by Anita Nair
The page was smooth, the man noticed. It was as if he were stroking a small animal. A cat or a squirrel, perhaps. The absent-minded, mechanical stroking with the tip of the middle finger got on his nerves. The man cleared his throat.
‘How much longer will he take?’ he said, not bothering to hide his irritation at having been kept waiting for almost forty-five minutes.
The stroking stopped. Chikka’s eyes settled on the man’s face briefly. He looked away. ‘I said he cannot be interrupted.’
‘Well, you’d better interrupt him as I really can’t wait any longer. I work for the government, not your brother,’ the man snapped, rising from the chair in his rage.
‘My brother is the government.’ Chikka’s voice rasped.
The man flinched. He walked to the window. These bloody bastards. They knew they had him by his balls. They knew that he needed them more than they needed him. A son whose admission at DGS Engineering College had to be paid for. A daughter who had found a place at the IIM but whose fees had to be paid. A house that needed renovation. The slum clearance board official had needs that weren’t commensurate with his salary. In a moment of frustration, he had acquiesced. A few signatures here, a few papers that went missing. A file that rose to the top of the pile.
‘You are not doing anything wrong,’ the corporator had reassured him. ‘All you are doing is looking away, moving the place of a file, organizing a few signatures, throwing some paper into the waste basket … tell me, don’t you do this anyway, every day?’
Ramachandra, who in his twenty-six years of government service had restricted his criminal doings to petty pilfering – taking home some pencils and erasers – saw the expectant faces of his children and wife. They depended on him, but what had he ever done for them beyond the usual? Here was his chance to make things better for them. Here was his chance to be truly Ramachandra – the benefactor.
‘No one will know,’ the corporator had added. ‘If there is an enquiry, what will they discover? Nothing. Negligence at the most. And what will they do to you then? A suspension at the most. And I am there to make that go away.’
Ramachandra complied. He did everything as he had always done; only, now he was rewarded for it.
The next time, it needed a little more effort, but he was given a bigger reward. Ramachandra’s family looked at him with greater respect. But corruption is like the worm in a mango, he soon discovered. It waits there unseen but boring with its rabid jaws the flesh of your soul, the juices of your life. A rot that taints the very breath from within. Ramachandra saw how his colleagues eyed him; the diminishing of the deference in the corporator’s gaze. The worm gnawed and gnawed…
He turned to Chikka. ‘I managed before the two of you entered my lives. I will again if I have to. So go and ask your brother to stop whatever it is he is doing and see me.’
Chikka put the book down. He rose and went out.
It was a big room. Long, rather than broad. And the doors to it stretched the breadth of the room. Teakwood frames were inlaid with intricate carvings of what was claimed to be fake ivory, but which Chikka knew for a fact was ivory. When it came to what Anna wanted, he had his sources, legal and illegal. The twin doors, gigantic beasts of doors, were embellished with brass strips. Two heavy brass rings hung from the middle of each door and the threshold was plated with brass. The doorway resembled that of a temple, which was exactly how Anna wanted it.
Chikka pushed the doors but they were latched from inside. From within he could hear the chanting. Chikka glanced at his watch. The puja had taken longer than it should have.
He tapped gently on the door. One of the eunuchs opened it. ‘Come in, quickly,’ Rupali said.
Chikka swallowed and stepped across the raised threshold. Would Anna be angry, he wondered. Would Anna’s wrath blaze and burn, for every Friday Anna became Angala Parameshwari, the goddess of wrath.
Anger has no friends. Anger only has acolytes. Slavish creatures that feed the seed of rage with their daily obeisance of resentment and bitterness; hurt and betrayal; deprivation and wounds to the soul. Anna knew all about anger.
Anna made his acquaintance first with anger when he was a baby. He saw with his fierce baby eyes his drunk of a father slap his mother around. He felt her wince and shrink with each blow and kick. He felt her nuzzle him closer to her breast, but as the slapping grew in intensity, her nipple slipped out of his mouth. He shrieked his anger. She wept her pain. When he began to walk, he found a face for anger.
