MARIGOLDS
Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry
Translated by Malathi Nidadavolu
*
Kamalabala was sitting on a boulder between the two houses and staring at the marigold plants and into
the plants. The baby moon threw in a little smile from over the silhouetted, two-story building.
That was a garden on the outskirts of the town. It was ‘the garden’. There was a mansion in the middle of
the garden. That was the ‘main house’. On its west side, a little away from the main house, there was a
small clay-tiled house. That was the guest-house.
The gentleman who owned the house was living in Kolkatta, where he had his business. He customarily
would return to his hometown along with his family for vacation and spend their summer there. He could
rent it out during his stay in Kolkatta. But nobody would be willing to pay the rent he was expecting for a
house that was so far away from civilization. And the owner would not rent it for less. Even if he had
agreed to lower the rent, it would not be nice to expect the tenants to vacate every summer. For all these
reasons, the owners locked up the main house. They rented out the guest house though.
The owners rented it for less since the house was small and faraway from town. Avataram took it because
of low rent, although the house was small and away from the town.
If somebody had asked Kamalabala, “What does your father do?” she would reply in a snap that her father
was working in a bank. But she would not be able to answer precisely questions such as ‘what does he do
in the bank,’ ‘how much he makes,’ and ‘how long has he been working there,’ She never thought things
like how far the earnings of Avataram garu were contributing to maintain the family, and whether it was
enough for the family. For her, her school and studies were the only things that mattered. That was all.
Last year, in April, she had written the 8th grade exam and passed, and at that time, she turned twelve.
Immediately after that, she had landed in this guest house.
Then, her father gave her a few reasons and put an end to her schooling. He said to her, “School is very
far from here, right? You tell me how you can walk so far from here to school and alone. You cannot,
right? Agree or not? You will not agree? You say that now. Yes. … you have passed the 8th grade exam,
not ordinarily but in flying colors. Right! Is it not enough? … Look at that Sitalakshmi. Did she not pass M.
A.? She passed. Even after passing the M.A. exam, could she avoid marriage? … Therefore … for a girl
… marriage …marriage … That is what’s important. Understand?”
Kamalabala had understood the same day that all those reasons were not real reasons but lame excuses,
and there was another real reason. After her father had left for work, she went to her mother, kicked and
screamed and raised hell. Her mother, Seshamma, got tired of it and yelled at her,”Do you think your
father is a millionaire, or a billionaire to help all the ten kids get their BA and MA degrees? Or do you think
we have a tree in the backyard yielding rupees? Do me a favor, stop crying. Got it? Go, move those raw
sticks into the sun.” And then she went into the kitchen, fretting.
Then Kamalabala wiped her tears quietly. Thenceforth, she got used to dabbing her tears without others
noticing it.
Avataram’s wife inflated the number of her children to ten on that day out of frustration but in reality she
did not have ten.
The last daughter Vimala was born ten years after Kamala was born. In between, four children were born.
The first boy was Sitaramudu, the second was Radhakrishnudu, the third Parvatiprasadudu, and the forth
was Gangadharudu. All the four names ended in Rao. However the way they were called at home was like
this: “Orey Sita, orey Radha, you Ganga, Parvati ... so long since the food has been served, still sitting
there ... Where are those plants from, what a nuisance … killing me. Maybe akka (older sister) lost her
mind, have you lost yours too? Come on, hurry, ...” That is the normal callout of Seshamma garu.
Soon after they had moved into the new house, Seshamma sowed some coriander seeds; set bitter gourd
vine; and, planted donda buds. After a few days, Kamalabala went around in the garden and came in
running. “Amma, amma, see the coriander sprouts there, hundreds of them,” she said.
“Where?”
“There next to the compost.”
“Those next to the compost, they are marigolds, you dimwit.”
“Marigolds?”
“Yes.”
“Do they blossom marigolds?”
“What’d you think, not marigolds from marigold plants but snake gourd? That’s nice, really nice. Like they
say, lost even the little brains they’d, after attending school,” Seshamma said.
From that day, Kamalabala’s attitude started changing.
