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

The Sword of Tears

by Sannapareddy Venkataramireddy

Where the dirt road joined the tarred one, a person was standing, facing the East He let his looks again and again race over the black tar road extending from the south. The water from the day before yesterday’s rains collected as red muddy water in the roadside puddles. Showers were likely that day too. The sky had not yet cleared the clouds that gathered some time in the night. The sun had still not shown his face to the earth.
He twirled his curled up moustache with his right hand. Without putting down his bag on the ground, he hitched up his slipping panca and tied it firmly. He stretched out his hand to the bus arriving with loud noise. Spattering the water in the puddles the bus came to a side of the road and halted.
The moment the door was opened he got in quickly. The bus started.
There were not more than fifteen passengers inside, each occupying a seat comfortably.
His looks searched for a comfortable place to sit on.
He was drawn to the fourth one behind the conductor.
Not heeding the conductor’s pleas to pay for the ticket, he walked towards it curling up his moustache.
Seated beside the window a girl was enthusiastically watching the world out side. She might be five or six. Fair and attractive. As her disheveled curly hair swayed in the wind, she looked like a red hibiscus flower.
She turned and looked at him feeling someone sitting beside her.
Dark curled up moustache, glittering eyes with red streaks, dense greasy hair touched with caster oil, with a handbag caught between his legs- he appeared different. Watching him with wide-eyed innocence, she moved towards the window.
Holding his bag carefully between his legs, he handed the fare to the conductor who had come to issue him a ticket. Handing him the punched ticket, the conductor cast a smile at the baby and left.
He took a sidelong glance at her.
In the cool fresh morning air the bus was speeding.
After a while the girl again looked outside through the window. He sank back into the seat watching in the driver’s side view mirrors the tar road passing. It was not known whether the landscape caught his attention. But some thoughts swarmed his mind.
Clapping and shouting at some scene outside she yelled joyfully.
She pushed him involuntarily with her elbows.
It interrupted his thoughts. Turning his head he looked sharply at her. Engrossed in her own world she did not notice him. As long as the outside world descended through the window and dangled before her eyes, he could not escape her nudges. Moving slowly and drawing her head back he closed the glass shutters of the window and adjusted himself impatiently.
The girl was surprised.
She stared at him and crouched in her seat.
The bus halted at some road crossing.
Noise broke out at the entrance.
The women rushed into the bus hurriedly even before an old man, who had to alight there, could get down. They laid a pregnant woman experiencing labour pains on a long seat.
Except the girl and he, everyone in the bus cast sympathetic looks at her. The bus started. With the bumps of the bus her labour pains increased.
The womenfolk were restless.
The old man in the front seat started a spiritual discourse in a loud voice.
‘Please drive fast.’ an old woman was urging the driver.
Unable to bear the pains the pregnant woman screamed. Spreading amidst the womenfolk the shriek filled the whole bus.
Startled the girl stood up and tried to take a peek from above the seat. Unable to do so, she was about to come out. She did not know how to cross his legs and stared at him. Lifting his head up he also looked angrily at her. Unable to bear the sharpness of his looks that were more frightening than his curled up moustache, she lowered her eyes. Some weapon with its handle visible, concealed carefully in the bag clasped between his legs, attracted her attention.
‘Sit down Why did you get up?’ he sounded harsh.
The roughness in his voice made her collapse in her seat. But she could not resist looking deep into his eyes for a short while.
He was impatient with her.
He preferred the seat next to her. If it was beside elders he should be careful about his belongings and the things they would reveal about him.
He thought there would be no problem -but he could not bear her interruption so often.
Planning a few strategies to accomplish the task to be done, he slid into thoughts.
After a while hearing some sound from the girl, he stopped thinking and turned to her side.
Sobbing with gasps the girl prattled in the middle, ‘amma...amma!’
Looking a bit strangely at her he frowned.
‘ Do you like to move to the next seat?’ he asked.
She did not reply.
‘ Are there any of your people in the bus?’
She looked at him once and shook her head.
He was surprised. He did not understand the reason for her crying.
Perhaps his closing the window shutters might be the cause.
Stretching his hand he opened the window and patted her on her back saying, ‘Don’t cry.’
He felt it strange. Usually children cried when they were frightened or for a thing that they needed or if they were not pampered. But what was this? Weeping for the wind that blew from outside and for the trees and the like.
Traveling along with thoughts about the girl for a distance, he diverted his attention to the strategies to be adopted to accomplish the task he was about to do.
