The House of Blue Mangoes

by Davidar, David

  Putting down a deposit, Daniel had invited Snow to visit Chevathar as soon as he could. The architect had arrived in the village a few days later, to survey the site that had been chosen for the monumental edifice: seventeen acres of land by the river, including the spot on which the Big House had stood. The only problem was that over the years the Chevathar had altered its course and a fair amount of the land on which Snow was expected to build was marshy, home to a seething mass of mosquitoes. He had suggested finding another site but Daniel would have none of it. Nor would he consider a smaller building. His instructions to his architect were clear: enshrine within the edifice the unquenchable spirit of the Dorais and proclaim to the whole world the magnificence of the family.

  Snow prided himself on his ability to incorporate elements of the surrounding environment into his design. But what could you do with a marsh?

  The architect and the contractor debated the practicality of laying a pile foundation, still a relatively new concept in the building industry, but decided against it in the end. It would have meant bringing everything, with the exception of chunam and brick, by rail and cart from the district capital or even further afield. In the end, Santosham came up with a solution that displayed to best effect his native shrewdness: they would dig a series of shallow wells across the marsh into which channels would drain the water. Once emptied of the water, the wells would be filled with broken tiles, sand, pebbles and crushed stone, packed in tight, so they would be baked as hard as granite by the fierce Chevathar sun. On these, the foundation would be laid. Snow’s estimation of his colleague rose a hundredfold, for Santosham had just proposed doing what Scottish engineers had done a century earlier to drain the marsh on which the magnificent St Andrew’s Kirk now stood in Madras. When Snow mentioned this to him, Santosham looked at him blankly – he had never seen the great church, and he knew even less about how it had been built.

  The work was slow and tedious, and seven months after he had begun, Santosham had dug only eighty shallow wells, just over half of what was needed. Daniel was growing impatient so he doubled his labour force to four hundred men, but it was hot, difficult, dirty work. The labourers, wearing only skimpy loincloths, worked half submerged in the water. As they dug deeper, the water would cover them completely; still they would dig, holding their breath for a short time, before surfacing, gasping and spluttering. As the months passed, the marsh remained resolutely soggy. Santosham despaired often. And then, all at once, in the ninth month, dry land surfaced, and then spread rapidly.

  The chattering of sparrows, mynahs and crows was drowned by a new sound – the tick-tick-tick of hundreds of crude hammers as the women on the workforce began the arduous task of breaking down boulders into piles of tiny chips that would be used in the construction. Smoke poured from brick kilns and every day bullock carts creaked in, bearing all manner of building materials.

  Once the foundation was laid, the walls of the mansion rose rapidly. And then, during one of Daniel’s lightning visits to Chevathar, he fell out with his architect. He had recently visited the nearby princely state of Mysore and had been very taken with the intricate bargeboards and canopies that rose like pointed hoods over the windows and doors of the palatial bungalows he had seen. He wanted Snow to incorporate these distinctive monkey tops into his design, but the Englishman, who loved the lines of his building, refused.

  ‘Dr Dorai, you must understand that while this is your house, and you are paying for it, I have to be in complete charge of the model you approved, or it simply won’t work. If you want a great house, you must let me do things my way.’

  Daniel looked at the architect reflectively, then said, ‘I thank you for the trouble you have taken, but this is my house and I will have things done my way. That is the only way it will work.’ Snow left the same day, cursing his client, his temper somewhat soothed by the generous severance gift he had received.

  To Santosham’s astonishment, he now found himself in charge of the whole project. Within days, his limitations showed. An enormous bedroom would rise, only for the contractor to discover that he had omitted to put in any windows. On one of Daniel’s periodic inspection trips, he walked around the building until he came to a halt under the imposing porte-cochère. He studied the frontage of the building for a long moment, the glistening columns of Pallavaram gneiss, the deep bay windows, and then turned and yelled at Santosham who had been following him nervously, ‘You donkey, you’ve spent a year and a half building this house and look what you’ve done!’

  ‘What, anna?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten to put in a front door.’

  ‘But we have always entered through the side door, anna!’

