Chesukunna Karma

(Performed Karma)
G V Krishna Rao

Translator
GRK Murty


Chesukunna Karma—a Telugu story published in March 1947.

1
 About the Author

Dr. G V Krishna Rao (1914-1979) belonged to Tenali, Andhra Pradesh, India. He has written four
novels in Telugu, a volume of playlets, a couple of plays, a collection of short stories, and a
critical survey of the Buddhist philosopher Nagarjuna’s Vigrahavyavartani (The End of
Discussions). He has also translated Plato and Kant into Telugu. His writings give us a true
reflection of his personality—“curious, humble, rationalistic, humane, and true to life.” His
playlet—Bikshapatra (Begging Bowl)—was proclaimed a ‘National Play’ and was translated into
sixteen Indian languages and broadcasted through All India Radio. His last play—Bomma
yedchindi (The Doll Wept)—portrays “a clash and crash of ideas and ideals” rather than
personalities, which “leaves the audience in a subdued mood of sorrow.” Keelubommalu
(Puppets), his maiden work, has been acclaimed as one of the outstanding novels in Telugu
because of its ‘unity of effect’, achieved in portraying man as a mechanical doll—a doll driven
more by “circumstances and animalism.” Hence, the need to change. In yet another novel,
Papikondalu (Papi Hills), he advocates that ‘natural truth’ is better than ‘didacticism.’

“Eme! Ninne!1 Looks like, someone has come into the courtyard. Go and see.”

“Who would come now? It could be Raghavulu with the hay bundle,” says she,
while hurriedly breaking cow dung cakes to place them on the fire before the
straw in the hearth burns out.

“Ha! You and your intelligence! If it were Raghavulu, why does the milch cow
moo so restlessly? Go and see,” shouted the husband, a little harshly.

The jug filled with milk is right there. If I go out into the yard, she wonders, the
cat may turn down the jug. Lakshuvamma, then asks her son who is hanging
around holding her sari entreating her to serve food, “Arey! Chittoda!2 Go and
see who has come into the yard.”

1
Eme! Ninne!—a rustic way of calling wife in the countryside—“Hey, You!”
2
Arey! Chittoda—fond way of calling the youngest kid of the house.

2
Of late, Chittodu has become obstinate. Venkayya, on tying the dhoti3 around
his waist, looks at his wife. Setting the hearth on fire, she is transferring milk
from the jug to an earthen pot. What can he say to a woman who is fully
occupied? Wearily, he himself walks towards the courtyard.

The eastern sun is fast rising. Putting his hand against the rising sun, he shouts,
“Who is it?”

“It is me, Sir.”

Peering intently at the man walking towards him with a huge turban around his
head, Venkayya whispers, “Oh! You, Pullai, when did you come?”

Seeing Venkayya, Pullayya removes his turban and keeping it on his shoulder
replies: “Just now.”

“Are the children and everything fine?”

“With your grace, so, so.”

“Had you needed our grace, would you stay this long without turning up this
side? If not for our sake, at least, for your son’s sake, whom you have left with
us? Have you seen your son, at least once in the last two years? Tottukodaka!4
Giving birth to children and leaving them to their fate! Animals are giving birth
and so are you!” Although Venkayya was scolding him, Pullayya is enjoying it,
for he could sense a kind of warmth in it.

3
Dhoti—the loincloth worn by male Hindus.
4
Tottukodaka—a slang, son of a whore; used in the countryside in two ways: to abuse when angry with someone;
two, to chide someone affectionately—of course, only when one is sure that the other person would not take
offense.

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“What can I do, Dora?5 Umpteen times I tried to come here, but it didn’t
materialize. Once, it was my wife who fell sick. Then it was the turn of my
younger kid. Later, it became my turn to fall sick. What can I do? Thereafter, it
was the farm work that held me back this long.”

“Say all this elsewhere, not to me. If only you had the longing to see your son,
wouldn’t you get time for two long years?”

True. If Pullayya really had that urge to visit his son, he would have certainly
made it one day or the other. To tell the truth, he was not much attached to his
elder son, Raghavulu. There is a reason for it. Hardly at the age of five, he left
Raghavulu in the house of Venkayya. What else can poor villagers do? Indeed,
for the last ten years, Venkayya himself has been taking care of Raghavulu’s
welfare. He is the teacher and Asaami6 for Raghavulu—he has been getting
every farm operation done by him after training him well. Whatever has been
the treatment meted out to him by the Lady of the house, for the last thirteen
years Raghavulu has been refusing to leave them. Even when Pullayya left the
village for a far off place, Raghavulu refused to leave Venkayya’s house. That
made Venkayya too develop a kind of fondness for Raghavulu. Of course,
Pullayya used to come every year around bavoi punnami7 to collect the annual
wages.

