Muthulakshmi

I first saw Muthulakshmi about a decade ago as a lean but an active woman in her early seventies, trying to eke out a living by running errands for people who temporarily employed her or by resorting to odd jobs in the vicinity of her hut, masonry being one of them.

During those times when the economy was driven by recessionary trends, I had identified a piece of land measuring about 8 cents by a village road, not far from another piece of half-an acre farmland, both of which had come up for sale in the rural district of Tiruvallur, about 50 kms from "Singara Chennai". Having not much to do in the city after the devastation in the markets, I decided to 'do' what I had wished to do for a long time ever since I had had enough of city life. I decided to move to the rural countryside and do 'nothing' in the guise of 'looking after my farm' and 'taking care of my aged mother'. I could fancy myself enjoying a siesta after a sumptuous meal on a jute woven cot under the shade of a neem or a peepal tree at a corner of a paddy field on a hot sunny day! This, I thought is bliss one could die for!

Having purchased the land, I proceeded to build a small house by the forlorn road, overlooking the paddy fields. Within a week of commencement of construction,  Muthulakshmi accosted me as I was about to leave the site in my car and bade me to get down to talk to her on some "serious business".

She took me on by asking, "I come from my place that is across and beyond those paddy fields. How can you employ non-locals for a civil construction in our locality when we people from this village hardly have any means of livelihood?" I retorted, "Pious lady, I need more people for the job, please bring a half a dozen of your tribe for the odd masonry work." Muthu blinked and looked at me in the eye, "What do you think of me? Don't you see that I am fit enough to help build great homes? Look at the double storey construction opposite to the Panchayat office...I was the most  indispensable person responsible for the cool comfort that this corrupt Sarpanch has been basking in for a good time now." I then asked my contracted engineer to accommodate her and left.

On an occasion when I had once come on a weekend visit to monitor the progress of my new home under construction, I found Muthu haggling with the contractor over wages payable to her for the week. On enquiry, I surmised that her demands were legitimate and that the contractor was trying to stick to a shoestring budget by squeezing work out of her and trying to make a fat margin from the project. I promised Muthu that I would compensate her for such shortages at the end of the project and brought peace with her.

The house was soon completed and was nestling beautifully amidst the coconut and neem trees and overlooking the paddy fields which brought in fresh paddy scented air into the parking area and the tiny garden.

As is the custom in rural TN, all workers were presented with new clothes during the house warming ceremony and I did not forget to get a nice saree for Muthu. She took it gleefully but reminded me of my offer to compensate her work, notwithstanding this gift, considering the fact that all and sundry were given such gifts by default on such occasions.

Thereafter, every time I visited my countryside house, Muthu, if she spotted me, would come running after my car and ask for the promised gift, and I would get away by making some excuse and that I would get it done during Diwali. Diwali came and went  and then it was promised for Pongal but all I did was forget my promise, yet Muthu very optimistically but tirelessly kept reminding me about my unfulfilled obligation.

A few years later when I had shifted lock, stock and barrel to the village, I found Muthu squatting in front of my house in a pitiable condition. She looked frail, sick and weak, fighting for breath, holding on to a twig of a walking stick with tattered clothes and tears welling down her cheeks that told a thousand words about her agony. Her son and daughter-in-law had reportedly driven her out of her native home!

I asked my cook to give her some food and satisfy her hunger. I also pushed some money into her palms. She then left bidding me, "Mavarasana iru Raja, Ne nalla irukkanum" (Approximate translation: I bless you a king's life, you will do well). She then made her way to a nearby free medical dispensary run by a Hindu religious mission.

The next time when I saw Muthu, she was begging for alms at the Sarpanch's house where she was rudely turned away by the women folk of the house. She turned around and on seeing me, tears welling down her eyes, rushed to my car and beseeched me for some money or to buy her food. I sent her to the local restaurant and called up the cashier to do the needful. From then on it was a common sight to see her languishing hither and thither on Vinayak Temple Street, begging for alms. I had given standing instructions to my cook to feed Muthu whenever she knocked at our door.

Strangely, for an interval of time lasting about six months, Muthu seemed to have disappeared. I was wondering whatever has happened of her...had she abruptly left the village for an old age home run by the Hindu religious mission?  or had she left for the local taluk headquarters where one of her brothers had a vehicle repair and maintenance shop? or Was she..?

Then finally last week, she made a sudden reappearance at my door,  squatted as usual and was trying to communicate with me in sign language as I was removing the car from the portico. This time she was on all fours and had seemingly crawled all the way to my door. The emaciated lady had noticeably lost her speech. I did not respond as I was in a hurry to reach a place where I couldn't afford to be late or so I thought. She was desperately trying to communicate something to me (as I reckoned after the episode) It did not seem to be about alms or food. I had ignored her, but called up my cook and asked her to feed Muthu.

The next day morning, a bright Sunday (20th March), I got up to the sounds of drum beats and "Oppari" * coming from a distance from across the paddy fields.

(* Oppari...Google...)