Monthly Archives: October 2014

PROGRESS OR RETREAT By Vivina Murthy

Vani reached the apartment and changed into night clothes before Sarathi parked the car and joined her. The phone has been ringing for some time. Sarathi was slightly annoyed that she did not respond to the phone call.

He looked at his watch. It was 11:40.

The children were asleep. The babysitter, awakened by the ringing of the phone, came into the hall, looking at the “masters”, and went back, yawning.

The phone stopped ringing.

“Maybe it was daddy,” he said in English.

Vani opened the fridge, poured some drink into two glasses. She came back sipping her drink and placed the second glass in front of Sarathi.

He didn’t take it.

“Your behavior isn’t as it used to be,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders, teasingly twisted them and put the half-empty glass on the coffee table, shaking her hair loose.

“How is this perfume?”

Sarathi looked at her blankly.

“You have no taste, you can’t tell one perfume from another. Do you know there is a perfume like this ?”

“I am Indian. I don’t care for trivial things,” he said, gulping his drink.

“I am glad you have conceded at least one fact”

“What is it supposed to mean?”

“That the Indians gather and the others enjoy.”

“That is insulting to me.”

The phone started ringing again. He lifted it, cutting the conversation short.

Vani settled down comfortably in the sofa. She was tasting her drink while enjoying the picture of Sarathi talking on the phone. She was reminded of a school kid obediently accepting punishment from his teacher. She wasn’t sure whether she liked the picture or not. But she would never miss to watch it.

Sarathi rinsed his mouth with the drink and gulped it in one gulp.

“It seems mother wants us to go over to her place.”

“Bangalore is horrible. It is an old man’s city. It smells old. It is run by the old for the old.”

“It’s a pity you were born there.”

“That isn’t a secret. Shall I tell you a real one? Destitutes and dimwits can’t perceive the difference between one city and another. Only enthusiasts and achievers have that knack. Look at our ever active city, Delhi. Here business is sandwitched between politics. Bombay is a heaven! There, politics marches on along with business. But Calcutta? There, business power and muscle power go hand in hand. You can gauge a city by its evenings. Evenings are their nerve centres. They tease people with brains, ease them and please them finally….”

He continued to talk.

Vani was slumped in the sofa carelessly toying with an idea—suppose we strip Sarathi naked and chase him through the street. He isn’t fat, but slightly overweight, with a thick crop of hair; has a degree in Engineering, did his M.B.A also. He is district general manager in R.K. Industries; is in the race to become the general manager. But where do his status and ambition show?

“Everyday daddy rings up. How can I go to Bangalore and stay there?”

Vani left Sarathi to himself, went into the bedroom and stretched on the bed. The dog snuggled close to her.

“Not able to sleep,” said Kameswari.

Ranganatham was immersed in a book in the dim light of the reading lamp.

They lived in a fairly old house in Malleswaram area in Bangalore. The house has a large compound with a small garden in front. He instinctively responded to her feeble voice in the calmness of the night.

“Worried about Parthu?”

“Do you think he will come?”

“Yes, certainly. He is our son”.

“He needn’t come to light my pyre. I want him to spend some time with me when I am alive.”

“I know it Kamu. Try to sleep”.

She could not catch the slight irritation in his voice.

“Ranga, don’t you feel sleepy?”.

“No. You get tired if you talk.”

“Alright, I won’t talk. So, do you think I can survive, my dear dimwit?”

 

Ranganatham shut his eyes. A powerful shiver passed through his body from head to foot. ‘I know very well what happens to this dear dear creature after she died. She will be born again and again until her karma is exhausted. My mind refuses to accept that thought. Both my body and mind become enervated as the thought passed through me. The intensity of the shiver has been reduced a little, these days. But why this wetness in my eyes? And the vacuous feelings in my heart? Is it a sign of love or age?’ he thought.

“Try to sleep, Kamu,” he said.

“No, I can’t.”

The sound of the buzzing memories…. He came closer and sat in a chair next to the bed.

“What do you want to do, then?”

He leaned forward, with his chin in his palm.

She turned her head to face him with an enormous effort.

“I can do two things. Guess what they are”.

“I can’t, dear.”

“Imagine, you block-head.”

“No, I can’t,” he said in a tone of conceding defeat.

“To talk or not to talk. But I don’t know for how long.” Tears welled up in her eyes and choked her voice.

Ranganatham patted her hair. Kameswari tried to touch him stretching her right hand painfully. He gave his hand for her to hold. Making a great effort, she closed her weak and dry fingers around his hand.

“Nothing else except talking is left between us, Ranga. Maybe, my silence is my greatest service to you”.

Her voice had lost its natural clarity and slurred.

“How is it a service?”

“Maybe your mind is on the book you are reading. Don’t you think leaving you to your book is a service?”.

“Don’t think like that, Kamu. Let me have the fortune of listening to you as long as possible. Talk about everything you want to.”

She started talking about Parthu.

Her mind is still in an excellent condition. She remembered everything, including the dates. She can describe the past incidents with the minutest detail. She can quote from the books she has read long time ago. But nothing else in her body is working. She can’t shake off an ant creeping on her body. She tries to use her hand to communicate her feelings.

Parthu comes very frequently, meets doctors but never sits by his mother’s bed even for a short while.

While he is here, the phone never stops ringing. He has different kind of friends and circles. Speed is a way of life for him.

She and Ranganatham had jobs too. But their pace of life was slower. She sensed this speed long before it actually came. She brought up her son, teaching him how to cope with it and withstand it.

Now that speeding has to be stopped for an hour; one night, if possible. He has to stay here for her sake. She has to stop him with the hand she can’t move. He has to stop for her sake …

“Don’t find fault with him, Kamu.”

“Me, finding fault with an individual?”

Ranganatham looked at her calmly.

“I am a non-believer, Ranga. You are a believer who believes in the divinity of even snakes and stones,” she said again.

“So, you think that believers alone find fault with others,” he wanted to argue, but didn’t.

As a typical mother she refuses to find fault with Parthu. But his way of thinking is quite different. If a son cannot devote some time to his dying mother, he is certainly wrong. Butthen, why try to convince her and hurt her?

“Don’t bother Kamu, we disagree in our views.”

“But you married a widow like me, made a mother of me and said ‘I’ll give you the freedom to think the way you want to think’. And you did it. We have been poles apart in our ways of thinking. But we have lived together marvelously, haven’t we?.”

“Certainly, we have, Kamu”.

AtmaParamatma … heaven … hell … birth ..rebirth.. you believed in all of them. I didn’t, not even in one. But who deserves to be given the credit for the glorious success of our family life? I think you do, and the spirit behind it is the forward-looking society. But you agree with neither opinion. You think that both should go to God.”

Ranganatham listened to her, receding gradually into himself.

How freely Kameswari talks! Often it looks as though she is losing control over her mind. Then she talks almost deliriously. Even then there are no traces of repentance in her. She never agrees that all this suffering is due to thesin” that “happened” in her life.

The present state of Kameswari forces him to ask the question ‘What is basic—belief or disbelief?’

That horrible experience! He wriggles with pain when the memory of that experience came to his mind. It leads him to thinking that her present pain is a punishment for the past sin. How wonderful it would have been if man didn’t have any knowledge of sin. Then, maybe, he would have been less distressed about Kameshwari’s pain, Ranganatham thought.

Kameswari fell asleep quietly. Ranganatham rearranged the bed sheets, increased the speed of the fan and looked out through the window curtains.

An auto-rickshaw went tearing through the street. Moonlight was slanting on the flowers outside. Dogs were barking somewhere.

 

Ranganatham sat in the easy chair, shut his eyes. Memories of the past came rushing to under his eyelids…

Kameswari was patting three-year old Parthu to sleep. Ranganatham was reading some book of philosophy. It was ten at night.

“Ranga!”

“Yes.”

“I want to tell you something”

“You have always been telling and me listening, your Majesty!”

“Ranga, please be serious”

“O.K. I’m ready”

“Don’t you observe any change in me?”

“Tremendous change! You are becoming more and more beautiful”.

She looked up, patting her son.

He is forty, good complexion, strong; a healthy physique; and an ever-smiling face.

“I have a lot of confidence in you, Ranga. So you can understand me. I must tell you something important.”

“Why all this beating around the bush. Say it directly.”

She stopped patting Parthu, went to his chair, and sat in it. Ranganatham started patting Parthu when he moved in his sleep.

After a while Kameswari started talking, “I knew Natarajan even before we got married. We had been working in the same company. The every day experience of a working woman in regard to my male colleagues is that they are vulgar and fickle. But in Natarajan I found none of these qualities, not even a trace of them. I had a sort of respect for him.

“Our jobs required us to do a lot of traveling together. When we were returning from the recent official trip we were caught in a cyclonic storm. They said they could not run the train any further. I was worried thinking about you having a terrible time with Parthu at home.

“Understanding my plight, Natarajan tried to cheer me up. Luckily we got a taxi. We sat in it huddled up, four in the back seat. The rain water was seeping through and we got wet. Observing his discomfort, I asked him to sit freely. Our rickety car broke down near a small town around midnight. The driver, after making some effort to move it, finally, said that it wouldn’t and nothing could be done until the next morning.

“When the rain gave a brief let up, we got out of the car. There was a newly married couple in our group. They were gleefully twittering away taking it for granted that none of us understood Malayalam. Their enjoyment looked rather disgusting in the situation we were in. We had idlies and tea in a shanty hotel. The hotel manger said there was a lodging house nearby.

“Only two rooms were available in the lodge. The newly-wed Malayali couple was delighted, but I felt depressed. The weather was eerie outside.

The lodge-owner said that the Malayali couple could have a room and Natarajan and I could use the other. Natarajan looked into my eyes.

“Any objection?” he asked.

“Yes,” I wanted to say. But the ideas I had valued for a long time stopped me.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. In fact, I expected him to know that I had an objection. Suppose he had an objection, what would have been my reaction?

 

There were two cots, a table and two chairs in the room. The room was smelling rotten. The bed and the pillows were smelling bad too. There was no power supply for two days. Luckily there was a hurricane lantern and a few candles.

Natarajan moved the cots apart and spread the sheets. I sat on a chair and watched him do it. Involuntarily I drew the table drawer and felt revolted by the packet I found in it. I shut the drawer with a bang. I felt a bad taste in my mouth when I realized who came to that lodge and why.

“What is that?” Natarajan asked, surprised by the sound.

“Nothing,” I said hastily.

 

“Ranga, from now on, it is hard to describe my feelings. The first necessity for conjugal amity is trust in each other and also in oneself. I don’t think we’re lacking in that. You know I am not interested in extra-marital relationships. But certainly I want freedom. I always support the desire for freedom. But I never considered extra-marital relationships a symbol of freedom.

Natarajan, maybe out of confusion or curiosity, came to the table, drew the drawer and shut it immediately. I couldn’t gauge his feelings.

‘Behave normally. The question of escaping from him arises only when he misbehaves. ‘Don’t you have confidence in yourself? Why should you hurt him without a reason? What right you have to do it?’ My ideas flowed like this.

We lay down on our beds. My sari was wet and heavy. I wanted to change it. If I wanted to do it, I’ll have to ask him to go out of the room…. If you were in his place? Your mischievous deeds and your ability to make me happy…

I looked at him involuntarily.

He appeared restless. Why?

Is he thinking like me? If he is, will he cause trouble? Is he able to read my feelings? What feelings do I have for him to read? I don’t have any. It is unnatural for him not to have any feelings, though his sophistications may hide them. Perhaps, I am not sufficiently attractive to tempt him. I am going on thirty-seven. My body still excites Ranga. Is Ranga’s excitement about me a mere pretension? Doesn’t Ranga get anything from me? Is there nothing in me to give him?

Ranga, how fascinating is the mind! How powerful are some of the unexpected happenings! Look, how the mind can create a powerful logic to satisfy the needs of the body!

Natarajan sat up on the bed and lit a cigarette.

I leaned on my elbow and tapered the lantern.

“ Not able to sleep?”

I was trying to answer. He got up and came closer.

“The sari is wet, change it. I’ll go out”

I was trying to read beyond his normal, but insulting words. There is nothing in you; you are like spring gone by…you are a withering flower… you can’t smell seductive..

I didn’t know whether my mind was guiding the body or the body was driving the mind. Some unknown feeling was challenging me.

I caught hold of his hand.

It was hot, like an answer to my challenge. I knew as a woman that it was not weather that has made his body hot.”

Ranganatham was stunned and forgot to pat his son, Parthu. He felt that the world had come to a grinding halt.

“How did people behave in situations like this?”

They killed themselves or killed the others.

“Situation like what?”

“A situation in which the husband comes to know that his wife strayed away from him. What a tremendous volume of literature has been written on “this situation”! How many books have been produced by great thinkers! How many sermons have been delivered! What is the use? No one, with his intellect, has been able to solve the problems of the other. All these ideals and sermons have failed to stem the tide of sin. Though God has given the same parts to all human beings, he has created an infinite variety in them. Different human beings respond differently to the same situation. What is the source of this variety, these different emotional responses? Everything about the human being, his ideas, emotions, responses, are individual. Human relations are a myth. Everyone builds his own nest and is scared of it. Nevertheless he tries to protect it. Marriage, family, society and government are its external symbols. God, religion and psyche are its invisible foundations. She obeyed her emotions and I’ll obey my thoughts.. We are poles apart. I’ll not live with her, sleep with her and I’ll kill her when the right opportunity comes. I’ll kill her for sure, no going back. But her death shouldn’t result in my death, Parthu shouldn’t become an orphan, so her death has to be a secret.

The phone started ringing.

Ranganatham withdrew his thoughts and lifted the phone.

“Daddy,” Parthu’s voice from Delhi.

“Parthu and children are coming, Kamu.”

“…….”

‘Ranganatham went to Kameswari’s bed and looked at her carefully. She was breathing. He heaved a sigh of relief.

“Let her sleep.”

He gently placed his palm on her forehead and felt tiny beads of sweat. He increased the speed of the fan. She needs the fan even in biting cold. He has always been scared of cold like a street dog. He sleeps curls up into a ball when the fan is on. When he woke up he would turn the fan on for her, and when she woke up she turn it off for him.

Ranganatham stood there one long moment looking at her.

She should feel very happy because Parthu is coming. How happy he would be if she is happy!

He was thinking about the greatest crisis in his life only a short while ago. The thoughts that troubled his mind appear now like dead people in old photographs. The present emotions   being totally different, the past emotions are unreachable. Inability to feel emotional when necessary and getting emotionally worked up about trifles are, perhaps, natural signs of old age.

Parthasarathi, along with Vani and children, came that evening. Children were on vacation, they said. Parthasarathi was talking repeatedly about the heat in Delhi. They had decided to leave the children here for vacation. Kameshwari’s face was glowing with delight. Vani was carefully observing everything Sarathi talked or did. The grandchildren gathered around Ranganatham for gossip. But Ranganatham could see that something was wrong with the way Sarathi and Vani were acting.

Impulsively Sarathi made a phone call and went out waving at them.

Vani spent a long time with the mother-in-law. She made the cook prepare what they liked to eat. The children, tired by the long journey, went to bed after watching the video for a short while. Ranganatham and Vani had dinner together.

After Vani went to her room, Ranganatham sat close to Kameswari’s bed. Kameswari was visibly happy.

“Parthu,Vani and the children—everybody is with me, if I were dead now …”

Ranganatham slowly touched her lips with his finger.

“You should not talk like that.”

“You dimwit, do you think it will happen simply because I wished for it?”

“But you have promised that you will never talk about this.”

“My daughter-in-law spent a lot of time with me,” Kameswari said.

“Yes, she applied oil to your hair also,” Ranganatham added mentally.

While talking about Vani, Kameswari fell asleep like a child.

 

Ranganatham sat beside the bed, reading a book.

Sarathi came home after midnight. Ranganatham told him that his mother was very happy at the affectionate attention she had received from Vani.

“Why haven’t you gone to bed, daddy ? Vani will take care of mother. You go to bed.”

Sarathi went into his room.

Ranganatham stared blankly at him and sighed. He turned off the light and settled down on his easychair. He hadn’t slept at nights since Kameswari fell sick.

Vani was still awake when Sarathi entered the room.

“You are really a nice girl” Sarathi said changing into a nightgown.

“How did you discover my goodness so suddenly ?”

“It seems you looked after mother carefully. Daddy is very happy.”

“It was done to a patient, not to your mother.”

“I am not ready for an argument. Goodbye,” he said, covering himself with a blanket.

“Look here. I am not waiting here to see your sleeping beauty. I want to know why you are avoiding me.”

“Don’t talk rubbish”.

“May I know how you get your things done if you don’t have a beautiful wife like me?”

“You are exceeding limits.”

“Limits between you and me! It is really funny that you talk about limits. Anyway, how long do you intend to hide me like this in Bangalore and why?”

Sarathi covered himself with a blanket, refusing to answer.

Vani switched off the light.

“I am ringing up Delhi.”

“Whom?”

“I needn’t tell you.”

“Why?” he shouted getting up.

“Because, you know.”

“You bitch.”

“Shut up. If I am a bitch, you are a pimp.”

“Vani, we have to live together, you must co-operate.”

“You have taken a lot of cooperation from me for your promotion.”

“Was it only for my sake?”

“No, it was for my sake!”

He was silent for a few moments.

“I asked you to be a little ‘civilized’ and move with him as a society lady does. But I didn’t want you to sleep with him.”

“But you never objected to my sleeping with him.”

“You can never understand me. Am I not telling you now to keep yourself within reasonable limits?”

“Look Sarathi, I am not your pet dog to wag my tail when you throw a biscuit at me,” she cut in.

“Maybe you trust him. He is a true businessman. He will put you up for sale.”

“I know that much. You rented me out to him. He will sublet me to someone else.”

Sarathi fell silent once again.

“Why do you think I brought you here from Delhi? How can you invite that fellow to this place and make an ass of me? Let us go back to Delhi tomorrow.”

“Let me think about it. You go to sleep.”

While getting ready to go to bed, Sarathi noticed that the door was left open.

“Why didn’t you shut the door?” he asked.

“It is you who did not have the patience to do it.”

He got up and saw that his father was sitting in the easychair. He shut the door and stood there for sometime thinking.

He felt weak and shaky. He felt as if he came face to face with a still-born child, a child of his own mind. To get rid of the apparition he moved towards the bed slowly, lay down and shut his eyes.

“Do you think daddy heard our conversation?” he asked.

The whole world suddenly became dark. He didn’t know where he stood in that darkness. He didn’t know whether he was moving or standing still. Is someone moving him or trying to stop him from moving forward? Was he under the illusion of moving forward when everyone was moving backward? Did his journey depend upon his choice? Anyway, what was his destination?

The questions were very unsatisfactory! Ranganatham was trying to answer them.

He sat in his easychair, glued to it. The incident had shaken him to the roots of his existence.

They’ve had different world views ever since.

When the present was pressing down on his consciousness Ranganatham was trying to take shelter in rethinking and revaluing the past.

That day, Ranganatham walked out of the house. Three months passed.

It was half past seven in the morning. Kameswari was getting ready to go to office, packing her lunch-box. She heard Parthu crying and come out of the kitchen.

Ranganatham was standing there with a three month old beard and emotions wrestling with one another in his eyes.

Kameswari stood motionless and was shocked.

He came closer, took her hand into his hands.

She was thrilled.

She did not ask him where he had gone to.

Neither did he ask her how she had been.

There were neither questions nor answers.

She behaved as though he had returned from a routine journey. He too responded the same way as she did.

He played with Parthu, ate and slept.

The next day also Kameswari did not go to office.

 

That night, Parthu was sleeping. The world was getting ready for the night. Like shepherd boys the stars were gathering in the sky for gossip. Human minds that control bodies started dozing off. The bodies that are still awake sang songs of welcome to their companions as the starry night and cool breeze acted as mediators.

Ranganatham wiped the sweat from Kameswari’s forehead and kissed her. She nuzzled closer.

“My belief has saved you,” Ranganatham said.

Kameswari lifted her head slowly from her reverie of happiness and said, “Not me, its our marriage, our family.”

The voice is familiar to him. But he was disappointed by something undefinable. He looked at Kameswari who was looking at him probingly and said, “Yes, my belief saved our marriage and also our love; it’s the bedrock.”

She continued to look at him.

“I went to several places, prayed to umpteen gods, bathed in sacred rivers and listened to saints. But questions continued to haunt me.

‘Did Kameswari do any thing wrong, or did the circumstances forced her to do wrong?’

‘What place does the intention have in a wrong deed? Isn’t a wrong deed “wrong” when it is forced on the doer?

“These questions plagued me for a very long time. I was away from my people and the places familiar to me. But not from my own self. I came to the conclusion that wrong certainly exists and so does sin.

Punishment follows sin as a rule even if one doesn’t believe in the either of them. But she confessed her sin. ‘Do I have a right to punish her because I believe punishment follows sin?’

Saints listened to my questions and I, to their answers. I realized that they didn’t really understand my questions. Only God can answer it. My search for the answer ended in the Jagannath Temple in Puri.

The mighty sea, the wind and the temple helped me to question myself. Subhadra’s desire and thoughts on her own brother Jagannatha answered my question. Who can succeed where gods have failed? “Nothinghappens withoutmy intervention. I am present even in the most unbearable thing that happen to you,”he said. If a wrong thing has happened with HIS knowledge and intervention, whether to punish the doer or not is only HIS problem. If the doer feels he is responsible for his wrong deed, to punish himself or not is his own problem.

“An individual like me has no right to punish another. This is how I reconciled with myself. My God and my belief in Him helped me to make peace with myself. They got me out of the thoughts of murder, suicide and desertion. They gave me the strength to pardon and accept you, you who have done “wrong”. They saved you, Parthu and me. If you can see it, they saved our love too.”

Ranganatham said everything he could.

After carefully listening to everything he has said, Kameswari sat for some time, looking at him, with probing looks.

“Your words have brought back hope to me. I feel like talking.”

“Talk,” Ranganatham said.

She brought her diary and gave it to him.

Ranganatham hesitated.

“I am giving it, read.”

 

He started reading from the page she had asked him to begin with:

“Ranga, where have you gone, you fellow! My whole being is thirsting for your sympathy, you seem to be upset because my body is tainted. What is tainting, anyway? You seem to be unhappy because I cheated you. The truth is I have disgraced myself. This is my personal defeat. I am both the cheater and the cheated. I see the two as different from the two you imagine. My cheating and my failure have taken away the right to live from me.

Death?

I consider the idea of uniting with you after death in the other world. The idea is a stupid one. The two parts I see in myself also will perish after my death. Then how is death justifiable?

Death demands a lot of courage and also cowardice.

I have the former but not the latter.

I know that I can’t change, with my death, what has happened

My death starts a chain of events. After my death what happens to my dear Ranga, who is a believer. Belief begins with cowardice. He is too weak to bear the burden of his life in my absence. He may foolishly commit suicide with a mad desire to join me. Then Parthu becomes an orphan!

What is to be done?

Ranga is a rationalist, although a believer. He can understand my personal agony. But he may think that I have committed “sin”. He believes that “sin” can be washed away with “repentance”. If he suggests any act of retribution, I am prepared to do it.

But personally I believe neither in sin nor in retribution.

In that case, what effect will my retribution have on him?

It satisfies him but not me.

Isn’t it—trying to pretend that I believe in what he believes—also cheating him?

Isn’t it cheating myself too—doing what I don’t believe in?

I’ll tell him everything that is on my mind. He will offer his sympathy and show me a way-out.”

 

After reading it completely, Ranganatham thumbed through the empty pages and looked at Kameswari. She was watching him. He sighed imperceptibly and asked, “Didn’t you feel any fear or any hesitation?”

She said, “No,” shaking her head from side to side.

“I wouldn’t have known about it if you had not told me. Ours was a smooth marriage. Didn’t you see that you could throw a twist into it with your confession”?

“You never put such fear in me”.

“If I had been different, would you have experienced such fear?”

“That is your characteristic quality. Questions. Questions. Questions! you always ask questions. Maybe you have your own answers for them. But you have the grace to bear with my answers although they are different from yours. Maybe people like you are responsible for humanity discarding old opinions and acquiring new ones”.

“You are evading my question.”

Kameswari was silent.

“You are scared now”.

“No, I am not. This experience has helped me transcend trivial fears about you and our marriage.”

“But you have not answered my question.”

“I am trying to think about the usefulness of my answer to you and to our marriage,” she smiled at him and looked longingly.

“The progress of the human race lies in knowing and making other people know. I must tell you, continue to tell you as long as I exist and we are together. You should also tell me. Secrecy prevents progress.”

“You have not answered …”

“If you had been frightening, I would have been frightened. ‘You’ are responsible for the development of my individuality.”

Ranganatham patted her hair and asked, “Didn’t you feel like committing suicide after I had left?”

“Of course, I did. Why not?”

“Then how did you resist it?”

