This is an English Translation of “Kaditham”, a short story written by Dilip Kumar. Translated by Saravanan. K. This is 45thEnglish Translation in the Tamil short Stories series.
***
“Do meet me exactly at 3 in the afternoon” – Mittu Mama had kept me informed one day in advance. It was for the letter routinely written, addressed to Kanshyam Mama replete with words evoking sympathy to ask him for money. Mittu Mama is the brother of my grandma. A very poor man. Kanshyam uncle is Mittu mama’s wife’s sister’s husband, a very rich man.
Usually the letters written by Mittu Mama were not appealing to read. I agreed to write a couple of letters, at times, for him in a month as his fingers had started quivering due to his old age. Since those letters were perceived to be documents of secret, only I was permitted to handle them which had resulted in a sort of intimacy between Mittu Mama and I, such as the one found between a gentleman and his lady love laced with tiny elements of secrecy.
When I went to Mittu Mama, he was lying down with his head on a big cement cushion over there. His legs were found frozen inside two polythene bags and lying like two bundles on a small pillow. On seeing me, he addressed me lovingly, “Come…my dear body builder”. Mittu Mama must be 70 years old. Big eyes. Sunken cheeks. Thick eye brows. Sharp nose. Thin frame. Cotton Dhoti. Cotton vest. Worn out Poonool. It had been so many years since Mittu Mama’s wife, Jamuna aunty died. He didn’t share good terms with his sons and daughters in law living at the rear side of the house. They had allotted him a front room facing the street.
“You may start writing down now” Mama started dictating with his usual suspense laden words and warned me not to interrupt him.
‘Respected Kanshyamji,
Beseeching you to accept the humble greetings from Mittu, your wife’s sister brother living in Sowkarpettai, Chennai. We are all happy here. I request you to assure me that your family members are also leading a contented and joyful life.
What has prompted me to write a letter to you now is that I haven’t been keeping myself alright for some time. To be very precise, it’s been for the last one week. Everyone here wants me to die. But life and death are not in our hand. Are they? I can even commit suicide. But there are a couple of issues in front of me before committing suicide. Firstly, if a seventy three year old man commits suicide, no one will be sad about his death. They would remain unmoved as if their big trouble is gone. Secondly, you must be aware that I have cracks in my foot and scabies on my knees. Where will I go to commit suicide with these legs? Moreover it wouldn’t look decent if I die with these pus oozing, stinking legs. Would they? You also know this very well. Despite all, I want to die as desired by all my relatives.
With the amount of money you sent last month benevolently, I have been able to apply a dressing and bandage up my legs at the Gujarat Charitable hospital in Ravana Aiyar Street till yesterday. This month, a new skin specialist had come to the hospital in the place of Mr Thamarai Kannan who used to visit the hospital on 3rdof every month. His name is Sanath Kumar Jain, a Marwari.
His father, Suganmal Jain is running an Ever silver utensils whole sale business in Thanga Salai street. His shop is located near New Ananta Bhavan hotel at the turn of NSC Bose Road. If you meet him you would be able to recognise him. He can’t be an unknown person to you. Dr Sanath Kumar is very young fellow, but a skilful doctor. He had worked as an apprentice for some years under the famous skin specialist Dr Thambaiah. He changed the medicine after checking my feet. He had given me some ointment for external application and some pills to eat.
He suggested that the bandage could be changed every second day. He had assured me that the itching and oozing of pus could be cured in six months. You know that the treatment is free of cost anyway. But I had to travel by rickshaw every time. The rickshaw puller Kathavarayan is the one who is assisting me, holding me supportively while taking me in. I have fixed two rupees for to and fro journey. As I run out of cash from last week, he has been assisting me on credit. I owe him six rupees. I was informed only in the morning that Kathavarayan’s mother was not well. He has gone to Chengalpattu. I am not sure about the day of his return. I could easily opt for some other alternative arrangement. But the new one will not be as good as Kathavarayan. Will he? Leaving it aside, where is the money to pay the new rickshaw puller?
I once again reiterate that I started despising everything just because of these reasons. My death would comfort everyone. Wouldn’t it? Your burden of sending money every month will also get reduced. You are aware that my sons are good for nothing. The elder one keeps playing Bulbuldhara, going after his wife.
