This is an English Translation of “Ilaigal Sirithana”
a short story written by Paadhasaari Vishwanathan. Translated into English by
Saravanan Karmegam. My sincere thanks to Mr Paadhasaari Vishwanathan for giving
me permission to translate this short story. 
'Paadhasaari' Vishwanathan
***
I completed reading the last line as well. I closed
the book, placed it on my chest, craned my neck a bit, propped on the pillows, lay
there on bed and closed my eyes. Any book, no matter how good it is, does invariably
create an indecipherable void after reading it. We can term it ‘emptiness’, an emptiness not in negative
terms of feeling but something akin to standing on railway platform holding a
platform ticket, watching the rear of train after its departure, and ostensibly
not willing to return. While reading very good novels, this type of emptiness
is seriously felt. If it is an intense reading that makes my heart elated, I’ll
lie on bed, and remain wakeful with my eyes closed in the backdrop of long
silence of that emptiness.
I opened my eyes. The tube light had brought a
heaviness in the room. The silence had been lengthy. I couldn’t distinguish
whether it was the sound of machines in cotton mill or the sound of train
running at some distance. Despite my prudent attempts each night with both my
physical ears and mental ears to know what it was, I had had failed in finding it
out. It was either reading or writing sitting alone on my cot when the entire
town was asleep was one of the most important aspects that had been keeping me
happy. Mind is greedy and it tastes every moments of nights. Being immersed in
the beauty of nights even without the interference of thoughts about my loving
father lying sick on veranda was indeed a pleasure. Night is my friend, my philosophy
and my guide. Among other reasons that are preventing me from committing
suicide, this empty night stands as second reason. It is this ‘guiding’ night
that gives me courage to take pledge to get rid of some of my bad habits (a
voice is heard that all my habits are bad). Even showing my other cheek to be
slapped would be possible for me only during these nights.
The bell of a mill located somewhere rings ‘two’. I
can go to bed after emptying my bladder. Even if I don’t feel like peeing, it
has become a habit that a sense of urgency would hit my mind at least once
before I go to sleep. First I have to get away from this habit. Only the chirpings
of insects were heard as the number of dogs on streets had come down. Sometimes
I would feel in the interiors of my ears a mild whining sound of water buzzing
beneath resembling the one coming out of radio for a couple of seconds before the
telecast starts after it is switched on. When it stops abruptly, I would feel
immensely delighted. Listening to it during past midnights is also my hobby.
I stopped my ‘hobby’, opened the door outside and
searched for my father’s slippers in veranda. It was a pair of blue colour rubber
slippers my father used. The veranda door was found unlocked from inside. I
glanced at his cot and felt that he was not lying inside mosquito net. Growing
anxious, I groped in dark, and switched on the light. A pale yellow light fell
on veranda, gave me a clear view of his cot. Father wasn’t there inside
mosquito net. I put on my slippers fast, stepped out of veranda, went past the
entrance and stood in front of ‘toilet’.
It was the month of ‘Thai’, piercingly colder.
The chillness of a magnificent peace that would descend on one’s body. The wind
blew across through neem trees without disturbing its leaves. Countless stars
strewn on the sky. The babbling sounds of Gounder, my neighbour, made in his
snore were the only signs around there to prove that it was a residential area.
But my concerns were my only signs of being existent- to know about my father’s
whereabouts.
Father wasn’t there in the toilet. I opened its door,
went inside and shed a couple of drops of urine forcibly, came to veranda again
and looked at his cot. Father had gone missing, probably along with his shawl.
The bell of some mill at distance rang half. If you walked southwards getting
into the house through the eastern side of entrance, you would reach elder
sister’s house in the backyard. Everyone was asleep- a deep without even the
sound of breath. Machan’s bicycle was also not found around. I don’t
know in which shift he had left for the mill. We don’t talk to tach other. It
has been five years since we stopped speaking to each other. He had turned out
to be a poisonous leaf in my perception.
I switched on the light in the cow shed. The three
cows given as dowry to my elder sister other than gold sovereigns were standing
there. One of them rose suddenly, stood up as if being goaded. I switched off
the light and left the shed. A cat was found lying on the heap of cow dung on
my way.
I climbed onto the veranda, entered the house and
searched for my father’s shirt. It was hanging on a hook in hanger along with
his towel. Father had three shirts. I opened his cupboard and saw his other two
shirts neatly ironed and kept. His four dhoties were also kept neatly
stacked up. Where could he have gone? When I came home at about eleven in the
night, he was lying on this cot in veranda. Wasn’t he? Most of the days I used
to return home by the last bus in the night. It doesn’t matter how late I used
to be while coming home, father would either clear his throat mildly or emit a
cough lightly just to show me his presence as I remove my slippers while
entering home, tiptoeing without making noise after releasing the latch of the
netted door in veranda. As I would be completely absorbed in reading after
that, it would be nearly two O clock for my room lights to be switched off.
