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| M. Gopala Krishnan |
This is an English translation of Paarkudangal, a Tamil short story written by M. Gopala Krishnan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.
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I am standing on that long, empty temple corridor, glancing
at a thin-waisted sculpture of a woman carved on the stone bearing the face of
Yali 1. My eyes, fixed on its breasts, are staring at them absorbedly. I look
around and see none. The pigeons dwelling in the holes of temple towers flap
their wings, fly across, and settle down. My eyes fall upon the breasts of the
statue again. ‘Was it just an imagination of the sculptor? Or was it just the
way she stood for a pose before the sculptor?’ Every pillar has been carved
with at least one woman statue. All their breasts are looking similar, in the
same size. My fingers grew jittery, longing to touch them to feel it. Why did
they make these voluptuous beauties stand in these temples? It will be so much
more embarrassing if someone happens to see me ogling at their breasts. Isn’t
it? Everyone wants to look at it. They move away, glancing at them sideways as
if they are not interested in them. But their heart will still be longing to
have a close watch on them. Won’t they? I had also stood in front of a mirror,
amazed, comparing the curvaceous frame of the sculpture with my body while
changing my dresses. My body is not like hers. So what? She is a statue, just a
stone statue. But I am a truth standing in flesh and blood. I look beautiful
when I smile. Do I look beautiful? I feel like laughing at once when I think of
it. Laughing gets difficult anyway since the mere try of it pains a lot.
The lips are dry and painful. Thirst. I need something to
drink. While licking the lips with the tongue, it awfully tastes salty and
bitter. This odour! A sharp odour that burns the tips of my nose. I am very
much familiar with this pungent odour. While climbing down the stairs on the
western side of the second-floor nestling in elongated leaves of naval trees, I
used to cover my nose to avoid this stench. It is the same pungency! Adjacent
to the steps was a chemistry lab. The lab girl will be explaining some blue
liquid boiling in the beaker and calling it either some element or mineral,
with her elegant curly lips. Is it Suganthi’s voice? Is she speaking in
Malayalam? Possibly not. I am so sure that someone is watching me so closely. I
want to open my eyelids to see who it is. But the eyes are too heavy to open.
This touch seems to be that of a woman. Does that Malayalam-speaking voice
belong to this woman? What is she doing exactly here? She has masked my eyes so
that I wouldn’t be able to see anything. Hasn’t she? I feel a sharp, sudden
prick somewhere, and it moves further slowly and spreads all over my body. The
pain seems to have so many legs. Doesn’t it? The millipedes have hundreds of
legs, but they say horse has thousands of legs. Is this stench an odour of
pain? Are they the waves of pain in the ocean of emerald in which my body now
floats?
As the waves hit the shore ferociously, Manisha2 comes
running. Her blue dupatta flies away, flapping in the wind. Now the
scene is in slow motion. Her big, beautiful assets move up and down in slow
motion. Tiny lights around the screen are sparkling3. When I sulked, “What poor
taste it is,” he, sitting beside me, glued his eyes on the screen and did not
move his eyes away from it even for a minute. No matter if it is running or
jumping, it is I who know all its discomforts. “Men are privileged species;
they can leave the place in any emergency at any time, run anytime they want,
and fly away anytime they like. But we aren’t like them. We need to leave our
place at least two minutes in advance. Only then does walking slowly become
possible. Even your slow walk would attract hundreds of eyes in the street. If
you run, it will multiply into thousands. Every eye will be waiting to see your
dupatta flying away and half sari sliding out, Chandra aunty would
warn me into my ears while fastening the ribbon tightly in my hair. Aunt’s body
was a well-built one. Even her ordinary walk would make her assets shake up and
down. Now, where is she? She was also visiting the hospitals during her old
age. I must ask her what had happened to her after that. I asked him to give me
her mobile contact number. But I am sure that he would have postponed it. Or he
would have concluded himself that talking to her at this hour was not really
needed.
