కథా వేదిక

Crossing the River Godavari by ferry, I reached the other side in just 5 minutes. I was witnessing the sunset while waiting for my friend. Suddenly a laugh caught my attention, and I looked in that direction. I saw a small kid playing in the sand with his sister. It reminded me of my childhood and it felt so pleasant to see them run after each other. Their clothes are soiled, but their smile was so pleasant that it made me forget all the tensions of adulthood. How good it will be if I can relive those days.

After my friend arrived, I showed him those kids and their play. We both talked about our college days and fun times. He is a married person right now and I am waiting to get married. Those days will not come again. We wondered at the irony of life. Throughout my childhood, I wanted to be an adult. But what am I doing right now? Is this what I wanted? At what expense did I gain my independence and what sacrifices should I do to uphold that?

While I am being washed away by the cascade of these thoughts, that kid came to me with a smile on his face. He put forward his hand and said, "Brother! Money, please." Yes. Those kids were the sons of a roadside beggar. She was also asking for money from nearby people who were proud customers of Golgappa Stand. I gave him a 20 rupee note, and he left with a glowing face. Who knows that I can buy the glow of the sun with a 20 rupee note?

Never did I imagine that the same 20 rupee note will cause a quarrel between the sun, that boy, and the moon, his sister. The words were inaudible, but I guessed that the quarrel was for her share in that 20 rupees. She ran after him while he was running with much more speed, escaping from his sister while hiding that note by stuffing it deep in his pocket. Their clothes were not only soiled but also worn out.

Finally, she stopped running after him and she came to me. I understood her expression and took out my purse, which had a 10 rupee note and a 50 rupee note in it. I gave her that 10 rupee note, and she went away silently. I was not completely successful in buying the moonlight. Her glow was half the glow of her brother's. Perhaps she thought that the other half would be complemented by the moon, who was just coming above the horizon.

With that 50 rupee note, I started my return journey. Am I unfair in giving unequal amounts to them? Or is life unfair by giving unequal opportunities? Who is at fault? Their parents? The politicians? Me? I pledged that day that I will strive for the childhood of kids like these. But how? With these thoughts, those 5 minutes seemed like eons.

I was out of station when my wife sent me a message saying that a snake had appeared near our house.

That was all.

She described it as a small one. "Chinna pamu pilla," she said. It was moving quickly, turning around with surprising speed. I imagined a small serpent gliding through the yard, perhaps searching for a hiding place before the sun disappeared. I did not think much of it. Snakes appear. Snakes leave. That is usually how such stories end.

At least, that is how I thought this story would end.

The next day, I learned that the snake had been killed.

The information arrived casually, almost as though it was the most natural conclusion to the previous day's message. The snake had appeared. People became afraid. Someone killed it.

Story over.

Yet for me, the story had just begun.

Throughout the day, my mind kept returning to that little creature. Was it truly a krait? Was it some harmless snake that merely happened to be in the wrong place? I did not know. I had never even seen it. All I had was the image my imagination had created from a few words spoken by my wife.

A small snake.

Moving quickly.

Alive.

And then not.

When I asked why it had been killed, the answer surprised me even more than the killing itself.

"Someone who sees a snake kills it, right?" my wife said.

The question lingered in my mind.

Not because she was defending the act, but because she genuinely seemed surprised that I disagreed.

To her, it appeared normal.

To me, it felt unthinkable.

I asked her a question in return.

"Why kill it at all?"

If it moved away, let it move away. If it returned, move it again. If it returned a hundred times, relocate it a hundred times. The existence of another living creature had never seemed like sufficient reason for execution.

The more we spoke, the more I realized that our disagreement was not about snakes.

It was about what we owe to life.

I told her that even if a snake frightened me, I would still not want it killed. Fear and compassion did not have to be enemies. One could keep a safe distance and still allow the animal to live.

Our conversation continued for quite some time.

By the end of it, something had shifted.

My wife did not suddenly become fearless. She still does not like snakes. She would still be nervous if one appeared near her. Yet she began to understand why the death troubled me so much.

A snake no longer had to be either a monster or a pet.

It could simply be a living creature.

A dangerous one, perhaps.

But still a living creature.

For the first time, she told me that she would not want a snake killed merely because it was seen.

That small change gave me more comfort than I expected.

Later, I learned something else that disturbed me.

They said they would kill any snake they encountered, except certain kinds that local beliefs associate with revenge or divine consequences.

The irony struck me immediately.

We fear some snakes because of mythology. We kill others because they lack mythology. We visit snake mounds during festivals. We offer milk and prayers. We bow our heads before symbols.

Yet when a real snake appears before us, breathing, moving, and trying to survive, our first instinct is often to reach for a stick.

