Random stories by Random Author's

[Endorphin]

ராஜப்பா





Rajappa sensed a sudden drop in his popularity. For the past three days everyone had been crowding around Nagarajan.

Rajappa tried to tell them that Nagarajan had become swollen headed, but no one paid any attention to him. For Nagarajan was generous in sharing the stamp album his uncle had sent from Singapore. The boys gathered around Nagarajan and devoured the album with their eyes till the school-bell rang for the morning class; they hovered round him at lunch-break and in the evening invaded his house.

Nagarajan showed the album to all of them without a trace of impatience. He only made one stipulation: “No one must touch the album.” He opened it out on his lap and turned over the pages himself and let everyone gaze to their fill.

The girls wanted to have a look at his album too. The boldest of them, Parvathi, came up to Nagarjan and asked him on behalf of the girls. Nagarajan gave her the album after putting a jacket on it. The album was returned to him in the evening after all the girls had seen it.

No one now mentioned Rajappa’s album or paid him any attention.

Once Rajappa’s album had been very famous. Rajappa collected stamps in the painstaking way bees collect honey. It was his whole life. He would set out early in the morning to visit other stamp-collectors. He would barter two Pakistans for a solitary USSR.

In the evening he would dump his school books in a corner, stuff a snack in the pocket of his shorts, gulp down a cup of coffee and dash out again. Four miles away a boy had a Canada… He had the biggest album in his class. The Revenue Officer’s son wanted to buy it for twenty-five rupees. The cheek of it! Rajappa retaliated, “Will you sell your baby brother to me for thirty rupees!” The boys applauded his retort.

But now no one looked at his album. And worse still, they made unfavourable comparisons with Nagarajan’s saying his album wasn’t fit to hold a candle to Nagarajan’s.

Rajappa refused to look at Nagarajan’s album. When other boys hovered over it, he turned his face away. But he did try to glance at it through the corner of his eye. It was indeed a beauty! Maybe it didn’t have the same stamps as Rajappa’s and might even have had not as many as his, but it was the only one of its kind. No local shop had one like it.

Nagarajan’s uncle had written his nephew’s name in bold letters on the first page of the album: A.S. NAGARAJAN. This was followed by an inscription:

To the shameless wretch trying to steal this album — See thou my name above? This is my album. It is my property and mine alone as long as the grass is green, the lotus red, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

The boys copied the lines in their albums. So did the girls in their books and notebooks.

Rajappa growled, “Why are you such copycats?”

The boys glared at him and Krishnan retorted, “Get lost, you jealous worm!”

“Jealous! Me! Way should I be? My album is much bigger, isn’t it?”

“Yours doesn’t have stamps like his! Look at the Indonesian beauty-hold it up and see it against the light.”

“He doesn’t have the stamps I have!”

“Ha! Show us one he hasn’t !”

“You show me one I haven’t. Let’s have a ten rupee bet.”

“Your album is only fit for the dustbin, taunted Krishnan.

And the boys chanted, “Garbage album! Garbage album!”

Rajappa realised the futility of continuing the argument.

How long it had taken him to build up his stamp-collection! He had built it stamp by stamp and then the postman had brought this album from Singapore and overnight Nagarajan had become all important! The boys didn’t know the difference between the two albums. And no amount of explaining would make the slightest difference.

Rajappa raged within. He began to hate going to school. How was he to face the boys? Usually on Saturdays and Sundays he hectically stamp hunted but this weekend he barely stirred out of the house. Usually, not a day passed without his turning the pages of his album, over and over again. Even at night he would sneak out of bed to look at the album. But two days had passed and he had not touched it. The sight of it filled him with anger. Compared to Nagarajan’s, his album now seemed a bundle of rags.

In the evening Rajappa went to Nagarajan’s house. He had made up his mind-he couldn’t put up with his ignominy any longer. After all, Nagarajan had only just chanced upon a stamp album. What did he know of the mysteries of stamp-collecting? Or how the experts evaluated them? He probably believed that the bigger the stamp, the more valuable it was. Or one from a powerful country more important than one from a weaker country. After all Nagarajan was only an amateur. Rajappa could easily palm off on him the less valuable stamps and walk away with the good ones. He had fooled many others before. The world of stamp-collecting was rife with cunning and trickery and Nagarajan was only a beginner.

Rajappa went straight upstairs to Nagarajan’s room. No one stopped him for he was a frequent visitor to the house. Rajappa sat down at Nagarajan’s desk. A little later Nagrajan’s younger sister, Kamakshi, came in.

“Brother had gone to town,” she said. “Have you seen his new album?”

Rajappa mumbled something unintelligible.

“It’s a real beauty, isn’t it? I believe no one else in school has one like it.”

“Who said that ?”

“My brother.”

“It’s just a big album, no more. Is it enough merely to be oversized?”

Kamakshi didn’t reply and walked off.

Rajappa scanned the books littered on the table. His hand grazed against he lock of the table drawer. Almost involuntarily he tugged at it. It was firmly locked. Why not open it? The key lay among the books.

Rajappa went over to the staircase and glanced around. No one was in sight. He opened the drawer. Nagarajan’s stamp album was right on top. Rajappa turned over the first page and read the inscription. His heart began to pound. He closed the drawer and locked it. He thrust the album into his shorts and let his shirt fall over it. He hurried down the steps and ran home. On reaching home he hid the album behind his bookshelf. His body felt as though it was on fire, his throat was dry and blood pounded in his head.

Finally at eight in the evening Appu, who lived opposite, came and told Rajappa that Nagarajan’s stamp album was missing. Nagarajan and he had gone down to town in the evening and when they returned, the album was gone!

Rajappa didn’t utter a word. He prayed that Appu would go away. And when Appu did go away, he hurried to his room and bolted the door. He took out the album from behind the shelf.

He shoved the album back behind the shelf.

Rajappa hardly touched his dinner. The family was concerned and asked if he was feeling unwell. Maybe sleep would bring peace? Rajappa lay down on his bed. But sleep eluded him. What if somebody stumbled upon the hidden album while he was asleep? He got up, took out the album and put it under his pillow.

Rajappa hadn’t woken up when Appu appeared in the morning. Appu had just been to Nagarajan’s again.

“I’m told you were at his house yesterday.”

Rajappa felt his heart sink. He gave a non-committal nod. “Kamakshi says you were the only one to call at the house while Nagarajan and I had gone down to town.”
Rajappa detected the suspicion in Appu’s tone.

 

[Endorphin]

“Nagarajan has been crying all night. His father might send for the police.”
Rajappa didn’t say a word.

Nagarajan’s father worked in the police superintendent’s office. He had only to lift his little finger and the whole police force would be out to trace the album.

Fortunately for Rajappa, Appu’s brother arrived to fetch his brother. For a long time after he had left Rajappa sat still on his bed. His father finished breakfast and left for office on his bicycle.

There was a knock at the front door. Was it the police?

Rajappa grabbed the album from under his pillow and ran upstairs and shoved it behind a bookshelf. What if the police made a search? He took it out of the bookshelf, tucked it under his shirt and came downstairs.

Someone was still knocking on the door. Rajappa’s mother shouted from the kitchen, “Why don’t you open the door?” She was sure to go and unbolt it herself in a few seconds.

Rajappa ran to the back of the house. He went into the bathroom and closed the door. There was a large oven in the bathroom for heating the bath-water. Rajappa threw the album in the fire. The album burned, and with it all the precious stamps that were unavailable anywhere. Tears filled Rajappa’s eyes.

Mother was shouting, “Hurry up! Nagarajan has come to see you.”

Rajappa took off his shorts and wrapping himself with a wet towel came out of the bathroom. He put on a fresh shirt and shorts and went upstairs. Nagarajan was sitting in a chair.

“My stamp album is lost,” Nagarajan said in a broken voice. His face was grief-stricken and his eyes red-rimmed and swollen with hours of crying.

“Where had you kept it?” Rajappa asked.

“I am sure I had put it in the table drawer. I had locked the drawer too. I went out for a short while and when I returned it was gone.”

Tears streamed down his face. Rajappa felt so guilty he could hardly look at his friend. “Don’t cry,” he mumbled.

But the more he tried to console Nagarajan the more the boy cried.

Rajappa ran downstairs and was back in a moment. He had his stamp album in his arms.

