Mr Iyer Goes To War

by Ryan Lobo

  Exhausted and surprised at their survival, Bencho drops anchor. He has hit his knee hard against the boat and it aches, but he is alive, so it hardly matters. He finds a length of bamboo floating in the lake and retrieves it to use as a punting pole. They bail the water out from under the deck with the dish and a coconut shell, dazed into silence. The clouds disperse, and the sky turns azure.

  Setting their clothes out to dry, they lie down next to them on the deck, letting the sunshine fall on their aching bodies, Iyer shivering in spite of the warmth. He turns in his sleep and winces, finding his face swollen and a pain throbbing from his tooth outwards to his jaw and skull. Iyer sleeps intermittently, eyes scrunched against the light, but waking up now and then to the familiar sight of Bencho on board. He loses track of time. At some point, he feels the grip of his fever lessening, and opens his eyes without being dazzled by daylight. Cotton-mouthed and heavy-headed, he starts to sit up.

  Bencho helps him up, relieved to see him capable of movement.

  ‘Happy Holi, sir,’ he says, daubing Iyer with a symbolic finger of colour. ‘Got some at the last village while you were sleeping, but they had no medicine. We are close to your brother’s village, I think.’

  Touching Iyer’s forehead, he sees that he is still fevered, but not burning up like before. The swelling of his jaw is about the same. Iyer falls asleep again.

  Singing from the riverbank awakens Iyer. He looks at the people milling further down the bank. He sees two women washing Holi colour off their faces, squatting in the shallows.

  ‘I know this place, Bencho,’ Iyer says, looking around. ‘This is my home.’

  ‘In this life, sir?’

  Iyer tries to put on his jacket, finding the simple task surprisingly challenging.

  Looking at the two women on the bank, Iyer smiles.

  ‘My brother, he has sent two princesses to greet me. What a fine gesture.’

  ‘They’re only village girls, sir,’ Bencho says with a snort. ‘I don’t like this place,’ he adds, seeing a flaming pyre further down the bank, surrounded by buffaloes eating ash on the cremation ground.

  Painfully, Iyer stands.

  ‘Princesses! Princesses!’ Iyer shouts as best as he can in his diminished state. ‘I am Bhīma of Kashi. If you all are in need of a brahmachari to protect you all from lascivious males, just say the word, and I will die protecting you!’

  ‘Thank you, kind baba,’ says one of the girls, joining her hands together solemnly before dissolving into a giggling fit.

  Bencho docks the boat on the bank, tying it securely to a tree. They walk towards the village, Iyer leaning on Bencho, head drooping, and Bencho dragging his foot, his knee swollen.

  In the village square, a group of mill workers are constructing a giant effigy of the demoness Putna. Another group drapes fairy lights and banners on the Ferris wheel set up behind the demoness. A group of children shoot long streams of coloured water at each other as yet more workers set up hoardings around the Ferris wheel.

  ‘A man has come in a boat. He claims he is a brahmachari, and an incarnation of Lord Bhīma,’ one of the giggling girls tells the mill workers as Iyer and Bencho enter.

  Iyer bows to the people in the courtyard, not without effort, as his back aches terribly.

  ‘Ah Bhīmaji! Come play some cards with us,’ grins a mill worker, exposing rotten teeth flecked with tobacco.

  The mustached village constable gets up and limps towards the duo.

  ‘You know why I drag this leg?’

  ‘Sir, why?’ asks Bencho.

  ‘Because it has been overused from kicking good-for-nothing vagabonds out of the village,’ the constable says, looking at Bencho with great intent. Surviving thus far has given Bencho courage, though, and he finds that he doesn’t care any more.

  ‘Sir, you know why I drag my leg?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dog shit. Twenty feet back.’ Bencho shows the constable the underside of his shoe and salutes him at the same time.

  The constable steps forward and grabs Bencho’s collar with one hand and Iyer’s with the other, for good measure. Pain screams up his swollen jaw, and he tries ineffectually to lift his staff. Pushing Bencho to one side, the constable raises his fist above Iyer’s broken face, and is about to bring it down on him when he is interrupted by a gleaming white SUV lighting the scene up with its glaring headlights. The constable blinks and unhands Iyer, who falls to the floor.

