DEAR READERS ,
TO CONTINUE READING MY NEW ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS ALONG WITH THE OLDER POSTS, YOU CAN USE THE FOLLOWING NEW WEB ADDRESS.
WARMLY,
SARAVANAN KARMEGAM
Part 3 (30-34)
Original : Ba.Venkatesan's short novel "Mazhiayin Kural Thanimai"
In English : Saravanan Karmegam
*****
During the time he had been active in the profession, Paramasivam Pillai used to have a bizarre agreement with rich men and English lords. That was, from the date of handing over the keys after the construction of the buildings, a particular amount had to be sent by the owners to Pillai every month as remuneration. In turn, Pillai had to assume the responsibility of incurring expenses when there was any untoward accident or any requirement for specific maintenance during the contract period. Most of the time, both parties didn’t have the opportunity to execute the second clause of the agreement. Everyone knew that the buildings built by Pillai enjoyed the guarantee of standing the test of time. No architect other than Pillai had the fame and courage to convince the heavyweights and lords to accept the agreement, such as that. There were many wonderful buildings from Karimangalam to Mysore created by the dexterous hands of Pillai. One could see them along the sides of the highway. Pillai’s skills were his hereditary asset, which he had inherited from his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. So he was not interested in building modern mediocre constructions. But it had never been sort of lacking. Many solitary rest houses in the hilly regions of Hogenekkal, Yelegiri, and Hosur and cold regions like Thali and Mathagiri were actually built by Pillai for English lords according to their taste, both in Tamil Nadu style with lime mortar and Kerala style with tiled roofs. They had possessed many secretive, traditional architectural marvels unknown to Western countries, especially the scent of golden Champak flowers from the interior walls of the buildings built by Pillai. The mixture of things that gave that scent remained a family secret known only to Pillai. The buildings, unlike having an incongruous appearance as if coming out tearing off the ground, had a natural appeal of plains having habitats in their course with gentle undulations. (Pillai’s skills did match the deftness of birds’ nests). The interiors without much complexity, the outer appeal that didn’t hurt the eyes, the apertures for light that soothed the mind, and the ventilated entrance were the unique features of the buildings Pillai built. He didn’t know any other methods. In other words, he wasn’t aware of creating astounding structures. (It was why he stood stunned, oblivious to even breathing when Sarangan brought him before the rain house). Pillai was a king in his skills; he could bring the resemblance, serenity, and propinquity of a plant in a shed made of leaves. The fame and name he enjoyed from that were just enough for him. Ever since Pillai’s great-grandfather constructed the Uttanapalli Zamin bungalow, there had been a friendship that continued for generations between the Zameen and Pillai’s family. Based on that friendship, Zamindar made Pillai accept his request to build a beautiful bungalow for his second wife. A cart was arranged for him daily to commute from his residence at Kelamangalam to Hosur Agraharam to attend to his construction works. Despite knowing that the land was criminally grabbed from an innocent farmer called Basavanna and erecting a building on that land would truly mean erecting it upon the hatred of villagers and the curse of Basavanna, Pillai accepted the offer for the sake of his friendship. As an architect, on the pretext of building the Zamindar’s palace of love, he wanted to add one more feather of fame to his crown. Even if his entire life was wasted in his efforts to build, as warned by the villagers, he thought he would nevertheless be proud of it. He had the audacity to fight an elephant to face failure rather than fighting a hare to win. Above all, he had immense faith in his skills. But as the time passed, he understood that Basavanna’s resolve was many times stronger than he had thought. He didn’t expect the events to turn out that complicated. When the works were underway up to the ceiling, a woman from another village, while buttressing it with wood logs, saw the corpse of Basavanna hanging on one of those logs and slit her throat herself out of horror. Unable to bear the weight of the dead body, the supporting log broke and hung like a swing. The other day, the entire mixture emitting the scent of champak flowers kept under conditioning for six days had to be thrown away after it was found with lizards in it. Pillai ordered the pot in which the mixture was kept to be broken into pieces. The snakes entered the holes made in the walls for the wood logs to be fixed, for the workers to stand. Since the workers plastered those holes inadvertently, the entire building developed cracks in a night due to the bodies of snakes. The workers were changed four times in seven years. Sufficient time was required to explain the abstract layout of the building and structure to the new workers and get them accustomed to it. Pillai didn’t like to use his workers as mere machines who would only stack up the stones and plaster the mixtures. Climbing on the ladder inch by inch and then falling into destiny’s mouth to plunge to where he had started was repeating like a Ludo game. However, he was not worn out at any stage. Though the Zamindar had permitted Pillai to stop the work at any stage whenever he liked, Pillai never considered that option. At the time when the Zamindar’s interest was decreasing gradually, Pillai’s interest didn’t diminish; rather, it grew stronger like fire instead, being teased by Basavanna’s ploys and impediments. His repeated failures made him more stubborn. As the days passed, it grew into a frenzy and drove him crazy. For some while, he passed his days waiting for the Zamindar’s cart when it dawned and returning home in the night. Then the days of his coming home had also started dropping. After three years, when he felt that the effect of Basavanna grew too intense, Pillai completely stopped coming home. He liked to confine himself to that building, which would never be completed. His wife, determined to take him back home, ran back home alone, panic-stricken after seeing her husband speaking to the door and holes drilled for fixing windows. She informed her sons and daughter that their father very closely resembled Basavanna. After that, she and her children didn’t see each other for four years. Seeing the food and clothes she sent to him through her children being returned by him, she kept crying, glancing at them. Most of the time, she was abusing the Zamindar, who was responsible for the state of her husband, with the choicest mouthful of invectives. She beseeched her husband through her children that they could move to another place, in case they wouldn’t be able to afford to make the Zamindar uneasy. Pillai didn’t budge even an inch. Even the village Ambalakarars who went to him at her request to convince him returned with the same shock. (The one who was sitting there was not Paramasivam Pillai. It was Basavanna, with his unrelenting stubbornness and undying love for his land). Seeing all the efforts to bring him back home turn futile, the villagers and his family members concluded that he would never come back. As time passed, they got accustomed to his absence. They almost forgot his existence. It was at that time that Pillai appeared suddenly at the doorway after seven years with a new-born baby in his hand. It was raining heavily at that time. Pillai was fully drenched. He gave the baby to his wife, who was standing there in hell-shock, unable to infer whether it was a dream or real, with delight and shock overlapping each other.
This is an English translation of “Mazhaiyin kural
thanimai”, a short novel written by Ba. Venkatesan. Translated into English by
Saravanan Karmegam.
