“The Night” (Iravu)– by M. Gopala Krishnan (Published in Sahitya Akademi's Indian Literature journal)

 

M Gopala Krishnan

This is an English Translation of Iravu, a short story written by M. Gopal Krishnan. Translated by Saravanan. K . This story has appeared in Sahitya Akademi’s Indian Literature journal (Nov- Dec 2022 Issue)

 Thirumalai had a temperature, unbearable for him as if the bed had been strewn with embers, and he was unable to lie down on the bed as each atom of his body seemed to have been set afire. His condition demanded some immediate easings. He tried twisting his body but his hands and legs remained immobile with a lethargy in defiance of his wishes. When his Old Mother had him lain on the bed, she would assist him to keep his right hand across his chest. That day too, she had covered him with a shawl only after placing the right hand across his chest as usual. The left hand remained as such, stretched out. The legs seemed to have been attached with his body below his waist like plain wooden planks. All what he could was just to call someone aloud with a heavy voice and tell them his needs.

Old Mother was sleeping along with his maternal and paternal aunts in the hall opposite. Usually, Thirumalai’s cot would be kept at the corner of the hall. But his bed was arranged in veranda today. Apart from being a comfortable place, it was the place where people didn’t make a nuisance of themselves.  Directly in front of his cot, was the main thoroughfare of the household. To its left was a kitchen. Adjacent to the kitchen was a room, along its wall. Of the rooms, this one was fairly bigger with a window attached in the outer wall. The entry of air and light was quite good in that room. Apart from all this, the hall was sultry even during the day time. The said room did not command any specific importance till date. But in it Ganesan’s First Night has been arranged today. It meant that room was going to be Ganesan’s bed room henceforth. His room of romance! A mere articulation of those words with himself was just enough to make Thirumalai’s whole body burn with rage.

He summoned all the pain in his soul and emitted a sharp scream, “mmmmaaa”. His coarse voice dissipated the darkness with a huge amount of restiveness. For a moment, it was doubtful whether that sound had reached the inner part of the rooms. No reply came any from anyone. There was no movement noticed in the hall either. Exhausted due to marriage related works, all were in deep sleep. ‘These people might also sleep. But Ganesan would not have slept, for sure. The charming components of that room will not allow his body to sleep. Will they?’ 

He mustered all his anger and agitations together once again, and shouted at high pitch, “yammaa…yammaa” till his throat grew blocked. He was now fully enervated. He panted. The heat of his breath that ran with a steady surge up and down made him sweat.  

A sound was heard in the hall. Seconds later, a light was switched on. Old Mother, tottering, came down the stairs of the hall. She called out to him, “Thirumale…”- a sleepy call. She climbed the veranda stairs and switched on the light. The yellow light of the incandescent bulb descended on the veranda. 

She bent down and looked at Thirumalai who was lying in sweat. She wiped off his forehead with the hem of her sari. “Are you alright? What happened Thirumale”-she asked with a mild shiver in her voice. 

Thirumalai’s eyes looked at her fixedly. He quickened his normal breath intentionally to make it look abnormal. He shut his eyes as he cleared his throat. 

“Do you need water Tirumale?” Thirumalai grew further irritated at seeing the old lady not showing any signs of urgency. 

“Yammaa…Yammma..”, he held his breath for a second and drew it in with force, and screamed. His breath stopped for a moment and started wheezing. In seconds, his face started sweating. He pulled up his eyes upwards. ‘Now, the old lady would get frightened at seeing it, for sure’. The sounds of footsteps were heard from the hall. 

“What happened akka?” came his mother’s sister’s concerned voice. 

Thirumalai’s anger rose when he saw that the door of the house had still not opened.            

“Don’t know. Seems to be severe wheezing problem. He is sweating. He has been alright till now. I don’t know what has happened all of a sudden. I wanted to give him some water, but he is not opening his eyes”, she told as she was wiping him again with the hem of her sari. 

They heard the sound of front door opening. Once he understood that the light on the entrance beam was on, Thirumalai felt relaxed. Not opening his eyes, he just drew his breath in again without slackening its speed. 

“What happened Amma?” Ganesan had come there by then. The Old Mother explained her state of confusion about his condition once again.

“Anna..” Ganesan called out, as he lovingly caressed his forehead. The scent of marriage coming from him got Thirumalai further enraged. He sucked his breath in once again and cleared his throat forcefully. His respiratory tract was obstructed as if some blockage was being drawn up from the interiors of his chest pit. He started prattling without opening his eyes.  

“Anna…Annaa..What is happening to you? Please look this way” Ganesan was sitting beside his cot. His hands were shaking due to anxiety. “Amma…bring some water”. He wet the towel with water. He wiped his face with the wet towel. Thirumalai brought his breath under control and opened his eyes slowly.

“What is happening to you…Anna? Thirumalai was embarrassed at seeing the uneasiness on Ganesan’s face. He turned his face aside, spoke stammeringly, “Nothing…I just felt that something has obstructed my chest. Now I am alright. You go…and sleep.” His words trickled very heavily from him. His Old Mother kept staring at him unwaveringly. Unable to bear her look, he diverted his gaze towards the thatch with a blank expression. Without moving out of his seat, Ganesan too was watching him intently. 

“You go inside…nothing has happened to him?” The emptiness found in his mother’s voice pierced Thirumalai. 

“Just wait ma…Anna…do you want to go for a pee?”

Thirumalai didn’t reply. His rage reared its head once again in him. With the odour of marriage and a newly groomed vigour, Ganesan lifted him from the bed and made him sit. Mother’s sister moved into the hall. “It is not required now. Just a while ago, before sleeping, he went for urination” his mother sulked, went to bring the urine collection pot. He lifted the dhoti up a bit, held the pot down and asked Thirumalai to pee in it. There was a silence as if the fire of jealousy burning inside Thirumalai had been calmed down. His mind became quiet, releasing its hold on anxiety as if all his anger and rage which had till then, held him to ransom had died at that moment. A satisfaction of chasing away the scent of marriage! Putting him again on the bed, stretched out his legs comfortably, Ganesan left. His eyes closed, lying on the bed, Thirumalai could still feel that his Old Mother had thrown an unnerving stare at him for a moment. 

“Call me if you need any help…ma”- the sound of the latch being fastened by Ganesan was heard again.        

The veranda and the hall delved into darkness once again. ‘Mother could not have slept yet in the hall. The words which she keeps using within herself for grumbling, would not allow her to sleep now. The questions she thought of asking me many times might be forcing themselves to come out of her throat pit now. But she was unable to throw those questions directly at my face. Only because of her silence that emboldened me, I have been orchestrating this stupidity lying on the bed’. He felt like laughing out loud. ‘The sound of my laughter must emit light like a lightening piercing through the frozen thickness of darkness. I know my lower lips would crook and be pulled downward when I laugh. While laughing like that, even my regular laughter would carry that crook in it. There is no need at all for me to take effort to laugh with that crook’. 

‘By this time, he…’ Thirumalai’s thoughts took a step back. ‘What’s this? The rage reared its head once again. Nevertheless, I, looking on from the other good side of me, reproached myself for being able to think like this? That too about Ganesan!. Every one won’t get a brother like Ganesan. Everyone may be having siblings. But at the age of twenty-four, he has been carrying his brother whose hands and legs are paralysed. I am nothing more than a torso with life which is lying either on a woven chair or a cot. Just because there is life in the torso, can it be called a human being? I cannot even pee on my own’.    

Ganesan would get up at five in the morning. But Thirumalai’s sleeping pattern was not predictable. ‘Immediately after getting up from the bed, he would come directly to the bed. His first job was to remove my shawl, make me sit straight with both my legs dangling on both sides, lift my dhoti and collecting my urine in the urine pot kept under the cot. Then he would take that pot to the wash room, wash it and keep it upside down at a corner of the wash room. “Do you want to sleep or should I make you sit on the cot?” he would ask me’. Most of the times, Thirumalai preferred the chair. His hand woven chair was placed right under the ceiling fan in the hall, just four feet away from the television. He would make him sit on that chair, adjust his dhoti properly and switch on the television. There would be no programmes other than some morning prayers. Even though Thirumalai didn’t like them, he would watch them without complaining.   

