EQMM, September-October 2009
Page 20
"Though my father was highly educated himself and could teach all subjects, his great love was our sacred texts. He knew Sanskrit, as do I. I can still remember the glow on his face as he sat down on his mat in the morning and began to recite his prayers. So though the village was poor and he was highly educated, he was content to remain there as its priest. He fed himself on the respect the villagers showered on him. Not being able to afford a dowry, he married a thin, half-starved daughter of a high-caste but poor Brahmin with five girls. I was their first child and they were so proud of the fact that I was a boy that it took them almost three years to realize that I had been born deaf.
"After me, there came a girl and then another and another and another. My father was furious. Who would say his beloved mantras for him when he died and was laid on the funeral pyre? How would his soul reach heaven? Who would perform the rites that protected his soul while it wandered for one year and thirteen days before it reached heaven?
"I grew up to be strong and quick. I was never ill. My mother kept me beside her as much as she could, out of the way of my father. I helped her cook and clean and tend the animals. She loved me dearly, I could feel it in the way she held me close, the way she looked at me when my father was not there. But my father, he could hardly bear to look at me. All he could think of was the shame I'd brought on him. He felt certain the entire village was laughing at him, schoolteacher, pundit, the most learned man in the village, yet with an illiterate deaf-mute of a son. The older I got, and the stronger my body became, the more he hated me. I remember watching him shout at me. I couldn't hear him, but I felt the words hit me and I'd cry even before he touched me.
"Then, when I was nine, my mother had another son. My father was overjoyed. Then, when my little brother was three a snake bit him and my father couldn't get him to the hospital in time, so he died. After that my father went mad. He took out his sorrow on me. I was a big boy by then and I hit him back, just once. But that was enough for him. He beat me with an iron rod till I was bleeding so badly that my mother and the other villagers had to drag him off me. The week after that we boarded a bus and then a train. In Lucknow he left me in a small wayside tea stall. I never saw him again."
"How ... how awful,” I gasped, scarcely able to believe my ears.
He continued as if he hadn't heard. “To begin with, I was overjoyed. It was like being thrust into a beautiful dream. Only when I grew hungry did I realize that I was alone; that I'd been abandoned."
The memory of abandonment was like a wound on his face. “I don't know how I managed not to get killed that first day. I couldn't hear the cars honking at me to get out of the way. Eventually, a scooter hit me and I awoke in the hospital. As they couldn't find my parents, they shifted me to the government boys’ home. There we were kept in cells like animals, woken up in the morning, fed something disgusting, and then made to sit idle for hours in a classroom with steel bars on the doors and windows. A man would occasionally look inside and shout at us if we made too much noise. The boys, well, I won't describe what I went through there, but it was horrible.
"Only my own nightmare was worse. I knew people communicated with each other in some mysterious way that was related to the mouth. But when I opened my mouth, whatever sounds I made seemed to provoke reactions similar to those of my father. I thought words were shadow equivalents of the expressions on a person's face. I felt them stir inside me too. I would open my mouth, think of the feeling, and make a sound. But then the person's face would turn away and I would know that I had failed to communicate. I tried again and again, growing more and more violent as the desperation built up inside me. At last they decided that I was too dangerous to be kept with the other boys. I was given to the Christian missionaries in Lucknow."
"The Christian fathers!” I exclaimed. Suddenly a terrible suspicion struck me. “You're not..."
He smiled grimly and nodded. “I was little better than an animal when they found me. I trusted no one. I did not even know my name. I didn't, and still don't, know the name of my village. I can never go back to where I came from. The fathers called me John. They taught me to lipread, to write and speak."
I couldn't contain myself any longer and turned to face him fully. “You're ... you're the priest?"
"At last you've guessed it,” he said sarcastically. “After all the hints I gave you, I'd have thought you'd catch on much faster. Why else can I speak English as well as you?"
"I ... I never thought, never expected to find...” I stammered, uncomfortably aware that he was lipreading and wondering what else he could see in my body language.
"A priest here? Why not? I wanted to talk to a real sahib. And I knew you'd be brought here first."
"I was coming to meet you tomorrow,” I explained quickly, guiltily.
He frowned. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow may have been too late. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you to learn if you were really a better person than me."
"Why should I be better than you?"
"Because you rule this great country. I only take care of its soul,” he replied, not sparing the irony.
"From all I hear, you are the Pied Piper of this village,” I said drily. “You've taken away all the children."
He gave me a strange look, not unmixed with respect. “I am no Pied Piper. I never told the government to refuse to educate its people."
We were fencing with each other, I realized suddenly, and to my surprise, I found that I was enjoying it. “You hate the Hindus, don't you? Because of your father."
He laughed cynically. “My father was nothing. An unthinking animal with pretty words in his mouth. What did he know about God when he knew nothing of morality?” He looked towards the tent and his face twisted with bitterness. “Why should I hate these people? They are not people, they are a single undefined mass. They ooze over the earth unthinkingly. They can be stamped upon, and they won't react, because they have no mind, only feelings. And feelings without a mind to direct them are powerless. But touch their symbols and they go wild with rage. My only regret is that my father's Hindu blood is in me and will one day betray me."
