The Gift (Anbalippu) by Ku. Alagirisamy.

 

Ku. Alagirisamy

*This is an English translation of “Anbalippu”, a short story written by Ku. Alagirisamy. Translated from Tamil to English by Mr Shanmuga sundaram, a chennai based retired software professional. This is 32^ndEnglish Translation in the Classic Tamil Short Stories Series. 

… 

 As the next day was Sunday, I stayed up awake for long at night, reading. It would have been two o’clock on Saturday night when I went to bed. No matter how late I go to sleep, it still takes me about half an hour to fall asleep. So, I would have started sleeping only at half past two. While I was sleeping soundly, four or five hands came up on my back and began to pummel me hard. The noise caused by them was much greater than the pain caused by the blows. By the time I woke up from sleep, it was like an ant bite on the right side of my arm. 

"Uncle! You a sleepyhead!"

"It's half past seven."

"Wake up now or I will pinch you very hard"

"Let's bring some water and sprinkle on his face. You have to get up within two more minutes"

Thus, a chit chat of many voices together. In the middle of their talk, two or three persons joined in and laughed heartily.I woke up.

"Who is it? Um! Here I come. Disturbing my sleep"thus scowling I got up and sat down.Except for one boy, that is Sarangarajan, all the other children started laughing uproariously.

"Look at the clock, uncle! It's going to be eight o'clock! You are still sleeping" Chitra said and laughed. "Be that as it may, why did such an army march begin at dawn?" I asked.

"It is written in our textbook that it is bad for the health to stay awake late at night, uncle," said Sarangarajan, who had been silent till now.

"It's written like that in the textbook I read too! What to do?"I said to myself.But I did not say that to the boy Sarangan, but said, "I will go to bed early from tomorrow onwards. I will not stay up late".He was very happy… Because I accepted wholeheartedly what he said.

At the very next moment, everyone came together and asked, "What book did you bring?".

"Didn't bring any book!"

"Lie, lie, you are bluffing!"

"Honestly, I did not bring even a single book”.

"Yesterday you said you were going to bring books. Didn’t you?” 

"That was yesterday".

"Then why did you not bring it?"

"No books came. I would have brought them if they had come."

"Brinda! Uncle is lying; he would have brought and hidden them somewhere. Come. Let us search" said Chitra. 

That was it! A mayhem was unleashed in my room. Chaos everywhere. Chitra opened the drawers and threw out the large sheets of paper, scraps of paper and letters lying inside. She searched thoroughly. When she did not find any book in the table, she took the bunch of keys from it, opened the trunk and started searching.

Brinda and Sundararajan opened the bureau and threw the books around haphazardly.

Little Geeta, a small child, sitting on the floor, opened the pages of the scattered English books and staring at them inanely. 

Chitra took the laundry from the trunk and threw them out. My old diaries, the old letters that I had received, a couple of books - everything came together and landed in a jumble.

Brinda and Sundararajan who were searching the bureau, took down one by one the books stacked on the windowsill.

Sarangan was the only one who was sitting quietly with me. He would never be naughty; would not play with others. The other children were alike; he was different. He was the only boy who would behave with respect towards me.

When the books in the windowsill fell one by one, hearing the commotion and noise, my mother came running from the kitchen. She noticed that it was utter chaos everywhere.

"Hey, what is this? These kids are creating a ruckus and you are just looking on unperturbed" she said angrily to me.

"You go inside mom. This is our affair. Why are you leaving your work and coming here?" I said and laughed.

"It's so cute that an old guy like you are still playing with kids like a kid!" said mom and went inside. Halfway across, she stopped and asked loudly, "When are you going to have your bath?".

"I'll come in a couple of minutes", as I turned after calling back to my mother, a bunch of heavy books from the windowsill cascaded like a waterfall. An old Tamil dictionary fell apart into two pieces. Some of the heavier books fell on top of other books and the books that were caught underneath were bent, shattered, and twisted. All the children were shocked to see that the books had fallen down in one go. They looked back and forth at the books and me. The ones that fell down would be at least about sixty books. The shade of fear started spreading on the children's faces. They stared at my face, not blinking, fearing what I was going to say. Gita, a five-year-old girl got scared and looked at me seeing the fear on the faces of other children. I was deliberately silent. I stared at the books and the children. The silence continued. One minute, two minutes, three minutes… My silence was torture for them. Each of the children dared not even to breathe. Chitra's  face started sweating. Even the fearless Chitra was frightened. Sarangan who was sitting next to me moved four inches from me and sat up. He was scared to even touch me. Emboldened by his movement, Brinda said, "I'm going home."

"Brinda! Come here," I said without showing any emotion.

She came in as I said. I did not want to scare the children anymore.

