Alphonsa aka Annakutty 1910-1946
Paul Zacharia
A brief preface
Alphonsa aka Annakutty (b. 1910) led the quiet, anonymous life of a nun in her room in the Fransiscan Clarist convent in Bharananganam, kottayam District, Kerala, till her death in 1946 at the age of 36. She began her convent life as a teacher but was soon bedridden, pursued by one illness after the other. She suffered physically and also, by all accounts, the inevitable if not deliberate neglect that befalls a perennial invalid. She cheerfully took it all in her stride managing to make peace with her God and miseries. Fr. Romulus, her confessor and spiritual guide, was a source of strength and an admirer of her grit. Her life was also brightened by the school children who came to her bedside with a vested interest: to make her pray for their little needs like passing examinations. After her death children did not let her go. They offered flowers at her grave and continued to pray. Soon stories of miracles began to make their rounds. The simple acts of these children started off the cult of Alphonsa the miracle-worker, and over the next 60 years she was, step by step, transformed into Saint Alphonsa, finally beatified by Pope Benedict VI in Rome in 2008 – the first Indian woman to be canonized as a saint of the Catholic Church. Her letters, and accounts of her by those who knew her well, show her as a lovable, truthful, never-say-die, womanly woman. My father’s ancestral home is close to her convent and grave and it feels nice to know a saint is our neighbour. This story entered my mind when I happened to read a collection of her letters – portions from them are used in the story, as also from Fr. Romulus’ moving eulogy at her funeral.
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The Death and Funeral of Sister Alphonsa
(Translated from Malayalam by Anupama Raju)
A
s soon as she died, Sister Alphonsa sighed in relief and rose from her bed. She floated up and drifted around the sick room lightly as thistledown and looked at her dead body.
Seated around the body are other nuns, her companions, weeping, and praying. Sorrowfully, they are closing the eyes she forgot to shut when she died. Sister Bernadette is wiping her own tears with one hand even as she sponges with the other the perspiration of death from Alphonsa’s face.
Alphonsa smiled. Attending to me was a chore for them till I died. Poor things! Even after my death, their chore doesn’t end. Now they have to bathe me and get me ready. Dress me in a freshly laundered habit. Make a bouquet of flowers for me to hold in my hands. Weave a wreath of silver paper flowers for my head. Buy me a coffin.
Alphonsa flitted like a gentle breeze through them, kissing each one of them. Umma! Umma!
Then, like a wet bird, she shook herself free off the last speck of life and floated blithely to the veranda. From there she slipped into the courtyard.
The blinding mid-day sun stunned her. My Jesus! Such a long time since I saw the sun! The dazzling light made her drowsy. Like a flimsy particle of light she plummeted to the cool of the veranda.
When she wakes up, it is her sick room that she sees. There is no one. A fresh white sheet is spread over her bed. A rosary, arranged in the shape of a heart, is placed on it. Next to it is a single rose. Everything’s so clean, so pretty! She laughed, seeing how beautiful her room looked. Alphonsa caressed her cot with the memories that clung to her fingers, and flew around it, whispering, Oh my cot, my friend, for so long you bore my sick body. May the next one to sleep on you be healthy. May you have a light burden.
She suddenly felt a yearning to see her body again. This is the body that made me a woman. And it was what I gave up first. Still, it came along this far, burdened with pain and making me suffer. My beloved, said Alphonsa to her body, I haven’t even kissed you once. Nor have I even seen you fully. When she thought of the loneliness of her body in its death, a wave of sorrow submerged her. She drifted into another sleep.
When she woke up, the sick room’s courtyard appeared before her under the shade of plants and banana leaves. Her pet hen is anxiously clucking and calling its chicks. They run in and cling to their mother’s legs. Now Alphonsa hears the sound that frightened the hen; it’s the ringing of a bell. She glanced across the courtyard; on the other side, on the verandah of the convent, preparations are going on for her funeral.
