First of all I thank Prof.C.N.Srinath for giving me one more opportunity to translate from Kannada into English, in the cozy company of the Sarasa family.
   This time I have chosen an autobiography which is making waves at present, once again indicating that the discerning readers of Kannada have an uncanny knack of placing at the centre stage a work that stands out. I’m doubly happy that M.S.Parashivamurthy, the author of this splendid autobiography, is present with us today. He is a highly private person who runs away from any form of adulation. Since his book is being talked about everywhere, I hope, he will get used to this fame which he richly deserves.
   Parashivamurthy, a banker by profession, has written this book after his retirement literally collecting all his emotions in tranquility’.
   The writing is so lucid and honest that it flows unselfconsciously without any labored mark of embellishment. Parashivamurty is a natural story-teller. Being a class fellow and a close associate of Devanoor Mahadeva, he reminds us of the latter’s method of putting across the ideas with an inimitable élan.
   It is a loss for the Kannada literary world that Mr.Murthy entered the field late though he was blessed with a flair for writing as the wads and wads of his love letters written to his sweetheart, who subsequently became his wife, testify, complied with the unageing pages of his diary which lied in the attic for decades crying for attention.
   Mr. Murthy, as he has expressed in his Preface, was provoked to gather all those write-ups in a book form so that his children would read them in the form of a story. What was primarily meant for his children is now available for larger public and Parashivamurthy has recorded the contours of his life’s journey so amiably that the problem he has faced, the tribulations he has encountered are offered in the autumnal light. His one sentence is worth quoting:
   “There should be variety in life. There should be privations, difficult situations and tears. There should be constant conflict. That is a life of fulfilment.”
   I shudder to name it among the dalit autobiographies though Mr.Murthy happens to be a dalit, because the author’s focus is not on the constricting world of caste-hierarchy and the resulting restrictions, but it is a the joy of living and understanding the mysterious ways in which this “vale of tears” functions.
   The book is not divided into clear-cut chapters; it runs in one go connecting episodes, more or less, chronologically. I have selected a segment called “I ran away to Bombay”, because it deals with the dream of a young man who is determined to forge ahead into the realms of the beckoning big city.
   I did not encounter specific problems in translating the text as the short sentences give no room for mixed metaphors which are a translator’s nightmare except that at times I wished I had the vision and vocabulary of R.K.Narayan to do sufficient justice to Parashivamurthy’s prose which has a comic glint even while communicating the most trying circumstances.
   I beg your pardon for this rather longish preamble.
   I must confess at the outset that this translation needed some nursing, because of lack of time, I could not fulfil that requirement. Kindly bear with me.

* * *

I broke open father’s trunk
As father was Sub-Registrar, he would get some bribe everyday. After he came home from office, the first thing he did was to put the money in the trunk which he kept in his bedroom and then only he attended to other works. After changing his clothes father would go to bathroom and he would return only after ten minutes. I would wait for such a pause and then I would take the keys from his coat pocket, open the trunk noiselessly, pick just one ten-rupee note from the wad of ten-rupee notes kept in a small box inside. I would close the trunk and lock it as before and keep the keys in the pocket. I had gained such a skill in this, I would practice this filching at least three times in a week. Father must have suspected many times. But still I feel that it was not easy for him to detect from the quantity of notes that accumulated everyday.
I was blissfully happy in collecting a golden egg everyday, but I attempted a foolish act that day of killing the hen that laid the golden eggs.
Yes, I had decided to take out all the money from father’s trunk and leave for Bombay.
I wrote a letter and kept it with me-
  “Father,
      I am leaving home.
      I will not return again.
      Don’t try to search for me. Forgive me for taking money.
      Your son,
      Murthy”.
Father who came in the night opened the trunk and closed it as usual and went to the bathroom. My skillful hands opened the trunk within no time, filched the money and in its place I kept the letter and returned to my room and sat there as if I knew nothing.
To my ill luck, when I counted the money there was only two hundred rupees. When I had seen two days before, there was a big bundle of ten-rupee notes. It was a wad containing not less than eight hundred rupees. It seemed father had taken the money to remit to the bank or to give to someone. I had to be satisfied with what I got; what else could I do?
As father left for the office next day, I too left home carrying the suitcase without drawing anybody’s attention and reached Bangalore travelling by train.
The train to Bombay was at nine o’clock in the night. The fare was twenty rupees.
When I sat in the train only father’s face loomed large. He would have opened the trunk by now and what would be his reaction after finding my letter instead of his money? I don’t have to stand before him anymore, thank God.
The train was jam-packed. I had got a seat in the third class compartment as I had gone there early. I dozed off a bit while sitting; wondering how my dream-city looked like.

