The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories

by Stephen Alter

  You have asked me what exactly it is I want. I could have asked you the same question. Quite often I believe that we read a lot, discursively, and forget our own problems. Observed superficially, my feelings about you at the beginning and my feelings now—six years later, appear to belong to two different planes. In the first, one might discern an intentional separateness and, in the second, a disinterested oneness. But in actual fact, there’s nothing of the kind. Though the dimensions of my world have widened, they have also become sharp in the same measure. What has taken place is not a mere photographic enlargement. And also, it is not as though more areas have been included. The particulars of each part have become more significant. The disinterestedness one senses in it arises because those sensations have been experienced more intensely.

  You shouldn’t find it difficult to accept this. Change by itself is of no consequence—everything changes. The consciousness emerging from it is, I feel, of greater importance.

  XXXV

  I was really glad to learn that my last letter did not satisfy you. I can only interpret this to mean that your thinking processes are more alert.

  You want love, and I don’t want it? What is it that I have given you these six years? Only I did not get entangled in the nomenclature of what I wanted, of what I still want— that’s all. You ought to have carried me off, dragged me away—yes, I am writing what’s true, what’s absolutely true. Nothing is ever gained by analysing things. We only become strangers to our own selves.

  I too can speak the language of psychology. I can work out a convenient scientific interpretation of my own behaviour. I grew up motherless—hence a very strong attachment to the father. This attachment, this father- fixation, indicating in a corresponding measure a lesser attraction towards another man. On this very basis, you would then interpret my feelings for Lore, and going a little further you could analyse my maternal sentiment in relation to Bina. But supposing one were to believe in all this, can our problem be solved by it?

  At every moment we make an unalterable decision. When I wrote to you in the beginning, I made one. I made another when I invited you to Tirupet. After you had been and gone, when I gave you that string of answers to your questions, then again I made a decision. I have not altered it. The psychological basis of my behaviour did not come in the way of this. Only I did not get the response I wanted. Had I got it, I would have come anywhere with you, done anything for you. Every girl, the instant she is born, comes prepared to leave her mother and her father.

  You might perhaps say that you too expected a response and that you did not get it. How can I give an answer to this? To tell you the truth, one ought to be able to arrive at these decisions without resorting to the language of appeal and response.

  Now, after writing all this, I feel embarrassed. If reading this causes you any sorrow then forget me for all time.

  XXXVI

  You wrote instantly and started at once to return. In this itself I found the answer to my question. But I am going to be a little patient. And I am going to tell you to be patient too.

  Lore has come here suddenly, unannounced—not to see India, but to see me. We haven’t yet finished talking. She and Bina are great friends. This solves many of my problems at home.

  So you got a copy of Appa’s book even before I got one. I am still waiting here for a copy. Joshi says that a lot of Appa’s material is still lying here. It must be sorted out at leisure. He is coming back during the vacation to do this.

  Very often I feel sad that Edgeworth is not here now amongst us. I don’t feel that much even for Appa. Edgeworth was universally liked here because of his open nature and because he could get on effortlessly with others. I am going to turn his house into a House of Play. It will be a house of drama, of ballet, of crafts, of music and of story-telling. My last ballet remained unfinished, but Lore has now begun work on it with enthusiasm.

  Bina says she is going to write to you—she has just begun to recognize a few letters. Mother writes—so she too must. Shall I ask Lore to write to you too? Then you will be really hedged in from all sides. (Or does she already correspond with you?)

  Because I asked for nothing, I have received everything.

  P.S.:- Bina’s letter is enclosed. One must make out the words. Where the letters are missing, one must supply one’s own. To make things clear, she has drawn on the right a muscle of the sun. The two bird-like figures to the left are houses—one is hers, one is mine. You are outside standing in the sun.