***
Part 2 (24 –30)
By the time
Uttanapalli Jamindar brought a woman from Mysore after marrying her as his
second wife since his first wife died without giving him an heir, his youth had
long ago deserted him. The woman he brought was very young. Jamindar was aware
that the villagers were laughing at his back, seeing them in pairs. He had
never been worried about it. (One would feel the pain of fever and headache
only when he suffers from it). But, after some days of his marriage, when he
felt that she was laughing at him after the lights were off on the bed, he was
unable to take that lightly. He was suffering from an aching desire to prove to
her that he was in no way inferior to young men in the display of love. His
greyed moustache proved his desire outdated. (But love doesn’t mean the union
of bodies. Does it?). Though his body was growing old, he had been spending
many sleepless nights thinking about how to prove himself as a youthful lover
at heart. At last, like a king in the north who built a memorial for his wife,
he also decided to build something similar for his wife. His wife casually
pointed out a vast stretch of land lying outside Hosur, which was at a little
distance from Uttanapalli, facing the Ramanayakkan lake, sitting at the edge of
the entire Agraharam with wonderful weather throughout the year. The task
seemed to be extremely easy while assessing the place within the span of time
the chariot took to cross it. But the reality proved otherwise. The owner of
the land, Basavanna, told the Jamindar’s men not to speak about the land
anymore. Jamindar felt it was a slap on his face. Now he had been under
pressure to prove to his young wife that he was an influential man as well,
when he was already suffering from the aching desire to prove his mettle of
being a great lover. He tried hard to bring Basavanna on track by employing all
his tricks – sending his men secretively and then openly to coax him and
meeting him in person first with sweet-coated words and then with intimidation.
Jamindar tried to tempt him with an assurance that he would offer a piece of land
worth double the price at Mathagiri or Andhivadi. But Basavanna didn’t budge
even an inch. The real problem was not the location of Basavanna’s land, nor
its size, nor its value. It was its heritage significance. It had the
reputation of being a stable used by the king Tipu Sultan for maintaining his
horses. The land could retain its potency of manure for longer than any other
land due to horse dung. Selling it just meant selling the reputation and
blessing of the ancestors resting in burial pits along with the inherited fame
and pride. But the Jamindar remained stubborn. Even if he became flexible, his
wife wasn’t. When the situation went out of hand, rendering the Jamindar
frightened even to put out the lamps during nights, he decided to crush
Basavanna with his influence after his repeated failures in all possible
tricks. The district collector promised him to help despite the disgrace of
dwindling influence of the Jamindar due to his second marriage, which forced
him to approach the collector to settle a petty matter such as that. The
collector fulfilled his promise. As he had expected, Basavanna shuddered at
seeing the paper envelope with a government stamp. He had to go to the
collector's office with documents that would prove his ownership of the land
located on the banks of Ramanayakkan Lake, the paper read. Basavanna didn’t
have any such documents. It didn’t occur to him, his grandfathers and his
great-grandfathers to get that land, the King Tipu Sultan gifted it brusquely, registered it in writing. There
were two reasons behind it. One, all those who had been with him now were the
heirs of those who were friends growing up with his grandfather and
great-grandfather. Everyone knew that
Basavanna’s land was once a horse stable of King Tipu Sultan. Second, they were
living longer during the reign of Tipu Sultan. They were not aware that the
ownership of lands lying beyond Hosur, Uttabnapalli, Pagalur, Andhivadi and
Mathigiri had been registered in writing on papers. Even if one had those
documents in hand, it would give two different meanings to its owner and the
one who wants to grab it. That too, more specifically, if the land was meant
for the English lord or government, its allegiance would overlook its
historical importance and change its place. Basavanna was sure that his land
would never be his if the Englishman intervened in the matter. Since the matter
had become very serious, the Jamindar wouldn’t consider compromise. Being the
owner of the land, Basavanna’s self-respect prevented him from approaching the
Jamindar, and at the same time he wasn’t ready to accept his defeat either.
Basavanna hatched a plan. He fed his wife and children with poisoned rice,
killed them and then killed himself by hanging on an Indian beech tree. His
ownership of the land that had been passing through the narratives was finally
confirmed with his death. It then settled on the soil strongly, mixing with the
weather that stood frozen on the land he owned. The government didn’t expect
Basavanna’s death. Jamindar too. The government forgot his death. It had
problems more important than this. But for Jamindar, the victory of Basavanna
had turned into an unforgettable nightmare. He first thought of dropping his
plan of building a bungalow. Since his wife insisted on not abandoning his plan
when the task became handy after steadfast efforts, he accepted it half
heartedly. He assigned the task of building the bungalow to Paramasivam Pillai,
who had been a famous architect in the Paramakal area (Dharmapuri) and a family
friend of Jamindar. Both he and the villagers knew that the task would never be
completed. The Jamindar was ready to sacrifice his money for the sake of his
hollow vanity. The people remained unconcerned, leaving the Jamindar to suffer
by losing his wealth and peace of mind in the tussle between the curse of Basavanna
and his desire. It wasn’t one or two years; the construction work went on for
seven years without even erecting a single floor. Basavanna’s curse threw away
a plethora of bad omens. In the first year of building construction, the child,
the heir of the Jamindar family, in the womb of Jamindar’s wife, was born dead.
The people gossiped that the Jamindar must be secretly happy about it (for
there had been no history that the real heirs of Jamindar were ever born dead).
Jamindar believed that his discomfiture would come to an end with that incident
because that woman became mentally unstable and confined herself in the room
where she gave birth as soon as she came to know that what she had been
believing was her child in the womb was actually a dead body. No one saw her
after that. The bungalow, which was under construction in Hosur for her, also
slipped out of her memory completely. Due to mental agony, her age doubled
every year, and she became older than the Jamindar with age and disability
after two years. The Jamindar also felt relieved that there was no need to
build the bungalow anymore. His wife’s ugly appearance and the foul odor
emitted from her body were so repulsive that they prevented him from even going
near her room. He requested Paramasivam Pillai to stop the construction works
and promised him to give back the total amount committed. But to his dismay, it
wasn’t easy for the Jamindar to abandon Basavanna’s land as he had surmised.
The problem took a different shape. Paramasivam Pillai thought stopping the
work before completion would infringe on his fame and professional ethics. So,
he didn’t pay heed to Jamindar’s words. He then announced that the construction
work would resume, no matter if the Jamindar accepted or not and gave him the
money or not. Paramasivam Pillai was also one of the rich men in the Paramakal
area. Jamindar knew that Paramasivam Pillai would give a damn for money. He
remained helpless. The construction works were in full swing, rendering him as
helpless as holding the tail of a tiger. He knew that everything had gone out
of hand. He had become so unconcerned that he grew unattached to everything
happening around him. He had money to spend. As long as he was alive, he spent
it without inviting any complaints. He had ensured that the money reached
Pillai’s family (Pillai was staying in Basavanna’s land) on the right dates.
