The arrival of the king (அரசனின் வருகை) by Uma Varatharajan

 Written by the Sri Lankan writer Uma Varatharajan

Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

****

The day the King was to arrive at that ruined city was nearing. They said that he was coming to inaugurate the renovation works of the temple, which was demolished in the war. The buffaloes were roaming on the streets of the city carrying the posters pasted on their body announcing the arrival of the king. The sound of the drums was heard in nooks and corners.

The city was situated on the banks of the ‘river of blood’. It was a city of bamboo that could catch fire and set everything ablaze at the slightest scratch of wind. The final battle occurred three years ago. The trumpet of elephants, neighing of horses, the clanking of swords and hapless howls of humans- were all still ringing in the ears. The stench of dead bodies was still hovering in the sky, not leaving the city. The birds that came there after leaving the nearby forests to feast on the corpse were perching on the branches of big trees, yearningly waiting for yet another chance. The houses with no roofs and the walls blackened with smoke were announcing how the city had lost the nose of its beautiful face. The nights of the city were passing with the incessant howls of the owls and the intermittent wails of dogs. The moon that had taken shelter in the clouds wouldn’t come out. The children didn’t cry for milk. The sound of horses’ hooves and the sporadic chattering of soldiers would pierce through the nights. Oomaiyan (Dumb) was lying on the mat as his chest pit dried up, ears growing sharper and eyes fixed on the roof.

Only Oomaiyan and some other men were remaining in the city. Those who were alive crossed the river to be alive and moved to different places. The boats disappeared in the tears that welled up in the eyes of women waving their hands, standing on the banks. Oomaiyan was not willing to part from his mother.

Many in the city had forgotten the original name of Oomaiyan. He acquired that name as he wouldn’t speak much. His mother knew how his eloquence of words grew thinner gradually.

Thousands of vultures also entered the city, almost clouding the sun with their wings, along with the soldiers the king had sent to the city to control the rebels. The idols in the temples, the breasts of women, and the heads of children – the spoils knew no limits. In those days, the city looked like a sugarcane grove destroyed by elephants.

Oomaiyan was one of those arrested men. They found him guilty of possessing a weapon, a razor for shaving the facial hairs, tied both his hands behind and took him somewhere by making him walk on the hot sand without footwear. They made him kneel in the middle of the street under the midday sun and asked him to perform Surya Namaskar. They stuffed stones into his mouth and punched his stomach hard. No sound other than “amma” came out of the stones.

Oomaiyan and some other people were returning along the empty street towards the city in the evening as their faces turned pale and their legs were tired. Fearing that the messenger of death might call them out back, they didn’t even look back and walked on wearily, as their shadows were being dragged on. As soon as their heads appeared at the corner of the street, women went running, briskly walking to them. They ran to every one of them, searched their loved ones in their faces and shivered when they couldn’t see the faces they were searching and wailed loudly and yelled haplessly, “What happened? What happened?”. Not knowing that his father had died, a baby sitting on a woman’s waist was smiling, sucking his finger tip. Another woman shook Oomaiyan’s shoulders and cried, “What happened? What happened?” The casuarina trees of the women’s hutments were still whistling the songs of melancholy in the squall.

Oomaiyan, who was ashamed of his momentary, childish happiness that he had a boon and luck to be alive, had now slowly realized that he had been destined for a life with a knife hanging above his head. His days passed in silence. All four walls of his house strangled him in his confinement. The roof of his house descended many times into his heart. He looked pale like a plant that couldn’t receive the sunlight. He was deeply troubled, like an intimidated slender loris.

He was roaming in dreams day and night. The men whose eyes were gorged out of their eye sockets, nails plucked out, were tottering, mumbling, “Where is our justice?” The corpses, half burnt, rose, twisting their torsos and murmured, ‘What’s our crime?” One hand from one of the dead bodies lying in the well gently caught the bucket thrown into the well to take water. A chicken that lost its neck convulsed, ran, flapping its wing, searching for its life before falling onto the ground. The wheels of horse-driven chariot would trample over the pregnant goat’s stomach. The mouths of completely bald dogs were clasping either humans’ hands or legs.

The king had already appeared in Oomaiyan’s dreams. He appeared as an unassuming man with a smile that spread up to the corner of his mouth. People spoke among themselves that a moat full of crocodiles, a mound where poisonous snakes would take shelter and a jungle where poisonous trees would grow were hiding behind that smile that spread up to his mouth. There were many such stories doing the rounds about the king. Contradictory stories about him – he was fond of rearing white pigeons, and at the same time, he had a penchant for wearing skulls strung into a garland. Stories were floating in the air that he had been wearing an ancestral crown he had unearthed by undertaking a pilgrimage under the earth and carrying his throne wherever he went.

The king appeared in Oomaiyan’s dreams with the smiling face that artists of the royal court had scrupulously painted. The temple bell rang intermittently. The birds were flying in the sky in flocks. The saints were chanting the Veda. It was on the banks of a river. With his white dress, the king was walking on the grass bed where the dew drops hadn’t yet dried, stroking the white pigeon he was holding in his hands. Oomaiyan was behind him. It was an early morning when the Sun seemed to hesitate to come out watching the beauty around.

The king looked up to the sky.

“The clouds are clearing. A minute more…a minute more. Light will appear.”

Oomaiyan grew a little comfortable seeing the king’s enthusiasm.

“My lord, aren’t we going to die before the light appears? Are we better now anyway? We are already dead, yet alive.”

The king turned and smiled at Oomaiyan.

“If it is war, it is war. If it is truce, it is truce.”

Oomaiyan tried hard to swallow his words and said, “Even if it is a war, there should be some ethics. Shouldn’t be? What wrong did these innocent people do? Infants, diseased, saints, women – will killing them ever be the ethics of war?”

The king smirked. “You are complaining about the petty grasses that get crushed under the wheels of a chariot when it moves. I know everything…I know everything.”

“You can do anything if you want. Is there anything that you can’t?” Oomaiyan said.

The king’s walk stopped abruptly. “Yes…Anything is possible if I wish to. Look here…”, the king said. The white pigeon sitting in his hands disappeared suddenly and a blood stained, severed head of a rabbit was sitting there instead.

As the time of king’s arrival was nearing, the city grew restless. New royal security arrangements were beefed up. The work went on day and night. They planted flowers in front of the morgues and watered them. They brought uprooted trees from other cities and planted them at the entrances of this city, where the autumn had become a permanent phenomenon. They freshly painted the ramparts that stood smeared with indelible stains of blood and continuous rains of a hundred years. The smiling king’s portraits decked all over the walls. The bullock carts were standing in a long queue at the check posts. The people were silently moving, carrying the bundles on their heads, as their clothes getting drenched in the heavy rain. They were asked to stick their tongues out to search for any inciting words against the king. The stomach of a cow that strayed into the city at an inopportune time was slit open and had its intestines examined. They inserted their hands into the rectum of buffaloes to find out anything odd. The men who were under the intoxication of toddy were beating the drums and dancing as the foamy toddy was still sticking to their moustache.

