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ஆசிரியர்:வ.ந.கிரிதரன்                                    Editor: V.N.Giritharan
March 2008 இதழ் 99  -மாத இதழ்
பதிவுகள் சஞ்சிகை உலகின் பல்வேறு நாடுகள் பலவற்றில் வாழும் தமிழ் மக்களால் வாசிக்கப்பட்டு வருகிறது. உங்கள் வியாபாரத்தை  சர்வதேசமயமாக்க பதிவுகளில் விளம்பரம் செய்யுங்கள். நியாயமான விளம்பரக் கட்டணம். விபரங்களுக்கு ngiri2704@rogers.com 
என்னும் மின்னஞ்சல் முகவரிக்கு எழுதுங்கள்.

பதிவுகளில் வெளியாகும் விளம்பரங்களுக்கு விளம்பரதாரர்களே பொறுப்பு. பதிவுகள் எந்த வகையிலும் பொறுப்பு அல்ல. வெளியாகும் ஆக்கங்களை அனைத்துக்கும் அவற்றை ஆக்கியவர்களே பொறுப்பு. பதிவுகளல்ல. அவற்றில் தெரிவிக்கப்படும் கருத்துகள் பதிவுகளின்கருத்துகளாக இருக்க வேண்டுமென்பதில்லை.


அன்பான இணைய வாசகர்களே! 'பதிவுகள்' பற்றிய உங்கள் கருத்துகளை வரவேற்கின்றோம். தாராளமாக எழுதி அனுப்புங்கள். 'பதிவுகளின் வெற்றி உங்கள் ஆதரவிலேயே தங்கியுள்ளது. உங்கள் கருத்துகள் ­ப் பகுதியில் இணைய வாசகர்கள் நன்மை கருதி பிரசுரிக்கப்படும்.  பதிவுகளிற்கு ஆக்கங்கள் அனுப்ப விரும்புவர்கள் யூனிகோட் தமிழ் எழுத்தைப் பாவித்து மின்னஞ்சல் ngiri2704@rogers.com மூலம் அனுப்பி வைக்கவும். தபால் மூலம் வரும் ஆக்கங்கள் ஏற்றுக் கொள்ளப் படமாட்டாதென்பதை வருத்தத்துடன் தெரிவித்துக் கொள்கின்றோம். மேலும் பதிவுக'ளிற்கு ஆக்கங்கள் அனுப்புவோர் தங்களது சரியான மின்னஞ்சல் முகவரியினைக் குறிப்பிட்டு அனுப்ப வேண்டும். முகவரி பிழையாகவிருக்கும் பட்சத்தில் ஆக்கங்கள் பிரசுரத்திற்கு ஏற்றுக் கொள்ளப் படமாட்டாதென்பதை அறியத் தருகின்றோம். 'பதிவுக'ளின் நோக்கங்களிலொன்று இணையத்தமிழை வளர்ப்பது. தமிழ் எழுத்துகளைப் பாவித்துப் படைப்புகளை பதிவு செய்து மின்னஞ்சல் மூலம் அனுப்புவது அதற்கு முதற்படிதான். அதே சமயம் அவ்வாறு அனுப்புவதன் மூலம் கணிணியின் பயனை, இணையத்தின் பயனை அனுப்புவர் மட்டுமல்ல ஆசிரியரும் அடைந்து கொள்ள முடிகின்றது.  'பதிவுக'ளின் நிகழ்வுகள் பகுதியில் தங்களது அமைப்புகள் அல்லது சங்கங்களின் விழாக்கள் போன்ற விபரங்களைப் பதிவு செய்து கொள்ள விரும்புகின்றவர்கள் மின்னஞ்சல் மூலம் அல்லது மேற்குறிப்பிடப்பட்ட முகவரிக்குக் கடிதங்கள் எழுதுவதன் மூலம் பதிவு செய்து கொள்ளலாம்.
K.S.Sivakumaran's Columns!
A Thamil Short Story in English
Thirupthy (Satisfaction) by K.Saddanathan
Translated by K.S.Sivakumaran
Thirupthy (Satisfaction) by K.Saddanathan K.S.SivakumaranIt was at the Nallur Music Hall that I first met him.I was listening to an enraptured rendition of Carnatic music in 'Thodi' raga when I noticed the little boy sitting at my side in a leaning posture, seeming to be me trying to understand the serene atmosphere around him. Softly, without disturbing the enchantment of those sitting around, he asked me, endearingly, 'Do you want some kadalai? '  I had no desire at all at that stage for gram, but I looked at him in the dim light. He was small and slim, with what seemed very thin legs and hands. Looking more closely I noticed dry shrunken cheeks, but still his eyes were large and shining with a lively light.