But it was unbearable for him to see his friend wasting his skills and time on efforts
that would never bear fruit. Seeing Pillai not pliant in his resolve, the
Jamindar was struck deeply with guilt that the death of his friend would also
happen in Basavanna’s land. (Due to the undying desire, now condemned with a
curse and responsible for the death of two innocent people). But when the
problems are born, their solutions are also born along with them. Most of the
time, they wouldn’t wait for the brain that connects them with debate.
Paramasivam, who went to his home in the severe rain that shook the entire
Paramakal area in one day after seven years, did not return to Basavanna’s
land. The villagers said that he went away running, yelling that he had found a
child from that land and he would return after handing it to his wife. The Jamindar
came to know that the rain had struck him from returning. Though his health
condition didn’t allow him to pay a visit to him (this was the excuse he gave
himself), the villagers had their version, which said that the Jamindar didn’t
dare to face Paramasivam Pillai’s wife. Even after Pillai stopped his work, the
Jamindar kept sending him money for his satisfaction. When he died suddenly
after seventeen years without leaving any will, the government announced that
all his properties were nationalised. One of the unmarried brothers of
Jamindar’s wife, loitering around, filed a case on behalf of Jamindar’s mad
wife and was ruining the remaining money and name. It was the only property
that escaped the claws of the government, ie. the land grabbed from Basavanna.
Knowing that the land had been written in the name of Paramasivan Pillai, with
the utmost honesty, the government handed over that land to his family. The
document was registered after two months of rain that drove Pillai out of
Basavanna’s land. Pillai’s wife received it just out of reverence for the dead
soul; she tossed it somewhere immediately after that and forgot about it the
next moment. People said that the Jamindar went to that land last time on the
second day the rain had stopped. The village remembered him, for a very long
time, the way he wept inconsolably, looking at the half-erected building that
the rain had pierced into a bundle of holes, forgetting his age and status as
everyone around him was watching. None of the villagers ever placed their head
while sleeping towards that side after that incident. The forest cover that
grew between that area and the village gradually separated the building and
pushed it into an inaccessible distance and solitude. In the middle of the
forest, the dream of the Jamindar had stood ruined as debris.
***
This is an English translation of “Mazhaiyin Kural thanimai”, a short novel written by Ba. Venkatesan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.
Part 1 (Page 20 to 24)
Paramasivam and Chinthamani got off the coaches separately from their respective ages as soon as the coach stopped in front of the rain house. The rain also stopped as though it was aware of their arrival. When the coaches that brought them had disappeared from the sight, the rain rose up suddenly from the opposite direction, announcing its mammoth volume. Both stood astounded for some while at seeing the stone logs deftly stacked up one above the other standing against the skyline, the colours diffusing in all eight directions, offering a new meaning to the afternoon light on the dexterously smoothened stones and the garden that lay sprawled as long as one’s eyes could see. Chinthamani couldn’t believe that the stuff was made of hard stones. Even Paramasivam Pillai’s professional acumen was also startled at the fact how the softness and the lightness of sponge could have been infused into the stones without compromising their strength. The way the belvedere was built—elongated, smoothened, extending outside to the point after judging the expanse of the sky that could be seen in the rear—had in fact added the sky as a part of the house. At the very moment he saw the outer wall, Paramasivam Pillai understood that it would absorb any colour, be it orange or blue, or pale green or red or yellow or dark blue, emitted by the cycle of the day, and adapt its colour accordingly. The collective warbling of birds—flying from the façade of the house to the group of trees that were found sprawled in the front, and thus making a magic bridge between them—was offering an exquisite language to the complete surrounding as if to fix the defect of that spectacle possessing no mouth. The varieties of vines with small pearl-like leaves, grown considerably abundant on the upper floor, crept over the parapet, slunk outside, and were descending fast towards the ground. The building assumed the appearance of a big ancient tree as the wall hid behind its denseness. The fear and hesitations of the birds were completely absent as the arcs, cones, and bunds—fixed intermittently here and there along the slant of the outer wall without overtly affecting its appeal—had amiably merged with the expanse of the green stretch. The sandpipers picking the ticks from the gaps of leaves by holding the cones with their claws, the parrots swinging in the vines, the sparrows that made their nests in the arcs they found hiding inside, the owls that returned to the arcs to sleep so as to get rid of their fatigue from wandering all through the night, the minas that were flying restlessly intending to sit nowhere and looking at everything suspiciously, and in addition to all these, were found cuckoos and varieties of squirrels and the rain that was falling as though cuddling everything—all these made that area an unknown spectacle from another world. When the horses that drew the coach stamped their front feet on the ground to relax themselves a little after being relieved of the load with the passengers getting off the coach, hundreds of feathers spread across as if the sounds of hooves, though negligible, caused a huge mishap in the tranquility that had filled in front of the house and disturbed the complete spell of harmony. The building rose in the air with its mammoth proportion like a cursed giant. The stones from the bottom to the top shook along with various vines. They yelled out, expressing their fear and dissatisfaction. The house expressed its displeasure by shedding the leaves. Both stood stunned, expecting the building that stood before their eyes to fly away and disappear. The fear and inauspicious omen made their face look pale for a second. ( There were hands to comfort Pillai. But Chinatamani, who came alone, had to comfort herself. They were waiting patiently until the building completed its show in front of them. That bizarre beast became restless and had been unable to reconcile with the uncertainty of its existence until the echo of the horse hooves’ sound disappeared and tranquility returned. After that, it settled itself in its earlier state, meekly gesticulating that the disquiet had somehow been calmed down and turned to normalcy. When Paramasivam Pillai and Chintamani moved out of their respective times to walk through the path lying between the outer wall and the house to reach the doorway, the trees obstructed the rain, petered it out, formed an umbrella over their heads, and led them in. The banana trees and festoons tied at the entrance welcomed them, easing off their anxiety. The huge front hall lying immediately after opening the main door and the square-shaped yard located at the other end of the passage that extended from the front room opposite to the doorway were filled with visuals. One could see the rain and light flooding the house through the opening above that had the size of the square below. It resembled a brilliantly washed, hanging muslin fibre-net. At the very first sight, Paramasivam Pillai understood that the total structure of the house had been designed by keeping the square in the centre. It was a healthy, archaic architectural design of buildings. After the arrival of the British, there were some changes in the general construction of the building that made the design of the front hall deciding the other parts of the house. It must be weakening the inherent equitable balance that every beam of the house must possess in them, cooperation and weight. The wooden beams set above the corridor built along the four sides of the square in the rain house were positioned in such a way that they were offering support to the interior pillars of eight rooms, two on each side around the square. The wooden pillars erected in rows on the outer edge of the corridor along the square were standing on the other edge so as to counterbalance the weight the pillars inside the room were carrying. Under the shining tranquility, they were standing with their dark brown hue, in imperturbable