The Ocean of Milk (பாற்கடல்) by La. Sa. Ramamirtham

This is an English translation of “Paarkadal,” a short story written by La.Sa.Ramamirtham. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

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Namaskaram. I am doing good. I will be happy to know your well-being. You are not going to write me a letter anyway. I don’t know whether you have any such idea of writing me a letter. How secretive your eyes were that had looked around even while receiving a mug of water from my hand to gargle your mouth! Countless times of wriggles with unease! Will a person like this dare to write a letter to his own wife? So, let this letter, from me, be an icebreaker. Only when the husband behaves like this will he be able to earn me a bad name in the ‘in-laws’ house. Right? All the elders—both elders and young elders—in the house would then nudge their cheeks instead of doing it on my cheeks to disapprove pejoratively that I am an educated woman who wouldn’t mind writing her husband letters, as she doesn’t like to get her education wasted. Let them do it as they please. Now I have written a letter, and there will be no looking back. After you, staying far away from me, read it; it thus gets read by you anyway. Doesn’t it? That too, on this first auspicious day of our first Deepawali! After reading what is written in it, both the writer and the reader are equal in the crime. Or will they find any similarity in anything other than this?

It looks as if the first letter itself is harsh enough to slap your face. Isn’t it? It is okay. Let me be an idiot. Will you be content with it? I am just an innocent girl. I don’t know how to keep things in my heart. My father used to rebuke at times: 'Don’t spill out any secrets to Jagatha, even accidentally—she would throw a piece of paper with that secret written on it even after being reminded not to tell that to anyone. Not doing that would have her head blasted—Jagatha is such a dangerous woman. Yes. Let me be such a woman. Where else, then, can I pour out my agony of being unable to spend time with my husband during the first Deepawali? Can I afford to write all these to my parents? Should I carry the burden of betrayal by writing and making the internal matters of my in-laws house known to my parents? I may be a fool, but I'm not such a fool as to do that. Tell me, who else do I have? Just a couple of days before the Deepawali, Mother came here to take her daughter and son-in-law along with her to celebrate the first Deepawali. You weren’t at home. You should have seen her face fall when she was informed about your absence, as if the fallen face deserved to be fixed again from its fall.

“If not, son-in-law, let me take Jagatha along with me. It has been very long since we parted from her. We brought her here on the fourth day of her marriage for the housewarming ceremony. Didn’t we? - Mother tried her best to convince them.

But Mother (it is your mother—now I have got two mothers) glanced at me sideways and said, “When my son is unable to come with you, what’s the point in taking your daughter with you since she can have a good time with others here? She is our daughter henceforth. Isn’t she? I’ll leave this matter to the discretion of you both anyway. No one will clasp anyone’s hand to stay here.”

Is it a matter of feeding the calf with a milk bottle? I am not such a fool that I can’t understand what your mother was trying to fathom out about me. Is there anyone else in this house who could speak out their hearts? In this house, the meaning of the word is different from what it is meant to be. Suddenly I was tempted to see my younger brother Seenu. He had never left me alone, not even for a minute. It was me—his elder sister—who had to look after his everyday chores, from changing his wet clothes after washing my hands to making his bed in the cradle at night. Now, I don’t know what that child is doing. Despite all, I told my mother that I would stay here. My mother’s eyes welled up with tears, and she left without saying a word. I was standing completely astounded for some while. Throwing a sly smile at me, your mother threw me a deep glance for a second and left to attend to her chores. She must have been profoundly happy, as I know I have passed her test. What is that test? It is the absence of freedom once you are born as a woman.

