The Onus of Karma

by Rudra Krishna

  one

  Monsoon in Madras sets in in November. But this was no ordinary monsoon shower; it was the precursor to a cyclone. Ramaswami cursed his luck as the clouds grew heavier—he had chosen the worst possible evening to storm out of his father’s house. And the anguish he was undoubtedly causing his mother distressed him. He knew they wouldn’t accept the man he was destined to be, and he couldn’t force them to, but how could he give up his karma? Karma is all that a man is born to serve.

  There were British military outposts all along the highway, and Ramaswami had been stopped and warned at least four times not to walk alone along that road. Each time, Rama had warmly agreed with the soldier, picked up his bundle and continued on his journey. He had spent most of the sixty-mile walk telling himself that he was right. He wasn’t intended to be the priest of some obscure, decrepit temple in some insignificant village. So what if his family had been priests there for over a thousand years!

  ‘It’s your duty to serve Varahishwara,’ his father said to him. ‘And if you want to do anything else, it won’t be in my house!’

  Rama walked out of the temple and went home to tell his mother of his immediate departure.

  ‘Please Rama, don’t live in this house if you don’t want to. I’ll give you money, go live in a house on the other side of town. Don’t leave this town, I know I’ll never see you again, and that will kill me!’

  In his most soothing voice, Rama replied, ‘I promise you I will come back much happier. Let me go, Amma, I swear I’ll come back for you and Appa!’

  But his mother was inconsolable, ‘No, my son, I know you want to, and I know you will always want to, but you never will! I promise you now that you never will!’ And with tears in her eyes and not another word, she went into the kitchen, packed a bag of food for his journey and handed it to him.

  Rama could only say as he walked away, ‘I will come back, Amma, I really will.’ Rama was replaying this scene in his mind for the last five hours. He was still so sure that he had done the right thing and yet, he wondered why he felt so much pain.

  Rama had been sure of his destiny since he was a boy. He was not to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors. He dreamt of battles, of glory, of victory. But he was a Brahmin; he could never go to war. Rama wasn’t about to let his station in life get in the way of his dreams. He started learning yoga at a very early age from a sanyasi who lived on the temple’s premises and soon became an expert. He also learned swordplay from the village blacksmith, whose son Mohan was his best friend. The blacksmith was a passable fighter, and Rama learnt from him, perfecting his own techniques with both sword and stick. By the age of eleven he was one of the best archers and swordsmen in his village.

  When he turned seventeen—barely four months ago—his parents had called him into their room. ‘Now that you are a man,’ his father said. ‘You should stop associating with that Mohan. He’s not of our caste and I won’t allow you to enter the temple if you so much as talk to him.’

  ‘What “caste”?’ Rama asked angrily. ‘Haven’t we done enough damage with this insanity? We couldn’t keep the English out because of this nonsense and we betrayed our own people to them.’

  That was when their problems began. Rama obeyed his parents’ wishes in all matters but this. He had hoped they would eventually accept his stand, but things didn’t quite turn out that way. His father took every possible opportunity to insult Mohan and his family, hurting them with harsh words. Finally, Mohan’s parents begged Rama to leave them alone, and Rama, shattered and disgraced by his father’s behaviour, resolved to leave home.

  Right now though, he had other things to worry about. The notorious dacoit Arunachalam, who had killed over fifty travellers in just the past six months, including the wife and daughter of the governor himself, was the reason for all the security along the highway. The governor had announced a reward of 10,000 rupees for the capture of the dacoit, an amount that could perhaps buy one a whole village at that time. Arunachalam had not featured in Rama’s thoughts so far, but now, as he looked up at the mass of swirling rainclouds, he realized it was time he looked for some sort of safety and shelter—it was beginning to pour quite heavily now.

  Shortly, a cart drawn by a team of four horses drove up. Rama hailed the cart, asked for and was given a lift; the driver of the cart was glad to get a companion for his journey. They had barely started when the driver enquired, ‘Why are you going to Madras? That, too, on a night like this.’

