Stain - short story by Vanna Nilavan

Persistence of Memory - by Salvador Dali

Last time when I went home, there was nobody there, except for him sitting in his cot as was his wont. There must be something about the cot which tied our Annan ( big brother ) to it, seemingly for ever.

Through the window behind the cot, you could see the mango tree with its tender leaves and fresh flowers standing in dignified silence under the scorching sun. Two women underneath, in contrast, were in constant chatter moving about a clothesline wringing and hanging clothes to dry.

As the women tied one end of a brown saree to a post to stretch it free of wrinkles, the sun shining thru it produced light of a different hue, our Annan was sitting there with an expression of contentment on his face, as if laughter had just prevailed and subsided.

Our big brother was in the same state of stupor, till I asked him, “Where are the others?”.as I was keeping the bag down. “Welcome home Kittu” , he replied, “They have all gone to the terrace of the house to sun-dry koozvatral”. I wanted to climb up to the terrace and see it for myself.

The mornings,when the women of the house ventured to the terrace for sun-drying these blobs of spiced rice paste, always had uniquely fresh and bright sunshine. By the time they would have boiled the rice paste to a consistency ready for laying out in the sun, it would not be long past dawn. The crow will still be sitting on the cement drain pipe. The scent from the flowers of the vadamadakki tree close to the house will be wafting thru the terrace air. The red tiles on the roof will appear more red than usual in the brightness of the morning sun.

“The sun is going to fail us” , mother will be worried about the sun playing truant behind the passing clouds, as she climbs up the ladder to the terrace. She would tell sister, “You come up after you make coffee for the children”, my sister will climb up behind her all the same and I will follow suit. When she looks behind and chides me , “Are you a girl ?” the smell of the toothpaste from her mouth will be upon me. By the time she throws down the flowers in her hair that she had worn the day before, I would have reached the top of the climb.

Mother would lay the blogs of rice paste on a cloth laid on the terrace floor. I will look all around from the terrace. The gopurams of the Pillayar Kovil, the Perumal Kovil and the big temple will stand out in relief. The flags of political parties hoisted in the Gandhi square will be visible as also the grounds of the Dhalavai Mudaliar's bunglow; clouds will hover above distant tree tops.

As I look down from the terrace, Gomathi Akka from next door will be bent down doing her Kolam on the floor before her house. She must have eyes on her back for she will look around to ask me, “What are you doing up there ?”, with the box of Kolam-flour in her hand and a broad smile on her face.

Actually, more often than me, it is Annan who should be reminded of Gomathi Akka, after all that had passed between them and the kind of furore and bad blood it had created in the neighborhood before she was married off to some groom from the nearby Pulliangudi village. Father had said at that time, “Have you shed all your sense of shame and propriety ? I am unable to walk down the street with my head held high”, in a low voice while applying vibhuti on his forehead, himself facing the lamp ; the slight movement of the green and red flowers hanging from the lamp accentuating the denseness of the moment.

May be it is Gomathi Akka who is still making him sit on his cot ruminating his past with her. Will memories linger that long ? Whether or not Annan remembers Gomathi Akka, I am sure his wife remembers her, after all he had told her all about his past.

Once Bigbro had a come to my place. It is not quite easy to locate my rooms in the maze of streets even if you go by the Ganesh Mandir as a land mark for there were two Ganesh Mandirs in the street and if you come looking for door number eighteen, the numbers after proceeding up to 13, will suddenly meander into 40s leaving you perplexed.

Though he had come earlier once, coming as he did at 11 in the night, surprised me. With one hand he was handing over the bag to me and with the other closing the door behind him as he was removing his foot wear.

“Is Saravanan not here ?”, he inquired as he was sitting down on the cot. “He has gone home”, was my reply.

“If he was here , there would be a few cigarettes around”, said he, the informality towards my room mate was unbecoming. “May I get you one ?”, I was moving towards where I had hung up my shirt.

“There was a Bombay Dyeing Calendar here, Where is it now ?”, Annan was abrupt, pointing out to the wall above him. We had removed the calender as it was of the last year.

“Did the woman in the calendar not resemble somebody ?”, he asked looking up to the space on the wall where the calendar once hung. Just as I was about to tell the name of the Bollywood actress, he interjected stopping me midway.

“Don't lie Kittu, you know very well and even more than you, your madhani will know. “Your madhani would have told you not to have the calender hanging there”. “You have done what you had been asked to do. It does not matter, Gomathi is always here “, he was tapping himself on his chest. It was very theatrical. I was difficult to believe that people spoke in real the way they do in cinema. I only wished Annan stopped it at this.

