THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM

by Komarraju, Sharath

  ‘Where else?’ Chotu asked.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Where else can we find them?’

  ‘Ah, I think the school is a good candidate. Did you see how cracked the ground was? One of these days, that statue will just fall down.’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Maybe the Shivalayam.’

  ‘I was there at the Shivalayam yesterday. I did not feel anything.’

  Avadhani said, ‘But, my boy, you have been here for the whole day. Do you feel anything over here?’

  Chotu shook his head.

  ‘That’s what I am telling you. You’ve probably outgrown your little abilities. You’re out of practice. Maybe they’ve gotten stronger.’ Then Avadhani’s smile faded and as if struck by something, he asked, frowning, ‘You were at the Shivalayam yesterday?’

  ‘Yes,’ Chotu said.

  ‘In the afternoon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Avadhani turned in his chair and looked back at the ceiling. ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Mandiramma Banda seems likely to me,’ said Avadhani. ‘The old banyan is now down to its branches. It would not have happened if the ground had held its water.’

  ‘And the last place?’

  Avadhani looked at Chotu and smiled. ‘I don’t know, boy. Maybe after we’ve got these four and crossed them out, we will find some clues to the fifth spot.’

  ‘Okay,’ Chotu said. ‘We will take them out. We killed her once. We will kill her again.’

  ‘Only this time,’ Avadhani said, popping some gutkha into his mouth, ‘make sure she doesn’t come back again.’

  The four of them did not say anything in response. They stared at the wall facing the field. The sounds of the old man’s chewing, his hoarse, uneven breathing and the constant squeaking of his armchair filled the room. The street was still dead, even with the sun now high up in the sky. There was no life in sight. Not a soul out yet. No crows or bees. No dogs or monkeys. Nothing. Nothing but the dust and the sun and the breeze.

  ‘There are some spades in the attic,’ Avadhani said. ‘Let’s do some work before the village wakes up.’

  With a mixture of eagerness and reluctance, the four of them walked out of the room and in the direction of the attic.

  Chapter Sixteen

  1984

  Palem and Ellamma Cheruvu had always enjoyed a love-hate relationship. During the day, the spacious, dusty bank and the shade offered by the two mango trees that stood on it made it a popular playground for children. Whether to skip stones off the water in the mornings, to laze around after lunch, or to meet for a quick round of hop-scotch after school, it made for a perfect setting. Moreover, a mango for an empty stomach or a drink of cool water for a parched throat was never far away.

  It was after nightfall that Ellamma Cheruvu changed appearance. The green foliage of the trees (people called them Ram-Lakhan trees) turned inky black, and on moonless nights, the lake itself resembled a giant bowl of blue-black poison. It was said that there had once been a third tree on the bank (Sita). Apparently, a woodcutter, having cut down Sita by the light of the full moon one night, sat down for a break and had a drink of water from the lake. And the next day, he was found right there on the bank, his body blue, his bloodshot eyes staring at the sky.

  That day onwards, the Ram-Lakhan trees were believed to change from life-giving trees to life-sucking serpents when the sky turned black. Ellamma Cheruvu—the same lake that children drank from during the day—transformed into a basin of venom. No one who went there by night would be spared. Ram and Lakhan, it was said, were still seeking vengeance for Sita being taken away.

  There was another story that insisted on being the ‘true’ one. It was the story of a young woman who seduced the men of the village on the bank of the lake, under the mango trees. Every night, she would make her way to the lake and wait for her paramour—each night a different man—and she would guide him through a world of pleasure. She made every man in the village lust for her, and every woman in the village—especially the married ones—lust for her death. Sooner or later, they all cursed her—the home-wrecker would meet her comeuppance. She would bear the consequences of her nightly sins all at once, they said.

  True to their word, one morning, she was found half-naked by the lake, lying on her back with her arms stretched out on either side of her. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be at absolute peace. It was as though she were sleeping, except for the big blot of blood on her chest.