You are very much aware what sort of a woman his wife- that dwarf queen- is. She looks like a cat- but how much atrocious she is! One day in the previous week I just asked her to bring some salt as it was less in the stew (a stew given as side dish for Chappathi). Was it a sin? She left the spot, turned her face with a jolt like Lalitha Pawar. That useless dog (my son) came in support of her reproaching me to reduce the intake of salt as I got old. The story of my younger son was not a new one to you. Though he is settled with a good job in a bank, he still remains such an ungrateful fellow. Doesn’t he? How could he complete his studies? It was because of the alms you had extended that enabled him complete his B.Com. He has become a pious man now. He arranges collective Bhajan every Saturday night and spoils every corner of the house. The way they make ruckus with Tabla and castanets is just indescribable. Once this Bhajan is over, these dogs will leave the house at midnight to have Poori, Lassi and Beeda at Maheswari Bhavan. Were there any Poori or Beedathat remained untouched by me in Maheswari Bhavan? He also knew very well that I liked Poorifrom Maheswari Bhavan. But that rascal had never brought even a single Poori for me from there. He thinks of himself as a Governor. Very mention of governor obligates me remember: Prabhudas Patwari came to our Srinathji temple. How simple he was! What a simplicity! He bowed his head, greeted our mother and left. He said: ‘We don’t have any grudges against Indira Gandhi. That lady is always stubborn, with a bit of high dose of it’.
“Rajini, My son in second number, is a poor chap. A good person.”
At this point I intervened, asked him, “Mama…do I have to mention him as number two? Mere mention of name is enough for Kanshyam Mama to understand that it is Rajini. Isn’t it?”
“Without cross talk, write down what I say. He is still unable to come out of his pressing burden of responsibilities towards his wife and children. It all happened yesterday. While writing about it, my eyes are filled with tears”
I looked into Mittu Mama’s eyes.
“What are you looking at? Do continue”
“I run out of coconut oil at home. He combs his hair with some water. The elder one and younger one are spending their money on cigarettes and Beeda but never thought of buying me oil. Everyone in the home takes head bath every day and somehow manages the day by postponing the oil application on head till evening. Without applying oil, the frontal baldness of my head has dried and the head seems to be burning. The sparse hair strands I have on my head stand erect, rough, like coconut fibre. I am damn scared even to have a glance of my face in mirror”.
I glanced at his head and ensured what he had told me to write was true.
“I want to set certain things right before I die. You know very well that I don’t own any property. I am just an impecunious, penniless fellow. You are aware that I had taken up the task of serving the Gods of your sister, I mean my wife, after her death. I want to hand you over all those idols before my death. Those idols have been inherited from my ancestors. My mother (before her it was my grandmother) used to get up in the early morning, take bath and touch any food stuff only after worshipping those idols in empty stomach. After her, your sister continued it. After your sister’s death, I have been trying my best in continuing it. You know well that I wouldn’t be able to bath daily. I could take bath only when the bandage is changed. So I could perform Puja only on every second day. What makes me extremely sad is that I am unable to offer anything to those idols even during some auspicious days. I had to offer them the food (three chappathi and some rice) which I get at eleven ‘O clock every day. In the evening it is coffee and two idlies from Ambis Café. I have faith in God that He would accept these offerings. What is more important of all is nothing but sincerity.
I don’t have trust in my daughters in law.
They do not know its importance. They will either just throw them away or give it to children to play with it. One of those idols assumes much of importance. It is the five feet tall idol of crawling baby Lord Krishna with flute in his hands. It is a very beautiful looking idol. If worn with a silk cloth and embroidered cap, it will look like Lord Krishna is actually crawling in our front yard.
I want to hand you over all those Gods before my death. Please inform my sister, I mean your wife that it is my last wish. We are not certain that our children would be sincerely following all these once we are gone. Let my sister serve Gods as much as she could. After her death, you can throw them away either in a well or river. Apart from these, I have some sacred books and Ganga water in a small pot. I want to give you all of them. Among the books, you must keep Hanuman Malisa ((Anjaneya Kavach) and Bhagavadam blessed by Dongre Maharaj for yourself. Keeping them with you will help you ward off bad spirits in the house and ensure prosperity.
By this time you must have understood that I am ready for my death. But I don’t get clue of my death as to how and from where it comes. You know that death won’t embrace us even if we are willingly submit ourselves to it if our journey in this world remains incomplete. Last week, Jeevanlal’s eight year old son fell from the second floor while flying kite. He was such a lucky fellow, he fell exactly on the donkey of Lord Ekamabreswara’s washer man walking down that time with dirty clothes on its back. No bruise…no hurt. The donkey broke its rear leg as it fell on the ground. You know about Jeevanlal. A top-rated miser. He refused to part with even a penny for the treatment of the donkey. I had an extremely tough time to snatch three rupees from him for taking the donkey to veterinary hospital in a rickshaw.
