This is an English translation of “Moodi Irunthathu”, a short story by Si.Su. Chellappa, a name etched in the memory of Tamils for his immortal novel “Vadivasal”. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.
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Tomorrow! Tomorrow I will have my freedom. But it didn’t come to me unexpectedly. Months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, even seconds too—it had come near to me only after it meticulously computed and assessed all these. How would that last electric-shutdown moment be! The moment that was going to offer me the real freedom did seem to be an announcement of death that would appear in front of our eyes every moment all through our life, striking into our ears with a hammer saying, “I will come to you one day. Be ready.”
The wall standing opposite carried in sequence the months and dates I was beaten. They stood lifeless, darkened as I felt a long jolt penetrating from my head to toes. I got this scrap of pencil from someone supplicating him. It was this piece of pencil that had created those days. It was the one that deleted them as well. How slowly were those days passing? Is the growth of the fetus in the womb faster or slower than that?
That first day… The birth and growth of those days were strongly registered in my mind. I marked them starting with digit one. It followed by the sequential markings of two, three, four, and so on, one after the other.
Today, it is one hundred and sixty-five, the number before one hundred and sixty-six. Even a nursery school child would say this correctly. But it wouldn’t be able to tell about the relationship I shared with those numbers. It was the last night that warned me, “You are a prisoner. Remember this.” One hundred and sixty-sixth day. Its night would see me a free man. How lucky that night would be!
Now the door remained closed. It was not merely an iron door. It would speak though having no mouth. It had learnt speaking over the years. It spoke in the warden’s language. It understood the language of the prisoner. It roared in its usual manner. I was just then entering the block as its prisoner, stepping inside its door. It was when my last day was celebrated; it was how it was celebrated.
“Hey…six two three… Get in…get in…” It was how it would grunt. But the prisoner would pick its tenor of grudge in it. Wouldn’t he? I smiled at it uncaringly. Let me stay there as long as I was destined to be there. I was not in a mood to use harsh words. “I won’t give it the responsibility of safeguarding me from tomorrow. “I am sorry for the days that were lost,” I said. What did happen next? The door creaked loudly like a Puranic monster and swiftly closed its wide mouth. I moved ahead. It was missing its feed, and it was quite normal that it would get angry. Wouldn’t it?
I was sitting on my bed. Yes. It was my bed. No one could deny that. I received it with my own hands. What a satisfaction it was when I received it! No other bed had given me the solace that bed had. It consisted of two components—a sack—sorry, I shouldn’t use such a rough word for that; it had been woven with jute fibres instead of cotton threads—and a rug. Why should there be an unnecessary explanatory detail about its countless holes and mucky odour?
That sack and the rug! They had given them names. They still belonged to me. I could have torn them off if I had thought so. I had the freedom to do that. But marks for one week or ten days would be deducted from my account for the undisciplined behaviour of the prisoner. That was it. I am going to submit them safely now. Not only those items, but also the plate and mug, which were handed to me safely before. How many hands have they been destined to be handed over? Let them live long! Let them wait for their natural end. I won’t touch them anyway.
These clothes! They also belonged to me. I could have torn them off by being slightly careless, rendering them useless for anyone. Certainly, these clothes wouldn’t make anyone proud of them. After all, they were the clothes of a prisoner. Even if it were given free, the world outside would hesitate to use it. Perhaps, it would deny it. But I am always proud that those clothes were mine. Let us set aside the opinions of the world for a while. If they permit me to take away those dresses—it is just impossible—I will put them on and parade in front of them. Should anyone dare say, “You are a prisoner,” let me see.
Those clothes weren’t made for me. It appeared that I was made to suit those clothes. Truly speaking, those clothes defined my individual appearance. When we speak about appearance, we can’t separate body and clothes. Clothes make the appearance, and so does the skin.
