The Telugu Short Story

THE TELUGU SHORT STORY (A collection of 12 Telugu Short Stories translated into English)

Translation by :

KASUKHELA NARASIMHA RAO

"The Telugu Short Story" ( A collection of 12 Telugu Short Stories translated into English)

Translation by: KASUKHELA NARASIMHA RAO

February 2015

Published by : K.N. RAO

Price: Rs.100/-

Cover Design : T.M.Varunkumarni

Designer: G. Srinivas Supriya Graphics Chennai 600 024

PREFACE A centenary of Telugu short story had been celebrated recently.

A gratifying fact of these celebrations has been that it received enormous attention at various levels -- State, District, and Town; Student writers, Woman writers and celebrity writers. However, there is a saddening side to this: not one had received PanIndia recognition, forget World recognition. Why, I asked myself. Came the answer that it was because translations into other Indian languages were scarce and scarcer still into English, a world language. The situation warrants remedial measures. This is an area where the Universities of the state have a big role to play. They have the manpower and the financial resources.

I thought a small effort by me might act as a catalyst in this regard. It could be a stone hurled by a mad man: it might hit the target.

I have no pretensions to any literary achievement. Yet my love for my Telugu, impelled me to place this ‘translations’ of 12 short stories which caught my eye put together.

I’m no clairvoyant. If it serves the intended purpose, I can die happily: after all, I’m going onto 89.

I’ll be failing in my duty if I do not acknowledge the enthusiastic support I received from: Sri M.A. Subhan Sri Vasundhara (Dr. J. R. Rao) Sri Kalipatnam Rama Rao Garu Sri M.L. Narasimham and last but not the least, Sri Ch. Madan Mohan Now, I wait and watch.

- K.N. Rao 15.1.2012

THE WHAT AND WHY OF THIS There is nothing in this world that is not worth a short story.

No wonder, themes range all the way from the down-to-earth to fanciful flights of imagination. Naturally, every group of people, all across space and time, has its own garland of stories. The Teluguspeaking peoples living in their own heartland of Andhrapradesh and Telangana, as also its diaspora spread all over the world, produced their own spectrum of short stories, some recorded and some handed down through an oral tradition. In the last hundred odd years, the art flourished, indeed bloomed. However, there is an undercurrent of regret that the Telugu genius did not attract the attention of the rest of the world; many say, it is because the Telugu Short Story is not translated as much as it should have been.

It must be admitted, albeit with some reservation, English is the global language of our time. So, a glimmer of pragmatism goaded me to translate some Telugu short stories into English, in the hope that this regret would be remedied, though perhaps only partly.

The stories selected for translation has been a random exercise, culled out mostly from Kathasagar, a magnificent collection of Telugu short stories, edited by Sri M.A. Subhan of Kalasagar, a cultural organization that provided entertainment of first order to the Teluguspeaking people living in Madras (now, Chennai) and Kalipatnam Rama Rao Rachanalu published by Progressive publications and edited by Sri. V.V. N. Murthy and ‘Rachana’ Sai. ‘Aswamedhayagam’ by Sri Sri appealed to me as it talks of a day in the life of a man, thirsty for making a quick buck. The story appeared in the monthly magazine of ‘Swathi’, February 2012, under a feature titled ‘Naku Nachina Katha’-‘the story I like’. ‘Purugu’ by J. Ramalakshmi tells us of a housewife, very happy in the knowledge that her husband loves her to no end. ‘Galiveedununchi to Newyork daaka’ is chosen firstly because Rajaram had always been my favourite short story writer. It is about an irrational feud between two swollen – headed persons who are highly clannish from the countryside in Rayalaseema. ‘Tiladaanam’ is chosen as it exemplifies the profound knowledge of astronomy of our ancestors and also because it exposes the hypocritical life of the priestly class of our society. ‘Koolina Buruzu’ by Kethu Viswanatha Reddy is translated as it highlights the revengeful rivalry that prevails in the landed aristocracy of the Telugu Reddis. ‘Maro prapan chamlo Lakshmanarekha’ by Vasundhara focuses on the unassailable caste

consciousness along with the human side of the lady character, depicted here. Kalipatnam Rama Rao garu is a well-known Telugu short story writer. He has to his credit far better known stories than the ones translated here. But I wanted to capture the traits of curiosity and wonder of his younger days as well as his shrewd obersvation of a lazy laid-back life style of a person who totally surrenders himself to time and its abrasive action. Hence, ‘Emiti Idanta’ and ‘Nirvakalu’ written while he was still flowering into the well-known writer that he is today. ‘Kalanni Venakku Tippaboku’

by Smt. D. Kameswari is chosen as it features the struggle that goes on in a family caught between wanting to conform to traditional ways and a strong desire to go modern, all at once. ‘Dhakan’ by Mohamad Khadir Babu brings out the difficulty of being a Muslim in contemporary India. ‘Ma Nishada’ by Madan Mohan illustrates the all too commonly seen twist from which new opportunities emerge even as matters look wretchedly bleak. The last one, ‘Pullaiah Puranam’ is chosen primarily because it had been penned by the translator himself but secondarily also because of a unique experience of being spotted and patted by a group of his friends in a hotel in Nellore, his native town, where he went even as he was working as Assistant Professor of Botany at Pachaiyappa’s College, Madras (now Chennai).

So, here is the vindication of my thesis, ‘There is nothing in this world that is not worth a short story’. Surely there are many more short stories in Telugu, worth the effort of translators. I translated these short stories in 2012, when I was 89. Now, I am 91.

This humble effort of mine if it enthuses some younger translators, I’ll deem my effort has not gone in vain. As I said in the preface, the celebration of the centenary of Telugu short story in 2011 ignited the spark. May the flame spread and bring glory to Telugu Short Story.

- K N RAO 22-1-2015.

Address: K.N. RAO G2, Jains Akansha, 8. Rathinammal Street, Kodambakkam, Chennai- 600024.

Phone: 044-24726617.

Inside....

ASWAMEDHA YAGAM

7

(EQUESTRIAN SACRIFICE) - SRI SRI INSECT

10

JONNALAGADDA RAMALAKSHMI GALIVEEDU TO NEW YORK - Madhurantakam Rajaram

15

A GIFT OF GINGELLY SEEDS - Rentala Nageswara Rao

27

THE CITADEL IN DISREPAIR -Kethu Viswantha Reddy

40

HER VERY OWN RUBICON -Vasundhara

48

WHAT IS ALL THIS? -Kalipatnam Ramarao

54

MANAGEMENT -Kalipatnam Ramarao

56

DONT TURN THE CLOCK BACK - D. Kameswari

65

THE COVER -Mohammed Khadir Babu

74

LETTER BOX - CH. MADAN MOHAN

85

MR. PULLAIAH’S RIGMAROLE - Kasukhela Narasimha Rao

89

1

ASWAMEDHA YAGAM

EQUESTRIAN SACRIFICE - SRI SRI

M

"

other serious start immediately" - read the telegram from Ramam.

Venkateswarlu was stunned. His mind went blank. All thoughts froze. It was as if all his blood clotted up. No knife would restore its flow; if it did, it would be a deluge.

The shock passed. A flood of thoughts surged through his mind.

"Mother might die; he must catch the mail that evening. Wonder if she would hold her breath till he reached home. Why not tomorrow?

Would her soul stay in that old frame till tomorrow? It is just not possible to catch the mail this evening. Why not tomorrow? Yes, I will go tomorrow. It is just not possible to catch the mail today. Why, why not tomorrow? And the money?� It is the racing season. His head is full of horses. This telegram would help him raise the money not from one source; several! A dying mother would melt even the stone-hearted. Four-five might remain unmoved. Even so, five-six others would relent. There is no doubt; he would be able to encash the telegram up to a hundred rupees, at the least. No time to waste.

He dressed up. Literally penniless. Someone in the neighbourhood, who would give him a loan - who can it be? Who else? Sathyanarayana came to his mind. He lives just about four streets away, within walking distance. A type who would raise money, pledging his wife's jewels if necessary. Not very close to him, but close enough to tap for a loan, especially in a time like this.

He called out: ‘Sathyanarayana garu.' "No he is not at home."

Ill omen he felt. So early in the morning, where could he have gone?

And then, he wondered if the telegram is on him or if he left it at home. He passed his hand over the pocket. He had the telegram, safe and sound. How to reach Sathyanarayana! May be, went to a hotel for a cup of coffee. A two anna coin is all he needed to go to a 7

hotel. And he did not have it. Let me see. His wife may know where he went. Why not? "Went to central station. I will tell him that you called", said Sathyanarayana's wife.

Venkateswarlu knew Nair, the owner of the soda shop at the street corner. He borrowed a pavala from Nair. Boarded the bus.

Did not feel like sitting. Travelled standing. All his thoughts were on horses at the race course, scheduled to partake in the races that day. He met Sathyanarayana, waiting for train's arrival. His brotherin-law was coming, said Sathyanarayana.

Venkateswarlu found it not so easy to open the topic. "I went to your house. You were not at home. It is an urgent matter," was how he framed his opening remarks. No, a bad opening. He rubbed off the words, like a school boy would with an eraser. Without a word, he took out the telegram from his pocket and handed it over to Sathyanarayana.

“Oh! What a pity!! Never knew your mother was sick." There was a ring of pain in Sathyanarayana's face. "Old age; what else? Is it not disease enough? I am planning to go by mail, this evening,” said Venkateswarlu.

Venkateswarlu 's looks appeared as if they were shredding a vacuum that settled before his eyes. "I want to go. But I don't have a pie.” His words came out in so low a voice as if demanding an immediate response to help someone in great danger of getting drowned in a deep well. He took hold of the right hand of Sathyanarayana, pressed his thumb and right hand against his own forehead and said he needed twenty five rupees, the minimum requirement.

“I need thirty rupees. Don't know how you would manage. But you have to give it. I don't have it in me to ask anyone else.”

Sathyanarayana is a tender hearted person. It didn't take even five minutes for him to say that he would pledge some gold and give Venkateswarlu the thirty rupees he wanted at two, that afternoon.

Venkateswarlu said he would meet Sathyanarayana in his office at 2 and take the money urgently needed.

* * * * *

It took all his skill to fleece ten rupees from Narahari.

* * * * *

Venkateswarlu reached Mylapore Bank in a taxi. He knew Kamesam, a chap working in that bank; not a friend but someone known. In such circumstances, acquaintances were far easier to handle than friends. Even after spending half an hour at the bank his collection had not grown even by a pie. He realized that in this stupid game, spending money on a taxi was idiotic and walked to 8

the homes of a couple of advocate friends. The telegram fetched Rs.20/ - at one place and Rs.25/- at another.

The clock struck, twelve. He had Rs.75/- in his pocket. The horse racing was in full cry. With the thirty five rupees Sathyanarayana promised, he would have Rs.105/- And Guindy beckoned him. Last day of the season. Early next morning, he would board the Express.

The previous evening he procured the pocket-sized book that listed the names and the provenance of the horses, their weight, handicap permitted, the owner of the horse and the jockey and such other details.

He analysed the data, applying his mind with far greater diligence than ever before. Surely, you are going to hit the jackpot, shouted an inner voice, Why go home! Had small snacks at a wayside restaurant, went to Sathyanarayana 's office and from there to the Park station. Soon he found himself in an electric train, bound to Guindy.

A Treble would yield seven or eight hundred. And he would hand back all the moneys he raised that very evening. His mind went on a journey into the past. Last month he bet all his month's earnings on horses, as recommended by others. What else, he lost all.

Today, I'll do the betting on the strength of my own scientifically worked out database. Surely I am going to win. In fact there is no way I could lose.

That evening, on his return journey from Guindy he had nine annas, two Wills cigarette packets, and the telegram he received that morning.

His calculations were scientific, based on data he scanned. But those wretched horses did not know science!!!

- Swati Monthly Feb 2012

9

2

INSECT - JONNALAGADDA RAMALAKSHMI

I

love the country, this country of ours. I like our traditions too.

But some of those traditions irked me. No special reason. I am a woman .... That is the reason if you want to know.

I stretch out my hands into the rain; I love it------- my hands getting wet. When I was quite young I used to do it. Mother would get annoyed .........her fear was that I would catch cold. But I would not give up. Many times I would get wet in the rain, when mother’s caring eyes were not watching me. And when reported, mother would scold me.

"Did I fall sick!” I would counter. Mother had no answer.

This went on till I was twelve. Now, she began singing a different song: "You are a girl.”

“You better behave yourself—as befits a girl" she would say.

Somehow that kind of control, I did not like. But now, all the others in the family joined the chorus.

I did not know how to silence mother. When I turned sixteen, mother did not have to tell me that I was a girl. The way others looked at me said it all.

The splash of rain drops as they hit me in the random way as they alone would used to tickle me to no end. It is my body; the way men began to look at it, made me feel bored through.

For the only reason that I am a girl, I had to deny myself the pleasure of getting drenched in the rain. That is not all...

And in summer, when it sweats and hot breeze takes your life out, my mother had to drape herself in a seven yard saree and tightly fit her chest in a jacket stitched from a mere 80 cms piece while my brother wore only his underwear and my father nonchalantly lifted his lungi up above the knees by folding it up above the knees and 10

moved around the house as if it is all so proper. For my part, I had to wear garments upon garments, of all hues and variety, just to hide what coming of age endowed me with. It was a humiliating discrimination. My anger at this knew no bounds. Further, when I see kids almost bare bodied, I regretted my having grown to sixteen.

All this caused a hurtful pain that would tear through me.

Yet, I am no advocate of rebellion. When my father found a husband for me, I never gave a thought to the problems he had to encounter such as raising money that would meet the demand for dowry. I had not thought much on the problems. On the other hand I went into a dream-state, a pleasurable one concentrating all my thoughts on the wonderful life that is opening out before me. Not for a moment, did I ask myself what made the male superior to female.

I readily agreed to tag on his name to my own. That tag, I felt was the equivalent of a Ph.D.! I gave up the name of the family into which I was born and became part and parcel of my husband’s.

Indeed he is my Mr. (though it is not an abbreviated form of master).

He respected me. What is more, he loved me. He would always say to me, “yours is a thinking brain. Give it a chance. You'll grow into a dazzling diamond. If you have plans, you can depend on me.

I'll be behind you!” “What do I need to accomplish?” I asked.

"You may attempt to give a new direction to our traditional ways."

If only one sits and ponder, the problems a woman faces in our society are nothing at all, quite in contrast to the security she enjoys.

Our tradition and customs offer this double advantage. May be, some women face acute problems.

As for me; I don't have any problems. Probably I'll know about them only if I experience them personally myself. I am quite happy as it is.

When summer set in, my husband bought a unicool fan. The joy I spoke of getting wet standing in the rain I had it in a much greater measure than I ever hoped, for there was a shower bath at home.

Come to think of it, if I have to stand in rain, the clothes I wear would stand between the splashing water drops and my body. Here there is no such screen.

I love shower bath.

As far as I am concerned, all the problems associated with being a woman vanished without a trace.

My husband would say, "Your selfishness is closing out your intelligence".

11

He has a mindset that was extra fine, so fine that he would not kill a mosquito sucking his blood. If he were even to kill a living thing, he would imagine the agony it would go through before death finally puts a full stop to it all.

The pests such as mosquitoes and cockroaches that infest our home are taken care of by me, me only. Sometimes, I would make fun of him, that he was afraid of those creatures. But he remains unmoved. If the creatures are too small he would stop me too to go on with my job.

But then, I would tell him a white lie --- I am going to release them in the garden and go about as is my wont, throw them into the toilet and pull the chain.

This is my mindset. And yet, why I did what I did today, I do not know.

I grew narcissistic. My skin was aglow in a golden hue. I felt like kissing myself. The shower was on. The water drops sliding down my body appeared like so many pearls leading me on, into some other world. The Jasmine soap I held smelt heavenly and I slipped into a dream like state.

Then... I saw a small dark insect. It is quite familiar though I did not know by what name it is called. Dark and half an inch long it had a cuticular coat. If the occasion demanded, it could fly two or three inches off its substratum. Many a time I killed that insect in my own way, push it into the toilet and pull the chain. The one that caught my eye then was the very same insect, no doubt.

The water from the shower flowed down into drain via my body.

I saw it caught in that stream. It was trying hard not to be swept away. A good part of its body was under water and disabled it from flying. The water stream was too rapid.

On an impulse, I closed the shower. The flow of the stream slowed. The insect is now able to swim against the current.

I looked around. I saw the wrapper that I undid from the soap before I got under the shower. I took out the wrapper and placed it in the insect's pathway. It found a way out from the death trap, by managing to crawl on to the wrapper. I lifted the paper with the insect upon it and put it in a corner, quite out of the way of water stream. The insect is in a safe spot.

All the time I was bathing, my eyes remained on the insect. I was extra careful and engaged myself over watching the insect and its safety from the water stream. I was surprised at myself; the why of this extra care I am lavishing on an insect which on many occasions earlier I consigned to the toilet and the gushing waters eluded me.

12

I came out of the bathroom and gave a detailed account of what happened in the bathroom to my husband and as an after thought, recalled the popular saying, "Six months of togetherness makes one the other" and said the adage appeared to have come true in our case.

A smile danced on his face. He said, "Nothing of the kind. Did you write to your mother?" He took care to see that his tone did not betray any other feeling than that of a casual enquiry.

"No. Not yet", I said. Don't know why but a shudder passed through me.

My mother's birth place was Dhavaleswaram. She went there with her father and two uncles of mine. I know Dhavaleswaram was in the grip of floods. Mother, her father and my uncles were getting carried away and luckily for all, they reached a place where they found safety.

Caught unawares, none of them had a chance of survival. One of my uncles knew how to swim but not enough of the art to save the rest.

God in human form, a Good Samaritan, a total stranger saved them. He helped them go up the steps leading to the temple of Janardhana swami.

Mother was in a terrible shock. She spent a whole night on the hillock. All around, the river was flowing in all its fury. She had lost all hopes of coming out alive from the ordeal.

And now, she wrote to me. She said, the roads are too damaged and are not fit to travel; and that I better drop my plans to go to her place.

Mother's letter impacted me a great lot. Possibly, the way I reacted to the possibility of an insect getting washed away was, if I may say so, telepathic. Otherwise how do I explain the concern I felt over the fate of an insect?

His sensibility would not let my husband go to the matter straight, making me unhappy. The letter that I planned to write to my mother came in handy to break the news. "You are capable of deep thinking. Hone it and you would be a diamond and grow into a beacon light to the world of women. You can always count on me.

Let not selfishness blunt your intelligence", he said for the umpteenth time.

The floods and the news about it did not stir me a whit, until I heard about the ordeal my mother went through, on account of the floods. News items, quite heart-rending were aplenty. But none moved me. I knew that the township where father lived was not 13

affected by floods but little did I know that mother planned to go to Dhavaleswaram.

Fellowmen, indeed my very own Telugu speaking folk went through untold suffering because of the floods. I was not touched.

But, when my mother was affected by the very same floods, something impacted me and made me go to the aid of an insect, caught in a similar plight.

"An intelligent mind capable of deep thinking: let not selfishness swallow it"....... The words began to ring loud in my ears. The words seem to possess an element of truth in them. I must begin a new life.

Live not for self alone, assign some time for others.

So many events take place every day. If only we keep our eyes and ears open, there are lessons to be learnt. But many of us choose to live in a world of our own, unmindful of what is happening around us.

I went into the bathroom and looked at that insect again - the one which I saved from getting drowned. But now it does not look like an insect; in it, I see my servant maid, the beggar who stations himself near my house, the children from the orphanage going on a fortnightly march singing songs seeking help, the five year olds struggling to carry loads many times heavier than themselves --- so many scenes passed through my mind.

Man was an insect before the fury of Godavari floods.

The insect in my bathroom made me into a humane human being.

- Andhra jyothi weekly – 11.9.1987

14

3

GALIVEEDU TO NEW YORK - Madhurantakam Rajaram

I

t was all so unexpected: as if a dream come true. True, every time his nephew, Madhusudana Reddy came home to India, he would urge his uncle, Malla Reddy, to go to America. “Don’t you worry, mama. I’ll make it very comfortable for you. I’ll spare no effort to make you feel the visit was worthwhile,” he would say. But little did Malla Reddy expect that his travel plans were drawn up to a T. It was all done without his having nodded his approval. Not that he ever wished not to go abroad. But his arch enemy, Chenchu Rama Naidu, was always a thorn in his flesh. That is the rub.

And yet, Malla Reddy was not above blame. No deluge, no thunder bolt would deter him from doing whatever he wanted. Who else could have handled the party politics of the village as well as he!

For ten long years!

All disputes stem from a tiny spark. So did the rivalry between him and Naidu. A small sprinkle to begin with, it grew into a storm fanned by elections to the Assembly. Naidu was the opposition candidate. Reddy won. But he had to step down because of an election petition, citing irregularities from electioneering, voting at poll booths and counting votes. The petition highlighted every single malpractice, magnifying each a hundred fold. The court decided that Reddy vacate the hard won seat. That day, Reddy swore: “Aye, Chechu Rama, I would not be true to my name if I did not play football with your skull on the dry bed of our village tank.” The vow would stay valid until Naidu’s head was severed from his torso. As if it was a prelude to the shape of things to come, the lime trees – all the four hundred of them – in Naidu’s orchard stood truncated.

“Reddy resorted to rigging and I lost the election by a margin of five thousand votes. And now equal to its weight in gold, the lime 15

trees in my orchard stand truncated. How can I sleep until that Reddy died a dog’s death,” swore Naidu. Though apparently Malla Reddy was not shaken, he secured the services of four goondas to act as his bodyguards.

Five years ago, Naidu struck a deal: he bought a mango orchard, ten acres in extent, far away from the village at the foot of a hillock.

The deal was struck on the strength of a word of honour. Happy at the deal, he was getting dressed up to go to the Registrar’s office.

