I was overwhelmed and tears were streaming down my cheeks. This was a special gift to me, a blessing from God, and for generations this lingam would protect and provide for my family. From that time on, I have had this Maragada Lingam, and when I pass on, I will give it to one of my sons who is as devout as I am, and who will unfailingly perform the special pooja every day.”
“Can I get it?” Kandu was thrilled by this story. Although he had seen the lingam for so many years, he had no idea about its importance and its significance for his grandfather. He loved his grandfather and wanted to be like him, and maybe even inherit from him this priceless family heirloom.
“Maybe. If it is in your destiny, it might come to you. Now run along, I have things to attend to.”
Kandu ran to the outhouse where his great-grandfather Appanshayal lived, a quaint little house which he loved visiting. The outhouse had two rooms. The back room had plenty of books and on one side was a bedroll where the old man slept, meditated and prayed. One wall was covered with images of different gods and goddesses, under which was the pooja altar with many silver idols. Appanshayal met his patients in the front room. A low platform covered with a thin mattress stood on one side of the room. On the other side were shelves filled with glass jars, each containing a different herb or root. Appanshayal was very interested in herbal remedies, a very important branch of Ayurveda, the ancient system of Vedic medicine, and had trained under a famous teacher for many years.
People had complete faith in Ayurveds and went to them for any and every ailment. Remedies existed for every conceivable disease, from snake and scorpion bites, to constipation and diabetes. Appanshayal got some of the herbs locally but every year, he made a trip to a hillock near Cape Comorin, where plenty of medicinal herbs are found, and spent many days physically collecting the herbs and roots he needed to make his medications.
Appanshayal ran a free clinic in his front room, and every evening for two hours he attended to numerous patients, mainly locals and villagers from nearby villages. He was especially known for his expertise in treating snake and scorpion bites.
When Kandu walked in, he saw his great-grandfather seated on the floor, his brown spectacles hanging on the edge of his nose, as he ground some herbs using a mortar and pestle.
“Hello, Appanshayal Thatha. What are you doing? Can I help you?”
“Who is that? Kandu? Come come. I was waiting for you. Do you want to help me? I find it hard to keep getting up, so maybe you can get me the jars I need.”
For the next few hours Kandu assisted his great-grandfather, helping to make all sorts of potions and powders, some of which were brewed in a pot over a small outside stove. Around lunchtime a man came running in with a small child in his arms. He was out of breath and crying. The inert child’s head lolled backward. Appanshayal knew immediately that it was a snake bite but the father had no idea how it occurred and exactly what type of snake had bitten the child. Very often the offending snake would be non-poisonous but the villagers, thinking they were bitten by a poisonous snake, would get all the symptoms and almost be near death, such was the power of the mind. The young boy was already exhibiting many symptoms. He was warm and in a semi-conscious state. The wound was red and swollen and the fang marks were clearly visible.
“Do you know how long ago it happened?”
“Maybe ten minutes ago. I don’t know. I picked him up and ran all the way. I live down the road, so it could not have been too long.”
“Did you see the snake?” Every bit of information was important for clues to decide on the right treatment.
“I only saw it disappearing into the bushes. It was black and maybe three feet long.”
“Probably a King Cobra,” said Appanshayal, judging by the bite and the father’s description. To Kandu’s horror, he put his mouth against the wound and started sucking the blood and spitting it out. After several minutes of that, he placed the child on the bed, making sure that the boy’s hand hung down at a lower level, so the poison would take longer to travel through the body. The poison was thick and slow moving but ten minutes had passed since the bite. Still Appanshayal knew if he slowed down the flow of blood to the rest of the body, the symptoms would become less severe.
Kandu sat down near the boy. “Is he alive or dead?” he asked, his voice low. He had never seen anyone so sick ever before.
“He is alive but the symptoms have manifested.”
Appanshayal combined his herbs and soon returned with two remedies. He put the one with a thick consistency directly on the wound and then began forcing a liquid potion into the child’s mouth.
After almost an hour, the child’s eyes fluttered open. The father, who had been beating his chest and lamenting the impending loss of his only son, was instead crying afresh at the unbelievable miracle. He fell down on the floor at Appanshayal’s feet, calling him a god, a savior, which embarrassed the old man. He handed the boy’s father the liquid potion and told him to give it to his son along with fresh honey for the next few days.
It was past lunchtime and with so much happening, Kandu was ravenous. Running into the kitchen, he could smell the delightful aroma of the food, which made him even hungrier. He reached for the potato curry but his grandmother slapped his hand away.
“Go and wash up. I’ll serve the food.”
Unlike most south Indian families, the main meal in this household was taken at noon. According to Ayurved, Agni, the digestive fire, is most active when the sun is highest, making noon the best time of day for the largest meal. Food was served in the closed verandah behind the house, and the men arrived one at a time. Silver plates and silver glasses for water were arranged in a row on the floor, and steaming hot rice and sambar began the meal. Kandu mixed the rice and lentils just like Nilakantan did, making a big hole in the center of the rice like a well for the piping hot sambar. No one spoke at all during the meal. The women knew who needed what just by looking at the plates and the different food items miraculously emerged from the kitchen and onto their plates. After the meal, Nilakantan washed up and immediately lay down to sleep. All that rice made anyone sleepy. The heavy food coupled with the midday sun made taking a nap natural and inevitable.
