THE LAST EIGHT-ANNA COIN

(A Story)

By ‘ANANDA’

(Translated by the Author from his original in Kannada)

Going down South in Balepet, if one were to go about ten steps in the second lane on the left, just after Annayyappa’s Coffee Club, one comes by a small discoloured door on the right-hand side. The number on the door is obliterated by sun, rain and wind. It is the door of a very small room, six feet wide and eight feet deep. There is also a small opening, by the side of the door, in the six feet wall on the lane side,–with a tin shutter, doing the function of a window.

If anyone were to knock at the door when it is not locked, “Who is it?” asks a male voice feebly from inside, the door is opened and a young man appears in the doorway. This story is about him.

Were we to say that he is some insignificant, nameless struggler who, very ambitiously, set out to carve for himself a huge big name in the world of Fine Art, it would be sufficient foreword to his life history. Yet, for our and your convenience, it would be better to know his name and proceed further. His full name is Chandrasekhara; but the whole of it was not in daily use. He was calling himself just ‘Chandu’ for routine use. Honestly, ‘Murad’ would have been a far more appropriate name than ‘Chandu’, to this rather unlucky miserable being.

Again, were we to say that Chandu was a five-feet six inches tall figure of hunger, despair and sorrow, the more predominant and characteristic feature of our hero will be reckoned. In colour of skin, he was neither too dark nor too fair, but what one could call middling. The greying hair on his head, cropped long and never dressed, appeared bushy and wild. A high, wide forehead, overhanging a pair of sunken sad eyes, a prominent nose and a pointed chin, thin bloodless lips pressed grimly together, made up his face. Though he appeared to be on the wrong side of forty,–actually he was just thirty years old.

Chandu saw the light of day in an utterly poor household. He became a half-orphan at his very birth, by the death of his mother, and at the age of ten he was a full-blown orphan! And so, from that day began his battle royal with hunger. For fourteen long and wearisome years he fought grimly and relentlessly without retreating a single step. He married; at the age of twenty-four, a sweet charming girl from a well-to-do family, and the future appeared rosy for him. “Ah! at last the fight is over!” said Chandu to himself soon after his marriage. He figured that the rest of his life might turn out to be like a sweet unbroken dream. While such were his calculations, the decision of Fate was different altogether. Chandu had hardly walked a couple of steps in his happy dream state, when Kamala’s eyes were closed–never to open again. His colourful dream bubble was pricked abruptly. He opened his eyes to the bitterest reality; Just two years after marriage, Chandu became a man of the streets again.

Chandu was an artist and he had adopted his art as a profession; for, even from his early youth he had a crazy notion that art as a profession would pay and that he could earn quite a lot of money by painting pictures and selling them. The reason for this optimism was an item of news in some English newspaper, to the effect that a painting of a great European artist was sold for some thousands of pounds, in an auction.

Chandu had taken to art like fish to water. Probably the artistic strain in some remote ancestor of his was trying to assert itself and blossom in Chandu. Anyway, he indulged in the art of painting with all the fervour of a ‘yogi’ and mastered it in much shorter time than others could have. He could say in a picture more completely and lucidly than what a hundred pages of description could do, even then perhaps not so adequately. But what was the earthly use? He had learnt an art, neither wanted nor valued by the people amongst whom he was born and so the golden dream of his early youth soon began to melt and evaporate. His lot became worse than that of a street dog during the three years after his wife’s death. Finally, after a good deal of cringing and begging, he was able to obtain the temporary post of a drawing master in a city school. This job brought him fifteen rupees a month as salary. “At least one meal a day is assured,” said Chandu to himself. Till now he was living with some distant relatives on his mother’s side,–who were themselves not in affluent circumstances. So, soon after he obtained the job in the city school, he took a room–the one with which this story opens–on a rent of three rupees a month. The remaining twelve rupees had to provide him with food, clothing and artist’s materials such as colours, paper etc., required for his profession. So in this economic distress, two meals in every twenty-four hours seemed an unnecessary extravagance to him. Therefore, he firmly resolved that he must be satisfied with just one meal a day until better days dawned, and brought it into force with immediate effect.

