THE RETURN
(A
Story)
SUBBARAMIAH
leant back in the car and closed his eyes. He was physically tired, and yet
underneath it all, ran a curious streak of excitement. Perhaps that could be
accounted for by the fact that he was visiting his home-town for the first time
after a lapse of nearly twenty years. The town had been busy preparing a
suitable welcome for Subbaramiah. He was a man of repute now and the citizens
of Srirampuram were eager to give their fellow-citizen a welcome suitable to
his status and position. Opening his eyes for an instant, Subbaramiah observed
that they were on the outskirts of the town. Despite his forty years, he was
aware of a childish delight in these signs of home. As he sat gazing out of the
car, his thoughts sped back to his childhood.
Subbaramiah
was only plain Subbudu then. Ever since he could remember, Subbudu had been a
poor relation in the house of his uncle Sitaramiah. Orphaned in his infancy by
an epidemic of cholera that took away both his parents at one stroke, Subbudu
never knew the tender caresses of a mother or the brawny, affectionate clasp of
a father. He was an unwanted element in his uncle’s household. None cared if he
ate well or ate not at all; there was no one to comment or advise him if he happened
to be dirty or untidy. Only half-realising this, yet the lad was tremulous in
his eagerness to please, and thus earn a bit of affection or even a slight,
passing regard.
Shrewd
as his aunt Kanakamma was, she did not fail to realise the usefulness of the
boy. Subbudu was neither too young that he had to be fed and clothed by others,
nor was he too old to be moulded according to her will. So she set about her
task in her own inimitable way. The child was made to feel that the outside
world was unkind and cruel towards an orphan, such as he was. It was repeatedly
borne in on him that, for the very shelter of his uncle’s home, he should thank
the God above. Made to feel thus, he was a willing slave. He ran errands for
aunt and took messages for his unele. His cousins, quick to take advantage,
made him the butt of their unpleasantness. Subbudu grew quite accustomed to be
pinched or having his hair pulled when one of his cousins was in a temper. On
such occasions, he was made to realise, by his indefatigable aunt, that he had
to bear this pinching and teasing, nay, that he had to glory in it, for was it
not partly his cousins good nature that allowed him a share of their home?
When
Kanakamma could no longer keep him at home with impunity, she sent him, grudgingly,
to the Municipal School that was in the next street. Subbudu was now ten years
old and appallingly ignorant. He was quick of foot and sure of hand, but his
brain, undeveloped and uncared for as it was, was dull to the point of idiocy.
At school he suffered keenly; he was not unaware of the indignity of sitting in
the bottom-most class with kids of four and five. The teachers, not knowing the
circumstances of his home, held him up to ridicule; so that, dully resentful
and hurt; Subbudu dreaded the days on which he had to go to school.
Unconsciously, this strengthened the impression that Kanakamma had sought to
implant in his childish mind that his uncle’s house was a haven of refuge
compared to the cruel world outside.
The
sting of studying with little children remained; Subbudu tried to master the
lessons quickly, so that he could be moved up into a class more suited to his
age. It became a usual sight to see him with a broken slate and a bit of
slate-pencil, drawing the letters of the alphabet with a concentrated frown on
his little forehead. But his aunt was too good a schemer to allow him to get
away with it. Here was Subbudu, a poor relation, dependant on them for the very
food he ate and the clothes he wore–a strain on the purse, certainly, but set
off by the fact that he was a willing servant, when servants were scarce. The
left-off clothes and the meagre, left-over food were not much to pay for his
willing and honest service, and Kanakamma knew it. So she began steadily,
stealthily undermining his efforts; she kept him constantly on the run, here,
there and everywhere, with or without reason, so that, he would be too tired
out to try his letters that had seemed enchanting such a short while ago.
His
work at school deteriorated, and one day, his teacher, past all patience,
shouted at him, “It is impossible to teach you, you great big duffer! You are
the idiot of idiots! The one and only idiot of Srirampuram!” The children
laughed tauntingly and ran shouting after him when he went home in the evening.
Conscious
of the dull, smouldering resentment at his heart, he ran fast to increase the
distance between him and his tormentors. He ran straight to Kanakamma, caught
hold of her saree and panted out, “Please, please, auntie, stop me from school.
I cannot go, I really cannot!” Kanakamma’s heart gave a leap of joy; but she
was careful to keep the relief out of her voice as she asked him the reason for
his decision. In the end, after making him understand how very properly
grateful he should be to her good nature and tolerance, she acceded to his
request.
Thus
Subbudu grew up–patient, willing to slave, content with what he got and
grateful for it. Gratitude can be of many kinds. One can be passionately
grateful, lovingly grateful, kindly grateful or even blindly grateful. But
Subbudu’s gratitude was of a different sort. He, poor lad, was abjectly
grateful–grateful with each breath he grew in his thin, emaciated body.
