Rectitude (Aram) by Jeya Mohan

                                                         

Jeya Mohan

This is an English Translation of "Aram", a short Story written by Jeya Mohan.  Translated by by  Saravanan Karmegam.  

 The person who was standing at the door said to me “Please come in…he is there”. I didn’t know who he was. I just greeted him with ‘Vanakkam’ and removed my sandals out. He picked up my sandals in his hands. “If you leave them outside, dogs would take them away sir…he reasoned, told me “Please get in". 

The fore-noon sunlight was falling across the central yard, just beyond the veranda found fostered with broader stones, like a white drape. On the other side, there was a room that looked similar to the long veranda. An elderly man was sitting on a low-lying swing chair in that room with brass betel leaves casket on his lap. He was slicing off betel nuts with a nut cutter. With his spectacle sitting on his nose just below its usual place, his face bore a deep attentiveness of children playing a serious game.  

The one who greeted was coming behind me, informed him “Writer Jeya Mohan has come”. He had to articulate my name several times aloud quaking the air around there. The elderly man looked up and said, “Please come in…Please come”. He gestured to the man who welcomed me in to bring a chair, stretched it out and placed it near him.  “He is Saminathan…a retired teacher”…he told. I greeted him with ‘Vanakkam’ once again. “He is very close to Janaki Raman” the elderly man said and asked me be seated. His grin proved that he had not yet recognized me. 

One of the legs of the chair got stuck in the dent on the cement floor and lurched a little. I adjusted it a little to avoid the crack without getting up and then sat. There were a lot of holes in the bamboo planks that were lying underneath the thatch interwoven with the beams. A dark beetle emerged from one of the holes, revolved with the sound of a Tambura. His areca nut cutter was slicing away areca nuts smoothly with an ease of experience gained over the years. He collected areca nut peels that were falling like crushed rice pieces and kept in a small box.

When he asked me whether I was still staying at my native place, I could understand what he had assumed. I replied with a smile “I am in Nagercoil”. Once I noticed that he was watching my lips, I wrote ‘Nagercoil, Jeya Mohan’ at the edge of Dina Malar lying on the hands of the easy chair. He caught hold of my hands with gleaming eyes. “I am happy….I am so happy. It is a big honour for me”, he uttered.  I wrote back honour was mine. He bobbed his head with a smile.

“Did you meet Ravi Subramaniyam?”

 “Yet to meet him” I replied.

 “Dei Saminathu, bring that…that thing…see how he is blinking”

 He understood what he meant and took out a collection of short stories, gave it to me.

 “Paavai has published it. He is a very good guy. He has paid me the royalty in advance. See…lots of medical expenses. I have to pay them money anyway. Right?”  

 I smiled at him and said “he could have paid them directly”. He burst into laughter. It just seemed that he needed no ears but only eyes to understand jokes.

As he was chewing betel leaves, a smile kept blooming across his face. “Isn’t betel an intoxication? Is it?,I asked. He nodded his head and said “there ought to be an affinity among betel leaves, lime and areca nuts. Like Raaga, Thaala and Bhava. Even for God, there is a role in it. It has to be there.” 

“Like a good poem”, I said.  “Why? Can’t it be said like a good indulgence? You may say so. I have not yet become that old.” he laughed. “What is the third aspect in it? It is only Raaga and Thaala”. He nodded his head in denial and said, “The third one is also there. It is place. Has any love poem ever been written without mentioning the place? he asked.

Saminathan went out, brought coffee in a jar from the shop at the corner. He poured it out half a glass for me and half a glass for the elderly man. 

“Has it become cold?” he asked. 

"Yes..a little”. I said. 

“I like drinking coffee when it gets cold. When drinking it hot, only its heat is felt. It becomes void of its sweetness and aroma. Can we relish the beauty of a women when she is running fast? What do you say?” he asked. 

"We can enjoy the beauty of a horse only when it runs”. I retorted.

He again smiled at it “It is alright anyway. Only poetry has the answers for everything. Strictly as a rule, I should not drink coffee. But the desire doesn't desert me, though. That's why I take half a glass at times”. “This half a glass becomes four or five times”, Saminathan intervened. 

“You get lost!!”, he endearingly admonished him. I set the coffee tumbler down and asked him, “What about royalty in those days?” 

“Royalty? It was a bad word at that time. Wasn’t it?, he sneered.

 “I came to understand that you had lived your life off by writing alone”, I said.

