Dilip Kumar
(Translated by Vidhya Sreenivasan)
Oosa lay down curled.
The western sky was deprived of lustre. The light had withheld and was dying out somewhere.
At that time in that agrahaaram1 where North Indians lived, the crowd made as if to recede. There were aged Gujaratis donning caps who had left their shops early having entrusted them to their sons, middle-aged trousered men who had got away from office, plump housewives on their way to the temple, young women, girls, big boys, little boys, and returning from their bhajans, white-sari-clad widows tall and short. This commotion would go on for another hour.
Mittu Baapu was standing on his balcony, watching the street. The wind was blowing with quite some force. The plastic lotuses which had floated over the temple pond now looked like decolourised, blackened reefs. Mittu Baapu looked at Thangasaalai Street stretching where the street-ends of the agrahaaram joined it. There were rows and rows of people, and rickshaws trying to work their way around them. In the glow of the electric lights, Thangasaalai Street was overflowing with activity. Its motion was buzzing, precisely, persistently in his ears.
Sixty-nine years of age. Deep-set, sunken eyes, long, sloping nose. Thick eyebrows. Hair even on the ears. A pate tonsured four weeks ago. Sunken cheeks revealing intimidating, healthy front teeth when the mouth was open, and when closed, an appearance of empty nothingness. A smile like the grimace of one suffering from constipation; a weeping that bore the sorrow of the world. Thin arms and legs. A khaddar mundu2 and a sleeveless khaddar vest with a pocket stitched. A frayed poonool3 visibly hanging across the edge of the vest. On it, a small key to a safe bearing seventeen rupees thirty-six paise and religious books yellowed with age. This was Mittu Baapu.
Ten years had sped since Mittu Baapu’s wife died. He was in never-ending discord with his son and daughter-in-law who lived at the rear of the big building. Looking upon him as a burden, they supplied him with two meals a day and cast him away to this room. On holidays, his grandchildren came to him in the mornings and asked for biscuits. In the humid afternoons, the old men of the agrahaaram would drop in to discuss at length the aged invalids of the locale, and the various diseases that inflicted one in old age. Apart from these, all of Mittu Baapu’s other bonds were visual ones – the Ekambareswara temple, its gopuram4, the street, the street-end, the temple pond, its algae, its plastic lotuses. And the school’s clock tower standing erect beyond all of those. And so on and on.
Mittu Baapu drew in his head and turned around. Inside the room adjoining the balcony, a dim 25-watts electric lamp was hanging limply, unable to completely light up the room. The room was stark in its emptiness.
Mittu Baapu felt like drinking water. There was a clay water-jug in the inner corner of the room. Mittu Baapu’s feet were cracked haphazardly so that they looked like some modern line drawing. The wound was festering with blood and pus seeping through the hospital bandage.
In his mind, Mittu Baapu got up and walked and walked the distance to the water-jug. Rehearsing the walkthrough, he stood still.
That day, the time hadn’t passed entertainingly for Ranjan Behn. It also seemed that it wouldn’t, henceforth. She had finished her housework for the day. Her husband Kanyalal had just left after his dinner, saying he would return only after midnight because there was inventory work at the company. There was some leftover food. Ranjan Behn was a little sad because without Kanyalal, she couldn’t sleep alone in the terrace that night. She decided that she would give away the leftovers to Oosa and go to sleep reading the new Colonel Ranjit detective novel she had borrowed from the lending library. Usually, she wouldn’t read detective novels when she was all alone in the evening or at night. Today, there was nothing special on the television either. Left with no other option, she ventured. Adjusting her sari, she took the three leftover chapathis, rice and gravy on a plate and came to the doorway in search of Oosa.
Ten years had passed since Ranjan Behn got married. At five-quarter to five-half, she stood at an impressive height. Her complexion was a kind of rosy white. She had a chiselled body. Her arms and legs were rounded, and her palms and feet were small. She had no children. Her well-built body, brimming with energy like a Gorochana cow, teased the eye.
Ranjan Behn peeped out into the street and looked for Oosa. Oosa was not to be seen.
No one knew where Oosa had come from, nor did they remember when he had come to this agrahaaram. It was across at the canvas tent adjoining the compound wall of the temple pond, where tinker Naikker had set up shop, that Oosa was seated all of a sudden one fine morning, tapping at a pot.
