Jnanpith Award for Tamil – Some Reflections by Jeyamohan

 

This is an English Translation of the article “Ki. Ravukku Gnanabeedam- Indraiya Thevai” written by famous writer Jeyamohan. This article is available in his website www.jeyamohan.in.  Though the title of this article is about Jnanpith award for Ki.Rajanarayanan, (This article was written when Ki. Rajanarayan was alive. He is no more now), the concerns raised by the author are still valid even today. Jeyamohan has offered an elaborate account on Jnanpith award, politics around it, why Tamil writers are not considered for this coveted literary award after Akilan and Jeyakanthan and what ought to be done in this regard.  This article has been translated and published in this blog with the permission of Mr Jeyamohan. This is 2nd English Translation in prose series published in this blog.

I have written comprehensively in my earlier two articles on why Tamil hasn’t been given its due place, at any point of time, in the collective dialogues witnessed in modern classic literature namely Indian Literature. (Sevviyalum Indhiya Ilakkiyamum and Kaalkal paathaigal). One of the major reasons for this indifference is that none of our famous writers has ever won national level recognitions like Jnanpith award.

Of late, in the recent years three prominent writers, Ashokamithran, Ki. RajaNarayanan and Indira Parthasarathy are being considered for Jnanpith Awards. However, it gets postponed repeatedly due to our inadequate efforts to bring them to the fore and the internal petty squabbles of some populist writers having political back ground. It is a very big loss for Tamil. We need to ensure that required remedial measures are undertaken at this juncture so as to bring Jnanpith award to Tamil.

Why Jnanpith?

Jnanpith Award is a non-governmental award instituted by Jain Charitable Trust. But all the writers who have been awarded Jnanpith till date, are indeed, very renowned, main stream writers. Thus, the Indian intellectual arena generally accepts the total population of these writers as the embodiment of Indian Literature. Just because of not winning this Jnanpith award, most of our prominent writers were not given national level attention. Resultantly, the due place of Tamil in the array of classic works in Indian Literature remains still non-existent.

Classic literature is a robust resultant appeal of continuous dialogues on individual preferences and selections placed in a public domain. We can term it an external assessment stemming from the internal preferences and selections. It is this making of classic literature constitutes the continuous intellectual existence in every phase of literature.

“A classic” compiles the accomplishments of a culture till a period of validation, explains its crux, gives a clarion call to the next generation to raise above the standards set by it and makes assessment of the works thus coming out of it. We can understand this from the fact that ‘the classics’ associated with the ancient literary works in all the languages of India were nothing but the robust result of literary dialogues engaged for centuries. In Tamil too, we have such a huge body of classic literary works. We all know that Kamban, Valluvar and Ilango are sitting at the top in the list.

There had been such collective dialogues in the modern Indian literary milieu during the last centuries and as a result of it, a ‘modern Indian classicism’ has come to the fore now. Tara Shankar Banerjee, Manik Bandobadhyay, Bibhuti Bhushan Bandobadhyay, Prem Chand, Yashpal, Amrita Pritam, Ismat Chuktai, Sivaramakaranth, Byrappa, Anandamurthy, M.T. Vasudevan Nair, Basheer and Thagazhi are holding their due place in this array. No one from Tamil has a place in it. Jeyakanthan is remembered for name sake.

It can be assertively said that subtle and refined works of art, different types of creative spaces of Tamil literature are not found in other languages in the Modern Indian Literature. But Tamil hasn’t received even a trace of recognition that Bengali literature, Malayalam literature and Kannada literature have managed to get today. There is no any visible contribution of Tamil to the dialogues on Modern Indian Classic literatures as well.  

The important reason for this gap is that our worthy literary works have not been placed in the foreground at the national level. The ones which were brought to the foreground were all just commercial and education department trashes commanding no literary merit. In this manner, we have had prescribed ourselves our own recipe for disaster during the last centuries. Thus, when a Tamil writer finds no place for him in a national level forum and his language is not respected in any manner there, he would feel that the treatment meted out to him is nothing but a part of that insult. But at the same time, he knows very well that his stature is taller than anyone else who have assembled there. A modern writer keeps on registering this mental discomfort consistently.

Only at this juncture, recognitions like Jnanpith awards assume critical importance.

The mistakes not made and the mistakes made     

There are people here, saying that awards are denied to Tamil by North Indians easily  without understanding the manner with which dialogues originate in literature and counter action witnessed in the making of classic literature. We approach everything with an element of inferiority complex. This makes us imagine that the entire world is conspiring against us. The question of others respecting our writers can have a space for introspection only when we respect our writers and celebrate them. It is a truth that the writers who should have been taken by us to the international forum had actually lived their life without respect and died without recognition. Only from here, they can raise to the national level and then to the international level. The platform where they have set their foot strong is our cultural milieu. We have failed them, not offering them an exclusive space in it.

Ka. Na.Su, Sundara Ramasamy and Venkat Swaminathan had kept on insisting this point for more than last fifty years. Now we have come to a critical juncture where we need to tell it with much more force in the present literary milieu. Because, when they told this, it was just a warning. Today it is a big loss, orchestrated in front of our eyes.

This biggest betrayal to Tamil has been executed in two ways. Firstly, it is our Education department. Be it Tamil Departments in the universities or the whole of our Education department. They have just become a gang which has lost something called intellectual integrity, knowing nothing other than corruption. No place for anything other than power politics, caste politics and corruption there.

So, the one who is adept in utilising these negative aspects in his favour and uses the Education Department to bring himself to the foreground becomes successful. Due to this reason, the chances of our Education Department getting near to our literary geniuses have become pathetically bleak. Perhaps, there could be some people having taste and intellectual appeal towards literature. But they exist either without voice or power.

Secondly, for more than sixty years, the Government of Tami Nadu hadn’t come forward in any manner either to respect the true champions of literature or encourage them or recognise the modern literature as a whole. They have just been bringing the persons who actually align with their political ideology to the fore as litterateurs. Not only the Dravidian Government encouraged this ignominious trend; it was evident even in the earlier Congress period too.

There is an academy known as Kerala Sahitya Academy in Malayalam, run by the government of Kerala. But it has been running as an autonomous literary body for more than last sixty years. The awards given by this academy have the innate principles to guide the awards given by Kendriya Sahitya academy. The honour and importance accorded by the Government of Kerala, play some inherent vital role in bringing the writers to the foreground at the national level.

Tamil doesn’t have such Government sponsored literary body or award. All that we have here for literature are just awards instituted by the individual associations working for the development of Tamil. They also have the dubious status of being auctioned. The creative writers feel it insulting to receive those awards given to the political sycophants who don’t know anything about books.

Even a cursory glance of the list of Tamil Development Association awardees in the recent past will show you the absurdity involved in the awards. We can understand where we stand at present and where the core of our wretched existence lies when we look at what those who shout for the Tamil literature and those who receive crores of rupees as donation for the development of classic language have done and who they have promoted.