And comes the news: Reddy forestalled him. Not a word reached Naidu’s ears, until it was too late.

Reddy’s triumph was short-lived. Yes the deal had legal sanction but the fruit of the deal eluded his grasp. The orchard was too far away. So, he built a living quarter in the garden and engaged a yanadi family to keep watch. Hardly the watchman’s family settled down, one night some masked men raided the orchard, beat up Subbadu and his family black and blue. The watchman and his family fled without leaving a trace of their whereabouts. It remained an orchard in name only. All called it a mango garden: trees without branches, not to say fruits. The trees were cut into small pieces and Reddy did not have a log worth a dime. Fencing did not improve matters. The muslim traders who buy the rights for the usufructs of the garden -- not one turned up.

Malla Reddy clenched his fists, gnashed his teeth and literally emitted fire from his eyes every time the mango garden came to his mind. He sweated heavily and that was that.

If Naidu smells of Reddy’s plans to go to America, he would do everything in his power and see that the plans failed. He might influence police and cause them not to issue a N.O.C. Reddy took every care to keep his plans secret. He obtained police clearance and passport easily enough. But there could be a problem over getting the visa. The lady officer at the Andhra counter looked at Reddy hawk- eyed. His hair style, thick mustache, eagle eyed look, the gold bordered garment around the waist and the long upper garment draped around the neck falling down on either side of his body up to knees looking as if it is a garland of flowers --- no, he did not look like one on his way to America. He looked more like a local satrap going to a wedding at a princely home, or someone on his way to a cattle fair to buy high breed bulls.

“Mr. Reddy, what prompts you to go to our land?” asked the American lady, in chaste Telugu with a Sanskrit accent. “Why do you go to America? My nephew is in Chicago. And Jagga Reddy, my sister-in-law’s son lives in Detroit working on, what do you call them, ah! Yes, computers. And another boy of my clan, he is in Dallas 16

running a silk emporium earning dollars in millions. And what do you call that town, Austin or Houston...

“Enough, enough, Mr.Reddy. Incidentally who is buying the ticket – you or one of them in U.S.A.?”

Appeared stung to the quick, Reddy pulled out a pass-book from his pocket, pushed it through the counter and said, “This passbook is from the SBI. And I have accounts in two other banks too. And several fixed deposits.”

“Right, Mr. Reddy. I don’t need to see your books. I am issuing a visa to you. You can stay there for six months. You may travel all over U.S.A. leisurely. May your journey be attended by happiness and profit, come back safe.” She sounded apologetic.

Six months! Chenchu Rama Naidu came to his mind. “If I am away for six months sightseeing in America, who will check Naidu’s tantrums? Would there not be a crop of mustache on his elbows? My men, would they have to stay without protection? Who would counter the sword he would unsheathe, knowing that he is not around? Would it not amount to surrendering the fort to the enemy? Was he one to sneak out through the back door?” All these remained unspoken thoughts.

Midnight, the flight took off at one’o clock. Seated next to him was a Tamilian. Much against his natural inclination, he had to stay silent. At Delhi, all the passengers disembarked. Nearly two hours later, he was led into another plane. Seated next to him was a thirty year old youngster. The forced reticence was growing unbearable. He must find out what language the boy spoke. Malla Reddy was at school for some time in his younger days and so was not altogether unfamiliar with English. He decided to break the ice and said, “Which place... you coming?”

The boy broke into a smile and said, “I speak Telugu. A native of a village near Kalakada, Chittoor district. I did Engineering and am working in a construction firm, near Pittsburgh.”

Reddy’s mind began to work. Good, but I must know if this boy is of my clan or not. Otherwise, when the time to share food comes, how will I decide if we eat from the same plate or he from a leaf and I from my metal plate. “But how... No, a direct question on the subject would not do. Ok. Let me get to the point from another angle.” So he asked him? “What is your name, my boy?”

“Gopalakrishnamurthy. You may call me Murthy” replied the boy.

‘Umm! This bird in its golden cage has to come out and reveal itself in its true colours. My bait had not been good enough. I need to plan my enquiry far more meticulously. He cannot but let me know 17

his clan,’ thought Reddy. A plan unfolded itself in his mind. He jumped into the fray and said, “My village is not far off, Galiveedu near Royachoti. I know your region quite well. I used to visit those parts, for buying cattle. Kalakada, Gurramkonda, Mahalu – I know the area like the back of my hand. It is a war zone. Fierce battles rage between Kondapuram reddys and Pothugunta naidus. How is the situation, now?”

“Let us not talk about it. Thanks to these warring clans, twenty to thirty villages in the region do not eat or sleep in peace. A bus plying in the area was stopped, a passenger was spotted, dragged out of the bus and was stabbed to death by a gang of four or five, obviously of the opposite camp. The victim’s wife swore that she would not change into a widow’s garments until her husband’s killers were killed. Frustrated that the killers escaped, the victim’s men set fire to their homes, burnt their haystacks and had sumptuous dinner where the main dish was the meat from their slaughtered sheep.

Ten days later, the leader of that gang was killed at Madanapalle bus stand in broad day light, even as a crowd of four hundred was present there. The fire is raging. Nobody seems to mind it. In fact, dozens and dozens of ghee tins is poured over the flames, just to stoke the fire. Where and when will it all end?”

“No, no. I know it all. But who has the upper hand?” asked Reddy.

This question sent Murthy into a flying rage. He burst out, “A knife is used to cut throats. What does it matter whose it is, whether yours or mine. Who is the nice guy asked some one of a father. ‘See there, the fellow standing atop there swinging that firebrand, he is the best,’ said the father: so goes a folk tale. That is the answer to your question. Do you know why I am going back within two weeks of coming here? I came to see my mother. She is grief- stricken and bed ridden. She is grieving over the death of my younger brother.

Absolutely not connected with either of these parties and yet, he was killed. You know why! only because from behind he looked like the son of a party leader. There was a group waiting for the prince to appear. It was dusk time. My brother went to Kondapuram on some business. He was on his way back home. The killers mistook my brother for the Yuvraj and hacked him to pieces. The body was not traced: only pieces of organs. And a gunny bag containing the cutpieces was brought to my mother. Its mouth was tied up. ‘Here is your son,’ they told my mother and left.

Malla Reddy was dumbstruck. He wished he did not talk at all.

“As I was getting back, you know what my mother said to me?”

“What did she say?” asked Reddy.

18

The boy’s voice sounded heavy. “My dear son, don’t you ever come back to this country of ours. Settle down in that foreign country.

Please speak to me once every week over the phone. I’ll have my peace of mind, even if I can’t see you in flesh and blood.”

As if to regain his composure, Murthy took out a book from his bag. He got immersed in reading and soon slipped into deep sleep.

The crew drew curtains and switched off the lights. It was like night time. Malla Reddy seemed to have forgotten his Galiveedu, forgotten the city he was going to, forgotten his enemies, forgotten his rivalry, forgotten his vengefulness, forgotten the police stations and the cases pending in the courts and eased into a slumber, totally oblivious of the discomfort his body was subjected to.

Around 4’ O clock in the evening, the plane landed in the London Airport. The passengers were guided into a lounge where they could comfortably sit through the two / three hours needed for the staff to freshen up and refuel the plane. Once more the plane got airborne.

It was daytime all through. It didn’t look like night coming. There is no date change too, he was told. Malla Reddy felt he was getting towed into an unreal world. New York was only few minutes away.

A kind of fear, bordering on nervousness crept through him. A new, alien country. The smattering knowledge of English, no more than an incoherent assemblage of words he was familiar with, did not give Malla Reddy the confidence he wanted for the Whiteman’s way of speaking it was beyond his ability to make anything out of it. For now, the success of his trip to America depended upon one, Chintala Ravindra Reddy. He was to meet this Ravindra Reddy. If by chance, he was not there, what then? Who does he contact and where would he go?

Chintala Ravindra Reddy is a friend of his nephew, Madhusudana Reddy. The snag is Ravindra Reddy lived in New York and Madhusudana Reddy lived in Chicago. It might not be possible to arrange for his halt at New York while he was on his return trip.

And so, it was arranged that he would spend a week in New York, in Ravindra Reddy’s home. See all that there is to be seen at New York and then, move to Chicago, to his nephew’s home. Madhusudan arranged it all. But he had not seen this Ravindra Reddy nor Ravindra Reddy saw him. How are they going to place one another? Oh! How is he going to surmount all these tricky situations!

He hoped Murthy might help him out. But it was not going to happen that way. Murthy told him that he has just half-an-hour to catch his flight to Pittsburg. May be, he can be of some help till after Mr.Malla Reddy collected his luggage. Thereafter, Reddy has to be on his own.

19

The Airport was blindingly bright. Can there be another place like this in the world, was the thought that crossed Reddy’s mind: it is a wonder created by modern architectural science that is John F. Kennedy International airport. It symbolised American prosperity, glory and capability to build wonders, not found elsewhere in the world. And the crowd, all the time on the move in spite of its numbers; shops, hotels, telephone booths and a variety of other types of services.

Centers separated by crescent shaped pathways and half moon like walls, rising all the way from the floor to the roof and the roof itself fitted with translucent glass reflecting all that found on the floor – making it all look like a man-made ocean. He felt like a drop in the ocean with no separate identity of its own. Who is he, wondered Malla Reddy. May be, they built this megacity here to make individuals who throng there lose their identity. Suddenly, he felt he was not Malla Reddy from Galiveedu but a nameless person, without an address of his own.

And Murthy helped him collect his luggage and went his way.

An indescribable loneliness engulfed him. In that ocean where men of different races, different countries, speaking different languages, each differently dressed, of different ages, young, old and middle aged, he was getting tossed around, looking eagerly and keenly into every face that faintly looked Indian – and yet inexorably moving towards the exit gate. As he was thus lost, lost even to himself, he heard a voice that came like a shower of rain on a piece of badly parched land. The voice had the fragrance of rose-water.

“Hello! Namaskaram. You are Malla Reddy garu. Am I right?

Give that suit case; I’ll hold it for you.”

“How did you recognise me, young man,” he asked in a tone of surprise and wonderment.

“Madhusudan wrote to me. He gave me all marks of identification. But above all, the sentence he reserved to end his letter helped me a great deal. Shall I tell you what he said there? He wrote to say “if you find any one in that John F. Kennedy International Stadium who would look like RaRaju, Duryodhana, in the Maya Sabha, that would be my Malla Reddy mama. And you looked exactly that.”

“Oh! That’s it; that’s it.” He tried to wet his dried up lips with his tongue and finally succeeded to smother his amazement with a loud guffaw.

Soon, they were outside the main gate. Malla Reddy asked Ravindra, “How do we go home from here? How far is your place?”

“My home is not far off. Just seventy five miles and an hour’s drive. My car is in the workshop; small mechanical problem. I have 20

a second car but my wife took it to the school to drive our son, back home. So, on a request from me, a friend brought me here in his car.

He did not find a place to park the car. So, he went on rounds in the nearby roads. He’ll be here any moment. Please be seated in that chair, there.”

The car came in about ten minutes. The luggage was loaded in the dicky at the rear of the car. Malla Reddy settled down in the back seat along with Ravindra Reddy.

The friend at the wheel looked at Malla Reddy and said, “Namaskaram. Ravi told me about you. It is a great pleasure that elderly people like you come here once in a way. Surely, we’ll learn a great deal from you.”

“Oh! I forgot, I hadn’t introduced to you my friend. He is a native of Singanamala near Anantapur. He is working in a University near here, now for ten years. His name is R.N.Tummala. You may call him Mr. Thummala.”

“Thummala! What kind of name is it?” said Malla Reddy in a tone of amazement.

“That is how it is here; his full name is Thummala Ramachandra Naidu. It got metamorphosed to R.N.Thummala. Same is my story too. No one would know me if you ask for Chintala Ravindra Reddy.

I am known to all as R.R.Chintala.”

“But, why?”

“We decided to do away with flagging ourselves by our clan / caste names. As a first step, the suffix indicative of the clan / caste to which we belong is rubbed off.”

“What do you get out of this?” asked Malla Reddy.

“You must have noticed. At the airport, there were Whites, Negroes, Muslims from the east, Buddhists from S.E. Asia, Indians and many others. All of them, all forgot the land of their origin and settled down here. After all, all countries in the world are part of the same creation. No one country can claim the exclusive right of belonging to the world. This emigration, a feature of modern times, made all countries into a single mass, at least conceptually. Though as yet, religions and religious identity had not disappeared, we’re hoping that by the time our children grow up, the barriers standing between the citizens of different countries, races, languages would crumble and lead to friendship and even marriage between groups.

As a concept, it has a potential to bend and break the mountainous barriers that separate one man from another. When that happens, the clan and caste consciousness would disappear. Man would then outgrow national identity giving way for a universal brotherhood.

The identity that a country, language, religion and caste give would 21

become anachronistic. Justice, generosity, genteel helpful quality, love and tolerance and such other qualities would be the hallmarks of that new man. That is what we believe in. Every man must primarily be human: that is our goal.”

“What! Is this a new religion?” asked Malla Reddy in a tone tinged with ridicule.

“No, not at all. The idea had not come from us. Gurajada visualised an ideal world in which all nations lived in amity and friendship, between which no racial distinctions exist and a single lamp of wisdom lights up all humanity in its entirety. He visualised that such an order would emerge in the next century. Why should we not work towards that kind of world, a dream that would become a reality at least in the next century?”

Malla Reddy did not know how to respond to that new hope and dream of Ravindra. But he understood one thing. These boys had no use for terrorism and stories of vengeance. They did not have ears for such things. Bomb bursts, murders in broad day light, rivers of blood, setting fire to homes and such other actions do not seem to drive them to action. And what do they want to know from him?

He had his answer that night, after dinner. Ravindra and his wife raised questions on a huge range of topics. The NRIs are funding programmes aimed at obliterating illiteracy, improvement of living conditions in the backward regions of India. Are these projects moving in the right direction? How much are the social welfare programmes of Sri Satya Sai Baba trust helping the needy? Have you heard of Baba Ampte? What can you tell us about the selfless work he is performing? Mother Theresa is eulogised as an angel in human form.

Do you think she deserved all this praise? Do you know of anyone who is as great as Mahatma Gandhi in contemporary India?

Malla Reddy did not know answers to a great many of these questions. He felt like a total illiterate; like someone not even knowing the alphabet asked to read and explain Mahabharata? He chose to stay silent, just listening.

The seven days he was in New York were like seven seconds.

Ravindra’s wife addressed him, Babayi and this conferred on him the status of an uncle.

She would take out the car at nine in the morning, drop the son at the school and take Malla Reddy sight seeing. Sky scrapers, underground trains and shopping malls -- she took him everywhere.

She helped him buy all the trinkets he fancied. She took him to Chinese and Italian restaurants and showed him what that food would taste like. Lunch was always at an Indian restaurant and he did not miss Andhra cuisine in New York. Post-lunch, they would 22

spend in the green lawns on the banks of River Hudson and he would be all ears to her narration of life in America.

Malla Reddy would wake up at six in the morning. As he finished his morning ablutions, the litre of drinking water with which he would begin his day’s activities, would be ready. At six-thirty, he has his coffee laced with a small quantity of sugar. For an hour afterwards, he would go on his constitutional. On return, a very refreshing bath and then breakfast: if it is idly, six: if dosai, three served with sambar or chutney but always dry chilli powder made into a semi paste mixed with ghee. If at home, at one’ o clock lunch was ready. Ridge gourd, okra are his favourite vegetables: bitter gourd and eggs are taboo. But chicken biriyani and mutton koorma are his favourite dishes. Green chillies are his passion. And every dish had a distinct, sharp taste, very much the way he liked.

Ravindra’s wife did not take long to know his likes and dislikes.

He did not have to tell her what he wanted.

“Son, Ravi. God gave you a great gift. That gift is your wife. I don’t know who her mother is but I have to say this; blessed is the mother who bore Neeraja. My child Neeraja, your home is blessed because of you. It is a treasure house where nothing is wanting. And yet, this Malla Reddy wants to give you some thing. What can he give you? Ask, ask unhesitatingly.”

“There is one thing which you and you alone can give, Babayi. I wouldn’t ask for it now. I would ask for it on the eve of your departure from this home, that is now yours as well,” said Neeraja.

“Uncle, do be careful before you promise,” intervened Ravindra.

“You do not know my Neeraja as well as I do. I warn you. Don’t blame me later. Neeraja can pulverize mountains into hills. I asked her to tell you all about her without hiding anything. And what is she doing? She is letting time to go by without making a clean breast of everything.”

“What Ravi, what are you trying to say! I think you are raving, speaking incoherently.”

“A little while ago did you not say blessed is her mother. The truth, when you come to know it would make the ground on which you are standing cave in. What does it matter who her mother is: perhaps it doesn’t. One has to have a mother but I am sure she would not have told you who her father is. Hear me. His name is Kommineni Sri Ramulu Chowdary, a native of a small village near Narsaraopet. Neeraja’s brother and I were classmates at the Engineering College in Kakinada. Naturally, I visited their home, more than once – in fact many times. This girl, Neeraja, lost her heart to me and I lost mine to her. And we married. Believe me, no 23

comets appeared in the sky: no meteorite showers nor did it rain fire. Clearly, therefore, there was no transgression of Dharma.”

“What are you telling me Ravi! Is Neeraja of Naidu stock?” asked Malla Reddy. Clearly, there was disbelief and consternation in his voice.

“That is not all. If I tell you another secret, you might jump as if a bomb had burst near your feet. Neeraja’s sister, the younger one is married into a home in your district.”

“What! In my district! Where? The village name?”

“Pankajam, Neeraja’s younger sister is married to the son of Chenchu Rama Naidu of Mittupalem.”

Malla Reddy had a choked feeling in his throat: as if a good sized woodapple got stuck there, too large to swallow and too small to spit out. Totally flummoxed, he fell silent. Minutes ticked and hours fled, in total silence.

It was the day of his departure for Chicago. Ravindra said he would come home early, at 5’ evening. Ravi and Neeraja would see him off at the airport. The flight was at seven, that evening.

After lunch, he had a catnap, caught his forty winks. He heard footsteps. On opening his eyes, he saw Neeraja entering his room.

She had a jug of water in her hands. Never before through all the days he stayed with them, Neeraja sat in the room where he rested.

But now, she drew a chair and sat down.

“You promised a boon, remember? I thought you would yourself broach the subject. Are you angry with me?” Neeraja asked.

“How could I ever be angry with you? No, on the other hand, I was thinking of having a long chat with you on the subject. We led our lives most irrationally. Though young, you opened a new window to me. Your words and deeds have left a deep impress on me. I have two daughters. That was before I came here. Now, I have three: You are the third. Please do ask whatever you want to. It could be a monkey, from a troupe that lives on the hill outside our village. It will be with you, coming as it would in a cargo flight. The promised word came from my tongue, not from the bark of a palmyrah palm.”

“No, Babayi. Please do not feel I am binding you fast to the promise you made. You are free to forget it. Please do not feel bad.”

“No big deal. Go ahead and ask.”

Neeraja sat with her eyes fixed on the ground. There was a gurgling sound in her throat. Yet, no word came out of her, she stayed silent.

“Why child, go on. Ask of me whatever it is you want,” said Malla Reddy.

24

“Well Babayi, please do ponder over what I am going to say and try to be positive. You heard of the old adage: a fight always ends in losses while friendship yields goodwill and gain to all the parties concerned. Would it not be nice if you put an end to all animosities and let friendship bloom?”

“I really do not quite understand what you are driving at.”

“Do you subscribe to the idea that effacing enmity is better than vanquishing an enemy.”

“Please Neeraja, do be a little less vague. Come to the point,” said Malla Reddy.

“Every week I and my sister, Pankajam daughter-in-law of Chenchu Rama Naidu garu speak to each other for over fifteen minutes. Every time, she tells me she has no enthusiasm for life.

Always, she cries and agonises. She complains about a fear, gnawing at her vitals and causing a fear psychosis because she always senses some bad news. Life, she says, is like a battle field always expecting a sharp hit from a sword or gun shot from the most unexpected quarter at an unexpected moment. Heads chopped off like they do a gourd from its stalk, ground drenched in blood, families of the fallen crying their hearts out. How long, how long can we keep our peace of mind and find a few happy moments? I love Rayalaseema. The terrain is such that a low rainfall, just about 100 mm every year, is enough to fill tanks and yield crops plentifully in quantities sufficient not only to satisfy their hunger but even sell some surplus and have some extra cash on hand. If only a change of hearts occurs in two, there can be no village in the whole world, happier to live in. But these two don’t change and there is unhappiness and constant fear ruling our lives. This is the refrain, week after, week after week.

Babayi may I request you to let bygones be bygones. Let there be peace and harmony between your families. Would you rewrite the story in Mittapalem?”

Malla Reddy was lost in thought for around fifteen minutes.

Neeraja was shaking. And finally, he said, “But the initiative for change should come from that end.”

Neeraja’s face lighted up. She said, “Babayi, now I have to perform a duty, assigned to me by God himself as it were.” She made a long distance call. When the call went through, she said, “Hello, Mamayya garu, I am Neeraja speaking. “Our long confabulations these past three days seem to bear fruit. Matters headed to a climax, just now. Malla Reddy Babayi is here with me. You may speak to him”; so saying she handed the phone to Malla Reddy.

“Yes Naidu. Oh! Good, good. Doesn’t it strike as wondrous that a young girl served as the instrument for this turn of events? The 25

credit is hers. As for me, I feel silly. What could have been settled in your lime garden, in a highly agreeable odoriferous atmosphere or in the mango garden over platefuls Malugova pieces is now settled, with me in America and you in Mittapalem. Let us put aside our spears and swords. Yes, we should have seen the point, long long ago. Let there be prosperity and happiness for all of us. We’ve had enough of bad blood between us for ten years. Let it all be behind us from now.”

