EQMM, September-October 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Logic told me that no government property was ever abandoned without it being laid out in writing. I tried again, shouting for the caretaker this time. A gust of hot wind answered, bringing with it snatches of an old film song. I pushed open the gate, breaking the cobweb. Bits of it clung to my shirt and I brushed them off superstitiously. It was bad luck to break a cobweb. I went to the front door and banged on it loudly. There was no response. I waited and tried again, but had no better luck. Desperate, I went around to the back of the bungalow in search of the transistor radio.

  Hacking away at the undergrowth with my cane to make sure there were no snakes, I came eventually to the servant's quarters and banged on the servant's door. After a rather long wait, I heard scuffling and footsteps. The door opened and a bleary face looked out.

  "I am the assistant district magistrate and I want a room prepared for me at once,” I told the man icily.

  He didn't move, disbelief spreading slowly across his features.

  "My car broke down, so I walked,” I found myself saying shamefacedly. “It will be here shortly."

  "But I am not the caretaker, sir, I am only the chowkidar.” He began to shut the door.

  "I don't care who you are,” I snapped, losing patience, “just get out here now."

  He understood that tone of voice. His face cleared. “Of course, sir. One moment, please.” He retreated and emerged a few minutes later in a lungi and a crumpled white undershirt. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. He smelled of sleep.

  I made him follow me to the front of the house.

  "So you are the chowkidar?” I said finally.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And where is the caretaker of the rest house?"

  "He is not here sir."

  "What do you mean, he is not here? Is he not a government servant."

  "He went back to his village, sir."

  "And did he take permission?” Of course, I knew the answer but felt impelled to ask it anyway.

  "I don't know, sahib."

  "And you let him leave, you said nothing?"

  He stared at me stone-faced. Suddenly I became conscious of how big and strong he was. I couldn't afford to make him angry, not without the full paraphernalia of the state.

  I thought quickly, “All right then, you come and show me my room and then you can get me some tea."

  At first he seemed reluctant to move, then the stubborn look retreated. He bobbed his head and disappeared. He came back a scant five minutes later with the keys. This time he was wearing his forest-green chowkidar's shirt.

  Like the outside, the room he showed me was covered in dust. Cobwebs hung like exotic ferns from the walls. I was tempted at that point to return to the village and ask the Christian to whom I had first spoken to give me a bed for the night. Then the weight of my office settled upon me. I squared my shoulders and prepared resolutely to face night in the forest bungalow.

  "Send someone to clean this room immediately,” I ordered. “I will have tea on the verandah in the meanwhile."

  I walked onto the verandah, carefully dusted a chair, and sat down. I looked at the unkempt, leaf-strewn garden and wondered how long this state of affairs had existed. More importantly, I wondered how long it would take me to sort out whatever had caused it and leave the village behind me forever. I had already conceived a grave dislike of Purandaru.

  A slovenly woman brought me tea in a cracked cup with old tea stains decorating the cracks. I was tempted to order her to clean the cup and make me some fresh tea, but knew from experience just how far one could push illiterate villagers before they rebelled and refused to follow orders. So I took the cup from her and pretended to be blind to its filthy exterior. At least what was inside had been boiled to annihilation. Right after her came the same chowkidar with an even filthier duster. He began to swat at the furniture as though he were driving away flies, creating veritable clouds of dust everywhere. I began to cough instantly.

  "Stop.” I commanded. “Forget the dusting. Just get me clean sheets."

  He looked confused.

  "Sheets.” I said, miming the gestures of making up a bed.

  His grey face brightened for a second, then dulled again. “No sheets,” he muttered, staring at the floor.

  "What do you mean, no sheets?"

  "No keys,” he said, mimicking the sound of keys jangling. By this I understood that the caretaker had either hidden the keys or gone off with them.

  "All right, then, what about dinner?"

  "Dinner?” He looked even vaguer than before.

  "Yes. Dinner. Food,” I said, thinking that maybe he didn't understand my North Indian accent.

  "Oh, food.” He nodded. “Glucose biscuits?"

  "No, I don't want biscuits with my tea. I want to know what you can give me for dinner tonight,” I replied, enunciating each word carefully.

  "Yes, yes.” He pointed at the darkening sky to show he'd understood. “Only biscuits for dinner,” he said in English.

  My mind went into semi-paralysis at the idea of biscuits for an assistant district magistrate's dinner. “I don't think I can eat biscuits for dinner,” I said as calmly as I could. “I need proper food. Rice, sambar, vegetables."

  "Yes, yes, sir. But no food in market many days now,” he replied in Hindi, obviously feeling I hadn't understood him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Ration shop shut. Many, many days, sir."

  "The ration-shop man is a government employee, he cannot shut his shop whenever he feels like it!” I exclaimed.

  "The shop is closed for many days now,” he repeated, sounding distressed.

  "Then tell him to go and open it,” I snapped.

  "I cannot sir, he is at the puja."

  I began to feel seriously concerned about the state of the village.

  "Is everyone at the puja, then?"

  "Yes, sir, it will begin at sunset. Big puja tonight.” He switched back to pidgin English, obviously feeling it was easier to play dumb in.

