The Onus of Karma

by Rudra Krishna

  ‘Well, doctor, you leave me no choice.’ Rama punched Toefal, grabbed him by the collar and strode out, the doctor stumbling after him. ‘Toefal, I am arresting you for the murders of my deputy Karunakaran and the dacoit Arunachalam.’ He dragged the doctor outside to the hospital courtyard, ignoring the shocked looks of the hospital staff. ‘This is your last chance. Either you tell me the truth on your own or I will make you.’

  ‘Go to hell! And remember, I’ll have your black hide for this.’

  Rama pushed Toefal into the carriage and locked the door. When they arrived at the police station, he led the doctor into a holding pen and locked him in. Then he went into his room and took out a length of rope from the cupboard. Summoning a junior constable, he asked the man to fetch some green chillies. Rama carried the rope, the chillies and a small knife into the cell and deliberately placed them in full view on a table in the middle. ‘You’re a man of medicine, Toefal. Surely you know the effect slit green chillies have on an open wound.’ As the doctor’s eyes widened in fear, Rama continued, ‘Now, you will tell me who ordered you to kill those men or these chillies go up your arse.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Toefal snarled. ‘And in any event, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. These allegations are preposterous.’

  ‘You know exactly what I am talking about,’ Rama said, pushing Toefal into a chair and tying his hands with the rope. Beads of sweat appeared on the doctor’s forehead as he saw Rama approach with the knife. His breath caught in his throat, and he gasped in pain as Rama made a small gash in his arm.

  ‘Now the appetizer.’ Rama slowly slit one of the chillies lengthwise and rubbed it into the wound. Toefal yelled out in agony, sweat pouring down his face. Rama jerked Toefal to his feet and with a flick of his wrists, slashed his belt. The doctor’s trousers fell to his ankles.

  As he realized Rama’s intent, Toefal shouted, ‘Please! No! I’ll tell you everything. Ronald Morris. He’s the younger brother of Brigadier General James Morris, the commanding officer in Coimbatore. He lives there.’

  ‘What did you use to kill the men?’

  ‘Arsenic.’

  Calling in the constable on duty, Rama instructed him to write up Toefal’s statement and went home.

  Sita had gone out, but his son was playing in the courtyard with the maid. Rama stood still for a few moments, contentedly looking at his son before picking him in his arms and going inside. The English knew about the Sri chakra. He had known this day would come; the legend was too powerful to contain. He would have to go back to his village and warn his father. Rama was a little apprehensive about meeting his father. He hadn’t seen his family since he had walked out on them and he knew he wouldn’t be welcomed home as the prodigal son.

  He decided to go to Coimbatore first and make discreet enquiries about Ronald Morris. He may have gotten away with the Toefal incident, but he didn’t think the English would take kindly to his accusing a brigadier general’s brother of conspiracy. When Sita returned, Rama told her about what had happened.

  ‘I have to go to Coimbatore for a few days and then to Damar,’ he finished.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Why do you have to go? After all, all your enemies are dead.’

  ‘Because I need to find out who financed this operation, and why.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Probably in two weeks. But listen …’ He had decided he wouldn’t mention the Sri chakra, but he wanted to impress upon Sita the fact that she and Pattabhi were in danger. ‘This is a very dangerous situation, and there will be people trying to hurt us. I’d like you to take Pattabhi, all our money, and go stay with your parents at Chitoor for a while. You’ll be safe there. I’ll send Murali with you.’

  Their eyes met. Rama felt sorry for her; she didn’t deserve to constantly live in fear. He could not have avoided any of this, and he hoped she understood.

  Rama reached Coimbatore in five days. The first thing he did was look for the local police station, a large red building, where most of the officers were white. He stood outside, wondering if he should approach them and enquire about a British officer. Unable to decide, he went into a little tea-shop three doors down and ordered a cup of strong tea.

  While he waited, he saw a tall, young man enter the shop and look around for an empty table. Rama indicated with his eyes that he was welcome to join him.

  ‘You’re new here, aren’t you? To town, I mean,’ the young man asked, as he took his seat.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around. Your clothes aren’t warm enough for this place.’