“I’ll be back in two – three months. You prepare the ground for peace between us. Your terms are my terms. Please tell Neeraja, the good news,” said Malla Reddy and handed back the phone to Neeraja.

Andhraprabha – weekly – 19th Jan. 1998

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4

A GIFT OF GINGELLY SEEDS - Rentala Nageswara Rao

B

hagyanagaram is fast asleep. It was a slumber of exhaustion, like that of a mother, heartbroken at the way her sons readily slaughtered one another, all over a petty property dispute.

Musi symbolised the streaks left by the flow of her tears.

The clock struck two. A 34-year old man warily moved through the shadows carpeting the Chaderghat Bridge. His head carried a price tag of Rs.50,000/. Notwithstanding the neon lights fitted there, thanks to the commission which got secreted in the depths of a minister’s pocket, the place remained dark. The soiled clothes the pedestrian wore made the place darker still. The man had stubble on the face. He wore pajamas, a round-necked collarless full-sleeved jubba. His eyes were deep, sunken and he had a pistol tucked away unnoticeably somewhere on him. Dead or alive, whoever handed him over to the police would be richer by Rs. 50,000/-. The man was headed towards Isamia bazar.

Isamia bazar, no it is not a muslim area. In fact, Brahmins who make a living as chaplains lived there.

The man walked stealthily through the bylanes of the area and knocked on the doors of a small tiled house. Even as he did so, he looked around.

A feeble voice, clearly tired, made even more so by a persistent cough, called out from inside the house, “Who is it?”

“It is me, Raghuram,” said the man in almost an inaudible whisper.

The cot creaked, as a man lifted himself out of it. Supported by a staff, the man walked to the door with great difficulty. The door opened, just a bit. Even so, it made a protesting sound.

27

Raghuram looked at his father. The halo around the old face, the shiny scalp with hair locks falling randomly over the nape of his neck, the broad forehead sporting the half-erased lines of Vibhuti, the garland of the tubercled Rudrakshas (Elaeocarpus), the dhoti from which all shine had disappeared, the eyes totally innocent of malice, the jaws hanging loose, the beard gone white with sorrow and cheeks sunken deep --- the dusky light from the bed lamp in the room showed it all.

Tears swelled up in Raghuram’s eyes.

Shading his eyes with his left hand, the old man asked, “Who?” Once upon a time, this man was Subrahmanya Sastri, conversant with Vedic knowledge: but now, he is Subbaiah, the brahmin all too ready to accept a gift of sesame seeds – gingelly seeds – just so that the giver and his family would be spared the malevolent influence of Sani – the planet of Saturn.

Raghuram pushed open the door, walked in, closed the door and said, “Father, it is me, Raghuram.”

“Oh! It is you, who shed every vestige of oriental culture! Why did you come? You will not allow this old man to die in peace,” said the father and virtually sank back into the old cot.

“Has Padma given birth to a child?” Raghuram asked in a tremulous voice.

“Aye. It is a boy. Moola star. A great propitiatory pooja which alone would vouchsafe everyone’s safety needs to be performed,” said the father.

Raghuram parted the bed sheet that ensured the privacy of mother and baby. He saw Padma lying on the bare floor. His wife.

She was asleep, with the baby suckling at one of her breasts. Sitting on his knees beside her, he touched her and called out, ‘Padma!’

Startled, she opened her eyes, saw her husband, reorganized her jacket, hugged the baby fast and said, “Oh! It is you”. There was at once joy and sorrow in her eyes. Tears, uncontrolled, flowed out of her eyes. There was love in her voice, her body shivered slightly and her heart beat faster. “Padma, yes, it is me. How are you? Give our boy into my hands,” he said and took the infant into his hands. He pressed it hard against his chest. A great show of affection flowed out of him, unchecked. He kissed his son on the forehead and pressed his lips over the baby’s chest and passed his own hands over the baby’s small hands and feet. His eyes grew wet. Padma put her hands over her husband’s shoulders and said, “The police have been coming here for four days now. May be, they’ll come again.” She spoke those words in great fear. She wept inconsolably and his jubba turned wet. Unconsciously, his hands touched the pistol. And he embraced her.

28

“Please tell me for how long you would be away from us all. And what do you get out of it all? The child has fever. Not a pie at home.

And your father says the birth star is not good. A propitiatory pooja, costing a good deal of money needs to be performed. That alone would ward off the evil.” Her voice was deliberately kept low but her fright was obvious: her frame shivered.

Raghuram sighed deeply and said, “Even if I explain it all, you’ll not understand it, Padma. Believe me I’m not fighting for selfish ends. It has a social purpose, for the sake of society.”

“Not able to take care of the family, he talks of the country’s welfare,” said Subrahmanya Sastri in a tone that reflected his agony.

“A glass of milk is all that the baby needs and this fellow talks of feeding the entire country.”

Raghuram fondled the baby once more and handed it back to Padma. Then he looked into the eyes of his father, straight and sharp.

“My dear revered father, tell me if all the Vedas and Vedanta you so avidly studied are providing a morsel of food to you. You mastered those Vedas and you believe this great land of ours needs them. To what purpose? You are accused and abused by the society around you of denying that knowledge to others. And how many are keen on learning them? Chaplaincy is no more an attractive profession.

The temple authorities at Tirupati and Mantralaya offer to impart Vedic knowledge free of cost to all, irrespective of caste. And see the response!

“The caste to which you and your likes belong is accused of looking down upon others. You constitute a miniscule minority everywhere; hardly two or three households in any habitation. You are all soft-natured and God-fearing. Tell me, who did you look down upon? Never were you rulers. You never wielded power: what harm could you have done to others? Some kind rulers gave you small land holdings. And what did you do with them? Unable to cultivate them yourselves, you leased them to sharecroppers and eventually sold them for a song. You reposed your trust in Vedas and passed for scholars. You had beneficial grace of the Goddess Saraswati but always shunned by the goddess of wealth. Not wealthy, your history had never been anything to boast of. In a feudal society one community makes another a scapegoat and prospers and you were those scapegoats. The society in its entirety did not gain. People like you, who chant Vedas and talk about Puranas would never understand the logic of this social conduct.” Raghuram’s was rather an emotional outburst.

“Oh! Stop your lectures. What is it you are pursuing? Always afraid of police, you live in some wooded areas remotely located, far 29

from townships, burn buses, kidnap leaders of the lower rungs of society and create fear psychosis in the minds of authorities. I can’t see what you gain out of it. Do you ever realise the suffering you cause to the families of the victims of your activity? Just to placate you, the government announces a small price-cut in the sale of liquor ----- which only makes matters worse and distributes fallow-land which in any case is lying waste: a small landlord here and another there, you kill. Do you imagine all this would bring socialist order. If you can, you kidnap top-leadership. Stop production of country liquor, cigarettes and screening of blatantly vulgar cinemas morning, noon and night: may be, a programme like that will make sense.

Kidnapping and killing the small fry and low-grade government employees ---- what will you accomplish?” poured out Sastri.

“You will not understand it, father. This is the first step. When people at large wake up and see reality then surely an egalitarian society will emerge. And when that happens, the multitude and that includes you too, will have food to eat, clothes to wear and possibly a roof of your own, too. A new dawn, heralding new times when the vast numbers of the poor will lead a life of some quality, is bound to break.”

Subramanya Sastri heaved a deep sigh. “Did any of you read Marx and understand Marxist thought?” At this point, he pouted his lips as if to indicate that Raghuram and his ilk did not study Marx thoroughly and said, “You know what Marx said, ‘Socialist doctrine will never gain a foothold in a country like ours. Unable to bear its pangs of hunger, somewhere a dog barks. A few bread crumbs thrown at it would silence it. You cannot expect food-riots here, the way they happened in Russia or China. When someone mumbles and moans “hunger,” a morsel of food materialises. A demand for shelter is more or less met by a choultry built by a landlord or a merchant prince who was wielding the stick and the demand dies.

And an occasional piece of cloth distributed free puts a stop to that demand too. Underemployment takes care of unemployment. Poor quality wheat and rice, just enough to tide over the immediate pressure is dangled before the grumblers. One only needs to be clever to seize opportunities to build sky scrapers and move around in imported cars. Truly, such opportunities exist and more often than not, created.” He paused and went on.

“In these circumstances, how do you expect a revolution to happen? A few like you who have half-baked ideas stay away from the masses – and yet expect a mass-upsurge based upon a new awareness. A peripheral contact with ‘Das Capital’ made you see how the people are taken for a ride but a large number of them who 30

saw this truth in its stark nakedness, joined the exploiting class and grew super-rich. Now, they have grown adept at the art of cheating people. Do you see another Sundarayya or a Prakasam Pantulu in the Andhra Pradesh of today? Show me a Nambudripad. The political leadership is busy building huge properties for itself. A new political class rooted in communal politics has come into being. No, a society built around caste and religion will not rise up to fulfill your dreams.”

There was great pain in his voice.

“I understand it, father. But our efforts are directed towards that fulfillment. It is inevitable that a few perish in the struggle. We are not thinking of ourselves and our generation. But surely the next generation will reap the fruits of our labour. Is it not a truism that that one who planted the tree is not likely to taste its fruit?” said Raghuram.

Subrahmanya Sastri was unconvinced.

“Father, here is some money. Please take it,” said Raghuram even as he tried to hand it over.

“No, I don’t want that blood-stained money. I am steeped in our ancient literature, the four Vedas and the eighteen puranas. I now see a new society emerging in new colours. Sanskrit, Telugu and English too, I know. The entire Karmakanda (ritualistic practices) I know like the back of my hand.

Do you know how I keep this body and soul together? I live on the gingelly seeds gifted to me during ceremonial functions by householders in the hope that the burden of their sinful lives will get transferred to my head. Now and then, I offer my services as a pall-bearer, of course for a consideration. And I don’t shy away from begging. This sacred thread across my chest permits it. I offer prayers thrice every day and chant Gayatri a thousand times everyday. I believe the evil that may visit me and my family would be mitigated through these prayers. You are born a Brahmin. Yet you discarded the sacred thread and chose to live a life full of violence, in thought as well as action. I would rather make my living as per my convictions than meet my requirements with that blood stained money that you are asking me to take. No, I’ll not take it,” said Subrahmanya Sastri very emphatically.

In the distance, the sounds of whistles and stamping of booted feet were heard. “Well. I am going,” said Raghu and in a trice he melted into the darkness outside his house. Subrahmanya Sastri stanched the tears with his upper cloth.

Padmavati held the baby to her bosom and grieved. The child was suckling at the dry breasts of the mother.

Subramanya Sastri closed the door and dropped into his old cot.

Sleep eluded him. Much as he wanted to, he could not muster strength 31

to mollify his daughter-in-law. For quite a long while, he sat lost in thought.

Kuchipudi in Krishna district was known not only as the place where a unique style of Bharata natyam flourished. It was a centre of Vedic learning too. Subrahmanya Sastri was born into a family which inherited rights to enjoy the produce of a small landholding.

Food, therefore, was no problem. He could use his time to better purpose: Vedic knowledge and acquisition of a grip over the eighteen Puranas. And he learnt English too. His name and fame spread through the entire district. Raghurama Sastri was his son, the only child.

In time, the land which supported the family slipped away into the hands of farmers who tilled it. The new laws made it happen. He could have made a living by chaplaincy but his ego would not let him adopt the profession. Raghurama sastry developed an inexplicable aversion to the ancient knowledge. He graduated in Economics and was attracted by Marx and Mao. A steady job eluded him, in part due to his leftist leanings. And yet he married Padmavati and found himself in the twin cities where he went in the hope of finding a job.

Subramanya Sastri’s wife died and nobody found any use for his erudition. Not surprisingly, totally frustrated, he too went to the twin cities to live with his son. Raghurama sastri delved deep into the leftist literature and developed a fixation on the idea that the haves all that they possess at the expense of the havenots. Prostitutes and beggars, not belonging to the productive havenots did not produce any wealth and so did not catch the eye of Marx. His mental horizons enlarged but the absence of a steady income made him sink into the abyss of poverty and bitterness pervaded his body and mind.

He had to earn a living, support his wife and now his father too.

Setting aside his ego, he joined the railways as casual labour. Soon he found his caste was a big handicap. Some of his classmates, purely on the strength of caste became officers. And quite many who joined the railways along with him were made permanent, some even became firemen. What galled him most was that he was denied equal opportunities because of his caste. Adding fuel to the fire, often he found himself having to kowtow to those who joined service along with him and quite often after him.

All this sowed seeds of hatred and jealousy in him. Aggrieved, he fomented labour trouble and organized strikes. Soon he found himself jobless. Keeping the wolf away from the door became his main concern. While he saw many, unprincipled and unethical in conduct and character grow rich, he sank into abysmal poverty. He was not alone fated this way: many others too suffered similarly.

32

Now, his thoughts turned to find a way of bringing about social justice. He found his wife and father too burdensome, standing in the way of involving himself in labour movement and so, he cut himself away from the family. The government called him a naxalite.

He could visit home only clandestinely, for the establishment saw him as a troublemonger. And they fixed a price tag on him, Rs. 50,000/ - dead or alive.

Raghuram’s flight from police and home depressed his father beyond words. He ruminated over how Brahmasri Vedamurthy Subrahmanya Sastri’s transformed into Subbaiah, a lowly chaplain found good enough only to receive a gift of gingelly seeds, an appeasement for Sani. Thereby, in the mind of the giver, all the evil flowing out of the planetary position would now visit Subbaiah. But Subbaiah, the Subrahmanya Sastri knew how to ward off the evil-recital of Gayatri, a thousand times every day. There is some money too, meager though.

And when his earnings did not meet his expenses, he didn’t mind offering his services to carry dead bodies to the crematorium.

It is a demeaning service among the Hindus but among muslims, it is a service that could earn Allah’s blessings and so, a muslim readily puts his shoulders to carrying a coffin, whosesoever it might be, even if only for a few steps.

A Brahmin offering services to officiate as a chaplain at religious functions dresses himself well, a way to catch the eye of a customer.

But Subbaiah did not care for apparel: neither did he ever flaunt his scholarship. So, in the twin cities he remained an unknown commodity. Yet, he had to discharge his obligation as a father-in law. He cannot let his daughter- in -law starve for days together.

Indeed, sometimes the hearth at home remained unlit for two or three days. It was unfair. And so he had to earn money, howsoever meager.

It was same, whether he was Brahmasri Vedamurthy Subrahmanya Sastry or Subbiah ever ready to personate as ‘Sani’ and receive that gift of gingelly seeds.

* * * * *

Eight in the morning: clad in typical brahminical style, with marks of Vibhuti on the forehead and bare arms, small bundle of the sacred grass tucked under the armpits and almanacs of conveniently small size on them, the chaplains sat in rows on the stone platforms that abutted the frontage of every house in Isamia Bazar.

One sported dark glasses without regard to the necessity, another munched tobacco-laced betel leaves, some reached the spot by walk and some on two-wheelers. Avadhani was their captain. Where to go 33

and what duties, each one of them has to perform there, Avadhani would decide. Avadhani runs two other branches of chaplaincy in the twin cities, one at Chikkadapalli and another close to Secunderabad station.

After his morning prayers, including the Sahasra Gayatri he would chant everyday, Subbaiah also came to Isamia bazar.

“Come, come dear oldy, Subbiah. I am afraid there is no demand for the likes of you today, I mean for those who are willing to accept the gift of gingelly seeds,” said Kotaiah Sastri, in a mockingly solicitous tone. Yet, he was kind enough to show a place to Subbaiah to sit. Kotaiah Sastri is about 35. He would officiate at a variety of religious performances. Yet, he cannot recite Gayatri properly, in the prescribed manner. Indeed he cannot intone any text of a given pooja, be it Navagraha Shanti, Sraddham or Satya Narayana Vratam.

Often, he would recite the same mantra, mixing up intonations cleverly giving the ignorant householder an impression that the correct mantra as per the correct method was chanted. And many would particularly solicit his services. No wonder, Kotaiah Sastri was a rich man, owning a house and two or three building sites.

Subbaiah sat next to him. Kotaiah Sastri made a grimace and literally moved a bit such that there was no body contact with Subbaiah. Now, he addressed Krishnamurthi, another priest: “Murthy garu, I cannot feel comfortable in the presence of those who accept the gift of gingelly seeds by incarnating Sani, even though they claim to be as good a brahmin as any of us.”

Krishnamurthi whole-heartedly endorsed Kotaiah Sastri’s stand and even went further by saying, “Look at them. They look like the very picture of poverty.”

“What of it? If only we do Sahasra Gayatri every day, the evil is warded off,” said Subbaiah.

“Ah! Who would do all that? In fact, not many have the time for it,” said Kotaiah Sastry.

Now, it occurred to Subbaiah: Why would none say such derogatory things about Christian or Islamic practices? But when it comes to a Hindu, even the small tuft of hair at the back of his otherwise clean shaven head is made fun of. Why, he wondered.

However, he let the thought pass.

Instead, he addressed Kotaiah Sastri in pleading tone.

“Ayya Sastri garu, do you remember the request I made to you the other day?”

“What is it?” asked Kotaiah Sastri.

“I told you that a grandson is born to me. His birth star is Moola.

So, a Navagraha Shanthi is warranted. If the homam is not 34

performed, our Sastras speak of danger to the life of bread-winner of the family. The Santhi is to be performed before the star-period is over. And the dead line is day after tomorrow. I request you all to be generous and help me out. Surely, I’ll meet the expenses not on a lavish scale but as my means would permit,” said Subbaiah.

“What Subbiah, you augment your income sometimes even resorting to begging. How can you feed us, not to say give the fees due to each of us? You know, everyone here earns at least fifty rupees by merely marking attendance at a Shraddha. Those whose services are solicited for performing a Satya Narayana Vratam earn not less than two hundred and fifty rupees. And such of us as would officiate at marriages earn in thousands: not to say of the enormous fees we charge when officiating at the ceremonies connected to death.

Santhi means every planet has to be propitiated with the suitable mantra. Fire-ceremony has to be performed and it is no joke. How can you hope to recruit our services, costly as they are? Forget it, old man,” said Kotaiah Sastri.

“No sir, I am one of you or am I not? I pinned my hopes on the kindly help that I expected from you. If the Santhi is not performed, a great calamity is bound to befall my family.”

“Nonsense! All these are unfounded fears. Don’t you worry? Even if you do not perform this santhi homam you are speaking of, nothing would happen. Don’t fear. If we come, do you know the loss we incur?

Not taking into account a good meal, each of us will lose a minimum of fifty rupees. How do you then expect us to go to your house, to perform the Santhi you are talking of,” asked Kotaiah Sastri.

“Does it mean that all you are doing is not based upon good faith?” asked Subbaiah. He was totally bewildered.

Kotaiah Sastri now made a gesture that was at once a sly smile and a pity for Subbaiah’s unworldiness. He said, “How does it matter whether we believe in all these things or not? Isn’t it good enough if those who seek our services believe in the efficacy of all this? As for us, it is our livelihood and nothing more. My dear Subbiah, we cannot help you. Please go to Avadhani garu. May be he can help you.” And then he turned his face away from Subbaiah, took his upper cloth and used it to tie a knot around his forelegs and waist. That was the end of the matter as far as he was concerned. As if to indicate that he’ll have none of it any more, he took out his gold-rimmed snuff box, opened it and poured a bit of the snuff into his palm, closed the box and collected the snuff in his palm between his forefinger and thumb and inhaled it. There was a look of supreme bliss in his face.

Subbaiah got up and walked towards Avadhani’s house.

35

Seated in a revolving chair, draped in ochre robes, lines of Vibhuti on the forehead and hands, with three garlands of rudraksha-s around his neck, Avadhani was in his office room reading the day’s newspapers. On the table beside him were two telephones. All the chaplains in the three centres were his men. Of course, as one who commissions their services, he has his discount from the earnings of all of them. His own personal services were available to big-wigs politicians, Industrialists, cine-stars and merchant princes.

On hearing footsteps in the portico outside his office room, Avadhani took his eyes away from the Newspaper and looked at Subbaiah. “Oh! Tiladanam Subbaiah! What brings you here?”

Subbaiah dared not sit nor did Avadhani offer him a seat.

Subbaiah explained his mission.

“How do you expect me to help you without making any payment whatever? Possibly, I might be able to fix some juniors for the other Grahams. But who do I find to receive your Tiladanam (gift of gingelly seeds)? There are two or three others at Secunderabad branch, but they would accept the danam only if you give a cash of two or three hundred rupees along with the gingelly seeds. You’re the only one always ready to accept this danam, without stipulating a sum of money to go along with it. You do not demur and accept whatever is given. But these others are not like you. What can I do for you? See if you can raise some money, Subbaiah,” said Avadhani.

“What money can a beggar like me raise, Ayya,” said Subbaiah humbly.

“Yes, the birth star is moola. It warrants Santhi. Someone has to pay a price – child, father or grandfather, one must die. I hear your son had joined the naxalites. Did he not send any money? In any case, there is always an encounter ready to gobble him up. When that is almost certain, why this Santhi?” said Avadhani trying to sound reasonable and sympathetic too.

“All this agony of mine is to see that such a thing would not happen. There is not much time either. The star period would end the day after.”

“What are you saying, Subbaiah? No, the period will last for another three days.” So saying, Avadhani pulled out an almanac and asked Subbaiah to look into it.

“It is not correct. The calculation is wrong,” said Subbaiah.

“Do you know who this Panchangakarta is? None other than Brahma Sri Veda Murthi Sachidananda Siddhanti. He is my guru.

How dare you say his calculations are wrong? Okay, here is another almanac. This also says that Moola period comes to an end only three days from today.”

36

“This too is wrong. Avadhani garu,” said Subbaiah.

