Read an excerpt from Anti-Clock: Sahitya Akademi awardee VJ James' novel exploring the life of a coffin maker

Translated from the Malayalam by Ministhy S is Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award-winning author VJ James’ novel Anti-Clock_. It follows coffin shop owner Hendri whose one goal in life is to see the dead body of his nemesis Satan Loppo lowered into the coffin he’s carved. Until he meets Pundit, a 112-year-old watchmaker who was part of Bose’s Indian National Army and is building an ‘anti-clock’ which can turn back time. When Loppo also hears of and desires it, the inevitable battle begins._ *** The bane of a coffin maker is the absence of a regular income. Hence, he fights a losing battle with a life lacking stability and security. A stretched calendar, seeming longer than 12 penurious months, is his working life. The black and red colour variations on the calendar hold no meaning for him and he passes through life unaffected by holidays or working days. Coffins are not products whose sales can be increased through a special offer on Onam or Christmas, are they? Neither is a coffin shop an enjoyable tourist destination. If no one dies, a coffin maker would be easily forgotten. I often grieve the despicable condition of having to wait for someone’s death to earn my bread. A coffin maker is likely to celebrate Christmas or Easter only if some families, owing to a loved one’s death, are deprived of the festivities. It cannot be any death: there is an angle of religious discrimination involved, as it has to be a Christian death! While studying in the church-run primary school, tortured by hunger pangs, I would wish fervently for everyone to purchase coffins, irrespective of their religion. I would allay my hunger by breathing in the delectable scent of cooked meat emanating from the kitchen behind the rectory. Analysing the heady smell of the food, I would try to guess whether it was chicken curry, beef fry or mutton roast. I would close my nostrils and inhale through my mouth, as I wanted the air to reach my stomach instead of my lungs. Later on, I was disappointed to learn that air goes to the lungs whether inhaled through the nose or the mouth. I used to drink water from the pond beyond the rectory and the kitchen. Climbing down a few steps, I would wade into knee-deep water, shove aside the shimmering green foam with my elbows, and bend down to drink straight from the pond. Since other kids scooped the water with their hands, my style of drinking invited much ridicule. ‘Look, he laps up water like a buffalo!’ Having laid me on a bed of arrows tipped with the poison of their sharp-edged mockery, they bestowed on me the nickname ‘Buffalo’. I never felt bad about the name-calling. When I hesitated to answer questions in class, the teachers also hailed me as ‘Buffalo’. Since I ended up hearing ‘Buffalo’ more often than my own name, Hendri, I sometimes believed that was my true name. But Saraswathy teacher, who taught me Malayalam, never used that nickname. Malayalam was the only subject in which I always scored well. As I loved reciting poems melodiously, she would often make me sing Changampuzha’s lines: ‘Aaaru vangum innaru . . .’ For me, Saraswathy teacher was the incarnation of the Goddess of Letters. Perhaps the attention she paid to my recitation triggered my fondness for reading in those days. I became acquainted with the books of Basheer, Kesavadev and Thakazhi stocked in our village library. On reading Dev’s Odayil Ninnu I wept. I adored Pathummayude Aadu, and Karoor’s Marappavakal became a favourite. But except for Malayalam, no other subject lingered in my head. Somehow, I managed to reach the tenth standard, but could never surmount that formidable barrier. When I failed to clear the obstacle in my second attempt, Appan told me kindly, ‘You can join me now, son.’ Thereafter, language also abandoned me. My Appan’s coffin shop circumscribed my life. The death knell from the nearby church became my life’s tempo. Whenever the bell chimed death, a ray of hope arose in our hearts. For Appan and me, the pealing of that death bell came as auspicious tiding of the next business opportunity. When fifteen lives were lost in a sudden landslide, we got an unexpected deal. It is indecent to refer to that as a ‘deal’. Though we fished a bountiful harvest from the sea of tears of fifteen families, Appan’s turbulent mind was far from peaceful. I felt uncomfortable wearing the new garments that Appan purchased to clothe my thin body. It seemed that the warp and weft of the cloth had been woven with the thread of death. My heart was heavy with the realisation that it carried traces of lamentation for the departed. When the exultations of the Perunnal were cut short by the agony of a mass burial, I pondered deeply. Why did my Appan, who could not bring himself to harm an ant, turn into a coffin maker? Why did he anoint me as his heir? Had Appan pursued some other decent business, I too could have followed suit. What could be done? My grandfather was also a coffin maker. The profession had come to me in the form of a legacy. There is no one to blame for certain facts of life. Which branch of knowledge can explain why some are born in palatial bungalows and others in squalid hovels? We can only accept it placidly. Nowadays, coffins having become an intimate part of my life, I tend to adopt the impassivity of a mature philosopher. If not I, someone else was bound to wait with his mallet and chisel on this karmic path. It is all nature’s selection. ‘Indri, it is not feasible to have a world where everyone holds a top-notch job. The Lord has entrusted us with making homes for the dead. It is a holy task, my child.’ Those were Appan’s words to anchor my unsteady mind. It astounded me that Appan had such an unconventional perspective on every matter. Some of that blood must be flowing in my veins too.

* * *

I have known tears, love, happiness and even the humour of life through coffins. One of the best jokes that I enjoy in life is hiding myself behind vertically placed coffins. I imagine myself as a corpse then. It is a highly amusing flight of fancy. While mutating into a corpse, under persuasion of an asinine mind frame, it is possible to traverse the skies and even land on the stars! Or else, one can join the cohorts of those diving beneath the seas, searching for pearls and rubies. Since ghosts are not deterred by doors or walls, the journeys are unhindered. Nobody will believe me if I say that I have travelled in that manner. Not only have I travelled, but I have also reached my dead Appan’s abode. Anyone can travel to the land of the dead in this way. But how many, while alive, have laid down in coffins like me? After death, when they are buried in the coffins, they shall realise the worth of my words. However, they cannot return to reveal it to others. You can reach the land of ghosts only when you lie down in a coffin, unleash your mind and allow it to travel untrammelled. If you can harden your heart a bit, there is another thing you might attempt. Especially if you bear an unsatiated vengeance inside you. You can step out of the coffin, and with your vampire fangs, step into the compound of your opponent. You can bite into the veins of his throat, suck his lifeblood and kill him! I can state facts so objectively because I have done all of the above. In my case, there is also a dark dog destined to die a dastardly, horrific death. Satan Loppo’s pet dog. By that time, Appan’s words ring a note of restraint in my ears: ‘When others harm you, light a candle before the Lord and pray . . .’ Appan’s gullibility is rather hard for me to digest. But he being my father, if I dishonour him, it would be the violation of the Fifth Commandment. Restraining myself, I transfigure back into a wretched ghost, no longer thirsting for blood, cowering behind an upright coffin. Then I stare through the crevices of the planks and view the street in front of my shop. I can see the corroded posterior of the board which proclaims ‘Coffins for sale’ and the human souls who walk past, ignoring it. They never see me. The above excerpt from VJ James’ Anti-Clock has been reproduced here with permission from the publisher Penguin Random House India.