I stood up. I went to the window on the other side of my room. I put my hand on the books there. The children's eyes were watching my every move with utmost attention. From the middle of the pile of books, I picked up the thirteen story books that were below the big books and returned. I sat on the bed and said with delight, "You have lost out. You searched all over for what you were looking for. Did you find them? Come on, come on." The children came back to life. They came running towards me. Sarangan sat close to my side. He sat leaning on my left arm. Chitra was angry with me for some reason. Was she angry because my prolonged silence had threatened them? Or was she ashamed that she was afraid and wanted to show that she was not afraid and wanted to hide her embarrassment by showing her anger? She climbed onto the bed, came up behind me and said quickly, "You lied that you didn't bring books. Um, don't lie anymore. Promise that you will not lie in future". She slapped me on my back with all the force she could muster, and admonished me “Please tell, please tell."

"Aw! Aw! I will not lie. I will not lie anymore!" I said in mock pain. The kids all laughed.

Sundararajan came and said "Saranga, move that way" and pushed him away and sat between me and him. He snatched up all the books in my hand and read the names of each one aloud quickly. After reading the title of the last book, he got up abruptly and walked out, saying, "These all are for me alone."

The children were getting ready to cry. The only one who was silent then was Sarangan.

I said, "Sundar! Look here. If you take these books and go, then I will not bring you books anymore."

He laughed mirthfully, came in and said "Poor uncle. He got scared!”.

I took the books in my hand and wrote in seven of them, "Gift to my beloved Chitra", put my signature and gave them to Chitra. On the remaining six books, I wrote "Gift to my beloved Sundararajan" and signed the same and gave them to Sundararajan.

Brinda and Devaki asked "For me?" simultaneously.

I said, "Get them from Chitra and Sundar and read them. This was what you were doing so far; do the same thing now too."

The two girls accepted what I said without any objection.

"I will complete reading all these seven books by noon. I will come back after I finish reading, uncle," Chitra said and left. Following her, everyone except Sarangan got up and went to their respective houses. Sarangan looked up at my face a couple of times. He said nothing. There was no expression on his face to indicate what he was thinking. I did not think there was any significance or meaning to his looking at me like that. I got up and picked up the books and clothes that were lying around and started putting them where they should be. I straightened the crumpled books. I put the heavy books on them to straighten them. Sarangan was helping me, without me asking for his help, while I was doing this work.

"After passing which grade can I read this book without difficulty?" Sarangan asked holding a book. In his voice, there was a suffocating shyness. Not only that, he looked frightened, and talked as if he had been hurt by a failed attempt.

"Saranga! You're a smart boy, I was never as smart as you at your age. Therefore, you will be able to read and understand it when you reach SSLC” I said with kindness.

The book he was holding in his hand was a volume of poetry by Walt Whitman.

"Then there are two more years," he said to himself. Then he took the book in his hand and put it on the windowsill, came and sat down.

My mother came there muttering something angrily. She said "Hey, how many times have I told you? The hot water has gone cold” and continued “Can you allow these unruly children to run around wildly like this? What kind of affection is this? I have never seen someone allowing such privileges for others’ kids… Go and take your bath. I will arrange the books."

"Mom! You don't know how to sort books by category. You go ahead, I'll be there in a minute."

"Stack the books today; they will come and trash them tomorrow; then stack them again. What other job do you have?", so saying she went to the kitchen.

I too went to have a bath in a short while. Sarangan walked along with me to the middle of the house. Then he turned around abruptly and said "I'll leave now and come back later" and left.

"Mom! Why are you getting angry with the kids!! Each of them is a treasure!" saying so, I went into the bathroom. I did not know whether my mother, who was struggling in the smoky kitchen, heard what I said.

Every child is a treasure indeed. I considered moving my house to Mambalam my blessing. Could I have met these treasures if I had not come here? It has been four years since I came here. My mother and I alone lived in my home. Our dwelling is in a portion of a large house. It was not until six months later that I became acquainted with these children. One day suddenly two children, Sundararajan and Chitra, visited. Then they started coming regularly. Within a few days, all of the formal manners and politeness were gone. We began to have a real affection. We used to sit together and read stories and magazines, tell stories and play chess - thus we spent our time. The editor-in-chief of the publishing house where I worked would give some of the books that came for writing reviews. I had plenty of books that came in for review like that. They were a good treat for the kids. Sundararajan and Chitra read all the books in a few days with enthusiasm. I could not meet their appetite for books with my supply of books that came for review. So, from time to time I would buy a few children's books and give it to them. So, every day when I went to the office, they would say, "Bring books today without forgetting". Returning home empty-handed in the evening would cause an uproar.

Sundararajan and Chitra were the children of the house next door; children from a rich family. Even though I call them children, Sundararajan was thirteen years old; Chitra was nine years old. The intelligence of these two, their charming looks and above all their excellent attitude - all these together fascinated me; I was captivated. The love I had for them was not something trivial. My heart longed to devise a new joy for them every day. Within a few weeks of their friendship, I became acquainted with the other children too. Brinda, Devaki, Geeta and Sarangarajan also started coming. Brinda and Devaki were of same age as Chitra and classmates of her. Geeta was Devaki's sister. Sarangarajan was a schoolmate of Sundararajan. Everyone's house was next to each other. Of these, Sarangan's family alone lived in a rented house. Other children were rich children with their own home.