Naikker was an old man. He would have been around fifty-five. He constantly smoked a cigar. His right lung had burned away, along with the cigar’s smoke. Naikker, who had come to the city to eke out a living, was from Erode, but his wife Mrs Mohana was a Madras-woman. Thirty-six years old, she was dark yet beautiful! Through the day, Naikker would go lottu, lottu, repairing a drum or a pot. At night, he would go lokku, lokku, coughing up sputum and spitting it out. During those rare times when the the lottu and lokku did not take place, he would be fighting with Mohana. At such times, details regarding Mohana’s association with the rickshaw-driver Rajakannu (and sometimes, minute particulars) would find their way past the canvas tent into the street. One day, Mohana left for good. A few days later, Oosa had come and joined Naikker. Ever since, he had become everything to Naikker. One night the previous October, Naikker had died. It was Oosa who had gone to fetch Mohana. She had come, finished all the rites, sold Naikker’s property off at Moore Market, and having converted it into cash, climbed into a rickshaw and went off. Since then, Oosa had roamed about this agrahaaram. He wouldn’t speak to anyone. No one would speak to him. If anyone gave him work, he would do it. If anyone gave him food, he would eat it. His age was somewhere between twenty and thirty. His complexion was brownish. His straggly hair had not been cut for months. His clothes were dirty. There was a sense of expectation and betrayal that had settled about his face.
Ranjan Behn’s eyes, which had circled the street once, finally fell upon Oosa lying on the ground. She felt a little shame at her not being able to spot someone right under her eye. She went over to him, satisfied.
At the right-hand corner were the boys of the agrahaaram in pyjamas and shirts. Schoolboys and college youths were listening to Hindi songs on the transistor, having had their dinner. In the porch of a big building were seated around fifteen to twenty young women in knee-length skirts, listening to the songs played by the boys and speaking among themselves. A little away, a few ten- and twelve-year-old girls were playing paandi5.
Ranjan Behn bent down and called twice, “Oosa, Oosa”.
Oosa did not respond.
Poor thing, he must have fainted of hunger, thought Ranjan Behn. Full of pity, she called out, Oosa, Oosa, in a lowered tone. And then she tried calling him four, five times in a normal pitch.
After the third time she had called him, Ranjan Behn felt she was talking to herself. She listened to her voice attentively. Suddenly, she was struck with the uninvited doubt if the voice was hers indeed. She tried calling Oosa again. She wondered if her voice always resonated like this. Under the pretext of calling Oosa, she tried to examine her voice. She crooned “Oosa, Oosa,” around ten or fifteen times. It was in vain. Her doubts about her voice were not completely cleared. As soon as she wearied being engrossed in that meaningless game, she collected herself and seriously attempted to wake Oosa. This time, she raised her voice.
Oosa still lay motionless.
A Gujarati family walking by stared at Ranjan Behn standing there with the plate in her hands. Would it be better to go back in, she wondered. She didn’t, however. She pretended to look around elsewhere for a few seconds till the family had disappeared round the corner. Then, she bent forward towards Oosa and called him, “Oosa…Ei… Oosa”.
Oosa didn’t look like he would move.
Ranjan Behn felt very awkward standing like that, holding the plate. She walked past Oosa down to the street and looked both ways. If any familiar boys came by, she could get them to wake Oosa. The street was deserted at the moment.
Ranjan Behn could discern Bagula among the group of children playing paandi. She called her. Bagula who came running was twelve years old. She was the daughter of Bhaai Shankar master6 who lived in the next building.
Ranjan Behn asked Bagula to wake Oosa.
Bagula started shouting animatedly, Oosa, Oosa. After she had called seven or eight times, she had probably got sick of it, because she started to say loudly, leaving no gap between the first Oosa and the second, “Oosavoosaoosavoosa”, as though she were shooing away a bug or a mosquito. At her screaming, the other children diverted from their game turned to look. Seeing Ranjan Behn and Bagula standing near the inert sprawled Oosa, everyone came over. Now, there was a small crowd around Oosa.
Apart from Bagula, one or two other children also started calling Oosa. Deciding that the others had not called him properly, a little lady declared in Gujarati, “Just wait, I will wake him,” and clearing her throat, screamed bloodcurdlingly, “Oosa!”
Oosa did not stir.
One or two moments of silence ensued. Then, as though they had decided that Oosa wouldn’t wake, the children started to talk among themselves. Again, Ranjan Behn said to Bagula, “Try and prod him just one last time, let’s see if he wakes.” After hesitating a moment, Bagula whined, “Chchi, I won’t touch” and stood there shrugging her shoulders. Hearing what Bagula said, the other children laughed loudly.
