by Adithi Rao
His tears were not for the girl he had lost, but for the loss of peace, the loss of his other half who had once resided within him, but had now vacated and gone away. He knew that for the rest of his life he would go searching for that part of himself, to bring it back home; knew also that the more he searched for it, the more elusive it would become. Yet, the search would go on. It must go on.
When his tears were spent and he was calm again, he left the inner sanctum, dropping the withered hibiscuses on top of the dead flowers in the wicker basket on his way out. It was late when he got home. His mother opened the door and he didn’t look at her as he entered the house.
‘Where were you, Raghu? I’ve been so worried!’
Raghuvir turned around and looked into her anxious face. There were wrinkles there, like the fine network of veins on a dried ashwatha leaf. In the moment between her question and his answer, he realized with a jolt that she was an old woman. His eyes softened with regret.
‘I’m sorry, Amma,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you. Everything got delayed today because of the wedding, and I was late in closing the temple.’
‘Is everything alright, putta?’ she asked, looking at his face searchingly. Raghu smiled and nodded, and she relaxed and headed for the little stove, saying, ‘Come, get washed up quickly. You must be hungry.’
‘Amma?’
She turned distractedly, her mind on the food that was to be heated.
‘The girl … Vishwamohan Pandit’s daughter…’
The mother suddenly became alert. There was a long silence, and she broke it by saying tentatively, ‘Subhadra? You … will meet?’
Raghu shook his head. ‘I will marry her,’ he said quietly.
The mother was silent. Words might scare away this unbelievable bit of good fortune and she didn’t want to do that. So she looked at him in wordless joy until he could bear it no longer and turned away.
5
Talking Pillar
It was an afternoon in mid-June, and one of the hottest Rudrapura had writhed under that year. Brother Abranches, sitting in his headmaster’s office speaking to Father Gomez over the telephone in faraway Goa, ran his fingers under his collar and brought them away wet. He studied his hand for a moment before wiping it on his habit. It was lunch hour at Christos Convent High School. The place was teeming with boys of all shapes and sizes. Brother Abranches had to press a finger into his ear from time to time to block out the cacophony of yells and laughter that was rendering Father Gomez almost inaudible.
Not that this conversation was of much use; Brother Abranches had been straining to hold on to his patience and good humour this past half hour. Both were rapidly slipping away.
‘There is nothing I can do from this end, Brother,’ Father Gomez declared for the sixth, or perhaps the seventh time (Brother Abranches had stopped counting after the third). They both knew there was much that Father Gomez could do to bail him out of the situation he was in. Even the Lord was denied only three times, Brother Abranches thought irreverently, and his lips twitched for a moment.
‘You see, Brother, our benefactors have run into trouble Brother, and the money they promised us…’
A head bobbed past the window. It stopped, looked this way and that in a furtive sort of way, and then disappeared around the corner of the building.
‘Yes, I know, Father; you have told me this before and I’m not asking you to trouble them further,’ sighed Brother Abranches, wiping under his collar again. His priest’s habit was subsuming, not exactly suitable for this sort of weather. ‘I’m only asking you to release the money temporarily from our own funds until I am in a position to return…’
He lost the thread of the conversation as another head – a slightly bigger one this time – strolled up, looked about with studied nonchalance and then disappeared after the first one.
‘… er, return it once we find sponsorship,’ finished Abranches distractedly.
‘Now, Brother, you are one of our finest, most dedicated priests, Brother, and nobody doubts the sincerity or the nobility of your efforts, Brother. But Brother, if I go releasing funds to you now, then our Brothers in various parts of the country doing equally sincere and dedicated work will expect the same concessions from me … Brother? Brother Abranches? Are you there?’
A third head had appeared and disappeared in the manner of the earlier two, and now Brother Abe was utterly intrigued.
‘Sorry Father, something has come up that requires my urgent attention. May I call you back, please?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Gomez. ‘Good day to you, Brother, god ble—’
Brother Abranches rang off.
