Ants Among Elephants

by Sujatha Gidla

  Pitchayya had no trouble entering the Higher Hall. The ancient watchman, the most vigilant watchman of them all, was friendly with Satyam and never barred his visitors. Simply because Satyam would say hello and ask after his children. No one else would do that.

  On these unannounced visits, Pitchayya would give the three friends reports on the progress of the armed struggle. How the Communist villages of Elamarru and Katooru were under the iron boots of the Malabar Police. How peasants in those villages were rounded up and arrested by the hundreds, how women there were raped.

  About the rapes, Satyam noticed, Pitchayya would go into the greatest detail. He would start out saying, “This was no ordinary rape—no, sir!” Then he’d describe how the saris were ripped off, how the blouses were torn open, how the women were pushed to the ground. After listening to a few of these reports, Satyam noticed that Pitchayya showed a certain excitement at the thought of the rapes, which he was unable to conceal. It made Satyam recoil.

  Satyam would press Pitchayya to introduce him to one of the underground Communist leaders. Satyam imagined these heroes looked fierce, like panthers: tall, lean, muscular, dark, with fiery eyes, a long mustache that curled up at the ends, a rifle slung over one shoulder, a cigarette burning between the lips. But Pitchayya always put him off.

  After some time, Pitchayya stopped visiting. The three friends would never see him again. Now that their only link to the party was broken, they would get no more reports on the struggle. But they remained devoted to the movement. They continued to operate, as best they knew how, as an A.C. College party unit. Since their political activity through plays was now restricted, they decided to lead a struggle of their own.

  Manikya Rao organized a conference in Guntur to discuss the demand for reservations for untouchable Christians. Reservations were a form of affirmative action to counter the effects of centuries of caste oppression. The untouchable leader B. R. Ambedkar had fought to include the right to reservations in the national constitution he drafted. Under these provisions, a proportion of government jobs and seats in government schools were reserved for untouchable candidates. But untouchable Christians were excluded from this policy as a sort of penalty for having left the Hindu fold. The rationale was that when untouchables convert to a religion that does not recognize caste, they are untouchables no longer and have no need of reservations. Manikya Rao hoped to organize prominent Christian figures who could launch a movement to demand reservations for the untouchables left behind by this discriminatory government policy.

  With Satyam at his side, Manikya Rao convened scores of religious leaders. He brought Roman Catholic and Protestant clergy together with teachers and principals from Christian schools.

  That conference set in motion dozens of further gatherings but failed to encourage any outright agitation. The religious leaders were loath to take any action that had the slightest air of militancy—that just wasn’t the Christian way of doing things. Instead they issued statements and passed around petitions. This protracted process eventually succeeded in winning a modest reform: Christian untouchables were awarded a 1 percent reservation in institutions and agencies of the state government. At the national level, untouchable Christians and Muslims continue to be denied the advantages of reservations in education and government jobs to this day.

  Although both Manikya Rao and Satyam were untouchable as well as Christian, neither of them felt any personal stake in the question of reservations for untouchable Christians. They took up the struggle simply because, as Communists, they wanted to do something for the oppressed, and they happened to be familiar with this cause.

  When Satyam and his brother and sister were little, their father tried as hard as he could to shield them from the terrible reality of caste. Whenever he took them to the countryside to visit relatives, he would take a long, circuitous path to avoid running into caste people before whom they would be forced to take off their shoes and fold their hands and bend their waists.

  In Gudivada, Satyam, Carey, and Papa excelled in school and had many caste friends. They preferred not to think of themselves as untouchable. Even when reminded that not everyone shared this perspective, they chose not to dwell on it. Satyam’s best friends in high school were the Pinnamaneni brothers, the sons of a wealthy kamma landlord. Their father had set up an opulent house in Gudivada for his sons to stay in while they went to school there. Satyam and other friends were often invited. While others went in through the front door, Satyam was made to go in through the back and warned to disappear if the boys’ father ever made an unexpected appearance. One had to respect other people’s customs, Satyam reflected, and thought little of it.