“Nagarajan, here’s my album. It’s yours. Don’t look at me in that way! I mean it, really. The album is for you.”

“You’re joking…”

“No. I am giving it to you. Honestly. It’s all yours from today. Keep it.”

Nagarajan couldn’t believe his eyes. Rajappa giving his album away! But Rajappa kept urging him to take it.

“What about you?” Nagarajan asked.

“I don’t want it any more.”

“Not even a stamp?”

“No, not one.”

“But how will you live without your stamps?”

Rajappa’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Don’t cry, Rajappa. You don’t have to give away your album. Keep it. You worked so hard on it.”

“No. You keep it. It’s for you. Take it home. Please take it and go away,” screamed Rajappa.

Nagarajan was baffled. He took the album and came down. Rajappa followed him, wiping his tears with his shirt-end.

They stood at the door. “Thank you,” Nagarajan said. “Bye.”

Nagarajan had stepped into the street when Rajappa called out to him.

Nagarajan turned.

“Please…please give me the album just for tonight. I will hand it back to you tomorrow morning.”

Nagarajan agreed and went away.

Rajappa climbed the stairs and bolted the door of his room.

Holding the album tightly, he sobbed his heart out.

 

[Nilaa]

Poor Rajappa

 

[Endorphin]

ஒரு அப்பாவின் நினைக்கா சுமைகள்

Sister-in-law, who opened the door struggled to recognise him. When she did, she was shocked. She stammered, swallowed spittle and asked, “Oh you? When did you come?”

“Just now. Came directly. How is dad?”

“Mom (mother-in-law)! Look who has come.”

“Who is that?”

“Bharat!’

“Who? Bharat?”

“Who? Bharat” surprise tones rang out from every corner of the hall. Radio was stopped. Children studies were cancelled. Mom, eldest brother, elder brother, elder sister, sisters-in-law, all stood in semi-circle, looked at him with enmity and formed an array around him.

Only the youngest sister-in-law welcomed him. “Come Bharat.” She has changed so much. Where is the beautiful bride?

Mom asked, “Why did you come here?”

“Mom I came to see dad. How is he?”

“All these years you did not think of coming? Why couldn’t you have come to see me?”

“I heard dad has become very ill.”

“Stupid. With what face you are showing up here? Did you even write a letter? Why have you come now? Why?”

“No mom. When Ambi Aiyar told me about dad, I had fear that if I don’t go now, I may not be able to see him alive.”

“What are you going to achieve seeing him?” eldest brother asked him.

“Please don’t …” his sister-in-law interrupted her husband.

“You keep quiet. This is our family matter. Prodigal son has come” said eldest brother and asked him, “what rights you have to see him?”

“Why should I not?” Bharat asked in a serious tone.

“I have the right as a son.”

“Aha Son! How many days did you feed him?”

“We can discuss this later. Now I want to see dad. That’s all!”

“No. You can’t. You have no rights to enter this house. Just get out!”

“Is this house yours brother?”

“Look mom. What is he asking as soon as he got inside?”

“Why did you not come for eight years. First tell us that.”

“This house is still dad’s house. I have all the rights to come here.”

“Mom. He has not come to see dad. He is waiting for the old man to die so that he can ask his share in the property.”

“Hey. Why have you come now? Did you even write a letter to your mom in eight years?”

“Everyone here knows the reason for that” said Bharat.

“Yes we know. It became a laughing stock in the newspapers….”

“Mom he has come for the property.”

“Look here Sridhar. Don’t start a fight unnecessarily. I don’t want the property or anything. Just give me permission to see dad. Where is he lying?”

“Look! He has not changed his character.”

“Let me be. Don’t act stupid. Whatever you say or shout, I will leave only after seeing dad. No need for a fight or barbaric behaviour. Don’t consider me as a son. Consider me as a friend or a spectator. Where is he….?”

“Do you think he is going to recognise you?”

“Why? Is he in coma?”

“No. He will throw spittle at you.”

“No, he won’t. He would recognise me. Even after eight centuries he will remember me!”

“Old man does not remember what happened yesterday. How is he going to remember him after all these years?”

“OK Mom. Why quarrel with him? He won’t go without seeing him. As he is born with us let’s show him dad and throw him out of the house.” Said the eldest brother and called one of the kids, “hey Chinni! Come here. You know who is this? Uncle (Chitappa). Your famous uncle. Take him and show him grandpa’s room.”

He walked silently behind Chinni. When he climbed the stairs and turned, he realised all the eyes were piercing him.

A relationship which snapped eight years ago. No enquires. No Letters. No marriage invitation. No news on his whereabouts. They would have heard one or few of the stories about him. He has gone to act in movie or play. Or his wife had run away and he is with a Christian girl. He is born from the rumours of eight years. How are children going to come near him?

“Oh you are the uncle?” asked Chinni.

“Yes.” He replied softly as they approached the room.

“Which place?”

“Some place!”

“Aunt has not come?”

“No.”

“Is she dead?”

“No.”

“What work are you doing?”

“I am just wandering?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Oh They used to say someone has gone to prison? Are you that uncle?”

“Hey Chinni. Don’t talk. Just show the room and come back.”

Chinni opened the door and said, “go inside. He would be sleeping.”

Inside, the room smelled of Dettol. In the near darkness in the room, he could see a blanket in zero-watt neon light.

He looked for the switch, put it on. Went near him and removed the blanket and he was immediately shocked.

My God. This is not my dad. This is just half of my dad. He has shrunk. Eyes look like dark caves. Cheeks drawn inside. Nerves in the hands and bones in the chest were visible…. Life?

“Dad!”

No answer. He was looking at him for some time. In his mind different images of his dad came and disappeared.

“Dad! Dad!”

He sat on the bed and touched his forehead. It was hot. He took dad’s hands and kept them on his cheeks. Tears came rushing.

“Dad!”

Suddenly as if he got out of a dream chain, he opened his eyes.

“Who is this?”

“It’s me, dad. Bharat.”

He moved his head and looked at him.

“Bharat….? Bharat…..? My third son?”

“Yes dad. Yes.”

“Is it you?” – the voice sounded as if coming out of a well. Where is that deep and sound voice of yesteryears?

“Yes dad. It’s me!”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes dad.”

“Where were you all these days?”

“I have come dad.”

“I know you would come. Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Eat first. Otherwise they will say no food. All ratchasis. Three ratchasis(1) … no four.”

“What happened to your health dad?”

“Nothing, just tiredness. Is this really Bharat?”

The hand slowly raised and combed his hair with fingers, “Bharat I have not done anything for you properly” old man’s eyes were moist.

“It’s OK dad. Leave it”

“Look at me. Will I die soon? If I go early it’s better.”

“Don’t worry dad. You will recover.”

“Always thinking about you.”

“Same here dad.”

“Come near me” old man thought about every word and spoke slowly.

“Look at this room. Looks like a cremation ground. They have locked me here and all of them are at the ground level. No one talks to me even for five minutes in a day. My tongue is dead. I have been telling for last one week to get me an orange fruit…. Are you sure no one is here?”

“No one is here dad.”

“They would be keeping all the fruits with them. They eat all of it. Your mom is the oldest ratchasi (Daemon). She has not seen me for last three days. All are waiting for my death Bharat.”

“No dad. You will be alright.”

“Will you get me an orange?”

“Sure dad.”

“Look at this medicine. They have mixed poison in this. I will not drink it.”

“No dad. They won’t do anything like that.”

“All are waiting….. Where do you live?”

“I keep roaming dad. Nothing permanent.”

“You are staying in a house?”

“No dad. In a small room.”

“Do you have place for me? Will you take me?”

“Sure dad.”

“Can we go now?”

“Not today dad. Tomorrow Morning.”

“Can’t we go now?”

“No dad. You sleep now. We will go tomorrow morning.”

“Can you take me away from this cremation ground?”

“Yes dad.”

His face became little peaceful.

“You talk!”

He leaned on his dad, combed his hair with his fingers and said, “Dad”

“You and I used to play cricket. You remember that?”

Memory became a smile.

“Both played in the same team. You got run out after scoring 19 runs. You could not keep up with me. Sorry dad. It was a wrong call on my part. It was my mistake.”

“Tell me more.”

