The Card-Sharper's Daughter'
-Vaikoom Basheer
The moral of this story may as well be
delivered right at the beginning. Girls will find it neither amusing nor enlightening.
Anyway, here it is. If you happen to have daughters, steel your heart and
murder them all in cold blood!
Now don't think that these are my views. I
earnestly hope and pray that none of the many honourable ladies among my
readers, incensed by this blatantly misogynist observation, condemns me to
eternal damnation. They should target Ottakkannan Pokker instead!
Ottakkannan Pokker is the tragic protagonist of
this story. Mandan Muthapa may be loosely described as the villain, though, as
the story progresses, he steadily rises in stature to become the hero, the
chivalrous knight who takes up arms against Pokker. Zainaba is Muthapa's comrade-in-arms
in the battled.
The constables of the village outpost, both
stools of the tyran- nical regime, and Thorappan Avaran and Driver Pappunni,
the two master rogues, were out of station. Anavari Raman Nair and Cable
Ponkurissu Thoma, bigwigs of the local criminal fraternity, were holding the
fort for them. Ettukali Mammoonhu, their protégé, was always at hand. So were
the other villagers, who were more than twenty-two hundred in number. All of
them were peace- lovers, they had nothing to do with warmongering reactionaries
These are the essential facts which I, as a
humble chronicler, would like my readers to acquaint themselves with. Apart
from these, it would be prudent to note the presence of a floating population
of about twenty-six hundred men and women who appeared only on Tuesdays and
Saturdays, the village market-days. Their role was confined to buying and
selling and making a great ruckus-with a few scuffles thrown in. Ottakkannan
Pokker and Mandan Muthapa were artists who rubbed shoulders with this multitude
as they pursued their respective vocations. Zainaba also belonged to the ranks
of the people, though she was seldom seen in their midst. Her creative
endeavours were shrouded in mystery.
Would you ever trust your daughters if you knew
what they were up to? Why do they cause the best-laid schemes of their fathers
to go awry? What do daughters know of the agonies of a father's heart!
I must confess that, after interviewing the
major characters of the story, I felt a certain partiality towards some of them
and consequently lent them my moral support. I record here the whole story for
the benefit of students of history.
I shall begin with Ottakkannan Pokker. As the sobriquet refixed to his name
indicates, he had only one eye. It had been damaged beyond repair in one of the
heroic adventures of his salad days. It was true, that certain intellectuals in
the locality surrepti- tiously referred to him as "that one-eyed
monkey." But never mind that. When this story begins, he was forty-nine
years old. His complexion could be described as fair. The real colour of his
teeth was a well-concealed secret. The visible colour was a dull red, owing to
the fact that Pokker was a voracious betel-chewer. And by virtue of his
profession, 'Ottakkannan Pokker, the card- sharper' was how he was popularly
referred to.
I suppose you have deduced from what has
already been said that Zainaba was Pokker's daughter. Nineteen years of age,
she was the village beauty. She had to be married off to some hard-working
young man. This was what drove Ottakkannan Pokker to work tirelessly, day in
and day out.
Pokker had already accumulated a sum of one hundred and twenty rupees towards
this end. Now, what happened to this money? Zainaba didn't steal it. Anavari,
Ponkurissu, Thorappan, Ettukali and their admirers were all innocent of the
crime though, as a rule, the institution of private property was anathema to
them." The two constables had nothing to do with it either, Mandan
Muthapa? Certainly not! The fact is, nobody stole it. What happened to it then?
Wait, I am coming to that. Mai
The focus of the narrative now shifts to Mandan
Muthapa, a young man of twenty-one, jet-black in complexion and slightly
cross-eyed. However, he always had a charming smile on his face. Like Zainaba,
he had lost his mother in his childhood. His father had died a martyr's death
in prison after a pitched battle with a bunch of beastly policemen over some
misunderstanding about a burglary. As far as he could remember, he did not have
any kith or kin. People just called him 'Mandan Muthapa, the pickpocket."
'Mandan' or 'nitwit' had been prefixed to
Muthapa's name by none other than Pokker. In a way, Pokker was Muthapa's
mentor, having taught him the technique of exhaling smoke through one's nose.
