The cricket ground was ablaze in halogen lights. Bhajans bursting from speakers tied to the coconut trees waged a not entirely successful war on film music coming out of the radios of the many vendors of bindis and cheap face powder. Odorous clouds of sweat, rancid ghee, incense and rotting food, urine and freshly frying ghee rushed to greet us. Yet the field itself was unnaturally free of people.
The others melted away with breathtaking suddenness, leaving only the chowkidar, who guided me to the little tent in front of the temple that I had seen earlier in the day. We entered the tent and were confronted by a living wall of flesh. Miraculously, a crack appeared in it as soon as we stepped inside, one that was just wide enough for a single man to pass through. The chowkidar urged me forward. “Sir, what is the matter? They are waiting for you,” he whispered.
At last, years of practice in the exercise of power came to my rescue. For though I had no desire whatsoever to go to the front of that smelly, crowded tent, I knew that as the sole representative of the state I had no choice. God and the government had to share the same stage, or else we civil servants would never be able to function. The robes of power are seldom of one's choosing, yet never, till that night, had they felt so uncomfortable.
There was a murmur of approval as I took my place in the front. I tried to make myself tall, feeling like an ant with his back to a cyclone. Something demonic had been set in motion. I could feel it making its way through the crowd, boring into my back. Would I be able to control it? Or was it too late already? I stared straight ahead and tried to seem absorbed in the proceedings.
The stage itself looked rather demure, with orange and white flowers hanging down the sides and garlanding the walls, and four deepa stambhas, multi-wicked floor lamps, at the four corners. In the center, in front of the red and gold curtain, was a single silver microphone. Behind it, in a curtained alcove, priests could be heard chanting. The heat was terrible. The smoke from the burning deepams stung my eyes, making them water. The smell of flowers and incense and ghee was quite overpowering. My lungs began to crave fresh air. Fearing I'd be overcome, I put a hand out and leaned on the edge of the stage.
The chanting stopped and a man appeared in front of the curtain. He was not tall, but of an ascetic thinness that bordered on the skeletal. He walked languidly to the front of the stage. Yet he carried with him such an aura of tightly controlled energy that he seemed to grow as he approached the front. His face was practically devoid of flesh. Thin blue veins crisscrossed his forehead. Empty skin stretched tightly between jaw and cheekbone. But his most striking feature was his eyes. Protruding and practically lidless, with beady black pupils that swam in a large surface of startling blue-white, his eyes seemed to see what no one else could. He came up to the microphone and stared into the assembly, picking out faces from the crowd. A tremor ran through them. I felt it too and knew with absolute certainty that I was looking at the village pujari, the selfsame one who had had the courage to write to us.
He was no ordinary village pujari, looking after the daily rituals of the temple, weddings, and deaths, and minding his business. I understood why the chowkidar was so afraid of him. There seemed nothing this man with the staring eyes didn't know about the unseen. Even when his eyes weren't upon you, his emaciated form was like some awful reminder of the essential weakness of the flesh. But more even than his thinness it was his skin that seemed to attest to his inner purity, for it glowed like burnished copper, more alive than a flame. Never in my life had I seen skin like that! As if he was aware of the magic of his skin, the priest was naked to his waist except for the sacred thread glowing whitely on his chest and the rudraksha beads around his neck. The saffron lungi he was wearing added more fire to the colour of his skin, so that he seemed to burn in eternal penance for the weakness of us lesser mortals.
The pujari waited till the shuffling and whispering in the hall died down. It seemed to me to take an absurdly short time. Then he began to speak.
"I see you are all here. That is good.” His voice was a delight to listen to, cultured and beautifully modulated, yet rich in the drama of emotion. No actor could have spoken like that.
"Today is the thirteenth day of our worship and Amma still won't come to us. Do you know why that is?” A collective moan arose, like the wind of loss, from the assembly.
He shut his eyes and listened to it with satisfaction. His flesh quivered like the surface of a lake touched by the barest hint of a breeze.
