Black Horse Square, Body, A Rat, A Sparrow, Vehicle, Early Poems - Ambai



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Black Horse Square - Arrow

This is a report for an intellectual who is not emotional.

I cannot give reality. My first lesson: Reality has no mirror. The reality in this report has been dried up; the milk has dried up; the womb has been torn. This is a report that makes other space-time experiences sag with the heavy words of the self-space. You must come here to realize what is not caught in this. You must see her eyes that have dried up with tears. You must accept the silence that is born from her. You must burn in it.

It is a small room. You grew up in this: I asked a woman who came with the dust of the mill on her head. She guided me. There was nothing in that room. A feeling of wet cloth hanging heavy. A woman was sitting in the corner. A cracked Threulapathi. Her hair touched the ground. That was it, she was sitting on it like a vehicle. Faded black sari. She looked up. Rosa Kandasamy. Agni Gundam. (Isn't that the name given by a prominent party comrade to Rosa Luxemburg?)
O

1926. Long journey. Kandasamy stepped onto the platform with a cat-hair mustache, a bundle of cloth in his hand and a Madrasi kooja. In Parel Chand, there was a place called a room because of the tin roof above. Kandasamy was one of the many outsiders who were attracted by the factories as a city was expanding. He must have been involved in the early pulse of the industrial age. Kandasamy was present at the strike of 1928. In 1929 too. He must have been present at the evening classes held during the strike. He must have listened to Comrade Dange's
** 206 -- Ambai________________

speeches. He must have listened carefully to the French Revolution and the Russian Revolution in Marathi. Karl Marx was not just a bearded man to him. Many years later, when the boy was born, his complexion had not changed. He was red. He named him Lenin. The stories he told while stroking Lenin's head:

"The price of bread went up and down. The people were hungry, they were starving, they were starving, what did Queen Marie Antoinette say... If there is no bread, then there will be cake on Monday..."

"They finally put Bhagat Singh in jail and treated him very cruelly. When they hanged him one day at dawn, they didn't even show that body to his mother..."

There were many sudden turns in the stories Lenin heard. They were stories without gods, gods, or monsters. He had given titles. The story of the French Revolution, the story of 1917, the story of V. U. C., the story of Bharathiar, the story of Savarkar (Savarkar would tell the story of his escape from the ship over and over again), the story of Gandhi, the story of 15 August, the story of the machine, the story of the worker. Lenin studied English because he could not read. Lenin did not study to work in the factory. He studied, thought, and made plans to change society.
 O
Above her head was a garlanded photograph of Kandasamy.

She entered hesitantly.

She looked up and greeted him in Marathi, saying "Ya".

- She shook her head with a whip.

 She said in Tamil, "I am with Lenin."

She narrowed her eyes.

 "Brother?" "Mother, look who has come."

Mother came from behind the barrier. After wiping her eyes, face, and fluffy hair, those hands rose up like a black snake.
______________

was a little shy for her. Just looking at those hands. Unable to accept them as normal, her eyes fluttered open at the dark green veins that had burst in them, and it was like she was being hit on the head for being confused.

"Lenin, you're a scoundrel."

"Wow. Do you know the weather?"

she asked, coming closer and rubbing her head.

"Lenin, are you okay?"

"Good old lady grabbed his hand. "He still looks like a little boy, put a little bit of a pot in his mouth. I'm going to run away and eat a twelve-year-old boy. Don't you go there and tell him to go and look at him and be hungry! What kind of a scoundrel is he!"

She made her sit down on the mat.

"When he goes, he gets up first, takes a sip, and drinks it, but when he comes back, he cries, clutching his hand. He cries loudly in front of those people on the platform. He pats his hand and makes them stop..."

"Mom, should I let them talk too, or are you going to finish talking?"

"Let's go," she said, "I'll have tea," and got up and left.

Rosa smiled at her.

"I don't even know your name."

"Abilasha."
O

(It must have been two or three years since you last saw her? Didn't you go away in anger when she said she worked for the factory workers' union and didn't go to college? There was a photo on the wall. Your father, mother, you, her. How curly your hair is! Are those the first socks you ever wore in the photo? She must have been three years old. Karl Marx in the back. Yes. You've told the story of that photo. When your father came to the studio carrying the Karl Marx photo and insisted on putting it in the back, and the studio manager said, "Your relative.: He looks like a foreigner.")

To you, the unnerved Marxist who weighs everything on a scale and looks at both sides, I try to be careful not to let emotions spill over into the report I write. I don't know if I'll succeed in this.

She was like a smoldering fire. She had a speed that made you think she would jump on a horse like Rani Lakshmibai at any moment. Remember the movie Julia? Remember that face of Vanessa Redgrave, with her severed leg, with her tortured face, when she came to see her friend. I met her again. It seems. I have given Rosa a very dreamy image. Let it be the image that expresses my emotions at this moment, the overwhelming wonder and excitement. Let these be mine for now. Let me sculpt them calmly later. Even then, nothing will be diminished.

I have to give you this preface. I have to introduce your sister to you. The sister who supported the violent without agreeing with you in principle, has book knowledge, quotes, many hours of logical words - not only these, but who among us does not have these? We are the ones who cling to words, and with these she has an awakened conscience and many historical sources. A broken body and a broken relationship. It is against this background that you should read this statement.
O

When Rosa was five years old, the men and women who came to Jobatpatti (the slum area) every week and talked to them decided to hold a drawing workshop. They gave the children colored pencils and paper. Rosa took a blue pencil and rubbed it on the three-quarter side, Kadlam. In the middle of the painting was a ship like a paper boat. On top of it was a man with a half-naked head. In his hand was a flag, and she wrote: Fulfill our demands. She did not know to whom he was appealing to, alone in the middle of the sea. But appealing like that became a daily routine for her. On the other side, many people were on the shore with their limbs stretched out like dolls. In everyone's hands, flags were written: Fulfill our demands. She started with the hand of the man standing on the ship and drew an arrow. She wrote Kandasamy. She wrote it crookedly, then bit her index finger and wrote it. Lenin.

She would not remember another thing. One evening, Uncle Joshi, at Lenin's request, told Lenin the story of 1917 again. The noise of the vehicles outside had subsided a little. The beggars had started kneading bread dough and cooking. The salty air that had risen from somewhere in the chowpatty mixed with the many charcoal fumes and made him shiver a little. Lenin, with his finger stuck close to Uncle's shoulder, sat in a corner. After finishing, Uncle Joshi gave him time for questions as usual. He could ask him any questions he wanted. He had to raise his hand, get permission, and ask quietly and respectfully. As usual, Lenin asked, what if 1917 had happened in other places? Can everyone study? Can everyone get a house? Can everyone eat everything—even the cake—he would insert the last question into everything. The image of that cake from the French Revolution had stuck in his mind. After taking off his finger, Rosa raised her hand and asked in Marathi in a low voice. Amsa santaz karab ka? (Why are our cuckoos dirty?).

She insisted that she would only play the guillotine operator in the French Revolution, and even though she boasted that Lenin should "fall down dead" with blood-curdling weapons, her ideal was Lenin. She was also on the platform when he went to Delhi for higher studies. Swallowing down saliva and tears.
O

Abhilasha turned and lay down in the same position as before. Rosa adjusted her pillow.

"It's been a month since Sethi came to the paper? Did your brother send it just now?"

"How do you think Lenin sent me?"

"After?"

"Do you know there's a magazine called Narin? I've come to that magazine. I'm going to interview you."

Rosa burst out laughing as she saw Malland lying down. "Really?" she asked, then lay down and laughed.

"You're laughing."

"If this hadn't happened to me, you wouldn't have come, right?"

"No, Rosa. I've been asking Lenin many times. This happened."

"What an excuse! A good excuse! A damn good excuse even for my brother!"

 "The Nappadarandu Sangam here also came and spoke a lot to me in the meeting. They wrote. Those who could speak Marathi, the cigarette-smoking dolls, the white sari-clad women, all those who said our party would take this up and argue, came and went. The Tamil journalists came too. This is hot news. The press is saying "Good. Good, auspicious, hot news!"

"Rosa, you..."

"No. No. Please, sister, you too shouldn't be bitter. Don't preach like that. Many people have done this. Do you know how much fighting they have? When they decided to go to Urkolam on March 8, a union said, adding that they should add the increase in air fares, kerosene, and rice shortages to it, and they said that they should talk about all the capitalist efforts in the world and talk about Left unity. They kept talking like this. Finally, everyone went to Urkolam separately and met at Kala Koda Square. Then they talked and talked and talked and talked. . . ."

Abhilasha was able to accept her outburst. They were not without making mistakes. How could there be people who find fault wherever they looked, left, right, above their heads, and below their feet? Geeta lights a cigarette. It's a habit. How many slum women do not like beedi? She has not made it a symbol. How words fall to her after one puff of a cigarette! No one has yet written a book that can surpass the book she wrote about mill workers. How precisely, without a single quibble in theory, she has written! She can be woken up and asked how any trade union in the world works. Her position in the party is very high. She will shake off those who write mere books and tell them to come to the field. She should have climbed on Lenin's bald head and sat down! Lenin himself replied, "Geeta, not only do I say I am left, but if my caste also joins in, you will have a good living symbol. When you open the folding door, it is a symbol that catches the eye. Excuse me. This shop is closed. Look in other shops."

There was strength in the many struggles they had. Otherwise, rape and dowry became such a big issue? Sometimes mistakes are made in practice. We gathered at night. At eleven o'clock, we painted all the obscene posters in one hour. Malini had brought paint for her job. Only then did we read what was written on it. Mix it, leave it for two hours and then use it. We got Malini drunk. Jessica even told her that she was an enemy of the revolution.

Then the torch-lit night procession. When the torches were all ready, the police arrived. They said that kerosene or petrol should not be lit on the street. When I asked how to light this, the inspector calmly said, "Use ghee." Then we went on a procession with a candle each. These are the ones that can be pointed out. But these are the mistakes that float above. They are weightless.

Isn't everything a riot? There will be laughter, mockery, anger, criticism, cheering, fluttering, aggression. We also have to attract the anger of those who think that just kicking a man in the groin

will calm our anger. When Sulabha sees a man walking down the street and says, "You should pull him and cut him. Only then will he go," there is more than just anger. She is the one who worked to organize women in a ready-made garment factory and go on strike.

If we have divisions, it is an echo of the divisions in the organization. In Rosa's case, she should have been approached differently. When I watched the movie Ramabhaktha Hanuman with the combination of mangoes, cucumber slices sprinkled with pepper powder, I thought that Rama's chest was split open and Rama, his wife and brother, were inside, there should be a mutual conversation. How easy it was to communicate with each other, like showing what was inside! Just open one eye, if you get angry, do a one-legged dance, even if you hold a stick in front of you. Just show your mouth and you can see the seven worlds. How easy. The connection between words and words has disappeared. There is a connection beyond this. In the silence, in the eyes. In the joining of hands.

Every woman should caress the dark circles under the eyes of the other. Place her palms on the birthmarks. Place her fingers on the bulging veins. Hold her cracked feet in her hands. Place her face in her vagina.
O

(I didn't tell her about your role in my arrival. That would be a big preface. They are not yet in a position to comprehend the tragedies of your early years in Delhi.

It was on a hot summer evening - the summer in which your dissertation was published - that you approached me and said, "Can you come with me to the cloth shop?" In the shop, you picked up two pants - I remember the colors, dark brown and dark blue - and two shirt fabrics, and I helped you choose them. Only

 then did you give up your baggy pants, which we had pointed out to you and laughed at, and your shirts, which looked like the faded outerwear of a Hindi film villain. Until then, you had slept with a part of the mattress covering you. A black coat like a priest's coat, and a multi-colored woolen shirt that stood out brightly against your black complexion. But you did not seem to be shy about them. You were only reduced when our professor asked you to stand up to express his generosity, saying, "This is the Harijan student I have recruited." Moreover, you had been helped all the way from Bombay, and you had been It was the master's hand on your shoulder that stung you. Kumar, who shared his clear Marxist ideologies with you. Whenever he extended his hand towards you and said, "Take our Lenin for example," scorpions flew from that finger towards you. You only moved away when he refused to let go of the posture he had adopted. In a drama-filled program. He wanted you to talk to the Harijan students and make them stick to him. 'Harijan students have suffered a lot in life. Difficulties that they did not choose for themselves. Your leadership is the difficulty that they choose for themselves. I cannot do this. My dear Marxist friends,' you call them, and the meaning of Harijan will be attached to it. "I can't send some innocent ears to listen to it" - you said in front of everyone. You were in that unbearable black line of yours. No one even noticed you. As soon as you spoke, an electric current spread. "Thank you, dog," said Kumar. You went to the door and turned around: "When I see you through the eyes of a dog, you don't even look like a tasty piece of bone to me."

You walked across so many deserts, your feet swollen, blood and pus pooling, my friend! But when there is so much moist soil near your roots, shouldn't you have planted your feet in it from time to time? But I think you have a feeling of shame for these people deep down in your mind. Do you remember the article Sobana read about the American black man who has reached a good position and is ashamed of his parents in Harlem?)

Now let's get to the point.

There is a gap in the initial news. It was just a four-letter news story about a procession taken out by their slum dwellers about what happened to a woman. Only after the anti-rape team got involved and their lawyer made a public statement did other newspapers write about it in full. I have read these news and the lawyer's statement without missing a word. Meena Arora, the secretary of the P. A. team, gave everything.

"Indian Express" put this as a big blockbuster on the front page. After this, the reason "Indian Express" backed down was because Rosa refused to file a police complaint. This is also why the P. A. team's momentum was hampered. This is where the rift between them and Rosa arose. They could not stop her. They could not change her. They had recorded her speaking at a meeting in their office. I asked. She begins with an attack, "There is a big difference between you and me. I'm not talking about the quality of your saree and the quality of mine. The bigger difference is that no one raped you and tore you apart. I have been torn apart. I have bled. This is what brings us together. This is what separates us."