Avadhani now looked straight at Subbiah and said, “You say all almanacs are wrong. What do you know! You think you are a pundit or a great astrologer! After all, you are an ordinary brahmin who accepts tiladanam. Your hauteur ill becomes you.” There was chastisement in Avandhani’s voice now.

Subbaiah smiled “No, Avadhani garu. My calculations are not wrong. If you don’t mind, please look up the astrological journal.

This month, planet Guru has a loop. So, time moves faster.” He said this and having lost all hope of help from Avadhani had walked out.

Avadhani felt it was intrusive of Subbaiah to have come and wasted his time and went back to his newspaper. However, he felt ill at ease, took the phone and contacted a lecturer in the Department of Astronomy, at Osmania University. He placed Subbiah’s information before him and asked for clarification. After a while, the lecturer told Avadhani that Subbaiah was right.

Avadhani turned speechless.

Does it mean that Subbaiah was better at his calculations, all of it done using his fingers, than the authors of the two almanacs he depended upon so heavily? All the muhurtams he fixed, all the dates and days he gives as the days for performance of Poojas and Shraddhas to his clientele, all on the authority of the almanacs he consulted was wrong, at least marginally? If Subbaiah could calculate planetary motions, all on the strength of his brainwork, he must be a great man.

Avadhani woke up to the reality. He got out of his chair, called his men and sent them on the errand of finding Subbaiah garu wherever he was and bring him along. But nobody was able to locate Subbaiah.

Subbaiah went to Chikkadapalli, and Secunderabad in search of someone who would accept his Tiladanam. No, he could not find anyone.

Wherever he went he found that priesthood had lost its soul; it is now business, a livelihood. He did not find a single brahmin who would accept tiladanam, unless a hefty cash payment went with it.

Some brahmins were aghast that they were approached at all with the proposition. He found that the whole profession of chaplaincy was full of greed, ego, ignorance and worst of all, a false pride. It occurred to him that the brahmins incurred the wrath and hatred of the rest of the society because of this. He came home around ten, that night. Padmavathi did not eat yet. She was waiting for her father-in-law, so that they could share a little of the small quantity 37

of food available at home. Moreover, the child was running high temperature.

Subbaiah ate whatever was served, not so much because he was hungry but because he did not want to hurt the sensitivity of his dutiful daughter-in-law.

“Take the child to the General hospital tomorrow,” he advised her through the dinner she served him.

Sleep eluded him. If Santhi was not performed the next day – he shuddered at the thought. Yet there was no way he could do it.

What is one to do?

His mind was in turmoil. All the Sastras and the injunctions they prescribed, he pored over. Several questions cropped up.

Krishna was the presiding deity of one sect.

Kanyakaparameswari, of another. Ankamma was the goddess one community worshipped and Chamundeswari was the family deity of another group. The vaishnavaites, saivaites, lingayats – each of them had their own gods; different gods to different peoples. Some swore

by Veerabhrahmam and others had their own Baba-s. There is a huge pantheon of gods, one for each group and sometimes a group of them for a certain sect of men. And there are modern day deities, each with a huge following – Chandraswami, Rajneesh and even Avadhani. Why not?

Does it not show the small- mindedness of man? Community, religion, nation, country and many other such things separated man from man. It now dawned on him: man and woman, the haves and the have-nots are the only groups into which humanity can be divided.

This division transcends community, religion, nation and country.

So, why not perform a rite that would appease all gods! And is this not the substance of Vedas? So also, it is also substance of all mimamsa, logical reasoning of the atheist, Charvaka.

When Padmavathi got back into the house after her daily routine of drawing a rangoli in front of the house, Subbaiah was seated on a mat in a lotus posture. His eyes shone like lamps. A small square of sand, with bricks bordering it was there. She heard him invoking gods to bless that patch of sand.

His voice rang like a drum as the Vedamantras were chanted by him. His looks were wholly concentrated upon the mound of turmeric powder: he called it Vighneswara, the god who would remove all obstacles in the way of performing a holy rite.

He took some fagots, poured ghee on them and lighted. Now he invoked the gods that presided over the eight directions of the earth.

Unnoticed by any one, there collected a band of priests: they were all looking at him in great awe. They all stood transfixed; one who 38

accepts tiladanam, one who makes a borderline living by selling services as a pall-bearer, one who did not have a second thought over the propriety of begging is performing a Yagnam!

And how! Subramanya Sastri was totally unaware of the crowd that gathered there. His looks were intent on the fire raging in that square patch of sand. He now placed a few dates and betel nuts in a betel leaf and began to invoke the nine planetary deities.

The Vedic recitation went on severely. The chanting was marked by nasal, sibilant and guttural enunciation of the mantras, as prescribed. There was purity of voice, a rhythm that regulated his breathing same as that crowd of priests that gathered there heard long ago, at the time when they were initiated into the profession.

And some of them assisted him in chores, such as pouring ghee or adding a fresh supply of fagots (twigs used in fire ceremony) so that the fire would remain aglow.

Padmavathi sat in the rear part of that single-room tenement.

The baby’s fever raged unabated.

Now, someone entered the house and handed over a letter to Padmavathi. She opened it and it was from Raghuram, addressed to her.

My dear Padma, I strongly believe that the path I chose was right. But it was immoral in that I left you uncared for.

Our society is ugly. Even though it is quite aware of the exploitation going on, it chose to ignore it. Selfishness, which I thought was exclusive to the ruling class, reared its ugly head even in the group of which I am a member. Now, I lost all hope, So, I am surrendering to the police. My friend, Ramesh, would stage-manage the surrender and claim the reward of Rs. 50,000/- He will hand it over to you. Please take it and provide for yourself and our child, some security. If by chance, I come out of prison alive, we’ll meet.

As for father, there is nothing I can do. He is as adamant as I am.

Please, pardon me if you can.

Yours affectionately, Raghuram She left the letter beside her father-in-law and moved out of the house, on her way to hospital. The hospital authorities promptly admitted the child -surprise of surprises.

Next morning, the papers carried a boxed news item: Rabid naxalite, Raghuram, surrendered to police. Reward goes to Ramesh who helped police.

- Kathasagar 39

5

THE CITADEL IN DISREPAIR -Kethu Viswantha Reddy

S

oon I’ll be there. I am in the grip of the pervasive timidity and fear. It is a village where two weeks back a murder took place.

Country bombs are play things there. Vengeance and spite are the themes of the language spoken there. It is more a forest than a village and I am entering that forest.

A new experience. Ten years ago I lived there but the memory of that village faded. The buzz of agriculture is absent. Cattle pulling hay from the stack is not seen. No bullock carts grind the cart track there. And no sounds emanating from bells around the bullock's necks are heard. Not a male inhabitant, anywhere around.

Is this a human habitation or a cemetery? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. They looked on the main street. On the main street, the doors of the homes are open alright. On the stone platforms at the front of those houses were some women. They looked at me questioningly and silently retreated into their homes.

Now, I am at the centre of the village, where there is a tower built during the times of Maratha rulers. Around the tower is a platform, where generally a crowd of villagers congregate: there is no such crowd now. I looked up. The tower is dilapidated: half of it was gone. Weeds of various kinds are growing in the lime that is now open. At one time, it was a watch tower and symbolised the unity among the people of the village. And now, fallen and in disrepair.

An old man lying on the platform around the tower got up. Tired and coughing badly, he asked: “Who are you visiting?”

A spasm passed down my back. I could not bring myself to mention the name of my sister or brother-in-law. "Seethamma's house," I said.

40

"How are you related to Seethamma," he asked.

A bit annoyed, I said, "She is my aunt."

"You are from?" the man further questioned.

"Tirupati," I said "I transferred the brief case to my right hand, took out a kerchief from the left pocket of my trousers and mopped my forehead. The action was almost involuntary. Truth to tell, Tirupati is the place where I work. I did not want the old man to probe further. So, I hastened away from the tower, and reached my sister Lakshmi's house in the street further down.

In the veranda outside the house, two youngsters about the age of twenty were seated. They were talking in hushed tones. On seeing me, they stopped talking. Just then, my uncle came out of the house and in a patently disturbed condition took my hands into his. He tried to stop weeping and pressed his upper cloth against his eyes. I sat down in the veranda. And he sat next to me. He could not take off the cloth pressed against his face for five - six minutes.

The heart grew heavy.

My uncle controlled himself and said "Arey, Kishta, go in and bring a vessel-full of water for him to have a wash."

Kishta brought the vessel full of water as directed. Kishta and the other with him are friends of my brother-in-law from the neighbouring village, he introduced them to me. "Let us go in," he said.

I sat on a cot in the hall. For a while, I was left alone. Soon, I'll be seeing my sister, Lakshmi. It would be a very difficult meeting. I mulled over the words I would have to employ to assuage her grief.

I did not face such a situation so far: the problem got compounded as my own sense of loss is no less. My uncle, who had gone into the kitchen, came along with Seethammattha. Who can quantify a mother's loss as against a wife’s? On seeing me, her grief breached all self-control and poured out in the form of loud wailing.

"I cannot quite understand why they targeted my son. We had always kept away without ever interfering in their affairs. We never coveted what was not ours. The grief they inflicted upon us is sure to recoil on them and they'll pay a price for it." And she poured out her grief loudly with her hands covering her face.

"Please, attha. Try to be calm," I said even as I tried to check the tears flooding out of my eyes. "How do I control myself? How, I wish I knew, look at your sister," she said.

"Where is Lakshmi?"

41

Seethammatha showed the room, once their bed room. I passed through the stack of the agricultural produce on the way and went in. Lakshmi was lying on a mat, in the posture of a foetus.

"Sister Lakshmi", I called out. I lost all control myself. She lifted part of the sari that covered her face and said, "Whoever it is that killed your brother-in-law will have to die like a dog. Not until then would I discard these bangles nor erase the spot of vermilion," she swore. The language conveyed her resolve. It reflected her anger as also her revengeful spirit. As if she needed my approval of her vengeful spirit, she added, "You are an educated person. Tell me, if there is something wrong with this resolve of mine."

What could I say? No words would come out of me. If she would at all translate her anger into action, I know what the consequences would be. Whether to advise caution or offer approval or congratulate her was beyond my powers.

So, I decided to divert the chat in another direction. "Where are the two children?" I asked.

"Sankar, the older boy went to our village. Vasu, the younger one is here. May be he is somewhere with our well wishers. After all, every day portends danger. "As she said this her tone was fear-laden.

"I came to know of this through Newspapers", I said.

"You have your preoccupations. You have your job and you live in a far off place. Why trouble you too I thought and decided against informing you of what happened here. As for us, we have to go through all this turmoil. Now that you are here, stay with us for a couple of days.�

"No akka. I have to go tomorrow."

"If only your brother-in-law were alive"... Sister Lakshmi mopped her eyes.

True. My brother-in-law would not have let me go. He would have insisted on my staying for four-five days. Jobless, in a state when I did not know what to do, unable to evade answering my father's posers on the question of my marriage-- in a condition like that I sought refuge for six months in the home of my sister and brother-in-law. I found it difficult to sit opposite my sister, continuing that line of conversation. Once again I moved over into the hall and sat on the cot there.

Then a twelve year old boy came running into the house, shouting 'Tata'. When he saw me there, he stopped.

"This is your uncle from Tirupati,� my uncle told Vasu. Vasu is the name of the boy. He looked at me and smiled.

"What Vasu, do you have any news," asked my uncle. "The MLA's party had given two rifles to our opposite party. I understand they 42

could be fired from quite some distance," said Vasu. There was an element of joy in Vasu's voice.

The language he used, the skill he showed at spying and the use to which he employed his knowledge -- as I thought of it all, my head reeled. What else? A parrot repeats what it is taught. The cage is its school. Vasu is no different. He learnt the language of that home and that village.

"Don't you worry. We don't have to fear. The Mandal President, your uncle will give us much better rifles. You know your brother, Sankar has gone there." As he said this, my uncle fondled the mustache upon his cheeks, sunk with age and life’s little problems.

“But Tata, I heard there could be a police raid on our house to night. The opposition party is pressuring the police. We better hide our instruments where they cannot be found by the police.”

"Instruments? What are they?" I asked, seeing the word, instruments, is not used in the sense they are agricultural implements.

"Oh! Don't you know? Instruments mean the country bombs, pistols and such other things", said my uncle. He said this in a rather low voice, as if he was transmitting a secret.

I lost my mental equilibrium. This village: this atmosphere: they seemed terrifying.

It grew dark. No lights. I am told that it is a week since the transformer got burnt out. Two lamps with chimneys, coated with soot and dust, were burning inside the house. Small wall lamps burnt dimly in the rooms. Lakshmi akka sat with her back against a pillar.

Seethammattha was washing some grains in a sieve. Vasu was in the bedroom. Uncle lay on his back in a cot and was staring at the rafters supporting the roof. Kishta and his friend were reclining on cots and remained silent as if in meditation. There was total silence.

Silence is enjoyable when one is alone, not when so many are huddled together, without speech of any sort. The dark veranda is preferable to the dimly lit interior of the house. There in the dark, fear of the unknown keeps you alert. On the suggestion of my uncle, we moved into the veranda. How did it all begin, I wanted to ask my uncle but he himself volunteered.

"Bad time, not a time when men could live in amity and friendship. And yet, it is not a time when a man could live on his own. About a year ago, I told your brother-in-law, 'liquor trade and agriculture do not go together.' “These are hard times. Life is difficult.

You want us to forego a source of additional income. And they invested lakhs and bought the license to sell liquor bought from the Government," said your brother-in-law. “What is one to do? There is 43

logic in what he said. And he was one who would lend a helping hand to one in need of it. That was one reason why he was loved by the poorer section. After all, others too are ryots, those who did not get into this trade. On seeing this one section prosper, the other section turned green with envy. That made them go into making spurious liquor. And always, there are troublemongers, fellows ready to make a fast buck. All things are intertwined. The communal animosity, dormant for fifty years, came into the open. In these ten years came bombs, pistols and murders. Finally, it hit your sister hard on head. They hired killers paying them ten thousand rupees and got your brother-in-law killed."

My uncle could not go on. Words failed him. While we were thus lost in silence, four-five men came. They told us that they saw some outsiders that evening. All went in and were lost in confabulations for half an hour. Then they went away, obviously to their respective homes. It occurred to me then that I was myself an outsider and the thought made me a bit nervous. We had what might be called our dinner. I am an outsider who was in the village to console a sister just widowed. I wondered if the men who visited us were there to create problems.

All of us retired for the night. The four of us, my uncle I and the two relatives Kishta and the other - spread out mattresses in the veranda; Seethammattha had her cot in the open space, in front of the house. Lakshmi and Vasu slept inside the house, in the bedroom.

Outside it was ink dark. There was absolute silence. In the veranda was the lamp.

I could not sleep.

I know these villages. Time was when I breathed this air, drank that water and ate the cholam and ragi that grew there. But I wonder if I know the men who lived there.

The place looks famine-stricken. The families living there lacked cohesion, always on the brink of falling asunder. Think of a man with a pronounced hunchback suffering from epilepsy: you have a picture of the life here. What kind of future awaits them? On the top of all these, you have party rivalry. As I was thus reflecting on these villages and lives of men who lived there, I had a premonition that an untoward incident might take place that very night. The outsiders of whom there was speculation -- is it likely they could launch an attack on the house? May be, all this is just fear, nothing more. My mind is clouded by vague fears and also a sense of resignation.

The thoughts kept haunting me. It is midnight. I jumped out of my skin, on hearing a jeep come. I wanted to sit up but then no one else did so. I heard the jeep come to a stop. Booted feet stamped the 44

ground. Police. There was a beam of light from the torch switched on by a constable. My heart beat faster.

A constable woke up my Seethammattha and asked if it was Sankara Reddy's house.

"Yes, it is his" said she.

"Is he at home?" asked. "Who are all those in the veranda?" "Our relatives" said Seethammattha. We all got out of our beds. My uncle intervened and said, "We are all here, come to attend the obsequies".

"It is our obsequies. There is wireless information from the headquarters that the house is full of outsiders. We've to search the house," said the SI. Whether it was because all this was unexpected or because of my timid nature, I was tongue-tied. The police directed that the door be opened. Seethammattha called out to Vasu. There was the creaking sound of the bar being lifted and the metallic clang of the bolt drawn out. Vasu opened the door. The SI went in with his torch light blazing bright and in five minutes came out.

Addressing my uncle, he said "You are quite old. Don't you know that outsiders should not come to the homes of party bosses?"

"It is the home of my daughter, sir" said he. "OK" said the SI, turned to us three and directed us to get into the jeep.

"Where is the search warrant and arrest warrant?" I wanted to ask.

That could provoke the police to search the house again. The 'instruments' of which Vasu and my uncle spoke, if found might prove disastrous. No, it is inopportune. I did not even change clothes.

I got into the jeep and so did the two friends of my brother-in-law.

The village appeared least disturbed by all this. It slept on. May be some did wake up, but must have felt discretion was the better part of valour. The police searched the home of the murdered, not of those who perpetrated the crime. I could not digest it. What a joke!

God knows what road the jeep travelled. It was dark. Nothing was visible. Anyway, in about half hour, it reached a police station.

The SI spoke to the constable there and drove off in the jeep with his posse of police, leaving us three at the station.

The old constable said, "All of you go into the lock-up."

I got angry, 'Why?' I asked.

The constable mumbled something. Why not I disclose my identity and make him realise the consequences of his action. Even as I was thinking so, a man materialized from another room. I was surprised and equally was he, on seeing me.

He is Jayaram. When I was in the Intermediate at Kadapa, Jayaram was studying B.A. A friend of mine, he too was a member of the literary circle of which I was one.

45

"I heard the jeep come. I thought it could be a matter connected to our village. How come you are here? What happened?" he asked, surprise writ all over his face. I felt bad for a moment and gave him a brief account of all that happened. He gave the constable a tenrupee note and asked him to fetch cigarettes.

It was past midnight. But cigarettes and tea too were brought.

Kasim did not talk of lock-up again. Jayaram arranged mats for Kishta and his friend. We spent the rest of the night chatting. The party politics, a murder that took place in his village three days back, how he was accused of the crime, the famine in the area -- he spoke of it all as would a third person, as a Mr. See All. If Jayaram were a story writer, one would see Rayaleseema in quite a different light.

Seven A.M. The SI came.

Jayaram introduced me to the SI. He looked at me aghast. "Sir, you and the two who came with you, you may go. A word of caution.

This is not a place where the likes of you should be seen," said he and went into his room.

"Good. You better go," said Jayaram.

The two of us came into the veranda. There was my uncle with my briefcase in his hand. He felt relieved, on hearing what had happened.

"A danger passed. An officer, how you must have suffered throughout the night! Lakshmi sent me and some money too. Sankar came home in the early hours of the day. He said he too would come.

But I asked him not to. If we come out of this morass and survive, you may come to see us, "he said. And then came close to me and told me in a very low voice, just so I alone would hear it, "This Station is greased by us also. That gave us a lot of strength. But one can't be sure. The opposite party might outmanoeuvre us. Sankar went to the president again, to smoothen matters. Thank God, nothing happened."

Hardly I had come out of the spell my uncle's words cast on me, he and the two went away. Jayaram was standing there, with a broad grin on his face. I bid good-bye to him. He climbed down two steps from the station's veranda and said, "You are a Doctor, you know what causes cholera. You are not afraid of it for you've the drugs to cure it. You also know the steps to take to prevent its out-break. But this –its cholera, that is sapping these villages, you cannot cure it. It is not a cholera you physicians can tame."

46

"Then, who can tame it?" I asked.

Jayaram had a helpless smile on him. He said, "If I know it, why would I be here? It is ready to strike me. If I come out of it unscathed, I'll see you at Tirupati" said Jayaram and walked back into the station.

My mind went helter-skelter.

What would happen to sister's family? What is in store for Jayaram?

Oh! these villages and these villagers!

What germs are at the bottom of this disease? What drugs can tame it? I went into a deep thought. I was on the road, waiting for the bus.

What causes a disease? The discovery would not solve the problem. Drugs, drugs that would cure the disease need to be developed.

And a Doctor though I am, I seem to be helpless.

- Kathasagar

47

6

HER VERY OWN RUBICON -Vasundhara

T

he Dhavaleswaram I came to in response to my grandmother's letter is a far cry from Dhavaleswaram where I lived my preteen years. Men who did not have time for one another and facilities that have a ring of an urbanised world made it very different.

Our house was located on a hillock crowned by Janardana Swami temple. One only needs to negotiate twenty steps leading to the temple and there to the left is a large, tiled house. My grandparents, my father and his brothers all with their families lived in that house.

My aunts and their families were frequent visitors. The house was always agog with unending chatter. That made the house very special.

As for me, there was never a dearth of company. The house was full of all age-groups: some seniors, some of my age and others, younger than me. We were all on very friendly terms. Evenings, we ran races up and down the hill, on its stone steps. Acrimony marked those races. We called one another unfair, cheats and so on. But next morning all was forgotten and forgiven and the games would go on.

Thrice in the day first in the morning, second in the noon and third at night fall the temple bells would announce the conclusion of pooja for the session. Which also meant it was time for prasad, the food offered to the God would now be available to those who are on the premises. Many, among whom I was one, would make haste to be present in the temple at the time. Morning and evenings, the crowd would be sizeable.

Mornings, there was curdbath and evenings channa, cooked deep and laced with condiments. To this day, I have not been able to divine the formula behind those preparations but I must confess that until 48

now, I tasted nothing so delicious.

On hearing the bell, I too would run to the temple. But one day my grandfather chastised me. He said that I better reserve some devotion to the God too and not to prasad alone. He told me if I am keen on prasad I should go to the temple earlier, watch the entire proceedings of the pooja and then partake of prasad.

Grandfather's was a commanding personality. His instruction sounded like a command. Well, now the bells would not make me run to the temple. In fact, even when our own family met the cost of the pooja and prasad, I found it hard to stay on the premises, even though a large helping of the prasad was assured.

