The Diamond Needle
Salini Vineeth
When he first appeared in the market on a stifling afternoon, he had no name. The morning show had just been over, and the crowd gushed out of the Sagar Theatre carrying the smell of popcorn and cigarettes. The newcomer stood in the middle of the market square, grunting as if asking for help. The crowd flowed around him like a river around an islet. They didn’t offer him anything more than curious glances.
Appachan, who was scoring a sheet of glass with his diamond needle, looked up when he heard the grunt. He rested the diamond needle on the glass, wiped the sweat off his forehead with his thorthu and stepped outside his coffin-cum-cooldrink shop.
‘Chetta, oru soda.’ Suddenly, a worker from the sawmill across the street appeared before him.
Appachan went back in, opened the refrigerator, and handed his customer a soda. He then stepped into the scorching sun, with the white thorthu over his head. He waded through the crowd to find the source of that grunt. At first, Appachan couldn’t figure out if the newcomer was a boy or an old man. The man’s face was furrowed, but his limbs were short and tender, just like a child’s. He was all white: white skin, white hair, white eyebrows and even white eyelashes. His skin had red patches that looked like sunburns. When he moved, his oversized clothes waved about him like limp flags.
The newcomer seemed to be watching the sawmill worker at the cooldrink shop. His eyes followed the worker’s Adam’s apple, which moved in sync with the marble inside the soda bottle. He put his scarlet tongue out and wetted his lips. The lines around his lips made his mouth look like a drawstring purse, small and puckered.
Appachan went closer.
‘What’s your name?’ ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Have we met before?’ Appachan asked none of these questions. He knew it wasn’t the time to ask them. He didn’t need those answers to understand the newcomer was hungry.
‘Hello.’ Appachan tapped the man’s shoulder. He shuddered and looked around. ‘Come, I will give you a soda,’ Appachan said, gesturing at his shop. The newcomer followed.
‘Here, sit.’ Appachan dusted a wooden stool with his thorthu. The newcomer’s eyes wandered around the coffin shop and finally landed on the open refrigerator: rows and rows of soda bottles, each with an alluring marble inside them. Appachan pulled out a bottle, pressed his thumb into the mouth of the codd-neck bottle, and pushed the marble down. The glass marble fell into its slot with a delightful clink, and soda fizzed out. The newcomer grunted and flashed his pan-stained teeth. He almost snatched the soda bottle from Appachan’s hands.
‘Appachan Chetta, where did you get this Pottan Sayipp?’ asked the sawmill worker.
‘Don’t call him Pottan. He has a name.’
‘Oh, what is it?’
‘What’s your name?’ Appachan asked the newcomer. The newcomer had finished drinking his soda. He grunted and looked at the refrigerator again.
‘See, I told you, he can’t speak. He is a Pottan, and he’s all white, like a Sayipp,’ the sawmill worker said.
‘Don’t call him Pottan. I will call him … hmm … Kunjimon,’ Appachan said. ‘Kunjimone, do you need another soda?’ Appachan asked, and the newcomer nodded.
‘See, he understood.’
‘Why do you always bring in such people and feed them, Chetta? Vayyaveli!’ the worker warned Appachan.
‘You don’t worry about it. Can you do one help? Ask the teashop to send three sukhiyans. Ok?’
‘Oh, the soda wasn’t enough, eh? Now you want to feed him sukhiyan, too? Like the Vetalam, he will sit on your neck and never come down,’ the worker said, spitting onto the drain in front of the shop.
‘It’s my problem. Now, will you ask them to send the sukhiyans or not?’
‘Shari, shari … I will tell them. It’s your money. You can waste it feeding tramps like him. Who am I to ask?’ The worker slammed a ten rupee note on the candy jar and left.
That’s how the newcomer got a name: Kunjimon. However, no one in the market would call him by that name. They would prefer Pottan Sayyip, the sawmill worker’s invention. They thought it was the perfect name for someone who looked like a foreigner and conversed through grunts and snorts.
