By S. Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by Dr B. Chandramouli
The man was around 30. He had sleepless eyes, unkempt hair, and pale lips. He had on a grey half sleeve shirt and blue pants which did not match. Wearing rubber slippers with frayed edges, he was carrying a cloth bag, which he guarded closely on his lap, as if it contained a rare object. Because persons like him were a common sight at the taluka[1] office, no one paid him any attention. He had the hesitant look of someone about to request a loan. He was sitting in a slanted position leaning on his right leg.
The taluka office assumes a relaxed atmosphere during lunchtime. Losing its stiffness, it becomes more like a public library. Workers smile; you can talk to them easily. Maybe he was waiting for that stretch of time. They had built this new office with three floors on a side street near the end of the overhead bridge. When you think of a taluka office, you get the picture of a dusty neem tree, dirty steps and semi-dark rooms; this building was not like that. But there was a jeep blocking the entrance and abandoned bikes that reminded of the old office.
Most government offices did not have lifts; even if they did, they did not work. This office also had only a big staircase. While climbing the stairs, you could see a big government poster pasted on the opposite wall. The office had big windows, like in wedding halls. One worker who did not like too much light had opened only half of the window near his seat. During lunchtime, there was big traffic of vendors: Bagyathammal who sells hot murukku in a silver bucket; Muthu, who sells sweets and snacks; Kasim, who sells towels and lungis, and Kalaivani, who sells nighties and cotton sarees. The workers at the office were their favourite customers.
They continued to visit, even though the office had moved. Especially, Kesavan who sells the hot coconut sweet ‘boli’, had a free run of this office; he would enter regardless of who was there. He will place two bolis wrapped in newspaper on the Tahsildar’s table.
Bagyathammal could climb the stairs slowly only because she was overweight and also had a corn on her foot. They would know of her arrival just by the noise the silver bucket made on the steps. Many workers would be satiated only after munching on her murukku after lunch. They had a water cooler for cold water, which the old office did not have. Kasim would always fill his green bottle with the cold water. He would relish drinking that cold water with a unique expression of bliss on his face. Except for the boy from the tea stall opposite, and Subbiah from the xerox store, most people who came to the office were there to get certificates for caste, income, residency or land ownership. You could easily identify them by their looks. Being nervous, they would drop and scatter their certificates; some could not even answer the questions. Though all the wooden tables were similar, only the table where the officer received the petitions would appear huge to them. Even the leaders in the pictures hung on the wall were unsmiling.
After lunch, many of the workers would not return to their tables immediately. Some would go downstairs to smoke. Raghavan, who was going downstairs, noticed the man sitting aslant.
“What do you want?” he asked while passing.
When the man hesitantly said, “You see.., I.. well,…”
Raghavan told him, “Go inside and ask.”
Some workers had returned after the lunch break. Jayanthi was keeping her washed tiffin box near the window. The man stood in front of Sabapathy’s table and called out — “Sir…”
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Sabapathy was searching for a pin to use as a toothpick. Thinking that the man was selling some snacks, he asked, “What did you bring?”
The man produced an old photograph from his bag and said. “Muhammad Ali’s photo.”
Startled and uncomprehending, Sabapathy asked, “What is that?”
“Muhammad Ali Sir, the world famous boxer. My father is the one standing nearby; see here, it has Muhammad Ali’s signature at the bottom.”
“OK, but why are you showing it to me?” asked Sabapathy, not understanding.
“They took it when Muhammad Ali came to Madras.”
“That is all fine. Are you here to give some petition?”
“I came to sell Muhammad Ali’s signature, Sir,” he said hesitantly.
Sabapathy did not understand what he said.
“Selling a signature?… But what can I do with it?” asked sarcastically.
The man hung his head and said, “It is a very valuable signature, Sir. I have money problems at home; that is why I came to sell.”
Sabapathy smiled sarcastically, as if he has found the right person to pass the time with and said, “I know nothing about boxing. See Sekhar in the corner seat? Show it to him.”
Sekhar was the one who can get a loan for anybody in the office. Nobody knew where he got the money from. But he would get a commission of Rs50 for every Rs1000.He had loaned many of his colleagues money during contingencies. He would strictly collect his share on payday.
The man went to Sekhar and showed him the old photograph.
Sekhar looked up at it and asked thoughtfully, “Do you want a death certificate?”
“No, Sir; this is Muhammad Ali.”
“Muhammad Ali means?” Sekhar asked, confused.
“Famous boxing champion; he came to Madras in 1980. He boxed with Jimmy Ellis in front of MGR. My dad was a big boxer in those days; he lost one eye in boxing, but could still fight very well. Muhammad Ali himself had congratulated him. They took this photo when Muhammad Ali was staying in Connemara hotel. There was a huge crowd to see him. My dad was waiting to get his signature on this photo. Muhammad Ali himself took him to his room and signed it for him. My father was thrilled.” he was narrating it like a story.
“Just tell me what you want now,” said Sekhar.
“Please buy this signature. All I want is Rs 500.”
Sekhar did not expect this.
“What am I going to do with this — clean my tongue?” Sekhar asked angrily.
“Do not say that Sir. Muhammad Ali’s signature has value.”
“Let us see how many people in this office know who Muhammad Ali is.” As if taking up a great challenge, Sekhar grabbed the photo from the man and gathered all the office staff in front of him.
