தடங்கள்

Translated from the original Tamil short story tadaṅkaḷ (தடங்கள்) from the 1976 collection of short stories titled kōṭukaḷum kōlaṅkalum (கோடுகளும் கோலங்களும்) by Kuppilan Ai. Shanmugan. The original collection is available at noolaham.org. If you have any questions, please contact ez.iniyavan@gmail.com.

The sky was gradually growing darker. The wind swirled and howled. The blue waves, folding and foaming, crashed against the shore and retreated.

He, along with Nandakumār and Poṉṉuthurai, was sitting on a branch of a seaside screewpalm tree that dipped towards the sea. He was completely lost in thought. A certain joy bubbled up, breaching the bounds of his heart. A joy that could not be captured in words. He was immersed in those feelings, drawing a tapestry of melodies in his heart, mumbling something in an attempt to give voice to this tapestry. His mind dwelled on the melodic shifts of his mumbling and realized that those variations exquisitely captured his joy in a way that words could not. Enveloped in his bliss, he forgot his surroundings and became one with nature.

He reflected on the life of a river, born in the mountain, culminating in the sea. When it encountered vertical cliff drops, it fell like streaks of diamonds, shattered like silver beads, and then reunited, with the magical incantation, ‘Ōm,’ into a whole. Through the forests bearing flowers, it crawled like a smiling little baby. It bumped and crashed into rocks, swirling and flowing on ferociously. It entered the fields in villages and ran in rings, frolicking. When it reached its point of confluence, it calmly merged into the sea, like a hermit who had given up all worldly bonds and desires.

He imagined the lively movements of the river as melodies. The river flowed within the ups and downs of the melodic variations in his heart. It made music like a waterfall. Bearing flowers, its laughter tinkled. It roared, pounding on to the rocks. Finally, it became silent with the sea. He reveled in his joy. He felt as if he was soaring high in the sky. His body became weightless like a bundle of cotton wool. He felt the urge to sing aloud. He wanted to roll around on the moist green cover of the screewpalm leaves. He wanted to jump with joy on the moist crystalline sand that reflected the colors of the sky, and dance as the waves retreated back into the sea. Eventually, he felt dizzy and faint.

He held fast to the branch of the screewpalm tree to steady himself. Extricating himself from his poetic reverie, he regarded his friends. Nandakumār was immersed in some story in a Tamil magazine. He was holding the magazine in his right hand, while his left was unconsciously ruffling through his hair. His face was serene. He looked very handsome in this pose. The budding pencil mustache gave him a particular radiance.

Poṉṉuthurai was sitting at the top of the branch, his feet swinging freely below him. Holding the branch with one hand, he was savoring the smell of a withered screewpalm flower.

Time crawled. A southbound train sped along the seaside tracks. The green screewpalm leaves, dappled by the yellow evening sunlight, shimmered, glittering through the foaming white waves. A young girl of twelve or thirteen, at the cusp of womanhood, was frolicking on the beach, keeping up with the advance and retreat of the waves.

He delighted in the beauty around him. He thought that the soul of the universe manifests in beauty like this. Musical montages pervaded his heart, like a fresh spring gushing forth; like a vibrant multi-coloured sparkler that pours green, red, blue, and yellow; like a grand park pulsating with life in the Spring; like the flocks of birds that rise from the paddy fields at dusk. They gently caressed his heart and blossomed into mumblings and scattered.

He thought about her, her warmth of her sideways glance, the elegance of her gait, the charm of her smile, the sweet majesty of her voice that emerges from the depth of her heart, the easy grace with which she gets along with everyone.

Overcome with emotion, he suddenly turned to his friends and said:

“The genesis of art is based on the appreciation of beauty. It is the allure of beauty that enchants the human heart and triggers the emotional outburst that leads to the creation of art. What do you think?”

A soft, gentle smile appeared on Poṉṉuthurai’s face.

Nandakumār lifted his eyes up from his magazine, hesitated for a moment, and then twirling the ring on his right ring finger with his left hand said:

“I cannot accept the argument that beauty is the basis of art. Emotional turmoil and sorrow have also engendered great art!”

He interrupted Nandakumār, “That is true; but it is only when a person is full of joy that their emotions bubble over the brim. Ancient humans produced art only when they were joyful. Was not every art form, be it dance, music, painting, or sculpture, the expression of some emotion? Is it not so, even now?”

“That is exactly what I said. Appreciation of beauty is not the basis of art. The expression of all nine types of emotions, like joy, suffering, sorrow, happiness, and so on, is the basis of art,” Nandakumār said as he flipped through the pages of his magazine, reflecting on what he had just said.

