by Farahad Zama
“That’s ridiculous,” said Ramanujam. “Let me call police-uncle.” He saw Pari’s puzzled look and explained, “He is a very good friend of my father, who has just been promoted to superintendant. He will sort it out in a moment.”
A superintendant outranked a police inspector by two or three levels at least.
Mr Ali frowned. “The police are mere agents – they are just doing their duty and chasing up on a complaint that somebody’s filed.” He turned to Pari. “Who did you say it was?”
Pari replied, “They didn’t say, but I guess it was HUT, the Hindutva Universal Truth Party, Chaacha. The people who came barging in here the other day.”
Mr Ali nodded. “They are the people who need to be silenced. Otherwise this tamasha, this spectacle, will go on.”
“They are just rabble-rousers,” said Ramanujam. “Religious parties might do very well in parts of North India, but they’ll never be popular here. We South Indians are much too sensible for that.”
“There are none so sensible that they can’t be turned,” said Aruna.
Ramanujam laughed and said to Mr Ali, “My wife has been working too long with you, sir! She’s become philosophical!”
A smile finally came to Pari’s face.
Aruna continued talking. “In the Mahabharata, Arjuna doesn’t want to fight because in the army opposing him are members of his own family and friends – his great-uncle Bheeshma, his guru Drona and many others. But Lord Krishna tells him that he must fight because that is his dharma, his duty, as a warrior to fight. And so it is with politicians – their dharma is to fight elections and get into power. If that means they have to bend the truth, sell their grandmother or take a child away from its mother, they’ll do it.”
The smile faded from Pari’s face. “You are scaring me now,” she said.
“Sorry, I didn’t want to do that. But Sir is right. We have to somehow solve the underlying problem. We can’t just hide from it. After all, how long can Rehman and Vasu stay away?”
Pari said, “Yes, it’s not fair on Rehman, or Chaacha and Chaachi either.”
Mrs Ali waved a hand dismissively.
Pari shook her head. “Don’t lie, Chaachi. I saw how much you were missing Rehman on Eid. It was very lucky that Rehman came to the village to celebrate it.”
“I still think we should go to Police-Uncle,” said Ramanujam. “I am sure that he will sort out the problem.”
Mr Ali was frowning. “No,” he said slowly. “A needle can sometimes accomplish what a sword cannot do.”
Everybody in the room was looking at him.
“What are you thinking, Chaacha?” said Pari.
“The government order to widen the road is being released on Monday. It’s not just our house that will be affected, but the temple too.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Ali, whose face had turned stony when reminded about the impending doom of her house. “But what has that got to do with Vasu and Pari now?”
“I think it is time to call Rehman and Vasu back to town,” said Mr Ali.
“What? They’ll just take Vasu away and then what’ll we do? You can bet that the police won’t search very hard for him when powerful people are involved,” said Mrs Ali.
“Listen to me.” He leaned forward and laid out his plan.
“I don’t know…Sounds very risky to me,” said Pari.
“I think it’ll work,” said Gita. “I know Mr Narayana, the guru-gaaru, and he is a very superstitious man.” She turned to Aruna. “The other day, I sneezed as I was leaving the temple and he stopped me from going straightaway because it was bad luck.”
Aruna thought back to the temple official who had told her that her father had changed because she had married into a rich family. It was easy to believe that the man would be superstitious. She added her weight to Gita’s argument.
“All right, it might work,” conceded Pari. “But I still don’t trust those men. What’s to stop them from just spiriting Vasu away so I don’t see him ever again? Also, Vasu is not a parcel to be handed from person to person. He won’t like being with strangers and I won’t force him to go.”
Mr Ali leaned back. “You are correct, of course.” He thought for a moment, then smacked one hand against the other and grimaced. “We’ll have to somehow make them take responsibility without giving them Vasu.”
For a while, as they mulled over the idea, the only sound in the room was the noise of a TV elsewhere in the building and the traffic on the road.
