A really short story I penned on a lazy afternoon. Comment if you liked it and I shall pen more for you.
“I had lost it all for the sake of this damned pot.” Philip’s pained tenor hardened as he moved closer to me. “Go home, lady. Take this clay pot with you. I don’t want it back.” The sexagenarian turned away before I could admire his perfect, pearly-white teeth that struggled to outshine the zircon rosary around his crêpe-like neck. I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five,” but stopped in mid-exhale as he jerked the basement door open. Nothing prepared me for what I saw next.
Around thirty pairs of sunken eyes stared at me from the shadowy basement. Fighting an innate urge to flee, I stared back. The eyes spoke brutal tales of an enslaved past and had me pinioned to the leather bar stool in Philip Calvarikal’s office. I almost dropped the clay pot on my lap as a stream of stares flooded the room. I must have let out a cry while groping inside my hip pocket, hoping to seek solace in my cell phone. Philip frowned. “There is nothing to be scared of, Regina. They are humans at heart and most certainly, deserve a second chance in life,” he said. Too startled to respond, I stole a glance at the intimidating eyes in front of me. In the well-lit office, I saw clearer, distinct features that held the eyes in. Philip’s “humans” now looked more like ordinary folks I meet and shake hands with everyday. They managed a drained smile, perhaps trying to prove they are as human as Philip claimed them to be. “You too deserve a second chance in life, Uncle,” I said, “and all of you as well”. Smiling back at the tall, brawny ex-convicts staring down at me, I added, “That is why I want you to have this clay pot.”
#
My earliest memories of Uncle Philip were from the hushed chatter that jazzed up tea-time conversations at a mere mention of his name or the village he came from, Vattapally. Though a quiet, unassuming village in Changanasseri, Vattapally was then home to a nosy, gullible breed of locals who seemed to know whatever there is to know about everything and everyone under the sun. Nevertheless, blame it on oversight, providence or the sheer naïveté in their nature, the locals knew absolutely nothing of the princely jewels that lay buried near the King’s Horse Stable where a hundred Arab stallions of the erstwhile Thiruvithamkoor (Travancore) monarchy had once been fed and watered. Neither did their curiosity stir when my family, the Calvarikals, bought this royal stable from the Maharaja of Travancore sometime before India won her independence.
Interestingly, whoever buried the jewels either on the sly or in accordance with royal orders, never returned to Vattapally to lay claim on it. Even if they had, I seriously doubt they would have been able to locate the jewels because what stands in place of the royal stable is the six-room Syrian Christian homestead my Grandpa built seventy years ago. Leaving out the man-made pond to the north-east of the stable, Grandpa had carefully taken apart and renovated the massive teak wood structure to build the ‘Calvarikal Home’. During the renovation, Grandpa had chanced upon several brass plaques, weaponry and tiger-tooth pendants that found a new role to play in our home. The jewels, however, remained untouched even by thought, as it lay cuddled within the earth’s womb ten feet below the pond. Not for long, though.
To this day, not one soul in Vattapally knows how, in the ghostly silence of the night in 1971, Grandpa’s first born – the handsome, twenty-five year old Philip Calvarikal who was awaiting ordination as a Catholic priest – had dug up the pond and unearthed a rotund clay pot full of jewels. Many claimed to have seen Uncle holding on to the clay pot that night, desperately trying to shield it from prying eyes. Others swore to have seen him smash the pot and swallow the jewels. The imaginative ones mused over the loud gasp heard across the village when the jewels vanished into thin air, lighting up the moonless sky with pure diamond dust.
My Grandma sadly remembered her fallen son who, with questioning eyes and quivering lips, wrestled with an inner demon to scream out his innocence. Grandma alone knew that Uncle had been a hesitant spectator to an act masterminded by his brother and my Dad, Clive Calvarikal. Grandma also knew that her sons had somehow made sense of a buried palm-leaf manuscript found near our property. But not even in their wildest dreams had any of them hoped to find treasure under the pond. That night, my Dad had vanished too, along with the clay pot and the jewels within.
