The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories

by Stephen Alter

  ‘I am tired, I can’t talk much. Tell me what you want?’ Acharya had said coldly. ‘Nothing special Acharyare. I heard you were not well. And then I had some work in the Shimoga Bank. My wife, she has an abcess on the neck. She is to undergo an operation and it means expenses. You know my court cases and how they swallow up all money. So, I thought of pledging a few jewels . . .’ Acharya had called his wife. She had come and stood there playing with her nose-ring. She had looked so enthusiastic. Her eagerness to please the man who supplied them the yearly quota of rice had angered Acharya. Coldly he had said, ‘Give him that trunk.’ Give him the trunk, which had been locked and kept in a big wooden box! Whenever she saw Vishnu open it, how irresistibly she was drawn to glance lovingly at the gold jewellery! It was a festival to her. She had only a pair of gold bangles and a tali on her person. But the fact that she was in charge of the trunk had in itself been a matter of pride to her. Vishnu had got up saying, ‘No, I shall come. No need to bring it here.’ ‘See, Vishnu, I have not been well and you can never say. Take the trunk. And, from next year, you don’t need to send us any rice. As soon as I get well, we will all be going with our son to Delhi.’ Acharya’s cutting tone had made Vishnu say, ‘No, no, Acharyare, you must not say such things, you are like a father to me.’ ‘See, Vishnu, when it comes to money there is neither father nor mother nor son. I am tired of my life—a life spent in slaving for the rich.’ Acharya had spoken and as if he did not want to hear or say any more had turned on his side and kept his eyes closed. Vishnu had wrapped the trunk in a rug, had it put in the boot of the car and sneaked out like a thief.

  While the case of attempted murder against Nair was still going on, Krishna Moorthy wrote him a letter in which he described the Vishnu Moorthy incident in detail. ‘You cannot, therefore, call my father a fool. He too was disgusted with the rich. Yet he lived a full life and compared to him you look like a simple-minded and self-dramatizing person.’

  Nair wrote back in English and the letter began with ‘Revolutionary Greetings.’ ‘I intensely hate the society which is designed by the rich for their own happiness. Awakened by a love-affair, and desiring to escape from what Marx calls “the idiocracy of rural life”, your father left for Delhi forty years ago. What was it that destroyed the bubbling life spirit of the man? Slaving for the rich! That’s what killed him. Money, the Molochimage of the capitalist system, destroys our dharma, our culture and our dear relationships and our everything. It’s only through the struggle of men like me that man will recover his genuine humanity. This is possible only through the Marxist way. I want my life itself to be an example of such a thought-process. If my actions appear to be that of a self-dramatizing person, suggest a better mode. I will follow that. My intention to kill the fat pigs of the capitalistic system is certainly no play-acting. I only wish that your life won’t go to waste as your father’s did. And I don’t give much importance to awareness that comes at the point of death. What is important to me is the effect each living moment’s work has on the community. Victory to Revolution.’

  Krishna Moorthy didn’t know the love-episode Nair had referred to in his letter. The one who knew of it, the one who was thinking only of it at the time of Acharya’s death, was Gangubai.

  Acharya’s body was removed from the bed and placed cross-legged on the floor. Lamps in coconut-shells were lighted and kept; one near the head and the other near the feet. Govindan Nair left as soon as this was done. It must be said that his leaving the place gave some relief to Rukminiyamma. She sat weeping and as a last act of service to the dead applied some oil to the feet and head of her husband.

  This death lay heavy on her. She felt as if the sky had fallen on her head. Who knew how much he was in debt to the local shops and the bank? He lived and died a proud and envied life. This son—perhaps he no longer even wore the sacred thread around his neck. What would the purohit say? He turned a deaf ear to those who bore him and married a North Indian woman. God knew what language she spoke or to what caste she belonged. He half-killed himself worrying over the son. True, in a passing fit of anger he had told Vishnu that they would all go to Delhi and stay with Kittu. Would that ever be possible? And that too with the widowed daughter and grandson? Through signs and gestures Savithri had to tell this North Indian daughter- in-law the simple done-things and not-done-things in a brahmin family. If Kittu was asked to tell her he got angry. And; to add to it that accursed woman had also come from Shimoga—even those who came to have a last look at the dead man, lingered on and cast inquisitive glances at her.