“He gave us temple

Our king gave us a temple

He will give us more

He will give us whatever we want

Thillanlagadi thillaa….

Hold this begging bowl.”

Oomaiyan’s grandfather, sitting on the veranda, stopped crushing the betel nuts and looked in the direction from which the song came. For blind people, sound is the world. The toddy men’s songs must have annoyed his grandfather. He kept crushing the betel leaves in the mortar furiously with the pestle. “He gives us the temple. How long would he take to demolish it?” the grandfather mumbled and stuffed the betel leaves into his mouth as if he didn’t like to speak anything more.

One day to go for the king to arrive. The grandfather, who was slumbering, got up suddenly, hearing the sound of horses’ hooves. The women came to the doorway, stuck their heads out to see, and then pulled in swiftly and disappeared. Oomaiyan stared at his mother, who came there anxiously. Her lips were dry, and her eyes carried terror. She looked up to the sky, folded her hands and prayed.

Everything went on as usual. The soldiers entered each house in that residential area, searched and then left. When they took Oomaiyan along with them, his mother tried her best and cried. Only the horses that seemed to have understood the human language bobbed their heads and neighed. Oomaiyan’s dog cuddled his legs, followed him till the corner of the street, while continuously barking at the soldiers. The soldiers kicked it away. The women, beating their chests and stomachs with their hands, trailed the men captured by the soldiers, howling helplessly. The horse riders brandished their spears to drive them away. The women were helplessly watching their men disappearing through the layer of dust stirred by the horse hooves at the corner of the street. Leaning against the wall on his back, the grandfather spoke to them to ease their worries. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen. The king is coming tomorrow. Isn’t he? It is to inflate the crowd.”. A lizard chirped at that time. It made the grandfather and others happy.

All captured men were kept in the city’s lodges. All the lodges in the city were overflowing with men who were brought from surrounding places like them. They didn’t speak to each other, bemoaning their fate that had befallen on their heads with all its pernicious outcome. The laughing sound of the soldiers pierced their ears like arrows of insult. Oomaiyan leaned against the cool wall and closed his eyes. A big sacrificial sword was shining on the altar in the darkness. A rope with a noose was dangling in the wind that howled like a fox. The pillar-like legs of elephants were marching ferociously towards him, buried neck deep in the ground. The whips had drawn newer blood streaks on his naked body. In the vast nebulous space of dreams and reality, he saw his house coming. Withered flowers and dead leaves were found in the yard, which hadn’t been cleaned. The dog that lost its zeal was lying across the doorway. A lazy cat was lying in the stove, from where the ashes had still not been removed. The utensils that turned cold in the kitchen. The grandfather would grope in the dark, hitting the walls, unable to sleep like a dark beetle. His mother would be lying, curling her body without food, sleep and eyes not yet dried. Oomaiyan was roaming in the magnificent forest of darkness, carrying every minute on his head that burdened him like boulders. He was lying, not shutting his eyes, waiting for the lodge’s door to open to enjoy the wind and light.

It dawned. The leader of the soldiers entered the room through the door before the light entered.

“Get up…get up” he yelled out.

The bullock carts marched fast along the city’s streets carrying them. The merchants of the commercial street stood stunned at hearing the constant jingling sound of the carts. Oomaiyan was greatly ashamed to see him walking like the most despicable animals in the world with oily faces, sleepy eyes, unkempt hair and hungry stomachs. All were disembarked on the banks of a pond near the temple that had been hit by thunder. They were made to sit in a queue. The sky was cloudy. The soldiers were speaking among themselves that the king had brought the rain along with him.

“Rajathiraja….Rajamarthanda….Rajagambeera…” a thick announcement rose. The musical instruments began playing suddenly. The exponents of ‘Makudi’ made the girls of the city twist their bodies and dance like snakes. The toddy men were somersaulting without touching the ground. The king was coming from the rear. The saints rose and paid their homage with a smile that failed their beards. The king reached the pedestal built at the topmost place and waved his hands. The poets with enormous buns on their heads were fanning him with palm leaflets even in that chilly weather. Ice cubes kept pouring in from the royal poet’s tongue. The domestics who had shaved off half their moustache were sitting at the rear of the king and scratching his back while itching.

Oomaiyan looked up. The sky was waiting to get rid of its dark attire to get naked. A drop of water fell on Oomaiyan’s face like a piece of excrement of a bird flying across the sky. Then followed the drops falling at a speed, commotion and the wind that indicated the direction, the war that the rain waged had begun. The king rose from his seat amid the heavy rain. He must have been astonished to see the people not moving an inch, even in that heavy rain.

“My dear countrymen whom I hold above my life…” his voice tried to overwhelm the sound of rain.

The king’s voice, unaffected by the rain, resonated under the canopy decked with the fully grown rack of bananas, tender leaves, and crimson flowers. Oomaiyan was shivering in the cold. The rain that repeatedly slammed the mouths, stomachs, backs, and faces like a woman possessed by a demon.

“I have come here to renovate the temple hit by the thunder. What else do you all need more? Tell me”

The wind and the rain replied to his queries. Terrorized by the tips of spears the soldiers were wielding, and their rolling eyeballs, people were silent without moving.

“I am overwhelmed to see you all waiting to meet me even in this heavy downpour. Let me know what you all need”

Oomaiyan looked upward again. Varuna Bhagavan (The god of rain) was clenching his teeth. The whips of lightning that descended through the ladder of rain, the water flowed zigzag, finding its way, snakes of fire were wriggling all across the sky and played truant.

“I will build magnificent buildings for you. I will order to get all the streets repaired today. I will get the ponds renewed. What else do you all need? Do you need galleries? Do you need nine types of grains? Silk clothes? What do you need? Let me know what you need. I am ready to give you all these. But you should never….”

Hardly had the king finished his statement, was there a lightning, then followed a loud noise. A long streak of lightning appeared as if connecting the sky with the earth.

Oomaiyan was shocked for a moment as his eyes grew dull. He rubbed his eyes once and looked upward again.

The king who was addressing the crowd a while ago had vanished.

***Ended***

 

"Fair, tall and without moustache" by Adhavan

 

This is an English translation of “Sivappaga, uyaramaga, meesai vachukkamal”, ( சிவப்பாக, உயரமாக, மீசை வச்சுக்காமல் ), a short story written by Athavan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

****

Fair, tall, and having no moustache – for some while, the dim image of the man who was likely to win Neela’s hands came through her mind very frequently.

