THE GIFT OF FORGIVENESS
Dr. Kolakaluri Enoch
It was cloudy for two days. The sky was dark all over. After a heavy downpour, the rain ended. It might
start again any moment though. Heavy winds were lashing out. Water drops were falling from the trees
one by one. The railway hospital was looking as if it was a tear dropped from the sky and frozen. The
cold wind was whipping through the holes of the expanded metal frame as if there was nowhere else to
go.
Chenchayya was sitting on a bench at one end of the hospital verandah between two rooms. The wind
was shooting through his body like a bunch of needles charged by the devil. He was sitting on the
bench with his legs pulled up, head between his knees, and his hands around the knees. He was
unable to control his shivering body. He was staring at the door anxiously and intently. The door was
shut.
All the outpatients were gone. The verandah was mostly empty, no sign of human beings anywhere.
Occasionally, one or two persons were going in and out; otherwise, there was nothing. Casualty doctor,
Raghuram, was staring into the horizon through the leaves of the eucalyptus trees in the yard. He had
no work, no patients to take care of; nobody showed up.
Chenchayya was a seventy-years old man. The basis of the old age had settled on his face, his hair
had turned grey. His body had only bones but no flesh; there was no movement in the body but for
shivering. The eyes, however, were staring into the room across from him; they were like two torch
lights, two x-rays.
The casualty doctor turned his eyes from the sky toward the room, paced up and down, came out and
looked at Chenchayya, casually. No, he did not see. It was as if he had seen yet not seen, saw but did
not see, it was like a figure that rose in his eye. He did not think it was a person. That was all.
Chenchayya coughed.
Doctor turned around and looked.
“Who are you?”
Chenchayya looked at him. His head and eyes moved as he looked up. One could say he laughed, the
reason being his lips opened slightly showing his toothless mouth.
“What complaint?”
Chenchayya shook his head suggesting nothing.
“Want to come in?”
He shook his head again, no, he would not.
“Isn’t it cold?” the doctor asked, fingering his wool coat.
Chenchayya shook his head, gesturing ‘no’, and hiding his shivering body behind his cotton shirt.
“No complaint, he will not come in, and he is not feeling cold,” the causality doctor told himself, went in
and started looking at the sky through the window again.
Chenchayya was shivering inside as the whipping winds pierced through his body, as if a bunch of
needles were sharpened afresh and thrown at him. It was like the cold winds were eating up his entire
body.
The door across from him opened. Eight young men came out. Sadasivam, Chenchayya’s son also
came out, sat next to him and said, “The x-ray screening is okay.”
Doctor Raghuram came out of the x-ray room. He looked at Chenchayya. His hands went up
involuntarily. The hands did not go up to his face, nor made the gesture of namaskaaram. They went
up to his heart, heard the sounds of the heart, spoke to the heart and dropped. The face quivered
slightly. The mouth opened a little, was about to say something but no words came out; it stayed open.
The foot was about to take a step forward but stayed in the same place.
Chenchayya saw the doctor. His eyes widened as he looked at him. He narrowed his eyes and looked
at him again. He saw him like a man on a peak of a mountain staring down at someone in the valley. He
saw like a man lying down in the valley at someone on the peak of a mountain.
The doctor was about to take a step forward but did not. He did not open his mouth, nor move his hand;
he froze as if he had become deaf and dumb.
Sadasivam looked at both of them, was baffled and asked his father, “Nanna! Do you know the doctor?”
“Um. He is Raghuram, I think,” Chenchayya replied. He was about to say something, shook his head,
and sat on the bench, disheartened and sad.
Doctor Raghuram sipped the coffee his assistant brought for him; he was million miles away. He said
‘no’ to the cigarette tin the assistant handed him and pushed it away. His face trembled.
“Why, Sir?”
“What?” he came to the present and took the cigarette, looked at the door before lighting it up, went,
closed the door, and started smoking.
A taxi stopped in front of the casualty wing. Two young men carried an old man on a stretcher. The old
man fell in the bathroom and sprained his leg, they said.
Chenchayya saw the two young men. Deep down in his eyes, a trace of sprinkling showed, like a smack
of dampness in the well, which had dried up in the summer. “Fortunate man,” he murmured to himself.
The eye test began. Doctor Raghuram was checking the patients, one after another, and sending them
away. They all had applied for the job of engine drivers in the railways. By then, all the other tests were
completed. The eye examination was the main test among the medical tests.