“My ideas helped me because I was an unbeliever.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Suppose you’ve returned home after my death; can you bear it after returning so full of hope. Thoughts like those prevented me from committing suicide initially. You didn’t write to me. No information from you; perhaps you were dead. This thought was trying to enter my mind, driving all the other thoughts out. Suppose I prayed to God to save you, God in whose existence you believed and of whose existence I knew nothing about! This idea led to a chain of thoughts, which filled my mind. Your behavior, my sensations and our passion—aren’t they real? Haven’t we created the love and passion that we shared? What is God’s creation or the creation of God? Is it born out of fear or an unrealistic desire? What can my worshipping of God give me? Can it bring you back to life if you were dead? It can’t. Maybe it can give me a little consolation. Where does that illusory consolation lead me to? Man has been questioning himself even while going through this illusion. His ability to ask questions has brought him to the present state. Knowing all this, why should I fall into this trap? Is it because I have lost the ability to ask questions? Then I started thinking about your death and its consequences. Your absence has created a great void. But there are men and women in this world who have lived closer to each other than we have. What happened when they lost their partners? They grieved or became closer to some one else. If you’d died, you and your lack of imagination are to be blamed. You have merely repeated what a few others have done in circumstances similar to ours. You showed no realistic thinking. Your ignorance is the cause of your death. Ranga, after that I erased the thought of death from my mind. And it is the change in your thinking that has helped you to survive and made our reconciliation possible! Belief unites our mind and body. It never helps us to progress forward.”

Ranganatham listened to her carefully.

He took her into his arms.

“Look Kamu, the confidence you have in you and your thinking is also a belief. Belief and unbelief are the twin plants that sprout from the soil of doubt. But actually they are two kinds of belief. The best belief is the one which helps the individual to control himself .”

Kameswari kept thinking.

 

A few days rolled by. Kameswari continued in the same job.

“Why don’t you change your job?”

“Why another job? Do you think I’ll run away?”

“Then give it up. My salary is sufficient for us, isn’t it?”

“I too used to think like that. I realised how important a job was for a woman like me when you went away.”

After a few days Ranganatham asked, “Can’t we get united?”

“I am trying my best.”

After some time, he said, “Being so far from each other while living under the same roof and sharing the same bed has become unbearable for me, Kamu.”

“My dear nut, we are not distanced from each other. You won’t have peace until you get rid of that idea,” she said and embraced him. He twisted himself around her.

“Ranga, what happened in our life is closely connected with the times we live in and the thoughts we inherit. Man-Woman relationship is changing because the world is changing. The Man has no right to say that the woman should not seek employment because incidents like the one happened in our lives are likely to happen anytime. It is no answer at all. Only if you can realise that everything that is happening is a step towards progress, you will get new solutions.”

They were united.

Several times he thought carefully about the opinion that the universal values that have come down from the ancient times are gradually eroding and the world is destined for destruction.

They have lived supplementing each other. Today what is it that is happening between his son and daughter-in-law? Isn’t it a fall?

Confused by his thoughts, Ranganatham approached Kameswari’s bed and sat down in the chair. “How do you interpret it, Kamu?” he asked.

“My son is selling his wife for his career. She obeys him either for luxury or lust. What is happening between them? I consider it a great sin for a woman to sell her body even for food. But it is only you who made me understand what a terrible thing hunger was. You wanted me to understand the incident that took place in your life in the right perspective and share your distress. You said that the industrial civilization has brought about new situations and conflicts between man and woman. Though I had serious doubts about your theory, I could respect the spirit behind it. Look at our children—the generation next to ours. How should we understand it—the generation that wants to buy everything by selling anything? Looking at their colossal sin, I am forced to look back on our own past. I can’t but think that ours was also a fall and what is happening today is nothing but a continuation of that. With your argumentative ability   you convinced me that the world is moving towards progress You made me change my opinion that once dharma was walking on all its four legs and now limping on one leg. You showed me how opinions like mine originate and in whom and made me think seriously.”

“No, Kamu, I can’t agree with you on that. Humanity is certainly running towards a total disaster. Now there are husbands who sell their wives and wives who are willing to be sold.

What do you think they want? It’s horrible. How do you support their behavior? Analyse them?

Ranganatham, overcome by emotion, closed his eyes .

“Mamayya”!

Ranganatham opened his eyes.

Vani!

He turned his head toward her.

“I know you loathe me. But I loathe myself more vehemently than you ever can. But I have to answer myself.”

He hated listening to her. Vani continued, “I agree with you that your son is after career and I am after luxuries. I am an escapist. But what am I trying to escape or from whom? If I start to think about me, I always land on the thoughts of the world and the power and people running it.

“Who created careers and the instruments of luxury? Who has forced himself into our personal lives and vitiated our relationships? Who is tempting us with more and more wealth and comfort? Who is showing us the carrot and making us run for it? Who is driving us in the name of education, jobs, positions, assets, comforts and rewards? They are those who are shouting from roof tops that this mad chasing is democracy and human liberty. With the help of propaganda they are trying to convince everybody and also compelling us to believe it. They   are creating divisions between races, religions and nations. Shamelessly they make use of everything possible to achieve it. They take care to see that one human being doesn’t agree with the other. What do they want to achieve?”

Ranganadham couldn’t control himself. He looked at her. He was reminded of Vemana, the saint who lived in lust and, after a while left it, and started preaching on code of conduct.

“They want Free Market. They want to make a commodity of everything that belongs to man. Man has become commodity and a consumer too. Here you get sold and there you buy. The creators and preachers of this system are also not an exception. Their vanity and mental fragility make them what they are!”

“But the seed of its destruction is within the system itself. Free Market makes man desperate. The desperate man doesn’t hesitate to sell himself or kill the other for his benefit. But can this system satisfy all his needs? If these people, who’ve gotten accustomed to this adventure, realize that Free Market can’t fulfill all their needs, they can destroy it in no time.”

Ranganatham looked at Vani, stunned.

“You know so much. Yet…”

Vani shook her head side to side, “The idea that people who ‘know’ live with a sense of justice is an old superstition. These people who ‘know’ organize their game with better skill and taste. They create their own rules. The real commodities and consumers are those who ‘know’ what they really are. When the people who do not ‘know’ can control the people who ‘know’, then the situation will be different.”

Ranganatham suddenly turned to Kameswari and asked, “Kamu, what do you say to her?”

There was no movement in Kameswari.

Ranganatham, shaking, touched her hand, put his finger near her nostril to check whether she was breathing or not, examined her sides and then felt her pulse.

Kameswari was no more.

He knew that this moment would come, but the shock is inevitable, the feeling that a part of his existence has been taken away. He was dazed. His motive force is gone! But when? Was it after she listened to him or Vani? Was it with a feeling of defeat or satisfaction? Is this progress or retreat? Torn between sorrow and doubt Ranganatham sat there motionless.

 

Vani approached him.

[End]

 

(Translated by Vallampati Venkata Subbaiah and published on thulika.net, April 2004.)

***

(The Telugu original was entitled “payanam-palayanam” and was published in Pratibha .)

GOOD FORTUNE By Illindala Saraswati Devi

Seenayya died.

He died after suffering in bed for over two years and suffering very badly; he could not chew or swallow.

His death did not bring tears to anybody’s eyes. His family thought, “The jeeva[1] in his body has been writhing under pain for over two years and now it is freed finally.” Now he was not suffering any more. His mouth was closed shut. No more struggling. He lay there straight and stiff.

His room was located at a corner. Right from that corner he’d been groaning, screaming, calling for everybody, and fretting and fuming because nobody responded to his calls—not so much as even a peek; and then he would raise his voice even higher—all of this stopped.

It was three in the morning.

All of them were sleeping while the fan was spreading cool breeze around. Seenayya breathed his last without anybody in the house noticing it.

It’s daybreak. The sun was creeping up slowly. His four sons woke up. Brushed their teeth, had the coffee their wives brought for them, then they picked up the newspaper, a section each, and sat down to read.

All the children woke up, brushed their teeth, finished their coffee, took bath, and started organizing their books, getting for ready for school. They all were busy with their daily activities—jobs and the fear of not make it on time.

In that house, there was a 15-year-old girl, her vocal chords were muted. She was Seenayya’s only daughter. She kept looking into his face without batting an eye. She was worried since he was not moaning; she took his hand and felt his pulse; put her hand on his heart and tried to find if it was beating; touched his hands and feet. The body was cold and stiff.

Her name was Sundari. It was just in name only. She was truly beautiful. She tried to check up on Seenayya the best she knew how. Then she came out of the room, went to the servants and tried to sign to them—pointed to her heart and pulse on her hand and tried to explain that she could not hear it. Before they could figure out her gestures, she went to her brothers’s rooms and told them too.

They dismissed her, “Crazy girl! This dumb idiot makes fuss for even a small change in him. Maybe he fell asleep. The house is quiet. Maybe the medications worked today.” They all were getting ready to go to work. The daily events went on as usual.

Sundari could not speak but she was not stupid. She was doing all the chores in the house without directions fron anybody; nobody could find fault with her work. She understood that nobody was paying attention to her worry; she ran to Madhavayya who lived a few houses down the street. He is a distant relative of Seenayya.

She folded her two hands and explained to Madhavayya gesturing in her own way about Seenayya’s condition and begged him to come and see him. Madhavayya understood her gestures. He had been watching her since her childhood. He was also worried like her father about this girl who was born after four boys and about her speech disability.

Madhavayya noticed her sorrow, understood the situation, and got up quickly. He threw the towel on his shoulder and said, “Come, I’ll go with you,” and followed her.

By that time, all the men folks left for work and children for school. Working daughters-in-law rushed to their busstops. Only the eldest daughter-in-law was home, busy organizing things in her room.

Madhavayya went straight to Seenayya’s room and noted his condition. Sundari was crying her heart out. He wiped her tears and asked her to bring a mat. Per our custom in our country, they both moved the body on to the mat and covered it with a sheet.

Madhavayya came out of the room and said to Kanthamma, the daughter-in-law, “Ammayi, Kantamma, it seems Seenayya has passed away a while ago. Sundari and I laid him on a mat. About the others, are they at work?”

“Yes. They’re all gone,” she replied as if questioning so what?

“All the sons must come home; the daughters-in-law need to be here as well. They all must get this message.”

“How can we? We don’t a phone in our house. What should we do?”

“Haven’t you been making phonecalls from my neighbor’s house? Come, make the calls. It looks like he’s gone 5 or 6 hours back.”

“Did Sundari tell you? She’s crazy; she gets nervous for no reason and gets on everybody else’s nerves too. Would they let us talk on the phone so early in the morning and that too about death?”

“Why wouldn’t they? This’s an important message; I’m sure they wouldn’t object to such an urgent message. Go, give them the message.”

“I don’t know, I’m scared.”

“Then, write down their phone numbers at work and give it to me. Also include the numbers of your co-daughters-in-law. I will make the calls. They all must come,” he said, annoyed and frowning.

“I don’t know for sure. I will note down as much as I could recall. I think he was okay while they all were home. Or else, I am sure, they wouldn’t have left for work,” she thought as she jotted down the numbers.

Madhavayya went and made the calls. They all came home. The neighbors noticed the commotion and they also gathered around.

“Didn’t any of you go into his room before leaving for work and check his condition? Probably he died sometime at night,” Madhavayya said, distressed.

“We all get up and get busy with our things. We have to rush through the day or else we’ll miss our buses,” the sons replied.

“That’s true too. But when you have a sick man at home, you must look after him, no matter how busy you are. And he is not somebody; he is your own father, responsible for your existence; the father who sweated to make money and raised you; gave you all education and raised you like princes. It’s your duty to take care of him.”

“The doctor said ‘No need for any more medications. He was not able to swallow even liquids. There is nothing I could do.’ So, all we have to do is to watch, right? We’ve been checking on him before we went to bed each night. And again, before we left for work. What else we can do, you tell us. There is no remedy for his sickness. We put him in the hospital and arranged for his medications. It wasn’t easy to arrange for his radiation treatment yet we got that too for him. We did everything the doctors told us to do.”

Madhavayya had no response for this logic at the moment. Sundari sat next to Seenayya and was sobbing, heartbroken.

“Poor man. He’s suffered horribly, not one or two days but for two long years.”

“All his kindness, good heart and patience came to nothing.”

“The sons are well-educated and settled in good jobs. They all are happy with their families. But what about this poor Sundari? God gave her gorgeous looks but not voice. She has no mother to start with and now the father’s gone too. What would she do from tomorrow on?”

“What else? The brothers would get into a brawl—each telling the other to take her responsibility. Wherever she is, and although she’s still young, she’ll take on all the chores and sweat out. She’ll manage somehow enduring all the yelling and battering from the sisters-in-law.”

The neighbors were passing comments, and saying whatever occurred in their tiny brains.

Madhavayya said, “Why waste time? We have to cremate the body. Let’s start making the arrangements.”

The neighbors pitched in, Seenayya’s body was devoured by the flames.

Sundari was befuddled. She has no father anymore, who’s going to take of her? Nobody in this house recognized her service no matter however hard she worked. Nobody ever asked her did you eat, did you take bath; not even casually if not caringly. Madhavayya asked her occasionally as he passed by. She cannot speak, so she cannot express what’s in her heart.

After her father died, Sundari’s life became even more dreary. She would sit in the same place for hours; no desire to eat or drink but shed tears incessantly.

His sons were worried about Sundari in their own way. For some of them it was a terrifying problem.

Sundari’s beautiful face was worn out; primarily because she lost her father; the second reason was lack of food. And also she was worried what her brothers might decide in her regard. All these issues together got to her and got her to a point where she could collapse at the slightest touch.

After the death rites were completed, Madhavayya, in a way, assumed the headship at their house. He asked them, “You all are well-educated and well settled in life. Poor Sundari, she is still young and mute on top of it. Up until now, your father took care of her. Who’s going to look after her welfare from now on? What about her future?”

“What about it? We’ll know if we asked the lawyer—what did father do in our case? what did he bequeath to whom? We phoned the lawyer but he’s not in town,” the eldest son replied.

“Does he know about the present situation?”

“I called him from my office and told him. He was sorry about the news and said ‘He suffered a lot; Cancer is like that. There is no escape from that disease.’ We’ll know all the details after he’s back,” the eldest son said.

Time’s passing by slowly. The sons are waiting for the lawyer anxiously; they’are worried about father’s allocation of his possessions.

The lawyer returned from his trip like a dazzling sunlight. Seenayya’s sons went to him, on their way home from work, and told him, “You must be tired. We can meet tomorrow,” reminding him of their meeting on the following day.

Each has his own hopes and wishes. The brothers spent all night dreaming I wish I could get this or I hope I’d get that. Seenayya owned the two-storeyed building they were living in and also a 15-acre strip of land. He set aside the income from the land separately. It was a fertile strip of land. He bought it in Madhavayya’s name, since Madhavayya was childless. Lately he was also purchasing certificates of deposit in Sundari’s name and gave them to the lawyer for safekeeping. The boys were not aware of this transaction.

One day Seenayya read in the newspaper: A doctor from Germany will be coming to Bombay. He can make the mute persons speak by fixing a plastic sound box in the vocal chords of the people who are voiceless. He visits Bombay twice a year. He works only on young persons; he first takes an x-ray of the relevant parts and examines if his procedure works or not. Since the procedure is time-consuming, he suggests feeding the person nutritious food. After examining the x-ray, he takes the necessary measurements and will have the sound box made and returns after six months. Then he will perform the operation and installs sound box. It takes sometime for the sound box to adjust and work in conjunction with other parts of the person’s body. Up until then, the patient must stay in the hospital under his supervision. After the sound box is well-adjusted to the vocal chords and blood circulation returns to normal, after the stitches are healed, he will teach words, one by one, slowly. He will train his assistants in regard to the steps to be taken while he is in Germany, and will keep in touch the local doctors via phone on a regular basis. He would be instructing them on the procedure as appropriate. Some of the patients could start talking even before he returned from Germany.

The news item, published by the hospital administrators, said it was a golden opportunity for those who could afford it financially. It also said that the fee depends on the amount of work involved. Dollar value changes constantly. One must have about one hundred thousand rupees on hand towards the expenses—the fee for the surgery, their stay in Bombay for those who accompanied the patient, and such.

If Sundari were really lucky enough, she could obtain speech capability with this new kind of surgery. After she’s gotten her speech, they could think about her education and marriage. Seenayya wanted to do whatever he could to make Sundari have a normal life like everybody else. That was all he could hope for as her father.

Seenayya told Madhavayya about his plan and made arrangements with the help of the lawyer secretively. He was corresponding with the doctor whenever he came to visit the hospital in Bombay and gathering information. This surgery was kept secret among the three of them. At the time Sundari just turned thirteen.

Just about the same time, a doctor examined Seenayya routinely. The doctor told him that he has cancer in his throat. While he was in the hospital and receiving radiation treatment, he continued to have the produce from his land sold, certificates of deposits purchased and deposited them with the lawyer.

Although he was known as Seenayya in his town, his full name was Srinivasulu. He retired as Registrar and had been receiving pension each month. He opened an account in a local bank to be operated jointly by Madhavayya and Sundari and kept his wife’s jewelry there. The sons were not aware of this. By the time they all got married, their mother was already gone and so the daughters-in-law never knew about her jewelry.

During the two years Seenayya was suffering from cancer, Madhavayya was visiting him regularly. Seenayya was discussing these matters with Madhavayya at the time. He also made Madhavayya swear to secrecy. Seenayya told him, “Madhavayya, treat Sundari as your own daughter. Spend all this money for her welfare. If she could ever speak, think of it as her mother’s luck. Don’t ask what is luck for a dead woman. Wouldn’t she be watching Sundari from up there and be happy if Sundari could ever speak like everybody else! Maybe, I’ll also be happy from up there. These are all my golden dreams. Madhavayya, my daughter’s luck depends on your kindness and goodwill.” Seenayya took his two hands into his own and shed tears. On the third day following this incident, Seenayya died.

About a month ago, a letter from Bombay and addressed to Madhavayya came in the mail. It said the doctor would be returning to Bombay next month from Germany and asked him to bring the girl for tests; also that the doctor would be in Bombay only for two months.

Madhavayya heard that the lawyer returned home, and he went to see him after dark. Madhavayya brought with him the certificates of deposit, which were in Sundari’s name. The following day was the day the sons would be receiving their shares of the property.

The next day, the lawyer read the details of the will; the sons could divide the property—the house they were living in and the 8-acres of land which was being handed down over several generations—among themselves as they pleased. The sons also read the will. There was no mention of Sundari anywhere. They read it over and again to see whether their father had stated anywhere who should take care of Sundari and whether he had set aside any additional amount for the purpose. There was no mention at all of her.

The following day they all would go their separate ways. Where would Sundari live? Her third vadina will be having a baby in about two months. Therefore the brother and vadina invited her kindly into their home. Sundari moved in with them and took care of all the household chores. One month passed by; vadina started whining about Sundari.

One day Madhavayya came to see Sundari and overheard vadina complaining to her husband, “How long are we going to bear this burden?”

Madhavayya asked, “Don’t your other brothers take her to their place?”

“The stopped visiting us completely. How long can I put up with this?” Sundari’s third brother said.

“Ask your brothers to come here. Tell them I want to talk to them,” Madhavayya said.

All the brothers arrived within a half hour. Madhavayya asked them about Sundari.

Babaayi, our father did not say a single word about her in his will. Did he think that we should take care of her jointly? Why couldn’t he allot an additional amount to one of us for the purpose of assuming her responsibility? He held a job too; yet he couldn’t think on those lines. If I take her in, my wife would question how is it our responsibility. So also my other brothers’ wives. I can’t think of any answer for this question,” the eldest son said.

Madhavayya replied, “Alright. You all are pointing at each other and asking you or me? I will adopt Sundari. Send her to my home. She is mute, she can’t speak but she can understand the situation very well. You don’t have to worry about her responsibility any more.” He looked at them. they all heaved a sigh of relief as if a huge burden was lifted off their chests.

Madhavayya continued, “Your father was going to tell you when it was time to do so. I was also thinking the same thing. Seenayya was my mother’s sister’s son. I have no children and I didn’t marry again after my wife died. Your father invited me to come and live with him. I told him, ‘No, I have my house. I’ll live there and cook my own food.’ We used to see each other everyday. Send Sundari with me.”

“Take her. No stuff to pack or anything. All she has only is a change of clothes. She can pick them up and go with you.”

By then Sundari was standing there with her clothes folded and holding them, all ready to go.

“Shall we go to our home?” Madhavayya asked her. She nodded and followed him.

The brothers’ bickering helped Madhavayya in finalizing his trip to Bombay. He sold his house and land and took Sundari to Bombay. At the Bombay station, they had coffee and tiffin and went to the hospital. The doctor from Germany also reached his office at the same time. He invited Madhavayya and Sundari into his room. The doctor was young, just under thirty. He asked Madhavayya to tell him about Sundari. Madhavayya replied that Sundari turned fifteen and that she was mute.

“Is she the girl you’ve written to me about?”

“Yes.”

“Let me examine her. I’ll have the x-ray taken and see,” he said and walked her into the x-ray lab. He showed to the technician the parts he needed the x-rays of. The technician did as he was told.

After examining the x-rays, the doctor took them into his office. “Give her nutritious food. She has to be strong. I will take the measurements, have the device made and be back in six months. Then I’ll perform the surgery and enable her to speak. My consultation fee for the present service is one hundred rupees. The surgery takes lot longer. At that time, you will have to pay a higher fee to me, in addition to the hospital charges. She is very beautiful. In our country, it is a different kind of beauty,” he said, watching her with curiosity.

Madhavayya assured him that he would pay the stated fee, had the papers drawn, and added, “We’ll go home for now and be back in time for the surgery. I’ll give her healthy food. Is is possible for me to stay with her in the room after the surgery?”

“Yes, you can. No need to fear about her. I’ll perform the surgery myself. I’ll get her to talk. She’ll have to stay in the hospital for some time.”

“We will.”

After they returned to their town, Madhavayya started giving her good food—milk, vegetables and eggs—twice a day. The change in Sundari’s appearance was visible by the end of two months. Her face glowed with wholesome looks. She is a beautiful girl to begin with, and now, with nutritious meals, she looked like a beauty queen.

After six months, they received a letter saying that the doctor was back in Bombay. During these six months, Madhavayya sold his house and other things. He sold the land Seenayya had given him also. Both Madhavayya and Sundari packed their boxes and set out to Bombay. They didn’t know where to stay. The city and the people were new to them. They left their luggage in a room, took bath, had tiffin and went to the hospital.

Sundari was admitted into the hospital right away. The surgery was scheduled for the next day.

The next day, she was taken into the operation room. Madhavayya could not figure out at what time they started performing the surgery but he noticed that four hours passed by according to his watch.

The doctor sent word that Sundari was still unconscious and so nobody was allowed into her room yet. Madhavayya went to a close by hotel, ate and returned to the waiting room at the hospital. Inside, Sundari was being fed glucose water through tubes. The doctor stayed at the hospital for the night, sat down next to her bed and made sure that she was getting the food properly.

On the following day, the doctor sent word to Madhavayya that he could come in and see her. “The surgery went well. I readjusted the relevant parts in her throat and fixed the plastic sound box in her vocal chords,” the doctor said and added that she would definitely be able to talk, and that he was sure to hear her voice before he left. He also suggested that she can eat as usual after the cuts from the surgery were healed.

Unlike in all the cases in general, the doctor did not collect his fee at first. He said he would take it only after Sundari has gained her voice. He was visiting her every day, whenever he had time.

The hospital staff were surprised by the extra care the doctor was taking in her case. They also were taking good care of her. X-rays were being taken occasionally. It showed that the plastic sound box in her vocal chords was set well and looking natural. After running tests, the doctor tried to make her utter words one by one. He said A, B, C, D, and tried to have her repeat them. Her voice sounded very weak at first and then gradually went up. She started uttering each letter, watching the lip movements of the person who was across from her. When the doctor was not around, Madhavayya sat next to her and helped her utter small words. The doctor told him not to make her speak longer than one half hour a day.

Madhavayya was elated that Sundari could speak. He thought, per her father’s wishes, that he should find a good bridegroom for her and arrange her marriage after she gained her speech.

Sundari kept practicing speech. As long as the doctor was in her room, she would repeat each word he had said with great enthusiasm. He was teaching her English words; and he was feeding her the food himself. He was quite taken by her beauty.

Sundari is not very good at speech yet. Nevertheless she is getting interested in the doctor and is attracted to him. She is learning quickly whatever he taught her and he is equally excited about her progress. They are beginning to laugh and tease each other.

Madhavayya had no problem in teaching Telugu words to Sundari. Since she is already familiar with the subject and since it is only a matter of physically voicing the Telugu alphabet, she is picking up Telugu fast enough. The doctor is making every effort to teach her English.

One day Madhavayya entered her room and saw that the doctor was holding Sundari’s face in his two hands and saying something. The doctor saw Madhavayya, moved away quickly and said, “I’ll teach her speech as long as I’m here. In Germany, there are specialists to teach the language and further education. Should I take her with me, what’d you think?”

“Doctor garu, we don’t send unmarried women with strangers to anywhere?” Madhavayya said.

“Then I’ll marry her. I’m very much taken by her beauty,” the doctor said.