Thirdly, the mass media here. All through the yester years, we had only been repeating the stupidity of promoting commercial writers writing in popular media as literary writers. Malayalam, Bangla and Kannada languages had more powerful and influential commercial writers than those found in Tamil. But even the magazines in which they wrote, gave importance to M.T Vasudevan Nair, U.R Ananda Murthy or Adin Bandobadhyay. Even Malayala Manorama, the most influential popular Malayalam weekly which stands top in India in terms of commercial turn over would never publish its populist writers on its cover. They published either M.T. Vasudevan Nair or O.V.Vijayan. As our media is not sensitive enough to assess even this tiny difference, we had been celebrating commercial writings repeatedly as literary works. We insulted ourselves by introducing them in the Indian literary arena.

What should be done?

What should be done to make the Tamil Literature hold its due place in national level literary discussions and Indian Classic literatures? Winning the national awards is the only way to bring our writers to the foreground. How to go about it?

It is important that a literary genius becomes a moderately known figure in his society. His popularity among his readers is not just enough. Even those who don’t read him in that society must be aware of him. That society must create a collective consciousness about those writers. Only in this manner, a writer becomes a symbol of its cultural identity; he becomes the flag bearer of his language. Only after that, he gets accorded with national level importance. His stature of representing Tamil language in Indian literary dialogues thus grows. He then attracts the awards like Jnanpith.

If we examine how many intellectually oriented persons working in departments dealing with knowledge society are aware of the names of literary geniuses of Tamil Nadu, we will be left grossly disappointed. How many of our younger generation are aware of Ashokamithran, Ki.Rajanarayanan and Indira Parthasarathy?

I have seen the pictures of Literary masterminds painted on the walls of elementary school in a small village in Karnataka. One may ask what purpose those pictures could serve. The elementary school children are not going to read the books of those literary figures. The number of direct readers of those literary writers is also relatively less there because a serious literary works shall be read only by the readers who are equipped with the required precocity, training, patience and importantly quest. But, what do those paintings mean? They mean that a society, as whole, recognises those writers as an embodiment of their culture and voice.        

Once they are identified in this manner, their stature cannot be belittled in any national level literary discussions. Their names will occupy an indelible place both in Indian cultural milieu and Indian Classic literary works.

We have failed to do this. Putting in other way, it seems to be extremely difficult to explain even the educated and informative people that such things do exist and need to be taken care of. There is a flock of stupid people which keeps arguing that Ki.Ra, Ashokamithran, India Soundara Rajan and Rajesh Kumar write in their own styles. After all they belong to a genre called “writing”. Let the reader choose what matters to him, makes him interested. We are in a critical situation where we ought to establish a state of mind recognised worldwide by subduing this herd of ignoramuses.

A regal path called Jnanpith

When a writer gets Jnanpith award and his works are available both in English and Hindi, they enter the dialogues known as Indian literature. Their due place is ascertained through these dialogues. The place of Tamil in Indian Classic literary canon can be conquered only through such mode. However, such thing will happen only if the awardee is worth the prize. With his Jnanpith award, Akilan became a subject of lasting ignominy, got insulted in other languages and eventually he brought the same ignominy to Tamil. If all the efforts are capable of winning, amidst bringing further ignominy, Vairamuthu might prove that the selection of Akilan was excusable. Such things do happen even in Jnanpith awards, very rarely though. Another notable example is Assamese novelist Indira Goswamy. She is just like our local writer Sivasankari.      

It is a general perception till date that reading in Tamil is confined either with popular writings or Marxist ideology oriented writings when it comes to dialogues in Modern Indian Classic literature and further said that there is nothing called modern Tamil literature beyond this line. A Bengali critic, after reading one of my short stories exclaimed, “It is wonderful. Even in Tamil, there are writers writing like this!” I asked him, “Who have you read?”. He replied, “Akilan, Sivasankari, Naa. Parthasarathy”.

Had La.Sa. Ramamirtham, Sundara Ramasamy, Ashokamithran, Ki.Rajanarayanan and Indira parthasarathy won Jnanpith award, this question wouldn’t have arisen. It would have been established irrefutably that diverse literary traditions are existing in Tamil. We have missed so many rare opportunities. The most important opportunity in our hand at present is Ki. Rajanarayanan*. Next comes Indira Parthasarathy.

Why Ki.Rajanarayanan?

It is extremely important task for all of us that we must try our best to bring Ki. Rajanarayanan to the foreground at this juncture. If Ki. Rajanarayanan is introduced properly, he will win Jnanpith award easily. Below are the reasons for it:

1.      His writings are purely Tamil in its essence. It combines both Nattaar dialects and modern literature. This individuality shall be taken into consideration.

2.      His simple and straight narrative style will have far reaching effect as they will not cause much of compromises in translations. Since he has a technique of narrative called “story inside stories”, it can withstand the vagaries of translations.

3.      A concept called “progressive” is considered important at national level dialogues. Ki.Ra’s stories have this innate “Progressive” aspects in it.

4.      As Ki.Ra’s stories have the finite form of “Nattar Story”, they have a tendency to become immortal. Unlike the stories written, aligning with intellectual movements, his stories are wary of being archaic.

What are the advantages if Ki.Rajanarayanan is given Jnapith award?

Ki. Rajanarayanan won’t be benefitted much with this award. Even the amount of the award won’t be of much help for him today. For an old man like him, these recognitions and fame would have become meaningless long ago. He might accept it with the loving smile. That is it.

By awarding him, we place Tamil in front of a national debate. His unique style of writing would reach there as an identity of Tamil. When Ki. Rajanarayanan is discussed in Indian literary debates, we would be able to establish that a new genre of writing is present in Tamil.

If the writings of Ki.Rajanarayan reach the literary circles throughout India through Jnanpith award, the type of aesthetics employed by him in his writings shall be established as the identity of Tamil language. It is a link road connecting modern literature with Nattar culture. It will be completely a modern literary work and at the same time completely deep rooted in the ancient Indian tradition of Nattar culture.

His “Gopalla Kiramam” approached modern history by standing at its roots in Nattar traditions. It is a work of art in which all the cultural upheavals of India are being assessed by the people of Gopalla village in the background of their rustic life. His powerful short stories are capable of taking both our Nattar traditions and the life force which the modern literature derived from that traditions, to the national level platforms. When there is a discussion to prepare a list of writers writing aligning with Nattar traditions, Ki.Rajanarayanan’s name will have an unavoidable place in it, just like Chandra sekhara Kambar of Kannada.

Guiding directives

Jnanpith award is not something that one needs to beg or demand. The eligibility of the awardee must be established beyond doubt by the people who are associated with him. As a person who had tried his best to bring this award to Ashokamithran, I think it is pertinent to elucidate those requirements here now.

