One Part Woman

by Murugan, Perumal

  The next year, Ponna refused to work even in their own field. But Kali placated her and took her along. Since then, they worked with one plough. And if he didn’t learn his lesson even after everyone had cast him away, what could she do?

  SEVENTEEN

  Though Kali had resumed normal conversation with Ponna, he was constantly haunted by her words.

  He was now convinced that women were terrible creatures. Mother tells the son, ‘Send your wife to another man.’ The other mother is ready to take her own daughter to it. And Ponna says, ‘I will, if you are fine with it.’ No one seemed to have even an iota of hesitation anywhere. He, on the other hand, was still hesitant to talk about those long-gone days when he had been to the fourteenth day of the festival. While a man felt so shy about these matters, look at these women! What they dared to do! If someone told them that the only way to have a child was to drop a rock on his head while he slept, would Ponna be ready to do that too?

  These thoughts drained his trust in her. A falseness entered in his sweet words to her. His embrace was no longer wholehearted. There was no softness when he made love to her, not the usual generosity that let him include her in its sway. He came to be possessed by a fury for revenge, a desire to pound her violently and tear her apart. It was hot in the barnyard those days, even at night. He’d wake up suddenly and go home. Ponna kept the earthen wick lamp burning softly through the night. He would peep through the gaps in the wooden planks on the door to see if she was asleep. Sometimes he even went back to the barnyard without waking her up. Whenever he saw that the light inside was put out, that there was nothing but darkness, he panicked. On such days, he listened carefully for any sound that came from inside the house. Sometimes, his tapping on the door woke his mother. When she asked, ‘Who is it?’ he replied shyly, ‘It’s just me. Go back to sleep.’

  A sense of urgency and carelessness started pervading all his actions. However much she tried to hold him tight and take him inside her, all he wanted was to hold back adamantly and ejaculate as soon as he could. Whenever he decided to drink loads of arrack, which he knew would knock him out till morning, he asked her to come and stay in the barn. He would force her to drink. Earlier, on the nights he drank, his body lost its harshness and spread on her like a fluid. He would chatter happily for a long time. On such nights, he wore only the loincloth. She’d playfully pull it open. But he would feel no shame. She would say in mock anger, ‘You have no shame. Look at you! Sitting with nothing on.’ And he’d reply, ‘Why should I feel any shame in front of you? Why don’t you be naked too?’ But there was none of that intimacy now.

  Now he downed the arrack like water in quick gulps and passed out right away. At whatever time he came to at night, he jumped on her and took control of her. It took him several mornings to regain a sense of balance. ‘The drinking is getting out of control, maama. Please drink less,’ she said lovingly. He responded with a slight smile. His face never blossomed again in a full smile.

  Whenever he crushed her underneath him, she begged, ‘Maama, please don’t show your anger on me this way. It is unbearable. Just hit me. Get a club and beat me to pulp if you want. But please don’t torture me like this.’ His heart went out to her. His embrace and kisses then said to her, ‘It was my mistake, dear.’

  When she menstruated every month, she came to sit and cry in the barn. It was consoling to bury her face in his lap. He’d ruffle her hair and say, ‘Let it go. We should be used to it by now.’ But she kept hoping things would change. Sometimes, her crying made him cry too. So they cried together, lamenting their fate. Ironically, it made him happy on the inside whenever she got her periods on time and came crying to him. The way his mind worked, she was trustworthy as long as she was menstruating regularly.

  Subsequently, he reasoned: ‘Poor thing. How can I be so suspicious because of just that one thing she said? She only said it in the urge to do something to have a child of her own. Does that mean I can conclude she would go with any man? Didn’t she come to me complaining about Karuppannan’s advances? She said what she said because of me—she said it for me. She said, “I will go if you ask me to.” And I didn’t ask her to. Then why would she go?’ This made him treat her with affection, and it looked as though the Kali she knew was back.

