The House of Blue Mangoes

by Davidar, David

  Aaron raised his eyes, met the other’s level gaze, then looked away. The policeman at his feet was now muttering, a half-intelligible, pain-darkened chant. To his horror, Aaron realized he was begging for mercy. Commotion in the darkness, footsteps, the man’s wife racing in their direction. Casually, Madhavan knocked her to the ground.

  ‘The stomach. Otherwise all we’d have done is leave him a cripple. Like you.’

  Aaron’s head emptied. The rifle was pointing at Madhavan, then it wavered a fraction and the bullet thumped into the policeman’s stomach. The blood was black in the diffused light of the lantern, and the screams though louder were strangely muffled, they seemed to be happening in a dream. He dropped the rifle and walked away. Three more shots, one more, and the screaming was shut off, an abrupt cessation of all sound.

  42

  Zephaniah Pick had established a small pharmacy on the Poonamallee Road in Madras in 1811. A hundred years later his great-grandson ran Z. Pick, Chemist. Zachariah Pick had made few changes to the store, which had become a local landmark, besides having the lettering on the frontage repainted in a rather florid, curling script. A wooden counter ran the length of the shop, ending in a glassed-in cubby-hole in which Zachariah sat, receiving the cash and keeping an eye on the three young men he employed.

  For some years now he had stocked a shelf with native remedies and ointments. Some of his Indian customers seemed to prefer those vile-looking potions to the regular English medicines he sold. It had proved to be a wise move, for when the nationalist ruffians had started to boycott foreign goods, Zachariah’s shop had escaped unscathed when he had shown the two polite young men who visited the pharmacy his stock of siddha and ayurvedic medicines. As the agitation intensified, Zachariah increased his stock of native formulations and, moreover, displayed them prominently.

  His regular supplier had recently brought him a rather elegant eleven-sided jar with a garish pink label that proclaimed itself DR DORAI’S MOONWHITE THYLAM. Zachariah agreed to stock a dozen bottles of the cream on a strict consignment basis. The same week his eye caught a small advertisement on the front page of the Hindu:

  DR DORAI’S MOONWHITE THYLAM MAKES YOUR FACE SHINE LIKE THE PONGAL MOON!

  There was even an amateurishly rhymed ditty:

  On the darkest night your face will gleam

  With Dr Dorai’s MOONWHITE CREAM

  A thylam which will make you glow

  Whiter than the whitest snow.

  Strewth, these damned natives, Zachariah thought irritably. Didn’t they understand that white is white and black is black and brown is brown and no matter what you do . . . But he had to admit it was a fine idea, given that every mother on the subcontinent prayed that her daughter would be fair. Otherwise, she had no option but to reach for talcum powder. This Dr Dorai could well end up making a fortune, Zachariah thought. He was right. His stock of Dr Dorai’s MOONWHITE THYLAM sold out in two days and he fretted and fumed when he couldn’t replenish it for four months.

  Daniel was completely unprepared for the demand. In a desperate attempt to meet it, he converted a disused portion of Dr Pillai’s vast home into a small factory and equipped it with vats, stills and a primitive bottling plant. As demand continued to outstrip supply, he bought more sophisticated manufacturing equipment and hired a workforce, including two young pharmacists, to control quality. He blessed the foresight that had led him to contact a family of traditional glass-blowers in distant Sivakasi to manufacture the distinctive jar that held the cream. Soon virtually every pharmacy in Madras Presidency and Travancore stocked Dr Dorai’s MOONWHITE THYLAM.

  Daniel Dorai was on his way to becoming a very wealthy man.

  43

  Charity woke up one morning feeling extraordinarily happy. For no reason at all, and for more reasons than she could think of. They kindled in her mind now, one by one, like lit candles, their glow coalescing into a great roaring blaze that flushed her entire being with warmth and rapture. Her daughter-in-law Lily had recently given birth to another adorable little girl. They had named her Usha. Rachel was pregnant for the third time. Charity thought she could never have enough of welcoming grandchildren into the world. She could barely wait for her daughter to give birth again. Daniel’s business was thriving and she was delighted for him – he seemed to have finally overcome the crushing weight of his father’s and brother’s rejection. Her own father seemed healthy and content. But there was more than all that, just beyond the ready grasp of her mind. She did not try to capture what was out of reach; all that mattered at the present moment was that her happiness seemed invincible. She rose from her mat, looked for a long minute at the sleeping bodies in the room, and thought how blessed she was to have this family around her.