"I will never forget,” he began. “Today I saw her so clearly...” He paused, a sob in his voice. Then, just when the tension grew almost unbearable, he opened his eyes and let us feel the full effect of them. “...more clearly than I can see you with whom I have lived and eaten all my life and who are before me now.” His eyes shifted to an indeterminate spot above our heads. “She was just there, at the edge of the village, outlined against the bamboo groves. She didn't look at me, her eyes were focussed on something far away that I could not see. I went closer. She ignored me. I wanted to cry, she was in such a terrible condition. She looked like a widow who had lost her way in the forest for many nights. Her beautiful red sari, the one I put on her with my own hands, was gone.” He lifted his hands as he said this, their emptiness emphasizing his message. “And the white widow's sari she now wears was streaked with grey and brown and torn in places. I could see evil-looking thorns clinging to the cloth in other places. Her lotus feet were so torn that they resembled the half-eaten remains of a tiger's meal. Her long black hair was caked with the dust and dead leaves of the forest. An earring was missing, and her belt had fallen off. Her bangles lay broken at her feet and her crown hung drunkenly down the side of her head, caught on her matted locks. Her face, her beautiful moonlike face, was lifeless and wan. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her lips were dull and cracked. Her bride's bindi was gone and there was no sindoor in the parting of her hair and dead flowers lay across her shrivelled breasts.
” ‘Amma, what has happened to you?’ I cried, falling at her feet. ‘Why are you like this?'
” ‘My children have forgotten me. They do not remember me anymore,’ she replied sadly.
” ‘That is not true, maa. They made a mistake, but now they have seen the error of their ways, they are calling to you, Amma. Can you not hear them?'
"She said nothing and started to walk away from me towards the forest.
” ‘Oh, fish-eyed one, why do you persist in ignoring your children?’ I called after her. ‘Have they not done enough yet? Are you not satisfied with their repentance? What more must your children do?’ In my despair I fell to the ground. At last she turned her head and looked at me. Her hair caught on a bamboo frond and revealed her other ear. I thought I would die of shame. For Amma's beautiful shell-shaped ear was bleeding. As I watched, the blood poured down like rain and soaked her white sari.
” ‘Oh, Amma, what has happened?’ I cried in alarm.
” ‘You have done this to me,’ she replied. ‘Save me.'
"And she vanished."
The priest stopped. People in the audience were sobbing loudly, some crying out, “No, oh no,” their bodies swaying back and forth.
"What can we do for Amma?” they cried in unison.
He surveyed them in silence and a satisfied smile spread his thin lips. “We must continue to pray.” Suddenly the heat and the smoke and the smell of so many bodies became too much for me. I turned and tried to push my way through the wall of bodies, heedless of the angry shouts that arose.
I must have fainted, because the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor at the edge of the hall, close to the entrance. I was a child again and someone was cradling my head in his lap, fanning me.
"Big brother,” he said respectfully, the moment he saw my eyes open, “are you feeling better? Can I get you some water?"
"How? What ha-happened?” I tried to sit up.
"Hush, lie still, give them time to forget you,” he whispered as he fanned my face. His voice was unemphatic, with a curious lack
of inflection.
"What do you mean?” I asked, trying to get a look at the man's face. But the darkness made it impossible to see anything more than the whites of his eyes.
"Big brother, you have upset them. They're in a funny mood tonight, I can feel it."
I could feel the truth underpinning his words, and so I obeyed him, wondering where my unknown benefactor belonged in the political mosaic of the village. I sat up suddenly, remembering who I was. His lips lifted briefly in acknowledgement, but his eyes never left the stage. The stillness of his body as he watched the proceedings, and the utter concentration that stillness implied, both impressed and disturbed me.
