A tamil month, p.12
A Tamil Month, page 12
‘Escape!’ Undony screamed.
‘I saw her face,’ shouted Thambi. ‘She looked at me.’
They powered their bikes towards the beach, whooping along the way. They parked parallel, removed their helmets and shook their hair like Formula drivers. They looked at each other and a sand gust whirled by, propelled by the sea breeze.
‘Koothu,’ shouted Kari, wiggling his hips.
‘Soothu,’ shouted Thambi, pointing to Valiban’s arse that jutted more than most.
They straightened, brushed their hair, drew up their dark glasses and swaggered up and down the road looking at their shadows. A figure walked by with a shopping bag. She hurried past them looking down, using her dupatta to cover her chest.
A couple of bystanders who overheard their comments were horrified. ‘Pigs,’ said one of them. A car drove past blaring the latest Tamil film tune. ‘I am single and I’m young,’ it trilled. They sang the chorus, ‘Tamil is my mother tongue’.
They caught a bus that headed towards Abhirampuram. It was eleven in the morning, the school and college rush was over and the office crowd had thinned. They alighted at Lloyds Road and walked up to a small garage. It bore a blue painted board that said Easwari Lending Library. Inside, there was just enough standing room and the dank smell of books printed many years ago. Most of the books were popular and dog-eared and had been bound by the owner using local board and rice paste. Kari stood in front of a carrel that said Westerns and took a deep breath. His fingers caressed a J T Edson and a Zane Grey and then settled on a Louis L’Amour. Thambi gathered courage as he stood in a corner waiting to catch the owner’s attention so he could get a red-hot porn novel that lay hidden below the cash counter. Undony looked out of place because he did not know English. He peered at some covers.
Outside a land breeze, warm and occasionally gusty, made a mess of the garbage bins. The old folk looked uncomfortable. The rhythm was all wrong. Underneath the tar, a slight tremor was building. The dogs could sense it and they chased each other up and down the streets, and then stood with their pink tongues out, gasping. A few bent around their bodies and gripped their own tails with their teeth, trying to bite insects that troubled them. The roadside vendor looked into his muddy curry when someone complained. What had he added that he should not have? He retrieved a packet of masala that had fallen into it, unopened. Used plastic bags flew past the food cart, swirled in the air and entangled in a tree’s branches. Finally, an old man stood up and tried to walk away; he stumbled and fell. ‘What happened thatha?’ someone asked.
‘Blood is gathering,’ he said, ‘in temple.’
Valiban imagined it as a day when lovers quarrelled, when families rewrote wills, gangs pulled out knives and temple priests were summoned for unscheduled pujas.
Heads went swirling like wooden tops when the ground shifted quietly at 2.30 in the afternoon. The old man who had fallen had struggled back to his feet but this time, he went down in a heap. A dog bit into its tail drawing blood and set off down the street, yelping, and the rest joined in and howled and the barking echoed up and down the colony as people rushed out of their homes holding their hands to their heads and some rushed back inside to fetch their children. The Adyar River took a turn and tumbled quietly into the sea.
The four rushed to the beach, like others, looking for a safe open space. The fishing boats were coming in, with the tide.
‘What a high tide,’ said a fisherman, reeling in the nets. He looked nervously at the north-west, for the ill wind came from there, the wind that turned his boat over once, spilling his lunch and bursting his lungs. There was no wind. ‘Severe,’ he said, holding his head. People, including his family, were milling around. The muddy water rose and fell, splashing the sand.
Everyone had felt an earthquake after a very long time. They watched the buildings from a distance, wondering vicariously if one would fall. Some hands in the crowd felt heavy. In the library, many books had spilled from the carrels and the four had squirrelled away a couple each.
‘Month of Aadi,’ mumbled Valiban. The month their kootam took birth, the very month when the British defeated and then hanged Dheeran Chinnamalai, the Gounder icon.
‘I sensed some reluctance,’ said Nanban. ‘Any misgivings?’
‘None, sir,’ said Valiban.
