All the children gathered on the
bunds outside the village as the sun broke briefly through the rain clouds. It
was just before dusk. The droplets on the grass glistened in the sunlight. The
boys played chedugudu in one corner and the girls played hide-and-seek, running
to catch each other. The younger boys always played with the girls. We flipped
a coin-heads or tails and today it was Baindla Ramulu's turn to catch us! We
hid-behind the bushes, between large sleepy rocks and under the mountain-high
bunds. We were lost in our game, and nothing in the world could distract us. We
had not played like this in all the days it had been raining. We were desperate
not to let a moment go to waste. The newly washed sun pierced once again
through the dark clouds.
A rainbow blossomed: it was perfect!
We counted from one side and we counted from the other side, trying to find all
the seven colours. Though she counted many times, Potbelly Narsi could only
find six. When I found all seven, I jumped with joy again and again until from
a distance I heard one of Pandugala Sayanna's songs being sung. It was Talari
Anthanna on the bund of the village tank. He was mounted on his buffalo, a long
vayili stick in his hand, and singing a kinnera.
I strained to listen. It was my
favourite song, this Pandugala Sayanna song. When my ears picked up the words I
started to sing along.
Orori Sayanna, oh Panduga Sayanna!
Paalamuri eedigas' carts of rice are going, twelve puttis of rice are going,
going to Tandur!
Don't let go: even if you lose your
life Don't let go Sayanna, Kin kin kin...
Ponnalolla Balamani ran along with
me. She would always compete with me. When we played; when we sang; when we
ran. As we ran, she sang along with me:
Kottapeta market, on your head a
blanket. Sayalu, you run, I run, Sayalu.
Children flitted along the bunds
like dragonflies. The grass under their feet bounced up after they passed. The
droplets had disappeared in the sun. We played till it was time for our mothers
to return from the fields. We stood on the bunds trying to pick out the women
walking towards us from a distance. As if a thousand crows had flocked to the
clouds, the sky suddenly darkened. Near the mala-madiga drinking-water well the
road split into two. The mala women went towards the mala keri and the madiga
women towards the madiga keri. My mother was not among them. I kept watch. The
rain fell fast and
in big drops but the women did not
change their pace. They were already wet anyway. I was also drenched, and my
body cold and tired, but I just stood there, waiting.
Darkness surrounded us as the rain
lashed on. But I didn't really notice any of this as I waited there for my
mother. That day's rain had drenched the women who had gone to weed the paddy
fields and they were not yet dry. They squeezed out their wet kulla and placed
them back over their heads. As though furrowing their way back home, they
walked briskly, one behind the other, along the narrow ridges on the paddy
fields. I was still looking for my mother. All the women had their heads
covered with kulla and they all looked the same to me.
My mother had stitched a new green
kulla. She had torn up an old sari and made a new kunchi. Although my eyes were
looking for Mother, my thoughts wandered to that kunchi. First, she had cut the
soft bits of the torn sari into neat rectangles; to those she attached the
stronger bits and lined both with a piece of my father's old white dhoti.
Then she stitched on the silk border
of the sari on the top. It looked beautiful from behind when she wrapped it
around her head. When we covered our heads with it, the silk border shone
brightly as it hung down our backs. I would drape my head with it and pretend I
was a princess. My elder sister was always fighting with me for it. We would
snatch it away from each other to cover ourselves at night. Unable to pacify
us, my mother stitched two small kulla for both of us. My mother is just
brilliant at stitching kunchi! That's why our neighbour Ningampalli Sayavva
would say in praise of my mother, "Her fingers spin like tops... she is
the fastest at stitching kunchis."
I stood there in the rain and watched
the entire village return from work. But my mother did not come. Then at a
distance I saw a woman walking alone, like a whirlwind in the darkness. I knew
it had to be her. It was my mother. She was not at all pleased to see me
drenched in the rain. I rushed to her and clung to her waist. "Why are you
here, my dear? You should have lit the lamp at home and waited with your
younger brother. You are an adamant girl, clinging to me like the very rain.
What did you think I would bring from the forest-fruit or food?" she
scolded me. I wanted to search her kulla. But Mother held on to my arm and
pulled me home. My younger brother was sitting on the threshold, worried and
weeping. That fellow was a coward. He was even scared of thunder and lightning.
