eight

The loud ringing of the morning bell roused Rama. Jumping to his feet, he called out, ‘That’s the bell. Wake up, everyone.’

The sleeping forms on the mats stirred. It was four-thirty in the morning; milk would be served in half an hour. Rama was one of the twenty-five boys sleeping in that room of the Veda pathashala.

‘What day is it today, Rama?’ one of the boys asked.

‘Thursday. The first hour starts at six-thirty, with Muthurama Shastri.’

‘Aiyyo! I hate that man!’ exclaimed another.

‘Come on, Nilu. Get ready,’ Rama said.

Nilu looked up at Rama resentfully as the sleepy haze slowly cleared. He was a short boy with a shaved head and the mandatory tuft of hair on top of his head. Rama was not the most popular boy in the pathashala. Teachers did not like him because he disobeyed them. And while this should have endeared him to his peers, his classmates did not like him because he was at the top of his class and Rama reciprocated their feelings. In the five years that he had been at the school, he had not made a single friend. He found their customs irritating, hated their smug Brahmin superiority and their contempt of the lower castes.

On his second day at the pathashala, Rama had arrived late and hid behind the door, waiting for his teacher’s back to turn before he could sneak in. He had barely gone halfway when the boys in his class almost unanimously called the teacher’s attention to his misdemeanour. Rama was caned severely that day, and from that day onward, he kept to himself.

Rolling up his mat and blanket, Rama put them away in his cupboard. He then took his towel and neem-twig toothbrush and went to the pond to bathe. His classmates were all slowly getting up, some talking to each other, some arguing. Muthurama Shastri was a strict master and they were all nervous.

After he had finished dressing, Rama took out his panchapathra and udharani and proceeded to the dining room, where the cook was waiting with their boiled milk. He drank his milk, and went to the room where all the boys performed their morning sandhyavandanam. He sat at the very front, and mechanically went through the morning rituals that were expected of him.

Two hours into Muthurama Shastri’s class, a boy came and said that someone had come to see Rama. He left the class and went to the headmaster’s room to get his permission to meet the visitor.

‘Yes Ramaswami? What do you want?’ the headmaster asked.

‘I was told that there is someone here to see me, sir.’

‘Ah yes, Ramaswami. The boy said his name is Mohan. Do you know someone by that name?’

‘Yes, sir. He is my friend.’

‘You have Shudra friends?’

For a second, Rama stared at him uncomprehendingly, ‘Yes sir. He is my oldest and best friend.’

‘This will have to stop, Rama. You are a Brahmin, and must not spend time with a Shudra.’

‘Why not, sir?’

‘Because that is the way of life. They eat meat and you cannot associate with such people.’

Putting on his stoniest face, Rama asked, ‘May I go down and find out what he wants, sir?’

‘Yes, yes, go on. I shall expect you to come back as soon as you are finished and tell me what this was all about.’

Rama was seething with anger when he left the headmaster’s room. Why did they persist with this nonsense? Hadn’t they learned enough from the past? The very fact that the land was filled with foreign invaders was because of this segregation.

He found Mohan standing outside the entrance of the pathashala, looking anxiously at something on the other side of the street.

‘Hello Mohan, how are things in the village?’ he asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Mohan jumped up, startled. He knew life in the cities, and he didn’t want Rama to get into trouble by touching him.

‘Hello, Rama. How are your classes?’

‘I was on the point of falling asleep when you rescued me,’ Rama replied with an affectionate smile. ‘Is everything all right, Mohan? You look worried about something.’

In response Mohan slowly removed Rama’s hand from his shoulder and said, ‘Things are a little strained in the village, Rama. Periamma has fallen very ill. Your father has been running the panchayat for the last week.’

‘Did he send you to get me?’

‘No. I came because I heard him tell Chinnamma that you need not to be informed about your Paati’s condition because it would only cause you worry, and I know how fond you are of her. I knew you would want to see her before …’

Rama had been looking across the street but at these words, his eyes swung around to meet Mohan’s anxious ones.

‘Is it that bad, Mohan?’

‘I’m afraid so, Rama. I’m sorry, but the village is saying she won’t last the weekend.’

Rama felt his legs go weak when he heard this. He sat on one of the benches outside the pathashala; Mohan continued standing. ‘Have you seen her since she fell ill?’

‘I tried once, Rama, but your father would not let me enter.’

