Son of the Soil

Chilukuri Deva Putra

“Come and eat sankati,” Obulamma called her husband impatiently.
Lost in thought, Ramachandra sat on the pial outside the hut staring into space inattentive to her call. By then their neighbours had eaten sankati or something and sat under the streetlights gossiping. The children were playing a game of run-and- touch, yelling at one another.
“Sankati gets cold. Come and eat it,” Obulamma was impatient. She came out and shook her husband by the shoulder.
Ramachandra was startled. “ Have you finished cooking?” Getting up he said, “You have just begun it!”
Without replying to him, Obulamma went into the hut.
Ramachandra stood up but did not move. Obulamma bought water in a big brass container and gave it to him.
Ramachandra washed his hands, feet and face and drying himself with the checkered towel on his shoulder, moved into the hut.
“Ramesh! Suresh! Where are those rascals? Call them,” he told her as he sat down for food.
“They have already eaten and gone out to play.”
In the glimmer of the lamp, he looked at the plate. A big morsel of sankati of millets occupied much of the plate, and a substance like chutney nestled in one corner. He touched a little of it with his fore finger and applied it to his tongue. It tasted sour.
“It’s tamarind chutney again,” he said with a distasteful expression on his face.
“Yes. You have been earning a lot. Saving everything greedily for myself, I am preparing only tamarind chutney for you,” Obulamma shouted at him.
“Why do you shout? I just said that you have been serving tamarind chutney everyday.” “ Is it wrong to say so?” Swallowing hurriedly handfuls of ragi sankati, Ramachandra said. “It’s difficult to talk with you. I don’t know what irritates you.”
“Yes. It is difficult to live with me,” Obulamma looking angrily at him replied without lowering her voice, “You know how to silence me. Others think that I am a nagging woman. You speak softly but do everything silently looking innocent.” She frowned at him.
“What have I done, you wretched woman?” he mumbled with a smiling face, a morsel of sankati in his mouth.
“Yes, I have come here all the way because I am a wretched woman. It’s six months since we have come and settled here in Bellary. And you never heed me,” Obulamma continued.” I told you many times to sell away the ten acres of land in the village so that we can buy a piece of land here and build a small hut. But it never gets into your head. You feel happy paying a hundred rupees from your wages as rent for this hut every month.” Tears filled her eyes.

Will he allow me to sell the land as long as he is alive?” He questioned.
“Don’t utter those useless words. Tell him outright that you would sell the land. Why your father? Even your grand-father would accept it,” Obulamma replied. “You become so meek when you face your father that you won’t say anything to him. What have you grown like a tall tree for? Can’t you convince him that nothing will grow in that land where only the chameleons lay their eggs? For the past five years have we ever got a yield of more than ten bags of groundnuts? We dump bags of grains into it and look at sky for rains. Had it been fertile, why should we have come here all the way to earn livelihood? But won’t you ever think about it?”
“Keep quiet. Without regard for my father’s age you speak against him,” Ramachandra said.
Obulamma could sense the harshness in his voice.
“Aged! Yes, its only due to that I have been silent all these days,” Obulamma said. “ What’s great about age? Even a stone in the street will be old enough.” As she continued Ramachandra stopped eating, got up angrily and struck Obulamma on her back with the fist a couple of times.
With this unexpected turn, Obulamma with sorrow welling up started crying in a screeching voice.
“Do you speak in this way without any regard for your father-in-law? All the time I tolerated it somehow. But you go on without any restraints.” Ramachandra kicked the plate he was eating in with his left leg, as if to make his anger effective. The plate flew in circles hit the wall with a thud and fell on the floor.
Ramachandra washed his hands and sat on the pial outside. He could faintly hear Obulamma’s weeping from the hut.
“Ramachandra!” As he heard the call, he turned in that direction.
A person who was around forty came to him smiling. He was lean, and was wearing a white panca and a shirt. His partially grayed bushy mustache appeared to have been fixed on his face.
“How are you? Narayanappa! Are you all right?” He dusted the place next to him. “Come and sit here,”
“You have to come tomorrow. We are laying foundation for a house in Kaul Bazaar,” Narayanappa said as he sat on the pial.
Obulamma’s wail was not heard from the hut. “She saved me from embarrassment,” Ramachandra thought.
Narayanappa was the head of house-construction workers. Ten years earlier he migrated from a village, Kaluvapalli in Anantapur district to Bellary in search of livelihood. He began his life there as a coolie carrying stones. Soon he became the head of a gang of construction workers, well known in Bellary. Nearly half a dozen labourers worked under him now. Seven years ago, he had a small hut in the site given by the government. Which now had turned into a big building. He had two Godrej almirahs, a sofa set, a colour T.V and other valuable things in that building. He bought a house-site of twenty cents on the Sangankallu road in Bellary. It cost around three lakhs now.
“Tomorrow I have the work at home. If you want ,I can come the day after tomorrow,” Ramachandra said.
“It’s all right. Ramachandra! I will send for some other worker,” Narayanappa said. While inspecting the hut he asked,” How much rent do you pay for this hut?”
“A Hundred rupees.”
“Hundred! For this small hut, “ Narayanappa said. “ You said you had some land in the village. You can sell it and buy some place here and build a small house. You don’t know how good it is to have a house instead of land these days? In Guntur or Vijayawada one will be considered rich if he has ten acres of land. They are such fertile lands and they work hard to raise crops too. But in our area even if a farmer has twenty-five acres of land, he has to face problems throughout the year and it is difficult even to lead a normal life. Our lands are barren? In our village, Kaluvapalli my uncle has twenty acres of land but it is difficult for him even to feed his family. Consider my case. I don’t have even an acre of land. But are they equal to me? Nowadays cultivation has become a gamble or betting in a cock-fight,” he said. “Expecting rains in time, the farmers would somehow buy the seeds and sow them. Then, if there are normal rains, the farmer would survive. Otherwise he would be at the mercy of moneylenders. The fate of agriculture depending on rains is always so.” Narayanappa told Ramachandra and went away saying, “Take my advice. You sell away your land. Don’t mistake me, Ramachandra. I’ll come again.”
***
The whole street was deserted.
The streetlights were glowing brightly.
Ramachandra lay on a mat on the pial rolling this way and that. He was unable to sleep. He felt remorseful for beating his wife. He had never beaten her. Yet he hit a woman who had so much of love for him. If she talked the way she had, it was due to circumstances. It was difficult enough to live though both of them worked and earned wages. How difficult it was to send money to his father in the village for his expenses and also pay a rent of a hundred rupees for the hut! The children, Ramesh and Suresh were in ragged shorts, as they had no money to buy new ones for them. Of the three saris Obulamma had all of them were tatters.
Suddenly anger against his father engulfed Ramachandra. Only because of his father he had to face all these difficulties. He would not live with them there. It was true that the old man was very fond of the land. There was reason to be so, if it was a fertile one. He did not understand why he had so much of attachment to that arid land. He wished his father dead so that weeping for a while, he could dump him once for all in a pit. As he thought about his father he felt like killing him.
He would no more remain passive. He would certainly sell away the land, at any cost, without caring for the wails of his father.
The moment he came to that conclusion, he got up involuntarily. Thinking that his wife would be happy to know this, he went into the hut pushing the door. In the glimmer of the lamp he looked all around. The children were fast asleep. At a slight distance from them Obulamma was lying on the floor curling herself up. He silently went to her and knelt near her.
“Obulamma,” he called her.
She rolled to the other side. Then it became clear to him that she was awake.
“Ei! It’s you I’m calling,” he said and placed his hand on her shoulder.
She pushed it away angrily.
“ Abba! How can a woman be so angry? Please listen to me,” he pleaded.
“ So have you come again to beat me? Come on hit me. I am the only one who will tolerate everything,” she said weeping, her eyes looking into his.
“I haven’t come to beat you. When you talked badly about my father I was unable to control my anger and hit you.” Ramachandra forcibly took her hand in his and said, “I promise I would not beat you again.”
He observed that her grief had subsided.
“ I will heed your advice. I will sell away the land. Let the old man wail as he wishes. Are we happy though we have that property?” he lay down beside her and tenderly hugged her. Enwrapped snugly in his embrace she said, “ Then why put off the matter? Shall we go tomorrow?”
“All right,” Ramachandra kissed her on her forehead and said, “Let’s go tomorrow.”
***
It was noon.
The hot Sun was shining brightly.
“Oh, Ramachandra. Have you come just now? You have setout in the hot sun!” Chennappa welcomed his son, daughter-in-law and grandsons looking at them with great affection. “ How big they have grown! Come to me! Ramesh… Suresh!” he said holding them in his arms and happily showering kisses on them.
Ramachandra took away the old metal box from his shoulders and placed it in front of the hut. “How are you, father? Is your health all right?” Ramachandra asked. “ You have grown thin.”
“I am all right,” Chennappa said. “ Look at yourself. You have become skinny. Even she and her boys have become lean.”
“As you see us after a long gap, you feel so… Mama,” Obulamma said.
“Papa… Narasakka!” he called the girl from the adjoining hut. Despite his torn vest soiled panca he was wearing and his unshaven grey beard, his face was glowing with joy.
“Yes, tata! “ A thirteen-year-old girl with tasselled hair, and in green dirty dress, came out from the next hut. She was related to Chennappa: a grand daughter. Moreover due to his good nature, she helped him in his household chores.
“Your uncle, aunt and their children have come. We don’t know when they had food last. They must be hungry,” Chennappa said to the girl, “Cook some rice for them and give some water first for washing their feet, my dear.” He instructed her.
Smiling shyly, she went into the hut to cook food.
After an hour, they had food. The day was declining.
It was always cool there even when it was hot summer, as there was a densely grown neem tree next to the pial in front of the hut.
He felt it risky now to ask him to sell away the land. How should he put it? Moreover how to begin the conversation?
Chennappa was still smoking a beedi.
Lying on the end of sari spread on the floor, Obulamma was staring at her husband. Suddenly Ramachandra looked at her. “Come on. You begin it,” she gestured to him. “Wait a while,” he suggested her with his looks.
“How much of groundnut will we get this year?” Clearing his throat, he began hesitantly unable to know how to initiate the conversation.
“Yield… Had it rained at least twice by this time, it would have been different. With the attack of pest almost all the crop has withered. Even if it rains today or tomorrow the yield would be just enough for seeding. It is not only here. This is so everywhere. A gentleman told me this today…he had been to Hindupur, Kadiri to look for a match for his son. ,” Chennappa continued. “But how is life in Bellary, Ramudu… have you learnt any brick laying work?”
“Yes. I am still learning,” Ramachandra replied in a low voice.
“I always worry about you. But for the failure of crops you would not have left the village to live in a far off place as a labourer,” Chennappa said in a choked voice.
Unable to raise the topic of selling the land when he was so concerned about their welfare Ramachandra suddenly got up and said, “ I will go down the street to talk to Mallesu and Thippanna mama, father.” He went away.
Obulamma who had been looking at them intently to know what would happen became furious. “Thu…What a man is he! Just when he was to speak out he went away. He has no guts to talk to his father, but he is ready to argue with me,” she mumbled to herself.
***

