Anar (Original Tamil version)
Fareez Farook (English Translation)
The rooster, tied with string to a carved banana stump, writhed in discomfort. It was tethered to the very spot where my brother and I usually played, cooking imaginary meals of rice and curry.
Umma (mother) has already left a plate full of leftover shredded coconut after the milk has been squeezed out, to the rooster.
Waappa (father) headed toward the jackfruit tree with water in a bucket and a knife tucked into his waist. The sound of the knife being sharpened on a whetstone echoed sharply and the screech of steel made my ears wince. I clamped both ears tightly shut.
Oh, Allah! Why must it be me again who holds the rooster for slaughter? My brother never seemed to mind. But I, I hated it. Whenever I ate chicken curry, it was the act of killing that returned to memory. I told myself I must close my eyes before the moment came.
Waappa called. My brother and I untied the string from the rooster. I gripped its wings, pressing them down firmly. My brother held its legs. It cried out louder than usual. “Poor thing,” my brother said to Waappa, “it’s a tender rooster, only just grown.”
Waappa firmly held the rooster and separated its beak, pouring water down its throat. He plucked a bit of flesh from its neck and asked me to hold its legs tightly. Then, placing a sharp knife on the hen’s neck, he recited the Takbeer (a spiritual chant) and, without hesitation, made the cut. Blood splattered onto my shirt. Without letting go of the grip under the tree, the rooster was placed down and its wings were beaten rapidly as it struggled. With its neck severed, it darted off, hit the nearby fence, spilled blood, and lay on the wet soil. I felt a pang watching it lie there.
Waappa skinned and cleaned the rooster, handing it over to Umma. Just thinking of Umma’s chicken curry and saffron rice made my mouth water. My brother and I returned to our play area and resumed our make-believe cooking.
“Dhatha (sister), shall we open a shop or shall we cook rice and curry?”, my brother asked.
I said, “Let’s also make rice & curry today.” I asked him to grind some chili powder for the curry. He diligently crushed a piece of brick between two larger ones, preparing the ‘powder’ with great care.
That was when a woman’s voice rang out, “Is this the house of Vellathambiyar Salma?” An old woman with sun-darkened skin approached, smiling. “Ah, I’ve been searching through two, three houses to find you,” she said with a grin.
Her face was heavily creased, lines etched deep like ravines. She chewed betel, her reddened tongue flashing. She called out to Umma, who was inside. “Umma is feeding my baby sister. You can go inside.” I sent the woman away and turned to finish my other chores.
I plucked a few moringa leaves from the fence and collected Bilimbi fruit (Vili Maanga) in a coconut shell. Into another, I preprepared the mixture for the curry. Stirring it on the clay stove, I watched it simmer. I washed the leftover beetroot from yesterday and then poured the reddish water into empty syrup bottles to make ‘juice’. I scooped some white sand, mixed it with ‘juice’ in place of sugar. The curry was boiling and I asked my brother for the chili powder. He brought a bit of powdered brick in a scrap of paper. I added it to the boiling pot with a splash of water.
“Now the curry will be very spicy, Dhatha… You added too much chili powder” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“Hush,” I replied. “I’m doing a good job. Alright, cooking is done. Now, let’s eat!”
He joyfully spread pieces of small banana leaves in neat shapes on the sandy ground by the doorstep. Thinking that if I got angry, the game would be disrupted, my younger brother was gentle and attentive. We sat on the earth and began to eat.
Because his shorts had no button, his little “bird” peeked through the gap. I stifled a laugh and continued to serve him. He scooped up sand, mixed it with his mock curry made of mango and brick dust, and brought it up to his mouth, hovering near his lips, then dropped it back down, smacking his lips theatrically as he pretended to eat.
“You're eating so vigorously! Is it tasty?” I asked.
“Mmm… mmm… it’s just like Umma’s,” he said. “But the salt’s a little off, maybe?”
“That's okay, it's just the right amount for me.” I replied. “Quickly drink your Sarbath (juice). Waappa might return soon, we should go and fetch water before that.”
I mimed drinking the beetroot juice. A strange sour scent rose from it, but I acted like it was sweet and delicious, not letting my brother see my disgust. He took his turn. Though his face twisted, he said nothing.
“Eh-hai!” he exclaimed, letting out a loud burp, proud as if he’d eaten a full meal. It sounded just like the noise Waappa makes after eating. He stood up, declaring he was full. The sun had begun to scorch our faces. We gathered our cooking tools, putting everything neatly back in place.
