TWELVE
The next day, Mr. Ali and Aruna were going through their lists to identify nonmembers. These were people who had responded to ads but had never become members themselves. Mr. Ali wanted to write to them reminding them to become members. They had been at this task for over an hour when Mrs. Ali finished preparing lunch and came out with three glasses of cool sherbet and sat with them. She used the end of her sari to wipe her brow and brought the chair a little forward to better catch the breeze from the fan. Mr. Ali saw the drinks and called a stop to their work.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “This is hard work.”
The three were silent for a few minutes while they sipped the dark red drink.
“What is this, madam?” asked Aruna. “I’ve never had this drink before.”
“This is Rooh Afza. I suppose you can call it rose syrup. It is an old cooling drink used by Muslims. Most young people don’t know about it now—they all drink Coke or Pepsi,” said Mrs. Ali.
After some time, Mrs. Ali asked her husband, “So, what did all you oldies do on the beach yesterday?”
Mr. Ali laughed. “The usual—we walked along the beach, talked about our aches and pains and how much money our sons are earning or how much our little houses are now worth.”
Mrs. Ali asked, “How many of you were there?”
Mr. Ali thought for a moment and said, “About eight of us. Oh, one more thing happened . . .”
Mrs. Ali frowned. “What happened?” she asked softly.
“As Azhar and I reached the beach, a Christian missionary stopped us. He started telling us how the Bible was the one true book and we should follow it if we wanted to go to heaven,” said Mr. Ali.
“I bet Azhar walked away from him and you didn’t,” said Mrs. Ali.
“How did you know?” asked a surprised Mr. Ali. “I looked around and Azhar had disappeared. I told the missionary that it was a miracle, the way my brother-in-law had disappeared, but I don’t think he had a sense of humor.”
“Poor man,” said Mrs. Ali in a sympathetic voice.
“Yes, I know. Here I was, ready to join my friends on the beach and this guy stops me and wants to talk religion,” said Mr. Ali.
“Not you. I meant the missionary. Poor man, that he encountered you.You must have destroyed his confidence,” said Mrs. Ali.
Aruna laughed. Mr. Ali looked at her severely and she bent her head, studiously looking at the lists.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Ali, turning to his wife.
“Did you or did you not exchange words with him?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“Yes, but—” said Mr. Ali.
“What exactly did you tell him?” said Mrs. Ali.
“Well, he showed me a pamphlet that he said proved the truth of the Bible. The pamphlet talked about how the Bible gave the order of creation of animal life—fish, reptiles, birds, land animals, and finally, men. He said that the probability of getting such a sequence right was one in many billions—that it proved the Bible must have been divinely inspired. He asked me to come to their church to hear more about the Bible and save myself from eternal damnation.”
“What did you tell him? Did you insult him?” she asked faintly.
“Insult him? No! That was your brother who insulted him by rudely disappearing as soon as he opened his mouth. I did the courtesy of listening to his spiel and responding to him,” he said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Mrs. Ali.
“I pointed out to him that the Quran had the sequence the same way. I asked him if that didn’t mean that the Quran was divinely inspired too. He said that he didn’t know the Quran, so he couldn’t say,” said Mr. Ali.
“Did you invite him to our house to study the Quran?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“No, don’t be silly, woman,” said Mr. Ali, exasperated. “I said, fair enough, you don’t know the Quran, but surely you know about the Dusa vatar of Hindu mythology. He said yes. I asked him if he knew the order of the ten avatars of God that came down to earth to destroy evil.”
Aruna looked up in interest.
“I said the order of the ten avatars started fish, tortoise, boar, then half man, half beast. . . . Isn’t that correct?” he asked, turning to Aruna.
Aruna nodded. “That’s correct—the Dusavatars start off as Matsya, Koorma, Varaha, Narasimha, and the rest are human avatars,” she said.
“I said to the guy, What a coincidence. Wasn’t Hindu mythology divinely inspired, too? And since all our religions are saying the same thing, why go through the hassle of converting from one religion to another? I was born a Muslim and I am happy to remain one.”
Mr. Ali looked at both women, as if expecting applause at his cleverness.