However, I am always mystified by one thing. While I felt bored when I had to wait in the temple for receiving prasad, now more so because of grandfather's command, I wouldn't find it so irksome to wait for that hard lump of sugar which my grandmother offered to her Gods before she retired for the night. I would sit through with her on the occasion. That hard lump of sugar, the prasad, she would place on a betel leaf and give it to me. If I were the only one, all of it was mine. It there were others, we would all share it happily. In my case, that sugar lump would serve as a sleeping pill.

My grandmother had a brass house for her Gods, some of silver, some of copper but mostly of brass. I don't know how she managed it, all the Gods shone dazzlingly bright. She had a song, one each for each of those Gods. Sung in a mellifluous voice, they cast a spell on me. I would be in another world. I would grow jealous of God, for at that hour in many homes, the grandmothers would be singing lullaby to their Gods. If there is a God, how lucky He is!

Her pooja would last for about half an hour. Not for a single moment would I feel distracted. When I recall that half an hour, I think my devotion then was not altogether for that lump of sugar but it was part of my grandmother's devotion to her Gods. Her nightly pooja would be a little shorter if she felt that I had a mild fever or that I was not quite fit to sit late into the night. That made me realise how important I was in her scheme of things. Ours was a symbiotic existence; neither could live without the other.

Quite a large number of poor students lived with us, drawn from all castes. Books, a place to study and sleep, a lamp and above all ready help in their studies, it was a mini-hostel.

Grandmother would make kindly enquiries about their welfare but always kept them at an arm's length. She wouldn't touch them nor would she allow any of them touch her. And never would she allow them to go near her prayer room. It was a sore point for me.

Once I dared to question this attitude of hers. She reprimanded me 49

severely and that silenced me for a while. When I insisted on knowing her raison d’etre, she reported the matter to grandfather.

My grandfather called me aside and said: "The world-order in which your grandmother lives is all her own. But it would not serve you well, if you think that is the real world even for herself. I advise you not to analyse it. She can only live in that world of hers.� It was an advice and also a mild warning.

That was the last I tried to understand her world. In time, I grew up into a full man with university degrees and a well-paid job backing me up. Now I live in a neighbouring state, with family of my own and all the responsibilities that go with it.

It is quite some time since I saw my grandmother. Father, uncles and aunts who swarmed that nest where I grew up as a boy, all left Dhavaleswaram and each of them lived their own lives on their own at different places, many quite distant from Dhavaleswaram.

A fortnight ago, I received a letter from my grandmother. It was short and crisp. She wanted to see me. There was love, reminiscent of relationship, pure and simple and above all, a resounding genuineness, wholly, without any sign of selfishness; it was full of a longing to see me.

It was singular. There would be letters from my father, uncles, aunts, cousins and many others in whose care and company I grew up. The letters often invite me to visit them, but not one wholly for the purpose of seeing me. There would be a social or an economic agenda appended to the invitation. Often, those letters would remain forgotten. Sometimes, I find a letter that cannot be ignored totally.

Then I would plead an excuse for not being able to respond to the invitation. The invitation was mostly a social formality and a line informing the party of my inability to act on it; believe me, that would be the end of the matter.

But this letter from grandmother had a different ring. It was totally motiveless. She wanted to see me. That was the only message: no other agenda. The invitation took me to times when she rained affection on me and the memory got translated into a resolve to go to Dhavaleswaram. It grew stronger every minute and I soon found myself caught in a magnetic field where I had drawn out my plans to go to Dhavaleswaram. Nothing would stop me, not examinations of the children, not official duties, not even the temporary separation from wife it would entail, not the expenses: nothing was good enough to thwart my plans to go to Dhavaleswaram and see and be seen my grandmother. And here I am at Dhavaleswaram like Arjuna's arrow released with a single minded concentration focused on a point -Dhavaleswaram in my case.

50

Old memories surfaced as I landed at Dhavaleswaram. I tried old pathways, unconscious of the new buildings on the way and soon found myself at Ramapadam.

The sacred waters of Godavari cleaned up the encrusted mind. I went on a journey to the old times.

Bhishma Ekadasi would draw huge crowds to Godavari near Ramapadam. The placid and pure waters used for drinking purposes would turn turbid and take on a brownish hue on that auspicious day. So, on the eve of the festival, grandmother would order all the huge vessels stacked away in the attics be brought down and filled with water while still white and pure. It was no easy task. To carry the water up the stone steps so many times meant hard labour. And yet, no one felt tired in doing the job. Indeed, we would all look forward to the festival and the arduous job of filling up the innumerable vessels that were got ready for the purpose. Above all, it was carrying out grandmother's mandate.

Rampadam looked different now. No boats plied there any longer; possibly because of the barrage. Result, the vivacity was missing.

May be, it was my imagination. The stream of life, ever changing and draping itself in new colours to some, that is the essence; to others, the past is glorious and the present lacks juice!

I woke up from my reverie and reached home.

Grandfather -- gone the ram-rod figure, a slight stoop in the back -- age took its toll. The stentorian voice has grown feeble. Yet he was on his own. He did not need extraneous assistance to attend to the demands of the body. I noticed a thin film of tears in his eyes: totally new, a sight I had not seen when I was young.

My grandmother was totally on her own. Yes, that thin film of tears in her eyes had always been there. She couldn't stand suffering, be it hers or of others, livestock or the bushes in the garden.

No one dared to suggest that they leave Dhavaleswaram and the house there and move to live with one of their sons. They were firm on spending the rest of their life-time in that old tiled house.

That kept the family’s link to the old house strong. Some one or another of the progeny would be on a visit to the old couple and the old home. However, the old hullabaloo had gone forever. The Tirupati temple that it once was is now a common village temple.

My grandmother led me into the backyard. She showed me the huge spread of pumpkin patch. Our backyard is the delight of a horticulturist. Snakegourd, cluster beans, broad beans, Cephalandra, egg plant, okra, cucumbers of various types, seasonal and perennial, grew there and in profusion. For an inexplicable reason, the pumpkin patch never even flowered. She had always wanted to make that 51

pumpkin pulusu laced with jaggery, a dish that would draw commendatory comments from grandfather. At long last, her lifetime dream was coming true for there was a patch of pumpkin creeper with scores of pumpkins resting their golden hued heads on the ground.

Even as I was led into the garden, I saw a youngster sweating out a punishment doing ‘sit-ups’, very tiring and very punishing.

His name was Naganna. Tall and handsome, he may be around 14.

Bringing up the boy was beyond the means of his parents. They left him to the care of my grandfather. His food, clothing, education, in short his whole life was to be shaped by my grandfather. As we were coming back from the garden, he saw my grandmother and said, "Oh! Great mother, Is not the punishment time over yet?" She reminded him of the condition." It'll be over when the clock on the wall chimed, not till then." And even as she said this, the clock chimed and Naganna eased into a position of rest.

The pumpkin patch got erased from my mind and its place, Naganna took. He dedicated himself to attend to every whim and need of my grandparents.

Naganna is a good natured boy. But when occasion demands it, he does not hesitate to transgress the conduct rules that governed his stay there. One such transgression occurred that morning.

Grandmother lost her foothold and fell down in the pooja room. When Naganna rushed to the spot, grandmother was trying hard to recline against the wall and the effort was too much for her; Naganna entered the pooja room, gathered grandmother as she herself would have gathered a child and positioned her comfortably on a cot in the veranda nearby.

She recovered and regained her breath. And said, "I gave you clear instructions that you should not enter the pooja room under any circumstances. You should have called the poojari or a member of his family to help me, not you. Since you crossed the limits prescribed for your conduct, even if it be to help me, you suffer the punishment that sit-stand without respite, until the clock chimed.�

I happened to see Naganna as he was going through with the punishment. It became clear to me that the duration of the punishment period depended upon the position of the long hand on the clock's dial.

All of which meant that my grandmother did not come out of her cocooned life. There was no change, none whatever. Her devilish punishment was awarded even to some one who went to her aid when she most needed it. I am here today after a long, long gap.

Inhuman she was, but I could not bring myself to dub her so.

52

Naganna brought the cook. The cook would come twice in the day once in the morning and again in the evening. But now, it is afternoon. Obviously, the cook came now because of me. And grandmother got her to make some dishes for which I had a special liking. Though I had no mind to eat any of them now, I made a pretension of relishing the delights, prepared specially to please me.

My mind was too disturbed.

When the cook came again in the evening, my grandmother gave her a large vessel to cook the meal. Could it be because she noticed that I did not eat well that afternoon? But that full vessel! The quantity would last for four days for my whole family.

She saw the consternation in my face and said, "Why that look on your face? This is daily routine: not because you are here. Naganna needs good food. I've to take his appetite into account."

And that night when grandmother served him food, I saw her goading Naganna to have a little more each time, saying that his growing body needs good food to grow well.

I pondered: those who advocate social equality between sections of society, would they also think of the food required, by a less privileged boy, coming from an economically emaciated family?

Now two questions stare at me: here is a lady who lives a cocooned life, straight-jacketed by the age old caste system. But she is also tender hearted, kind and considerate, ready to part with a part of her resources, so that the boy when he becomes a man is able to stand his ground. Hers is a dichotomised personality: she is not a schizophrenic. She is a slave of tradition into which she is born. She drew a line of demarcation and created a Rubicon, her very own ready to punish who dares to cross it but kind, loving, generous, ready to give away her possessions to anyone in need. One needs to understand such personalities perceptively.

- Swati Weekly - 26.1.96

53

7

WHAT IS ALL THIS? -Kalipatnam Ramarao

I

opened my eyes, almost for the first time.

This town is quite big, no doubt about it. On the main road is seen quite a crowd, every evening. End to end it is quite a long town, the darga hill at this end and waltair at that end.

I am told Madras is much bigger. Calcutta, I understand is bigger than Bombay. Calcutta's Population is 21 lakhs. Wonder how far away is Calcutta?

South to North, India stretches 2000 miles, I understand. My office is two miles away. How many days do you have to travel to cover 2000 miles! Even at 30 miles an hour, it is far off. East to west, it is 2500 miles! And population? 38 crores and more! If you count 1, 2, 3 and go on, how long would it take to count those crores. Oh! a huge number.

Wonder how many men inhabit this earth? I am told it is 1600 crores. Oh! God. How many more times it is over 38. With this many, this earth's area is 19 crores and 18 lakh square miles! No wonder.

The Sun is 13 lakh times bigger than the earth. But it looks so small. How many miles away is it? The earth and other planets are going round and round around the Sun, at a speed far more than of a bullet!

All these together make up the world of this Sun. But each star we see is a Sun! Oh! How big is this universe! Our earth's area is 19 crores, 18 lakh square miles. And a ray of light traverses this distance ten times in the twinkling of an eye. Oh! How big is this Universe!!

These innumerable Sun worlds, the planets going around each of those worlds, and the crores and crores of living objects inhabiting those planets, every molecule in each of those living objects not for 54

once do they miss their orbits and the arrangement holds! There is some power which keeps the arrangement from falling apart!

Oh! How great is that power!

Within that creation in this huge universe of countless Suns, planets, a small population of men inhabiting this earth how many clans, countries, politics, the fights, search and research, ideals, values, sacrifices, upliftment, jails, punishments, fame, meetings, conferences, magazines, writers and readers....

What is all this?

- Anandavani : 11-3-1945

55

8

MANAGEMENT -Kalipatnam Ramarao

I

shudder to open my mouth when it comes to talking about persons steeped in Vedantic philosophy since their infancy – but I have no choice.

The family was at one time penurious: no roof to live under, no clothes worth the name. Somehow, it grew prosperous. It is now in a position to look after itself; In fact, even to help the needy. But in time, it went back to its status-quo-ante.

If one goes deep into finding an answer to the question: how did it happen? One is sure to find more than one.

First: the old adages – ships end up as carts and carts as ships; riches and waves are always on the move.

And of course, if only one seeks, one gets a hundred other answers and some of them, highly confusing.

However, I think there is a formula underlying the rise and fall of a family or a society, whether related to material prosperity or to some other field. The growth and decadence of Indian culture is a case in point. There was a time, when the civilization reached great heights but then, it had also suffered degradation to abysmally low points. Researched, you cannot but conclude that you have an answer in those old adages.

We don’t have to dwell upon this question any more. This is what happened.

It was hard going for the family before Subba Rao Pantulu was born. But by the time he was twenty five, the family’s fortunes looked up.

Subba Rao Pantulu’s father was Veerraju Pantulu. Veerraju Pantulu left a fortune: six acres of wet land, eight acres of dry land, 56

though a tiled house impregnable as an iron safe, promissory notes to the tune of five thousand rupees, and quite a few items of movable property.

All this property was earned by Veerraju Pantulu single handedly. His worldly wisdom and his art of management were much talked about in all the villages around. All literally spoke to Subbarao Pantulu about his father’s skills.

Veerraju Pantulu was an adept at drafting legal documents.

Innumerable are the stories in circulation in this regard. None, not even the three-eyed Siva could find fault with his draft.

Veerraju Pantulu had a pen made of a duck’s feather: his penmanship would be like a string of pearls.

If he had ever taken up a case and went to a court no matter what happens, the judgment would be in his favour. If in the lower court he lost the case, the appellate authority would rule in his favour.

All the property he amassed was thanks to that reputation. And he gave it all to Subbarao Pantulu. Veerraju Pantulu was dead but not the stories of his extraordinary management skills.

Subbarao Pantulu was never tired of talking of his father’s extraordinary abilities. That his son should be eulogising the father’s achievement might make his listener a lot amused but Subbarao Pantulu goes on, unmindfully.

“Oh! Those times! We enjoyed a level of comfort which even the children of a rich landlord would not have enjoyed. Now, this Gurivisetty grew blind to all the past. Those days, we used to call him ‘Re, Gurivi’ and sometimes even Guriviga. He would walk behind his father, with bags of salt and tamarind on his back, go selling them through the villages. But I? Till twenty, never, not even for a day did I lend a helping hand at home nor away from home. He brought me up like that! A great man!!

This fellow would sweet-talk me into spending for him too on festival days like Deepavali and the days when the Divine car was taken around the streets.”

And all on a sudden he would burst out loud: “Gone are those days. Now that goddess Lakshmi blessed him, he wouldn’t rest his eyes on the floor: they see skyward always. He works out plans to ruin me: dirty fellow, liar and a rascal!”

His indignation is justifiable. May be the language he employs is harsh, but one must say, every word that he said was true.

Veerraju Pantulu did bring up this son in the way a landlord would but seems to have had no thought of leaving some estate too as part of his inheritance.

57

While Veerraju Pantulu was alive, Subbarao Pantulu’s life style was luxurious: the son had every thing that a young man would wish for – style, clothing as per his whim and food of his choice. He was free the whole day; free to do anything that he chose.

Eat as much as he could, light a cigar and go to Ram Mandir to join five or six others, stationed similarly in life and indulge in every imaginable pastime – sing or play cards and go on like that till noon time, until the womenfolk at home sent word it was time for lunch, a message, mandatory in tone and circumstance.

Time permitting, after bath, if not even without bathing, partakes of the lunch; always grumbling about the food served one way or other, sometimes remarking that one or another preparation had not been given the attention it should have received or that such and such an item was missing from the menu. And at 3, go back to Ram Mandir and go the primrose pathway. The schedule is maintained through the nights too: past dinner, cover the body with a towel or a bed sheet and assemble at the mandir. The nocturnal assembly would be bigger, what with more people who have attended to their jobs during day time joining the party.

It is a variety programme. One night just talk nothing in particular; another day it could be someone singing the praise of God and a third day something else. If it was not any one such particular programme, talk about self. Those autobiographical stories would make the listeners’ heads go dizzy.

And sometimes, they talk of ghosts. If only those Vikramarka-s or Sri Krishna-s were alive and heard those stories, they would have gladly put themselves under the guardianship of these story-tellers.

Once in a while, these would be group-singing: on Saturday nights, a group-singing worshipping Sita Rama is must. Here, the lead is that of Subbarao Pantulu. Subbarao Pantulu is quite a musician. He had a big repertoire of songs in praise of the Lord. And at the end of music session, prasad is served and bhang (cannabis) is a necessary part of it. The devout looked forward to this eagerly.

Besides the psalms, Subbarao Pantulu had a good command of Bhagavatam. Over and above all this, he was good at mridangam.

Gurivisetty had always praised Subbarao Pantulu’s expertise on that percussion instrument: when Subbarao Pantulu plays it, the angels dance to that rhythm and one could even hear the bells strapped to their ankles ringing in sympathy. Subbarao Pantulu’s maternal grandfather was an expert at mridangam and his maternal uncle, a poet.

This poet-uncle taught Subbarao Pantulu the art of rendering the stanzas from Bhagavatam mellifluously. Subbarao Pantulu could 58

recite Prahlada charitra and Gajendra Moksham without even looking at the text. Apart from this he knew a number of other poetic works.

When Subbarao Pantulu talks of the way he was brought up by his father, Veerraju Pantulu, he had all this in mind. Of course, it all happened during the time he was a boy and youth: “This Guranna alias Gurivisetty was of the same age as Subbarao Pantulu and naturally the complimentary remarks Setty made about Subbarao Pantulu belonged to that age. Those were the times when Gurivisetty went among villages, totally unmindful of sun and rain with bagfuls of salt and tamarind on his back. But at night, he would join Subbarao Pantulu at Ram Mandir. And, he would smoke the cigars that Subbarao Pantulu would throw at him. Of these two friends, one inherited property of several thousands of rupees and the other had been left with just his two hands good enough to hide his povertystricken face.

Setty’s father was a good-for-nothing. The world had not seen a loving father in him. Beasts and birds are better parents. They protect their young from predators, teach them how to procure food for themselves. But his father dragged his son, into the wide world, even before the boy learnt to stand. However, dame luck favoured Setty. What if he did not earn a pie on his own? He learnt the art of interacting with big business heads, by the time he was hardly ten.

If you try to unravel what lies behind it all, you’ll realise it is a futile exercise. Possibly, the secret lies in an oft-repeated assertion that Setty makes. And that is : “If none trusts you, your life is totally worthless. Extend a helping hand. You should be able to say, I helped so and so in such and such a way. Be content with whatever is your lot. If you can survive only by eating grass, eat grass. But never steal. What life is it if you have to turn into a thief in order to eat? As well, you could be a dog!”

Setty earned ten thousand rupees in ten years. If you ask him, he’ll tell you he could do it only because he did not want to be a dog, only because he could understand the other man’s tribulations. What else can you do, except believe what Setty asserts day in and day out?

But the world around has a different view-point on this. If you dare to say that Setty’s assertions have no ring of truth in them, you hear him say, “What else would the world say? They are all crows.

And the crow knows only to Kaw!” And you fall silent.

But Pantulu’s life is quite different from Setty’s. The world cannot point a finger at him. His upbringing was such.

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When he was in the evening of his life, there was none to say ‘hello’ to him. But not one ever said that this man did an unbecoming act. How can you explain that so good a man, devout and scholarly, grew to be so poor? That is the wonder of wonders! Inscrutable are the ways of God! Stretch your imagination. This divine drama began as follows.

It was so unexpected. One midnight, Veerraju Pantulu died.

Subbarao Pantulu was forlorn. Now, who would lend him the support that he so badly needed?

His old friend, a friend since his boyhood, Guranna offered to support him. One night, he materialised in front of him and took him far, where they were alone without any possibility of any one disturbing them. There, after a brief introduction, he lectured to Subbarao Pantulu.

“Don’t ever trust relatives. It is all sweet at the tip of the tongue.

But deep in throat, there is poison.

But friends are different. Their words and actions might be distasteful but then, deep underneath, they wish one well! One may not realise this.

A gulf of difference between relatives and friends - know this.”

Gurvanna cited a good number of cases, to illustrate his point.

Some cases, he mentioned were known to Subbarao Pantulu too and some, Subbarao Pantulu did not know. But the lecture went home because it was pregnant with rational thought.

Soon, Subbarao Pantulu and Guranna became best friends. Why not? Guranna spoke some home-truths. Subbarao Pantulu did not see any motive, painted by selfishness, in what Guranna said to him. Not immediately but in course of time Guranna’s large-hearted advice helped Subbarao Pantulu open his eyes to the reality behind it all.

Within six months of Veerraju Pantulu’s death, the few hundreds of rupees he left was spent on religious rites and meeting the hospitality charges incurred on account of the many, many relatives that thronged to condole the bereaved.

With friend Guranna by his side, Subbarao Pantulu did not find the going tough. Just a word from Pantulu would suffice for the home granary to overflow with rice, dhal, salt or whatever was needed, all supplied from Guranna’s shop.

But then, three months earlier, there surfaced a snag. Guranna had no option but to broach the subject. There was not a pie in Subbarao Pantulu’s hands. And the time of annual ceremonies was fast approaching. Quite a sum of money would be needed to meet those expenses. And so, Guranna suggested that a ‘look-at’ be 60

organized over the promissory notes executed in favour of Veerraju Pantulu.

But almost all the debtors expressed their inability to settle matters immediately. Everyone wanted a minimum of six months time.

Guranna came to Subbarao Pantulu’s help. His wife has a thousand rupees of her own, a sum which she received as a bridal gift from her parents. Guranna had asked for that amount, just a loan--several times. But she remained unmoved. But now, her brother Subbarao Pantulu is in need of help. It would be very unfair of her if she would not go to help her brother. She agreed to loan that sum.

Subbarao Pantulu had no alternative. So, he agreed to fall in line. Guranna said he would have no role to play in this arrangement: in fact, he expressed a fear that if he had to mediate, the deal might not go through. So, on the day, when the documents were signed, he had to go to the town to attend to some urgent matter which needed his personal presence. Subbarao Pantulu informed Guranna of the details of arrangement when he came back from his trip away from home.

