by Farahad Zama
“You go upstairs and talk to the doctor,” said Mr Naidu’s cousin. “I will bring the cart round.”
Ten minutes later, a sleeping Mr Naidu was laid flat on straw in the open cart, with Rehman next to him. Mr Naidu’s cousin sat in the front, driving the bullocks. They had left the town behind and were making their plodding way between fields when Rehman saw Mr Naidu opening his eyes. The old man beckoned him closer and Rehman bent over him.
“Make sure that Vasu is looked after,” he said in a croaking whisper. Rehman nodded and put a finger to his lips, asking him to be silent, but Mr Naidu shook his head. “I tried to kill Vasu too,” he said and Rehman’s head went still, his eyes wide. “But I couldn’t do it, so I sent him away.” Tears rolled from his eyes. “I failed in death, just as I failed in life.”
He didn’t talk any more and seemed to go back to sleep. Rehman sighed and sat back, resting against the side of the cart as it slowly made its way. Occasionally lorries went past in both directions, their brash horns overpowering the gentle tinkle of the cow bells. They were passing a small hamlet now and smoke from several cook-fires rose into the sky.
As they neared their village, Rehman looked at the sleeping man. There was something different about him and Rehman quickly put a hand on his chest. Mr Naidu was dead, just outside the village, only a few minutes short of home.
♦
Rehman never remembered how that night passed. Early the next day, all the people from Mr Naidu’s caste came together and soon strict ritual took over. Vasu’s head was shaved, while Mr Naidu’s body was prepared and carried to the cemetery on a ghat by the riverbank. The same Brahmin priest who had solemnised the monkey wedding now presided over the funeral ceremony.
Mr Naidu’s body was laid on a flat pile of logs that was then topped off with more wood until only his face was visible. Vasu was given a filled pot with a hole made in it. He was told to go round the pyre with it – a thin stream of water encircling the pyre. The priest chanted Sanskrit mantras for the departed soul’s welfare as Vasu was given a long, flaming torch. The boy looked pale and determined as he carried it to the pyre and lit it. The flames soon caught, greedily consuming the oil-soaked wood and the dead man’s body.
In the absence of any immediate family women, the day had been a relatively sedate affair with no excess lamentations. Even Vasu had been very silent and grim. While the men were at the funeral, the caste-women had prepared a vegetarian lunch for the priest and all the mourners.
Everybody soon dispersed and only Rehman and Vasu were left with Mr Naidu’s cousin’s family. Mr Naidu’s cousin signalled to his daughter-in-law and Sitakka took the boy away.
“What are we going to do about Vasu?” he said to Rehman.
“I don’t know,” said Rehman. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Obviously, he cannot stay by himself in the cottage. Can he stay in your house?”
“No,” said the cousin. “My wife and I are too old to look after children now.”
Rehman looked at him, surprised. Their older son and daughter-in-law lived with them and they had a young grandson.
“Where else then?” said Rehman. “You are the closest relatives. If not you, then some other Naidu family. It is best if he is looked after by one household, but if not, he could divide his time, I suppose.”
Mr Naidu’s cousin sighed and was silent for a long time. “For the sake of my cousin, I am willing to overlook everything and take Vasu into my house, but my wife and sons are adamant. They don’t want him here.”
“But why?” said Rehman.
“We discussed it yesterday before you came,” said the older man. “We know that it is our duty to look after Vasu. If we drive the boy out, people all round will spit on the Naidus in the village. But even so, nobody wants to take the risk.” He peered into Rehman’s face, looking for support. “I can see that you don’t understand. Vasu has the evil eye on him. Whoever looks after him winds up dead.”
“That is silly,” said Rehman. “He is a young boy who’s suffered a misfortune early in his life.” His voice rose, and towards the end, he was almost shouting.
