Rising Heat, page 15
Appa behaved as if a large crown had found him and sat on his head. After he joined the finance company, the first month’s interest and his share of profit for investing in the company all added up to more than three thousand. He would park the Swega at the liquor shop and drink. He couldn’t tell the difference between the sky and the earth.
‘No one can touch even the tip of my hair. No matter who it is, it will take only one punch. That won’t change even if a lakh rupees are at stake.’
He said the same thing over and over again. Manna, who had come to the liquor shop too, was the one who asked him about it. He was a weaver, and drank only once in a while. But when he did, he literally went swimming in liquor.
‘Why, Maama, are you talking non-stop? You don’t have ten rupees in your pocket right now. But you wave your hands and show off when you have nothing?’
‘Dei, what are you saying? I will stab you. Who are you challenging? Your father was a beggar. You are a beggar. You thought I am one amongst you all?’
‘Don’t say just anything. Even I can make tall claims.’
‘Just what do you want, now? You drink, I will pay for it.’
As Appa kept paying, he kept drinking. He too was fully inebriated.
‘Is this all you can do, Maama?’
‘What else do you want, da?’
‘You talk as if you have thousands in cash and you can buy anything that I ask for.’
‘Dei, you loafing dog, look at this . . .’
Appa pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket and flung it at him. Fifty- and hundred-rupee notes flew up and fell everywhere in front of the liquor shop. Appa could not stop laughing. ‘Look, you fool, look,’ he said, pointing at all the money. He too laughed along with Appa. It seemed as if the entire liquor store was covered with money. They collected the money, stuffed it in his pocket and sent him away. Those who were at the liquor shop took some of it too. Who knew how much was taken from him that day? The next morning, this was the talk of the town. ‘He’s suddenly become rich but is still so cheap. He is even capable of making a garland with his money and wearing it everywhere. The way he dances around with his money, the whole liquor shop dances with him.’
The little boy served them the rose milk. Another group drank lemonade. The little boy was very energetic. He went around checking for orders and serving everyone. He kept track of the money properly.
There were a lot of youngsters inside. Annan was with them. Because the shop was adjacent to the bus stand, the boy was familiar with the rowdy gang. Bringing bottles of liquor and drinking inside the shop had become the norm. Annan gave them company. He had gone with them on a tour where they took ten chickens and lots of bottles of alcohol in a Matador van and drank themselves silly before returning home. Even now, he used the excuse of having to mix cool drinks to go inside and drink some more.
The boy had no desire to go inside to see his brother. Lately, even the few words they used to exchange had been reduced to almost nothing. He just wanted to leave. Vasu too was waiting for him. He slowly took leave only from his father and they both headed out.
They went towards the rides. There was one like a train carriage. And one like a helicopter in a round carousel. His head felt giddy and his eyes were spinning. He forgot about himself. He wanted to melt into the air along with the spinning ride.
He couldn’t step out without feeling embarrassed. Stabbing words spoken behind his back were making his ears bleed. In spite of how hard Amma tried, she couldn’t manage to keep Annan’s drinking habit a secret. ‘A fart released under water has to but come out in the open.’ Amma was still bearable. She reduced her frivolous ways of the past and focused a little more on her work. Perhaps it was her guilt at losing the two of them like this. Where could they find a girl for Annan? Who would give him one in marriage? Who would willingly want the ill fate of being married to a habitual drunk?
He had to somehow snap out of this trap and get away. He couldn’t take it any longer, the fights and the stinging words. He wanted the peace that Gopal’s house or Kadhir’s house had, even though their families had less income than his. He longed for togetherness in peace and happiness. But here in his house, as money kept coming in, disorderliness grew.
They left the rides, walked through all four streets and left. It felt good to keep walking. All the problems were left behind. He could walk anywhere without thinking a single thought. All he wanted was to get away from them. Free his mind from the stings of the scorpion. Free from the worms that crawled into his ears. Free from the stench of all the shit that was piled up around him. Freedom.
