Translation of a Sujatha's short-story -- COCONUTS
Sundara Pandian
titled COCONUTS. This translation by my friend V.Nagarajan came on
S.C.I. sometime ago. I am posting it in our newsgroup for your
benefit. I welcome you to post your English translations of your
favorite short-stories. I am thinking about posting some translations
of some Tamil stories. --- S.Pandian].
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A Short-story from Tamil (recycled)
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{ V.Nagarajan [ng...@milton.u.washington.edu ] }
Sujatha is the _nom de plume_ of S. Rangarajan, the most
popular tamil writer alive. Sujatha has written dozens of novels
and scores of short stories. Many of his stories have been
adapted to the screen. He brought a new style of writing to
tamil literature that has given rise to a whole genre of "Sujatha
style" writers. He writes "formula" novels and his short stories
usually have an O'henry-esque ending. The story translated here
is one of his better ones. (The universality of this story is
striking and, at the same time, depressing.) Despite the foregoing
- somewhat harsh - criticism, I consider Sujatha an immensely
talented writer. His essays (ramblings on various topics, actually),
collected in three volumes, are a testimony to his writing skill
and his mastery over the language. Born in Srirangam, Sujatha has
made Bangalore his home where he is an engineering executive with
BEL. Lately, he has been churning out Science Fiction.
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COCONUTS
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[Tamil original: Sujatha. Translation: V. Nagarajan, May 1991]
India. Somewhere. The forenoon of some day.
The shops of the village were all closed. On the walls were
scrawled in big letters, in fresh, dripping red: K I L L T H E M !
The streets were quiet - unnaturally silent. With the doors
and windows of houses shuttered, it looked like the Biblical
Judgement Day.
A jeep entered the village with much noise. It had an open
top. There were about fifteen people packing the jeep; they
were either standing or barely sitting in it. The driver of
the jeep, a young man, had a cigarette hanging from his lips.
He had a handkerchief tied around his head. He drove the jeep
unnecessarily fast. He was shifting gears rapidly. With its
exhaust bellowing out smoke, the jeep was going fast with no
particular destination, it seemed. It suddenly reversed
direction and proceeded. In the middle of the jeep was standing
a man with a flag tied to a bamboo pole. Next to him was a
man who looked like the leader of the pack. He had a rifle.
He shot in the air a few times causing the birds in the
trees to take off helter-skelter.
They had with them cymbals, tin boxes and bells and assorted
noise-making things. Their voices had become hoarse after
having shouted words like victory, valor, blood and battle.
Even after all their noise-making the doors of the houses
did not open.
"This is a tiny place," said one.
"They must be frightened," said another.
"Free India Restaurant! Hold on! Stop the jeep! Break the
door!" commanded the one who had been watching the signboards.
Stones were fired rapidly on the closed doors of the restaurant.
"Don't stop. Keep going. Go to the town," said the leader.
"To the town, to the town," the rest of them chimed in.
"Our country-"
"Ours!"
"Our language-"
"Ours!!"
The jeep proceeded in its new route for some distance.
"Coconuts! Coconuts!" they all shouted.
There was an old man sitting under a tree resting with bunches
of tender coconuts.
The jeep came to a sudden stop. They all jumped out of it.
The old man being near-sighted did not stir.
"Grampa, are you selling coconuts?"
The old man looked up. "Why do you ask?"
"There's a bandh all day today. You shouldn't be selling them
today."
"Grampa, do you have a machete?" asked another one. Every one
of them picked up a coconut.
"Wait! Let me do it."
"Grampa, you are too old. Don't do any business today."
"Why?"
"There's a state-wide bandh today. All places are closed. We
are protesting."
"Is that so? Please give me back my coconuts then. I wasn't
aware of the bandh."
"Grampa, where's the machete?"
"Give me the money. I'll give you the machete."
"Give it!"
"The money?"
"I'll pay. You hand me the machete."
The old man pulled out the machete from under a gunny sack.
One of the men asked, smiling, "Shall I break the coconut or
break your head?" The old man smiled uneasily.
The leader restrained everyone, "The old fellow doesn't know.
Leave him alone."
"Grampa, gather up your stuff and leave."
"Why?"
"No one will be out today. All doors are shut."
"Why?"
"Good people are being massacred elsewhere. We are protesting."
The old man did not understand. "Give me back my machete."
One of the men who scratched his back with the machete, turned
around and cut through the air with it. "This is how one hacks.."