"Touch any group's symbols and they will riot,” I said coldly. Then something made me add, “And yet, I will bet that Hindus are by far the most tolerant group. Take this, your own district. Christians and Muslims live happily in a Hindu majority state. There has never been a riot here."
"Because Christians and Muslims know better than to try to wake the sleepers."
"Or is it because Hindus tolerate you that you persist with your intolerable arrogance!” I snapped.
He just looked at me. Then his face split in a smile that had nothing spontaneous in it. All at once I had a premonition of disaster.
The priest stood up. “All right, let's find out how tolerant these people of yours are,” he said, and ran towards the temple.
"Hey you! Stop!” I shouted after him. “What are you going to do?” I was talking to the wind. He kept running. I ran after him. People were streaming out of the tent. I pushed my way through them. They didn't even react. Their eyes were dull and they fell away at the touch of my hand, their bodies crumpling like paper.
I rushed into the empty tent. It was dark and silent. The priest was nowhere to be seen. Then I heard the sound of feet on wooden floorboards. The priest was on the stage. I rushed up to the front of the tent and clambered onto the stage. In front of me, the devi was unveiled and smiled intimately at me, her glassy eyes serene, reflecting the scores of tiny lamps beneath her. I couldn't help staring at that face. Like a lake in the middle of a firestorm, I thought, deeply moved in spite of myself. Suddenly I sensed a presence behind me.
The priest stood there, his arms filled with garbage.
"Why...” Then a terrible thought struck. “Why have you brought that here?"
He grinned sardonically. “Wait and see."
"What are you going to do?” My voice was a terrified squeak.
He leapt forward, pushing me aside. I fell heavily to the
floor and lay there stunned. He put one foot upon my neck and kept me pinned to the floor. I didn't need to look at him to know what he was doing. I could hear him whistling tunelessly. In the tiny pocket of my brain where my rationality had gone into hiding, I wondered how he had taught himself to whistle. Suddenly a hand was pulling me up. “Come on, get up. Take a look at what you've done,” he whispered.
I turned towards the devi. Horror welled up in my heart. Around her the curtains were on fire, bathing her in an ugly orange light. Her face was covered with clumps of half-eaten rice and vegetables, plastic bags, peels, and something brown and lumpy which I didn't dare name. Her golden crown was ripped and fluttered like a moth in the current of air caused by the flames. Her sari had more brown stuff and food and leaf plates clinging to it, and her feet were completely hidden by more garbage. The lamps were upturned, and the prasada of rice and laddoos was scattered amongst the flowers at her feet.
I turned to the priest. “You bastard,” I screamed.
"Clean it up,” he ordered, laughing maniacally. “I'll call the others to help you."
He reached up and began to ring the temple bells. My fist wavered between his face and my duty. I stepped towards the desecrated idol. But it was too late. I heard the sound of many running feet, and shouts. The villagers were running towards their beloved temple.
The priest stopped laughing. He grabbed my hand. “Come on, we must get out of here."
"No, you clean this up before they come. I'll help. It's not right.” I brushed the filth off the devi's clothes, leaving streaks of brown behind in the wake of my fingers.
He pulled me away. “They'll kill you if they find you here. They won't stop to ask questions."
I looked through the gap in the back of the tent. The crowd had grown as the news had spread and now they were a huge mass, a black wall of destruction, unstoppable as a tidal wave.
He pulled me down the steps alongside the wings of the stage and we stumbled through the garbage dump from where he had collected his offerings for the devi. As soon as we were through, we began running, him in the lead. We leapt over the low wall that separated the temple from the churchyard, we ran across the graveyard, dodging tombstones, and around the corner of the building to the front of the church. The priest struggled with the heavy wooden doors and I waited tensely beside him.
At last he got the door open and we dashed inside. He locked and bolted the door after us.
"It won't hold long,” I said grimly, feeling vaguely satisfied at the idea.
"You're right.” He frowned and was silent for a moment. Then he looked up and smiled. “Follow me,” he ordered, pointing to some stairs at the side of the altar.
I hesitated. “Is that the other way out of this church?"
His eyebrows went up. “Out? There's nowhere we can hide in this village. They'll hunt us down like rats. We're safer here."
"My God!” The dire nature of our predicament dawned upon me. “Do you have a phone in here? I can call police headquarters."
He gave a bitter laugh. “What would a deaf man do with a phone?"
I felt embarrassed and looked away. The silence was broken by the sound of fists banging on the door.
"Come on,” he said brusquely. “We can't wait here any longer. I know a place where we can hide.” He dashed to the stairs and began climbing. I followed him, panting a little, for the stairs were steep. Only then did I realise what we were climbing towards. The breath caught in my throat, for he was leading me into a trap. The steps led up the church tower. Once we were up there we'd be stuck. I hesitated. He turned around as if he'd read my mind. “Don't worry, I know what I am doing.” Such was the power of the man that I believed him.
