Kuncheriya’s Doubts and Dilemmas About Heaven
Anna looked for Kuncheriya all around the house, from morning till night. She ran into him several times, but she did not recognize him. And the few times she did recognize him, she forgot she was looking for him.
At one point, she stopped Maria and asked her, ‘Who are you, child?’
‘I’m Maria, Anna valyamma,’ Maria said.
‘And whose daughter are you?’
‘Anna’s.’
‘Anna’s? But I am Anna. I don’t have any children.’
Surprised and confused, she went looking for Kuncheriya again.
‘Did you hear, Chetta,’ Anna said when she found Kuncheriya. ‘That Thresya from Plachottil house … she died.’
‘How old was she, do you know?’ asked Kuncheriya.
‘Must be eighty, eighty-five. There was a proposal for you to marry her. You remember? But you said no. Too dark, you said.’
‘I didn’t say she was too dark. I said she had a squint.’
‘Ah, it’s all the same.’
Anna kept on talking. Watching her wrinkled face, Kuncheriya felt that his ninety-odd-year-long life was too short. He realized, with a slight sense of surprise, that he had never been able to love this woman even though they had spent so many years in the same house. Come to think of it, he had not been able to love his wife either. Was that his fault? Or was it hers?
Kuncheriya’s biggest fear was that his inability to love those near and dear to him would turn out to be a problem for his eventual entry into heaven. He had spent these long ninety-odd years on this earth with the sole purpose of attaining heaven after death. And it wasn’t that he had never faced other temptations along the way, but the temptation of heaven was too strong to be swayed by any of them.
From a young age, he had cultivated good relationships with the church and the clergy. He donated a large part, well, at least a not inconsiderable part, of his income to the church. ‘Why give all this money to these poor priests?’ Geevarghese would ask each time a donation was made and a receipt was being written out. ‘Why not line your coffin with it and take it straight to Karthaveeshomishiha?’ Kuncheriya’s tongue would throb, wanting to give him a cutting reply, but he would refrain. Having his name entered into Karthav’s account book was an auspicious moment. Why take the risk of swearing at his son and having it stricken off?
In addition to the donations, Kuncheriya hedged his bets by committing to memory the Holy Bible, the book that promised to ease the journey to heaven.
Still, Kuncheriya had his doubts. He tried with all his might to suppress them, but they floated to the top often. For instance, was it right that Karthav cursed the fig tree for the sole reason that it couldn’t bear fruit? And why did He make the rich man’s entry into heaven – even when the man in question was a good man – so difficult? With the exception of these moments of doubt, Kuncheriya submitted himself entirely to the church, to Karthav Eesho Mishiha, and to the priests who were His representatives on earth.
His wife, Shoshamma, was never able to satisfy his body or his soul, and yet Kuncheriya never strayed, never thought of another woman. Not because he was afraid of Shoshamma but because he was afraid of God. Many were the occasions when he felt the overwhelming urge to bash her head open, but he controlled himself only because of the fear of God. Whenever these thoughts came up in his mind, he hoped, prayed, that Karthav was too busy with other concerns to pay attention to what he was up to.
Despite all this, Kuncheriya was terrified of death. His place in heaven was ninety per cent guaranteed, but he was loath to let go of the pleasures of earth. It was Geevarghese who had a clear understanding of his feelings. What attracted Kuncheriya to heaven was the absence of hell. But that didn’t necessarily mean heaven was better than earth. Kuncheriya did not quite understand what was so good about having the opportunity to sit in the laps of Abraham, Isahaq and Yakub. The whole set-up made him think of a nursery school where a bunch of old men and women sat around together. Kuncheriya was certain that a heaven without meat curry and fried fish would be entirely joyless, meaningless, and he prayed fervently that there would be tasty food and moderate hunger, just enough of the feeling to make the food desirable, in heaven.
Thus, towards the end of his life, Kuncheriya lived in a constant state of anxiety over death, heaven and hell. He was destined to live in this state for another decade, for it wasn’t until he was a hundred years old that Kuncheriya finally died.