Rajam knew at once who this must be. Revathi’s uncle Vaithee. “He must know what really transpired and feel powerless, unable to do anything about it, just like me,” thought Rajam.
The crowd lingered for a while but then slowly people turned away to attend to their own unfinished business. Rajam, too, left with a heavy heart, still trying to come to terms with this tragic saga that began for her only three days ago and had already reached its sad climax.
Two weeks later someone discovered a body in a mango grove in Vizhupuram. It was dismembered and the head was completely severed from the body. On closer examination, it was evident almost every bone had been broken. The genitalia had been severed and stuffed into the mouth. On the trunk of the tree, under which the remnants of the body lay, was carved a heart, with the letters R and V. In the middle of the two letters hung a blood-stained aruvaal, its curved tip driven into the trunk. The blood from this curved knife covered the carved heart and dripped down the center. The police identified the body as being that of Raman Iyer. The perpetrator was never found. After three months, the police closed it as an unsolved murder.
Part X
Dharmu
CHAPTER 28 – MAHADEVAN
RANGPUR – 1934
Monday morning. The Dak boy had just arrived with the mail, which had been sorted at the General Post Office in Calcutta and then sent to Dacca, in East Bengal, from where it was taken to Rangpur. The town was not large enough to have its own post office, so the dak boy left the mail in a house known locally as the Dak Bungalow, a Government guest house on the outskirts of town for people who stayed there when visiting the area on work. Mahadevan sat in the verandah and looked at the letters. Most of them were work related but he noticed one with a British stamp, which appeared to be from overseas. Looking at the various stamps on the envelope, he realized it had been sent almost three months ago and was forwarded to various locations until it reached Calcutta, from where the letter was redirected to Rangpur.
He slit open the envelope and a photograph slipped out. It was Madame Rose and another man, and miracle of miracles, Rose was actually smiling. His face broke into a smile when he read in the letter that Rose was finally getting married! She had frittered away her youth over a man who was long gone and never wanted to meet other men. Somehow someone had broken through her tough armor and got to her. That was nice. Her new beau was also a retired pilot, who lived just down the street from her. Imagine that! Talk about coincidences. They lived on the same street all their lives and did not meet until the moment was right. The marriage was in the spring and Rose wanted Mahadevan to attend the wedding.
Mahadevan put the letter down and stared into the distance. Mme. Rose Leblanc had been his savior and mentor during all those months that he lived in England. She helped him in so many ways to become an ‘English gentleman,’ to understand the subtleties of British public and private behavior that had bewildered him earlier. He realized over time that her stern exterior was just a front for her warm and generous nature. Life had treated her very harshly, and to survive as a single woman in a man’s world, she had developed a no-nonsense manner of speaking as a protective shield. Mahadevan’s thoughts went back to his first night in England.
That evening when they finally reached Cambridge, it was already dark. They had the address of a boarding house on King’s Street and after taking numerous wrong turns they finally located it, only to be told that someone else had taken their rooms. Mahadevan and Shanti were exhausted after lugging their suitcases all over town and couldn’t believe what they were hearing.
“I’m sorry, the reservation was until four o’ clock, and we held it till six.” Looking at their crestfallen, exhausted faces, the lady took pity on them and directed them to another house, where a French lady kept boarders.
“Try your luck there,” she said cheerily. After another fifteen minute trudge, they finally located the house on the corner of Kings and Primrose. Hanging on a small painted gate was a bright yellow hand-painted sign which read ‘Rose Cottage.’ Colorful phlox framed a narrow path that led up to the main door. Shanti waited on the pavement outside with the luggage, while Mahadevan walked in and knocked tentatively on the front door. After a few minutes the door opened.
“Yes? How can I help you?” said a petite, pleasantly plump lady. She was wearing a gingham-checkered apron over a long printed dress. Her face looked stern, though its severity was not reflected in her soft brown eyes. Her brown hair flecked with grey, was coiled into a tight bun at the top of her head, and specks of flour covered her clothing. He had obviously caught her in the midst of her cooking and she did not look too happy.
“Mrs. Leblanc, I presume? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ayyar, and my friend, Banerji, and I were directed here from the Inn down the street. They told us that you keep boarders.”
Her face stern, she eyed the two of them, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners as she tried to keep her spectacles on her pert nose. “Just the two of you?” she asked in a mellow voice, inflected with an unmistakable French accent.
“Yes, Ma’am, just the two of us. It is dark and we have traveled a great distance. I do hope you can accommodate us.”
“I have one room available, which you will have to share until the end of the month, till my boarder leaves for his native Egypt. Then you can get an extra room. That will be ten bob a week to be paid in advance. No excuses. Ten days overdue and I’ll send you packing.”
After consulting with Shanti, they agreed to the price and gratefully stepped into her warm and cozy cottage. Situated on the ground floor just near the staircase, the room was extremely small. It had one queen sized bed, a small side table with a porcelain lamp and a chest of drawers but given their state of exhaustion, it felt like heaven. Besides, it faced east and was sure to be cheerful in the daytime with the morning sunlight streaming in.
