A Tale from Ikkapur

Published in the anthology - According to Adam; compiled & edited by Beryl Belsky

As a crow living in the remote village of Ikkapur, I may not arouse much interest. But if you care to listen, I have a tale to tell. My abode is the ancient tamarind tree standing on Yadamma's land, with its few gnarled branches, now rotting. I like the eccentric old lady and the tidbits that she throws me. I am also quite fond of her mute nephew Shambhu, who helps Yadamma farm the tiny plot, or what is left of it. He usually sleeps on a charpoy [traditional woven bed] placed under the tamarind tree. It was a peaceful co-existence for all three of us, until a week ago.

Yadamma's joy knew no bounds when postman Janak gave her the postcard. Her daughter Ammulu, who was married and settled in a far off town, was coming to visit her after four years. She was also bringing her three-year old son and her baby boy of five months. You cannot imagine the tizzy it sent Yadamma into. After all, it was an occasion to celebrate. She rushed to Nandlal, the grocer and begged him for some rice, jaggery [coarse dark sugar] and lentils. Yadamma usually subsisted on some watery gruel and occasional vegetables. But she could not serve those to her dear daughter and grandsons. The entire evening was spent cleaning and cooking. She bustled around sighing contentedly. Ammulu and her children would board the bus the next morning and reach the village by noon. The journey took about four hours. Finally, she would hold her grandsons in her arms. She also had a surprise for Ammulu.

After performing her evening ablutions, Yadamma sat down to eat her supper. There was a lot of gruel remaining. Today Shambu did not want to partake of it. Stupid fellow! He was complaining of an upset stomach and had already stretched himself on the charpoy. Yadamma ladled some gruel into her battered aluminum plate. The remaining gruel she kept for Shambu to eat the following day. She sipped at the watery meal, savoring it slowly. The strong taste of chlorine gave the gruel a peculiar flavor. All her pots had been filled with tap water from the zamindar's [landlord's] house. Her daughter and grandsons would be used to it as they lived in the town, now. Unable to bear the taste she quickly gulped the contents and hobbled towards her bedding.

Pulling out a battered, old trunk, she opened it and lovingly caressed the bright red silk saree. She had bought it for Ammulu. Lying tucked under the layers of clothes was a small cloth purse containing Yadamma's life savings. She planned to give some out of it to her grandsons. There was also a folded envelope stuffed with some ragged papers. She placed them all together and locked the box. Suddenly she felt queasy and got up slowly, calling out for Shambu. Her voice croaked and her throat felt parched. Walking unsteadily in the dark, her foot knocked against the gruel pot, which cracked instantly, spilling the contents onto the mud floor. A cold darkness filled Yadamma. She collapsed quietly to the floor.

The Sindhudurg Government bus station was buzzing with life even though it was only 6 am. Driver Ramcharan sat behind the grimy steering wheel, making the necessary obeisance to the pictures of the Hindu gods pasted on the windshield. His haggard face, painted a seemingly calm picture. But deep inside, he was a troubled man. Years of driving the overloaded buses, coupled with the burdens of life, had added a permanent stoop to his shoulders and more grey to his hair. He looked far older than his age. A month ago his daughter Neela had been sent back by her inlaws. She was asked to bring the remainder of her dowry, a princely amount of one lakh rupees. How long could a married daughter remain in her parents' house? She should be sent back soon, with the money. The debts that had built up due to Neelta's marriage were yet to be cleared.

Ammulu sat on the seat behind the driver. Her son stuck his head out of the window, waving at his father. The baby was busy nursing. Ammulu had spent four years crying and wailing and ranting, hoping her husband would relent and allow her to visit her mother. Finally, the day had come. She adjusted the saree pallav to cover her face, shielding it from the heat. With the sun reaching its zenith so early, it was going to be a hot, uncomfortable journey. The bus was overcrowded as usual. She clutched her children tightly as it suddenly roared to life. Its wheels sped voraciously in order to devour the miles that lay before them.

En route to Ikkapur, 30 minutes away from Sindhudurg, was a tricky mountainous section that snaked down a couple of miles. While the mountain side on the left supported the road, on the right side there was a precipitous decline to a rocky valley, whose depth nobody knew. A carpet of tall, thorny bushes covered the rocks. It was popularly called the "Bhootghat" or the "Devil's ground." A dangerous stretch, it required all the skills of a seasoned driver to maneuver a bus safely. A tiny error could send it crashing down into the valley. Last year Driver Shiva and all 87 passengers had perished in one such accident. The Government had even awarded compensation of one lakh rupees to each of the accident victim's families. Ramcharan made a silent prayer and blinked off the beads of sweat which rolled down his into eyes. The heat and sweat were making it difficult for Ramcharan, as he squinted against the sunlight to concentrate on the treacherous way ahead.

