by Vasudhendra
Mohanaswamy trembled inwardly and sighed with helplessness. How could he explain to his mother that his cock rose because he was fantasizing about a nude young man in his dream? He couldn’t sleep that night. He left for Bengaluru early next morning.
When Mohanaswamy was in pre-university college, his father once went to Ballari to take part in the matrimonial talks of his friend’s son. After much negotiation, it was decided that the bride’s father should give fifty thousand rupees in cash, two kilograms of silver, forty sovereigns of gold, a Bajaj scooter and a wristwatch to the groom as dowry. Both parties signed the draft paper and Subbaraya signed as a witness. But his hands shook as he signed, imagining his son’s bleak future. I will never get such honour in my life because our Mohanaswamy is invalid. He cannot get married. He cannot fetch a dowry. He cannot continue my family line. I will not even attain heaven after death because if he performs my last rites, it would never amount to a son’s duties. Because of him, I am not even in a position to hold my head up in society, Subbaraya thought and grew disconcerted. He ceased to have any love or affection for Mohanaswamy. He considered that any money spent on him would be a waste. All his demands irritated him. His wife’s adulation for Mohanaswamy annoyed him even more.
The results of Mohanaswamy’s entrance exams were out. He had passed with a good rank and got admission in a reputed government engineering college in Bengaluru. When the entire town was celebrating Mohanaswamy’s success, his father seemed sick, anxiety writ large on his face. If his son joined an engineering college, the minimum fees would be fifty thousand rupees plus the cost of food, hostel accommodation and travelling between Bengaluru and the town. Should he really spend so much on this boy, who would neither get married nor continue his family name? Wouldn’t it be wiser to spend the same money on his daughter’s wedding?
Subbaraya indirectly told his son not to join the engineering college but to continue graduation in the town and then take up a clerical job. But Mohanaswamy was determined.
‘He is our only son. We must help him go to Bengaluru and study engineering. We can apply for a bank loan. Else, I will sell a few of my gold ornaments,’ Subhadramma insisted.
But Subbaraya did not budge. However, when Mohanaswamy remained determined, he said he could go, on the condition that he would manage his expenses on his own.
So finally Mohanaswamy set off for Bengaluru. How long could he stay there without financial support from parents? Subbaraya assumed that his son would throw in the towel and come back sooner than later. But he was wrong. Mohanaswamy did not return. Nor did he ask his father for money. His father too did not dare to ask him how he earned his keep.
Thereafter, whenever Mohanaswamy came home, his father began avoiding him. After he took up a job and started sending some money home every month, his father did not have the courage to touch it. When he bore the entire cost of his sister’s wedding, his father sank even more. He started repenting. Why did I do injustice to my own son, who is such a polite, harmless soul? I just went by his sexuality and ignored the other aspects of his personality. Why was I so bothered that he would not fetch dowry from marriage? He is now earning hundredfold more than the dowry money and supports us in every way. He has been touring many countries in the world. When I complained of chest pain, he took me to Bengaluru and got the best treatment done in a big hospital. When his mother had knee pain, he got the knee replacement surgery done for her. So what if he is not married? Subbaraya recalled how friend’s son, who married a Ballari girl after demanding a handsome dowry money, had thrown his parents out of their own house. Neither was he taking good care of his wife. Of course, he has fathered two kids, but then what’s the big deal about that?
Many times he thought of confiding in his son and pleading forgiveness. But he could not gather the courage and kept postponing it year after year. Now death was knocking at his door. He tried speaking but his feeble voice failed him. He tried writing a message but his frail, shivering hands did not cooperate. Mohana, my Mohana, please pardon me. As a father, I failed in my duties towards you. I meted out injustice to you. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me, my child … Come fast, I will hold your hands and beg your pardon. Come home … come home fast…
One evening, after completing the thirteen-day rituals following his father’s death, Mohanaswamy went to the priest Gopala Bhatta’s house at his mother’s behest. ‘Poor Brahmin, he seems to be in some problem. He wants to speak to you. Go and meet him,’ his mother had insisted. Gopala Bhatta had administered the funeral rites of his father on the banks of the river Tungabhadra in Hampi. His wife had cooked food on all the thirteen days. Though Mohanaswamy did not believe in all those cumbersome rituals, he performed them mundanely, following Gopala Bhatta’s instructions. Pinda, specially prepared rice balls, were laid on a banana leaf and offered to crows, with the customary belief that feeding the crows would amount to feeding the departed soul.