#
“What did Clive do with the jewels?” Uncle Philip asked me, referring to the clay pot I had been holding on to ever since I walked into his tastefully-designed office near Thrissur’s famed Sri Vadakkumnathan Temple. Uncle continued, “Knowing him like I do, the devil would have sold every piece at the break of dawn. Why, what happened? Took off on a guilt-trip or what?” The sickening sneer in Uncle’s voice dug deep into the core of my being, threatening to devour every cell of my self-worth.
I felt sorry for the man, though. Sincerely regretful of the price Uncle had to pay for my Dad’s betrayal. All it took was a sinister night to turn a young man’s life topsy-turvy, denying him the priesthood he deserved and stigmatizing him overnight as a deceitful, selfish brat who never shared the jewels with the villagers in Vattapally. Everyone, except my Grandma, had disowned him. The seminary seriously doubted his inclination to accept priesthood. Fed up with the stomach-turning taunts, Uncle had eloped but despair seemed to follow him around like a scorned mistress. Until, he arrived at a crumbling settlement near Viyyur in Thrissur and came face to face with people who were in greater hopelessness than him.
Uncle’s unbearable despair finally broke up with him when he set up ‘St. Maximilian Geriatric Home for the Paroled’ – an initiative that provides good food, decent clothing and a loving shelter to elderly life convicts after they are released on compassionate parole. Perhaps here is where Uncle found his true vocation, tending to murderers, thieves and rapists incarcerated for longer than they could remember. With families who disowned them and an intolerant community that despised their freedom, these ex-convicts had nowhere to go, no one to call their own. By welcoming them to his abode with open arms, Uncle hoped to give them a well-deserved second chance in the sunset years of their life. And Uncle ended up gifting them the most beautiful feeling of “being wanted” – a sentiment he was denied throughout his adult life.
Uncle’s hysterical laugh ruffled my thoughts. “I know”, he boomed, “Clive found bones and ashes in the pot, didn’t he? Or was it cobras and scorpions? Sure serves him right for deserting me that night.” Heaving a woe-laden sigh Uncle moaned, “I had never felt so alone, scared and suicidal. I had lost it all to that evil night, to this damned pot, and all because I trusted your Dad.” Again his pained tenor hardened. “Why have you come looking for me after all these years?” Uncle questioned.
I looked at my watch. Realizing I barely had two hours left to convince him before I boarded the next flight home, I said, “My Dad died last month holding this clay pot close to his heart. He wasted a lifetime trying to break it open and like you said, sell every jewel inside. He tried crushing it with a hammer, smashing it against his bedroom wall and even borrowed a giant pestle to hit the crap out of it. By the time Dad realized the pot is unbreakable, he had become a broken man himself. Greed devastated Daddy. Looking back, I think nothing could have fixed him except death. ” I paused to study Uncle’s reaction. Not a twitch etched his face.
“Go on.” Uncle ordered with a faint quiver in his voice. My Dad’s dying wish resounded in Dolby Surround, pounding against the chambers of my heart: “Find Philip. Give it back!” Squeezing down a few drops of saliva I continued, “Dad had no idea where to find you. Well, no one did. It was his dying wish to give you back this clay pot.” Uncle laughed hysterically again, this time in higher decibels. “For what, lady? So that I too may die a broken man, trying to own what never was mine?” The truth in his words challenged every justification I had thought over before embarking on an uncertain search for my Uncle. He added with a tinge of scorn, “You are just like your Dad. Ruthless. You bring me this pot because it is of no use to you now. What good is an unbreakable pot even if it has treasures within, right?” I dared not nod in agreement for he had read my mind.
Gesturing with his chin at the ex-convicts now seated across the room, Uncle said, “You see them, Regina? See these gentlemen you got scared around a while ago? They chose the wrong path at one point of time. They got punished. Incarcerated. Years later, they tried to reclaim their lost lives. Sadly, no one wanted them around. Bet you know why. Because they were of no use to anyone, anymore! They were heartlessly tossed around just like this clay pot you are trying to get rid of.” Uncle paused to brush away a painful thought.
