Vanammal by Azhakiya Periyavan

 

This is an English translation of Vanammal, a Tamil short story written by Azhakiya Periyavan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

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That stretch of red sand seen as far as the horizon, where one could find the sunlight with the white survey marker stones and the pebbles evenly speckled across, looked like a sky that had turned crimson. The palm trees, without any tree near, were standing alone anxiously.

For Salammal, the scorching sun was extremely intimidating. She was walking with a pitcher on her head towards a dried-up pool nestling amidst the group of rocks of the slopy hillock standing on the northern side of her rain-fed land.

Yonder, she could see the Oosimalai (literally ‘sharp-edged mountain’) that stood like wavy smoke of dark flames in the direction of a bird that flew past her, swooshing fast.

Salammal’s body, which didn’t fail the frailties of old age, was marching with the grace of an eon. She was walking fast, speaking to herself, heaving sighs, as the hem of her saree which was used as both ‘summadu’ -to carry the pitcher and ‘mukkadu’ to cover her head. Tired of carrying two or three pitchers, she sat under the shade of a tree, fully exhausted.

The hot wind, while blowing through the tender mango leaves, was a little soothing. The scent of mango leaves gently wafted in the air like the smell of burnt leaves, before settling. Some people had planted mango saplings like hers in the neighbouring patches of land. Some others had left their land parched.

It happened four or five years ago. Salammal must have been in good senses. She heard that the Christian missionaries were giving mango saplings free of cost to the poor farmers who had some rain-fed lands in their possession, in and around the village. She perfectly used that opportunity to her advantage. The saplings they gave her were just enough for the small land she possessed. She was not very happy with the saplings as they were of only Mangalore and Neelam varieties. She went to Alathur government nursery and bought some more varieties – Khader, Peethar, Banganapalli, Malkova and planted them in her land. Salammal gently broke the pots and took the saplings out of them to avoid their joints from being damaged, planted them as if she were handling newborn babies, collected water from all possible ponds and pools and nourished them as much as she could. She felt she regained her life only after she saw those saplings, which initially looked dull like men who wouldn’t fit in the new places, sprouting with green, tender leaves. Salammal deeply loved the plants. She had made her house a beautiful garden with whatever the plant she could grab. She would always be busy with either shoveling, watering, or just raking the dried leaves. The flowers that blossomed in her garden would smile on the women’s heads in the village. People said that the fruits from her garden had an exquisite taste.

“She is mad after the tree. Is he hailing from the jungle or what?” People would wonder.

“It is all right for a woman who has no children or place to settle, to have an attachment to something. But her interest in trees is beyond comprehension,” they said.

“Someone near Vellore has printed a wedding invitation for his trees and got them married. Is she also planning anything like that?” The villagers gossiped.

No one could comprehend Salammal’s love for trees. Every tree in the village is like her mother’s lap. It was her everyday routine that she would sit under any one of those trees, and vent out her heart to them.

Once, when the nature proved too harsh for her to bear the damages the gale and rain had caused, she abused the sky, cracking her knuckles and cursing the rain. The gale had caused huge damage to tender guava branches and drumstick trees. She collected the broken branches and covered them with a cloth soaked in red sand. People’s sarcastic remarks at her didn’t move her resolve. Last month, a village development scheme was set to be implemented in her village. It was decided that the pipal tree that was standing with a full of thick branches near the ‘village ratchai’ (where the village panjayat used to assemble) and the cannonball tree on the fringes of the village should be removed to build a library, a water pumping station and a television room. As soon as Salammal came to know about this decision, she became extremely furious. When the first swing of the axe fell on the tree, she stormed angrily, obstructing the chopping as her disheveled hair fell before her. She panted as she came running there.

“Deiiii…We are all sisters staying here. Who’s trying to drive us out of here?” she yelled out as if she were possessed.

“O! Mother! Please bear with us. Who are you?”

