Perumal Murugan releases collection of stories ‘Four Strokes of Luck’: An excerpt

This excerpt from Perumal Murugan's new collection of stories 'Four Strokes of Luck' (translated by Nandini Krishnan) has been published with permission from Juggernaut Books.

The incident occurred on Kumaresan’s fifth day at his new part-time job in a shack by the side of the bypass road. The light from the dim bulb encroached meekly into the dark of its surrounds. He had to stay there all night, by himself. If a ‘party’ made its untimely arrival, he was to call Mechanic Valavan right away, on his mobile phone. This was his brief.

It had all begun like this: one night the previous week, Kumaresan hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d lost track of time as he read a novel by the light of the street lamp. Valavan had made his obstreperous entry into the street and braked suddenly by his side.

He’d yelled over the noise his bike emitted, ‘What is this, mapillai? You’re reading so late into the night, eh?’

He woke most people who had been sleeping on the street before he left.

A couple of days later, Valavan had said, ‘You’re just faffing about reading books, aren’t you? I have an idea. Read your novels in my shack. If you feel sleepy, sleep away. If some party lands up, call me. You’ll have some pocket money for your troubles.’

This was how he’d landed the job.

Valavan had erected a wooden frame by the side of the road, hung a tyre from it and fixed a little red electric bulb inside. A makeshift roof had been fashioned from asbestos sheets. Inside this improvised hut were the tools Valavan would need to fix punctures.

Outside the hut was a cot. Valavan had left a little lamp, and one could lie down on the cot and hold a book so that the light fell on the page.

The only disturbance came from the nocturnal insects that clustered around the light. If one were inclined to sleep, one could push the cot away into the surrounding darkness. It took Kumaresan only four days to get used to this routine. He had yet to accustom himself to the noise of the vehicles that zoomed past his post at odd hours. Each vehicle that whooshed into the ether with a screech made him wake up in panic.

He could discern a couple of houses in the distance. He wasn’t afraid to be alone. A book would stave off the boredom. He decided he would read a novel a day.

On that fifth day, the book he’d chosen failed to keep him engrossed. It was a novel. But the chapters that narrated the story were punctuated by others in which the author expounded his personal philosophical beliefs. Kumaresan’s heart wasn’t in it.

Setting it aside, he lay on his back and stared at the sky for a while.

Then, he sat by the road to watch the vehicles. Then, he put one foot in front of the other and walked along the narrow ridge of the rainwater canal for some distance.

During the intermissions between the passing of vehicles, he felt himself surrounded by a wall of darkness. Some moonlight would have been pleasant. There was nothing of interest at all on the road. It felt strange to walk all alone along the ridge. Eventually, he went back to the cot and lay facedown. The cot with its sagging ropes felt like a cradle. He pushed it into the darkness and fell asleep.

He didn’t know what time it was. He woke with a start when he felt someone touching him.

‘Saar, saar,’ the darkness called.

The shape of a person loomed over him.

He struggled to sit up.

This was the first ‘party’ he had encountered at work. The man looked thirty, perhaps thirty-five, years old. He wore unremarkable clothes, a faded shirt and worn trousers, rubber slippers on his feet. But one couldn’t draw any conclusions about the people of this area based on their apparel. They were expert at carrying the appearance of penniless paupers while having crores of rupees to their names.

As evidence of his visit to some temple, the party had holy ash and vermilion smeared on his forehead and neck.

His bike had had a puncture on the back home, he explained. He had left it back where it had given way, and walked to the shack. He must have hurried. His face and neck were bathed in sweat. He thought Kumaresan was the mechanic and said, ‘Come, let’s go.’ He was in such haste that he appeared ready to drag him to the spot where the vehicle had stalled.

Kumaresan called Valavan on his mobile. It rang for a while. He tried twice, to no avail. The party waited impatiently.

‘Can we go?’ he asked.