Though Muthapa was required to pay a fee of one rupee for the lesson, he had
unbelted only five-and-a-half annas. The loss still rankled. That bastard
Mandan owes me ten-and-a-half annas," Pokker would wrathfully say, 'I
taught him to blow smoke through his nose. This claim dealt a crushing blow to
Muthapa's ambitions. Muthapa had just begun his career as an apprentice to
Anavari Raman Nair and Ponkurissu Thoma. Pokker's statement prompted these
gentlemen to have second thoughts about their young apprentice, and Muthapa was
left to fend for himself in a wicked world. Who would employ a Mandan-a
dunce-when bright young boys jostled for attention?
Before he started picking pockets, Mandan
Muthapa had tried to enroll himself as Pokker's pupil in card-sharping. He had
managed to get his case recommended by a few influential well- wishers as well.
But Pokker had refused to oblige. 'Get lost, you donkey. It needs boys with
brains to do this stuff."
Pokker was right there. Brains were an asset in
any profession and card-sharping demanded an exceptionally high level of
intelli- gence-and, of course, capital. Pokker had both. His kit consisted of a
pack of cards, an old issue of Malayala Manorama and a handful of small stones.
The stones served as paperweights when the musty newspaper was spread out and
the pack of cards placed on it. Shuffling the cards briskly, Pokker would take
out three from the pack, one joker and two numbered cards. The next step was to
exhibit these cards face-up for his clients to take a good look at them, the
joker in one hand and the numbered cards in the other. But some vigorous
sales-talk was necessary before the clients could be won over completely. So
Pokker would clear his throat and unleash his oratorical skills on them. 'Hai
raja...come on everybody...double your money, folks...two for one, four for
two, the joker makes your fortune. Never mind if you place your money on the
num- bered cards. It's your alms for a poor man...hai raja...'
Pokker would flick the cards facedown on the
paper with a whirring motion. It was the gamblers' responsibility to observe
the movement of the cards carefully. Hawk-eyed, they would stare before placing
their bets on the cards of their choice. Most of them placed anna coins and
one-rupee notes on the cards, though there were also some who wagered as much
as five or ten rupees. But when the cards were turned, they would find that the
joker had cluded them-as always. Thus, each round ended with defeat for the
valiant people and success for the wily Pokker. He would calmly scoop up the
money, of which two rupees went to the local constabulary.
But it was not amusing to play to lose all the time. So Pokker. hit upon a
brilliant strategy. On an average, the people won nearly six times out of ten.
Amazing! But, there was a catch. For 'people,' w read 'friends and apprentices
of Pokker whose identities were unknown to the market crowd.' There was no
fraud in this really! Yet what a world of difference there was between
Ottakkannan Pokker's and Mandan Muthapa's professions! Contrary to popular,
opinion, there is nothing demeaning about a pickpocket's work. A It has made
amazing strides in many countries of the world. There are even colleges to
train aspiring pickpockets. That apart, it is a profession which requires
unwavering concentration, infinite pa- tience, an eye for detail and unshaken
faith in the adage 'silence is golden.' And, as I have already mentioned, some
brains would certainly help. Did Mandan Muthapa have any brains? Well... grit
and determination will see the professional pickpocket through many a crisis.
As for capital, long nimble fingers and a shawl are the only tools required.
Like all committed artists, a pickpocket has to have a finger on the pulse of
the people. Not for him the solitary existence of the ivory tower. In other
words, a pickpocket is essentially a social being, sharing the joys and sorrows
of the people. 'Commu- nity living' is the pickpocket's motto. Weddings,
funerals, cattle- trading posts, carnivals, processions, wrestling matches,
political meetings-wherever human beings congregate-he presents himself to
unburden the unwary of their filthy lucre.
The modus operandi is simple. Single out a man
from the crowd who looks well-to-do, cover his pocket with the shawl and, with
a quick movement of the long fingers, deftly remove the wallet or pouch. Speed
is of the essence and it can be achieved only through sustained practice. But
that is not all. The loot has to be passed on to an apprentice who immediately
effects a vanishing trick.
Unfortunately, of all the requirements listed
above, a shawl and long nimble fingers were all that Muthapa possessed. His
height of six feet and two inches was a liability. He was a full head taller
than most men in the crowd that thronged the village on market- days. No sooner
did he appear on the scene than there would be taken a liking to you.' A
typical instance of the scant respect society a cry from the crowd, 'Hey you,
be careful! Mandan Muthapa has given to artists!
However, none of these zealots belonged
to the village. They were all outsiders, henchmen of the hated establishment.