Under such circumstances, it is no wonder that Raghavulu had no affection for

his parents! But Lakshuvamma, being a mother, used to force Raghavulu to go
and visit his parents, at least, once a year.

“Eemei8, Raghavulu’s father has come. Give him a jug, he will wash his face,”
shouts Venkayya to his wife.

5
Dora—a way of addressing the employer by the servant.
6
Asaami—the farmer who hires a person as an agricultural labourer on an annual basis.
7
bavoi punnami—full moon of the first or second week of June is treated by the farming community as a festival of
the ‘beginning of tilling the soil.’ Farmers start their agricultural activities of the new season from that day. Also,
the annual labour are appointed from that day.
8
Eemei—another way of calling wife.

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“Dora, you have become so lean? Fell ill, or what?” asks Pullayya.

Sitting on the deck, Venkayya replies, “No, but as we advance in age, aren’t the
years added? Or do they get deleted?”

Keeping a jug before him, Lakshuvamma asks: “So, you felt like coming after
this long? Anyway, the chantadu9 is near the well. Go fetch water.”

People with no association with farmers’ families and their way of living may
feel disturbed by Lakshuvamma giving him an empty jug. But Pullayya feels
quite happy about it, for he feels that the Lady has thus treated him as an
inmate of her house.

Lakshuvamma questions him: “Did you come across your son?”

“Yes amma, he did. On my way here, I went to the haystacks yard. He was
there pulling hay from the stack.”

“So, on the way itself you have coolly made the purpose of your visit clear to
him,” says Asaami (Venkayya).

Taking the side of Pullayya, Lakshuvamma says, “Oh! Come on, after all, they
are meeting after so many days. Shouldn’t they talk?”

“Oh! you and your stupid fondness for them! Do you know why Pullai came? It’s
neither to see you, nor his son.”

“Then, for what?”

9
Chantadu—rope meant for drawing water from the well.

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With a smile, Pullayya takes the side of the Lady saying, “Yes, so must you ask
Dorasanigaru10.”

“Don’t be a smart rascal. If it was to see your son, you should have come as
usual four days after the full moon.”

“He might have found time only now,” says Lakshuvamma.

“You duffer, you, too, had free time now, isn’t it? So only, you are dubbed as
the inheritor of craziness for people. Not for anything?” taunts Venkayya.

“Each of us has our own intelligence. Go Pullayya, go and wash your legs,” so
saying she goes inside.

There is then a sudden stirring and a fluttering in the cattle shed. The cows in
the yard start mooing. The black young bull, hitting the land hard with its
foreleg, moos ferociously. Listening to the sound coming from the backyard,
the aged bullock too suddenly wakes up and stares at the backyard door.
Hopping and jumping, the young he-calf runs to the first hay bundle that comes
into the yard and smelling it, jumps to the second bundle, carried in by
Raghavulu.

Rinsing his mouth, Pullayya watches how his son is loved by everyone—right
from the young he-calf to Asaami, everyone is fond of his son. He wonders if
Asaami can afford to lose such a worker.

“Hey! Be off, pulling the dhoti?” shouts Raghavulu at the he-calf, which circling
him does not allow to move forward. Venkayya shouts, “Orey Chittoda! Your
bujjai11 is running away.” Leaving his mother, Chittodu at once runs to the
backyard.

10
Dorasanigaru—my revered Lady—a way of addressing Asaami’s wife by the workers.
11
Bujjai—fond way of calling the he-calf.

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“Where is my bujjai?”

“There, behind Raghavulu. Pull it away and tie it to the peg.”

Chittodu, holding the belt around the neck of the he-calf, pulls it. Yet, it does
not move away from munching Raghavulu’s dhoti. Raghavulu yells at it. When
Chittodu pulls it forcibly for the second time, the he-calf could not but leave
Raghavulu’s dhoti.

Placing the hay bundles under the eaves of the cattle shed, Chinnadora12 and
Raghavulu pull them inside. Asking his young master to keep the leguminous
straw bundles on the loft, Raghavulu comes to Venkayya.

“Despite going that early, is this the time to return?” shouted the landlord.

“What else can I do when not a single blade of straw is coming out? When I said
I will break down the top of the haystack, you said no.”
“It is true nanna13, we could not pull out even a single blade of straw. Hey
Raghavoi, shall we break the top tomorrow,” asked Chinnadora.

“Not tomorrow, seasonal activities are on. Let these few days go,” says
Raghavulu.

Venkayya feels sorry for his son for not having even this little sense of
priorities.

“Arey Raghavoi, your father has come,” says Lakshuvamma, entering the yard.

