“Babu! Pour me some coffee, please,” the old man said, standing on my front yard.

I just returned from work and was about to sit down on the front porch with my usual cup of coffee. I was taken by his request. I stared at him and wondered—a new breed of beggars? I might say it’s a kind of weird humor of the kalapurusha![1] How else could I explain this phenomenon. I’m aware of those who would beg for a morsel of food or a sip of rice broth; now we are seeing beggars who’d beg for coffee and cigarettes; what a shift in the needs of beggars! Maybe they think that they may be begging yet they’re human too! My thinking on these lines did not last long. The next moment I was very annoyed with him.

Before I could say a word, he added, almost challenging, “What’re you thinking? How many times do you think you’ve treated others to coffee at restaurants, tell me? And how many times you’ve had coffee at others’ expense? Why’re you dillydallying now? After all, did I ask you for your money or valuables? You’re acting as if I’ve asked for a lady of your clan, for god’s sake!” I was amused by his demeanor—mischievous smiles flashing through his bushy mustache.

I looked at him again. He was sturdy like a bamboo cane; I’m sure he can take on four men without flinching. He might be growing old but signs of youth are still hanging on to him for sure. My heart jumped with joy for a second at the sight of this sexagenarian that stood in front of me like a royalty, holding a silver glass and begging for a cup of coffee.

“Why? You can’t live without coffee or what?” I wanted to ask but was too tired even to move my lips. I poured my coffee into his glass silently.

He said as if he’s read my mind, “It’s not for me, babu!”

I was annoyed. I snarled, “Good. Go away.” I was annoyed because he could see me through; he figured out my thoughts; I was angry because he answered to a question that was not asked in the first place; also, I was worried that he might start a lengthy explanation about some old hag lying in bed with fever at home or somewhere.

“Why’re you upset? If you knew the real story, you wouldn’t whine like this, you know? Wouldn’t you shed a tear?”

I wanted to shut him up but controlled myself. Sometimes it’s so hard even to yell at some people.

Thatha laughed.

Cha, cha. What an insult! He is reading every word that crossed my mind. He’s speaking like a scholar. I picked up the courage and asked him, “Who’re you?”

“Me?” he laughed again. “Why? Want drag me to the court? Ask any policeman, there’s not a single policeman in town who did not know about Ramadas. On the other hand, if you’re planning to find a job for me, I’m telling you, there isn’t a job I can’t handle. Better yet, if you’re asking me just for fun, you’re not going to find anything,” he said, raising eyebrows and smiling, as if he was throwing a challenge.

I did not respond.

Thatha turned around and spoke again, “By the way, what month is this?”

“November,” I replied curtly.

“Tell me the Telugu month,” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

The same laugh again. “What’re you teaching at school? Don’t even know the names of the months.”

I was beside myself. “Certainly not pancangam[2],” I replied, grinding my teech.

Thatha did not look like he heard my reply. He was talking to himself and counting his fingers; he closed his eyes, and walked towards the gate in a quick, jerky move, as if he remembered something; suddenly stopped as if he walked into a wall or something, turned right and walked three steps; he started examining a square foot of space keenly.

Two minutes passed by. I was waiting to see whether he’d make a mango tree appear there or pull out a rabbit out of nowhere.

“See! Look here. On the third day from today, a plant will grow in this spot. Watch my word, it never fails, the truth lives forever. Manamma’s story is not fabricated. She is a goddess. Believers trusted her; and others who don’t believe will learn from her straight. Thatha, without looking at me, poured the coffee on that spot.

“What’s that, are you crazy? Are you out of mind? Why are you throwing away coffee like that?” I screamed. I was so sorry that that life-giving fluid was wasted on dirt; in all fairness, I or he should have consumed it.

Thatha returned slowly and sat on the porch, leaning against the pillar. “Babu, what is god? God is goodness. We’re not going to live forever but our words and action do. That’s the kind of woman our Manamma was. She was a lamp, true to her name; she glowed like a lamp of gems. She was so delicate, you’d think you one good look might wither her. And her character matched her name. Talk about our lives; what good are we doing? More like a bread of husk![3] A person may live only six months like a swan yet be as good as his life. Our Manamma lived like a lightning, just for a second, yet won a round of applause from one and all. She was only fourteen when she was married. She turned into ashes within four months. I set the fire with these two hands myself.” Thatha wiped his eyes with the towel on his shoulder.

My heart melted. “What is to you, thatha?” I asked him.

