The houseboat had stopped in the middle of nowhere spurring the apprehension of an urbanite how safe would it be to spend the night here.
On one side is the vast expanse of a paddy field, stalks still green and half-grown, suggesting it is still some time to for harvest. On the other is the river or backwater on which the boat -- that we had hired for a day -- was anchored. Evening was about to settle down and I could see, standing on the embankment that divided the field and the water, faraway signs of habitation.
Lighting up a cigarette, I decided to stretch my legs a bit. As I went walked down embankment, I came across a man struggling to manoeuvre his canoe along the canal. The little boat was getting stuck to the divider. Seeing me, he gestured for help. It needed a push. I gave it and the canoe was back in its course. “Come over,” he called.
I focused my gaze on the man, small in stature wearing a dhoti and shirt. His most striking feature was a jet black moustache. “Come come” he urged again. Being the thoroughbred cynic that a born and bred citizen becomes, my faculty of reasoning started acting overtime. My mind became an instant Formula One track where stories of mugging, abduction, never to entertain a stranger and the likes were whizzing like the cars, trying to overtake one another. “Come on, guest, guest,” he said.
Somehow I jumped in. He introduced himself as the common language of exchange was a smattering of English. Radhakrishnan wanted me to visit his home, a couple of 100 yards away. Such was the power in his invitation, I could not decline and as it is I was in his canoe.
In that little journey, Radhakrishnan told me he is a poet. I said, “Like Kumaran Assan”. His sparkling white pearls beamed from behind the bush of his moustache. “Oh you know about him.” I have rarely seen any face light up so brightly hearing just the name of a poet. Well, Assan is the “mahakavi” of Kerala and under the unknown evening sky in an alien land, Radhkrishnan spoke of the poet’s demise in a boating accident, while rowing a boat himself. He said rowing the canoe and ferrying people was his profession. And a few weeks ago he got an opportunity to read his poems on the All India Radio. It was surreal but true.
We reached his house by the riverbank. I was embarrassed as he called out his wife and said something in his mother tongue. His daughter came out and showed us in. I realised I was almost in a perpetual state of namaskar. I tried to be normal still trying to figure out what’s going on. His small house bore obvious marks of impoverishment.
Radhakrishnan’s wife came up with a plate of freshly-cut mangoes. The slices were the sweetest I have ever had or ever will. I thanked them profusely. We talked a while. Then Radhakrishnan walked with me back to our houseboat with a torch in hand. I was learning new lessons in hospitality.
Life may not have always been generous with Radhakrishnan always but he has been rather munificent with life. That’s what makes them poets. That is why they paddle canoes with a song in their hearts.
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife/ Their sober wishes never learend to stray;/ Along the cool sequestered vale of life/ They kept their noiseless tenor of their way..."