He would come once again before taking his bath. His Old Mother would have fed him a coffee before that. There was not even a single instance where Thirumalai drank coffee without making at least one complaint about it, no matter how much delectable it was. One day, he would say it was not hot enough. Another day, he would shout that she was deliberately giving it very hot because she wanted his tongue scalded. Sometimes he would scream why she hadn’t put in enough sugar as if she preferred to have him treated like a diabetic. He would rant that only his legs and hands were paralysed and nothing else was wrong with him. On yet other day, like a miracle, after drinking coffee without complaining about it, he would stare at his mother who used to compliment wittily that rain might come that day. He would reply, “Yes…for that only I didn’t complain about it.”, laughing with his crooked lips. “It would have been better, had you complained about it instead of making this comment” – the old lady would reply.  

Ganesan would take him to the toilet, arm supporting him along with both hands. He would have readied commode in advance. Once inside, he would lean him against his own shoulders, remove his dhoti and underwear tied with a thread. Then he would make him sit on the commode and wait for him. Once he would say, “I am done” with his head down, Ganesan would wash him off and take him to the bath room. After sitting him on a wooden stool, the Old lady would pour water on his body. Ganesan would bathe his body. He would massage his limps as if he were a baby. After that, he would wipe his body dry, wear him under wear and vest. He would tie the dhoti around his waist tightly and bring him again, arm supporting. He would make him sit on the hand woven chair, bring Vibhoothi¹ from inside and smear it on his forehead liberally. 

He worked in a Cooperative society. He would leave for his office at half past nine in the morning and would return at half past one in the afternoon for lunch. Before his arrival, the Old Mother would have given the kneaded rice to Thirumalai transfixed by television programmes, sitting in his chair. Whenever he felt hungry, the taste and aroma for him were nothing but only those of his mother’s cooking. On Sundays, she would cook either chicken or mutton and would feed him. And only on that day, he would like to have betel leaves in addition to his regular food.

After lunch, he would leave for his office only after asking whether Thirumalai needed anything from outside. When he comes back, it would be dark. In the evening, a group of people used to assemble there to play card in the outer hall. A group would be formed with Anbarasu, Butcher shop Chithappa and a retired spectacled teacher, and some others. Even Thirumalai’s hand woven chair would also come to this card playing crowd. Whenever any hand was missing or Thirumalai wants to play, he would be roped in. He would in turn engage Subbuni for assistance.  

Subbuni would stack the cards, show them to him. Thirumalai would instruct him in a low voice which one to be picked up and which to be removed. No matter how badly he played, he wouldn’t face losses. Subbuni would get his due from the amount won on that day for going to the movies. Anbarasu was Thirumalai’s childhood friend. Along with Thirumalai, he also grew under the care of the Old Mother. Whenever he didn’t have any work, he would spend his time with Thirumalai. Thirumalai had been reading the Murasoli² newspaper since he was fifteen years old. Without reading the letters written to “brotheren”, his day would be incomplete. Even now, he was the only person buying Murasoli in Sirumugai. Soda Shop keeper Marimuthu didn’t mind bringing that newspaper from Mettupalayam for him. It was Anbarasu who would read Murasoli out to him. Reading books was an easy task for Thirumalai. Once the respective pages are given to him, he could read it easily by placing a card board under it. But reading newspaper was not that easy. Anbarasu would read out the news of “Kazhagam³” with intended puns. 

It was also Anbarasu who was fulfilling Thirumalai’s secret requests. All the planning and executions of those requests would take place during the playing of cards. 

On Sunday, when the mutton stew was boiling, Anbarasu would be present. Thirumalai’s heart would pounce at seeing a small liquor bottle swinging in Anbarasu’s underwear pocket. On the pretext of reading out Murasoli for Thirumalai in the outer hall, he would mix up the liquor and feed him without anyone’s knowledge. At the most, two times in a small ever-silver tumbler. That too, with a dilution of equal amount of water. Even that bit of intoxication would make Thirumalai hang his head down throughout the rest of the day, and chuckle at the people who he met, with his trademark downward pulled lips curled into a crooked smile. When they were drinking, if Ganesan happened to come by that way, he would avoid them. The Old Mother would bring pieces of meat taken out of boiling stew, in a large bowl. 

At times, Thirumalai would show immense interest in reading historical novels. But he wouldn’t read those historical story books keeping them on his lap like other books. Keeping Anbarasu beside him, he would read those stories as fast as he could. Anbarasu, sitting down near his legs would be browsing through some other books. Thirumalai felt that the nights of those days were stretching longer with pain and longingness of an intractable desert. He would be waiting painfully for the first sign of dawn with the feel of sultry and suffocation as if the bodies confined within the walls of the room were rolling down near him. Yet, he wouldn’t be able to reject the books brought by Anbarasu. The earnestness of his interest to read them next day morning would put aside all the mental agonies of previous night.  

When they started talking about Ganesan’s marriage, this mental agony had started to burn in Thirumalai. Ganesan was four years younger. For the last two years, he had been postponing all the marriage plans. He had even, reasoned with an open heart that when Thirumalai was suffering with such an ailment, his getting himself married could never be a good proposition.

Whenever he postponed his marriage like that, an intrinsic concern would blossom in Thirumalai for Ganesan. He would call him upon to change his mind, ‘Ganesa! It is indeed painful for me when you postpone your marriage citing my condition as the reason. Think about our Old Mother. You know I won’t be able to do anything. She would like to see you getting married. Wouldn’t she? Please agree to this marriage.’

Only after his genuine persuasive efforts, did Ganesan agree to get married. Now, it seems to be quite unbelievable that he could have ever spoken such lovable words to him. ‘I should have been very happy when he refused to get married. Shouldn’t I have? Both the sense of gratitude for Ganesan’s matured attitude regarding me and the concern towards mother must have pressurized me as an intolerable misery at that time. Mustn’t it have?’ 

… 

It has been fifteen years now. The Old Mother sent him off with tearful eyes who left happily for Melkundha after getting a job in Electricity Department. Her son who never stayed outside even for a night!  Her eldest son. But it was a government job. She sent him off with pride on one side and tears on the other. 

The idyllic Ooty hilly roads and the enthusiasm about the new job made Thirumalai forget the distance of the journey. After Ooty, when he reached Melkundha, the icy wind and the cold greenery engulfed him. The green pastures and the top of the trees were shining in the crimson light of the afternoon. When he opened the windows of the house allotted to him in the Electrical Residential area, a quick inflow of icy air filled the rooms. The clouds cradled by the sunshine were moving at the fringes of the hills in the distance. For a moment, the loneliness of that night ahead frightened him. The small stone-walled room, wooden cot, a blanket rolled up like a python and a rug in dark hue of blood spread on the floor seemed disagreeable to his temperament.

He hurriedly locked the door and went down. It was getting dark. Children wearing caps and sweaters were playing in the children park located at the centre of residential area. He remembered that his appointment letter had carried the information regarding winter essentials such as caps, sweaters and hand cloves. There was no need of such winter clothes in Sirumugai. He must have purchased them after getting down at Ooty. But he had felt that it was better to reach an unknown place during day time, and so set off directly. He would buy all those items after making some enquiries about them in the office in the morning. He started walking along the peripheral road of the campus. 

It must have been only six or half past six. But, it was heavily dark without any glimmer of daylight. Would be there anything to eat nearby? A Gurkha watchman wearing a cap and a muffler wrapped around his neck, was sitting in a wooden cabin designed for a man to stand and sit, smoking a bidi. When he saw Thirumalai walking near him, he looked at him intently. He was a new face in that place. ‘This fellow must be the replacement of the person who had been there when he came in the afternoon’. The Gurkha gave him a customary salute. It looked as if he had booked that salute for some use in future. It was kind of a salute given by him to officers when they were on surprise visits. 