Those days, the ruling interest rate for loans advanced without any mortgage was Rs.1.5 per hundred per month. But in the transaction between Subbarao Pantulu and Guranna’s wife, the document showed Rs.2/- as the interest chargeable. Guranna was flabbergasted. If only he was in station! Naturally he grew angry, so angry that as he rushed home, Subbarao Pantulu felt impelled to get along with the agreement.

Setty lambasted his wife; the lingo he used was such that Subbarao Pantulu had to intervene to pacify him. The terms on which the loan was given were so harsh that they transgressed all canons of decency, he said. He would not countenance it and proclaimed that he would do his best to stop repayment. The man was all fire; indeed he looked like Lord Siva Himself at the time of cataclysm.

Subbarao Pantulu asked Setty to calm down. He drew attention to the flaw in Setty’s way of dealing with the matter. He said, “My friend, why are you so mad? After all, it is a matter of another halfa-rupee. At the worst, it would come to another five rupees every month. In any case, I’m going to settle matters in six months. So, on the whole I would be paying an extra thirty rupees. And your wife, my sister, by no stretch of imagination can be faulted for being greedy.

It is not greed but that is how a woman should safe-guard her interests.” Setty calmed down.

Now, Setty understood the problem. Even then, his anger would not let him regain composure. He, therefore, spat out all the phlegm that gathered in his throat and swore: ‘a greedy bitch!’

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It must be said that a small miscalculation crept into the deal.

May be, he had studied many a purana. He overlooked a basic principle. Don’t they say, man proposes and God disposes! That oversight on the part of Subbarao Pantulu made him pay a fine of two thousand rupees! He planned to clear the loan in six months but it had taken six years!

Subbarao Pantulu is not someone who would stand his ground.

His debtors took advantage of Subbarao Pantulu’s soft hearted personality. Gurivi Setty took upon himself the responsibility of realizing all the amounts due to Subbarao Pantulu. He took Subbarao Pantulu to the town and arranged to serve registered notices to them.

When the debtors pleaded that they cannot clear the debts as per the terms laid down in the promissory note, Setty modified those conditions and somehow saw to it that all the amounts payable to Subbarao Pantulu were paid. It took all of six years for him to accomplish the job.

However, the loan which Subbarao Pantulu took from Setty’s wife remained unsettled.

In these six years, not once was any interest paid to Setty’s wife.

So, a new promissory note that incorporated the interest payable as the principal sum taken was executed once more three years after the loan was first taken. As a result, the one thousand rupee loan got inflated to six thousand.

Setty pleaded with his wife to write off a portion of the interest.

It is but right, he said. But she would not relent. Setty’s anger knew no bounds. “Do you intend to cut the throat of this poor brahmin?

You are a wretch, a merciless witch,” he shouted.

Now, he turned to Pantulu and said, “Don’t be too soft. Do not pay back a pie. Let me see who would help her settle the matter”.

All this bravado went fruitless. Setty’s wife went to Pantulu’s house, without her husband knowing anything about it and cried her eyes out; “I am a woman. Do you think it is proper that you should betray a sister who trusted you?” And that did the trick.

Subbarao Pantulu settled the matter to the last pie.

All said and done: Six years have gone by. All movable property moved out. The immovable, being immovable, were still intact.

The land yielded just enough for the family to stay alive. And what he leased, gave him a hundred and fifty rupees annually. But the expenses came to four hundred rupees over and above this income.

Why spend more than what one can afford? That is a question without an answer.

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Subbarao Pantulu’s gaze for milch cows proved expensive. He had neither the knowhow for evaluating a cow’s worth nor did he know how to go about the job of bargaining over the purchase of a cow. So, always some one else did the job for him. He always paid a hundred for a cow. And every time, the cow came to be tethered in the forecourt of the house, it was a dry one. When he sold it, he never realised a pie more than fifty rupees. There were guests at home, always. And his wife! Four children later, her health took a beating. Medicines, peace offerings to ward off the evil effects of planetary positions, charity and the ever-recurring annual festivals-all a must! Not even one can be missed out.

And Subbarao Pantulu! He was keen on earning God’s grace and would not think of a way to earn some extra money!

The method followed to balance income and expense and the debt cleared in favour of Setty-no, not Setty but Setty’s wife had taken its toll. All the movable property moved out. There came a change in Subbarao Pantulu’s attitude. May be, the remarks made by those who knew them both – Setty’s new affluence and his own penury caused a rift between friends. Subbarao Pantulu quarreled with Setty and stopped talking to him.

Whether on the advice of some new found friends or because of an urge to earn the wretched but needed money, Subbarao Pantulu looked for ways to earn. Finally, he hit upon a business project.

Did we ever hear of a child that learnt to walk without bruising the knees!

Subbarao Pantulu raised money pledging the landed property and took to trading in groundnut. Fortunately for him, he found he was a misfit quite early. He lost about two hundred rupees. Would not a baby burnt once, shun fire? And Subbarao Pantulu gave up all thought of business. Indeed, he did not even clear the debt he incurred when he opened business. At the end of a three-year period, when his creditor threatened to sue him, he sold three acres of the dry land, paid one thousand and five hundred rupees, a sum equal to the principal plus the interest accrued on it and heaved a sigh of relief. Whatever was left saw him through one more year.

The folks around--would they leave him alone? Why not you think of agriculture, they would suggest.

He would recite a stanza in his characteristic, mellifluous way; if Father Time is favourable, one would reap a harvest even from a forest. Whether understood or not, the listener would nod his sympathy as the despair in Subbarao Pantulu’s voice came out clearly.

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He would compliment Subbarao Pantulu on the sweetness of his voice. Happy at the compliment, Subbarao Pantulu would forget the problems afflicting him.

And the God, Narayana Murthy, had not forgotten to bless Subbarao Pantulu with eight children; six are girls. One might therefore say that God, even if he cheated Subbarao Pantulu out of his material prosperity, He did not forget to bless him with daughters, each as good as Lakshmi herself.

Pantulu’s mind would go bizarre when he sees them go around in soiled clothes, when they fight over a tattered rug in the cold season, when he sees them crying over some unfulfilled want. And girls grow fast; he would then feel truly distressed.

These are times when fashion does not stay confined to urban areas: it has spread to villages too. Vain, though he is, a brahmin knows how problematic it is to marry off his daughter; and Subbarao Pantulu, who lives an ethereal life, away from reality of this terra firma is no exception in this matter.

Sometimes, when he sees the future in all its ferocity his heart grows heavy. He consoles himself by recalling poet Veddadi’s reflective line from his Bhakta Chintamani: Don’t you see a frog living among stones?! And another time, he recalls Pothana’s line; ‘Would a Cuckoo visit barren twigs, as it searches for the sweet nectar from flowers?’ These thoughts would make him forget his misery.

Another time, totally unprovoked, he would abuse his wife; and when he loses his mental balance, he would even physically assault her.

When he resorts to this second degree of violence, he would ask his son to take out the Mridangam gifted by his maternal family and starts playing on it.

As he plays on it, he forgets time and the rhythm emanating from that percussion instrument might come to sound like thunder.

He sees God himself in that thunder; slowly, the troubled mind calms down and a sort of oneness with God creeps over him and lulls him into a dead silence.

- Andhra patrika weekly, 30-3-1949

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9

DONT TURN THE CLOCK BACK - D. Kameswari

M

"

ummy….”

‘Yes’, said Kalyani. She was busy in the kitchen. There was nothing more than the usual casual ring.

“Mummy, do you know any gynecologist? Sometime back you went to see a lady Doctor. What is her name?” asked Chitra in a low, hushed tone.

Kalyani was collecting the condiments that would give the ‘rasam’ its characteristic flavor. On hearing the word, gynecologist, she faced Chitra and said, ‘Gynecologist! Who needs her? Why?” There was a look of disbelief, coupled with suspicion. Chitra said, “I missed my periods, mummy”. She had her eyes riveted to the ground as she said this.

Kalyani missed a heart beat, on hearing what Chitra said.

Worried, she said, “What do you mean?” The look on Chitra’s face roused her worst fears.

“I think I am pregnant”, said in a matter of fact way, tossing a crescent of cashewnut into her mouth.

Kalyani went pale and looked at Chitra stupefied.

“What! What did you say?” said she, not quite sure if she heard Chitra right. She repeated the question, as if seeking confirmation.

“I missed my period, this month. So I went for a urine test. It was positive”, said Chitra looking straight into the eyes of her mother.

Kalyani’s legs shook with fright. She switched off the stove and sat on a chair, near the dining table. “What did you say! Are you in your senses? What exactly is the matter? Tell me the truth. I hope it is not a practical joke.” Her face turned dark with shame. “You are asking me if it is a practical joke. How could anyone cut a joke like this, of all people with one’s own mother? I have been planning on 65

telling you this since yesterday. I didn’t know how to put it. Afraid it might get too late, I told you now,” said Chitra, embarrassment writ large on her face.

Kalyani now had a fixed stare in her eyes. “How, how did it happen?” she asked in a hushed tone, so hushed that it was inaudible even to her own self.

What a silly question, the thought crossed Chitra’s mind. She said, “It just happened. The bloody fellow dismissed my fears. Just once, nothing would happen. Talked of safe period etc.” As she said this, there was a smug look on her face.

“Who? Who is he? You don’t seem disturbed. You look so brave.

You are talking of all this, as if it is some common cold that is troubling you. And your bravado! You are asking me to take you to a Doctor.”

Beside herself with anger, Kalyani stuttered. “If your daddy comes to know of this, I don’t know how he would react. Oh you! You threw all caution to the winds”. Her face went red with anger. She couldn’t bring herself to believe all this was true.

She is unable to believe that an unmarried daughter brought up in howsoever forward and modern manner should come to inform her mother of her pregnancy! So openly! After all this is India, yet.

Yes, abroad, in America and other countries the children lead an unfettered sex-life, even at the high school level, boy friends, dating, premarital sex, unwed pregnancy and abortions – she heard and read about it all. It is not as if such things do not happen here. But it is all so secret. The family is out of it. Yes, sometimes parents do arrange termination of pregnancy but secretly. But Kalyani was shocked at this outrageous conduct of her daughter, the daughter informing the mother of her pregnancy and to boot it, seeking her help in organizing the termination of that pregnancy. It is a great shock to Kalyani.

“What mummy! Why that shocked look, as if the house is on fire! If we go to the Doctor, it is just a two-minute job”, said Chitra.

This was the last straw. Kalyani got out of her seat and slapped Chitra hard. Red-faced, she shouted, “Shut up! no! shut up. Another word, I’ll kill you. Who is that rascal? First, you tell me that.”

Chitra, as angry as her mother, said,” What does it matter? Does it really matter who it is? First, you tell me this: are you taking me to the Doctor, or not?”

“You could have asked that fellow himself, to take you to a Doctor.

And now, you woke up, seeking my help. After all, you burnt your boats and said it doesn’t matter who made you pregnant. You could have silently got that abortion done, without ever letting us know of it.” Kalyani looked at Chitra disdainfully, as she said all this.

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“That bloody Sandeep is frightened”. The inadvertent mention of Sandeep’s name made her blush. “If somebody notices, what then?” says that stupid. The Doctor insists on the presence of the husband or the parent at the clinic, at the time of abortion.”

“Oh! so you made your attempts. And now, you seek your mother’s help. Sandeep? Fair, with a chain around the neck, the son of Agarwal. He came home asking for your books. Is it he?”, she said burning with fury.

Embarrassed, Chitra nodded her head. “Not even twenty, you are in the college for study. But you indulge in sex and love. Tell me if it is just love and sex or did you go beyond it all and got married too? Why would he marry? Here is easy prey. Feed and leave. Since he had his meal, he shied away. Just imagine what a clever rascal he is, he is not willing to go to the Doctor with you. He got what he wanted from you and left you in the lurch. And you still trust him…”

She vented all her ire and heaped ridicule on Chitra.

“Mummy, for God’s sake, it is too late to discuss all this. Whatever happened has happened. May be my fault or his, you cannot undo it.

Now tell me, if you’ll help me. Or, you want me to go my way. True, I was foolish. And you are making a fuss. It is not a big deal...”

The hauteur and care-a-jot attitude Chitra exhibited made Kalyani lose her head. “In spite of the colossal damage done, you do not seem to have grown wise. It is not a big deal! Yes, Okay! Go whatever you want to do, do it. After all, you went this far and why not go further..”. She lighted the stove and got lost in preparing the curry.

“Wise, does it mean that I should admit that I made a mistake and fall at your feet, crying out my eyes. Perhaps you would then be happy!”, said Chitra with all the vehemence at her command.

“If only you regret for what has happened, if only you realise that you went astray, I would pity you. But you insist on singing, ‘It is not a big deal.’ It means you do not understand the enormity of the damage you did to yourself and the family, shows how idiotic you are. In our country, in our India, you don’t seem to know the horror of an unwed girl becoming pregnant. Once the fact comes to be known, no fool, however foolish he is, would want to marry you.

One might claim to be modern and proclaim high idealism but when it comes to the question of marriage, they scrutinise family history and speak of tradition.”

“If I don’t get married, no big bang would occur.” Chitra was going on defiantly. “Yes. Why marry? You went this far”… Kalyani was about to make a very damaging remark. She was beside herself with anger.

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Chitra was equally angry. She said, “Stop it mummy. It was awfully foolish of me to seek your help. Don’t talk as if your daughter did something extraordinary, something no one else did. It is just a normal thing that has happened. Such things do happen between boys and girls and electrons too. It is not a wonder. Tell me if you’ll take me to a doctor or do you want me to go on my own? Say yes or no”. She wanted an immediate answer. Kalyani looked at Chitra contemptuously.

“I’ll have to tell daddy, know what he would want me to do.

Surely, he will find fault with me. He would say I had been too indulgent with you and did not discipline you enough. And now you landed me in this difficult situation”.

“Why tell him? He is hidebound in tradition and old ways… If you cannot rise to the occasion, how do you expect him to understand?”

“It is not a matter over which he should be kept in the dark. If he would ever come to know of it, I will be undone. My mind is in a whirl. I need to think deep. I’ve to go to the office and all work at home remains unattended. Please go away from here”. Totally shaken, she threw herself into attending to domestic chores.

“If you tell Daddy, I don’t know what I would do. Don’t bother to help, if you don’t want to,” said Chitra and dashed off.

“Bring that Sandeep fellow once. I would like to talk with him”, said Kalyani, a little loudly.

Chitra turned around and looked daggers at her mother. She said, “No. You don’t talk to him. That rascal is avoiding me. I’ll never again talk to him”. She walked away.

“So, the love and the craze had vanished.” There was a resignation in the thought. The storm, sure to break out–oh! How would she face it! The very thought of facing her husband, her heart beat faster and her legs started shaking uncontrollably.

* * * * *

Kalyani dreamt of woman’s emancipation. Freedom, financial independence for women and an impregnable self respect -- she cherished these ideas. She firmly believed that a woman’s competence is equal to a man’s in every field of human activity: in fact, given an opportunity, she would surpass man. She believed education is the key to all this. Educated, she would know her rights and then she would have a distinctive individuality of her own: this was her unshakeable belief. She was a witness to her mother’s ill-treatment by her father and has decided, she herself, when grownup should not suffer the kind of shame her mother suffered.

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When her father suggested that she get married after completing her school education, she protested. When father insisted, she went on a hunger strike. She made her stand very clear: not until she lands in a job would she consent to marriage. And she won the battle. With a University degree in her pocket, she earned for herself a clerical post in a bank and today, she is a Bank officer.

She chalked out a programme of action for her daughter too.

She gave them, her children, a son and a daughter, equality of opportunity. She admitted both in engineering colleges. Never did she make her daughter feel her interests suffered just because she was a girl. Both the children grew up without ever coming to feel that one was a boy and the other was a girl. She took extra care to see that her children received the same attention in every single way.

Kalyani’s husband, Ramakrishna, was born in a village. He was traditionalistic: temples, observance of religious duties etc. were part of his personality. He would keep reminding Kalyani that she should bring up the girl, as would befit a girl.

He would often say: “you should see that her hair-do is the old double-plaited type. That cropped hair and the dotless face ill becomes the girl. And her running races with boys and cycling, no, I cannot countenance. She has come of age. Yet she dons a vest and shorts and play shuttle along with boys. You indulge her too much. And now, you are buying her a moped, just because you bought one for her brother. And you let her wear pants and go around like a tomboy.

And to boot it all, you insist on both studying Engineering. That course of study suits a boy. As for your daughter, she would do well to study B.A. She can do post-graduation in some area. Why do you let all those boys come home? Your daughter was on the pillion of a scooter, driven by a boy. I saw it with my own eyes. You let her have her way in all things. I am afraid, when she becomes uncontrollable....” Ramakrishnan and Kalyani had many an exchange, sometimes heated arguments too, all around the girl child.

The very word, ‘girl child’ would make Kalyani angry.

‘Why, is there a rule that a ‘girl child’ should not wear trousers?’

‘What is so wrong with playing shuttle? And when they play shuttle, what else could anyone wear but pants?’ ‘You are willing to buy a moped for the boy. This ‘girl child’ has to cover a longer distance.

Why won’t you buy a moped for her too?’ What is so wrong, if boys, her classmates come home? We implant the thought of male and female in them and put wrong ideas in their heads. When they are friends, why bring in male and female? When her moped gives trouble, what is so wrong if she comes on the pillion of a friend’s bike?”

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She always backed the daughter, without ever looking at her as a girl child. ‘Both of us are in decent jobs. Can we not meet the expense? Why do you think, a girl should not study engineering? In fact, our girl is better at Mathematics than our son. Why do we have to deny her a good educational career?’ And, she insisted on her being admitted in an engineering college. Chitra and Chaitanya – in order that they do not have to quarrel about anything – two cycles, two mopeds, two sets of books were bought. Each had what the other had.

“It is your own making; you are letting her drift like a dry leaf in the wind. The girl is encouraged to mix with boys freely, in the name of friendship. One day, you’ll find yourself awfully let down”, said Ramakrishna when the boys and girls went on a picnic. “Now, the children are not like those of yesteryears. They are quite clever.

They know their limits. If in the name of discipline, we don’t give them the freedom of association and freedom of movement, they do things on the sly. They tell lies. But if we let them have the freedom, they will open out their minds and discuss matters quite frankly”, argued Kalyani. This support from mother emboldened Chitra and a kind of recklessness crept into her behaviour. Ramakrishna disapproved of it all. And now, if Kalyani would go to her husband and tell him of what had happened, he would blame her. There is no escape from the censure Ramakrishna would rain on her. She would take it. But what galled her was that Chitra abused all the freedom she as the mother gave her. How could she excuse her daughter?

More so because even now Chitra was defiant: her taking the stand that whatever happened was not because of her fault. If Chitra were ever to realize that mother would not support her whatever she did, a kind of ‘I don’t care’ attitude has to be adopted, pretension though it might be: at least for two or three days. Then, she would realize the gravity of the situation, go to Kalyani and apologize for whatever happened and promise good conduct; then she’ll take her to the doctor. She would tell Ramakrishna of all that happened just before going to the doctor, wait for a couple of days and watch how Chitra would respond, decided Kalyani.

* * * * *

Midnight, she was fast sleep, Kalyani woke up, startled. A weeping Chitra was calling her in a hushed tone. She sat up in the bed and saw Chitra in the dim light of the bed lamp: her face was pale. Shaking with fear, Chitra was writhing in pain. “Mummy, pain. It is bleeding uncontrollably. Do something, mummy”. Chitra was trying to massage her tummy, her night dress and the bedspread were soaked in blood.

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Kalyani felt chilled. “What happened? What did you do? Any self medication?”

“Day before, I went to a lady Doctor. She did an abortion. There is continuous bleeding, since this evening. And now an unbearable pain. Oh! This pain. Do something, mummy.” She began to sob.

“Who is the Doctor that conducted the abortion? Why did you go all alone?” asked Kalyani, her voice heavy with anxiety.

“You did not proffer any help. My friend Ravi, out of pity for me, came along with me. He said he was my husband. We were told there was a Doctor who would help in such cases”.

“So you went to a quack”, an angry Kalyani said.

She realized the abortion failed. It was no time for argument.

She woke up Ramakrishna.

* * * * *

“Incomplete abortion, profuse bleeding, high fever and uncontrollable pain – indicate infection. Result of going to a quack.

These college girls, many do not quite know what is right and what is wrong. And what is worse, they resort to wrong measures”, the Doctor was not sparing in her language.

And then she turned to Kalyani and said, “You are her mother.

You should not have left matters rest for two days, all because you were angry. When the child goes astray, is it not our duty to help?” the Doctor lectured Kalyani too. Thank god, the Doctor was her colleague’s sister-in-law. Kalyani therefore knew her and so rushed Chitra to the clinic. The Doctor’s admonition made Kalyani hang her head down.

Ramakrishna, when told of the urgency of the matter, fell silent.

Not a word of chastisement escaped him. He took out the car and drove them to the nursing home. Even after the D&C was performed and Chitra relieved of her acute pain, he did not say anything. The mother and daughter stayed in the nursing home for the day and returned home the next day.

Kalyani served fruit juice to Chitra and while helping her daughter said to her: “Your daddy, did not utter a word of indictment.

You know what it means. He is hurt very badly. The pain and the shame, he swallowed. If only he had given vent to the pain he suffered, how nice it would have been. I feel ashamed of myself: how do I face him” said Kalyani.

“Sorry Mummy,” said Chitra with her eyes on the floor. It was as though all the arrogance and vanity got washed out of her in that one day. Dark lines underneath the eyes, face turned pale, and body gone weak she looked a picture of repentance.

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“Chitra, this one misdemeanor robbed you of your freedom. No one trusts you anymore. Your daddy would now codify your conduct.

Whatever you do, wherever you go, if you come home an hour late-all of it comes under severe scrutiny. Now, I cannot any longer come to your support,” said Kalyani.