Firstly: On behalf of our Education Department, at least five or six seminars must be organised for debating Ki. Rajanarayanan’s works. It will be an added advantage if they are organised at the national level. A seminar, in which most prominent writers from Kannada, Malayalam, Bengali and Hindi participate, shall easily bring Ki. Rajanarayanan to the fore at national level.

Secondly: Three or four exclusive journals must be published in his name. The articles about him written by other writers must be published in those journals. The articles written by those from different cultural back ground may also be published in it. These journals must be brought in English as well.

Thirdly: The accurate English translations of his works must be made available. Articles about these translations must be published continually in English newspapers. Articles about him must come out in Hindi also. Putting shortly, within a year, at least ten or twenty articles must have been written about him and his works.

It is an extremely difficult proposition indeed. The English newspapers, The Hindu and The Indian Express published from Tamil Nadu, look down upon the Tamil writers as unworthy. The ones who just dump the fourth rate English commercial stuff on our head will never help us out in any manner to bring our creative writers to lime light. Despite their attitude, we need to beseech them by hook or crook, and make them publish a considerable number of articles on Ki. Rajanarayanan.

It is a well-known fact that The Hindu will never cooperate in this enterprise. But the newspapers published from the North India such as The Times of India and The Pioneer offer an exclusive space of literature. Long ago, Venkat Swaminathan consistently wrote articles in English about Tamil writers in newspapers like The Pioneer and could manage establishing an image that a different genre of writing was thriving in Tamil. We are in need of writers who can write like that.

The ones who went from here and spoke about us at the national level in the previous generation were all none but some empty heads having no tinge of literary taste and the politically cunning, opportunistic educationists. Nothing mattered to them other than their personal successes. In the present younger generation, there are writers who could write in English with depth. They must write about Ki. Rajanarayanan and other Tamil literary geniuses as frequently as possible in English.

If all this happens, we can easily take Ki. Rajanarayanan to Jnanpith award. Once the name of Ki. Rajanarayanan is given an irrefutable place in the Modern Indian literature, it will become obligatory that he must be given Jnanpith award.

Still we are not late. Ki. Rajanarayanan is with us.* It is our duty that we must win Jnanpith for Ki. Rajanarayanan. Our educationists and the writers writing in English must pay some attention to it. Still I have a hope that there must be some in this group having basic taste for literature, minimum amount of conscience and penchant for Tamil culture and traditions even now. These words are just an outcome of that hope.

***End***

Translated from Tamil by K. Saravanan

Source: Jeyamohan’s article “Ki.Raavukku Gnanabeedam- Indraiya thevai”.                 

Notes:     

 

*Jeyamohan wrote this article when Ki.Rajanarayanan was alive. Now he (Ki. Ra) is no more.

The Heroine of a revolutionary writer (Puratchi Ezhuthaalarin Kathanayaki) by Ku. Alagirisamy.

 

This is an English Translation of “Puratchi Ezhuthalarin Kathanayaki”, a short story written by Ku. Alakirisamy. Translated from Tamil by K. Saravanan. This is 30th English Translation in Classic Tamil Short stories Series.

Ku. Alagirisamy

  

It might sound light if it was said that Ramanathan had got bored with the city life. in fact, he had got disgusted with it. It was the truth. It had just been maximum of four years since he came to Chennai.  The house where he was living at present was his second rented house. It was also not right to say that salary he received from his office was inadequate. Despite having everything, he just hated Chennai city like poison. ‘Had those atom bombs, dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, been dropped on this wretched city and made it completely flat, barren, they would have at least changed the capital to some other city. Wouldn’t they? Even if they didn’t change the capital, at least I would have been happy staying in such a grave yard. But it was my destiny that I have to reside in this Chennai.’ –Such was his hatred for Chennai. He had poured out his frustration to many of his friends so as to find some solace, keep his agitated mind cool. All of them used to look at him, perplexed at his hate speech and fury.

‘He is not a type of person who usually hates others. He used to be friendly with everyone with his smiling face. A bon viveur. A person with this kind of attitude is speaking like this. Isn’t he?’ – His friends wondered. The reason for all the hatred and bitterness that filled in his head, was rather a petty problem. It would be very difficult to believe it, if at all explained. It was a city. Wasn’t it? No one would believe it. Would they? The upper floor of the house where he lived was the sole reason for all these. Whether it holds true or not what the French Novelist Balzac had told somewhere, that the houses in which people live actually make their character, it was completely true in his case. It had been one year since he came to that house. Prior to coming to this house, he was struggling in a small house without adequate ventilation and light along with his wife, brother in law and his parents. Newly married, he spent his first three years of marriage in that dark dungeon. The present house was properly ventilated. Sufficient light came inside. It was spacious too. While taking it on rent, even the words of the house owner were indeed sugar coated. So, nothing more he needed. He became a tenant. That time, he had a baby and his wife was pregnant. Only one big discomfort in the upper floor- that, water was the major problem.

Bringing the water to his residence was almost akin to milking a kicking cow. Water had to be drawn through pump. There were five or six families living in the ground floor. Everyone would be busy one after the other, that was, from half past four to half past ten in the morning till the water supply was stopped, in drawing water from the pump. They could have their bath early in the morning only after a stiff competition with each other. In such a situation, how would he get time to ask others to close the pipe for some time? Unless the pipe was closed below, it was very sure that the water wouldn’t come up, no matter however much one wrestled with the pump. So even for a bucket of water, he had to literally beg the people down, from his floor, to close the pipe. Despite having such difficulties, Ramanathan couldn’t feel its gravity during the first three months because of the help extended by his brother in law, Natarajan. He had come to the city in search of job, and was staying in his sister’s house temporarily. Ramanathan used to leave for his office at half past nine in the morning after having bath, and eating his breakfast in haste. From the moment he left, Natarajan would make it sure that he utilised all the possible opportunities to stand by the pump and filled the water whenever it was possible. Hence the requirement of water for the house was complete. In the evening, the same story of water filling. After three months, Natarajan got a job in Salem. He left for Salem immediately.

Only in his absence, Ramanathan was able to realise the enormity of the water problem. Having two choices of either going to the office or pumping the water, he understood that he could do both only during the holidays. What to do then? He thought of approaching the servant maid, who came to his house to wash the utensils and clothes, to pump the water by giving one or two rupees more. She also had children. This extra amount he proposed to give would be of great help to her. ‘Why should I engage a different woman for this work and waste money on her?’ He thought, waiting for Kamala. Kamala was his servant maid. That day, instead of coming on time, she came late by half an hour. She walked straight away into the kitchen as soon as she entered the house. She called out Meena- Ramanathan’s wife. They were discussing something for a while. Ramanathan couldn’t overhear what they talked as he was on the other side. After their discussion, Meena came to Ramanathan. She dropped a big bomb to his shock. Ramanathan stood totally stunned at what she said.

“Kamala doesn’t want to continue her work here”

“Why?”

