This is my translation of Tamil writer Su.Venugopal’s short story சொல்ல முடிந்தது. This story is an exploration of guilt, the complexity of mother-son relationships, and the long-term emotional toll of public shame. Many thanks to friends Sarathy Venkatraman and Shankar Pratap for reviewing my draft. Here’s my review of this short story.
***
It was dawn when Raguram pedaled home from the mill, having finished his shift. Durai and Chinnasamy got up quickly and hurried off from Manikkam teacher’s thinnai. Over by Kesavan’s tea shop, Selvam and Parameswaran who had been standing with the coconut-sheller – they took off fast too. Raguram planted one foot on the pedestal under the pongamia tree across from the shop, still straddling his bicycle. A taxi that had come from the north turned slowly into Perumal Temple Street.
Sivaraj came from that direction with his vaetti hitched up and grabbed the coconut-chopping machete leaning against the tea shop wall.
“Siva, what’s going on?” Raguram called out.
“Dharmaraj mama can’t breathe properly. He had an episode of breathlessness early in the morning, but didn’t call for help. Then when his breathing got bad again, the eldest son Subbu noticed and asked what’s wrong. That’s when they called the taxi. Taking him now.”
Something dropped in Raguram’s gut.
As a boy he’d burned with rage, wanted the man dead. But after he came back from a year washing dishes in Salem restaurants, even that anger had cooled. These days Dharmaraj had handed the responsibilities of the grocery shop over to his eldest son and spent his time showing up for weddings and funerals, births and deaths – all the village occasions. Raguram would spot him sometimes during the morning bicycle ride home from night shift – at the tea shop, the temple courtyard, taking his slow walk along the tamarind tree road like he was doing his exercise. When their eyes met, even when Raguram tried not to look, a faint smile would cross the old man’s face. Evenings, if Dharmaraj happened by while folks stood around talking, he’d drift over and join in, adding a comment here and there that fit what people were saying. He’d been doing this for ten, fifteen years now. Bit by bit the murderous rage had faded away. The anger too. Even the hate was gone.
Now the thought of going to stand before him in this situation made Raguram uneasy. The man was pushing eighty. If something happened, well, what of it? But Raguram found he didn’t want that either.
He wheeled the bicycle over and parked it by the stacked old tin sheets. The shed covered the left side thinnai. Amma was shaking out plastic sacks, rolling them up neat. Her whole head had gone grey. For years now she’d been stitching blouses loose and baggy – made her look even older than she was.
Varadhammal looked at him the way she always did, one hand touching the bicycle carrier. That look held nothing but sorrow. Like all she wanted was for him to earn enough to educate his kids. She thought of asking “Why aren’t you getting ready to bathe and sleep?” but stopped herself.
Raguram sat down on the right thinnai. Amma moved to the edge without bumping the bicycle, reached up and got the sickle hanging from the window bars. Both her knees were creased with wrinkles, the skin gone rough and dry. Even at this age she’d go off to work for any farmer who called, never saying no. Made him wonder sometimes – did amma at least laugh and chat when she was out there working? But he couldn’t just show up to check. On days when she worked roadside, someone in the crowd would say something and she’d look up to see him passing on his bicycle. It had happened many evenings. These days it pained him to see amma lagging behind at her work, moving slower than the others.
He didn’t know if amma ever wished she could talk with him more, really talk. She picked up the yellow cloth bag with his food and walked with a bit of a stoop. Back when he was in school, she used to tell him stories at night, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. That big laugh of hers – kekeke – would take over and she couldn’t finish the story for all the laughing. Sometimes she’d laugh until tears came.
All that stopped halfway through ninth grade. After that day, amma never laughed again. Never told stories. And he never lay beside her to listen anymore. A rift between them that couldn’t be bridged. Now with age she was becoming just bone and skin. Wrinkles covered her body. Grey hairs showed even in her eyebrows and eyelashes. Amma never asked him for anything special like parottas or any such treats. And he never thought to bring her any.
