A Sliver of Sunlight

Third Place in The Mozhi Prize 2023

A short story by Nirmal Verma

Translated from the Hindi original by Sangeetha Balakrishnan

About the author

Nirmal Verma (1929 – 2005) was a Hindi writer, translator and critic. A pioneer of the Nayi Kahani (New Story) literary movement in the post-independence Hindi literature, he was a recipient of several awards including the Jnanpith Award, the Sahitya Akademi Award, the Padma Bhushan and the Chevalier de l’ordre des arts et des lettres. He was also nominated for the Nobel Prize in 2005 by the Indian government. Nirmal Verma’s impressive oeuvre includes novels, short story anthologies, travelogues, essays and a play. 

Born in Shimla, Nirmal Verma studied history in Delhi and lived in Prague in the sixties where he translated major Czech writers into Hindi. His works often explore existential themes and his characters usually grapple with loneliness, alienation and the question of identity. The world populated by his characters appears as though made by a slight, deft touch; there’s nothing superfluous there. As with his storied-world, there’s something very light about his language too. That said, Nirmal Verma was alert to his language. Despite his short sentences one just can’t rush through his texts for they make visible the realities of everyday life. 

Some of Nirmal Verma’s notable works include Parinde (1959), Ve Din (1964), Ek Chithara Sukh (1979), Kavve Aur Kala Pani (1983) and Dhage (2003). Nirmal Verma’s place in Hindi and Indian literature is firmly established as a trailblazer who brought innovation to the literary landscape. His legacy rests not just in his creative works but also in his contributions to broader cultural and intellectual discussions of his time.

Translator’s note on Dhoop ka ek Tukda (A Sliver of Sunlight)

A woman with her eyes peeled for sun-illumined park benches. An entire story based on a conversation with a stranger; a conversation with no dialogues. Short sentences that make one sit up and take notice. A literary style that holds things in abeyance – the doing of the ellipses in the text (but not just that). A deep dive into the protagonist’s mind, a tumble into her past and a resurfacing that holds a mirror to one’s own self. If I had to give you a sneak peek into Dhoop Ka Ek Tukda, what forewent would be my attempt at it.

And what’s not to like in the things that constitute the story? Aside from the fact that I too delight in the sun peak-a-boo-ing me from between the branches of a tree as I search for that ‘perfect’ park bench, I am convinced this story is a great illustration of paying attention to life. And what else, really, are we all required to do but pay attention to life? 

Dhoop Ka Ek Tukda is a short story, no doubt, but it’s a capacious one. It shapeshifts to hold the deepest and wispiest of our thoughts for as long we need, and then delivers them back to us – the better for that abstract residence. This is a short story that has not just a room, but palatial mansions for reflection in it. I invite you to step in, saunter around and see what you come up with. 

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A Sliver of Sunlight

May I sit on this bench? No, please don’t get up—I’ll sit here in the corner. You are probably wondering why I don’t go to another bench. Such a big park—vacant benches everywhere—why do I want to squeeze in near you? If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you something—the bench you are sitting on is mine. Yes, I sit here every day. No, don’t get  me wrong. My name is not written on this bench. How can municipality benches be named? People come, they sit for a moment or two and then they leave. Nobody remembers who sat where in the park. After they leave, the bench becomes vacant as before. Later when another visitor sits on the bench, he never knows whether before him there sat a school girl or a lonely woman or a drunk gypsy. Gosh no, names are written only where man stays put! This is why houses have names, as do graves, though I sometimes think even if graves didn’t have names that wouldn’t make much difference. No man alive would want to enter another’s grave intentionally. 

You’re looking there—at the victoria? No, don’t be surprised. People still use victorias on the occasion of a wedding … I see this every day. This is the reason why I have chosen this bench for myself. Sit here, and the eyes go straight to the church —you don’t have to turn your neck. It’s a very old church. To get married in this church is deemed a matter of great pride. People get their names registered eight to ten months in advance. By the way, it doesn’t bode well to have such a long gap between the engagement and the wedding. Sometimes disagreements crop up, and right at the time of the wedding neither the bride nor the groom is to be seen. On such days, this place lies deserted. No crowd, no victoria. Even the beggars return empty-handed. On one such day, I saw a girl on the bench straight ahead. Sitting alone, she was looking at the church with forlorn eyes. 

This is the strange thing about a park. In such an open space, everyone sits confined to themselves. You can’t even go up to someone and offer a word or two of consolation. You watch others, others watch you. I suppose this too is a kind of comfort. This is why, when their troubles get unbearable, people pour out of their houses. Onto the roads. Into the public parks. Into some pub. Even if nobody consoles you there, your sorrow turns fluid in such spaces; it tosses and turns from one place to the other. This doesn’t lessen the burden, but like the coolie with his luggage, you too can now transfer your sorrow from one shoulder to the other. Doesn’t this respite amount to anything? I do exactly this—I get out of my room right in the morning. No, no—don’t mistake me— I don’t have any troubles. I come here for the sunlight. You must have noticed, this is the only bench in the entire park which is not under a tree. Not a single leaf falls on this bench…there’s, of course, the added benefit that from here I can look directly at the church…but I suppose I have already told you this.

You are really fortunate. Your first day here, and the victoria right in front! Keep looking…in just a little while a small crowd will gather in front of the church. A great many in the crowd will know neither the bride nor the groom. But they’ll stand outside for hours just to catch a glimpse of the newly-weds. I don’t know about you, but I find the curiosity about some things to be insatiable. Now, see, you were sitting in front of this perambulator. My first instinct was to peep inside, as though your baby would be any different from other babies. But that’s not so. At this age, all children are the same—they just lie around with a pacifier in their mouths. Still, when I pass by a perambulator I feel a surge of desire, to peep inside. I find it strange that we don’t tire of things that appear similar. Ironically, these are the things we want to see the most, like babies in a pram, or the victoria of a newly married couple, or the hearse of the dead. You must’ve noticed, a crowd always gathers around such things. Willfully or otherwise, our legs draw us to them. Sometimes, I am surprised that the very things that help us understand life are actually beyond our complete grasp. It’s not easy to contemplate those things, or to talk to others about them. I want to ask you this: can you recall anything about the moment you were born, or can you tell anything about your death to someone, or can you recall your wedding experience to the letter? You are laughing … no, I meant something else. Can there be a man who cannot recall his wedding experience? I have heard there are some countries where people don’t decide to get married unless drunk… and later, they have no remembrance of it at all. No, I didn’t mean such an experience. What I meant was, can you recall that exact moment when, all of a sudden, you decided you will no longer remain single, but will spend the rest of your life with someone else, till death do you both apart? I mean, can you put your finger on that precise moment, when you moved aside the loneliness within—just a little—and made room for someone else there? Yes, the same way you moved aside—just a little—on the bench to make room for me a short while back. And here I am, talking to you as though I have known you for ages. 

Look, now a few cops are also standing in front of the church. If the crowd continues to gather this way, the thoroughfare will soon be blocked. Well, the sun is out and shining today, but even on winter days, people stand there, shivering. I have seen this for years… sometimes, I get the feeling that those are the very people who had congregated on the occasion of my wedding fifteen years back… the same victoria, the same patrolling cops… as though nothing has changed over the years. Yes, I too got married in this church. But that was a different time. The road wasn’t so wide back then that the victoria could have stopped right at the church door. We had to stop it in the back alley… and I walked up to the church with my father. People had assembled on both sides of the road and my heart was beating in my ears; I was worried I might slip and fall in front of all those people. I wonder where those people who were watching me from the crowd that day are now.  Do you think if someone from that crowd were to see me today, he would recognize that this woman sitting by herself on this bench is the same girl who, fifteen years ago, was walking towards the church in white? Tell me the truth, will someone recognize me? I don’t know about humans, but I have a feeling that the horse that drove me that day will definitely recognize me. Yes, I am always astonished by horses. Have you ever seen a horse in the eye? It feels like they have lost something very dear to them, but haven’t quite got used to the loss yet. That is why, in our world, they remain the saddest. Not being able to get used to something—there’s nothing more unfortunate than that. People who remain unused to a thing until the end of their days either become sad like the horses, or meander from one bench to the other, like me, in search of a sliver of sunlight.

Pardon me? No, you’ve probably mistaken me. I don’t have any kids, it’s my good fortune. If I had had a kid, maybe I’d never have been able to separate. You would have noticed, even if there’s no love between the man and the woman they stick around for the sake of the child. I never had such a constraint. In that sense, I am very happy—that is to say, if happiness means that one gets to choose one’s loneliness. But to choose it is one thing, and to get used to it, entirely different. Each evening, at sundown, I go back to my room. But before heading back, I go sit for a while in that pub where he used to wait for me. Do you know the name of that pub? Bonaparte—yes, the legend goes that when Napoleon first came to the city, he went to that pub—but in those early days of dating, I never knew of it. When he told me the first time that we’d meet in front of Bonaparte, I stood that entire evening in the other corner of the city, where Napoleon is seated on a horse. Have you ever spent your first date this way, where you are standing in front of a pub and your fiancé, under a public statue? With time, though, I took a liking to his interests. I even got habituated to them. Every evening we would go to his old hangout spots, or wander in those parts of the city where I had spent my childhood. Don’t you find it odd that when you start liking someone very much, you not only want to share your present with him but also devour all his past, right from when he wasn’t with you? You become so greedy and envious that it becomes unbearable for you to think there was a time when he used to live without you, love without you, go about his day without you. And then, when you spend a few years with that person, it becomes impossible to say which habits are your own, and which you osmosed from the other… yes, they get mixed-up like a pack of cards, so much so that you cannot pick up a card and say this one is mine, or that one, his.

Sometimes I think we all should get a chance at self-dissection before we die. Peel the layers of your past one-by-one like the skin of an onion. You’d be surprised, everyone—parents, friends, husband—will come along to collect their share. The skin belongs to others; the dry stalk at the core is what you will be left with. The stalk is of no use, it remains to be cremated or buried after one’s death. It’s often said, every man dies alone. I don’t believe this. He dies with all those people within him with whom he used to fight or whom he used to love. He goes bearing an entire world within. Which is why the sadness we feel when someone dies is a selfish kind of sadness; we are, in fact, mourning that part of us which is gone forever with the dead.  

Oh look—he has woken up! Rock the perambulator a little, keep rocking it slowly. He’ll quiet down by himself… He is holding on to the pacifier in his mouth as though it were a wee little cigar. Look, how he’s staring at the clouds overhead. When I was a little girl, I used to wield a stick at the clouds in such a way that it appeared as if they were coursing along in the sky on my signal.  Do you think people remember the things they saw and heard when they were young? I think they do. I suppose we all carry forth some voice, some vision, or an inkling of some sound from our childhood, which, with time, we lose in the web of life. But unbeknownst to us, at the slightest of triggers, déjà vu washes all over us; we get a distinct feeling that we have heard that sound somewhere before, or that this incident or something similar to it has happened sometime before. That’s all it takes, and soon enough things that, for years, lay ossified within, begin to spill out; things that never came to our attention in the daily grind. But they are ever present. They stand there stealthily, in the corner, waiting for the right opportunity. And then, all of sudden while you’re walking down the street or waiting for the bus or in the liminal zone at night between sleep and wakefulness, they pounce on you. That is it! Then however much you flail your limbs, however much you struggle, they don’t let go of you. Something similar happened to me one night…

We were both sleeping when I heard a strange sound—exactly like the one which used to wake me up with a start, in my childhood, filling me with the fear that maa and baba were not there in the next room, and that I’d never be able to see them again. That was the point when I’d start screaming. But, that night I did not scream. I got up from the bed and walked up to the threshold of my room. I opened the door and peeped out, but there was nobody there. I turned around and looked at him. He was sleeping with his face turned towards the wall, just as he used to sleep every night. He hadn’t heard a thing. It was then that it struck me—the sound hadn’t come from somewhere outside, it had come from within me. Correction: not exactly from within me. Akin to a bat in the nighttime, it had just grazed past me, neither without nor within, but still fluttering all around. I came back and sat down on the bed. I ran my hand gently over his body, touching all those nooks of his body that used to comfort me long back. I found it weird that I was touching him and yet my hands returned empty.  The reverberations from long-ago that once found their way  from his body into my soul were nowhere to be felt. I was touching his body the same way some people run their fingers over old ruins, in search of the names they had carved there long ago. My name wasn’t there. But there were other signs. Signs that I had never seen before, signs that had nothing to do with me. I sat by his side the whole night. My hands lay dead on his body. It terrified me that I could not talk to anybody about the emptiness that had crept in between us. Not even to my lawyer, whom I had known for ages.

My lawyer thought I had gone insane. What sound was that? Was my husband having an affair with another woman? Was he cruel to me? He kept bombarding me with questions, but like an idiot, I could only stare at his face. It was then that I realized for the first time that to get a separation, it wasn’t necessary to go to a court. People often say that by sharing our sorrows with others we feel light. I never felt light. No, people don’t share sorrows, they only judge who is guilty and who is innocent. The terrible thing here is that you separate from the very person who could once read your aching soul…that is why I left that part of the town and came here; nobody knows me here. Here, nobody looks at me and says, this woman lived with her husband for eight years and one fine day, just upped and left. Earlier, when someone talked this way, I’d want to get hold of them and tell them the entire story, from the beginning to the end. I’d want to tell them how on that first evening we kept waiting for each other in different places—him in front of the pub, me keeping company with the statue. I’d want to tell them how he kissed me the first time with my back pressed to the trunk of a tree, and how I touched his hair for the first time, fear coursing through my veins. Yes, I used to think that unless I explained all this to them, I’d never be able to talk about that night when for the first time I was completely shaken inside, and years later was gripped by a feeling that made me want to run to my parents in the next room…but that room was empty. Yes, I had read somewhere that growing old is when you wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, and no matter how much you scream, no one comes from the next room. That room will always remain empty. See how I have grown since that night!

Still, I don’t understand this thing. Reports about earthquakes and bombings are splashed in newspapers, and the next day everyone knows that where there stood a school for children, there are now ruins, and where there were ruins, only flittering dust. But when something like this happens with people, nobody suspects a thing… The morning after, I kept roaming the entire city, and nobody even glanced at me… When I came to this park for the first time, I sat at this very bench where you are now seated. And yes, I was very surprised that day that I was sitting in front of the church where I had been married… Back then the street wasn’t wide enough for the victoria, we both came here on foot…

Do you hear that, the music from the organ? Look, they have opened the doors. The strains of music are audible. As soon as I hear this, I know they have kissed each other and exchanged rings. Just a little while more, they are about to step outside. People aren’t patient anymore, they can’t stand quietly. If you want to see the newly-weds, do carry on. I’m here, anyway, I’ll keep an eye on your baby. What did you say? Yes, I will be here until the evening. After that it gets cold here. All day long I keep looking for the sliver of sunlight. It flits from bench to bench, and I follow suit. There is no nook in the park where I haven’t sat, if only for a moment. But I like this bench the most. Firstly, no leaves fall on it, and secondly… oh, you’re leaving already? 

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The Lonely Woman

Second Place in The Mozhi Prize 2023

A short story by Mannu Bhandari

Translated from the Hindi original by Mithila R

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About the author

Fiction writing in the early half of the 20th century in India was largely dominated by writers affiliated with the Progressive Writers’ Association. They were anti-imperialists, imbuing their works with concerns about caste, class and poverty. In the post-independence India of the 1950s and ‘60s, a group of Hindi writers broke away from these traditions, preferring to turn their gaze upon a small but rapidly modernising middle class, giving rise to the Nayi Kahani (“New Story”) movement.  

Mannu Bhandari (1931–2021) was one of the most significant writers of the Nayi Kahaani movement, although, for much of her life, she was overshadowed by her more famous husband, Rajendra Yadav. Bhandari’s long career spans multiple novels, short story collections and film and stage scripts. One of her most well-known stories, Yahi Sach Hai, explores a young woman’s complicated feelings for both her current and past lover, and was adapted into the critically and commercially successful movie Rajnigandha. Aap ka Bunty (“Your Bunty”) focuses on a young divorcee’s anguish at being caught between individuality and motherhood. Mahabhoj (“The Feast”), based on gruesome real-life events, chronicles a Dalit man’s quest to get justice for the murder of his family at the hands of upper-caste men. 

The characters in her stories enact the trajectory of their creator, emerging from and into a tradition but breaking away from it in favour of new ideas. Trickiest among these negotiations was the position of the middle-class woman, who had begun to enter the workplace for the first time, demanding for herself education, employment and individuality. The resultant destabilisation of nearly all traditional norms of gender roles, marriage, and motherhood became fertile ground for Bhandari. Her restrained, dispassionate tone reveals some of the most incisive portraits of modern womanhood in post-independence India. Despite her vital and transformative work, Bhandari’s work has been largely unknown beyond the Hindi-speaking world, and her stories are not widely available in English. One wonders what audiences she might have garnered had she written in English to begin with.

