ENTANGLED IN THE CREEPER, kasiratnam
Nidadavolu Malathi
“Babu! Pour me some coffee, please,” the old man said, standing on my front yard.
I just returned from work and was about to sit down on the front porch with my usual cup of coffee. I
was taken aback by his request. I stared at him and wondered, a new breed of beggars? I might
say it was a kind of weird humor of the kalapurusha! How else can I explain this phenomenon? I am
aware of those who would beg for a morsel of food or a sip of rice broth; now we are seeing
beggars who’d beg for coffee and cigarettes. What a shift in the needs of beggars! Maybe, they
think that begging may be their calling, yet they are human all the same! My reflection on these
lines did not last long. The next moment I was annoyed with him.
Before I could say a word, he added, almost challenging, “What’re you thinking? How many times
do you think you’ve treated others to coffee at restaurants? Tell me. And how many times you’ve
had coffee at others’ expense? Why waffle now? After all, did I ask you for your money or
valuables? You’re acting as if I’ve asked for one of the ladies from your family, for god’s sake!” I
was amused by his demeanor—mischievous smiles flashing through his bushy mustache.
I looked at him again. He was sturdy like a bamboo cane. He sure could take on four men without
flinching. He might be growing old but signs of youth had not left him. My heart jumped with joy for a
second at the sight of this sexagenarian that stood in front of me like a royalty, holding a silver
glass and begging for a cup of coffee.
“Why? You can’t live without coffee or what?” I wanted to ask but was too tired even to move my
lips. I poured my coffee into his glass silently.
As if he had read my mind, he said, “This is not for me, babu!”
It was annoying to me. I snarled, “Good. Go away.” I was annoyed because he could see me
through; he figured out my thoughts. I was angry because he answered a question that was not
asked in the first place; also, I was worried that he might start a lengthy explanation about some old
hag lying in bed with fever at home or somewhere.
“Why are you so upset? If you had known the real story, you wouldn’t whine like this, you know?
Wouldn’t you shed a tear!”
I wanted to shut him up but controlled myself. Sometimes it’s so hard even to yell at some people.
Thatha, I mean that old man, laughed.
Cha, cha. What an insult! He is reading every word that crossed my mind. He’s speaking like a
scholar. I picked up the courage and asked him, “Who’re you?”
“Me?” he laughed again. “Why, want to drag me to the court? Ask any policeman. There’s not a
single policeman in town who did not know about this Ramadas. On the other hand, if you’re
planning to find a job for me, I’m telling you, there isn’t a job I can’t handle. Better yet, if you’re
asking me just for fun, you’re not going to find anything,” he said, raising eyebrows and smiling, as
if he was throwing a challenge.
I did not respond.
Thatha turned around and spoke again, “By the way, what month is this?”
“November,” I replied curtly.
“Tell me the Telugu month,” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
The same laugh again. “What are you teaching at college? Don’t even know the Telugu names of
the months.”
I was beside myself. “Certainly not pancangam ,” I replied, grinding my teeth.
It did not look like he heard my reply. He was talking to himself and counting his fingers. He closed
his eyes and walked towards the gate in a quick, jerky move, as if he remembered something;
suddenly stopped as if he walked into a wall or something, turned right and walked three steps; he
started examining a square foot of space keenly.
Two minutes passed by. I was waiting to see whether he would make a mango tree appear there or
pull out a rabbit out of nowhere.
“See! Look here. On the third day from today, a plant will grow in this spot. Watch my word; it never
fails, the truth lives forever. Manamma’s story is not a cockamamie story, you know. She is a
goddess. Believers trusted her. And others who do not believe will learn from her straight,” thatha
said, and poured the coffee on that spot.
I jumped to my feet. “What’s that, are you crazy? Are you out of mind? Why are you throwing away
coffee like that?” I screamed. I was so sorry that that jeevanaganga was wasted on dirt. In all
fairness, we, he or I, should have drunk to our heart’s content.
Thatha returned slowly and sat on the porch, leaning against the pillar. “Babu, what is god? God is
goodness. We’re not going to live forever but our words and action do. That’s the kind of woman
our Manamma was. She was a lamp, true to her name; she glowed like a lamp of gems. She was so
delicate you would think that one good look could wither her. And her character matched her name.
Talk about our lives. What is the good are we doing? We are more like a bread of husk! A person
may live only six months like a swan yet be as good as his life. Our Manamma lived like a lightning,
just for a second, yet won applause from one and all. She was only fourteen when she was
married. She turned into ashes within four months. I set the fire with these two hands myself.”
