The Burnt Lyric

Peddibhotla R. Subbramiah

“I’ve lived too long, needlessly”, mused Sethuraman. He leaned against a pillar in the small verandah.

A few strands of grey hair, sunken eyes and a creased face gave him a prematurely old appearance.

On the previous night he tried his best to snatch a little bit of sleep on a mat spread in that verandah, but it eluded him.

The moment he closed his eyes, it was a signal for invasion of nightmares and bizarre scenes on his mind.

Not only yesterday. It has been a recurring feature for the last four days.

Sound of footsteps. Someone was approaching him. He turned his head. Ah, it was the doctor. Sethuraman rose to his feet. The doctor looked young. He smiled at Sethuraman by way of saying ‘Hello’. A film of tears clouded Sethuraman’s vision when he sought the support of the pillar. The doctor lingered at the entrance for a while and peeped in, but didn’t get in. Sethuraman knew there was no need, either. The doctor turned around abruptly and waled away, almost brushing Sethuraman. The ‘tak tak’ of the doctor’s shoes couldn’t drown the words which escaped his lips. Sethuraman could make them out. ‘Poor soul, she’s waiting for death’.

He could see the two rooms which lay beyond. Not too large. The one on the left was vacant……But the one on the right……Sethuraman wiped his eyes.

In the room on the right side his empire of music was going to pieces, was ablaze and getting reduced to ashes. It has been happening for the last four days. Four days and nights too......

Before him stood a sprawling hospital. Where ordinary folk could have rooms with simple facilities. For very important persons rooms were available with very special comforts. But no vacancy there. None knew why this two-roomed structure existed here. Intriguing. Luckily one of the rooms fell vacant.

Sethuraman snapped his fingers. The bad taste of the tea he had in the morning, at a stall outside the hospital, lingered in his mouth. He felt jaded. A sort of uneasiness filled him.

Abruptly a train sped along the track behind the hospital, whistling all the while. Even after it traversed a long distance, its dreadful noise still echoed in Sethuraman’s ears.

Several scenes of the east materialised before his eyes.....

It was summer, Mid-day In the spacious yard stood an acacia tree. (or was it an almond tree?) Under its shade the sunlight lay scattered, as if it was shredded. Pankjavalli sat at its base. Their conversation progressed in hushed voices. In between partaking of snacks Minor arguments and titters.

Sethuraman came out of the reverie with a start and looked around. Perched on the compound wall, a multi­coloured bird chirped.

Again the reminiscing.

Long ago... It was summer. Midday again...

When a koel, atop a tree branch, trilled, the two of them imitated it and incited the bird. Egged on by them, the koel trilled more stridently. The pastime continued till either the koel or the duo gave up in exhaustion. Several times they tried to locate it, but in vain.

Yes, the koel was now a spent force. Worn out, dejected. Not even an ounce of energy was left behind in its frail frame.……Sethuraman pulled himself up. He walked up to the doorstep softly and looked in. An iron cot lay close to the window. Through it was visible a small datura plant which nestled against the wall. The inner walls of the room were bright. Close to the cot stood an old wooden closet.

Sethuraman rubbed his chest with his palm, even as he had a spasm of cough. He controlled it with great effort and scanned the room. From the sheet covering her emaciated body stuck-out her thin forearms and visible was her head. A solitary red bangle adorned one wrist. The other hand which rested on her chest was bare. Above it her neck, scrawny and dark. The neck from which spread the melody of music which engulfed the country. Sweetness of voice which could melt stony hearts. And then the dusky face. Aquiline nose, wide lustrous eyes. (Those eyes were now closed. Whether or not they would open again was unpredictable.) Her fore locks caressed by the light breeze swayed gently. On one of her shrivelled cheeks, spread a thin film of sweat.

Sethuraman withdrew from the scene. Obviously it was a marriage party which moved past the hospital. Shehnai notes, carried gently by the wind, reached his ears.

Suddenly he had an urge to smoke. Only one biri was available in his pocket, but no match box to light it. Reluctantly he suppressed the urge, and wanted very much to throwaway the biri. On a second thought he abandoned the idea. His property, not much to reckon, was mostly frittered away on biris. His parents, who tried hard to persuade him to marry and settle down in life, were no more. No other kin. His property melted and evaporated gradually, though not quickly, like burning camphor. Shehnai notes faded as the marriage party moved farther. Silence reigned

Sethuraman was presently reminded of Pankajavalli’s marriage. On the eve of it, signs of her ruling over the empire of music became apparent. She loved Ravi. Struck by his masculine handsomeness, she adored him. And their wedding was celebrated with pomp and splendour. Many extolled it as an ideal marriage. And a good majority admired the groom. May be she was mistress of music, but then she wasn’t a suitable bride for an attractive young man like him, sniggered some. A few more complimented him for his love of fine arts. To all that was said and thought of him, Ravi’s response was just a smile. He never revealed his mind to others.