penance in the collective space where the rain and light were coalescing. There shone in their existence a disposition and responsibility that decided not only the structure of the rooms but also a minute disturbance in the rooms. The rooms were hiding in the gentle darkness that offered a warmth from the balminess of the tiled roof that covered the upper part of the corridor. The long passageways that extended from the curved walls and the branches that ran on the right and left led them to other rooms. (Chintamani was not allowed to enter the bedroom). The reflection of the square came along the passage with the pleasant warmth that didn’t intimidate one’s mind and shadow. The moist mist, generated by the rain when it hit the black stone floor, had filled the entire house like a layer of spongy mattress. The windows on the room walls had been very carefully designed so that not a corner in the house could escape the rain during rainy season. The curves in the passageways were constructed with specific designs such that they turned blunt suddenly at some places and took a ‘U’ turn at some places to allow only the required amount of rain that the temperature in the interior rooms could bear by way of controlling the rush of rainfall even if there was a torrential downpour. So, be it rain or sunlight, the danger of their assault and hurt upon the inherent coziness of the house due to their hasty fall on the square and getting distracted with the same speed had thus been avoided. While every nerve of the lower floor had been joined with the main part of the square located at the centre of the house, every direction of the upper floor was left to stand with its innate appeal contradicting and equalising the former. Since the main dual-layered wall that decided the life of the house, located in the lower and upper floors, and the point at which it had to settle in order to counter the gravitational force were designed in such a manner that they were both focusing and leaving the centre at the same time, the tautness at the layer that connected both floors possessed a very delicate balance. The life of the house would last more than several hundred years, Paramasivam Pillai said to himself. Like the lower floor, which manifested the niceties of the architecture in their fullest, the upper floor had attained the completeness of the aesthetics of who imagined it. It was the villagers who had named the rain house its name. There was no nameboard hanging on the outer wall carrying that name. But Chintamani could witness things from the upper floor that proved the house deserving of that name. The rain that fell in the open space descended through the evenly made slopes, ran through the watercourse set a little below, got collected, and then finally entered the holes arranged a couple of feet away from each other and dropped down straight outside the upper floor like a curtain. As it fell onto the tin panes sticking out at the bottom of the upper floor, it got further filtered into a thin screen through the holes fixed two inches away and reached the ground like a mild film of mist surrounding the house on all four sides. Its free flow had been facilitated through the canals that ran gradually longer with the regular stroke of the shovel amidst the grasses on the ground to get it merged with the greenery on both edges of the canals. The four masculine Yalis standing on the corners of the protection wall of the open terrace were staring towards the town’s direction, arching forward as much as they could. (They carried a bearing that they were ready to swallow up someone dug out from everyone.) There was a big stone pouch hanging on their back. During rain, they collected the water in that stone bag. As the water filled in the pouch, it trickled out through the hole in the centre of the pouch, reached the wide-open mouth of Yalis, spurted with full speed from there, and fell onto the ground twenty feet away like a huge water pillar. It was rumoured that Navabashanam, medicinal leaves, rare nuts, and barks must have been buried in Yalis’ bodies. The saliva of the Yalis radiated a mind-intoxicating aroma around the town during rainy days. The children that were born inhaling that aroma possessed strength without physical defects and immaculate charm. The nights of those times had the scent of jasmine and blue colour that enhanced the desire for coition. The rain house kept continuously transforming the profusion of the rain into light, scent, and state of mind—with the permission of the rain. When they mingled with the indispensable air of Hosur, they had become a permanent storyteller for ages who would tell the story of the rain house to the new visitors coming to that house.
***
**This
was posted on my Facebook page a month ago.**
For
the last couple of days, an inevitable debate on human translation and AI
(Artificial Intelligence) tools translation has occupied a considerable space
usually allotted to literary discussion on Facebook. This has come to the fore
with the publication of a much-awaited Tamil translation. It has received a
mixed response from the readers, who say that the language of the translation
is unduly terse and incomprehensible and bears an appeal that it could have
been a machine-translated language. It is unlikely, though. I have my own
strong reasons not to fall into the current of biased criticisms.
Setting
it aside, here are some observations written not in the light of controversies
the book has sparked. It is my general observation on how I look at the advent
of AI tools in the field of translation.
The degree of comprehension and ‘readability’ of a translation are in fact not in the hands of the translator. It depends on the source language he deals with. For the sake of a conservative understanding, we can approach the business of translation in two ways. One, the translators who have taken an oath to be extremely truthful to the original work in terms of everything that includes usage of diction, semantics, structure of sentence (though the structure of the original is not palatable to the taste of vernacular readers), etc. This category of translators is often not creative writers per se. Even if they happen to be creative writers, they don’t allow their creative freedom to dictate terms on translation. Most of the present generation translators do belong to this category. They just attempt to bring in translation the near approximation of the original. Second, the translators, who are essentially creative writers. They comprehend the original text and reproduce it without much digression from the original. If you compare the original with this translation, you won’t find anything awkward and will rather find it a complete piece in every sense. While the first category of translators is busy with the words and syntax, the second category of translators is busy with the prospect of people enjoying the text the way the original text could have been enjoyed. More often, the second category of translators are the ones who create literary masterpieces without overtly betraying the original, if they are equally gifted with the same set of language skills as the original author.
Having
had a first-hand touch with almost all the English translations of Tamil
fiction, I have observed a classic compromise in almost every piece of these
translations, be it Perumal Murugan or Ambai or anyone—a compromise consciously
executed in order to cater to the requirements of ‘readability’ of the English
readers. Most of these translations are primarily published for the Indian
readers who know English. It is extremely rare that these translations are read
by the readers living in predominantly English-speaking countries. Other than
some pulp fiction, any literary work published either in the US or UK won’t
have this compromised literary taste. This explains why we find the English
translations of Tamil classics mediocre, not taxing one’s literary sensibility.
This inevitably leads to substandard English translations, which in no way
command the respect it aspires to have. These substandard translations, both in
English and Tamil (or any vernacular for that matter), are the result of
overdependence on artificial intelligence tools. The substandard translations
are the by-product of inchoate editors who mostly depend on AI tools. Gone are
the days when we found the editors with mettle who had extensively read both
the source and target languages and commanded enviable mastery over the
languages. Now what we find are the editors in publishing houses who have just
come out of professional colleges and have no extensive reading and experience
in languages. The result: they are forced to rely on AI tools to fill the gap
produced by their inexperience and thus the substandard output.
