ஒரு பாதையின் கதை

Translated from the original Tamil short story oru pātaiyin katai (ஒரு பாதையின் கதை) 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.

This is a happy evening for all of us. We have met many evenings in our life’s journey. Many more await. Many evenings past may rekindle sweet memories in your mind. Perhaps you got married one evening. Perhaps you met your soulmate for the first time in another. Perhaps you gave birth to your firstborn in yet another.

I remember clearly. He was born twenty-seven years ago on an evening during the waxing moon. Someone brought the news to his father, who was plowing my land. I remember very well when he came before me with a wide grin and said, “Nayinār, I have been blessed with a son. I need to go home.” I remember that when I responded, “What if your son was just born? Are you the doctor taking care of him? Finish the work before you leave,” his face fell. Unable to bear that sight, I remember telling him, “Go, go,” and sending him off.

Now I am sixty years old. My hair has turned gray. My voice has faltered. The experience of maturity has creased on my face. I now understand people, their desires, and their ideals about what constitutes a worthy life. But back then, I did not have the same maturity. I was a fearless buck in those days, blessed with enormous wealth and accustomed to being treated like a lord….; I regret wasting those precious days. How much drama did I create! How many atrocities did I commit! How many lives did I destroy!

You might find it strange that I myself recount negatives about me. But I am not at all ashamed to do so. On the contrary, I think it is entirely appropriate that I talk about them. Many of you are educated, hold good positions, and are savvy enough to understand the duplicity, dishonesty, and selfishness that lie hidden beneath the facade of the great and the good; Many of you gullible innocents — hard workers; Many of you grew stronger because of your constant struggle with life. It is just fitting that all of you learn how a man who lived a flawed life was sainted. But I don’t want to make you weary on this occasion by delving into these topics at length.

It was yet another evening when he came to see me. It must have been a Saturday. I had had an oil bath, had a drink before my lunch, and had just woken up from my post-lunch siesta. It was a lethargic dusk. I was sitting on the recliner in my front yard, staring at the eastern horizon. I was plotting to take revenge on someone or the other, root them out, and drive them away from their home.

It was then that he came to see me. He leaned his bicycle on the jasmine bush in the front yard and walked over to stand next to me. He was wearing a white vētti and a white shirt. He had a budding pencil mustache. His face was serene, sporting a smile that would instantly disarm anyone.

All of you know him very well. I need not describe his appearance at length. But I cannot forget my first meeting with him that drowsy evening, as my drunken stupor was subsiding. Although I had seen him on many occasions prior, the meeting that day is memorable because that was the first time I spoke to him; It was that meeting that drew me to him and his convictions. I started to transform into a human being only after that meeting.

I keep talking about myself. While his memories bubble forth in your minds, I think it is inevitable that I recall my memories of interacting with him. On this happy occasion, I think it is fitting, and is, in a way, a tribute to him.

That evening, when he met me, he started his conversation by greeting me with a “Vaṇakkam,” first. I didn’t return his greeting. I didn’t even invite him to sit down. I had a certain arrogance back then. I was the honorary chairperson of all the sundry clubs and societies in the village. Whatever I had heard of him until that day was not exactly palatable to me. I regarded him with distaste.

He did not seem to mind my ill treatment. He said, with the same constant smile, “I want to discuss a few matters with aiyā.”

It was probably around that time that he devised the plans for a road running right through the village, from the northern end of our village to the main street in the south. As I listened quietly, he started speaking. From beginning to end, he explained very clearly and in detail. It was as if he saw the road in his mind’s eye and was relishing the experience of walking along the road. He spoke as though he was in a trance.

There is a lump in my throat when I say this. From your faces, I can see your sorrow, too. I can hear someone sobbing. Many of you are wiping your eyes. Even though his memories bring out your sadness, you must be happy to see his dream come true. You must not grieve as if there has been an irreparable loss or destruction because you know that he would not want that.