“Do you see this?”, he was stretching both his hands in front of him as if he were hand cuffed. And before I could recover to guess what he was saying, “Do you see this?”, he was stretching both his legs in front of him.

“I am tied down, virtually tied down hand to foot by Sarasu. Your place is home, you dare not stir out of it, your madhani has ordered. How can a man live like this ? Do not talk to people,do not think the thoughts you are thinking, do not see what you see, is the daily dose of her admonitions. I am continuously stifled like this and yet asked to remain normal”.

The spectacle before me became more and more film-like. It was as though I was seeing a melodramatic movie of some other language and struggling to keep pace with the subtitles appearing at the bottom of the screen.

“How could anyone suspect another so much ? Just because once in the past, I had a soft corner for a woman, I am being tormented like this; I am linked to every women I come across; in the bus, in the office even with the cleaning woman”, Bigbro went on and on. It was not as if he was saying all this in a cringing tone or with tears in his eyes. It was as if he was speaking to himself and having perceived my presence in the same room trying to make me join the conversation.

“You know Sarasu's sister?”, he asked. “ You mean, Maheswari ?”, I replied referring to his wife's sister.

“Yes, how old do you think she is ?”, he continued.

Maheswari was recently married and has an infant son, not even a year old. They had moved to the same town and lived just 4 streets away. I knew this much. She had once plucked a few drumsticks from the tree and asked me take it to our Bigbro's home. She had big and beautiful eyes. “Such beautiful and big eyes, that I would be terrified they might slip and fall on the plate when she bends down to eat”. Bigbro had once remarked.

“She says I am having an affair with her”, “It is as though I had them transferred and settled in this town so that it is convenient for me”.

“I feel like banging my head on the wall; a prisoner of her allegations, her constant surveillance and verbal taunts”, his voice had broken into a sob. “I am unable to look at anybody with confidence. I do not feel like going to work. I would rather resign my job and stay at home. Let Sarasu keep a cane in her hands and go about the house as she does in her school”, BigBro planted his face on a pillow in his lap.

“You better lie down and rest, let me get something for you to eat”, I said looking for a chance to break the monologue. BigBro said nothing in reply.

By the time I returned, he had gone to sleep lying on his stomach; the fan above was causing the newspaper stuck between his legs and the cot to open and close like a mouth of a whale.

“It is me, Sarasu, thambi”, when Madhani was on the phone the first time with him the monthly calendar on the wall was twirling likewise. Madhani who is normally very calm and composed appeared agitated when heard thru the phone.

“Your brother is not okay these days. He does not go to work; applies for leave and sits at home. It will be good if you come and see him once”, though this is the gist of what she said, it was interleaved with several reproving phrases: that it has been many years since he has been behaving unbalanced, that no other woman would have put with such nonsense, now that he would not go to work, why should she alone go and slog and shout at children at school till her throat is torn asunder, that she would also stop going to work and everyone be damned to destitution, etc. etc.

I felt like placing my hand on the calendar and stop its irksome twirling. What could I possibly do to broker peace between them ? I felt some pity for BigBro, reminded of his narration of his plight the other day. I felt I owed it to stand by him; after all nobody else can be closer to him than me. May be I could ask him to take a few more days off and be with me for a change.

Once I , BigBro and Saravanan sat in a Bar and had our fill till late hours. When we left for home, I could not help notice how beautiful the road was at night when they are without traffic. As we were walking along, Saravanan suddenly fell behind us. The road 's many trees were interspersed with tall ilavam panju trees. The ripe pods of cotton were strewn on the ground below. Saravanan was sitting on the road , the street lamps casting the shadow of the tall trees on him. Can you tell with certainly if today is March 30^th or 31^st, he was asking BigBro. “A day without date”, replied BigBro. “How would it be if there are no names attached to people Saravanan remarked. “With the exception of one woman”, BigBro stressed. “Nobody needs to have names”, Saravanan was emphatic. I was listening to their conversation, with my arm around the of the Ilavam Panju tree, the greenness of the trunk seen in the street lamp making me feel pleasant.

“What is on the phone ?”, Why are you peering into it ?, the pressure on my shoulder was unmistakable. “Nothing”, I said. When confronted like this, don't we always say 'nothing' when there is really 'something' .

When I returned to our rooms from work, Saravanan had washed his clothes and hung them to dry; the clothes hung on the nylon chord were still dripping.

I told him that I had received a call from BigBro. I asked for his advice. When I asked him if I could bring BigBro to stay with us, he did not ask if he would agree to come here; he merely asked “Would his wife allow him to ?”, lighting a cigarette.

“If the woman of your brother's musings, were to come here suddenly and ask you how you are and further asks you to convey her regards to your brother, how would you feel?”, said he.