  Rama replied, ‘Well, I thought I could use a change of scenery. The weather is always going to be one way or the other; I can’t let it stop me.’

  ‘True. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad for any company on this highway.’

  Rama replied with a mischievous grin, ‘How do you know I’m not a dacoit? What if I told you my name is Arunachalam?’

  It was the driver’s turn to smile. ‘Because I know the difference between an educated Brahmin and a dacoit. It’s horrible how that son of a whore has terrorized this district! Every time I make this trip, my wife acts like it’s going to be the last time we see each other. Don’t get me wrong, I like the special treatment, but I hate the fact that I have to go on a trip to Madras to get a night’s action.’

  Rama burst out laughing. He didn’t quite know what to say.

  ‘It’s unlikely that we’ll see him, though,’ the driver went on. ‘He’s made only four appearances since he held up the governor’s cart.’

  Looking up at the sky, Rama replied, ‘Looks like a fine night for a dacoit, if he does decide to show up.’

  ‘Don’t say that, even as a joke, Ayya,’ said the driver, gently slapping himself on both cheeks, a gesture of apology to the gods. ‘But Arunachalam could not possibly defeat us for I have Shiva himself in my cart today!’

  The little bit of flattery rolled off Rama’s back, he wasn’t paying attention. He was a good-looking young man, tall and lean, with long hair that fell loosely to his shoulders and a great deal of strength and self-assurance evident in his thin, albeit well-defined frame. He was lost in thought about the dacoit and the bounty when a piercing whistle broke the silence of the night and stopped the horses dead in their tracks.

  A large man ran out of the bushes on the side of the road and stood near the horses.

  ‘Your money or your life,’ he called out.

  ‘I am sorry, but you are wasting your time,’ Rama answered. ‘I’m a poor Brahmin, and he is just a poor horse-cart-driver. Please let us go through.’

  ‘You can tell whoever anything you want—if you make it through the night. I am Arunachalam,’ the voice boomed. ‘You obviously have no idea what your “poor horse-cart-driver” is carrying! Why don’t you ask him?’

  The dacoit was a massive man, over six feet tall, with oily skin and a pock-marked face. He was running to fat, but the massive shoulders indicated immense power.

  When he turned to look at the driver’s face and saw it was as white as a sheet, Rama realized that something was very wrong. Turning back to the dacoit, he said, ‘In that case, please let me leave. I’m just a poor traveller and I don’t want to die protecting something that doesn’t belong to me.’ With these words, Rama quickly got to his feet and started alighting from the cart.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, boy!’ the dacoit bellowed.

  Arunachalam was known to have no respect for human life. The chances of their surviving the encounter were rather slim. Rama considered his options; he was sitting on the cart and the height gave him tactical advantage.

  ‘We’ll see how this evening turns out for you,’ the dacoit said. ‘We’ll know if …’

  Before he could complete his threat, Rama jumped off the cart and knocked the bandit to the ground. Arunachalam let out an enraged roar and struggled to throw him off while reaching for his axe. The scuffle that followed, though unscientific, was quite effective. Using his body weight to keep Arunachalam pinned down, Rama managed to wrap an arm around his massive neck and slowly but su
rely began applying pressure till the dacoit passed out.

  Rama got to his feet, covered in mud from head to toe. He tore up the dacoit’s veshti and tied him up. Then he and the driver lugged the inert form on to the back of the cart where a large chest with a huge padlock on it was kept.

  ‘What is in this box?’

  ‘Over one lakh gold coins that belong to the governor. I am surprised that Arunachalam knew of this trip. Two decoy carts were to have preceded me.’

  Rama looked at him thoughtfully for a minute. Then he said, ‘Now, let us make sure the governor gets his money.’

  The rest of the journey to the fort at Madras was accomplished in silence. The driver tried to strike up a conversation, but Rama replied mostly in monosyllables until the driver gave up. Rama realized he had a golden opportunity. He would have to impress the governor in order to secure his confidence, and Rama was quite confident that he would succeed. Perhaps he could achieve an official status, but what?

