The children came out. Naga was a little girl of nine, pale, anaemic and quiet. Ramu was about four, plump, wild and mischievous. I tried to talk to them and told them I was their cousin. But that did not seem to interest them. ‘One more of us,’ they seemed to say and walked away to wash their faces. Even in their countenance there was something heavy, sad, decaying. Death had entered the house like a cobra. When would He leave it?
The coffee was ready. Naga came to call me. I had not yet washed and so I simply threw a little water on my face, dried it and went in. Nobody was to speak loudly. Everything was hushed and uneasy.
‘Do you want to see her?’ my grandmother asked. I felt as though I were going to spit in my cup.
‘No,’ I said, nodding my head uncomfortably.
‘She calls you a thousand times a day, and says she will not die without seeing you. . ’ She was in tears. I coughed.
‘She wants badly to see you, my child. She says everybody in Talassana hates her, only you, your father and your own mother ever cared for her. . Oh, to see her weep! She weeps like a mad woman. And when she shrieks the tiles seem to fly to the skies! Suppose you see her?’
‘No. I do not want to bother her.’ I lied.
‘It’s no bother. She would weep to see you. My child, you must!’
‘Yes, it is true,’ added Naga. ‘She always calls you and tells us you were born like a prince and you would be one. She tells us so many stories about you.’ She laughed, and hid her face between her knees.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I will not see her now. As I stay in town for another two or three days — we shall see.’ My grandmother understood me and didn’t insist any more.
‘My child,’ she exclaimed, sorrowful and breathless, ‘my life here is really dreadful. Oh! to be living thus. . ’ She wept. ‘These children are already a burden, and with them, Akkayya. . No. Not a moment to breathe and not a moment to call my own. And then—’ Here I heard from a neighbouring room Akkayya’s shrieking voice.
‘Naga! Naga! You dirty widow, you daughter of a prostitute, you donkey-whore! Come, or I’ll flay you alive!’
Naga squirmed in her place. Her day was beginning. I must confess it sent a chill through me as though rising from a rotting well.
‘Naga! Naga! hè, hè Naga! you dirty donkey-whore!’
My grandmother nodded her head and asked Naga to answer.
‘You see, my child, that is how it is twenty-four hours in the day. I do not know where she learnt these filthy words of abuse, but not even a pariah would use them before his wife, such are her curses. “Naga, Naga.” Always “Naga”. This poor child, beaten and skinned to her last bone by her father, has come to live here, and her life as you see is worse than a dog’s life. She has to take food to her, put it into her mouth, clean her bed, sweep the floor, and for absolution sit listening to her mad, mad stories. But you see, my child,’ continued my grandmother, trying to be a little kinder to her sister, ‘you see, sometimes she folds these two children in her arms and weeps over them for their unhappiness. She calls them by all sorts of endearing names — my parrot, my calf, my diamond. .c.’
‘That’s true! She is sometimes very good,’ agreed Naga.
‘Naga, you concubine, Naga, you wretch, Naga, you donkey. . ’ recommenced Akkayya. There was a painful silence for a moment. We all stopped breathing. Naga sipped at her coffee.
‘Does she ever get up?’ I ventured.
‘Never. We carry her to the bath and bring her back. All the morning I do nothing but wash her dirty clothes, we have two beds for her which we change from day to day, then wash her saris, take her to the bath, wash her myself, then taking her back we put her in her new bed.’ Here she seemed to draw back her hands and wipe them with her sari to feel sure the foul smell was not sticking to them. ‘She is never silent even for a moment, and we can never have anybody here or go to anybody.’
‘But,’ I said, ‘why not?’
‘Why? The moment she hears me going down the steps she begins to shriek for me and weep and roll in her bed till I go to her. And when I go she asks me to sit, and when I sit, she laughs at me and tells me a story I have heard a million times before.
‘You see, my son, that is my life. At this age — I am sixty-two now — I cannot say I shall go on pilgrimage and lead a pious life. Nothing but curses in my ears, instead of Rama, Rama, and nothing but washing filth the whole day instead of sacred baths in the Ganges and the Jumna. . ’ She began to sob. What could I do? Again it started:
‘Naga, you wretch, Naga, Naga. . Naga. I will burn you today if you do not come,’ Akkayya shrieked.
‘Go, Naga, go,’ said my grandmother, and the little girl limped out of the room mechanically.
‘Listen! Listen and hear what she will tell her.’ I went nearer the wall.