The task was a petty one.
Even the contract amount he had fixed was not all that big.
It was promised that a vehicle would be arranged to cross the town limits immediately after finishing the task. It was enough at least if a motorcycle was arranged.
For a long time he was absorbed in thoughts.
The bus stopped at every village.
The moans of the pregnant woman inside the bus gradually turned into cries.
The old man lecturing philosophy had turned to singing brmham tatwas.
All these did not disturb him. He closed his eyes and sank back in his seat brooding. Feeling something against his thigh he stopped his thoughts for a minute. After a while the same contact -this time slightly harder…then again…
He opened his eyes and observed.
Leaning against the seat the girl was waving her legs with her half closed eyes and singing to herself.
At once he became irritated.
He did not like such a little girl annoy him again and again. Adjusting his moustache once he shook her.
She opened her eyes.
She realized why he had woken her up.
Adjusting herself she looked into his eyes.
Taking this opportunity he gnashed his teeth and looked angrily at her, as if he was about to burn her with his looks.
Any one would be frightened by his looks leave alone that little girl. She should withdraw her looks adjusting herself in a corner. If she were to be a meek girl, she should have peed with fear.
She did not do any such acts.
She looked intensely at his moustache.
For being incapable of making her at least lower her looks, his determination grew further. Sharpening his looks deeper, he spat fire at her with a glower.
Looking at his moustache, ‘There is a thread in your moustache.’ she said lightly pointing her finger.
He heaved a long sigh and forgot about his moustaches and sharp looks. His efforts became futile like water escaping from a breached tank. A cool breeze seized and choked him.
He withdrew his looks. His hand involuntarily stroked his moustache.
A small piece of thread of his shirt was caught up in his moustaches.
He became embarrassed.
For a few seconds a smile appeared in a flash on his face.
He keenly looked at the girl.
Though she appeared weak with skinny face and parched lips, there was a gleam in her eyes.
‘A clever girl,’ he thought.
‘Which town are you going to?’ he asked.
‘Porumamilla,’ she replied.
‘Porumamilla?’ he looked surprisingly, ‘You have to cross Midukur too, do you know?’
She nodded her head.
‘Do you have any relations there?’
She did not reply. She thrust her looks outside.
She was unable to be free with him. Perhaps it was a fitting rejoinder to the behaviour he had exhibited till then.
Somehow the girl appeared charming / pleasant/ good looking.
‘Is it to Porumamilla or any other near by village?’ he asked pleasingly.
Looking once into his face she replied,’ It will be known only after going to Porumamilla…where to go and all ‘
‘What?’ he did not make out anything. He did not understand any thing.
‘Whether she is in Porumamilla or has gone to any neighboring village…I have to search for her.’ Gloom descended on her face.
‘Who?’
‘ My mother.’
‘Why?’
‘My mother is not balanced.’
He could not bear it.
‘ You are coming alone?’
‘Yes,’ she said with blinking her eyes.
His harshness towards her had dissolved.
‘ Which is your village?’ he asked her softly.
‘Kondamotupalli.’ She replied.
After hearing the name of the village no more questions came out from his mouth.
The thoughts swarmed his mind. He knew the village. Once he had been there to carry out a job.
There were nearly hundred houses…only two or three were buildings and all the others were huts. He remembered that one or two had even bore pumps. Through out the village it was rain fed agriculture . If it rained they had crops or else drought.
He had spent a few days in that village-the pond, the choultry, the cock fighting…
Indifferent to his thoughts the bus had crossed two more stages.
More people got into the bus overcrowding it.
The speeding bus with one jerk screeched to a halt. Many careless passengers got their foreheads knocked on the bars of the front seats.
The pregnant woman who was lying on the seat was about to slip down but the alert womenfolk rescued her. With that jerk the pains increased and she started crying, ‘Oh my god.’
He deftly held the baby from falling and hurriedly tried to set right the bag that fell from him.
The baby observed it.
Then the cries of pregnant woman reached a climax.
She raised to see but withdrew after looking at him.
He sensed her intention.
‘Do you want to go and see?’ he asked.
She nodded her head. To cross over, she stepped on his bag, lost control while taking back her footstep and fell on him. Her hands on his waist brushed against something hard. For support she grasped the one that had fallen from his waist. When she knew what it was she shuddered and loosened her fist.
She sank back in her seat and stopped moving further.
For a few seconds the feeling, that the secrete had been exposed, appeared on his face.
