It had been raining on and off. The past two weeks had been dampening and irritating. How were people to go about their routine work? At nights, the downpour was excessive, like an elephant urinating. But in the morning, it was just an annoying drizzle, neither pouring nor stopping. An idiotic kind of rain!
In Kolatthur, every single person felt it, and grumbled. The streets, full of pits and puddles, were filled with the overflow. Areas in front of the houses, where the cows were kept, were disgusting with the smeared dung and sludge. The cows’ place looked better than the buffalo’. There was nowhere else to keep the cattle. The people themselves lived in very small huts. When they did not have enough space for themselves, how could they find place for cattle. Their living depended on the cattle, so there was a cow or a buffalo in front of every house. Even during the day, the cattle could not be let out to graze in the fields as the fields were flooded. They could not be left, as before, to graze on the banks of canals. The banks were covered in water. People who owned goats were better off as they tied their goats in their back yards, a few even kept them inside their homes.
The old woman, Thavasi Patti had a little goat; when she was young and healthy, she used to look after many goats and cattle. Now, even if she wished to she could not, as her health had deteriorated. Even in her weak old age, however, she toiled and cooked for herself. She had given birth to and brought up eight children, found them brides and grooms, lost her husband to death – it was pitiful to see her cooking and eating all alone. All her children had some education and were working. Despite their asking, she did not go to stay with them because she was an old woman with self-respect, the villagers say. She had lived well when her husband was alive but from the day he died, her life was slapped with nothingness. She had repeatedly said that she thought it was better for her to die before her husband. But old man Madasamy passed away first, and now some seven or eight years had passed, and Thavasi Patti was somehow managing to find work to fill her stomach. Once a year, all her children with their families came as a large crowd for the village festival. It is only then that they give her five or ten rupees.
As it had been raining heavily all month, Thavasi Patti was unable to go to work. The four bowls of paddy which she had winnowed, cleaned, parboiled, and preserved during the harvest season was what she had been using to make her gruel. She was saving this for her children who would visit her for the village festival during Vaikasi, the month of Spring. She had to use this rice now, since she could not go to work because of the rain.
Many of Thavasi Patti’s relatives lived in the same village. Not once had she ever sought them out for any help. People in the village say that she is an old woman with lot of drive. Even Thavasi Patti’s brother Kitnan had said to her, many times, ‘Why are you suffering alone like this in your old age, sister? Just come live with me or, at least, go and be with your children. You struggle to walk yet you go to work, carry water pots, cook gruel and top of all this you also have a little goat to look after. At this age, which tree will you climb to pick leaves for the little goat? I have asked you to sell it, but you never listen. You are really so adamant.’
However much Kitnan advised her, she was not ready to sell the goat. She somehow managed to gather leaves for it. Kitnan also had a few goats. Once, he said to Thavasi, ‘Sister, if you want you can leave your goat with mine. Let it graze along with my goats. You can sell it once it is grown, what do you say?’
‘You already have enough trouble, why add to that, da? All it requires is a handful of leaves which I can bring from wherever I go to work. Let it stay with me here,’ she said, and refused to give away the little goat.
‘This old woman, nearing death, fears that I might keep the goat for myself. Don’t think she is an innocent old woman. I’ve said I would help her so many times. She has adamantly refused to give me the goat. Let her keep it and suffer,’ Kitnan said to the neighbours in annoyance. Even Thavasi’s late husband’s sister suggested giving the goat to Kitnan. Thavasi, who was filling water from a tap said, ‘You all are talking without any understanding. My younger brother is roaming around saying whatever comes to his lips. Do you think that at this age I shall become rich and accumulate wealth by bringing up a goat? It feels very empty to be alone all the time. This little goat gives me comfort. All I wish is to have the company of this mute being till I die, but all of you say this and that.’
Annamma Patti who was listening said, ‘What she says is right. She needs company. Thavasi talks to the little goat as if she is talking to her grandchildren. And the little goat twines around her legs showing its affection. That is her only company.’
‘The old man has died. I don’t know how much longer God will keep testing me. He should take me before my hands and legs stop working. Help me lift up this pot.’ With someone’s help, Thavasi placed the pot on her hip and left.
It had stopped raining for two days, and in the afternoon, Thavasi after having some gruel and resting for a while, took off to the fields with her little goat. After letting the goat out to graze, she went near the stream to gather thorn branches for fuel. ‘When we were young,’ Thavasi said to herself, ‘the girls used to go together to find fine thorns and bring them back in bundles! We competed with each other. We would even cut the green thorns, carry them back in bundles, and stack them tall to dry, one on top of the other. It was not necessary to struggle for firewood like this during the rains. Now, it is impossible to cut the thorns with a sickle. Even the dry thorns have dampened in this rain.’ She walked back with a bundle of the gathered thorns. Time had passed and it was growing dark. Thavasi brooded about how the days turned dark earlier and hastened her steps in order to get to her little goat in time. Seeing the old woman from a distance, the goat began to bleat, meh, meh.
