Govinda Raja Naidu, next-door neighbour and distant cousin, is handpicked to be the first sacrificial victim. ‘Our Kerosene Govinda has done us proud. Why do you think we are having this emergency meeting today? To celebrate his achievement. To congratulate this braveheart. His name now resonates in all eight directions. Soon, his face will become very familiar throughout the district when the Communists start putting up posters. Who knows, he may show up on the cinema posters, too. After all, more people watched our hero charging through Thevur market shouting death threats than watched MGR in Nadodi Mannan.’
Some landlords laugh nervously. Gopalakrishna Naidu goes on. ‘Brother, carelessness will catch up with you soon. You will be dead meat before the word “kerosene” in your name has dried up. Indifference will not help. Every time a Communist corpse turns up, our peace is lost. The police hound us like dogs. If their local leaders, Thevur Kannan or Sikkal Pakkirisamy, hang themselves, or even if they hang each other, the Communists will blame us. Cases would be filed against us. If something happens to those dogs now, six villages will rush to the witness box. Will you then summon ghosts to give evidence in your favour? I do not ask any of you to be afraid of the cutthroat comrades. There is no other man in East Tanjore who has earned their hatred as much as me. I am their enemy number one. They have turned our own people against us, so we should know when to be daring and when to be discreet.’
At this point it suddenly strikes me that every authoritative villain must stroke something and keep his hands busy. Like Vito Corleone and Blofeld with cats. Sadly, Gopalakrishna Naidu is a dog person. Moreover, Tommy, his Alsatian, has never been allowed to climb on to his lap. So I dismiss this stray idea, abandon my quest for a prop, and return to the story. A few things have transpired since we drifted off, but I don’t think we have missed much.
‘There is no need to introduce the next hero in our midst. His lands are spread across eight villages, but, being wrapped up in his manly exploits, this minor finds no time to attend to agriculture, or our useless association.’
The second target is Ramanuja Naidu. Gopalakrishna Naidu has quickly battered the fragile egos of some of his relatives and so he finds himself on a moral high-ground. Whom does he pick next? Not Balakrishna Naidu, his nephew. Not Murthy, his agent who is seated to his right. Not Damu. Not Kittu. Not Perumal Naidu. Not Narayanasamy Pillai. Not Kothandam Pillai. Not any puppet. Not Pakkirisami Pillai of Irukkai, lifeline for imported labour. Not the Porayar father-son duo, landlords living in Kilvenmani (according to information circulated by the Communists, the father was a routine pimp). Not Andhakkudi Chinnaswamy Iyer, famous in the district for throwing stones at untouchables who entered his street. Not Adikesavalu. Not any of the other henchmen. Not Arumuga Mudaliar, his old enemy. Not Ramu Thevar, the treasurer. Not even the loud-mouthed Sambandhamoorthy Mudaliar, or his agent Kaathaan Perumal. Not Kayarohanam Chettiar, mirasdar moneylender of Nagapattinam. Each of them will have to wait for their turn.
‘People say that you joined the Communists. I hope it is only gossip.’ He singles out Ganapati Nadar. ‘But who can stop these ignorant people from speaking whatever comes into their minds? And they have good reason to say what they are saying. Every village in Nagapattinam sports our association flag, doesn’t it? Except the village of Kilvenmani, which has the fortune of being owned by you, and the misfortune of being covered in red flags. Forgive me, Comrade Ganapati, if your stomach churns at all this talk, but, seriously, are you thinking of upstaging us?’
Ramu Thevar attempts to intercede, but agent Murthy silences him with his eyes. As Gopalakrishna Naidu’s Man Friday, this is an official obligation.
Shocked into standing, his body considerably stooped, Ganapati hastily professes his loyalty and his devotion. ‘I have asked them to remove the red flags – even yesterday I did – many times I did.’
‘Oh! You want me, you want us, to believe you. All the red cloth in Nagapattinam flies in that village. But how would you have seen it? Both your wives have kept you busy.’