“Let him come. Serve me food. I have to go quickly for ploughing the field. The
ploughs of the other villagers are already in the fields,” says Raghavulu.

12
Chinnadora—young master—normal way of addressing the next male in the hierarchy of the family.
13
Nanna—father.

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“He has come after two years, how you could say that?”, says Chinnadora.

“Let it be. He has come, so he will see me. Having seen, he will coolly go back.
You untie the cattle quickly,” warning thus, he sees off Chinnadora.

“Arey abbai!14 Listen to me,” calls Pullayya. But Raghavulu goes into the house
without responding.

“Orey ninnera!15 Your father is calling,” shouts Venkayya, after him.

Raghavulu comes to Asaami and stands before him. Pullayya also comes to the
deck.

“Your father might wish to talk to you about something, go with him,” says
Dora.
“What is there to talk with me? He came to speak to you. You and he may
speak to each other.”

“See Dora, how mad he is—like the anecdotal one who said, I too have to go
for my marriage?”

“What is it that I can speak? You are the elder one, he is the Dora, the knower
of the dharma16, why me in between? I have to go for ploughing,” Raghavulu
starts walking into the house despite his father’s calling.

“Orey Raghavulu! It’s alright if you don’t want to stay, but plough carefully.
Else, the young bull may turn bad for farm operations,” says Asaami.

“Have the cake and eat it too, but how? Water is about to be released into the
canals. Still, seven acres of our dry land is to be ploughed. How to get all this

14
Arey abbai—my child—a warm way of calling a young man, by his father or for that matter any elder.
15
Orey ninnera—hey! you!—a colloquial way of reminding a person about the call made earlier on him.
16
Dharma—cosmic and social order and the rules pertaining to it; it is the central concern of Hinduism.

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done with a single pair of cattle well before water is released?” Raghavulu
walks into the house.

“Hell with it! Whenever it is to be over, it will!” Asaami reaffirms his point.

“How to pull on with this kind of a son,” says Pullayya, after his son goes inside
the house.

“That’s ok! Go, you too take your food. We shall talk later.”

After taking food everyone goes about their work. Lying on a bench in the
veranda, Venkayya leisurely smokes his cheroot. Picking up the midrib of the
tobacco leaf thrown off by the Lord, Pullayya breaks it into pieces and throws
them into his mouth to munch.

“Hey, what are you doing, wouldn’t I give you a full leaf if asked?”

“No, Dora. These strips taste better.”

In the meantime, Lakshuvamma, having finished her household chores, comes

out and sits with them.

“Dora, listen to me!”

Coming out of his pondering, Venkayya asks, “What?”

Pullayya hesitates for a while.

“Why this hesitation, Pullayya! Ask, whatever you want,” says the Lady of the
house.

“Doragaru, I want to get him married this year.”

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“Selected a bride?” asks Lakshuvamma.

“Not yet, Dorasanigaru.”

“Then what is your ‘crying alas!’ for,” asks Asaami.

“As you know, Doragaru, it is only upon knowing that one is earning reasonably
sufficient sum that someone will come forward offering their girl as bride.”

“Isn’t he earning? Sure, he is not roaming like a he-calf.”

“How can a wife and husband live on 50 bucks Dora? That’s why, wherever I go
for a bride, everyone questions me about his earnings.”

“So, you want to say that unless the annual wage is increased, you will not let
your son work for me. Right?” asks Asaami.

“Ups and downs in our lives, you know well! Yet, if you say that, what do I have

Thinking over it for a while, Venkayya says, “So, what do you want to say?”

“My village shavukar17 is offering two pairs of clothes and a wage of Rs. 75.”

“Then, you keep your son with them for the promised wage.” Venkayya, who is
lying on the bench, turns towards the wall.

Wondering at the proposal, Lakshuvamma exclaims, “Would anyone at once

raise the wage by Rs. 25?”

17
Shavukar—village moneylender.

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“I swear on you Dorasanigaru, the shavukar came to keep the hard currency of
Rs. 75 in my hand. And I am conscious; I am saying this, sitting under a house
built by many.”18

Lakshuvamma couldn’t say anything.

“Orey Pullai, why turn down a good offer? Take along your son and place him
happily with your village shavukar. That lessens our burden too. Then coming

18
Saying this, sitting under a house built by many—a local expression to reinforce that one is speaking the truth
and the truth alone.

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to the dues, Raghavulu has been working with no absence all through last year,
and I shall pay you the dues in the morning.”

“If you forsake kindness, what would happen to poor people like us?”

