A Lonely Harvest Page 2

  So it turned out that Ponna had to stay put until this stipulated period was over. But she did not want to stay in the house. She preferred to stay in the farmstead. In a way, it turned out to be a good idea. All of them could stay right there and take care of the cattle and sheep. For those three months, her mother too stayed back with her. At first, Vallayi went into the village every day, to the house Seerayi had there, where she cooked food and brought it back to the barnyard. But gradually she started bringing the stuff one by one to the farmstead and did her cooking right there. As for Seerayi, she was always restless, and she had to be engaged in some activity or another. Ponna did nothing. She could not find her bearings. Her mother and mother-in-law did not let her out of their sight even for a minute.

  She spent her time just sitting in some part of the hut. Being there felt to her like she was lying down with her head on Kali’s lap or reclining on his chest. Now and then her gaze was drawn to that branch of the tree. It appeared to her in its earlier form, fully grown. At such moments, she saw a noose dangling from it. The very next moment, she would see Kali’s body hanging there. She saw that gory image of him, the way she had seen him laid out on the cot, only now upright. His open tuft of hair would waft in the breeze. She could not bear to look at this for too long. It filled her with fear and rage, and she always started crying. More than the tragedy of Kali’s death, Ponna felt that it was an even greater punishment to be left with that gruesome image of him. But seeing that frightful image day after day, she slowly got used to it, and even started talking to it.

  Now, resolving not to look towards the tree any more, she took a pitcher of water and splashed it on her face. Then she brushed her teeth with some ash. And she felt a sharp acidic reflux rising up to her mouth.

  It was this reflux that kept Ponna somewhat grounded.

  TWO

  Vallayi could not bear to look at Ponna in a white sari—a widow’s attire. She was sniffling and crying, but away from Ponna’s eyes. As for Seerayi, she was sad that her daughter-in-law’s life too had turned out to be just like hers. She felt that at least she had had a son who had given her a hold on life after her husband died, whereas Ponna did not have even that. Ponna just lay on a cot, looking like a bundle of waste cloth. Or she sat leaning on a rock, looking up at the tree. Her mother would come to her with a bowl of food and wouldn’t give up until Ponna had eaten something. If she were still a child, one could exercise some power over her and make her eat. But Ponna was a grown woman. How were they going to take care of her?

  Had the two older women not been there, the calves and sheep would have been sorely neglected. Someone suggested selling off everything. Ponna’s father and her brother, Muthu, decided to put it off until the period of mourning was over and their visit to the hill temple. Her father would come every other day and stay for the night. He would come after drinking some toddy. He’d look at Ponna and weep for a little while. Then he’d fall asleep. Every time he was there, he lamented, ‘Dear girl, did I raise you so lovingly, did I carry you over my shoulders, only to see you end up in this state? You both lived so happily like Rathi and Mammudha, the goddess and god of love. Even though you did not have children, you were there for each other. But we all got together and destroyed even that. The entire village cast its evil eye upon a husband and wife who were so happy. My darling girl, you were happy as long as you were together. Just somehow spend your life in that memory. I will make sure you lack for nothing.’

  Vallayi scolded him, ‘This man does not know what to say to a child in sorrow. Be quiet, go sleep!’

  Muthu came once every week. He hadn’t spoken to Ponna since she had cried and punched him on the chest. Her voice and her words, ‘You lost me my husband, my everything!’, stayed ringing in his ears. He was tormented by the guilt that he was responsible for Kali’s death. He had tried his best to ensure the plan’s success without Kali getting wind of it. If only he had woken up early that morning, he would not have let Kali die. He would have done something to stop him. He was wracked with remorse for having slept off in intoxication that night, knowing that he could have saved Kali if only he had been a little more careful, that because of his mistake everything was ruined and Kali was dead. He had agreed to the plan only because he could not bear to look at the suffering the couple were going through because of being childless. Ponna was his sister. He loved her. But it was with Kali that he was really close. They had roamed around all the fields and hills. And Muthu could not bear to see Kali secluding himself in this farmstead. Now whenever Muthu visited here, he spoke a few words just to his mother and then went and lay down under the portia tree. Whether he actually slept or not, no one knew. He always woke up at the crack of dawn and left without bidding anyone farewell. He never showed his face to Ponna.