A few months passed in this state of affairs. Barring school hours, Chandu used to utilise all his leisure hours of the day to paint pictures. His room was full of pictures painted by him. Some were completed and some were finished half and three-fourths. In one way or other, hunger, despair, sorrow and poverty, depicted in a variety of compositions, were the dominant note in all the pictures. What else could he paint, except his own experiences, thoughts and feelings; of which he was a rich source to himself?

Eight months rolled by in quick succession and summer arrived. The vacation deprived Chandrasekhar of even the ‘half morsel’. According to rules, the school authorities could not continue to have a temporary hand on their rolls during the long recess and so they terminated Chandu’s services on the last working day before the holidays. Chandu had not thought of this calamity. He was bewildered. What to do for the meal? And the room rent? These cruel questions loomed–one bigger than the other–before the mind. At worst, one can beg and fill the belly. But what about shelter? He never wanted to be a parasite again on his distant relatives. So? “Under a tree!–or on the pial of Poorniah’s choultry!–of course!” a voice deep within him seemed to answer emphatically. Well, one was as good as the other! Chandu shuddered at the agonising thought.

Chandu was acquainted with a picture dealer in Chickpet whose name was Gangappa. He took a number of his finished paintings to Gangappa’s shop to be displayed there for sale. This shop was very well known for the sale of original paintings, sketches, colour prints, lithographs etc. The sale of at least one picture a month would solve his food and other pressing problems–for the time being at least–hoped Chandu fondly.

It was nearing a month since Chandu had lost his job. The vacation never seemed to end. And then, what guarantee was there that he would get the job again soon after the classes began? The previous month’s salary had been used up to meet the expenses of the month previous to that. From the first day of the current month, Chandu had vetoed even the single meal per day; for, in his present desperate situation, that also was an extravagant luxury! By appealing to the mercy of the landlord, he had managed to postpone the payment of the rent that had fallen due that month. This was indeed a great relief, though temporary. But the silent, howling demand of the belly was more oppressive and more inexorable than the loudest demands of the cruellest landlord in Lord Almighty’s creation. The amount of rent he had withheld was already exhausted. He had nothing but an old watch with him, to sell and realise some cash. The time had come to part with it. Five years back he had paid thirty rupees for it. Driven by hunger, he had no time to go round and realise the best value for it. He went into the first Marwari pawn-broker’s shop he came across, and sold it outright for five rupees. He looked upon the amount, not as just five rupees but as eighty annas! To complete the illusion he changed all the rupees to nickel anna-coins. Their weight was reassuring to him. As he was returning to the room he had a strong temptation to go into a coffee club and have a small repast of delicacies. But he curbed it and proceeded.

With this amount in his pocket, Chandu started on ‘Gandhi’s meal,’ with a slight, unavoidable difference, of course: instead of the famous goat’s milk he had to be satisfied with tap water!

Meanwhile Chandu began to visit Gangappa’s shop every evening. His pictures never seemed to sell. After a few days he reduced the price of each picture to half the value he had originally set. Even then they remained unsold.

It was the first of the month again and about three o’clock in the afternoon. The last one-anna he had, had been used up to provide the groundnut meal for the previous night. It never seemed decent to him to go borrowing first thing in the morning. Anyway, who was there to give, even if he went and tried? By now he was more used to fasting than breaking it! So he had prepared himself to go without food this day and was fasting since morning. More to divert his mind from the ravings of his belly than to any thing else, he took out a half-finished water colour painting and began to finish it….It was the picture of a young and beautiful lying on a soft bedded cot in the full light of a wide window. So was depicted as though in deep sleep. The face was, calm and serene, and was lit up with a gentle, sweet and yet sad smile. Maybe, she was having a sweet dream or finding sleep sweet…..Chandu had been painting this particular picture during the last four years, bit by bit. This was a ‘not for sale’ picture and so he was not in a hurry to finish it. And he did not want to finish it either; for that would have meant, not having anything more to do with it, while he wanted to have as much to do with it as possible and for as long as possible. The reason for this was not far to seek. The heroine of the picture was the heroine of Chandu’s life, who had passed away through a fatal illness four years back, leaving him to life-long sorrow. The heart-rending scene, on the, soft bedded cot, in the full light of the wide-opened window, in that room on that distant–yet seeming so near–day when the darling of his heart had gone to eternal sleep–this vivid scene, was deeply rooted in his mind: During the four years since that fatal day, Chandu had been pulling out this tragic scene which had dived into his very soul, and transferring it slowly–bit by bit, on to the paper. Every time he sat before the picture with brush in hand, he drove his mind to four years back–and visualising the dear sorrowful scene of the last moments of his beloved wife–with poignant affection, he used to paint the picture with torrential tears.

