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| Krupakar Pothula |
Title of the Telugu original: mooDu
kathaloo…muktaayimpoo…
(Same story with three narrations…and the
finis…)
Translated by: U Atreya Sarma
(With the permission of the original
writer)
Lavanya:
Dad had never said no to anything I asked him until this
point. Hardly would I finish expressing my wish and he’d fulfil it no matter how
expensive it was. Of course, we were affluent enough. That was why, I was sure with
a sense of pride, that he would always get me anything I desired.
There were occasions when mom tried to counter dad’s pampering of me. “Remember that she is a girl. Do you think that she’ll live with us forever? Don’t spoil her. One day she has to get married and go off to take charge of her life and make her own family. So, bear this in mind and bring her up,” she would caution him. “Don’t feel that you’re the only father in this world with a girl child.” But he didn’t care a hoot, as usual, for her jibe.
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| U Atreya Sarma |
Dad never called in question the
purpose or intention behind my wishes…until the other day…when he gave a
clearcut no! Not in a routine but in a very irate tone
did he thunder that big no-no. It was
the first time that he was so furious with me. Seeing that it gave me the shock
of my life, he appeared to have relented a whit, after trying very hard to
restrain himself.
“Don’t any longer insist on this particular one. I can
grant any other wish but this. I love you more than my own life, you know. I am
your true well-wisher. So, I can’t let you do it,” urged dad, trying his best
to speak in a calm voice, although he didn’t succeed in fully toning down the
sharpness in his modulation, and the rage in his looks.
Of course, I didn’t expect that he would happily hear
what I would say and respond with a prompt ‘Yes and amen,’ but I didn’t
imagine even in my wildest dreams that his reaction would be so severe. I
presumed that a little bit of coaxing would change his heart, and if that
didn’t work, I would move him with my tears. If that too didn’t melt his
butter, I would feign resentment…and stop talking to him for a couple of
days…so that he would relent and give me the OK. But after witnessing his
furious reaction, I realized that none of these tantrums would work.
And asking mom to persuade dad—and bring him around—wouldn’t
work as she was always a passive bystander on our domestic stage—only due to
dad’s attitude. Dad firmly believed
that he was blessed with my birth only because of his prayers, oaths and
pilgrimages—and that mom had hardly any role in it!
That’s why when it came to my matters, dad always
insisted that his word should be final since he firmly believed that he alone
knew me inside out, be it during my childhood regarding the frocks or shoes I’d
like to wear, or the toys I’d love to play with—or when I grew up to be a
college student about the brand of car I’d fancy to drive.
That’s why, pitiably, mom didn’t bring herself to
interfering in my affairs. If at all she dared to, even rarely, dad didn’t
brook it. So, mom’s words always ended up in a waste of breath.
Even then with a small ray of hope left inside me, I
asked her to broach the matter with dad so as to give it a try. She didn’t turn
down my plea, but the way she looked me in the eye revealed without a doubt that
she wasn’t ready for it, and she too was on the same page with dad in this
particular matter.
‘Or why not I take a U-turn and heed dad’s words and obey
what he says?’ It flashed on my mind for a moment. Just for a second! ‘Why
should I? After all, I am not a ten-year-old kid with no mental maturity. I am
a twenty-five-year-old well-educated sensible woman. What I wanted to do, my
conscience told me it was no wrong. Why then should I compromise my stand?’
My ego spread out its hood and hissed.
‘Yes, you’re certainly a well-educated and sensible
young woman. And you know what you’re doing. There’s no doubt about it. But is that
good enough to overcome your problem?’ questioned my alter ego. This
searching question irked me a bit.
How to get this problem resolved, I couldn’t make out. ‘What
to do? How to convince dad?’ As I racked my brain, I thought of someone. It
was uncle Krishna. He was not only a dearest friend of dad but also a trusted
advisor. If at all dad cared about any advice at any time, it was only that of
uncle Krishna. Uncle was equally close to me as well.
If I urged him to move the matter with dad, he wouldn’t
decline, I was sure. He’d certainly talk it out with dad. This thought brought
me a sense of relief. I picked up the mobile to speak to him.
Krishna:
Amarendra was my closest friend, and Lavanya was his
daughter. My wife and I adored her beyond words, especially because we had no
daughters. That was why, I at once answered the call on seeing Lavanya’s name flash
on my mobile—though I was busy in class, teaching.
“What’s it, dear Lovie, that….” Hardly had I completed the
sentence before she cut me short, “Are you free uncle for a couple of minutes?
This is something urgent.” Sensing certain worry in her voice, I thought
something must have gone awry.
“What happened, dear? Is something wrong?” I inquired, in
an alarmed tone, flitting out of the classroom onto the veranda.
