SANAMMA’S STORY
Dr. Malati Chendur
I was listening to a Tyagaraya lyric and cutting the string beans, preparing for the
curry the next day. My husband was in the living room, busy writing something. On
our street, there was no end to the hollering of the beggars as soon as it got dark.
Their hollering annoyed my husband. As usual, he started his speech, “Why can’t
they go to work?”
“Ma’am, ma’am,” I heard a woman’s voice at the front door.
“Go away, just go,” my husband shouted.
“A little drinking water, sir,” the woman said, sounding desperate.
“No water, nothing, out, go away. What a headache. They won’t let me write
peacefully, not even for a second,” he yelled again.
I went to the door. She was short, thin, and small. She was holding a small clay pot
for water.
At first, I did not notice her. While pouring water in the pot, the street light helped me
to recognize her.
I gave her some water and turned around.
My husband was still annoyed. He said, “I told her to go away and you gave her
water. Just watch. Today it is water, tomorrow broth and the next day a full meal.”
“The maid throws away two huge buckets of water in the morning. What have got to
lose by giving two small pots of water,” I said.
“Yes. Give her water. You will earn credit in the heaven.”
“I don’t know whether it is a credit or debit. We have plenty of water. They need
some to drink. That is all I’ve given her,” I said. Before I finished the sentence, he
was lost in his writing.
Four days back, I had been standing at the door waiting for my husband. It was then
I had noticed a small family on the sidewalk across from our home. Usually,
everybody would hate these sidewalk-dwellers and so did I.
I hated the sight. There were three of them—husband, wife and a seven-year old
boy with two tin cans, two clay pots, a torn mat, a winnow, and some other stuff.
That was all they had. I did not like the sight. “Each time I open the door, do I have
to see these sickly faces?” I told myself. But how could I tell them to go away? If they
were on my side of the street, I could have told them to move. But they were on the
other side. Then again, why should I care? I decided to keep quiet. After that, I
totally forgot about them for whatever reason. Last night when I was giving her
water, I recognized the woman as the same woman from across the street. That was
all.
***
It is common knowledge that, in ancient times, women used to think of God the first
thing in the morning everyday. Some traditional women would bow to their
husbands’ feet ritually. Do you know what today’s women look for? Not God, not the
husband but the maid! If the milkman failed to show up, we would use the canned
milk for coffee. But if the maid failed to show up, the world would crumble!
It was getting late. I had put the dirty dishes in the yard last night for the maid to
come and clean. The crows were shoving them around. I went to the door a couple
of times looking for the maid. There was no sign of her.
The woman from across the street saw my glum face and said, “What’s the matter
ma’am? The maid has not come yet? I don’t mind putting the floor designs in the
front yard, ma’am,” she said. For the day, she took care of sweeping the front yard
and washing the dishes. I gave her some loose change and the leftover rice.
I was waiting for my husband to wake up so I could tell him that there are good
people among the beggars and the sidewalk-dwellers as well. But he woke up late. I
did not get a chance to convey the happy thought to him.
The woman came in the evening again, swept the rooms and the front yard, put the
floor designs, and washed dishes. During that time, we two talked a lot.
In our towns, usually there would be huge backyards adjacent to our houses. The
servants would wash dishes in a corner in the yard, away from the house. But in the
cities like Madras, the bathroom would be next to the kitchen, and the backyard
immediately next to it. In some houses, we would not even have that much space.
The space for washing dishes would be right in front of the bedroom or hallway. The
maid would be in front of your eyes constantly.
She was right in front of me for so long it was impossible for me not to talk to her. I
kept asking something or other. And she kept replying in her broken Telugu.
“What is your name?”
“Sanamma, ma’am,” she said.
“Are you new to Madras?”
“No, ma’am. We moved here from Ongole in my mother’s time. My uncle lives in
Tiruvallur, works in a factory,” Sanamma said.
“What about your husband? Does he have a job?”
“He used to work in a tin factory; they make lanterns. He lost his job four months
back. Now no job.”
“Why didn’t he look for another?”
“He’s going out everyday looking for work, couldn’t find any, ma’am. I’m working in
that house, the third from here for eight rupees a month.”
“Is that enough for you?”