The questions–those who had not yet taken the tests were asking those who had finished them.
“What test?”
”How was it?”
“Was the light set right?”
“How was the doctor?”
Sadasivam came into the room and looked at Raghuram. The doctor’s face was not the same. Earlier it
looked angry, now it was calm. If it looked calm earlier, now it was angry.
“Name?”
He said his name.
“Town?”
He answered.
“Father’s name?”
He said it.
The doctor’s voice kept changing. It was not like before. Earlier it was harsh, now it was soft. If it was
soft earlier, it was harsh now.
The assistant was sure that he had understood the doctor’s nature. Now his confidence was shaky, he
was not sure he had understood the doctor correctly.
“Read.”
Sadasivam was reading from the chart on the wall in front of him. The last three rows were fuzzy,
unclear.
“Read.”
He was not reading, not moving his mouth. He moved his eyes; they were moist.
Doctor’s voice was not like before; it was strange.
“Read what you see, as much as you can.”
The little light, hiding and twisted within the layers of his heart, which he felt in the medulla oblongata,
was flickering off and on. It was neither clear nor unclear.
“Read.”
“I can’t read.”
The doctor looked into Sadasivam’s face helplessly and put three charts in front of him.
Sadasivam read the two charts that contained big letters. The third one was to be read next.
“Read.”
“I can’t read.”
As soon as Sadasivam came out of the room, his father asked him, “How did it go?”
“What is there to say? Just as we expected … I could not read well.”
“Nothing to be afraid. Sit,” father chided him.
Chenchayya fingered his shirt pocket. The pile of money was there, safely tucked in. Even as he felt the
money, he felt like a centenarian; his veins tightened.
***
Sadasivam was his only son, and he had him after a long time after he had been married. Almost
everybody had concluded that Chenchayya could not have children. At the age of 45, however, his son
was borne. Immediately after that, his wife died. He told himself that he was not destined to have two
companions at the same time in his life and accepted it.
He had been both the mother and the father to Sadasivam and raised him by himself. Whether either
because of his own misfortune or he was overly protective, Sadasivam did not do well in school. After
the last chance at his final exam, he dropped out.
He had not gained in education but gained in age. The age brought a new glow to his face. It did not
stop there; it created troubles and messed up his life. To remedy that, Chenchayya performed the son’s
marriage.
For the son, the life was a smooth sail at first, and then became bumpy. Money became a problem.
Chenchayya had struggled to have a son; but, it was no problem for Sadasivam. His family grew big; he
had four children in four years, one child per year.
For Chenchayya, the idea that he had spent money in his better days might have been painful but his
belief that he had not wasted it gave him the strength to live.
Chenchayya had inherited no wealth from his parents. Yet he had received education and worked hard.
Sadasivam on the other hand, had no education, no money, and no job. How could he live and support
his children?
One must have a job in order to survive, even a measly one, if not a big one. Sadasivam tried hard for
that. Wherever he went, he met with only a negative response.
Chenchayya also tried to find a job for his son. None of his attempts succeeded as long as he stuck to
the righteous path and fairness. With that, he was exhausted. He was depressed thinking that his son
was not destined to have a job. Sadasivam stopped looking for jobs, convinced that he had no chance
at any job.
Recently, the engine driver jobs in the railways were announced. The salary was good. Sadasivam
applied for the post. He took the test. Appeared for the interview and was selected. The happiness he
had felt on that day was indescribable.
Then he came to know that there would be a medical exam, additionally, and if he found unfit in that
exam, he would not be hired. He would be invited for training only if he was found fit in the medical
exam. The medical exam would be hard, he had heard. He felt like he was hit by a big boulder in his
heart.
***
In the Railway hospital, Chenchayya pulled himself together further on the bench as the cold winds kept
playing with his aged nerves and pierced him through. He could do nothing to fight the winds, not even
cry; he sat there winding himself into a ball further and further. Outside, the rain was pouring.
The doctor washed his hands, drank water, lay back in his chair, and lit a cigarette. He said to the
assistant, “Did you see the old man sitting in the verandah? Go, tell the driver to take him to my room
and put him up there. Tell him to make sure the old man gets whatever he wants. Go.”
The assistant conveyed the message to the driver in detail. Both of them recited the entire story to
Chenchayya and asked him to follow them.
Chenchayya thought for a couple of minutes, and said, “Not necessary. I will stay here.” He did not
move but sat there tautly. As they continued to coax him, he became even more stubborn.
