The cramps subsided and the pain of not being pregnant waned. She felt drained of all emotions and when she lay down and stared at the moon and the stars through the open window, she lost all sense of space and time and drifted off to blissful sleep.
Almost like clockwork, her eyes opened even before the first rays of the sun peeped over the horizon. She sat up and looked out through the open doorway. The household had not stirred as yet, which meant she had enough time to use the bathroom and clean up before anyone awoke. It was pitch dark outside and because she had just awoken, her eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness. The petromax lamp was at the foot of her bedroll and she groped for it blindly, catching it just in time before it tipped over. The box of matches was right next to it. She pumped vigorously and lit the wick, the brightness blinding her momentarily. Then, wearily, she found her way to the bathroom.
She stopped just outside as she heard the noise of water. The parayan had come early to clean the latrine. Nagamma was not going to be too happy about that. No one had used the toilet as yet, and smell would become unbearable by tomorrow when he returned once again to clean. The latrine sat on a raised platform with three steps leading to it. Every morning the parayan crawled through a small side door and scooped away the stinking remains that lay underneath. Rajam watched in silence as he poured water and washed out the filth. As he crept out from the aperture beneath the toilet, he gave her a toothless grin. He wore a dirty undershirt and had his veshti tied almost like a loin cloth. His hands and clothes were covered in the muck that he worked with all day.
Rajam felt repulsed and sorry at the same time. What a job! All day he toiled in the filth and dirt, making the world a cleaner place to live in. She wondered if he realized how important his job was to them. If he missed coming to clean even one day, it became impossible to use the toilet without gagging. Still, she could not bring herself to come anywhere near him and stayed rooted to the same spot till he finished collecting the garbage and exited through the back door into the street that only parayans could use. He too, sensed how his presence revolted her and left the house as quickly as he could. She was a Brahmin woman and he was a parayan, an untouchable. He knew his place and did not want to transgress the strict rules governing his presence in the Brahmin quarter.
He had absolutely no clue that his life or his job was of any value to anyone.
CHAPTER 37 – VELANDI – THE PARAYAN
VIZHUPURAM
He was not just ‘the parayan.’ He had a name, Velandi, and his loved ones called him Velu. His family had lived in the area from the beginning of time, never thinking of moving either occupation or residence in spite of the squalor and abject poverty that was their lot. In many ways, he never realized he was underprivileged or that he deserved better. He was just happy because he knew no better. This was his life, this was his home and this was his job.
Today he had come early to finish his work because he had to fetch water from the river. It was a long trek to the ghat where he and the other untouchables were permitted to fill their pots of water. Almost three miles downstream, it took him the better part of an hour getting there and even longer getting back, his pace halted by the weight he carried. Normally, his wife, Muniamma, took care of this chore but Muniamma was ill. She had just given birth to their fourth child and was still weak from the aftermath of childbirth. They had three other little ones to care for and Muniamma was not yet strong enough for the task. The childbirth was difficult and the considerable loss of blood left her anemic and weak. No doctors or vaidhyars visited the parayan quarter and the women used ancient herbal remedies to help their own. Muniamma was lucky to escape death. Just last week the wife of Velandi’s neighbor, Chandar, had succumbed to childbirth and he was now left with seven children to care for, seven mouths to feed. If only they were allowed to dig their own well, then no one would have to walk this distance to fetch water and life would become so much easier. But the Brahmins and other upper castes would not hear of it. The ghat where they filled their pots was at the narrowest point of the river. Now the water level was high but Velandi knew how much they suffered as the summer approached, when the waters narrowed down to a thin brown stream, teeming with germs. But no matter what the difficulty, under no circumstances could they draw water from the wells in other neighborhoods.
Thirst was something every man in his caste understood and lived with. Sometimes when there was absolutely no water, they cut the thick stems from cactus plants and squeezed precious drops of fluid down their parched throats.
Last year, his neighbor Chandar was so overcome with thirst, he dared to attempt stealing water. Chandar paid dearly for stealing one measly potful of water from the well near the merchant’s quarter. He was beaten so badly the welts from the thrashing did not heal for three months and the water he stole was thrown onto the dry earth right before his eyes.
Muniamma weakly raised her head as Velandi walked into the hut. “Did you fetch the water?”
“Not yet Muniamma; I will leave right away.”
“What about food?”
“It was too early. No one had kept out any old food for us. But I went through the garbage,” he said cheerily. “I found two apples. Let me cut out the overripe parts and you can eat the rest.”
Muniamma took a bite out of the half rotten apple. “Leave the rest for the children, I have had enough.” In spite of her health, Muniamma could not bear the thought of eating while her children went hungry. They would wake up soon and she didn’t know if she had any food in the house to offer them.