Translator’s note on Akeli ( The Lonely Woman)

Mannu Bhandari’s Akeli, published in 1963, is a short story about an elderly woman called Soma, whose son is long dead and whose husband abandons her to become an ascetic. In her loneliness, she lives vicariously through her neighbours, turning up uninvited to gatherings and celebrations. Much of the story revolves around her excitement and anticipation of an upcoming wedding, to which she wonders if she will get an invitation. The quietly devastating ending is made more cruel by its understatement. Bhandari’s restrained prose detonates small bombs throughout the story, their lit fuses smouldering underneath the sentences. 

Bhandari’s evocation of a rural or semi-urban setting in this story is remarkably deft, using kinship terms to sketch out not just a community but also a worldview that places these relationships at the centre of an individual’s life. In many societies, a woman’s life and purpose are defined by their relationships with the men around them. But what is a woman to do if the men in her life are absent? Who is she for? Soma Bua is just such a woman, with neither son nor husband, who nonetheless wants to be a person in the world. Hindi fiction, up until that point, was yet to develop an idiom for this alienation, which scholars will tell us is a modern idea but which many women in patriarchal societies will recognise as perhaps an everyday reality. What would alienation look like if described by women? The Nayi Kahaani movement broke from existing traditions to present stories of urban anomie but it was Mannu Bhandari, above all others, who harnessed Nayi Kahaani’s concerns to present astonishingly vivid portraits of complex women and their complicated inner lives. 

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The Lonely Woman

Soma Bua is old.

Soma Bua has been abandoned.

Soma Bua is lonely.

Soma Bua’s young son died years ago, and her own youth passed with him. Her husband was so stricken with grief at the loss of their son that he renounced his wife and household to become an ascetic, and there wasn’t a soul in the family who could lighten her lonesomeness. In the twenty years since, no challenge had presented itself to the monotony of her life and everything continued unchanged. Every year, for one month out of twelve, her husband would come and stay with her. But, she had never looked forward to his visits, nor did she ever pine for him in his absence. In fact, for the duration of her husband’s stay, she would become even more listless; the spontaneous flow of her everyday life dulled as it caught on the hook of his unfeeling manner. All her social comings and goings would halt, albeit temporarily, despite which it never occurred to Sanyasiji Maharaj to offer her the comfort of a tender word or two from which she could draw succour during the eleven months of his absence. In such circumstances, Bua consoled herself by living vicariously through her neighbours. Whatever the occasion, be it a tonsure, the sixth-day naming rituals of an infant, or the sacred thread ceremony, whether a wedding or a funeral, Bua would work her fingers to the bone, having adopted the neighbours as her own.

It was one of those days when Bua’s husband was home on one of his annual visits, and there had just been some heated back-and-forth between them. Bua was sitting in the courtyard, sunning herself, kneading some oil from a little bowl into her hands and muttering to herself. The enforced lull of this one month had slowed down all the organs of her body, with the sole exception of her tongue, which had been rendered surplus vigour. Just then, holding a ragged sari and some papads, Radha Bhabhi came downstairs. 

‘What’s the matter, Bua? Why are you muttering to yourself? Did Sanyasiji Maharaj say something again?’

‘Arre, he sulks whenever I go anywhere! He doesn’t like it! Yesterday, Kishorilal from the town square held the tonsure ceremony of his son, and the whole community was invited. I could tell, of course, that he invited everyone to such a minor ceremony just to show off his wealth, but his young daughters-in-law couldn’t manage the preparations, so I went there early. And wouldn’t you know it…’ As she spoke, Bua slid closer to Radha and, taking the papad from her hands, began laying them out to dry. ‘Not a single thing was being done properly. Now, if there were elders in the house, they could’ve guided them, or perhaps someone who has done this sort of thing before. The singing ladies were crooning wedding songs at a child’s tonsure—my stomach nearly burst with laughter.’ This memory seemed to soothe the hurt and anger of Bua’s earlier argument with her husband. 

Returning to her usual manner, she continued, ‘And a strange sight when I looked towards the kitchen. The samosas were undercooked and so many had been made that everyone could’ve been served twice over, whereas there were so few gulab jamuns that not even the first lot of guests could be served! I immediately sifted some flour and made some more gulab jamuns. The two daughters-in-law and Kishorilal were so grateful, what can I say? They kept saying, “Amma, if you hadn’t been here today, we would’ve been so embarrassed. Amma, you saved our honour today!” I told them, “Oh, come now, if we can’t rely on our own people during such times, who else can we rely on?” It’s just that these days I need to take care of my husband’s needs as well, or I would’ve gone there much earlier.’

‘So why is Sanyasiji Maharaj in such a bad mood? He doesn’t like your socialising, Bua?’

‘Well, he doesn’t like it if I go anywhere at all, and besides, yesterday, there was no invitation as such from Kishori. Now, listen, who waits for an invitation from one’s own family? And those folks think of me as they would their own mother. Otherwise, why would they turn over the kitchen and pantry so readily to me? But how do I explain all this to my husband? He started saying, “You go around sticking your nose in other people’s business even when you’re not wanted.” And just like that, Bua was reminded of his unkind words, whose ire had broken on her like a harsh cloudburst not too long ago. The memory made her eyes well up again.

‘Arre, why do you cry, Bua? Everyone has these little quarrels. Sanyasiji Maharaj only stays for a month, just let him talk, what else?’

‘That I do, but it hurts to think that even though he’s only here for a month, he never says anything nice. He doesn’t like me to visit others, but you tell me, Radha, for eleven months of the year, he is in Haridwar. He doesn’t have much care for clan and kinship, but don’t I have to observe these relationships? How will it look if I too sever ties with everyone? I keep telling him that if he made his vows to me, he should stay with me till the end. But that he is unable to do. He will collect all the religious merit, he will gain all the esteem, and I should just lay around here, all alone, chanting his name, pining for him? And on top of that, if I go here or there, he finds that hard to accept…’ And Bua burst into sobs. 

Radha said consolingly, ‘Don’t cry, Bua. I think he was upset because you went over without an invitation.’

‘Those poor things were so overwhelmed by the hubbub of the ceremony that they forgot to invite me. So should I have stayed away in a huff? Who stands on such formality with family? I believe in love for one’s own people—if someone isn’t loving, let them send ten invitations and I still won’t go. But if someone shows me love, I’ll rush to them no matter what. If my own Harkhu had been alive and there was something that needed doing in his own home, do you think I’d sit around waiting for an invitation? I think of Kishorilal the same as Harkhu. My Harkhu isn’t with me anymore, so I fill my heart by taking care of others.’ So saying, Bua started to hiccup.

Radha began to gather the now dry papads and said as gently as she could, ‘Come now, Bua, look where you’ve taken the matter. Now calm yourself, I’ll toast some of these papads and you can tell me how they taste, all right?’ She took the papads upstairs.

***

After a week or thereabouts, Bua entered the home in high spirits and said to Sanyasiji Maharaj, ‘Did you hear, some girl from your brother’s in-laws’ family has gotten engaged into Bhagirathji’s family. The whole clan will come here for the wedding. Although we haven’t maintained relations with them after brother-in-law’s passing, after all, we are still their samdhis—your brother’s niece is marrying into their family. And they are sure to invite you! How could they not?’ And, beaming with pleasure, Bua started to laugh. 

Sanyasiji’s unspoken disdain did hurt her feelings a little, but still her spirits remained high. She bustled about here and there looking for news of the wedding. Then, one day, she finally found out that her relatives had indeed arrived in town. And preparations were in full swing. There would be a grand feast for the whole community—it was to be a glittering celebration. After all, both sides were wealthy. 

‘Who knows if we’ll even get an invitation or not? Brother-in-law passed away twenty-five years ago and we’ve had no real relationship with his side of the family since. And who do I have to maintain these ties? This is the responsibility of the men of the house, and I am without a man despite having a husband.’ So fretting, a cold sigh escaped Bua’s heart. 

‘Oh, come now, Bua! How can your name not be on the list? After all, you are a samdhi. Relationships don’t die just because people have passed, do they?’ said the elder daughter-in-law, while grinding some dal.

‘It’s there, Bua, your name. I saw the entire list,’ said the widowed sister-in-law. 

Without rising from her seat, Bua slid a few inches forward and asked eagerly, ‘You saw my name on the list with your own eyes? Yes, the name should be on it. But with these modern customs, who knows, they may not include us.’ And without waiting another moment, Bua set off from there. Upon reaching her house, she went straight upstairs to Radha Bhabhi’s rooms—’Now, listen, Radha, you know what to gift a bride according to the latest fashions, don’t you? After all, they are important relatives, and wealthy ones too. I couldn’t possibly go empty-handed. But I am old-fashioned, so you tell me, what should I gift them? There’s no time to get anything made, only two days to go, so I’ll just have to get something ready-made.’ 

‘What would you like to gift her? Jewellery, clothes, a sindoor pot, or perhaps some other silver things?’

‘I have no idea. I’ll get you what money I have, and you can go buy whatever you see fit. It should make a good impression, that’s all. Well, let me first see how much money I have.’ And with unsteady steps, Bua made her way downstairs. 

She rooted about among a few bundles of clothes and took out a small trunk. She unlocked it. Rummaging inside, she found a small box. Opening it carefully, she saw there were seven rupees in change, as well as a ring. Bua had expected there might be more, but when she saw there were only seven rupees, she fell into thought. In a wealthy household like that of her samdhis, such a small amount wouldn’t do to even fix a bindi on someone’s forehead. Bua’s gaze landed on the ring. It was the sole keepsake she had of her departed son. She hadn’t been able to give up her sentimental attachment to this ring even in times of dire financial need. Even now, as she lifted it up in her hands, her heart skipped a heavy beat, but she, nevertheless, tied the ring and a sum of five rupees into a knot in the corner of her sari pallu. Then she closed the trunk and climbed upstairs once again, but her high spirits had dimmed somewhat such that each step felt more leaden than the last. 

She said to Radha, ‘There wasn’t much money, my dear. And how could it be otherwise? I have no one to earn a living for me. The little room brings me some rent, but that barely covers two square meals a day.’ And Bua began to cry.

Radha said, ‘Oh Bua, I’m so sorry but my purse strings are a bit tight at the moment, or I would’ve helped. But, look, why are you worrying about all this gift-giving in the first place? These customs are not important these days.’

‘No, Radha, they are important people. It’s been twenty-five years but they haven’t forgotten us; how could I possibly go empty-handed? No, no, I would sooner skip the wedding itself.’

‘So skip it! Good riddance, and anyway, with so many guests milling about they wouldn’t even know if you’re there or not!’ Radha said, offering a neat little solution to the entire dilemma.

‘But they’ll be deeply offended. If the whole town attends and I, despite being a samdhi, don’t? They’ll think that I’ve cut them off after brother-in-law’s passing. No, no, you had better sell this ring.’ And Bua undid the knot of her sari and placed an old-fashioned ring in Radha’s hand. And then she said in a pleading tone, ‘You keep going to the bazaar, don’t you? Sell this ring and buy whatever gift you think appropriate. Just take care that it keeps my honour, that’s all.’

Later, when Bua heard the bangle-seller’s cry from the street below, her gaze went right to the worn, dirty bangles on her wrist. She was to visit her relatives the following day; so what if she didn’t have jewellery, she could at least wear some pretty glass bangles. But an inarticulate shame slowed her steps, for what if someone saw her? The very next moment, however, as if having overcome this weakness, she went out the back door and spent a full rupee on a clutch of red and green bangles. But, for the remainder of the day, she kept her arms hidden in the folds of her sari. 

That evening, Radha Bhabhi brought Bua a silver sindoor pot, a sari and some cloth for a matching blouse. Bua was gratified with the purchases and, casting her mind ahead, she imagined with great pleasure handing over these gifts and her samdhi bewailing their past estrangement and welcoming their touching reunion. Bua no longer felt the sting of having to sell the ring. She went to a shop nearby and bought one anna’s worth of yellow pigment and dyed her sari that night. She couldn’t wear a white sari to a wedding now, could she? That night as she slept, her mind raced towards morning. 

The following day, all the cooking was done by nine in the morning. When she inspected her dyed sari, she felt it didn’t look quite right. She went upstairs to Radha: ‘Now, listen, Radha, when you wear a dyed sari it looks quite stylish, it sparkles, but this sari looks quite dull?’

‘That’s because you didn’t starch it, Amma, even a pinch would’ve made a difference. Here, apply a little now and it should be fine. When do you need to be there?’

‘Oh, don’t get me started on these modern folks, they wait until the last minute to invite you. The muhurat is at five in the evening, so I’ll probably go around sometime during the day.’

Radha smiled to herself.

Bua applied some starch to her sari and hung it out to dry. Then she took out a tray and a small crocheted doily made when she herself was a young woman. On the tray she arranged the sari, blouse, the sindoor pot, one coconut and some sweets, and then she showed it to Radha. 

Sanyasiji Maharaj had been watching these preparations all morning, and since the previous evening, continuing into the present, he had advised Bua some twenty-five times that if nobody showed up with an invitation she was not to go as it wouldn’t look right. Each warning made Bua retort with confidence, ‘Do you think I’m crazy to go if I’m not invited? Neighbour Nanda saw our names on the invitee list with her own eyes, and, besides, why wouldn’t we be invited? You think they’ll invite sundry townsfolk but not their own samdhis?’

Around three in the afternoon, seeing Bua pace to and fro uneasily on the terrace, Radha Bhabhi called out, ‘Didn’t you go yet, Bua?’

Startled, Bua asked, ‘What time is it? What’s that, three? It’s so hard to tell in winter…I mean, it’s only three but the sunlight has waned from the terrace as if it were dusk.’ Then suddenly, as if only just realising that this was not, after all, an answer to Radha’s question, Bua said in somewhat cooler tones, ‘The muhurat is only at five. If I decide to go, I’ll probably go around four, it’s only three now.’ She made sure to add a measured hint of nonchalance to her voice. 

She turned with a longing gaze towards the street below and, behind her, a dhoti hung drying on a clothesline, starched and sprinkled with mica dust. Some stray kernels of mica lay strewn about the terrace, sparkling in the sunlight, in much the same way that Bua’s face lit up whenever she spied someone entering their street below. 

In the fading twilight of seven o’clock, Radha looked up; she saw a dim silhouette, huddled against the wall of the terrace, face turned towards the street. Radha was overcome with emotion. She didn’t ask any questions; she simply said, ‘Bua, what are you doing out here in the cold? Won’t there be any dinner tonight, it’s past seven?’

Like a person suddenly waking up from sleep Bua asked, ‘What did you say, it’s seven?’ Then, as if she was speaking to herself, ‘But how can it be seven already, the muhurat was at five?’ And then, coming to terms with the situation all at once, she said in carefully controlled tones, ‘Dinner? Oh, that’s no bother, I’ll see to it right away. It’s only for two people, after all, nothing to it.’

Bua took down the now-dry sari from the clothesline. Once downstairs, she smoothed and folded it and then slowly removed all the bangles from her wrist. She took all the carefully arranged gifts from the tray and put them away with deliberate care into her sole trunk. 

And then, with an extinguished heart, she lit the gas stove. 

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Flights of Birds

Winner of The Mozhi Prize 2023

A short story by Fahmida Riaz

Translated from the Urdu original by Sana R. Chaudhry

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About the author

Fahmida Riaz (1945–2018) was a Progressive Pakistani Urdu poet, writer, translator, and human-rights activist. Born in Meerut in pre-Partition India, and raised in Karachi, Pakistan, Riaz established herself as a Marxist feminist activist, poet and truth-teller in a conservative and authoritarian landscape. As a fierce political activist, unflinching social critic and revolutionary feminist poet, Riaz was linked to the historic left-wing Progressive Writers Association, and her contributions to the Urdu intellectual tradition and aesthetic are unparalleled. Influenced by Sufi thought and Marxist class politics, her eclectic oeuvre—consisting of poetry collections, translations from Persian and English, and prose writings—is deeply concerned with social justice and global issues, ranging from articulating the female body to ideas of the self, from the Palestinian question to the Afghan civil war, from challenging orthodoxy to hate politics in India. This intention to resist, shock, and subvert was not new to Urdu literature. Following in Sa’adat Hasan Manto and Ismat Chughtai’s tradition of transgressing, Riaz defies stereotypes, critiques military statehood, resists patriarchal and religious nationalism, and speaks truth to power in prose and verse. Riaz was directly impacted by the afterlife of Partition through her migrations and movement patterns, and her works boldly assert her connection to the syncretic soul of an undivided India. Often perceived by some as a “mohajir” or migrant from India, as not ‘fully’ Pakistani, Riaz’s identity was always in question as fraught with the potential of an unpatriotic identification with India. During General Zia’s era, Riaz was accused of anti-national sentiment, charged with sedition and forced to go into exile. In 1981, she went into exile in India with the help of her friend Amrita Pritam, an Indian Punjabi feminist writer and poet. This sense of exile is a palpable presence in Riaz’s work. During her time in India, she learned Sanskrit. Riaz wrote that Pakistani writers expunged Hindi words from Urdu to give a religious colour to the language. She used Hindi, Persian, and Arabic words liberally in her work. When Zia died, Riaz returned to Karachi from exile in 1987. She also worked as a broadcaster for Radio Pakistan and with BBC Urdu radio service in London. She died in 2018 after battling a prolonged illness.

