had made a lot of notes for the novel he was going to write. As I rummaged through his stuff, there was this notebook where he had put down notes and passages of his novel. He could have done it too if he had not been so disorganized in everything. He had a way with words. Every little thing would turn into a fascinating story. His stories of his childhood were really the best. His observations about the various people who lived around him as he grew up. He talked about Chacklathy Ouseph, Placka Johnny, Chumaru and lots of others. The stories were funny. If he had bothered to write them down it would have been as great as Tom Sawyer’s adventures. There was an eccentric man who was obsessed with making an atom bomb inside a mustard seed. He talked about nothing else and appan was sure that if the conditions were right, he might even have succeeded. He used to tell them when we were small and all those stories have been forgotten.

It has just been 60 days but he is turning into a memory slowly. Everything was so sudden, the disease, the death and funeral, the tears, the pain and the guilt. Did we do enough? Could we have done more? Were we good children? Did we make him proud? There were times when I hated him and wanted him dead then there were times when I loved him and felt lost without him. But whenever there was a doubt I called him and asked for his opinion and he always managed to clear my doubts.