Night. It was time for food.
The rays from the street lamp next to the hut spread light over the pial like moonlight.
While eating, Ramachandra thought out many times how to talk about the selling of the land with his father.
On the pial outside Chennnappa was gossiping with his grandchildren laughing loudly at times.
“Ramudu! These rascals are very clever. You have to be careful,” Chennappa said to Ramachandra as he came out after finishing food. ”Otherwise they will sell you both in the Bellary Market for three bottlu. How intelligent these fellows are!” he said looking affectionately at them.
Ramachandra smiled awkwardly. His mind was on the matter he wanted to raise.
“I heard the Reddys have sold away their lands,” Ramachandra said to his father as a prelude to the issue.
“Reddys?” Chennappa was still engrossed in the delightful company of his grand children.
“ I heard that Thimma Reddy has sold his thirty acres of land to the people of Uravakonda at twenty thousand rupees an acre.”
“Yes. After selling away all his land here Thimma Reddy is doing some business in Anantapur. They are all very big people. They do not care for their village or mother. They can live anywhere. Anatapur or Hyderabad… they are ready to settle anywhere and live happily,” Chennappa said as he took out a bundle of beedies and a box of matches from the pocket of his vest.
“But we stay on here whether it’s famine or crop-failure. Which god told us to be here, father? Why should we find fault with them? Our fate is so.”
“You fool! “ Chennappa said picking out a beedi from the beedi bundle and squeezing its end between his fingers. “Let them leave the village.” Chennappa lighted his beedi and continued ,” Why should we leave like them? How can one leave the land that is more than our mother”
“Because of these feelings our lives are so miserable. It is not late now. We will sell the land and buy some place and build a hut in Bellary and all of us can live happily together,” Ramachandra spoke out all that he wanted to say.
“You son of a ----. How many times have I told you not to raise this question,” Chennappa said.
Ramachandra sensed that his father was more furious from his words but he did not want to retreat. “You are mad. About the land. Because of it we have come to this ruined stage.” Ramachandra continued, “You raised a loan of fifteen thousand rupees to dig a well and only a boulder appeared at the bottom. For a bore pump you spent ten thousand rupees and it ended in vain too. No water but only debts to repay. By the grace of Rain God we reaped groundnut crop for two years and repaid the loans. Otherwise, could I and my children have repaid such heavy loan?”
“Why do you talk so strangely now?” Chennappa questioned him angrily. “Have you come all the way from Bellary to sell this land?” He became furious. His grandsons frightened, got off his lap then and ran to their mother sitting at the door.
“Why do you become so angry whenever I suggest you to sell the land?” Ramachandra shouted back at his father.
“Yes, I do, because it is my life. Selling it is like selling my mother… You always talk about the amount spent on it. Think a while. Without it my father, grandfather, you and me…All of us would not have lived a respectable life in the village,” Chennappa went on,” It is all due to that land. I wish you weren’t born to me. You are a person without any gratitude. Had your mother been still alive you would have sold her too when she could not do any work. You…wretched fellow,” Chennappa spoke with a strange expression on his face.
“I don’t care for all that. You have to sell the land and come to live with us, that’s all.”
Chennnappa sensed recklessness in his son’s words.
“I won’t come with you and I won’t sell the land. Do whatever you want to. You are so rude because you send me amount for my expenses every month. From now on you need not send me anything,” Chennappa said in an agitated voice, lit another beedi and began puffing it hurriedly.
“If you speak so I lose my temper,” Ramachandra said irritated.
“ Why should be angry? Have you lost any of your father’s earnings? What are you furious for?” Chennappa shot back.” I won’t sell the land, whatever you say.”
As their quarrel reached its culminating point the neighbours gathered.
“Ore… Ramachandra. Why do you raise the issue of selling of the land now?” An old man in the gathering said in his shivering voice.
“ Since all of you support him he has become so adamant and refuses to sell it,” Ramachandra said loudly.
“See… He talks without any regard to me…his father,” Chennappa was shivering in fury.
“Mama, why do you get so irritated when we ask you to sell the land?” Obulamma said.
“ So , you are behind all this. It’s because of you he is talking so. My son had never talked so harshly with me. It’s enough to have a daughter-in-law like you to break a family,” Chennappa said vengefully, though he had never uttered a word against his daughter-in-law since she came to live with them.
“Your son has no courage and so you hold the land fast, ruining us in the process,” Obulamma said spitefully.
“Being a woman you should not talk so against your father-in-law,” an old married woman said.
“Atta…You know nothing about our family. We want to sell it only to look after his welfare. See how he behaves,” Obulamma said.
“ If you don’t care for his wishes, why should you worry about his welfare?” Another married woman questioned.
Obulamma became furious and retorted sharply, “Why do you worry about our family problems? It’s no concern of yours. We have not asked you to deal out justice for us.”
“All right… We have nothing to do with you. You can do as you wish,” the old married woman left the place feeling unhappy.
“I will see how you can stop me from selling the land. Or else you give me my share,” Ramachandra spoke as if he was parting with his father forever.
Chennappa turned to his son as he felt it unpleasant to hear those words. Tears filled his eyes. Was it his only son who said all this? Was he the one whom he brought up affectionately?
“Ore… Ramudu! Why speak of your share and mine? All is yours. Do I have four sons to divide the land? You are not even my brother to share it with me,” Chennappa continued in mournful tone. “Take all of it. I can fill my stomach by begging in this village. Do as you wish.” He moved away as tears rolled down from his eyes.
Ramachandra and Obulamma did not expect this and they remained stupefied.
For some time silence filled the air.
“Amma. Tata is going away,” Suresh shrieked.
Obulamma did not say anything.
“Where will he go? An old man…He will come back after he cools down,” a middle aged person from the crowd commented.
“He will come back. Where can he go?” Others echoed.
***

