‘Will you watch . . .’
‘Only if it doesn’t spoil your concentration.’
‘No, chithappa, I want you to, it’ll help me.’
‘Fine, I’ll be here. Remember, there is just one thing you need to hold in your mind. Empty it of everything else. Me, the practice jump, the well, your friends. The only thing that you need to focus on is the take-off line. You’ll need to hit it perfectly, you’ll already know by the time you get to it if your stride is right, and then you’ll just need to relax and enjoy the perfection of your jump.’
‘And if I don’t get it right?’
‘You will,’ Joshua said imperturbably. ‘Remember, the take-off point, then you’re lifting into the air, you’re a bird, you’re Hanuman crossing the oceans in one mighty bound.’
His second practice jump was perfect. Timing his take-off precisely, he made the best jump of his life, clearing the far line by about a foot and a half. Joshua nodded his appreciation. When Aaron came up to him, he suggested casually that he dispense with the dummy run-up to the well and take the actual jump immediately.
Aaron agreed and walked to the beginning of his run-up. He could feel the breeze on his back, his shoulders. He focused on the white band of chunam in the middle distance until his eyes strained with the effort, then relaxed, jogging in place for a few seconds, letting his body go slack, his mind go blank. Then, gradually, he began to focus again on the line of white chunam. Its faraway presence in the mud of Chevathar grew defined and strong, crossing over, as his concentration deepened, from its reality on the ground into his consciousness. He began moving then, arms swinging in time to his pumping legs, his body perfectly poised. The line grew in magnitude, a broad white band of crumbling little particles of calcified stone, growing wider with each passing stride. It was a sea now, a bright white sea, drawing him closer and closer, so enormous he could vanish into it if he overbalanced. At its very lip, at the point the white would have engulfed him if he had gone any further, he took off smoothly, not checking his stride, soaring up, up, up into the sword-bright band of sky above. His passage was very quiet. Into the enormous silence and milky light, a whirr of glittering blue. Automatically a hand closed over the object, and then he had landed, no longer some fabulous creature of the empyrean, but a strong, handsome sixteen-year-old boy coming to earth effortlessly, without fear, the very best well-jumper in the world.
Joshua hastened up with his awkward stumbling gait, the boys following him, strangely quiet. Aaron, still bent in his landing position, looked up at his uncle. They did not speak. Slowly, the boy brought up his clenched left hand. A bright splatter of blue leaked out of his locked fingers. With great deliberation he opened his fist. In the palm of his hand, a tiny kingfisher lay blinded in the light, dazed by the crashing open of its prison. A moment, two, then its feathers flicked into place, its knobbly feet found purchase on the soft flesh of the boy’s palm, and it launched itself into space, blue on blue, conferring as it dwindled into the distance the perfect burnish to a morning that would pass into legend.
23
Despite his disability, Joshua Dorai was one of those men who walked lightly upon the earth, seemingly without care. Indeed, his limp seemed the only thing that kept him rooted to the earth. Without it, he would have become one of those dark, weightless shadows that race along the earth every time clouds slide across the sun. He was still in good shape, and middle age had left few marks on him: a slight slackening of the skin around his eyes and mouth, the faintest trimming of grey around the edges of his thick black hair.
Joshua and Solomon had been inseparable as children, and the day his cousin left Chevathar Solomon had felt more alone than he would have thought possible. Joshua was the only one he would listen to or confide in, the only boy who could occasionally beat him at stick-fighting, the only one who could mock his natural solemnity without fear of retribution . . . He had been so much a part of Solomon’s youth that his departure had abruptly signalled the end of the boy within him. Joshua had returned to Chevathar only once before, a dozen years after he had left, and had seemed much as before, neither rich nor poor, neither exultant nor unhappy in the life he had made for himself in the humid rubber plantations of Malaya. He showed no interest in settling down, although Solomon had urged him to stay. A few months and the familiar restlessness had taken hold of him again, and he was gone. That was a decade ago, and now he was back. There were gifts for the children, exquisite wooden toys carved from the hardwoods of the rain forest, lengths of shimmering silk, green as the sea at noontime, for Charity and the girls, and an ornate batik shirt for his cousin.