“Eat it, Muniamma; you need your strength. I will go back to the Brahmin quarter later. Someone is sure to give me some food.” Guiltily Muniamma ate the rest of the apple. It was still dark when Velandi reached the ghat. The river was full and flowing fast. He stepped in, scrubbing himself thoroughly, dipping his head below the surface several times. The water was fresh and cool and he allowed himself a few moments of indulgence. He was washing himself after a whole month and the caked dirt had become part of his skin. He took a lump of wet clay from the waterbed and rubbed it over his body, letting the rough earth remove all the encrusted grime from his body and head. Once he was clean, he filled the four pots, balancing three on his head and holding the fourth with one hand as he began the long trudge home. His black, oily, freshly scrubbed skin shone in the morning sun. He smiled, sure that Muniamma would have trouble recognizing him. When he reached home, the children were already awake. Last night he had soaked a handful of cooked rice in a large pot of water. Fermented overnight, this would provide the nourishment for the family for the rest of the day. Most often, they ate this starchy breakfast if they were lucky enough to have cooked rice at home. After the children ate, none was left over for Velandi but he was not worried — a cupful of water would keep his hunger at bay.
He loved winter because people were extra generous at this time of year, perhaps because of the various festivals that took place. Velandi was lucky he cleaned Brahmin homes, as they would rather give away old food than eat it. Not everyone worked in the Brahmin quarter but hunger would bring them here, as old food was almost guaranteed. Almost every day he got leftovers from the previous day’s cooking — that is, if he was lucky enough to get to it before the dogs and rats ate it up. Unfortunately, the women wrapped the food in banana leaves and left it outside the back door. Sometimes, he picked it up almost as soon as he saw them place it outside but if his timing was not right, others would beat him to it, including stray dogs and vermin. It was too late to go back, so he decided to try his luck elsewhere.
It was the holy month of Ramzan, so at the end of the day, there was excellent food available in the Muslim Quarter. He would take his oldest son and wait in line outside the mosque before sunset. It was important to get there early. The unfortunate who were caught at the back of the line were stuck without food and left to wait a whole day before another chance at a meal. Velandi slept on an empty stomach many times but it bothered him that his
children occasionally slept hungry. He wanted to be able to provide for them and every day presented a new challenge.
Having children was a boon and he provided for them only with God’s grace. Sometimes God would question his faith by making life difficult but Velandi was steadfast in his belief. He was born into this wretchedness because of all the sins he had committed in his previous birth and was determined to use this life to change his karmic balance. No matter how desperate his situation he did not change his faith and he did not steal. When he was a child, a drought had lasted for five years and almost every year he lost a family member. The polluted river water and subsequent outbreak of cholera took three of his siblings in the very first summer. Death saved them from the cruelty of the next few years that ravaged the rest of the family, while nature played havoc with their lives and the lives of all the people that populated the land.
Every morning they looked up towards the sky in the hope of seeing the rain clouds gather, in a desperate prayer for the monsoon to arrive, but all they saw was the harsh and blistering sun that parched the earth and made the crops wither, causing pain and suffering to one and all. Even the wells in the Brahmin quarter were drying up and the toilets could not be cleaned without water. Women were reduced to washing their clothes in the river and soon, the utter scarcity of water made the river bed their toilet. That was when cholera broke out and it did not spare anyone. The wealthy at least had their doctors but in the parayan quarter, death and doom had devastated every house. The trees were bereft of leaves; and even the wild berries withered in the blistering heat. Velandi and his brother learned to set traps for snakes and rats, which they skinned and roasted on the fire to assuage their hunger.
Many families moved out of town, making the long trip to take refuge in the neighboring state of Kerala, which had more opportunities and definitely much more water. Some took sanctuary in the church, where, by accepting Jesus Christ as their savior, they got one square meal a day and a cupful of water. Velandi’s uncles begged him to come with them to the Mission, saying the Hindu god was cruel and did not deserve loyalty. Hesu Christhu (Jesus Christ) was much more benevolent and in the mission they were treated as equals but Velandi’s father would never convert. They pleaded with the family, saying all they needed was to change their name and food was guaranteed but Velandi’s father was ready to face hunger rather than give up his faith. This situation to him was just God’s way of testing their faith and only the weak succumbed to the pressure. Velandi believed that, too, because in the end the rains did come but not before taking away his only sister, the last sacrifice to the wrath of Mother Nature.
When he married Muniamma, she was only eight years old, so thin you could literally count the ribs sticking out through its perfunctory skin cover. But with the rains came the harvest, and very soon the waters in the river were flowing again. The Brahmin women once again kept out their leftovers, and Muniamma filled out and slowly became a woman, and now was the mother of four children: three boys and a girl.
Velandi sat down to go through the garbage. He loved doing this because it was full of surprises. The garbage told him many stories about the homes he cleaned, providing small details, like the menu for the day and sometimes letting out untold secrets, like the time he discovered the blood soaked rags from the Raman household. He knew exactly what had happened but was not about to volunteer any information. He knew the word of a parayan had no value.
He carefully separated the glass bottles, papers and rags and piled them up in separate jute bags in the corner of his shack. Next week he would sell the bottles and paper in town and then maybe the family would enjoy a good chicken curry. Muniamma stitched all the rags he found into clothing for the kids. By the time he finished with the garbage, only rotten food was left over, which he piled in a corner of his garden to fertilize his small vegetable patch. Nothing was ever wasted. Last week he found a torn pair of slippers, which he repaired and proudly used when he went on long treks over rough terrain, such as the one he would undertake today to reach the mosque.