‘We need a guy,’ Kumaresan replied, and indicated a block of stone. ‘Sit down.’

Before he could try again, Valavan called him back. As soon as he explained what had happened, Valavan said, ‘I’ll be there,’ and disconnected abruptly.

The party would not sit.

‘When will the guy arrive?’ he asked, several times, in various ways.

Kumaresan tried to make conversation, but he would not engage. He must be anxious about having left his vehicle unguarded, Kumaresan thought.

Valavan didn’t take long. He arrived within the tenth minute of their conversation. The road was a couple of miles from the village. He must have hopped on to his bike even as he disconnected the call. His appearance indicated he’d been interrupted during sex.

He looked at the party, and asked, ‘Which bike is it?’

The party gave him the details.

It was of a sturdy, heavy make.

‘Where is it?’ asked Valavan.

He wasn’t able to answer accurately. Not far, he said.

‘Which wheel?’

‘Back wheel.’

Valavan fetched a broken chair from inside the hut, set it up on the pavement and lowered himself into it.

‘Saar, let’s go, saar,’ pleaded the party.

‘Go and do what? Tell me. The back wheel cannot be removed and brought here. There will be no light for me to fix the puncture there. Even if I were to fix it, I cannot fill the tyre with air. Tell me, what can we do, eh?’ Valavan asked, laughing.

The party had no answers.

‘Saar, tell me what we can do,’ he finally said. Valavan looked at Kumaresan, who was sitting on the cot, and mumbled, ‘What shall we do, mapillai?’ He made as if he was in deep thought for a while.

‘Mama,’ Kumaresan began, ‘couldn’t we take your bike and fetch the wheel?’ There must be some way to help the poor man.

‘It would be easy if it were the front wheel,’ said Valavan, thoughtfully. ‘But we’d kill ourselves trying to remove the back wheel. That’s the problem with this particular make. We’ll need a proper workshop to do the job.’

‘Saar, please do something, saar,’ begged the party, coming close to Valavan. ‘The vehicle is unguarded.’

‘Did you leave it right on the road?’ Valavan asked.

‘No, saar, I parked it some distance from the road, in the darkness. But I’m worried all the same.’ ‘Hmmm. I do feel sorry for you. What will you do, all by yourself, eh, with that vehicle? Why don’t you wheel it slowly and bring it here? I’ll fix it.’

‘I couldn’t push it, saar. It’s too far.’

‘Well, then there’s only one option. We’ll have to get a Minidor and load the bike on it. Then we can fix it here.’

‘Will we get one at this time of night, saar?’ ‘Let’s see. There’s two–three boys in our town who have a Minidor. But they must have drunk themselves to sleep by now. I doubt they’ll pick up the phone. Shall we try? But it will cost money. Do you have cash on you?’

‘Yes, saar, I can pay. Call them, saar.’

The man’s words tumbled over each other. He’d probably sign away all his property just as long as the job was done, Kumaresan surmised. Valavan handed his phone to Kumaresan.

‘Call Seelan,’ he said.

Kumaresan called. Seelan did not answer.

‘Call Santhan,’ he said.

Kumaresan called. Santhan did not answer. He tried four, perhaps five, numbers. No one picked up. Kumaresan began to feel anxious. If only someone would pick up, they could fix the puncture right away.

Mechanic Valavan scratched his beard. ‘Hmmm. There’s a guy in the next town. He’s a good sort. He’ll come if I call. But then it will cost some more. Should we try?’

‘Please call him, saar. The vehicle is unguarded.’ The party came close enough to Valavan to hold his hand.

Valavan took his phone back from Kumaresan, appeared to search for a number and eventually dialled. The man picked up on the second try.

‘Chinnava, you home? ... Will you bring your vehicle?... There’s a party here, one feels sorry for him...yes, I ought not to have called you in the middle of the night, but poor man...come, we’ll ask him, no problem...with you, there’ll be four of us, and we can lift the bike on to the Minidor... the money won’t be a problem, come along...ada! Come for my sake, pa.’

