| Melanmai Ponnusamy |
This is an English translation of Tamil short story “Vana sudhandhiram” written by Melanmai Ponnusamy. This short story was published in Ananda Vikadan, a Tamil weekly (08.05.13 issue).
Freedom of woods (வனச் சுதந்திரம்)
Kadarkarai’s back
arched backwards as he was unable to bear the weight of his school bag when he
slung it over his shoulder. The boys, like sparrows filled with joy in their small
feathers, were flying with happiness. It was a Friday evening. Evening sun pierced
their eyes like a needle leaving a burning sensation on the softness of cheeks
as if they were baked in fire…..
‘Now, next two
days will be holidays..aiiikkk….aiiikkk…we can dance, can sing, can watch TV,
and can play cricket on streets, can throng into and drown in the well in the
woods and swim there’. Like the wind that is thrown out of flutter of sparrows,
there was a flood of ecstasy of dreams spilling out of brims in their heart.
They looked like bunches of some smiling flowers as if dreams had developed
legs and roamed on streets!
Unable to
withstand the weight of school bag, Kadarkarai bent forward. The heart,
smothered, unable to bear the burden of sorrows. Different teachers for
different sessions. They announced the results of monthly tests. Answer sheets
folded, elongated. Marks written inside the circle drawn upon it. Near to it,
the names. When each teacher turned up with the bundle of folded papers in his
hand, everyone’s heart palpitation would never be normal. Suffocation due to
fear would descend upon. How much would it be….? Trepidation and terror
would vie with each other in their mind. Kadarkarai too got affected by this.
But after the announcement of results, he was happy. His heart sprang up as if
it had got feathers. In Social Science eighty four out of hundred. In Science
seventy six. In Tamil ninety two. In mathematics sixty eight. Only
English posed serious problem.
All teachers
specifically praised Kadarkarai. “What is your name?”
“S.
Kadarkarai”
“What is
your father’s name?”
“K.
Sinnan”
“What is he
doing?”
“Herding
pigs”
“Does your
father know how to write his signature?”
“No
sir….only thump ink impression”
“Kadarkarai
is the first student coming from an illiterate family back ground. He has
scored this much marks. We should praise him. Everyone should take him as a
role model”
The music of claps
from the entire class resonated in synchronization. Beaming with pride, he
looked at the teacher innocently with his eyes wide open. He felt bursting into
cry as if sort of a congestion is blocking his heart. Mirth and tears
simultaneously overwhelmed him. Arunsunai who used to sit to his left nudged
him with his elbow at his waist, and smiled at him, winking at him. Nudge of
praise.
“He is
actually rebuking all of us in the guise of praising you” – he murmured and
winked his right eye at him.
The Maths
teacher was like a machine. He came, announced the results and started his
lessons mechanically. The English teacher was kind of a lunatic, deeply
entrenched in caste. He would treat the children from East Street slum with his
casteist eyes. Intolerance and annoyance at seeing them were jumping out of his
eyes like flames. Kadarkarai would be now ready to get beaten with brooms. The
teacher would announce the marks and praise everyone. Then, he would turn to
him leaving others. He would omit his name along with other four children from
slums. At last he would announce it with an offensive tone.
“Madasamy….twenty
eight”
“Solai
raj….thirty six..”
“Pavunraj….thirty
three.”
“Muniyasamy….thirty
one.”
“Kadarkarai…Twenty
seven”
After
segregating these five students aside, he looked at all of them same time.
“You buggers…who
is dying here to see all of you coming here to study?. I am teaching English
lessons with all my efforts. I am explaining everything till my breath gets
dried up. I am teaching grammar. After listening to all these, you idiots could
score only this much. Couldn’t you? All of you have failed. For what the hell
do you all come to the school? You…useless pack of fools are only fit for
herding pigs ….”
He was type of a teacher
who didn’t have qualms in venting out his anger and indignation. He was fond of
finding sadistic pleasure in demeaning, and in spitting out venom and derived a
sort of happiness in reminding every one of them of their caste.
“Even if it likes
to fly high, a village sparrow cannot become a kite. If you go to the forest
stream to collect pig dung, at least you would be able to collect four baskets
of dung. Why do you come here to take away my life?”
Kadarkarai would
feel as if his small feathers had been chopped off at once. He would feel a
pain at the bottom of his heart as if a burning rod was inserted there. - The
pain of being beaten by a slipper while being given another to wear. The
suffering of slur thrown at him. The English teacher whipping with the soaked
broom of invectives- All the praises other teachers showered upon him would be
forgotten just like a duster that wiped out them all. The insult from this
teacher would prick like a thorn in his heart. It would make him bend just like
the load he carried on his back. Kadarkarai was unable to come back to his
normalcy. 'The teacher comes in the last period and spits out. The spittle
he spat out still spills in the heart!'
