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 backyard
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 back 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 for a 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 back 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 back, 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