It was still dark in Singarachari Street when Ramanathan woke up. But he knew it was four in the morning. He always woke up at the same time, whether he had spent the night at home or in jail and no matter when he had gone to bed the previous night.

Last night, he had been up talking with his wife and getting news on the developments in the family during the last five months. He had been away as a guest of the government for seditious activities, the most notable of which had been the hoisting of the Congress flag on the statue of Sir Pitty Tyagaraya Chetty that stood in the garden of the Ripon Buildings.

He had been arrested and had been produced the next day at the chief metropolitan magistrate’s court where he had been sentenced to a year’s imprisonment. Ramanathan had been annoyed. He felt disappointed at the soft kind of magistrates that had begun to fill the civil services. A decent fellow of the old type would have given him not less than two years.

If the magistrate was soft, the prison warden was a weakling. Noticing that Ramanathan was asthmatic, he had organised for his release in five months on the grounds of good behaviour and chronic ill-health. So, he had come back home yesterday.

There had been a steady stream of visitors from the morning, many of them with garlands. He had refused the flowers stating that the time for flowers had not come. Vai Mu Ko had come and sung a song of welcome and that he had liked. What was more, Vai Mu Ko had composed a Tamizh song.

Tamizh was Ramanathan’s lifeblood. He always felt a stir in his heart when he heard a Tamizh song. He remembered Subramanya Bharati, who had lived a few streets away, and how as a child he had watched this peculiar man with gleaming eyes as he stalked down the road, often declaiming some poem or the other. It felt as though it was only the other day that he had barged into Vai Mu Ko’s house, made her sing 'AduvOmE', danced with her and walked out. Ramanathan had been one of the 20-odd mourners at Bharati’s house when the poet died. He had collected money for the funeral.

Ramanathan’s other great love was Carnatic music. And when a Tamizh song was rendered in the Carnatic idiom, his heart was full of bliss. What more could one ask for? Yet it was surprising that the Anglophile toadies such as Sir V P Ramakrishna Ayyar and others were all for burying Tamizh Isai a good six feet below the ground. Aiding them in this august endeavour were the Congressmen themselves! This TTK…

As for Ariyakkudi, words failed Ramanathan when he thought of this man’s perfidy. He had all along been singing Tamizh songs in his concerts and now he had said he could not sing any concert exclusively with Tamizh kritis as he had promised his guru that he would always sing a varnam of his as the beginner. Promise indeed. As though he had kept up all the other promises he had made.

Ramanathan got up and walked to the backyard. Having brushed his teeth with the neem twig that his wife had left thoughtfully by the well for him, he then began preparing himself for his bath. It always had to be in cold water, no matter what the weather and the time of the year. He lowered the pot into the well by means of the pulley. The pulley gave out loud creaks and whines as the rope went over it. Must oil it, he thought. The noise would wake his wife up. He knew that she did not approve of his cold baths at this time of the year. She was always afraid of the asthma that was just waiting to spring on him. Dr Nanjunda Rao had also warned him of this habit of his, during his previous attack.

He could hear his wife coming down the passage. Having completed his bath, he moved to the puja room and muttered a few prayers and then taking the charkha, he walked towards the front door. He would be now busy for an hour spinning the thread.

Triplicane was waking up. He could hear the Andal Tiruppavai group approaching. Aravamudachariar was leading the pack. The lilting voice of Vai Mu Ko could be heard above the rest. The aged Aravamaduchariar came and sat on the pyol.

The singing continued in front of the house. Ramanathan shut his eyes in bliss. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

The Tiruppavai came to an end.

'shrI vallabhEti dayAparaEti bhava lunThana kOvidEti', someone had begun singing a Sanskrit shlOka. Ramanathan opened his eyes in shock and dismay.

Aravamaduchariar smiled at him.

“Language makes no difference does it,” he asked. “After all, it is all an appeal to God. Do you know that Kulashekhara Azhwar composed this shlOka?”

Ramanathan kept silent. He did not want to dispute an old man’s opinion.

The group moved on. Ramanathan too went inside to get ready for the day. He had a full list of activities. He had to first get the provisions that his wife had asked him to. Not that it would be an exhausting chore, for their state of finances and the current price levels ensured that they exemplified the Gandhian ideal of simple living and high thinking. He had to visit the party office. He also planned to sift through the Tamizh magazines of which a pile had accumulated since his departure to His Majesty’s Lodgings. A gist of their writings had to be sent to Bapu. Lastly, there was the Music Academy programme at the R R Sabha. He had seen from a handbill that Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer was to perform that day.

Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer to the world. But Seenu to him. For he had known the vidwan from the days when he was a stripling at Tiruvidaimarudur, learning from Sakharama Rao. Ramanathan’s wife hailed from the same town and knew the family of Rao very well. He had thus ample opportunity to observe the career graph of Seenu Iyer and had watched him go from strength to strength.

His children were all waking up one by one. He viewed them with a benign detachment. He could time their arrivals into the world from the various breaks from prison life that he had. They depended on his wife for everything and he was happy that the arrangement continued that way as he was left to his own devices and could pursue his passion of fighting for freedom and, now, Tamizh Isai.

'dasaratha rAjakumAra' he hummed as he went in, and then realising its language, he abruptly switched to 'tAyin maNikODi'

A shadow fell across the doorway. He turned to see the person of a messenger boy waiting for him at the door. He beckoned to the fellow to come in. He had brought a letter. Seeing that it was from the party office, he opened it with a surge of excitement and urgency. Who knew what instructions had come from the high command?

Inside the cover was a telegram. Seeing that it was from Pune, his sense of excitement increased.

COME POONA IMMDLY STOP. BAPU ANXIOUS MEET.

“Ayya wanted to know if you could leave this afternoon. There is a ticket,” said the messenger.

“Not today,” replied Ramanathan.

Both his wife and the messenger gasped in surprise.

“I have an urgent task to perform. I must meet Semmangudi and ask him a few questions.”

To be continued...

Part-I

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