He left his office and walked soundlessly down the corridor. At the corner, he paused, his ears straining to detect a sound, a breath, a whisper, anything that would give away the presence of the little truants just around the bend. There was nowhere else to go beyond this. They had to be there.
And they were. Yes, he heard the soft but distinctive sound of clothes rustling.
What were those children up to now?
Brother Abranches had joined the priestly order because he had felt drawn to children and had wanted to work with them. Just the administrative task of raising funds to build schools and then overseeing their construction had held little appeal and turned mundane very quickly. It was the joy of sitting in the midst of the little ones, watching over them, teaching them, dealing with the concerns that filled their little worlds, that he sought. And so, when the opportunity to become the headmaster of a tiny school in an unknown town called Rudrapura came up, Brother Abranches opened an atlas in his convent in Vasco da Gama, Goa. He found Karnataka on the map, spotted Bangalore, placed his finger on the dot that was Shivamogga. Then he ran his finger along the line that indicated the route from Bangalore to Shivamogga. The name Chithalli appeared in such tiny lettering that one could easily miss it. But there was no Rudrapura to be found at all.
‘It is the next town from Chithalli,’ said Father Carvalho, a senior priest from the same order who had worked in schools across Karnataka and knew the area well. ‘If you’ve found Chithalli, you’ve found Rudrapura.’
And that was good enough a direction for Brother Abranches to hand over his current duties to a fellow priest, pack a small bag and set out for ‘the next town from Chithalli’, a few hundred kilometres away from Goa that was his home. He changed buses at Shivamogga and got on one bound for Chithalli. At Chithalli he changed again. At last, very late one evening, he arrived dusty and tired at a place called Five Lights in the very heart of Rudrapura. A funny-looking man with a large forehead, elf-like ears and a bright smile of welcome was waiting at the bus stop to receive him.
‘Welcome to Rudrapura, Brother Saab!’ cried Ebenezer, who had been working as the peon-cum-general-maintenance man at Christos Convent these past seventeen years, he informed the new headmaster. ‘I am Anthony’s cousin. You know Anthony?’ asked Ebenezer hopefully.
Brother Abranches liked him at once. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Anthony is the barber here. Everyone’s haircutting he is only doing,’ said Ebenezer proudly, grabbing the bag from the priest’s hand and insisting on carrying it for him.
‘You are tired, no?’ asked Ebenezer. ‘Just I’ll take you for coffee to Nameless Shop. You know Nameless Shop?’
‘Er … no,’ said Abranches, a little surprised at the name. Nameless Shop?
‘Yes, Nameless Shop!’ declared Ebenezer, as if reading his mind. ‘Narayanamma will be there,’ he added shyly. Had he been less dark of skin, he would have blushed visibly, thought Brother Abranches, smiling to himself.
They stopped at the Nameless Shop and exchanged a few words with the cheerful proprietress over a cup of coffee. But only a few, for Ebenezer was utterly tongue-tied in her presence, she herself spoke very little English, and Brother Abranches spoke no Kannada at all. She refused to charge them for the coffee, declaring that the Rudrapura code of hospitality did not
permit her to take money from a guest. Then, as soon as it was discovered that her four-year-old son Srikanth studied in Christos Convent, the question of charging his new headmaster was declared unthinkable. She conveyed this by violently waving her hands and shaking her head vigorously when Brother Abe reached for his wallet.
The priest thanked her and proceeded to his new living quarters behind Christos Church, feeling more refreshed from meeting the hearty, affectionate woman and the silly, lovable peon than from the coffee. They took a left from the Nameless Shop and walked on past Vishnu Talkies and Rudrapura Only Mechanics. At the Lalita Kuteer Mansion, there was a poster of Sholay displayed in all its glory. The priest stared at it in admiration, for it really was painted quite brilliantly. The murderous eyes of Amjad Khan send shivers up one’s spine, thought the priest.
