The Toss Of A Lemon Part 19

"False." Mani Iyer interrupts, agreeing emphatically with the older Brahmin man. "It's all lies."

Vairum, since returning to Cholapatti, has been a regular attendee at the salon, though he doesn't come daily, because he is too busy with his work and because he prefers to maintain a slight distance from these men who are nonetheless useful to him.

"It is the expression of our youth." Muthu Reddiar sweeps the s.p.a.ce before him good-humouredly. "They are impatient. Don't take it so seriously."

Vairum had chatted with Minister on arriving, before the others had come. This "Self-Respect" Ramayana seems to Minister to be the harbinger of a fate that has already begun to strike. The years have not been great for him, politically, and he is serving as Taluk Board president-again. He had stood for election last year at the urging of his numerous friends. While it was not in him to turn down any opportunity to be a figurehead, he was acutely conscious of not having held so lowly a position (the first time, it was a pinnacle!) in over ten years. Back then it was a position given by appointment. In the years since, these decisions have increasingly been made by election. Minister progressed into ever-greater circles of influence, elected to the District Board and then to the Legislative Council, but as the franchise expanded beyond the elite, his decline was drawn: he can no longer drum up a majority vote beyond the taluk. Now, Brahmins will vote for him because he is one of them, and select non-Brahmins if he can still do something for them. But he never thought to court peasants-it never occurred to him that they could have any impact on his political future.

While the Self-Respecters' politics take something from each of Congress (they are for independence) and Justice (they advocate rule by non-Brahmins), they are resolved on overturning the elite cla.s.s to which all the salon-goers belong, regardless of caste. These men enjoy debating Self-Respect politics, and even take the Dravidians' side in the safety of their small gathering, but they are scared of the Self-Respecters and have no intention of going near that performance tonight.

Dr. Kittu Iyer's eye softens as it lands on Vairum, who rarely speaks here, despite his frequent attendance. "You, at least, we can count on to take the right side in this debate: it's wonderful of your mother to be doing this for you, and the whole community will benefit, especially the illiterates, who get so few such uplifting opportunities."

Unsurprisingly, the conventional audience gets by far the greater share that first night. Vairum attends, as he is expected to, with Vani, and feels acutely self-conscious. He thinks at first that this is because those in the audience fawningly make a place for him at the front, expressing grat.i.tude that his mother has done this for them. Perhaps he is uncomfortable because they all know the reason Sivakami has sponsored this: his and Vani's childlessness. He realizes, however, over the course of the performance, which he finds predictably conventional and uninspiring, that, although he is religious, he has nothing in common with the Brahmins who surround him.

He unconsciously fingers the old silver coin flipped into his waistband as he thinks how he has no friends among the Brahmins here. Since returning, he has made friends mostly among upper-caste non-Brahmins in Kulithalai while his Cholapatti neighbours remain as distasteful to him as ever, in their narrowness and lack of generosity, which he thinks he sees in his mother, also: she will help anyone of the clan, but her goodwill, he thinks, stops at the exit to the Brahmin quarter. He has also heard them complaining about his generosity, of all of all things, he thinks, getting worked up even as he sits before the decorated stage, his mind far from the action. He has bought a number of their plots of land, which they had let go through their laziness and bad decisions, and turned them around. They got a better price from him than they would from anyone else, but then they complain to one another! Jealousy. And they can't stand that he is friends with non-Brahmins, and that he hired a non-Brahmin manager for his rice mill: the best applicant, a born leader, even if he is from one of the peasant castes. things, he thinks, getting worked up even as he sits before the decorated stage, his mind far from the action. He has bought a number of their plots of land, which they had let go through their laziness and bad decisions, and turned them around. They got a better price from him than they would from anyone else, but then they complain to one another! Jealousy. And they can't stand that he is friends with non-Brahmins, and that he hired a non-Brahmin manager for his rice mill: the best applicant, a born leader, even if he is from one of the peasant castes.

Why should I pretend solidarity with my caste? he is fuming, as they sit around him, smelling of holy ash and hair oil, gasping at all the familiar plot points. my caste? he is fuming, as they sit around him, smelling of holy ash and hair oil, gasping at all the familiar plot points. What What have they ever have they ever done for done for me? me?