The day was just dawning.
Ramachandra did not sleep the whole night. He was worried about his father. Many times he thought and repented that he should not have been so harsh with him.
Obulamma also was remorseful. She sent Ramachandra to search for her father-in-law in the houses of their friends in the village. She enquired about him in the street. She was distressed that she was rude with her father-in-law who used to call her ‘Papa’ affectionately.
Ramachandra’s eyes were swollen and red, as he was sleepless.
Thoughts swarmed in his mind like bees from a disturbed hive.
The thought that his father might have ended his life frightened him most. That was why he had been looking for him in the gardens and wells since morning. Some of the villagers accompanied him in the search.
It was morning.
“Ore…Ramachandra!” he felt as if his father had called him affectionately from a distance and he looked around vaguely. No one was there. He decided that he would never say anything against his father’s wishes. He felt like falling and weeping at his feet if he found him. He would never ask him to sell the land again.
“O… Ramachandra anna,” Rangaiah came gasping to him and said,
” Anna…your father dead. There in your land.” He pointed to his land. A body in white clothes was lying in his land a few tracts away.
As if he had heard a thunderbolt striking, he rushed to the land, shivering all over.
Amidst the withered groundnut crop Chennappa’s body lay serene and free from sorrow, like a child sleeping in the lap of the mother.
Dazed, Ramachandra fell on the dead body.
***


-Translated from Telugu by T.SREENIVASA REDDY

Footwear

Mungari Rajender(Jimbo)

“Aree Posaalu! You give these chappals at Dora’s house and go to school,” Bhumaiah said to his son Pochaiah.

Bhumaiah was a labourer. He was around forty. Earlier he used to make chappals. Not that he had completely stopped making them now but he made less of them. He brought them from Hyderabad and sold there. Only for a few he would make chappals and offer. By making chappals continuously his hands had become like bullock shoes. Four acres of wetland. A foot wear shop in the market. Two daughters and a son. As he didn’t want his son, Pochaiah, to become a labourer like him, he sent him to school.

Pochaiah was about thirteen years old. He had sharp eyes and a lean figure. He was studying in the eighth class. Why should one be submissive to any- this was his attitude. He was fair enough in his studies. He was in a hurry to go to school. Taking his books from the shelf, he turned to his father when he heard his words. Bhumaiah was wrapping up the chappals with a paper.

“Why father! You give me work when I was going to school? You have set up a shop itself. If they are in need, they should come to our shop and take them. Why should we go to their house and hand them over,” he questioned his father.

Bhumaiah was astonished at his son’s questions. They would often make him think. There was truth in his son’s question. They could as well come to the shop and take away the chappals. But supplying footwear at their houses to all Doras of the village had become a practice since his father’s times. What would happen if it were stopped? Even a thought of it was so frightening.

“ It is only on your way. Why don’t you hand them over at Dora’s house?” he said again.

“ What happens if we do not give at their house? You are afraid of every one,” Pochaiah said while taking the books in to his hand.

“Posaalu! You speak in such a manner after learning merely alphabet. You do not know about Doras. They would keep everything in mind. They would wait and take revenge at some right time. You heed me. Hand them over. If you do not give them I will have to close the shop and go myself.”

“What will they do, father?”

“They can do anything. The papers of our land will be with them, my dear son! Is it not enough if they let somebody encroach our land? You cannot understand all these things. You listen to me.”

Lakshminarayana and his land…Bhumaiah remembered. He was terrified when he recalled how they were driven out of their land.

Pochaiah could not understand his father’s words. But he felt that there was some truth in his fear. Without uttering a word he took the chappals in his right hand, and books in left hand and walked out.