‘Give me some time, Mohan. I will have to take permission. Can you wait?’

‘Yes, I’ll wait right here.’

Rama marched back to the headmaster’s room. The man looked up and asked, ‘Is everything all right, Rama? Why do you look so worried?’

‘I’m sorry sir, I just received word that my grandmother is very seriously ill. May I return to the village for a few days?’

‘I hope it’s nothing too serious, Rama,’ the headmaster replied. ‘Of course, you may go.’

‘I’ll return as soon as I can, sir. Thank you,’ Rama bowed. He returned to his cupboard and took out his books, wrapped them in his blanket, threw a cloth over his shoulders and walked back outside.

The boys started off at once. It was not a long journey, and they knew that once they got out of the town they would find a bullock cart heading towards Vellore which would give them a ride into Damar.

Once they cadged a lift in a cart laden with bananas, Mohan dozed off while Rama sat quietly, worrying. His grandmother had never been ill, and Mohan had said the chances of her surviving the weekend were slim. The cart reached Damar a few hours later and, after agreeing to meet Mohan that evening, Rama hurried into the house.

His father was at the temple, and was expected home only around eight in the evening. His mother, Rangamma, was in the kitchen, and it was to her that Rama went first. She was sitting in front of the stove, blowing into the fire with a little blowpipe when he walked in.

‘Why, Rama, what are you doing here?’ she exclaimed in surprise.

‘I heard Paati was ill, Amma, so I came to see how she was.’

‘Who told you?’ his mother asked. ‘Your father was determined not to tell you anything.’

‘Mohan came to the pathashala and informed me. What’s wrong with Paati? Is she going to be all right?’

His mother didn’t know how to respond and looked away, ‘I don’t know. It’s consumption. The doctor has been coming in three times a day to give her some medicine, but she doesn’t seem to be getting any stronger. When she sleeps, she is constantly coughing, and wakes up every morning coughing blood.’

‘May I go in and see her now?’

‘She is sleeping. Why don’t you go and see your father? Paati should wake up in the evening.’

As Rama walked to the temple, Mohan’s words came back to him. Was his father ill-treating Mohan? He heard his father chanting shlokas when he entered. He went into the inner sanctum and saw his father’s sitting with his back to the gallery. Rama closed his eyes and prayed that Shiva would help his grandmother get better. When he opened his eyes, his father was looking at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

They walked around to the side of the temple, and his father turned around and asked him, ‘So why did you come back so soon? I hope you’re not in some sort of trouble!’

‘No, Appa, I heard about Paati’s condition, so I took permission and came back to see her.’

‘Who told you that Paati was ill?’

‘Mohan.’

His father looked annoyed by this information. Frowning, he paced about for a few moments. ‘Rama, you must stop this tomfoolery. You’re an adult now and you’re going to be the priest of the temple soon. Remember what you owe to your position. Mohan is not the right friend for you.’

Rama raised his eyebrows, surprised, ‘Why not, Appa? What’s wrong with Mohan?’

‘He is a Shudra.’

‘But, Appa, he’s my best friend.’

‘Enough! I’m your father and I’m telling you that you can’t spend so much time with Mohan anymore.’

‘I’m sorry, Appa, but I can and I will. Besides which, I don’t want to become a temple priest, but that has nothing to do with this.’

His father seethed, ‘What do you want to do? Make swords like your friend’s father?’

‘No, Appa, I was thinking of going to Madras and finding work there.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I don’t know yet. I just know I don’t want to be a priest.’

His father looked at him for a few moments. Then he turned and went back into the temple. ‘We will talk about this later. Go home now.’

Rama and his father exchanged very few words over the next few days. He spent his days sitting with his grandmother and trying to cheer her up, or, when she was asleep, sword-fighting with Mohan. Dikshitar made his disapproval patent but, on the whole, felt it would be wiser to not start a dispute that could affect his mother’s health.

Periamma’s health continued to fail. On the very first day of his return, she had slept through the whole day, and Rama had not seen her at all. She had awoken the next morning, and Rama had spent a few hours talking to her, telling her about his new term at the pathashala and the new things he had learnt. Rama would help her walk to the thinnai outside the house where she sat with him late into the afternoon, discussing philosophy, life and Rama’s future. Often she would fall silent after initiating a topic and just lean back against the wall and watch Rama with pride, while he talked animatedly.