"I didn’t live. I just existed. I kept writing. All I lived was only up to thirty-three years. I never ventured out without having at least hundred rupees in hand. Ten guys used to be with me all the time. All were well trained in Music and concerts. We used to talk day and night. There would be Kumbakonam Seeval betel leaves at hand and a very good quality degree coffee in a jar. They would keep on filling in the food box with Pakkoda, Murukku and Seedai every time it got emptied. At the dusk, we used to go to the river side. Then, singing session sitting on sand!. Some discourse on literature in between!. What sort of literature was it? Only just a gossip. Mouni used to come there very frequently. He was such a matchless gossip...one can match his gossiping skills only when a writer was born anew. Right, Saminathu?” 

“If someone is afraid of gossiping, he has to take birth like him” Saminathan told. The elderly man burst into laughter, slapping his thighs.  He then turned to me and said, “This guy knows about the affairs of Janaki Raman. But he won’t tell”. “Kumbakonam, in those days was different altogether. It was the town where Music and literature were flowing like river. Many a famous persons are only from this town. Do you know that?”. I gave him a smile. “However, along with it came cheating, deceit and all. If they start with their loose tongue with betel leaves stuffed in mouth and puckering their lips, even Lord Shiva would divorce his wife Umaiyaal for sure.”

I could notice that he was getting ready for another roll of betel leaves. This time he opened the Betel Seeval packet.

“what are you looking at? Here everything is only seeval. One heavy intake of betel leaves for every four or five times of intake of Seeval….what I was talking about?”

“Chit chat by the riverside…”

“Yes…from there, we would have Adai at Rayar Club. Or else Poori. Then coffee made of cow milk. We used to take coffee even at midnight. There would always be a concert at some temple. No matter where you were in, you could hear Nathaswaram. Almost like a wandering group that was let loose. There were four or five looms running. Embroidery…it was drawn from Nagpur in North. It was very good quality embroidery. Other weavers did not know how to weave it properly. If we made it, Goddess Mahalakshmi would blossom to life in embroidery”.

He fell silent, with areca nuts stuffed aside in his mouth. With heave of sigh he said, “All were gone. Handloom machines came in the North. Fake embroidery came into existence. Quality embroidery means weaving Silk thread fused with Gold and Silver. Now everything has become imitations. All business came down just like a crumbling temporary shed. After paying off all debts, I was left with nothing in my hand. I had four children. I didn’t know any other profession. I didn’t know any other persons either. You can very well conclude that I was standing on the street. Is that right da?”

“Yes…anna” Saminathan acceded.

“We would have died that day itself had this mother fucker not been around. He used to bring rice or wheat and keep it at my place without my knowledge. I am immensely indebted to this dog…How could I repay?! Next birth is there any way. I will take birth as a good breed of bull in his cow shed and pull the cart he drives till my neck breaks. Is that ok da?” asked the elderly man. Saminathan turned his face other side. A lump in his throat moved up and down. It appeared that he was about to weep.

“I started my writing career around that time. Whatever the form it was! It was just writing anyway. Wasn’t it? That was the only thing I knew. If I had taken birth as a girl, I would have become a prostitute. Since I was destined to be a writer, I could do only that. Publishing industry was also started and became a hot business around that time. After independence, schools and colleges were set up in every town during fifties. Government libraries also came into existence. The Chettiar community which came from Burma with lots of wealth entered publishing business. All were related to one another, either as Uncle or Brother in law! My publisher was in Trichy. They were siblings. Their name was Meyyappan Brothers. Even in Pudhumai Pithan stories, a reference about them could be found. They had published a book by collaborating with their relatives in Chennai. What was the name of the story Saminathu?”

“Truth and Contemplations” (Nijamum Ninaippum)”, Saminathan replied instantly. “Yes…one says that instead of doing book business, one could sell snake gourd. The elder fellow says, ‘You fool! Snake gourd will get rotten’. Just see the deep-rooted differences of opinions in the matters of book publishing between brothers. He spat out in the spittoon and told, “However, I would say they were good people in general. They started their business in Trichy and were successfully running it. Other than money, nothing could enter their mind. Pure business minded people. It should be like that anyway. Only then they sustain here. Or else, he would also close down his business and come down to street like us. Every life has been created by God for certain role anyway. Isn’t it da?” 

“Yes…anna” Saminathan agreed. 