“You taught me to swim in Ayyan Channel. You would throw me inside and make me go breathless. Then we will pluck Guava fruits. Without letting mom know, I used to get you Berkeley cigarettes. We used to play with catapult to hunt sparrows. We used to lie down in the river bed and you used to give names to stars. You used to cook for me in the forest….”

He narrated incident after incident. The emotional bonding between father and son, friendship, hand wrestling, long walks, runs, trading secrets, village dramas and Ramayana shows, Alice in Wonderland….

“Bharat!” he held his hands, “You and me are one.”

“Dad you remember narrating about Eldorado? I went chasing it dad. Without realising its imaginary Gold, I ran after what was glittering!”

“I also chased it” said his dad.

“Dad! When I first saw you with Sarasu, I got stunned. Only after many years I could understand why. But I did not talk about it to anyone. Not till today. After the incident a gap developed between us. Our closeness got severed. We started fearing each other. The image I had about you in my mind was torn. After that, I left and moved from place to place, severed relationships, got separated from wife… no dad. Let’s erase all that. Up to Sarasu, there is no vulgarity. Let’s stop there. We will erase all that happened afterwards….”

 

[Endorphin]

Dad shook his head. “Let that also be there” he said. “Bharat! Come near me.”

He came.

“Would you take me away tomorrow morning. To your place..”

“Sure dad.”

“What time is the train?”

“Let’s start early dad.”

“I can’t walk.”

“I will carry you on my shoulders just as you used to carry me.”

“Will I become alright?”

“Definitely dad.”

“Once I recover, buy me new pair of spectacles.”

“OK Dad.”

“Read me Hemingway’s Kilimanjaro”

“OK Dad”

“Marks, Tamil Poetries, Dostoevsky, Bossler, Russel and…..”

“All dad.”

“Look here. This stick, two dhotis, two vests. That’s all I have. I don’t have shoes to walk. Pack them now.”

“I will buy dad.”

“We should walk a lot.” His face brightened. With a smile he called him very near to him and with a twinkle in his eyes said, “Bharat I will tell you a secret. No one knows it.”

“What dad?”

He told him.

He was looking at him throughout the night. Around 3 AM he could realise he was dead. He was lying down as if he was asleep. The smile on his lips was still there.

As Bharat moved aside, one by one, everyone came near him and cried. First heavily and then subtly. Then there was silence…

“He came and he finished him off. Old man could not take the shock. Why should this guy come suddenly…?

“Brother. One small matter. Come here!”

“What do you want?”

“Before dying dad told me everything, He has made a will stating that the land and house should come to me. Once the ceremonies are over write to me in this address. I will come change everything to your name.”

“Bharat, where are you going?”

He walked out without looking back.

 

[Endorphin]

சனாதன தர்மம்



Old Gowri waited patiently inside the bus for everyone else to get off.

Then she stepped off last, carrying her heavy khaki bag on her hip.

”Can I carry your bag, Granny?” ”Give me an anna.” “Want a cart, ma’am?” ”It’s the home of the lawyer’s clerk in Pudupaalayam you want, isn’t it? Come on, let’s go.”

She looked kindly at the crowd of coolies and cart drivers who were clamoring at her and preventing her from getting off the bus, and smiled.

”No, thanks, no thanks. If you’ll just let me pass, I’ll go along on foot. Young man, if you are so smart as to know my house, why don’t you remember that I come here once a month and never take a cart,” she said, with an answer for each one of them. Pushing her way past them, she walked slowly on, her bag on one hip causing her to lean to one side. She pulled the end of her sari further forward on her head and plodded resolutely through the scorching sand and hot sun.

Though she was seventy, she was still spry. But she tended to forget that such exertion at her age would leave her panting for breath by the time she got home. Younger people who looked to her like they were born only yesterday whizzed by her on rickshaws, horsecarts, and bicycles. She thought about how people try to flee the rain and the sun, and smiled to herself. She was past caring about these things. What effect could a little rain or sun have on someone like her who had survived the passionate floods of her early life, followed abruptly by the arid desert of widowhood? She was accustomed to these things; even if they had some effect, it would be negligible.

On the way there was a small neem tree whose shade was big enough to shelter four or five passersby. The old woman stopped under its shade for a while, alone. Like an oasis in the midst of the hot sun, that neem tree, its leaves rustling in the breeze, was like that old lady herself who relied on her legs at a time when other people had no use for anything but machines. She thanked God for the shade and took pleasure in the breeze .

There was a child-like charm in her round face. She would still surprise people with her neat rows of teeth when she smiled. On her right cheek there was an attractive black mole, slightly larger than a peppercorn; there were two black hairs on it. People who noticed these things about her couldn’t help wondering what she was like in her youth. The colorless silk sari on her golden body fluttered in the wind. A grey stubble was visible at the end of the head-piece of the sari–she had not had her head shaved for some time. She was wearing a rosary around her neck. The ash on her forehead had become smeared from perspiration. She took the end of her sari and wiped her face, her hands, and her bare breast. As she did this a small mole, the color of coral, was visible on her right side.

Abandoning the shade and striding firmly, but swaying from side to side as she went,she walked without flinching onto the searing-hot concrete bridge that crossed the Kedilam River. A man she knew was coming from the other side–a barber with a small tin box who stood aside, pressing himself against the railing to give her room. He folded his hands in greeting.

”Are you just coming from Neyveli?” he asked politely.

”Who . . . Oh, it’s you, Veelaayudam! Has the blessed event happened yet?” she asked warmly.

”Yes, it happened . . . it’s a boy.”

”May he prosper! It’s God’s will. Is it your third boy?“ ”Yes, ma’am,” he said and beamed happily.

”You are a lucky man. No matter what it takes, you must educate them, do you hear me?” He smiled at this, scratching his head.

”Don’t laugh. Times are changing quickly. Your father’s time and your time have passed, and they have taken their tin box with them. This is no good any more. Men are all working in shops; women can’t be like me any more. That is the way things are now. People should change with the times. Do you hear what I am saying?” she said and laughed as if she had told a joke. he, too, laughed in return.

”Here’re a couple of cucumbers to chew on and cool you off,” she said, taking them from where they were sticking out of the bag on her hip and dropping them into his outstretched hands.

”They were selling them on the bus, four for an anna. I bought four annas worth thinking the children would like them,” she said. Veelaayudam folded his hands, waited till she had passed by, and went on his way.

Gowri was born and brought up in Chidambaram and was married into a well-to-do family in Cuddalore at the age of ten. When she became a mother and a widow at the age of sixteen, she stayed in the house she had inherited from her husband with her baby boy and never left that town. When her son’s eldest daughter, Githa,changed into widows’ garb as an actor changes his make-up, and came back to throw herself screaming on her grandmother’s knees, the old lady accepted the situation as her life’s last tragedy. She accepted it as her duty to provide her granddaughter with love, care and affection and to share her tears. Up to then Gowri had loved Githa as the daughter of her only son whom she loved all the more after her husband’s death, but now her attitude changed, and not only because she wanted to console Githa: old Gowri saw in Githa a new incarnation of her former self.

The old woman’s son, Ganesayyar, had been untouched by the death of his father and grew up without the deprivations of most fatherless children. As his wife Paarvathi chided him in private, he was a mama’s boy. Groping for a solution to the problem of what to do about his widowed daughter, he went to his mother one day and hesitatingly asked what she thought about the idea of sending Githa, who had completed high school, to a teacher-training school. When she agreed with his decision and applauded it, he realized that he had underestimated his old mother, while, on her part, the old lady rejoiced inwardly that Githa had the good fortune to be born in a time of change.

After her training, Githa worked for some years in Cuddalore, but during the last year she had been transferred to the newly-developing industrial city of Neyveli. Ganesayyar was again in a quandary.

”What of it?” said Gowri. ”I’ll go with her.” And so she, in her old age, decided to go off, leaving her son with his family. She left because she was afraid that otherwise Githa, who was not yet thirty, would have to relinquish her job and be confined again to the constraints of widowhood.

In the past year, apart from the long holidays when both of them would come to Cuddalore, old Gowri would come alone on weekends now and then. One of the reasons for these frequent visits was that she was unaccustomed to having her head shaved by anyone other than Veelaayudam and before him, his father. Gowri knew that Veelaayudam, whom she met on the bridge, would appear at her house the next morning, just as he knew that he should. It had become a routine.