Thirumalai introduced himself, saying he had come there for the first time, gave him his house number and enquired about the availability of restaurants around the area. Thirumalai could see Gurkha’s face bearing a friendly expression. The man told him that there were no such restaurants nearby. Further, he told him that there was a small restaurant outside Melkundha bus stand and it wouldn’t be open at night. The Gurkha further said that it would be always better to cook food for oneself at home in such hilly regions. He also asked him whether he had the habit of smoking bidi. Thirumalai also felt that he needed the warmth of cigarette smoke in that icy weather. But he was not ready to degrade himself to the level of smoking bidi. The Gurkha warned him not to venture out of the house without cap on head and sweater on body and explained how the sudden changes in temperature would result in dangerous effects on one’s body. Thirumalai felt that conversing with Gurkha who was speaking in broken Tamil gave him a better feeling of comfort rather than bemoaning his loneliness on the taut silence of a lonely room.  He didn’t feel hungry as yet. Perhaps, one might not feel hungry as the stomach gets indolent in cold regions. He had some bananas and some pieces of breads in his bag, though. He could manage somehow with that.  

When he returned to his house after a long while, the entire campus was taking refuge in the warmth afforded by the glass windows. On reaching his room, he threw his body on the cot after eating the fruit. The chill made his body shiver. Once he covered his body with the blanket, the shivering grew aggravated. He covered his body up to his neck. As the trapped heat of his body spread inside the blanket that was weighing down on him, the warmth inside grew cozier. He felt that it would be further better, if he closed his ears too. There was a cotton roll in the shaving set. But he was too lazy to get up to fetch it. He took the dual fibre towel placed at the edge of the cot and tied it around his ears tightly.            

That night, which taught him the severity of winter for the first time in his life had sowed the seeds of massive fear in him. He was under the illusion that the whole cot had become a snow bed and he was lying inside it as a puppet. He had a brief dream that his lips, eye lids and other parts of his body had a layer of dew drops like ashes resulting in his body getting frozen and eventually dying. He dreamt that a person wearing black woollen clothes and gumboots with a shawl on his shoulders, walking through the thick snow bed full of thickly grown cedar trees with icy bundles on their heads, was digging a burial pit for him. Overwhelmed with fear, he woke and got up from the bed. The water in the bottle was frozen, an icy slab. He feared that even the pipes in the toilet might emit smog. The only solace for him was that blanket which had steadfastly been with him through all his fears.   

When the light of dawn penetrated through the glass windows, he was asleep. 

Of the three engineers working in his section in the office, only Ponmoorthy lived alone. When he came to know that Thirumalai was also staying alone, he invited him to his house. He made all the arrangements for his visit that evening itself. He told him that there was no need to cook food at home. He got him introduced to a mess situated at an upper ground of the road on the way to their office. It was modest with two dining tables meant for four persons to have meals in the front hall of the house. Only Parvathi and her daughter Selvi served food there. The mess didn’t have an elaborate list of menu. It provided idli or dosai or sometimes Poori in the morning, a simple meal with Sambar, Rasam with fried vegetable in the afternoon and chappathi in the night. If needed, one could order amlette or fried egg. That was it. Those who had monthly account with the mess and placed pre-orders could only avail that mess facility.  Selvarasu, Parvathi’s husband would always be found sitting either chopping cabbage or onion or something like that into tiny pieces. It seemed that his entire world was revolving around with the speed of his vegetable cutting knife. Without uttering a single word, his whole attention would be on chopping the vegetables with his head bent down.

Only after going to Ponmoorthy’s room, Thirumalai came to know about a new world which he had not known of yet. In Thirumalai’s world, women who existed in his life merely as part of indecisive imaginations and incomplete paintings had themselves metamorphosed into a much bigger space with unusual marvels, colours and absorbing interests. Ponmoorthy was a married man and had two children. His family was living in Tiruppur. He would visit his family once in a week. The story of the women who he met in the bus, the story of a woman who sat on his lap as she could not stand in the bus during a rainy day, the friendship he developed with a lady who was sitting in the opposite seat in the train while going to Bhopal, the story of his going to that lady’s home after going to Bhopal- each night thus become the nights of tales.

Though his uninhibited delivery of dialogues and descriptions made Thirumalai feel shy in the beginning, he grew accustomed with it quickly. 

Moorthy’s descriptions and embellished commentaries filled in Thirumalai’s dreams. With an assurance of getting him married immediately in the month of Vaikasi⁴, the way his Old Mother immersed herself in the marriage arrangements served to whet Thirumalai’s cravings. 

It was the last week of December. Ponmoorthy was in the town that week. The impact of winter and its intensity was more severe than usual from the very start of December. One Saturday, there was a festival in a village in the hills located three kilometres from Melkundha. Chantha, who worked in the office, had invited them. Thirumalai went along with Moorthy.

The village was located in the heart of mountain slopes along the grove in the woods. With the boozing and dancing, in the light of flaming torches the village was in the peak festive mood. The roars of hide musical instruments making one’s nerves shudder, synchronized rhythms and the coordinated voluptuous bodily movements of those thickly dark skinned women shining in the dim light with inviting smiles - it all made Thirumalai faint with passion. He could not drink the brew with its counterfeit sweetness, arid flavour as if mixed with sand, not palatable to tongue. He was not in a position to take Chantha’s advice that drinking that beverage was must to withstand the winter cold. He could feel the eyes of that woman, wearing a bunch of crimson colour flowers in her coiffured tresses, fondling him again and again during her dance.

Snow began to descend like a drizzle in the jungle blanketed in darkness. The bitter icy wind entered every nerve of the body and froze the blood circulation. Moorthy was dancing amidst girls. Chantha kept filling in his glass when it emptied. It seemed that no one other than the eyes of that woman took notice of Thirumalai. In the fever of intemperance, that tiny ground was booming with the rhythmic beats of drums. 

In Thirumalai’s body, which was burning with passion and desires for the pleasure from a woman’s body, winter toxins welled up. The warm clothes he was wearing were of no use in the face of the intense thirsts of that night. It seemed just enough for him to go near to her and cuddle her who was dancing with the semblance of her every nerve impregnated with lightening. The tingle of winter and the frenzy of lust made his body shudder.

At that moment, as he stood over-whelmed by possibly by an unknown fear or hesitation, a lightning bolt flashed for fraction of a second, struck his chest and disappeared. Completely losing his senses, Thirumalai fell down on the ground. When he realized that the woman came running to him, held him in her hands, he could see nothing other than darkness around him. 

He could open his eyes only on the evening of the third day. No one was near him. With the blue colour curtains rippling around on all four sides, he lay on the bed as if his body did not belong to him. Some liquids dripped through the pipes inserted in both arms. The tubes attached on his chest and head were running circuitously, joining at one place and twisting at another. The mild traces of that pain were still there in the chest. A nurse with her mouth closed with a green napkin rushed to him. She pulled his eye bags down and examined it, checked his pulses and scribbled something hastily on the card kept at the foot of his bed. Thirumalai wanted to ask her so many questions, but at the same time he felt it was better not to. He closed his eyes. 

When he was brought back to his home after one and a half months, his body was not under his control. Something like severest winter or extreme stroke or a stroke of some sort had rendered his nerves, necessary for body function, totally incapacitated. All the miracles of medical advancements could not rebuild his nervous system. 

…

The clock in the hall rang once, stopped. ‘The time was 1’O clock. Wasn’t it? Or was it half past one? Has anyone heard this sound of the clock? How many nights I had kept watching the movement of this clock’s hands? Now all are sleeping out of tiredness. Yet, two persons must have heard this sound. Or they may be lying at a distance where they can’t hear that sound. As they cuddle each other, they can’t hear it. Can they?’ His mind determined doggedly to interrupt their privacy.  