If he hadn’t run from his studies, he might’ve made something of himself. Even though Ramamurthy sir told him every single day – “Don’t come to class without a geometry box, you planning to borrow from others in the exam?” – he just ducked his head and got by. But that day, for whatever reason, the teacher got really angry. “You buy that box before you step foot in my classroom again,” he said, and threw Raguram out during the second period. Murugesan also got thrown out alongside him. Murugesan’s amma had gone off to Kerala for coolie work, so he tagged along not knowing what else to do.
As soon as Raguram got home, he shouted from the thinnai: “I’ve been telling you for ten days now! I am not going back to school. Don’t care what you say, I’m not going!”
Murugesan sat there tired and silent, watching him carry on.
Varadhammal had been smearing the house floor with cow dung. She dropped the dung-cloth in the bucket, washed her hands and came over. Letting down her saree from where she’d tucked it up to her knees, she said, “Look son, there’s no work right now. This field labor is not bringing much. Can you wait a few days?”
The more she tried to calm him, the angrier he got. He grabbed a washed plate from the thinnai and hurled it. The thing crashed against the grinding stone, bounced and clattered across the floor. Her trying to make peace just fed his rage.
“Alright then, stay put. I’ll go to the shop, try to borrow from someone. Look at you, making me run all over. Your whining is the worst whining there is. Look at Murugesan sitting there so quiet.”
She washed her feet, picked up a winnow and left. Sometimes at the grocery shop they’d ask her to winnow grain for them. Even after a full day’s work in the fields, she’d winnow and bring it back before coming home.
He figured he could slip into school before the third period geography class let out. But amma didn’t come back. Fifteen rupees for a Camlin geometry box, sitting right there at Kavitha Notebook Centre in the street next to school. The box felt urgent in his mind – he needed to show Ramamurthy sir he’d gotten it. The front pattasali was half-smeared with dung, half not. He went into the kitchen and drank some water, brought some out for Murugesan too. Must’ve been eleven-thirty by then.
When amma kept not coming, irritation got the better of him. “Forget it, I’ll go buy it myself,” he muttered and headed out half-running, half-walking. At the shop they’d pulled down most of the wooden boards to close up, leaving just one board leaning from inside, not quite shut. In the dim light he could make out goods on the shelves.
The side door leading to the small godown out back was pulled to, but not latched. Amma must be on her way. If he couldn’t get that geometry box today, all the boldness he’d worked up would be for nothing. A muffled voice drifted out from the godown. “Mm, just relax now… that’s good, isn’t it…” The voice came quiet and secret, like someone trying not to be heard.
He pushed the door open. Down at the bottom edge of rice sacks stacked three high, two shadowy figures were moving. Amma’s left hand gripped the corner seam of the bottom sack. He opened his mouth to curse her, to beat her where she lay. “You bastard!” he shouted.
Startled by the yell, Dharmaraj snatched up the vaetti lying to the side, covered himself halfway and ran for the inner door, slamming it shut. Raguram grabbed amma by her hair and dragged her outside. Her blouse buttons had come undone, hanging open. She clutched her mundhanai to her chest. He hauled her out onto the road and hit her across the back. Her saree had come loose, riding up past her knees. Even while taking the blows she pulled it down. He grabbed her hair and yanked, spinning her around, and the waist-saree slipped right off. You could see her old faded green petticoat showing below the waist.
He stomped on her chest, arrogant and wild. His foot landed on the hand she had covering herself. If she let go of the mundhanai clutched to her chest, she’d be exposed. Women started coming out – those who’d been inside doing handwork, those returning from garden work to fetch water, those who’d come to water the cattle. Everyone gathered. The harder he beat her, the more amma kept her head down, wouldn’t look up at all. All her attention was on making sure the saree didn’t slip off completely, that no one would see her chest with the buttons undone.