He waits out the performance, more for Vani's sake than anything, but it is a torment.

THE NEXT MORNING, when Muthu Reddiar arrives at the salon entrance, mopping his brow with an outsized kerchief and twirling the ends of his moustaches to guard against wilting, he wheezes, "Bets are being paid out at the club."

"The people have shown their might!" an unfamiliar voice crows in Tamil behind him. It's Murthy, his hair oiled and slicked back with care into a kudumi, minus one lock hanging before his ear. His kurta is stained with what might be squash. He occasionally drops in at the salon to tout Brahmin uplift: communal politics have led Brahmins, too, to realize they might claim some unified ident.i.ty. "Tradition offers rea.s.surance, consolation," Murthy puffs. "It will always win out over sensationalism. Clearly, the people's affection for the real Ramayana will triumph over childish stunts."

Minister always welcomes Murthy (despite the man's disregard for the English usage rule) as a link to a const.i.tuency best cultivated via its zealots. Still, he hates having to think in communal terms and yearns for the times when he had only to fulfill promises to important individuals.

"Bah! The people are scared." Ranga Chettiar jabs his finger aggressively at Murthy, who looks surprised and pained. "You and your ilk have cowed them for eight thousand years. But someday"-the Chettiar's voice dives deep into his most profundo ba.s.so-"someday, he will break the chains of Aryan domination and come into the full flowering of his Dravidian manhood..."

"So breaking the chains of British domination and coming into our Indian manhood takes no place in your scheme?" Dr. Kittu Iyer's narrow jowls quiver.

"Now, now." Minister's tone is more censorious than he would wish, but the doctor has. .h.i.t a nerve. "If one is born and comes of age within a united empire, loyalty to it is as loyalty to parents and ancestors. If one renounces one's heritage, one is nothing."

Minister catches Vairum's eye and suddenly feels fiercely annoyed with the younger man for observing all, daily, in silence, never taking a stand. Vairum clearly has no political ambitions-why is he here?

"Isn't that right, Vairum?" Minister lobs. "Look at what your mother is doing for you-you owe her the world, isn't it?"

Vairum wags his head noncommittally. Such statements, his gesture might imply, are self-evident and need hardly be spoken.

Vairum goes again that night to the Ramayana Sivakami sponsored but finds himself unable to bear being surrounded by Brahmins. Several of his friends told him that day that they would be attending the other Ramayana because they were interested in supporting its message of non-Brahmin liberation. He is interested in that, too, and thinks, They are are my G.o.ds. Can my G.o.ds. Can I I not wors.h.i.+p them not wors.h.i.+p them as as well in well in an atmosphere I find an atmosphere I find more sympathetic? more sympathetic?

He takes Vani home, then goes and joins his friends. He is a little shocked by what he sees: Rama and Lakshmana as comic villains, Sita as a harlot, and Ravana made to seem a hero-as though this story were written on the other side of the world from the one he knows. He isn't sure how to reconcile this with his daily prayers to the Ramar in his home, except to think that his prayers are private. He has his convictions and can't escape his heritage. They are the G.o.ds of my home and I am and I am obliged to wors.h.i.+p them, he thinks, but he is not obliged to wors.h.i.+p them in the company of people he cannot like or respect. How can he share their religious feeling if he doesn't share their caste sentiment? obliged to wors.h.i.+p them, he thinks, but he is not obliged to wors.h.i.+p them in the company of people he cannot like or respect. How can he share their religious feeling if he doesn't share their caste sentiment?

He decides that the Self-Respect Ramayana is not an act of devotion, but it doesn't need to be. He prays at home. This is something different.

When Sivakami serves him breakfast the next morning, she asks Vairum to report on the performance, which she will not attend until the last night. His response is predictably disappointing.

"Amma, even weddings are more unique than these Ramayana performances," he dryly points out. "Why waste breath? Attendance was good."

Muchami reliably gives a much more satisfying account, taking nearly an hour to describe the costumes and mimic the highlights of the evening. Gayatri, who had attended, claims she is entertained all over again by Muchami's show, but also a.s.sures Sivakami, "It's first first-cla.s.s performance, Sivakamikka, take it from me." She repeats, with emphasis, the English phrase that has pa.s.sed confidently into bourgeois Tamil. "First-cla.s.s." "First-cla.s.s."