“Yes, uncle,” she blurted out tensely, “that’s why I had
to call you at this hour…” and went on nonstop for a full half an hour—pouring
out her agony, without letting me any chance to throw in any remark, before she
finally asked me, agitatedly, “Now tell me uncle if I am wrong.”
“Not at all, Lovie,”
I said, since I didn’t find anything wrong with her.
“Thank you,
uncle for understanding. That’s more than enough. Uncle, since you agree that I
am not wrong, would you please do me a favour? If dad heeds anyone’s words,
it’s only yours. That’s why, would you please talk to him about it?” Now, she
didn’t sound pitiful or helpless.
‘What a tangle you’re pushing me into, my darling!’
I felt.
What Lavanya said was right. Her dad was never a
fair-weather friend, he was my dearest crony. He was indeed a friend in need.
We were classmates and bench-mates right from primary school through college.
There was, however, a lot of economic disparity between both of our families.
He came of a very affluent family, whereas I was lower middleclass. But it
didn’t come in the way of his camaraderie with me.
I was known for studying well and being the topper in
every class. If someone presumed that was the reason for his hero-worship of
me, it was wrong as he was not unintelligent. In fact, there was no need for
the highly well-off Amar to go to school or college. He was the sole heir of a
lot of lucrative family businesses and commercial interests to take care of. It
was only for social clout and a high dowry he chose to pursue his studies. It
took me quite a long time to fully know his mind and to figure out why he
treated me as his own sibling.
After
graduating, I decided not to pursue a higher education due to my financial
insufficiency. Getting wind of that, he hurried to my home and admonished me
right and left.
“When I myself,
just with a second-class pass, have decided to lavish myself with a university
course, why should you—the college topper—give up the idea of going in for
university education?” he questioned, and went on with a josh, “And have you
forgotten that the seat of the university is located in our town itself—that
would save money on travel, board and lodge? If you are still worrying about
expenses like fees and books, don’t you know that, with your distinction, you
would get a scholarship?” And he assured me, “If for some reason, you don’t get
it, don’t you know I am here to stand by you…”
Well before I was ready to demur, he vocalised solemnly,
“Don’t be under an impression that I am offering this to flaunt my generosity
or kindness. Nothing of that sort. It’s only a loan. And be reassured that once
you complete your studies and land a job, I’ll take it back with interest!”
Thereafter, he himself submitted my application along
with his, and after we got the admission, he paid my fee himself, joking that
his hand was a golden one… And well within six months after I graduated, he had
his father—secretary of the college committee—appoint me as a lecturer in the
same degree college where we had studied.
One of those
days we were on a drink. Hovering in a buoyant mood, I asked him why he was so magnanimous
to me. “Unless I am good with you, how can I recover the loan with due
interest?” he guffawed, and added soberly, “Krishna, unless we help one another
who else—from somewhere else—would do?”
If I went down the memory lane and ruminated, there was
not even a single occasion when I was of any help to him. Mention any type of
help, and all of it flowed only from him. He was such a buddy who adored me to
the skies.
Despite all this bonhomie between Amar and me and my
promise to Lovie, I didn’t have a wisp of confidence to convince him in the
matter in hand, knowing him as I did over forty years of our friendship. Nobody
else was as familiar with him to be aware of his strengths, weaknesses,
beliefs, ideological angles et al. However, having given my word to Lovie, it
was now my bounden duty to do it with utmost earnestness. There was no question
of any compromise or backing out on this score.
So, I called Amar and told him that I’d meet him after
the college hours to discuss an important thing, and ended the call before he
raised any question.
Amarendra:
Lavanya was our only child—a gift after two abortions and
a newborn death. Tossed in a painful desperation, my wife and I went on a
pilgrimage, visited numerous holy places, and prayed to many a god and goddess.
Fortunately, our prayers came to be answered, and Lavanya became the cynosure
of our eyes and hearts. I brought her up with utmost love, and gave her
whatever she wanted. In short, I gave her the best at every moment.
Lovie—the pet name by which we called Lavanya—was very
smart and intelligent. She did her engineering from the Indian Institute of
Technology (IIT), Chennai. I hoped she would now be partnering with me in
running the affairs of our family business. When I suggested it, she gave her
nod—but with a rider that she would first get into a suitable job for a couple
of years herein India, since it would help her secure an admission in an Ivy
League school like Harvard Business School or Wharton School.
“Ok, dear, as you please,” zealously, I nodded, as it was
a good proposition. But how it was going to brew, ultimately…, I couldn’t sniff
a whiff.
Here a few words about me… I came from a wealthy family
and was highly educated. I was a top businessman with a wide network and
influence. Somehow, having no innate flair, I kept away from politics. Yet, had
I been keen about it and duly focused on it, I would have become an MLA (Member
of Legislative Assembly), and also possibly a cabinet minister.
