Abhitha by La.sa.Ramamirtham

This is an English Translation of "Abhitha", a Short Story written by La.Sa. Ramamirtham  Translated from Tamil by Saravanan. K For the Tamil version of this Story click here This is 21st English Translation in Classic Tamil Short Stories Series.

La. Sa.Ramamirtham
(To know more about
him click here) 

      

A word about translating “Abhitha”: Among other translations published here, I would rate this translation as the most challenging one. (The parts pertaining to ‘soliloquy’ of the main Character after applying bath oil on his head).  After selecting this story for translation in my blog, I wondered whether it was my biggest blunder since having an audacity to translate this story into English needed some amount of grit. This is one of the rare stories which I read again and again (at least five times) to understand it, let alone translating it. Tougher narratives are both challenging and fulfilling. Abhitha is one of them. Many of La.sa.Ra’s stories and some of the stories by Mouni fall in this category. Typo error in punctuations found in this story made my understanding relatively difficult. I got this story from www.valaitamil.com. But the same story from the book "Abhitha" published by Kizhakku Pathippagam, has a different version of narrative. The latter seems to be more authentic. However, for its lyrical beauty, let me translate the version found in www.valaitamil.com. 

The narrative style of Abhitha is not easily understandable to an ordinary reader who might be comfortable with a linear story talking about a course of events which does not tax his brain. This story should be understood as a ‘spiritual’ experience of an individual in an unconscious state.  Perspectives may differ! Looking for logics and coherence might disappoint the reader in the first reading. It is a sort of dreamy experience of illogically arranged array of events that can be understood only in the personal realm. Sometimes, we are forced to conclude that the stories like Abhitha are written just an eccentric piece without giving much of consideration to readers’ opinions. You may read this story keeping two purposes in mind- To have an experience of an unusual way of story-telling laden with uncommon phrases or to get yourself confused totally. Choice is yours. I have tried my best to make it readable. If a Tamil reader finds this English version easier than the Tamil version, I will consider it my success as a translator.   

 …..

“Maami !¹ Why don’t you, please, coax Mama ² to take oil bath?.I must have insisted it on the same day he had come here. Since I was holding an empty oil bowl that day, I had to keep my mouth shut. Ah…Say it once again. What do you say? You are saying that he is not accustomed with it? Aren’t you? How can I accept this lame justification? If you miss out a routine oil bath in this hot land, you will be burnt alive like Sokkappanai ³  even while you are walking. We don’t even require cow dung cakes to burn it. So, why should we be destined to be burnt like that unnecessarily? Let me inform the same person to try his hand on Mama’s head. I have kept the oil ready for applying on head, boiled with ripe Chilly, Ginger and boiled rice. It will do no harm to the body. You can tell him to chew the ginger as such. With its crispness, even biscuits will be inferior to it in taste. Every aspect of it is pretty nutritious”.

“Where has this man, our priest, gone? Of late, he has become an exemplary expert in missing from the scene when he is much needed. Hasn’t he?” The last words rose up with a sudden sonority. The priest hadn’t gone anywhere. He appeared from somewhere at the corner of the house with the bowl full of bath oil in hands. He was holding a stool as if it had appeared suddenly out of some tomfoolery. It was a small stool. Everything was almost over in half a minute- a gentle press on my shoulder and making me sit on the stool and pouring the oil on my head. In seconds, with the massage that followed with a lightning speed, my head spun, felt as if it had gone into the stomach and a churning rod was spinning inside my head. After leaving the Bear Hills, it was only then I get oil bath. I wondered that the time could be turned around like that. Oil bath was an important ceremony of hospitality in this region. I wouldn’t be able to escape it, no matter how much discomforts I might face by taking oil bath after so many years.

As a custom, when a guest enters the house, sitting in the veranda, he has to drink the water brought by the house wife, no matter how the water tastes, salty or sweet or it is required or not required. Only after that, permission to enter the house would be granted. Then, the moment you were done with the retch induced by the saffron colour water called coffee, a sign of modern hospitality, someone would come with a bowl of oil in hands, call you out, ‘Come in, have this oil on your head’. ‘O! God! What the hell is happening here? Eyes are burning with a spoon full of oil in it. The body writhes in pain with the fire lighted with oil in the eyes. God! Mouthful of phlegm waiting to be spat out!’ I could hear a voice somewhere amidst fire that once burnt Madurai ⁴ , that engulfed my eyes- it was not the priest. He had his mouth shut since the day I had arrived here- But this voice! Like an incantation! “It is just a usual discomfort one gets when he takes oil bath after a long time. He will be alright once two drops of tears come out of the eyes”

“Hold Mama’s hand, take him inside. I have informed Abhitha to keep hot water ready. I need to go to the shop to buy long pepper” the voice became thinner as it went afar. From somewhere, a hand caught me. Not with force. It made me furious. I pulled my hand back with jerk. The hand which held mine didn’t attempt doing it once again. ‘O! Goodness! It seems that the pain in the eyes would take them out of eye sack. Doesn’t it? Rubbing my eyes, I was standing at the centre of the hall as if standing in the middle of the jungle. I could hear a heartfelt laughter. I strained my eyes, opened it. Those healthy eyes were now looking like eyes on forehead ⁵ . Savithri was enjoying my predicaments. Now she had a chance to laugh her heart out. Mustered up all the vanity that had spilled on the floor, carrying them on my back, I walked towards the backyard. I felt that the eyes might come out. The head was spinning. I stumbled upon something… “Aiyo…Mind your steps” Abhitha screamed.