I was affectionate equally with all of them. Probably because Sundararajan and Chitra were my first acquaintances, I had a bit more affection towards them. But I did not discriminate between one child and another in my speech or behaviour. I didn’t show any disparity in my love for them either. As I had mentioned earlier, the affection for Chitra and her brother was something more. But the kids loved me without any discrimination at all. There was no difference in their love. Every child thought of me as a friend born into this world only for himself or herself. Each considered me a great hope, a huge comfort and a good guide. The children considered me as an equal to them. The children did not put me on a pedestal, but came to join hands with me in a friendly manner. They played with me; they fought with me; they beat me; they rebuked me; they forgave me; they loved me.

Everyone in the world, when they see children, show their love and want to play with them. But their love is a mixture of playacting and pretense. They talk like a child, play like a child, treat the child as a toy and behave accordingly. But those innocent kids don't act like that; their love is not mixed with playacting. They really show their love. This fact struck a chord in my mind at some point. Since then, I did not treat them as children. I treated them as friends. I respected them as close companions. They and I became equal beings in the matter of affection. These were my only friends in Mambalam. My mother did not like me relating and playing with the children thus. A fifty-year-old mother would like to see her son as a householder with a wife and kids and not as one playing and contending with children as a child. Wouldn’t she?  

It would have been two weeks since the day I gave the thirteen books on that Sunday. Brinda was down with fever. I was not acquainted with her parents. So, I was diffident about going and checking on her.  But I was inquiring other children everyday "How is Brinda's health?". How would the children respond to it! They did not know whether the fever is increasing or decreasing. They only said, "Brinda is lying down all the time".

It must have been around eight o'clock at night one day. I was relaxing in the moonlight in the front yard in an easy chair, enjoying the cool air. I called Brinda's house servant who was walking down the street and asked, "How is Brinda? Has the fever come down?"

"No sir, it's getting worse day by day. She has not eaten anything. In these four days, the child has become very thin like a stick. She is moaning about you in her sleep," said the servant.

"Moaning about me!" I asked in surprise.

"Yes sir. Even last night she was saying something like 'Uncle Book', 'Uncle Book' and so on."

It shook me up. I felt sorry for not going to see the child earlier. I decided to ignore my inhibition and visit her next day morning without fail. I sent the servant off and lay down alone thinking of whatever came to my mind. In a little while I came to the point where I could not tolerate it anymore. That was it, I got up immediately, went inside, put on my shirt on and went to Brinda's house in a hurry. Her parents told me to come inside. Brinda was lying down. I sat in the chair next to her. Her eyes were closed.

"Brinda!" I called.

She opened her eyes and looked at me. There was no change in her face then. She closed hereyes once, opened them and stared at me intently. After looking like this for a minute, she cried loudly and suddenly "Uncle!"; She got up and sat down.

"Brinda! Lie down please" I said.

She did not listen. She got up and came by my side. She hugged me and buried her face on my shoulder. Her body was burning with fever. I patted her and had her lain on the bed.

"She has always been thinking about you." said Brinda's mother.

I could not say anything. I was speechless. I sat in silence. I sat next to her for about an hour and then started for home.

"Don't go. Stay here uncle!" Brinda kept saying stubbornly. I reassured her in various ways, saying, "I'll be back tomorrow morning." and then left.

As promised, I went there the next morning. I stayed there for a long time. She did not look like as if she was suffering from fever. She was able to talk to me normally. I told her it was time to go to my office, got up and came outside. While coming down the street, Sarangan was looking at me through the window of his house. From there, he called out, "Uncle." He ran down the street before I could look back.

"Come to our house," he said, clutching my hand.

"Why to your house?"

"You went to Brinda's house..."

"Brinda had a fever. So, I went to see her and left."

"No way, you should come to our house too. Yes."

"Saranga! I will come some other day. Please let go off my hand. It's time for me to go to the office."

He left my hand as I requested. He took one of the two gooseberries he had in his left hand and handed one to me saying "For you". I laughed. "No, keep it for yourself," I said. He forced me and gave it to me. He did not listen to anything I was saying. It was as if he was going to dismiss my friendship if I did not accept that gooseberry. So, I accepted it without saying anything. It left him with immense joy.

When I was leaving, he kept following me asking "When will you come to our house?"

I said "Next Sunday" just to pacify him.

"You must come".

"Yes".

He went home.

After that, whenever I went to Brinda's house, he kept reminding me "You must come on Sunday; you must certainly come".

It was rather a surprise that the Brinda got cured in three days. Her father told me that my regular visit to her house was the only medicine for her. It felt odd to hear him say that a child’s illness had been cured because I had visited her. I said, "Somehow she became alright, that's enough". Later, I thought what he said might be true.

Saturday was a holiday for the kids. All the children, including Brinda, came to my house. It was only two or three days after the New Year. I had bought two diaries for Sundararajan and Chitra as I had promised. I wrote "gift" on them as usual and handed them over to those two. The other kids didn’t ask me to give a diary for themselves. Every child knew that no matter how many books I brought, no matter what gifts I gave, I would give it only to Sundararajan and Chitra. These two only deserved such gifts, it was only fair to give to them was the consensus felt by all the children. May be because their friendship was the initial one, it had become customary for me to give books only to them with a special fondness. The other children got accustomed to this long-standing practice.