“Do you mean, how I would respond ?”, I returned.

“Will you go to your brother and tell him she was remembering him ?”, he asked further.

“It is all too cinema-like”, I replied.

“Was the night scene under the ilavam punju trees any different ?”, the soapy smell from washed clothes and smell of cigarette smoke were wafting thru the room in a strange mixture.

“What worries me more is his refusal to go to work ? He has two small girls to take care of “, I said.

“How would be any better if it were two small boys ?” , he retorted.

“Go home and speak to your brother when his wife is not around, ask him to talk it over with his wife; there is no medicine for this except talking it over ; one must keep emptying it out over and over again”, he said. “Just like the wetness leave the clothes out in the hanger and dry up slowly, the pent up emotions should be let out over time. You cannot be pushing them to do it, just like you cannot iron a wet shirt dry and wear it for office. It will accumulate dirt just too soon.”

“How can one go about without a shirt ?”, I reasoned.

“Both should understand that for some time going about with the wet clothes on is inevitable; you cannot but collect some soot and grime in the collars”, Saravanan bent down to pick up the empty bucket. I was looking at the calender focusing next available week-end. Perhaps, week days are better, they would give me more opportunities to talk alone with Bigbro.

When I reached home, Madhani was alone. I asked her about brother. ,

“He has started to work , just last two days”, she said showing surprise at the turn of events. Madhani had washed her hair. Her hair was left loose on her shoulders; her sifting eyes glowing in the backdrop of a dark face lightened by application of turmeric.

What brother told about Maheswari's eyes was also true for her sister. Perhaps, these beautiful eyes loose their radiance and turn glassy once they are behind a pair of spectacles.

“Oh, he went to office on his own accord ? “, my question was not directly answered by Madhani.

“I feel relieved and light last two days, after a long time that is; I took a refreshing dip and have worn a good saree after a long time”, she continued. There was nothing special about the Saree, just one of her usual cotton sarees with golden yellow checks: she was twisting and rubbing the threads at the end of the saree in her fingers, her eyes bleary with tears as she was speaking to me.

Behind her the vessels from the kitchen, after being scoured hard with mixture of mud and ash and washed, were laid out to dry in the sun. They were sparkling at the edges in bright sun light; she herself looking like the aluminum plate reserved for me at home, that retained a sheen and luster, in spite of a million scratches and lines on it as a result of mother's daily rubbing and scouring. I felt a tinge of pain, seeing her in this state.

“Don't cry, Madhani ?”, was how I started the conversation.

It looked as if we spoke at length and at the same time spoke less. I did not feel like discussing every nook and cranny of the matter at hand. Madhani spoke in a skirting sort of way, that identified people but without naming the names., but recounting all happenings one by one.

There was a quality and an ambiance to our conversion that defied easy description; it was as it we were discussing with legs hanging down into water from a ledge in a pond; like talking when adjusting burning coal with one hand and turning the roti with the other; like the way the empty clotheslines quiver and teeter and the aluminum clips clink together when the birds sit on them and leave in a sudden; like the sweet and source taste of the slivers of raw mango allowed to ripen under the sun; like the peep and scurry of the squirrel that frequents the window sill.

“Just see how time flies as we are talking, it is time for children to return from school”, Madhani was collecting the empty coffee tumblers and going inside.

“May I go and fetch them from school”, I volunteered and Madhani wish me well on my way; though she said this in a normal way, I could not but notice an undercurrent.

As I was leaving, I heard her call out, “Check the tires if they have enough air”. I wish I heard more and more of her.

As I pulled the bicycle back on its stand, removed the water bottles hanging from the handle bar and picking up the socks and shoes the children had cast away, I saw big brother's foot wear inside the front door. He was the only one who never left footwear outside the home, he always left in the space behind the front door.

“Has he come home already”, I thought to myself; after the long conversation with madhani, seeing the children running out of the school when the bell rang, I wanted to continue in the pleasant mental state and have a word or two with big brother and skip and flit my way out like a bird would from his cot to the window sill and then outside.

I was throwing glances at the cot as I walked in.

The cot was without any spread on it and looked bare and depressing.

Brother was removing his shirt and and about to hang the shirt on the coat stand; he threw down his shirt and kicked it over seeing me enter the house.

“Who asked you to come home in my absence ?”, he was shouting at the top of his voice.

“You come to see me or her “, he was kicking the shirt with ferocity.

The underside of my brother's foot was dirtier than the shirt.

                                                                      Translated by V. Ramanan

                            

Madhani -  of relationship , elder brother's wife.

Annan    - Elder Brother