Rama’s parents did not approve of Periamma leaving her room, but when they asked the village vaidyar, he said that it was important to keep her happy. Periamma herself would refuse to listen to Rama’s entreaties not to strain herself, stating categorically that she had no intention of allowing her grandson to sit in a sick room and catch any illness from her.

One morning, however, she was too ill to leave her room, and Rama disobeyed her by joining her there. Periamma had spent a bad night coughing up blood, and when the vaidyar had visited in the morning, he had predicted the end was near. When Rama had gone into her room, she was vomiting blood into the basin. He stood in the doorway waiting for her coughing fit to subside with an anxious look in his eyes. When she stopped coughing, Periamma looked up and, with a twinkle in her eyes, said to him, ‘Don’t look so scared, Rama. Old age, illness and death are as much a part of life as everything else—all unavoidable.’

‘I’m not scared, Paati, I know you’ll be fine. I just don’t like to see you so ill.’

‘Rama, I think we both know that I won’t be fine. You must prepare yourself for the inevitable. I know I have.’

Rama tried very hard to suppress his tears. ‘How can you talk like that, Paati? Please don’t say such things.’

‘Why don’t you come and sit with me?’ Periamma patted the seat of the chair across from her bed. ‘I want to discuss something with you, and I don’t want to delay this any longer.’

Rama walked quickly up to the chair.

‘Haven’t you been talking to the doctor?’ she asked when he sat down.

‘He told me you would get better.’

‘Then he lied,’ Periamma replied, suppressing a cough. ‘I’m not going to get better, and before I go, I would like to know that you are going to be all right. I know that you and your father are at odds over your future. Do you have any plans? What do you intend to do after I’m gone? Go back to the pathashala?’

‘I don’t know, Paati. I don’t know anything!’ Rama replied, as the tears started flowing down his face, ‘Why are you talking like this? We can discuss this when you get better.’

‘I’m sorry my child. I really am. But death isn’t the end of anything. It’s merely another step in our journey through life. I must take that next step and one day we will meet again, I promise you. Till then, I will always be with you. My spirit will reside in you. Please Rama, don’t be afraid for me.’

‘I’m not Paati, I’m afraid for me. I can’t bear the thought of a life without you!’

‘But it won’t be a life without me. You will always feel my presence. I can’t leave you, Rama. I am in your flesh and in your blood. Now, tell me what you would like to do next.’

Rama wiped the tears from his face. He knew his grandmother was determined to finish the conversation, so he composed himself before replying, ‘I want to go to the city; to Madras.’

‘And what will you do there?’

‘I don’t know yet, Paati. I only know that my future isn’t in this village anymore.’

‘You’re destined for greatness, Rama. You will fight against injustice and one day you will rule the world. It’s in your stars.’

Rama nodded. ‘I keep hearing these tales of how the foreigners are subjecting the people in Madras to their rule, about how people pay taxes to the white men who come from over the sea. It doesn’t affect us directly right now but as their strength grows, they will try to invade more lands. What happens when they try to occupy this district?’

‘There’s so much more to this world than the little we have seen. We aren’t slaves to anyone, so we don’t know what it’s like to be under a ruler. But there was a time when great kings ruled over Kanchipuram, and we were all subjects of that kingdom. The problem with this land is that we’re a mass of very different people with very different beliefs living together. We have no sense of unity, no sense of belonging, and this makes us easy prey for invaders,’ Periamma said between bouts of coughing. Rama got up, concerned, but she just signalled for him to sit down. She continued, ‘One day we will all be unified by the white man. And we will then realize that we are the same people. But I don’t know when that day will come. I do know that you, or your children, or their children, must be ready at that time to fight for our beliefs, to fight for our values.’

‘But what can I do? There’s only so much I can achieve in this village, no matter how much I try to do.’

‘I know, and that’s why I agree with you that you need to go to the city. Make your name, and make yourself a fortune. Don’t worry about how, but always do what is right. Work with the white man. You may not approve of what he does, but he holds the power.’

Rama started to say something but Periamma held her hand up. ‘Our family has been entrusted with a lot of responsibility. The future of our way of life, in many ways, rests with our family, and it will not do for you to disregard that. One day, you will have to fight to save our way of life, and I want you to be in a position of power to do so. You have been chosen for greatness, and I want you to be prepared for it.’