  In the first month, some relative or another came over there to talk and spend a night. It was common practice in a house of bereavement for relatives to do that until things returned to normal. They’d try to dissolve their sorrows in talk. An old woman, who was like a paternal aunt to Seerayi, came over from Chinnur and spent three days there. She was over eighty years old, but except for a slightly hunched back, she was in fine health. She slept very lightly, like a hen. When she closed her eyes to sleep, her mouth would open, and she’d snore a bit. And then she’d be awake again the next second. She talked day and night non-stop. This old woman’s visit became an opportunity for Seerayi to reminisce about her childhood.

  The standard explanation given to everyone for Kali’s suicide was childlessness. If anyone asked Seerayi about it, this was what she said: ‘They didn’t leave any prayer or offering undone in order to conceive a child. There was not an astrologer they didn’t consult. None of the gods opened their benevolent eyes and looked upon them. That was what tormented him constantly. We had decided to wait for a year or two and then find him another woman to marry. On that day, he went to his mother-in-law’s place. They had come and invited the young couple to the festival, saying that the deity would be going back uphill, that they were sacrificing a chicken, and he should partake of the feast. He had stopped going anywhere, especially because he was tired of people asking about their childlessness wherever he went. She too had stopped in the same way. But I felt that we needed to maintain at least some relations—if only so that someone would come to dispose of my body when I die. And so I would show up to at least pay respects to the dead even if I didn’t go to all the auspicious events.

  ‘As for him, he would only go to his in-laws’ place. But he had stopped going there for two years, even for the chariot festival. His brother-in-law was a close childhood friend. Since he came over and almost begged him to go, saying, “How can you not come even to our place, Mapillai?” Kali decided to go to the festival this year. All right, so he went. Couldn’t he have gone straight to their place? Instead, he stopped to look up his friends on the way. They are all boys from Karattur. He had gone along with them somewhere to drink arrack. He has a lot of friends, you see. As they kept chatting, at some point it became an argument. Apparently, one of those dogs said, “A man who can’t manage to beget a child shouldn’t open his mouth to talk here.” Now, in these sorts of settings, it usually happens that some wretched dogs would say whatever they want. Why, even now, I hear that people are saying all sorts of things in places where they sit down to shit. Can we control dogs’ mouths? It is natural for them to bark at the slightest noise. How can we live if we take all of it to heart?

  ‘But in his drunken state, he even forgot about going to his mother-in-law’s place afterwards and instead came straight here and sat dejected under the tree. I happened to come here at that time, because I thought I should feed the calves and clear out the dung since both Kali and Ponna were out of town. That’s when I saw him sitting here and asked what happened. He didn’t say a word at first. But after I pressed further, he told me what had happened. I said, “Oh, dear boy, everyone talks about us. It is as if we are here just so that they can have someo
ne to talk about. What is new about this? Let it go. Intelligent men don’t seem to be able to have children, but dumb ones seem to be reproducing in great numbers. It is all god’s work, what do we know about it?” I comforted him in this way, and he listened. Then I said to him, “You go sleep, dear boy, I will take care of the cows.” He said yes, and I trusted him. If I had sat right there and chatted with him a little longer, I would have read his mind. Why did I have to think about work just then! But I thought about work—and lost my boy!

  ‘I was piling up cow dung there on that side, and here he hung himself. I could not see anything in the dark. He hung himself on this branch. It all happened in the blink of an eye. I thought I heard a rustle, and I came here to look. I couldn’t find him. I went into the hut and called out his name, “Kaliyappa, Kaliyappa . . .” That’s what I called him. We had named him after our family deity. So I always called him my calf, my gold, my god. I used to say that if one called out “Kaliyappa”, it was as good as saying god’s name a few times. But he didn’t answer that day. I panicked, but even then I did not imagine he would do this. He was adamant, just like his father. Very bold. I thought he had perhaps gone out to drink again.