Translator’s note on طیراً ابابیل/ Tai’run Ababīl (Flights of Birds)

My discovery of Fahmida ji’s Tai’run Ababīl (طیراً ابابیل) is best described as a predestined encounter. I think of it as an act of fate because in all my years of reading Fahmida ji’s works, I had never come across this story until I chanced upon it recently during my research on translation. This curious tale—unknown and unheeded—demanded a global readership. The author’s choice of an Arabic title—an excerpt from a Qur’anic verse—was the first of many details to captivate my unequivocal attention. Arabic is an unusual choice which differentiates this work from Fahmida ji’s other prose writings. The story finds its anchor in the conflicting historical, scientific, and spiritual makings of the Arabic word “ababīl”. A strange account of an enterprising woman leading a team of men on a lexicography project, the narrative weaves textuality and violence into an extraordinary tale that revels in the mundane and—or as—the macabre. It is a story of the temporality and timelessness of language. With poetic flourish, the author conflates the loss of human life with the loss of the written word, eliciting an ineluctable sense of emptiness and meaninglessness that leaves the reader in a profoundly unsettled state. The written letter is elevated and revered, only to then be obliterated in an arbitrary gesture. The greatest challenge this story posed for translation was twofold: first, to capture this reverence, this willful lingering on the sinuous letters and mellifluous sounds of the Arabic and Urdu alphabet, and second, to efficaciously render the poetic valences of the metaphors that characterize this alphabet. To my mind, the demands of this task could only be negotiated by retaining the texture and cadence of the original Arabic and Urdu in the translation, while providing sufficient transliterations and context without overwhelming the reader. This allowed for a nuanced, provoking rendition of the story. To translate the politics and poetics of metaphor from the rich linguistic canvas of Urdu into the subtle rhetorical hues of English has been nothing short of a revelation.

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Flights of Birds 

The first day of the week was the hardest. At the office, a team of six people awaited the woman officer. The new dictionary project had begun. She was the project lead and was requested to begin by establishing the principles of lexicography for the new dictionary. 

Principles of lexicography, my god! she had thought to herself despairingly, wanting to kick herself. I haven’t got a clue about such principles, be it any new or old dictionary.

‘Look up the principles of past dictionaries,’ she had suggested.

‘But this is a new dictionary. We claimed it would be different, which is why we got the project in the first place.’

She looked at her belly which was concealed under her shirt. O belly! she thought. For your sake, I had to take the job of making a dictionary. She had been offered the job because of her articulate application composed in English. In fact, the position had simply been given away, assuming that she must be quite proficient in Urdu. She had once even worked on a bilingual dictionary, to make a living. But an Urdu dictionary! God! This was a whole other world. 

We could start compiling the dictionary as detailed in the proposal. After ten to twelve pages, we will review the work. That will shape our principles, and we can note them down, her brain had advised her, thinking rapidly. She had presented the same idea to her team. They had compiled four pages of the new dictionary after working through some fifty to hundred pages, and today…today they were to discuss those pages. Discussion…which is not the same as argumentation, really. What is the point of argumentation, anyway? To exchange ideas? A practice that was certainly not observed in her culture. There was only opposition that turned into argumentation and culminated in an altercation. Ha! she mused. 

Wiping her face with a tissue as she took the first sip from her cup of chai, she had thought to herself: What if I had not come in today? Target killings plagued the city. Who knew since when all this had been going on? On the Day of Ashura, more than forty men, women, and children had been killed in a mourning procession. This had been a month ago. The incident had sparked a daily cycle of targeted killings. The night before, one of her friends had called to report a rumor going around that these riots would intensify the next day and tell her that she should be careful. In the morning, she lay in bed cautiously for a while, then grew restless and jumped out. It seemed that the chain of suicide bombings and targeted killings would never come to an end. So, should everyone crawl inside their houses and hide? 

‘Come, get potatoes, peas, tomatoes, carrots!’ a hawker on the street called out. 

Why was he not afraid, she wondered? He must have arrived from the vegetable market with a full cart. The residents of Karachi had quickly grown accustomed to the ever-present possibility of sudden death and went on with their business. She too splashed water on her face and came to work. 

‘Come. Bismillah!’ she said to her team members who had arrived. Their faces were invariably shrouded in a kind of haze, as if they were dreaming. But occasionally, a spark could be seen glittering in their eyes. Most of them kept beards. A string of black beards, salt-and-pepper beards, bushy and sparse beards stretched out before her. It seemed as though they had climbed out of their secret underground hideouts for this discussion.  

‘Let’s begin. Bismillah. Alif-e-maqsura,’ she announced loudly. The first letter of the Urdu alphabet. She thought to herself that this alif, the short, clipped one, must be guilty of a qusuur, an offense, whereas the longer alif-e-mamduha must have, like a mamduha, a praiseworthy woman, accomplished numerous commendable deeds, for which it was constantly lauded and celebrated. She was extremely pleased with herself at this triumphant thought. One of her team members remarked: ‘Mamduda, not mamduha. The word does not contain the letter ح from the third set of the Arabic alphabet.’

‘Probably not…’ she said, abashed. 

They began with alif and arrived at the word ‘اب’. Ub—rhyming with rub, meaning ‘now’. 

‘We are recording the origin, right?’ 

‘Yes. We are beginning with the origin.’

The origin of ‘اب’ was noted down as ‘Old Aryan.’

‘Old Aryan? Meaning even earlier than Sanskrit?’ she said, surprised. 

All the people in the room stared at ‘اب’ (ub) in amazement. Its foremost pronunciation was recorded as ‘او’ or uv. For thousands of years it had been associated with Hindustanis, and now, with Pakistanis as well. Marvelous ‘اب’, that ripped and pierced through the rubble of the past, evading storms, earthquakes, and infernos. Even though the mountains had collapsed, ‘اب’ still remained. A remnant of an ancient, hazy, buried past…‘اب’…chanting: “I was…I am”. Who says stones are more lasting than man? Stones may crumble, but the word born out of man’s discourse endures. Who knows for how long it will be with us? Cultures will erase and turn to ashes. Perhaps ‘اب’ would simply dust itself off and frolic about once more upon the tongues of new settlers, and in the languages of new people. Maybe, it would shape-shift.

‘!اب’, that nobody had thought twice about, and uttered, maybe, hundreds of times a day. For the sake of the venerable ‘اب’, they unwittingly observed a few moments of silence and then moved on, bowing in homage to the Arabic ‘ابّ’ (ubb) and ‘اب و جد’ (ub-o-jad). Father and forefathers. 

‘You did not include ‘ابتہاج’ (ibtihaaj). “A state of gladness”?’ she asked.

‘No,’ they replied. 

‘Good,’ the woman remarked. ‘No one uses this word in Urdu anymore. But then why include ‘ابتسام’ (ibtisaam) or “cheerfulness”?’

The bearded faces smiled, but stayed quiet. 

‘If you ask me, it wasn’t necessary,’ one spoke.

‘It was! Wasn’t it?’ said another. ‘You see, when people consult the dictionary to name their child, these words should be there.’

‘They can always consult our big dictionary for naming a child,’ she suggested. 

She now imagined ‘Ibtihaaj’ and ‘Ibtisaam’ as two little brothers. Two carefree little brothers, running and stumbling after a ball, making their way into her new dictionary. 

Curbing her wild imagination, she said: ‘Our rule of thumb should be to include only words from books published after 1901.’

The thing of it was, this association had already published a twenty-two volume dictionary containing all the Urdu words in usage since the time of Adam. Now, the plan was to compile a concise dictionary that might be helpful to people other than researchers. The aim was to have a single-volume dictionary, which meant a large number of words and proverbs undoubtedly had to be excluded. They had also claimed that the dictionary would be made in the modern tradition, like the new English and French dictionaries. Their proposal included terms such as ‘user-friendly’. 

When she proposed that to get a general idea, certain kinds of words could be disregarded and that the team members—herself included—should consult a few pages of the old and new English dictionaries, one of them turned red. Standing his ground with the patriotic air of Akbar, he raged:

‘So, are we to imitate them? Copy them thoughtlessly?’

‘Then why don’t you suggest a way,’ she responded.

Six associates offered six alternatives. The conclusion was the same: no word could be omitted. They had become too emotionally attached to all the words. The result of their discussion was that the old dictionary would have to be copied in its entirety. 

While she felt no less emotional than her wards she also needed to be pragmatic. ‘We will not be imitating them, but in order to learn one must look to others,’ she said, feebly. Then she thought of an adequate example. ‘For instance, take a look at our atomic bomb. Wasn’t its formula copied in Holland, modeled into a paper cartridge, and smuggled into Pakistan? And now look how far we have come by imitation. No enemy dares cast a hostile glance our way.’

‘That’s different. This is different,’ they retorted.

She couldn’t deny it. That was indeed an altogether different matter. This was different. 

‘Consider the Hindustanis,’ she pressed on in her effort to persuade them. ‘Copying Russian tanks and producing one tank after another. Are they not?’

They found this example to be far more impressive. It was not only permissible to do whatever the enemy did, it was practically in alignment with the principles of Shariah. Based on this rule, they became convinced to study the English dictionaries, after which work progressed rapidly. 

Suddenly, they heard the sound of a blast. Everyone was alarmed. ‘What…what was that?’ she asked after a few moments. 

‘Nothing,’ said the office boy standing by the door. ‘A door banged shut.’

‘Oh!’ they exclaimed, recovering their wits and laughing heartily. They drank water, and when their pounding hearts calmed down she asked to bring chai for everyone. They carried on. They were just skimming over ‘ابابیل’ (ababil)—a kind of bird mentioned in the Quran—when she remembered something. This had been weighing on her mind for a while, and finally she said it out loud.  

‘See, in the English dictionary, the name of every bird, flower, tree, and so on is accompanied by its native genealogy in Latin. We too claim that our dictionary will provide exceptional knowledge about any given word to its readers. Can’t we perhaps include the scientific name along with these names?’

‘Where will we find the scientific name?’ they asked.

‘Consult Plautus,’ someone suggested. In Plautus, the meaning of ababil was simply recorded as ‘swallow’. Its scientific name was referenced in the new English dictionary—a Latin term. 

She was deep in thought. She said: ‘My fellow brothers, this is an English bird. Animal life is not the same everywhere on earth. The Hindustani ababil cannot be the same as the bird that soars over English meadows. What’s surprising is that even their crow is different from our crow…I have seen it myself. We should document this difference in genealogy on account of geography,’ she said, her eyes wide. 

She carefully studied the different definitions under the entry ababil. She was pleased to see that they referenced the Qur’anic verse, explaining that ababil enjoyed near sacred status in Urdu. They further mentioned how ababil had destroyed Abraha’s great army, which had set out to storm the Ka’bah, by flinging stones at them. The origin of ababil was recorded as Arabic. 

‘Good,’ she said. ‘These are key details that must be documented.’

All of them smiled beneath their beards. A proverb followed the English meaning of ‘swallow’: ‘One swallow does not make spring.’ Reading the proverb, they commented: ‘So these birds must arrive in the spring. Towards the end of the winter, perhaps. See, we have noted here—it is called ‘migratory ababil,’ meaning it comes and then leaves.’

She looked up the meaning of ‘migratory ababil ’: a black bird with angular wings and a red ribbon around its neck which arrives in cities at the beginning of winter.

‘But English birds arrive in the summer, not winter’ she said, scrutinizing the text. ‘These seem to be two different birds, with distinct habits and characteristics.’

‘Sair-ul-Tayyur, A Guide to Ornithology has not provided the genealogy,’ one of them reported. 

‘That other book written by an English author about ten to twelve years ago, Birds of Pakistan, is it available at the library?’ she asked. 

‘We don’t have it.’

‘Please request it right away. It will give us useful insights. In fact, place an order for all the recently published books about trees and plant life.’ She mumbled, ‘Probably also authored by the bloody English.’ Then, she was struck with another idea: ‘That Indian ornithologist who’s quite famous – if he’s written a book, do get that too.’

Hearing the name of an Indian, their faces darkened. 

‘Bhai, he’s Muslim,’ the woman reassured them, which eased their fears.

By the way, what was that gentleman’s name? Never mind, I’ll look it up on the internet and let them know, thought the woman. The team was in awe of the way she used the internet. This made her feel reassured, uneasy, and embarrassed at the same time. 

The entry for ababil further mentioned ‘ababila’. A kind of pigeon whose wings and tail were identical to ababil in shape and color. 

‘Hmm…’ she pondered, ‘Excellent!’ But now, her head was filled with other geographical dilemmas. She said, ‘Hindustani and Pakistani birds…it’s not certain they inhabit Arab lands; indeed, they might not even exist there. These are inhabitants of our jungles. Let’s see what the Arabic dictionary has to say about ababil?’

Arabic dictionaries were brought in from the library at once. The room fell silent after ten to fifteen minutes of study. All lexicographers now wore expressions of nervous apprehension. 

‘Why? What does it say?’ she demanded.

‘Well, here is the word. Plural form of bil, meaning: herd or flock, of birds or livestock.’

‘And what about that Qur’anic verse…’ she stammered as she recounted the verse.

‘It’s the same—tairan ababil.’

‘Precisely!’ said an Arabic lexicographer. ‘Meaning: flights of birds.’

‘Doesn’t the Qur’an mention what kind of birds they were?’ she inquired, even more surprised. 

‘No, it does not. In light of Arabic dictionaries, though, the matter seems quite clear.’

The room quietened for a few minutes. They sat mute and motionless—some engrossed in wonder, others in disappointment. Finally, she inhaled deeply and said:

‘And here I thought all my life that it was indeed a flock of ababil that pelted Abraha’s army with stones.’

‘You’re not the only one. Your ancestors and their ancestors had the same misconception.’

Someone whispered furtively into her ear: ‘When non-Arabs read the Qur’an, they thought ababil was a swallow. About thirteen to fourteen years ago, they gave the name to an enchanting black bird, and convinced themselves that the flights of birds that had cast stones were the same one. That bird is nonexistent not only in Arabia, but everywhere else too. This is how a particular bird got branded with this name and became the ababil that had flung stones upon Abraha’s army.’

She recalled how, in an English book by an Arabic author, she had also read that Abraha’s army had in fact fallen victim to smallpox. The inhabitants of Mecca had witnessed neither elephants nor smallpox before. This deadly pestilence was unknown to them. They perceived the sores and pustules on the soldiers’ bodies as wounds caused by the pelting of minuscule pebbles against the skin. The poetic imagination of the Arabs had crafted the same allusion for the manifestation of the disease. 

She pushed aside the memory of that book floating in her thoughts. She did not want to voice these sacrilegious notions to the bearded lexicographers. She had realized how important the human imagination was, and how mighty the creator!  The example was self-evident. It was imagination that had transformed ababil into a living bird of black, with forked wings and a tail inhabiting Hindustan, Pakistan, Turkey, and Iran. The same bird that had pelted Abraha’s army with stones. 

‘I won’t say a word,’ she thought to herself. ‘Never. Lord forgive me! Lord forgive my baap dada!’ 

She contemplated on how forgiveness was always sought for the baap dada, the father’s forefathers, and not ub-o-jad, the ancestors. Why was that? The implication of both was the same. Perhaps one phrase was the literal translation of the other. Nonetheless, the subtle yet significant difference was evident. We are more familiar with our father’s forefathers, repeatedly calling for mercy upon them. 

‘Since the word is Arabic, the origin will also be Arabic,’ one of them declared. 

‘Agreed,’ she replied.

‘But what would be the origin of ‘migratory ababil’? It’s a Persian phrase.’

‘Note down the origin as Persian. Please add this to our principles of lexicography that if the origin of the phrase is different from that of the word, it will be indicated.’

They quickly completed four pages. She was extremely pleased with their work. They had compressed fifty to hundred pages into two to three pages in such a way that each essential word had been included. It was no ordinary feat. Consulting modern English, and Urdu to English dictionaries had proved favorable. For instance, against the word ‘ابال’ (ubaal), meaning ‘boil’, they had to specify a certain temperature, similar to how the English dictionary had recorded the meaning of ‘boil’, which was nowhere to be found in the old Urdu dictionaries. In various places, they had employed a bold font, made use of different brackets, and inserted commas and semicolons consistently in each definition, crafting meanings that were utterly unique to this dictionary. (This really is splendid meaning-making, she had thought.)

They had extricated idioms, proverbs, and phrases scattered about in the old dictionaries and consolidated them in the correct order under each headword. Her methodology turned out to be successful since the principles of lexicography were being derived from the actual work being done.  She felt a kind of extraordinary joy at this accomplishment. Uncle Karl Marx had been right then, when he had said that man acquired knowledge while he labored to fill his belly. She gazed reverently at the vision of Marx that she carried in her heart. She recalled how, in her youth, she would show photographs of Marx and Engels to her mother and say, ‘See, these are holy men too. Just look at their luminous beards!’ Her mother would laugh dismissively, ‘Nonsense! These are not our kind of people.’