“You go near the well to take a wash and I will join you shortly,” I told my brother and ran to the house. Inside, I found Umma and the old woman whispering in the corner. Umma nodded at everything the woman said. I gently touched my baby sister, asleep in her cradle. She looked like a tiny rosebud, her face pink, her fingers curled like a mouse’s, her legs slender like bamboo shoots. What a beauty. I rocked her cradle gently, and a faint smile flickered across her lips.
“Look how she smiles in her sleep, Umma” I said. “The angels must be giving her flowers,” the old woman replied. “Let the baby sleep. Go and take a bath with your brother,” Umma said. “Enough chatter now.”
I asked, “Who is this granny, Umma?'” She replied, “She has come to treat the baby.” I asked again, “But the baby doesn’t have a fever, then what is there to treat?” Umma angrily said, “Don’t ask too many questions, just do what’s told.'"
My younger brother and I Jumped into the small tub filled with water near the well and played while bathing. We played a game of "crawling turtle." We placed ripe jackfruit leaves and pretended to catch fish.
Waappa had returned from the market and was lying down to rest in the afternoon. My younger brother and I finished bathing and ran straight into the house. When she saw my brother, the old woman laughed, covering her face with her head covering, and said, "Look at him, my grandson is running around showing his 'Kunju' (a word for penis used by older people). Daughter, this boy needs to have his 'Sunnath Kalyanam' (circumcision ceremony) soon" she said to Umma. My brother, in a fit of anger, came to me and said, "I'll keep showing it like this," and threw the clothes that were given to him into a corner.
Umma was fetching hot water to bathe my little sister. I asked, "Umma, aren't you bathing her on the porch today? Are you going to do it inside the room?" She called me over with a secretive tone, beckoned me closer, and whispered softly into my ear so no one could hear, "Be a good child, and take your brother to your Periyaumma’s (mother’s elder sister) house. I'll give you both some money. Go play on the swing for a little while and come back."
I whined, "I can't... I can't, Umma..."
She touched my back and pushed me, saying, "Listen to what I said."
Since Waappa was around, I didn’t make a fuss. Still wondering why Umma was sending me away, I went to console my brother. He was still standing with his legs spread apart, his face pulled into a pout, and crying.
I gave the money that Umma had given me to my brother and dressed him up. I convinced him by saying, “Go to the shop and buy your favorite unripe Wood Apple (udakkai vilaanga)…Be a good boy… Then go play at Periyaumma’s house for a while. I’ll join you soon, okay?” and sent him off.
Then, silently, I slipped into the room and bolted the door behind me.
From inside came the wailing of my baby sister, who had woken up. When she cried, Umma usually called out to me. If not me, then Waappa. I was puzzled as to why Waappa was acting as if nothing were amiss.
The old woman and Umma locked the door to my sister's room. My baby sister kept crying continuously. Yesterday, Umma has said, "I'll get you and your brother new clothes for your sister's fortieth day ceremony. I'll also make chicken curry and 'kalyana choru' (wedding rice which literally means ghee rice)." But instead of doing any of that, they just locked the door, what are they even doing? My sister's cries were getting louder. Hearing her shrill, spastic cries, I felt like my life was draining away, it was so hard. The voice of that old woman was louder than Umma’s from inside the room.
Waappa stood idly in the front porch and was frantically smoking a cigarette. I peeked through the gap in the door. Suddenly, Umma opened the door and ran out... She called Waappa and asked, "Here... give me a good, new blade quickly." He immediately came and reached near the slab of washing stone by the well, took a new blade from his shaving kit, and gave it to her... Umma rushed into the room crying. My sister's screams were piercing. Umma came out again, banging her head gently against the bars of the window, moaning. My own throat tightened. I held back tears, covering my mouth so no sound escaped. My legs trembled with fear. I cursed in my mind that Allah would throw that damned old woman into hell. A little while later, the old woman opened the door and said, "It's done, my dear, there's no problem," and handed my crying sister to Umma. Due to her long, pained screams, my sister's voice was hoarse and worn out. On Umma’s shoulder, my sister's head was limp like the neck of a slaughtered chicken.
“First give her a bath, child,” the old woman said. “Alright, Maami (Aunty),” Umma replied and returned with a tray containing betel leaves, areca nut, coins, and cloth. She handed it to the old woman, who wrapped them all up and tucked them into her bag.
“May Allah show mercy,” the woman said, adjusting her shawl and drawing it across her face in a long veil as she walked away.
When the old woman said, “First pour the water, child,” Umma responded, “Okay, Maami (Aunty),” and got up. She brought a round tray. In it were betel leaves, areca nut, fruit, money, and a piece of cloth. She gave it to the old woman. The old woman wrapped everything, placed it in a bag and saying, “May Allah show mercy,” she pulled the pallu of her saree over her head and left.