  She felt lightened in spirit when she saw Vishnu get out of his car and come in. He would not desert her on this occasion of heavy expenses even though Acharya had been angry with him. Vishnu stood in a corner with his hands folded. Since not many of his status had come, he said in a weeping tone, ‘You know, Kittu, there was none equal to him in the whole of our district. There was not a law or a legal point he did not know. It was because of him that men like me could manage to retain some land in these vicious times and live with some dignity. I could not even dream of such a thing happening when I was here two days ago. Making us all orphans, he left; a great soul.’

  His last words aroused a fresh spasm of grief in Rukminiyamma. Her daughter Savithri came and took her in. Vishnu also followed them. People who had come from nearby villages did not know how to console Krishna Moorthy who stood there composed and serious, without any visible sign of grief on his face.

  Father looked as if he was sleeping peacefully. And this exhibition of sorrow appeared to Krishna Moorthy an insult to the dead. He had never seen father weep. He had lived and died a self-respecting man. Perhaps Nair too had not wanted to witness such scenes. Perhaps he too knew father’s way of showing love and affection. Once when Krishna Moorthy was in Mysore at school, he had suffered from a serious sore throat and almost lost his speech. He was running a high fever too. One morning, all of a sudden father had come. In his black waistcoat-pocket, there was a newly bought thermometer. Saying, ‘I somehow felt you were not well. So, straightaway I bought a thermometer and came,’ he had stayed for two days and nursed him. Father had lightened the strain of illness by peeling for him sweet lime and by talking of astronomy which was so dear to him.

  While discussing astronomy father had also brought in subtle points of law connected with property. The world of law was as wonderful to him as the sky and stars. This had always seemed strange to Krishna Moorthy. Though father had to depend on the mercy of the rich men of the village, he himself had no particular fondness for money. Strangely, again, father had taken upon himself the job of saving those who had some property as if this was a big challenge life had thrown at him. Maybe father was a fool after all, as Nair had said.

  His marriage must have been a rude shock to father. He had talked of what one owed to the gods. He who had never spoken of his personal feelings had thundered in his letter, ‘You are marrying outside the caste because you don’t want to perform my last rites.’ Since father would not accept any money from him he had begun to send it to his mother. After the birth of a grandson, he had forgotten it all, accepted son and daughter-in-law and stayed with them as though he had never been away from them. Again, just before his death he had said he would go and live with him in Delhi; he had come to accept Gangubai also; he had sent for Nair. All these spoke of one thing: Father had digested the bitterness of his son marrying outside his caste.

  He stood watching the lamps burn and the men busily engaged in making a bier with bamboo sticks. He noticed that Meera was trying to draw his attention. She was engaged in her perpetual and daily warfare with their son, Srinath, who was refusing to sit on the yellow, plastic pot. She needed her husband’s help. But if his sister and mother saw him helping, he would look henpecked. The thought embarrassed him. He did not know whether it was proper or not for him to move away. Meera, an alien to whom such niceties did not exist, glared at her husband and forced the boy to use the pot.

  Krishna Moorthy,
pondering over what Nair had said of father, took up his son and went into the backyard. The bullocks, tied to pegs, were breathing heavily and slowly munching the grass. A dog stretched itself in the sun. There were heaps of cow-dung on the floor since the routine cleaning had not been done because of father’s death. To the right, at a distance, was the cowshed; beside the shed, as a witness to father’s modern thinking, stood the gobar gas cylinder.

  Today’s fire had not been lighted in the kitchen. The cows had not been milked and they were tugging at the ropes. Savithri was now freeing them. Mother had never let the cows out without first milking them. Every day she would milk the cows, give them grass and some cattle feed and then tie round the calves’ mouths a thorny basket. Her son would protest against such cruelty. Mother would laugh and say, ‘You are a city-fop; how would you know things here? These calves drink up all the milk. And Gowri is so clever. She somehow hoodwinks us and has all the milk herself.’ For the calves today it was a festival as nobody had taken care of this job.

