Best Loved Indian Stories of the Century, Volume 1

by Indira Srinivasan

  ‘Birthday! How old are you?’

  Muni repeated weakly, not being sure of it himself, ‘Fifty.’ He always calculated his age from the time of the great famine when he stood as high as the parapet around the village well, but who could calculate such things accurately nowadays with so many famines occuring? The shopman felt encouraged when other customers stood around to watch and comment. Muni thought helplessly, ‘My poverty is exposed to everybody. But what can I do?’

  ‘More likely you are seventy,’ said the shopman. ‘You also forget that you mentioned a birthday five weeks ago when you wanted castor oil for your holy bath.’

  ‘Bath! Who can dream of a bath when you have to scratch the tank-bed for a bowl of water? We would all be parched and dead but for the Big House, where they let us take a pot of water from their well.’ After saying this Muni unobtrusively rose and moved off.

  He told his wife, ‘That scoundrel would not give me anything. So go out and sell the drumsticks for what they are worth.’

  He flung himself down in a corner to recoup from the fatigue of his visit to the shop. His wife said, ‘You are getting no sauce today, nor anything else. I can’t find anything to give you to eat. Fast till evening, it’ll do you good. Take the goats and be gone now,’ and added, ‘Don’t come back before the sun is down.’ He knew that if he obeyed her she would somehow conjure up some food for him in the evening. Only he must be careful not to argue and irritate her. Her temper was undependable in the morning but improved by evening time. She was sure to go out and work—grind corn in the Big House, sweep or scrub somewhere, and earn enough to buy some food and keep a dinner ready for him in the evening.

  Unleashing the goats from the drumstick tree Muni started out, driving them ahead and uttering weird cries from time to time in order to urge them on. He passed through the village with his head bowed in thought. He did not want to look at anyone or be accosted. A couple of cronies lounging in the temple corridor hailed him, but he ignored their call. They had known him in the days of affluence when he lorded over a flock of fleecy sheep, and not the miserable gawky goats that he had today. Of course, he also used to have a few goats for those who fancied them, but the real wealth lay in sheep; they bred fast and people came and bought the fleece in the shearing season; and then that famous butcher from the town came over on the weekly market days bringing him betel leaves, tobacco, and often enough some bhang, which they smoked in a hut in the coconut grove, undisturbed by wives and well-wishers. After a smoke one felt light and elated and inclined to forgive everyone including that brother-in-law of his who had once tried to set fire to his home. But all this seemed like the memoirs of a previous birth. Some pestilence afflicted his cattle (he could of course guess who had laid his animals under a curse) and even the friendly butcher would not touch one at half the price . . . and now here he was left with the two scraggy creatures. He wished someone would rid him of their company too. The shopman had said that he was seventy. At seventy, one only waited to be summoned by God. When he was dead what would his wife do? They had lived in each other’s company since they were children. He was told on their day of wedding that he was ten years old and she was eight. During the wedding ceremony they had had to recite their respective ages and names. He had thrashed her only a few times in their career, and later she had had the upper hand. Progeny, none. Perhaps a large progeny would have brought him the blessing of the gods. Fertility brought merit. People with fourteen sons were always so prosperous and at peace with the world and themselves. He recollected the thrill he had felt when he mentioned a daughter to that shopman. Although it was not believed, what if he did not have a daughter?—his cousin in the next village had many daughters, and any one of them was as good as his; he was fond of them all and would buy them sweets if he could afford it. Still, everyone in the village whispered behind their backs that Muni and his wife were a barren couple. He avoided looking at anyone; they all professed to be so high up. And everyone else in the village had more money than he. ‘I am the poorest fellow in our caste and no wonder that they spurn me, but I won’t look at them either,’ and so he passed on along the edge of the street, with his eyes downcast and people also left him alone, commenting only to the extent, ‘Ah, there he goes with his two great goats; if he slits their throats, he may have more peace of mind’; ‘What has he to worry about anyway? They live on nothing and have nobody to worry about.’ Thus people commented when he passed through the village. Only on the outskirts did he lift his head and look up. He urged and bullied the goats until they meandered along to the foot of the horse statue on the edge of the village. He sat on its pedestal for the rest of the day. The advantage of this was that he could watch the highway and see the lorries and buses pass through to the hills, and it gave him a sense of belonging to a larger world. The pedestal of the statue was broad enough for him to move around as the sun travelled up and westward; or he could also crouch under the belly of the horse, for shade.