  The feeling of well-being persisted all through that morning. Rachel, who was sleeping poorly as her pregnancy advanced, was the first to join her in the kitchen.

  ‘How is our darling one?’ Charity whispered to her daughter.

  ‘Keeping me awake at night, the little rascal,’ Rachel said as she put the milk on to boil.

  ‘Go and rest now, I can manage here,’ Charity said.

  ‘But I can’t sleep, amma,’ Rachel said plaintively.

  Charity was having none of it. ‘You must rest,’ she said firmly. ‘Wake up Lily, she’ll help me.’

  ‘Let me at least make the coffee, you shouldn’t be doing it.’

  ‘Go, kannu,’ Charity said simply.

  Reluctantly, Rachel left the kitchen. At the door she turned. ‘Amma, I have a great craving for idiyappam. With plenty of coconut milk and sugar.’

  Charity smiled happily. She loved the way babies began to control the world months before they were born.

  ‘You’ll have your idiyappam, kannu. Go and rest. And don’t forget to talk to the baby, she needs her daily dose of love!’

  The previous evening, when she had been working in the kitchen, she had overheard Rachel and Lily talking outside the window. Without really meaning to, she had paused to listen. Lily was telling Rachel about a new development in her household. One day she had lavished her older daughter with more than her usual dose of endearments before rocking her to sleep. The next night, when she had put her to bed, Shanthi had grumpily refused to let her go. After being fussed over, she had finally told her mother the cause of her unhappiness – Lily had missed out two of the endearments of the previous night – Precious Diamond-Eyed Gift from the Sun, and Little Goddess Who Is Sweeter than a Chevathar Neelam. From then on, Lily had had to memorize the fifty-two names of love she had used for her daughter. Rachel had exclaimed delightedly and said she was going to start compiling a list for her daughter (she was sure Stella was going to have a sister) and whisper the unborn baby’s names to her in the womb. The two women had laughed, and in the kitchen Charity had closed her eyes – this was what made a big family such a wonderful thing, it could always surprise and enchant you. Who would have imagined it – the fifty-two names of love!

  Lily joined her in the kitchen just then and the two women made all the preparations for the morning meal. Then they carried their coffee through the sleeping house and out on to the front steps. They sat quietly, content to watch the crystal air of the morning. Charity thought about the forthcoming arrival. If it was a girl, there was only one name that would fit – Malligai! She’d been pleased that Rachel had taken to the name. Solomon had loved the smell of malligai blossoms in her hair. She blushed furiously. How shameless of her to be thinking such thoughts at her age. A grandmother of four and a fifth on the way. To cover up the confusion she felt, she began talking. ‘How is your father, Lily? Is he coming over any time soon?’

  Lily looked perplexed. She’d heard from her father a few days ago, but she was sure she had shown Charity the letter.

  ‘Not until Christmas, mami. Didn’t I show you the letter?’

  ‘Yes, you did, how forgetful of me,’ Charity said with a small laugh. As they chatted, she recovered her composure. It occurred to he
r how much she liked her daughter-in-law. How much good fortune has been showered upon me, she thought.

  When Lily had first entered the Dorai household, they all had to make adjustments. Her life in her father’s house in the Ceylonese tea district had been far from traditional. Her parents had tried to keep up their own customs as much as they could, but it had been impossible to prevent the infiltration of European and Sinhala influences drawn from the local community. As a result, Lily was unprepared for some of the things she had to contend with in Nagercoil. One day she had wandered into the front room where Daniel and Jacob were taking tea with some visiting male relatives. Spotting an empty space next to Daniel, she had sat down. The conversation had grown strained and had shortly ceased altogether. Daniel had glared at her, and instinctively she realized she’d committed some terrible faux pas. Then she had seen Charity beckoning to her and gratefully left the room. To her dismay, as soon as they were in the kitchen, Charity had been stern and admonitory. She had told her that no married woman should disgrace her husband and her family by doing what she had just done – casually consorting with men, even if they were relatives. In vain, Lily had protested that in her father’s house she’d been able to mingle freely with everyone who had visited. Charity’s response was blunt: ‘You are not in your father’s house now.’ Daniel had been furious with his wife but Charity had intervened, saying it wouldn’t happen again.