When my mother saw him like that she scolded me even more. She let go of my
hand and quickly picked him up.
"Are you scared, son?" she
said stroking his back. She turned to me. "Look at this fellow, how scared
he is! And what are you doing just standing there! Have you lost something-look
at you you look like an owl drenched in the rain!" Her scolding me made my
brother so happy,
he forgot his fear. Then he said,
"Amma, I am hungry," and I remembered my hunger too. My anger
disappeared. Quickly she put him down, took out some tender green gram from her
kunchi and gave it to us. She kept some aside for our elder brother. She had
come late and alone because of the tender gram. Only after she had soothed our
pangs of hunger did she notice the smell of wet earth in the house.
Our house always smelt like that
when it rained. The rain had seeped everywhere into the house where we stored
stuff, where we cooked, and by the low dividing wall. We had lots of little
pools in the middle of the house. Black, grease-like dirt constantly flowed
along the walls. Mother placed german silver vessels in some places and earthen
pots in other places to catch the rain dripping from the roof. But there were
still places where it was dripping, and I looked for things to place at those spots.
Then Mother brought out bits of broken earthen pots. The house was filled with
music of the rain falling into the many pots and vessels. Tapa tapa tan tan tin
tin... Mother moved through the music throwing out the water that had collected
in her pots and vessels. I was eating tender green gram with one hand and
chucking out water with the other.
"Look, behind the ventilator,
it's leaking there," my younger brother called out. Mother ran to put the
iron gampa under the ventilator. "The house has become a sieve. Where
should I put what? Every year he used to re-thatch the hut. But he is not here
this year, and look at the mess this house has become," Mother grumbled as
she walked round. The rain did not subside. Amidst the sounds of rain and thunder
outside, and sounds of dripping water inside, we could barely hear each other.
"The boy must be drenched by
now.... Has he reached the village? Is he still in the forest? I have no
idea... and the old woman has not come back either." Just as Mother was
saying this, Sangavva entered. She had gone in search of work but had not found
any. She had been to the dorasani's house, cleaned out the sand from three
sacks of jowar and for that she had got some of yesterday's rotte and a small
vessel of watery dal. She brought it home covered with her sari pleats. From
the kulla bundle she took out the paddy in fistfuls and poured it into the
winnowing basket. Mother put it in the grain pot, covered the pot, and put it
in a dry corner. Elder brother came home completely drenched. My mother was
happy to see him back, and called out loudly, "Ramchandrappa is
home!"
"Hang that wet gunny bag on the
wall, wash your feet with the water in the pot and come in son," she said.
Sangavva asked, "Was the rotte that you took enough for you, child?"
My brother sounded irritated, "Where avva? Did the calves allow me to sit
and eat? They kept trying to push their way into the patel's fields. I let them
graze along the bunds with the cane in my hand. At 3 o'clock I took them to the
pond to drink. When they finally lay down under the trees to chew the cud, I
opened my rotte bundle. Just then the rain stole down on me like a thief. I
quickly packed the rotte again and came back towards the village."
Drying my brother's head with a
towel, mother said angrily, "Those rascal calves don't stay where they
should. They have killed my son's hunger, haven't they? My son is stunted
roaming like this from place to place. Once this year is over, we can get rid
of this trouble son. Next year your father will come back from the town. He'll
pay back the debts. Not too many days now; the harvest is over. It will be one
year on new moon day since he left. If we repay the four instalments that we
owe, it will be one year." Mother consoled him, stroking his back.
My mother did not believe a single
word she was saying. She said that Father would earn money and come to pay back
the debts only for my brother's sake. Sangavva lit the stove. All of us sat
around it for warmth. Brother gave us younger ones some of the rotte he had
brought back, and ate the rest. We took a share of his green gram also. After a
while he asked, "Mother, when will Father come back from town? Why have
Venkatreddy Patel's people stopped asking?"
"No son, don't utter their name
now. It will just give you heartburn. They put the entire blame on your poor
father. They separated him from his family. They ruined us. The thief is one of
them, but they put the blame on your father. Goddess Ellamma is not blind to
this. Thanks to her, the real thief was caught and everyone is witness. If you
try to burn another's house, how can the fire not burn you? They knew the truth
but blamed your father. We devote our labour to the patel and we have always
trusted them. How can we steal from them? We have no guarantee that we will get
paid for our labour, but we have never demanded an account of our wages. Can we
be thieves? We know how to work hard, not how to steal. They know all this, and
yet they blame us. He was scared of being beaten to death, so he has gone god
knows where. Shameless bastards. The elders didn't say for nothing that frogs
have no tails and the kapu have no morals. Your father will give his life but
not his pride."
