Seasons of the Palm
PERUMAL MURUGAN
Seasons of the Palm
Translated by V. Geetha
PENGUIN BOOKS
CONTENTS
Dust
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
Fine Mud
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
Dry Earth
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
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PENGUIN BOOKS
SEASONS OF THE PALM
Perumal Murugan is the star of contemporary Tamil literature, having garnered both critical acclaim and commercial success for his work. An award-winning writer, poet and scholar, he has written several novels, short-story collections, poetry anthologies and works of non-fiction. Some of his novels have been translated into English to immense acclaim, including Seasons of the Palm, which was shortlisted for the Kiriyama Prize in 2005, and One Part Woman, his best-known work, which was shortlisted for the Crossword Award and won the prestigious ILF Samanvay Bhasha Samman in 2015. Murugan has also received awards from the Tamil Nadu government as well as from Katha Books.
V. Geetha is a feminist historian and publisher who writes in English and Tamil on contemporary Tamil society, particularly on caste, gender, education and labour. She translates poetry and fiction from and into both languages. Geetha is with Tara Books, Chennai.
Praise for Pyre
‘Murugan’s fictional villages are places full of quiet menace, where caste boundaries are protected with violence and social exclusion . . . [Pyre is] so tense it leaves you gasping for air’ —Ellen Barry, New York Times
‘Pyre glows with as much power as [One Part Woman] did, and adds immeasurable value to contemporary Indian literature . . . “Meditative, joyous, humbling”—three words [that] describe perfectly the sensations with which you put down Perumal Murugan’s Pyre, a book marked with the same quality of luminous integrity and beauty seen in One Part Woman . . . Aniruddhan translates with a fine ear that preserves beautifully the music of the original . . . [Murugan] succeeds in universalising Kongu Nadu to such a degree that place and person fall away and all that remains is a hard and glittering gem of a story’—Vaishna Roy, The Hindu
‘[A] sensitive, richly textured translation by Aniruddhan Vasudevan . . . Murugan writes with a gentle, sensual tenderness that is unforgettable [and also] with cinematic power, and the final images of Pyre will sear your heart, though he makes sure that the reader writes the ending with him . . . One Part Woman was met with intolerance of such a degree that it forced him into silence. Pyre, written before the storm of bigotry swept through the author’s life, is even more accomplished, bitterly haunting, a love story, and an indictment of those who hate with such staunch righteousness’—Nilanjana Roy, Business Standard
‘The prose is deceptively simple and sparse. And yet it has the effect of hitting you hard like the blazing sun . . . [Murugan] knows how to handle masterful imagery and human emotions. Especially when he delves into the emotional space of his women characters, be it a coarse, unloving mother-in-law or the soft, sparrow-like, bewildered new bride . . . A sensitive translation done with great care. There is not a single word that jars . . . [Pyre] will haunt the reader for a long time’ —Vaasanthi, Indian Express
‘The real fire in Pyre [lies] in Murugan’s words . . . Aniruddhan Vasudevan [translates] the story of Pyre beautifully . . . With Pyre, Murugan places a love story at the centre of human confusion and regional literature at the centre of Indian mainstream writing’—Financial Express
‘A poignant love story . . . Murugan vividly describes the dusty, beautiful landscape and through his characters gives us a peek into the daily struggles and joys of a different kind of life’—Femina
Praise for One Part Woman
‘A superb book in which tenderness, love and desire kindle each other into a conflagration of sexual rapture’—Bapsi Sidhwa
‘Perumal Murugan opens up the layers of desire, longing, loss and fulfilment in a relationship with extraordinary sensitivity and surgical precision’—Ambai
‘A fable about sexual passion and social norms, pleasure and the conventions of family and motherhood . . . A lovely rendering of the Tamil’—Biblio