He consoled himself after a while that it was only a little girl who had known his secret. But he felt embarrassed by her probing looks. She went on piercing him with suspicious looks. For no reason she stared at him.
‘You stab people?’ clearing her throat she asked naively after some time.
‘I?’ he fumbled.
‘You kill people?’ she looked doubtfully.
‘No…I don’t’
‘Then what do you have a dagger for? The hunting sickle in the bag?’
‘Those…by the way papa! How do you know that they are used for stabbing?’ he wondered.
‘I know.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I have seen.’
‘Seen stabbing someone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stabbing?’
‘Yes. Even killing … ’
He was astonished. His curiosity increased.
‘When?’
‘On the day of main festival.’
‘Where?’ He was unable to contain his anxiety.
‘In our village…beside the Reddy’s choultry …in the tamarind groove…at the cockfighting’
‘Who was it? Who did they kill?’
‘My father.’
He felt as if his breathe stopped and remained in his throat.
Clearing his throat he asked, ‘ was it during the last year’s main festival, papa?’
‘Yes.’
He felt some dark cloud pass over his mind. Many thoughts from different quarters swarmed his mind like flies.
‘My mother has become mad and she is roaming the villages. Someone said that she was in Porumamilla. So I am going there now, ’ she said looking outside through the window.
‘Do you have any relations in Porumamilla?’
‘No, I have none there.’
‘Then how do you manage food?’ his voice became soft.
Silence was her reply. After sometime she was seen wiping tears with her hands.
‘Are you the only one to your parents, papa?’
‘I have an elder brother.’
‘What does he do? Is he studying?’
‘He left in the tenth class. He was moving around with some people to take revenge against my father’s killer.’
He lost energy to talk to her further.
Closing his eyes he sank in his seat.
He never faced such a situation before.
In his view it was a minor task.
He was an ordinary farmer. But influenced by his people he got involved in politics and became a culprit in president’s view.
For a small amount…mere five thousands…the president gave him the contract.
When he was starving for money…it was an opportunity.
For meager five thousands… he never imagined that five thousands would have such a history. It had killed a person and turned his wife insane, ruined his son’s future, made his daughter roam around like a dry leaf in the whirl wind. The cause of all these was a meagre five thousands. He never understood that the small amount had such a power.
He never recalled and scrutinized his deeds already done and never attempted to know about them even accidentally. But now this problem had sprung up.
Thoughts like a swollen sea surged in his mind.
The baby slipped into sleep.
The bus was racing towards the destination.
The old man in the front seat had not finished singing bramham tatwas.
A drunkard entered in to a quarrel with the conductor and twaddled, ‘I wont pay for the ticket because you’ve asked for it. Hadn’t you insisted on buying it I would have thrown the amount at your face. Do you think that I am such a waste fellow unable to pay for the ticket? You look at me…my dress…my moustache…and you ask me to pay for the ticket?’
The hubbub in the bus did not enter his mind and the cries of the pregnant woman either.
The thoughts of the baby perturbed him.
He chopped off many heads. But none of those haunted him except this one.
Intoxicating himself with arrack and politics this had become his life sustaining profession. They had a glorious life when Narasimhareddy was the Minister. They never missed their targets. If they had aimed at any head, it should roll off. After utilizing his services extensively for advancing his political career, Narasimhareddy had discarded him now. Habituated profession, impatient to do physical labour …his life dragged on…amidst arrack and blood.
With his deft hands he might have slaughtered many- who were not related to him in anyway.
He never knew about them and their family before and also after the completion of the task. He did not heed anyone who had intentionally tried to inform him about them. Such was the arduous training Narasimhareddy had given him while assigning him a task that had become his means of life in the drought.
And now this baby had appeared like a riddle and made him aware of the things that he would never pay attention to.
To get over from this shock he had to be intoxicated.
To finish off his task deal he should booze arrack.
He became confused. He was disturbed. The mind that had been falling apart into pieces would not join without the drop of liquor. It would not wait till the destination. He had to get down to drink. Feeling someone pat on his lap he attempted to turn that side and open his eyes but avoided it. ‘ Perhaps the baby might have touched him while humming a tune.'
After a while the same touch. And a call followed.
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
‘Where do you have to go?’ she asked.
‘Giddalur,’ he replied.
‘Is it beyond Porumamilla?’
‘Yes…’
A spark appeared in her eyes.
‘I don’t know anyone in Porumamilla. Will you get down with me and take me to my mother,’ she pleaded.
Again he sank back into his seat.
