The Gypsy Goddess (6 page)

They welcomed him with proverbial open arms. Being unrepentant idol-worshippers, they soon cast the charismatic novelist into the role of a demigod and rechristened him Mayavan, Man of Illusion & Mystery. He was consulted on every important decision regarding the village community. In perfect role-reversal, they told him stories.

The exile ignored their stories for days on end, not allowing any character to have the slightest impact on him out of fear that he would slip into writing once again. But, as was bound to happen, one story about Kuravars, the
roaming nomad gypsies, caught his fancy, drove him into a frenzy and rendered him sleepless.

On one night, many many nights ago, seven gypsy women, carrying their babies, strayed and lost their way whilst walking back to their camp. When they came home the next day, the seven women were murdered along with their babies. Their collective pleading did not help. Some versions go on to add that there were seventeen women. Every version agrees that all of them had children with them. Some versions say these women and their children were forced to drink poison. Some versions say that these women were locked in a tiny hut and burnt to death along with their children. Some gruesome versions say that these women were ordered to run and they had their heads chopped off with flying discs and their children died of fright at seeing their mothers' beheaded torsos run. It is said that after these murders, women never stepped out of the shadows of their husbands.

The novelist, ill at ease, wants to teach a lesson to the village. In one stroke, he elevates the seven condemned women and their children into one cult goddess. He divines that unless these dead women are worshipped, the village shall suffer ceaselessly.

Overnight, the villagers build a statue of mud of Kurathi Amman, the Gypsy Goddess, and say their first prayers. Misers come to ruin, thieves are struck blind, wife-beaters
sprout horns, rapists are mysteriously castrated, and murderers are found dead the following morning, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition.

Faith follows her ferocity. Over time, she becomes the reigning goddess.

She loves an animal slaughtered in her honour every once in a while but, mostly, she is content with the six measures of paddy that are paid to her on every important occasion.

Full disclosure: for all my irreligiosity, Kurathi Amman is rumoured to be my ancestral goddess. And Mayavan is the ancestral deity of a man I once loved. Our deities live the happily-ever-after fairy tale while we drift around with poetry and politics to numb and dissolve our pain.

Sad story, indeed.

Now, you can forget all about this, and move on to the novel.

Fuck these postmodern writers
.

part two

BREEDING GROUND

3.
The Cutthroat Comrades

Gopalakrishna Naidu had inherited all of Gandhi's adamancy, most of his self-righteousness and a wee bit of his desire to save humanity. Upon realizing that he was endowed with such a desirable mix of messianic attributes, he fashioned himself as a father-figure for the landlords of Nagapattinam and, therefore, had taken upon himself the timeless task of protecting their vested and invested interests. As required of self-made heroes who shoulder such responsibility, he satisfied all the requisite criteria: he perfected the role of a leader who represented hope, claimed to symbolize change even as he continued to believe in age-old values, and unfailingly met his constituency on a regular basis. Having introduced this balding, middle-aged man in three-and-a-half formidable sentences, I step aside as a big-mouthed narrator-novelist, and instead invite you to catch him on his campaign trail.

On a sultry afternoon in July when the sun sets the sky on fire, Gopalakrishna Naidu's gleaming pleasure-car
(simply called ‘pleasure' by the villagers, and ‘car' by those who have travelled in one) arrives at the doorstep of Ramu Thevar's palatial bungalow, having traversed a picturesque Tanjore countryside replete with lakes and rivers and lushgreen rice fields and tropical coconut trees. In a cinematic wide-angle shot, the door of the ash-coloured Ambassador opens and we first spot Gopalakrishna Naidu's gold-ringed right hand, and then we see the rest of him emerge, dressed in spotless hand-spun, hassle-free white cotton. As you visualize him walking from his car to his designated place, here's the background song that should fill your eager ears:
one in a million million
/
he walks like a kingly lion
/
one in a million million
/
he wears red red vermillion
/
one in a million million
/
he's here to crush the rebellion
. Trust me, such music sounds really upbeat when rapped in Tamil; what you see here is the tragedy of translation while the central character makes a transition.

Seated, saluted, and having sipped the customary filter coffee, he begins business without further ado. Out of a compelling need to hear his own voice, and also because of the curiosity of the other landlords to learn the precise tenor of a bachelor baritone which commands and controls the entire district, Gopalakrishna Naidu is the first to address the Emergency Executive Committee Meeting of the Paddy Producers Association. Reality competes with cinematic representation when he takes control of the
floor: his audience looks keen; his speech stings; and his body, anaesthetized by this power-trip, appears motionless below the shoulders. He begins a rapid-fire round of attack.

Govinda Raja Naidu, next-door neighbour and distant cousin, is handpicked to be the first sacrificial victim. ‘Our Kerosene Govinda has done us proud. Why do you think we are having this emergency meeting today? To celebrate his achievement. To congratulate this braveheart. His name now resonates in all eight directions. Soon, his face will become very familiar throughout the district when the Communists start putting up posters. Who knows, he may show up on the cinema posters, too. After all, more people watched our hero charging through Thevur market shouting death threats than watched MGR in
Nadodi Mannan
.'

Some landlords laugh nervously. Gopalakrishna Naidu goes on. ‘Brother, carelessness will catch up with you soon. You will be dead meat before the word “kerosene” in your name has dried up. Indifference will not help. Every time a Communist corpse turns up, our peace is lost. The police hound us like dogs. If their local leaders, Thevur Kannan or Sikkal Pakkirisamy, hang themselves, or even if they hang each other, the Communists will blame us. Cases would be filed against us. If something happens to those dogs now, six villages will rush to the witness box. Will you
then summon ghosts to give evidence in your favour? I do not ask any of you to be afraid of the cutthroat comrades. There is no other man in East Tanjore who has earned their hatred as much as me. I am their enemy number one. They have turned our own people against us, so we should know when to be daring and when to be discreet.'