Amidst the bustle, Sethuraman sat aloof, lost in his thoughts. Even though the woman whom he sought from his childhood days and whom he loved ardently was snatched away from him, was not pained. On the contrary, he was elated that she could marry the man she loved.

It all happened ten years ago. Ravi was very careful and calculating. He had plenty of knack and shrewdness to acquire whatever he set his heart on. The concerts his wife had to attend, the money to be collected, the cheques to be encashed and the accounts - he took care of every thing. He was meticulous in all those transactions.

If at any time Pankajavalli were to complain, “I’m indisposed and running temperature. I can’t attend the concert. I’m so tired”, he would cajole her thus: “My goodness. Please don’t say no. I’ve taken advance from the organisers. No I am afraid we’ll have to go. How can you skip a concert, just because of slight fever? Please, dear?”

If on some other occasion she were to plead with him, “A gentleman requested me to sing in aid for charity or an orphanage. Pity, a hundred orphans seem to be almost starving: I’m inclined to help them”, He would smile ingratiatingly and say, “Good of you! Won’t your health be affected if you start giving free concerts? Forget it. Affluent people must go to the rescue of the orphans, and not we. After all, what help can we extend? Leave such things to me, dear!”

Sethuraman searched his pockets. Two crumpled one rupee notes and some small change was all the cash that he possessed now. A spacious house in the town, three acres of wet land in his village and four acres of dry land to raise tobacco crop. Only they were the remnants of the vast property he had owned, but now its all gone.

From the time Pankajavalli was married, Sethuraman has been living in a two-room tenement opposite her house. He hired the services of a servant boy for odd jobs and a cook. Several years had since gone by. But Ravi and Pankajavalli were never out of the sight. Tongues spewed venom on Pankajavalli but none spoke ill of Ravi. Almost every one had an unkind word for her alone. That she was a gold-digger, that she would sin?, only when money was in the deal, that; she had grown greedy and that she was selling music...He heard several such accusations. But people never knew to which account all that money went and into whose hands.

She conversed with Sethuraman very rarely and spoke the least on those occasions. He could notice that her attraction for Ravi and her infatuation were on the wane gradually. He could also observe her sitting alone in the house, occasionally in a forlorn state. What Ravi was interested in was her voice which fetched him thousands of rupees, but not Pankajavalli, shorn of beauty, or her frail body or her heart. He had no need for them. For he has made other arrangements for his pleasures. His relationship with his spouse almost ceased, except for fixing her concert date etc. He however continued to maintain the house. But then how many resided in it? Just Pankajavalli and a housekeeper, who looked after her. Whenever a concert was arranged, he would arrive in a car, pick her up, drive her to the venue and drop her at the house as soon as the show was over.

Very recently, when she complained of a burning sensation in the throat and pleaded her inability to sing, he shouted at her, flew into a rage, threatened her and forced her to attend the concert. On her return, when she writhed in pain, Ravi left the house in a haste. She coughed and coughed and finally she spat blood. That made Sethuraman jittery and his heart beat fast in anxiety.

He stretched out his legs and sat there for long. Darkness spread and it could be ten in the night. There was no decent hotel in the neighbourhood. The bread he ate at the tea-stall opposite the hospital, a while ago, seemed to have got stuck in his stomach.

Sethuraman recollected Ravi picking her up one day in his car, six months ago. At that time he was standing in the verandah of his tenement. They were in half-an ­hour. Dropping Pankajavalli at her house, Ravi drove away immediately. Sethuraman was curious to know what transpired between the two but it had not been possible till six in the evening, when the 40 year old housekeeper Vanajamma stepped out. He beckoned her, engaged her in conversation and extracted the details. Vanajamma overheard their conversation and unable to contain herself, she revealed to Sethuraman what she has heard. He trembled like a leaf, when the shocking news struck him. Unable to withstand it, he slumped down. And remained in a frozen state for a while -- That-delicate and beautiful throat was afflicted with cancer! He was overcome with grief.

Subsequent events moved fast. Ten days later Ravi paid her a formal visit, stayed there just for thirty minutes and went away. So callous! For another ten days there was no trace of him. Sometime later he had come once and gave Vanajamma some money. That was his last visit.

Sethuramam preferred to call on Pankajavalli occasionally and engage her in small talk. Childhood memories revived naturally. But most of the time she was only a silent listener. Any attempt on her part to speak caused her immense pain and discomfort. Spasmodic cough would tender her breathless. Such bouts of severe cough resulted in her spitting blood and collapsing in a state of exhaustion. With great effort she could speak only a couple of words. In a screechy and distorted voice.

“Why didn’t you……marry?
“Aren’t……you...employed? Why?”
Broken sentences, broken questions.