The expanse of emerald green still pulls me towards it. The
softness of mosses in the water caresses my feet. I am being pulled into the deepest
depths of the ocean. It is not cold, and rather it is warm. The air bubbles
coming out of the breath of fishes come near to me. The fish do not have such
torments in their lives. I have heard that whales are mammals. If a whale is a
mammal, won’t its breast shake when it swims, jumping up above water? Aunt
Chandra once told me while giving me an oil bath, “See…my dear girl. Now, you
have become a grown-up girl. You shouldn’t wear tight blouses. You should make
your dresses in such a way that it covers both your shoulders and neck.” Her
words left no impact on me at that time. It was only in my eighth grade that I
understood that it was something giving me an enduring sensation, something
beyond a meek, ordinary outgrowth of one’s body. A secret sensation coupled
with fear. Seeing them in the mirror while changing my dresses, my eyes got
attracted towards them. This curiosity further forced me to look at my friends
attentively. So many unanswered questions started hovering around my brain.
Though she would discourage me with a gentle whack on my head if I asked my
aunt about this, she would explain it earnestly while lying beside her or
making plaits on my hair under the guise of rebuking me for being impudent with
such questions. It would be both embarrassing and dreadful listening to her.
It is the fear that still carries me on its head. It carries
me everywhere from lab to lab. How many tests! How many queries! All medical
gimmicks were performed on my nude body! I don’t remember whether it was my ninth
class or tenth class. A maternity specialist took a special class for girls.
Her name sounded bizarre, named after a star, Thiruvonam. Yes…her name was
Thiruvona Selvi. How beautifully she taught us to check our breasts with our
own palms! She taught some simple testing techniques while changing our
dresses. I just followed her instructions a couple of times and then stopped.
There wouldn’t have been any need for being enslaved to these tests and
persistent fear had I followed those simple tests unfailingly. These tests are
horrible! One lady once asked me to stand, pressing my breasts against a glass
surface after removing my blouse. Who’s that? Christina? She must have seen so
many women endowed with different sizes. Mustn’t she? For her, they are just some
balls of flesh, groups of tissues that are put to the test and incapable of
evoking feeling in her. But all are not core professionals like Christina.
There was one Krishnamma, with a mild growth of moustache, who used to stare at
me while cleaning the glass surface and wouldn’t deliberately allow me to put
on my blouse even after the tests were over.
I hear a sound of someone walking in, approaching me faster.
I am unable to open my eyes. I could feel someone standing by my bed. As I
tried to ask, ‘Who’s that?’ I felt an excruciating pain as I tried moving my
lips. I may feel good if I had some water. Neither could I move my hands nor
open my eyes. Is my fear still keeping me on its lap? Or is it what death is?
Am I dead now? Never. It is not possible. If I am dead, I won’t be able to feel
this odour, this warmth. The sound of steps falls into my ears very clearly.
The sound of death wouldn’t be this softer. Would it? Wild buffalo is the
vehicle of Yamraj3 known for its lightning speed, wouldn’t walk this soft.
Where is my husband? Had he been here, I would have hidden
myself behind him. He will do nothing to alleviate my fear even if I tell him
my fears. All he could do was nothing more than throw his sharp eyes at me. A
mild nod of his head. All his contributions to lessen my worries will come to
an end with that smart nod. He didn’t even try to be okay with anything that he
had handled. Did he? He didn’t even find complete pleasure in me. If he had had
that experience of finding it out, he would have discovered all my fears by
himself too. The intensity of lust is very short-lived, only in the beginning,
to be precise. How fast he would finish off everything! He would turn his back
to me well before I could understand what it was, and whatever happened after
that was all only my shameless moves. Weren’t they?
These black stone statues, standing fully endowed, are not
shy of themselves. Which temple is this? Each of those statues is capable of
performing magic of arresting one’s attention. Those statues are not dressed
up. They stand in broad daylight without hiding their assets. If those busty
things are not covered with cloths, this world won’t see these many problems.