Thatha wiped his eyes with the towel on his shoulder.
My heart softened a bit. “What is she to you, thatha? Are you related?” I asked him.
“What’s she to me? Tell me, who is who to anybody for that matter? She took a human form. The
value of humanity, babu. She never spoke one ill word, not even for fun; she never wished bad for
others, not even in her dreams, not even to her enemies. She never said ‘no’ to anyone who said
‘please give.’ Her mother agonized over her kindness and Manamma said to her, ‘Why? Is this your
hard earnings?’ She rejoined that the wealth was not going to remain forever even if she had not
given it away. She was only ten and even the most highly respected elders in the village bowed to
her sense of fairness.”
Suddenly he stopped with a twitch and left, saying ‘see you later’.
Having nothing better to do, I started looking for clues: What could be the relationship between the
plant that was going to sprout in three days at the spot he had pointed and the gorgeous young
woman, the world beauty queen of all ages and whose faculty was of the highest caliber?
A week passed by. For want of better things to do, I started thinking about the past event again. I
looked at the spot—three feet away from the gate and close to the compound wall. My eye caught
a small creeper, about eight inches tall; it was swaying in the breeze like a snake on its tail. I kept
staring at the stalk; the tip was glimmering like a new metal coil; three leaves, just opened, were
putting on a shade of dark green, like an amateur artist. I told myself, that ‘there is no god’ might
not be true. How else can I explain this? There was no indication of digging; no sign of sowing the
seeds; where is the gardener who planted this plant here?
I heard the gate squeak and turned around. Thatha! He came with a bunch of bamboo stakes.
“Are you going to set up stakes for this plant?” I asked him. My surprise at his interest in this plant
had not worn out yet.
“Yes, babu. This is not just a sprout that came up today. I came here when I barely grew a
mustache. Would I leave it now, in my old age? Before she was gone, that thalli said, “Thatha, take
this plant as myself, and. take care of it.”
Thatha got busy with the job on hand. I stood a little away from him and kept watching.
“You’ve never told me the entire story. How did this plant happen to grow here?”
Thatha put down the hoe and said, “That’s our thalli’s power of word, babu. We all believed that a
goddess took the human form in this world probably due to some curse. At first, I was also skeptical
like everybody else. You know the popular belief admission of guilt is the best way to redeem
oneself. You know how the people are. Show them a mole ‘n they’ll make a mountain of it. Give
them a tiny tip and they weave a huge story out of it. That’s what I thought too—the stories spread
out like mercury. And then, it happened one day—here, this entire abdomen started to twist like a
whirlpool. I couldn’t take the pain anymore and so I jumped into the well. Funny world, nobody gives
a morsel of food when I wanted to live. Yet when I wanted to die, they wouldn’t let me die.
Somebody pulled me out of the well. Manamma was playing in the area; she looked at me and
burst into a big laugh. She gave me the fruit she had in her hand and said, ‘What’s wrong with you?
Here, eat this fruit, pray to the lord. Come to my house for dinner tomorrow.’ I could not understand
whatever magic that fruit had contained. The pain in my stomach was gone as if somebody chanted
a mantra. On the same evening, I moved six bags of rice easily, no problem at all.”
My legs were hurting. I was waiting for him to come to the main point of the story. He was taking the
story back and forth like a wooden horse; the end was nowhere in sight.
“We, the entire neighborhood, walked in single file. Her word was our command, a chip of gold. But
it didn’t continue for long though. Why do you think people would say a dying tree produces
warped fruit? Some idiot got up like the pestle in the Yadava family. He approached Manamma’s
father and said ‘She’s growing up like a sugar cane. How long are you going to keep her at home?’
Manamma looked at that idiot and smiled. She said, ‘Marriage is not for me. I am that Satidevi from
the heaven. My lifespan is short, where is the room for family life? If you are interested, I’ll find a
girl, a gem, for you. If you are not, then, there is no more discussion.’ Babu! that is the way the
world is. Her father could not show his face in town. People started teasing her, asking Is she Sati
or Yati? They disparaged her saying it was a show of illusion and swore that they’d see the end of
it. They all gathered one fine morning in front of her house. They raised questions about the
uniqueness of her character.
Her father took Manamma’s hands into his and asked her, “Amma, only you can show the right
course for me now. You maybe right in thinking that you’re different but it holds only when it’s
acceptable to all. You know so much, you should understand this too.”
Manamma looked around and watched the people who gathered there and smiled. “All right. As the
saying goes, gandharvas will take care of the job on hand, anyways. You do whatever needs to be
done. But your action will not touch me. I don’t want you to worry on my account. Disbelief started in
Dwaparayugam itself. Why should I blame you now? Here, I am pouring this coffee on this spot.
One day, a kaasiratnam vine will sprout at the same moment as now. I’ll live as long as the vine
lived.”
The entire crowd stood there dumbfounded. Not one could speak a word; their minds went numb!
They gazed at the divine glow on her face with steadfast looks.
Manamma dug a little hole with her toe and poured the coffee into the hole. This is the spot
precisely. Small minds cannot comprehend the actions of the noble souls. Many people laughed
and questioned the logic of popping up a plant from coffee. To tell the truth, I also thought that it
sounded strange. Besides, I knew Manamma was always very generous but not when it came to
coffee; it was her life force. But then, as I said, the actions of noble persons are intriguing for the
ordinary folks. People like us can understand only when we see only clear logic, the obvious such
as a ripened fruit dropping when a crow sits on the branch!
“The father was searching for a suitable match and here this young woman went about minding her
business like a chidaanandamurty, the lord of eternal bliss. And then, the entire township became
speechless as they noticed the plant come up on exactly the same day as the young woman
predicted. Those who challenged her left the town and disappeared without a trace. But the
person, her father, who suffered the insults, could not keep quiet. He went about searching every
village in the neighborhood but to no avail. He failed to find a suitable match and was depressed.
He went to Manamma and stood in front of her. “The entire world is up in arms, calling you names
like witch, and saying that you’ve gotten the gift from some mean gods of questionable powers. No
man is coming forward to tie the tali around your neck. If you’re so knowledgeable, you must know
this too. You tell me yourself where is the man who’s willing to tie the tali around your neck?” he
asked her.
Manamma was rearranging the fine tendrils of the kaasiratnam vine on to the stakes. She laughed
and said, “Why didn’t you ask me earlier? Talk to Papayya. He lives in the next village.”
Her father was stunned. The other villagers were taken aback. The father made inquiries and
found that it was true, Manamma predicted it right. Papayya was the village-head. His third son,
sturdy as steel rod, came forward to marry Manamma without the usual formalities like pelli
chuupulu. Our pantulu, Manamma’s father, was ecstatic; he praised every one of the presiding
lords in heaven. By the time he performed Manamma’s wedding, he felt like he was blessed by all
his ancestors.”
Thatha heaved a sigh, as if he needed a break. I, on the other hand, could not stand the
suspense. I being who I am, I’d jump to the last page first when I read a book, even when it is a
detective novel! Thatha is old, I understand, but how can I bear this kind of dillydallying?
“Just tell me whatever happened in the final analysis,” I said.
“It’s over,” he said.
“I didn’t mean …” I was apologetic. Thatha nevertheless remained somber.
“I am telling you the truth. The whole thing came to an end on that day. She told me in her final
moment to take care of this plant. That’s it. Thalli did not set foot on this ground again. It was like
the story of Rushyasrunga, the saint, who was brought into this world just bring rains and help
farming. We had Manamma to have showers in our hearts and sent her away as soon as we were
done with her.”
I wasn’t sure whether I should feel sorry for him or laugh at him. Clearly, he was blaming himself for
the atrocity that had been committed on Manamma.
“I should go,” he said and left. I was annoyed about the abrupt ending. It was more like the serial
novels we have been reading in the weekly magazines nowadays.
The kasiratnam vine was growing beautifully—a gorgeous burst of numerous tender strands
sprouting all over on the garden patch, probably due to chemical, super phosphate. Thatha kept
visiting the plant everyday and caring for it conscientiously. On occasion, I wanted to ask him
whether he was feeding the plant coffee or gripe mixture [baby formula] but I was too lazy to talk.
Approximately, a month passed by. I was sitting on the porch as usual. Thatha came and cared for
the plant but did not go away as he normally would. He stood there watching the plant keenly.
“What’s it, thatha? You found a bruise on your Manamma or something?” I said, teasingly.
Thatha gestured to me, asking me to come closer. I was offended by his behavior and his
indifference yet I decided to consider it as his first offense and ignore it. I went near him.
“Look, this is the beginning. The plant is going to wither away. There won’t be any more flowers,”
he said.
True. The shoots were broken; some of them fell off; most of the plant was looking lifeless.
However, the plant did have plenty of buds.
“Why?” I asked, turning towards him. I knew nothing about trees, plants and creepers.
“Didn’t I tell you? Manamma had told us that marriage would not suit her. That’s what happened.
