When the Lotus Blooms

by Kanchana Krishnan Ayyar

  Noticing she was sad, Partha herded her towards the entrance. “Enough walking down memory lane for one day. It’s getting late for dinner. We should leave.”

  CHAPTER 8 – SWAMINATHAN

  A SHORT WHILE LATER

  Nagamma saw Rajam and Partha walk in and she launched into a tirade, “About time you love birds…” when she saw the Inspector entering the house as well. Immediately her demeanor transformed and she welcomed him in. “Vango vango Sammandhi …” Rajam escaped into the kitchen, thankful that her father had saved her from listening to an hour-long lecture.

  While waiting for dinner, Swaminathan picked up a newspaper to browse through. It was last week’s edition of Swadeshimitran, a newspaper conceived in Madras which was gaining popularity in many parts of south India. It was the first patriotic newspaper to be printed in Tamil and one of the most powerful tools in the spread of Nationalism in the south. He looked up as Rajam walked in to tell him dinner was served. “There’s going to be a morcha this week. Did you know that?”

  “Hopefully it will be a peaceful one. Remember the one Velu organized ten years ago?”

  Swaminathan remembered it only too well. “That is not a memory I want to hold onto,” he replied somberly.

  “I know how you suffered. I was only a child but I recall that monsoon night so clearly. The windows were open and I remember listening to the steady drumming of rain.” As Rajam said this, she recalled the scent of jasmine from her mother’s hair and of fresh earth that came with the first rains. Amma was with them, putting them to sleep with another story about Lord Krishna. She loved Krishna stories. He was so human, so naughty, the stories made her giggle. She must have heard them a million times but never tired of listening.

  They were still under the spell of Krishna when someone came to see Appa. It sounded like Velu. Rajam heard the creak of the front door opening. And then voices. Amma paused to listen but it was hard to hear anything. She looked worried.

  “Don’t make me do this. Cancel your morcha!” Swaminathan yelled. Then more voices, followed by the sound of thunder and rain. Amma walked to the entrance where she stood behind the door quietly. Her hand went to her heart and she sighed deeply. Rajam knew something was amiss. She called out to her mother to finish the story but Amma wouldn’t speak. She left without revealing how Krishna finally killed Pootani.1

  “I remember you locking yourself into the prayer room all of the next evening and into the following week. I knew something was wrong but you never told me what it was.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Swaminathan said with a finality which told Rajam she would not hear the rest of the story.

  After dinner, Swaminathan climbed into the van, ready for the long drive back home. In his hand was the copy of the newspaper, crushed in a vice grip. He didn’t want to think about that evening but no matter how hard he tried, the memories kept flooding in.

  He had been on his way home from work and as usual had gone by the temple to buy a garland of jasmine for his wife, Mangalam. Navigating the narrow streets of Vizhupuram on his bicycle, he stopped at the temple crossing. The flower vendor measured one mozham from the elbow to the tip of her fingers, while Swaminathan leaned his bike against a tree. The flower vendor was everyone’s source for village gossip. No sooner had he paid her than she delved into,

  “Did you hear Ramanathan Saar has fixed up the marriage of his third daughter? They got an excellent alliance from Mayavaram. The family has lots of land there.”

  Swaminathan wasn’t really interested, so he nodded perfunctorily and turned to leave, when more friends greeted him. “Inspector Saaaar. Wait for me.” Srini, the local fruit vendor came puffing up to Swaminathan.

  “Are you aware that Velu has joined the Indian National Congress, and is planning a morcha next week?” Now this was pertinent news. In the last few years the freedom movement had percolated into the south of India and piqued the interest of youth in the area. People talked about Gandhi and Patel in hushed whispers in case any police informants were lurking around. The INC had just opened a small office in Vizhupuram, with membership of around twenty people, mainly unemployed youth. Even though the British banned public meetings and demonstrations, they took place nevertheless in almost every village in India. Fiery speeches made at street corners and village plazas exhorted people to rise against the foreigners and demand freedom from the British. Many spectators responded to their emotional pleas for support by joining the movement.