  But it lasted only a week. He then got back to being irritable, and she was at a loss for words to placate him. But since she was annoyed too, it was easy for her to raise her voice. It put him in place a little if she shouted at him. He never raised his voice. Even when he had to call out to her from the field, he didn’t yell. He’d move closer and call her in a voice that sounded like he had a raven hidden deep inside his throat. She felt bad that she needed to shout and fight with him. This went on for a year. She had no other way but to observe him closely and choose her responses accordingly.

  EIGHTEEN

  Then came the year when Muthu came in person to invite them for the chariot festival. He was determined to somehow convince his sister and Kali to go. He came on the eve of the procession of the big chariot and spoke to his sister first. Her face was clouded in sadness. She wanted to visit her home, but how could she go without Kali’s permission?

  ‘I will speak to Kali,’ he said to her. ‘You should be ready to leave with me in the morning. Let Kali come a few days from now.’

  Muthu and Kali had known each other since childhood. Sometimes Muthu came here and stayed for a few days. Even Kali’s mother thought he would listen to whatever Muthu said.

  ‘Ponna, please go to the fourteenth day of the festival this year,’ said her mother-in-law to her happily. ‘Your brother will take care of everything. How long can we keep looking at each other’s faces in this house? Don’t we want a child to bounce around in this place? We have a lovely home. Don’t we need a child to crawl around all this space? Everything will go well. Be ready to leave tomorrow.’

  Ponna, however, felt certain that Kali wouldn’t say yes. Even if he relented and agreed to send her to her village, he would definitely not say yes to her going to the fourteenth day of the festival. He was still smarting at what she had said a year ago. Why would he change his mind now? Muthu left for the barn, asking Ponna to bring dinner there.

  Fencing it around with dried, thorny twigs, Kali had kept his barnyard very well. The fence, which sagged nowhere, was strewn with creepers here and there. The thatched roof was stitched close and tight. A bullock cart could easily go in and come out. And then, of course, there was the portia tree. It had spread, arresting time in its branches. In its shade were tethered two bulls and a cow. There was a calf bull with a bite-guard in its mouth; its legs were tied. All of them somehow fit under the shade of the tree. When it started drizzling, Kali would take the calf alone inside the shed. Under the dense foliage of the tree, the rain sprinkled in gentle droplets. There was a large rectangular waste pit in one corner.

  On the other side of the portia tree was the enclosure for goats. There weren’t too many of them, however. Just two nanny-goats; one of them had four kids. And looking at them, you could say how full of milk the goat was. The other goat was pregnant, its tummy bulging. There were also two sheep wandering about untethered. The little hut inside the enclosure was meant to keep the goats from the rain. Next to the enclosure were stacks of harvested groundnuts and corn. The latter in particular looked abundant and robust. It would last for a year even if the rains failed. There was not a speck of dirt on the cemented thrash floor. It was kept very clean. Beyond that was the shed with its thatched roof looking like the half-spread wings of a bird. Of the two cots that were inside this shed, one was stood upright. On the other side of the shed was an empty space of about a square metre. Bordering the fence were a neem tree, a vadanarayana tree and two palm trees. It had been two years since the palm fronds were pruned. By the dried bird shit that was all over them, you could tell that the chickens were in the habit of climbing on to the palm tree. Muthu was delighted to roam around the barn. Kali was always thoughtful in whatever
he did.

  During one of his earlier visits here, Muthu saw two hens wandering around with a large group of chickens. There must have been over twenty chickens for each of them. If they grew up, one could start a poultry farm. But it was a nuisance to keep too many hens. They would get into the cow dung kept to a side and spread it all over the flat floor. That was why Kali was in the habit of gathering the cow dung from the floor well before the chickens got down from the tree. And only after throwing some millet in front of the shed would he even let the little chicks out of the large hay basket.

  Once the chicks got bigger, there was a chicken feast every week. Whenever someone came to visit, he would catch hold of a chicken. If he decided to go to the Tuesday market, he could probably sell them very easily, but he was reluctant to do that. Sengannan, the chicken seller, came now and then to buy them for a decent price. After all, he needed to make a profit of at least four or eight annas per chicken. Muthu was amazed at how well the fowls looked.