  ‘This damned drinking habit was his undoing. He usually only drank toddy. He was not fond of arrack. He drank that stinking thing very rarely. I stepped out of the hut, thinking that perhaps he had gone out to drink again since this was the toddy season. If he did, then that meant he might go to his in-laws’ place and eat some meat.

  ‘It was then that I looked up—I had lowered my head at the threshold, you see. I saw legs dangling from the tree. I went running, crying, but I couldn’t reach him. By the time I ran outside, screaming, and brought others, he was no more . . . Our people are scattered across the fields. Maybe if people were nearby and could have come sooner, we could have saved him. But his fate turned out to be different. Before leaving his body, god knows what his soul thought about, how it suffered . . . Did I raise him with so much care, carrying him over my chest and shoulders only to lose him so prematurely? I protected him from wind and rain, kept him safe from sun and toil, held him close to myself . . . And now he has left me all alone and gone!’

  Seerayi repeated this, word for word, to anyone who asked about that night. Saying this over and over made her know it by heart. Among her listeners, it was only the old woman from Chinnur who dared to say, ‘Seera, my girl, this is what you are saying, but do you know what the village is saying? They are saying, “The wife is an arrogant woman. She pushed him to it.” They are saying she was having an affair with someone. They say all this within my earshot. For two weeks now, it seems this is all the talk in the market and everywhere.’

  ‘You are twenty or thirty years older than me,’ said Seerayi fiercely. ‘Don’t you know how the world makes up stories where none exist? Who really knows what is happening in other people’s lives? It is true that my daughter-in-law is a headstrong woman. Just like him, she won’t bear one hurtful word. While he would take everything to heart and brood quietly over it, she is different. She confronts the person openly. But otherwise, she is as good as gold, aaya. If anyone casts aspersions on her, their tongue will shrivel! How could she kill him and then go to her parents’ house and sit eating in peace? Show me the ones who are talking such rubbish. I will whack them with a broomstick!’

  Kali’s maternal uncles and their families now became intimate with them again. The wives of both uncles had come to visit one day. Ponna never spoke to any of the visitors. If they spoke to her, she just listened, keeping her head lowered. Once, when she stepped outside to go pee, she heard the talk outside. Rakkasi, the wife of the younger uncle, said loudly, as if she really wanted Ponna to hear, ‘Do our bad deeds leave us alone? It is god who decides how long a sheep’s tail should be.’ If Ponna had been in her element like before, she would have retorted, ‘God has given sheep a short tail, but why has he given a buffalo a long one? So that it can use the tail to wallow in piss and shit and smear them on itself.’ But now she came back in quietly, and wept. Addressing Kali in her mind, she said, ‘Am I a woman of bad deeds? Tell me. Is it fair that you have left me alone to listen to all these words?’ But when had he ever replied to her laments? He only ever smiled his crooked smile. That was all.

  The reason for Rakkasi’s anger at Ponna was something that had happened a while ago at the marketplace. Ponna had happened to run into her once at the fair. She was carrying twenty eggs to sell for six paise each. If she managed to sell them all, she’d get one rupee and twenty paise. She had anticipated that that would be sufficient money to spend at the fair. When Rakkasi realized that Ponna was looking to sell the eggs, she said, ‘At our place, all the hens fell sick and died. We didn’t get even a single egg. My father-in-law asked me to fetch some eggs from the market.’ She was implying that Ponna should give her the eggs for free. If she had asked for the eggs directly, Ponna would have given her four or five eggs. She would then have to cut down on her purchases. But Ponna did not like Rakkasi’s coy sense of entitlement. So she said, ‘It is six paise for each egg. You can take them for five paise each if you want.’ Rakkasi’s face fell.