Vila Kulkarni writes about this gathering in "Eve's Weekly" - "In my bourgeois life, I have not known anger except for the petty anger of a teacher, the dry anger of my classmates, the anger of my parents for their strict upbringing, and the petty scoldings of my husband. This is why Rosa frightens me. I have never seen or experienced anger like that. When I woke up after listening to what she said, my whole body was sweating and my underwear was sticky. Her last question still resonates with me. Who do you want justice from? Those who have wronged me? Who is the court for? For me? I have never intentionally killed a fly or ant. But one day, I will pull out the intestines of every person in that police station and throw them outside. I will smear their blood on myself. I do not need any court's permission for this. I am not one to ask permission. I will pluck them.


As she said this, she shook her long hair "It fell down like a snake that had been hiding. That image will remain in my mind forever," concludes Veela Kulkarni in her article.

Rosa's issue is one of the demands of many parties in the demand for the 8th March procession. The reason is that the party you support does not want to give importance to this as a separate event. They are against the excessive expansion of the issue of the individual. They say that this should be seen in the context of the system's shortcomings. They say that the shortcomings of the system here can be seen only in the grand context of the policies of the International Monetary Fund and the market aggression of American imperialism. They say that the procession is their party only after standing in front of the American dictatorship and shouting slogans against it. Why did you leave Russia, isn't that imperialism the only one lacking? We are creating an uprising among the women in the huts. Therefore, the price hike, the water problem, and the price of kerosene should also be included in the demands. If we have to shout slogans in front of the embassy like that, we will also shout in front of the Russian dictatorship. Are you ready? The next party. P. A. The team's focus on this issue could be interpreted as simply anti-male, and even if it is seen as a protest against police violence, it will distract from the main issues; so they decided to hold a separate march for it on another day, and they did so the next day. They also held a meeting on the rape law. Although the law review has now been accepted, the reason why the Rosa issue has become a mess is because of Rosa. She did not attend the march or the meeting.

When Prabhakar Shinde's party members approached her through some democratic rights groups, she said, "They are gouging out the eyes of the youth who deserve to live, breaking their bones, and dislocating their knees. Go and rescue them. They are chasing them in the forests and beating them to death. What did you do to stop it? What can you do for me? Go and write reports that Rosa was raped; she wants justice.


Can you rescue the murdered Prabhakar Shinde? His face and body were swollen and swollen. Where did you go then? I did not get a supportive shoulder to cry on then. You murmured that love and affection are weaknesses? What do you care now?" She had said angrily as she saw it.

This is how the matter has been stuck.
O

Godavari Parulekar walked in the forest where the trees were thick and the moonlight touched the tips of the leaves. She walked to win the love of the Adivasis who were oppressed and crushed by the British. She did not have much burden. Only a red flag. When they slept under a tree until they accepted her, and after accepting her, when she slept in the same room with goats and sheep, and when she was thirsty for tea, that flag was what encouraged her. Her enthusiasm was equal to that of the Christian missionaries who wandered into the African jungles with the Bible in their hands. But she did not have God. She had. Only the strength to create a mental upheaval.

Sudhakar Shinde, who later took a different path, walked in the same forests. Prabhakar's brother. He was chased many times in the same forests. Finally, they said that he hanged himself in prison.

Prabhakar Shinde has drowned with his unpolitical finger on a blue-studded neck. It was as if that blue had entered his finger. That blue neck was forever locked in half of his brain. He always had a place in the huts of the Adivasis.

At a meeting on the land issue of the Adivasis, a group of women came with working women. Rosa had also come then. She was the first to give voice to the group songs. She sang with a little Tamil glue in the depths of Marathi. She had not yet started working in the Mill Workers' Association. She had come with her friend. According to Lenin's opinion, she should study further.


Prabhakar Shinde was the first turning point in her life. She did not study. She got involved in the work of the association. Lenin thought it was an act floating in dreams. He came. Rosa had grown tall enough to look him face to face. Prabhakar Shinde and Lenin had a lot to point fingers at and fight about. "You need a ladder to climb a wall. How can you break the wall?" Lenin said before Shinde interrupted, "Tell these compliments at some seminar. That's the right place. That's where you all should be," and the only thing missing was a punch.

One evening, Prabha was reading a Marathi article to Rosa, a young doctor in a hospital. That day, he was on night duty. Four village men brought in a seventeen-year-old pregnant woman on a bed. The young doctor who examined the woman was sweating. A small hand was reaching between her thighs. It was oozing green and blue pus and poison. He broke down and called the doctor who was on top of him. It was a one-in-a-million case. As far as that hospital was concerned, all they could do was take the baby out piece by piece. And that was what he did. The next morning, there was a fight in the senior doctor's room. The senior doctor had never had a chance to try that particular surgery after reading it in the book. He argued that he shouldn't have done it until morning. The night doctor said that he had saved the woman. The senior doctor said that he had insulted his seniority. The little doctor came to the villagers. He thought it was his duty to teach them: "Shouldn't we have gathered them earlier?" he said. The oldest of them said, "We can gather them. It has been raining in our village for a long time. Everyone was needed for field work. She was also in the field. We gathered them when the work was over." The little doctor's stomach churned with the thought that she must have been working in the field with her hands hanging down. He had written the article himself.

After reading it, Prabha turned to Lenin. "Can intellectuals shed a single tear for this? Do you have any tears?" he said. Lenin got up and threw the glass in his hand at Prabhakar angrily and left. "
Oh,

brother.

" "Did you

sleep?"

"No?"

"Did you come only for the Nari magazine?"

"In addition to that."

"Can you write in good English like Sheila Kulkarni?"

"What can I say to this, Kolanju, you seem to be angry with girls who don't get crushed."

"Say"

"Back then? The other day, there was a fourteen-year-old girl near Karpada. Two policemen and two local thugs were trampling on a flower... When that girl's head was touched, I thought it must be your hand. Just touch her once and make her feel better. You can do it. You will understand."

"Do you know her, please tell me?"

"There are many people for that. You can show us your anger."

"I'm thinking."
O

Rosa gave me an interview. I will give you the main parts of it.

Prabhakar Shinde was very gentle. In the light of the bare stove, at night, in the tribal huts, she would eat rice and green onions with him. In the morning, she would eat rice porridge pounded by hand, with chutney pounded with garlic and chillies. In the mill and among the tribals, his name was Fakir. An ascetic is one who does not lose his temper for anything. (This rule was broken only with you)


She would think of that particular evening many times later. Even the smallest details were huge memories in her mind. He had returned from the tribal camp that afternoon. He had come when she had come from the Sangha. She had come early that day. Someone had set fire to the mill's warehouse. There was only confusion. He and his mother had made a list for a big feast. When asked what the puri, kadhi, aloo roost, pulao, and raita were, both of them laughed without saying anything. She liked everything on the menu.

After telling him about the mill warehouse, she went inside to take a bath and change. It happened within ten minutes after she came out.

Rosa said:

When Prabha was arrested, he was watering the rose plant. It was not a normal arrest. Then a kick. He fell down and knocked out his teeth. A blow to the chest. Blood flowed from his mouth.

"Did you come here after setting fire to the godown?" he asked.

"I'm here," he said, and was slapped. One eye swelled up and closed before his eyes. The next day, I and a few others went. They went first. They didn't want me. But I went. They had torn him apart and he was blue and swollen. He couldn't speak. His chest hair was all bloody. One hand was lying blue and swollen, and his whole body was swollen. When I called him, he came back and looked at me. Everything was swollen like a blue balloon and was shiny like a cobra. Even today, if I close my eyes, I can only see that swollen balloon. The blue balloon was swollen and bleeding... it must have hurt... it must have hurt so much... it was so swollen, how much it hurt... with strong boots on his feet.. What did you see with your own eyes? There was no blood in his eyes. He lay there like a deaf man and moved his mouth.

That was the end. The next day, his body was broken. My mother, his mother, and my sister all took it and went home. Then why did they come and arrest him? They said it was a mistake.

What would happen if I went to the Bombalai police station? That's what happened. They came and fell on me. They woke me up with water every time I fainted. Whenever I woke up, someone was on me. They used to beat me up with sticks, sticks, or whatever they could get into. Then they burned me with cigarette butts, and the one who had set the storehouse on fire did it. There was nothing more to do with my body - they sent me outside.

As soon as I arrived, my mother looked at me and asked - did anything unusual happen, girl - she asked in fear.

Rosa laughed.

(You should know what the party was for the evening of the arrest. It was to celebrate your sister's pregnancy. The doctor had confirmed the news to your mother that day. Rosa did not tell me this. Prabhakar's sister told me.

Rosa was sitting there at noon when she returned. Before she could finish saying that she had a pain in her lower abdomen, blood was pouring out all over her. That's how little Prabhakar and Rosa were forced to their decision. When I asked Rosa about this, she said, "Yes, I won't tell you, I won't tell anyone. This is a scandal. The freedom and right to buy a baby doll for ten months here still seems to be lacking. In front of which scoundrel should I go and shout this? Which judge has time to listen to this?" She then held her breasts in her hands as if carrying a stone and said a question without a drop of tear. She asked. I often touched my heavy breasts and thought of you placing your petals on the green veins that were beginning to appear in them, softly like cotton, so that they would not hurt.

O
How many years have passed since Kasibai came to Parel. Asking her age is all a preparation to hate her. "Why have you seen the groom? Let's go get two more," she would say brightly. When her son is drunk and lying in the police lockup, she is the one who comes to pick him up. She herself will give him the blow on the head that the police forgot to give.

Parel is expanding right before her eyes. Why, she had guessed the recent incident when the contractors who took bribes built that flyover and it collapsed one night, killing everyone lying below. "What have they built in Mumbai that hasn't collapsed?" she would brush off the incident and leave. Even the Parel Vinayagar grew up right before her eyes. Kasibai knows the history of the little doll that used to sit on Vinayaka Chaturthi, growing with each Vinayaka Chaturthi, and standing sixty feet tall this year. Not only standing, but also bending one leg over the other, holding a flute in her hand. Why, what is Krishna's right to go alone? All the movie vehicles are tiny in that corner. Vinayaka devotees will not accept the association of a rat with such a great god of Maharashtra and glorifying it. That's why the change to lotus on a stick, with a pipe. What if lotus and a pipe belong to someone? Some people wondered if even Vinayaka's face was a bit like Amitabh Bachchan, surpassing the elephants. Kashibai is the witness to all this Parel controversy that has arisen and grown. There is no record of anything shocking Kashibai happening in Parel. But Kashibai could not forget one evening. The reason she did not talk about it was because she had not yet recovered from it.

Kashibai had finished her household chores and was returning home after watching half a Hindi film with them on their home video. That's when the funeral procession caught her eye. The entire Parel crowd stood a little stunned. The pall was carried away. Four women. Two old men, two young women, one woman's hair was hanging loose. There was no tear in anyone's eyes. The woman who had parted her hair did not look in any direction. Only one woman answered the listeners. Soon a crowd gathered behind the singer. The slogans "Police Adyasaar, Nahi Saleki" started to rise. Kazibai also joined her. Many women followed her.

Kazibai remembers that they walked a long way. As she returned after setting the fire, what occurred to Kazibai was that she pushed the others aside and rushed towards the helpless woman, leaning her head on her, and beating her chest. Before

any other party or group could offer their sympathy and help, Kazibai had released her voice of protest in a room where she beat her chest loudly. It is very difficult to translate that room into words.
 O

A newspaper-sized white sheet of paper was pasted on the wall of the anti-rape team's office. The top of the sheet had many lines, arrows, brackets, and letters drawn in thick colored pencil. At the beginning of the sheet, in bold black letters, was written: Rosa's case. Meena Arora was sitting on the floor, looking at the sheet. There were twenty people around. Jyoti had already prepared the Suva rotis. When Zedji, the editor of Manka Publishing, went and told her the details of the posters, he took the sheet and put up a price list. Jyoti took it in her hand, folded it in four, and gave it to him.

"I don't need this, Zedji. You are going to give us a lower price list," she said, and smiled through the glass of her soda bottle.

"Who, me?" "You."

"I usually donate only to the Mahalakadmi Mandir."

"This year, donate a little to us too."

"How much?"

"As much as you can," she said, and stood up abruptly, holding the headline and laughing.

The leader of the team was Jyoti. She was waiting with bated breath to tell me about her experience of putting up posters.


Vila Kulkarni had published a long article in "Eve's Weekly" and she had separated the pages of her second article. Reelatha had brought two Marathi magazines and a Gujarati newspaper. Radha of the Democratic Rights League had devoted that month's issue to discussing rape. Rosa had made the case the main article.

Meenakshi was marking the route of their procession with a red pencil on an enlarged map of Bombay.

Amruta Singh entered. She had just come from the court. She had not yet taken off her black robe. As she entered, she said, "The doctor who first examined Rosa has agreed to testify." It took a week to convince
Rosa

. Her argument was decisive and without a single flaw. She was not shy or embarrassed about publicity. But she had a firm distrust of the justice of the courts. All I can say is that whatever system excludes you - use its institutions to your advantage - as much as you can. Radha of the Democratic Rights Association also came and insisted on this. Rosa made tea. She sat with us for many hours, even at night. She listened carefully to everything we said. She did not say anything but spread its waves around the room. In the end, it was your mother who made her count. This is not a permanent way of fighting and this is not a permanent way of fighting. Your mother said that when fighting in the water, the oar is the weapon, and if the boat capsizes, the hand is the only support to the shore.

Finally Rosa said yes. When we talked about the money we needed to raise and the plans, it was your mother who untied her title and gave us the first eighty-nine. (Yes. That is your mother's wallet to this day. Remember the farewell at the station?)