Mrs. Ali shook her head from side to side. She said, “Husband, one day somebody will bash you up. I just don’t know if it’s going to be Hindus, Christians, or Muslims.”
“It is true, though.You ask almost any illiterate villager in India and he will tell you that God is one and religions are man-made. So why do all these so-called educated people with degrees create troubles in the name of religion?” said Mr. Ali.
“You cannot talk like that. People take these things seriously. I’m telling you again, somebody will beat you up one day,” said Mrs. Ali.
Aruna nodded in agreement. “Madam is right, sir. You have to be careful about these things.”
They went back to work. Mrs. Ali sat with them reading the Telugu newspaper. After a little while, she stood up and said, “Aruna, tomorrow we will be busy.We have to go to court.You will have to look after the office yourself.”
“That’s all right, madam. But why do you have to go to court?” said Aruna.
Mrs. Ali sighed and said, “It’s a long story. Maybe sir can tell you.”
She went inside the house.
“ Akka, I got first class!” shouted Vani as soon as Aruna entered the house that evening after leaving the office.
Aruna broke into a smile and gave her a high-five and hugged her. Their mother was smiling proudly and so was their father. The whole family felt close and Aruna’s heart almost broke when she realized how long it had been since they had all been happy together.
Somebody knocked on the door and her father opened it. They all looked out, and Aruna said, “It’s the shopboy. I ordered rice on the way home.”
She went to the door and made sure the rice was the same variety that she had ordered. She gave the boy a small tip and sent him away.
Her mother asked, “Have you paid for the rice?”
Aruna said, “Yes, amma. I paid for it at the time of ordering.”
They all sat down on a mat in the living room for dinner. Their mother served steamed rice and the thin tamarind rasam with fried eggplants and cauliflower in a masala sauce. They finished their meal with rice in buttermilk. From her bag, Vani took out a packet of khova made with pure ghee from Sivarama sweet shop. She gave each of them a small square of the milk-based sweet, decorated with extremely thin silver foil. The khova melted in their mouths.
“Sivarama sweets, eh! How much did it cost?” asked Mr. Somayajulu.
“I didn’t buy it, naanna. One of the boys in the class passed, and he gave everybody a packet as a gift,” replied Vani.
“You must go to a temple and give your thanks to God,” said their mother to Vani.
“Both of you should go to Simhachalam temple,” suggested their father. “Aruna, you haven’t been there since you started your job, either.”
Aruna nodded, but Vani protested, “Naanna, that’s far away. It will take almost the whole day.”
Simhachalam temple was on a hill, quite a few miles out of town.
“Do it on Monday,” proposed their mother, because it was Aruna’s day off.
“Yes, this Monday is a good day to visit the temple. It is a full-moon day,” said their father.
“Take a picnic,” said their mother.
“Done,” agreed Vani.
“You changed your mind quickly when mother suggested a picnic,” said Aruna, laughing.
Vani pouted, then laughed as well.
After dinner, Aruna’s father switched on their old black-and-white television to watch the Telugu news. The TV showed the king of Bhutan laying a wreath at Raj Ghat, Mahatma Gandhi’s memorial in Delhi, then the king meeting the prime minister and other officials.The next item on the news was about the Reserve Bank’s decision to keep interest rates unchanged. After that, the newscaster said, “At Royyapalem, police opened fire after protesters ignored Section One Forty-four and gathered for a public meeting. Two people are reported killed and eight injured, three of them seriously.The state home minister appealed for calm . . .”
“Oh, my God!” said Aruna, shocked.
“What happened?” asked her mother. All three of them were looking at Aruna.
“Sir and madam’s son was one of the protesters,” she said.
“Do you want to find out if he is hurt?” asked her mother.
“No, he wasn’t at the village today. He was one of the first protesters. He and his friends were struck with lathis and brought back to the city under arrest. He is due to appear in court tomorrow.”
“What a trial for such nice people,” said her father. “Children just go gallivanting without realizing how it affects their parents.”
The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Ali and Azhar were at the district court by ten. The court was a hundred-year-old stone building, built during the British times. It had the typical colonial look of buildings its age, with wide verandahs on all sides and faded green louvered doors and windows. It was surrounded by a large open area, dotted with gulmohar and laburnum trees. Under the shade of each tree was a lawyer in white clothes and black coat, surrounded by litigants and their families.