“She says she wouldn’t be able to pump water. In these two days of pumping water, her hands and chest are aching, she says. So she wouldn’t like to come henceforth.”

“How could she manage pumping water these many days? The hands which could pump water so far without aches, have now started aching suddenly. Haven’t they? It was not she who pumped the water. It was Natarajan who pumped and stored it. She would just wash the utensils, cloths and dried them before leaving home. So… this is her problem. Right? Call her” Ramanathan told her. Driven by a sort of pride that he was, anyway, prepared his mind to give her some additional amount of money apart from her regular wages, he thought that Kamala was enacting that drama just to get more wages, and looked at Kamala, “Why do you say like that? Is pumping two buckets of water that difficult?” he started enquiring her. Without giving him any reply, she was standing, leaned against the wall with her head looking down, scratching her one nail with another. “Kamala, what do you want to say? You can be frank with me.” Ramanathan coaxed her. “I cannot continue here anymore. You appoint someone else” she nodded her head vehemently. All his efforts to make her pump water to meet the requirement of the entire house, that too, with his helping heart, went in vain as she refused to do even her regular works at home.

Ramanathan tried all his tricks with her. His wife too tried her best to convince her. Even the elderly parents of Ramanathan too tried their words with her. But she remained unmoved. At last, he said, “Ok. I will give you two rupees more. You complete filling water and your other regular works”- Ramanathan threw his final shot.

“Even if you give me hundred rupees, I will not pump the water.” She was so stubborn in her words.

It was her reply; stern reply. As he felt that it wouldn’t be honourable to force her anymore, Ramanathan gave her the balance amount and sent her off.

“She was so stubborn and left in this manner. Now what will I do for pumping water?” Meena expressed her angst. She was worried that she wouldn’t be able to pump even a jug of water with her frail body, a toddler in hand and one in stomach.

“You are so ignorant Meena. Aren’t you? There are umpteen persons roaming on the streets even without some porridge to eat for one time. You just wait for some time. Let me bring a servant maid by tomorrow itself.” Ramanathan assured her confidently. Since then, within three days, through his contacts, Ramanathan could manage a new servant maid. The name of the new servant maid was Mangalam. She was young aged woman, having child of four years old. She was looking noticeably beautiful, having good complexion.

At the very first sight, anyone would easily say seeing her well- toned body that she could perform any task untiringly. It was understood that her husband had left her long ago, gone somewhere and she was now leading a tough life with her child for the last three years. She herself told this. “What a pity! These days the men are stone hearted” Ramanathan’s mother expressed her anguish.

“How could he leave such a beautiful wife and a lovely baby at this young age?” Ramanathan wondered. ‘He had left, it is not the time to think how he had left’ Ramathan thought and left for the office. She also came for her routine work. Ramanathan left for his office with the peace of mind. For about a week, Mangalam did her work efficiently, earning everyone’s appreciation. Everyone residing in downstairs, be it men, elderly men, young boys alike- would never open the pipe below when she came upstairs to pump water. They used to walk to and fro near the pipe, looking up to have a glance of her while she pumped water and simultaneously throwing their eyes around to be sure that their wives were not watching them.  Only after Mangalam finished pumping water, they would open the pipe below. With this, the curse of water problem had come to an end. Amidst this happiness, they gave her an old saree, not torn, and bought a new skirt and a blouse for her four year old child. Only at this juncture, Mangalam became ‘enlightened’.

She came to a conclusion that she had been doing an extremely dangerous work which no servant maid in the city would ever dare to do-something they were not supposed to do-even if they were offered thousand rupees. That was end of it! The bull had readied to be belligerent! From providing sumptuous food to tending to all her needs, Meena was generous as she was cautious that she shouldn’t desert her like the old servant maid. But the servant maid was not an easy nut to crack. Ramanathan decided, and told her that he would increase her wages more. Mangalam didn’t accept it immediately. At last, when he told her that he would increase her wages by three rupees, she half-heartedly accepted his offer. But this attraction of three rupees didn’t last for more than a month. One day, the old servant maid, Kamala met her on the street voluntarily and told her, “Why are you doing all these works? Just because women like you are ready to do these kinds of works, these house owners torture women like me to do the same. You pump water. Alright. But for how many days could you do that? For how many days, your body could withstand it? Are they giving you such a wage that you couldn’t hold? – She got her mind confused. Mangalam woke up from her slumber. Next day, she went to Ramanathan’s wife, told her, “I can’t pump water”- sang the same old song of the city.  

 Ramanathan was left terrified once again. All from the family begged her fervently, something not falling short of prostrating in front of her. But the tiger never eats grass even if it is hungry. Does it? So, the servant maid wouldn’t pump water. Would she? After collecting the balance amount, settling the wage accounts, Mangalam left. After she left, those two weeks of mental agony that Ramanathan underwent till another maid servant Kuppammal arrived, was something indescribable in words. He didn’t bath for four days. He pumped water, taking two days leave from his company. He was reprimanded severely by his senior officers for being late to the office. One day, he fought with one family living downstairs too. It is said that people bear three mistakes for the sake of water. Just, to complete the cycle of bearing the third mistake, Ramanathan arranged the third servant maid. She also turned out to be uncooperative. He decided to change the house and thought of going back to the village. We shouldn’t think that Kuppammal must be an old woman as her named suggested. At the maximum, she must be forty years old. She was a very poor woman. She used to come with shabby, old cloths during three fourth of the time she worked. Even she, such a poor lady, worked only for two months. In the third month, once she received the wages on second day, she also announced that she would no longer come for work there.

Reason! The same reason. ‘She wouldn’t pump water’. Along with this, she added one more excuse. She told that her husband didn’t like her pump the water; he got angry about it; and would chase her out of the house if she ever tried pumping the water anymore. Ramanathan was terribly annoyed and got extremely angry at listening to her version.

“Listen…Stop all your ludicrous stories. Do continue here if you like; Or else get lost from here”- Ramanathan was very categorical in his words. Kuppammal didn’t stand there further. “Isn’t it a nonsense? Look at the stupid arrogance of her husband, who is just depending on the old rice she takes to her home given here for his very survival! What he gets to eat is just a gruel; but see what he needs to gargle- Rose water! Our old adage is not without logic. Isn’t it?”

Ramanathan got angry at everything he happened to come across that day. He went out of the house with a raging anger to burn the entire city, reduce it to the fort of charcoal. It was scorching sun light outside. He was walking aimlessly, without knowing where he was actually going. ‘Instead of coming to the city for doing the job, it would have been better begging in the village. Even if I work here for another thirty years, I am not going to amass anything big. Ain’t I? Despite spending money, peace of mind is nowhere to be seen’.

