The House of Blue Mangoes

by Davidar, David

  For all the wrong reasons, Cooke thought angrily. He held his tongue with difficulty. Thankfully Hall appeared to have vented his spleen and hardly spoke again until it was time to turn in.

  21

  By eleven in the morning, Collector Hall was settled behind the table in the deputy tahsildar’s office at Meenakshikoil. The journey had not improved his temper. Franklin, Cooke and he had interrogated the deputy tahsildar at some length and were reassured to hear that everything was under control in Chevathar. The inquiry could now be quickly concluded, Hall thought, and he could leave this abominable place to moulder in its heat, dirt and flies.

  Father Ashworth was summoned first and arrived dressed in a white cassock that was slightly the worse for wear, although it was his best. When he stepped into the room, Cooke smiled and greeted him. He liked the priest and whenever he was in the area he made sure that he spent time with him. He found Ashworth very knowledgeable. Hall’s reaction was in sharp contrast. He had met the priest once before when he had toured the district and his innate dislike of the clergy hadn’t been helped by the other’s obvious sympathy for Indians. Besides, in common with many bureaucrats, the Collector felt that priests like Father Ashworth made the job of administration more difficult by meddling in local affairs, converting Indians to Christianity and God knows what else. The heathen was meant to live and die mired in superstition. What good could the Word of the Lord do? Make him refined? Make him white? He noticed that the priest’s cassock was torn and he could almost smell the curry on him. A curry priest! A chair was found for Father Ashworth and without any ceremony the proceedings began. The priest recounted the sequence of events as he knew them: the attempt by the two Andavar men to enter the Murugan temple, retribution in the form of the rape of the Andavar girl, her subsequent suicide, the Chitra Pournami confrontation, and the impending battle, scheduled for 15 June. Hall scoffed at the priest’s concern but Father Ashworth stuck to his story with increasing vehemence. In the end, the officials said they would speak to him again when they had finished with the others.

  Solomon Dorai, who was called next, arrived with seven people. There wasn’t an inch of space to move in the tiny room and the Collector threw everyone out but his colleagues and the man they were questioning. After those who remained had settled down, Cooke asked after the headman’s family; he remembered being impressed by the older boy’s sharp mind. Noticing his Collector’s impatience, Cooke cut short the small talk and the interrogation began. Solomon corroborated the priest’s account, except in one important way. He was confident there would be no further trouble in Chevathar. No amount of prodding would make him change his statement, and as he had the support of the deputy tahsildar, no serious effort was made to challenge him.

  Muthu Vedhar’s head almost touched the low ceiling of the office. He looked impressive in his neatly washed jibba and veshti. Like the headman, he arrived with a retinue, but there were now standing instructions that only those who were to be questioned were to be allowed into the office. Muthu’s grave demeanour and striking presence made a favourable impression on his inquisitors.

  It was almost noon by the time they had finished with Muthu, and the Englishmen adjourned proceedings until the late afternoon when it would be less hot. They rode back to the tents that had been put up in a coconut grove on the outskirts of town. Their horses were led away, and they had a wash and settled down to lunch: roast chicken, gravy and potatoes and the ubiquitous caramel custard.

  ‘So, who do you think is lying?’ Hall asked his young colleague as they ploughed through dessert.

  ‘The padre’s suspicions didn’t seem unfounded,’ Cooke said cautiously.

  ‘Yes, but he’s a fool. Living too long in the tropics has addled his brain. In my view, neither side is telling the whole truth, but I think it doesn’t really matter. They’ve lived together for generations, grumbling away like an old married couple, and occasionally there’ll be a little scuffle that allows both sides to let off steam.’

  ‘But Father Ashworth was convinced that a large-scale riot was in the offing,’ Franklin said.

  ‘I doubt it. Tell you what, Franklin, get that Sub-Inspector of yours to keep an eye out for trouble. That should do it. This disgusting little place isn’t going to erupt.’

  ‘Maybe I should stay for a day or two more, sir, poke around a bit.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. I don’t know why, but the priest is making too much of a couple of stray incidents. I think it’s interesting that neither the thalaivar nor the other mirasidar supported him. So, what do we have for this afternoon?’