  If you let the hen out of the coop after it hatched ten or fifteen little chicks, then in a month all you were left with were four or five of them. That’s because crows bothered them incessantly. Eagles too. Even when the chicks grew bigger, they could not escape the claws of the large kite. It would lie concealed in the dense foliage of a tree and attack suddenly. Whenever it swooped down, it always left with a chicken held tight in its beak. It was almost impossible to save the chicken from them. But then how did Kali manage to keep so many of them alive?

  With a smile, Kali pointed to the two palm trees at the back of the shed.

  ‘What do these unpruned palm fronds have to do with the chicken?’ Muthu asked.

  ‘Look carefully, machan. Keep looking at the tree. You will get it in a little while.’

  He never explained anything. He only drew your attention to things. Muthu kept staring at the trees. Two blackbirds took turns visiting the tree. Was Kali keeping the palm fronds intact for these birds?

  ‘It is not enough if you find little caves and crevices to hide in. You also need some brains. But how can I expect that from you Venduvan community folk!’ Kali teased. Then he explained.

  The blackbird built its nest only on palm trees with dense fronds. From the time it begins to build the nest to the time it lays its eggs, incubates them, and nourishes the little ones, no other bird can come near the tree. The male and female blackbirds would take turns guarding the nest. If another bird approached the tree, they would peck at it and chase it away. These birds might be small and fit into the palm of one’s hand, but they were courageous. They could even daringly chase away an eagle. And if you let the chicks out during this time when the blackbirds were nesting on the tree, the chicks would be safe. In this way, the blackbirds guarded the little chicks too.

  This was how it worked. The moment Kali noticed the blackbirds surveying the palm trees, he prepared the hen coop. There were always one or two hens laying eggs. But if those eggs were not enough, he bought at least twenty eggs from someone and placed them in the coop. For this reason alone, he never cut the palm fronds. He only cleared away, once every two years, the dried ones that hung from the tree.

  Ponna always cried, ‘You take such good care of these little chickens. And I am unable to lay a little one in your hands.’

  Muthu was truly amazed at how well kept Kali’s barn was. He went around expressing his wonder to everyone.

  A lot of people tried to keep a barn like Kali’s, but they couldn’t sustain the work. Nor did they have the patience. What did they think? That if they did not prune the palm fronds, the blackbird will somehow land up on its own? The place also needed to be a safe one for the birds, like Kali’s barn was. In this respect, the blackbirds were far more intelligent than human beings.

  It was Kali who had built the barnyard. His mother was concerned that land spread over more than half an acre was getting wasted. It was a disorganized space, with the harvest piled up on one side and the flat thrash floor on the other. He brought them closer, planned the space, and insisted that a barnyard was essential for farmers. He thought of it in such a way that the portia, which had already been planted, became the front side of the barn. Muthu, who was assisting Kali then, said, ‘It would be nice to have the shed as soon as you enter.’ But Kali felt that it was important to see the cows’ faces while entering. He also felt that this way, by walking past the cows every day, it would be easier to assess if the thrash floor needed cleaning. So he put the shed at the back.

  Muthu now recollected the days he had spent in this space with Kali. What happy times they were! If they finished their work in the fields and attended to the cattle on time, no one bothered them for anything. They were like the temple bull that roamed around freely. After his marriage, Kali was worried about a child. Muthu’s parents too spoke about it all the time. They even told him with conviction, ‘It is too late for a child now. That’s it. Your machan and you have been great friends for a long time now. Then what? It is to your children that he is going to leave all he has.’