They had closed their ranks against Mandan Muthapa. Unlike the workers of
certain political parties, Muthapa did not let out hoarse-throated slogans,
condemning his detractors for being 'bourgeois reaction- aries He merely
flashed his charming, innocent smile that mesmerized them and unsuspecting
bystanders alike. But not the village constables. They squeezed Muthapa to the
tune of one rupee each market-day. The politically-conscious villagers had no
use for these representatives of the powers that be and opposed this high-
handedness. But that made no difference to the constables who were determined
to have their cut of Muthapa's earnings. How could Muthapa manage when, in
spite of his toils, he earned next to nothing on several days? To make matters
worse, Ottakkannan Pokker was always at hand to give prosecution evidence
against Muthapa. "That bastard Mandan cleaned up ten rupees today. I saw the
racket with my own eyes." 'You one-eyed devil!' Mandan Muthapa would
mutter, 'T'll gouge out your good eye one of these days.'
The equation was now clear and known to one and
all. The arch-enemies had taken to the battlefield. Mandan Muthapa, the
pickpocket, universally acknowledged to be a nitwit, and Ottakkannan Pokker,
the card-sharper, whose wits never deserted him. The tale which I am about to
unfold before you describes how Mandan Muthapa, the nitwit, vanquished his
nimble-witted adver- sary and won the hand of... well, I should not kill the
suspense. Let me begin at the beginning.
It was a Saturday. Ottakkannan Pokker had
presented himself under the ancient silk-cotton tree in the marketplace well before
the clamour of the market-day had begun. Mandan Muthapa, having had no
breakfast, was feeling rather down in the dumps that morning.. There were no
good samaritans around to buy him even a cup of tea. But as he came down the
lane, hungry and dejected, there appeared before him a man in a long jubba.
This man wore a gold-plated wristwatch and had an expensive looking fountain
pen clipped to the pocket of his jubba. Muthapa's heart skipped beat. As the
man walked on jauntily with the air of a millionaire, oblivious of his
surrounding, puffing at a cigarette, Muthapa relieved him of his wallet.
It was one of the most successful jobs Muthapa had pulled off. the contents of
the wallet did not delight him. Five-and-a-half ass and the photograph of a
film actress who wore a nose-stud were all that he got for his pains. 'Damn her
nose-stud!" Muthapa ased, tearing the photograph into bits. "Him and
his almighty The miser!
The newly-opened restaurant was doing brisk
business. Muthapa decided to give it a try. He seated himself next to a fat man
whose spocket looked promising. But nothing came of it. Muthapa quietly
finished the snacks and tea the waiter had served him unsolicited. It came to
four annas. He bought beedis for half-an- , and with the remaining capital of
one anna, presented himself before Ottakkannan Pokker.
'Hai raja...come on...two for one...any mandan
ass can ty... Ottakkannan Pokker said, before throwing the cards facedown on a
sheet of paper. Muthapa placed the anna on what he judged to be the joker. 'Get
lost, you ass,' Pokker told him gently as he turned the card. It was a numbered
card. Would you like another try?' Pokker asked with a mocking wink Muthapa had
run out of money. Lighting a beedi, he walked away from the crowd, towards the
solitude of the river. How sad is the plight of a poor artist! How agonizing it
is to think of what might have been! In his heart, Mandan Muthapa worshipped
Thorappan Avaran, Driver Pappunni, Ponkurissu Thoma and Anavari Raman Nair as
his mentors. If oaly they would accept him as their pupil. That Ottakkanpan
Pokker, curse him! He had spoilt everything.
Lost in thought, Muthapa walked on. His steps
took him down the path by the river. The market landing was crowded with boats.
There were large mounds of tapioca, coconuts, bananas and a variety of
vegetables all around. As he gazed listlessly at the boats loaded with
merchandise, Muthapa witnessed a miracle!
A bunch of bananas dragged itself out of a
mound, climbed over the side of the boat and leaped into the river! It was not
one of those accidents when things topple into the river from overloaded boats.
The bunch of bananas on it sowly, deliberately-as if it were alive!
This set Muthapa thinking. Were the bananas
possessed by at devil? He wondered. Consigned to the plant kingdom by nature, they
would certainly require a devil's services to 'walk away' as they had. They
were now moving steadily in the water towards the next landing where
Ottakkannan Pokker lived. A row of silk- cotton trees, that stretched between
the two landings, functioned as a wide curtain.