People like your mother have a language. It has the ups and downs of a language with words, and an incomprehensible structure. And yet it has no words. It is a language that is drowned in the reach of the hand, the look in the eye, the hand that presses against the back, in the laughter, the crying, the scream, the moan, in the silence where words are rejected. It is this language that separates us from them. Even though we speak in a language that is understandable to each other, it is a language that shares a message. Just a bridge. It seems that we are looking for another language. A language that does not have this side and that side, a language that twists and binds the two shores, a language that a small child understands as soon as he spreads his arms wide.
The

procession started from Dadar Shivaji Park and reached the Prime Minister's house. Then it stopped at Kala Ghoda Square. When seen from the Gateway of India, it looked like a wave of heads covered with turbans. It was Rosa who climbed into the back of the lorry that entered. Her sari was a deep purple color. When the evening sun fell on it, it looked like Shiva who had swallowed poison. Rosa talked about the white rose plant in a pot near her house. That plant was planted with great desire. The white rose plant was planted to replace the noise of the Parel bus, the crowd that was under the breath of the next person, the bad air of Parel, and the boredom of looking at machines. It was not just a plant. It was a dream. A dream woven by two people. One day, a white rose would have shown its head in the Parel crowd and performed some magic. It seems that such dreams do not belong to that area. White roses belong to other gardens. Rosa began by saying, "What is the story of this white rose?" She spoke for an hour. When she finished, she raised her fist and the fists invaded Kala Koda Square. After a few minutes of silence without a single slogan, a Hindi song broke out, "Nari Sharir Pe Athiyasar Nahi Shenge, Nahari Shenge" (We will not tolerate, we will not tolerate the oppression of women's bodies).
O

A small commotion was going on in the one-room office of the P. A. team. It was a matter of celebration, given the success of the march. No other march they had planned had been so successful. In past marches, there had been confusion about who to include and who to leave out. When an old woman arrived at a march with a placard and pamphlets to distribute that read, "Good Christians, neglecting women is betraying Jesus. Come to Jesus. Treat women with kindness," Meena Arora didn't know what to do. When she explained, the old woman asked, "Are you an enemy of Christ?" An hour passed. In the end, the woman stubbornly followed Meena in the procession, holding her placard. It caught the eye of a reporter and he wrote, "The B. A. team is not a branch of any particular party; it is true that it has a broad form. They did not even leave out Jesus Christ."

When a group came with quotes saying "Respect women as gods" - that was the only group that came in that procession - it seemed as if they were going to stop breathing. After a loud conversation, the people who came grabbed Meena's shirt and shook it, and ended up privately shouting, "Don't seek support from women by wearing pants and shirts. Wear a sari." Before Meena could explain how many people in their group wore saris and how superficial the dress was, her shirt collar was torn. Even though the people who came wore saris, Meena's torn collar was the distance between them and the divine nature. In the only big procession that took place, they had to go in different directions, in front of different embassies, and join together. Compared to them, the Rosa procession was a success.

They still haven't been able to shake off the impact of that procession.

They didn't expect all the female workers, housewives, and street vendors of Parel. They didn't expect women from eighty kilometers away to wake up in the morning, finish cooking, and come with their own money for electric train tickets with their children on their hips at eight in the morning. No one came expecting anything. They brought bread and potatoes in brass spoons and paper rolls. Little children had nipples, thumbs in their mouths, and peppermint sticks in their crying mouths. After putting the hood on their heads with a fan, the rain and the sun seemed to do them no harm. The children also sat on their hips without whimpering, as if they had drunk this feeling along with their breast milk. When the fists were raised, there were some small, chubby fists, fists dripping with peppermint, and fists with scars on their thumbs from finger licking.

Poorilatha was pinning the news that had come out in the newspapers to the notice board on the wall. A Tamil newspaper had also written about it. After writing about the procession, at the end, she asked, "I have a doubt, when I saw some of the women in the procession, I couldn't tell whether they were men or women. Is this also the freedom that women are demanding? Is this the right attire for a procession against rape?" The reporter had shown his Tamil masculinity and saved Tamil culture. Unable to stand on his own two feet, he had approached a writer and asked, "What is your opinion about women going out in processions like this and shouting slogans?" The writer had replied, "I don't think it is necessary to know about it or give an opinion." Abhilasha translated all this for the others. Poorilatha folded the picture of Shankaracharya, who was smiling brightly in orange and seemed to be blessing everything that was published in the newspaper, and inserted it into the board as it was on top. She said it matched the black cloth of the board and the orange color of the photo.

 Amruta Singh said that a retired judge approached her at the end of the procession and told her that she was ninety percent sure of winning.

While that joy was overwhelming about the future, there were no doubts.
 O

This report would not be complete if I did not write about it. Rosa's procession speech and its impact. Like Mark Antony, she is able to attract everyone's emotional center. I have attached the daily news of it. (In the photo in Lok Satta, the woman in the right corner is Yamunabai Sawant. Doesn't she look like a sadhu? When the police arrested her husband, she grabbed the mustache of the policeman with a long, curly mustache and hung on. Mustache in hand: "There are photos of the crowd that I sent to 'Nari' magazine. In the third photo on page sixteen, the three people standing in the second row facing the camera are businessmen on Grand Road. They told Meena Arora that they also wanted to join the anti-rape march. They told me a lot about their experiences with the police. They would take a child on their waist when they went to the police station. They would not tolerate the child crying and asking them to tie a rope quickly and send him away. They would always tie a nylon saree. They would never go without a firebox. "If anyone comes near me, I will leave with fire," they said. They will instill fear. Ganga used to tell me that when those with money and power in any village punish the powerless, the women are the ones who are targeted; they are the first to be dragged in; they are the ones who are disturbed.

I come back to Rosa. Rosa had not prepared for that day's speech. There is a language spring in the navel of the downtrodden. I used to think that it was in your writing. How wrong that was. For it to come to you or me, its pain has to enter us. Its tongues have to touch us and lick our skin like a rag.

She spoke in very simple Marathi, without any embellishment. The biggest compliment to her speech was what Meena Arora did next. Meena, who came to speak after her, looked closely at the crowd in front of her and started crying with great sobs. She could not have spoken better. When we approached the TV to show the news of the procession, that Gopal Sharma said, "We are showing it. But it is a silent film. With our commentary. Who knows what you are going to say?" I think Meena Arora defeated him by crying. He turned the T. V. camera to the side and there were tears. Everything he did was cut to pieces. He was the one who said he could kick him down. Sit down, you creeps.

The procession brought together people who were different in many ways. Many people mixed, in a created situation, with extraordinary enthusiasm, deep interest, and a great sense of joy. Its impact is still there. When it comes to balance, some thorns prick. But they are thorns. There are no iron doors. Rosa has not only breathed in the cause of a great struggle, but also the breath to open fences, doors, and closed windows in one blow. The power mixed in that breath cannot be described. This is a statement made up of mere words. If you see a thread of life through those words, grab it. It is there, somewhere, fluttering with full life. It is the first voice of our new language. Rosa's warm breath would be mixed in it.
 O

The walls of the B.A. team's room were covered with several posters. One was just drawings. A woman with her face on her knees: a faceless woman with her hands and feet shackled. Anju had drawn a large caricature.

A judge. A woman in a cage opposite.

"Are you a virgin?"

"No."

 "So you weren't raped. Did you scream when you were raped?"

"No. They gagged me."

 "Did you even try to scream?"

"No. I fainted."

 "So it wasn't rape. You agreed to it."

The caricature was crossed out with a very thick red line with a multiplication sign. Anju had written "This is past history" with an arrow in front of it.
O


Mother was not at home.

Abhilasha waited for her to say goodbye.She will come back after the case begins.

Rosa was about to change her clothes. Behind the barricade, Abhilasha got up and went to the barricade, remembering something she had forgotten to say. Rosa had taken off her clothes, and they were piled up at her feet. The charred scars on her chest were visible. When she saw her without clothes, she looked like an arrow that had not been strung.

Abhilasha came flying and embraced Rosa. She buried her face in her stomach. She sat down on the ground and leaned Rola against her chest. Moisture began to seep into Rosa's closed eyes.
O




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posted on 21/03/2016
Does Shiva naturally have hair on his body?
Or maybe he just let go of his karmic resolve before the universe shook.

Bala Reddy had this doubt many times. Before going on stage,
Just apply soap and shave your mustache; take off your shirt cuffs,
Even when looking at the chest of a baby.
Even when Indira Gupta dances, she collaborates as Shiva and Krishna.
It's Bala Reddy. She has her eyebrows done, her lipstick on, her whole body
He dances, twinkling, as the fountain of life flows from his navel. Dance.
When he finished, the people backstage looked at him and said, "Wow, that's amazing."
In one word, Indira said, "Go away, Mayilattam is bad! That's how it is."
"A leap, a leap, a curiosity," he said, despite him.
Thinking of the femininity that has stuck in your walk, your speech, your lips.
 Even when I was shy, I saw some people in a corner of the church saying "make-up-wearing ampel".
Even when the kekkalis are falling, the question is whether the source of the dance is a man.
And, to prove his manhood, he rose up in a state of wonder.
He felt compelled to do so.
Sitting in the corner of the room, with his head resting on his knees,
He will always enjoy his divine forms, erect.
With a deep voice and a twisted body, he - just walking down the street - makes women rush to protect their chastity.

Sick * 33 -o


Terrible figure. People said about him dancing, "Is that homo?"
He grabbed Sokkalingam's shirt collar and said, "Hey, who's that, homo? Your
"Is there anything wrong with your sister?" he would say.
He is on stage with his hair all black, his thighs, legs, and chest all black. In the assembly
Women, women, women everywhere. Like devotees who melted at the sight of Shiva.
At night
 Lalita puts her finger to her nose. "Is this a tiger's hunger?"
Lalitha whines. Satisfying her own hunger with the tiger's hunger, her body
Lalitha sleeps soundly. Bala Reddy as a tiger. -
Of the world
 Like a giant tortoise, he absorbed all the sounds of the flute within himself.
He is crawling. With heavy, strong lines, unbreakable.
Like a turtle, a tortoise is a tortoise.
Daily
 As if that day, she had seen her magnificent forms.
He was in a deep depression. That day, two people from Paris invited him to a documentary.
They are coming to take a picture for the film. A man is dancing.
For example, he. Bala Reddy, who rules the rhythm. Some kind of art association made
Arrangement.
Evening
 He started getting ready at five o'clock. He wore a red dance dress on his chest.
 Big necklace. Bold eyebrows. Red lipstick.
Where the muscles below are stretched
Bracelets.
"Lalita..."
"A small program for today"
Into the room
 Lalita took a peek and left. She was surprised by his dancing.
 Boredom. He has a big class, stars, ministers.
He taught dance to women and became a dance director in cinema.
For her, yes.
He entered the Arts Council building. 6.30 p.m.
Two people arrived with cameras and other equipment.
** 34 - Arrow


Artistic
 The Sangha Secretary welcomed. "This is the artist." Bala Reddy
He stood up and bowed. With folded hands. They both looked at him.
Didn't see. They are experts in taking photos. Photo
They were sent to pick up. They were wasting time with the artist.
I didn't want to. Bala Reddy sat down.
They called the secretary of the Arts Association.
"There's not enough light in this room. Can we take it in the exhibition hall downstairs?"
The secretary went and brought a registrar.
"The rent for that room is two hundred rupees a day, and if you turn on the air conditioner, it'll be two hundred and fifty."
"We won't pay a penny more than the rent we agreed on."
rx
"They talked to us. According to the contract . . .
#3
"Tom your contract! . . .
++
"Rent . . . in o even a penny . . .
"Air conditioner . . ."
"First of all,
 "I have an appointment with the minister." Just sounds, noises. Red
 Faces turn blue and purple in the lamplight, little cat eyes
 The secretary's long teeth gleamed in her dark face, her hands raised.
Lifting, kicking, shaking, and curling the lips,
Drenched in sweat...just sounds. Monkeys talking.
Like.
Bala Reddy, wearing makeup and a silk dress, was drenched in sweat.
The man who had come to take pictures gathered his equipment.
"We'll take a picture of Ramakala. She's so beautiful."
They are gone.
Sick * 35 -

The secretary also joined in, saying, "Bastards."
In the room
 Bala Reddy, who was sitting there, said, "Wishwish!"
The sound of the whip cracking seemed to be gaining momentum.
Invisible, clicking whips are aimed at him.
It seemed like they had been thrown away. They were thrown away with the same aggression that Ivan hated his own body.
They flowed. On the shoulder, on the chest, between the legs, below the waist, on the thighs,
In the laid-out eyes, in the petals with coating - the tip of the whip,
The cocoon absorbed the ooze.
To her
 Be happy and excited because you ate all the good food.
Breasts. When she dances, she is the basketball champion in college.
A critic once wrote that it looks good.
But she is a woman. She is the one who can step on stage and trample art underfoot and perform a ritual.
 One thing is enough. The congregation wants to see her.
He slowly got up, removed his makeup, took off his jewelry, and changed his clothes.
He came out and started walking towards the house, not wanting to go home right away.
Paragamba
 He sat down in the park at the end of the street. Before he sat down,
"What, Reddy, what's this side?" Ramu's voice was heard.
"It's okay."
"Here
 A dance concert. Nagalasushminkara Ponnu. Appa Ministry App
"Deputy Secretary of Education. He asked me to review the numbers."
"How do you dance?"
"You're beautiful. Dad is crazy about art. Mom is a good scholar. Come forward. Play in the arena."
"Who?" Ramu woke up. "What, Reddy? Is there a party?"
"Illye. What's up, girl?"
<> 36 -- Arrow
"Who's watching? Dad is the deputy secretary. Mom..."
"Good scholar."
"You said it yourself?"
Deputy
 Even if the secretary wasn't his father, he could earn a good name from Ramu.
He asked the secretary he was referring to about a night of dancing.
Just talk. Any Sabha secretary should be a woman - with Bala Reddy
It is a great loss not to have a woman to spend the night with. Have everything you need.
Breasts are also the power to attract a man into her body. Then
Salanga and Nataraja.
"Then I'm leaving."
"Tell me how to dance with Indira Gupta."
THE , ** **
LD. He started walking. "Did you give me any money?" Lalita asked. "The program is canceled."
From the bakery
 He can only go to Thiruva Thikai by walking two miles. He goes every day.
Not to see the original idol and the goddess. A long shrine in the corner of the temple
 In the place where the yukt is, wearing a simple tiger skin around the waist,
Dance with the pride of freedom that has emerged despite everything.
To see Nataraja
"Father, I'll teach Bharat." "You're a scoundrel! Are you a bombshell?"
He ran all the way to Thanjavur and learned. Then he came to Delhi. All because of the desire that the tiger skin man had fed him.
"Are you going to waste your time like this now?" Lalita growled.
"I dance. Are you a dancer?"
She smiled.
 Lalita. Her gaze suddenly went to the open shirt. Its
Even if her eyes don't wander over the smooth thighs below, her mind will. Nothing.
Without speaking, he went into his room and poured some whiskey and water into a glass.
He gave up.
Sick ぐ> 37 <>





A little
 At that moment, a figure stood in the room, touching the ceiling. Its body was covered in
Braided hair. Slowly, while looking at the density of the hair,
Slowly, two breasts sprouted inside. Bala Reddy took another glass.
He filled it up.


