by Vasudhendra
Once, he did not come to school for three days. The boys in his village said that he was ill. On the fourth day, he arrived looking very pale. After school, when I asked him what had happened, he took me behind the school building. There, where no one else could see, he removed his shirt and lowered his pants. There were deep welts and black bruises all over his body. I was horrified. Shankar told me that his father and brothers had locked him in a room and whipped him to beat his girlish ways out of him. Afterwards, they told everyone that Shankar Gowda was ill. They did not even bother taking him to a doctor. Only his mother smeared coconut oil over his wounds.
Something shifted in Shankar after this incident and he became more subdued. The school annual day was drawing near, and our teacher decided to make us enact ‘Draupadi Vastrapaharan’. But which girl would be willing to perform the role of Draupadi being disrobed in court? The boys suggested that Shankar Gowda be given the role – and the teacher agreed.
But Shankar baulked at the idea. ‘My father will kill me! I will not play a female character.’ The teacher tried to persuade him but in vain. Another boy was chosen for the part. On the annual day, Shankar Gowda walked into the green room as his classmates were dressing up for the play. He went over to the boy in Draupadi’s costume and caressed the soft silk sari, felt the blouse and ornaments.
After completing my PUC, I moved to another city to study engineering. I began to lose touch with my childhood friends. I heard that Shankar Gowda failed in PUC once, appeared again, passed, and joined a local college to pursue his BA.
On my rare visits to my hometown, Shankar would invariably learn of my presence and try to meet me. But I avoided him. He would continue to bring gooseberries, guavas and tamarind pods for me. As I no longer relished his attention, I gave these things away to others. Once, just as I was leaving to return to college, he came to the bus stand and handed me a parcel. When the bus drove out of town, I opened the package. Inside, I found expensive body lotion, powder, shampoo and bottles of aromatic oils, and a note saying, ‘I want my friend to look beautiful’. Worried that someone might see it, I hid the pack until the bus reached Gandi Narasimhaswamy hill. I threw it down into the valley, heaving a huge sigh of relief.
After I completed my engineering, I found myself a job in a reputed software company in Bengaluru. With time, my bitterness towards Shankar Gowda mellowed and I started to develop a soft corner for him again. He continued to look me up whenever I visited my hometown. It was heart-wrenching to watch him drift into futility and nothingness, unable to complete his BA and damned constantly by his family.
Once, when he came to see me, I asked him, ‘How is your father now?’
‘Now he can’t have it his way,’ Shankar replied with a guffaw. ‘He came to scold me, but I lashed back and hit him black and blue with a whip. He was in the hospital for fifteen days. Now that bolimaga, son of a shaved widow, never dares to cross my path.’
I suggested that he find himself a job.
‘Who will give me a job?’ he giggled.
He told me that he had gone for an interview for a peon’s post in a local office. There were three men on the interview board. They asked him, ‘What are you good at?’ Shankar Gowda replied honestly, ‘I can sing and dance well.’
‘Well then, show us how good you are,’ they said.
He danced in front of them in the interview room, singing, ‘Ghil Ghil Ghil Ghilakku, Kalu Gejje Jhalakku…’ His show evoked peals of laughter from them.
‘Wonderful!’ they exclaimed and applauded as he finished. They promised him a job but he never heard from them again. After this, he lost interest in taking up a job.
Another time, he took me to visit a Hanuman temple on the outskirts of my hometown. A mutual friend Kumarswamy, Kommi as we called him, ran a garment shop which would fall on the way.
I wanted to meet him and so we went by his shop. ‘Lo … Kommee…’ Shankar Gowda hollered from a distance. Kommi, busy showing garments to his customers, raised his hand to shoo him away contemptuously as one would do to a beggar. Unfazed, Shankar Gowda shouted again, ‘I know you are a big man. I am not asking you to talk to me. But look who has come!’ Upon hearing his words, Kommi turned and catching sight of me, he stopped his work.
‘When did you come, maaraya?’ he exclaimed. ‘Come, come inside.’ He took my hand, led me inside the shop and offered me a cool drink. Shankar Gowda followed us. Still holding my hand, Kommi chatted with me for fifteen minutes, but he never bothered to look at Shankar Gowda, let alone talk to him.