  In college Satyam became more self-conscious of his caste, but he was a Communist now. As a Communist one was supposed to think only in terms of class and not of caste. When the class struggle was won, discrimination based on caste would disappear. As a Communist, Satyam saw himself as an uplifter of untouchables, not as an untouchable fighting for his own rights. He would continue to take this attitude as long as he remained in the movement.

  *

  AT THE END OF SATYAM’S term at college, as his classmates prepared for their final exams, Satyam didn’t know what to do. He had attended no more than ten classes in two years. He had no books to study. He thought of trying to borrow some, but who would lend him textbooks at exam time? Everyone was studying all day, drinking tea and staying up to study late into the night. Satyam spent his time sleeping and reading poetry.

  He decided to attempt his exams without preparation. But the principal called him in and told him it was out of the question. Satyam had no record books from his science labs, no sign-offs from his lecturers. So he was not even eligible to sit for exams in physics, chemistry, biology, or zoology. That meant he would fail Intermediate and couldn’t go on to medical school. “I hope you don’t mind,” the principal told him. “If you want, take your English and Telugu exams.”

  On the last day of exams, all of Satyam’s classmates were running here and there, packing their things into iron trunks, rolling up their bedding, buying train tickets home. Satyam had nothing to pack and no money for a ticket. And how could he, the first in his family to be admitted to college, return to them in failure? They wouldn’t even recognize him. He had changed so much. He was malnourished. So he stayed in the hostel even after everyone else had left the campus.

  He ate little and slept through the day, waking up at odd hours. The single set of clothes he had was in tatters. He told himself he lived like this because he didn’t care for convention. He saw himself as being like the great Dr. Johnson, the man who wrote the dictionary single-handedly. Hanumayya had told him how Johnson, though brilliant, was “irregular” and sat on a three-legged chair. He slept whenever he liked, dressed however he liked, ate whatever came to hand. All he cared for was reading and writing. Satyam read all the time and dreamed of becoming a writer.

  But what he most longed to do was take up a rifle and join the fight in Telangana. The words of Avanti Soma Sundar’s song “Veera Telangana” (Heroic Telangana) were always on his tongue:

  Khabad-dar!

  Khabad-dar!

  Nizam Padushah, hey!

  Nizam Padushah, hey!

  Khabad-dar!

  (Look out!

  Look out!

  Nizam, king of the world,

  You better look out!)

  But Satyam didn’t know how to go about joining the party. Every time he asked, Pitchayya had just put him off. Satyam never understood why the party was so reluctant to accept his membership.

  What he didn’t know was that the party was in crisis. When the Indian army turned its guns on the Communists, the betrayal left the leadership divided and confused—they had no time for new recruits.

  Seeing their young friend in such bad shape, Manikya Rao and Hanumayya gave him money for bus fare. “Go home, man, go back to your family.”

  But Satyam still couldn’t face his father and siblings. So h
e set off to Sankarapadu, where his poor, ignorant, doting uncles and aunts and cousins lived. They at least still thought he was great.

  His cousin Vijayamma was in Sankarapadu for summer holidays. When she saw Satyam, her face lit up. She cried, “Oh, college man is here! I guess after college he’ll get a great job and make fistfuls of money. I wonder if the sight of small people like us will reach his eyes.”

  Vijayamma was bursting with news for Satyam. When no one was looking, she pulled him aside.

  Vijayamma, nineteen years old, had some schooling, but none past high school. Thanks to the generosity of the Canadian Baptist missionaries, she was given a job teaching in a mission school. The mission head, a madiga man named Isaac, had been left in charge when the Canadians went back home.

  Isaac was a light-skinned madiga. Everyone thinks all untouchables are dark, but many of them, especially madigas, are as light skinned as brahmins. Light-skinned Isaac had married a brahmin Christian girl. There were a number of brahmin Christians at that time as a result of child marriages among brahmins. When brahmin girls widowed in their teens got pregnant, either through a secret affair or after being raped by relatives, the family would dispose of the offspring by leaving them at Christian orphanages, as Isaac’s wife had been. Every eligible untouchable Christian boy dreamed of marrying one of those orphan brahmin girls. So when Isaac, a favorite of the missionaries, wanted to get married, he chose a brahmin girl. She worked in the mission hospital in the village of Gudlavalleru as the head doctor, despite not having a medical degree. When Isaac was given charge of the mission, he moved its headquarters to Gudlavalleru for her sake.