They lived in a little hamlet, Maruthupati, a few minutes away from the Mayannur temple. Every Friday evening his mother took him to the temple, trudging through a cremation ground. It would live forever in Anna’s mind. The reddish-tinged twilight skies, the cawing of crows as night fell, the feel of the hard ground beneath his bare feet as they walked through giant clouds of billowing smoke from the still burning funeral pyres, the stinging in his eye, the smell and taste of smoke incense and wood, and underlying it all, the stench of charring flesh.
Anna learnt to negotiate his way through the pyres as he learnt to be unmoved by the anguish and sorrow that hung over each death. In the temple was Angala Parameshwari, the goddess who demanded angry tributes. Anna saw there the face his mother wore as she cuffed him under his chin or slapped his calves. He saw how anger made his mother strong and how the timid creature turned into a powerful goddess who matched her husband’s violence with screams and blows that petrified him. Anger would not allow her to be kicked around any more. Anger was her weapon and it was this secret weapon she bequeathed him.
Every Friday, his mother retreated into herself. She would wash her hair and let it flow down her back. The turmeric paste she applied on her face before her bath emphasized her eyes which she outlined with ‘maie’. She would bring out the red sari she wore only on Fridays. These were the colours of anger: Yellow, black, red. From her would waft the fragrance of camphor and incense, and the bitterness of dreams turned to ash.
She would place the bronze statue she had of the goddess on a wooden pedestal. Then she would dress the statue as she had dressed herself. She would adorn the goddess with flowers and light a lamp. And slowly her lips would part and words would form:
Om sri maha kalikayai namah
Kreem hum hleem
Kreem kreem jatt vaha
Kreem kreem kreem kreem kreem kreem svaha
As the frenzy and fervour of the chant grew, her voice would rise in a rhythm that stoked some strange fire within. Slowly her body would begin to gyrate, the bunches of neem leaves she held in her hands swirling as she sang:
Sooranai vadhikai wanda samariye
Soolam eduthe aadiya angakaliye
Anna would cower by the doorway, watching his mother metamorphose into a woman who invoked the goddess in her with strange words, rhythms and a manic frenzy – howling and screaming as she spun wildly.
When his mother was in her trance, she ceased to be the woman he called Amma and snuggled up to in his sleep.
He trembled in fright, watching her every move.
Who was this woman who stood before the goddess and ate the meat she had cooked early at dawn, chewing on each morsel, sucking on the bones and drinking deep of the pot of arrack? Who was this creature who raised into the air a chicken, its feet tied, to slit its throat and let the blood drip on her? Over her hair, her face, her chest and back; rivulets of warm blood that turned her into a horrifying monotone of anger appeased. When the blood ceased to flow, she would curl into a deep sleep from which she would awaken only some hours later.
Anna would sit there wondering about this woman who seemed to have created a ritual of her own. Who had taught her this? His mother could barely read. But the words she spoke were weighed with knowledge as with an inbuilt rhythm. Every syllable was exact, precise and loud. This from a woman whose speaking voice was like that of a sparrow.
When Anna was eight, he asked his mother, ‘How, Amma? What happens to you?’
His mother sm
iled. Anna saw in that smile a secret. ‘Ma Kali Amma lives in each one of us. When it is time for her to emerge, she will. And then she will demand you worship her in the way she wants you to. She will tell you what she expects of you. The tribute you pay her may horrify everyone else, but if it appeases her, that is all you should think of. And she will then bestow on you all you wish for. She will make her weapon yours. Anger. That is her weapon. For those of us who have nothing, anger is our only blessing.’
Anna learnt about anger when a year later his father dragged his mother, his baby brother and sisters to Bangalore. He had been offered a job as a watchman. ‘And you can work as a maid somewhere,’ his father said, opening the door to their one-room tenement in a slum near Shivaji Nagar.
Anna had looked around and wondered how they would all fit in. After the warmth of the sun in the fields of Maruthupati, the air in Bangalore chilled him, causing little shivers to run down his legs. Why had Appa brought them here? This little hole of a house and the crowds of strangers bustling around. Why had Appa done this to them? And thus Anna stumbled upon the anger in himself.
