STORIES THAT STAY!
Someone recently asked me, “Which is that one story that made you believe you could write stories as well?” The honest, straightforward reply to that should be “The shittiest ones I have read — those with blatant preaching of social messages, those which try to portray everyday lives with authenticity and fall flat, those which try too much to go to the neo-noir, post-modernist or whatever world that is, and more.” (The “stories” I write all fall in these categories) However, the same question can be thought about in a different manner, in which case it would yield some very memorable short stories. “What are some of the stories which have stayed evergreen in your mind, and when somebody quotes the name of an author, the first and only thing you remember is that story?” That is what this post is exactly about. Most of them are Thamizh ones, although there are a couple of outliers. And these are all stories that I read/heard before completing school. (Memorable stories from the post-school ‘era’ is for another day, fingers crossed)
Note: The stories are ranked in no particular order. The order does not signify priorities, preferences or rankings.
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- Vaanaththil Oru Mouna Thaaragai (வானத்தில் ஒரு மௌனத் தாரகை) — Sujatha
I remember reading this story when I was in my transition into the “high school” phase, and pestering dad why there was no end to the story. The plot revolves around a space mission; the protagonist, who is entrusted with the responsibility of troubleshooting another satellite that had been sent as part of an earlier mission, finds himself stranded out of his vessel, and all signals disconnected. The only hope is that the org would send another vessel based on the last sent signal, and take him back.
Back in the Earth, there is an ongoing spat between the central government and the space research organization of the country, pertaining to the request for allocation of more funds to the org. The government thinks it would not be the right thing to spend money and send another satellite just to save one person, while some in the org argue against it.
The story ends with Dhruva, the protagonist, thinking to himself, “You have enough oxygen for the next four or five days. Just make sure to consume less oxygen and hold on. They’ll definitely come for you.”
Dad told me these are ‘open-ended’ stories that leave the end to the audience’s judgement. I could not quite get it, and I could not believe there could a story without an end. I kept telling myself, “The story has not ended at all.” When I was in college, a friend and I had the same argument where he said, “Actually, it is not open-ended at all, if you think about it. The government has denied funds, and that’s all. Dhruva is a dead man.” I vehemently shot back, stating, “We never know how decisions change in a day or two”, but I realized fully that it was a loser’s final statement.
The story has stayed with me ever since. Whenever I see, hear or read an argument (and I myself present this stance a lot of time) that goes, “Do space missions require so much financial allocations when there are so many fundamental problems to be rectified in this country?” my mind races back to this story.
- Kizhisal (கிழிசல்) — Naanjil Naadan
Probably the first story that made me realize that the backstory and premise could be longer than the actual plot, this one was part of the Thamizh non-detail text in the 10th or 11th grade. The actual plot is about two people — a father and his son — not paying their bills and getting away with it in a crowded eatery. This one-line expands in the context of a thiruvizhaa (some festival celebrated en masse as a common gathering) and what we get are interesting titbits into the various facets of a gathering — the different kinds of people who arrive, how restaurants as businesses function when demand spikes (in a strangely mouth-watering fashion) — diluted chutneys, sweaty servers, several water-filled tumblers held together with the servers’ hand dipped in water, etc.
We get to experience the characters’ journey to the place of thiruvizhaa on foot; it is a night-to-early-morning celebration, and hence the place is lit with lights; there is every possibility of a mishap or a bad omen. Thanks to our preconditioning, we expect a pickpocket to abscond with the father’s money, we expect the son to faint or experience a health deterioration, forming a storyboard within ourselves that these two will brave all odds.
However, the story keeps it very simple. The duo enjoy a concert, they go to an eatery and eat mouthfuls, and they make their way back. What makes it interesting, then, despite the absence of the traditional conflict-resolution plot, is that the son gets to know the other side of his father only that day. The story ends with a question, “Is this why father comes all the way to attend this festival — to taste some delicacies for free?” running in the son’s mind. The conflict is at the end, and is not resolved at all. This poignant hook is what makes the story the most memorable one.
- Yaam Unbaem (யாம் உண்பேம்) — Naanjil Naadan
Another story where the same style is adopted, this time in a train journey. The one-line, this time, is a person who is need of food and does not have anything to provide himself with food, shedding all his hesitations and etiquette, and almost imploring to another passenger for food. “Ami Kaanaar” is what he says in Marathi, which translates not to “Please give me food” or “I’m in need of food” or “Would you be kind enough to offer me some food?”, but to “Let’s eat?” That’s all. The last part of the story — which otherwise is filled with the writer’s trademark wit and satire on the state of Indian governance — cracked me up (and still does, whenever I read it).
