The Gypsy Goddess (11 page)

We cut to the chase. We jump past the murder scene. We display the novel through a series of rushed frames. We recreate the aftermath.

When news of the marked man being successfully hacked to death was conveyed to them, the landlords rejoiced and called for grand celebrations. They feasted on flesh secure in the knowledge that a corpse that has gone to the burning ground does not return.

As demanded by chronological narrative and the rigours of routine, the landlords went to their fields the day after the agricultural strike. There, the much-anticipated twist lay in wait for them: none of the workers had turned up. Then it was revealed to them – in a discreet fashion as merits a novel of a certain literary quality – that every worker in Nagapattinam was away attending the funeral procession of Sikkal Pakkirisamy. As warranted by the mores of their social class at that time, they took it as a personal affront. They termed the two-day absence from work as arrogance and insolence and impudence and a Communist nuisance. They met together, called on each other, and decided to obey their leader. Naturally, as always happens in these novels and is sometimes reflected in real life, the landlords turned away the agricultural labourers who came to work the next day and demanded that they pay a fine.

Since mirroring is a major plot device, now it was the turn of the peasants to meet together, call on each other
and decide to obey their party leader. And, incredible as it may seem to any reader, the Communists announced that they would not pay any fines and that they would go on an indefinite strike until they were allowed to work. As if not reporting to work was going to solve the problem of being ordered not to report for work!

Now that both sides are in a clear deadlock, the nailbiting reader can join the nervous author in elaborating the rest of the story.

Slowly the deadlock was unlocked. Some landlords relented after a token fine was paid. Some workers, dreading death by hunger, came to a compromise by discarding their party connections. Some others, petrified of the many horrors that would visit their village if they enraged the
mirasdars
any further, went to work.

As happens in stories of a similar nature, one village stood apart. Kilvenmani paid the token twenty-rupee fine for abstaining from work, but it didn't strike a deal, and it continued to strike. The one-day district-level strike had been marred by a murder, but their collective demand for higher wages was kept alive by Kilvenmani. Common sense and Communist thinking told them that their labour was indispensable in the harvest season. They expected the landlords to give in and grant them the daily wage of six measures of paddy they had been fighting for.

But, the
mirasdars
saw no reason to relent.

Moving beyond the ensemble cast that has been employed for the purposes of the novel so far, the
mirasdars
simply brought in outside labour. The agents, exploitative and eager to please the landlords, transported labourers willing to work for a mere meal a day from Ramnad and other nearby districts, setting the strikers against the starving, the poor against the desperate. The police, so far relegated to the position of a neutral observer, extended protection to these agents and their
congee
coolies. This, expectedly, made matters worse.

In order to move this narrative turn of events to its next level of complexity, let us assume that this loss of employment causes enormous hardship to the agricultural labourers, who appeal to the Communists to solve the problem, who petition the government to step into the matter, but nothing comes of it. So, at this point, where they appear to be losing, the Communists decide that enough is enough and hold a series of public meetings to garner support for the villagers of Kilvenmani. To maintain the element of balance, one has to concede that the Paddy Producers Association also held rival meetings. Things happened, but we need not give everything away right here in such straightforward fashion.

What's a story without a strong voice, anyway?

Reader, now that you have swallowed the pulp, you can leave the peel intact. Trust your instincts to tell you the rest of the tale.

This is what Muthusamy the Communist and Muniyan the Headman and Ratnam the Communist Party secretary and Subban and Murugan and Karuppaiah and Palayam and Pandari Ramayya and Thangaraju and Natesan and Panikkan and Kaliyappan and Srinivasan and Jayabalan and Veerappan and Kathaiyan and Arumugam and Seppan and Thangavelu and Sellamuthu and Vairakannu and Veeraiyyan and Balakrishnan and Muni and Ratinasamy and Palanivelu and Ramalingam and Thayyan and Kannusamy and Marudaiyyan and Periyaan and Raman would have said – when questioned alone or as part of a group – about what transpired after the village of Kilvenmani had taken its oath of loyalty to the red flag.