Ganapati Nadar is taken aback by this abrupt attack, but he remains silent. Meanwhile, established as a villain within these first few pages, and resembling a no-nonsense man because of all the fictional fleshing out, Gopalakrishna Naidu takes the initiative to work on his dialogue delivery.
‘You can ask them again and again. It is better if you make them mend their ways. Otherwise I will have to intervene and teach a lesson to every Pallan and Paraiyan and Chakkili. Everybody knows what happened to untouchables in my village – Irinjiyur is communism-free. If they want to stay on our land, they should obey our rules. If they do not want to obey us, they can remain underground for ever, like their comrade Chinnapillai. They can continue being Communist without causing trouble to others.
‘Your problem is that you stop at asking them. They are not obedient, they do not listen to you. They talk back to you, for you have pampered them. This cannot go on for long. You go back to them and deal with them in the manner in which they should be dealt with. Or you can join them, and I can deal with all of you.
‘Look, tell me the name of the troublemakers. We will take them one by one. Dead people do not speak or shout in public meetings. They are silent and well behaved, and they serve as a good example to others.’
There is a long, drawn-out, dramatic silence. Ukkadai Muthukrishna Naidu, the other mirasdar in Kilvenmani, enthusiastically agrees, glad that Ganapati Nadar is taking the rap. The encouragement makes Gopalakrishna Naidu even more garrulous.
‘Let the Communists know that we will never budge to their blackmail tactics. They take their processions through our streets, they hold meetings in our grounds. The threat of violence is out in the open: it is in their songs, it is in their slogans. Should we let ourselves be terrorized in this manner? Is it not our duty to tell the people about the true colours of the Communists? Because we have a few thigh-twitching, weak-kneed landlords in our midst does not mean that we will be bamboozled by these outcastes. It is not enough if we strike a deal with some of their leaders and sit back silently. It is our personal responsibility that none of us is held hostage by them. We will do whatever it takes, but we will not concede to the demands of these coolies, or their leaders. Today you have all come running to me because they asked for an extra half-measure of rice. If you give it today, they will ask for ten measures tomorrow. If you let them enter your home, they will want to sleep on your bed. Nothing we give them will be enough for them,
so it is better that they are given nothing to begin with. Let them complain.’
Now, he looks around the room, at the nodding heads, and calls them out as if it were an award function: ‘Kerosene Govinda, Balakrishna, Ramanuja, Murthy, Kittu – murder case. Kothandam, Porayar – rape case. Ramu Thevar – abduction and attempted murder case. Even Mudaliar ayya must have had complaints filed against him in his younger days. Vinayagam ayya is not here with us at the moment. He sent word that he shall come and visit me tomorrow. Can anybody even count the number of times he has been investigated? He was there in every movement, and now he is with the ruling party, he is, in fact, the biggest DMK politician in our area. He is a daring man, cases cannot shake him. One has to learn from him that a complaint against you means you are doing good work. A case means you are doing very good work.’
Everyone appears relieved. Intoxicated by an audience that admires every word he utters, Gopalakrishna says, ‘Any case should not make us afraid. It is leadership quality. Today I have the highest number of complaints against me. Today, I scold Kerosene Govinda because he recklessly got into trouble. Tomorrow, I am the first man to help him. Why? Because I know about the Complaint Party. Police complaint, minister complaint, chief minister complaint.
There is no limit.
‘The Communists have sent sixteen petitions in the last three months. They have one department to write articles against the government, and they have another department to write memorandums to the government. I know that there are some full
-timer thugs whose only job it is to write a police complaint on behalf of every Pallan and Paraiyan who walks into the party office. The English-educated lordships in our midst may fail to record the minutes of our meetings, but we should not forget that our moves are being faithfully filed away as complaints. Tomorrow, if they take away all our lands, make us beggars, throw us into prison, we cannot blame politics or policy. We have to blame our lack of paperwork.’
