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Barton Hill is a
beautiful piece of Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala. Cool ocean breezes
waft gently through the trees that stand scattered over the small
hill bringing a pleasant Mediterranean aura to the area. A visitor is
likely to come across a rather derelict figure sprawled across the
narrow lane leading to the Barton Hill School at the top of the hill.
Disheveled and unwashed, wiry and sun-baked, Appu Kuttan hails each
passer-by with a cheery greeting followed by some other pleasantry,
devoid of familiarity or vulgarity. In his dirt caked hand he holds a
dated newspaper. Appu Kuttan speaks fluent English and Malayalam. A
first time encounter can be disconcerting, even a trifle frightening,
until one glimpses the gentle dark eyes. Eyes that speak of traumas
suffered, burdens borne and resignation achieved. But he was not
always thus.
Appu Kuttan was the
youngest of many siblings born to scavengers employed by the city
authority. Unlike his riotous brothers and sisters, the young boy was
studious, reserved and gentle, taking time off from books to help his
mother cook the evening meal and lend a hand in scouring their humble
dwelling in a shanty on the hill. His school studies behind him, the
youth opted to join the army in an effort to serve the nation. His
parents bade him a tearful farewell, knowing that they were parting
with the best of their brood. In the next couple of years, Appu
Kuttan sent back every coin he could set aside to bolster his
parents’ frugal earnings.
When the telegram
arrived, h is uneducated parents were besides themselves. Hitherto,
the postman had only brought money orders with brief messages of
their son’s health. The cryptic message from their son’s
army command informed the nervous couple that their son had been
severely injured in the head during manoeuvres and had been
hospitalized. A couple of months later, Appu Kuttan was escorted home
with a letter ordering his release from the army service on health
grounds. What the communication failed to record was that Appu was no
longer in full control of his mental faculties.
For the next twenty years
Appu walked up and down the hill greeting school children who teased
him mercilessly, smiled at housewives rushing home from work to cook
the evening meal, read his newspaper and accepted any money that a
benefactor placed in his palm. With the demise of his parents and
the scattering of his siblings to other parts of the city, the
vagabond deteriorated rapidly in physical appearance. His neighbours,
always kindly inclined, ensured that he remained away from harms way,
but could do nothing more.
One day, the Barton Hill
Post Office had unusual visitors. A couple of nuns from Sisters of
Charity stopped by with a letter they had received from the Mother
House in Calcutta stating that their Superior General, Mother Teresa,
was seeking details of a strange benefactor who, for the past twenty
years, had been religiously dispatching small sums of money each week
in Mother’s name. Could the post office help locate the
benefactor since Mother was curious?
The Postmaster whispered
instructions to a postman standing by and asked the nuns to sit down.
Suddenly, the post office door was darkened by a strange sight—a
tattered, frail human being. Appu Kuttan clicked his naked heels
together, essayed a smart salute towards the speechless nuns, turned
on his heel and marched out of the post office.
The Mother House in
Calcutta still continues to receive their weekly offering from the
tramp on the hill.
Appu Kuttan still roams the streets and bylanes of Barton Hill in
Thirvananthapuram living on the handouts of passersby.
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