Mouni
That Day
That morning, he wandered about, his mind in turmoil.
By midday, the sky had clouded over and grown dark. He lay down briefly beneath a banyan tree and drifted into a deep sleep. Startled, he woke up, thinking he saw her hanging there and beckoning to him; instead, he saw only the aerial roots of the banyan tree dangling before him. He grabbed one, gave it a swing, and continued on his way.
In the evening, the western sky glowed with intense brilliance. The sun set. He walked on, lost in thought. Love, love—love was everywhere; his heart shattered. His mind went blank. The path seemed to slip away from beneath his feet, as if in utter revulsion. He, who had been walking like a lifeless shell, suddenly found himself standing still. What lay ahead looked exactly as it had before. The path he had just traversed seemed to circle back and hem him in relentlessly. He began to walk rapidly. His body shuddered violently. He saw the deep ruts left by cartwheels—grooves so deeply embedded in the road that they seemed impossible to shake off.
Time slipped away. The past took on the quality of a story. The present moment lost all certainty. "And then—and then—?" Nothing. Everything simply reappeared just as it had been before.
How long did he live like that? Was he alive or dead? Was it a single instant or an eternity?
Night
Night fell. Darkness enveloped the world. For him, that night stretched on endlessly.
The Day Before
He had set out from his town, walking along the road. Along the way, he sat down to rest for a while. A woman carrying a basket set it down and sat a short distance away. A small bird flew over and perched on a nearby ridge. The woman wiped her face with the loose end of her sari. She shook out the end of her sari and draped it over her shoulder. Pausing for a moment, she glanced around and, noticing him nearby, beckoned him over. Looking at him, she said, "Sir, please help me lift this basket."
"What? Which one?" he asked.
"This one, sir," she said, extending both hands to point at the basket resting on the ground. "It must be terribly heavy. Won't it crush your neck? Can you bear it? Why carry it..." he began.
"That is exactly why I called you, sir."
"Who? Us? Men? Alright, alright—what do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Lift the basket up," she said. He hoisted the basket onto her head. He looked closely at her face. She stretched both arms fully upward to steady the rim of the basket. He noticed the muscles of her neck tense and bulge slightly under the strain. He saw her chest firm up as it bore the weight. A look of charm and a grateful smile appeared on her face. He felt a deep sense of melancholy. He did not move from where he stood; she stepped aside and walked past him.
After she had gone a short distance, he looked back. He saw her bare back—she was not wearing a blouse. Suddenly, a bird that had been perched on the ridge flew across and vanished into the branches of a tree on the other side. He found himself smiling involuntarily; a laugh escaped him. The bird flew off, calling out "Chee, chee."
The basket-carrier walked a little further and turned; she disappeared around the bend in the road. He sat down on the sluice-gate masonry of the nearby stream. He stood there as if expecting the basket-woman to return and set down her heavy load. Yet, the sluice-gate opposite, the roads stretching to the right and left, and the dilapidated *achavadi*—though ruined—did not present the look of total desolation that comes from a recent collapse.
Wearily, he rose and walked to the neighboring village. He strolled slowly westward along the village street; his short shadow moved ahead of him.
A dog from the *Agraharam* barked behind him. He turned and looked. He saw a few village women walking toward the temple well, brass pots resting on their hips, ready to fetch water. The dog’s bark seemed to ask, "Why? Where to?"
"Hush, dog! I am going to see her—to search for her."
The barking continued: "Why? Where to?"
"Hush, dog! You ask 'why'—but isn't she my beloved? Isn't she the very abode of my love? As for 'where'—if I knew that, would I be going?"
"Why...? Where...?"
"Hush! Dog, is it like those women going to the well to fetch water? Love is not like that..."
The barking started up again.
He felt a surge of intense anger. Unable to bear it, he chased the dog away; as it ran, it barked a skeptical, "Alright... alright," as if half-conceding the point.
He watched the women heading for water. One of them was dark-complexioned; she carried a brass pot on her hip, and her face held a captivating charm. She bent down to adjust the *thandai* anklet that had slipped down to her heel. The women walked on, chatting amongst themselves. Amidst the indistinct murmur of their conversation, a solitary burst of laughter rang out. He looked at the woman who was smiling. Her facial features did not register in his mind; it was her smile alone that he saw. Even as he watched, the group moved into the temple and vanished from sight. He journeyed on past the village, his thoughts lingering on that woman’s smile.
Leaving the village behind, he walked through harvested fields. Small clouds, constantly shifting their shapes, drifted slowly toward the east. As a small white cloud gently passed over the sun, a shadow swept across the fields. Along the harvested fields, a narrow footpath......had not formed properly. Occasionally, a hard, solid clod would prick his foot as he stepped on it. He left the field and walked a short distance along the ridge. His heels sank into the ridge here and there, as the soil hadn't fully dried. "If I were to sink all the way to the netherworld—I am too heavy; would I sink like this if I weren't heavy?"
In some spots along the ridge, the sown *thuvarai* (pigeon pea) plants remained uncut. He walked between the plants, which rose taller than him on both sides. Now and then, a grasshopper would leap high, startling him, only to vanish suddenly. He made his way to a threshing floor. Apart from a small central area cleared for threshing, the ground was overgrown with wild plants and weeds. A patch was carpeted with small blue flowers; the sight was so soothing that the area looked as though it had been washed in a sea of blue.
As he walked, a *nerinji* (caltrop) thorn pierced his foot, and he sat down. Rubbing the sole of his foot, he looked around; he couldn't see the thorn, yet he felt the pain. A large haystack ahead of him didn't look like ordinary brown straw; it was a towering mass of greenish-brown, not yet fully dried, presenting a peculiar appearance. In the distance, a bird perched on a *kaattaamanakku* (castor oil plant) hedge chirped incessantly while wagging its tail; its cries sounded almost like a death wail.
