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| Paavannan |
Translated from the Tamil by Saravanan Karmegam
This is an English Translation of Tamil short story Kaalaththin Vilimbil written by Paavannan. This story has been translated with the permission of the author, Mr Pavannan.
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The articles I started writing in an online weekly magazine "Poonthottam" didn’t attract much of attention in the beginning. The silence which seemed to have attested the fact that the serial would leave no impact even if I stopped writing was simply unbearable. The negligible amount of boredom that set in initially had grown into a bigger proportion, and became capable of choking up my breath and making me inactive. Other than the fact that I needed a space for penning down my words and the person who was running that website was none other than my friend, there were no plausible reasons which prompted me continue writing those serialised articles. The serial was being published for about ten weeks or so. From the pile of letters published by Poonthottam every week, I came to understand that not a single reader had ever written a word about the serial in any of those letters. This made me reflect deeply why those articles had failed to attract the attention of readers. This thought would extend to a point where no answer could be found and then gradually disappear.
When I opened my email page to send the eleventh week’s article after its completion, I came to know that I had got an email. I tried guessing the reader with the help of single line address displayed on the screen. All the email addresses of my readers who write letters regularly flashed for a second in my mind and disappeared. I couldn’t find out who that reader was. Impelled by an inscrutable desire I opened the email. It was from Africa. The reader seemed to have been familiar with literature for many years. He had given some of his patchy opinions about the previous ten articles published in serials. Nevertheless, the mail was, in general, an encouraging one. I sent a reply thanking him for his letter.
His name was Chandran. Our friendship had thus started with sharing of views thenceforth. Letter started coming from him every week without fail after my article was published. He had informed me that he was working in the orthopaedic section of a hospital in Africa. Every letter he wrote to me would carry an interesting anecdote he had experienced in his day to day life- In one of his letters he had written about a guitar playing young man admitted in the hospital with broken leg after he hit a tree due to skidding while travelling in his two wheeler. He had once given an account of a beggar who was sitting on the cement bench in a park, taking out the pieces of breads from his collection bag and eating it one by one blissfully. His description about his family and surroundings was like a painting drawn in words. The details he had given about the zoo near his house were in plenty. The names he had given to each cage of animals sounded bizarre- the cage of lion was ‘The home of thunderbolt’, the cage of leopard was ‘The house of a wizard who has renounced speed” and the cages of macaws were ‘The music temple of birds’.
Chandran asked me once whether I was aware of an old age home called “Ashraya” in a village namely Hudi somewhere far away from Bangalore. I wasn’t aware of it at that time. I started enquiring my local friends about it. Most of them were not aware of such old age home. Only one among them told me that it was an old age home and was being run by some charitable service minded persons. He further added that two of his unmarried sisters used to visit that old age home every Sunday to meet the old age people living there to talk to them, attend to their needs and reassure them. I sent this information that night itself to Chandran. There was no communication after that about it for two months. One day he informed me, suddenly though, that his Periyamma1(Mother’s elder sister) had been admitted in the said old age home and requested me to pay a visit there to meet her on his behalf. A lengthy letter came from him when I was waiting for the day of my retirement.
His letter began with a information of his getting a job in Africa twenty years ago. Only his mother was alive that time. First two years he lived alone in Africa, then came back to India and took his mother along with him. One of her sisters who she loved most was living in the village. It was a poor family of six children. Chandran looked after his Periyamma’s family as much as he could. He married an African woman and started his family life. In four years he became a father of two children. His mother, who was happily spending her time with her grandchildren, did not live long. She was infected with brain fever and died in the hospital. Meanwhile the condition of his Periyamma had got worse in India. All her six children were growing in six different directions. They just got all the money Chandran had sent rot in being overtly glutonous, sometimes half of it with the knowledge of their mother and the other half without her knowledge. The eldest son was a drunkard, knowing nothing other than drinking all the time. Her second son ruined every penny in whoring around. Her third and fourth sons were arrested in a theft case in the village, imprisoned, but managed to escape from the prison and roaming around somewhere near Mumbai. Her fifth son went to the army after his studies in school and then forgot his village. Her sixth son was working as a clerk with a lawyer. He befriended a woman working in a ready-made garment shop just opposite to his office and married her. Sooner he brought his wife into the house, the old Periyamma was shown the way to get out of the house. Heartbroken, his Periyamma penned down all her griefs in the form of a letter with the help of someone and sent it to Chandran. Chandran could empathize with her and her miseries as if it were his own mother’s. With his persistent efforts of searching in the internet, he could find out the address of Ashraya old age home at Hudi and completed all the admission formalities through his known friend. Now it had been one year since then. He was paying the monthly installments directly from his place. He was perturbed by the recent nightmares that started popping up unceasingly. Those nightmares started chasing him from the moment he compared the cages of animals in the zoo with the old age homes. He couldn’t bear the frowning stare of his Periyamma who came in the forms of different animals every time in his nightmare holding the iron rods, staring at him longingly. It wasn’t feasible to apply for leave either whenever he wanted. So, I had to pay a visit to the said old age home and talk a couple of words to his Periyamma on his behalf. This was the gist of the letter.
