Our Favourite Indian Stories (38 page)

'I was like a touch-me-not plant. If I slept with him one night, it would take three months before I recovered...' Awwa used to say.

Ayya groaned.

Even before the wedding, everybody in the village said: 'What, such a frail bride for our hefty young man?'

Ayya's father, had been won over by the gold offered and had agreed to the match—Ayya himself had told me this. He had been glad when she had given him two chubby daughters. He would always curse his father and say that the pleasures of the bed were not destined for him.

It was during this time that Onkaramma had come from Dharwar and set up a small shop in our village. She was hefty like a buffalo. She would giggle for no reason whenever Ayya went to buy
beedies
at her place.

One night Ayya lingered on in her shop after all the customers had gone away, and she called him in for a cup of tea. When he had finished, she spread the bed, laughing all the time... ('Your Ayya told me all this himself shamelessly,' Awwa had said).

Ayya opened his eyes suddenly, like a dish opening suddenly when the lid is removed. He gazed at me as I applied the paste on his boil... I looked at him, and when I thought of how strong he had been and how weak he was now, my eyes filled with tears. Pandita's medicine had only made the boil bigger. I felt sick in the stomach.

Ayya was staring at me... His gaze troubled me... Was he thinking about what would happen to me after he went away? Was he feeling guilty hat he hadn't got me married, but had kept me at home to look after him, after Awwa's death?

I saw tears in Ayya's eyes and dabbed them even as I was applying the paste to the boil. Tears brimmed over in his own eyes. As I went on staring, I felt that Ayya was no more there. I was all alone at home. Darkness filled my eyes and I shuddered...

Though Swami was high in the heavens, Pandita had not turned up. So I began grinding the paste myself. Ayya's face looked more wan and thin today than yesterday; the eyes were becoming glassy. By night it became difficult for him to swallow water. Another day and night passed. Ayya was struggling for breath. Towards day-break, just when out cockerel was crowing. Ayya's big soul flew away. Six others in out village caught plague, and two of them died. It didn't fortunately kill more.

Akka, Bawa and other relations and friends came over. All of them went away one by one, after ceremonies.

Only Akka stayed on for a while. When I missed my periods that month, she was alarmed. I told her everything. She wailed that I had brought shame to our home. She asked Onkaramma to give me medicines to get it out. The thing inside did not budge. She tried every conceivable remedy. Nothing happened. Her husband started writing to her frequently. 'There is no one to cook at home. The younger child is ill, come soon.' The people of the village began to get suspicious and Pandita fled one night. Akka embraced me as she was about to leave.

'I am going most unwillingly, leaving you in this condition. What can I do? I shall tell Onkaramma. She will look after you. I shall come without fail for the delivery. Don't worry. Let people say whatever they like.'

Akka was weeping as she got into the cart...

I stirred the thickening mixture with a ladle. When all the water had dried up the mixture started oozing oil. I poured out the oil into another dish, leaving the sludge behind. I kept the oil again on the fire. I was perspiring profusely in the heat.

'If it's male, I shall bring him up, even if I have to wear myself out...'

I must have said this aloud, for Onkaramma, who had come in just at that minute lisped, 'If it's female, give her to me... I shall bring her up...'

The oil thickened further. Stirring it vigorously, I put a drop into the fire. The oil flamed out immediately. 'It is the right consistency', said Onkaramma. After kicking aside Kariya, who was licking my feet I peered down. Even as the odour stung my nostrils, I poured the oil onto a pot.

Translated by
Dr Rajeev Taranath

Devanoor Mahadeva

Amasa is Amasa's name. Maybe because he is dark, maybe because he was born on a new moon day (amavasya), the name Amasa has stuck to him. If his parents had been alive, we could have found out why he came to be called Amasa. But by the time he could walk around on his own, the mother who bore him and the father who begot him had been claimed by their separate fates. Since then the Mari temple has meant Amasa, and Amasa has meant the Mari temple. But just because he lives in the Mari temple, it doesn't mean that he is an orphan. The Mari temple has offered shelter to many like him. Especially in the summer, the little temple becomes a regular camping ground for people seeking shelter from the heat.

Now, apart from Amasa, there is also an old man living there. He's really ancient. So old that every hair on him, on his head, body and limbs, has gone grey. Nobody so far has seen him get up from where he usually sits. In a corner of the temple is spread a tattered, black blanket, nobody knows how old. He's always sitting on it, feet stretched before him, or leaning on a pillar, with his hands behind him. Apart from these three or four postures, he doesn't seem to know any other. It has somehow become his habit to sit like this, his eyes half-closed. He never sits any other way. Sitting like this, he looks as though he were lost in thought. Maybe it is his face, all wrinkled, that makes him look so thoughtful. Or perhaps it is his white moustache, thick as an arm, which comes all the way down to his neck from his side. There is always a man-sized bamboo stick. It doesn't have much use though, since Amasa is always around whenever he wants to move about. But it comes in handy to chase away the hens, the sheep and the young goats that wander nearby.

