The Missing File

(You can read the sample pages from my new novel here)

നിയമസഭാ മന്ദിരം നീണ്ടു വളർ ന്ന  കുപ്പി പ്പന കളുടെ നിഴലിൽ വിശ്രമിച്ചു. 
അടഞ്ഞു കിടന്ന ജനാല ശീ ലക ൾ  ഉയർത്താ നായി അലുമിനിയ ത്തിൻ റെ  പിടി അയാൾ പിറകോട്ട്‌ തിരിച്ചു. 

കോണുകൾ മടങ്ങിയ ചുവന്ന അരപ്പട്ട കെട്ടിയ കേസു കെട്ടുകളിൽ ഉടക്കി പ്പോയ അയാളുടെ ജോലിയെ പ്പോലെ ആ ജനൽ ശീ ലകളും പകുതിയിൽ കുരുങ്ങി ക്കിടന്നു. 

മുകളിലെ കറങ്ങുന്ന ഫാനി ൻറെ വിരസമായ ഞരക്കങ്ങൾ തട്ടിനുമുകളിലെ ഉച്ച ഭക്ഷണ ത്തിനു ഒത്തു കൂടിയ പുതിയ സെക്രെട്ടറി മാരുടെ കോലാ ഹലത്തിമിർപിൽ ഒതുങ്ങി. 
ഇനിയും കുടുങ്ങിപ്പോയ ജനൽ ശീല വിടുവിക്കാൻ അയാൾക്ക് ഒന്നും തന്നെ കണ്ടെത്താനായില്ല.  കയ്യിലെ സന്ധികളിലെ കശേരു ക്കളെല്ലാം തേഞ്ഞു പോയിരിക്കുന്നു, ദിനം പ്രതിയുള്ള വേദനകൾ മാത്രം നൽകി കൊണ്ട്. 
മുൻ തലമുറകൾ തനിക്കു നൽകിയ കയ്നീട്ടം... 
തൻറെ അച്ഛനും ഇതേ കെട്ടിടത്തിൽ മുഴുവൻ ജീവിതവും കഴിച്ചു കൂട്ടി. 
അവികാരിതയോടെ അപേക്ഷകൾ മഷി ക്കറ നിറഞ്ഞ പൊടിപിടിച്ച ഈ മേശ മേൽ തള്ളി വരണ്ട ഉരുണ്ടു കൂടിയ കൈകളെ അയാളും പഴിച്ചിരിക്കണം.

(You can read the sample pages from my new novel here)

 The secretariat building stayed in the shades of the tall bottle palm trees. 

He opened the blinds by turning the aluminum handle anti-clockwise. Then it stuck midway, like his job between the piles of cream colored files wrapped with red canvas waist belt, dog eared. The ceiling fan made the monotonous rumble which merged with the creaking sounds from the ceiling above which the batch of new secretaries assembled to grab their lunch. 

There was nothing he could find to untangle the broken blinds. The cartilage in his small joints has worn out, bringing the daily supply of aches. This was the present from the previous generations. His father also lived his entire life in this building. Sitting emotionless reading the applications ending up in this old dusty table with ink stains, he also cursed his knobby, dried up hands. 




Minister was away in tour  of the northern district which was flooded in the monsoon.

 He can rest for a while. There is no crowd behind the door. There are no visitors, except the young man from the news channel laughing with his would- be- wife standing in the corridor. Many months ago, he was eager to get the scoop about the minister’s foreign trip and the connections. Now he has found his scoop: The upper division clerk, who gave him all the details. The stories never reached his audience. He seemed to have moved on to greener pastures. 

 The telephone rang once. He made sure that he ignored this daily annoyance. When he first moved to this office room, he was eager to lift the receiver and waited no time to say “Hello”

 He now has grown old to understand the futility of this task. The messages will be taken if needed. He is not an essential link in this chain of bureaucracy. He is just a stepping stone in the citadel of corruption. Even the walls and rusted hinges of the old doors knew that truth.

 This machinery works the same way. The operators will change. They come here, live, breath, make money, build house, send kids to college, get them married, then retire. New faces will then replace them and the machinery transforms them. He was just checking off the papers and selected files for the Minister to sign tomorrow when he returns. He read the story of the divorce and the father-in-law’s comments in the local newspaper. The father-in-law is trying to use this as his next election strategy. The young minister was naïve to get his neck in the horse trade. 

 He knew the old man also.
 He was however nice to him. He knew all the tricks of this profession. 

 He was able to come out unscathed from any trouble. It was unbelievable that the person who was in critical state in coronary ICU last month was callous enough to wage war against his own family using his daughter.








To be continued….