  Some hours later the thick walls of Fort St. George loomed ahead of them. The storm had not abated, and both Rama and the driver were soaked. He waited by the cart while the driver got down at the gate and spoke to the two British guards standing on duty. The men hurried over to the cart and opened the back. One of them whistled loudly and at the signal, the heavy gates of the fort swung open.

  The driver hurried back to Rama, ‘They were amazed when I mentioned that you fought Arunachalam alone. Ayya, you’ll be a hero with the white men!’

  Rama ignored this comment. This was one of the things that irritated him about his people: the way they fawned over the English.

  When they reached the governor’s mansion, the driver ran inside with the news while Rama waited, considering what he would do with the reward. A huge crowd stood beyond the gates, craning their necks, straining to see the man who had captured Arunachalam. It seemed that word had spread.

  Barely a few minutes passed before the governor of Madras Presidency, clad in his bathrobe, rushed out of the house followed by his guard and an entourage of servants. The governor was an impressive man: tall and hefty, a long straight nose, heavy eyelids arched over a pair of grey eyes that were piercing in their intensity.

  Shaking Rama by the hand, the governor said, ‘I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for capturing Arunachalam. What is your name, young man?’

  ‘Ramaswami Dikshitar, sir.’

  ‘Well, Ramaswami Dikshitar, I owe you far more than money! Come with me, come on inside.’

  They entered the mansion and stepped into a spacious, well-lit central room with a massive punkah. A little boy sat in the corner tugging listlessly at the punkah. A half-empty glass on a table near the big chair in the room suggested that the governor had been enjoying a drink when he was disturbed by Rama’s arrival.

  ‘I’m sure you would like change into dry clothes,’ the governor said to him. ‘Why don’t you go down that corridor to the bathroom? I’ll send over some dry clothes for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rama replied. ‘But I’m fine.’

  ‘Nonsense! Go on, I’ll have some clothes sent.’

  Rama walked down the corridor to the bathroom. Just as he started to fill up the bucket, someone knocked. He opened the door and saw the young boy who had been operating the punkah standing outside, a bucket of steaming hot water next to him.

  ‘For you, Ayya,’ the boy said.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Rama.

  ‘Did you really capture him all by yourself?’ the boy asked suddenly, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  Rama looked at him. He was a tiny, grubby little boy. He had long dirty brown hair and a naughty grin on his face. But his eyes, Rama noticed, were not smiling.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Rama said, as he picked up the bucket. ‘Thank you for the water.’

  When he came out, he found a dark blue shirt and a pair of black trousers had been laid out on the bed, along with some underwear. Rama had never worn Western clothing before, and he didn’t find it very comfortable now, but it was definitely more practical, considering present company.

  Rama walked back towards the main hall. The governor was sitting in his big armchair, but he got to his feet as he saw Rama enter and said, ‘Are you feeling better, would you like something to eat or drink?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir. I’ve accepted enough hospitality,’ Rama replied.

  ‘Oh! Nonsense!’ Taking Rama by the arm, the governor walked across to his lobby. He stopped at the door and turned to Rama. ‘So, how long have you been hunting this man?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Rama replied. ‘I was travelling to Madras and this man attacked the cart carrying your money.’ Rama paused, ‘Sir, he seemed to have received information about the cart. I believe you might have a traitor on your staff.’

  ‘Not my money, the revenues. Hmm, prior information you say! I will definitely look into the matter. I am indeed very grateful to you, young man. I cannot thank you enough for ensuring their safe passage, and the Crown is indebted to you. If there’s anything I can help you out with, you need only ask,’ he said, with a slight twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Yes, find me a job, please,’ was Rama’s immediate reply.

  The governor seemed put out by the request, ‘But why would you want to work? You’re richer than you could have ever hoped to be!’

  ‘True, but I’d rather save that money and work for a few years.’