Periamma leaned her head back on her pillow—she was exhausted from talking. Rama went up to her side and said, ‘You need to rest now, Paati. We shall talk more in the afternoon, after you wake up. Take a nap now.’

‘I think I need one. Come here, my darling,’ she said, holding her arms out to embrace her grandson.

‘I’ll shut the window, Paati. Try and get some sleep.’

‘I love you, Rama,’ his grandmother said. ‘Don’t you ever forget that, ever.’

‘I love you too, Paati’

Later that afternoon, when the vaidyar came by to give Periamma her afternoon dose of medicine, he discovered that she had died in her sleep.

The thirteen days that followed Periamma’s death were spent performing funeral rites. Dikshitar was busy with the rituals from morning to night and had no time to talk to his son. Rama, however, felt only peace. His grandmother’s spirit, he knew, would always stay with him; she had promised.

The thirteenth day was the day of celebration, when her soul would be finally liberated to continue on its journey through the universe. A sacred fire was lit and the ritual of the nine planets performed, followed by a feast, which the whole village attended. After the feast, Rama’s father, instead of going to the temple for the first time since his mother’s death, summoned him to his room.

Dikshitar was sitting on a chair with a letter in his hands when Rama entered. He nodded towards the cot and continued reading. When he finished, he looked up and said, ‘So Rama, what now?’

Rama, not knowing what to say, sat quietly, meeting his father’s gaze squarely.

‘The last rites are over, and it’s time for you to return to the pathashala. Will you leave on Saturday?’

‘I’m sorry, Appa. I don’t want to go back.’

His father raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘All right, so what do you want to do? Join me in the temple?’

‘No, Appa, I want to go to the city.’

‘Why?’

‘I have things to do. I want to get a job.’

‘And then?’

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Rama shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I don’t know, Appa. I have never been to the city. I don’t know what life there will be like.’

‘Then why are you so keen on going there?’

‘I know I’m not meant to stay here. I’m sorry I am being so vague, but you must understand. I need to go out into the world and see more before I know what direction I want to take.’

Dikshitar thought about this for a few minutes before saying, ‘I don’t like the idea, Rama. You have a life here, you have duties here. You can’t escape from them. I’ll tell you what though, I want you to stay here a little while longer and think about it. I won’t force anything on you; I only want you to think about all that you will be leaving behind.’

‘Appa, I’m not leaving anything behind. Madras is only a day from here. I’ll return often.’

‘If you leave the village, Rama, I don’t ever want you to return. You will have disgraced us. That will be the end of our relationship. Please do as I ask, stay here a while. Enjoy life in the village, get used to becoming a villager again. We can talk about this again, soon, I promise.’

Rama had to be content with that. He loved and respected his father too much not to comply with his request, though he did find it annoying that his father was so uncompromising about everything. His life was, after all, his own, and he did not see how going away to Madras would disgrace his parents.

On his seventeenth birthday, his father summoned him again; this time it was to tell him to end his friendship with Mohan.

‘He’s not one of ours, and I won’t allow you to enter the temple any longer if you talk to him.’

Rama was shocked. He knew his father disapproved of his associating with Mohan; he had already made that clear. But to ban Rama from entering the temple was something he had not expected. ‘But this is insane! God is the same for all,’ he exclaimed angrily.

His father looked offended. ‘Rama,’ he said in an even tone. ‘I’m not heartless and I don’t want you hurting that boy unnecessarily if you can avoid it. But you will no longer socialize with him; either you end it, or I will. You live in my house and my village, and as long as you do, you will live by my rules. If you don’t like them, you may leave.’

And Rama, for the sake of his mother, who had watched the whole conversation with a terrified look on her face, bowed his head and held his peace. Despite his father’s injunction, he continued to meet Mohan and their friendship grew. Rama hoped that, with time, his father would change.

Dikshitar, however, dealt with the situation on his own. He started taking every possible opportunity to insult Mohan and his family, ignoring them during festivals and in the temple. He also banned Mohan from entering his house, and though Rama was able to handle the matter diplomatically, it was too much to expect that Mohan would not notice that he had not once stepped inside Rama’s house in the last four months. Meanwhile, Dikshitar as the head of the village, continued to put Mohan’s father on the spot as much as he could. He had a blacksmith from Kanchipuram supply the swords to the villagers instead of Kandasamy. When Kandasamy approached the panchayat about this, Rama’s father took the opportunity to insult his craftsmanship in front of all the village elders, informing him that his work was shoddy.