Kandu followed his beloved grandfather and snuggled up to him, rubbing his soft hairless chest, enjoying the feel of his smooth skin, and smelling the fragrant sandalwood.
Life was wonderful. Just wonderful.
CHAPTER 34 – MAHADEVAN
CALCUTTA
Mahadevan tried to loosen his tie. The heat made him sweat so profusely his neck felt swollen and he found it hard to breathe. Being dressed in a three piece suit did not help but today, he had no choice. He was attending a meeting at the Bengal Gymkhana with the Assistant Secretary, and he had to show up in the required club attire, appropriately dressed at all costs. He longed to get out of his constricting clothing and into his comfortable veshti but that would have to wait.
Almost a month had gone by since the family had left for their vacation, and the house in Rangpur was deafeningly quiet. Mahadevan missed the welcome Kandu would give him when he returned home from work every day. At least with everyone away, he was able to catch up on his reading without guilt. The weather had been unbearable, and he was glad to leave Rangpur. What a good thing that Dharmu and the kids left when they did because soon after their departure, as he anticipated, violence had erupted in town. Expecting trouble, he had asked for reinforcements from Calcutta and as a result the increased police presence had reduced the number of casualties.
The Muslims had gone on a killing rampage but thankfully, in a few hours they had been contained and the ringleaders apprehended. For the last few years, many Muslim League activists were working the minds of the locals, fueling hatred and distrust where none existed previously. Ten years ago, his ruling on the case of the Muslim woman would never have been questioned but now it fanned the smoldering hatred, erupting in violence, looting and murder on a scale Rangpur had never witnessed before.
>
The Muslims did not want their people to be tried in regular courts under the British Penal Code, but were demanding that cases should instead go to communal court to be tried under their version of Muslim Law — a ludicrous demand, motivated by the desire to preserve male superiority. Mahadevan knew that if the mullahs were given a free rein, Muslim women’s rights in this country would be quashed forever. Encouraging such separatist ideas would lead to a divided India, something the British were well aware of and willing to use in order to control the growing Nationalist movement. Such tendencies had to be restrained, and he could never tolerate interference from religious fascists in his courtroom.
For so many years life here had been peaceful but communal unrest had disturbed the fabric of society, threatening to permanently disrupt the peace. East Bengal had a majority of Muslims and the British had been encouraging them to think of their own separate state. For so many years Muslims and Hindus lived in almost complete harmony but now with all this talk about Muslim Statehood, the peasants were getting fired up to action. Recently, Muhammad Ali Jinnah returned to Bombay from his sojourn in England and rejoined the Muslim League. The British for many years had been abetting the divide between the two communities by promoting the idea of separate electorates as a means of furthering their control over the ancient land. The idea of separate electorates was tolerable but separate statehood was not an acceptable solution. How strange that Jinnah was now leaning towards the idea of a separate state, considering his overwhelming support over the last decade for Hindu-Muslim unity. But in all fairness, Gandhi had become more absorbed in his personal culture and tradition and seemed to represent the Hindu majority. Even so, that was not sufficient reason to justify the need for a separate state. An editorial in the Calcutta Gazette discussed the dangers of Partition.
Mahadevan shook his head as he put the newspaper down. A few more articles along these lines would close down the newspaper forever. He looked out of the car to admire the beautiful Victoria Memorial. He had seen the building from the outside on several occasions but his trips to Calcutta were so short he never had an opportunity to enter the building. He picked up the Amrita Bazaar Patrika, a Bengali daily. Fortunately he read Bengali. The reporting in vernacular languages like Bengali was more vibrant, pulsating with editorials enriched by the passion of the journalists. Once again, the article expounded on the dangers of Partition.
Pakistan. That was the name they were talking about for the new Muslim state. Choudhary Rahamat Ali had already sown the seeds for a separate Muslim state, using the word “Pakistan,” which was composed of letters from the five northwestern provinces: Punjab Afghan Kashmir Sindh and Baluchistan. Mahadevan had read somewhere that the word “Pak-i-stan” meant “land of the pure” in Persian. Wherever the name came from, the whole idea seemed wrong to Mahadevan, a huge mistake with severe repercussions for the subcontinent. A new state based on religion was a recipe for disaster, bound to result in a bloodbath. When Mahadevan toured the riot affected areas in Rangpur, the viciousness of the attacks shocked him. Every stab of the knife generated hatred and venom, pitting neighbor against neighbor. It was tragic to see so many deaths, such bloodshed for no apparent reason. Hate and anger reigned supreme, while a peaceful community was torn apart. No, partition was certainly not a good idea but he could do nothing to change the course of history. Rumors suggested that the new state would be divided in two, and Rangpur and most of surrounding East Bengal would belong to Pakistan. It was ludicrous to even conceive of creating a country in two different geographical areas with completely different demographics. Trying to administer a dual government would be an even greater nightmare. What were they thinking? Bengalis and Punjabis in one country? The two peoples were so different, it would never last.