Muchami also, however, brings the unwelcome wisdom that nine-year-old Laddu, who had been given permission to attend, was spotted at the wrong tent. Sivakami mentions this to Vairum, who catches Laddu up by one arm from the corner where he is napping and delivers a brief but thorough thras.h.i.+ng.

"You were given permission to attend the performance your grandmother sponsored. You were not given time and freedom to do whatever you want. As long as you live under this roof, you will abide by what you are told. Clear?"

Laddu drops back onto the floor, sobbing.

The next day, Sivakami doesn't bother asking Vairum for his report but rather waits for Muchami's, which he delivers with all the enthusiasm and verve of the days prior, though he omits one detail. Gayatri notes this omission and says nothing: Vairum was seen once more under the canvas roof of the other troupe's performance tent.

"You all have enjoyed terrific success," Dr. Kittu Iyer says stiffly, in a rare acknowledgement, that same morning. The night before, that of the third performance, Self-Respect's audience equalled Sivakami's. "With the kinds of concessions the Justice Party has achieved for the non-Brahmin sector, one can't help but see a time when very few Brahmins would want to live in Tamil Nadu," he mumbles tangentially. "Opportunities are becoming scarce for us."

"Oh, pshaw!" Ranga Chettiar ejects. "The presidency's Brahmins have had their rampant nepotism but slightly curtailed. This hardly heralds your starvation, my good fellow!"

"Well may we all starve if our country is run by an administration chock full of fellows whose ICS examination scores are deplorably below par." Mani Iyer trembles indignantly.

"Yes, none of you fellows has been able to satisfactorily explain the continued inadequacy of performance by non-Brahmin castes on all academic and standardized measures," Dr. Kittu Iyer accuses. "And these reserved positions in colleges and the government can hardly offer much motivation to improve."

"Oh, come now." Rama Sastri, the lawyer, waves an orangewood stick at them and goes back to his cuticles. "All of your nephews and cousins and the brothers of your sons-in-law have profited from your acquaintance with our host. This is why you have so consistently returned him to office."

The remark is all too accurate, but none of them needs to be reminded. Minister, as their host and the subject of this most awkward moment, grasps for a remark which will smooth it.

"I'm sorry," the Sastri smirks. "That was tacky."

Young Kesavan, the Sanskrit master, attending for a second day, rises, stretches and yawns. "I agree that the administration is far too Brahminically weighted. It's not healthy for our future. But I, too, wish that non-Brahmin lobby groups could put the energy into self-improvement that they have invested in divisiveness and political manoeuvring."

"I... I think," Minister begins, "I know you all have real evidence of my esteem for you and your families. You have been my const.i.tuency and will remain so. What benefit could I expect if I didn't return your trust?"

"You are a beacon, Minister," Muthu Reddiar rejoins with hearty ambiguity. "We are all looking to you in this difficult time."

"I have been waiting for that boy, that traitor-where is Vairum today?" Dr. Kittu Iyer springs to his feet, then looks a little dizzy. "You all have heard that he is now attending this Self-Respect whatever-it-is-called ? ?" he spits.

Minister had not heard this and becomes grave. "I ... he must have business in Trichy today. Are you quite sure? He didn't attend the performance his mother sponsored for him?"

His cronies shake their heads, not sure whether they are glad or regretful to be delivering him this news.

At 3:30, Minister descends to eat his tiffin. Exiting the stairwell, he padlocks the door behind him. It's only mid-afternoon, but with alien elements about the village, it's best not to take chances. Crossing the veranda, he steps into the narrow hallway that opens into the great hall and pauses to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.

He's sleepy. He's been attending only the first portion of the performance each night, just long enough to show his support for Sivakami. Even this brief appearance, however, has meant he gets to bed later than usual. And the daily salon inevitably leaves him too stimulated to manage an afternoon rest.

Gayatri smiles at him and shoos the children from the dining room as he sits. She lays a banana leaf on the floor in front of him and goes to the kitchen to fetch a serving vessel full of freshly steamed idlis. She puts five on the leaf and returns to the kitchen for okra sambar. The oily crescent moons beneath her eyes are darker than usual-it's been a busy week and she can't get to sleep at night until her husband comes home.