*

It took her half an hour to cover the distance of less than a mile. When she got to the house, Ganesayyar was sleeping in an easy-chair with a newspaper over his face. At his side, her daughter-in-law Paarvathi sat with her glasses perched on the end of her nose sorting stones from black grain in a winnowing pan; an empty can stood beside her. On the veranda enclosed with iron railings and shaded by a bamboo awning sat her youngest granddaughter, Jaanaa, playing house with her toy pots and babbling to herself. Since no one noticed her arrival, Gowri had to rattle the lock on the gate to attract some attention. Little Jaanaa, hearing the sound, turned from her game to look; recognizing her grandmother, she beamed with big eyes and said softly, ”Grandmother!”

Before Gowri could ask her to open the gate, Jaanaa flew inside shouting ”Mama, Mama, Grandma is here! Grandma is here!” Gowri smiled at this little tyke who had to run inside to announce her arrival without bothering to open the gate.

Ganesayyar pulled the newspaper away from his face, opened his eyes, and looked. Awakened suddenly by the excited cries of the child, he blinked his red eyes uncomprehendingly for a few seconds. Paarvathi rushed to the gate and opened it. ”Worthless child! Must you scream and run around like that?” she scolded. Paarvathi then said to her mother-in-law, ”Come in, come in, have you walked all the way in this sun? Why didn’t you take a cart?”

”What is the use of taking a cart when it is so near? They’ll only make you pay eight or ten annas,” Gowri protested, as she mounted the steps.

When Ganesayyar saw his mother coming, he got up from the easy-chair and welcomed her, ”Have you come in this hot sunk Paarvathi, get some buttermilk for Mother.”

”Oh, what a shame, you were sound asleep . . . go back to sleep,“ she motioned to him, and put her bag on a stool beside the easy-chair. Then she went to the courtyard and splashed water from the tub on her face, arms, and legs, and finally sprinkled some on her head. Then she dried her face with the end of her sari, took some sacred ash from a container in the hall and spread it on her forehead. Ganesayyar was still standing next to the easy- chair when she came back. That easy-chair was the old grandmother’s throne. Other people would sit in that chair only when she was not there. As she sat down in it, Ganesayyar drew up a chair near her and started to fan her. As soon as she was seated, little Jaanaa, as if waiting for this opportunity, climbed onto her lap.

”Grandmother is hot from being in the sun–get off!” said Ganesayyar, tapping Jaanaa with the end of the fan.

”That’s all right, stay here, child,” she said, pulling her back onto her lap.

”Now you can’t get me,” Jaanaa said triumphantly, making a face at her father.

 

[Endorphin]

With Jaanaa on her lap, the grandmother took her bag from the stool and spreading the cucumbers from it on the floor, gave one to Jaanaa. She took out a sari and put it aside to be hung up to dry. Holding the bag up-side down, she shook it to remove some raw peanuts which were in the bottom. As she did so, an envelope fell out.

”Where are Mina and Ambi? Not here?” she said, looking around. ”Githa asked me to give this to you,” she said, handing Ganesayyar the envelope. As he took the envelope, he was dreading his mother’s probable displeasure when she found out that his twenty-year-old daughter had gone with her younger brother to a matinee movie, even though it wasn’t far from home.

”Well, she liked the book, and when she found out it had been made into a movie, they made a nuisance of themselves all morning, driving me to distraction with their pestering to go. Since it was just a matinee, I said yes,” Ganesayyar admitted.

”Oh, is that that serialized story? I saw it advertised,” she said, mentioning the names of the magazine and the author. ”Why do you call them a nuisance? You and I know nothing about movies. Most children nowadays know nothing else but movies. Be glad your children aren’t that bad,” she told her son. Then she asked,”Tell me, what’s in that envelope? When I asked her, she sort of said that you would tell me.”

Ganesayyar opened the envelope, removed the single sheet of paper, put on his glasses, and read the short letter. As he read, his hands to shake and his lips to tremble, his face was drenched with perspiration. When he had finished reading, he raised his head and stared blankly at the wedding photo of Githa hanging on the opposite wall. Darkness replaced the pleasure in his face. Gripping the arms of the chair, he looked at his mother with a blank expression. He didn’t even notice the letter slipping from his fingers. His mother, shocked, snatched up the fallen letter, and holding it in the bright sunlight, began to read it, she could still read without glasses.

“My dear Father , Mother , and Grandmother:

”I write this letter with a clear mind: after thinking things over for six months, I have come to a definite decision. I write it fully aware of the fact that after this letter, our relationship may cease to exist.

“I have decided to get married in a civil ceremony. I and a colleague of mine, Mr. Ramachandran, who teaches Hindi, have decided to be married in a civil ceremony this coming Sunday. He knows that I am a widow. I have come to this decision after fighting with my conscience for the past six months–the feeling that it is a sinful act, I felt that it is better not to risk spoiling the family name by hypocritically wearing the garments of widowhood when I can no longer truly act like a widow. Since I can’t bear it any longer, now at the age of thirty, I didn’t see how it would be any easier five years from now when it would be even more difficult to change my situation.

”My action is right as far as I am concerned. I do not feel that I am making a mistake and that I should regret it and beg your pardon. But the sorrow that I feel, knowing that I am breaking up our relationship and our love, grieves me. Nevertheless I am consoled and happy that I am starting a new life with new light, and that I am going to be a citizen of a new age.

“One cannot say how the minds of people change nowadays. If you somehow find a way to accept my decision (there is still a week’s time), I shall be looking forward to your loving greetings. Other wise you can consider me, for all intents and purposes, as dead.

“”Yes, it’s a selfish decision. But Grandmother is the only one who really aver sacrificed her comfort for my sake.

Your everloving Githa.”
“Well !, who would ever have expected that !” said the grandmother ; unable to do any thing else, she stared blankly ahead of her .

”She is dead … we must cash our hands of her,” said Ganesayyar dispassionately. The grandmother was shocked. It was the first the that the mama’ s boy had made a decision of his own without waiting for his mother’s advise, permission, or command.

“Do you mean it?” the old lady asked, her hand on her heart, her eyes brimming with tears.

”What else can I say–this, in your lineage, in your family–my God!” Ganesayyar exclaimed, as if unable to grasp the extent of his family misfortune.

”Things were different in my time,” she was about to reply. Then she suddenly realized something she had never realized before. ”My son has always waited for my permission, not out of filial devotion alone, but because I was the representative of an age; it was an orthodox one. I was born in a family which followed the Shastras. In the belief that I alone can run this family along these lines, and to honor that orthodox age, he waited on my word.” The grandmother sat in silence, thinking about herself, her son’s brutal decision, and the abandoned and pitiable Githa.

Paarvathi appeared on the veranda; she saw the letter that had brought the strange atmosphere in the house, picked it up and read it.

”She has brought ruin upon our heads!” she cried, beating her forehead with her fists.

The grandmother took the letter again in her hands, with the calm mind that was her nature, and read the last few lines.

”Yes, it’s a selfish decision. But Grandmother is the only one who really ever sacrificed her comfort for my sake.”

She shuddered and bit her lips. Others may not know the meaning of those words, but the old lady knew. Just as Githa, at the age of eighteen, had had to give up wearing cosmetics, her family had forgotten her sorrow,since it was, after all, her fate. It was after Githa had become a widow that Paarvathi had given birth to Ambi and Jaanaa. So what? That was life. How can they know the dreams, desires, thoughts and feelings which swarmed like ants through the mind, and eroded away the heart, of Githa, who had lost her whole life? But how could Gowri, who had experienced these things on the pyre of widowhood herself, two generations of Hindu society ago, not understand these emotions. That was why she neither scorned nor could abandon Githa as Ganesayyar and Paarvathi did. But mentally she wrung her hands in despair and helplessness.

When it was time to light the lamps, Mina and Ambi returned home from the movie. When Ambi climbed the stairs and saw his grandmother reclining in the easy-chair, lost in thought, he whispered the warning to Mina: ”Grandma!”

 

[Endorphin]

”Where? Inside or on the porch?” Mina asked, stepping back from the gate.

”She’s sleeping on her throne,” Ambi replied .