"If he had heard that they had
caught the real thief he may have come home by now. Don't know where he is or
what he is doing ... no trace of him even after a year," Sangavva whined.
It kept raining that day. Even then,
Mother swept the front of the house, plastered the ground with dung and cleared
the rubbish. As she put the basket on her head and was about to cross the
threshold, my father walked in. Mother cried out, "Look, children, your
father is here!" We sat up. My younger brother ran up and held onto our
father and started to weep. My elder brother and I went to him, he put the
younger one on his shoulder and held the both of us as he too wept. In our
happiness we stood rooted, taking him in from head to toe. Our Sangavva went in
and brought water in a vessel, still weeping. Father took the water and put it
next to him on the raised platform outside the hut. Mother started to put her
basket down, but neighbour Ellavva called out saying, "It isn't auspicious
to put a basket down as soon as you lift it ... walk a few steps ahead, empty
it out and come." She ran to empty her basket, and then she and Sangavva
sat down on either side of Father.
As soon as they sat, our Sangavva
started: "So many days, my son where were you, what did you eat, what work
did you do? You have turned into a black stick, my child. You have become half
of yourself. Your wife, your children we have all been waiting for you like
orphaned birds." She thought the better of going on like that, and said
instead, "Whatever it is son, go wash your feet, quench your thirst, then
we can talk."
Mother took the jowar we had kept
aside for seed to the flour mill, brought the flour back and quickly made hot
rotte. My father ate his full and burped, saying, "How many days since I
ate like this! Today I feel like I have eaten." He started telling us
about the miserable life he lived in the town. He had done all kinds of work.
For a few days he worked as a construction labourer, then for a few days he
waited at the adda. Then he even sold peanuts in a basket. With the wages of
his labour he bought a spade and a crowbar but a police raid took place in the
town. The police took my father when he was waiting for work and charged him a
fine. He sold his tools to pay the fine and only then was he released. He had
left home with clothes on his body and came back in rags. Our Sangavva felt
agonized just looking at my father. "Bad luck followed you from here to
there." With her hand on his shoulder, she cursed, "May those tools
and that town be brought to dust! What is lost is lost. You have come back,
that is enough, son. Mother and children, all four of us will work hard
together and we will not be slaves anymore." Father sat looking at the
floor, running his fingers through the little one's hair.
Ningampalli Sayavva of the
neighbouring keri came, asking, "How are you, Balappa?" Sayavva was
holding a big cow-dung basket, two patched gunny bags and a worn-out yellow
kunchi. Flies swarmed around her and she smelt of neem fruit. "If a person
is alive, we will meet him some day. Only if he is buried will we never see him
again. You have come back after so many days, my child. Where had you gone, my
son? They banished you to strange lands, those immoral people. These are the
true mother and daughter-in-law... your people! They looked after your piece of
land, they brought up your three children. Life has become a thorny fruit in
these days of drought," said Sayavva to my father. My father told her he
had gone towards the town. Immediately, Sayavva said, "Our person has come
back to our fold. Work hard, live well... as long as your arms are strong, you
have life." As she said this, she turned to my mother and Sangavva:
"Come on now, let's go quickly. You have three people in the house now,
haven't you?" There were four working people in our house now. My younger
brother and I were the only ones who had to be fed. My elder sister was already
married.
Mother poured thick gruel into a
bowl, put a little salt in it and put it in the groove in the wall for both of
us. "If the dogs come and eat it, you will be hungry. Be careful, don't
leave the doors open and go to play," she warned us, as they left for the
forest. They gathered neem fruit in the forest, cleaned it in a pond there,
dried the fruit and sold the seeds to Komati Narayana Shavukar on their way
back. Then they bought food grains for the night like they did every day.
"This famine has come like Yama.
People like us will survive only if the rains are good this year, otherwise a
time may come when all of us will starve to death," my mother mumbled as
she washed the pots.