Gopalakrishna Naidu ordered our village's owner, Ganapati Nadar, who ordered his
pannaiyal
Subramanian, who asked our village head, who asked the people of our village and they said they would not obey. It was the people's decision and so our village stood by the red flag, fearless of the consequences. We decided there was no way the flag was going to be removed. We knew that it would save us. We knew that it would voice our demands. Any other flag had no business here. This information was relayed to Gopalakrishna Naidu. He went wild. He promised to burn our village and kill our people. He wanted to teach us a lesson. He wanted us to go hungry so that we would be forced to beg for food. He ordered that anybody from our
village should not be given any job. We would go looking for jobs but all the landlords in East Tanjore had been told not to employ us if and when we came to them. Gopalakrishna Naidu had sent a messenger with a written letter to all these landlords in the neighbouring villages in the district.

It was a suffering that we had never undergone so far. We went to where our sisters and cousins and aunts had been married away, under the guise of guests, but kept looking for any job that we could find. Only a handful of us stayed here. We would borrow rice or money or grain or lentils and come home and live here for a few days and then go to another relative's house and this is how we passed the time. Gopalakrishna Naidu had reduced us to slaves. We starved. The landlords did not give us work. They did not give us loans. It was a complete social boycott. We lived through those difficult days with hunger and fear and fortitude. The party told us that they did not have money, but they had the masses. What could we do? What could be done?

Words transform when they travel through a medium. They die, but, worse, they can kill. In a novel like this, there is no point in shooting the messenger dead.

In the village of Kilvenmani,
pannaiyal
Subramanian is the link man. It is through him that the villagers pay the fine for abstaining from work; it is through him that they are ordered to join the PPA; it is through him that they are ordered to pay the fine for boycotting the PPA and for instead staying with the Communist Party and swearing by its red flag.

He speaks forwards and backwards.

Through him the village of Kilvenmani declines, and through him the village hears the voice of untrammelled arrogance. ‘I have said what needs to be said and so there is nothing more to say.' It is through him that they receive their threats; it is through him that they learn that their end is near.

Like the fool of all folklore, this man will survive and stay unscathed.

The Paddy Producers Association's regular, endlessly repeated formula – threaten, beat up, force the labourer to leave the Communist Party – failed miserably in Kilvenmani. The ripple effect of terror that forced other villages to abandon the red flag did not shake this village. They continued to strike.

That is why the association decided to use blackmail tactics in Kilvenmani. It could be called into question for undemocratic practices and extrajudicial trouble-shooting methods, but the association stuck to its logical loops of threat, which were difficult to fault at first sight.

This was a collective decision taken by Ganapati Nadar, Muthukrishna Naidu, Narayanasamy Pillai, Ramu Thevar, Ramanuja Naidu and other
mirasdars
on behalf of Gopalakrishna Naidu. For the criminal transgression of participating in Sikkal Pakkirisamy's funeral procession and boycotting work the following day, it went beyond collecting the twenty-rupee fine, and it put forth a list of conditions:

In the midst of this drama, there is one scene that involves the surly priest, Sundaresa Gurukkal, making
sakkarai pongal
, the cloying feast of rice and jaggery at the Kali temple. The feast is sponsored by the princely sum of twenty rupees collected from the Kilvenmani villagers as punishment for being absent from work for two consecutive days. This money has been donated to the temple by the Paddy Producers Association. All the office-bearers partake of the
sakkarai pongal
.

This is utterly useless information at present, but it might come in handy at a later date. Try and remember this.

The elders of Kilvenmani are clear about certain things: we are not asking for the land. We are not asking for homes. We are asking for work because we need food. We are asking for food, for our six measures of paddy, because we are going hungry – because what we have, what we are getting paid, is not enough for our stomachs. We may die of starvation but until our demand is met, we are not giving up the strike.