Among the youths standing at the corner of the road, a thin one with step-cut hair came by meaning to go on to Thangasaalai Street. On seeing the crowd, he slowed his pace and stood at the centre of the street for a moment, appraising the situation. By then, a child ran up to him calling his name “Pratap Bhai!” and told him of the matter. Turning to his right, he chewed the Calcutta Beeda7 in his mouth for the last time and spat it out, juice and all, and came towards the crowd pompously.
The newcomer looked at Oosa, and then looked at Ranjan Behn. Then slowly, he started to make small talk with her. Before this, Pratap had never spoken to Ranjan Behn, or seen her in such proximity. He felt a light happiness for this chance. Ranjan Behn repeated in detail what the children had already told him. He listened to her with rapt attention, looking at her all the while. In the midst of this, the teens who had been chatting away nearby also joined them. It took a few moments for their babbling to settle. And then, silence.
Suddenly, Pratap became aware that he was the only man in the gathering. He felt that everyone was paying attention to him. It struck him that he should do something dexterous and manly now. He raised his head and looked around. Seeing his friends at the corner of the street walking towards the crowd, a mixture of satisfaction and dissatisfaction ran through his mind.
The youths came spiritedly. As they asked in Gujarati, Shun Che Re? Shun Che Re? (What is it? What is it?) each of the children responded individually to two or three of them.
Some said, “Wake him,” “Wake him,” in general and to each other, side lining the women and looking down at Oosa. Some others gazed down at him having joined the crowd briefly and proceeded to eye the women. Yet others who had come just for company were disinterested and stood in the street with the mind-state of Trishanku8.
Now, there was a large crowd around Oosa.
A youth, deciding he would wake Oosa, shoved aside the others and came forward. He was well known in the street for his booming voice. He cupped his hands around his mouth and roared “Oosa!” as though he were threatening someone. At the sound of his roaring, all the young women, children and youths burst into laughter. The youth who had roared flushed with embarrassment.
Amongst the youths who had been watching everything attentively was Avinash. He quietened everyone. Then he turned to Ranjan Behn and said, “Could you bring a pitcher of water?” in a purposeful tone. Avinash had said what no one had thought of all this while! En masse, the young women kept looking at him in surprise, charmed. Avinash fondly put away the attention he was receiving in his mind, and stood there majestically.
Ranjan Behn shook a girl’s shoulder and said to her gently, “Go and bring a pitcher of water from inside, Rekha.” Rekha went inside unwillingly. She ran back hurriedly with the water, so as to make sure Oosa didn’t wake in the meantime.
Thank goodness! Oosa lay still just as before.
Avinash took the water from Rekha and started to sprinkle it on Oosa’s face. After he had sprinkled it four or five times, everyone waited for Oosa to stir. Oosa did not budge. Again, Avinash poured more water on Oosa’s face so that it splashed noisily. Oosa didn’t seem like he would wake. God knows what Avinash felt then; he overturned the entire pitcher on Oosa’s head. The water drenched Oosa’s face and head, and ran down to the ground.
Everyone stood there, anxiety and weariness spreading over their faces.
Avinash bent down again and held his fingers across Oosa’s nose without touching it. After a few moments, it seemed to him that Oosa wasn’t breathing. Then he started to keenly observe Oosa’s body, in particular, his chest and stomach. Oosa’s body lay motionless! For a few moments, Avinash didn’t know what to do. A sort of tumult and furore ran in his mind. He thought, let’s also try and check Oosa’s pulse. He looked at Oosa. How dirty! Dust all over his body! It must have been many days since Oosa had had a bath, thought Avinash. Oosa’s left hand was in the gutter close to the building.
Everyone stood there, their eyes fixed on Avinash.
Unwillingly, Avinash lifted Oosa’s left hand gingerly. He bent a little to listen to the pulse beat.
A minute passed.
Two young women who had lost their patience started to speak. Avinash immediately raised his hand peremptorily without turning his head, motioning them to be quiet. Again, a few moments of silence passed.
As soon as they saw the crowd, a few middle-agers who had been standing in the thresholds of neighbouring buildings panicked, “What happened? What happened?” They came running and almost toppled over the crowd in their frenzy. Avinash turned his head towards them. The middle-agers immediately fell silent. Simultaneously, Avinash’s grip faltered, and Oosa’s hand fell to the ground with a thunk. Everyone stood there looking at Oosa in amazement.
Avinash got up swiftly. He looked patiently at everyone waiting for his answer, and said in Gujarati, “He has died.”
The next instant, the crowd stepped back in excitement and regarded Oosa. Quite a few took off to spread the news.