When the English
lessons were taught, the classroom would turn into a furnace. Same was with the
drill teacher. His nick name was cane. He was thin and tubby. We wouldn’t be
able to see him without a cane in his hand. Not only in games; even in class
room too, his uncouth behaviour would have its way. He would keep on insisting
orderliness and rules in an authoritative and intimidating tone.
Kadarkarai entered
the street with the load of his school bag. Other boys would buy some stuff
from the shop. Those who did not have money would simply watch, yearning.
Arunsunai brought two ‘achu murukku’.
“Take it
Kadarkarai”
“No ..I
don’t need it”
“Keep one”
Looking at
his surrounding with frightful eyes, he took a ‘murukku’ from Arunsunai.
“What
business do you have with a boy from the slum” –Arunsunai would be reprimanded.
“You
fool…let him be a dupe. If he gives, will you accept it or what?—Kadarkarai
would also be scolded.
The playful
roaring of piglets announced that he was nearing his street. With mild biting,
absurd jumping, and their curly tips of tails, the piglets were playing
merrily. One pregnant pig was tied near to the veranda in the front. Its legs
behind were tied together, and was tied to a pillar. The painful roaring of the
pregnant pig which was trying to release itself from the rope, with all it
force till the rope had lost all its tension filled in the air there.
Kadarkarai
remembered Irulan. His freedom was something indispensable. The entire forest
was his kingdom. Goats would graze on their own. He would stand, with his
stalk standing like a pillar on the floor. Scorching sun light was like moon
light for him. He would sing songs aloud by knitting foul words together amid
the freedom of forest where no else would be there.
There would be no
teachers. There would be no orderliness called class rooms. The regulations of
getting afraid of cane and playing within the limit of circle wouldn’t be
there. Insulting insinuations of outrageousness like “you people are fit only for
herding pigs” wouldn’t be there. No more homework. No more impositions. No more
punishments of writing the same English lessons for five times. Many ‘no mores’
were its freedom. Freedom of woods. The woods of liberation!!
He sat down in
front of the house of which floor had been hardened by the constant sprinkling
and scrubbing of pig dung water. The English teacher had given him an
imposition. He had to write three pages of story three times in a note book!
“If you all come
on Monday without writing it, the cane is with me. I will peel your skin
off your back. Your palms will get ripe and swollen”
It seemed
that his four canine teeth were protruding out of a completely tonsured face.
He sat and started writing his homework. Dull evening light without sunlight.
Piglets were walking along the pigpen. Sewage water droplets were spilled out
due to pigs wagging their tails. There was lying a buried wooden pig sty in
front of the pregnant pig. It was dried up without gruel. At the salt corner of
the front side, was there lying a heap of pig dung inside the pigpen. A broom
used for cleaning the garbage and sand was lying beside the garbage itself.
There was an
intimidation of ‘tonsured’ face teacher, there was a locked door not allowing
him to drink water, and upon his dried up tongue was there leftover of
‘murukku’ and the physical uncomfortableness of having to fold his legs and
bend to write…The last finger of his left hand moved upon the lines of the
English book…..mental exasperation of writing them on the notebook with his
right hand!! Feel of tiresomeness resulted from the pain of pressurizing
compulsion!!
His mind ran
to Irulan. He longed to sit beside him. He wanted to listen to the stories
he narrated. Last month Kadarkarai went to the river bridge area in search of
his father. To the north of the bridge, there lay an ocean of barren 'lands'. Goats
were grazing. ‘Karichcaan’ birds were perching on the grazing goats.
After removing his vest and brief and tying his waist ‘lungi’ as a turban
around his head, Irulan was jumping and hopping under the scorching sun.
Well-endowed youth! In open area…..in stark sun light….in the freeness of woods
where there were no fetters….Kadarkarai looked at him astonishingly.
Later he confided all those breathe - taking surprises only to Arunsunai.
It was Sunday of
the last week. It was dusk and dark. Irulan was sitting on a parapet-wall of
the bridge which was built for sewage canal. There were four or five boys
standing very near to each other…..Kadarkarai was one among them. He would have
his lap full of ‘karachevu’. No matter who it might be, he would get a handful
of ‘Karachevu’. Kadarkarai also got it.
“While herding
goats, the cotton fruits I picked up from Aiyappa Nayakkar’s semi arable land
are lying here on my lap as ‘karachevu’. Taste them in the name of Aiyappa
Nayakkar’s virtues”- the justification he used to give was interesting and in
commensuration with the generosity of his hand.
“You have stolen
them? ….won’t they scold you?”
“If caught, they
will beat you black and blue and squeeze your dung out of you. But till you get
caught, it will be our kingdom.”
It was his
adventurous pride which cheerfully celebrated itself without considering theft
as a crime.
