M.A.Susila
(Translated from Tamil by Lakshmi Kannan)
A
s she locked the house and climbed down the steps, she spotted a group of street dogs a few yards away. Ah, a good excuse to turn back, thought Neela happily. Just as she was rummaging through her handbag for the house key, her phone lit up. It was a WhatsApp message and an emoji from Reshmi*. ‘Out for a walk?’ How does she sense it, wondered Neela, a little annoyed. If it’s 7:30 am here, it must be 10 pm in Toronto. Has she set a template to send me this message everyday? Must be. She is a software engineer after all.
A minute later, there was another message, ‘Hope there is no excuse?’ proving that it wasn’t a template. Neela turned around and started walking. Reluctantly.
“Neela grandma, are you my father’s mother or my mother’s mother?’ asked her grandson Sidhu, surprised at the intimacy of the relationship between Neela and her daughter-in-law. Soon after Reshmi got married to Neela’s son Prithvi, she had taken complete charge of Neela’s health issues. Being reticent and not much given to expressing his affection, Prithvi gladly shared this responsibility with his wife.
‘Athai, please set the alarm for six in the morning on your mobile. Only then you’ll take the tablet for your thyroid without forgetting it,’ she had said soon after she had come into the family as a new daughter-in-law. What had started on this note, had continued without a scratch in the way she enveloped Neela in her care, even though they now lived in Canada. She ad made copies of Neela’s medical diagnosis, reports and prescriptions. Ten days ago, she had said on Skype, ‘See Athai, because you were confined to your AC room for nearly six months during the first wave of Covid, and were just watching all those movies on Netflix and Amazon, your body didn’t get enough sunlight. So, the pain in your neck and back has increased. You’ve also put on weight because you didn’t go for walks. One can see from you BMI , the biomass index,’ she said, almost in one continuous breath.
‘Now you simply must go for a walk for at least half an hour in the morning, anytime between 7:30 and 8:30, whether you have things to do or not. Please wear a mask and walk in a sunny area that’s not crowded. I won’t listen to any excuse, okay?’ she said firmly, before ending the call.
Neela felt comforted by Reshmi’s genuine concern. Still, a certain lethargy had come over her. She hadn’t walked down her doorsteps for months. Any trivial reason was enough to make me postpone the prospect of a walk, thought Neela, as she started ambling.
Even the stray dogs in the middle of the street stopped barking and made way for her like she was a V.I.P. Did Reshmi have a remote control even for this? There was no way out. Now she had to go on her walk. With nondescript houses on both sides this was a shaded area, with a road just wide enough for a a water tanker to pass through. Neela was the only person on the street. She noticed that some vacant plots between the houses still had half burnt garbage in them. It had always annoyed her. As if this pollution won’t make me sick, she mentally told her daughter- in- law.
At the end of this longish street, the highway was just five minutes away. Neela’s plan was to reach that point and turn back. When she turned right, she saw a woman standing at the corner of the street, staring at the sunlight streaming in between the houses. There was something strange about her actions that made Neela stop in her tracks. Alternating her arms, the woman repeatedly closed her eyes with the inside of her right palm, then stared at the sun with her open eye for a second. She did this with her left palm. After doing it several times she dropped her arms down her side. Then she noticed Neela looking at her in surprise.
‘Are you wondering what I’m up to? It’s an exercise for the eyes. One can take it as a kind of a surya namaskaram. The ophthalmologist who did my surgery asked me to do it,’ she said.
From the way her mask crinkled and expanded, Neela could see a friendly smile on her face. ‘Going for a walk?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my walk is also for sunbathing,’ replied Neela.
Not sure if they could extend a conversation on their very first meeting, the two women said bye and resumed their walk in different directions.
*
A couple of days later, Neela stopped at a shop on her way back. She turned around when she heard a ‘Hello’.
‘Oh…the other day…looking for the sun…’ said Neela.
‘Yes,’ the woman replied, ‘Yes, we were looking for the sun. But what to do, my name is Chandra, which means the moon!’ she said with a laugh.
Neela also introduced herself while she paid the shopkeeper.
‘Are you returning from a walk or are you just setting off?’
