"Pooosst maaaann!"

Ambujam sprang to her feet, hastily threw the melaaku over her shoulders and hurried towards the door. Her heavy, cow-like frame shook with every step, her fleshy belly shifting heavily as she hurried through the narrow corridor. 

The postman had already called out three times before she managed to fumble with the latch and open the door. He thrust an envelope in her hands and walked off without a backward glance, his irritation plain on his face. 

She turned the letter forward and backward, unable to recognize the black postage seal on the envelope, opened it and unfolded the letter. 

Dear Parent,

Please come to the school as soon as you receive this letter. We need to discuss your son, Sridhar. 

Sincerely,
The Headmistress

This was the second time. The last time she had been called, Sridhar had used his classmate’s own scissors to cut off her braids. A shiver crawled down Ambujam's spine. “What could it be now?"

She glanced at the clock in the living room. Almost 2 PM. 

When she entered the house again, she found Naresh sleeping with his hands and legs stretched out, his mouth slightly parted, and his eyes half-closed. She smiled at him. In these rare quiet moments — when Naresh slept and his older brothers were in school — she could finally breathe. Children’s sleep is truly a gift.  It was the only time she could steal a nap after a tireless day of work. But today, the rest would have to wait. After waking up from her nap midway, she felt the exhaustion coursing through her body—the chronic ache in her bones, the heaviness behind her eyes—would have to be endured just a while longer.

She had about 30 minutes to get ready, go to the school, and be back home so she could make her husband’s evening snacks. Venkat, her husband, had no time for such concerns. He would return home by 8 PM., eat his snacks. Then dinner would be served between 9.30 and 10 PM. By the time she cleaned the kitchen and fell into bed, it was 11 PM. An exhausted sigh escaped her lips as she heard the milkman call out “Miiilk!” Was it morning already? It felt as though she had only just closed her eyes. 

The routine had become so ingrained that even if it changed, she would not be able to adapt. 

Ambujam sat down and began to comb her hair. The long strands of her hair cascaded down her back to the floor like a waterfall. Like many things about herself, her hair was thick, a beauty she did not appreciate. She knew she was beautiful, yet she had never learned to value or care for herself. She held a Bachelor’s degree in Literature, completed with distinction. Yet she remained steadfast in speaking only Tamil, a choice she was very adamant about.  She worked at the Accountant General’s Office before her marriage. In this time, a woman’s job, too, was counted among the many marriage gifts. 

But after marriage, Venkat stopped her from working. 

“It is enough if you can run your household with the money your husband brings monthly and keep the house in order.”

Ambujam never voiced the arguments in her head. “Even though you are an officer, it would not hurt to have an additional 600 rupees when prices are high. Should I ask you for money even for the little things such as skin cream and Vicco-turmeric for myself?”

“As you say!” was her only response.

She did not desire such things for herself. Her face was flawless, without any blemishes or imperfections. She would not wear gilt; if anything, real gold, and if not available, no imitation. Her smooth hands were graceful in their own way. Venkat was a lucky fellow.

Soon after the marriage, the children arrived. 

Maruthi (This is not his real name). A Caesarean case. A premature baby. Fed with an ink filler. Numerous tablets and supplements. The mother died and lived. 

Two miscarriages later came Sridhar. Incubator, ink filler, injections, supplements etc...

How could anyone care for the baby when the mother was still fighting for her life?

The doctor warned Venkat, “Mr. Venkat, your wife is no longer fit to conceive. In case she does, it will be a threat to her life and we would not bear any responsibility for any consequences.”

Four years later, despite the doctor’s warning, Ambujam was pregnant again.  “I was hoping for a girl. A boy? Okay. If God wishes for it to be this way, what could we do?” she thought internally. “There is nothing for you to do—this time your wife has to undergo birth control surgery. You can stop your experiments with this.” The doctor responded firmly. 

Naresh was the first child she carried to full term and delivered naturally, though forceps were required at the end. She had succeeded where medicine said she would fail.

The celestial beings — or were they the doctors? — had been proven wrong. Children were a gift from God. All the goodness from the parents was combined and distributed among her sons in varying measures — three sons, three little Shivakumars.  

If her mother-in-law had still been alive, she would have gathered the three boys and called to Ambujam: 'Daughter-in-law, come sit with them.' Then she would take an empty coconut shell and circle it around the children three times, before hurrying to the stove to toss dried chillies into the fire—warding off the evil eye in her own time-honoured way. But there is only a gas stove here. No woodfire. No grandma. All Ambujam could do was apply the sacred ash on their foreheads after lighting the lamps every evening. 

Two C-sections and a birth control surgery later, her body had paid a large price. Her front and back grew into a single structure, which sagged and collapsed. 

Then there are these kids — Oh my God!