“Without the money
from theft, is it possible to roam around the forest lands like this? If it has
been possible to maintain forty goats, feed twenty calves, and lead this life,
do you think it is all done without anything? Nothing but theft… man. Without
putting your hand on some farmers’ agriculture produces, we can't maintain such
a large number of cattle. Can we? ”
The way he
narrated with the tone of adventure by trivializing them would leave Kadarkarai
cataleptic. He would stand spell bound. Not only that…titillating sleazy
stories with the minimized under tone, would also follow in loads of bullock
carts after that.
His escapades of
touching the women coming to herd their cattle in the woods, how he threw stone
at a couple to disturb their privacy when they were intimate inside the hedges
of ‘seemai karuvelam’ trees, how that couple was still paying him money after
being caught by him red handed, the secret behind getting a feast of
mutton rice during Deepavali and Pongal…like this, the list of his stories
would get long. His manner of pronouncing the private parts of human beings
with an ease of pronouncing the words like goats, chicken and cows! Irulan……
He was an implausible hero for him.
It got dark. The
light of the street light was benevolently copious on the front yard of the
house. He was writing with the help of that light. Still there were only three
pages. His fingers started aching. Folding and bending while writing caused an
excruciating pain on his left waist bones. Tea and water provided by his mother
had already filled in his stomach, mouth and heart. When his father Sinnan
came, he enquired, “What? Writing homework? Write…write…’ he encouragingly stroked his head.
He brought dirty
water and rice porridge from the house and poured them into the wooden pigsty
for the money minting golden pot, the pregnant pig. He chased away other
piglets with a stick when they thronged to the sty to drink it. Only the
pregnant pig drank it as it was thirsty.
“Study…Kadakarai…study….you
should also become like airport Ramalingam! You should become above than
that….” He appended his dream too along with it.
Born in
“Chakkiliyar’ caste, Ramalingam was the first one who studied up to tenth
class. He was working in an airport and used to come to the village wearing
coat, suit and boots. Now, he was receiving pension and was eligible to buy
concessional ration meant for air force personnel. The liquor bottles he used
to buy were popular in the village. He was the ideal gentle man for Sinnan. “My
child should also study….should go for higher studies….should go to big
job…should become with flying colours in life” –Sinnan used to frequently dream
like this.
When the English
lesson was completed, it was fully dark. He kept his bag near the lamp. He
longed to see Irulan even at this odd hour. He started walking towards the
bridge wall. The court of Irulan had assembled there. Stories were born with
legs and were coming out in the form of words. When he reached there, only a
handful of ‘karachevu’ was remaining. He gave it to him. Kadarkarai got it and
ate it. Then he became immersed in the flame of stories.
The ‘tonsured’
face English teacher came through his mind like a bad dream. Not only on the
day the result papers were distributed; every day the same verbal
admonishments…abusive words…discourteous sights…the heart would get hurt with
the bloody sore of a needle pinch. His daily thrashing, his words, “fit only
for herding pigs” sort of daily disgrace from the English teacher and beating
with slippers, all would make the lap of Irulan comfortable, and would increase
his love for him.
It was Monday.
‘Tonsured’ face had come to teach the English lessons. All the imposition notes
were kept on the table. He checked every note book. Only a cursory glance. A
glance for a minute with indifferent attitude! He checked Kadarkarai’s notebook
line by line. He had written everything correctly. He had written the same
story three times. The teacher’s face grew dark with disappointment as he
didn’t expect this. He closely scrutinized the spelling of words. He drew
circles at some places with his red ink pen.
“You bugger! Even
copying it verbatim has these many spelling mistakes?”
“No…. sir”
“What
do you mean by no sir…Stretch out your hand?”
For every one
including Arunsunai it seemed to be a gross injustice. Worst possible form of
ghastly intention by insulting someone in a deliberate manner! All looked at
‘tonsured’ face with repugnance. He took out his cane and asked Kadarkarai to
show his palm. Without any second thought, he whipped it furiously. Sudden,
extremely sharp waves of pain got him shudder as if being burnt by fire.
Thrashing…thrashing….thrashing….he beat him up till he got his madness quenched
its thirst. Thrashed on his thighs too…..thrashed his both palms too…calloused
blood clots….Kadarkarai jumped off in pain, cried like hell with pain and shed
tears as he was uncontrollably crying with a ruptured heart. He ran to Sinnan,
stood in front of him with his school bag. He poured out his crying heart to
him.
“It is
alright even if I die, but I will never go to the school anymore”
“Why? My
son?”
“If you
compel me to go again, I will consume oleander seeds and die.”
Next
week.
Kadarkarai, with
Irulan was herding the goats along those barren forests with a stalk in his
hand, letting out a stream of invective thinking of ‘tonsured’ faced English teacher in his
mind.
*Ended*
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