by Ryan Lobo
Ahead of them, the river breaks into two. The right stream is overgrown and fast flowing. The left is wider and leads into a large lake that exits into another tributary. A flock of black ibis takes off from the bulrushes and flies low over the boat, swerving to the right.
‘We should take the left,’ shouts Bencho as the heavens open up further, water falling in ragged sheets, stinging their bodies.
‘But the birds fly right!’ Iyer counters, standing at the bow, his clothes whipping in the wind, trying to cover himself with a piece of tarpaulin.
‘That could lead to rough waters, sir,’ shouts Bencho, barely audible over the hammering rain.
‘No matter. We can stop and carry the boat overland if we need to. We must follow them.’ The wind is so strong the boat leans to one side, forcing Bencho to realign himself to right it.
‘Sir! No! The boat is too heavy and the left is easier. I swear it.’
‘No, Bencho! Right!’ shouts Iyer.
‘Left, sir!’
‘Right, Bencho.’
‘Left, sir.’
The river decides for them as they near the junction and a powerful current spins the boat in a half circle, nearly knocking Iyer off his feet. Bencho loses his footing, only barely holding on to the mast as the boat plunges into the rapids on the right tributary, hurtling into a cataract of foam and rocks. Lurching to the bow with great effort, Bencho uses the punting pole to steer the boat away from the slick, jagged boulders, as Iyer holds on to the mast of the hurtling boat. It is several minutes of pure terror before the river slows, widening into a plain.
The rain reduces to a steady downpour. Grateful for their safe passage, they travel for some hours, finishing the cooked food, which Bencho scrapes from the dish with a teaspoon.
‘We shall rest the night at a town,’ Bencho says, poling the boat with renewed vigour at the thought of hot food and a dry bed as Iyer sits at the bow, wrapped in a tarpaulin that chatters in the rain.
The boat passes under an old crumbling stone bridge some thirty feet high, a hole where the brass plaque naming its builder was once held. A flock of fruit bats hang underneath it, protected from the rain, clicking away.
Hearing a woman’s screams, Iyer’s head springs from within the tarpaulin; Bencho rolls his eyes.
‘Sir, just because people scream doesn’t mean …’ begins Bencho, already dreading where this might go.
Accompanying the scream is the sound of music.
‘Chillaaoo, aur chillaaoo ... yahan se tumhari awaaz kiseeko bhi sunayi nahin degi ... ab tumhe bhagwan bhi bachaa nahin sakta.’
‘A scream, Bencho!’
‘It’s a movie, sir.’
‘No, Bencho, a scream is a scream, no matter where it comes from.’
‘No, sir, it’s a scream from a movie. That’s why there is music playing.’
‘Bencho, I hear a celestial choir,’ Iyer says, his face relaxing, reaching for his staff. ‘They call me to action.’
‘Sir, there is no celestial choir.’ Bencho pulls at the engine’s choke.
‘Only a true brahmachari can hear music like that,’ Iyer says, throwing off the tarpaulin and leaping to his feet.
On the bridge, a man in a soaking-wet black safari suit and an eyepatch pushes a white Ambassador car, its roof marked with a red government beacon. Another safari-suited man in a turban holds the wheel. A handsome woman sits in the back, looking at a small TV on which a villain is about to fling himself on a supine female form.
‘BACHAOOO!’ the heroine screams as the villain leers.
‘She cries for help!’ shouts Iyer, trying to make it out through the rain.
‘Sir, please! She’s watching a movie.’
Ignoring Bencho, Iyer leaps into the shallows and scrambles up the embankment.
‘I swear to God, sir, you’re charging a TV!’
Iyer is already on all fours, climbing upwards towards the road. He catches up to the car and walks past the safari-suited man pushing it.
Iyer knocks on the rear window.
‘Madam? Madam?’
The woman unrolls the curtained window a few inches.
‘Yes?’ she asks. Even though it is raining and the interior of the car is dark, Iyer can see that she is light-skinned with full lips and large almond eyes that flash back at him.
‘Your highness, I am Bhīma of Benares, a brahmachari!’
Her eyes widen, intrigued.
‘I am on a quest to defeat Bakasura, and I could not help but notice your predicament in these dark times. Are these men trying to kidnap you?’