  Lily had never repeated that error, but there had been other problems. A spirited young woman, she had clashed variously with her husband and with Miriam, her sister-in-law, and even on one memorable occasion with Jacob Packiam, when she had wanted to replace the woven blinds in his room with chintz curtains. But Charity had always been around to ease her through the difficult times, even if her daughter-in-law had sometimes found her unbending. Lily had wept and lain awake at night during her first months in Nagercoil, but under Charity’s patient tutelage she had learned to fit in. ‘Do not try to change things around you, that’s almost impossible,’ Charity had advised the young bride, remembering her own mother-in-law’s wisdom. ‘Change yourself as much as you can. That’s easier. And as you change, good things will follow.’

  Lily got on very well with Rachel whenever she visited. The two young women would spend long hours together, chatting and laughing and exchanging notes on their young children. From time to time Lily and Miriam would still clash, but then Charity’s youngest child fought with everyone. Spoilt from birth, Miriam had grown up to be a difficult girl. Her good looks had grown coarse in adolescence, and Charity had wondered if this had something to do with her tantrums. Whatever the reason, Miriam was quick to quarrel. Thinking of her now, Charity’s happiness dimmed a little. The previous week there had been another battle: Miriam against the rest. Her daughter’s latest demand was to be married off immediately. She had only one condition – that her husband should have a spanking new car. Daniel had flatly refused permission, and his grandfather had supported him. In these modern times, it was good for a young woman to have a college education. Marriage could come later. Charity would have been happy to see Miriam settled, but she couldn’t find fault with the reasoning of the men. She was well aware of the great store her father and her son set by education. They hadn’t been able to do anything about Rachel – she’d been out of school for too many years by the time she got to Nagercoil – but Jacob had obtained special permission for Miriam to be educated in his school as soon as she was old enough. And neither her father nor her son was prepared to interrupt her studies. To Miriam’s rage and frustration, Charity weighed in with the men.

  Miriam had broken her sullen silence the day before yesterday, with a complaint: ‘You’re Shanthi’s paati, you’re Usha’s paati, you’re Jason’s ammama, you’re Stella’s ammama, you lavish all your love upon them, and you’ve forgotten all about me.’ Having said this, she’d burst into tears, and Charity had seen the forlorn little girl lurking behind the prickly young woman. Wordlessly, she had gathered Miriam into her arms as she sobbed and sobbed, dampening her sari and her blouse. Miriam will be all right, Charity thought now. With luck she’ll marry into the right family, her rough edges will be planed down and she’ll grow into a fine young woman. After I’ve made Rachel’s idiyappam, I’ll cook a great feast for my family. It’s a day to give thanks for being blessed. From within the house she heard Usha begin to wail. Lily raced into the house to be with her youngest and the crying ceased. With a smile, Charity headed for the kitchen.

  Late that afternoon, the women of the house gathered in the backyard of the cottage. It was tiny, and mostly occupied by the towering cashew-nut tree. A small papaya grew by the wall, and next to the outdoor privy, a hibiscus bush spread its glossy green foliage. Rachel’s husband Ramdoss had had to return to Tinnevelly that day and Daniel had gone to see him off. Jacob was taking a nap in his room. So the women had this time all to themselves. Miriam, who had joined them briefly – making peace, Charity thought – wandered back into the house. Just then Jason was nipped by a tiny red ant that he’d taken too close an interest in. Gathering the three older children around her, Charity began to educate them about the ants that swarmed around the backyard: the harmless quick black ones with raised bottoms could tickle you to distraction, but not so the tiny red ones that oozed along the ground in formation – their bite could sting. She showed them large ponderous black ants, shiny as papaya seeds, wandering slowly along the fissured bark of the cashew tree, and warned them never to go near them: their formidable pincers could make their little bodies swell with poison. And then, hoisting a granddaughter on each hip, with Jason trailing behind clutching her sari, she quartered the yard for the most dangerous of them all, the black-and-red kaduthuva ants. When she found one she killed it with her foot and showed it to the children. ‘Remember the pisasus I told you about, who would take you into their awful world deep within the sea and eat you up, bones and all? This ant is worse than the pisasus. If you see one, keep as far from it as you can, do you hear me?’ The children nodded, wide-eyed with wonder and terror. Well pleased with herself, Charity deposited them with Rachel and Lily, then took herself off to the kitchen.