“At St. Maximilian, they are not unwanted, unbreakable, good-for-nothing clay pots. Their true worth has been discovered. The goodness within them has found release. And today they make full use of themselves to light up the lives around them. Do you get me, Regina?” Rendered momentarily voiceless, I tried to drag my gaze away from Uncle’s rising fury. “Look at me, Regina”, he fumed, “You know nothing about giving others a second chance. I will tell you how: it is by unearthing the goodness in them; by wiping away the dirt on the uncut gem they are within; by buffing every angle to bring out their true brilliance.” Uncle stretched back on his couch, exasperated by the sudden, unrestrained rush of emotions he had withheld for God alone knows how long. Averting my gaze, I watched his zircon rosary rise high and low with a pace that matched his breath.
At that instance, I realized it wasn’t my Uncle or the gentlemen at St. Maximilian who deserved a second chance. It is the clay pot I had been holding on to all this while. The unbreakable clay pot everyone had been clinging to, ever since it was dug up on that moonless night. Bending my knees and dropping down to the polished Kota Stone floor, I placed the clay pot at Uncle’s feet. Saying a prayer, seeking nothing but forgiveness, I got up and left St. Maximilian. Uncle was either too tired to protest or simply thankful I was out of sight. He remained seated, rolling the sparkling rosary beads between his fingers, thinking over each painful moment that had mined a void in his life.
#
I never thought I would hear from him again. I was wrong. Two days later, Uncle phoned. “Hello Regina, I would like you to come over to St. Maximilian. Can you make it?” I felt so happy hearing his voice that I did not think twice before booking an early morning flight to Thrissur. It was during the drive from the airport to Uncle’s abode that I mulled over why he would want to see me. Had he managed to break the pot? “Impossible”, I mumbled, my rationality mocking at the thought. Nothing short of a miracle could break that pot.
Uncle was waiting for me at his front door when the cab dropped me at St. Maximilian. Following his signal, I climbed up the concrete stairs to the terrace. Ben, the tallest, brawniest man I have ever seen off-screen, offered me tea and a ceramic dish lined with sizzling banana fritters. “Ben’s a great cook,” Uncle said, “and had he not robbed that bank, this antique fellow would have made a fortune as India’s Top Chef.” We three burst into a hearty laugh. Enjoying the unexpected hospitality and the warmth of the afternoon sun, I concluded one of the ex-convicts had somehow cracked open that pot. “How did you do it?” As if in response, Ben came over, placed a bronze cloche platter on the table and dramatically lifted the lid.
I thought he had served us the sun. Such was the dazzle from the mound of bewitchingly beautiful jewels. Every ray of light rushed to touch a gemstone’s cheek and then skipped back in delight with a thousand-fold brilliance. I squinted and noticed the powdery remains of the clay pot, lying surrendered beside the shimmering pile. I let out a laugh and blurted, “It’s a miracle. What did you do?” Uncle smiled, “Nothing.” Pointing at the sun above, he continued, “He did it.” I frowned without wiping off my smile.
“Regina, this is no ordinary clay pot. It’s made of solar-energized clay that turns rock-hard upon human contact but swells and crumbles under the full light of the sun.” I stumbled a few steps back and whispered with a heavy heart, “It’s that simple?” Uncle replied, “Yes. If only Clive had the good sense to bring the damned pot to light, he would not have died a broken man.” For the first time I saw tears streaming down Uncle’s cheeks, diving down to his chest and drowning on his linen shirt.
I cried myself to sleep that night, wishing my Dad had never run away into the darkness with the clay pot. I wondered hopelessly why no one helped him see the great light that could miraculously reveal the hidden treasures and save, not just him but every fellow being on this planet. Nevertheless, I knew Dad’s soul will be resting in peace from now on, for the princely jewels have been given a second chance to reach out to those in need and heal lives, communities and the world, at large.
