Dispossessed (வந்தாரங்குடி), a novel by Kanmani Gunasekaran Chapter 7

“This girl doesn’t listen to me, no matter how many times I tell her. I have been telling her to wear good clothes. Being an adolescent, she may attain her puberty at any time, and in that case, I can get her blouses and skirts for my daughter, but she doesn’t listen to me. Look at her, like a Karagattam dancer with her short skirt above her knees and men’s shirt. I won’t get blessed if I wash those clothes you throw at me at the cost of straining my hips. Will I? They are just fit to be used only as cleaning cloths.” When Ekali Arasayi entered the front yard, pushing her way through the wooden door, Bhuma Devi was holding the broom in her hands and tightening its hilt as if paying no heed to her rants. She didn’t like to risk inviting Arasayi’s further teasing and mockery by opening her mouth. Though her rants about the clothes looked innocuously fake, there was an element of expectation in them. Other girls of Bhuma’s age had already attained puberty and were waiting to get married off. Bhuma was the only one left out. The day the auspicious turmeric water is anointed on her when she reaches puberty, would be the day of celebration for Arasayi. Rasokkiyam would treat the washermen, barbers, and other labourers in the village with respect as his own siblings and offer them gifts as much as he could without any reservations.

Those inoffensive references about her puberty brought in her a mild shyness and unease. She swiftly ran into the house, faking anger on her face. Bhuma’s mother brought some parboiled rice in a winnow and said, “It seems that you won’t get good sleep if you don’t tease her. Do you?” as she emptied it into the Arasayi’s sari held like a cradle.

“This doesn’t concern you, Periyayi.” Arasayi winked her left eye tightly and gestured at Bhuma while dropping a pinch of parboiled rice back in the winnow, as it was not supposed to be left empty.

Bhuma came to the door with the broom in hand, obviously rushing to get out of Arasayi’s sight. She saw someone writing something on the temple walls. There were only two places in the village that the local villagers could depend on to get to know what was happening in the country, in the village, and particularly in the Vanniyar Association. The first one—the walls of the village tank’s sluice gates lying beyond the residential areas of Mandarakkuppam near the entrance to the village. The second one was this temple wall. Those walls facing the street would always have something scribbled on them. The recent sentence that was almost carved in the memory, watching them daily sitting on the veranda –The Vanniyar Association’s 5th Anniversary celebration.  Venue: Kalaivanar Hall—was now completely hidden with whitewash.

Four or five people were standing near to it. When she saw Arivazhagan, the most prominent among them, standing, she grew apprehensive. ‘If it is not Arivazhagan, Mama, who then could it be writing? As she craned her neck through them to see who it was, she felt a slight uneasiness building up in her. A split-second image of the pearl millet field flashed across her mind, assuming a mammoth proportion. She bent down and broomed the floor. She was caught in the dust, stirred up, settled in a layer on the street. He was Sikamani.

“Hey, Bhuma. You are wearing your shirt today. Aren’t you? Why? Didn’t you get any of your elder brother’s shirts today? Bring a mug of water.” She was embarrassed to see Arivazhagan standing there as she straightened up her torso. “This is just for casual wear at home, Mama.” She sprinted off into the house like a butterfly, tossing the broom onto the ground.

Arivazhagan, standing at the doorway, turned, hearing someone calling him out. It was Sadhasivam who came there after his work and asked him something as he was trying to park his bicycle. “Why are you standing here, Mama? You could have had a seat on the veranda.”

“I just need some water, Maple.” Arivazhagan, while standing near the veranda, glanced at the portrait of ‘Ayya’1 fixed near the door on the wall. He walked in, went near to it to have a close look at what was pasted at its bottom. The portrait was framed in glass along with the Rosokkiya Padaiyachi’s party membership receipt pasted on it. “Maple, with your father’s membership, you left everything. You don’t even show up your head to attend any meeting of the association. Our ayya has been struggling to get reservations for all of us. Hasn’t he?”

Unbuttoning his shirt, standing in the hall inside, Sadhasivam minced his words, dragging them hesitantly, “Nothing like that. It is because of my work…”

Arivazhagan stood, without knowing how to respond to him. He then said, as he went down walking on the street, “Maple, you are an educated man. You visit so many places. Is it worth a meaning if a person like you is indifferent in this manner? Who doesn’t have work?”

Bhuma extended the mug of water. He poured some water into his mouth, gargled it, spat it out, and then drank a little. She wanted to have a glance of Sikamani again, who was seen writing on the wall beyond the layer of man-heigh dust stirred up by the hooves of cattle.

She looked at him again on the pretext of collecting the dung dropped by the cattle that had left a while ago. It had been inscribed there on the wall in dark red “ Ayya calls upon. Why is this road picketing that lasted for one week? A grand meeting to explain it. Date: 05.10.86. Time: Evening 03.00. Venue: Cuddalore Manjai Nagar ground”. Her hands were now scratching the ground instead of picking the dung, as her eyes were busy crawling on the person who was writing while she was reading it.

“Do you need water?” When Arivazhagan asked Sikamani, the shocked Bhumadevi came to her senses, and she almost snatched the water mug with her dung-smeared hand from him.

Sadhasivam remained inside the home. He would have also, otherwise, been shocked had he heard Arivazhagan addressing Sikamani. Only when Sikamani, with a sudden jerk of his head, gestured at him with a brush in his hands, did it occur to Arivazhagan that Sikamani didn’t share a cosy relationship with her family.

Bhuma dropped the dung she was holding in her left hand along the shed and washed her hands with the remaining water from the mug. With an obvious effort to change the mood of the situation, Arivazhagan said to Bhuma, “Don’t be an indifferent man like your elder brother. Be supportive of our Ayya and association like your father. There is a general meeting in Cuddalore next week. Ayya is coming there. Your chithi and the akka of the house on that side are also attending that meeting. You should also come.”

Bhuma just nodded her head with a perfunctory expression of regards and stood there a while, looking back gently, pulling her head backward to see Sikamani, who was still busy with writing. The sparrows of the pearl millet fields fluttered up again in her heart.