The woman looks at Iyer’s well-worn and soaked Mysore jacket and then into his eyes, unblinking and kind, unable to figure out what’s going on here but gauging that it is truly fascinating.
‘Yes, of course they are,’ she says, a suppressed smile at the corners of her mouth.
Iyer nods in a gesture of reassurance. He withdraws from the window and allows the car to roll past him. Raising the staff like a cricketer, Iyer swings it with all its strength and brings it down across the buttocks of the man pushing the car, connecting with a sound much like a gunshot. The man stands to attention, openmouthed in shock, grabbing at his rear as Iyer whacks him again, hitting him across the fingers the second time. He yelps in pain, grasping at his fingers.
Calmly walking behind the stricken man, Iyer grabs him by the scruff of his collar and the seat of his pants. He pushes him off the embankment, where he tumbles past Bencho, himself in the process of crawling up towards the car. Reconsidering, Bencho slides back down the slope and jumps back into the boat.
Above Bencho, the driver has braked and sprung out of the car, armed with a jack rod. He wears tailored polyester trousers and shirt and has a beard that descends to his waist. Well over six feet tall, he towers over Iyer.
Iyer lunges forward without hesitation, knocks the jack rod out of the man’s fingers and, as he wrings his hands, Iyer pivots on the staff, swinging full circle and hitting the giant on the side of his head, sending him sprawling onto his back.
The woman watches from the slit in the window as Iyer throws himself at the driver, knocking him to the ground. Enraged, the driver sits up and sends Iyer sprawling with a swing of one massive arm. Standing up, he lifts Iyer up as if he were a doll, crushing him in a bear hug. Kicking backwards, Iyer scrapes the man’s shin and hits him with the back of his head, getting him full on the nose. The giant drops Iyer, who picks up his staff and twirls it, preparing to send the driver into his next incarnation.
‘Spare this man, Mr Bhīma. He is not deserving of such a death.’ The voice belongs to the beauty who has alighted from the car. She is wearing a bright red sari draped over a low-cut choli, all of it made yet more enticing by the rain, which appears to be tapering off.
‘Madam, allow me kill this polyester-panted pervert. He deserves no other fate.’
‘Pervert?’ splutters the giant. ‘Lunatic! You dare call me a pervert?’
Shushing the driver, she turns to Iyer, ‘Please sir, spare him. He is just a misguided fool.’ Her eyes are pools of innocence.
‘I shall obey you, dear queen,’ Iyer says, lowering his staff.
‘I’ll spare you on one condition, you degenerate. Go to beautiful Panchakanya of Benares, fall on your knees and tell her about what I have done today in her honour.’
The driver quivers with rage, but seeing the lady winking at him over Iyer’s head, he manages to prevent his fist from smashing Iyer’s face. Disgusted but resigned, he turns towards the car, which Iyer sees as an opportunity to prod his buttocks with his staff.
‘Dara, no,’ says the lady.
Livid but still controlling himself, the giant exhales and keeps walking.
‘Go and do Mr Bhīma’s bidding, Dara. Where did you say she was?’
‘My chela Bencho will show this imbecile the way. Bencho?’ says Iyer.
‘GO NOW!’ the woman says, knowing full well that in a few seconds her presence will not be able to save
Iyer.
‘Sir,’ comes a distant yell.
The bushes at the side of the road part, and the man Iyer had shoved down the embankment emerges, murder on his mind.
‘Go and meet the boatman with Dara,’ she tells him as he approaches Iyer. The man reluctantly obeys.
‘It’s not a good thing to kill my only bodyguard, Lord Bhīma!’ she tells Iyer, her eyes twinkling.
‘You said you were a prisoner, madam?’ Iyer asks, surprised.
‘Yes darling, a prisoner of boredom. And my name is Ranjana. Queen Ranjana, if you like.’
‘Boredom? I have risked my life to defend you, my queen,’ Iyer gasps, shocked at the pretence. ‘And is that leather?’ he asks, noticing the upholstery and peering into the car, horrified. ‘Cow skin!’
‘And you freed me of my boredom, you funny man! Are you doing all this for love, for your Panchakanya?’ Ranjana grins, leaning against the car and playing with a large diamond on her ring finger.
‘Yes, queen. For love and more.’