  The horse was nearly life-size, moulded out of clay, baked, burnt and brightly coloured, and reared its head proudly, prancing with its forelegs in the air and flourishing its tail in a loop. Beside the horse stood a warrior with scythe-like mustachios, bulging eyes and aquiline nose. The old image-makers believed in indicating a man of strength by making his eyes bulge and sharpening his moustache tips. They had also decorated the man’s chest with beads which looked today like blobs of mud through the ravages of sun and wind and rain (when it came), but Muni would insist that he had known the beads to sparkle like the nine gems at one time in his life. The horse itself was said to have been as white as a dhobi-washed sheet, and had had on its back a cover of pure brocade of red-and-black lace, matching the multicoloured sash around the waist of the warrior. But none in the village remembered the splendour as no one noticed its existence. Even Muni, who spent all his waking hours at its foot, never bothered to look up. It was untouched by the young vandals of the village who gashed tree trunks with knives and tried to topple off milestones and inscribed lewd designs on all the walls. This statue had been closer to the population of the village at one time, when this spot bordered the village; but when the highway was laid (or perhaps when the tank and wells dried up completely here) the village moved a couple of miles inland.

  Muni sat at the foot of the statue, watching his two goats graze in the arid soil among the cactus and lantana bushes. He looked at the sun; it had tilted westward no doubt, but it was not yet time to go back home; if he went too early his wife would have no food for him. Also, he must give her time to cool off her temper and feel sympathetic, and then she would scrounge and manage to get some food. He watched the mountain road for a time signal. When the green bus appeared around the bend he could leave, and his wife would feel pleased that he had let the goats feed long enough.

  He noticed now a new sort of vehicle coming down at full speed. It looked both like a motor car and a bus. He used to be intrigued by the novelty of such spectacles, but of late work was going on at the source of the river on the mountain and an assortment of people and traffic went past him, and he took it all casually and described to his wife, later in the day, not everything as he once did, but only some things, if he noticed anything special. Today, while he observed the yellow vehicle coming down, he was wondering how to describe it later when it sputtered and stopped in front of him. A red-faced foreigner who had been driving it got down and went round it, stooping, looking, and poking under the vehicle; then he straightened himself up, looked at the dashboard, stared in Muni’s direction, and approached him. ‘Excuse me, is there a gas station nearby, or do I have to wait until another car comes—’ He suddenly looked up at the clay horse and cried, ‘Marvellous!’ without completing his sentence. Muni felt he should get up and run away, and cursed his age. He could not really put his limbs into action; some years ago he could outrun a cheetah, as happened once when he went to the forest to cut fuel and it was then that two of his sheep were mauled—a sign that bad times were co
ming. Though he tried, he could not extricate himself easily from his seat, besides which there was also the problem of the goats. He could not leave them behind.

  The red-faced man wore khaki clothes—evidently a policeman or a soldier. Muni said to himself, ‘He will chase or shoot if I start running. Sometimes dogs chase only those who run—O Shiva protect me. I don’t know why this man should be after me.’ Meanwhile the foreigner cried ‘Marvellous!’ again, nodding his head. He paced around the statue with his eyes fixed on it. Muni sat frozen for a while, and then fidgeted and tried to edge away. Now the other man suddenly pressed his palms together in a salute, smiled, and said, ‘Namaste! How do you do?’

  At which Muni spoke the only English expression he had learnt, ‘Yes, no.’ Having exhausted his English vocabulary, he started in Tamil: ‘My name is Muni. These two goats are mine, and no one can gainsay it—though our village is full of slanderers these days who will not hesitate to say that what belongs to a man doesn’t belong to him.’ He rolled his eyes and shuddered at the thought of the evil-minded men and women peopling his village.