                                                               *** Ended***    

Note:

1. Dr Ramdas, a local politician.  

A monarch of this land (ஒரு இந்நாட்டு மன்னர்) by Nanjil Nadan

 

This is an English translation of “Oru Innaattu Mannar”, a short story written by Nanjil Nadan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

***

No one knew what his name was. Everyone, from children to elders, called him “Vaithiyar.”¹  If the voter list is scrutinized, perhaps we may know his name. He had been voting either in the name of the late Kombaiya Devar or Nallathambi Konar, who left this country long ago, without obligating anyone to have the trouble of finding out his name. But it might not be possible in this village panchayat election. As the contenders Umaiyorubagan, holding the election symbol of “road roller,’ and Bhoodhalingam Pillai, holding the election symbol of “pumpkin,” were actually locals, no one dared to use Vaithiyar, who was known to everyone in the village, to cast a fake vote. ‘Vaithiyar’ was deeply saddened at the fact that he had been neglected completely in the hurly-burly of elections in the village. He was considerably annoyed that his democratic right, that he was enjoying till now, had been neglected today.

Both the political parties were equally disappointed that a vote was being wasted without any use. There was no one of his age alive in the village that might help out in knowing his name. Since ‘Vaithiyar’ was the one who shaved off the ‘first hair’ of most of the locally influential community men running the village affair after their birth, it was improbable that they knew his name.

Even the questions asked lightheartedly out of sheer curiosity to know his name had only invited a standard, nonchalant reply from him: “What is the use of knowing it ? Are you going to finalise any purchase of land in my name with that?” Living a life without even knowing his own name, it didn’t even occur to him that he had a vote to cast in his original name in the voter list.

There were two unknown names in the village voters list. Manikkkam, a supporter of “Pumpkin,” was bewildered while scrutinising the voter list, not knowing who they were. Vaithiyar’s face came for a second like a flash in his mind. The first name was Pugaiyilai Pillai. It couldn’t be his name. The second one was Ananja Perumal. Surmising that this name might belong to ‘Vaithiyar,’ he glanced through the age. Eighty-two. He jerked with excitement!

That village, colloquially known as Kochanallur and morphologically known as Kochadaiya Nallur, must have about a hundred houses. Among those hundred houses, there were seven houses that boasted scrupulous following of universal love for all the living beings on this earth, collectively known as “Saivaite village” or “Brahmin residence,” a name drawn either through their own clans or marriage alliances. (Let me declare in categorical terms that this distinction had been made strictly on the basis of population, and not based on class distinction.). Since the farmers were of the unanimous opinion that those who wore the ‘sacred thread’ were all ‘Iyers,’ they used to be jealous of the unity among Iyers, having no hint of how 'united' they were among themselves. Apart from these men, there were other Hindus subjected to class distinction, such as Nadars, Devars, Vannars (washermen), and Navithars (barbers), in an apparent display to prove the unity in the Hindu religion. Other than these people, there were people who were not very sure whether they were Christians or Hindus or not both. If you attempt an estimate on the basis of worship of deities, the list will grow endless with myriad forms of deities—Sudalaimadan, Enapechi, Isaki Amman, Theradi Madan, Pulai Madan, Muthu Pattan, Kazhu Madan, Vandi Marichan, Mundan, Mutharamman, Soolaipidari, Sandhanamari, Muppidari, etc.  

If you could prove that the aforesaid gods and goddesses were all Hindu deities by citing the examples of their glorious deeds in their various avatars, then those people would also be considered Hindus. On the other hand, if you followed a simple mathematical formula—A is equal to B, B is equal to C, so A must be equal to C—we could then establish them worshipping so-and-so gods and goddesses who were essentially Hindu deities and thus prove those people as Hindus beyond an iota of doubt. The Englishmen must have termed this land of so many castes, a multitude of deities, and various languages and cultures as India and its people Hindu, presumably to avoid all these unwarranted troubles. All the data-based boastful deliberations of godmen and jagathgurus on the percentage of Hindus in this country in fact do include these considerable numbers of people as well.

Even though Kochanallur could boast of all these qualities of Ramrajya, the election for village Panchayat president couldn’t be underrated. Cutthroat competition. The only comforting aspect of this election was that both the contestants belonged to the farmer community, from the same caste, and, very particularly, they were brothers-in-law. This ensured the absence of caste clashes despite a stiff competition between them. The entire village faced a dilemma to align itself on either side of the parties. Other than those hundred households, were found a Teppakulam with greenish layers of mosses, a Sathan temple on its embankment, some assorted places of worship, a dilapidated mandapam, a water point that functioned illegally there after seven o'clock, a dry ginger tea shop, a grocery shop that sold anything ranging from betel leaves to Tom Tom tonic at double its price, seven or eight coconut groves around, and twenty threshing fields and agricultural lands around it. It was good to see those plants and assets having no voting rights, lest they would have also faced the same embarrassment of being dependent on these two men like others in the village.

The guesswork and conventional estimate of vote share and who would get what were all that had occupied everyone’s mind. The “Pumpkin” candidate’s sister had come from Nankuneri a week ago, as she had a vote in this village. Would the ‘road roller’ candidate remain quiet after this news? A telegram was sent to his brother, who was working in Puliyankudi. He was instructed to come alone, not with his wife. She was Pumpkin’s sister. (The symbol refers to the candidate, and is used for convenience). What if she cast her vote in favour of Pumpkin notwithstanding the political standing of her husband? What is the use of a single vote that is added up to either side? Wasn’t it better if both of them didn’t turn up for casting their votes?

The observers guessed that the winning margin wouldn’t be more than ten votes, no matter who would win. The secretarial offices they opened on account of attending to election-related works were always filled with men. The expenses on betel leaves, beedi, dry ginger tea, vada, and cards shot up exponentially in geometric proportion as the date of the election was nearing. It was feared that the restiveness of having to face the election the next day might first grow into a fever and then into pneumonia. It was at that historical moment that Manikkam sped away from Pumpkin’s secretarial office.

As his face turned brighter as if he had tasted the success, he was propelled by an extraordinary thirst to prove the superlative historical truth beyond any doubt that Ananja Perumal was none other than ‘Vaithiyar.’ He knew where ‘Vaithiyar’ would be by now.

While Manikkam sped fast towards the Sathan temple, he was alerted by his intuition. ‘If I go by this straight route, the opponent party members might develop a suspicion as to why I have opted for this route. That too, when we have the election tomorrow, the suspicion would grow stronger. Any probe or investigation by the spies of the road roller in the event of me falling in their eyes will spoil everything. What if the opponent party men try their hand to win over the voter I have found with all my hard work squeezing out my brain?”

