UNNIKATHA M. MUKUNDAN A delightful translation of a simple Malayalam short story with a meaningful twist.. "Unni," said Mutthashi, "Tell me a story." Mutthashi had chewed on her betel-and-nut to her satisfaction after her frugal meal of kanji. Now she waited for Unni. Only Unnis stories could put her to sleep. Peering through the open door she called out to him."Come Unni.". She was impatient for his story. "Unni is doing his homework," said his mother. Unnis classes at school are on in full swing. Hes now in class two. "Just a small story, Unni," Mutthashi pleaded. "An unnikatha." She was sitting on the cot, leaning against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. The room was aglow under the faint light of an incandescent bulb. "Amma, how can Unni tell you stories all the time? He has to do his homework now." "Just this last once, daughter." "Didnt you say so yesterday too, Amma?" Mutthashi shifted her gaze guiltily. She was old, her body shrivelled and shrunk to the size of a childs. Unnis mothers heart went out to her. "Unni, go tell Mutthashi a story. After you put her to sleep you can get back to your homework." Unni prayed fervently that his grandmother would feel sleepy soon. It was already half-past nine. Mutthashis face lit up when Unni came and sat by her. She couldnt sleep without a story. It had become a habit with her. A bad habit. She could do nothing about it. "What story would you like, Mutthashi?" "A nice one," Mutthashi said, "one that will send me to sleep." "Shall I tell you the story of the glass-tree?" "Um." Snuggling up to Mutthashi, Unni sat staring at the wall in front of him. It was a bare wall. No framed photographs. No showpieces. The first picture that appeared on it was that of a short, stubby man with thick earrings made of gold. The many rings on his pudgy fingers were gold, too. "Look!" said Unni, "that is Kuruman Panikkan, Mutthashi." A palanquin moved across the bare wall. A fan in hand, Kuruman lay in it, surrounded by a retinue of attendants and a lamp bearer. The light of the pole-lamp fell in front of the palanquin like a smudge of pale gold. "Unni, where is Kuruman Panikkan going?" "To pray. At the champaka-kaavu." On the blankness of the white wall loomed an immense champaka tree, its lush foliage hiding the gnarled boughs. It was heavy with flowers that filled the air with a heady fragrance. Kurumans men placed the palanquin gently on the ground in front of the tree. Kuruman Panikkan stepped down to his right. An attendant took the fan from his hand and placed it back inside the palanquin. The gentle breeze of dawn stirred the leaves. Kuruman always took a fan with him wherever he went - even when it rained. Panikkan stood with hands folded in prayer before the oily stone idols which sat at the base of the graying champaka tree. Light from an ancient oil lamp lay thick on its old, sinewy roots. "Unni," said Mutthashi, "who is that?" A well-dressed man emerged on the whiteness of the wall. He wore a shirt. His cropped hair looked strange in a land where all men wore their long hair knotted in a kuduma. "That is Melkkoran," Unni said. "He builds mosques and temples." Melkkoran walked up to Kuruman Panikkan and bowed, his hands folded in respect. The eastern sky was paling. "Who are you?" "I hail from the West. A mason. Melkkoran is my name." "What do you want?" "Work." Panikkan glanced at his caretaker. In the light of the pole-lamp he could see the caretaker shake his head. There was a rustle among the leaves of the champaka tree. The karadan chathans, those birds with wings of many colours, stirred in their sleep. In their nests of dried grass lay their eggs, whispering in the wind. "Melkova, there is no work for you here," Panikkan said, "go ask in the neighbouring provinces." "There is work right here," Melkkoran said. He bowed again, reverently. Puzzled, Panikkan looked once again at his caretaker. "Look at this tree," Melkkoran continued, "old and worn out. It can no longer shade champaka-kaavilamma. Let us pull it down and build a new tree." "Can that be done?" "I can build a tree that never grows old, and that never sheds its leaves." "Is there such a