Things eventually reached a point where Kandasamy, the man who had taught Rama how to use a sword when he was still a child, spoke to Rama himself about his father’s conduct.

‘Good morning, Ayya. Is Mohan at home?’ Rama asked him one morning when he went to take his friend along to the banks of the Vegavati for their sword-fight practice.

‘No, Thambi. But I have been waiting to see you.’

‘Yes, Ayya? Tell me,’ Rama said.

Kandasamy shifted uncomfortably. He did not know how to start the conversation, and after a few moments’ silence, said, ‘I have told Mohan to break off his friendship with you. I am now requesting you to leave my son alone.’

Rama was stunned for a few moments and just stared at Kandasamy. ‘Why? What happened?’

‘Your father summoned me last evening to the temple and told me categorically that he would excommunicate us from the village if you and Mohan continued to be friends. He has been treating us badly for a while now, and I have a son and daughter I have to get married off at some point. I am begging you, Ayya.’

‘But Ayya, you surely can’t mean that! Mohan has been my best friend almost all my life.’

‘I am very sorry, Rama, I really am. I don’t have any problems with the two of you staying friends. I like you very much, you know that. You have been my student, and you are a wonderful boy, but things have become much too difficult for us. Your father has taken every opportunity to insult and ill-treat us.’

Rama was shaken by what he heard. He couldn’t believe his father would conduct himself in this manner.

‘May I please see Mohan one last time? I promise I shall never bother you again.’

Kandasamy looked up sadly and his eyes met Rama’s. He could see the pain that he had caused the young man by telling him of his father’s conduct.

‘Of course you may, Rama. Thank you for understanding. Please wait.’

Mohan came out a few minutes later, looking extremely shaken. Rama lost no time in getting to the point.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Mohan?’

‘How could I, Rama?’ Mohan asked reasonably. ‘He’s your father. Would you be able to tell me bad things about my father?’

Rama walked up to Mohan and put an arm on his shoulder, saying as he did, ‘I am leaving the village today. My father’s behaviour towards you and your family has been disgraceful.’

Mohan nodded, sad but not surprised. ‘Where will you go, Rama? To Madras?’

‘Yes. I should have left sooner. Expecting my father to change was futile. This village has nothing left for me.’

‘Take care of yourself, Rama. And wait a few days before leaving. We are going to have a bad storm tonight.’

‘I must leave now, Mohan. I can’t bear to stay with him anymore.’

Mohan looked tortured. A part of him wanted to throw his arms around his friend and ask him to reconsider his decision, but he knew that Rama’s mind was made up.

When Rama reached the temple, he found one of the other priests performing the rituals in the inner sanctum. His father was outside, talking to one of the villagers. He waited.

‘He wants me to officiate at his daughter’s wedding in two months,’ Dikshitar said when the man left.

Rama ignored him. ‘Appa, how could you do stoop so low?’ he burst out.

Dikshitar looked at him, his eyebrows raised in surprise, as he replied, ‘How dare you! What do you mean, Rama?’

‘You know exactly what I mean. You threatened to have Kandasamy excommunicated from the village if Mohan and I continued to be friends.’

‘Rama, you must understand that as a father I have certain responsibilities. What I did was for your own good.’

‘And so you chose to misuse your power as the head of the village?’

‘I did my duty to my family,’ his father replied, his anger rising with every word he spoke. ‘It’s your duty to serve Varahishwara, and if you want to do anything else, it won’t be in my house.’

‘I don’t want to do anything in your house. You have treated my best friend and his family shamefully. I’m leaving the village today.’

‘Fine! Leave right now. I never want to see you again!’

‘All right, Appa. But please remember that you are the one who said that. Goodbye.’

Rama’s legs were shaking as he turned round. He had never dared to speak to his father like that before, and it hurt him that he had had to, but he knew that he had made the right decision. He went back home for the last time, to take leave of his mother.

The conversation with his mother lasted longer than the one with his father, and was infinitely more painful. His mother had no words of reproach or abuse that would make his departure easier. Instead, she seemed to understand how he felt, even though she seemed unable to comprehend his desire to be independent and make his own way in the world.

Now there was nothing for him to do but leave.