'Kanaiyazhi November 1973


-- 38 - Arrow

posted on 14/03/2016
A rat, a sparrow -

When I turned my face away in fear and opened my eyes, the rat's face was near my cheek. When I screamed, "Ah," I jumped up and down, shaking my head, the rat also screamed and jumped up and down, hitting the window. I looked up, as if to say, "Did you scare me by screaming like this?" Every time I tried to move, there was a scream. It sat in the last place without moving. I stood stiffly opposite and watched the rat on the window without letting go.

 It is difficult to relate to rats. And that is with this rat. It has to be this rat. A rat that eats only the autobiographies on the top shelf of the bookshelf. The result of eating the covers of some autobiographies without a single attempt was that the titles stood bald, like 'My Charit', 'My Autobiography' and 'My Ka'. The autobiography, titled 'The Autobiography of a Donkey' in large letters, was the only one left. When viewed from below, the word 'donkey' in bold letters was visible under the smiling photograph of the author. Although many people thought that was the right word to describe the author, it was not known how far he would be willing to leave it to the rat's judgment. Although he called himself a donkey with a certain modesty, he objected to being insisted on like this.

That is why the next day, when she heard a gurgling sound at night, she shone a torch on the upper floor. The rat was sitting in the autobiography and started biting around the donkey. It looked down at her. It sounded like it was laughing. Its tongue was wagging in a scream. The friends, who were stunned after celebrating their usual Saturday night, woke up. They chased the two-fingered rat. It entered the bathroom. Paramvir entered with a coconut palm and closed the door.

"Param, don't kill it. It's a hypnotic."

"It's just a two-inch thing. Did I see how it would make you dizzy if you hit it?" he said from inside.

"If you chase it like this and it doesn't die, then you will do what I do," said Sa-san in pure Tamil. She had come from Paris. She was Paramveer's friend. She had undergone three months of intensive Tamil training. She had come to study female deities. Lakshmi sitting at the feet of Mahavishnu and rubbing his feet is not a sign that she is in his presence; rubbing his feet is to create the enthusiasm he needs to conquer the world and create creation for it. When she asked why she, who has the power to create so much enthusiasm, would rub her own feet and do Vishnu's work herself, she said, "You are making fun of me." "Aiyako" stood up to Paramveer's cries of struggle with the rat in the bathroom.

Paramveer came with Mallanda the rat on the coconut palm.

"It's just a fainting spell," he told her. He left her downstairs in the street. At one o'clock in the morning, when Sardarji, with his head shaved, went downstairs with the rat on his broom, the building's security guards were a little alarmed. The next day, they avoided looking at her directly. When the fainted rat woke up, they thought it would slowly move towards a world without autobiographies, but the next day, when she slept peacefully, there was a rat next to her cheek.

Is this the same rat? Did it come here straight after waking up from its fainting spell? Or is it its mate?

Many had warned that there were a lot of rats and mice in this big city. Since the people who told it were artists and intellectuals, there was a chance that it was a metaphorical description of the people here. And when I had to spend my first night in the city with Amul Yo, amidst the smell of mustard oil and pickles in Geeta and Sukhdev's house, which had only one room and a kitchen, and the smell of sweat from shirts hanging on the flagpole, this rat metaphor seemed very appropriate. The kitchen was like a rat hole. That night, that dream came.

Skyscrapers. Like mountains on all sides. Narrow streets. When you struggle to find a place to stay in a building, it turns into a rat hole that hurts your back when you stand up. Those houses. People lie down, lie down, sit with their heads on the floor, talk, and laugh. A woman comes from the office. She goes into the hole very gracefully. They talk in a disembodied tone about the comfort of their habitats... When she went to grab a rope to stand comfortably in the cage, she saw that it was the long, curly tail of a mouse...

It seemed like she had made a noise in her sleep. She woke up. Amulyo was sleeping peacefully. He was the one who had received the gift of sleep. She shook him.

Amul... Amul...

Ha... He woke up with a start.

"Amul, I had a dream."

"Hmm"

"A terrible dream, Amul. My whole body is shaking."

Amulyo sat up and drank water from the bottle. He poured it into a glass and gave it to her. After she drank, he said, "Tell me." After she explained, he smiled. "How come such a beautiful metaphorical dream comes to you? It even has a code. "You don't even agree with Freud," he said. She punched him in the stomach.

"You're a punk. You're a scoundrel. You're a Kumbhakarna. You're a monster." A punch for each epithet. He lay down, smiling. She climbed onto his stomach and sat down. With her legs on either side, like a woman about to commit suicide. Amulyo grabbed her outstretched hands. Her eyes filled with tears. Amulyo's eyes also slowly filled with tears.





The shelves above his head, charred by the smoke of the stove; the aluminum containers that were easy to empty at any time; the kerosene stove; the black paint dripping down the walls; the kitchen drain ten feet away. Looking at these, he looked at her and fell silent.

She gently squeezed his navel.

 "It was just a dream, Amul," she said.

 She remembered the vast backyard of the Goyamuthur house. Some images were associated with certain places. The image that came to mind was that of the grandmother. The grandmother who had children since she was thirteen. The grandmother who stirred vegetables and halwa in large, large pans and cooked them, the grandmother who recited the Ramayana to the grandchildren - she too joined in - while smearing kerosene oil on their bodies. The grandmother who could whip a whip. If she said a word, she would be dead.

Animals surrounded the grandmother as if she had fainted under the influence of Krishna's voice.

The grandmother, who was sleeping in the bright sun at noon, woke up suddenly. She went to the backyard. A monkey was screaming loudly on the wall behind the well.

 "What?" said the grandmother.

"Ur."

 "Grandma, don't go near me, Grandma," she and her stepchildren shouted.

 Grandma saw it. She went to the room next to the bathroom where the firewood was stored and brought a jug. She dipped it in the water from the tank and filled it. She went to the monkey. She held out the jug full of water. It took it in a gulp and drank it in one go. She filled it again. It took it three times and then jumped up, twirling its tail.

"It's thirsty," said Grandma.

There were at least a dozen black, white, and brown cats in the house. When the granddaughter-grandson party, the men's party, and the women's party were over, the cats would come running and stretch out one leg to eat with Grandma.

"Meow" was one of them.

"I want pancakes," Grandma would translate. The cats tasted pancakes, rasam, rice, and potato roast. Only then would she feed the cat with ghee and rice. When the morning milk arrived, the cats would get milk.

"Do you want a cat?" Amulyo asked.

"Mhm. Do you? Do you have a dog at home?"

"It's very wrong to keep animals in these caged houses," he said.

"Even children," she said.

After the rat dream, she had several rat visions. Rat myths. Rat experiences told by Geeta and Sukhdev. Geeta felt a tingling sensation in her leg while she was watching a movie while munching on popcorn. Before she could get up, Sukhdev had sprained her leg. When they both looked down, a large snake had run away. Both of their feet were covered in blood. After several injections, when she approached a friend who worked at a newspaper with justified anger and asked him to write about it, he smiled patiently and told her about his experience as a film critic for the newspaper. Having missed the special screening for reporters, she went to see the movie in the theater where it was released. While she was writing notes, it seemed as if her dupatta had been pulled. Without intending to do so, she placed the paper on the arm of the chair and wrote busily. When the intermission light came on, she bent down and saw a rat in her lap! When she stood up and screamed, the others, looking at the rat that had run away, asked, "Is this what a rat looks like?" They said. Someone nearby told a great rat joke. A woman learned judo. She learned karate. She learned kalaripayut. One day a rat ran into her kitchen. She screamed and climbed onto a chair. She laughed and said, "Kekkekeke." She

didn't know if any big snake bit her in the leg.

She knew the story of a rat prince. There were three princes. One of them was a rat prince. The other two princes chased him away. After many hardships, he met a princess. When she kissed him, he turned into a handsome prince. When she grew up a little, she added a footnote to the story. The rat prince became a handsome prince. After the kiss, the princess turned into a rat. What a miracle! Any prince would have loved her The rat didn't come forward to kiss. Even the prince was a rat.

This was the rat that came to fight after Geeta and Sukhdev went abroad for a year and stayed in the same house. There is a word to describe big cities. Like New York being the Big Apple. The only word to describe this city was rat. Rat city. Rat people. People who are still rats even when they kiss. There might be a story behind the rat sitting on the window. This rat, tired of being a rat for ages, tired of eating many autobiographies, might be the rat who wanted to transform by kissing her.

She got up and pushed the window door outward with a long string. The rat jumped out.

The next day, when Amulyo returned from her trip abroad, she told him about the rat. Amulyo asked if he could buy a rat's coat. It was a bit of a literary rat. She felt that she shouldn't die so fast. There were many things to die without a coat. In fact, she had a ridiculous poem. A poem sung about a Tamil Nadu leader. A section of the divided party had spread a rumor that this poem had been read to him a few hours before his death and that the poem had something to do with his being rushed to the hospital. She thought that if the rat ate the poem, it would surely die. But would it die without beating itself? She laughed.

"Why, do you have any book that can kill it?"

"Look, don't make fun of Tamil. Your book is a book that is not eaten by rats."

 What provincial problem is this:

"What, all the fools who don't know how to say 'ஜ' make fun of Tamil? What's wrong with 'தமில

'? Say 'தமில', Amulyo said bluntly.

"Is it enough to say it once? The old woman slipped on a banana and fell into a pit. Tell me."

"Look, I haven't found a sleeper and I haven't slept. Can't you teach me Tamil - 'பர, Tamil' - by giving me a cup of tea and telling me 'தமில'?"

They said that this was a city where many privileged people lived. But it turned out that there were people who were suppressed in the big bracket called 'Madras'. A friend of Amulyo. When he saw her, his mouth twisted a little. "Namaskaramji" he said softly. If you put 'am' in the Tamil context, he would say "sambaram, rasam, teaam, kappiam, pooriyam, chapathiyam.." in a row and then say "Kyaji" with a drawl.

After a couple of times, she said, "Vijay, have you had this problem since childhood? Is there any way to cure it? Why are you having such a hard time speaking?"

Vijay was startled and said, "No, it's just... Madarasi..." he stammered.

 "That's right. I've been worried about your tongue for so long. We don't talk like this, see."

Vijay looked at Amulyo as if calling for help.

 "What, Vijay? What are you drinking? Teaam?"

 "Tea" he said in a soft voice.

Another friend, after three begs of rum, pretended to tell a joke. "I'm going to act like a madrasi," he said loudly before the others could restrain him. "I'm going to eat like a madrasi," he announced. He folded his shirt and left it. He put one hand in front of him and sucked it like a leaf. He put the other hand in another. Then he put it in his mouth like a giant and pretended to put it in his mouth. Finally, he stuck out his tongue and pretended to lick his inner and outer hands. He laughed. No one laughed.

Vijay went up to him and whispered something. He looked at her and said, "Just kidding." "I like Tamil Nadu temples. Then dosa, vada, idli (pressing the towel) . . ." and pulled.

"Saniyane," she said.

Only Amulyo understood. He took his friend's bag in his hand and led her out. When Vijay was leaving that day, he said to her weakly, "Good night to all."

A frenzy came over her. It was like hugging a banana leaf seller in an area where most Tamils ​​live. As soon as the words "Auvaka" and "Auvaka" fell on her ears, it seemed as if the copper barani itself had come to the shore. Dosa, idli, vada, rasam, idiyaappam, and Chetti country chicken appeared as the sources of life. Forgotten Tamil songs suddenly came to mind like a lightning bolt at night, in the midday sun, in buses or trains, while wiping away sweat in the crowd. At night, as she took off her feet on the terrace and walked looking at the stars, she heard the Kavadi Sindhu singing by her grandfather: "

This body is not for nothing."
Like a sieve that is not helping - the parrot
is always suffering for us.

This madness took hold until we reached the Tamil bookstore. When I saw the women lying on their backs, curled up in colorful covers, my legs became a little cramped.

It seemed that the bookstore owner would never take the one hand he had put in his pocket. I did not know what kind of treasure was inside. When he saw the women, his hand disappeared like that. He spoke about Tamil culture with emphasis, waving his remaining hand. "Are we protecting a culture?"

"I am a person who was stoned for Tamil." He pointed to a bald corner on his head. "We have been trying very hard to put a statue of Bharathiyar and a statue of Thiruvalluvar outside. I have come up with an idea to write kurals all over the garden. As soon as you enter, the Kural will fall into your eyes, and you will be pierced by the eyes. Now enter yourself, and the deity will pray.

The rain that falls like a raindrop - the opposite song. How will it be for you? Will it thrill you or not? It will just make you shiver. We should praise our women. We celebrate the song competition, the temple competition. If women win prizes, we will not send them away and give them prizes. We will give them a lamp. We will give them a book on the role of women in Tamil culture,” he leaned forward. “Nothing. Will our culture be entirely in the hands of women?” The relief of entrusting culture to women was evident in his voice. If his hand left its cultural pursuits and came out, it seemed that it would be better to protect it with a little cultural burden.

Near the entrance of the Sangam, one singer of the congregation, where all South Indians study the arts, was talking to another.

“Don’t you know that you sent me outside?”

 “Really? Why?”
He unbuttoned his shirt, which was stiff and white with porridge, and showed his bare chest.

"Not because of the pus."

The two of them bought very strong clothes. They rubbed it on bread and placed it in the corners. She put a piece of bread behind the donkey's soul. She didn't know which piece of bread it had eaten. It lay dead, lying quietly inside the bag sewn from soft blue cloth. She was suffocated. Had it suffered? Was it beating? It was bothering her. It was ruining her sleep. It was ruining her books. It was beating alone in the blue bag and dying. Amulyo threw the bag away at one end of the beach. It couldn't fight like the rat they had seen on the beach once. A man walked in front of them with a rat in a rat cage. One evening on the beach. It looked through the cage and squeaked. A little mouse opened its cage with its mouth open towards the sea. It was stunned to see the sea in front of it. It refused to leave the cage. It grabbed the wire of the cage like a snake. The person who came with the cage shook it. He shook it. He knocked. Every time the mouse refused to come out. Embarrassed, he lay down by the cage praying that the mouse would come out. When he looked back for the last time as he was leaving the beach, the mouse had not come out yet. He was sitting by the cage, ready to take the cage back. The mouse did not seem to enjoy his stubbornness. In the twilight light of the setting sun, the silhouettes of him and the mouse cage were visible. The horizon was in front of him. Nearby were the buildings.

