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KAMALA DAS
Indian English and Malayalam poet and fiction writer. Freelance writer in Femina, Times of India, Mumbai; President of Kerala Childrens' Film Society; Chairpwerson of Forestry Board, Kerala; Gov. Council Mem., Indian National Trust for Cultural Heritage, New Delhi. He visited Sigapore, Sri Lanka, Australia, Germany, UK, USA, Muscat.

Born: March 31, 1934

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A-2, Ambadi Apartments, Warriom Road, Cochin-16, Kerala.

When Padmavati, the middle-aged harlot, finally reached the foot of the shrine, climbing the seven hills and stumbling along the winding passes that separated each from the other, dusk was a giant bird with its wings spread out, shading the temple, the banyan tree and the stone lamps in which the oil wicks burnt on feebly. She could only see the outlines of the shrine, when she paused to peer upwards. I am late, she said to herself, hitching up her saree and proceeding to go up the steps. The loafers loitering around approached her and looked at her plump calves with lewd smiles. Shall we help you, lade, they asked her, noticing the red blouse that she wore, the tinsel in her hair and the betel stain on her full lips. I have come from the city to see the Lord, she told them.I have been wanting to come here for the past thirty-three years but something or the other has kept me busy all this time. At first I had to tend my ailing mother who lay paralysed for seven years before she died one day, turning her face away from me in disgust. Then I had the responsibility of educating my brothers who got good jobs in other cities and forgot me. I had also to marry off my sister to a man who
was willing to do it for a big dowry. After the marriage, she has not once written to me. I am not complaining. Who can blame them? Who will want to consort with a woman like me? Only idlers like you brother to talk to me. Nobody loves me. Only the Lord, perhaps, has any feeling for me. But He may have forgotten too.

You talk too much, lady, said one of the young men. You are not young, but you are charming enough for one evening or two. Your breasts are still firm. Your haunches set our loins on fire. Won't you be kind enough to grant us your favours?

The rest of the group laughed aloud. The woman was flushed with anger. Do not make such requests to me at this moment, she said. I have come to see the Lord. This is not the right time for such talk.

What is in your hand, asked a young man pulling at the basket she was clutching. It is a basket of fruits, she said, I am taking it up as an offering. The young men removed it from her hand and began to eat the fruits, spitting the pips out noisily. Your Lord cannot eat these fruits, but we can, they said laughing raucously. She felt her eyes moisten with tears. You are brutes, she said, you have no pity for a woman old enough to be your mother….

You are not our mother, said the young man who had spoken to her first. What is your name, lady?

My name is Padmavati, said the woman.

Padmavati, you have arrived too late, said the young man. The shrine is closed for the night and the pujari has left for his home. You cannot see your Lord.

But I cannot return to the city without seeing him, said the woman. I have been walking from morning to be able to reach here for the evening's puja. What can I do now? Keep us company this night, O Padmavati, said the idlers. Tomorrow you can worship the Lord.

Padmavati turned and walked up the stone steps to reach the temple yard. The door was shut. The lamps were burning low. She looked about in fear. She could not see the young men at the foot of the hill. Even the leaves of the banyan tree did not move. In sudden terror, she rushed to the heavy door and knocked on it with her fists. Then the door opened, its hinges whining. She lowered her eyes. She saw only the feet with their bejewelled toes, but she fell over them with tears flowing from her eyes. She kissed the toes with love. Help me, O Lord, I am only a poor harlot, she cried. I have always wanted to see You but until today I did not get a chance. I was busy looking after my family, lending my body to strangers who hated me and then hated themselves.

Padmavati, rise, said the Lord, embracing her with His arms. She could hardly see his face. It was dark inside the sanctum sanctorium. I have nothing to give You, she said. I had brought some fruits in a basket but the loafers at the foot of the seventh hill snatched it from me. Now there is nothing to give. If You were a man I would have given You my body, stale and ageing, but You are a God. What can I give You?

She felt the warmth of her body against her own. She closed her eyes in ecstasy. At dawn, she felt the precincts of the shrine and walked down the steps with her hair dishevelled and her blouse torn in places. She blushed like a bride when the young men at the foot of the hill came near her and looked at her face. There were bruises on her cheeks and on her white throat. Her lips were swollen and blue. There was fatigue in her eyes. She hid her face behind her long hair and walked fast. The young men let her pass, bowing before her and murmuring, Mother, go in safety, give us your blessings and go your way….

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