Though their demand is just, it is ignored. Ganapati Nadar, Muthukrishna Naidu, Narayanasamy Pillai, the landlords who employed them previously, are ordered not to appeal on their behalf. The pimping-landlord, Ramasamy Porayar, and his son, have also been ordered not to employ anybody from Kilvenmani, not even the women.

Gopalakrishna Naidu's writ runs large. On the first full-moon day in December, his relative Kerosene Govinda summons five active party workers from Kilvenmani: Muthusamy, Muniyan, Natesan, Kaliyappan and Subramanian. And he is said to have reportedly said: ‘Your demand was conveyed but our president is very firm. He will not budge. He has asked me to collect this fine of Rs. 250 from you for continuing to strike.'

Kilvenmani's representatives refuse to pay. They say that they cannot pay. They say that even when they harvest a sackful, they are paid only a pittance. Four and a half
measures of paddy for every sack containing sixty measures. The women are paid even less.

They have a simple answer: ‘You cannot ask us for a fine, you should not ask us for a fine, and even if you did ask us for a fine, we cannot pay. We simply don't have that kind of money.'

Then they are warned of the attack. They are told how angry Gopalakrishna Naidu is. Kerosene Govinda says that the only way to avoid trouble is to pay this fine. He knows, like everyone else, that this money is way beyond their reach, that even if all of the men and the women and the children in Kilvenmani went into the fields and worked and worked, it would take a few weeks for so much money to materialize. The fine is an excuse, a fine ruse, to shame the stubborn village.

The villagers go to another landlord, Ramanuja Naidu. He hears them out for an hour. And then, this time, power speaks in another language, but still addresses them with its characteristic arrogance. He tells them: Hoist the flag of the Paddy Producers Association. Remove the red flag. Report for work this instant.

That doesn't happen.

So, the Paddy Producers Association goes another step further. On 15 December, the association organizes a meeting in Kilvenmani itself. The meeting is held in the caste-Hindu street as a culmination of a public procession.
Gopalakrishna Naidu presides over this Sunday gathering, and his henchmen are present in full strength. He publicly issues threats and warnings, he gives a ten-day deadline to Kilvenmani to reform itself and give up the red flag. His lawyers also perform in public: giving advice, giving threats. This show of strength scares the people of Kilvenmani. They are not amused.

The elders project rage because it helps them conceal unknown fears. They know that they are faced with a challenge. The entire
cheri
gathers in the coconut grove near Pandari Ramayya's home and discusses the issue: Should we surrender to the landlords? Should we continue with the red flag?

Everybody attends the meeting. The Pallars. The Paraiyars. The men, the women, the children. Even Arumugam, incapable of walking on his polio-withered legs, is there.

Some features of the village meeting were typical. Such as Jayabalan's two wives standing as far away from each other as possible. But, this time, the men did not do most of the talking.

Sundaram started it and set the tone when she complained of how she had to go and plead to Ramanuja Naidu and fall at his feet and beg his forgiveness and seek to reform herself and her family after his henchmen in Irukkai had burnt her husband's red towel and held him captive for three days. Finally, he was only freed after another roguish
mirasdar
, Ramu Thevar, had written a letter to Naidu saying that Veerappan had been a trusted servant whose grandfather had worked under his grandfather, and so on, and this intervention had spared her husband's life.

Then Muniyan's wife, Thangamma, said that two days ago her pregnant sister was pummelled by a gang of twenty armed men who were imported rowdies from Ramnad and possibly working for Gopalakrishna Naidu. To which Sethu said that one devil always outdid another because her friend, Anju, from the neighbouring village, had been waylaid by Chandran and eight others and they had torn apart her red blouse and burnt it before her eyes and beaten her up and nobody could even take her to the hospital for treatment because the landlord and his rowdies prevented that.

Pattu said this was a bad trend because the victims couldn't be taken to the hospital and the doctors wouldn't
come to the
cheri
. And when Letchumi claimed that all the injured men were being treated only with turmeric, everyone nodded in agreement.