Soon anger and he were on first-name basis; soul mates. And, as his powers grew, nurtured and fed by anger, the goddess made her demand for tribute.
Chikka, who had seen their mother turn into a frenzied, fierce creature, had hoped that with her death, all of it would cease. But here was Anna now, seeking to be the repository of the goddess. Anna, who said the goddess expected him to invoke her in the guise of a woman. And that to help him arrive at his full powers, he would have to be surrounded by a bevy of eunuchs. For in the hermaphrodite exist both he and she, and in the coming together of man and woman is Shakti. The goddess at her fiercest.
What could Chikka tell Anna, who only did what he wanted to? Chikka had learnt young that with power came an arrogance that didn’t like to be questioned.
Now Chikka waited, leaning against the wall, as Anna dressed in a sari and with braided false hair stood with hands stretched out, palms wide open. One of the eunuchs placed a piece of camphor on each of his palms and lit them with a lamp. With blazing hands, he circled the goddess, three times around. Chikka flinched at the thought of the searing heat but Anna wouldn’t use a plate. If he did, the plate would absorb all the divine powers and Anna wanted it all for himself.
Chikka looked at his watch surreptitiously. A few more minutes and Anna would be done. Fortunately, this was only the weekly puja and not the amavasya one. That went on for hours and Anna took a long while to emerge from the trance.
Then Chikka heard a gasp and turned around.
Ramachandra stood at the door, gaping. His eyes were wide open and his mouth parted in shock.
In an instant, the eunuchs surrounded Anna so it was hard to discern who was who. Seething with rage, Chikka grabbed Ramachandra by his elbow and dragged him away.
‘Who the fuck asked you to come in here?’ he hissed.
Pale and trembling, the man stuttered, ‘I … I…’
‘Forget what you saw here. Do you understand? If you breathe even a syllable of what you saw here, you’ll regret it,’ Chikka bit out.
‘I … the corporator…’ The man began to make amends.
‘The corporator’s not here. He is at the Muthayalamma Devi temple on Seppings Road. What you saw is a family ritual. But we don’t like strangers intruding or talking about it.’
Ramachandra swallowed. He knew he had seen the corporator dressed as a woman. He knew the corporator’s brother was lying. But he dared not contradict him.
‘I suggest you come back tomorrow at three p.m. Anna will see you then,’ Chikka said, opening the door.
Chikka stood by the doorway, watching the man leave.
‘Did he see me?’ Anna asked softly. Chikka jumped.
He turned around. ‘I am not sure. I said you were at the Muthayalamma temple.’
The corporator licked his lips. ‘Do you think he believed you?’
Chikka didn’t speak. What could he say? He dropped his gaze till he heard Anna leave the room. He wondered: what next?
Gowda was combing his hair when his phone beeped. Again. A flurry of text messages between U and him. In less than twelve hours he had taken to calling her U, so even you became U. It was a little conceit that U seemed to delight in, as he did her G. They were creating a little parallel universe of their own and, for the first time in many years, Gowda let thoughts of work slide to some lower realm.
What colour shirt are you wearing?
Navy blue. And U?
A lemon yellow sari.
Lovely. Have U left already?
No, G. Just about to. Ready to leave?
In a few minutes.
Gowda saw his son reflected in the mirror. He pocketed his phone almost surreptitiously.
‘Was that Amma?’ Roshan asked. ‘I heard your phone beep. I thought you were texting each other.’
Gowda put down the comb. ‘No, just some work-related texts. Besides, you know your mother texts only if she needs something.’
‘Where are you going? You are all dressed up.’ Roshan leaned against the door.
Gowda frowned. Did the boy suspect something? The only thing to do was intimidate him into silence. ‘Who’s the policeman here? You or I? What’s with all this curiosity?’
Roshan shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen you looking so smart, Appa.’
Roshan’s smile made Gowda flush.
‘Thanks,’ Gowda said, trying to hide his pleasure. ‘I’ve been invited to inaugurate a photography exhibition.’ On an impulse, he added, ‘Do you want to come along?’
