December 25, 1968: I was in grade ten when I heard some elders discuss an incident in a village called Keezhavenmani in Thanjavur where forty-four people had been burnt alive. This village being a rather small one, I’d never heard of it before. My school textbooks had acquainted me with the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre, but this was something different altogether. A landowner had burnt his workers to death for daring to ask for an additional measure of grain as a wage-raise. The men had fled to the forest while the women and children hid themselves in a small hut which was torched by the zamindar’s men. Those who ran out when the hut began to burn were speared and pushed back inside to die. We got to hear the news broadcast on the radio that was in the library near the police station. I ran there to listen to the news. Forty-four people had been killed – twenty women and twenty-three children. The elders said that the youngest child was one year old.
A few months later, my uncle apprised me of the circumstances that had led to this incident. Those were days when the landowner’s word was law. My friend Siva’s father owned a huge tract of farmland and Siva took me there one day. I usually preferred to read a book than to wander around the village purposelessly. But Siva promised to show me more interesting things than books. As it was sowing season, we could ogle at the women who were engaged in scattering seeds. But when I reached the field, I was sorely disappointed for the women were all like dried up prunes who reminded me of my mother. They were not a tad like the women in the movies. They were not even as average-looking as the girls at school. It would have been some consolation had they been like Siva’s mother or my aunts. Unwilling to squander more time than I already had, I began pestering Siva to let me return home. Then Siva did something I am yet to forget. He turned to an old woman – she had seen at least three generations from the looks of it – and said, “Ennadi pakkirey? What are you gawking at? Get back to work!” I was so embarrassed that it felt like my shorts had slipped down to my ankles. A middle-aged woman who was beside the abused grandmother gently chided Siva. “Enna thambi? Must you speak so rudely to an old woman? How could someone your age use the likes of vaadi, podi and ennadi to her? Thappu saamy.” Composing himself, Siva said, “Oh well, whatever! Just do your job.” And Siva was fifteen at the time.
Now this was what my uncle told me about the Keezhavenmani massacre: On the evening of the incident, two Dalit farmers from the village, Muthusamy and Ganapathy, were tied up and beaten black and blue by a landlord called Sauriraj Naidu. On hearing this, a group of farmers came to their assistance; they untied the two men and led them away. Following this, another powerful landlord called Gopalakrishna Naidu went to Keezhavenmani with a gun in hand and some henchmen. As soon as the bullets started flying, the men ran for their lives and took cover in the forest. The women and the children… well, you know what happened to them.
The news reached the Keevalur police station at eight p.m. but the police appeared at the scene of the crime only at midnight. A case was filed against Gopalakrishna Naidu, but he went scot-free because of a lack of witnesses.
I don’t know if anyone still remembers the village of Keezhavenmani, for when it comes to forgetting history, no one can beat the Tamils.
I was able to obtain a list of the people who were burnt to death that day after a lot of persistence.
Sundaram, 45
Saroja, 12
Madambal, 25
Thanakayyan, 5
Paappa, 35
Chandra, 12
Aasai Thambi, 10
Chinnapillai, 28
Vasuki, 3
Karunanidhi, 12
Poomayil, 16
Karuppayi, 35
Vasuki, 5
Kunjambal, 35
Ranchiyammal, 16
Damodaran, 1
Jayam, 10
Kanakammal, 25
Rajendran, 7
Suppan, 70
Kuppammal, 35
Pakkiyam, 35
Jothi, 10
Rathinam, 35
Gurusamy, 15
Nadarasan, 5
Veerammal, 25
Pattu, 46
Shanmukam, 13
Murugan, 40
Aachiyammal, 30
Nadarajan, 10
Jeyam, 6
Selvi, 3
Karuppayi, 50
Sethu, 26
Nadarasan, 6
Anjalai, 45
Aandal, 20
Seenivasan, 40
Kaviri, 50
Vedavalli, 10
Gunasekaran, 1
Rani, 4
2 – Sorry Mr. Engels!