Even before the advent of AI tools, there had been translations that we mostly cherish without much complaint. Notwithstanding the terseness of the original text, the singular aim of the translator remained to bring it into an acceptable language that doesn’t contradict the linguistic sensibility of the vernacular readers. These translations offered an equal amount of literary taste of the original. Puthumai Pithan did it in his translations. If someone tries to assess his Tamil translations with their original, he will be monumentally disappointed. It is because it is a creative translation, ostensibly not of the first category of translators. Now, as the translation industry has boomed in almost all the languages, the translators are under stress to produce a pattern of language as complicated as the original. Here lies the linguistic sensibility of the vernacular reader that hasn’t been trained to approach any complicated narrative form of literature. In addition to this, the translators, who are either with inadequate exposure to the linguistic subtleties or under undue stress to bring out the translations faster, fall prey to AI tools.
AI
tools are not a panacea to the maladies of translation. It may have become
handy to inchoate translators, but at the cost of putting literature on the
altar. I don’t think it is wrong if a translator could produce only a couple of
translations in his entire lifetime. It is fine. On the one hand, AI tools are
making persuasive entry everywhere; and on the other hand, there is an
amount of shame one suffers that he or she is not able to declare in public
about the usage of AI in translation. It is being looked down upon, an affront
to one’s creative skills. Since readers are growingly smart enough to sift the
husk from the grains, the literary translators need to nurture their innate
skills in translation rather than depending on easy-going AI tools.
Simple
solution to this: Read, read, read, and then read again. Write, write, write,
and write again. If you are lazy at it, please leave the translation for the
sake of literature.
***
***
“So, may I take leave?” As soon as Kannusamy got up, the crowd that stuffed that hall also rose up.
“Bye, sir…”
“Bye, sir…”
“Sir, I take leave.”
Amidst those men, a small boy touched his feet with his hands and then touched his eyes with them. Anukulasamy pulled his feet back swiftly.
“Thambi, why this unnecessary obeisance?”
“Let him do it, sir—will they ever get a person like you? Please give them your words of blessing. It will happen for sure,” Kannusamy said.
Other boys followed him, and they all touched Anukulasamy’s feet and then touched their eyes. Anukulasamy stood, deeply discomfited.
“This all…” Before he completed his statement, Kannusamy intervened, “Anukulasamy, you are a true Christian. It is not flattery. If someone could remain a teacher without wielding the cane or hurling a harsh word for thirty-six years, would there be anything wrong in prostrating before that God?”
"Praise more than its worth”
“It is not my words. The entire village says this. Sitting on the market streets, I also get to know about people. Don’t I? They won’t even spare the children born to them without at least a beating. They will at least hurl abuse at them. Even that won’t be uttered here. Who else could be like this? This is the place where children and gods are celebrated. You respected these children, along with so many other children, with the respect generally accorded to human beings in general.”
When Kannusamy was speaking, the boys kept bending down, touching Anukulasamy’s feet. Anukulasamy couldn’t open his mouth to speak. It seemed that his vocal cord would tear off and tongue get twisted if he ever attempted to open his mouth.
“May I take leave now?
“Okay”—he opened his mouth with much difficulty and then shut it swiftly.
“We seek your permission to leave, sir?” The Nayanam player pleaded with his hands folded. Anukulasamy could only nod his head. It took a full two minutes for the crowd that was standing in the hall to move away through the doorway.
A couple of boys mumbled something to each other and said, “Let these two lamps be here, sir. We'll come in the morning to collect them." and then left.
When he returned after sending them off at the doorway, he saw the entire hall lying empty. He had once experienced that emptiness and heart-wrenching ach—thee same emptiness and anguish while returning after leaving Luisa at the bridegroom’s house ten years ago.
Two petromax lamps were filling the emptiness with their hissing sound.
Now they had left him alone. Tomorrow is Wednesday. But for him, Saturday, Sunday, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and the day after the day after tomorrow—all will remain Saturday and Sunday. He wouldn’t go to school anymore. He had completed sixty years. Now retired.
He sat on the swing. Near him were lying seven or eight framed commendation letters, a silver plate, and a pen. The cost of the pen was four rupees in the shop. But this pen was priceless. Saying that it costs four lakhs or four crores would remain merely empty words, as it potentially risked treating both the same.
Four or five rose garlands made with dried banana stalks and silver threads were lying coiled.
Mahimai was standing, holding both chains of the swing. She didn’t speak at all and kept staring at him as if she were the sole recipient of all those blandishments. She sped to the door in a minute as her eyes were relishing him, latched it swiftly, put those garlands one after the other around his neck, grasped his shoulders, and kept looking into his face.
“You haven’t beaten me either. Have you? You had never used any words agitatedly,” she said, leaning her head against his chest.
“The days we are going to stay on this earth are very few, just like the winged termites dying during rainy days. Why should we waste it in getting angry and fighting with each other? We can’t correct anyone by beating. Can we?”
“No need to get angry like a monster. Can’t you get angry at least once just for being a man?”
“I do get angry at times.”
“You should show it.””
“You have got the milkwoman, servant maid, to get angry with. My anger is anyway irrelevant. Isn’t it?”
“How could you teach in school without scolding and caning?”
“I was able to.””
She glanced at him admiringly, teased him by pulling his moustache, and said, “Let me make coffee for you,” and left.
When she went inside, he felt that his soul had gotten into another body and was speeding inside. He looked up at the wall. The face with the crown of thorns was gleaming like a flood of compassion. The same face was found cuddling a goat kid in another portrait, fixed a couple of portraits away.
What Kannusamy had said was completely true. He hadn’t caned any student during his thirty-six years of service in the school. He hadn’t scolded anyone, not even a little.
It was his natural disposition. When Luisa was six years old, she got a beating from her teacher for some mischief. When the teacher whipped her with a scale, it hit the summer bumps under her blouse —oh, god! The way she was writhing in pain that day—seeing her agony—Anukulasamy resolved to keep his natural disposition permanent in his life. The one who sacrificed his life for the sins of others had done so for this generation as well. Hadn’t he?
His resolve didn’t find any taint during these thirty-six years. Which teacher would otherwise have had this privilege of having such a warm send-off given up to his residence if it wasn't for this unblemished service?
Those forty students—his class students—might have thought of a special felicitation for their teacher as though all the felicitations held in the school seemed insufficient. Today’s felicitation was the result of it. They decked him with garland after garland and praised him in letter after letter, with the music of Nayanam and Tavil simultaneously accompanying the merriment.
“Thambi, what’s all this?””