It was surprising for him to find his father, who was not afraid of even snake, feared the Doras. Lost in thoughts he crossed the corner and walked towards Dora’s house. He had to cross the Dora’s house on his way to school. The surroundings at Dora’s house appeared strange for him. Ramkishanrao was the Dora. He was the Patwari , the village revenue officer .His brother was Jaganmohanrao. He was the Patel , the village police officer. Any officer-from Girdawar to the Revenue Divisional Officer, Moril saab to The Deputy superintendent of Police- who visited the village should call on him and stay in their house. Even the sarpanch, the village president was their follower. Thinking so he came onto the main road. His classmates were going to school. By the time he would reach school after handing over the chappals the second bell would be over, he thought. He became furious at his father.

The situation in the village had changed now. Harijans and backward class people were also receiving education. But Ramkishanrao’s family had not lost their control over the village. Pochaiah reached Dora’s house. A gigantic gate in the front, and a house inside. Chatting and puffing beedies two sunkars sat outside the house, guarding it like Ghurkhas. Pochaiah came there and stood like an accused before a court.

“ Hi pillaga! Why are you here?” said a sunkari. A spear like weapon was kept next to him.

“My father asked me to handover these chappals to Dora, I have brought them, ” Pochaiah said showing the chappals in his hand.

“Wait, I’ll see what Dora is doing and come?” the sunkari said while getting up.

“Why don’t you hand over to Dora,” stretching them to the sunkari Pochaiah said, “I have to go to school.”

“Emiro poraga, Are you affected by delirium?” while going inside the sunkari said, “Would you go away without giving the chappals to Dora?”

As Pochaiah did not know what to do, he stood there waiting.

After five minutes the sunkari came out.

“Ore, Dora is in prayer. Wait for some time,” the sunkari said to Pochaiah.

Pochaiah stood there, and began to have pain in his legs. He felt sad for missing the class that day. He became angry with his father and Dora. . Unable to do anything he stood as he was.

Half an hour passed.

“Won’t you see whether he has finished? “ Pochaiah said to the sunkari, ”I have to go to school.”

Sunkari went in and came out after five minutes. Pochaiah looked anxiously at him.

“Come, pollaga! Dora has come to kacceeri , the main hall” saying so the sunkari led him inside.

Holding his books and the chappals in one hand, and adjusting his shorts with an other, Pochaiah followed him. He was nervous and he did not suffer so even when he had not done homework at school. Crossing the main gate they went in. The bungalow looked like the hood of a snake. They waked through a gigantic door in to the hall. Ramkishanrao was seated in an easy chair. He appeared amiable and he appeared to have crossed thirty-five.

“Hasn’t your father come?” Dora said, “So he has sent them with you.” He got up, put on the chappals and walked a little distance.

“ They are a bit tight, pollaga! Take them home, get them loosened further and bring back.”

Pochaiah took the chappals from Dora and folding them in to a paper he came out along with sunkari.

He couldn’t go to school. With an anger bursting out at his father, he went home along with the chappals.

After ten years.

Over ten years the annalu, the naxalites had extended their influence over the villages. Ramkishanrao had lost his position of patwari and the lordship of Dora. All his land had turned barren. There was no scope to sell it away. Moreover the situation was such that he could not even remain in the village. So he left the place and settled in Karimnagar.

Within these ten years Pochaiah finished his degree, appeared for a competitive examination and had become a Mandal Revenue Officer.

Variety of footwear filled a big shop near the clock tower. It was around seven o’clock in the evening. Though three salesmen were attending the customers, however a few were asking the proprietor about something. He himself was showing a few models of footwear. When they didn’t like them he showed them some other models.

Then Pochaiah came near the clock tower for buying chappals. He stopped his vehicle on the side of the road, entered the shop and sat in an unoccupied seat. The proprietor who was putting on the chappals to a customer recognised Pochaiah and went back to the cash counter. Pochaiah was surprised when he identified him. He was Ramkishanrao.’ Such a great man has become so!’ he thought.

After choosing a pair of chappals Pochaiah went to the cash counter to pay the bill.

“Emiraa Pochaiah,” Ramakrishnarao called him as he used to address a serf in the village. “Heard that you are working here as a Mandal Revenue Officer?” Ramkishanrao said while receiving the amount from Pochaiah. On hearing him Pochaiah was offended deeply. Ramkishanrao leaving the customer in the middle and moving to the counter didn’t occur by chance. Pochaiah became conscious of his caste, which he had forgotten till then. The professions had been swapped. Ramkishanrao was selling footwear and Pochaiah in turn was the head of thirty villages. But Ramkishanrao’s attitude towards him had not changed. Ramkishanrao’s profession had changed but not his mind-set.

Taking the chappals, Pochaiah walked out of the shop.

-(Andhra Jyothi weekly-20-01-1995)

Translated from Telugu by Dr.T.Sreenivasa Reddy

My Father’s Place

Mungari Rajender (Jimbo)

Though I was watching TV, RamaRao’s words were haunting me. How could he pass such comments in the office so easily? The very thought of them would upset me. As he smiled and said, “The Muslim saayibu, would have a wish that Pakistan should alone win.” His words pierced me like thorns of a creeper.

It was just past 9.30. Still there were one and half-hours for the office. I just sat before the TV but my mind rambled on. The ringing of the calling bell brought me back to this world. I got up and opened the door. It was the postman with a telegram. After signing the acknowledgement, I received it.

“Puppu passed away at 5o’clock.” – Reheman Puppu (aunt) would have crossed seventy-five. It was also known that she had been sick for the past two or three months. I had wanted to see her once when she was alive but I couldn’t. For that I felt annoyed at myself. Puppu was the last person related to my Pappa (father). It had been eight years since Pappa breathed his last and six years since Taaya (father’s elder brother) departed. Puppu was the last among them. Their parents died when I was a child. Aunt did not have any children. Her husband had already died. Reheman had taken care of her, he was the eldest son of our Taaya.

I might have gone only three or four times to my Pappa’s village since I remember things. Six years ago when Taaya died I visited the village. Again at this time. But for marriages and funeral ceremonies, I had never been to my Pappa’s place. Even for them once my elder brother, another time my second brother and at times myself attended in turns. Taayizan wrote to me many times asking me to visit during the vacation, but some how I hadn’t visited.

My Pappa had a quarrel with his father when he was twenty-two and came to this place and settled. My father was the first doctor in that vicinity. He married my mother who hailed form a village near by. The distance between our place and my father’s village was nearly five hundred kilometres. My father himself often used to go to his place. We didn’t have much association with that village. My Pappa’s relations used to visit us once in a while. My sisters, brothers and myself were born and brought up in our place.