“All I want to ask you is a simple question: What sort of a profession is yours that keeps you away from your loved ones? Even if you get busy ‘camping’ somewhere, isn’t it possible for you to get leave when needed? Yet I can understand one thing—not only women, but also even men don’t have freedom here. Rightly put, no one has freedom. We are all in this huge prison, the world. The rich are in the golden cage. Those who are not in these categories, like us, are neither there nor here, having nothing to hold on to stomp our legs on, floating in the air. Doesn’t this explain why we are separated and you are far away from me, who is waiting here with the melting heart? It is true that it isn’t possible to leave the job for my sake. I am not such a fool. I can understand everything if I seriously make up my mind. Now, I have done it. Does it mean that you shouldn’t speak to me? Would they have hacked your head if you had come to me before you left just to tell me a word, “Jagatha, can I take leave now?” Let me see if they had the guts to do that. They have postponed our ‘first night’ to the Thai month. Haven’t they? They are now asking us not to speak to each other. Why should their children marry, then? The entire house looks bizarre. Haven’t we, the women, become so shameless because you all behave in this manner?

My mother has told me about this—that the joint family families will have such issues. She was also married off into such an ordinary household. If four couples stay in the house having no sufficient space, where will they go? We will have a very tough time when the guests come to the house. The bedding of one couple will find its place in the veranda, unsolicited. Only after it is thrown in the veranda will people come to know to which couple it actually belongs, akin to the way the cards are selected randomly in the game. You can’t even complain about it, nor swallow it. You just have to keep your mouth shut like a thief who is bitten by a scorpion. I used to be amused when my mother told me about all these. My father was also a bit apprehensive before the betrothal: “What is this? Is it that good alliance or what? The house is full of families. The boy is the fourth among the four brothers. It seems that there are two girls waiting to get married.”

“Let it be. Let it be. Let it prosper with so many families. In course of time, it will bring our daughter a good fortune. We aren’t going to lose anything. I have been watching the couple, who had the luck of getting alliances with no familial encumbrances at their in-law’s house, roam clueless like dogs and cats without even knowing anything about this world and what was due for them in their life. Isn’t it good that the boy is the fourth among the brothers? My daughter doesn’t have to get married as the eldest daughter-in-law in this house like me. Right?”

It all sounded good when Mother was saying all this. Who wouldn’t like to be a heroine in the novel? But we get to know the pain only when it happens to us. I cried that day when you boarded the train without telling me a word of comfort. To whom will I unburden my heart? All were new to me. I ran to the well, stuffing my mouth with the hem of my saree.

I didn’t know how long I was sitting there.

“What, dear! What are you doing here?”

Shocked at the voice behind, I turned and saw your mother standing there. Sometimes I must say your mother looks gorgeous, like a holy cow smeared with a medal-sized, bright kumkum vermillion on the forehead.

“Nothing, Amma.” I wiped my eyes quickly, yet couldn’t control panting.

“Ohhh… You must be suffering from a severe cold and have gotten your nose and eyes sick. Mustn’t you? Do not take buttermilk in the night with food.” (It is beautiful to see your mother winking her eyes that simultaneously carry both wickedness and compassion). “Whatever, my dear girl, you are a newly married bride. Till we get to know how your body reacts to this place, please take good care of it. Hey, Kuttee, look here.”

Mother peeped into the well, as if she had seen something in its bottom. I got up fast, anxiously, and looked into the well to see what it was. I couldn’t see anything there.

“Hey Kuttee, I think my eyes got obstructed by swollen eye bags. I couldn’t see there? Are you able to see water in the well?”

“Yes. It’s there.”

“Is it less?”

“No. It is plenty.”

“It is plenty. Right? This is why I asked you that question—to tell you that the water in the well won’t be washed away by the sea. It gets late. Draw the Kolam under the god’s idol”—she left with a fleeting smile.

I was standing by the well for some while. I felt a small lamp had been lit in my heart. The dried coral jasmine flowers were falling from the tree into the well. The calf of the cow, which had broken its tether, was rubbing its face on my hand.

“Is there anyone here who could speak so candidly in this house? Words won’t prove one’s heart. It is something beyond it. Doesn’t the dumb have emotions? I have heard that they are more emotional than others. You are not actually dumb. Are you? But you are like a dumb. It appears that I don’t have respect for you. Yes. Let it be. I am not writing you a letter now; rather, I am speaking with you through this letter, or I must be thinking in this letter. Thoughts are mine; no one can stop me from thinking; even I can’t do that. What can I do about it? I told you a while ago that I will pour out everything from my heart. Didn't I?