“What’s she to me? Tell me, who is who to anybody for that matter? She took a human form. The value of humankind, babu. She never spoke one ill word, not even for fun; she never wished bad, not even in her dreams, not even to her enemies. She never said no to anyone who said ‘please give.’ Her mother agonized over her kindness and Manamma responded, ‘why? Is this your hard earnings?’; she retorted that the wealth was not going to remain forever even if she had not given it away. She was only ten and even the most highly respected aldermen used to bow to her sense of fairness.”

Suddenly he stopped with a twitch and left, saying ‘see you later’.

Having nothing better to do, I started looking for clues: Wondered what could be the relationship between the plant that was to grow up in three days and the gorgeous young woman, the world beauty queen of all ages and whose faculty was of the highest caliber?

***

A week passed by. Since I had nothing to do, I started thinking about the past event again. I looked at the spot—three feet away from the gate and close to the compound wall. My eye caught a small creeper, about eight inches tall; it was swaying in the breeze like a snake on its tail. I kept staring at the stalk; the tip was glimmering like a new metal coil; three leaves, just opened, were putting on a shade of dark green, like an amateur artist. I told myself that ‘there was no god at all’ was not true at all. How else can I explain this? There was no indication of digging; no sign of sowing the seeds; where is the gardener who planted this plant here?

I heard the gate squeak and turned around. Thatha! He came with a bunch of bamboo stakes.

“Are you going to set up stakes for this plant?” I asked him. My surprise at his interest in this plant has not worn out yet.

“Yes, babu. This is not just a sprout that came up today. I came here when I barely grew a mustache. Would I leave it now, in my old age? That thalli asked me before she was gone, thatha, consider the plant as myself. take care of it.

Thatha was busy with his job on hand. I stood a little away and kept watching him.

“You never told me the entire story. How did this plant come up here?”

Thatha put down the hoe and said, “That’s our thalli’s power of word[4], babu. We all believed that a goddess took the human form in this world probably due to some curse. At first, I was also skeptical like everybody else. You know the popular belief, admission of guilt is the way out for redemption.[5] You know people, give them a mole and they’ll make a mountain of it;[6] hand them a tiny tip and they weave a huge story out of it. That’s what I thought too—the stories spread out like mercury. And then, it happened one day—here, this entire abdomen twirled like a whirlpool. I couldn’t take the pain anymore and so I jumped into the well. Funny world, nobody gives a morsel of food when I wanted to live; but when I wanted to die, they wouldn’t let me. Somebody pulled me out of the well. Manamma was playing in the area; she looked at me and burst into a big laugh. She gave me the fruit she had in her hand and said, ‘What’s wrong with you? Here, eat this fruit, pray to the lord. Come to my house for dinner tomorrow.’ I could not understand whatever magic that fruit contained. The pain in my stomach was gone like somebody chanted a mantra. On that day, I carried six bags of rice easily, no problem at all.”

***

My legs were hurting. I was waiting for him to come to the main point of the story. He was moving back and forth like a wooden horse, the end was no where in sight..

“We, the entire neighborhood, walked on one line. Her word was our command, a chip of gold. But it didn’t continue for long though. Why do you think people would say a dying tree produces warped fruit[7]? Some idiot got up like the pestle in the Yadava family.[8] He approached Manamma’s father and said ‘She’s growing up like a sugarcane, how long are you going to keep her at home?’ She looked at that idiot and smiled. She said, ‘Marriage is not for me. I am the same Satidevi[9] from Eternity. My lifespan is short, where is the room for a family life? If you are interested, I’ll find a girl, a gem, for you. If you are not, then, there is no more discussion.’ But, babu, that’s the way the world is. Her father could not show his face in town. People started teasing her, asking Is she Sati or Yati? They disparaged her saying it was a show of illusion and swore that they’d see the end of it; they all gathered one fine morning in front of her house. They raised questions about the uniqueness of her character.

The father took Manamma’s hands into his and asked her, “Amma, only you can show me what’s the recourse for me now. You maybe right in thinking that you’re different but it holds only when it’s acceptable to all. You know so much, you should understand this too.”

Manamma looked around and watched the people who gathered there and smiled. “All right. Gandharva’s will finish the job that’s going to happen anyways.[10] You do whatever needs to be done. But your action will not touch me. I don’t want you to worry on my account. Disbelief started even in Dwaparayugam[11] itself. Why should I blame you now. Here, I am pouring this coffee on this spot. One day, a kaasiratnam vine will sprout at the same moment as now. I’ll live as long as the vine lived.”

The entire crowd stood there dumbfounded. Not one could speak a word; their minds went numb! They gazed at the divine glow on her face with steadfast looks.