“Aren’t you married?”

“No, I’m not married yet. I felt like marrying after seeing her. You have no objection, do you?” he asked.

“This young woman is my daughter. I have no other family but for her. I can’t live without her,” Madhavayya said.

He is happy that the doctor wanted to marry Sundari. But what about him, after she’s gone? The very thought brought tears to his eyes.

“I’ll go with her. I’ll find a job and earn my living. Take me with you. I’ll pay your fee in rupees. You can convert them into dollars. Besides, this girl has money of her own. You can convert that sum also into dollars. Her mother’s jewelry is in a safe deposit box. I’ll get them for you. Doctor garu, she has no mother, never knew what the word affection meant. You must take good care of her.”

“I’ll worship her like a goddess. We can think of conversion after your returned from you town,” the doctor said, watching Sundari fondly.

“Where is the marriage going to take place—here or in your country?” Madhavayya asked.

“Why do you say ‘your’ country? You’re also coming with us! Say ‘our’ country. I am so lucky! I got such a beautiful woman for wife! No need to discuss any fee for me. Give it to her. One more thing. Would you mind if I call her by a name I like?” the doctor asked Madhavayya.

“Where is the question of my likes and dislikes? Whatever you two like goes for me too,” he said and went away. He returned with the jewelry on the third day. “Wear them and show them to the doctor,” Madhavayya told Sundari. She wore the jewelry and showed it to the doctor.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful! Like a doll! Wait, I feel like taking a picture of you with that smile,” he said and brought his camera.

Madhavayya was happy that lady luck smiled on Sundari in such a strange fashion. He had a picture taken standing next to Sundari.

(Author’s note: This story was written after reading a news item in Newsweek in Chicago. It was reported that a doctor in Germany fixed a plastic sound box in the vocal chords of one or two mute persons and succeeded in getting the persons speech capability.)

[End]

 

²²²

(Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net April, 2004.)

(The Telugu original adrushta rekha is included in the anthology swarna kamalaalu by Illindila Saraswati Devi) .

 

[1] The divine spirit in human body, equivalent of life-breath.

What is a good story? by Nidadavolu Malathi

This article is about a question I’ve been struggling with for some time. Although thulika.net has been created to introduce Telugu fiction to the American readers, it is also reaching out to the young Indians who have adopted English as their medium of communication. Herein, I will try to illustrate the peculiar features prominent in Telugu stories.

Before I go into the definition of a good story, let me briefly comment on the nature of our audience. First, it is common knowledge that different parts of a story appeal to different readers. Secondly, the readers with different cultural background perceive the story from yet another perspective.

For the purpose of this article, I could classify the readers into two categories—the participant and the critical. The participant readers interact with the story on a personal level, identify themselves with a character or a situation or the conflict in the story and participate in the course of events. Their comments could be simple statements like I’ve been there, I know what you mean or go deeper and offer suggestions such as what a given character could have done differently or what else the author could have provided to resolve the conflict. For instance, in “Moral Support” why was Gopalam so stubborn? Why couldn’t he get off his moral high horse and do something to please his wife and parents? Did he not have a moral obligation to his family? At another level, the readers put some distance between themselves and the story but still react like participants. They see the story as a story, a figment of the author’s imagination, and at the same time, want more from it. They raise questions like why Gopalam could not see that buying goods at a cheaper rate and selling for profit was neither illegal nor unethical. That is business101. That is basically the rule we all are living by in our present day world. For some readers Gopalam’s arguments are in tune with his character. For others, it is a flaw in the depiction of his character.

The critical readers distance themselves further and study the story totally objectively. They look into the structure, technique, characterization, diction and the message. At times, it is possible for the critical reader to get carried away in his critical thinking and lose sight of the author’s purpose.

Taking the earlier example, Gopalam, like all the idealists in real life, lost sight of the realities of life and failed to see the setbacks in his mode of thinking. Whether Gopalam’s character was depicted well or not depends on what the reader considers a good characterization. This is only one example of how various views could emanate from the same story.
000
Getting back to the topic under discussion, what is a good story, two pieces fell into place for me automatically—the cultural nuance and the insights of the Telugu elitists. I reviewed some books and articles written by Telugu writers in the past three decades. Based on my readings, the essential components seem to be the same as in the case of world literatures. The list included the opening, the development of a plot or conflict through a series of incidents, the resolution or the ending, technique, the message or the author’s point of view, characterization, unity or structure, and author’s command of language. Using some of these elements as touchstones, I tried to examine some of the stories published on this site.

Broadly speaking, when a person sees or hears about an event, he responds to the scene emotionally and feels a strong, innate urge to relate it to others. That is the motivation to write a story. And then, he is confronted with how to start it.

The title: Although authors do not always start with a title, let’s take the title first since that is what captures the reader’s eye first. In the current issue, the story, “Diary” is a good example. The original title in Telugu was “Kukka” [Dog]. For Telugu people, the term “dog” invokes an image of a sick, stray dog eating garbage on the streets. For the western audience, dog is a domestic animal, man’s best friend, and the impression on the reader’s mind is not as revolting as in the earlier instance. So we consulted the author and decided to change it “Diary.” The term diary raises curiosity since it allows the readers to peek into somebody’s private thoughts. The very first lines tell us it is a peek into a child’s mind. The child’s use of a dog as a metaphor to make his statement is even more interesting which was the basis for the original title, “Kukka.”

The second title that caught my attention is “Soham” [He is I]. The phrase is from the Upanishads, referring to an individual identifying himself with the Supreme Soul through a long and rigorous process of contemplation and reflection. The title for this story is open for interpretation. I had a hard time interpreting it and contacted some of my friends, writers, and also Malladi Narasimha Sastri garu, the author’s grandson. He said the title meant, “I am part of God because he stays within me, meaning I love and worship God and when he is within me, I cannot abuse my own body. I must respect myself and in turn respect others.” Satya Sarada commented, “Perhaps the protagonist just realized who he was and stopped trying to be someone else based on false pride or instigation.” I understand the logic but fail to see the necessary incident to justify the revelation the protagonist was supposed to have experienced. The discussion between the young man and the protagonist towards the end does not lead to this realization. The young man’s description of his experience at Rattamma’s house was left to the reader’s imagination. What do you, as a reader, think happened at Rattamma’s house? Was it the same as Swamiji’s experience? Why did the author leave out this particular, apparently crucial, incident out of the story? Was it the author’s intent to provoke the reader into thinking? Or, did the author imply we all have our share of the inexplicable in our lives, and we all live at random? Is this a strength or weakness in the story? Yet the story caught my attention because of the title. Was that the author’s plan in choosing that title?

My understanding was: The story opened and ended with the young man and so I assume he is the protagonist. Since most of the story was narrated by the second protagonist, Swamiji, the young man possibly felt a connection with Swamiji. At the end, after Swamiji returned to his wife, the young man could have told himself, “That is my story. He is I.” The use of first person, reflexive pronoun taanu in the Telugu original is significant. In Telugu taanu indicates that the views are expressed from the perspective of taanu, an equivalent of I. Thus the connotation appears to be that the story is not about an individual but about exploring a universal truth. The title, an aphorism from the Upanishads also meant that the drifting away for a while and returning home is a part of male psyche or human nature in general.

The title “The Drama of Life” also is open for discussion. Madhurantakam Narendra, son of the author and a writer, pointed out that the term prahasanam (in the original title, “jeevana prahasanam”) meant burlesque or farce as opposed to the term I used. I however felt that the implicit irony and satire are apparent for the native speakers but not for the English-speaking audience. I think a term like farce diminishes the intensity particularly because the sarcasm is lost in the translation and for those who are not familiar with the culture, the term drama conveys the gravity of the conflict the performer [Harinarayana Sarma] was grappling with. I am open to suggestions from readers, particularly non-native speakers.

Opening scene: Different writers open the story at different points in their narration. Some stories begin and continue sequentially while others start in the middle or at the end and go back to the beginning.

The opening lines in the “Primeval Song,” once upon a time, take us to the good old days of oral tradition. It is a song about the enchanting times. The first paragraph depicts a luring scene only to highlight how far we have come from that heartening time to the disheartening present.
In the “Illusion,” the story opens with a shrewd, seasoned lawyer lecturing on the stark realities of law practice to a junior lawyer, a simpleton and fresh from law school. The senior lawyer’s crude and abrasive presentation makes the reader want to know what the junior lawyer would discover at the end. In both the stories, the opening scenes set the mood for the reader as in a play. The opening paragraph is a brief statement of what is to expect.

In “The Man Who Never Died,” the felling of a tree is the midpoint in the story. In the first few lines the author informs the reader the crucial role the event was set to play in the lives of the two main characters, Appanna and Markandeyulu. One of the important ideas in the story was the difference between the two—one person clinging to life and the other clinging to nature.

The development/unfolding of a plot or conflict: The incidents are like building blocks. Each block reveals a little of the story, building readers’ curiosity, satisfying it partly and then creating more curiosity, keeping him wondering what next. The incidents add to the length of a story, although that is not the purpose. While some stories include only two or three incidents and jump to the end, other stories build the conflict through several incidents, and let the story evolve with a strong base and bring it to a head. Possibly the magnitude of an issue—the central theme—plays a role in the number of incidents the author would like to include. In the longer stories provide the incidents contribute immensely towards recreating the milieu. The result is two-fold. For those who are familiar with the culture it is nostalgic and for those who are not it helps to appreciate not only the story but also the culture. The more the details are the clearer the setting is. For instance, in the “Primeval Song,” the incidents are straightforward and, actually, traverse the bounds of time and space. A curious baby monkey walks through several experiences only to return to the forest where she finds her home and her identity. The allegory format confirms its primordial nature. It is something readers could relate to anywhere anytime.

In “The Drama of Life” the author recreates the village atmosphere to an remarkable degree. The story moves systematically from the villagers’ appreciation of tradition to modern ways of rearranging their priorities. The story delineates meticulously the scenes in a carefully orchestrated fashion. The very first line tells the readers that it was about a performance. The village head, Naidu, was impressed by the moving performance of the traditional narrator, his originality and creativity. Each incident or episode—the description of the village, the customary celebration of Maha Bharata yajnam, Naidu’s zealous references to numerous episodes in Maha Bharatam, and the manner in which he extended his invitation to the performer —is filled with charming minutiae. For me, this was one of the hardest stories to translate. I however thought it was worth the effort since the story provided so much of the life in the villages and also the changes that are taking place in the attitude of people and the society.

The first half of the story includes several incidents leading to the conflict. The second set of incidents leads to the denouement or resolution; it is needed in order to bring about a satisfactory experience in the reader’ mind. In “The Drama of Life,” the detailed descriptions of several gambling stalls—from the games with small bets to the games with high stakes which are a ruination of the local families—leading to the final catastrophe (breaking the heart of the traditional performer) serve that purpose.

The Conflict: The conflict is the pivotal point in a story. In “The Man Who Never Died,” it is the impending death. The protagonist was willing to compromise his values and cut down a 40-year old tree and ruin a 30-year old friendship in the process. Why we fear death and why we would want to live forever are the questions for which we don’t have answers. But can we do anything to conquer death and live forever? The story illustrates how the fear of death is fed by the people around us.

There is a subplot in “The Man Who Never Died,” the friendship between Appanna and Markandeyulu. Felling the tree has a symbolic significance for both of them for different reasons. For Appanna it was a blow to their friendship. For Markandeyulu it was a life-saving event. But their disagreements overlap and Markandeyulu does everything in his power to save Appanna’s life. This part of our culture, the interpersonal relationship that defies the caste and class distinction, is rarely presented in Indian fiction, translations or original, outside India. It is also interesting to see that, in this and a few other stories, the illiterate persons from the lower strata of the society are presented as instrumental in making the educated persons see the light of the day.

The end wraps up and reveals the author’s point of view. That is the simplest statement in any good story. Some readers felt that the ending in “Illusion” was left much to be desired. Bhaskar Rao commented that the ending fell flat.

My understanding is that the central theme in the “Illusion” is our botched up court system. The story is about the failed system as perceived by Muthelamma, based on her experience with the courts. The senior lawyer in the opening scene expresses his disillusionment of the system in scathing and unequivocal language, e.g. comparing the lawyers to the foxes hanging in the graveyards. Later Muthelamma, a client from the working class and an illiterate fires away a volley of questions and even challenges the junior lawyer to prove her wrong. Her speech is considered one of the most powerful speeches in Telugu fiction. The author created a rebel-victim in Muthelamma who was betrayed by the system and who comes to understand that the only way to stay out of jail was to play along. That was the revelation, a poignant point, for the junior lawyer must face. At the end, Muthelamma rises to a level where she could even be patronizing, “You did good. I was there. I saw it. You shook them [the police] up,” she tells the junior lawyer. I wonder how many readers smiled at this twist, the reversal of role playing. To me, it looks like the author has succeeded in bringing the illusion—what the system claims to do, what it actually does and the hurt of the people betrayed by the system—into bold relief.

At the outset I mentioned that some readers would ask why the author did not give us more details. My question is, is it necessary to summarize his point of view? Does the author have an obligation to answer all the questions on the topic he chose to write about? In that, are we erasing the difference between an essay and a story? Personally, I feel that it is the author’s privilege to decide what and how much he wants to say.

In my story, Frostbite the story revolves around the female protagonist’s silence. The readers would continue to read the story looking for the reasons for her silence. In that sense, the story ended when she broke her silence. I however was confounded with the one question at that time and has always been—why do people hurt others and often for no good reason? So, I continued the story, killed the protagonist in the process, and went on until I could raise the question. You, the readers, have to tell me if that made any difference to the story one or the other.

The other elements of a good story are technique, characterization, diction or command of language, structure, and author’s perception of the society he is living in. I do not intend to go into all these components but only some that are relevant to my selection for publication on thulika.net.

One of our editors, Satya Pappu, said that her general reaction to Malladi’s stories has always been one of satisfaction and contemplation. That kind of satisfaction and contemplation is possible only when the author is skillful in his delivery and also in the reader’s disposition to lose oneself in the flow of the story. Any one of the elements—a character, an incident, the diction, figures of speech, proverbs, descriptions of the environment, or some other element in the story, that is normally ignored or overlooked by people, can suddenly pop up in the reader’s mind and bring about a kind of revelation or understanding. It is for this reason, stories that rush to the end without establishing the conflict and resolution sufficiently leave the reader with dissatisfaction.

One story I would like to review in this connection is Woman’s Wages. The conflict—the disparity between a woman’s wages and the services she is entitled to—is the main theme in this short story. The protagonist, Naidu, raises the question—why should the woman pay the same fare as males when she was not paid the same wages for her labor. And the story ended there. For the readers the unanswered question is what happened next? If I want to develop a story around this incident, probably I would include a few more incidents such as the protagonist protesting vehemently, even standing in front of the bus, insisting for a fair value of their labor and money, the passengers taking sides, the driver struggling with a dilemma—whether to make a special allowance for the woman or run over the man in front of the bus. Then we have a story. Then there is a room for the readers to empathize, room for a piece of social history and a story that goes beyond the immediate moment. But then again am I contradicting myself here? Earlier I have stated that it is the author’s privilege as to what and how much he wants to tell. What do you think?

Narration: The story “He is I” was a difficult one to translate for me due to its complex structure. There are two narrators besides the author. The story opens with taanu but for the most part the story was narrated by Swamiji. It was also presented as a conversation between these two characters—Swamiji narrating the story to taanu, the young man. On rare occasions, the author narrates the story, referring to the other two as they. There are also instances where the actual incident was left to the imagination of the reader. For instance, the young man’s experience in Rattamma’s house was not told. Swamiji’s comments seem to indicate that the young man had the experience Swamiji craved for. Or, was it only Swamiji’s interpretation of the young man’s unrecorded account? The story raises several questions and seems to have too many loose ends.

I took it up as a challenge and tested my translation on some of my American friends. To my surprise, they were not as baffled as I was. Is it possible I was reading too much into the story because of my cultural background? Or, was it the author intention to force the readers to see that we don’t get all the answers always that we live at random?

Characterization: Creating believable characters is part of good writing style. Depicting a character does not necessarily mean providing a physical description of the character. This is superbly done in the delineation of characters in Moments Before Boarding the Plane by Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry, a noted writer from earlier generation and well-known for his command of diction. From the conversations, readers can visualize the characters in age, deportment and maybe even some physical attributes.
Another example is the character of Vennela in the Old Letters (December 2002). Just from the letters written by Vennela to thatha, the readers understand that she was a young woman, married, divorced and was perplexed by serious questions about life in general.

This type of characterization however is not common. In general, readers envisage the characters from their behavior, author’s description, and the comments made by the characters themselves and by other characters. The incidents and characterization are interdependent. It is impossible to write a good story with livid characters.

Technique: Technique is the element that is specific to individual writers. The writer is the technique as far as his writing goes. In addition to the elements discussed above, the technique includes the idiom, his knowledge of his culture, his awareness of his society, and his ability to pull them all together to make that one indelible impression on the reader’s mind.

Most readers can identify a writer from his style. Style is an element that does not lend itself to translation. Here is for example a line from Marigolds – buDDideepam cheta pucchuku aa guDDivelugulo chukkallaati kaLLato bikkubikkumanToo choostondi Kamalabala.
“With her starry eyes, she was staring at the marigold plants furtively in the dim light of the tiny wick lamp in her hand, and slouching over the flower bed.”

The original lines are poetic. The alliteration is striking. The translation is very pale compared to the original. The poetic quality is lost. The word count in the translation is three times the original, which speaks for the author’s skill. The author, Viswanatha Sastry is one of those writers who stories will not allow the readers to skip lines and rush to the end.

Another example of unique style is the references to the stage performers of the mid-20th century in the story, “He is I.” For those native speakers who had enjoyed stage plays in the past, the references are gratifying. Sometimes, it is a little humorous too. Swamiji says, “she [his wife] was like Purushottam in his role as Chitrangi.” This analogy brought up a smile for me. Purushottam was a male actor playing a female role. Did the author intentionally compare his wife to a male actor playing a female role? Did the author expect the reader to take it as his observation of male psyche? Human nature? Or, was it just to show the author’s appreciation of the performer?

In any case, individual writers use such reference whenever the occasion supports it, and in an attempt to evoke the nuance in the mind of the readers. Would the stories read the same without these references to classics and classic artists? For the native speakers, it is a bonding experience. For foreigners the story might be the same or even easier to follow without them. On the other hand, these details also provide an opportunity to understand the culture better.

Author’s point of view: Whenever a story is written a point of view is expressed. What specifically that point of view is a moot point. As I mentioned at the beginning, different readers relate to different aspects in the story and different critics see different viewpoints. The story “Choices” (Empu) provided a platform for different viewpoints. The author, Chaganti Somayajulu, was one of the early modern writers well-respected for his social consciousness fiction.

Let me first explain my perspective. The story was first published in 1945. At the time, most of the literature was focused on the middle class issues—the hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears and frustrations of the era. If the working class characters were depicted they were depicted as victims of either the system or the centuries old tradition, which meant depicting only stereotypical images. The author of “Choices” seemed to point out that the hopes, dreams, and family values of the beggar community are not different from other human beings in the upper classes. The father, musilaadu was looking for an eligible bachelor for his daughter within their own community, beggars community. The father prefers the blind man and the daughter has her heart set on the crippled man. The father’s logic, the correlation between the marriage and economic status, and the persuasive arguments of the crippled man are the same as in any middle class family. The only aspect that sets them apart is their status as beggars. Keeping that in mind, I mentioned that the story was about the beggars community—their hopes, dreams, aspirations and family values. Dakshninamurthy, a noted writer and critic, also commented that, “Their [the beggars’] philosophy was that all the beggar girls must invariably look for and find only a blind men to marry”(498).
Chaganti Tulasi, a well-known writer and the author’s daughter, offered the following explanation: “The story, ‘Empu’ was published in ARASAM special issue, September 1945, and that was 58 years ago. But the situation of arranging a marriage for one’s daughter has not changed much. Though Chaso took his characters and life from beggars it is about the fundamentals of economics of all communities, rich and poor alike. The richest man’s philosophy is also the philosophy of the poorest. Chaso wrote a small keynote sentence in the story – musilaadi upanyaasam mushti lokaaaniki Upanishattu (tr. The old man’s speech is a Upanishad for the beggars’ community). Here mushti lokam has an inner meaning besides the meaning ‘the beggars world.’ The word mushti is used as a derogatory term for the entire human community. In your translation the second meaning has not been conveyed. It tells about the panhandlers community only. Fathers , daughters, would-be son-in-laws are all alike in all communities.”
Themes: I’m going to make only a brief comment about themes since enough has been said in the above paragraphs while discussing other aspects. I agree that a good writer can write a story almost about anything. However for the purpose of this website, I am looking for themes which are commonly ignored or overlooked, stories that throw light on cultural peculiarities, and stories that deal with human nature yet unique to Telugu people. Writers and translators may also note that humor and satire are culture-specific and hard to import in translation. I know I am taking some chances in this respect. But I would like you to be aware of how it turns out.
Language: Diction displays the author’s command of figures of speech, knowledge of traditional values, symbols, epithets, proverbs and the ability to suffuse the story with native flavor.

Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry and Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry (not related) are often quoted as two writers who could present dialogue with the sharpness of a knife (Dakshinamurthy. 339). Srirangam Srinivasa Rao stated that Muthelamma’s speech in the story “Illusion” belonged in the world’s greatest literatures. Metaphors and proverbs are powerful ingredients of our sociocultural history. Most of our writers draw on the characters from ancient literature for what the characters stand for in the public perception. A writer need not believe in Rama as a god to use the name as a symbol for an ideal person. In the story, Reform the author, known for her Marxist ideology, described the state of mind of the couple at the end as “two persons lost in dharma yuddham.” The phrase dharma yuddham refers to the great war in Maha Bharatam, which was fought in the name of justice. The reference was only limited to that point. It invokes an imagery of a battle fought for a just cause and lost.

One more thought. My friends here are immensely helpful to me in bringing these translations to you, the readers. (Thank you, Judy, Lucille, Mary, Nancy!)
One of their comments was about long Telugu names. One friend said that the long names were like roadblocks and would not let the reader move forward with the story.
Generally speaking, foreign names are hard to remember for any reader and long names are the hardest. However the names are part of characterization. They add considerably to the narrative.
Tentatively, as an experiment, I tried to change the names in “The Man Who Never Died” after contacting the author. I could change one name, Appalakonda to Appanna, but couldn’t come up with a decent substitute for Markandeyulu. I was wondering what are the thoughts of the writers and translators on this one.

Finally, I would like to point out that my references to only some stories and/or some elements in the stories do not mean that they are the only stories/elements that are notable. I used them only as examples and must be understood only as such.

This article is not an attempt to provide guidelines for writing a good story but to bring up some of the topics for discussion and to show what I am looking for in my selections. I tried to point out what captures my imagination and by extension what I like to publish on this website. I hope to publish more writers rather than more stories of the same writer and, thereby, create an awareness of the widest range of Telugu culture among English-speaking audience.
[End]

Published on thulika.net, June 2003.

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REFERENCES:
Brahmaji Rao, Ghandikota. Kathanika: Katha kamameeshu. Mamidikuduru, Vijaya
Publications, 1996.
Dakshinamurthy, Poranki. Kathanika: Swaroopa swabhavalu. Hyderabad: Author, 1977.
Katyayani Vidmahe. Telugu navalaa kathaanikaa vimarsana parinaamam. Hyderabad: Charita
Publications, 1995.
Rama Rao, Kalipatnam: Vijayawada: Swetcha Sahiti Prachuranalu, 1990.
Srinivasa Rao, Srirangam. Preface, Viswanatha Sastry, Rachakonda. Aaru sara kathalu.
Vijayawada, Visalandhra Publishing House, 1962.

TOP POCKET By Nidadavolu Malathi

“I want a new skirt and top,” Parimala said.

“Just last week we got new clothes made for you saying you’re going to a new school. You want new clothes again,” mother said.

“Okay, I don’t need the skirt, just a new top. Without a new top, I am not going to go to school,” said Parimala.

“That’s cute. Princess wants new dress each day?” mother said, smiling.

“I don’t want one a day. I want a different dress only on the day I have the English language class,” said Parimala seriously.

“What happened in the English language class?” Akka (older sister) asked. She had realized long time back that this kind of desires originate only in the school.

Parimala remained silent.

“Okay, we’ll see. We’re having Bobby’s birthday next month. I will have new clothes made for both of you at the time.”

“No, I want it now,” Parimala insisted.

“Nice, very nice, like the deer up and running in a second. Don’t you know you don’t get everything and anything as you please right away? What’s the urgency anyways?” mother said, annoyed.

 

000

The day before …

School was in session. Parimala set foot in the tenth class room, wearing new skirt and top and holding the books and the geometry box tightly to her chest. All new faces; her heart was beating like a little engine … chuk, chuk … New school, new faces, new class, new teacher, new books, new skirt and new top—everything new, new, new … Just last week, mother took her to the store, had her pick her favorite cloth with flower prints for the skirt and mango shoot tinted cloth for the top. She got the outfit made by Ameer Saheb who was sitting on the porch with his sewing machine. Everything fell in place perfectly.