A hand caught me again. I tried pulling my hand back again. But this time, the priest was not in a mood to release his grip. My anger and bashfulness didn’t matter to him. He held me tightly, applied the soap nut paste on my back and rubbed it vigorously. The ceremony would come to an end with that rubbing. A sharp, yet milder streak of heat descended from the nape of my neck, spread its roots around, till its primary root reached the centre of my back. In that semi unconscious state in which both my head and thoughts were fully immersed and near blindness caused by the bitterness of oil in eyes, I couldn’t realize anything with surety other than the heat I was suffering from. Just like a pain concentrating at the tips of tied up fingers creeping into the glabella, an agonising magnetic force radiated from legs to head.  

I poured the water on my head and shoulder alternately. But the strand of fire that was ignited by the water, flowing from the nape of my neck, hanging like a thread didn’t cut itself off. ‘Could this anxiety, a mixture of both pleasure and misery in equal proportion, self-tuned by a nerve from my spinal cord, be equated with the magic of a sprout coming out of the earth?’ The breath inhaled deeply inside went in further and further…O!God! Amidst the mercilessness that prolonged itself, this oil bath along with pervading heat penetrated the muscle groups and were displaying its gleeful magic. In due course, all the Yandhras ⁶ , and the Chakras ⁶ that were lying dormant through my family line from the time of my ancestors, became active at once and started churning my blood. What are all these? They are either a horror of new birth with the consciousness or surprise or shedding old skin or purification amidst the fire or the shivering in the mirage of fire or blinded eye sights or the darkness of the dawn or liberation of body born with purest mind or a perennial river, resurgent, flowing in its old speed burning all the dirt hitherto obstructing the holes in the chest and pores on the body from time immemorial or the mettle and splendour of strings tuned in its primary pitch with sparkles or the jingling of anklet amidst the sound of Kandeepam ⁷, intensely overwhelming the body, feeling and mind alike. Rubbed my eyes! Once the eye lids opened, the shade along with the bitterness of oil shed. Awakening to the visuals with the eyes opened. I raised with my new clarity of being from the steam of hot water surrounding my body. An idol raising from the furnace!

While the steam of hot water surrounding my body disappeared, a nearest sight that soared my eyes, there stood a pair of foot nudging each other closely like a shiny marbles. Eyes moved further up, towards knees, plump calf muscles in sandal’s milky whiteness, veins flowing in green! O Goddess! Am I the gifted one who could see your feet? Are you real? Only it was because of the courage I mustered up from your feet, I could raise my head towards your head. ‘O! Yours is Abhitha’s face. Isn’t it? The jingling of anklets overwhelming my body and mind. Is it the smile of the primitive daughter of this world? My Abhitha! If you are the primitive daughter of this world in my eyes, then I will the primitive son in the ablution you had given me. Not only me; everyone feels the same at any given point of time. The heart opens up and exposes the light outside just like a fold getting unfolded.’

‘I was the whole of light in your birth. I was the poetry born for the sake of your Avathar, the hook of your dream that had struck in your throat, the blood line that followed the primitive son, daughter and you. The remains that existed unchanged till date from the day the fake appearances disappeared were your identity. When this world comes to you, informing the news of melancholy, you shall wait to receive it in the time of conflict. According to the level adjustability an individual is gifted with, either it merges with it and becomes one; or it gets dispersed like a pellet hitting a muscle group and thus losing its sheen, fading away in no time. My birth is my gift. Isn’t it?

I would knit every moment of my birth as a garland that I comprehended during the course of my resurrection of my blessings’ aggrandizement birth after birth,  that I felt as poetry of life and submit it at the feet of the primitive daughter. Wouldn’t I? Or would I garland around her neck? But, it all depends upon the moments that were waiting for me, gone past, yet unnoticed by me and thus got became inept, my realization of wasting those moments, repenting its losses, and realizing again not to get disappointed and finally the aggressiveness I would gather at the end of this realization. Be it Shakunthala, Abhitha, Tharishini, the princess who showed her face through the curtain of palanquin in the Bear Hills or the daughter of Himavan, Hemavathi! Once I realized all your primitive faces in my aggressive realization through Abhitha, all of you exist in my psyche just as names of the faces I see in my aggressiveness. I felt something more. O!Abhitha! Is your presence required to understand these all? But it is the wonder that my omnipresence had foreseen. As you are within me, it is of no use to separate you from me now. Will there be an awakening without you? Abhitha! You are my manna! You are my divine light!’. I felt that my eyes were opened anew as if the thin layer obstructing the sight got detached, thrown away.