  ‘What would you like to do, idiot, turn the house around ninety degrees?’

  ‘No, anna, I’ll put in the door.’

  ‘Be sure you do, and I’m going to get you some help.’

  Within a fortnight, another English architect arrived, this time from Mysore. Samuel Brown had built several bungalows with the distinctive monkey tops Daniel craved. The work speeded up.

  Brown was charged with creating a suitable garden for the mansion. In a land where dust and rock predominated, he was determined that the building would float on a sea of green and riotous colour. He laid out a vast lawn; arbours of bougainvillea sprayed upward like pink and white surf, and climbing roses, yellow as egg yolk, punctuated the green. He planted a windbreak of casuarina, and created interesting features around the few ancient banyan, pipal and neem trees that had survived years of neglect. Some of the looming giants acquired anklets of hibiscus and croton, others shaded wrought-iron benches and tables. The red earth of Chevathar was mounded into gentle hillocks here and there, and decorated with seashells and flowering shrubs, sculptures and fountains.

  Even before work on the house had begun, an army of gardeners got to work restoring the ancient mango groves. Grafting, pruning, layering, fertilizing and replanting, the new mansion soon had an elegant collar of Chevathar Neelams, two acres deep and several acres wide, following the contours of its semicircular back veranda and filling the grounds between the house and the river. In the centre of the front lawn, a great mango tree was carefully transplanted. The head gardener was given special charge of the tree, and warned, on pain of instant dismissal and worse, to keep the showpiece tree ever healthy, ever beautiful. He took his job seriously. Every second day, he had the hundreds of leaves on the tree washed by hand. The fruit, in season, would be buffed and polished, and two little boys from the village kept them from the attentions of squirrels and crows.

  54

  On the outskirts of Meenakshikoil, just before the shops began, was a large maidan of gritty red earth, scattered with tussocks of dried grass. One half of it was taken over by a school for its sports ground. Most days it would come alive with the ragged cries of schoolboys attempting to cope with the uneven bounce of their playing field as they pushed a hockey ball around.

  One evening, Ramdoss, Santosham and Daniel got into the Oldsmobile and drove to town. As they passed the hockey ground, Daniel noticed a blazing fire near the far goalposts. A large group of schoolboys stood around it in their underwear. Astonished by the sight, Daniel ordered the car to be stopped and sent Santosham off to investigate.

  The contractor returned with a boy. The lad, though somewhat awed at finding himself in the presence of Daniel, confidently responded to his questions. They’d refused to attend school, he said, and had made a bonfire of their clothes, in response to an appeal by Gandhi-thatha.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Daniel asked Ramdoss. ‘His latest initiative, anna. It’s called the Non-Co-operation Movement,’ Ramdoss replied. After Aaron’s death, Daniel’s antipathy towards politics had deepened so profoundly that he refused even to read the newspapers. He relied on Ramdoss to keep him informed. And though Gandhi’s presence had by now grown so pervasive that even Daniel had heard of him, he had little knowledge of the Non-Co-operation Movement. Ramdoss quickly filled hi
m in. Gandhi had promised to free the country of British rule within a year, and had called on his countrymen to stop co-operating with the British. Students were to leave schools and colleges, and lawyers were to boycott law courts. Foreign clothes were to be burned and toddy stops picketed.

  ‘And he expects this to happen?’ Daniel asked dubiously.

  ‘It’s already happening, anna, this boy is an example right before your eyes.’

  ‘Do you know why you are doing this?’ Daniel asked the boy sternly.

  ‘We have to boycott school and foreign garments, aiyah,’ the boy answered stubbornly.

  ‘You and your friends will return to school immediately,’ Daniel ordered. ‘Without education you will all become loafers.’

  Without waiting to see if his instructions were carried out, he got back in the car with Ramdoss and Santosham and ordered the driver to proceed. ‘Must report this to the tahsildar,’ he said irritably. ‘This is an outrage and I hope Narasimhan can do something.’