The sparrow's arrival happened a few days after this. Standing on the verandah, where only one person could comfortably stand, she looked at the pile of garbage piled up below and the children sitting nearby to defecate, and when she turned her gaze towards the old cinema theatre opposite, an old Hindi film was playing. The balcony doors were open to make up for the lack of electric fans. A song sung by Mukesh for Raj Kapoor floated through the heavy, black curtains. It fell as she rubbed her shoulder. She moved in fear and bent down to see a sparrow. A small sparrow. One wing was broken at an angle. The inside of the unit was a courgette red. It was scary to touch. She filled the inkwell she kept for her pen and let it drip into its mouth. It opened its eyes. She picked it up with a card and set it aside. At night she put a net basket over it and covered it.

In the morning, when she opened the basket, the sparrow let out a cry. It kept circling around, calling out, "Kikikikiki." It tapped the inkwell with its beak. Before she could turn around, two sparrows had landed on the railing of the verandah wall. They flew in at a fast pace
and stuffed worms into the sparrow's mouth. The sparrow dived skillfully, making delightful chirping sounds. Then it stopped again. The flying lessons began at noon. One sparrow flew slowly and quickly from top to bottom, from bottom to top. As it sat down, the other flew. The sparrow rose with crooked wings and rose and fell in the air. The two sparrows tried hard until five o'clock. The sparrow gave up its attempt to fly and started walking. The two sparrows left the little sparrow in her care and flew away. After visiting for a few days, the two sparrows disappeared. The little sparrow could not fly more than five or six feet. It made the iron bars of the first shelf of the bookcase its home. Unlike a mouse that sneaks in at night and besieges the books, it licked all the books on one side during the day. One day, she knelt down in front of it and sang, "Shittu sparrow, shittu sparrow, do you know the news? My husband who left me is not coming home..." and when it sang, it protested with a "Kurrak" (cluck). The red color attracted it greatly. It spread its licks liberally over the books. When she came back late at night and opened the door, it shouted "Quick" from the corner of the bookcase to show its disapproval.

When the window near the bookcase was opened, it sat on its bar. As I looked out the window at the buildings blackened by mill smoke, with the noise and roar of vehicles in the background, I caught sight of a crooked-winged sparrow in the foreground. A sparrow with wide eyes, peering out.

When everything was visible as faint lines behind the rain curtain, there was a little sparrow near the face embedded in the window rail. When I squinted and looked at it from one side to the other, the sparrow filled my eyes. Behind its head, a city covered in ash stretched out. Like a city placed on the sparrow's head. Like a crown. As

I stood with my head embedded in the window, my eyes were wide open, and when I woke up, I saw the little sparrow. "Kutti, kutti," she called out loudly, and when she looked out of the verandah, it peeked out from a hole in the building wall. It had a curved wing. When she was worried about how to rescue it before a hawk, eagle, or vulture attacked it, it gracefully rose and flew back into the hole. It rose and flew again. While she and Amulyo were still standing on the verandah, it rose a third time and flew up and down rhythmically and entered a tree fifty feet away. There were many sparrows in the tree.

Buildings as far as the eye could see, without gaps. Cracks in the unrepaired wall, curved lines of cement plastered on some walls above the cracks, and some walls covered with tar to prevent rainwater from seeping into the wall. In the verandah The city lay like a giant, with colorful clothes hanging on long hooks
, and long green leaves sticking out of the bins in some of the windows. In the middle of it, a sparrow perched on a branch of a tree that had been knocked over.

Then one evening, that experience occurred.

The street lights, shop lights, and neon signs had begun to flash. The road was a sea of ​​vehicles. Double-decker buses were buzzing, autos were rushing in and out, impatient scooters and motorbikes were making a noise. Amulyo entered, crashed, and reached the other side of the road with the vehicles. Halfway across the road, she was stuck on a single-stepped platform of stones that divided the road into two parts. Amulyo, standing in front, waved his hand. The huge advertising lights that flashed all around, not wasting even a small square foot of space, caught the eye. A double-decker red bus, with giant blue, yellow, and black advertising banners, came careening toward her. The ferocious vehicles stopped, screeched, and rushed past. She walked two steps, then came back behind, afraid of the black motorbike that was roaring. The sound of the horn blared in her ears. Her face, neck, armpits, and thighs were all covered in sweat. One of the women approached, holding two baskets of fish. The smell came from the baskets. She arched her back with the other hand that was not holding the baskets. She pulled her away, raising the baskets and blocking the vehicles. When she reached the other side of the street, she left her near Amulyo.

On the sidewalk full of feces, spit, sewage, cigarette butts, and small vendors, where all the sounds of the city were flowing and multiplying, he came towards her as she stopped to take a breath. In the language of the city, he was called a pavda. A person who beats a mille. The city treated pavdas kindly. In buses or trains, no one shakes them awake when they lie down. They excuse themselves by saying, "Pevda hai, pevda hai." At midnight, one night, a pevda boarded a bus and insisted that he would not buy a ticket from the conductor. He stood there chanting in Hindi, "Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink in the evening, drink in the morning, drink during the day, drink at night, drink, drink, drink, drink, drink." The conductor himself took his ticket. "If you come to the temple, wake me up," he said, and lay down. All along the way were temples. A Sai Baba temple ten steps away. Which temple should I wake up in? "Too bad, pevda," said the conductor.

When the pevda coming from the opposite direction came closer, it was clear that he was a middle-aged man. When he was ten steps away, he slowly collapsed on the pavement. No one noticed. They started walking around without tripping over him as he lay on the road.

When she and Amulyo approached, he tried to get up but failed. He spread his index finger and thumb two inches apart and said, “It’s getting a little too much,” and smiled brightly. They pulled him out of the way and made him sit against the wall of a shop. “Are my slippers on? Leave them in your hand, the empty pails will chase them away,” he said. When he handed her a pair of slippers, he closed his eyes as he put them on. A smile of relief was on his face.

When they reached the bus stop, they stood in a long queue. She leaned against a nearby lamppost and started laughing. A second later, Amulyo joined them, and both of them burst into laughter.

‘Kalachuvadu Anudamalar’, 1991


https://ia801409.us.archive.org/4/items/Vaganam/Vaganam.pdf
automated google-ocr
posted on 18/03/2016
Vehicle - Ambai

Everyone has a vehicle according to their needs. A vehicle suited to their abilities. Nandi for Shiva, peacock for Murugan, Garuda for Vishnu, crow for Shaniswaran, and buffalo for Yama. Even for such a large-bodied Vinayaka, who does not travel much and sits under a royal tree, there should be no shortage of vehicles. Even the goddesses who take a vehicle with three hundred heroes in a vehicle are not lacking in their own vehicle. Bageshwari has an anna vehicle. Padmasani has a naga vehicle. Maheshwari has a bull vehicle. Meenakshi has a horse vehicle. Apart from this, some people float on a red lotus or a white lotus when they are idle. The female gods who want to act a little fiercely start their journey by climbing on a lion and holding its tail. Let there be goddesses. How many princesses and queens have not ridden elephants or horses? There are also charioteers. Epic heroines have flown on Pushpaka Vimana. In English children's fairy tales, even witches would fly on broomsticks. There was so much mythological, historical, and epic background to the wish for a vehicle for fortune. Yet there was no vehicle yoga.

 O

I don't remember having a tricycle or a pedal motor when I was a little child. She had started walking at ten months, and when I flipped through the family photo album, I saw that her big family
vehicle ** 347 --
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There were photos of all the boys riding a tricycle or a small motor car. There were photos of her too. Whether holding a wooden doll in her hand or holding the arm or long leg of a beautifully carved, velvet-upholstered wooden chair, the decorative chair supported all the women in the family, regardless of whether they were children or adults. Its back, arms, and legs, depending on their age, helped the women stand. She knew that the family photographer firmly believed that girls could not stand without holding onto something. She knew that vehicles with wheels had supported the men since childhood. The teak chair, which weighed half an elephant and was so heavy that it could not be moved, was the photo of the women leaning on the black Buick car that their maternal grandfather had bought for them. Then there were photos of the uncles in the same pose. From a three-wheeled bicycle to a Buick car, an official automotive progress was clearly visible for the men.

When my father's uncle was promoted to inspector, a shiny motorbike arrived in my family. He not only rode around with my sister on it, but also made her sit on it and take many pictures, which aroused a lot of criticism in the family. There were ongoing discussions about how to purify my sister, who was sitting on its leather seat. There were discussions about whether to wash the motorbike with cow dung or bathe my sister in cow dung. Finally, according to the suggestion of a priest who had some kind of atonement ritual for all kinds of transgressions, my sister purified herself by swallowing something mixed with a drop of cow urine. Once she was purified, no criticism came. My sister rode her motorbike every day.
In

the crowd and in the rain, she mingled with everyone in the city who were used to taking the bus or the electric train to the office. If it is raining heavily
<- 348="" 4="" p="">________________,

there is no use in having an umbrella. As soon as you open the umbrella, it will fold up with the wires stretched out and become an umbrella. Only a raincoat and a hat will help. Men will leave their socks folded over the pole, put their shoes in a plastic bag and leave with their handbags towards the bus stop or the railway station. There are saris for the rainy season, and women have non-cotton, fast-drying synthetic fiber saris. That too will go up to the pole. If it is a salwar kameez, the salwar will be folded up to the pole. When thousands of women of various shapes and ages gather in a crowd, showing their busyness on their faces as they go to work, no one will have time to stare or even notice. The crowd, which moves quickly, will not hesitate to knock down and leave without stopping to ask a stranger who stands in front of them, staring or trying to look at them, "Don't you have a mother? Don't you have a sister or a younger sister?" The crowd will move forward without hesitation. Bakti is also used to this.

She stood facing the bus she was supposed to take, and when it arrived, she jumped on it, saying, "Oh, umbrella, yellow sari, black pants, gray hair, go ahead, go ahead . . . " She would get off the train as one of the people who disappeared in the signs pushed in front by the conductor, then she would find out which platform the train was on by looking at the flashing lights under the train, climb the stairs, cross the bridge, get off, catch the express train, sit down and look outside. Every day.
O

In the time of Bhagya's mother, girls in the school run by Maharishi Karve in Maharashtra became crazy about cycling. They would take part in cycle races. Maharashtra's saree became the norm for cycling. Advertisements were published in newspapers at that time showing upper-country women riding bicycles in full skirts, but the women of Amma's house only got the opportunity to drive after Grandpa Coimbatore came.

The house that Grandpa chose was a little further away and secluded. Uncles went to college, and I took a bicycle to work.
** 349 --
________________

A Raleigh bicycle came to the house to sit on the front seat. A bicycle for men with a crossbar up to the seat. For a few days, it was the exclusive property of the uncles. Later, Kamala Siddhi used to ride it while holding onto the wall and after her sister Anandhi gave it to her, it became a public vehicle. Kamala Siddhi would fold her legs in front and climb on it, even with her saree on, she was a fast rider. A slender body. Long, long legs. When she went to Coimbatore on vacation, she would ride it in a carriage and pedal with her while standing, and after gaining speed, Kamala Siddhi would sit down and let the bicycle fly away without stopping, leaving trees, plants, and houses in sight. Her imagination would run wild as if she were riding a flying horse. A white horse spreading its wings and flying in the sky.
She would get off the carriage with a thud as if she had just come from another world. The bicycle ride lasted until both her front teeth broke. After that, my grandfather bought a Buick. The siddhis did not ride it. I occasionally got a ride in a Buick when I went to Coimbatore. It was not as exciting as the bicycle ride I went with Kamala Siddhi, and my uncles did not have the heroic feats of Kamala Siddhi, such as sticking her arms outstretched, when she stuck a car. When I looked out the window of the
O

electric train, I could see motorcycles, jeeps, and cars speeding by. She liked to look down from the top of a double-decker bus. There was no shortage of vehicles that caught my eye: a truck, a water truck, a bicycle that was bent over like it was supposed to be given to a date palm, a racing bicycle that had to be bent over to stick its back, and cars that sped by in various colors, shapes, and sounds.

It was only when she was watching from the upper deck that she happened to see it. The accident. A family of four was riding a scooter. As if to say they had come from the shopping street, the wife sitting behind her was holding a large plastic bag, and the boy was standing in front of the father who was riding the scooter. The girl was in the middle of the road between the father and mother
.

A cheerful family with smiles on their faces. In an instant, while she was watching, a bus came at an uncontrollable speed and hit the scooter. Amidst the creaking sounds of vehicles stopping and loud conversations, the family was covered in blood. The woman's small hand held a yellow motor toy tightly.

That end was always an accident end. Even the day before, a boy who had been riding a motorcycle had died after being hit by a petrol tanker. When she saw the accident site that day on her way home, oil and glass fragments were scattered. A single slipper lay face down a short distance away.

"There have been more accidents. If we go in the morning, we will return in the evening," some people said.

O

When her younger brother was one year old, a three-wheeled bicycle arrived at home. A black bicycle. Then, when he was four years old, a two-wheeled bicycle arrived at home. A red-painted, slippery red Rex seat, a vehicle for a four-year-old boy to ride. He enjoyed touching it and touching it.

That dream came often. That flying dream. When you put your foot on the bicycle pedal, you feel weightless. Then, flying in the air with the bicycle. It was weightless. The pedals were like a flower.
In fact, she only rode a bicycle once when she was young. She challenged her younger brother to ride it in the alley, climbed on a garbage can, did a circus, hit a wall, and fell into the sewer with her bicycle. 'I felt a loud noise in my right elbow. Even so, I got up and rode it again. My right elbow was broken. It became a mango. After the cries of "If you go to the bicycle side, you will know", followed by warnings that a woman with a broken arm and leg would not be married, only her younger brother was allowed to ride a bicycle. Her arguments about who would hug him if he broke his arm and leg fell on deaf ears.
Vehicle * 351 -
________________

When she moved to a house near Guindy, she requested her parents to teach her horse riding. There were many arguments at home about her "unusual desires". Later, the horse also became a forbidden vehicle.