Not that she decided to plant a flowerbed right away. It was like when you find a diamond in a heap of
charcoal, you would want to separate it from the pile, clean it and make suitable arrangements for it.
Kamalabala’s decision to separate those plants from the manure and plant them in a better place, led to
growing a garden. Later the same Kamalabala brought the same manure and spread around the same
plants, but that was beside the point. The first thing she did was to bring some of those marigolds and
plant them in their yard.
Her younger brother Sita did not help her not even a little bit in moving the plants or replanting them, but
was eager to offer his advice, “Akkaya, are you planting them all in the backyard? Wouldn’t it be charming
if you put a few in the front yard as well? It will be awesome for passersby to watch.”
Kamalabala liked it and followed his advice. Radha said, “Akkaya, wouldn’t it be nice if you plant them in
rows.” Kamala did that also. Parvati said, “Akka, akka, if you plant them so closely, they’re going to look
messy, like the things in our rooms. Give them some space.”
“You shut up. Nobody asked you for advice. Either you come and help me or just shut up,” she yelled.
Nevertheless, she gave the plants space. Ganga did not offer any advice but brought water with a little
can and gave it to her. Vimala offered no advice nor kept quiet. In an attempt to set the plants right, she
stomped on some of them, stood in everybody’s way, got yelled at by Kamalabala, was comforted by Sita,
and was escorted to mother at the end.
By the end of the day, they all collectively planted thirty plants in six rows. That evening all the thirty plants
wilted and their tops drooped.
There was no moon in the sky that night. There were no clouds. There were stars in the sky but Kamala
was not looking at them. She, slouched over the flowerbed, and was looking at the marigold plants with her
blinking, star-like eyes in the dim light of the tiny wick lamp she held.
That night she was so scared that the plants might not live, she would not let Avataram and Seshamma
breathe.
“Are they going to live or not?” that was the question.
“They will live, or else, they won’t. Stop bothering me, shut your eyes and go to sleep,” Seshamma garu
said, and rolled over to the other side.
Kamalabala did not remember when she had fallen asleep that night. She did not know that a bunch of
clouds came from somewhere that night and rained plenty on the plants.
Next day Kamalabala woke up a little after the sunrise, went to the front yard, rubbing her eyes, screamed
at the top of her voice and ran to the patch.
Only a mother would understand; a father would understand, God must know, and all the human beings
who had given life to a baby must know the surprise, the amazement, the pleasure and the excitement of a
thirteen-year old girl at the sight of the small plants standing tall in a small way that morning.
She stood near this plant here, and then she ran to another there. The same Kamala became this plant
and that one there. She was also last night’s damp cloud. The same Kamalabala was also last night’s
sprinkles. And that Kamala was radiant like the sunshine this morning. She was also the fine breeze that
was blowing this morning. The same Kamala is blowing as cool breeze.
That excitement turned her into a different Kamalabala altogether.
Taking care of those plants became the primary vocation of Kamala. But she did not consider the
opportunity and the right of nurturing those plants exclusively hers. The other family members also had
shares in the venture. Ganga’s job was to bring water in a little can and water them without end. Parvati’s
job was to bring the pail and shovel from the gardener (landlord’s employee) and return them. One of
Radha’s duties was to fetch manure and feed the plants. Sita was assigned to oversee the plants twice a
day. The gardener assumed the responsibility of paying visits on a regular basis and offering his learned
advice. Avataram garu took up on himself, with his knowledge at pedda balasikha level, to offer his
mediocre advice. Every day, he would return from work, and sit in an armchair by the plants, and read
newspaper. At that time, Seshamma garu would sit next to him, sometimes sewing and sometimes not
sewing, but always chatting about a variety of subjects, and in between, admiring the plants and the kids.
One morning:
“Akkaya, a bud, a bud,” Parvati shouted.
That day Kamala knocked about all over like crazy. That day there was no limit to the water Ganga poured
on the plants.
Almost all the plants sprouted.
Then the question which bud was going to open first came up. Would that be the one in the first row or the
one in the third row?