Now, she feigned helplessness as she told the team, ‘Which words should be included and which ones shouldn’t, that decision is up to you.’ The idea proved successful. They began taking keen interest in each word. Truth be told, they had no other choice. Had Plato himself descended to pronounce the final verdict on word choice, even his decision would have been challenged. As it were, she laid no claim to Platonic wisdom. (She hesitated a hair’s breadth from making such claims.)

She was feeling particularly moved by her team. Such bright, devoted, precious people they were!

She picked up the newspaper spread out on her spacious desk, which was crammed with headlines of target killings. She folded it up and put it away to make room for dictionaries and papers. Over the past several days, the media had been unsuccessful in revealing the mystery of who was killing whom. Whether Shiites were killing Sunnis or Sunnis were killing Shiites, whether Muhajirs were killing Pathans or Pathans were killing Muhajirs. Or, were they all framing each other to avenge the killings of their kin? The third possibility was that the murderers themselves were pawns in a game orchestrated by organizations working to achieve a distinct purpose. The fourth possibility was that a foreign power was behind all this. Foreigners might find the idea ludicrous, but what did they know? Circumstances have been the same in this part of the world for ages. 

Laying the books on her desk, the woman spoke in a tone filled with gratitude: ‘I don’t have words to describe how much I admire you all. Initially, I was concerned whether you were up to the task of fulfilling this responsibility.’ Then, swept up by emotion, she said jokingly: ‘I mean, I was always frightened by your appearance. I was afraid that one of you might even be a suicide bomber!’

They smiled. ‘But that’s what we are,’ they said, and shifted in their chairs. 

The next moment, neither the room was there, nor the people sitting in that room. There was only a deafening explosion reverberating in the city. Pieces of the dictionary were flying in all directions. Lonesome ‘Ibtihaaj’ and his little brother ‘Ibtisaam’ had been flung into the air. The drawings of elephants and horses on their tiny clothes were reduced to ash in the raging flames. 

The limbs of forefathers were dispersed everywhere, severed from their torsos. Coming to life by force of sheer imagination, the ababil had burned to death. The old Aryan horseback rider ‘اب’ was in a disorderly state. Its ‘اشو’ (ashv) and ‘اسپ’ (asp) reared on their hind legs and neighed plaintively. Their eyes had widened in fear of the blazing fire. The footsteps of ‘اب’ went spinning like a top, scattering every which way. Its throat had gone dry in terror, and in a strangled voice, it screamed repeatedly:

‘What now? What now?!’

Another ear-splitting explosion…and this time, poof! ‘اب’ ambled away, vanishing into thin air.

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A House without Cats

Winner of the inaugural edition of The Mozhi Prize

A short story by Chandra

Translated from the Tamil original ‘Poonaigal illada veedu’ by Padmaja Anant

Chandra, author

Padmaja Anant, translator

Our entire street was festooned with strings of mango leaves. The scent of the leaves wafted through the air. Anna and I turned up the volume of the tape deck churning out music. The music could probably be heard well beyond the temple tank, at the Meenakshi Amman temple. The street was packed with people. My heart swelled with pride as I watched the crowd outside our house, dressed in my new clothes: white shirt with green stripes and blue trousers. Amma’s silk saree was the same colour as Akka’s, the colour of brinjal flowers. Akka wore flowers in her hair and her plait was interleaved with a string braid with red pompoms. A white Ambassador car waited in the street.

Like a maharaja, I descended the steps with a winner’s gait. My feet caught in the flare of my trousers and caused me to trip and fall. I glanced quickly at Prabhu and Sivakumar—they hadn’t sniggered. Holding my pants up, I got into the front passenger seat of the car. Either the pants need to get shorter or I need to get taller, I thought. Prabhu and Sivakumar asked to accompany us. I would have liked them to join us, but Anna, playing the villain, glared at them. He then marched to the car door and with great style attempted to open the door. The door wouldn’t yield to the yanking by his stick-thin arms. Prabhu leapt forward and opened the car door for Anna, like an attendant. Despite this Anna continued to glare at him. Prabhu, abashed, stood aside.

Once seated, I adopted all the mannerisms deserving of a passenger of the car. I combed my hair glancing at the mirror in the car. Using tears and tantrums I had gotten a full-sleeve shirt stitched: I now rolled up the sleeves, like Appa, then glanced at Anna’s half-sleeve shirt with contempt. As always, Selvi Akka had picked a fight with Shanti Akka, and instead of climbing into the car with Shanti Akka, carrying a tray laden with fruits, she prepared to walk to the temple with our aunts and the rest of the marriage procession. ‘Why don’t you get into the car with her? Do you have to fight today too?’ Amma asked. In a temper, Selvi Akka turned around and walked right back into the house. Selvi Akka, dressed in a half-saree today like Shanti Akka, was looking lovely. The musicians and the drummers stood in front of the car, ready to lead the marriage procession. They began to play Sevvanthi poo mudiccha chinnakka, Oh sister, with flowers in her hair. 

Suddenly the music stopped. Appa walked briskly to the car, his new white dhoti folded at the knee and tied at the waist. He asked everyone to step out of the car, and dragged Shanti Akka into the house. Music, car, drumbeats, joy—all vanished in an instant. I was consumed by embarrassment. The look Appa gave us was enough to make me follow him into the house, glancing neither at my friends nor at the crowd. Appa got Akka to sit in the wooden chair in the courtyard and thrust a book into her hands. Akka began to memorize, line by line, with her eyes closed, the functions of a submarine, unfazed by the momentous event, as if her study had only been interrupted by a walk to the kitchen to get a drink of water.

Before Appa could order us to get back to our studies, I settled down with my books on the southern side of the courtyard and Anna on the northern side. Selvi Akka paced about under the guava tree beyond the temple, going over her lessons. Amma, deeply saddened by the abrupt turn of events, sat in the kitchen crying in the company of her sisters. Appa, his hands clasped behind his back, fixed his gaze on us like our teacher would.

Selvi Akka was to blame for all this, I thought; she’s the one who lost her temper first. I hadn’t even seen the bridegroom yet! And the chance to ride in the car, to enjoy the marriage procession—gone. Angry, I got up to hit her, stretching out my hands to reach her.

‘Dei Senthil, wake up … why are you waving your arms around? How many times have I told you not to listen to ghost stories at night … you’re bound to have nightmares,’ someone said.

‘But … Amma told me a story about a marriage last night …’ I said, puzzled, rubbing my eyes.

‘This is all you do. Listen to stories at night, and wake up with dreams in your eyes … Okay, drink your coffee and leave for Periappa’s house. The food needs to be ready soon, doesn’t it?’ said Amma.

‘Ask Cheeni Anna to go. I can’t go there every day. Periappa glares at me,’ I said, to which she replied, ‘Anna is a grown-up now. He feels shy, dear, so you must go.’ 

‘Anna a grown-up? He’s in the eighth class while I’m in the sixth! I wear shorts. So does he. The day he starts wearing pants is when he would count as a grown-up!’

Amma began to implore, gently caressing my chin. Selvi Akka had already finished her bath and was in her uniform. The sight of her men’s style shirt angered me. If she dressed like a man, who would respect me as one! Particularly my classmate Indumati. Without a thought that she was engaging with a male, Indumati would climb on to my back and punch me every time a fight broke out. Just so I could fight with her, I had to eat a little extra each day. Of late, even that possibility had been ruled out. When she beat me up at play in the evening, I would head home, determined to get back at her after I had eaten my fill. But Amma would have wound up the kitchen because the family had eaten for the night. Since the day we had been collecting rice and pulses from Periappa, we couldn’t have a second helping of rice. One measure of rice a day; that was the arrangement, and Periappa stuck to it.

Amma sent me off every morning, with many pleas and much cajoling, to Periappa’s house in the next street. I carried the white and red woven plastic-wire basket that Shanti Akka had made in craft class. Tucked inside it was a yellow cloth bag. Periamma would have rice, pulses and vegetables ready for me to bring back. Earlier, they gave us money once a month instead of rice. But we would run out of money by the middle of the month and turn up at their door. Thereafter this new system was put in place.

Periamma would pour the rice into the cloth bag, pack the pulses in a paper bag, and keep the vegetables on top in the wire bag. ‘Take it home carefully, Senthil,’ she’d say. Everyday. And everyday Periappa would say ‘So your father won’t help at the shop, will he? His precious crown will slide off his head if he took up a job, won’t it? Two daughters old enough to be married, and the man is holding on to his gods hoping for better times. The farms have been sold, the house on north street has been sold. What else is he going to sell? What’s left to sell? Your aunt, his sister, asked for her share of the property and dragged everyone to court.’ Periappa would intone this with the same piety with which my father chanted the Kandashashti Kavacham every morning. ‘He’s a young boy, it doesn’t seem right, telling him all this every day,’ Periamma would say, to which Periappa would retort, ‘It’s your sister I should say this to. Keeps her husband wrapped in cotton wool, not letting him step out of the house to earn a living  …’ By the time he was done, I had leapt off the wide steps of their house and reached the back door of my house, taking the crooked path between the two.

Our house was referred to as the ‘temple house’. When the family had money, my grandfather had built a Siva temple in the house. The temple opened onto the north street and the house onto the east street. Situated thus between the two streets, the house was rectangular. At the centre of the house was a courtyard bounded by sloping roofs on all four sides. There were two rooms to the west of the courtyard and two to the east of it. In front of each room was a little space, like a verandah. Each room with its verandah seemed like a house by itself. To the south of the courtyard was a verandah, a bedroom, beyond it a small granary and the kitchen. The north side had an open yard and no rooms. About twenty feet away lay the Siva temple and the well. Even though Siva was the main deity, Nandi, Ganesha and Muruga surrounded him. Barring our family and an occasional passerby, hardly anyone visited our temple.

People said that the presence of a temple inside the house was the cause of all our misfortune. Of the deities in the temple, Nandi was the only one I liked. When Appa was away and Amma was busy in the kitchen, I would climb on to its back and pretend to ride it. When Appa was conducting puja, it seemed to me that Nandi was fixing me with a look, threatening to tell on me. ‘Shall I tell your father that you ride on my back?’ I would look away quickly. Appa would kill me if he found out.

Like eating and sleeping, reading Kandashashti Kavacham was a part of the day: this was the unwritten rule of the house. Since the day Anna had moved on to eighth class, he began to announce first thing in the morning, book in hand: ‘There’s so much to study!’ There were two more annual exams to go before I could be free of Thiruvachagam and Kandashashti Kavacham. Surprisingly, I got the highest marks in Tamil in my class. Appa made me memorize the Thirukkural so thoroughly, I knew it backwards.

Appa joined us for the morning meal, and left home with us as if leaving for work. Then he would settle down under the lone pongam tree in the Sonaiya temple and act as mediator for the problems that the citizens of Anuppanadi brought to him. There were few in that crowd who were of his age. The majority consisted of older people, who were done with a life of hard work and found time hanging heavy on their hands. At night he would chat at the steps of the temple tank with younger people, who were done with work for the day. Twice a week, he would furiously debate matters till eleven at night, having discussed them with the lawyer to no avail during the day. He tired himself out just talking. Bidi, cigarette, cards—no such bad habits. Lots of talking. Lots of tea. And no free tea for him. The kind of family I come from, I’ll never take favours, he’d say, buying tea for everyone and never once receiving a cup in return. Periamma would secretly give Amma some money, unknown to Periappa; the little left after household expenses made its way from Amma to Appa.

The nights Appa returned late, we lay in the courtyard in a row, on mats. On those nights, Amma told us stories from her life, disguised as someone else’s life-stories. I listened leaning on her stomach, twirling the hooks in her blouse, feeling the warmth of her skin. The twirling became such a habit that it took several years and much teasing before I gave it up. Listening to Amma’s stories, I would lapse into my own, equally compelling dreams. Even though all of us listened—Selvi Akka, Shanti Akka, Cheeni Anna and I—it seemed to me that Amma was addressing me alone.

‘Are you listening, Senthil?’ she’d ask as if aware of my wandering thoughts, drawing me back to the story which she then continued. Of all the stories in the world, I thought Amma’s life-story most interesting and moving. She was done telling us about herself; now her stories took on various hues. Even in stories about kings and queens, the queen would be happy to begin with but then be tossed about on life’s ceaseless tides. Or a princess who was forced to eke out a living taking on housework would turn into an angel, rescued from her fate.  In all of Amma’s stories there would be some sorrow and some joy. Even though the stories were different from each other, I saw that they were all about her: she was the protagonist in all those stories.

Despite our poverty, Amma was like a friend to us, a playmate. Any food that we four bought was divided into five parts, with a share for her. I would gobble up mine first. She kept hers for the last. For me. ‘Eat it up, Amma. He’s waiting to snatch your share,’ Anna would say, restraining my eager hand.

‘He’s a little boy, of course he’s tempted. Let him have it. In any case, what will I gain by eating this,’ she would say, giving me half her share. As I grew more aware, I put off eating my share till the last. Robbers and police, hide and seek, dice play, Amma would play these games with us like she was one of us.

Even though there was no money on hand, the many objects in the house made us somehow aware that we had once been well off: wooden cupboards set in the wall, a spacious kitchen, large wooden pillars around the courtyard, the granary (now empty), and many others. The crumbling, termite-infested furniture, far from making us feel poor, imbued us with a sense of pride. Playing under the pongam tree with our playmates, we politely declined the snacks they brought. Unknown to us a sense of our former affluence stopped us from accepting these. But I couldn’t resist the food Indumati offered me, especially after she’d taken a bite from it.

Of all the ancient objects in the house, my favourite was a bronze lamp shaped like a swan. The central part, the oil holder, was round like a top. The lower part, shaped like a lamp, screwed into the middle part from below. The decorative swan on the upper part screwed into the middle part from above. All three parts could be separated and cleaned. Oil would be filled in the middle part and would drip into the lamp keeping the wick burning. Above the swan was a bronze chain, about half a foot long, for hanging the lamp. The lamp hung on one of the walls of the courtyard. Apparently the lamp could hold more than a litre of oil, and would be kept burning night and day in the month of Kartigai. But we had never seen it filled all the way. A little oil would be poured in the lower half of the lamp to light it. It was the dearest desire of Selvi Akka and Shanti Akka to light the lamp with the holder filled to the brim.

On days when nobody was around, Anna and I would rummage through the house looking for something that the house had not yet yielded to us, to play with. One such day, under the wooden steps leading from the granary, covered with dust and cobwebs, we found an old cradle, a few rusted objects and a wooden plank that was set in the floor. We removed the plank and found a square hole underneath. Our joy knew no bounds. We had discovered a secret underground room that no one else knew about! We did a little dance, leaping with glee. Suppose that dark hole of a room was too deep to come out of were we to jump in? Before we could think this over, we heard Appa’s footsteps. We quickly covered the room and rearranged everything as we had found it. That night whispers passed between Anna and me till late. Another day, I climbed down into the room by the light of the torch Anna held. The room was not as deep as I was tall. I found an iron trunk and inside it a brass vessel, a conch-shaped milk-feeder for a child and a clay figure of an unidentifiable god. That was all. Disappointed, I emerged from the hole with the brass vessel alone. Something rattled inside it. There was an old talisman and some coins, and something knotted in a piece of cloth. When the knot was opened, a silver coin and a gold coin with an image of Saraswati twinkled at us.

We ran to Amma to hand it over. Amma was overjoyed, as if all her past wealth had been restored. Hopeful, we turned the whole house upside down in search of hidden wealth, in vain. But it became an excuse for Amma to revive her tales of past glory. Our grandfather had chests full of silver coins, she said. Once a month, on full moon night, the coins would be spread out to catch the rays of the moon in the belief that that would prevent them from tarnishing. Amma contented herself with telling us these tales. Believing their wealth was enough to see them through life, Appa and others had not been educated. And now they were forced to deal with the courts having been cheated of their wealth. At least his children should occupy respectable posts such as bank officer, collector or doctor, Appa wished. Dictator-like, he stayed at home, and made sure we studied and also had our share of play, holding back his obsessive desire to see us always with a book in our hands. He didn’t let my sisters go anywhere near the kitchen. He even fetched the water from the well for our daily needs. Putting together the paltry rent we received, the little money we made from leasing out our fields, and Amma’s efforts to lend that money on a weekly basis in return for unhulled paddy, we had just enough to feed ourselves through the year.

Shanti Akka was in the first year of her MSc course. She also tutored some children simultaneously. Selvi Akka was in the third year of her BA, and Cheeni Anna was studying BSc. Appa spoke much less now, and his appetite for tea had shrunk. But he was full of hope because the family’s past glory had been redeemed by the educational prowess of his children. Since we couldn’t afford to buy the books my sisters needed for their study, he would look for them in the central library in Madurai or in the university. They would photocopy the pages relevant for their study.

‘Without money and without a job, the man has managed to educate all his children,’ people said admiringly of Appa. ‘When there’s not enough for kanji, what’s the pressing need to educate the children,’ Periappa growled.

