Six months later, early one morning, when his mother stepped outside the house, she saw her son sleeping there. She made a huge scene. He could not answer any questions about where he went and what he did. He had grown dark and gaunt. But within a week he improved a little in his mother’s care.
‘I cannot believe I named this wretched dog the “good” one,’ his father murmured, brooding over what ‘nalla’ in ‘Nallupayyan’ meant. ‘I should hit my own head with a slipper. A dog that steals from his own home can even drop a rock on your head while you sleep,’ he fumed.
Uncle said to his mother, ‘Is your husband suggesting that I go steal from other people’s homes?’
When others asked his father about the son, he would say, ‘That barbarian was not born to me. Who knows for which bastard she dropped her clothes to beget this one?’ But he made sure he didn’t say any of this within his wife’s hearing. He could never forgive his son for earning him the reputation that he sat his own child outside a prostitute’s house and went in.
After that, it became a routine for Uncle Nallupayyan to run away every two months or so. The moment anyone said anything even remotely hurtful, he ran away. No one knew where he went and what he did. ‘Where will that wretched dog go? He must be outside some restaurant, feeding on leftovers,’ his father would say. Once Uncle gained the reputation for being unstable, no one was willing to offer their daughter in marriage to him. Even after all his younger brothers were married, they could not find a girl for him. ‘I don’t want to earn the sin of wrecking a girl’s life,’ said his father and abandoned the search for a bride for his son. But his mother never stopped ranting.
Uncle himself did not care for marriage. When he shaved off his beard and moustache, his mother sang a dirge and made such a scene as though someone had died:
Your first shave,
your becoming a bridegroom,
I thought these eyes would see and tear up.
This is no first shave,
and you are no bridegroom,
you roamed aimlessly
and have tired, dark eyes.
What do I do? What do I do?
But Uncle was not the kind to be moved by such dirges. He hugged his mother, wiped away her tears and said, ‘What did you accomplish by getting married? You spread your pallu for a worthless husband, gave birth to so many children, and you are suffering till today. Drop the matter. I don’t need to go through the same hell.’
Kali, lying on the cot in his farm and listening to these old stories, said, ‘Where all did you go, Uncle? Look at me. I am reluctant even to leave this spot and go to the fair in Tiruchengode once a week. I feel it is good to be contented with this barnyard and the field. Where did you go for three or six months at a stretch?
‘Kalippa,’ Uncle replied, ‘the world is endless. It stretches on and on. On my way, if I got lost and wandered a bit, it would appear that I was returning to where I started from. In those moments, I hated our village. When the money in hand was all spent and I had nowhere else to go, I would come back home very reluctantly.’
He was the not the kind to open up and give words to his feelings. But the barnyard made even Uncle Nallupayyan say, ‘Kalippa, when I lie here in your farm, it feels as comforting as lying in my mother’s womb.’ That was exactly the way Kali felt about his barnyard.
He always slept in the farm. Even in summer, he laid his cot out in the open. During the monsoons and in winter, the cot would lie inside the shed. His was a home in the village complete with a porch, a wide entrance, a courtyard, a granary—all constructed with his own labour. He left the courtyard for his mother. In the early days of his marriage, he tried sleeping at home. But the darkness of the four walls and the thatched roof were not for him. He had to see the stars when he opened his eyes. The moon had to shine down on him. He needed to hear the occasional sounds from the cattle shed: a cow clearing its throat, a goat bleating sweetly. How could he lie around inside the house without any of these? So he made the barnyard his spot again.
He always went back home for dinner. Whenever he felt like being with Ponna, he stayed back after dinner. Whenever he woke up, he went back to the farm. On some nights, he’d go to the barnyard just to sleep. He would come back home as soon as he woke up. All he needed to do was tap on the door gently. Ponna let him in. Initially, it was difficult for Ponna to get used to his habits—this going to and fro between the house and the farm, which was at some distance. She was also scared about the night insects on the farm. But he said, ‘For me, night is the real afternoon.’