He threw his voice from his throat pit with ferocity. This time, it came out like the roar of an animal. He felt suffocated. Severe pain on the chest! He closed his eyes tightly. “What Thirumale!” the edgy voice of his mother came from the hall. Just for a second. After that, only her sharp eyes kept staring at him piercingly. The sound of the latch being released was heard from the inner hall. Thirumalai tried to keep his face normal. Just to reinforce his state of mind, he coughed once again. “Ganesa! You go to bed. I will take care of him” Old Mother got up and came to him. But before that, Ganesan had gone to him after putting on the veranda light.                        

His hands touched Thirumalai’s forehead. “What had happened Anna? Here…look at me”- he massaged his chest caringly. Thirumalai bobbed his head agitatedly as if he was writhing in pain. Sitting at the edge of the cot, Ganesan, asked him, “Is your chest paining? Just a second…” and massaged his chest gently. The Old Mother turned once again to Ganesan, told him, “It is nothing Ganesa! It must be some petty chest burn. It will be alright soon. You go inside” 

“He was quite well in the evening. Wasn’t he? Did something he ate not suit him? Ganesan still kept on massaging his chest. 

His touch was unbearable for Thirumalai. Ganesan had been touching him hundred times daily. But today Thirumalai could not bear his touch. There was a distance. He could feel the lack of warmth in it. ‘He would have been with her, cuddling by this time. Wouldn’t he? Or he would have been narrating my story with heart full of despair.’ Thirumalai felt laughing even in that situation. ‘If it had been so, what would have been her situation listening to his story?’ His graphic visualization of the room which had lost its sheen in an inopportune time had made Thirumalai immensely happy.

Ganesan took his hands off Thirumalai. 

“To be on the safer side, we can call the doctor tomorrow morning to see him. Can we give him a hot tea?” 

“It is not needed…da! It will be alright soon. It is just an ordinary cough. We can provide him some herbal concoction tomorrow morning. Now you go and sleep peacefully. Tomorrow morning, you should leave for the town. Shouldn’t you?”- The Old Mother was insistent on sending him inside.       

‘Once the body lost its synchronicity, would it be possible for it to renew its vigour? With the rhythmic beats of drums at the back ground, the movements of her dark body in an elegant dance in the space infused with light and night had made this body shudder with passionate longings during that winter night. How many miserable nights I have spent on this cot thinking about that night repeatedly with an unquenched lust and a completely disobliging body? Who will get impregnated with my seeds that explode during my union with her body in the air, dancing in the empty space of the night? O! Mother! There is no justifiable reason for you to know about the silent pain of sex without body. I know you prefer cursing me to have me dead at this moment. I too have felt like that many nights. What am I going to achieve by being alive with this body which had become a burden even for myself?’ 

‘There was no reply from Ganesan. He never sulked about it even for a day. Despite having other important works to do, and facing discomforts, he never complained about looking after him. His Old Mother had problems of both senility and defencelessness which might have forced her to complain. But, not a single murmur had ever come from Ganesan. ‘However, the seeds of irritation and ire must have been sprouted today even in Ganesan. Even if doesn’t happen today, my existence and helplessness will become an inevitable encumbrance for him one day once he gets used to the pleasure from her. The moment he understands my discomforts of these nights, it might change into either self-pity or mere boorishness or whatever.’ 

Unable to bear the silence of both of them for a long time, he opened his eyes slowly.  Sitting on the veranda, Ganesan was looking up the sky strewn with stars. As if she was waiting for him to open his eyes, Old mother came near to Thirumalai. Her eyes bored his eyes. She bent down, mumbled something into his ears. 

“Why are you doing this, Thirumalai? Do you think it is right what you are doing? It is a sin. Isn’t it?”

Thirumalai stared at her angrily. 

“Yes...it is sinful. Then give me some poison. All the sins will be absolved. Won’t it?

As he spoke these words with his lips crooked, his Old Mother started weeping. Without understanding what they were saying to each other, Ganesan rose up hurriedly, and came up.  

“What happened ma? Anything serious? Anna! How do you feel now? Are you feeling very unwell?”

Thirumalai just nodded emptily. Tears started rolling down on his cheeks without his control. Seeing both of them weeping, Ganesan came near. His face was stern. The sternness of his face made the Old Mother nervous. She wiped her eyes swiftly and wiped Thirumalai’s face too with the hem of her sari. 

“Haven’t I told you? I told you that I don’t need all this marriage and its chores. You haven’t paid attention to it. Have you? He uttered softly in a dry tone. Thirumalai’s heart was quivering with guilt. He broke down. He felt like hugging Ganesan. As his chest was beaming with guilt, his trembling lips emitted violent sobs.  Old Mother turned slowly. Wiping her tears with the back of her palm, she turned to Ganesan. She couldn’t see his face clearly as it was obfuscated by the shading caused by the light. Ganesan’s expression was immobile marked by depth of darkness and grief without light. A monstrous fear of unknown rose up from the abdomen of Old Mother. 

                                                                ***Ended***

Note:

1.      Vibhoothi- sacred ash one applies on forehead while worshipping God.

2.      Murasoli- A newspaper run by the political party, Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam

3.      Kazhagam- The political party, DMK

4.      Vaikashi- Second month of Tamil year (April- May) 

The Snakes that dwell in termite mounds (Putril uraiyum paambugal) by Rajendra Cholan

This is an English translation of “Putril Uraiyum Paambugal”, a Tamil short story written by Rajendra Cholan. 

***

Sitting with her legs folded, when Vanamayilu was busy segregating and beating the bundles of corn stover flat that she had collected near the fence of the grove to pile them up neatly for using them as fuel in the kitchen, she saw the young man who was staying in the house opposite and mumbled. ‘Look at his eyes… looking like eggs of chicken, ogling at me without even batting his eyelids. He couldn’t have been born with sisters. Could he have?’

“Look at him. Do you know how long he has been goggling at me like this?”

Kanthasamy, her husband, who was feeding the fodder mixed in water kept in a trough to the cattle by stirring it with his hands, did not pay attention to her rants.

“Look at that bloke… He doesn’t even move a bit… Hell with him and his look. Sitting like Aiyyanar statue…”

He scooped out a handful of husk from the trough, holding it on his palm, and was feeding the cattle.

“This guy will learn a lesson if only he gets beaten elsewhere. Till then, let him ogle like this. If not anyone now, someone in the near future will definitely take his eyeballs out. I don’t know; I get terribly uneasy when a man stares at me. I am not such a woman who debauches blatantly right in front of her husband. It is such a lowly birth that it deserves slaps with slippers. Isn’t it?” She nudged her jaws against her shoulder in contempt. She looked at the opposite house sternly, threw a frowning stare at her husband, and pulled her sari to cover her breasts, which were already fully covered.

“Listen to me… yaaa… That man is staring like this piercingly, giving a damn that you are sitting here. If you don’t chastise him now, you don’t know what he would do after this. It seems he won’t even hesitate to hold my hands to pull towards him. Will he dare to do that? I will beat him black and blue with the broom. Won’t I?”

He tethered one of the bulls standing on his right to a peg and brought the bull standing on his left.

“I have been telling you something, seeking your attention. But you keep feeding them as if you are destined only to do that. Don’t you? If you throw back a stare at him as if to ask that idiot why he was looking this way, he will run away from there, for sure. Won’t he? But you prefer sitting idly rather than rebuking him. Don’t you?”

He kept on stirring the fodder in the trough and feeding the cattle.

“Does he think of me as a cow on heat? See him there…still standing without even moving an inch aside. If he has guts, let him come to me. Only then will he understand who I am. Actually, my reputation of not getting into any brawls won’t be any help in this case. I won’t leave such men just like that. I will pour cow dung water on his head and spit on his face. Won’t I?”

He was breaking the soft corn stover without showing any visible interest.

“I think that chap is thinking so highly of himself. As he is working in government service, he thinks that I will run to him showing all my teeth. He is not aware that he would get beaten with the winnow.”

He came inside the house carrying as much corn stover as his hands could hold, carrying them against his body.