Mina stopped and began adjusting her sari, which had been draped stylishly over her shoulder and arm,by gathering it up and tucking the end in at her side; then checking to see that her bosom was properly concealed, she went in with her head slightly bowed, and an air of studied innocence.

When they entered, they found that their grandmother was not sleeping. Their father was sitting on a chair, and their mother was weeping in a corner. They stood, bewildered, unable to comprehend the strangeness of the situation.

Then Jaanaa ran to Ambi and said, ”Grandma has brought us cucumbers.” With the sound from Jaanaa, Gowri turned and regarded Mina.

”When did you come, Grandmother?” Mina asked, and gesturing around, indicated her confusion at the situation. Her grandmother’s eyes were filled with tears. When she saw Mina she could understand the reason why Ganesayyar could abandon Githa, and the force and justification of Paarvathi’s cursing her.

Mina took the letter and began to read. At first Gowri would have stopped her; then she thought, ”She might as well read it,” and regarded the expression on her face. Mina’s expression reflected her revulsion.

”Oh, damn you!” she muttered and continued reading. Ambi, who was reading the letter over her shoulder, made an expression which looked like he had swallowed castor oil.

The whole house took on a deserted air. Everyone was looking at each other like people in a plague-ridden town who had just found a dead rat in their house.

Gowri didn’t sleep that night. She didn’t touch any food. She didn’t leave her easy-chair. Whenever she saw her son, daughter-in-law, or her grandchildren, she sighed.

”For once, Githa came to the bus stop to see me off. When the bus started, she wiped her eyes with the end of her sari. l thought there was dust in her eyes . ”

”What has she done, what has she done?” Gowri asked herself over and over again. A little before dawn she fell asleep. When she opened her eyes, it was mysteriously light. Veelaayudam was standing at the gate with his box. Gowri wished that everything that happened were only a dream. But the letter lay on the stool, saying,”No, it’s true.” She picked it up and read it again. Ganesayyar came out from inside,and to console her for her night-long contemplation of this problem, said, ”Mother, Veelaayudam the barber has come–when you bathe, wash your hands of her.“

”Stop it!” she cried. ”Why do you say these inauspicious things so early in the morning? What has happened, why do you want her to die?” She could say no more and wept, her face flushed. Then she asked angrily, her eyes red, ”What wrong has she done? What wrong has she done? Tell me!”

Ganesayyar was perplexed for a moment. ”What wrong? What are you saying, Mother? Are you mad?” he shouted.

Gowri became calm. She stared into his face for a moment,thinking that this was the first time he had ever spoken like that to her. In a low, steady voice, she replied, ”Yes, I am mad, and I’ve been so for quite a while. It’s an old madness, an incurable one. Let me keep it for my own. Githa has escaped from this madness. What can anyone do about it? She has said that her action is right as far as she is concerned. She has done it smoothly without ruining her name by leading a life of hypocrisy . . . ”

“Is her action justified by that?” Ganesayyar interrupted.

“She says that her action is right as far as she is concerned. What do you say to that?” his mother replied, punctuating her remarks by hitting her hand with her fist.

“The wretched girl has violated the Shastras. She has ruined the name of my orthodox family. I say wash your hands of her, she’s dead!” shouted Ganesayyar with clenched teeth.

The grandmother looked down at herself and her son in front of her for a second like an independent observer, and said with a bitter smile, “Our Shastras and customs! What should you have done if you had wanted to preserve them, do you know? Do you know what a Shastra did to me? You were a babe in arms then. I was fifteen years old. My son screamed when he saw my face, as if he saw a ghost. You screamed rather than let me nurse you. You screamed with fear when I approached you. People made me sit in a corner. When did you observe all these customs with Githa? Why didn’t you?” she asked with tears streaming down her face. Ganesayyar also wiped his eyes.

She continued, “Did your Shastras tell her to wear colored saris? To go to school with her hair plaited? To earn her own bread? When you asked my permission for all these things, I said Yes. Why? Times are changing, people also should change, that’s why. When I became a widow, I had you. There was a house and some land. The age was such that it would have been unthinkable to do what Githa has done. It was possible then to live that way. Now it is no longer possible. I understand your situation. You are living with your children. You have to set them up well. I understand. She has also understood this and written it in her letter. Can your Shastras give her life? She has denied the Shastras; but, my Ganesh, I cannot deny her. I want her. What else do I need in life? Let me keep the Shastras to myself. They can burn with me at my funeral. May you fare well, I am leaving. I am going to Githa. It’s the only solution. You can take heart that things have worked out this way. Think it over. Otherwise you can wash your hands of me along with her. I’m going, goodbye,” and she rose to put her spare sari into her khaki bag .

“Mother!” Ganesayyar folded his hands in entreaty. Tears flowed from his eyes.

“Stupid, why are you crying? I’ve come to this decision after much thought. Whatever she does, she is our child,” she said slowly. “Paarvathi, take care of things,” she said, and took leave of everyone. “I must see Githa as soon as possible,” she muttered to herself, and turning, saw Veelaayudam at the gate.

”Run along, I have to go to Neyveli on an urgent matter,” and giving him four annas, she dispatched him.

”He won’t have work here any more,” she mused. ”Well, so what? So many things are changing in the world–can’t I change barbers?” She smiled to herself, descended the stairs with her bag on her hip, turned, and said, “Goodbye !”

 

[Endorphin]

🆆🅰🆃🅴🆁 🅿🅻🅰🆈At first he was somewhat confused and hesitant when they invited him. “Me?” he whispered disbelievingly under his breath. But then desire and eagerness blossomed and his dull thoughts cleared to reveal the radiance within. The children urged him on. He was a guest there, though actually a close relative. He did not let the fact that they had seldom met stand in the way. In a short while, the children, three of them, between the ages of eight and twelve, a girl and two boys, had begun to roll and tumble on his lap to the extent that they were now willing to include him in their play. This was the main impetus behind their invitation.

He was aware of a mild sensation of excitement, an arrested thought that now surfaced and animated him. But it was not possible to rise and walk away at once. Tender thread-ends of hesitation still bound his legs. The floor against which his clammy feet rested grew wet with sweat. He looked about eagerly. His breath stopped; his voice refused to rise.

The children began to plead with him, their eyes squeezed shut, tapping his chin and pulling at his hands as a matter of right. As he moved to avoid them, the cot on which he sat, creaked loudly. He feared that a voice with a “Don’t trouble him, children!” reprimand would now be raised, stemming their assault, as they besieged him, begging and pleading that he join them. It would be better to leave with them before that happened, it seemed. Feigning disinterest, as if this was the biggest problem facing him, he said, “I don’t have a towel.” They jumped up eagerly, each running to different parts of the house, to return with a towel. He rose with a shy smile that spread across his face.

In the heart of the forest, redolent with scents of greenery, the well burst into sight suddenly, as if it were the earth’s mouth split wide open. It possessed neither a proper wall nor a uniform shape. Rough with holes, its walls had the appearance of flesh pockmarked by boils and wounds. The impressions left by frequent footsteps, seeming to serve as steps, were also visible. The pipe attached to the motor stood still and half-submerged in the water. Sunrays shining through gaps in the palm fronds pierced the surface of the water to reveal the muddy depths of the well. It was certainly the kind of well that enticed one’s legs to jump in.

The children were fighting amongst themselves, arguing over who would jump in first. Being first to take the plunge was the most important. It was necessary to splatter the water once and effect the sound of waves set in motion. First the frozen silence of the well had to be broken and only then would the fury of enthusiasm take hold of each of them. It was initiating this process that seemed such a problem. There was fear that the well waited to accept as sacrifice the one who jumped in first. The dispute between the now unclothed children prolonged. While their attention was engaged thus, he jumped into the well with the suddenness and force of a ripe coconut falling off a palm tree. They too jumped in at once from each corner of the well.

The well that had remained frozen until then began to speak in many voices. There was the sound of water breaking into waves that hit against the walls of the well in rapid succession. The children had fixed spots from which they were wont to climb up the walls by clinging to its stones. They jumped in and out continuously as if their only aim was to disturb the water.

He experienced the well very differently. He swam, paddling the water gently, as though holding a newborn infant against his chest. The uneven form of the well gave him great happiness. The water’s coolness was balm to the body in the heat of a sunny hour. He relished dipping his head into the water, then floating on his back.

