One of those present—Basanna, was a short dark man sporting a French moustache. He too wore new white clothes and in them he shone darker still. His big yellow teeth protruded through his closed mouth and reflected the lustre of his clothes. In his hand he held a broom. Basanna stomped over to Kuriyayya's corner and shouted 'Ayya'.. Since Kuriyayya would respond only after he'd been spoken to a few times, everyone, spoke loudly to him. Kuriyayya slowly opened his eyes and looked up. He stared at the white figures that kept coming and going in front of his eyes. As he watched, old memories stirred and began to form in front of his eyes. The Mari festival meant the Tiger Dance. That meant him. The Tiger danced in front of his eyes. The drumbeat in his ears. Those were the days of the elder village headman. Kuriyayya had just been a boy then, about as high as Amasa. The vigour of Kuriyayya's dance had impressed the elder.
Giving him a gift of clothes, he had said, 'You must stay in my house till the end of your days. You'll have your food and clothes. Just look after the sheep, that's all.'
His shrivelled face blossomed; the brightness of the Mari temple and the people around glinted in every wrinkle of his face. Basanna shouted 'Ayya' in his cars, this time even louder. He turned his head and looked up. Seeing Basanna, he grasped the reason for his presence. He held the bamboo stick in his right hand and stretched out the other. When Basanna held the outstretched hand, he pulled himself up and slowly walked over to the other corner. Leaning on the stick he sat down once again. Basanna shook the blanket a couple of times and spread it out in the corner where Kuriyayya was now sitting. The dust, shaken out from the blanket swam in the morning sun. Where the blanket had been before, there now lay a thick layer of reddish dust and dirt. But as the morning sun fell on it, it too seemed to turn white.
It was noon by the time Amasa returned from his playful ramblings. He couldn't believe what he saw. All kinds of things were going on there. The smell of white-lime, of raw earth, and freshly smeared cow dung around the Mari temple crowded into his nostrils.
Kuriyayya had been moved from one corner to the other. In the hall, some men had crowded around in a circle and were jumping up on their toes to look at something—at a man in the middle who was doing something. Amasa too, hopped over and peeped. He saw diadems, two headed birds and other such things being crafted out of coloured silver paper. Everything that had been made there seemed wonderful to his eyes.
As the man in the middle crafted these things the crowd alternately offered instructions and uttered appreciation, 'It should be like that... It should be like this... Besh! Ha!' and so on.
A long while later, after his eyes had soaked in all that they could, Amasa went over to Kuriyayya and sat by his side. In a row on the other side and leaning against the wall were several large red and white parasols and whisks for the deity which had been put out in the sun to dry. In a nearby corner was a tall coconut tree, gently swaying against the sky. Amasa's eyes ran up to the top of the tree. Seven or eight large bunches of coconuts had weighed it down. When he ran his eyes down the tree he noticed that someone had painted the stem of the tree in stripes of white-lime and red earth.
He slid closer to Kuriyayya and said, 'Ayya!' Karuyayya looked at him askance. Amasa said excitedly, 'Look Ayya! Look! Someone's painted your tree with white-lime and colour.' Kuriyayya peered closely. He could see only a short distance, and then everything was lost in a haze. But what he saw was this; someone had used a coconut for sorcery and had buried it in the cremation ground. It had sprouted, cleft the earth and sprung up.
He had plucked it from there and planted it in the corner of the Mari temple, saying, 'Let it be here; at least as mine.' It had grown in front of his eyes; sprouting leaves and shedding them, bearing scars on its body where it had once borne leaves. It had grown taller and taller, and now stood fully-grown.
As the festival days went by, relatives and friends from all around started descending one by one on the village. As usual they would first visit the Mari temple and then go about their business. Some would forget everything and settle down there to gossip. All the old scandals from the various villages would be dug up and updated. While all this was going on, in the yard Basanna was warming up the drum over a straw fire and turning it. A bunch of kids was jumping around him like an army of monkeys. Amasa was one among them. As Basanna raised the drum to his chest and beat it, its sound rang through chad, chad, nakuna nakuna nakuna, like a gong to the four corners of the village. Unable to resist, the kids around him started to dance. Basanna was inspired too and started to dance, beating his drum dangu dangu dangu chuki. The kids danced, Basanna kept step, all of them falling over each other and the passers by.
