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.