Translated from Tamil by Professor S. Thillainayagam. Cover image: “Cow and yoke” by Hervé di Rosa, in Mucem exhibition, photo by Pina Piccolo.
“What do you want?” The shopkeeper curled his upper lip, bared his teeth like a dog and growled. “Salt for five cents,” you said,
“Tell your ma she already owes me twelve rupees and thirty cents.” He knew you had no cash.
When you got back home, your ma had already changed and was ready to go. She wore the red-and-yellow sari with the worn borders—the one she used to wear to weddings. She had drawn black lines on her eyelids and was holding a handbag. Her hair was combed and tied up in the style of famous cinema actresses. She had dressed like this once before, for the wedding of the stone– house owner’s daughter. It was also the sari she wore to your school function, when she hoped that you would win a prize.
You asked your ma what you should wear—the usual black trousers meant for school, or the blue ones kept for special occasions. She suggested the blue, and you wore them with your white shirt. When she picked up the comb, you cried, “No!” but she held your cheeks firmly and combed your hair. Your face looked skewed in the mirror, and you said nothing. Then you quickly ate the unsalted gruel while your mother watched. She didn’t eat a thing.
Ma sat on the floor, checking all your certificates, progress reports, and newspaper clippings. She arranged them in order by date. Finally, she took out your headmaster’s letter and read it carefully, as if for the first time. Then she placed everything in a larger envelope, which she slipped into a plastic bag. After a moment, she took them all out again, checked each one, put them back, and got ready to leave.
“Come on, come on,” she urged—but you were already at the doorstep, ready to go.
She asked you to see if the omens in the street were favorable. You peered outside and nodded. She stepped out and squinted at the sun.
She locked the door, slipped the key into her handbag, and turned to you. “All right, let’s go.”
You felt like laughing. You had never seen your mother carry a handbag before—she always tied the key to the end of her sari.
You stepped ahead, your ma following behind.
It took ten minutes for the bus to arrive. Ma held the plastic bag close to her chest. When the bus pulled up, she climbed in and took a seat on the left. You sat beside her.
“Forty-five minutes,” the conductor answered when you asked.
Ma took the headmaster’s letter out again and read it one more time. Then she placed it back in the envelope, the envelope back in the plastic bag, and sat silently for two minutes.
Suddenly, she got up and pressed the bell to stop the bus. You didn’t understand what was happening, but you got down and followed her. She quickly crossed the road and boarded a bus going in the opposite direction. You followed her without saying a word.
She instinctively reached for the key at the end of her sari, then remembered it was in her handbag. She took it out, unlocked the door, entered the house in a hurry, and began searching.
She took the painting you had made—the one that won a prize when you were eight—and placed it in the plastic bag. Looking at you, she smiled and said, “See, I forgot this.”
You sighed inwardly.
You both boarded another bus. All the way, your ma kept shouting toward the conductor, “Lawrence Junction, Lawrence Junction!”
He turned to her with a sullen look and said nothing.
The entire ride, she kept the plastic bag on her lap, her hand inside it.
At Lawrence Junction, the two of you got down and walked, asking nearly everyone you passed for directions. When you finally reached your destination, your ma stood frozen. She asked two more people, and they confirmed it was the place.
The building stood atop a hill. From a distance, it seemed to shimmer in the sunlight—wavering, shifting between mist and brightness.
You had never seen anything so magnificent. The sight took your breath away.
Ma walked slowly, hesitantly. Your sense of wonder only grew. You saw students your age in neatly creased uniforms. Their shoes gleamed. Your heart dropped—you wanted to run.
Men in crisp clothing walked past with identity cards hanging from their necks. They looked straight ahead, bursting with self-importance and pride. Your ma avoided them and asked the workers for directions instead.
When you both stepped onto the lawn to cross it, a gardener chased you away. Red-legged pigeons hopped freely across the grass. He didn’t seem to mind them.
The students you passed were elegantly dressed, their faces calm and composed. In contrast, your classmates back home were rough and rowdy. They solved disputes with fists.
One of them, face pockmarked and a real thug, had torn your books more than once. He once threatened to break every bone in your body. And he could have.
When the teacher wasn’t looking, he would twist your ear and sneer, “Don’t read so much. Your brain will grow too big, explode, and spill out.”
Here, there wasn’t a single face like his.
The pathway seemed endless. Your shadow followed silently. You had never seen a building so vast, with such tall pillars and a path so smooth it felt slippery beneath your feet.
Ma stopped at a door marked “Principal,” and so did you. A large crowd waited—some seated, most standing.
Ma perched on the edge of a chair, looking down. Her lips quivered.
A girl in a sunflower-yellow dress lounged in her seat, legs crossed. You thought she would leave more food on her plate than she ate.
