Short Fiction-1: CAT AT THE AGRAHAARAM

Dilip Kumar

(Translated by Vidhya Sreenivasan)

D

eath refuses to come to this old wretch. This is the seventh time!” Babli Paati moaned bitterly in Gujarati.

Madhuri, who came in from the kitchen, understood as soon as she saw it. “Has it drunk it up again?”

“It is doomed. Can one even move about in this house anymore?” Babli Paati suddenly turned on her daughter-in-law – “Well, I wonder what kept Her Highness so busy that she couldn’t even spot a cat walking into an open household?”, taunting her with practised sharpness. 

Madhuri knew that the old woman did not need an answer. “Make sure you have kneaded the dough and cooked the drumstick curry by the time I finish my puja,” she had instructed Madhuri just a while back. Wouldn’t she have caught the aromatic whiff of the chickpea flour being roasted just now? Madhuri stood by the kitchen door, in her usual corner, silent as usual, her head covered by her sari held in place with two fingers. 

“Alright, alright. What are you staring at? Go, bring me another cup of milk. When Nattu comes today, I’ll get him to do something about that wretched cat,” said Babli Paati.

As soon as they heard the bustle at Babli Paati’s house, Gopal Bai, who was rinsing underwear at the balcony of the first floor, and Sharada Behn, who was polishing utensils, peeped out. “What a clever cat! It disappeared mysteriously even as I was watching it,” exclaimed Sharada Behn in a polished manner, hand upon cheek. Babli Paati said nothing and headed to the puja cupboard. 

The agrahaaram around the temple pond of the Ekaambareswara temple at Thangasaalai Street was shaped like the Tamil letter ‘Pa’, resembling a square with a side removed. As a practice, cats didn’t inhabit the agrahaaram of the Ekaambareswara temple. One could certainly say that in the past fifty or sixty years, not one cat had entered the agrahaaram. The inhabitants of the agrahaaram encountered cats at Thangasaalai Street, Govindappa Nayakan Street or Kondithope. It appears that the absence of cats from the agrahaaram had an ideological, and not ecological cause, because most of the inhabitants of the agrahaaram were Pushtimaargi² Vaishnavites. The respect that the Thenkalai³ Vaishnavites had for cats didn’t have to be shared by the Pushtimaargis. Indeed, it was believed that those Pushtimaargis who worshipped the child Krishna had to be compassionate towards animals and birds. Even so, it was imperative that cows, which ate polythene bags and cinema posters, shitting haphazardly at random places, were the most important animals. The supreme Lord Krishna himself was a cowherd! The cats had instinctively taken this great truth well – that is, until April. 

In May, it so happened that no one had taken note of the aged cat that had happened to enter the agrahaaram. In the front room of Door Number 9 at the first floor of the 25th building of the agrahaaram where twenty four middle-class Gujarati families lived, Babli Paati had brought out the milk for her puja and gone back to the kitchen to wash betel leaves to get the beeda ready for the child Krishna, when the cat, having unhesitatingly entered the house and finished off an entire cup of milk, was leaving as though nothing had happened. That was when it was sighted for the first time. 

Babli Paati was out of her senses when she had seen it. “Areh…areh… biladi… biladi… Madhu biladi… Madhu biladi…” (Madhuri…cat!) she had blurted out aloud in Gujarati. Hearing the noise, the cat had turned and stood still at the centre of the hall for a few moments, locking eyes with the old woman. It had then walked away nonchalantly. Babli had suddenly picked up the madikkol⁴ near the door and hurled it clumsily at the cat. It had nimbly stepped aside and vanished. 

Madhuri who had come running in with her hand wet from the tap was tempted to laugh when she saw her mother-in-law’s agitated face. She didn’t laugh, though. Babli Paati had stood there in distress, biting her lip. As Madhuri said, “Let it be, the poor thing”, Babli Paati had burst out in malice, “Chchi, shut up, you barren donkey!” Madhuri had stood there humiliated. 

Babli Paati had a large body. Her salt-and-pepper hair was arranged in a little bun. She wore thin, egg-frame glasses on a large, long nose, and a string of tulasi beads at the neck. She was rosy and ripe like a fruit. 