Rehman and his friends were being defended by a team of two hot-shot lawyers who had specially flown in from Hyderabad, the state capital. Mr. Ali had expected to pay a share of the costs, but Azhar told him that a lot of money had been collected to pay for the defense.There were police everywhere carrying lathis—iron-banded bamboo canes. There was even a TV camera crew by the entrance to the court.
“You don’t see so many police at the court normally,” said Azhar.
“It must be because of the shooting yesterday at Royyapalem. I am sure that the TV camera is also here because of that,” said Mr. Ali. He turned to Mrs. Ali and said, “Looks as if our son is famous.”
“Don’t joke, please. What kind of future will he have if he is convicted and branded a criminal? I am sick with tension that our son could be jailed and you pick this time to exercise your humor,” snapped Mrs. Ali.
Mr. Ali met Azhar’s eyes. Azhar made a small signal with his hand, asking him to be silent. Mr. Ali looked away, turning his attention to the advocates and their clients. Rehman’s team of lawyers were standing under the next tree. Mr. Ali walked over and the younger lawyer, carrying a briefcase, stopped him. Mr. Ali introduced himself and asked the senior lawyer what he thought was going to happen. Before he got a reply, a mobile phone rang. The younger lawyer took it out of his pocket, answered it, and handed it to his colleague.
The senior lawyer turned away to speak on the phone.When Mr. Ali asked the younger man, he just pointed to the senior lawyer and said, “Sir is very good. Don’t worry. But he is very busy right now and cannot talk. He left an important case at a critical point in Hyderabad.”
Mr. Ali rejoined his wife and Azhar with a sinking feeling about the whole situation. He wondered if it would have been better to hire a good local lawyer rather than this distracted advocate and his bag-carrier.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity at the entrance to the court and the police started looking more alert. A police van drove through the gates and into the yard. They all moved toward the door to the courtroom, but were stopped several yards away by the police. The van was driven around to the rear entrance. They all waited in the sun, wondering what was happening. Rehman’s lawyers went through the police cordon into the courtroom. About ten minutes later, a court attendant in a long white coat, with a red sash over his shoulder and around his waist, came out of the courtroom.
“The judge has declared that the proceedings will be held in camera,” he announced, and went back inside, closing the doors to the courtroom behind him.
“What does that mean?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“It means we cannot go in,” said Mr. Ali.
“How can they do that?”
“The judge can do whatever he wants,” said Mr. Ali.
“It must be because of all the publicity this case has received,” said Azhar.
They stood in the hot sun for a while, before finding the shade of a nearby tree. They stood for a long time, getting more and more uncomfortable. A small boy came around carrying bottles of cool water and made brisk sales until a police constable chased him out. Mrs. Ali chewed her nails. None of them spoke very much.
Finally, at about half past noon, the doors of the courtroom opened. Rehman’s lawyer and his sidekick came out and briskly walked away. Mr. Ali and a couple of others tried to waylay them, but they were unsuccessful. Behind them, Rehman and his friends came out of the courtroom, smiling widely, their arms raised, pumping the air. Mr. Ali and the others left the lawyers and went to greet the young men.
Mrs. Ali hugged Rehman. Mr. Ali and Azhar hung around awkwardly patting him. His bruises were almost faded and the angry welt on his forehead had subsided somewhat.
“What happened?” Mrs. Ali asked.
“We’ve been acquitted. The judge agreed with our lawyer that the arresting officer had made a mistake by not serving us with a notice.”
“So you’ve been let off on a technicality,” said Mr. Ali.
“What do we care why?” said Mrs. Ali. “He’s been released and that’s the important thing.”
“The lawyer has earned his fee, then,” said Azhar.
They started moving toward the gate. Two of Rehman’s friends came and shook his hand. One of his friends had to use his left hand because his right arm was in a white plaster cast. He gave a whoop and the three friends ended up in a big embrace.
Rehman asked, “Where are the others?”
“Most of them have gone,” said the young man with his arm in the cast.
Rehman nodded. “What about you two? Are you still willing?”
“We are with you,” said one friend, and the other nodded. “Some of the others said they’ll come back later.”
