The Toss Of A Lemon Part 20

"Bravo!" Rama Sastri starts to clap. "Take a stand, man-lying down! The show must not go on!"

Murthy heaves for the door, muttering and crying, "Must not go on, the show!"

"The peasants will never step over him," Mani Iyer offers.

"No-they will go around him," says Ranga Chettiar with exasperation.

Minister tries to intervene. "Please, dear man. Don't be rash"-and he grabs for Murthy's hand, but it is slippery and Murthy, inflamed by his vision, descends the stairs.

"Well, thank G.o.d that's that's taken care of," snorts Muthurunga Chettiar, half-reclined on a divan. taken care of," snorts Muthurunga Chettiar, half-reclined on a divan.

After some moments, Minister speaks. "I shan't let him go to that place, alone-I shall try again, this evening, to dissuade him, and if he won't be dissuaded, I will follow him. He is my good friend, like all of you, one of my const.i.tuency, and I owe him a debt of good faith."

There follows a silence in which it seems several of the men mean to speak and change their minds. Rama Sastri finally breaks it.

"Ah-I had thoughts of slinking over there myself. Curiosity, don't you know, the last night. Theatre is hardly theatre when performed by my man."

"I am not curious-I am interested by this message of non-Brahmin uplift," declares Ranga Chettiar.

"Tsk, let us join!" Muthu Reddiar waves dismissively. "It's a spectacle!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Gopi Chettiar offers in response to Ranga Chettiar's expectant look.

"We are not to be outnumbered," Dr. Kittu Iyer says with stiff and evident reluctance. "There may be those still amenable to the Congress message. "

"Quite," whimpers Mani Iyer. "Oh, quite."

Vairum clears his throat. "I'll see you all there, then." He smiles, templing his fingers, lowers his head and can't help starting to chuckle, then laugh. Rama Sastri joins in, and then Minister, and the Reddiar. The others are not so compelled but smile perplexedly at their solidarity. It seems almost fated.

"Ho, ho, what is this?" the actor playing Rama exclaims jocularly.

"Hoi! Jambu, Bala, come, quickly! See what I have found!"

Ordinarily, Murthy would bow before an actor dressed as Rama, but this is not a Rama he recognizes: painted-on leer, unimpressive profile, sloppy clothes. Rage and hurt start to pump him full again with bravado. Anyway, he can't bow: he's flat on his back.

Two more heads bend over him: Lakshmana and Sita, they can be none else, but, again, what perversions!

"Brahmin," says Lakshmana with glee, drawing a line from his own shoulder to hip to indicate the holy thread visible beneath Murthy's rumpled kurta.

"What do you want?" Sita demands. Stubble pokes through "her" rice flour face powder and kohl beauty marks.

"The show," Murthy squeaks, "must not go on!"

Rama turns to the others incredulously and Lakshmana starts a high-pitched giggle.

"Oh, come, let us get ready." Sita turns away. "Leave him until big boss comes and we have an audience."

"We have an audience!" Lakshmana jumps up and down a few times at Murthy's head, to make him wince, then follows the others.

Murthy can tell from their nasal voices and funny gaits that they are comic actors-what sort of Ramayana features comic actors in the lead roles? What was the English expression Minister Iyer was using, some months back... cave of inequity? Lair of inquiety? It means something very sinful. He was talking about opium smokers in Calcutta: white people, women. Shocking. Murthy sighs and looks at his hands, folded on his chest, chubby fingers and stubby nails, and up again at the sky. It's still blue, though each cloud blares orange off its western slope, heralding the dusk. He hears voices from around a bend in the path and tightens his bearing so he looks like a toy soldier at attention-knocked down.

"Ayoh! Enn' idhu?" Enn' idhu?" It's a woman's voice, accompanied by running feet. A family group looks down on him. It's a woman's voice, accompanied by running feet. A family group looks down on him.

"Who is it?"

"An Iyer!"

"Is the Iyer hurt? Does he need a.s.sistance?"

They do not make eye contact with him, and stand at a respectful and non-polluting distance, slightly bowed, rigid.

"No, you silly people, the Iyer doesn't need help," Murthy bellows. "As long as he knows you dolts are not partic.i.p.ating in this scandalous and disrespectful so-called Ramayana, he will be fine." He returns his attention to the sky.