Maruthi:  The rayar mama who lived across the street had given him this name and it had stuck with him since childhood. Like Lord Hanuman who flew in an instant carrying the load of the Sanjeevi Mountain, Maruthi moved with an energy that was fierce and unstoppable, always leaping forward like an explosion. 

Anything in his path, even his younger brother Naresh, was kicked to the corner. Only sheer luck landed his lunch box as he hurled it towards the sink after school. Usually, it did not. The lid would spring open mid-flight, scattering leftovers across the kitchen walls and floor. The stains looked like pockmarks giving the walls a corroded look. Housemaids, launderers, even hired hands from the neighbourhood, none lasted more than four months. In the vicinity, people said with dark humour: 'That family changes servants like changing clothes.’  If the neighbourhood boys were not fighting, that became a cause for a fight. 'Come play with me,' he would demand. 'And if you refuse?' The answer was always the same: immediate violence.

Just as Venkat prepared to leave for work on his scooter, he would discover a flat tire or some crucial part had been loosened or removed—Maruthi's handiwork, though never proven. No beating fazed him. He never cried out, never whimpered. 

He gave as hard as he got. He had been beaten so many times that he did not notice when blood ran down his forehead. Had it ever truly hurt him, or had something in him simply broken?

He possessed an almost animal strength. Whether he embraced her in affection or butted his head against her belly in rage, Ambujam felt terror. What must it feel like to be struck by a speeding train?  Was it similar to the force of this small body?

As for Sridhar, there is little need to elaborate. He was his brother’s equal, with a trait or two more — not less. Their energy levels were such that, unable to match with them, she sought a doctor’s opinion. Venkat did not have time for all this. 

The doctor smiled and said, “This is a common ‘problem’ with most of the premature babies - hyperactivity. Do not worry. It will settle over time.”

“When would this time arrive?” - Ambujam’s eyes brimmed with tears. She was not the type who cried easily. 

The doctor shrugged and said “Over time means over some time. I can administer a tranquilliser shot if needed.”

“Please do that, doctor,” she pleaded. 

“No! Why should I administer a shot? Be patient with your kids. Love them. What is more important than that for the parents?”

Even though Naresh was not born prematurely, the company of his brothers turned him into one of them too. Between the three of them, the house resembled a warzone every day. 

“Dei! I am going to kill you today!”

“I will finish you if you dare touch me!”

One held a cricket bat, and another held an iron rod meant for cleaning sewage pipes. In the chaos of their mock silambam staff fight, the rod came down on Naresh’s head. A wail…

Ambujam would sit and read quietly. 

She looked at her husband and said, “I must have read these books at least twenty times. Why am I not bored of The Vicar of Wakefield and A Tale of Two Cities? Why do they still keep me hooked?”

“What surprises me is how you can read amid all this madness?”

She smiled. "You see it yourself. What can I do? Because of these children, I cannot go to the cinema, watch a drama, enjoy a hobby, or listen to classical music. Music is my lifeblood, and I have forgotten the songs I used to love. I think of going next door for a little conversation, just for a change. But even as I think it, I am seized with panic. What is happening to the house? Are they breaking something? Touching something they should not? The neighbours will not come here anymore. My own family hesitates to visit. My mother's blood pressure—when she sees the children on the street, she is anxious. People say, 'Poor Ambujam, she is such a good woman,' and somehow, even their sympathy troubles me."

In deep thought, she told herself, “The children are naughty. But is it right to show my displeasure to them? What will happen to the children if parents rebuke them in addition to everyone doing the same? We need to give them a good start.”

The school Maruthi and Sridhar attended was the best in the area. In fact, in the entire city. It was a miracle that her sons got admission there. School fee, rickshaw fee, excursions, camps and charity donations — all of this cost a green hundred-rupee note every month for both of them. She had to hear things like “Look at her! What does she have to worry about?!”

As soon as she stepped off the bus, she settled the kid on her hip and started to walk. How does he have so much bone weight? She had not carried him much. By the time she reached the school and went to the headmistress’s room, she was breathing heavily, her face beaded with sweat and a few strands of hair clinging to her forehead. 

“Ah! That boy! Come in. Come in. Please come with me. I will show you first.” The headmistress was built well. Her walk was like the brisk walk of someone in the military. She followed the headmistress half-walking and half-jogging, struggling to match her pace. 

They went to the children’s bathroom where the headmistress pointed to a wash basin. A crack that looked like lightning ran across its surface. 

“Where did your son find a rock? How was he able to break it? I am still in shock. It was him. There is no doubt about it. He was caught red-handed. It happened yesterday. Did he tell you anything?”

Ambujam moved her head from left to right, quietly saying no. 

“Why would he mention this to you? Maybe this was not an important thing to him. He does not have an ounce of fear.”