  The car door opens and a tall, trim man emerges, followed by a blast of frozen air. He carries the mark of his caste on his forehead and is impeccably dressed in a spotless white shirt and slacks.

  ‘What is going on here!’ he says.

  ‘Abhishek Sir, vagrants,’ the constable says ingratiatingly.

  The man looks at Iyer carefully.

  ‘This man?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He could be a pickpocket or even a dacoit. But don’t worry, sir, I am taking care of him.’ The constable bends down and takes Iyer by the collar again.

  ‘Stop, Rohit,’ says Abhishek, and the constable freezes. He bends over and lends Iyer a hand to help him up.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, dear Uncle?’

  ‘Cannot a travelling brahmachari come to meet his dearest brother?’ Iyer asks, Abhishek swimming before his eyes.

  ‘The home told us of your escape.’ Abhishek says, smirking.

  ‘Escape? I was not in jail!’ Iyer says, anger clearing his head. He draws himself up to his full height, but still cannot quite reach his nephew’s nose.

  ‘Welcome, Uncle,’ Abhishek says in a tone that is far from warm. ‘I will inform Father and we will prepare a room for you.’

  Seeing Bencho, he says, ‘Is he with you?’

  ‘Yes. He goes where I go, dear nephew.’

  ‘There is room for him in the servants’ quarters,’ Abhishek says.

  ‘I will arrange my own accommodation,’ Iyer says. ‘You may tell your father that we shall come for breakfast.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, we.’

  ‘OK. OK, Uncle. Eight. Don’t be late,’ Abhishek says, heading towards his SUV. The constable rushes ahead to open the door for him, and then looks at Iyer, confused as to how to treat him. True, he is Abhishek Sir’s uncle, but that was not a loving familial exchange. Still, why should he involve himself in the matter of family? Best to be on the safe side; tomorrow they could be all pally again and it would be remembered that a mere constable had been insolent with a member of the Iyer family.

  ‘Sir,’ he says to Iyer, ‘you should have told me. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Good man,’ says Iyer, ‘can you find a place for myself and my friend to spend the night?’

  He can barely get the words out due to the pain in his tooth.

  ‘Sir, yes, sir,’ the constable replies, ‘if it is not too uncomfortable for you, there is the buffalo shed.’

  ‘It will be fine,’ Iyer says, now feeling faint.

  ‘Ay, Mooga,’ the constable calls to a boy herding buffalo, ‘take these gentlemen to the stables, they will spend the night there.’

  The boy nods and waves to Iyer and Bencho to follow him.

  ‘I am so tired, child,’ he whispers; the boy hums the tune of the sentence in reply.

  ‘Make way. Make way.’ The constable shouts as the buffalo boy leads the duo to the shed, singing a song made up of noises and not words.

  The shed is a long structure with urns of grain stacked along the edges. On one side, a row of buffaloes are tied up for milking. On the other side, fodder is piled up to the rafters, where a small platform has been built.

  Iyer sits down on a charpoy, closing his eyes in relief.

  ‘Ah! Finally to be in a castle. I have stayed in many castles, Bencho, but this one is particularly magnificent,’ Iyer says as Bencho helps him undress.

  Sanctuary.

  Mooga returns a while later carrying rags, a mug of warm water, a bottle of Dettol an
d a bottle of iodine, which he hands to Bencho. Leaving, he returns again with two tumblers of milk, some chapattis, a coarse military blanket and some sheets.

  ‘Bless you, child,’ Iyer says, welling up at the extraordinary joy of receiving a simple act of kindness.

  Bencho pours a capful of Dettol into the mug of water and starts wiping down Iyer’s bruises. Iyer’s body is skeletal: skin stretched across his bones, every muscle defined.

  When Mooga returns an hour later, he herds the buffaloes into the shed. After he ties them in their stalls, he climbs onto a platform in the rafters and stares at them from his perch.

  ‘Rest, sir, rest. You’ll be with your family soon. And I will return to Kashi tomorrow’ says Bencho.

  ‘I have to find this Bakasura, Bencho. Ah, my tooth!’ Iyer groans, feeling as if his body might disintegrate.

  ‘Bakasura can wait. You’re home.’

  ‘The heavens have forgotten me.’

  A big, bright moon has risen. Mooga on the rafters opens a pouch tied around his neck, from which he takes out a round ball of opium. Rolling it further into a smaller ball, he comes down from the platform and offers it to Iyer.