The doctor finished the cigarette and dropped the butt in the ashtray. He shivered as the assistant told
him what had happened. He shivered like a Jasmine creeper when a severe wind gusted. Unable to
control himself, he rested his head on the table.
Chenchayya had been the doctor’s secondary grade teacher. He had been chaste as a fire. He had
never begged anybody for anything in all his life, never asked anything for himself. If somebody asked
him for something he had, he never refused to give it to that person. Nobody, not the headmaster, not
the inspector, not even the district educational officer could raise their heads in front of his integrity.
Nobody could hurt him in any way, nobody had the guts to do so.
At a time when the other teachers had been tutoring and making money, Chenchayya had tutored
whoever came to him but never accepted a paisa in return. During the produce season, if people
brought produce to him, he refused to take it. He never took even one day off at work in all his life. On
the day he retired, everybody praised his service. Nobody helped him in time of need. Chenchayya was
not the man to be born in modern times. He was a drop of milk, spilled from the ancient pot of the
dharma days. He was the last ray from the Dharma yuga of yore. Chenchayya was the personification
of the dreams, the crazy people of this world could only dream about.
***
The numbers test was being conducted in the room in front of Chenchayya.
On the sheet in front of Sadasivam, there were several dots in several colors. If one saw carefully, the
dots of one color would reveal one number. Sadasivam was staring at the sheet.
The doctor asked, “What number?”
“Twenty!”
“What?”
“Twenty.”
The doctor turned the page.
“Look. What number?”
“Seventy-two.”
“What?”
“Seventy-two.”
“Are you not the son of Chenchayya garu?”
The doctor’s voice sounded like a waterfall from the top of a hill; it was like the twitter of a dove being
chased by an eagle; like the sound of a crying child when beaten by his teacher.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you are seeing the numbers?”
“No, sir.”
Sadasivam walked out of the room, depressed.
The doctor was finished with the numbers test and was on his way to his room. He saw the old man,
coughing painfully and shivering in the cold. He lowered his head.
It was 2:00 in the afternoon. The rain did not slow down. The window panes were fluttering because of
the winds. The winds were blowing fiercely; there were clouds everywhere and some occasional
showers.
The doctor had a coat on, still he was feeling cold. His intestines seemed to be winding into balls
because of the cold. He could visualize Chenchayya with his thin, cotton shirt—a shirt that was no good
against the biting cold, not good enough to protect the old man’s body from the assault of the cold. The
doctor quickly removed his coat, gave it to the assistant and told him to cover Chenchayya with it.
The assistant went, hesitantly.
Chenchayya was sitting on the bench. He sat straight up, resting his back and head on the wall. His feet
were on the floor. He had no footwear. The floor and the wall were so cold that a touch with the hand or
foot would send chills down his spine. The old soul, an emaciated body, was sitting on the bench with
abandon. Far off, The wind was shooting through the expanded metal frame like arrows shot by an
expert hunter.
“Wear this coat, sir.”
“Whose coat is that?”
“The doctor’s.”
Chenchayya stared at the assistant like a flower fallen from the tree and lowered his head.
“Not necessary. I am not cold.”
“No, it is cold. Please wear this.”
No words to speak.
“Sir!”
Assistant could not stand there anymore; he left.
Suddenly, Chenchayya had another fit of cough, a huge spasm. His whole body was shaking. The cold
was unbearable.
Raghuram watched as the assistant returned with the coat. He walked away saying, “I’ve seen it.”
“Sir,” the assistant nodded.
“Leave it on the chair,” the doctor moved away.
The assistant had learned a lot in the past four months. He had never seen another fine doctor like
Raghuram. This doctor, who had never taken a paisa but the salary, seemed as a strange creature at
first and later as a burning fire. All that was fine but there was one thing about him—he would not either
hold on to or let go of something just to please others, as the saying goes. If he was convinced that he
was doing the right thing, he would not care what others might say. He would listen to them if he was
convinced that something was not right. If a railway employee came to him and asked for a sick
certificate without really being sick, he would not get it. The employee might tell any number of sad
stories to the doctor but it could not get the certificate. Just a few days back, several candidates
happened to come for the assistant station master position, and three out of ten had been found unfit. It
is doubtful if any such thing had ever happened before. The assistant had never seen a doctor who
had followed the rules to this degree.