Disconnecting the phone, Valavan grunted. ‘He’ll land up. If he doesn’t turn up when I call him for a job, how will I call him again, eh?’

‘Saar, the vehicle is unguarded, all by itself. Please ask him to hurry.’

‘Hold on, pa. I’ve woken up a guy from sleep. He’ll have to wash his face- vace, won’t he? Come, sit down here.’ He snorted. ‘Vehicles zoom along this bypass road all the time. But not one will stop. This is an orphaned stretch, don’t worry. No one’s going to steal your bike. Is it a new bike? Or is this your first time riding a bike? You’re in such frenzy?’

Valavan was in a chatty mood. The party sat as if he’d been punished, his head in his hands. He wiped his eyes one after the other. Kumaresan felt sorry for him.

‘What happened, anna, are you crying? Don’t worry, nothing will happen to your bike. If you want I’ll come along. Shall we go and stand guard there? Mama, will you follow us later?’ Kumaresan turned to Valavan after trying to comfort the party. ‘Who the hell are you, the clown in the koothu? How far are you going to walk? The Minidor will be here any time now, keep your gob shut,’ snapped Valavan.

Kumaresan thought: ‘Aa haa, this must be the regular stage setting. The party and I are the new characters in the play.’ Valavan must have seen many, many panicked parties. He must have fixed many, many punctures in the wee hours. He must have got used to the drama. Once the thought occurred to him, Kumaresan was intrigued about how the rest of the night would play out.

Even before Valavan could complete his next sentence, the lights of the Minidor approached. Chinnavan pulled up by the shack, jumped off the vehicle, and lit a cigarette as he walked. ‘Where did this guy come from?’ he asked, blowing smoke at Kumaresan.

‘Oh, mapillai sleeps here to get parties. He’s nuts about books. So I told him to sit here and read, and call me if a party turns up. You know the old proverb about the boy who goes to graze his goat in another village so he can steal a look at a prospective bride for his brother? It’s like that,’ grinned Valavan.

The party stood up and said, ‘Saar, the vehicle is unguarded. Let’s go, shall we?’ He made for the Minidor.

‘Hold on, pa, where’s the bike parked, how far? I don’t want a song and dance about the money after the job’s done,’ Chinnavan said.

The party understood that it was all out of his hands.

‘A couple of kilometres from here. Perhaps two, two and a half. I’ll pay you whatever you ask, the vehicle’s unguarded, saar, let’s go saar,’ he said, flustered.

Stamping out his cigarette, Chinnavan said, ‘Look here, I charge five hundred rupees for five kilometres. Then it’s hundred rupees for every additional kilometre. Three of us to load the bike, at two hundred a head, so that’s six hundred rupees. All right? Do you have the money? Once the job is done, don’t whinge about having only so much money. We won’t let the bike go. We’ll hold on to it right here till you go and fetch any money you owe, all right?’

The party lifted his shirt, reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out his wallet and opened the flap under the light from the bulb.

‘I’ll give you what you ask, saar, let’s go, the vehicle is unguarded,’ he said. The purse bulged with notes of various colours.

Pleased, Valavan said, ‘Right, let’s go.’ With a smirk, he added, ‘You’re acting as if you’ve left your new bride unguarded, not a bike.’

Chinnavan and Valavan sat up front. Kumaresan got into the back with the party. It was open to the sky, with only a low safety door.

‘Look here, I’ll have to drive for a kilometre before I can make a U -turn,’ Chinnavan called. ‘So that’s one kilometre until the turn and another kilometre to get back to point zero. There’s no other way. That’s already two kilometres. And if your vehicle’s not parked within three kilometres, you’ll have to pay according to the rates I quoted. Do you remember where you parked the bike? Did you mark the spot with some reference? I don’t want you dithering.’

The party nodded along to everything he said.

He must have understood he had little choice.