The car turned onto Chowringhee Avenue, and Mahadevan picked up his file from the seat. He was meeting the Assistant Secretary to discuss the communal problems and the subsequent riots in Rangpur and had to provide a bonafide justification for his ruling. After attending this meeting in Calcutta, he would be on leave for three glorious weeks. He had not taken any time off for the last two years and could not wait to see his father and Appanshayal.
The driver went past the main entrance to the club and Mahadevan shouted out, “Roko. Stop the car. The entrance is here. You already passed it.”
“No Sahib, that entrance is only for the Angrez.”
“What nonsense! Stop the car. Reverse right now.”
The driver reversed back up the street, muttering to himself that that entrance was definitely only for white people but Mahadevan paid no attention to him. He got out and walked up to the main entrance, where he was greeted by a sign.
“INDIANS AND DOGS USE BACK ENTRANCE”
His ears started ringing. He had not been to any of the English country clubs before and had absolutely no idea there would be separate entrances for Indians. But here in front of him was a sign that clubbed him in the same category as dogs. He had half a mind to jump into the car and drive away but was caught in a situation where he had no choice. He had to attend that meeting, so he would swallow his injured pride and use the back entrance reserved for darkies and curs. Shamefacedly, he returned to the car, where the driver waited with a knowing smirk on his face.
“Sahib, the back entrance is down the street. I told you, Sahib, only Angrez can use this entrance.” Mahadevan said nothing. He couldn’t speak.
Thrusting himself out of the car, Mahadevan walked in through the back entrance and stepped into the Gentleman’s cloak room to freshen up. He entered through the swinging door and stopped in his tracks, his jaw dropping in horror. The room was full of Englishmen, nude as the day they were born. He could not believe what he was seeing and he did not know where to look. It was appalling! Some were shaving and chatting with each other, oblivious that they had on not a stitch of clothing. There were uniformed valets helping the men out, some even powdering their genitals! Disgusting! One valet crouched on the floor massaging the feet of a portly Englishman, who in the meantime indulgently smoked a cigar. There were a couple of men sleeping on easy chairs, their family jewels exposed to all who cared to observe. Mahadevan ran into the cubicle, relieved to be alone, trying to figure out if this was hilarious and absurd or bizarre and shameful. Perhaps it was all of the above. As he stepped out, the cigar-smoking Englishman kicked the valet hard in the middle of his chest, sending him flying backward. “Bloody rascal, black dithering fool. Watch what you do. If you hurt me again, I’ll have your balls cut off.”
The valet got up, crawled back to his previous crouch and resumed massaging again. Considering whose balls were exposed, cutting off the offending appendage would have been easy and pleasurable for the valet. But the poor man probably didn’t understand a word of what was being said to him. Mahadevan felt inadequate and shamed. He could not go to the meeting in this frame of mind. Every time he tried to justify working for foreigners, some incident would cause him to question his misplaced loyalty. So they gave us the English language, railways, Government and even cricket but what was all that worth when you had no dignity. How long were we going to watch and wait and swallow our pride and search for some semblance of self-respect? He had to compose himself and move past the incidents of the last few minutes. His performance would be affected if he went to this meeting emotionally strung.
He sat down for a few minutes, and then went out into the verandah where the meeting had already begun. David Kline, the Assistant Secretary, was sitting with two lawyers, one of whom he instantly recognized as Hussein Suhrawardy, an active member of the Muslim League. This meeting was going to be difficult but his conscience was clear and his work ethic meticulous and above board. He had nothing to fear.
“Good day, Mahadevan. Sorry old chap about the back entrance. Not my handiwork. I just finished apologizing to Suhrawardy here but he insists this is why we Brits need to leave.”
“Do you agree, Mahadevan, that we have had enough of back entrances?” ask
ed Suhrawardy, putting Mahadevan in a spot. He did not like controversies and was grasping for an apt reply.
“It does not matter what I think or feel but how I respond that counts.”
“Come on, Mahadevan, you know your pride is hurt. Why don’t you admit it?” Suhrawardy enjoyed goading Mahadevan and was not going to let this go easily.
“Admitting it makes me the loser; it does not solve the problem.”
“Exactly. That is why you need to say and do something about it. It is a question of dignity.”
“Hussein, all of us know it is only a question of time before we are masters of our homeland. I am willing to momentarily compromise on dignity and pride but I will not give the power to anyone or anything to rob me of my peace of mind.”
No one spoke for the next several minutes.
CHAPTER 35 – KANDU
NAGARCOIL
The days were going by too fast. Soon it would be time to say goodbye to Thatha and Appanshayal and board the train for Rangpur. Boring Rangpur. Boring, hot and silly Rangpur.
“Daddy, I don’t want to go back to Rangpur.”
“Why, Kandu? You can’t stay here forever.”
When the Lotus Blooms Page 26