‘What dear, my darling, are you looking for me. I am late. I went to gather these few thorns so I could cook dinner. They have all dampened in this rain, what to do? I will have to manage with only two dung cakes and two thorns. Tell me, what else can I do. There is not a single person to be seen – fearing the rain, everybody cooks and finishes dinner early, nowadays, and then stays inside their homes. O dear. This wind blows chill. It seems it might rain. When will I reach home, light the stove and start cooking? These green thorns will keep smoking…. Here, peh, peh peh, come … come, come dear, here I am, my dear,’ she said and walked as quickly as she could towards the goat. Seeing Thavasi coming, the little goat started to bleat and ran towards her.
Thavasi who was looking at the goat, fell inside a pit filled with water. The water level was up to her chest. She was unable to rise and climb out. Every time she tried to push herself out with her hands, she slipped and fell back inside. The pit was four feet deep. It was full of sludge and mud, which added to the difficulty. In the meantime the goat reached her. Looking at her, it kept bleating – meh, meh – and walked around the pit.
‘Unfortunately, not a single person is to be seen today. Even if I shout from here, nobody can hear me. I will freeze to death today. It is also drizzling. It seems that I will be buried in this pit itself. In the end, is this my fate? May be God has written that my life should end this way. That is all, my time has run out. I am leaving without seeing any of my grandchildren. If only I had come earlier during the day, some neighbour might have been here to rescue me. My younger brother, Kitnan, would be at home now – if he were told, he would come running to get me out. Look at my fate – despite having children, relatives and everyone, I am to die like an orphan.’ Thavasi trembled with wails of sorrow.
The little goat which kept circling her, bleated meh, meh in alarm, sounding as if it would pierce the heart in two in that lonely place. Time had passed and it grew dark. Thavasi became tired from clambering up and sliding down again and again. Shivering in the cold, she looked at her little goat and cried loudly. The little goat looked at her and bleated even louder. Apart from these two wailing noises, only the droning sound of the night beetles and the croaking of the frogs could be heard.
‘There is not even a moon, it is pitch dark. Does it matter to a dying soul if it is dark? If there was moon and if somebody came this way by chance, they would see me in this pit. After all this time who is going to come and see me and lift me out? At least, if it were summer, people would be going back and forth. In this cold, not even a small fly comes this way.’ These thoughts seemed as if they would make Thavasi’s heart explode. The little goat continued bleating pathetically in that deserted place.
Looking at her little goat, Thavasi could not control herself and started to moan.
‘Are you crying seeing my state? What to do? This is my fate. I did everything: gave birth to eight children, brought them up, gave them as much of an education as I was able, borrowed and worked hard to get them married. All of them have gone to the cities for their livelihood and left me behind. The old man has also gone, leaving me. Even if my children call me there, how many days can I go and stay with them? Though they are my own children, why do you think the elders have said that a feast and medicine are for just three days? How ever wealthy we get, how can we leave our birth soil and live there? But now I am leaving this soil for ever.’ Unable to contain her grief, she wept.
‘O my mother, in the end, am I to die like this? My hands and legs are freezing in this cold, the rain is also pouring down. How much longer can I survive shivering like this? Will this life sustain till tomorrow morning?’ She wept loudly. The little goat also joined her, loudly.
‘Why are you crying? Go dear, you go home. I will not survive. You go to my Kitnan, alright? At least, I am dying without troubling anyone by being ill or disabled. Your throat will get parched if you keep on shouting,’ she said, and fainted.
In the early morning, she was found frozen.
This story, titled ‘Andhi’ in the original Tamil was first published in the short story collection Thavuttu Kuruvi, New Century Bookhouse, 2019.
Dr M Anjum Khan is an Assistant Professor of English in Avinashilingam Institute for Home Science and Higher Education for Women, Coimbatore. Her areas of research have been British Literature, Immigrant Canadian Literature, Disability Studies, and Cultural Studies. She has authored and edited books, Ethnic Silhouettes, M.G. Vassanji in the Light of New Historicism, Author’s Press, 2016, Narrating Bodies, Reading Anosh Irani, Archers and Elevators, 2019, Environmental Postcolonialism: A Literary Response, Lexington, 2021, and Literatures from the Peripheries: Refrigerated Cultures and Pluralism, Lexington, 2023. She has published several research articles in reputed national and international journals, chapters, in books and presented papers in national and international conferences. She has also delivered academic and motivational lectures in colleges and corporate institutes. She is a member of various academic and activistic associations such as ICLALS, VIETA, and AMCW.