Taking the telegram, I went inside and told the news to Ammi. Ammi felt sad. Though death was inevitable, some strange fear haunted everyone. She said that we should go. I asked my wife to prepare my baggage. I gave a leave letter at the office and came back. The bus to Hyderabad was at eleven o’clock. From there it was five hours journey. I rang my brothers in the village and told them the news. They said they too had received the telegrams. They asked me to go along with mother and said that they would attend the ‘dahum’ (Ten days ceremony).

Ammijan and myself set out for my father’s village. We reached there by six o’clock. We could find out the location of the house without any difficulty. I remembered. Silence pervaded my father’s old house.

It seemed Reheman’s children had not come from Hyderabad. A few relations and Reheman’s sisters and brothers were in the house. On seeing mother they broke out. They said they had waited for us till then and the body was taken in a dola just half an hour ago. They sent a boy to guide me to the kabaristhan. I rushed there. After performing namaz for zanaz at the mosque, they had just brought Puppu’s dead body to the kabaristhan. The last glimpse of the body, aakari deedar was shown. I saw Puppu’s face for the last time. Tatphiz, the burial was over. Mother could not see Puppu’s face.

Mahaboob maamu was our close relative. He took me in to the village. One or two persons wished me. A few were introduced to me. I did not remember them. They said they were my father’s schoolmates. Maamu showed me the school where they studied, the playgrounds where they played and the streams in which they swam. But all of them appeared unfamiliar to me. He related some of his memories of my father. I listened to them with attention. We came back. Maamu showed me my father’s study room, the old chair in which he used to sit and all other sort of things.

The day dawned indolently. I had to return, as I didn’t have leave. The bus was at two in the afternoon. I told Reheman that I would go by that bus. Reheman bhabi jaan urged me to stay back for that day. I told them that I had some work in the office. I took a few photographs of Puppu, Luyi, and Pappa from the photo album. “When will you come again?” Reheman said sorrowfully.

After having meals, Ammi and myself started by bus at 2’o clock. The bus moved on passing by the school in which my father studied, the playgrounds where he played, the house that was intertwined with my father’s childhood. And it went through the village. Reheman was right in his remarks. When would I visit my father’s village again?

We reached Hyderabad at 7o’clock. That night we went to my choti bahen’s (younger sister’s) house. The next morning we left for our village as ammijan wished. The bus entered the outskirts of our village around ten o’clock. I was thrilled the moment I breathed air there. So many memories. When I saw those fields I remembered the reminiscences- the games we played there, the days when the maize corns were roasted on fire and eaten. I remembered all those events. I sent my mother to the house in a rickshaw and I walked in to the village. As I crossed the stream I recollected the days when I swam and jumped merrily there. After a chat with Chandramouli at the Medical shop and with Ravindra at the photo studio, I walked towards home answering my friends’ and the relatives’ enquiries and wishes on my way. My heart fluttered with memories of my old school at Bhemanna temple.

I reached the house. My father’s photograph in the office. The chair he always used to sit in. When I saw the room in which he used to see the patients I felt as if my father was still alive. I went to the well and washed my feet. My father used to have his bath there and also bathe us. I was soaked in the memories. What a difference between my father’s place and mine? Disparity as it was between a stranger and a close companion. When I entered my village, it embraced and stroked me with affection. When I saw my father’s place and his house, I did not have any emotional response as I found them alien. So how could I, with such feelings, have affection for a country, which my father and my grandfather had not even seen? I wanted to pose this question to Ramarao.

- Andhra Jyothi weekly, 16-06-1995

Translated from Telugu by Dr. T. Sreenivasa Reddy

The Living Robot

-Kommuri Venugopala Rao

An autopsy was going on in the mortuary of the General Hospital. Dissecting a dead body skilfully, Sridhar, Professor of Pathology, was explaining different aspects of anatomy enthusiastically to the medical students. Performing the role of an assistant that day, a student was jotting down the points rapidly.

‘Look here! This is a rare case in the age of antibiotics: An advanced case of syphilis,’ the Professor began explaining to the students, ‘ Observe the kidneys- with patches on them…feel them… how firm they are! Here’s the liver… uterus… you feel the lymph glands here…typical short appearance. We rarely find such an advanced case.’

After an hour, the autopsy was over. Washing his hands, Sridhar instructed his assistants to preserve the parts of the body, collected carefully from the corpse, in the museum. Outside the mortuary a few people, probably related to the dead woman, were seen sitting under the tree.

‘It seems they are waiting for the body. They believe that the soul rests in peace only after the burial of the body…strange creatures,’ Sridhar thought. ‘ I have taken out all the vital organs for preserving. Now only the hollow body is given for funeral.’

He did not believe in God. He was beyond emotions and attachments.

He came back to his room. After washing his hands he was about to open the lunch box when the phone rang.

‘Congratulations,’ It was Dr. Rama.

‘What’s the matter?’ The Professor asked.

‘I have examined your wife, Sridevi,’ Dr. Rama continued, ‘she is going to have a baby…third month. She appears weak. Take care of her diet. She had suspected some illness and came to me for examination.’

His ears stopped hearing. Fear engulfed him at once. His hand holding the receiver trembled slightly, ‘My God.’ Sridhar was shocked.

~~~

Sridhar parked his car in the portico and straightaway went silently into the hall without even looking at Sridevi who was coming to meet him.

She might have guessed that he would behave that way. For a while she remained silent, but later walked slowly and stood behind him. She asked, ‘Are you worried?’

He turned to his wife and stared at her with a blank expression. His looks were always expressionless. Rarely do they light up with feeling.

‘Sit down. I will make it clear,’ he said to pacify her.

She sat in the sofa opposite and looked questioningly at him.

‘Look, Sridevi!’ Sridhar started in a soothing voice. ‘Don’t get excited after hearing what I tell you. It’s five years since we got married. I spent two of them abroad. Again I have to go to the States in two years. Then you have to go with me…Sridevi. So far, I have not had any desire for children. In fact I am not under the delusion that paternity would bring me any great pleasure.’ He continued, ‘ These ties hinder me and restrain my aspirations. We haven’t yet grown old enough to worry about children.’ He paused and said, ‘Well! Do you want my happiness ruined?’

Sridevi suppressed a sigh with some difficulty. After hearing him two questions troubled her mind: First, ‘What is happiness?’ Second, ‘ What is his purpose in telling me all this now…that too when everything has gone out of hand?’

He insisted,’ Tell me your opinion.’

She some how managed to smile. ‘I have nothing to say,’ she replied.

‘I did not expect this mishap would occur so early.’ Rubbing his hands together he said in a steady voice.

Even in that bad situation, she felt like laughing. She got up slowly, went to him, sat next to him placing her hand on his shoulder and began, ‘Look, dear…’

He turned to her. Staring blankly, he said, ‘ These bonds and attachments do not fit into my temper. Sridevi!’ Sridhar continued blandly, ‘What I want is a balanced life. I hate unplanned life. These sentiments hinder our development. This is a mechanical age, with knowledge exploding beyond imagination and intellect stretching to the extreme limits.’

She could not control her tears.

‘I wonder why people weep,’ he said looking at her.

‘You are heartless,’ Sridevi said angrily in a tremulous voice.

‘Perhaps it is true,’ he got up. He had not even changed his dress after coming home. He slowly moved into the corridor, lighted a cigarette and looking outside continued,

‘Heartless… Yes, but for that I wouldn’t have become a Professor at this age. I would have just remained an ordinary graduate if I had not overcome these afflictions. You know the facts.’

She did not give a reply. The undulating sound of her sobs floated in the silence.

It was winter. A gentle breeze was blowing from the west. Darkness was slowly spreading all over. The flowers in the Professor’s garden lent perfume to the evening air.

After some time, he tossed away the cigarette butt. Without even looking back he said, ‘ I have my own aspirations in my profession.’ He continued, ‘ Anyway I wonder whether your health permits you to give birth to a baby. It’s foolish to risk your life for the sake of a baby,’ he paused, ‘Try to understand me,’ he continued, ‘ I don’t like it to happen at this juncture. Still there is time. I am a doctor. It is not impossible to stop it.’

For a minute, there was silence. Then a loud thud. He shook and immediately turned back looking for his wife. She had fallen down and was lying on the floor unconscious.

