Translated from the original Tamil short story pommaikaḷ (பொம்மைகள்) from the 1992 collection of short stories titled makkattuc cālvai (மக்கத்துச் சால்வை) by S.L.M. Hanifa. The original collection is available at noolaham.org.
The summer heat was beating down relentlessly. The four-post cloth canopy by the entrance tried its best to provide some respite from the oppressive sun. Having kneaded the mixture of clay and fine sand, Avvākkuṭṭi began to swiftly shape the pots, one after another, and stack them up so they formed a tall clay slab. She covered it with wet cloth to keep it moist. Suddenly, she remembered something and called out to her daughter,
“Āsiāmmā… vōy!”
“Coming!” Āsiā called back right away. The noisy exchange woke up Avvākkuṭṭi’s youngest son, Ilavattampi. Even in his half-awake stupor, he remembered what he had been nagging his mother about for a week.
“Ummā, me.. want.. parrot puppet vāppā…”
He was a stubborn child. The baby talk he sputtered out meant he wanted his mother to ask his father to get him a puppet shaped like a parrot.
“But you gave up your vāppā right after you were born!” sighed Avvākkuṭṭi, her lips quivering slightly. The quiver reminded her of the past three years and how she had struggled to swim upstream.
When this little tot, this tyke who longed for his mother’s affection, was growing inside her seven-month-pregnant belly, Avvākkuṭṭi she had no one but her husband Sulaimān Lebbē and her daughter Āsiā to help her through her pregnancy. They had no relatives to speak of. Āsiā, mature beyond her years, took on the bulk of the housework. Avvākkuṭṭi was immensely proud of Āsiā for it.
There wasn’t a soul in the neighborhood who failed to marvel at Āsiā’s beauty and her polite, helpful nature.
“Like Avvākkuṭṭi, we gave birth to daughters, too, but look how useless ours turned out to be! Why don’t you girls go drink Āsiā’s pee? That will knock some sense into you!”
The short-tempered neighborhood mothers would pinch their daughters’ cheeks, scolding them harshly. Their girls would grumble and curse Āsiā along with their mothers.
No one questioned the origins of Avvākkuṭṭi’s husband Sulaimān Lebbē. He came from nowhere and somehow tied his life to hers. They married young and shared a loving life. They had six children from Āsiā to the youngest, Ilavattampi. Three of them died young. The boy who came after Āsiā was languishing at the farm of the village headman in Madurangkundu, working only for “daily meals and one set of new clothes every year.” He didn’t know the holy word nor had he ever stepped into the schoolyard. He was numb from a life confined to cows and ploughs and ladles. At fifteen, he looked like an old man.
Some years ago, Sulaimān Lebbē went out with his son to do the seasonal harvest. By dusk, he was dead in the village headman’s bullock cart. The grim reaper came for him in the shape of a common krait… teardrops glistened in the corners of Avvākkuṭṭi’s eyes. She dabbed at them with the edge of her saree.
“Why are you crying, Ummā?” When Avvākkuṭṭi saw her daughter shaken, she recovered instantly.
Āsiā pretended not to notice her mother’s grief. She began kneading the mixture of clay and fine sand with her feet. Her exquisite calves, slim and smooth like banana tree stems, danced rhythmically over the clay. Once the mixture was ready, the mother and the daughter got to work shaping their vessels. With practiced ease, they rapidly transformed the mound of clay on one side into elegant pots and pans on the other. What magic it was!
They finished the work in one round. In the time that was left, Avvākkuṭṭi needed to worry about fixing dinner. Her wretched belly had already started to grumble. The youngest child started screaming again. She grabbed him and stuck a dry nipple into his mouth. But he was still going on about the parrot puppet.
She called out to Āsiā, “Child! Take your brother to the Míirāsā store and get him a parrot puppet. Tell the shopkeeper Ummā will pay him back after selling some pots.” Her voice was gentle with maternal affection.
After sending her children off to the store, she went into the kitchen. The rice pot stood empty.
“My god! I can’t even make dinner!” In her distress, Avvākkuṭṭi thought of her cousin Mariam, the wife of the Rakkā pōdiyār. Without delay, she hurried to their house.
“Rice is like gold these days,” Mariam said as she handed some to Avvākkuṭṭi. “One measure costs three shillings. You must give me three pots as soon as you fire them in the kiln.” Her tone was firm.
“Avvā, my child, I nearly forgot!” she continued without barely pausing for breath, “Your brother asked me to let you know. He has found a groom for your daughter. In any case, the arrangements need to be finalized after the Friday prayers this week. Don’t worry about the expenses. The groom will take care of them.”
Avvākkuṭṭi was stunned. She could hardly believe her ears.
“What is the groom like, cousin?”
“What’s there to ask! He owns cattle, land and paddy fields in Thampan Kadavai. His first wife passed away. If your brother the pōdiyār arranges a match, nothing can go wrong!”
Avvākkuṭṭi’s heart leapt and danced among the field of clay pots and pans. In her mind, a cow and its calf from the Thampan Kadavai farm ran joyfully, their tails raised in delight.
As she reached home, she heard:
“Ummā.. me.. Big sis .. parrot.” She scooped up the boy and, unable to contain her joy, covered his face and forehead with kisses.
Āsiā lit the fire and started making dinner. Avvākkuṭṭi sat on the swing under the canopy and started singing a lullaby:
“My darling, the apple of my eye!,
Sleep, my prince,
May Hayāt Nabis watch over you!”
Āsiā couldn’t understand her mother’s sudden burst of mirth.
“Āsiā, my child, my body is worn out from kneading clay. That’s why pōdiyār uncle has found a groom for you. I already said yes—without even asking you!”
The firelight from the hearth cast a warm glow on her face, highlighting her beauty. She was quietly exhilarated with expectation.
All this is her way of silently conveying her assent.
A week later, along the winding red-earth path, a frail old figure made his way, his soft white beard and moustache swaying in the wind, his bald head covered by a fez. Behind him walked Āsiā, fully veiled in a silk saree.
As if she couldn’t bear the sight, Avvākkuṭṭi turned her head away and began kneading the clay and fine sand. Her youngest, standing at her feet, said:
“Ummā... Big sis .. parrot puppet.. buy… brother-in-law… gone”
He threw the puppet into the soggy pile of clay. As it slowly sank, Avvākkuṭṭi’s feet froze, and her eyes began to glisten.
1967
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