Solomon monopolized him for most of the day. The two of them sat out on the veranda, revisiting their youth. Joshua asked about Father Ashworth. The two had liked each other well enough, though Joshua’s lack of interest in the Church had often frustrated and irritated the priest. ‘How’s the old man’s Tamil? He used to sound so funny, as though he had pebbles in his mouth!’
‘Oh, his Tamil is excellent now. He’s quite an authority on local customs and traditions. Knows more than most of us here.’
‘Yes, he was very diligent.’ Joshua paused, then said with a laugh, ‘I still remember Aaron telling me that he thought the padre’s face looked like a monkey’s bottom. He asked me if his eyes were made of blue glass and wondered if he took them out when he slept. In fact, he was planning to steal them.’
Solomon laughed. Inside the house Charity heard the laughter and was glad. It was the first time in many days that her husband had sounded at ease.
After a while Solomon said, ‘The padre is not very happy with me these days.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he thinks I should make peace.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘I don’t know, I keep thinking of the pain and destruction that a battle would bring. Perhaps I should go and talk to Muthu.’
‘He won’t listen to you. He won’t rest until he has driven you from Chevathar.’
‘I know.’
They sat without speaking for a while, their mood suddenly sombre. Then Solomon asked his cousin, ‘What do you think I should do?’
Joshua didn’t reply immediately. Then he said quietly: ‘I think you must fight this battle. You must cut off Muthu’s head or your grandchildren will suffer.’
‘Rather a drastic solution. But that’s always been your way,’ Solomon said drily.
‘As it should be yours. I’m sure you’ve tried everything to keep the peace, but that’s no longer an option, anna, you know that just as much as I do!’
‘Tell me, Joshua, why do you think Muthu hates us? His sole purpose in life seems to be to erase us from the face of the earth.’
‘I can’t think of any other reason except what we just spoke about. He must rule Chevathar or die trying. Whatever his faults, he’s as proud and stubborn as us, anna . . .’
He paused for a moment, then went on: ‘You know, there is something I promised not to reveal to you, but I’m going to say it anyway and hope you will forget I said it. This morning Aaron jumped that big well in front of the Andavar quarter.’
‘The big well,’ Solomon said wonderingly. Then, a little angrily, he added, ‘And you didn’t stop him! You know it’s illegal.’
‘Oh, who cares about that, anna. But your son, he was glorious. The greatest well-jumper in the world, but it wasn’t that that was important. At the moment of his triumph, he had escaped the world, the hundreds of little things we say and do to ourselves to bind us down, make us helpless little worms, who on their deathbeds only remember and lament what they always wanted to do, but never had the courage for. Think about it, anna. What a waste of a life, no matter how pitiful or earnest or triumphant it has been. Do you honestly want to die, and in your last moment go into the dark thinking only of what might have been? You will fight, anna, you must fight, for if you die without fighting, if you capitulate to Muthu, you will repent it all your next life. We do not bow to any
one, Solomon-anna, you and I, we do not cave in quietly.’
‘True enough,’ Solomon said, ‘but I wish there was some way of resolving this matter without bloodshed. You know, Joshua, sometimes I wish appa hadn’t died so young, I feel I would have been so much more prepared if he’d been able to give me just a little more of his strength, a little more wisdom.’
Joshua nodded. ‘Anna, you already possess the sort of strength and wisdom that is granted to few.’ He laughed. ‘And besides, you have me, don’t you think you are fortunate?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Solomon said with a smile, ‘but I’m curious. Why have you come back just at this time?’
‘To see you all,’ Joshua said lightly. Then he added, ‘Actually, a kinsman I met in the west told me about the troubles in Melur and Sivakasi and I wondered whether they were being echoed here. It gave me an excuse to return . . .’
‘Things are different here now,’ Solomon said sombrely. ‘Muthu is not the only problem. A general sorrow has come over the land. Drought, taxes, unrest. It seems as though the evening of the world is upon us, Joshua.’