The message is not one of propaganda — there are running gags about the condition of food supplies provided as part of the Public Distribution System (PDS), or ration in colloquial parlance — in the story, though its impact cannot be overlooked. It could be food that remains the unsolved puzzle for the poor man today, it could be shelter tomorrow, clothing on yet another day, and any combination of food, clothing and shelter on any given day. It is the letting go one of the most fundamental aspect of human existence — dignity — that strikes the hardest.
- Oar Ullaasap Payanam (ஓர் உல்லாசப் பயணம்) — Vannadhasan
This is again another short story that was part of Thamizh non-detail, although I do not remember which grade it was. It is about a father who feels guilty for not being able to send his son on a school excursion to Kuttralam (or Courtalam, as it is known in English). Every student who desires to be part of the excursion needs to pay an amount, which is where the conflict is. The story gets interesting when we get to know the son does not protest and throw tantrums when told he cannot go to the excursion. We would expect a cry-baby making a fuss, and if that was the case, the story would have taken a different turn — probably the father goes and borrows from a predatory lender (for the dramatic effect) and then it strangles them slowly, or whatever.
This accepting attitude of the child is revealed in his father’s words. I do not remember the exact words, but they go something like this: “All the students of his age would create a scene, if told something they want cannot be accomplished. But, this guy is different. He just acknowledges everything. And that’s what breaks me.”
On the day of excursion, with all the students having left, this child stays home for obvious reasons. We expect a peek into what he feels within on that particular day about the missed opportunity, but instead, what we get is altogether a different paradigm. It rains at the child’s place that day, and as water accumulates at the terrace of one of their neighbors’ house, it drains through a pipe outlet like a shower. When the mom suddenly realizes the child is not around and asks, “Where the hell has he gone at this time?” the dad steps out, only to find the child enjoying a blissful shower in the water from the pipe outlet. The dad replies, almost involuntarily, and in a guilt-tripped tone, “To Kuttralam”.
It is very simple. We were all there at some point in our lives. We were upset with our parents, neighbors, siblings, teachers, elders, but we did not hold grudges. That is a habit we probably acquire somewhere later in our lives.
- Vanka — Anton Chekhov
I did not “read” this story firsthand, rather it was told to me by mom when, if I recall right, I was very small. Small as in, literally in the post-kindergarten but pre-upper primary stages. I recall asking mom at various points during school days (even till the high school times) about the particular phrase that struck with me ever since she narrated me the story — “Enga oor, enga thaathaa” (“My grandpa at my village”). It was not before the first year of college that I actually got to read this story in its entirety in English. When someone talks about the power of story-telling, as against story reading, I immediately connect with this story and the way mom narrated it (I am telling you, there are vivid images of modulations she used while she narrated, it’s been nearly more than 15 years, but I swear I still remember it exactly the way it was told to me).
[Side note: If you want to really hear someone narrating a story — a gifted story-teller — you should check out the YouTube channel of Bava Chelladurai.]
The story — supposedly a retelling of Chekhov’s own childhood experiences — is about a nine-year-old boy who lives a life of an indentured child laborer at a shoemaker’s house. One day, he writes a letter, unbeknownst to his master, the master’s wife and the other workmen (they have all gone for a night service at some church), to his grandfather, believing grandpa is the only person who can take him back from that drudgery. In the course of his letter, Vanka Zhukov (matches syllable to syllable with Anton Chekhov — one more indication probably at the fact this was a true story being told) lets his grandpa (and the readers) know the kind of traumatizing punishments that were forced on him at different points of time during his stay there at the shoemaker’s. The thrashings, scolding, and verbal abuses are all narrated in a nine-year-old’s tone, and that maintains the authenticity of the letter.
The innocent ignorance of that small boy is conveyed in the last passage, as he gets close to finishing the letter. In the receiver’s place, he writes, “To my grandpa at my village”. The letter would never reach the intended receiver for all practical purposes, just like the problems of the child would probably not end unless some miracle happens. But, these are mental conflicts the reader has to face and deal with. The child finishes the letter and is confident that he could send it, and even more bullishly hopeful that it would reach grandpa, and finally that grandpa would, in all likelihood, come and take him back.
- The Last Lesson — Alphonse Daudet
I remember talking about this story (because this had been part of my English non-detail at some grade in school, apart from legendary stories like Adventures of Don Quixote, Adventures of Robinson Crusoe and more) to some of my students during the course of some History lesson last year (9th grade; 2018–19), and hence was delighted when I saw this year’s English textbook (10th grade; 2019–20) containing this story as part of Prose.
The story is set in the times of Franco-Prussian War (circa 1870) when France was defeated by Prussians. Language domination and the theory of using a new language to destroy or override native cultures is not a new modern phenomenon, and there can be no better example for the same than this story. But, what is more intriguing is that within the story itself, language is used only — although subtly — as one of the indicators where France would be made to undergo a forced paradigm shift, having to learn what the Prussians dictate; the bigger picture — that France would become unconsciously subjugated to the Prussians, by becoming consciously or unconsciously inure to a neo-normal culture and value system — is evident then and there in the story.
The story is told from the point of view of Franz, a little school-going boy. Franz is just a metaphor for France throughout the story. Just like France did not capitalize or realize the power of Bismarck’s army and strategy, Franz never understood the importance of school or education until that dreadful D-Day, after which there was no question of French being taught in any of the schools in France. Just like Franz goes late to school even on that particular day, the French were probably as lethargic, and yielded. The striking similarities are deep, easily relatable, especially if one follows this story up with a few good reads on the Franco-Prussian War (Wikipedia, for starters).
The protagonist, if any, of the story is M Hamel, the French teacher, who has been teaching at the same school for around 40 years. Unarguably, he is the person that experiences an entire surge of emotions within him, throughout the course of the story. His love for French as a language is expressed in the way Franz — the usually inattentive, oblivious, distracted student — actually begins to enjoy French grammar as M Hamel continues teaching. Even in this story, the ending is highly emotional — probably to instill a sense of patriotism at its peak — but that does not come off as a force-fitted drama for the sake of it. The tensions that prevail — the slight, mellow feeling of having been defeated — come together in those moments after the clock bell tolls, indicating officially the closure of the last day with French language. M Hamel tries to speak, struggles, turns to the board, and writes, “Long Live, France!” and disperses the class.
Personally, I would rate this as the best ever account in instilling the pride of one’s culture and language, despite the gloomy context the story positions itself in.
- Vigaasam (விகாசம்) — Sundara Ramasamy
By now, it should not come as a surprise when I say that this story was part of the non-detail text, too, albeit in English. The translated version was not bad — and I knew nothing about SuRa back then — but the original was the best. I remember reciting the summary of the story to mom before some examination, and she suddenly became excited. “Dei, idhu Thamizh kadhai daa” (“Oh boy, this is a Thamizh story”), she said, all smiles (Of course, there was a footnote in the textbook that stated the same as well, but who gave languages the importance they deserve to get, during school days?)
The story is about how the services of a cashier becomes redundant after the arrival of a calculator. However, it does not become a sob story about the worker, and ends up as a classic debate on ‘Being a machine vs. Being a human’, as opposed to ‘Machine vs. Human’. While the latter is more a debate about efficiency and productivity (those terms that seem to be woke recently, thanks to the lockdown), the former is a question of what more a machine or a human being can offer apart from high performance.
Rowther is a cashier at a shop, and he calculates the amounts and quantities of items purchased at astonishing speeds. Okay, he seems to be gifted with the ability to calculate swiftly; what’s the big deal? Rowther is blind. Probably, the visual distractions are absent for someone line Rowther, and he is able to focus all his concentration into the task — that of calculating. He multiplies random numbers at seemingly unimaginable pace and precision, as tested by various characters throughout the story.
Then, the calculator arrives as a sort of a miracle. It almost makes Rowther a needless servant, pushed to the extent of stepping down from his job. The turn in the story comes when Rowther asks his boss, “Today is supposed to be the medical appointment for Madam (boss’ wife). Have you made arrangements for the same?” and that is when the boss realizes machines are just task-oriented, while humans are indistinguishable in terms of care and affection. (Isaac Asimov, Jules Verne and the likes would have a different take on this though, but more on that in a separate post later)
Though the main argument is about the place of a human in a seemingly monotonous job, there are also other subtle undercurrents. Questions like, “How safe is someone’s job?” also arise, and they remain relevant today, unsurprisingly.
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The list is obviously non-exhaustive, and these are only stories that are at the top of my head, when I think back of the good old days. These are stories that have to be read, and probably, after some or all of this, you will be urged to follow the authors’ other works in a frantic pace.
First published in Pens Turf on April 20, 2020