‘Perumal Murugan turns an intimate and crystalline gaze on a married couple in interior Tamil Nadu. It is a gaze that lays bare the intricacies of their story, culminating in a heart-wrenching denouement that allows no room for apathy . . . One Part Woman is a powerful and insightful rendering of an entire milieu which is certainly still in existence. [Murugan] handles myriad complexities with an enviable sophistication, creating an evocative, even haunting, work . . . Murugan’s writing is taut and suspenseful . . . Aniruddhan Vasudevan’s translation deserves mention—the language is crisp, retaining local flavour without jarring, and often lyrical’—The Hindu Business Line
‘An evocative novel about a childless couple reminds us of the excellence of writing in Indian languages . . . This is a novel of many layers; of richly textured relationships; of raw and resonant dialogues and characters . . . Perumal Murugan’s voice is distinct; it is the voice of writing in the Indian languages rich in characters, dialogues and locales that are unerringly drawn and intensely evocative. As the novel moves towards its inevitable climax, tragic yet redemptive, the reader shares in the anguish of the characters caught in a fate beyond their control. It is because a superb writer has drawn us adroitly into the lives of those far removed from our acquaintance’—Indian Express
‘Murugan imbues the simple story of a young couple, deeply in love and anxious to have a child, with the complexities of convention, obligation and, ultimately, conviction . . . An engaging story’—Time Out
‘One Part Woman has the distant romanticism of a gentler, slower, prettier world, but it is infused with a sense of immediacy . . . Murugan intricately examines the effect the pressure to have a child has on [the couple’s] relationship . . . One Part Woman is beautifully rooted in its setting. Murugan delights in description and Aniruddhan translates it ably’ —Open
Praise for Perumal Murugan
‘Versatile, sensitive to history and conscious of his responsibilities as a writer, Murugan is . . . the most accomplished of his generation of Tamil writers’—Caravan
‘[A] great literary chronicler . . . Murugan is at the height of his creative powers’—The Hindu
‘Murugan’s insights about relationships spread throughout his work like flashes of lightning’—Kalachuvadu
‘The Tamil Irvine Welsh’—Guardian
For Kandan, known as Mondi,
who died when a stone fell on his chest
Dust
ONE
When Shorty and his herd of sheep enter the vast field outlying the village, it is still dawn. The sun sits snug behind Karattur hill, reluctant to climb even that modest height. The earth is silent under a veil of thin light. Excited and hungry, the sheep set up a thick rustle as they scramble noisily into the harvested plots that lie scattered across the field. With a sigh, the field stirs awake to the sound of sheep feet.
The field is not entirely flat. Part of it rises into a moderately high plateau, broken into plots and home to the hardy kambu. The grain has been harvested a few days ago and the plateau looks forlorn. Earlier, the ground, moist with crop, breathed a rich green life. That time is over. It is brown and sorrowing now. A season for mourning.
The marks
of the harvest can still be seen. Dried kambu stalks lie all around. Thin rusted blades baring their rough, sharp edges which can cut deep into naked feet. Tangled and knotted bean creepers fall indolently over each other, dull, dusty and bereft. The furrows are thick with dried leaves, thistles and the fallen silk of the kambu. Smashed castor plants still stand in some of the plots, their stalks stiff and erect.
Everywhere, the furrows are like ancient faces, wrinkled and lined with sticks and broken plant stems. In a few weeks, though, the lines will blur and disappear, stamped out of shape by the rushing feet of marauding sheep and their human keepers. Then, the wind blows hard and stirs the earth into dry dust. The earth grows warmer and the sheep are happy to roam the length and breadth of the field, their noses close to the earth. The earth is indulgent too—it yields to their hungry mouths and lets them nibble at clumps of grass and fallen leaves.
Shorty bends his herdsman’s stick into a bow, and flings it high into the air. Catching the rising wind, it sails past a large-sized plot of land and boomerangs, a sharp thud of green. The sheep are startled and retreat into each other. Ears alertly raised, they stand poised for a moment, as if they hoped to catch the culprit sound. But only for an instant. Almost at once, their heads are to the ground as they shuffle along the furrowed field. Their white foreheads are visible even from afar, smeared with the bright red decorative mark from several days ago—the auspicious mark of the harvest festival. They look freshly washed, a rare glow surrounds their almost milk-white skin.
