Adam was read quite widely in Malayalam, going into ten reprints and receiving the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award for short story in 2016. I am grateful to Penguin Random House and editor Elizabeth Kuruvilla for their enthusiasm about the book and the opportunity to bring it to a wider audience. I can only hope that it will be received well and read widely.

Neendoor

S. Hareesh

adam

On 26 December 1970, ex-serviceman N.K. Kuruppu rushed home with a puppy of a special breed. It was evident from the speed of the car in which he was travelling that he was impatient to meet his son, born the night before after procrastinating for many years. Kuruppu had always been an impatient man, even when he was in the army. When he would come home on leave, young men loitering at the junction would watch his taxi zip down the road from the train station and, thinking of his wife waiting for him, exclaim: ‘Look at him go! He has already removed his underpants and slung them over his shoulder!’

A sense of lethargy now pervaded the junction, still recovering from the festivities of Christmas. The chai shop and the barber shop were closed. Two middle-aged men and a few young men stood in front of one of the two paan shops which was open. One of the young men was feeling pleased with himself for having engraved the words ‘May a thousand flowers bloom’ on the back wall of the public urinal, a feat he had accomplished after several months of careful planning.

All of them caught a glimpse of the puppy’s head as the car sped past them. Still, unwilling to trust their own eyes, they followed the car, walking briskly down the road. The Kuruppu they knew was not the type to love a human child, let alone the child of a dog. He was the type of soldier who was feared and respected even by his enemies. During the war, he had single-handedly captured two Pakistani tanks. One evening, a month before his retirement, he had set out for a stroll along the India–Pakistan border. Walking briskly, he had lost track of time, and in the spreading darkness, accidentally crossed over to enemy territory. The next thing he knew, he was surrounded by a group of Pakistani soldiers.

‘Hands up!’ they said, pointing their guns at him. They were planning to kill the infidel when the Pakistani major said: ‘Wait! Let’s have a look at the pig’s face.’

Kuruppu shook with fear as several torches were shone in his face.

‘Oh! It’s Kuruppu sir!’ The major knocked his knees and saluted him. ‘Take him back immediately!’ he ordered, and apologized profusely to Kuruppu. The soldiers lit the way with their torches and took him safely back to the border.

However, the handful of local ex-servicemen—they were a rare breed in those parts—secretly bad-mouthed him. They said he had no involvement with the military other than running the army canteen, and that the well-developed muscles on his shoulders were the result of kneading dough for the soldiers’ chapattis. They implied that he was not eligible for the ration of alcohol that the army made available to all ex-servicemen. But Kuruppu was far superior to these people, both in ancestral wealth and bodily strength. He spoke better English and Hindi, and had developed salubrious relationships with more people in prestigious positions than they ever could. He took care not to speak much to anyone, and to suffuse the conversation with belligerence and disdain when he did. Acrimony was his natural disposition.