A stranger’s acquaintance in the train
When the train stopped at Hubli around eight thirty in the morning, I was mentally calculating how much money was there in my pocket. The expense incurred to travel from Mysore to Bangalore; again the fare to Mumbai from here, meals, snacks and coffee had consumed some twenty eight rupees. There was only a hundred and seventy two rupees left. I kept secured ten notes of ten-rupee denomination in the knickers pocket inside the trousers. I kept another fifty rupees in the secret pocket of the trousers. When I counted the money in the shirt pocket there was twenty two rupees and it tallied.
“Would you move a little?” only when the new man who had entered at Hubli asked me I had come out of counting the money and moved a bit. He sat quite comfortably beside me and asked “where are you going?” He was around forty and was not very robust. Though he looked a decent man I did not like the way he had cut his mustache. He had put on white trousers and kurta. The large rope chain was hanging around his neck probably it was made of gold.
“To Bombay” I answered without enthusiasm.
“Whose house in Bombay?” It appeared as if he had determined to engage me in a conversation.
“No one’s house in particular. I am going there to search for a job.”
He seemed to be lost in thought for some time. Then he turned towards me and said, “We have a small factory in Bombay. Some fifty people work there”.
“Is that so?” I was sitting there till then like a picture of despair and hearing that I sat erect at once. The situation became so hopeful that I felt as if God himself had sent a messenger to help me. Let me not ask him to provide me a job just then. I sat pretending to be humble in order to make him like me.
“Do you know how to write in English?” he asked.
“O yes, I’ve passed PUC. My handwriting is also good.”
“Then would you do the job of a clerk if an opportunity is given?”
My joy knew no bounds. This is what they call luck, isn’t it?
“O yes, I’ll certainly do the job to the best of your satisfaction.” I think I impressed him more than what was required.
“Salary, two hundred rupees per month, is that OK?”
Two hundred rupees…! My head seemed to spin. Even if I spend a hundred rupees, I can easily save another hundred; I figured out in my mind.
“Yes sir, I agree. What are the timings?”
“You have to come at nine o’clock in the morning and work till five in the evening”.
What else do you want man? You haven’t even reached Bombay and you have already got a job. You are lucky indeed.
“What is your name?”
“Sir, they call me Parashivamurthy”
“I am Gajanand. Do you have any relatives in Bombay? Where do you stay?”
“I don’t have any relatives, Sir. I don’t know where to stay.”
“You don’t know anything about Bombay. Staying is a biggest problem there”. After a pause he himself continued, “You do one thing. We have our factory guest house at Dadar. It is situated just some five miles away from the factory. There are plenty of city buses. You can stay there if you want.”
This is real luck! Bhagvan jab deta hai to chappar padkar deta hai (when the God starts bestowing blessings from above, he would pour in such a way that even the roof would cave in)
“Many thanks, Sir. I will never forget your help.”
“No. This is no help at all. You work and you’ll earn, that’s all.”
What a philanthropic man! Is it true that such good people exist in this world? I wondered.
Although it was half-an-hour since the train had stopped at Hubli station, there was no sign of its moving.
“Why the train is not starting, Sir?” I asked.
“It will take another half-an-hour for it to start. They change the engine here. That’s why it’s late.”
In the meantime, stopping a man who came hawking lemon-bath, Gajanand took two packets and gave one to me and kept one for himself. He himself paid the bill. ‘Sir, I will pay’ I said putting my hand to my pocket but stopping me he said, “It’s all the same, just have your food”.
Both of us ate lemon-bath untying the paper packets. By the time he had finished half of it, I had finished my portion. After eating half of the quantity, he had thrown the rest through the window saying that it was not at all good.
When I asked him I want to drink water he showed me the tap nearby. I went there and after drinking water I returned. I felt happy that I had saved a rupee− the cost of the food.
“I will also drink some water and come. I’ve kept my luggage on the top; that’s the one, the large suitcase with blue colour. Keep an eye on it.”
“You just carry on, Sir. I will take care of it.”
Thinking that I must do the job assigned to me thoroughly, I glued my eyes to the suitcase. Gajanand returned with two bottles of juice. Giving one to me he said, “The juice shopwallah is saying that he does not have change for a hundred rupees. Do you have change?”
“Yes… Yes Sir. I have, for a hundred rupees, you know?” I squeezed my hand through my trousers and taking out ten notes of ten rupees denomination I gave them to him. It was not necessary to count and give it to him because before I had secured it in the pocket I had counted it at least five or six times. He gave me juice bottle he had held to me and counted the money. “I will handover this to the shopwallah and get back my hundred rupee note. Have an eye on the suitcase. Be careful.. because it contains jewels. That’s why.”
“It’s alright Sir; please you don’t worry” so saying I gave him his juice bottle.
I sat there gazing at the large suitcase that, according to him, contained jewels. How much jewels it contained… he must be a rich man really. Then what.., if he has a factory in Bombay he must be rich. But if one looks at his face he doesn’t appear to be that rich. All kinds of thoughts.