She was a twenty-two-year-old girl. Her parents had started looking for a suitable bridegroom for her – with a suitable horoscope, ancestry, kulam, Godhra, job and salary etc. She, nevertheless, liked the care and concern behind those efforts. She was, however, slightly annoyed with her parents who didn’t show even a tinge of concern that she would also have some private opinions and views in her tender heart about those things. At the same time, she remained doubtful whether she could offer them a resolute solution if they ever asked her opinion about it. Just like the views of elders that were heavy, dimensional and serious about truth, her views also sounded like a riddle that she wouldn’t understand herself. Also, she feared that anyone who heard it would laugh at it.

He was a fair-complexioned man, the man who ruled her dreams. ‘Fair’ didn’t mean he was extremely fair-skinned. He was moderately, acceptably fair in complexion. He was tall – a couple of inches taller than Neela. Tall enough to lean her face comfortably on his chest. Tall enough to throw her into happiness and ecstasy as and when her down-looking, shy eyes were looking up to him. Lastly, but importantly, he had neither a moustache nor a beard. A fully shaven, clean face without any trace of stubble. She would roam along with him in her dreams again and again at such places she had known well, and some new places she had never seen before. Countless conversations that made them happy in pairs! But, the more he seemed to be closer, the more he appeared to be afar. She felt that she knew him as much as she knew nothing about him.

He was just a shapeless image wiggling on the water’s surface where the waves surged incessantly. It was the face she had seen near the window of a speeding bus. She had indeed seen him; she hadn’t too.

Neela worked in a government office – as a clerk. Many young men were working in her office. Why speak about others - she had a young man working in her section itself. All, in her eyes, were very ordinary, “cheap” fellows. Incapable souls who were ignorant about the value of a rare gem like her, as to understand and cherish her. Her dream man seemed to have taken this avatar just to free her from this cheap crowd.

‘O! My beloved! Where are you? As a man who is listening to the songs I listen, reading the newspapers I read, walking on the roads I walk, watching posters I watch, travelling in the taxis I travel, climbing up and down the steps I use, using the hair oil and toothpaste I use, drinking the beverages I drink, falling into ecstasy while watching the thrilling scenery after being intoxicated by the sounds and smells that have hit me, sweating under the sweltering heat, being fanned by the gentle breeze, drenched in the rain and moonlight, and being taken over by the same dreams, where are you? Come to me. Have me in you. Save me, from these men around me, these places, these things, and from myself…’

The heart where the waves of thoughts were surging restively.

Every morning at the bus stand, when she made herself one of the tiny parts of the long queue, an indescribable sadness and anxiety would creep into her heart – ‘Here, yet another day…I am standing in the bus stand. Travel in the bus amidst the same old sullen faces – she would ponder. Her eyes, filled with a sort of frailty, would chase and try to capture the speeding cars and scooters on the road. While travelling in the bus, her eyes would swallow the vehicles that overtook the bus and glance at the passengers sitting inside them. Embrace them. Those cars, scooters, those porticos, parking lots, multi- storeyed apartments, windows – the world that had all these in it was the world her dream man lived in. It was the world that stood beyond those bus queues and petty tiffin boxes. She would heave a sigh, perplexed how he would identify her who had been permanently imprisoned in the long queues and crowded buses. The portrait of the young man - who was stylishly cuddling a lady who looked like her, with his one hand and flicking a cigarette in another hand in a cigarette advertisement on the rear cover of the magazine she had brought from her office club - had some agreeable resemblance to her dream man. How lucky she would be if she were able to speak to the young men posing for the cigarette, shaving lotion, and hair oil advertisements. They must be the friends of her dream man. They must be aware of his address.

Later, she would toss the magazine from her hand onto Kuppusamy’s table, sign on the attendance register before occupying her chair. Some of her colleagues working in her section would have come by the time she reached. Everyone would take their seats one after the other. The work would then resume. The room that had remained silent all through the night would suddenly wake up, come alive like a drama podium after its screen was lifted. Mixture of voices, sounds, moves, men both walking and sitting, some common inanimate stuff that connected all of them, the non-stop clickety- clack of the typewriters, the sound of stiff crumpling papers, the fountain pens that were soaked in inks, wobbled to shed out their blue ‘blood’ on those papers to form scripts, the telephone that was frequently announcing its presence and significance very often with its ‘rings’, the registers that were thrown and opened with a thud, the sound of table drawers while being opened and closed, almirahs, the noise of chairs’ legs while rubbing on the floor, the sticking and parting sounds of the calendar and the nation’s map in the wind while rubbing each other.

Doing the same type of work amid the same types of noises and the same types of men – does this mundane work deserve this stringent discipline and urgency? “Miss Neela, in whose name was the deputation file transferred last?” “Miss Neela, has the transfer order been sent to the dispatch?” “Miss Neela, what is the next number to open a new file under P.N (Pension)?” – questions, questions, and only questions. She would ask herself these questions if they didn’t ever ask her - “Miss Neela, why haven’t you become a mad yet? Miss Neela, why are you sitting in this room on this chair? Miss Neela, what is your relations with these men?”

Different types of humans, with different tastes, behaviours, appeals and characters. Men who were living within a specific circle, at a specific level. Boring beings.

Dandapani was the oldest man working in her section. Vibhoothi smeared on his forehead. Tobacco stuffed in his mouth. Face that carried a permanent surliness. As he had no good opinion about women who came out for work, he never acknowledged that he was aware of someone called Neela who was working in his section. He would spit out the words so freely, which others found offensive in the presence of a lonely woman working there. He would then explain them as well. Neela felt that he spoke those words with the intention of belittling her.

Kuppusamy was of another type. He was running a ‘Magazine club’ in the office. He was almost like a magazine himself – a magazine that always looked for spicy stuff ranging from suggesting remedies if the peon Parankuisam’s wife suffered from leg pain, to throwing a piece of advice what Ganapathy Raman’s son should do after completing his school education, hinting at which western actor our local amateur actor Srinivasan could emulate, advising Kesavan who frequently came late to the office on how to adjust the daily time table. He would voluntarily approach everyone to offer counsel. He would advise Neela, too. When he approached her with his usual unsolicited friendly question, “I understand you are very early today. Right?”, she would be unduly annoyed. While Dandapani remained sly, Kuppusamy was just pretentious.