She took the blows her son gave with her head bowed. Like she’d let him beat until he was satisfied, or like she wanted to die right there from his beating – that’s how she lay on the ground. She couldn’t sit up straight. He had her hair gripped tight, twisted in his fist. Near her neck and ear the skin pulled taut, felt like it would tear any second. The bigger the crowd grew, the more she stared at the ground. Never looked at the feet of those gathering around. And the bigger the crowd, the harder Raguram went at it. Curses flew from his mouth in rage as blows fell on her shoulders, her head, her face. He couldn’t bear it – that some stranger had done this to his amma.
“Why’d you do it? You bitch! Are you craving a man? You dog.” When people tried to stop him, he screamed at them to back off, threatened to crack their skulls.
Old Kannammal wrestled with his fingers, trying to pry them loose from amma’s hair. “Let go! Let go!”
“Real good now, isn’t it?” He spat the words with contempt. The abuse coming out of him was beyond his years – made the women wonder where he’d learned such things. When he realized that Murugesan was in the crowd, he gave her a whack on the back, just for Murugesan.
“Don’t, stop it!” Murugesan grabbed his hand. Raguram shoved him hard – and kicked her right in the face. He was acting like a madman now.
“That’s enough! What’s got into you? You’re this tiny, and yet you’re jumping around like you’re some big shot? This aggression isn’t gonna end well for you. If I give you one solid slap…”
“Old woman, you mind your own damn business!”
“Oh yes, found some big job to do, has he. Go on then, boy.” The old woman somehow managed to separate them, and pushed her way through.
Amma never raised her head. She pulled the mundhanai carefully over her shoulder and wrapped it around her waist. Gathered up the fallen saree and tucked it here and there at her waist, tried to cover herself. She sat on the hot ground with her head bowed. If Varadhammal had given him one hard slap, Raguram would’ve gone spinning to the ground for sure. But she just sat there taking the beating without fighting back. Tears ran down from her nose, dripping onto the dust. Where he’d grabbed and yanked her hair around in all directions, it stuck out wild and matted. Looked like a crazy woman who’d been wandering for days without combing. The kick he gave her – must’ve caught her with his big toenail – split her upper lip open, swelling with blood. Her cheek where he’d slapped her was torn up too. She accepted all of it, all the violence, as it came.
Did she think she’d shattered her little boy’s heart and so she deserved all this ugliness? Did she think all the happy times with her child had turned to filth? Did she suffer knowing she’d given him a shame he’d carry forever? Did she wonder how she could ever laugh with her child again? Did she stay silent thinking – at his age, how did he even know to call such things shameful? Hard to say. But she must’ve felt the sorrow of it – that a thing only the two of them knew about, he’d made into something for the whole village to see, dragged it into broad daylight.
Varadhammal didn’t slap her belly and shout, “To hell with you, all this for feeding this belly!” Even the blood and sting from the toenail scraping her face didn’t make her want to strike back at her child.
The old woman said, “Why are you lying here like some fool? That little boy beating you so badly and you taking it like it’s some big penance. Get up now.” She pulled her to her feet.
A boy in ninth grade. She must’ve trusted he was still innocent, and didn’t know about such things. That trust is gone now. All the women who stood watching without stopping him when he beat her said all kinds of things: “Enough boy, enough! You’re a big man, aren’t you?” “Look how he’s hitting!” “Look at that anger!” “You’re a man – let it go now!” But not one of them stepped forward to grab his hands and pull him off her. Only aunt Rukmani finally gave him a strong slap on his back saying “Alright, that’s enough” and stopped him.
By then his own strength was running out. His hands and legs had gone weak. Even when he hit, there was no force behind the blows.
“Whatever else she is, she’s the mother who birthed you. What is this – you gonna kill her? What kind of son is this? He came from there too, you know. Didn’t come down from heaven,” Kempammal said.
“Shut your mouth!” He whipped around toward Kempammal.