He had in his hands a longish bag made of Ola leaves. He took out a packet of gram from inside and extended it to me. I told him Thambi, little brother, I did not want any. Unaccountably, I felt bad about rejecting his wares, but I had an upset stomach and also it didn'tt seem right to be munching kadalai in that atmosphere.

He must have been disappointed with my reply, but he smiled and turned away and came round to the woman seated on my other side. Softly, this time without a smile, he asked, Hot, hot roasted kachchan - do you want any? But she just ignored the packet of peanuts he held out. And as he moved around I saw that no one bought either gram or peanuts from him. This was not quite the place for him, I thought. Even though he was now at some distance, I could still see in my mind the small inquiring face, and the large eyes, and I suddenly felt heavy at heart and saddened, as though bruised.

This was an age when parents were constantly nagged by children wanting kadalai, ice cream, coloured candies, dodol and other preserved sweets, lollipops, chocolates and the like. But here was a small boy, not quite an adolescent, behaving responsibly. Why was he doing this? Perhaps he has some difficulties at home, or is harassed, sent out with his wares in an act of cleverness like carrying palmyra fruit on a little bird's top. Is he a boy who has lost his father, or is his father without a sense of responsibility, roaming around grazing like the temple bull or maybe drunk? Maybe his mother and his siblings depend on him for their own existence.

I thought of my childhood, my mother sending me neatly to school, and making me study each evening, and the empathy towards him opened its floodgates. I felt I should buy something, and was about to call him when someone else without any hesitation or bargaining bought four packets of one or the other of his wares. He took the packets deftly out of the long Ola leaf bag and quickly counted the coins held out to him and put them in his pocket. Moved now away from my melancholy, my heart lighter and almost joyful, I could concentrate again on the music.

Ramanathans singing filled me. He was still singing the Thodi raga with its nuances. I felt like floating in the wind, engrossed in enchantment.

I happened to meet him again the next Saturday evening at West Street. This time he had balloons of different colours. It is now the selling of balloons, I thought. What had he been doing in the meantime?

He came near me and asked. Buy a balloon?

I gave him a five rupee coin and he gave me a balloon and balance of two rupees. Keep it, I said. Give me a rupee. He said, and I obliged, not sure why. He gave me one more balloon. He's straightforward, I thought. His behaviour showed clearly that it was not begging but a profession that he practised.

Two more boys, in clean shirts and clean shorts, came running up and bought a few balloons. He blew the balloons and tied them expertly and efficiently.

Standing by his side I asked him, Thambi, where doyou study?


What class?

Year Seven. He would have been about twelve, though he looked smaller.

Must be brilliant in class?'

He smiled. I melted in the smile and asked him why, with the studies he should be doing at this age, he
was roaming about.

His eyes dimmed. The lips trembled, and his nostrils seemed to twitch and broaden. Seeing this I felt that somehow I had wounded his feelings, and I started to move away.

He came closer. My father died four years ago, when the shell fell on him at Sivapragasam Street.

Sharing his sorrow, I took his right hand into mine and asked him, How come you came to Senguntha from Sivapragasm Street?

We are now living in Senguntha me and my mother and my younger sister. My sister also studies. She is truly brilliant.'

I pondered. For the three burning stomachs there had to be something to eat, to fill them even half way. Then he also had a burden, to study. Could he handle all this? His posture showed that he could.

I bought three more balloons from him.

"Why, do you have five children? His voice revealed surprise. Perhaps he thought I was too young to have
so many.

Yes. I smiled. I didn't want to share with him the fact that I don't have children. In any case there were plenty of children to give
these balloons to. My neighbourhood is full of children of the right age for balloons, with quaint smiles, like Kausi, Chowmi, Thilak, Duwari,Vipul all of them came to mind,

I looked at him. He had moved away, calling out his balloons energetically.

Without disturbing him further, moving away, I found myself contented. I walked home full of emotion.

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