I had a long list of contacts and financial interests and
interactions—maintaining friendly relations with each and every one, like how
an ideal businessman should. But very few people knew my real self—that I was
confined to an unseen small and close inner circle, and that I would have unreserved
relations only with those whom I let into that circle!
More significantly, I was caste-conscious. It was only my
own caste people that I would allow to cross the unseen border and step into my
mishpocha. I knew that the self-styled progressives would go to town, blew
their own horn, and taunt me as a casteist virus. Of course, it was irrefutable
that they had all those rights to bash me. If cooperation within the caste was
indeed a virus, that virus, in my view, was very much essential to be a
successful member of the society.
‘Like how the
root system plays a vital role in the life of a plant right from its sowing
stage to growth of foliage to transformation into a huge tree, so does caste
play a crucial role in the survival of the human by way of societal symbiosis.’
‘If a sapling
grows into a plant, then into a stable and magnificent tree with a large trunk
and an expansive branch network, it’s only due to the roots firmly entrenched
deep in the soil. Likewise, caste unites and protects its members and
safeguards their collective interests.’ This was part of my firm belief
system.
‘Do whatever
you like, and live the way you like, but do it only within the boundaries of
caste. Don’t ever overstep the boundaries, since man is a social being. And the
same thing holds good even in respect of marriages.’ This was the
philosophy of my life, and I always followed it with no exception.
If that be the
case, how at all can I now violate this philosophy? No, never. That was what I
lucidly explained to Lavanya. But she didn’t care. She even dared to send my
best friend Krishna as a mediator to convince me. And he spared no effort
toward it.
“Is it a crime
to love someone? Show me someone during these times who is not in love,”
Krishna confronted me. And he went on
with his logic, “Don’t you know that Lavanya honestly told you about her love interest
out of her high affection for you? What would you have done, had she married
him, keeping you in the dark?”
His specious logic got on my nerves, and I riposted, “If
it’s only loving somebody, I have no objection. To love is no wrong. Had she
loved someone within our caste, even if he is penniless, I would have performed
her wedding very happily. My only objection is to her wish of marrying outside
our caste.”
“You may feel
that love of one’s caste is for societal purpose, but somehow, here in this
particular case, your love of caste is rather fanatic, a kind of scabies,”
returned Krishna.
His obstinacy made me fly off the handle, and I couldn’t
control myself. “It’s the same scabies that prodded me to make friendship with
you, though you were in no way a match to me in social status. It’s the same
scabies that made me go out of my way and help you in every way,” I shouted. I
thought he would be enraged with my words, but he burst out into a laughter.
“Times have changed, my dear Amar. So, we should keep
changing with times,” Krishna said coolly, trying to prevail upon me with his
soft tone, “Is caste so much more important for you than your own daughter?”
“Yes, yes, I do
love my caste so much that I don’t hesitate to walk out—not only on my wife, on
a dear friend like you, and on my dearest daughter Lavanya as well—but also
even on God. But do remember that I can never dishonour or disown my caste,” I
said, strongly, to his face. Telling him to convey this to Lavanya as well, I
asserted there was nothing more to talk, rose up and left in a huff, indicating
that he too better leave the place.
The very next day Lavanya walked out of the home and
entered into a registered marriage with her lover. The creepy Krishna and his
wife had the gumption to be the official witnesses to the wedding, and this act
threw me from the frying pan into the fire. I felt too humiliated to show my
face to anyone. So, I locked myself in my home, powered off the phone, and kept
fuming over the development.
I should do something, something to get even, to see that
Lavanya would never recover from it. If I delayed it, my wrath might cool down.
Strike the iron while it is hot! I would certainly do something
befitting in a couple of days. Otherwise, I would be totally bereft of mental
peace.
The Finis
“Oh, how
generous was Amarendra the great! It’s incredible how he could do something like
this!” The folks in the town were dumbfounded.
“Why such a repelling rashness? Why did a great soul like
Amarendra resort to such an action…!” A wave of impatience and resentment came
over the people of his caste!
The leaders of the caste welfare society appointed as
trustees for the property worth crores of rupees that Amarendra bequeathed to
it—after
duly providing for the comfortable living of his wife—were on cloud nine!
But Amarendra couldn’t eyewitness all this furore or
euphoria. He had already shot himself dead with his revolver!
***
Bio: Krupkar Pothula
a retired Chief Manager from SBI and settled down in Hyderabad, is a prolific
Telugu short-story writer. Besides his Katha Krupakaram (Volume 1), he
published more than 100 stories with several of them winning prizes. With his
emulation of the standard tradition of Ravi Sastri in Telugu and that of
Premchand in Hindi, he employs innovative techniques like imagery, empathy for
the indigent and contemporary relevance. Besides his creative energy, he is an
avid reader.
Email: krupakarvisakha@gmail.com