The doctor was also extremely kind, sympathetic and compassionate. By nature, he never disobeyed
the rules. He was that kind of person; he would refuse not only to receive bribes but not even hear of
them or look at them.
He could not bear it when somebody suffered even a little bit; yet could not be shaken. He would not let
others see whatever he had felt. But today, he was looking strange.
The meals carrier came for the doctor. The doctor opened the carrier and was about to eat, and then,
stopped. He stood up, went into the verandah, saw Chenchayya and approached him, nervously.
There was a reason for his nervousness. There had been an incident in the past that nearly cost him
his job. One of his childhood friends had been working as a porter in the railways. He had fallen ill. He
came to the doctor for a certificate. After the medical examination, they both had a friendly chat. The
friend invited him to his home, where they both reminisced about their childhood days. Later, somebody
dropped an anonymous letter to the higher authorities accusing the doctor of receiving a bribe. After
that, nothing happened yet doctor Raghuram learned to keep his heart where it belonged.
***
Chenchayya coughed and coughed and was exhausted. He was afraid that he might cough again if he
talked.
Doctor Raghuram came and addressed him, “Mastaaru!”, as was his wont.
“Um,” said Chenchayya. He said nothing more, nor lifted his head.
“Can you not come to my home?”
“I did not know that you had been transferred to this place.”
Raghuram had not written to his teacher for a year now.
“Please come. Let us eat.”
Chenchayya looked into the doctor’s face. His eyes started watering. “Me? Why now? No, I am not
hungry,.” The word no came out harshly.
“No, you must come.” It sounded like an order, like a son would say to his father, a devotee would say
to the Lord.
“I will not come,” Chenchayya said ruthlessly.
“No, not that,” the doctor said slowly, “some other time,.” Tears rose to his eyes.
“No,” his voice was firm.
“You stay here,” his voice was trembling. “Unless you eat,” the tone was dropping, “I will not eat.” He
said with a resolve.
“Is that right?” Chenchayya stood. A bout of cough, again. “If I am here, …” another bout of cough …
he walked two steps and said, “you will not eat, right?” He could not control the cough. He was out of
breath. He moved forward. “If so,” he looked at Sadasivam and said, “I am going.” He was going. He was
a cage of bones. Sadasivam followed him. The other applicants were coming in, one after another.
Chenchayya crossed the verandah and the portico. It was sprinkling; he walked into the rain.
The doctor went into his room, with a quivering heart. He sat at the table. The food on the leaf was in
front of him, so also the open carrier. He did not feel like serving it to himself, was not hungry; he lost
the appetite.
***
After Raghuram had lost his mother and father, his uncle had admitted him in the school and left him
under Chenchayya’s care. Raghuram finished his education while eating at the homes of a few kind
people who had fed him, following the vaaraalu tradition. He had eaten at Chenchayya’s home twice a
week.
This vaaraalu system needs a brief explanation. Usually, some kind hosts offer to feed poor young men
once a week. Some do it for show, a few because they did not want to throw away the stale food, and
yet others to help the poor. Whatever their reasons were, Raghuram never blamed them. He was
always grateful to the people who had helped him to get on his feet and thus saved his life.
Chenchayya however was not like the rest of the others. He ate only after he had fed Raghuram. If he
was not otherwise busy, he would sit next to the boy and made him eat. He became the father, mother
and teacher to Raghuram, and made sure the boy was wanting for nothing. Raghuram would never
forget Chenchayya, who had been there for him both emotionally and economically. He just could never
forget him.
In his childhood days, Raghuram had learned plenty from Chenchayya by watching his actions—living a
life of honesty, kindness, impeccability; also, following the path of his dharma, unselfishly, with
consideration for others, and, by following the tenets of truth and integrity. He had learned what
Chenchayya had not said in so many words, not put in words, and not vocalized. Chenchayya had a
strong foundation in his character and his existence in life and in his blood.
Sadasivam was born when Raghuram was in the final year of high school. The entire month went by
with festivities. Not one day in the entire year went by without Raghuram holding the boy in his arms and
doting on him. While he was in college, and later in medical college, he visited Chenchayya once a
week, at least.
During his house surgeon days, he fell in love with his classmate and married her. Chenchayya was
elated just like a father would; he was happy for his luck. Raghuram’s wife was the only child of a
wealthy man, born after a long time of his marriage.
