On the way to town, Acchan left Radhika on the wayside. He forgot her. She was ten years old then. He left her in a small shed where a signboard said: ‘Urinating here is strictly prohibited.’ ‘Have to piss, will be back soon,’ he said. Then, off he went to a nearby bar. When he had downed some hard stuff, Acchan remembered the local prostitute very famous in those places. He forgot Radhika.
That day, there was a raid in the prostitute’s house. Father was arrested. Radhika was dead tired, waiting, waiting. Darkness fell. An old man sidled up to her. I will take you to Acchan, he said. He took her to his hut and fed her rice gruel and tapioca. When she was half asleep, he raped her. He was a woodcutter. In the corner of that room with unplastered walls of roughly hewn laterite, there was a rope twisted and piled high and an axe with chips of wood sticking to its blade. A piercing scent filled the room. The scent of wood, freshly chopped and raw.
That is a memory which drives Radhika crazy, hitting her like a thunderbolt and hurling her to the floor. It pierces right through her brain cells, smashes them up, and makes her quite unlike herself for some time. Many years later Christy re-entered her life, bringing it all back. That was a strange day. His re-entry was completely accidental. One morning, Radhika was hanging her washing on the clothes line, and he stepped into the arc of her vision, walking slowly like a defeated man along the raised bund in the field below. Jabbing down the tip of his large black umbrella, as if it were a walking stick, he crossed the mud path, and stepped into the by-lane. The umbrella made her think it was Acchan. Acchan, thus etched in Radhika’s memory of that day. The edge of the narrow gold-bordered mundu in his left hand, the curved handle of the big black umbrella in his right. A man in a hurry for his booze and to fuck a whore.
Christy was not in a hurry. His steps were weary. He crossed the field cautiously and climbed on to the bank of the canal. Fixing his gaze for a moment on the canal in which the sky-eyed fish swam, he stood still for a while, the edge of his mundu in his left hand. Then, he crossed the small wooden bridge carefully and climbed the steps up to the house, panting. Radhika stood in the northern side of the yard still holding the half-wrung washing, eyes still on him. He pushed the wooden-barred gate open, twirled his umbrella, and appeared before her in no hurry at all. And with no conceit whatsoever of having been her lover sixteen years ago, introduced himself: ‘Do you recognize me? I am Christy, we were together in Law College for three years.’ Lightning tore through Radhika’s brain. The recognition — that this was Christy — sent waves of shock through her. Her brain cells splintered. She lost track of time and space. She was thrown back into her childhood. Ten years. The yellow frock with red frills. The skinny, brown-skinned body. Skin, just ten years old. Flesh, too tender. That old man, like a hacksaw tearing into the wood. Radhika was overrun by that memory. ‘I am in a hurry … an urgent matter … please help,’ Christy said.
Radhika hurtled back into the present. Now she was not a skinny child, but a housewife. Thirty-six years old, in a dirty, damp nightgown and unkempt hair tied up carelessly. Eyes with dark shadows. Body with those old rape scars. She tried to smile.
Aa Maratheyum Marannu Marannu Njan (And Slowly Forgetting That Tree …);K.R. Meera, trs. J. Devika, OUP (Series Editor: Mini Krishnan), Rs.250.