Patting himself for his intelligent idea that occurred at an opportune time, Manikkam took a roundabout way to Sathan temple. He went to the coconut nursery, going past the school and fence, walked on the ridges, and climbed on the wooden gate on the way, and then reached the temple from its rear. A shade of unease started building up in him as he grew uncertain whether he would be able to meet ‘Vaithiyar’ alone.

He came to the façade of the temple. Not a sparrow was seen around, as it was a cold month. That man sleeping like a bundle of dirty clothes, curling his body, almost cuddling along the wall in the northeastern corner, must be ‘Vaithiyar,’ he thought. With his eyes growing dim and his hands growing shaky, his shaving caused bruises along the ears as he lost control, Vaithiyar was thus reduced to this corner after he lost his job.

As it was past nine, he must have slept. Occasional coughs to prove his presence. Manikkam went near to the corner, stood there a while, and looked around. There was no one around. Who would come to this trivial corner when the entire village is reeling under the bustle of election fever?

He called out to Vaithiyar softly.

“Vaithiyar…hei….Vaithiyar”

No reply. Manikam’s words didn’t fall into his ears as he was sleeping, covering his ears. Manikkam shook that ‘human bundle.’ Showing no sign of urgency or excitement, Vaithiyar got up and stared at Manikkkam insouciantly.

“Why, is someone in the house…?”

Manikkam knew what that had meant. Had it been some other time, his reply would have been different. But today he was aware of the weight of one vote. He replied calmly.

“Nothing like that. I wanted to ask you something."

Terror settled in Vaithiyar's heart. Someone wakes him up in the dead of the night to ask him about something… It means… 

“Is your name Ananja Perumal?” Vaithiyar’s face brightened up with amazement. “Ah…what sort of rubbish is this? Just to know this, you are holding my throat now. Aren’t you?”

“Is it your name? Tell me.”

“Who’s told you all these? I forgot it long ago. What is the need for it now?”

“Save your breath now. Your name is in the voters list. I will come with a car tomorrow and take you along with me. You will get coffee and meals. If the men of the road roller ask you anything, just tell them no. You get me?”

The very thought that he was one of the many uncrowned princes of this secular democratic socialist republic and he also had the right to vote brought him a new vigour. His dull shoulders grew a little stronger with this sense of pride.

“Why should I bother telling them? That day, road roller’s men came to me and told me, - It is alright anyway that you had been casting your vote in the name of a dead person and an absconder till date. But if you come this time to vote at the insistence of anyone, you will then understand what it means. We will hand you over to the police—that is why I keep myself away from all these. They are brothers-in-law, and they may fight today. Tomorrow they will make up as a pair and go to the market holding their hands. I just keep myself aloof without getting into unnecessary problems. Now my name is in the list of voters. I am not even aware of it this long!”

“Even now no one knows about it. I only found it out. Your name must have been there earlier too. But who else other than me would look that closely? Leave it. I will tell them to buy you a new dhoti and a shirt. You must come with me in the morning, eat idlis, put on your new clothes, and then cast your vote. I will teach you everything. You shouldn’t be friendly with anyone. Is that okay?”

“Will I say anything to anyone after this? That too, after you told this much?”

Manikkam walked to the Pumpkin’s house with his chest swelled with pride at the assurance from Vaithiyar. 

The ambience there looked resplendent, like a royal court. Pumpkin was sitting in the centre as the most prominent figure there. All the benches and chairs of that house were found scattered all around. The queue of men who wanted to show their allegiance. A couple of plates full of betel leaves. Cauldrons boiling dry ginger tea. The men who developed sore throats due to recurrent yells of slogans along the streets around those hundred houses were speaking among themselves in distorted, hoarse voices. The preparations for the next day's coffee were on.

There was a steady simmer as the cauldron making idlis was placed on mammoth stoves. Since pumpkin was the election symbol, lots of pumpkin were neatly cut into pieces and heaped on a palm leaf for making sambar. The bundles of banana leaves were occupying most of the available spaces. Clanking of utensils. Five bags of pumpkin to be distributed in case of winning in the election were kept stacked up against the wall.

It was said that the road roller also had bought two bags of pumpkins to break them by tossing them on the streets, hoping with certainty that Pumpkin would lose in the election. There was a huge demand for pumpkin in the Kanagamoolam market. A big landlord in that area seemed to have planned to cultivate pumpkins across Melaichi Konam village, having in mind the next election and the need to cater to the demand for pumpkins.

Seven or eight bull drawn carts and two rented cars were kept ready to go to the polling booth tomorrow. Needless to say, that road roller must have also arranged similar preparations. They faced only one discomfort—they wouldn’t be able to make sambar with a road roller the way their opponent party was making sambar with pumpkin. One of the intelligent chaps among them offered a suggestion that the road roller, which is known otherwise as ‘urulai’ in Tamil, which means potato too. So, it was decided that they could make sambar with it.

The most notable aspect of this election was the total number of voters, which stood at two hundred and seventy. Even if the voter turnout was a hundred percent, they could all be transported with sixteen bull-drawn carts and four rented cars. Not only that, the government elementary school where the election was held was not even half a furlong from any corner of the village by walk. But would it be right to make the uncrowned princes of this republic walk all the way to the booth?

The next day, it dawned with a full festive mood. Urgency and anxiety were vying with each other.   The people were so restless that they would have pulled the sun out of its place with a rope had it not risen in time, like deliberately ripening the fruit by beating it when it takes more time to ripen.  

Pumpkin’s son and daughter-in-law went out to bring the villagers at six o'clock. Following them, Road Roller’s son and daughter-in-law did the same. All the preparations were in full swing for morning coffee. Manikkam had kept ‘Vaithiyar’ in a safe place in the early morning. He made him have a bath in the well, had him put on his new dhoti and shirt, and decked him out with vibhooti. Vaithiyar was so delighted and thought he could receive such a treatment if the elections were held every month.

The polling started with inordinate haste after ten o'clock. The dust was stirred up by the taxis. The bull-drawn carts brought pots of water, poured it onto the street, and plastered it. The cars entered the streets, which had never seen even a bicycle, and brought the voters to the booth. The children were offered coffee, snacks, taxi ride when they accompanied their parents while polling. Some of them flatly refused to get into the bullock cart and insisted on a car instead. How would they afford missing all this luxury if not at the time of election?