The corners of my eye lids were paining severely. I shook my head once. The chilly evening wind hit my eyes through its corners, made them chilled too. The ears of paddy were wavering in the wind. With each encounter with the wind, they heaved a big sigh. It appeared that they were trying telling something to me or themselves. An enigmatic pleasurable experience overwhelmed me. I kept the book aside with a heave of sigh. Even the pages were flapping themselves, wind-blown. They too tried to convey something. It was the same paddy fields. The same green spears of paddy. Yonder…the same well with cement rings placed one above the other, with the same Kamalai ⁸. No one had stolen anything. But all seemed to have changed themselves in their respective domains. They seemed to have started breathing at the sudden touch of a magic wand. The milky movements amidst the green paddy fields became one and alive, got its arcs on its sides, spread them, took the shape of a bird, fluttered its wings and floated in the air.

The speed and beauty with which it raised itself above, leaving the ground got my body shudder. My heart bounced up to my chest pit in contradiction with the goose bumps it caused, and fell upon on itself. Its whiteness was shining in the sky in the arc it had made and flew away as if this universe, spherical earth was thrown away like a diamond scattering around forming an arc while being thrown out of an unfolded carpet. I was ecstatic. My hands rose up to hug myself, reflexively. “What are you doing? A laughter! As if the stars were showering their glitters. I turned. A girl was standing, her plaits hanging on both sides of her shoulder, a bag looking like a yogic Dhoti slung on her shoulders. Her nasal septum got shrunk at her glabella while she smiled. I didn’t know who she was. The restiveness of my body didn’t permit it to feel anything other than the bird’s ease of departure. “See there…see there…a knife with a diamond ferrule is shining in the sky”. The girl looked upwards, holding one of her palms above her eye brows. She stood amazed with her mouth opened like a bud which was just bloomed.

When we were standing astonished at its splendor, it lost its balance suddenly. The wings became lifeless, hung as useless attachment on its body. The bird somersaulted repeatedly, bundled up, descended fast and fell on my lap finally. I cried helplessly. My hands were shaking. My fingers were caressing its chest lovingly, involuntarily. The last beating of its heart was actually parting its body. Even in its last struggle of keeping its life intact, I could feel that its eyes were trying to fix upon me. I wouldn’t be able to forget the light of happiness and misery reflected in its eyes ever in my life. Its body shook once and turned on other side. It became dead. An immaculate whiteness that one could see in the broken coconut! Once I felt that the lifeless whiteness on my lap, a helpless scream gored me like peeling a branch off its skin. I cuddled it and its softer body nestled against my chest.

***End***

Note:

1.      Addressing of an elder lady.

2.      Addressing of an elder man.

3.      Bonfire with palmyra leaves lit in front of temples during Karthikai festival.

4.      The fire that burnt Madurai due to the curse of Kannaki (In Silappathikaram)  

5.      Eye on Lord Shiva’s forehead. Known for its ability to burn enemies with a single sight.

6.      Chakras are wheels of energy or vortexes in your body. Yantra in Sanskrit means ‘instrument, tool or technology’. A yantra appears as an image of the Divine.

7.      The bow of Arjun. A symbol of invincibility.

8.      A traditional irrigation system with a cauldron type of vessel to lift water from the well, driven by bulls/oxen.

 

Translated from Tamil by Saravanan. K

Source: La.sa..Ra’s “Abhitha” Short story (www.valaitamil.com)                 

Kanjanai by Puthumai Pithan

This is an English Translation of "Kanjanai" s Short Story written by Puthumai Pithan  Translated from Tamil by Saravanan. K  To read the Tamil version of this story click here  This is 20thEnglish Translation in Classic Tamil Short Stories Series.

Puthumai Pithan 

All the way through that night, I was unable to sleep. I couldn’t find out the reason why it had happened. No undue mental stress, and no more unsolicited happiness either, so as to suffer from this sleeplessness. ‘I am just like any other human being. Ain’t I? But my profession is not like that of others. I write stories. It simply means that I am a poor chap whose livelihood rests on telling lies and receiving wages from the publishers, who could bear with those lies. The lies I tell wield universal acceptance! It means getting them endorsed by the majority of the world with fancy names like God and righteousness etc. People call it either creative output or a wander in the world of fantasy. These kinds of liars are often called Second Brahma!¹I am the one standing last in this parallel pedigree of God Brahma. Thinking about all these, makes me feel proud, indeed. Doesn’t it? Are the creations of Brahma also lies just like the pack of fabrications that we create? Am I also a lie? All of a sudden, If I indulge in such a philosophical inquiry at about twelve in the night, any one would surely be suspicious about my digestive ability. Wouldn’t he?’ Overwhelmed by that thought, I got up, sat there.    

The house owner had designed the bed room in such a way that I could switch the light on without having to get up. I switched it on. The glare of the light hit my eyes. My wife was sleeping in the adjacent bed. It seemed that she was dreaming in her sleep. I saw a grin in the corner groove of her lips. It so appeared that she felt so happy about her culinary skills that could make a person sleepless and push him into a philosophical inquiry. She turned her body other side on the bed with a simper, still sleepy. She was at the third month of her pregnancy. Just because I was unable to sleep, there was no point in waking her up to accompany me in my sleeplessness. Wasn’t it? 