At this point it suddenly strikes me that every authoritative villain must stroke something and keep his hands busy. Like Vito Corleone and Blofeld with cats. Sadly, Gopalakrishna Naidu is a dog person. Moreover, Tommy, his Alsatian, has never been allowed to climb on to his lap. So I dismiss this stray idea, abandon my quest for a prop, and return to the story. A few things have transpired since we drifted off, but I don't think we have missed much.

‘There is no need to introduce the next hero in our midst. His lands are spread across eight villages, but, being wrapped up in his manly exploits, this
minor
finds no time to attend to agriculture, or our useless association.'

The second target is Ramanuja Naidu. Gopalakrishna Naidu has quickly battered the fragile egos of some of his relatives and so he finds himself on a moral high-ground. Whom does he pick next? Not Balakrishna Naidu, his nephew. Not Murthy, his agent who is seated to his right. Not Damu. Not Kittu. Not Perumal Naidu. Not Narayanasamy Pillai. Not Kothandam Pillai. Not any puppet. Not Pakkirisami Pillai of Irukkai, lifeline for
imported labour. Not the Porayar father-son duo, landlords living in Kilvenmani (according to information circulated by the Communists, the father was a routine pimp). Not Andhakkudi Chinnaswamy Iyer, famous in the district for throwing stones at untouchables who entered his street. Not Adikesavalu. Not any of the other henchmen. Not Arumuga Mudaliar, his old enemy. Not Ramu Thevar, the treasurer. Not even the loud-mouthed Sambandhamoorthy Mudaliar, or his agent Kaathaan Perumal. Not Kayarohanam Chettiar,
mirasdar
moneylender of Nagapattinam. Each of them will have to wait for their turn.

‘People say that you joined the Communists. I hope it is only gossip.' He singles out Ganapati Nadar. ‘But who can stop these ignorant people from speaking whatever comes into their minds? And they have good reason to say what they are saying. Every village in Nagapattinam sports our association flag, doesn't it? Except the village of Kilvenmani, which has the fortune of being owned by you, and the misfortune of being covered in red flags. Forgive me, Comrade Ganapati, if your stomach churns at all this talk, but, seriously, are you thinking of upstaging us?'

Ramu Thevar attempts to intercede, but agent Murthy silences him with his eyes. As Gopalakrishna Naidu's Man Friday, this is an official obligation.

Shocked into standing, his body considerably stooped, Ganapati hastily professes his loyalty and his devotion.
‘I have asked them to remove the red flags – even yesterday I did – many times I did.'

‘Oh! You want me, you want us, to believe you. All the red cloth in Nagapattinam flies in that village. But how would you have seen it? Both your wives have kept you busy.'

Ganapati Nadar is taken aback by this abrupt attack, but he remains silent. Meanwhile, established as a villain within these first few pages, and resembling a no-nonsense man because of all the fictional fleshing out, Gopalakrishna Naidu takes the initiative to work on his dialogue delivery.

‘You can ask them again and again. It is better if you make them mend their ways. Otherwise I will have to intervene and teach a lesson to every Pallan and Paraiyan and Chakkili. Everybody knows what happened to untouchables in my village – Irinjiyur is communism-free. If they want to stay on our land, they should obey our rules. If they do not want to obey us, they can remain underground for ever, like their comrade Chinnapillai. They can continue being Communist without causing trouble to others.

‘Your problem is that you stop at asking them. They are not obedient, they do not listen to you. They talk back to you, for you have pampered them. This cannot go on for long. You go back to them and deal with them in the manner in which they should be dealt with. Or you can join them, and I can deal with all of you.

‘Look, tell me the name of the troublemakers. We will
take them one by one. Dead people do not speak or shout in public meetings. They are silent and well behaved, and they serve as a good example to others.'

There is a long, drawn-out, dramatic silence. Ukkadai Muthukrishna Naidu, the other
mirasdar
in Kilvenmani, enthusiastically agrees, glad that Ganapati Nadar is taking the rap. The encouragement makes Gopalakrishna Naidu even more garrulous.

‘Let the Communists know that we will never budge to their blackmail tactics. They take their processions through our streets, they hold meetings in our grounds. The threat of violence is out in the open: it is in their songs, it is in their slogans. Should we let ourselves be terrorized in this manner? Is it not our duty to tell the people about the true colours of the Communists? Because we have a few thigh-twitching, weak-kneed landlords in our midst does not mean that we will be bamboozled by these outcastes. It is not enough if we strike a deal with some of their leaders and sit back silently. It is our personal responsibility that none of us is held hostage by them. We will do whatever it takes, but we will not concede to the demands of these coolies, or their leaders. Today you have all come running to me because they asked for an extra half-measure of rice. If you give it today, they will ask for ten measures tomorrow. If you let them enter your home, they will want to sleep on your bed. Nothing we give them will be enough for them,

so it is better that they are given nothing to begin with. Let them complain.'

Now, he looks around the room, at the nodding heads, and calls them out as if it were an award function: ‘Kerosene Govinda, Balakrishna, Ramanuja, Murthy, Kittu – murder case. Kothandam, Porayar – rape case. Ramu Thevar – abduction and attempted murder case. Even Mudaliar
ayya
must have had complaints filed against him in his younger days. Vinayagam
ayya
is not here with us at the moment. He sent word that he shall come and visit me tomorrow. Can anybody even count the number of times he has been investigated? He was there in every movement, and now he is with the ruling party, he is, in fact, the biggest DMK politician in our area. He is a daring man, cases cannot shake him. One has to learn from him that a complaint against you means you are doing good work. A case means you are doing very good work.'