“Nevertheless, that is what we believe,” said Mr Naidu’s cousin, in a soft voice. “Look at the evidence – his father dies in an accident, then his mother kills herself and now his grandfather. At what point do we say that he is causing these events rather than having these dreadful things caused to him?”
Rehman stood up and loudly said, “How – ”
The older man quickly raised his hands. “Please sit down. I don’t mean that Vasu is personally doing anything. But some people are just born at the wrong time, under a malevolent conjunction of planets, and misfortune stalks them all their lives. If they till a field, the rains will fail that year; if they need to cross a river, they’ll find it in spate; their wife might be barren or, if not, then their sons turn out uxorious and ungrateful. It is the opposite with some other people, born under a lucky star. Their fathers live long to guide them wisely; they buy a barren field and strike water underneath, their wives are loving and their sons many and respectful. So, as an educated man, you tell me: which category does Vasu belong to?”
“Whatever has happened until now doesn’t have to blight the boy’s future. If he is given a loving home, he can still grow up to fulfil his grandfather’s dreams,” said Rehman.
“That’s not going to happen in this village,” said Mr Naidu’s cousin. “Everybody here is afraid that if they take in Vasu, they will die and their own families will be ruined.”
“In that case, I’ll take him to town with me. He can live in my house,” said Rehman. He thought for a moment. “It’s probably for the best. Both his father and grandfather wanted him to be educated properly and that will be easier in the city.”
“Think carefully before making such a decision,” said Mr Naidu’s cousin. “Ill-fortune can strike in a city as easily as in a village. On top of that, you are not a married man – who will give their daughter to you if they know that you are already looking after a boy?”
Usha’s face swam briefly before Rehman’s eyes. What would she say? He pushed the thought firmly back. “You are not leaving me much choice. I need to go back to work so I’ll leave tomorrow and take Vasu with me.”
The old man nodded. “You are a brave and good man. For your sake, I hope that what I said is not true and that your life will be prosperous and long.”
They were both silent for a moment. Rehman heard the chirp of a cricket and the sound of a dog barking. He could see the heads of people over the wall as they passed by. It was difficult to believe that Mr Naidu was no more while the world just carried on as if it didn’t care about the death of a good man whose only wish had been to break free of the conditions in which he was born.
Rehman said to the older man, “Please find out what happened to your cousin. Why did he take such a drastic step? I have to get back to my work, otherwise I would have stayed to investigate.”
Mr Naidu’s cousin nodded. “I will try. But when a man’s time comes, he doesn’t have a choice.”
♦
As expected, once Rehman was back in town, he became very busy. There had been the concrete pouring for the slab immediately on his return and after that something or other kept going wrong on a daily basis. Seven days had gone by since Rehman and Vasu had come back to Vizag and every single one had been hectic. He had met Usha briefly a couple of days ago and filled her in on what had happened. She had gone very silent when he had told her that he had brought Vasu to live with him. He had been reluctant to push it any further, relying on time to bring the matter out in the open.
Today had been a long day too and it was almost eight in the evening when he drove home from work. He began thinking about Vasu’s schooling. He knew from his experience with the watchman Soori’s grandchildren that schools insisted on birth certificates and a parent’s signature before enrolling children. How was he going to get them? He would have to go to the village and see if
he could locate any certificates. It was just so difficult to find the time to do that. His work was taking over his life.
That led his thoughts on to Mr Naidu’s death. Rehman still found it difficult to believe that the old man had gone. He could see before him Mr Naidu’s dark face with its white teeth, his grey stubble, and his thin, sinewy arms and legs and he expected a call from him at any moment. Rehman had still been unable to figure out why the farmer had taken such a drastic step. The cotton contract that Mr Naidu had signed must have something to do with it, thought Rehman. But what? Was his work really so important that a dear friend had died and he couldn’t investigate?
The marriage bureau was closed and the verandah in front of the house was dark. He walked through it into the living room. His mother was sitting on the settee, with Pari on the floor in front of her, applying a compress.