Ganapathy Raman, Srinivasan, Kesavan, and Parankusam – she hated everyone for different reasons. She didn’t like Ganapathy Raman because he always found mistakes in her work. She disliked him for his impudent way of teaching everything from scratch as though he was teaching a baby by holding its fingers. The phrases ‘If you don’t mind’ or ‘kindly’ Srinivasan used to throw while ordering her with “Miss, Neela”, she felt he had used those phrases not to show his respect for her, but to offend her, mildly though. Kesavan’s fake display of being a respectable man and his indifferent attitude towards everyone (including her) made her develop an aversion towards him. As far as peon Pasankusam was concerned, she felt that, most of the time, he was tossing the files and registers on her table with an unwarranted speed and clamor. She thought that he was sharing a mean joke about her with other peons while she walked in the corridor.

Though she didn’t like anyone in her section in general, Kesavan remained her most hated person among all. She couldn’t bear him being treated like the most pampered man, showered with all praises in the section. She would think that it was because of the undue attention they gave him, he had become a spoiled brat.

-‘Lucky fellow sir…no commitments…no worries…’

-‘How many movies would you watch every month, Kesavan?’

-‘Would you watch single? Or with some sweet company?’

-‘The chaps of this age are at least okay anyway. How much we enjoyed and had fun when we were their age.!

It was the tribute they paid for his youth and independent attitude. It was just an effort to recreate their youth through his appearance to be happy. Sometimes, she used to be jealous of him. It troubled her when he got all the special attention and status which she couldn’t get. She would deliberately wear indifferent facial expressions, with remarkable difficulties, to mask her jealousy and uneasiness from being visible outside – as if she wasn’t interested in all such things.

In one evening, when Kuppusamy was speaking to Kesavan, her face carried this usual indifferent look.

“How do you expect your future wife to be?” Kuppusamy asked.

“To be means?”

“I mean beautiful”

“Will there be anyone who doesn’t like his wife to be beautiful?”

“If she is very beautiful, it will become difficult to manage her”

Kesavan laughed his heart out. “I am not as experienced as you are in this matter, sir” he said. Neela sensed that his eyes had turned to her side when he uttered these words. But she was hesitant to look back at him to ensure he did it.

That day, immediately after she reached home, she went to the mirror to see her face – to know how the face he saw in the evening looked. It was tired. Sweaty. A little dusty. It looked dull without zeal and brightness.

‘Has Kesavan concluded that her face and beauty had only that much to offer?’ – the moment this thought came through her mind, she thought, “Does it matter how my face looks when he looks at me? Does it matter what he thinks of me?”. She tried to forget him. But, the next day, while leaving for the office, she decked herself with an unusual attentiveness and care. ‘Not for him. Just to satisfy herself through his eyes. To dissect his ego, to disturb his pride, to attract his attention and to establish my victory with that’ she comforted herself. This unscrupulous thought brought a streak of a smile to her face. That day, all through her journey in the bus, streaks of a grin kept appearing brightly and disappearing on her face.

When she entered her section, she saw Kesavan’s chair was lying empty. While occupying her chair after signing in the attendance register, she thought, “Has he cut the office today?”

He didn’t cut the office. He came to the office at fifteen to eleven. Overwhelmed by the guilt of being late, he hurriedly opened the files and resumed his work. Neela raised her hand and adjusted the bunch of flowers she had on her head. Her bangles jingled. He didn’t raise his head. She dropped the pencil from her hand and got up from her seat as though it was to pick up the pencil that was lying in front of the table. She bent down and collected the pencil. Muffled rustle. Again, jingling of bangles. No effect. He didn’t raise his head. She grew annoyed. Today, attracting his attention had suddenly become an important issue, a matter of honour. When she was seriously considering dropping a register, Srinivasan called her out.

“Miss Neela, if you don’t mind, can you get this compared?”

She rose from her seat. She went very close to Kesavan’s table as if rubbing its edges, as her sari rustled, bangles jingled, talcum powder exuded fragrance (she wore more talcum than usual) and reached Srinivasan’s table. Kesavan’s pen halted a second. She felt he raised his head and was watching her. “Look…look me well,” she thought and sat down on an empty chair near Srinivasan, collected the copy of the letter from him, and started leafing through. He then began verifying the draft in the original. She read the letter. She was fully conscious that she was reading it. It was unfortunate that her beautiful voice and pronunciation were going waste in reading that letter in that sterile office. But, Kesavan was on all his ears. The very thought of it kept her reel under an inebriation and zeal. After completing reading the letter, she glanced at Kesavan as soon as she returned to her seat. She could catch him swiftly withdrawing his eyes from her. ‘Doesn’t it mean that he has been watching her all this time?’ It was , too much for her to bear the pain of her egoistic bliss. That day, she walked around the office more than she would usually do. She watched Kesavan, with a sense of fulfilment, that his eyes were being pulled to her side very often – A satisfaction of proving her strength by subduing a neighbouring king who had been cheating without paying taxes. It was her victory in a small test of power to know her strength to wage wars against other bigger kings.

That evening, while drinking coffee with friends at Cannaught Place café, and after that while watching a movie in the background of stereophonic sounds, Neela’s image kept popping up in Kesavan’s mind. “Today, she seemed to be excessively seeking attention. She was trying to say something to me. Is it just an illusion?” he wondered. ‘Is it that she has fallen in love with me?”. This very thought brought him a smile on his face – a smile of magnanimity and compassion to treat her as a ‘poor girl’. ‘It is not her mistake. I must be looking attractive. That is the trouble.’ he thought.

Suddenly, his smile grew wider as he thought about her English pronunciation. ‘Silly pronunciation’ he thought. Adrey Hebburn was smiling like a child on the screen. Kesavan felt like kissing her. While buffing a cigarette after he came out of the movie hall, he was not on his mind. He was not in this country. He became Peter O’Toole and was walking on the streets of New York. He searched for Adrey Hebburn’ in all the women who crossed his way. Adrey Hebburn was his most favourite actress. Then came Sofia Larren, and then Sherley Maclain.

The probable image of his ideal wife was irregularly found scattered among the likenesses of these mesmerizing actresses. The models smiling in toothpaste, and sari advertisements also had some elements of resemblance to her. It was found in the faces seen in the corridors of Cannaught place, in some gait, in some laughter, and in some gestures. If all these elements were strung together, one could, perhaps, understand what his ideal lady would look like. But he had never tried doing that. He liked his uncertainties. He loved his independent attitude that permitted him to get drawn consciously towards the beautiful women who would occasionally fall into his eyes. He disliked setting a limit to his eyes and targets by becoming a slave to a particular image. He loved the romantic idea - love is something one would indulge in an incessant quest throughout one’s life. His parents might be happy with having a girl who could sing and make batter for dosai. But his life was neither about morkuzhambu and dosai nor seemantham and lullaby. It was something beyond all that. He might not be able to reach these superior peaks. It was a different matter altogether. But he needed to safeguard his freedom that would enable him to reach these peaks. It was very important.