Joshua said, ‘Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve seen suffering and tension. The world is tired, anna, it’s been around for so long that its cares press heavy on it.’
‘They press heavy on me. There are fools and enemies everywhere I look. I’ve told you about Vakeel Perumal. Thank the Lord that he’s in jail where he can’t cause too much trouble. And Muthu, well, you know him . . .’
‘This is a violent land, anna. Muthu is more representative of it than you will ever be.’
‘Isn’t that sad? If discord and bullies are the norm.’
‘Yes,’ Joshua said, ‘but that is the way things are. Everything seems to have fallen apart, the white man is losing his grip, and in the absence of any real authority even the smallest of men becomes a tyrant.’
‘Do you really think the white man is losing control?’
‘It’s not so much about losing control, as a general indifference to the problems of the country. The British came here not to rule but to take what they could get. All they’re doing is revealing their true colours.’
‘But there are good men among them . . .’
‘There will always be exceptions but sadly such men are rare,’ Joshua said, ‘and that is why we will need to find our own answers.’
After lunch, they sprawled out on the veranda again. The serious mood of the morning had passed and Joshua, loquacious as ever, regaled Solomon with the many wondrous things he had seen and heard during his relentless travelling. He described the crowded streets of Madras, the grand British officials and merchants, so different from Father Ashworth, and unparalleled wonders such as the mysterious round objects of glass that sprang into radiance brighter than anything he had seen. ‘Rooms would fill with the sun at night,’ he said to Solomon, who laughed indulgently. When he was telling his stories, Joshua was known to be fanciful. He had even taken a train to Bombay. But he had soon tired of the press and crush of urban living and set off southwards again.
He had met with adventures everywhere. He told the incredulous Solomon about a village of high-caste women so fair that when they sneezed, their faces stained red with the onrush of blood. ‘They’re incredibly beautiful, anna, but they’re deadlier than kraits. In fulfilment of an ancient vow to Devi, the mothers-in-law are expected to kill their daughters’ husbands. They catch and kill a gecko and hang it over a small pot. Over the days, the poisonous fluids in the dead lizard slowly drip into the receptacle. When they have enough, they dry the liquid and mix it with the food of their victim in small quantities. Until he dies. Slowly. The locals call it the village of widow-makers, but the women are so beautiful that there is no dearth of men willing to defy the odds.’ Joshua’s stories grew wilder as the day stretched into evening. After they had dined off appams and a rich mutton stew simmered in coconut milk and spices, they wandered into the compound, and stood around for a while, listening to the sounds of the night.
They didn’t speak for a space, then Joshua said, ‘In the course of my wanderings I met a baba at one of those crude roadside shrines; there was no one about. It must have been somewhere in Dharwad. The old man seemed bored and glad to have some company. We talked for a long time. Most of what he said was the usual religious stuff but one thing stayed with me. He asked me why I was so restless, why I wandered so far from home, and I said my village held nothing for me, it was something I had always longed to escape. He said, no matter how far you run from Chevathar or for how long, it will never let you go because you have been fashioned by Chevathar, it is in you, you are Chevathar. Maybe that’s why I came back; maybe this is where I’m destined to be. And if Muthu’s people kill me, I’ll be here for ever.’ He gave a short laugh to dilute the weight of the moment, and added: ‘Besides, nobody can escape what the stylus of the Creator has carved on our foreheads.’
They walked back to the veranda then, and sat quietly for a while, lost in their thoughts. Night deepened, and still they lingered on the veranda, talking little. Above them a storm of stars stretched across the unwrinkled sky, their brilliance unmarred by the diminished moon.
24
High above the altar in St Paul’s was an exquisite example of local craftsmanship: an image of Christ carved out of deep brown, almost purple, rosewood, the eyes sorrowful, the features contorted in pain. When Father Ashworth had first set eyes on it, he was shaken. It was the very picture of the Lord he had carried within him since he was a schoolboy.
