The Myrtle

THE MYRTLE
(Short-story)

“SRIVIRINCHI”
(Translated the author from his original in Telugu)

Sundar was scared to a great deal but the other man was unyielding in his grip. Holding his arm he was dragging him to the end of the dark tunnel. He had no fire-arms with him but the grip was enough to take out the life. Sundar began gasping for life. “Please don’t drag me. I shall obey you, Leave me free” Sundar implored helplessly. “Now you would say that, but once the grip is not there, you are your old self. Am I not observing you everyday? Shut your mouth and obey me…”, the man shouted in all indignation and detest. He was merciless and unsympathetic, an embodiment of cruelty–thought Sundar.

He was thoroughly helpless. No energy left to revolt. Was he only to walk behind him like a serf?

Who was this scoundrel and why was he chasing him this way? Knowingly or unknowingly he did not harm anyone in this life. But why was he enslaved to this grotesque form? Is there no redemption? For himself, he was mild and easy-going by temperament. He did not have an occasion to torment a person.

The other man, his eye-balls were reddish than glowing fire, fortunately was leading him and was not face to face with him. To look at those fire balls all the time would only mean submerging into the eternal airs.

He dragged him through a long distance. It was all dark, pitch dark. He was not able to see his way; the eyes were useless. The other man was still holding his hand firm and dragging him. Some forceful hit and he jerked to disadvantage. His pelt met with a hard substance. A bump had immediately formed over his head. Some relief also encountered. The firm grip holding him was gone. He was free, no pressure on him whatsoever. Before he could feel the pleasure of freedom some heaviness pulled him forward. He had to take a jump instantly. Now his forehead hit the opposing wall and received a big bump. His vision turned to green for a while. Then pitch darkness. He felt his forehead by the hands. The touch was wet. Was it blood? His blood? Was it oozing because of the jolt and hurt? He felt sick at the thought.

“Now get into this dark hole and damn yourself,” he heard this loud voice. It must be the man who was maltreating him all the time. Later he heard the sound of the receding steps.

Sundar was helpless and began weeping aloud. It appeared as though some dozen monsters were making him into pieces to eat his flesh. His body was aching, as though it was being twisted and turned round incessantly.

He got up and looked around. He was reclining on his own couch but not in any dark room. No bumps over the head or forehead either. No oozing out of blood. So obviously all this was a dream, after all!

But what a horrible dream it was! Sundar cleared his eyes and sat up on his couch.

Sarada and Babu were in deep sleep on the other side. He could hear their breathing sounds. Babu clung to her and held her in his arms tight. Sundar wanted to wake her up and relate his dream. But it would be cruel to wake up a person in sound sleep for no good reason. He got out of the bed and moved forward. He hit the table and picked up the wrist-watch. It was 2.30 a. m. Another four hours for the day to break in full splendour.

Why did he have this dreadful dream? Whatever be the reason, it did put him to great scare and embarrassment.

Sundar sat upon the stool near the table. The room was not dark at all. The bed-light was giving out its due.

Sundar recapitulated his dream. He could remember it in detail, at this moment. Perhaps as the day dawns he might forget all about that. There were many dreams in his life–good and bad. But not one to remember now. One thing was clear, this dream was very awful and ridiculous. It was alright as a dream but what would happen if that comes to be true? Would it be possible to sit this way, relaxed and recapitulating?

He walked into the bathroom and applying cool water to the face and ryes in particular, felt some relief. Sleep abandoned him completely by now. He began pondering over the possible cause for this horrible dream.

He remembered the book he was reading before getting to sleep, the people he met that day, the incidents that were rough with him and all that.

As usual he attended the office that day. Nothing untoward happened there. No incidents at all. All was routine. Returning from the office he looked into the newspaper columns for a while and took a stroll in the balcony. Then had his dinner and reading a book of love stories slipped into sleep. He did not know when Sarada came into the room after her errands in the kitchen.

Oh! yes! There was an incident while he was returning from the office...yes! It was an incident to be counted upon.

Murti and Anjaneyulu were with him on the way. It was Anjaneyulu who said: “This evening…it’s chill….perhaps...might rain in the night...”

The conversation naturally slid into a discussion on the weather forecast. There was nothing that he contributed in particular. He was listening while walking along with them.

At one stage, Murti said, “This is called Whisky weather...it would be nice to get into a bar and have a peg now.”

Anjaneyulu supported him. Both discussed the proposition and decided to move on to a bar. Sundar said: “Then you carry on. I would rather get home...”

“Do you deny us company?”

“You know – I don’t take anything. Why waste time? I would be a bad company. Please, excuse me.”

“No. Your company would be very good. You need not have drinks if you don’t want to...”

It was true that Sundar gave them company on earlier occasions. For his share he had a glass of coco-cola and nothing else. The friends did not bother him to share liquor. He did not have an inclination to have that either. Though the smell and the atmosphere was too bitter and out of taste for him, he could carry on tolerably well.