  Iyer smiles in gratitude but turns it down, explaining that he does not believe in narcotics.

  Bencho takes it and crumbles some into Iyer’s glass of milk when Iyer’s back is turned. Bencho eats the rest gratefully, popping it into his mouth and swallowing it whole.

  Staring at the flickering fireflies, with the occasional snort from the buffaloes, a warmth envelops Iyer and Bencho as they plummet into a dreamless, opium-heavy sleep.

  The next morning, Iyer wakes up before dawn to the sounds of buffaloes being milked by the boy. His toothache is still panging, but it’s nothing like the agony of the night before.

  Beside his bed, Iyer sees cloves, milk, Brufen tablets and turmeric powder. When he attempts to pay Mooga for these kindnesses, he shakes his head, refusing.

  Refreshed, Iyer follows the buffaloes down to a pond near the river. The wound on his forehead is beginning to heal, and the Brufen and cloves have allowed him to forget his jaw for the moment.

  Butterflies have congregated on the sand – shimmering kaleidescopes where the buffaloes have urinated. Sunlight catches the wings of thousands of damselflies as they flash and hover over the water, hunting the butterflies.

  Using the steps by the temple, Iyer descends into the bathing area by the river and washes his dhoti in the shade of a peepal tree. He uses the wet corner of his dhoti to clean the stains on his jacket, and a washing stone to beat out the mud caked into the sleeves. After he is done, he sits navel-deep in the water and washes himself, feeling the river embracing him like a living entity.

  A spider descends on him and floats about his head, buffeted by invisible winds. Opening his eyes, he watches it swing across his view like a trapeze artist, its single thread catching the light.

  Iyer prays.

  He does not look towards the sky or the middle distance; instead he stares down into the water, his eyes blurring out the surface. He imagines the river flowing through him – as if he were a sieve – washing away the fragility of his body and leaving behind a purified shell. He breathes deep, letting his lungs fill with air, emptying his mind of thoughts, focusing on his breath, using his pranayama to commune with the deities: his equals – he feels – both in divinity and degradation, suspended, like him, in the infinite darkness of being.

  19

  So I return.

  His clothes, folded in a plastic packet in his backpack and kept under the floorboards of the boat, are miraculously dry. Bencho brings him a clean shirt and dhoti, and gets a fresh shirt for himself. Bencho’s swollen knee has gone down a bit by now, and he feels more like his old, cheerful self.

  ‘Sir, you are looking top class,’ he says, beaming at the thought of a hot breakfast waiting for him. Mooga offers Iyer a bowl of frothy milk, fresh from that morning’s milking, miming that Iyer should drink it.

  ‘An angel, Bencho,’ Iyer says, smiling at Mooga. ‘He is an angel sent to ease our way.’ Iyer accepts the milk and takes a deep draught without noticing the flecks of opium in it.

  ‘One must not say no to an angel’s offerings,’ he says, handing Mooga back the bowl.

  The festival of Holi is in full swing outside the buffalo shed. Children and adults alike run this way and that, spraying people with large water syringes. Most people are high on bhang. A few young men wait for an opportunity to shoot coloured water at passing women, and more so for a chance to cop a feel ‘by accident’, as today is a day when they may be able to get away with it without being slapped in return.

  ‘Come, it is time!’ Iyer says, flinging open the shed door and eyeing the streets warily.

  Iyer has a problem. He needs to make it to his family home looking presentable, because Tamil Brahmins celebrate Holi on a different day altogether, and he is about to enter a sombre family gathering where he knows they’ll be washed and starched as always. Feeling the opium blossoming in his veins like a sunflower, Iyer has an idea.

  ‘Run!’

  Adjusting his collar, combing his beard and smoothing his hair down for the last time, Iyer bolts from the stable door, Bencho in pursuit. They are immediately spotted and chased by a group of children. Though Iyer is exerting himself, he feels like he’s floating – his legs moving of their own accord.

  ‘Get them,’ shouts a sour-faced girl, magenta from head to foot, and her cohorts train their pichkaris on the two men. Bencho ducks into an alley, but Iyer runs ahead, spotting a large white cow. He ducks behind it as the children fire, its white side going pink as the blast of colour hits it. Snorting in surprise, the cow bucks, scattering the children. Iyer thanks it and races on, the pain in his bad knee returning as he approaches his brother’s home, just ahead: modest, serene, clean. For a moment, it’s as if he has just returned to it from a trip to the market. Home.