Srinivasa Naidu and Seshappa Iyer scribble furiously, with renewed vigour. Each of them wishes he could shift uneasily in his chair, making it easier for the reader to feel his state of discomfort, but unfortunately this is a rural novel and it is considered a sign of insolence in Tamil culture to throw your weight around. So they sit still, and wait for the tirade to end.
He picks out his last targets.
‘Look at these Brahmins in our midst. They run away at the sight of trouble. So many of them have moved out from their agraharam and fled to the cities. Street after exclusive street now lies deserted. They cannot face the enemy because they are too afraid. We are stronger, we are braver. We have grown on meat, we are men. We don’t have to end up in Delhi or Calcutta or London. We can stay and fight.’
At least three landlords in the room, who have been previously beaten up by him, can testify that this is Gopalakrishna Naidu at his genial best. The upbraiding and downgrading appears to have come to an end. Explanations are not sought. Or offered.
Devious like all diplomatic despots, and having injected the necessary dose of reverence, he now covers government-related safe ground: we have to oppose the new state-levied tax on irrigation because it is backbreaking to small farmers (‘They tax land, they tax water, will the party of the rising sun next tax light?’); we have to demand an official quality-control flying squad as fertilizers do not live up to their promised potency (‘These days, the companies spend more on advertising their products than on producing them’); we have to condemn the delay in plunging bore-wells in the district (‘This is a government of gravediggers. They will get to work only when they see dead people’).
Tough talk coupled with liberal use of the royal plural elicits the right reaction: there is a discernible change of mood, and as tracking shots from our snack table reveal, other landlords (and their henchmen) are seen gazing in wide-eyed admiration, chuckling or looking dumbstruck at appropriate intervals, or nodding in emphatic agreement.
Now that he has successfully manufactured consent-based camaraderie, Gopalakrishna Naidu moves on to the next stage. To whip up anger, he steps up his multipronged attack on the inefficiency of the brainless and spineless government officials. The atmosphere created by the absence of the local DMK leader, Vinayagam Naidu, makes his task easier. ‘How can the price of food grain alone be forced to remain static when fertilizer prices multiply every day? Why was the planning commission’s recommendation to increase the price of paddy by fifty rupees for each quintal not implemented? If we have to go to court to restore every right, why does a Madras government exist? Why do these ministers dream of cultivating a million acres in the coming crop season, and, more importantly, where are these million acres? Are they not aware of the difficulties we face? Have they forgotten how the demon of communism has laid waste to our lands? Would they care if we went without food as long as we gave up all our grain for the civil supply? If Madras was plunged into darkness like Nagapattinam, and cursed with such sporadic electricity, would they be able to live a single day? Do they think of our people as prostitutes and pimps and petty thieves who need the blackness of night to commit crimes? Has their police force ever protected us? If any khaki-clad man had been born to one father, would not he rip out his tongue and die of shame, instead of smiling when the Communists shower abuses on the police in meeting after meeting? How can we expect protection from impotent men who cannot even protect themselves?’
You scoff at this speech and look at me as if I were his designated ghostwriter. You ask me if I made him rehearse this material with me for days. You point out that under normal circumstances, questions do not flow in such spontaneous succession.
I beg to disagree.
Now, how do I clear the air? Like all other writers before me, I ask you to trust me. Each mannerism of Gopalakrishna Naidu has been researched thoroughly and documented solely for the purpose of this novel – I could offer an accredited course about him if someone were willing to pay me to teach. In fact, this angry and ready-made rhetoric has enabled him to establish himself as a local leader. If you asked him (without sounding sarcastic or stupid) about his ability to breathlessly argue, he would be kind enough to admit that this is indeed a plus-point.
I hope this was convincing enough. Now, let me back into Ramu Thevar’s living room so that I can continue reporting.
