It was then that Sudeshnamma entered the picture and closed her fist around the keys to the money locker. At all times, she knew exactly what the family’s balance sheet looked like. She knew which of their lands was leased to whom, for what period and for how much. She knew all about the crops growing on each of their farms and when they were due for a harvest. She knew which of their wells were full and which were on the verge of drying up. She was aware of all those who owed them money as well as the respective rates of interest. Equally, and more importantly, she knew at all times how much money the family owed others as a result of her husband’s generosity (she always called it generosity, never loose-handedness).
In matters of the house, she was equally adept. Sudeshnamma’s mother-in-law, Prameelamma, was known in the village to be a tough-headed woman, but in all the years Sudeshnamma ran the house, not a murmur of dissent or disagreement had been heard between the two women. The servants who slept at the house heard no quarrels. Visitors saw no evidence of tension. Even when Sudeshnamma cajoled and coached her husband in money matters, her mother-in-law would not speak up in defence of her son.
Whether the hold Sudeshnamma had on her mother-in-law was one born out of love or authority and fear, no one knew.
She always went to great lengths to play down her importance in the household. Whenever the priest came to the house and asked for alms, she would direct him to Prameelamma. (‘She is the head of the household, Shastri gaaru.’) When their leases ran out and came up for extension, she would pass the papers on to Janardhan Reddy to read them before signing. (‘Please read them out loud so that I can understand.’) When she visited the temple, the archana was always in the name of her mother-in-law and her husband. (‘Please ask Him to look after my family, Shastri gaaru. Attayya is not keeping well these days.’)
Sudeshnamma always maintained that education was not important to a man. What was more important was common sense. She never explicitly pointed out her husband as an example of one who had the former and lacked the latter, but she proudly cited herself as an example of how someone who lacked the former could make up for it by displaying the latter.
It was that confidence—some, with the benefit of hindsight, would later call it bravado—that would turn out to be the cause of the misfortune that followed.
Prameelamma had been suffering for years. It was Sudeshnamma’s daily habit to make sure her mother-in-law took her medicines on time. There were tablets for hypertension, pain-killers for arthritis, tonic for cough and cold, and a dose of sleeping tablets. To differentiate one from the other, Sudeshnamma kept them in separate containers with the dosages committed to memory.
But once when the sleeping tablets had run out, the doctor had doubled the size of Prameelamma’s sleeping tablets and accordingly halved the dosage. He had given the new box of tablets to one of the servants with the instructions written on top. It so happened that Janardhan Reddy was out of town that night.
Sudeshnamma, on returning home, took the new container of sleeping tablets and gave her mother-in-law the same dose that she had always given her—the one she had committed to memory.
Prameelamma never woke from her sleep.
The majority of the village sympathized with the lady. It was a quirk of fate that the doctor had come when Sudeshnamma was away from home, and it was another coincidence that Janardhan Reddy happened to be absent that very night. What could one do when the forces of nature conspired against you?
But there were a few—a significant few, nonetheless—who smelled a rat. Had the relationship between Sudeshnamma and Prameelamma been too perfect all this time, they asked. Was it possible for a daughter-in-law and a mother-in-law to be on such amicable terms? Also, Sudeshnamma was as yet a childless woman even after four years of marriage. How could Prameelamma approve of such a daughter-in-law? Could it be that all that love and care they displayed outwardly was just a sham? Could it be that it was not a coincidence that Janardhan Reddy was away that very night? Was it really that hard to suppose that Sudeshnamma used the opportunity of her husband’s absence so that…
It was not the first time Janardhan Reddy had been away in town. It was not the first time that Prameelamma’s medicines had to be replenished. If Sudeshnamma wanted to get rid of her mother-in-law, she had had many opportunities in the past to do so. But how does one curb a rumour? How does one stop a spark from lighting a pile of dry straw?
Janardhan Reddy rejected the rumours publicly and supported his wife to the hilt, but people could see something had changed in the man. He added cigarettes and alcohol to his gambling habit. He started going away to town more often, for longer periods of time. Each time he returned, he seemed to have further shrunk in size, each time, he appeared more lifeless.
Once when he returned, he brought a woman with him and told Sudeshnamma that she would live with them that day onwards.
Sudeshnamma simply nodded.
No one knew who the woman was, but it was not hard to guess. Some said Janardhan Reddy had ‘lost the taste’ for his wife and had brought home a new one. Some said this was proof that Sudeshnamma had indeed killed her mother-in-law. Some said Sudeshnamma was not capable of bearing children, so Janardhan Reddy had brought home someone who could give him a son.
No one, of course, had the courage to ask Sudeshnamma directly, and she herself said nothing about the matter. She went about her life as usual, looking after household matters and keeping the sharks at bay. She welcomed the new visitor into their home like a sister, and accorded her the status of second-in-command. As it had been when Prameelamma was alive, the servants heard no voices of discontent. Not once did they hear Sudeshnamma raise her voice at her husband or at his guest.
But she had changed in one important way. Ever since Janardhan Reddy began going away for extended periods of time, Sudeshnamma found herself handicapped each time the lawyer came with the papers. She also felt a new-found longing to read and understand the stories from the Bhagavata Puranam which she had until then only heard recited in Hari kathas.