  ‘Yes, I just moved here.’

  ‘My name is Arumugam. I work at one of the army sahib’s houses.’

  Rama was thrilled with this unexpected piece of good luck: perhaps he would know about Ronald Morris.

  ‘Maybe you’ve heard of him. James Morris. He’s a big officer, a brigadier general. I’m head servant in the house. What’s your name?’

  Rama’s heart was beating hard. But Shiva was with him! Calming himself, he replied in a steady voice, ‘Rama.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am from Kanchipuram. I decided to move here after two years in Madras in the police chief’s house. I’m looking for work.’

  ‘Why did you move here from Madras?’

  ‘Lots of white men. Better pay.’

  ‘True,’ replied Arumugam heartily. ‘I make enough. Plus, I get all my meals and a place to sleep in.’

  ‘I wasn’t making enough in Madras.’

  Arumugam scratched his chin and looked thoughtful. ‘I might be able to find you something,’ he said. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘I came into this shop fifteen minutes ago. I am still waiting for my tea.’

  ‘They are very slow here,’ Arumugam nodded.

  ‘Tell me about the people you work for.’

  ‘The sahibs are very good people, kind and fair.’

  ‘Sahibs?’ Rama asked.

  ‘Yes, the army sahib. He is a strict man, but very fair.’ Their tea arrived. Wetting his lips, Arumugam continued, ‘His younger brother, Ronald,’ he pronounced it Roe-nald, ‘doesn’t do anything. He’s a wastrel—goes riding in the afternoon, and drinking in the evening with his friends.’

  ‘And an army man allows this kind of life?’ Rama asked, incredulously. ‘I should have thought he’d beat him up every day!’

  ‘The sahib is a kind-hearted man. He tries to help his brother as much as he can, but the brother doesn’t like to do anything.’

  ‘Does he gamble too?’

  ‘Yes. He loses a lot of money. Sahib draws the line at repaying Ronald’s gambling debts.’

  Rama thought about this. Perhaps Morris was doing all this for money. But motives were secondary. He needed to find out for sure how he was connected to the Sri chakra.

  ‘Drink up, man, your tea’s getting cold,’ Arumugam interrupted his thoughts.

  As Rama drank his tea, Arumugam said, ‘You know, you don’t look like the sort of person who would be a servant somewhere. You have the look of an educated man.’

  ‘I am a Brahmin by caste,’ Rama replied guardedly. ‘My parents died when I was five years old; I was taken into a Brahmin household and grew up working in their house. Perhaps some of their erudition rubbed off on me. I left because I had outgrown the family. I wanted to see the world.’

  ‘Then your luck has turned. Morris needs a person to look after his children. When can you start?’

  Rama was a little nonplussed. He did not want a job; he’d only needed information. But he realized there was absolutely no way for him to back out now.

  ‘Right now. Tell me more.’

  ‘It’s an easy job. The children are three and five. Well-raised boys, both of them.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘She is a very quiet woman. But she is not the children’s mother. His first wife died last year, and he married his friend�
��s daughter. She’s not more than twenty, and he’s forty-five. There was an old ayah, but she left last week.’

  ‘And his brother?’ Rama asked, still casually.

  ‘His brother got thrown out of college in London three years ago. My sahib brought him to India.’

  ‘Who does he gamble with?’

  ‘There are lots of rich Englishmen in the area. Come on, let’s go.’

  As they got up, Rama started to pay for his tea. Arumugam said, ‘Oh, could you please pay for mine too?’

  Rama handed the shopkeeper the money and they left.

  ‘How do we get there?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a cart. We should be there in half an hour.’

  The cart was full of vegetables and some boxes. As they drove away, Rama thought of asking Arumugam some more questions, but the other man was unusually quiet.

  The mountains on the horizon looked beautifully blue in the evening light. Rama saw what his companion meant by the incongruity of his attire. It was much too chilly for the thin clothes that he wore, and he was forced to keep himself warm by rubbing his palms together vigorously.