It is Kuria — who regularly gets her to pray for him to pass the math exam — who is ringing the little funeral bell, swinging it left and right. Standing in the sun-lit garden, he tolled the bell steadily: Kilum…Kilum…Kilum. She smiled. Kuria, so you have come to ring the funeral bell for me, haven’t you? She caressed his perspiring face in the guise of a little breeze. Suddenly she had a desire to ring the bell herself, but remembered her vow of abstinence and stopped it.
When she saw Kunjamma and Thresia, the kitchen-hands, stepping out into the yard, holding the wooden cross and the black funeral umbrella, Alphonsa was overwhelmed. The hands that gave me food are holding my funeral cross and umbrella! She kissed their hands sadly and gratefully. And then weeping, clung to their warm hands.
But when she saw who all were lifting her coffin up, her grief vanished. Bashful and happy, she laughed diminutively as a mustard seed. Ayya! It is my dear sisters themselves who are carrying me to the cemetery! Brimming over with affection, she moved close to them. My friends, how do I thank you for your love for me? Alphonsa smiled. Am I heavy, my sisters? Will you get tired and drop me before you reach the cemetery! She nudged her way amongst the pall-bearers and asked: My sisters, shall I also join you in carrying my coffin?
She now saw her father, sister and brothers. She flew amongst them, caressing each one. My achacha, my chechi, my brothers, here is Annakutty’s kiss for you! Join me in my happiness, do not weep. She looked into her father’s tired eyes and smiled.
Achacha, smile, won’t you?
Suddenly, she was startled to hear her own voice: “My dear chetta, that old umbrella I had, broke last week…”
Alphonsa looked around in astonishment. Who is this? Is there another me around here? Another me who is not yet dead?
She heard her voice continuing to speak: “Now I go without an umbrella. Since it’s a hilly place, it is rainy and cold…”
Memory stirred within her like a film of mist. Recognising her own words, she looked guiltily at her older brother standing behind the coffin. And said sadly: My dearest brother, I troubled you a lot, didn’t I, writing letters, asking you for money? It’s so sad! I need not have feared the rain. I could’ve just said, dear sister rain, I don’t have an umbrella, and got drenched.
She heard her voice again.
“Since the school is a bit far away, it’s a little difficult to manage without an umbrella. The last time achachan came to visit me, I had told him I had no umbrella. Achachan might not have been able to get me one. Which is perhaps why there is no news from him.”
Alphonsa looked at her father with unbearable sorrow. My achacha, I troubled you too a great deal. Though I had left home for good, I kept holding on to all of you with one hand. Please forgive me!
Here was her voice again.
“So, chetta, if you could give me the money to buy an umbrella, I would be very happy. Since the road is so rickety, it is difficult to share another person’s umbrella. If possible, please give me five rupees at least.”
Alphonsa wept as she kissed the cheeks of her father and brother. And then, fatigued, she sank into a silver-paper star decorating her coffin.
The funeral procession began to move. Alphonsa too set out with her body to the cemetery. Kuria had a faraway look and tolled the bell like a sleepwalker: Kilum…Kilum… Alphonsa felt sleepy again but gathered all her strength and pushed the feeling away. Do I sleep at my own funeral!
As her coffin was leaving the courtyard, a light drizzle flew in through the hot sunlight. Alphonsa’s sorrows disappeared. Ha! She said. Rain!
When she heard the patter of the rain on the coffin, she remembered how she used to stretch her hands out to feel the rain from the sick room’s veranda. Alphonsa laughed and sailed into the rain. No more do I need an umbrella! No more will I fall ill! No more do I need money! Ha! Ha!
The drizzle stopped. As the procession crossed the public road, a steamy mist rose from the ground, smelling of the soil.
It was then that Alphonsa saw Father Romulus. She gazed at him with joy — and with a little guilt. My dearest father, how did I not see you? Her happiness overflowed. She darted over to him and said: I knew you would not miss my funeral. But thinking of this and that, I did not see you. Like a soft wind, she blew away the sweat off Father Romulus’s forehead and said, Father, now everything is just right with my funeral! What a miracle!