Both the contestants were present in the polling booth. Their representatives were sitting in a row on either side. The school teachers, as the government employees, were there. Two policemen with lathis were on their tight vigil, as it was feared that tension might erupt anytime. They didn’t bring rifles, considering the lathi itself was too much for those farmers.

When ‘Vaithiyar, alias Ananja Perumal, got off the car in front of the polling booth, everyone raised their eyebrows in amazement. In immaculate white, and Vibhuti all over his body embodying a pure Saivaite, he evinced an extraordinary interest in everyone.

“Son of a dirty bitch… How dare he come here to cast his fake vote, that too in the local body election?” The road roller seethed with anger.

Since it was past twelve, the crowd had started dwindling. When Vaithiyar stood in the queue, there were only seven or eight people standing in front of him. A couple of men were hesitantly standing afar, possibly in a dilemma whether to join after him or after their meals.

After two minutes of waiting, Vaithiyar went out of the queue and started walking fast. Pumpkin raised his eyebrows as if to know what had happened to him. The road roller stroked his moustache and threw an insulting stare at Pumpkin as if showing his resolve not to allow Vaithiyar to cast his fake vote against him.

Manikkam followed Vaithiyar who had run away from the queue and caught him in a couple of steps.

“You, old bugger! What the hell happened to you? Are you running to the cremation ground?”

“Ah…, don’t shout at me. I’ll be back in a minute.” – His voice carried some urgency.

“I am just asking you the same. Where the heck are you going? Have you gone mad?”

“Wait… I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Go anywhere you want, but only after casting your vote.”

“What sort of unwanted trouble is this? You have brought me here even before I could wash my face. After that, I had seven or eight idlis. How would that get digested at this old age? It will stop in a while. Just leave me a minute so that I can do it.”

Before Vaithiyar arrived there after attending to his nature call, the polling had been stopped during lunch break. As it was potentially dangerous to keep Vaithiyar waiting there, they took him in the car, fed him in the house, brought him again, and made him stand as the first person to vote. He threw his eyes valiantly around like a ‘Sooran’ in the Sooran festival. The polling resumed after the lunch break. Vaithiyar entered the polling booth, holding a voter sheet given to him in the name of Ananja Perumal. The road roller was eagerly waiting for him to teach him a lesson before he would leave the booth. Vaithiyar gave the sheet to the first polling officer.

The road roller roared once.

“Hey Vaithiyar, do you have the vote?”

Vaithiyar gazed at him doubtfully.

“Yes, I have. See it yourself.”

Road Roller was astounded at seeing the sheet Vaithiyar gave him. Pumpkin’s face displayed a secretive streak of a smile at seeing the shock on the road roller’s face.

“Is your name Ananja Perumal?”

“Yes. Do you think I have come here to cast my fake vote?”

The road roller was still suspicious. He then checked the voter list once again. Again he was shocked a little. In a short while, a grin of contempt spread across his face.

“We all know that you have been casting your fake vote in the name of those who ran away from this country. Now you have come here to cast your vote on behalf of a dead person. Haven’t you?”

“No… My name is Ananja Perumal. I won’t lie. Will I?”

“Let it be Ananja Perumal or Erinja Perumal or whatever. But the Ananja Perumal in the list is a woman.”

“What, woman!”

“Then what? Get your eyes wide open and see yourself. This is the elder sister of our grandpa, Colombo Pillai. It’s been ten years now since she died. Here, you are standing to cast her vote! You useless moron! Get out of my sight.”

Not knowing what to do, Vaithiyar looked at Pumpkin helplessly. Pumpkin threw his furious stare at him as if sinking his teeth into him and tearing him apart.

                                                      ***End***

Note:

1.    "Vaithiyar" denotes barber in a respectable way. 

Astral children (நட்சத்திர குழந்தைகள்) by B. S. Ramaiah

This is an Engllish translation of “Natchathira Kuzhanthaigal”, a short story written by B.S Ramaiah. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam. 

***

“Appa, do the stars have fathers?”

“Yes, they do have.”

“Who’s that, appa?”

“God”

“God? He will look like you, Appa. Won't he? The star looks very beautiful, so its father must be beautiful.”

“Yes, dear. No one is as beautiful as the god.”

“God must be a good person like you.” Mustn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. I too can understand that. God must be a very good man. If the star looks this bright and beautiful, how beautiful its father must be!”

“He is a very good man. His magnanimity is much bigger than us.”

“Appa, when is the star born?”

“In the evening”

“How is it born?”

“It is because we speak truth. A star is born every time we speak a truth.”

“Will a star be born even when I speak a truth, Appa?”

“Yes, dear. Every time you speak a truth, one star will be born.”

“Appa”

“Tell me, dear.”

“If all the people—all children—in our village speak the truth, how many stars will be born? (She spread both her hands apart.). We can get this many stars. Can’t we?”

“Yes, dear.”

Rohini, that inquisitive child, didn’t speak anything after that and delved into a deep contemplation and turned. She paced towards the doorway, deeply trying to visualise the fantasies she had built in her tender heart about the god, the beauty of His astral children, and the men speaking truth.

Rohini was a six-year-old girl. Yet, her words were complete in themselves, having the neatness of pearls. Her speech sounded as perfect as a chaplet of pearls and corals strung together. Her questions were about the celestial world. The thoughts that sprouted out of her tender heart were all about heavenly matters.

Shri Somasundaram had studied B.A. But, most of the time, he had a tough time facing the questions from Rohini, being unable to answer her questions. Sometimes he would regret being unable to fulfill the aspirational expectations of that young heart. But even an emperor would never feel the sense of pride he used to experience when he met or thought about Rohini.

In the town, she would ask new, inquisitive questions about the ‘children’ of ‘machines.’ Sooner she came back to the village, her questions would turn surprisingly opposite. Her heart would find its place in the simple, joyous moments of the goddess Nature. Her thoughts would then spread their wings and fly with Mother Nature.

Somasundaram was leaving for the post office that time. He used to visit the post office daily out of sheer curiosity to look for letters addressed to him before the postman arrived. He would go there daily so that he could at least collect the newspaper in case no letters had come. The child was asking questions about the stars when he was readying himself to leave the house as a part of his daily routine.

There was nothing more for Rohini to understand beyond what she was told. Her tiny, tender heart had only a small space to accommodate her fantasies about the father of stars.