“What’s happening? Are you OK?” he asked his mother. He smiled at Pari and said, “Hello, stranger. Long time, no see.”
His mother got up, wincing as she straightened her knees. “My arthritis was acting up, so Pari is applying warm salt. Go and wash your hands and legs. I’ll serve dinner.”
Rehman looked into the bedroom and saw Vasu sleeping, sprawled all over the bed. He went outside and ran the tap in the backyard to wash himself. He could hear sizzling in the kitchen as his mother heated up something on the gas hob. The aroma of spices wafted through the door, making his stomach rumble. He hadn’t eaten anything since a hastily grabbed lunch many hours ago. Soon he and Pari were seated at the dining table with rice, fried fish, soya bean curry and chaar – a thin, spicy, tamarind dish – in front of them.
“I’ve already had dinner,” said Pari. “But I can’t resist a little bit of chaachi’s cooking.”
“Go on, eat,” said Mrs Ali. “You can fatten up a bit. I don’t understand this modern fashion of girls being thin, as though they were famine-struck peasants.”
“Where is abba?” asked Rehman, not seeing his father.
“He has gone out with his retired friends. One of them has come back from visiting his son in America and they are all having a get-together,” said his mother. She opened the fridge, sending a cool blast of air over Rehman’s back and legs. She closed the door and put a stainless-steel bowl of home-made yoghurt on the dining table. She handed a yellow envelope with a printed stamp to Rehman and said, “This came for you today.”
Rehman held it in his left hand – he was eating with his right hand – and looked at the cover. He couldn’t figure out who had sent him the letter. His name and address were written in Telugu and he didn’t recognise the handwriting. There was no sender’s address and the postmark across the stamp was smudged so he couldn’t make it out. He tried to tear it open with one hand but his mother took it away from him.
“Eat first. You can read it later.”
They finished their dinner. Pari and Mrs Ali cleared the table while Rehman washed his hands, dried them and impatiently tore open the envelope. The letter was written in Telugu, just like the address.
‘My dear Rehman’, it began and Rehman’s eyes moved to the bottom to see who had written it. The letter was signed off, ‘Bangaru Naidu’. It was sent by Mr Naidu! Rehman quickly looked at the date – the day before he had taken the poison. Mr Naidu was illiterate, thought Rehman. How did he write the letter? The handwriting was very neat with regular-sized letters. Mr Naidu must have used a professional letter writer. Rehman started reading the letter quickly:
You have always been a great friend and, for the last few years, I’ve thought of you as no less than a son. I have asked for this letter to be held back a few days so that by the time you read this, the initial shock would have passed.
I have lived my life as my ancestors have lived for hundreds of years before me. When my son was born, I decided that his life would be different. My wife never understood why the life of our parents and grandparents was not good enough for our descendants. She thought there was nothing wrong in living from harvest to harvest, always looking into the pitiless sky for a sign of clouds. I could never explain to her why I felt that there must be a different way of living with more security and once she died, I never had to. My son justified the faith I reposed in him and became an engineer. The day he got the well dug in our backyard was the proudest moment of my life. He married a lovely girl, though not from our caste, and soon Vasu came along. My son and then my daughter-in-law passed away one after the other and these shocks almost laid me low. But I recovered. After all, as a farmer, I am used to reversals – monsoons that fail, rivers that breach their banks, pests that devour plants and even rare hailstorms that strip away crops – these have all been a normal part of my life. And I had young Vasu to look after.
I wanted my grandson to follow in my son’s footsteps. However, I realised that my strength is not what it used to be. Each season I find myself taking longer to plough the field and prepare it for sowing. You know all this information, but please forgive an old man’s rambling because I feel that I have to justify my decision to you. Vasu and I are going away on a journey and this will be our last communication with you.