 I was now a trouser-wearing eleventh class student. I no longer went to Periappa’s house carrying a bag. But whenever there was an event at the college, Akka would go to Periamma’s house to borrow a floral-print saree from her daughter, Sumati Akka. ‘Give her a nice sari, di,’ Periamma would tell Sumati Akka, who would pretend not to hear and hand out the least appealing saree she had. But Shanti Akka would be happy even with that since it was a chance to wear something other than the three sarees she owned. Her face would light up. And the fact that Shanti Akka looked beautiful in whatever she wore annoyed Sumati Akka even more.

Expenses on education had been spiraling, defying all attempts to control them. But happiness was within Appa’s grasp. In a couple of years everyone would be earning well: the promise of it was thrilling! And then, when the children were about to finish their studies, all the care he had taken to avoid a misstep was forgotten and a momentous change was made.

Whenever Amma suggested that we move out of this house and into the house on the south street that we had let out on rent all these years, Appa had expressed horror at the idea: ‘Have someone else live in the house of my ancestors? Not while I’m alive.’ But he now made the decision and part of our temple house with the courtyard was let out. Two kitchens were set up and two families moved in. We got four hundred rupees from each tenant, making a total of eight hundred.

It greatly improved the financial situation of the household. But we lost our courtyard. And our childhood, our play, Amma’s stories, all vanished. We now lived on the southern side of the courtyard. Selvi Akka and Shanti Akka stayed inside the rooms all day, studying. Anna sat in the verandah, studying. We were like islands, each lost in our studies in different parts of the house. Appa scolded me, as usual, worried that I wasn’t studying enough and wouldn’t do well in life.

The rooms on the west had been let out to a couple with a young child. The child’s cries would echo through the night in the courtyard. During the day, the courtyard buzzed with activity. The rooms on the east were let out to a company that made appalam. In the evenings, women in faded sarees and girls old enough to wear sarees but who were still in half-sarees, would stir sad thoughts in me: they brought to mind memories of Selvi Akka and Shanti Akka. Like us, the appalam women had forgotten how to laugh. Or maybe they had lost their own courtyards. The courtyard held our collective sigh; I began to avoid it.

When the roof around the courtyard was wet with the rain of the Aippasi month, Indumati, the one who would always fight with me, was married to her uncle. She and I were the same age. After she was married it dawned on me that I was now a young man. Even though I hadn’t yet found my very own love, I had at least felt my heart quicken. In spite of poverty a new joy set down roots in my life.

In the dry months we played cricket in the dry temple tank. During the rains we would sit on the steps of the same tank, exchanging stories. One rainy season, a grey cat moved into our house. It belonged to our neighbour, the priest Samuel. Every evening he held a prayer meeting at home. At one such meeting, the grey cat scratched the legs of one of the parishioners, a fat man praying devoutly for forgiveness, so badly that he bled. The priest was livid and hit the cat with the cross in his hand, and shooed it out. The cat vented its annoyance in shrill tones, and thereafter began to walk the parapet wall of our house. It escaped the tribulations of the prayer meeting only to be tortured by Appa’s Kandashashti Kavacham. The constant traffic in the courtyard was unsettling; it struggled to search out a silent corner to find relief.

Because of the old stuff lying around the house, it became home to insects, geckos, snakes, centipedes and rats. The appalam company people would find a snake almost every day and would beat it to death. A snake was once found under the mat I slept on; thereafter it seemed that the whole house was slithering snake-like under our feet.

The house had lost its sanctity because it had been let out to strangers, and the gods weren’t pleased about it. That’s why, Appa reasoned, the house was crawling with snakes. He sent out all the tenants. He threw out all the objects that had lain unused. When the house was being cleaned, two of the snakes escaped Appa’s attempts to catch them and slipped into the temple. We regained our courtyard, but not the joys it had held. Amma stopped telling us stories. We no longer slept in the courtyard in a row on mats. My sisters, having completed their studies in college, were now in the inner rooms all the time, studying for exams for a government post. I was now in the first year of college, but in my heart I was still a young boy craving for affection.

At home, everyone treated me like the young man I now was. Appa no longer raised his hand against me. I missed being able to lay my head in Amma’s lap and feel her gentle touch. Everyone had moved on. I tried to hold fast to Amma even as I sensed her slipping away. When she cooked I would help her, yearning to gain her affections. Hoping to catch her eye, I pretended to slip and fall; I would revel in her concern as she anxiously said, ‘Watch your step, dei Senthil.’ Clearly, she loved me the most, I would assure myself. I thought I couldn’t live a day without her. Cheeni Anna would scold me, ‘Why do you give Amma a scare every day?’ The depth of Anna’s affection for her rivalled mine but was never expressed.

Our childhood and its memories gradually evaporated from Amma’s memory. The burden of conducting her daughters’ marriage lay on her like a mountain. A marriage proposal turned up for Shanti Akka. The groom held a good job and was reasonably well off. Because Akka was educated, the family had agreed to ten sovereigns of jewellery. We didn’t have a gram of gold to our name. None of us believed the marriage would come through. Shanti Akka sat in a corner weeping.

There wasn’t a decent saree to wear, where was the question of jewellery? This time, Amma left for Periappa’s house and returned with a ten-sovereign necklace for Shanti Akka and some jewellery for Selvi Akka as well. Selvi Akka and I whispered to each other that we should build a temple to Periappa; Cheeni Anna was silent, as if he knew something that none of the others did. Amma shared her secrets with him, not me. ‘The jewellery belongs to us,’ she said. I stared at her, unable to comprehend. ‘At the time that we forfeited our fortune in the court case, Periappa’s jewellery shop also suffered losses. When Periamma’s jewellery wasn’t enough to bail them out, she asked me for mine, promising to return it when business flourished again. Since we were going to lose everything, I thought I might as well try and save the jewellery. So I gave it to her and didn’t show it as part of our wealth. Later, when Periappa offered to return it, I refused. The food he gave us daily was a form of interest for that principal.’ Tears swam in my eyes but I was furious with Amma. I had had to show up every day at their door like a beggar, head bent in shame. And even when I won at games against Periappa’s son, I had to pretend to lose, otherwise he would threaten me with ‘Let’s see when you come home tomorrow. I’ll make sure you don’t get your rice.’ I lay crying on the terrace, all alone, feeling Amma had wronged me. ‘Dei, you are making a big deal of this,’ everyone said, trying to console me. Except for Amma, no one felt my pain. She held my hands, pleading.

Within a few months of Shanti Akka’s wedding Selvi Akka too was married. The house on the south street that had been leased out was sold to meet wedding expenses. Appa was not the Appa of my earlier dreams of Akka’s interrupted wedding. He plunged into wedding related work with enthusiasm. He advised my sisters to take up jobs and not stay at home.

Cheeni Anna got a job as a professor in Sivaganga. That left Amma, Appa and me; the house grew quieter. The grey cat, now pregnant, gave up walking about on the parapet and found a quiet spot in the granary to give birth. She bore five kittens. Amma left a bowl of milk there. She watched in delight as the grey cat carried the newborns from one place to another, their coats gently but firmly held between her teeth.

The grey cat seemed to have entirely forsaken the priest’s house and now lived with her kittens in our courtyard. The cat’s presence brought us together; Amma and I became friends again. Amma talked about the cat and kittens all day. When two of the kittens were carried away by dogs, the incensed grey cat hounded out the mice flourishing in the house.

Karuppi, Sivappi and Ponni was what Amma and I named the kittens, after the colour of their coats, black, white and gold. After the kittens arrived, we began to refer to the grey cat as Big Cat. ‘Dei, look at this Karuppi’s arrogance, she hasn’t touched the food I left her’ or ‘Karuppi and Sivappi had a fight today …’ Amma would report as soon as I returned from college. And I would respond, ‘Is that what she did? Looks like I’ll have to scold her.’ The day Ponni disappeared Amma went to bed without food. Amma’s heart overflowed with love again, for the cats this time, not her children. As if she was keeping an eye on a pair of naughty children, she would follow them around the house. Like Amma’s children, Karuppi and Sivappi would snooze in her lap.

Karuppi would only drink milk, not bothering with any other food. Sivappi would eat anything that was given to her. When Amma moved to Shanti Akka’s house for her delivery, Karuppi disappeared. I didn’t give Amma the news. When she returned she blamed me for Karuppi’s disappearance: I must not have fed her milk, that’s why she ran away. Everyone that she heaped affection on, left her; that was her misfortune, she said regretfully.

Since Anna was struggling alone in Sivaganga, Amma decided to move there to keep house for him. She first thought of taking Sivappi with her but realised that Big Cat would then be left alone. Sivappi stayed back. Appa lived with me now, to give me company. We cooked, we ate, we ran the house. Sivappi wandered around looking for Amma, mewling like an infant. Anna and Amma wrote to me asking us to join them at the end of the semester, and asked after Sivappi. Unable to tell her that Sivappi had died after being hit by a vehicle, I told her that Sivappi too had disappeared. In the letters she wrote thereafter she did not mention Big Cat either.

Big Cat had tired of hunting mice and was found dead in the granary one day. I didn’t tell Amma about the burial or the odour of the dead cat that hung over me then. Even after we locked up the courtyard house and moved to Sivaganga, Amma didn’t ask me about Big Cat. She didn’t want any more bad news concerning cats. Once, when Appa accidentally said, ‘You know, Big Cat died …’ she pretended not to have heard him. The courtyard where Shanti Akka, Selvi Akka, Cheeni Anna and I had slept now lay vacant, with no cats to keep it company either: how was I to tell Amma that?

About the author:

Chandra (b. 1977) is a poet, short story writer and film director. She has won several prizes for her contribution to Tamil literature, such as Sundara Ramaswamy Viruthu and Kalachuvadu Viruthu. She has also worked as a journalist.

About the translator:

Padmaja Anant is a publishing professional and enjoys reading. She is interested in translating works from Tamil and Hindi into English, across a variety of genres. 

Filfilee

Runner-up of the inaugural edition of The Mozhi Prize

A short story by B. Jeyamohan

Translated from the Tamil original ‘Verum Mull’ by Amruth Varshan

B. Jeyamohan, author

Amruth Varshan, translator

In Samaria, men who don’t drink in the summer are branded lazy. The only way to survive the maddening heat and sultry dust is to swill pitchers of chilled, stomach-churning yayin. Eyes watering from the dried peppers of Abyssinia, the pungent yayin assaults the tongue with a sourness to match. The body eventually starts cooling down. Thoughts fleeing the heat finally settle down, drenched. Only then can you find the energy to work. Or think. 

This small town in Samaria is called Ein Sheva — Seven Springs. A town that rose and grew around seven springs that flow by each other. The Arabs who discovered these springs named the place ‘Tabgha’ in their tongue. The town lies along the famed Camel Ridge. It was around these springs that, centuries afore, groups of camel traders put their loads down for a respite from their arid trek. Travelling to Turkey, they carried precious cargo of cinnamon and papyrus from China, or peacock feathers and sandalwood from India. The springs, bordered by rocks, ran deep enough to drown a man twice over. Coloured crimson, they looked  like lone, bloodshot eyes. Descending the outcrops, the traders would sate their own thirst before tending to their camels.

In truth, the place had emerged for the sole purpose of yayin trade. Jewish merchants from far-off Judaea started travelling here to sell Arab and Chinese traders yayin. Over time, the surrounding lands built up into a village. A village of taverns. It had inns that housed rough benches thrown together by tacking on slabs of wood over stones and were roofed low with palm leaves. Behind these inns lived the innkeepers and their families. Many women, on occasion, frequented these innkeeper dwellings. And like the sour, foaming yayin, they too, were for sale.

But even today, there exists no one in these parts capable of making the yayin. It needs quality flour — ground barley is blended with water and left to ferment for over a year. Undertaken by people whose entire lives are dedicated to yayin, it’s distilled in villages far away. Its making is a tradition, handed down for generations. The people who brew it, their attire, breath, words and thoughts are as caustic as the yayin itself. Even their villages lie buried in the deepest retreats of the dust-swept desert, very much like vats.

The excavated yayin, smelling of sand, is transported in wooden barrels. Mule carts laden with the fresh blend beget a royal reception. Nomad poets would trail the procession, singing of the drink’s strength, plucking away at the strings of a kinnor. Women and children would dance. As the carts make their way into the village, they are welcomed to deafening trumpets rearing skyward.

The tarry residue at the bottom of yayin barrels doubles as medicine for laden camels driven with little rest. Its effect on the camels is almost magical. With drooping eyelids and necks turned to jelly, they collapse onto the sand. When they awaken, they do so refreshed, and feeling youthful. They can recognise the scent of yayin. The patriarch camel would signal its desire for the muck with a loud ‘prrrrr’. Timid female camels would sniff and stomp on the sand with heavy hooves, their manes shuddering.

It is indeed remarkable that such springs could exist in such desolate wastelands. Lands where the skies and the earth are little more than red dust. A hydrologist from the lands of India, east of the snow-tipped peaks, had once proclaimed that beneath the sand ran a hidden river. Seen from atop the wind-weathered sandstones some distance away, sezeban trees — an indigenous species, growing above the river — would give the appearance of a large green towel draped over the desert.

The sezeban is a short, thorny species of shrub. They nurture green leaves devoid of moisture and have branches sticking out in opposing directions. Leaves bud into green mounds with the coming of spring. With autumn, they turn into bare trunks. Sticks barren of foliage. And as autumn comes, so do the Abyssinians who call these trees, filfilee. They are never around to witness green on these trees — a fact betrayed by their name for it. ‘Barren thorn’. An interpreter had once said that that was how the word ‘filfilee’ translated to the local tongue.  In Abyssinian, it’s a scathing insult, reserved for braggarts with no actual substance. In spring, this thorny shrub is anything but barren, sporting lush, green smiles. But its leaves are ridden with prickly thorns. The natives think the tree cunning. The green foliage is seductive and attracts unwary donkeys. Even the slightest lapse in judgement would leave the poor beast’s mouth mutilated. A traveller with his garb entangled in its nettles, would find it near impossible to extricate himself from its clutches without the aid of another.

Personally, I’m a summer kind of man. I’m rather partial to the sultry season in Samaria. To me, the winters there are quite uninteresting. The cold feels like filthy, wet wool wrapped around my body. Fall wind in Samaria heaves at the desert constantly, making it impossible to have a drink of yayin free of sand. The entire town would be deserted on such days. Merchants would be extremely reluctant to open the barrels that held the drink. A few barrels uncasked in want of the odd coin would go to waste, its insides reeking of fungi. But in spring, the tides turn and people flock to the marketplace. Poets at the kinnor, young merchants, and women of the night populate the benches far as the eye can see, all of them, soaked. Drunken babble and meaningless laughter sink into the sour sand. This is when the yayin is most expensive, leaving nomads like me with a dearth of drink.

The throng thins out in the summer when the earth and skies tire. The occasional traveller on camelback and the sigh of wind lost in the dunes are the only sounds echoing off the barren landscape. Looking upon the expanding skies, the open directions and the desert drinking in the sun, is wonderful to a wayfarer. There is no better view. The insignificance of it all sinks in, an inexplicable feeling that nothing holds any gravity. A feeling that fills the hearts of nomads like me with serenity. As a voice inside whispers repeated comforts, the lilting tunes of a kinnor are all my heart desires. Life would then be complete.

His white beard fluttering in the wind, dirt pooled around his closed eyes, old Thomas lay outside the tavern, kinnor on his lap. As his head drooped in stupor, his hand slid and fell upon the instrument, its twelve strings seeming to moan the words, ‘Aamaamallavo’. For a brief instant, my soul rippled as water in a well. The moan that fell on my ears — they were words of my native tongue. A language that I hadn’t heard since my childhood, lying forgotten, a shadow in the bottom of my heart. A language I hadn’t spoken a word of in thirty-two years. A language that held meaning only in my dreams. I called for another mug of the acrid yayin.

When half my tankard was gone, scatty Isaac limped to the mouth of the bar, dragging his swollen leg behind him. The rags he wore weren’t unlike the tatters that fluttered around the trees of the desert, snagged there by the wind. He carried with him at all times, an enormous bundle, accumulating clothes he found over time. He never parted with it, the hefty cargo always on his back. Hence the swollen leg. Even as he slept, the heap would rest over him.

Rebecca hurried outside, screaming, ‘Get lost, dirtbag! I don’t have the patience for your filth so early in the morning.’ Isaac did not so much as flinch. Not even when she threatened to strike him with her wooden pan. It was impossible to remove him until he got what he desired. His eyes were like yellowing pebbles mildly wet from morning dew.

Summer made Rebecca as prickly as its heat. She shot various insults at Isaac, hoping to shoo him away. Carrying a heavy pitcher of water inside, her mother advised, ‘Give that fool something and send him on his way. He’s going to frighten away the customers. Disgust them, more likely.’

‘Sure,’ Rebecca scoffed. ‘What customers? Would you please shut up? The only drinker we’ve had all morning is this easterner. He’ll sit here all day, drinking not more than a measly copper’s worth.’

Turning to me, ‘You, nomad. Finish your mug and leave now. The stench of your clothes is bad for business,’ she accused.