~~~

Soft light spread over the cots and tapered off dully on the bedroom walls. The clock ticked away the midnight hours. Sridevi lay on the cot, her eyes closed and her mind going over the events of the evening. Her husband appeared to her like a living robot, a mechanical man with no heart and feelings. She wept silently.

He was young with good physique. It was not an easy task to become a Professor at his age. Sridevi turned her face and looked at his cot casually. He was lying on his side, sleeping as usual, she thought.

However, Sridhar was not asleep. After a lot of brooding which kept him awake, he concluded, ‘Well, if she wants it so…’

~~~

After seven months…

‘I am sorry, Professor! This is a case of Hydrocephalus,’ Dr. Rama said completing all the investigations.

Sridhar was baffled.

‘The findings are still favourable and the foetus is healthy. Of course, it’s a rare case. Trial labours, otherwise we’ll proceed with craniotomy. Professor! What’s your opinion?’ Dr. Rama asked.

Sridhar nodded his approval. Then he thought for a minute and said, ‘ Why the risk of trial labour, Doctor? Can’t we straight away proceed with craniotomy?’

‘I have some hope that delivery would be possible. Nothing will happen to Sridevi. Don’t worry about her,’ Dr. Rama sounded confident.

Sridhar thought of insisting on the craniotomy but gave up the attempt, as she would not listen to him. He said good-bye to her and walked out.

~~~

Sridhar smoked cigarette after cigarette. Time was mercilessly running out. For the first time in his life he felt that waiting was painful. He realized how valuable his wife was and why a man could not be a machine.

The phone rang. He sprang up and rushed to it.

‘Normal delivery…Male child. Both the mother and the child are all right,’ Dr.Rama said in a firm voice. She did not congratulate him and there wasn’t any happiness in her voice. As a doctor, Sridhar had known the reason.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he replaced the receiver slowly.

The boy looked fair. His limbs were weak, hanging like sticks, disproportionate to his big head. The body looked limp like a deflated balloon.

Whenever he looked at him, it struck him that there was no such specimen in his Pathology museum. It was a wonder for him that the boy survived. Such children usually die in the womb itself and the head of the foetus is to be destroyed in order to bring the foetus out. This boy, as his head was not that big, was born without any problem. He was growing up… smiling… Sridhar knew- ‘Such children cannot survive for a long time; even if they do, they become retarded.’

Sridhar examined the boy once or twice, as he did any object in his lab. Sridevi named the boy Karuna. She knew a little about him from Dr. Rama. It was a kind of congenital anomaly caused due to the accumulation of fluid in the brain. She had faith in God and the theory of Karma. Moreover, she could bear the suffering as she thought it was the result of her sins.

She never left Karuna alone. She bought many toys for him and played with him. There wasn’t any change in her relationship with her husband. Whenever the guests visited them, she kept him out of their sight, as she could not bear their sympathizing words and looks.

~~~

Once Karuna had a fever and started moaning. Sridevi was confused and immediately ran to her husband.

‘Our babu has a temperature,’ she said.

‘ Let me see,’ he went with her.

After examining the boy he said, ‘ No need to worry, Sridevi. It is only a mild bronchitis. I will send for medicines.’

The whole day he was with him. That was the only day he was close to his son; yet, without any emotions-just as a doctor treating his patients. Throughout that night, she was awake.

Soon the fever subsided.

~~~

One day while she was entering the hall she found Sridhar looking keenly at Karuna who was sleeping in his bed. At first, she didn’t know why he was doing so. Perhaps he was looking at him as a specimen. That thought she could not bear. She immediately covered his body with a blanket saying it was cold.

Now Karuna grew further and he was able to fall on his face.

When he did so with his large head, Sridhar stood there as if he was watching an educational film.

On one occasion looking at Karuna who was playing, Sridhar called Sridevi as if he had some urgent work with her and said, ‘Look Sridevi! Have you observed his head…isn’t it growing bigger day by day?’

Sridevi lifted her face and looked at him. There was a red streak in her eyes. Then she shot back, ‘ I wish to ask you a question…’ Her voice was never so harsh, ‘Have you ever felt that you are the father of this boy?’

Without waiting for his response, she went into the house taking Karuna in her arms. The question surprised and stupefied him.

~~~

At last, the inevitable happened. Fate mocked Sridevi again. Karuna grew weak day by day. The innocent smile disappeared on his face. There were many complications…in stomach…throat…brain. On one fateful moment, Karuna left his deformed figure as if he was searching for a new body.

She laid his lifeless body in her lap and silently shed tears. She did not say a word against anyone and blamed none.

After some time, Sridhar approached her, ‘ How long do you grieve for the lost boy? I’ll take the body for the funeral.’

She lifted her head once, looked into his face and handed him the body. He went to his car with the body in his arms. The car left the bungalow.

Grief stricken Sridevi did not eat and sleep for three days. Contrary to his nature, Sridhar sat next to her for many hours and tried to comfort her. He advised her to treat grief as their bitter enemy.

As she moved about in the house, she felt her son’s presence everywhere. She could not erase the memories of her son from her mind.

She felt that her son was calling out to her, ‘Amma …Amma!’

The voice echoed in her ears. Her heart sank, ‘I am not fortunate,’ she cried out in grief.

Then the voice seemed to say, ‘ Is it my sin? Why this punishment to me?’

‘Babu! I will face the punishment… not you.’

‘Better if I would have passed away too, than to face the looks of sympathy.’

‘I will curse those who cast such looks on you.’

She fainted with grief. Sridhar was depressed and smoked cigarettes endlessly.