  Swaminathan wanted freedom for his country but he was in a delicate position. He worked as a British servant and his job provided his family with housing and food and possibly a pension when he retired. A morcha, a demonstration, meant he would have to be there and maybe even order a ‘Lathi Charge’ to dispel the crowd, though it pained him to do this. Every time the constables lashed out with their heavy wooden batons or lathis, he felt the pain in his soul. But what use was that? He had a job, this was part of his duty and he had to do it or else his family would suffer.

  “Do you know this as factual?” asked Swaminathan.

  “Yes,” said Srinivasan. “I heard it from Velu himself, right from the horse’s mouth. Tell me, what are you planning to do?” Swaminathan’s mood became gloomy. He wished he did not have to take sides.

  “I guess we’ll deal with next week, next week. Let’s see what happens,” Swaminathan replied and proceeded to pedal furiously down the street, dexterously avoiding large stones and pebbles. Every so often he greeted and was greeted by friends and vendors as he made his way home. The sun had not yet set and there was a soft westerly breeze, carrying towards him the sound of his two daughters singing. His older daughter, Kunju, was visiting with her infant daughter. A few months after Rajam’s birth, Kunju had got married. Now her daughter, whom they affectionately called Baby, was Rajam’s playmate. She was just a toddler but wanted to do anything Rajam did.

  “Saa ni da niii da pa Daa pa ma Pa pa.” The girls were going at full gusto, practicing voice exercises at the top of their lungs. As Swaminathan sat in the thinnai enjoying his coffee, the girls ran out to greet him. “Appa Appa, did you bring chocolates for us as you promised?” Swaminathan enjoyed the girls’ chatter, their tinkling laughter and exclamations of amazement as he recounted anecdotes from his day at work. Kunju, now a married woman, could not climb onto her father’s lap like her younger sister was doing. Instead her baby daughter clambered onto Thatha’s lap. After a lot of cajoling, he took out two half melted chocolate pieces from his shirt pocket and gave one to each child, popping the imported Cadbury’s chocolates into their mouths. The two girls ran off into the mutram. Rajam, being older, was the first to reach it, followed by Baby yelling, “Wait for me!”

  “Kunju, I have a chocolate for you as well. I hope you are not too old to enjoy this treat.”

  Kunju smiled. “No, Appa, I will always be your child no matter how old I grow.”

  The conversation was lighthearted but Swaminathan felt weighed down by the events which threatened to unfold the following week. That evening Velu, the organizer of the morcha, came to meet him and no matter how much Swaminathan tried, Velu would not back down. The younger man had a vision, a passion, a dream of freedom and nothing could make him change his mind.

  The following week, Swaminathan wished he could call in sick but he had to report to work. Superintendent Gilbert, expecting trouble, sent reinforcements from Madras. People were traveling from villages all around the district to attend the morcha and show solidarity. Velu promised it would be a peaceful march but would he be able to control all those hot headed freedom fighters? Swaminathan shuddered. He looked at the sky as he wheeled his bicycle to the gate. The clouds were dark and heavy with moisture, as if warning him of gloomy events that would unfold that day. The gate creaked loudly, the sound reaching an alarming crescendo. Swaminathan didn’t like the omens. As he climbed onto his bike, a Brahmin priest crossed his path. This was not good. He got off the bike and turned back, waited for a few minutes and
then resumed his journey. Otha brahmana—a lone Brahmin was not an auspicious sign.

  Swaminathan reached the chowky and spoke to the battalion constable, preparing him and warning them not to resort to violence. Then they began the march toward the maidanam. The grounds were decorated with festoons of saffron, white and green flags. A raised dais stood in one corner. People clustered in groups, eating their tiffin of steaming idlis smothered with molahapodi, chilly powder, which made their mouths burn, reinforcing their burning desire for freedom. Groups of men huddled together, talking and arguing, discussing and disagreeing. Velu gave a fiery speech in Tamil, using flowery language to rouse the crowd. With every rhetorical crescendo, the crowd nodded in assent. More speakers came to the podium, more speeches and more passion; followed by freedom cries of Vande Mataram and Vidudhalai.