“Hmm. How long can you keep him blindfolded anyway?”, “He’s seen it now, hasn’t he? He’s a man now. Doesn’t he know the hen calls out for the rooster?”, “If she still had her husband would this be happening?”, “She’d been running wild like an unleashed horse”, “Should she even keep living after getting caught like that? Thoo!” The gathered women talked, shaking their heads before drifting off.
Old Kannammal said, “Get lost! Your ‘status’ only lasts as long as people don’t know the truth about you.. Why tie your bun up nice and show your back? Who are you showing the front for, huh? Look who’s talking!” As she said this, some of the women turned back, ready to fight with the old woman.
“I’m just saying one thing to you all. That one who came here all perfumed from Nochchi grove – I’m talking about her.”
“Chee! Why’re we even talking to this old woman? Dog with no sense of who’s who.” They turned and left in a huff.
Old Kannammal was the one who finally brought amma away. “As soon as he grabbed your hair, if you’d given him one good slap he would’ve settled down. You made a spectacle of it yourself. What am I gonna do with you?”
“Let it be, chinnamma. He’s my boy. If not him, who do I have? Whatever shame he feels, whatever sorrow…”
Amma must’ve been thirty, maybe thirty-two back then. How many years had it been since amma laughed out loud like other people? All that showed on her face anymore was a faint, sad little smile. For thirty-five years now she’d been lifting her sickle or spade or country hoe or pickaxe and heading out to the fields and coming back. Sun or rain or cold, she went to work. Work, work, work. Nothing in her life but work. No quarrels with anyone. Never earned a harsh word from anybody. Among the field workers, a new name for amma took hold, nallamanushi – a good woman. The village had completely forgotten that anything like that had ever happened to her. Didn’t seem to be in anyone’s memory anymore. Not one word of abuse came her way. She never even acknowledged there was such a thing as Dharmaraj’s grocery in the village. Forgot the shop existed entirely. She moved through the world like there was no such thing as men at all.
Now Raguram himself was pushing fifty. Once, maybe twice a week he’d pull Vanaja down to lie with him. She’d occasionally refuse saying that they have grown-up kids, but she would give in to his persistence. How had amma managed to wipe away all desire like that? No – she’d killed it in herself. For this son. If she’d remarried back then, she might’ve had two or three more children by now. At that age, did she ever have such thoughts? Looking at amma today, it seemed like no, not at all. But back then she must have. It’s one thing to quash one’s dreams, longings, even imagination, turn them into ashes. But she’d spent thirty-five years turning her lust into ash and blowing it away. Or could you even put it like that? More likely she’d fought and fought with herself without showing a trace on the outside, finally beating it to death inside her. The thought made him uneasy.
He needed a bath before he could sleep well. And he needed to sleep well during the day or else he’d be burping sour all through the night shift, couldn’t work right without drowsing off. After eating he opened the windows. If he lay down now, he could wake at four in the evening. The life of sleeping days and waking nights. He couldn’t fall asleep. Amma’s collapsed old form kept appearing in his mind. He drew a deep breath. Memories scattered everywhere.
***
He watched a man scoop out a handful of roasted peas and drop them in his shirt pocket. When amma offered him ten paisa, the man said, “Keep it.” Amma set down “Your money for the goods” on the counter anyway, rubbed his head and walked him along.
The paddy fields spread out green and lush. In the distance, people were walking south through the fields in a line – some small, some tall. More people were coming along the east path on the wide bund road.
“See that bridge there? Beyond that’s where the temple is.”
“Amma, is that where the mango shop is?”
“Yes.” She walked in front of me, carrying a bag of flour wrapped in new white cloth and tucked in her yellow bag that will be offered to god.
“Amma, if they look at us from over there, won’t it seem like we’re walking right through the middle of the paddy? They won’t see the bund path, will they?”
“That’s right.”
“It must look real pretty, amma.”