Just as we were leaving, Shankar Gowda asked, ‘By the way, Kommanna, how’s Chandravva doing?’
That sent Kommi into a rage. ‘Son of a slut!’ He raised his hand in anger to strike Shankar, but he dodged the blow and dashed out of the shop, laughing hysterically.
I didn’t understand what was happening and asked Kommi, ‘Who is Chandravva?’
‘That swine blabbers nonsense, just leave it! Loose-tongued son of a whore,’ Kommi growled.
I joined Shankar Gowda at the corner of the street. ‘She is his keep – for the past two years,’ he explained. ‘She stays behind the Durgamma temple. He’s even got her a gold necklace!’ he added naughtily.
There was no one in the Hanuman temple when we reached there. It was cool and quiet. A bird was singing sweetly in a crape jasmine tree that had formed a canopy over the temple entrance. The fragrance filled the air. We prostrated before the idol, cupped our palms over the flame of an oil-lamp placed in a corner and raised them to our eyes. Shankar Gowda paused and applied a dab of kumkum on his forehead. He applied some kumkum on my forehead too, carefully dusting off the specks.
After we had sat in silence for a while, I said, ‘Gowda, you must get married.’
He laughed so hard that tears filled his eyes. Then, suddenly serious, he pleaded, ‘Please, you also don’t start making fun of me.’
I apologized and we walked home in silence.
That night, after dinner, I was sitting on the katte when Kommi came over. ‘You are a Bengaluru man,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand what goes on here. Just listen to me. I’m telling you this for your own good.’ Saying so, he proceeded to tell me that I should stop roaming around with Shankar Gowda.
‘Why do you say so, maaraya? After all he was our classmate.’
‘Don’t ask me questions so innocently as though you are asking about a math problem to some teacher in school!’ Kommi fumed. ‘Just try to understand. You are an intelligent boy. There was no one in our town to score marks like you, and there will be no one in the future either. You are the pride of our town. You have a good job in Bengaluru. I’m telling you this not just as a friend, but as an elder brother. Just do as I am telling you. If people in the town speak ill of you, I can’t stand it. Stop associating yourself with that son of a bitch.’
Five years passed. My parents moved to Bengaluru to stay with me, and the next time I visited the town was on the occasion of a distant relative’s wedding. I was determined to meet Shankar Gowda.
But shocking news awaited me when I reached the wedding hall. Shankar Gowda had committed suicide by hanging himself.
What made Shankar Gowda, who had the guts to lash out his own father with a whip, hang himself?
None of those present at the wedding could give me a convincing answer.
That evening, I headed to his village. It was dark by the time I reached his house. His mother was sitting in the courtyard, sorting and picking menthyasoppu. His father was reclining on a cot, smoking a beedi.
‘Who is it?’ His mother squinted to catch a better glimpse of me in the dark. ‘Whom do you want to see?’ His father sat up.
I introduced myself. ‘I studied with Shankar Gowda. I live in Bengaluru. I came to the town for a wedding and heard that he passed away.’
His mother wiped her eyes with the hem of her sari.
‘Please pardon me,’ I continued. ‘My intention is not to hurt you. The news of his death pains me.
I just want to know why Shankar Gowda suddenly ended his life.’
His mother began to weep in earnest and she went inside. I looked at his father, who was still smoking his beedi.
He took a deep puff, blew the smoke out and crushed the butt on the floor. ‘How can we say why the dead choose death? He’s dead, that’s it. Maybe he was fed up of life, so he went. Maybe he wanted to make us suffer, so he went,’ he said acidly.
‘No, no, I’m sure that’s not the case … but you would have known the reasons behind his actions…’
‘We don’t know anything, we don’t know,’ he said, raising his voice sternly. Shankar Gowda’s brothers and their wives came out. ‘And how does it matter to you anyway?’ he continued, shrilly. ‘Who are you, his husband or paramour? We have had a bellyful of our woes and you come in here like a bear. Well, if you still want to know why he died, you too go hang yourself, and then you can catch up with him and find out. Go, get lost!’ he pointed to the gate, his hands quivering in rage.