~~~

‘Congenital Hydrocephalus… This would usually die during the intro-uterine life. This is a rare condition, he lived for five months,’ Sridhar said displaying the specimen to the students. He did not have any sentiments or superstitions. However, he liked this particular specimen. He used to spend at least one hour in the museum. While moving around, he involuntarily stopped at the specimen. For five minutes he stood staring at the specimen examining the body and the bulky disproportionate head. Slowly the specimen gained a special place in his heart. He was moved whenever he stood before it. His heart raced and he sweated. The mass of flesh held for exhibition as a specimen was from his own body: the very thought stirred his feelings. Initially he was not aware of these feelings. But gradually he realized that he was coming under the influence of some strange forces. He decided not to stop at the specimen. Once or twice, he tried to ignore it. But his legs did not obey him. The moment he reached it, his legs stopped. Then his looks unintentionally fell on it. If he was able to overcome the temptation to stop near it, on some trivial excuse, he longed to go again to the specimen later. He could not bear this agony. He decided to be away from the museum, but could not succeed even for a day. It dragged him by invisible reins.

He never had such experience in his life. His mind was turbulent. He was fighting against himself. First, scientific curiosity cast a net over him and pulled him to the specimen. Then, a struggle, an attachment, an affection, a possessive instinct inexorably dragged him to it. Sometimes the figure appeared in his dreams. He raved in his sleep.

~~~

‘A cataclysm. The Earth is cracking…lava is gushing out from the volcanoes.’

Once, he screamed in his sleep. It was all a dream. Sridevi rushed to him. Bending over him she anxiously asked,’ Are you all right?’ He was sweating profusely and forcibly opened his eyes after hearing the voice of Sridevi.

‘Yes,’ he said in a feeble voice, ‘ It’s a dreadful dream… Total destruction.’

‘Don’t exert yourself. You have been sick for a week,’ Sridevi tried to comfort him,’ Relax, in the next two days you’ll be normal.’

‘Normal,’ a cynical smile appeared on his face, ‘Will I be ever normal?’

‘Please don’t utter such words,’ she pleaded him in choked voice.

For a while there was silence.

With her head bent Sridevi hesitantly asked, ‘Today is Saturday. Shall I visit the temple?’

‘ Certainly. But why do you hesitate?’

‘ Because you will have to stay at home alone …’

‘Nothing to worry, Sridevi. I am all right now.’

‘You are still weak. Don’t get out of your bed. I will be back in one hour,’ Sridevi left him.

Minutes kept ticking away. Sridhar felt restless and could not remain in bed any longer. He slowly got up, walked into the corridor, and stood leaning against the wall. The sun was shrouded in the dark clouds gathered in the sky. Exactly at the same spot in the corridor, he thought, a few months earlier he resisted the birth of his son. However, he was born… had grown…and perished. ‘No, he has not perished,’ he felt that a harsh voice cried out. He was startled.

A voice seemed to cry out, ‘I have not perished. Nanna! I have been imprisoned in a lotion. Everyone looks at me through the glass. Their looks pierce my large head.’

‘One week I was in bed. How did I bear this imprisonment?’

‘You are heartless… like a stone.’

His mind forced him to go along.

‘I don’t have enough energy.’

‘You don’t die. A stone has no death.’

His mind succeeded.

‘I will go.’

He strode out in the cold. His car left the bungalow.

~~~

Sridhar entered the museum and switched on the light illuminating the hall.

‘There he is…’ he moved two steps towards it. Suddenly power went off.

Darkness… Nothing was visible.

‘My son! Where are you?’ His heart groaned.

‘I am here Nanna… in fetters… imprisoned. I can’t breath. It’s suffocating,’ the voice seemed to answer.

‘One minute, I will be there,’ Sridhar thought and moved on groping in the dark for his son.

The signs of several diseases surround him- of infants and the aged, of heart ailments, cancer, TB, Syphilis and so on. All of them were his collections-his mental property.

‘Nanna! Here I am,’ the voice seemed to come from all sides.

He did not know the way but was moving ahead.

‘Who’s there?’ he cried at the sound of his own footsteps. There was silence all around. Again he moved.

‘Nanna,’ the call was pathetic.

He had reached him. Stretching his hands, he stroked the jar.

‘Is it you babu?’

‘ Yes…Nanna’

Without second thoughts, his hands lifted the jar and he yearned to press it to his heart. It was heavy. His hands trembled. It was growing heavier.

Suddenly there was a loud crash.

‘Babu,’ he cried.

The lights came on again.

Shivering, Sridhar saw …the formaline spread on the floor… the broken pieces of glass jar…a lump of flesh lying amidst them.

Sridhar bent and took his son into his arms and stared at the body for a while.

‘I will do justice to you, my son.’

He took the boy on his shoulders and walked out of the museum.

The guard of the museum stood puzzled to see the Professor placing a specimen in his car at that hour.

The car raced towards the burial ground.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Translated from Telugu by Dr.T.Sreenivasa Reddy

The River Inside

-M.S.Suryanarayana

Someone is burying my tree of bones in a desert.

I howled. “No, Don’t bury me!”

I woke up. I felt as if I was still running. My tongue parched and my heart throbbed fast. Slowly I turned on the switch. And the room filled with light.

Some strange infirmity…

With great difficulty I went to the refrigerator and tried to hold the water bottle but could not. With trembling hands I held the bottle to my mouth and drank the water in one gulp. I was thirsty even after emptying all the bottles in the fridge.

Casually I looked at myself in the mirror. It was horrible, the figure I saw in the life size mirror. My face was cracked like the arid land in famine. Two sunken pits in the place of my eyes…Deserts in my eyes… My hands, fingers and legs were paralyzed. With my emaciated hands I stroked my face…surprisingly I could not feel anything. What was to be done now?

After brooding over it for a long time I went to the phone. With great difficulty I pressed the buttons on the telephone and requested Dr. Rishi to come at once.

He was really a Rishi. That’s why he came here even at mid night.

After examining me carefully he said, “ There is no problem. You have lost the river. Get hold of it again. Only that will cure you.”

“Oh...doctor garu! How can I search for the river with this terrible figure?” I questioned in misery.

Dr. Rishi smiled calmly. Stroking his beard thoughtfully he said, “ I will prepare a balm for you from eighteen herbs. Apply it daily to your face and body. You may get some relief and get control of your limbs.”p Awestruck I listened to him. Pausing for a minute to think he went on, “Wear black glasses to hide the deserts in your eyes… a cap on your head, a long coat, a suit, gloves and shoes. This is what you should wear from tomorrow. Come on…roll up your affairs like a mat and keep it in a corner. Plead with the river you have lost, beg and ask it to come into you again… only that will give you a rebirth. ”

Dr. Rishi sent me four big jars the next day. They were full of the balm he had prepared. Eagerly I scooped out two lumps of balm and applied it all over my body.

How should I put it? The balm was a miracle! Rishi gave me back my life.