  XXXVII

  As days go by, old memories assume new forms . . . I am playing once again my lost guitar . . . I am listening to Rajamma’s story, freshly revised, my head on her lap. (She still thinks I am a child, even though Bina is around) . . . Edgeworth has got hold of some simple argument to tease me . . . Appa’s body aches and he will not let me press his limbs . . . You have alighted from the train and are flustered on seeing two girls exactly like me . . . I am ill and Lore is somersaulting madly to make me laugh . . . Appa’s first lecture is over and Namura embraces him warmly . . . After three days of continuous toil, with eyes strained, Major Sen is still working at the operation table, his deft fingers opening and closing swiftly . . . I have just returned from Japan and am gazing at the plumeria in full bloom outside our door . . .

  Bina is delighted, ‘reading’ the letter you remembered to send her. She forces everyone to listen to the story you have written for her. Draupadi tore off a gorgeous sari to bandage Krishna’s injured finger. I know why you selected the story.

  Lore hasn’t made up her mind yet about the ballet. She has ruled out the Chaurapanchashika—at least till you arrive. Narcissus and Echo will probably not be understood here easily. (So she believes; actually it won’t be so.) Just now I am on the lookout for some tale about a roguish Prince Charming. Otherwise there is always our Ocean of Stories—Rajamma.

  Did you get the spicy ‘sweets’ that were sent? The idea and the execution—both were Rajamma’s.

  Try and find out if they can give you a degree without your doing an exam.

  XXXVIII

  Lore has begun to build a tiny house for you on the hill behind. There will be verandahs at the back and in front, two spacious rooms. And, if you are serious about cooking, then a small kitchen. The right amount of light. No undue fuss is made about windows. In the sitting-room a bed-cum-divan, a low, long table (which, however encumbered it might be, will still have some space left on it). And if it is considered absolutely necessary, a rack for books. Lots of mats, a few small stools and, so that you won’t be too inconvenienced, a mirror and a cupboard for clothes. Lore declares: When furniture collects, people are pushed out. Edgeworth once said: I prefer two men to one man and one chair.

  I am sending you two select reviews of Appa’s book that have come from the publishers. How far do you agree with the verbal point raised by the reviewer in The Hibbert Journal? In his opinion, in tune with the main thesis of the book, its title ought to have been Experience: Growth. By calling it Experience and Growth, one gets the impression that the author considers experience and growth two separate entities. But he wants to say something quite different. Experience and growth are processes on two different levels. Their connection is not one of cause and effect, it is more of a relationship. This view of the author ought to have found clear expression in the title. I tend to agree a little with this. The review in Nature is favourable, but I found it rather brief and matter of fact.

  Next month Professor Joshi will give up teaching and go to Delhi to take up a post in the External Affairs Ministry. It appears that our new government has greater need there of his multilingual talent.

  Next time don’t forget to write to Bina.

  XXXIX

  At long last Lore has made up her mind and, as I had predicted, it was Rajamma who came to our rescue. We decided to inaugurate the Edgeworth House of Play (Edge House, for short) with a dance on the theme of Lachhi’s peacock. Bina will be Lachhi, Lore old woman. The role of the peac
ock has come to you. The script and the music are mine, the direction is Lore’s, the background music and words Rajamma’s. As soon as you come here in July, the rehearsals will begin. You can’t avoid this now. No excuse will work. Arrangements will be made for full instruction in dance. (The battle now is against all of us.) When you come to think of it, does the peacock himself know how to dance? He lifts up a foot . . . then loses his balance, and to regain it he sets it down . . . and then lifts the other. This goes on in the same fashion over and over again, ad infinitum. Those who look on call it a dance. (So I have read somewhere.)

  Note down right now the date of the performance: 15 August 1947.

  Translated from Marathi by Kumud Mehta

  Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai

  A Blind Man’s Contentment

  Pappu Nayar accepted Bhargavi as his wife. He was blind from birth. Her reputation in the village was not good.

  No one questioned the propriety of his visiting that house of evil repute. Was he not a blind man? Bhargavi’s mother was fond of hearing stories from religious mythology. Pappu Nayar would narrate to her all the stories he knew. His mother had twice prohibited him from going there. Finally Bhargavi became pregnant. Pappu Nayar acknowledged responsibility for this.