“Miss Neela, I would say you are just wasting your time, if at all you have fallen in love with me” he thought.

From the next day, they began to observe each other with a hidden curiosity and edginess. Each monitored others’ moves. “Does Kesavan enjoy watching my beauty?” Neela wondered. “Does this lady watch me with any devotion?” Kesavan conjectured. Both believed that the opponent was unaware of being observed, and, at the same time, each ncould leave an effect on their opponent by keeping themselves safe and away from being affected. This belief made them happy and proud. The pride of success. The arrogance of success. For the first time, Kesavan could discover how many saris Neela possessed in different colours and designs. Kesavan began observing her very closely - The way she hid her ears behind the hairs, the way she tucked the hem of sari in the waist and dropped it running down her shoulders so that the exposed part of her stomach was not visible, the slight trace of lisp in her language, the childlike behviour and innocence that hadn’t lost their appeal in her eyes and gestures.

Kesavan was sure that Neela had put a lot of effort into attracting his attention. “Am I that sort to fall for her or what?” Kesavan thought as he was still watching her.

“Kesavan is looking at my side for at least fifty or sixty times a day” Neela surmised. She didn’t reject it as a petty offering from a simple devotee in appreciation of her beauty and lure, but accepted it instead. When she met her dream man, she would joke about this simple devotee with him. The more Kesavan kept ogling at her, the more her hope and desires about her dream man grew stronger. The power of her beauty and the possibilities were now crystal clear. She possessed an exemplary beauty that was capable of making anyone turn their head again. She possessed such curves. The dream man would never miss her anyway. How lucky he must be!

Even her anger toward everyone in the section had begun to recede now. It was because when she replied to their questions, when she walked to them on some pretext of some work, she in fact replied for Kesavan; she walked for Kesavan. The truths around her had suddenly disappeared. They had become the world she had been cherishing for her dream man.

Even in the eyes of Kesavan, the world had changed a lot. All of a sudden, he had understood his indispensability and importance. He felt that he had become aloof from the crowd where he was one of the nameless men who would clap his hands sitting in the gallery, one of the staunch fans of an actress, and one of those weak men who would collect the sprinkles of eyes and the scatters of colours of women walking along the pathways. He realized a beauty was blooming every single day just to seek his appreciation and discernment. It was a poem written exclusively for him; It was a painting drawn for him. It was music played for him. It was a movie with an exclusive script written and directed for him. What a unique matter to be proud of!

Sometimes, he felt that he wouldn’t be able to control his enthusiasm. He wanted to stop the unknown people he ran into on the road and tell them everything. Standing atop the multi storeyed buildings, he wanted to boast his secrets to the clouds. He was indispensable; different. Irrespective of the value, he had been the one who got an opportunity and honour which no one else hadn’t.

Kesavan began worrying.

He realized that he, once considered a free bird without any worries, had been imprisoned in an eccentric jail against his will. He realized that, he, once a boat that travelled across waters without a shore as per the whims of waves, had now been tied at a corner near the shore. He couldn’t accept this change wholeheartedly. At the same time, he was unable to release himself from its clutch. Viewing it from a particular angle, it appeared as a mammoth defeat and a decline. But there was an element of lure in that defeat. A mysterious depth and beauty were in it. Fearing fac that defeat, and at the same time being unable to retreat, he was overtly confused, and worried.

One day, he smiled at Neela when he met her in a movie hall along with her friends. She also smiled back. He was a little confident. Whenever they found themselves amusing each other with smiles and in light-hearted chatters and cacophony, their eyes were looking for each other. Their grins met. The uneasiness ran like an electric wave between them. There could be only one meaning to her sight. Her smile could carry only one meaning. Yet, he was unable to arrive at a conclusion. Then he finally concluded: ‘Why should I unnecessarily break my head when she was clear about her decision? Let her decision be the one taken for me as well. Why should I disappoint her? Is my quest for the perfect beauty bigger than the mental fulfilment of a woman? Would I be able to enjoy any beauty while carrying the curses of a broken heart in my conscience, and two accusing eyes in my heart? Would I be able to involve in anything wholeheartedly? Now I have been caught in a fix. My heart which was clean and empty had now been blocked by a particular image colossally. Now there was only one thing I could do’ Yes. Only one thing that I could do. Kesavan came to a resolute conclusion.

One day, when Neela left the office in the evening, Kesavan also left along with her. Seeing her face not showing signs of irritation, he grew comfortable.

“To your house?” he asked. Stupid question anyway.

“Yes”

“Can we have a cup of coffee somewhere?”

It was visible that she wasn’t prepared for this question. Her face became red. Regaining her composure, she said, “No. I think I can’t”

“Why?”

“I have some work”

“I don’t believe it”

She walked on without replying. Kesavan became uneasy. ‘Is that all for which I have been breaking my skull?’ “Please” he caught her hand, as he was visibly emotional. That was it. She yanked his hand, released hers, stared sternly at him once and sped away from there.

Kesavan stood there, watching her walk fast.

‘Chee! What an impudence!’ while standing at the bus stand, while sitting with a newspaper after changing her dress, she remained angry with Kesavan. ‘Idiot! What is he thinking of himself? What is he thinking of her? Having coffee? That too, with him? What a desire! How brazen he is! That too, by holding my hand!’

‘Che…Virtues have no value these days. How dare he take it wrong if she treated everyone selflessly with a smile just to drive away the stress and dryness around her and to spread the rays of her beauty everywhere? How dare he behave foolishly like this? She wasn’t even ready to forgive her petty devotee. She thought that he had breached the boundaries she had set for him. He, who was supposed to stop at the entrance shouldn’t have entered the sanctum sanctorum,’ she thought. Just because she had kept her windows open with a clean heart, he shouldn’t have taken advantage of it to jump into it’, she thought. All her thoughts were trying to establish both Kesavan’s mistakes as well as innocence.

He was guilty. He was guilty because he had misunderstood her clean heart. When she left for the office next day, she resolved that she wouldn’t speak to him anymore. But Kesavan didn’t come to the office that day.

‘Hmm…is he trying to evoke self-sympathy? Or is he trying to show his displeasure by leaving his chair empty? Or is he trying to garner my sympathy?’ she thought, as if she was still unconcerned. She tried her best to get away from thinking about him and being unaffected by his thoughts. But would anyone be able to control one’s thoughts? Would anyone be able to bear by distinguishing desire and hatred? She couldn’t avoid the thoughts about him flashing and disappearing in her mind.

