This is an English translation of famous short story “Nayanam”, written by A. Mathavan. Translated into English by Mr Shanmuga Sundaram, a retired software professional based in Chennai. My sincere thanks to him for his efforts in translating this memorable short story.
….
The deceased was not aware of what is happening around
him. With a new gauzy upper garment and a veshti [i], with three lines of sacred ash on his
forehead, he is stretched out royally in his final sleep. Black in colour, an
old man, his upper teeth a bit pronounced, which shows as a sarcastic grin. There
is an oil lamp, a vessel with paddy on a plantain leaf, bananas, incense sticks
and a garland of Arali flower near his head decorate him. The smell of death
wafts from the incense stick.
Forty year old Karuppi wails from the group of woman
sitting at the feet of the deceased “My father who begot me… Who is there for
me now?”. She has a greenish kantangi saree [ii] that fits her well.
The evening is approaching. Beyond the coconut grove, beyond the banana plantation, from the fresh flood of the rocky river, a breeze carries the cold in. The crows fly to the nest. In the middle of the screw pine bush fences - from the bank of the canal, the mature betelnut tree is cut down and carried in, and a hearse is being made in the yard. The split betelnut tree is whitish and hollow, lying in the yard in pieces.
At the entrance, among the throngs of mourning, the dead man’s two stout sons, clothed in two soiled towels, are seated with their heads bowed like idols bathed in oil. The younger one cries a little. The elder one is supporting his chin by his elbow and looking at the roof truss. The dirge, which comes from the inside, is now becoming regular and commonplace.
“If we continue like this, the day will only get darker. Before it gets dark, let us finish the thing quickly; alright Thangappa?”
“Yes. The nayanam player is yet to come. Who has gone to bring him?”
“Vadivelu and Sinnannan have gone. It would be difficult to find someone today in Melathur. All of them would have gone to the festival in Muthupatti.”
“Since Sinnannan has gone, he is sure to bring someone. Let them come.
Meanwhile, we will get rest of the things done.”
It looked like it was going to rain. The dark evening began to get colder. A man carrying a gas lit lamp, crossing the canal, is coming by the ridges between the fields. In the light of the lamp, the banana tree and the green canopy grew into large shadows that alternated like a movie on a screen.
The bearer of the lamp, sweating profusely, lowered the lamp onto the top of the stand in the courtyard. ‘Us us’ of the lamp ..! The crying inside had subsided. The women were gossiping in whispers. The incense still smells fragrant and spreads smoke.
The bustling crowd in the yard, now that the lamp has come, are looking out over the dark, invisible field ridges. Ennui - spreading a kind of dullness over everyone's face. How many times does one chew on betel leaves? How many times can one smoke beedi [iii]?
“Did not eat anything since dawn. When is this thing going to end, when to take a bath, change the dress and eat? Unnecessary trouble.”
Someone strode in, looking like a pale shadow by piercing the darkness.
“Chinnannan and Vadivelu have gone to Tatrampatti by cycle. They could not find any nayanam player in Melathur. They asked me to pass on the message”. The man looked around at the pandal - the gas lamp - the murmuring crowd - the meaningless noises of the women inside - and set off in search of light for the beedi. It might take another hour or an hour and a half to go to Tatrampatti and bring a person from there. and the crowd’s face shrank.
“In these days, who opts for nayanam and palanquin? Is it not better, somehow, without disturbing the neighbours, to finish the ceremony? See now, how many people are waiting for this?”
"Not really. The elder son was the one explaining it. The deceased has already informed about his wish. He wanted his final passage to the cremation ground to be accompanied by nayanam and drum. That is why his daughter cried her heart out. To ensure that the soul of the departed leave with peace, now they have gone to Malathur and since they could not find anyone there, they have gone to Tatrampatti”.
“This has become a nuisance. The dead is already gone. Those left behind are suffering.”