Confirming the bus routes, I set out my journey to the old age home next Sunday. I had to change three buses. Near to the bus stop where I alighted at last, was there a lonely tea shop with the thatch made of palm leaves. I got a cigarette from there, lit it up and enquired about the old age home. The lady who owned the tea shop came out of the hut and pointed to a place which looked like a grove and said, ‘Yonder, it is that home”
“Won’t the bus go there?”
“This is the stop for going to that home. Every one would get down at this stop and then walk. You come from outside. Aren’t you?”
I said teasingly “Yes”.
“People come with their old ones, dump them here and leave in different directions. No matter it was simple porridge or gruel, life would be better off if they drink it together with their loved ones. I fail to understand why people run after money. The time has changed drastically for worse sir”
“Are they looking after them well?”
“No complaints about the care that they get. But …you see…even the love and care given by hundreds of persons can’t come anywhere near to that of one given by own blood. Can it?”
“Do you go there regularly?”
“It is my husband who brings them milk packets in the morning. Do you have anyone there known to you? I am sorry I am talking without knowing even basic courtesy”
“I don’t have anyone there known to me. One person known to my acquaintance is staying there”
I smiled at her, putting out my cigarette and strode away with a good bye. Her accent of Tamil sounded like that of one spoken in Thiruvannamalai. I have had heard many such accented Tamil in the suburban areas of Bangalore. Sometimes when we are walking, desperately longing to hear a voice familiar to us, one such voice, purely coincidental though, would emerge from somewhere and would arrest our attention for a moment.
Thickly grown small shrubs with yellow flowers were found here and there on both sides of the road. The birds whose names were not known were flying, playing in the branches of trees. Children were playing cricket in a piece of land that looked barren. At the end of the road, was there a board with an inscription “Ashraya”. A compound wall ran along with it. The bougain villaea was so thickly grown, blooming, covering the wall that it rendered the top of it invisible. Its branches had spread all over the area. I informed the security guards at the entrance of my visit and went in. It looked as if I had entered a big garden. The place was of full of different types of flowers blossoming in different colours. Two servants were found cleaning up, collecting the dead leaves fallen from the trees. Along the side of flower garden, was there a vast stretch of shiny grass beds looking like a green carpet. Round shaped cement benches were placed under a big sun shade. A beautiful peripheral wall. A simply yet elegantly constructed temple with idols. A Church. A prayer hall. Statues of an old lady and an old man walking with walking sticks led by a small boy holding their hands were found erected on the pedestal. There too, were beautiful plants decking around it. Along its side a circular shaped marble tank with artificially fit fountains in different heights and water was spraying from them. There was a small hall covered with glass with some tables. The hall was also covered with different plants and looked green. In the open space found at the back of it, there were more than fifty small houses constructed with precision. All houses were patterned on tiled houses. On the other side, there was a hospital. Crematorium was located somewhere on the campus with a very tall chimney as if it was erected with a view of touching the clouds. Adequate number of vehicle parking bays and comfortable walking paths branching out on its sides. I was walking slowly watching all these. I paid attention lately to the construction of buildings. All were constructed to the floor level with no steps and terrace. They seemed to have been constructed by keeping the condition of old age people in mind. The loneliness of that place evoked an indecipherable feeling in my heart. I could feel that an eerie fear precipitating somewhere deep into my heart.