Sekhar said in a mocking tone,
“If anyone can correctly identify the man in this photo, I will give the person Rs100.”
One lady asked, “An actor?”
“There is a tailor in my street who looks just like him; his ears are exactly like his,” said Jayanthi.
“Isn’t he the football champion?” asked Mani.
Rangachari was the one who correctly said.
“That is Muhammad Ali, World heavyweight boxing champion. He was born Cassius Clay; he later changed his name to Muhammad Ali.”
“Correct Sir; and it is his signature. At least you can buy this.”
“I do not even have enough time to box with my wife; what am I going to do this? If it was a foreign stamp, at least I could give it to my daughter,” said Rangachari in a mocking voice.
“Do not say that, Sir. I can cut off my father’s picture. Please give me Rs 500,” the man pleaded.
“Five hundred rupees is too much for a signature,” said Rangachari.
“You people demand like that too,” he thought. But he swallowed the thought and said, “If my dad were alive, he would not sell this.”
“It is alright if you want to sell, but where did you come to the taluka office?” asked Rangachari mockingly.
“You are all educated people. I thought you would know the value of this.”
“Forget the signature; you see, even if Muhammad Ali himself comes here, there is no value.” Rangachari laughed automatically, as if he has cracked a joke.
Meanwhile, hearing some footsteps on the stair, peon Munusamy announced that the Tahsildar[2] has arrived.
The safari suit clad Tahsildar Rathinasamy must have noticed the man as he went to his room. He rang the bell as soon as he sat down.
Peon Munusamy hurried into the room.
“Who is that guy standing outside? Is he selling perfume? I told you not to let people like that.”
Munusamy said, “He is not selling perfume, Sir; he came to sell some photo.”
“Ask him to come in,” the Tahsildar said angrily.
The peon told the man who was standing helplessly that the Tahsildar wanted to see him.
The man entered the room slowly.
The Tahsildar asked him with a stern face, “What is this, a marketplace where anyone can walk in and sell stuff? Who are you and why did you come here?”
The man was scared at his anger and hesitantly said, “Muhammad Ali’s signature…photo”
“Ask S1 to come in,” said the Tahsildar angrily.
Sabapathy came.
“Is this a government office or an exhibition? How did you let this man in?”
“We thought he came to give some petition. But he is spinning a yarn about a photograph.”
The Tahsildar said loudly “We should not leave it like this; you call the police. If we grab someone like this, the next one will be afraid to come.”
The man said with a troubled face, “Sorry, sir. I will leave,” he turned to walk out.
“What do you have in your hand? Show it to me.” the Tahsildar asked with the same anger.
The man showed him the photo with Muhammad Ali and his father.
“Did you come to get a donation?”
“No Sir; I came to sell Muhammad Ali’s signature,” he said in a weak voice.
“Don’t you have some other place for that?” the Tahsildar threw the photograph on the table carelessly.
“It is alright sir; just give me the photo; I will leave”
By this time, Rangachari had entered the room and described about Muhammad Ali in fluent English; the Tahsildar listened, only half understanding.
“Who will buy this?”
“There are collectors for this. You can get for 5000, or 10,000 rupees for that.”
“Is that right?”
“Severe money problems at home; that is why I came to sell.” the man repeated.
“What am I going to do if I buy this? I do not even have a place to hang my picture at my home.” the Tahsildar expressed his sense of humour with that statement.
At his juncture, Sekhar came to the office and said, “It is a new type of fraud, Sir. They print a picture off the internet and try to sell it.”
“No Sir. This is my father.”
“Do you have any certificate to prove it?” asked Sekhar.
“Why should I deceive you, Sir,” the man asked pitifully.
“Sekhar is correct. Nowadays, it is difficult to trust anyone; we should be cautious,” said Rangachari.
“Get rid of him and post a notice saying no outside persons are allowed here.” said Tahsildar.
The man took the photograph from the table and placed it in his bag, and walked downstairs.
An old man waiting to submit some petition asked him if the Tahsildar has arrived. He answered yes and left.
It was after three. He felt like fainting because of extreme hunger. The street was hot in the scorching sun. There was no breeze. He walked towards the bus stand to catch a bus to his suburban home.
Suddenly the bag in his hand felt heavy. It sounded as though someone was laughing.
Was that Muhammad Ali laughing?
It was as if his arm was being dragged down by the heavy bag.
He took out the photo and looked at it. His father’s face standing near Muhammad Ali had a unique smile.
He was wondering what he is going to do by taking the photo back to his home.
There was a tar drum standing under the tamarind tree; it was leaking tar. He took out the photo and stuck it on the tar. Muhammad Ali was looking at the street baking in the scorching sun from the photograph stuck to the tar tin.
As if to express his anger, he shrugged off his slippers and started walking barefoot at a fast pace.
The road stretched like the tongue of a strange beast.
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[1] regional
[2] Collector
S. Ramakrishnan is an eminent Tamil writer who has won the Sahitya Akademi Award in the Tamil Language category in 2018. He has published 10 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 75 collections of essays, 15 books for children, 3 books of translation and 9 plays. He also has a collection of interviews to his credit. His short stories are noted for their modern story-telling style in Tamil and have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French.
Dr.Chandramouli is a retired physician.. He is fluent in English and Tamil. He has done several English to Tamil, and Tamil to English. He has published some of them.
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