“You are also existing here, shamelessly, as a man. Aren’t you? That man is staring at me as if he were standing there after he had swallowed a crowbar. But you seem dumbstruck that you don’t like to question him about why he is doing that. He won’t swallow you by mixing you with jaggery. Will he? If it were some other man, he wouldn’t be quiet like you?”

She kept the bundles near the stove, scrubbed her clothes once, and made sure that no dust was sticking to her saree, clock on breasts, and blouse.

“Since it was me, the matter has ended up with this. If it had been any other woman, she wouldn’t have remained quiet like me for this long. She would have jumped out of this entrance long ago. But men like you will never understand my importance.” She came out, sat again with her legs folded, and started breaking the stover again.

“Look over there… He is just showing me that he is still standing there. It seems that he is not going to move not even an inch here and there from that spot.”

Her husband tethered the bull, went to the haystack, and started collecting hay.

“Doesn’t he have any relatives? He has been all alone ever since he came here. I haven’t seen him visiting his native place,” she told him.

Her husband’s concentration was still on the haystack.

“If he had had relatives, they would have definitely advised and kept him disciplined. He wouldn’t have ogled like this. It appears that his relatives had let him loose like the wandering bull of Perumal temple. Useless ass!” she turned her neck with a contemptuous jolt.

“If he could stare at a woman who did nothing other than minding her own business at home, what would he do with women who are roaming carefree out there? Had I been like them, what else could he have done with me? Chee…only pus flows in his body…not blood.” With a contortion in her face, she pouted her lips and threw away the bundles of corn stover on the floor.

He bundled up the hay he collected, brought it to the bulls, and shook it out in front of them.

“Ever since he came here, Pangajam is nowhere to be seen. When I go to meet her, she is not ready to come out of the house to speak to me. Even if she comes out, hardly she stays up, unlike earlier, just to speak a couple of words comfortably. She swiftly disappears like a crow as if she has forgotten something. Have you ever noticed all these? Both are in the same building, and only Goddess Kaliyammal knows what is going on…”

After shaking out the hay, he lifted the tilted bamboo fence and fastened it straight.

“Who’s afraid of gods these days? Everyone enjoys their time as long as they are alive, giving a damn to what others in the village say about them. Once a girl attains puberty, no girl will be allowed to step out of the door in my home. As I was brought up that way, I stand clean. I am not like others. Oh…good heavens… How could they go astray, betraying their Thali?”

She feigned a shudder with an expression of contempt, animating the parts of her body.

“How dare they play around without being questioned?”

When she was bringing another bundle of corn stover, she saw through the gap of doors that someone was standing on the street and calling them out. Her happiness knew no bounds.

“Someone has some there. Please go and see.” She told him.

“Who’s that?” he just turned his neck and asked her.

“What sort of a man are you? How do I know who he is? I don’t know everyone in this village. Do I? I never stepped out of the door of this house since the day you brought me here after our marriage. Even during the rare times I walk on the street on account of going somewhere, I used to feel awful that my body gets rotten. Yet, you have the nerve to ask me this question without any qualms. Don’t you?”

She hid along the wall as if the garden would be visible to the street through the slit of the street door.

“Go and see who it is. Someone is calling out.”

He stopped fastening the fence and got up. She also kept the bundle in the kitchen and followed him. Near the door, she hid her body behind it, standing there showing up only her face.

“Please come in…come in... Isn’t it you? Please have a seat, he told the visitor. The fair-complexioned visitor with a white shirt sat down on the veranda. 

“You are aware that we once discussed a matter in the village panchayat related to the laying of a road to Koralur. Now I am thinking of submitting an affirmation after obtaining signatures of concurrence from the concerned. Next week the minister is visiting Kooteripattu,” he spoke a little about it. 

She noticed his fair, spotlessly clean fingers taking out a pen and white paper kept folded in his pocket. Her husband was wiping his hands dry with husk and chaffy hay on his loincloth for putting his signature. 

“You should have cleaned your hands in advance. Shouldn’t you?” At once the visitor lifted his head to see who spoke it; she pulled her head inside. 

“Can you please ask someone to bring water…to drink?” 

“Heii… bring him some water for quenching his thirst”

She moved away from the door and washed the bronze mug, which she had already cleaned in the morning, with some tamarind swiftly and poured water from the pot into it. She searched for the single ‘ever-silver’ tumbler she bought in the third month, brought it with her, and stood near the door.

“Come here…come inside,” she called out to her husband.

“Give it to him.”

“I told you to come inside.”

She twisted her body in all possible angles. With her body convoluted with feigned body movements, she was standing near the door like an innocent soul. 

Kanthasamy received the jug from her and gave it to the visitor. 

“The water is from the well and likely to be a bit salty,” she told, standing behind the door as if she was talking in the air. The visitor left after drinking the water. 

“What sort of a man are you? Don’t you know that I would be uneasy if you asked me to bring water in front of an unknown man? I can’t do that. Can I? Even now my body sends out chillness into me at the very thought of it. I am still unable to come out of the shock. I was profusely sweating. Do you know that?”

She came to the grove and sat beside the corn stover. 

“The moment you asked me, I felt that my entire birth had come to a point of nothing. I was confused as to what this fellow had had in his mind to ask me like that. I was totally clueless why you had asked me to do that. Now tell me…what did you have in your mind when you told me to do that? You just tested me on whether I would bring it or not. Didn’t you?” 

He kept on fastening the bamboo fence, which he had left halfway. 

“The soles of my legs felt so uneasy even to stand near the door. But you…an ignoramus…have asked such a good woman to step out of the door to give water to an unknown man. It is not justifiable anyway. Is it? You will be asking me to do such things in the future too. Won’t you?”

She cleaned up the trash lying there after breaking the remaining corn stover with the required measurements. 

“Some women are so adept at speaking pleasingly with unknown men. Aren’t they? That too without giving any second thought… But when I speak, I feel some millipedes crawling on my skin. My eyes won’t be at ease even while raising my head to have a glance at a stranger other than my husband.”

She shook her body once and emitted an expression of contempt. 

He halted fastening the bamboo fence, came to the street, and was searching for the Palmyra tree fibers he had kept under the columns of the house. 

She kept the broom aside, came out of the house, and stood there without any purpose. Squinting her eyes and standing without any specific task, she was gazing absorbedly at the empty house opposite.

That egg-eyed man appeared again. Buttressing her cheeks with her hands, burying her jaws into her palms, she was standing with her eyes wide open. As her face gleamed with an expression of amazement, she was standing there as if she were to act in some pantomime.

At her back, Kanthasamy came with a stack of palmyra fibers.

“Look at the chap… He has come again and is staring at me like earlier. Why shouldn’t I burn his eyes with a brand?”

“Let him be so…. You get inside and stop your rants and those empty harangues.” He sat down again to fasten the bamboo fence. ‘Hopeless woman… trying in every effort to show her as if she is still a chaste one,’ he muttered. 

 

The Mouse (Eli) by Ashokamitran

This is an English translation of “Eli”, a short story written by Ashokamitran. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.  

***

Ganesan was terribly annoyed with the repetition of the same act. That day too, the womenfolk in his house cleaned up everything completely, leaving no leftover food in the kitchen after dinner. It was not that they were not aware of anything that was going on there. The elder sister was fifty years old. Wife was to complete her forty years of age. Daughter was going to complete thirteen years. Not a piece of dosa, or papad, or tiny piece of coconut was available. ‘What else then could be kept in the mouse trap? Hell with everyone!’ Ganesan went to bed. 

He could have slept no more than half an hour. He heard the sound of the bamboo pole moving. ‘The mouse is somewhere near the bamboo pole.’ Just past two minutes, now the bamboo pole rocked more. ‘The mouse is now climbing on the pole.’ Now the sound of a large brass plate hitting the wall was heard. “The mouse has got onto the loft’. A swooshing sound. ‘The mouse was on its way upon the heap of old newspapers.’ A sudden sound of a knock. ‘The mouse has jumped off from the loft to the cupboard.’ The empty tin boxes kept at the top of the cupboard rustled with each other. ‘The mouse has gone to the almirah fixed on a nail on the wall.’ A brief silence. A big banging sound of something being pushed down as if to compensate for the silence that preceded. Ganesan and his wife got up, switched on the light, and examined the area. The mouse had pushed away the lid of an oil jar. 

