Trial by Silence

by Perumal Murugan

  ‘All right,’ said Nallayyan Uncle. ‘I won’t talk like that. It has been three days since we set out on this journey. We are all walking barefoot over dust and grime, enduring many difficulties. We shiver in the cold at night. Now tell me, does none of you wonder how lovely it would be to sleep cuddling your wife or some other woman?’

  No one responded. Everyone walked in silence.

  For the past two nights, Ponna had been slipping into Kali’s blanket at night. Even when he sent her away, saying, ‘Didn’t I make it clear that I do not want you? Go away,’ the cold weather kept bringing her back into his blanket. And he was able to fall asleep only when he stopped resisting, and embraced her. But Kali was not sure what he thought of his uncle speaking so frankly to everyone. One or two people moved away, disgusted. But Nallayyan Uncle just said, ‘Naïve fellows! They wouldn’t even know where their mouths need to go. They are like newborns who haven’t even opened their eyes!’ Perhaps those men shared Nallayyan Uncle’s story and remarks with others walking ahead, because now more men walked over and joined this group. ‘There will always be a crowd for this kind of banter. They’d pretend to dislike it, but see how they are coming to us now,’ Uncle whispered in Kali’s ears.

  Nallayyan Uncle then asked everyone loudly, ‘How many wives does Mangoor Manchaami have?’

  Some people replied in unison, ‘Three.’

  When he asked, ‘Who is the first wife?’ some said, ‘Vangi,’ a few said, ‘Thembi,’ and yet others said, ‘Thiruni.’ Kali was familiar with all three names, but he did not know which one of them was the deity’s first wife.

  Nallayyan Uncle explained. ‘Thembi was the first one. Her parents, who are gods themselves, married her to Manchaami. But do you know who Thembi is? She is the daughter of Ravanasura, the king of the entire demon world. She was such a fine bride for Manchaami. But Thembi and he could not have children even after several years of marriage. What is a hundred years for us is a single day for the gods. They waited a hundred years, hoping a child would be born. But nothing happened. Then, having decided to find a wife for Manchaami from a more modest background, Manchaami’s family approached a fisher family and found Vangi as the second wife for him. They too waited for a hundred years, but were unable to produce a child. Then he decided to marry for a third time, and found Thiruni. This time, too, they waited a hundred years, but to no avail. He had married three women but he still could not have a child. He wondered what he could do. Then he thought of consulting his father, the god who fed and took care of the entire world. His father laughed, and said, “So it took you so long to come to me?”

  ‘He said, “Manchaya, try to remember. There was something you did when you were a little boy. You went to the woods one day for a hunt. There, you heard the sounds of someone slurping water from a stream. You assumed it was some kind of a beast. You are skilled at marking a perfect aim with your lance just by hearing your prey; you don’t even have to see it. So you threw your lance in that direction. But it was not a wild animal, it was a mother who had been feeding her little child some water. Your lance pierced that little child’s heart. And that mother had to witness the painful death of her own child. You quickly revealed yourself in your divine form to her. But although she realized you were a god, she still cursed you, saying that you shall never have a child of your own. She then pulled out the lance from her child’s body and killed herself by plunging it into her own heart. You did not take her curse seriously, because you thought a mere human’s curse could not affect a god. Then you forgot all about it.

  ‘“But we know that the curse laid by someone at the moment of their death will always come true. So your mother ran to the woman right away and begged that you had done this unknowingly and that you needed to be protected from this curse. To which, the woman said before she died, ‘You are the people who protect those like us. Your son Manchaami lives on a hillock. The day he blesses people from a thousand hillocks, the curse will lift and he will be able to have a child.’” Then the father god said to Manchaami, “Go and dwell on a thousand hillocks. Then you will be able to have children.” Since then, Manchaami has been climbing one hillock after another, blessing people. But he has not managed to climb a thousand of them yet. That’s why he is still childless.’

  People who heard this story from Nallayyan Uncle remarked, ‘We have been going to the temple for all these years, but we did not know this story.’

  Kali said to his uncle, ‘Chithappa, you just made up this story, didn’t you?’

