‘Angara Shishuvu’ is a short story I wrote in 1987. It was first published in the Andhra Jyothi weekly in 1987 and was later included in the Sahitya Akademi anthology ‘Oka Taram Telugu Katha’ (1994). I have now translated this story into English and am sharing it below. I would appreciate your feedback on the translation.
Subbu placed the freshly printed invitation cards in my hand. They were for a meeting at the Town Hall on August 15th. Most of the dignitaries listed were familiar to me, but one name stood out. I read it aloud and asked, “Who is this?”
“Don’t you see the title? He is a recipient of the Tamra Patra,” Subbu said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. We need to go see him right now to discuss the program.”
“How did you print his name without his permission?” I asked.
“He isn’t the type to care about such things. Besides, it is I who am inviting him,” Subbu replied. Subbu was the editor of the local daily; he had been born and raised in this town.
The moment I realized he was a freedom fighter, I felt a strong urge to meet him. Subbu drove through narrow lanes and alleys I had never seen before, finally stopping in front of an old tiled house. The surroundings were filthy, and the walls smelled of damp decay. Wild bushes grew nearby. However, the courtyard itself was clean. A breeze blew from a neem tree, and withered jasmine flowers lay near a tulsi plant. It seemed several other families lived in that same compound. After Subbu called out a few times, the door opened. The man leaned forward, recognized my friend, and invited us in.
He looked about sixty, but a weariness far beyond his years seemed to grip him. His back was hunched, and his forehead was etched with deep wrinkles. But his eyes-they were sharp and full of light.
“He is my friend. He writes on current social issues for our paper. You might have seen his work,” Subbu introduced me.
The old man looked at me intently and gave a warm, toothless smile. I folded my hands in respect.
His room was small, cramped, and humid. Subbu sat next to him on the bed. I pulled up a bamboo stool and looked around. Worn-out clothes hung on a line; old belongings were scattered everywhere. Coarse khadi cloth served as covers for the bed, windows, and doors. He wore only a simple cloth over his shoulder and a sacred thread. On the wall hung a photo of Gandhi and Nehru from the ‘Quit India’ days. A photo case sat on the table next to a figurine of Gandhi’s three monkeys. In the cupboard were thick, bound volumes of Nehru’s writings.
“What did you study, son?” he asked.
I told him.
“Young people today know nothing of our history or culture. They act as if they don’t need it. But seeing people like you gives me hope,” he said.
I remained silent, but Subbu added, “He has done a deep study of the freedom struggle. He even wrote a musical play about it.”
“I am very happy to hear that, son,” the old man said. As he searched for words, I spoke up. “The legends we read in books and saw in photos… you actually lived them. You were there…” I couldn’t finish my sentence.
The thought that I was speaking to a living piece of history made me go still. We can write poetry about monuments, but we cannot have a conversation with them. I felt a strange sadness.
“Yes, son. It doesn’t feel like the past to me. It feels like I am still living it. After all, how much did we really do?” He drifted into his memories.
“I was twenty during the Quit India movement. The whole country turned into a massive jail. The town was shut down under Section 144. Four of us took to the streets. We were full of fire. I didn’t even tell anyone at home. We wanted to hoist the flag on the Taluka office in front of everyone. There was one boy among us-very brave. Holding the flag, shouting ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki Jai’ and ‘Do or Die,’ he climbed the building. Suddenly, a police jeep arrived. I don’t know who aimed the gun, but the hero holding the flag just slumped over. Lathis broke against our backs. But we didn’t raise a hand. We didn’t utter a single word of abuse. They took us away. No trial, nothing. They threw us in jail. I stayed there for nine months…”
He spoke more than he had intended. His voice trembled with emotion and the weight of the experience.
“We didn’t really know why we were doing it back then. I didn’t even fully understand Gandhi’s philosophy. It was just a passion-as if doing only that was our only duty. That is the only experience in my life I can call truly mine, the only thing that gives me real satisfaction.”
As he spoke, he opened the cupboard and brought out a file and an English book about the Nehru family. He showed a photo to Subbu.
Subbu pointed to a man standing behind Motilal Nehru in the photo and told me, “This is his father. He was the District Congress President. He was very close to the Nehru family. During the Non-Cooperation days, he gave up his legal practice and joined the movement.”
The old man took over with great intensity. “Whenever leaders came here, they stayed with my father. He organized all the Congress meetings. Did you know? My father collected thousands in donations for the Tilak fund all by himself. Bapu apparently said that if there were a few more volunteers like him, we could win independence in a year.”
He took a large photo out of an envelope. It was an enlargement of the one in the book.
“I will publish this in our paper. Why don’t you write a few lines about your father?” Subbu suggested.
“Can I really write about my father? What do I know? He didn’t give me an education, nor did he leave me property. Do you know what he once said? He said, ‘Son, what Gandhi gave me as a reward were lathi blows, fines, and jail. I know the joy in them. How can I explain it to you? If there is anything I can give you today, it is only that.’ How much of those words did I understand then? Could I build a life brick by brick patiently and then give it up with my own hands like he did? I don’t think I have that much inner strength.” He wasn’t just talking about a father; it was as if he was remembering a hero he once knew.
“Did he live to see ’47?” I asked.
“He didn’t have that luck. It was in ’43, I think. I was in jail somewhere. My mother was in total grief. But he had already sent word: even if he died, we should be proud, not cry. Yes, he didn’t die lingering in a sickbed. He didn’t kill his soul with luxuries. He lived like a man, and he died like a man.”