Gopalakrishna Naidu’s barrage of questions is still being meticulously noted down by Seshappa Iyer, secretary of the Paddy Producers Association. Cunning by practice and advocate by profession, he will later convert every rhetorical rigmarole that Gopalakrishna Naidu spat out into statistically substantiated, pressingly urgent, gravely important, bullet-pointed legalese that will masquerade as a memorandum of demands submitted to the government. His experience in law, the English language, and pulling the right strings makes him indispensable to the Paddy Producers Association, and Iyer, devoid of charm but aware of the influence he wields, is the only one to interrupt Gopalakrishna Naidu.
‘One doesn’t lick the back of his hand when he carries honey in his palm,’ he says.
‘We are not dogs to live by licking,’ Gopalakrishna Naidu retorts, but picks up the proverbial cue.
Now he takes the help of a whore named History, and, girding himself for action, rushes into flashback mode with a personal tragedy: his father died of disgrace when slogan-shouting agricultural labourers organized a demonstration waving slippers in the air. Unable to come to terms with his early, unexpected death (that factually took place 713 days after the provocative procession), his mother committed suicide (on her sixth and definitive attempt) by drinking the dust of her diamond nose-ring.
‘We have made sacrifices in our struggle. We have been outnumbered by the Communists but we have managed to fight them. It is true that we have money, it is true that the politicians stand by us, but what we are doing is simply not enough. We do not know for how long this goodwill will last. Day by day, the Communists are growing stronger. For ten rupees at Chakravarti Press, they make a thousand copies of their handbills and posters and shame us everywhere. It is our duty to protect the public interest. We should prevent Communist propaganda from seeping into us, from dividing us from our own people. Do our coolies even stop to think that their huts stand on lands that we own? Do they consider it wrong when they stake claim over our lands without realizing that they are merely men who have come to work the paddy fields for a little wage? No, they think it belongs to them! We look after them like our own family, but they consider us rivals. Communists have put dangerous ideas into the heads of the untouchables. Now, they fight elections against us. These people have been the first victims of communism because they are totally uneducated. They do not worry about the unmaskable stench of cooking snails and sweat that drowns their living quarters, making their cheri stink from a mile away. But they are fixated with the red flag.
‘Our downfall started when the first red flag went up twenty-five years ago. That’s when the devil got into these people and they were brainwashed and made to believe in bloodshed.
‘They are set on the path of violence. And that is why they are our enemies. They are bastards of the British. These comrades are wanted criminals here, but where do they get the support from? London Parliament!’
Gopalakrishna Naidu pauses and looks around. Everyone avoids his eye. ‘As it is, even our government does not deal with them with sufficient firmness and force. Only six months ago, the Communists cracked down on every village and beat up the coolies and small farmers who were loyal to us. What did the police do? What coul
d be done anyway? They are useless. Did anyone care when the Communists killed Sub-Inspector Somasekhara Pillai? The police only beat a hasty retreat. For their own safety, they will turn a blind eye to the atrocities of the Communists. We cannot entrust a nincompoop like Inspector Rajavel to protect us. We are forced to bring not only labour from outside, but also bodyguards from elsewhere.’
He stops, acknowledges with pride his agent, Murthy, who controls his finances, imports his labourers and supplies his bodyguards. Quickly making sure that the momentum has not been lost, Gopalakrishna Naidu continues his tirade. ‘These Communists are coming down upon us like the god of death – they are waging a full-fledged war. We should be strong. We should not budge from our stand. Now, they are fighting for even higher wages. Every six months they want it revised, and they are winning. We should be clear in telling them that we are not ready to be blackmailed into paying them more and more.
We should stop being scared of their strikes. Saying “no” with deep conviction is better than saying “yes” merely to avoid trouble. We should be firm. Remember, you can fine them, you can fire them. Buckling to their pressure out of fear betrays all of us.’
And to keep his Congress credentials intact, he also quotes Gandhi: ‘It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of non-violence to cover impotence.’
Carried away, like dry leaves in a strong wind, the men in the room cannot question his call to arms. He always gets what he wants, and what he wants now is complete surrender. Ramanuja Naidu’s folded hands and Ganapati Nadar’s downcast eyes are demure proofs of that submission.
The Gypsy Goddess Page 4