“I am Nagalamma, Poovulamma, Ellamma…It is our residence. We now stay in this cannonball tree, Ellamaa’s place. If you ever try to cut the trees where we live to drive us out, we will destroy the whole village”

The axes and swords fell off. As soon as it was assured that the trees wouldn’t be cut, the ‘deity’ possessed her ‘went back’ to its abode. The day she saved the tree, Salammal was sitting under the pipal tree. Salammal lived alone. After she was driven out by her husband as she was childless, she remained in that village and settled there as a destitute. Her only relation, her elder brother, also left her in search of a job and livelihood. She was left with a house in the village and a small patch of rain-fed land. She decided that she would toil in that land as much as she could and till the time her strength lasted. She unfolded her summadu, wiped her face with it. ‘It all appears that I planted them a day ago. But they have grown fast. I need to remove the sticks that support the flowers. I have to wait for some more time for it to ripen’ she thought. Her eyes that were rolling through the scorching mirage were fixed in the empty space in the east. The mirage and scorching sun found afar seemed to have moved from there and descended into her heart. Her eyes grew teary like sluice gates as she delved into her past.

No one in the village had taken Salammal seriously, as she had no one who would come in support of her. The shepherd woman Rangamani and her brothers- in-law would always find Salammal worth teasing. One day, Salammal saw Rangamani, who was on her way back home after collecting firewood, plucking the mango leaves and crushing them. She scolded Rangamani heavily, as she was very anxious that the mango saplings would lose grip in the root and die. It had been only a very few days since those saplings were planted. When she went to her farm the next day, she found half of the mango saplings were lying uprooted. It pained her as though someone had slit her throat. “Aiyo, my babies! All my loving babies are gone!’ She beat her chest and stomach, picked the uprooted plants and wailed terribly. Rangamani owned the land that neighboured Salammal’s land. Rangamani had had an eye on Salammal’s land for a long.

“Should I afford such a big insult for petty issue like this? It is all my mistake. They are all going to die now. How could you do this just for scolding you not to pluck the leaves? Am I the scapegoat to show the arrogance of your caste?” Salammal lodged a complaint with the village panjayat, and kept crying as if someone dear to her heart was dead in her home. The villagers were perplexed, why is she crying like this for trees?” The village panjayat that assembled in the dusk, passed the judgement that they wouldn’t be able to get into it further unless they knew who had cut the trees. No one took Salammal’s contentions about the possible culprits, and her earnest pleading that the footprints on the land belonged to none other than the roguish Rangamani.

Salammal felt completely dejected. Unable to comfort her wailing heart, she ran to the pastor who gave her those mango saplings in the early morning and inconsolably wept in front of him.

“You don’t have to cry like this. Let me arrange some saplings for you.” Salammal nodded her head swiftly, on hearing his assurance.

“You must get those culprits punished, Samy. They have slaughtered half of my children,” she said.

“Lodge a complaint with the police. I will come there in a while”

Taking the pastor’s advice, she went to the police station.

The casual reply from the policemen that they wouldn’t take such petty cases like cutting trees didn’t take away her determination. She was standing at the police station’s doorway all day, clearing her nose frequently.

Finally, they said, “Bring a complaint that states they have beaten you before cutting the trees”

After filing the complaint, she spent her days walking to the police station and the pastor’s house. Only when she received the first summons after lodging the complaint did her wailing heart find some peace. “Even at the worst time, justice will never die. Will it? Count your days now. You had chopped my plants as they were bleeding. Now wait and see your destiny”

On all the occasions she received the summons, she would wait in the court complex, waiting for justice. But she was disappointed to see that no justice, as she had expected, was delivered in the court.

In two days, she whined, “Why do these men hesitate this much to declare wrong is wrong?’ and went to Thambidurai’s house. He was her elder brother’s son.

After her elder brother had died, Thambidurai was her only support. Though he was living miles away from her, she would catch a bus and go to meet him at least once a month. Salammal reared all his children, cuddling them dear to her heart. Among them, Salammal loved the youngest, Sivappi, more. Thambidurai suggested to her to take the advice of a government lawyer. The next day, she caught the lawyer by tracing him through the sources, and literally made him embarrassed with her grumbles and sobs.