The two took the diaries and went to have their food. The others also left after the two left. But Sarangan didn’t go that day. He was still sitting even after everyone had gone. He said to me in a hushed whisper, "Uncle! Will you come to our house tomorrow? Tomorrow is Sunday."

"Okay Saranga, how many times do you have to say that? Can't I remember if you have said it once?" said I.

He got up and picked up Walt Whitman's collection of poems.

"Will you give me this book?" he asked earnestly. It was amusing to me. I smiled and said, "Why do you want this book? You will not be able to understand it now. Didn't I tell you that day? You can ask when you reach SSLC; I will give it then".

He did not listen to what I said. The thirteen-year-old boy was as stubborn as a five-year-old and insisted that he should be given the book.

I said, "Saranga! You do not understand. Please listen to me".Then I took the book from his hand and put it in the windowsill.

Sarangan's face turned pale with disappointment. He looked at me with a dry look. He got up without saying anything and went to the door. Thinking he was going home, I started my work. A couple of minutes later, suddenly a sobbing noise was heard. It was Sarangan who was crying. "Saranga! Why are you crying? Uh huh, don't cry dear" I said and got up and went next to him. But he did not wait until I went there, he stopped crying. He looked back at me and sighed. His stomach sank in and swelled abnormally. Then his face turned red like blood. I did not understand why all these were happening. I started to move towards him. He was too embarrassed to look at me. He ran in a single bound before I could go and grab his hand.

“Saranga!.... Saranga!”.

He ran away. The way he behaved that day was a mystery to me. He was never stubborn. He would be too shy to even speak to me. Why would such a guy be so adamant? Why did he cry like that? Who knows why he cried like that? It was as if my chest would explode if I did not follow him and ask the reason for his outcry. But I could not even go to his home. His parents, like other parents, were unfamiliar to me.

Pity! He cried with such longing, weeping as if humiliated. If the kids came to my room in the afternoon, I decided to send them to bring him. Sundararajan was the first to arrive at three o'clock. I sent him after Sarangan. Sundararajan came back and told me that Sarangan was sleeping. After that I stopped trying to summon him. I would see if he comes the next morning, otherwise I would go to his home. With this decision, I spent the rest of the evening with the other children.

It was only after eating and lying down at night that my mind started agonizing. The loneliness of not having anyone near me kept increasing my sorrow. How many sadness tinged thoughts in the soul; “Why did he cry? I never scolded or treated him badly! I treated him like the apple of my eye like all the other children. He asked for Walt Whitman's poetry collection. I said he would not understand and got the book back, would he have cried for that? He is an understanding kid. One who always accepts what I say without demurring. Such a boy could not have cried for taking the book back. It is unlikely that the act of my taking back the book would not have caused such a piteous weeping and mental anguish! Saranga! Why did you cry? Why did you cry?”.

Sunday.

I thought he would not come today because he didn’t come yesterday afternoon. The other kids did not care that this one star was hidden from our crowd which was like the Saptharishi (Big Dipper) star cluster. And, what was there for them to worry about? There was no justification for them to consider that his absence for a day was matter of concern. For me too, it would have been an unimportant thing, a normal event at other circumstances. But only I knew in what state he was when he left me and in what state he left me. Didn’t I?

It might have been ten o’ clock in the morning. Since it was Sunday, we postponed our lunch to one o'clock, my mother and I prepared and ate breakfast. Then I came to my room and sat down to read something. The mind, for some reason, was keen on reading that Walt Whitman's volume of poetry. When I took it in my hand and spread it, I could not see the verses; it was Sarangan who appeared before my eyes; only his tears and longing showed up. What a dilemma was this?He could have at least come here. Couldn’t he? I lay there, with regret, thinking that at least other children could have come here (Accepted).

After a while Brinda arrived. It was as if a blessed angel existed and walked into a destitute’s house.

"Come on Brinda! Change your name from Brinda to 'Priyadarshini' (one who is a lovable vision) which will suit you Brinda!" I said.

My ecstasy did not touch her soul. My words never reached her ears.

"Sundararajan and Chitra have gone to the cinema," said Brinda for no reason.

"Sarangan?" I asked eagerly.

"I did not see him" she said.

When I started to inquire about Sarangan further, Brinda's house servant came and called her out, saying "Mom is calling". Brinda immediately said, "I'm leaving" and left. After she left, I picked up the volume of poems and spread it out. Just then, Brinda came in a rush. She came and said "Sarangan is coming" and immediately ran towards her house.

My heart was pounding. I quickly hid the Walt Whitman's book. I was afraid that if he saw that, Sarangan would cry again like before.

Sarangan arrived.

"Saranga."

"Um."

"Why didn't you come so far? Why didn't you come yesterday?"

He did not respond, and his face did not reflect sadness or any other kind of deep emotion. Hewas quite happy. I thought it was a happy transformation.

"Shall we go to our house?"

"To your house?"

“Yeah. Didn't you say you were coming that day?"

"I said that not seriously, Saranga! Why to your house?"