His curiosity aroused, Muthapa walked towards
the landing downstream, following the bananas with his eyes. Suddenly,
startling him, appeared Zainaba, Pokker's only daughter. Crouch- ing in the
shadow of the trees, she was pulling at a strong string that stretched towards
the river. Soon she pulled up the bunch of bananas which had reached its
destination There was a fishing hook attached to the bunch, Muthapa noted.
In a flash, everything fell into place, like
the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It was a simple process. Swim down to the market
landing under cover of the bushes with a hook attached to a long line. Fix the
hook to a bunch of bananas and swim back downstream, unwinding the line gently.
Hide behind the clump of silk-cotton trees, pull the bananas, and they are
yours.
Mandan Muthapa was distressed. There was
nothing wrong in men stealing or picking pockets. But for a woman to do so...He
stood transfixed, afflicted by Zainaba's indiscretion.
Zairaba climbed ashore with the bunch of
bananas, water dripping from her wet clothes, She had no inkling of Muthapa's
presence. When her eyes fell on him, she dropped the bananas with a gasp. Her
face turned a deep purple, and then white as chalk. 'Zainaba!' There was love
and anguish in Muthapa's voice.
'O! Zainaba answered in a broken voice. 'Do you
think what you have done is right?'
'Nnnno...'
'Will you do it again?'
'No.'
'Change your clothes and wipe yourself dry. You
will catch a cold.'
Zainaba ran, without taking the bananas.
Muthapa carried them home for her. She had a small restaurant there. Besides
tea, it served puttu, boiled black gram, appam, vada and bananas. She gave
credit to some of her regular customers, among whom were Anavari Raman Nair,
Ponkurissu Thoma and Ettukali Mammoonhu. When they reached her house, she
invited Muthapa in for tea with idiyappam and bananas.
Muthapa testifies to all these facts. Zainaba,
however, refused reply when she was confronted by this chronicler and asked
whether she loved Muthapa. But she was quite certain that 10 Muthapa was not a
mandan. 'Bapa says that out of spite,' she said.
Ottakkannan Pokker was completely ignorant of
all this. He was not suspicious of Zainaba. Preoccupied with the task of
putting by some money for her wedding, he did not notice such things. An honest
and hard-working boy had to be found. She should have a few pairs of earrings
and necklaces for the wedding. These were his concerns.
That day, Pokker was returning home with a bag
of provisions he had bought at the market. The first sight that greeted his
eyes when he stepped into the house was that of Mandan Muthapa, his head
reclining in Zainaba's lap. What more was required to break a poor father's
heart? A dark, cross-eyed, stupid pickpocket nestling in your daughter's lap!
One rarely comes across a father who would find it funny. Bapal Zainaba leapt
up in terror as she pushed Muthapa away. But Mandan Muthapa merely flashed his
charming smile.
Ottakkannan Pokker was furious. He flung a
piece of tapioca at Muthapa which struck him square on his chest. Though it
hurt him considerably, Muthapa, without removing the smile from his face,
picked it up, peeled it gently and nibbled at it. 'Mama, you know I am going to
marry Zainaba,' he said.
Now this was a double-edged statement. Firstly,
'mama' is at term used to address one's maternal uncle or wife's father. As we
know, neither of these relationships existed between Ottakkannan Pokker and
Mandan Muthapa. Was Muthapa taking a leap into the future? Besides, as you
might have noticed, Muthapa's statement was a bold assertion, not a humble
request like "May I beg for the hand of your fair daughter' etcetera.
Ottakkannan Pokker shook with rage. 'Get out of
my house, you thieving scoundrel!' he screamed.
"Mama, forgive me for all I have said and
done to you. Zainaba says I should stop picking pockets. So I'm not going to anymore."
I see. You are taking to begging instead."
I want to set up a small restaurant,' Muthapa continued, ignoring the sarcasm.
'Mama, will you lend me ten rupees for it?'
What about the ten-and-a-half annas you owe me for teaching you to smoke
through the nose?" Mandan Muthapa ignored that too. 'Any day before the
end of the month would suit me for the wedding." "Get out, you
blasted Jew!' Ottakkannan Pokker roared. 'Don't get any such ideas as long as I
am alive.'
But the veiled threat did not deter Muthapa. "Mama,
I'll marry Zainaba long before you die."
'Get out!'
Mandan Muthapa walked away calmly.