It attracts attention only when it is half exposed, half hidden. The torment
starts when the mind tries to find out the stuff half hidden through its
imagination. If fully exposed, nothing will look different as all will look the
same. The unresolved madness of millennia will get resolved in just a matter of
seconds. This is the secret that makes all men alike sleepless. Art and poetry
are nothing but empty babbles. Aren’t they? How many sensuous descriptions! How
many similes! If all these aspects are filtered through, all the romantic stock
of our literature will become miserably thinner. One poet compares the shrunken
breast to one’s poverty. Another one cries that it is the benevolence of a
generous person. Both Andal and Meera4 have talked about it. Were they also
tormented by its burden?
Are they really a burden to the womenfolk? One shouldn’t have
any doubt about it. It is just torture. One has to face the agony of being very
careful all the time. The dress shouldn’t slip out; it shouldn’t be worn loose;
it shouldn’t be visible outside the contours of garments. While climbing up and
climbing down the stairs, one should be alert that it doesn’t shake. Why should
one have all these troubles just because of an additional part of the body
destined to carry babies? Isn’t that all? This world never prefers to treat it
that simply. Does it? There are thousands of eyes always awaiting, keeping
themselves open to have a glance at them.
This man is in no way different from those eyes. On that
night, when he came near to me, I was shaking inside with a fear of the unknown
that accompanied his approach. He didn’t even give me time to prepare myself
for the next. They were the ones he was all the way longing to see so
impatiently after removing my dress. Weren’t they? A spectacular ecstasy on his
face on seeing them! A restiveness. How forcibly he grasped them into his
hands! It still pains. The boorishness of his clench! After that incident, at
the stroke of night’s fall, my body would start shivering at the very thought
of him approaching me with beastly speed with his swaying hands. They were his only
targets of pleasure on my body. Weren’t they? Yet, he wasn’t satisfied with
them. Many a night, he had told me without any compunctions that they could
have been still bigger in size. I was clueless as to what reply I must give to
this stupid observation. Everyone’s body has its own curves and crooks. Isn’t
it?
Someone touches my shoulder, shaking me, grasping my left
hand fingers. Who could that be? Is that him?
I am not very certain about it, notwithstanding the fact that
I am very much familiar with his touch. A voice is heard near my ears and then
moves away.
“Malini” … Yes. It is my name. Is he the one calling me up?
There hasn’t been any instance so far in which he addressed me with my full
name. He called me up ‘Malu.’ If I am able to open my eyes, I will feel good, I
think. I am still unable to get rid of the heaviness that is pressing down on
my eyelids. I moistened my lips with my tongue. Paining much. “Give her some
water, someone softly ordered, with a tinge of Malayalam in the voice. “Feed her
slowly…slowly…” Drops of water on my lips—a spring that brings back my life. As
it goes down through my throat, my nostrils feel the whiff of it. Is it his
scent? Or is it the scent of Dettol? Is there any more scent along with it? Or
is it the pleasant whiff of cough syrup?
When I was lactating, my body smelled of milk stench. While
coming near to me, he used to crinkle his face with a sulk, yet wouldn’t miss
caressing it. If I asked him whether they now looked in proper size he had
wanted them, he would deny bobbing his head. “What I want is something
different…something that looks like a copper idol,” he would say. His
disappointed voice would pull my heart away from him.
Putting my little baby, crying in soft sobs and kicking his
tender legs in the air on my lap, cuddling him against my breast, and glancing
at him when he suckles, pressing his gums upon it with his eyes closed, is
nothing less than a moment of bliss. It is a dream of both pain and pleasure.
The frenzy of the baby hitting the breasts to take out milk from them. How
painful the breasts are when the baby doesn’t drink milk from it for long!
Excruciating agony. The drops of milk gushing out, spilling all over while
pressing the breasts hard to relieve the pain. It has a typical taste, sweet yet
not completely sweet. The left breast is sagging as the baby has been pulling
its nipples down frequently while suckling as I lie on my side cuddling him
against my breast. He didn’t leave suckling till he reached two years. He
defied all my attempts to make him forget suckling. He became so infuriated
when he tasted the layer of neem oil applied on my breast. I am still unable to
forget the slap I gave on his back as I was unable to bear the pain of his
furious bite on my nipples. At one point, he despised suckling it. Stopped it.
Never came back to it even if I tried to feed him with it. He smiled at me. I
started crying.