Didn’t I know that you were pacing fast helplessly to the doorway, trying to reach out to me as if you got struck with a thorn in your chest and swallowed a lump as your face was burning with fire? How could I say that you weren’t interested in speaking to me? When I think about it, I feel that my chest gets choked even now. I was not a blessed soul, not fortunate enough to listen to what you were dying to speak to me. Before this happened, both of us didn’t know each other. But how could that instance I was eagerly waiting for ages seem complete the moment you—in a poverty-stricken look—held my hands entering my house?

Even after I could grasp that rarest opportunity that I was longing for, what is the need for me to remain a person who is still longing? Does it mean that the time I was waiting for hasn’t yet been consummated? The mouth would never get burnt if it utters fire. Don’t get me wrong; I am not complaining about the house into which I have been married. I must, at least, gather some courage to convey what I wanted to. You have gone to some ‘camp’ afar. What must you be thinking, in which hotel, in which town, looking up to which ceiling? I am also grieving. What is the guarantee that I will remain alive till you return? Though it is unwarranted fear, I am helpless thinking about it. You are also no exception to this. In these remaining days, from which each day is being deducted from our life, in this time of long separation after a very brief intimacy, only those fleeting meetings of eyes, a couple of words whispered in thin breath, and tender touches we experienced either deliberately or accidentally are the only treasures of our enduring memories now. We, the women, are living our lives by safely keeping those treasures intact and believing in them.

If my father met any elderly man passing by our house, he would raise his hands, folding them involuntarily. If you ask him, “What happened?” he would reply, “Amma, I am not sure if I am of this man’s age. But if someone lives till this age, it just means they have won the age and time. Haven’t they? I bow my head for their victory”—these words spoken in a deliberately lowered voice would sound peculiarly poignant. Why should we go that far? Don’t we remember an occasion in our family that reminds all of us of a pain that has been lingering for the remaining days of ours on the occasion of every Deepawali? All of you, four now, were five once. Weren’t you?

Finally, I have come back to what I was thinking of writing. It is about celebrating our first Deepawali without you. Sometimes, I get astonished at seeing your mother. How spirited she is, and that too with her heavy frame! Tireless at work, without rest. We couldn’t match her speed, though, being much younger than her. She had to go upstairs to tend her mother-in-law, including cleaning her faeces. The grandma won’t allow anyone to tend her. See you father. His frequent bursts of anger defy his age. If the meal tastes odd with a pinch more of tamarind or chili, he will perform ‘the dance of the goddess’ by throwing away the plates and other utensils. All the women in the house are terrified seeing him. He is a handsome man anyway—like an elongated zero, thin, straight-backed, and with very thick white hair for his age! His eyes emit fire always. Mother used to say, ‘Pitiable Brahmin! What else can he do after his retirement? He wants to be dominant in the house the way he used to be in his office. What can you do with both of us? We are too aged to bend for anything. Trying to bend him at this age will only result in breaking him. I will also break like a rotten pumpkin. You have to bear with us as long as we live. I still owe that old lady a responsibility to get her to reach the place where everyone is destined to go. After that…”

“Why are you speaking like this?” said one sister-in-law.

“Then what? How can you all live your lives as you wish if we are alive?”

“Is there anything lesser now in our life?”

Mother was happy within but wouldn’t show it to anyone.

“What you say may be right. Maybe because you were born first. Those who were born after you may not feel so. For instance, see how my daughter behaves. She wants to roam like a college girl, without any fetters that curtail her freedom, and to wear skimpy dresses that expose her body. I am the one standing in their way. She has been the most pampered child of her father’s brother ever since her birth. She will be the first person to cherish my death by breaking a coconut at the feet of the Lord Ganesh. If my own daughter behaves like this, how can I expect you all, who have been married in this house, to listen to my words?”