This was the beginning of a long struggle, a
fight to the finish. Much The news spread like wildfire. The villagers were
merely amused pic at first. But soon they split into opposing camps. In the
beginning the two constables were staunch supporters of Ottakkannan Pokker. But
soon they, along with the vast majority of the villagers, shifted their
loyalties to Mandan Muthapa. There was a good reason for such a move. But more
about it later.
Where did Zainaba's loyalties lie? The
villagers wondered.
'Zainaba's with me,' declared Mandan Muthapa,
drawing him self to his full height and thumping his chest. "She's my
daughter,' Ottakkannan Pokker said with some amount of confidence.
But the fact was that nobody really knew
anything about Zainaba's loyalties. Meanwhile, Anavari Raman Nair and
Ponkurissu Thoma made a joint statement, 'It is a battle for Zainaba's heart.'
To the villagers, this sounded like one of the most
stupid things they had ever heard. Did the duo really believe that the union of
two hearts was all that mattered? There was an obstinate father to be reckoned
with. That and the hundred and twenty rupees, his life's earnings. Ottakkannan
Pokker was in a position to marry Zainaba to any young man of his choice. This
was the state of affairs when Muthapa declared war.
Right from the beginning, Mandan Muthapa's offensive met with remarkable
success. He was the universally acclaimed leader of the masses.
Pokker was denounced as a hoarder, a
black-marketeer, and above all, a bourgeois reactionary.
'Mandan Muthapa zindabad!'
Cakkannan Pokker murdabad!" Slogans rent the air. There was no dearth of people
to buy tea and lunch for Muthapa whenever he needed them. On the other Jand,
Pokker found it difficult to get even a pinch of slaked lime r his
betel-and-nut.
It was a Tuesday. The marketplace was beginning
to bustle with bayers and sellers. Mandan Muthapa appeared without his custom-
ary shawl. He held a one-rupee note in his hand. He had pinched i with his
teeth. "This is a lucky note,' he was heard telling a man in the crowd,
'Zainaba gave it to me.' Muthapa headed straight for Ottakkannan Pokker's
gambling corner. As usual, a small crowd had collected in front of it. Hai
raja, come on. Double your money. The joker is: lucky boy. Keep your eyes
peeled. Hai raja...
Mandan Muthapa clutched the one-rupee note
between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed at it rather noisily. Ottakkannan
Pokker looked up at Muthapa and continued with his sales-talk, inserting a
couple of unusual expressions in between. 'Hai raja," double your money.
Any sucker can try his luck, any stuffed monkey can try his luck. The joker is
your lucky boy...'
Pokker flicked the cards facedown on the paper.
Mandan Muthapa scrutinized the cards carefully and placed his one-rupee sote on
one of them. Pokker winced as if he had been pricked with apin. In twenty-two
years of card-sharping, nobody had placed his money on the joker without
Pokker's express permission. Perhaps a handful of lucky chaps had got the card
right purely by accident. Their number was, however, too small for Pokker to
remember. There was absolutely no connection between card-sharping and luck.
The golden rule was that Pokker should always win and the market-day crowd
lose. Ottakkannan Pokker turned the cards. There was a gasp from the crowd.
Muthapa's one-rupee note had been on the joker. And Pokker grudgingly gave him
another rupee. Hai raja, two for one, four for two...open to all and
sundry..."
The game resumed. As before, Mandan Muthapa
looked carefully at each card before placing his two rupees on one of them.
Ottakkannan Pokker turned the cards. The joker again for Muthapa! He now had
four rupees. When Muthapa's luck persisted in the next round, Pokker lost his
temper. The crowd let out a whoop of joy.
Muthapa's luck held out. He gazed at the windfall in his hand- sixteen
rupees-and rustled the notes gently. He took out the one- rupee note, which had
been his capital when he started, kissed it reverentially and tied it at the
end of his mundu. He then announced his future plans to the crowd, 'I am
through with picking pockets. I am going to set up a tea shop.'
Mandan Muthapa walked away triumphantly,
accompanied by his fellow artists-Anavari Raman Nair, Ponkurissu Thoma and
Ettukali Mammoonhu. Behind them came a host of villagers, their spirit for
battle aroused. Soon the whole village learned of Muthapa's triumph. There was
universal rejoicing. It was a victory for the people! There was not a soul to
commiserate with the vanquished Pokker. But then, one can't expect people to
sympathize with black-marketeers and lackeys of reactionary regimes.