A crowd has dribbled in behind the first family. As they grasp Murthy's intentions, some begin to look guilty. Others begin to smile behind raised hands. Yet others appear worried. None, however, pa.s.ses him by and the crowd grows as fast and thick as the darkness, bottlenecking some four feet from Murthy's p.r.o.ne form. A continual murmuring pa.s.ses the message back and along.

A familiar voice rings out above the hum-Rama Sastri. "By Jove, it's working!"

Murthy straightens still further. The next voice, Dr. Kittu Iyer, sounds pleased and pompous. "Well done. Well done, I say. Move aside! Step aside, here. At once!"

In the instant before they achieve the front of the crowd, however, something transpires to Murthy's other side.

Rama! Sita! Lakshmana! Hanuman! Each springs from the bushes and takes his pose until they form a grotesque caricature of the cla.s.sic formation, the very one that graces Sivakami's main hall. Murthy is lying at their feet. As one, they glance down and their faces light up with exaggerated pleasure. They present Murthy to the crowd with a sweeping gesture, as though his is one more body on the battlefield of Lanka, and a great cheer rises up. Minister and the members of his salon emerge and break this sound bubble; at their appearance, a nervous hush falls like soap film upon the ma.s.ses.

Now another shout is heard from behind the crowd, and all turn and crane to see: it is Ravana-tall, handsome, n.o.ble-looking, as he would not be in the conventional Ramayana-who at the end of the previous performance was borne away, cold and ashen, on a funeral bier. Now he brandishes a sword atop a silk-jacketed steed, which capers and snorts as vigorously as his master.

"He lives!" shouts the shrimpy Rama, and cowers, the heel of his hand pressed to his mouth. Lakshmana hides behind his brother; Sita bats her eyelashes at her former captor; Hanuman, a large-cheeked fellow with a tail, yawns and scratches.

Vairum approaches through a group of not only lower-caste labourers, but Panchamas (as untouchables are coming to be called), Christians, even Muslims, though each sub-group has cl.u.s.tered and holds itself subtly apart from the others.

"He lives! He lives! He lives!" The chant begins in the crowd.

But which crowd? For Ravana not only faces a crowd but leads one. Which is composed of... strangers. Vairum will later learn that the 05:40 Thiruchi local pulled in and deposited them-mostly young, many urban, some from as far away as Madras, all chanting Self-Respect slogans-on the Kulithalai platform, where this Ravana had met them.

The local crowd pulls back to form a ring with more of their own numbers, who have continued to appear at the rear of Ravana's guard. Murthy has not moved, though he lifts his head and strains to see.

"How charming," sneers Ravana, and suddenly turns his horse's flank toward the salon members and sweeps his sword downward. The sun reflects red off the blade and they cringe into one another. "Nay, how convenient. The Brahmins and Brahmin-lovers have come to us." Ravana looks beyond them, toward the tent, and they turn, also, to see the rest of the cast-some twenty actors-a.s.sembled behind Rama.

"Gentlemen," Ravana booms. "The moment of justice's proof has arrived!" Three of the actors take hold of Rama, Sita and Lakshmana, three others snap them into leg irons. In the same moment, Minister's arms are pulled roughly back and his wrists tied. He looks back wildly to see a fiendish young face with huge white teeth and snapping black eyes.

"Release me at once!" Vairum hears from Ranga Chettiar, though he can't see exactly what is happening.

"Brute!" This is Rama Sastri. All the salon members have been apprehended, except Vairum, who is not with them.

"As a rightful and invincible monarch of the Dravidian people, I declare the trial of our oppressors, betrayers and false prophets open. Lead the prisoners to the dock!"

Ravana wheels his charge and then stops with a puzzled frown, as though he's heard something but can't place the source. His glance b.r.e.a.s.t.s the crowd and then descends to a form at his feet.

"Halt," Vairum hears Murthy squeak.

"Naptime?" asks Ravana.

"Sabotage, my liege," offers an actor with a gaudy band around his arm reading "bailiff." "He thought he could prevent the audience from coming in if he lay across the path."

Ravana dismounts with a jangle and clank-earrings, chains, bangles, belt, hilt, scabbard, anklets-and steps up to Murthy, whose features contract in fright as he draws his hands to his breast like a dog showing its belly.

"How you Aryans under-esteem us," Ravana tut-tuts. He takes a great stride, led by an immense foot clad in a gold-embroidered, curved-toe slipper with a stamped-leather sole, across and over Murthy's sunken chest-a gesture of magnificent disrespect. Ravana's horse follows suit and Ravana remounts.

