Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao (1909-1980), whose birth centenary is due in October 2009, was a distinguished literary luminary, who contributed short stories, novels and children’s tales for over five decades. Among his novels mention may be made of Chaduvu, in which he analyzed the psychology of middle class people of his time. As editor of CHANDAMAAMA, he blazed a new trail for children’s magazines.  

S.S.Prabhakar Rao, a former Professor of English at Jawaharlal Nehru Technological University, Hyderabad. A committed translator, he also translated Telugu poetry, his magnum opus being Post Independence Telugu Poetry, published by Writers Workshop, Calcutta.  

After a longish meditation over his cigarette puff Raja said, “Our literature is Ok, but there doesn’t seem to be any impact of Einstein on it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

We had been discussing trends in modern literature till then. My views do not normally agree with Rajeswara Rao’s . That’s why our discussions usually tend to be mutually beneficial. “Everybody should not tread the macadamized path.” I am always in agreement with him.

This is not, of course, the occasion for expatiating over our views.

“Licenses should be issued for writing short stories valid for not more than ten years. Old hags should not persist on writing short stories. Short story is undoubtedly the right of the young people. There should be optimum heat, punch and sharpness in the story. So, after the ten-year license expires, the short story writer should turn to the novel or some such genre. Women seem to have better sense in this matter. After turning out a couple of short stories, they start off on novels. But men cling on – like a lubricant,” declared Raja.

Naturally, I did not agree with him. I contended that anybody could write short stories. In fact, in my view writing short stories isn’t great literature. Just something to while off time when cooking is delayed by ten minutes or the arrival of train is behind schedule by a quarter of an hour. There is no evidence to the effect that any story turned the world upside down, I argued.

Afterwards we exchanged our views on why people write stories, what factors lead to their writing and what are the influences that impact them. But I still couldn’t make out how Einstein fits into all this.

“How does Einstein come into this?” I asked.

“Theory of relativity and fourth dimension do not appear in our stories,” announced Raja, as though their absence was directly responsible for the decline of the short story.

 “You mean time by fourth dimension? You think there is no time in our stories? What a thought!” I said.

“Have you read Priestley’s Time Plays. Obviously, you haven’t. Then don’t argue,” Raja said, as though it were the final word.

Saying thus and shutting the mouth of the other speaker has been his usual trick. I have been pretty used to it. When we find it hard to explain our position, it is easy to cite an example and close the argument. Declarations like “Have you understood Shakespeare’s Sonnets? No. Don’t bluff any more. Have you read Raghava Pandaveeyam? You haven’t. Then don’t argue any further!” We have been used to such bluffs for long.

“Don’t scare me dropping Prestley’s name. Just tell me one story without Time,” I challenged him.

“What you are talking about is simple time, but I am referring to Time which is part of the plot,” replied Raja.

“Yes, I get at you. It was shown in a movie. Hero is struggling for life. Doc comes along and says that, if he is not given an injection within half an hour, the hero will pop off. To procure that injection one has to climb over a hill, swim across a river, travel by a train and a car and even ride a horse. But by the time hero’s friend reaches the place the shop owner is shutting shop and asks the friend to come the next day. The friend breaks into sobs and explains the urgency. The shop owner opens the shop and gives the injection and charges one hundred rupees. While he is returning, the car runs out of petrol. Hundreds of cars are racing along the deserted road. Though the friend tries desperately to stop a car, no scoundrel heeds his appeal.  After ten minutes roll by, a good Samaritan pulls up his car and offers a lift to the friend. Meanwhile, the clock in the hospital races along. Feeling the pulse of the hero, the doc gives up hope. The half hour passes off. The heroine lets out a frantic cry and faints. The friend arrives, panting for breath, and hands over the injection. Directing the gaze at the clock, the doc says that the half hour has elapsed. But showing his wrist watch, the friend says half minute is still left. The doc comes back to life and gives the injection. The hero sits up. The heroine, too, sits up and sheds tears of joy…”

“Keep your mouth shut,” shouted Raja. The fascinating tale of Time I narrated hasn’t impressed the poor guy. How can I help?

Raja thought for a while and said, “Sometime back, I read a novel. In that novel a young man of the sixteenth century fell in love with a young lady of the twentieth century. He lives on love and proposes toast ‘To the Woman I never Met.’ That is what I would call a Time Story!”

“A story like that would be ludicrous – like your face,” I said, determined to disagree with him outright. And in saying so I haven’t cheated on my conscience.

 “Each person will surely have an ideal beloved somewhere, sometime in this world. But if there is a time gap of four hundred years and, more, a distance of hundred miles, it is really a tragedy,” I said.

Raja did not seem to be listening to my words. He kept quiet, possibly thinking about some other matter. Finally, he said, “Fourth Dimension refers to Time. It is sacred. If we step into a road along which a car raced at a speed of fifty miles per hour a moment ago, we will meet with no problem. That moment really saves our life.”

 “Rubbish! We save ourselves. We step in only after the car has sped away,” I said.

“But, brother, all are not gifted with such strength. Each day we read in news papers of people who fall victims to Time, don’t we?” Raja asked.

“True, we watch them in the movies, too. The heroine will be talking casually with the second hero. At  that unlucky moment, the hero comes along and overhears only a couple of words uttered by his wife or girl friend. Immediately, he concludes that the lady is of loose morals. Time prevents him from listening to a few more words and sends him off. What is the upshot? The story goes on for another dozen reels,” I said.

“Oh keep your big mouth shut,” Raja repeated his usual insult.

That is the problem with both of us. We not only agree with each other, we also do not support if the other partly goes with the first speaker.

“It’s time lag,” Raja declared.

“It is called time lapse.  Show it to me either in a type or a dissolve,” I asked him, still thinking about movie-world.

“Will you stop your movie mania? I am about to narrate a time-lag romance,” said Raja.

“Sure, I am all ears. But in the narration let me get at the concept of time-lag romance. That term looks totally confusing. If it is time-lapse romance, escaping the censor censure..” 

Raja looked daggers at me. I calmed down helplessly.

“All of you think, there is no romance in my life, don’t you?” asked Raja.

“No; not at all!” I pretended to please him. I suspected that he was trying to convince that there was romance in his life, which was like a movie shown to a half empty theatre for the late night show. Ok, let him go on. How many fabricated romance stories are we not reading in magazines?  Poor, Raja is already on the wrong sides of forties. There is no hope of romance in his future. He has therefore to look back and discover some romance. If he can derive some satisfaction from it, why should I deny him that pleasure? In any case, I am not going to believe his tale. But I did not let him on it.

“Do you know Indira?” Raja asked

“Which Indira?  I queried.

“Why do you ask as though there are a hundred Indiras? If you don’t know, admit so. I don’t like these pretensions,” said Raja. 

I did not quite relish his broadside when he is about to spin a long yarn.

“Indira, you know, is the grand daughter of my mother’s maternal uncle. My mother had two maternal uncles. Both of them had four daughters. And those four daughters had six daughters of their own. Indira is one of them. She was three older than I. Maybe it was in my fifth year. We moved around intimately for two or three months. Indira;s father was not actually a native of our village. He secured some job there, acquired four hundred yards of plot and even constructed a house for himself. I vividly remember the construction of the house. I was then maybe two years old. Nobody believes that I can remember so clearly what happened at such a young age.

“Indira’s grand father passed away. It was under an inauspicious star. I have not heard of any one dying under an auspicious star, though. Indira’s family deserted their house for a couple of months and came to live in our house.

“You know, I have no one of my age in my family. A life of loneliness! In that situation, the association with Indira gave me immense pleasure.

“Perhaps, Indira too had none of her own age. Her brother was an infant of no more than seven or eight months. The birth of that child was inauspicious and was considered responsible for the death of the old man.

“Though Indira was older by three years, she was protective to me like Lady Bheeshma! That means, she was not merely a companion, but was also a guardian to me. Until she arrived on the scene. I had to limit my wanderings to the eye-scape of my mother. After she arrived, I felt as though a longer halter rope was tied round my neck. ‘Have an eye on him, Indira dear,’ saying so, my mother would feel a burden taken off her, I used to feel

 “Not only that. Indira taught me quest for beauty. She showed how the leaves of various nondescript plants formed into enticing rangoli designs and how wonderful the flowers of those plants appeared when she held them in her palms. When I told her that I had not seen any glow-worms till then, she took me around looking for them. She showed me glassy shining creatures travelling one over the other.

“During those couple of months, the whole world appeared to me filled with wonders and was indeed a haven of countless delights.        

“Afterwards, Indira’s family got the punyahavachanam performed and went back to their house. My life lost all color and turned into a listless affair. There was nothing attractive to me in my backyard. What was more, it looked lifeless.

I could see that the source of all that bliss was Indira only. I don’t know if anybody calls it love. But I certainly term it love. The reason is that like most infatuations of childhood it did not wear off. Time did not erase it. But it wreaked greater havoc in my life.

“Perhaps, within three years Indira got married. When I looked at Indira with the bridal sindoor and long flower-decked plait on the wedding dais, I felt that grave injustice was done to me. Actually, injustice was done not to me but really to Indira herself. She was really cute while she was moving around in short-sleeved shirts and loose flowing plait. A girl like her was draped in saree and turned into a lady. I felt repelled. When my parents talked appreciatively, “How cute the little girl looks!’ I was surprised and wondered, ‘Doesn’t age have eyes really?’

 “Many whispered among themselves that the bride groom wasn’t good looking. To me he looked downright ugly. When I realized that he would address Indira ‘Eh! Look here,’ like a superior, I felt my blood boiling. I was then aged seven years.

“Within a few days after the marriage, my father secured a job as a school teacher in Bandar. Letting out our house in our village, we moved to Bandar. My eyes were incessantly looking for a girl who looked like Indira, but could find none. A more interesting fact was that whenever I thought of Indira she always appeared in her bridal attire. That too is was a mere snap shot. On Indira’s profile there used to be a sanctified glow on her face dazzling her nose and cheeks. A face that would smile proudly at a stray remark by some one and her and sparkling teeth. And her lips as though daubed with lipstick. I don’t know how much of it was a product of my imagination. Whenever I think of Indira, her face, the bridal sindoor, the flower decked long plait, the bridal attire used to flash across my mind. I did not quite know why I was repelled with her in that attire and getup. Had I been a painter, I would have drawn her picture and hung it  on the wall.