The headmistress walked mumbling something and Ambujam followed with Naresh. Her head was calculating furiously.  

The wash basin must cost at least 350 rupees. In case I ask him to send a cheque, will the account have enough money? But I must tell him about this first. The child is going to be thrashed. I am terrified. Will the money from pawning a bangle suffice to cover the cost? Should I add the ring too? I do not even know how to do this.  Even if she wanted to do it, she needed to get help from him. She had not held any secrets from him so far. She would not do that now. But how could she tell him? 

As soon as she reached her room, the headmistress sent an office help to fetch Sridhar from the class. 

“Boys will be boys. We know. There is always an instinct to destroy something. Most parents cannot tolerate their troubles at home and want them to be trapped for a few hours. That is why they send them to school. That is why we have strict policies and fees. We give them a margin of error too. Despite all this, some go beyond… Ah! The child is here!”

Seeing his Amma at an unexpected moment, Sridhar’s face was a mix of surprise, happiness and fear too. All these emotions made his face look beautiful. Ambujam’s heart longed to hold him in her arms. We keep saying children are naughty all the time. But how innocent are these children? Children are thrown into life due to their parents’ selfish acts. When they struggle for breath, if we throw stones and make it difficult for them, are we the difficult ones, or are they?

What is the headmistress speaking about?

“As per our rules, I can expel him from school and send him back home for the destruction of school property…”

Ambujam’s stomach flipped. “Dear Ganesha! I will give a quarter rupee as an offering…”, she muttered a quick prayer.

“But there is a complication…”

Lord Ganesha is powerful indeed.

“There is a boy in Grade 3. Imagine how your son would be if he were let loose and becomes larger than life, that is him. The whole class shakes in terror at the sight of him. He finds comfort being in the centre, holding the teachers and students in a perpetual tension. He cannot be any other way. We are struggling to decide on a course of action in his case. We need to act on him first and take proper action before dealing with your son. I do not know what these parents do. Are they giving birth and letting the children go, like birds do?

Ambujam was surprised. “Is there a boy more mischievous than my son?”

The headmistress stood up and said, “Come with me!”

Sridhar followed them too.

A lesson was in progress in the classroom. As soon as the students saw them, the noise died instantly. 

“Karthikeyan! Stand up!” the headmistress bellowed.

Half-heartedly, without apparent care, Maruthi slowly stood up with a majestic stance. His eyes sparked with the surging fury of a caged animal. 

His mother’s eyes were warm and kind when she saw him.

“He is my son…”

“What?” The paperweight slipped from the headmistress’s hands and rolled on the floor. 

“Yes! Look!” Ambujam set Naresh down with a plonk. Naresh stood there sucking a finger into his mouth. 

“There. That boy! Standing there.” Ambujam pointed to Maruthi, “Here, this boy!” She pointed to Sridhar and said, “These two are going to complete their schooling here.” She patted Naresh on the back and said, “Next year I am going to enrol him here too.”

The headmistress rested her face in between her palms, her cheeks turning hollow in disbelief. The sheer arrogance that had echoed in her posture, speech, and her years of academic credentials like B.A., B.T., M.Phil. felt as though it was entirely washed away in a flood.

The headmistress turned towards her and asked, “Maami, is there nothing more to you than these boys?”

Translator’s Note

Vithukkal, which means Seeds, details the story of Ambujam. At first, it is a story about a mother. But as with any La Sa Ra story, he asks the reader to read between the lines and see beyond her identity as a mother. Like seeds that draw nutrients from the soil, these children draw everything they need from her. Like plants, they grow taller without a second glance at the soil that has nourished them all along and what has become of it. 

Ambujam's story is not just hers. It is the story of many women who lose themselves to motherhood and grieve the woman they once were. There are elements of what Ambujam "used to be" throughout the story and what she is now. A stark contrast that can easily slip past unless one pays attention to it. The irony that La Sa Ra has embedded in the story is what drew me to it. La Sa Ra has the uncanny ability to portray what's lost without stating it explicitly, trusting the readers to feel the weight of the story. 

Translating La Sa Ra means practising the same restraint and conveying his story while not acting on the urge to explain what he intends us to feel. It means letting the silence take the centre stage, letting it convey the emotions that words cannot. Like with La Sa Ra's women, I see a bit of myself in Ambujam. I hope you find Ambujam relatable too. 

About the Translator

Srividhya Venkatesan is a Tamil–English literary translator based in Chennai. Her translations of La. Sa. Ramamirtham’s short fiction were shortlisted for the PEN Presents × SALT Translation and her Tamil translation of Sohaila Abdulali’s work was published in 2026. She trained at Ahmedabad University’s PG Diploma in Literary Translation and was a South Asia Speaks Fellow mentored by Arunava Sinha. She writes about translation and reading at