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SANGEOHA
IV: IzIzI HI.lbdulah
Ilodara
AZIZI HJ. ABDULLAH, born in 1942, is well-known as
a prolific short story and novel author. His first novel ,
Garis Lintang Anak Haram was published in 1968.
Since then , one by one his novels have emerged
as award winners, three of which are Senja Be}um
Berakhir(1971) received the 1971 Literary Award , while
Sami Mekong (1976) and Seorang Tua di Kaki Gunung
(1981) won the 1981 Sabah Foundation-GAPENA
Sayembara Novel Award . Such accolades place Azizi
among novelists who merit mention , not to forget his numerous writings which include
short stories. Having won many writing prizes, Azizi won the 19B6 S .E.A. Write Award
and his latest novel is entitled Sangeetha (2007) .
It was late evening that day. Sunlight was no longer as bright as in thE
morning and at noon. The wings of night had unfurled, shoving asidE
red dusk and turning black like previous nights.
Sangeetha already had her shower. She had also applied on herself
the cooling talcum powder that was actually tiny beads of glutinous
rice flour soaked in perfume and an array of blooms. Scattered since
early dusk, even before the horizon turned red , were the white roses
which she had plucked from the garden long tended by Derus.
A concrete wall, encircling the perimeter of a big house, was
spotted with black. For a long time the house had been called the old
bungalow by the neighbors. Some parts of the wall were mossy and
in one corner, a dedalu and a sembau grew strong. All these marked
the subjection of age; a retired postman named Derus had for a long
time slaved over the house. Twines of hearty water plants, with green
leaves the size of a five-cent coin, had clasped their roots deep into
the walls of the old bungalow. The plants seemed cemented to the
house.
Sangeetha never complained . She was aware the 75-year old
man's energy mirrored her own which had reached 85 years. Derus
was never idle.
The wall barricaded the house, secluding it from the other houses,
especially since the death of its male inhabitant.
The wide gate seldom closed properly due to rust. Her thin frame
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and old age lacked the energy to press it shut. One side of the gate
sagged, and the latch was rusty. When pushed it came closer, but
never properly shut. When both sides were chained together, a car or
bicycle could pass through.
The compound and bungalow were separated from the outside
world and the surrounding neighborhood. But, the separation was
only temporary. When dawn's light reappeared, Sangeetha would feel
cheery again and felt as if she was in a new world.
That was how she had felt since Viralal's death.
And yet, from that evening until night, Sangeetha felt, not only
choked by the darkness and barricaded within the wall, but as if Derus
was now twisting her life round and round. But strangely, she felt the
coils were not restricting or grueling. It felt more like she was bogged
down by uneasiness and turmoil of which she knew not the source or
cause.
Why couldn't she find the source? What feelings were Derus
drumming into her when her offering was rejected with unusual
distress?
It was not like she had never quarreled with Derus before this;
in fact she even scolded him previously. And yet Derus, like a deaf
mute, remained silent and then returned to the house on time. Derus
continued to work like previous days. But what about tomorrow? She
became apprehensive and distressed.
Maybe tomorrow she would just stare at the walls enclosing her
bungalow, moldy and dirty. Or she could analyze each and every stage
of her youth, especially the times when she was with Viralal.
Viralal had built the wall. It represented the stature and image of
a self-made man who gained his wealth from collecting bottles, scrap
metal and other junk. Indeed she wanted to retain the stature and that
wall, and it was Derus who must guard it. But, would he still come
tomorrow or even the next day and the day after?
Just like all the other quiet nights, the dagga and tabla became
her companions; or at other times, Meo got the brunt of her anger.
The dagga and tabla lay beside her, but she was in no mood. Even
Meo was nearby, curled asleep beneath the clothes hanger, a metallic
structure of rods the size of her little finger.
"Derus." The name was suddenly uttered. Indeed it was Derus who
had filled her life after Viralal's death. When Derus arrived at the house,
she would stand by the door, or perch on the steps or sometimes sit on
the rattan lounger to watch the old man work.
Lately, she had stopped expecting anything from Derus except to
remain working in the garden, add water and grain for her pigeons, or
act as her driver once in a while or clear the garden. In fact, even if he
did nothing at all, it did not matter, as long as he was around and she
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could see him. Of course she couldn't ask him to carve pigeons. Nor
could she expect him to thump the dried goat-hide.
And yet, it would be nice if Derus understood. Maybe even without
her asking, he would remain in the garden all day to watch her play the
dagga and tabla underneath the tree; or if he wanted to, go up to the
house and together beat the drums or strum her old gambus. It was
alright even if they could not play any particular song. It did not matter,
as long as there was sound to overcome the silence around her.
"Derus."
Sangeetha understood what Derus had felt that evening. Maybe
that was the first time he was hurt, but how long would he remain hurt
and upset with her? What if five days from now the water in the cage
ran dry? What would the pigeons drink? She could no longer stand
on tiptoe or climb a ladder. What if she ran out of grains in the copper
made ce/epa? How could she stand on tiptoe or climb a ladder? What
would happen to her Morris Minor if its engine was not turned for a
week? What if ... ah, what if? Sangeetha mumbled to herself, feeling
sad and lonely.