After my Oradour trip, the next was from Paris to Berlin in the last week of December, 2001. I wanted to spend the New Year with a friend of mine who lived in the German capital. Three students – James, Alex and Kanthan – whom I had befriended at a literary meet in Paris volunteered to take me there on one condition – that I would spend Christmas with them at Wuppertal. Christmas was the very next day. I promised to be there and we set off. All three were emigrants from Sri Lanka. They lived in Germany with their parents and spoke fluent Tamil.
James and Alex took turns at the wheel on our way to Wuppertal. When it was Alex’s turn James would say, “Drive carefully now.”
“Don’t you worry. I left my derring-do behind in Paris,” Alex would retort.
Alex had driven a Mercedes at 200 kmph to attend the literary meet in Paris and was slapped with a goodly fine of five thousand francs.
It snowed all the way to Wuppertal, making driving a difficult task. Several cars that skidded off the snow-covered roads had been abandoned on the highway. Fortunately, there were no major accidents. James said that driving on a snow-blanketed road was like driving on glass. When the snowfall intensified, he took over from Alex. In India, the roads see to it that you feel the speed of the car, be it a Tata Sumo or a Jaguar XF, and that you’re always bouncing or banging your head. With James at the wheel we might as well have been on a cruise liner as the car seemed to be gliding across the highway. When I asked him at what speed the car was going, he said, “One-fifty.” I was blown. “You don’t believe me? Open the window and look out.” When I did, I was able to feel the car’s actual speed.
It was my dear friend Vincent who had taken care of my every need since my arrival in Paris. For fifteen days, he did all he could do to make my sojourn enjoyable and comfortable, but in so doing he had exhausted all his leave and had to return to work. He washed dishes at a restaurant.
When Vincent went back to work, he entrusted me to Kumarasamy. As luck would have it, Kumarasamy lost his job the day I met him. If you are scratching your head over what luck has to do with it, hear this: In France, if a worker loses his job, his employer has to pay him severance pay until he finds another job. Congratulatory messages for Kumarasamy were pouring in and the phone calls never stopped coming.
But Kumarasamy had filed a lawsuit against his employer so there was a delay in receiving his wages. He didn’t have two coins to rub together and neither did I. In our penniless state, how were we to travel or buy food? While we were at home, Kumarasamy would pull out some fish or pork from the fridge and whip up a tasty dish. But I hadn’t come all the way to Paris to feast on homemade fish fry and pork pie, so I would just down a cup of tea in the morning and set out. We couldn’t even take the car to the next block because it was not insured. Kumarasamy and I were making a short film on Paris. Though the film was short, the camera was gargantuan and we took turns lugging it. It was December and the biting cold was not merciful to our hungry stomachs.
When I left for Paris Krishna gave me ten thousand rupees, cash. One third out of ten had been spent to host a tea party for my friends in Chennai. The rest of the money I had converted into francs, one thousand or thereabouts. I wonder how Krishn
a’s face will look when I tell him I spent upwards of three hundred francs just to be granted kind admittance into the restrooms. My friends began to worry that I had diabetes. “Nonsense! It’s just the zero-degree weather,” I told them. An average restroom cost me two francs and a posh one cost me three. I needed to take a leak every thirty minutes.
In Germany, such conveniences were simply not available. There are toilets on every Parisian street, but no matter how much or how hard I searched, I couldn’t spot a single one in Germany. It embarrasses me even now to think of the ordeal I had to undergo in Wuppertal, the city where Friedrich Engels had lived. James and I had planned to pay the great dead man’s house a visit. The air was frigid and there was a light flurry of snow. We took the hanging train – the city’s most unique feature – and reached Engels’ home. By the time we reached, I was squirming uncomfortably like a wriggly-worm.
The streets were all deserted because “‘tis the season” and all. Engels’ house and the nearby factory were locked. “Why are you so restless?” James asked. I told him why. “You’ll have to do it right here. You don’t really have much of a choice, you know?” Although I was dying to empty my bladder that was threatening to burst, I was afraid to because I was in a country where people with smiling countenances are hard to come by. In this respect, it is starkly different from Paris.