Chenchayya blessed the couple with all his heart. Raghuram’s father-in-law gave him two thousand
rupees to give to Chenchayya. But Chenchayya refused to take the money and left. Raghuram put the
money in Sadasivam’s name in a bank and gave the passbook to Chenchayya.
Chenchayya told Raghuram fifteen years back, at the time of his departure, on his way to accept this
job in the railways, the truths he had learned through his experiences. He had learned them after
observing the world and processed his observations. They were the truths well refined in course of time.
For Raghuram, Chenchayya’s life had been the standard by which he reorganized his own life. Every
particle of his body was filled with Chenchayya. Just like a student who would look up the word in a
dictionary, Raghuram looked up Chenchayya’s life anytime he was confronted with a problem, or
needed a solution. He was worried that he could do nothing for Chenchayya who had done so much for
him.
After he had taken up the job, he used to write to Chenchayya frequently for sometime. In course of
time, Chenchayya became just a memory as the other responsibilities escalated.
***
Doctor Raghuram did not serve the food to himself. Tears were gathering in his eyes.
“The color test is ready, sir,” the assistant came and told him.
The casualty doctor was looking at the sky over the eucalyptus trees and writing a letter, rather
erratically.
“What will happen to this country?
“A person is worthless in this country. A shirt or a pair sandals is valued but not an individual. There is
some value for the religion of a person, his language, money, education, state, and his land but not for
himself. In this country, a man is worth not even a paisa.
“In our country, there is no sense of nationality in us and no patriotism. No person considers another
person as his brother. He cannot, he would not let the other person think so. There is no opportunity. It
will not happen, nobody lets it happen.
“There is so much depravity in our lives. Everybody is so self-centered, so much into his own profits,
and thinks only of his own good; nobody thinks of anybody else except his own happiness.
“Nobody is concerned with others; there is no congeniality, no getting together, and no meetings. There
is only pretension, impertinence, and deceit.
“In this system, everybody is an enemy of everybody else. Each person considers himself superior to all
the others; each one is self-directed, and each person is a system by himself. In this country, there is
no collective identity, no collective talent.
“In this country, no one acts like he is one of the group. Each person expects others to listen to him but
he listens to nobody. Each considers himself superior and none superior to himself.
“But for himself and for those around him, there is no other world. There should be nothing that is not
his. Nobody wishes the wellbeing of the others, nobody is prepared to let go of anything that might do
good for a few. There is not one person who would work for the good of the many. In this country, you
cannot find even one person, who is willing to sacrifice himself for the common good, not even a bit as
an example.
How can there be development with this kind of people? What growth we can expect in this country?
What progress? This nation will not wake. This country will not improve.
The casualty doctor shut his eyes and sat there, without finishing the letter, without looking around.
***
The color test was going on. The switch board was in the doctor’s hand. The window panes were shut.
The water was seeping through the holes of the windows and flowing under his feet like narrow canals.
The doctor turned on the switch. The bulb on the board on the wall lit up.
“What color?”
“Paccha ” Sadasivam said.
“What paccha?”
“Leaf green.”
The doctor turned off the switch. There was no color. He turned on another switch.
“Look carefully. What color is that?”
“Red?”
“Look and tell.”
“Red.”
“Look carefully.”
“Red.”
The color changed.
“What color is this?”
“White.”
“This? Can you see the colors?”
“I can see the light.”
The doctor’s voice sounded strange to Sadasivam—it was like the voice of a man lying in a valley, like a
boulder rolling down, like a lorry crashing into a wall.
“Can you see the colors?”
“Ah!”
The doctor laughed loudly in a grating voice and beautifully. The green bulb flashed. The red bulb
flashed. It looked like a green signal, then like a red signal. The doctor was watching the scene with
mixed signals:
The engine is coming. There is a signal in front. The world is dark. There are compartments behind the
engine. People have forgotten their cares and sleeping. People in the train—the children, the women
and the men are sleeping, unaware of their surroundings. It is midnight! There is a signal in front.
The train is pulling in; there is a driver in the engine cabin. In front, the signal is green! The train is
moving forward. The signal ahead is red. The light—it is green, it is red! The signal arm has been
lowered, no, it is not lowered. The light … it is white .. The driver is watching. The light .. it is white. The
train is moving .. Light is green .. People are asleep.
The driver is watching the signal light in front. The engine is honking. The fireman is shoveling coal into
the furnace. The train is moving. The signal arm is lowered. The train is not still, the engine is running,
the train is moving, the driver is operating the engine.