  They arrived in front of a bungalow almost two hours later. It was big, but looked very quiet, and deserted. Weeds overran the garden and the hedges had grown to a formidable height.

  ‘That took longer than I expected,’ Rama said to Arumugam. ‘Did we take a longer route?’

  ‘I guess I misjudged the time.’

  As Rama shook the dust from his clothes and hair, he felt a vague sense of misgiving. Something was not right. Why would a senior army officer build his house on the outskirts of town? And why was it so rundown? He asked Arumugam, ‘Are you sure this is the place? It doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here for years.’

  ‘Why are you so distrustful? Don’t you think I know the house I live in? Come on. The family’s out for dinner.’

  As they entered the front door, Rama made sure to stay behind Arumugam. The passage leading in from the front door was dark. The hinges and bolts were old and rusted. He was sure something was very wrong. Even as he hastened towards Arumugam, a blunt object crashed into the back of his skull, and he fell down in a heap.

  When he came to, all Rama could feel was a massive, crushing headache. As the haze slowly cleared, he realized that he was tightly bound. He wriggled his fingers over the knots, but they were secure.

  ‘Don’t bother. Arumugam knows his knots,’ a man spoke in a clipped, slightly high-pitched British accent. Rama squinted in the dim light and saw someone standing in a deep shadowy recess. The voice went on, ‘So you are Ramaswami Aiyar. I was told you might show up. Personally, I didn’t think you were smart enough to make the connections.’

  ‘Come out, Morris, I know it is you,’ Rama snarled. ‘I should tell you that Toefal signed a confession saying you paid him to murder those men in the hospital.’

  Ronald Morris stepped out of the shadows. He was a small man, slightly built. His light blonde hair was swept over one side of his forehead. He wore riding clothes.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do about it, Aiyar. You’re going to be dead soon. Unless …’ as he allowed his words to trail off, he looked questioningly at Rama.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘You tell me where the Sri chakra is.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Let me refresh your memory, then. You’re Ramaswami Dikshitar, son of the temple priest in Damar, or, should I say, former priest? Over two thousand years ago, Adi Shankara entrusted your family with the Sri chakra, and your people have been protecting it since. Twelve years ago your father took it out of its hiding place and concealed it somewhere else. If you want to live, tell me where it is now.’

  Rama stared at the ground. Former priest? Did that mean …? His mind was racing; he needed time to think. He looked up at Morris, a stunned expression on his face. ‘What do you mean “former priest?”’

  ‘Well, he found the cost of keeping the secret much too high. But you should be proud of your father. He took it to his pyre.’

  ‘Did you …?’

  ‘One of my friends. I don’t particularly like killing people. Give me the information and I’ll let you live.’

  Even as he tried to control himself, the tears came. ‘Andava! I quarrelled with him and did not see him for nine years. Oh god!’ He repeated these words hysterically as the tears started streaming down his face. Arumugam rushed in and, on seeing Rama, looked up at his employer with a grin of enjoyment.

  ‘Can’t bear to see a grown man cry!’ Morris exclaimed, ‘I’m going to let you think about this for a couple of hours. Don’t do anything rash. I’d hate to see your pretty wife and son get hurt. Arumugam will be outside, should you need anything. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.’

  Sitting alone in the dark, Rama cursed himself bitterly. He should have known something was wrong with Arumugam. It had all been too easy. He took a deep breath; wasting time on what he should have done wasn’t going to help. Someone had betrayed them, and it had killed his father. Or had he?

  Rama’s frame was racked with silent sobs. He had pretended to get hysterical in front of Morris so that he would be given time alone, but now that he was alone there was an immense aching in his heart, the likes of which he had never experienced. Appayya Dikshitar was a strict man, and they had parted bitterly. He had never seen his father one last time to make their peace. A father and son have a bond that is hard. All other relationships can be categorized somehow. A mother and son: unconditional; a father and daughter: pampered; a mother and daughter: uneasy. But the relationship between a father and son is, in a sense, the most complex, for it keeps evolving. First, there’s the unconditional love, until the child becomes a boy and less of a toddler; then comes the irritation, which goes on until his youth when he becomes the ignored, the unwanted and the constantly wrong. This was where his own relationship with his father had ended. He had never got to the part of reconciliation or the part where the father becomes the best friend.