It was so on this wretched afternoon also. Sorrow welled up from the depths of his memory, drowning all the trials and tribulations he had become heir to. As he was sitting before the propped up picture with brush in hand, he paused, reclined against the wall, and half-closed his eyes. His consciousness seemed to recede. His right hand; holding the brush, slided down the side. The brush slipped out of his hand and fell on the ground. His unhappy mind had raced back four years in his miserable life. The river of his sorrow was in spate. It seemed to branch and gush out through the slits of his half-closed eyes….

Chandu was awakened suddenly from this bitter reverie by some one knocking on the door. He sat up with a start, wiped his eyes with the end of his shirt and queried softly, “Who is it’ please?”

“It is myself!–Open the door!” answered a gruff voice, sharply, from outside.

It was the landlord’s voice! He had called for the room rent! For Chandu, at the moment, the voice of Death itself would have been sweet music compared to this awesome voice. “Hum!” said he softly with a shrug, got up, put away the painting and opened the door. The landlord–a pot-bellied, dark skinned, clean shaven, swarthy faced, stiff necked monstrosity in human form–was standing outside the door, with a stout stick in hand, more in the pose of the Heaven Lord than a mere land-lord! In the august presence of this fearful and formidable person, Chandu, bringing up all the humility into his face, said, “Please come in, sir, and sit down” and waved his hand in the direction of the interior of the room. But the visitor was in no mood for such courtesies. He stiffened his neck still more, knit his dark brows and said sharply, “No! no! no time to waste! I’ve called for the rent! I must hurry! I’ve got a case at the lawyer’s!” Words exploded from his lips, like a number of crackers going off in quick succession.

“Oh! yes, sir, certainly! It’s all right. Have no fear, please–your rent is quite safe–I assure you.”

Hardly had Chandu finished his talk, when the landlord said angrily, “I say! cut out all that nonsense! I care two hoots for your assurances! I want my rent and I’ve come for it–do you hear?”

Each word of the landlord was like the crack of a whip on bare skin, mortifying Chandu.

“Kind sir, as you can see, it is just the first of the month yet. If only you graciously extend a bit of your kindness to a poor man...

“Look here! what sort of a man are you! I’ve allowed you full thirty days’ grace to pay up last month’s dues, and yet you talk of extending my kindness! Really you should have some sense of shame!”

“Oh! Lord! dear sir, did I say you didn’t show kindness to me? Did I? You see, sir, this is just the first of the month: if only you kindly allow me–say–just a day or two more–perhaps, I can manage somehow–This is all I wanted to say, sir.”

“All right, mister, let me test your word. I give you time till ten o’clock on the night of the 3rd-that is, the day after tomorrow. Mind you. I’ll not wait a minute beyond that hour. You must pay up last month’s arrears and the rent that is due now–together–bear that in mind!”

“Oh! no! kind sir, please–please don’t insist on both! With my head on your feet, I beg of you. It would be very hard on me!”

“Oh! shut up! Hard! Hard, is it? Are you the only person to face hardships? Haven’t we got Our own hardships to face? Who is there to listen to our woes? No! no! I will call here the day after tomorrow night. And I tell you, I’ll have none of your excuses any more!”