The crowds began to gather around the chariot to pull the rope at evening time.
Chapter 10
The day was about to break. The crows at the goat pen cawed incessantly. If anyone went near the trees, ‘plop!’, and they would have to take care of a head full of a crow’s mess first thing in the morning. Was it only when people passed under them that the crows ever felt the urge to defecate? The boy bypassed the trees and went into the village. It had not yet fully woken up. Only the ladies who delivered milk were seen, like insects buzzing about. They carried bags within which were different varieties of milk packets. Three-rupee ones, four-rupee ones, four-and-a-half-rupee ones. Their knuckles got calloused just from knocking on the doors of the houses whose inmates slept even through daybreak. Nubile young women were dampening front yards with water that had a little cow dung mixed in it for sanitation. Their faces still had plenty of sleepiness smeared on them.
From there, he could see only the lamps on the hill that looked like a carelessly tossed rope. The mountain still lay fully hidden in the darkness.
He walked over to Veeran’s house. The kiluva trees surrounding their house looked like the lamps in a Perumal temple—narrow at the bottom and broad at the top. It was a small thatched-roof house, thatched with dried coconut fronds and covered with millet straw that had been in use for a long while now. It had lost its colour to multiple rains over the years and lay in oblivion. In front of the house were four or five black nightshade berry shrubs that stood like headless chickens. When he went there, only Veeran’s mother was at home. She asked him to sit on the plinth outside. She had lost all her teeth and was toothless. She wore a white sari that was dirty in colour with patches of cow dung on it. She grabbed her frizzy and unkempt hair into a bundle as she said to him, ‘Veeran . . . He just left to go to the colony. He said he had to take some boy to college today.’
‘Will it take a long time for him to return?’
‘I don’t think so . . . he told me he will come back soon. You wait.’
This was the time of year when Veeran made a killing. He was educated and had a few good connections. All the boys went seeking him for this reason. He must be over thirty-five years old. His younger brothers were all married but he had chosen to be single. Maybe no one he found agreeable was willing to give his daughter to him.
He moved about a lot in the name of the party. He balanced himself with a stick but walked majestically. When he went on a cycle pedalling with one foot, his slightly bent posture and twisted moustache made him look like an older vulture passing by with its wings spread wide. He didn’t fear anything. If someone opposed him, he’d land a thunderous slap on their cheek. He was the first one to show up for any work related to the village that involved fighting.
He had been maintaining an unblemished story of how he got wounded when he fought against the spread of Hindi. When he got drunk, he spewed threats and spat out words recklessly. He would be found lying by the roadside or even at the liquor shop sometimes. Still, everyone was proud when they talked about him. ‘Even our village had a hand in the protests!’ ‘One of our villagers is a soldier who fought against Hindi!’ Comments like these certainly painted a picture of his heroism.
He was out of town most of the time. He travelled to some place or the other claiming party-related work or some such thing. If the two of them ever saw each other, the boy would wish him, ‘Hello, Maama.’ Veeran would respond with a ‘Maaple . . .’ and that would be the extent of their exchange. The boy didn’t know anything about his work. Only Sevathaan would bring him up in conversation and say unpleasant things about his arrogance at being in the ruling party. If only he had participated in any protest like Veeran he would understand what it took. It was money that made him a leader. A lot of people talked about that protest against Hindi imposition. Even Sevathaan spoke about it animatedly when he had had enough to drink.
At that time, Veeran was studying for the Secondary School Leaving Certificate or SSLC in a Karattur high school. In those days, there were no student leaders. In an awakening that exploded everywhere in Tamil Nadu, students protested and got their rights to vote and selected leaders for themselves. Veeran could be found at the forefront of such activities. All the school buildings looked perpetually saddened, having buried these activities within themselves. The boy was very eager to find out which building Veeran had studied in and to see it for himself. He even wondered if the two of them had sat in the same classroom. Somehow, he never asked him about that.
