Gods, my lords, Vellayi-appan cried within himself.

The black palms rose on either side and the wind clattered in their fronds. The wind, ever so familiar, was strange this day--the gods of his clan and departed elders were talking to him through the wind-blown fronds. Slung over his shoulder was a bundle of cooked rice, and its dampness seeped through the threadbare cloth on to his arm. His wife had bent long over the rice, kneading it for the journey and, as she had cried the while, her tears must have soaked into the sour curd. Vellayi-appan walked on. The railway station was four miles away. Farther down the path he saw Kuttihassan walking towards him. Kuttihassan stepped aside from the path, in tender reverence.

'Vellayi,' said Kuttihassan.

'Kuttihassan,' replied Vellayi-appan.

That was all, just two words, two names, yet it was like a long colloquy, in which there was a lament and consolation.

O Kuttihassan, said the unspoken words, I have a debt to pay you, fifteen silvers.
Let that not burden you, O Vellayi, on this journey.
Kuttihassan, I may never be able to pay you, never after this.
We consign our unredeemed debts to God's keeping. Let His will be done.
I burn within myself; my life is being prised away.
May the Prophet guard you on this journey, may the gods bless you, your gods and mine.

The dithyramb of the gods was now a torrent in the palms. Vellayi-appan passed Kuttihassan and walked on. Four miles to go to the train station. Again, an encounter on the way. Neeli, the laundress, with her bundles of washing. She too stepped aside reverentially.

'Vellayi-appan,' she said.

'Neeli,' said Vellayi-appan.

Just these two words, and yet between them the abundant colloquy. Vellayi-appan walked on.

The footpath joined the mud road, and Vellayi-appan looked for the milestone and continued on his way. Presently he came to where the rough-hewn track descended into the river. Across the river, beyond a rise and a stretch of sere grass, was the railway.

Vellayi-appan stepped on to the sands, then into the knee-deep water. Schools of little fish, gleaming silver, rubbed against his calves and swam on. As he reached the middle of the river, Vellayi-appan was overwhelmed by the expanse of water. It reminded him of sad and loving rituals, of the bathing of his father's dead body and how he taught his son to swim in the river; all this he remembered and, pausing on the river bank, wept in memory.

He reached the railway station and made his way to the ticket counter and with great care undid the knot in the corner of this unsewn cloth to take out the money for the fare.

'Kannur,' Vellay-appan said. The clerk behind the counter pulled out a ticket, franked it and tossed it towards him. One stage in my journey is over, thought Vellayi-appan. He secured the ticket in the corner of his unsewn cloth and, crossing over to the platform, sat on a bench, waiting patiently for his train. He watched the sun sink and the palms darken far away, and the birds flit homewards. Vellayi-appan remembered walking with his son to the fields at sundown; he remembered how his son had looked at the birds in wonder. Then he remembered himself as a child, holding on to his father's little finger and walking down the same fields. Two images, but between them as between two reticent words, an abundance of many things. Soon another aged traveler came over and sat beside him on the bench.

'Going to Coimbatore, are you?' the stranger asked.

'Kannur,' Vellayi-appan answered.
'Is that so?'
'The Kannur train will be at ten in the night.’
'Is that so?’
'What work do you do in Kannur?’
'Nothing much.’
'Just traveling, are you?'

The stranger's converse, inane and rasping, tensed round Vellayi-appan like a hangman's noose. Once you left the village and walked over the long ridge, it was a world full of strangers, and their disinterested words were like a multitude of nooses. The train to Coimbatore came, and the old stranger rose and left. Vellayi-appan was again alone on the bench. He had no desire to untie the bundle of rice. Instead he kept a hand on the threadbare wrap; he felt its moisture. He sat thus and slept. And dreamt. In his dream he called out 'Kandunni, my son!'

Vellayi-appan was woken up from his sleep by the din and clatter of the train to Kannur. He felt for the ticket tied in the corner of this cloth and was reassured. He looked for an open door; he tried to board the compartment nearest to him.

'This is first class, O elder.'
'Is that so?’
He peered into the next compartment.
'This is reserved.’
'Is that so?’
'Try farther down, O elder.’
The voice of strangers.

Vellayi-appan got into a compartment where there was no sitting space left. He could barely stand. I shall stand; I don't need to sleep; this night my son sits awake. The rhythm of the train changed with the changing layers of the earth, the fleeting trackside lamps, sand banks, trees. Long ago he had travelled in a train, but that was in the daytime. This was a night train. It sped through the tunnel of darkness, whose arching walls were painted with dim murals.

The day had not broken when he reached Kannur. The bundle of kneaded rice still hung from his shoulder. Oozing its dampness. He passed through the gate into the station yard, the dark now livened by the first touch of dawn. The horse-cart men clumsily parked together did not accost him.

