Cycling against the wind was extremely exhausting.
Cycling against the wind was extremely exhausting.
“What can I do? These are the times we’re living in,” thought Kandasamy with a weary heart.
Both his legs ached terribly. Even his chest was filled with a pain he could not describe. His sweat-soaked body trembled with fatigue.
A cold breeze blew gently. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and through the gathering dusk, mist was beginning to descend.
It was around six or perhaps half past six. The atmosphere of the rainy season had already swallowed the daylight. The heavy load strapped to the back of his bicycle felt like a mountain, weighing on him even more because of his exhaustion.
How many days had this routine continued? Leaving at dawn on an empty stomach while his belly growled, then returning later with a load on his bicycle had become his way of life.
From Chavakachcheri to Kodikamam and Pallai, he had traveled countless roads and lanes. Carrying firewood, coconut fronds, palmyra leaves, dried palm sheaths, coconuts—he rode tirelessly, crossing Kopay fields and reaching places as far as Maruthanamadam, Chunnakam, and Mallakam.
If he set out carrying goods during the scorching midday heat, business along the way was as rare as food ships arriving at the Point Pedro harbor. Usually, he would not make any sales until reaching the Maruthanamadam junction.
The reward for cycling all day depended entirely on that day’s sales. Only afterward would there be something to fill the family’s stomachs.
Sometimes, after eating a vadai, drinking tea, and smoking a beedi under the shade of a roadside tree, he would feel a little relief. But when it was time to start again, his legs would ache once more.
It was much the same now, except that a year and a half had already passed.
After leaving their longtime home, they had settled in Mallakam, in a large compound among coconut trees that had been stripped bare. Their homes were tiny huts like the toy houses children build while playing. The roofs nearly touched their heads, and the palm-leaf walls trembled even in a light rain. The huts were cramped, but they were filled with many people and closely connected hearts.
There were countless families like his. Descendants of people who had once fought over boundary fences now lived together in the same compound. Though small quarrels sometimes erupted, they continued to live side by side.
The Indian Army had previously occupied that compound. There had once been a large house there, but when the soldiers left, the roof and parts of the walls disappeared with them.
Along with the peace they looted, it seemed the greenery of the compound had vanished too. All that remained were the stumps of many large trees that had been cut down.
When they first fled from their homes, this was where they had settled, building huts and starting over.
All the families survived through relief aid and whatever income they could earn by carrying goods on bicycles and trading them.
Kandasamy’s hut stood opposite a banyan tree. Beside it was a reading room. At any hour there would be villagers gathered there, and in the evenings the place would be even busier.
Once, it had been a pleasant environment—palm-leaf roofs, cement walls, and a lush garden. How happy he used to feel after finishing work, taking a refreshing bath, and resting on the veranda at dusk. But now everything had become confused and distant. His home, the garden, the banyan tree, and all those happy moments had become strangers to him. The work he had done every day was gone, and even the clothes he once wore felt like a dream.
Such were these hard times. Nothing happened at the right time anymore. It had taken too long to purchase goods that day. By the time he started out, it was already three o’clock, and problems followed.
Twice, his bicycle tires had gone flat. Twenty rupees had been spent just on repairs. He had left home without a single cent in hand, and darkness had begun to fall before he even crossed the Kopay fields.
He knew then that the day’s business was doomed. Once evening arrived, there would be no sales.
The relief supplies they had received four days earlier had already run out by yesterday. Somehow they might have managed lunch, but the question of dinner would only be settled after he got home.
The thought irritated him. The tea he had drunk all day could hardly sustain him. But what choice did he have? He could not unfairly raise the prices of the goods he sold. Somehow, they would have to get through the night.
Bicycles passed by like a procession. By the time he reached Maruthanamadam junction, darkness had thickened.
A Petromax lamp burned brightly there. Many people were working—young and old alike. Some were digging pits while others unloaded timber from bullock carts.
Large portraits of fallen fighters who had become martyrs were displayed on the school wall.
Along the roads he had traveled, he had seen people working everywhere—at junctions and in between—building pavilions and arches. But because of his state of mind, Kandasamy paid little attention.
He stopped his bicycle in front of the compound crowded with palm-leaf huts. Even in the darkness, children who had not yet tired of play were still running about. Nearby, the sound of machinery came from a printing press. Although there was no electricity, he knew that someone pedaled a bicycle to power the machine. It was much like a motorcycle running on kerosene.
“The times of struggle have forced people to invent so many new methods,” he thought.
Several men sat smoking beedis by the fence. A little farther away, beneath a peepal tree, noisy work was underway. They seemed to be building a memorial arch for the martyrs.
It was difficult to push the bicycle with its heavy load, but he managed to bring it to his hut.
A small oil lamp flickered beside the doorway.
His eldest child and the next one lay sleeping on a sack in front of the hut.
“Come here, father,” a voice called. His wife emerged carrying their youngest child on her hip. The half-naked child had a runny nose.
Even in the darkness, the child recognized him and babbled “Appa!” while trying to leap into his arms. Kandasamy parked the bicycle on its stand.
Seeing the load on the bicycle and the time he had returned, his wife immediately understood his condition.
“You look completely exhausted. There’s hot water on the stove. I’ll bring some tea. Wait here,” she said. Handing him the child, she went inside.
He sat beside the sleeping children. There was a little comfort in being home, but his mind remained unsettled.
His wife returned with tea.
“Wash your face and come. I’ve prepared some porridge,” she said supportively.
He looked at her affectionately. She understood his situation and acted without bombarding him with questions. Strength seemed to return to his body.
As he drank the tea sweetened with the sugar she had bought for him, she said:
“They’re building a martyrs’ arch over there. All the men have gone to help. You should go too. Even if your body is tired, shouldn’t we do our part as well?”
He looked up at the sky.
“Even if the body grows weary, the mind must not,” he thought as he stood up.
Then she added:
“They asked for a red sari. Where is mine? Malarakka said she’d take it. Please give that one along with my yellow sari too.”
— Inuvaiyur Chidambaram Thiruchenthinathan
Published in Erimalai Magazine, Aadi 1992
Compiled by Tamilarasan Abdul Kader.
Translation by Hari
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