"Dung! Deuung! Doung!" She drummed the dagga a few times.
The night grew longer; its darkness enveloped the surrounding
area, deepening her loneliness. The only sounds were those of cicadas
emerging from the bushes behind the house or of frogs or birds from
the mossy wall. Yet, the sounds of night did not sooth her.
Sangeetha became aware that on such nights if she fell ill, or
exhaust herself or had an asthma attack, who could come to offer her
help? Derus would not even be aware of her situation.
Why couldn't Derus understand all these? Why couldn't Derus
offer to sleep in anyone of the rooms in the house, long empty?
But Derus had always been like that. Derus never bothered over
household matters, or even her health. Only if she asked him to take
her to the clinic would he do so.
Tomorrow if he came, she would talk to him about this matter,
about aging and their age. About the solitude of old age and about
how to fulfill those years.
Sangeetha had never felt lonely during her youth, especially when
she was with Viralal. Even though other people always assumed that
a home without children was desolate.
There had been times when Viralal left her for a few days, but she
never felt abandoned. And yet just now, in the evening, what had made
her feel so lonesome? It was not for the absence of Viralal. It was
not because her nights were solitary. Not because the bungalow was
big and its occupant only one. No! No! Sangeetha had felt something
then, and it made her uneasy.
"Derus."
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Why must it be Derus, when it had never been Derus all this
while?
She worried about Derus whose feelings had been hurt.
It was not like Viralal had never been hurt by her actions. Viralal
too had been similarly upset with her when he was younger and then
later in his old age. In fact, even on his death-bed Viralal had been
miffed by her. But that evening, Derus' distress had troubled her.
Was Derus really miffed by her?
Her aged hands caressed the dagga. If Derus were around, she
would have drummed it relentlessly. She cared not if she followed the
beat or not. Let Derus know she was trying to release tension.
But the dagga must be struck following the beat of the tabla. Would
Derus care to listen?
She held the pudi, releasing its tension would lower the tone while
tightening it raised the tone. 'But where was Derus? Was Meo or the
lonely night to be her only listener?'
If Derus was here, she would try to play the best that she knew
how. Viralal had embarrassed her before. Now, if Derus appeared in
the doorway she would play the kinaror chat with her forefinger, even if
the tone was higher or lower than it should be. If the tone was low, she
would end it quickly. Let the tension of the pudi increase or she would
adjust it slightly without hitting the gajra pegs to reduce its tone.
"Derus."
How could Derus hear? How could he know? Why would he drop
by now?
Sangeetha let out a long sigh. She pushed away the dagga and
tabla. She tried to stand up, pressing thin hands on her laps. Clutching
her cane, she slowly approached Meo, still curled beneath the clothes
hanger.
"Come, let's sleep," she said as she scooped Meo into her arms.
But her wish was not to be. Meo leapt from her arms as if upset with
her. Sangeetha returned to the recliner, laying her head back firmly.
The recliner shook; its legs creaked.
On the floor in front of her, Meo stretched her front legs forward.
Her black eyes stared back at Sangeetha.
"Don't want to sleep?" She asked Meo. The cat merely blinked.
The question was not for Meo. They were words intended for her
own self, to question her old age and the solitude she was experiencing.
She reached for the dagga again.
"Derus ... Derus."
It was a shame she never seriously learned from Viralal how to play
the dagga and tabla. Viralal too had not taught her formally. Instead,
she had closely observed the way he moved his head, the nods he
made and the way his fingers strummed a beat. But now that Viralal
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was no longer with her, she had only regret. And since they had no
children, there was also loneliness.
How could the dagga and tabla fill up her lonely years?
"Derus." Sangeetha had answered her own question. Now she
understood her bewilderment and turmoil, her bashful smile when she
became aware only Derus remained in her thoughts. How could she
stop it?
It was not like she never studied his face at various times when
Derus came over to the house. His expression was always showed
doubt, inferiority and suspicion; she had tried her best to ease his
suspicions.
Of cause he had reasons to be suspicious when she invited him into
the big house which was the size of three semi-detached houses; all
the rooms were decorated with antiquities and furniture. He would have
felt inferior since she had asked him to make and receive payments of
thousands of ringgit. He must have felt hurt when people talked about
her being a widow, made wealthy by her husband's death. She knew
what he feared most - what if people accused him of trying to grab her
wealth. These were perceptions that she must change. She must end
all these pre-conceived ideas.
She attempted to stand up again, cautiously pressing her hands on
the aged rattan seat. The recliner shook. The sleeping Meo continued
her slumber. With the help of her three-legged cane, Sangeetha
tottered into the bedroom. She opened the antique wardrobe made of
shiny black mahogany. Taking out a red saree, she put it on. Standing
in front of the mirror, she studied her reflection. Indeed, there were
wrinkles on her face. Gaunt too. Grey haired. She put on some talcum
to try and even out the wrinkles, but her face remained old. Convinced
of her age, she returned to the rattan chair. She slowly sat down and
placed the dagga and tabla on her lap.