She would wake up at four in the morning, bathe, drape on her white sari and set off with bare forehead to the haveli (the temple of the Pushtimaargis) which was five buildings away, returning only at ten, whereupon she would set about performing an elaborate puja for the deities at home. She would sit in front of the glass-panelled teak cupboard near the kitchen door, which bore little idols in gold-bordered attire, seated on tiny cushions. She would take them all out with care. Taking off the gold-bordered clothes, she would proceed to ritually bathe them. After wiping them dry with a velvet cloth, she would pull out new clothes from a large biscuit tin. There would even be a little gold-bordered cap, which would fit a thumb, for the child Krishna who was the principal deity. After adorning the idols with kungumam⁵, she would set them again on the little cushions. Then she would place the different foods cooked for the day in little vessels, arranged in a circular manner upon a platter atop a wooden plank before the teak cupboard. There would even be little beedas⁶ in one vessel. After a short while, she would perform the deepaaraadhanai⁷, ring the bells, sing a bhajan to the tune of Jai Jagadeeshwar Hare and shut the cupboard. Only then would she consume even a drop of water. 

Because of Babli Paati, the agrahaaram of Ekaambareswara temple had attained enormous significance. With regard to spiritual matters, she was widely acknowledged as enlightened. Especially in matters of the doctrines of Pushtimaarga, she was the sole authority. She knew the rites to perform to overcome each tribulation, the fruit of each puja, and was an expert in the routines of marriages, death anniversaries, valakaappu⁸, Navaratri⁹, nalungu¹⁰, and all such ceremonies, remedial rites and sub-doctrines. She could recite the Bhagavatham in reverse. She was well-versed even in philosophical matters, as far as their nuances went. (A few weeks earlier, a student from Baroda researching Pushtimaarga for her Ph. D had come to talk to Babli, and had left with her doubts clarified.) If she attended a ceremony, even the Brahmin priests there who recited the mantras would immediately become cautious.

Even though Babli Paati was adorned with such glory, her daughter-in-law Madhuri resolutely refused to accept it. As far as she was concerned, the old crone was not to be taken lightly. 

Even so, she was also troubled because her mother-in-law’s puja was being affected often. It had happened exactly this way the last six times. Just as Babli Paati would enter the kitchen for a few minutes to fetch the lamp wicks or the matchbox, make the daal rice or cut the fruits, the crafty cat would flash in as though by clockwork, finish its work and take off. 

That evening, as soon as Babli Paati’s son Nattu (as Natwarlal was known) returned from office, she complained to him about the cat. 

“Nattu, do as you must. Just get rid of that hoary pest somehow.”

Nattu only looked aggressive and spirited as a policeman, but in fact he was such a duffer. He was even afraid of speaking loudly. He kept the unofficial accounts for a Marwadi merchant at Chembudas Street. He received a salary of a thousand rupees each for the official and unofficial accounts. Beedi-cigarettes, cinema-drama, quarrelling-bickering: none of these were known to him. He minded his own business. As soon as he returned from work, he would change, have his tea and head to the haveli. He would return only after eight. On Saturdays alone, he would leave for bhajans at ten at night. On the day marking the beginning of the Gujarati new year, he would take Madhuri out to the cinema or the beach. 

 “What are you saying? Is it not a sin to kill a cat?” cried Nattu in terror.

“You oaf, have I asked you to kill the cat? I’m telling you to drive that donkey away somewhere. Do you think I don’t know that it is a sin to kill a cat? Are you telling me that?”

“Where, indeed, do I drive it away? It doesn’t even let me glimpse it! Your carelessness is the reason for it all. Displaying the cup of milk in the centre of the hall like that, in the name of performing the puja! And then, you kick up such a ruckus.”

“That’s enough, don’t get too smart. Maybe I should start taking lessons from you on how to perform my puja.”

“Alright, alright, let it go. I’ll inform Suri about the matter. He’s the best person for a job like this.”

“Your brain seems to have distorted! That wicked boy, of all people? The rogue will well and truly kill the cat! Beware.”

“Don’t worry about that. I will take care of everything,” said Nattu determinedly. 

Suri was Babli Paati’s brother Ranjit Singh’s eldest son Surendran. He was unemployed. Always flanked by his friends, he dressed flamboyantly, constantly chewing at his Calcutta beeda and roaming about spiritedly. He made fluent use of every swear word in Gujarati and Tamil. He disliked God and the wealthy, but was bound by love. He anointed himself as the deliverer of justice, holding kangaroo courts whenever wrongdoings happened in the agrahaaram. Upholding that Equity Comes Before Caste, he had flung the bicycle of a middle-aged Gujarati man, who was harassing a woman who had come to the agrahaaram to sell flowers, into the muddy algae-ridden temple pond, a few days back. 