‘You dirty whore, you dog-born, you donkey’s wife, this is how you come when I call you! I have been shouting for you for hours. Oh, I wish I could get up and tear your skin like my sari. You dirty donkey-whore! Why don’t you all let me die? Leave me, throw me into the well and drink a good, hot seer of milk?
You would, wouldn’t you? You cur, dirty cur. Why don’t you go and sleep with the servant, you concubine?’
‘Tell me, what do you want?’ said Naga. Her voice was firm and indifferent.
‘What do I want? What do I want? I want some coffee to drink, some hot water to wash with. And you are a dear, a darling. Come and kiss me.’
Naga came back and sat with us as though nothing had happened. Hardly had she sipped her coffee once than Akkayya again called out:
‘Naga. . Naaga. . N-a-aga.’ She moaned like a dying woman. ‘Go,’ said my grandmother. Naga went, the cup of coffee in her hand.
‘Now tell me, donkey-whore, who is it that has been here this morning? Sister has been talking to someone all the time.’
‘Nobody. It is only your dream,’ answered Naga drily.
‘You buffalo! You concubine! Don’t tell me a lie.’
Naga came back and Akkayya continued to shriek. My grandmother rose up in a fury and went out with a thousand curses upon her lips. I put my ear to the wall and listened.
‘So you have come back, dear sister, dear sister,’ said Akkayya with such love that my grandmother was suddenly disarmed.
‘Why did you come, dear sister?’
‘Because you shrieked.’
‘Did I? But tell me, dear sister, when will you burn me?’
‘Don’t speak nonsense,’ consoled my grandmother, troubled.
‘Nonsense. No. Tell me only one thing: When I am dead and when you have burnt me, will you ever remember me?’ She laughed.
‘Why do you speak such a queer language, Akkayya?’ my grandmother asked comfortingly.
‘No, sister, no. I have given you so much trouble, such sinner’s trouble. Will you always remember me, me your elder sister?’
‘Surely! And respect you as ever. . ’ From my grandmother’s voice I knew she had melted into tears.
‘When I am dead, sister,’ continued Akkayya, ‘be sure to write to Nanjunda, Ramanna and Mari, and tell them their sister died with their names upon her lips.’ She too seemed to weep. ‘Tell them I am their elder sister — and though they never once did give me as much as a sari, tell them I love them all. . ’
‘Amma, amma,’ wept my grandmother and — God knows what made her say that — she whispered, ‘Akkayya, little Kittu is here. . ’
‘Kittu. . Kittu. . my darling Kittu. . my son, my child, Kittu!’ she cried madly. I trembled and gasped for breath. Would I go? Would I? But her words rang in my ears like bells of the temple. ‘Kittu. . Kittu. . my son, come, come!’ Unconsciously I was up and was walking towards Akkayya’s room. The two children followed me. Even at the door a foul stench breathed on me. I entered.
Akkayya lay there, her eyes white, her face pouchy and husk-like, and she looked at me — a true image of death. Then suddenly she turned towards the wall and cried out: ‘Kittu. . Kittu. .’ like a frightened animal.
Naga bent down and covered her parched thighs. . And I wept.
One evening when I came home — some four years later— everybody looked annoyed and uneasy. I wondered what it was. They asked me to remove my outer garments and go into the hall. I knew somebody had died. My sister? Uncle Shama? Cousin Susheela? Who? Who? Undressed, I went into the hall, trembling. My stepmother had already bathed beneath the tap, and the water was being boiled in the bathroom for all of us.
‘Akkayya is dead,’ said my father irritably and in utter disgust.
‘When?’ I gasped.
‘The day before yesterday,’ said my stepmother. I sat like all of them, waiting to have my bath; but I assure you my soul was in true distress. ‘Akkayya. . Akkayya. .’ I said to myself like one who calls a beloved soul, ‘Akkayya. . ’
I heard my stepmother say: ‘Could they not have had the sense to hide it from us for the six months? What a nuisance!’
‘Idiots!’ howled my father.
‘Perfect idiots,’ spat my stepmother.
‘Who is Akkayya?’ asked my little sister.
‘A grandmother whom you have never seen, and thank heavens you will never see,’ said my stepmother and walked away into the kitchen.
We duly bathed, changed our clothing, and after dinner we went to the cinema.
I think, between the three brothers of my grandmother, my father, and a cousin of ours, none of them wanted to take the responsibility of performing Akkayya’s obsequies. At last one of her brothers called a Brahmin, and giving him a few rupees, asked him to perform the ‘necessary’ ceremonies. I do not know whether the Brahmin did it. Anyway, here I have written the story of Akkayya, maybe her only funeral ceremony.