Giving her a silver coin, I asked her to give Thomas and Isaac a mug each. She stared at me in disbelief.

‘Yes, it’s real. Solid silver. Keep my tab open until that runs out.’

Curtly plucking the coin from my hand, she scuttled back inside. She would turn the coin over several times, inspecting it. They consider me a sorcerer here. To them, all easterners are conjurors. Flying carpets, canes that turn into snakes, tongues of flame and such tricks are expected of us. When an easterner confesses that he can’t actually fly, he invites strange looks. Or so a Chinese trader once told me, chuckling, his narrow eyes narrowing further.

My words lured Thomas inside. He was a patron of the bar now. A buyer. With an air of dignity, he placed his kinnor on a wooden pedestal and joined me on the bench. He rubbed his palms in glee and grinned at me. His black teeth flashed for a moment amidst a beard that looked like dried blades of grass. Isaac seemed unaware of what had transpired.

Rebecca gave Isaac the first mug. Taking the tankard from her with both his hands, he meekly sat down on the mud platform by the entrance. As if sipping scalding hot soup, he puckered his lips and began slurping in small gulps. From inside, ‘Did you earn this with all your tricks?’ asked Rebecca.

‘No. Fortune telling.’

‘Whose fortune did you tell?’

‘A Roman general’s.’

‘Ah. That’s what I thought. Who else would be here, in this summer, rich enough to possess silver?’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Thomas.

‘Dark times lie ahead. Your slaves will rise in revolt. Clouds of dust will swarm your horses. Slay a few more chickens in the name of your Gods,’ I burst into laughter. ‘That’s what I advise any official.’

As the drink was brought to Thomas, he ignored it with an air of condescension befitting a lord. With an intense expression, he turned to me and said, ‘I hear that the heat will drop quite a few bodies in the towns south. Diseased Abyssinians, from their travels the last time around, have left behind some strange sicknesses.’ Even as he spoke, he carelessly lifted his mug up to his nose, sniffed at the drink, and shook his head, satisfied. ‘Boils crop up all over the body. No one survives for more than four days. Entire clans are being wiped out. All it takes is one infected member.’

Pointing at Isaac’s rag bundle, ‘Samaria is one huge trash can. Not unlike this bag,’ I said. ‘It lies in the path of many important trade routes. Diseases from all corners of the world converge here. People of all races leave behind their seed. Thoughts from around the globe condense here.’

Throwing his head back in raucous laughter, Thomas took a long, deep draught. ‘True… Nomads from countries all over meet here.’

Standing at the inner entrance, it was Rebecca’s turn to laugh. ‘I had a feeling this would backfire on you,’ she guffawed. ‘The very moment you bought him a drink.’

I looked up from my mug and at Isaac. He was still slurping on his tankard, turned towards the desert, staring off into the distance. His unmoving eyes gave him the appearance of someone deep in thought. Or someone devoid of any.

‘Now look here you eastern wanderer. I’m not a stranger in these parts as you are. This is where I was born. My ancestors have been bards for twenty generations. I have each of their names on the tip of my tongue,’ said Thomas gruffly, leaning heavily on his fisted hand on the wood.

‘But your clan is dead. What of it now?’ asked Rebecca.

‘Yes. Yes, they are dead. They succumbed to an alien sickness. Probably from his eastern countries,’ Thomas spat at me. Taking a hard swig, he emptied his mug with a shudder, clearing his throat with a guttural noise. ‘The mind of a bard from an extinct clan is scarcely more than a dustbin.’

‘Why don’t you look for other employment?’ asked Rebecca.

‘I’m a bard.’

‘So? Shouldn’t a bard work?’

‘No. Because he is a bard.’

Shaking the tankard to extract the final drop onto his tongue and extending it toward Rebecca, ‘It wouldn’t be the worst thing for you to give me some more,’ he said.

‘Leave.’

‘I’ll tell you the story of this wanderer if you do.’

‘Whose story? His? Let me guess. He came here with traders from his land and when health failed him, they left him here.’

‘You’d think. But no. I saw him as he entered Samaria with three others.’

‘When?’

‘You weren’t yet born. Back then, your mother was the fairest in all of Samaria. And the most expensive. Ah, some thirty years ago. Maybe longer,’ said Thomas. ‘It was a time when the most gallant of heroes was this fool, Isaac.’

‘Is this true?’

‘Aye. He used to be taller then. Stone Pillar, we used to call him. He was famed for being able to break sandstones with his bare hands. A heavy sword always hung by his belt and a whip fashioned from fishtails hung over his shoulder. His arms and shoulders, tattooed with cobras, made women all over swoon. He was a centurion in the royal army. When he walked into taverns in the evening, women and singers would surround him, celebrating his very presence.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Rebecca, glancing at Isaac.

‘I have a whole ballad that sings of Isaac and his glory. But that is for another time. This story is of this nomad.’

‘If it would shut you up, I’ll buy you another tankard,’ I negotiated.

‘I’ll give you a mug to speak,’ Rebecca countered my offer. ‘Why did he come here?’

‘Refill,’ said Thomas.

‘Argh! You…’ started Rebecca, but got up and fetched the yayin anyway. Winking at me, ‘Go on,’ she urged Thomas.

‘Thirty years ago, a powerful rumour swirled around these parts, much like sand. At the root of it all was a comet.’

‘Yes. I’ve heard my mother speak of it. She said it appeared like a giant red tadpole across the heavens.’

‘When I first saw it, I thought it was a red flag, a shirt tied to a pole by poor souls afar, unable to walk, stranded, alone in the sand. Its tail was quite long and sometimes looked like the forked tail of a swallow. At other times it appeared to be a fish’s fin. It remained there for four months. It first rose over the southwest. Over time, it gradually moved to the northeast and eventually disappeared from view.’

‘Oh. That sounds breathtaking. Can I hope to see anything like it in my lifetime?’

‘Astronomers say it’s unlikely. They had never seen anything quite like it,’ Thomas took another swig.

I stared at him intently. It has been thirty years and the Samarians still did not tire of talking about the comet. Wherever a singer told tales of it, it earned him barley porridge at the very least. The constant stories, regaled repeatedly over time, made the comet legend.

‘But some texts speak of the comet. As did seven great seers,’ Thomas continued. ‘It was a warning. A gauntlet. Like a lit arrow fired into the sky before a war. A sign that we begin now, and that there will be no going back,’ his eyes shone as he spoke.

Tucking her skirt between her legs, Rebecca sat across the narrating Thomas.

She is rather beautiful, I thought to myself. Her cheeks flushed red, excited by the tale, her eyelashes fluttering.

‘Though we have been slaves, looked down on for centuries, we Samarians are a chosen people. We discovered the true God in these stark sands. It is to us alone that God has spoken. It was our lack of unity that led to our enslavement. Today, we are shackled to the yokes of Rome. They flog us mercilessly as we lay helpless, our legs broken. Drinking our own blood to quench our thirst, we roam the desert in the unforgiving heat.’

Rebecca nodded, rapt.

‘While we pray, our dispersed clans live in parts of Egypt, Abyssinia and Rome as slaves, manacled and worked tirelessly. Flogged, starved and raped, they die hopeless and meaningless deaths. But we prayed. Eyes closed and our palms folded over our chests — as is the eastern way — our hearts thumping against their cages, we prayed. Tears fell like drops of molten lead. Our words simmered as though they came from the mouths of raging kilns. As a father watches the scowl on the face of his sleeping child, our Lord stood bent over, watching as we prayed.’ Caressing his long, white beard, Thomas smiled. ‘The comet was an answer to all that.’

‘Oh!’ Rebecca exclaimed, clutching at her heart. ‘Lord, I pray all the time too. Did you know?’

‘There isn’t one Samarian you can show me who doesn’t pray,’ Thomas told her. ‘That is why the comet was sent to us. We had been blowing on wet tinder for so many years. The firewood finally reddened and sparked; the first tongue of flame. The fire will blaze on now, a towering inferno, reaching for the heavens.’

Emptying the rest of his mug with a single swig, ‘Somewhere, the blade has been drawn,’ he said.

‘Rebecca, I’d like a refill,’ I asked.

‘Following the comet, thirty years ago, hordes of people flocked here from the east,’ Thomas went on. ‘Astronomers and learned men. It is said that the comet was visible far into their lands. Legend has it that tens of thousands of scholars set out for these lands. But only a few actually made it, crossing Arabia and Egypt. Those few were still enough to fill this small town with new eastern faces. Yellow faces, much like half-cooked pancakes. Or overcooked. Like this face here,’ he pointed at me.

I took a sip from the drink that Rebecca had brought. Sucking in the final drop, Isaac set his mug down. Placing his bundle over his lap and resting his hands on it, he sat there, staring into the distant desert.

‘I had been rather eager to catch a glimpse of the eastern aliens. It was a harsh winter. The northern winds blew in, cold as icy daggers. And just as sharp. No one ventured outside after sundown. I had a dream that night. I was walking through the desert, in the parts where my clan was buried, when my legs tripped over another pair. The legs of little John. And what’s more, he was alive! I fervently dug him out of the sand. ‘My mother is here. Close by,’ he told me. His mother Maria. I dug her up too. I dug all of them out of the sand like a man possessed. And just as well, I woke up, startled, in a cold sweat.

‘You know it yourself. Dreams of resurrection foreshadow death… I have no family to speak of. No kin. Was this omen meant specifically for me? Shivering, I made for the taverns, looking for a mug of yayin. As the night had long since begun, none of them were open. As I stood around, not knowing what to do, I caught sight of dancing lights in the distance. By their bobbing, I could tell that they were lights mounted on camels. I started in their direction.’

‘Is that where you saw him?’ Rebecca gestured at me.

‘Yes. Their group was rather large. Twenty camels in all. Thirteen laden with cargo. By the time I reached them, they had unloaded it on the sand and were erecting tents in the desert. I approached them playing my kinnor, lest they mistook me for a bandit. After all, eastern daggers always find their mark. Unsheathing a long, thin sword from his scabbard, their guard pointed it at me and asked me who I was. The metal glinted like a shimmering snake. I told him I was a kinless bard. After careful examination, they offered me their sour eastern wine, bread and dry fruits.’

Thomas ploughed on. ‘On a large carpet sprawled on the sand, I saw four men seated. It was a flying carpet. Of that, I had no doubt. The mysterious runes engraved on it made their purpose very clear to me. A shiny, blue carpet. The four men on it looked regal enough to be emperors. You wouldn’t believe it but all four of them were easterners. Each of them was of a different complexion. Of the four, this one here had the darkest skin.’

‘Him?’ Rebecca got up, astonished. ‘He was one of those emperors?’

‘Yes. You couldn’t possibly imagine what he was like back then. Like a golden scarab. He was the youngest among them. A beard black as the night and sharp as a horn. Teeth like white pebbles, large round eyes. He was able to converse with me all in Samarian.’

‘What did he talk about?’

‘He asked me what stories were told here about the comet. I told him vaguely that people were afraid. I figured, why disclose our secrets to a foreigner? Angered, he threatened to turn me into a lunatic if I didn’t speak the truth. Right then, the oldest of the four admonished him and beckoned me closer. His long beard fell on his chest like wisps of clouds. He asked me if any miracle had occurred here. Trying my hand at flattery, I told him that one indeed had happened. They had come to our home. That a bard’s hunger has been sated. But no. He wasn’t swayed. He asked me if anything extraordinary had happened recently. Lowering his voice, he asked me if there had been any royal births.

‘Up until then, I had never even thought of it that way,’ Thomas confessed. ‘I had a moment of clarity. All became clear to me. I told the old man that there had in fact been a birth. But I couldn’t reveal anything further. A lion cub had been born. They bid me to leave. I disobeyed. A little distance away, I reclined on a rock, keeping an eye on their group. But the eastern wine was too potent. You would know all too well. I dozed off. In the morning there was not a single indication of tents and camels having been there the previous night. Every trace had been erased by the wind. A golden muslin cloth discarded by the springs was the only evidence for all I just claimed. Naturally, no one believed me. It wasn’t worth even a mug of Yayin.’

‘Didn’t he leave with them?’ Rebecca asked Thomas, blinking in surprise.

 ‘No. But it was another eight years before I saw him again. His clothes torn, dirt plastered all over his body and his hair a spectacular mess, he sat drinking at a tavern in the Joppa Harbour. But I could recognise his eyes. Those mysterious, foreign eyes. I went up to him to make certain that it indeed was him. He had no memory of me.’

‘Didn’t you go back?’ Rebecca interjected.

‘Do you really believe the yarn he’s spinning? He would swear on his life that I am Caesar in guise if that would get him another round of booze.’

‘A bard never lies,’ retorted a solemn Thomas. Turning to Rebecca, ‘Rebecca, honey, your beauty is beyond words. Your thighs and the undying spring between them are the stuff of dreams. Would you be a darling and fetch me another mug?’

Raising her hand as if to hit him, ‘I will split your skull,’ said a smiling Rebecca. Nonetheless, she brought him half a mug of yayin. Turning to me, ‘But this, I believe of him. I’ve seen you here around seven, maybe eight times. I have a strong feeling that you’re not a simple nomad,’ she accused.

‘What other kind of nomad is there?’

‘The kind that always has a good yarn to spin,’ she giggled.

‘Or tales of treasure,’ Thomas chipped in, sipping from his mug.

‘Fine. I’ll spin a yarn for you. Do you know where I hail from?’

‘Pray tell.’

‘You can’t possibly imagine. Far east of here, beyond the snow-capped mountains, there lies a country. The trees from whence the seeds of human wisdom spread through the world grow there.’

‘Indus. I know. I’ve been with a merchant from there for a week.’

‘Yes. It’s a river. Larger rivers run down south. Giant fields, cities of epic scale. The houses in some of the cities are roofed with bronze. In others, even with silver. Some temples have roofs of solid gold.’

Rebecca’s jaw dropped in amazement.

‘Even larger nations and cities lie to the south. At the tip of one of these southern lands, two oceans converge. Here, the waves crash like thundering horses. One of the oceans is a light turquoise while the other is a darker shade of green. The rulers of this land have a lineage so ancient that its beginning has passed out of living memory. They are chiefs of a fishermen clan. Their ocean is where pearls are found.’

Rebecca stood up. ‘Yes, I’ve seen them. They gleam like the eyes of fish. Eastern merchants bring them here for sale.’

‘Yes. The fishermen clan accrued their wealth only after they started diving for pearls. They learnt to build wooden galleys and to trade by sea. They built a fortified city that they called ‘Alaivaai’ – Wave-Mouth. Their chief became a king. They became the unconquerable Pandiyars, and the name has lived on.’

‘Are you from the House of Pandiyar?’ asked Rebecca.

‘If it pleases you, so be it. After all, all you want is a good tale. Let’s say I am of the royal family. My name is Chezhian.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Chezhian.’

‘Cheziyah.’

‘Fine. Cheziyah.’

‘Why come here? Across these mountains and deserts?’

Smiling, I replied, ‘Ask your bard friend there. He will cook up stories that will keep him supplied with yayin for years to come.’

‘Come on. Tell me,’ she insisted.

‘Okay. Presume I came here as a merchant. Having lost all my money on a beauty like your mother, I was stranded here, unable to return home. That makes for a fine story, right?’

‘Stop fooling around and answer my question. Did you see the prince cub of Judaea?’

‘No.’

‘Oh,’ Rebecca deflated. ‘Did the others with you see him?’

‘Yes.’

Rebecca inhaled sharply. ‘Did they not take you with them?’

‘They did.’

‘Then how come you didn’t see him?’

‘How do I explain this to you? Those with me went up to him and kneeled in front of him.’

‘You?’

‘I did not see him.’

‘Why not?’

‘I did not kneel.’

‘That means you’re divine too,’ Thomas butted in. ‘My lord, bless me with sweet wine.’

‘I don’t follow,’ said Rebecca.

‘That’s a story for a different time. It would get Thomas another mug some other time,’ I winked at her.

‘You make your living with these petty mysteries, don’t you? All you easterners,’ Rebecca sighed. ‘There once came a magician who performed tricks with rope. A fairly simple trick. Yet it has helped his family thrive for a thousand years.’

‘Right you are.’

‘There is no talk of the lord these days, huh?’ Rebecca asked Thomas. ‘Back then, people talked about nothing else for a while, my mother tells me.’

‘Yes. Word reached the ears of King Herod. Terrified, he ordered the execution of all the infants born that year.’

‘I’ve heard of this. Mother says my brother was killed too.’

‘Thousands of babies were massacred. Soldiers went door-to-door, sword in hand, cutting down all the toddlers they could find. Nursing infants were ripped from their mothers’ teats and mercilessly murdered. Their eyes ran with tears as their breasts did with milk. I’ve made no less than seventy elegies of the incident.’

‘My god!’ Rebecca exclaimed.

‘They would bundle the clothes stained with blood of the massacred children and collect their payment from the master of coin. With their bloody swords and new money, they would come for drink. And women. Tossing us coins, they would command us to sing. All of what I sang was for them. Hearing my songs in a drunken stupor, they would start bawling, inconsolable.’