"Whatever? You come," he said, grabbing my hand with both of his hands and pulling.

His request had become a problem for me. When I came back from Brinda's house that day, I saw his determination and said "I'll come on Sunday". I would not have said so if I had known that he would be so persistent about it. How could someone go to a stranger's home based on this boy's request? One needs a reason to go. Doesn’t he?  Brinda's illness was the reason I went to her house. Why go here? I had seen his father a thousand times on the streets and at the bus stand. Not once did we talk to each other. We had not even given a sign to show that we were acquainted with each other. So how could I go there?

Sarangan began to push too hard. He also began to rush me. For me it had become an annoyance. I was getting fed up and thought, 'He has been mute all these days, and today he is hassling me like this.'

"Come on uncle. You said you would come and now you are saying you would not come?" he pleaded.

"Saranga! You are a small child. How can I come based on your request? You do not understand all these nuances. Leave me alone" I said impatiently.

"Why do you say you will not come?", he stared at my face and asked yearningly.

"Why to your house?"

"Whatever, you must come definitely".

I pretended to be angry and said, "I cannot come. I have an urgent work. We will see to it some other day", and turned away my face. I started searching the table as if looking for a book.

Sarangan was quiet without saying anything.

A minute would have passed. I looked back at him once. As soon as I saw him, he too sighed once and asked in a falteringvoice "Will you not come?".

There was a sign on his face that if this last attempt of his was thwarted, he would start crying again. I did not like to see Sarangan cry again and again. 'Why should I treat this gem of a boy like this? Let me go and come back! Are they going to tell me not to come? What is the loss in going once to his house?" I thought quickly and decided. I said my concurrence before he could start shedding tears. 

“Saranga! Come! We will go to your house”.

We went holding each other’s hands. When he got to the entrance of the house, he left my hand and ran fast into the house. Then he came out and opened the room next to the entrance and said loudly with some agitation, "Come on, Come on." My reluctance and my reticence could not be measured. I went into that room with no other choice. The circumstances of the room made it easy to understand that Sarangan's parents were poor. I was sitting in a chair and flipping through his history book lying near. Sarangan ran inside the house. His father, coming in from outside, peeked into the room, looked at me, and said “Welcome” and went inside. His indifference in not asking about the occasion of my visit was like a regal treatment given to me. 

When Sarangan returned, he brought a plate of uppuma (a wheat-based dish) and a tumbler of coffee. I was startled; my breathing stopped.

"Aww! What's all this for? I just now had eaten?"

Not telling anything in his ecstatic frenzy, he grabbed my right hand and pulled it to the plate of uppuma. I thought that Sarangan was behaving in a childish manner, I must be bit stern with him in future. Just for today, I would have to take this bitter medicine thinking that there was no other choice, I started eating. The fear of what his parents would think of me who came as a guest on a child's invitation was giving me jitters every minute.

Finally, I finished eating. Sarangan went inside to put the plate and the tumbler.

'Why does this guy have so much of affection for me? His love is suffocating me! This is unbearable love! Unbearable innocence! The two together make me cringe. But I should not get angry with him. The distress he is giving me now is a measure of his love. Let him be satisfied even if it is upsetting to me for a day. Without any effort on my part if a being can get happiness and satisfaction, I should not prevent that at all. Trying to prevent it is inhuman', I thought, consoling myself.

Sarangan came out. He opened the drawer and took out a fountain pen. He came and stood behind my back instead of standing in front of me. As he stood there, he gently grabbed the history book I was holding, pulled it away and set it aside. Just as carefully as we take the rattle from the hand of a sleeping baby and remove of it, he disposed of it. I could see that he took out something from his trouser pocket with his right hand. He put it on the table in front of me.

It was a diary. A diary like the ones I had given as gifts to Sundararajan and Chitra; made by the same company; of the same colour. Then he put the pen in my hand and said "Write".

I did not understand anything. "What to write?" I asked.

“Write ‘Gift to my beloved Sarangan’”.

***End***

Translated by Mr Shanmuga Sundaram. 

Source: Ku. Alagirisamy’s short story “Anbalippu”

The Heroine of a revolutionary writer (Puratchi Ezhuthaalarin Kathanayaki) by Ku. Alagirisamy.

 

This is an English Translation of “Puratchi Ezhuthalarin Kathanayaki”, a short story written by Ku. Alakirisamy. Translated from Tamil by Saravanan Karmegam.

Ku. Alagirisamy

  

 It might sound lighter if it was said that Ramanathan had got bored with the city life. To be precise, the truth was he had got disgusted with it. It had just been maximum of four years since he settled in Chennai.  The house where he has been presently living is his second rented house. It wasn't exactly right to say that the salary he received was meagre and inadequate. Despite having everything, he just hated Chennai city like poison. ‘Had those atom bombs, dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, been dropped on this wretched city and made it completely flat, barren, they would have at least changed the capital to some other city. Wouldn’t they? Even if they didn’t change the capital, at least I would have been happy staying in such a grave yard. But it was my destiny that I have to be in this Chennai.’ – A classic hatred for Chennai. He was so much frustrated that he would pour it out with his friends in an attempt to find some solace, keep his agitated mind cool. They would get perplexed at his hate speech and fury.

