Triveni Journal

1927 | 11,233,916 words

Triveni is a journal dedicated to ancient Indian culture, history, philosophy, art, spirituality, music and all sorts of literature. Triveni was founded at Madras in 1927 and since that time various authors have donated their creativity in the form of articles, covering many aspects of public life....

The Partition

Subra Bharati Manian

A Short story

I felt that this could have been done at some other time. But all of them said in one voice, “Why leave this alone? We can divide the properties inclusive of vessels now itself.”

Everything was done in a tearing hurry. As though all this should be finished before celebrating the sixteenth day after Amma’s death. There was the haste that everyone had a lot of his own business to attend to. Appa had executed a will settling each of the five houses to his five sons. He withdrew his savings from the bank and divided it among his sons. Till a few days ago he was waunting that he would not give even a paisa to anyone, that they could take the money after his death. So it was a surprise to all, that such a man had voluntarily drawn the cash from the bank and given it to his sons.

It appeared that he had become wilted and wearied. Suddenly he pocketed his pride and became completely tired like the cock that got defeated in the fight. For two years Amma was in bed answering calls of nature in her bed itself. And even then sitting by her side Appa looked after her always with tenderness. Amma’s groaning and babbling were ever there like the feeble cry of a wounded bird.

“Ayyo, you attend to all this...why...Instead of my looking after you...”

Tears would stream from Amma’s eyes and reveal the wrinkles in her face. On it a fear, foreboding something.

“Your end will come before mine...” Appa was very much run down. His was a body that was built eating the flesh of the cock that got defeated in the cock-fight. His well-built body had become emaciated. The majestic moustache that once had its tips curled up now drooped down. Till Amma became bedridden it had an imperial look.

Amma died early morning on a Vaikunta Ekadasi day. Garlands were placed round her neck. She was regarded as a deity. A kuthuuilakku waslit and kept in front of her. Then leaning against a pillar Appa cried aloud. It made people think about the glorious time he had lived with her and wonder at it. “Whatever be the disease of which she died, even if her end was anticipated, the fact she was a mother was there.” This left in us a feeling of emptiness. Everyone repeated this to me. But as usual all the people stood a little away from Appa out of fear. It seemed that his great grief was that he had no member of his family who could touch him, console him.

It was decided that the torn saris of Amma should be given to the housemaid who used to wash them. The good saris were taken by my sisters-in-law. I had my own doubt whether they would ever wear those saris. My wife said, “It would be better if they too were given to the house-maid.” But my sister-in-law did not agree to this idea. They said, “What if they are the saris of Athai who is no more...we can use them. Where can one get such dark-coloured, artificial-yarn-dyed Negamam silk saris? On days of religious fasting if we tell her that we would get her a sari, Athai would reply, ‘No need, no need for it...you buy, wear them and prosper. That is enough for me.’ She would raise her withered arms, join them in supplication and bless us. We can wear Athai’s saris and receive her blessings...” I was very much pleased to hear them say so.

It was the senior paternal uncle of Ellappalayam who settled the dispute and helped the smooth passing of these fifteen days. Otherwise when did I sit along with my five elder brothers like this. I always see myself in a corner or in the midst of the gathering of my sister-in-law and children. Many years had gone by since then. Without a voice of protest from him who had the cheek to face Appa, Appa who was short tempered and rough and tough. His anger and rudeness had cut into pieces the tree that was a joint-family. How well would it have been if only this opportunity had come          when Amma was still alive.

Amma’s condition had become worse. When I reached the village after a day’s journey the entire family was there. “Amma, please see, we are all here.” I did not know how far my wailing would have reached my Amma’s ears. No one was certain that she had completely lost her consciousness. The last thing she did was to recognise me and ask me feebly “You have come?” When I was here last, she removed the chain round her neck, gave it to Appa and said, “It has lost some weight due to wear and tear. Add some more money and buy a chain for four sovereigns.”

“Amma, why do you want it now? We can look into it later.”

“It is not like that ... should be done here and now. It should not be said that I did not give anything to my youngest daughter-­in-law... If I do not do it now, after my life­time it should not be claimed by one or the other. That’s the reason. Do you see my point?”

My senior paternal uncle guffawed and said, “Why such a hurry over the division of the vessels. You could have got whatever you needed when the old woman was alive. Her two daughters were not able to come for the funeral. Had they come they would have taken the vessels claiming that they were their Amma’s. And you would be sighing, panting...”

“Mama...they didn’t come...then the vessels belong to us.”