  Krishna Moorthy kept the plastic pot in a corner of the yard which was fairly clean and tried to make his reluctant son sit upon it. The child had grown up in a world of clean cement floors and found the dirty backyard repulsive. Meera too feared coming to this house. The done-things and the not-done-things of the place and the doorless lavatory curtained off with bamboo sticks were what she most disliked.

  Temptation and threats made the boy sit on the pot. Meera seemed to be trying to say something to her husband now that she had chanced to meet him alone. The dog which was asleep in the sun got up. An old cow moved out of the cowshed and came towards the bullocks which were munching dry paddy grass. The bullocks tugged at the ropes, breathed audibly and moved as if about to make a charge. In the courtyard to the right the men continued to piece together bamboo sticks for the bier. The old cow grabbed a mouthful of grass, stood at a distance and ate. His son was using the pot now; the smell made it evident. More evident was the happiness of Meera who had sensed it. Her face, the way she stood with an arm on her waist and even her bobbed hair tied with a ribbon spoke of her inner happiness. When Savithri motioned to him to come, he was struck with a thought; he had never felt that father would die on such a wretchedly ordinary morning. The boy saw a millipede slowly, silently moving towards him, got frightened and jumped off the pot. Meera touched it with her feet and it rolled itself into a circle. Krishna Moorthy picked it up with a stick and threw it away. The boy was happy.

  While walking towards the cowshed Krishna Moorthy remembered again how Nair had summed up father’s life and said to himself, ‘No, he did not die a fool. He had decided to come and stay with me in Delhi and to sever himself from the things he was doing here.’ His sister took him to a corner where they could not be seen. He became curious and was struck with another thought. Father had always dreamt of retiring from the service of the rich and staying with his son. He had wanted to live in Delhi and pursue his study of astronomy, his lifelong interest. Or, perhaps father had thought of sending away mother and sister to Delhi, and staying with Gangubai. The day he rushed back from Delhi, father had with difficulty moved his heavy and swollen limbs and sat up against the pillows Gangubai had brought for him. He had said, ‘Oh, you have come. You must have come by air. Very expensive it must have been. That’s all right. Glad you have come.’ He had then added, ‘I have also asked Nair to come. I feel much better now.’ Then, he had begun to talk about an article he had read with wonder during the week.

  It was about the dark holes in the sky. ‘Listen, it seems they really are stars. Huge stars. And, they are falling. While falling they develop an enormous gravitational pull and do not allow anything, not even a ray of light, to escape them. These giant stars keep sucking everything into them. Time has no movement there. Isn’t it amazing? See, Kittu, that’s why they say: if like Shankaracharya one thinks that the world is an illusion, to him there are no wonders, no puzzles. He has them all solved easily. But for our Ananda Thirtha this world is real. It’s a real thing. Contradictions too are true. It’s therefore possible to look at the world in amazement. And because this world is true there is knowledge in understanding the contradictions. But if you want to speak of the Absolute, then . . .’