Somasundaram was walking towards the post office, thinking about her questions.

It became evening. Rohini came to the doorway, fully decked out by her mother after her bath. There were two almond trees standing on either side of the entrance to her house. She stood in the middle between them. It was the time of sunset. The space and light seemed to have been amiably merged in silence in the sky. Rohini was watching the magical dance of the sky on the horizon in the western sky. Her heart, an immaculate space of innocence, was brimming with an ecstasy.

“What a beauty! The goddess Parvathi was writing a poem on that sky. Rohini’s face blossomed, and a new aura appeared around her. It was not the reflection of the divine light that appeared on the skyline. It was the light that came from the moon in the child’s heart and shone on her face. Her eyes looked like two fishes emitting flames. Have you ever seen a lotus blossoming in the dawn, in the early morning? Have you ever seen it opening its petals a little, playing with its lover, and throwing its affectionate smile at him? With amazement, happiness, and a soft grin dancing on her lips, Rohini’s small, beautiful lips were parted a little like that of a lotus petal.

“Who could that be? How would that celestial Rohini, who had been drawing pictures on the sky, be?

Rohini used to draw paintings on the wooden slate. She would draw something first and then wipe it off as she was not convinced with its outcome and then attempt something completely new.

The celestial Rohini was also drawing pictures like this Rohini. She didn’t wipe them off to draw new ones but just changed them instead. All were colourful pictures. New colours. None looked similar to each other. Cheerfulness erupts every moment. How happy that celestial Rohini would be! Rohini was just happy to think about the happiness of the celestial Rohini. The goddess of twilight was slowly ascending from the eastern horizon onto the sky as if out of shyness, with ‘her’ head bowed down. Her arrival sounded like sweet music, like the avaroganam of Kalyani raga. Her beauty was sweeter, the one that engulfs one’s heart. It is made of coyness, will never look upward, yet offers an immense amount of happiness. Her complexion is not one of the seven colours. It is just opposite to it. Its name is evening. It comforts one’s senses.

Drawing of colourful pictrures stopped. Now there were different types of pictures, images formed with the clouds and paintings drawn with the mixture of light and shades. The edges of those pictures were coated with silver linings that emitted lights. Why are they restlessly moving around here and there? Why don’t they stay at one place? How did that sky acquire azure blue? The earth bears different colours at different places. Why does the sky remain blue everywhere? Two clouds were moving slowly above the head. The blue patch between them was so spotless, just like the innocent heart of Rohini. Suddenly a sparkling appears in that patch, that bluish stretch between those two bundles of clouds. How could it be! How fast it did appear there! Faster than a blink of an eye! Within a flash of lightning! Less than the speed of lightning! The spark was born within a thousandth of a moment. 

“Amma, a star is born to the god!” Rohini shrieked, clapping her palms. Her eyes emitted a smile. Her heart seemed to be intoxicated.

Her mother is standing at the doorway. All her attention was on the people walking on the street. She was preoccupied with the sari worn by a woman on the street. Rohini’s words didn’t fall into her ears. But the happiness of Rohini was so infectious that it hit the core of her heart and pulled her towards Rohini. Her mother’s eyes were set on the child with an immense amount of love, as if she was about to devour her child.

The darkness descends on the sky. The night also looks beautiful. There was a sweetness in it, the sweetness of her mother’s nearness. The stars began appearing one after the other. My god! How many stars! Rohini couldn’t count on them. What a great speed at which they are born! The tiny heart of that child couldn't match the speed of their births.

“Come in, dear. We can get in. It is already dark.” Her mother called her out.

“Wait, Amma. We can go after a while. Look at this sky. How beautiful it is!” The child asked her mother to stand beside her.

“Yes. It looks beautiful. But it is already dark. Isn’t it? You shouldn’t stand at the door when it gets dark. Get in.” Her mother called her out again.

“Amma”

“hmm”

“Can I tell you how the sky looks like now?”

“Tell”

“It looks like your face. When you kiss me, your face will look like this sky.”

Her mother couldn’t understand its meaning. She felt that it was not correct. But something in Rohini’s words made her mumble, ‘That could be true.’

Her mother came down, pulled her daughter, and kissed her with an insurmountable love. “I have some work at home. Please come in, my dear girl,” she beseeched her daughter again and went in.

Rohini, with her magnificent heart that could swallow up the moon in the sky and resplendent flame, was standing there, moving nowhere.

Somasundaram, who had gone out on some work, came back home. He noticed the lonely Rohini standing at the door, spellbound at the beauty of the sky.

“Rohini dear, what are you watching? Come, get in to the house,” he said.

“Wait, Appa. See how beautiful this sky is! How happy the god would be to have this many children!”

Insufficiently paying his attention to her words as he was preoccupied with something, he couldn’t get what she was speaking. He just uttered “hmm” and went into the house.

The next moment, a star moved out of its place, fell off drawing a streak of a bright light trail, and then disappeared. The entire travel of that star was visible for only a couple of seconds.

The child’s eyes welled up with tears. The tears, like pearls, fell down from both her eyes. There was an inexplicable, sharp, excruciating pain in her tender heart. She started sobbing with gasps and hiccups. She called out to her father amidst her weeping, “Appa”—the wail that seemed to have the strength to melt the iron—and ran into the house.

It was at that time Somasundaram took refuge in an easy chair to relax himself with a book he picked from the table nearby. The book fell off onto the floor as he heard the sound of his daughter. He felt that his heart had broken into a thousand pieces. His entire body shuddered.

“What happened, my dear? Aren’t you my queen? Who had hurt my Rohini dear?” He lifted her in his hands, leaned her against his shoulders as he grew anxious at her wails.

“Appa, now I know everything,” she said amidst her gasps and hiccups.

“What did you know?”

“Appa, someone in our village has lied”—she resumed her sobs with gasps and hiccups loudly.

“Why do you think so?”

“Aren’t you the one who told me that a star is born for every truth we speak? If then, when a star falls off, it just means that someone has lied. Doesn’t it? How would….the god …feel now, Appa? If I could feel this pain and cry this much, what about God…?” That innocent soul started weeping again.

It was an impossible task to explain the torments and misery that she felt in her heart with the ordinary words uttered by our mortal tongue. It was a sacred distress that could be explained only by a heart to another heart in its own language.