“Who else would we felicitate, sir? Please come in” – the big boy standing like a landlord requested him to come in. He, Arumugam, was twenty-three years old. He hadn’t completed his school yet. He has been in the school for a very long time, although gifted with worldly knowledge. Without saying anything, Anukulasamy just obeyed his request. Otherwise, he would start his rants about other teachers. He had already spilled out a couple of complaints about them.
“We know about them, sir. Don’t we? You haven’t asked anyone to raise funds for you on account of your retirement. You have not borrowed any amount by pledging the imitation jewels. You haven’t earned the curse of the villagers by asking them for money with your retirement letter.”
“It is alright. Get me some water” – he had to send him out from there by changing the topic.
Though Anukulasamy could shut his mouth, there was nothing wrong in what he had said. Anukulasamy had never earned the curse of the villagers. Slapping someone hard and cheating someone by not repaying the debt are the same anyway. He hadn’t even done that either.
Narayanappaiyar was also like him. Not many wives! Just one son and one daughter. But he had debt jutting out from all nine holes on his body- No one, be it the clothes shopkeeper or the women selling coriander leaves, had respected him even for a quarter of an ana. In spite of this wretched condition, Narayanappaiyar didn’t stay quiet. One of his distant relatives working in the office of the Director, Education Department in the city had written him a letter stating that Narayanappaiyar had been selected as one of the examination invigilators this year and he would receive the official communication in two weeks. Showing that letter to everyone, he had borrowed money in fifties and seventy-fives from, at least, twenty people. The salary he was likely to receive from that job was not more than two hundred rupees. When the letter didn’t arrive at last, it just sealed everything. Liquor shop Naidu caught Narayanappaiyar on the way and took away his bicycle. Wrath of having lost his bicycle! The bicycle that was snatched away from him would never be a big issue, but the one who had then been riding it was. It was a teacher. ‘Narayanappaiyar, you are a disgrace to the whole clan of teachers!
Could anyone trick the bank agent Aiyangar, who was known for taking butter out of already churned buttermilk. Saminathan tried his tricks with him. Aiyangar weighed the gold chain Saminathan pledged and gave him three hundred rupees for the chain that weighed nine sovereigns, purely on the basis of the faith he had in Saminathan as a teacher. It would have been better if Saminathan hadn’t lingered on this matter further. Would anyone give money without rubbing it on the touchstone if someone went to him again within fifteen days with another gold chain?
Rubbing the chain on the touchstone, Aiyangar smiled and said, “Hey Ayyarval, if a boy in the class seeks clarification to a doubt, we can shut him up with a rebuke for acting smart to hide our ignorance. But in this market area, it won’t work. Will it? I think I am not smart enough in this matter. Wait a minute; let me bring the goldsmith,” and then went out. Saminathan had his stomach rumble with unease. Before he could find out some lame excuses, the goldsmith had already arrived in there, along with a head constable. When the treasury room was opened in the presence of those witnesses, the chain he gave last time was grinning at them, declaring that it was just a brass chain. Even at that critical juncture, Aiyangar never failed to give due regard to the profession of teaching. Aiyangar let Saminathan go scot-free, but only after transferring Saminathan’s fifty kuzhis of land in his name, without anyone’s knowledge. Fortunately, the head constable was in veshti and shirt. No crowd and hence no public humiliation.
Another four or five persons came to his mind – “Hey, you are retired now. Only one fourth of the meal henceforth. Right? In those days, we used to raise funds for our teachers” - Ramalingam mocked at a boy and then left for his ‘daily collection’.
Mahimai brought the coffee.
“Leave your thoughts aside, have your coffee. It is hot now” Mahimai was reading the letters of appreciation one by one. She, at times, looked up to him proudly while reading them.
“Don’t think they are true. They have just comforted me as I will cry for being unable to go to school henceforth. Sugar candy words!”
“So be it. But everyone has told only the truth,” said Mahimai. “It was true that you had never raised your hands nor used harsh words. Wasn’t it?’
“Thsss…What big truth is it?”
“Praising it as a skill remains a truth anyway. Earning fame without wielding a cane and scolding anyone is indeed difficult. Isn’t it?’ Mahimai said.
Anukulasamy thought for a while. What she had said seemed to be true. He thought that he had every right to be proud of himself.
“It’s not that difficult. We can be so even with the milkwoman and the vegetable-selling woman. Will anyone who has taken birth as a human being and has some sense in him repose his faith in whipping someone?”
“Not all can do it.””
“I could be so, somehow,” he said.
“”Sir”—he heard someone knocking on the door.
“Who’s that?”
“It is me, sir.”
Mahimai went to the door and opened it.
“Is Sir here?”
“Yes. He is here. Is it Arumugam? Please come in.””
Arumugam didn’t enter alone. A boy also came in along with him. He was studying in his class. Along with them was standing a woman. She must be about forty or forty-two. Her forehead, ears, nose and hands bore a bare look. Anukulasamy stood up.
“What is the matter, Sinnaiya?”
“Sir, this is Sinnaiyan’s mother” Armugam said.
“Please come in”
If Arumugam brought someone, it meant recommendation. He was twenty-three years old, not yet completed his school. He had the reputation of a landlord in the school. Why has he come here? No more examinations are around’
“What is the matter Arumugam?”
“Sinnaiyan wanted to meet you, sir”
“Anything important, Sinnaiya?”
Sinnaiyan didn’t reply. He was standing with his head bowed. Half a minute was over since the question was asked, but he didn’t raise his head. He was crying.
“Tell him,”, said the woman.
Anukulasamy looked at him intently. The boy’s facial muscles were contorted, and his lips were shivering.
“Tell him,”, Arumugam nudged him.
“He has been undergoing an unbearable agony during the past one year,”” the woman said.
“Unbearable agony? For one year?"
“Yes, sir. Please tell him that he can now talk to others.” said Arumugam.
“Be clear. I don’t understand anything.”
“You might have forgotten, sir.” Arumugam looked at that woman and Mahimai.
“What? What have I forgotten?” Anukulasamy tried to recollect what exactly it was. He couldn’t remember anything.
Armugam resumed: “Sir, he stole the English book from Kayarohanam last year, changed its cover, and sold it for half its price in the shop. I found it out and brought him to you.”
The woman tried to comfort her son as he was sobbing silently. “Don’t cry.”
“Then?”
“You stared at him for seconds and then said that no student in your class had ever committed such a crime and no student would ever speak to him.””
The boy’s crying didn’t stop.
“We stopped talking to him from that day. No one spoke to him. We had a felicitation function for you that day. Hadn’t we? We collected a paltry amount from each of us. He gave us one rupee, but we refused to accept it and told him not to come to attend the function. Without saying anything, he left. Just a while ago, I came here before going home. He had brought his mother along with him and was waiting for me at my home. His mother explained everything to me. So, I brought them here.” Arumugam said fearfully as he was mincing words.