‘He is not type of a person who usually hates others. His had friendly demeanour to get along with everyone. A bon viveur. A person of that kind now spits out such a hatred.’ – His friends wondered. The reason behind his hatred and bitterness that filled in his head, was a petty issue and might look so silly if explained. No one would ever consider it a matter of some value in this big city. It was the upper floor of the house where he lived was the reason behind all his hatred. A critical scrutiny might be needed to what the French Novelist Balzac had said about houses, that, the houses in which people live do actually make their character. It was completely true in his case. It had been one year since he came to that house. Before that, he had tough time in a small rented house without adequate ventilation and light to stay along with his wife, brother in law and his parents. Newly married, he spent his first three years of marriage in that dark dungeon. The present house which was properly ventilated, spacious with sufficient light coming in coupled with sugar coated words of the house owner made him believe it was perfect place to stay. He came to that house as tenant along with his baby and his pregnant wife. Only one major discomfort staying in upper floor was water problem.

Bringing water to his house was almost akin to milking a rogue kicking cow. Water had to be drawn through a pump. There were five or six families living in the ground floor. Everyone would be busy in drawing water from the pump from half past four to half past ten in the morning and never leave till the water supply was stopped. They would bathe early in the morning following a stiff competition with one another. How would he ask them to close the pipe for some while? The water could be pumped up to his floor only when the pipe below was closed. If not, no matter however much one wrestled with the pump, not a drop of water could be pumped up. Even for a bucket of water, he had to literally beg the people down to close the pipe. Despite having such difficulties, Ramanathan couldn’t realise its gravity during his first three months of stay because of the help extended by his brother in law, Natarajan. He was in Chennai in search of job, and was staying in his sister’s house temporarily. Ramanathan used to leave for his office at half past nine in the morning after a quick bath and a brief breakfast. It was Natarajan who would get the buckets filled with water employing all his tricks with people at the pump. Morning water woes would thus be over. In the evening, the same story would repeat. After three months Natarajan left for Salem as he got a job there.

It was only in his absence, Ramanathan did realise the enormity of water problem in his house. He was left with two choices- Going to the office or pumping the water. He realised that he could do justice to both only during the holidays. What to do then? He thought of engaging his servant maid, who came to his house to wash the utensils and clothes, to pump the water by way of paying her one or two rupees more. Since she had children, she would be happily accept his offer of his extra amount as it would be of great help to her, he thought.

‘Why should I engage a different woman for this work and waste money on her?’ he thought, and waited for Kamala, the servant maid working in his house. She was late that day by half an hour. She walked straight into the kitchen as soon as she entered the house, called out to Meena, Ramanathan’s wife and discussed in hushed tone for a while. Ramanathan couldn’t overhear what they talked as he was on the other side. As their discussion was over, Meena came to Ramanathan and dropped a big bomb to his hell shock. Ramanathan stood totally stunned at what she said.

“Kamala doesn’t want to continue her work here”

“Why?”

“She says she wouldn’t be able to pump water. In these past two days of pumping water, her hands and chest are aching, she says. So she wouldn’t like to come henceforth.”

“How was she able to pump water these many days? The hands that could pump water without aches till now have started aching all of a sudden. Right? It is not she who pumped the water. It was Natarajan who did it and stored it. She just washed the utensils, cloths and dried them before leaving home. So… this is her problem. Right? Call her” Ramanathan told her.

Driven by a sort of pride, he was mentally prepared to give her some additional amount of money apart from her regular wages. He thought Kamala was enacting that drama just to get some more bucks. He asked her, “Why do you say that? Is it very difficult to pump two buckets of water? Without giving him any reply, she stood, leaned against the wall, head looking down, scratching her one nail with another.

“Kamala, what do you want to say? Be frank with me.” Ramanathan coaxed her.

“I cannot continue here anymore. You appoint someone else” she swayed her head vehemently. All his efforts to make her pump water to meet the requirement of his entire house, that too, with his helping heart, went in vain as she now refused to do even the routine works at home.

Ramanathan tried all his tricks with her. His wife too tried her best to convince her. Even the elderly parents of Ramanathan too tried their words with her. But she remained unmoved. At last, he said, “Ok. I will give you two rupees more. You complete filling water and your other regular works”- Ramanathan threw his final shot.

“Even if you give me hundred rupees, I will not pump the water.” she was so stubborn in her words.

It was her reply, a stern reply. As he felt that it wouldn’t be sufficiently an honourable act to coax her further, Ramanathan gave her the balance amount of her wages and settled it.

“She was so stubborn and left. Now what will I do for pumping water?” Meena expressed her angst. She was worried that she wouldn’t be able to pump even a jug of water with her frail body, holding a toddler in hand and carrying one in womb.

“You are so ignorant Meena. Aren’t you? There are umpteen jobless roaming on streets without even some porridge to eat a time. You just wait for some time. Let me bring a servant maid by tomorrow itself.” Ramanathan assured her confidently. In three days, with the help of his contacts, Ramanathan could manage a new servant maid. The name of the new servant maid is Mangalam, a young aged woman, having child of four years old. She looked noticeably beautiful with good complexion.