The rain had finally come with a sound of ‘ho’. It
made noises over the roof and the green pandal. The noise was loud as it
was pouring over the betelnut trees, coconut trees and screw pine bushes. The
gas lamp was hoisted onto the porch. The turbans on the heads
and the heads of those seated on the porch were visible as large distorted shadows
on the wall.
A baby starts crying inside the house. The mother calls the bogeyman. She says she will tear the child into pieces. ‘You troublesome child, do not bug me’ she says. The baby cries non-stop.
Everyone's face is full of ennui, sadness, and impatient hatred. Gray-headed dignitaries do not know who to talk and what to talk about, and how to salvage the situation. Everyone is staring at the dark ridges of the fields. The rain stops suddenly. The noise subsides. Water drips from the roof. The water in the yard is stagnates and flows on.
By this time the hearse is ready, the body covered with red silk, and stretched out - ready at the pandal. The two sons who had gone to the water ceremony, drenched in the rain and carrying the bronze vessel on their heads, come to the head of the corpse and stood like veiled widows.
‘Please start the ululation, women. Do you have to be reminded about that too' said the thalayari [iv]. The old women, as if waiting for it, started the ululation. Even the few standing in the dark came into the pandal and entered the porch.
"If there is anybody still wanting to put the ritual rice in the mouth of the departed, come forward. There is still time” said the thalayari.
"All those were over a long time ago. Do you want to start it all over again? Instead of moving on, should we start all the ceremonies from the beginning? Brother, what is the time on your wristwatch now?”.
“Time? It is late now. It is almost nine o’clock. When will the nayanam player come and when will we start?”
Everyone's eyes were on the ridges of the field. Now - more than the death itself, nayanam was looming as the main problem in the minds of all of them.
“Someone seems to be coming” said a voice, looking at the distant dark path with some uncertainty.
"Yes brother, they are coming it seems. Hey you, take the lamp and go there. It is muddy because of the rain. It's Chinnannan, I can recognise him by the movement of his shoulder”.
Everyone's faces cleared. Everyone got up and got ready, tightening the veshti on their hips, and adjusting their turbans. Some of the men went inside to the women and said their farewells. From the inside of the house, the cry that had subsided rose again weakly ‘My father’.
In the circle of the gas lamp, Chinnannan and Vadivelu stood like the conquering heroes.
"Huh, we went to Melathur, and it was completely deserted. We literally ran from there. There is a good player in Veerannan Seri. He had played in the Mariamman festival in our village. His name is Munirathnam. We went hoping that somehow we will be able to bring him. Poor guy is bed ridden with some sickness. We can’t leave like this, we decided, and pedaled the cycle to Thatrampattu. Here… these are the ones we managed to get. In this critical time, to get someone was God’s grace”.
Everyone looked.
Like a dried bamboo pipe, with a pale nayamam in his hands, with cross eyes, short crop of hair, vermilion coloured upper garment, a short fellow. Before sneering ‘This guy?’, a reassuring thought that ‘At least this guy was found at this time’ peeped out over the detestation everyone felt. The percussion player, like a cook in a kitchen, with sweat on his body, did not dare to come forward and stood well behind.
“Call the vettiyan [v]. The fire is ready. Ask them to blow the conch. Shall we start? Ask inside”.
With the veshtis tied tightly, four men got ready near the hearse. The two sons, ready for the ceremony, took the pot of fire from the vettiyan’s hands. The younger sone, in wet clothes, shivering uncontrollably, stood behind the elder son, not knowing what to do.
“All of you, start. Lift” came the command, the men with tight veshtis came near the hearse. From the inside, the women came out with their hair astray and colliding with each other. With the lament “Why are you leaving us?” but reluctant to roll around on the ground since it was muddy, they came out. The daughter alone cried “My father. Who is there for me now?” and fell down at the feet of the corpse.
With loud cries of “Govinda! Govinda!”, the hearse was lifted up on the shoulders. “Hey, who is the nayanam player. Umm… We did not bring you to look around and do nothing. Go forward. Go with the guy carrying the gas lamp. Start beating the drum…”.