Sitting back at her home, she was searching for the most plausible justification to reject the thoughts about him. She tried to ignore him as one of the employees working in her section and recreate herself as she used to be earlier. But she couldn’t succeed in it. Her mind had drawn a different picture about Kesavan in her heart that he was an individual with some specific temperaments and taste, and above all, he was deeply interested in her through his words and looks. She failed in destroying this image of him. She couldn’t throw him out again just like anyone who was faceless, nameless, and shapeless in a crowd who had no impact on her.

‘Will he also think about me, only about me now? May be. Who knows? What a strange inescapable phenomenon it is! At this moment, anyone who knew her might be thinking about her in different ways, without her knowledge, without her permission. She wouldn’t be able to know all their thoughts about her. Neither could she rein it nor change it. It was impossible for her to release herself from them.

What would Kesavan think now? Would he think she was arrogant? Or merciless? Let him think whatever he wanted. But…But…is he very sad about all these? Is he rebuking himself for his mistakes and toil in self-pity?’ These fictional thoughts held her in fear and embarrassment. “How can I be responsible for someone’s pain for thinking about me?’ she tried to comfort herself. She tried to divert her imagination in the love songs she was listening in the radio and the face of a young man she saw in an advertisement found in the newspaper. But, all of a sudden, they all appeared fake, lifeless, and meaningless. Her heart was still thinking about Kesavan again and again. He was a truth she had seen alive and active who had spoken to her.

The next day, Kesavan came to the office. But he was not old Kesavan; not the old enthusiastic Kesavan. Not looking around, not smiling at anyone, he remained serious in his work. Neela observed his changes but remained quiet as if she hadn’t noticed any of his changes. She expected that Kesavan would tell her ‘I am sorry’ whenever he found a ripe opportunity. But she was unaware that Kesavan had put himself into a severe test of soul purification during that one-day leave and had attained a state of emptiness by losing faith in women, their glances, their laughter, and the meanings of it.

That day, after lunch, he and she were alone for some time in the section. She expected that Kesavan would approach her to speak. But he didn’t. They had similar opportunities the next day and the day that followed. But Kesavan didn’t show any interest in using them.

“Must be very angry” she thought.

The heat of his indifference and his polite way of dealing with her without looking into her face even when he had to speak with her about office related matters looked interesting and funny. At the same time, when she could guess the disappointment and agony behind that anger, she felt pity for him. “Damn mad guy” she wondered. ‘Why couldn’t he understand my situation? She thought. She was a woman. She had to be careful about the possible slander society would throw at her. It isn’t a movie or a drama for a woman to go freely along with a man for a coffee’.

While she was seriously thinking that the very invitation for a cup of coffee itself was wrong on his part, she was trying to justify her action that she wouldn’t be able to accept his action even if it was right. Despite that, she was unable to come out of guilt and uneasiness. ‘Should I have used more refined words that time? Should I have behaved a bit more lovingly? I could have managed the situation wisely without hurting him while keeping myself away from that situation.’

It was she who was overtly thinking about him. He didn’t show any sign of worry about her.

He almost stopped looking at her side. He had started reducing the time of sitting on his chair as much as he could. His completely indifferent attitude didn’t disturb her night’s sleep anyway although she was greatly troubled by an emptiness shaking her up inside. She felt that a bulb which was burning brightly in her had now fused. She could move without that bulb anyway. Yet, she could feel the difference. The defect was very much visible.

She couldn’t take an interest in decking herself and make her look appealing like earlier. They just appeared as plain excuses to cheat herself. She couldn’t repose her earlier faith in her beauty which she thought brimming with a tejas, capable of bringing her dream man kneel in front of her. She was unable to be resolute and proud of its charm and influence. The foundation on which she erected a flamboyant bungalow had now become a dubious idea. “Was her charm this weak to be neglected? Wasn’t her beauty person capable of making one mad, permanently intoxicated from which he would never be able to come out? Was Kesavan’s love for her also accidental? Or was it just her illusion that she thought he had fallen in love with her? Was it that she had lost her chance like a mad person when he approached her, maybe out of a momentary emotion under a subconscious state? Would such chances ever happen in her life again? May be not. Then, she had to settle down with a bridegroom selected by her parents and the astrologer. How horrible would that be?

“I am a great fool” she rebuked herself. Kesavan had a moustache. So what? He was wheat complexioned. So what? He was Kesavan. Very much familiar to her. A person about whom no one would say anything bad. “Hmm…these women…” while nearing his office in the morning, Kesavan smiled exasperatedly, like a man of experience and wisdom. ‘They seek attention. But no one should see them. One can take concessions from them; at the same time, one shouldn’t take it too. The wind should be gushy, but the sari shouldn’t flap’, he thought.

‘These women are highly volatile. Cheats. Bitches. One shouldn’t trust them’ Kesavan entered his office as his mind was restless. Dandapani was arguing with Srinivasan about something loudly. Ganapathy Raman, for his part, was complaining about something to Kuppusamy. Neela…

Kesavan looked at her side nonchalantly. He was stunned. She was wearing the sari, the same sari she was wearing when he asked her to have a coffee. He glanced at her face. He observed the naughtiness and mirth found in her eyes. Pursing his lips, he lowered his eyes. No. He wouldn’t afford to face another disappointment. After marking his attendance, he went to his chair. Sat down. He opened a file. Again, the jingling of bangles. He didn’t raise his head. “Big queen or what?” he thought. ‘She expects I should dance to her tunes? Minutes passed as she was trying to get his attention and he was avoiding it silently. Suddenly, peon Parankusam entered the section with two coffee tumblers. He kept one tumbler on Neela’s table. Neela gestured to him to keep another tumbler on Kesavan’s table. Parankusam did it.

Kesavan raised his head, “What is this?”

“I ordered it for you” Neela said with a smile. “You like coffee. Right?”

Kesavan fumbled as he didn’t expect such a situation. He was not prepared to face such a Situation, if at all, one such thing ever happened. He felt retaliating with something harsh.

“Have coffee sir. It gets cold” Parankusam said.

Neela picked her glass, waiting for him to pick his, so that both could drink coffee together. Her eyes were full of confidence and hope. Kesavan could feel his defeat. He began drinking the coffee. He had earlier thought of getting angry with her for everything, and explaining certain things to her. But now, everything seemed unnecessary and meaningless. Being cordial in her presence would be better anyway, he thought.

“Thanks for the coffee” he said.

“Thanks for drinking it” she replied. She must have thought of telling him something more. But she hesitated to speak anything since she feared it might go wrong, and threw a smile at him instead. He also smiled back at her.

Both wanted to win over each other. But now they were sitting, after being defeated by each other.