Chandu started to say something. But the landlord turned a deaf ear to it and left with an unmistakable temper. Closing the door again, Chandu turned and stepped slowly away from the door, with a leaden heart. About a week back he had chanced to see a couple of mongrels, tugging away at a piece of tattered rag in frolic. The scene came back to his mind with a peculiar bitterness. Mentally, he replaced the tattered rag with his own physical body–added one more mongrel and a human skeleton in the background and said, “Yes! that’s my story: Hunger Sorrow and Disappointment toying with me, with Death in attendance!”–with a forced smile. His eyes wandered and noticed a piece of charcoal in a corner. He went, took it up and worked a rapid sketch–with sweeping strokes–on the bare whitewashed wall. He projected himself so much into this autobiographical drawing that he almost felt the sharp teeth of the imaginary mongrels cutting into his limbs.–With a groan he turned away.

Even two days’ grace so grudgingly allowed by the landlord seemed a great boon to Chandu. He heaved a long sigh of relief. Who knows? Anything may happen in two days! Sale of even the lowest priced of his pictures at Gangappa’s, within the next two days, would solve the problem,–for a while at least. This was Chandu’s fondest hope,–hope of the thinnest silver lining in a mass of dark clouds of despair. With is heart full of indescribable storm and turmoil, he took out his favourite picture, propped it up and sat in front of it, as before, reclining against the bedroll. He gazed at it for about ten minfItes,–without so much as winking once and then started to talk, in an undertone, to the heroine of the picture:

“Kamala–Ah! My own sweet Kamaloo, death has been an escape to you!...yes, dear, a merciful escape!...The moment you left for Heaven, that moment, my own Heaven crumbled to dust–no doubt, my honey!…But–but, my Queen, now, you are beyond the clutches of this hunger, this sorrow–this despair–and–and (laughs ironically) this groundnut meal and tap water! The thought of your escape is the only drop of sweetness in a sea of bitterness...Supposing you were with me–now–in my present state? Huh! I shudder even to think of it, Kamala...Now, I have no fears, my love. Alone-now, I can gulp down a whole sea of poisonous bitterness–digest and belch!...On that the darkest day, you died–wanting ever so much to live, and today I am living, not wanting to live any more!...For thirty long years, I’ve been a dead weight on this Mother Earth!...Isn’t it enough? Isn’t it time I finish this–this living picture of misery–with the big final stroke?..Yes, the final stroke is big and–and requires the strength of a granite heart!...Oh! Kamaloo, my heart wouldn’t harden yet, what shall I do?...The day it hardens–hum! Yes! the day it hardens–is the day of victory for me!...let that day come! let it come--let it come soon! That’s all I wish now!...”

It was nearing six o’clock in the evening, the same day’ With just a ray of hope lurking in his dark desparing heart Chandu started out for Gangappa’s shop in Chickpet. When he reached the place he found the proprietor in the shop.

“How about today, Mr. Gangappa?”–asked Chandu, mingling fear and hope in a meek voice;

“What?” Queried Gangappa–who was otherwise engaged at the moment.

“The writing on my forehead–for the day!”

“Oh! that, is it?”

“Yes.”

“H’m!–it is blank, mister! I am sorry to inform you”

“Huh! –that’s nothing new –isn’t it?”

–said Chandu half-questioningly–with extreme bitterness and dejection in his low voice.

It is a pity indeed! –You see, mister, I show your pictures to every one who calls here for a purchase; but what is the use? Not a mother’s son seems to fancy any one of your paintings. They don’t even look at them! What am I to do?”

“Oh! What can you do–really! Leave the cursed lot alone! They are stone blind perhaps!(and lowering his voice to almost a whisper) Er –Mr. Gangappa, –You see…”

“Yes?”

“Have you–er–I mean to say–a little money to spare?”

“Oh! Mister, I am very very sorry–really! You see, just at the moment, I’m very hard pressed myself. You must really excuse me for the present”

“For the present–means?”