  To which his uncle replied, ‘You are such an ignorant fellow. All this is written in our sacred texts. Let me know if you would like to read it for yourself. I will bring you a copy.’

  Kali said, ‘But I can’t read.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ said Nallayyan Uncle. ‘But I have heard these stories from the elders.’

  As they walked past Odaiyur, they only encountered vacant fields. They weren’t even sure if many of the villages were inhabited at all. But the lands were all fenced up, just the way Kali had maintained a fence around his barnyard. Even a small piece of land in this place had its own fence. Some fields showed signs of past harvests. Sheep were grazing here and there. After this point, there were fewer villages closer to the road. But those who had walked this path several times were able to tell everyone where water and food could be found next. So they had to plan their walk accordingly thereon. No one walked alone in these parts. They walked together in a group.

  Kali and Nallayyan Uncle walked with the old man from Semmur for an entire day. It seemed as though Nallayyan was not his usual braggart self when in the elder man’s company.

  ‘How many years have you been undertaking this pilgrimage, Thathayyan?’ Kali asked the old man.

  ‘Do you see that man carrying his little daughter over his shoulder?’ began the old man. ‘I have sat like that on my father’s shoulders and travelled this path. Since then, I have gone every single year. Sometimes my sons join me. But whether anyone joins me or not, I set off on the journey at this time of the year. One year, my wife gave birth around the same time, but I still went on this pilgrimage and saw my child only upon my return. And one year my mother died when I was away on this visit to the temple. I visited her grave only ten days after her death. She died on a full moon day, and I took it as Manchaami taking her back to himself. Somehow this journey always makes me happy. I have come to know so many people because of this. They all invite me to visit them. And I do. Most of my time goes by in these visits.’

  The elderly man had a very feeble voice. Kali had to walk very close to him to be able to hear him. A blanket and a bowl were all he carried. ‘Wherever I go, I receive food in this bowl. That way, I will have a little food to eat later even if I have to spend a night alone somewhere.’

  Kali asked him, ‘Is Thathayyan your name?’

  The man laughed, and said, ‘My name is Manchaami. For many years now, people have been calling me Thathayyan.’

  That night they stayed in a village beyond Veerur. They lay down under a tamarind tree, but they could not sleep. It was a very cold night. Then they lit a bonfire to keep warm. Along that path, as far as their eyes could see, they spotted several bonfires. As they settled around the fire, someone mentioned the story that Nallayyan Uncle had told them earlier. The old man laughed hearing this and said to Kali, ‘Your uncle always had some such story to tell.’

  One of the men then narrated Nallayyan’s version of the story of the son-in-law eating the sesame flower, and remarked, ‘How could somebody tell such a story, Thathayyan?’

  Nallayyan defended himself right away. ‘All stories have such a version, let me tell you. I know so many of them. Why don’t you tell me a story? I will tell you a bawdy version of your story too.’

  The man got angry at this, and said in a challenging tone, ‘Why don’t you try that with the kozhukattai story?’

  ‘You mean the Atthiribaccha dumpling story, right?’ said Nallayyan, launching into his tale. />
  ‘There was once a man who did not even know how a kozhukattai looked. He had travelled to some place, and there, someone served him a kozhukattai. He loved it. He asked them what the dish was called and decided that he would ask his wife to make it for him as soon as he returned home. But since it was a completely new name to him, he kept repeating to himself, “Kozhukattai, kozhukattai . . .” all the way back. On the way, he had to cross a small canal by leaping across it. While leaping, he exclaimed, “Ayy! Atthiribaccha!” and landed on the other side. But now he forgot the word “kozhukattai”. He tried his best to recollect it, but he couldn’t. Once he reached home, he said to his wife, “They had cooked that dish there. I ate it. It was very good. You make it for me too. I want to eat it.” But his wife had no clue what “it” was. So she asked him. He thought he was beginning to recollect the name of the dish, but he got it wrong. So he said, “That one, monnachi—make it for me.” The word he had used meant “the stupid one”. For a moment, the wife wondered if her husband was insulting her. Just to be sure, she asked him to repeat the word. He said, “Make monnachi for me. That’s what they called it there.” She asked all her neighbours, but they only laughed at the name. They had no idea how to make monnachi. But everyone from the village dropped by just to hear him say that word. He kept saying “monnachi”, and they all laughed at him. He beat his wife for making him the laughing stock of the entire village. He hit her so badly that her bruised body swelled up all over. An old woman from the village took a look at the wife’s swellings, and scolded him, “You monnaya! You idiot! How could you hit her like this? Her body has swollen up like a kozhukattai!” Hearing that, he started jumping up and down, and said, “That’s the one! What you just said!” The old woman laughed. “You mean when I called you ‘monnaya,’ the limp one?” But the wife understood what he meant. “You mean kozhukattai?” she asked. He said, “Yes, yes!” and jumped in joy. From then on, he became known as “the limp one” in the village.’