‘It is pity that I don’t even have the guts which that servant maid has. The moment she feels she doesn’t like it, she leaves everything in a minute. But I…tied to this job and this wretched city, leading a pathetic life every day. What a colossal shame of life!’ fretting about his destiny, he entered a movie hall that he came across on his way. Thought of forgetting his woes for some time. It was an English movie of two hours. After the show, he came out of the hall, went to nearby restaurant, had his meals in full and had a coffee. As it was a moonlit night, he thought of spending half an hour in the beach, and got into a bus. He sat on the beach sand, enjoyed its breeze. At about eight, when he was about to move, he remembered his friend, who was living nearby. Ramanathan thought that he could spend some time with him and enquire about houses with good water facility, went to his house. As his good luck would have it, his friend was at home when he reached there. He was the so called revolutionary writer, Mr Partha Sarathy; a famous novelist. At times he wrote short stories too.

He had pen names too. ‘Parthan’ (Another name of Arjun in Mahabharata) and ‘Therotti’ (Charioteer) were his pen names. As Ramanathan sat in front of him, he threw a customary question at him just to initiate a conversation whether he was writing any novel that time.

“Yes” Mr Parthasarathy replied.

“Which novel?” he asked, rather stupidly.

“A novel which talks about our everyday experiences.” the writer replied.

“How come such stories occur in your mind? No such stories never occur in our mind. Do they?”

“Occurring? Nothing occurs on its own. There will be no smoke without fire. Any event which we see in its fullness in our life shall form the crux of the story. It only takes the form of short story or novel. You know well that, as a writer, I intend to portray the realistic life as such in my works, don’t you? Now you see…! I got the theme for the novel which I am presently writing, from this street itself. Almost all the events in the novel are real and actually happening. I just have to give it a shape and make it not void of aesthetics. It is all only my job in this.”

“What is that so impressive going on this street?” as Ramanathan asked him, the writer started giving a brief account of the story.

“It is a tragic story. A story of a sex worker who sells her body for her livelihood. Precisely because of this, he had named the novel, ‘The sister who had slipped’. That ‘slipped sister’ had a girl child. The scoundrel who she loved had abandoned her along with the child, leaving them to face this cruel world. Now she is a destitute, struggling in this world without anyone to support. She travels from place to place but not getting a job to settle down. Both the mother and the child are left to starve most of the days. At last, for the sake of the child, she is ready to sell her body. Whenever she is out for earning her living, her child will be left alone, hungry, miserably crying without seeing her mother.” When the writer was narrating this story, something had struck in Ramanathan’s mind. He asked him suddenly, “Is your heroine living in this street?

“Yes…of course. She is living in this street. That too, in this opposite house.”

“Ohh…I see…How long has she been living here?”

“Probably about a month or so…”

“Do you know her name?”

“No...I don’t know”

 “How does she look like?”

Parthasarathy described her appearance. The description was over.

“It’s alright… It’s alright” Ramanathan said.

“Why?...What happened? Your inquisitiveness shows that you know her earlier.”

“Leave it aside. In case, if I like to meet her, how would I do that?” Ramanathan was astonished at himself and smiled.

“Why are you so much concerned about her?” the writer queried.  

“I’ll tell you that later. You please complete the remaining part of the story.” Ramanathan told him.

But the writer had lost his interest in telling the remaining story. He asked Ramanathan to join for dinner. After their meals, both of them were sitting in the room upstairs where they were sitting a while ago. While chewing the betal leaves, Mr Parthasarathy was peeping out of the window frequently, looking for something on the street. They were talking about sundry matters. When Ramanathan told him the requirement of a house, the writer asked him, “Why? What is the problem with the present house?”

He started narrating his story, filled in with his miseries. He explained the difficulty of getting a servant maid even with high wages. He explained in detail how each servant maid was obstinate in their attitude and not ready to do anything physically demanding.

Parthasarathy became angry with those servant maids. “Almost all the servant maids are same in their attitude. Everyone wants to have comforts in life without working. Their time also passes like this.” When Ramanathan was busy telling his story, Parthasarathy intervened, and told him, “Look over there! A woman is getting down from the rickshaw. Isn’t she?  She is the one”.

As he peeped out, looked at her and was not surprised. He was happy to know what he presumed had turned out to be correct. He looked at intently under the light of lamp post. ‘Yes…it is she..’

“So, you are writing a story about her. Aren’t you?” Ramanathan asked.

“Yes” Parthasarathy accepted.

“Do you know who your heroine is? She is my second servant maid Mangalam. She is that ‘sister who had slipped’. It is only for her, you are shedding your tears. She ran away with a lame excuse that she wouldn’t pump water, just a half an hour work, leaving good wages and healthy food. Why only novel, you can write plays also about her” Ramanathan’s voice sounded firm.

Writer Parthasarathy was visibly confused, without knowing what to do, he simply vented out his exasperation, “Oh God! Is it so? Is it true? Is it that woman?”

Ramanathan intervened, told him, “Why do you whimper unnecessarily? Let her go wherever she wants. You just reply to what I am asking you. Will you find out a suitable house for me or tear this novel into pieces? Even if you do any one of these, I will never forget that help.

Ramanathan gave out a hearty laughter. The revolutionary writer too joined him, laughed along with him.

                                                           ***End***

Translated from Tamil by K. Saravanan.

Source: Ku. Alagrisamy’s short story “ Puratchi Ezhuthalarin Kathanayaki”   

Esther- by Vanna Nilavan

This is an English Translation of short story, “Esther” written by Vanna Nilavan. Translated from Tamil by K. Saravanan. This short story has been translated and posted in this blog with the permission of the author. This is 29th English Translation in Classic Tamil Short Stories series.

Vanna Nilavan

Finally, it was decided that Grandma and Isacc would be left behind. Also, why to risk taking grandma to a place where they were going in search of livelihood? Even if she comes there, what can she do? Neither could she walk, nor hear anything. She will be able to see anyone standing near to her only when that place around her has some light. Once upon a time, it was this grandma who reared up everyone in the family. One could remember that how grandma tended to all grandchildren including Ruth who was born last. But all these do not warrant us to take this useless grandma along with us to places we go in search of livelihood? Do they? 

It was the nagging talk in the house for many days. Everyone voiced their opinion about it according to the level of their understanding of the matter, sitting in the veranda, near the granary with that old stool by the west side window, and standing at the walking passage in the rear door entrance and put forth all their opinions when they assembled together to have meals. During the olden days, there was a great amount of happiness during the meals in that house. But now no one could eat rice as it was not available. The women folk in the house were making meals only with pearl millets (Bajra) and finger millets (Ragi). Along with rice food, the pleasant life also seemed to have gone. Didn’t it? 

However, such a hasty conclusion is also not justifiable. Even now, major part of cooking in that house is still in the hands of Esthar aunt. How tastily Esthar aunt makes meals out of these refuse bajra and ragi! What would have happened in this pathetic situation if Esthar aunt hadn’t been here? The very thought about such a situation is damn dreadful.  Even Augustin, father of three girls and a boy, would have hanged himself from the palm tree beam in cow shed by putting a noose around his neck with the help of his waist Dhoti and died, if such a situation had been there.   