This was the land in which he was born and raised. This was where he had roamed about. There was no place here that he did not know. Also, Aanangur was not a large place where you could easily get lost. What was called the village was just a section of twenty Gounder houses. Four or five of those families lived in their fields and used their houses to store their harvest. Beyond the Gounder quarter was the one for the Chakkilis. This again had ten or fifteen houses. And a field’s length separated one quarter from the other. Kali’s field and barnyard were to the east of the village. If he took long strides, he could reach home before he finished chewing a betel nut.
In the afternoons, as soon as he finished his work, he took a nap—in fact, a deep sleep. And he would end up not sleeping well at night. His was a chicken’s sleep. If something grated against the fence, the dog would bark and he would wake up. If the chicken started clucking, that was it, he could not sleep any more. So was the case with the calf’s moo. And if thoughts of Ponna came to him, he would leave immediately, closing the makeshift gate behind him. Since it was night-time, he would walk in his underwear. He knew which path was safe from stray dogs. Ponna had become used to this too. In the season of toddy, Kali would sleep until the intoxication wore off. Even after that, he would lie awake, shifting about. He had slept very little these past two years.
Kali’s mind turned towards an incident some years ago. It was the same Vaigasi month, the time of the chariot festival. His mother-in-law had come to invite them home for the festival. Her home was just the next village, Keezheripatti. So she never really stayed the night when she visited them. But that once, surprisingly, she did. And not just that; she dragged her cot to the courtyard next to her daughter’s mother-in-law. The two old women whispered to each other all night, but neither he nor Ponna could make out what they were discussing so intently. Only a wall separated them from Ponna, but try as she did, she could not hear anything. Nor could she guess what it could be about. In the ten years that Ponna and Kali had been married, the mothers hadn’t spoken so intimately even once. They had their own grievances against each other. Usually they kept their interactions to a minimum. So then what had changed?
‘They keep talking back and forth. Maybe they’re planning to build a fortress and rule. Or maybe they’re scheming against me,’ ranted Ponna.
Her suspicion was that they were talking about a second marriage for Kali. Had he too turned against her? She knew that her parents did not mind if Kali were to marry again. But their condition was that he should still keep their daughter with him.
The next morning, she could not keep quiet any longer. She said, ‘What, Mother? Looks like you are suddenly getting all intimate with my mother-in-law.’ But her mother did not reveal anything.
‘We are both old women. What else could we talk about besides the past? Do you think we were scheming to build a castle?’
When her own mother was so reticent about it, there was no way Ponna could have extracted anything from her mother-in-law. She went to Kali bearing her surprise and suspicion.
‘I think they have found you a girl. These two hags are trying to ruin my life.’
He said, ‘I will marry the girl only if you like her. Don’t worry.’
‘Oho! You are now entertaining the thought, is it?’ she pouted and turned her face away.
Whenever he spoke like that, she was miffed. Then he consoled her. This was a ritual for them. After thin
king long and hard about a second marriage, he had abandoned the idea. In truth, the thought had occurred to him once or twice, but his mind simply could not see any other woman in Ponna’s place.
ELEVEN
Before he got married, you could find Kali amidst any group of young men just hanging about town. He was also their leader in some ways. But once he got married, Ponna had tied him down somewhat. When the boys teased him, saying, ‘Once he saw the girl, he got lost in her,’ he quietly walked past them, smiling. But it was true, wasn’t it? Ponna’s body just dragged him into itself and presented him with whatever he needed. It even gave, volitionally, what he did not ask for, what he did not even know existed. And she had remained the same to him until today. The separation this effected from his male companions was now complete.