“Paatti, why are you crying? It is not a teak tree. They are just ordinary trees. Right? Leave the matter,” he said.

“Aiya, they are not trees. They are like my children born out of my womb. You must pass the verdict to punish those killers.”

For every summon, Salammal’s grieving wails grew louder. The lawyer sent her back with a warning that he would get the case dismissed unless she stopped pestering him.

Salammal, who thought Rangamani’s friends would be punished on the very next day she had filed the complaint, was indeed hugely shocked to see nothing had happened to them. She met every possible authority and attended innumerable summons from the court. Despite frequent visits, she could get nothing from the pastor who had assured her of new saplings. Salammal was finally exhausted.

Salammal came to her senses when a quail swooshed from the bush nearby. The sun was scorching above the head. While seeing the mango plants that rustled in the wind, her disappointment disappeared. She spent the remaining days tending to the trees that had been left, watering them, cracking her knuckles to drive out laziness and speaking to them. If she ever happened to meet Rangamani in the fields and near the ponds, she would feel crushed like dead leaves by her deriding sneer. In order to avoid it, she would prefer working over there for longer hours. Salammal was happy about the trees that stood ready for harvest next year. Tomorrow was the last summons from the court. She was delighted as she remembered the lawyer’s assuring words that the verdict was likely to be passed that day. She then covered her head with the mukkadu, picked up her pitcher and walked down the slope that led to her home.

Salammal was sitting under a mango tree blooming with flowers. The sun was harsh like a cat guarding its kitten. Her heart, sitting in the cage of her body was merrily playing like a child. Seeing the dance of the mango tree, she felt a rumble of water stirring in her abdomen. Her hands caressed the mango tree lovingly. Her eyes welled up with tears, ready to streak down her cheek.

The court complex was wearing a zealous appeal with men moving around. The lawyers, policemen and people were busy running here and there. Salammal saw Rangamani and her brothers- in-law sitting at a distance and chit-chatting. Salammal thought they were chit-chatting about her. The anger crept into her dry body. She turned her face to the other side. She was astonished to realize that all her days, ever since her middle age to this day, were just spent in a sort of ‘penance’, waiting at this court complex. The call from the court’s orderly sounded like an oracle for Salammal. She ran in. The judge spoke: “There is no evidence to prove that the accused persons have cut those trees. Since they were freshly planted, they could have died as their roots might not have been strong enough”

Those words stunned Salammal. Her throat pit went dry, and breathless and spat out a sound of utter haplessness.

“Aiya…they weren’t just plants. They were my children. They are the hope of this barren woman, aiya”

She came out of the court, babbling like a madwoman and sat under the mango tree. She was angry, felt miserable and insulted. How many visits she had made for those plants, how many complaints she had filed, how many times she had climbed on the court’s steps! Fire of helplessness was burning under her belly!

‘They were innocent children. What had they done to deserve such cruel punishment? What would they have spoken to each other if they could speak? Even after coming home, she didn’t cook rice. She kept wailing, venting out her angst softly till midnight.

Immediately after getting up in the morning, she took away the pots in the kitchen, removed their supporting trivets and then dug out the mud ‘hundis’ buried under it. Some of those five hundis were full and others were not. She broke them and collected the coins. While carrying them, tying them up in the hem of her sari, her torso bent forward due to its weight. She walked to the nursery in the neighbouring village. After placing an order for some mango saplings, she returned to her land.

Before the sun became harsh, she could dig ten or fifteen pits. The aroma of the soil rose as she dug in. Suddenly, she remembered her granddaughter, Sivappi. Sivappi used to come to Salammal every year during the school summer holidays. Salammal would gift her clothes with the money she had saved by doing all sorts of menial work during the year. Salammal’s heart was heavy as she had spent all the savings from the hundis on mango saplings this year.

“My dear girl, she will be disappointed this year,” she thought.

She looked at the grove, in despair. The tender leaves were waving gently in the wind.

“It is all right. Only one year to go. After that, you, my children, will take care of my dear girl. Won’t you?” The mango saplings danced elegantly in the wind. The soil gave way for digging pits, listening to her words.

***Ended***