I switched the light off at once. I loved to sit in the darkness alone as I found peace in it. I could mingle with darkness, merge with it as one, and could avoid seeing people around me. Couldn’t I? ‘Sitting in the citadel of darkness, one can enjoy the serenity of mental peace, as he likes, at the speed of a bullock cart. Can’t he? People term human mind as a speeding chariot which can travel to any place it wants in no time. However, the human mind still prefers to traverse the beaten track of thoughts that had crept into the deepest part of human psyche from the time immemorial. The track, lain with the fine powder of sand resulted from the persistent rolling of wheels and a not-so-much-used, untouched land strip between the tracks! Sometimes it so happens that the wheels would skid from the beaten track, hit the strip, and gives a sudden jerk to the person sitting inside the cart. Otherwise, it is a safe beaten track used by sober bulls anyway’. It seemed that I had applied more lime on the betal leaves in the dark as I had immersed in the comforts of thoughts. The tongue was burnt. I wouldn’t mind it. When you let your mind wander freely unfettered, you shouldn’t mind such petty discomforts. Should you? I stuffed the tobacco pieces I was holding in my palm into my mouth deftly. 

‘What an odour is this! Chee…Like the smell of a corpse!’ I thought it was due to the poor quality of tobacco, spat out the spittle through the window, gargled the mouth thoroughly, came to bed and lay there. The stench was unbearable. The air reeked of a decayed, decomposed dead body. I couldn’t bear it anymore. ‘Is that stink coming through the window? No sign of wind streaking along the window panes!’I got down from the cot, walked down to the window. Within a couple of steps, the stench disappeared. It was quite unusual. Wasn’t it? I came back to my bed. Again the same stench! The same stink! ‘Is there anything lying dead beneath the cot?’I lighted a lamp. There was nothing other than dust underneath the bed that caused sneezing. I cleaned up my body, rose up. The sound of my sneezing woke my wife up. 

“You haven’t still slept. Have you? What is the time now?” She asked, yawned. 

 It was exactly one minute past twelve midnight. 

What a strange thing it was! Now the stench had become a fragrance. A scent of incense sticks! That too, the scent of very poor-quality incense! Such incense sticks used to be kept near a dead body. Aren’t they?’ 

“Are you able to sniff at an unusual scent?” I asked my wife. 

“I could feel nothing” she replied. 

She sniffed at for a while and told, “I guess it is a scent of incense sticks. Someone may have burnt it. I feel sleepy; Switch the light off and sleep” 

I switched the light off. The fragrance was still lingering mildly in the air. I peeped through the window. The night was wearing the light of only stars.  

I could see the doors of the entrance and windows were mildly wind-blown. It was just only for a second. A dead silence followed that. Was it an earth quake? A fruit eating bat fluttered its broad skinny wings, flew across in the light of stars, and disappeared somewhere beyond the grove on the opposite side. 

The stench and scents disappeared all at once. I returned to the bed, lay there. 

2

When I got up next day morning, it was already noon. Picked up the newspaper, thrown into the hall through the window, went to the front yard of the house, and sat on the cane chair. It creaked uncomfortably under my weight and then remained quiet. 

My wife was standing behind me, admonishing me, “If you are awake all through the night and getting up this late and prefer to sitting like this in the morning, the coffee served to you will become waste. Won’t it? Even though I had an immense faith in the democracy and world peace that were caught in the vortex of unified progressive military action undertaken by the Allied Nations, I found it difficult to get along with what she had said. 

“It’s all because of your culinary skills” I retorted, got up. 

“Sitting idle, if you are determined to find faults in me, you won’t have anything else to talk other than that. Will you? It is no way inferior to the stories you write” she told me, entered the kitchen. 

‘One shouldn’t get perturbed by such rants in a family life. So, should I’. I brushed my teeth, I nestled the hot coffee tumbler in my towel, I started surfing the news items in the newspaper.

That time, a beggar woman, who was still looking young, came near to the entrance of my house, singing a song, and called us out, “Amma…alms please”  

I looked at her above the edge of the newspaper and held it up high like a fence to obstruct her view so that I could avoid talking to such nuisance elements.   

“Aren’t you strong enough to work? Why don’t you work in a couple of houses to earn your living?” my wife came to the entrance, chiding her for begging.  

“I am ready to do any work. But I should get some work to do. Shouldn’t I? Water is boiling in the pot. I couldn’t get even a handful of rice from this street. Please give some pieces of clothes so that I can save my dignity.” The beggar woman started shooting her applications of sympathy.

“I will give you a job. Will you stay with us? I will provide you food for your stomach and clothes for your dignity.” What do you say?” My wife asked her.

“It is more than enough, Mother! Isn’t it? Who else could display such a benevolence these days like this? The beggar woman told, kept staring at my wife, smiled at her.   

My wife turned towards me, asked me, “I think we can engage her in the house for two days to assess her work. You also know that I have frequent wheezing problem.” my wife told me.  

“What! You have gone nuts. Haven’t you? How could you bring an ass from the street into our house? Can’t you get any other person on this earth?” I told her, visibly annoyed. 