thing, Melkova?" "Yes, in the West." "Well, then," Kuruman Panikkan said, "we should have such a tree here, too. Start your work at once!" Melkkoran bowed so low that his head almost touched the ground. Then he retreated respectfully and vanished into the darkness. Kuruman stepped into the palanquin. One of the attendants handed him the fan. Then, with the lamp bearer in front and attendants at the rear, Kurumans palanquin was carried back to his mansion. Dawn was breaking. The treetops gleamed white. The oil in the pole-lamp was running out. "Unni, will they cut down the champaka?" Mutthashi was worried. They heard a tree crash. After felling the champaka which was as old as the earth, a tired Melkkoran put down the axe and rested on a rock. The foraging birds came flying back, hearing their tree crash. Not finding their fledglings and their eggs, they squawked and flew in helpless circles. Melkkoran tried to shoo them away. He threw handfuls of gravel at them. But they hovered over the felled tree for quite a while. "Sad, my Unni, very sad," murmured Mutthashi. Unni continued. On the wall, Melkkorans figure appeared again. He was now obsessed with building his new tree. Around him were empty coconut shells he had thrown away after drinking their sweet, cool water. Every once in a while, Kuruman Panikkan came in his palanquin, fan in hand, to watch Melkkoran deftly chipping away at the logs of glass-wood as effortlessly as one would cut tender fronds of the coconut palm. Panikkan was spellbound. Shards of glass lay in heaps in front of champaka-kaavilamma. Dark-skinned urchins picked up the glittering glass pieces to play with and cut their fingers. "Oh, Unni, are they bleeding?" cried out Mutthashi. First Melkkoran sculpted out the roots and the trunk of the tree. Then the branches. Only the leaves and the flowers remained. He needed green glass for the leaves, white for the flowers. Mutthashi gazed at the naked tree. "Unni, shouldnt you be finishing your homework?" Amma called out. "Its past ten oclock." "Ive almost reached the end, Amma." "Hurry up, son." Mutthashis face fell when she learned that the story was coming to an end. Sleep was still far away. The night young. "Unni," she whispered in Unnis ears, "dont rush." Unni slowed down. Melkkoran took a long time to carve out the leaves and flowers. He shaped each leaf and each flower diligently. Kuruman Panikkan watched Melkkoran at work, his fan in hand. The snot-nosed urchins hovered around, drawn to the slivers of glass that had cut their fingers once. "Finally," Unni said, "after a year and a half, the work on the tree was done." Kuruman Panikkan stood bewitched before the exquisite glass-tree. Its transparency was drenched in the glow of dawn, the blush of the setting sun. The green glass-leaves and the white glass-flowers glinted in the sun. Visitors from far and near flocked to see the wondrous glass tree. Only Kuruman Panikkan could own such a tree. It was the pride of Kuruman. Panikkan showered Melkkoran with priceless gifts. The glass-tree was unmatched in beauty, yet its flowers had no fragrance. There were glittering nests on its branches, but no birds with wings of many colours came to rest there.... And so, Unnis story came to an end. He looked up. Mutthashi was slumped against the wall, sound asleep. Notes: Unni: Apart from being a common pet-name for boys in Kerala, also means small. Unnis story is thus an unnikathain more than one sense. A particular irony is achieved in this story by the analogy of unnikatha to mutthashikatha (or grandmothers tale) a common word in Malayalam. Panikkan: An artisan - here, the artisan chief. Champaka-kaavu: The temple or kaavu of the champaka. A kaavu is generally a small, rustic temple or shrine. Champaka-kaavilamma is the goddess who resides in the champaka temple. Bio Data About the translators: K.M Sherrif has a Masters in English from Calicut University. Currently, he teaches English at the Narmada College of Science, Bharuch, Gujarat. Neerada Suresh is a poet and translator and has published her collection of her poems in a volume called Bonsai. She teaches English at the Kendriya Vidyalaya, New Delhi.