The scattered rays of the sun sought him out as he swam. The well was a great store of wonders, he understood this little by little and a deep affection for it budded within him. He desired to touch and embrace every part of it. He journeyed for long, eyes fixed on the sides of the well where dust particles floating on the water had collected. The well seemed to have created small niches at each corner that provided places of rest. There were step like structures where one could stand for a short while. The well was full of graciousness. At the corners there was the chill of agreeable dew. Eager to know the depths of the well, he began to move towards its floor. In those few seconds, at the centre of the well, he suddenly felt as though he’d journeyed a long distance and caught a glimpse of his innermost being.

The well continued—over space and time. And all at once he felt breathless. Growing immediately aware of where he was, he pressed his hands together to come up for breath. There were so many mysteries that the well contained. Would it unravel all and offer them to him, who came to it occasionally, in just a few minutes? He reprimanded himself for the foolishness of putting himself out in vain. Sitting on the stone slabs near the steps, he relaxed, gazing with new wonder at the frogs that either clung to the walls as the water lapped against them or jumped into the water from above. It seemed as if he had become, for a short while, a mere spectator.

The children, however, were not a bit tired. They continued to climb the sides of the well without bothering about its sagging walls and took turns to jump in. There seemed little difference between the frogs and them. The well was like an old man, smiling gently, indulgently, at their childish enthusiasm. As the little girl leaned forward to jump, she looked, with the ends of her plait undone, ribbon flying in the breeze, and the glitter of the bright sun on her, like a little goddess descending into the loving arms of the well. The boys were too quick in their act of climbing and jumping to be distinguished from each other.

The well accepted their wordless cries with pride. Having been without companionship for so long, its thoughts filled with the crippling loneliness of solitude, seemed now to revel themselves in their presence.

The enchanting breeze that embraced his body spread a chill. Beads of water ran down his body to merge with the water in the well. His body was now dry and had begun to tremble. The chill that he had not felt as long as he was in the water plucked at him the minute he was out of it. In truth, this was the well’s ruse. A way of enticing a person to enter again. Anyone who had entered it once was beguiled into going in again and again.

He lunged into the ripples. The warm water caressed his skin and embraced him. He circled the well without even realising he had done so. Though the strokes made by his legs were not visible, the eddies left by them were. He wanted to circle the well once more. But before he could, the little girl turned to ask:

“Chithappa … how many times can you go round the well without stopping to rest?”

He was unable to come up with a number. He tried to gauge the dimensions of the well. Its cornerless spread made it difficult. He smiled to hide the fact that he had no answer.

But she would not leave him alone.

“Can you complete 10 rounds?”

One of the boys replied: “ Chithappa can hardly complete two.”

Though he understood that the boy was teasing only to get a rise out of him, he could not help responding to the challenge. It was decided that starting from the steps, touching each corner and returning to the steps again would make one round.

He had circled the well once and was halfway through the next when his breath weakened. He began to gulp in air through his mouth. He found his hands were tiring and his legs refusing to cooperate. However much he tried he could not go on. The well had defeated him once again.

He stood at one end, his body bent with exhaustion, breathing hard. The noise that the children made as they crowed over him blocked out the fear that the well would be overjoyed at his defeat. His embarrassment was increased by his bashfulness. He wanted to climb out of the well. No one could outface the monstrous well. One was forced to accept defeat before its mammoth proportions. Even to confront and be defeated by it asked for daring. He drew a deep breath, filled with pride and swam towards the steps. His hands groped for a powerful hold, something with the control and strength of cables. On reaching the steps, he dipped himself in the water, tilting his head to slick back his hair and taking advantage of its wetness to comb it down. Then he said,

“I’m going out. You can play for a while longer if you like.”

This direction must have come as a shock to the children. The sound of waves lapping against the sides could be heard for a few seconds. Sorrow shadowed the girl’s face. The boys looked woebegone. They could not accept that the delights of the well had to be given up so soon. If he were to climb out of the well, they would have to do so too. They did not have permission to remain in the well without an adult. The well contained innumerable dangers. Old poisonous snakes that reared their heads and emerged at evil moments lurked in the recesses of the upper portions of the well. There were hidden currents that trapped and sucked in underwater swimmers. An adult might manage to escape such a siege of dangers, but could a child? Besides, the well, surrounded by tall palms that stood guard over it, had acquired a quality that was inhospitable to human beings. Voices echoed in all directions. A terrifying silence was lodged permanently in the darkness of the water. It wouldn’t do for him to leave the well when he was the shield that protected them against these dangers. The little girl entreated.

“No, Chithappa … for some more time, Chithappa .”

 

[Endorphin]

But now her entreaty did not move him at all. He was firm in his decision to leave the well at once. He took a step forward disdaining her pleas with a smile.

The little girl who had been standing at the eastern end of the well, now jumped in and gliding across the water gripped his legs tightly. “Don’t go, Chithappa ,” she implored, shaking her wet, flattened plait. He had not expected this. Her hands had twisted themselves around his legs and clung to them, snake-like.

“Let go, child… let go,” he said.

He thought these ordinary words would suffice. But she did not release him. She was bent low, as if prostrating herself before a deity, determined not to let go until her wish was granted. He was nonplussed. Still hesitant, he bent carefully to try and prise her fingers free. But they tightened further.

‘Don’t you let go of Chithappa ,” came a voice from somewhere. Even then he merely smiled cautiously at what seemed the stubbornness of childish play.

In an unguarded moment, the girl’s hands pressed to push him into the water. He fell headlong into the water—splash—like a loose stone dropping off the well’s wall with sudden force. The water whipped at his stomach sharply. Fear sent cold shivers down his body. With much effort he managed to swim towards the step. This too seemed like a defeat before the well. Wanting to deny it, he spoke calmly as he went up the steps.

“Why did you do that, child?”

But now the topmost step was no longer one to him—on the stone jutting out of the wall stood the bigger of the two boys. Waving his outspread arms, the boy yelled out, “I’m not going to let you go.” As he lifted a leg intending to scale the wall, the boy bent to grab him by the neck. Both fell into the well as one. Dragging the boy into the water, he pressed his legs and gave a powerful shove; free again, he swam with great speed towards the steps. The boy would be able to turn around and follow him only after touching bottom. He pushed aside the girl, who had been waiting, aiming at clasping him around the next, and bounded up the steps.

“Ei!”

A loud and enthusiastic scream came out of nowhere as the other boy pounced on him. This was completely unexpected. He fell into the water again.

His eyes squeezed shut to avoid the light that pierced through the water. With difficulty, he tried to peer through the spray. His sight filled with scenes he could not comprehend and he panicked. There was no escape apart from scaling the walls of the well and running to his freedom. But above the steps was another boy. A kind of order had suddenly developed amongst them: one to battle with him in the water; one to prevent him from ascending the steps by seizing his legs; and another to swoop down upon him from a height. They had conquered each of those places by turns. They encircled him like a thick chain which he could not break.

How long was this play going to continue? What kind of a game was this? This play was a trick of the well. He was not here as a guest at someone’s home. It was the well that had impelled him to come. No one had invited him for a swim. It was the well that had given form to its messengers and sent them to fetch him. He did not know their faces. The origin of illusion and deceit, the well was a death trap. He began to hear the sound of approaching death. He had got trapped, a prey in the gluttonous mouth of the well. How mistaken he had been thinking them children. They were really three devils sent by the well’s witchery.

The first plunged, aiming at his neck. The second seized hold of his legs. And the third caught and grappled with him in the water to pull him into its depths. Their laughter was an invitation though it sucked his life out. The little devils were now ravenous with hunger. By what means could he make his escape?

The gaps in the walls of the well now transformed into dark caves where death lurked. The water felt like acid that burnt his skin. Did he possess the strength to swim and prevail over these innumerable dangers? Tadpoles clung to the sides of the well, their eyes protruding, their mouths wide open, ready to drag him down any minute. They would pounce when the devils were tired.