The train has arrived at the station. The driver should step on the brakes … In that very moment, the
earth shatters, the mountain crashes, the sky tears up. The express train crashes into the passenger
train sitting in the station. The drivers are dead. The firemen are dead. The passengers are crying,
shouting, screaming, moaning … women, children, and the old … crying .. Unbearable cries. … clamor
everywhere. The driver of the express train, Sadasivam, is dead.
“Brother!” doctor Raghuram shouted.
“Yes sir?” Sadasivam said.
***
The doctor pressed all the switches on all the switchboards—several bulbs, several colors, unusual
colors, several colors … the colors in the doctors face were changing. His face was looking strange and
unusual. He was looking as if he was crazy, lost his mind. He took a deep breath. He was breathing
heavily.
The vision rose again in his mind:
In front of a hut, in the verandah, a seventy-year-old man is lying in a broken cot, and moving his lips
but is unable to utter a single word. There is not even a bit of gruel to pour into that throat.
He is the father of the four children living in the hut. He is only twenty-five yet looking like a seventy-
year old man. His wife is like a walking corpse.
The old man dies of hunger. The children’s father is blinded, and being unable to take care of the
family, flees. His wife has lost her chastity and died.
The children are begging on the street for food. They have no clothes to wear and no home to live in.
Somebody is cursing them and kicking them in the railway station and at the bus stop. They are also
giving them something to eat. The children will survive.
The human race, for want of future, is begging pitiably and heinously; it is agonizing.
Somebody kicks a child in the stomach—the starving stomach, a stomach without food, without guts, the
one that is stuck to the spine—falls on the ground, and wiggles miserably.
“Amma!, ammaa, ammaa.”
It is crying.
He is crying.
Doctor Raghuram screamed.
“What happened, sir,” Sadasivam was shaken.
“What happened sir,” the assistant opened the door and came running.
Sadasivam went away. Another candidate came in.
Just then, a man got out of the rickshaw and stood in a corner in the verandah, wiping drops of water,
which were sprinkled on him from a side. The verandah was wet because of the people, who were
walking around; there were stains all over. The cold winds were hissing, showing off their power deftly
and chewing up the bodies.
After the ongoing c-test, the medical exam would come to an end. Chenchayya was waiting for his son
to come out of the room ahead. He strained his eyes to look; the eyes seemed to be stuck in the eye
sockets.
Sadasivam’s sight was not good. He would not be selected, no chance of getting the job. His attempts to
get a job had never succeeded before, and it would be the same this time too.
Chenchayya had never asked anybody for anything in his life. There had never been a blemish in his
service record. He had always performed his duties; never become a problem for anybody in any way.
Yet, the god was relentless in his case.
He had only one son. Should he not be worried about his welfare? Should he keep quiet, watching his
son turn into a beggar? Should he face a dismal death in his old age? For whose sake, all this mire of
morality and propriety? For whose sake, all this nuisance of truth and fairness? For whose sake, this
vicious attitude of being conscientious?
The change that could follow this mode of thinking—yes, he was willing to accept it. In a seventy-year
long, nectar-like life, it became necessary for him to take a drop of venom. It became necessary to
sprinkle mud on the life of a silky white garment. All along, he had cultivated his character like a tree,
which shot up in to the heaven. Now it had to be cut down from the roots, forcing it to tumble into the
netherworld. So many people viewed him as a superior persona, now that character needed to be
erased.
Chenchayya had no choice but take out the money Raghuram had deposited in the bank long time ago,
along with the accrued interest, pack it and bring it to the hospital.
His fall started as soon as he had touched that money. As he held the money, he felt dejected,
increasingly and gradually. He brought the money to give to the medical examiner as a bribe in return
for selecting his son with bad sight for the job. The day he had thought of making that request, the day
he had decided to do so, when he had set out to do so, when he had conceived the plan, he had been
disgusted with himself; he had thought of himself as a man succumbed to hell and a man destroyed
absolutely.
Yet, today he felt no pain. If the examiner was not Raghuram, he would have been crushed into the
underworld. But now he was rising up.
Raghuram acted like a little boy from his childhood days and made him a big man. Had Raghuram
behaved differently, reminded him of who he had been, Chenchayya would have had no choice but
remain a little man.