Heaven only knows who had taught Amasa to dance. He was easily the best of all. Everyone watched him in amazement. By then the women too had gathered around to watch. Bangari just couldn't take her eyes off Amasa. As she watched him, she once again felt a deep desire to have a child of her own in her arms. It had been six or seven years since she had been married; but so far nothing had come to fruit. Raging at people's taunts, she had even slept around a bit. Yet nothing had borne fruit. She couldn't afford medicine men and things like that; she and her husband were too poor for that. While women like her were already old by their thirties, she was one who could pass off for a new bride. Men who saw her couldn't help wanting her, even if for a moment— such was her bearing. And yet, nothing had come to fruit. Things couldn't go on like this forever. For a long time, as the night set in stones would start falling on her house, one after the other. Her husband would raise welts on her back, and hide himself in the house. The stones had since stopped falling, and the people had begun to forget. Now, in her eyes, Amasa continued to dance.
While all this was going on, two landlords dragged in two fattened goats. The crowd instantly split into two. Children ran about this way and that. The goats panicked at the beating drum and started to pull away frantically. As the men holding them faltered, two more men joined in and holding on tight, stood them in front of the Mari temple. The frenzied drumbeat continued. The goats stood frozen, only their eyes rolled round and round. The temple stood in front, the silver deity shining through the open door. From within, billows of incense smoke wafted out. A man, wearing only a piece of cloth between his waist and knees, came out with holy water and a garland of flowers in his hands. He stood in front of the goats, closed his eyes and started to mumble. His dark body was covered with veins. They seemed to throb in time to his mumbling. He then cut the garland into two and tied them around the goats' neck.
Then he placed the loose flowers on their foreheads, sprinkled the holy water on their bodies and, joining his hands in prayer, said, 'If we've done anything wrong please swallow it, Mother, and accept this.'
His shrill voice resounded throughout the temple. But for the distant din, everyone around the temple stood with bated breaths. For a while everything stood still, except for the eyes of the goats, which were rolling round, and round. All of a sudden the goats quivered. The drumbeat rose again and drowned all other noise. The group moved on. A bunch of kids, including Amasa, ran behind it. The elders drove them away, but the kids returned the moment their backs were turned. The procession reached an open field. There, a well-built man stood casually by a tree stump, a knife in his hand. As two men held the goats by their fore and hind legs and stretched out their necks on the stump, the man brought down the waiting knife and severed the heads from the bodies in one stroke. Someone poured holy water into the mouths of the severed heads. They gulped a couple of times and then closed shut. On the other side the bodies were writhing. By now the heads lay still, eyes turned upwards. Blood spurted from the writhing bodies as they thrashed around drenching the earth red.
An adventurous on-looker shot into the middle and pulled from the goats' necks the garlands of flowers dripping with blood. Not satisfied with that, he draped them around Amasa's neck and instructed: 'Dance!' As the blood drenched his throat and started to drip down, Amasa panicked and
ran. A few others followed. Even in his sleep Amasa saw only this sight. Several times that night Amasa sat up, frightened. They kept the lamps burning all through the night. The outsiders slept all around the temple, curled up in their white shawls. That night the Mari temple was lit up enchantingly.
That was also the night the railway gangman Siddappa had one too many. He had come with his belly full of spirits. It wasn't actually his fault. It was the spirit in him that played around with him that night. If he closed his eyes a storm raged within him. So he staggered around leaning on his stick, weaving aimlessly through the streets. When he came to a lamp-post he flew into a rage. He lashed out at it kicking and flogging it with his stick. The fury of it shook the entire neighbourhood.
Not content, he made it take on the role of the local politician, the contractor, his railway boss or the moneylender Madappa, and yelled at it; 'Bastard!' You think you are a big shot just because you go around in white clothes? You hide your face when you see me. Forget us, we are loafers. We hang out on any street corner. He let out a long wail and wept.