Soon, three crispy sukhians, sweet green gram fritters, arrived wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. Kunjimon ate the sukhians and drank one more soda. His grunts softened, and its cadence conveyed satisfaction. He looked around, his mouth slightly open. He examined the unfinished coffins on the floor and the finished ones neatly stacked on the side racks. Then he smiled.
‘Do you like them?’ Appachan asked. Kunjimon smiled again.
Kunjimon was the first person to show any admiration towards Appachan’s coffins. None except Appachan considered them works of art. Earlier, people stayed away from his shop. Only when there was a death in the family did they step inside the shop. Even then, they would quickly choose a coffin, pay up and exit. People considered coffins inauspicious, a reminder of the inevitable death. Appachan started a cooldrink outlet when the new theatre opened, hoping it would draw more people in. However, people were reluctant to buy drinks from a coffin shop at first. Once Appachan started selling cigarettes and provided a tin of smouldering coal to light them, people started pouring in. A place that was desecrated by coffins was sanctified by tobacco.
The evening grew older, and the crowd flowed in to watch their favourite Mohanlal movie. Meanwhile, Appachan worked on a piece of glass, and Kunjimon sat on his wooden stool, observing the diamond needle gliding through the glass. He didn’t seem to have any intention to leave, and that didn’t bother Appachan. He calmly fixed the hexagon-shaped glass pane onto a coffin’s lid. Appachan imagined how the glass window would give people one last glimpse of their loved ones. He sighed and smiled at Kunjimon. When the crowd erupted from the theatre after the evening show, Kunjimon got up to leave.
‘Where do you stay?’ Appachan asked, but Kunjimon had already vanished among the crowd.
*
The next day, Kunjimon appeared at the coffin-cum-cooldrink shop around lunchtime. Appachan had just opened his lunch wrapped in a banana leaf. He opened a plastic dabba, and the smell of fish cooked in red chilli and kokum spread through the shop.
‘Vaa, vaa. Come inside. I thought I would never see you again. We’ll share the lunch today. I will bring another pothi for you tomorrow, ok?’ Appachan said. He scooped half a portion of the red rice onto a steel plate and poured the fish curry over it.
‘How’s the maththi curry? It’s my speciality,’ Appachan said, licking his fingers after lunch. Kunjimon smacked his lips. Later, Appachan ordered sukhians, and they ate to their fill.
Kunjimon came at the same time the next day and the next. Appachan never failed to bring a second packet of food. They would eat together, and then Kunjimon would settle on the wooden stool, observing Appachan as he cut plywood, stuck the laminate, and hammered together plywood boards. Every evening, Kunjimon left after the first show.
‘Mone, where are you from? Do you have a place to stay?’ Appachan once asked. Kunjimon hung his head low and walked away.
After Kunjimon left, Appachan followed him. He saw Kunjimon walking towards the river and disappearing into the bushes under the bridge. Appachan waited on the riverbank till nightfall, wondering if he should go and check under the bridge. What if he is doing something nasty under the bridge? Appachan hesitated. He was a respectable, church-going Christian who had no business in shady places. But he couldn’t leave Kunjimon under the bridge alone. So, he climbed down to the pebbled path and walked towards the bridge. When he parted the communist pacha shrubs, a small clearing under the bridge came into his view. There was Kunjimon, blissfully asleep under the bridge, on a piece of cardboard, snuggled up in a torn lungi. The angry river gushed three feet away from him. During high tide, the river could wash him away in a blink of an eye.
‘Da, mone, get up, get up. Come with me. Take all your things.’ Appachan poked Kunjimon. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Seeing Appachan, he smiled. Holding his cloth bundle, he followed Appachan.
‘You can sleep in the shop if you want. Is it ok?’ Appachan said, not sure if Kunjimon would like the idea. Sleeping with a bunch of coffins wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. But Kunjimon laughed, which sounded more like a hiccup.
*
‘How can you trust your shop with a tramp like him?’ the sawmill owner asked Appachan when he came down for a cigarette the next evening.
‘Sare, he is a poor homeless fellow. He sleeps under the bridge. During the high tide, the river would take him along with her. Where else will he go?’ Appachan asked while Kunjimon watched them from his wooden stool.