‘Lucky lady,’ Ranjana says with twinkling eyes.
‘She is not lucky. She is who she is. Timeless,’ Iyer says. ‘Only I can see her true beauty,’ he adds.
‘What about my face? Can you not see its true beauty?’
‘Yes, my queen, I can see your face,’ he says, stammering.
‘And? What do you see?’ she asks, standing up straighter and coming closer to Iyer, leaning forward just a bit.
‘My queen?’
‘Am I not beautiful, dear Lord Bhīma?’ Ranjana asks, moving closer still.
‘You are indeed attractive, my dear queen, but …’ Iyer starts to back away, his voice trailing away.
‘But what? Why are you moving away? Can you not offer a few words of timeless wisdom to a lonely queen?’
‘My queen, do not forget that I am a brahmachari, sworn to the pursuit of ultimate truth,’ Iyer finds himself stammering, his throat locking up as he backs into the car.
‘Lord Bhīma, do not forget that I am just a simple girl with simple needs,’ Ranjana says, grinning.
‘Pleasures conceived in this world have a beginning and an end, my queen. They lead to misery if left unchecked.’ Iyer straightens up and attempts to regain his composure. ‘I do not know my own powers, my queen. You might be turned to ash if you are not careful,’ he says, heart racing.
‘I can certainly feel the heat. It’s so hot,’ Ranjana says. ‘Come, let us retire to the car and drink some cold coconut water, and relax and be happy.’
‘Bencho? Where are you?’ Iyer shouts, but gets no reply. ‘A man must overcome his passions to find truth,’ he says hoarsely, his back against the open door of the car.
‘Well, Bhīmaji, does it look like I am a man?’ Ranjana says, leaning further into Iyer, who stumbles backwards into the car and onto the leather.
‘Om nama Shivaya!’ he yells and flees the car, sliding down the embankment and into the river. Tripping in the shallows, he stumbles onto the boat, Bencho and the giant looking at him strangely.
‘You will never tempt me! I am sworn to Panchakanya of Benares. Bencho!’ Iyer shouts, pulling the boat free from the reeds. Bencho leaps into the boat and begins to row it with gusto.
‘Sir, what happened?’ Bencho asks in between grunts.
‘Shut up Bencho. Keep rowing! And until we triumph in our endeavours, we shall not stop.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Bakasura, you fool.’
‘I am not a fool.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘I am not a fool.’
‘Imbecile. Baboon.’
‘Sir, what is an imbecile?’
Watching the duo, Ranjana giggles, delighted at Iyer. It is not every day that one meets a real character in the cow belt, especially a lunatic who speaks perfect English. Even the giant shakes his head from side to side, a little ashamed of his previous rage. It is not his way to rough up the mentally unhinged.
‘Find out where that fool lives.’
‘Madam?’ asks the bodyguard, confused. ‘Why?’
Her hand darts out and slaps him across the face, her diamond leaving a gash on his cheek.
‘Just find out!’
14
A dark cloud hovers over Khanolkar at the home. Iyer’s brother had been informed of his escape, and in spite of Khanolkar telling him at length and as politely as possible about the property damage, there was to to be no cheque forthcoming to cover it. He had, at least, not been as furious as Khanolkar had feared on hearing that Iyer was at large.
News of Iyer’s exploits has filtered back to Kashi. The local constable said he had heard that Iyer had become a dacoit himself, joining one of the Chambal gangs, and the sweeper had heard that he had saved a woman’s honour. A tea vendor told Khanolkar that Iyer was suspected of being behind a violent caste-war raid on a village. The barber had heard that Iyer had joined a travelling group of bandits, and the local ear cleaner said he’d heard that Iyer had thrown a man down a mountainside so savagely that he’d fractured his pelvis, causing Khanolkar to feel a sharp pain deep within his own pyriformis. His migraines had returned, taking him to Krishna’s clinic for a head massage.
Sitting on a chair by the door, his knobbly shoulders covered with a towel and surrounded by jars of fat tiger leeches, jars of Ayurvedic herbs and concoctions of varying hues and colours, Khanolkar lets Krishna pour warm coconut oil on his scalp. The doctor kneads his bald pate, pinching the skin behind his head and stretching it periodically, releasing it and repeating the process.