We used to reply to her in unison like schoolboys reciting the math tables, “No, ma… We will heed your words, ma.”

“It’s all empty words. I couldn’t see any of it in your actions. In spite of five people around me, I get my back broken with work. Won’t it be good if everyone shares five days each to do the work? I have to do the part of my daughter as well since she won’t be part of it. I have been telling each one of you to make coffee at five in the morning for five days each. The reward I got for that request is you all sleeping half an hour more than usual.”

Though our ego used to get bruised very often, no one would dare to raise a voice against the mother. If we woke up at half past five, she would have lit the stove at five. If we got up at five, she would have made coffee at half past four. If we got up at half past four, she would be ready with coffee at four. No one would be ready to face this unaffordable competition.

“Please come… Have a coffee when it is hot so that I don’t have to heat it again once it gets cold. It is also a sort of help. I have been telling you repeatedly. When I am alone, I have to do all my work myself. I am in fact doing it. Now, the crowd has become big, and thus the workload. Hmm…hmm… Let you all carry on with it. As long as I can walk, you can have your show. When I fall sick stretching out my legs in the main hall of the house, you will have to do all that I have been doing till now. And I have to accept what you do, be it love or hatred or sacred or profane.”

Let your mother speak about her work. But it appears that the works assume beauty only when she does it. Our parents have taught us what they knew. We also do things as much better as we can. Her pride in upkeeping the inviolability of rituals doesn’t find any laudable logic in anything. There wasn’t a day when she drank water without tapping the tumbler on her teeth. If someone musters courage—most of the time it is the sister-in-law—to tell her about it, she wouldn’t accept it with the excuse that she couldn’t hear it properly. Do the ears have anything to do with when the tumbler taps the teeth?

Your sister, after loitering somewhere, would enter the house tossing her sandals in the veranda, get straight into the kitchen without washing her legs, scoop out the stuff from the skillet with her one finger, and put it into her mouth with a curt enquiry, “Ma, what have you made today?” She is someone who’s beyond all accepted rules. What can we do about it? Perhaps my mother would have behaved the same way had I been that reckless. Other than the complaints that your mother often makes, she won’t take these insinuations from the younger and elder generations seriously to treat them as something to be celebrated as truth.

A deep scrutiny of your mother’s complaints might give the impression that all of us, all five, are just filling our tummies without doing any work. No matter how many women are married off into this house, you will always find more work beyond the hands of these five. Other than cooking, there were household chores, cleansing rituals, tending to children, and attending to relatives. Are they not works? The number of servings of food is equal to the number of people in the house. Everyone is known for their idiosyncrasy. Each one of them has to be served rasam, stew, and buttermilk in different bowls neatly arranged around the eating plate. One has to stand in front of them to serve them food ladle after ladle. You will always observe the vow of silence while eating. The moment you bend your head toward the plate, there will be no movement between the face and banana leaf, even to tilt the water jug. One of them will talk incessantly, without paying attention to the eating plate, and get up with a complaint of still being hungry and a doubt whether he has taken rasam and buttermilk. No words to explain how the kids would behave.

While Deepawali comes a night earlier in every household, it comes three days earlier in our house. Mother’s hands would start aching with frequent grinding, crushing, and thinning of some food stuff. The aroma of Mysore Pak would fill the room while stirring its paste. Sooner it fell onto our tongue, it would just melt like sand. Was it just sweet sand or butter? Whatever gets into my mouth, I will remember you. What are you doing? Other than keeping silence, what else would you be able to enjoy in solitude? Even the silence becomes unenjoyable at some stage. It just becomes a mundane thing that we usually bear with, helplessly though. Yours is not an age of silence. Is it? We still have days to share our heartfelt feelings with each other tirelessly. Why are you such a dumb man? You are a man. You might have been truly frustrated. But I am younger than you. You can’t expect your knowledge and maturity from me. Can you? Even if you aren’t interested, you must speak to me at least for my sake. I need your comforting words. I need you by my side. Aiyo! I am growing impudent in my behaviour as if I am pulling your hands towards me. I seek your pardon. Don’t get me wrong. I am unable to think of anything other than you and me. Other things in my existence are just excuses extending out of the base truth “you and me.” If I start thinking about all these, I tend to forget what I thought of penning down.