By that time the train showed the sign of moving as it whistled aloud. Those who alighted from the train were climbing up. Where is that man? He did not get into the train. I went near the door of the moving train and looked all around. There was no sign of the man. He must have got into the wrong compartment in a hurry. He might get inside in the next station.
The man has so much trust in me. He had gone out giving me the responsibility of taking care of his suitcase containing the valuable. I kept the empty juice bottle beneath my seat and sat properly. The man who sat opposite me till then stood up and pulled down Gajanand’s suitcase and I was perturbed.
“Hey Sir, why are you touching the suitcase? It belongs to our man.” I said.
“Which belongs to your man? I will give you one on the jaw, just see” so saying he lifted his hand. I did not know what to do. He opened it with the help of the key, placed a packet inside and locked it again and kept on the rack. He asked me who had been dumb-struck “how did you tell me that it belongs to your people?”
“No Sir, the gentleman who had sat beside me until now, he himself told me that it is his; he even told me to keep an eye on the thing and he got change for hundred rupees from me and went.”
“Did you get back your hundred rupees note?”
“No. He said he would come back and give.”
“Yes, yes, he would come back and give it to you. You keep on waiting”
“That means. My hundred rupees… is it gone!?” I asked him in grief.
“Do you think he will come back? If he owns a factory in Bombay would he have travelled in a third class compartment? Should you not understand that much?” he said impatiently with some concern for me.
My eyes started welling up. I looked at the door crying; expecting him to have returned. By that time all the passengers nearby came to know about the fact that I had been duped. An elderly man sitting opposite me said compassionately, “You’re bound to stumble upon such cheats at every step. You have to be careful.”
I had hundred and seventy two rupees to start with, now hundred rupees had gone. How should I make a living in Bombay with this amount?
Within a span of half-an-hour that fraud had sowed in me the dream of a job in a factory, a salary of two hundred rupees and stay in the guest house and even before I had reached Bombay he had vanished squashing all those dreams. He had cheated me without giving a clue to what was happening, a perfect dissembler! How much I believed that trickster?
I could not enjoy the pleasure of the journey as I was gnawed by the loss of money.

Bare buttocks welcome me
It was the time of dawn. As the train entered the outskirts of Mumbai and then one after another the stations receded, the number of people got reduced increasingly. Vikroli, Ghatkopar, Kurla, Dadar, Parel… some twelve stations were crossed in this manner. There were slums on either side all along the railway track. It appeared as if one could touch them by stretching one’s hand standing at the door of the moving train.
Very early in the morning, if one looked outside the train, he would see the scenes of people squatting everywhere to defecate. Keeping the water tin in front, smoking beedies, the slum-dwellers sat there exhibiting their buttocks without an iota of embarrassment, without any degree of shyness. I felt like laughing as I thought that they were welcoming me exhibiting their bare buttocks just as the ministers are welcomed with ‘poorna kumbha’.
Surprsing!.. that they are so sure that the train will not move on the tracks on which they were sitting. The railway lines appeared like snakes lying one above the other. They were so numerous that they had formed an attractive pattern, so to say. While the train in which we were travelling was moving on a particular track slowly, the local trains would appear on the neighbouring lines and then disappear within no time making, thud thud, noise. One train would disappear and within a minute another would appear.
Which tracks are meant for which train− God only knows.
Amidst the melee of the trains that moved so swiftly like snakes of lightning the men squatted sliding their knickers. The scene was unbelievable. Those who come to Bombay see the slums stretching on either side of the railway tracks more than the sky-scrapers.
By the time the train reached the last stage, namely, the V.T.Station, the day had completely dawned. As I alighted at the V.T.Station, it was relatively empty, but within minutes it began to overflow with people. The scenery changed so incessantly that one felt that one could pass the whole day without any boredom. Just as water flows in a river, the sea of people had moved on quickly without stopping. I was the only one standing rooted being stunned amidst the ever-flowing stream of men and women.
From where do these people come? Where do they vanish appearing for a while? You should see to believe.
I came out of the station holding my bag. Everywhere there was the sound of the moving vehicles. It was extremely difficult to cross over to the other side of the road.
There was no sign of relenting however much I waited. Thinking that no vehicle was approaching I had started to run to the other side, a car had brushed me past with such speed that I thought I was almost run over. When I looked back after crossing the road somehow, the external beauty of the V.T.Station was as elegant as a fully decked maiden.
I was passing on the adjacent bylane. I saw the board on which ‘Vijaya Lodge’ was written. I went inside. It was a small lodge with four rooms. The hotelwallah said the rent was three rupees per day. I had no language problem. I used to watch a dozen Hindi movies in a month. I had automatically picked up Hindi. There were two cots in the room; I had to share the room with another person. I paid an advance of ten rupees and took the room under my charge. For the time being I was alone in the room. The other cot was vacant.
I took a cold water bath, put on fresh clothes and went out without wanting to waste a single minute to see my dream city.