What exactly are we revering then?

The animal?

Or merely the story we have written around it?

That evening, my thoughts wandered toward my daughter.

She is only seven months old.

A few weeks ago, I bought her a rubber snake.

Like every object she encounters these days, she examined it with complete sincerity before eventually putting it into her mouth. To her, it was neither sacred nor frightening. It was simply another piece of the world she was trying to understand.

I watched her stare at the snake's face without fear.

And I felt strangely happy.

Not because I want her to be reckless around snakes.

I do not.

A venomous snake deserves caution. Distance. Respect.

But I do not want her first lesson about another creature to be hatred.

I do not want fear to become cruelty.

I want her to understand that a snake is not plotting against humanity. It is not evil. It is simply living according to its nature.

Perhaps one day she will grow up and encounter a snake of her own.

Perhaps she will feel afraid.

That is natural.

The question is what she will do next.

Will fear end in understanding?

Or will fear end in violence?

As these thoughts occupied my mind, I found myself wondering about something larger.

People who live in villages encounter snakes far more often than I ever have. They share fields, roads, and seasons with them. I had always assumed that familiarity would create understanding.

Yet perhaps familiarity sometimes creates something else.

A habit. A routine. A reflex.

Snake appears. Snake dies. Life continues.

But if a person spends forty years living alongside snakes, what should diminish over time?

Their fear?

Or their compassion?

I still do not know the answer.

All I know is that a small snake entered a yard for a few moments and then disappeared from the world forever.

And somehow, that brief life has remained in my thoughts far longer than anyone expected.

I had to travel from Vijayawada Railway Station to Narsapur Railway Station by MEMU train.

The train was scheduled at 2:20 PM.

Unfortunately, I started later than I had planned.

At 1:50 PM, I boarded an auto. Rapido showed that the railway station was about twenty minutes away. The train was supposed to arrive on Platform Number 3.

While sitting in the auto, I kept looking at the traffic signals.

Will I reach on time?

Will I miss the train?

Every signal seemed important.

Every minute seemed important.

I reached the station at 2:11 PM.

Without wasting time, I took a ticket from the vending machine and hurried towards Platform Number 3.

By 2:16 PM, I was standing on the platform.

The train had not arrived.

For a few moments, I felt relieved.

Then another thought came.

There were many people waiting.

Will I get a seat?

The train finally arrived at 2:50 PM, thirty minutes late.

Many passengers boarded while it was still slowing down. By the time I entered, most of the good seats were already occupied.

Still, I managed to get a seat.

Not a window seat.

But a seat.

Since it was a MEMU train, every coach was almost the same. Long seating arrangements, standing space and passengers constantly moving around.

After the train started, I put on my earphones.

I began listening to Annamayya Keerthanas.

Among them, I kept playing Jagadapu Chanavula Jajara on loop.

For the past few days, I had been thinking about recording some songs in my own voice.

One day, I want to place them on my website, Vedaanganam, along with my stories and writings.

Another thought crossed my mind.

Sometimes I return home late.

One day, if I am not at home during the night, perhaps my daughter could listen to those recordings as a lullaby.

Perhaps Gowri could listen too.

The thought made me smile.

I continued listening.

After some time, a voice interrupted me.

"Babu, ekkadi daaka?"

I removed one earbud and looked up.

An elderly woman was standing beside my seat.

She appeared to be over sixty years old.

She wore a green saree with yellow and red leafy designs. The colours were not bright. The saree looked old but neat.

Her face had sagged with age.

Her cheeks had sunk inward.

Her eyes seemed deep inside their sockets.

"Narsapur," I replied.

She then asked the passengers sitting opposite me near the window.

"Bhimavaram," they replied.

"Nenu Aakiveedu daaka," she said.

That was all.

She did not ask for a seat.

She did not ask for help.

She simply stood there.

Aakiveedu comes two stations before Bhimavaram.

Bhimavaram comes three stations before Narsapur, which was the last station.

At that moment, the estimated arrival time at Narsapur was showing around 7:30 PM.

The current time was around 4:20 PM.

I wondered why she had asked.

Perhaps she wanted to know when a seat might become available.

Perhaps she wanted to ask for a seat but could not.

Or perhaps she was simply making conversation.

I did not know.

My thoughts started wandering.

She stood holding the upper rail of the seat.

For a moment, I thought about standing up and offering my seat.

But I did not.

I was exhausted.

I had not eaten anything that afternoon.

Three or four years ago, I feel I would have stood up immediately without thinking.

Now I was thinking.

And thinking.

And still sitting.

That thought bothered me.

Had something changed in me?

I thought about my daughter.