Shortly, people started coming from all of the households. Having seen Oosa, they moved aside and spoke among themselves. Many expressed sympathy. A few didn’t believe that Oosa had died. They also stood aside.
The sky had darkened completely.
“Thaatha, Thaatha!” Mittu Baapu’s grandson stood near the iron-grilled doors, shaking them vigorously. Mittu Baapu, having drunk water, was sleeping deeply.
Mittu Baapu turned his head to the door, remaining in bed. On seeing his grandson, he asked with indifference, “What is it?”
“Oosa has died.”
Mittu Baapu awoke startled. As the pain lashed through his feet, he asked weakly.
“When?”
“At seven.”
“Where?”
“Just here, near our door.”
Mittu Baapu didn’t respond. There came the sound of the boy running down the stairs.
Oosa had died.
Mittu Baapu couldn’t believe it. If Oosa had spoken to a few at all in this agrahaaram, Mittu Baapu was one of them. Just this afternoon, he was speaking to him about how inexpensive watermelons had been in those days, on seeing a truck of watermelons pass by.
He was doing well in the morning; how could he have died in the evening? As he thought over it, Mittu Baapu was shocked and saddened.
He got up, deciding he would at least go see his corpse one last time. He slowly put on his Hawaii slippers and made his way down the stairs. It took a lot of minutes for him to get down.
Mittu Baapu pushed aside the people around and saw Oosa. The light from the streetlamps, partly blocked by the crowd, was also falling on Oosa’s face. As he saw Oosa, Mittu Baapu felt as though someone was whispering in his mind, “Oosa hasn’t died, Oosa hasn’t died.”
Mittu Baapu slowly shuffled close to Oosa and bent down to rest himself against the compound wall sitting with great difficulty. The crowd stared at him, surprised at how close to Oosa he had sat.
Mittu Baapu hesitated a moment. Then he started to take off Oosa’s dirty shirt, removing the buttons at the top. The water from the pitcher had wet Oosa’s shirt too. He firmly applied his thin fingers and palms to the left side of Oosa’s chest. In a few moments, Mittu Baapu sensed Oosa’s heart beating. The next instant, in jubilance and liveliness, he held and raised Oosa’s head. He couldn’t lift him up.
Now, there was a sudden excitement in the crowd which had been watching him all along. Pratap advanced a little and came towards him. Mittu Baapu raised his head and looked at him. “He has life. Hold his arms. Hold his arms,” his trembling command came as an appeal.
The next instant, Pratap gripped both of Oosa’s arms and heaved him forward. Mittu Baapu supported Oosa’s torso with his hands so that he wouldn’t lean backward. Oosa’s body was up erect without any movement. Pratap called out “Water, water!”. At once, water came. Someone sprinkled it on Oosa’s face. Pratap slapped each of Oosa’s cheeks alternatingly with just enough force so that he wouldn’t hurt him.
Oosa stirred slightly. And then he started to fall back again. Pratap ceased the slapping and grabbed both of Oosa’s arms, shaking him. Oosa opened his eyes. He saw the crowd once and shut his eyes again. He opened his eyes again and wearily turned his face both ways before looking at the crowd. And then he stared straight ahead. The people grouped about were looking at him fixedly. A few moments later, Oosa opened his mouth and motioned his thumb towards his mouth. Pratap gave him water. Oosa sipped the water thirstily, drawing in deep breaths every now and then.
Mittu Baapu said, “Give him something to eat.” At once, everyone looked for Ranjan Behn. She was inside, speaking to other women. A youth urgently got the plate from her and hurried to the door.
Oosa received the chapathi someone was thrusting near his face, and bit into it.
Having lost its excitement, the crowd started to disintegrate as though exhausted.
Mittu Baapu waited till Oosa finished eating, and then slowly got up.
His feet started to hurt.
******
END NOTES 1. Agrahaaram: The residential area surrounding a temple, traditionally occupied by Brahmin households 2. Mundu: Also known as veshti and dhoti, a length of cloth worn by men around the lower body 2. Poonool: The white sacred thread worn across the torso by Brahmin men 3. Gopuram: The gateway structure to a temple 4. Paandi: A game played by children in Tamilnad, similar to hopscotch 5. Master: a colloquial anglicised term for teacher 6. Beeda: Also known as paan, it is a preparation of betel leaves garnished with spices and condiments, commonly consumed after meals in India. Calcutta Paan (or Beeda) is a particularly famous variety. 7. Trishanku: a character in Hindu mythology, who was supposed to have been stuck in an in-between position for a long time
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.
Also read here:
Short Fiction-1: CAT AT THE AGRAHAARAM
Beautifully written.