I went near to the "enquiry office" at the left side of fountains. The interior walls of the room were decked with beautiful photographs. Bookmark cards with shorter sentences were found inserted. When I turned my attention after playing with my loitering eyes over there, I faced the smile of a young woman sitting in front of a computer. Thinking that her smile resembled that one of those idols, I smiled back. I approached her and gave the details I had with me.
“Thaiyal Nayaki, S-7”
She read it aloud, rose from her seat and came out of the hall. She came along with me till the point where the row of huts began and guided me the route and direction towards which I had to walk before leaving. I started walking in the direction she showed me. All the houses were constructed with same design. Every house had a small front yard made of mosaic stones. A small sun shade and an easy chair under it. A small garden around it. The sun flowers were shining in the yellow sun light.
My eyes looked at the window of a house, accidentally, and I could feel that two eyes were fixed upon me. As I got unduly shocked to see them, I saw them once again in the direction to clear my doubts whether they were indeed looking at me. Those eyes were transfixed, intently staring at me. I couldn’t look at that shrunk face and imploring eyes for long. I withdrew my attention instantly and looked at other houses. Truly, my palpitation had shot up. Two such eyes near every window. The longing sight raising from the dull, sunken eyes. I started walking fast, watchful of my way. I felt someone was calling me. I turned back, hesitantly only to see none. The woman who showed me the directions was also not visible. The houses were looking like mammoth engines unloaded from trucks. Surprisingly, I could see myself an element of fear creeping into my heart that I was unable to look at those windows. Very next moment, my senses came alive and chased that fear away. The most bizarre thing about that place was that not a small sound was heard around there. Even the sound of coughing was also absent.
I went near to the house and pressed the doorbell. Every moment my senses expected the rustling of cloths and creaking of slippers as a result of movement inside the house. No such sounds were heard for some time. The moment I thought of pressing the bell once again the door opened suddenly. The appearance of the person who came out left me stunned for a moment. It looked as if a molten ball of flesh had developed its hands and legs. My heart started beating faster.
“You are Thaiyal Nayaki. Aren’t you?”
The dryness in my throat got me choked up from asking this question I wanted to ask. Only after my attempts of gathering up saliva and swallowing to moisten it, I could manage asking that question. She didn’t receive my question. Only her eyes moved, rather slowly. They looked at me intently as if scrutinizing me. I asked her once again, “You are Thaiyal Nayaki. Aren’t you?” She came closer to me, tilted her ears towards me and mumbled, “mm”. I had to ask my question once again.
“It was my last son who had dropped me here. He didn’t come back to see me after that”
Speaking incoherently, she turned inside. As though I was afraid of following her in, I put it aside and went inside, following her.
The house was very clean. The stench of Dettol was in the air. Natural scenery was found pasted on one side of the wall and picture of Lord Krishna with the flute in his mouth on the other. A window with grills just beyond it. Scenery from outside, cloud and waving branches of trees were seen like moving pictures. Bath room and toilet were on the other side. The cot was lying near the window. A table with medicines. A television at the corner of the room. I was astounded at realizing my body shudder. I couldn’t believe that a chillness was penetrating my abdomen, and getting frozen there. I stood transfixing my eyes at her. The face with shrunk skin. Hollowed cheeks. A long white hair had been tied into a bun. As my eyes grew familiar with hers, the fear that it instilled in me initially got melted. I felt that they exhibited nothing but bewilderment and restiveness. The body attesting the unmistakable signs of senility. The white hair on the edge of her ear lobes and forehead was fluttering in the wind. Suddenly she pointed her finger at me and asked, “Who are you?”
“I am…friend of your sister’s son, Chandran. Chandran….do you know Chandran?”
I spoke it a bit louder. I was surprised at seeing her living in a world where my sounds were unable to reach. She moistened her lips as she was sitting on the cot. Both the upper and lower lips were seen inwardly curled. The wrinkles which appeared like lines were found extended up to lips, leaving strong imprints there in it.