‘What is to come from speaking of such matters now?’ Rebecca’s mother called from inside.

‘They are poems. And what is poetry but history.’

‘Do not sing,’ she warned.

‘You just might score another mug for not singing,’ I jested.

‘Shut it, nomad filth. I’m a bard from a tribe with a history of a thousand years. Do you think we’re equals?’ Thomas roared.

‘The tribe isn’t here now.’

‘They are like grasshoppers. Lying in wait, buried in the desert sand. All they need is one night of rain. They will rise again. When our lord rides, a sword in one hand and fire in another, atop a red mount, the skies will part. And rain will pour forth from the rift heavens. Rain not of water, but of blood, red as his steed. Bathed in that rain, the dead will rise, and my kinnor will ring ceaselessly.’

‘Good yayin is like a forest fire. It catches on but gradually,’ said I.

‘Wandering scum!’ Thomas spat. ‘Run from here, out of my sight. My saviour is coming.’

‘Perhaps he was slain at the sword of Herod’s rule thirty years ago.’

Thomas froze in shock. He glared at me, unblinking. His head trembled. A sudden sound rent the air. Like a woollen quilt ripping. Thomas had started sobbing. Tears fell heavy on his beard. Brushing them away with his hand and clutching the fabric on his chest, he shuddered violently.

‘There we go. Rebecca, drag him and dump him outside,’ her mother ordered.

I walked outside. Isaac was still on the platform, unmoved. I went into a cluster of filfilee bushes to relieve myself. This was the problem with yayin. As I squatted, I heard a sound on the other side. Merchants? But they did not come here during the summer.

I stood up. A small crowd was moving down the street. All of them were swathed in long, dusty robes. A man was riding a donkey, surrounded by seven more engaged in song.

Rebecca and Thomas stepped out of the tavern to investigate the commotion. ‘He’s a carpenter’s son,’ Thomas proclaimed loudly. ‘He calls himself a preacher. He speaks like a learned man.’

I looked at him intently. I couldn’t quite gather why my heart was pumping so fast. His long hair flowed over his shoulders, his beard, like a black honeycomb. His robe was in tatters. His lower body seemed one with the beast he rode, appearing to be a part of him.

He taught the fishermen to fish, the carpenter’s son,

Yes! The carpenter’s son, the carpenter’s son.

And the fisher folk under the sun, made him a cross,

Yes! A cross. A cross, a great wooden cross!

Thomas sang raucously and danced, waving his arms wildly. Rebecca stood watching with glee.

I looked at the eyes of the rider. My fingers were trembling. He rode past me, as the group walked around him. I could see his legs draped over the donkey. Cracked heels, coated with dirt. All at once, I felt a burning desire to leap and dash towards him. I moved forward without realising it. But the sezeban was all around me, a prickly prison. A couple of thorns buried into my hand as another caught on the fabric on my torso.

Crossing the fence, the crowd kept moving. Irritated, I whisked my hand back. A tiny streak of blood ran from a gash, my palm on fire.

There was a strange, sudden squeal. Surprised, I stepped back. Behind me, Isaac came rushing blindly and leapt into the filfilee, burrowing through. Taken aback by the assault of thorns, he froze for a moment, shrieked and jumped out onto the dirt. Getting himself up, arms stretched out, he ran down the street, still screeching. His clothes had been ripped away and he was bare-naked, red, bloody streaks across his body where the thorns had torn at his skin.

I craned my neck to see a sprinting Isaac, covered in blood, like a newborn rushing from the womb. His bundle lay abandoned at the mouth of Rebecca’s pub.

*

About the Author:

B. Jeyamohan (b. 1962), based in Nagercoil, Tamil Nadu, is a pre-eminent writer in modern Tamil literature. His most significant work yet is a twenty-six part roman-fleuve called Venmurasu (The White Drum), a reimagination of the Mahabharata. Spanning more than twenty-five thousand pages, it is amongst the longest literary works in the world. Apart from other landmark novels such as Vishnupuram (1997) and Kotravai (2005), his body of work includes more than three hundred short stories, many volumes of literary criticism, biographies, travelogues, introductory texts to Indian and Western literature as well as essays on heritage and philosophy. He has received many honours, including the Akilan Memorial Prize for his first novel, and the Katha Samman, the Sanskriti Samman and the Iyal Award (Canada) in later years. He can be found at https://www.jeyamohan.in/.

About the Translator:

Amruth Varshan is a writer and game designer from Tamil Nadu, India. He has a background in engineering but his true passion lies in the meeting of literature, language, and art. Deeply fond of both English and Tamil, he’s always trying to find new ways to express his love for words.

Cotton Fever

Third place winner in the inaugural edition of The Mozhi Prize

A short story by Senthil Jaganathan

Translated from the Tamil original ‘Mazhaikann’ by Anjana Shekar

Senthil Jaganathan, author

Anjana Shekar, translator

When we reached Kumbakonam bus station that morning, time was half past six. It was made possible only because we had woken up as early as 4 am. Amma got down from the bus and told us that her legs had gone numb. She took each step carefully, as if walking on water. From a tea shop at the bus station, Appa got us coffee to drink and tea for himself. As soon as she took a sip of coffee from the cup, Amma’s left hand automatically reached behind her saree to scratch her lower back. This happened every time she drank something hot. She would begin sweating and when she did, the itching would take over. Although we were used to it by now, the looks we got from the tea shop made me feel awkward. By the time we finished our drink a bus to Tirunageswaram town was ready to leave from the bay on the other side. We boarded the bus and arrived at Muthupillai Mandapam. 

As we entered the premises of Sacred Heart Hospital, we encountered different kinds of patients. Those with half their fingers melting away, those with their skin peeling off in white patches, those who were wiping away the blood and pus from their knees with cotton, those with sunken noses, gradually losing the shape of their face, those who had swollen patches across their bodies, those whose skin looked red, as if covered with scratches. In every direction we turned, there were only lepers. The moment Amma took in the scene, she gathered the free end of her saree into a ball with trembling fingers and stuffed it into her mouth. 

Appa left us to enquire with a nurse at the reception. 

‘Sokkayee! look where you’ve abandoned me… I never did no one no harm… Vadakamalayane! Oh, what’ll happen to ma three babies?’ She cried to herself in soft tones, tears streaming down her eyes. 

‘Don’t cry amma,’ I told her gently. The sight of those patients, the odour of medicines, and the still-wet floors that reeked of phenyl churned my insides and increased my anxiety. Across from us sat a man whose right hand was wrapped in cloth; he was missing three fingers. Next to him sat a woman, fanning his bandaged hand with a sheet of cardboard. Amma threw furtive glances at them. 

Just then Appa returned from the reception desk. 

‘Wretched fellow has brought me to this state, damn him!’ her tears turned into anger the moment she saw him.  

A few token numbers went by, and soon it was our turn to see the doctor. In his white coat and glasses, he seemed like an ageing Mother Mary. After listening to everything that Appa had to tell, he responded in subdued tones. 

‘How did you get by like this for a year? Could you not have come in earlier?’ he asked while writing down something on a paper. Behind him there was a picture of Christ standing amidst a herd of sheep, cradling a black lamb in his arms. Amma’s eyes, brimming with tears, remained focussed on this picture. 

‘We will run a blood test now and begin treatment based on the results. I am going to write down some tablets for you to take and you can come back next week. There’s a specialist coming in from abroad. Don’t worry… we can cure this.’ As soon as the doctor said this, I saw hope glisten in Amma’s perpetually teary eyes. 

When the nurse extracted blood from a vein on her hand, Amma ground her teeth and shut her eyes. For someone who had never paid heed to any kind of sickness for more than two days, Amma now feared the thought of even the slightest prick on her skin. 

The doctor’s confidence and the way he closed his eyes in the end to pray for Amma gave us hope. As soon as she got into the bus, she rested her head on Appa’s shoulders and fell asleep. 

***

About a year and a half ago, around the end of a harvest, Appa, who was having his dinner, told Amma: ‘This time, let’s not plough. Let’s go for cotton fully. I’ve asked the Thinnandiyur cotton merchant to keep aside some seeds.’ He paused waiting for her reply. Amma spoke while serving buttermilk from a pot resting in the  uri ropes that hung from the ceiling. ‘There’s paddy seeds, isn’ it? Even when the earth was parched and cracked didn’ we bend and toil to bring water, save pourin’ it by the handfuls? Now there’s plenty of water, isn’ it?’ she spoke softly, taking care not to wake my brother. 

‘And ter what use was that? Ter have sown and laboured day an’ night? We’ve got ter think about our boy’s college admission. We’re goin’ ter have ter pay back the remaining debts. And before my time’s up, I want ter build a house… I’m sayin’ we grow cotton now so we can see some money. Tomorrow I ain’ the one who’s goin’ ter enjoy ‘em all.’ his voice rose, angry and uncontrolled. Amma remained quiet only because she feared that Appa might leave without finishing his dinner. My brother who was half asleep woke up with a start and scratched his head. She comforted him back to sleep. 

This time, Amma was not for sowing cotton. Two months ago, when she swooned under the Ayyanar temple palm tree, Mayavaram Narayanan doctor had said that she had high blood pressure. Since then she tried not to spend long hours under the sun or strain herself with too much work. But she was able to keep this up for only a week. As the time for harvesting drew closer, Amma took it upon herself to oversee all the work. On the last day of the harvest, while they were winnowing the paddy grains, she hyperventilated and fainted once again. This time they made her lie down under the banyan, resting her head on one of its roots. 

On the one hand, cotton demanded twice the work. One’s throat would dry up and tongue fall out just to keep off the Panampalli cattle from grazing the lands. On the other hand, it was only because of the cotton we had sown earlier that we were able  to buy a wet grinder for the house and reclaim the two sovereign gold earrings that were pawned off at the Sirkazhi Cooperative Society over three years ago. Now the Ayyanar pond was brimming with water and the well-maintained diesel engine too gave us no worry. We could be sure of a good supply of water. We could reap in abundance. 

Amma’s thoughts raced from buying a television set for the house so the children wouldn’t have to go from house to house to watch TV, to escaping from the smoky kitchen by purchasing a gas stove. Only the state of her health stopped her short of saying yes.

But Appa had already made up his mind. With a fifty thousand rupees investment, if one were to dedicate just four months to the cotton, the returns would be three times as much. And so he bought cotton seeds from the cotton merchant in Thirunandriyur. The next day was in ascension. He consulted the calendar and found that it would be best to sow them the following day. It was Amma who soaked the seeds herself in cow dung milk that same night. She kept her indifference only until a decision was still to be made. The minute something entered the house, it became hers. With the seeds soaking in the dung mixture, Appa shovelled and cut furrows across the field the very next day. Since it was recently cultivated, he didn’t have to level it once again. For Amma it was a bit of relief that the levelling expenses were spared. 

We drilled in the end sticks on either end of the furrows and ran taut strings across them. Across these lines, we dug holes at three-feet intervals. Amma and I sowed the seeds along with my younger brothers. On the fourth day, the saplings showed their heads and she looked at them with maternal joy, like someone inspecting a newborn ward at a hospital. We replaced the seeds that didn’t germinate with those that we had nursed at home. Generally, people tended to mark these spots with a stick wrapped in paper but Amma always knew, without a doubt, which row and which hole had the bad seed. She had a way of knowing the earth’s every movement. Once my grandfather beckoned me and said, ‘Your ma, she’s got them earth lines memorised.’ I have borne witness to the true meaning of those words many times. 

Amma did not feel the strain of the seventh day watering because Appa was around. On the fifteenth day when it was time for the next watering, he had to leave town to attend a relative’s wedding and we too were away in school. Amma scouted for someone to buy diesel for the engine, started it on her own and made sure every sapling had its supply of water. With the same vigour, she took up fertilising the two-acre field herself, with just one other person to help. This, she accomplished in just half a day. In the subsequent days, it was time to begin weeding the field. Amma called for a few field hands. From bringing them tea and vadai to weeding the missed-out patches herself, she took care of it all. The physical stress of it made her often exclaim, ‘Ah! Could just grab my rib bones and throw ‘em away!’ But the sight of healthy plants swaying in the breeze would make her forget all her pain the very next day. ‘These cotton plants… lookin’ like sucklin’ children. Even forget my pain sometimes,’ she’d say. Even if saliva gathered in her throat, she’d only dampen the roots with her spit.

Every morning one has to walk into the fields around the same time as the grazing cattle. If not, they’d just raze through our hard work. The cattle herders would let loose the bovines and doze off under the banyan trees or play the strategic aadu puli aatam board game – the ones with pieces for lambs and tigers – at the pillared temple halls or wander off to gather palm dates. Unbeknownst to the herder, the cattle would turn towards the fields. And when that happens, one has to howl and clamour loudly and run in all directions to chase them away, unmindful of the thorns that pierce and tear the sole of the feet.

In addition to the cattle, worms and insects are cotton’s worst foe. Leaf-coloured worms and pale-red insects can destroy cotton. They can’t be controlled even when insecticide is sprayed with the help of sprinklers. What makes matters even worse is when there are trees surrounding the fields. Our field was bordered by Indian mulberry, fence firewood and portia trees and as a result many insects began infesting the cotton. Our biggest blow came when the cotton’s agony somehow transferred onto Amma. While tending to some of the infected plants, she felt a slight prick on her left palm. On an impulse, she massaged it off. 

On the first day, under the impression that it was just an insect bite, she applied brine. When the swelling did not reduce, she resorted to home remedies like crushed turmeric and slaked lime in coconut oil. When that too didn’t work, she had to take an injection at the terrace doctor’s clinic in our town. Only then did the swelling reduce. But as time went by, the itch that originated at the bitten spot intensified. A kind of a persistent, unsatisfiable itch like the one felt in the stomach of a pregnant woman, a feeling like that of a thousand prickly worms crawling at once across the body. Amma would scratch herself so hard that her nails would bear bloody stains. Those same nails then caused the itch to spread. In time, her body became covered with hardened and flaky skin like that of a ringworm infection. Some said it was shingles, some said it was ringworm. Everyone who saw her turned into doctors. 

When home remedies gave her no relief, some suggested that country medicines would work better when it came to treating skin diseases. And so we went to a country doctor in Sirkazhi. We were asked to avoid all allergy-causing food items like brinjals, dried fish, milk coffee, tea and fish. The country doctor prescribed an oil to be applied all over her body and tablets to be taken before and after meals too. His prescription, however, led to no improvement. Instead, the frequent bustling in the summer heat only made her suffer more. All this turned into anger directed at Appa. 

‘Are you not takin’ me to a good hospital because it’d cost you more? Is that why you’re making me roam here and there and tormentin’ me like this?’ With that question, Appa gave up on country medicine. 

In three months’ time, the pods were bursting out and the cotton was ready to be picked. In spite of her health, Amma went into the fields. ‘Don’t miss out on any of the open pods my dears. God’ll bless you for it,’ she’d say, seated at the boundary, to those picking the cotton for us. 

When there’s field work being done, Amma would never be able to sit in one place for more than half an hour. She wouldn’t be able to resist getting down and picking through a few pods herself. These she would collect in the pocket made by tucking in the folded ends of her saree at her waist. At the end of a cotton harvest, there’d be four months’ supply of kindling for the kitchen. But now that didn’t matter because Amma detested going anywhere near the stove. 

The moment the heat from the stove reached her skin, she would begin to sweat and itch. By the time she could finish cooking, Amma would writhe as though burning. During the early days, we did not know to think otherwise, but slowly we began to regret asking her for coffee or tea. What upset her the most was when people asked about the scabs on her hands and neck and legs, in places that weren’t covered by her saree. 

Neighbours and relatives seemed repelled by Amma’s condition. Once, when our aunt’s mother-in-law passed away, Amma wanted to join the lamenting circle formed by a group of closely related women, including our aunt. And when she did, they started leaving one after the other, repulsed by the thought of coming into contact with her. Amma would often recall that incident and grieve. Since then, she began avoiding any kind of gatherings. If there was no way out but to visit, her torment would begin with the bus journey itself. The sweat and the heat would aggravate her itching. Sometimes, she would grab anything that was close at hand to relieve the itch. We could hear the raspy sound of nails on skin even in the middle of the night. Amma, sleepless, would be scratching herself using the hand fan, and doze off only around dawn. 

That day too, she woke up tired, with puffy eyes. Realising how late she was, she rushed to cook. Appa sat down to eat at 11 am. Having mixed kuzhambu with rice, all it took was one mouthful for him to realise that it had no flavour, no salt, no spice. He kicked the kuzhambu bowl and spat out, ‘Disgusting. Can’t even bear ter taste this. Thuu…’ As if someone had yanked the hair from the crown of her head, Amma who was seated on the doorstep blew up in rage. She picked up the kuzhambu bowl that came rolling towards her, aimed at the wall and flung it with great force. Whatever remained in the bowl splattered all across the walls and the floor. ‘With sores on every inch of my body I’ve not been unable to sit or stand. Showin’ me your arrogance, are you? That am not pleasin’ your taste buds, you son of a bitch! You don’t even bring me a cup of water if I fall sick. And you’re kicking my own kuzhambu at me?’ she burst out, hurling the rice pot towards the street. The ruckus brought our neighbours outside. Although he must have felt like kicking her, the sight of Amma’s sudden fury sent a tremor through his body. Never had he seen such anger in her. 