Ganesan looked at his wife, gnashing his teeth as she was closing the jar with its lid, covered it with a basket, upside down upon it. “Nothing I say goes into your ears to leave some leftovers, and to my dismay, I don’t know why you keep everything here spotlessly clean?” he asked disparagingly.

“What else do you expect me to keep as leftovers? Can we keep Rasam for the mouse? Or will you keep the Uppma in the hook of the mouse trap?” she retorted. 

“Stop your teasing,” Ganesan told her. 

“I didn’t tease you. If it is Dosai or Adai, we can keep it in the trap. But you know…we are making dosai and adai every day at home, right? Aren’t we?

“Then let the mouse tumble everything and ruin it.” 

His wife didn’t say anything. She took out a dried onion from the vegetable bag, gave it to him, and told him, “You may try it.” 

“Tell me, when did the mouse come here to eat this onion?”

Though the onion he had thrown at her might have hurt her, she said nothing and went to bed.

Ganesan couldn’t sleep. In those two small rooms in which even ten persons wouldn’t be able to either sleep by their side nor eat together, four or five rats were playing around with full-fledged freedom, biting, tearing the cloths, opening the lids of boxes, scooping out the pulp from tomatoes, drinking oils, and unfailingly stealing away the wicks from the lamps kept in front of the God. 

Ganesan put on his shirt with a quarter of an Ana in his shirt pocket, closed the door, and hit the street.

All the hotels were closed. Only the shops selling beeda and betal leaves were kept open. ‘Just a vada… Even half of it will be enough…’

Unluckily, no leftovers of vada anywhere. Breads, buns, biscuits, and bananas were the only things available. Experimentation with all these stuff at different times in the past was already completed. But the mice were grown insouciant in attitude towards it. ‘Any foodstuff roasted in oil—like vada, bakkoda, or pappad—was found useful earlier. We can’t make all those items at home daily as the cost of dal and oils is unbearably high. Can we? Rice Uppma, Rava Uppma, and then Pongal. Then the cycle will be reversed—first Pongal, rava upma, and then rice upma—this is how one could get food at home’.  Even the words Pongal and Uppma had made him sulk. Possibly, the mouse would also feel the same. Wouldn’t it?

The mouse must have been lucky that day as Ganesan had decided to return home. A public meeting was going on at a distance in the ground. The crowd wouldn’t consist of more than thirty or forty persons. Despite that thin attendance, the speaker was enthusiastically giving his speech, waving his hands fervently. ‘I could listen to him for a while. Couldn’t I?’ Ganesan walked towards the crowd. The speaker was throwing warnings to Nixon. Then to China. Then to Britain. Then to Russia. Then to Pakistan. At last he warned Indira Gandhi and leaders in Tamil Nadu. ‘Even if one hundredth of these warnings had reached the pedigree of those rodents, they would have taken refuge in the Bay of Bengal. Why don’t these rats understand the Tamil language?’ 

Something he came across there was found to be more useful than the speech for Ganesan. Just a distance away from the meeting venue, so many persons were standing around a pushcart. Hot snack items were being fried with the help of a stove grouted in the cart. Within seconds they were kept in the place after scooping them out of boiling groundnut oil with the slotted ladle; they were sold out.

Ganesan was also standing near that shop. About twenty chilies coated in flour were frying like submarines in the oil. One of them standing there was demanding, “Make vada…make vada.”

But the chilly Bajji was again fried. Ganesan too joined them, yelling, “Make Vada…” But there was a pressing demand for bajjis. One person came in his car and instructed, “Pack eight bajjis,” and went to pee in the dark. Ganesan once again insisted, “Put Vada this time.” 

Once the chilly bajjis were taken out, they were shared immediately in minutes of time. They were bundled up in two, four, and sometimes in ten.

“You have asked for vada. Haven’t you? How many vadas do you need?” 

Ganesan was hesitant to tell him that he needed only one. “Two is enough,” he told. 

“Let me make it after this.” 

However, only Chilly got the preference again and went into oil. The one who was demanding vada for long became restless and neared the point of getting into a big scuffle with the vendor. “It is getting ready soon. See…he is also waiting for it.” 

It was rather painful waiting for Ganesan. Now there was a big crowd around the pushcart. Everyone was waiting for their turn to savour the snacks. They might have thought that he was eagerly waiting to relish vada. What would they think if they did come to know that the vada he was demanding was for a rat? The very thought of it pained him.

Once the vadas were taken out, Ganesan was served with the first lot with two vadas in a piece of old Malai Murasu newspaper. The oil was hot; it spread on the paper till his palm got oily. Two vadas with a good aroma. The pulses used in the vada were protruding from its crispy surface in white.

Ganesan was walking towards his home. Unable to hold the vadas, as they were very hot, he kept changing them from one hand to another. Both his hands and papers were fully soaked in oil. Poor pushcart vendor…he didn’t know that the vada was for a rat. Ganesan wouldn’t have been that embarrassed had they been made at his home. The whole episode was painful for him anyway.

Without making the shirt dirty, it was nearly impossible for him to take out the key from his pocket. He kept the vadas down, rubbed his hands soaked in oil on his rear anklet and calf, and wiped it. Went into the house, hooked a vada to the clasp in the mouse trap. He ate the remaining one by himself. A fifty-year-old man would have some definite repercussions if he ate vada at ten in the night. He reconciled that it was a recourse to something due for him. He lay down and slept. 

It was in the morning when Ganesan developed a discomfort in his stomach. The mouse had got caught in the trap and kept on screeching all the way through the night. He wasn’t aware of it. His wife only informed him about it. 

Now he had to dispose of the rat somewhere. He left the house carrying the mouse trap. The rat tried slipping its nose out through the small hole in the trap. It wasn’t clear from the size of the nose if it was a big one or a small one. But would the size, no matter if it was small or big, be a matter of concern when it had the strength to push the flour box down, roll the oil jars, nip the dirty cloths, and tear off vegetables?

Ganesan didn’t prefer the street gutter this time for its disposal and went to the ground instead. ‘The rat would take at least one week to find out the way back to the house. In case this rat is gone, another one might come…’ 

Ganesan wanted the boys who were playing over there to move aside. But they were waiting for him to open the mousetrap. He kept the trap on the floor and gently pressed down the lever of its lid. The rat jumped out and ran away. 

It was neither big nor small in size. As it wasn’t familiar with open ground, it started running haphazardly. One of those boys threw a stone at it. Ganesan requested that he not to do that. It was at that time a crow came flying from somewhere, pecked the rat once, and flew away. The rat tumbled, lay on its back, and hopped. It hastened its speed and hopped faster. The crow took a circle above and descended fast. There was no place for the rodent to hide. The crow picked it up and flew away. Ganesan was sad at seeing it. 

On seeing one more thing, his sadness had indeed increased. While returning home carrying the mouse trap, he looked into the trap. The vadahe fixed on to the hook in the previous night hadn’t been eaten up yet.

***

 

On the edge of time (காலத்தின் விளிம்பில்) by Paavannan

This is an English Translation of Tamil short story Kaalaththin Vilimbil written by Paavannan. Translated from the Tamil by Saravanan Karmegam.

***

On the edge of misery by Paavannan

Translated from the Tamil “Kaalathin Vilimbil” by Saravanan Karmegam

 The articles I started writing in an online weekly magazine, "Poonthottam," didn’t attract much attention in the beginning. The silence, which seemed to have attested to the fact that the serial would leave no impact even if I stopped writing, was simply unbearable. The negligible amount of boredom that set in initially had grown into a bigger proportion and became capable of choking up my breath and making me inactive. Other than the fact that I needed a space for penning down my words and the person who was running that website was none other than my friend, there were no plausible reasons that prompted me to continue writing those serialised articles. The serial was being published for about ten weeks or so. From the pile of letters published by Poonthottam every week, I came to understand that not a single reader had ever written a word about the serial in any of those letters. This made me reflect deeply on why those articles had failed to attract the attention of readers. This thought would extend to a point where no answer could be found and then gradually disappear.