  The march began, led by Velu, Pandyan and other core leaders. The constables walked alongside, some unwilling, others unthinking, but all of them duty bound. The clouds looked ominous. An eerie flash of lightning lit up the scene, followed by the rumbling of thunder but no rain yet. The temple bells began pealing. The priests must have completed the Abhishekham — the washing and anointing of the deity with water, honey, turmeric paste, sandal paste and panchamrutham. They would have painstakingly decorated the deity with fragrant sandal paste, vibuthi, kumkumam, silks and scented flowers, following which the door to the inner sanctum was opened to the accompaniment of temple bells. The sound was deafening, reverberating in Swaminathan’s ears, almost in rhythm with his pounding heart, which was also racing in anticipation. His gaze moved swiftly among the crowds looking for potential problems.

  Then it happened. No one knew who started it. A stone hit a constable on the head and all hell broke loose. The lathis began flying. Stones, bottles and branches rained on the beleaguered constables. People hurled whatever they could lay their hands on and screamed at the police.

  “Traitors! Dung sucking pigs! Vande Mataram!” Lathis were flying, limbs flailing, and utter chaos ensued. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Young men, blood flowing from their heads, searched wildly for rocks to hurl at the constables. Women wailed and children cried out but the batons descended unrelentingly on the crowd. They landed with disdain on men, women and even children. Swaminathan watched aghast as this morbid scene unfolded. It was worse than his worst nightmare. The policemen were unyielding and the sound deafening. The screams of pain, passionate freedom cries, the sound of lathis breaking bones and of bodies hitting the floor. Swaminathan sensed each blow and winced as he watched his men fight with demonic possession. His stomach churned and heaved. He turned to one side and retched. There was blood everywhere. Never in his entire career had he seen anything like this. An abhishekham of batons, blows, curses, hatred, fury and venom, to the backdrop of temple bells, thunder and lightning. Nothing seemed to have meaning anymore. Everyone had lost the last shred of reason and the insanity was uncontrollable. The sound of the temple bells faded away.

  Then, as if the gods had seen enough, the rain commenced. Torrents of large raindrops beat down on the angry mob, quenching their ire and diluting their passion. Enough of this madness. The heavenly Abhishekham took effect, calming the frenzy, drowning the cries and forcing the batons to rest. Only the moans of the injured and the wailing of the wounded were heard. It rained continually, the drops of rain washing off the blood, till they mingled with the red dust and flowed down the street in rivulets of anguish. Swaminathan wept in an uncontrolled outpouring of grief. He lifted his eyes to survey the damage. Velu was seated on the pavement with his head cradled in his hands. As if he sensed being observed, he raised his eyes and for a moment, they locked with Swaminathan’s. That moment told him everything. The despondency, the anguish and the pain in his eyes were mirrored in Swaminathan’s. Velu’s face was glistening. Were those tears, blood, or raindrops? Perhaps all three.

  Then there was no sound. Just bodies sprawled everywhere, supine with injuries, pain and grief. Everyone was reeling from the aftermath of this intense encounter and divine intervention. The rain cooled their passions and made them sharply aware of their pain and their wounds but more particularly, of their madness.

  That evening, Swaminathan did not speak to anyone. He sat in front of the altar in the pooja room and prayed. Rajam was too scared to go near him. She knew something terrible had happened. She had never seen him this way. Till the early hours of the morning, he repeated the holy mantra, the Gayatri Japam. He prayed for forgiveness, for healing of bodies and spirits, for strength to carry on and find peace amidst the insanity.?

  “Om Bhur bhuvasvaha Tatsa vithuvarenyam

  Bhargo devasya dheemahi Dhiyoyona prachodayaath.”

  “Sir? Did you say something?” the constable asked.

  Swaminathan looked up at the driver realizing that unwittingly he was reciting the Gayatri Japam just as he had that evening after the morcha. He smiled and replied, “No, just reciting my prayers. You can keep driving.”