Even a heavier cough would not wake me up after that. There were days I used to
be very much annoyed with his coughing sounds as I felt it disturbing the
serenity I required for my reading. Harsh invectives would be vying in me to be
thrown at him. Would there be any human species that do not know the usage of
invectives? Only the circumstances in which they are used may have different
contexts.
When I entered home today, father coughed as usual. I
understood it must be a genuine cough sound as he was suffering from some
ailments for the last four days. I didn’t delve into researching the
genuineness of his coughing sound as I got busy with my reading. Where has he
gone in this dead midnight?
As the time passed, I grew more and more anxious. I
stood exasperatingly, leaning against the door frame after releasing the hook
of entrance gate. A silent street lying in front like solemn forehead of a sleeping
widow oblivious of her mundane worries. The village had forty families living
in three streets designed like a tilted Tamil letter ‘pa’
Two or three dogs were barking in the streets in the
rear. As my legs grew weak, I closed the gate, came back to veranda and sat
down. Mind was preoccupied with haunting thoughts, as though I couldn’t figure
out what exactly it was.
Has he gone to elder sister’s house to sleep? It isn’t
possible. It is a very small house with four children. Even my sister would
find it difficult to sleep comfortably in that narrow space. Other than his cot,
it is improbable that he could have found out some other place to go. He wouldn’t
even stay in our relative’s house overnight.
Even though it appeared to be interesting part of a riddle,
fear and anxiety had engulfed my senses, made it smoky and finally smothered
it. At last fear prevailed and the heat of misery along with an unease got me down.
Father was seriously ill last year. He was suffering
from frequently bulging stomach and weakened breath. During those days while
returning home earlier, I used to carry some unwanted thoughts along with me. A
mere sight of four or five people gathering around while taking turn at the
corner of street was more than enough to increase my palpitation and to pedal
my bicycle faster or push me walk faster. Some days I had had returned home
pedalling my bicycle faster even before hitting the street corner thinking that
my father must have been dead that day. Only after I understood he was lying
alive inside mosquito net, I will go to bed leaving my sense of relief behind
along with my slippers. Those were the days I had slept with the warmth of my
father’s presence that I used to feel in my soul- a sense of security one would
feel under the armpit of a big bird’s wing. Now I have grown bolder, and am
gradually growing confident to live this life even after the leaves are shed
from trees, even after my father disappears going with the wind. It isn’t like
tying up a ‘Thali’ for the sake of some ideals nor out of some
philosophical inquest to convince oneself that there could be no tree that
never sheds leaves. It is just an ordinary proposition about mundane life. It is
based on a simple aspiration to sustain what I am for some more time beyond the
ordinary mundane of relishing this life in the company of wife and children. I
am just hanging on the tree from which my father was shed. My children would
hang on the trees from which I am shed. Their children would hang on the trees
from which they are shed…So as long as we could sustain in trees, it is equally
true that my father’s death wouldn’t be because of me; my death not because of
my children; their children are not responsible for….the tree is the centre of
this universe. As long as death that leaves no ashes, it remains a reality, no
one on this earth needs to be afraid of death…..But these thoughts offering me immense
hopes on life fail me miserably when I get up in the morning!
Where the hell has he gone? I dropped the plan of
waking up Goundar. When I returned home that night, he babbled something aloud,
his voice was unusually louder. He might have taken high doses of liquor, I
thought. I heard his wife admonishing him “Keep quiet”. He shouted at her back,
“I just asked who it is. There are so many theft cases all around the village.
What if I ask who’s that” and threw his usual single word abuse at her that
pertained to her chastity.
“How dare you ask me such a question? How dare?” she
also retorted with her usual high pitch. “Thief would run away if he hears your
snoring sound. You aren’t a man. Are you? My womb has been empty for the last
thirty years. I know all your strength. Don’t I?- her voice became heavier.
They don’t have children.
I became conscious of having delved into thoughts. I
rose from the veranda. What should I do now? O God! I became restless. The bell
of a mill rang three and the bell from another mill also rang three. There was
a subtle difference in their sounds. But I was not in mood to enjoy its
delicate difference. Without latching the veranda door, I went in and my mind
became restive in search of cigarettes. As the cigarette box was empty, I
picked a used cigarette bud from the floor and lit it with the help of live
fire from the tip of mosquito coil. I couldn’t understand what was happening.
Nothing very frustrating did happen in my father’s
life that could have forced him to become a mendicant. If he was so worried
about something, it must be only about my marriage. Even amidst those extremely
shorter durations of my stay at home, I had ensured his peace of mind with my
gleeful appearance in front of him. I had cleaned bicycle and insulated it with
oils. I had washed pillow covers and dried them under sun. In the ‘flush out’
toilet, I had used only required amount of water without wasting it. I had
ensured at least once in a week that I returned home earlier. I had restrained
myself that I would sleep in my friends’ houses only three times a week. I have
been earnestly avoiding one of my worst habits of throwing away non-existent
garbage from my room by frequently cleaning it. My father had a belief that
frequent cleaning would drive away the goddess of luck from house. Would such a
man go out of this house for nothing? Was he suffering from any such illusions
that anyone of his age would suffer? Being so conscious about his image and
prestige, he had never been even candid about his genuine needs to me. Only for
some frivolous things such as cleaning bicycles, he used to utter a word or
two. I was also not in the habit of speaking to him shedding my shyness totally
despite my unsurmountable love for him. I have been like this since my
childhood- it is the ‘freedom of speech’ that was existing between us.