Nanban had called him to show there was more to his efforts than creating a goonda force that would merely misbehave. He had a small office, hidden away, where he spent time establishing Veerappan’s online presence. He had hired two sociologists, post-graduates in behavioural science, to handle social media.
‘Hurt has no ration online,’ he said, ‘and anger is easily aroused. We understand that. We use images, documentary-type postings, comments and motivated accounts to spread the word and shake things up. Most of it is in Tamil.’
Valiban was fascinated. He could not still grasp all that this office was up to.
‘And there is trolling as well,’ said Nanban. ‘Even goondaism now has an online cousin.’
Valiban read some posts on Veerappan. He also read the comments, some of which were caustic.
‘Politicians are very conscious of legacy,’ said Nanban. ‘They want to be remembered well.’
‘You are managing that as well, sir?’
He shook his head. ‘It is not entirely in my hands. If he loses this election, he will be remembered as a rowdy. No wonder these days his veshti is in a twist.’
Valiban returned to Kari’s cave and sat amongst his kootam, and they looked like what they were.
‘More than one monkey has been lost to mankind,’ said Kari as if he divined Valiban’s thoughts. He looked at Undony first and then Thambi as if one was a mere progression on the other. Kari was tall, fair and, hence, fully evolved in Tamil Utopia. He had a chiselled nose, a good head of hair and square shoulders. He moved with a slight wiggle of the hips. He spoke rarely which was just as well. His language was street, his lingo was rogue. On the street, his animal spirit found admirers. Unbounded energy possessed him, its centrifugal force wrested the others from their moorings. Valiban was frequently aroused in his vicinity.
Maria Antony, whom they called Undony, was a convert from Perambur, a beneficiary of a Catholic quota. He received convent education in a Tamil medium school run by fathers and brothers who bumped up his marks in moments of grace. In such Christian institutions, discipline was enforced, punctuality prized, Christian rituals were de rigueur and in the playgrounds, the song ‘Please believe me’ played on loop.
Thambi sat, the other two ran with Valiban, the groaning bus was slow; they hung onto the footboards as they crossed Stella Maris College, a girls-only college that had, according to Kari, only virgins, unlike the Madras Christian College in Tambaram, a co-ed college where girls were experienced. This description got Undony hot under the collar. He stood outside Rosary Matric School for a week and roiled. Why Rosary Matric? He wouldn’t say. There were dark-skinned girls there who were less prosperous, unlike Church Park and Good Shepherd where girls were fair and affluent. Undony felt nervous next to those types, he felt inadequate. He was impossibly dark himself and scratching at his skin did not help him.
Kari took him, and Valiban, to Church Park and they stood in the car park, looking. Big cars came and girl upon girl emerged, spic and span, hair combed and knotted, drivers helping them with their heavy school bags.
‘Undony, what is happening?’ asked Kari.
Undony looked guilty. So many nubile figures together; it was all a bit too much for him. He toyed with the sand using his foot to describe a circle. His oiled hair curled at the edges, his specs were thick and a little dusty and his manner was that of a choirboy caught peeking at vestal virgins.
‘Can you smell anything?’ asked Kari.
There was a smell about the place.
‘Lowe,’ said Undony, looking like a bashful Romeo.
‘Myrandi,’ said Kari. ‘This is the famous Church Park smell. It is a mixture of Lux soap, Nivea cream and Cuticura powder.’
There they stood, the three of them, bursting their balls, with nothing profound in their heads; the camera panned away from them, zoomed out until they were specks on the ground and the city blinked a few times and disappeared above the clouds where the evening sky was Dravidian, the gods were atheists and Tamil Utopia a black hole.
‘Can you feel anything?’ asked Kari. Undony was horny and Valiban was bored.
Undony hung around Kari like hangers-on did around politicians and wannabes around Tamil actors. Kari was his steed, his only chance was to hitch a ride. Kari knew it, so did Valiban. They treated him badly and, while he bore up with it, Valiban felt an undercurrent that said, ‘my time will come’.