Even though the very thought of us, “you and me,” is extremely interesting to think over and write about, we can’t either afford to keep our family aside or live forgetting it. Family is a blissful entity. Laxmi, Airavatham, and Uchrawas all come from it. I got you, as you also came out of that family. Right? Both the terrible poison and its antidote, Manna, also come from the family. It all seems unimportant; just a petty thing. Right? Isn’t it because you have come from the family that I am able to celebrate this Deepawali? But you are somewhere, very far.

I think this Deepawali is exhibitive evidence of ‘you and me’ that was born and nurtured in the family in which you and I had disappeared again. When we perceive the family as ‘you and me,’ will there be any difference between these two?

I thought like this: It was a day before Deepawali. I thought, why shouldn’t I put on all the new dhotis, shirts, and blouses myself that were found heaped on the swing in the hall? – I’ll wear the women’s clothes, and the men’s clothes too, obviously on your behalf. But you are not here now. All these are for that magnificent ‘you and me.’ Right?

Mother brought some ball-like stuff in dark green on a wooden plate.

“Dear, have you had your meals?”

“Yes. Done, ma.”

“Have you eaten what you are supposed to eat?”

“Yes.” (I wanted to eat a piece of that wheat Halva. I only made those pieces. But I felt uneasy asking for it.)

“If so, then have a seat here. Let me put henna.”

The moment your mother touched my feet, I was stunned. “What are you doing there, Ma?” I screamed. I was thinking that she would apply henna only on my hands. But she seemed to have turned deaf ears to my words. She was fondling my feet as if her mind was somewhere else. Her flower-soft hands, despite being exposed to hard work, made me restless with their simple touch. Suddenly she clasped my legs tightly and bent her head down towards them. Her shoulder and body reverberated like the curls of waves. Her lock of hair was shining like an expensive white silk. Two drops of warm tears fell on my feet.

“Ma…Ma…” I felt like crying. Tears are just infectious. Aren’t they? I don’t have a strong heart to bear that.

“Nothing, dear. Don’t be afraid.” – Mother, with a swift snort, wiped her eyes. “I just remembered something. I had a daughter. She nearly resembled you—your face, body, and all that looked like yours. If she were alive, she would be your age. She was the only one who could get into my heart to know me. Three days of incessant fever. Her eyes, which closed on the first day, didn’t open after that. They said phlegm got settled in her brain. Newer diseases are coming up every phase of time. In one accident that occurred later, I thought that I had come out of that bitter memory. But now I understand that we can forget nothing. Nothing is meant for forgetting. Be it good or bad, they just mingle with our blood the way food gets assimilated into the blood and body. When we are under the illusion that we had forgotten everything, it pops out its head to remind us, “You fool! See…I am here.” Truly speaking, this becomes an indomitable mental force that frequently tests us. This explains why I and my mother-in-law are still living in this world even after those horrible experiences.”