“After all, this would not take more than half-an-hour. Don’t deny us your company. Even if we go to a coffee house it would take this much time.”

He had to accompany them.

The three of them sat in a cabin. Waiter approached them in his usual reverence.

Anjaneyulu placed the order.

“It’s rare to find a specimen of your type these days,” said Murti referring to Sundar.

“Why?”

“You are too orthodox and puritan, in these days of modernism and permissive society.”

Sundar laughed away.

“Leave alone the drinks, a cigarette is a taboo for you, don’t look straight into a girl’s face...no vice of any sorts.”

“You resemble Prahlada of the epic Bhagavathain your dealings with others.” They laughed at the expense of Sundar. Of course, he also enjoyed that way.

“You’ve no thrill in life at all, just go straight.”

“Nothing wrong in this, isn’t it?”

“Not the question of right or wrong. If this insipid and dull without emotion of any sort...then what for is the life at all?”

“If drinks, smoke, adultery and the like alone bring thrill into life, I don’t need that life in thrill, whatever you might say.”

“Leave the matter of thrill, how do you cater to your emotional need?”

Sundar did not venture to answer any of these comments.

“Some people become voracious readers. I don’t think you read much.”

“Some satisfy their egos in being jealous, envious, finding others’ faults, etc.”

“Have you ever enjoyed a puff?”

They knew his reply to this but would like him repeat the same from time to time.

After sometime Anjaneyulu said: “Today, for our health and happiness, please have a peg, at least half-peg.”

“I’m not accustomed to that, you know.”

“For that matter we are not, we come here only once in a while.”

“What’s a habit or addiction?”

“You should be sick if you don’t do that. Habit leads to addiction.”

“If you become a slave to the habit you are an addict.”

“There’s a proverb in Chinese land: ‘Man takes the first cup/First glass takes the second cup / Third cup takes the man.’ That’s all.

“If you care for my word, drinking is not bad, you can’t call it a vice at all. The nice taste we have....”

“Because people can’t see and be silent over the pleasures of others, puritans like you called this by all bad names–drink, addiction, slavery......You do not really imagine the pleasure in this.”

“Please have a half-peg and see for yourself.”

“If you don’t find it tasty leave it alone.”

“You needn’t par for your glass.”

His friends indulged in a dialogue this way.

Sundar had not yet finished his glass of soft drink. For reasons of precaution he kept his glass at a comfortable distance from them.

Anjaneyulu raised the whisky bottle and tried to pour some liquid into his cola. Sundar removed his glass still further.

“Right, at least try to taste beer for today. Make a beginning.”

He filled a fresh glass with beer and placed it before Sundar. This made Sundar talk out from his mind.

“If you tease me this way, I would now get out. You know well my habits. Don’t try to drag me into this lurch...” he said almost in an angry alone.”

“That’s no good, Sundar. You must taste today. We can’t leave you alone.”

Sundar was nonplussed comprehending the situation.

The friends who were proud of him for his unsullied career, for his control of mind and body, today want to put him to a rigorous test, perhaps. Sundar reviewed the table once. There were three empty bottles. Some dozen empty soda bottles lay zig zag on the floor. There was a full bottle yet unopened.

He could gather that his friends were all out now and can’t get up for a good hour’s time. He felt the need to act instead of keeping mum. He should see that they get up and walk out.

“Murti, let’s go home,” he suggested.

“What’s the hurry, this bottle is yet to be opened.”

“Please ask the bearer to take it . You are out, do you know? In any case you can’t walk home now. You need great rest.”

Anjaneyulu was not able to open his eyes. Murti wanted to exhibit that he could walk, but in vain.

Sundar wished he could leave them alone and go. But that would be base ingratitude. He should see them at their places and then alone think of his house.

Now, what’s to be done?

If he doesn’t act quick, these two will drown themselves completely and also put him to great embarrassment. But what’s to be done? He can’t leave them all alone to themselves and walk out. Stay for some more time would definitely mean much nuisance and danger to all.

Murti was visibly down. His stare has lost its identity long . Anjaneyulu was drooping over the table and jogging.

Whilst Sundar was still engrossed in his contemplation, the bearer came there. Sundar talked to him in a hush: “You must save the situation. These fellows are already out. We’ll stay here for another half-hour. Please restore that unopened bottle. Get me another coco-cola. They do not need anything further. Sundar was afraid that they might get up any moment and want the bottle They, in fact, were not able to see or talk out. But their hands were outstretched to handle the glasses before them. The bearer had removed all the material from the table.