His public school sat on the edge of the Sussex downs. He had loved to tramp the ancient paths that criss-crossed the region. One morning, he had been out walking when the hare-bells in the grass in front of him had suddenly disappeared. A man stood before him, dressed in long flowing robes of white. He had seemed very familiar to the young boy’s eyes. He was of medium height but possessed of such great beauty and presence that Paul fell to his knees. But it was as if he had not moved at all, for he saw himself walking with the man, who while not saying a word was yet speaking to him. ‘Ye are not of the world, even as I am not of the world’ were the only words Paul could later recall.
When he got back to school, he realized why the man had seemed so familiar. In the chapel, to which they had lately become regular visitors as Easter approached, there was a stained-glass window with an especially skilful rendering of Jesus. There was a perfect resemblance, except in one crucial respect. The man Paul saw was brown-skinned and his hair and eyes were black. This appeared so remarkable to him that he had summoned up the courage to ask his history teacher about it. ‘Did Jesus really have blue eyes and blond hair?’
‘Of course not,’ Mr Barnes had replied. ‘Come, let me show you what I mean.’
On a globe, Mr Barnes showed him the harsh desert lands of West Asia. ‘If Jesus was to appear in England today, he would shock most of the people who worship him. For this was where he was born, lived and preached – in Asia. He was brown-skinned, black-eyed. He didn’t speak English but Aramaic, a tongue of the people of the desert. He was really a very minor peasant leader from Galilee. He would have barely warranted a footnote in the history books – if he hadn’t been the Messiah, of course. In fact we know there was a historical Jesus who lived during the Augustan period. I can look it up for you.’ Mr Barnes scrambled around among the books on his cluttered table until he found what he was looking for. ‘Ah, here we are. According to the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, whose account dates back to the first century, there was a wise man called Jesus who lived and taught in the approximate period of time in which he was historically located, who was put to death by Pontius Pilate . . .’ Barnes was off, like a greyhound after a hare, and there had been no stopping him after that.
Father Ashworth had risen as usual before dawn to pray. Under the gaze of the rosewood Christ, he creaked to his feet, blessed himself and walked over to the communion table. A gust of wind had scattered the pages of his manuscript, and he slowly began pic
king them up. The events of the past week had, in addition to everything else, brought work on the book to a halt.
He had visited Solomon daily but was unable to make much headway with him. He had tried talking to Joshua but that had come to nothing. Muthu Vedhar had refused to see him. And, incredibly, the deputy tahsildar had chosen this time to go on a tour of the other villages under his purview. Father Ashworth had tried contacting Chris Cooke, but he was touring as well. He had spent some time with the poojari of the Murugan temple, but it was clear that the old man’s concerns were no longer of this world. When Father Ashworth pleaded with Subramania Sastrigal to use his immense power to stop the madness that was about to ravage Chevathar, the saint had replied: ‘What you grieve about is unworthy’, and had quoted scripture in support of his view.
He could expect nothing, he knew, from the poojari’s son, Swaminathan. He was sure the scheming young man was encouraging Muthu Vedhar to fight. If Muthu became headman, Swaminathan’s own importance would increase immeasurably.
As Father Ashworth put the pages in order, he read what he had written.
At the heart of every religion in the world is the divine mystery. The problem that the teachers who have contributed to the evolution of each faith have always been confronted with can be simply stated: How to plumb the divine mystery, describe it, explain it to themselves and the followers of the faith? It is a problem almost without solution, for how do you describe God? There are no facts that can adequately explain the Supreme Reality; none but the greatest seers are granted the intuition to experience the Divine. As a result, each religion has evolved a host of symbols and myths and convention and dogma, to make its central mystery better understood. Over the centuries, these have often obscured the central mystery to the impoverishment of the faith. And the priestly class has only itself to blame for obscuring and misinterpreting the Truth, perverting religion for its own selfish ends, setting brother against brother, saint against saint, dogma against dogma. Is Krishna’s memorable message to Arjuna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra any less important than Christ’s Sermon on the Mount or the Buddha’s explication of the Eightfold Path? No, a thousand times no! Men of vision of all faiths need to explain to their followers that the goal of every religion is the same – to achieve the transcendent state, experience the one true Reality, understand fully the eternal Truth . . .
The House of Blue Mangoes Page 12