  Cooke consulted a notebook. ‘A lawyer who claims to have proof that he is about to be murdered by the thalaivar.’

  ‘Can’t you deal with that on your next tour to these parts? Don’t you have a jamabandi coming up soon?’

  ‘I do indeed, but the complainant maintains that what he has to say is connected with these riots that are anticipated.’

  ‘Very well then.’

  At four it was still hot. When Vakeel Perumal’s name was called, the lawyer presented himself before the investigating officials. Shabbily dressed and unshaven, he wore an unevenly coloured turban. Closer inspection proved it to be a dirty bandage that had been wrapped around his head. Blood had discoloured considerable portions of it.

  ‘Honourable sirs, I have lived in fear of my life for the last month. The thalaivar said in front of hundreds of witnesses that he would erase me from this soil. And even though we fled the village he almost succeeded in doing so, but for the grace of God. We beg you to protect us.’ So saying, the lawyer marched across to the door and flung it open. Beyond it stood five people with alarming injuries. A youngish man had his arm in a sling, and a blood-soaked bandage around his head. An elderly woman, who looked as if she might crumple to the ground, was supported by a plump middle-aged woman dressed in a dull blue sari; both the women sported bandages as did Vakeel Perumal’s two extremely pretty young daughters.

  ‘Revered sirs, these are close members of my family who were brutally attacked by Solomon Dorai’s men. They did not spare my young daughters nor my aged mother nor my nephew who was only visiting us. I beg of you distinguished gentlemen to please help us with the might of Her Blessed Majesty. And our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Hall was nonplussed by the lawyer’s performance but Cooke had leaned forward and was staring at Vakeel Perumal, a frown wrinkling his forehead. What was that story Soames had told him when they were sitting around swapping tall tales at the Boat Club in Madras last Christmas break? Vakeel Perumal had begun speaking again but Cooke was concentrating so hard on his thoughts that he didn’t hear him. Everything suddenly became clear. ‘Take off his bandage . . . Take off all their bandages,’ he said to one of the constables. His companions looked at him, astonished. As stunned as the officials, the lawyer offered little resistance to the policeman who walked up to him and yanked the bandage from his head. Before the wondering eyes of his inquisitors, Vakeel Perumal stood whole and unmarked.

  ‘Goat’s blood,’ Cooke said triumphantly. ‘A colleague told me something similar had happened in his district.’

  All at once, the Collector had had enough. The noise, the heat, these people, the deceit . . . he couldn’t bear it any longer. He stood up and said to the lawyer and his family, ‘I wish I could hang every one of you, but unfortunately the law does not permit me to do that. You’re rascals and blackguards, one and all, and you deserve everything that’s coming to you. Mr Cooke, I would like you to take over proceedings immediately. Give these people the maximum sentence, but make sure it also includes everyone being fed enough castor oil to ensure their shit submerges them completely.’ Hall’s outburst silenced the noise that had swept the room as soon as Vakeel Perumal’s deception was uncovered. The Collector strode from the room, his peon and the village watchman preceding him.

  Cooke and Franklin quickly wrapped up the proceedings. Vakeel Perumal and all the members of his family were sentence
d to prison terms varying from two weeks to three months, the maximum Cooke was empowered to award. Every one of the tricksters was to be administered castor oil.

  The officials called no one else and shut down the inquiry. They debated whether or not to detain Muthu and Solomon, at least until the supposed crisis blew over, but on the advice of the deputy tahsildar, they abandoned that notion.

  As Cooke’s clerk began to gather their papers, Father Ashworth rushed into the room, his habit flapping wildly about him. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake if you think there isn’t a real danger of a confrontation. If you’re basing your decision on Vakeel Perumal, you’re wrong. He has never been very important, he’s just an irritant, but you’re letting the dangerous men go free. Can’t you detain Muthu Vedhar? Even Solomon Dorai?’

  ‘On what grounds?’ Cooke asked patiently. ‘They haven’t committed any crime.’

  ‘What about the rape of the girl?’