                                                              ***End***   

One day (ஒரு நாள்) by Nakulan.

 

This is an English translation of “Oru Naal”, a short story written by Nakulan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

…

The disciples were making their visits frequently to Paramahamsa, who was leading his life without letting his cogitations stray from this world with his resolute love for the god. Narendranath Dutta, who later became famous all over the world; Saint Dodapuri, who had taught Paramahamsa Vedas and Upanishads and never yet been caught in the mundane; his relative Hridhay Mukhejee; Brahma Samajis Keshav Chandrasenar, Shivnath Babu Sastri, and Pratap Chandra Majumdar; ardent follower of rituals Krishna Kishor; singers Gourangaswamy and Nityananda Swamy; physician Sasathar Pandit; millionaire Yadunath Mallik; and Madura Babu, the son-in-law of the queen Rojamani—all were paying their homage to Paramahamsa to seek some time for a casual conversation with him. Those who watched Paramahamsa, for the first time, speaking with them with a complete fascination for the worldly matters would find it difficult to digest the fact that he was an ascetic. Everyone—from Yadunath Mallik to scavenger Kunjan—was narrating their share of woes in life and returned with a peace of mind after listening to the didactic tales from Paramahamsa. It wasn’t certain when they would all come and leave. They would be waiting till he came out of his deep slumber that looked as if he had been in deep thought. If that slumber went on—sometimes it would last even for two or three days—they would either wait till he came out of the meditation or leave a message with Dodapuri that they would visit again.

This Dodapuri was different from Saint Dodapuri. He belonged to the cadre of men who were followers of Paramahamsa. He had been an accountant in the grocery shop run by Govindji Chet in Dakshineshwar. His wife died, leaving behind a sixteen-year-old boy, Naveenan. Dodapuri was madly in love with his wife. There was a reason behind it. He had acquired a serious bout of tuberculosis before his marriage due to his philandering way of life. Seeing his wife’s steadfast devotion to the god and unfaltering following of rituals, he changed his mind. She died after reminding him that it was his duty to take care of his son Naveenan. After that, Dodapuri was very protective of his son, though he didn’t display his affection visibly.   Naveenan must have been ten years old when Dodapuri's wife died. Seeing the divine glow on Naveenan’s face, Paramahamsa deputed him to collect flowers, make garlands, and sing hymns for worshipping the goddess. Dodapuri wasn’t aware of it. One day, when Naveenan didn’t turn up home for a long time, he came to know through the scavenger Kunjan that Naveenan had gone to the ashram and went there. He saw Naveenan asking Gourangaswamy whether Paramahamsa died, as he hadn’t seen him sitting in meditation before. Dodapuri, visibly perplexed, took his son along with him.

His mind remained restless after coming home. When he went to the ashram, Yadunath Mallik and Madura Babu were discussing something in a lowered voice, sitting away from the visitors, frequently setting their eyes on Paramahamsa. Dodapuri, who lived on alms, found it strange. He knew that Yadunath Mallik and Madura Babu were stinkingly rich. He couldn’t make out why those men were paying frequent visits to the ashram. He knew about the rumour being spread in the village that Yadunath Mallik wanted to increase his wealth through Paramahamsa, but that eccentric saint did not accede to his demands. After his initial visit to the ashram, Dodapuri couldn’t avoid going to the ashram very frequently. He had obtained permission from his master, Govindji Chet, to visit the ashram every Friday night at eight o'clock after attending to the work before one o'clock. His visits to the ashram had made him have a high opinion about Paramahamsa. There was no fixed time for the visitors to come to the ashram. If Govindji Chet received his high-profile customers—be it Avinath Chatterjee or Rampandit Muherjee—they would get a royal reception. Govindji Chet would assign the responsibility of ensuring proper hospitality to Dodapuri. Dodapuri was very pleased to do that.

During his visits to the ashram, if any important visitor came—like Chandrasenar or Sasadhar Pandit—Paramahamsa would throw a pleasing smile at him. Dodapuri would then look after those visitors as well. It had become a routine. He turned his ears deaf to the critics who mocked his unquestionable servility.

Dodapuri was tall and had a complexion of a completely dried fish. He had thick hair on his head with a tiny tuft at the centre. He was wearing a starched, crumpled linen below and a towel-like cloth on his upper body. A small silver vial containing snuff would always be dangling at his waist, which he used to sniff deeply whenever his heart brimmed with ecstasy. The inmates of the ashram would pass snide remarks at him for this too. Dodapuri would keep telling the people he met how effectively Paramahamsa had referred to his sniffing habit in the moral stories he preached.

It had been three years since Dodapuri started visiting the ashram. A thought, a formless one, had been pestering his mind perpetually for those three years. He couldn’t believe that he was still unable to release himself from the clutches of those thoughts. When he pondered over this, he remembered Paramahamsa telling his disciples that in spite of Dodapuri being very close to him for three years, he was still unable to stop Dodapuri’s habit of sniffing snuff even once.

Naveenan had completed his schooling now. During his days in the ashram, Paramahamsa would ask him to bring him some snuff for an ana in the evenings when he returned. Naveenan, an obedient boy in Paramahamsa’s opinion, would never fail to bring him snuff. That Naveenan had now completed his studies in school. During that time, a new university had been opened in Kolkata. Apart from the insistence of his wife, it was Dodapuri’s aspiration that he wanted his son to pursue his higher studies and sit on a coveted job. When he first visited the ashram, he was mentally prepared for it, even without his knowledge. Now it had assumed a mammoth proportion, as he was very clear about what he aspired to. Because, when he first visited the ashram, it was not Paramahmasa, who was sitting in a deep meditation, who attracted his attention; it was Yadunath Mallik and Madura Babu. Later he was troubled with the thought that he returned without paying proper homage to Paramahamsa. His heart started palpitating at a faster rate as he grew aware that the objective he nurtured that day had now grown into a full-fledged dream with its limbs. Somehow assuaging his agitation, he left. He had obtained a leave for today from his boss yesterday itself.

It was midday. The sun was scorching above. He sniffed a pinch of snuff before leaving as if to ease the turbulence in his mind, covered his head with the towel, and then walked down with mild steps as though having no feet. While walking, he struggled not to think about the task he was planning to do and then remained for some while without thinking about it and then struggled to rein his mind from jumping into what he was struggling with earlier, and then his troubled strides brought him back to his senses when he walked four steps past the ashram. As his senses pulled him back, he reached the ashram.

