Even before the sun can peep from the horizon, before it can make the dew drops on leaves vanish, Chellamma would start her journey from her small river side hut, towards the garden near the fish market. During the four kilometer stretch from the riverside to the garden, she would pass through the housing colonies, the public school, the local taxi stand, and my house, which was near the small Catholic Church. To the people all around in that locality, she was just a rag picker. For some of them she was a figure to be made fun of, and for some others, an excellent character to frighten their naughty children. The untidy figure, with dark wrinkled skin, hair style like that of a which in fairy tales, would convince anyone, why the children get frightened on seeing her. She would start her journey by picking up the empty plastic covers, used up batteries, fallen twigs from the wayside trees and garden, and would fill up her basket with it. Somehow she would earn her bread from those small things. When she would pass through the local taxi stand, the mischievous drivers would call her by her nickname. One can realize her vocabulary in slang at that time. Unfortunately the drivers always wanted to annoy her and hear the from her mouth. I used to wonder how could they amuse themselves by hearing the abuses from Chellammma’s mouth. Unbelievably, all these were the part of her routine. Very few people in the area knew her real name. Instead she was known by the name “Poodi”, the meaning or the origin of which, nobody knew. Everyone in my house knew her much better than anyone else in the area. That was because, she used to stop only in front of our house, on her way back from the garden, to have some rice soup, or dosa or lemon juice or even a matchbox. It was an amusing sight to see her lighting the beedi, which she would carefully take out from the small plastic bag tied to her waist.
I knew her since my childhood. She used to visit my grandmother every day during her return. My grandmother retired as the Jail warden in the city’s Central Jail. She would be sitting on the steps near the backside door of our house, reading the Bible in the morning, sometimes trying to tell me stories of Jesus, the saints, and the traps set by Satan. But by around 11.00 am she would be waiting for Chellamma to come. When she comes, she would sit on the gravely ground of the backyard, under the shadow of the thatched barn, to talk to my grand mother. She would smoke beedi, and tell some stories, sometimes do nothing but gossiping. The colloquial language she spoke was another amusement for the youngsters at home, including me. I would hide behind the door and peep at her, to see her smoking beedi and enjoying herself by looking at the smoke rings getting dissolved into thin air. My mother would give her something to eat and drink. As a gratitude for this, she would help my mother by buying fish from the fish market. She used to call my mother ‘Amma’ though she was much older to my mother.
She had a brother, who was a hunchback by birth . He would beg in the bus stands and if I can believe what others say, sometimes he used to do pick pocketing also. Whenever I see him, I used to think about the Hunchback of Nostradam Church. Chellamma also had a daughter and a grandson. But she was always independent and never she tried to intrude into the life of her daughter who was divorced by her husband, a thorough gambler. Chellamma knew that the income her daughter is generating from the riverside Mill was just enough to kill the fire burning inside two stomachs. She used to say “ as long as there is god, the trees will fell twigs for me, people will throw plastics bags for me, I will earn some coins with that….and above all..a glass of rice soup would be assured from amma….what else I need?”
Only on two or three days in a year she would put up with tidy cloths. One of those special days is Onam, the festival of Keralites. That day she would be in a dark red or dark green blouse, a silk bordered white dhothy and a white shall. On those days she wouldn’t forget to have two more things…a patch of sindoor on her forehead and jasmine flowers on her hair. My eldest brother would then, for the sake of fun, ask her whether it is her wedding anniversary or not. She would blush like anything, forgetting the fact that she is an old lady, with a smile showing the orange coloured teeth tainted with pan. It would be followed by the stories of her late husband, the memories of which she still cherishes and the silent listener would be my grandmother.
For us, the members of my family, she was not a mere rag picker. I never felt anything because, I was just a kid, still trying to get away from her frightening face. My mother never forgot to keep her share of food and drinks everyday. By chance if Chellamma do not turn up on a day, my mother and grandmother would ask my sister “ I don’t know why……Chellamma has not come for the soup”
When the time wheel turns, everyone has to move with it…. me too. From a kid I grew into young man. So many changes occurred to me. Procession of unforgettable incidents happened in front of me. But hardly any changes occurred to Chellamma. Her attire was exactly the same as that of the past years. Like the rivers and mountains witnessing the rising and setting of sun and moon, she witnessed the deaths and births in my family, along with us. She participated in the rituals, which followed the funerals of my aunt, my grandmother, my father and the baptism ceremony for the kids of my brother and sister. I still remember the curiosity with which she watched the newborn baby crying on my sister’s lap. Just like I used to get frightened on seeing her, my nephews and nieces also got the privilege to be afraid of her, just because of her appearance. In fact in the recent years, her appearance had become worst, partly because of old age and the loss of memory claiming the rest of the part.