  "But why is there no food in the guest house? Surely you know that you are expected to be able to provide food for an officer at a moment's notice,” I said impatiently in Kannada.

  He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “But we are always getting advance notice, sir.” His stance implied that I couldn't be a real government sahib for I had come alone and unannounced, without even my official car with its red light.

  I cursed myself for having let go of my car. I'd grown so used to being surrounded by the trappings of my position that I had forgotten what it was like to be without them. I felt absurd, a soldier without weapons.

  "What about your food? You can bring me a little of that, surely?” I could hear a conciliatory note creep into my voice.

  "No food. I have to go,” he said firmly.

  "What do you mean you have to go? Surely you will eat first."

  "No. I go to the temple."

  "I'll wait till you return."

  "I come back in the morning. We all do."

  "Then let your wife come back and serve me."

  He looked shocked. “But she must be there, too. Everyone must be there tonight."

  I grew tired of trying to reason with an illiterate. “I forbid you to go anywhere. Or I will have you sacked."

  His eyes widened in horror. “Sir, the pujari, the village. I cannot!"

  "I don't want to hear those words,” I told him sternly, feeling the situation come under control at last. “If you go to that stupid feast, I will make sure no child of yours ever gets a government job."

  "Sir,” the poor man fell to his knees, all traces of defiance gone, “please, sir, have pity. Don't punish my children. I am a poor man."

  I relented a little. “All right, but get me something to eat."

  He burst into a torrent of impassioned Kannada, “Sir, I have to go, please. I beg you, let me go, the pujari will be very angry. Big devipuja tonight."

  "No.” I frowned fiercely, hoping I looked angrier than the p
ujari. “This is your job."

  "But the devi can only be brought back today. Sir, I must go."

  "I don't care about your devi. I want my food."

  He gave me a look that told me exactly what he thought of my blasphemous point of view. Then, cleverly, he changed tactics. “But everyone in the village will be there. They will know that I have not come."

  "So what? They all saw me walk through the village. They will know that you are doing your job and looking after your sahib."

  His face became a mask. “But sir, I am just the chowkidar, it is not my job to look after you."

  Anger burnt away any inhibitions I might have had on the use and abuse of power. “And I can get you thrown out of your job tonight,” I snapped.

  To my horror, the man lunged at my legs and buried his face in my trousers. I tried to detach them, but he only held on tighter. “Please, I have to go, sir. Or they will say I am a bad Hindu, sir."

  I tried to detach him from my legs and console him at the same time. “You don't become a bad Hindu just because you miss one visit to the temple. And you can go tomorrow, after I am gone."

  For a second his arms loosened their pincer-like grip. Then they tightened again. “I have to go, sir, I have to.” The man began to whimper. “Or they will say that I have become one of them. And then, sir, I don't know what they will do to me, sir. I am a good Hindu, I don't want to become Christian, sir. What will my father say? And my children, sir, I will never see them again."

  I stared at him. For a second, time seemed to stop. Then my heart began to beat very fast. I tried to think intelligently. “Here, stop crying, you can go if you want to.” The mewling stopped. “But tell me first what is going on in this village."

  The man sat up and rubbed his face with the end of his filthy lungi. “I will tell you everything,” he said eagerly, his face transformed.

  * * * *

  As I waited on the verandah for the chowkidar to change into his dhoti, I thought of what the files had to say on Purandaru.

  It was a fairly typical Kannada village. The villagers grew rice and vegetables and fruit—mainly mango and coconut. Beetel nut trees provided them with a stable cash income. Their ponds were full of fish. The reason the name had stuck in my memory was because of a curious letter written nearly two years ago by someone who claimed to be the pujari of the temple, begging the government to send them a teacher for their school. The letter claimed that the government-appointed schoolmaster had not visited the school for over three months and no replacement had been sent, either.

  I'd called the superintendent of schools and told him about the letter, explaining that there was no follow-up letter from our side in the file. He couldn't remember the case but promised to look into the matter. A few weeks later, at the inauguration of his wife's school, I brought up the case again. “Did you check what action had been taken, then?"

  "Just the usual, sir,” he'd replied, not meeting my eyes, “villagers trying to use the state to settle personal vendettas. I checked the files. The teacher had been attending their school every day."

  "Oh. All right, send me a copy of our reply—I'll need it for the files."

  And Purandaru had slipped from my mind.

  But the village pujari, I now knew, hadn't been trying to settle scores.

  "Because the government teacher never came, we had no choice but to put our children into their school,” the chowkidar said, not looking at me.

  "What school?"

  "The Christian school, by the church. The Christian pujari teaches in English there."

  "But what does that have to do with the devipuja?” I asked impatiently.

  The chowkidar's face filled with shame. “It is because some of us sent our children to that school, that the devi became angry and left us."

  "That's ridiculous!” I exploded. “You call yourself a government servant and believe such rubbish. Devis can't walk away. They aren't human."

  He waited patiently for my anger to dissipate. “Last year our crops failed. First she took away the rain, then the fish died, so we lost our only other source of food. If the rains don't come this year then we will all die."

