The grain ripened on the stalk and then the northwest monsoon swept in. This time the farmers prayed that the rains wouldn’t damage the standing harvest. Finally, green having turned to gold, the rice was ready to be reaped. The villages filled with activity – the busy days of the harvest, followed by a myriad other tasks: stone or wood grindstones threshing the last vestiges of grain from rice stalks, heavily laden bullock carts trundling single file along dusty paths shadowed by great banyan trees, vast hayricks being built in the yards and fields . . . If the crop was bountiful, January was a time to celebrate. During that most auspicious and lively of festivals, Pongal, the villagers rejoiced with new clothes, gifts, song, dance and worship and, most traditional of all, the boiling of new rice from the first harvest, fragrant and sweet as a baby’s breath. After the exhilarating days of Pongal, the short spring would commence, and in years of good harvests when money and goodwill were not in short supply, everyone looked forward to the great festivals of March and April – Ram Navami, Pangunni Uthiram, the beginning of the Tamil New Year, Easter, Madurai Shri Meenakshi’s wedding, Mohurram, and wrapping up the first half of the year, the dramatic Chitra Pournami festival that took place on full moon day in late April or early May. In good years, the villages exploded with joy, warmth and religious fervour. In bad years, when the granaries were empty, they exploded because anger, hunger and frustration brought out the worst in the villagers. At such times, the festivals became occasions of strife, abuse and bloodletting.
It was Solomon’s custom to visit all the villages he owned in the dry months of April and May to check their preparations for the coming monsoon. This year he had sent his brother Abraham to visit their land in the southeast. He himself would travel to the north and the west.
From the beginning of the month, drums had sounded in various temples. The drumming increased in intensity as Chitra Pournami approached. Normally, the first pre-monsoon showers should have hit the dry, parched fields and river beds, the cue for the farmers to begin their frenzied preparation of rice fields. But this year, although the sky grew rough and scaly with clouds, no rain fell. As the last week of April arrived without a whisper of rain, Solomon grew worried. One more drought and he would need to petition the Government for help in digging wells and he knew how slim his chances were. He himself was fortunate. He had mixed crops and at least some of them would continue to provide revenue. But his mango groves, paddy and cotton would suffer if the rains failed. And how would he provide for the tenant farmers who rented land? And the other villagers in his care?
Thankfully, Muthu had held his peace and even Vakeel Perumal, or Peter Jesu Perumal as Solomon should now remember to call him, had not caused any difficulty. When his brother Abraham returned from his visit, his report was less than encouraging. On the spur of the moment, Solomon decided to set out on his own inspection tour the next day. He promised Father Ashworth that he would be back in time for Vakeel Perumal’s baptism, set for later that week.
There would be no time to alert the headmen and overseers of the various villages but perhaps that was just as well: he would be able to see for himself just how bad the situation was. He ordered three covered carts to be ready to leave before daybreak.
A brain fever bird piped them out of the village before dawn. The carts creaked and rattled through a closed and sleeping world. They made good time on the metalled road and were soon at the bridge across the Chevathar. In Meenakshikoil a few pariah dogs barked desultorily at the little convoy, but soon gave up. They took the main road out of town, heading north. Huddled in a blanket, Solomon could smell the sharp acrid tang of his magnificent Nellores, their horns shaped like an embrace. He whispered a command in the ear of the cart-man, who gently twisted the tails of the bullocks. That was all the encouragement they needed; their trot became a canter, then a dead run. Solomon was exhilarated. The nippy morning air, the smell and rhythm of his bullocks at a gallop, this was what he lived for.
The moon was almost full and it hung low in the sky. They had probably an hour and a half until daybreak. A couple of miles on, they turned off the main road on to a dirt track. During the rains this path would be a treacherous morass, but now the dust lay soft and fine as rice flour, the cart’s passage leaving a long brown streamer hanging in the still air. Their progress slowed but not by a lot; the bullocks knew the way, and needed little urging to keep up the pace. They flew past isolated little huts of palm-thatch and mud, rushed through villages that slept and still they kept on under the pale light of the moon.