So she engaged Shastri to give her lessons.
The lessons continued even in Janardhan Reddy’s presence. The servants who slept in the house would talk abt hearing two contrasting sounds from the rooms above—from Janardhan Reddy’s room came sounds of lovemaking and laughter; from Sudeshnamma’s room came her low, clear, purposeful voice as she bored her way through the Bhagavata Puranam, one painful paragraph a day.
In due course, Janardhan Reddy’s second wife gave birth to a baby boy, and died in childbirth.
Once again, rumours were afloat. Was it possible that Sudeshnamma had something to do with it? Had it not all been too perfect, this sisterly relationship between rivals? Or was Sudeshnamma merely a bad omen—so bad that life was just not sustainable in a house she set foot in?
Once again, Janardhan Reddy took to drink. For the first five months after his wife’s death, depending on whether it was night or morning, there were only two places in the village Janardhan Reddy could be found—either seated at the local sarai shop or on the banks of Ellamma Cheruvu, passed out. One such morning, a shepherd passing by found him floating on the water. When he dragged him to the bank, he found no signs of breathing.
Sudeshnamma was sitting on the swing, reading, when the news came to her. She did not cry or even say a word. She did not react in any way. She just stared at the front gate. After about ten minutes, she put her glasses and book away, got up and walked into the house and locked the door behind her. When she came out a few minutes later, she was dressed in a white sari. Her forehead and wrists were bare.
‘Sanga, go with this boy and bring Doravaaru back here,’ she said. ‘Also tell Shastri gaaru that I asked him to come.’
After all the rituals were completed, Sudeshnamma went back to business. Her hold on the keys to the locker became tighter, because now she could read. Under Shastri’s tutelage, she was beginning to write too. She named her son Ramchandra Reddy, and if there was anyt
hing in the world that mattered to her more than her husband’s property and the management of his lands, it was the well-being of her son.
There were no contradictory rumours about that. The village accepted it as fact. Over time, they forgot that Ramchandra Reddy was not her own son.
When Ramchandra Reddy turned two, Sudeshnamma called a meeting of the village elders and told them that she intended to raze the existing school building (which was a motley collection of shacks) and erect in its place a new, brick-and-concrete structure. Someone suggested that it would be appropriate to erect a statue of Bapuji in the courtyard, and she agreed.
She liquidated almost half of Janardhan Reddy’s property to construct the school building and to set up a trust which would provide funds to cover ongoing costs. She walked to each house in the village and implored them to send their kids to school. She spoke about the importance of education and about how any man, no matter how clever, was nothing more than a blind buffalo without the ability to read and write. She told them it would not cost them anything. She would pay for everything.
Six months later, the foundation slab of the school was laid. Someone asked her what she wanted the school to be called. Without batting an eyelid she said, ‘Prameelamma High School.’
The board was put up, the statue of Bapu was brought in from Hyderabad, the foundation stone with Sudeshnamma’s name was polished and gilded. Below her name, the words read, ‘Knowledge. The only wealth that matters.’
Sudeshnamma had decided that her descendants would not get even a paisa of her money until they displayed the ability to read and understand her will. So upon her death, Ramchandra Reddy had to read and explain the contents of Sudeshnamma’s will to a lawyer. The same exercise had to be repeated by Saraswatamma after Ramchandra Reddy’s death.
Now Saraswatamma was getting on in years, and all her children had left Palem. None of them showed any interest in coming back and managing the lands of their forefathers. They had told their mother that the lands should be sold and the money distributed between them as she saw fit. That would mean the last link between Sudeshnamma and the school would be severed forever with Saraswatamma’s death. The foundation stone would remain. The statue of Bapu would remain. The school would still stand. But something in it—something nameless—would die.
All of Palem’s two hundred people seemed to have gathered to watch the spectacle. When they arrived at the scene, a respectful hush descended on the gathering. The five of them stopped some distance from the fallen gate.
A man was neatly wedged in between two spikes, with one driven straight through his back, protruding from his chest. His body was bent in the shape of an upturned C, with his head thrown back and his legs hanging barely an inch above the ground. His hands were on his chest, clutching the spear that impaled him. His eyes were open.
Aravind had no doubt as to who it was. He had not seen him for a while, but those eyes and that big black scar on his left hand were instantly recognizable.
‘Bring him down,’ Avadhani said. ‘Bring him down.’
Two men took either side of the body and started to yank at it. Fresh blood started to flow from the chest. Aravind turned and looked at Sarayu. She was gazing at the red-stained metal spike. He knew the look of titillation on her face. He had seen it before. He had not expected Sarayu to look away and faint today. No, Sarayu was never that sort of a girl, but he had wondered if life in the city had curbed her lust for torture and death; if the process of growing up had taken away some of the delight she took in the sight of fresh, red blood... But from the look on her face, nothing had changed.
‘Poor fellow,’ someone was saying. ‘He must have walked here to look around the place and fallen over.’
Avadhani nodded thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, yes.’ And he turned away and spat.