Without saying another word, I left. After walking a few minutes, I turned around. Shankar’s mother was standing in the backyard and looking at me. She wants to tell me something, I thought, and started walking towards her. But she turned away at once and went inside. I waited for a long time, hoping she would change her mind. But she did not come back.
On the way home, I stopped by to visit Kommi. He was married and had a two-year-old son. He introduced his wife to me, a BCom graduate from Hagaribommanahalli village. Kommi spoke fondly of his son’s mischievous pranks.
After some time, I asked him, ‘Why did Shankar Gowda commit suicide?’
Kommi did not reply. He turned to his son. ‘Sweetie,’ he pushed his son towards the kitchen, ‘go to your mother.’ Kommi turned back to me. ‘When will you go back to Bengaluru?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Then why do you want to dig into all this? Just leave peacefully.’ But I couldn’t let it go. I sat there, quietly, looking at Kommi. Finally, his restraint cracked. ‘Well, come let’s go out.’
He took me to an eatery in the outskirts. ‘I don’t drink,’ I said.
‘I know, but I must. Otherwise things like this cannot be said,’ he snapped. He ordered a drink and a snack. Then he began, ‘Brother, this town is no longer what it used to be. But you are the same, like you used to be as a small boy. You are a good human being. Unlike us, you did not adopt any vices. But the town is not like you.’ He went on in this fashion for a while, spouting amateur philosophy.
Eventually I ran out of patience. I grabbed his glass and pulled it towards me. ‘Tell me. How did he die?’
By now Kommi was slightly drunk. He looked straight into my eyes and said, ‘He did not die. They killed him.’
‘Who?’
‘His father and brothers. They killed him and then hanged him.’ He snatched his glass back and downed what was left in one swig.
I was shocked to the point of tears. ‘He was the son of the house, born and raised there. How could they kill him?’
Kommi poured himself another drink. He took a few swigs before replying. ‘You know a bed bug, right? It slips into the mattress and bites you all through the night, disturbing your sleep. That son of a bitch was like a bed bug. Just because a bed bug is born in the house people live and grows up there, will they shower love on it? No. If they spot it, they will squish it and wash their hands clean. This is exactly what his father and brothers did to him. One day, when he was asleep, they smothered him with a pillow. Then they used his blanket to hang his body, and created a big scene next morning, beating their breasts.’
‘Who told you all this?’
‘The entire town knows it, not just me. Those three men struggled to keep it under wraps. But how could Shankar’s mother conceal her grief? She told some people and cried her heart out. Those who heard her story consoled her, and in turn told others.’
I sighed. ‘He always minded his own business. What made them kill him? It’s a heinous crime!’
‘Not so fast, not so fast. I haven’t finished yet. If he’d minded his own business, nobody would have done this to him.’
‘What was his sin that he deserved death?’ I fumed.
‘He ran away to Mumbai. Stayed there for six months. He got his dick chopped off and came back wearing a sari and blouse.’
I was dumbstruck.
Kommi continued, slurring slightly now, ‘It was Ugadi, the chariot festival day. The shepherd boys were beating drums. The Nandi Kolu performer was dancing. Suddenly a person storms in, dancing away to the drummers’ beat. Looked like a film heroine. We all wondered who this lady was and where she came from. Youths began shaking and gyrating with her, matching her vigour. Nobody realized it was Shankar. When the chariot drove into the yard of Basavanna temple, my wife and I bowed to the god in worship, Shankar came near us. “Kommanna, how’s Chandravva?” he cackled and went away. That is when I realized who it was. I was newly married. All hell broke loose as my wife stiffened and began to nag me about who Chandravva was. I had a hard time pacifying her.’
‘From the next day onwards, he began his antics. He came straight to my shop. “I want five bras and five panties” he would say coquettishly. I told him to get out. But he had become bold and brazen. “I will buy whatever I want. What’s your problem?” he retorted, and left only after purchasing all the stuff he wanted. The news began to spread. People hounded his father and brothers with all sorts of questions.’ Kommi paused, before going on. ‘Tell me, what do you expect them to do when their boy turns into a woman, wrapping himself up in a sari? They tried throwing him out of the house. “I also have a share in the property in this house,” Shankar would assert, sticking to his guns. “Share in the property is only for the sons, not for daughters,” his brothers replied. I don’t know who in Mumbai had helped him get his courage so high, but he simply refused to leave the house. He ate there, bathed there and slept there.