Undony ate mounds of puffed up rice that gave him a round belly. It looked out of place, plonked on spindly legs. He had childhood pox marks, hair with matted curls and a posture that was gawky. He had reason to look at a mirror and dream. Strangers treated him badly. People clicked fingers at him in a restaurant where he worked some evenings, cleaning tables. People did not introduce themselves to him or ask his name before they spoke to him. ‘Dai,’ they said. All this added to his reservoir of hate.
He believed he would have been treated better if he looked half-decent. A crisp shirt would have saved him or say perfect teeth. He had a borrowed wallet that he swore he would return. It had alien family pictures inside that burned him. He used up the currency buying fragrant toiletries. He ran his fingers on the plush leather when it emptied.
‘What I really need is rebirth,’ said Undony.
‘Why take the risk, Maria?’ said Valiban. ‘You could be born a woman. Then?’
Undony shuddered at the thought. Who would give up male privilege? The uncommon pleasure of a communal piss, bonding against a boundary wall, spraying patterns with strangers, watching mosquitoes flirt with your glans. A few shouts in the dark. Women protesting, just a few, most of them a silent majority. Men may be cads, bums, nose-pickers and arrack-swillers and yet they were apples of their mothers’ eyes, Indian mothers who would swear to the high heavens their son could do no wrong.
‘Be glad you were born a Hindu, Maria. Nobody keeps track of you, tells you what to do or worries if you enter a convent.’
‘I want to escape,’ said Undony. ‘I want to run away from here.’
‘Where will you escape to, you runt?’ said Kari. ‘To your illegitimate family in the kuppam? They will feed you to the fish.’
‘I am not illegitimate,’ said Undony.
Undony sat on his stool looking away from the others. They were drinking and it was past nine in the night.
‘You are not a proper Christian, you runt.’
‘Because real Christians are recorded in Church records,’ said Valiban. ‘They record each and every birth.’
‘Unlike our temples that record nothing,’ said Thambi. ‘Temples cannot even keep a record of their deities.’
‘Poor thambis show up at Missions as lost,’ said Kari, ‘and turn into Antonys.’
‘How do you know I wasn’t born a Christian?’ said the resident Antony.
‘Your old man told me,’ said Thambi.
The old man was not Undony’s father but a fellow in the kuppam who made a living from sorting garbage and finding things of value. He carried a sack on his shoulder; his beard was unkempt, veshti at half-mast, barefoot, clear-eyed until 6.00 pm, guttural and pathetically kind-hearted, so much so, that street dogs followed him to distraction. Even cats, that never followed anybody, sometimes trailed him briefly.
‘Maybe the old man is really your old man?’
Undony laughed; it was a harsh sound. ‘Old man cannot poke anybody,’ he said. ‘In the nights, he is half-naked and I have seen. His samaan is missing. A scorpion bit him there and they cut both his swollen kottais.’
Undony was hurting. He showed no sign and looked stoic but Valiban knew.
‘Mother Mary will come for you one day, da,’ said Thambi, ‘for sure she will come, to this drunken hole, and take you home.’
‘She will come one day,’ said Undony, ‘in a posh car with Boost and Complan, Viva and Horlicks.’
They laughed.
‘She must be a lady, a high-class lady. That’s why she had to desert you.’
‘Must be an actress, a proper figure,’ said Thambi. ‘They are man-eaters.’
‘There must be a family resemblance somewhere,’ said Kari.
‘They told me I was actually high caste,’ said Undony.
‘Of course, you are high caste,’ said Kari. ‘If you have a bath, they might even worship you.’
The night ended without further mayhem. As always, the alcohol wore off leaving them supine, sad and helpless. Nothing changed in that couple of hours every night but looking at the ceiling, life seemed unfair.
‘Where is my inheritance?’ Undony asked around midnight. ‘The priest said Mother Mary will help me find it.’
‘Truth is your father was a cheat, a 420,’ said Kari, ‘and your mother was a website aunty.’
Undony reddened, his right hand searched for something, anything he could use as a weapon. Valiban got up quickly, put a hand around his shoulder. Undony was breathing heavily and his eyes were bloody.
Kari watched, cool as ever, waiting for a move that never came.