Anukulasamy could remember that particular incident. ‘But how did I give him such a harsh punishment? I spoke something fleetingly that day. Is it necessary to follow those words as inflexibly as this?’
“Sinnaiya, please don’t cry.” Anukulasamy said.
“Tell us that we all can speak to him now, sir.”
“He hadn’t kept well for the last one year. He had been a very jovial boy. But he hardly speaks to anyone now. At times, he speaks a word or two. Then he will leave. Do we ever know what these kids are thinking in their minds? He won’t even speak properly with his sisters. He told me about it all only this evening. Others in the house have gone to play. Since we can't find a solution to this if we don't meet you today, we have come here to meet you. Please have some mercy on him.”
Anukulasamy felt like being caught red-handed for his mistakes. His heart sank into despair, wormed in agony.
“No one was ready to take him along with them. Please receive it with your hands. How can his heart be at peace when all other boys have ”contributed?”—his mother turned to her son and said, “Give it to him.”
The boy sobbed more. He extended his hands, holding out one rupee note soaked in sweat.
“Please get it, sir,”” Arumugam pleaded.
Anukulasamy received it without a word.
“He is a very good boy, sir. The mistake he made that day was inadvertent. There were no complaints about him after that.”
“Please have mercy on him so that others will speak to him. Won’t it be hurtful if others sitting with him don’t speak to him? Tender hearts. Aren’t they?” beseeched the woman.
“I never thought that these boys would do such a thing,”” Anukulasamy rued.
“They just followed what you had told them to do,” Mahimai said.
“It needn’t be,” he smirked mildly. Only his sobs, in fact, came out as a grin. The crown of thorns in the portrait now pricked his head once.
***Ended***
***
Tomorrow! Tomorrow I will have my freedom. But it didn’t come to me unexpectedly. Months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, even seconds too—it had come near to me only after it meticulously computed and assessed all these. How would that last electric-shutdown moment be! The moment that was going to offer me the real freedom did seem to be an announcement of death that would appear in front of our eyes every moment all through our life, striking into our ears with a hammer saying, “I will come to you one day. Be ready.”
The wall standing opposite carried in sequence the months and dates I was beaten. They stood lifeless, darkened as I felt a long jolt penetrating from my head to toes. I got this scrap of pencil from someone supplicating him. It was this piece of pencil that had created those days. It was the one that deleted them as well. How slowly were those days passing? Is the growth of the fetus in the womb faster or slower than that?
That first day… The birth and growth of those days were strongly registered in my mind. I marked them starting with digit one. It followed by the sequential markings of two, three, four, and so on, one after the other.
Today, it is one hundred and sixty-five, the number before one hundred and sixty-six. Even a nursery school child would say this correctly. But it wouldn’t be able to tell about the relationship I shared with those numbers. It was the last night that warned me, “You are a prisoner. Remember this.” One hundred and sixty-sixth day. Its night would see me a free man. How lucky that night would be!
Now the door remained closed. It was not merely an iron door. It would speak though having no mouth. It had learnt speaking over the years. It spoke in the warden’s language. It understood the language of the prisoner. It roared in its usual manner. I was just then entering the block as its prisoner, stepping inside its door. It was when my last day was celebrated; it was how it was celebrated.
“Hey…six two three… Get in…get in…” It was how it would grunt. But the prisoner would pick its tenor of grudge in it. Wouldn’t he? I smiled at it uncaringly. Let me stay there as long as I was destined to be there. I was not in a mood to use harsh words. “I won’t give it the responsibility of safeguarding me from tomorrow. “I am sorry for the days that were lost,” I said. What did happen next? The door creaked loudly like a Puranic monster and swiftly closed its wide mouth. I moved ahead. It was missing its feed, and it was quite normal that it would get angry. Wouldn’t it?
I was sitting on my bed. Yes. It was my bed. No one could deny that. I received it with my own hands. What a satisfaction it was when I received it! No other bed had given me the solace that bed had. It consisted of two components—a sack—sorry, I shouldn’t use such a rough word for that; it had been woven with jute fibres instead of cotton threads—and a rug. Why should there be an unnecessary explanatory detail about its countless holes and mucky odour?
That sack and the rug! They had given them names. They still belonged to me. I could have torn them off if I had thought so. I had the freedom to do that. But marks for one week or ten days would be deducted from my account for the undisciplined behaviour of the prisoner. That was it. I am going to submit them safely now. Not only those items, but also the plate and mug, which were handed to me safely before. How many hands have they been destined to be handed over? Let them live long! Let them wait for their natural end. I won’t touch them anyway.
These clothes! They also belonged to me. I could have torn them off by being slightly careless, rendering them useless for anyone. Certainly, these clothes wouldn’t make anyone proud of them. After all, they were the clothes of a prisoner. Even if it were given free, the world outside would hesitate to use it. Perhaps, it would deny it. But I am always proud that those clothes were mine. Let us set aside the opinions of the world for a while. If they permit me to take away those dresses—it is just impossible—I will put them on and parade in front of them. Should anyone dare say, “You are a prisoner,” let me see.
Those clothes weren’t made for me. It appeared that I was made to suit those clothes. Truly speaking, those clothes defined my individual appearance. When we speak about appearance, we can’t separate body and clothes. Clothes make the appearance, and so does the skin.
623. It was my number. No, it was my name. It was the suitable name given to me amidst others according to the rules of the prison. Don’t be angry, as I didn’t invite you all for my cradle ceremony. If you want to take revenge against me for that, you can call me 623. Perhaps, both of us may be satisfied with that. Each of my clothes had this number imprinted on it.
They will part these clothes from me tomorrow. It just happened to those who were released before me as well. Didn’t it? This number, 623, will disappear from me. It will reach the prison store and occupy its designated place. Perhaps these clothes may be washed. I think the number may completely disappear while washing. Or will it remain faded?
If those faded lines were visible, the new occupant would find them out with difficulty. I forgot to tell you: he would be my heir, the one who was going to enjoy those clothes, my assets, which I had left securely. What would he think? Who would that 623 be? Would he only think that I am his elder brother? Or would he think something else? Let him run his thoughts amok the way he likes; I wouldn’t be there to fight with him. Would I?
I would be a free man by then. I would have been outside these four walls that could be termed as prison. What is the need for an outsider to think about the inmates of the prison? He had also once been there for some time. That was it.