“What if – ” began Gita, and shook her head. “Vasu could stay with me and Srinu…But then Mr Narayana won’t believe – ”
“That could work,” said Mr Ali. “We’ll simply have to say that he is merely staying at your place and the responsibility still lies with the temple.”
Pari thought for a moment. “It’s a risk,” she said finally. “But we can’t just sit with our hands in our laps and do nothing. Vasu’s already missed several days of school and we need to present him at the police station within seven days anyway. We have to get them to come back.” She picked up the phone. “Let me call Rehman.”
Fourteen
Aruna and Ramanujam went to the temple on Sunday afternoon, where they prayed first to Lord Rama, then moved to the side of the temple. There Aruna bowed low to the idol of the monkey-headed Hanuman, who had become worthy of worship by being himself devoted to Ram.
“Oh Lord, help Pari and Vasu just as you helped Ram and Lakshman in their time of need. They need your strength to keep them safe.”
Gita met them in the courtyard. They followed her into a small room with a table and three chairs with strung seats, the nylon broken in places. Gita left and they waited in silence. Aruna couldn’t stop biting her lips.
About five minutes later, Mr Narayana joined them in his usual saffron-coloured robes. After the usual greetings, he said, “Gita tells me that you have some sort of proposal for me.”
Ramanujam said, “You are a man of God, who seeks to promote goodness in the world.”
“That’s right,” Mr Narayana said. He glanced briefly at the clock on the wall behind Aruna and Ramanujam. “The evening prayers will start soon.”
Ramanujam’s eyes met Aruna’s. He looked back at Mr Narayana. “We won’t take up much of your time. I am told that you are looking for a boy called Vasu.”
Mr Narayana’s face took on a sharper look of interest. “The boy being raised as a Muslim? Yes.”
“We know the family, sir, and can assure you that Vasu is not being raised as a Muslim. In fact, he’s even come to this temple with Gita and my wife,” Ramanujam waved his hand towards Aruna.
Mr Narayana smiled and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I know for a fact that the mosque has asked the woman to convert the boy to Islam. Did you say that you were a doctor?”
Ramanujam was dizzy at the sudden change of topic. “I didn’t say that but, yes, I’m a doctor at KGH.”
King George Hospital was the government district hospital in Vizag. The man before them was far more worldly than the average holy man at a local temple – no wonder he had gone into politics.
“You are a good man and an innocent. You don’t understand how these Muslims work. They came to our country, ransacked our temples, stole our women, ruled us and converted our people.”
That was hundreds of years ago, Ramanujam wanted to say. And during all those centuries of empire, if they could convert only a small percentage of the population to Islam, they were either not very motivated or had been spectacularly unsuccessful. The Portuguese had converted a larger percentage of the population of Goa to Roman Catholicism in a far shorter period of time. But he kept silent. He was not here to argue.
“And even now the minority community are pandered to by the politicians. The Muslims have their own personal laws; they have driven Hindus out of Kashmir; Assam and the north-east is being overrun by refugees from Bangladesh but the government doesn’t do anything. And why is that?”
Ramanujam and Aruna
shook their heads.
“Because they want the Muslims’ votes. And we Hindus are too divided and too weak to stand up for ourselves. That is the fundamental problem.”
It was clear that once he had climbed on his soapbox, the man could talk for hours.
Ramanujam said, “Um…about the boy. The mother is willing to give him up temporarily so that you can check that he is not being brainwashed.”
“We need to be united…er, what did you say?”
“The mother is willing to give him up temporarily.”
“Temporarily? What good is that?”
“As I said, you can make sure that Vasu remembers his parents and their heritage. And at the moment, you don’t even know where he is. So that’s got to be an improvement.”
Mr Narayana stroked his stubble, weighing up some unknown pros and cons that Ramanujam and Aruna were not privy to.
“All right…”
“But she has some conditions.”
“Aha! I knew there would be a catch.”
“She doesn’t want the boy to stay with strangers. That’s understandable, isn’t it? He is only eight years old, after all. She suggested that the boy stay with us, but my parents wouldn’t like it, so we made another suggestion. We said that Gita and Srinu could look after the boy and she’s agreed to that.”