  The governor thought about it for a minute before asking, ‘What would you like to do?’

  ‘I’d like any job that I can grow in. I’m educated and hard-working.’

  ‘Right. Would you like to work in the police force? We could use you there. How old are you now?’

  ‘Nineteen,’ was the unhesitating reply. ‘But I can do the work of five of your finest officers.’

  The governor then pushed open the door to the study and ushered Rama in. For a few moments, he could only stare: the governor’s library was plush and had many books. He forgot himself and rushed in, eagerly devouring the names on the book spines.

  The governor watched Rama indulgently for a minute before something seemed to dawn on him, ‘Can you read English?’ he asked.

  Rama hesitated a moment before replying, ‘Yes, I can. My grandmother taught me the language.’

  ‘Interesting. And do you know where she picked it up?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The governor continued to stare at Rama meditatively for a few more minutes. Then he walked across the room to a cupboard, unlocked it, and took out a heavy, green, silk purse packed tightly with gold coins. He handed the purse over to Rama.

  ‘And I would have given you twice this amount to get my hands on that killer,’ he said. The governor went back to his desk, picked up a pen and began writing. He finished writing, blotted the page and handed it over to Rama, saying, ‘Give this to the chief inspector. He should be here by now.’

  Rama glanced at the note: orders for the chief inspector of Black Town to accommodate him in one of the police quarters and enrol him at the academy the very next day. He was surprised that things were moving so fast.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dikshitar. Chief Inspector Andrews should be outside my house by now. Go to him and hand him my note if you please.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir, and thank you very much.’

  ‘Goodnight, I shall watch your career with considerable interest, I can assure you.’

  So Rama went outside and handed his note to the chief inspector. That very night, Rama was taken to the police station in Fort St. George, and given a small stuffy little room and three sets of khakis, the uniform of a police constable.

  two

  Five years flew by. Rama was now chief constable and assistant to the tehsildar of the Kumbakonam district; part of the British representation posted in the town to maintain peace and protect Britain’s interests. He had made quick progress, doing outstandingly well during his training at the academy and after, when
he had gone on the beat on the tough streets of Madras. It also helped that the governor thought very highly of him. He was married, and had a son. He had even changed his name; Dikshitar, which sounded so alien, was gone. He was now Ramaswami Aiyar, the epitome of the modern Tamil Brahmin. His intelligence was incomparable, and he was much loved for his sense of justice and fair play.

  One summer morning, Rama was enjoying a cup of tea in the town square when two constables came running up to him.

  ‘Sir, Arunachalam escaped from Madras prison five days ago.’

  Rama looked up, surprised. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘He killed a guard and broke out. A messenger just arrived from the police chief in Madras.’

  ‘What does the message say? Do you have it?’

  The constable who had spoken first, a plump man with a thin moustache, replied, ‘No, sir, but the message mentions that he has made no secret of his hatred for you. The bandit knows where you are posted, and the chief thinks his first move will be to come here and avenge himself.’

  ‘Shiva Shiva! Dacoits have never come to our village,’ Nageswaran, the other constable, a scrawny man, exclaimed. ‘And it takes only four days by cart from Madras. Arunachalam could be here right now!’

  Without another word, Rama put down his cup, jumped on his horse and headed straight to his house. He reached home and immediately saw that something was very wrong. The door was unlatched. He carefully pushed it open and crept in, taking care to check behind it. An almighty blow to the neck felled him to the ground. He scrambled to his back just in time to see Arunachalam bearing down on him with a cudgel. His years in prison had only made him larger than ever. With an expression of black rage, Arunachalam set upon Rama.

  After beating him bloody, Arunachalam took a knife and slowly and deliberately began to lacerate Rama’s back. Rama prayed that he would pass out from the pain. Concentrating as hard as the circumstances would allow, he started slowing down his heartbeat. As it slowly reached a standstill, Rama then held his breath and, closing his eyes, allowed a feeling of complete detachment to come over him.