Your mother was silent after telling me all that. She heaved a big sigh as if she had unburdened herself of a big load that had been oppressing her for long. That was it. She resumed her efforts to put henna on my legs. But it seems that she was not putting the henna on my legs, nor the image of her dead girl she found in me. She was worshipping the youthfulness that stood beyond us, yet common between us by way of applying henna. That time, I was standing as an embodiment of ‘youth’ in her eyes. I too felt it so. I liked to fantasize like that, and because of this, I might have felt like that. Certain things are very beautiful in this house. There are four generations living in this house. Your grandmother, then your mother and father, then I and you, and then the children of your brothers- and sisters-in-law. There is a singularity of worship of all living beings here. No puja, no rituals. Sometimes this house looks like a temple. Our grandma is sitting on the third floor like the Lord Ganesh blessing everyone sitting atop the rock fort (Rock Fort in Trichy). We are still unaware of the reign of Grandma. Our children are not permitted to go to the third floor to avoid troubling Grandma. It is a sacred space specially reserved only for your mother. Your mother, carrying her heavy frame, climbs up and down not less than six times a day. She prepares separate food for Grandma. We don’t know exactly what it is—porridge, gruel, Punarpagam, or parboiled rice. I used to shudder at seeing your mother climbing on the stairs holding a bunch of chrysanthemum flowers and a plate full of food stuff covered with a banana leaf like a prashatham, with her hair flowing loose to get dried, a medal-sized vermillion worn on her forehead, and wild turmeric lustrously smeared on her legs and face. Sometimes both your father and mother go upstairs together and climb down together as if coming out after praying to God. One day when they were coming down together, I fell on their feet to pay my respects. She was astounded, a little though, and her face brimmed with kindness. Even the sternness usually found thick on your father’s face grew a little soft at seeing me.

“Kuttee, is anything special now?”

I wasn’t even aware of what it was. An intense feeling of my choked throat got my mouth shut too. Tears started falling down my cheeks.

A streak of a smile on your mother’s face. Gently stroking my face, they resumed walking. Father was telling Mother in a lowered voice, “It is heartening. They have brought up the girl to show respect to elder and younger people.”

That didn’t leave any effect on me anyway. I just felt like doing it. That was it. Paying respect to them at that time meant that I could get some blessing that they got upstairs. A hereditary blessing that passes from one generation to another.

After we got our oil bath, Mother, who went upstairs, came back a bit earlier than usual. A message is flashed. “Grandma wants to come down.” Father and mother go upstairs. We are all waiting in silence with an air of piousness as though waiting to have a glimpse of the “entry to heaven.” A great-grandson, prompted by some intuition, climbed on a stool and switched on the light upstairs.

The grandma appears at the arch of the upstairs. Mother and father are holding the chair on both sides, very carefully, and bringing it down as the grandma was sitting like God placed on the sanctum sanctorum. Father, then, lifted the grandma cautiously with both hands from the chair and made her sit on the pedestal. Mother scooped out a mug after mug of warm water, poured it on Grandma, and gently massaged her body as the father was still holding Grandma. We are all watching the show standing around her.

If not worship, what is it then? Yes. It is. Due to the health condition of the grandma, she wouldn’t be given baths regularly, fearing possible health issues due to phlegm in her chest. She would be given a bath with due care on important days or festival days, like the way the god is given anointing only on special occasions. Her body was so delicate that even a massage done a little harder might tear off her flesh from her body. There is no place for emotive eccentricities called pride and shame in that body. The life in that body does seem to be waiting to leave the prison of the body at any time. Though the trees have fallen, the roots still refuse to be uprooted from the earth. The grandma must have crossed a hundred, I guess. With the years of purification, her body parts had shrunk, fully withered, and looked like a tiny ball of flesh.

They dry her body, put on her a saree, make her sit on a chair, and bring her to the well-lit main hall. We all pay her our respects. It has been years since a stony silence had crept into her. After her legs, hands, and tongue got paralysed, she communicated only through her eyes. The white spongy cataract layer in her eyes doesn’t stop them shining in the eye sockets like lamps placed in the caves. When I bow my head in reverence, I get to feel that it was she who was in the temple. What is the difference between the entity we worship in the temple and this woman? What is there in the temple?

“Aiyo…Aiyo,” a loud voice came from the outer hall. Stunned at hearing that, we all run there to see what it was. The child, screaming, went to Grandma and fell on her lap. Your mother scooped him into her hands and comforted him. Sekhar is a much-pampered boy, the son of your second brother.

“Grandma…Grandma…Mother has beaten me mercilessly,” the boy cried, complaining with ceaseless panting amidst his bruised ego.

“You merciless woman! What have you done on this auspicious day?” Mother grew furious, as if she got truly burnt under her belly, seeing the slap marks of all five fingers on his cheeks.

“Gandhee…Hey…Gandhee.”