“The bathroom is up the stairs to your right. Please remember you bathe inside the tub, not outside, and for heaven’s sake, do not squat on the toilet seat. Your feet should be on the floor and you sit like you’re on a chair and do your stuff inside the bowl. Do you understand?”
“Yes ma’am,” said the two in unison, wondering why she was explaining this to them. Soon enough they had their answer.
“The last boarder I had from India, P.P.S. Aiyer I think his name was. Oh dear, what a time I had with him! He actually bathed outside the tub on the floor, and the water ran all the way down the stairs and ruined the carpet. He is still paying for the mess he caused.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am, you won’t have any trouble with us.” Mahadevan snickered to himself. He could imagine what the toilet must have looked like to an Indian who was used to squatting over a hole in the floor. And the bathtub? It must have appeared to be another English adornment. This poor soul probably had no idea that he actually had to get into it and bathe. Luckily, Mahadevan had used a western style toilet before and had seen enough English movies to know what a bathtub looked like.
“Breakfast is at seven and no later,” continued Mrs. Leblanc, “and it’s included in your rent. Don’t expect a huge spread though.”
After paying an advance on the rent, Shanti and Mahadevan sat down on the bed staring into nothingness for an eternity. The room was too small for two people and they would have to take turns sleeping on the bed for the next two months. But today they were so tired they slept on an empty stomach without even bothering to change into night clothes.
The next morning they arrived at the breakfast room a few minutes early, so Mahadevan stepped into the salon to wait. Two comfortable sofas covered in multicolored upholstery occupied the salon, along with some brightly printed but mismatched curtains. But everything looked fine to Mahadevan, who was no connoisseur of fashion. The room was filled with various adornments: vases with flowers, small figurines, ashtrays and lots of photographs, including one of a man and a woman. The woman’s face revealed a slim version of Mme. Leblanc, wearing a long skirt up to her
knees, a cap sleeved blouse and high heels. Her hair was fashionably coiffed in bouncing shiny curls and she was leaning on a smart young man in an RAF uniform. He was probably her husband but Mahadevan would hear her story later. Hearing some noise from the breakfast room, he hurried back.
Breakfast was a somber affair and no one spoke a word. The two other boarders had their faces buried behind newspapers and were not in the mood to initiate a conversation. One of them looked Middle Eastern and was dressed impeccably in a three piece suit and black oxfords. His unparted hair was slicked back and a pencil thin moustache ran right above his upper lip. He was probably Rose’s Egyptian boarder, who was leaving soon. The other young man looked European and was quite the contrast. His shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his tousled hair demonstrated his nonchalance and lack of style. It seemed as though he tumbled out of bed onto the breakfast table. During the course of the year Mahadevan met several boarders from all over the globe, a floating group of young men in need of temporary housing.
The next few months went by uneventfully, except that both Shanti and Mahadevan took their ICS exams. Mahadevan continued to have a formal relationship with Mme. Leblanc and never exchanged more than pleasantries with her. By October that year he had his own room on the first floor, which was convenient because now he did not have to climb stairs to use the solitary bathroom, which all the boarders shared. Mahadevan spent most of his money on rent and food and had very little left over for extras. In fact, other than an umbrella, he had bought nothing for himself. His needs were few and being vegetarian, he hardly ate anything other than bread and butter, which he covered with the spicy curry powders his mother had given him. He asked his father to send him some money but it had not yet arrived. In the meantime, he tutored students from Cambridge in math and the extra income helped cover his basic needs. The air was turning cool and Mahadevan shivered uncontrollably on his way back from school. Mme. Leblanc noticed this and asked him why he had no warm clothes. With his eyes on the floor, he explained his situation to her. He did not want her to think of him as some impoverished Indian and was careful how he phrased his words. She said nothing but returned a few minutes later with a warm overcoat.
“It belonged to my husband but you can borrow it for a while.”
What a surprise! In all these months this was the first time she had reached out to him. “But Mme. Leblanc, I can’t accept it. I have no money to pay for it.”
“Did I ask for any?”
“No, you didn’t mention anything but I couldn’t accept favors.”
“It’s no favor. It’s a need. If you don’t wear warm clothing in this dreadful weather, you will end up with pneumonia. Just take it and be warm.” In spite of the overcoat, the weather in December was so cold Mahadevan found himself wheezing. The frost and humidity seemed to enter his bones. In all his life he had never envisioned or experienced weather this bitter. No matter what he did, he just could not keep warm. His room had a coin heater but as he was careful about money, he did not put coins into it after midnight. By morning, the room was at subzero temperatures and very soon Mahadevan had a hacking cough. One could hear him cough as he turned the street corner. One day he was so ill he could not get out of bed, even to have breakfast. Hearing a knock on the door, Mahadevan responded with another long bout of coughing.
“Maddie,” she began using her nickname for him. “You don’t sound good. Can I come in?” Without waiting for a response, Mme. Leblanc walked into the room. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “This is like being in the Arctic.” She dashed out of the room and returned a few minutes later with some coins for the radiator. She left the room again and was back with a bowl of warm chicken broth.