The ground is damp; January dew clings to the grass and leaves. The sheep find it difficult to move fast, their feet slamb and slide. Dewdrops wet their nostrils, and they shake their heads this way and that, till their noses feel dry. They walk slowly through the field. Gambolling lambs try to keep pace with older sheep, but are soon lost in a confusion of sheep limbs. Yet, they keep at it and run with the herd, eager to get to the pasture across and beyond the plots. Some of the older sheep lag behind, gurgling and spitting, but not for long. Soon they draw up with the rest.
Shorty stands on the edge of the mudbank that runs along the field and circles the harvested plots.
‘Aiy! Nedumbi! Back! Off!’
He shouts as a straggler breaks away from the rest and runs towards a lone palm. Halted by his sharp tone, Nedumbi stops. Shorty is not sure if the sheep will listen or run on. She stares at him as if she means to heed him, but turns and runs towards the palm. This time, there is a sureness to her gallop.
‘Nedumbi! Nedumbi!’
Shorty looks at the big disobedient ewe in dismay. He grits his teeth and scrambles down the sloping mudbank and into the field. Nedumbi is at the foot of the palm. Her nose picks out the shavings of palm kernel that lie on the ground in white heaps. Tree-climber Kandan, the toddy-tapper, has probably sliced the kernel with a knife earlier. He must have come at the break of dawn. Fresh and wet, the shavings sit like patches of snot. Nedumbi snaps them up, but does not eat them at once. She carefully shakes away the mud that sticks to the shavings and then begins to chew on them. Seeing Nedumbi feed, the other sheep begin to run towards the palm.
Shorty looks up at the palm tree. It is a male tree. Four clay pots cluster at the top, collecting toddy. The tree is almost bare, except for a swathe of fresh green fronds ringed by ageing brown leaves—a scraggly, thin baby crow, with no down yet on its back. Tree-climber Kandan is heartless when it comes to male trees. He chops at the fronds, till the tree is almost barren. But with female trees, he is different. He is tender, solicitous, as if they are pregnant women given to his care. He lets their fronds grow, until they form a huge whirl. Rarely does he take out his knife, he is happy to let it rest in its rusty holder.
Noses to the ground, the sheep circle the tree. Soon, the ground beneath the palm is bare and they are content. Shorty sighs. There is nothing more to be done. He climbs up the slope and returns to the mudbank. His eyes travel over the wide field, past the sheep, to drink in the sandy, breathtaking vastness. It stretches on and on, as if there is no stopping it.
To the south of the field flows a sunken canal that empties into a faraway human-made lake. When the monsoon rains come, the canal runs deep and wide. But there is no water in it now. Only a bushy undergrowth of shrubs, small trees and tall grass. Shorty’s eyes narrow as they search the horizon’s line. He cannot see anyone yet.
Ten days ago, hundreds of heads bobbed up and down that line. Men and women with their cattle and their scythes, men and women who came to harvest the grain at the grey–black hour before dawn. They have all returned to their villages, their homes, leaving behind a disconsolate and pining earth. A crow caws loudly in the distance. A ewe calls to its lamb. Sparrows chatter in high-pitched tones. A haunting sound emerges from the deep hollow of the lake. The air is full of voices, the field teeming with life.
In the middle of a plot stands a solitary neem tree. On the mudbank, a little away from Shorty, is the twin palm. Along the field’s edge is a craggy line of rocks—the Big Rock, with its secret holes and crevices. The erukkan is everywhere, its broad leaves waving in the wind, like so many pairs of hands. Slender ridges that separate one plot of land from the next criss-cross the field. The earth stays firm, enduring, gladly surrendering its dust to the wind.
Shorty waits. He has to, at least until high noon. Only then, or even afterwards, will the others come, one by one, leading their sheep. Belly usually comes first. Once she is there, the world seems right. Her laughter and mocking voice hold the air, and he is not alone any more. Then come Tallfellow, Stonedeaf and, last of all, Stumpleg.