They were late and it was early afternoon by the time they left. It took twice as long because they had to walk around the outskirts of town avoiding the local neighborhoods in order to reach the mosque, which lay diagonally opposite to the north. But neither Velandi nor his son Nandanar (Nandu) complained. They could not wait to reach the mosque and taste the delicious, succulent mutton biryani soaked in rich spices. By the time they reached the mosque, the line had wrapped itself twice around the building. Velandi was not despondent and merely went to the end of the line and sat down cross legged to patiently wait for sunset. The evening prayers began at sundown, probably after six o’clock and after the congregation ate, food would be doled out to the waiting multitude. Knowing they would be here for the next couple of hours at the very least, Velandi looked around him to see if he saw any familiar faces. To his surprise, he realized he did not recognize anyone, which meant that many had come from other villages. Nandu was tired after the long walk and now his stomach was growling in anticipation of an excellent meal. He hated the thought of waiting and indolently leaned against his father, his eyes half closed.
“Appa, I’m bored. Tell me a story.”
“Which one?” Velandi was tired and hungry too and a story would help while away the time.
“The Nandanar one.” Velandi had named his oldest son after the legendary parayan, Nandanar, whose life story was a source of hope and optimism for all the underprivileged. He was renowned as one of the great devotees of Lord Shiva and his story always gave Velandi hope of salvation, especially when times were bad. Velandi’s own father had told him the story many times and now, continuing the tradition, he told his sons the same story to instill in them the same feelings of sanguinity.
He began dramatically, in his inimitably flamboyant style, which made him the best story teller in his village.
“Many years ago in a village outside Chidambaram was a parayan like you and me …”
“…whose name was Nandanar.” Knowing the story so well, Nandu finished the line for him, preempting his father at every opportunity, much to the latter’s chagrin.
“A great devotee of Shiva, he always visited a temple near his place of work. He worked all day in the rice fields for a landlord who was not terribly cruel but at the same time not exactly kind. From dawn to dusk, poor Nandanar toiled in the hot sun, tilling the land for a handful of rice. But he never complained because as long as he could go to the temple every evening, his life was complete. Every single day without fail he would go to the temple…”
“And do pradakshanam.” Velandi tried not to show his annoyance when his son completed his sentences. “Yes. Without fail he went around the temple walls almost five times, doing pradakshanam to the God within its walls. Once he finished, he would stand outside the main gateway and peer in to see if he could get a glimpse of the beautifully decorated Shivalingam, but always…”
“Nandi was in the way.” Nandu completed.
“Yes exactly. Nandi the bull is always in front of every Shiva lingam in every Shiva temple.” By this time a small crowd had gathered around Velandi, children and adults eager to hear the story. Emboldened and encouraged by his audience, he continued even more vibrantly.
“Nandanar was unshakable in his devotion. He wanted so badly to see the Lord that he sat down, singing in divine ecstasy. As you know, when we go to the city we have to ask permission before we enter the street so that high caste people can get out of the way.” Knowing this all too well, several heads shook vigorously in assent, and the crowd increased, listening in mute amazement.
Velandi continued, “So he was used to shouting ‘Varugalamo?’ for permission to enter before he stepped onto a street and he used this word in the first line of his famous song.” So saying, Velandi attempted singing although completely off tune but no one seemed to mind it. “Varugalamo… ayyaa…” He knew the first line and made up the rest as he went along, hoping no one would not
ice.
“Shiva was so pleased, he moved Nandi several feet to the right and Nandanar saw the beautiful Shiva lingam in all its glory, gleaming in the radiance of a thousand lamps. Even today we can see the Nandi in the temple to the right of the main deity — that is, if we were allowed to enter the temple.” Velandi paused dramatically for the oohs and aahs from his audience.
“But Nandanar was not satisfied. He also wanted to see the Lord at the Chidambaram temple because that was one of the few temples where the Lord could be seen in human form as he danced the cosmic Thandava. He kept telling everyone he would make that fateful trip to Chidambaram and soon people were making fun of him. But Nandanar was too simple-minded to get offended by what people said and continued to ask his master for one day off from work so he could make that trip. But the Jameendar always made some excuse not to send Nandanar, laughing at his dream, saying that parayans would never ever be allowed inside a temple, particularly the Chidambaram temple, which was controlled by three thousand Deekshathars — priests who were so conservative that the thought of a parayan entering the temple was unthinkable. But Nandanar was adamant. Finally, the landlord agreed on the condition he till forty acres of land in one day. Nandanar was despondent because he knew this was an impossible task. Even forty men working together could not complete that much in one day. But a miracle took place that night. When they awoke the next morning, forty acres had been tilled and on top of that, the crop had grown and the grain was ready for harvest!”
When the Lotus Blooms Page 28