The Return

THE RETURN
(A Story)

SUBBARAMIAH leant in the car and closed his eyes. He was physically tired, and yet underneath it all, ran a curious streak of excitement. Perhaps that could be accounted for by the fact that he was visiting his home-town for the first time after a lapse of nearly twenty years. The town had been busy preparing a suitable welcome for Subbaramiah. He was a man of repute now and the citizens of Srirampuram were eager to give their fellow-citizen a welcome suitable to his status and position. Opening his eyes for an instant, Subbaramiah observed that they were on the outskirts of the town. Despite his forty years, he was aware of a childish delight in these signs of home. As he sat gazing out of the car, his thoughts sped to his childhood.

Subbaramiah was only plain Subbudu then. Ever since he could remember, Subbudu had been a poor relation in the house of his uncle Sitaramiah. Orphaned in his infancy by an epidemic of cholera that took away both his parents at one stroke, Subbudu never knew the tender caresses of a mother or the brawny, affectionate clasp of a father. He was an unwanted element in his uncle’s household. None cared if he ate well or ate not at all; there was no one to comment or advise him if he happened to be dirty or untidy. Only half-realising this, yet the lad was tremulous in his eagerness to please, and thus earn a bit of affection or even a slight, passing regard.

Shrewd as his aunt Kanakamma was, she did not fail to realise the usefulness of the boy. Subbudu was neither too young that he had to be fed and clothed by others, nor was he too old to be moulded according to her will. So she set about her task in her own inimitable way. The child was made to feel that the outside world was unkind and cruel towards an orphan, such as he was. It was repeatedly borne in on him that, for the very shelter of his uncle’s home, he should thank the God above. Made to feel thus, he was a willing slave. He ran errands for aunt and took messages for his unele. His cousins, quick to take advantage, made him the butt of their unpleasantness. Subbudu grew quite accustomed to be pinched or having his hair pulled when one of his cousins was in a temper. On such occasions, he was made to realise, by his indefatigable aunt, that he had to bear this pinching and teasing, nay, that he had to glory in it, for was it not partly his cousins good nature that allowed him a share of their home?

When Kanakamma could no longer keep him at home with impunity, she sent him, grudgingly, to the Municipal School that was in the next street. Subbudu was now ten years old and appallingly ignorant. He was quick of foot and sure of hand, but his brain, undeveloped and uncared for as it was, was dull to the point of idiocy. At school he suffered keenly; he was not unaware of the indignity of sitting in the bottom-most class with kids of four and five. The teachers, not knowing the circumstances of his home, held him up to ridicule; so that, dully resentful and hurt; Subbudu dreaded the days on which he had to go to school. Unconsciously, this strengthened the impression that Kanakamma had sought to implant in his childish mind that his uncle’s house was a haven of refuge compared to the cruel world outside.

The sting of studying with little children remained; Subbudu tried to master the lessons quickly, so that he could be moved up into a class more suited to his age. It became a usual sight to see him with a broken slate and a bit of slate-pencil, drawing the letters of the alphabet with a concentrated frown on his little forehead. But his aunt was too good a schemer to allow him to get away with it. Here was Subbudu, a poor relation, dependant on them for the very food he ate and the clothes he wore–a strain on the purse, certainly, but set off by the fact that he was a willing servant, when servants were scarce. The left-off clothes and the meagre, left-over food were not much to pay for his willing and honest service, and Kanakamma knew it. So she began steadily, stealthily undermining his efforts; she kept him constantly on the run, here, there and everywhere, with or without reason, so that, he would be too tired out to try his letters that had seemed enchanting such a short while ago.

His work at school deteriorated, and one day, his teacher, past all patience, shouted at him, “It is impossible to teach you, you great big duffer! You are the idiot of idiots! The one and only idiot of Srirampuram!” The children laughed tauntingly and ran shouting after him when he went home in the evening.

Conscious of the dull, smouldering resentment at his heart, he ran fast to increase the distance between him and his tormentors. He ran straight to Kanakamma, caught hold of her saree and panted out, “Please, please, auntie, stop me from school. I cannot go, I really cannot!” Kanakamma’s heart gave a leap of joy; but she was careful to keep the relief out of her voice as she asked him the reason for his decision. In the end, after making him understand how very properly grateful he should be to her good nature and tolerance, she acceded to his request.

Thus Subbudu grew up–patient, willing to slave, content with what he got and grateful for it. Gratitude can be of many kinds. One can be passionately grateful, lovingly grateful, kindly grateful or even blindly grateful. But Subbudu’s gratitude was of a different sort. He, poor lad, was abjectly grateful–grateful with each breath he grew in his thin, emaciated body.