In summer, for as long as a month before the temple festival began, crowds started teeming into the town square. Beginning late in the evening and going on till midnight, two pariahs would hold forth with their instruments. A temple dance would begin. And as the musicians kept playing the thappu drums, the dance would intensify. Middle-aged men, already well trained in the dance, would go first. Then the novice youth and other boys would join in. Some of the old ones would suddenly decide to show off their expertise. So they would get up and say, ‘This is how you do it,’ show a few steps, and go back and sit down. They’d yell at the drummers: ‘What are you playing? As if someone is dead!’ And find fault with the dancers: ‘Swing your arms properly!’ The others would murmur, ‘These old ones never shut up,’ and the dancing would continue. Women and children would finish their chores at home and rush to the spot just to see the beauty of the men’s hair flapping around their backs and shoulders, their topknots having come undone in all the movement.
Mastering these temple dances was no small matter. The dancers had to internalize the sounds of the drums and dance accordingly. There were over fifty kinds of rhythms, and there were only a few people who were skilled enough to dance to all of them. Those people always danced in the front, and the others danced behind them. Kali was somewhat adept at this dance. He could even follow the dances he didn’t really know. For him, there was nothing more joyous than being in the crowd.
On one such occasion, Kali finished his work in a hurry, washed himself and ran to the town square. He did not even have patience to focus on his food, gobbling down what was on his plate before rushing out.
Ponna unleashed her sarcasm. ‘What wonder is waiting there for you? Are they waiting for you to inaugurate things? How would this food nourish you if you eat so fast?’ But he let nothing bother him.
Her mother-in-law laughed at this: ‘He used to roam around like a free ass with his friends. Do you think you can tie him to your lap?’ She was delighted that even Ponna could not hold him back from this.
‘How can I dance if I eat so much?’ he replied. ‘Only my belly would go up and down in its fullness.’
There was such delight in dancing in the spacious field in front of the town square! Murugesan from Semmangadu was not very good at dancing. The nuances of the thappu drum simply failed to penetrate his thick head. When everyone took a step in unison, he alone would do something that would make him fall down between their moving feet. Not everyone can dance. And when one comes to terms with this, he can go and sit down with the oldies and watch the others dance. In a way characteristic to spectators, he can also criticize the dancers and pass comments. Failed artistes suddenly become critics. But what do you do about someone who insists on dancing even though he keeps tripping over people’s feet? No amount of teasing and taunting deterred Murugesan. With his clumsiness, he sometimes even made other dancers trip over him. He was well built and was the colour of a tender mango shoot.
‘Looking at his skin colour, I am a little suspicious,’ said Mutthan. ‘Maybe we should check with his mother, just in case.’ Everyone laughed.
‘It should be easy for peasant folk to do this dance,’ said Songaan. ‘If he can’t, it must be some birth defect!’ This taunt was followed by more laughter.
Rasu got up, entwined his legs, imitating Murugesan, and said, ‘This is real dance.’ And more guffaws ensued.
Usually, if the teasing got out of hand, Murugesan would say, ‘I will leave you to your dance,’ and then move away to join another dance party. But on that day, they had teased him more than he could bear. He was fuming inside. Kali, however, did not know that. He joined in the teasing and said, ‘Looks like a doll but moves like a corpse!’ Everyone cheered, ‘Hear! Hear!’
Murugesan lost it. ‘Dey!’ he fumed. ‘Work is not about this. Work is about this,’ and he made a lewd gesture, lifting two fingers of his left hand and inserting the index finger of his right hand between them. ‘Tell me, now, who looks like a doll and works like a corpse?’
Everyone turned to look at Kali. No one laughed but he shrank with shame. He suddenly felt that there was nothing more painful than being in a crowd.
Something else had happened about a year and a half into Kali and Ponna’s marriage. People had just started asking about a child. According to them, only the man who induced morning sickness in his wife in the very second month of marriage was a real man. When the girl looked unchanged in over a year and a half, it simply meant the husband’s ‘work’ was not up to the mark. And the entire bunch of Kali’s friends had insinuated this several times.