Madhuri, who was kneading the dough for chapatis in the kitchen, happened to overhear mother and son talking. She thought about the white cat. It looked desperate and near-dead with its withered face, shrunken skin and dwindling fur. When it looked closely, Madhuri had wondered for a moment if it would start to say something. Many a time when Babli Paati was not at home, it would come to the front door and cleave its mouth into a tired miaow. Madhuri had given it milk without fail each time. Madhuri thought that in a sense, there wasn’t much difference between herself and the cat. Like the cat, she also had to live a withheld life. Would the cat have kittens? Surely, it would have given birth to at least a few kittens in the prime of its life. Or was it also barren like her? Just as it had its own little adventures in its own precarious little life, so was it the case with me, thought Madhuri. A cup of milk to the cat was to her a sari or an evening at the beach or a Hindi picture. She felt that she too would someday be aged and withered like the cat. There would be no likelihood for love in old age. Was love stored up somewhere, waiting to be spent? If so, in whose heart? Babli Paati’s? Her husband Nattu’s? Where indeed was that absurdity called love hiding? In the swollen eyes of that old cat? 

Madhuri evened out the kneaded dough into a chapati and slammed it hard onto a plate. 

Nattu didn’t consider the matter of the cat very seriously. He forgot it soon after. He only remembered it when he saw Suri while returning from the haveli. 

“Mane kayi dhidhun ne Nattu bhai! Samjho tamaaru kaam thai gayun,” (Now that you’ve informed me, Nattu Anna, take it that your work has already been done!) said Suri enthusiastically. “If need be, I’ll not just drive it out of the agrahaaram, I’ll pack it off to America!”

Nattu said agitatedly, “No, no need for all that. Just make sure it doesn’t come anywhere near the 25th building. That will do.”

“Done, Nattu Anna, done,” promised Suri in English.

The next morning, Babli’s son-in-law Hansraj arrived from Kochi on business matters. He was always like that. He arrived suddenly without prior notice.

Babli Paati respected her son-in-law immensely. The only thing she disliked about him was that he took snuff. Hansraj was only thirty eight. With a bhaagavathar hairstyle¹¹ and a thick beard and moustache that almost covered his face, he looked like a sanyaasi in trousers. Everyone said that he had become this way only after marriage. 

Babli Paati’s daughter Nimmu, who had looked normal before marriage, had started gaining weight suddenly soon after tying the knot. At first, everyone assumed it was because of newlywed-happiness. It only became apparent that it was a disease when she started putting on weight and grew very fat. Hansraj had a lot of ancestral property, and he earned well. He spent lavishly on his wife, but to no avail. By the time Nimmu was thirty, she was unbelievably overweight. It required two and a quarter metres of cloth to stitch her a sari-blouse. If she were sitting in an auto-rickshaw, there wouldn’t be room for anyone else. She would gasp for breath if she walked ten feet. She would either sit or crawl while performing household tasks. Hansraj had remodelled the kitchen in a manner that accommodated her physique. 

Nimmu never worried too much about her weight. She would merrily give everyone her love. Even if someone spent just ten minutes with her, it would melt their heart. If guests came home, she would serve them hospitably, crawling about the kitchen like a little child. The doctors had said that at most, she would live only for ten more years. “If I die, it would take not four but sixteen people to lift me,” Nimmu would say and giggle loudly. Hansraj loved his Nimmu. 

During the one week Hansraj stayed there, the cat did not come near Babli Paati’s house. Busy attending to her son-in-law, Babli herself forgot about it. 

When Hansraj got ready to leave, she handed him a large box of the snacks Nimmu was fond of. 

“Do try and see if it’s possible to bring Nimmu here at least this Diwali,” she said.

“You know how things are for her. If she is to come, a van has to be arranged for her. Instead of that, you might as well come to Kochi and stay there for a week. It’ll be refreshing for you as well.”

“Oh no, no such thing. Just because you say so, will it be that way? If I leave the house, who will take care of it? She doesn’t have what it takes. Even Governor Patwari himself¹² may have time, but not I,” she contended. 

She saw Nattu at the door. “Alright, you must leave. Nattu has come with the rickshaw.”

As Babli Paati escorted him to the door, she held back the tears that sprung at the thought of her daughter. “Goodbye, sister,” said Hansraj to Madhuri as he left. 

Ten days later, a Sunday morning suddenly found Suri at the 25th building with the old cat. As he came near the door of Babli Paati’s house, the young and old alike surrounded him. The cat was in Suri’s folded left arm, curled up like a child, its head rested on his chest. 

“What magic is this? Look at this thieving wretch lying limp over you!” Babli Paati wondered out loud. 

“That’s how Suri does things! Let it be known. In these few days, this cat has gobbled down five litres of milk and eight double omelettes. Is it child’s play to ensnare such a cat? Before leaving it somewhere, I thought I would show it to you. So tell me, Aunty, where shall I leave it? Thiruvottriyur or Thiruvanmiyur?”

As Suri stroked its back with his right hand, the cat squirmed about shyly like a new bride. 

Babli Paati, who had been looking closely at the cat all this while, spoke decisively, “Hey Suri, don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back right now,” and went in. She hunted for the snuff box her son-in-law had left behind. 

