The journeys of the wounded- chapter-10
C P Aboobaker
This is translation of the Chapter- X of my novel in Malayalam, as translated by me and edited by Joneve McCormick. It is a very rough beginning. The title of the novel is "the journeys of the wounded" .
It’s heavy down pour. Atmosphere is thick and dark. There is no symptom to any end to the rain. So, Kuttiali took the little fingers of Asharaf in his left hand and began to traverse the rain. Along the lane, damp lumps of dry leaves twigs are flowing in the reddish water. He went out of his compound through the northern lane. Then, the way turned east . There, Narayanan Nair was waiting. He asks:
“Are you to school? Me too come with you, the girlie should be admitted”
“ So heavy in the beginning, this rain is. What will happen this season? “
Yeah, it’s just the beginning, beginning of the monsoon. Narayanan Nair is happy that the very first day of the monsoon gives a full rain. He is a farmer. Has a family of four daughters, his mother and wife. Asharaf is not interested the conversation between his father the neighbor. They walk along. From the neighboring house three other children join the group. One is a lass, the other is a fat boy, a Ganapati and another boy. Ganapati’s father is like him, very fat; his name is Kunhikrishna Kurup. The third boy is lean; with him is a man in neatly pressed dress. May be his father. His name is Raghavan Nambiar . The children acknowledged by smiles and then by chattering. All of them are in the prison of rain.
When they enter the paddy fields, the rain becomes a beautiful woman, a stream poured in to the greenery of the fields. The snails and shell fish in the fields are live in water. Birds on the coconut-trees on the sides of the fields are enjoying the rain. The canal is not yet full by rain. If the rain persists, continues to rain continuously, the canal will be full.
“Let’s go crossing the bridge; Children, it is slippery, take care; will have to by Kolayal when returning”, someone says.
“ Oh, they are bringing the untouchable children from the kudis”, some other says. It is the man with the ironed dress. Others smile lightly on his fear of the untouchables. The untouchables are not treated separately by Kunhikrishna Kurup and others. The kids from the kudis are pure , oil black in colour. They have a plantain leaf each for covering from rain. But they enjoy the rain happily. The surroundings of the kudis are fertile and well-cultivated. Children wish to walk together, but Raghavan Nambiar is not ready to allow it. He wants to remain away from the Kudis’ children. But he is not as fast as they are. So, he has no escape from them. On the other side of the field is a shop; the oven is getting smoky. Beyond the shop is a lane. It is the way to the School. The lane is narrow, but it expands a little near the school.
When the rain slows down a little, children are all happy. Some are gripping hold of the maternal or paternal fingers. Asharaf is seeing this much children and men and women for the first time in his life. On a corner of the school veranda, Kuttiali stands with his long, bent-legged umbrella. He speaks to a few other parents. His pure white turban attracts every one in no time. He is white dhoti and shirt and has an oily black moustache. His complexion is reddish white. He has an ever-smiling face. Presently he is a little pensive perhaps due to the lost teacherdom.
The fat boy is Ramakrishnan, son of Kunhikrihna Kurup. He is an interesting guy, Asharaf thinks. The way he walks, stands, sits, speaks is different; he is a different boy. Very smart. The boy always biting the nails is Kuttan. Chandran is from kudi. There are other boys and girls from the kudis. Soudamini is so attractive that Asharaf can not take away his eyes off her. Nafeesa is a chattering box, she speaks always. There is Mammoo and another Asharaf. There is a slender girl who is the daughter of the youngest sister of Ummama. Kuttiali exchanges curtsies with her father.
But everywhere, Kunhikrishna Kurup is the leader. He is helping everyone , to wipe out water from the heads of the children coming in rain, and to arrange seats for the newly coming parents.
“ Why Kuttiali, why do you stand on the legs that brought you here, sit somewhere”, he says. Turning to another parent, he says:”
“ Your son seems to have a little cold, take care”.
His attention falls every where. There is no question of caste, creed or religion. He is a fat man, does not wear a shirt. He wears a Dhoti even in very cold weathers. He is not bothered about standing in the open rain or sun. One or two time he saw Asharaf going along with his little brother’s hand in the grip of his fingers. Kunhikrishna Kurup with all affection converged in two words said to him:
“ Take care”.
