Original Konkani short story: Aani Sphurta Aili
Author: Gokuldas Prabhu
Translator: Nafisa Oliveira
The market was close by… Carrying my sorrow along I made my way to the vegetable vendors. I watched their faces, enquired about the cost of some vegetables, and came out after buying what I wanted. There were some flower sellers near the entrance of the market. I had not noticed them while entering but kept staring at them while leaving. There was some argument going on, yet one figure remained totally silent. I continued walking with my gaze on her. She had reached old age. More than her fairness, the paleness of her face caught one’s eye and it did not take long for me to recognise her sadness. She was seated like the very symbol of sorrow.
At once I felt like observing her expression and mood. I felt like stopping right where I was and watching her. In five minutes, I would have a glimpse of her mental thoughts. I would learn much about her life. But the very idea! A forty-year-old man watching an old woman! What would people say if they noticed?
However, I could not walk further. I lifted my foot but could not take a step forward. The next minute I even felt ashamed because of it. I decided I just had to leave. As I walked ahead, the sad silhouette of the flower seller grew more distinct. What was the cause of her sadness? Was she unable to express herself to others? I must find out, I must! I turned and walked towards her.
Still she sat there, lifeless and silent. As I approached, she said nothing. I stood before her and said —
“Bai, can I have a meter-long garland of chrysanthemums?”
She did not even glance at my face. Without saying a word, she took out the bundle of chrysanthemums, cut it after measuring a meter and gave it to me. The cross tattooed on the side of her hand was faintly visible. However, I could not gauge anything about her owing to the stoic look on her face. I asked,
“How much for the flowers?”
“One rupee”
While I was giving her the rupee, I had an urge to know more about her life. But I could not think of how to ask her. Bai, why are you sitting here so morose? Isn’t there anyone at your home? Husband? Children? Any other loved ones? Is there no home at all? — Should I ask her in that manner? She would be stunned. She might just tell me about her home. At the most she may say — There’s nothing. How does it matter to you?
What can I say then? Do I have the right to talk to her about such personal stuff?
I took the flowers and stepped out. The face of the flower seller kept haunting me like a shadow. I thought that I could write a story of her sorrow, a good story. Now I had some morale, my spirit uplifted. At each step my mind felt elevated. The sodium-vapour lamps couldn’t affect my mood now. When I reached home, I gave the bundle of vegetables and the flowers to my wife. More than the vegetables she was happy to see the flowers —
“What’s with getting flowers for your wife today?”
“I’ve lost my mind today”
Without saying anything she took the vegetables to the kitchen. Now I began with my work. Flower seller, why this sadness? What should I say? Your life is of destitution, your husband is dead. Or else he lies sick on the bed. You have no sons. Or if you do, they are not bothered about you. There were fights between you and they have moved away. Your daughters cannot care for you because of their own misery. This is why you sell flowers in the market. But why this sorrow? Your body does not have strength, does it? Is the colour of your face forever pale; is there no blood in it? Is your health not okay? Do you not have the drive to work? Hence you are unhappy. It is your fate…fate. But I ask you, for how long will you live like this, selling flowers? And— do they even sell? Did anyone else buy flowers today besides me? Is it that you are sad because no one bought them? Bai, Bai I understand your pain. I understand it well. It affects me. Something stirs within me. Write, write about her, the flower seller, the flower seller, I get a paper, let us draw a story of your suffering.
— Once there was a flower seller. Lifeless, pale, emaciated. This is her story. Her husband lies paralysed at home. The very next month post marriage he had gone away in search of work, but besides odd jobs he could not find anything better so he returned home. Thanks to God’s grace he had a large orchard. They grew some plants there and made some money by selling the vegetables, roots and fruits, and during this time they had seven children. They got their daughters married and the sons moved away after they were married. One night, the worn-out hands and feet became unbearable —
“Bapa…”
— My son entered the room.
“Huh…what?”
“Can you please solve this problem?”
“Now? How many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt me when I am writing? See, I can’t tolerate it when anyone disturbs me while writing.”
“But Bapa, you yourself said that if I have a problem I should come to you right?”
— That was true, I had said that to my kids many a time. But —
“But Uday and your mother are there right? Go and ask them.”
“They said they don’t know.”
— So, I had to leave my work as it was, I went and had a look at his problem, solved it for him, taught him to solve others that were similar to it, and asked —
“Is there anything else?”
“Look, I’ve solved this problem like this. See if it’s correct or not.”
I read it. I corrected the errors and got him to leave. I re-read what I had already written and thought of beginning from where I had left. After a while I felt that the beginning was not engaging enough. I tore up all the written material and started over again —
— As always, she had come and sat in her market place without worry. Today she did not feel one bit ashamed to get out of her house. While she was getting out her body ached a little all over. The sicknesses of old age were catching up with her. The neighbours said – her face seems to have become pale. Today while observing herself in the mirror, she felt the same as well. She had no desire to go and sit in the market. But what could she do? There was no other means to fill her stomach, was there? Due to his paralysis the husband could not get out of bed. The daughters had enough problems of their own and the sons were not bothered about them…
…just thinking about it was depressing. God, please take me away soon. But I feel a little guilty when I think of what will happen to my husband after that. Dying is unfavorable and living is unbearable — God, I have no one to help me! — Can I not even have your mercy?
…someone comes in front and says — Bai, give me a meter-long garland of Chrysanthemums. Just one. He did not want more. What could the poor soul do, huh? Was he to take all the flowers I had and sleep on them? This is my plight, not his. How much is it? — he asks. One rupee Baba, one rupee, do not bother asking about what I can possibly get with this rupee. He does not. For a minute it seemed as if he wanted to ask the flower seller something. But without asking anything he moves ahead…
Once again, the flower seller gets lost in her own thoughts. How much had she made today? Five rupees? No, six rupees fifty paise —
— My wife entered the room —
“Writing?”
“No, dancing.”
“Was I wrong to enter?”
“You were right, what do you want?”
“Dinner’s ready, I just came to tell you that.”
“Then serve me”
“I have already, so come”
— I got up thinking, once I was done with dinner, there would not be any other hindrance. I could sit and write peacefully. So, I sat down to eat. After a while I went into the room and once more read what I had written and thought to myself, what now? I had created a world of the flower seller’s sorrows. I had indicated the journey of her life. But what happens later?
— One day her son comes and says, Mai, I feel bad for leaving you and Daddy. From now onwards I will look after you. There is no need for you to go to sell flowers anymore…
Nonsense! If this was the case why did he have to leave them and go away in the first place? No way. Then? —
— One day the pitiful flower seller left this world. Her husband —
Her husband? What will become of him? Besides, I had begun the story about the flower seller’s sorrows, so how could she die after barely four paragraphs? No. I have faltered somewhere. The beginning is off beam. It would not do to start the story like this and continue it. I have to change the events. How?
I thought about it a lot. But it was not enough to improve the beginning that I had already written. At once I felt beaten. I walked to the window and looked outside. It was pitch black. Nothing could be seen. Senseless thoughts wafted through my mind.
“Done with your writing?” — my wife was there. I did not want to listen to what she said. What I wanted was peace, solitude and the memory of my experiences. I remained silent.
“Done?” — she asked again.
“What do you hope to accomplish by me having finished with it?”
( To be continued…)