“Hmm…That might work. Gita comes to the temple every day. What does she say?”
“Gita and Srinu don’t know about it yet, sir. We thought we’d speak to you first and see whether the idea was acceptable to you.”
The priest nodded. Aruna took her phone out of her handbag. “Let me call her.”
Aruna spoke as soon as Gita came into the room. “Gita, will you look after Vasu?”
Gita pulled the edge of her sari out of her waistband, where it had been tucked while she was working, and wrung out the cloth in her hands. “Don’t take this the wrong way – I like Vasu as a boy, but I can’t look after him.”
“Why not?” said Mr Narayana.
“He is a very unlucky boy. Whoever looks after him dies.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Gita,” said Ramanujam. “There is no need to be so superstitious.”
“You are a doctor, Ram-babu. I am a simple village woman. I’ve only just moved to town with my husband and we are trying to make our life here. We can’t afford any bad luck.” She turned to Mr Narayana. “He is a yamadoot, sir – a foot soldier of Yama, the Lord of Death. His father died, then his mother and then his grandfather – three guardians in eight years. Tell me, sir, what you would call that?”
“How do you know all this?” asked Mr Narayana.
“They told me,” said Gita, pointing to Ramanujam and Aruna. “Isn’t it true?”
Ramanujam hesitated. “Er…”
Aruna spoke up. “Yes, we told you, but we didn’t expect you to turn it against us like this.” Aruna threw up her hands and turned to her husband, “Why hide the facts?” She then addressed Gita once more. “I can understand your reluctance. I would be unhappy to take the boy into my house too.”
“Aruna!” said Ramanujam, his voice rising. “I am shocked that you can say such a thing!”
“I am sorry, but the truth is the truth. Vasu will be staying in your house, Gita, only because he can’t live in the temple. The temple will take all responsibility for the boy.”
“I don’t understand,” said Gita. “My married life began with my husband and me being kidnapped. I don’t want to tempt fate again.”
Aruna turned to Mr Narayana. “Sir, Gita’s concern is understandable. It has been proven, not once but three times, that whoever is responsible for Vasu ends up dead. You cannot expect anyone to be brave enough to disregard that. You might as well expect a deer to take in a lion cub.”
Mr Narayana seemed perplexed. “I didn’t know all this,” he said. “But if Gita doesn’t want to look after him, that’s fine. I know an orphanage where we can place him.”
“No, sir,” said Ramanujam. “There is no way Pari, or any mother in fact, would allow her son to be sent to an orphanage. That’s a horrible idea.”
“But he is an orphan, isn’t he?”
Aruna made a slight signal behind the table to Ramanujam to keep him silent, and said, “He has a mother, sir. So how can he be an orphan? But there is another way out. If we all agree that this temple is the rightful guardian of the boy and that Gita is taking him to her house only to feed him and give him a place to sleep, then I am sure that Gita won’t have a problem with Vasu.”
Gita said, “Yes, that would work. I don’t mind that. But we can’t just agree among ourselves. We have to swear by the Lord.”
That, of course, created no difficulty in a temple.
♦
While Aruna and Ramanujam were talking to Mr Narayana, the doorbell rang at Pari’s flat. She opened the door. “Vasu!” she screamed, sweeping the boy into her arms. “Oh, I missed you, darling. How are you?”
“Mum, we spoke only two hours ago on the phone,” said Vasu.
“I know. But this is different.” She gave him a kiss.
Vasu pulled himself out of his mother’s embrace, looking embarrassed. Pari finally noticed Rehman, standing behind Vasu, and smiled at him. “Boys!” he said.
“Yes, and I bet that you would do exactly the same if Chaachi hugged you.”
Rehman laughed and Pari’s heart did a backflip. Already speeding like a car, it now started racing like a rocket and she had to put a hand on the door frame for support because her legs felt as if they might collapse for some reason.
