Translated from the Tamil by Padma Amarnaath
Moovelu was busy in the seedling nursery, stamping over oleander paste mixed with manure. Cranes were happily showering and sprinkling water from the irrigation lake. Vemukudumban entered, guiding his plough bulls. “Ah, Moovelu, there you are,” he said.
“What is the matter, Mama?1” asked Moovelu.
“You must be knowing the Villisai land2, which measures around eighty cents. It is near our irrigation lake slope. Renga Pillai has given it away for a good deal.”
“What made you buy that land, Mama?”
“Yes, I know it’s condition now, covered with dry grass and weeds. But we can plough and try to cultivate it together.”
“Fine, Mama. Let’s do it.”
“Moovelu, keep the land for yourself. What am I going to do with it at this stage of life? You are a father of four girls now. Cultivate it and support your family. Save yourself.”
“Okay, Mama. Kindly inform your daughter Rasamma as well.”
The elder man, Vemukudumban, nodded and slowly walked away with his bulls, making noise as they moved.
Rasamma arrived with ragi porridge and placed it inside the small hut near the fields. “Dear, I have some porridge for you. Come and drink, you can then get back to work.”
“Yes, I’m coming right away Rasamma. Sit down for a few minutes,” Moovelu replied. In the big irrigation lake, water flowed abundantly. Moovelu stepped into the flowing water, immersed himself, and then walked up. Velichi fishes3 glittered under the sunlight and swam freely. He climbed up the walkway beside the fields and bowed to the sun.
Rasamma, using an agappai4 , served the porridge in an earthen bowl. Moovelu sipped it, savoring the taste. “Your father asked me to cultivate the eighty cents of Villisai wetland near our irrigation slope. He says it will supply to cover our children’s expenses. He would visit the lawyer in town and get it registered in your name,” Moovelu told his wife. Rasamma tied her palm basket, placed it on her head, and started returning home.
Moovelu began toiling on the Villisai land, earlier filled with dry soil. He prepared the land to cultivate paddy crops and bananas. Vemukudumban had registered the eighty-cent Villisai land on a one-rupee stamp paper in Rasamma’s name. He got it approved and signed by the town lawyer and placed the agreement copy under his mattress. He then went to his backyard, where a heifer5 mooed while running around its rice porridge.
“You donkey, can’t you see me coming? Why make so much noise now?” he scolded, untying the heifer from the pole. With a sudden kick, Vemukudumban was thrown four feet away and never stood up again. He was laid on a coir cot and spent the next six months bedridden until he passed away during the month of Aadi.
Moovelu’s four children grew up and moved away in different directions. Through rain or shine, sunrise or sunset,
Moovelu remained dedicated to his fields. Chewing tobacco and betel leaves, he stayed in his hut beside the fields, as time passed.
The Villisai farm was getting ready for cultivation. Moovelu was setting up the farm’s pathway by removing weeds and clearing the passages. Women started plucking the paddy crops and tying them into bundles. Rasamma carried freshly cooked rice, gravy, and curries in a palm basket. Plantation workers left the fields with the sound of kulavai5, savoring the meal.
“Moovelu Anna6 , seems like you have a good harvest this year. You’ve manured more than half of your field with a lot of dung from almost ten cows’.”
“Oh, come on, stop this chatter,” Moovelu replied with a big smile, grinding betel leaves in his mortar and pestle. His place was always immaculate, like a white flower. His fields and pathways were clean and free from debris, weeds, and insects. Villagers frequently praised and approached him for advice or to arrange for the Naiyandi melam7.
When the rains of Karthigai subsided and the cold winds had begun. Sevanu, a villager, passed away. “Someone fetch Moovelu; we need to arrange for the kottu gang8. He should be at the Villisai land or in the hut nearby. Go call him,” Arumugam immediately ran to call Moovelu.
“Moovelu, Sevanu passed away this morning. We need to arrange for the Kottu gang. The villagers asked me to summon you immediately.”
“Oh, is that so? What time did he die?”
“This morning at five.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Rasamma was clearing weeds as darkness fell. Moovelu, who had gone to arrange the kottu band, had not yet returned to his hut. Rasamma stayed in the hut, hungry, waiting for him. As the sun began to rise, Moovelu finally returned.