Roshan straightened. ‘I’d like to, but are you sure?’
Something about the boy’s tone squeezed Gowda’s insides. The longing. The fear. The thought that his father saw him only as an irritant, an intrusion. Had he ruined his relationship with his child for ever?
‘Yes, of course, I wouldn’t ask otherwise. You have three minutes to put on a clean shirt and run a comb through your hair,’ Gowda said, gently propelling Roshan towards his room.
In the car, Gowda kept an eye on the boy. In turn, he realized the boy was watching him. As he adjusted the rear-view mirror, changed gears and fiddled with the radio, he felt Roshan’s eyes tag his every move. We are like two fighters sizing each other up, Gowda thought. Despite our differences, my father and I were never like this. So when did I become this tyrant? Or rather, how did you let this happen, G? Urmila, who seemed to have taken permanent residence in his head, queried. If you don’t do something to heal the rift, the time will pass and it will be too late.
‘I usually play Hindi songs when I am in the car. But if there’s something else you would rather listen to…’ Gowda offered. A small bridge of understanding towards something more concrete.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll listen to whatever you like,’ Roshan said.
‘So what does that friend of yours, Osagie, do?’ Gowda asked.
‘He’s doing an MBA,’ Roshan said. Then, as if on an impulse, he added, ‘It really is a hard life for the African students here, Appa. No one will give them houses to rent. They get turned away if they go to clubs or discos … We are as racist as anyone else.’
‘I am not sure if it’s racism,’ Gowda said.
Roshan turned around. ‘What else do you call it?’
‘Some of them deal in drugs. But you don’t know who is doing what … so people tend to be cautious with everyone. Once a place is known as a spot where drugs can be bought, it brings with it a whole caboodle of other issues. That’s what it is.’
Silence stretched between them as Gowda turned into the main road. An airport cab whizzed by. Gowda swerved, muttering ‘motherfucker’ under his breath. From the corner of his eye he saw a grin of pure delight splice the boy’s face.
‘These arseholes ought to be hauled up and fined,’ Gowda said, feeling the boy’s smile some more.
Gowda’s phone beeped. His fingers itched to draw it out from his pocket and read the tex
t. He knew it must be her, asking where he was.
‘Don’t you want to read the message?’ Roshan asked.
‘Not when I am driving,’ Gowda mumbled. He hadn’t had the time to warn her that Roshan would be with him.
‘When are you going back?’ Gowda asked.
He saw the boy’s face fall. Gowda touched his elbow. ‘I was wondering if you will be here long enough for me to give you some driving lessons.’
Gowda hadn’t realized that there was such a place located in his station precincts. Twenty acres of trees with paths that beckoned you to stop and explore. As he parked, Samuel came to the car, his face beaming. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said, his gaze shifting to Roshan as he stepped out of the car.
‘This is my son Roshan,’ Gowda said, putting his arm around him. ‘He’s a medical student.’
Samuel led the way to the building where the exhibition was being held.
‘This is a really lovely place, but will you get people to come here to view the photographs? It’s a little out of the way,’ Gowda said as his eyes took in all that was around him. ‘Maybe the Alliance Francaise or the Chitrakala Parishat?’
‘Lady Deviah said the same thing,’ Samuel said with a smile. ‘In fact, she’s speaking to a couple of galleries. But sir, I am a page-three photographer. I’ve seen what these art events are like. And I fear that what we want to say will be lost. Everyone is so busy sipping their wine, posing for pictures and networking.’
Urmila appeared before them. Gowda felt his heart skip a beat. Gathering himself, he put his hand out and said, ‘Good evening, Urmila.’
She stared at his palm for a split second, took it in hers and murmured, ‘Good evening, Borei.’
Gowda turned to include Roshan. ‘This is my son Roshan. And Roshan, this is Urmila. We were classmates at Joseph’s.’
Roshan smiled. ‘I saw you the other day at the café.’
Gowda swallowed. Urmila flushed. As if sensing the tension, Samuel moved towards him. ‘Roshan, let me introduce you to the others.’