Had Raghuram acted like a doctor, Chenchayya would have poured his heart out as an aged father. He
would have told Raghuram to remember his childhood, his younger brother (Sadasivam), and asked
him to take the money for the old times’ sake, and begged him to make his son a member of the railway
staff.
But, he was rising from the netherworld. He was not going to pay a bribe, would not say, “Look at me
and give him the job.” He was rising up from the netherworld. He would not ask Raghuram to repay the
debt, the kindness he had extended to Raghuram during his childhood days. He would not even accept
gratitude from him in return for his kindness. As always, he was not going to beg anybody for anything.
He could not let himself fall into the underworld. Chenchayya was reassuring himself with tearful eyes.
He might have been instrumental in shaping Raghuram’s superior character, a little bit at least. He grew
up in front of his eyes—a child, a young man, and a doctor eventually. He was a shadow in his own
shadow, a child in his home, a child sprouted from his own character; he saved Chenchayya from
falling, ruining himself. Raghuram saved him, and brought him back to himself. “Your shadow saved
you; I saved myself,” Chenchayya told himself.
Chenchayya was reveling in his joy. He was not happy because he had shown kindness. He was not
arrogant when he had everything. He was grateful to his student for giving him a chance to remain
steady, hopeful, and calm as always, even when he was stuck in the vicious circle of life.
***
The c-test was over. Sadasivam came out of the room. His face was sad, tainted, senseless, and
confused. “Could not see clearly,” he said.
His father’s face, which was shrouded with dark clouds all morning, cleared; a smile came up on his
face, like a lightning.
Sadasivam looked at him, confused. He could not understand. “I don’t know whether I would be selected
or not.”
“If you are selected, you will be a driver. If not, you will not be a driver.”
“I am not sure what the doctor is going to do.”
“It is hard to say—whether he would do the joyous and the right thing, which could be painful to me, or
do the painful and the wrong thing that would make me happy. Whatever he does …” The sentence
was not finished.
Raghuram completed the c-test and came out of the room. He looked like a new man.
He went into his room, closed the doors and pulled the sheet containing eight names. He was checking
the test results noted against each name, and finalizing.
The windows were open. The blasting winds were lashing out. The biting cold, the huge rain outside
were making horrendous noises.
Raghuram was sweating all over. He turned on the two fans. The wind was blowing heavily. Sweat was
flowing from his forehead into the holes at the tip of his nose without break.
The pen came to the name of Sadasivam, stopped, did not move … five minutes, still did not move, ten,
no movement, it did not move. The pen stopped like a dancer who had danced and danced and was
exhausted.
As his childhood, his education and Chenchayya came to mind, the time came to standstill, the pen
would not move. What had he done for a man who had helped him enormously? Raghuram smacked on
his forehead; he did nothing.
Am I ungrateful?
He remembered Sadasivam—his eyes, the colored numbers, the colored lights—all were rising in front
of his eyes in a strange way. What should he do?
Am I a traitor?
The pen was ready to move on the paper, but stopped again. It crashed like a dancer sweating
immensely.
Chenchayya—the man who had fed him fondly, paid his fees kindly, and taught ethics and propriety
affectionately—stood in front of him. He stood on the platform of his heart, and climbed on to the peak
of his crown.
“I don’t want your respect. Just give him the job. I don’t want your coat, just give him the job. I don’t
want your food, just give him the job,” he seemed to be screaming three-fold.
What should I do?
Raghuram picked up the pen and was ready to write, then stopped. The pen was rolling about like a
dancer struggling to breathe.
For want of food, the old man is dead, father is blind, mother is humiliated, the children are penniless,
are beaten, and turned into thieves and murderers … Oh, god!
What should I do?
He picked up the pen and was ready to write. The pen rebelled like a belligerent bull, protested,
refused; it was ready to charge.
What should I do?
Chenchayya, who had been everything to him, was shouting madly, and staring foolishly. Should he do
something he had never done before just for the sake of Chenchayya?
The train’s engine crashes. The old man is dead, Sadasivam has lost his sight, the colored bulbs are
shattered, fans are whirling, children go begging, a policeman is kicking a child; they have no food, no
clothes. … The train is wrecked … people are dying, children, women and the old are dying. Sadasivam
… a steel rod poked into his eyes and prodded them out, he is lying dead next to the engine furnace.
The dancer-pen has rolled over and is lying on the floor. The noise of the fans .. Gusty winds of the
graveyard!
The list was fluttering in the wind.