Shorty hears sheep calling from beyond the fields that lie on the other side of the lake. They belong to Sengaattaar. But they will have to wait. Stumpleg brings them out to graze only in the late afternoon, after finishing his farm tasks. Shorty looks away from the horizon and searches for his sheep. They are all gathered in a single plot of land, feeding intently on the tall grass that grows plentifully in these parts. They love it for its juice, its crisp taste. Shorty is indulgent. He knows that it is easier to herd them once they have fed their fill. He counts the sheep.
There is Veeran, a sacrificial sheep, consecrated to Munisami, god of fire and darkness. There is a bell around his neck, but you hear it only rarely. Veeran is a graceful sheep and feeds with quiet dignity. Then, Nedumbi. For a long time, she delivered only stillborn lambs. But ten days ago, she managed a frisky little one that stays close to her while she nibbles at the grass. She is always hungry and wanting more.
Shorty is relieved. He has nothing to fear. Veeran and Nedumbi are herd leaders and if they are around, that means the sheep are happy, content. Mollachi, Vattalu, Mooli, Vellachi, Soozhiyan, Konnakkalli, Monduvalli, Araikathan . . . fourteen sheep in all.
It is well past dawn and the sun is visible above the hill. Yellow light floods the land. Its warm haze comforts the sheep. Shorty does not have much to do. The sheep are not likely to stray very far. Besides, there are no green plots which they can sneak into when he is not looking. But he needs to call out to them from time to time. Maybe scold them now and then.
Shorty’s eyes stray towards his tin lunch pail. There it stands, squat and long on one of the ridges. He had left it there a while ago. Already, a steady line of ants is crawling up the sides. He had screwed the lid on tight. Yet, these maddening ants have smelled his food out. Unerring and sure, they are now on their way to feeding. He jumps down from the mudbank on to the ridge and picks up his pail. The ants scramble down hurriedly and scatter.
Shorty smiles. They had no need for his pail until last week. Then, the fields were thick with ripening grain. With the harvest ended, the ants need other food and have come to him. They have to rummage around until the next harvest. But they never go away, never give up on this dry earth.
He opens the pail—it is full of kanji, with two plump steamed kambu balls swimming in it. A few long, thin red chillies float on top. His Mistress probably pounded the kambu early that morning. The balls sm
ell fresh. He draws his breath in, and waits for the aroma from the kanji to slide into his heart. Steamed kambu soaked in water smells divine He feels light, almost ecstatic. His mouth waters, and he wonders if he should at least drink a bit of the kambu kanji. But then he will have to go hungry in the afternoon. Shorty sighs and shuts the pail tight.
It is not like this every day. Most days, the Mistress packs his tin pail with kambu balls from the day before. Thin, shrivelled and smelling faintly of rot, they do not stir his stomach like this. But he waits every morning, resigned and eager, for the rotten balls. Like a dog, he thinks, much like a dog, anxious for its master’s voice. He waits until the Mistress calls out, ‘Dai! Bring your pot!’
The sun is still climbing its way into the sky. Shorty picks up his pail and walks to the neem tree. It stands there, grand and spreading. He places the pail in a small, dry hollow at the base of the tree and hoists himself up on one of its branches. Sitting with his legs on either side of the branch, he rocks up and down. A while later, he swings from the branch, back and forth, back and forth. Then hangs upside down, until he feels a dizzy madness in his ears. He jumps to another branch and does the same. And then to another and another. The neem’s branches bend, creaking and swaying like dancing spirits. Shorty is a baby once more, wrapped tight in his cloth cradle, moving gently with the wind, letting it take him where it will. He laughs out loud.
Shorty’s sudden mirth and the neem’s loud rustle disturb the sheep. They look up, bemused. Vattalu starts to run towards the tree, followed by the others. Shorty jumps down, shouting:
‘Vattalu! Off! Get back! Go! Go!’
Vattalu stands in her tracks, she looks sad yet cajoling. Her black eyes glint in the sunlight. The other sheep stand still. The lambs bleat, afraid and unsure.