The night grew longer, but its darkness refused to let her sleep.
She knew the first, second, third and fourth steps of playing the
tabla. Even though she knew, she just merely knew. She had never
played according to the rules. Viralal had never taught her.
"Derus."
Suddenly, Sangeetha saw the door opening slowly, very slowly.
Its creaking came soft and slow. The thick door with its pudding-leaf
carving always creaked if it was opened slowly.
Derus eased his body in cautiously and leaned againstthe doorway,
his feet dangling on the step.
That was when she heard her pigeons croon, twice or thrice.
Indeed the pigeons were aware of their master's arrival.
Sangeetha felt the outer side of Viralal's dagga and tabla. The kath
no longer looked beautiful. Age had taken its toll. Yet, the weaving of
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the gajra still looked strong. It was the jagra that held the pudi to the
tabla exterior. She did not know where Viralal had bought the antique
tabla from. She continued to stroke it.
She struck it once and a tin na bounced back. She smiled. She did
not continue. She seemed to have lost the touch. She merely felt the
knar or chati that encircled the gajra to produce the bol tin or na. The
gajra was not that wide, only about 2 em.
She saw Derus smiling as if he realized she didn't know how to
strike the beloved tabla.
The breeze from the garden felt refreshing. It blew into the
bungalow. Even the moon could now be seen.
''Thank you Derus," she whispered. She could not hear his reply.
He remained silent.
Was this Derus, or was the figure an emerging shadow of a moonlit
night? How disappointing it would be if it was not Derus. She had
already put on her red saree; she had powdered her wrinkled face. But
why was Derus so arrogant tonight?
Without waiting further she struck the vadi; it had been a long while
since it was last held. Viralal had once said it was made of buffalo hide.
It was the vadi that kept the pudi taut. Maybe Derus could not hear
clearly that night; sometimes she too could barely hear when the night
started to turn cool.
Derus reappeared suddenly with his favorite gambus. He had gone
down to take the gambus; he must have placed it on his bicycle.
"Vah, vah ... vah, vah." In her joy, she felt like saying that.
Once in a while Sangeetha asked herself. Was this truly Derus?
But she did not really care so long as the figure resembled Derus.
Suddenly, Derus turned wild. His head jerked; his lips sneered; he
placed his right ear close to the belly of the gambus. His fingers raced
to strum the strings.
It hummed. It twanged. It zinged.
Derus hummed. He knew his plucking was out of tune.
It was strange that Derus played like her. He knew how to pluck
but played no tune. Their playing was un-systematic. Derus behaved
like a young child hurt. He played like it was the end of the world. He
hugged the round belly of the gambus. The fingers of his left hand
danced, pressed and twirled the tight strings.
Sangeetha was beginning to enjoy listening to Derus' strumming
although she knew not the song he was playing. She had the sudden
urge to join in, to try and combine their two tunes that had never before
come together. She had never heard the beat of the dagga and tabla
being accompanied by the gambus. Viralal had never told her of such
combination.
But, sadly she did not know how to combine the two tunes. She had
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never learnt to play music. Could the sounds of the gambus and tabla
unite? Derus continued to play alone, uncaring of whether another
tune would join in.
How beautiful it would be if the two tunes could combine. The
plucking of twelve taut strings; the swollen belly of the goatskin surely
resembled the vadi. Both required similar skills, namely the fingers
and hands. The peals and strums were similar too. If only ... if only
both expressions could be united, how beautiful it would be.
Suddenly the surrounding became silent. The night had become
pitched black again. The door that was ajar, the breeze that had blown
in and Derus, who was playing the gambus, disappeared into thin air.
There was nothing.
Solitude had returned. The dagga and tabla fell and landed on the
hard wooden floor. She was not quick enough to retrieve them since
for her bending down was like punishment. She allowed the tabla to
roll back and forth. It was good that the tabla was tough; Viralal had
once told her it was made of rosewood.
The sound of the falling tabla must have been so loud that Meo
- already asleep on her bed - jumped in shock and came mewing
at her feet. She felt sad, ashamed of herself. Wearing the red saree
and powdering her aged face had come to naught; her wish remained
unfulfilled.
Sangeetha realized she too was like the night. The longer it got,
the lonelier she became. As night deepened, so did its stillness. The
passing of nights resembled her age; both could not be retrieved. She
realized this now. Did this mean that she could only hug the dagga
and tabla? She should only caress and pound them to ease her forlorn
existence? So she thought. Even that thought came suddenly. It just
appeared in her mind.
Tomorrow if Derus came by, she would stop showing him the dagga
and tabla. Let her heart and soul scream. Let Derus watch her agonize
over the missing tabla. She would instead start a conversation with
him about old age, and if he could, she wanted him to continue driving
her Morris Minor.
Meo jumped on the bed. Slowly she curled beside Sangeetha.
Meo's heavy purring resembled Sangeetha's asthmatic breathing.
The combination of those two breaths marked the slumber of an old
woman and her cat.
Both woman and cat had fallen asleep.
(Translated by Noraini Yusof)
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