"No need for that. Bare hands will do." - another one mimicked
strangling a neck.
"We are wronged in every way! There is more people that speak
our language. The census is wrong. It's a lie. If they attack
us with their goons, how long will it take for us to retaliate?"
"Let's go there with an army. Our sister and brothers there are
without protection. We have to go there...we need to gather
strength... collect weapons...more.."
"They stripped our women and strung up their sarees into confetti!"
"We have to finish them off. The time has come!"
* * *
Prem and his young wife were on their way home after spending
a few days in a mountain resort. They drove through that village
on the border of two states. He was tired from driving for
five hours but the memories of the exciting times spent with
his new wife were fresh in his mind and kept him cheerful. His
wife who was sitting very close to him was wearing bindi in her
forehead. She looked like a doll. Her cheeks were red from the
sun and from a constant blush.
"Why are all the shops closed?" asked she.
"May be it's their lunch time? The people in this region are
lazy." He rested a hand on one of her thighs. "Later." She removed
the mischievous hand and put it back on the steering wheel.
"Prem, look there."
At a distance, in the shade of a tree, was an old man gathering
up coconuts. There were some youths scattered nearby, drinking
coconut milk.
"He is selling coconuts. I'm thirsty."
"OK, whatever Memsa'eb desires.."
They noticed the car from a distance. It came towards them and
stopped. In the front seat were a young man and a woman sitting
close together.
The young man was dressed modishly. He came out of the car and
stretched. Pulled out his wallet and walked over to the old
man. They were watching him closely. The woman noticed them.
A dishevelled youth looked at her and leered. She looked away.
"Kithna?" said Prem.
The old man was quizzical. "What?"
"Kithna? How much?" Prem pointed to the coconuts and gesticulated.
The old man looked at the gang standing nearby. The man with
the bandana signalled to another man and the two of them approached
Prem slowly.
"Grampa, don't give him any."
Both Prem and the old man looked bewildered.
Some more members of the gang moved closer to them.
"Which state are you from?"
Prem said, in english, "I'm sorry. I don't follow what you're
saying. Could you speak english?"
"Gopal, ask him in english."
"Which state are you from?"
"I am an Indian."
"Prem, forget the coconuts. Let's go," the woman said in panic.
There was a man standing in front of her staring at her.
Prem suddenly felt hot. There was antagonism in those faces..
He saw the rifle. And the cymbals, the sticks and the flag...
"There is no India, mister."
"He must be one of them!"
"Yes! Just look at him!"
"Prem, please come back. I'm scared."
By now they had surrounded her. One of them touched her blouse
and ran a hand over it.
"Look how handsome his mustache is!"
Prem started to leave. He tried pushing them aside gently. But
they did not move.
"Leave him alone. Let him have a coconut," said the old man.
"They have killed our people in your state," Gopal said.
"I don't have a state. I am without a state."
"He's chickening out!"
"Didn't you see the paper today? The whole state is shut down
today. How dare you drive around on a day like this!"
"Forgive me. I haven't seen a paper in the last three days."
"Where are you from?"
"Prem!"
Prem smiled trying to hide the fear. "Please let me go."
"Touch my feet. We'll let you go."
"Prem! Prem!!"
"He won't tell us where he is from...what nerve!"
Some of them were dancing obscenely in front of his wife.
He hesitated a little bit. Just a bit.. His forehead was covered
with droplets of sweat.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Touch my feet."
Prem bent down and touched his feet. "Are you satisfied?"
"Let her also."
"Yes, your wife too!"
Some of them opened the car door and shouted at her to get out.
She cringed in terror and tried to move away. One of them touched
her breasts.
Prem exploded. He pushed them aside and ran toward the car.
They caught him by his shirt. The woman, in sheer terror, tried
to let him into the car. Three of them jumped on the bonnet
while he got into the car and tried to start. They pulled him
out with much force. He started hitting them blindly. His
clothes were torn. They spread over him...
Now it was hard to see where he and his wife were in that melee.
Their belongings - "A Marriage Manual", a road map, water bottle,
bangles..- spilled out of the car. One of them hopped on top of
the car and danced. The car swayed with his beat.
Prem's voice was barely audible. "Think about the thousands there
like you... I am an Indian... I am..."
"Gopal, give me that rifle!"
At a distance, a dry, skinny cow that was freely roaming the
highway, gave a start when it heard a gun go off..
* * *