After an hour he would reach Giddalur and then he would need not more than one hour to finish off his task.
‘I ate stale rice yesterday. While going away in a vehicle, my brother gave me ten rupees for my food. Keeping it with me I got into the bus this morning, to see my mother,’ her voice was pathetic.
His heart ached.
Then noise erupted at once from the womenfolk. The saris were tied around as a screen covering the pregnant woman.
After a few minutes the cries of an newborn baby filled the whole bus. The bus reached Porumamilla.
He looked at the girl.
The tears from her eyes traced the wet path on her cheeks.
‘If I meet my brother, he would give me money for food. I’ll give it to you for fares. Come with me anna! Show my mother.’ Getting up she held his finger.
He involuntarily wiped off her tears with his upper cloth. Slowly he moved with her. While getting down he just looked at/ peeped into the seat of pregnant woman.
A red/ pink, charming/ delightful infant.
After getting down from the bus he looked around to buy something for her to eat.
A pushing cart…in front of him…and heaps of plantains on it.
Soon after seeing it an explosion occurred in his mind. The contract he entered into seemed to give him a hard slap on his cheek. The farmer coming on a cart load of plantains appeared before his eyes. His plan to waylay him on the outskirts of the town, drag him down, kill him with one stroke and escape in a vehicle- a truck or a motorcycle arranged before- conjured up before him. Many scenes appeared in his mind one after another- the liquor he boozed for one week, food he had eaten, the school fees he paid for his children, his wife’s dresses-all that he got from the advance he had received.
Interrupting the girl’s attempt to hold his little finger he strode away straight into the liquor shop next to the bus stand.
He was confused. It was strange even for him to neglect his duty. Violating the terms of contract or postponing the task was never done in his life.
Let his prey might be poor or it might be a minor scuffle at the land boundaries that endangered his life, he was not concerned with those facts. He had to kill him because he had been hired to do it. The person who hired him was not his relation. He would not hesitate if some one else came the next day and asked to kill the person who had hired him.
‘ One ready to spend thousands for the boundary and another prepared to lose his life for the same boundary that wont cost more than a few hundreds.’
He took the rum bottle.
While pouring it into a glass after opening it, the baby came and stood before him. Touching him with her hand, ’anna…anna,’ she said anxiously.
Tears filled her eyes.
He looked questioningly at her.
‘ Anna…the police are taking away my brother,’ she said crying.
He stood still with the bent bottle in his hands.
‘ Anna…show me my mother,’ she said gasping.
Closing the bottle with the lid and dropping it into his bag he walked out of the shop.
The bus in which they traveled had not left the stand still.
It might move in a few minutes. It seemed the conductor and the driver who had gone to have refreshments had not returned.
‘ My brother has hurled bombs at someone…they say’
He did not reply.
‘Even my brother might have drunk arrack?’ Lifting her head she asked looking at him.
He looked questioningly into her eyes.
‘To hurl bombs or to stab people, one has to drink arrack, it is said!’
He shuddered.
‘Who told you?’
‘My father used to tell me.’
‘No. Its not true…will all those who drink stab people?’
‘But all those who stab people will drink, they say.’
He fumbled for an answer. ‘Taking a few coins from his pocket and stretching them to her he said, ‘ take these…buy some fruits and eat.’
‘I don’t want anything. I have to see my mother. She would bring me food.’
‘All right. Lets look for her. First you eat some fruits.’
She looked hopefully into his eyes and asked, ‘Won’t you go?’
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know where you go…to kill someone.’
He looked at her and felt embarrassed, as this orphan girl had become a life size question mark and stood before him. Her brother too joined his path quite unknowingly.
The figure of the farmer he was going to kill appeared before his eyes- a family man with children. ‘ Even the fate of his children would be similar’
‘If it were his children?’
He did not feel like going to the plantain’s cart.
Straight away he walked to the apples, and bought four and also two tender coconuts.
When the shopkeeper was about to chop them he dissuaded him and dropped the coconuts into his bag.
Raising dust all around the bus in which they had come had crossed them leaving the bus stand. He sighed deeply once. Taking her hand into his, he took her into the school ground nearby. They sat in a corner.
With his dagger he sliced the apples and handed them to her. With the hunting sickle he had hid in his bag he broke open the shell of a coconut and offered it to her.
‘Fine. Anna…are they useful for this too!’ the baby wondered with joy.
He remained looking at her in ecstasy.
***
Translated from Telugu by Dr.T.Sreenivasa Reddy