All three were married and living with their children. Augustin was the eldest. He was not a trustworthy chap in any task. Lying idle on the veranda, he used to while away his time, posing, as if his mind was at peace. But, on the contrary, his mind would never be in peace from inside. His mind always remained restless. David was his younger brother. Incidentally, both Augustin’s wife and David’s wife happened to have a same name. The elder’s wife was called Elder Amalam and the younger’s wife was called Younger Amalam.  Both the children of the younger brother were boys. Apart from this, Esthar was none other than the cousin sister of their father, Mariya Das. Esthar aunt came to their house twelve years ago before Mariya Das died.  The short-lived gossip of villagers that Esthar came there due to her loathsome relationship with her husband, had almost become an unappealing story now. No one could say exactly what Estar aunt had given to everyone. Despite having beautiful wives, it was doubtful whether Augustin and David showered the same affection towards their innocent wives which they had showered on Esthar Aunt.    

Esthar aunty was short. As it might be true that she remained self-restraint for a long time from the pleasure by a man, all parts of her body were well-toned, muscles tautened, and capable of arousing one’s passions. Her hard works in the woods could also be one of the reasons for it. She had thick dark curly hairs with some recently appeared grey strands in it. Not accustomed with wearing brazier. It had actually made her breasts look more beautiful. 

Aunt would always be extremely busy with her work. The hem of her saree would always be kept tied in her waist just above her anklet, and thus leaving the soft hair on her legs visible. Little she knew of any tricks nor boorish attitude required for running administration. Despite that downside, no one would raise their voice against her. It was indeed a mammoth task to maintain such a big family efficiently after Mariya Das. Wasn’t it? The men in the family might calculate accurately how much quantity of seeds would be required to be sown in how many acres of land. But when it came to house hold chores and labour in the woods, it was she who took care of everything without causing delay. Actually, getting the works done from the labourers involves some harsh tricks. Doesn’t it? But aunt wasn’t aware of all such tricks. Was she? 

Be it sowing season, or the time of irrigating the crops, or morning or afternoon or evening, she would go the woods only once after completing all her house hold chores. Funnily, it would look like as if she had gone to visit her native town. But, all the assignments would be completed as if they were under the spell of some super natural power. If she went to the woods in the evening, others would ensure that the works were completed with sincerity before her arrival, without giving her a space for finding faults in them. The whole house was working for her. All the servants and even the village were functioning upon her words. 

Those two women seemed to have been some rare breed of sort.  The elder one was born as a first girl in a big family. Be it her days she had spent in the school, or those six or seven years she had stayed at her home after attaining puberty well before completing her fifth class in the village school or even after becoming the wife of Augustin, the elder one, and giving birth to three girls and a boy, one could easily count the words she actually spoke. It was doubtful whether she would have spoken at least a few hundred words in the last twenty eight years of her age. The Elder Amalam was such an innocent creature. Esthar was her aunt in one way, and elder sister, while looking at her relationship with her in another way. One could say that running petty errands for Esthar without making any complaints and washing the cloths of children and husband in the canal with soap, drying it, folding it meticulously were the only principal tasks she had in her life. She was a woman who neither had a desire to establish anything for herself nor aware of her legitimate stand to demand things from others. 

The younger Amalam was just opposite to her in her character. She liked wearing her inner skirts to be woven with lace knitting and her braziers embroidered with different designs.  Even though she came from a family less well-to-do than the elder one, she had increased her needs and outer embellishments more after coming to that house. Everyone in the house used to sleep on the floor. There was a boarded enclosure of upper room, built lower as per the requirement of that house thatched with palm leaves. The floor was made of mud. She used to prefer to go to the upper enclosure to sleep with her husband, climbing the bamboo ladder which would screech with her weight, after making her children sleep on the floor.  When the grandma was active with her clear eye sight, she used to admonish the younger one a whore. She loved to chit-chat with unfamiliar men other than her husband, but never went astray under any circumstances. 

What is there in the village thereafter? After destructing the stubbles in Sathan Kovil and the raised land with cattle, nothing would be left out there. Would there be? 

The people from neighbouring houses had already left the village. Isacc told them yesterday that there was not a single person in the west street. Even though it was a tiny village, there were two shops. Now, as there was no business, those two shops were also closed. Only one match box was there in the house. A handful of finger millet only was available. It would be enough only for some more days. Along with it, some pearl millet was also available. But for how many days one could feed himself with the help of only one match box?   

Yesterday, David couldn’t hide the sound of match stick when he lighted his beedi without the knowledge of Esthar aunt. In order to avoid its sound, he struck it very slowly against the match box. Esthar aunt was standing in the cow shed at that time. As he struck it with an extraordinary precaution than usual, the sound of the match stick was heard thinly. Despite his earnest efforts, it fell into Esthar’s ears. She once stopped feeding the cattle, came running to him, totally clutched up. David was lighting his beedi as the flames from the stove crackling, popping on his face. 

He would have been at peace had she enquired him or spoken something to him. He too felt as if there was nothing to speak. They stood, staring at each other’s face for some time. They looked at each other without uttering anything. It was much more terrible than speaking. Importantly, it tortured David immensely. Where had the compassion and affection that remained with Esthar gone at that time? Due to this demeaning act, he had degraded himself who was, till then, very dear to his aunt’s respect and love. Being unable to smoke his beedicompletely, he threw it out through the window. 

Only porridge was kept ready for that night. The water required even for making the porridge and other house hold works, was getting scarce gradually. No matter how important the works they were doing, both Esthar and Isacc would had to run to the railway station when the train arrived. She would have to beg the loco pilot for water. In the pretext of talking to Esthar, the loco pilots, would finally open the water pipe after a brief chit-chat with Esthar Aunt. When the village was fully populated, there would be a cut throat competition to get water from the train. It was a blessing in disguise that the competition was now among only four or five villagers after everyone left the village.   

That night, everyone slept with their incomplete meals. The younger Amalam had gone to the upper boarded room long ago, slept there. David was sitting on the veranda for a long time. Esthar aunt called him many times to have his dinner. After serving dinner to everyone she came to him, caught hold of his hirsute hands, lifted him and made him sit, led him to the kitchen, and made him sit in front of the plate. He was sitting with his head looking down, not showing interest on food. Esthar lifted his jaw with her fingers, and told him, “Eat now…I know everything about your anger”. David leaned on her broad shoulder, almost pressing her breasts and buried his face. Esthar put her hands around his back, assuaged him. Davis was weeping mildly. On seeing him weeping, Esthar also wept. Both of them needed that state of mind and weep. An unusual compassion and love, not experienced till now, sprang up between them, on each other. There was a logic behind why David wept. But why did Esthar cry? Did she cry as she felt sorry for her rude behaviour towards David? The truth must be revealed any way. Actually, Esthar remembered her husband Lawrence. Lawrence and his memories in her life had almost become an age old story for everyone. No one remembered even Lawrence’s face. Everything associated with him had been erased one and all and hence nothing was so important than it for both of them at that time. 

