Cave of St Anthony

LHM

Twenty years ago, passing out of the village middle school and joining a high school six kilometers away from home, was an important milestone in the life of Kerala's school children. I remember that farewell address given to us, seventh class acolytes by Thankamma teacher, our matronly Head Mistress. "Children, this is an important occasion in your lives. You are going to the high school and entering your teens. This is the beginning of fresh challenges of adulthood. Keep up the good name of the school and your parents."

Dreaming of that wonder world called High school, we, the group of five village belles walked back to our homes, planning for our summer vacations, the arrival of monsoon and the opening of school. Chitra Nair and Gita, her cousin Sukumari, Thressiakutty, my cousin and myself. We made a great team indeed, a boisterous group, singing, dancing, plucking mangoes from huge mango trees, throwing stones into the running streams, to and fro from school. On reaching home, I used to throw my bundle of books into one corner of the house and if mother was away working in the fields or feeding the cows, I rushed to Chitra's house, after throwing a tantrum for not being able to get anything to eat. There, Gita's mother would fill me up with hot dosas and coconut chutney. Thereafter she would sing and Chitra and I would perform folk dance. Then I would listen to mother's angry voice calling me to help her in boiling oil cakes and water for the cows.

Vacation time was one of hard work and toil in the sugar cane fields, or fetching tapioca from the fields. The nights would be warm and sweaty, an occasional cold wind or a salubrious bath with buckets of water drawn from our open well in the courtyard, giving a temporary respite. It was but natural that I looked forward to the coming of monsoon in June, which would bring out the umbrellas and signal the commencement of the school season.

Two months passed off quickly. The sky became dark, a strong wind started blowing. Palm and rubber trees started swaying. The heavens opened up and drenched the parched earth. We children rushed out into the rain taking in the sweet scent of the soil, drenched with the first showers of the monsoon. Chitra took me into her house and we dried ourselves. Chitra showed me the new dress her father had bought for her for the school. It was getting evening and I heard the church bells chiming and kirtans flowed out of the nearby temple. Chitra's mother called her for Ram Kirtan. I looked towards my house knowing fully well father's ire if children are late for prayers.

After prayers, I cosied upto father and broached the subject of opening of the school and my need to have new dresses. he agreed to get them ready by the coming week. I danced with joy.

Came 5th June, the day for enrolling new children at the High School. First we had to go to my old school for getting TC. I heard the headmistress praising me for my artistic talents and intelligence and the need for giving me more free time to pursue these activities. Father gave a deep sigh. We then proceeded to the High School where the Headmistress, appearing to be a tough taskmaster, duly enrolled me. I met my other friends there and since my father had to go the market to buy provisions, I returned home along with my friends.

High School was an exciting experience. New friends, new languages, to be learnt, new teachers. English looked a funny language, where you read is not exactly what you write. Hindi appeared more familiar but it was difficult to make verb and subject agree. Climbing hills, crossing streams on full flow on bridges of single palm, we used to practice the new language skills on the way back home from school in our own broken manner. On way to school, there was an ominous looking house. On every Friday, we could listen wailing and shouting coming out of the house. We later learnt that this was the place where devils were being driven out of people through Novena to St Anthony. It was believed that all mad or mentally deranged people were victims of the devil. Our parents admonished us never to go near the house. This only roused our curiosity.

One Friday, when we were returning from school, we heard loud cries and screams coming out of the house. We decided to investigate and tiptoed to peep through the small opening on the wall. It was a huge hall with bamboo wall and coconut thatching. The smell of incense emerging from the shed was strong. We slightly lifted the side door. Inside, we saw a large crowd. At the central table, there was the framed picture of St. Anthony adorned with flowers and surrounded by lighted candles. Among the crowd were several women, with sunken eyes, unkempt hair, torn clothes and devoid of any semblance of happiness. They were yelling, crying, beating their chests or pulling out their hair. some were in deep slumber.

A lean, hawk eyed, bald headed man, cane in hand, moved in the crowd. He started caning the women brutally. The cries of pain increased in crescendo. The odor of sweat and blood was oozing in the place. we started feeling dizzy with fright. Suddenly, a bare-chested man of 250 pounds rushed out of the house calling out 'I am out', 'I am free'. The earth appeared to shake under his weight. We too ran out in panic and hid under a bush. We saw the man being followed by a few other people, probably trying to catch him. Soon a crowd gathered on the road. A boy of six years then threw a peeled mango at the man urging to eat it. The man stopped abruptly, muttering, 'sweet little mango, I shall eat you'. Then his relatives came and caught hold of him.

The group of five ran back home, spell bound and frightened. We never told anyone about the traumatic experience.

Lilly Joseph