Rehman looked up from the letter, confused. Then he remembered what Mr Naidu had said in the cart as they were going back to the village: I have failed in death. At the time he was dictating this letter, Mr Naidu was fully intending to take his grandson’s life too. Rehman tried to imagine the poor man’s last minutes as he called Vasu over to drink the poison, but failing to administer it. He shook his head with pity and read on.
Why am I going away? The rains have washed off the crops. The field is waterlogged and the cotton plants are dead. This has happened to me several times before and each time I’ve tied the panchi round my waist tighter and went hungry until the next season. The difference this time is the contract with the company. I know you warned me against it, but I was too anxious to secure my grandson’s future to pay much heed to your words. The company’s representative visited me a couple of days ago. He said that according to the contract, I owed them payment for the seeds, fertiliser, herbicide and the time of their professor who visited and gave me advice. I told him that the crop was no more but he said that had nothing to do with the company. I had to pay, either as part of the crop, or in cash by the original harvest date. I said that I didn’t have any other money and he said that I could always sell my land.
A farmer without land is no better than a beast of burden and I refuse to be that. So goodbye, my friend. Wish Vasu and me the best of luck on our journey.
Eighteen
Aruna was at work, answering the day’s post. The cotton Punjabi dress she was wearing needed a heavy hand with the iron to smooth out all the wrinkles and she hadn’t been able to do that so it was looking crumpled. Mr Ali had gone to the bank with a couple of cheques that had come in from out-station clients.
Around eleven, Mrs Ali came out of the house, went into the front yard and adjusted the angle of the solar rice cooker so that it faced the sun properly. She came back and sat in one of the chairs on the verandah with a pen and paper, saying, “It’s good under the fan. The kitchen is boiling.”
Aruna nodded. The rains were a fading memory and the heat had taken a grip. A car honked continuously as it went past and Mrs Ali look out, annoyed. The street wasn’t particularly busy and there was no reason to make such a racket. Mrs Ali started writing.
“Are you still practising your English writing, madam?” asked Aruna.
Mrs Ali looked up from the paper and said, “Yes. I am not doing it very regularly now, but whenever I see something interesting, I read it and try to write it in my own words.”
Aruna smiled and went back to writing addresses on postcards. Soon the only sound was the scratch of pens on paper.
“How do you spell fertiliser?” said Mrs Ali after a little while.
“F-e-r-t-i-l-i-s-e-r.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Ali, going back to her paper. After some time, she put the cap on the pen and f
lexed her fingers. “How come you are walking to work nowadays rather than coming in the car?” she asked.
Aruna looked up quickly and bent her head again. “Erm…No reason, madam. Did you pass on the letter to your son?” A few days ago, she had almost opened a yellow envelope that had come in the post before noticing that it was addressed to Rehman.
“Yes,” said Mrs Ali. “And don’t change the topic.”
“Change the topic, madam?” Aruna said. Why was her voice suddenly squeaky?
Mrs Ali sighed. “What has happened?” she said. “If you tell me that it is none of my business, then I’ll go back inside.”
Aruna closed her eyes. “I would not be so rude as to say something like that, madam. It’s nothing. I am just staying at my parents’ place for a little while, that’s all.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Ali. “Is your father all right?”
“My father, madam? Yes, he is well. Why do you say that?”
“Why else would you leave your husband and go to your father’s house?”
Aruna went back to her writing and Mrs Ali fell silent. All was quiet except for the noise of the fan and the traffic outside.
After a few moments, Mrs Ali said, “When are you going back? This weekend, next month or next year?”
Aruna threw down her pen, looked into Mrs Ali’s steady eyes and burst into tears. At that moment, an old woman came up to the gate carrying a basket on her head and shouted, “Do you want to buy roasted peanuts, lady?”
Mrs Ali waved the old woman away brusquely and went to Aruna. “Let’s talk inside,” she said and led an unresisting Aruna into the living room. Mrs Ali switched on the fan and they sat side by side on the sofa. “Right,” she said. “Now tell me what this is all about.”