An older man stepped out from behind Rehman and Pari’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Hello, Naidu-gaaru. I didn’t know you were coming too.”
The man shrugged. “If I ever had any doubts whether Vasu has found the right home, they’ve been dispelled. My cousin’s soul must be at peace in heaven.”
Mr Naidu’s cousin was Vasu’s grandfather, whose suicide had led to Pari adopting Vasu.
Before long, Vasu was eating halwa – sweet semolina with raisins and cashew nuts – and the adults were sipping tea.
Mr Naidu said, “Tell me what I need to say to the priest and his men. I’ll happily tell any lies that are necessary.”
Rehman smiled. “No lies are necessary, sir. Just tell them the truth as you see it.” His phone rang and he looked at the caller’s name on the screen. “It’s Ramanujam,” he told them and answered the phone. “Hi, how’s it going?” He listened, nodded several times and finally said, “All right. Ten minutes.” He hung up and turned to Pari. “They can’t see me, otherwise I’ll get in trouble with the HUT activists. I’ll go home and see my folks. You take Vasu and Mr Naidu to the temple.”
The cup in Pari’s hand shook, almost spilling the tea, and she hurriedly put it down.
“Are we doing the right thing?” she asked. “What if I lose…” She wiggled her eyebrows towards Vasu.
Rehman put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Be brave,” he said.
♦
Much later that evening, there was a knock at the door and Srinu answered it. He was so surprised to see Mr Narayana and two of his men that he just stood there, mouth gaping.
After a moment, the priest smiled at his young host and said, “May we?”
Srinu jerked back into life, apologising. “I am sorry, sir. Please come in.”
Srinu seated the men in the living room and rushed into the kitchen. His wife wasn’t there. He went into the second room. Vasu was sitting on a beanbag, watching a cartoon on TV, but there was no sign of his wife. That left only the bedroom. When he didn’t find Gita there, Srinu went out onto the terrace. They lived on the first floor of a house that belonged to the pharmacist who had a shop on the main road. When they had first come to town Mrs Ali had put them in touch with the pharmacist once she found out, while picking up medicines for her arthritic knees, that the house was available to let.
The downstairs was bigger than the upst
airs, which meant that a section of the roof, above the rooms on the ground floor, formed a wide balcony that was used for drying chillies, poppadums and many other things. A canopy of coconut trees overlooked the roof like peeping Toms. Gita was in the backyard, taking down clothes that had dried during the day.
“Mr Narayana has come,” said Srinu.
“Here?” said Gita, looking alarmed.
Srinu nodded. They both rushed back into the living room where Mr Narayana was gazing in approval at a garlanded picture of Lord Ram that hung in an alcove.
“Would you like tea or coffee, sir?” asked Gita. “We also have coconuts that our landlord gave us from the trees, if you’d prefer them.”
“Yes, that would be good. It’s been very hot all day,” said the priest. His men, of course, agreed with their boss.
“I’ll get them,” said Srinu and went into the kitchen.
“He doesn’t trust me to use the machete properly to take the tops off the coconuts,” said Gita.
She didn’t want them to think that she always sent her husband off to do the work while she sat talking to guests.
“Is the boy inside?” said the priest, gesturing with his head towards the sound of the TV.
“Y-yes,” said Gita, “but you can’t take him away.”
“I am not sure about that,” said Mr Narayana.
“No, I will not allow it,” said Gita.
Mr Narayana’s companions bridled. “If it’s what the guru wishes, then who are you to stop him?” said one of them. The other nodded, looking stern.
Ignoring them, Gita addressed Mr Narayana. “I am sorry, sir. I mean no disrespect, but we swore an oath in front of the Lord in the temple not to allow Vasu to leave my house. His great-uncle placed the boy’s hand in mine only after the oath.”
Mr Narayana nodded, remembering the villager who had come to see him earlier in the evening.
“I hear that you are interested in my great-nephew,” Mr Naidu had said after the introductions.
“Yes, though why should it matter to you?” the priest had said, rather rudely, not having expected the boy to have any kin.