While the debate of this one or that one was going on, a bud on the shortest plant opened slightly. It was
like striking a goldmine.
Not only Kamala but all the kids broke into loose with their aahhs, and oohhs. Even Avataram garu could
not hold back his pleasure. Seshamma garu turned into a small child. Vimala shouted loudly and jumped
up and down.
After the first flower blossomed, Kamala warned Vimala, “VImala, if you touch the flower I will tell father and
have you beaten. So do not touch them.” With that, the foundation for a new rule that nobody should pick
the flowers was laid.
At first, they thought how we can pick the only flower that had blossomed, maybe after one flower had
blossomed. Then they decided that they should wait until each plant had yielded one flower at least. All
the plants had flowered but one plant, the short one in the middle of the third row refused to bloom
stubbornly. Eventually, it came around and showed buds. Four flowers opened.
Then Kamala let Vimala pick one flower from that short plant. No, not let Vimala pick; she picked it herself
and gave it to Vimala. She picked it herself, but she regretted it too later.
That night Ganga squatted next to the flowerbed and kept staring at them. Kamala was standing next to
him, with her hands on her waist, and looking at the plants. Then Ganga asked her, “Akkaya, you’ve said
earlier that if the goats chew on them, the plants weep. How come you plucked a flower today?”
Akkaya did not reply. She was looking at the short plant quietly.
Up in the sky, the moon seemed to be drifting aimlessly. The moonlight was soaking the marigolds, gliding
off of them. Radha’s laughter was coming from inside the house. The remaining blunt stub after the flower
was plucked was staring at the moon sadly. Kamala looked at it pitiably.
Suddenly Kamala came to a big decision. She told her brother, “Hey, Ganga, let’s not pick flowers any
more.”
That is what had happened one year ago.
*
Months passed by. A new year set in. The seeds picked and saved from last year started started
sprouting. This time Avataram garu undertook the task himself and prepared a large area between the two
houses for gardening. They moved the marigold plants to the new patch. Ganga and Parvati were there
as always to bring water and give to the plants nonstop. Sita helped to bring the manure in his own small
way. The plants grew up, sprouted and blossomed beautifully.
“Nobody should pluck flowers.”
It was the same rule as last year, nothing new. Kamala enforced all the rules consistently. If anybody only
Vimala had a tendency to cut flowers. It was not hard to keep her in check. The other person would be
Seshamma garu. But she had the erra ganneru flowers for her puja.
Nurturing plants was first class. All the plants grew up tall and strong. Kamala did not allow anybody to pick
even one petal from the flowers that blossomed plenty. In front of the house, that small patch was green
and bright. It was like a strip from Nandanavanam. When Kamala sat on a rock watching that charming
sight, she would forget lot of things. She was sitting there only to forget those things:
The school far away, the sparkling brass bell sitting on the school building, the prayer song sung by some
hundreds of voices at ten, the kind looks of an old man called Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi from the
white wall over the top of the blackboard, the hearty laughs of Saraswati who was always anxious to make
everybody laugh, the contest between Savitri and herself for the first rank, pieces of chalk which were cute
and heartening in those days but now snuck in a soapbox and whining in a wooden box at home, color
pencils, ribbon strips, Sarojinamma who taught English to the 8th class and history to the 9th class, and
the sweet aroma coming from her as soon as she stepped into the room, the soft voice of the science
teacher who used to chitchat, the Telugu poems, English spellings, step-by-step notes for math …
Kamalabala used to forget them all. That school and all those things—all of them snuck under those thick,
green leaves and beautiful flowers with golden petals.
It was on one of those charming days that the skinny Bhagavanlu, the landlord’s assistant, showed up at
their door.
Every month, Avataram garu would receive his paycheck, and that night he would not go to bed without
fixing his pillow under his head and telling himself, “That skinny scoundrel will show up the first thing in the
morning.” Even as described, the skinny Bhagavanlu would show up on the hour at exactly seven in the
morning, and shout, “Sir, Avataram garu!” Each month he would come to collect the rent. That voice,
carrying ten streaks, would sound like calling out the ten avataras .
Bhagavanlu’s job was to take care of the house, the garden and the related business on behalf of the
owners. On the day in question, Bhagavanlu collected the rent and said, “The owners are coming for
Christmas,” and went away laughing. Bhagavanlu believed that if the owners were around, the misguided
actions of the tenants would be in check.
Kamala never liked the owners. She did not know what kind of man the homeowner was. He never came to
the guest house. The landlady appeared to be bearable. Their eldest daughter lived in the city with her in-
laws. Kamala had never met her. The second daughter was the same age as Kamala. She was sixteen-
years old but looked twenty-five and acted like a ten-year old. As the saying goes, when she is around, no
yield on the fields, no rains in the sky. The third daughter, a ten-year old, was a meek girl. Avataram’s
family members would refer to her as ‘the girl with two pony-tails’.
The owners had arrived by at noon the day before. The youngest girl was the first to jump out of the car
like a ball and ran into the house. After her, the owner got out of the car. His head was bald. He was
smooth and fair-skinned and was wearing a flannel outfit. His wife got out slowly. She was chubby and tall.
She was wearing a blood red colored saree. Her skin was like 24-carat gold. Their second daughter did
not get out of the car, others helped her out. She was wearing an overcoat over her saree. She was
groaning loudly.
“What happened to the young lady, madam?” Bhagavanlu asked with great concern and respectfully. It
seems that the young lady was running temperature—one half of a point.
Kamala was not worried about it, not even a little bit. But, she was troubled by questions like why did the
owners come now? How long would they stay? Would that young lady suffer from fever for the entire time
of their stay here? Yes or no? She was worried about them all night.
Kamala woke up the next morning.
And she walked to the front door slowly. A servant came, asked Seshamma garu for a pot and left with it.
There was no other news to report.
In the afternoon at three …
Kamala came to the door with a small pot of water, screamed as soon as she came out of the door, and
ran to plants.
The landlady from the main house and Seshamma garu from the guest house came out at the same time—
the landlady into the front patio next to the living room and Seshamma garu to the front door of the little
house.
The youngest daughter of the owners—the one in a blue frock and with two ponytails, and looking like a
fully blown ball—was screaming at the top of her voice, “I will pick them. I like them, and I want them.”
Kamala was holding her hands and shouting, “No, you can’t, don’t pick them.” The two were wrestling.
Three marigolds got crushed in the scuffle and fell on the ground.
“You girl! What is that noise?” the landlady asked loudly, addressing only Kamala. The two girls stopped
scuffling and looked at her. Seshamma garu went to them, released the girl’s hands from Kamala’s grip,
and stood there, holding her hands.
“Look here mommy,” the girl with two pony-tails started to explain.
“Never mind her. You take as many flowers as you please,” the landlady told her daughter in English, and
turned to Kamala’s mother and said, “What is the big deal about those flower? After all they are only
flowers. Why your daughter is making such a fuss? Silly! My baby can and will pick as many flowers as she
wants. Don’t say anything to my baby,” and went into the house. She did not seem upset. It was obvious
though that she was annoyed that the tenants were making such a fuss about such a small matter. In her
mind it was ‘quite unnecessary’. Seshamma garu wanted to say something but the landlady disappeared
into the house, before she could speak
Kamala looked into her mother’s face. That face was saying without speaking that she had no power to
stop the baby.
“This gun will not go off.”
To say that, Seshamma garu was not a gun-like person.
In the meantime the homeowner’s baby was snipping all the flowers, as many marigolds as she pleased.
Kamalabala and her mother turned around and walked slowly towards their home, without looking back.
Vimala was standing at the door, holding Ganga’s hand. She was weeping. Ganga stood there, unable to
cry.
What is the big deal about marigolds?
Kamalabala dabbed her tears.
The moon from the top of the two-story building was scattering smiles, beautiful little smiles all over with
abandon.
Kamalabala was wiping her tears. She has been wiping her tears ever since.
*
(The Telugu original, puvvulu, was published in the 1950s.)