“Certainly, I am not taunting. Tell Raghavulu when he comes in the evening,

and take him with you.”
No one spoke for a while. Hearing that Raghavulu would be taken away,
Lakshuvamma’s eyes well up. He had lived in their house for so long. And, he
used to carry out his work without ever being asked to. Though ‘skilled
workers’ are available, no one can be sure of their trustworthiness. She feels
like asking her husband to retain Raghavulu by raising his wages a little, say by
Rs. 10 or 15. Is it necessary for her to tell him anything in particular about it?
Isn’t he aware of how everything is going on, irrespective of his presence or
absence at home? She wonders: If the man steering the family himself asks
Pullai to take away his son, there must be a valid reason for it. The moment this
thought dawns on her, she could not press for retaining the employee.

“So, Doragaru!”

“What—want me to jump into the river?”

“Alas! Why such inauspicious words? If only you can explain it vividly.”

“Haven’t you said?”

“I did, but you have heard what he said a while ago. Unless you tell him to
leave, Raghavulu will not leave your yard Doragaru.”

“If that is so, will he listen to me?”

“Certainly, my son has tremendous faith in you.”

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“Alright! I shall tell him tonight right in front of you.” Venkayya then gets up
and wearing his chappal walks away to the field.

In the night, after everyone had finished dinner, Venkayya, sitting on the deck,
lights his cheroot and calls for Raghavulu who is putting hay before the cattle
and Pullai who is sitting in the front yard. Both father and son come and sit on
the floor before him.

“Raghavulu, did you enquire why your father came?” asks Asaami.

Raghavulu nodded his head. In the meanwhile, Chinnadora and Chittodu come
and sit beside their father on the deck.

“Then, what did you say to your father?” asks Asaami again.

“What have I got to say? You know everything,” says Raghavulu, smiling.

“Would you both, father and son, then, obey what I say?”

“What do we have to say against your word?” says Raghavulu.

“If ‘equity’ is delivered who can deny it?” says Pullayya.

“Arey Raghavulu, the shavukar of your village seems to be ready to pay you Rs.
75/- if you join him to work in his yard.” Venkayya flings away the dead
cheroot.

“What have you to say?” Raghavulu stares at Asaami.

“What is it that you want me to tell you? Can I say no to your earning a few
more rupees? Even if I say no, how would you feel? Shouldn’t the society
approve of it? You go with your father tomorrow. No doubt, you have all along
reposed faith in me. You are no way different to me from Chittodu. I
13
understand you are not heeding to your father’s persistent pleadings. But let
me confess, it’s not that I don’t feel like retaining you with me. But what am I
to do? Time is against me. Rates have dipped so low. How to afford it? Get up
early and go with your father tomorrow.”

Venkayya, turning to the other side, pulls Chittodu closer to him.

“Where is Raghavoi going?” Chittodu asks his father.

“To his home.”

“Where is his home? Isn’t this his?”

“No. It is far off.”

“Why are you going Raghavoi? Did father beat you?”

Everyone laughs, except Asaami.

“He is going to his mother,” says Venkayya.

“When will he return?”

“Never again,” says Chinnadora.

“Don’t go Raghavoi, aren’t we friends?” saying so, Chittodu goes to Raghavulu

and puts his tiny hands around his neck tightly.

“I won’t go, you go and lie down.”

“Ha! I know, by eluding me, you want to get away. Tonight, I shall sleep beside
you.” Chittodu then starts pestering Raghavulu.

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“He won’t go nanna19, you go and sleep inside,” says Venkayya.

“I know, tonight I will sleep near Raghavoi only.”

With Chittodu on his shoulder, Raghavulu goes into the cattle shed.

“Arey Peddoda! 20 Ask your mother to go and fetch Chittodu,” saying so,
Venkayya sends his elder son.

“Doragaru,” Pullayya reminds Venkayya of his presence.

“Haven’t I said? You take him with you in the morning. I have given your dues
to Dorasani. Take it from her. Why, it’s already late. Go and sleep on the mat,
spreading it on the deck.”

Venkayya then goes inside the house and lay down. Lakshuvamma adds yeast
to milk and tidies the kitchen. Then, taking a lamp in the hand, she goes to the
backyard, closes the back door and picks up Chittodu from Raghavulu’s cot and
places him on her bed in the house. She then adjusts the wick of the lamp to
lessen the light in the room. She puts the pillow that was thrown off the cot
back under the head of her elder son and sets his dhoti properly by pulling it
down to his ankles. She then returns to her bed and sits on it. Her husband is
still, like a child, rolled up on the cot.

“Emandi!21 Are you asleep?” Lakshuvamma laughs.

“Yes,” replies Venkayya.

“Didn’t know that sleeping people could also speak? By the by, why was
Raghavulu weeping? Have you said anything to him?”

19
Nanna—fond way of calling a child, while cajoling.
20
Peddoda—informal way of calling elder son.
21
Emandi—the way a wife addresses her husband.