Talk ends there. Only that much, but it has a touch into the heart, into the soul. He doesn’t seem to please people very much. Kuttiali also is almost similar to him. May be due to this, both are very much in friendship now. Whatever be the question, Kurup and Kuttiali stand together. In fact, Kuttiali is more educated and read. But language and scholarship is inborn in Kurup. Kurup is a peasant, a middle landlord. But he is not that much of a landlord. He can subsist. There are some areas of paddy, coconut and other agricultural products. There is an attractive cashew grove. Kuttiali doesn’t have any agricultural experience.
“ Kuttiali, don’t you hear your son is called?”, Kurup asks Kuttiali.
The peon has called his son’s name.
By the time, Asharaf has begun to read the name of the school from the board: Kuttamath Higher Elementary School.
A huge, tall man looks at Kuttiali and then at Asharaf. He looks Asharaf from top to toe. Asharaf feels he is being screened fully before the man. He feels the man is asking:
“What is your business here?”
But the man is asking:
“What is your name”
“Will you learn well?”
Asharaf is thrilled to hear that question. He says:
“Yes”
.
The man has a touch of a smile on his face.
“ Look, Kuttiali, no boy or girl utters a single word when I ask them something, here your boy is all ready with answers. He looks smart”.
Kuttiali is happy and smiles at his son. The very first day of school has brought his child a good name.
Rain is gone. The damp fields dance in soft smiles. Children get into the fields with pleasure. They are not the ones that went to the school a little earlier, they are now part of the school. Through the damp, red soil, through the lanes, they spread into the fields. On the humps, grass grows on either side. Grass tickles their tender legs. The little grass bears the moles of soil.
The return is through another path.
“ Kuttiali, here on this side of the fields, I have a portion . Let’s go by this way”, Kurup says.
“Children will go their way”.
“ I am coming father”, Ramakrishnan says.
“Me too”, says Asharaf.
Children and their parents walk along the damp paths. In its middle, fields take the shape of a river, rather, a lake. Unable to control his pleasure, Asharaf shouted:
“ River, small river”.
“It’s no river, it’s Kolayil”. Ramakrishnan corrects. Here the field forms itself into a pond or lake. The canal that comes from a branch of the river ends in the middle of the fields. It is full of lotus saplings and flowers. Water lilies abound in the lake. Children look at the flowery lake.
“ Don’t wait, rain comes, water in Kolayil is becoming red, don’t go into water, there is twirling flow inside”, Narayanan cautions.
Slowly a cold wind fly along the fields and stop
.
A wind is flying in the land, a wind of sacrifice.
Winds have begun to fly, they are in rage now. Hard winds give them sharp cold. Wind is raging hard, destructive. The long-legged umbrella in Kuttiali’s hand begins to fly in the wind escaping his grip. They run into a house on the side of the river. A veranda which is cleaned and polished with cow dung gives them shelter. Some children run into the house. The wasps of the wind fly all over. Some times the wind roars at the ceiling of the house, some times it marches like an army of the enemy. The water falling into the yard is splashing onto the veranda and the walls.
A granny comes out bent on her stick.
“Doesn’t seem to end soon, get into the room”, she says.
Then she looks at the visitors:
“ Oh, me lord, masters!”
“ No Kurumpi, don’t bother; man is man only when he helps the needy”, Kurup says. Asharaf likes the way Kurup speaks. He doesn’t know what he means. But when he speaks, there is an internal rhythm in it, he feels. In the scorching cold, it gives warmth to him. He has felt this warmth when mother reads songs.
Rain is becoming harder and harder. Without anything on their heads, a father and son run into the house, fully damp and immersed in water.
“ How foolish are you Kunhiraman, Couldn’t you wait there at the school until the rain isover?”
Kurup says loudly. There is a little anger in his voice; still it has a warmth of love and affection, Asharaf feels.
C P Aboobaker - C.P. ABOOBACKER, editor of thanalonline, belongs to Calicut in Kerala. His interests include writing, publishing poems, essays, and many more literary things. Latest writing is about Channels and Globalizations. He is a retired professor of history.
e-mail: cpaboobacker@gmail.com