***
The late evening stars filled the sky bright as anything. The center beam of Seeni mama’s house had been broken for a month now, the tile roof sagging toward the ground like a shallow valley. The family had gone to Kambam for field work. They’d have to come back and fix it. Even when they were around, the back wall of their shed had been crumbling from lack of upkeep, broken down to a short stub of a wall. The big neem tree standing next to the well had branches spreading wide enough to shade even old Kannammal’s front yard. A narrow lane ran between the two houses. From there you could go either way down the long north-south lane.
Old Kannammal sat on a spread sack with her legs out, telling the story of how she’d gone to fetch milky quartz from the streambed. After the evening meal, when she settled in to talk, she could go on till midnight easily. The old woman’s mundhanai lay in her lap – that was her habit. The buttons on her faded green blouse were all you could see. Right leg crossed over the left. She talked with a betel quid puffed out in her right cheek, making her face lopsided. Her thin legs showed clearly.
The smell of neem flowers was sharp and strong in the air. Amma sat close to aunt Rukmani. Kempammal came over after finishing her chores, wiping her damp hands on her saree. The white corn and ragi planting would be done in another day or two.
Murugesan walked by covering a silver tumbler with his palm. “What’re you buying from the shop this late?” the old woman asked.
“Omam. Amma’s got a stomach ache.” He kept walking.
No one asked him anymore – if he hadn’t run off to Salem, would his studies have turned out different?
Suddenly someone came running through the lane, vaetti wrapped around him, and shot across the path lightning-fast into the opposite lane.
“Oh lord!” Aunt Rukmani leaned into amma, hand on her chest, staring at the direction he’d vanished. The talking stopped for a beat. Her pounding heart, the chest thumping wouldn’t settle down. The old woman leaned her body to the right while staying seated, peered at the opposite lane and straightened back up. Nothing there but darkness.
Chellathurai came down the street quickly with his vaetti hitched up, gripping a thick three-feet ebony stick. “Did anyone come running through here?”
The old woman, pulling her mundhanai onto her shoulder: “Nobody came this way.”
“I’ve noticed some shady guys around here lately. I can’t tell if he’s after the goats or the bananas. If I catch him, I’ll crack open his skull. He went into the village administrator’s brother-in-law’s lane. Must’ve come this way, I thought.”
“No saami, we’ve been sitting right here the whole time. If he came this way, wouldn’t we have seen him?”
“Alright then.” He walked off.
The old woman turned to look right. Aunt Rukmani asked in a low voice, “Who was that, periyamma?”
“Our Kathirvel’s boy. And Chandran’s wife, Maragatham – the pompous one that walks with a haughty gait. That was her. There’s been something sneaky going on for a while now.”
“But periyamma, she’s got three kids!”
“So what? You think that stops people from wanting to taste something new?”
“Oh my lord!” The old woman who’d answered in a throaty whisper shifted her weight side to side and moved her legs, like she couldn’t believe the innocence. Amma sat with her head down, saying nothing.
Raguram couldn’t even look at amma. All kinds of memories kept running through his mind.
***
Along both banks of the stream that fed the village tank, mahua, mesquite, and neem grew dense, tangled with Indian mallow and tindora vines spreading like a sheet of green. Eating the ripened tindora fruits along the way, climbing the bank by the banyan tree, and following the cart track — that was the shortcut to amma’s village. When they walked together and ran into sister Regina, she’d grab amma’s hand and talk for ages. Her left was much weaker than her right, so she walked with a limp. She was seven or eight years younger than amma. When she talked about studying at the convent to become a nun, it all sounded so strange. When he called her “akka,” she’d correct him – “Call me aunty.” Regina akka’s eldest sister used to go everywhere with amma for work. That Mary aunty would bring lots of ice apples when she visited. For some reason Regina didn’t end up becoming a nun, becoming a teacher instead. If her foot had been sound, she would’ve married. When she was standing or sitting still, you couldn’t tell anything was wrong. Shining black skin, her teeth bright white when she smiled. Beautiful eyes. The only thing was her build ran a bit plump.
