A meaningful look passed between the two men listening to his story.

‘Within a week, the old woman was dead,’ Thambi continued. ‘Served her right! Her brothers beat my father to death.’

‘So . . . this man . . . he didn’t say anything else?’ asked the first man.

‘No, nothing. He came, ate his food, slept and took off.’

‘He must have been some travelling mendicant,’ the second man could not stop himself from saying. Recalling Maadan Thambi’s notorious days of violence, his friend kicked his leg under the table, warning him to keep quiet.

Thambi sat silently for a while. Then, in a voice suffused with anger, he said: ‘You boys were not even a twinkle in your fathers’ eyes when I had the whole of Kaliyaar town under my thumb. I don’t care if you believe me or not. But if you want evidence, come, I’ll show you.’

The three of them squeezed into the broad driver’s seat of Thambi’s autorickshaw, which had a flatbed at the back. Usually used to cart food for his pigs, it stank of decayed vegetables and scraps from the chicken stall. Despite Thambi’s efforts to control it, the vehicle screeched and shuddered in and out of the potholes on the road. In the dim light of the evening, watching the pitted road filling with water in the pouring rain, the men felt that Thambi was taking them on a journey to hell. The crucifix hanging above the steering wheel swung crazily each time the vehicle juddered. Was this the same Thambi who was carried ceremoniously in a palanquin by the feudal landlords of Kuttanad to beat the agitators into submission during the Thoppipala strike? The first man took a surreptitious look at Thambi. He was older, yes, but his lean body was still that of a man in his prime.

A group of policemen from the Vannappuram station, waiting by the side of the road to conduct spot checks on passing vehicles, ignored them. The newly appointed sub-inspector had been informed by his constables that there was no need to check the sobriety of such a saintly person as Thambi.

Thambi’s house was an untidy structure with extensions and embellishments added willy-nilly over time. He led them through a rabbit warren of rooms, switching on the lights as he progressed, into an interior one. A mat that looked like it was never rolled up was spread on the floor, anticipating sweet slumber. Thambi opened a wooden almirah, took out a medium-sized framed photograph, and wiped the dust off it with a wet palm.

‘There you go,’ he said, passing it on to the second man.

In the faded photograph, Thambi, thirty years younger, stood next to a primitive-looking bearded man. The second man studied the expression on the bearded man’s face. He looked bored, as though he had seen many cameras and was used to posing for pictures. It was an unusual expression for people of that time.

‘That day, after serving him food, I ran to the stables,’ Thambi said. ‘A Tamilian named Vellappan used to work there, and he had a camera. I brought him over and asked him to take this photo.’