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Short story The Silent Rattle

Kannada Original: Dr. Basu Bevinagidad
English Translation: Dr. C. V. Venugopal
Managing somehow the heavy market-bag on her waist, Yamunavva
reached the town bus stand, put the bag down with a sign of relief. This bag,
which carried within it rice, betelnut, coconut, turmeric, fried rice, bread
packets, rattle for the child and biscuits, had been her companion for ages. If
on occasion she left behind that bag for a while in the bus or in any corer of
the bus-stand people of Managundi would know it was hers. “It’s yamunakka’s
bag, Must be somewhere around, She is sure to come any moment”- they
would say and keep an eye on it as though it contained invaluable treasure.
The embroiderd figures on it had dimmed, their red and green colours had
faded and the generally worn-out bag virtually declared of its, as well as, its
owner’s poverty. Yet Yamunakka would always keep it close to her, in her
hand, on her waist, on her head or in her lap as though they were bound to
each other for lives without number.

She rested a while even to-day keeping her bag on the pebbles
which had come out of the tarred surface due to frequently stagnating water.
Buses arrived and departed, people rushed to board them, children screamed
with their mothers , almost out of breath, controlling them, and men pushed
them aside with no concern for them as women and children as they got in.
No one would help her get in but once she got in someone would vacate a seat
for her. In the earlier days, when some men offered seat next to them and
tried to misbehave by touching her inappropriately she had belaboured them
till their noses bled. Thus taught not to expect any favour from her, they had
kept themselves away from this mad woman.

What surprised others was she did not pick up a quarrel with her
own husband who had married another woman and was travelling in the
same bus. They said that she neither remembers her husband nor even her
parents. If she saw him in the bus or the entrance to her village, she would
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cover her head with her sari and move away with her head bent. On a few
occasions she had stared at his new wife, opened her mouth as if to say
something, but somehow had not said anything.

Everyone first used to offer advice to the new wife: “Don’t

go near Yamunavva. She will wring your neck. Tear off your ears and give it to
you. Pull away your sari and leaves you naked.” The girl was so scared, who
had her fears marrying as a second wife, that she had not come out of her
house for a whole year. But how long can she stay within the four walls.
Making herself bold, she did cross the threshold. With her heart beating she
once neared her, she looked back at the jasmine flowers in her hair. They had
faded. Wondering whether she herself had adorned her head with that she
touched the back of her head. Somehow Yamunavva seemed to be like her
elder sister. She felt like hugging her and weep. But then people might think
that she too has gone mad! Putting the pallu to her eyes she controlled her
tears. How can this woman , so handsome, be insane? Are the people telling
lies? Poor woman! Her father has generously given her a dilapidated two
room house. But for Ranganna Master, the teacher and Basavalinga swamy,
the head of the village religious mutt, Yamunavva would have passed away
years ago.

Yamunavva was delighted when Ranganna asked her to take care of the
children in his school. She fed them with love , washed them and sang them to
peace if they were crying. Soon children began calling her Yamunavva teacher.
Some mother complained to the school development committee that they did
not like a mad woman to touch and care for their children. Basavalinga swamy
intervened: “You have no idea how good she is. She loves the children more
than her life. By calling her mad you make her condition even worse. Leave
things to me. It is my responsibility. Nothing will happen. Don’t fill your minds
with unhappy thoughts.” Some even doubted that this swamy also had some
personal interest. Soon, however the whole town had nothing but good words
for her. There is none like Yamunavva they said. She used to come home of
everychild and take them to school with her. If they were happy at play she
would just fondle them and pass. Parents even began to feel that they could
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entrust their children to Yamunavva before they leave town for long
durations.

Soon her husband married again and became happy when he got a son.
When the boy became three Yamunavva visited her husband with the school
master and pleaded with him to send the boy to school. He had by now got
over his dislike for her and agreed with tears in his eyes. The new wife also
felt grateful and happy for she knew that the baby would be safe with
Yamunavva. But Yamunavva could not recollect at all that it was her
husband’s house and that she herself had lived there for a few years.

She would just look at the house fondly and would come there as she
went to all other homes to pick up and later drop the children home.
Sometimes her husband Madeva would feel that if he knew that Yamunavva
would reform to such an extent, he would not have married again. But why did
she wander about then all over the town like mad? Why did she cry and weep
day in and day out over a small issue? People at home, neighbor and even
people from outside the town tried counselling her. She was even taken to the
best neurologists in Dharwad. But she did not change. She took to heart the
absence of her younger brother, who had been lost. She searched for hime
here, there, everywhere. Was it wrong on my part to call it a minor issue?
From the day, when he slapped her saying ‘was it right to ignore your husband
for a boy who would not return’, she refused even to recognize her husband.
She would stare blankly at him. Madeva felt as though her eyes were stabbing
him like with a knife.

* * *

As she sat waiting for her bus her eyes would grow dim remembering
that a terribly dark day in her life had occurred in this very bus stand now
peopled with thousands. It had been just a year or so after her marriage. She
was the eldest of her mother. Years after Yamunavva’s birth, mother had got a
son, brother Prashant, with God’s blessings. All of them were on their way to
grandmother’s place. Leaving Prashant with her sister, mother had gone to
buy flowers and fruits. The crowd was thick. Someone near the big garbage
heap was urinating. Brother too raised his little finger. Asking him also to go
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there, she stood looking at him. A bus came and stood between the brother
and sister. In the noisy melee the boy was urinating on the other side. The din
continued. She felt like crying. When the bus left she could’t see brother near
the garbage bin. Shouting ‘Parashya’, ‘Parashya’ Yamunakka began weeping
uncontrolablly. Mother came and beat up her daughter ‘You are a devil
consuming my son’. He could not be found even after looking for him
everywhere. Comments were heard ‘she has left him somewhere with an eye
on ancestral property. She has pushed him into a well.’ Every word uttered by
her mother accused her. Worrying about her son, mother died within a year.
Father does not speak much.

She would sometimes sit in front of her mother’s photo saying ‘Look
here mother, Brother is found. I have brought him to you.’ She would shake
the rattle brought from the weekly market. Somehow it doesnot make any
sound. She would stand at the door waiting for him saying ‘Has gone to school
will return now’ and keep staring at the road children come from school by.
Whenever she comes to the weekly market, once a week or a fornight, she
goes to the garbage heap and searches around for him. Sometimes she would
sit there weeping and men around console her and carefully bring her bag
knitted by her mother and keep it in the bus. Her pearl like tear droplets fall
as she tells Rangappa Master: ‘Brother has grown, doesn’t even recognize
me.’ Rangappa Teacher too weeps unable to control his tears.