“How can it be enough, ma’am? We used to live in Puliyamthopu area. We couldn’t
pay rent for three months. The landlord grabbed our pots and pans and threw us
out. So we came here with the few remaining pots and tin cans.”
“Did you ever live like this before, I mean on the street?”
“No, ma’am. He used to earn forty rupees a month. I brought eight more rupees. We
were getting by, no problem. Then he lost his job. That’s the beginning of our
problems, ma’am,” said Sanamma.
I was lost for words. Sanamma was a proud woman, I thought. It looked like she was
not used to begging and being yelled at. It’s her fate, I’d have to say.
Even the educated people were having hard time to find a job. Certainly, it would
not be easy for an unskilled laborer like her husband to find work after losing the
one he had. I did not ask how her husband had lost his job. There could be million
reasons.
Our servant was back the next day. She was talking about several things as usual
and during the conversation, she mentioned how Sanamma’s husband had lost his
job.
In Madras, there were lots of places where people would make small measuring
cups and other items with old tin cans. Some would make lanterns and the burners
for lanterns with the same old tin sheets. It seems some of these products were
even exported. They would buy the glass shades from other stores and complete
the rest of the lantern in their shops. Sanamma’s husband worked in one such shop.
They had rented a small room in Puliyamthopu and all the three—the husband, the
wife and the child—had been living comfortably. He had not lost his job because he
went on strike or asked for higher pay. A small piece of tin pricked his hand and it
became big sore. He could not work anymore and so his “thoughtful” employer
found another worker in his place. Was he so clever as to fight for the workers’
rights? Possibly, he had not been even aware of such thing. Sanamma called it their
karma and let it go.
***
We went to see a movie and returned home. As I was unlocking the door, I heard
somebody groaning on the other side of the street. My husband opened the door
and went in.
I turned around and asked Sanamma’s husband what happened.
He said Sanamma was three months pregnant and having pains in the stomach
since evening.
“Take her to the hospital,” I said.
“They will not take her in until tomorrow morning. Even then, how can I make her
walk, ma’am?” he said.
“Take her in a rickshaw,” I was about to say and bit my tongue. I had some small
change in my hand, the balance after spending our money on the bus fare, jasmine
flowers, and a magazine. I dropped the change in his hand.
We had watched Rita Heayworth’s dance in Technicolor and enjoyed it. My husband
was taking bath in the bathroom. The smell of sandalwood soap filled the room. We
would eat a sumptuous meal and go to bed. Across the street, those poor people!
Sanamma, her husband and the child! Did the child have food to eat, at least? What
kind of life these people are having? Here we are behind the closed doors and they
on the street!
“We can worry about one person, may be two. When there are countless people like
that in the world, what can we do? Don’t think about them,” my husband would say.
That’s true. But then, why was I feeling so agitated at heart?
The following evening, Sanamma’s husband came and told me that she’d lost the
baby and the doctors suggested that she should stay in the hospital for four days.
That’s good, I thought. She would have some food there at least.
The mother was in the hospital. The father went somewhere and brought some food
for the child. Poor thing! The little boy was sitting there nervously all day keeping an
eye on their pots, cans, and the worn out mat.
Usually, I would not come out of the house unless it was necessary. It was about 12:
30 in the afternoon. The postman did not come yet. I was waiting for a letter from my
sister. I came out looking for the postman.
Sanamma’s son, with drawn in stomach, put out his hand for some small change, I
believe. I gave him some money..
After about one half hour or so, I heard noises in the street and went out to see
what happened. It was horrible! Just one look at it was enough to disturb me. What
about the people who were living that hell?
Sanamma’s son was crying pitiably. A few children and women surrounded him and
his pots.
The boy pointed to me and said, “That ma’am gave me the money.”
The mother of a twelve-year old boy said that money belonged to her son and the
kid stole it. They were not in a mood to listen even if I said I had given him the
money. They would not let my words get into their heads. At the end, one neighbor
intervened and sent them away. But the twelve-year old boy was dead set on
getting even with Sanamma’s kid. The kid told his father, after he came home. He
listened to his son’s story and beat him.
The next morning at about 10:00, I was haggling with the vegetable vendor.