  As she prepared the meal that evening, a memory of Aaron insinuated itself into Charity’s sense of well-being. Instantly her mood grew less buoyant. Where was her beautiful boy, she wondered. What was he doing now? She shook off her gloomy foreboding. Aaron will be all right; God is watching over him, and one day he will return. As she bent to light the fire she gave thanks for her perfect day. Even the shadow cast by Aaron had its place in it: too much happiness wasn’t good for you; it was bound to be followed by great sorrow, as the world tried to keep the balance.

  44

  As the assassins trained in their remote rural camp, the top leaders of the various revolutionary organizations met to choose the next target. Several names were proposed – High Court Judges, District Magistrates, Collectors, members of the Governor’s Executive Council, the Governor Arthur Lawley himself. And discarded – not prominent enough, too well protected, too obscure, too well liked. Gradually the list of names was whittled down to three: L. M. Wynch, the Tinnevelly District Collector who had harassed and arrested the great Swadeshi leader V. O. Chidambara Pillai; A. F. Pinhey, the Additional Sessions Judge who had sentenced him; and R. W. D. Ashe who had fired on unarmed protesters in Tuticorin and was now District Magistrate of Tinnevelly. Ashe chose himself in the end.

  The group received the news of their next assignment fatalistically. Vanchi Iyer was selected for the job. Sankara Iyer and Aaron Dorai would back him up.

  The trio tracked Ashe for a week. They made an attempt to assassinate him at his house, but alert sentries deterred them from entering. Vanchi decided to try again in a public place in broad daylight when their quarry’s guard was down. On 17 June 1911, Ashe and his wife left town on holiday. They drove to Tinnevelly Bridge Junction and were escorted to their compartment in the waiting train. It wasn’t due to leave for a few minutes and th
ey settled into their seats. The whistle blew. Just then the District Magistrate was surprised to see a skeletally thin man who looked ill, dressed in a green coat and a white dhoti, his forehead liberally plastered with vibhuthi, enter their compartment.

  ‘Reserved, reserved. Not allowed,’ Ashe said, waving his hands. Too late he realized that the Brahmin was no unwitting interloper. As the pistol materialized in the stranger’s hand, Ashe took off his sola topi and flung it at him. It was pitifully inadequate as an act of defence. From their vantage point in the station, Sankara and Aaron heard the pistol pop, watched Ashe slump, saw Vanchi flee the scene. The assassin ran into a lavatory on the platform and the pistol popped again. Aaron and Sankara melted away into the crowd.

  The police acted with remarkable dispatch. Of the nineteen conspirators whom they were looking for in connection with the Ashe murder, one escaped to Pondicherry, one cut his throat and another swallowed poison. M. S. Madhavan was shot in Virudhunagar when he tried to kill the policemen tracking him. Fifteen men stood trial, Neelakantha Brahmachari and Aaron Dorai among them. Nine of the accused were convicted under Section 121A of the Indian Penal Code and received prison sentences. Aaron was sentenced to six years’ rigorous imprisonment.

  45

  Early one morning when Charity entered her father’s room with his coffee, his posture suggested that something was wrong. When she checked, her worst fears were confirmed. Charity was surprised by how calmly she took her father’s death. When Solomon died, her grief had been wrenching, but at her father’s funeral the predominant feeling she had was one of peace. She thought: he’s a good man, that’s why he was blessed with an easy death.

  They decided to bury Jacob without waiting for his son to arrive. The journey from Nuwara Eliya would take too long. As she looked upon her father’s face for the last time before the casket was sealed, Charity was struck by something. In all my years, she thought, I have not once thought of my father by name. By custom and tradition I have used honorifics to distance and revere him – I need something more. The assembled mourners saw Charity’s lips move and thought she was whispering a prayer, but all she said was, ‘Jacob, Jacob Packiam.’ The name sounded rusty and unfamiliar in her mouth but she repeated it over and over again, and even as she named her father she made him her own in a way that she had never quite done before. The loss hit home, and she broke down and wept by his coffin.