623. It was my number. No, it was my name. It was the suitable name given to me amidst others according to the rules of the prison. Don’t be angry, as I didn’t invite you all for my cradle ceremony. If you want to take revenge against me for that, you can call me 623. Perhaps, both of us may be satisfied with that. Each of my clothes had this number imprinted on it.
They will part these clothes from me tomorrow. It just happened to those who were released before me as well. Didn’t it? This number, 623, will disappear from me. It will reach the prison store and occupy its designated place. Perhaps these clothes may be washed. I think the number may completely disappear while washing. Or will it remain faded?
If those faded lines were visible, the new occupant would find them out with difficulty. I forgot to tell you: he would be my heir, the one who was going to enjoy those clothes, my assets, which I had left securely. What would he think? Who would that 623 be? Would he only think that I am his elder brother? Or would he think something else? Let him run his thoughts amok the way he likes; I wouldn’t be there to fight with him. Would I?
I would be a free man by then. I would have been outside these four walls that could be termed as prison. What is the need for an outsider to think about the inmates of the prison? He had also once been there for some time. That was it.
Actually, I had never been a prisoner before. This stretch of land was huge enough to accommodate the misdeeds the human society does. One can live incognito somewhere without coming into these four walls. Only some unfortunate souls, rightly saying, those who do not have the skills to hide their crimes adroitly, come inside these walls. I was an official prisoner. I accepted my crimes in public and came into the prison. It was new to me. It was rather a change from the mundane I had been spending till now. I liked it wholeheartedly, though. I remember I had spent my days there willingly.
All the iron clutches of the laws would get softer tomorrow. It might have felt that I had been sufficiently punished. Or it would have thrown me out as an unwanted one. Whatever, I would go out of this place as a free man. I would be holding the iron grills at some railway station somewhere, expecting the ticket examiner, instead of spending my days holding the iron bars of this prison. After that, I would spend my days staring at the road through the grills of the upstairs window.
While delving into such thoughts, I suddenly remembered: I missed watching the last sunset at the prison. It was already very dark outside. How many times had my eyes tried to see through that dense dark? Darkness is the only friend of a solitary soul. You wouldn’t like it. You would say one wouldn’t be able to progress without light. I say, ‘We can’t walk backwards either.’ I will remain satisfied if I don’t diminish even if I am unable to grow.
Today is the last day. There, seen the light in dots through the thick of darkness. The warden was doing his duty with his handheld light. Till another warden relieved him from the duty, he had to take rounds for two hours. Then he had to be ready for his turn. He couldn’t go out. I would go out tomorrow. But he would remain the same, doing proper rounds, covering his face with a muffler to ward off chilly wind, with his handheld light. Next day…next to next and so on. He didn’t have to be concerned about freedom.
The snoring sounds of my friends were falling into my ears. What a peace! No such thought would ever torment them even in their dreams. Their days were longer, not shorter like mine—it wasn’t a shorter life anyway. But one day they would also see their days getting very short, and it would definitely make them distressed the way it does with me now.
The night grew denser anyway. The first ring of the tower bell broke the silence of the night. I began counting it patiently. It came to rest after ringing twelve times. It was midnight. I was still sitting on my bed. By this time tomorrow, the sound of the tower bell wouldn’t tear my ears off, nor would it insist I sleep after disturbing it. A wall clock fixed somewhere on the wall would ring meekly as if being apprehensive of disturbing my sleep. I wouldn’t hear it anyway. Would I? I would be then anyway snoring with peace of mind as a free man. Right?
These things—this bed, mug, number, iron grills, environs, this life, and thoughts—all would become the things of the past. Sooner I become a free man, all these things will become merged with the past and its thoughts. Those days and thoughts will precede the present. It is why I try to register the present strongly in my memory.
It seemed that I had slept. When I woke up, I could hear that sound—that singular voice, a call that rises up from the depth and stops at the top—the call for prayer. I rolled my bed and got up. It was my last prayer. There was a vacant spot. I stood there as one among them for the last time.