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“I haven’t said anything to him. I directed him to go away with his father. What
else can I do, when I can’t afford?”

“Is it difficult to pay Rs. 75 for the kind of his labor?”

“Ok! Pay, then, if your father has given something?”

“Why, working for you, but payment by my father?” quipped Lakshuvamma.

“That’s what I am saying—I can’t afford it.”

“True, when it comes to me or him, your hand will never ever move towards
the wallet,” taunted Lakshuvamma.

“You’re not perceiving the ups and downs. When would you become wise? You
were restless till I wrote that promissory note for Rs. 5,000 favoring your son-
in-law. Spent around Rs. 1,000 on laying the roof of the cattle shed. While I am
haunted by the question of how to get rid of these debts, you want to add this
burden too? After all, I am also a human being,” yells Venkayya.

The poor lady just remains silent. After a while, chanting the name of ‘Rama’,
she reclines on the cot. But Venkayya could not sleep. He suddenly feels the
presence of his son-in-law’s father reminding him, “Makham, Phalgunam22—
with the coming of Phalgunam, the promissory note becomes due for
payment,” and his village shavukar saying, “we need money back Abbai,” right
before him. This makes him feel as though ants are crawling all over his body.
He pulls his legs further closer to his body. Yet, the more he flinches, the more
the ants are building huge molehills over him. A wild shiver rattles him. With a
jerk he wakes up and sits on the cot, opening his eyes. The light of the lamp,
however, gives him a little confidence.
22
Makham, Phalgunam—months in Telugu calendar equal to January-February (Maaghamu); and February-March
(Phaalgunamu) of Roman calendar.

16
Yet, his heart is pounding. Did I ever crave for distant comforts? Did I ever run a
race that I am not supposed to be in? Who asked me to write the promissory
note for Rs. 5,000 favouring the father of my son-in-law? Which farmer will ever
cut off a piece of land from his holding, to give away? Because, it wasn’t done,
all these problems today.

What are these debts after all for me, if only the rates of paddy remained the
same? Wouldn’t they have been cleared in four to five years? Why at all the
prices should crash? I have been listening to the almanac every year. Why has
not even a single siddanthi23 written about the fall of prices? Well, how do even
they know the karma24?

Then, what is the karma that I did? I have not cheated anybody. I have not
transgressed my Varna Dharma—the eternal laws of my caste. Why then, this
ill-fate for me? Why then, such ‘fortunes’ to the village shavukar? What ‘good’
has he done? Hasn’t he trampled many families? Hasn’t he extinguished many
lamps?25

He might have performed ‘holy-deeds’ in his previous birth. Does it mean that
karma then lords over even God? If that be so, why then God?

With my intelligence, am I to ridicule God? Venkayya shivers with fear. Praying

to God for forgiveness, he slaps himself on his cheeks.

So, what am I to do? I may have to straightaway sell the land, cattle—whatever
there is—and pay off the debts. If I were to keep my word and be off my debts,
that’s it! Yes. I will dispose of them all. What after the disposal? Two children,
me, and wife—how to take care? I may have to work for another Asaami, for
23
Siddanthi—writer of almanac.
24
Karma—in Vedanta, it is the non-material residue of any action performed by a person, the cause of
embodiment and of Samsara. In popular terms, every Hindu is inclined to attribute everything that happens—
fortune, or misfortune—to his/her karma. Karma is commonly used to denote: action, destiny and also ‘prarabdha
karma,’—karma inherited from the previous birth. In this story, the word is used with all these various shades of
meaning.
25
Extinguished many lamps—a colloquial expression, which means ruined many families/lives.

17
what else can I do other than farm work? When no land is owned, perforce one
has to mortgage himself to another farmer!

Having lived thus far, am I to work for another farmer to earn a wage? Am I to
sell the land inherited from my grandparents and great grandparents and leave
my children in destitution? Is it for this that father handed over that chunk of
land? Instead, wouldn’t it be better to hold the breath—it won’t take three
minutes.

Venkayya, of course, could neither dare to dispose of the land nor dare stop his
breath. If there is God, wouldn’t he be kind enough?

Early morning, Pullai, in the anxiety of not finding Raghavulu, wakes up

Doragaru. Everyone is stunned: “Where is he? Where has he been?” Woken up
by the commotion, Chittodu starts crying. With great difficulty, Lakshuvamma
pacifies him. Having seen everything with his own eyes, Pullai could not say
anything against Dora. Placing the money that her husband had given the
previous night in the hands of Pullai, Lakshuvamma assures him, “Nothing
would happen to Raghavoi,” and sees him off.

As the day draws nearer to afternoon, Raghavulu returns home with a lantern
in hand.