Dressing up as he suggested I stood in front of the mirror.

I was not what I had been.

I was altogether new!

Keeping aside all my affairs I set on like a pilgrim. Thanks to Dr.Rishi I was able to recall what had happened to me. The river had suddenly disappeared. Till then it was flowing inside. Talking in the language of murmurs we were one and happy. The river used to gush forth through the trenches of blood vessels spreading to the heart.

My words were like heaps of grain threshed from the golden ears of corn.

A life musical note used to spurt out in streams throwing open the floodgates of my tongue. The life stream flowed dancing to everyone who wanted it. It might sound strange but it was true.

Drying me up from inside, the river had fled.

How terrible the life without a river-Only those who experience it know.

The onlookers would know how horrible the dry sand dunes were.

True life in fact was the waves lapping on the shore of the heart.

When such sound of the water was missing where was my existence?

The secret was that one should identify one’s own river. Love should guide the search for the river. With a yearning for moisture one should search everywhere. Could I alone find out the river? Should I take someone’s help?

Yes…there were so many newspapers…

Hundreds of TV channels…

Great communication media …

Technology…Planets… Satellites …

Wouldn’t these institutions be able to search for a single river for me?

With that aim I sought their help.

I prepared a note.

“

MISSING

The river is missing. Those who give information about it will

be rewarded with my living moments. ”

I also wrote an open letter …

“ ‘Dear’ river,

Why have you left me? Reveal the secret to me and you can

freely go away. Come to me once?

With longing for you,

Yours…”

They thought me crazy. The people of the media advertising section were confused and avoided me in fear.

Hearing this Dr. Rishi laughed.

“Live like an explorer…don’t die like a crazy non-entity,” he said.

I was ashamed.

In addition to my ugliness… this insanity too!

“Finding out the river is my dire need.

Yes it’s a fact…one has to find out one’s own river.”

I was determined.

But –where would be the river? From which secret trenches or layers of the earth was the river flowing?

Questions …even Bageeratha wouldn’t have known the solutions. But as long as the river was in my heart these doubts never cropped up.

By then the stream had left me…now I was in search of it. But would I be able to

recognize the river?

After the flowing remembrances of moisture had dried up, after the face had become a wasteland, after the stones were left in the heart, how could a river appear? I had lost the river deliberately and what remained was an endless search.

Wasn’t it foolish to expect that one would get everything one searched for?

That too a river, a current that carried remembrances of golden ears of corn as it flowed.

A river that cleansed. A subterranean river.

Where had it gone? Where?

I entered the railway station.

A long curved platform with sheets of asbestos-cement for roof.

Coloured worlds in the small screens hanging to the iron rods.

Noises arising from the void.

Images spiralling in the air.

I was walking through the jostling crowds on the platform finding a way for myself. I was searching everywhere.

From the deserts of my eyes two parched tongues were forking out in quest.

“Ting…Tong…Ting …Your attention please…”

“yatrikan kripaya dhyan de”

“The river you are searching for would flow on to the platform number three shortly,” it was announced.

I jumped excitedly.

“Will the river really flow onto number three?” stopping a coolie, I asked in anxiety.

He smiled coolly and said, “Go and find out.”

In that bustle some one brought a river in a wheel chair. I ran onto number three.

I did not know then that I had set aside a great river and lost myself!

I reached number three anxiously.

‘Gouthami’ arrived tugging thirty desert compartments. Many drought faces jumped in heaps onto the platform. Some climbed in. Getting into the compartment I slumped in the seat reserved for me.

All around me were dry faces. Not a jot of moisture. Not a fleck of black cloud on any face. An epic of dryness.

Would Dr. Rishi be able to supply balm to all of them! I moved restlessly. To pass time I took out a magazine from my suitcase. In fact my suitcase was full of balm bottles. I didn’t have any clothes for myself. And the long woollen coat and the suit I was wearing needn’t be washed.

Even the magazine was dry.

Everywhere this wilting disease. There were no rivers in the world. They were vanishing. Fleeing away in groups. We had to search for them. Was it easy to find them? I threw away the magazine in anger.

Again there was an announcement.

“ Your attention please…

The river you are travelling in will flow away from the platform number three shortly.”

Could this be true? Would a river really move? I moved restlessly.

All of a sudden a miracle appeared before me. Someone brought and placed a river on the berth opposite.

A huge wave brushed against my desert face.

Some inexpressible thrill in me.

What? Was it the river that flowed in a wheel chair a while ago.

Didn’t I ask it to move aside?

How terrible!

This river had no limbs.

Trunk…only torso…

A severed river!

If someone had chopped off the river’s limbs with a sword, this sort of a crippled river…a truncated river… a dismembered river with only a trunk would remain.

Would there be anyone so strong as to slice water?

It was wonderful!

How did this river take birth in the first instance?

How did it live? And how did it flow?

Yes, this was that.

No, this was no river at all.

This was a river of sorrow. An orphan.

Someone had chopped off its waves. Its flowing life elements.

An attempt of murder might have been made on this river.

I was myself a desert and this crippled river before me!

The words of wasting disease crackled inside.

Then a slap on my face. A whip of water whacked my desert face. I shivered… There was some river secret. I was unable to grasp the principle. Else, how could my desert face be drenched?

As I was groping inside someone carried the river away.

Had I lost the river again?

The mere concern about the river was not enough. One should have the vision to trace the life giving under current. I should recognize myself as a riparian area. What would remain when the river had fled, except stones, bushes and sandy mounds?

Where was the moisture? Where was the river?

I trudged along.

The balm did not hide the signs of dryness.

Anyone who had a bit of moisture in him could easily declare, “He is a fool…He has lost the river.”

I trod ahead involuntarily and aimlessly.

Then- a miracle!

Suddenly a whiplash of water.

The tides of the river touched my ears.

Surprisingly the musical doors were flung open.

The great river roared!

Sparks of life on my face! Movement in my fingers… unbounded strength in my legs.

This was the sound of the river.

I ran and ran. A kalakshetra before me.

Rubbing my eyes I saw the river Krishna!

I rushed into the auditorium.

From the dais a great tide of musical note rose into the air. It was the crippled river.

The river that had been truncated.

Mere torso of the river…

Even then… a great flow of riverine music. Not crippled…unique!

From its tongue amritam flowed out. I shivered and trembled all over.

Was it this river I mocked at as a cripple?

Was it this river’s birth I questioned?

Was it this river that I murdered out of mercy?

Mine was the strength to butcher the water.

Under my very eyes, the river became Thyagaraja. It became gandharva and turned into a flood. I tried to move but couldn’t. My hands and legs were washed away in the river. My trunk was caught in the flood.

My long coat, suit, hat and suitcase with balm were swept away like dry floating sticks and disappeared in the flood.

I immersed myself in the river inside me.

-Translated from Telugu by T.Sreenivasa Reddy