‘What if he robs you? You are a good man, and you trust everyone. But, not everyone is trustworthy.’ The sawmill owner flicked his cigarette and eyed Kunjimon with suspicion.
‘Oh, what is there in my shop that’s worth stealing? If he drowns in the river, I won’t be able to sleep properly. He’s a poor thing. He won’t do any harm,’ Appachan said, glancing at Kunjimon, who sat like a stone on the wooden stool.
‘Athe, athe. Don’t be fooled by his innocent looks. Pottan! Look at his face. There is something weird about him, and I am warning you.’
‘Sare, why are you saying things like that in front of him? He will feel bad.’
‘Oh, as if he understands Malayalam. I think he’s not even from India. Maybe an illegal immigrant from Nepal or Bangladesh. You find many of that lot roaming around here these days. If police get the wind of it, you’ll be in prison for sheltering him. Just remember that.’ The sawmill owner threw his cigarette away and left. Kunjimon looked at Appachan, pain in his eyes.
‘Da, mone. Don’t worry about that. Some people can’t trust anyone. But it’s their problem, not ours,’ Appachan said, shrugging. Kunjimon smiled.
*
For the next few days, Kunjimon spent most of his time in the coffin shop. He would perch on the wooden stool and observe Appachan cutting plywood, fitting beadings, and scoring glass panes. A child-like glee would bloom on Kunjimon’s face whenever he saw the diamond needle at work. Once or twice, he expressed his wish to touch the diamond needle. But Appachan never let Kunjimon touch any of the sharp tools. Every evening, before leaving, he locked them up in the cupboard.
At first, people who came to get a soda or a smoke eyed Kunjimon with disgust. The coffins were enough to repel them, but they found his white skin and constant grunts more annoying. Kunjimon smiled at the children who came to get ginger candies, and they ran away, terrified. Their parents soon came searching for Appachan and advised him to get rid of Kunjimon.
‘He’s not a dog or a cat to get rid of,’ Appachan would say. As if I would get rid of a cat or dog! He would then mutter under his breath. While Appachan didn’t bother about the complaints, such comments made Kunjimon’s face lose its glow.
*
The next morning, Appachan visited his friend, the theatre’s supervisor.
‘Satheesaa, I need you to do me a favour. Kunjimon can’t sit in my shop all day long. People won’t give him peace. Will you give him a small job? Maybe as a ticket collector?’
‘Who is Kunjimon?’
‘You have seen that guy in my shop, right?’ Appachan asked.
‘Oh, you mean Pottan. You’re the only one who calls him Kunjimon.’ The supervisor laughed, and his potbelly jingled like jelly. ‘Ok, Whatever. Now tell me, how did you even assume I would give him a job? People will be terrified to go near him. The owner will kill me if he finds out.’
‘Oh, people will get used to him. And your owner, how will he know about this sitting in Dubai? Haven’t he given you all the freedom with the theatre?’ Appachan asked.
The supervisor sat straight and considered it for a moment. ‘If you are so worried about him, why don’t you give him a job in your shop? Anyway, he’s sitting on that stool like a crane from morning to evening.’ The supervisor laughed at his joke, but Appachan didn’t.
‘His arms aren’t strong or steady enough to do the work I do. He will hurt himself. He can only do some light tasks, like collecting tickets. Please give him one chance, just as an apprentice. If he’s bad, send him away. Please, I am begging you,’ Appachan said. The supervisor stared at Appachan from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
‘Edo, I can give him a job. But is he even eligible to work? People say he’s not even from India.’
‘Then how does he know Malayalam? He understands everything I say. If you trust me, you can trust him. Please?’
‘Ok, fine. Just for a week. But, Appachaa, I don’t understand you sometimes. I think you have a screw loose somewhere.’ The supervisor laughed, and Appachan laughed along.
*
Sagar Theatre had three doors, and the movies often ran houseful. Miscreants usually tried to tailgate to watch their favourite movies. Each door needed a ticket collector who watched the crowd like a hawk. People would push and shove in the excitement to catch the film. The ticket collectors didn’t get much time to examine each ticket and let people in. Being a doorman at the Sagar Theatre wasn’t a job for the fainthearted.
Kunjimon not only survived but thrived in his job. Every morning, after cleaning the coffin shop and handing the keys to Appachan, Kunjimon reported to the theatre for duty. Grunting, he stood guard at his assigned door as if it were the door to heaven. He was not like the other doormen who were distracted with their mobile phones. Initially, people were taken aback when Kunjimon demanded their tickets. But just like the supervisor, the crowd got used to him.
Ticket collectors didn’t need to be on the premises while there was no show. After the morning show, Kunjimon would return to the coffin shop and sit on his wooden chair. He would have lunch with Appachan, and they would crack jokes and laugh. It was Appachan who cracked jokes. Kunjimon just laughed, a hiccup-laughter.
At night, Kunjimon slept on a Palmyra mat in the corner of the coffin shop. But Appachan noticed that Kunjimon sometimes slept in an almost-finished coffin. Appachan was taken aback when he saw it first.
‘Don’t sleep in a coffin; it’s an inauspicious thing to do. Are you in a rush to go to heaven?’ Appachan warned him many times. However, Kunjimon seemed to like the coffin’s cotton padding and cosy silk lining. His small frame perfectly fitted inside it. Whenever Appachan came early, he often found Kunjimon blissfully asleep inside that coffin, so still, as if he weren’t breathing.
Then, one day, he stopped breathing.
*
‘Who saw the body first? How did it end up in the coffin?’ the constable asked. The theatre supervisor looked at Appachan.
‘I saw him first. He sleeps in my shop at night, and he likes to sleep in that coffin sometimes,’ Appachan said, his voice trembling. Voices echoed inside his head. People crowded outside to get a glimpse of Kunjimon’s body.
‘Edo! I asked you how you two are related.’
‘Umm … Not related. I met him in the market a few months ago. He used to work in the theatre as a ticket collector.’
The theatre supervisor glared at Appachan. ‘Sare, I gave him the job on Appachan’s recommendation,’ he declared.
‘Ok. So, what is his name? Have you informed his relatives?’ the constable asked.
‘His name … Umm … We call him Kunjimon,’ Appachan said,
‘Kunjimon? But I heard another name outside … What was that? Ah … Pottan! Does anyone know his real name?’
‘He couldn’t speak, so we didn’t … We couldn’t … Umm…’ Appachan looked down at the half-built coffins on the floor.
‘What are you blabbering? I think there is something fishy here. Will someone willingly get into the coffin and die?’ The constable twirled his moustache. ‘Sare, I think he’s lying,’ he then turned to the head constable and said.
‘So, you mean to say you don’t even know his name? Still, you let him sleep in your shop and got him a job in the theatre. No, I don’t find it believable. Tell me, how do you know him? Wasn’t he your illegitimate son?’ the head constable asked.
‘Sare, this old fellow is a gentleman. He gives refuge to many such people. He is not a fraud or anything,’ the theatre supervisor cut in.
‘Who are you? His lawyer? Don’t be over-smart, ok? I will grab both of you, put you behind bars and charge murder. Then let’s see if you still want to play the lawyer,’ the head constable said. The supervisor covered his mouth with his palm.
Appachan feared that the constable would knock him down with the lathi. But the policeman got a call and moved away.
‘Yes sir, yes. Yes sir…’ the head-constables voice turned mellow.
‘Ok, we are moving the body to the mortuary. We will try to find the relatives, and if no one is found, we will cremate the body,’ he turned to Appachan and said.
‘Sare, that’s not possible. He shouldn’t be cremated like an orphan,’ Appachan sniffled.
‘Oh, yeah, I will make all the arrangements for the funeral and invite you! If you try to play the guardian angel anymore, I will charge you with sheltering illegal immigrants and maybe even with murder. Manassilayo?’
Appachan didn’t understand. When Kunjimon was alive, no one wanted him. Neither the government nor the police came inquiring about his welfare. After his death, everybody seemed to be interested in his dead body.
*
A day passed after the police took away Kunjimon’s body. Appachan couldn’t do any work, and he couldn’t sit idle. He begged the theatre supervisor to go with him to the police station.
‘Oh, so you’re the saint who shelters the illegal ones, huh? Don’t you know you have to report them to the police station?’ the sub-inspector asked.
‘Please don’t call him an illegal person! How can any human be illegal, sare? He was a poor, honest fellow,’ Appachan said.
‘How can you say confidently that he’s not an illegal immigrant? Does he have an Aadhaar card? Or ration card? Any identification?’
‘Sare, what are you saying? He understands Malayalam.’
‘Has he ever talked to you?’
Appachan shook his head. He had never exchanged a word with Kunjimon. But it didn’t mean they didn’t communicate. Was language always necessary to understand another person? But Appachan didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his head hanging low.
‘Sare, will you let us know if you find his relatives or when you plan to cremate him? Appachan and I would like to attend the funeral,’ the theatre supervisor asked.
‘You know what I should do? Throw both of you in jail for sheltering an illegal person! Only because you are an oldie that I am not doing it. Now, scram before I change my mind. I already have so many problems above my head. Now, I should also invite guests to a vermin’s funeral,’ the inspector barked.
Appachan tugged at the supervisor’s sleeve. He knew there was no point in arguing with the inspector. After all, everything depended on papers and identification. Every relationship needed proof.
*
A few days passed by. Every day, Appachan went to the police station, hoping to get some information. But no one bothered to listen to him.
‘Hey, you! Old man, are you doing satygraham here? There’s no point in you coming here. The post mortem of the corpse is done. That fellow had a heart condition. That’s why he died. So, the police have closed the case for now. I think you’ll be safe if you don’t poke your nose in this case. The inspector is suspicious about your interest in this dead body,’ a constable informed Appachan.
‘What, sare? I don’t have any bad intentions. I just want to be present during his funeral. How do I know the time and date?’ Appachan asked, almost in tears.
‘Edo, you better forget about this person, ok? You’re not related to him. So, you have no right to ask about his body. If the relatives come with proper proof, we will hand it over. Do you understand?’ the constable asked.
‘Sare, he has no relatives. If he had, he would’ve told me. So, now what will happen?’
‘They’ll preserve this body for ninety days and then cremate it in the public cemetery. I don’t know exactly when. If you want to know anything more, go to the mortuary and check. Ayyo, I have seen so many kinds of crazy people. But I have never seen anyone like you.’ The constable shook his head.
‘Sare, I knew Kunjimon for only a few months. But when he was alive, no one respected him. I don’t want him to go to the otherworld like an orphan. I want him to give him a proper send-off,’ Appachan said.
‘There is no point in crying here. If you’re so worried, go to the mortuary every day and do your satyagraha there, ok?’ the constable said, almost pushing Appachan out of the station.
*
The very next day, Appachan visited the mortuary. He stood in the cold corridor, suffocating on the smell of formaldehyde. He had no idea what to do or whom to talk to.
‘Appachan Chettan! What are you doing here?’ the young mortuary attendant asked Appachan.
‘Mone, I don’t seem to know you. Who are you?’
‘Chetta, I used to work in the sawmill before passing the PSC exam. You have given me many free sodas. You have even bought me sukhians. Do you remember me? I wish I could say I am glad to see you here. But … Anyway, what’s the case?’
So, Appachan told him everything events from the day he first met Kunjimon and how everything turned out.
‘Chetta, it’s not easy to know when an unidentified body will be cremated. But give me the details, and I will keep an eye on your case. I don’t want you to take the trouble and come here daily. I will call the theatre if there is any news.’
‘Ok. You know, I just want to send him off in the coffin he loved and tell him goodbye,’ Appachan sniffled.
*
After a few weeks, the mortuary attendant called Appachan. As they couldn’t find Kunjimon’s relatives, they were about to cremate his body. The mortuary superintendent had given the task of acquiring a coffin to the attendant. As he received the news, Appachan rushed to the mortuary with Kunjimon’s coffin.
The funeral was held in the electric crematorium. Before closing the coffin’s lid, Appachan placed his diamond needle next to Kunjimon’s body. Before they pushed the body into the combustion chamber, Appachan had one last look at Kunjimon’s face through the hexagonal glass pane on the coffin’s lid. He was glad that he had placed it there.
***
Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine
