If trees could talk, the nagalinga tree on Alagappa Road, Purasawalkam, would have one of the most poignant stories to tell. Maybe it is doing so, in its own way. The tree is the last remaining object that belonged to the piece of land that housed Tamil writer R. Chudamani. After her death in 2010, the land was sold off, and her house was replaced by a chartered accountancy firm. But the tree remains. It rises above the building, heady pink flowers scattered by its feet. The tree was Chudamani’s best friend; one that nodded in encouragement as she put pen to paper in her room by the window.
“She knew the tree’s every move,” says K. Bharathi, the writer’s yet another close friend. She carried out Chudamani’s will and runs a Trust in the latter’s name. We meet on September 13 in her apartment, which, by an unplanned turn of events, happens to be the day Chudamani died. Bharathi regales us to stories from the 25 years she shared with the writer. The experience makes her smile as she goes back in time; but there are pauses, in which tears threaten to come.
“I was an editorial assistant with Kalki when I first met Chudamani. It was 1985. I enjoyed her Tamil short stories that were carried in the magazine and I got to know her address from her hand-written submissions that came to our office. I visited her one day. What followed was 25 years of friendship that changed my perspective of the world.
Chudamani was treated for smallpox when she was four, and faced health issues as a result. This kept her confined to her home and she did not receive formal education. But her world was bigger than one can imagine, as opposed to her limited access to it. Books were an important part of her life. Her library had names from Shakespeare to Thirumoolar. She was a historian in her own way — she documented important happenings by maintaining a record of newspaper cuttings. Dressed in an off-white cotton sari with a high-necked blouse, she wrote with fountain pens till the end.
When I first got to know her, I was a young woman who was full of opinions on the world around. Feminism was making fiery inroads during the Eighties and I would talk on and on about what I saw and felt. I was part of a team that started a women’s magazine called Latchiya Penn . We steered clear from carrying kolams and recipes and I would talk about this with vigour.
Chudamani listened calmly without interruption. For someone as intellectual as her — her friends from the literary circle was full of big names such as Ambai, and Rajam Krishnan — she not once judged me. I was at ease in her presence and could be myself. The way she looked at me — I can never forget her sharp eyes — it was as though she knew me completely.
She often went to the beach in her Maruti 800 and I would go along; she would buy me ice-cream. I remember how she would roll down the window and keenly observe the world outside. Nothing missed her eyes. What we took for granted, such as a child’s laughter as she ran on the sand, fascinated her. She soaked it all in.
I continued visiting her as I grew older and started teaching at Pachiappa’s. After her father passed away — her mother died when Chudamani was 24 — she lived all by herself. It was the days before CCTV cameras and as a woman who lived alone, she kept a diary writing down the names of everyone who visited her with the time of the day.
I may have known her for over two decades, but it was after her death that I got to know the real Chudamani. Her room revealed itself as a treasure trove. I found over 40 of her paintings — I didn’t even know she was an artist! She never spoke about herself. It struck me then that how evolved she was as a person. She had no ego whatsoever; never promoted herself; never hobnobbed with the who’s who for the sake of becoming famous. I discovered fascinating stories written by her in the 60s and 70s that she never shared with me when we met.
She knew that we would have to sort things out after her death and she made it so easy for us. Every key had a label and just when I pulled out a stack of books wondering whom they belonged to, a chit would fall out, with instructions on what to do with them. She was talking to me even after her death. Oh, those days, I would end up crying every time I went to her house.
I was with her during her last days at the hospital. She’d told me that she didn’t care about what came upon the body, but she wanted her mind to be alert till the end. It was. When she was wheeled into the ICU, she looked at me and said, “Take care of yourself”. That was the last time I saw her.
Who is R.C hudamani?
Chudamani has several Tamil short stories, novels, novellas, essays, plays, and poems to her credit. She has written over 200 short stories in English too. Her stories reveal her nuanced observation and understanding of the human psyche. She was born to T.N.S Raghavan, an ICS officer, and Kanagavalli in 1931 and lived in Chennai till her death on September 13, 2010.
