A Short, Short Story with a Twist
This is a story with a twist in the end. It begins
once upon a time, in a small village.
Once upon a time, in a small village called Arukanchatti
on the East Coast of India within waving distance of the sea, there lived a
young boy Angalan, with his parents Chinnappan and Chinnathaayi. Chinnappan was
a shepherd by profession and Chinnathaayi became a shepherdini by marriage.
The shepherd owned a small herd of half-a-dozen
sheep. He also owned one single billy goat. As the goat was outnumbered by the
sheep six to one, it was in a minority and had no standing. The man could not
have been called a goatherd. He was more a shepherd than a goatherd. Six times
more. Had he owned only one sheep and one goat, it would have been a toss-up
between being called a goatherd or a shepherd. But six sheep count for
something. Six of one kind or half-a-dozen of another, as the case may be. The
question resolved itself and he was called a shepherd. He would have been
called a shepflock had his herd been a flock. But it wasn’t, so he wasn’t.
The goat was special because he was the only goat in
the village. He was dark brown in colour, with one white leg, his front left,
and three brown legs, making four legs in all and enabling him to walk on all
fours. He also had two horns, one on either side of his head above his eyes,
curving outwards menacingly. They were sound horns, though he never ever used
them. He was never threatening. His failing or weakness was that when someone,
anyone, came close to him, he gave the game away by grinning sheepishly. Goats
grinning sheepishly immediately stop being threats.
Every morning, Chinnappan would get up early and walk
down to the stream nearby to complete his ablutions, while his wife would get
ready his breakfast of a coconut shell bowl of rice porridge, or congee,
sometimes from the rice left over from the previous night and sometimes from
freshly cooked rice, and a glass of watery tea made from an indistinct variety
of tea dust procured from the only petty shop in the village. He would have his
breakfast uncomplainingly, for he liked congee and did not mind watery tea. He
would then pick up his long wooden staff curved at one end to help pull down
high branches to pluck leaves, and, driving his herd out in front of him, walk
off to the grazing ground in the valley full of shade trees and grass about a
kilometre from their hut. Angalan would accompany him, walking by the side of
the goat.
One day, while Chinnappan went ahead with the sheep,
Angalan and the goat loitered on the way and found themselves in a small glade.
The goat seemed happy, for the trees had low hanging branches with plenty of
fresh green leaves. He began to nibble at them and enjoy himself. Angalan saw a
bush overgrown with juicy berries. Soon he was plucking the berries and
feasting on them.
As they were thus passing the time of the day, the
boy saw, in the distance, dust rising in the sandy stretch that passed for a
road. By and by, a Jeep, such as it was, came into view round the bend. It was
a rickety old thing, a few decades old at least and seemed to be running on
sheer will power. It stopped just short
of the glade and disgorged an old man from its interiors. He looked several
years older than the Jeep, with his wrinkled skin and long, flowing white
beard. He was wearing loose khaki pants, a tan shirt, a sleeveless khaki jacket
with several pockets, weathered brown boots encasing his feet and a sola topee
on his head. Lanky and walking with a slight stoop, he approached the little
boy.
Angalan had not seen an outsider in his village for
several months and didn’t know quite what to make of the old man walking
towards him. But he showed no fear for he did not know what fear was.
The old man stopped short of the boy and, finding a
round boulder under the nearest tree, went and sat on it. For some time, no one
spoke. Not even the goat who, in any case, was busy getting his breakfast and
lunch combined. Faint, creaking noises were coming from the Jeep. The old man
looked at the boy and the boy looked back at the old man.
The man pulled out a worn leather pouch from a side
pocket of his jacket. From another side pocket, he pulled out a pipe with a
dark wooden bowl and a bamboo stem. The bowl he stuffed with tobacco from the
pouch and lit with a match stick from a match box he pulled out from yet
another pocket. With a few tentative puffs, he had the pipe going to his
satisfaction. As the aromatic smoke wafted in the air, a comfortable, quietish
silence prevailed.
The old man contemplated the boy for a few more moments
and then spoke to him in Tamil with a faint Pondicherry French accent.
“Ennappa onn peyar?” he asked the boy. (“What is your
name?”)
“Angalan” responded the boy and in turn asked, “Onn
peyar enna?” (“Angalan. What is your name?”)
And the old man replied, “Twist. Oliver Twist”.
I told you in the beginning itself, there’s a Twist
in the end. In fact, if you look carefully, you will find there are two.
-
© Shiva Kumar – 09-20 Feb 2018