'Daughter, I lost fifteen rupees today,' Pokker
told Zainaba mournfully that night. "That scoundrel did me in.' She said
nothing. There was neither sympathy nor exhilaration in her expression. But
Pokker's grief knew no bounds. 'I am not finished,' he said, regaining his
composure, 'Let that Mandan have another try. I'll skin him. Pokker doesn't
take things lying down.'
Come market-day, the hawkers arrived with their
wares. Men and women jostled as they sought to make their bargains. Muthapa's
tea shop had opened just a few days before. As a matter of fact, no tea was
served there. Only coffee with jaggery, and boiled gram to go with it. It was an
apology for a tea shop, functioning in the open space between two buildings,
sheets of cloth hung up on poles to make an enclosure. An old bench, the only
item of furniture, and two glasses to serve coffee in. Noisily stirring the
jaggery in a glass with a spoon, he invited his customers, 'Hai, Mandan's
coffee! Sizzling hot! Have a sip folks, gives you more than your money's
worth.'
The coffee and the boiled black gram were sold
out before noon. Muthapa counted his earnings and wrapped the notes and coins
in a piece of paper. With this packet, he presented himself before Pokker.
Ottakkannan Pokker lost twenty rupees that day.
When he told Zainaba about it that night, she merely shrugged her shoul- ders.
'Oh, I suppose everybody has caught on to the trick by 'Caught on! Listen, you
stupid... Nobody caught on to it in the last twenty-two years. You mean to say
that bastard Mandan did it in a couple of days?
Zainaba said nothing. 'I taught that stingy Jew
how to blow out smoke through his nose!'
A dozen market-days passed by. Mandan Muthapa
continued to subject Ottakkannan Pokker to humiliating defeats. Pokker was now
at the end of his tether, broke and neck-deep in debt. And finally, he admitted
defeat. 'Son, leave me alone, please,' he pleaded with Muthapa. 'I'll give you
five rupees on each market-day.'
I don't want your money,' said the
long-suffering Muthapa. 'I have my shop now. Let me marry Zainaba, and I'll
quit card- sharping for good.' Marriage to Zainaba-Muthapa was firm on this
compromise formula. So were the valiant villagers.
Ottakkannan Pokker ran from pillar to post for
help. He beseeched the two constables to come to his aid. He unburdened his
heart to Anavan Raman Nair, Ponkurissu Thoma and Ettukali Mammoonhu. But his
pleas fell on deaf ears. 'Get Zainaba married to that fellow, man,' they told
him in one voice.
'But, my dear sir, he is a mandan.'
"There you go again!'
Pokker was left with no option.
The whole village attended the wedding. Muthapa
treated them to betel-nut, beedis and sherbet. At night, there was a display of
fireworks sponsored by the villagers.
It was a happy ending to a long conflict. But
not quite. Ottakkannan Pokker was heartbroken. He quit card-sharping. He lost
his appetite and always wore a melancholy expression on his face. He hated
everyone-Zainaba, Anavari Raman Nair, Ponkurissu Thoma, the constables,
Ettukali Mammoonhu, and the decadent social order which sustained them. Pokker
stopped eating alto- gether, determined to fast unto death.
The kindhearted villagers intervened. After a lot of cajoling, they succeeded
in persuading Pokker to live with Zainaba and Muthapa in the annexe to their
hotel. Yes, the make-shift tea shop had graduated into a proper hotel!
Zainaba's puttu and boiled black gram were in great demand.
The enterprise was wholeheartedly supported by
Zainaba's regular customers-Anavari Raman Nair, Ponkurissu Thoma, their protégé
Ettukali Mammoonhu, and the two constables. Like them, Pokker could eat his
fill and he was required to do no work.
But there was something which tormented Pokker
like a thorn in his flesh. How could Mandan Muthapa place his money unfailingly
on the joker all the time? Unable to bear it any longer, he put the question to
Muthapa himself.
'Just brains,' Muthapa replied, tapping his
forehead. Pokker knew it was too good to be true. Where could Mandan Muthapa
get brains from, he who was willing to part with precious money for learning to
let out smoke through the nose? When Pokker persisted, Muthapa revealed the
secret. 'It was my wife's brain wave.' Zainaba's brain wave! Mandan Muthapa
produced the evidence. The corners of all the jokers in the pack had been
marked out by small holes made with a safety pin!
'What do you think, son?' Ottakkannan Pokker
asked me, 'Can you ever trust your daughters?' Well, what can one say...!
Translated from the Malayalam
by K. M. Sherrif