"How is Sivakami Mami?" he commences.

"Resigned. We didn't even speak of the other Ramayana today. Muchami gives such an entertaining-"

"Vairum has been seen at that other Ramayana."

This is not a revelation to Gayatri. "He punished his nephew for the same transgression," she says, though she is aware, on a level she can't articulate, that it is not the same transgression at all. "Are you going to say something to Vairum?"

"I don't understand his motives!" He shakes his head. "Does Sivakami Mami know he's been seen there?"

"I would hope no one would dare tell her." Gayatri stands to accept the baby from her mother-in-law.

"This is how big St. Joseph's College graduates behave?" Minister jabs the air with his eating hand, scattering beads of okra, then jabs again at his food. "What can he be thinking? He's not a child."

"No, yes." Gayatri jiggles the baby vigorously on her hip. "Maybe he needs a child of his own before he feels that."

"Hm," Minister grunts.

"He won't say it, but I think he thinks Cholapatti Brahmins don't accept him," Gayatri ventures.

"They don't," Minister responds pragmatically. "So what?"

"So maybe this is a kind of revenge."

"But no one cares but his mother!" Minister expostulates. "All he will do is give food for gossip and wound her."

Gayatri murmurs agreement, because if she didn't, she would have to suspect that Vairum may see this all too well, that his attendance is not a youthful caprice, nor a gesture of ignorance or naivete, and Gayatri, while she is shrewd, can't think that way about a boy she likes.

The next day, when Vairum arrives in the salon, after the other members, Minister shouts at him. "What do you think you are doing? What about your mother?"

"My mother belongs to an old order," Vairum responds evenly. "I am interested in a new one."

The salon is astounded. Vairum has never expressed an opinion before and they, with the exception of Rama Sastri, realize now that they have been a little afraid to find out where he stands.

"You... you are wors.h.i.+pping Ravana?" asks Dr. Kittu Iyer, too shocked to reprimand him.

"No-neither of these Ramayanas is an act of wors.h.i.+p. My mother's is supplication. The other is a political statement." Vairum accepts a cup of tea and a biscuit from a maid. "I wors.h.i.+p the G.o.ds of my home in my home, every morning and night. I ask them, too, for the blessing of a child, but I will wors.h.i.+p them no matter what they choose to give me in my life. I have been fortunate in most respects, so far. And I am interested in witnessing what all these Self-Respecters have to say."

Rama Sastri takes him up. "Come now, Vairum: you know very well you you are making a political statement by attending one and not the other." are making a political statement by attending one and not the other."

"Fair enough. By that reasoning, staying home would also be a political statement." Vairum watches the men watching him hold his own. "These are political times. The Self-Respecters offer an amusing spectacle. And they have a good point: the caste system is unfair."

Murthy, returning from a trip to the outhouse, hollers from the door. "I have been waiting for you! How could you betray your mother and your people in this fas.h.i.+on?" he berates Vairum in Tamil.

Although most of the other salon members would have said the same thing, they find Murthy somewhat distasteful and hearing him speak their thoughts makes them wish, a little, to take some other side.

"Your father was like a brother to me and I am as a father to you. I forbid you to return. You will attend the real Ramayana from tonight forward, yes? Good boy."

Vairum gives his father's cousin a hard look, shrewd and not unaffectionate. "I am not as confident as you of how my father would have advised me in this situation. But I have my reasons, and I will attend the performance of my choice. Excuse me."

Vairum rises and departs the salon before Murthy has a chance to react. Several seconds later, though, Murthy toddles stiffly down the stairs to give chase. He sees Vairum heading toward their houses at the other end of the Brahmin quarter and scurries after his swiftly striding form. At the end of the street, however, Vairum doesn't go into his house but continues on as the road turns left-toward town, toward the river, who knows. Murthy stops, panting, at his own veranda, the other salon members looking on, down the street, from Minister's door.

The next morning, Vairum comes back to the salon and, as always, peruses the newspapers, not speaking because he is not spoken to. Murthy is not in attendance, and the others hash things out among themselves. In a lull, Gopi Chettiar, who is also more observer than partic.i.p.ant, asks Vairum's opinion on a newly formed cereals-processing unit going up in Thiruchi.