  P. K. Narasimhan, the tahsildar, was someone Daniel had a lot of time for. Born into a family of Tanjore scholars, Narasimhan had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the classics as well as of current events. He could always be relied upon to provide a stimulating discussion. He had been helpful and efficient when Daniel had begun establishing the colony, and he had come to enjoy his visits to the tahsildar’s office. This time, however, when Daniel demanded he do something about the truants, he said he was helpless. He spoke in English, which he was apt to break into from time to time, especially when he needed to think and formulate his thoughts carefully. Daniel had initially found this disconcerting, but in time he had grown used to it.

  ‘Government’s orders are not to do anything,’ Narasimhan said. ‘We don’t want to be repressive, especially after Dyer’s outrage in Jallianwala Bagh and the Punjab troubles.’

  ‘But Punjab is at the other end of the universe,’ Daniel countered. ‘Why can’t we keep our boys in school?’

  ‘Anna, Meenakshikoil isn’t the only place that’s affected. The whole country is in a ferment,’ Ramdoss said. ‘It’s not just a couple of issues they are protesting against. None of the Crown’s recent measures, the Rowlatt Act, the Hunter Committee recommendations, nothing seems to have gone down well . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ the tahsildar said. ‘Our latest reports say that over ninety thousand students have left their schools and colleges, there are bonfires of foreign cloth on every street. There is no way in which we can stop this thing. All we can hope for is that it will die down of its own accord.’

  ‘But, according to Ramdoss, Gandhi wants your masters out in a year,’ Daniel said.

  ‘So he says,’ the tahsildar said with a sigh, ‘but not even Mr Gandhi always gets what he wants.’ He continued, ‘I think you’ll find Mr Gandhi’s methods very interesting.’

  ‘Oh,’ Daniel said.

  ‘If you have some time, I’d be very pleased to discuss them over coffee.’

  Daniel nodded. Santosham went off to do the paperwork that had brought them to the tahsildar’s office, while Ramdoss and Daniel settled into the hard wooden chairs. Narasimhan rang for coffee, then asked: ‘Do you know the story of my namesake in the Bhagavatam?’

  Daniel knew the tale vaguely, although he didn’t know what it had to do with Gandhi. But he had time on his hands and the tahsildar always told a good story. ‘He’s one of Lord Vishnu’s avatars, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the tahsildar said. ‘He is indeed, and this is how he came to be.’

  The ill-starred Hiranyakashipu, the tahsildar began, was a man of more than ordinary ambition. He wanted to be unquestioned Lord of the three worlds, invincible in battle, but most of all he craved immortality. In order to realize his goals, he performed years of extraordinary penance to Lord Brahma. Anthills and weeds grew and covered him from view as he sat lost in meditation on the Mandara mountain. He was so devoted and single-minded in his penance that Brahma had little option but to grant him anything he wanted. Hiranyakashipu wanted only one boon: the gift of immortality. The creator of the three worlds said it was not within his powers to grant him his request because he himself was not immortal, but he could certainly grant him immunity from virtually anything that could ordinarily cause him harm.

  Hiranyakashipu tried to think of every contingency, the tahsildar said. He paused as the peon handed around the coffee. Once everyone was served he continued his story.

  Hiranyakashipu asked that none of the creations of Lord Brahma be the death of him, neither weapon, nor man, nor animal, nor any living or non-living thing. Brahma agreed. Hiranyakashipu went into greater detail, trying to think of every possible danger that might threaten him. He asked to be protected from Gods, demons and every form of disease. The request was granted. He said that he should not die inside his house nor outside, neither during the day nor during the night, neither on the earth nor in the sky. Brahma acceded to all this as well. Finally, his steadfast devotee asked to be ruler of the universe, with a fortune that would never diminish. To this, too, Brahma consented and then he disappeared from the Mandara mountain.

  The ages passed and everything that Brahma had bestowed upon Hiranyakashipu ensured that he became the unquestioned ruler of the three worlds. Unfortunately for his subjects, his ambition was matched only by his tyranny. Gods, demons and ordinary mortals prayed to Lord Vishnu to rid them of the monster.