My two elder sisters did not come to condole Amma’s death. There was a reason for it. When Appa sold the house that was in Amma’s name he divided equally the sale proceeds of the house among all the children. But the two elder sisters insisted, “The house was in our Amma’s name. You should give the whole amount equally to the two of us.” When they could not get what they wanted, they kept away from the family. Even though Amma was in bed for nearly two years my sisters did not come even to see her. Stubbornness increased and made the disagreement between them and their parents wider and permanent.

The vessels used by Amma were cleaned with tamarind pulp and arranged in the central hall. Among them there were very few stainless steel vessels. Most of Amma’s vessels were made of bronze or brass. Somehow Amma did not like stainless steel vessels. Perhaps their glitter did not attract her. Amma used to keep the vessels regularly cleaned with oven-ash and tamarind pulp. The bronze vessels would sparkle. They would be heavy too. Still Amma carried only those vessels to bring water.

“Amma, we want that cauldron. See, how big it is. It will contain at least ten pots of water,” said Selvi to my elder sister-in-law. “Who would clean the bronze pots and keep them brand new. The waist that carried plastic pots would get bruised if it carries bronze pots.” The second sister-in-law left the place silently. But the eyes of the elder sister-in-law were fixed on the bronze pots. When she placed her hand on it suddenly, the large-sized salver nearby moved a bit making a tinkling sound.

“Our Athai would take coconuts, fruit and other things intended for any function in the temple only in this salver. If a piece of cloth is screwed into a ball and balanced on her head and the salver placed on it, it won’t move however strong the wind might be. She would move like a temple car and the salver would gleam in the sunlight. At the time of the bhajan on Saturdays she would have the ‘chundal’ heaped in this salver and give handfuls of it to the people gathered there. And they would say what a large hearted lady she was...” So saying the elder sister-in-law wipped offher tears.

Srimukhi (my daughter) took the tumbler with a nozzle and said, “This is for me, for me alone. Amma, hereafter I will drink milk only from this.” She placed the nozzle in her mouth and began to suck it.

“Your Appa would always be at his Amma’s breast or with the nozzle of this tumbler in his mouth when he was a child. Everyone would make fun of him - ‘you fellow with nozzle-tumbler’,” said my middle elder brother. I felt ashamed. My sisters-in-law laughed. Their laughter caught hold of everyone present there. Soon the atmosphere became merry.

How social and intimate was the nozzle-tumbler. However much I tried I couldn’t recollect when exactly I discarded it. It seemed to me that it was still there just to remind me of my Amma. “Even if I were not given any vessel I should be given the wooden stand on which pots and vessels were usually kept.”

A long stand beautifully made. Since I was living in a town I had completely forgotten the name of the wood out of which it was made. But it still stands majestic in spite of its having served all these years. Small flowers have been carved in its corners. Its legs appeared firm and strong. If a long plank had been placed over it, it would serve as a raised seat.

“When the daughters born of her had not come, you, a daughter at the next move want it. Take it.” Senior paternal uncle’s daughter was stroking the stand. “Someone will say ‘I want this’. And another ‘I want that’. Some problem or other will crop up. Can divide whatever there is into five parts. You can then draw lots and each can one have one’s share.”

Each of the five parties could get a bronze pot. The two plates and the brass ‘andas’ were divided among them. It was easy to share the stainless steel vessels. The tinkling sound of the vessels in movement was heard continuously. It looked as if a small shop of vessels stood there.

Rangaraj placed, his leg on the top of the door, rubbed the dust offhis pants and jumped down. He had a conch-shell in his hand. Hurriedly he dusted it on his shirt and tried to blow it. The mouth swelled, contracted. No sound came out of the conch-­shell. I tried to blow it. But I got a catch somewhere. And there came no sound out of it.

When I was young, in the month of Purattasi, with what ease I had blown this conch, at the time the flambeau was taken out. A raging sound would come out of it, float on the wind. Today I was not able to raise the sound even for a minute. I tried to blow, but failed. Children too tried, but did not succeed. There were hard impressions at the places where the fingers had held the conch. If there was burning sensation or pain in the eyes Amma would rub the conch-­shell on a stone, apply the paste over the eyelids and relieve the pain. She had to rub it for a longtime. The paste could be drawn like a string. It would appear that the nerves in her hands were about to break, when Amma with her weak hands rubbed the conch-shell hard on the stone.

“Then where is Appa’s box in which he used to keep the pipe clay, the red paint, the rosary of sacred basil beads?”

“It is with me. I took it sometime ago,” the second elder brother said. The box was made of very fine teak wood. Small apartments to keep separately kumkum, pipe clay etc., What an exhilarating pleasure did the white and red lines marked on the forehead had given me ... Now I have the knowledge and the courage to reject them. It seemed as if I had lost that innocence and Joy;

Rangaraj brought the dirt-laden thmbalam-basket. (a large salver with raised rim). “It was in the loft...A very big one.” Two children could be made to lie on it. It had lost the colour, of the bamboo and appeared as anew, fresh thing. People in the neighbourhood would borrow it in Grievance at times of marriage. Then there would be a great demand for it in the season. When the betel leaves were arranged and the arecanuts heaped in a corner the basket would get a special charm of its own. To those who got the blessings of the elders would be given betel leaves and arecanuts.