When I was studying in Delhi, I had an unspoken desire to own a scooter. My friend Mani Vannan brought me a brand new scooter and said, "I'm lucky to have one, let's go for a round. Let's do it." Without refusing, she sat behind him. Mani Vannan had learned to ride a scooter for many years, and he had forgotten to tell me essential details like the fact that he didn't have enough knowledge about brakes. As soon as we reached the main road, we crossed the cows, buffaloes, dogs, pigs, and bicycles on the side of the road, and saw vehicles speeding on both sides. Mani Vannan was startled like a new cow. The truck speeding behind him and the bus speeding in front of him made him nervous. Not knowing how to cope, she slammed on the brakes and was thrown onto the gravel stones that had been laid for street repairs. Her body was covered in bruises. "Oh, don't you know how to kick from behind? You should grab it and kick it well. Get up. Let's finish the round," said Manivannan, standing up from the gravel like a stubborn hawk, without getting angry. "Manivannan, is this much pain enough for one day?" She said. There are still scars on her shoulders and elbows the size of her palms. Looking through the window of the

O-

M train and from the upper deck of the double-decker bus, sitting in the vehicles that came in many attractive colors, green, black, yellow, and white, it seemed that they had no place in the city. No matter what time of day, evening, or night, I could hear and feel the blare of the horns, the vulgar, woman-centered swear words in Marathi, Hindi, and English, and the awkwardness of moving inch by inch on the main streets. The sounds of the horns, which came in the form of music, sometimes penetrated the bones. When some people who were following Mosta moved the car in reverse, I was shocked when I unexpectedly heard the sound of playing a tape recording in English that said, "This
* 352 -- arrow
________________

car is going backwards" in an American accent. Some people used the sound of a baby's cry for this purpose, and at a bad time, while walking on the street, lost in a dream about the city, a baby's cry suddenly started from behind and startled me.

When the autos, which looked like beautiful black and yellow samosa-like cars from a distance, got into the car to travel, they were caught in the smoke of other large vehicles. Going in an auto on the expressways, breathing in the smoke from trucks, motorbikes, and buses seemed like a life-and-death struggle.

The streets, roads, and highways were covered in blood, garbage, and smoke, and the vehicles ran on them like monsters.
O

When she transferred her younger brother to Kalpakkam, he said, "I want to go see the sea. The fishermen here are good friends of mine. One of them is my close friend. He has published a collection of poems. He will carry me on a wooden boat and read poetry. I want to write a song for the cinema. Come and see the sea by climbing on a wooden boat." The house was by the sea. There was a beach with sand between the streets. As

soon as they arrived, the younger brother, his children and she walked towards the sea. "You shouldn't carry toys on a wooden boat," they said, turning their younger brother's friend, who hesitated, towards the poetry and climbed the wooden boat. He told her to look at the sky instead of the sea due to the nausea caused by the surging waves. With the waves lapping at her feet, she listened to the fisherman's friend's Elelo-style poems as she traveled on the wooden boat.

When she returned home, she ate lemons. She felt like drinking a sorbet. "Here," said the younger brother's wife, opening the door and getting on the bicycle parked at the gate to buy lemons, the bicycle caught her eye. After a while, the younger brother's
vehicle * 353 ->
________________

went on a bicycle to buy a book from her friend.

In the evening, "I also want to ride a bicycle," said Mella softly. The younger brother's wife and the boy came along enthusiastically. They had forgotten how to push the bicycle. When they stopped the bicycle at one end and started to get on and off, the street seemed to narrow. The sand on both sides seemed to be rushing over her. The trees that stood around the barbed wire fence tried to run across the street at a great distance. The sandals fell off.

+
"That's it, that's it! Get on the sand. The bicycle will stop," the younger brother's boy shouted as he ran after the bicycle.

They put it on the sand, and the bicycle and she fell. When he returned home, his wife applied medicine to the bruise. "What, is all this necessary?" said the younger brother.

Persistent, the next morning, the younger brother came out with the children without making a sound. "Yes, you can do it. That's the bow. Pedal slowly. Turn around," she cycled around the area with their encouraging voices. She felt like a queen for a few moments. Without

planning

, a vehicle became hers. A vehicle without wheels, one that did not pollute the environment. A vehicle that operated without noise, without collision, and without blood. An electric vehicle. A three-wheeled vehicle. A vehicle that carried a computer. She climbed into it and traveled for many miles on the information road. She looked at the home pages of the information network community. She knocked on the doors of many houses. She set up a home for herself in it. Apart from this, she set up a home page in many places of the world through the Global Cities Organization project.

 In the end, she sought a void and settled in Paris, a city associated with cinema, love, and revolution.

At the entrance of both houses, she wrote about the relationship between herself and her vehicles as the first step in introducing herself to the guests who were about to come to the house. She now referred to them as her vehicle and depicted herself as mounted on a three-wheeled vehicle.
* 354 -o- Ambai
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Those who had arranged vehicles like a snake, a lion, a swan, and a horse came her way, and a vehicle was also arranged for her. She began to see the moment of electric power to destroy the demons and meet the gods.
'Dinamani' Pongal Malar, 1997

Vehicle -- 355 --


Early Poems - Ambai
https://ia600806.us.archive.org/8/items/orr-11853_Aramabak-Kaalak-Kavithaikal/orr-11853_Aramabak-Kaalak-Kavithaikal.pdf


She made every effort to gain enlightenment. Ramakrishna Paramahamsa had said that if you cry continuously for three days, you can see God, so she cried continuously for three days. Despite the lack of facilities (in a house where everyone does not have a separate room, in a house where mother's orders or father's voice chase her from the moment she wakes up in the morning until she goes to bed at night, she could do anything she wanted to do :) She cried for six days and no God gave her a darshan. That was disappointing. A sixteen-year-old girl wandering in search of enlightenment did not know what else she could do. She did not understand anything clearly. She believed that she had not committed any sin. But she did not know if some things had been added to the sin. Once, when she was young, her sister gave Padma and her a piece of watermelon each, but she didn't eat hers right away. She waited until Padma finished and then started licking her own piece. When Padma begged her, "Hey, give me a little beard," she refused, saying, "I won't let the juice run down my face." Once, she had mentally scolded her mother, "Saniyan." She had imagined that her mother, who had always scolded her to comb her hair, sing, drink milk, eat, sleep, and rub oil on her, would die suddenly and become an orphan without her mother. She had even read a 'bad' book three times and then burned it in the bathroom with hot water. She didn't know how all this would be counted. She also didn't know who would count it. If Chitragupta, dressed in royal attire, is keeping all these accounts, then is there anyone reliable to explain to him about the changing times, especially how women have changed so much? Questions often arose in my mind.

It was while she was wandering in search of wisdom and making efforts to save herself and the world through her that the large blue diary arrived at her home. Someone had given it to their family doctor, who had sent it to their home. It was a diary from the Nestle company, which makes baby milk powder, with photos of the mother and child, and notes for the obstetrician. While she was immersed in thoughts about the impermanence of the yak, she firmly believed that the diary related to the formation of the yak was visiting her home as God was trying to test her mental strength. "A devotee's disease is a disease, but for me, a obstetrician's diary? Hmm!" She wondered about the trials of God. She went to the prayer room and looked at Ravi Varma's paintings of God with a straight face and smiled a wise smile. She had borrowed her wise smile from the crooked smile of actress Madhubala. She felt that when this smile appeared on her face, her face would light up. But for some reason, she avoided doing it in front of others. "What, a toothache?" May be one of the reasons. What is the wisdom to recognize this smile in those who do not have a thirst for knowledge?

The blue color of that diary attracted her very much. She likes blue. The reason is the blue of the sky, the blue of the sea, the two-foot-tall, Kuzuludu Kannan doll that came from Panruti is blue. She also had a blue silk skirt. But since it was something associated with worldly life, she did not include it in the list of reasons for wearing blue. She took the blue diary for her own use, as it was lying unused by no one.

Holding it in front of her and flipping through its smooth, blank pages, she felt the urge to do what many devotees had done before her. She wrote devotional poems. After a few days of effort, she wrote a poem titled 'Where is God?'. "Don't ask where God is, you idiot, God resides within you!" The poem ended with an exclamation mark, and she wrote some poems in a divine tone, saying that she should not abandon herself and that she should possess herself. It seemed that the poems were not like Thevaram, Thiruvasagam, and Thiruppugazh. She was a little sad about that. She was also a little angry. Where have they wandered in search of knowledge? How can a sixteen-year-old girl living in a city where theft and accidents happen day and night, whether in the forest, the medu, or the Kalazhani, wander like that? She can go around the house garden if she wants. Otherwise, she is not allowed to go far. Amma scolded her that she was wasting her time just because she went to see the movie “Pasamalar” with her friends, and that she did not agree with her going like this. Moreover, God has supported those devotees at all stages. He has cooperated in many ways, such as making a fox laugh, making a fox laugh, and making a fox carry a load of earth. As far as she was concerned, it seemed that God was behaving unjustly. Not even a single miracle I didn't do it for her. Nothing. A train is coming from this direction at such a speed, another train is coming from the opposite direction at a different speed, the distance to be covered is so much, at what point will the two trains meet; or there is a hole in a tank. The speed of the water falling into it is so much, the speed of the water flowing out through the hole is so much, how long will it take for the tank to fill up? Shouldn't we also do a small miracle that will provide answers to calculations like this? Not only that. When a baby left at the bottom cries for milk, and the wise nurse makes the baby write wonderful poems, should she be denied the milk of wisdom because she was born in a mosquito-ridden hospital in a town called Coimbatore in a country that has achieved independence?

When she thinks like this, she remembers that only once in her life did a miracle happen. Her father firmly believed that girls would not be good at both arithmetic and science. She doesn't know how he instilled this in her mind. She couldn't do arithmetic. Once, in the midterm exam, a complicated fraction problem was given. Even Stella, who scored 100% marks in arithmetic in class, couldn't do it. When everyone else got zeros and the arithmetic teacher tried to write the calculation on the board, she accidentally opened her answer sheet. She had written that fraction problem correctly! The arithmetic teacher, who had checked it twice, was amazed. She saw it as a small miracle from Shiva. "You have written the fraction problem. The science answer sheet is coming tomorrow. Let's see how you do," she scolded Shiva, saying. That time Shiva did not do well in science.
++
The singing teacher was teaching her and Padma Akka the song "Varanamayiram Soozh Valam Vandu" at that time. It was interesting for her that a woman thinks of marrying God. They were also telling the story of Akkamaha Devi in ​​Kannada class at that time. Mahadevi Akka also gave up everything for Shiva. She felt that there were some practical problems in marrying God as her husband. First, she was afraid of how those who look beautiful in idols and Ravi Varma films would be when they actually come to give darshan. Second, at that time it was N. T. Rama Rao who was playing the role of God as Rama and Krishna. She got confused about what to do if she married Shiva in her mind and tomorrow he knocked on the door in the form of N. T. Rama Rao. Okay. If she could become Avvaiyar and sing "Palum Thalidenum" in K. P. Sundarambal's voice, she felt a little hesitant about wishing for old age all at once. The blue silk skirt spread out in the corner of her mind and bothered her. She had a pact with another mother that she would buy her a silk skirt in the color of lime green for the upcoming Diwali. But for all this, she was not ready to completely abandon the path of wisdom. Kalki's Sivagami vow was being tied up in the house. Its outcome affected her greatly. She went to Chidambaram, danced before Shiva, and wrote a poem about

marrying Shiva. She titled it "Truth". When

the mantras of the Salangai sound
rang out in the hall without stopping , tears welled up in her eyes.





She shared her poems and her religious feelings with only two people. One was Mickey, their black dog. The second was Kembamma. Kembamma worked in a handicraft cottage industry that was going on next door. She had no place to go, so she came to live with her tin box in the empty motor shed in the garden behind their house. She would help her mother by working and helping her. Mickey was her companion. When she read poems, she would lie down and listen with her face on her front paws, her ears hanging down. Sometimes she would lie down and listen with her face on her thigh and her eyes closed. She would raise her head when her voice was muffled. Her home was under the bed.

She would explain her poems to Kembamma in Kannada. She would listen patiently and give her a certificate saying, "Sannakite". She would sing Purandaratasa's Thevar Nama songs in an easy way.

Only then did it happen. That night's incident. One night at eleven o'clock, a scream was heard from behind. In the next five minutes, the back door, which was still not closed, was pushed open, rushed inside like a storm, and took refuge under the bed, Kempamma.

When my father and mother went to the back door, a drunken man was standing there. He shouted, "Le Kempamma, hora ke paare (Hey Kempamma, come out)." "I am your husband. Come out," he shouted in Kannada. He

looked at his father angrily as he tried to throw him out, and shouted, "Can't you get a maid? Will my maid also come out?"

Kempamma was huddled under the bed like a chicken. Her body was shaking. When her husband spoke angrily about her father, she came out from under the bed, walked towards him with her legs dangling, and said in a slightly trembling voice in Kannada, "Don't talk about what you saw after coming drunk."

Instead, she was kicked in the stomach. "Mother," she screamed and sat up, and was punched in the back.

"God, protect me . . ." Kempamma called out to God. Then, thinking it was wrong to call on God in unison, she shouted, "God, protect me." He

pushed her down the back stairs, grabbed her hair, and dragged her down the steps. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he pushed her onto the grass, quickly separated her legs, and kicked her in the middle.

"Ha," said Kembamma. She rolled over. It was a full moon that day. The entire back garden was covered with arali, tulsi, bananas, beans, pudala, and jackfruit. The moonlight was scattered over everything. Kembamma, who was lying on her back in the grass, lay in that light like a hunted animal. Every now and then, she cried out, "God! God!" When he stepped on her ribs and pressed them, for the first time,"Mickey," she shouted.

Mickey came rushing in from inside with lightning speed. High, high, the elephant came bounding up the back steps in one bound, growling and trying to bite the throat of Kempamma's husband. He ran here and there in panic and then jumped over the back fence.
Kempamma lay sprawled on the grass, startled. Mickey came up to her and licked her head. Dad and Mom stood speechless, frozen. It had all happened in ten minutes.