But not a single crow came down to eat the pinda. All the people standing there made ‘caw, caw’ sounds trying to attract the crows flying above, but the birds simply refused to oblige. That in turn indicated that some unfulfilled desire of the dead prevented the soul from attending liberation. Mohanaswamy’s mother started sobbing. Someone in the crowd turned to the family members and asked if they knew about any unfulfilled wishes of Subbaraya.
‘He desperately wanted to see his son married. He had expressed it to me many times. That’s why he is refusing to have his food today…’ Mohanaswamy’s mother said, as her eyes welled up.
Mohanaswamy stood unmoved. His sister Janaki, who was consoling her crying baby on her lap, told him gruffly, ‘Go, Mohana, go and pray. Why are you inviting flak from everyone?’
But Mohanaswamy did not budge.
‘I know he will not agree. When his father was alive he did not agree to get married. Even now he is not willing to commit himself. I know he will not,’ his mother cried.
The crowd insisted that he must go and pray. Mohanaswamy was furious. Finally, it was Gopala Bhatta who came out with an amicable solution. ‘Mohana Rao, do one thing. Go and stand near the pillar and pray whatever you feel is right. There is no need to say it publicly.’
Backed into a corner, Mohanaswamy reluctantly rose and walked towards the pillar where the pinda was placed. What would he pray for? Who knew what was there on father’s mind before his death? The image of his father on his death bed, holding his hands and weeping, came before his eyes.
Standing in front of the pillar, Mohanaswamy joined his palms together and prayed in his mind. ‘Appa, I don’t know what your problem is. If you want to have food, you may please come down and have it. If you don’t want, just leave it. I can’t get married for the sake of your one-time meal. I don’t want to ruin the life of a woman by marrying her. I don’t want to live a life that is not mine. Please don’t expect that from me. You don’t have the right to do so,’ he said impassively.
Then the miracle happened. A crow swooped down from somewhere, nibbled at the rice and darted back to the sky. ‘You performed a miracle, Mohana Rao,’ said Gopala Bhatta.
‘I knew it, that was indeed my husband’s deepest desire…’ Subhadramma shed tears of joy.
‘In that case, we should start looking out for a bride for Mohana,’ said some relatives jokingly, to which the entire crowd cheered.
During the rituals that followed, it was the son of the deceased who had to lift the plantain leaves after the Brahmins had eaten on them. If he was married, he could take his wife’s help in the cleaning work. Mohanaswamy found it too cumbersome. He reluctantly hitched up his dhoti and bent down to lift the leaves. He wasn’t used to such chores ever since he joined college. Piling on the agony was the extremely humid climate. Seeing Mohanaswamy sweating it out on his own, someone among the relatives commented, ‘Had he got married he wouldn’t have faced this problem.’
Mohanaswamy was at the end of his tether. A few drops of tears slid down his cheeks. Feeling miserable
, he felt like running back to Bengaluru. Gopala Bhatta understood his plight. ‘My son, this is an age-old tradition which can be amended. You can take the help of some womenfolk in the cleaning work, no problem,’ said the priest. Then Mohanaswamy’s sister Janaki came to his rescue.
Since Gopala Bhatta had saved him a few times on such occasions, Mohanaswamy had developed some respect for him. So when his mother told him that the priest wanted to see him, he went off to visit him without thinking twice.
It was dusk when Mohanaswamy reached Gopala Bhatta’s town. The Tungabhadra river was flowing quietly at a distance. On its stretched banks was the lone mud house of the priest. Around it, huge boulders stood supporting one another. Someone had drawn a picture of Hanuman on one of the boulders. It was spattered with vermilion and turmeric. A crow perched on the boulder and cawed loudly. Gopala Bhatta was sitting in the front yard, fanning himself with a handmade fan and reading a newspaper. Abutting the front yard was a cowshed where two cows were chewing fodder. A huge rangoli was drawn in front of the house and it was surrounded by a few flower pots.