And then he continued with renewed vigour. 'Don't vent your anger on me. Look at him laugh at my words... Laugh, laugh away. It's your time to laugh. What else would you do but laugh? You are, after all, the one who uplifts the poor. Laugh... let the communists come. They'll put an end to your laughter. Till then you can laugh, so laugh, laugh....' His laughter and shouts rose and fell as he stumbled down the village street and whined through the cold, dark night. Unable to sleep through all this Amasa woke up with a start every now and then. This must have gone on for a long while. Nobody quite knows when or where Siddappa finally fell. His laughter, his shouts, simply died out.
It was dawn again. The village spent the morning yawning. Every verandah was filled with people. But still there were many who hadn't woken up. For instance, Siddappa. At noon, the Tiger dancers arrived at the Mari temple.
The headman's bond-servant came and said, 'The headman's house needs coconuts.' and before Kuriyayya could say yes, he had climbed the tree, plucked the coconuts, and was gone. Back at the houses, the women had oiled and combed their hair, decked it with flowers and were running in and out. The young men teased the passing girls and were chided in turn. The drumbeat of the Tiger Dance drew everyone to the Mari temple. Everyone was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Tiger dancers. All of a sudden the Tiger's cage flew open. All eyes fell on it. A huge Tiger leapt out, holding a lemon in its teeth. The startled crowd moved back and formed a circle around him. A few more Tigers, a Hyena and a Clown emerged one after the other. Among them was a Tiger Cub too. After all of them had come out, they stood in a row, joined their hands in prayer to the deity and accepted the holy water. The dance began immediately after. The Hyena was the best of all, and his costume fitted him perfectly. Remember the man who had sported the knife so casually at the sacrifice yesterday? It was he. The crowds would run away when he strode towards them, keeping step with the drumbeat. When the dance came down the street, women and children clambered up the parapets and watched it, with their lives in their hands. The dancers had only to turn towards them, and they would dash into their houses and bolt the doors. The dancer continued, entered the landlord's street and danced in front of the village-hall. All the worthies, even the upper-caste ones, like the headman and the priest, had gathered there to watch the dance. They presented gifts to the dancers according to their status and expressed their appreciation.
Long after night had fallen and the dance was over, everyone in the village continued to see the dance and hear the drumbeats. Those who fell asleep and closed their eyes, as well as the men as they undressed their wives, saw only the Tiger Dance along with the drumbeat dangu dangu dangu chuki. The village headman, unable to sleep, came out for a stroll. The bondservant, who was awake, saw him and stood up. The headman put a beedi between his lips and struck a match. For a moment his face glowed red in the dark and flickered out. He gulped the smoke in silence for a while and then turned to the servant.
'The one who played the Tiger Cub. Whose boy is it?'
'That's Amasa,' came the reply.
'Who's Amasa?' enquired the headman.
'That's him. The orphan boy who lives there with Kuriyayya. That's him.'
The headman was astonished. 'My, when did he grow up so?'
Before his eyes, Amasa's Tiger Dance came dancing in its many and wondrous forms.
Translated by A. K. Ramanujan and Manu Shetty
TELUGU
On The Boat
P. Padmaraju
After sundown the world was enveloped in a melancholy haze. The boat glided softly on the still river.
The water lapped against the sides of the boat in soft ripples. No life stirred as far as the eye could see, and the dead world hummed soundlessly. The hum was inaudible but the body felt it and it filled the mind with its reverberations. A feeling of life coming to an end, of peace inexorable and devoid of all hope, crept over one's consciousness. The vague, mysterious figures of distant trees moved along with the boat motionlessly. The trees, which were nearer, moved backwards, like devils with dishevelled hair. The boat did not move. The canal bank moved backwards.
My eyes looked deep into the still waters penetrating the darkness. The stars relaxed on the bed of water swinging dreamily on the slow ripples and slept with eyes wide open.