My bladder was starting to grow a mind of its own; I couldn’t hold it in for another second. The doorway was the only place that afforded me some privacy so I tinkled there. This abominable deed of mine scarred my mind. Leftists go to Highgate Cemetry to visit Karl Marx’s grave, take pictures and share them for all the world to see. And then there was me, a pathetic unfortunate who visited the house of Friedrich Engels to urinate in his doorway.
It is in sticky moments like these that one should expect the unexpected. James was supposed to be keeping a lookout. I told him to warn me if he saw even a dog approaching. My job still unfinished, I saw a woman behind James. I caught her looking at me just as I was zipping my fly. Phew! That was a close call and the thought of her almost catching me in the act makes me shudder even now.
I spent only two days in James’ house in Wuppertal. I couldn’t suffer myself to hang around there longer. His parents were completely hooked onto the only Tamil channel on cable. Assuming me to be homesick, they invited me to join them.
3 – Om Muruga! Om Muruga!!
My next trip to Paris was in 2005. It was organized by Karuppusamy, one of my readers. He told me one day, “You have written extensively on Paris and so it is my wish to visit that very place with you.” I’d experienced the harshness of a European winter on my previous trip, so I felt that it would be more advisable to visit during springtime. I suggested this to Karuppusamy who gave me a deaf ear and insisted on leaving immediately. Glad for his company, I packed my bags and off we went. This was my second visit to Europe in the month of December. Back home, in Ooty, the mercury would dip almost to zero degrees, but a zero-degree European winter is vastly different from a zero-degree Indian winter. Is it because that the European continent hasn’t experienced a warmer climate for many centuries? Karuppusamy was from Namakkal and he was, at one point of time, an affluent contractor who owned several trucks. One day, just like that, he lost everything. Time is a great leveler indeed – it can turn a pauper into a prince and a prince into a pauper. The once wealthy landlord now had the appearance of an impoverished farmer. There was not a trace of joy to be found in his face. He wore a pair of old rubber sandals, one of which was held together by a diaper pin, and a wrinkled cotton shirt. Even in an emergency, he never took an auto, preferring to commute by bus at all times. I warned him that he would turn into a block of ice if he went to Paris clothed so scantily. I also pointed out to him that buying shoes in Paris would be an ignorant move as he would have to pay five times the price of the Indian shoe. With the money he saved, he could start putting together a winter wardrobe. I told him he’d need a sweater, woolen socks, gloves, jackets, a muffler and a skullcap. He agreed to buy shoes and a sweater. He settled for the most ordinary pair of shoes and bought no coat, no muffler, no gloves – absolutely nothing. And he was ready for his trip to Paris.
My problem with him began on the plane. Karuppusamy has a bad habit. Even if a person is right beside him, he shouts like he is at the other end of a busy street. He was giving me an earache. A white man, who had endured this ordeal for some time, finally lost his patience and asked Karuppusamy to lower his voice. He tried to talk in a normal voice for a couple of minutes, but normal wasn’t exactly his thing.
Embarrassed, I mouthed an apology to the white man. Karuppusamy belligerently said, “Tell him to bugger off! Let him not think he’s a lord in our country!”
I wanted to tell him that we were far, far away from Namakkal. We were 30,000 ft up in the air, probably flying over Turkey, but I held my tongue, knowing he’d have a loud response to that as well, and it wouldn’t be brief either. So I closed my eyes and feigned sleep, fearing the ear-shattering bombardments that might ensue if I opened them. The few times I sneakily opened my eyes, Karuppusamy pounced on me like a cat on a mouse and he would go on yet another boisterous rant. By this time, he had downed around five rounds of Scotch. I might have given ear to the man had he been an engaging conversationalist but all he did was complain about his wife. The more he complained about her, the more I began to feel a sense of deep respect for the woman. Kudos to her for having lived for as many years as she did with this braying ass.
When we walked out of the airport in Paris, Karuppusamy pulled an object out of my hand-luggage, held it up and said, “Look at this, Udhaya!” It was the blanket that the airline provided its passengers during the flight. Even though it was biting cold in Paris, I broke into a sweat. What if someone caught me with the blanket? I would have been extremely embarrassed, but Karuppusamy, blissfully unaware of the consequences, said that it would help keep us warm.