Sanamma’s son was watching their possessions as usual. The children, who had
hassled him the day before were passing by. They threw a couple of stones at him.
One stone hit him. I heard the kid cry and yelled at the boys. The boys ran away.
I hated those boys. One of the two pots Sanamma had was broken. Why did they
have to throw stones at Sanamma’s son? Have I done something wrong by giving
him the money? Is it possible that that little money caused all these problems?
Some children like to take care of animals. And then, there are others who enjoy
pestering them just as much. If they saw a limping dog pass by, they would throw a
stone at her. Same thing with a beggar and a sick person - whack them instead of
pitying them. Probably they are the ones that grow up and become tyrants.
Sanamma’s husband returned in the evening after looking for work all day. He
caught the boy who had thrown the stone at the pot. He did not hit him, not even call
him names. Nevertheless. the boy started screaming.
A few people gathered around them and looked at Sanamma’s husband. He was
looking terrible, with his eyes drawn in, with long and bushy beard, and dirty,
tattered clothes.
The people who gathered there heard the child’s cries and chided him. “What is
your status and what is his? He is the building-owner’s son. If he hears about this,
he will tear you up in to pieces. What a stupid thing to do,” they said.
It was Sunday. My husband was home. He had had his second cup of coffee and sat
down with the newspaper. I heard the children’s laughs and shouts on the street
and went out to see. Sanamma’s husband was feeding the child. One of the boys
from last evening’s fight, came from behind, snatched the towel from Sanamma’s
husband’s shoulder, and ran away.
Sanamma’s husband stopped feeding the child and ran after the boy, shouting
loudly. The children ran, laughing and shouting, and Sanamma’s husband ran after
them swearing. After running a few yards, the children dropped the towel on the
ground He picked it up and returned to the boy.
On that day, I saw an ordinary person go crazy within a few hours right in front of my
eyes. I would never forget that. I watched an ordinary man become insane on that
day.
Ten children and a few adults, together, had managed to make Sanamma’s
husband lose his sanity. Don’t ask me how? They had done it in just about one
hour—by coming from behind and pulling his clothes, throwing stones, making fun
of him from a distance. They continued to do so for one hour.
I could not take it anymore. I went in and asked my husband to talk to the children.
He laughed and said, “You know nothing about the world. Of course, a human being
without money will go crazy. Poverty is the starting point of insanity. Who are we to
reprimand the children? Will they listen to us? We are better off ignoring the thing
rather than watch and worry about it.”
I am just a woman, what can I do? I kept quiet.
That evening we went to the beach and returned home late. I noticed that there
were no boxes and no worn out mat on the sidewalk. There were a few stones
scattered all over the place.
Three days passed by. One afternoon, Sanamma knocked on our door. She was
looking emaciated.
“Had I been with him, he would not have gone crazy. All these people made him lose
his mind,” she said.
“What do you mean crazy?”
“The hospital staff would not listen when he said he was not crazy. What can I say?
This is not good times for us. It seems they’re not going to release him for another
three months. Even then they’d let him go only if he is cured. Otherwise they’d just
keep him there,” she said with tears in her eyes.
“Sorry,” I said.
She said her husband had told her, “If I came out, they would throw stones at me. I
like it here.”
Sanamma’s son came out of the house across from mine, wiping his lips. Probably
they’d given him some food. He snuck behind his mother.
I had no words to speak.
“I did not know that his father had been taken away by the police until the boy came
to the hospital, crying, and told me. I’m thinking of going to my uncle’s home. I can
walk half the distance this afternoon and the rest tomorrow,” Sanamma said.
“Where to? Tiruvallur? How?”
“Walk.”
“I will give you some money. Take the train,” I said.
“I don’t want money, ma’am. I don’t have a sari to change. I had one rag of a sari,
which I was washing at night and wearing in the morning. That was also lost along
with the pots. Can you give me some old sari?” she begged, sounding dismal.
I gave her an old sari.
She accepted the sari but stubbornly refused to take any money.
“The kind gentleman in the house across the street gave me one half rupee. You
gave me a sari. That is hundreds and thousands for me,” she said, with folded
hands.
Sanamma, who did not even have a sari to change, left.
***
(The Telugu original, Sanamma, was published in the early fifties.)
(Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi)