“Soaking Water Ammachi” -Utharakosamangai Memories – 5
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(Illustration by Usha Bharathi Madam – thanks acknowledged)
('Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)
There was an old lady in the neighboring house. She had a
stout build, a dusky complexion, and a face that clearly showed the energy of
hard work. In that house, all the water—used for washing rice, cleaning
vegetables, leftover starch water, even slightly sour water—was collected and
poured into a large container in the courtyard by his grandmother.
This neighbor had a cowshed at her house. She would take
that collected water to feed the cows, calling it “soaking water” (“ooratha
thanni”), and carry it away.
She would come through the side entrance in the backyard
with a bucket and scoop, take the water, and leave. No one really knew her real
name. Because of this habit, he simply called her “Soaking Water Ammachi.”
His grandmother and this lady had been friends since
childhood. His grandmother had become a widow at a young age and lived in her
brother’s house, raising the children there. The neighbor was from the next
house, and their friendship dated back to those early days.
The neighbor had a settled life—two sons and a daughter. The
daughter was married off in Madras (now Chennai). Seeing his grandmother’s
life, she had a deep affection for her.
She would fondly call his grandmother “Sornam.” Between
their houses, near the side, there was a wall with a small opening the size of
a crescent. Through that gap, snacks made in one house would be exchanged with
the other.
That gap wasn’t just for food—it was their communication
channel. They would stand there and chat for hours. Their conversations were
filled with laughter, gossip, and often crude jokes, half of which he didn’t
fully understand.
But in those days, such conversations brought them immense
joy. Their laughter would echo loudly enough to be heard inside the house. It
was their form of happiness.
His grandmother rarely stepped out, while “Soaking Water
Ammachi” worked in the fields, leaving in the morning and returning only in the
evening. She knew all the village news. After returning, she would feed the
cows with the collected water and then stand by that wall opening, chatting
away. To him, this was all quite amusing.
Even after all that talking, it wouldn’t be enough. At
night, she would come sit on the front verandah and continue discussing village
stories. To him, her voice was like a lullaby—he would fall asleep listening to
her.
Their shared life stories felt like grand tales. Now, he
remembers none of them.
Looking back, he realizes how many stories were hidden in
the conversations of village elders. Later, when he read stories by Ki.
Rajanarayanan, he felt a regret—he hadn’t paid enough attention to these
real-life storytellers.
There were also street quarrels among women, filled with
words that couldn’t even be written down. He didn’t fully understand their
meanings but knew they were crude.
Near the bus stand, by a large temple tank, there was a
mandapam where elderly men sat smoking and talking. Their conversations were
even harsher. In both these places, and in Ammachi’s talks, there was often
mention of a particular woman—someone who lived freely, worked somewhere, and
didn’t care about what the village said.
To some young men, she seemed like an outlet for their
desires. Her life, along with its hidden sources of income, was an open secret
in the village.
“Soaking Water Ammachi” had two sons and a daughter. The
daughter, married in Madras, would visit once a year with her child. In those
days, the Rameswaram train from Madras would take a long route through
Thanjavur district—nearly a day and a half journey.
From the very first day of their expected arrival, Ammachi
would be full of excitement.
The daughter, with her powdered face and eyeliner, looked
very different from the village women. For that one month, Ammachi would braid
her granddaughter’s hair, decorate it with flowers, and take her to the temple
proudly.
From Madras would come colorful chocolates wrapped in bright
paper and biscuits in fancy tins. To him—used to groundnut candy, murukku, and
spicy snacks—these felt like nectar.
From the backyard, the girl would sometimes sing Hindi
songs. Ammachi would beam with pride: “My granddaughter sings Hindi songs! I
don’t understand a word—but it sounds wonderful!”
He had heard such songs before in a nearby place called
Ekakudi, where mostly Muslims lived. His father would sometimes take him there
for a haircut. In the barber shop, songs of Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar
would play. Posters of Dev Anand, Dilip Kumar, Vyjayanthimala, and Madhubala
adorned the walls. The granddaughter’s songs felt familiar from those memories.
After a month, when they returned to Madras, Ammachi’s face
would lose its glow. For a few days, she wouldn’t come to the wall to chat. But
only for a while. Soon enough, her loud voice and hearty laughter would return
to normal.
Once, when he returned home from college in Sivagangai
during holidays, he heard a familiar voice:
“Nagendra, you’ve grown so much!”
He turned around. A thin, frail, darkened figure stood
there, weakened with age.
“That’s Soaking Water Ammachi,” his grandmother said.
He was shocked.
— Nagendra Bharathi
My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English