‘The boy, Ramesh, saw him at the Gandhi statue this afternoon, Avadhanayya. He is the last person to see him alive.’
‘Hmm, I heard.’
The two men were still struggling to lift the body off the spike. Every time they wrenched at it there was a soft sound of soaked bones and the flailing of arms. ‘Oye, not that like that! Hold the other end, you idiot. And pull away, towards you.’
Black circles under the eyes everywhere.
Avadhani Thatha had them. The men who were pulling Venkataramana out had them. Every single person gathered there that evening had eyes that looked on the verge of drying and popping out. Their sockets only barely holding on. The skin around the eyes swollen and black.
Even the kids. Especially the kids.
They gaped at him from the arms of their mothers. They peeped at him from behind their fathers. They got together in groups and pointed at him, whispering. All of them had eyes that were long dead. Aravind had heard that big, black eyes were a sign of beauty. Well, they were a sign of death too, he thought.
Avadhani Thatha turned to him abruptly and spoke. ‘Were you not meant to come here in the morning, boy?’
‘I did. I was at the Shivalayam,’ Aravind answered.
‘Ah, you went to the Shivalayam.’ He smiled slyly. ‘So maybe you are interested in all this mess, eh?’
‘Well, now,’ Aravind said, pointing in the direction of the gate, ‘I sort of have to, don’t I?’
‘Oh, no, if you think you’d rather go away, you can.’
Aravind was aware of the others’ eyes on him. The sun had just set and darkness was beginning to loom. None of the houses had any lights on because everyone was here. And none of them looked in any hurry to leave. He had a funny feeling that the whole village was hanging on his word.
Don’t be stupid, Aravind. Just pack your bags and go.
It was the voice of his mother, which was also funny because he had never seen or heard his mother. Whenever he heard that voice, he assumed it was his mother. It might not be. But it was nice to think it was.
There is something strange going on here.
Yes, people loitered about the dead body like a swarm of flies. It was getting really dark and yet no one seemed to want to leave. Didn’t the womenfolk have to get home and light the lamps? Didn’t they have to cook? Didn’t they have chores to attend to? The old Palem used to go to sleep when the sun set. This one was waking up with the night. Yes, there was something strange about that.
Go away. This is not your problem.
The two men who had been pulling Venkataramana out had stopped too and were looking at him. Aravind thought of jackals feeding on the carcass of a bison, each nipping at a leg and wrenching it away. Each of the men had one of Venkataramana’s legs in their hands. Did jackals have black eyes like these men did? They were emaciated men, both of them, and they looked hungry.
You want to eat him up, don’t you? All of you, you want to eat him up. You’re not going to your house because you want a share in the spoils. You’re all vultures.
That was his own voice. He tried to remember when he had last had his medicines. He had had one just before he left Hyderabad, which made it—how many? He fought the urge to count the number of hours on his hands. He closed his eyes. How many, damn it! A lot. A whole day? Too many. He looked around and saw Venkataramana’s bag lying there.
Bag. Yes. Bag.
It always got worse at night. He had to get to his bag, his nice, beautiful, black bag. His bag had the medicines. It would make the voices stop—until they came back again.
Something. Not. Right. Here.
Yes, something not right. Here in Palem, and also in his head.
Look.
He looked. He looked straight at Venkataramana on the spike with his head thrown back. The head then turned and fixed its eyes on him. Those eyes were black too.
You need to sleep, Ramana.
The eyes closed for a second, then opened again. And he smiled, and blood dripped out of his mouth over his nose and trickled down to his forehead.
And the next moment the head was thrown back again. No blood. No smile. No black eyes.
You
need to sleep, Aravind.
His mother’s voice. Yes Mother, he thought. I do.
Go, then. Go and sleep.
Yes, yes, I will sleep.
Something not right.
Yes. Nothing had been right for a long time now.
Chapter Thirteen
1984
Chotu closed his eyes and sighed in perfect contentment. He had just finished the most delicious bowl of curd rice (with the mango pickle which his mother had made yesterday). The breeze from the Godavari made the dry heat of the summer afternoon bearable. He had not slept a wink last night (which was strange, because he always slept well, his mother said), so now would be a perfect time to get some. Father—and his inevitable question, ‘Chotu, have you done your homework?’ —were at least two hours away.
Ah, bliss.
The chat-pat of a live coal fire could be heard outside, where his mother and grandmother were roasting corn. The smell of freshly peeled corn wafted into the room with the breeze. His mind started to mellow and he began dreaming of how he would be munching pickle-smeared corn stubs in a couple of hours.
Suddenly, he felt a little knot in his stomach.
He had not heard anything, but he could tell his grandmother was about to speak. There was an eerie silence outside—the kind that surrounded two people pretending to be busy in what they were doing because they did not want to speak with one another. They were behind the wall, he knew, although they were hidden from his view. The ripping of the corn skin, the chatter of the fire in tune with the swish of the hand-held fan (it was his mother who held the fan and his grandmother who peeled the corn), the cawing of the crows—these were the only sounds; and now, somewhere deep inside his head, a muddled, wavy noise… of whatever it was that was knotting him up.
THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM Page 9