  Muthu did not care for the property. He felt that Kali’s life would gain some normalcy if he had a child. The Kali he knew before he married Ponna was a different man. Laughter and revelry were his natural states of being. The moment he heard that there was a theatre performance happening ten villages away, he’d gather a crowd and go there. If someone told him that there was a good movie running in Krishna Talkies in Tiruchengode, he would go. The first time Muthu watched a film, he was very confused. Were those people dancing for real in front of him or were they dolls? There were forests, houses, palaces and songs. Where did they all come from? Kali pointed to the projector room at the back. Muthu was wonderstruck at how all of that was coming through a little hole in the wall. The film operator there was an acquaintance of Kali’s. They smoked together sometimes. There were a number of things Kali used to do. Now he confined himself to the barnyard.

  The cattle and the portia were all that he needed. Muthu felt he could not leave Kali to this lifestyle. He needed to be dragged out of this. And having a child could do it. So, even if this was the last resort, Muthu was determined he should somehow send Ponna to the fourteenth day of the festival that year. He did not know how to broach this topic with Kali. But he had to. Also, whether he spoke to Kali or not, and whether Kali gave his permission or not, he had to make sure Ponna went to see the gods. Muthu was certain of that.

  NINETEEN

  When Muthu entered the barnyard, Kali was feeding the cows. ‘I am staying here tonight, mapillai!’ Muthu shouted out to him. It felt like the entire barnyard was trying to contain a great excitement within it. There was joy on Kali’s face too. At the thought of a night in the barnyard with his old friend, a celebratory mood pervaded his mind.

  ‘Machan, does toddy suffice, or do you want arrack?’ he asked Muthu.

  ‘After drinking toddy every day now, it has lost its zing for me, mapillai. See if you can get some sharp arrack.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be back,’ said Kali, and took the ochre dhoti that was hanging on the hook, tied it over his loincloth, and left. ‘Shall I also kill a chicken?’ he asked.

  Muthu replied, ‘Have you forgotten the rules of the fast? We can do all that on the last day of the festival. Not today. I have asked Ponna to bring dinner here. She will bring something soon. Don’t worry.’

  Kali closed the thatched gate behind him and blended with the darkness outside. Muthu knew he would go to Munia Nadar and get some good stuff. The moment the temple flag was hoisted in Tiruchengode and the festival was on, you couldn’t as much as smell a fish. That was how strictly the rules of the fast had to be followed. After the fourteenth day, the strictures were relaxed. There would be no dearth of cows, goats and pigs. Also, rows of bullock carts carrying baskets of fish from Pallipalayam and Kokkarayanpettai would start streaming into town.

  When they were little boys, they went together to herd cattle. There was a rugged stretch of land between the two villages. It was as
high as two coconut trees and was as wide as the living quarters of the village. People called it Narikkaradu, the Fox Land. In the main cultivation season, that was the grazing ground for cattle. In what looked like something arranged out of large rocks, there were plenty of short trees and bushes. What started as time spent together tending to the flock developed into a friendship. They roamed around together, and they had nothing to hide from each other. Once the Tiruchengode festival started, they wandered about the streets of the town every other day for months. They could walk and sprint the eight-mile distance in half an hour. Not that they needed to get there in any hurry. In the months of Chithirai and Vaigasi, they would sit in the front yards of different houses and flirt with the girls. Once they were done taking care of the cattle, what was left for these young men to do?

  It was also quite common for them to stay in each other’s houses. Although both were Gounders, Kali was from the Kaadai community while Muthu was a Venduvan. It translated into an uncle–nephew relationship. But they addressed each other in the friendliest of terms, as ‘vaada’ and ‘poda’. Whenever Kali went to Muthu’s house, he had an eye on Ponna. It was a wonder for him to have seen her as a child and then to see her suddenly blossoming into a girl. As soon as he turned eighteen, his mother started looking for a bride for him. Since Kali knew that Muthu was privy to everything about him, he was not sure how to walk up to him and say, ‘Give me your sister in marriage.’ But finally, on a night when they were lying around in Kali’s barnyard, sated with toddy, he asked Muthu.

  ‘Do you think I am a good man?’

  ‘Why do you doubt that? You are a better man than me.’