Suddenly the hall was plunged in darkness and, as if that were the cue they'd been waiting for, six priests appeared from behind the curtain that hid the sanctum sanctorum from the eyes of the spectators. They walked solemnly to the front of the stage. One carried a shallow tin box and a broom. The second and third carried the wood and the oil respectively. The fourth, fifth, and sixth ones were musicians who began immediately to play while the fire was prepared. Behind the curtain, meanwhile, lamps were lit and a shadow play began. One pair of shadows with elongated arms bathed the idol. Others waved elaborately carved silver fly-whisks. Another pair lifted two multi-pronged lamps and moved them in slow circles to the rhythm of the music, throwing grotesque many-armed shadows on the curtain. I glanced at my companion. His chest heaved with emotion; his eyes, moist and shining, were glued to the stage.
After the fire was lit and the music ceased, the village pujari reappeared and took possession of the mike. “The evening's program will be the same as yesterday's. The only change is that today the abhisek will be followed by the kirtanam and then the distribution of prasadam,” he said.
A few groans escaped the crowd, and the woman in front of us clutched her children.
"Impressive, isn't he, our pujari?” the man asked.
I said nothing.
"You don't agree?"
"It is not my place to agree or disagree,” I said carefully.
On stage the pujari continued to speak. “I would like to add that we have been forced to do this because some of the sub-cooks did not arrive on time. This is what happens when some of you do not take your responsibilities seriously. Everyone suffers—especially the children, who are the devi's favorites and most likely to get her to respond to their call. If the children don't get their food on time, the devi will be angry.” A collective moan went through the crowd.
"After prasadam, there will be the special pujas for those who have requested them and those who have been polluted by the touch of the enemies. I will call out their names and they can come and collect their baskets of offerings. Then the singing will resume and I want you all to be there. Tonight is ekadasi and the devi is most susceptible to your call. No one is to go to sleep.” He stared threateningly at several people. “Especially you, Chinnakutty,” he called. “I will be watching you.” His eyes pierced the black mass of bodies in the center of the tent. “And you, Gauriamma, no taking your children home early."
I looked around to see who he was talking to and saw a woman with unhealthy, greyish skin and wide, staring eyes. She hung her head and clutched four scared-looking children to her.
"Poor children, can't he see he's making them suffer? They're dying of fatigue,” the man beside me muttered.
My ears pricked up. “Has this been going on for long?"
He looked at me intently. “Eighteen days, if we count today,” came the prompt reply. “I wonder how much longer the village will last."
I felt greatly encouraged. Here was someone intelligent and educated who could help me understand what was happening and perhaps help me put a stop to it.
The hypnotic voice of the pundit continued to flow through the public-address system. “I hope you have all left your donations in the donation box at the side of the hall. If you haven't done so, please do it now. There are some of you who came too late to do so. I know who you are.” He paused and looked searchingly at the audience. “There has been a marked drop in the collections as well as the food. I was angry at the selfishness of some of us but I realise that it must be the will of the devi that we purify our minds further. From now on, only rice payasam will be served.” A ripple went through the audience and many hung their heads.
A sudden flurry of activity drew my eyes to the stage again. More pundits, this time dressed like sadhus, in saffron, and beating on drums and cymbals of all sizes, and blowing on horns and conches, swarmed all over the stage. They all looked fierce and devoted. The curtains flew back, revealing the idol at last. A sigh of relief rose up from the crowd. For there in the inner sanctum of the temple, bathed in a warm halo of light, was the devi herself.
I am not by nature superstitious. An agnostic father and an atheist mother had made me a worshiper of the rational world. But a shiver ran through me all the same, for in spite of what I had been brought up to believe, I felt the devi come alive. I felt it as surely as did every person in that room. I saw her hair move in the gentle lotus-perfumed breeze that suddenly invaded the room, and I felt an inexplicable lightening of my heart, a silent invasion of joy in that dark, hot, smelly space. A joyous shout burst from my throat and I felt spontaneous tears wet my cheeks. I wiped them surreptitiously, glancing at the man self-consciously. To my relief there were tears rolling down his cheeks, too.
"She's beautiful, isn't she? It is hard not to be moved,” I said.
He turned his head and dashed away his tears. “Idol worship is not a good thing,” he growled thickly. “Come, let us go outside."