We've talked of all this, but we haven't told you his name. Everyone in the village, from the youngest to the oldest, calls him Kuriyayya (Sheep man). Was he named so at birth? That concerns neither you nor us. But this much is certain; from the day he could stand on his own feet to the day his feet could no longer walk, he has herded the sheep of the village headman. Even now when he sits with his eyes half-closed, he counts the sheep, one by one, on his fingers, to himself. This goes on, six or seven times each day. And he hasn't missed a single day. Amasa began to grow up right in front of his eyes. He is now around ten or eleven. Whenever Kuriyayya calls, Amasa answers. Every evening as the night descends on the village, Amasa and Kuriyayya wait eagerly for the monastery bell to ring. The moment it strikes, Amasa grabs the plate and glass kept by Kuriyayya's side and runs. As the night has already fallen by then, you can't see Amasa running in the dark. But if you skin your eyes and peer into the inky night, you can see the darkness stir at his flight. One doesn't know for how long he has gone. It's only when his call 'Ayya' shakes the night that you know he has returned. Kuriyayya sits up if he's lying down. As always they eat the gruel from the monastery in the dark. Amasa then goes to sleep. Though the village too has by then gone to sleep, the silence of the night is broken now and then by the barking of dogs and the hooting of owls. The old man, unable to sleep, stares into the night. He mutters things to himself, calls out to Amasa a few times and, getting no reply, finally falls asleep.

Mari festival comes to all the neighbouring villages once a year. It came to Amasa's village too. It was only then that Kuriyayya had to shift himself to another place, for the villagers scrubbed the temple, painted it with white-lime and red-earth, and made it stand out. When it was done and all sides freshly painted with stripes of white-lime and red-earth, the morning sun fell on it and the Mari temple shone with an added brilliance. Only Kuriyayya's corner, surrounded by all this brightness, looked even gloomier. In the hall, a dozen men milled around, busily running back and forth, getting the torch ready, cutting paper of different colours for decorating the yard and doing a hundred other jobs. And since almost everyone there wore new white clothes, the Mari temple sparkled in whiteness.

One of those present—Basanna, was a short dark man sporting a French moustache. He too wore new white clothes and in them he shone darker still. His big yellow teeth protruded through his closed mouth and reflected the lustre of his clothes. In his hand he held a broom. Basanna stomped over to Kuriyayya's corner and shouted 'Ayya'.. Since Kuriyayya would respond only after he'd been spoken to a few times, everyone, spoke loudly to him. Kuriyayya slowly opened his eyes and looked up. He stared at the white figures that kept coming and going in front of his eyes. As he watched, old memories stirred and began to form in front of his eyes. The Mari festival meant the Tiger Dance. That meant him. The Tiger danced in front of his eyes. The drumbeat in his ears. Those were the days of the elder village headman. Kuriyayya had just been a boy then, about as high as Amasa. The vigour of Kuriyayya's dance had impressed the elder.

Giving him a gift of clothes, he had said, 'You must stay in my house till the end of your days. You'll have your food and clothes. Just look after the sheep, that's all.'

His shrivelled face blossomed; the brightness of the Mari temple and the people around glinted in every wrinkle of his face. Basanna shouted 'Ayya' in his cars, this time even louder. He turned his head and looked up. Seeing Basanna, he grasped the reason for his presence. He held the bamboo stick in his right hand and stretched out the other. When Basanna held the outstretched hand, he pulled himself up and slowly walked over to the other corner. Leaning on the stick he sat down once again. Basanna shook the blanket a couple of times and spread it out in the corner where Kuriyayya was now sitting. The dust, shaken out from the blanket swam in the morning sun. Where the blanket had been before, there now lay a thick layer of reddish dust and dirt. But as the morning sun fell on it, it too seemed to turn white.

It was noon by the time Amasa returned from his playful ramblings. He couldn't believe what he saw. All kinds of things were going on there. The smell of white-lime, of raw earth, and freshly smeared cow dung around the Mari temple crowded into his nostrils.

Kuriyayya had been moved from one corner to the other. In the hall, some men had crowded around in a circle and were jumping up on their toes to look at something—at a man in the middle who was doing something. Amasa too, hopped over and peeped. He saw diadems, two headed birds and other such things being crafted out of coloured silver paper. Everything that had been made there seemed wonderful to his eyes.

As the man in the middle crafted these things the crowd alternately offered instructions and uttered appreciation, 'It should be like that... It should be like this... Besh! Ha!' and so on.

A long while later, after his eyes had soaked in all that they could, Amasa went over to Kuriyayya and sat by his side. In a row on the other side and leaning against the wall were several large red and white parasols and whisks for the deity which had been put out in the sun to dry. In a nearby corner was a tall coconut tree, gently swaying against the sky. Amasa's eyes ran up to the top of the tree. Seven or eight large bunches of coconuts had weighed it down. When he ran his eyes down the tree he noticed that someone had painted the stem of the tree in stripes of white-lime and red earth.

He slid closer to Kuriyayya and said, 'Ayya!' Karuyayya looked at him askance. Amasa said excitedly, 'Look Ayya! Look! Someone's painted your tree with white-lime and colour.' Kuriyayya peered closely. He could see only a short distance, and then everything was lost in a haze. But what he saw was this; someone had used a coconut for sorcery and had buried it in the cremation ground. It had sprouted, cleft the earth and sprung up.

He had plucked it from there and planted it in the corner of the Mari temple, saying, 'Let it be here; at least as mine.' It had grown in front of his eyes; sprouting leaves and shedding them, bearing scars on its body where it had once borne leaves. It had grown taller and taller, and now stood fully-grown.