After becoming an earning member in the family, working in a far away place, the only source from where I got updated about the incidents in my small locality and whereabouts of the characteristic souls from there, was my sister’s letters. That time I didn’t have phone connection at home. The only means of communication was to be at the mercy of our postal department. My sister would write detailed letters, may be in seven or eight foolscap papers with each and every inch of that paper utilized. In that letter she would describe every individual I know, may be about someone getting married, may be someone passing away, or how the small township is progressing, how the country roads on which bullock carts plied, now bear the imprints of the wheels of the majestic vehicles like Maruti Esteem and Honda city, or construction of concrete mansions on either sides of my tiny thatched home, making it a black spot on a white paper and so on. Always while reading those letters I used to feel that I am there at my home, feeling the nearness of those individuals mentioned in the letter. Most of the time, there would be a line about Chellamama in those letters. It may be about her health or may be the new pranks my nephews and nieces are playing on her and her affectionate response to all those pranks. Once my sister had mentioned in the letter that instead of having daily visits, Chellamma’s visits have become once or twice in a week only, as she is unable to walk properly. She was not an exception to the vulnerability of old age. In one of those letters my sister had narrated an incident, which made me respect Chellamma as a wise human being, much above the status of a rag picker.
One of the residents of the locality, a lady, was admitted in the medical college hospital due to some sever illness. That lady was staying near the Catholic Church by the riverside. When she was discharged from the hospital, my mother and sister thought of visiting her. Unless some unavoidable circumstances arise my mother would never venture to go out of the house. That was primarily due to arthritis seizing her legs. If she had to walk, then it would be like a snail’s creep. On a relaxed afternoon, when the sun was not so hot, both my sister and mother started off to visit the lady. Her house was near the church, which was about a kilometer away from my house. On their way, while they were walking past the stationary shops in the local market area, they saw Chellamma coming from the opposite way. She had the empty basket over her head. Since old age had taken its toll on her, she used to start her journey in the afternoon only. Getting up early and picking up everything useful to her was a Herculean task for her in that old age. When she came closer, my sister and mother smiled at her and extended a warm wish as they used to do whenever Chellamama comes home. But to their surprise, Chellamma neither responded nor paid attention to them. Though it was in a clear and loud voice, they called her by name, she didn’t listen to them and walked away. My sister was surprised at that strange behavior in Chellamma. She decided to ask her about this next time when Chellamma comes to have soup. After a week, Chellamma, came to our house on her way back from the days work. After giving her the soup the first thing my sister asked was about her unusual behavior on the road. She thought Chellamma would say that she couldn’t hear or see them because of the day by day deteriorating hearing power and eyesight. But her reply was something different.
“My child……, I saw both of you from a distance. I heard you calling me and asking me about my health. But I deliberately avoided you. Didn’t you notice that you were talking to me in front of the local market area and the taxi stand. All those ill hearted mischievous people were watching everything. If a rag picker like me, talks to people like you, my child….the shame is on you. I have nothing to be ashamed of or to loose But the people around can think of you bitterly if you let them see you care for a rag picker like me. If I had responded to you by stopping there, I would have brought disgrace to you. Chellamma has not been to school to learn…but I have seen the life and know the people around me. I would be loyal to Amma for the food she gives to me..and moreover for the care she gives to me….so my child..never ever try to talk to me on the road. I will not give attention to you, if you try.”
My sister said she stood speechless for some time. She said she had never thought of those words from a lady like Chellamma. She proved that, to be a wise human being the schools or certificates are not necessary. On hearing that incident I also thought that Chellamma is better than many highly educated senseless creatures whom I know in the locality.
On my last vacation, while I was sitting in the kitchen, over the big wooden box for storing the food items and utensils, a place I liked since childhood, my sister was updating me about the incidents in the locality for the last one year. Chellamma’s demise was one among them. She was already going through a tough phase of physical uneasiness. Though it cannot be called a tragic death, it was in an unusual way she succumbed to death. She was on her way to pick the twigs and plastics and she was working near the railway track. She was walking through the unpaved road by the side of the railway track, two kilometers away from my home. She was picking up something from the edges of the metal lining of the track. She didn’t hear the train coming. She heard the whistle of the train only when it was very near. Though she was pretty far from the rails and the moving train, she was still closer to the track’s metal lining. She made a futile attempt to walk farther away, but the weak limbs didn’t allow her. Then the strange thing happened. The fast moving train made a rush of the air towards the sides and that was strong enough for Chellamma to loose her balance. She fell towards the side and hit her head on the heap of rocks by the side. Her frail body couldn’t survive that impact. The witnesses for her last moments were the people sitting in the teashop near the railway crossing. They informed her daughter immediately. Next day morning she was cremated. That marked the end of the long journey Chellamma had had……… not the picking of twigs and papers, but of struggles for her existence in the world, of being the puppet for amusement by the people, of being like a member of our family, seeing the flowers blooming and fading in it. Both my sister and my mother went to see her daughter after the funeral as they came to know about the incident only after the funeral. For the outside world, she went into oblivion as a rag picker only. For us, she was not a mere rag picker…… but a wise human being.
(wrote this sometime in 2002 0r 2003)