“What is this?” Mahadevan wheezed.
“Chicken broth,” said Mme. Leblanc, and she attempted to feed him a spoonful.
“No,” said Mahadevan horrified at the prospect of ingesting meat. “I can’t eat it.”
“Young man, if you don’t attempt eating meat, you won’t last the winter and then what will your lovely wife do?” she enquired as she spooned the broth into his mouth. It didn’t taste half bad and the ravenous Mahadevan polished it off in a few minutes. That whole week Mme. Leblanc nursed him back to health. She sat with him and talked for hours about her life in France and her husband and told him amusing anecdotes about former boarders. Their relationship completely changed, and for the rest of his stay she took him under her wing and cared for him like a mother hen.
Mme. Leblanc had been born and raised in a small fishing village in the south of France. During the war her future husband, a pilot from England named Ron Mathew, had been assigned to France on duty. During a routine mission his plane took a hit but he managed to eject into the ocean, where her father fished him out to safety. The cold Atlantic waters gave him pneumonia and Fleur (Mme. Leblanc) nursed him back to health. Their courtship lasted a month but proved to be the happiest time of her life. Ron called her his ‘French Rose,’ and soon she stopped using her maiden name. They married in a small French church and in a few months she crossed the English Channel to live with her husband. They bought this small cottage in Cambridge on the corner of Primrose and King Street, which they named Rose Cottage, commemorating Ron’s pet name for her.
They led an exhilarating life and spent two glorious years together until Ron’s untimely death in the course of duty. Having loyally served the British Crown, he was buried with full military honors. For a few years she managed on her pension and many times she thought about returning to her native France. But Rose Cottage was the setting for the fondest memories of her dear departed husband, and she could not bring herself to return home to France. Instead, she merely changed her last name back to Leblanc in memory of her native heritage and continued to live in Rose Cottage. There was no dearth of offers but she never remarried. No one could possibly be as wonderful as Ron and she considered it a sacrilege even to think of replacing him. To make ends meet she kept boarders, mainly from overseas, students who could not find room and board elsewhere. Caring for them gave her some extra money and kept her busy. Thus far, she had not developed a close bond with anyone else. Perhaps she kept people at bay for fear that they force her out of her misery and show her that life existed, waiting to be enjoyed.
She taught Mahadevan everything about British customs, from eating correctly to dressing appropriately and he never forgot that. As a special honor, she allowed him to read the books from Ron’s extensive library. The day that Mahadevan and Shanti passed the ICS exams was so special that Rose prepared a huge banquet and they drank and dined till they fell asleep right there in Rose’s parlor.
Even after returning to India, Mahadevan never forgot her. He kept in touch regularly, always remembering to send photographs of the children, and he looked forward to receiving her letters.
‘Rose Leblanc, I hope you found your Ron again and your happiness,’ thought Mahadevan as he gazed at the photograph with tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER 29 – DHARMAMBAL
DINDIGUL
Jameen Amma looked at the calendar and noted that today was a full moon day, Paurnami, which meant she needed to visit the Kamakshiamman temple to offer her prayers as she had done for years. She wished to honor her vow to distribute twenty-one silver coins to the poor after her daughter, Sita, had been raped as a child and survived the trauma. Sita had recovered remarkably and now was happily married and had two sons. Jameen Amma was so grateful she never forgot her vow to Kamakshiamman. Devi’s grace had given her child back to her. Dharmu and her girls went along in the beautiful horse drawn carriage. Kandu had every intention to go with them but got distracted when he saw the Jameendar’s stables. He decided to stay back and be with the horses, hoping that the stable boy might teach him how to ride a horse.
The carriage was big and comfortable with seating on either side. Rukku and Vani lay down on the soft velvet mattress and stared up at the sky, watching and naming shapes of the clouds as they passed by overhead. The t
emple was not too far away and they reached it in a very short time. Beggars had lined up outside the temple, hoping to be the lucky beneficiaries of the silver coins and their eyes lit up when they saw Jameen Amma. Everyone knew that on full moon days, Jameen Amma would be at the temple with her red velvet pouch full of coins. Jameen Amma paused and spoke to each person and then, as a special treat, she let the two girls hand out the coins for her. When they entered the temple, they noticed a group of people gathered near the shrine of Karthikeya. A woman on the floor was shaking vigorously, and a priest was chanting some mantras and beating her with a long stick.
Rukku was horrified. “Amma, Jameen Amma, look at what is happening!” she exclaimed loudly. “That priest is beating the girl.”
Dharmu tried to herd the children into the main shrine but they wiggled out of her grasp and ran towards the commotion. They pushed their way through the small crowd and surveyed the scene in front of them in utter horror. The girl on the floor must have been in her early teens. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and her face was contorted. While her limbs were flailing in all directions, the men were attempting to hold her down and put an iron spear into her thrashing fists. Her head lolled to one side and yellow foam oozed from the corner of her mouth. The priest was chanting some mantras and hitting her repeatedly on her back and thighs with a long stick. Dharmu ran up and pulled the girls away.
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