***Ended***

 

The milk of wisdom (ஞானப்பால்) Na. Pichamurthy

 

This is an English translation of “Gnanapal”, a short story written by Na. Pichamurthy. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

****

It had been one year since Lingamkatti came to that almshouse. Thavasipillai thought that Lingamkatti’s arrival was indeed a mark of his luck. His heart was brimming with the pride that he had always been a lucky chap. ‘Would anyone, who is dark like charcoal, and doesn’t even know the basic alphabets be lucky enough like this to get a wage of fifteen rupees with food, and an authority to feed six members? One would think of his misfortunes only if he had children, and thus, can find faults with Muthaliyar, the owner of the almshouse, for every problem. But Thavasipillai was lucky as he was still a bachelor. As luck would have it, he got that job so that he could remain ‘grateful’ to Muthaliyar in the first place. Apart from this, he had a lot of opportunities to be grateful. He understood it as the days passed. It was his responsibility to buy the groceries and vegetables for the almshouse. Wasn’t it? He was honest during the earlier days. Can anyone collect honey with his hands covered? Or can he ever avoid licking the honey sticking to his hand? What could he have done when those squishy brinjals, the weighing units, the oil bowls with corks, the vegetable woman and the grocery shop owner Manikkam Chettiyar taught him how not to be honest? So, they had plenty of excuses in them so that he could remain grateful to his master.

Thavasipillai was the dictator of the almshouse. So, there was no law, nor any procedures. Checking the teeth of a cow that was received as charity one should always avoid. Right? One day, Thavasipaillai dismissed a person who was working there. Poor chap! Thavasipillai alone was not responsible for that. If luck sat on his neck and ordered, he had to do it anyway. Didn’t he?

One day, Lingamkatti came there from somewhere. Thavasipillai didn’t ask the visitor any questions. His days in the almshouse had made him so experienced that he could develop an ‘X-Ray’ eye. Yet, he could assess Lingamkatti even without the assistance of his X-ray eye.

Fully shaven head, a silver locket with a lingam around his neck, and a dhoti that turned brown – four cubit long and twenty-four inches broad- on his waist.

Lingamkatti was just stroking the baldness on his head, but didn’t say anything. But Thavasipillai replied, “You can have the meal after the cooking is over. Where do you come from and where do you go?” he asked.

“The vagabond has no hometown, no name, no place for succour. He will find heaven where he gets to eat something. If I get a handful of rice here every day, this will be the place of my salvation. I can live by doing some errands.”

Thavasipaillai was serious about his proposal. ‘This bloke seems strong enough to bear the loads. He can withstand any tough tasks. I am unable to wrestle with the dishwasher, Kathan, every single day. He complains that the wage of five rupees and the leftover foodstuffs to eat are not enough for him. His complaints have no end- if you give him rice, he will ask for curry. If you give him curry, he will ask for vegetables. If you give him rice, curry and vegetables, he complains that it is less. What if I can get rid of him forever…Here is a man who can take the loads of work for a handful of rice! I can save five rupees.’

The next day, Kathan was summarily dismissed without assigning any reason. Lingamkatti wasn’t even aware that he had been offered that post. Now, he didn’t have to roam around from place to place for food. Just an hour of washing the utensils would be enough to bring him luck for the day. Even the saint Thirunavukarasar had a sling-blade for cutting the grass. Hadn’t he? Lingamkatti was extremely happy that luck had finally hit him. Thavasipillai also thought that luck had finally found him.

Everything went well in the beginning. Wouldn’t a man’s heart jump in joy if he got three handfuls for two times against the one handful he initially asked for? The utensils shone without any trace of soot. Wasn’t it sheer luck if one could get a person who never complained about anything? He remembered Kathan’s impudence- “Is the job in the almshouse that coveted or what? Kathan is not a coolie to carry the stuff of sorts,” – ‘what an insolence,’ he thought.

While seeing Lingamkatti lying on the veranda after his daily meals, Thavasipillai, who had been greatly relieved of Kathan, heaved a sigh of relief and peacefully went to bed. The matter didn’t end there. No visitor who came to the almshouse would leave without praising Lingamkatti.

“What a good man he is! Very pious! He would never miss a day and time to brush his teeth, wash his clothes, bathe in the holy pond and pray to the Sun standing toward the east with a band of Vibhuti on his forehead – Isn’t it just enough? It is extremely rare to find a man like this,” they would wonder.

It was true that Lingamkatti would never ignore such diurnal ceremonies. He would never trouble himself with studying anything beyond that, either. Sometimes, if someone said that it was Lord Shiva who controlled everything, he might intervene amidst the talk that it was because of one’s previous karma. If asked whether he believed it, he wouldn’t know what to say. When Lingamkatti became a vagabond with a white dhoti, he didn’t become so after gaining mastery in religious matters. He was given a lingam to wear around his neck, taught what to do next and driven out with an assurance that he would face no problem as long as lord Shiva (Pasupathi) and the vast world existed and directed to go towards the east. From that day, other than what he was directed to do, he had never attempted anything to link his actions with the mind. He had never been seriously interested in finding the path of salvation through assimilating both.

So, if any visitor coming to the almshouse gave him two anas or four anas, he wouldn’t refuse it. It never occurred to him that he had to refuse their help. Instead of that, he would ask them to give him a new coin if he ever needed some change and tie it tightly on his waist.

Within eight or nine months, the ‘new broom’ began losing its shine. No one could find anything wrong with Lingamkatti. But Thavasiapillai was a crooked fellow! As the days passed, food on Lingamkatti’s plate had one handful less first, and then two handfuls. Some days, he wouldn’t get either vegetables or curry. Lingamkatti would comfort himself that the visitors must have eaten more than usual.

Though he didn’t complain, his hungry stomach failed him. He somehow managed a couple of days without complaining. ‘As a noble soul, he had given me alms. Does it matter if I get a handful less than usual?’ he comforted himself for a couple of days. But he couldn’t sustain beyond that. On the third day, after the meals at the almshouse, he made it a habit to visit the funeral, marriage, and Maheswara Puja unfailingly just to eat there. Even if heard someone offering horse gram gruel, he would go there at least to have a taste of it. Sometimes, he would get one or two anas there.

Sooner Thavasipaillai came to know that Lingamkatti was earning some money, he began trying his stingy hands while giving him food. Would any vagabond be offered a royal feast in the almshouse? Lingamkatti would accept Thavasipillai’s excuses whenever the latter told him that the shortage of food was common during auspicious occasions. Thavasipillai advised him, “You can eat in the hotel, if you like, Samy”

Thavasipillai could somehow infer that Lingamkatti had a lot of money. He devised a mischievous plan to empty it.

It would have been an interesting question: what would have happened if Lingamkatti had decided to keep the money with Thavasipillai? The answer would be simple. He would have no such fancy idea at all. The tricky part of it was that he certainly couldn’t afford to keep a cat to guard the milk.