‘I’m returning. Thought I would buy some fruits.’
‘I’m also returning. We can walk back together, that is, if you don’t have any objection.’
‘Not at all! Getting someone to chat with takes away the monotony of a walk, especially with someone around the same age.’
Peeping over the compound walls of the houses were hibiscus, rosebay and oleander bushes. Chandra plucked the flowers and put them inside her nylon net bag.
‘Are you seeing another strange sight?’ she asked Neela. ‘Perhaps you are wondering if the owners of the house will get angry. I’ve been living in this colony for nearly twenty years. Everybody knows me. It’s only on the day I don’t pluck flowers, they’ll ask each other, Where’s Chandra Amma? Is she keeping well? … Okay, let that be. Tell me about yourself. Are you new to this place?’
‘You can say I’m both new and old. The house I live in now was bought by my parents when I was in college. I stayed here for three years. Then I got a job, got married and went to other places. Later, when my son got a job, I looked after his children and it went on like that. Couldn’t stay in one place for long. Only in the last one year, I’ve anchored myself here. What about you?’
‘ I’ve spent all my time here. Don’t know what’ll happen in future. We – my husband and I- worked here, so we built a house and settled down. Since our son also got a job here all of us stay together as one family. Our daughter got married last year. She is now in Qatar and is pregnant. I have to go for the delivery. I’m waiting for a green signal from both the sides for my air travel.’ She paused. ‘But you’re doing well,’ she continued. ‘Even after living in various places, you continue with the good habit of walking.’
‘You see, I worked as a Section Superintendent in my office. It meant moving around all the time, without sitting on my seat. After retiring, I accompanied my only son to Chennai. There was a park nearby. Even if I was unable to walk in the mornings, I would definitely go for a walk in the evenings. Now he is in Toronto. It has been two years. When my husband passed on, my son didn’t want to leave me alone. So, he took me along with him saying we can all live together. He even offered to arrange a Green Card for me. My daughter-in-law is a gem of a girl. But I couldn’t bear the cold even for three months, so I rushed back. I couldn’t go out anywhere while I was there. That’s how I got this pain in my neck and back. When I consulted a doctor…’
‘Vitamin D deficiency. Go and stand in the sun…he would’ve said, like a school teacher,’ said Chandra. We burst out laughing. A few pedestrians turned around to look at us.
‘Come to think of it, people who don’t have Vitamin ‘W’ (wealth)are free of this problem. It’s only the very rich, white Western people who go to the beach for sunbathing. Now even we, the middle classes, have become like them, what to do?’ she said. ‘Okay, this is where I take a turn for my house. Let’s meet again, in the sun,’ she said and left.
*
Although they didn’t plan it they often ran into each other several times a week. It surprised them that their conversations always returned to the midpoint – sunlight.
… That morning, the sun was blazing even at eight o’clock.. As they were walking, Chandra called out to a woman selling bananas, pomegranates, mangoes and other fruits in a cane basket perched on her head.
‘Hey Thayamma. It’s become quite hot, right? So that brings in the season of mangoes. I’ve been asking since when for maavadu from Azhagar Koil, but you don’t seem to get them. These mangoes…are they from Nadham?’
‘Oh Amma, everybody talks about the season, but who buys in dozens or kilos, like before? Families have shrunk. Every household buys fruits in threes and fours, that’s all. All right. You were longing to have malgova mangoes. I’ve kept some specially for you.’ She slowly put her basket down, then carefully took out some mangoes and gave them to Chandra. Neela also bought two fruits for herself.
Chandra looked at Thayamma’s retreating figure for some time and said,
‘See Neela? She has only started her day now. By the time she sells off everything and goes home, all the heat of the sun would’ve descended on her head. It’s only the likes of us who complain about perspiration when it’s hot, and then say oh, it’s so cold, when it rains. Whether it’s the hottest day, or there’s a downpour, people like her have to move around.’
‘That’s right. Every year we tend to complain saying, isn’t it much too hot this year?’ agreed Neela.
‘Goddesses of Sunlight’ murmured Chandra thoughtfully, with a faraway look.
‘Isn’t there’s a temple for Veyil Ugnadal*, the goddess of sunlight, near Virudunagar?’