"On with the show!" he cries, and gallops toward the tent.

Murthy is hauled to his feet by a couple of bailiffs and dragged along with the crowd toward the tent.

The painted backdrop, which, for the last week, has displayed scenes of palaces, forests and rocky beaches-Rama's castle was mysteriously identical to Ravana's, down to the personnel-now provides the atmosphere of a courtroom, with a ragged St. George flapping forlornly off the same flagpole as Ravana's flag, which stands out straight, starched with rice paste. On a podium stands a statuette, dangling scales from one hand; instead of cla.s.sical Greek garb, however, the female figure is wrapped in the manner of a Tamil country tribal.

As Vairum surges forward with the crowd, he realizes that his salon-fellows are not the only detainees. There are others who must have been frog-marched in with the crowd from points distant. But-that one, with the wire-rimmed spectacles and bald head-is he supposed to be ... ? If he were reduced by about three stone, perhaps he could pa.s.s. And why is that other prisoner clad in the jaunty cap and b.u.t.toned-up jacket of... ? But the hat is tied on with string, and that dark visage, with teeth poking out in all directions, hardly cuts the profile on which so many hearts are said to have been dashed. The men of the salon don't look up often, but when they do, they are even more frightened to find themselves surrounded by characters whom they recognize from newspapers and books, but whose likenesses here are to those photos as the Self-Respect Ramayana is to the original. Vairum is concerned for the salon members and glad to be out in the crowd, should anything untoward happen. But until it does, he has to admit this Ramayana is far more entertaining than the other.

"And now, who is our judge?" demands Ravana of the crowd. "Who will sit in judgment on all those who, in weakness and greed, have downtrodden the rightful people of Dravida Nadu?"

"You, Ravana!" several young men chorus back. "You judge!"

Ravana blushes and fawns. "No, no, I really couldn't."

Uproarious laughter rises from the crowds and Ravana turns serious.

"No, I refuse to judge because I myself must be judged. I want to submit to trial along with all the others who have purported to rule and lead you. Let us put a halt to blackmail and subterfuge, and let the people judge who is to rule them!"

Cheering.

"But someone must guide and order the proceedings, at least, and for this task I propose our Mariamman, never bent nor bowed." He kicks off his slippers and makes an elaborate prostration to the tribal G.o.ddess. All those present do the same, though the salon members must be rolled into and lifted out of the position, unable to help themselves with their hands.

Ravana settles himself on a bamboo mat. Two curvaceous young women fan him. "I declare the proceedings open," he announces lightly.

This is the night Sivakami is to attend the Ramayana she sponsored. Muchami has minimized the degree of attrition it has suffered, so she is shocked, when she approaches the pandal, to find no more than twenty people in attendance, made up of a few neighbours, with some Kulithalai Brahmins she doesn't know, even though the coronation of Rama has already begun. She has brought Vani, and had called for Murthy and Rukmini before leaving. Rukmini came but said it seemed her husband was already at the performance. Gayatri, sitting on her veranda with her children as they pa.s.sed, said the same thing.

Now Sivakami turns to Muchami, who is following with Mari at a respectful distance. "Muchami! Where are Murthy Anna and Minister Anna?" she whispers loudly.

Muchami, miserable and mortified on her behalf, looks around. "I can't imagine, Amma."

Sivakami takes a place on a mat to one side of the stage and says to Vani, "I suppose Vairum was meeting some a.s.sociate and will come when he's done?"

Vani doesn't answer. Sivakami looks at her hard and looks for Muchami again, but he has taken a place with the non-Brahmins, too far away to ask him the same question.

Back at the Self-Respect Ramayana, each of the characters is tried, one by one. Vairum, caught up in the mood of the crowd, finds the hearings eerily convincing. It never would have occurred to him to fault Rama and Sita for behaving as they do in the story, but it's really quite arguable. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to see his G.o.ds as he did before. Perhaps this is what it means to be a Hindu in the new age. Mother and father are to be wors.h.i.+pped as G.o.ds, and they have their limitations, as Vairum increasingly can see. Why shouldn't the G.o.ds, too, admit their faults?

Next, the politicians are tried: the chubby Gandhi, the buck-toothed Nehru, a host of others, found short-sighted-nay, blind; neglectful; unwilling to face their own prejudices. The crowd is in a frenzy.

Finally, the men of the salon: Brahmin and non-Brahmin but all clearly elite, marked unmistakably by their fine clothes, soft hands, softer bellies. They are given no chance to speak because they are clearly guilty, guilty, guilty.