  From this topic, father had moved on to a condemnation of the concept of equality, of the importance of property rights, of the legal system, etc. What had it all meant? When Krishna Moorthy was thinking such thoughts, Savithri took something out from a knot in the corner of her pallu and said, ‘Remove your shirt.’ ‘Why?’ asked Krishna Moorthy. ‘To wear this.’ She was rolling the sacred thread in her grimy palms—to give it a much worn look on her brother’s chest. ‘I don’t like this play-acting.’ ‘You might say so. But aren’t you a brahmin? Won’t you perform the last rites?’ ‘See Savithri. Father had no faith in those things. That’s why he and Gangubai. . .’ ‘That’s all one’s karma. Nobody can escape it.’ Savithri stood aside. Krishna Moorthy removed his shirt and put on the sacred thread. ‘Look, Savithri, father was disgusted with the work he was doing for these rich bastards. That’s why he sent for Nair. You know, Nair’s aim was to kill all rich landlords. Father too had no faith in brahminic do’s and don’ts. If he had any he would not have lived with Gangubai.’ Savithri did not like to discuss the topic. ‘You mean to say these are in our hands? I say it is all one’s karma. See, how you were bossing over us all before you were married. But look how you have changed now.’ Savithri had not meant to taunt him; the words had simply slipped out, that’s all. Krishna Moorthy was to recall this incident on a Sunday at lunch time in his Delhi flat. Though he was happy that his father at the time of his death had thought of staying with him, he came to realize that it would never really have happened. The 25,000-rupee-debt father had bequeathed killed all his life’s pleasures. He had to keep apart 5,000 rupees towards the loan. He had to withdraw his son from a good school and put him into an ordinary one. He had to stop taking his wife and child out to cinemas and hotels. He had also to send at least 200 rupees to his mother without his wife coming to know of it. ‘You know, father spent his life slaving for the rich. But he was a most self-respecting man. He would not accept any money from them. That’s why he died in debt. To educate me he sacrificed much. He might have become a renowned astronomer or practised at the bar of the Supreme Court.’ He would say this loudly. Meera would listen in stony silence and express her anger and displeasure, which was quite understandable to Krishna Moorthy. Yet he had to fight with the memory of his father for days to come. On one such Sunday, at lunch time, when Meera icily remarked: They were wise who said cut your coat according to your length of the cloth,’ Krishna Moorthy thought of Nair who was rotting in jail. He argued that Nair was the one who could transcend pettiness, reach out to something big and that’s why he was dearest to father. Since he had failed to take her to a picture that afternoon, Meera hissed at him and said, ‘Why do you fornicate with words? Go, if you have the courage, with a knife in your hand too.’

  Krishna Moorthy had become depressed. He wondered whether Gangubai, friends like Nair and the dark holes in the sky were only means to escape for a while the tiredness that comes in the perpetual pursuit of money. Prior to her marriage, Meera’s face was full of beauty and gentleness; and now anger had become the dominant emotion and was carving deep lines on her face. In those lines, he tried to trace the meaningfulness of father’s way of life. He remembered Nair who smiled even when speaking most cruelly. But since he also felt that Nair was a somewhat ludicrous-looking eccentric, his questions became more and more knotty. Did father’s life, in spite of its many possibilities, run to seed? Why? Was he also going the same way? There was no answer here.

  The impermanent body was to be returned to the five elements it was made of. Krishna Moorthy, dressed in a short dhoti, had a dip in the river; on the river bank the body, given its last ritual bath, lay on the bier. He carried water in a pot that had holes in it, went round the body, then threw it backward and it br
oke. He lit fire to the body soaked in kerosene and sat watching the leaping, multicoloured flames. The fire spread, spluttered, and the flames, budlike and flower-like, burnt and enveloped the body. The flames converged with all their fiery strength at the skull. While Krishna Moorthy, with an effort to still his mind, remembered father bringing a thermometer when he was ill, the rest of father’s innumerable friends, for their consolation, were talking amongst themselves. Krishna Moorthy was surprised to see how a cremation ceremony turns into a picnic. Somebody was talking loudly and had made the rest into an audience. ‘Acharya was a very wise man. He saw much before others could that the Land Reform Act was in the offing. He was a man of this world, very much so. You know the Peasants’ Association was formed and Venkappa Naika began to say that the tiller of the land was its owner. Acharya immediately sent for us and told us: “You settle all your property disputes right now. Keep whatever land that justly belongs to you. And sell the rest for whatever price it fetches. If your tenant wishes to buy it, sell it to him. It does not matter even if he pays a little less. After all he has to sweat for you. It does not matter even if he is not grateful. That is another issue altogether. Otherwise, there will be a bloodbath.” We who listened to him prospered. Those who did not lost all that they had. His knowledge of the laws has saved many a scoundrel. We by ourselves would never have managed to survive the wretched Peasants’ Association.’

  Krishna Moorthy, watching father’s skull burst, like a coconut shell into colourful flames, felt like shouting, ‘No, this is not the whole truth.’ He recalled this too in his Delhi flat. He discussed it with his leftist friends, and yet remained unsatisfied.