Manamma prodded a little hole with her toe and poured the coffee into the hole. This precisely is the spot. Small minds cannot comprehend the actions of noble souls. Many people laughed and questioned the logic of popping up a plant from coffee. To tell the truth, I also thought that it sounded strange. Besides, I knew Manamma was always very generous but not when it came to coffee; it was her life-force. But then, like I said, the actions of noble persons are intriguing for the ordinary folks. People like us can understand only when we see the clear logic, like a ripened fruit falling when a crow sat on it!

“The old man has been searching for a suitable match and here this young woman went about minding her business like a chidaanandamurty, the lord of eternal bliss. But then, the entire township became speechless as they noticed the plant come up on exactly the same day as the young woman predicted. Those who challenged her left the town and disappeared without a trace. But the person, her father, who suffered the insults could not keep quiet. He went about searching every village in the neighborhood but to no avail. He failed to find a suitable match and was despondent; he went to Manamma and stood in front of her. “The entire world is up in arms, calling you names like witch, and saying that you’ve gotten the gift from some mean gods of questionable powers. No man is coming forward to tie the tali around your neck. If you’re so knowledgeable, you must know this too. You tell me yourself where is the man who’s willing to tie the tali around your neck?” he asked her.

Manamma was arranging the fine tendrils of the kasiratnam creeper on to the stakes. She laughed and said, “Why didn’t you ask me earlier? Talk to Papayya; he lives in the adjacent village.”

Her father was stunned. The other villagers were taken aback. The father made inquiries and found out that it was true, Manamma guessed it right. Papayya was the village-head. His third son, sturdy as steel rod, came forward to marry Manamma without any usual formalities like pelli chuupulu. Our pantulu, Manamma’s father, was ecstatic; he praised every one of the presiding lords in heaven. By the time he performed Manamma’s wedding, he felt like he was blessed by all his ancestors.”

***

Thatha heaved a sigh, as if he needed a break. I, on the other hand, could not stand the suspense. I being who I am, when I read a book, I’d jump to the last page first, even if it were a detective novel! Thatha is old, I understand, but how can I bear thinks kind of inordinate delay?

“Just tell me whatever happened in the final analysis,” I said.

“It’s over,” he said.

“I didn’t mean …” I said, sounding apologetic. Thatha nevertheless remained sobre.

“I am telling you the truth. The whole thing came to an end on that day. She told me in her final moment to take care of this plant. That’s it. Thalli did not set foot on this ground again. It was like the story of Rushyasrunga, the saint, who was brought into this world since his presence was supposed to bring in rains and help farming. We had Manamma to have showers in our hearts and sent her away as soon as we were done with her.”

I wasn’t sure whether I should feel sorry for him or laugh at him. Clearly he was blaming himself for the atrocity that has been committed on Manamma.

“See you later,” he said and left. I was annoyed about the abrupt ending. It was more like the serial novels we’ve been reading in the weekly magazines nowadays.

***

The kasiratnam creeper was growing beautifully—a gorgeous burst of numerous tender strands sprouting all over on the garden patch, probably due to superphosphate. Thatha has been coming daily and caring for the plant conscientiously. On occasion I wanted to ask him whether he was feeding the plant coffee or gripe mixture [baby formula] but I was too lazy to talk. Roughly a month passed by. I was sitting on the porch as usual. Thatha came and cared for the plant but did not go away as he normally would. He stood there watching the plant keenly.

“What’s it, thatha? You found a bruise on your Manamma or something?” I said, teasingly.

Thatha gestured to me to near him. I was offended by his behavior and indifference yet I decided to consider it as his first offense and ignore it. I went near him.

“Look, this is the beginning. The plant is going to wither away, there won’t be any more flowers,” he said.

True. The shoots were broken; some of them fell off; most of the plant was looking lifeless. However, the plant did have plenty of buds.

“Why?” I asked, turning toward him. I knew nothing about trees, plants and creepers.

“Didn’t I tell you? Manamma has already told us that marriage would not agree with her. That’s what happened. Her family did everything per custom—checked the day, time and the most auspicious moment and sent her to the in-law’s house with numerous gifts like sarees and jewelry. But it has to fit her character too, right? She was born into this world only to settle whatever little debt she carried from her previous birth. Why would she have anything to do with all these mundane dharmas? But then, who’s going to understand this part? They all kept saying Manamma was looking different but nobody tried to find out what was happening in her mind. The son-in-law spoke not a single word but the mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, co-sisters-in-law, co-brothers-in-law, and all the neighbors picked on her like crows. Her husband did not take sides with either party. He remained calm like a noble yogi. But for him, the rest of the family fretted and fumed. At first, they assumed that she was still raw; they sat down with her and taught her the proper behavior befitting a wife; no response from her. She ate when she was given food, or else, went without eating. She used to sit in front of the tulasi plant in the backyard; no sleep at night and no food in the day. The family asked her if she was worried about her natal home; she said no. Then they thought maybe she was not interested in this marriage. One family member snapped, “The new bride should be dancing with joy in the in-law’s place; here she is, sitting in a corner, tight-lipped, wouldn’t that break his heart?” Manamma did not say a word about anything. Days passed by. She was wasting away without food and sleep. And the plant here was withering away at the same time.”