Her family did everything per custom—checked the day, time and the most auspicious moment and
sent her to the in-law’s house with numerous gifts—saris, jewelry and other items. However, it has
to fit her character too, right? She was born into this world only to settle whatever little debt she
had carried from her previous birth. Why would she have anything to do with all these mundane
dharmas? But then, who’s going to understand that part? They all kept saying Manamma was
looking different but nobody tried to find out what was happening in her mind. The son-in-law spoke
not a single word but the rest of the family—the mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, co-sisters-in-law, co-
brothers-in-law—and all the neighbors picked on her like crows. Her husband did not take sides
with either party. He remained calm like a noble yogi. But for him, the rest of the family fretted and
fumed. At first, they assumed that she was still raw; they sat down with her and taught her the
proper behavior befitting a wife. She did not say a word. She ate when she was given food, or else,
went without food. She used to sit in front of the tulasi plant in the backyard; no sleep at night and
no food in the day. The family asked her if she was worried about her natal home. She said no.
Then they thought, maybe, she was not interested in this marriage. One family member snapped,
“The new bride should be dancing with joy in the in-law’s place. Here she is, sitting in a corner, tight-
lipped; wouldn’t that break his heart?” Manamma did not say a word about anything. Days passed
by. She was wasting away without food and sleep. And the plant here was withering away at the
same time.”
“What?” I nearly shouted and cringed too.
“Yes, babu, that’s what I’m saying. This plant started withering away, starting the same day
Manamma stopped eating there. After fifteen days, Manamma lost consciousness. The same day,
this plant here stopped blooming. That’s it. After one month, this plant dried up totally.”
Thatha choked and covered his face with the towel …
I could not recall how long I sat there, stunned.
“Starting tomorrow, this plant will not bloom anymore,” thatha walked away, muttering to himself. I
looked at the bush. It was full of soft, shiny buds, sharp as needles. Some of them seemed ready to
bloom today, others to wilt. A few others might bloom tomorrow. They must. Didn’t thatha notice it? I
spent the entire night raking my brains with the same thought. I wanted to get up early but couldn’t
beat the habit. By the time I got up the radio was broadcasting the day’s news in English. It was 9:
00 a.m.
Suddenly, I remembered the kasiratnam creeper. As I walked to the porch, I was nervous like a
researcher about find the results of his experiment. Darn! There were no flowers!
“Here, your coffee,” I heard mother’s voice and turned around.
My mother looked at me and became worried. “What’s wrong? You’re looking awful! What
happened?”
Yes, what happened, whatever could have happened? “Nothing,” I said.
“Then why are you looking so awful?”
“Nothing.”
I took coffee from her. I was about to sip my coffee, suddenly felt like somebody slapped on my
wrist.
“What happened? Are you feeling sick? How would I know unless you tell me,” mother asked with a
concern rising by the minute.
“Amma, you don’t know Manamma’s story,” I said as if I have discovered it myself.
“Who’s Manamma?” Amma is always like that, gets suspicious so quickly.
“I mean …”
“What do you mean?”
“That creeper. Do you know about that kasiratnam creeper?”
Amma heaved a sigh of relief, “ha.” I was still suspicious; I still had not gotten over my astonishment.
“What else is new? What happened?” Amma sounded like she knew something, if not all.
I pulled myself up straight, straightened my collar, and spoke gravely, like a yogi delivering an
enlightening speech on the nature of universe, “That was planted by a saintly woman, I just
learned. That kasiratnam stands for a saintly woman.”
My sister entered the scene with tiffin plate. She burst into a big laugh, “Who said so? Thatha?”
She kept laughing like a rivulet in full tide.
I turned pale. Did I fall for his trick?
“The man is old but did not lose his jest for life. He is a great storyteller,” amma said.
“Story?”
“Talk about the general knowledge of my little brother! An illiterate, who could not say his alphabet,
has made a fool of you!” my sister said, laughing in ripples.
“Enough,” amma said and went away.
I still was not convinced. Additionally, there was one more question that was bothering me. I kept
pestering my sister. It took three days before she told me, that too, only after she had enjoyed my
stupidity to her heart’s content!
“Flowers? Well, didn’t you notice that the landlady has returned yesterday from her trip? She
wakes up early in the morning and gives the plant a clean shave; she takes the flowers for her
puja. And you wake up, like the lord of the west, at nine; what else would you expect to find if not
the bald plant?”
Translated by the author
(Telugu original, kasiratnam, was published in Andhra Prabha Weekly, 5 November 1966.)