Sometimes their path would run along the Chevathar and it saddened Solomon to see the cracked and dry bed of the river. He remembered the time, nearly twenty-five years ago now, when Joshua and he had decided to follow the river all the way to its source. It had been the monsoon season and about ten miles upriver the Chevathar had become a monstrous swollen beast, full of turbulence and violence, as it sought to free itself from its course. Their journey had been interrupted at a place where the river had breached its banks, rendering the road impassable, and they’d had to turn back. Although they’d promised themselves that they would try again the coming year, they had never done so.
As the carts rattled on beside the shrunken river, Solomon tried to follow it in his mind’s eye to its beginnings as a tributary of the mighty Tamraparani. Their boyhood ambition had been to get to the headwaters of the Tamraparani itself, where it rose on the slopes of Agastya Malai, the mountain to which the great northern sage Agasthiar had retired after giving the Tamil country its language, grammar and enough myth and legend to support several generations of priests, scholars and scribes, not to mention releasing the Kaveri from the confines of his water-pitcher, vanquishing hosts of demons and asuras, drinking up the water of the ocean to enable the Devas to exterminate their enemies who had taken refuge beneath the waves and, most famously, commanding the Vindhyas to stop growing until he returned from his sojourn in the south, which of course he never did. From its source Joshua and Solomon had planned to wander along the course of the river – down the Southern Ghats, across the vast Tinnevelly plain and all the way to the Gulf of Mannar. River of pearls, rajahs and rishis, the Tamraparani was only seventy miles long but it had been celebrated from the most ancient times and had firmly lodged in their imagination. As, of course, had the Chevathar. A mere stream at twenty-eight miles in length, it had certainly not been exalted in poetry, myth and travelogue, but still it was their river and it had always been a regret that they had never been able to complete the journey. Perhaps he would still make it, especially if Joshua were to return.
The convoy turned right at a tumbled mass of boulders. The road began to rise but the Nellores made light work of the climb and they had soon topped the incline and were in a rougher, less cultivated world, where the dead fields with their blond stubble of hay and rice stalks gave way to flat-topped acacia and gnarled outcrops of gneiss and granite. The young Sub-Collector from Ranivoor had once told Solomon that the rocks in this area were among the oldest in the world. What stories these stern silent witnesses could tell, he thought. There was need for caution now, as the cart-track had almost petered out and knobs of stone rose abruptly out of the ground. A cart could lose a wheel, or worse, an axle. They slowed to a trot. A village assumed shape and solidity as light began to trickle into the world. There had been a short, sharp caste riot here a few years ago in which four people had died, but now it looked peaceful enough. They rattled through it, a cacophony of sound – cocks crowing, dogs barking – marking their passage. The few villagers who emerged from their huts silently watched the three carts pass. And then they were through.
Ahead rose the great palmyra forest, the cockaded palms tall and erect. Eighty-seven acres and the bedrock of the Dorai fortune. All around them the land glowed a deep red as though the intense heat of summer had plunged deep within the earth and taken up permanent residence there.
A polished sky of crimson and rose hung low over the palmyra forest; any lower, Solomon
Dorai thought, and the spiky tops of the trees would score its smooth surface. The toddy tappers were already at work, for they couldn’t leave their trees unattended, even briefly, when the sap was flowing during the hot summer and monsoon months. He got off his cart and watched a climber begin to ascend a palm. The man, short, wiry and almost as black as the trunk of the tree, slipped a short loop of rope around his feet, then took a little jump and gripped the rough, serrated bark with the instep and soles of his feet and his powerful arms on which the muscles rippled like silk. Clasping the tree tightly, he surged upward with a series of smooth jumps, moving as fast as a man walking on level ground. At the top he reached for the fleshy spathe of flowers and made a delicate incision with a small curved knife he carried. From the folded lungi which was the only garment he wore, he took out a small earthen pot. He secured this to the spathe and descended. Every day when the sap was running, the tree would yield three to four litres of sweet toddy. This precious ‘nectar of the Gods’ would either be allowed to ferment to produce the strong country liquor that was the staple of most of the villagers or it would be boiled down in cauldrons by women to make delicious jaggery.