“What?” I cringed.

“Yes, babu, that’s what I’m saying. This plant started withering away starting the same day Manamma stopped eating there. After 15 days, Manamma lost consciousness. The same day, this plant here stopped blooming. That’s it. After one month, this plant dried up totally.”

Thatha choked and covered his face with towel…

I don’t remember how long I sat there, stunned.

“Starting tomorrow, this plant will not bloom anymore,” thatha walked away, murmuring to himself. I looked at the bush. It was full of soft, shiny buds, sharp as needles. Some of them are sure to bloom today and some may fade away. A few others would bloom tomorrow. They must. Didn’t thatha notice it? I spent the entire night racking my brains with the same thought. I wanted to get up early but couldn’t beat the habit. By the time I got up the radio was broadcasting the day’s news in English.It was 9:00 a.m. Suddenly I remembered the kasiratnam creeper. As I walked to the porch, I was nervous like a researcher about find the results of his experiment.

Darn! There were no flowers!

“Here, your coffee,” I heard mother’s voice and turned around.

My mother looked at me anxiously. “What’s wrong? You’re looking awful! What happened?”

Yes, what happened, whatever could have happened? “Nothing,” I said.

“Then why’re you looking so dreadful?”

“Nothing.”

I took coffee from her. I was about to sip my coffee, suddenly felt like sombody slapped on my wrist.

“What has happened? Are you feeling sick? How would I know unless you tell me,” mother asked with a concern rising by the minute.

“Amma, you don’t know Manamma’s story,” I said as if I made a discovery myself.

“Who’s Manamma?” Amma is always like that, gets suspicious so quickly.

“I mean…”

“What do you mean?”

“That creeper. Do you know about that kasiratnam creeper?”

Amma heaved a sigh of relief, “hum.” I’m still suspicious; I still haven’t gotten over my astonishment.

“What else is now? What happened?” Amma sounded like she knew something, if not all.

I stood up straight, straightened my collar, and spoke gravely, like a yogi delivering an enlightening speech on the nature of universe, “That was planted by a saintly woman, I just learned. That kasiratnam stood for a saintly woman.”

My sister entered the scene with my tiffin. She burst into a big laugh, “Who said so? Thatha?”

She kept laughing like a rivulet in full tide.

I turned pale. Did I fall for his trick?

“The man is old but did not lose his jest for life. He is a great storyteller,” amma said.

“Story?”

“Talk about the general knowledge of my little brother! An illiterate, who couldn’t say his alphabet, has fooled you!”

My sister kept laughing in ripples.

“Enough,” amma said and went away.

I still was not convinced. Additionally, there was one more question that was bothering me. I kept pestering my sister. It took three days before she told me and that too only after she had enjoyed my stupidity to her heart’s content!

“Flowers? Well, didn’t you notice that the landlady returned yesterday from her trip? She wakes up early in the morning and gives the plant a clean shave; she takes the flowers for her puja. And you wake up, like westerners, at nine; what else would you expect to find if not the bald plant?”

[End]

(Telugu original, kasiratnam, was published in Andhra Prabha Weekly, 5 November 1966.)

Read Telugu original here. The English translation has been published on thulika.net April, 2004.

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[1] Personification of Time according to Hindu beliefs, supposed to be in-charge of all the actions and responsible for bringing about the end of the world in course of time.

[2] Lunar calendar.

[3] Telugu proverb, taanuu o batuke, tavuDuu o roTTe!, meaning worthless life like bread made out of husk.

[4] The Telugu original term, vaaksuddhi, means a person’s unique quality; a person’s word materializes.

[5] chesina paapam chebite pothundi antaaru.

[6] gorantalu kondantalu chestaaru

[7] cheTTu cheDe kaalaaniki kukkamuuti pinjalu.

[8] Refers to the end of Lord Krishna.

[9] Wife of Lord Siva, and a mark of eternal marital bliss.

[10] kaagala kaaryam gandharvulu teerusthaaru.

[11] The third of the four yugas (time spans)