  ‘Her companion wasn’t available for questioning. She has been sent to a relative in another village. Without witnesses and no suspects, we don’t have anything to proceed on.’

  ‘What about the disturbance at the Chitra Pournami festival?’

  ‘A small matter, quickly settled due to the prompt action of the headman. Surely you don’t want to put a man away for doing good? You shouldn’t worry, the deputy tahsildar has agreed to keep a weather eye open for any trouble. He doesn’t think there will be a problem.’

  ‘Then he must be part of the conspiracy. I was a witness to the threats both men made. And I know Muthu delivered an ultimatum to Solomon. I’ve already given you the date. Please . . . Question them in front of me . . . Please . . . I think I know what’s going on . . . You must stop it.’

  Cooke’s affability and patience vanished. ‘Reverend Ashworth, I’ve been patient with you but don’t get carried away. Otherwise . . .’

  But Father Ashworth had already turned away. At the door he paused. ‘A couple of days from now I wonder how easily you’ll sleep with the blood of innocent people on your hands.’

  When Franklin and Cooke arrived at their camp, they were surprised to learn that Hall had already gone, taking only his personal bearer with him. He had left word that he would spend the night in Ranivoor and set out early the next morning for Melur.

  When Hall reached Melur, he had a long slow bath, then packed a single steamer trunk. The following morning, he went to his office and wrote out his letter of resignation and sent it to the Governor. Another note was dispatched to the District and Sessions judge, asking him to hold the fort for a couple of days. He took the first train to Madras and booked a passage to Singapore. Nathaniel Hall was finished with India.

  22

  In the second half of the nineteenth century, the Madras Presidency was visited by famine seven times: in 1853–4, 1865–6, 1876–8, 1888–9, 1891–2, 1896–7 and 1899–1900. The worst of these was the Great Famine of 1876–8 which lasted twenty-two months, affected fifteen of the twenty-two districts of the Presidency (including Kilanad), and caused the death of thirty-five lakh people. It cost the state six hundred and forty lakhs of rupees in famine relief. A substantial portion of government spending was devoted to the building and digging of new tanks and wells and the strengthening of existing ones in the affected areas.

  The farmers and thalaivars of Kilanad district constructed nearly two hundred and eighty-seven wells and tanks over a ten-year period, a substantial number of them with government assistance. The new wells were made of mortar and stone for the most part, and masonry replaced the mud walls of earlier times. Some of the wells, especially those which served several houses in the driest areas, were very large and deep.

  Solomon Dorai, determined never to let the horror of 1876–8 be repeated in his villages, commissioned and funded the construction of wells and tanks wherever possible. These ranged in size from mere indentations in the ground to a monstrous well at the entrance to the Andavar tenant farmers’ quarter.

  One of the unexpected consequences of the profusion of wells in Kilanad was the growth of the sport called well-jumping. It was known nowhere else in the Presidency, or for that matter in the country. For a time there were even organized well-jumping competitions during Pongal and Deepavali, but the best jumpers spurned these tamashas as being much too tame, unless of course the prize was mouth-watering.

  It required a great deal of ability and immense courage to attempt any well more than twelve feet wide, especially those with masonry retaining walls over two feet high. Often you had only one attempt at the big wells, for if you failed you were lucky to have a clear fall into the murky waters below. Sometimes a jumper broke a leg or an arm or suffered a concussion. Or he could knock himself unconscious on the far side of the well and drop like a stone into the deep shaft, and his companions might not be swift enough to rescue him.

  The year 1896 had been a bad one for well-jumpers. Eleven had died in the district, and a couple of dozen had injured themselves badly. At the urging of several panchayats and thalaivars, Hall’s predecessor had banned well-jumping. But it grew and thrived in secret, now that the headiness of breaking the law was added to its thrills. In 1897, sixteen young men were killed. In 1898, this figure inexplicably fell to a mere three, and in 1899, two young men had died so far. All the authorities and their representatives could do was watch and attempt to be as vigilant as possible.