The stairs opened onto a little platform. Directly above us, within touching distance, were the bells. Below us, the entire village and the surrounding countryside spread out like a black mantle gashed with colour. Beneath us, in the bright light of the floodlights, were the crazy reds and purples and pinks of the temple and fairground. Faintly visible around it in the reflected light were the white and burnt orange of nearby roofs and walls. Beyond them, the countryside was draped in the mantle of night. From where we stood, I could clearly see spreading across the fairground, like a tattered cloak, the villagers who had stood aside so docilely for me to pass through a bare three hours earlier. Their anger was palpable, made more fearsome by its silence and its apparent lack of emotion. They moved across the field like a wave, crowned by a bright saffron dot brandishing a trident. Suddenly, from the cook's tent, torches appeared and rushed to join the main body of people massed at the entrance of the maidan. As the torches joined them, the others cheered once and then they swarmed forward. Every once in a while I heard a voice calling to the devi, calling to Mahadev, swearing to bring victory or die. The words seemed to belong to no one, they simply rose out of the mass of bodies streaming down the main street to the church doors.
"They're not going to stop till they've burnt you precious church down,” I told the priest.
"But I'll have won my bet,” he crowed.
"What bet? What are you talking about? You're sick!” I cried.
He didn't answer, he just looked at me and I felt every word that had passed between us come alive.
A cool wind cut through the heat and dried the sweat on my body, making me feel suddenly cold. “Please, you've made your point, now put a stop to this madness."
I looked down at the villagers massed at the foot of the church.
The priest reached up and grabbed the ropes that hung from the crossbeam supporting the bells down the middle of the tower. He began to pull on them.
"What, what are you doing?” I shouted, terrified. “They'll be up here in a second."
When he didn't answer, I tried to grab the ropes away from him. But he was physically at least one and a half times my size and twice as strong. He shrugged me off as if I were a blade of grass. I landed with a thud on the paving stones. For a second I felt nothing. Then I felt a burning in the base of my spine and my legs felt numb. I lay there and stared impotently up into the huge mouths of the bells.
At first the bells didn't seem to respond. Then, slowly, they began to move, just a few inches this way and that to start with, the arc increasing a little bit with each rotation. But still the movement had not reached the cavernous center and no sound emerged. The priest looked up at them and pulled harder. Suddenly the bells found their rhythm and began to swing backwards and forwards, ringing out across the countryside, calling out for help, and at the same time singing out their anger and defiance.
I struggled up into a semi-crouch and looked down over the edge of the parapet. Men and women were massed around the church doors for at least a quarter of a mile down the road. Their flaming torches illuminated their upturned faces. They were all looking at the bells, fear and wonder on their faces.
Then all I could feel were the bells. Like a million tiny arrows passing through my body, the sound of the bells drowned out all other sensation. I looked at the priest. He was clinging to the ropes, swinging on them with all the transparent delight of a little boy. His eyes were shut, an expression of blissful concentration on his face. He was far away from this world, in a world of his own where nothing could touch him. And I was all alone.
I looked down. The crowd seemed to have thinned. They've gone away, I thought bitterly, the bells have scared them away. Or maybe word had gone around that I was in the tower with the priest and regretted the unhappy coincidence that had brought me to this place. Then I realised that the villagers hadn't gone away. They had only retreated to the edge of the circle of light and were getting ready to beat down the front doors of the church with a wooden battering ram.
The breeze grew stronger, whipping through my hair and my fear-soaked shirt. Suddenly I smelt it, that first whiff of dampness mixed with dust that is the messenger of the rain.
"They're going to break down the doors of your church,” I shouted to the priest.
"Stop! The beam will break and the bells will crush us,” I yelled.
Suddenly I heard a tremendous crash. I looked down. The battering ram had begun its work.
"You see, they'll be in here very soon,” I told the priest with gloomy delight.
"So will my people,” the priest answered.
"Your people are cowards,” I spat.
But the priest didn't respond, he was swinging on the ropes, his eyes closed, lips moving wordlessly in prayer.
Another crash shook the building, this time accompanied by the breaking of glass. I leaned over the parapet. On the ground below, they were cheering weakly, scenting victory. Another cry to the devi rent the air and they moved back for the third and last strike.
Suddenly the sky was rent by roll upon roll of thunder. But so intent were the people on the ground on what they were about to accomplish that they paid no attention. My ears seemed to be the only ones that were listening to God's warning.
"Did you hear that thunder?” I shouted at the priest. “That's God's way of telling you to stop this madness now, before it's too late. If you won't listen to me, at least listen to him."
The priest's rapt expression never changed. His eyes were glazed. “I heard them,” he muttered blissfully. “I heard the bells."
"That wasn't bells you heard, that was thunder,” I cried.
He looked at me pityingly. “You don't understand. God has given me His reward,” he said. “This was meant to be."