She asked him smilingly, Father, would you listen to the confession of a dead person? To whom would I confess now? Isn’t it possible I will sin again? And have fears and confusions? Who will advise me then? Alphonsa whispered into the priest’s ears, oh, teacher dear to my heart, Umma! Umma!
Though she tried, she could not hold back the desire to count how many people made up her cortege. My Jesus! There are 18! Counting me, 19! Counting the me inside the coffin, 20! Ha! Ha! She laughed. So many have come to plant me like a rice seedling in the moist soil of the new cemetery’s newly dug grave. Happily, she told her body in the coffin: Do not fear, little one, you are going into freshly upturned soil – fertile soil that has nurtured mangoes, pepper, bananas, jackfruit and yam.
As the cortege climbed the steps leading to the churchyard, the pall-bearing sisters were panting and sweating. Alphonsa said unhappily, my dearest sisters, what shall I do? I am such a burden always! Please forgive me one last time.
When they lowered the coffin inside the church, Alphonsa went to say farewell to her body. Under the black lid of the coffin raised on four corner-stands, she saw her face. It was pale. But she looked like she was sleeping soundly. Annakutty, don’t you know you have died? Alphonsa asked the body, smiling. The upper teeth were visible because the lips were drawn back slightly. Alphonsa felt like holding her lips together the way they should have been. She said, little one, shouldn’t you have kept your lips together when you died, just as you closed your eyes? And then she kissed those closed eyes, pallid lips and forehead. Umma! Umma! My dearest Annakutty!
It was then that she noticed a strand of grey in the hair behind her ear. Alphonsa had a start. My Jesus! I have greyed! At the age of 36! A flash of sadness shot through her. She disengaged from it and then, hugging her body, said: It doesn’t matter, my dear one. It doesn’t matter. Now, nothing matters to us.
Father Romulus was ending his eulogy.
“Blessed is the convent she lived in. Blessed is this village, Bharanganam, where her sacred body is laid to rest…”
Alphonsa smiled shyly. Father is saying all this because of his affection for me! Father! She said: When you plant me in the cemetery’s rich soil, nourish me with love. I will give a surpassing yield. I will dance in the wind like stalks of grain. I will ripen under the sun and wait for the day of harvest.
New hands came to replace the exhausted sisters who were carrying the coffin. The cortege moved from the cool interior of the church into the sunny courtyard filled with winds. Alphonsa saw the dug-up red soil heaped along the sides of her grave. So lovely!
The sisters lowered the coffin next to the grave. They are weeping. Achachan is weeping. Father Romulus is wiping his tears. Alphonsa felt a stormy ache rising within her. Weeping, she moved restlessly like a sliver of sunlight amongst the crying ones and kissed away their tears.
The burial got over. Alphonsa stood watching the mourners dispersing. At last she and her grave were all by themselves. Looking at the flowers and candles placed on the six-feet long heap of soil that was her grave, she smiled.
And then, just before she melted into the sunlight, looking up at the blue sky and the clouds, Alphonsa exclaimed joyfully: Oh! Now who will show me the way to heaven?
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Author Notes --The author acknowledges with thanks the book ‘Alphonsammayude Likhithangal’, (‘Writings of Sr. Alphonsa’) compiled by Rev. Sr. Damianos, for quotes from the letter written by Sr. Alphonsa and also for quotes from Father Romulus’ speech, as cited in the story.
GLOSSARY Umma: Kiss Achachan: Father Chechi: Elder sister Chettan: Elder brother --Annakutty was sister Alphonsa's pet name at home. Her given name was Anna. The given name is given up when a nun takes her vows. --Father Romulus: Was Sister Alphonsa’s spiritual guide and Father Confessor.
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Note A version of this translation first appeared in Indian Literature, Sahitya Akademi’s bi-monthly journal, Nov-Dec 2011.
Paul Zacharia is the author of more than 50 books ranging across literary genres including screenplays, recognized and awarded for his contribution to Malayalam literature. A Secret History of Compassion is his first novel and in English.
Anupama Raju is a poet, literary journalist, communications professional and translator. She is the author of Nine, a poetry collection.
Paul Zacharia in The Beacon
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