Padma and her sister were standing a little behind.

When Mom turned to look at her, she felt like someone else.

"Why did you come here? You are scared to see all this," said Amma in a soft voice.

She did not answer and stood motionless, looking at the back garden.

 O

For some time, she wrote some poems under the titles of loneliness, longing, dreams, and muteness, and wrote some poems along the lines of 'Loneliness till death, loneliness till the body burns'. After that, no poems were recorded in the blue diary.

'East and West', 1997 A kitchen in the corner of
 Ambai's house - Ambai http://azhiyasudargal.blogspot.in/2011/05/blog-post.html Posted by: RAMPRASATH HARIHARAN | Time: 9:40 AM | Category: Ambai, Stories   Kishan's father bought land for eight and a half square yards and built a house. Rooms in a row like a train carriage. A kitchen, as if it were a sign that would go away after all the rooms were finished. Two windows. Under one window, a tank with a pipe, a It was too narrow to even fit a large plate. Below, there was a sewer yard without a brick barrier. When the tap was opened above, the feet would get cramped. In ten minutes, a small flooded forest was underfoot. Standing in it, the soles of the feet were all cracked and scratched. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, cooked for the first day, and put a gold bangle on my hand, Kishan's mother, whom everyone called Jeeji, would give me a wax ointment to apply to the cracks. ambai5 Through the window facing east from the kitchen, there were green mountains. Above, a white dot temple. The Pillaiyar Temple. The cooking platform was right below that window. The cracked feet might not have stepped on the green mountains. But outside that window, a clothes drying rack. Calsarai, shirts, pajamas, sarees, and skirts spread out and covered the window.








It might be a pajama with a ribbon hanging from it to face those who stand up and stir pieces of meat that have been sprinkled with coriander powder, curry powder, garam masala powder, and rubbed with ground cow turmeric and ginger and soaked in yogurt. No one seems to have any objection to this. Their way of life revolved around the kitchen. Adhering to the philosophy of the kitchen, they are a dynasty that has named itself as food lovers - wine lovers. Enjoyers. Revelers. In fact, the thing that their Ajmer relatives did not like at all at their wedding was that no one was given any alcoholic beverage to drink.

Even the family deity Amba was offered alcohol. Whatever they opened, from Scotch to country goods, they would sprinkle it on the wall and drink it after saying “Jai Ambe”. They would first put their index finger in the mouth of a newborn baby. What if they got married like this? Okay. No rum, gin, or whiskey. Don't you have orange-colored saffron musk that is made in Ajmer itself? Go and kick the skull? Hey, hey. What is this, you're getting married like this? A wedding without the horses and wine that are the hallmarks of a hero? The dark red, green, orange, and red skirts painted with giant flowers flowed from the waist and fell over their plump breasts, and the old women, lifting their silver-lace veils, asked him: "Is there nothing to drink?"

While Jiji was walking, she would start baking appalam at seven in the evening. Papaji would keep the other things ready on the outdoor tripod. Jiji would come and arrange spicy appalam on a plate. When the spicy appalam was finished, Bikaner sev would melt in your mouth. If you got bored of that, then corn pakoda. Or fried groundnuts coated in chilli and groundnut flour. They would sit opposite each other and start saying 'Jai Ambe'. If there were children and women, they would laugh with the family. Jeeji would sing country songs - 'When you go to the market, buy me a kunjalam.... Buy me a nice colored scarf....' 'Do you want anything else?' Papaji would laugh.

In the corner of the kitchen, there would be water boiling on a small stove to make chai. If someone you knew came to the door during the meal, the first thing

he would say was 'Jil'. "Eat. Give Chacha a plate," Papaji would start.

"No. I just came like this."

"Okay, what did you come here to drink chai?"

"No."

"Coffee?"

"Water is enough."

"Just water. Add some sharbat and drink it."

"Okay."

Jeeji would get up.

"Just like that, give me two kebabs on a plate."

Before Jiji reached the kitchen, Babaji remembered the fenugreek parotta he had made that morning. “Suniyeji,” he would call out to his wife. “Bring those medhi parottas too, heat them up and spread some oil on them. Let Chacha taste them.”

The one who came would admit defeat.

“I’ll eat it.”

Jeeji would go to the kitchen anyway. To fry two eggs with pepper and salt. What if something was missing from the meal?

But the physical detail of the kitchen did not affect them. It was as if there was no such thing. The kitchen was the dark corner beyond the vast stone courtyard and the hall in their joint family houses. A zero-watt lamp was lit there. Wearing veils and brightly colored skirts, the women would appear as shadows in that room. Whether they were kneading chapati dough with a slap, or stirring the fragrant masala dal under the stove. The kitchen was not a place. It was just a concept. They did not care about all the delicious, tongue-enthralling food as if it had arrived on a magic carpet.

Meenakshi had started talking about the matter once during the meal, when Babaji was building a room above the car shed below.

“Babaji, please widen the corridor outside the kitchen. If you make it wider, you can put a chair and sit on it. If you build a bathroom on the left, you can put a big tub in it. You can wash the dishes. You can put an aluminum wire outside the bathroom to dry clothes.”

Babaji looked as if he was struck by this suggestion.

Jiji also looked at him as if he was surprised. Daughter-in-laws had never made such suggestions before. Radha Babaji stared at the plate. Kusuma adjusted her headscarf, trying to hide her agitation. Babaji looked at Kishan. He was eating calmly.

Babaji cleared his throat and said, “What for?”

“This kitchen tub is very small. The water will not drain properly. If the maid washes the dishes there, the whole kitchen gets watery. I can't stand it. If the clothes are hung outside the window, it hides the mountain, Pappaji."

He looked at Kishan again. The architect agreed with his wife.

"She's right, Pappaji. We can do it like that."

"Where did you go to the kitchen?"

"He was the one who chopped the chillies and onions while she was cooking Mysore," said Jiji.

"It's like you can put a gold bangle on yourself without talking."

"Why the gold bracelet, Pappaji. Put a ring on it."

Pappaji smiled.

The room was finished. The kitchen situation was not changed. Two more nylon ropes were tied to dry the clothes, opposite the window. Pappaji's silent challenge: Girl, Mysore girl, what is the mountain for you who don't live here permanently? What is its green color? What is the connection between Rajasthani cooking culture and the window, washing dishes and the sink, girl. The dark-skinned, talkative woman who refuses to wear the veil, who has bewitched my boy...

***

At around three o'clock in the evening, the peacocks began to roost. One after another. With a harsh voice. The advantage of losing one's voice. At five thirty, when she and Kishan went to the terrace, the peacock's tail hung like a braid spread by Shiva on the tree opposite. Dark blue, soft green, and long green returned to shine. When they were not expected, they flew away and sat on the bald wall, stretching their tails. Then, two bald-tailed peacocks. Before they returned, two more, with whip tails. A softness spread gently in their stomach. The feeling of heaviness in their stomachs when they finished their morning chores. That dark blue-green ice particle soothed all the unbearable heat with a smile. She stroked Kishan's lips once with her tongue and kissed them softly. A kiss that was like a dewdrop, a hint of the basement heat.

The terrace door creaked. Padi Jiji (Big Jiji) woke up. She had come to get charcoal from the big drum near the door. To light the firewood stove. Padi Jiji was Pappaji's little mother. When Pappaji turned seventeen, his father married another seventeen-year-old girl. She had five daughters. Pappaji was his support. Periyar was Padi Jiji. There was only two years difference between her and Pappaji. A big mouth. She said no to false teeth. After she stopped eating meat

, she said why have teeth. Padi Jiji went to knock the heavy silver stick she wore on her foot on the stairs.

"Shall we bring you some chai, Meena?"

"Hmm."

When Kishan left, she opened the iron tap on the floor, washed her face, and brushed her teeth.

Kishan brought chai in a kettle covered with a cap. When she put it down and poured chai into two cups, the aroma of ginger and basil spread. A morning star twinkled. The peacock splashed in blue-green. The chai went down hot in her throat.

When she went downstairs, Padi Jiji was sitting in the corner of the kitchen, holding the chai that Kishan had poured into a large brass tumbler, and sipping it. Radha Babji was pouring chai powder into another large kettle and pouring hot water.

“Shall we knead the dough for the snack?” said Padi Jiji.

“Pappaji has gone out for a walk. He will bring samosa and jalebi. It is enough to bake the roti, and I will toast it outside. What will we have today, our cuisine or Mysore cuisine?”

“She and Kishan bought vegetables and coconut yesterday.”

“What is the coconut cooking? You do something, Padi Jiji. Grind the turmeric and ginger. Let's make mutton pulao. Grate the zucchini. Let's make koftas. Peel the skin of the plantain. Grind the big cardamom, pepper, cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. Grind them well. Take the cardamom separately and grind it a little. Let's add it to the aloo-kobi at night."

Sai came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with the kettle and cups.

"What's up Meena. What are you going to cook today?"

“Nothing. We are going to climb the Ganesh Mandir hill.”

“Right.”

Meenakshi entered the kitchen to prepare the second chai.

Padi Jiji smiled widely. She held out her brass cup.

“I will have chai too.”

“Will you add ginger

, Padi Jiji?” “Mm. Add it. I like the chai you make.”

“I have bought samosas and jalebis. Put some jalebis in milk,” came a general order from outside. Meenakshi brought the jalebis packet to the kitchen and opened it.

“Ugh… here… here…”

Meenakshi turned. “I have four,” said Padi Jiji.

It was a food fight. The real participants were – Jeeji, Padi Jiji. When Grandpa was alive, Padi Jiji ruled as a tyrant. Jeeji kneaded mountains of chapati dough. She chopped onions by the basket and cooked meat by the kilos. In the evenings, while Padi Jiji drank saffron kasturi, she baked appalam. She made pakodas. She fried intestines. Grandfather died. In ten days, Jiji was sworn in in the kitchen. Padi Jiji's other food, including saffron, betel, wine, and meat, was taken away. Meat was cooked daily. Potatoes were given to vegetarians (only Padi Jiji) with a democratic spirit. Padi Jiji celebrated her defeat on the battlefield by belching all night, gurgling as if she were tearing her body apart, and moaning 'um ah' into the cocoon. Before being attacked again, she opened a second front. Every six months, Amba started visiting Padi Jiji.

Amba chose evenings when Jiji and Papaji would sit with their drinks and baked appalams. First, she called out from the room, 'Hey', from her stomach. When she came running in panic, she hissed, "Have you forgotten me?" When Jeeji said, bowing low and saying, "Order, Ambe," she ordered, "I want a drink for me, kesar kasturi. I want a kilo of burpee. I want fried meat.... ah... ah...". When everything was given, Amba said, "Go, everyone." A few minutes later, there was a commotion in Padi Jeeji's room.

The next morning, Padi Jeeji would open her heavy eyelids from alcohol and appear in the kitchen with a smile on her face. "Amba has made it difficult," she would say.

Padi Jeeji could drag her into a fuss. Jeeji did not have the courage to question Amba.

"Jilebi, tha," said Padi Jeeji.

Meenakshi gave her four jalebis. When the jalebi was divided among everyone in the house, Padi Jeeji would get her share. This was out of desire. At first, Meenakshi wondered where she was keeping these. Only later did she realize that she had sewn two JPs inside a four-piece skirt with many pleats. She had shown them to Meenakshi.

She covered the tea kettle with her hat.

“I left the spices,” said Jiji. “I need ghee too. To make mutton pulao.”

This is a new field that has arisen recently. Jiji’s asthma and blood pressure have reduced her mobility. The wooden table near her bed has cinnamon, saffron, cinnamon sticks, pepper, raisins, cardamom, sugar, ghee, and cashew nuts. It is impossible to reach the table without stepping over her. Before reaching it, a list of questions is stretched out. Why the ghee? What happened to the one you gave me yesterday? If there is half a bowl left after spreading it on the chapati, will a quarter bowl be enough for now? Show me the spices and take them. The saffron that was brought from Kashmir. Don’t throw it in the field. What kind of vegetables are there for those who eat vegetables? Didn’t they violate anything they cooked yesterday? What good is it for anyone if they eat and eat and then go to the kitchen?

From that lightless, windowless kitchen, the dominant arms stretched out and curled like the tentacles of an octopus living in the sea. Their legs were tied tightly together in bliss. The women thought that if they tightened their waists, they would be a belt, if they wrapped around their legs, they would be a chain, and if they touched their heads, they would be a crown. They entered a world with wires rising from all sides and ruled it, thinking it was a kingdom. Today they would have mutton pulao, tomorrow they would have puri masala. They made decisions that would turn the earth upside down. The power of the bed.

When they opened the window and drew in the mountains, the green, the sky, and the blue, they languished as if their strength had been sucked out. Like Veena Mozzi. Kishan's aunt. Fifty years old. Widowed at fifteen. She was a teacher in a village. A room and a kitchen in the corner of the school owner's garden. An Ashoka tree at the door. Behind the kitchen is a champak tree.. white flowers with yellow stems, the flower stalks attached to the window let them enter freely. If they are hungry, they cook. In the evening, the children next door come. To see the teacher. If not, the quill song under the ashoka tree. But Veena Mosi says, “I have lost my authority.” The children who go around saying ‘teacher, teacher’. The school’s complete responsibility for Arabic education. If you want, you can walk to the bazaar. Drag the cotton mat under the ashoka tree and let the quill accompany you until your thirst is quenched. When you open the back door in the morning, there are white flowers within touching distance. Even so, Veena Mosi was out of breath. When she stepped outside, she fell for the soil, her vagina, uterus, and genitals turned to stone. The weight, the pull, she fell down, fell down, fell down, surrendered to the soil. Bury her feet and stand motionless.

***

From the corner of the lake, white wings began to move gracefully, lowering, rising, and tilting. The first moment they caught sight of them, a small surprise spread through Meenakshi. As they circled the entire expanse of the lake and floated in the water, those red wings shone in the distance. Then they rose again, spread their white wings gracefully, and tilted left and right and rose.... Very close, near the face, the wings spread, the coral wing stretched out flat. Russian birds. But Sagar was a surprise guest who would come to Lake Sagar for a few months.