  Hiranyakashipu had one thorn in his side, the tahsildar said: his son Prahlada who, to his father’s consternation, was an unflinching devotee of Lord Vishnu, the only God the tyrant feared. Hiranyakashipu had tried every form of persuasion to deflect his son from his steadfast devotion, all to no avail. He had then tried to kill him. Wild elephants were made to trample him underfoot, cobras, kraits and vipers were set upon him, he was thrown off cliffs and buried alive, he was poisoned and set alight. He survived every frenzied attempt to do him in, further incensing his father. Finally, Hiranyakashipu decided to kill him with his own hands.

  One day he was haranguing his son as usual. Prahlada refused to bend. To a question from his father, he said Lord Vishnu was everywhere. The furious Hiranyakashipu pointed to a pillar in his council hall and asked whether it contained the Lord. His son calmly said that it did. ‘Very well then,’ the tyrant said, ‘I’m going to kill you now. Let your Lord come out of the pillar and save you.’

  So saying, he advanced upon his son with a drawn sword. The pillar cracked with a thunderous sound, and an astonishing being blocked the path of the enraged tyrant. It had the head and powerfully muscled torso of a lion, but from the waist down its form was human.

  Hiranyakashipu looked into the terrible eyes of the apparition and realized his hour was upon him. But he was not a coward. Raising his sword he attacked the man-lion. His puny challenge was brushed aside, and he was picked up and carried to the threshold of the palace. He was neither outside his house nor inside it. It was dusk, neither day nor night. He was in the clutches of a creature that was neither beast nor man. He was caught up in its grip and was therefore neither on the earth nor in the sky. The man-lion was certainly not a creature of Brahma and the only weapons it was about to use were its own claws and teeth. As his entrails were ripped out of him, Hiranyakashipu understood that no one could be mightier than the Lord.

  ‘That was exceedingly well told, Narasimhan,’ Daniel said. ‘But what does it have to do with Gandhi?’

  ‘The ingenuity, sir, the ingenuity,’ the tahsildar said. ‘Faced with an astonishingly complex problem, the Lord came up with a solution that was intricate, unusual and supremely effective. And that’s what Mr Gandhi is doing, and it’s driving Government crazy.’

  ‘You sound as though you admire the man, Narasimhan.’

  ‘No, his methods. I don’t think Government has ever faced a bigger threat than this. Mr Gandhi seems to have a deep, almost mystical, grasp of what it takes to weld our fractious countrymen into an effective fighting unit.’
/>
  ‘Do you think he might overthrow British rule?’ Daniel asked quietly.

  ‘I cannot answer that question, sir,’ the tahsildar said. They sipped their coffee in silence. After a while, Narasimhan said, ‘But what I must repeat is that never have I seen a more serious threat to the Government than the one Mr Gandhi has mounted. He meets violence with non-violence, deception with truth, our efforts to suppress him with non-co-operation. What do we do with such a man except wait and hope he makes a mistake?’

  ‘I wish you luck with him, Narasimhan,’ Daniel said, getting up to leave. ‘But get those students back to school. If Gandhi does succeed in kicking the British out he’ll need educated men and women to run the country.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think the British will leave in a hurry, sir. They’ll find an answer to Mr Gandhi yet.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Narasimhan, but I have no time to worry about that, I have a colony to build. And if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it is that it will have no politics to disrupt its working.’

  After a year or so of the Non-Co-operation Movement, Government began to get tough with the protesters, especially as the future King of England had decided to tour India. His visit was greeted with demonstrations and black flags as the Indian masses voiced their displeasure. None of this had the slightest effect on Chevathar, where Daniel’s total ban on any form of political engagement ensured that work on his mansion proceeded smoothly. Working from dawn to dusk in three shifts, Brown and Santosham finally completed their mammoth project, only two months behind schedule. The house was a curious hybrid, but it worked. Seen from above, it resembled nothing so much as a giant palmyra-leaf fan, its fifty-eight rooms radiating backwards in a wavy cone from the porte-cochère. The walls were coated with a mixture of eggshell lime, river sand, milk and fermented kadukka-and-jaggery water – the famous Madras-mirror finish – so that they gleamed like polished marble. Surrounding the house were groves of blue mango trees.