At the very first sight, anyone would easily pass the verdict seeing her well- toned body that she would perform any task untiringly. Her husband had left her long ago, gone somewhere and she was now leading a tough life with her child for the last three years. Her story moved Ramanathan's mother who would share her anguish with Managalam, “What a pity! These days the men are stone hearted”.

“How could he leave such a beautiful wife and a lovely baby at this young age?” Ramanathan wondered. ‘He had left, it is not the time to think how he had left’ Ramanathan pondered a second and left for office. Mangalam was on her routine. Ramanathan could leave for his office with peace of mind. For about a week, Mangalam did her work efficiently, earning everyone’s appreciation. Everyone residing downstairs, be it men, elderly men, young boys alike- would never open the pipe below when she came upstairs to pump water. They used to perform cat-walk near the pipe, looking up to have a glance of her while she pumped water, simultaneously throwing their eyes around to be sure that their wives were not watching their cat-walk. Only after Mangalam finished pumping water, they would open the pipe below. With her physical appeal, the curse of water problem had come to an end. They gave an old saree- not visibly worn-out, and bought a new skirt and a blouse for her four year old child as a mark of sharing their happiness. It was only at this juncture, Mangalam became suddenly ‘enlightened’.

She thought she had been doing an extremely dangerous work which no servant maid in the city would ever dare to do -something they were not supposed to do- even if they were offered thousand rupees. That was the end of everything! The bull had readied to be belligerent! Ranging from providing sumptuous food to tending to all her needs, Meena was generous enough as she grew cautious that this maid shouldn’t desert her like the earlier one. But the servant maid proved she wasn’t an easy nut to crack. Ramanathan told her that her wages would be increased. Mangalam didn’t accept his offer readily. When he told her that he would increase her wages by three rupees, she half-heartedly accepted it. But the glamour of three rupees didn’t last even for a month. One day Kamala, his old maid, met Mangalam on the street voluntarily and told her, “Why are you doing all these works? Just because women like you are ready to do these kinds of works, these house owners torture women like me to do the same. You pump water. Alright. But for how long would you keep doing it? How longer your body would withstand it? Are they giving you such wages that you couldn’t resist? – She got Mangalam completely confused. Waking up from her slumber, Mangalam went to Ramanathan’s wife next day and told her, “I can’t pump water”- she started singing the same old song of the city.  

Ramanathan was left terrified once again. All his family members begged her so fervently with just a step falling short to prostrate in front of her. But the tiger never eats grass even if it is hungry. Does it? So, does the maid. She wouldn’t pump water? Simple.

After collecting her balance amount and settling the wage accounts, Mangalam left. The two weeks of mental agony following her desertion that Ramanathan underwent till he could find a new maid Kuppammal, was something indescribable in words. He didn’t bath for four days. He himself pumped water, taking two days leave from office. He was reprimanded severely by his senior officers for being late to the office. One day, he had some fight with one family living downstairs. It is said that people bear three mistakes for the sake of water. Just to complete the cycle of bearing his third mistake, Ramanathan arranged the third servant maid. She also turned out to be uncooperative. He decided to change the house and thought of going back to the village. We shouldn’t think that Kuppammal must be an old woman as her named suggested. She must be not more than forty years old at the maximum. She was a very poor woman. One could see her in shabby, old cloths during three fourth of the time she worked. Despite being a poor lady, she also worked only for a couple of months and announced that she would no longer come for work there after receiving her wages on the second day of her third month.

Reason! The same reason. ‘She wouldn’t pump water’. Along with this, she added one more excuse. She told that her husband didn’t like her pump water as he would get angry and throw her away from the house if she ever tried pumping water. Ramanathan was terribly annoyed and got extremely angry at listening to her version of excuse.

“Listen…Stop all your ludicrous stories. Do continue here if you like; Or else get out from here”- Ramanathan was very categorical in his words. Kuppammal didn’t stand there a minute further. “Isn’t it a nonsense? Look at the stupid arrogance of her husband, who is just depending on the old rice she takes her home given here for his very survival! What he gets to eat is just a gruel; but see what he needs to gargle- Rose water! Our old adage doesn’t go without logic. Right?”

Ramanathan was very angry at everything he happened to come across that day. He went out of the house with a raging anger sufficient enough to burn the entire city, reduce it to the fort of charcoal. It was scorching sun outside. He was walking aimlessly, without knowing where he was actually going. ‘Instead of coming to the city for doing the job, it would have been better begging in the village. Even if I work here for another thirty years, I am not going to amass anything big. Am I? Despite spending money, I couldn’t find peace of mind anywhere’.