  Apparently, Rakkasi had said to everyone, ‘It is not like they have heirs to pass on their wealth to. And she wouldn’t give me even four eggs. One day, when she is old and ailing, who is going to care for her?’ Ponna’s response to that was, ‘Who said we are heirless? If I cast some food on the roof, a thousand crows would come flying to eat it. Even her own children won’t come to wipe off her shit, I tell you.’ Rakkasi seemed to have held on to the grudge all this while, and was punishing Ponna for it now. Time seems to favour those who are cunning and conniving; it torments only the innocent.

  Ponna’s sister-in-law, Poovayi, visited one day. She didn’t have much to say to the older women. She stayed with Ponna, slept next to her at night. It had been a long time since Ponna and Poovayi had a falling-out and stopped talking to each other. Whenever Ponna visited her parents, Poovayi would leave for her own parents’ home. Some thoughtless word uttered sometime in the past had ended up creating this rift between them. When Poovayi was pregnant, Ponna had said to her, ‘Tell me what you are craving for. I will make it for you.’ Perhaps because Poovayi thought it would bring bad luck to eat snacks made by a woman who had married before her but was still childless, she said, ‘No need. It is not as if I have no one to make things for me to eat. I have people in my family who’d do things for me.’

  That made Ponna angry. She said, ‘Who said you don’t have people back home who’d make this for you? If you have everything there, why didn’t you get pregnant there? Why did you come after my brother?’ Ponna meant this teasingly, but her words stuck. No one got to know what Poovayi had said first. She said to everyone, ‘All I told her was that people from my family would come with food packed for the way and take me back with them in a dignified manner. For that, she tells me, “Oh, so you only want the food from there? Why didn’t you also get a child from your brothers?’’’ And everyone cursed Ponna, ‘How could she say such unkind things to a woman who is carrying another life in her? If she had gone through that, she’d have known better.’ Ponna retorted in protest, ‘Yes, it is only I who talks here. She is mute, you see. She can’t say anything.’ And she fell silent.

  It must have been seven or eight years since Poovayi had her son. Since then, she grew more responsible and patient. When she came to stay a night here, she spoke as a responsible woman. ‘Ponna, see, whatever happened, happened. Your brother too seems to be wandering around listlessly there. All he does through the day is drink. When I said to him, “You have wrecked your sister’s life. Do you plan to ruin mine too?” he started weeping. He cried, “What will I do if even you speak against me? I only wanted to do a good thing. Would I have agreed to the plan if I had even suspected this would happen?”’

  Ponna reacted to this immediately: ‘Is that why he sent you to me—to tell me what an honourable man he is?’

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p; But her sister-in-law was not upset by this at all. Poovayi said, ‘He told me, “She isn’t talking even to me. If you go and speak to her, it might make her even angrier. Don’t go.” But I had to come. I won’t speak ill of you. What is the point in apportioning blame now? Who thought this man would kill himself this way? A thousand things happen at festival time. If everyone reacted this way, there would be a thousand corpses every year. He was just so much in love with you. The problem was that it was too much love. Anyway, leave it. I can’t take away your misery. Nor can I give you something to take its place. I just came here to tell you that you should now live the way you want. If you want to go there, to your parents’, and live there, do it. Do not worry on my account, thinking of what I might say to that arrangement. I will only gain a companion if you come and live there. I will think that I now have another child who can play with my little boy.

  ‘But if you think it is better to stay right here, do that. We will visit you now and then. We will never abandon you. Various people have eyes on your property. I don’t have such agendas. I have only one child, and all that I pray for is another child to keep him company. That’s what made me understand your struggle. Even though I have a child, I am still having to listen to people’s cruel taunts. They say, “She has been able to bear only one child.” I can imagine the things they would have said about you. What we have is enough to pass on to the one child we have. We toil hard and earn the food we eat.