‘Please come, please come,’ Gopala Bhatta received Mohanaswamy affectionately. He spread a mat on the stone platform and asked him to sit on it. ‘Oye…’ he called out and his daughter peeped from inside. ‘Amma has gone to the temple for bhajan,’ she said, glancing at Mohanaswamy. A beautiful face, Mohanaswamy said to himself. ‘Get a glass of coffee,’ her father told her. She disappeared inside.
‘Did you find any difficulty in locating our house? It is quite far from the town,’ the priest opened the conversation.
‘No … not at all. Everyone in town knows your address. They guided me,’ said Mohanaswamy.
‘Earlier our house was on the chariot street. It was so convenient. We were staying there since our father’s time. But what to do? The government vacated us from there,’ the priest rued.
His daughter, wearing a cotton sari, came back with a glass of coffee, kept it in front of him and went back. A diminutive lady, must be in her early thirties. The coffee smelled and tasted good, made of fresh cow-milk. ‘My mother told me that you wanted to speak to me, what’s the matter?’ Mohanaswamy asked the priest, sipping the hot coffee.
Gopala Bhatta swallowed nervously before beginning, ‘The girl who came with the coffee is my daughter, Anjali. She is thirty-two, a very intelligent girl. She is the one who drew that big beautiful rangoli in the front yard. She has watered and raised all these plants that you see around. She is a very good cook too. Unfortunately her husband died four years ago. He committed suicide. It seems he had misappropriated funds at the mines department. Fearing that the government authorities might take action and put him in jail, he jumped onto the railway tracks and came under the Hampi Express.’
Mohanaswamy did not understand why Gopala Bhatta was telling him all this. The priest continued, ‘My daughter’s world fell apart after her husband’s death. Her in-laws were not ready to keep her. I had borrowed a lot of money to marry her off. The loan amount is still pending, but already she is back at home. I feel sad every time I pay the monthly instalment,’ he said, wiping his tears with the hem of his dhoti.
Mohanaswamy remained silent. Maybe he will ask for some financial help, he thought. ‘Tell me, how can I help you?’
‘You are a big man … a learned man … You understand everything. You must somehow hold my daughter’s hand and help her…’
‘Sorry, I don’t quite understand.’
‘If you marry her, you will get some support and we will also be relieved of our burden,’ the priest said explicitly.
Mohanaswamy was mum for a while. ‘I am sorry, Gopala Bhatta. I have no intentions of getting married and settling down with a wife. Otherwise, why would I remain unmarried even after forty?’ he said without missing a beat.
‘Not like that, Mohana Rao, I am elder to you. Please don’t misunderstand me. You will need someone to look after you in old age. A man should not live alone. Life after forty is very tough. It is always advisable to have a companion who can take care of you…’ the priest said, trying to twist his arm into marrying his daughter.
Mohanaswamy was irritated. ‘In what words shall I tell you that I don’t want to get married? Why are you forcing me?’ he said, and got up to go.
But Gopala Bhatta did not stop. He said hesitatingly, ‘After marriage, if you don’t want to sleep with her, it’s okay. I will not force you. I will clearly tell my daughter not to expect it. But she will be cooking, cleaning and doing other chores for you. She will take good care of you. All in all, she will live with you as a friend, is that fine? She will get a new life and you too can avoid nagging questions from people for not getting married.’
Mohanaswamy was flummoxed by this implausible offer. At the same time, the fact that the Brahmin had found out about his sexuality riled him up. He guessed that his mother must have had a role in this scheme of things. Even then, deciding not to lose his temper, he said tactfully, ‘I can get domestic help in the city very easily. I don’t need a wife just for that. I can’t marry someone with whom I can’t share my bed. I don’t have faith in such a marriage. I can’t put on an act in front of the world.’