Probably out of his blind wit, Lingamkatti had saved all his money with an old lady, a local moneylender. She had enjoyed a reputation in the area that she would never fail anyone, even if God did. Thavasipillai was unaware of this secret. He was giving Lingamkatti food, though it was not sufficient to fill his half-tummy, and made him work the whole day while he was decrying Lingamkatti as a thief.

Thavasipillai had a plan.

“Lingamkatti, I guess you don’t have a wife”

“Vagabonds don’t have wives”

“If then, any affair with anyone?”

“What! Let the tongue rot”

“Don’t be angry. What are you doing with your money?”

“It is safe”

“As long as you live, it is yours. If you die, it becomes useless. You don’t have a wife, no children. Leave it aside. You won’t even buy karapoondhi for a quarter of an ana. Is there any use in keeping it safe?

Lingamkatti was seriously confused after hearing those words. ‘He is right. What am I going to do with that money?’

“Should I throw it away?”

“I don’t mean it. Let me suggest one good thing to do. Think about it”

“Oooh”

“You have this lingam in your neck. Right?”

“Yes”

“I see you hang it around your neck with a thread. You can buy some gold with your money, make a chain and fix it with the lingam. It will look presentable on your neck. Lingam will also be pleasant to look. With Vibhoothi, and a gold chain dangling around the neck, anyone seeing you praying to the sun in the east, will definitely praise you for being the original devotee of lord Shiva. Won’t it look good?”

“Why would I even need a chain for my neck?”

“The chain is not for your neck. I am telling you to make a chain for the lingam. You can’t wear the lingam fixed in a chain on your waist. Can you?”

“No…No”

“If so, you have to wear it on your neck.”

“Let me see if I can make one.” Lingamkatti cut short the conversation. Thavasipillai didn’t pester him further.

Like the coconut seed that wouldn’t sprout fast and take its time, the ‘coconut seed’ planted in Lingamkatti’s mind also began sprouting slowly. ‘The old woman is good. But she is already old. Time and luck will never be the same all the time. I don’t know anything about her. What Thavasipillai says is also a good idea. The lingam will look beautiful if it is attached to a gold chain,’ Lingamkatti pondered it over deeply.

One more year went by as he remained still indecisive. Lingamkatti, who was growing frail like a fold of tobacco, had now become a ripe cucumber.

One day, he went to the goldsmith, and asked him how much gold was needed to make a chain. The goldsmith couldn’t control his laughter and teasingly asked, “Are you going to marry at this age?”

“No…it is for this lingam.”, he pointed to the lingam. On seeing it, the goldsmith changed his words to a professional mode.

“I can make it with three fourths of a sovereign of gold”

“Is it possible less than that? How much is the making charge?”

“Fifteen rupees. This concession is only for you”

“What the heck! For the three fourth of one sovereign?

“It is how it is. Making charge is more for a small chain, less for a big chain. Why don’t you make a big chain for the lingam?”

“Please keep the making charge affordable. I will be back with the gold.”, Lingamkatti left.

Fifteen days later, Lingamkatti returned to the almshouse with the lingam attached to the gold chain hanging around his neck, obviously after bathing in the holy pond.

Thavasipillai, sitting on the veranda, was busy with doing some petty transaction. He found Lingamkatti carrying an eccentric aura. He couldn’t understand exactly what it was. Seconds later, his face brightened up, and then he said “Gudos! Gudos! You did it in secrecy. Right?”

“It is not a big task anyway. I just did it as it is loved by the god”

“Good job…Good job.” Thavasipaillai said. ‘Instead of keeping his money without anyone’s notice, this chap has done something which might voluntarily invite the thieves, he thought. His face was even clouded with the guilt of giving him this suggestion.

Lingamkatti’s attitude found no change just because he had become a ‘Gold-chain-Lingamkatti’. He attended to the daily chores at the almshouse as usual. Thavasipillai, who evinced some guilt, also didn’t change. There had been no upward change in the amount of food he gave to Lingamkatti.

It might be four months or so after that. Suddenly Lingamkatti had something in mind – He wanted to attend to the Thirumulaippal (Receiving holy milk) ceremony. “I will be back in a week,” he said to Thavasipillai.

“One must be blessed for that. Go attend it”

“What about the utensils that need to be washed?”

“I will get someone to do that”

The next day, Lingamkatti left for Sirkazhi. Thavasipillai was worried that he had to spend a week without Lingamkatti. He went to bed as he started counting the day one. Every single day grew lengthy like a pasty toffee.

On the fourth day, Thavasipillai was chopping the vegetables. Lingamkatti appeared before him, unexpectedly. Thavasipillai even thought for a second that it must be a dream.

“What! Is it Lingamkatti?”

“Who is it then?”

“You are too early. Aren’t you?” Thavasipillai looked at him from top to bottom. Lingamkatti’s neck looked barren like that of a widow.

“Hey, Pandaram, I see neither lingam nor gold chain in your neck. Where are they?”

“Yes. I lost it.”

“Where?”

“I was deceived”

“How did it happen?”

“Because of that milk of wisdom”

“Be clear what you say so that I can get you”

“After attending the festival, the day before yesterday, I was sitting at the Chathiram’s doorway at night. Many people were lying there with their heads and legs spread chaotically like disposed banana peels. Two men were loudly chattering on the veranda about some mundane things like marriage, cattle and love. Among them, a man began singing. A while later, the chatter waned, and he started singing songs. His voice was as sweet as a cuckoo. I fell asleep as I was still leaning against the wall.

“O! Lady with studs!

There is mango milk…

Why do people at the hilltop

Need coconut milk?”

He sang one more song. I was completely spellbound. After that, no song fell into my ears.

“Once I was awake, I opened my eyes and looked around. It was dawning in the east. The festival fatigue and those songs made me lose my senses. A sudden shock woke me up when I was under the impression of deep sleep. My neck felt lighter. I stroked around my neck. No lingam. No chain. Someone had stolen it when I was sleeping. I looked around, saw everyone sleeping on the chathiram’s veranda. They didn’t look like thieves. The men on the veranda enquired me what I was looking for. I explained everything to them. They fell into laughter. The god must have stolen it, as it needed to be given milk of wisdom, they mocked. Something pricked me very hard. I repented my foolishness for making a stupid gold chain for the lingam, the god himself, and returned home. I got the milk of wisdom”

“Then what next?”

“I am leaving”

“Where?”

“Another long journey”

“Why did you then come here?”

“I wanted to tell you to arrange for another person on wages”

“O! heck! Have you really received the milk of wisdom or what?”

Lingamkatti didn’t reply. He just went down the street as he was casually stroking his bald head.

***Ended***