‘Do you get Hindi films here in Rudrapura, then?’ asked he.
‘Yes, yes, very many Hindi philum! Plus Kannada and English philum also. Very famous this Solay. Full damaal-dishoom and all, Brother Saab! You are liking to watch philums?’
‘Sometimes, yes,’ said the priest, adding, ‘please don’t call me Brother Saab. Just Brother is enough.’
‘Okay, Brother Saab,’ agreed Ebenezer.
If all the people of Rudrapura are like this, Brother Abranches thought, glancing at Ebenezer’s cheerful, sweaty face as they climbed the hill together to the church, I will be very happy here.
The next morning, Brother Abe assumed office as headmaster of Christos Convent, and was straightaway presented with his first case. A seven-year-old chap called Shanmugam Vel, with a name longer than himself, had showed up that morning well after the morning assembly had concluded. While the social studies lesson was going on in full swing in class IIIA, Shanmugam had sneaked up to the ground floor classroom and drawn the attention of his mates sitting closest to the window with a discreet hiss. He had then passed them a note and instructed them to deliver it to Pashupati sir, the teacher.
This errand the boys had carried out with alacrity, while the young gentleman in question, deeming his work there to be done, proceeded to leave the school by crossing the front yard and exiting through the main gates. In those days, Rudrapura was a lenient little town, quite easy-going in most respects. Nobody seemed to think it amiss that a seven-year-old boy was leaving the school premises unaccompanied at that hour of the day. And if they did, they didn’t bother to inquire into the matter.
Pashupati sir, meanwhile, pushed his glasses up his nose, opened the note and read aloud:
‘Dear Sir, plis be escoosing Shanmugam Vel not coming for skool. He is having asentry and disentry. He coming tomoro garantee.’
It was signed ‘Namma appa’, meaning ‘My father’.
Pashupati looked up from the note over the top of his glasses and surveyed his class.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Eeyn appa idu, asentry matthu disentry?’
‘Asentry andhare vomiting, sir,’ explained one boy helpfully.
‘And dysentery means loose motions!’ called another.
‘Hmm,’ said the teacher again. ‘Who delivered this note?’
‘Sir, Shanmugam Vel delivered it, sir! Shanmugam Vel,’ called a dozen voices.
‘Very good. Go fetch Shanmugam Vel.’
About eight or nine fellows speedily left the classroom to run pell-mell across the school yard and out through the front gates, gleeful at the prospect of a capture. Shanmugam had reached the cross-road when he heard the clatter of slippered feet behind him, growing louder and louder with alarming rapidity. He turned around, took one look at the purposeful expressions on his classmates’ faces, and charged towards home. He had taken just three steps before he found himself lifted off his feet and hoisted into the air, to be carried away in the opposite direction in which he had been going. Lying prone across the shoulders of his mates, he suddenly remembered his grandfather being carried in that very position on a bier the year before, and thought, ‘Ayyo Devare, I’m dead!’
Within minutes, Shanmugam was standing before the new headmaster, quivering in his number fours. Brother Abranches, who had, in the meantime, already been apprised of the nature of the offence by Pashupati sir, was now sitting in his majestic headmaster’s chair, with the truant standing before him, and Ebenezer by his elbow.
He had been uncertain about how to tackle an offence of this nature and reprimand the boy. He tried to look stern, thinking it was the least he could do. Then the boy had slowly raised his eyes. But instead of looking at the priest, he had looked at Ebenezer. Taking pity on the pathetic lad, the school peon had smiled and winked. The relief proved more than the child could bear. He had simply fainted away, crumpling to the ground in a miserable heap.
Horrified, Brother Abranches had jumped to his feet and watched frozen from behind his desk as Ebenezer darted forward, picked up the little fellow and cradled him in his arms, splashing water on his face until he came around, talking to him in soothing, kindly tones until he calmed down.