  Isaac and his wife had a daughter named Flora. The family lived in a mansion previously occupied by the white missionaries. Because she was unmarried and poor, Vijayamma was allowed to live in a hut on the premises. She and Flora were around the same age and became friends. Flora confided in Vijayamma—but that did not mean that Vijayamma was free to see Flora in her family’s mansion whenever she liked, nor was Vijayamma permitted at any time to enter through the front door, or to sit on their sofas or at their dining table.

  Flora attended A.C. College. Once when she came home on vacation, she told Vijayamma how she admired one boy in her class, how talented he was as an actor, and how if only he studied a bit, he would surely become a doctor. That boy was Vijayamma’s cousin Satyam. One day Flora suggested that Vijayamma invite Satyam to Gudlavalleru.

  Hearing Satyam’s name in Flora’s mouth, Vijayamma built up fabulous dreams in her mind. It made perfect sense to her that this girl had fallen for her handsome and talented cousin. Who could resist his charms? Vijayamma envisioned herself and her family becoming part of Isaac’s family, the core of the Canadian Baptist mission empire.

  Back at home in Sankarapadu, Vijayamma told Satyam that Mr. Isaac’s daughter wanted to see him as soon as possible. Vijayamma couldn’t use the word love—that would have been too obscene—so she said obliquely, “To her, you mean a lot of this.”

  Satyam remembered Flora. She was that healthy-looking tall, fair girl with long, thick, curly hair. But in college Satyam had only had eyes for one girl, a dark-dark girl with white-white teeth and smiling wide eyes named Ahalya who reminded him of his childhood friend in Parnasa, Uncle Nathaniel’s daughter Kamili.

  Satyam had never noticed Flora, but now that Vijayamma had told him what Flora had said, Satyam recognized her true beauty and charm. She had all high-caste features. Her skin was fair. Her nose, he saw now, was not like the typical snub noses of his people. It was definitely a caste nose. But Satyam was most struck by how healthy she looked. She was healthier than any kamma girl, even. And she was elegant. Even though her father was rich, she had quite simple tastes and didn’t flaunt her wealth; she wore less gold than girls much poorer than she.

  After summer holidays Vijayamma went back to her job and Satyam returned to campus. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about Flora. When the poem of the girl in the moon came into his head now, it was Flora, with her glowing face, whom he saw in a jasmine-white sari beckoning down to him. He decided to take a bus to visit his cousin Vijayamma in Gudlavalleru and hopefully see Flora, too.

  As he entered the compound gate that morning, he saw, surrounded by green trees and beds of colorful flowers, the great white mansion where Flora lived. In front of the mansion was a garden with a fountain in the center. Satyam had never seen anything like it outside of the movies.

  But Satyam had not yet been invited to this fine house. He went instead to the tiny, palm-thatched hut in back of the mansion where Vijayamma lived with her few possessions. She had a straw mat to sleep on and a pillow and a sheet; an earthen water pitcher and a few earthen pots; a hearth and a small oil lamp; a few pieces of clothing; and a Bible.

  Vijayamma was happy to see Satyam. She told him that Flora would send word when and where to meet. Until then they would have to wait. They waited until noon, when Flora sent a servant to fetch Vijayamma. Vijayamma came back with a message for Satyam: he could come to the house at three o’clock exactly, when no elders would be present. Flora’s stepmother (her own mother had died) would be at the hospital and her father would be at the school.

  At three, Vijayamma brought Satyam to see Flora. She was waiting in front of the house, smiling courteously. Vijayamma slipped away quietly, so that Satyam and Flora could talk alone.

  The two of them turned and made their way toward the house. The main entrance, Satyam saw, was not an ordinary front door. It was a simhadwaram, an entrance like that of a temple with elaborate friezes carved into the frame and two lions guarding the way. As they approached, Flora politely asked him to come through a back door instead. Satyam knew she didn’t mean to insult him. One has to respect other people’s customs.