  Men grieved, but their women rejoiced. This was what would happen, they said, to people without morals. It never did come out who killed her—everyone presumed it was either the man she met or a jealous wife who could take it no longer—but people instinctively started keeping away from the lake at nights. They forbade their kids from going in that direction after sundown.

  Someone would walk by the lake in the evening and hear the sounds of a woman’s laughter. Another would smell flowers and hear the tinkle of anklets. Another would see a female figure in a spotless white sari walk by the bank. And they would all go back and tell the others that Ellamma was not dead. She still visited the lake by night, dressed in all her finery, waiting for a man so that she could guide him, like in the old days, through a world of pleasure.

  And the lake had come to be known as Ellamma Cheruvu.

  When Sudeshnamma’s husband died in the river, some old women in the crowd had whispered that Ellamma had taken him. Some of the old men—who had been kids when Ellamma died—had looked upon the dead figure of Janardhan Reddy with a certain amount of wistfulness, and maybe even a tiny bit of envy.

  Like any spot known to be isolated at night, it became a meeting point for lovers. Occasionally, from a distance, some of these young women would be seen decked up in their saris, the smell of the flowers that adorned their hair would reach a passer-by, the sound of their laughter would be heard, and fresh stories would be set float, of Ellamma prowling about for a new paramour.

  Sundarayya walked through the chilli field with his head down, facing the ground. He carried no light (he had not expected the card game to last that long), but the moon lit up his path nicely enough. He marched quickly along a rough diagonal, rubbing his nose at the spicy odour that filled the air. Chilli might be profitable, he mused, but he would never be persuaded to put something as strong as this into his field.

  He reached the far end of the field and looked up to see Ellamma Cheruvu. For all its horror stories, he thought, it did look beautiful in the moonlight. The water still had a bluish-black tinge to it, and the trees still shrouded the bank, making it look like an opening to a dark cave, but there was a light shimmer on the surface, and an occasional breeze sent the water out in ripples. It was not nearly as bad is it looked when there was no moon in the sky.

  His thoughts turned to Kamla. She would be waiting for him anxiously. It always amused him how wives worried over their husbands in a village such as Palem. Everyone here knew everyone else. The village was like one big house. Nothing bad ever happened here. Kamla knew it, and so did the rest of the wives and mothers. But women needed something to worry about. He had told her he’d be back for dinner, and now it was—he looked up at the moon to estimate the time—nearing ten o’clock. Yes, she would definitely be worried.

  Which was why he was taking the short cut across the fields. He sneezed, the tingling scent of the chilli not leaving him. His eyes started to water. Was it worth it, going through this, to avoid one angry night with Kamla, he wondered. His steps quickened, then staggered as he caught his throat and coughed.

  He heard scampering steps to his right, by the row of neem trees that set Avadhani’s field apart from Komati Satyam’s. A small, shadowy figure, no larger than an overgrown puppy, moved around in the moonlight, now coming into his view, now ducking back into the shadows. Sundarayya’s pace quickened, but his throat refused to let up. He stopped, hips on hand, breathing hoarsely, one eye on the neem trees.
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  The figure came out and made its way along the wall. Sundarayya could barely see it in the shadow, but he felt it was watching him. It was about fifty metres away from him, but he saw the creature’s tail wave over its head like an antenna of an insect, as though it was sizing him up, feeling for him.

  For some reason, Sundarayya pictured a group of hunters on top of a mountain, seated around a fire, over which roasted a stiff, half-eaten figure with a tail very similar to this creature’s. That was what happened to langurs, he had heard. The men who leased them out to farmers during the harvest season to scare off monkeys took them up to the mountains after the work was done, roasted them on the fire and ate them. He had often cringed at the thought. Though he ate chicken and lamb with gusto, eating a member of the monkey family seemed to him a little too close to cannibalism for comfort.

  What is a langur doing on a chilli field? Monkeys don’t eat chillies.

  The creature had left the shadow of the wall now and was striding towards him, his tail weaving patterns in the air above his head. He cast no shadow on the ground. It seemed like he was himself a moving shadow. The ground around him was awash in a serene, silvery glow, but he, walking with such poise and purpose, was all black. Sundarayya remembered Avadhani mention a langur called Kalia. Was this Kalia?