Meanwhile, the warm, golden fingers of the sun pried open Shambu's sleepy eyes. He got up slowly, yawning and stretching. Suddenly his body tensed at the loud shouts and noise of running feet coming closer and closer. "Yadamma! Yadamma"! It was Postman Janak. Huffing and puffing he reached the hut. "Yadamma"! He cried again and then sat on the charpoy to catch his breath. Shambu stood mutely beside him. There was no sign of Yadamma. There was no reply from inside the hut. The zamindar and a handful of villagers, too, joined them. Shambu was getting agitated. Some of them approached the hut and pushed open the door. They found Yadamma lying on the floor beside the broken pot. She was dead, her body icy cold, her skin already tinged with blue. They had come to inform Yadamma about the bus accident at Sindhudurg. The bus had skidded and fallen into the valley killing all that were in it. Ammulu and her children had been on the same bus. The local kotwal [police officer] was informed. Yadamma was an old woman in her seventies. Her daughter and grandsons were now dead. Mute Shambu was her only surviving kin. Preparations were quickly made for Yadamma's funeral. She was cremated in her backyard without much ado. All the while, Shambu remained a mute spectator. Evening fast approached. The usual chirping of the sparrows and the other birds were missing. Even I, the crow, had retired early to my home on the tamarind branch. The funeral pyre was all burnt out, leaving only a few dying embers. The wisps of smoke emanating from them created velvety curtains in the dusk. The unusual calm was deafening.

Shambu sat on the charpoy staring blindly at the hut. The food left by some village housewives remained untouched. He did not feel hungry at all. A million tumultuous feelings pounded inside him. His aunt Yadamma had always been harsh to him, making him toil throughout his life and never uttering a kind word. She took his meager earnings, only occasionally giving him a rupee or two. He was often made to work as an additional farm help in the village. He wore mostly tatters. Many a times he was denied the thin, watery gruel on some feeble pretext or other. Yadamma was stingy, always scrimping and saving money for her daughter. To celebrate her daughter's homecoming, she had spent a fortune on a silk saree. But the last straw was when Shambu overheard Yadamma discuss her plans with the shopkeeper. She was going to transfer the deeds of the tiny plot, with her hut and associated farmland, to Ammulu.

Shambu had been shocked. He had toiled his entire life farming this land. Once it was Ammulu's he would have no right to it and would be kicked off it someday. Since he was mute, he could not even voice his feelihgs. Incensed, he had devised a plan. The previous evening he had made the customary gruel and laced it with rat poison that he had stolen from Nandlal's shop. He also planned to do away with Ammulu and her children in some way or other.

Suddenly, he let out a diabolical chuckle. It seemed that God had also taken care of his second wish. Stretching out on the charpoy, he gazed at the large branch of the tamarind tree which latticed the sky above him. Nobody seemed to suspect any foul play. Smiling to himself, he began to dream of his future. The land and the hut were his. Yadamma's money, too, belonged to him now. Maybe he could even get a bride. He would give her the red silk saree as a gift. Soon, overcome by hunger and the dramatic events of the day, he nodded off to sleep.

Just before dawn a sudden wind struck Ikkapur, whipping up a dusty trail. The silence of the early hour was shattered by the many crashes and clangs that followed. Roofs were blown away and many huts collapsed. The air was filled with dust, rendering it impossible to see anything. The shouts and laments of the villagers filled the skies. The incessant howls of the street dogs pierced the atmosphere eerily. Then there was a lull. The storm abated just as dramatically as it had appeared.

During the storm I had flown off my perch on the tamarind tree and sought refuge in a broken pot. Yadamma's hut was blown away and destroyed. I cawed for Shambu. He lay crushed on the charpoy, with the heavy branch of the tamarind tree atop him. The branch which had been my home had collapsed, unable to bear its rotting weight anymore. It would be many days before the villagers discovered him. In accordance with local practice, visits to houses in mourning were usually avoided for a month.

And that is the end of that tale. Perhaps we shall meet again soon. Maybe I shall have another one to tell you. I lost my dear ones. Now I am off to take a dip in the sacred Godavari River. Caw! Caw! Caw!