Yet, the new class was new class. Parimala, with her face lowered and sidelong glances, as if she was going to rob a bank, walked into the classroom and looked around. Teacher had not come in yet. All the boys were sitting on the right side in two rows and girls on the left side. Usually, smart and well-behaved students would sit in the front rows. Those who had not studied, had not done homework, and those who would engage in drawing funny pictures sit in the back rows.

Parimala stood at the door and watched them. All the children were talking, giggling noisily and making faces.

Her eyes completed one round and stopped on the two girls in the second row. She was not sure why but felt like there was something special about them. Between the two, the one on the far end noticed Parimala and smiled. Then she whispered something in the ear of the girl next to her. The second girl turned around, looked at her and also smiled. Parimala waited for what like ages and slowly walked toward the two girls. The two girls moved invitingly and made room for Parimala on the bench. The girl who moved and made room for her asked, “What is your name?”

She was fair-skinned, oval-faced and somewhat skinny. She looked so delicate, probably slightest touch could make her blood clot or she might faint, thought Parimala. She said her name was Ramani. The second girl’s skin was wheat-colored; her eyes seemed to be saying “I saw you somewhere; there was a naughty smile on her lips, looking was it was the place of origination for the naughty smile. Her name was Visala, she said.

“Parimala,” she said in a voice barely audible.

“Shh,” somebody from behind alerted them to be quiet.

Parimala stopped talking with Ramani, turned around, looked at the teacher who was just walking into the class; she was flabbergasted, her jaw dropped, and her heart was beating twice as fast. The teacher was the owner from whom her parents were renting the apartment.

It was just two weeks since they had moved in. Ever since they had moved, the landlord had been giving them plenty in the form of what they could do and what they could not or should not do in that apartment.

The teacher went to his desk, turned and looked at the faces in the class and said, “Hum, so, we have a new girl in the class,” he said, watching Parimala with a piercing look.

He opened the attendance register and started calling our the names. “Present, sir,” each student was responding dutifully.

“Prameela,” teacher called.

“It is Parimala, sir, not Prameela,” she said furtively.

“PARIMALA,” he said gritting his teeth, as if he was ready to devour her.

Somebody in the back row snickered.

“Silence!” the teacher shouted.

It was English language class. They were going to study a short story about the Pandava princes learning how to shoot the bow from their teacher Dronacharya. Dronacharya asks each of the princes what they saw on the tree. Only Arjuna says he did not see the tree nor branches; not even the bird but only the eye of the bird. It is a story about focus.

Parimala buried her head in the book. A girl from behind nudged her with her pencil, causing her to jerk. Parimala was startled and the geometry box in her lap fell on the floor with a bang. The items in the box—a ruler, a compass, a pencil, an eraser and a quarter of a rupee—all scattered all around. She was frightened; she bent down quickly and started picking the pieces, barely looking at the teacher for fear he might yell at her again.

The children in the class were making funny noises in a low pitch.

“Silence,” the teacher shouted again and told Parimala, “Come here.”

She put the items back in the box, put the box on the bench and went to him.

“Why did you bring that spice rack to my class?” he raised his voice, short of slapping her.

Parimala had no answer.

“Do you need that trash box in the English language class??

“No, sir. It is not needed in the English language class, sir.”

“From now on, never bring it to my class again. Understand? This goes for everybody. Nobody is allowed to bring the geometry box to my class,” he issued a memorandum to the entire class.

Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward Parimala. They all said, “All this, because of you!”

The class was over for the day. The two girls, who had made room for her earlier, were walking home. They lived in the same neighborhood. Parimala’s home was also in the same direction. She was walking a few steps behind them.

“Teacher seems to be mad at you for whatever reason,” Ramani commented.

“What did I do? Why would he be mad at me?” Parimala was confused.

“Who knows? You are renting the apartment from him, aren’t you? Probably, something has to do with that.”

Parimala could not understand the logic but decided then and there not to bring the geometry box to the language class again. But then, where could she put her pencil, eraser and the quarter of a rupee she was bringing for milk? She could not hold everything in her palm all the time.

The following day, mother who had compared her to the deer up and running changed her mind by next morning. “Might as well get it now. One errand done is one less thing to worry about,” she thought. Besides, the tailor takes his own sweet time to make the outfit.

That afternoon, mother took Bobby and Parimala to the store. Picking the right cloth for Bobby’s shirt and pants was over in a snap but picking the right cloth for Parimala’s outfit was another story. By the time she picked the cloth she liked, the sun was down. Mother paid for the items and went to the tailor sitting on the porch.

Ameer sahib took measurements.

“Add a pocket to my top,” Parimala said.

Ameer sahib was confused. He looked at mother.

She was also surprised. “What? Pocket for the top? What do you mean?” mother asked.

“Well, Bobby is getting a pocket for his shirt, isn’t he? Why can’t I have one?”

“Well, he is magavadu[i].”

“So? He is magavadu and I am adavadu. I want the pocket.”

“What is adavadu?” Mother said, laughing.

“Pocket would not look good on a girl’s top, madam,” Ameer sahib said.

“It would look good for me,” Parimala insisted.

“All right. Let us do it. Put a small square on her top as well,” mother said. It was getting late; she was worried about her husband’s supper. He needed to eat on time, always.

It was decided to put a pocket on the top and the next question was where—on the chest like boy’s shirt? Or, on the side, like grandfather’s kameej?

“I don’t know all that. All I know is I want a pocket on my top, which can hold my pencil and eraser and stuff.”

“If it is for holding the pencil and the eraser, the pocket on the chest may not be a good idea. They may fall out of the pocket when you jump and skip,” Ameer sahib explained the logistics of it.

“All right. Put it on the side,” Parimala agreed.

It was half past six by the time the issue had been resolved successfully. “Come on, let’s go,” mother pushed them into a rickshaw and got home anxiously.

000

The following day, it was Telugu grammar class. Parimala was so afraid of her English teacher but that was not the case with her Telugu teacher. His explanations of Telugu poems fascinate her, always. She understood every bit of grammar he taught.

That day, he was explaining the story of the great grammarian, Panini. The poem said Panini was very handsome—his face was like full moon, peaceful and bright, he was tall and well-built, he would serve the teacher without stopping and without complaint; however, he could never recite a single poem in his life.

Parimala liked that story very much. She was taken by the cute twist in the last line—a wonderful man with no brains! More than that, the phrases describing Panini ended in third person singular suffix vadu. That word brought another question to her mind—the one that mother had asked the day before.

After the class ended and all the students left, she approached the teacher. Ramani and Visala were waiting behind her.

“Sir! I have a question,” she said.

“Yes, dear! What is it?” he said with a smile. The teacher was very fond of her; he was impressed with her smartness.

“The pronominal ending vadu—I am confused. Vadu is singular and varu is plural, right?”

“Yes, dear.”

magavadu is singular and magavaru is plural.”

“That is correct.”

“Can’t we follow the same logic and say, work backwards and say adavaru is plural and adavadu is singular?”

Teacher laughed but Parimala did not. She was confused, seriously. She wanted to know the answer.

Teacher looked at her and said gently, “Grammar does not explain why things cannot be in a certain way, dear. It explains only how the prevalent words have changed in course of time. That is all. Let’s say you would start using adavadu and several others pick up and continue to use it on a regular basis. Then it becomes the norm. Probably, you should do so after you’ve become a notable writer.” He said partly in jest and partly in seriousness.

“I am going to start it even now,” she said. She felt free to speak her mind in his presence always.

“I don’t think so. You’d better wait until you’ve earned the reputation as a great writer. Then, they’d call it arshaprayogam (a construction similar to poetic justice). If you do it now, they’d just question your language skills. How did this idea start anyways?”

Ramani, who was standing next to her, pulled Parimala’s side pocket and said, “Here, because of this pocket.”

“What? … No, it’s okay. I never saw a pocket on a top. That’s why said …” he said, staring into her face, and trying to cover his surprise.

“Well, that is our Parimala!” Visala said.

000

Parimala kept mulling over it all night. She could not understand the logic behind the pocket being gender-related. One possibility could be—long time ago, when mother, her mother and grandmother had not gone out at all, probably there had been no need to walk around with pencils and erasers and there had been no need for pockets either. Now, for her, there was a need for her to carry the pencil and the eraser and therefore the pocket was also needed. Ever so often she had lost one or the other always and kept buying new things again and again. Akkayya offered to make a little bag for her but Parimala did not think it was a good idea. She still would have to remember to carry it all the time. A pocket on the other hand would take care of it by itself. She would not have to worry about it constantly. Then, she could use her brain for other purposes! That is how she convinced herself.

000

That was fifteen years back.

Parimala came from America and went to visit Ramani. Ramani was elated to see her. She jumped to her feet and hugged Parimala with all her heart. “Wow, after sooooooo long. I never thought I could see you again…. How’re you? Tell me everything… Sometimes Visala and I see your stories in some magazine and talk about you.”

Parimala was thrilled to hear that her friends had read her stories and thought about her.

Ramani said, “Come on, let’s visit Visala. She lives in Hyderabad. Now she came here yesterday to see her older sister. Let’s go.”

All the three sat down in Visala’s home and kept chatting about their school days, the short teacher, the math teacher and so many other things.

“Remember, you were the only one in those days to come to class with a pocket top. We used to admire your guts and laugh,” Ramani said.

Parimala laughed, “Why didn’t you all have tops made with pockets?”

“How? I had no choice but use up all the clothes my older sister had outgrown and handed me down,” Visala sighed, recalling the life of her childhood days.

“I ran out of luck in that area as well. My sibling happened to be a boy. I wish they had let me wear his clothes. Then I would have gotten pockets automatically. It didn’t occur to me, to be frank,” Ramani lamented.

“Where is our teacher?” Parimala asked.

“He is staying home, after retirement.”

“Let’s go, see him,” Parimala said, recalling those times with her teacher.

“Let’s go, quick then. He will be home now. If we don’t go now, we may miss him. He will go to the park,” Visala said.

000

Teacher was sitting in an easy chair on the porch and reading bhagavatam. Next to him, his wife Kamamma was sitting on the floor and cutting beans.

As he heard the gate squeak, he looked up and asked, “Who’s that?” adjusting his glasses.

Kamamma recognized them and said, “the girls, Ramani and Parimala,” and turned to them and invited them kindly, “Come in. How’re you?”

“Who? Pocket Parimala?” teacher said teasingly.

Parimala smiled shyly. She was thinking “why on earth it came to me in those days.”

Kamamma went in and returned with buttermilk in three glasses and gave it to them.

“You don’t have to,” they protested mildly and took the glasses.

“So, you are in America now. Our granddaughter came to visit us last month. All those pants, shirts, and all that… Probably, you’re also the same. Lots of pockets, head to foot,” the teacher said, commenting cheerily.

“Lots of pockets and lots of money in those pockets … is that right?” Kamamma said, smiling.

Parimala looked away as she mumbled, “No, not so in my case.”

Kamamma said it for fun but, after watching Parimala’s face, wished she had not said it.

Parimala however collected herself quickly and laughed, “Now no pocket but this bag only,” she said, holding out her handbag. Then she took a pen from the bag and gave it to him, “I brought this little gift for you.”

He took it cheerfully and said, “bless you.”

Ramani said, “Wherever she is and however many pockets she may have, our Parimala is always the same old Parimala, sir. As always, her pockets are full of papers and pencils, nothing else.”

Teacher said, “I heard you’ve been writing stories. You possess the gift of Goddess Saraswati’s blessings. I knew even then that you would become a great writer. I am really happy for you.”

“No great writer, sir. Just scribbling a few lines whenever I feel like and whatever comes to my mind,” Parimala said modestly and feeling shy for the compliment.

“That’s what I am saying too—safekeeping. Pocket to hold the pencil, and the pencil to hold the heart.”

Suddenly, silence fell. For some reason, nobody found words to say. Silence dropped a heavy curtain on their hearts.

“It’s getting dark. We’d better go,” they said, getting up to leave.

“Wait,” Kamamma went in and returned with paan leaves, fruits and kumkum. She put kumkum on their foreheads and gave them the paan leaves and fruits.

Parimala bent and touched their feet, seeking their blessings. She had forgotten these traditions, almost. Today, suddenly, she felt like following that tradition. Tears gathered in her eyes.

They said goodbye one more time and walked toward the gate. At the gate, Parimala stopped and looked sideways at her teacher, and saw him dabbing his eyes with the towel on his shoulder. She heaved a small sigh and hastened to join her two friends.

On her way home, she kept chanting as if it was a mantra—pocket to hold the pencil, and the pencil to hold the heart.

(End)

Originally published on thulika.net, October 2010

————————–

[i] A play upon the Telugu word magavadu for boy. The suffix vadu is a male suffix. Adavadu is a made up word, inconsistent with Telugu usage.

THE MAN WHO NEVER DIED! By KAVANA Sarma

Appalakonda stood there watching the tall cotton tree[i] and a small cloud that was hanging over it from the blue sky. He has a bond with the tree for the past thirty years. Markandeyulu has been telling him to cut it down for the past one week. His bond with Markandeyulu is much older than his bond with the tree.

Markandeyulu’s father built that house some forty years ago and told Appalakonda’s father to put up a hut on the premises and move in. Appalakondawas about ten-years old when they moved into that hut. Markandeyulu was also of the same age. They both grew up together and played together. They have developed a bond in the process. Appalakondawas not happy about cutting down that tree.

This is how it started. Markandeyulu’s neighbor, Rayudu and a few others told Markandeyulu that it was ominous to have a cotton tree in the yard. Then on he was determined to tear it down. Appalakondatried to dissuade Markandeyulu one more time. He was brooding over in his mind, “I am also worried about Markandeyulu babu[ii] facing hard times. But linking our woes to the tree? I can’t believe he would do that! … In fact, Markandeyulu babu did not believe it either at first. Five years back he suffered a mild heart attack. Then on, he started believing anything and everything anybody has ever said to him. Poor man! I must talk to him one more time.” Markandeyulu walked in with an axe and ropes as he asked Appanna, “Have you had tiffin?[iii]

“Yes,” said Appanna.

“Well then. As soon as Simhadri joins us we can start the work,” Markandeyulu said and called out for Simhadri! Simhadri, Appalakonda’s son, came out of the hut. Behind him came out his mother, his younger sister wearing a skirt and a blouse, and his younger brother wearing half-pants. Appalakondathought that he was running out of time, cleared his throat and spoke one more time in an attempt to stop Markandeyulu babu. He said, “Markandeyulu babu! Please, don’t be mad at me for saying this again. This tree is here for so many years. Tell me, has any bad luck ever happened to us in all these years? Do we have to knock it down simply because something bad happened now? Isn’t it true that it is from the cotton of this tree that we’ve got pillows and mattresses made for you and the entire family? If anything, we’ve only benefited from this tree and not the other way round. That’s the truth. Isn’t it?”

“Of course you will tell any number of times. This tree is a blessing for you. Each time we have new mattresses made for us, you will take the old ones. Why do you think so many people are saying that the cotton tree on the premises brings bad luck to the owner? What is in it for them?”

“Who knows what their reasons are? Let’s talk about it. We all are going nuts about our village growing big. People from other townships are rushing in here. And they are bringing in so many new things we haven’t even heard of ever before. They are telling us things also we have never heard before like banana plant is not good for everybody, cotton tree brings bad luck, coconut causes acidity, and this and that … During our childhood we had only salt water to drink, not even pure water, only alli fruit to eat but not fancy fruits, and we had only the curry leaves but not the lavish coriander leaves. We had only the wild flowers on the wayside but not the roses in our garden. Now we moved the wild flowers into the burial ground. The classy folks came to our village and taught us all these gewgaw things in life. They are buying us off and we are running away from our own place. Babu, it is good for them and bad for us! That is all it comes down to!”

“Appanna! I told you to fell the tree and you are lecturing me in stead of getting to work. I think you should go and join some political party. If you are lucky, you might even become a minister.[iv] Let us forget other arguments. If this variety of cotton gets into your eye, you will lose your sight, you know that. Will you accept that at least? That argument is good enough for me to knock it down. What do you say?” Markandeyulu tried to get to him from a different angle.

“I haven’t seen yet one person who went to the clinic claiming that he lost his sight because of a fleck of this cotton in his eye. But I have seen any number people on the T. V. in our house—the people who lost their sight in Bhopal[v] and Bhagalpur. Markandeyulu babu, do you remember? In the old days our childern used to run after the specks of cotton that flew around from the cotton seeds, like little flies. Wasn’t that fun? Now we are eaten up greed and running after money like idiots,” Appalakonda went on imploring him.

“This is my house. I have decided to cut down the tree. You do it and the wood is yours. If not, there are plenty of others who would even pay for it and do the same,” Markandeyulu said.

“Babu! All this time I was thinking this was ‘our’[vi] house and ‘our’ tree! You grew up in that stone house and I grew up in this mud hut. Yet we grew up together. I was talking out of that friendship. Please, don’t get me wrong.” He turned to his son and said, “You! Why are standing there like a pole. Get the rope and the axe.”

Simhadri picked up the rope and climbed up. The Sun was rising on the east.

“The tree should fall to this side. Tie the rope to the branch on this side. Look! That branch is not strong. Tie it to the bigger one.” Appalakondakept giving instructions standing on the ground. Simhadri tied the rope tight to one of the branches, let down the rest of the rope and then he came down too.

Appalakonda cut a three-inch hollow on the trunk toward the side it was expected to fall. He finished on one side, went around and started chopping on the other side. After putting enough dent on that side, he handed the axe to Simhadri, came back to the front and held the rope tight. Then he told Simhadri to let the rope go at the other end. Simhadri hit it a few more times and the tree came down making a big noise. The tree started falling slowly at first and then faster while falling toward Appalakonda. He left the rope and tried to duck the branches from falling on him. But his ankle got caught in the jumbled rope on the ground. He fell down. Simhadri was on the other side of the tree and so was not in a position to pull his father out. Markandeyulu was on this side but not near enough to pull him out. “Dad, move,” Simhadri shouted. “Move, quick,” Markandeyulu shouted. But for the shouting, there was nothing either of them could do.

With their screams however Appalakonda came to his senses, gathered all his strength and tried to move out of the range of the tree. In a split second the tree was pulled into a different direction by the weight of some of the branches. Although that was not the plan but the tree fell on Appalakonda’s hut and caused no major damage. The incident in fact helped to stop the tree from falling at once. The delay was only for a few seconds. By that time, a few other branches fell on Appalakonda and wounded him. Blood gushed forth from the wounds.

Appalakonda’s wife and a few children were standing there watching the tree falling. As soon as the wife saw the branches fall on her husband and the blood splattering all over him, she started crying, “Oohh, my God! Ooohh!” On hearing her cries several others gathered on the scene. They all helped Markandeyulu and Simhadri to lift the tree and pull Appalakonda from under the branches. A young doctor living in the neighborhood came, looked at the wounds, and said the wounds were severe and advised them to take him to the hospital. The young doctor administered first aid and sent for an ambulance. The ambulance took Appalakonda to the emergency room. Markandeyulu promised to take care of all the expenses.

Markandeyulu kept brooding, “I should not have asked him to chop the tree. What could have happened if the tree were not cut down? I don’t know whether my life was in danger or not but cutting it down certainly turned perilous for him. I can never know if I would have died or not but now he is in a critical condition. If he dies I must be held accountable.”

Across from Markandeyulu, Appalakonda’s wife and son were sitting, looking desperate. Up until now they believed that they would be happy always and nothing bad ever could happen to them because of him [Markandeyulu]. For his part, he never treated them as outsiders. He did not think, not even in his dream, that such a disaster could happen. All he wanted was only to remove the tree. For some reason he sincerely believed that he could escape from death. Guilt kept chewing him up. He felt responsible for the tragedy that has happened earlier that day. Then he tried to convince himself that although he was responsible it was not intentional and it was good he was trying to make amends. He began to believe that Appalakonda would recuperate soon and would not blame him [Markandeyulu] for the accident.

Until five years back, Markandeyulu did not think about his death. He was never afraid of death. He started thinking about it when a part of his heart failed to receive oxygen and resulted in a heart attack. The thought ‘what could happen if he were to die suddenly’ was scary. Things like his son’s education, daughter’s marriage and the future of his wife and the children frightened him. But he has received treatment on time and was saved. To save his life, his wife got a new mangalyam[vii] made and wore it after offering it to the Lord Venkateswara as is custom. His mother performed two rituals—Mrutyunjaya japam [ritual enabling one to triumph over death] and Rudrabhishekam [praying the Lord Siva for protection from death]. All these rituals gave him the strength to fight the impending death and he succeeded. People kept telling him over and again that he was alive only because of those rituals. Eventually he also came to believe that it was true. For that reason he decided to remove any other obstacles that might cause his death. He had his chart drawn. He started performing all kinds of rituals to prolong his life, became very generous and tried his best to keep the zodiac signs in his favor. He performed his daughter’s wedding within one year of his mother’s death in accordance with a belief[viii] among Hindus. He also made his son-in-law promise that he would name his child “Amarnath” if it were a boy and “Amrutha”[ix] if it were a girl. Last year his daughter’s father-in-law died. Somebody told him that Markandeyulu and his wife should not visit the survivors. They stated it inarguably as if it were noted in the sixth ordinance on the fifth page of the scriptures. So Markandeyulu did not go to visit them.

Somebody said having banana plants in the backyard was bad for the owner. Immediately he had the forty-year old banana plantation removed from his backyard. He also told his wife that she should not wear any sari that has a black thread. A few people told him that the cotton tree on the premises is not good. Markandeyulu believed them since he could not see any signs of vested interest in their argument.

Appalakonda tried to present a counter-argument. “We don’t know what their reasons are. May be yes, may be no. They say something and you’d follow it to the tee. Think! When would you do that, I mean believing others? When you are scared. That means they scared you and thus took control over your better judgment. We don’t know whether they are selfish or not, don’t know why they are scaring you and manipulating you,” he said. But his opinion did not prevail. Markandeyulu’s fear of death prevailed.

The tree was torn down. Appalakonda fell under the tree and was bleeding. Markandeyulu thought he should not have got the tree torn down, that only after seeing the blood oozing from Appalakonda’s body.

Appalakonda received treatment in the emergency ward and then was moved into the next room for blood transfusion. Since Markandeyulu offered to pay for all the expenses there was no holding back on medical treatment. Markandeyulu told Simhadri to go to a hotel and eat and also bring some food for his mother. He waited until Simhadri returned with food and then left for home. By the time he got home, his wife was feeding the rest of the children of Appalakonda. He told them the good news—Appalakonda was recovering well, he has the doctors’ assurance. Then he went in, took a bath and fell asleep, reminiscing the day’s events.

In the evening, his neighbor, Rayudu, came to visit with Markandeyulu. Rayudu came to the village sometime back in regard to some business, made good, bought the house across from Markandeyulu’s and settled down there. “I heard that there was an accident this morning here,” Rayudu said.

Markandeyulu explained to him the entire story. He took Rayudu to the place where the accident occurred and showed it to him. Rayudu’s eye fell on Appalakonda’s hut. He said, “What is this? You have a hut raised here shutting out this corner?” His tone indicated that a horrific act has been committed.

Markandeyulu explained, “Our Appalakonda and his family live in this hut. Long time back, my father had the hut built at the same time our house was built and let Appalakonda’s father live there. Do you know how life was in this area forty years back? There were hardly any houses in this neighborhood but for a few and far in between. Ours was one of those few. Now this area has become the central part and the land is selling at the rate of fifteen hundred rupees per yard. When my father bought this land this side of the village was not developed. He bought at the rate of three rupees per yard. In those days only one or two buses were running on the main street. There were no buses at all on this side. Our mode of transportation was only cycle-rickshaw. Appalakonda’s father had a cycle-rickshaw. My father let him live in this hut on the condition he would let us use his rickshaw whenever we needed. Appalakonda’s mother used to work for us—washing dishes, washing clothes, drawing water from the well and other odd jobs. I used to go to the school in their rickshaw. They were grateful to us since we let them build their hut on our land and they were totally trustworthy. My father or mother would give him [Appalakonda’s father] a list of things we needed and he would go to the city and bring them all. In those days people cherished trust as a value.” Markandeyulu was reminiscing the past constantly from the moment Appalakonda was injured in the accident. That is why he went into a long speech in response to Rayudu’s simple question. Then he added, “At the time it became necessary to have the hut in one of the corners—this or that corner. That meant a saving on the compound wall on the two sides. They decided to have it there.”

Rayudu said, “You misunderstood me. Who am I to question why you’ve agreed to let them put up the hut in your yard? My question was why did you have the hut in that corner? The hut there closes the northeast corner. Vaastu sastram [Science of Architecture] will not permit that. Didn’t anybody tell you about this?” Rayudu expressed his surprise.

“No, nobody told me. What happens if northeast corner is closed?” Markandeyulu asked, shaking slightly.

“Hasn’t that happened yet? Somebody in your house must have thrown up a huge splatter of blood and died instantly, according to the vaastu sastram.”