When I opened my email page to send the eleventh week’s article after its completion, I came to know that I had got an email. I tried guessing the reader with the help of the single line address displayed on the screen. All the email addresses of my readers who write letters regularly flashed for a second in my mind and disappeared. I couldn’t find out who that reader was. Impelled by an inscrutable desire, I opened the email. It was from Africa. The reader seemed to have been familiar with literature for many years. He had given some of his patchy opinions about the previous ten articles published in serials. Nevertheless, the mail was, in general, an encouraging one. I sent a reply thanking him for his letter. 

His name was Chandran. Our friendship had thus started with the sharing of views thenceforth. Letters started coming from him every week without fail after my article was published. He had informed me that he was working in the orthopaedic section of a hospital in Africa. Every letter he wrote to me would carry an interesting anecdote he had experienced in his day-to-day life. In one of his letters, he had written about a guitar-playing young man admitted to the hospital with a broken leg after he hit a tree due to skidding while travelling on his two-wheeler. He had once given an account of a beggar who was sitting on the cement bench in a park, taking out the pieces of bread from his collection bag and eating it one by one blissfully. His description of his family and surroundings was like a painting drawn in words. The details he had given about the zoo near his house were plentiful. The names he had given to each cage of animals sounded bizarre—the cage of lion was ‘The home of thunderbolt,’ the cage of leopard was ‘The house of a wizard who has renounced speed, and the cages of macaws were ‘The music temple of birds.’

Chandran asked me once whether I was aware of an old age home called “Ashraya” in a village named Hudi somewhere far away from Bangalore. I wasn’t aware of it at that time. I started inquiring of my local friends about it. Most of them were not aware of such an old age home. Only one among them told me that it was an old age home and was being run by some charitable, service-minded persons. He further added that two of his unmarried sisters used to visit that old age home every Sunday to meet the old age people living there, talk to them, attend to their needs, and reassure them. I sent this information that night itself to Chandran. There was no communication after that about it for two months. One day he informed me, suddenly though, that his Periyamma1 (Mother’s elder sister) had been admitted to the said old age home and requested me to pay a visit there to meet her on his behalf. A lengthy letter came from him when I was waiting for the day of my retirement. 

His letter began with information about his getting a job in Africa twenty years ago. Only his mother was alive that time. The first two years he lived alone in Africa, then came back to India and took his mother along with him. One of her sisters, who she loved most, was living in the village. It was a poor family with six children. Chandran looked after his Periyamma’s family as much as he could. He married an African woman and started his family life. In four years he became a father of two children. His mother, who was happily spending her time with her grandchildren, did not live long. She was infected with brain fever and died in the hospital. Meanwhile, the condition of his Periyamma had got worse in India. All her six children were growing in six different directions. They just got all the money Chandran had sent rot in being overtly gluttonous, sometimes half of it with the knowledge of their mother and the other half without her knowledge. The eldest son was a drunkard, knowing nothing other than drinking all the time. Her second son ruined every penny on whoring around. Her third and fourth sons were arrested in a theft case in the village, imprisoned, but managed to escape from the prison and are roaming around somewhere near Mumbai. Her fifth son went to the army after his studies in school and then forgot his village. Her sixth son was working as a clerk with a lawyer. He befriended a woman working in a ready-made garment shop just opposite his office and married her. Sooner he brought his wife into the house, the old Periyamma was shown the way to get out of the house. Heartbroken, his Periyamma penned down all her griefs in the form of a letter with the help of someone and sent it to Chandran. Chandran could empathize with her and her miseries as if they were his own mother’s. With his persistent efforts of searching on the internet, he could find out the address of Ashraya Old Age Home at Hudi and completed all the admission formalities through his known friend. Now it had been one year since then. He was paying the monthly installments directly from his place. He was perturbed by the recent nightmares that started popping up unceasingly. Those nightmares started chasing him from the moment he compared the cages of animals in the zoo with the old age homes. He couldn’t bear the frowning stare of his Periyamma, who came in the forms of different animals every time in his nightmare, holding the iron rods and staring at him longingly. It wasn’t feasible to apply for leave either whenever he wanted. So, I had to pay a visit to the said old age home and talk a couple of words to his Periyamma on his behalf. This was the gist of the letter. 

Confirming the bus routes, I set out on my journey to the old age home next Sunday. I had to change three buses. Near to the bus stop where I alighted at last was there a lonely tea shop with the thatch made of palm leaves. I got a cigarette from there, lit it up, and inquired about the old age home. The lady who owned the tea shop came out of the hut and pointed to a place that looked like a grove and said, “Yonder, it is that home.” 

“Won’t the bus go there?” 

“This is the stop for going to that home. Everyone would get down at this stop and then walk. You come from outside. Aren’t you?” 

I said teasingly, “Yes.” 

“People come with their old ones, dump them here, and leave in different directions. No matter if it was simple porridge or gruel, life would be better off if they drank it together with their loved ones. I fail to understand why people run after money. The time has changed drastically for the worse, sir.” 

“Are they looking after them well?”

“No complaints about the care that they get. But …you see…even the love and care given by hundreds of persons can’t come anywhere near to that of one given by one’s own blood. Can it?” 

“Do you go there regularly?” 

“It is my husband who brings them milk packets in the morning. Do you have anyone there known to you? I am sorry I am talking without knowing even basic courtesy.

“I don’t have anyone there known to me. One person known to my acquaintance is staying there.”

I smiled at her, putting out my cigarette, and strode away with a goodbye. Her accent in Tamil sounded like that of one spoken in Thiruvannamalai. I have heard many such accented Tamils in the suburban areas of Bangalore. Sometimes when we are walking, desperately longing to hear a voice familiar to us, one such voice, purely coincidental though, would emerge from somewhere and would arrest our attention for a moment. 

Thickly grown small shrubs with yellow flowers were found here and there on both sides of the road. The birds whose names were not known were flying, playing in the branches of trees. Children were playing cricket on a piece of land that looked barren. At the end of the road, there was there a board with an inscription “Ashraya.” A compound wall ran along with it. The bougainvillea was so thickly grown, blooming and covering the wall that it rendered the top of it invisible. Its branches had spread all over the area. I informed the security guards at the entrance of my visit and went in. It looked as if I had entered a big garden. The place was full of different types of flowers blossoming in different colours. Two servants were found cleaning up, collecting the dead leaves fallen from the trees. Along the side of the flower garden, there was there a vast stretch of shiny grass beds looking like a green carpet. Round-shaped cement benches were placed under a big sunshade. A beautiful peripheral wall. A simple yet elegantly constructed temple with idols. A church. A prayer hall. Statues of an old lady and an old man walking with walking sticks led by a small boy holding their hands were found erected on the pedestal. There too, were beautiful plants decking around it. Along its side, a circular-shaped marble tank with artificially fit fountains in different heights and water was spraying from them. There was a small hall covered with glass with some tables. The hall was also covered with different plants and looked green. In the open space found at the back of it, there were more than fifty small houses constructed with precision. All houses were patterned on tiled houses. On the other side, there was a hospital. The crematorium was located somewhere on the campus with a very tall chimney as if it was erected with a view of touching the clouds. Adequate number of vehicle parking bays and comfortable walking paths branching out on its sides. I was walking slowly, watching all these. I paid attention lately to the construction of buildings. All were constructed to the floor level with no steps and terrace. They seemed to have been constructed by keeping the condition of old people in mind. The loneliness of that place evoked an indecipherable feeling in my heart. I could feel that an eerie fear was precipitating somewhere deep into my heart.