The lake trip was decided on the night before. The plan was to see the lake with all the relatives. A hundred lakes for twenty people. Potato sabji, tomato chutney, a hundred sandwiches, snacks, milk bottles filled with children, hot water in flasks. A stove, a bottle of oil, groundnut flour, onions, chilli powder, salt, large chillies - for making bhajis - etc. To eat hot pakodas in the evening, the kitchen light came on at four in the morning. Jiji started kneading wheat flour in a large bowl. Kusuma put oil in the pan and started frying the kneaded dough. Radha Babjiji started spreading butter and chutney on the roti. The roti packets surrounded her, and Padi Jiji put the crumbs in plastic bags and tightened them with rubber bands. Meena had not thought about this aspect of the lake trip.

“Meena, are you awake?” Radha Babjiji asked. Her hair was sticky with sweat. “Are you making chai?”

Meena started making chai for all of them. She put a basil leaf in the hot water. Kishan, who had just brushed his teeth, placed the cups on the plate.

Radha Bhabhiji was talking to herself. “The children need to be bathed. We need to take two or three jatti in a plastic bag and take them in large quantities. Priya sometimes leaves without saying anything. We need to roll up at least five or six rugs to spread on the grass. How many babies are there in total? Four. Milk, Glaxo for Meena. Archana’s baby, Lactogen, and don’t forget a packet of biscuits. She only likes salt. Otherwise, we have to buy it on the way. If not, she will cry and go away. She doesn’t like it. Don’t forget sugar and spoon. Take the serving spoon, plates, Kusuma, that soap bottle, wash the plates, there is a tap there. Read, Jiji, chop the onion into ten or fifteen pieces. If you put it in a plastic bag and take it away, it will be a pakoda in a minute. Meena, please, are you bathing the children?”

“Bhabhiji, it’s only six o’clock. If you wake me up crying, I’ll let Gopalbhai Sahab take a bath.”

“Yes. He will take a bath, remember that.”

Meena Sai held out the cup. She read it in a brass tumbler and left it to Jiji. She understood that Radha Babji was talking boringly. Radha Babji was a tiger in accounts. She held a big position in a bank because her family did not allow her to pursue higher studies. In the bank, her name was Shakuntala Devi. A few months ago, she and Gopalbhai Sahab had invited Kishan and Meenakshi to come to Jodhpur and stay for a few days. Gopalbhai Sahab was a doctor in the hospital there. It was a nice sunny day. Lunch was not yet ready.

“This place will burn in the sun. There is nothing to do. Radha has gone for two days for bank work. I am exhausted. I cannot stand in the kitchen. They will not find anyone to work here. If I cannot stand in the kitchen even to make tea, take care of it, Kishan.”

Kishan said softly: “Radha Babji, who does a big job in the bank, is now cooking in the same kitchen?”

“Yes, what is the point? Isn’t that normal for women?”

You can’t expect Gopalbhai Sahab to wake up early and bathe the children when he’s on vacation.

“Radha Babiji, which saree are you going to tie?” Kusuma asked.

“That red silk one. It was ironed last night. I’ve also put hers on the children’s shirts.”

“I thought I could tie that white saree with black dots. I haven’t ironed the blouse. Meena, will you give me my black blouse?”

“I’ll take it. But it’s sleeveless.”

“Oh no! Are you ironing my blouse, Meena? I can’t wear sleeveless. My hands are not clean.”

“Wrap it up with a scarf and leave it alone. Leave the long scarf. Who is going to come and look under your arm?”

“Look here, Meena. Don’t make fun. Are you ironing?”

“Okay. Okay.”

Slowly, holding onto the wall, Jeeji opened the pickle jar.

“What are you doing, Jeeji, go and lie down and don’t talk,” Radha Babiji scolded.

“Everyone likes pickles. I’ll get them.”

“What’s that noise in the kitchen, keeping you awake?” a voice asked. There

was a tense silence.

In a confidential voice, “Meena, are you frying potatoes in the oven?”

“Radha Babiji, can you peel them and put them in the pressure cooker? You don’t have to boil them,” Kusuma whispered.

“You do it. Let Jeeji fry the remaining puris.”

At eight o’clock, sweat was pouring down her neck and armpits. Her blouse was sticking to her. Oil smoke was in her eyes. Her eyelids were heavy from not being fully asleep. Bappaji peered into the kitchen.

“Does the mere thought of going to the lake make you so excited?” he said.

He laughed, "Ahha."

Small birds floated in the water, black and yellow. Suddenly, white wings fluttered. With a coral shadow.

The shuffling of cards on the carpets. Some of them were women. Until the child said, “Mommyji, dadi,” holding the back. After carrying an old paper in his hand, the cuckoos set off. A blow to the child’s head. Painful pain. Virgin women stood where the mothers had been. In between, they put down the cards and got up to serve water.

Kusuma and Radha Bhabhiji had finished eating and washed the plates.

The stove was loaded. They started making pakodas.

“Hey, what does it smell like? I have two chilies.”

In between, there was a conversation with the children.

“Raju, what will you do when you grow up?”

“Pilot. For swimming.”

“You, Priya?”

“I… I… I… I… come… I will make tapapati at our house.”

“What is it that speaks so clearly?” Jiji laughed.

“I have climbed all the mountains around Ajmer,” said Pappaji.

“Jiji, you?” said Meenakshi.

“Whenever he climbs a mountain, I feel a baby in my stomach,” said Jiji. She burst into laughter. Everyone laughed. Jiji had fourteen children.

They packed everything away and diverted the minds of the children who were thinking about going ‘tati’ again, and set off.

Kusuma stayed behind. “Meena, I will walk slowly. I haven’t seen the birds properly yet.”

“Should I call Satish?”

“No, no. Let him go, he will be a mess if I call him.”

They walked slowly.

“It has been ten days. The lady has arrived before I thought of going to the doctor.”

“Did you come ready? If you had told me, I would have gone to the shop and bought a sanitary towel…”

“I came ready. Even though it was a white saree. Look a little further back.”

“No. Nothing happened.”

“Shall we walk quickly? There is no time to sit by the lake. We have to peel garlic for the dinner.”

“Come, don’t talk.”

She made Kusuma sit by the lake and fell silent.

Once, when she asked Jiji, “What kind of daughter-in-law do you want for your third child?” Jiji replied bluntly – educated. Pale, silent. “You are right,” said Pappaji. Meenakshi refused to believe that such a woman existed. She thought Jiji’s answer was an extension of the incident that had happened that afternoon. In the afternoon, Pappaji’s friend had come. A dermatologist. At that time, Meenakshi had some white patches on her hands. Itched a little. Pappaji introduced her to the dermatologist: She is Kishan’s wife. She roams around the town restlessly. Always with a book in her hand. She talks. Look at her hands.

Expert advice: Stay at home. Like other women. Everything will be fine. What kind of disease is it if each person remains as destined for themselves?

“Aha,” said Pappaji.

She thought what Jiji said was a fitting joke. But Kusuma got Jiji’s explanation as if she had read a text.

MA in Politics. Diploma in French. I don’t know why she studied French. While waiting for marriage, she knew that getting a diploma in some language was part of the waiting. If the groom was working abroad, a foreign language would be useful. Kusuma had made flower-worked cushions, pillowcases, handicrafts, and saris with flower work and lace work by that time. She didn’t miss out on flower arrangement classes, bakery classes, sewing classes, jam, juice, and pickle classes. She had learned all the tricks. The perfect daughter-in-law.

The white crowd that had gone far away rose high as if thinking and circled to the left. It came and spun at a moderate speed.

Kusuma started crying.

"That lump... how red..." she exclaimed.

In the evening, which was slowly turning red, the coral floated with its wings.

The unpeeled garlic... the wings opened to make another circle.

The unformed embryo... slid down the water like oil, one, two, three, four, five.

A humming sound.

***

It was only when she came to Ajmer during the Holi festival vacation that Jiji had a serious attack of illness. One afternoon, after giving away the equipment for the day's cooking and inserting the key in her waist, Jiji slowly walked to see what was left in the refrigerator. Before she could reach it, she stopped breathing. Her breathing made a loud noise. Jiji fell to the ground with her heavy body before the others came running. Sweat increased. Her urine increased and all her clothes were wet.

“I will go... I will go... All my daughters-in-law are abroad... That sinner, Jeeji, is going to rule my kitchen... Hey Bhagwan...” she cried out, turning her head left and right. The doctor downstairs ran and gave her an injection. Her breathing became regular. She closed her eyelids and fell asleep.

When she woke up, she touched her waist key. “What’s cooking tonight?” she asked. When she said beans, she thought, “Why, didn’t I say cauliflower? Did she change it? Did she think I would go?”

“No, Jeeji. Cauliflower is not available in the bazaar.”

“Sari... another saree... tha,” she said.

Kusuma opened Jeeji’s desk and took out a green saree, a green petticoat, and a light yellow blouse. She placed them near Jeeji’s bed. Jeeji turned her head and asked, “Where is the green bangle?” Meenakshi opened the bangle box and took out the green glass bangles.

They closed the door and removed Jiji's clothes. Her body was like a ripe red fruit that had dried up. The lines on her palms were heavy. The back of her hand was shrunken and the veins were shining. Deep birth scars as if she had plowed her lower abdomen. The pubic hair on her body was pale and unglued, falling out here and there. Her back and thighs, which had been loose after being cotton, were shrunken and hung with white scratches. Her inner thighs were scorched like a burnt banana skin near her groin. Her breasts hung low with shrunken grape nipples. The charcoal lines of several gold chains on her neck. On her forehead, a heavy gold ball at the end of her hair, a thin scar, as if her head had fallen out.

A living body. The body that had revealed everything: urine, feces, blood, and children. How many traces of it!

After finishing tying the sari, Radha Babiji tied a black thread souri with a tassel of colored thread hanging from it around Jiji's head and tied it to her hair. Kusuma inserted the bureau key into Jiji's waist. Jiji leaned back on the bed.

When the others left, Meenakshi sat next to Jiji. Jiji's hand caressed her waist. The room was dark with the curtains closed.

Jiji's voice came out heavy with a mixture of medicine, sleep, and fatigue. But it was unstressed, as if it had just drifted through the air.

"A red skirt..."

"What, Jiji?"

"My wedding skirt. Red. Gold and silver lace all over. A gold plate bodice. Twelve gold bangles. Two necklaces, one in red, one in green, and one with pearls. Coral. Five pounds of gold on the forehead. A silver key ring. I am fourteen years old. My mother whispered in my ear when 'Father' was sending me on my way. That 'Father' is beating my heart. She bent down and hugged me with her veil. A big nose ring. It was annoying. “Take over the kitchen. Don't forget to decorate yourself.... Both are your strengths. That is where your power comes from....”

“Let it be, Jiji. Sleep.”

“Thirty people in the house. I will knead five kilos of 'atta'. I will make three hundred chapatis. The first time, both my palms were bloodied and blue. It hurt when I stabbed my shoulder blade.... Papaji said... Well done... You are a good worker... that....”

She sighed,

“Ha. There was a boy before Gopal. He left. You know? At a age. On the day of the puja, everyone was in the kitchen... The child fell down the steps trying to climb the wall... He had climbed thirty steps... He made a loud scream as he put the puri in the oil... He hit his stomach... Then his skull cracked... His brain was scattered like white maggots on the stone floor of the courtyard... After all the boys came... I fried it... Meena... Are you listening... I fried the remaining puris..."

Meenakshi patted Jiji's forehead.

“When my father-in-law left, I locked the keys in a silver key ring…”

“Meena… how much influence do you see in me? I wield power like a queen of consciousness… or not?” Jiji groaned. She lay as

if asleep. Meenakshi bent down near the sarukshevigal, who wore large round flower-shaped earrings studded with lotus, blue, green, and pearls. Jiji and she were alone, like Maha Vishnu floating on a bed of snakes in the vast ocean. There was a sense of disconnection in the darkened room. Did she initiate that conversation, did it come about by herself, did she feel like it happened because she had thought about it so many times, or was it a conversation between Jiji and her alone?

Jiji, that kitchen, the necklace, the hoop, the golden bullet – none of that had any power.

The power did not come from it.

It was the power attached to Papaji.

Everything from it.

Get rid of it.

Get rid of it.

Get rid of it..

if you get rid of it... then... what is left?

You who have given up everything, the kitchen, the jewelry, the children, the papaji. You who have been cut off, are just Kesarbai, Kesarbai only. That is where the strength. The power.

I who have given up all that... who am I...?

Find out. Dive in and see.

In what?

In the well, in your private well.

There is nothing to cling to... Scared..

Dive in and see. Dive in. See what Kesarbai has to do with the world. If it were not for

those three hundred chapatis laid out daily and the stomach that kicked fourteen children, if it were not

for mutton pulao, masala, puri - aloo, taniyap powder, salt, sugar, milk, oil, ghee, you would

have to pull the stove wick once every four days; buy kerosene when it is available; the worries of the rainy season are rice, insects in lentils; pickles during the mango season; Pancakes in the summer; sherbet, juice, jam when the fruits are ripe; old clothes and dishes; lime for the kitchen yard once every two weeks; worrying about whether your period has been delayed; worrying if it is not delayed, if you have not stuffed your skull with insects, pickles, and lime. If you

had not filled the drawers of your brain with all these,

perhaps you could have seen that apple fall; seen the steam from the tip of the water kettle;

discovered new continents. You could have sat on Mount Kailash and written an epic. You could have painted caves. You could have flown. You could have created a world without wars, prisons, gallows, and chemical warfare.

Where have you gone, Jeeji? How did you think that strength lies in the jewelry

that is placed in the right proportion in a kitchen,

in the ear, neck, and forehead ?





Dive deeper.

When you reach the bottom, you will touch the water of the world. You will be in touch with the world around you.

The smell of cooking that swirls around your vagina, breasts, and uterus will disappear. The glitter of jewelry will disappear. You who are without milk. You who are not trapped in it, you who are not narrowed by it. You who are free from it.

Touch that, Jeeji.

Touch

and rise.

Rise.

Rise.

That is strength. That is power.

Jeeji turned and grabbed Meenakshi's hand.

*****

A Kitchen in the Corner of the House (Short Story Collection) – Kriya Publishing House. Ambai Short Stories (1972-2000) – Kalachuvadu Publishing House