"Chee, chee! She is gone..." the bird seemed to say. "Who? Where?" he wondered. The bird, overcome with shame and fear, flew away. "You foolish bird, why do you scream yourself hoarse?" he muttered, looking at a wild castor plant.
Suddenly, he stood up and began to walk. After a short distance, a thorn pricked him, and he sat down. He plucked out the thorn and flung it aside. Nearby, a *Erukku* (Calotropis) plant was growing. He crushed its unopened buds. He felt a fleeting sense of joy at the faint sound produced by the crushing.
He thought of *her*! "Where is my beloved? Why did I ever fall in love? She loved me too, didn't she? Where is she? She is right there inside the *Erukku* bud; if I crush it, she will emerge." He crushed the remaining buds. There were no buds left, nor any sound. She was nowhere to be seen. Anger surged within him. He grabbed the plant's leaves and tore them off violently; they came away crumpled in his fist. He flung them down hard. He rose, intending to leave. The bird was back on the castor plant, calling out again. "Tsk, tsk—she is gone." He stooped, picked up a small stone, and hurled it. The bird flew off. He walked on.
He reached a small town. Evening had fallen. He walked through the town's market street and saw people buying goods. "Love—why can't love exist here?" he wondered, pausing when he reached a three-way junction. He searched all around—looking intently as if to say, "There—look, there it is"—for something that could not be seen. He noticed someone standing behind him. The man had a rather large moustache; Her hair was styled with a slight tilt to one side, and the sandalwood paste mark on her forehead was unusually large. The combination of these details left a vivid impression on his mind.
“Sir—she is exquisitely beautiful—so young; just come and see for yourself. You’ll be utterly captivated—love-struck, sir—she is truly beautiful, sir,” the man said.
“Where? Where? Shall we go?” he asked. He followed the man. They entered a small, dilapidated house in a narrow lane. Inside, a dim oil lamp flickered—its flame rising and falling as if weeping, seemingly ashamed and pained to witness the poverty around it.
He saw a woman in the main room. She had been seated but stood up. She was adjusting her hair, which was combed to one side. Her face seemed to wear the very expression of fresh, clinging poverty.
“This is Krishnaveni. She is very beautiful, sir; everyone thinks so—and you will certainly say the same, sir,” the man said.
“Here—yes, that is exactly what I have been searching for.”
“Alright, sir—please wait—I’ll be right back,” the man said and stepped outside.
Love stirred within him! “How? Where? In what way?” He couldn't quite fathom it. Was it a gradual process? No. Was it an overwhelming, sudden surge that left him gaping in awe? He didn't know. Was it the kind of feeling well-dressed young men on the seashore get when they spot stylish, elegant women? It wasn't that. Had it been like that, he would have recognized it.
“Love—did it arrive? Did I see it?”
“Yes. Love, face-to-face.” The lamp’s flame was trimmed and flared up—rising tall and blazing intensely, as if looking upon everything with a final, angry glare.
He remained silent. She did not sit down; instead, she stood between the lamp and the wall, positioned slightly off-center from him. Her shadow fell partly across the hall and partly—from the waist up—against the opposite wall, swaying gently. Spreading across the wall and rising to the very top before vanishing, the shadow took on a terrifying appearance. She stood there, gazing at the flame of the lamp.
He stayed there that night, but she did not sleep at all. She lay awake beside him, never closing her eyes. He woke up briefly now and then; once or twice, there was some incoherent muttering. ...he spoke.
“The dog said, ‘Tsk, tsk’—she has left; she has run away. Love? Where? Tsk, tsk—dog, where is love? It has grown dark. I feared I wouldn't be able to see—but can love be found even in the darkness? Where? Why?” he rambled. Every now and then, she listened closely, trying to make sense of his ravings. She understood nothing; she did not even recognize him.
Before dawn, he rambled once more. “That bird—it said, ‘She has run away.’ Who? It flew off in shame. Is there shame in running away? Love? Why? Where? Where is she—has she run away? No, it is *I* who am running. Why? For what? Love? Tsk, tsk—no—she—Rajivi...” He stopped speaking. She listened. At daybreak, he rose. She rose too. He came along. The two men conversed. She went inside. She came back out, took a length of rope, and went to the backyard. After a short while, she returned, picked up a water pot, and headed toward the well in the back garden. The men continued talking. She did not return; it did not seem as though she would. He went toward the backyard. The other man followed. They saw her. The pot lay near her feet; the rope, kicked aside, had rolled away, while the other end hung from above. She was suspended from the rope. Her face was turned upward; her eyes were closed. Her soul had attained liberation. In his mind—her legs and body swayed gently like a swing. He looked at her face. “Love...?” He looked at her once more. He contemplated her soul. He sensed that she had attained liberation. He recalled the events of the previous night. He brought to mind what had happened ten months earlier—visualizing the expression on Rajeevi’s face the very first time he had kissed her. He gazed intently at the face of the woman who stood there, swaying as if she were a celestial being hovering just above the ground. "Love? Rajeevi—or *her*? Love—*her*—" He rushed outside.
He ran on and on, leaving the town behind. He walked along the path. "Love—? Where—how?" he asked. Did he understand? "Right there—" he said, stretching out both arms to point at the sky. Then, clenching his fingers tightly and shaking them, he made a menacing gesture. Day had fully broken. That day, too, passed. Night fell; but for him, the dawn never came again.
As if he had beheld Love face-to-face—as if he had witnessed the fate of that encounter—and the fate of the one who beholds it—
- *Manikkodi*, 1936.
Typed by: Ra Ra Ku
Road to love - mowani