  Inside, the cool, spacious rooms—each room could accommodate two huts the size of the one Satyam’s family lived in—were filled with mahogany furniture: cupboards, armoires, sofas, tables, chairs, even a polished grandfather clock. Translucent white lace curtains covered the windows and the doorways, and lace cloths were draped over the tables.

  Flora asked Satyam to sit down. She called a servant and asked him to bring tiffin (snacks) and tea for her guest. The tiffin was kyma (minced goat meat) served with bread. Satyam had never before eaten bread. Flora was living exactly the kind of life he imagined the white lords to live, the kind of life he used to think independence would bring him and his family. The bungalow, the bread, the napkin to wipe the mouth.

  Once they were served, Flora did the talking. “You are so fine in the dramas,” she told her guest.

  Satyam was too shy to speak. He pretended to concentrate on eating.

  “On the stage you’re more beautiful than any girl.” Flora went on praising him in her delicate voice. “The way you smile, the way you carry yourself, the way you gesture with your hands, the way you adjust the sari end and twirl it in your fingers. The girls in the ladies’ hostel, we all learned that from you.”

  After the meal, Flora had to go out to her stepmother’s hospital. “Can you stay at your cousin’s?” she asked. “Please do.”

  “She wants me to stay!” Satyam thought. With his brain buzzing like a tuning fork, he returned to Vijayamma’s quarters.

  He waited. Two days passed, then three, then four. No word from Flora. They gazed at Flora’s house, helpless and unsure what to do. Vijayamma grew anxious that Flora’s parents weren’t leaving her free to arrange another meeting. Vijayamma was scared the whole affair was going to fizzle out because of them.

  Frustrated, Satyam considered going to the house on his own. But Vijayamma said no. “People like us cannot dare. Wait for her to send word—it’s the only thing we can do.”

  There was no question of inviting Flora to Vijayamma’s home. How could she visit a poor hut like theirs? Where would she sit—on the dirty sheet drawn across the straw mat? What could they offer her? They had to face the fact that they had no control over the situation.

&nbs
p; Satyam stayed for a full week with no word from Flora. Then he went back to Guntur.

  He knew one thing: Flora loved him. And why? He knew that, too. Right after independence many movies were made about the rebellious daughters of rich, evil men falling in love with a champion of the poor. Satyam aspired to be such a hero, and Flora must have seen that promise in him. He longed for a chance to show her what he was capable of.

  *

  IN JULY 1949, NEW STUDENTS began arriving at the A.C. College campus. Satyam had noticed that some of them looked much too old to be college students—twenty-five, twenty-six years old.

  One evening Satyam was visited by one of those new students, who introduced himself as Duggirala Moses. He said he’d heard about Satyam from Pitchayya. Moses explained to Satyam that the old-looking new students were Communist Party sympathizers and civil rights activists from Khammam district in Telangana fleeing the police and military repression.

  Moses had a party task for Satyam. He wanted Satyam to help start a monthly magazine. Satyam could not believe his ears. It was the very chance he had been looking for. A chance to prove himself not just to the party but also to Flora.

  Hanumayya would be the editor, and financing would come from a man who owned a popular tailoring shop just outside campus. The man came from a poor untouchable family, but in recent years as an idea of fashion had developed among Telugu people for the first time—men wanted their collars “like this” and women wanted their blouse sleeves “like that”—his business had started making money. A Communist sympathizer, he agreed to front the money for this publication.

  Since the Communists could not safely publish in the name of the party, they sought to get their line out through people such as Hanumayya and Satyam—people who weren’t associated with the party in the eyes of the police. Hanumayya would write the editorials but otherwise give full responsibility for the contents and design to Satyam.

  Satyam and Hanumayya decided to call the magazine Keka (Scream). To illustrate the title, on the cover of the first issue they printed a photograph of a skeletal young man dressed in nothing but a loincloth, his belly distended from hunger, stretching out his hand and crying out for alms. The emaciated model was Satyam himself.