“If I am right, I'd say only this fellow took me there. They told, ‘So you are writing books!!…We will pay you for per page’. If someone had given money and asked to suck their penis, I would have kneeled down right there. That was the condition I was in. I said O.K. It was agreed that specified amount would be given as wage for every page written. There was nothing called royalty. Writing alone wasn't enough. I had to go to the press to do proof reading as well. There was a considerable demand for adopted stories. Topics like Suspense, love, terror and all were in great demand. Someone called Methavi used to write a lot about these topics. Elder Chettiar asked me, “Oi, can you write like Methavi?”. “I, Myself, am a Methavi” (extra-ordinarily gifted, jack of all trade), I replied. He could not understand what I said. But he was type of a person who had some vague idea that a writer would be an eccentric.

“During my young age, I had read many of your novels. One man goes to London for studies to become a Barrister. A very handsome man and a very ugly man ...being together always..."

He dismissed it nonchalantly. “see…you read something and reproduce it with different stuff…is it that difficult or what? I used to complete two novels per month”

“Two?”

 “Then what? Sometimes I used to complete three or four a month”

 “How much would they pay?” 

 “The agreement was about payment per page. But in reality, they would give whatever they felt like. From ten rupees to thirty rupees…You wouldn’t even get it in one go. If you asked them, they would give one rupee or Eight anas and make entries in the big ledger. Pudhumai Pithan has written about these Big ledger entries in his stories.”

 Getting stunned, I asked him, “Just thirty rupees!!…was it for the complete novel?”

 “Yes…We did not have any right beyond it. We had to give our acceptance in writing”, he said.

 “The novel you have just mentioned, I received twenty rupees for that.”

 “It was paltry sum even by the standards of those days. Wasn’t it?”

 “Of course…even a peon used to get a salary of hundred rupees per month. But I would get beleaguered to earn even thirty rupees for a month. Everything is written here”…he drew a line running his fingers across his forehead.

 “Those books are still in circulation. Aren't they?” I said.

 “They have been in the market for the last thirty-five years. Its value could have crossed twenty rupees”.

 “Didn’t they pay any money?”

Saminathan laughed out and said, “It is a good story anyway…that man has been telling that only he fed him with proper food”. A moment later, he told “There is big story behind it. Is it not na? Tell that story”

 “What is the use of it”, the elderly person said.

 “See…he is a present generation writer. Let him know about it. What is harm in it? Please go on." 

The elderly man once again started another roll of chewing betel leaves. He could not slice off the areca nut as his fingers were shivering. The areca nut fell off his hand and rolled away in the yard. He opened the Seeval Packet. He fell silent for a moment, with his head bent downwards. I was sitting in such a state of mind where I wanted to say it was alright.

Heaving a big sigh, the elderly man resumed “I told you there was a great demand for school books. Congress party formed the government. They demanded that there must be booklets on freedom fighters in every school. Then there was demand for the life histories of scientists, historical figures like King Ashoka, Akbar and others. They had agreed to publish hundred books….but there was no one to write…They summoned me and asked how many books I could write….a day before that day, there was a big fight in the family. My life was moving on miserably with just curd rice and pickle. Individual family. Condition was such that I had to stitch the rice bags to cover my body. Worn out Dhoti, Torn shirt….I had a Khaki over-coat. You may consider Lord Krishna had come in the form of coat to save my honour. The argument resumed after dinner. My wife chided me how we could make arrangements for our girl child if the condition remained same like that…..I kept on writing without paying attention…she snatched it from my hands angrily and threw it away. I got up, frenzied and gave a tight slap on her cheek. I went out of the house and was sitting in front of Bhoodha Nathar temple throughout the icy night. When Chettiyar asked me that question that morning, it just came spontaneously through my tongue…I told him that I would write all the hundred books.

I wondered, “All the hundred!”

The elderly man laughed, “If a dog chases you, what is wrong in running? Yes…all hundred books. Per book fifty rupees. For hundred books, five thousand rupees. Chettiyar got bewildered and asked “are you playing? Ain’t you?”. “No…I can write all hundred books”, I told him. They know about my speed of writing. Will you be able to give all the books in a year?”, they asked. “Certainly…”, I replied. 

“It means one book in three days!!”, I wondered.  

“I just wrote…Now, it looks incredible. I have to send a letter to my son. It has been seven days now. I wrote four lines in an inland letter and still lying there. But that time, I wrote as if I was possessed by spirit. I used to write throughout the night. There were days I used to complete even hundred pages a day. Hand would pain and give up. Next day morning, the exterior of palm would have swollen like a soft Vada. In such condition, my son and daughter used to write as I dictated. I used to submit one book every three days. Going to the press in the morning to do proof reading and then a brief siesta… Then walking straight towards library to pick up a source book for the next book and sitting for writing after a coffee. Reading and writing would take place simultaneously. Sometime I would stop only in dawn to take a break.