After half-an-hour the environment seemed changed to his advantage, at least this was what Sundar thought. Murti stood for a moment and Sundar felt assured that he could walk under some support. Anjaneyulu opened his eagle eyes and checking the bill placed some notes in the bowl. Sundar saw to that they were placed in a rickshaw and were dropped at their homes without any more fuss. Then he walked on to his place. All the time anxious thoughts of the event filled his mind. He would have easily put himself to difficulties. Anyway he was out of danger now and it shall be his job to see that such things do not recur. He should avoid such situations, can’t be complacent with these friends any more he thought. The sense of friendship, their visible pressure, his hidden weakness–all this might put him to danger. At least the scene today should be enough indication for him. He should be on his guard. Poor fellows, Murti and Anjaneyuluwere not to be blamed, they didn’t know what they did.

Sundar came home in this set, of mental attitude. Once at home he was involved in the routine.

He was sure he slipped into sleep without any of these worries lingering.

It was possible, as the psychologists put, that this event activated in his subconscious mind and found its way out when he was fast asleep. That must be the reason for the dreaded dream.

Some strong person was dragging him through a dark tunnel in the dream. He was forcing him into an ugly situation.

He did not remember the details as time passed on. Sundar anyway did not comprehend all the intricacies of this. He deliberately emptied his mind and forced sleep upon himself.

Next day Sundar was at his office as usual. Murti and Anjaneyulu were a bit late. When they were together the topic drifted into yesterday’s incident.

“It was not our intention to force you into drinking. Please forget, and forgive the inconvenience we might have caused. We must have been harsh to you, please don’t take that to stock.”

“I know all that. Take it easy, do not bother much”–was his immediate reaction. He tried to put a stop to all this thinking.

But mysteriously enough the same dream was recurring to him for a week, the same main event with some minor changes. That’s all.

Sundar was much embarrassed at this recurrence. He couldn’t stand it at all. Some sort of fear overtook him.

Every night between two and three in the morning he was waking up from the same dreadful dream. To assure himself that it was only a dream, lot of assurance and recourse was needed. To become his normal self and to get to sleep it was taking him more time day after day. All this resulted in sleeplessness, incidental fatigue, drowsiness and nervousness.

Not only the physical ailment this incident told upon his mental make up also. It was as though the mind was under the grip of some terror.

The friends did not bother him everyday to accompany them to the bars. They were able to forget the past and to carry on. But all the trouble on the earth was to the lot of Sundar and Sundar alone. He was sure they had no motive behind their behaviour that day. He didn’t quite understand why the same dream should bother him each night. He must be mentally very weak to contain or resist, this thought put him to endless unrest. It appeared to him that he was heading to a psychological breakdown.

He was not able to get along with the dream. As it stood, he couldn’t dare discuss this with anybody. If this situation continued further it wou1d be wise to see a psychiatrist, he thought. His spine quivered at this thought.

Sundar had a repeat performance of the dream that night.

His head hit the wall in great speed and the result was heavy bleeding. His hands felt the wet blood flowing out. His heart was also flowing out along with the blood cells, he felt. What’s all this about? Where has his courage vanished? He must put up valiant defence rather than submitting meekly to this attack. That huge person was dragging him out into the dark tunnel. He was thrashing him well and using all foul language. “You bloody fellow, follow me without any scuffle or else I put you to more torture. You think you are a royal personage.”

Sundar reviewed the situation fora moment. No, he should not be a coward, must act in a bold way. He should revolt and pay in his own coin. No use or no need for this silent suffering!

His hand was controlled by that stout man’s grip. But the second hand was free. He was free to act with that, no doubt. Sundar summed up his courage and put all his energy into that hand. If that beastly man were to notice any change in his steps or movements he could guess his motive and this opportunity would be lost. That happened in spite of Sundar’s extra care. That man turned towards Sundar and looked into his eyes. What fierce looks! His eyes were red balls steaming out fires. His face resembled the ghosts and grotesque forms one reads in the epics.

All the courage pooled up by Sundar now dried down and he was again drooped into the same state of weariness and serfdom. But to his great luck, that man did not notice Sundar’s raised hand. Sundar felt he should act quick before he moved further. If he took the second hand also under his control there would be nothing left to him than lamenting, and lamenting forever. He had only a second or a split second to act, to save himself.

Sundar drew up all his strength. The free hand shaped into a fist. This fist turned into a mighty weapon and thrashed into that man’s face. It hit at his nose in heavy force. This was a bolt from the blue for him and he could not withstand it. The heavy man tilted and in that jerk Sundar’s first hand also got freed from the clutches. Sundar’s two hands transformed into iron fists and repeated the blows all over the wild man’s face. One, two, three...and there was no end once they started. That man could not withstand the blows and took to his heels. Sundar did not leave him alone. He gave him a chase wildly using his fists....

“What’s this? Why are you beating me? Please get up. Look at what you have done to me,”–saying this Sarada woke him. Once awake, he quickly realised how his dream ended now on a different note. No worry at the of the mind. No fear, no dread. It appeared as though his mind had a clean wash resembling a China-cup washed in new Vim powder glittering nascent and novel lights.

That was the end. That dreadful dream had no occasion with Sundar for a repeat performance.