Adolescence brought no change in Subbudu’s affairs. He had grown accustomed to obeying everyone in the house–from his uncle down to his youngest cousin. He went to the market; he took the young ones to school; he carried their midday meal; he brought them home in the evening. He was the last to retire at night and the first to be up before dawn. Day followed day and week followed we in monotonous succession.

It was in his twentieth year that the incident occurred that was to change his life. It happened, one day, that his young cousin Kamala wanted someone to take her to her friend’s house. Subbudu was available and willing, as usual. So this youth of twenty set out, holding the hand of his cousin, and piloting her carefully along the crowded streets. Unusual crowds thronged the streets that day, and Subbudu wondered, with a passing wonder, as to what could be the cause of the crush. Having brought Kamala safely to her destination, he was dismissed by this lofty little lady and asked to return in an hour’s time. Aimlessly he wandered about, and was soon caught up, despite himself, in the teeming mass of people. As he was borne along with the crowd, he struggled to separate, but found it impossible.

Suddenly he perceived that the crowd had reached the town maidan. He realised that some sort of a meeting was in progress and cursed his folly in having got himself mixed up with the crowd. As the speaker rose to his feet on the dais, a sudden hush fell on the vast assemblage. Subbudu listened, absently at first, with worry in his heart at the thought of young Kamala. But soon, the ringing tones of the speaker drew his attention, and the attention soon developed into a keen interest. The speaker was quite young, in his late thirties. He spoke with an inspired fervour; each word he uttered came straight from the heart and the listening multitude was aware of it. They listened, with an eager, hungry look, when he spoke of the need of independence for the Motherland. And as he spoke, he enlarged upon the urgency of freedom for the individual. Subbudu listened; he felt that the words were being addressed straight at him. Freedom for the individual! What had he known of freedom all his life? He listened; and he realised how abjectly grateful a slave he had been for a meagre meal and a few cast-off clothes! The speaker’s message put a new interpretation on life and Subbudu was lost in wonder at this new revelation. When the meeting came to an end, he experienced a sharp sense of regret; he could have listened to that ringing voice forever!

Lifted up spiritually and mentally, aware of himself as a separate individual for the first time, he slowly made his way to fetch Kamala home. On arriving at the friend’s house, he stood outside, and called out, “Kamala! Kamala!” Whereupon his young cousin flew out of the house and straight at him. She was in a vile temper. She stormed and raged: “How dare you, you dirty devil! Why did you keep me waiting so long? I’ll tell my mother, you rascal! Wait and see if I don’t! You good-for-nothing Subbudu!" and struck him viciously on the cheek.

Anger, the first he had ever experienced in his life, blazed up in him. The words, in their poison, fell atop the inspired words of the speaker who wanted freedom for the individual. All the pent-up misery and humiliation of years blazed up in a sudden gust of anger. And Subbudu acted! For the first time, in twenty years, he acted of his own volition and instinct. He caught his cousin’s hands in a hard grip with his left hand, while, with his right, he gave her a resounding slap. The girl was too astonished to cry; Subbudu, aghast at what he had done, let go suddenly, so that Kamala fell onto the floor and then set up a series of howls as she ran inside. Subbudu stood there, raging, aghast, trembling and yet exultant; he heard voices in the room next to the porch.

One said: “That kid Kamala has been needing this for a long time. The way that family treat Subbudu! I wonder why the boy sticks it. I am sure that he has fine possibilities if he is separated from those poisonous relatives of his!” Another agreed and said, lightly: “If I were in his position, I’d run away. What a torture and a humiliation it is to be a poor relation!”

Subbudu stayed where he was. Those words, lightly spoken, showed him the way. A blinding ray of illumination had come. He could be free if he wanted to! He could run away, away from his relatives, to freedom and the unknown! Freedom! The very word delighted him, thrilled him; on a sudden, making up his mind, he turned and retraced his steps, without waiting or caring for the recalcitrant Kamala. Awakened from the lethargy and the slavery of years, his free soul went with him.

Srirampuram did not see the familiar figure again. Kanakamma was furious; she was shrill in her prophecies that Subbudu would come to no good. Yet, here he was, twenty years later, entering his home-town as an honoured citizen. True, the fight had been bitter, and the way had been long and hard. Many were the nights he spent sleepless poring over books; many were the days he spent hungry while in search of a job. And yet, his indomitable resolution, and the patience ingrained in him as a poor relation, served him to toil his way up.

Subbaramiah leant in the car and closed his eyes. He was physically tired, and yet underneath it all, ran a curious streak of excitement. Perhaps that could be accounted for by the fact that he was visiting his home-town after a lapse of nearly twenty years–Subbudu the ill-treated orphan, Subbudu the humble workman that was, to Subbararniah–the prosperous mill-owner, much admired and respected. And for him now Srirampuram had cameras to click, garlands to offer in homage, and voices to raise in resounding ovation.