In 1965, an uprising spread across schools and colleges, true to the slogan ‘Spread the fire of protests’. All the students assembled at the high-school grounds with a courageous few, including Veeran, in the lead. The protest started at the high-school grounds, launched by students in their teens wearing white and khaki with the itch of a blossoming moustache above their upper lips. Their faces were all red; their plan was to sweat it out. The juggernaut of a crowd that spread from the high-school grounds all the way to Keezhur Road remained energized with slogans, and would have scared a person standing at the bus stop, watching a sea of white rush down.
‘Hindi! Down, down!’
‘Stop it, stop it!’
‘Stop the 17th government division.’
‘Make the people’s language the official language.’
‘Make all the languages official languages!’
‘Monkey making this decision, give up your position!’
The din made by those in the front spread quickly through the crowd. Sounds soared from the otherwise orderly crowd. Acrimony and bitterness dripped from each word. There was anger against this entity that they couldn’t see but that sat on their heads and directed them like puppets, hatred as if they were being dragged by their hands to be fed shit. All the voices sounded determined. Every face had the glow of hope. The procession moved forward. Banners floated over the heads like some sort of protection. The words of the leaders echoed everywhere as if gospel. The procession went on.
The school had more than a thousand students. Added to that was the endless train of people who came from elsewhere. The procession couldn’t be seen even at the end of Therur Road. A piece of news arrived that the police, carrying weapons, were going to stop the procession. The leaders came forward with the intent of protecting the protesters without having to disperse them, their eyes glimmering with the confidence of being able to handle any situation. Floating in that dream, even their lives didn’t matter. Just after the bus station came the snarl of the police force. Right where the north and west streets intersected was a statue of Aringyar Anna, pointing towards the direction of the north street. A warning was put forth that anyone taking a step beyond that would trigger police action.
The young, tender hearts hardened themselves like stone. They worked hard to make themselves so tight that bullets would bounce off them. They took a step and crossed the statue. Then, a second and a third . . .
In the blind shooting that followed, two people died on the spot. With hands shot or legs shot, the crowd of students floated in a flood of wounds and gore. Some jumped, some ran away. What exactly happened, what happened to the others—everyone was in a flurry with no answers. The screams and the noises made the whole town shiver. They took the wounded to the hospital. A bullet sat lodged in Veeran’s right thigh and struggled to come out. He lay unconscious. An order reached the government-run hospital. ‘There is no need to treat the wounded immediately. Take a day or two to attend to them.’
He kept drifting in and out of consciousness. He writhed in the pain he was suffering. The wound remained exposed and blood-bathed. There were protests across the nation, and lives sacrificed. After everything settled down, they cut off the festering leg and threw it away. If they had treated him as soon as he was brought to the hospital, they could have saved it. But as the days passed, the leg became weak and dry and eventually died.
The dawn broke into morning. Veeran’s mother was lighting the stove to make coffee. The women were rushing towards the well at the entrance to the village to get their fill of good water. There was still no sign of Veeran. Every time the boy went to Karattur, his eyes would wander at the foot of Anna’s statue looking for dried drops of blood. He imagined blood spread across the base of the statue. Veeran too must have lain fallen somewhere close by. Sunk in blood. The father of one of the students who lost his life was now a secretary in the ruling party. When their only son died in the protests, they tried for another child and had one. That boy studied with him. They all referenced him only as ‘the single’.
‘Why is there no sign of Maama still?’
Veeran’s mother brought coffee powder from inside the house, left it next to the stove and then responded.
‘He said he was going only somewhere nearby. But he still hasn’t returned. I can’t even ask him what he is up to. If I do, he will only say “I will chop you up” and carry on. You should see how angry he gets at that time. I just shut up.’