‘Then that is your wish. If you feel I have crossed my limits, please forgive me,’ the priest said, his hands folded. He followed Mohanaswamy to the gate to see him off. When they reached the gate, Mohanaswamy saw Bhatta’s wife at a distance. He knew her well as she had accompanied her husband during his father’s rituals. But who was that young man with her? He squinted to see through the dim streetlight. When they approached the gate, Mohanaswamy was startled to realize who that handsome young man was.
It was Derrick.
The same twenty-five-year-old Derrick with that pencil moustache, whose soft skin, warm breath and tender body had held Mohanaswamy in thrall. But he looked so different in this avatar – donning a white dhoti and a light blue shirt, vibhuti and vermillion on his forehead.
For Derrick too, it was a bolt from the blue. His face fell at the sight of Mohanaswamy. Gopala Bhatta introduced him. ‘He is my son, Ramesh. He was studying engineering, but dropped out in the third year as he found it hard. Since then he has not found himself a job. I have heard that you work for a big company. Can you help him get some job and settle down?’ the priest pleaded.
Mohanaswamy was in a dither, not knowing how to react. Regaining his composure, he asked Ramesh, ‘What do you do in Bengaluru?’
The boy did not reply.
‘Speak up, Ramesh. Our Mohanaswamy is a big man. He will help you out. It is high time you stopped loafing around and took up some responsibility in life,’ his father said with asperity.
Ramesh opened his mouth. ‘I am doing some odd jobs … But I am not able to get full-time employment,’ he babbled, bowing his head in shame.
His reply brought a cheer to Mohanaswamy’s face. ‘Then you do one thing. You keep coming to my house in Bengaluru every now and then. I’m available in the evenings. We can discuss the matter in detail. Something or the other will work out. Let me see how I can help you,’ he said.
‘If you do that I will be grateful to you Mohana Rao. You did not agree to hold my daughter’s hand. Never mind. But kindly help my son,’ Gopala Bhatta said in joy.
Then turning to his son he asked him, ‘You will go to his house, won’t you?’
Ramesh nodded with a bashful grin.
BED BUG
My childhood friend Shankar Gowda used to come to school from a village that was about two kilometres away from my hometown. He was the youngest son of the Gowda, the head of the village, and their family had land, money and power. Shankar Gowda was tall, fair and well-built. He could have easily been the prince of any girl’s dreams. But god wasn’t so kind to him.
His speech, voice, the way he walked and his tastes were all effeminate. Shankar Gowda was the butt of many jokes at school. It was all too common for boys to taunt him, imitating his soft, delicate way of speaking and his girlish gait.
It was not just his classmates – even the teachers made fun of him. Once during a biology lesson, the teacher was telling the class that sometimes, due to chromosomal mismatch, a child is born neither girl nor boy. As he said this, his eyes wandered across to Shankar Gowda and he broke into a nasty smile. The entire class shouted ‘Shankara Gowda’ and burst into laughter.
But Shankar Gowda wasn’t cowed by such remarks. In fact, he would join in with the laughter. Indeed, his behaviour quite warranted their remarks. He would sing P. Susheela’s ‘Hoovu Cheluvella Tandenditu’ in a sweet, girlish voice. He would fill the end pages of his notebooks with rangoli designs. When he spotted designer saris displayed in garment shops, he would admire the patterns, transfixed. He had no interest in sports like kabaddi and volleyball, instead, he delighted in playing tennikoit with the girls. Wiggling his body, he entertained us with his imitations of prostitutes in his village and solicited young men, calling out, ‘Brother, come to me in the night, brother!’ This would send everyone into fits of laughter. He would repeat this performance any number of times for our amusement.
Shankar Gowda always sat next to me in class. He wasn’t very good with his lessons and needed my help. He would copy my notes and in return, he would bring me gooseberries, wood apples, jamun fruit and sweet tamarind pods from his village. Sometimes he gave me the rangoli designs that he drew in his notebooks. He was so sweet-natured, I had no qualms being friends with him.
But to his ostentatious family, his effeminate behaviour was a bitter pill to swallow. His two brothers, his father, mother and everyone else in his family implored him to change. How could he change something that was natural to him?