  Solomon Dorai’s younger son Aaron was one of the best well-jumpers ever. He had cleared most of the major wells in Chevathar and the surrounding villages, including a fifteen-footer in Panakadu village, which he had jumped about a year ago, easily the most thrilling and satisfying event of his life. By clearing the monster, he had surpassed virtually every existing record. Only the man he admired most, his uncle Joshua Dorai, had done better, clearing a sixteen-footer in his prime.

  For a long time now, the well that served the Andavar quarter in Chevathar had been a challenge to well-jumpers, but no one could quite bring themselves to tackle its seventeen-foot span and three-foot retaining walls. Every so often a brash young man would declare that he was attempting the well, in order to crown himself the best well-jumper in Kilanad, in the world, but his nerves would always let him down.

  The well was perfectly situated. It stood in the open and there was nothing to prevent the jumper getting a good run at it. The ground around it was hard, offering purchase and boost, especially during the all-important run-up and take-off. Scarcely a week passed but dirt lines scratched in the ground near the well testified that someone had intended to try but had lost their nerve in the run-up.

  Aaron decided that he would have to attempt the Andavar well immediately. He might break a leg or an arm in the hostilities they all knew were coming and never be able to jump a big well again.

  On the morning chosen for the jump, he was at the well early, along with three friends. He had practised for weeks now, and knew every inch of the terrain. He decided that he would make two practice jumps and one dummy run. He perched on the parapet wall, feeling the deliciously cool stone and mortar under his thighs, relaxing, letting his body go slack, then gradually focusing, until he had the concentration he was looking for. As dawn came crowding through the night, he slid off the parapet and, digging his toes into the gritty red laterite, paced out his run-up in great, hopping long-jumper’s strides, from the strip of white chunam that marked the take-off line to the point at which he would begin his run. He crouched for a moment at the mark, then moved sideways to begin the practice jumps. The ground for these had been prepared by his friends, making allowance for the extra distance he would have to cover to clear the parapet on both sides. For a moment he thought about Joshua-chithappa. He was nervous, more nervous than he felt he could ever be, although he had done many difficult jumps and understood how to take advantage of the feeling, part excitement, part fear, that overcame him at such moments. What a boost his hero’s presence would give him. He put Joshua out of his mind, did a few cursory knee bends
, then began his run-up, going slowly at first, and then racing towards his take-off point with the stiff, steel-springed, bounding steps that were particular to well-jumpers. Well short of the take-off line, he soared into the air, legs tucked tightly under him, body hunched forward. As his momentum slowed, he splayed his feet and landed. Perfectly, except that his feet were squarely athwart the far line. If he had jumped the well, he’d have fractured both legs on the parapet. He remained where he crouched, eyes shut, and suddenly began to shake uncontrollably.

  A hand on his shoulder, strong fingers pressing down painfully on his bare upper body. He looked up and thought at first that he was dreaming.

  ‘Joshua-chithappa! When did you arrive?’

  ‘Yesterday. One of your friends told me about this morning, but I told him not to tell you, didn’t want to spoil your concentration.’

  ‘Appa . . .’

  ‘He doesn’t know I’m here, I want it to be a surprise. And don’t worry, I won’t tell him . . .’

  ‘You might as well, I don’t think I can do it. Did you see my practice jump? I would have crashed into the wall.’

  ‘Yes, very painful I can tell you,’ Joshua said calmly. He walked with a limp, the result of the fracture that had ended his own well-jumping career.

  ‘It’s too huge, chithappa, I can’t do it,’ Aaron said, shaking his head and rising to his feet. The boy was almost as tall as his uncle. Though they didn’t look alike, they were built the same way – tall, with strong features, and the lean, high-hipped bodies of long-jumpers.

  ‘Aaron,’ his uncle said slowly, ‘you can clear the well. You took off three feet before the take-off line, and yet you almost did it.’

  ‘I know, but this one’s too big for me. It scares me . . .’

  ‘If you walk away from here, Aaron, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering about what might have been. We have a very, very short time in which to make the best use of the gifts we’ve got. You could be the greatest well-jumper this place has ever seen, and I’ve seen the best. Now, you can walk away . . .’