Translated from the original Tamil short story tapas (தபஸ்) from his 1992 collection of short stories titled makkattuc cālvai (மக்கத்துச் சால்வை) by S.L.M. Hanifa. The original collection is available at noolaham.org. If you have any questions, please contact ez.iniyavan@gmail.com.
“Katheeja!”
“Hmm.”
She paused from chopping striped eel catfish and turned toward him under the pretext of sharpening her knife.
Even the other night, yearning for a life to take hold within her belly, she submitted her naked body and soul to him. The memory singed his heart like the sparks that flew from the knife as it made contact with the whetstone.
“Look here. This time, as soon as the rice paddy threshing at Madhurangundu is finished, let’s make a pilgrimage to Hayat Nabi’s holy mausoleum at Kataragama.”
The anguish in his words blended with their rhythm.
The thin saree that separated joy from suffering had a tear. Having seen his masculinity through that tear made her resolute. Sparks flew from her gaze.
“Why are you glowering?”
“No, after all those five-prayers-every-day and entire Friday nights at the mosque, it seems we are going to Kataragama now!”
Her words were punctuated by derisive laughter.
Anger blinded Ahmed’s eyes.
“Bitch! How dare you! Where did you learn to talk like that?” Katheeja finished cutting the fish and stood up to wash her hands. Only when she was drying her hands using the top of her saree did she realize that her husband was waiting for a response.
“From you,” a derisive smile accompanied this feisty response to hit him with its full force.
His slap across her cheek jolted her, sharp and sudden, like an electric shock. Her eyes welled up.
Ahmad stared blankly into the silent void before him.
Clouds of morning mist hung motionless as though lost in meditation. His glance roamed across the sky and searched for the moon…
On the edge of the western horizon the reflection of the crescent moon was searching for its shine.
An ancient tamarind tree stood to the west of the farmer’s shed, enveloped by the humming of its resident crow pheasants.
He was focused on the task of irrigating the bed of saplings.
He gathered up the thick semi-cylindrical barks hanging from the sapling guard pole and made his way towards the well.
The satisfaction of having irrigated twenty-thousand saplings, before dawn crept up to swallow the retreating darkness, made him crave for a cup of tea.
Despite blowing on the wood-burning stove with all his might, he could not get the fire to catch. Smoke crept into his eyes, making them smart and igniting a fire of memory in his heart. The rope of memories, soaked with his emotions, stiffened, its frayed strands jutting out like rigid spikes.
Her image appeared in his heart, shimmering like a bouquet of flowers adorned with morning dew.
In the very next moment, his heart hardened and turned bitter.
Her eyelids batted furiously, her lips quavered, and her eyes turned red.
She always obediently acquiesced to him. But that day, the elegance of her newfound independence gave her a certain ferocity.
“Why don’t you abandon this infertile woman and find another?”
Her words were tinged with frustration. Ahmad barged into the house and yanked open the wooden cabinet with unusual force. Sarees and property deeds scattered in all directions.
“Here you go, all the riches your parents gave us. Goodbye.” He got onto a train right away. That was almost three months ago. He got a job with a Sinhala farmer in his chili plantation. The farmer grew fond of Ahmad’s hard work. Occasionally he would offer Ahmad a drink to show his appreciation. But Ahmad always stepped back. “Boss, it is enough that you give me the wages my work deserves.In my religion, it is a sin to even touch what is forbidden.”
“Oh come on Ahmad,” the farmer would say, “all your Muslim bigwigs eat and drink everything nowadays! We are all the same, aren’t we?” as he gulped down his glass of coconut arrack.
Ahmad felt queasy. But his consistent refusal only made his Boss respect him even more. Ahmad quickly became one of his trusted employees.
Ahmad’s thoughts dwell on how the trust he placed on the prospect of parenthood was shattered.
Katheeja’s captivating beauty filled his imagination. He could never take his eyes off her exquisitely sculpted breasts and her voluptuous body. She, in turn, would melt in his gaze and give herself unto him, as they would become one.
But fate had different ideas. Their marital bliss had a flaw. Her beautiful belly never enjoyed the pride of being pregnant. In their decade of wedded life,he spent every waking moment appealing to God. He sought a remedy for his impotence by devoting himself to the mausoleums of saints and their teachings.
He made pledge after pledge. As a result, his herd of calves and his flock of chickens dwindled rapidly. Although he continued his efforts relentlessly, they bore no fruit.
But he did not lose faith in the power of pledges.
After sipping his tea slowly and taking tiny bites of a sweet between sips, he loosened the long underwear around his waist and waded into the river.
The river surged forward with force, roaring like a stampede of disoriented buffalos. The infant sun slowly rose in the east, its gentle rays eager to stretch across the emerald carpet of the land, growing stronger and harsher as the day unfolded.
He held his nose to dip into the cold water. When he raised his head again, his body could feel the memory of Katheeja. For three months, he was in the iron grip of those memories, his mind throbbed like the dismembered tail of a gecko caught in a trap.
He hastened to finish his bath and return to the farmer’s shed. With his right hand, he kneaded the old rice, softened overnight in water, with buffalo curd, shaping it into small balls that he popped into his mouth. They slipped down his throat as smoothly as river water.
“How is it going, thampi! Aren’t you going back home? The festival is tomorrow. I hear that Bulamir Sahibu is going to stage a play by the stream.” Ahmad raised his eyes from his plate when he heard Vilāvadi Yunus kākkā’s question.
“For people like us, money in the pocket is what counts as a festival,” replied Ahmad and without waiting for a response, pushed a footstool towards Yunus kākkā.
He picked up another plate for Yunus kākkā, ladled some rice onto it, and heaped yogurt on top. The yogurt sat like a little white mountain atop the rice.
“You are right, Ahmad. Your wife came by the house yesterday. She must have come to inquire after you. But she didn’t broach the subject.”
“I couldn’t care less! Women who don’t obey their husbands deserve to be treated like that,” bristled Ahmad.
“What can the poor child do to cope with our anger?”
“Stop talking about her and talk about something else.”
“Ahmad, there is a little too much yogurt here,” continued Yunus kākkā. “My wife told me that your wife plucked all the tender mangoes from our tree. Apparently she hasn’t menstruated for three months.”
Yunus kākkā was oblivious to Ahmad. He kept on talking as he tilted his plate to drink the runny yogurt remaining on his plate.
Ahmad felt that the rice ball descending down his throat gave him a strange tingling sensation.
His thoughts flowed like a river. After a long time, his wife appeared in his mind, radiant with the glow of motherhood. She laughed joyfully. The sound seized him, gripping his thoughts. Tears welled up and splashed onto his body.
His boss, Dias, the Sinhala farmer, waddled towards him, breaking his reverie.
“How are you? Aren’t you going home for your festival? Here, take this fifty rupees — go home, and come back soon.”
Ahmad stuffed the money into his pocket. He attached a sickle to the pole and headed towards the tamarind tree at the head of the plantation.
The tamarind fruits tinkled in the wind. He imagined the tinkle of the triumphant laughter of his wife joining in.
As he filled the palmyrah leaf basket with tamarind fruit, he made a mental note to look for wood-apples as well.
Determined to catch the ten o’clock train, his legs found the vigor and pride of a twenty-year-old.
1970