  Everyone laughed. The man who had challenged Nallayyan for another version of the story was now speechless. Then people started mentioning the stories they knew and asked if those stories too had similarly vulgar renditions.

  ‘Every story does,’ said Nallayyan. ‘I can tell you one for each of your stories.’

  Thathayyan, the elder, said, ‘Whatever we consider the right way, there will always be something that is the direct opposite of that. Like Nallayyan said, every story has its counter. Young men used to tell these stories. But this is how it is generally. If we set a norm, there will always be a way to violate it. The norm is what looks clear and bright to us. The violation is hidden and hushed.’

  Kali sat pondering those words for quite a while that night.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Kali returned from his pilgrimage, everything in the barnyard appeared new and unfamiliar to him. He was not sure if this newness was in the place itself or simply in the way he was now looking at it.

  It was daytime when they arrived from the trip. Nallayyan Uncle left for his house, but he told Kali that he would come right back to the barnyard. He was too afraid to spend the night at his own house. He had planned to set out in a day or two, go to his prospective bride’s house and get the wedding fixed for sometime in the month of Vaigasi. The pilgrimage had kindled a state of happiness in Kali. His mind was filled with memories of bathing in the Vinnaga river and shouting ‘Manchaami!’ at the temple. There were many other memories too. He had spent pretty much an entire month like a wandering mendicant. He had been relieved to find that he could expel everything else from his mind for a while and just go on a pilgrimage like that. And he had already made up his mind to speak to Ponna as soon as he returned.

  There were all kinds of people inhabiting this world. What had Ponna done that was so terrible? Why should he make her suffer so much? Next year, if possible, he should take her on the pilgrimage. But if Ponna went with him on the journey, who would take care of the child? He remembered the man who carried his six-year-old daughter over his shoulders. The man said, ‘Every word my child speaks is a wonder to me.’ That father also addressed his child so lovingly in so many different ways. He had no frustrations, no tiredness, no complaints. And Kali had also met an elderly man who had been undertaking that pilgrimage for seventy years but who said each year’s journey was new, that it was never boring or repetitive. How many kinds of people Kali had met on that journey! Even his uncle, Nallayyan Chithappa, was like a whole other person during that trip. Once he was with a crowd, he became a member of that crowd.

  At first, Kali was tense at the prospect of talking to strangers. But Nallayyan Uncle had said, ‘They are people too, my boy!’ and jumped right in. When Kali asked his uncle, ‘How do you move so freely among unfamiliar people?’ he had said, ‘How else do you make unfamiliar people familiar?’ Nallayyan Uncle was met with warmth wherever he went.

  The hillock in Mangoor was smaller than the one in Karattur. So it was quite easy to scale. But the crowd was massive. The throngs kept pushing others forward in the temple. There was going to be a long wait before they could see the deity dressed as a demon. Some people said, ‘If we see the deity naked save for the loincloth, that’s how our life will turn out too. Let us wait and see him in demon’s attire.’ But Nallayyan Uncle said, ‘We are already in that state, in our loincloths. How could it get worse? Perhaps we will be stripped of even this? So what?’ And he took Kali to see the deity right away.