One fine day he confided to her, “Look, Valli! I’ve made enquiries about Ravi. It seems he vacated his house here, and is now residing somewhere in Bangalore. He has withdrawn the entire money from the bank. Perhaps you may not be knowing that he married another woman, six months after he took you as his wife. What kind of marriage it was, none knows. He has been living with her all these days and now made himself scarce.”

Panakjavalli listened to him, smiled and nodded her head, indicating she knew everything.

“Then you were aware of it all the while?” he questioned in bafflement.

She nodded again in assent.

Sethuraman didn’t speak for a couple of minutes and then rose to his feet.

“Come, let us go to the doctor, I’ve made my own enquiries. Even now you can be operated upon. There’s nothing to panic about.

The doctor is confident that your life can be saved if surgery is done.”

She looked up quickly and protested, “Yes, my life can be saved. But I’ll lose my voice. I must spend the rest of my life as a dumb soul, deprived of my voice.”

“You may lose your voice, so what? You’ll be alive, at least. You must live, yes”, pleaded Sethuraman.­
Pankajavalli sat up and spoke with resolution. “I’ll be deprived of my voice. I can’t even hum. Can’t speak either. But I can eat and move about huh! Is that all?”

Her eyes shone with a rare twinkle. And immediately tears welled up in those wide eyes.

Pausing fora few moments she remonstrated with him, “You’re a childhood friend, You should know. It would be futile to live when once I lose my voice. I needn’t live thereafter. I had better quit while I still possess my voice.”

She then withdrew into the house, indicating she had nothing more to say.

Sethuraman shook off those memories and pulled himself up. By that time the senior doctor walked up to him. He could be forty-five. Nobody in the hospital knew that a reputed singer like Pankajavalli was an inpatient. The senior doctor stumbled upon it when he casually examined the register three days and saw her. As soon as he learnt of her identity, he was overwhelmed with surprise; collected the details of her case and discussed the pros and cons with his colleagues.

Angrily he shot the question at Sethuraman on that day, “You’ve brought your wife here at the last stage! How could you?”

The doctor listened patiently while Sethuraman gave a detailed account of everything, sighed and strode away.

He visited the hospital on the previous two days too.

Spotting Sethuraman there he was intrigued and asked, “Why, you’re still here?” and went in.

“Where else?” Sethuraman mumbled to himself.

“I’ve to stick to this place till the end of the story. Thereafter don’t know where I would be”.

Sethuraman snapped his fingers and mused, “If only she could regain her consciousness and open her eyes, if only I could speak to her once, if only I could persuade her to listen to his heart-beat...how good would it be!..”

“Valli, my heart-throb! I’ve been in love with you right from the beginning. I love you, dear!”

Presently a wave of hot breeze swept across the place. Leaves from the trees dropped in clusters as a result. The next moment the senior doctor emerged, clapped his hand and shouted, “Hello, anybody there? Come on, summon Dr. Rangiah, it’s urgent!”

Sethuraman was gripped by anxiety. His feet trembled. He drew out the biri from his pocket with shaking fingers. The doctor, noticing him, shook his head sideways. Negative.

Sethuraman rushed in, even as his step faltered. The wind swept aside the blanket, revealing Pankajavalli’s face. He caressed her sunken cheeks fondly with trembling fingers. “I’m touching you now, after a long gap.” He told himself. He held , with great effort, the tears which would have streamed down his face and readjusted the blanket on her face. Swallowing his grief, he withdrew from the spot.

Yesterday the doctor disclosed the presence of Pankajavalli in the hospital to a journalist, during the course of conversation. That scribe arrived on the scene now. Seeing him, the doctor announced, “You remember I spoke to you of a woman yesterday? She is now no more.”

“Ah!”, the journalist exclaimed. Ten to fifteen minutes glided away.

Sethuraman leaned against the pillar with his gaze fixed on the scene ­- of the corpse being brought out on a stretecher. Four or five people gathered there. They spoke in hushed voices. Questions were shot at random.

“Who, who died?”

“What does the husband do?”

“No idea? what was the ailment?”

“Was she a singer?”

“Did she sing in any film?”

Someone pushed the stretcher forward. The doctor stood motionless in the verandah. Sethuraman’s eyes brimmed with tears. He wiped them with the huge hem of his shirt, extracted the biri from his pocket with fingers that were shaking, inserted it between his lips, rushed out of the hospital into the street and glanced around. He lit the biri at the kiosk, took a deep puff at it, and exhaled the smoke.

The next moment he flung it aside, wiped a patch of the pavement beside the station with his hands and curled up in a corner. He closed his eyes. Eyes in which tears welled up now, and then was lost in sleep.

In his sleep he dreamt of clusters of sandalwood trees, radiant with, green foliage being engulfed by flames.

Original Telugu Story:
DAGDHA GEETAM
Rendered into English by: P. S. RAO