Amma was in the habit of bathing twice a day. She especially liked taking long showers, using at least five bucketfuls of cool water. This routine stopped ever since her body became riddled with sores. Even if she did, she would hurriedly pour warm water over her body. Water tended to soften the skin around her sores and when she towelled her body down, she felt pin pricks on those unhealed scabs. So, Amma avoided bathing for days. 

By then we had lost all hope in country medicine and Appa took her to a skin specialist in Mayiladuthurai. Every day she’d be seen carrying a handful of tablets, syringes, and ointments. Within a short period of time, the sores turned into scabs that peeled in flakes. Pus began oozing out from them, and the scabs remained unhealed. Our worried enquiries were dismissed by the doctor who said that was the only way to heal fully. With the summer heat rising, Amma’s body was a sight of festering sores. If there was a power cut at night, she would howl in pain. We’d be jolted awake, only to watch her toss and scream. My brothers would hold me tight in fear. Startled by Amma’s wailing and moaning, my youngest brother would begin crying. Slowly her sounds would die down and we too would doze off, only to be woken by her piercing sobs. ‘Sokkayee! This is torment, Oh! Don’t you feel no pity for this sight of me? Or have you lost your eyes?’ Facing the entrance, she’d shriek with fury, slapping her face. The sight would just wrench our gut in horror. 

Well into the morning, after we had woken up, we’d find Amma asleep. Since Appa took care of sending us to school, she was able to take a break from the kitchen. During those days, Amma would lie covered in Appa’s white veshti because she could not bear the pain of any other fabric coming into contact with the scabs that had turned sticky and gooey. The stench of rotting skin filled the house. In time, Appa made us eat near the stove in the backyard. We then began sleeping in the backyard too. At one point, if we happened to enter the house, Amma began to throw anything she could grab at us, screaming, ‘Get out! Get out!’

***

When the conductor blew his whistle at Solasakkaranallur, I jolted awake. The windswept tears had left dry streaks down my face.

As soon as she returned home, Amma sat in silence in front of our family deity’s picture. Her silence unsettled our balance. It worried us even more when she refused to talk the whole day.  A growing anxiety for the test results took root in Amma’s heart from the very next day. Her unending tears caused her face to swell up. ‘Whose curse, which woman’s anguish… it circles around my feet. Never sought out anyone’s hand in help. Do I have to watch my own hands melting away? What’ll happen to my family… They’d be abandoned,’ she cried, pounding on her chest. She found some relief in Appa’s words. ‘It’s a hospital for leprosy, yes. What makes you think that you’ve got it? We’ve been everywhere for treatment. Many pointed us ter that hospital. Let’s trust in god and continue here. It’ll all be okay.’

I was in the backyard, alone, when my second brother came to me. He always slept next to Amma and was fed by her. Ever since she fell sick, he was gripped by a longing. ‘Big brother, when will Amma get better?’ he asked me. ‘Soon,’ I told him but even when I did, I was reminded of all the faces and the hands that I had seen at the hospital. Every time I imagined Amma’s fate turning out to be like that, I shook my head. 

Appa vowed to walk to Palani as a family, if Amma healed completely. Every morning, my brothers and I prayed to our family deity and then to the town’s elephant god, Pillaiyar. 

After a long time, Amma gathered all of us together and passed around rice balls that she had mixed with kuzhambu. For almost three months, she had avoided cooking and it was Appa who had served us food. There was a reason why. An old lady, who had come to visit us three months ago said to our neighbour, ‘She’s been grindin’ batter with those hands. She’s been cookin’ and feedin’ ‘em with those hands. If the young ones were to get her disease, what’ll she do? Shouldn’ a woman of the house think of all this?’  When that comment reached her, Amma bawled, pounding her chest. A while later, wiping away her tears she said, ‘Ma hands won’t harm ma own children. I’ve done no one no bad. Nothin’ would happen to ma children, Magamayi… Nothin’ should befall them.’

The next day being a Tuesday, Amma and Appa went to Vaideeswaran temple. Standing outside the temple’s main deity, Thaiyal Nayagi’s sanctum sanctorum, she asked Appa, ‘Shall we finish our prayers here and go directly to the hospital?’

‘Why, we’ve got five more days! We can go then,’ he said. But Amma didn’t want to give up. ‘I don’ care about results. Lemme go now. I’ll tell the doctor lady myself. I’ll ask to stay. I’ll water the plants, I’ll sweep the floors…I’ll eat what I can get. Can I not stay there?’ she pleaded. Appa, who hadn’t shed a tear until then, couldn’t bear it any longer. He covered his face and cried. Amma didn’t bring it up again. 

Next week, we went back to the Sacred Heart Hospital. A few doctors had come from abroad. They gave Appa an English name for the skin disease caused by an insect bite. The treatment commenced. They said that she shouldn’t, at any cost, go back to wearing the poonam and polyester sarees that she had worn until then. Three days later, Appa bought four new sarees for her. 

A nurse who walked in to give her an injection asked her with curiosity, ‘What kind are these sarees?’ It was Appa who answered, ‘These are pure cotton, miss.’ Amma’s fingers kept caressing the soft fabric, smooth and delicate like a newborn baby’s hair. Lost in thought, she buried her face in them and wept.

*

About the Author:

Senthil Jaganathan was born on August 20, 1987 in Panampalli village in Tamil Nadu’s Mayiladuthurai district. At present he resides in Chennai and is working in the cinema industry. He has worked on a few scripts and has also written dialogues for a few films. His first story was published in the year 2018 in Ananda Vikatan magazine. He has since been published in many Tamil magazines. 

About the Translator:

Anjana Shekar is an independent writer from Chennai. A year ago she transitioned from journalism to explore other forms of writing and to begin her arts practise. She is now working on short stories and scripts. She also nurtures interest in mixed-media art work. This is her first work of translation. Her writings have appeared in The News Minute and The Hindu.

The Mozhi Prize 2022: A note from Team Mozhi

We are at the end of the inaugural edition of The Mozhi Prize, and we must say, we were astounded by the number and range of entries we received. We are thrilled that there are so many people interested in the art and craft of literary translation and we think all of this augurs very well for the future of translation from Tamil to English.

When we announced the competition in October, we were hoping for at least fifty entries. We ended up with 91 submissions, from translators based in India, Sri Lanka, the United States and the UK. The youngest participant was 13 years old (Jyotishaa Mahendrarajan Lavanya, who had teamed up with her father to submit an entry – their entry made the longlist). The oldest participant was 73 years old. 

We received translations of works by a wide range of writers, including Vaasanthi, Chandra, Ambai, Uma Maheshwari; Su. Venugopal, Shoba Shakti, Perumal Murugan; Jeyakanthan, La. Sa. Ra,  Prapanjan, Ki. Ra, Sujatha, A. Madhavan; Pa. Thiruchendhazhai, Senthil Jaganathan; A. Muttulingam, Vannadasan, Vannanilavan, Aadhavan, S. Ramakrishnan and Jeyamohan. We could not consider A. Muttulingam’s stories because he is a judge; this exclusion was mentioned in our rules. 

In a bid to platform contemporary and emerging voices in translation, we had a rule that only stories published after 1972 would be considered for the contest. While it left out classic Tamil short stories by stalwarts like Pudhumaipithan and Ku. Alagirisamy, we were delighted to receive many translations of stories by younger writers like Senthil Jaganathan, whose Cotton Fever (மழைக்கண்) is incidentally a prize-winning entry. At the same time, we wished more writers could have been represented, for the world of the Tamil short story is a very rich one. 

We, Priyamvada and Suchitra, read all the 91 submissions. In our readings, we made a few observations.

We found that the submissions could be divided into three categories. Some of the translators, we observed, are very well read in Tamil and had picked excellent stories to translate. However, their translation skills could have been better. If a story does not read smoothly in the target language, then despite all the merits of the story in the original language, it unfortunately falls flat. This was the case for many of the submissions. 

Other translators had a good grasp of the English language, but we thought that the stories they had picked were relatively ordinary and unimaginative. Suggestiveness or dhvani is the hallmark of an artistic work. A good literary work doesn’t simply say what it intends to, it evokes feelings and emotions in the mind of the reader through its language and stirs their imagination. One of the challenges and rewards of literary translation is finding the right language to express those echoes and evocations with the same dhvani as in the original. Stories that are not rich in these tendencies to begin with don’t shine in translation. For our contest, as described in the rules, we weighed both the literary quality of the chosen story and the quality of the translation to arrive at our longlist.

That leaves the third category of translations: the translators had picked imaginative stories, and had engaged with them deeply to create translations that were evocative and stirring. They had a good grasp of fictional prose writing, and had made significant choices so as to evoke the time, landscape, characters, pacing and emotions of the original Tamil story. These stories made it to the longlist of 21. 

A couple of general points of feedback to our contestants. One, we felt that many of the submissions could have improved significantly by revising the translation at least once. As with any kind of writing, a good translation needs multiple drafts before it reads well. Getting one’s translation peer reviewed by a friend who regularly reads fiction in English is another tip to improve one’s translation. 

We also saw potential for translators to team up and produce good translations. A team of two, one of whom is steeped in the source language and another who can write good prose in the target language, can create excellent translations. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, a husband-and-wife team who have translated Russian authors, including Tolstoy and Dostoevesky from Russian into English, are a famous example. When we reviewed the competencies of many of the translators who had submitted entries to The Mozhi Prize, we felt that this could be a model worth exploring in Tamil too. 

Our longlist was sent to the three judges, who used the criteria of literary quality and translation quality to arrive at a shortlist of 9 entries: Darun (Clarinet – Senthil Jaganathan), Megana (Beast – Jeyamohan), Vignesh (Resurrection – Su. Venugopal), Sherwin (Maadan Moksham – Jeyamohan), Anjana (Cotton Fever – Senthil Jaganathan), Mayuravarshini (A Brief Strain of Music – Vannadasan), Amruth (Filfilee – Jeyamohan), Padmaja (A House without Cats – Chandra) and Iswarya (Ammaiyappam – Jeyamohan). At this point of the competition, it was very close, with multiple stories appealing to each of the three judges. In the end, they have announced three Winners and three Special Mention prizes. 

Congratulations everyone. We personally loved reading all the shortlisted entries and think all the shortlisted translators have great potential. We look forward to reading more of your translations in the years to come and collaborating with you. Yesterday, a friend messaged asking ‘I wonder where all these people were hiding all these years!’ There is a general perception that good translators are hard to find. However, as we discovered through this contest, they are all around us. On behalf of Mozhi, we are delighted to have found you. We hope that this is only a beginning and you’ll continue practicing ‘the little art’ of translation.

–Team Mozhi

p.s. We will get in touch with those of you who had requested for feedback on your entries, soon.

The Mozhi Prize 2022: A note from the judges

N. Kalyan Raman

I was honoured to be a member of the jury for the inaugural edition of the Mozhi Prize. It was an enjoyable experience chiefly for two reasons. One, I got a chance to read a well curated collection of stories in Tamil, many of which I hadn’t read before. Two, I had the pleasure of experiencing, as a reader, the ethos, milieu and registers of a familiar culture ably transported into another language. My congratulations to all the participants, and especially the winners, for choosing to enter the domain of ‘this little art’ of literary translation. May you efforts flourish and grow in excellence in the coming years. 

I have a few suggestions to make to the particpants on making your mark as a literary translator. In literature, only the very best texts receive wide attention and stand the test of time. So it is with translations. Therefore, choose the texts you want to translate with great care. A good translator is also an expert curator of texts for readers in the target language.. Second, translation at its best is about the struggle to find that better word, phrase and sentence. Bear in mind that it’s a struggle without end. Never stop learning from every resource available to you. Finally, reading widely and well in both languages is foundational to becoming a competent translator. Wide reading can help you cultivate your sensibility and augment your capacity for literary expression. Both are indispensable for this little art. I hope you, too, will find translation as pleasurable and exciting a pursuit as it has been to many of us over the years. 

My best wishes to all participants.

A. Muttulingam

It was a pleasure to be a member of the jury for the inaugural edition of the Mozhi Prize, which in itself is an excellent initiative and needs to be encouraged. The competition was well put-together by the team and can be a model for others doing similar projects. 

I was happy to see that the competition garnered a wide variety of translations and the submissions included both classics from the oeuvre of Tamil short fiction as well as the works of new and upcoming writers. Many of the translations were excellent. Hearty congratulations to the participants, and especially the winners. I do hope you continue to practise the art of translation and contribute to taking Tamil literature to the world stage. I encourage you to read world literature widely in the target language and develop further, the ability to transport cultural contexts to a global audience. 

Best wishes.

Deepa Bhasthi

As a non-Tamil, it was firstly an immense privilege to be able to access the works of so many Tamil writers in translation. I was very impressed with the range of stories chosen and the brilliance of so many of the translations, and it was certainly an unenviable job to pare it down to the final winners list. While I am fairly fluent in spoken Tamil, I cannot read or write the language, yet. Thanks to this, however imperfect my coordinates in the language, I was able to ‘hear’ a lot of the translated words and sentiments in Tamil, which in my book counts as a good translation. 

The act of translation is both a privilege and a labour of love, and perhaps ever more urgent in the times we live in. I sincerely hope that at least a few of these translators continue practising this magical art of cross pollinating between languages and therefore, cultures. 

I also look forward to seeing the marvellous initiative that is Mozhi expand to include more languages and enriching the translation landscape in the coming years.

Announcement – The Mozhi Prize – Shortlist

We are very happy to share that we received an overwhelming response for the inaugural edition of the Mozhi Prize. We received 91 entries overall from India and other parts of the world, including Sri Lanka, Canada and the United States.  

We had opened the contest to anyone aged 15 or more; the youngest participant was 13, and the oldest was 73. We accepted entries from individuals as well as teams of two. 10 of our entries were from teams of two – either friends or colleagues who had paired up, or married couples, or parent and child. In a bid to encourage participants to translate younger, more contemporary authors, we had asked them to submit translations of stories written after 1972. We received translations of works by a wide range of writers, including Vaasanthi, Chandra, Ambai, Uma Maheshwari; Su. Venugopal, Shoba Shakti, Perumal Murugan; Jeyakanthan, La. Sa. Ra,  Prapanjan, Ki. Ra, Sujatha, A. Madhavan; Pa. Thiruchendhazhai, Senthil Jegannathan; A. Muttulingam, Vannadasan, Vannanilavan, Aadhavan, S. Ramakrishnan and Jeyamohan. We could not consider A. Muttulingam’s stories because he is a judge and this exclusion was mentioned in our rules. 

We have made a few exceptions to the rules stated in the competition announcement. 1. Word limit – We had asked that stories be a minimum of 2,000 and a maximum of 7,000 words. While we have rejected stories that have crossed the maximum word limit, we chose to consider the shorter stories since all such submissions were true to the short story form and none of them had a flash-fiction quality to them. 2. We had asked that the stories should not have been published before in translation. However, we have accepted stories for whom a previous translation was published in journals that had little / no English editorial. 

We thank all the participants who sent in their submissions. We were delighted to receive so many entries and we hope you continue your journey in translation.

The two of us (Priyamvada and Suchitra) read through the stack of 91 entries and longlisted 21 entries. These were sent to our panel of judges, who prepared the shortlist and decided on the prizes. We are deeply grateful to the judges, A Muttulingam, Deepa Bhasthi and N Kalyan Raman for their time and engagement with the competition. The submissions were judged on both the literary quality of the chosen story and the translation quality. At the end of the exercise, we are excited to announce the shortlist of 9 entries, viz., 

(in no particular order):

Story	Author	Translator
Clarinet (காகளம்)	Senthil Jegannathan	Darun S
Beast (விலங்கு)	B. Jeyamohan	Megana Kumar
Resurrection (புத்துயிர்ப்பு)	Su. Venugopal	Vignesh Hariharan
Maadan Moksham (மாடன் மோட்சம்)	B. Jeyamohan	Sherwin Rodriguez
Cotton Fever (மழைக்கண்)	Senthil Jaganathan	Anjana Shekar
A Brief Strain Of Music (ஒரு சிறு இசை)	Vannadhasan	Mayuravarshini.M
Filfilee (வெறும் முள்)	B. Jeyamohan	Amruth Varshan
A House Without Cats (பூனைகள் இல்லாத வீடு)	Chandra	Padmaja Anant
Ammaiyappam (அம்மையப்பம்)	B. Jeyamohan	V. Iswarya

The final results will be announced on Saturday, Dec 10 at 6.30pm IST over a virtual meet-up. 

Topic: The Mozhi Prize – Results
Time: Dec 10, 2022 06:30 PM Mumbai, Kolkata, New Delhi

Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/85066520230?pwd=SGdwZEVXRjRINXQzRWN2eTdvRHhQUT09

Meeting ID: 850 6652 0230
Passcode: 992179

We would love to see you all there. 
Team Mozhi