Mudritha Book Excerpt: A Detective Thriller Set In Kerala's Quaint Landscape

One April, thirty-year-old Aniruddhan goes to the police station with a complaint: a woman named Mudritha has disappeared. He has, however, never met her; only interacted with her on the phone and by email while organizing, at her request, a tour to Odisha for herself and nine others – all women. After preliminary inquiries, though, the case is likely to be closed for want of progress. But Vanitha, the policewoman in charge, continues the investigation secretly. What begins as a search for Mudritha soon reveals more about the other women, a diverse group, who want to slip away, travel and touch the world beyond the mundane confines of their existence.

Jissa Jose’s Mudritha explores women’s lives: their desires, ambitions, love, anger, and attempts to resist and rise above the encroachment over their bodies and souls. Set in contemporary Kerala, the novel is a compelling portrait of women and the sojourns they make to find themselves – its every surge, every swell enlivened in this English translation by Jayasree Kalathil.

Here's an excerpt from Jissa Jose’s Mudritha

What is the name of Draupadi’s mother? 

It was Roshanara who had asked that question. How long ago was that? Madhumalathi could not remember. Four or five years, at least. When she had stood up in the classroom and asked that question, Roshanara’s thattam, the scarf she wore around her head, had slipped and partially exposed her hair gathered into a high bun. Unlike the other students, Roshanara did not wear a hijab, choosing, instead, a chiffon thattam the same colour as her salwar, wound carelessly around her neck and head so that it slipped off every now and then. But Madhumalathi had watched her fix it in place with hairpins when it was time to go home.  

Madhumalathi had not known the answer to her question. She had said, ‘Let me ask the Malayalam teacher,’ or ‘I’ll find out and let you know,’ something vague like that. It was not her class; she had only stepped inside because of the noise the students were making, left as they were without a teacher. On her way to the canteen for a cup of tea, it had started to rain, and not wanting to walk all the way across the yard and down a steep flight of steps without an umbrella, she had turned back to the staffroom when she heard the cacophony from the classroom.  And she went in only wanting to frighten them a little, quieten them, but the students would not let her off that easily. So, she stayed, and they had a lively discussion on topics beyond what was in the syllabus. She, too, was one of those teachers who struggled, even after conducting extra classes, to cover what was in the textbooks, but still tried to make the time, in each of her classes, to discuss interesting things and allay the boredom of the students. Madhumalathi’s subject was history, and there was never a shortage of stories and facts to discuss.  

These students were energetic and asked her to sing them a song or tell them a story. She found telling stories easier, and when someone wanted to know the meaning of her name –  Madhumalathi – she used it to sneak them into the world of the puranas. She could not remember if there was a puranic character by that name, but she did know that it was the name of a flower. 

As a child, she had found stories from the puranas intriguing.  Every day after school, she would go to her neighbour Indrani teacher’s house and wait there until her amma returned from work. Indrani teacher, a wispy, old woman with thinning grey hair,  was well into her retirement. She did not offer Madhumalathi a glass of milk or some biscuits. Instead, she gave her books containing stories from the puranas. Until Amma came to pick her up, Madhumalathi sat there devouring them. On days when Amma’s train was late, she remained in the world of stories as the evening lamp was lit and the teacher sat next to her reciting her prayers, the dancing flames reflecting on her forehead with its mark of bhasmam. Madhumalathi would move closer to the lamp to see the pages of the heavy Puranic Encyclopaedia in her lap better. And then her amma would arrive and call to her from the gate, and she would place the book back on the table, pick up her schoolbag and run to her. The disrupted story would vex her all through the night. No matter how much she pleaded, Indrani teacher would not let her take any of the books with her.

Back home, Madhumalathi would suddenly be aware of her hunger and thirst. Who denies a child a drink of water, her amma would exclaim, and Madhumalathi would wonder why she was saying such things about Indrani teacher. She had not wanted a drink. All she wanted were the storybooks, and the teacher gave them to her with such love. She did not tell her amma that, every day, as she sat leaning against a pillar on the veranda in Indrani teacher’s house, she would pray that her train ran late. Instead, as she blew into the glass of hot Horlicks and drank it slowly, she would tell her a story that she had read that day. Amma would barely listen, but would let her continue until she would tell her to go wash up and read her schoolbooks. Madhumalathi would abandon the half-finished story and run off to do as she had been told. All her evenings followed this pattern until she reached  Class 7. 

That year, Indrani teacher died. The house that she had taken good care of, the books, the trees in the compound, the flowers, everything lay abandoned. Jumping over the gate, and later opening it fearlessly, children went into the compound to pick mangoes. Thinking about the books and stories that were imprisoned inside the house, Madhumalathi felt a deep sorrow.  After the funeral, Indrani teacher’s son had locked up the house and gone away. She did not know whether he would return, and even though they were neighbours, they did not have his address. If he did come back one day and open the house, she would ask him for the books, make them hers, she told herself.

Extracted with permission from Jissa Jose’s Mudritha, translated by Jayasree Kalathil; published by HarperCollins Publication.