“For a month more at least”

“Huh! What bad luck!” said Chandu to himself–shrugged–and left the shop with a down-cast face. He walked a few steps, stopped–deliberated for a few seconds, and then retraced his steps to the shop. There, calling Gangappa to a side, he whispered something into his ears. Gangappa took out a two-anna bit from his pocket and passed it on to Chandu’s palm unobtrusively. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Gangappa,” said Chandu and walked away. On the way back, he bought his meal–i.e., groundnuts, for the two annas he had received and returned to his room.

The second day of the month was not in any way different from the first–so far as it concerned Chandu–except that it seemed to pass away in a flash–making room for the dreaded third day.

It was ‘about four o’clock on the evening of the last day of grace. Chandu had just then returned from Mr. Gangappa’s shop,–of course empty handed as usual. On his return, entering the room, he went straight and sat down heavily, and reclining against the rolled up bed, let go a deep agonising sigh and groan in one breath. It was not so much a sigh of physical tiredness as one of boundless despair. He had made a meal the same night of half of the groundnut he had bought on the evening of the first and had reserved the other half for the meal of the following night. That was finished the previous night. On this third day, he was fasting since morning, and it was already four o’clock in the evening. There were just six hours to go for the arrival of the landlord. Thoughts began to peck at Chandu’s head like so many vultures:

“Ah! sure as Hell comes the landlord–pat on the hour of ten tonight!–I have no doubt!...Ah! My God!–how swiftly slipped away two days!...And today? The Time-God seems to be in a mighty hurry!...The landlord! Huh! This land!–and these lords!...What answer have I for him, when he comes? What excuse?...Burning hunger in my belly and crushing debt on my back!...A half-anna worth of groundnut and the howling stomach is quietened...but where? –where on earth shall I find six huge big rupees for this fellow’s mouth?..Hum! all right!-all right!...There are still six, no! no!–five and three-quarter hours to go!...Yes, there they are–but what is the use?–Whatever is possible–in these five and three-quarter hours?...Well! Well! Nothing! nothing is possible, if the mind is–er–yes, soft and milk-sopish!...But if–it hardens? If–it–? h-a-r-d-e-n-s is it?..Well, what is impossible–if it hardens?..Hum! Yes! it must harden! It has got to harden!...It is hardening! In fact I am feeling the process! What a wonderful thiing the mind is!...This is the cursed day on which I have to cough out six rupees and I haven’t an old worn-out copper pie in my hands!...What!...haven’t I?–really...That’s not true! I have!–I have!!…I have that silver half-a-rupee coin!...No! no! I’am not a complete pauper yet–till this day!–this hour!–this minute! No!–I am Not!...In coppers it means thirty-two quarter-annas or ninety-six pies!–the silver disc!...It is my Kamaloo’s dowry–and all that I have. It is there–in that trunk–enshrined in her favorite–little, carved ivory box….These four cursed years, in the direst need, I didn’t touch it; for, to me, it is no more a government coin, but a memento of the sweet memory of my Kamaloo; no! no! it is more than that; to me, it is Kamloo’s soul itself! Keeping it in her ivory box–I have adored it–worshipped it–these four years. Often, looking at it I’ve forgotten all my worries–anxieties–trials and tribulations. Oh! on how many days have I not bathed that eight-anna coin with my tears! And on how many days have I not let my tears into that ivory box!...Ah! Yes, that half-a-rupee silver coin is there–it is there! From the day Kamaloo passed away to this day–even when I was without a solitary pie–so to say–I have, in fact, been a rich man! –a half-a-rupee worth rich man!…That exquisitely carved ivory box!...My God! How Kamaloo loved it!...Only two of us shared her love–me and that dainty ivory box. That box–and that eight-anna coin belong to her. They are as priceless and sacred to me as her love was and her memory is. Together, they have linked earth and heaven for me, these four years; since Kamaloo’s death...Little things in themselves, but what a mighty magical bond!...Perhaps I may be able to subdue my hunger just for once–in a hotel–by that eight-anna coin–no doubt; but what a shameful sin it would be to exchange it so!…Tut! Tut!–caught in the grip of the most consuming hunger–during these four long cursed years–I was not callous-hearted enough to use that coin!...and today, to satisfy my cursed belly–not for all times!–but just for once!–am I to Use that sacred relic?...Sacred!–Sacred to whom?...to me, and so long as it remains with me!...Afterwards? What does the hotel-keeper care? For him, it is just another coin, like any of the hundreds that fall to his counter daily...And from him? God knows who else will get it! Who can divine the n1ysterious itinerary of an ever rolling coin? Perhaps some thief!–or a prostitute of a toddy vendor!….Is this to be the fate for that, which is now, my Kamala’s soul to me? No! no! Certainly not! It shall not happen while I breathe! Why ‘while I breathe’? It shall not happen even after my last breath is gone!...