Chitra began to weep. “Mummy, I did not do any of this on intent. That fellow Sandeep suggested that we go to his house. Why not, I told myself and went. Then only I came to know that his parents and others at home went to Tirupati. He sweet talked, put on the tape-recorder and suggested dance. All for fun, he said.

Nothing uncommon about it all, he said. All college students, boys and girls do it. He mentioned hundred names.

Just once, nothing would happen. And what’s wrong about it?

Went on talking about hundred things and finally conquered me. I too was inquisitive, I suppose. But never expected it would end like this. And he reassured me: spoke of safe period”. All the while, she was shedding tears.

“Chitra, boys of this age group are always keen on sex. They have an irresistible urge to experience sex. At the onset of youth, they are inclined to cross the line that separates the desirable from the undesirable. When the girls mingle with boys, it is the girl that has to be on guard, not cross the line. Friendship should not be allowed to melt into mad fascination. A girl should draw the boundary which would not let a boy friend cross. You can’t play with fire: if you do, you get burnt. It is therefore up to the woman to keep away from fire. Why do you think society has imposed a strict code of conduct for the woman? Man is like fire. If you play with it, you suffer: you get burnt, pain and shame are your lot. Look at Sandeep.

He stays untouched but you! you went through an ordeal. That little incident did not leave any mark on him. But you are branded. We might cry ourselves hoarse over this. There is no equality of sexes, in this one issue. The woman is always at the wrong end of the stick.

We are victims of a natural arrangement. The joy of union is something both shared. But the punishment – the consequence of that single act in which both partook – belongs to the woman. Mother Nature had been cruelly partial. It is something from which there is no escape to us. This pain and this shame is all ours”.

Chitra had guilt writ all over her.

“Chitra, I had not stinted from giving you the same freedom as I had given your brother. Freedom should never degenerate into license. You too should get the same quality education as your brother. Financially, you must grow to be as independent as your brother. You should not suffer a handicap because of your sex. That 72

was the design I drew on my drawing board for your future. We must do everything within our power to prove we are not inferior to man in any respect whatever. But you put another construction on the freedom I drew up for you. Freedom does not entitle you to erase every demand that society drew up for you. If you try to do it, no society would let you go free. It has been so, from the days of Kunti of Mahabharat to the present. This will hold good for the future too. Can you imagine that any mother would be able to proclaim from house tops that she took her daughter to a clinic for an abortion? I don’t think any girl would have the courage to proclaim that she had an abortion. When Mrs. Prasada Rao asked why you were there in that clinic I had to tell a white lie – that it was a gynecological problem. Much as I tried to bluff, I don’t think I was successful in hiding the truth. This news is bound to spread – and then we have to suffer a sense of shame. That is not all. May be it is likely to become a problem when the time for your marriage comes.

You have unwittingly provided that future husband of yours with a weapon; he would not hesitate to use it against you”.

Chitra said, “Mummy, you are painting too bleak a picture. I know quite many boys and girls in my college mix very freely and I have no doubt, they are into sex, too”.

“Just because some have transgressed conduct rules, it doesn’t mean you too might. Until the time they are caught, all are innocent.

I know with all the information on family planning freely available, it is quite probable that many have premarital and extramarital sex.

Can you guess why I never talked about this to you? Then, you might imagine that I would approve of any sexual transgression on your part. Please understand this: this licentious behavior might impel society to once more impose a cruel code of conduct on women. It is your responsibility to see that the young would not misuse the freedom and thus save them from the probability of imposition of an ugly and wholly undesirable code of conduct for women, at any rate here in our land”.

Her mother’s peroration had the desired impact on Chitra’s mind.

Kalyani felt sure that Chitra would not cross the line, once more.

- Kathasagar

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10

THE COVER -Mohammed Khadir Babu

M

ubasheera Begum has an obsession: every container at home must be covered by a lid of its own. She wouldn’t compromise: the cover should be neither large nor small. Rasul Ahmed thinks she is being squeamish.

As she retires after the day’s work was done, she reminds her husband even as he was lost listening to the nightly telecast of the news, “Jee, please, put a lid on that vessel with curds”. Rasul sahib would not find a suitable lid and his chagrin grows too obvious.

Mubasheera wouldn’t have fallen asleep, what with the nagging doubt – it is covered properly or not? She gets out of bed, opens the cabinet and seeing her fears were not unfounded, would cover the vessel with the right lid.

That was her life style then and it is no different now. Nothing should besmirch the family pride. None should ever know more than necessary, about the family. Just leak out what wouldn’t hurt is alright by her: and information must remain within the family, must not move out. One must learn to live within one’s bounds.

This also was beyond Rasul’s comprehension. If he had known this, he wouldn’t have created that ruckus, when his first daughter eloped with some unknown nobody. And now, the world knows about it, thanks to his stupidity.

“Okay, she eloped, just shut up and forget it”, Mubasheera advised but, did he heed her?

With a sword unsheathed, he indulged in heroics absolutely unbecoming his old age. And what happened later? He cooled down and shut himself up at home.

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What her first daughter did was not her fault. She was thirty: shrewd and clever. When her parents were preoccupied otherwise, she would stand at the doorway and watch the world go by. The vehicular traffic, men loitering along freely, talking uninhibitedly and doing whatever they wanted with least regard to others around.

Seeing all this, she stood there fascinated, lost even to her own self.

An auto driver teased her. He would say something or other whenever he caught sight of her. He would make gestures. She would get away. After a time, the anger got displaced by a kind of sympathy. When at last, she felt there was no way out, she fell for him and eloped.

But would the society leave the matter alone? A small town, Miryalaguda. A predominantly muslim locality. The society poked its nose and Mubasheera begum lost her peace.

Born into Islam, one is hamstrung by a variety of restrictions, some of them extreme. A transgression is an affront to Allah and demands expiation. You might not be aware but the society keeps on reminding you of what you did or did not do.

Living at Miryalaguda became irksome. Mubasheera found it worrisome. This is no place where I can live any longer. Move out, she told herself.

To make matters worse, she has two daughters. She has to find boys of the right background and get them married off. Only then would they be able to live respectable lives. If not, the society would have its eyes riveted on them. It’ll have no compunction whatever to make known to the world at large what the first daughter had done, when the time comes. That is how it functions; it’ll spill it out unintentionally.

Mubasheera thought and thought.

“You retired from service. Our son is at college, far away from here. Thanks to you, we don’t own a house. So how does it matter where we live? Let us go to Hyderabad. Big city. None would worry about us. Here in these small residential districts, we cannot keep our girls from the prying eyes of outsiders. There, we are not answerable to any body; every one is concerned about self. What do you say? You may say we have relatives, friends and others known to us here. Wild beasts are for more decent than all these friends and relatives”, she said.

Rasul Ahmed nodded “Okay” Indeed he had no alternative. He was employed in the post office and he had not known the world outside, except his home and office.

When he retired from service, he was burdened with his daughters of marriageable age and a son, who scraped through EAMECT and 75

joined an Engineering college. His pension and the retirement benefits he would receive, would not meet the expenses -- a fact staring stark into his face.

On retirement, he felt like a caveman who had just come out of his dark world into the glare of the outside world. And he could not help going to the post office everyday and help the uninformed who go there to send Money orders and make deposits. There was some little extra money he would receive for the services rendered.

But, it was precious little, wouldn’t meet the smallest of expense.

Yes, may be in Hyderabad, there would open up new ways to earn a little bit more.

And the family shifted to Hyderabad. Close to Madina, behind Lakhadkhot, he took on rent a three - room house.

New place, new atmosphere.

This residential district had two desirable parameters: first it was essentially a muslim locality, with a life pattern familiar to him; second the low rent he was paying meant more savings.

As to Mubasheera, the house was a little to the interior: it was in a corner street, dark and narrow. It was very satisfying.

Almost the first thing she did after settling down in this new house was to make curtains and fit them to the doors and windows such that nothing inside the house was seen from outside nor nothing outside was visible from inside the house. The corner room was allocated to the two daughters.

The room leading out into the street was to be the living room for herself and her husband: the arrangement enabled her to keep watch over her daughters, if and when they went out or stood to watch the goings-on in the street.

It is a new life altogether: a life of seclusion, with little transaction between them and the outside world. None to pry into their lives, curious about the food they eat, the clothes they wear and certainly none to probe when the girls were going to be married.

May be, a peripheral curiosity was inevitable but since they are new tenants in the locality, no one would ask them directly about these things. The outside world was busy handling its own affairs, tackling its own problems.

After a time, Mubasheera ventured to visit the neighbourhood.

As and when she went out, she would wear a good quality saree, draped carefully with the folds properly overlying one another. As for ornaments, bangles matching the saree colour adorned her hands.

A necklace of black beads strung through a thread, she would display over her saree. Just a pleasant chat and make friends with other women in the neighbourhood is her new pastime.

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“Our son, Samad is in the Engineering College. Once he finishes his studies, he has to come to Hyderabad. And so, we moved over here in advance. There are some very good looking girls in Miryalaguda. If you know of any suitable grooms, please let me know, she would request them trying not to reveal that she herself has two daughters of marriageable age.

Broached on the subject of alliances for girls, she would learn that there are two types.

One: After the marriage, meet costs of sending the boy to Saudi or Dubai and hold your breath for a minimum of two years. The boy would earn enough by then and on return from there, would set up his own family. The girl will have to live with her parents until then. All this would cost one lakh rupees. If one insists on the boy setting up family here as soon as the marriage is over, one has to give enough money to secure a job or set up a small business. It means two lakhs. And, give him a vehicle too”.

And finally, the topic would conclude thus: “These days, our boys are eking out a livelihood, going for uncertain remuneration. They are totally clueless, unable to draw a road map for decent living: indeed, they don’t even have a standing place anywhere. They can find a job, only if they migrate. Here what do they have? Possibly, an ill paid small job. If they don’t get even that, they are on the streets. So, the girl he marries offers him shelter.

And some would ask: “You have girls, what about them?”

And Mubasheera had a ready answer: “Oh! They are kids. Not of marriageable age”. Not a muscle would twitch in her face, as she said so.

“My husband married late. He is twelve years older than me.

And the children too came quite late,” she would say as if to substantiate her explanation over the age of her daughters.

All the while, deep inside, she shook in fear. From what she learned, she made a quick calculation: four lakhs! A sum she cannot even dream of. She does not have even a quarter of that sum. Teach them to read Quran, let them know how to offer Namaz: let them learn to make tasty curd bath and biriyani and somehow get them married. They would get launched on their life- journey.

But the boy, their only son, quite intelligent. All around, every one is scraping their plate clean to admit the boys in some engineering college. True, his value in the EAMECET is not high. But that did not deter them from admitting him in some minority institution somewhere in Karnataka. All the money in the kitty vanished.

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Soon they found it hard to meet the cost of keeping the boy at the college. It proved to be quite a different proposition; not as easy as admitting the boy in the college. Fees, his monthly expenses, cost of dress -- the boy’s minority status did not make any difference, the son’s frugality did not help much. Quite a chunk of the pension went to meet those costs; no helping it.

Hard times!

Rasul Ahmed soon found that in the old city one had to be proficient in Urdu, know to read and write the language: once he realised this, he stopped going to post office where he thought he would find a source of some extra income. Now watching TV for all the twenty-four hours of the day has become his sole occupation.

Mubasheera offered a prayer of thankfulness: if only that TV had not been there, she wondered if Rasul Ahmed would have kept his senses in shape.

The girls, both of them, did not pose problems. Talk at low pitch, say prayers as ordained, now and then a very quiet laugh: go to the bazaar along with mother fully covered in burqah. Indeed, nobody had ever even noticed them. Her mother, Mubasheera, alone knew what changes were taking place in their bodies!

When they had their head bath, when they changed their petticoats, when they slept with their garments away from where they would be while awake, when their breasts began to grow heavy, when their skin shone with a sheen and when their bottoms grew broad the mother remembered her first born and then she would feel some body plunged a knife into her.

That girl too was like this. There was a pomegranate-like shine on her too, burning bright!

But as she aged and marriage proposals fell through, the sheen on the fruit began to fade, the seeds dried up as the juice inside them dried up, the breasts sagged along with the body that had thinned and she moved around the house like a dry reed. Mubasheera was a helpless witness to all this.

And yet, the shapeless girl went away with that auto fellow. He was luckless. God knows where he had taken her and what he had done to her!

She stopped thinking about her. If she ever thought of her, the whole day she grew listless. She embraced silence. On such occasions she would pace up and down. While all slept, she would cry her eyes out, punching her belly. She cried a lot.

But when morning comes, she was her charming self. She will have light-hearted banter with the children, and weave their flowing hair into plaits. She would give her daughters beauty tips, while 78

applying mehndi. She would cut cucumber pieces and press them under the eyes, such that the dark patches there would lighten. “Oh! My pets, my gold treasure, I’m sure some princes would come to seek your hands”, she would say. The girls’ spirit would soar high at this remark from mother and they would go into peals of laughter.

She would join them in their mirth.

She would then say: “Why waste time? As well do something to spend time usefully”.

Somebody said that in Lod Bazar, one can find lace-work. So one day, she went there and spoke to the saits. They would send sarees and other dress material, over which the girls would fix lace as per design and also stitch up the edges. Some small money, yet money alright. Incidentally, it is a job that would make Rasul Ahmed do some walking.

The girls found happiness in the job. And when the job was related to brides, they worked tirelessly. Green, dark green, the shining red of pepper fruit, snuff color, blue…. as they fixed the shining golden chumki on that soft cloth, they felt an inner joy. Once in a while, unable to withstand those unfamiliar, yet so agreeable smells, they would press those pieces against their bodies. During the season, in the month of Ramzan, they went into a frenzy that while the entire street slept, in their home lights shone bright. When the work yielded money, they buy some little trinkets and then, their faces lighted up. As for Mubasheera, she was delighted.

“What? Are you buying all that you need for your marriage, yourselves?” Mubasheera would say with an encouraging smile.

But the joy was short lived. Before long they came to see, it was not a lasting job, not a dependable one either.

The atmosphere in the old city changed it all. It was like the atmosphere in the sea, which, not even a fisherman would be able to fathom.

Even as everyone was going about his job, dark clouds would gather over the arches of Charminar. All on a sudden, strong winds, dust laden would blow. A little later, from behind the clouds stones would rain.

Disturbances, protests and flaming fire! Streets suddenly emptied of men, shops with shutters drawn down. Dead bodies.

Mandir- Masjid.

Ram Janma Bhumi.

Some one somewhere said something on a Friday. And it would become phosphorus and burst into flames near Mecca Masjid. That flame would give rise to a loud rumble. Crowds of men, in groups, would seek to run into the new city. Police would draw a line, not allow them to cross the line and chase them back into the old city.

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This happens for quite a long time and quite many times.

When all is over, there would appear two or three prostrate bodies, chappals of some unknown bodies.

Mubasheera would see all this. She would go cold with fright.

And she would hear this and that, from this man and that man.

Once some muslim youths stood outside the masjid and raised slogans like ‘Nare taqbir’ and ‘Allaho Akbar’. They were rounded up by the police and beaten so badly that they could not walk. One of the women in the neighbourhood gave her this information and she felt tongue-tied.

“Why? Is that a bad slogan”, she asked, surprised. “What is a bad slogan? Is Allaho Akbar a bad slogan? If so, ‘Jai Sri Ram’ also would be a bad slogan. Are those who raised the Ram slogan also arrested and beaten up? That is not it. The entire muslim community is bad. Whatever they do is bad. That is how it is. This is not our time. We have no right to talk: not even open our mouths. In fact, keep all the openings in the body closed”. And the woman started to cry and rushed into the house.

Her [the neighbouring woman’s] son was also among those rounded by police. The boy was studying Intermediate.

Mubasheera heard many, many other things: Pakistan, ISI Agent, Islamic terrorist and Jihadi.

More reports of this kind, she heard. She felt that some Saitan’s dark shadow was enveloping this ancient city.

Even as she grew nervous on hearing such news, she heard of disturbances in Gujarat.

When the train was torched at Godhra, there was a palpable change in the old city. Once, the disturbances broke out there, she felt that the earth under her feet began to shake. That day, she bought some milk and vegetables and was hurrying towards her home. The day, she would never forget.

And this had an impact on Rasul Ahmed. Even when advised against watching TV, he was keen on knowing what was happening in Gujarat. And he stayed awake the whole night. He would often go and see if all the doors are properly bolted. He would see if the room where his daughters slept is shut secure.

There was fear all over. Rumours that any moment disturbances would break out reached his ears. Suddenly, a rain of stones. He would hear mad shouting outside and then he would rush into that room and squat beside Mubasheera, with his hands covering the two daughters, as if protecting them.

The children hugged their mother and fear was writ large on their faces. And his fears, that could not be spelled out grew worse.

If a crowd of rowdies forces its way into his house and molest those 80

girls even as he was still there, how do I stand the sight, was a thought that shook him uncontrollably.

He would feel like seeing Mubasheera and seek some supportive reassurance from her.

But all the lights in the room were put out. It was pitch dark.

And he could not see what feelings played on her face.

A semblance of peace came upon the city and twilight lighted the city. And then, his son came from Karnataka. It was no better there. The minority college where he was studying had been temporarily closed, he said.

“Dad, I am not going back. I don’t anymore feel like continuing my studies”, said the son.

“What are you saying?” asked Rasul.

“You wouldn’t know Abbu, how the mind and heart of youngsters like us work. We cried and cried. We feared that we were on the verge of becoming murderers. So, we all returned home. Hatred rules the day, dad. Even if we don’t wish so, hatred is building up in us. I am not interested in what is happening outside. I don’t want to see it at all. I turned a deaf ear to all that is going on. If I should hear it at all, I would not be a man. I have all of you. You tried to educate me, enough. Now, I cannot go on. On opening the book, I see blood.

Not a single word would enter my head. I’ll stay with you and help you, in whatever way I can” Rasul Ahmed could not turn away his eyes from his son. Then, he called his son to his, side. “Come here, Samad,” he said. The son rested his head on his father’s chest. ‘No son, don’t cry. Please quiet down,” he said and he went on patting his son on his back.

That night, he couldn’t sleep till late. In the dawn hours, he began to feel sleepy. And then, there was a spasm of pain down his left hand. After a while, he felt that some one was hammering him on his heart. And last, a sound more like a snore, escaped him.

The neighbourhood said in one voice: Those whose life was marked by a correct code of conduct, Allah would bless them with a painless death.

“Lucky man! If he had lived longer, Rasul Ahmed Kaphon might have encountered worse fate”. That was how the women of the neighbourhood consoled Mubasheera.

“Remember, you have children. They need your supportive care.

Gather your wits”, advised some.

Mubasheera remained silent.

When Rasul Ahmed’s body was buried, she went into a sleep, as if stricken with some disease. And she had bad dreams. Some struck as meaningful, and some meaningless.

One dream from which she woke up she felt it was no dream but something that happened really. In that dream, she administered 81

opium to her daughters, made them go unconscious and then laid their bodies in ornamental coffins and locked those coffins.

On waking up, she found she was sweating profusely.

And the fearful dream made her feel heavy with urine. There was a dim light. Unmindful, she some how managed to go to the toilet and relieved herself.

She felt like seeing her children.

She went near the girls. They were like a lumpy mass. They looked tired, obviously because they cried a lot. Their faces lacked the usual brightness. A little away was her son, sleeping: his body looked shapeless. No shirt on him, there was a golden sheen on him.

She sat near him. She looked at him intently. His youthfulness with muscles showing out, he looked like a steel rod. That gave her a sense of stability. There was a hair-line stretching from his navel to the chest. Now, she felt her son is not a boy anymore but an adult.

Slowly, she grew bold. Someday, with the support of this son of hers, she felt that she would find happiness, may be not here but in some far off place.

She mopped her face with the saree, and slept near him. No bad dreams bothered her.

A new life, from next day. She erased old memories, old trials: she decided to lead a new life, built upon new hopes.

When women from neighbourhood called on her, she told them that her son completed the course and now would be on a job hunt.

Now, her world was centered on the son. She would hang on to every word that he said. She would give him new clothes and would thrust money into his pocket.

“You are going out. You must look decent, telling the world that you are a scion of a worthy family”, she would say.

Slowly, the three children came out of the grief and once in a way, she would hear them all laugh. Samad played pranks on his sisters and was trying to infuse into them some merriment. Indeed, he took them out on occasion.

He had a good grip over English. He was fair, tall and handsome.

“This would help me shine in the marketing field”, he would tell his mother.

When he was yet new to the world, he would attend interviews, with the shirt tucked into the pants, wear a tie and boots. He would pass in the preliminaries, come out quite well in group discussions and his name would get short-listed. But in the final interview, he would fail.

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First, he thought nothing of it. Then, he blamed his bad luck.

Possibly, I was not up to the mark, he consoled himself. After all, I did not have experience and that could be the reason, he reasoned it out to himself. But slowly, he realised it was not the explanation.

There is something else, it is a different world. And then, he did not put his best foot toward.

No job: no trying either.

As time want on, he was like any other in the old city. Cigarette, pan, tea in Irani café and husking with friends for hours.

Mornings he would leave and would come back late in the night.

Asked to explain, he would shout at the top of his voice.

Mubasheera started to look at him in fear. How will I pacify him, she kept asking herself.

One night, she suspected that be came home drunk. She sat next to him.

He was lying on the cot. He knew his mother was there on the cot.

He placed his hands on her, drew her close to him “Mummy”, he called out to her with his eyes closed.

“Yes, son”, she responded.

“Are you angry, mummy?”

She remained silent.

“Tell me, mummy”.

“No, Why do I have to be angry”, said she.

“No mummy. You’ve every reason to be angry. Those kids, sleeping in that corner room, my dearest sisters, pictures of beauty – they too must be angry. All of you must be loathing me. What can I do, mummy! The world has changed. It wouldn’t be easy for us to live, mummy.”

