‘If you want to spend time in both places, that’s fine too. Don’t give too much importance to what people say. Do what you feel is right for you. But never even think of ending your own life. Think of us too. Do you think we can ever be happy if we lose you too? I am already worried about your brother’s behaviour. If you do something untoward, I dread to think how he would react. We would die every day just thinking of what you’ve done. Please don’t put us in that position, Ponna.’
As Poovayi kept talking, Ponna’s heart melted and she cried out, ‘Nangai!’ and placed her head on her sister-in-law’s lap. Poovayi ran her fingers gently over Ponna’s head in a gesture of comfort. It is in times of difficulty that we come to know who our true friends are. Hardship reveals to us our sources of support. It makes us appreciate the warmth of the fingers that caress us gently. It makes us realize the value of words. It bridges rifts. Poovayi had not spoken to Ponna in years. But now, it was from her that Ponna was receiving the kindness and consolation she could not get even from her own mother. From that day onwards, Ponna started thinking more about her brother. He could have told her that Kali was not aware of the plan. He had clearly felt that there was no way of making Kali agree to it. But it could have been done. They could have somehow got Kali’s approval. And if they couldn’t, they could have simply abandoned the whole idea.
She felt that not only Muthu, but her mother and mother-in-law too must have played their parts in that plot. She could not bring herself to fully forgive her brother. But he must be wracked with the guilt that he became responsible for the death of a man who was not only his close friend but also his brother-in-law. It was her mother and mother-in-law who had initiated the entire plan. Her elder brother simply ended up becoming a tool in their scheme. As she thought about this, all of her anger focused on those two women. After all their plotting and planning, now they spoke to visitors like they were innocent people. As people grow old, everything begins to seem casual and matter-of-fact to them. It is as though, having endured a lifetime of difficulties, everything simply becomes part of a routine narrative—and the heart acquires a numbness.
Kali’s death has already become a story to them. Just listen to the way they narrate it to everyone who pays a visit. They recounted everything in great detail, right up to the fact of their going out to shit that morning. Seerayi was saying, ‘The calf mooed at that odd hour. I felt a chill then.’ None of that was true. It looked like they had turned a story into fact and had also started believing it. Vallayi too simply repeated that story verbatim. If Seerayi was not at home when visitors arrived, the job of narration fell to Vallayi. And she did her job perfectly, with not a word out of place. Only her voice was different. Looking at them both, Ponna felt sorry for her brother. So she told her sister-in-law to take good care of Muthu. Like Poovayi said, Ponna did not need to take on the sin of destroying another family.
It was true that Seerayi was the first one to see Kali hanging from the tree. But none of it happened the way she now told it.
THREE
For the people of the region, the Karattur chariot festival lasted three months. All the preparations were started right at the beginning of the month of Maasi, in mid-February. And the bustling shops and rides lasted till the months of Panguni or even Chithirai. But, strictly speaking, the festivities were only for twenty-two days. For most people, the twenty-third day was the day of the feast. In addition, the day the deity came down from the hillock as well as the day the deity returned were both important days of the festival. On those two nights, people throng to have a vision of the deities.
The crowds are greater on the day when the deities go back uphill than when they come down. People would gather in huge numbers right from the morning of that day. They’d come walking and in bullock carts. Entire families, entire neighbourhoods, entire villages would come together—a diverse array of all sorts of people. En route to the festival, there were water pandals everywhere. All the fields around the main residential part of Karattur lay fallow in that season. The bullock carts that came for the festival were parked all over these fields. It was considered a good deed to make one’s field available for the festival. There was even a legend about a farmer who built a fence and refused to let his land be used during the festival; his stomach swelled up and he died on the last day of the festival. So now one couldn’t see a fence anywhere in the vicinity. The saying was, ‘Can any man think of fencing out god?’ Those who owned wells kept them equipped with a rope and a pot. They also kept a large tub of water nearby. As the water level in the tub diminished, someone would invariably replenish it with water drawn from the well.