Next to her was a heavily made-up woman—likely her mother.
The girl spoke in English, and the sound of it startled you. Her lips glistened like melting chocolate.
That was the day you understood beauty. Anything that makes you turn and look again—that’s beauty.
She raised her eyes and met yours for a second. Then she leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder.
People were called in one by one. When your turn came, the attendant ushered you in.
Ma entered hesitantly. You followed.
The office was grand—carpet and curtains in copper tones, everything bathed in golden light. Books lined the shelves.
A large trophy sat high above. In a corner stood a globe and a grandfather clock.
Behind a long mahogany table sat a man dressed like an Englishman. He had a protruding chin and greeted you with a smile. You thought maybe you should learn to smile like that too.
Though invited to sit, your ma remained standing. You stood beside her.
She pulled the large envelope from the plastic bag and fumbled it open. Papers spilled to the floor.
She dropped to her knees, gathered them up, and handed over the headmaster’s letter.
The principal glanced at it briefly. You stood there shifting from foot to foot.
He handed the letter back and said with a faint smile, “You should have come an hour earlier.”
Ma placed the papers on the table, then took out the award-winning painting from when you were eight.
He didn’t even glance at it. “You missed the reporting time,” he said. “We’ve already assigned your place to someone else.”
His voice sounded mechanical—like a recording.
You remembered your headmaster’s words: “Show respect to all. But don’t bend before anyone. If you bend, your life will slip away from you.”
But your ma—tall and proud—was folding like a sinking ship. She seemed on the verge of collapse.
You had never seen her so small, and it made you feel ashamed. Her hands trembled. Her voice stuttered. Vowels bled into each other. She couldn’t finish a sentence.
Somehow, the attendant appeared just then. He took your ma’s arm and gently led her out, you trailing behind.
Even as she left, she raised her voice: “Please read the headmaster’s letter! My son ranked first in the state. He was first in the state!”
Only half her voice reached the principal. The rest was cut off by the closing door.
You had seen your ma cry like this only once before—when your sister died in the hospital.
She had been on oxygen. A wealthy patient was wheeled in with a minor ailment. They moved the oxygen cylinder to his bed.
He survived. Your sister didn’t.
On the bus ride home, your ma didn’t speak. The plastic bag had slipped from her hands.
When the conductor came to collect the fare, she scraped together all the coins in her handbag.
He said a few cents were missing. She kept her eyes lowered. Tears ran silently down her cheeks.
You felt ashamed again. The conductor moved on.
You touched her hand. It was cold. You didn’t know what to do.
Should you cry? Or comfort her?
The kajal she had applied ran down her cheeks in dark streaks.
When you reached home, both of you were drained. You hadn’t eaten in twelve hours.
Ma disappeared into her room and didn’t come out.
You heard a sound—it might have been a sob. Or laughter. You weren’t sure.
You tiptoed into the kitchen. Only the leftover gruel from the morning sat on the stove.
No sign of dinner being prepared.
Ma’s eyes were red when she finally emerged, rubbing her neck. Her face was swollen.
“Ma, did you see those pillars? I couldn’t even wrap my arms around one!”
She looked surprised.
“Ma, that school’s for city kids. Even the sight of it makes me sick. I don’t like it at all.”
“Why tell me now? They refused you, didn’t they?”
“Isn’t there a good school in the next village? I’ll learn everything there. I’ll still come first in the state.”
Ma ran her smoky fingers through your hair without a word.
You used to eat to fill your hunger. Now hunger was eating you.
When you were small, your ma would mash your food and feed you by hand.
With the final mouthful, she’d say, “Eat this. All the nutrients are in this last bite.”
But that was before your father ran away.
You looked at your mother, your stomach growling.
“Go to the shop and buy salt,” she said.
You straightened in surprise. “He won’t give it to me. Don’t you know?”
“That was in the morning. It’s evening now. Go.”
The last light of twilight had vanished.
When the shopkeeper saw you, he curled his lip and snarled again.
You said nothing.
“What?” he barked.
You didn’t answer.
“Salt?” he asked.
You nodded.
He smiled—showing all his teeth—and held out a handful of salt.
What was the big difference between morning and evening?
You stood there, bewildered.
Appadurai Muttulingam was born in Sri Lanka and has published numerous books in Tamil, including novels, short story collections, interviews, and essays. Stories translated into English have been published in three collections. They have also appeared in anthologies Many Roads Through Paradise (Penguin Books 2014) and Uprooting the Pumpkin (Oxford University Press 2016). Among his honors are Sahitya Academi award 1998 (Sri Lanka) and SRM University literary award 2013 (India). His short story was published in the Narrative Magazine (Nov 2021) and another selected as finalist in Armory Square Prize (2023). He lives with his wife in Toronto.