She came back to the doorway in haste. With an air of secrecy, she motioned Suri to come closer. She then told Suri in a low voice to bring the cat closer to her. Suri thrust the cat forward, his arm under its belly. Suddenly, she raised her fist which had been resting on her hip to the cat’s nose and opened it to rub all the snuff it held onto its nose. 

The next moment, as though struck by electricity, the cat jerked out of Suri’s arms and fell on its back. It must have been stupefied. As it tried to stand, it staggered and fell awkwardly. It collided intermittently with the base of the tap, the gutter and the latrine door, and fell. The strange sounds that issued from it were terrifying. Each time it overcame itself and tried to stand, its legs failed and gave way. It turned its little head this way and that, sneezing and falling pitiably.

Babli Paati shook her hands clean. The remaining snuff dispersed in the air, and many of the people gathered, including Suri, started sneezing. A few men and women standing some distance away were laughing heartily at the cat sneezing and falling. The cat climbed onto a single-brick wall at the edge of the first floor, sneezed again, and fell to the ground floor with a thud. It then got up slowly and ran away from the building. 

Suri shouted an obscene swear at the persons who were laughing and ran down, pursuing the cat.

A sudden silence descended upon the place. Everybody started to disperse one by one. As soon as Babli turned into the house, she saw Madhuri standing at the centre of the hall. She quickly lowered her head and passed her by. 

That evening, someone had come to see Babli Paati. She began: “What Pushtimaarga says is that…”                    

******

Translator’s Notes 

1. Agrahaaram: The residential area surrounding a temple, traditionally occupied by Brahmin households
2. Thenkalai: A sect of Tamil Iyengars or Brahmin Shri Vaishnavites. Thenkalai Vaishnavites believe in surrendering to the supreme lord, unlike the Vadakalai Vaishnavites who believe that one must arduously follow stipulated rites to attain moksha; The reference to cats has to do with the traditional analogy of Thenkalai philosophy with the kitten being carried by the mother cat; the analogy of Vadakalai philosophy is with the baby monkey that clings to its mother. 
3. Pushtimargi: A sect of Vaishnavism popular in North India, primarily concerned with experiencing the bliss of Krishna, rather than salvation
4. Madikkol: A bamboo staff used in orthodox Hindu households to handle worn clothes, the idea being that touching the dirty clothes pollutes the body
5. Kungumam: A reddish cosmetic powder made from turmeric, symbolising auspiciousness. 
6. Beeda: Also known as paan, it is a preparation of betel leaves garnished with spices and condiments, commonly consumed after meals in India.
7. Deepaaraadhanai: Also known as aarathi, it is a ritual in a puja wherein the deity is offered worship with fire. 
8. Valakaappu: A ceremony similar to a baby shower, where the mother-to-be is decked with valaiyal or bangles
9. Navaratri: The nine-day worship of the goddess Durga
10. Nalangu: An informal ceremony after a Hindu wedding, involving games and frolicking
11. Bhaagavathars of old Tamil pictures: Hansraj’s hairstyle is in the manner of the longish hair that was sported by erstwhile Tamil actors, made fashionable by the likes of Thyagaraja Bhagavathar
12. Governer Patwari: Prabhudas Patwari, a devout Pushtimaargi, who was the Governer of Tamilnadu in 1977

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Dilip Kumar, whose mother tongue is Gujarati, is a well-known short story writer and editor in Tamil with several awards to his credit. He has published three short-story collections and a critical work on the late Mouni, a pioneer in the field of Tamil short stories. He has also translated poems, short stories and other texts from Hindi, Gujarati and English into Tamil.
He edited a volume (in English) titled Contemporary Tamil Short Fiction published in 1999 and reprinted in 2004 as A Place To Live by Penguin. In 2016, he edited The Tamil Story: Through the Times, Through the Tides, a broad-ranging anthology of Tamil short fiction, which traces the history and growth of the Tamil short story, published by Westland Ltd.
His stories have been translated into Malayalam, Kannada, Telugu, Urdu, Bengali, Gujarati, Hindi, English, French, Czech, and German.
He has given talks on contemporary Tamil literature at the Universities of California, Chicago, Rutgers, Harvard and Yale, as well as at INALCO, France.
He has served as jury member in the panels for the Crossword National Award for best translation and for the Sahitya Akademi translation awards.
He lives in Chennai.

Vidhya Sreenivasan translates short stories and poetry from Tamil. A poet herself, she loves “being in open, natural spaces. Forests make me extremely happy, as do mountains,  and practically any place that lets us reminisce that we're not different from nature.”She teaches English literature at Stella Maris College in Chennai, India.