There was no stir in the air. The rope by which the boatman pulled the boat sagged and tautened rhythmically and the bells on the guide-stick in the hand of the leader tinkled at each step. At one end of the boat, there was the red glare of a fire in the oven, alternately glowing into a flame and subsiding. With a small bucket, a boy baled out the water percolating into the boat through small leaks. Sacks filled with paddy, jaggery, tamarind and other produce of the land were stacked in the boat.
I lay down on the top of the boat, staring at the sky. From inside the boat, tobacco smoke mingled with soft inaudible voices, spread in all directions. In the small room where the clerk sat, there was a tiny oil lamp, blinking in the darkness. The boat moved on.
A voice hailed us from the distance, 'Please bring the boat to this bank-this bank!'
As the boat drew near the bank, two figures jumped on the footboard. The boat tilted slightly to that side.
'Please do not mind us. We'll sit here on the top,' said a woman's voice.
The man at the rudder asked her, 'Where were you all these days, Rangi? I have not seen you for a long time.'
'My man took me to many places-Vijayanagaram, Visakhapatnam and we climbed together the Hill of Appanna.'
'Where are you going now?'
'Mandapaka. How are you, brother? Do you still have the same clerk?'
'Yes.'
The male figure fell down in a heap and his lighted cheroot, slipped from his mouth. The woman put it out.
'Sit down properly,' she said.
'Shut up, you bitch. Do you think I am drunk? I'll break your ribs if you disturb me.'
He rolled over from one side to the other. The woman covered him with the sheet of cloth which had slipped to one side when he had rolled over. She lighted a cheroot herself. When the match caught the flame, I saw her face for a brief moment. The dark face glowed red.
There was a hint of bass in her voice. When she talked, you felt she was artlessly confiding to you her innermost secrets. She was not beautiful; her hair was dishevelled. And yet there was an air of dignity about her. The black blouse she was wearing gave the impression that she was not wearing any. In the darkness her eyes sparkled as if they were very much alive. When she lighted the match, she noticed me lying nearby.
'There is some one sleeping here,' she said trying to wake up the man.
'Lie down, you slut. I'll break your neck if you disturb me again.'
With an effort he moved away from me.
The clerk stood on the footboard with the oil lamp in his hand. He asked, 'Who is that fellow, Rangi?'
'He is my man, Paddalu. Please do not charg
e us, sir, for the journey.'
'Is it Paddalu? Get him out! He is a rogue and a thief. Have you no sense? He's dead drunk and you have brought him on to this boat!'
'Why says I am drunk?' complained Paddalu.
'You fools. Throw the fellow out. Why did you allow him to step on the boat? He is dead drunk,' the clerk shouted to the boatmen.
'I'm not dead drunk. I have merely quenched a little of my thirst,' protested Paddalu.
'Why don't you keep mum?' admonished the woman.
'Please, sir, I beg of you. May God bless you, sir. We'll get down at Mandapaka,' she pleaded.
The man joined in the pleading, 'I'm not drunk, sir. Please be kind and allow us to go to Mandapaka.'
'If you make any row I'll have you thrown into the canal. Be careful.' The clerk went back to his room. Paddalu sat up. He was not really drunk.
'He will have me thrown into the canal—the son of a bitch!' he said in a low voice.
'Keep quiet. If he hears what you said, then we will be finished.'
'Let him look around the boat tomorrow morning. He puts on airs, the son of a bitch.'
'S..s..s. Someone is sleeping there.'
Paddalu lighted a cheroot. He had a very thick moustache. His face was oval. His spine curved like a bow drawn by a string. He was lean and sinewy and there was an air of nonchalance about him.
The boat was gliding along softly again. The boatmen were washing the utensils after dinner, talking among themselves.
It was not cool, but I covered myself with a sheet. I felt a little afraid of leaving my body exposed helplessly to the darkness. The breeze was sharp-the boat glided softly on the water like the touch of a woman. The night was wrapped with tenderness-as in the caress of an unseen woman. I felt lost in that embrace and many memories of my past as well as tales tinged with melancholy about woman tending man and bringing him happiness flitted across my consciousness.
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