I had caused him enormous troubles for the last two
years both in terms of frequently demanding money and putting him under mental
stress without doing any job. Father had told me during those days, “You keep
troubling me like this- I will leave for Dharmshala one day for sure”.
Sound of dogs barking was heard somewhere. I heaved a
sigh. Aged people wouldn’t have good sleep in night. It is a boon given in
one’s old age. When it is a boon, I shouldn’t get worried about it. Should I?
Father is seventy years old. Other than his troubling physical ailments, he
didn’t suffer from any other severe mental stress. I am also earning now. He
alone enjoys rental money from tenants.
Sometimes it had occurred to me that it was not a good
sign for old age people enjoying their life to its fullest. One of my father’s
friends was telling about his father- A man who had recently retired from a
very high post in the government, a man who had been very happy staying in his
son’s house for two years went missing in an early morning! That friend had
noticed no shade of sorrow anywhere in his father’s mind. He further told that his
father was not much interested in spiritual matters. He had been living without
his spouse for the last forty years. He wouldn’t have gone missing if his
mother had been alive and living with him, he rued and vented his heart out. It
has been ten years now since his father left him. He was still unable to
understand the riddle behind his disappearance. (He showed me a copy of ‘The
Hindu’ newspaper which his father had left unopened on the day he left his
house. He was visibly depressed.)
Barking sound of a single dog was heard from the East
street. The bell rang half again. It must be half past three. A burning
sensation of acid deep inside my chest pit. I locked the veranda door, went to
bed and lay there but unable to close my eyes.
Though the swing of my mind that was making me restless
stopped for a while subsiding its screeches, I was still shivering inside like
its strings. The seconds followed after that had me reposed with a great hope which
I forcibly brought- that I would see my father next morning. A hope of seeing a
‘dawn’ that had never been experienced before. If it had been my earlier days,
I would have woken up my sister and neighbours to create a big scene over
there. Of late as my natural temperament grew softer and matured I had started
disliking blatant expression of angst and shock. Sometimes this so-called
maturity would see itself weak and break into pieces during days and express
itself with fury either in the form of rugged masculine outburst or derailed
railway engine that runs amok. An inevitable reaction displayed in fraction of
a second at the moment of expressing anger!
My father was also a pitiable soul. (When I was one
year old, my mother died). He was living without his spouse for thirty years. I
haven’t seen any traces of mendicancy in him in the recent past. On the contrary,
he had some special attachment towards material things around him. Broken
glasses, an inch long piece of pencil, torn strap of slippers, combs with
broken spikes, old spokes rods of bicycles, skeleton umbrellas, empty match
boxes, big bag stitching needles without holes, empty pen refills, rusty
bunches of keys, broken wooden scales are some of the items I had seen in a
brief glance from his warehouse where he kept them under his safe custody. The
tin box which had all these items in it had a lock for itself too. Father was
still keeping a personal diary given by the Labour Union of the Mill in 1948 in
a box in which he had kept house deed documents. If you ask him a receipt of
house tax paid in 1962, he would readily give it on a condition that one box from
the loft had to be moved from there.
It appeared that my father, in an attempt of filling the
big gaps created by the time during the long journey of human relationships, has
been collecting some memories outside his life. Some would fill it with the
words they borrow from others, and some would fill it with their own words. Father
didn’t belong to either of them. When I owned the credit of ruining his money
without doing job, I stood without moral right to find mistake in any of his
activities like these.
As the time passed by, the left out shiver in the
swing of my mind also stopped. However, I could still feel the possibility of
impending unexpected somewhere in the corner of my thoughts. The tired eye lids
closed my eyes bringing me sleep. A cat scratched the veranda door followed by
a ‘thud’ sound. Is it the sound of unfastening the latch?
I jumped out of bed and found myself on the veranda.
There…father was standing with his towel wrapped around his head like a
bogeyman. I switched on the veranda light wasting no time.
“Where did you go?” I asked him angrily. His face
which hung blue on hearing this became brighter again in a second- like a
blooming sun flower in midnight!
“I just went out for taking a round along with
Muthanna. We went out patrolling the streets to keep a check on thieves” father
told, looking up to my face with a smile on his face. I also forgot what I was
undergoing and threw a bright smile at him. It must be long before my school
days we had both laughed heartily facing each other, I thought.
I took a pledge that I must conduct myself in such a
way which would keep my father smile like this all the time, even at the time
of facing his death and then went to sleep.
***Ended***
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