“No such thing has happened,” Markandeyulu replied and after a few seconds added, “I am sure

Appalakonda will live.” In that one line several thoughts were implied—that he considered Appalakonda as a family member, that Appalakonda was hanging in there between life and death and bleeding, also an expression of the fear that the accident could be one consequence of the shutting out of the northeast corner, and a sincere wish that Appalakonda would make it and come back to life.

“Here is what I am saying. The accident that should have occurred to one of your family members touched one of your servants in some strange way and went away for the present. Remove that hut,” Rayudu said.

“That hut is there for the past forty years!”

“So was the cotton tree. Why did you knock it down? That is because you had a heart attack and had the evidence to believe so. You did not know about it until after five years and only after somebody told you. You got the tree removed as soon as you’ve understood the consequences, right? Same way, you let the hut sit there until now because you did not know about the vaastu. Now an accident occurred. I came and told you. After knowing what you know, should you still let the hut sit there? Demolish it.”

Markandeyulu did not have the heart to remove the hut and move it to another place. But then he was worried that if Appalakonda’s wife learns about it, she might feel that her husband sustained injuries because their hut was in the northeast corner. Appalakonda would not think of it. He would even talk her out of it, if she suggests such a thing. No matter what, Markandeyulu and his father could not be held responsible for the accident. After all, it was Appalakonda’s father’s idea to put up the hut there. Markandeyulu thus found a satisfactory explanation and felt relieved.

“Do you really think that vaastu is that powerful?” he asked Rayudu.

“I will give you another example. Take the house number of Dr. Sarma who lives round the corner of our street. It is 13. That is not a lucky number. I told him so many times but he would not listen.”

“We follow lunar calendar and believe that 13, thrayodasi [the 13th day from the new moon] is auspicious. 13 is an unlucky number for Christians.”

“What is good may not be good for everybody but a bad thing is bad for all. One of our relatives bought a flat[x] in Hyderabad. The number was 13. I told him the same thing and he got it changed to 12A. That is why he did not have any accident. He is sturdy as a building block.”

“It could be the same even if he had not changed the number,” Markandeyulu said with a smile. He is scared that bad things could happen to him. His brain however turns to logic occasionally.

“No, it could not be the same. Remember what I said earlier about Dr. Sarma? He did not listen to me however much I tried. Know what happened? He is a doctor and yet is suffering from cancer for the past two years. The same thing would have happened to my relative too if he had not changed the number,” Rayudu said, walking toward the street.

“I have a question. We have the cotton tree in our yard for more than thirty years. This hut is here on the northeast corner for more than forty years. Why all these accidents are happening after so many years?” Markandeyulu stood near the gate and asked.

Rayudu was on his way out. He stopped and asked another question in response, “How did you get the heart attack?”

“Due to high cholesterol level.”

“Why was your cholesterol level high?”

“Since I was a little child I have been eating fatty foods like butter, cream, clarified butter and fried vegetables.”

“So all the fat you have been consuming since your childhood showed up now, right?”

“Yes.”

“That means for any bad thing to show its effect takes time. It keeps accumulating gradually and when it reaches the hazardous level blows up all of a sudden. It is the same thing with drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes. If you take proper care on time you will avoid the disaster. You will have to stop the bad habit and take the necessary medications to offset the bad effect. In regard to the influences of the zodiac signs, we will perform rituals and pujas [ritualistic prayers]. In regard to vaastu, we will have to remove the items that are contradictory to its principles. We should also perform the rituals necessary to remove whatever has been accumulated so far in terms of evil effects. Because of your goodwill some of the negative effects of vaastu are canceled. That is the reason you have not sustained any injuries until now. By the way, I have also undertaken building contracts recently. If you need to remodel your house in accordance with vaastu I can take care of it,” Rayudu said. He also tried to convince Markandeyulu that all his undertakings were perfectly legal.

Markandeyulu was convinced that Rayudu has a point. In the evening he was on his way to visit Appalakonda in the hospital. Round the corner he saw Sarma sitting on the porch leisurely. After Sarma was diagnosed with cancer his patients stopped pestering him at home. Markandeyulu respects Sarma for his professional ethics. When Markandeyulu’s mother was suffering from an eye problem, Sarma came to his home and treated her. Markandeyulu offered money but Sarma refused.

“I came here as your neighbor. It is true I treated your mother as a doctor. Even if you had brought her to the clinic, there also I would have been the one to treat her. I would not accept a fee there either, right? My work at the clinic is reduced since I finished it here. How can I charge you under the circumstances?” he said, smiling.

That caring doctor is now suffering from a horrible disease. Markandeyulu wanted to tell him the one secret that could cure the doctor. He pushed the gate open and walked in.

“Come in, Mr. Markandeyulu. Please, come in,” Sarma invited him heartily. They chatted for a while.

“How are you feeling now?” Markandeyulu asked Sarma.

“Well, you know I have cancer, bone cancer to be specific. The bones become hollow and crumble into pieces. It can happen anytime, today … tomorrow …”

“Don’t say such ominous words. The ruling gods of the house would say thathaastu [So be it!]” Markandeyulu said.

Sarma was in no mood to get into an argument. He changed the subject.

“How about changing your house number to 12A. 13 is said to be a bad number,” said Markandeyulu.

“If I change the number to 12A, do you think, the attendants of Yama [Lord of Death] would come here with a slip the number 13 scribbled on it, and go back saying the addressee was not found or the door was locked. Do you think that is how they report it to the Lord of Death? Are we dealing with our postal department? Let’s forget it for a second. The truth is the number 13 is bad for Christians. For us Hindus it is thrayodasi the 13th day from the new moon day and is auspicious. Let’s not worry about it,” said Sarma. He believes that everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, no need to argue about it. But Markandeyulu is dangling between belief and non-belief.

“Are you saying you will not even try to change?” Markandeyulu asked again.

“We have this number for over ten years now. We never had any disaster happen to us. Even if some peril befalls me, there cannot be any connection between the two,” Sarma said. His words are very much similar to what Markandeyulu has said to Rayudu earlier. Then Markandeyulu repeated Rayudu’s line of reasoning in regard to the accumulation of the evil effects over time.

Sarma laughed.

“Drawing analogies is different from showing evidence. Comparisons are beautiful to present and helpful in improving our perception. But they cannot verify your point. An intelligent man can argue on either side of an issue just like our lawyers. Correlations are different from the cause-and-effect relationship. You will find plenty of spurious correlations through out the entire literature of science. In fact that in itself is a huge science.”

Markandeyulu did not continue the discussion. He sat for a while, advised Sarma to take care of his health and left.

The next day Markandeyulu heard that Sarma collapsed and was admitted into the hospital. The same day he was also told that Appalakonda has recovered and would be released in a few days. Markandeyulu felt relief on the day Appalakonda returned home. He expressed his gratitude to the God for saving Appalakonda from dying while working on his assignment. He also decided to perform Satyanarayana puja [worship] and light lamps for Lord Venkateswara to express his gratitude.

The following day Rayudu came and told him that Dr. Sarma died. Sarma was kind to Rayudu on several occasions in the past. Rayudu however was upset since Sarma did not listen to him and died as a result. That was the message in his tone.

Markandeyulu put on shoes and went to Sarma’s house. By then there was already a large crowd of people who held the doctor in high esteem.

“Have they brought the body home?” Markandeyulu asked. He considers visiting the dead body was a way of showing his respect for the dead person.

“It is still in the hospital,” somebody told him.

“Why? Are they expecting some relatives?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

A young doctor intervened and explained, “Professor Sarma stated in his will that he would not want any death rituals performed in his name. He said that his body should be used in a manner that serves a purpose for others. He also suggested to use it in cancer research since his body was afflicted with cancer.” The young doctor was very respectful towards his professor.

“His son will not perform the death ritual for him?”

“No, there will be no ritual. Sarma also made his family promise that they will not cry for him, perform no ritual and they will all go about their lives as usual.”

“Oh! What about his atman[1] then?” Markandeyulu was still grappling with his qualms.

The man who sells tea to Sarma’s patients and rickshaw drivers replied, “Babu! We talk about the atman only in regard to the dead persons. There is no death for Sarma babu. He lives in our hearts as long as we live.” It was obvious he respects doctor Sarma deeply.

Markandeyulu felt a sudden wave of revelation in his head. Human beings should stop worrying how they live in this world. They should think about the way they live in the hearts of the others eternally. It is futile to trust the words of Rayudu and others who talk about escaping death. There may be some truth in their words. What is important is how one lives in spirit, in the hearts of the others. It is futile to try to run away from death.

In that moment, Markandeyulu has all his doubts dispelled regarding the northeast corner, the gods and the temples as well.

²²²

(In memory of Dr. Chavali Mangayya Sarma, the man who lives forever.)

²²²

(Telugu original, “Mrutyunjayudu” was published in Andhra Jyoti deepavali issue, 1990, and included in the anthology, “KAVANA Sarma kathalu,” published by R. K. Publications, Visakhapatnam, 1995)

 

 

 

[1] The supreme soul.

[i] A particular variety of cotton tree that grows tall and the cotton is silky.

[ii] A term of respect used as a suffix to a male name or used as a term in itself.

[iii] Tiffin could mean breakfast or afternoon snack.

[iv] A position in the government, similar to congressman in the US.

[v] The Nuclear Plant disaster in the 70’s.

[vi] In Telugu culture, material possessions are referred to with an all inclusive preposition ‘our’ in place of ‘my.’ E.g. our house, our children, and do not necessarily imply legal obligation.

[vii] A piece of jewelry, like a locket in appearance, is worn by married women as a symbol of their marital status. In the current context, the wife’s gesture of offering it to the god and wearing it signifies a way of praying for his life.

[viii] ‘Giving a woman in marriage,’ kanyaadaanam, is one of the ten charitable acts that helps a soul to go to the heaven, according to Hindu religion.

[ix] The two names mean deathless.

[x] An apartment in a building.

REFORM by Ranganayakamma

Indira returned from work and asked her daughter, Sasi, as usual, “Did we get any letters today?”

“Suseela attayya wrote,” Sasi replied with a smile. She knows that her mother loves Suseela attayya’s letters.

“What did she say? Did you read it? Has the cow given birth to the baby calf yet? Her daughter had her hands decorated with henna?” Indira, also smiling, asked and went in.

Indira’s father and Sueela’s mother are siblings. Both of them are of the same age. Their friendship goes beyond their blood relationship.

Whenever Indira gets a letter from Suseela, she will know all the events in their village. She will know the good and the bad about all their relatives. She would know if the squash patch in their backyard had started blooming.

Indira changed clothes and sat down in a chair, and opened the letter. The letter is full of tittle-tattle—the people are clamoring for rains, the fields are dried up. Everybody–young and old, men and women—could do nothing but lift their faces toward the sky and stare. They were parading frogs[i] day and night. They all were preparing the land to perform rituals.

“Is it time for farming now?” Indira wondered, as if she knew a lot about farming.

Suseela expressed a great concern about the draught, but that didn’t bother Indira. She was happy for getting that letter, filled with Suseela’s tales. She finished reading and turned it upside down. Then she noticed a few more words scribbled in a corner. Sita’s marriage has been fixed, you know. Poor thing. Know how old she is? She has not turned fourteen yet. She is younger than our Syamala. Her [Sita’s] sister fixed her marriage with a sixty-year old man. I am feeling depressed at the thought of Sita. Probably that is what her destiny says.”

Indira read that part again and again. Who is Sita? … Sita… who’s she? She raked her brains trying to remember. How could she get it if Suseela says just “Sita?” Why couldn’t she be more specific and write who that girl is? Indira was annoyed.

She was surprised that such marriages are still happening even in these modern times? Marriage of a fourteen year-old girl with a man past sixty? … That is fifty years’ difference! Ghash! It is sick even to think. What is the point of that marriage?

 

If I tell Srihari, he would kick up a fuss. She read the report at that corner again.

Poor thing. Know how old she is? She has not turned fourteen yet. She is younger than our Syamala. Her [Sita’s] sister fixed her marriage with a sixty-year old man. I am feeling depressed at the thought of Sita. Probably that is what her destiny says.

 

It is not destiny but stupidity. They must be stupid. Why couldn’t that girl say that she did not want that marriage? Indira entertained such thought but she was fully aware how much weight would be given to the girl’s words. Hasn’t she been seeing such cases everyday? She knows cases where twelve-year old girls were married. Then they would bring the girls to the clinic because she is sick, if not pregnant. Ask them, “Why did you arrange her marriage at such a young age?” They would stare at you as if wondering, “What do you mean young?”

 

Who would listen if the girl says she did not want to marry? Probably this young girl, Sita, did cry. Probably the adults told her to shut up.

 

Anyway .. who is Sita? Why couldn’t Suseela jot a few more words? .. never mind. What does it matter whoever she is? Somebody … getting married at the age of fourteen!… with a man of sixty! … That is the real tragedy! How come the man had no shame. I think the village people should gang up and beat him up. How could they let this happen—such a horrendous crime?

 

Indira put the letter on the table and walked in to the kitchen. Srihari came home. She did not tell him right away. He noticed the letter himself. He finished reading and asked her, “Who is Sita?”

“Nobody we know. Isn’t that horrible?”

“Do you remember? Once we went to visit them and somebody brought a little girl to us. The girl was crying. They said a crow took away the bandage off her bruised finger… Remember? Her name was Sita, I think.”

 

Indira recalled soon enough. “Yes, yes. Her name was Sita. She was not even ten at the time!”

“No. She was twelve then. That means she is fourteen now. It is her then?”

“What does it matter who the girl is? How can these adults play with the lives of children any way they please? Aren’t there any laws which require throwing such people in jail?”

“There are plenty of laws. Actually they are not supposed to perform a wedding until a girl is eighteen. But then, the weddings are performed anyways.”

 

“Then, what is the point of those laws? …Even if the girl is past eighteen, how could they marry her to a sixty year-old man? There should be a law that prohibits marriage with such a big age difference.”

 

“Is the date set yet for the marriage?” Srihari picked up the letter again and turned around back and forth two or three times. There were no details. “Poor Suseela. She is also feeling bad about it,” he said.

 

“Who wouldn’t feel bad? Excepting may be the sixty year-old bridegroom!”

“Shall we visit them? Long time since we have seen them. May be we will know more about it.”

Suddenly Indira felt like she had found a way. “Yes, Srihari! It didn’t occur to me. Let’s go. It is four now. We can be back by ten. Sasi! Get ready, quick,” Indira shouted aloud so Sasi could hear.

Sasi walked in with a book in her hand, “I can’t, mother! I have an exam tomorrow. I have to study,” she said timidly.

“Ghash! What do you mean study? Remember how beautiful the gauva tree is in Suseela attayya’s home? Have you forgotten? You can sit there and study, nibbling gauva fruit while we are chatting. Bring your books along. That works fine.”

 

Sasi remembered something. She said, smiling, “Okay, I will go.”

“No more cooking today. We can eat in Suseela’s home,” Indira put away all the things in the kitchen.

 

In fifteen minutes, they locked the doors and left home. Within thirty minutes, the car left the village and hit the country road.

 

….                        ….                        ….

 

Suseela was surprised to see Indira and the family arrive so suddenly. She was pleased too. “It took so long to remember us,” she said tauntingly. “You have the car at your disposal, and yet, you don’t come to see us, not even once a month,” she expressed her annoyance.

 

Seshagiri, Suseela’s husband, was also home. “They don’t have time to visit us once a month,” he said with a laugh.

“Tell her that,” Indira said as she walked in.

Srihari brought a basketful of apples. Seshagiri took it.

“Why do you bring all this stuff? You think your apples are high class, and not our gauva?” Suseela said.

“I have no idea what is high and what is low. That is all only in your head,” said Indira.

 

As they were walking in, Suseela showed her new plant, “Here, I just planted this sampangi[1]. Everybody is saying I shouldn’t have planted it, since it attracts snakes.”

“For crying out loud. They always say such things for every thing,” Indira dismissed it and went in.

 

Sasi and Suseela’s daughter went into the yard and climbed the guava tree. Sasi did not even take the books out of the car.

 

“Oh, I forgot. Did you receive my letter?” Suseela asked, as she recalled.

“We started out only after seeing that letter. .. Who is Sita? How would I know unless you write clearly. You and your stupid writing,” Indira sneered.

 

“Is the date set? Are all the arrangements done?” Srihari asked, settling down in a chair.

“You came here only after hearing about the marriage? What do you mean when? Only four more days to go. The children said they saw the pandal[2] being put up this morning. It should be finished by now. .. Indira! Don’t you know Jayamma? That fair-skinned and tall woman, Kanthamma’s daughter. This Sita is her younger sister.”

 

Indira could vaguely recall the names .. Kanthamma … Paparao … Jayalakshmi [Jayamma] … So, this is Jayamma’s little sister?” She said coming to the present.

“Why are they marrying her to that old man? Do people still perform such marriages, even in these days?”

 

‘I don’t know. People talk you know, they all are saying several things. It seems the old man promised some twenty five thousand rupees or so to Jayamma. We don’t know whether it is true or not. It seems the bridegroom gave a gold chain to the bride on the day the marriage was fixed[3]. Jayamma is wearing it now.”

 

“How come Sita’s mother and father did not object to this marriage?”

“Where is the mother? She died some ten years ago. Then on, Sita is living in her sister’s house. Father is there, a vagabond more or less. Never stays steadily in one place. Never goes to work. On top of it, if he has a rupee, he sits at the cards table.”

 

Seshagiri cut in, “May be he thought what can this one rupee do for me? What does it matter whether I have it or lost it.”

“Not just one rupee. He would think on the same lines even if he had ten rupees. How could these ten rupees save me, he would say,” said Suseela.

“May be after winning one hundred thousand rupees in the game, he will be more careful and start saving it,” Srihari commented.

“Paparao uncle [Sita’s father] is that kind of man. He lives at Jayamma’s house, eats there. He stays there scuffling around for a few days and then disappears for a while. Then again reappears suddenly. Never lifts a finger. How could a man like that do anything about his daughter?”

Indira felt sorry for the girl. “What about her then? Poor thing, she has no mother and father does not care. Sister would not understand. What happens to that girl?”

“What happens? She will get married. Starts a family. She spends the rest of her life cooking for that family.”

 

“What is his name? Does he have children? Does he have lot of money?”

“Not a lot, but not bad either. He has a house.” Suseela turned to Seshagiri and asked, “How much land do you think he has.”

“I am sure he has about ten acres of land,” Seshagiri replied.

Suseela continued to answer all the questions Indira asked. “Rajayya, the bridegroom has two sons and two daughters. All of them are married. Sons live separately in their own homes. Now Rajayya has a problem, nobody to cook for him. So he is looking for a girl he could count on.”

 

Srihari felt dreadful.

“Couldn’t he find a cook in the entire village? I am sure there are plenty of older women who don’t have enough to eat. How could the idiot get ready to marry a fourteen-year old?” he said, gritting his teeth.

 

“How did his children agree to this marriage?” Indira said.

 

“What do we know? Probably they did raise a stink about it. Or, may be they thought, so be it, what does it matter if he gets married now. He is not going to have children at this age, and no question of sharing the property. In addition, she will take care of him as long as he lived, that is one problem less for us. Who could tell how they wrangled among themselves,” Suseela said, fuming.

 

They kept talking about it, and kept coming back to the same topic over and again.

Indira was very discouraged.

 

Suseela went in to the kitchen and started cooking while talking with them.

“That Jayamma has no shame at all, Indira. She goes around wearing that gold chain. It seems somebody commented with a tinge of sarcasm, “Sita is not going to have any happiness with that husband of hers. All she could enjoy is only that chain. Why don’t you let her have the chain?” Jayamma was thrown off and said with a pout, “Well, starting tomorrow she will have it anyways.” Does this mean she should wear it until that moment? The idiot has no brains,” Suseela expressed her contempt.

 

Indira and Srihari did not pay attention to those words.

“How old do you think Jayamma is?”

“She should be thirty. Much younger than you and I. Has five children. Barely enough food on the table. Poor thing, she has her problems.” The thought of Jayamma softened her. She felt sorry for her.

 

Srihari said, “What do you think? can we talk to Sita’s father?”

Seshagiri intervened, “Where is he? He is not seen anywhere around for the past one month. Who knows where he went,” and explained his appearance and disappearance in detail.

“Does that mean he does not know about the marriage? If he shows up, wouldn’t he object to his daughter’s marriage?” Indira was surprised.

 

“Who will listen to him? Don’t you understand? Who knows? He might even feel happy that he has gotten a son-in-law who could feed him as well?”

 

“Is that son-in-law also into card games?” Srihari asked.

Seshagiri jumped in, “That is so true. Yes. The son-in-law also plays cards. Father-in-law and son-in-law, there is a good match. That way, money will not leave the house.” He laughed.

Indira was annoyed. “What is that, Seshagiri! You and your jokes! Don’t you know there is a time for everything?” she said with a grimace.

 

Seshagiri realized his mistake, was embarrassed and lowered his head, smiling shyly.

Suseela could see that Sita’s plight hurt Indira deeply. She tried to calm her down and said, “Yes, Indira, tell me, what do you think we should do? Forget the father. If we are to talk, that has to be only with Jayamma.” Then she turned to Seshagiri and said, “Can you check if Jayamma’s husband returned from the farm.”

 

“I saw him a little while ago. He is at home, overseeing the pandal arrangements,” Seshagiri replied.

Indira found a way.

“Yes, Suseela. Let’s go. We will go there pretending that we went to see Sita. Let’s see what Jayamma has to say,” said Indira, getting up to go.

 

Srihari also got up zealously, feeling something needs to be done. “Yes, we must talk to Jayamma. What does it matter if the date is fixed. We have seen so many marriages break up even after the ritual was in progress,” he said.

 

Indira put on the sandals and said, “Suseela, get some fruit to take with us.”

 

“Why some. They have lot of children.,” Suseela replied and packed most of the fruits they brought in the handbag.

“I will drop you there and return home. You take your time, talk to her carefully. My presence could be uncomfortable. … Let’s not take the car. We can walk. It’s not far.”

 

By the time they left it was past seven. It was dark outside.

…                         ….                        ….

 

The children who surrounded the car ran inside and told Jayamma, “Somebody is coming to your house. The same people who came to Seshagiri uncle’s home are coming here. They are coming to your house,” the children hollered.

 

The other children who gathered under the newly erected pandal joined this group and all together stood in the front porch, waiting for the amusing sight.

Jayamma was thrown into a flurry by the message brought by the children. She started to rearrange the cots, baskets and the other stuff. She yelled at her husband, Venkanna, who was feeding fodder to the buffaloes, “these kids are hollering something. Go and see who that is.”

 

By the time Venkanna moved from the porch into the pandal, Suseela was already there. Indira and Srihari were standing behind her under the pandal. It was just finished with new palm leaves, smelling still fresh. Some more leaves were sitting on a side in a pile.

 

Suseela stepped in to the porch and said, “Jayamma, my sister-in-law Indira is here for Sita’s marriage. .. I brought then since they would like to see. They will be gone in a few minutes. It seems you are busy.” Her eyes were fixed on Jayamma’s neck but could not find any chain on her.

 

Jayamma felt a little relieved.

“That’s your sister-in-law, Indira and the family? … wretched kids … I thought it was some strangers,” Jayamma invited them in with a beaming face.

 

Suseela pointed Srihari to Jayamma and said, “This is Srihari annayya,[4] Indira’s husband. Both of them are doctors You know that, right?” She brought it up–that Indira and Srihari are doctors–intentionally. She was hoping that Jayamma would give more weight to their words.

 

Jayamma was a little embarrassed and also excited to see them. She could barely speak. “Come in. Please sit down,” she said as she dusted off the wood bench on the porch.

 

Indira’s eyes have been searching for Sita from the moment she walked through the pandal. She was surrounded by ten to twelve children like picket fence. Could Sita be one of them? … Nothing is visible distinctly. The 40-watt bulb is covered with smoke as if painted black. At the other end of the porch there were buffaloes tied to poles.

 

Srihari and Indira sat on the bench. Suseela put the fruits bag inside the doorway and said, “Jayamma, I have to go. I need to finish cooking. You know, they will be leaving soon.”

Jayamma replied shyly, “Why not eat here? Don’t worry, I will cook. They can eat here.”

“With these children, how can you handle it at this hour? And it is getting dark. They can eat at your place some other time. Where is Sita? I don’t see anywhere. They came to see her specifically,” Said Suseela, looking at the children in that darkness. She chased some of them away, “Why are they all gathered round here? You, go away. Let them breathe a little. Go.”

 

Venkanna finished the job. He smacked the remaining one or two children who were hiding in the corners. “Go… Don’t you want to eat? … Come on … move,” he shouted at them and succeeded in sending them away. Then he came back into the porch.

 

It felt like a huge storm had hit and subsided.

 

Jayamma sat on the floor near the wall and across from Indira and Srihari.

Sita sat near Indira on the bench, with her head down.

Some of Jayamma’s children were hanging around nearby. One girl, a little older than the others was carrying a child and walking around. The child was sucking his thumb. Another small child held her frock frills tight in her fist, and stuck two of her fingers in her mouth.