I should have felt grateful. The man had saved me from becoming as superstitious as the villagers. Instead, I felt resentful, as if I had been unjustly rebuked.
The man stood up and gave me his hand. Somewhat reluctantly I let him help me up and together we crept out of the tent into the deserted cricket ground.
A slight wind that smelled of the sea blew across the field, carrying the garbage with it. As I sucked the cooler air into my lungs, rationality took possession of me once more. The rains were coming. Would my car make it out of the village? Had it even arrived? What had happened to it?
The wind woke a dog lying asleep on a garbage heap. The dog opened his mouth wide and howled. An answering screech rent the peace of the night. The dog leapt high in the air and ran away.
"What was that?” I asked my companion.
He looked unperturbed. There came another shriek, but this time the static that followed made the cause of the sound clearly discernible. The loudspeakers had just been switched on.
"Are you hungry?” my companion asked.
Of course I was hungry, but I wanted to know who my mysterious benefactor was first. “Not very,” I lied. “Tell me first, who are you? How is it you know English?"
The man laughed, showing even white teeth. “First eat. You must be hungry."
"No, I'm fine. I can eat later,” I told him impatiently.
"My mother always said one shouldn't talk on an empty stomach."
I had to agree. The smell of the temple food cooking exclusively in clarified butter was making my stomach rumble. I gave in. “What about you? Will you eat with me?"
He shook his head. “Later. I will wait for you by that tree over there."
I ducked into the tent. A slovenly cook filled a leaf plate with lemon rice and watery curds. The filth was unbelievable. But I was too hungry to care. I helped myself to some chillies and walked out. The cooks watched me leave without stopping their work. Even they seemed to know who I was, which is why they let me eat before the Gods.
When I stepped out of the tent the man was waiting for me beneath the tree, exactly where he said he'd be. He stood up and formally offered me a seat on a branch that curved like a swing just a few feet from the ground. Then he sat down on the floor before me.
"So who are you? What do you do here?” I asked immediately.
His answer astonished me. “I came to
meet you,” he said.
"Why? Are you a government employee, or a member of the panchayat?” I tried to read the expression on his face, but either by chance or by design it was once more in shadow, whereas the lights strung on top of the huge tent practically blinded me.
"You are from the government, of the government,” he corrected himself. “It is rare for a government official, even a minor one, to visit a village as tiny as this. What has brought someone as important as yourself here?"
The man had a natural authority that made one want to answer, but I held back, remembering my position. “Word gets around quickly, does it not? Tell me, how is it that a man of your talents is content to remain here?"
"Because I know the world is nothing but a big village.” He laughed briefly, his eyes never leaving my face for an instant. I found his gaze distinctly unsettling but couldn't pull my own away. “The people here are quite easy to manage. Except when they have been scared by something quite out of the ordinary. Like your sudden arrival, for example. That's why I had to come."
"How do you know English so well?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
"I wanted to be a bureaucrat like you,” he answered bluntly.
"Why didn't you?” I asked when I'd recovered from my surprise.
"You believe that life can be planned?” he asked.
Unprepared, I gave a stupid reply. “Of course it can. If one is careful and prudent."
"Careful. Prudent.” He smiled in a way that made me feel young and foolish. “What lovely words. So vague and so comforting. And what if you were born in a pit? What would you plan then?"
"I would plan to climb out of the pit,” I replied patiently.
"You think I haven't tried?” my companion asked, his voice becoming thin with suppressed emotion.
"How do I know when you refuse to tell me anything about yourself?” I replied. The opening I had been waiting for had finally arrived.
"I come from a Brahmin village hidden in a fold of the high Himalayas. My father was the village priest. He looked after the temple of the goddess Chamundi. In those days there was no road to get to the village and one had to walk the last ten kilometers up a narrow footpath. So no government teacher ever came to our school. So my father was the teacher, too. He was a very good teacher and after the children of the village were finished with him many went on to get government jobs.
EQMM, September-October 2009 Page 19