She then softened her voice and said, ‘What is the point in running around so much for the katchi, the political party. He doesn’t have it in him to earn a handful of money. Did you see how far the others who went to work for the party have risen? Every day, he keeps jumping about for it. As if that is paying enough to feed this house. But don’t go telling him all this. He will want to chop me up in his anger.’
‘That must be to simply threaten you.’
‘What do you know? He has held me by a clump of my hair, pounded my back and kicked me down. And do I have any strength? If you shove me like this, I will lie fallen like a pile of grains. He hits me, of all people, dear.’
She cried softly. Her voice faded to a murmur. He didn’t know what to say to console her. But she continued. The coffee grew cold.
‘I think of going to the younger son’s house but I feel bad for this one. There is no one to feed him a meal. That’s why I grind my teeth and bear all this for the sin of giving birth to him.’
She handed him the coffee. It was black and went in leaving a trail of mild bitterness. It warmed his body, which had got cold. Veeran’s mother relished the coffee, drinking it with her toothless mouth as she blinked her deeply sunken eyes. A cycle sped towards the house as if it was going to crash into the entrance steps and stopped in the nick of time. Veeeran pulled out the rounded staff from the cycle carrier and straightened himself with its support as he engaged the cycle’s stand. He jumped on to the plinth in one leap.
‘When did you get here, Maaple? Has it been long?’
‘I came some time ago. Where had you gone, Maama?’
He flicked his moustache as he took the coffee his mother handed him.
‘A boy from the colony wanted to be admitted in the polytechnic college. He says he wants to go there after finishing high school. I went to meet our taluk secretary regarding this. That guy is a bottom-feeder. They got him the post because he was known to the Therur folks. Doesn’t know a thing. I went because I know someone he knows. Didn’t even bother to talk to me.’
‘He dared to play his tricks with you, Maama?’
‘Yes, my Maaple. But that fellow hardly knows anything about me. These fellows got their posts just now. Is it enough if you have only money? Let them be, those stingy buggers. Why do I need them to get my work done? I will go directly to Thalaivar and talk to him about this.’
‘. . .’
‘Don’t think I can’t do this. I have direct connections to the professor himself. He will do anything for me. Here, I will bring you the letter that he wrote for me.’
Veeran appeared to regret telling him about his initial setback and wanted to change that impression by proving himself. He went inside and came back with an old diary. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and showed it to him. The folds had collected dust and become dirty. He gently opened the sticky folds. It certainly was on the professor’s letterhead and was signed by him too. He grabbed the letter and tucked it back in immediately.
‘You think I’m some small-timer working with crumbs? I have connections everywhere. Did you get an interview card yet?’
‘Not yet, Maama.’
‘There are two people I know in CM College. I will tell them and get this done. I’m anyway going there today. Give me a hundred rupees. Only if I stuff some here and there will any work get done.’
‘I didn’t bring any with me right now, Maama. I will go home and get the money. If I get the interview card then I can get in somehow, can’t I?’
‘Don’t you worry, I’m here for you.’
He left on his cycle. It had been more than twenty days since the results came out. Even if he got only into CM College, that’s all he wanted. That too hadn’t happened yet. The sun had begun to sting already. He got the money from his father and rushed to give it to Veeran. He noted that the application was for BSc chemistry and gave him the application number. Meanwhile, Veeran had showered and was ready to leave, dressed in his veshti and thundu with coloured borders. He took the money from the boy and assured him, ‘I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.’
If he somehow got accepted there, that was enough for him. He could escape from his house and all the troubles. Even though the college was in Odaiyur and he could commute by bus every day, he decided he would join the hostel there. That was the only way he could focus at least a little bit on his studies. He wouldn’t have the trouble of taking with him all the burdens from his house every morning and rushing back in the evening, wondering what state his house was in. He was sure that Veeran would somehow get him admission. After all, he did have a few connections he could tap into. And it did count for something that he had a special letter from his professor. Surely he knew a few people around there, especially with all the years of experience he had doing this? His thoughts about Veeran were favourable.