Once, Subramani, who had become a father in the tenth month of his marriage, was in the crowd. When they heard that Munia Nadar had made and filtered a fresh batch of arrack, they decided to go there. Munia Nadar’s arrack was in great demand. There were people who would be flat out for two days on just half a tumbler of his stuff. When they drank together, one of them said, ‘Oh, this is great stuff! As vital as water.’ And Subramani replied immediately, ‘It is not enough if the water you take in is great, the water you send out should be top-class too.’
Everyone glanced at Kali, even if it was for just a moment. Munia Nadar’s arrack lost its pungency for him that day. He gradually stopped joining this crowd of old friends. He also knew they had nicknamed him ‘the impotent one’.
Although he had no children, Kali was very happy with Ponna. He would also ask her now and then to make sure she was happy with him. Her replies always came as intense kisses, and he found peace in that contentment. If the only way to beat this reputation for impotence was to marry again, what would happen if that failed too? Should he ruin the lives of two women? And could Ponna bear his bringing in another woman? She was in the habit of pulling a long face for two days if she saw him even talking to another woman. If he married again, she wouldn’t stay. To make things worse, what if the second wife did get pregnant? That would be the end for Ponna. She wanted to believe she was the most important person in his life. Sometimes she even suspected he was fonder of his cattle than he was of her. He tried to reason with her. ‘Can this love compare to that?’ he said, and buried his face in her bosom. All his heat cooled down.
The moment the thoughts of a second marriage invaded him, all happiness wilted away. It also meant he would need to learn how to handle two women. When his world was already complete with his cattle, his barn and Ponna, could he handle anything more? Also, if the second woman too could not get pregnant, his reputation as an impotent man would be engraved in stone. Thinking through all these things, he abandoned the idea. Whenever someone brought it up, he closed the topic, saying, ‘It won’t work. Forget it.’ They all attributed his hesitation to his fear of Ponna’s wrath. ‘Well, let them think whatever they want,’ he thought. Only he knew that Ponna was scared that he might, at some point, say yes to the idea.
GAP PA A .ORG
TWELVE
Uncle Nallupayyan too played a role in Kali’s refusal to marry again. This was his story: when it came to splitting their inheritance, Uncle Nallupayyan’s brothers refused to give him his full share.
‘Why does a bachelor need the same share as we do?’ they all said.
&nb
sp; He replied, ‘How can you conclude that I will never get married? I might do it even when I am sixty. I won’t let any dog touch my food. This is my grandfather’s property. Though your father wandered the fields in his underwear, did he add even a handful to it? Tell me!’
The property was divided a year or two after his father’s passing. His brothers didn’t listen to any of his arguments. They brought along some ten people as mediators, all of whom were on their side. And these men reasoned, ‘Why does a single man need so much? Any home is his. Won’t the brothers take care of him?
His mother said, ‘At least till I am alive I do not want him to have to go to anyone even for a drink of water. Just give us two acres. He and I will live there. After him, it is going to come to you. Isn’t it insulting to tell a young and able man that you will feed him? At a time when the oldies are running after women and getting married, he seems to abhor even the scent of a woman.’
Apparently, Uncle had to control his laughter at his mother’s naiveté. He said, ‘Maybe my mother smelled me for a woman’s scent,’ and laughed finally. When his brothers realized that their mother was not going to drop his case, they decided to allot two acres to him. But Uncle did not agree with this. He was insistent that he should get his fair share. Men from the community settled matters and asked him, ‘Do you agree to this?’ He got up, tightened his loincloth and said, ‘All right. I agree. Just add one more thing. My brothers seem to have decided that they could just give me a torn cot and some loincloth, throw some food at me and snatch away what is rightfully mine. That’s all right. Let it be as they wish. I don’t even want the two acres that my mother has asked for. I will let them have all of it. Now, they are giving me this loincloth, right? If this little brother who is inside the loincloth stays quiet and calm, it will all go well. But he does wake up now and then. He’ll throw a tantrum for some milk. Just find out and let me know if my sisters-in-law will take care of that.’
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