“Came, amma, Raghavoi came. For me, he brought a fruit too,” shouts
Chittodu, and chuckling with joy, runs to his mother to pass on the fruit.

As she comes out of the house, Raghavulu is washing his face in the backyard
with the water from the brass vessel. Seeing him, out of frustration, she swears
at him: “Where the hell have you buried yourself all along?”

“As the nursery in the western field was drying up, went there to water it.
What else do you think have I taken the lantern for?”

18
“When your father came to see you with great anxiety, you rascal, you hid
yourself from him?”

“Scold anyway amma. You can swear at me. And I am to honor it. Aren’t you
scolding Chinnadora? Now, coming to my father? For all these ten years, where
was this father? Whether it is fever or pain, it is you who has been looking after
me. Did he ever come to take care of me? Tell me?”

“What is it, that after all, Pullai said? Isn’t it for your good?”

“Aaha! How nicely you have put it! Do they need my welfare? It is my wage.
They have been taking away my wage every year. If they are really interested in
my welfare, let them show how much money of mine they have with them?
They have swallowed everything. There is not even a paisa today.”

“Why then give birth to and nourish children? Isn’t it for their support to the
family?”

“True, as you said, had they brought me up, that’s right. But you cared for me.
Did they ever?”

Lakshuvamma could not argue any further, “That’s not the point, if you hide
yourself from him, what will your father think? Won’t he think that we told you
to behave that way?”

“What is there for you to say in this? Yesterday itself I told him on his face, ‘I am
not coming.’ How could he then say anything against you?”

“Ok! Whatever is destined to happen, will happen. It’s already too late. Go, get
ready quickly to gulp down two morsels.”

Immediately after eating food, Raghavulu leaves for ploughing the field.

19
The whole village, including Venkayya and Lakshuvamma, is surprised at his
behavior. Since then, whenever anyone talked of workers in the village, no one
could converse without mentioning Raghavulu. Why so much concern for
Asaami? Why all are not like him? Why don’t all others work so diligently like
him? It is these issues that have today become intractable international issues
for the villagers.

Whenever the other Asaamis in the village were to scold their laborers, they
used to cite the example of Raghavulu. Similarly, laborers are also asking for
new things under one pretext or the other. Besides, they are prescribing many
conditions—they should not be asked to pound paddy, they should not be fed
with stale food, and their elders should not be abused. They must be given a
pair of dhotis and a pair of upper clothes per annum. Every month, they must
be supplied with a quarter pound of dry tobacco leaves. And Asaamis should be
content with whatever is turned out, and should not scold for this and that.
There are a few other such conditions. But no farmer observed them; nor did
the laborers ever work like Raghavulu.

Yet, kaalavahini 26 didn’t stop for even a minute. The rainy season came.
Wetland villages all have became cesspools of water. Raghavulu never used to
come out of the cattle shed. He is always busy either in collecting cattle urine in
pots and throwing it outside so that their beds remain dry, or in feeding them
from time to time. Immediately after eating food, he used to take a handful of
jute fiber, and egarra27 to weave ropes for the cattle. He wouldn’t allow any
unevenness or blotch to go unnoticed in the weaved rope; he wouldn’t mind
even to unwind the whole length and weave it again.

At times he wonders: why this passion? How does it matter if the rope is not
neat and clean? All that matters is its serving the purpose. Still his mind will not
yield to such arguments.

26
Kaalavahini—flow of time.
27
Egarra—an instrument used in the process of weaving ropes meant for cattle.

20
Although the cattle and the farm are not his, as long as he is in the yard,
everything must be in perfection. By the by, Asaami said that he can’t afford
me. Why did he say it? What if he is serious about it?—Oh! no way. Why should
he? Isn’t he aware of justice? Having had me for all these years, how could he
now ask me to go? Am I alone becoming a burden to him? It’s perhaps my
madness—why would he?

His young heart, which is not able to see the reality is however, dreaming of
sweet castles. He wishes for his yard to be flourishing. There should be no
cattle that can compete with his Asaami’s, not only in that village, but also in
the neighboring villages. The farm that I am cultivating, he dreams, must yield
thirty bags per acre. This season they have puddled the land twice before
transplantation. Tillering is also good. If every tiller comes out with an ear-
head, it will surely yield thirty bags. No doubt about it. But, vishaka28 must be
watched? Who knows, it may ruin the whole dream?

In his heart of hearts, Raghavulu silently prays for ‘time’ to move on alright,
and for his farm and the land that he tilled, though it belongs to Asaami, to
produce bountiful of grains. How come, he cultivated such affection? What did
he gain from it? Perhaps, experts alone can attempt an answer for these
questions.

Just as the rains receded, good days too receded for Venkayya. His son-in-law’s
father sent a registered notice demanding the payment of Rs. 6,800 that is due
to him under the promised dowry. His village shavukar too demands the
payment of his dues of Rs. 1,608 within that month. The milkmaid starts
pestering Lakshuvamma to repay her dues of Rs. 75. Since then, Lakshuvamma
starts fearing that something is wrong with their stars; she wonders if the
rotation of sun and moon is not in order.

28
Vishaka—a constellation of stars, said to come into existence around 6 November to 18 November. During this
period, there is a danger of rains ruining the paddy crop that would be in ‘flowering/grain-formation’ stage.

21
Rueing on his karma, Venkayya too has become restless. Even if he was getting
a wink of sleep late in the night, the creditors suddenly appear before him,
demanding repayment of loans—literally poking at him, like the messengers of
yama29. Even if he escaped from their poking, the milkmaid, Durgee, does not
leave him. He used to feel as though Durgee was dumping her milk pot on his
head saying, “Take this too.”

Not being able to put up with the pain of debts, he silently disposes eight acres
of his much cherished wetland for Rs. 7,500 to Surayya. He also sells the stored
paddy of forty bags for Rs. 400. Yet, he is still left with sundry debts amounting
to Rs. 600. Venkayya is still not free from the debts. One night, he gives a hint
to his wife that he may have to dispose of the bullocks and the cows too.

“Thank God! You haven’t said about ‘selling the children too’,” exclaims
Lakshuvamma.

“What am I to do if the creditors press for payment?”

“Do whatever, but don’t sell the cattle....worst comes to the worst, can we not
clear them in the next harvesting season?”

“Having disposed the wetland, how many more hundreds of bags of yield, do
you think we would get?”

Lakshuvamma could not speak immediately.

“Had we sold what land we have sold today, three years back, we would not
have ended up in this grave,” says his wife, blowing her nose.

“Who thought karma would force itself upon us like this? I’ve been hoping—
debts would get cleared out of the annual crops.”

29
Yama—the Vedic god of the realm of the dead and the judge of departed souls.

22
“Our karma being what it is, no point in blaming you.” Lakshuvamma wipes her
tears with her sari.
Venkayya, identifying his karma as the sole cause for his current plight and
throwing the entire blame on it, feels himself relieved of the burden. But, will
the world leave it at that?

For the world, weak in one aspect could mean weak in entirety. No sooner had
the news of selling his land spread than the other creditors started pressing for
repayment. Unless the debts were many, would he sell eight acres of land? If all
were to be cleared, why would he sell it so secretly? Which means, the debt
must be large. The moment it struck their minds, the creditors unleash a ‘run’
on him.

This makes Venkayya feel as if he is rolling on a bed of burning coal. One day,
when cattle buyers came, he disposes off the young bull and bullock for Rs. 350
and quietly drives them away, for if Lakshuvamma sees, would she let that
happen?

On that day, Raghavulu, sweating profusely, returns late from the field,
carrying a heavy bundle of green grass. When he hurries to the cattle for
feeding them with grass, there are no bullocks. He is stunned! Even if they ever
untethered themselves, they never left the yard on their own. Asaami may
entertain an obligation with anything else, but not with bullocks. Even if there
was any such compulsion, he would only send the cattle along with him.

What then would have happened to the bullocks today? Wondering if owing to
urgency Asaami himself might have gone with the bullock cart, Raghavulu
looks for it. But the cart and its chiruthalu30 are very much in the shed. Even the
plough and its accompaniments are all in their respective places. Unmindful of
the ruckus created by the other cattle for the green grass, Raghavulu hurriedly
runs to Lakshuvamma and asks, “Who has taken away the bullocks?”

30
Chiruthalu—sticks placed in the yoke to hold the straps meant for fastening bullocks to the yoke.

23
“Aren’t they in the cattle shed?”

“No.”

“Your dora might have gone out with the bullock cart.”

“The cart is very much there in the shed.” Dragging his feet towards the yard,
Raghavulu squats in the middle.

Dropping the vessel in the hand meant for collecting milk, and the rope for
tying the legs of the cow while milking it, in the middle of the hall,
Lakshuvamma too rushes into the yard enquiring, “Are the bullocks there?”
After all, they aren’t a needle not to be seen, though present?

As her elder son enters the yard, she hurries him out saying, “Go and get your
father saying that the bullocks are missing from the shed.”

A while later, her son returns saying, “Father is not at the library pyol.”

