A Street Dies On The Poet

21 October 2010

It was dark but crowded at Thampanoor. People scurrying to and from the Bus stand and the railway station did not notice the man lying on the pavement, among a few used cartons.

The man lay there watching his soul preparing to leave him, but could not muster enough strength to prevent it. The inebriants he had consumed that evening revolted with his innards and managed to escape through his mouth, though only partially. A faint stench of yellow vomit pervaded everywhere.

His face and hands had wounds, seemingly endured from a minor road accident. Blood had not yet clotted; the man unwittingly spread it while wiping his face. He thought about the Asan Prize award ceremony in Chennai in two days and could not decide on which poem to recite there. May be he would recite his latest work which he had started that day on a piece of paper now kept inside the folds of his shirt sleeves. He could see the arrow that would pierce his soul and, in pain, he closed his eyes.

Soon passers-by crowded around the weary man, who watched them, with closed eyes and unconscious mind,  lifting him up and placing in a cab that sped towards the General Hospital. The muddy old man with unkempt hair lay patiently on the hospital bed till the Doctor arrived to pronounce him dead. The people who brought the man to the hospital started to disperse leaving the medical staff to complete their duties. The dead man was not in a hurry. He was waiting for his dead friends with a calmness not ever seen while he was alive, not even thinking about his daughter Meena and Mariam Beevi, the unfortunate woman who carried his daughter in her womb for 9 months.

A sunny morning in the year 1971

The young man was waiting for his girl, wearing a smile which concealed the agonies of a troubled childhood; despite that, anxieties of a first love showed on his face. His mind was searching for the precise words for opening a conversation which he hoped would kick off a relationship lasting a life time.

The girl slowly walked towards him, carefully trudging on the fallen leaves on the campus of University College; she was nervous. With a half smile, she sat beside the youth to hear him singing, “Oh autumn, my beloved…” The baritone voice of the singer reverberated through the sleepy leaves of the elderly trees that canopied the lovers.

As the young man finished singing and drew a breath, the girl leaned over to him and planted a kiss on his cheeks.

30 May 1987

They were quarelling on the street, as usual, two shabby men. One of them, a noted film maker, in his customary rags, was talking about his forthcoming works which drew scant attention from the other, a man in his late thirties. He made fun of the film maker who rarely delivered on his promise which angered the director even more. Knowing he would not receive a listening ear, the film maker started to leave, with a promise that he would return, a promise he would never fulfill. He took a loan of Rs 100 from his mate to cover the expenses of his evening drinks and walked away to a building under construction where he, a few hours later, would fly down from the parapet, like a dove, towards his destiny. Enduring the negigence of the hospital staff all through the night who failed to recognise him, John Abraham died a pauper’s death a day later.

The man in the thirties would imitate his friend 23 years later.

A dark evening in 1950

A group of men brought Arumugham Achari home.

Muthammal, his wife, carrying a little boy, watched them with a dead face. A girl held on to the woman’s hand, rather perplexed at what was going on. The men carefully placed Arumugham on the verandah.

It was drizzling; the thin threads of rain enveloped the house and the courtyard. As she watched the inert face of the gold smith, Muthammal’s mind was wet, too. A murder and a suicide and the incidents in between rained misery on her mind. Unable to bear the onslaught of the excruciating thoughts, she hugged the little boy closer; the boy had already gone sleeping by then.

A humid day in 2007

The poet was unusually silent during the journey. He was feeling uncomfortable in the peaceful cool interiors of a luxury car and missed the humid turbulence of the pavements. He answered the questions of his companion in monosyllables or in a few words at the most. He wanted the vehicle to arrive at the destination fast where his mind had already reached.

Wind started to blow as the poet and the interviewer sat in the courtyard waiting for Jenny and Sathyan to appear. The poet’s face lit up when he saw his love emerged from the house along with her husband. He became animated seeing his chokki.

The interviewer’s questions were mainly directed at Jenny and occassionally at Sathyan. All through the meeting, the poet regularly bothered jenny with his antics and cracked miserable jokes to no one’s laughter. He was noticeably elated to be with his love and laughed when Sathyan narrated the hardships during the shooting of a documentary on the poet and how Jenny banished him and the poet from the house. Though the poet was visibly active, his soul was elsewhere.

The poet was living his poems with Jenny in his dreams.

October 27, 1949

Arumugham Achari waited impatiently.

Muthammal was in labour. He prayed for her health and he prayed for a son; his first born had been a girl. As bad thoughts started clouding the nervous gold smith’s mind, he heard the cries of a baby and smiled.

Ayyappan Acahari was commencing his torturous journey which would last 61 agonising years.

A. Ayyappan

October 27, 1949 - October 21, 2010