Fear spread to every part of his body and entrenched itself. He could not think of a way out. Though the compulsion to get out and run was foremost, he was thrown off balance each time. His stomach was swollen with the water he had gulped in. His body trembled and sweated. Having fallen awkwardly on the stones, the cuts and abrasions on his skin began to burn, but he paid them no attention. All his concentration focussed on escape. It seemed as if their intent was to gradually crush and swallow him. As he struggled with death, eyes wide open, he was filled with animal rage. He beat at the devils as they came to hand. He thrust his legs against the floor of the well. But their violence increased correspondingly.

This infernal pit must have other escape routes. He jumped towards a corner. But he was unable to stand. His legs trembled. Sweat, more than water from the pool, dripped from his body. They, thinking that his move to the corner signalled victory, whooped with joy.

His probing eyes caught sight of the motor pump. Even as his eyes fell on it, his hands lunged towards it. Holding on to the pipe, he began to slip-climb to the top. He realised that this could serve as the only possible way out. Struggling hard against the slippery surface of the pipe, he continued to climb. But though he swayed to and fro, he could not progress at any great speed. The fiercest moment of the game held them in its grip. These last moments would decide victory or defeat. As he continued to climb, a howling figure, with a confused tangle of limbs descended the pipe with great speed and dashed against him. His hold broke and he hit the water once again.

This was it. The game was over. It was as if all else had been ordained. He began to babble incoherently. His hands continued to thrash the water without interest. He could no longer recognise the direction he should move towards. He no longer understood where to find a hold. Many things escaped his grasp. His trembling legs climbed on to something. Was it one of the walls of the well? His hands seemed to cling to the edges of some jutting stones. He felt he had climbed a little higher. But the belief ripened only to fade away. The well raised a voice that echoed:

“Snake, Snake!”

His hands lost their grip. Mouth wide open, arms and legs spreadeagled, he fell into the water backwards, like a frog.

 

[Endorphin]

`Krishna, raa…’

Ladling out some rice-and-ghee on the window sill and tap-tapping it once with the back of the ladle, Amma called out to the crows in Telugu. Why especially Telugu? That was a mystery as yet unrevealed. Amma’s crow language had remained unchanged although Dhanam’s father had been transferred many times, and they had gone to Assam, Ahmedabad, Orissa, Bangalore and many other places. Even in Assam, as soon as Amma said, `Krishna, raa…,’ the crows came flying to her. Perhaps crows are united in the matter of language. Amma had initiated everybody around her into this rite of word and gesture. Even Dhanam’s younger brother Dinakaran’s American wife’s first husband’s child, whenever they were in India, would call out `Krishna, raa…!’ to the crows. With the window sill as the base, Amma had found herself a place in the world where crows exist, irrespective of states and nations and completely without any border disputes.

A window sill, a drop of ghee, a ladleful of rice. It seemed to Dhanam that although it contained such little things, Amma’s space did not confine itself to them. This `tok-tok’ of the ladle as it descended on the sill was like a magnet, drawing in everything that was outside the window. Formless, lacking clear boundaries, Amma’s space seemed to spread and open out.

Dhanam’s elder sister Bharati’s married life in America had ended in divorce. She was shattered. Panic, fright and shame engulfed her. She was so badly shaken that at each step she took she felt the lack of firm ground beneath her feet. Acceding to Appa’s request, Amma boarded a plane and went to her. Some ten days later a long letter arrived:

“Dhanam, Amma has come. Two days after she reached here there was a phone call from the airline in whose plane she had travelled, pestering her to accept a contract to supply bitter-lime pickle for their in-flight meals! It seems Amma had brought it out during the security check, and they had tested it by tasting it…As if this were not enough, on the fourth day after I came home from work, I saw that Amma had been stirring up some paalkova out of a couple of litres of milk and had just taken it off the stove. When I asked her about it, it turned out that she had seen two or three pregnant women in the neighboring houses. It was good for their health, she said. She dragged me along to see them, and told them it was `milk-sweet’ with saffron in it. (Amma has brought some of the very best saffron with her. Why she felt she must bring saffron she has not yet explained. It’s like my questions about the bitter lime which also haven’t as yet elicited any answers.) She made me describe the wonderful things that saffron does for the health of mother and child. Now I’m terrified that somebody will ask Amma to see them through their delivery!

It’s very sunny here. I can see Amma’s hands itching to make vadagams. Do you remember how in Bangalore Amma would put on a cap against the sun and squeeze out vadagams? She would tie stones to weigh down an open umbrella to scare off the crows, and place us both on guard over the vadagams spread out to dry in the sunshine. Remember how she would tell us about the drama, Valli’s Wedding, from the days of the freedom struggle? How the two of us would pretend to be Valli and her girlfriends, playing in her father’s millet-field and singing `Aalolo! Aalolo!’ to shoo away the birds? That song we used to sing—Oh, you white, white storks! –do you remember it? What had we seen of the freedom struggle? At least, did we know anything about the `Aalolam’ –about how birds are shooed in the countryside? Girls and boys going into the fields and twirling stones on long strings and singing `Aalolo!’? Wasn’t it just a song that Amma had taught us? When we sang,

Who knows where you come from
To plunder India, you who squat here
And peck at her like thieving sparrows!

How angry we used to get! Even now, if Amma were to sit down to make vadagams, we could think about the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund and sing that same song!

The windows here have no sills. I have attached a wooden rack for keeping flower pots. Amma puts rice on it every day and calls out `Krishna, raa…’ as if there are any crows here…In just two days squirrels turned up. Every single day now, as soon as they hear the sound of the ladle they come—squirrels the size of bandicoots. They’re Amma’s friends. Even among them she has discovered two pregnant ones. Perhaps she’ll even feed them that herbal medicine along with their rice, who knows? Come to think of it, it seems as though this secret language by which Amma summons crows and squirrels is the very one that binds together the sky and the earth.

Amma hasn’t asked me a single word about Kumarasaami. She hasn’t spoken about the divorce either. She just goes on as usual, seasoning things with sizzling mustard seeds and spreading the aroma of ghee. If I just stare out of the window, she pesters me to come and grind a chutney in the grinder. Or she explains to me that banana flower is good for health, all chopped into little pieces, soaked in buttermilk and made into a tasty side-dish with onion and cumin, ginger and coconut. In a town where no banana flowers are to be had at all, how will such a piece of information be useful to me? And yet, Dhanu! My mind just opens out—right into the backyard of Grandmother’s house in Coimbatore. How many banana tress there were in that yard! And the huge fan-shaped palm tree in front of the house. Both of us sitting on the stone bench and having a photo taken—do you remember it? I remember my face, skinny, with hair combed down flat, the plait tied up with a stringy ribbon and let down in front, grinning with all my teeth showing. Before Grandfather sold the house, we both bought a eucalyptus sapling and planted it there. I think about it every once in a while—have the people who are there now left it as it is, without cutting it down?

Though I asked her to come and take care of me I never thought she would whirl around like a cyclone, doing things like this. There’s a shop owned by a Tamilian on the street where Indian things are sold. Amma has already discussed Tamil Nadu politics twice with the shopkeeper. She’s actually doing her best to disrupt my daily routine and ruin the discipline I need for my work. She gets on my nerves—makes me yell, `Amma, why don’t you let me alone!’ Yet, you won’t believe it, I’ve put on a whole kilo in these ten days.

Day before yesterday when I came home from work, Amma was singing `Dhikku Theriyaadha Kaattil’. After elaborating on the `flowers that kindle a fragrant flame in the heart’, when she got to `with weary limbs I sank down…’, I leaned against the door, Dhanu, and I wept! At the Bharati1 competition in school you sang it, tossing your head this way and that way, you with those two plaits of yours.

We went to the house of a couple called Sivanesam who work in the university here. There, Amma talked to Mrs Thilakam Sivanesam and discovered that her mother was her girlhood friend Shenbagam of Vilaathikulam. It seems Shenbagam’s family was very much involved in the Self-respect Movement2. There, in the Sivanesam’s house, Amma sang a song of Bharatidasan’s3:

Arise, o ye virtuous women of the Tamil land
Come forth, avenge this affront
To your cherished Tamil heritage!

–just as she had done back in those days with Thilakam’s mother. Thilakam was terribly moved. It seems her mother had died when she herself was very young. She went on and on saying she hadn’t known all these things about her mother. She was so thrilled. `But my mother believes in God,’ I told her.

`Do you do poojai in a big way and all, amma?’ Thilakam asked Amma.