 

Doctor Indira could notice malnutrition in those children even in that darkness. But her attention on those matters did not last long. She did not say, “Jayamma, stop having more babies. You come to me. I will perform the surgery without charging a paisa.”

She kept staring at Sita.

 

The more she stared at her the more charming Sita looked. “She is gorgeous,” Indira told herself. Sita was wearing a skirt with small flowers, a blouse with border and a voni.[5] She has two clay bangles and also small earrings. No chain round her neck. Her hair was a little shabby. Dark complexioned but the face is attractive. Jayamma’s daughter, probably twelve-years old, was standing behind Sita, leaning over her shoulder.

 

Indira turned her eyes from Sita to that girl. There is a striking resemblance between the two. Possibly she could be Sita’s younger sister. Of fair complexion. She was not wearing voni. No bangles either but her palms were decorated with henna.

 

“What’s your name?” Indira asked her gently.

The girl shyly stepped back and mumbled, “Savitri.” Two more girls came and stood next to Savitri. All of them resembled each other. All of them were looking like pearls. Indira asked another girl, “What is your name?” The girl snuck behind Savitri. Savitri pulled her to the front and replied on behalf of both of them, “Her name is Swati. This one is Revati.”

Revati was the one that was sucking two fingers. Indira gestured that it was not good, pulled her hand from her mouth, and said, “You should not keep your fingers in your mouth. Dirt goes into your tummy and you will get sick. Your teeth will stick out. Don’t do that again, okay?” she said to her. The little girl pulled away her hand from Indira’s, stepped back and ran away.

Indira looked at Swati and said, “Your sister had henna on her hand. How come you don’t have it?”

“We washed it off ‘cause we want to play. Akka kept it because she wants brighter shade. If she has brighter shade she will get a better husband, you know,” the girl replied.

Savitri got upset and said with a fierce look, “Did I say that?”

“Didn’t you say that a little while ago?” Swati retorted.

Amidst this bickering, the baby she was holding started crying.

It was past supper time for them.

“Sita, feed Sai,” Jayamma said.

Sita got up even before Jayamma finished the sentence, went in and returned with a bowl of rice. She picked up the child again, and walked towards the buffaloes while feeding him. Then she went on into the pandal.

 

Jayamma yelled at Savitri, “That’s enough. Wash your hands and feed the other kids. Look at Ramana. He is sleepy.”

Savitri ran out, washed her hands and came back. “Come. Let’s see,” the other children jumped at her to see her hands.

Savitri shook them off furiously and said, “Sit down. I will give the food. Wake up Ramana,” she assigned the duty to one of the sisters and went in.

 

Nearly fifteen minutes passed by since Indira came. Not a single word was spoken yet by the adults.

“Would you like some water to drink?” Jayamma offered, getting up.

“No. We don’t need water. Sit down, Jayamma,” Indira said. Then she started, feeling there is no other way to bring it up. “So, Sita’s marriage has been fixed?”

Jayamma replied apprehensively, “What do you mean fixed? Hardly four days for the ceremony. We have already put up the pandal today.”

 

She came straight to the point, “Why are you marrying her to that old man? She is still a kid.”

“He is not that old. May be fifty or so. And she is sixteen,” said Jayamma quickly.

“Even if that were true, still a difference of over thirty years. Whoever is doing like that nowadays? That kid will be wailing for the rest of her life, don’t you think? Did your father agree to this?”

 

“Huh! Heard the proverb, if he [husband] were alive, why would I need a leaf?[6] If my father has the time for us why would we have wretched lives like these? He couldn’t care less. After my mother passed away, I am taking care of her. I have a brood of my own too. We all are living on the income from one and a half acres of land. This is a small village and we are managing by selling milk and yogurt. What else is there for us to spend on wedding ceremonies? If we find a young man, we have to shell down thousands even for a good for nothing fellow! I mean thousands! We have found a bridegroom some time back. He is a farmhand. He wanted ten thousand rupees, in addition to a watch, a bicycle, a ring, and outfits for him, his mother and father. Can you believe it? How can we do that? And, at that rate, how many marriages can we arrange? What can we do with all these children? Dump them in the Godavari river?” Jayamma went on and on.

 

Indira lowered her head and kept listening.

 

“Rajayya garu sent word through a messenger. If he cared, there are millions women ready to marry him. Everybody in the village knows that our girl is well-mannered. They came to us on their own. Tell me why I should say no to them? She will not be wanting for food and clothes. She will have jewelry like nose-ring and all. She can even feed others like me. We two sisters will be in the same village, be there for each other in time of need. We don’t have a mother or father any more, only the two of us, for each other. I thought about all the ins and outs and agreed. .. May be I am wrong, may be I am right. If we insist on getting only young bridegrooms, how easy that is going to be? True, somebody could see her good behavior and agree to marry her. But where is that idiot who is willing to marry her? I married a young man. How happy do you think I am?” Jayamma poured a volley of questions in a flurry.

 

Indira stopped her. “You have four children, as charming as pearls. But what about her?” she asked in a friendly tone.

 

“She will have them too. If she is destined to have children she will have, why not? Let’s say she can not bear children, like you said. Then I will give her one of my own. What difference does it make whether the child lives in my house or hers?”

 

Srihari cut in. “Every thing you have stated so far is very true. The bridegrooms are demanding huge amounts of money in dowry. That is very true. But based on that fact, can we marry off a little girl to an aged man? Wait for a little longer and see. Where is the rush? If you wait for sometime, I am sure you will find a good match.”

 

“What? Are you asking us to stop the wedding that is going to take place in just three days?” Jayamma and Venkanna were stunned. They could not believe that Indira and Srihari came all the way, made a special trip, to give them this advice?

 

“We might find a good match? The better the match is the higher the dowry is. And here we are, we can not spend even one thousand rupees. If we don’t perform this wedding, we will lose this match as well. We will lose on both counts. My children are also growing up fast. Things are getting worse day by day, not getting better. At the time of my wedding, there was no dowry, not a paisa. They agreed to my marriage saying all they wanted was the girl, that is me. Are the times like that now?” Jayamma went on debating and broke into sobs. She wiped her eyes and nose with her saree frills and continued again.

“I am also worried that I am ruining her life. The entire village is coming after me. On the day the marriage was agreed upon, Rajayya garu gave her [Sita] a gold chain and a silk saree. I was stupid. I wore the chain for a few days. Now everybody says I fixed up this marriage only for that gold chain and for putting up my child for adoption.” Jayamma stopped, clutched a strand of hair on her head, and continued, “I also gave birth to children. I am also aware of pleasure and pain. You tell me what am I supposed to do now? If I reject this match now, can we bring another match for her again? Would any one of those people come forward to bring another match?”

 

Venkanna was silent until then. He said, chiding his wife, “What kind of talk is that? Why would anybody else come and arrange the marriage for our girl? We should worry about it ourselves.”

Jayamma noticed the mistake, bit her tongue and kept quiet.

 

Indira was dumbstruck. She even started feeling, “How could I find fault with them?” She was wondering what would she do if she were in their situation?

 

“Would any one of those people come forward and bring another match?” Jayamma is asking. Indira thought that that was so true.

Srihari also could see her point. He spoke aloud, turning to Indira, “What is the point of giving free advice? One should be prepared to offer concrete help. Otherwise, all this talk turns in to a meaningless chitchat.”

Indira also saw his point. Suddenly she felt like she got out of the sticky situation. She felt that the cancellation of Sita’s marriage was a certainty now. “Jayamma, we will take the responsibility of Sita’s marriage. We will spend whatever expenses need to be incurred. You must find a proper match, suitable age and all. Let go of this match. Or else, the girl’s life would be destroyed.”

 

Srihari was surprised. For him, this line of argument became irksome. He said, “Are we going to perform the marriage, even if it means huge dowry and other demands by the bridegroom? What kind of solution is that?”

“What else? How else can we help her?” said Indira, even more surprised.

 

Jayamma and Venkanna could not figure out what these two persons were implying. The only thing that was clear to them was that they should cancel the impending wedding. How can they cancel a wedding that is only four days away? That too trusting the word of these two people? Counting on their help in future? At this late hour, after putting up the pandal and all!

 

Venkanna was infuriated. “That is not going to happen. You might be saying that because you love the girl but that is not possible. Right or wrong, this marriage must take place as planned. We have given our word.”

 

Jayamma picked up where he left off, “The people are like crows.[ii] If we cancel now, they will ask why we agreed in the first place. After that, it will be our fault, whether we do it or stop it.”

 

For Indira, this is all very confusing. How can they not accept our offer to pay for all the expenses? What do they mean? Why do they keep saying, ‘it is not possible, it is not possible’?

 

She looked at Srihari as if she was saying, “They are not going to listen.”

 

Srihari was still hopeful. He started again, in an attempt to convince that husband and wife, “What you are saying is true. There is no way you can be blamed. What is the point in worrying that somebody might say something? If you stop this wedding somehow, we are willing to do whatever you suggest for Sita’s sake? … I am not saying we love her more than you do. Now we have to start thinking how we can arrange her marriage. That’s all.”

 

Venkanna jumped to his feet. “How can we accomplish that? There is no way we can,” he said and walked away into the pandal, and then into the street. Jayamma kept her mouth shut and kept staring at the floor.

 

Indira and the others were lost for words. Sita kept herself busy from the moment she got up from the bench earlier. She finished feeding the child, took him in to the yard, washed him, put him to bed, and covered him with a saree piece. Then she made the older kids get up from their plates, washed their faces and hands, and picked up the dirty plates. She kept doing the chores, one after another, like an experienced adult.

 

After Venkanna rushed out, Jayamma sat there for a while, feeling weighed down. Then she slowly pulled herself together and said, “Sita, make coffee for attamma and all.”

Indira stopped them, “No, no, Jayamma! We had coffee just before coming here. I am not used to having coffee that many times. Sita! Don’t start now. Don’t.” She repeated ten times and stopped them.

 

Jayamma went in and returned with a cardboard box and put it on the bench next to Indira. She pulled out a silk saree from the box and stood in front of Indira, holding the saree. There was also a shining gold chain, sitting on it.

Indira felt depressed as she saw the two items. Do those two items carry such a big value?

 

How could the sister, a sibling, be so joyous about those items, knowing fully well what is going to happen to Sita?

“Rajayya garu is a good man. He will make sure that Sita will be wanting for nothing.”

 

Indira could not speak She looked around for Sita. Some three or four children were sleeping on one bed.

The house is quiet.

There is nothing they could do, no point in staying there any longer. But her heart would not allow her to get up and leave. Is that it? Is that all? There is nothing they could do? She kept pondering.

 

Srihari, feeling worn out, said, “Shall we go?” Indira did not respond. She sat there.

 

“Sita! Attamma is leaving. Come here for a second,” Jayamma shouted for the little sister.

Sita came, walking slowly toward Indira. She stood there, leaning on the bench, and with her head down. She looked like she had heard every word these adults were talking.

Indira took Sita’s hand into hers silently. She played with the two bangles for a few seconds. Slowly she put her hand on Sita’s shoulder and looked into her face.

Indira envisioned the entire future of that girl in that moment.

In about four days, this little girl is going to be the housewife for an aged man, putting an end to her childhood. She would start waiting on that old man. That old man would start feeling hostility toward this young wife for no reason. He would start suspecting her and abusing her invisibly for every thing she does—when she stands, sits, smiles, or even when she does nothing.

Would she put up with him, become disheartened, run to a well or a valley? What would she do?

May be she would become shrewd!

Or, hardened!

The men around her would not let this naïve child be. They would not leave her alone. They will start ‘hunting.’ They will lay nets for her everywhere.

She will give in. She will be ruined.

She will spend the rest of her life, embarrassed, scared and frightened. If somehow she gives birth to one or two children, she will be able to have a house of her own. Otherwise, the heirs will snatch away that too!

In the end, what would she be left with? What kind of pleasure she would have?

 

Indira pulled Sita toward her bosom as if she was embracing a child on her way to the graveyard in four days. A few tears flowed from her eyes and fell on Sita’s hair.

Sita did not lift her head up.

Indira let her go, turned toward the wall and wiped her tears.

Indira and Srihari started out toward the gate. Jayamma followed them to the door. “You didn’t even have coffee in our house,” she said.

 

…                         …                         …

 

As soon as she entered the house, Indira threw herself on the bed. Srihari narrated the entire incident to Suseela and others. “I tried several times to talk to Sita, but …” he said.

 

“Poor kid. What can she say?” said Suseela.

“No, Suseela! Why not we talk to Sita? What do you think will happen?” Indira said. She sat up, feeling a little better.

“Are you crazy? You two wanted to talk to the adults and you did. What else can we do? If they don’t listen, it is their karma.”

“Stop talking about karma and all that nonsense. Now I want to talk to Sita. I want to talk to her very badly. Tell me whether it is possible or not. Do you think it is absolutely impossible? How about you sending for her on some pretext?”

“It is getting close to ten O’Clock. How can we ask her to come now? Why would they send her? They won’t. … Here is one thing we can do. The same Sita brings us milk everyday early in the morning. I told Jayamma to send us milk until our buffalo has her baby. She will be here while it is still dark.”

“At what time?”

“Around 4:30 or 5:00.”

“Are you sure Sita herself brings it? Are there occasions when other children bring it?”

“Once Sita had fever and then Jayamma herself brought the milk. But for that one time, Sita is the only one to bring it, always.”

“So we have to wait until dawn?”

“It is already past ten. By the time we eat it will be eleven. How can you leave then? You might as well go later.”

Indira looked at Srihari, “Shall we stay?”

“I guess so. How can we leave in the middle of the night?” he said.

“Are you sure Sita comes herself? Or, is it possible Savitri would show up instead, as ill-luck would have it?”

“Don’t worry. Jayamma won’t send the little ones fearing that they might spill the milk. … Anyway, what are you going to say to her? Are you going to ask her ‘do you like this marriage?’ Would she say ‘I like it.’?”

“What if she says she does not like this marriage? What are we going to do then?” Srihari asked, as if thinking aloud.

 

Suseela laughed and said, partly in jest, “Take her with you.”

Indira stared into Suseela’s face. “Yes. Why not we do that? If Sita agrees, why not we take her with us?”

“Oh, God! You are dangerous. You jump on any word I’d say.”

“No, tell me. What if we take her with us?”

“We will take her with us and then what?” Srihari looked at her with astonishment.

“She will live with us in our house. We will send her to the school along with Sasi. And after that, we can find a job for her.”

Srihari did not believe that would work.

“Indira, if you make decisions, based on emotions … we will get into trouble later. You have to think whether it is practical or not,” he said.

 

Indira set out to argue her case. “What do you mean emotional? Are we little children? What have we so far to save that girl? We talked to her family for two hours, that’s it, right? Shouldn’t we be giving a little more thought to it? Should we let it go just like that, saying ‘what else can we do?’ If that girl trusts us and is willing to go with us, can’t we handle that much? Money is not a problem for us. What else is there to cause troubles? Do you think her family brings in police and involves us in litigation? That is the only thing we should be thinking about now. If this marriage is cancelled, Rajayya might go to the court, right? Let’s say they will take the girl back. After all this hard work, if we have to return the girl to her family, there is no point. That is what we should be carefully thinking now.”

 

“That is not the real issue, Indira! We can handle any number of cases. That is not the problem. Let’s say we convince her and take her with us. After that, if we don’t take good care of her, we might be making things worse for her. Are you fully convinced? Are you sure Sasi will like it?” Srihari said.

 

Indira looked at him, hurt. “You are not making any sense, and I want to know why? Why should Sasi like it at all? Should we do each and every thing, based on Sasi’s likes and dislikes. If what we are doing is a good deed, why wouldn’t she like it? If she can’t see it straight, we will talk to her and convince her. She must listen to what we have to say. We can’t hold back fearing that she might not like it. You are really talking strange today. You tell me frankly whether you like it or not. There should not be any misunderstandings later.”

 

Srihari laughed and said, “If I say I don’t like it, it looks like I’m going to have a problem right now right here.”

“That’s right. You’ve got that right. It is not possible for me not to get into an argument with these people—they are so narrow-minded. Tell me Srihari, if Sita agrees to go with us, do you have any objection to take her with us?”

 

Suseela and Seshagiri were astounded. They kept staring at Indira.

Srihari replied patiently, “Indira, I am very happy that we could accomplish such a plausible deed. I like it very much. All I am saying is we should think well first and then proceed.”

Finally things have settled down.

Suseela served food.

Indira felt relieved at the thought that they were going to do something for Sita.

While they sat down to eat, Suseela commented, “It seems I created an unnecessary situation, that too without a good reason. Probably I should not have written that letter.”

 

“Don’t talk like an idiot. So many of us are here. Can’t we all together save one little girl? Is there going to be a dent in our stash for this one little act?” Indira chided her.

 

Sasi was not aware that their return trip was postponed. She noticed that nobody showed any sign of leaving, even after the supper was finished. She came to her mother and asked, “amma, are we not leaving now?”

“Aren’t you listening, all this while? For the past one hour what do you think we were discussing? We have decided to wait so we could talk to Sita. We will leave early morning,” Indira said.

Sasi looked down and said, “Oh, no. I have an exam tomorrow. I will have to be at school by seven in the morning.”

 

Indira was furious beyond words. “What is this, Sasi? You are behaving like a child. There is another little girl caught up in a life-and-death situation. We all are worried sick, wondering what we could do, and you are talking as if your exam is a huge problem. Are you out of your mind? Learn to be a little more attentive to your values like good and bad. We will leave while it is still dark. If we are back in time, you will go to school, or else skip. Earth is not going to shatter if you score a few marks less.”

 

Sasi left without saying another word. She went in to Syamala’s room and fell asleep on her bed.

All the adults sat there contemplating their next move.

At a distance the sounds of drums are being heard intermittently.

Indira was taken aback. “What is that? Have they already started playing drums for the wedding?” she said..

 

“Ccha! Three days ahead?” said Suseela.

“Who knows? May be the old man is so keyed up,” said Indira angrily.

“The drummers always find a reason to play, hoping for rains, … something or other” said Suseela.

“I don’t think so. May be it is some kind of announcement,” Seshagiri said.

“What announcement at this hour? It is past ten.”

Seshagiri laughed and said, “Indira akkayya, there is one thing we can do and it will be really fun. Let’s announce Rajayya’s action for the entire village.” He was excited at the thought.

“That is good. Everybody in the village will come to know about this marriage. Your suggestion is good but it is already known all over the village,” Suseela said.

 

“That’s alright even if it is known. We should broadcast that ‘look what Rajayya is doing. Make him eat the grass[7] ho! ..ho!… In fact this is what we should do. We should invite the entire village, seat them, … or we could go to their homes and tell them, ‘we should not let this happen.’ Or, we can gather round Rajayya’s house and shout, ‘What kind of act is this? Are you a human or a buffalo?’ If we mention ‘hollering,’ I am sure all the children will come running too,” said Seshagiri quickly.

 

Both Indira and Srihari recalled the things they usually see in the newspapers everyday—protests, dharnas [sit in] and flyers.

“Yes. We should print handouts and distribute to each house in the village,” said Srihari with renewed vigor.

“Why are you coming to square one again? Who in the village does not know about this?” said Suseela.

“It’s not because they do not know. Aren’t we going to say in the handout that Rajayya should be taught a lesson and the marriage should be stopped?” said Srihari. He added, “That will create an uproar in the village and that will scare him out of his wits.”

 

Indira shook off her thoughts and said, “While we all are busy with this announcement thing, they will take her away to Annavaram or Simhachalam.[8] First thing we should do is to think how are we going to save the girl.”

 

Indira’s words made sense to all of them.

“Besides, I have several surgeries this week. Already scheduled. How can we go about these handouts and publicity? Where do we have that kind of time?” said Indira, feeling depressed.

“If we are sure of favorable result, I am sure we can find a way to do it. If they suspect that we are planning things to go against their wishes, they might really take her away to some other place. We had better do it quietly,” Srihari said.

 

Publicity idea seemed to be unrealistic.

Seshagiri was disappointed yet had to agree, “That’s also true. You had better take her away with you. He will come to his senses eventually.”

 

Each of them said whatever he or she could come up with. They kept arguing for a long time. They sat there discussing about it. They all were worried about the outcome. And they all fell asleep one by one.

 

…               …                 …

 

Indira was waking up on the hour and looking at the clock. Finally, she got up at 3:00 and woke up Suseela as well.

“Not yet,” Suseela said and fell asleep again.

At about 4:00, Indira got up, sat down in the front porch with her eyes glued to the road.

 

The moonlight in the wee small hours was so beautiful! The entire street was so quiet! It was so long since she had spent time in the village! Suddenly she looked at the clock and noticed that it was past 4:30! She was getting restless.

 

All of a sudden Sita showed up in the porch with a can of milk. Indira could not believe her eyes. She stepped forward and said, “Sita! Is that you?”

Sita was surprised too. “You did not go away, attamma?” she said.

“For your sake, we stayed, wanted to talk to you, Sita! Tell me the truth. Did you tell them that you did not want this marriage?” Indira asked her straight, getting to the point.

For Sita it was a new lease on life.[9] In that moment she put her trust in Indira completely. Sita had never seen anybody before who would talk to her like that regarding her marriage.

“I have told them several times, attamma! Akka goes on talking on and on.”

“You really do not like this marriage?”

“Chi, chi. Not at all, I do not like it at all. I swear.”

“Then, will you go with us?”

“With you? Where to?”

“To our village. To our house. You can stay with us. We will send you to school. Or else, you can undergo some training while working for me. I am a doctor, you know. Mavayya[10] also is a doctor. Tell me, will you come with us?”

 

Sita broke into sobs. “Akka will not let me go. She will not,” she said.

“That is not what I am saying. Let’s not tell akka. We can leave right now.”

“Wouldn’t they come to know about it? They will come and get me.”

“They can not come and get you. We will not let them take you back. We will take care of all that. You tell me if you like to come with us?”

“I like that, attamma! I do like it. But …”

“You are scared, right? Don’t you worry about it. If you don’t act boldly now, you can never be free from this menace. Listen to me. I will make sure that you do not face hardships again. I will take good care of you. You like it, right! Shall we proceed? Your sister will get over her anger in due course. Then you can visit them occasionally. After that, if anybody asks, you should tell them that you left on your own free will. Understand?”

 

“Yes. I will. Please take me, really, attamma! I will do any and every chore you tell me to. Please, let me stay with you!” Sita said, hugged Indira and broke into sobs again.

 

By that time, others also woke up.

Srihari pulled the car to the front. Sasi sat in the backseat. Indira walked Sita to the car and seated her next to Sasi. Sasi moved to a corner and said hastily, “Lie down Sita. Somebody could see you.”

Sita quickly bundled up on the seat and covered her head and the arms with her voni.

Indira’s joy knew no bounds. “We came here only to see how things are, and running away with the bride. Poor bridegroom. Wonder what happens to him, Suseela!” she said, sitting in the front seat and closing the door.

 

“What happens to him? Ocean of sorrow,” Srihari said, laughing.

“I don’t know. You are on your way leaving us behind. Jayamma and the family will come to attack us,” said Suseela apprehensively.

“We will tell them that we did not know. We will fight back. Don’t you worry. You go, quick,” Seshagiri rushed them.

Car started and moved forward in that moonlit, early hours, zooming through the pleasant breeze.

 

***

 

It was past seven by the time they reached home.

While they were still in the car they discussed whether they should keep Sita at home or hide her in some other place for a few days.

“No problem. She will stay with us. If they come and ask her to go back, she can say that she would not leave and it would be fine. They might curse us and leave. What else can they do?” said Srihari.

Indira argued, “It is not a good idea to entertain too much confidence and assume that they will do nothing.”

“Look, after a few days of hiding, she will come back to our house and stay with us, right? We might as well face it now,” Srihari said.

They reached home without making any decision one way or the other. Sasi rushed to her school.

 

“Let’s say your akka and bava show up and ask you to go back with them. What will you say?” They asked Sita several questions.

Sita answered all their questions boldly.

“I would say I came to see attamma’s village,” she said at first.

Indira laughed and said, “That’s not right, you silly thing! You should tell them the real reason.”

Sita also laughed and said, “I will tell them that since you have arranged a marriage against my will, I came away to a place I liked.”

“Excellent! That is the way to talk. Suppose ten persons showed up. Suppose they drag you out and throw you into the car. Then, what would you do?”

“Even if they drag me back to our village, I will refuse to sit down for the ceremony, attamma! He [bridegroom] will be there too, right? I will walk up to him and tell him I will not marry you. You are sixty-years old. I am only fourteen. I will not have this marriage.” She replied.

“Not only that. You should also ask him, are you not ashamed, thatha? Will you also say that or will you forget that?”

“Yes. I will say that for sure even if akka curses me, beats me up, and even if she kills me.”

“You crazy one! No such thing is going to happen.”

Indira and Srihari felt elated that Sita has picked up the courage now. They have come to the conclusion that Sita need not be hidden in any corner.

 

Three more days to the wedding day. Indira would not leave home. Srihari also was rushing back to the house whenever he went out.

Sasi skipped school.

