eFiction India eFiction India Vol.02 Issue.09 | Page 70

69

STORIES

Poor Mr Nair let out a sigh of hopelessness and turning forward, focused his
attention on the swiftly moving trees,
buses, shops, billboards and electric
posts outside.
“Raghav, the gift has been put on board,
hasn’t it?” enquired Mrs Nair slipping
her makeup kit into her vanity bag.
“Yes, madam. It’s been safely put away in
the boot. Pardon me for asking, madam,
but are you gifting them a painting? It
was painfully heavy loading it. Certainly
must be a grandiose object worth thousands of rupees. My guess is that it is
one from your fine collection of Ravi
Varma paintings. Is that so, madam?”
pried the inquisitive driver who liked to
poke his nose into the domestic affairs
of the Nairs. Vishu was not far off. He
knew how to work his way up to win
an extra few rupees for vishukaineetam
this year.
“I don’t see how it matters to you,
Raghav, but since you ask, well, a painting it is indeed! Not a Ravi Varma work
though. Every ragtag and bobtail in this
state can think of no other artist but
Ravi Varma. These people could do
with some out-of-the-box thinking. I
wouldn’t be surprised if I was told that
these country bumpkins haven’t even
heard of the artistic movement called
Renaissance which introduced inimitable greats like Leonardo Da Vinci and
Michelangelo to the world, revolutionizing Europe in the 14th century,” prattled Mrs Nair. Raghavan felt sorry for
himself for having pried. All this was
drivel to his ears. But he knew better
than to interrupt his employer. So he
feigned interest.
“So that means the painting has been
done by one of the great men you just
mentioned?”
“No, Raghu. Those priceless objects
are locked up in museums spread
across Europe. Can you imagine that
Malayalam artist, uh what’s his name?

eFiction India | June 2014

Ezhu… Ezhu… ah Ezhuthachan! Can you
imagine the great Ezhuthachan’s painting
falling into private hands? Be careful before
you make such blunders.”

on for a minute or two. In a while the cough
subsided and he was once again breathing
normally but a film of tears was visible in
the his swollen eyes.

“But, madam, Ezhuthachan was a poet, not
an artist,” blurted out Raghavan, immediately regretting he had said that much to
irk Mrs Nair.

“It’s ok, Lallu kutta. Come to achan. It’s
nothing. Stop crying monae,” saying so,
Mr Nair held out his hands towards his
sobbing son.

“Well, maybe. But there was an artist too
I’m sure. Doesn’t matter anyway. Coming
back to the gift, I am giving them a Van
Gogh painting. ‘Self Portrait with Bandaged
Ear’. Not the original of course. But almost
equally priceless I would say. I picked it
up from Holland last summer. Cost me a
small fortune. Never mind. It will serve as
a symbol of my family’s affluence. Vincent
Van Gogh! I’m sure Lily’s eyes would pop
once she sees it,” chuckled an overwhelmed
Mrs Nair, little discouraged by her own
ignorance.

“Achaa... achaa… I, I.. want to hug…
Meow. I want to hug… meooww,” he said,
snivelling, referring to his kitten. He was
leaning against his father’s chest. But the
warmth barely comforted him.

A cow suddenly strayed into the middle
of the road. Raghavan swerved the steering vehemently to avoid ramming it. The
passengers lunged forward as he turned the
steering a full 90 degrees.
“Road rash,” muttered an annoyed Mr Nair
who woke up with a start from a disrupted
afternoon siesta.
Mrs Nair thought she heard a whine from
behind. It sounded like an animal. But she
brushed the thought away.
“Sorry sir, if I had not manoeuvred the car
that way, that cow would have been beef
by now.”
Lallu broke into a peal of hearty laughter.
“Cow into beef, he he hee… beef,” giggled
Lallu, fascinated by the driver’s timely
wittiness.
He whooped with such belly-aching laughter that he soon began to choke and cough
violently. Lulu patted him hard on the back
and Mrs Nair made him drink some water
from the bottle she was carrying. This went

“Do you want him now? Can’t you wait till
we reach Lily aunt’s house?”
“What do you mean you want him now,
Lallu? You know he’s at home now. You’ll
have to wait till we get back. Now be a good
boy and go to sleep. Mamma will wake you
up when we reach,” said Mrs Nair.
“Achaa, you said Meow is coming with us.
I want him now.”
“Of course. He is here with us. Raghavan
pull the car along the roadside.”
Raghavan did as he was told and parked the
car under the arching bows of a peepal tree
on the left side of the road.
“What is happening here? Quit playing
around with the kid. We don’t have all day
to waste,” said an annoyed and puzzled Mrs
Nair.
Mr Nair flung the door open and walked
to the boot of the car not listening to his
agitated wife. He lifted open the door and
was greeted by the desperate cry of an overwhelmed kitten which at once pounced
onto the bare ground.
“Meow!” cried out Lallu, running out of the
car equally overwrought as his feline friend,
and bending down on Hܛ