  Bencho is nowhere to be seen. Unlatching the low gate, Iyer walks up to the door and takes a deep breath. As he reaches for the doorbell, the sour-faced girl springs up from behind the rhododendrons, holding her plunger full of mangeta dye.

  ‘No!’ cries Iyer, trapped between the girl and the door.

  Iyer raises his hands in silent entreaty as the girl stares at him, raising and aiming the plunger. At that very moment, Bencho hurtles through space towards her, sending her flying into the bushes. Getting to his feet, Bencho picks up the pichkari and empties it on the stunned child’s face, prompting her to burst into tears. Bencho beams with delight as she runs off, sobbing.

  Iyer rings the doorbell, and is greeted by an ironed and starched Abhishek.

  Accepting Abhishek’s half-hearted obeisance – a vague swipe in the general direction of his feet – he takes off his sandals. From the main room, Abhishek’s wife joins them at the door, holding a tumbler of coffee. She’s pretty, if nervy-looking – the kind of woman who drinks her coffee in gulps.

  ‘Uncle, my wife Lata.’

  ‘Yes! You’re Chandra’s daughter, no?’ Iyer asks.

  ‘No, Uncle,’ says the girl, bending to touch his feet, ‘Seshan’s daughter.’

  They all look at Bencho, who is hopping on one leg, taking off his sandals and placing them in a neat row beside the other sandals. They easily qualify as the most ragged shoes in the row.

  ‘This is Mr Bencho, soon to be a corporator,’ Iyer says to Abhishek and Lata, stepping over the threshold.

  ‘Mr Bencho,’ says Abhishek, with an ugly emphasis on ‘Mister’. ‘Shall Mr Bencho do us the honour of eating at our table, Uncle, because we have a more suitable place for him to eat.’

  Bencho looks down, wanting to be invisible instead of the fattest and most conspicuous person in the room.

  ‘Abhishek!’ Iyer says, sharply. ‘Either he will eat with us or I will not eat at all.’

  ‘But in our home the custom …’ Abhishek starts, as Bencho starts putting his feet back into his sandals.

  ‘
Lalgudi’s friend will eat with us, Abhishek,’ says a voice from the top of the stairs. ‘Please, Bencho, you are welcome.’

  Iyer’s brother, who is descending the staircase, is tall, clean-shaven and carries himself with great dignity. His forehead is marked with the Shaivite tripundra: the three parallel ash lines with a red dot marking the third eye. He is dressed in a better version of the outfit that Iyer wears: a well-cut black jacket over a spotless dhoti and white shirt.

  ‘Lalgudi.’

  ‘Arjun.’

  The two brothers stare at each other. Bencho realises he has been holding his breath; that is the level of tension in the air. Then Arjun’s wife comes down the stairs and touches Iyer’s feet, giving him a warm smile.

  ‘You look like a third-rate rowdy,’ she says, smiling. ‘You need a shave and haircut. And what happened to your forehead?’ She comes closer to examine the bruise.

  ‘That’s my third eye – it opened’ Iyer says, laughing.

  Everyone laughs, more out of relief than amusement.

  ‘I can smell the sāmbhar. Are we having idlis?’

  ‘Yes, with fresh coconut chutney. The coconuts here come from Assam.’

  The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Arvind, Iyer’s youngest nephew, who is dashing down the stairs towards him.

  ‘Uncle!’

  ‘Arvind! Hope you’re failing at mathematics like I advised!’

  Arvind laughs and Iyer gathers him into a bear hug.

  ‘Ha, no Uncle, I got into IIT! All of them!’

  ‘Excellent, you can become a mercenary like the rest of them,’ Iyer says, asking for further details.

  Bencho, who is standing there feeling out of place and awkward, is accosted by Arjun. ‘Who are you?’ Arjun asks in an undertone.

  ‘I am a friend,’ Bencho starts, almost losing the courage to complete the sentence. ‘I work at the home in Kashi sometimes, sir. I was helping take care of Iyer Sir on his trip. He wanted to come home for Holi, sir.’

  ‘You work at the home for the dying?’