A few of the toddy tappers recognized Solomon and came forward, snatching off their turbans, tying them around their waists and bowing deeply. One of them shouted something and a cup, deftly fashioned out of a palmyra leaf, was deferentially handed to the thalaivar. Another man brought up a pot of freshly milked toddy, unfermented and sweet, and poured it into the cup. Solomon lifted it and drank deeply. The taste exploded on his tongue. He accepted another cup as he talked to the tappers. The sap was flowing strongly this year, they said, but if the rains were poor they couldn’t be so sure about the next harvest. The palmyra was a tough palm (a prerequisite for anything that wished to thrive in the inhospitable wastes of the red teri plain), sinking its roots up to forty feet below the ground to find water, but even it needed rain.
At irregular intervals among the palms, fires winked red; those would be the women boiling the sap to get jaggery. All across his acres, this would be the scene that met the observer’s eye: ill-clad men ascending trees and women assisting them on the ground. Climbing the giant palmyra palm was hard and dangerous work, and falls that resulted in severe injuries were common. Sometimes the climbers were killed outright. Indeed, these were the most wretched of Solomon’s constituents, living far from their villages in little makeshift shacks of mud and thatch during the harvest season, but now it appeared that they were the ones who would see him through what promised to be another lean season.
Solomon spent a couple of hours in the palmyra forest; then he set off for the northernmost of his properties that lay more than half a day away. At noon, the convoy’s route again ran along the river. At this point the Chevathar pooled under tall rocks that soared out of the stony ground. A rough country dam that Solomon had had constructed about ten years ago created an elongated pool in which there was at least six feet of water. A group of laburnum trees leaned over the water, their pendent blooms a blaze of golden yellow.
A herd of skinny cattle had settled down in the shade of the trees, placidly chewing their cud. The boys in charge of them were swimming in the pool like big brown tadpoles. Without pausing to think, Solomon ordered his carts to stop, stripped off his shirt and lungi and ran down to the water’s edge, where he jumped with a huge splash into the deepest part of the pool. The boys showed some alarm at the arrival of this large stranger in their midst; then, all unknowing of his exalted stature, they splashed water in his face, giggled and swam away. Solomon paddled around the pool, feeling his worries evaporate under the strong sun and the cool touch of water. Memories of his childhood flooded him – of swimming in the wells and ponds with the other village boys, trying to catch the little quicksilver fish with his bare hands, wrestling and stick-fighting in the months after the harvest. All it needed, he thought with a deep sense of contentment, was the right set of circumstances for this middle-aged body to dance to the tune of a young child. He got out of the water after a little while, and let the sun dry him. His carters had spread a mat for him under the trees, a little away from the cattle. Solomon was about to begin eating when a thought struck him and he yelled to the chief carter, who had been with him for twenty years, to bring him some of their food in exchange for his. He handed over the mutton curry, rice and thoran that Charity had packed in exchange for their day-old rice and mango pickle. It was the food he had enjoyed in his youth, when caste, class and position hadn’t distanced him from this earth from which he had sprung.
The great magic of the afternoon enveloped him as they continued their journey northward. The bullocks were rested and they kept up a decent pace. A couple of hours across a rough boulder- and scree-strewn wilderness and they were within sight of civilization again, heralded as always by the challenge of fierce village dogs. Doves flitted across their path, the dun of their feathers scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding landscape. Reaching back into the cart for the shotgun he always carried with him on these journeys, Solomon loosed off a couple of barrels. The three doves he potted would make a nice accompaniment to the evening meal.