‘It is pity that I don’t even have the guts which that servant maid has. The moment she feels she doesn’t like it, she leaves everything in a minute. But I…tied to this job and this wretched city, leading a pathetic life every day. What a colossal shame of life!’ fretting about his destiny, he entered a movie hall that he came across on his way. Thought of forgetting his woes for some time. It was an English movie of two hours. After the show, he came out of the hall, went to nearby restaurant, had his meals in full and had a coffee. As it was a moonlit night, he thought of spending half an hour in the beach, and got into a bus to beach. He sat on the beach sand, enjoyed its breeze. At about eight, when he was about to move, he remembered his friend who was living nearby. Ramanathan went to him thinking that he could spend some time with him and enquire about houses with good water facility. As his good luck would have it, his friend was at home when he reached there. He was the so called revolutionary writer, Mr Partha Sarathy; a famous novelist. He wrote short stories too occasionally.

He had pen names too. ‘Parthan’ (Another name of Arjun in Mahabharata) and ‘Therotti’ (Charioteer) were some of his pen names. As Ramanathan sat in front of him, he threw a customary question at him just to initiate a conversation whether he was writing any novel that time.

“Yes” Mr Parthasarathy replied.

“Which novel?” he asked, rather stupidly.

“A novel which talks about our everyday experiences.” the writer replied.

“How come such stories occur in your mind? No such stories never occur in our mind. Do they?”

“Occurring? Nothing occurs on its own. There will be no smoke without fire. Any event which we see in its fullness in our life shall form the crux of the story. It only takes the form of short story or novel. You know well that, as a writer, I intend to portray the realistic life as such in my works.  Now, you see…! I’ve got the theme for my novel which I am presently writing, from this street itself. Almost all the events in the novel are real and actually happening around here. I just have to give it a shape and make it not void of aesthetics. It is all my only job in this.”

“What is that so impressive going on this street?” as Ramanathan asked him, the writer started giving a brief account of the story.

“It is a tragic story. A story of a sex worker who sells her body for her livelihood. Precisely because of this, he had named the novel, ‘The sister who had slipped’. That ‘slipped sister’ has a girl child. The scoundrel who she loved had abandoned her along with the child, leaving them to face this cruel world. Now she is a destitute, struggling in this world without anyone to support. She travels from place to place but not getting a job to settle down. Both the mother and the child are left to starve most of the days. For the sake of the child, she is at last ready to sell her body. Whenever she is out for earning her living, her child will be left alone, hungry, miserably crying without seeing her mother.” When the writer was narrating this story, something had struck in Ramanathan’s mind. He asked him suddenly, “Is your heroine living in this street?

“Yes…of course. She is living in this street. That too, in that house opposite.”

“Ohh…I see…How long has she been living here?”

“Probably about a month or so…”

“Do you know her name?”

“No...I don’t know”

 “How does she look like?”

Parthasarathy described her appearance. The description was over.

“It’s alright… It’s alright” Ramanathan said.

“Why?...What happened? Your inquisitiveness shows that you know her earlier.”

“Leave it. In case, if I like to meet her, how would I do that?” Ramanathan was astonished at himself and smiled.

“Why are you so much concerned about her?” the writer queried.  

“I’ll tell you that later. You please complete the remaining part of the story.” Ramanathan told him.

But the writer had lost his interest in telling the remaining story. He asked Ramanathan to join for dinner. After their meals, both of them were sitting in the room upstairs where they were sitting a while ago. While chewing the betal leaves, Mr Parthasarathy was peeking out of the window frequently, ostensibly looking for something on the street. They were talking sundry matters. When Ramanathan told him the requirement of a house, the writer asked him, “Why? What is the problem with the present house?”

He narrated his story, brimming with his miserable experiences. He explained the difficulty of getting a servant maid even with high wages. He explained in detail how each servant maid had been obstinate in their attitude and not ready to do anything physically demanding.

Parthasarathy became angry with those servant maids. “Almost all the servant maids are same in their attitude. Everyone wants to have comforts in life without working. It is how they want to be.”

When Ramanathan was busy telling his story, Parthasarathy intervened, and told him, “Look over there! A woman is getting off the rickshaw. Do you see?  She is the one”.

As he peeked out, looked at her and was not surprised. He was happy to know what he presumed had turned out to be correct. He looked at intently under the light of lamp post. ‘Yes…it is she..’

“So, you are writing a story about her. Right?” Ramanathan sneered.

“Yes” said Parthasarathy.

“Do you know who your heroine is? She is my second servant maid Mangalam. She is that ‘sister who had slipped’. It is for her sake your valuable tears roll down. She ran away with a lame excuse that she wouldn’t pump water, just a half an hour work, leaving good wages and healthy food. Why only novel, you can write plays also about her” Ramanathan’s voice sounded firm.

Writer Parthasarathy looked visibly confused, without knowing what to do, he simply vented out his exasperation, “Oh God! Is it so? Is it true? Is it that woman?”

Ramanathan intervened, told him, “Why do you whimper unnecessarily? Let her go wherever she wants. You just reply to what I am asking you. Will you find out a suitable house for me or tear this novel into pieces? Even if you do any one of these, I will never forget that help.”

Ramanathan gave out a hearty laughter. The revolutionary writer too joined him, bursting into laughter.

                                                           ***End***

Translated from Tamil by Saravanan Karmegam

Source: Ku. Alagrisamy’s short story “ Puratchi Ezhuthalarin Kathanayaki”