Where is my little doll?
I must have been lying down here for a very long time.
Mustn’t I? Is it since yesterday? Or the day before yesterday? Who was that
doctor who talked to me with a smiling face? Was it Suganthi Varatharajan? I
couldn’t be attentive to what she spoke. The fear was very much overpowering. I
grew suspicious of everyone. Everyone seemed to be trying to hide something from
me. It all started with a petty pain from a mere touch. Was it on the right or
left? I brought it to their notice only when the pain became so unbearable. He
was also not very serious about my complaints in the beginning. Only after my
persistent complaints about the pain did he decide to take me to the hospital,
that too, in the fifth week, followed by one month of visits to hospitals. The
pain was aggravating, bringing me almost under its tight grip. It was in one of
my visits to Suganthi that I got all my doubts cleared, yet I was afraid of
asking what it was. She just told, “A small surgery.” These many tests just to
conduct a small surgery! How many times must the radiation have penetrated my
body as if chopping it off into pieces! I got simply bored with the terms MRI
and tissue analysis. He was also tight-lipped. His eyes were teary, and his
voice wasn’t coherent. He would just utter something out of some needs and then
quickly whisk away. They took me to the operation theatre in the early morning.
He brought me in a bed to the operation theatre grasping my hand. They stopped
him at the entry, took the bed in, and closed the door. I was strictly
instructed not to eat anything after ten o'clock from yesterday. I didn’t even
drink water. Emerald greenish hue filled in the room. The window blinds were
swaying in the air. A mild humming of the air conditioner blowing out cold air.
Wearing a green colour surgical attire, Suganthi entered the room as the nurses
and other doctors were busy in their respective assigned tasks. She came near
and smiled at me. The streak of kunkumam worn between the partings of her hair
was visible sparingly. “Just a small injection,” she told, nodded her head, and
left. A chilling pain in the spine drove me mad. She came to me after some time
and asked something. I could see the movement of people, and a lock of her hair
was visible outside her green colour cap. I could feel that they were all doing
something to me, bending over towards my body. But I couldn’t see what they are
exactly doing. Are they crating? Are they going to cut them off? What are they
doing? I could understand one thing for sure—they got me to get rid of the fear
that has been engulfing my psyche.
Was he waiting outside? Was the same fear hiding itself near him?
What might he have thought of? What might he have told about my problem? He was
never attracted to me anyway. Now this problem added to it…will they remove
all? One? Or both? How could they have removed them? Like the way Kannaki tore
her breasts and threw them away! Did she tear the left breast off with her
right hand and throw it out in the air? How come that milk pot could emit fire?
Madurai was set ablaze. Wasn’t it? Did Kannaki too have this problem? Didn’t
she? Not only she…all women have the same problem. She was so daring that she
could tear her breast off and throw it. Here I am lying on the bed, giving them
away. Many women still safeguard them strictly under their braziers.
Is wearing braziers necessary? Will he remember this question
I asked curiously as a newly married bride? If he now asks me, “What is your
size?” what could be my reply? I can run like female athletes henceforth. No
more hesitations, no more worries that it will shake up and down while walking
and running. Removing both will be seriously comfortable since removing only
one will become cumbersome. Did the doctor mention it? I heard her telling
something with a smile, bending over to me as her hair streaked out. She must
have told about it, I guess. Is it one or two?
I have heard that Goddess Parvati has three breasts. Poor
woman! I have these many troubles with just two. With three, it will be torture
for her. Will it grow again like nails clipped once or hair that is trimmed
once? No…it should not. If it grows, all other ailments associated with it will
also grow along with it. How pathetic it would be to see a group of tissues
that bears life in it could develop into such a deadly cancer? Is it possible
that a gland that produces milk could release poison? If it grows again, I have
to undergo the same torments of tests, injections, and medicines. Some persons
covering themselves in green colour attire, wearing masks, would come near and
chop them off again with their laser knife. I don’t need them to grow again; I
can’t bear it being chopped off again. I must tell him all.
Will he approach me after this? Every time he approaches me,
it is the spot he used to begin all. Will there be scars at the place where they
were cut off? They would be looking like those broken statues. Wouldn’t they?
