The Scandal

The Scandal – Part I​

A Short Story By Varalotti Rengasamy​

“Ma, the whole village is aflame with the scandal! All about Dad and Kamala! And you look as if nothing has happened!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Are you really this much ignorant, or are you just kidding?”

“Raghu first tell me what the scandal is all about?”

“Ma, you know Dad left home yesterday evening. Has not returned yet. You really don’t know where did he stay last night, what was he doing all the time?”

“He got a message yesterday afternoon that Kamala was serious and was about to die. You know who Kamala is? Yes, one of the practitioners of the oldest profession. A prostitute of yesteryears!

“As soon as Dad heard the news he ran to her house. I thought innocently, that he being a Priest is rushing to do his duty to the lady’s soul at the moment of death.

“But you know what he did? He held the dying woman in his lap, administered the ritual of final abandonment, usually given to a person born of the highest class and allowed her to die peacefully. Even that is pardonable.

“After her death he called other priests and with their help did the last rites for that lady. He lit the funeral pyre and did every thing, which only a husband can do to his deceased wife.

“The great Sharmaji himself lighting the funeral pyre of a village whore! My God, what a scandal! The entire village is now talking about it. They say that Dad had had a secret life with her. I am dying of shame. And here you are planning the evening’s menu!”

“Look here Raghu, to me whatever your father does is right. That’s all.”

Raghu heard the distinctive knocks on the main door.

“Your husband has returned after a hard day at the cremation ground. Go and receive him. And that’s what doormats like you will do!”

Lakshmi ignored her son’s insults and ran to the door. Sharma stood there with a hard face.

“Please be here for a moment. I will bring some hot water for you.”

Sharma was silent.

Lakshmi ran to the bathroom to fetch the water. Sharma squatted on the floor near the main door while Lakshmi gently poured the water on him. That was the usual custom whenever Sharma returned home after officiating as a priest at a funeral.

“I have got more hot water for you in the bathroom. Have a nice bath. Food is ready. Do you want anything else?”

Sharma shook his head and walked in.

Sharma was lying on his bed, deeply immersed in thought. Soon Lakshmi joined him. She started massaging Sharma’s legs.

Sharma rose with a start.

“Lakshmi, my dearest, won’t you ask something about it? The entire village is laughing at me and my connections with Kamala.

You are the only person in the whole world who has the right to ask about that. If any one else asks, my answer is ‘Go to hell!’.

“Listen, you are welcome to say that if it will comfort you. But if I can trust you only after hearing your explanation, our forty years of married life bears no meaning.”

Sharmaji’s eyes were full with tears. He grabbed his wife’s hands with his. There was silence for a while before Sharma started the narration.

“Yes, Lakshmi, I did the last rites of Kamala as her husband. But believe me Lakhsmi there was nothing between us. What I did was just an expression of gratitude.”

Sharma’s father was the village purohit. He not only trained his son in priestly duties, but provided him with secular education as well.

The period was late fifties. Sharma had completed SSC and was waiting for a job.

Those were the heydays of Kamala, a shapely buxom woman who was flourishing in the oldest profession. All the big shots of the surrounding villages were Kamala’s customers.

Kamala was shunned by the society. When people met her on the road, they will turn their faces to the other side or try hard to suppress a giggle. Some even spat on the road when they saw her.

The young Sharma never understood the logic. The people were all respects for the rich men who were Kamala’s customers; but to Kamala they had nothing but contempt and humiliation. If what Kamala did was wrong then the rich men should also be shunned with equal fervour. Sharma could not understand the chauvinistic society.

Once when he was returning from the temple, he saw Kamala seated on the steps of the village tank, all alone, immersed in thought. Her beautiful eyes were a cesspool of grief on that day. Sharma’s heart went out to her. There was no one around. Sharma boldly went to her and sat by her side.

“Here, take this sweet. Whatever problems you have, they will simply go away. May you be blessed.”

Kamala saw the loving face of a young priest and soon burst out crying.

“Sharmaji, I have been treated as an outcaste by every one in the village. But you talk to me as if I am a human being with a mind and heart. In fact you are the first man ever to do so. May you and your family live happily for a thousand years!”

No more words were exchanged between them. But both felt comfortable in each other’s company. Kamala did not want to share her problems with the youngish looking priest. But she no doubt got solace from his sitting by her side.

Sharma stood up after a while smiled at her and left the place.


Check-out Part II...

 

Thanks a ton, Sheeba. I am very happy that my story has touched the hearts of some of the most well-meaning in the world. I would be posting a story once in ten days. All stories are focused on women and children. Please do read them and give your comments.
I am also posting some tidbits in the Snippets section. Do read them also.
regards,
varalotti

 

Thanks a lot, Lakshmi. The tributes you have paid to my characters is quite moving.
thanks once again.
love,
sridhar

 

Dear Anu,
thanks a lot. The story was written 3 years ago. It was published in a Tamil news magazine.
thanks for the fb, anu.
sridhar