  Pappu Nayar’s mother told him he would not be allowed to set foot in her house. He had an answer: ‘My younger brother is not going to lead me around all the time. I need someone to look after me.’

  His mother asked: ‘How are you going to support her?’

  ‘I don’t have to give her anything. She’ll make a living sweeping some compound or pounding rice.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘She will look after me.’

  ‘She has had three abortions.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort! She has no peer on earth.’

  And thus Pappu Nayar’s expulsion from home became permanent.

  Bhargavi was working as a sweeper and cleaner at a brahmin household. She was given two meals a day and a para (five measures) of rice every month. Besides this, she was permanently engaged by two families to pound rice by hand.

  She looked after Pappu Nayar well. She would make kanji (rice gruel), and feed him the rice while she contented herself with the water. She was an obedient type. She hardly ever talked. Misery appeared to have wiped out all traces of cheerfulness from her face. At twenty, her sunken eyes and cheeks and falling hair made her look ten years older. There was always a shadow of sadness over her features. She never laughed out of a sense of inborn happiness. Occasionally a derisive smile would play over her dried-up lips, when she looked at her more fortunate companions.

  Nearly always she managed with a thin loincloth tied around her waist. She had hardly any other clothes to change into. But she never hid her semi-nudity in shame.

  Into that lifeless and drab atmosphere had come Pappu Nayar with his light-heartedness and his wagging tongue. She never talked to him much.

  Pappu Nayar would say: ‘Bhargavi has a boy in her womb. He will grow up and recite the Ramayana.’

  She would reply: ‘I want a girl.’

  Bhargavi gave birth to a boy. Nayar’s happiness was unbounded. He would not stir out of the room. He would tell all the women who called there, ‘It is as I wished. Bhargavi wanted a girl.’

  He wanted to fondle the baby all the time in his lap. He would ask it: ‘Well, little fellow, will you read the Ramayana to your father when you grow up?’

  The blind man’s face would light up with delight. He would frequently say, ‘Bhargavi, don’t you kiss the baby?’

  She would reply, ‘Your tongue is not idle even for a minute.’

  ‘Woman, our good days have come. What more do I want? He will take me to Kasi and Rameswaram. Won’t you, son?’ Pappu Nayar would stroke the child and kiss it.

  ‘Aswathi, Makham, Moolam, seven to Kethu,’ thus he would start calculating the horoscope.

  ‘He is under the influence of Venus even during his youth. He is very fortunate. Bhargavi, we must name him Gopika Ramanan.’

  He said Bhargavi should learn the old lullaby Omana thingal kidavo (Oh, child of the darling moon).

  She named him Raman. He asked: ‘Why, didn’t you name him Gopika Ramanan?’

  She said: ‘Oh, for a boy born to beg . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that, woman. His horoscope is that of a kesari, a leader.’

  She did not learn the lullaby either.

  The child would wriggle about on Pappu’s lap and cry loudly. Pappu would get excited and shout for Bhargavi. She would gnash her teeth and shout, ‘The brat was born to scream.’

  Bhargavi would beat the child. Pappu Nayar would be stunned. She went to work and would return only in the evening. He would lose his peace of mind and would start muttering to himself that the child’s throat was getting parched.

  His affection was heart-rending.

  ‘My son has great good fortune in store. Below his left breast there is a mole, like a lotus, a sign of divine grace.’

  He would ask the women from the neighbouring houses: ‘Does he look like me?’

  The women’s eyes would be wet with unshed tears. He saw a mole in the darkness that engulfed him! He thought the child was like him. One day one of the women asked him: ‘Can you see?’

  ‘I can see my son,’ he replied.

  And he went on seeing him. When he kissed the child he would sometimes say: ‘You little rascal, your laugh!’

  He even saw the silent laughter.

  The women in the village would say: ‘Well, she is a bad one all right. Does that child look like him?’