The beggar woman standing outside gave out a thick laughter. Her smile was irresistibly attractive. My wife couldn’t take her eyes away from that woman, kept staring at her. It almost appeared that she had surrendered her senses completely to that anonymous woman. 

“I am capable of identifying the persons by their face. Ain’t I?” You please come in.” my wife ordered, took that woman inside. 

The beggar woman seemed to be extremely happy, and followed my wife. It was just an inadvertent act- I kept on looking at her feet after wiping out my eyes. Her legs were not on the floor; they were floating above the floor at the height of a jeweller’s bead. I got goose bumps. ‘Is it just an illusion?’ I looked at her once again. The beggar woman turned towards me, smiled at me. ‘O! My God! It’s not a smile. Is it?’It pierced like an icy spear through my bone marrows and almost got me killed! 

I called out my wife. I explained her that bringing that anonymous woman inside the house was not a good proposition. But she remained stubborn to keep this strange element as her servant maid. ‘The morning sickness caused by pregnancy has many flipsides like this. Hasn’t it? But there must be a limit to it.’ My mind kept on cautioning me that her presence was a sign of some impending danger. I looked at her feet once again. Just like any other human being, they were on the floor. ‘How come is that possible? Is it the same hallucination!’  

Tenali Raman ²proved that a black colour dog couldn’t be changed into white colour dog. My wife also proved that a beggar woman could also be changed into a normal human being like us. I was also convinced that anyone who takes bath regularly, wears clean clothes even if it is old, can become friend of anyone. The beggar woman seemed to be very good at cracking jokes and making others laugh. I could hear her laughing frequently. I was astounded to see her helping my wife attentively. It appeared that the fear I had just a while ago seemed to mock at me now. 

It was evening, dusk. My wife and the maid servant were chit chatting, cracking jokes. I lighted a lamp in the front hall, and in the pretext of reading a book, I was watching her. A hallway was lying between the hall where I was sitting and the place where they were chit chatting. A full- length mirror was hanging in the hallway. I could see their images clearly in the mirror. 

“You have visited a lot many places. Haven’t you? You can tell me some stories. Can’t you? ”My wife asked her. 

“Yes…I have gone to Kashi and Haridwar and other places alike. When I was in Kashi, I heard a story there. Can I narrate it to you?” she said. 

“You can. Please tell me.” My wife asked her eagerly. 

“It must be more than five hundred years, they say. There was a king in Kashi and he had a daughter. No such beautiful girl was found anywhere on the earth. The king got her educated in all the subjects under the Sun. The person who was appointed as her Guru was actually a cunning conjurer. He was a master of black magic, sorcery and witch graft. He was eying up on this girl. But that girl was in love with the son of the minister and wanted to marry him. The conjurer came to know about it…Who came to know about it? Yes…it was that Guru” 

I was stunned to see the wonder that unfolded in front of me. I got confused whether I was listening to her telling the story or reading the book which I was holding in my hands. The book I was holding in my hands was “Historical Documents”. The page that lay spread in front of me was staring at me with the story of the daughter of King of Kashi. The last sentence of the pages under my fingers was the English Translation of ‘the conjurer came to know about it’. The sensory ability of my brain stopped for a while. Pimple like sweat droplets appeared on my forehead. ‘O! What happened to me? Have I become crazy?’My eyes were glued to the pages spread in front of me. The letters started getting blurred. 

Suddenly I heard a loud demoniacal laughter. It sucked up the interiors of my mind with a tremor. I raised my head in shock. My eyes fell on to the full length mirror. A ghastly ghost showing up its sharp teeth, was guffawing hysterically in it. I had seen many such ghosts in my dreams and the imaginations of sculptors. But I had never seen such a ghastly ghost. All its savageness was reflected only in its eyes and teeth.  The face carried a deadly silence, capable of evoking lusty intoxication. Thirst for blood in the eyes! The teeth with a craving for tearing the flesh! Behind this propitious image, were there the flames of fire. I was not under my control; kept on watching it. The image in the mirror disappeared. In a minute, I could see only the face of the beggar woman in the mirror. 

“I forgot to ask your name.” I could over hear my wife’s question. 

“You may call me Kanjanai. Like the character in the story who also had the same name. Calling by any names doesn’t matter. Does it? One should have a name. That is it” the beggar woman told her.  

It didn’t seem to be good idea to leave my wife there alone. Anything could happen. ‘Once the mind is preoccupied with fear, there won’t be limit to the shudders one gets in one’s body. Will there be?’

I went inside. Both of them were talking cheerfully.  

I entered with a smile which I brought on my face with a considerable effort. “What business do you have at the place where woman are working?” a sharp question was thrown at me. 

The woman who called herself Kanjanai was chopping off something, with her head bent down. A naughty grin was frolicking at the groove of her lips. I just became a mute spectator, stood like bystander hiding behind the fence of books. My wife was a pregnant lady. I couldn’t let her perturbed with fear. At the same time, I had to do something to save her. How? 

We all had our dinner. Went to sleep. Both of us went upstairs to sleep. The one known as Kanjanai was lying in the front hall. 