Mr. Ali realized with a jolt that Rehman was actually the leader of the group—not just a participant. They crossed the gates of the court compound and came up to where the TV crew was standing. The journalist waylaid them. Mr. Ali was not surprised that she addressed his son and seemed to know him by name. She was an attractive woman in her twenties and was carrying a microphone. She smiled at Rehman and asked him to stand on one side so the two of them were the only ones in the frame.
“Mr. Rehman, what do you say about your release?” asked the young lady.
Rehman said, “I’ve always had belief in our justice system.We were part of a legitimate protest to protect the rights of the villagers of Royyapalem.”
“What are your plans now?” asked the journalist.
“My friends and I are going straight back to Royyapalem.”
His friends nodded.
“No!” cried Mrs. Ali.
The TV camera swung toward Mrs. Ali. The journalist left Rehman and strode over to her.
“Who are you, madam?” she asked.
“I am Rehman’s mother,” said Mrs. Ali.
“Do you agree with your son’s decision to go back to Royyapalem and rejoin the protest?” asked the journalist.
“Of course I don’t agree. How can I, as a mother, be happy about my son going back to the place where he was beaten and arrested? Especially after the firing and deaths yesterday,” said Mrs. Ali.
“What would you advise your son?” asked the journalist.
“I advise him to listen to his parents and stay here. He has done his bit. Let others now carry on the fight,” said Mrs. Ali, in tears.
Rehman came over and hugged his mother.
“What do you say to your mother?” the interviewer asked Rehman.
“My mother is understandably emotional,” said Rehman. “But sometimes we have to look beyond our own house and family. I don’t expect our parents to be happy with our decision to go back to Royyapalem. But my friends and I are doing this for our country.We all want our country to develop, but not by trampling over its weakest citizens. There is no point in getting rich if we lose our soul along the way.”
At dinner that day, Aruna’s mother asked her, “How was your day today? You look tired.”
“Yes, amma. Sir and madam were out the whole morning. Even after they came back, they were so upset that I had to look after the office myself,” said Aruna.
“Poor people,” said her mother. “Children can cause such trouble when they don’t listen to parents. Thank God you two are so well behaved.”
“Can we still go on the picnic to Simhachalam on Monday?” asked her sister, Vani.
“You are going to visit the temple, Vani, not on a picnic,” said her father severely.
“Same difference, dad. Just chill out,” she said.
They all finished their meal and Aruna’s father switched on their television. After the usual political news, the newsreader said, “And now let’s go to Vizag to see a mother’s anguish.”
The camera cut to the court, and Mrs. Ali’s weeping face came on the screen.
“That’s madam,” said Aruna, aghast.
They all watched avidly as the young journalist on the screen talked to Mrs. Ali. The fact that Rehman and his friends were released was mentioned only in passing. Mrs. Ali’s emotions were given much greater prominence.
Aruna’s father switched off the television after the weather forecast. They were all silent for a few moments. Then her father said, “How shameful it must be for the parents to witness their son’s arrest. And what a brute he is . . . even his mother’s tears are not able to dissolve his will.”
Vani said, “But what Mr. Rehman said is true, naanna. Sometimes you have to think beyond your own family. Everybody says that our freedom fighters were great people. Do you think their parents were happy that their children were fighting against the British instead of becoming lawyers or clerks in government service?”
Aruna’s father said, “Don’t argue. You are young and don’t understand these things.”
Vani made a face but before she could reply, Aruna said, “Vani is correct, naanna. But madam is not wrong to cry and tell her son not to go. Her son is also right to say that we should sometimes look beyond our own needs and help others. It’s a sad business all around.”
Vani said, “Tomorrow, I’ll ask my fellow students what we are doing to support the farmers at Royyapalem.”
Aruna’s father said, “Now, don’t you go getting involved in dangerous activities. We are poor people and cannot afford to get into trouble.”
“The farmers are poor too, naanna,” said Vani. “But no worries. I am not planning to go to Royyapalem myself. Don’t you always quote what Lord Krishna told the warrior Arjuna on the eve of the great battle in the Gita? We all live in a society, and if we don’t help others in their time of need, then we are not contributing to the community. We are no better than exploiters and thieves.”