  He had lost his opportunity to see his father one last time. He hoped his mother was all right, but he had no idea right now. He wished he had asked Morris, but he needed to get out of here first. He took a deep breath, and concentrated. His mind flashed back to the day when Periyavar had taught him how to get free of knots and chains. He remembered wondering what an unusual subject it was compared to his other exercises.

  Rama closed his eyes loosely and focused on losing all sensation in his right shoulder. After a few minutes, he jack-knifed his body vigorously towards the left, throwing his right shoulder outward in a shock movement that ended almost as soon as it started. Rama opened his eyes in surprise and his mouth formed a silent O of pain as the ball slipped out of its socket in the shoulder bone, and he felt the ropes around him loosen instantly. He wriggled his left shoulder free by slipping one of the loops over his head after much struggling, then undid the bonds before going near the front door and whacking his right shoulder hard against a pillar, slipping the ball back in its socket and screaming as he did. The cry of pain was barely out of his mouth before he had moved behind the door and was there, waiting for Arumugam to enter.

  The door swung open and Arumugam charged into the room. Taken aback, for he had expected him to enter slowly, Rama charged forward and catching him by his shirt, swung him around. As the youth turned around, Rama kicked at him hard, catching him square in the stomach, and sending him reeling backwards. Arumugam barely had time to recover from this before Rama had leaped on him, caught him by the neck and, squeezing hard, whispered, ‘Ronald Morris, where will I find him?’

  ‘At home,’ Arumugam screamed, his eyes bulging in fear. ‘His brother is home tonight.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Krishnagiri Pass, as you approach the town centre. The house is called “de L’lsle”.’

  ‘Does his brother know about these events?’

  Arumugam kept quiet. Rama’s hold on his throat tightened and he ga
sped, ‘Yes! Yes, he does!’

  Rama released Arumugam and, before he could recover, punched him on the jaw, knocking him out. After tying up the unconscious youth, he exited the house silently, locking the front door behind him. He then ran to the side of the house, where he found a couple of horses. He selected one, saddled it and rode off. He reached a meeting point of five roads soon and chose the one marked as the Krishnagiri Pass.

  After about twenty minutes of hard riding, Rama saw the silhouette of a big building in the gloom ahead. He reined his horse some distance from the house and dismounted. Covering the remaining distance on foot, he smoothly jumped the hedge that surrounded the property and ran swiftly across the courtyard. He reached the bungalow and looked inside a window; it was a large oak-panelled dining room. Ronald Morris was sitting to the right of a stern-looking, moustached man at the head of the table. Two dark-haired boys sat opposite Morris, silently eating their dinner and occasionally glancing at the beautiful, dark-haired woman weeping at the other end of the table.

  The brigadier general seemed to be addressing his wife sternly about something while Morris nodded in agreement and smiled with satisfaction. At the end of the diatribe, the lady got up and made her way out of the dining room. She was beautiful, tall, dark-haired and slim; her skin was pale with a pink tinge everywhere, and her face was a heavier shade, for she had been crying. It was a beautiful face with gentle, oval features and a small, soft mouth. She looked too young to be married to the man who sat across the table from her, leave alone to be a mother to two young boys. As she was leaving, one of the boys, the elder one, got up and ran to hug his stepmother, and as she responded to his embrace, the smaller one got up and ran to her too. Rama could make out the tears on the tips of her long eyelashes. She was being punished for something the children had done.

  The brigadier general barked out some orders, which seemed to have no effect on the boys, but their stepmother snapped out of the moment and pushed the boys towards the table before turning on her heel and walking away.

  Rama saw a light come on in one of the rooms upstairs. He climbed on to the ledge of the floor above and found himself on a terrace outside that room. He peered in through the window and saw the lady sitting in front of a mirror. An elderly British woman stood behind her, helping her remove a pearl necklace from around her neck.