“It might sound presumptuous…I completed all in a year…When the last book comes out, the third edition of the first book would be ready for sale…”

“I have read all those books…Even now, they have been reprinted .” I said.

“Yes…It keeps coming out anyway. Doesn’t it?”, he chuckled.

“Nonetheless, we have done everything as much as possible for our children as a tutor. With a heave of sigh, he told, “I have stopped writing stories. Literature has lost itself somewhere. I am not meeting anyone. By chance, if Karichan Kunju happens to meet me, he would shout, “hei…mother fucker! Stop!”. If he stood at the distance, I would escape with an excuse of some work. If he was near, he would catch hold of my shirt collar and abuse me with all explicit expletives. He was lucky anyway. Wasn’t he? His monthly salary directly went to his house just for yelling out alphabets. He could afford talk literature…But for me…everything is gone. Now, two novels and five six stories are ready. Somebody must read it. I guess he would.”

Saminathan intervened as if he has memorized these lines, “Pudhumai Pithan has already explained this. There is no darkness without light . Till the lights appears we can do nothing but wait. The elderly man gave a smile. I have not seen such a heavy smile filled with misery ever in my life. Saminathan concluded, “How long do we have to wait? We need to be alive when the light comes?”. It must be from the story “Letter” by Pudhumai Pithan." I thought. 

“Go on anna...still you have not come to the crux of the story”, Saminathan insisted.

 “What is the need of telling all those things? When the dead body gets burnt, everything gets burnt along with it including lust, enmity and all…There is no meaning for all these things in life da”

 “No…na. He must know this”, Saminathan reiterated.

 The elderly man looked at me, smiled and said “This man is different type. For such people, the door would open on its own. If not, he would break it open. Horoscopes of some people are like that.”

There was a silence once again. Other than the amount I received at times, I kept all the balance amount only with them. If I had it in my hands, I would have spent it for Puja and Naivedyam (ghee anoints) in the name of Goddess Indignant Lakshmi. Other than whatever I received, the balance amount of three thousand rupees was with the Chettiyar. Having that money in mind, I had arranged marriage for my daughter. I went to Chettiyar with the Tambulam Plate. I told him about the auspicious event and requested to give me that amount. He started yelling, “Three Thousand!! What the heck!  Are you in your senses? Three Thousand for writing books!!”, Initially I thought he was playing prank. After that, I could understand he was speaking his mind. Till then, he was accustomed with only giving five or ten rupees. He could not digest the idea of giving three Thousand rupees to a writer at once.”

“But he has sold hundred books. Hasn’t he?”

“Yes…he had developed his shop double and triple with the profit from that money. A big house in Trichy was already built. He had purchased lands at his native place. But all those things did not come to his attention. ” He kept on telling that he had a debt of one lakh rupees. It was a debt he borrowed to expand his business. He printed all the books in different colours like Palm Sugar moulds and kept them in stacks in his Go-down. All were money. But in business, the capital would always remain a debt anyway. He could see only that. He could not see anything which he earned out of that money. “Don’t ever talk about three Thousand. If you like, I will give you seven hundred rupees”, he told. 

“Sami…please don’t ruin my life” I begged him. All at once, tears started welled up in my eyes. “Master, please don’t spoil the life of my daughter”, I beseeched him and I bent down beneath the table and to touch his legs. He shook his legs and yelled at me maniacally, “Do you think I am a fool? Do you expect me to give that amount if you hold my legs? It is the amount which I earned four anas by five anas with my hard work. What the heck did you write? You just copied books written by others and reproduced the same. You demand four thousand for that!! Is the task of writing a colossal one like plucking pubic hair or what? Even school children write throughout the day. Mind it was my money that kept your hearth alive . You ungrateful dog! It was my mistake that I believed you as a human being”

“A crowd gathered there. Someone said, “It is just what the master says. Is it not? No matter what it could be, he was his God who had fed him with food for seven years. Sooner, his brother also came there and abused me. I started screaming at them hysterically. “You got rich by cheating me. You will never prosper ever in your life”. Suddenly, he hit me. The people nearby caught hold of him. “Get lost! You curse the hand that fed you. Don't you?”, the elder one shouted. I was standing in the middle of the road. Became immobile. It was evening. I didn’t know where to go. How to go home? All the arrangements were on full swing. I needed money. Gold Jewellery and Sarees were to be purchased. Advance amount for making temporary shed to be given….I stood there still. After dusk, I went to the master and prostrated in front of him and cried. They pushed me out, “Get out ...get out”

“They closed the shop at eight. I was standing there throughout the night. How I was standing! Why I was standing! I could understand nothing. I heard a shallow sound in my ears. That sound had become a very serious issue later. You must have read Saththangal (Sounds)”. 