After a silence, he asked, “What kind of articles do you write?”
“About current problems,” I said, while Subbu added, “He recently wrote about the Punjab crisis.”
“Is that so? That is all a drama by traitors. What happens if they blame her? Our opposition has nothing else to do-Vajpayee, Charan Singh, and of course, the Communists. Is it easy to manage such a huge country?”
I was shocked. It was hard for me to hear such a simplified view from him.
“Anyway, who among them can make sacrifices like the Nehru family?” he continued. He had such deep faith that the country was safe in their hands. I had my own thoughts, but I said nothing.
Subbu intervened, “The reason we came is for the meeting at the Town Hall on August 15th. You must come.”
“Ah. But why this effort, son? Who in this town remembers I am alive? They don’t need us. It’s because their ancestors made so many sacrifices that they can live so comfortably today…” He went on about how the world had changed, mentioning how people ignored veterans but would flock to see a movie star like Amitabh Bachchan. He talked about waiting at the Secretariat for an appointment with the Prime Minister and how no one cared. “I will come. The 15th is the day after tomorrow, right?”
I could see the pain behind his words now. But how could I tell him? How could I tell him that the people outside weren’t exactly “living comfortably” as he thought? If they were truly happy, wouldn’t they have held these heroes in higher regard?
We stood up to leave. He followed us to the doorstep.
“I’m happy to have met you, son. By the way, Vamana Rao is coming to the meeting, isn’t he?”
“Oh, Vamana Rao was supposed to come with us now, but he couldn’t make it,” Subbu said. Vamana Rao was a social worker, always at the forefront of public service. Subbu later told me that Vamana Rao was very close to the old man and looked after his well-being.
Suddenly, there was a commotion in the courtyard. A woman in the neighboring portion was shouting at her maid. Subbu went forward to ask what was wrong. She explained: “The municipality is going to remove our huts. They say they’re going to build a factory there. We haven’t eaten for four days. We’ve been running from one official to another… We have so little shelter. If they snatch even that away, what will we do?”
We walked out helplessly. As I crossed the threshold, I instinctively looked back. The old man was standing there, leaning against the door, looking completely lost.
The meeting on the 15th was a success. Subbu and Vamana Rao had arranged everything. The freedom fighter arrived on time. But I noticed he looked uncomfortable, like a man in a strange place among strangers. I don’t remember exactly what I said while introducing him, but I couldn’t help speaking about his father. He must have felt proud then, but he didn’t speak. Or rather, it’s more accurate to say he wasn’t given time to speak.
Vamana Rao used the stage to push for the factory that had been planned for the city for a long time. When I told Subbu we should have let the old man speak a few words, Subbu said, “He would only talk about his grievances. He’d say it’s all pain for the country. But who will listen? Who wants it? You saw it yourself, the meeting was all about the upcoming Parliament elections.”
They even honored the old man with a shawl. I heard it was Vamana Rao’s way of showing his devotion to the veteran.
A few days later, one evening, I was at the press talking to Subbu about staging my play in the capital. The phone rang. It was the Three-Town Police Station. The situation in the city had been bad for two days; there were restrictions imposed in some areas. The SI was giving information about a protest in a certain area-some people had caused a disturbance and shouted slogans, and they had been taken into custody.
As Subbu noted down the names, he suddenly read one name aloud in shock. Seeing my confused face, he shook me and said, “Don’t you recognize it? It’s your Tamra Patra recipient!”
I was stunned. I felt I had to see him. Subbu took me to the station.
We went straight to the lock-up. There he was-his body looking weak and frail. His face was withered. His khadi shirt was even dirtier than before. But his eyes-they were brighter and more radiant than ever.
“What is this Sir, at your age?” Subbu asked.
The man gave a small smile. “Wait, I’ll go speak to the SI,” Subbu said and left. In that brief moment, I spoke to him.
“It’s a shock to see you like this Sir. What happened?”
“What else, son? This is the rule of the gun. A police culture. It’s all about oppression of the poor. Riding over those who have no voice. Showing their muscle over the weak. They steal their food. Fine. But will they also leave them without a roof? Whose father’s land is it to build a factory there? Will they crush the huts with bulldozers? We will protest. We told them to roll their wheels over our corpses. They were ready for even that.”
In his words, I heard the greatest poetry I had ever heard. When history possesses a person, when an ordinary man becomes a creator of history-in those powerful moments, every word that comes out of life becomes poetry.
“I was at the press when the information came. Subbu mentioned your name, but I didn’t recognize it at first. I only realized who you were when he said, ‘the recipient of the Tamra Patra,'” I said, as a way of explanation.
He laughed. “In the past, an unfortunate soul once said, ‘Master, do not write our land grants on copper plates; write them on puris instead.’ Why do I need this bronze plaque? If the government had granted a handful of rice instead, it would have fed a poor man for a day. That would have honored us and our sacrifices more than any metal plate.”
My blood boiled. My feet felt firm on the ground. I folded both my hands in a deep salute.
“What is it?” he asked, startled.
“Nothing,” I said, my voice humble and clear. “You are in jail, yet you are free. But we…”
I couldn’t speak any further and walked out.
Featured image generated with gemini.google.com
22-2-2026
Living Ember is a lovely story – the translation captures the essence! . It would be great if you post the original Telugu also.
It is available in my book. The pdf is available on my blog. Or I will share it with you.