There were none in the ashram as he expected other than Ramakrishna Paramahamsa. Even Hridhay was also not present there. He felt relieved at seeing Paramahamsa not sitting in meditation. He then walked towards a well in the ashram, gently fanning his face with his upper cloth. He was deliberately doing all these slowly.

He then went to Paramahamsa, paid his regards, and sat down without uttering anything. Paramahamsa smiled at him, seeing his silence, and asked,

Doda, is the shop closed today?”

“It is open.”

“Is your boss unwell?”

“He is very fine.”

“Have you come here in search of Naveenan? Though he is not a small boy, you still come here searching for him. It seems that my brain has grown rusty. Had I listened to my elder brother’s advice and joined Kolkata University, I wouldn’t have asked such questions,” he laughed, telling this. Those words made Dodapuri’s heart sink further in uneasiness. Concealing that uneasiness with the layer of stubbornness, he took out some snuff from the silver casket and started speaking slowly.

“I have come here to speak about Naveenan.”

“Naveenan is a good boy.”

“I would like you to come with me to Roymahasayar’s home.”

“I don’t know him.”

“You don’t have to know about him. I know him. He is Madura Babu’s friend.”

“Naveenan hasn’t yet become mature. Has he?”

“I don’t mean that. Roymahasayar is a rich man. He is not blessed with children. While coming to our shop, he used to inquire about Naveenan. I want Naveenan to pursue his higher studies and come up well in his life. My financial position won’t allow me to do that. That is why I want to meet him to seek financial help and support. I want him to take care of Naveenan.”

“But…”

“I seek your pardon. Let me complete speaking. I want to see Naveenan holding a big post and coming here as your disciple to meet you with my hospitality.”

“How can I be of any help in this?”

“You don’t have to open your mouth to say anything. You just come with me and sit beside me.” Dodapuri looked up to his face eagerly as if all his desires had taken his form.  

Paramahamsa did not make him wait for long. He collected his only upper cloth lying on a clothesline, turned to Dodapuri when he was about to walk down, and said, “Ensure a sufficient amount of snuff in the silver casket,” and smiled. Dodapuri, who was preoccupied with some other thoughts, replied, “Yes. It is there.” They didn’t speak anything after that. Both covered their heads with a towel and strode towards Roymahasayar’s house, located after four streets. They saw Roymahasayar standing at the doorway of his house, fanning himself. As he knew Dodapuri, he remained quiet without extending any customary entreaties.

Dodapuri greeted him with folded hands, forcefully though, and went near to him. He pointed to Paramahamsa, voluntarily again, who was standing at a distance with an inevitable glow. Roymahasayar invited them to come into the house and walked in front.

Soon after they went in, Dodapuri took out one of the wooden planks leaning against the wall and kept on the floor and requested Paramahamsa to sit on it. Paramahamsa sat down, keeping his upper cloth on his lap. Dodapuri began speaking:

“The saffron powder you asked me for some days ago has just reached the shop.”

“What a funny thing it is! Have you come here in this sweltering, skinning heat just to inform me of this petty thing, and that too with this old man?”

Dodapuri’s anxiety grew thicker. He turned and felt relieved at seeing Paramahamsa sitting on the wooden plank with his eyes half closed. To get his nerves bolder, he took out some snuff, sniffed it, stood hesitantly a while, and then said, “Pardon me, sir. Rojamani madam had sent a messenger from Kolkata to get it.”

Roymahasayar, who was listening to him disinterestedly, jumped off and sat straight. Dodapuri knew that Royamahasayar had an enduring illicit relationship with Rojamani after the death of his wife, and all her expenses were accounted for in his name in the shop.

“???” Roymahasayar looked up to him, eagerly waiting for him to resume his talk.

“I just got the information that we have received the saffron powder. I have taken a leave today. I thought of sending it to you through Naveenan. I heard that Chet also closed his shop early. So, I thought of paying a visit to you.”

Roymahasayar, who was visibly happy at hearing Rojamani’s name, asked him, “I like this name, Naveenan. Who is he? Is he working in your shop?”

“No…he just needs your help.”

“My help?” Roymahasayar asked as his eyes were fixed on Paramahamsa. Paramahamsa was still sitting in a meditative state.

“He is a good boy. My only son. He has been helping with divine errands in the ashram. He has completed his studies in school. I want him to pursue his higher studies and get a respectable job. Sooner it came to my mind than did I come here.”

Roymahasayar led Dodapuri to a separate room. With the same formless feeling that he nurtured in his heart three years ago, he followed him. Paramahamsa was still sitting like a wooden plank.

“Dodapuri, I don’t have to tell you more. We both have lost our spouses. We have seen enough of this world. You know well that I have never wanted to go anywhere near Paramahamsa’s ashram. You have been going there for the last three years. Today, you have brought him also here.”

Growing enormously apprehensive of what he had in store to speak out, Dodapuri requested him to pause a while, sniffed the snuff, and then asked him to resume.

Even if I don’t go there, I know about Paramahamsa. I know why Mallik and his friends were dallying with him. But I don’t speak about all these. I hate gossips. But one thing: I am not a well-educated man. You might know that even Paramahamsa also didn’t like to get educated. But what are we doing now? If you genuinely seek true wisdom and status, you don’t have to pursue any studies. Are you getting what I am saying?”

Dodapuri just nodded his head, unable to speak as he experienced an unfathomable pain possibly caused by an overflow of stress people usually face when they are seized by uncontainable emotions and his obvious attempts to control his sobs. The image of his wife, Paramahamsa, who was sitting without any movement, and the innocent face of Naveenan in his home—all together flashed like lightning in the nebulous space of the interiors of his mind.

“I know. You are a well-informed man. I like this name, Naveenan. I also want to help him to come up in his life. But I don’t want to spoil his life by getting him educated. I just want to teach him how to acquire skills and amass wealth, if at all you are okay with it.”

Dodapuri nodded his head again, perceptibly due to the fear that rose up to his neck from his heart to choke him like a ball of butter that had been churned out of buttermilk.