"It will do well. I have invested," Vairum responds, his fingertips joined, so his hands form a loose cage at his mouth.

The men are clearly surprised.

"Ah," Gopi Chettiar clears his throat nervously. "They asked me... "

"Get in now," nods Vairum. "It will soon get expensive."

"While we're on the subject of investment," Muthu Reddiar breaks in, smiling, "I wanted to let you know, Vairum-well, let all of you know," he expands graciously, "my man, the Sikh, has telegraphed me that our s.h.i.+pment of Australian horses has arrived in Madras harbour. I wanted to thank you for your support in this project, Vairum. They are evidently st.u.r.dier than our Indian breeds, and the stallions should stud nicely with my line of carriage horses."

"Glad to know it," Vairum says, poker-faced. "Clearly a winning proposal."

Minister is taken aback. Business matters are often referred to in the salon, since they are inseparable from the workings of politics and power, but this discussion verges uncomfortably on transaction. He thinks, though, that he may now understand how Vairum has been benefiting from these years in attendance. Now he quickly starts to feel pride in having drawn the boy in: Minister's not a minister at present, his political fortunes may be at a low ebb, but he is still an influence peddler. The boy knows which way the wind is blowing, Minister thinks. And he is my friend.

Vairum catches his eye and they exchange a slight smile.

The morning after the sixth performance, Rama Sastri treats them to a recitation of the concluding stanzas of each of the performances. Both showed the episode in which Ravana is slain in battle by Rama. The Sastri has sent his reluctant servant to the performance each night, and the man has turned out to be an excellent reporter.

"This is our performance, close to Kamban's words, if not quite," says the Sastri, clearing his throat and proclaiming: "With Ravana's death, death, the fceld grows the fceld grows still still At such long last, the end.

Sita and Rama, reunited with dignity, Paid respects by each foe, each friend.

And this is theirs-rather innovative," he smiles, s.h.i.+fting position, dropping his right hand and lifting his left: "Ravana's n.o.ble head and body Rejoined on the funeral pyre. funeral pyre.

Dravidian pride and and sorrow now sorrow now But battlefield's battlefield's b.l.o.o.d.y mire. b.l.o.o.d.y mire.

The flames of truth and purity and purityMust in your eyes leap higher.

Ravana's children! Avenge this death!

Unite in the name ofyour sire!

Loose the blindfold of Aryan deception, Every Shastri, lyengar, Iyer Is a manufacturer of illusions Yet these are the ones you hire For your weddings, your blessings, your babies and homes Whether you be Panchama or Nair Self Respect, man! Do it yourself!

Beneath Ravana's flag: the lyre!"

The Sastri concludes with a flourish.

"It's not a lyre, it's a veena," Dr. Kittu Iyer snorts.

"Poetic licence, dear chap," Rama Sastri responds.

"You can only take poetic licence with poetry," poetry," the doctor explodes. "This is the doctor explodes. "This is drivel." drivel."

"Does anyone know why the so-called Self-Respecters ended one night early?" Mani Iyer deepens his ever-present brow wrinkles. "Surely not to actually enable the populace to celebrate Rama's return and recoronation in peace."

"Surely not." Muthu Reddiar strokes his upwardly waxed moustaches. "I pa.s.sed their tent on my way here-they're readying for performance, not packing up."

"Curiouser and curiouser," remarks Minister, and the others frown in agreement or perplexity.

"My foot!" Murthy, who had held his tongue till then, screams in English. He has leapt up, fists and eyes clenched, face flus.h.i.+ng from pomegranate to mangosteen. "Day after day this talktalktalk and no action. These fellows cannot fling about insults and expect best citizens would accept simply! Though they must think so because of you!" he spits at Vairum, who looks away, mild and skeptical.

"Have you ... a ... proposal?" Minister asks, though his tone makes it sound more like "Sit down... you're... embarra.s.sing yourself."

"Yes!" Murthy cries, returning to his native tongue, ablaze with inspiration. There is a patch of dirty grey stubble on his dewlap, missed while shaving. It wobbles at the men as he reveals his idea. "I will lie down! I will lie across the path that these a.s.ses of the audience must take to attend the debacle, and prevent them from entering."