Vairum recalls his euphoria at that long-ago courtroom victory when he won his sister her due. Here it is again, the triumph of right over might. The excitement of the crowd, unbelievably, is still mounting. Their clamour coalesces into a chant: "Parade! Parade!"

Like a snake with a belly full of squirming mice, the throng surges out along the path where, so recently, Murthy stretched his now defiled body, and heads toward the other tent.

"There's another Brahmin!" shouts one of the hired goons. "Take him!"

Vairum is alarmed as two of the bailiffs reach for him.

"Ugh!" The one to reach him first pulls back. "Stop! Leper!"

The thugs surround Vairum but none is willing to touch him. One throws him a rope. "Tie your own wrists, leper."

"No!" Two of Muchami's nephews push through the crowd and shove them aside, defending Vairum against attack as they had when they were all lads in school. "He doesn't count. He has attended every night of your Ramayana."

"It's lascivious curiosity, just as they like our women," sneers the roughest-looking bailiff.

"Yeah, take advantage, but don't take it home," says another.

"Really, he is different. Even the Brahmins know it," says the older nephew gently. By then, several of Vairum's friends, who were willing to defend him but, unlike the nephews, unused to having to, have advanced with similar protests.

The ma.s.s has continued to flow around them, and now Ravana comes past on his horse, with the prisoners of the salon, roped together, trudging abjectly behind.

"What's this, a stray?" Ravana trumpets from far above, then squints at him. "Leper?"

"They say he's an exception, sire," the tubby bailiff explains.

"Oh, they say so, do they?" Ravana glances from one nephew to another. "Well then, it must be so. We must trust the locals, fellows, or how will they ever trust us? Hop to, my nasties," he calls to the salon cortege. "There's more than one way to conquer," he nods to the foiled vigilantes. "In making war, as in making love, you must use your head as well as your hands."

He gallops on with a laugh and wink.

VAIRUM IS SWEPT ALONG in the crowd to "The Coronation of Rama," the grand finale of the conventional Ramayana.

Thus it is that Sivakami witnesses her G.o.ds arrested and tried, in a monkey court where the only monkey is found innocent, and the enemy of her G.o.ds, whose painted demon face revealed little intelligence and much vanity, is surprised but gratified to find himself revered as a hero. She sees her G.o.ds and her neighbours pelted with shoes (no one should have been wearing shoes on ground that had been consecrated for the performance, she thinks-did they bring them in bags?) and thus turned into untouchables. Rama is defiled, hit with the very sandals-his own-that his younger brother had placed on the throne when the G.o.d was sent into exile.

From her vantage point, backed safely by Muchami and Mari into a corner of the clearing, along with Vani and Rukmini, Sivakami feels curiously unsurprised to see Vairum arrive with the crowd from the other Ramayana, more surprised to see Murthy and Minister arrive as prisoners.

She had been wondering whether all this was her fault, whether she attracted the other Ramayana with her extravagant gesture. Gayatri and Muchami had a.s.sured her, no, no, this could never be the case. It's not the kind of thing she would say to Vairum. She and he make eye contact now, across the crowd, but she can't tell what he is thinking. From her protected corner, she tries but can't tell if he is wearing shoes, as has been his habit since Minister bought him his first pair.

Hours later, the hoopla shows no sign of abating, and in fact feels as though it might turn ugly. Muchami edges Sivakami, Rukmini, Vani and Mari along the clearing to the path and signals to Vairum to join them. Vairum says a word of farewell to a couple of friends and comes to them. He is barefooted, but as they make their way along the path, he dives for a moment into the brush and recovers his shoes.

They are all silent as they walk and Sivakami soon realizes she is the only one who can break the quiet. None of the others will speak before she or Vairum does, and Vairum never feels the need to account for his actions.

"If you didn't want the Ramayana, I never would have commissioned it," she says, not trying to keep the reproach out of her voice.

"I never said I didn't want it," he replies, aware that this doesn't begin to explain his behaviour.

"How could you humiliate me so?" she whispers.

"I had no intention to humiliate you. My convictions are different from yours, that is all."

It's true that he attended the other Ramayana because he couldn't stand to attend Sivakami's, and yet, even as he says he didn't mean to humiliate her, he feels the statement turning into a lie. Could he have borne his neighbours' company for her sake? Another son might have, but what other son is subjected to all he must endure, for the sake of caste?