I was just lying on the bed. I couldn’t close my eyes. ‘How could I close it?’I didn’t know how long I was lying there. My heart was filled with anxiety as to when I would have to face the same foul odour once again. 

A clock from somewhere rang; it was twelve in the night. 

The eleventh ringing didn’t stop. The door creaked somewhere. 

Suddenly, some sharp nails scratched my body, disappeared. 

I sprang to my feet. My goodness! I didn’t speak anything funny. 

It was my wife’s hand, resting on me. 

‘Was it her hands?’ 

I got up, bent a bit down, and watched her closely. She was sleeping peacefully; her breath was stable. 

I thought of going down to see. But fear didn’t allow me. 

I decided to see. Without making noise, I tiptoed, went downstairs.

The time moved as slow as an era.

I peeped into the front hall furtively. The outer door was kept closed. The moon light seeping through the windows was falling on the mat and pillow- Empty mat and pillow.  

The earth beneathme caved in. An inexplicable shudder overwhelmed me.  

Without turning back, I stepped backwards, came near the staircase. ‘Has she gone upstairs?’

I rushed to the upper floor. There was a deadly silence. The same old silence. 

My mind was still muddled up. Stood near the window and watched the moon light. 

No sign of human activity around.

Only a dog somewhere afar howled its lament longer.

A gigantic bat came flying towards my house from somewhere in opposite corner of the sky. 

I started coming out of fear slowly as I kept looking outside. I reconciled myself that it was nothing but just my hallucination.     

But the mind was still not at rest. It wanted to see what was happening downstairs. 

I went downstairs. My walk lacked courage, though.  

Yes…yonder…It was Kanjanai sitting over there. She smiled at me. The same poisonous smile! I stood frozen. I feigned as if I was cool headed, I climbed the steps murmuring, “Aren’t you feeling sleepy?”  

‘Wasn’t there the fragrance of frankincense?’ I could remember that it was its fragrance there. 

When I got up, it was already late. 

“What happened to you? Your sleeping patterns have gone for a toss. Coffee is getting cold” my wife woke me up. 

Everything seemed odd in day time as it had no hiding place for both darkness and fear. But, the fear seemed to have been deep rooted in the heart. How to get rid of it?

‘One can’t confide his mental agony caused by his wife’s amoral behavior to anyone just to find solace. Can he? My situation was almost akin to it. The person like me who boasts about his literary service to the society, holding himself in high self-esteem, can’t go to a sorcerer with a complaint that a demon has entered his house, and it might do some harm to his wife and hence requesting to help him get rid of it. Can he? Asking for such help, would make him suspect for sure if I was simply mocking at him or I had become mad. How to find out solution to this problem? Who could help me in this matter? How long will I be able to linger this issue without seeking help from someone?’ 

I was very much restless as it might lead to some serious consequences. I was wavering between fake courage and real fear. ‘What sort of stupefying potion that servant maid had given to my wife?’ They were spending their time happily without even a tinge of suspicion or fear. 

Today, the time passed faster as if the day time was chasing the night. I had never experienced any day time that passed this faster earlier. 

While going to bed, my wife told me, “Today Kanjanai will sleep in the adjacent room in the upper floor. I felt as if I was carrying fire under my belly. 

‘What sort of a connivance is this?’ 

I decided not to sleep that night; spent the whole night awake. 

“Aren’t you sleeping?” my wife asked me. 

“I don’t feel sleepy” I said. The fear was piercing my heart like sharp spears. 

“As you wish” she turned her body other side. Within seconds, she slept. ‘Is it just a deep sleep?’ 

Sitting for a long time costed me dear. I lay down on bed to sleep. 

The clock rang twelve. 

The same odour! 

My wife, lying beside me, screamed loudly, quite not like human. I could hear only one word ‘Kanjanai’ amidst voices without forms that were coming in the form of words. 

I switched the light on immediately, woke her up. 

Once gained consciousness, she got up, still tottering. “I felt that something bit my neck and sucked up my blood.” She told him as she wiped her eyes. 

I watched her neck. There were two tiny drops of blood in her throat in the size of a pin tip. Her body was shivering. 

“Don’t be afraid. You might have dreamt something bad” I told her. It was a lie deliberately told, I know. 

Her body was still shivering. She fell on the bed unconscious. That time, the sound of Chemakkalam³ was heard outside. 

Along with its music, a song sung in a grating voice was also heard. 

Someone called out, “Kanjanai…Kanjanai…”- a commanding tone. 

An extremely loud scream came out of the house, quaking. The doors were terribly wind-blown. 

Followed it, was there a silence. The silence of a burial ground! 

I peeped out of the house. One person was standing at the middle of the street. What a spruce he was! 

He signaled me, “Come here”

I came out of the house, walked towards him like an immobile puppet. 

While going out, I couldn’t help looking into the room where Kanjanai stayed. It bore the very appearance which I had imagined in my mind. Kanjanai was not there. 

I went to the street. 

“Smear it on the Amma’s forehead. Kanjanai won’t come here anymore. Smear it immediately. Don’t wake her up.” He told. 