That washer man left after hurling just only one invective worst enough to insult the whole generation of Gujarati community.
What do you infer from this incident?
In spite of that, I am thinking of my death. Despite having a lot of reasons for me to die, I am faced with both pleasure and pain when I think how I am able to stay alive.
The broker, Ranjith who studied along with me died for a breath ten days ago without giving any troubles. Like this, three prominent lives were lost in this street within the last three months.
Both diabetes and heart attack came like a husband and wife and took away the lives of many. My daughter in law Subthra is also suffering from these two diseases. It is me who is free of diseases except some petty discomforts like scabies and cracks. As if proving the words of my elder daughter in law last week, I really feel like a limping dog.
No one will be there to cry for me in this Ekambareswarar Agraharam hereafter. The Agraharam has lost its appeal. The temple pond is dried up. For the name sake, they have pumped some water into it and floated some plastic lotus flowers in it. They have demolished the saffron painted compound wall running along the temple pond, constructed buildings and rented them out to ever silver utensils traders. The bell tower of the school in Ravanan Aiyar Street is not visible now. Fitting the microphones on the pillars in the temple corridors, they have started playing Bhajans in soft music. The streets in which the purest race of Gujarathis once roamed is now replete with Marwari traders selling utensils. Only the temple Peepal tree is still standing there to remind the old lay out of Agraharam. It still gives shade. But the people who enjoyed its shade deeply from their heart have disappeared now. The tranquil that the tree provided earlier is now missing. They are going to sell the building in which the sister of my sister’s sister in law is staying for sixty lakhs rupees. Nearly thirty families are going to be thrown to the street with this sale. They are just waiting to get separated like birds whose houses were torn apart before they were chased away. The gregarious set up will change. The meaning of life lies in that set up. Doesn’t it? Once the set-up disappears the life will also be lost.
Every day I pray to, not the God, but the Yama Raj- ‘Take this old man. No bad will happen to your rope of death’. I have one more request. Just for the salvation of my soul, please perform singing of Bhagavatam unfailingly after my death either at my home or your home.
Nothing more than these at present to write about.
I expect your reply filled with pleasant experiences of your life.
Sincerely,
Manmohan Das Dwarka Das
(Mittu)
P.S: You could consider sending Rs 100 if it doesn’t bother you. – Mittu
I arranged the papers in order and kept that lengthy letter folded. With his usual demeanour, Mittu Mama opened his tin almirah with his small key hanging in his Poonooland gave me a big envelope and some postal stamps. As I took it in my hand after writing the address, he said, “Don’t drop this letter in any post box of your convenience due to your laziness. Go to Park Town post Office direct to post it. Keep me informed after you are done”, and gave me a fifty paise coin and said, “You keep it with you”. I left.
***
After three days, a telegram was received at eight ‘O clock in the night. I ran to Mittu Mama to inform about it.
Mittu Mama was deeply asleep. I shook his shoulder and woke him up.
“What is the matter da?”
“We are all betrayed Mama…” I shrieked.
“What happened?”
“We got a telegram from Udumalaipettai. Kanshyam Mama is dead”.
Mittu Mama got up, feverishly. “Are you sure what you say?”
“Yes Mama… it is true. Today afternoon he returned from the office and had his food, jovially sharing his day with others. It is understood that he had read your letter a couple of times. Then he resigned to sleep but didn’t get up after that. He lost his life in sleep. Seems to be a heart attack”
Mittu Mama was staring at his legs blankly and said after a long silence, “Those who are destined to leave this world are leaving. Those who are alive are left with nothing and they have to survive anyway.”
All my relatives who had gone to attend the funeral of Kanshyam Mama returned after getting to know what Mittu Mama had written in his letter. They expressed their opinion in public that Mittu mama should have been dead instead of Kanshayam Mama. Mittu Mama’s sons and daughters in law must have felt seriously insulted. The elder daughter in law, in particular, became so restive. She wanted to cut off the old man’s tongue and chop off the hands of mine who assisted him in writing that letter. But as the luck would have it, no freak did happen. However, I had to stop writing letters for Mittu mama after that.
***Ended***
Translated from the Tamil by Saravanan. K
Source: The Tamil short story “Kaditham” written by Dilip Kumar.
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