Rasamma began to yell at him, “I had to spend the whole night alone with our four children. And you return so leisurely, without a thought for us.”
Moovelu ignored her, removed his veshti and shirt, and put on his loincloth. Picking up his axe and sickle, he walked into Villisai. He was skilled at piling haystacks, winnowing paddy grains, and tending to the cows.
All four girls grew up, graduated, and worked in large companies. Moovelu, now eighty, used a walking stick to reach his farm hut. He cultivated country bananas that bloomed abundantly in his eighty cents of Villisai land. Moovelu, chewing tobacco, cleaned the platform around his fields.
It was a scorching bright noon. “Ayyooo..” a loud cry came from the hut. Rasamma ran into the hut with her hands on her chest. Moovelu remained lying face down, smeared with soil.
“Wake up, dear, wake up!” Rasamma cried, shaking him vigorously. She tried splashing water on his face, but Moovelu did not awaken. Hearing Rasamma’s cries, villagers gathered. Moovelu’s breath had ceased. He had toiled on this soil all his life like an earthworm, and it was on this same soil that his life ended. The villagers mourned his passing.
Crows, sparrows, and squirrels waited at the farm hut for Moovelu’s usual offering of rice. After his death, Rasamma continued to work in the fields.
The farmland and its pathways were overgrown with weeds and unwanted climbers. In one corner of Villisai, Moovelu had planted mango trees, drumstick trees, guavas, tamarinds, and palms, which now stood like a splendid flower garden.
People who grazed their cows and goats would rest under the shade of these trees on Moovelu’s eighty-cent Villisai wetland, near the slope of the irrigation lake. Rasamma, now old and aged, continued to work in her fields with unwavering dedication.
However, trouble arose when Rengapillai’s sons arrived. They claimed the land, stating, “The eighty cents of Villisai was given to you by our father only on a lease; he did not sell it to you.”
The agreement Vemukudumbanhad signed and placed under his cot went missing. Poor Rasamma was left alone and distraught. She began to weep, overwhelmed by the situation.
The sons of Rengapillai demanded, “Pay us ten lakhs for the wetland as per the current market price. If you cannot, you must vacate the land.” Rasamma had no means to gather ten lakhs. Her four daughters, now grown, could not offer her financial help. The sons of Rengapillai had already sold the land to outsiders.
“Who fenced our land Sami?9 ” Rasamma asked with a weak tone. “Can’t you bear to see us visit this land? Can’t you see the blood and toil we’ve invested in it? Even if you fence it off, I will come here daily.”
The new owners of the land stood in silence.
Rasamma prepared large rice balls, packed them in a carrier, and slowly walked to the Villisai land. Squirrels, mynas, and sparrows awaited beneath the guava tree. The years of hard work and dedication, now remain snatched away from Rasamma.
Daily, Rasamma brought food in her carrier to feed the hungry birds and squirrels. Villisai land remained barren and cracked, a stark reminder of its former glory.
Footnotes:
1.Mama – (lit) uncle, but here it refers to father-in-law
2.Villisai – name of the land
3.Velichi fish – a kind of fish found in lakes
4.Agappai – a coconut shell with a long wooden handle used as a serving spoon
5.Heifer – a young cow, usually below three years of age
6.Kulavai – a loud noise made by rolling the tongue
7.Anna – referring to an elder brother
8.Kottu gang – a hand drum, beaten in certain festivities and death houses.
9.Sami – referring a person with respect, other name for God.
(Note: The above story is from the short-story collection Madurai Stories)
About the Author
Ayyanar Edadi hails from Thanatavam, a village near Madakkulam in Madurai district. He earned his B.Tech in Chemical Engineering before embarking on his entrepreneurial journey. His literary journey began during his college years. Drawing inspiration from his agricultural roots, deep love for Tamil literature, and profound connection with nature, he crafts evocative poems, compelling short stories, and insightful essays.
About the Translator
Padma Amarnaath is an accomplished author, speaker, and translator. As a blogger, Padma shares her insights in her blog on topics such as mindfulness, women empowerment, self-love, and social responsibilities. She has translated many modern Tamil works into English.