  The foreigner faithfully looked in the direction indicated by Muni’s fingers, gazed for a while at the two goats and the rocks, and with a puzzled expression took out his silver cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. Suddenly remembering the courtesies of the season, he asked, ‘Do you smoke?’ Muni answered, ‘Yes, no.’ Whereupon the red-faced man took a cigarette and gave it to Muni, who received it with surprise, having had no offer of a smoke from anyone for years now. Those days when he smoked bhang were gone with his sheep and the large-hearted butcher. Nowadays he was not able to find even matches, let alone bhang. (His wife went across and borrowed a fire at dawn from a neighbour.) He had always wanted to smoke a cigarette; only once had the shopman given him one on credit, and he remembered how good it had tasted. The other flicked the lighter open and offered a light to Muni. Muni felt so confused about how to act that he blew on it and put it out. The other, puzzled but undaunted, flourished his lighter, presented it again, and lit Muni’s cigarette. Muni drew a deep puff and started coughing; it was racking, no doubt, but extremely pleasant. When his cough subsided he wiped his eyes and took stock of the situation, understanding that the other man was not an inquisitor of any kind. Yet, in order to make sure, he remained wary. No need to run away from a man who gave such a potent smoke. His head was reeling from the effect of the strong American cigarette made with roasted tobacco. The man said, ‘I come from New York,’ took out a wallet from his hip pocket, and presented his card.

  Muni shrank away from the card. Perhaps he was trying to present a warrant and arrest him. Beware of khaki, one part of his mind warned. Take all the cigarettes or bhang or whatever is offered, but don’t get caught. Beware of khaki. He wished he weren’t seventy as the shopman had said. At seventy one didn’t run, but surrendered to whatever came. He could only ward off trouble by talk. So he went on, all in the chaste Tamil for which Kritam was famous. (Even the worst detractors could not deny that the famous poetess Avvaiyar was born in this area, although no one could say whether it was in Kritam or Kuppam, the adjoining village.) Out of this heritage the Tamil language gushed through Muni in an unimpeded flow. He said, ‘Before God, sir, Bhagavan, who sees everything, I tell you, sir, that we know nothing of the case. If the murder was committed, whoever did it will not escape. Bhagavan is all-seeing. Don’t ask me about it. I know nothing.’ A body had been found mutilated and thrown under a tamarind tree at the border between Kritam and Kuppam a few weeks before, giving rise to much gossip and speculation. Muni added an explanation, ‘Anything is possible there. People over there will stop at nothing.’ The foreigner nodded his head and listened courteously though he understood nothing.

  ‘I am sure you know when this horse was made,’ said the red man and smiled ingratiatingly.

  Muni reacted to the relaxed atmosphere by smiling himself, and pleaded, ‘Please go away, sir. I know nothing. I promise we will hold him for you if we see any bad character around, and we will bury him up to his neck in a coconut pit if he tries to escape; but our village has always had a clean record. Must definitely be the other village.’

  Now the red man implored, ‘Please, please, I will speak slowly, please try to understand me. Can’t you understand even a simple word of English? Everyone in this country seems to know English. I have got along with English everywhere in this country, but you don’t speak it. Have you any religious or spiritual scruples for avoiding the English speech?’

  Muni made some indistinct sounds in his throat and shook his head. Encouraged, the other went on to explain at length, uttering each syllable with care and deliberation. Presently he sidled over and took a seat beside the old man, explaining, ‘You see, last August, we probably had the hottest summer in history, and I was working in my shirtsleeves in my office on the fortieth floor of the Empire State Building. You must have heard of the power failure, and there I was stuck for four hours, no elevator, no air conditioning. All the way in the train I kept thinking, and the minute I reached home in Connecticut, I told my wife Ruth, “We will visit India this winter, it’s time to look at other civilizations.” Next day she called the travel agent first thing and told him to fix it, and so here I am. Ruth came with me but is staying back at Srinagar, and I am the one doing the rounds and joining her later.’