  _________

  1Pootani, a demon sent by King Kamsa to kill his nephew Krishna, met her destiny instead at the hands of baby Krishna

  CHAPTER 9 – RAJAM

  VIZHUPURAM – 1934

  Two weeks passed since Sushila had miscarried. While recuperating at her mother’s house in the next village, she left her stepson, Balu, in her husband Siva’s care. Since Rajam was the youngest and the liveliest in the family, Balu liked to be around her. Rajam was a mere four feet ten inches tall, a dwarf compared to the rest of the family, all of whom were tall and well built, so Balu must have felt she was his peer of sorts. He was two years old and spoke in Mazhalai, baby talk that enchanted Rajam. Balu would scuttle along with her, climbing the stairs to hang clothes on the terrace, then helping her sweep the back thinnai with an oversized broom, all the while chitchatting non-stop with Rajam. She thoroughly enjoyed his company, which made her chores seem lighter.

  That particular morning was hot as usual. Rajam had just finished washing clothes and with Balu’s help was carrying them up to the terrace to dry in the sun. They had developed a good routine. Balu handed her a piece of clothing and she wrung it out to remove the excess water. Then, as she shook it vigorously, the cool water splashed all over half naked Balu, making him giggle in glee. Next, she draped it on the line with Balu handing her clothes pegs to keep them from falling to the dusty ground. They were half way done when she heard a call from the street that always chilled her to the bone.

  “Bhavati bhikshaan dehi”

  A saamaiyaar or mendicant was at the door, asking for alms. Rajam shivered in fear. She knew they were highly respected, having renounced material and sexual attachments, meditating all day in search of enlightenment. This mendicant was probably taking a break to eat a frugal meal and it was her responsibility to give him bhiksha. She knew only too well on hearing the familiar call of Bhavati bhikshaan dehi it was her duty to offer food to the saamiyaar, who would receive the alms and bless the family with prosperity and good health. She was already without child, so the last thing she needed was to be cursed. But she could not face him. Her terror was deeply rooted; all she could think of was trying to escape her predicament.

  Rajam feared saamiyaars mainly because of their scary appearance. Shiva, the God of Destruction, reigned over the cremation ground through Yama the God of Death, and saamiyaars being Shiva worshippers, covered their bodies with ash and kept their hair in long matted locks.

  “Bhavati bhikshaan dehi.”

  Rajam began trembling. Her back arched painfully and she could feel her muscles tightening into knots. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure the saamiyaar outside could hear it. Sweat beads glistened on her upper lip and the palms of her hand became so moist she had to wipe them several times against her sari. Her face turned red and she found it hard to breathe. Nagamma knew Rajam was terrified of saamiyaars and in a few seconds would probably call out for her to give him food, a special torture designed to further break Rajam’s spirit. She had to fi
nd a hiding place where no one could find her. Forgetting all about Balu, who was blissfully unaware of her predicament, she dropped the clothes in her hand and ran down the stairs, fleeing across the courtyard and into the cowshed. She was aware of Balu’s voice following her as he gingerly made his way down the stairs in pursuit. He loved to play hide and seek. Where could Rajam be?

  In spite of the strong stench, the darkness in the cowshed gave Rajam the refuge she was seeking. She ran to the far end of the shed and sat behind a haystack. From this vantage point, she could see the entrance and be forewarned in case Nagamma decided to come looking for her. The door creaked open and the little breath left in Rajam’s body went out of her. It was Balu.

  “Rajam Chithi, where are you? Are you hiding? Is it my turn to find you?”

  Rajam breathed a sigh of relief and left her sanctuary to run and grab Balu. Keeping one hand over his mouth, she whispered, “We are playing a new game where we both have to hide and talk only in whispers.” Balu was a bit confused. If both of them hid, then who would find them? But he went along with her and sat down just like her on his haunches. He watched her for a few seconds. Did he have to imitate her? He attempted mimicking Rajam, breathing hard and fast just like her. It took Rajam a few seconds to figure out what he was doing and when she saw him mimicking her, amidst all of the tension, she couldn’t help smiling. Smiling and crying simultaneously. It seemed as though all her bodily functions had gone crazy. She didn’t know how to calm herself.