In the late evening, they hit black-soil country. Another half-hour or so and they would be at their destination. The cart-men clicked their tongues and twisted the tails of the bullocks and the animals increased their speed. The countryside around them was flat and cotton fields spread out in every direction. A flight of crows flew past, rough black tracks on the burnished shield of the sky. A few minutes later they were driving through the village: sixteen mud-and-palm-thatch huts on either side of a deeply rutted cart-track. The headman’s house was slightly larger than the others and brick-built but not even as grand as the small house Solomon owned in the village, a three-roomed structure of brick and mortar. The prosperity that the cotton boom had left in its wake had not yet changed the face of the village, for its harvests had continued to be poor due to lack of rain. Their arrival was clearly unexpected and a comet’s tail of runny-nosed children, dogs and idlers formed behind their convoy. Solomon drove straight to the headman’s house. Appa Andavar was clearly not expecting his landlord and was dressed casually in a dirty lungi. He leaped up from the mat on which he was sitting, simultaneously discarding his beedi, when he saw Solomon.
The headman was full of concern about another rainless year – how would he provide for his villagers and for himself if the crop was meagre? Solomon tried to reassure him as best he could. It was an Andavar village and the headman had heard about the attack on the Andavar girl, except in his version seventeen women had been attacked by a gang of Vedhars and Marudars. Solomon said that he was taking a personal interest in the matter and that there was no cause for worry. A goat was slaughtered before Solomon could even protest – the villagers had to provide the requisite hospitality to an honoured guest. After a while he sat down with the headman and the other elders to a meal of rice and a thin goat curry that was too heavily spiced with turmeric. The doves he’d bagged had been roasted but were inedible, and his estimation of the culinary ability of Appa Andavar’s household dropped even further. He politely refused an offer of toddy, despite knowing that that would mean the others couldn’t drink too, because he was suddenly very tired and wanted to wake up with a clear head.
He went to bed quite early. The inside of the house was hot and stifling, so he dragged his mat out on to the brick stoop and lay down. The moon, almost perfectly round, was pinned to a velvety sky; he turned over on his side and looked beyond its glare to the high reaches of the night where the stars frothed like glittering surf; every so often a slash of silver would scar the faintly glowing onyx backdrop, soundless and swift. He had not felt as relaxed as this for a long, long time. He fell asleep dreaming of rows of laburnum flowers lighting up the church by the sea. The padre had Vakeel Perumal’s face and was trying to tell him something urgently but he was too tired to pay attention. He slept.
17
His work done, Fa
ther Ashworth would usually try to get down to the beach at sunset to watch the sand crabs at play. They would scuttle ahead of the incoming swells, frail and disembodied as wraiths, then pause as the sea ebbed away, waiting for the next surge of water. The waves paid no heed to the dance of the sand crabs. Gathering themselves up, they would advance upon the beach, cover the dull white gleam of the sand for a brief while, and then retreat, fast or slow, depending on time, tide and weather.
This evening as he watched the crabs flirting with the waves, the priest grew reflective. His eyes followed the movement of the tide as it flowed over the beach and ebbed away. Invaders were like that, he thought. Just as the waves altered the shoreline, so too did conquerors. They might remain for a short while or overstay their welcome, but long after they had disappeared traces of their presence remained. He had no idea how much longer his own kind were likely to remain in this country; he didn’t think they would stay for ever, but they had certainly made an impact. One of the things they had had an effect on was the concept of time.
He had been fascinated when he had first arrived to learn about the Hindu way of ordering time – the belief that the universe went through an unending cycle of creation and destruction. Each cycle was equal to a hundred years in the life of Brahma, the Creator, and at the end of each cycle the entire universe was destroyed, along with Brahma, in a cataclysm. A hundred years of chaos ensued, then a new Brahma arose and the cycle began again. Within this main cycle were many sub-divisions. One of these related to a day in the life of Brahma, which was equal to 4,320 million years on earth. As soon as he awoke, the world was created; when he lay down to sleep, it was destroyed. Each day of Brahma was further divided into a thousand Mahayugas or Great Ages, which were in turn further divided into Yugas – the Krita, Treta, Dwapara and Kali. Kaliyuga had begun on 18 February 3102 BC and would last 432,000 years. The concept had given him a real insight into the capacious nature of time in his adoptive country.
The House of Blue Mangoes Page 8