If she were standing there, I would immediately offer her a seat.

The elderly woman standing beside me was obviously weaker than I was.

She was of medium build and I imagined standing for long durations must be even harder for her.

Yet I remained seated.

I felt guilty.

For some reason, a Bible verse I used to quote often came to mind.

"Melainadi cheyanerigi aalaagu cheyani vaaniki paapamu kalugunu."

James 4:17.

To know the good one ought to do and yet not do it.

The verse lingered in my mind uncomfortably.

Another station came.

More elderly people boarded.

The compartment became more crowded.

I found myself thinking about something strange.

Maybe if I earned more, I would be travelling in a more comfortable coach.

Or perhaps by bus.

Or perhaps by flight.

And maybe I could avoid these moral dilemmas altogether.

The thought disappeared as quickly as it came.

A few minutes later, vendors started moving through the compartment.

Water bottles.

Cool drinks.

Samosas.

Sanagalu.

Every time one of them passed, the woman had to adjust herself and move into the narrow spaces available.

Again.

And again.

And again.

While watching her, I noticed something.

There was a bandage wrapped around the big toe of her left foot.

I looked at it carefully.

She was injured.

Perhaps she was standing in pain.

Yet even then I did not get up immediately.

I opened the railway app again.

The arrival time for Aakiveedu was showing 5:30 PM.

The current time was 4:40 PM.

Almost fifty more minutes.

I finally thought,

I can stand.

I looked at her and asked,

"Kaaliki debba tagilinda andi?"

She looked down at her foot and replied,

"Velu vaachindi. Hospital lo choopinchuku vastunna."

She had just returned from a hospital.

I slowly started getting up and putting my bag aside.

"Kurchuntara?"

Before I fully stood.. when in midway keeping aside my bag, something unexpected happened.

The man sitting opposite me stood up after me.

He looked around thirty to thirty-five years old. I'm 25. He's probably ten years older.

Medium build.

Ordinary appearance.

He said,

"Meeru kurchondi. Parledu."

I immediately replied,

"Ledu andi. Meeru kurchondi. Nenu nunchunta."

But he firmly remained standing.

The woman slowly sat down.

Then something happened that stunned me.

She started crying.

Silently.

Tears came from her eyes.

She kept rubbing her cheeks with the edge of her saree.

Trying to stop herself from crying.

Trying not to let anyone notice.

I sat there quietly.

I did not know what to say.

She continued for a while.

Then gradually stopped.

After some time, she became silent again.

I put my earphones back on.

This time I started playing another Keerthana.

Nanati Bathuku Natakamu.

I looked at the lyrics while listening.

As an atheist, I was surprised by how much comfort the song was giving me.

The lines appeared before me.

"Puttutayu nijamu. Povutayu nijamu. Natta nadi nee pani natakamu. Etta eduta kaladi prapanchamu. Kattakada pattidi kaivalyamu."

Birth is true.

Death is true.

Everything in between is a play.

The world appears before us for a while and disappears.

While listening, I happened to read a comment below the song.

A woman had written that she lost her husband six days ago.

She thanked the singer Jayasri garu because the song gave her solace.

I sat looking at that comment for some time.

Then the second Charanam began.

"Tegadu paapamu. Teeradu punyamu. Nagi nagi kaalamu naatakamu. Edutane Sri Venkateswarudelika..."

Something struck me suddenly.

If God exists at all...

And I do not believe he does...

But if he somehow exists...

Perhaps he is also simply watching.

Watching exactly like I was watching.

Watching people come.

Watching people go.

Watching people suffer.

Watching people help.

Watching people cry.

Watching people leave.

The next line played.

"Edutane Sri Venkateswarudelika... Gaganamu meedidi kaivalyamu..."

I could not get out of the song.

After it ended, I played another version sung by Rahul Vellal.

Then another.

The train continued moving.

Eventually Aakiveedu arrived.

The woman slowly got up.

She looked at the man who had given her the seat.

"Thanks babu. Kurcho."

He smiled and replied,

"Nenu ide station diguthanu."

Only then did I realise that he too was getting down at Aakiveedu.

The woman smiled.

Seeing that smile relaxed me.

Then she turned toward me.

"Thanks babu."

I immediately pointed toward him.

"Parledu andi. Nenem chesanu? Aayane nunchunnaru ga."

She looked at both of us.

Smiled once more.

Then stepped down onto the platform.

A few moments later, the man also got down.

The train started moving again.

Aakiveedu slowly disappeared behind us.

I put my phone down and looked outside.

For some reason, I kept thinking about her tears.

She did not cry while standing.

She did not cry when she spoke about the hospital.

She cried only after sitting down.

And I still do not know why.