The Vibhoothi ⁴ was hot. I brought it to her, applied it on her forehead. I suspected whether it was a plain Vibhoothior something else. I very vividly remembered that there was no Chemakkalam in his hands either. Didn’t I? 

Three days passed. 

While giving me coffee in the morning, my wife told, “These men are just like this”. I wouldn’t be able to reply to her question. Would I?”

                               ***End***

Note: 

1.    In Indian mythology, Brahma is the God of Creation. 

2.    Tenali Raman was a character in the history of Vijaya Nagar Empire, known for his wits. 

3.    Chemakalam is a musical instrument. 

4.    Sacred ash. 

Translated from Tamil by Saravanan. K 

Source: “Collection of Puthumai Pithan Short Stories” compiled by Veda Sagaya Kumar. 

The Door (Kathavu) by Ki.Rajanarayanan

This is an English Translation of "Kadhavu", a Short Story written by Ki. Raja Narayanan Translated from Tamil by Saravanan. K  To read the Tamil version of this story click here  This is 19th English Translation in Classic Tamil Short Stories Series

Ki. Raja Narayanan

The swing door commenced its movement. 

The children from the neighbourhood partook in the game excitedly. 

“All of you get your tickets” shouted Srinivasan. The children shouted back, “Give me a ticket…for you too” 

“Which place do you want ticket to? Eii…don’t push me like this. Or else I won’t play with you guys” 

“It’s okay…Sorry…I won’t push you” 

“It’s alright. Where do you want to go?” 

The children looked at each other’s face. One boy shouted, “To Tirunelveli”. Others joined him and shouted in unison, “Yes..to Tirunelveli…Tirunelveli”

Laxmi was wiping the door with a piece of cloth. Once Srinivasan completed giving the tickets with his empty hands, all climbed onto the door, hung. Some of them swung it to and fro. That heavy door moved happily to and fro as if it was delighted to carry those children standing on to it. “Here came Tirunelveli…” Srinivasan announced. All of them jumped out of the door. The ones who had swung the door bought the tickets and the ones who had ‘travelled’, swung the door. The swing door commenced its movement again.   

It was an old, cemented house. It had only one big door. The inmates who, once, lived in that house were actually rich. Now, with very little possessions and money, they had become poor. Among the girl children in the house, the eldest one must be eight years old and another one was still a toddler. Their mother would go away for work in the woods; their father, a coolie working in Manimutharu had also gone away for his work. Laxmi and Srinivasan would play with the baby till her mother returned from the woods. 

One day, Laxmi found out a Match Box sticker on the street. It was picture of a dog. As it was dirty, she wiped out the dirt with her saliva, with her skirt which resulted in the dirt smudging on everywhere in the picture. But she was satisfied that the picture was clean without dirt. She held the picture straight in front of her face, looked at it, moved her head on one side and then on the other side. Smiled at it. She looked around in search of someone to share her happiness. No one was there. Unable to control her happiness, she hopped down toward her home. 

When Laxmi reached her home, Srinivasan was sitting at the entrance, holding his chin with his hands. On seeing him, Laxmi hid the picture behind her, and asked him, “Dei…Find out what I have brought” 

“You might have brought something. Don’t you? But I don’t know what it is”

“Try guessing” 

“I couldn’t” 

Laxmi showed the picture to him from the distance.

“Akka…Akka…You won’t give it to me. Will you?” he climbed down the steps, came to her. She held up the picture above her head as if not willing to give it to him. Srinivasan ran behind her. “No…I won’t give it to you. Do you know how much it was difficult for me to get this? She told him.     

“Let me have a look at it for only once. Please Akka..Please...” He begged her. 

“You should return it to me immediately after seeing it. Is that okay?” 

“Surely I will” 

“You shouldn’t tear it off” 

“I won’t” 

Srinivasan had a glance of that picture. His face bloomed with happiness.

“Dei…Bring some porridge of boiled pearl millet. Let me paste this picture on the door.” She told. 

“You are very correct!” Srinivasan ran into the house. 

Both of them helped each other, pasted that picture on the door, cheerfully jumped at seeing it, clapped their hands. On hearing it, the children from neighborhood also came running to them, joined them. The movement of the swing door commenced once again. 

2

If someone pays a close attention to the door, he would be able to find another picture pasted on the door just above the picture pasted by these children. That picture seemed to have been pasted long ago and it looked faded due to the years-long accumulation of filth and smoke on it. Perhaps, that picture could have been pasted by Laxmi’s father when he was a boy. 

When those children were playing with the door, the village watchman came there. 

“Laxmi! Where’s your father?”

“He’s gone to the town.” 

“what about your mother?”

“She’s gone to the woods” 

“Inform her that Village watchman Thevar came to meet her. Remind her to pay the excise once she returns.” 

Laxmi just nodded her head in affirmation. 

Next day, the village watchman came to Laxmi’s mother when she was at her home, asked her to pay the excise. 

“Sir…he is not in the village. It has been five months since he had gone to Manimutharu. I don’t have any information about him. There has been no rain during the past three years. In this situation, how could we pay the balance of excise amount? Looking after these kids as a coolie with the paltry wages I manage from the woods is itself a daunting task for me. You are aware of it. Aren’t you?” she implored him. 