Adolescence
brought no change in Subbudu’s affairs. He had grown accustomed to obeying everyone
in the house–from his uncle down to his youngest cousin. He went to the market;
he took the young ones to school; he carried their midday meal; he brought them
home in the evening. He was the last to retire at night and the first to be up
before dawn. Day followed day and week followed we in
monotonous succession.
It
was in his twentieth year that the incident occurred that was to change his
life. It happened, one day, that his young cousin Kamala wanted someone to take
her to her friend’s house. Subbudu was available and willing, as usual. So this
youth of twenty set out, holding the hand of his cousin, and piloting her
carefully along the crowded streets. Unusual crowds thronged the streets that
day, and Subbudu wondered, with a passing wonder, as to what could be the cause
of the crush. Having brought Kamala safely to her destination, he was dismissed
by this lofty little lady and asked to return in an hour’s time. Aimlessly he
wandered about, and was soon caught up, despite himself, in the teeming mass of
people. As he was borne along with the crowd, he struggled to separate, but
found it impossible.
Suddenly
he perceived that the crowd had reached the town maidan. He realised
that some sort of a meeting was in progress and cursed his folly in having got
himself mixed up with the crowd. As the speaker rose to his feet on the dais, a
sudden hush fell on the vast assemblage. Subbudu listened, absently at first,
with worry in his heart at the thought of young Kamala. But soon, the ringing
tones of the speaker drew his attention, and the attention soon developed into
a keen interest. The speaker was quite young, in his late thirties. He spoke
with an inspired fervour; each word he uttered came straight from the heart and
the listening multitude was aware of it. They listened, with an eager, hungry
look, when he spoke of the need of independence for the Motherland. And as he
spoke, he enlarged upon the urgency of freedom for the individual. Subbudu
listened; he felt that the words were being addressed straight at him. Freedom
for the individual! What had he known of freedom all his life? He listened; and
he realised how abjectly grateful a slave he had been for a meagre meal and a
few cast-off clothes! The speaker’s message put a new interpretation on life
and Subbudu was lost in wonder at this new revelation. When the meeting came to
an end, he experienced a sharp sense of regret; he could have listened to that
ringing voice forever!
Lifted
up spiritually and mentally, aware of himself as a separate individual for the
first time, he slowly made his way back to fetch Kamala home. On arriving at
the friend’s house, he stood outside, and called out, “Kamala! Kamala!”
Whereupon his young cousin flew out of the house and straight at him. She was
in a vile temper. She stormed and raged: “How dare you, you dirty devil! Why
did you keep me waiting so long? I’ll tell my mother, you rascal! Wait and see
if I don’t! You good-for-nothing Subbudu!" and struck him viciously on the
cheek.
Anger,
the first he had ever experienced in his life, blazed up in him. The words, in
their poison, fell atop the inspired words of the speaker who wanted freedom
for the individual. All the pent-up misery and humiliation of years blazed up
in a sudden gust of anger. And Subbudu acted! For the first time, in twenty
years, he acted of his own volition and instinct. He caught his cousin’s hands
in a hard grip with his left hand, while, with his right, he gave her a
resounding slap. The girl was too astonished to cry; Subbudu, aghast at what he
had done, let go suddenly, so that Kamala fell onto the floor and then set up a
series of howls as she ran inside. Subbudu stood there, raging, aghast,
trembling and yet exultant; he heard voices in the room next to
the porch.
One
said: “That kid Kamala has been needing this for a long time. The way that
family treat Subbudu! I wonder why the boy sticks it. I am sure that he has
fine possibilities if he is separated from those poisonous relatives of his!”
Another agreed and said, lightly: “If I were in his position, I’d run away.
What a torture and a humiliation it is to be a poor relation!”
Subbudu
stayed where he was. Those words, lightly spoken, showed him the way. A
blinding ray of illumination had come. He could be free if he wanted to! He
could run away, away from his relatives, to freedom and the unknown! Freedom!
The very word delighted him, thrilled him; on a sudden, making up his mind, he
turned and retraced his steps, without waiting or caring for the recalcitrant
Kamala. Awakened from the lethargy and the slavery of years, his free soul went
with him.
Srirampuram
did not see the familiar figure again. Kanakamma was furious; she was shrill in
her prophecies that Subbudu would come to no good. Yet, here he was, twenty
years later, entering his home-town as an honoured citizen. True, the fight had
been bitter, and the way had been long and hard. Many were the nights he spent
sleepless poring over books; many were the days he spent hungry while in search
of a job. And yet, his indomitable resolution, and the patience ingrained in
him as a poor relation, served him to toil his way up.
Subbaramiah
leant back in the car and closed his eyes. He was physically tired, and yet
underneath it all, ran a curious streak of excitement. Perhaps that could be
accounted for by the fact that he was visiting his home-town after a lapse of
nearly twenty years–Subbudu the ill-treated orphan, Subbudu the humble workman
that was, to Subbararniah–the prosperous mill-owner, much admired and
respected. And for him now Srirampuram had cameras to click, garlands to offer
in homage, and voices to raise in resounding ovation.