“Tell me if there is any use of getting six male children? It is generally seen that children in this world will look after their parents once they are grown up. But all those I got had gone just opposite to what I said. When each of my son left me, I had a hope that my last son would look after me. But he brought me here and dumped. My sister’s son is working abroad. He only looks after everything, such as these arrangements etc…”
“Your sister’s son is Chandran. I am his friend. It is he who asked me to visit you”
She didn’t reply. It appeared that my words did not get into her head. I was sitting, watching the movements of palmyra trees seen through window grills. I was intrigued by her silence.
“Once upon a time, we had a big grocery shop. My husband had a Vil Vandi (Passenger Bullock cart). We used to visit places only in that cart”
She started narrating a story involuntarily- People who came to see her as a bride, her marriage, prosperous business, children one after another, a death in the market place caused by the hit of rogue bulls that ran amok as someone had lost control over them- she narrated events one by one in sequence. For a second, she paused and asked me, “Who are you?” I told her my details once again patiently. Apart from her eyes that were fixed upon me, I failed to find any traces of acknowledgement of having heard my words on her face.
A book was lying on the medicine table. Comforting myself, I picked up that book, flipped its pages- A book I had never come across yet.
The book was filled only with pictures. All were Saivaite holy places of South India. Majestic pictures of temples standing tall with a mountain, trees and river on one side. Pictures of deity in sanctum sanctorum on the other side. Every picture bore different appeals. In addition to it, some pages had the pictures of stone pillars.
“Are they looking you after well here? Do you have anything to inform to Chandran?”
She didn’t reply anything. My heart began to get frozen in astonishment. I couldn’t help the feeling of getting embarrassed of sitting in front of a sculpture and talking to it. I watched her eye brows. They were pale and curved. Only her eyes were batting incessantly.
She started speaking again.
“I was his everything…his life…. Wherever he goes, he never fails to bring a bundle of flowers in hands. He will be at peace only after he puts it on my head with his own hands in the kitchen. One day my mother in law saw him wearing the flowers on my head. She shouted in high pitch whether the house was for dignified woman or whores. She kept on pestering that no woman in the house knew nothing about dignity and instead roamed around with flowers on their head like prostitutes. He left the spot at once and went to the back yard. Without making any more fuss, I too started concentrating on my work in the kitchen. She then started finding mistake in that too. Yelling at me, she came near “Look at her impudence…a lusty donkey looking for sex every time” and pulled the flowers from my head and threw it to fire in the stove.
Tears kept streaking down her cheeks. She started sobbing inconsolably as if the flowers thrown into fire years ago were still burning right in front of her eyes. It was unbearable to see her crying with her lips crooked in pain. It was rather an uneasy situation. I couldn’t understand any words she spoke at the peak of her sob. Even though she was sitting very near to me, I could feel that she was standing at the edge of time where no one could reach easily. She leaned against the wall, with her eyes looking somewhere, fixedly. Her sob made her chest heave up and down. Nerves in her neck and her chest pit coiled up. Their movement rather increased my uneasiness. I looked at her face again. Her eyes were gleaming like broken glass pieces accidentally fallen into a bunch of thorny bushes. She rolled her tongue, and moistened her lips once again.
I couldn’t move my eyes away from those tears and fear-filled eyes. My throat got dried up, clogged with the torment hastened by the enormity of guilt. I thought of going near to her, to assuage her with my touch. I withdrew myself from that thought very next moment. A feeling of failure that I couldn’t evoke the memories about Chandran in her tormented me. Her eyes were watching me when my eyes were cruising hesitantly into the inner hall, windows, curtain, wall pictures, toilet doors and South Indian Saivite holy places book, heaving a sigh and walking. Till I reached the door, she was watching me, remained silent. Suddenly, with a rapid batting of eye lids she stared at me and asked “who are you?”. I looked at her eyes, leaning against the door for seconds. I once again brought into my mind the eyes which I had just seen near every window of the houses. I couldn’t stay there even for moment after that. I hurried up, and left the home. I could breathe properly only after I stepped out of the entrance coming past all those perfectly built curved long roads, grass beds and fountains. The predicament of communicating my pain to Chandran had got me anxious for the first time.
***