David slept peacefully that night in the upper cabin. But Esthar aunt didn’t sleep. She didn’t even clean the bronze plate in which David had his food. Sitting outside, she kept thinking about her past. After that, she fell asleep sometimes later. 

What is there in the railway tracks? Ever since she came to that house as the first daughter in law, she had been watching the railway tracks whenever she found leisure time, sitting at the rear entrance of the house. The railway tracks remained there. No change. It never brought in her any new information. Sometimes a flock of goats used to cross the railway track. She liked to watch goats crossing the tracks more than the short sized sheep crossing it. Both of them belonged to the category of goats anyway. There was a flock of goats at her house. Perhaps, this could have been the reason why she had liked goats more. Now the expectations grew up to see such a flock of goats crossing the railway tracks. But there was no flock of goats in the village now. Was there? All the houses which once housed the flocks of goats lay empty now.   

Watching the railway track that lay stretched idle in front of her caused her immense pain in the heart. Instead of facing that pain, it was better for her to keep herself indoor. As the school was closed, all the children were playing in the veranda with the grandma. She could spend some time there, but wasn’t interested in it. In a way it could be said that she loved to experience such an intolerable pain for herself. It seemed that subjecting her heart experience such a pain, gave her a strange pleasure. 

The cow shed in the front was empty without any cows. It was indeed unfortunate that the cows needed to be reared up even amidst these miserable situations. We couldn’t abandon those innocent creatures which had been toiling for our sake till now. Could we? Isacc had taken them to Sathan Kovil field, where even water wouldn’t be available, to graze the dried grass and crops. It was extremely difficult to imagine what would have happened to those cows if Isacc hadn’t been there around. 

Now they are insisting to leave Isacc and mother in law behind in the village. How could that be possible? 

Her mother in law never shared anything with her much. Perhaps, even elder Amalam could also be one of the reasons for it. She herself didn’t talk much with anyone. Did she? She had a very high regards for her mother in law. One must say that it was her mother who had taught her this. Ever since her childhood days, she had watched her mother treating her father’s mother alias her grandma, Alice Grandma, with deep respects. So many memorable events. She had a first-hand experience of everything about the serene peace and conversations filled with love, shared between her mother and grandma without any sign of differences and whine. All those memories were still fresh in her mind as if they all had happened just a day ago or day before yesterday. 

Whenever the grandma fell sick, most of the mother’s prayers would be full of her pleas that grandma must get rid of the sickness. Mother was an uneducated woman. Mother’s prayer was capable of bringing peace in anyone’s mind the more it was listened to repeatedly. We weren’t aware who had taught her that kind of prayer. It seemed that she had learnt it on her own by applying her own logics. It was full of small words. Mostly familiar words used in day to day life. Mother wouldn’t pray every day. Everyone would eagerly wait for the time of her prayer. “It is a prayer of an illiterate woman. That is why she doesn’t know how to perform a fake prayer” uncle used to say very often.                  

Mother took enough care of mother in law. Elder Amalam learnt this from her mother. She had a great desire that she should also love everyone in the family like her mother. A tall man who was said to be in love with Amalam was living in that village. There was a canal in her village running east to west. The canal formed the boundary of the village. Even beyond the canal, up to the motorable road which was lying ahead, the ground was full of thickly grown thorny bushes. It wasn’t known why the village didn’t extend further beyond the canal. It seemed that no one liked the village boundary go beyond the canal up to the road. Every street started from the canal and ended in thee itself. The name of the street where Amalam was residing was known as Kovil Street (Temple Street), the street full of dry, dusty earth. To the north of Amalam’s house, was there a blue colour house. Its walls were painted in light blue colour. It was where the man who Amalam loved and liked to chat, was residing. The love Amalam had for that man was not just for the sake of chatting with him. He used to come here too at times. No one could say why he came there. Whenever he came, he never sat there even for once. There was no tangible reason either why he used to be in a hurry to go away from there immediately after he came. Did Amalam know about it? After coming from such a distance, he would go back immediately without showing interest to sit there for some time. Wouldn’t he? Who would know about all these? Didn’t Amalam know about it?  

What could have been the troubles for such a soft-hearted woman in that house where everything she needed were present? Without mingling with anyone in the house, what was she searching for? Her likes and sorrows which she never shared with anyone were pretty strange. Weren’t they? Both her husband and even her brother in law, David couldn’t understand her heart. 

The time was up for Isacc to return from the woods. Now, Isacc didn’t have any work in the forest. Since it was only Esthar who, somehow, figured out that the world of Isacc was nothing but the forest, she had been sending him to that already hot and dried up woods. It seemed that Isacc would die if he didn’t see the forest. All his talk would always be about forest. Now the forest was fast disappearing. The yield of crops, the tinkling sound of bells hanging around the neck of bulls engaged in rope and bucket wells all disappeared steadily just in front of eyes. 

The forest which once served as the need of everyone in the village, had nothing in it now. A sort of white coloured sun light was falling in the fields, Isacc said. Isacc knew about the different colours of summer. If he said that the light was yellow and there would be rain tomorrow, it would rain for sure. There was nothing he didn’t know about the colours of seasons, be it the colour of sun light during summer or the colour of sun light during monsoons. Isacc was living in this world just for the sake of crops growing in the fields and cattle. But all the agriculture lands which were very dear to Isacc were slowly disappearing. As a final call, when he went to the field to destroy the already dried up crop by grazing, he went there even without taking porridge. Didn’t he? He cried so much that day. Didn’t he? He was no way responsible for anything that were happening around him, though. Esthar sent him to the field to destruct the crops which had already died in scorching summer without water. He would lose nothing in destructing the dead crops. Would he? Even then, he cried a lot. That too, when the land didn’t belong to him. 

Who was pouring out such an amount of fire from above? Who had made the day longer till seven in the night when there was no water to drink and essential food items to eat? Even the wind had also found its place to hide itself. The day had excessively scorching with light and the night was thickly dense with darkness, making one suffocated. 

One day night Esthar aunty told, when everyone was sitting in front of the lantern light. “This kind of pitch darkness shouldn’t be there. I am confused at why it is getting this much dark. It is not for good, I know. Fortunately, the children had already slept here and there by the time Esthar aunty told this. Only the baby of younger Amalam was awake waiting for milk. Those children who couldn’t understand what Esthar aunty had told were actually lucky. This, too, happened some months ago. 