"All these days we managed by
feeding the children gruel. Now my son has come. The house is full of neem
bitterness. My mouth tastes like dry grass. Today we have gathered a few more
neem seeds.... We can buy salt, chilli, broken rice. Why not go to the butcher
Ismail and buy a kilo of meat and make a curry?" my grandmother said, and
Mother agreed.
They came back home with everything
they needed for the meat curry. My younger brother and I were very excited. The
little fellow didn't seem to need a reason to keep laughing. Watching us, my
mother's face glowed with happiness. The satisfaction that she could feed us to
our heart's content that day was written all over her face. My younger brother
hung on to my mother's sari end, playing the brat, saying, "Mother, a
piece for me." So, my mother took a few pieces from the curry, threw them into
the wood fire, and gave us a beautifully roasted piece each. She kept aside
some pieces for my elder brother. We came out to where our friends were and
made their mouths water as we ate slowly, relishing our pieces of meat.
On one stove the meat curry was
cooking and on the other the broken rice was boiling away. A mouth-watering
aroma filled the house, spilling out over the threshold. Father came back from
the bazaar, and sat on the platform outside. "Is your mother cooking meat?
Such a wonderful smell." He called out to my mother, "Give me a
little money, I feel like drinking toddy today." She said, "Where is
the money left after buying salt, chilli and meat? It's all over." After
some time, he said again in a loud voice, "You give me ten excuses when I
ask for a little money to drink toddy." She said, "This is not fair
where did I hide any money? You've seen everything. You know how things are....
how can you still ask me for money?" My father pounced on my mother,
"You say it's not fair? You've learnt to talk! What? Have I seen
everything? How do I know what you have done?"
Mother went inside quietly and sat
at the stove adjusting the firewood. "What? You, you! You don't say
anything! I am asking you... what have I seen?" He kicked her hard on her
back. My younger brother and I screamed. Father looked daggers at us. Scared of
him, we quietly hid in a corner. Father beat her like she was cattle. She was
wailing, saying, "Oh mother, I am dead, he'll take my life." But
Father did not stop. I felt as if I would die, watching my mother being beaten
like that. My younger brother trembled and pissed in his pants. We did not have
the courage to stop Father. We were scared that he might beat us too if we went
near him. We were also scared that Mother might die.
Women going to the drinking water
well gathered around my house hearing the noise. Each one of them called out to
my father. Finally, Father stopped and walked out of the house. We went to
Mother. She was lying so still. We could not wake her up. Then Sangavva came
and started abusing Father. "Not even three days since you came back and
you have started beating her up, you asshole. You have fallen like Yama on her!
How much will you beat her? Look at the injuries all over her body. You have
made her helpless! How do you think she will work? If you have the balls go
show this anger to the people who called you a thief. When you left us to
wander around the country, she looked after your children and me. Anyone else
would have left us to our fate. She starved her own stomach to fill ours. She
kept all those who cast their eyes on her at a distance and looked after this
house, you jackass." Sangavva continued abusing him. All the women
scolded, "Is this what you learnt in town... to beat your wife? All this
while her eyes were sore, waiting for you to come back what she gets from you."
and this is
Just then, some of our relatives
from the neighbouring village arrived. They brought the news that my elder
sister had given birth prematurely. She had gone to the fields to work and she
delivered there. Women in the fields helped her deliver and cut the child's
umbilical cord with a sickle. They told us that they had taken mother and child
home on a bullock cart. Both mother and child were doing well, they said. They
had come to take my mother with them, immediately.
Our Sangavva broke into a cold
sweat. "The child had still two more months to deliver. How did it happen
now? We thought of bringing her home for delivery. God had other plans. Tell
me, my dear, are the mother and child doing well?" she asked again. Then
Sangavva turned towards my father: "What will you do now, you shameless
idiot? I gave birth to a good-for-nothing fellow. You have broken her back. Now
who will wash your daughter's stained clothes? The tradition is that the mother
should help at the first delivery. What shall I do now?" she cried, with
her hand on her head.
Ningampalli Sayavva came forward and
said, "What is the use of saying all this now? The new mother needs her
mother to wash her soiled clothes. Did the elders say in vain that 'an
elephant-like father may go, but the small basket-like mother should
stay'?"
She told us to fetch some vayili
leaves and foment mother's back with them to numb her pain. I ran towards the
vayili tree.
TRANSLATED BY DIIA RAJAN
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