Nowadays stainless steel plates are in vogue. And only slivers of arecanuts are supplied in small packets. Betel leaves also are only folded and offered. I do not remember having seen this ‘thambalam’ even at the time of my marriage.

“I am taking it.”

“Why, Bava (brother-in-law)?”

“Let it be with me. A heirloom. A memento of the elders in my house.”

“At the time of Vimala’s marriage betel and nuts would be offered only in this ‘thambaalam’  basket. Would not it be so?”
Vimala felt shy and stood aloof in a corner.

Names were written in five bits of paper. And lots were drawn.

Now the conch-shell came to Appa’s hands. Rangaraj said, “Thatha, blow it.” As if he felt shy he went on wiping the conch with his towel. Then he placed it between his lips.

As Appa blew it, the sound went on increasing. All those present were astonished to see this. They wanted to know where from this sound came. The sound grew in volume. People remained silent and watched the scene. The face with a drooping moustache and deep lines of worry swelled and contracted. It was obvious that he was blowing the conch with difficulty. Suddenly the sound stopped. Appa began to cough. And he started to wipe the tears at the corners of his eyes.

“The blowing of this conch-shell holding his breath is very much like his obstinacy. There were competitions between me and him - my younger brother - as to who would blow the conch for a longer time. It was he who had won on all those occasions,” said our senior paternal uncle.

“Thatha, the cane is in the loft. Shall I take it?” Appa looked stunned. His face grew dark.

From the place I sat I looked at that cane. It was stuck in the roof-top. It looked as if someone had placed it climbing a ladder so that no one could take it.

My entire body shudderd for a minute when I thought of that cane. How many times had Appa beaten me with it. If a word had come out of one’s mouth against Appa or anyone had spoken contradicting him, the thing that would speak was that cane. All his anger would get drained after using it.

When Appa walked with the flambeau the conch shell would hang from one side of his shoulder. He would have the cane too at that side of his waist. He would crush the burning cloth in the flambeau and apply a ‘tilak’ on one’s forehead. The black ‘namam’ would be marked there. People would wait for Appa’s blessings. In the month of purattasi when Appa starts with the flambeau in his hand a crowd would follow him. The anklet-bells would jingle. people would bow to his feet and join their palms in respectful greeting. All of them would get the black ‘tilak’ of the flambeau. Sometimes he would get possessed. On such occasions Appa’s cane would test the courage of the person’s skin. People who got the beating would scream. They would say, “Hereafter I would be very careful. I won’t commit any misdeed.” I would be surprised to know how this deity was able to find out the misdeeds. Appa would stroke the body of a person from head to foot and strike the cane on the ground. Then that person’s face would become bright as if all his sufferings had vanished and the evil spirit had been exorcised.

I remembered the occasions I had been beaten with that cane. Appa did not have any schooling or the interest to show concern for my education. But he wanted that all of us should be under his control all the time. His thick curled, moustache and the strong, noisy chappal would make anyone afraid of him. Once he saw me moving with a boy of a particular caste. He mentioned that boy’s caste and asked me whether I was not ashamed of that. I told him, “Our chief Minister himself is of that caste ... Remove him.” Then I got a severe thrashing. My whole body became blood stained.

Even my elder brothers were afraid at the very mention of that cane. They would have become scared of it as they did of his curled moustache and the noise of his chappals. But I had within me a wonderful feeling as to how in the month of purattasi he and this cane got this quality of divinity.

“Quite a number of blows had I received at your Appa’s hands...He would go away saying that there was a cock-fight. How much would I have suffered to make your elder brothers grow up as men of substance. And this cane which makes him divine in a sense - how many curses would it have received from me? I had to curse him­ ‘Are you a man or a demon?’ In spite of all this you have grown up well and made me feel happy”.

Appa sat intensely gathered into the thought of the cane, fixing his eyes on the roof-tiles. It looked as though his grief had increased manifold.

“Thatha, shall I take that cane ... To whom should it be given? I myself shall keep it.” Thatha rose panic-stricken:

“No ... No ... Leave it there itself. Nobody need have it”.

He began to walk swiftly to the door. The people who took the vessels they got in the lot knocked and rubbed on them and tested their quality. The conch-shell changed hands among the children. But from no one came its musical sound.

(Translated from Tamil by: M. S. Ramaswamy, Coimbatore)

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