I don’t want food … want nothing … Job! Job!. The dirt on the head of dharma! Pepper spray in the
eyes of the ethics! Mother! I am hungry—the hand that has fed me, the hand from which kindness has
flowed to me, the hand that has never asked for anything. The hand is begging now, it is begging
without begging.
The rain was roaring. The breeze from the fan, the blistering wind, the cool flame from the cold air, the
blazing mountains in the sky, the erupting lava in Chenchayya! It is getting cold.
The younger brother, the only brother I have ever had … The list is staring at the table and beating her
chest, a drop of sweat on the face, a smearing of sandalwood paste on the list, high as the Himalayas,
high as his desire, and the hopes pinned on the pinnacle!
He picked up the pen; it woke, stretched and yawned.
The silence of the floods, the silence inside, the silence of the fans and the cool wind. The clamor—the
ruckus, the roaring, the frightening noise, the sounds of the clouds breaking. Lub, lub, lubaluba—
dabadaba—the noise from the rain on the windows.
The dharma laughed happily. Chenchayya’s cries were heard. The inexplicable, resonating sounds of
the palanquin! The pen was dancing. The pen was moving out, starting from Sadasivam’s name. The
world was turning upside down. The sky rolled into a mat and fell on the ground. The writing was over.
Doctor’s face was full of sweat, the entire body was sweaty, the hand was sweaty: Doctor Raghuram
was shaking like a rivulet.
Writing all the names was finished. Immediately, he took an envelope, put the list in it, closed it, sealed
it, called the assistant, and gave it to him and sent him away. In the next minute, the envelope reached
the superintendent.
The doctor drew a long breath and exhaled. He wiped the sweat on his body. The towel was wet as if it
was drenched in the rain. His heart raced, it was sounding like the footsteps of pallbearers. He was
unable to listen to the tumultuous noises from the drums of his heart.
Was Sadasivam selected? Or, did the doctor do so?
The poet can peek into areas the sun cannot. The x-ray equipment, which is in the doctor’s charge, can
see what the poet cannot see. There are layers in the heart that even the x-ray equipment cannot see.
The man who has a particular heart may be able to see those layers. Raghuram however was not
aware of the layers, the shelves and the machinery that lay dormant in his heart. Even now, not even
he knew what he had written until and unless he opened the envelope and saw.
Raghuram held his breath. He was wiping his sweat and gasping for breath. He was gasping like
Abhimanyu who had escaped the military scheme, padmavyuyam, of the Kauravas and returned home.
Chenchayya was coughing, stumbling, gasping for breath, as he came into the doctor’s room with a
dark and painful expression.
The doctor looked at him stupidly.
Chenchayya took the money out of his pocket and put it on the table.
The doctor saw the stash of money, was mad as hell, and asked, “What is this?”
“Money.”
“Yes, but, for what?”
“This is what you had given me, including the interest.” Cough—he was shaken by a fit of cough,
choked; his voice was giving up on him.
Raghuram did not touch the money. He looked into Chenchayya’s face fearfully, foolishly, and
broodingly.
The doctor looked into his face and at the money blackly, sinisterly, darkly, dense as tar, like white, like
black; the money that had not been returned all these years, that had been accepted as his, even when
Chenchayya had not known that he (Raghuram) was here in this hospital, and therefore had not
brought it with the intention of returning to him.
Chenchayya could not bear that look. He could not look straight into Raghuram’s face. “No, no,” he
said, turning away. “No, no,” his head was whirling. “No, no,” he was losing consciousness. “No, no,” he
fell on the ground. No, no, he murmured something and coughed unbearably. The cough subsided
slowly.
Doctor Raghuram felt his pulse, put his hand under his nose to see if he was breathing.
Grief rose in his heart; he was overwhelmed and his eyes were filled with tears.
“Forgive me, forgive me.”
Probably, he meant he could not take back the money he had given him.
“Forgive me, forgive me!!”
Maybe, he was apologizing for veering away from the path of dharma, which Chenchayya had taught,
or, because he hoped Chenchayya would like it, that Chenchayya would be happy, even when it was
painful to him.
“Forgive me, forgive me!”
Raghuram was crying like a child clung to his mother.
At the same moment, Chenchayya was departing to a far off place, not listening to the cries of
Raghuram, not telling him that he had forgiven him; he left the mortal body and was gone.
***
(The Telugu original, kshamaabhiksha, was published in the anthology, Telugu katha, 1995)
(Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi)