Fiction: The Cannibals

Subhash Chandra

Subhash Chandra

Prologue: Many creative writers suffered from mental health issues. They include celebrities, such as Franz Kafka, Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Eugene O'Neill, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Scott Fitzgerald, and more.

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Me -- Hi Vipin, where have you been?

Vipin -- With the goblins. Call me later. (Crotchety tone)

Me -- Suresh, how are you doing, fella?

Suresh -- Still in bed … will give you a tinkle in the evening. (Churlish tone)

Me -- All well, Tarun?

Tarun – I’m super. Busy right now. Gymming. Building abs and biceps. (Tone snappish, gruff, off-putting).

I wondered what was wrong with the guys. How could they behave like that? …  We were bosom chums. The (in)famous five at college who seldom attended classes yet scored high in exams, leaving the professors confounded. I thought hard, but could not figure it out. Finally, I visited my friend, Ramaswamy, whom we call Kapila, (the ‘Primal Wise man’ or the ‘Knower’ in Indian Mythology). 

I told him what had transpired and asked, “What do you think is eating up the blighters?” 

Ramaswamy is gentle and of unflappable disposition. I have never seen him agitated. After a few seconds he said training his penetrating gaze at me, “They are pissed off with you.”  

“But why?”

“Nobody likes being turned into fodder for your fiction.”

“Oh!”  

“Even Google respects privacy,” said Ramaswamy gravely. 

“But I have modelled characters on myself, too. And often made them funny, crazy, even idiotic. All four of you have vetted the drafts of my stories that were published in reputed journals and garnered appreciation.  And I often use the conversations between you and me in my fiction… You never got miffed with me.”

“But Sujatha hates your guts.”

“What?”

 “Yes. She has resolved to murder you.” 

“But why?”

“The way you mock Sambhar, Rasam, Idlee in your stories. Call them bland, worthless food, ghaas-phoos. Lump all the Southern States together, and contemptuously call us ‘Ssala Madrasi.’ What’s more, you make fun of our pronunciation of English! 

“Eh?”

“Yes, you wrote in a story, we pronounce food as ‘foodda, ‘woman as oman, … and whatnot.”  

“But Ramaswamy, the narrator did not do that. And for the love of Mike, it is fiction.”

“Who creates characters? And you have repeated umpteen times yourself that fiction mirrors reality.”  

“Where is Anni (brother’s wife)?” I asked with a thumping heart.

“She is due back from the temple any minute!”

I sprinted out, downcast.   

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That night I did not sleep a wink. I kept going over the options. Give up writing, and live a ‘normal’ life? That meant turning into a vegetable. 

No, that is not acceptable. I’ll continue to write … at all costs.

Five months went by. They had forsaken me. Then loneliness began to get to me. And it is the worst curse. I found myself talking to myself. My mind began to play tricks. I started thinking bizarre thoughts. I’d see hallucinations sometimes. Vipin, Suresh, and Tarun have come and apologised for their insolence … Ramaswamy has died of a sudden cardiac arrest and Sujatha Anni is sitting by his side shedding silent tears.      

                                                    #

“Hmm … so you are a writer,” the Shrink mumbled reading the history sheet his Junior had prepared. 

“Look, gentleman, you need to socialise,” he said after a thoughtful pause. 

“With whom? … Can you clap with one hand?”

He looked flummoxed.

“I have killed my friends.”

His face turned taut … wary. 

I asked, “Will you be friends with me?”

His brows got knitted.   

“It will be exorbitant,” he blurted out and abruptly got up from his high-back chair to indicate the session was over. 

I paused at the door and turned back. He looked worried and was staring at the ceiling … blankly!

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Setu, September 2024