Have you heard of Ponnagaram, the golden city? You won’t see anything there to compare with the dreams of the pauranikars, narrators of the puranas. People speak of merit gained through past deeds. Here, you have to console yourself by hanging on to that philosophy and its truth. All the same, for those few human honeybees who are obliged to live by increasing the profits of a few maharajas of this world, this is truly a city of gold.

That lane there, look, adjacent to the railway lines, and leading to the toddy depot, that is its main road. Four people can walk along comfortably upon it, provided no vehicle comes towards them. Branching off from it are several bends and curves. Like rabbit warrens.

Anyone wishing to have a vision of this divine region had best come here when there is a fine rain drizzling and whining, for it is at its unsurpassable best then. Muddy puddles all along the way. Bordering the road, there is the municipal Ganga—or rather, isn’t it the Yamuna that is the black river? Beyond that, iron railings. Beyond that again, and at a height, the railway tracks.

On the other side, in rows, human cages. Yes, they are supposed to be dwellings.

Water taps? Yes, there are those. Electric lights? I can’t remember. Isn’t it enough to light ordinary oil lamps? When there is no moonlight, or when the moon is waning, that is.

The children of Ponnagaram love playing at “Catching fish”. But how are fish to be found in the municipality’s holy waters? Occasionally, an overripe fruit or a stale vadai or some such thing is likely to come floating down from the homes of the rich. But that is a secret known only to the children of these parts.

Heaven knows what special delight there is in playing by the railway tracks. Of course, there is an iron fence. But can children understand the rule about not going beyond it? And, in any case, if they should go, the parents are only freed of some of their burden. After all, they are not “Glaxo” or “Mellins Food” babies, are they, incapable of squeezing through the railings? It is their special joy to stand in a row, chorusing “Good morni saar” to the product of the iron civilisation as it steams past them. This is by way of their introduction to English education.

The place begins to come alive and is full of bustle only after five o’clock. It is from that moment that the women begin their work. Toddy carts arrive, women foregather to collect water. And collecting water there is like taking part in the Mahabharata war.

Hair that started to fade even in youth, and is now as white as spun cotton. Young eyes, ruined. What else can you expect of eyes that watch the mechanical spindles at work day in and day out? Are eyes made of iron? And what about good health and the so-called beauty born of hard work? Good health indeed! Where does that come from? All bacteria, all poisonous viruses, cholera and such-like are produced and cultivated right here. All the same, where there is the will to survive, it will happen, somehow. In ancient stone age times, man lived in a cave, along with lions and tigers. He killed them; they killed him in return. But did he lose his strength, refuse to procreate, become extinct? All life is one great hunt. So what?

A black string around the neck, the symbol of life’s commitments. But nobody cares about it much in these parts. It’s a different world here, Ayya, the dharmas have to be different, too.

Ammalu is a mill coolie. She can’t be more than twenty, twenty-two years old. Her husband plies a jutka. He owns this jutka. Five individuals make up the family: Ammalu, her husband Murugesan, his mother, his younger brother, and his horse. Their daily meals, including the horse’s, depend on the wages of two people.

The house rent, the routine bribe to the police, the money for Murugesan’s younger brother to smoke ganja on the sly—their wages have to cover all this. They are all occasional tipplers, certainly. How else could they forget their hunger during the dull season? Hunger, Ayya, hunger! You sing with a great flourish, “All else flies when hunger comes”, but the words don’t actually touch you. If you were in their position for a single day, those words and their meaning would rise out of your very belly.

That day, Murugesan was in great spirits. He and his horse had both drunk their fill and then set out upon a race. The cart turned turtle, and its axle broke. The horse was badly wounded. Murugesan suffered severe bruising and internal injuries. When they brought him home he was totally unconscious. It was just as well that he was drunk. At least he wasn’t aware of his pain. Ammalu ground up a poultice of sorts and applied it to the swellings. It was then that he muttered something. He wanted some milk kanji, he said. There were two days to go before Ammalu would get her coolie wages. Where was the money?

Ammalu comes to collect water.

It is pitch dark. According to the almanac, there should be a moon tonight, but if it hides behind the clouds, what can the municipality do about it?

There is the usual shouting and screaming. One way or another, the water is collected. She turns to go home.

By the side of the lane lurks a man. He has had his eye on Ammalu for some time.

They both disappear into the darkness. And Ammalu has earned three-quarters of a rupee. Yes. So that she can give her husband his milk kanji.

You keep hollering, chastity, chastity. This, ayya, is Ponnagaram. 

Selected by Mini Krishnan

Reproduced courtesy of Katha

Illustrations by Siddharth Sengupta

Also Read | Rice

Also Read | First Poems