I said, “Yes…”. He didn’t say anything for a while. That silence seems to be as heavy as black stone. He continued with a sigh, “When he came in the morning to open the shop, I was still sitting there in veranda. Tears started sliding down my cheeks after seeing him. I could only fold my hands in obeisance. Not even a single word came out of my mouth. I felt as if sand had got struck in my throat pit. He stared at me for some time- A look as if he was repulsively looking at human shit...He opened the shop, went in and sat by the cash counter for a while. I didn’t know what had happened, he came out and abused me, “You mother fucker! Are you eating rice and shit? Are you a human being? Are you born to one man? I knew well about his loud mouth of expletives which would peel our skin off if used. I begged him with tears in my eyes, “I don’t have no other refuge other than dying”. He threw out a rupee coin at my face and screamed, “Go and die! You dog! Take it and get some poison”.

“I sat there in trance as if being under the spell of something. Deeply contemplating something, I strode fast and reached Chettiyar’s house. It was about ten in the morning. The Periya Achi (Senior Aunt), the wife of the elder one was sitting in the Veranda and was feeding a neighbour's child some idli. I went to her, folded my hands and stood right in front of her.  “How everything else, bard?” she asked. 

She didn’t know anything much. She could only read word by word. Bare illiterate. I explained everything with my hands folded. I went to her just to explain her everything so she could explain it to Chettiyar. But when I was narrating my ordeal, from somewhere some sort of rapid anxiety came over!...As if the whole body was under fire! As if all my limps were writhing like flames! When I uttered “I am a blessed soul by Goddess Saraswati”. A divinely possession came upon me. The tenor of my voice went up…Even today, I still recount those days, wonder at the things I did after that, how I did them all. ‘Will you and your children be able to live peacefully after ruining my whole life? If you all have a peaceful life, it just means goddess Saraswati is none but a whore’, I shouted in frenzy, took out a pen and wrote a Venba, mushing up some Idli on the paper, pasted it on the door of her house and came back.”

“As I walked, I began to slow down. I could not walk further. It was more than a day since I ate. But if I thought about food, I felt disgusting. Then I walked straight, sold my old wrist watch and had liquor as much as my breath could take. I didn’t know when I came home and where I slept. I came to know that my wife had attempted suicide by jumping into the well. Since it was day time and people were moving around, they stopped her. I lay like a corpse. Unknown persons were trying to wake me up. Abused me. Some kicked me with their legs.  But all seemed to me as if I was watching everything that were happening above by burying myself inside the Kaveri River bed. I thought I was dead. When I thought I was dead, what a peaceful thought it was. I lost all my weight. How it would be when a debt of one lakh rupees that had been haunting for forty years was paid off in a single day!. It was like that…the peace was such that…Like air…like sponge…Only at that time, I could hear a sound in my ear…Like someone kept on telling my name. Just that my own mother calling me softly…I could realize how beautiful death was. Now I am not afraid of death. I am waiting for it with grace.”

“What was that Venba?” I asked. I could guess what it was. “It was Aram. (Song of Dharma)…there was a custom like that. Wasn’t it? Truly speaking, I just forgot it after I had heard about it.  Karichan Kunju and I have discussed prosody a bit. Otherwise, I am not well versed in even in Tamil. That was the first and last poem I ever wrote. I could not remember that verse. I have been trying to forget if for the last twenty five years. However, the last two lines of that verse are still in my memory. 

“Chetti kulamaruththu semmannin 

medaakki etti ezhuga vendraram 

(By perishing the lineage of Chettiyar, 

piling it up in the red sand, 

let the virtue be raised!)

 “Then what happened?” I asked impatiently.