  Muni looked reflective at the end of this long peroration and said, rather feebly, ‘Yes, no,’ as a concession to the other’s language, and went on in Tamil, ‘When I was this high,’ he indicated a foot high, ‘I heard my uncle say . . .’

  No one can tell what he was planning to say as the other interrupted him at this stage to ask, ‘Boy, what is the secret of your teeth? How old are you?’

  The old man forgot what he had started to say and remarked, ‘Sometimes we too lose our cattle. Jackals or cheetahs may carry them off, but sometimes it is just theft from over in the next village, and then we will know who has done it. Our priest at the temple can see in the camphor flame the face of the thief, and when he is caught . . .’ He gestured with his hands a perfect mincing of meat.

  The American watched his hands intently and said, ‘I know what you mean. Chop something? Maybe I am holding you up and you want to chop wood? Where is your axe? Hand it to me and show me what to chop. I do enjoy it, you know, just a hobby. We get a lot of driftwood along the backwater near my house, and on Sundays I do nothing but chop wood for the fireplace. I really feel different when I watch the fire in the fireplace, although it may take all the sections of the Sunday New York Times to get a fire started,’ and he smiled at this reference.

  Muni felt totally confused but decided the best thing would be to make an attempt to get away from this place. He tried to edge out, saying, ‘Must go home,’ and turned to go. The other seized his shoulder and said desperately, ‘Is there no one, absolutely no one here, to translate for me?’ He looked up and down the road, which was deserted in this hot afternoon. A sudden gust of wind churned up the dust and dead leaves on the roadside into a ghostly column and propelled it towards the mountain road. The stranger almost pinioned Muni’s back to the statue and asked, ‘Isn’t this statue yours? Why don’t you sell it to me?’

  The old man now understood the reference to the horse, thought for a second, and said in his own language, ‘I was an urchin this high when I heard my grandfather explain the story of this horse and warrior, and my grandfather himself was this high when he heard his grandfather, whose grandfather . . .’

  The other man interrupted him with, ‘I don’t want to seem to have stopped here for nothing. I will offer you a good price for this,’ he said, indicating the horse. He had concluded without the least doubt that Muni owned this mud horse. Perhaps he guessed by the way he sat at its pedestal, like other souvenir-sellers in this country presiding over their wares.

  Muni followed the man’s eyes and pointing fingers and dimly understood the subject matter and, feeling relieved that the theme of the mutilated b
ody had been abandoned at least for the time being, said again, enthusiastically, ‘I was this high when my grandfather told me about this horse and the warrior, and my grandfather was this high when he himself . . .’ and he was getting into a deeper bog of remembering each time he tried to indicate the antiquity of the statue.

  The Tamil that Muni spoke was stimulating even as pure sound, and the foreigner listened with fascination. ‘I wish I had my tape-recorder here,’ he said, assuming the pleasantest expression. ‘Your language sounds wonderful. I get a kick out of every word you utter, here’—he indicated his ears—‘but you don’t have to waste your breath in sales talk. I appreciate the article. You don’t have to explain its points.’

  ‘I never went to a school, in those days only Brahmins went to schools, but we had to go out and work in the fields morning till night, from sowing to harvest time . . . and when Pongal came and we had cut the harvest, my father allowed me to go out and play with others at the tank, and so I don’t know the Parangi language you speak, even little fellows in your country probably speak the Parangi language, but here only learned men and officers know it. We had a postman in our village who could speak to you boldly in your language, but his wife ran away with someone and he does not speak to anyone at all nowadays. Who would, if a wife did what she did? Women must be watched; otherwise they will seli themselves and the home,’ and he laughed at his own quip.

  The foreigner laughed heartily, took out another cigarette, and offered it to Muni, who now smoked with ease, deciding to stay on if the fellow was going to be so good as to keep up his cigarette supply. The American now stood up on the pedestal in the attitude of a demonstrative lecturer and said, running his finger along some of the carved decorations around the horse’s neck, speaking slowly and uttering his words syllable by syllable, ‘I could give a sales talk for this better than anyone else . . . This is a marvellous combination of yellow and indigo, though faded now . . . How do you people of this country achieve these flaming colours?’