It was between half past six and seven in the evening. Chandu, who had stretched himself with the rolled up bed for a pillow, got up now and lit the tiny oil lamp. There was, still, a little over, three hours left for the arrival of the landlord. Chandu opened an old discoloured trunk and brought out the tiny, carved ivory box from its depths. And then, he took out his wife’s picture that he had bee n painting and placed it against the wall near the bed. With the ivory box near him, he sat down again, reclining against the bed and facing the picture. He gazed at it with his soul in his eyes–intently, for a quarter of an hour without stirring or beating his eyelids once. Next, he took up the ivory box, stroked it tenderly and opening its lid took out the silver eight-anna coin. Even as he was diving his fingers into it to take out the relic, tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his unhappy face. Affectionately he bathed the sacred piece with his hot tears. Again and again he pressed both the coin and the ivory box to his trembling lips. His cup of sorrow was full to the brim. Even mentally he could not utter a word. Again, he rolled his watery eyes to Kamala’s portrait for another quarter of an hour and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Letting out one long sigh, he got up briskly, and uttered sharply just four words: “Kamala! it has hardened!” Then, with lightning speed he took up the picture, and kissing it once and for the last time, he pressed it to his face and heart. Then closing his eyes, he tore up the picture to tiny bits, heaped them together–struck a match and set fire to the heap. Four years’ labour of love was reduced to ashes in a minute. Chandu gathered, slowly, all the ashes into: the ivory box. Then he scribbled something on a piece of paper and nailed it to the wall opposite the door. He was not in need of light any more. He blew it out.

The landlord did call at Chandu’s room that night, punctually, on the stroke of ten. The room was locked. He waited for a while fruitlessly and left with his mind full of curses for the absent tenant.

The landlord called again early next morning, to collect the rent. He found Chandu’s room locked again–even at that early hour. Identifying the locked door with the erring absentee tenant, he hurled a few more choice curses against it and left. The same thing happened for two more days, and the locked door of Chandu’s room got a thicker coating of abuse and curses each succeeding day.

Three days later.

The news spread that there was a male human corpse floating in the Kempambudhi Tank. Thicker than the vultures gathered the crowd of curious idlers. As usual, a couple of police constables and a Sub-Inspector also arrived on the scene. After some time and effort, the corpse was landed. It was not possible to identify the body. The right palm of the deceased was closed in a tight fist. When it was forced Open, there were small bits of ivory and a little wet ash. It was a puzzle to the police as well as to the idle crowd.

The body was sent for post-mortem examination.

In due course came the post-mortem report. It was the opinion of the doctor that death was caused by asphyxiation due to drowning. There were no signs of violence on the body. There was one more statement by the doctor besides this. He had stated that, when he cut open the vicera of the deceased, he had found a crushed and folded silver eight-anna coin in the stomach.

“Suicide due to unsound mind,” was the verdict of the Coroner.

“On the seventh day, when the landlord broke open the lock of Chandu’s room in the presence of a few witnesses, he found a letter addressed to Gangappa and nailed to the wall:

“Dear Mr. Gangappa,

You may kindly take the whole lot of my pictures in your possession for yourself, for just ten rupees, and pay that amount to my landlord who may bring this letter to you. I am off to feed the fish! Good-bye!

–Chandrasekhar”

–was the text of the letter.

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