I went near to the "enquiry office" at the left side of the fountains. The interior walls of the room were decked with beautiful photographs. Bookmark cards with shorter sentences were found inserted. When I turned my attention after playing with my loitering eyes over there, I faced the smile of a young woman sitting in front of a computer. Thinking that her smile resembled that of one of those idols, I smiled back. I approached her and gave the details I had with me. 

“Thaiyal Nayaki, S-7” 

She read it aloud, rose from her seat, and came out of the hall. She came along with me till the point where the row of huts began and guided me the route and direction towards which I had to walk before leaving. I started walking in the direction she showed me. All the houses were constructed with the same design. Every house had a small front yard made of mosaic stones. A small sunshade and an easy chair under it. A small garden around it. The sunflowers were shining in the yellow sunlight.

My eyes looked at the window of a house accidentally, and I could feel that two eyes were fixed upon me. As I was unduly shocked to see them, I saw them once again in the direction to clear my doubts about whether they were indeed looking at me. Those eyes were transfixed, intently staring at me. I couldn’t look at that shrunken face and imploring eyes for long. I withdrew my attention instantly and looked at other houses. Truly, my palpitation had shot up. Two such eyes near every window. The longing sight raised from the dull, sunken eyes. I started walking fast, watchful of my way. I felt someone was calling me. I turned back, hesitantly, only to see none. The woman who showed me the directions was also not visible. The houses were looking like mammoth engines unloaded from trucks. Surprisingly, I could see an element of fear creeping into my heart that I was unable to look at those windows. The very next moment, my senses came alive and chased that fear away. The most bizarre thing about that place was that not a small sound was heard around there. Even the sound of coughing was also absent.

I went near to the house and pressed the doorbell. Every moment my senses expected the rustling of cloths and creaking of slippers as a result of movement inside the house. No such sounds were heard for some time. The moment I thought of pressing the bell once again, the door opened suddenly. The appearance of the person who came out left me stunned for a moment. It looked as if a molten ball of flesh had developed its hands and legs. My heart started beating faster. 

“You are Thaiyal Nayaki. Aren’t you?” 

The dryness in my throat got me choked up from asking this question I wanted to ask. Only after my attempts at gathering up saliva and swallowing to moisten it could I manage asking that question. She didn’t receive my question. Only her eyes moved, rather slowly. They looked at me intently as if scrutinizing me. I asked her once again, “You are Thaiyal Nayaki. Aren’t you?” She came closer to me, tilted her ears towards me, and mumbled, “mm.” I had to ask my question once again. 

“It was my last son who had dropped me here. He didn’t come back to see me after that.”

Speaking incoherently, she turned inside. As though I was afraid of following her in, I put it aside and went inside, following her.

The house was very clean. The stench of Dettol was in the air. Natural scenery was found pasted on one side of the wall and a picture of Lord Krishna with the flute in his mouth on the other. A window with grills just beyond it. Scenery from outside, clouds, and waving branches of trees were seen like moving pictures. The bathroom and toilet were on the other side. The cot was lying near the window. A table with medicines. A television is at the corner of the room. I was astounded at realizing my body was shuddering. I couldn’t believe that a chillness was penetrating my abdomen and getting frozen there. I stood, transfixing my eyes at her. The face with shrunk skin. Hollowed cheeks. A long white hair had been tied into a bun. As my eyes grew familiar with hers, the fear that it instilled in me initially got melted. I felt that they exhibited nothing but bewilderment and restiveness. The body attesting to the unmistakable signs of senility. The white hair on the edge of her earlobes and forehead was fluttering in the wind. Suddenly she pointed her finger at me and asked, “Who are you?” 

“I am… friend of your sister’s son, Chandran. Chandran…do you know Chandran?” 

I spoke it a bit louder. I was surprised at seeing her living in a world where my sounds were unable to reach. She moistened her lips as she was sitting on the cot. Both the upper and lower lips were seen inwardly curled. The wrinkles, which appeared like lines, were found to extend up to the lips, leaving strong imprints there in it.

“Tell me if there is any use of getting six male children? It is generally seen that children in this world will look after their parents once they are grown up. But all those I got had gone just opposite to what I said. When each of my sons left me, I had a hope that my last son would look after me. But he brought me here and dumped me. My sister’s son is working abroad. He only looks after everything, such as these arrangements, etc. 

“Your sister’s son is Chandran. I am his friend. It is he who asked me to visit you.” 

She didn’t reply. It appeared that my words did not get into her head. I was sitting, watching the movements of palmyra trees seen through window grills. I was intrigued by her silence. 

“Once upon a time, we had a big grocery shop. My husband had a Vil Vandi (passenger bullock cart). We used to visit places only in that cart.”

She started narrating a story involuntarily- People who came to see her as a bride, her marriage, prosperous business, children one after another, a death in the market place caused by the hit of rogue bulls that ran amok as someone had lost control over them- she narrated events one by one in sequence. For a second, she paused and asked me, “Who are you?” I told her my details once again patiently. Apart from her eyes that were fixed upon me, I failed to find any traces of acknowledgement of having heard my words on her face. 

A book was lying on the medicine table. Comforting myself, I picked up that book and flipped its pages—a book I had never come across yet.

The book was filled only with pictures. All were Saivaite holy places of South India. Majestic pictures of temples standing tall with a mountain, trees, and river on one side. Pictures of the deity in the sanctum sanctorum on the other side. Every picture bore different appeals. In addition to it, some pages had pictures of stone pillars. 

“Are they looking after you well here? Do you have anything to inform Chandran?” 

She didn’t reply anything. My heart began to get frozen in astonishment. I couldn’t help the feeling of getting embarrassed sitting in front of a sculpture and talking to it. I watched her eyebrows. They were pale and curved. Only her eyes were batting incessantly.

She started speaking again. 

“I was his everything…his life…. Wherever he goes, he never fails to bring a bundle of flowers in hand. He will be at peace only after he puts it on my head with his own hands in the kitchen. One day my mother-in-law saw him wearing the flowers on my head. She shouted in a high pitch whether the house was for dignified women or whores. She kept on pestering that no woman in the house knew anything about dignity and instead roamed around with flowers on their head like prostitutes. He left the spot at once and went to the backyard. Without making any more fuss, I too started concentrating on my work in the kitchen. She then started finding mistakes in that too. Yelling at me, she came near. “Look at her impudence… a lusty donkey looking for sex every time” and pulled the flowers from my head and threw them into the fire in the stove. 

Tears kept streaking down her cheeks. She started sobbing inconsolably as if the flowers thrown into fire years ago were still burning right in front of her eyes. It was unbearable to see her crying with her lips crooked in pain. It was rather an uneasy situation. I couldn’t understand any words she spoke at the peak of her sob. Even though she was sitting very near to me, I could feel that she was standing at the edge of time where no one could reach easily. She leaned against the wall, with her eyes looking somewhere, fixedly. Her sob made her chest heave up and down. Nerves in her neck and her chest pit coiled up. Their movement rather increased my uneasiness. I looked at her face again. Her eyes were gleaming like broken glass pieces accidentally fallen into a bunch of thorny bushes. She rolled her tongue and moistened her lips once again.

I couldn’t move my eyes away from those tears and fear-filled eyes. My throat got dried up, clogged with the torment hastened by the enormity of guilt. I thought of going near to her to assuage her with my touch. I withdrew myself from that thought the very next moment. A feeling of failure that I couldn’t evoke the memories about Chandran in her tormented me. Her eyes were watching me when my eyes were cruising hesitantly into the inner hall, windows, curtain, wall pictures, toilet doors, and South Indian Saivite holy places book, heaving a sigh and walking. Till I reached the door, she was watching me and remained silent. Suddenly, with a rapid batting of eyelids, she stared at me and asked, “Who are you?” I looked at her eyes, leaning against the door for seconds. I once again brought into my mind the eyes that I had just seen near every window of the houses. I couldn’t stay there even for a moment after that. I hurried up and left the home. I could breathe properly only after I stepped out of the entrance, coming past all those perfectly built curved long roads, grass beds, and fountains. The predicament of communicating my pain to Chandran had got me anxious for the first time.

***