If you looked around, you’d wonder if it was a cattle fair in progress. People came with large parcels of food for the way. There were also shops that sold fresh meals. And several performances took place on all the four chariot streets and the pillared halls that were part of the temple in the village at the foot of the hillock. People could pick and choose the performance they wanted to watch. Those who wanted to see everything would spend a little time here, a little time there. At the pinnacle of the celebrations, all rules would be shattered. The night was its own witness. Darkness fell like a curtain over all faces. It is in such festive revelry that the primal man is awakened to life.
Since Kali refused to consider a second marriage for the sake of progeny, it was his mother who had suggested they send Ponna to the festival. But he did not agree to this. Two years dragged on, after which they sent Ponna to the festival without Kali’s consent—although they slyly made her think that she had her husband’s consent. By the time Kali learnt about this, it was too late. He rushed back to his farmstead, distraught. He felt that everyone had schemed to betray him.
He could not accept the fact that Ponna went to the festival that night to be with a different man. Her life was intertwined with his. He could not bear to think of another man’s scent spreading over her body. Her body had united with his. It had been lavished with his scent for twelve years. He felt that every inch of that body belonged to him. In some ways, he knew Ponna’s body better than he knew even his own. He’d say her mouth had the fragrance of rose water, her armpits smelt of aloe vera, her bosom emanated the heady rawness of sheep milk and her breath carried the scent of the aavaram flower. He had understood her body as a bouquet of fragrances.
‘And what about my way of speaking?’ she would ask.
He’d reply, ‘It smells of blood.’
That would make her angry. She’d weep, saying, ‘You speak just like everyone else. Do I really speak like I am going to wound and gore?’
And he’d try to comfort her, ‘Try frying sheep’s blood. It has such fragrance! That’s what I was referring to!’
He had been trying to mingle his own fragrance with each of the aromas of her body—and to turn both bodies into versions of one single scent. If a different smell impresses itself upon that body now, it would be a blemish—the kind of blemish that would never go away no matter what you do. He made up his mind firmly that his hands would not touch such a blemish. If it was true that all men became gods, then let that god enter and take over Kali’s body too. What’s the use of a god who has not paid heed to any of their prayers and offerings and has not entered his body?
Even though everyone said that many children in the village had been born this way, he simply could not come to terms with the idea. He thought that Ponna was his and his alone. That was why he felt hugely disappointed that Ponna went to the festival that night despite his wishes. He had expected her to refuse even if he himself had asked her to go to the festival. But she had gone all the same. Deciding that she needed to suffer lifelong for her decision, he tied a noose on the portia tree. He thought that his death would be an eternal punishment for her. She should think of him every day, and weep. She had to constantly repent for her mistake.
Kali did not sleep at all that night. Nor did Ponna. Nor did Seerayi, for that matter. She stayed in the farmstead until the moon w
as overhead. She was unable to fall asleep anywhere else but her own home. After arranging the second feed for the cattle, she got ready to leave for home, hoping she could finally get some sleep there.
Her lips kept chanting, ‘Oh Devaatha, please bless my daughter-in-law.’ She went home and lay tossing and turning on her cot. She might as well have stayed in the farmstead, because her mind kept wondering if someone would steal the chickens or take away the cattle and sheep. She also kept thinking of Ponna and fervently prayed, ‘The good thing should happen.’ Lips that prayed for the daughter-in-law somehow failed to remember the son. Perhaps that was what god couldn’t tolerate. She did not even know that Kali had returned to the farmstead. Thinking that he was still at his father-in-law’s place, she woke up very early, when it was still dark, and walked over to the enclosure. She needed to feed the cattle and clean out the cow dung. Usually, Kali did it. He’d have completed all the tasks before the day dawned. But she had taken this on because Kali was away.