‘Yes, yes. We’ve one here too, near Thiruppura kunram. Then there’s another at Thiruchendur! And in Saathoor, Koyilpatti, Sivakasi and Thotthukkudi,there are temples for goddesses of sunlight, all of them mother figures for people who’ve grown up drinking sunlight and who make a living under the hot sun. They worship Her because she is one deity for whom all people are equal, and all things, like the hot sun or rain are equal. But I was not referring to the goddess, I meant people like Thayamma.’
‘When we were small, we would go up to the terrace to guard the vatral and vadagam that were put out to dry in the sun, and we too soaked up the sun along with them. So playful were we, that we were hardly aware of the sun’s heat.’
‘Yes.Those were the days. And now, at this age, we’ve to go searching for sunlight. Neela, I wanted to ask you last week. Now that you’re regularly absorbing sunlight, how is the level of your vitamin D? Have you checked?’
“I’ve given the test report to the doctor. Let me see what he says.’
‘Okay, come with a good report. We’ll meet in the sun.’
*
But after that day, Neela didn’t see Chandra for a long time. She tried setting off for her walk a little early, and returning later than usual. On many days she stood at the turning where they usually parted, waiting. There were so many streets branching off after that point. Who could she approach to inquire about Chandra? Where could she search for her? There was the woman who sold greens who had asked Neela, ‘Why’re you walking alone amma? The other amma who always walks with you, where is she?’
‘I also don’t know. For some days now she hasn’t been coming and I’m searching for her. I don’t know how to find out because I don’t know where she stays. Good I saw you. You know where her house is?’
‘No amma, I’ve no idea. Other than seeing the two of you together, I don’t remember selling greens to her. I don’t know your house either. But everybody has a cell phone now, talk to her,’ she suggested, and resumed calling out the names of the various greens she was selling. It was a simple solution, but then it struck Neela that she hadn’t asked Chandra either her address, or her husband’s name or her cell number. Strange.
The flowers on both sides of the street peeped out of the compound walls, but there was no Chandra to pluck them. I’ve been living in this colony for nearly twenty years.Everybody knows me. Chandra’s words flashed through her mind. But Neela’s reserved nature prevented her from knocking on the doors of unknown people to inquire about her walking companion.
*
One day Neela was walking briskly back towards her home.
‘Amma, how’re you? All well?’ asked Thayamma, the fruit seller. ‘I’ve some good mangoes. Want to buy? Hmm…Your friend would buy fruits every single day, without fail. Her daughter was due for her delivery so she contacted lots of people and finally left for her daughter’s place. I must say that’s a good thing which has happened even in these bad times. Everybody says there’ll be another wave of Corona. Also, a lockdown. If that amma had waited for some more time, she couldn’t have gone … Ah, it’s only we who suffer from all this. It ruins our livelihood. Okay, let me sell for as long as I can. Here, your mangoes,’ she said, stuffing my hands with fruit.
Neela remembered Chandra mentioning her daughter casually in conversation. Although they had done some small talk while walking it had never occurred to them to take each other’s address, phone numbers, or talk about their families.
Chandra was now in Qatar, in her daughter’s house. A place with the blistering heat of a desert. Would she still like sunlight or would she take refuge inside an AC room and get aches and pains like me?
It was like a ‘train friendship’, the way they had become friends in their quest for sunlight. Mechanically, Neela took out some change to pay Thayamma. She let herself into the house and switched on the fan and the TV.
‘Use our sunscreen lotion to protect your skin from the ultraviolet rays of the sun’ said an advertisement. Neela’s report about the increase in her Vitamin D level fluttered on the table, in the breeze.
******
Dr Susila is a novelist, short story writer, critic and translator. She was a professor of Tamil in Fatima College affiliated to Madurai university. She has published several collections of short stories and critical essays and translations. She is best known for her translation of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, The Idiot and The Double for which she received prestigious awards. She has also translated the short stories of Mahashweta Devi, Asha Purna Devi and Temsila Ao from English to Tamil.
Dr. Lakshmi Kannan is a bilingual writer and uses the pen-name ‘Kaaveri’ for her writings in Tamil.
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