“No. You shouldn’t talk like that. You must be brave; never lose your heart”.

“Yes. Ten times we don’t lose heart, but not the eleventh time.”

“What happened now?”

“They are striking off the names. A muslim name is struck off.

And if their address under the name is from the old city, they don’t even allow us in. They suspect us. A few might be saying it all openly, but many have the feeling hardened. If they say it openly, we can offer an explanation. But how do we deal with this silent majority.

What did we do, mummy?”

“No. All are not like that. Some of them are good, like you and me. If it were not for them, can we live here at all?”

“My friends, some of them are carrying on, but under different names. I have seen it. A muslim cannot get business.”

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“Samad”, she was about to cry.

“Don’t frighten me. Let us live on the sidelines. Let us live our lives. Nothing would happen to us,” she said.

“No mummy, we are not on the sidelines. We are far behind them. But they wouldn’t let us alone. They are chasing us.” When he said this hot tears flowed out of his eyes.

“Samad, my dearest, why did we come here? It might have been better if we had not come here.”

“No, it is not just here. Wherever we go, it is all the same. No place is safe for us.”

“Samad, don’t say such things. You don’t have to do anything.

Just be ordinary. Stay at home. We’ll live somehow. But first, change this garb.”

“This garb, mummy?” said he.

“I look like a terrorist even to your eyes”. If they ever take me and shoot me down, I’m afraid even you would believe I was a terrorist.

Then for a long, long time he was talking in his sleep. So many things, untelligible. Now and then he would draw his mother close, and go into a foetus-like posture.

The whole night, Mubasheera sat next to him, sleeping in fits and starts.

Next day, it was a Sunday.

When she got up, Samad was not there. She waited until it was evening. She hoped he would come the next day. And the next day, too.

Many Sundays passed.

Samad did not come.

Mubasheera prayed and offered God, a good present if Samad returned.

She made her daughters do Namaz many times more than prescribed.

Samad did not come.

The mother, the daughters would stand at the door. To the onlookers, they looked like persons waiting for some one to appear.

Even this, just for a few days!

No one saw the windows and doors of that house open again.

Never again the curtains were drawn apart.

- Katha Sagar

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11

LETTER BOX - CH. Madan Mohan

S

ubba Rao came from the bazar, full of eager enthusiasm. He held a cloth bag in which there was a letter box. So keen was he to fix it on the wall in the veranda that without even going into the house, he called out to his grandmother and said, “Bring that hammer and the nail I left on the table.” He fixed it on the wall just so high it was out of the reach of the tiny tots of the adjoining portions of the house. The letter box lent the wall an ornate look.

“Sir, post,” called out the postman and as is his wont, sent it flying into the veranda.

Subba Rao was irritated. He was there: no mean personality, he was of the size of an under -tree. Could not have missed seeing him, yet the post man threw the letter nonchalantly. He spent all of tenrupees and bought the letter box and fixed it on the wall giving it that special appearance; and the man did not seem to care. Subba Rao’s ego was hurt.

“Sir, Mr.Postman, will you do me the honour of coming here?”

The tone was all too sarcastic. The postman had his own agenda. He wanted to go home early, finishing off his delivery duties as soon as possible. Yet, he hit the cycle stand, though in an all too evident chagrin, opened the gate and came in.

“What is it, Sir? Did you call me?”

“Please look here. From now on all letters addressed to me should be put into this box here: not thrown like they do a freebie,” Mr. Subba Rao, M.A., B.Ed. said _ all in a tone that was unmistakably like a teacher’s.

“Okay,” said the postman and went his way to the cycle.

And now, Subba Rao turned to the invitation. He opened it in a mechanical sort of way. Krishna Reddy, his classmate was getting 85

married. While doing M.A., at Hyderabad, they were roommates.

He decided he would attend the marriage. Krishna Reddy’s father was close to many officials. Subba Rao had been to four to five interviews and may be, Krishna’s father could be of some help. This line of thought strengthened his resolve and brought to his mind the episode of Kuchela going to Lord Krishna of Dwaraka.

He was in Hyderabad even as the marriage was two days away.

Unasked, he helped in all arrangements underway. A niche he carved for himself in the mind of Krishna and his parents too. Indeed, Krishna’s parents were doubly impressed. Knowing that what he did at Krishna’s wedding had a streak of selfishness, Subba Rao felt his plans bore fruit. Krishna went on honeymoon immediately after marriage and this gave him an opening to have a long chat with Raghava Reddy, Krishna’s father. Raghava Reddy put him in touch with some bigwigs. Subba Rao did not let go the opportunities wasted: he did talk about the interviews he attended and his aspirations to become a lecturer in some junior college, if possible: even the post of a teacher in a high school was not unwelcome, he made clear to everyone that Krishna Reddy’s father put him in touch. Subba Rao returned from Hyderabad full of hope that sooner or later he was sure to receive good news. And there was good news, but of a different kind. His cousin’s marriage was around and he went to the ancestral village with his grandmother carrying loads of things needed on such auspicious occasions. A month went by.

His first concern was the Letter Box when he came back. A house sparrow couple settled in it. They built a nice nest for themselves in the letter box. Disgusted, he launched upon the job of cleaning up the mess that is now the letter box. Hardly did he pull out the first sheaf of hay, when his grandmother shouted, “No don’t pull down that home. It is sinful.”

“Ah! You and your old ideas,” he said and went ahead with the job. A handful of hay came out and with it fell to the ground a small egg and broke up. Another two or three eggs rolled out but Subba Rao managed to prevent their fall and pushed back the hay along with the eggs into the letter box. Subba Rao is a tender hearted person. His heart melted. One egg, one potential life got extinguished at his hands. He was full of remorse. He pulled away from the letter box and did not go anywhere near it for quite some time. When he took a look at the highly agitated twit twat he saw them regain their composure on seeing him put back the hay enclosing eggs; he felt blessed.

A weak or ten days later, Subba Rao heard the twitters of the fledglings. The parent sparrows were seen collecting worms and 86

beakfuls of cooked rice from the backyard of his house. A beauty he did not see earlier began to unfold itself before Subba Rao’s mind.

Perhaps a modified version of this sight must have helped him to grow into a youth that he is, in the care of his parents passed in his mind’s eye. The thought brought tears into his eyes.

Subba Rao was lolling in the easy chair. He was lost in thought over his future. He heard the mother sparrow twittering in a language that he did not know but vaguely understood she was there on a wall nearby the veranda. The fledglings were answering the mother in their own way. Soon, a fledgling emerged from inside the letter box and began to flap its wings. Surprisingly, as if effortlessly it got air-borne and in no time was beside its mother. His mind moved towards god. May be, he thought god gives each one the strength required for survival. Even as he was brooding thus, a second fledgling jumped out of the letter box and got stranded midway on the floor: it could not land on its mother’s side. Subba Rao got out of the chair and began to move towards the struggling fledgling. But, could be because of its fright, it mustered all its strength and flew to the protective proximity of its mother. Even as he contemplated on this scene, the third fledgling began to twitter, clearly in fright. The famous soliloquy of Hamlet – ‘To be or Not to be’- came to his mind: also, the picture of the forlorn Arjuna looking up to Krishna for enlightenment.

The third fledgling apparently could not overcome its fears. It receded back into the letter box. The two that were out of the nest flew back into the safety of the letter box. In a short while, all the three came out and began to loiter in the veranda. Subba Rao’s heart leapt with joy: he did not know why. On an impulse, he went in, brought out his camera and photographed the three.

His joy was short-lived, for in two–three days, the letter box was once more his own, accessible to him.

It was a Sunday. He was free. Why not clean up the letter box, he thought and started on the job. He pulled out the hay, pieces of twigs, some cotton too and the dry faecal remnants – it was a whole new wealth of things. As he was pulling it all out, his hand touched something quite familiar. He pulled it out and was shocked to see it was an envelop with the insignia of the government of Andhra Pradesh stamped upon it. On opening, he found it was an order of appointment. Fifteen days ago, he was to have reported to duty. The date-stamp showed that it was delivered about twenty-five days earlier. He felt utterly depressed: except that he did not bleat, he felt like a sacrificial goat. The whole day, he was upset. He read and re-read the appointment order at least sixty times. For a brief while, 87

he cursed himself for being so concerned about the sparrows: the concern had cost him the job, he was so eagerly looking forward to.

He could not sleep that night. But, nowhere in his heart did he feel bad about heeding to his grandmother’s advice, not to destroy a home.

He thought of remedial measures to save the situation. Why not go to the college and explain the matter? Take a chance, he told himself.

Next morning, he found himself in the Junior college. The campus was lifeless. At around 11’O clock, the principal came. Subba Rao met the principal. He was told that the college administration waited for Mr. Subba Rao to turn up on the appointed day and after having waited for a few days, they appointed someone else. The principal did not stop with giving information: he had a gibe at Subba Rao’s expense: “You are so callous, how do you think we can entrust you with the job of training our youngsters, shaping their future?”

Hurt and crestfallen, he went home.

* * * * *

On the laminated wall was the large colour photograph of the three fledgling sparrows. Subba Rao was looking at the picture. As yet weak, dependent upon parents for food and protection, ever cautious against danger from their surroundings, and possibly already in the know that they are going to abandon a home in which they grew. In spite of the ever present danger to life they looked a picture of hope and confidence.

That picture inspired him. He had many things they didn’t possess; strong in body, a huge educational qualification and a house he can call his own. Let me learn to live on my own, he told himself.

What started as a place where he gave tuitions bloomed into a tutorial college and now into the biggest residential college in the entire district.

* * * * *

Ten years ago, he took that photograph. What might have ended up as a life of servitude on a meager salary, his life is now that of an entrepreneur. He touched the lives of a good many luminaries of the district: they were students of his institute at some point in their lives.

And all his success and pride come from that picture of the three fledgling sparrows, so elegantly colored, enlarged and framed by his friend Rama Rao who runs a photo studio in the town. It all started with that letter box, which be bought for ten rupees!

- Vanitha Monthly

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12

MR. PULLAIAH’S rIGMAROLE - Kasukhela Narasimha Rao

A

ll of us were on the sands of Mypadu beach. The moon was shining at its brightest: an ideal set-up to go rambling on nothing in particular. How wonderful it would be if only we can come here once a month, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the town, it was a thought that crossed all our minds. We were dwelling upon some unforgettable experiences. Except Mr. Pullaiah, everyone else narrated his story. Mr. Pullaiah was the head-clerk in the office.

Indeed, all of us requested him to begin the exercise but he said he would take his chance last.

“Well, now that we all finished, it is your turn Pullaiah garu”, all of us pressed him to go on. He began: “As for me, I have an elephantine memory. I don’t know why.

The smallest of detail remains etched in my mind. May be, every single incident in my life is unforgettable or it could be that I consider every little incident important enough worth remembering. I am yet to reach a conclusion on this question. That is not the point here.

We better think of it, sometime later.

I would now tell you something that happened in our office in the early days of my service. Who was the officer in charge, then? It was either Venkata Rama Iyer or Venkatesa Iyengar. Which one was he? Doesn’t matter, whosoever it was. Since the name of the officer has no bearing on the story I am telling you, let us assume it is Venkatarama Iyer. Believe me, not one day since I joined duty, to this day I had come late to the office. I enter the office premises between 10.48 and 10.50. Somehow, I don’t quite remember when exactly I came to the office that day, I mean the day when it all happened. To go on with the story, let me assume I came to the office at 10.45 A.M. Can any of you guess why I fixed the time as 89

10.45? Let me see. What is your guess? He challenged me, pointing his forefinger at me.

“What does it matter, Sir? You go on with your story”, said I. “Okay if we spend our time investigating all those minor details, we cannot progress. I stepped into the office at 10.48. I had hardly entered the office when I was told the officer wanted to see me. Who was it that brought the message? Was it Venkadu or Subbadu? “Re, Venka, was it you?” Pullaiah garu asked Venkadu, who was a little away from the group, seated on the sand.

“Not I”, said Venkadu.

“Then, it could be Subbadu”, said Pullaiah garu.

“It could not have been Subbadu, Sir. He did not join the office around that time”, countered Venkadu.

“Damn you. You seem to have learnt the art of countering everything I say. Okay, it is either of these fellows. Let us call that messenger, Venkata Subbadu”. The rebuke drained blood from the face of Venkadu. He was about to walk away. “Re, Venka don’t go away. What did I say that made you so angry? No, you must be around. If there is one who could solve this riddle, it would be you.

After all, these others joined office recently: their service can be counted in days. Sit down, please sit down”, said Pullaiah garu.

Ramam intervened. He said, “Okay sir, you came to the office at 10.48. VenkataSubbadu brought the message that the officer wanted to see you. Then?” “Then! Then! why are you so curious? Why, is it raining? We came here just to relax and have a leisurely chat over little nothings. And yet, you are in a terrible hurry, trying to squeeze out the juice of the narration with your then, then-s-. I don’t understand it at all. Well, any way, where was I?” he questioned, looking at me.

“Ramam told you about the point at which your narration got interrupted”.

“So, you have grown headstrong. I asked you to tell me where my narration stood and you tell me, the kid Ramam pointed it out already” “Sir, Pullaiah garu, you are crossing the limits. Don’t foulmouth me. It would be best, if you don’t irritate me. You were going on with your story and if I mentioned where you let it off, it was only so that your narration would gain in quality,” said Ramam.

It looked like he was going to make more acerbic remarks.

I stopped him from going further. Ramam and I are good friends.

So, I said, “Ramam, after all what did Pullaiah garu say that you should have taken offence. You are the junior-most in this group.

He may have taken liberties with you, because of your age. Should you feel hurt so badly?”

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“Yes, that is true. Why do I have to be angry with you? You are a boy- may be I took liberties. Isn’t it so, Venkadu? You tell him”, said Pullaiah garu. “Yes. There is nothing more to all this. Ramam Babu is young and so, somewhat hot blooded. No sir, Ramam sir is not cross with you”, said Venkadu, the peon in the office. The atmosphere cooled down.

“Okay Sir, Pullaiah garu, please go on with your story? said Ramam.

“Let me recollect where I left off. Where was I? asked Pullaiah garu.

“You were summoned by the officer. That is where all this commotion stopped you from proceeding further”.

“Yes. Yes. That Venkata Ramaiyer or Venkatesa Iyangar sent word. Those days, the officer’s chamber was located in the room where I am now sitting. Or may be, he was sitting in the room south of where I sat. Re, Venka, do you remember?”

“Sir, what did you say?” asked Venkadu. He was half asleep, when that question was hurled at him. “I asked you to let me know the room in which the officer sat. Is it same as of now or in that room to the south?” “No Sir, neither. His chambers were in the northern or western room, Not quite sure, Sir”, Venkadu replied.

“Okay Sir, just so that you may go on, let us assume the officer’s chambers were located in the room in which you are now sitting”, said Ramam.

“I see the point. Yes, what does it matter where the officer sat?

However, I do think his chambers were located in the southern room.

Re, Venka, try to recall”, Pullaiah garu urged Venkadu.

“I do remember quite well. That room was the northern or western”, said Venkadu.

“You and your memory! You are not able to tell us for definite, what is your memory worth?” Pullaiah garu found fault with Venkadu.

“Why not proceed on the assumption that the room in which the officer sat in those bygone years was the one in which you are now sitting? Would it not suffice for you to go on”, I said.

“Why not? It really doesn’t matter. Anyhow, since the matter remains unresolved, does it not nag? So many of you insist on my assuming the room in which I am sitting presently was the one which served as the officer’s chambers: Okay, let us go on. Those days, the room’s door had a curtain. I forget: was the curtain made of bamboo or Khuskhus? We can attack this problem from another angle. If I joined duty during the cold season, the curtain must have been of bamboo; on the other hand, if I joined duty during summer, it must 91

have been a Khuskhus thatti. Again, I must seek Venkadu’s help.

Re, Venka, can you tell me if I joined duty in the cool season or in summer”.

“Oh! it is no problem Sir. You joined duty in summer”, said Venkadu.

“Chha! what a man you are! The day I reported for duty, I came fully drenched. It rained heavily. What, you forgot”.

“Yes, yes. I remember quite well. Yes, you came to the office fully drenched. But then, when I went out to ring the bell, my hand got scorched. That gong was so hot”, said Venkadu.

“Re, you are a dud. How can you ever forget these small things, small though they might be”.

Ramam intervened and suggested a compromise: let us take it as a summer day when there was a downpour.

“But then, Ramam, your suggestion wouldn’t solve my problem.

How would you decide whether the curtain was of bamboo or khuskhus”, said Pullaiah.

“Ah! now I remember, it was bamboo curtain”, said Venkadu.

“If it were a curtain of bamboo make, how did it happen that your hand got burnt on the gong. The bamboo curtain is used in the cooler days. So, it must have been a curtain made of Khuskhus”, said Pullaiah.

“But what is the connection between that curtain and your story?” asked Ramam.

“Ramam, you tend to find connections between things. Better give up the habit. It is not good”, said Pullaiah rather harshly.

“No sir, please do not take offence. I said it in order that your story would go on. Please don’t be rough with me”, said Ramam.

“There is nothing to enrage me, here. I wanted to recall the entire setup of those times so that my story would get a touch of plausibility. The curtain has no bearing whatever on the story I’m going to narrate. Let us do away with the subject of curtains. No bamboo, no Khuskhus. There is no curtain at all. Okay?” asked Pullaiah garu looking at all of us for approval, as it were.

“Good. Now you may go on with your story”, said Ramam.

“Proceed, Sir”. said I. “I remember quite distinctly. I kept it in my pocket. I am not able to recall if it is hexagonal or cylindrical. I think it is hexagonal.

Hexagonal? No, not hexagonal. It was cylindrical. No, no. It is Venus.

Venka, do you remember?”

Venka was in deep sleep, in fact snoring. He woke up startled.

“Ayya, what did you say?”

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“Re, you always sleep. Is there no time for sleeping? The one which I brought that day, was it not Venus?” asked Pullaiah garu.

“What is Venus? Venus and Mars. They are planets”, said Ramam.

“You don’t know Venus! These days the youngsters are total ignoramuses. I am talking of pencils- the Venus brand pencil”. There was a great deal of self-confidence and over-assertion in his voice as Sri Pullaiah garu said it.

“Oh! The man is talking of pencils. Venus or Kohinoor, it doesn’t matter. Please go on with your story”.

“Story! All you are interested in is the story. If the key elements are not touched, why insist on the story! Doesn’t matter. Okay, since you are all interested only in the story, here is it”, said Pullaiah garu and in one breathless peroration concluded his narration.

“That day I took out a pencil, as I left home for the office. You are not interested and so, I omit details. Doesn’t matter if it was of Venus brand or Kohinoor brand, hexagonal or cylindrical, hard or soft, a copying one or a plain one – the point is I took out a pencil and carefully pocketed it. I reached office around 10.45 or 10.48 or 10.50.

Venkatarama Iyer or Venkatesa Iyengar wanted to see me immediately. The message was delivered by Venkadu or Subbadu.

Since I don’t quite remember if it was summer or cold season I am not able to recall if the curtain hanging down the doorway was of bamboo or Khuskhus. Whether the room was the one on the northern side, or southern: or east or west I don’t quite recall. When I entered his room, he told me something. I noted it down on a paper or somewhere else, I don’t remember but I noted it down. Of that I am sure. In the evening whether on the way or at home, I looked for the pencil. It was not there. Next day or may be a day later, I saw it in the officer’s coat pocket or shirt pocket. How it landed there is still a mystery and the story too. Re, Venka, can you throw some light on the question?” Pullaiah garu stopped talking.

We were all thunder- struck for a moment but soon realised the absurdity of it all and burst out laughing.

“I can’t, Sir”. Venkadu’s loud reply was heard through the din of our guffaws.

- ‘Telugu Swatantra’, 17-12-1948

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Sri Sri

Telugu: Aswamedha Yagam English: Eqnestrain Sacrifice

Telugu: Purugu English: Insect

Telugu: Galiveedununchi NewYork Daaka English: Galiveedu to Newyork

Telugu: Tiladanam English: A gift of Gingelly Seeds

Telugu: Koolina Buruju English: The citadel in disrepair

Telugu: Maro Prpanchamlo Lakshmana Rekha English: Her very own Rubicon

Telugu : Emiti Idantha English: What is all this?

Telugu: Nirvakulu English: Managers all

Telugu: Kaalanni venakku Thippaboku English:Don’t turn the Clock Back

1

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

12. Telugu: Pullaiah Puranam English:Mr. Pullaiah’s Rigmarole

Kasukhela Narasimha Rao

Ch. Madan Mohan

11.

Telugu: Ma Nishada English: Letter Box

Mohammad Khadar Baki

10. Telugu: Dhakan English: The Cover

D. Kameswari

Kalipatnam Rama Rao

Kalipatnam Rama Rao

Vasundhara

Kethu Viswanatha Reddy

Rentala Nageswara Rao

Medhurantakam RajaRam

Jonnalagadda Ramalakshmi

Author

No. Title

Telugu Swatantra 17-12-1948

Vanitha 1983

Kathasagar

Kathasagar

Andhra Prabha Weekly 1949 K.R.R.Rachanalu

Anandavani 11-03-1945 K.R.R.Rachanalu

Swati Weekly 26-01-1996

Kathasagar Andhra Prabha Weekly 23-03-1968

Kathasagar

Andhraprabha Weekly 19-1-1998

Andhra Jyothi Weekly 11-9-1987

Swati Monthly Feb 2012

Source

Remarks

Awarded: Rashtrapati Katha Award 1992

Published under: Naaku Nachinakatha - Malladi

Copies can be had of :

K.N.RAO G2, Jains Akanskha, 8 Rathinammal Street, Kodambakkam, Chennai - 600 024.

Phone : 044-24726617 Mobile : 9003100948.

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