The prayer was over. Grasping the bars, I was watching the crimson dawn on the horizon. The iron bars were chilly. Perhaps, they must have felt the warmth of my fingers. Just one more day. I could see the sun taking its birth with the light from the womb of the dawning horizon. I felt that its rays had already started feeling that I was a free man. However, the priest is yet to approve the boon. Isn’t he?
As usual the bunch of warden’s keys opened the lock. Daily chores thus began and were in full swing. But what everyone spoke to me about was only “this is last, this is last.”
I also like to get out of this world as the last man. But would that be possible?
Then the warden came. Standing at the doorway of the block, he yelled. I heard the call ‘623’ a couple of times. “It is me,” I said. “Pick your things and follow me,” he said. Yes. They were still mine. I gathered them swiftly and followed him. They were all counted. A prisoner bundled them up and tossed them in a corner. Now, they don’t belong to me. Those things may be proud of this. After that, they handed over my belongings. One hundred and sixty-six days before, they were mine. Now I had owned them again. Some voices standing near me said that I had regained my appearance. Yes. It must have been the appearance of a free man.
Then followed some mandatory inconveniences of the ‘releasing’ ceremony—the final ceremonies that confirmed that I had been a prisoner there. Or you can consider them as age-old ceremonies done prior to one’s freedom. Customs and traditions. Man can’t get rid of these, no matter where he is.
Everything was over. I was walking towards that particular gate. That day, this gate swallowed me up, and today it is going to regurgitate me. Pitiable! Weak intestine to digest me. I bid them goodbye. I still remember the way I behaved that day. All I said was this: “I am sorry for leaving you all.” You fool! You shouldn’t have said that. A sense of immeasurable foolhardiness! The warden was walking along with me. After opening the gate, he would return, not to my block, but to his block.
Suddenly he turned and asked, “Will you come back?” I was shocked at his question. Was it that he had understood me? If not, why this question? He didn’t ask that question, as he was fully aware of me. He knew a little about me. I may return the way I came there sometimes ago. So, it might have appeared normal. The question was petty in nature. But I was hesitant to give him a reply.
Then I replied, “I don’t know either. Who else could be sure of it?”
He was satisfied with my reply. The gate standing in front of me paved the way for me. It was the second gate. It opened wide with a slackening sound that obviously minimized the compelling presence of the jail. I crossed that gate too. Now it closed tightly with a sound that reinforced the idea that it was a jail. Where is the warden, my aide?
The next gate. I was walking towards that too. It was the third gate. Last one. A thick commanding voice ordered the gate, “Let this man go.” Now I have graduated into a man. I was still standing within the confines of the prison. Yet, I have become a man now. Not a prisoner anymore. I threw a glance at the voice that gave me respect, wishing to thank it.
It was the same voice. The voice that relentlessly yelled, repeatedly, “take this prisoner inside” once the gate closed behind me when I was taken in. Whatever, the man never stoops too low to be mean.
The last gate was also about to be opened. I would become a free man. Just a step away from the doorway of that gate. What has been filling my heart? Peace of mind or heaviness? Neither. No. Both. A creaking noise. I felt that it was a voice of poignancy that rose up from the bottom of the heart I loved most. The gate opened with that poignant note. Though I could say anything at any time, I was unable to express that intense feeling I had that time. It had been an exclusive asset of the heart. It didn’t have any language.
I stepped out. Just one step. For no reason, something pushed me to look back. “Hey, free man! Prashta… Never look back that ”side”—the door closed tightly behind with a grunt (I thought so).
Only after that, I looked up ahead as a free man. A road lying in front of me ran long. Behind were buildings—all were man-made. Beyond it were woods of trees that stood darkened. Beyond that, the range of mountains stood encircling. The horizon afar behind it seemed to be descending and merging with something to become one. Is that all?
No. Is there anything beyond it? My eyes, frenzied, scanned through penetratingly.
What was falling clearly into those eyes?
Yes. One more gate still remained closed.
***Ended***
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