“For the vacation in the first year of our stay in Bandar, we went to our village. I don’t remember to have met Indira then. Perhaps, they went out of the village or even if I saw her I might not have recognized her.

I am not sure.

“The next year I clearly remember that news arrived in Bandar that Indira turned into a lady. In his usual philosophic way father remarked, ‘She seems to have been born just the other day; she has already turned into a lady! By tomorrow, she will also become a mother!’

“’Why do you say, already? She is already thirteen, maybe, even older,’ remarked mother.

“’That year there was some festival. Indira, her mother, father and brother came to Bandar and stayed in our house.  We did not have sufficient number of cots for all. Offering cots for the male members, mother arranged mats for women to sleep on.

“When I looked at Indira she seemed to be one in menses. Actually, when I had asked mother what did to turn into a lady mean, she replied, to be in menses. Moreover, putting on skirt and blouse she did not look as impressive as she looked in her bridal wear. When my mind was so confused, Indira came to my cot and saying ‘on this big cot why do you sleep alone,’ she pushed me a little and slept in my cot.

“My whole body trembled all over. Let me admit, I shouted, ‘Don’t sleep in my cot. Get lost!’ My mother scolded me, ‘What is this nuisance?’ I felt like crying. I don’t know how I slept that night. During the night I woke up as though someone kicked me. Indira was fast sleeping pressing me hard to her body.    

“You can’t imagine how much I was disgusted. Indira’s breast was pressing softly against my hand. Holding my teeth tight, I pushed Indira away and turning towards the wall, I started sleeping almost pressing against the wall.

“In the wee hours next day, all of us went to the sea for the holy dip. I think, in those days I used to dislike women a good deal.  I used to feel almost like vomiting when I happened to see any women of whatever age in skin-touching wet clothes. And to look at my dear Indira in those clothes you can imagine how really painful it was to me.

“I saw Indira again only at my wedding. By then, She had been living with her husband for about three years.

“Meanwhile, I had changed a good deal. On entering the college, I felt interested in sexual matters. Still, I had not forgotten Indira. Whenever I remembered Indira, I used to feel disgusted with myself. In Bandar on that day, why did I push Indira away? Which devil possessed me then? If I had an iota of sense, would I not have slept off holding Indira in tighter embrace? Can I expect an opportunity like that in my life again?  And that too Indira I loved most! I cannot tell you how I cursed and scolded myself!

“Indira came to my wedding, holding a baby in her hands. ‘How are you bridegroom? Have you seen my baby?’ she asked me, casually, coming closer. Somehow, small children and suckling women put me off. She tried to hand the baby to me. As though possessed, I shrank back, saying, ‘No, no!’ I suspected, tears welled up in Indira’s eyes. “How much do you hate me!’ Indira said and left in a huff.

“I felt huge relief when Indira went away. Bu that I hated Indira was an utter lie. I had been recalling the Indira, who had come for the holy dip in the sea. But how could I tell that to this suckling mother?

“After all relatives left the wedding being over, mother said, ‘Indira’s daughter inherited all the looks from her father’s side. She should have inherited her mother’s features. What’s more, she is a girl!’

“The image of Indira flashed in front of me. The suckling mother dazzling like a golden idol stood a little away from me. The hair had an oil bath, and I could smell the smoke of sambrani (gum benzoin). I wasn’t felling satisfied though I was looking at her image in my mind for long. But what happened to my wisdom when she was right in front of me, physically. I was not able to understand my conduct, though I thought about deeply.

 “Two or three years after that, I could not think of Indira in any other shape than that of a suckling mother.

 “My father gave up his job in Bandar and took up a teacher’s post in a new school set up in our village. After my graduation, I did not decide about my future plans. It was about that time that I had an attack of typhoid. Double typhoid. I almost died. There was no chloromycetin in those days. For almost forty days, I had no awareness of the world around. And there was Indira in all my dreams. Wanted to say something to Indira, but did know what it was. Even if Indira were right in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to say a thing. Can’t explain such helplessness.

“By the time I recovered, Indira materialized before me, this time eight months pregnant! This time, I could clearly notice tears in Indira’s eyes. ‘You have been so robust, see how you are reduced,’ she said, wiping her tears.

“I had no idea how reduced I was. But I felt quite healthy, physically. Such content and thrill I had not known even while I was hale and hearty. I was recouping fast after having been laid up.

“But must Indira come to see me with such a  big belly? Could she not have waited for a couple of months more and come as a suckling mother?

“Wishing that way was my last injustice against Indira. She died in child- birth. You may or may not believe it. Even today Indira appears to be as a suckling mother and in tears. I don’t recall her former figure at all.

Raja remained quiet for a while, with his head bent. Finally he raised his head and said, “What do you say to this?”   

What can I say? I don’t normally believe in destiny, curses and karma, but I am prepared to believe in any one of them in the case of Raja.