This is an English Translation of Tamil short story Kaalaththin Vilimbil written by Paavannan. Translated from the Tamil by Saravanan Karmegam.
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On the edge of misery by Paavannan
Translated from the Tamil “Kaalathin Vilimbil”
by Saravanan Karmegam
The articles I started writing in an online weekly magazine,
"Poonthottam," didn’t attract much attention in the
beginning. The silence, which seemed to have attested to 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 that prompted me to 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 on 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 the 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
the sharing of views thenceforth. Letters 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 to the hospital with a broken leg after he hit a tree due to
skidding while travelling on 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
bread from his collection bag and eating it one by one blissfully. His
description of his family and surroundings was like a painting drawn in words.
The details he had given about the zoo near his house were plentiful. 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 named Hudi somewhere far away
from Bangalore. I wasn’t aware of it at that time. I started inquiring of my
local friends about it. Most of them were not aware of such an 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, 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 to 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 information about his getting a job in
Africa twenty years ago. Only his mother was alive that time. The 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 with 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
gluttonous, 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 on 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 are 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 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 they were his own mother’s.
With his persistent efforts of searching on 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 and 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 on 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 inquired about the old age
home. The lady who owned the tea shop came out of the hut and pointed to a
place that 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. Everyone 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 if it was simple porridge or gruel, life
would be better off if they drank it together with their loved ones. I fail to
understand why people run after money. The time has changed drastically for the
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 one’s 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 goodbye. Her accent in Tamil sounded like that of one spoken in
Thiruvannamalai. I have heard many such accented Tamils 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 on
a piece of land that looked barren. At the end of the road, there was there a
board with an inscription “Ashraya.” A compound wall ran along with it. The
bougainvillea was so thickly grown, blooming and 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 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 the flower
garden, there was there a vast stretch of shiny grass beds looking like a green
carpet. Round-shaped cement benches were placed under a big sunshade. A
beautiful peripheral wall. A simple 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. The
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 people in
mind. The loneliness of that place evoked an indecipherable feeling in my
heart. I could feel that an eerie fear was precipitating somewhere deep into my
heart.
I went near to the "enquiry office" at the left
side of the 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 of 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 the same design. Every house had a small front yard made of mosaic stones.
A small sunshade and an easy chair under it. A small garden around it. The
sunflowers were shining in the yellow sunlight.
My eyes looked at the window of a house accidentally, and I
could feel that two eyes were fixed upon me. As I was unduly shocked to see
them, I saw them once again in the direction to clear my doubts about whether
they were indeed looking at me. Those eyes were transfixed, intently staring at
me. I couldn’t look at that shrunken 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
raised 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 an
element of fear creeping into my heart that I was unable to look at those
windows. The 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 at gathering up saliva and
swallowing to moisten it could I 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 a
picture of Lord Krishna with the flute in his mouth on the other. A window with
grills just beyond it. Scenery from outside, clouds, and waving branches of
trees were seen like moving pictures. The bathroom and toilet were on the other
side. The cot was lying near the window. A table with medicines. A television
is at the corner of the room. I was astounded at realizing my body was
shuddering. 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 to the unmistakable signs of senility. The white hair on the edge of
her earlobes 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 to extend up to the
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 sons left me, I had a hope that my last son would look
after me. But he brought me here and dumped me. 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 and 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 the deity in the sanctum
sanctorum on the other side. Every picture bore different appeals. In addition
to it, some pages had pictures of stone pillars.
“Are they looking after you well here? Do you have anything
to inform Chandran?”
She didn’t reply anything. My heart began to get frozen in
astonishment. I couldn’t help the feeling of getting embarrassed sitting in
front of a sculpture and talking to it. I watched her eyebrows. 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 hand. 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 a high pitch whether the
house was for dignified women or whores. She kept on pestering that no woman in
the house knew anything about dignity and instead roamed around with flowers on
their head like prostitutes. He left the spot at once and went to the backyard.
Without making any more fuss, I too started concentrating on my work in the
kitchen. She then started finding mistakes 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 them into the 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 the 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 and remained silent. Suddenly, with a rapid batting of eyelids, 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 that I had
just seen near every window of the houses. I couldn’t stay there even for a
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.
***