We took a taxi from the airport to Gare du Nord. This time I had no plans to stay in the houses of friends like Vincent or Kumarasamy as I had burdensome company. The best alternative I could think of was to rent a room in a lodge. But there was a problem – Gare du Nord was a hub for Sri Lankan Tamils and black Muslims from Maghreb. Most of the owners of cheap lodges were Algerians. They took one look at me, and before I had the chance to open my mouth, they began shouting, “Haram, haram!” This was because of the ring I wore on my right ear; it had led them to assume we were a gay couple. We finally found a room that was not really to my liking. We took it because the owner was an elderly Frenchwoman. But a new problem cropped up. Karuppusamy was shivering uncontrollably because of the cold and once we entered the room, he refused to step out except for lunch and dinner.
La Chappelle, the locality in which we stayed, was like a mini-Jaffna. There were Tamil-owned shops throughout the place, so finding South Indian food was not a problem, but I hadn’t come all the way to Paris to remain confined to my room like a medieval prisoner in a tower and eat rice with sambar or curd.
Karuppusamy was a chain smoker and he smoked the cheapest cigarettes. I had a problem with this, but I didn’t have enough money to take a separate room. I can overlook this too, but what Karuppusamy did on the train journey from Paris to Toulouse is something I can never forgive.
Toulouse had not actually been on our itinerary as my original plan was to celebrate my birthday – December 18 – and Christmas in Paris and return to India. I would have liked to extend the trip till the New Year, but we couldn’t afford to overshoot our modest budget, so we booked our return for December 26.
During my stay in Paris, Vincent, who was holidaying in Cuba, sent a young Sri Lankan Tamil to meet me. His name was Edward. He looked twenty-five and was dark and wiry. He sported a Beatles-inspired hairdo and he spoke naïvely, though he was far from being naïf. I could hear inflections of Tamil in his French. He told me that he had been in Paris for three years
and that he was well-acquainted with my work.
While still in school, he had joined the guerilla movement and undergone his arms training. Disillusioned by the authoritarianism, he quit the movement only to fall into the clutches of the Lankan army where he was accused of spying. They subjected him to all kinds of torture. Quite unmindful of the fact that we were in public, he lifted his shirt and showed me his back, criss-crossed with scars. I was shocked, as I had come across harrowing scenes of torture only in books and films, but this was visceral. I can see Edward’s body in front of my eyes now in all its physicality. When a small nick of the razor or a cut to the finger pad from a kitchen knife can be so painful and so bothersome, can you or I imagine the agony of a person whose skin has been branded with red-hot iron?
“No Udhaya. They bound me hand and foot and took turns to slash my back with a scalpel. ‘Tell us the truth! Tell us the truth!’ they kept yelling. What truth could I tell when I knew nothing? I had fled from the common enemy myself! If my own people had caught me, they would have killed me as a traitor. I managed a narrow escape from the army and reached Colombo. I paid an agent there for safe passage to Thailand.
“The first thing I did when I reached Bangkok was go to a brothel. Sex had become my only way of eking out a living. Sex was the only way I could forget all the torments I had endured in my country. I met a sex worker called Chimlin during this time. She looked sixteen but was actually twenty-two. We ended up falling in love and I thought of marrying her and finally settling down in Thailand, but she was not willing to quit her work. She made it clear to me that she would continue to sell her body even after we were married and this was something I couldn’t understand. She saw prestige in what she did because, after all, it was “work,” and it had nothing to do with our love for each other. Even though she hated what she did, her hatred was different from mine. Sex-workers gradually develop a distaste for sex. She had to sleep with half-a-dozen customers in a single day, sometimes even more. ‘Day and night, all the time, boom… boom… boom… BOOM!’ You should have seen her say it, face and actions and all. She and I communicated mostly through signs and some broken English. Chimlin knew just fifty words in English and half of them were related to sex and other smut. We tried to understand each other with our gestures and those fifty words as best as we could.
Marginal Man Page 11