As the days passed, the pitch darkness during night got darker day-by-day.  Even during the moonlit days, that worst darkness hadn’t waned. Of late the absence of human activity in the village had aggravated the darkness. If people were at home, some amount of light from the houses would fall on the street, no matter the houses were kept opened or closed. Even if it was a new moon night, the chit chats, sundry sounds and movement of persons would drive away the darkness. Hence, getting rid of darkness was indeed a petty matter anyway. It was not the lamp posts installed at the Village Panjayat office or the moon light that came once in fortnight that drove away the darkness; it was the sounds of chit chats and the movement of people that did it. Even if all the houses delved into darkness without any lamps, an inconsequential information that some men were at home was more than enough to drive away the darkness. The darkness never remained a matter of concern for the Esthar’s family till now. But, the misery brought in by the darkness was as unbearable as the scorching sun light now.   

The scorching sun was sultry and irritating. The sun light increased the miseries of the day time. On the other hand, darkness, even though it didn’t irritate like sun light, it was horrible in different way. It was nothing but fear. It was not a fear which could afflict children at the very sight of darkness. It stood just outside the entrance of houses intimidating everyone, making them sleepless and reminding every time that there was no one staying in the village. 

This darkness, a black material, anyway, remained lifeless during these many years. It was strange that it had become alive now. It was standing outside Esthar’s house, mumbling something. What was it telling? It, such a dark one, without even having a face, could instil fear in everyone. Couldn’t it? Truly speaking, the darkness too behaved in that manner. It might not have been able to communicate clearly. But it mumbled. The elders in home could hear its murmur. More importantly, Esthar, who was brilliant and authoritative, could listen to its murmur clearly. Even the brave Esthar got frightened by what the darkness had told her. It was certain that they wouldn’tbe able to escape. What were those words of darkness? Though the roof of the house was made of palm leaves, its walls were built with burnt bricks, plastered with lime. They were strong walls.  Strong enough that darkness couldn’t pierce through them. Would it be able to break open these trusted walls? Esthar aunty was frightened. What the darkness had told her was damn dreadful. 

‘Is there any way other than you along with your dearest ones abandoning this village? Are you all going to die here waiting for the rain to come?’ This was what the darkness had told Esthar aunt. It kept on murmuring the same words every day. A murmur- stubborn and firm. 

Grandma’s eye lids were wet with tears. After everyone slept, Esthar would come with a lighted lantern frequently to see her. In that light, she could see an unshakable belief behind those tears. It was really amazing to see such a hope in those eyes which had been watching everything these many years. The eyes wouldn’t get old. Would they? Would there be any means other than leaving her behind who was still holding an indomitable hope in her eyes, sleeplessly, staring at the roof. Would Isacc take care of her? Even to give him something, there was nothing left. As though he worked in that house without any expectations, it was a matter of prestige for the people who were managing the affairs of the house. 

There was nothing in the ceiling to stare at. Was there? Just like Isacc who knew about the growth of crops living with them, Grandma also knew about the palm leaves in the roof, withering steadily due to sun light, rain and wind that had made it weak and old. Didn’t she? Grandma knew when and where those leaves had started yellowing. 

That night, everyone assembled once again. Only a handful of finger millet was available. It was surprising to know that a small amount of curry leaves and cooking oil were also available at home. Esthar had prepared a pasty pudding with finger millet flour. 

No difficulty in making fire. Isacc had already brought some dried twigs and kept them ready. They were guarding the embers under ash alive ever since the very first day they lighted the fire. Had Isacc not brought those dried sticks from the forest regularly, they wouldn’t have been able to keep the fire alive. Without fire nothing would happen. Would it? 

How could we leave such a loyal servant behind? He was the one who safe guarded the crops; looked after the cattle; even in rains and sweltering discomfort he remained happy with a simple rope cot. Just for the sake of grandma, could we leave him behind to die? She only reared him up, fed him. She only brought him up, watching hairs coming up in his chest and tender moustache growing. How many days, during several nights, without making noise, she had come near to his rope cot and watched him sleeping. What was there in Isacc? Other than his body covered with the rough skin blackened by sun rays due to roaming in the forest, he had possessed nothing. Had he? Ever since he was young boy till today, she had seen him fully nude many times when he used to change his stinking khaki trousers, standing at the cow shed in the rear entrance of the house. Apart from this, an odd countenance stood concealed in his eyes that were bereft of moisture. It was not the one while looking at goats and cows and not the one that used to shine in his eyes while walking through the matured crops either. His eyes emitted a completely different light in all aspects while looking at Esthar. 

Esthar served the food, an insufficient amount for everyone, on their plates. It was not sufficient even for children. Younger Amalam looked visibly annoyed. It was her nature anyway.  

“Both of you go to your homes. Take your children along with you” she looked at elder Amalam and younger Amalam, told them. Esthar aunty’s voice sounded so firm that others should not oppose what she said. They, too, didn’t reply.    

“Both of you come along with me. Let’s go to Madurai and do some masonry works. Let’s look after our livelihood somewhere till it rain comes.  Isaac can also come along us”. 

For this too, both Augustin and David said nothing. After a while, only David started speaking. He spoke as he was sucking each of his fingers, caked with the pasty pudding, one after the other. 

“Is grandma accompanying?” 

Esthar stared at him sharply, and then turned her eyes towards the back entrance. Esthar didn’t give reply to David’s question after that. Even while she resigned herself to sleep, she didn’t give him any reply. That day night, for more than an hour, a dry wind started blowing. Esthar, who was sleeping near the children, got up, went to grandma and lay beside her. 

Even in the morning, the dry wind was still blowing. If it got cold, rain would come. But it would not get cooled down. It appeared that the wind didn’t like to get cooled down. Those two bony bulls standing there, were heaving sigh often. 

Those who were rolling on their bed half sleep could have heard it clearly. The sigh of those bulls wouldn’t be heard for long. By somehow infusing their unbearable misery into their breath, those bulls were heaving a sigh. At least, that dry wind could have blown less harsh. The wind which was just throwing swelter needed no such speed. Wasn’t it?  It must have originated from the dry land lying in the western side of the forest. The wind carried the smell of dried dung cakes of cows and goats found in the forest. It was only in the western forest, a greater number of flocks of cattle had settled recently. 

…..

Isacc brought an old coffin, bought for a paltry sum from a nearby village Kurumbur, carrying it on his head to take the grandma’s body to the burial ground. It had become evening by then. The priest from the temple from Palayam Chettikulam had come as the pastor was not present in the village. Esthar spent a considerable amount of money from her savings, which she had kept for her departure from the village, on account of funeral expenses of grandma. 

No one cried. Their disturbed faces evinced that they were frightened. The burial ground was not afar. It was located nearby. Only those from the two houses from Temple street and Nadar Street came, stayed for some time and then left. Evading one’s responsibility of participating in the griefs of others is not easy. Is it? 

Only Esthar kept on remembering very often, the wet eyes of grandma that used to be fixed on the roof. She didn’t forget those eyes for a very long time. 

                                                    ***End***

Translated from Tamil by K. Saravanan

Source: Vanna Nilavan’s “Esthar” Short story (Translated and published with the permission of  Mr Vanna Nilavan)