  He took one step back, then another, and then yet another, until he was matching each forward movement of Kalia with a step back of his own. Komati Satyam’s compound wall, and the village, receded with each step. At first, Kalia did not seem to be in any hurry. He was more intent, it seemed, on the precision of his tail movements.

  Then suddenly, he broke into a sprint. Straight in Sundarayya’s direction.

  Sundarayya turned and faced an expanse of nothing but open fields for as far as he could see. Out in the distance, slightly to the left, Ellamma Cheruvu shimmered and glowered. He started running too, kicking off his slippers and keeping to the path that led to the lake. Why was he going to the lake? He didn’t know. What was he going to do once he got there? He didn’t know. Not yet.

  He heard Kalia chitter and growl behind him; the thud of his steps were much more rhythmic than Sundarayya’s. Kalia was an animal born to chase down monkeys and break their necks. Sundarayya had last run when he was in school, and that too because someone had told him Lachi was watching.

  As he ran, he bent down now and then, to pick up sticks and stones to hurl back at the dashing figure behind him. He would bend down, pick something up (anything that his hands touched!), turn back and throw it at Kalia. He did not check to see if any of his missiles found their mark, but from the increasing frequency of grunts and from the apparently decreasing distance between them, not many did.

  He realized it was slowing him down more than Kalia. Ahead of him, Ellamma Cheruvu grew in size, and the opening to the cave between Ram and Lakhan became bigger and bigger. If I get there, he thought… and he caught himself. I must get there, he said to himself.

  He would find something there. A concrete stone, perhaps, that he could use to defend himself. Dried, fallen mangoes that he could hurl at his attacker. Kids played Ramayan and Mahabharat games here, he knew. There could be something akin to swords or spears fashioned from mango branches. Or he could throw himself into Ellamma Cheruvu and swim to the middle of the lake. Did langurs know how to swim?

  But I must get there.

  His pace was slowing. His heart thumped in his chest. His eyes struggled to see. The ground in front of him swam under the white light. In the distance, Ellamma Cheruvu and Ram-Lakhan stood, unnerved and unmoving.

  Kalia had caught up with him. He felt the brute’s breath on his feet. His claws scratched his ankles. Sundarayya whimpered and kicked frantically, but the grunting and the scratching became more frequent.

  Sundarayya stopped and turned, panting, not taking his eyes off Kalia. The animal stopped too, three feet in front of him, tail swaying like a hungry cat’s. Sundarayya looked down at his own feet. They were bleeding. His heart was ready to jump out of his body. He leaned forward, hands on knees, and closed his eyes for a second to gather himself.

  He heard two precise steps, one in his left ear, one in his right, and by the time he opened his eyes, the langur was on top of him and his teeth were buried in his neck. With a savage shake of the head, he ripped out a chunk of flesh and bounded out of Sundarayya’s waving arms.

  He felt the deep gash in his neck. He looked at the lake. He looked at the village. They were both far away. Should he run or should he fight?

  He did neither. He opened his lungs and shouted. His voice pierced the air. ‘Help!’ But the next moment, everything was still. The only movement came from Kalia, who was hurriedly chewing the last bit of his flesh. Sundarayya raised his head and shouted again, this time dragging it out for longer. ‘Heeeeeeeelp!’ Again the night fell back into silence. Ram-Lakhan swayed in the breeze.

  No, this cannot be happening. Langurs don’t eat humans.

  Kalia leaped at him again and wrapped himself around his thigh. Sundarayya tried to wrap his fingers around the animal’s head and squeeze it, but the langur bit into the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger and pulled out another bloody piece. His claws dug into Sundarayya’s thigh at the same time.

  And just like that, he was out of reach again, two feet away, sitting on his tail and munching on his spoils.

