I heard the words, “Is someone there?”

It’s astonishing what you hear when you’re alone in the blackness of your dying mind. A sound without shape or colour sounds strange. To be blind is to hear otherwise.

The words came again, “Is someone there?”

I concluded that I had gone mad. Sad but true. Misery loves company, and madness calls it forth.

“Is someone there?” came the voice again, insistent.

The clarity of my insanity was astonishing. The voice had its very own timbre, with a heavy, weary rasp. I decided to play along.

“Of course someone’s there,” I replied. “There’s always some one there. Who would be asking the question otherwise?”

“I was hoping there would be someone else.”

“What do you mean, someone else? Do you realize where you are? If you’re not happy with this figment of your fancy, pick another one. There are plenty of fancies to pick from.”

Hmmm. Figment. Fig-ment. Wouldn’t a fig be good?

“So there’s no one, is there?”

“Shush…I’m dreaming of figs.”

“Figs! Do you have a fig? Please can I have a piece? I beg you. Only a little piece. I’m starving.”

“I don’t have just one fig. I have a whole figment.”

“A whole figment of figs! Oh please, can I have some? I…”

The voice, or whatever effect of wind and waves it was, faded.

“They’re plump and heavy and fragrant,” I continued. “The branches of the tree are bent over, they are so weighed down with figs. There must be over three hundred figs in that tree.”

Silence.

The voice came back again. “Let’s talk about food…”

“What a good idea.”

“What would you have to eat if you could have anything you wanted?”

“Excellent question. I would have a magnificent buffet. I would start with rice and sambar. There would be black gram dhal rice and curd rice and—”

“I would have—”

“I’m not finished. And with my rice I would have spicy tamarind sambar and small onion sambar and—”

“Anything else?”

“I’m getting there. I’d also have mixed vegetable sagu and vegetable korma and potato masala and cabbage vadai and masala dosai and spicy lentil rasam and—”

“I see.”

“Wait. And stuffed eggplant poriyal and coconut yam kootu and rice idli and curd vadai and vegetable bajji and—”

“It sounds very—”

“Have I mentioned the chutneys yet? Coconut chutney and mint chutney and green chilli pickle and gooseberry pickle, all served with the usual nans, popadoms, parathas and puris, of course.”

“Sounds—”

“The salads! Mango curd salad and okra curd salad and plain fresh cucumber salad. And for dessert, almond payasam and milk payasam and jaggery pancake and peanut toffee and coconut burfi and vanilla ice cream with hot, thick chocolate sauce.”

“Is that it?”

“I’d finish this snack with a ten-litre glass of fresh, clean, cool, chilled water and a coffee.”

“It sounds very good.”

“It does.”

“Tell me, what is coconut yam kootu?”

“Nothing short of heaven, that’s what. To make it you need yams, grated coconut, green plantains, chilli powder, ground black pepper, ground turmeric, cumin seeds, brown mustard seeds and some coconut oil. You saute the coconut until it’s golden brown—”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“What?”

“Instead of coconut yam kootu, why not boiled beef tongue with a mustard sauce?”

“That sounds non-veg.”

“It is. And then tripe.”

“Tripe? You’ve eaten the poor animal’s tongue and now you want to eat its stomach?”

“Yes! I dream of tripes a la mode de Caen—warm—with sweetbread.”

“Sweetbread? That sounds better. What is sweetbread?”

“Sweetbread is made from the pancreas of a calf.”

“The pancreas!”

“Braised and with a mushroom sauce, it’s simply delicious.”

Where were these disgusting, sacrilegious recipes coming from? Was I so far gone that I was contemplating setting upon a cow and her young? What horrible crosswind was I caught in? Had the lifeboat drifted back into that floating trash?

“What will be the next affront?”

“Calf’s brains in a brown butter sauce!”

“Back to the head, are we?”

“Brain souffle!”

“I’m feeling sick. Is there anything you won’t eat?”

“What I would give for oxtail soup. For roast suckling pig stuffed with rice, sausages, apricots and raisins. For veal kidney in a butter, mustard and parsley sauce. For a marinated rabbit stewed in red wine. For chicken liver sausages. For pork and liver pate with veal. For frogs. Ah, give me frogs, give me frogs!”

“I’m barely holding on.”

The voice faded. I was trembling with nausea. Madness in the mind was one thing, but it was not fair that it should go to the stomach.

Understanding suddenly dawned on me.

“Would you eat bleeding raw beef?” I asked.

“Of course! I love tartar steak.”

“Would you eat the congealed blood of a dead pig?”

“Every day, with apple sauce!”

“Would you eat anything from an animal, the last remains?”

“Scrapple and sausage! I’d have a heaping plate!”

“How about a carrot? Would you eat a plain, raw carrot?”

There was no answer.

“Did you not hear me? Would you eat a carrot?”

“I heard you. To be honest, if I had the choice, I wouldn’t. I don’t have much of a stomach for that kind of food. I find it quite distasteful.”

I laughed. I knew it. I wasn’t hearing voices. I hadn’t gone mad. It was Richard Parker who was speaking to me! The carnivorous rascal. All this time together and he had chosen an hour before we were to die to pipe up. I was elated to be on speaking terms with a tiger. Immediately I was filled with a vulgar curiosity, the sort that movie stars suffer from at the hands of their fans.

“I’m curious, tell me—have you ever killed a man?”

I doubted it. Man-eaters among animals are as rare as murderers among men, and Richard Parker was caught while still a cub. But who’s to say that his mother, before she was nabbed by Thirsty, hadn’t caught a human being?

“What a question,” replied Richard Parker.

“Seems reasonable.”

“It does?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You have the reputation that you have.”

“I do?”

“Of course. Are you blind to that fact?”

“I am.”

“Well, let me make clear what you evidently can’t see: you have that reputation. So, have you ever killed a man?”

Silence.

“Well? Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Oh! It sends shivers down my spine. How many?”

“Two.”

“You’ve killed two men?”

“No. A man and a woman.”

“At the same time?”

“No. The man first, the woman second.”

“You monster! I bet you thought it was great fun. You must have found their cries and their struggles quite entertaining.”

“Not really.”

“Were they good?”

“Were they good?”

“Yes. Don’t be so obtuse. Did they taste good?”

“No, they didn’t taste good.”

“I thought so. I’ve heard it’s an acquired taste in animals. So why did you kill them?”

“Need.”

“The need of a monster. Any regrets?”

“It was them or me.”

“That is need expressed in all its amoral simplicity. But any regrets now?”

“It was the doing of a moment. It was circumstance.”

“Instinct, it’s called instinct. Still, answer the question, any regrets now?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“The very definition of an animal. That’s all you are.”

“And what are you?”

“A human being, I’ll have you know.”

“What boastful pride.”

“It’s the plain truth.”

“So, you would throw the first stone, would you?”

“Have you ever had oothappam?”

“No, I haven’t. But tell me about it. What is oothappam?”

“It is so good.”

“Sounds delicious. Tell me more.”

“Oothappam is often made with leftover batter, but rarely has a culinary afterthought been so memorable.”