“I have a very good opinion about Paramahamsa. What he had told about women is fully correct. But, Dodapuri, can we control our semen even if that devil himself directs us to do so? Dodapuri, I have been receiving information that Rojamani is whoring around. I must conduct myself within a set rule of life. Mustn’t I? I will have no such trouble if I have a man to keep me calm. What I have told you is not true. I know about Naveenan. Madura Babu has told me about Naveenan that he is a good boy with divine appeal. He can work in Rojamani’s house and be my trusted man so that I can get rid of this trouble. You don’t worry about him anymore. You just leave him in my care. What do you say?”

Dodapuri struggled his best to contain his anger that erupted like a storm from the nebulous space of his heart, got up, and said, “I will meet you tomorrow.” Roymahasayar followed him to the hall, coaxing him, “Think about it and come with a good decision.” Their arrival at the hall coincided with Paramahamsa getting up from his seat.

Paramahamsa and Dodapuri walked down slowly to the ashram. When Dodapuri was about to bid goodbye, Paramahamsa looked at him and said, “You don’t need to tell me anything. Roymahasayar must have taught you more in three hours than what you have learnt, and missed learning from me in these three years. We both can pay him our obeisance. Now you must have understood the reason behind why I accompanied you,” and then bid him goodbye.

The next day, though Roymahasayar was surprised at the news that Naveenan had become a priest in the ashram, he chose to remain unconcerned about it.

                                                      ***Ended***               

Dispossessed (வந்தாரங்குடி), a novel by Kanmani Gunasekaran Chapter - 6

 

“Kasambu, get me a mug of water”—with a proud glance at the man-high fabricated cane sapling protector he had just made, Ranganatha Padaiyachi turned, looked in, and asked. He kept the jatropha stalks lying around the sapling protector aside and sat down. His half-pants dropped down beyond his waistline with the drawstring loosely hanging to the ground. His hirsute chest was fully grey. The sweat, formed in droplets, seemed to be ready to roll down from his bald head.

“I will be happy if I could see the saplings grow into plants planted in these sapling protectors. It is getting late. I have kept the hot water ready; come and have a bath. Her voice sounded feeble as she extended her hands to give him the water in the mug. A sari shrunk up to her ankle, a worn-out blouse, and some old jewelry on her nose and ears, which she had brought when she was married.

He drank it eagerly after gargling. The water spilled in his lower jaw, trickled down through his chest, and settled in the folds of his stomach. “We haven’t amassed ten or fifteen acres of land like others. Have we? What we have is just these four acres of land and a hut that looks like a pigpen. We can’t buy anything more than this. That is why I would like to plant a couple of trees, no matter if they give us fruits or not. I don’t know whether it gets true and remains a lie. When the Neyveli men take over this land, it is likely that they may consider giving ten rupees more along with compensation, seeing these plants”—his routine words spoken in exasperation countless times.

Had Ranganatha Padaiyachi been genuinely interested, he would have become the owner of at least ten acres of agricultural land in Veppankurichi. All his mind had been on his children’s education. He had his daughter Rajavalli educated to become a teacher. As soon as she completed her studies, he found a boy for her who was working in Neyveli. As luck would have it, she also got a job immediately after she got married. Her family was now staying in the township. She was working in Muthandikkuppam government school. With the blessings of God, she was blessed with a baby who is now a toddler.

Now all his worries were only about his elder son, Aivazhagan. He had done his M.A. at a college in Viruthachalam. He is now above twenty-seven years old and still unemployed. He used to find some odd jobs in the first thermal power station on petty wages as a supervisor. He, then, would remain jobless after that. His important position in the Vanniyar Association, his close ties with the district secretary Kuralmani, who used to visit his house often, and his proximity to Doctor Ayya—all had made his father have immense respect and regard for him.

Above all, the photo depicting his son and Doctor Ayya never failed to make him feel inexplicable elation every time he saw it.

With one of his legs stomping on the ground, Sikamani, sitting on his bicycle near the doorway, asked, “Periyappa, is Annan at home?”

Before Ranga Padaiyachi opened his mouth, Kayambu jumped in and replied, “He has just come home after some work outside and is now having his bath. Please have a seat here.” She brought a folded chair that was kept leaning on the wall and went in.

“Only we both had gone to Vadalur.”

In some time, Arivazhagan called out to Sikamani from inside. “Sika…”

“I am coming,” Sikamani went in. There, found banners pasted all over the walls, almost in every corner. The wall posters with the portrait of Doctor Ayya and some yellow flags were found strewn around the floor. “Could you see lime powder, a broom, and a painting brush?” Arivazhagan’s voice coming from inside hurried him up.

“It is above the wall near the window." When Kayambu was replying, standing at the entranceway, they heard the sound of something falling on the ground at the doorway that caused a mild jolt in them. All turned to see Keeraiyan standing there. Keeraiyan dropped down the bundle of date palm stalks from his head to the ground, visibly angry all over, and went near to Kayambu with a complaint. “Periyayi, I just leave it to your judgment. My livelihood is dependent on selling baskets and plates made of these date palm stalks and climbers”. Kayambu could make out what could have happened when she noticed Keeraiyan speaking with his headscarf, which looked almost similar to his loincloth dangling at his waist, on his shoulder. It did appear that Ranganatha Padaiyachi was also searching for some suitable words that would match Keeraiyan’s anxiety. Trying hard to control her laughter, Kayambu was all in her ears.

“Last week, I identified some good number of vines and creepers amidst the date palm stalks in the field. When I went there today with a plan to collect them to make at least four or five baskets, to my dismay, I saw them completely razed. Overtly confused as to who might have been that person who could do better than me in Veppankurichi, I just traced it only to land up here where the sapling protectors are being made. Here I see our elder potter is making those sapling protectors.”

Hardly had the words spilled out of his mouth, Ranganatha Padaiyachi jumped up and swung his scythe across as if to chop off Keeraiyan’s head. “You bugger, you have flattened everything in my field. And now, you have come with a complaint against me. Haven’t you?”

Keeraiyan slouched and smiled, faking fear. Kayambu and Arivazhagan, who came out that time casually, laughed. “Keeraiya, on every visit this side, your day will never be complete if you don’t dig his mouth to bring out foul words and get scolded for your impudence. Won’t it? Kayambu said and went in.

There were only two potter families—Keeraiyan’s and his brother’s—in Veppankkurichi. They used to make baskets and winnow. They had their houses built along the road that ran to South Vellur. Their livelihood was intertwined with the villagers almost like siblings of the same mother.

                                                        ***Ended****