Uncle and aunty fought constantly, never got along. Because of that, amma stopped going to town as much. She talked less with amma too, and Raguram spent more time just wandering around or going off to work.
Regina came riding up on her bicycle, got off and walked toward the bridge, favoring that bad foot. When you watched her ride smooth like that, you’d never know about the limp. Murugesan stood up too.
“So you’re getting married, amma said”.
“Still three months off, akka” said Raguram.
“Why don’t you come by the house anymore these days?” replied Regina.
“I will, I will, akka.”
“Alright, so when are you coming?”
“I’ll come akka.”
“Enough with this akka business. Call me aunty. So when are you coming?”
“Soon as I finish the roof-laying work.”
“That work’s always gonna be there. You come this Sunday, okay?”
She gave his shoulder a light tap, got on her bicycle and rode off.
When they got to her house it was eleven o’clock. The smell of masala curry hit you as soon as you got close. On the left wall a big cross was painted, the color a bit faded. He pushed the half-open door. “Regina aunty!” he called. Regi peeked out from the empty inner courtyard, her face lighting up. “You came just like you said you would! I truly thought you’d come” – she rushed toward them. Her face showed a lopsided smile, shy and pleased, twitching at the corners of her mouth. But when she opened the door and saw Murugesan and Balu standing behind him in the street, her excitement suddenly drained. “Come on in, all of you,” she said, and it came out flat.
Egg curry, meat curry, and a separate fry dish. Such good food – his friends probably never ate like that. When they finished and got ready to leave, it was past one o’clock. Balu and Murugesan went down and waited in the street. He went back to the inner courtyard to say goodbye again. Regi sat there rubbing her forehead.
“Aunty, I’ll see you later.”
She looked up. “I thought only you were coming.” She went quiet for a moment. “Alright.” Closed her eyes, drew a breath. Then opened her eyes and gave a small nod. All that earlier joy had collapsed. Her face was heavy with disappointment.
***
Akka showed up in dirty rags and a torn blouse; seeing that amma sat her down on the thinnai. “Girl, what is this state you’re in?” This was periyamma’s daughter. Her left hand had turned to a festering wound, flies swarming thick. She tore a rag in half, folded it and swatted the flies away. She served the girl food. If periyamma had still been alive, she wouldn’t have let things get this bad.
After that, akka stopped going to her hometown. She’d go lie in the shade of Seeni mama’s neem tree. In the evening she’d eat whatever amma brought her and sleep on the thinnai. It went on like that.
As her sickness got worse, her cheekbones started jutting out sharp. She couldn’t get up from the thinnai anymore. No one from town came to see about her. Amma went to the charity hospital two or three times to get pills and medicine. Akka couldn’t even turn over by herself. Right there on the thinnai amma spread a sack and laid plaited coconut fronds on top. If you didn’t press against the wounds, she wouldn’t moan as much. The green fronds were a bit cooling too. Her whole back had blistered into open sores. To keep the flies from swarming, amma would dab neem oil on a chicken feather and smear it all over her body. Just looking at those hollow cheeks broke your heart.
“Why’re you keeping her around to suffer like this? Why don’t you just drag her somewhere and dump her? Her own family didn’t care about her, why should you?” Kempamma said.
“She’s a helpless girl child. How can I abandon her?” amma said.
Vanaja wouldn’t go anywhere near that side of the house.
The right thinnai started to stink. Not a place on her body without sores. Flies covered the whole thinnai. Her eye sockets sank; only the eyes still moved. She’d wasted away so much you couldn’t recognize her – looked like some thin ghost lying there. Amma couldn’t bathe her anymore. She tried hard to peel off the blouse stuck to her pus filled wounds. Akka would scream. Couldn’t do it – would’ve torn the flesh right off. Food wouldn’t go down either. They covered her with an old thread-bare saree, keeping only her face showing.
One day, when she was too weak to go on, akka seemed to be shaking her head, calling for amma. Amma bent close. “What is it, dear?”
“Thank you, chinnamma.”