The sister-in-law, Gandhi, was sitting by the window in the outer hall, dangling one leg and folding the other with her hands finger-locked at the folded knee. She didn’t even pay heed to her lock of hair, untied, freely flowing down her back. Eyes were spewing out fire. The eyebrows were strained, and the lower lips were pursed due to the pain she felt in her. She didn’t even bother to get up seeing the mother.

“Aiyaiyo…” screamed my younger sister-in-law, who was standing beside me. She held me by my elbows and mumbled into my ears, “Gandhi manni has got wild.”

Without any obvious justifications, sister-in-law Gandhi will develop such an unannounced fury. Either once in three months or six months, she would close her room doors for three days. No food…no bath. An awful mental fatigue would afflict her mind as if the gigantic Rahu had swallowed up the moon. No one, including Mother, would ever cross her way. The life of Gandhi Manni was full of misery. The younger sister-in-law explained everything in detail. Truly I couldn’t stand that narrative. I covered my ears and eyes tightly. I couldn’t visualise that scene. I heard that your second brother died in a cracker blast accident when he went to buy crackers for Deepawali. Some lowly soul must have thrown away the live cigarette, or it could have been some other reason. Things in that shop went up to the sky in flames in the blaze, I heard. Your brother lost his life there and got his face unidentifiably smashed. They had brought him back home, covering his face with a cloth.

Sekhar was three months old in the womb. He must be seven or eight now. Right? I would like to ask you all this question sincerely, “How could you bear this loss? How could your father and mother come out of this misery? How could you all still be alive after that incident? Do we need any more reason to explain why Gandhi manni’s life is burnt? I understand that she had been a very jovial, amiable lady before this incident happened.

Even now, her face didn’t fail to radiate her beauty. When anger falls upon her, she just shines in the purity of her pain like gold melting in the fire. Her beauty has assumed a unique appeal when she decided to stay back in this house even after such a big loss, unlike others who would have run to their parents’ home.

Seeing her in that condition, Mother’s voice grew a little softer.

“Gandheee, you haven’t yet bathed. Please get up. Come on. You have beaten this boy till his body is swollen. Is it right?”

“Right? What is right? Where do you find ‘right’ in this world?”

Gandhi manni’s voice spat out fire.

“How can you hold this innocent boy responsible for that?”

“Grandma…grandma…I did nothing. I just brought a live sparkler stick and showed it to her and asked how it was. That was it. She grabbed me by my hands and repeatedly pummeled on my back and face.” His gloom grew afresh as he narrated his ordeal to the grandma. Mother cuddled him to comfort him.

“Come here, you wretch! You killed your father when you were in the womb. What will be fit enough to punish you?” Gandhi screamed.

Mother became angry.

“Why are you cursing this boy for the sins we have done? Mind that the god is merciful enough to give him to me so that I can remember my son. So, you have found this auspicious day a right moment to vent out your unhappiness. Right? I have also lost my son. Don’t I have the pain? Am I not looking forward to brushing aside the pain in my heart?”

Gandhi manni fumed, “The death of your son and the death of my husband are not the same. Are they?”

All of us stood dumbfounded at it. Amazed to know that there are people in the house who can take on your mother on her face. The dawn that day must have been at a decisive time. Mustn’t it?

Mother let the boy come down from her hands, went to her daughter-in-law, and hugged her.

Manni broke into nothing in a second. Hugging the broad hip of the mother, she wept more than a child. Mother became teary-eyed. She tied the unkempt hair of her daughter-in-law and adjusted the strands falling on her forehead.

“Gandhi…look here…look here.”

Sekhar was holding out a sparkler stick to Mother and Grandma. The tears on his cheeks were not yet dried up.

Everyone’s eyes, leaving none, were welling up with tears. Family is an ocean of milk. Laxmi, Airavatham, and Uchrawas all come from it. I got you, as you also came out of that family. Right? The extremely terrible poison comes from the family, and its antidote, Amirtham, also comes from the same family….

                                                   ***Ended***