“I Can’t Find Pethachi…”

“I Can’t Find Pethachi…”

“I can’t find Pethachi! She’s been outside for a long time. If she goes out, she never stays away this long. I keep telling Pethachi that if she has to go out at night, she should take Vasanthi with her.

I’m afraid to carry the lamp outside. After dark, no lights should be visible outside. If they see lights from the road, it can bring serious trouble.

This morning Pethachi fainted while going to the well to wash her face. All day she had been speaking incoherently. I am worried about her.

‘Pethachi… Pethachi…’

I shouted loudly in the courtyard, beneath the drumstick tree, and near the fence. There was no answer, no sign of her.

Perhaps, in her confused state, she had wandered off somewhere. If she had gone anywhere, it would probably be to my mother’s house. The other children were all in the Vanni. My mother’s house was only two roads away from ours. People were even sleeping in the lanes at night.

I was afraid to go searching for Pethachi. But I couldn’t bear not to search either. Since I was little, she had cared for me deeply. Even when my mother called, I would not go.

Pethachi was a tall woman. There was no one in the village who had grown as tall as she had. Even when she wore a sari, it barely reached her calves. Everyone in the village called her ‘Periyachi’ (Elder Mother). When I was a child, unable to pronounce it properly, I called her ‘Pethachi,’ and the name stuck.

I could not bear not seeing her. Memories flooded back.

In the evenings, Pethachi would sit on the sand in the courtyard. In those days the white sand from Vallipuram Temple lay in mounds. She would stretch out her legs, gather up her sari to her knees, and rub her legs. Beside her sat the betel-nut mortar. She would pound betel leaves, areca nut, and lime together and call out:

‘Kunju!’ (‘Little one!’)

At that time I would be playing in the onion-drying shed. My grandfather had stacked onions there in great heaps. The wind would whistle through the racks. Clods of earth stuck to the onions would fall, along with insects.

‘Come away from there before something falls on you, child! Come here!’

I would run and throw myself into her lap. She would even give me some of the crushed betel mixture. It stained my lips bright red. She would joke that I used to eat mud as a child and that was why it colored so well.

Pethachi told wonderful stories. Resting my head in her lap, I would listen as she gently pushed my head aside and continued. It was from her that I learned of Karaikkal Ammaiyar, Manu Needhi Cholan, the Mahabharata war, and the Ramayana.

Even after I grew older, whenever I went anywhere, I would tell Pethachi first. She would never sleep until I returned. She would sit holding a palm fan, with a lamp burning beside her, brushing away ants from the wall.

Those were the days when the Sri Lankan soldiers patrolled the roads. Searchlights swept through the lanes. Land mines exploded frequently. The very mention of mines terrified her.

The moment I returned home she would relax. Soldiers frightened her deeply. Once, when soldiers came to arrest a couple, they even raised a foot to kick her.

Later, when she stayed at my uncle’s house in Achchuveli, the army surrounded and attacked the camp where Captain Pandithar was based. At dawn, while elderly women lay injured, Amuthan and some youths fought their way through the encirclement. The soldiers beat my uncle so badly that he lost control of himself.

I remembered all of this and tears came to my eyes.

Vasanthi held my hand and told me not to go outside. But could she understand the love between Pethachi and me? She was a later relationship. Pethachi was my life.

Gently removing Vasanthi’s hand, I stood up. The thought of Pethachi grew larger than my fear. I picked up the lamp and went outside. Vasanthi ran after me and extinguished it. I was afraid too—but my concern for Pethachi was greater.

Slowly I walked behind the house. There was a banana grove there. At night Pethachi often wandered that way.

She was lying face down across a cut banana stump.

I froze.

The base of the banana tree rested against her chest.

My breath caught. Leaving the lamp where it was, I lifted her head from the ground. Dried blood stained the corner of her mouth.

‘Pethachi!’

I cried out and pressed her face against my chest. Her eyes were still open.

I placed my hand beneath her nose.

There was no breath.

My heart shattered.

My grandmother had died suddenly in the same way. Pethachi used to say a sudden death was a good death. Now she herself had gone that way.

I wiped my eyes and looked up. Vasanthi stood before the lamp, her lips trembling.

I carried Pethachi inside and laid her on the cot.

If my mother came, she would wail through the night. I was afraid to go and tell her. Yet I could not leave Pethachi lying alone. Telling Vasanthi to stay beside her, I went to fetch Poornamachi. Vasanthi came too; she was terribly afraid of corpses.

Poornamachi lived three houses away.

When I told her what had happened, she was devastated. She ran ahead of me, beating her head with her hands. Poornamachi was Pethachi’s sister.

She cared deeply for Pethachi. Whenever she cooked porridge or something special, she always brought some for her.

When Poornamachi saw the body, she threw herself upon Pethachi and began to lament:

‘You did not send me even a palm-leaf message, Mother…

Had you done so, I would have come and comforted you…

You did not send even a telegram, Mother…

Had you done so, I would have come early and kissed you many times…

Just as my own child left me…

Have you too gone and lain down forever?

There is no one left in my lap, Mother…

The villagers mock me as a barren woman…’

Listening, I realized something.

Her lament was not about Pethachi at all. It was about her own sorrows.

One by one, the neighbors gathered. Yet none spoke of how many babies Pethachi had delivered in the village. Until she became too old, most women never even went to the hospital. No one mentioned any of that.

Only then did I understand:

A funeral house becomes a place where people weep for their own griefs.

Soon word spread. Fear spread with it.

People were terrified to gather in large numbers at night. Military patrols might come. If they found people missing during inspections, they could take everyone away. Sometimes young women disappeared for days. Sometimes the authorities denied even arresting them.

The night grew heavier.

Then, just before dawn, a soldier banged on the gate.

I ran and opened it.

‘Brother,’ he said in broken Tamil, ‘everyone must leave the village before ten o’clock. We are going to shell the area.’

My head spun.

I did not know what to do.

How could I take Pethachi? How could I carry all the household things? Everyone else was struggling to save their own belongings.

Years before, when people fled to the Vanni, my uncle had begged Pethachi to come.

‘I must be cremated in this very cremation ground,’ she had replied.

Now she lay dead.

People rushed home to pack. Soon no one remained beside her except Poornamachi.

I could not even be angry with anyone. In such times, everyone tries first to save their own life and possessions.