  It was time for Raman to be given the first ceremonial feed of rice. Pappu Nayar desired that he should perform this auspicious act with his own hands. But Bhargavi would not allow it. She told her mother that he had too large an appetite. Her mother said, ‘Then we must get it done by someone else. He should not grow up with a large appetite and an outsized tummy.’ ‘I did not know I ate so much rice,’ Pappu Nayar said and laughed in genuine amusement at this joke.

  The child grew up. Things started getting worse for the family. Bhargavi lost her job with the brahmin household on an accusation of theft.

  ‘Don’t keep the child hungry. Give him my share,’ Pappu Nayar would tell Bhargavi.

  It was Karkatakam, the traditional month of scarcity. It was three days since even rice gruel had been cooked in the house. They managed one day eating cooked bean leaves. The second day they managed with rice bran. On the third day, their neighbour Kesavan Nayar gave them two-and-a-half chakkrams (about ten paise). They bought a little rice which they made into gruel. Bhargavi, her mother and her son ate it up. Pappu Nayar was sitting on the verandah having the Ramayana read to him by a neighbour. He was not aware of what was going on in the kitchen.

  That night he was light-heartedly singing couplets from Kuchela Vritha. His gnawing hunger would not let him sleep even after midnight. The neighbours could hear him reciting the verses and beating time. Bhargavi became angry: ‘What madness is this?’

  ‘Was I not singing Bhagavan’s praises?’ He stopped and prayed silently.

  Bhargavi became pregnant again. Pappu Nayar told her that this time she would give birth to a girl.

  The elder child began to talk a little. He would call his mother Amma and his grandmother Ammoomma. But even the basic sounds for father never came from him.

  ‘You little fellow, why don’t you call out “Father”?’

  And then Pappu Nayar would console himself that the word for ‘father’ was difficult to pronounce.

  Bhargavi fell ill many times during this pregnancy.

  Pappu Nayar continued to say that their miseries would all be over. Raman would not leave his mother’s side. He would go nowhere near Pappu Nayar. Pappu Nayar would tell him that his mother was expecting a younger sister for him and he would ask him to kiss her where it was.

  Bhargavi gave birth to a girl. As before, Pappu Nayar cast the child’s horoscope and said t
hat she was destined for a happy marriage in her fourteenth year.

  ‘My daughter looks like her mother, doesn’t she, sister?’ he asked Kuttiyamma from the next house. She laughed and a broad grin spread on her face.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ she replied.

  The neighbours discussed and decided who was the likely father of the girl.

  Now there were two children. The poverty of the family increased. Bhargavi’s health was shattered. She was too weak even to go to work.

  Pappu Nayar consoled Bhargavi and told her that their poverty would soon end. She wanted to escape from all that misery by committing suicide. He argued that the children would be left orphaned and suicide was foolish. But not even a tear dropped from Bhargavi’s eyes. She would just grind her teeth in helpless misery. Her lustreless sunken eyes sometimes lit up for a moment with inhuman brightness, but presently she relapsed into helpless acquiescence. One day she told him: ‘Why don’t you go out and beg?’

  ‘Woman, you are right. You are talking sense. But I will have to leave the village. The problem is how I can be away from the little ones.’

  Bhargavi was again carrying. This time she was too ill even to get up. For many days there was not even a fire in the kitchen. Pappu Nayar would send Raman every noon to the neighbouring brahmin house. The mother and the children would take the rice gruel they gave. Pappu Nayar would have some if there was anything left. He would say, ‘When I hear the Ramayana, I want neither food nor drink.’

  He would thus spend the day listening to the Ramayana read to him by someone. At night he would repeat such lines as he could remember.

  The hungry children would cry. Bhargavi would not utter a word. Pappu Nayar would say, ‘All this misery will end.’

  The children were left to themselves, uncared for. Raman was not to be seen during the day. He went from house to house begging. The girl fell ill. He would borrow rice from some neighbour and get some gruel prepared for her. Raman would return home at dusk. He would be asked to recite namam, words in praise of God, but would not pay any heed. Pappu Nayar would make him sit beside him and tell him stories from religious mythology. He would go away, while Nayar continued his narration. He would realize of Raman’s absence only when he heard his voice from the kitchen.