As she neared the enclosure, she saw the thatched gate was open. And the dog was barking. Did a thief break in knowing no one was keeping watch here? If the cattle were gone, she’d have to put up with Kali’s harsh words. ‘Why couldn’t you spend the night right here? What’s there to be afraid of here? Why do you act like a scared young virgin?’ He had given her clear instructions before he left yesterday. She had retorted, ‘Go give these instructions to someone who knows nothing. I taught you all these things myself—and now you are trying to teach me?’ He just cared so much about the cattle, the sheep and this field and enclosure.
In a panic, Seerayi ran inside and checked on the animals. They were all safe. She went into the hut. Everything was in its place. The dog came barking to her. She shushed it. She was certain she had shut the thatched gate properly when she had left, but maybe she had somehow forgotten to do that. These days she had a hard time remembering such things. As she chastised herself for being forgetful, she decided to clear out the cow dung before feeding the cattle. Since the dung pit was to the back of the enclosure, she carried and dumped the cow dung there.
The dog kept barking and running towards her. She shouted at it, ‘What are you barking at? Can’t you be quiet? It’s dawn already, the sun will be up soon. You think thieves come at this hour? You are going to catch a thief?’ But the dog did not relent. It ran in front of her, barking. Then it ran behind her, closing in as if it was going to drag her by the end of her sari, furiously yapping unabated. It was strange behaviour. ‘Hey! Did you spot a snake or something? Why are you so agitated?’ she said, and followed the dog. When she saw the dog baying at the portia tree, its gaze fixed overhead, she too looked up there—and saw a bright white dhoti.
At first, she could not make sense of anything. She wondered if the dhoti had been swept up by a wind and got caught in the branch. Then suddenly she realized that the dhoti was wrapped around a thick human body. She could not speak. Her voice came out in an incoherent blabber. It was only when the hanging body was turned around by the wind that she realized it was Kali. ‘Ayyo! My god!’ she wailed and ran outside to fetch someone. She saw some movement at a distance and hailed to them: ‘Ayyo! Please come here! My god is hanging!’ The entire village must have heard her wail. People came running. Kannaan climbed the tree carrying the sickle he found in the hut. He cut the rope along with part of the branch. He sensed that the person was dead.
Kali’s tuft of hair had come undone, concealing the noose’s knot at the back of his neck. Even though Kannaan knew there was little chance the person might still be alive, he had cut at the branch with great urgency. It was a heavy rope, made of big weaves, and was thicker than two hands could grasp. The sickle was not sharp enough for the task—it had already gone blunt cutting stalks of maize. Kannaan sat straddling the branch and forcefully aimed the sickle at the rope. He was agitated. As the rope slowly loosened, Kali’s body began to descend. Raasaan and Sellan, who were standing below, got hold of Kali’s legs and lowered him. It felt like bringing down something very heavy. And there was a strong stench that grew stronger as they lowered him further. But they did not pay much attention to it then. They laid him down, loosened the rope around his neck and placed their hands under his nose. Nothing. There was a little warmth over his chest. ‘He has just died,’ Sellan said.
As soon as she heard that, Seerayi screamed, ‘My god! You have left me, just like your father did, you have left me alone and gone!’ Two people held her and slowly moved her away from the body and out of the enclosure. Some who came closer to the body said, ‘Ayyo!’ and ran away. Someone shouted, ‘Don’t let any children see this.’
Kannaan, who climbed down from the tree, his legs still shaking, ran and shut the thatched gate and fastened it from the inside. But by then the news had spread and a crowd had gathered. In the body’s struggle with death, it had ejected some shit—which is why Sellan and Raasaan now also stank of it. The penis was erect and was straining against the dhoti. Both men washed themselves with water from the wide-mouthed pot. They poured water over Kali and cleaned him, and brought a different dhoti to drape over him. But they could do nothing about the erect penis. All they could do was try to conceal it by piling more pieces of cloth over it. They could not loosen his hardened teeth and push the tongue back in. It was then that Periyasami said, ‘There is nothing more horrific than looking at the face of someone who has hanged himself. Let us not show anyone the face. Cover it fully.’ And so they did.