‘That fool will destroy my name,’ Khanolkar says, eyes half-closed as Krishna raps his forehead with two fingers. ‘He’s a madman on the loose. What if he murders someone? They will definitely come for me; God knows his brother’s not fussed. And who will send their loved ones to die peacefully here now, Krishna?’
Krishna grabs Khanolkar’s jaw with one hand, placing his other hand behind his neck and rhythmically moves his head from side to side, trying to loosen the muscles on his neck and upper back.
‘Don’t worry too much. This too shall pass,’ Krishna says, jerking Khanolkar’s head sideways but not hearing the anticipated click.
‘Gently,’ Khanolkar says.
‘That katak sound needs to come.’
‘And deflating sand trucks for no reason! What is wrong with that fool?’ Khanolkar continues, ‘I was a truck driver for thirty years, and if anyone tried that in my day, we would have vanished him.’
Krishna tries to crack Khanolkar’s neck again but hears no click.
Flexing his fingers, Krishna prepares to tackle Khanolkar’s neck yet again but is interrupted by Damayanti appearing at the door. She’s on her way to the home to accompany Mala to her daily bath in the river.
‘I have some news about your friend from my cousin in Kanauj.’
‘Ah, good morning, Damayanti,’ says Krishna, noticing the flowers in her hair.
‘What news! Arrested? Hospital? Dead?’ Khanolkar asks, hope glinting in his eyes.
‘No, sir, nothing like that. It’s unbelievable what has happened.’
‘What is it?’ asks a trembling Khanolkar, imagining scenes of loot and pillage, with Iyer telling everyone that he’d been fine until his ill treatment at the home in Kashi.
‘Iyer Sir. He is in love!’
‘Excuse me? What?’ exclaimed Krishna as his hands stop kneading.
‘He is in love with one Panchakanya of Benares.’
‘Who is this woman? And what is this love-shove? He’s over sixty-five!’
‘It’s impossible,’ Krishna says.
‘After sixty-five there is nothing! NOTHING!’ Khanolkar says, gripping the sides of his chair, his knuckles strained. Releasing his shoulders, Krishna resumes the massage, trying to calm Khanolkar down with several forehead whacks expertly delivered with two index fingers.
‘She is a very high caste and beautiful lady from near Kanauj. She is supposed to be very devout. He saved her from a g
ang of dacoits who were trying to kidnap her. He dedicates his exploits to her, and speaks of her with much tenderness. And who knows, maybe they will marry and have children,’ Damayanti says, smiling.
Speechless, Krishna pauses the massage long enough for Khanolkar to croak, ‘Oh God! Moron!’
‘Sir?’
‘I meant Iyer.’
‘He is so romantic!’ Damayanti sighs, and a tear springs from her eye, much to the amazement of Khanolkar.
‘Why are you crying? Hello! What is the matter with you?’
‘I am jealous.’
‘Why, Damayanti?’
‘Because I have never had that.’
‘Be thankful for whatever you do have, Damayanti,’ Khanolkar says, cruelly, looking at her acid burns.
‘Khanolkar,’ Krishna says sharply, appalled at his rudeness, seeing the embarrassment on Damayanti’s face as she awkwardly takes her leave. Staring after her, his hands still working on Khanolkar’s head, the doctor contemplates the enormity of what they have just heard.
‘Iyer is in love,’ Khanolkar says, his migraine now a whole battery of little cannons going off in his skull, lighting up his brain with pristine, white agony.
Krishna does not reply. Still angry at Khanolkar, he twists his neck as far as it goes, going nearly past the point of no return, but there is still no katak.
15
Not having seen a village in more than an hour, Iyer realises that they are in Gond territory, where the tribals still hunt among the twisted, old peepal trees. The banks shear off into ravines; the punting pole doesn’t reach the riverbed any more, not even near the banks. Mountains rise up on either side of the river, dwarfing the boat, their rocky outcroppings dotted with vulture nests. Tiny caves invade the hillsides, which Iyer says are the abodes of yogis.
We could tunnel even deeper into the hills and live without ambition.
Bencho leans against the mast, depressed, his elbow and back hurting. He decides to try and catch a fish. Opening the hatch and rummaging about, he finds a piece of wood. He wraps his fishing line around it, baits the rusty hook with some leftover roti and lobs it into the river.