But these words didn’t move the village watchman. He had enough experience of listening to such excuses from many people in the village. Hadn’t he?

“You see…We don’t have anything to do with your troubles. Do we? You must pay the excise this year. No excuses will be entertained anymore. It is of no use finding fault with me after that.” He warned her, left. 

3

One day morning, the children were sitting in the ground in front of the house, chit chatting. The village watchman came to their house along with four persons. The persons accompanied him inspected the house at a close range. It looked funny for the children. The village watchman along with other four removed the door from its frame skilfully, carried it on their head and left. It appeared that children could have sensed something bizarre. Didn’t it? One of the boys bent his body backward, patted his thighs with his hands, stretched his hands forward, set it like a Nadhaswaram, and made sound, “peeeee…peeee” as if he was playing both Nadhaswaram and Thavil. Srinivasan also accompanied him. An enthusiastic group of children followed those men carrying the door, like a procession.

The village watchman couldn’t bear this display of children. “You asses! Won’t you leave me now?” he yelled at them. The children ran away from them. When they returned home, they found Laxmi sitting at the entrance, weeping. Everyone came near to her, sat beside her without making noise. None of them spoke. Srinivasan too kept his face look sad. But, they couldn’t remain calm for long. One girl, got up, told them, “I am leaving for my home.” Others followed her, left one by one. Once all of them left, only Laxmi and Srinivasan were sitting there. They also didn’t talk for a long time, remained silent. 

Laxmi turned as she heard the baby crying inside. Srinivasan went inside and tried to scoop up the baby. He pulled his hands back from the baby at once. He looked at his sister. She also looked at him. 

“Akka…touch the baby. The baby has temperature” he told her. Laxmi touched the baby. The baby had high temperature. 

Long after the Sun set, their mother came home carrying a bundle of dry wood sticks on her head. While collecting dry wood sticks, she was stung by a scorpion and the pain was visible on her face. She sat by her children and picked up the baby from them. “The body has high temperature” she told herself. Her children narrated everything to her that had happened in the morning. 

The story Rangamma heard from them had almost got her breath stopped. An inscrutable shiver ran through her body. She tightened her grip over the baby as if she had developed an unbearable pain in her abdomen. Despite her attempts not to cry in front of her children, she sobbed inconsolably, screamed, almost out of her senses, “O! My Mother”. Sensing something dreadful, the children moved away from her. They also joined her, wept, overwhelmed by an unknown fear. 

4

No information came from Manimutharu. The days passed. During night, the children would be shivering due to cold wind flowing inside the house. Despite having a house, it was rendered useless as there was no door. The icy wind of Kartikai month troubled everyone in the house like a poisonous wind. The health of the toddler was also getting deteriorated as the days passed. On an ill-fated night, the baby died as it couldn’t withstand the icy weather. Rangammal delved into an unfathomable despair. She kept herself alive just for Laxmi and Srinivasan thence.  

Now, Srinivasan started attending the school. In one afternoon, while returning from the school, he found a match box sticker on the road. He showed it to his sister. Laxmi was not interested in it. 

“Akka…give me porridge. I am hungry. After the meals, I have to get this picture pasted”

“Thambi! There is no porridge” She uttered nervously. 

“Why? I saw you making it in the morning. Didn’t I?” 

She shook her head in affirmation, but continued, “I went out for a while. A dog came inside and drank all the porridge, brother! This house doesn’t have a door. Does it?” her voice soaked in despair and helplessness. The very thought that her mother would come home hungry from the woods, sank her in deep anguish.                

Srinivasan collected some grains of boiled pearl millet found scattered there, applied it behind the sticker, came there to paste it on the door. But the door was not there. He stood, not knowing what to do next. He pasted it on the wall. It didn’t stick to the wall, fell down. He tried some other place, another wall, but in vain. With disappointment that got aggravated by hunger, he started crying. 

………….

Laxmi was cleaning the utensils in the evening. 

Srinivasan came running to her, his face gleaming with something, panted, stood in front of her. “Akka…Akka…You know the choultry near our school. Don’t you? Out house door is lying there just behind it. I saw it myself” he told her. 

“Is it so? Is it true? Let us go there to see” she held him by his hands and both of them ran towards the village choultry. Yes! What he had told was true. The door was kept, leaned against the wall. They could identify their ‘friend’ from the distance. They looked around, ensured that no one was there in the vicinity. 

Their happiness at seeing it! An inestimable ecstasy it was.

The Horse Purslane plants and Thai Vaazhai plants were crushed under their feet as they ran towards it. They went near to the door hurriedly, touched it, stroked it lovingly. Laxmi removed the small mounds of termite found on the door with her skirt. She brushed her cheeks against the door. She felt crying. 

She hugged Srinivasan, kissed him, smiled at him. Tears were streaming down her face. Srinivasan too smiled at her. Both of their hands were firmly holding the door. 

                                                 ***End***

Translated from Tamil by Saravanan. K 

Source: “Kathavu”, A collection of Short Stories by Ki. Raja Narayanan. (Annam Publication, Sivagangai, Tamil Nadu)