Poṉṉuthurai, who was silent until then, hopped off the branch, planted his feet firmly on the ground and leaned on the branch. He folded his arms across his chest, smiled and said in a booming voice:

“You say that art is the expression of emotions. I daresay that the best art is that which expresses society’s emotions. They are the ones that will hasten social development. They are the ones that will nudge the oppressed, who suffer like slaves under the yoke of society, into reflecting about their plights, and catalyze them into struggling for equality in society. I will say that the laments of those who suffer under the oppressive social structures of today should be the weft of creative art. Just focusing on personal human emotions and sorrows only serve to distract and destroy attempts to reform society.”

“I cannot accept this argument. Neither the struggle for basic needs like food and clothing nor victories in those struggles constitute social development. Meeting all the basic needs and beyond, and the distraction of creature comforts in life, do not constitute an ideal life either. There should be a meaning to life, my friend. Struggling for food and clothing is not the meaning of life.”

Nandakumār was listening quietly to both arguments while looking at the round-faced beauty on the cover of his magazine.

The waves in the sea roared.

Poṉṉuthurai usually roared with righteous indignation like a tumultuous sea whenever he talked about societal ills. But that day, he was very calm. He said, with determination, and a hint of sarcasm, in his voice, “A man who is denied food and clothing must need to think about food and clothing; the meaning of his life is the satisfaction he derives from food and clothing; if he cannot eat, there is no life for him.”

He remained silent, rocking the branch back and forth by rhythmically pushing against a big rock, staring at the horizon. He was watching the blazing red globe of a sun set into the sea.

Dark clouds were dispersing.

He was deep in thought, pondering the meaning of life. He marveled at the magic of creation, wondering what puzzle lay behind its secret. “How many living beings; How many kinds of grass and weeds; How many trees; How many bushes and creepers; How many birds; How many creatures; How many types of people; How much beauty,” he thought, amazed.

‘This life is a struggle. The world revolves around the struggle between the strong and the weak. Creation itself has produced the strong and the weak and is spectating the ensuing struggle between them. Sometimes the survival of one depends on the destruction of the other. When destruction leads to sorrow, this entire world glistens in its sadness,’ he thought.

Poṉṉuthurai was deep in thought, leaning on the branch with his hands folded across his chest. Nandakumār, holding the rolled-up magazine in his right hand, spread his legs wide, bent over as if he was searching for something on the ground, below his legs.

He looked at them and said softly, “The struggle between the strong and the week, and the struggle between humanity and nature, are the forces driving the evolution of human civilization; They are authentic and inevitable; How many people lack food, clothing, and other essential needs, and are exploited by others; It is true that creating art about them can make them ponder their fate, and thus lead to their emancipation; But that is no reason to assert that art must be concerned only with their plight. The beauty, sorrow, and the ups and downs of all creation can also be made into art.

He hesitated for a moment, and continued in his soft, refined voice.

“External struggles are inevitable; Art must explore them; But one must not argue that aspects of the internal life of the human mind is off topic for art. The beauty that humans see in nature, the empathy they feel with the naturally deprived and the disadvantaged, their inherent sorrow they see in destruction, their yearning to appreciate beauty, and the resulting anguish and disappointment, all certainly lead to exquisite art. This is what we see in the ruins of ancient civilizations.”

They were silent.

Time crawled.

The silence hung heavily among them.

He waited for them to say something but could see from their facial expressions that they would not. He stared at the expanse of the sky through the gaps in the screewpalm branches towards the northeast.

A yellow electric lamp whimpered on top of the tall pillar that rose from the southern wall of the railway station. Two crows sat on the iron grill supporting the lamp. It looked like a signal post. Behind them, in the railway station building, the roof ridge that ran in the east-west direction was bookended by two sharp, erect poles that reflected the traditional architectural style.

He closed his eyes.

A melody that carried the essence of suffering emerged as mumblings from his mouth.

He reflected on the atrocities of this societal life. This society, which insists on repeatedly wailing loudly about ethics, morality, justice, religions, and beliefs, nevertheless carries on its unethical, immoral, unjust, faith-destroying march. The bulk of this society has transmogrified into a fertile ground for unethical life, a sacrificial altar for justice and faith. But the righteous sermons continue…

One can be immoral while admitting being immoral or destroy justice and faith while acknowledging doing so. That would be better, he thought.

He was truly enchanted by her beauty, its bewitching charm, and its elegance. He had complete trust in her and his friends. After she declared, “You and I are one. The essence of my life is in living it with you,” he had wholeheartedly allowed her to socialize with his friends.

She could have told him, “I like your friend better than you.”

He could have tried to make me understand, “Machān, she loves me — I love her, too.”

He mumbled to himself, ‘When I see morality and faith being destroyed, I am overcome with emotion, anger, self-pity, and hurt.’

Through the screewpalm branches, the night smiled where the sea and the sky united on the western horizon. Dark clouds gathered, chasing one another.

They jumped off the screewpalm branch and walked away.

He followed his friends, intently watching their footprints forming in the moist beach sand; He walked mumbling that painful melody.

1971