Amma’s nose reddened. She gently stroked the akka’s forehead.
Four days later she died. Her family came from town and buried her.
***
A tightness pressed at his forehead. He turned over and lay on his other side. He just can’t fall asleep. Must’ve been over a year ago now. Ramaiah was going around the village at night carrying his kavadi. “Let’s walk all the way out to Kalungu,” Murugesan said. As they walked, the sound of drums faded. After they crossed the rice mill garden, he thought – what if he just told him?
“Murugesan, I’ve been thinking… I acted real cheap that day, you know? I’m the one who dragged amma out to the street and shamed her for everyone to see. Should’ve stayed private, stayed unknown. I’m the one who exposed it to the whole village. I keep thinking I shouldn’t have done all that.”
“Dei, I forgot all about it ages ago.”
“But I haven’t.”
Murugesan put his arm around his shoulder. “We’ve gotten old too now, haven’t we? It’s a good thing that you’re thinking this way. That’s worth something.”
“I didn’t think like this back then.”
“If you’d thought like that back then, you would’ve been a saint already.”
He felt like going to see Murugesan. Got up, put on a shirt and headed out. After tenth standard, Murugesan had first gone to work as a driver for a private bus company. Then he got a job at the local post office. He too got through his time.
***
It was quarter to eleven when he got back after talking with Murugesan. His eyes were heavy. He fell asleep as soon as he lay down.
He didn’t wake till five o’clock. The children’s voices woke him up. He washed his face and came to the doorway. Vanaja was coming with the water pot. “That Dharmaraj thatha died. We found out about it a couple of hours ago. You were here sleeping hard, snoring away. I thought I’d tell you when you woke up.”
Yama had called him away, the man who’d been moving through his memories. A heaviness he couldn’t name settled on Raguram’s mind, pressing down. He went outside. Felt like he needed to walk alone for a while.
He walked along the banks of the great tank for a long time before coming back. His daughter and son were on the veranda doing their homework. “We already ate. Do you want to eat something now?”
“Not now. I’ll eat later. Has amma eaten?”
“She said something’s coming down and went to lie down.”
Amma lay curled up on the thinnai. She’d become all bones. He’d told her before – ‘You’ve gotten old, amma. You don’t have to work anymore. Enough, you’ve labored all your life.’ But she wouldn’t listen. Amma coughed. Even the cough came out weak and thin. Holding onto the edge of the thinnai she walked slowly to where her son sat. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath, then slowly opened them.
“Son… shall I go over to the house of death, cry for a bit and come back?”
Something jolted in him. His chest went tight with a sudden panic.
“Alright, ma.”
Clasping her fleshless, shrunken stick-like fingers as though thanking him, she walked away slowly.
Glossary
- Thinnai: A raised platform or porch built along the front of traditional South Indian homes, used for sitting and receiving guests.
- Vaetti: Traditional unstitched cloth garment worn by men around the waist, similar to a dhoti.
- Mama: Uncle (mother’s brother or father’s sister’s husband); also used respectfully for older men.
- Parottas: Layered flatbread, considered a special treat.
- Pattasali: A covered area or porch with tiles in front of a house.
- Nochchi grove: Vitex negundo is a medicinal shrub; the reference suggests a secluded place where illicit meetings might occur.
- Chinnamma: Literally “younger mother” – an affectionate and respectful term for a younger woman or aunt.
- Ragi: Finger millet (Eleusine coracana), a nutritious grain commonly grown in South India.
- Omam: Carom seeds (ajwain) ground to powder, traditionally used for digestive problems.
- Periyamma: “Big mother” – term for father’s elder brother’s wife, mother’s elder sister, or respectfully for elderly women.
- Mundhanai: Front end of a saree.
- Kavadi: A physical burden carried by devotees of the god Murugan during temple festivals as an act of worship and penance.
- Yama: The god of death in Hindu mythology.
- Akka: Older sister.
- Thatha: Grandfather.
Transverse 