Would they have stitched the open skin after removing those fleshy rounded
assets? When could I see that spot again? Now it is logically acceptable that
he would move away from me. I don’t think he would leave me alone. If he
suffers from something like this, would I be able to leave him alone? No one
can run away from each other. Both are impeding each other from running away.
Aren’t we? Poor fellow! Must be feeling dejected. He must have been afflicted
by the fear of having faced everything closely all alone. Medical expenses run
in lakhs of rupees. He must be feeling miserable now and struggling to get out
of this unending darkness in order to see some light out there.
I could feel some shade of light in my eyes. Now I am able to
move my eyelids. Are the doors of the emerald sea opening now?
Am I floating in the air? Or just lying down? The body seems
to be weightless. Leaving my memories alone, has my body melted into nothing?
Feeling thirsty. I moved my lips. It pains. Some drops of water are flowing
down from my mouth. Is he sitting near me? No… I don’t think so. I opened my
eyelids. I could see an image of a person bending over towards me. Blue light
in the backdrop. The moment I clucked my tongue on my lips and drank, I heard
someone saying, “Very good.” They tried shaking my right shoulder. Voice of a
woman: “Are you able to open your eyes now?” My left eye opened a bit. At once
the heavy eyelids gave way; the light spread in the front as if covered with
snow. Behind the snowy dimness was her face seen through the gap of opened
eyelids. “Look at me this way…” she gently touched my jaw and turned to her.
Now I could see everything clearly. A portrait of a sunflower on the wall. A
door on the left. It just opens, and a person comes in. There he is. I close my
eyes once and then open them. He is standing beside me with his disheveled hair
and tired, sunken face.
“Malu…” he grasps my hands softly. Tears rolling down my
cheeks. “Don’t cry. You will be alright…” Tears roll down his cheeks too.
The woman warns, “Let her not strain herself.” I gaze at his
eyes as he sits on the chair. What should I ask him first?
I have to see myself in the mirror. Only after that could I
muster the courage to ask him anything. “I was waiting for the moment you would
open your eyes, he says, wiping his tears. “When was the surgery over?” I ask
him, a question for the sake of asking. “It was over by half past ten yesterday
morning. They kept you under observation till morning today and brought you
here at about eleven. You didn’t open your eyes all day,” he says, his voice
drowned with heaviness.
“What is the time now?”
“Half past six in the evening”
Time for lighting the home. The house had been left unattended
without lighting lamps.
“Where’s our boy?”
“He’s gone out with his grandpa. He’ll be back soon.”
I know these are unimportant questions. Just a customary
start to my conversations with him. The questions I wanted to ask him are
totally different from these simple, perfunctory queries. Where and how to
start?
I guess he is also reeling under similar conflicts in mind.
What to tell him first? How to tell him that? Suganthi must have explained
everything to him. Now, how is he going to tell me all these?”
My muscles started aching. Let him start himself. If I don’t
get any convincing answers to any of my questions from his talk, I will later
consider asking him that. There was no pressing urgency to ask him now. Is it
one or both? Did they just remove some of its problematic interiors or remove
it completely? Will I able to see that chopped group of flesh?
I closed my eyes.
I am standing in that long corridor again.
I heard a voice from somewhere. “The statues in all the
temples stand broken. Handiwork of some miscreants. Look at the spots where
they have tried their hands to maim them! Lowly births! They are also born to
their mothers and suckle milk from their breasts. Aren’t they?”
Standing there is a thin-waisted sculpture of a woman carved
on the stone bearing the face of Yali. She is standing with her right hand
raised upward. The breasts of her elegantly erect frame are found mutilated.
***Ended***
Notes:
1.
A Hindu mythological creature, portrayed with the head and the body of
a lion, the trunk and the tusks of an elephant, and sometimes bearing
equestrian features mostly found in South Indian temples.
2.
Manisha- Manisha Koirala, a film actress.
3.
A scene in the movie “Bombay” by Maniratnam, a famous Tamil film
director.
4.
Female devotees of Lord Krishna.