‘We can’t live like this,’ said Undony, through clenched teeth, staring at Kari.
The next day all was forgotten. Undony sat on a stool, in a corner, his legs drumming the floor, his knees parting and closing. Kari stood outside, flexing his muscles. His exercise routine lasted just fifteen minutes punctuated by the sound of bone joints expelling air. After watching TV, he attempted slow-motion taichi moves. Thambi and Valiban started laughing. It was comic. But Undony observed every move, expressionless, said nothing and did nothing. The moment Kari looked at him, he jumped, ready to do his bidding.
Sucking up to the leader was ingrained in Tamil politics with politicians often prostrating on a public stage in front of the ‘leader’, and then rolling over, temple style, with hands folded over their heads. Valiban could imagine Undony roll over, just as they did. This did not make him harmless; it was a sign that the day he did something for himself, it would be toxic. He had venom inside gathering strength every day because he hated the life he was living, those he was stuck with, and Kari because he frightened him. Above all, he hated himself.
Kari was depressed by his setting. Setting referred to a locale that could be manufactured. It changed frequently in the movies but in Kari’s home, it stayed helpless. A slum next door housed people who shat on the roads in the morning, a daily occurrence he never got used to. The sight, the sound and the smell – from people he knew by name. His room had a door that sagged, a small door. He had to bend to enter and occasionally, he forgot. Inside his abode was a bachelor’s minimum. To date, nobody had filed a civil complaint. He roamed around bare-chested at home because Brahmins did so. Most of these Brahmins were old, their skin had folds and their flesh had drooped. Kari’s impressive shoulder width narrowed slightly at his hips, his ribcage presented itself, taut and springy.
A boy ran his errands, an effeminate fellow with a high-pitched voice who everybody called Pavadai because pavadai was a petticoat worn by women. The boy organised Kari’s mornings ensuring essential supplies were in place. Cigarettes, coffee, raw garlic pieces, herbal toothpaste. A neem stick as standby because Kari often chewed his toothbrush to shreds. A dog came to the doorstep, unfailingly, and was fed bread and milk. Kari would sit next to the dog and read the Tamil papers. The dog’s name was Porikki. Porikki would finish breakfast in two minutes most of which was spent licking the pan clean. Kari liked how dogs ate without complication, wagging their tails and then, licking their whiskers and coming as close to smiling as they could.
Help was always at hand. There were many girls in the neighbourhood who offered to spruce up things for him. Middle-aged women would drop in now and then to borrow this and that. It was all in good humour, which was a cover for a deeper intent. Undony looked on darkly. He knew the women wanted to wrestle Kari to the ground, open his veshti and check on his vazhapazham because it was rumoured that in there was an imported-sized banana.
Kari wasn’t very intelligent but he was self-aware and worldly-wise. He had spent his early teenage years chasing don’ts. In school, he knew how to deal with padres. He was suspicious of bachelors who abstained so he had a few simple rules. Try not to be alone with them in the evening. If the padre says bend over, do not. Extend your palm and take the caning. Do not sing well. Keep clear of carols and choirs. Refuse invitations to attend the evening service. Avoid treats.
‘Dai Thambi!’ Kari shouted. ‘What are you reading?’
‘English,’ said Thambi.
Thambi breathed Tamil, had read Tamil literature, could quote Tamil poetry verbatim. He had a voice fit for recitation and a dopey look that some girls liked. Dear Thambi had promised to pass the English exam because he was under the spell of a girl who had a Master’s in English Literature, who wore spectacles and quoted somebody called Barthes. The first time Thambi spouted some Tamil poetry she quoted something by Barthes. Thambi lost his footing. Every time he saw her, he came up with stanza and verse and she quoted Barthes in return.
It happened after college when all of them were sitting at a coffee place; they had nursed their coffees to the last drop. This girl liked Thambi more than was reasonable; after all, Thambi was an ordinary fellow. She set her mug down and looked at Thambi as if she wanted to do something to him – something the rest could feel inside themselves, a nice warm and wet feeling – and this dolt sat there not getting it.
‘Language is my skin,’ she said. ‘I rub my language.’