Vellayi-appan asked them, 'Which is the way to the jail?'

Someone laughed. Here is an old man asking the way to the jail at daybreak. Someone laughed again, O elder, all you have to do is steal; they will take you there. The converse of strangers tightened around his neck. Vellayi-appan suffocated.

Then someone told him the way and Vellayi-appan began to walk. The sky lightened to the orchestration of crows cawing.

At the gate of the jail a guard stopped him, 'What brings you here this early?'

Vellayi-appan shrank back like a child, nervous. Then slowly he undid the corner of his cloth and took out a crumpled and yellowing piece of paper.

'What is that?' the guard enquired.

Vellayi-appan handed him the paper; the guard glanced through it without reading.

Vellayi-appan said, 'My child is here.'

'Who told you to come so early?' the guard asked, his voice irritable and harsh. 'Wait till the office is open.'

Then his eyes fell on the paper again, and became riveted to its contents. His face softened in sudden compassion.

'Tomorrow, is it?' the guard asked, almost consoling.

'I don't know. It is all written down there.'

The guard read and reread the order. 'Yes,' he said, 'it's tomorrow morning at five.'

Vellayi-appan nodded in acknowledgement, and slumped on a bench at the entrance of the jail. There he waited for the dark sanctum to open.

'O elder, may I offer you a cup of tea?' the guard asked solicitously.

'No.’

My son has not slept this night and, not having slept, would not have woken. Neither asleep nor awake, how can he break his fast this morning? Vellayiappan's hand rested on the bundle of rice. My son, this rice was kneaded by your mother for me. I saved it during all the hours of my journey and brought it here. Now this is all I have to bequeath to you. The rice inside the threadbare wrap, food of the traveler, turned stale. Outside, the day brightened. The day grew hot.

The offices opened, and staid men took their places behind the tables. In the prison yard there was the grind of a parade. The prison came alive. The officers got to work, bending over yellowing papers in tedious scrutiny. Form behind the tables, and where the column of the guards waited in formation, came rasping orders, words of command. Nooses without contempt or vengeance, gently strangulating the traveler. The day grew hotter.

Someone told him sit down and wait. Vellayi-appan sat down; he waited. After a wait, the length of which he could not reckon, a guard led him into the corridors of the prison. The corridors were cool with the damp of the prison. We're here, O elder.

Behind the bars of a locked cell stood Kandunni. He looked at his father like a stranger, through the awesome filter of a mind that could not longer receive nor give consolation. The guard opened the door and let Vellayi-appan into the cell. Father and son stood facing each other, petrified. Then Vellayi-appan leaned forward to take his son in an embrace. From Kandunni came a cry that pierced beyond hearing and when it died down, Vellayi-appan said, 'My son!'

'Father!' said Kandunni.

Just these words, but in them father and son communed in the fullness of sorrow.

Son, what did you do?
I have no memory, father.
Son, did you kill?
I have no memory.
It does not matter, my son; there is nothing to remember any more.
Will the guards remember?
No, my son.
Father, will you remember my pain?

Then again the cry that pierced beyond hearing issued from Kandunni, Father, don't let them hang me!

'Come out, O elder,' the guard said. 'The time is over.'

Vellayi-appan came away and the door clanged shut.

One last look back, and Vellayi-appan saw his son like a stranger met during a journey. Kandunni was peering through the bars as a traveler might through the window of a hurtling train.

Vellayiappan wandered idly round the jail. The sun rose to its zenith, then began the climb down. Will my son sleep this night? The night came, and moved to dawn again. Within the walls Kandunni still lived.

Vellayi-appan heard the sound of bugles at dawn, little knowing that this was death's ceremonial. But the guard had told him that it was at five in the morning and though he wore no watch, Vellayi-appan knew the time with the peasant's unerring instinct.

Vellayi-appan received the body of his son from the guards like a midwife a baby.

O elder, what plans do you have for the funeral?
I have no plan.
Don't you want the body?
Masters, I have no money.

Vellayiappan walked along with the scavengers who pushed the trolley carrying the body. Outside the town, over the deserted marshes, the vultures wheeled patiently. Before the scavengers filled the pit Vellayi-appan saw his son's face just once more. He pressed his palm on the cold forehead in blessing.

After the last shovelful of earth had leveled the pit, Vellayi-appan wandered in the gathering heat and eventually came to the seashore. He had never seen the ocean before. Then he became aware of something cold and wet in his hands, the rice his wife had kneaded for his journey. Vellayi-appan undid the bundle. He scattered the rice on the sand, in sacrifice and requiescat. From the crystal reaches of the sunlight, crows descended on the rice, like incarnate souls of the dead come to receive the offering.

O.V. Vijayan broke new ground in Malayalam literature with his novel Khasaakkinte itihaasam (The Legends of Khasak, 1990).