  Manchaami was beautiful no matter when and how they looked at him. It felt like both his lips and his heart smiled together. But Kali was not contented with that vision of the deity. He waited for the deity to be adorned in demon’s attire. Nallayyan Uncle said, ‘The deity is right in front of us. If we say to him, “I will look at you only if you come to me wearing different clothes, would that god come to you again?”’ But Kali was not bothered. He made his uncle go with him to see the deity attired as a demon.

  A majority of the devotees got their heads tonsured. Kali did too. He had thick, long hair. He had heard from his mother that they had had his head tonsured once when he was a child. But after that, she had told him, seeing his hair grow thick and dark, she did not promise hair as an offering to any deity. After all those years, this was the first time he was getting a tonsure. It felt like a huge burden had been removed from his head.

  His uncle asked him, smiling, ‘Have you set down your burdens?’

  Kali replied, also smiling, ‘All of it.’

  ‘Don’t wear your hair in a tuft from now on. Get a shorter cut,’ his uncle said to him.

  Kali too wanted that. But the barber in the village wouldn’t know how to crop his hair properly. Kali would have to go to the shop in the market.

  Nallayyan Uncle said, ‘Go to the riverside in Karattur. There are barbers who have set shop there all along the road. They sit there, with a rock for a chair for the customer, and they call out, “Shave! Crop! Tonsure!” It will only cost you eight annas, and they will do it the way you want it. These days, the fashion is Bhagavathar crop—to get it cut like a musician. I get mine cut very close. That’s what keeps my head from itching. But you are a young man, you should get the musician cut.’

  On their return journey, they stopped briefly at some of the temples on the way. The entire trip gave Kali a major sense of accomplishment.

  The fields he had come back to now weren’t the ones he had left behind. When he had left, the fields were covered with white corn ears. Now all he could find there were just a few stray sheaths carried by the wind. The fields welcomed him like a vast, free expanse. Two of the plots looked green and lush with some crop coming up after the first round of harvesting. He walked closer, happily, to take a look. He could see that someone had dug water channels to those fields and had irrigated them. They had also fenced the plots with thorny karuvela twigs, perhaps to protect this second harvest from the sheep. He could see a few large pots of water next to the well. So he walked there to see the changes.
Pots and tubs. And signs of cattle having been tethered nearby. How did these fields get renewed? He had left here thinking that the ears of corn would have to wait for him to return. He had worried that they might stay out in the fields a little too long and the corn might start to peel. But he had consoled himself that he could always do a better and timely job the year after. As for the brinjal patch, the shelter he had made was still intact and the plants were doing very well.

  Now he grew disconcerted looking at these changes. He trotted towards the barn, wondering what changes would have occurred there. On his way, he saw that the sheep enclosure was now outside. The sheep had been herded back in after grazing. The sheep that had been pregnant when he had set out on his trip had now yielded a lamb. He saw the dog’s chain outside the sheepfold. In the barnyard, he spotted two new piles of corn bales. Why were they laid out this way? What had happened to the bales of kambu? As he walked further into the barnyard, he grew tense and even more agitated. Looking at these changes, Kali felt like he was increasingly becoming old and irrelevant. Several questions ran through his mind—Why have they done this? Why have they changed this? Who gave them permission to make these changes? Seerayi, who had been lying on a cot in the shade of the portia tree, rose when she heard him approaching.

  He felt irritated at the sight of her sprawled on the cot, her slightly greying hair open and spread out. She got up and tied her hair, saying, ‘Come, Kaliyappa! Did you just arrive? You have gone so thin!’ She then laughed. ‘With that tonsured head, you look like a newborn crow chick that is yet to grow wings!’ He handed her the packet of prasadam, the consecrated food offerings from the temple, without saying a word. He could see the new cottage that been built in his absence. The mud wall was quite high; it had been plastered on the outside. He understood that the women had moved to the barnyard. Clearly, Ponna slept luxuriously in the new cottage, while her mother-in-law had the shade of the portia tree for herself. Both cottages now had their roofs secured with kambu stalks. All the bales he had gathered and piled up over the course of four years were now on the roofs of the cottages. His anger grew uncontrollable at this point. Someone had also separated the corn harvest into two neat and equal piles. Who had done all this? He wanted to pick a fight with them.