When the boy was back on his feet, Brother Abranches had said gruffly but not unkindly, ‘Go home, son. And don’t do it again.’ Shanmugam Vel, much revived by the combined effect of being let off the hook, a drink of water, and the toffee that Ebenezer had popped into his mouth, nodded gratefully and ran away.
At that moment, watching the boy leave, Brother Abranches had thought, O Lord, I know even less than I thought I knew about children. How am I going to run a school full of them?
And once again, as if reading his thoughts, Ebenezer had said cheerfully, ‘Don’t worry, Brother Saab, you will be learning this job. Childrens is being just like grown-up peoples. Only shorter.’
After Ebenezer went away to clean the staff rooms, Brother Abranches had dropped into his chair, bowed his head and prayed like he had never prayed before.
It had been eight years since Brother Abranches first arrived in Rudrapura, and, truth be told, he had come to look upon the place as home. But that prayer he had uttered on his first day as headmaster had not been answered. It had not been answered at all. Dealing with children proved to be even harder than he had thought, and sadly, though he loved his job, he had finally accepted that he did not have a flair for it. Working with children did not come as naturally to him as working for them did.
He never seemed to understand them the way Ebenezer did. His love for them had less to do with enjoying their naughtiness, and more to do with worrying about them. And now, as he embarked upon this quest to catch the truants red-handed in whatever antics they were up to in the school corridor, he knew by some instinct that he was going about it the wrong way. Again. As usual. But until he got it right, he had to do something, and so here’s what he did.
Expecting to catch the boys off guard, Brother Abe took a deep breath and stepped quickly around the corner.
There was nobody there. The place was empty.
A paper kite that had once been red and had now been bleached to a pale, blotchy pink by the unrelenting Rudrapura sun, was trapped in the branches of the sampige tree just beyond the corridor. Stirred by the gentle breeze, it rubbed against the leaves of the tree from time to time to produce the rustling sound he had mistaken for clothing.
The priest became conscious of a stab of disappointment that was almost physical. This could only mean that the boys had gone into the old school building – the dilapidated section of Christos Convent, directly across the courtyard from that corridor, which was off-limits to students. Strictly off limits.
The place was dangerous, what with its collapsing walls and falling debris, and he had drilled it into his boys (or thought he had) never to set foot there. He had begged the management to tear down that section altogether. But they had exhausted the funds at their disposal in the building of the new wing, and had nothing left over to pay for the levelling of the old.
Brother Abe swiftly descended the three steps that brought him from the raised corridor into the courtyard. He crossed it in quick strides, the sun bouncing off his w
hite habit as it billowed about him. If he found those boys there – and he had no doubt that he would – they’d be in big trouble, he thought with a mental scowl. Tip-toeing the last few steps of the way, he ducked into the passage of the condemned building.
There, too, was a corridor. At last he heard the unmistakeable murmur of boyish voices coming from around the corner. He frowned, perplexed. He had expected to find them playing hide-and-seek – the piles of rubble, old wooden benches and caved-in walls lent themselves to some interesting hiding places. Instead, there they were, talking. But why here, in a place so forbidden to them that they risked suspension from school?
Instead of confronting them directly, the priest decided to go around from the other side and enter one of the ramshackle classrooms. By crouching behind the classroom wall, right beneath the window that opened into the corridor where the boys were, he would be privy to the goings-on without making his presence known.
The old school building carried the feel of old places, the resonance of boyish feet, echoes of childish laughter and whispered secrets. The smells from countless tiffin boxes opened and shared over the decades had permeated the walls indelibly, taking the priest back to his own boyhood in a tiny Goan village … A sudden metallic thung! hauled him back to the present with a start. He raised himself on his haunches and peeked cautiously over the window ledge.
An unusual spectacle met Brother Abranches’s eyes. Two boys were standing there in the corridor, looking expectantly at a third. The slanting Mangalore-tile roof was held up by a row of dark green metal pillars, and the third boy (a sixth-grader, by the look of him), perched on the parapet wall, was tapping one of the pillars with a shining white pebble.