“I came to know about what happened only after I was told about it. Achi left everything as it was, with loosened locks of hair and saree dishevelled, went to the shop, stood in front of it. She told Chettiyar to settle all the amount of the poet immediately without leaving a penny remaining. Even now i get goosebumps at a very thought of it. How she could have looked? In earlier days, one Achi burnt the whole of Madurai. Was it she? All such people were in same mould! Weren’t they? Chettiyar was shivering and promised her, ‘I will give him his money…I will give it by tomorrow’. ‘No…You have to give today itself…You must give right now. Only after that, I’ll get up’, she moved and sat down on the tar road. She was very dark in complexion. Fully endowed figure. She was a size of four persons. A thick layer of turmeric on face. A vermillion of quarter size of an ana that looked burning on forehead. The sacred thread that had been jeweled magnificently was fully occupying her neck like Fry wood buds sprouting itself with its fullness. She was looking like Goddess Amman herself descended on at the Tri-junction. Wasn’t she? No one could speak a single word. She would bite the throat pit and drink the blood!!…Chetti got up and ran. There was no sufficient money in the bank….he ran out for borrowing…He fell on the foot of his known people…He could collect the amount only by evening. Till then she was sitting at the middle of the road like a statue made of black stone with her eyes closed. The Chithirai month’s summer was harsh like fire. It was a good Agni Natchathiram. The bitumen road was just melting. Chetti arranged a taxi, came to my house. I was just lying like a dead body. He emptied all the money he brought at the feet of my wife and implored her, ‘Mother…please tell your husband not to destroy my family. The light of my lineage is now sitting on the road. Here is all his money with interest’. He ran back by the same car. He went straight to her, tied his towel in his waist and begged her, ‘Goddess of my family! Please get up. Whatever I had to do, I have done it’, he cried. Four persons lifted her, I guess. People told that when she was lifted, the burnt skin and flesh got stuck and came along with her saree”.

I could visualize that scene that unravelled clearly in my mind in many folds. He was sitting as if he had gone to that era. Someone passed by selling ‘Kolam powder’ outside. I could not even figure out for a while where actually I was.

The elder man continued, “Marriage took place perfectly. Chettiyar and his brother had sent one sovereign gold ring. After ten days, Achi asked them to invite me. I went there. I went there thinking of falling on her feet. My mind started changing its course from the day my daughter’s marriage was over. I kept pondering over why I got unduly angry. I thought demanding the whole money from a person who was running his business on debt was actually wrong.

“Sooner I entered the house, Achi came received me with her hands folded in respect. She politely said, ‘Dear poet! You should sing a verse to bless my family. You must forgive the wrongs we have done to you. It is said that Goddess Lakshmi may come and go. But Goddess Sarawati will open her eyes once in after seven births. You are a magnificent soul. You shed tears standing at my house yard. Let your word save us from that sin from getting it into our family.’ 

“What a word it was! Like the way one counts gold coins carefully! Like a pearl circlet!  We used to write four or five times even to complete a paragraph. Don’t we? Even after that, it remains incomplete. What does blessing of Goddess Saraswati Mean? If you have fire in your mind, she would come and sit anyway. Wouldn’t she? That was only her destiny. Other things are just immaterial…... What was I talking? My hand and legs went limp. My tongue withdrew. I was sitting on the chair, my head hung down. I dared not see her. I was simply staring at her feet. There was a ring on her toe! There was a beauty in it. It was the beauty that dwells with the women who stay at home. Who said Dharma is something meant only for people who rule the country? Righteousness dwells at home man!!… People praise chaste woman for a sound reason. Don’t they? Suddenly a verse came over my mind. I wrote eight verses spontaneously. I gave it to Achi. She held it in her hands and touched her eyes with it.”

 “What was surprising is that I could remember only the first two lines of the first verse. ‘metti oli sithara meyyaallaam pon viriya chetti kula vilakku seitha thavam’  (The light from her toe ring gets scattered, the gold gets scattered throughout her body, the good deed done by the light of Chetti family). I have tried remembering the remaining lines many times. It is alright. It was all about I could do. Remaining was the play of Goddess Saraswati, I had thought. She asked me to sit inside her house on a silk spread and served food on a silver plate with her own hands. She gave me a small Thamabalam Plate with a gold coin and five hundred rupees. She called upon her children to seek my blessings. When I came out, I could realize that it was not me I had been. I was dead once and came alive again. That day I realized what was meant by a ‘Word’. It was Arjuna’ bow…While holding it, it would be one. While shooting, it would be hundred. When it hit, it would be thousand….Is that right Saminathu?”

 “People consider righteousness supreme, of course, with a strong logic. Don’t they?” he said.

“The poet Elango says that rectitude can assume the role of the God of Death”. The elderly man was looking at Saminathan as if he was looking at someone new. Then he muttered as if he was talking to himself, “Yes…it was righteousness that prevailed at the end. But it was that lady who had it ”.

 

                                                                     ***End***

Translated from Tamil by Saravanan Karmegam.   

Source: www.jeyamohan.in