They all are waiting anxiously, worrying each minute what could happen.

Two days passed by without any incident. Nobody came. There was no news, not even from Suseela!

 

The fact that nothing happened was even more confusing.

“I wish something happened,” said Indira several times.

Sasi expressed her admiration for Sita several times, “amma! Sita is such a nice girl.”

Indira asked why. Sasi replied, “She is always busy, either rearranging my books or clothes. A while ago, I left the wet towel on the cot and forgot. She took it outside and hung up for drying. When I was brushing my hair, she took the comb and brushed my hair. She would sit there staring at me while I was studying. Remember? You would always say that I should behave. That is what she does exactly. Speaks very gently. Walks slowly. Smiles meekly. …”

 

Indira listened to her with a smile and said, “That’s good. You had better watch her and learn. ‘Behaving’ however does not necessarily mean ‘walking slowly, smiling meekly, and speaking gently.’ Sita is acting like that because that is considered ‘humility’. She has no mother. She grew up at her sister’s home doing chores. She has gotten used to being ‘humble.’ I am not asking you to live like that—be humble and passive. Don’t interpret ‘behaving’ to mean that. Sita came to our house. We are still outsiders for her. She is behaving like that out of gratitude for what we have done for her. That is her good nature. Which means we also should be equally nice to her, yes? We should not treat her as a ‘maid.’ You should not sit there idly and let her do all the work. Never belittle her.”

 

Sasi listened quietly to everything Indira said.

Indira smiled and said, “Sita has changed you a lot.” She was very happy that Sasi was treating Sita as a friend.

 

***

 

It was the day of the wedding, the day the marriage was prevented from happening. Sita would be considered ‘freed from disaster’ after the clock strikes ten!

Srihari left home since he had some urgent cases he had to attend.

Through out the day, each minute was like a span of several ages for Indira. She glued her eyes to the street and waited for Srihari.

Srihari got out of the car and walked in, looking dispirited. Indira could not figure out why he was looking depressed.

“A horrible disaster,” Srihari said, laying back in the chair, as if he had no strength to stand.

Indira was so scared she could not even ask what that disaster was.

“We thought Rajayya’s marriage was canceled. Well, it was not.”

“It was not?” Indira was perplexed.

“Sita … is here, isn’t she?”

“Aren’t there other Sitas everywhere? It seems the marriage took place at exactly the same moment as planned originally.” And added, “with Savitri!”

Indira was shocked beyond belief. “With Savitri? Did you say Savitri? Jayamma’s daughter! Horrendous!”

“Yes. My head spun when I heard it.”

“Who told you? Who said that? How do they know?”

Srihari narrated the entire story he had heard. “The music band went to that village from here to play at the wedding ceremony. The band returned by the late afternoon. There were fireworks at the wedding. One of the boys in the band, Pullarao sustained some burns on his hand. He came to Srihari’s clinic. I asked him how he got the burns and he explained in detail. He mentioned the name of the village—the same village and the groom’s name. He gave me all the details!”

 

After he is convinced that the same wedding took place, Srihari poured a volley of insults. “A sixty year-old man married a twelve year-old girl and you all played band. Chi. Begging on the streets could have been a better calling for you,” he said.

 

Pullarao started crying. He said that he was not aware of the circumstances until after he went there.

“Well, you did understand after arriving there. Why couldn’t you tell them that you would not play for that kind of wedding and return?’ Srihari said.

 

Pullarao looked at him awkwardly. “It did not occur to us, sir. It would have been good if we had done that. If not others, I could have left at the least,” he repeated hundred times. He beat himself up for not taking such action and cried.

 

After that he filled in a lot more details about the wedding ceremony. He said, “the pandal was jam-packed with people. Some of them said ‘age is not an issue for man!’ A few others said that ‘a girl would grow up in no time.’ All around I heard only comments like these. I did not find one person who had said, ‘Cchi, what is this?’”

 

“As for the women, I can’t even begin to tell! They all were dressed up in silk sarees with jaree [gold thread], tucked flowers in their hairdos, decorated with turmeric and kumkuma—they all were so excited to throw akshintalu [rice mixed with turmeric] on the bride and the groom with such an excitement, I can’t describe it!”

“Stop. Don’t tell me anymore …” Indira said, feeling miserable.

Sasi came running and said, “amma! Sita is crying.”

“Why? Why?” Indira and Srihari rushed in to the room in a flurry.

Sita was on the floor, rocking in a fit and crying in heartrending sobs.

It broke their hearts to see Sita in that condition. “What is this, Sita? You stupid girl! Why are you crying?” said Indira, taking her in to her lap.

Sita quivered like a bird whose wings were snipped off. “Savitri is younger than I. Much much younger. It would have been better if I had married him! Send me back… Send me back … I will go to their house, not Savitri. Attamma, send me there, please,” she kept saying and wailing.

 

Tears poured out of Indira’s eyes.

“No, Sita! Let’s think what we can do now. Tell me, what is the use of crying? We will bring Savitri also. Certainly we can bring her. Okay?”

“Then akka will marry off Swati to him. Attamma! I would rather go myself. Please, send me back.”

 

“I will report that idiot to the police. I will send him to the jail. I have been very patient so far. How long does that rogue go on marrying little girls? I am going right now to the police station. You get up first. Come on, sit. He may have thought that it was over when the ceremony was completed. We will stop Savitri from joining him. You stop worrying. Mavayya and I will take care of it. Okay? Do you think we will let him get away with it? Sasi! Bring something for Sita to drink. Bring warm milk in a glass tumbler! Come, get up! Sita! Won’t you please listen to me?”

 

Sita sat up in a snap and cried again, “attamma!”

Sasi understood mother’s words, took a sleeping pill from the cupboard and went in to the kitchen. She brought milk in a glass tumbler.

Sita drank the milk in between hiccups.

Indira sat there for a long time. Then she said, “Sasi, you two lie down for a little while,” and she left the room, after making sure that Sita lay down.

She came back after a few minutes and noticed that Sita was sleeping peacefully.

 

Indira and Srihari sat down like two persons lost in a dharma yuddham. They sat for a long time as if they could not think what to speak.

Indira was trying to recollect Savitri in her mind—the girl she had seen at Jayamma’s house the other night.

“Do you remember Savitri?” Indira asked Srihari. She was depressed.

“I remember them all,” said Srihari, languidly.

For Indira it was unbearable.

“Abbha! What have we done!” she held her head.

Her eyes filled with tears! She did not try to stop bemoaning.

 

“We have saved Sita. But Savitri was sacrificed in the process!”

 

[End]

 

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, March 2003.

 

***

(The Telugu original, samskarana” was published in Andhra Prabha Weekly, 27 July 1994. This translation is based on the story published in the anthology, Ámmaki Adivaaram leda? Sweet Home publications, 1996.)

[1] Orange colored flower with a strong aroma. Popular belief is the aroma attracts snakes.

[2] Usually marriages are celebrated at the bride’s home. A huge tarpaulin tent, commonly known as pandal will be put up under which marriage is performed.

[3] A tradition, pradhaanam, is for both the parties to meet at bride’s home and set the date for wedding. At the time gifts are also exchanged.

[4] Annayya literally means brother. See glossary for relational terms

[5] Pre-adolescent girls wear a 3-yard piece by way of transition to saree.

[6] A Telugu proverb, aayane unTe vistarendukani a custom of widows eating in a leaf plate. If he were alive, she would not be needing the leaf plate but would eat in the same plate after the husband finishes eating.

[7] A common proverb, gaDDi peTTaali, meaning teach him a lesson.

[8] The two places Annavaram and Simhachalam are temple villages. Sometimes weddings are celebrated in temples.

[9] The common phrase in Telugu is praaNam lechi vaccindi.

[10] Uncle. See glossary

[i] Praying for the rains to fall. A common tradition.

[ii] A common proverb, lokulu kaakulu –people are like crows, usually implies people chatter irresponsibly.

MORAL SUPPORT by Anisetty Sridhar

Gopalam is not stupid and he never clowned around. Yet he is the laughing stock of the town.

Gopalam never borrowed money and defaulted. He never took money from others promising jobs and reneged on his promise. He did not take possession of somebody else’s property or land illegally. Yet several people are upset with him.

Gopalam never said a bad nor put on airs. Yet he caused severe mental agony for many people.

Gopalam never snatched away his neighbor’s newspaper in the morning for his own use. He never borrowed a friend’s scooter and returned it with an empty tank. Still many people would feel restless around him.

Gopalam got a high level position in the government. All his friends and relatives were happy when he got the job. Eventually, after watching his professional conduct, his male friends raised eyebrows and women were astounded. “He would not touch even a straw but for the pay,” they said as if it were the eighth wonder.

The contractors were angry because Gopalam did not pass their bills. His subordinates were mad because he neither accepted bribes nor did he allow them to do so. His brother was furious because Gopalam refused to pull the strings to get him a job.

By now, Gopalam could have acquired three houses and six plots if he wanted to. But he did not acquire even one house and that caused anguish in his wife and parents.

Gopalam’s integrity became a problem for his senior officers. They put a bundle of cash in front of him. He treated it as trash. They offered him gold biscuits. He didn’t care for them anymore than the Britannica biscuits.

The senior officers brought in a gorgeous woman for his pleasure. The woman turned into a sanyasi after the way he looked at her.

They offered him promotion. Nope, he said!

They warned him about cancellation of the upcoming promotion. That didn’t work either.

They threatened him with a transfer. Gopalam rounded up s few trusted packers and movers was all set ready to go.

Gopalam’s colleagues begged him to ignore others’ dealings. “Why does a sissy like you would want to work in this kind of job? Why can’t you go into the academics?” they taunted him.

Gopalam was a quiet person and an introvert.

After everything else failed, the persons around him hurt him with scathing remarks—

Gopalam was good-for-nothing; a coward; born in the wrong century; not a man;

women were better than he was; he might as well learn from today’s female politicians at the least; a dried stand of straw was better compared to him; if he followed the tip of his nose[1] in his actions, the nose would be crushed; their misfortune could spell disaster for him; and, they even brought prasadam for him and told him that they worshipped the Lord praying for his transfer.

Gopalam’s parents lamented about his future. “How are you going to survive, my boy?” they asked him, looking miserable.

Gopalam is a sensitive person. He was hurt by all these comments. He was getting hurt over and again. There are couple stories that vouch for his ultimate foolishness. Here they are.

²²²

 

One day, Gopalam’s wife asked him, “You don’t listen to anything we say. Why can’t you build one house for us at least?” and continued in a sarcastic vein, “I am sure there is nothing wrong in that. Or, is there some principle of yours I am not aware of?”

 

Finally Gopalam set out to look for a plot. One of his friends showed a site in a newly developed area on the outskirts of the town. Gopalam liked the location. On the day he was going to meet the landlord, Gopalam’s wife made his favorite breakfast.

 

Normally, nobody asks a seller why he was selling things whether it be a soap or a matchbox. People know that that is the way it is in business. And why didn’t Gopalam have the sense to understand that house sites are also consumer goods?

 

“Why are you selling this site in stead of building a house for yourself?” Gopalam asked the landlord naively. The landlord, who has a home downtown, bought this site three years ago at 400 rupees per yard. Now the going rate is 1000 rupees per yard. So he became richer by two and a half times without lifting a finger. The landlord twisted his moustache proudly.

 

If conversation is a fine art, criticizing others without offending them is a finer art. Gopalam did not master this art. There is not even a chance of he ever acquiring that skill in his present life. Or else, why would he ask the landowner, “So you have blocked this site for the past three years?” “What do you mean?” the landowner questioned with knit eyebrows and livid face. How Gopalam could not understand the angry looks of the landowner or the warning signals of his friend is beyond anybody’s comprehension.

 

“What you did is to make it impossible for those who wanted to build a house on this site three years ago,” Gopalam said. The landowner shot up into the sky like fireworks. His nostrils quivered. Gritting his teeth, he screamed, “Are you implying I am a black-marketer? You’d better watch your words. Show me where is the law that specifies where I can invest and where I cannot. I will invest wherever I please. If and when I lose money, will you make up for it?”

 

The argument turned into a fight. Gopalam’s friend tried to persuade them to resolve their differences peacefully. The landowner shouted, “You stop right there. If your friend is so stuck on honesty, can he get the plot registered without paying bribe? Can he get the plans approved without paying bribe? Can he leave the required space from the street per plan? Can he get the electricity and water connections without paying bribe?” Gopalam kept repeating I can, I can, for each of the challenges. After the chapter on challenges ended, the landowner walked away saying, “I will not sell my plot to you, never.” Gopalam’s friend beat his head in despair.

 

The word reached home and triggered a silent war on the home-front. Whenever something happens that is annoying to Gopalam’s wife, she falls sick invariably. She goes into a fit of sneezing, coughing and blowing her nose constantly. Her face displays her displeasure. Not a word comes out of her mouth. The pots and pans in the kitchen slip from her hand and fall on the floor with a resounding noise. Children get yelled at frequently. Even after dark, the lights don’t get lit up. No matter however humid it is, she covers the entire body, including her face with a heavy sheet. In short, Gopalam will have no peace of mind. She might be spinning like a top all day but by evening she pretend to be sick and hide under the sheet. Women can create a heaven or hell in a second, Gopalam says to himself.

 

 

²²²

 

The second incident is a more recent one.

 

Gopalam was adamant about building a house without paying one paisa to anybody. One of his friends convinced him after a fierce struggle that Gopalam should forget his decision to build a house and buy a flat instead. The friend said he could introduce Gopalam to a builder who was selling flats.

 

Gopalam had a problem with this builder as well. The cost of the flat was three hundred thousand rupees. The builder wanted to show it as two hundred thousand rupees for the purpose of registration. Gopalam said, “Are you worried about my paying higher registration fee? That is okay with me. It is not right to cheat the government, don’t you think? I think it is only fair that it should be registered for three hundred thousand rupees, the actual price and I am willing to pay the registration fee.”

 

The builder argued, “I cannot use one figure for you and another for all the others. I will have to respect the custom all the builders put in practice. Even the robbers have a set code of conduct among themselves.” Then he asked a series of questions and came to understand Gopalam’s current situation. Gopalam was currently renting a place at a sum he could afford and the place was comfortable. His landlords were nice people, not the kind that would keep rising the rent; they didn’t have to rise the rent since they had no children to worry about, and for the same reason there was no threat of Gopalam being asked to vacate.

 

The builder satisfied himself with Gopalam’s financial position, and told him, “Sir, you are not the kind of person who could buy a flat or build a house in your lifetime. Don’t even think about it.”

 

From that day to the present—that’s one and a half months–Gopalam’s wife has been sneezing without break.

 

²²²

 

Mohan, Gopalam’s childhood friend, stays with Gopalam whenever he is in town. Mohan came to town regarding some loan his brother could not recover. As usual, Mohan came to Gopalam’s house for the day.

 

Mohan told Gopalam about the loan money his brother could not recover. He said, “Looks like we can’t collect it in the normal channels. So we have appealed to Kasipati.” Kasipati is a jobber, a right-hand man of the local member of legislative assembly.

 

Gopalam frowned and said, “Why don’t you go to the court?”

 

Mohan laughed. Mohan was aware that Gopalam sadly lacks in worldly wisdom and it is time Gopalam did something about it. Mohan has been hearing the stories of Gopalam’s naivete. He has been adding a new chapter to the encyclopedia of Gopalam’s knowledge each time he visited this place. Probably this is the thirteenth chapter in that encyclopedia!

 

In the world of Kasipati, there are no loopholes, no continuations, no witnesses, and no cross-examinations. Normally, if the defendant failed to show in the court, the judge could issue a warrant for his arrest and dismiss the case. With Kasipati nobody could file an insolvency petition and get the case dismissed. The detectives under Kasipati will find the person, no matter wherever he went in the entire universe. The law may not permit to transfer the property to wife as an attachment but not in Kasipati’s court. Kasipati makes sure that the justice is served even if the property is attached to the wife or a kept woman. It is true it costs a little more but you will get the job done. Gopalam felt bad that such success was not due to the greatness of Kasipati but because of the weakness in the system and due to the misfortune of the public.

 

Mohan said, “Do you know that the police officers also take money and arrange such settlements?”

 

“Really?” said Gopalam, shocked.

 

Mohan replied, “Yes. Nowadays, people don’t have the time or patience for anything except to watch the television. All they care for is how and when they can get their job done, and don’t care if someone else is hurt in the process, not even when they were lose their shirts on their backs.”

 

The blood in Gopalam’s face dried up. “Is that why my family sees me as a worthless fellow; my colleagues are mad at me; and, the people who are supposed to know me well make fun of me? There were times when I made a mistake and held out my hand to my teacher for punishment. But I never held out my hand for the mistakes I never made. Is it a crime to hold on to my integrity and honesty? I am not looking for flower garlands and public applause. Is it fair to throw stones at me for that reason?” His voice choked.

 

Gopalam’s wife begged Mohan, “Please convince my husband and talk some sense into him.”

 

Mohan replied, “Amma, trust me, there isn’t a woman in the entire world more fortunate than you are.” Gopalam’s wife was surprised to hear that.

 

²²²

 

Then there was one more story attesting to his character:

 

One day Gopalam’s uncle arrived to visit them. The uncle’s favorite character is Salya[i] in maha bharatam. He goes overboard even with simple hospitality. Gopalam’s wife extended hospitality as best she could and after he was very pleased, she gave an earful of her miseries.

 

The uncle is a man of the world. He keeps himself busy giving speeches to others on the best way to live. He could tear apart those who don’t listen. At the moment Gopalam’s wife stood leaning on the kitchen door and the uncle was lecturing her on the best way to live. He prides himself on the fact that he was a man of integrity and would stake his life on truth. He said, “amma! Your husband’s disposition is a kind of disease. All these things—high goals, social reform and service—are human weaknesses. That is how the mind works when life moves on smoothly without any encumbrances. Wait until he is faced with a few needs, one after another, all these principles go up into the attic. Only the tough will stand their ground in the face of unbearable hardships. They stick to the decisions they have made in their younger days in the heat of excitement and later stick to their guns just to please the others. Or, they might be holding on to their philosophy due to either their inability to act or some other weakness. They would use the sham term ‘self-gratification’ for it. Such people also consider themselves extraordinary individuals and put themselves above others. In their opinion, all the others are small, low-class vultures, or some such things. What is the point of a man living if not to provide a comfortable life for his wife and children? What is he thinking? Can change the world entirely from the roots up?”

 

A person must have a very strong armor to withstand those dart-like words, if he wants to guard his values like honesty and integrity. He has to have the guts to turn around and confront the words. Since Gopalam did not have the guts, his heart sustained several injuries from such cruel words both at home and outside.

 

If we take the uncle’s words as human weaknesses, then the proof of a person’s character lies in the shortcuts people take as slaves of the civilization controlled by material goods. It is true that his life has been going well, no fears or frustrations. But then Gopalam was worried sick with the thought that there are people who resort to unjust ways and criminal activities and then become millionaires and billionaires in the process.

 

²²²

 

Gopalam spent all night reminiscing the words of his uncle. His head sweltered because of all that worry. He kept brooding until he was exhausted and there was no more strength in him to think.

 

Next morning he went his office and sat in his Gopalam. He sat there as if he had packed all his high aims in one bad and threw them far into the horizon. He was like karna after his chariot was stuck in the crevices.[ii] Gopalam opened the letter he received in the mail.

 

“Dear Gopalam:

 

I am writing this letter for a specific reason. I noticed the social maladies surrounding you, the people who were feeding those maladies, and their cruel attack on you. I also noticed how badly you were hurt in the process and how much you were squealing under their pressure.

 

It is unfortunate that those who violate the social norms should be able to walk holding their heads high while persons like you have to sneak around in this world. The devils wearing the garbs of angels are claiming to be angels and the public are honoring them with garlands while the voices of angels like you are choked. You are hurt because others called you a good-for-nothing fellow, are upset with you, and are mocking you. The truth is we all are jealous of you. Your existence annoys us. It feel like a thorn pricking at our hearts. We are anxious to drag you into our crowd and turn you into one of us. Then we all can feel safe feeling that everybody in the world is just like us. Then the corruption, brutality, and nepotism will pass for justice naturally.

 

I will try to become a person like you but I cannot promise. I am however begging you not to turn into one of us. I have unlimited faith in your mode of thinking and convictions. You be firm in your purpose. Build the character necessary to withstand the four types of polity[iii] these spineless cowards are pulling on you. I am writing this letter for one reason only. I thought you needed this moral support at this point in your life.

 

Your friend,

Mohan.”

 

Gopalam has been craving all this his life only for this kind of moral support. The moral strength Krishna gave to Arjuna came to his mind. During the maha bharatam war, Arjuna questioned the propriety of hurting his own friends and relatives in pursuit of victory and Krishna convinced him that it was Arjuna’s duty to fight.[iv] Gopalam also recalled the story of the gullible brahmin and the four thieves.[2] For Gopalam he felt like the story ended with a new twist. It was like one of the thieves returned to tell him that the animal in his arms was in reality a goat and not a dog as he was led to believe.

 

Gopalam felt elated. The darkness surrounding him was dispelled. He pulled out the book, “The Buddha spoke,” from the desk drawer and opened the page he book-marked. He read, “Even if you don’t comprehend the Truth, even if you had stepped back in awe the first time you saw it, put your complete faith in the Truth. Always trust the Truth.” Gopalam kept Mohan’s letter in his shirt pocket and walked forward with a renewed vigor. Now people could notice initiative and passion in Gopalam.

 

[End]

 

(Author’s note: I am grateful to my friend, Baig. The Telugu original, maddatu was published in Rachana monthly magazine in July 1998).

 

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and originally published on thulika.net, June 2003.

 

 

 

²²²

[1] A straightforward person.

[2] A children’s story. Four robbers see a gullible brahmin walk down the street with a baby goat in his arms. As a part of their plan, the four thieves stand at various positions along the street and each one of them asks the brahmin why he was carrying a dog. The brahmin after hearing the same question four times comes to believe that he might be carrying a dog and drops the goat on the street.

[i] A character in maha bharatam, a fast-talker.

[ii] An episode in maha bharatam. On the battlefield, several rules of fair war were violated and the Mother Earth caved in sorrow. The chariot of Karna, one of the great warriors, was stuck in the cracks, and rendered him helpless.

[iii] According to Hindu polity, the four types are saama [persuasion], daana [offering consideration], bheda [divide and rule], danda [applying physical force].

[iv] Reference to the great war in maha bharatam and Krishna’s rendering of the famous bhagavad gita.

DIARY by Vasundhara

Ramu was a little boy when he lost his mother. His father remarried Laxmi and she entered the household as a new bride-cum-step mother. Ramu studying was in third standard, a very intelligent lad. His father, Ranga Rao taught him to write a journal to express himself freely.

In the beginning, Ramu had no clue as to what to write in his journal. He wrote mundane details about his daily routine. Then his father taught him to write about his feelings in the journal. In a short while, Ramu’s writing showed enormous improvement and maturity.

His father, Ranga Rao, worked as a clerk in a bank. He earned enough money to live comfortably. But he was an outside bird and spent most of his time out of the house. Ramu’s mother complained about this often when she was alive

After Ranga Rao’s remarriage, Ramu wrote in his journal, “Mom would have been happy if she were alive now, because dad is coming home earlier and is spending time with me. I am enjoying this.” Ranga Rao felt happy when he read it in his son’s journal. When Laxmi came home, he wrote, “Everybody is scaring me about the new mother. But she is very beautiful. She smiled at me too.” After that, for a few days, Ramu wrote good things about his stepmother. Ranga Rao felt relieved about their relationship and stopped reading his son’s journal altogether.

Laxmi was determined to be affectionate to Ramu. He is indeed, a lovable, sweet kid. But, as time progressed, he always reminded her of his mother and she suffered inexplicable pangs of jealousy for the dead woman. Ramu is a spitting image of his mother. Laxmi’s suffering increased whenever someone praised Ramu about his looks, intelligence or behavior. She started feeling irritated when he called her “mom.” Gradually the irritation turned into hatred towards the child. But, being an educated and intelligent woman, she chose unconventional methods to show her dislike towards him. Ramu wrote in round, short letters. She would tease him about it, saying, “My darling son should write like a little man, not those rounded letters like silly girls.” Ramu felt disappointed that his hand-writing did not meet the criteria of his mother. She would hand him the newspaper and ask him to read it for her. When he faltered over the words or misunderstood them, she would laugh at him. She would undermine his self-esteem in every way but she never showed any anger or resentment.

Laxmi’s main weapon was food! She knew very well Ramu’s favorite food items, which she would promise, and then fail to make it on some pretext or another. Ramu liked sweets made of milk. She promised him that she would make it, and then said that the milk was spoilt. She pretended to feel sorry for him and sent the servant to the shop to buy some sweets. She then told him, a lie, that the servant got mixed up and bought something else, which invariably Ramu hated! She enjoyed raising his hopes and then dashing them to the ground.