‘But his antics did not stop at that. He began luring the men in the town into his trap, one by one. His looks were exactly like a woman. He was stunning, believe me, women in our town were no match for him. His waist, his thighs, buttocks and breasts – he had got them all done. Men started going to him, one by one. He ran it like a business. Women at home began showering curses on him. His family members hung their heads in shame, unable to face the villagers. Not just that, the senior Gowda, who had never tasted defeat in a panchayat election before, lost that year.
‘For how long could they put up with such indignity? Their family had lived respectably in the village for years. They grew weary and lost their patience.’ Kommi was drunk to the point that he would disclose anything. ‘Finally his father and brothers bumped him off. Now everyone is at peace in the village.’
‘Instead of killing him, they could have given him his share in the property!’ I countered. ‘If they’d given him some money, he could have bought himself a house and lived elsewhere peacefully.’
‘Arre arre arre … here you go wrong again. He had no dearth of money. He ran a roaring business. When he died, I heard that he had one and a half lakh rupees in his account. He had made his mother the nominee. Will anybody let go of money? Both the sons took their mother to the bank and withdrew the entire amount. Money wasn’t the actual problem. The problem was his pig-headedness – he insisted on staying in the house, claiming his rights. Tell me, what kind of madness was that?’ Kommi roared with laughter.
I felt my stomach churning.
‘See brother, this isn’t something you should feel sad about. He was sleeping around with just about any man. I’m sure, one day or the other, he would have got AIDS. He would have suffered and died but not before spreading the disease to the entire town. In fact, his father and brothers only did a favour by killing him before that happened.’
I didn’t want to hear any more. I paid the bill and hauled Kommi out of the eatery.
Still drunk, Kommi raved about Shankar Gowda’s acquired womanhood. ‘Whate
ver you say, that whore was such a spotless beauty, the kind one should only touch with clean hands. The way she wore a sari! The way she wore a matching blouse, the chain around her neck, bangles on her wrists, perfume, powder! Wow!’ I listened to his words in disgust until we finally reached his house. ‘Good night,’ he said, shaking my hand drunkenly.
‘Kommi,’ I said. ‘I want to ask you something. Will you tell me the truth?’
‘Ask, my lord, ask whatever you want. I will tell the truth, and nothing but the truth,’ he said, as if testifying in court, and began laughing at his own foolery.
‘Did you too enjoy Shankar Gowda?’
Kommi’s laughter came to an abrupt halt and he dropped my hand. He walked to his door, then turned back. ‘If someone sleeps next to me, touching, pawing and canoodling, how I am supposed to control myself? I am a man, I have a dick. What applies to other men in the town – it is only fair that it applies to me as well.’
He strode briskly into the house and slammed the door shut.
THE UNPALATABLE OFFERING
Mohanaswamy lost his bearings completely when he saw the building. It looked as though it had jetted out from under the earth, splitting the surface wide apart. It was an eight-storey apartment complex, still under construction. Hundreds of people were busy at work. The place was filled with the bustle of labourers, supervisors and machines. Cranes, taller than the building, were lifting and placing loads from one place to another. How did such mammoth machines come strolling here? Mohanaswamy pondered. There was dust everywhere. Sand, cement, iron rods and bricks lay scattered. A narrow path through that clutter led to a signboard which read, ‘Way to the apartment office’. Strangely, that board was clean and free of dust.
I shouldn’t have come here, Mohanaswamy thought. In fact, until an hour back, he had no plans of going there. Why would the idea of purchasing a house come to Mohanaswamy when he was all set to leave for a foreign country the next evening for four years? Last evening, he had gone to his friend Gururaja’s house for a quick farewell. He had hoped that his wife would offer him some home-cooked food he had been craving for long. Gururaja would often ask him to stay back for lunch or dinner. ‘No Guru, I don’t want anything. Why do you take the trouble? I just had my food’, Mohanaswamy would say, but Gururaja wouldn’t listen. ‘So what? Have some more,’ he would urge him affectionately. This gesture would melt Mohanaswamy’s heart and fearing that his voice may choke with tears, he would just nod his head.