  "What rubbish, the rain was fine last year."

  "But not here."

  "That's impossible.” I spluttered, then came to an abrupt halt remembering reading about a similar case that had taken place twenty years ago.

  "Then, when the fish in the pond died too, we had to do something. We went to the pundit and he advised us to do a devimaha yagna.

  "At first we were reluctant. Maha yagnas cost a lot and no one had very much left. But in the end, Rajamma convinced us."

  "Who is Rajamma?” I asked.

  "She is a widow, sir, with one son, Raju, who is a little mad. He is a very good boy, though, and loved by the devi. He would sit with the devi all day sometimes, singing to her. He was also very friendly with the Christian priest. Since Rajamma worked all day, Raju would often go to the school."

  "So what does Raju have to do with the church?” I asked impatiently.

  "Well, after the priest got the bells for his church Raju disappeared. Someone said they saw the priest taking Raju away in his car. Then the ration-shop owner saw Raju in the convent school, sir, in the town."

  Rumours. Every village was a hotbed of them. “Then what happened?"

  "Rajamma went to the local oracle and begged him to ask the devi where her son was. He told her that Raju had indeed become a Christian. But not of his free will. He had been bewitched. Rajamma was very sad. So our pundit told her that he would do a special puja to the devi to free the boy and bring him back to his senses. All the villagers were asked to attend the puja. Rajamma sold her land and used the money to pay for it. The puja took all night. The pundit hired loudspeakers. A special group of sadhus came to sing bhajans all night."

  "And did Raju come back?” I asked sarcastically. He was probably a shoe-shiner in Bombay by now.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What?"

  "He came back, sir, but he couldn't say where he had been, sir. He hasn't spoken since he came back. It was the devi's price for returning him. After that, the village decided to do a puja for her. The priest hired a group of singers and they came and made their home in the coconut grove behind the temple. He hired painters from Kavallur and while they painted, temple musicians also brought in from Kavallur sang. Then he called the Brahmin cooks from Kuknalim and while the statue of the devi was herself washed and repainted, they sang and recited shlokas and cooked."

  I couldn't follow his logic but I'd heard enough. Things would come to a boiling point soon if nothing was done. “How long has this been going on?” I interrupted him.

  "How long since what has been going on?"

  "Since the all-night jagrans began?"

  He looked vague. “I don't remember, maybe a month? Two weeks? It's hard to tell, it's been so long.” He yawned.

  "So long since what?"

  "Since we slept,” he said matter-of-factly.

  He stopped and wiped a tear from his eye. “Each night we have gathered at the temple and prayed and sung to the devi till dawn, begging her to come back. But still she does not come. Our children are weak from lack of sleep, our eyes are dry, and we cannot cry. Our feet ache and our throats are raw from calling to her. But still she does not come, sir."

  "Why don't you stop and let the pundit take over? Maybe the devi will listen to him better than she listens to you. He is, after all, a professional."

  The irony missed its mark. “Oh no, sir, a single voice is not strong enough to call back the devi once she has gone away, even though our priest is a great man. It's the bells, sir.” All of a sudden his face became unrecognizable. “If you could only stop the bells of the church,” he cried, “then I am sure the devi will come back."

  "Why? What is wrong with the bells?"

  "They ring all day so we cannot sleep, stealing our Shakti so we cannot pray properly to the devi. We fear that already t
he devi may be too far away."

  I remained silent, appalled at the complexity of the problem before me.

  "Sir, can you not speak to the priest, tell him that the government has ordered the removal of the bells?” the chowkidar asked.

  "Of course not.” I cut him off before the idea could take hold. If the villagers came to see me in a group, the state would get dragged in, the media would find out and splash it all over the front page, and the problem would become political. Only blood would resolve it then. “I will meet your pujari and theirs together and order them to stop this madness right now,” I announced.

  The chowkidar's eyes grew huge. He clutched my feet wildly. “No sir, please sir. They will kill me if they know that I have told you. Please, sir."

  I looked down at the man. His shirt back was covered in sweat and he was trembling. “All right, all right. I won't say anything. Take me with you, I need to eat at least,” I lied.

  "Then you will come back to the rest house and sleep?” he asked worriedly.

  "Yes. Yes. I promise. Shall we go?"

  * * * *

  Night transformed the road to the village, turning it into a pale silver stream slicing through a dense unified mass of black that rustled and shivered like a creature alive but asleep, dreaming strange and restless dreams. Soon we were part of a group of ragged, wild-eyed men and women shuffling along slowly towards the temple. They walked carefully, as if the mere task of putting one foot before the other was fraught with danger. An exhausted silence hung over all of them. Only when we came into the lighted part of the village did they become animated, pulling their shawl-like upper garments over their heads and sinking their necks into their chests.

  We came up to the church. In the moonlight it glowed serenely. Someone spat. “He used our money—collected from all the children in his school, our village children, sir, Hindu and Christian, to buy those bells,” a plump man who had the look of a barber explained. The others mumbled their assent. All of a sudden their shuffling feet became infused with a spurt of energy and we entered the field in a rush.