Ramu did not realize that his stepmother was torturing him deliberately. He would always blame his tough luck. The feeling of misery which he poured out in his journal gave her a sadistic pleasure. One day, she promised him pancakes, which he loved to eat. She made the batter and made some pancakes for her husband before he left for work. When Ramu returned from school, she hurried him, “Ramu! Change and come, quick. I made your favorite pancakes today.”
Ramu saw the pancakes in the plate and was thrilled. He longed to attack the plate, but he had to obey the rules, so he ran to his room to change. When he came back into the kitchen, Laxmi was shouting at someone, “get out now!”

“What is the matter, mom?” Ramu enquired.

“Oh that dirty dog…” Laxmi replied. Sometimes the dog entered kitchen in search of food.

“Did you drive him away?” he asked again.

“Yes, sweetheart! But…” she stopped and looked at him. His face was apprehensive and anxious.

“The dog ate the pancakes that I made for you,” Laxmi explained slowly.

“Really?” Ramu could not believe his ears.

“Yes. I am so sorry, darling. Let me make something else for you.”

Ramu gave her a look that would have reduced her to ashes, if it could. He went to his room, wrote something in his journal and went outside to play with his friends. Laxmi promptly went into his room and read the journal. The entry in the journal enraged her. Her face turned red with fury as if reflecting the color of the sari she was wearing. She made up her mind to thrash him when he came back. But her husband returned home before Ramu. She showed him the journal furiously saying, “See what your son has written about me!”

Ranga Rao was astonished to see the entry in the journal.

“Laxmi! He seems to be very angry. A child cannot feel this strongly in a single day. Something has been going on for a long time. What is it?”

“Oh, yeah! It is so easy to blame the stepmother. Today I made pancakes for him and the dog ate them. What have I done? In any case, he never wrote anything bad about me so far, did he?!”

Ranga Rao opened the previous pages and read them. Truly, Ramu never wrote anything derogatory about his stepmother but many times he cursed his ill luck regarding food. Ranga Rao understood at once what happened. “Laxmi! Ramu is a very smart child, can think deep. He has guessed long back and correctly that you have been taunting him. But he also knew that we would read his journal. So he never wrote anything explicitly. Today he is angry beyond his control and wrote such rude words because he wanted us to read it. You should never take a child for granted. If you find his presence irksome, I shall make some other arrangement for him. I think the entire fault is mine. I could not see what was going on right in front of my eyes.” He paused and said again,
“First, please, go and change that red sari. It is making me very uncomfortable.”
Laxmi went inside to change and Ranga Rao glanced at the journal to read the sentences once again.

“Sometimes dogs too wear saris. Today the dog is wearing a red sari.”
[End]

Translated by Sharada (Australia) and originally published on thulika.net, June 2003

(Telugu original was included in the compilation Rasika raja taguvaaramau kaama, published in Andhra Prabha weekly in 1987.)

 

Lemon Juice by Vasundhara

“Your uncle insisted so much! I think we should go once,” said Shyamala.

“What are you talking about?” asked Bhaskar.

“Mr.Ramanatham! He is the managing director of a big company. He met your uncle a few days ago. Uncle told him that we have been living here for the past three years. He was very offended that we did not visit him even once, said uncle.”

Bhaskar’s attention drifted away. He said, “Let’s think about it later” and left for his work.

Though Subbayya is Bhaskar’s paternal uncle, their attachment to each other went much deeper. Subbayya and his wife had no children and so Bhaskar practically grew up in his uncle’s house. Bhaskar’s father, Viswam was Subbayya’s brother. Bhaskar was one of the eight siblings and his parents had no objection where he grew up. Moreover, he met his parents often enough.

Subbayya and his wife loved Bhaskar very much and practically spoiled him with their love. It was just a miracle that Bhaskar did not end up as a spoilt brat with all that pampering. There is, however, one thing that is above all human emotions, which is money. Bhaskar had to leave his foster parents for money. That is not to say that they had disagreements. Their love and affection remained the same. It was the circumstances that had changed.

Bhaskar was a studious and hardworking boy right from his childhood. He sailed through his master’s and doctorate easily. Getting a job and getting married happened in quick succession. He was applauded as a “lucky guy,” but Subbayya was not happy. Bhaskar had to go to Mumbai for his employment, much to his uncle’s chagrin and displeasure. Subbayya tried to brainwash his nephew into waiting for some more time and getting a job closer to home. But Bhaskar was determined. He managed to convince his uncle that unemployment is rampant and especially it is difficult to get jobs in research. He also assured them that he would visit them often. Bhaskar’s main concern was money. Neither Subbayya nor Vishwam were wealthy and Bhaskar was sure that he could help them financially with his salary.

In any case, he moved to Mumbai with his wife. Subbayya visited them at least once in six months.

Mumbai added to Subbayya’s depression. He did not like Mumbai one bit. It was so different from his village; he felt it was impossible to live there. He adjusted for a few days for his nephew, but still found it very strange. Milk, yogurt, not even water tasted natural in this big city. He sent rice, lentils, ghee from the village for his nephew’s consumption as far as possible.

Apart from the quality of food, it was the quality of life that irked him worst. Here people did not care for each other. They did not bat an eyelid, even when a neighbour was dying. Subbayya firmly believed that Bhaskar and Shyamala are like babies in the woods, in this concrete jungle. They had no idea of the ways of the world. They need someone older than themselves to look after them. He was determined to find such friends or relatives for Bhaskar and Shyamala in Mumbai.

With this aim, he started searching for relatives in Mumbai. Whenever he discovered a close or distant relative in Mumbai, he would write to Bhaskar with their details and imploring them to go and visit the relatives. In Mumbai, with life being what it is, Bhaskar had no inclination to spend the weekend looking for distant relatives. He, however, never expressed his impatience to his uncle.

But Shyamala felt they were cheating the old man. Especially since she could imagine the kind of troubles uncle might have undergone to get those addresses and contact details. She also knew how difficult it is in Mumbai to find time. But most of the people with those addresses were in a higher social strata and her womanly instinct encouraged getting in touch with all those ‘well-heeled’ people. Bhaskar disagreed with this.

He argued “When we initiate friendship with the people who are better than us socially, we could be mistaken as social climbers. Those people are likely to put on airs and look down upon us. Self-respecting people cannot stand that patronizing, condescending attitude. So, it is better to initiate friendship with our equals, as far as possible. With people who are below us on the social ladder, we should take the first step and initiate friendship. With people who are above us on the social scale, it is better to wait for them to initiate the friend ship.”

This kind of argument has happened many times in the past. Now the latest address they have is of Ramanatham, a distant relative. He has known Subbayya for a long time. Ramanatham lived in the US for ten years and returned to India a year ago. He met Subbayya at a social gathering and knew about Bhaskar’s whereabouts. Apparently he expressed displeasure when he knew that Bhaskar lives in Mumbai and never went to meet him. “I have been living in Mumbai for the past one year and he never met me, not even once. Is this what kith and kin are for, I ask you?” he exclaimed indignantly!

Subbayya reported the entire episode to Bhaskar and advised him to meet Mr.Ramanatham without delay. As usual Bhaskar nodded his head at the suggestion.

But this time Shyamala seemed to have been brain washed by the uncle. She insisted that they should go on one weekend to Mr.Ramanatham’s house.

“Look, Shyamala, our income is seven hundred rupees per month. He earns more than three thousand rupees. We shell down nearly two hundred on this pigeonhole. He lives in a spacious accommodation, courtesy of his employer. We are struggling to buy a two-wheeler while he moves around only in his car. With all these differences, I don’t see at level we can be his friends. His remarks to uncle, well they are just out of politeness and perhaps to show his status to us. I am not convinced that he invited us whole-heartedly. If he were really an affectionate gentleman, he could have come to visit us, along with uncle, couldn’t he?” he argued.

“You have neither met him, nor spoken to him. Why do you jump to conclusions and judge him? We can’t judge people without meeting them at least once. I think you have a streak of inferiority complex “ retorted Shyamala.

This offended Bhaskar. “I have no reason to feel inferior. I just can’t stand people who feel superior and put on airs. I know very well how this kind of invitations are extended and how those people behave.”

“You have been expressing the same opinion about many people. Let us meet Mr.Ramanatham’s family just to test the validity of your opinions,” Shyamala tried a different route now.

Bhaskar was not prepared for this logic. He had to agree to pick up the gauntlet.

They decided to go to Ramanatham’s house on a holiday. They could find the house without any trouble. But they were hesitant to enter the house. It was a big bungalow, with a well-manicured garden and a sentry at the gate. After lot of dilly-dallying they approached the sentry. Since they were well dressed, sentry let them in without much ado. In the garden a gentleman was sitting in a garden chair. Bhaskar asked him if they could meet Mr.Ramanatham. The gentleman informed them that Mr.Ramanatham is on a tour with his family and would return the following night. He gave Bhaskar a notepad and a pen and asked him to leave a message. Bhaskar left a message with his introduction and address.

They came out, when Bhaskar said, “Thank God, they were not there. He seems to be a really big shot. We are not coming this side again, unless he responds!” Shyamala too felt the same, and kept silent.

Bhaskar wanted to go there again! He realised he felt mildly scared when he was entering Ramanatham’s bungalow. He felt relieved when he knew they were out of town. That means he has a reluctance to meet socially superior people. He is highly qualified and well employed and so there is no reason for his discomfort. He could talk confidently with people much older than Ramanatham. Perhaps he is uneasy because of social status. This realization teased him. Inferiority complex is not a desirable quality. He has to meet Mr.Ramanatham at least to verify his own inferiority complex. In any case, he was not going with any ulterior motives and so need not fear anything.

His self-respect took a beating when Ramanatham did not reply for quite some time. He told Shyamala, “One’s reflection in the mirror, just copies him or her. The reflection has no intentions of its own. In fact, reflection is just an illusion. It has no existence. In the current culture, human beings too are behaving like illusory reflections. For example, when you stumble on someone’s foot, you apologise mechanically, without really meaning it. Similarly we say ‘thanks’ as a matter of routine, without really feeling it. I guess we invite people in the same polite, mechanical way. We don’t feel the affection necessary in inviting, nor do we feel sorry if the others don’t honour our invitation.”

Shyamala agreed with his observations, but refused to categorise Mr.Ramanatham into the same slot. “You are feeling offended because you did not receive any acknowledgement from them. We wanted to meet our friends in Dadar and we could not take time for it for the past six months. We could not write a letter home for want of ten minutes. Perhaps, they too have the same problem. Let us go once again to their home and we can confirm.”

Bhaskar too wanted to go so he did not object further. One working day he returned home early and they set out again to go to Mr.Ramanatham’s bungalow.

“When rich people offer us something to eat, it looks indecent if we wipe the plates. So let us eat something and go,” they thought.

Again the sentry let them in. As they were walking across the garden, they met a middle-aged gentleman, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, going out with a tennis racquet. Bhaskar introduced himself to the gentleman. The gentleman seemed to be in a hurry and he just pointed to the lady coming behind him and went his way. The lady approached them. After a brief talk with her, they realised that she was Mrs.Ramanatham. Bhaskar wondered if she were a Telugu speaking woman or not. She looked very much like an Indian, but the atmosphere did not look conducive for a conversation in Telugu.

 

She invited them in. They did not know what to talk about for a while. Bhaskar enquired about Mr.Ramanatham. She explained that he left for his tennis just then. Bhaskar guessed it, anyway. He told her about his uncle and his friendship with Mr.Ramanatham.

“Oh! So you are Telugu speaking,” she exclaimed in Telugu.

Then they switched over to Telugu. Bhaskar made every effort to make her understand that they did not come uninvited. He told her how he disliked going to other’s houses and how much his uncle insisted upon this visit.

She seemed to be impressed with his qualifications and employment.

“You are really well educated for a young man,” she praised. She spoke very affectionately to Shyamala. She expressed dismay that Ramanatham went without meeting them. Mr.Ramanatham is devoted to his relatives, she explained. If he had known who they were, he would have surely cancelled his tennis, she assured them.

Then the conversation moved on to general topics. She spoke on the unemployment, education, discipline and everything. She spoke on every topic with a resounding confidence.

As they were talking, she called out “Prasad” for her servant. As he appeared, she commanded, “do coffee lao.” [Bring two coffee]. Bhaskar stopped Prasad and told her, “Excuse me, madam, neither my wife nor I take any coffee or tea. We in fact just finished our evening snack and so can’t consume any thing, absolutely.”

But she refused to let them go from her home unless they partook something. “Just have some lemon juice, at least” she insisted.

Bhaskar and Shyamala were forced to agree.

do glass neembu paani lao”[bring two glasses of lemon juice], she commanded Prasad. She explained to them, “I had a cup of tea, just two minutes ago and so I am not able to give you company.”

Bhaskar was extremely irritated, because he did not want to drink lemon juice at that time.

Prasad came out in two minutes with two glasses on a tray. He placed the glasses on the table and announced “neembu paani.

They took one glass each and sipped the lemon juice. They could not hide their astonishment. The servant gave them plain water! They drank it up and got up to leave. Mrs.Ramanatham politely asked them to stay for some more time, and then saw them off at the gate.

“She spoke so warmly,” commented Shyamala, once they were out of the bungalow. Bhaskar smiled, “do you want to meet her again?”

Shyamala thought for a second and replied, “I don’t know the reason but I don’t want to go to their house again”.

Bhaskar again smiled, “I know the reason. At the outset, we found out that Mr.Ramanatham was not one bit interested in us. He did not even recognise my name. He went to his tennis as though we don’t matter at all. She talked very politely but there is no natural affection in her hospitality. She shows the same kind of hospitality to every one who visits her house. That is not her feeling towards us but that is what she has learned as a hostess of that class. The clinching evidence to say that she doesn’t consider us her equals is, her refusal to give us company in partaking the soft drink. What would have happened if she did?”

Shyamala looked at him curiously.

“She would have known that the servant gave us plain water and there is no lemon in the lemon juice. She takes that special care only for visitors who are on par with her. The servant too figured that out and bravely brought us plain water. He was very sure that she wouldn’t taste it. But in a way, it did help us.”

“How?”

“We can measure their affection for relatives and friends by the amount of lemon in that juice”.

From then on, Bhaskar always used the phrase “neembu paani” to indicate fictitious entities. After all, proverbs and idioms are products of experience!

[End]

Translated by Sharada (Australia) and published on thulika.net, March 2003.

(The story, “nimbu paani” was originally published in Andhra Jyoti Weekly, 14 April 1994, and later included in the anthology, “Rasikaraja thaguvaaramu kaama,” Vahini Books, 1996.)

 

A Memory by Souris

How beautiful and pleasant the sunshine is!

How green the trees are!

I have not seen them so green in sheen hitherto at any point

Why didn’t I see them at all till now?

I have seen neither the trees nor flowers as yet

Why so?

memoryThe cool breeze is touching the entire body of mine and making me thrilling altogether with emotion

Why so much of joy just for a touch of the cool waves?

We have to shut the glass doors and cover ourselves with rugs.

Why so much of ecstasy resulted in me after glancing the trees breeze and sunshine!

Is it for gaining health after a long stint in the hospital taking complete bed rest!

The attending nurse advised me

you go and roam around the green garden .You feel relaxed

How many coloured flowers!!!

The eyes are getting dazzled with those glistening Flowers!

And oh! These glistering Flowers!!

 

How long it was there? How many years had it been?

Where am I before being admitted into this hospital?

Am I not hither to wandering freely around the trees and flowers?

Where? Where?

The painted walls

Oh! I am recollecting them. Glass windows carpets, the artificial flowers in the vases.”

Not at all like these flowers.

-2

These flowers are with life, breathing and almost on jumping spree. So high in colours

And with a lot of sheen after actually the sunshine sprinkled on them

In the vases those flowers are all life less ones.

They are like dead bodies of the living flowers.

And are like motionless pictures hanging on the wall

Out side there is a lot of din filled with sounds

Tring– tring —bur —bur— dub ——-dub

What are all these sounds?

And why so?

They are all car horns. There used to be a car in those times.

Moving on foot how beautiful it will be?

In those times we were not at all on foot any time.

We were going out only in a car

We? Who the others were along with me then?

Some were accompanying me all the time.

It was sizzling a lot with all cushioned soft seats inside

Very happy times they are!

Are they really comfortable then?

Was it giving joy at all?

May be then!

Walking will be always good indeed

We were almost moving out in car only and not at all other wise.

The driver in complete khaki uniform

Khaki dress and with khaki cap

Who are others with me in the car?

-3-

Somebody with bald head was accompanying me.

Ratnam!!!

Is it he?

No he is a respectable person

That spectacles, suit, hand stick

I saw him even in the hospital sometimes.

Doctors and nurses are administering some thing to me.

The water shined on the glass of specs like drizzled rain drops.

The lips shivered a bit.

Why/ who?

Why I moved with bespectacled man always in the car

Those roads black topped ones dust and dirt

My beautiful lace edged shoes!

Will they not get spoiled?

The tissue saree I wore may get crumbled

If I walk along like that

All people around me would just laugh at me.

Why do they laugh?

No they just laugh at me some how

Why? If I walk here

There is grass almost resembling a soft cloth in the shoes.

It is very delicate too.

Why shoes?

Nurse will get angry if I don’t wear the shoes

Once again she orders me to lie down flat on my bed without looking at trees and sky.

—  4–

 

She then administers all sour medicines

Why so much of ecstasy in me at present?

The heart is getting intoxicating indeed

Is it because of chloroform?

No

I am however not getting sleep at all.

The sunshine in me is flowing like a stream full of flowers and fragrance.

What is this fragrance?

Is it from my inner body?

Or from the blood of mine which is now recovering from the disease.

From where did this fragrance spread?

They are jumping into the air from the bushes.

It seems to be running fast into me from the white flowers.

The flower petals are dropping down from the green leaves duly smiling.

Oh! What is this happiness? What is this excitement indeed, after looking at these flowers?

Is this intoxicating fragrance from those flowers only?

I have seen it some time long back.

I saw it somewhere.

I am not able to recollect now the exact time and place.

I am not getting on to the name of this tree.

I should enquire with the nurse.

How I am alive till today without having a glimpse of these flowers at least for once till now

Why I lived at all till now forgetting the glimpse of these beautiful flowers?

Why I forgot these flowers and their name too which are giving me so much of happiness indeed.

But I am getting on to a remembrance that I saw them yesterday only.

And experienced this ecstasy yesterday itself,

—–5—-

Some glittering and beautiful memories.

They are like broken coloured glass pieces with a shine

All shattered memories

They are getting on to the mind unclear.

Having experienced some time back and forgot them for unknown reasons are once again coming to the fore streaking into the mind’s frame.

And once again getting them recollected is just experiencing the ecstasy in full

My nerves, my blood, my mind, and my heart they all are rejoicing over the recollection of the past experiences which were

Once enjoyed and forgotten by me for one reason or the other

.

They, without my knowledge have preserved secretly those sweet and rare memories safely and securely with them and DID not reveal them distinctively to me till date.

It is like the honey bees collecting and preserving the nectar for themselves.

These flowers are very close to my heart and dearer to me.

I have seen them some where with somebody.

Where? With whom? Where are they? Why they are not here around?

Not here exactly but somewhere else other than this place.

Not now but some time back in the long past.

Really those flowers are very dearer to me and my heart.

That person also deserves the same relating to these flowers

Better than the fragrance of these flowers some sweet essence from other lips intoxicated mine.

Under this tree itself the white flowery petals fell on my dark curly hair similarly under these black fore head, those eyes do exist like two water lilies.

I developed his acquaintance only for collecting these flowers to say the fact indeed.

In the green grass slanting on to the tree he was duly glancing through his half closed eyes and gestured towards me with hand signs and wanted me to sit there besides him.

======6====

Why don’t I agree to his proposition and oblige him by sitting besides as desired by him?

The silk frock may get crumbled and my mom may hit backing in retaliation

I have to go I say to him and if you go I won’t give you flowers

In that lean inner corner of his eyes how much noise does erupt…

Mummy scolds me

Okay then come on. I’ll give you

He rushes some bunches towards me and put them in to my plait.

Come again

Anxiety and affection is admixed in his voice.

If you give flowers I surely do come.

What has happened to him?

Where has he gone?

He is addressing me as

Kamini!! Kamini!!

Why do you term me like that?

You are the queen of these flowers!

That flower plant is exactly like this only.

That idea came sharply to my memory

Do you marry me? I will give you flowers as many as you want!

He opened up his heart on one day.

Oh! If you collect flowers for me I will marry you

A stream of joy flashed in his eyes like that of a lightning.

Did I marry him?

No. I am recollecting all the past.

My mothers had an infinite joy. She kissed gently me with so much of ecstasy surging around.

A good matrimonial alliance came to me from Delhi.

They possess property, employment and prestige too in abundance.

——-7——

They are my pride and ardent desire too in those days.

A sweet piper’s music [nadaswaram], green festoons, lavish shamiyana erected and all above

Our House is full of near and dear relatives.

Cars outside the premises, my ornaments, pearls, diamonds, and emeralds were sizzling high in the brightness of the gaslights.

In the shadow he stood with a pathetic face.

In his hands those glistening kamini flowers.

He with a gesture wanted me to go nearer to him.

My walk was beset with very much ego splashing so high in higher echelons.

As you have not come I brought these flowers for you

There is no place in my plait. That is already full with jasmine flowers.

You promised to marry me.

Agony and despair from his inner heart just blushed out in that question I guess

Can you give all these ornaments to me?

A surprise crept up in his face.

Are those more intimate to you than my flowers?

Who need your flowers?

They are available every where in needed quantities.

Even if you don’t require I can only give these flowers. Thus saying, he disappeared like the last tune of the pipe.

There is no trace of him or the flowers grabbing my mind there after.

I forgot all these things in my delightful riches and exquisite pomp.

After four days my life was back to loneliness.

All relatives, cars and also the marriage party at last left the place.

The ornaments on my body are now weighing high with heaviness.

And I almost lost the fancy for them too.

I am languishing now for those flowers.

—8—-

I am unable to behave properly without their vivid presence and avowed fragrance of those flowers.

I am unable to make it for my self.

I rushed to that garden.

Suryam give me those flowers!

Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

Oh my queen of flowers. Have you come down to me?

He hugged me in the midst of flowers.

There are fragrant kisses showered on my wet cheeks

˜Kamini I can’t live without you! He uttered deeply with an unknown passion

You also get married and you also definitely forget me.

He almost behaved like a weaning moon with so much of despair drowning him to the depths.

He rained on my lap with flowers showering in full bloom.

I am afraid of his glance. I shivered with a fear from the flowers.

I fled away without looking backwards.

An unknown pain reigned in me.

An unbearable pain in those flowers. Nerves strained a lot with pain.

I threw away all the flowers.

Whenever the fragrance and his pathetic face come to my mind I feel unknowingly very very bad.

A trip to Delhi was on new set up of family. My husband was in a high position…

Still he could not wipe my vice out.

When I feel about Suryam his face, his tears shroud me altogether. My in laws thought it because of my home sickness.

Immediately after my return to my home, I rushed to that flower garden.

Suryam! Suryam! I enquired

Who? Came the reply so fast!

IS Suryam not available here? I continued my quest

Who are you?

 

—9====

I am his sister.

He is no more there on earth

Why?

When? How?

Some months back.

He is rather sick since long and could not get back to normalcy

He advised me to give you all the flowers whenever you come to collect the flowers.

Shall I get you flowers now madam? She inquisitively asked.

I cried aloud in bigger tone instantaneously!

There after I never visited that garden once again

I got a hard feeling of itch in my soul

I tortured myself hitting on the flowers and recapitulating his memories too in silence.

I somehow enjoyed this hard stand.

Riches, status, affection showered by my husband throughout my daily routines helped me to forget the past so soon.

Now when I glanced at those Kamini flowers

All the formidable memories that were squarely hidden underneath the deep depth of valleys down the mountains

And kept in me like priceless treasures however are well kept behind the sea stocks

And also like an inferno erupting from the lower columns of earth

Came to the forefront.

Despair dropped down heavily from the heart

Suryam! Suryam!

What happened to you?

Where are you now?

Are you able to hear me!!!

Give me the fresh flowers from your hands

=====10====

Come nearer to me

My head is reeling under heavy pressure of tensions

I sat under the tree.

Petals of the flowers are showering on my head

Suryam! Are you raining flowers on me from up above the sky so high?

White dress and spectacles are coming very, very nearer to me.

What madam you are sitting under the blanket of snow!

Come in!

It is not good for your age and health!

The nurse duly cautioned me.

Don’t throw me once again to the dark rooms!

Please allow me to feel better under this tree of flowers.

What is that? Ratnam, come in

Our son-in-law and children came over here to see you,

Said my bespectacled husband.

Daughter? Son-in-law? Have children too?

When did all this happen?

Between these children and those kamini flowers.

Suryam and these flowers are a forgotten story to tell the truth.

What is the relation between them and me?

I am not the queen of flowers

I am a wife, mother, mother-in-law and grand ma too—

Yes! Life is only real to that extent in true sense.

[End]

Translated by Ravela Purushottama Rao, and published on thulika.net, July 2007)

(The Telugu original, smruti was written during 1946-47 and reprinted in aadivaaram Vaartha, 28th May 2006.)