In the meanwhile, darkness advances. Lakshuvamma, having fed the cow with
bran, sends the milk-vessel and the rope to fasten the legs of the cow before
milking, with Chittodu, to Raghavulu to ask him to milk the cow. Raghavulu,
lying on the hay-sheaf under the cart, does not respond. Lakshuvamma too
comes and requests him. She even shouts at him. It is of no avail. She then asks
her elder son. He expresses his inability. She wonders how, being a woman, to
milk the cow. She waits for the arrival of her husband, who, however, hasn’t
turned up, though considerable time has lapsed. Peeved at the delay in milking,
the milch cow and the he-calf moo restlessly, creating cacophony in the yard.

Lakshuvamma feels terribly disturbed. Finally, she ventures out to milk the cow
herself. She then calls Raghavulu for dinner. He doesn’t move. She then calls
her elder son. Initially, he too refuses, but finally yields to take two morsels of
food. Chittodu, feeling sleepy, presses his mother for making the bed. When
24
Lakshuvamma goes into the room for bed-sheets, she observes her husband
moaning on the bed covering himself fully with a blanket.

Carrying away the bed-sheets, she makes the bed for both the sons and asking
them to lie down, she returns to the room with the lamp and laying her hand
on the temple of her husband, enquires, “Are you feeling feverish?” Warm
water falls on her fingers. She is taken aback.

“Looks like you are suffering from fever!”

“No,” moans Venkayya.

“All sorrows have come together! The bullocks too have fled away from the
shed.”

After a while, heaving a sigh, Venkayya says, “I have sold them.”

Lakshuvamma, shell-shocked, stands motionless for a while. She could not

utter a single word. Later, with a lantern in hand, she goes into the cattle shed
and sitting a little away from Raghavulu, tells him, “Seems, your dora sold away
the bullocks.”

Raghavulu doesn’t say anything. He merely keeps staring at the bamboos of

the roof. Blowing her nose, Lakshuvamma narrates to him the debts and the
plight of the family in detail.

“After all, what can he do, when our karma is like this? Our plight has quite
worsened. How can you stop it? Get up, my child, get up to take food.

Whole day you have labored so hard, unless you take some food, you may faint
by morning. Come on get up…”

“What can you too do for my karma,” says Raghavulu.

25
Despite her varied pleadings, Lakshuvamma could not make Raghavulu eat
food. She too, feeling an aversion for food, lies on the cot drawing Chittodu
closer to her stomach, engulfed in fear—fear of the ‘future’.

That night was a Shivarathri31 for Raghavulu. Like a cinema, the whole of his
past rolled before his eyes. Why have I been staying with Venkayya all along?
Sweating it out for all these years? What was the outcome? Even Asaami didn’t
gain anything out of it. Did I gain anything? The empty stomach is making mere
noises. Why, then, this labor? What if, it was to be under someone else? What
extra would it have resulted in? If that be so, why this labor, unmindful of one’s
own well-being? Just for belly’s sake? Is it merely for the belly? Is that what I
lived for? What if, I don’t live this life at all? Which god will cry?

What is that I am craving for? After all, isn’t it for bullocks and farming? No
doubt about that. Isn’t it the loss of the young bull that I fed and trained, which
is terribly disturbing me? Means, all that I need is the bullocks and a handful of
farming, which is productive. I can be content with them. My life could then
pass on happily. Despite selling my labor and my independence, how is it that I
am not getting them?

Finally, Raghavulu too, throws the blame for his current plight on karma?
However, the shackles that have been holding him for all these days have
simply broken without his realization. So, why should he then stay here alone?

That night he couldn’t sleep a wink. As the thoughts rolled on, it was dawn.
Getting up and completing his morning chores, he puts on washed clothes,
packs the soiled clothes and hanging them to one end of the staff, walks
straight to the house and calls Lakshuvamma. Along with her, Asaami,
Chinnadora and Chittodu come out to the yard. Looking at Raghavulu’s attire,
they become wooden statues.

31
Shivarathri—a Hindu festival. On the festive night, Hindus keep themselves awake whole night. Shivarathri is
thus used to denote a sleepless night.

26
“Going amma!” says Raghavulu.

“Where?” asks Lakshuvamma in a surprised tone.

“Haven’t thought of it, yet.”

“Will you go to your father?” asks Venkayya.

“No! I won’t.”

That makes everyone speechless.

Lakshuvamma stops him saying, “Eat food and then go. Last night too you
haven’t had anything.”

In the meantime, the he-calf comes jumping to Raghavulu and holds his dhoti in
mouth.

27
“No amma, you have asked, that is enough for me.”

Holding his chin, Lakshuvamma implores, “Babu32, listen to me…”

“Not now, let me go.” Raghavulu pulled out his dhoti from the mouth of he-
calf.

Chittodu cries at once. He-calf bellows. Led by it, all the cattle in the yard moo
in chorus.

That day, all that bellowing could not lay shackles on Raghavulu’s legs.

32
Babu—affectionate way of addressing anybody, including a worker.

28