  Sundarayya looked down to see that there was a dark pool gathering around him. He was fast losing blood. He tried to cover his right hand with his left and clamped down hard on his neck with both hands. He felt fluid trickling down his right trouser leg, where the animal had scratched him.

  He stood, panting, looking morosely in the direction of the village. Not one light had come out. Not a single thing moved.

  He turned and tried to run towards the lake, but he could only limp. There was no sound behind him. He limped on for a few minutes and hope started to build again. Maybe Kalia’s hunger had been satiated and he would leave him alone.

  Five or six thuds sounded behind him, and a chunk of flesh ripped out of his left hip. The wrench made him turn and collapse on the ground, his arms waving wildly in the hope that they would hit the langur. They didn’t.

  This one was a big chunk, and as he continued to bleed, his eyes started to flutter. He could only see a blurred image of the langur in front of him, clawing into the flesh and digging his teeth into it. Little by little, he finished it, and as soon as he had licked the last of his fingers, he looked up at Sundarayya.

  Sundarayya blinked.

  Kalia walked to him now. No need to leap at you, he seemed to say. No need to hunt you down anymore. He gripped Sundarayya’s leg in both hands and felt along its length. The hands stopped at the calf muscle. With a final chitter of what Sundarayya’s garbled mind interpreted as delight, Kalia twisted the leg, sank his teeth into the muscle, and after a few false tries, teased it out.

  Sundarayya’s eyes closed. The last thing he heard was the faint murmur of Ellamma Cheruvu behind him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Diary of Sonali Rao

  March 05, 2002

  Dear Shilpi,

  Four days in Palem, and I must say the place is growing on me. The old lady is a dear. Not only is she great company and keeps me up to date with the village gossip, she also makes the best pickles! Yes, Shilpi, I daresay they’re better than yours.

  My daily routine has more or less fallen into place. We (Avva and I) go to Mandiramma Banda every morning to get vegetables. Though I say morning, it ends up generally being around eleven o’ clock. No one in the village stirs before that. You know what the strangest thing is? Even I have started waking up late in the morning, no matter how early I go to bed. Whatever people say about Palem, it is definitely a sleepy village.

  Usually after lunch, Avva tells me stories of the village—of its history, its places, its people. I’ve been brushing up on the local landmarks. There’s Ellamma Cheruvu, situated a few hundred metres behind our hut; the
n, under the big tree there’s Mandiramma Banda, a black rock smeared with vermillion and turmeric; and there is the school building with the Gandhi statue in front of it.

  I’ve started dreaming a lot, Shilpi. You know how I’ve always been a sound sleeper? Well, over here, even though I am sleeping for ten to twelve hours every night, I wake up feeling very tired. My body aches, my mind is clouded, and my eyes have dark circles under them. Over the last three nights, I dreamed things that I didn’t remember on waking up, but last night…

  I dreamt I was in the field behind the house, Shilpi. It was a night of the full moon. (Dramatic, huh?) And I am standing on the edge of the field looking across the length of it. I see a man running from the well in the direction of Ellamma Cheruvu, and on his heels—you won’t believe this, Shilpi—is a monkey.

  Don’t laugh. I know it’s absurd, but at the time, it did not feel so. And it was not a friendly, ‘scared-ya’ sort of chase, either. The man was running for his life, Shilpi, and the monkey was after it. I know it sounds like I am loony, but if the monkey had got his hands on the man, I know for sure he would have torn him to shreds and then eaten him.

  Do monkeys eat humans?

  I told Avva about it and she just smiled and said, ‘If humans can eat monkeys, my dear, why can’t monkeys eat humans?’

  What do you think?

  Love,

  Sonali

  Chapter Eighteen

  2001

  It seemed to Chotu that they had all done this before. He was leading them to the field. The cracks in the ground that he had seen that morning seemed larger and drier now, opening up under the afternoon sun, baking the ground mercilessly. Behind him, Sarayu, Aravind and Chanti followed, carrying a spade, a fork and a shovel respectively. He held in his hand the biggest of all the tools—a digger, an instrument that matched his height—which he used as a walking stick, prodding the earth with each step he took.