The nayanam player’s face was pitiable. Velannan, who had brought him said something in his ear. The nayanam player put the instrument softly on his lips, and made a sound “Pee Pee”. The procession was moving on the slippery and muddy border on the ridges of the fields. The light from the gas lamp threw everyone’s shadow on from screw pine bushes to the top of betelnut trees.
“Koo. Ooo. Ooooo” lamented the vettiyan’s double set of conches. The nayanam player had started playing. The pathetic “Pee.. pee” was harrowing. Insensitive to the situation, the drummer, like a crying child, beat the drum with vigour.
Insensitive rain. Among the confusion, the muddy path between the fields, screw pine bushes, the cold dark night on top of the betelnut grove, the death, the hunger, the tiredness, the hatred, the grief, the irritation, the anger, all of these fell upon their ears as out of tune nayanam’s music and made them boil with rage.
The gas lamp was going in the front. The conch blower harrumphed because of the smoke from the pot of fire. All of them, as silent pathetic images, with their extended shadows, were walking.
“Peepeepee. Pee. Pee”
Everyone’s stomach turned. They felt suffocated as if something was stuck in their chests. It was hurting their heads.
Again, “Pee. Ppee. Pee. Pee!”
The procession looked on with a feeling of ‘imbecile’ at the player and walked on. For many, the path was slippery. One of the children walking at the back fell into a mud filled hole. A person next to him lifted him up, showered his irritation on the kid saying “Why should you come there, idiot?”.
They were near the field boundaries next to the river bank. The sound of beetles was heard. On the opposite bank, frogs from the steps were chanting, ‘Chrome chrome’. In the river full of rocks like little black pigs, the sound of the freshly flowing flood’s noise was heard. The cold was stiffening bodies further.
The distance to the cremation ground seemed endless. Still the ‘Pee.. ppee.. pee.. pee’.
Beturbaned thalayari Muthan, who was walking beside the nayanam player, stared at the nayanam player and the nayanam once. In the yellow light of the gas lamp, the blown-out cheeks and the squint eye of the nayanam player further increased his irritation.
Still the ‘Pee.. ppee.. pee.. pee’.
“Scoundrel and rascal. Are you playing nayanam?” thalayari Muthan was a rough fellow. Even the persons carrying the hearse turned their heads with reluctance when they heard his bellow.
That’s it.
The thalayari gave a solid whack on the back of the neck in the blink of an eye. The sound was like someone was washing clothes in the river by beating it. He grabbed the nayanam, put it across his knee, and with both of his hands broke it into two pieces ‘Sadak’! Two pieces! In the susurrating flood of the river, the pieces of the nayanam fell.
“Get lost, you jerk, did you come to play nayanam? If you are here anymore, I will break you too into two pieces and throw in the river”.
The procession paused and stopped for a moment. In all their faces, there was a satisfaction shining that said ‘Muthan brother, for the thing you did, even if we decorate your hands with a golden bracelet, it would be fitting’.
“Why did you stop? – Go on. The cremation ground is almost there. You have brought a great nayanam player indeed”.
To hear this, the nayanam player and the drummer were not there. They turned left by the river, entered a lane and in the dark, took to their heels with the thought ‘Thank God, we managed to survive’.
With the feeling that something that was pressing their neck relentlessly was gone, the procession was approaching the cremation ground.
***Ended***
Source: A Madhavan’s short story “Nayanam”
Translated from Tamil by Shanmuga Sundaram.
[i] A piece of
unstitched cloth tied around the waist, used as a lower garment in most parts
of India.
[ii] A kind of chequered saree.
[iii] A kind of
cigarette.
[iv] A village orderly
who helps in the day to day running of the village affairs.
[v] An undertaker who
is responsible for maintaining the cremation ground and responsible for
cremating the dead bodies.