Back then, by crook or by hook, I owned half the land in this village. I inherited all that from my father. I was the master of my domain, the king of my hill. I laid down the law. I was at the pinnacle of my reign when he came to see me. He talked at length about the road he wanted to build, a road that will rip through my lands. I was mesmerized, listening with rapt attention as he held forth.

He spoke logically. He explained what righteous living is. He showed me the sorrows of people who struggle, explaining the lengths to which the residents of the high ground in my lands were forced to go to, in order to fetch just a pot of water. When he said, “This suffering is not permanent; It should be removed; It can be removed; Think of how elated the people would be when this suffering is removed!” I was engrossed in what he was saying, oblivious to everything else.

I remembered the face of his father who came before me with a wide grin on hearing the news of his birth. I remembered the faces of the naive, innocent village folk who lauded me as the ‘big-hearted farmer’ when I used government funding to dig a community well in my property under the guise of helping the high-ground residents.

I marvel even now. I couldn’t understand how my distaste and hatred simply evaporated when he started speaking. It cannot be said that I was delighted by his speech simply because I was in a drunken stupor. What was compelling for anyone was his speech, the thread of logic that ran through his speech, and his deep regard for his fellow human beings that made him strive to remove their suffering. Occasionally I compared him with great leaders like Vinobha, Gandhi, or Lenin. I am sure you will not disagree that the comparison is warranted. In truth, he would have blossomed into a leader who charts the course towards the emancipation of the suffering masses.

I know very well that wallowing in the memory of past sorrows is futile. But how can we forget his memories just because they are past?

I am blabbering at length. But I won’t have another occasion to share these thoughts with you. I hear that many of you laud me as some great philanthropist. I am no philanthropist nor saint but just an ordinary human. I am an ordinary man who went from lacking humanity to being a person with love for his fellow humans. When he made me discover my humanity, I spent a big chunk of my wealth for the common good. I gave away a part of my landholdings for this road. The target of your gratitude for all of this should be him.

In a sense, I know that asserting ownership over one’s assets is wrong. He said that if a person owns more than they need, then the excess should be made public property. He would assert angrily that those people who appropriate nature’s wealth for themselves when millions of people struggle without food, clothing, or the means to live a full life, are the scoundrels of society. He would declare that there would come a time when everyone would live with fulfillment, and that we were going to strive to bring it into fruition.

I sense a bustle among you. I don’t want to stand for long between you and the others who are waiting to speak. I am deeply honored to have been invited to give the keynote address on this occasion of declaring this new road open. But my speech would not be complete if I didn’t share a little more about his struggle for making this road a reality. You are now going to walk along this road. This road that cuts through palmyra patches, farming lands, shrubs, and small settlements, will become useful to you. Many of your inconveniences will be removed. Now you don’t have to walk a mile-and-a-half to post a letter. You can put your letter into the little red box that hangs on a roadside pole. Pregnant women need not be carried over to the main road but can be driven to the hospital directly. He was the one who saw your travails and dreamed up ways to address them. He was the one who planned them, worked for them, and ultimately sacrificed his own life for them.

This beautiful curving road cuts through the village. Those of you who are old enough will remember it when it was just a footpath. It was strewn with spurges and thorny shrubs with black claws that would grab you. He toiled by himself to broaden the footpath to pave the way for the road. Eventually a handful of other youngsters his age joined him. He was injured at the spot where the mailbox stands now. He ignored it because it was a small scratch.

I am obliged to tell you what he told me when his injury became serious. His last message to me and you was this: “I will not survive aiyā…,” (from the beginning till the very end, he called me “aiyā”) “please tell everyone that my death will not mean the end of this pilgrimage towards the salvation of our people. Tell them that the journey will continue until its goal is reached. Tell them that until every person in this world has the opportunity to live a happy, full life, this journey will not end.”

When I heard this word, I teared up. Your eyes would tear up, too. No matter how strong we are, some occasions call for crying.

1973