`It’s only four-five idols that I brought with me. In a small plastic box,’ Amma said.

Inside this plastic god-box of Amma’s, there’s a little Amman, a Siva-lingam, Ganapathi, Murugan, a crawling baby Krishna, and other such deities. Has she come all alone, a woman by herself, or has she rolled up the world and put it into her bag? I just don’t know, Dhanu.

*

 

[Endorphin]

Squirrels, information about her neighbors’ lives, food that had the savour of salt and tamarind and chilies, and Tamil songs that she had completely forgotten—when all these had found their way back into Bharati’s world, Amma left. Only later did it come to be known that she had met and spoken with Kumarasaami. One day, people from his family brought back the silver vessels and jewellery. Amma served them a fine meal and sent them off.

When Dhanam asked, `Why did you ask for all these back, Amma?’ she countered, `Aren’t these Bharati’s? Weren’t they given to her for her own use?’

After that no one talked about Kumarasaami. A couple of hours later, when Bharati married a Gujarati and came home for a visit, Amma gave her the jewels. She converted the silver vessels into cash and gave it to her to spend in India.

Just as Dhanam was watching Amma calling out to the crows, Amma turned and came towards her.

`Have you eaten, Dhanam?’ she asked.

`I just ate a dosai at a hotel before I came,’ ma. I didn’t know I’d be coming, that’s why.’

Amma sat down and began to eat. A month had passed since Appa’s death. The landlady kept asking for the house to be vacated.

`Tell me,’ma.’

`What can I say? Such a thing your father has done and gone. Let’s build a house, I kept telling and telling him. Why bother, it’s such a headache, he told me. Left me all unsettled and knocking about like this, with no place to live…’

`Why do you say that, Amma? You must stay with me or with Bharati. You can go to Dinakaran once in a while.’

`Oh, fine. When you yourself are struggling somehow…’ she said, dragging out the words.

Dhanam’s husband Sudhakar had tried to start some business or the other. It turned out that he had taken too big a step. There was a loss. Even the savings were gone. He still hadn’t come out of it. It was Dhanam’s salary from her bank job that kept the house running. That was what Amma meant.

`All that is nothing, Amma. I can keep you and take care of you,’ said Dhanam.

`I haven’t said no, have I? Do I need a “palace tall and tower’d hall”? One meal of rice, one of rice-water…Love is the main thing, di,’ said Amma.

`All your things have to be packed, no?’ said Dhanam.

`Me? What things have I got, di? I can just put four deities in a plastic box and start off,’ said Amma.

It was only after Dhanam had taken two days’ leave and come with Sudhakar to help Amma pack her things that she understood certain things. From the glossy, dark-red stone with lines on it picked up in Hardwar before Bharati was born, the round-bottomed frying pan purchased for eight annas when Bharati was a year old, to the tiered oil lamps inscribed `Kumudha’ that had been bestowed on her when she went to her natal home for the first time after her marriage –everything had a story behind it. Though Amma kept going round and round inside the house, she couldn’t decide what to take and what to leave behind. In the drawing room, the mirrored almirah—the one that Amma had brought away with her when Paati died, the dolls collected by Bharati, Dhanam and Dinakaran, the magazine serial novels, preserved and bound, the green trunks full of letters that Amma had received, cooking hints and recipes for siddha medicines that she still collected, nothing could be easily done away with. Like the demon whose life would end only if you crossed the seven seas, came to a certain tree, reached inside a hole in the trunk, took out a box, and crushed the beetle that was in it, Amma’s life was buried deep inside all these things.

Dhanam and Sudhakar briskly took a few decisions. They temporarily rented an unused garage two houses away and stored Amma’s things safely in it. With seven or eight pieces of luggage—including her plastic box – Amma came to Dhanam’s. With her vina, of course. Every time Appa had been transferred the vina had always been very carefully packed. It had been given to Amma when she was six by her father, who had bought it in Andhra. Of carved dark wood, it was in a cover that Amma had sewn for it out of a saree. There was not enough place in Dhanam’s house for it to be stored in a horizontal position. They leaned it against a wall, propped up with a piece of wood.

Amma looked around for a place to unpack her plastic god-box in Dhanam’s godless household. Parashakti and the other divinities all finally climbed up and settled on one of the steps of a new set of shelves (intended for books) that had been fixed to the back of a door.

One evening a week later, sitting at the table next to the window and watching the parrots which kept perching on the branches of the fruit tree and then rising up and flying around, Dhanam wrote Bharati a letter.

Bharati, Amma has come to my house. But she is not at peace. There is no daily hustle-and bustle of cooking here. Sudhakar is mostly at home, trying to decide what to do next. He takes care of his own meals—some bread and eggs, and it’s finished. At the most he’ll cook rice, dal and vegetables all together and feed himself. Regular cooking is done just for Amma. She tried once or twice to compel Sudhakar to come and eat. Then one day I told her, `Amma, Sudhakar will cook what he wants for himself. Let him do what he wants. We should give each other that freedom, Amma.’

`So this is called freedom. I can’t understand it,’ Amma complained.

As soon as she arrived, she was just quivering to make the year’s supply of rasam and sambar powder before the rainy season set in. Here in my house, in this one week, all the powders have already been prepared. And there are three months more for the rainy season! Day before yesterday she went and bought limes, cut them up and made both salt pickle and hot pickle, separately. Sweet ginger chutney and hot ginger pickle are all ready. Because I said something or the other just to make conversation, she went out in the sun, bought spinach, and has cleaned and picked it over. Seems the two of us do so much thinking, about work and this and that, so she’s boiled some hibiscus flower oil for our head-baths. For Sandhya, who’ll be coming home from Rishi Valley School, she’s made fried snacks and put them in a tin. Good water (what Amma has filled up herself), ordinary water (what we have filled up), vessels in which meat and eggs have been prepared, and those in which they have not been prepared, Amma’s plate and our plates—several such property divisions have taken place in the house.

The god-box is quite small, of course. Yet in just three days this business of Amma’s poojai has spread out to include a wooden plank underneath, which has a copper pot, a plate for offering camphor, a daily kolam, incense, sandal, kumkumam, flowers. The idols must be bathed and scrubbed with tamarind. So many different skirts for Amman, and half-sarees, too. Sandal and kumkumam to decorate them with, milk and raisins to worship them with…the things that have to be done for these gods keep multiplying. Because the milk-and-raisins have to given to somebody, the little girl next door is called in. Then, because the little girl’s father’s brother’s wife has no child, Amma prepares a siddha medicine. Because our neighbor Lingamma’s husband has a headache at nine o’clock at night, Amma grinds up a dry ginger-and-peper-and-milk concoction.

That Amma’s deities live in a small plastic box is true enough. It’s possible for her to take them with her and fly anywhere she likes. But when she returns, she needs a place for the brass things that are etched with the name `Kumudha’, for the teak almirah, for the kitchen cupboard with the wire-net door-a place with window sills, a jasmine bower, a snakegourd vine and a place where the vina can rest in a horizontal position. Amma may sing the Thevaaram verse that begins with:

Clinging to no other thing
With the mind intent upon
Its destination –
Your sacred feet,

But she is one who’ll remain bound to the earth. Even if she flits about like cotton-fluff, she always looks forward to touching the earth once again.

…She could stay in my house. Or in yours. But she will suffer. A thousand lies she’ll tell—this one to hide that one, and that one to hide this one. It will be one lie after another. It is not only a place to live that Amma needs. It must be a place that’s under her sway. Because Amma is not an individual. She’s an institution. What she needs is not just a little space to keep her plastic box. She’s wandering about looking for a realm of her very own. And if you and I wish, we can give it to her. Your jewels and mine have been given to us by Amma. If they’re sold for cash we can give her back her house. The landlord is trying to sell it. Let Dinakaran send her a monthly amount. In a couple of months Sandhya will return after completing school. She’s eager to be with her paati. English lessons so that she can talk to your children, embroidering a salwar-kameez for Sandhya to wear to college, music lessons, experimenting in healing, ideas of writing her memoirs, rose graftings and spinach-beds-with such long-term plans stretching over many years, Amma will live in her own house”

*

When she had finished her letter and looked up, Amma was in the easy chair, looking out at the street. The parrots that had kept fluttering up and flapping around, were now peacefully perched on the branches.