Actually, I had never been a prisoner before. This stretch of land was huge enough to accommodate the misdeeds the human society does. One can live incognito somewhere without coming into these four walls. Only some unfortunate souls, rightly saying, those who do not have the skills to hide their crimes adroitly, come inside these walls. I was an official prisoner. I accepted my crimes in public and came into the prison. It was new to me. It was rather a change from the mundane I had been spending till now. I liked it wholeheartedly, though. I remember I had spent my days there willingly.
All the iron clutches of the laws would get softer tomorrow. It might have felt that I had been sufficiently punished. Or it would have thrown me out as an unwanted one. Whatever, I would go out of this place as a free man. I would be holding the iron grills at some railway station somewhere, expecting the ticket examiner, instead of spending my days holding the iron bars of this prison. After that, I would spend my days staring at the road through the grills of the upstairs window.
While delving into such thoughts, I suddenly remembered: I missed watching the last sunset at the prison. It was already very dark outside. How many times had my eyes tried to see through that dense dark? Darkness is the only friend of a solitary soul. You wouldn’t like it. You would say one wouldn’t be able to progress without light. I say, ‘We can’t walk backwards either.’ I will remain satisfied if I don’t diminish even if I am unable to grow.
Today is the last day. There, seen the light in dots through the thick of darkness. The warden was doing his duty with his handheld light. Till another warden relieved him from the duty, he had to take rounds for two hours. Then he had to be ready for his turn. He couldn’t go out. I would go out tomorrow. But he would remain the same, doing proper rounds, covering his face with a muffler to ward off chilly wind, with his handheld light. Next day…next to next and so on. He didn’t have to be concerned about freedom.
The snoring sounds of my friends were falling into my ears. What a peace! No such thought would ever torment them even in their dreams. Their days were longer, not shorter like mine—it wasn’t a shorter life anyway. But one day they would also see their days getting very short, and it would definitely make them distressed the way it does with me now.
The night grew denser anyway. The first ring of the tower bell broke the silence of the night. I began counting it patiently. It came to rest after ringing twelve times. It was midnight. I was still sitting on my bed. By this time tomorrow, the sound of the tower bell wouldn’t tear my ears off, nor would it insist I sleep after disturbing it. A wall clock fixed somewhere on the wall would ring meekly as if being apprehensive of disturbing my sleep. I wouldn’t hear it anyway. Would I? I would be then anyway snoring with peace of mind as a free man. Right?
These things—this bed, mug, number, iron grills, environs, this life, and thoughts—all would become the things of the past. Sooner I become a free man, all these things will become merged with the past and its thoughts. Those days and thoughts will precede the present. It is why I try to register the present strongly in my memory.
It seemed that I had slept. When I woke up, I could hear that sound—that singular voice, a call that rises up from the depth and stops at the top—the call for prayer. I rolled my bed and got up. It was my last prayer. There was a vacant spot. I stood there as one among them for the last time.
The prayer was over. Grasping the bars, I was watching the crimson dawn on the horizon. The iron bars were chilly. Perhaps, they must have felt the warmth of my fingers. Just one more day. I could see the sun taking its birth with the light from the womb of the dawning horizon. I felt that its rays had already started feeling that I was a free man. However, the priest is yet to approve the boon. Isn’t he?
As usual the bunch of warden’s keys opened the lock. Daily chores thus began and were in full swing. But what everyone spoke to me about was only “this is last, this is last.”
I also like to get out of this world as the last man. But would that be possible?
Then the warden came. Standing at the doorway of the block, he yelled. I heard the call ‘623’ a couple of times. “It is me,” I said. “Pick your things and follow me,” he said. Yes. They were still mine. I gathered them swiftly and followed him. They were all counted. A prisoner bundled them up and tossed them in a corner. Now, they don’t belong to me. Those things may be proud of this. After that, they handed over my belongings. One hundred and sixty-six days before, they were mine. Now I had owned them again. Some voices standing near me said that I had regained my appearance. Yes. It must have been the appearance of a free man.
Then followed some mandatory inconveniences of the ‘releasing’ ceremony—the final ceremonies that confirmed that I had been a prisoner there. Or you can consider them as age-old ceremonies done prior to one’s freedom. Customs and traditions. Man can’t get rid of these, no matter where he is.
Everything was over. I was walking towards that particular gate. That day, this gate swallowed me up, and today it is going to regurgitate me. Pitiable! Weak intestine to digest me. I bid them goodbye. I still remember the way I behaved that day. All I said was this: “I am sorry for leaving you all.” You fool! You shouldn’t have said that. A sense of immeasurable foolhardiness! The warden was walking along with me. After opening the gate, he would return, not to my block, but to his block.
Suddenly he turned and asked, “Will you come back?” I was shocked at his question. Was it that he had understood me? If not, why this question? He didn’t ask that question, as he was fully aware of me. He knew a little about me. I may return the way I came there sometimes ago. So, it might have appeared normal. The question was petty in nature. But I was hesitant to give him a reply.
Then I replied, “I don’t know either. Who else could be sure of it?”
He was satisfied with my reply. The gate standing in front of me paved the way for me. It was the second gate. It opened wide with a slackening sound that obviously minimized the compelling presence of the jail. I crossed that gate too. Now it closed tightly with a sound that reinforced the idea that it was a jail. Where is the warden, my aide?
The next gate. I was walking towards that too. It was the third gate. Last one. A thick commanding voice ordered the gate, “Let this man go.” Now I have graduated into a man. I was still standing within the confines of the prison. Yet, I have become a man now. Not a prisoner anymore. I threw a glance at the voice that gave me respect, wishing to thank it.
It was the same voice. The voice that relentlessly yelled, repeatedly, “take this prisoner inside” once the gate closed behind me when I was taken in. Whatever, the man never stoops too low to be mean.
The last gate was also about to be opened. I would become a free man. Just a step away from the doorway of that gate. What has been filling my heart? Peace of mind or heaviness? Neither. No. Both. A creaking noise. I felt that it was a voice of poignancy that rose up from the bottom of the heart I loved most. The gate opened with that poignant note. Though I could say anything at any time, I was unable to express that intense feeling I had that time. It had been an exclusive asset of the heart. It didn’t have any language.
I stepped out. Just one step. For no reason, something pushed me to look back. “Hey, free man! Prashta… Never look back that ”side”—the door closed tightly behind with a grunt (I thought so).
Only after that, I looked up ahead as a free man. A road lying in front of me ran long. Behind were buildings—all were man-made. Beyond it were woods of trees that stood darkened. Beyond that, the range of mountains stood encircling. The horizon afar behind it seemed to be descending and merging with something to become one. Is that all?
No. Is there anything beyond it? My eyes, frenzied, scanned through penetratingly.
What was falling clearly into those eyes?
Yes. One more gate still remained closed.
***Ended***
