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 me, 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 bodybuilder.” Mittu Mama must be 70
years old. Big eyes. Sunken cheeks. Thick eyebrows. 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's 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 hands. 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 died
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, I have been
able to apply a dressing and bandage on 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 the 3rd of every month. His name is Sanath Kumar
Jain, a Marwari.
His father, Suganmal Jain, is running an Ever Silver utensils
wholesale business on Thanga Salai Street. His shop is located near the 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 a 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 the to-and-fro journey. As I ran 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 of what sort of a woman his wife—that
dwarf queen—is. She looks like a cat—but how 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 a side dish for chapati). Was it a sin? She left the spot and
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 to 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 a ruckus with the 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 pooris or beedis that remained untouched by
me in Maheswari Bhavan? He also knew very well that I liked Poori
from Maheswari Bhavan. But that rascal had never brought even a single poori
for me from there. He thinks of himself as a governor. The very mention of
the governor obligates me to 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 a high dose of it’.
“Rajini, my son in second number, is a poor chap. A good
person.”
At this point I intervened and asked him, “Mama…do I have to
mention him as number two? Mere mention of the 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 a head bath every day and somehow manages the day by
postponing the oil application on their 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 at my face in the
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 a bath, and touch any foodstuff only after worshipping those idols on an
empty stomach. After her, your sister continued it. After your sister’s death,
I have been trying my best to continue it. You know well that I wouldn’t be
able to bathe daily. I could take a 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 chapathi 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 them to children to play with. One of those idols assumes
much importance. It is the five-foot-tall idol of crawling baby Lord Krishna
with a 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 a clue about my death as to how and from where it comes.
You know that death won’t embrace us even if we 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 a kite. He was such
a lucky fellow; he fell exactly on the donkey of Lord Ekamabreswara’s washerman
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 snatching three rupees from him for
taking the donkey to the veterinary hospital in a rickshaw.
That washerman left after hurling just one invective bad
enough to insult the whole generation of the 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 about 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 I who am free of diseases except for 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 namesake, 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 every silver utensils trader. The bell tower of the school on
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 are now replete with
Marwari traders selling utensils. Only the temple Peepal tree is still standing
there to remind of the old layout of Agraharam. It still gives shade. But the
people who enjoyed its shade deeply from their hearts 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 lakh 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 setup will change.
The meaning of life lies in that setup. Doesn’t it? Once the setup disappears,
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 the singing of the 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 to be filled with pleasant experiences
from 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 and 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 directly to Park Town Post Office 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 him 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 about what you
say?”
“Yes, Mama… It is true. This 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 luck would have it, no
freak did happen. However, I had to stop writing letters for Mittu mama after
that.
***Ended***
