The Madman Who Understood Everyone — A Village Story of Truth

WHO IS MAD ?

(A Ponmanipudi tale of truth....)

Everybody called Natpathi mad.

Because he laughed alone near the banyan tree.

Because he spoke to dogs...

Because he sometimes cried without reason and smiled at nothing....And wore torn and strange clothes....

“Paithiyam, mad man...,” the village said.

“Lost fellow....paapa”

Natpathi didn’t argue.

He rarely spoke at all...except to dogs, cows and sometimes trees....

Near the bus stand lived Annaji, the former Central Scientist, who tested water samples, soil, leaves — searching for answers no one asked him for.

“They don’t understand me,” he complained bitterly.

“They fear intelligence and knowledge.”

At the big house on the main road lived the Natwarji Seth, who owned land enough to feed generations — yet drank half-coffee, wore torn banians, and flinched at the price of vegetables.

“Money must be saved,” he muttered,

as life quietly slipped past him unused.

At the corner shop sat Sambhaji, the tailor, who called every lady "kanmani" flirting with every woman who passed. He collected smiles and sometimes verbal thrashings...

“Life is enjoyment,” he laughed,

while going home each night to an empty room.

In the old tiled house near the river bank, lived Seethamma, counting days instead of years.

“My son, Jeevan, will come,” she said every morning, staring at the road.

“Zurich is far… but buses come from far places also.”

The phone never rang.

But hope did.

Near the temple, lived Ganvi, young, burning, restless....star material....

She loved Kishore with a hunger that made her ache.

Each day Ganvi died a little —

waiting for Kishore's touch, his glance, his smile and ofcourse marriage....

“Love is everything,” she said,

even as it consumed her.

At the mantapa sat Rudrasami, the carnatic musician, eyes closed, lost in raga.

“Don’t disturb him,” people whispered.

“He forgets the world. He sings divine.”

In the kitchen, the cook, Loki, sat stirring sambar with devotion.

“Food is God,” he smiled.

While others ate quickly and left.

Bhaskara, the hefty wrestler, ate and ate.

“Life is enjoyment,” he said, hiding pain behind fullness.

Another man, Kumara, the loiterer, slept endlessly.

“Life is tiring,” he yawned, escaping wakefulness itself.

One evening, Dr. Chari sat at Appuswamy’s tea stall when someone laughed.

“See Natpathi there?” Appusamy said.

“Tell me, Chari sir — who is really mad ?” "Natpathi or who else..?"

The stall grew quiet.

Chari looked around.

At the scientist.

The miser.

The flirt.

The waiting mother.

The longing lover.

The absorbed musician.

The devoted cook.

The Glutton.

The Loiterer.

Then he looked at Natpathi, who was drawing circles on the mud with a stick.

Chari stood up and walked to him.

“Natpathi,” he asked gently,

“what are you doing?”

Natpathi looked up, surprised.

“Counting,” he said simply.

“Counting what?”

“People who are not here,” Natpathi replied.

Chari’s breath caught. He asked gently,

“Who are they?”

Natpathi pointed, one by one.

“The scientist is here… but his heart is fighting ghosts.”

“The rich man is here… but his life is locked.”

“The tailor is here… but never present.”

“The old Amma is here… but living in yesterday.”

“The girl is here…begging to be chosen.”

“The musician is here… but nowhere else.”

“The cook is here… but unseen.”

“The eater is eating pain.”

“The sleeper is hiding from living.”

He paused.

Then smiled softly.

“They are all absent,” he said.

“So I keep them company.”

Silence fell like a prayer.

Someone whispered,

“Then who is mad?”

Natpathi looked at them with calm eyes.

“The one who lives only one life,” he said,

“and calls others mad for living many.”

Chari returned to his seat slowly.

Appuswamy wiped the counter, eyes wet.

No one laughed again that evening.

That night, as the village slept —

the scientist calculated,

the miser counted,

the mother waited,

the lover longed,

the musician played,

the cook stirred,

the eater consumed,

the sleeper escaped.

And Natpathi sat under the banyan tree, smiling at the stars...

Because he knew something they didn’t:

That madness is not losing the mind.

Madness is forgetting where you left your heart and your mind...

Who is Mad? The world...or you??