By then, Velu—who had run all the way across fields and hillocks with the news—reached Muthu’s place in Adaiyur. Ponna, her father and mother had returned only around the time the rooster first started crowing, and they had just gone to bed after releasing the bullocks from the cart and tying them up in the barn. There was no one else at home. Kali had gone with Muthu to drink arrack, and so Ponna and her parents had gone to bed thinking that the two men would only return in the morning once the effect of the arrack wore off. Ponna’s father, who was sleeping outside, woke up when he heard Velu shouting, ‘Muthu, Muthu, dey! Your brother-in-law has hanged himself!’ He banged on the door. On hearing the news, Ponna immediately started running towards the farmstead. She didn’t know what was going on in her mind then. She just ran.
Ponna ran all the way and stopped only when she reached the enclosure.
FOUR
After her sister-in-law’s visit, Ponna seemed somewhat rejuvenated. She felt well enough to handle her own tasks. She arose before dawn and looked after the cows and calves first. She cleaned the plate she ate out of. She fetched her own jug of water to drink. Earlier, if any of the visitors approached her, she would just sit up in the same spot where she had been lying. The part of her sari that was draped over her chest would have fallen to a side. And she would sit there, her breasts visible, like old women sitting around without a care. She had completely lost her bearings, and people who came to talk to her would feel awkward. Her mother or mother-in-law would have to rush over and pull up her sari to cover her breasts. But she was not like that any more. She was careful about her sari, and even though she had not started combing her hair again, she did tie it up in a bun.
One morning, when the sun had risen till it was directly in her line of sight, Ponna’s mother thought she could take a cow to the fields and let it graze there. And she thought she could perhaps persuade Ponna to go along with her. ‘Ponna, do you want to go with me?’ she asked. Ponna looked up, wordlessly inquiring: ‘Where?’ She had still not started speaking; she still couldn’t find the words. Was this the same woman whose sharp tongue the entire village feared? When her mother told her where she was going, Ponna stood up and walked slowly behind the cow. It gave her mother some hope that her daughter might recover after all. Ponna felt like she was looking at her own field for the first time. Kali was everywhere. So many Kalis. Since the water level had dwindled in the well, he had been making sure that the coconut palms got at least enough water to wet their roots. He had dug a pit and a channel ar
ound the coconut trees to make sure that the rain water ran and collected in these pits and nourished the trees. From the curved etchings on the sand, she could tell that the rains that came after his death had indeed cooled the trees.
Two years ago, he had planted just one row of brinjal plants. There must be ten of them now. There was enough space between the plants for a person to pass through comfortably keeping their feet apart. Ponna had asked him, ‘Maama, why are you planting them so far apart? So that the water we channel towards them might go waste in the sand between them?’ All he said in response was, ‘Just do as I say, my dear,’ and went away to tether the bulls to the irrigation shaft. She yelled after him, ‘Your mother might as well have given birth to a mute one!’ And he retorted, ‘I have married you so that you can talk for both of us.’ She didn’t say anything to that. She counted and planted the brinjal saplings. There were thirteen of them. Two of them were really tender and small. She was not sure they would thrive, but she did not want to throw them away, so she planted them anyway.
By the time she finished planting them, he had already drawn water from the well once and poured it into the channels. He knew that if he planted the saplings far from the well, the channel itself would consume all the water. So he’d had them planted close to the well. But still the channel would suck up three buckets of water. And the row of saplings would need three buckets of water. As Kali was going over this in his mind and was making the bulls draw water from the well, Ponna went over to him, untied his topknot and grabbed hold of his tuft of hair. The bulls stood arrested in mid-draw, and the empty bucket dangled halfway into the well. She tugged at his hair and said, ‘What did you say? Did you say I talk too much? The village people might say that, relatives might say that, your mother could say that, my mother could say that, even alley dogs might say that, foxes could say that, but how could you!’
A Lonely Harvest Page 3