The Hope of Shridula (12 page)

"Please, sir," the dark-skinned policeman warned. "These villagers are not in a charitable mood."

"Neither am I!" Saji Stephen snapped. He folded his arms across his chest and sat, sullen and simmering.

"Please reconsider, sir. These villagers are angry. They have been wronged," the droopy-lipped policeman said. "If you are to be a successful landlord, if you hope to sit on this veranda for many years to come, heed this advice: do not provoke the villagers. Do not give them reason to riot against you."

Saji Stephen glowered at the policemen in petulant silence.

"Well, then . . ." the taller policeman said as he stood to his feet. When he got no response from Saji Stephen, he shrugged and strode toward the crowd, shouting for them to disperse.

But the dark-skinned policeman didn't follow him. Alone on the veranda with Saji Stephen, he bowed and said, "Sir Landlord, may I speak freely?"

"Yes," Saji Stephen said—but warily, as he suspected a trick.

"I live in the next village with my wife and two daughters. The eldest is of an age to marry, but I have no money for her dowry. You do see the problem I face, do you not?"

Saji Stephen said nothing.

"Please, sir, I wish to talk with you about securing a loan." When Saji Stephen didn't answer, the policeman added, "It is, of course, in my power to strike a favorable settlement with the villagers . . ."

The sweltering afternoon faded into a steamy evening. The crowd had long since drifted away. Even the dark-skinned policeman had left once he secured the promise of a loan, accompanied by a signed agreement from the landlord. Still, Saji Stephen sat cross-legged on the veranda, on the Persian carpet under the jasmine vines. He had decided he would not move the carpet to his private room after all. Back there, no one could see it. What was the value of such a treasure if no one saw it? What did it matter if he couldn't use it to stir up envy and jealousy?

"Bring me my sitar!" Saji Stephen called to Udit.

No sooner had the instrument been brought to him and propped up in his lap than Saji Stephen pushed it aside. "Take it away!" he ordered.

Saji Stephen wanted to make beautiful music, but when his fingers plucked the strings, the notes came out shrill and unpleasant. He wanted to bring in the greatest harvest ever, but the fields lay barren and weedy because he had no idea how to get the laborers to work. He wanted to be loved and admired and, most of all, respected by all, but the best he could elicit from those around him was grudging compliance in exchange for his favors.

"What am I to do?" Saji Stephen demanded. Since no one was around, he spoke to the shadows that drifted through the trees. "I am the spoiled child of my parents. I was never even allowed to go out in the rain. I never had a chance to supervise laborers in the fields the way my brother did. Now I am grown, and I cannot go back. But neither can I go forward. What am I to do? I ask, what am I to do?"

13

June 1946

C
ool air had not yet touched his face, nor had the first whiff of damp earth reached his nostrils, yet Saji Stephen knew for certain that rain was on the way. For the first time since he was a child at his mother's knee, he considered the wisdom of bowing down to mumble a prayer for help.

But instead of praying, Saji Stephen stepped out to the road to get a better view of the mountains. Thoughts of those first billows of dark clouds quickly left him, however, for down on the road he saw Brahmin Rama hurrying toward him.

"What do you want?" Saji Stephen called out. He made no attempt to disguise his irritation.

"I came to offer prayers for you and your household," the Brahmin said.

Saji Stephen waved him away, but the Brahmin chose to ignore the rebuff.

"The rain clouds grow heavy," Brahmin Rama said.

"And why should they not? The monsoons come to us every year at this time."

"Ah, but this year is different, is it not? This year—were it not for the sturdy weeds—your rice paddies would sit empty."

Saji Stephen's face flushed hot. "My rice paddies are no concern of yours."

"Oh, but they are. They most certainly are. Your paddies are the concern of the entire village. Do we not all depend on the success of your rice harvest to ensure grain for our kitchens?"

Saji Stephen scowled. "And I suppose the entire village is gossiping about the state of my paddies?"

"Most certainly. Gossip is the way of the village."

"Well, you can tell the villagers to tend to their own concerns," Saji Stephen snapped. "God will send me my harvest." Turning his back to the Brahmin, he hurried back to the veranda and slumped down in his corner under the jasmine vines. Already the blossoms had begun to fade and wither. Saji Stephen scowled at them, too.

Brahmin Rama followed the landlord. Without waiting for an invitation, he settled himself on the other side of the veranda.

For a long while, the two sat in silence—Saji Stephen staring out at the road, and Rama's eyes fixed on Saji Stephen's sullen face. Finally Brahmin Rama spoke. "The whole of the
Bhagavad Gita
is summed up in this maxim:
Your business is with the deed, and not with the result."

Saji Stephen clenched his jaw and glared at the Brahmin.

Rama calmly adjusted his wire spectacles and cleared his throat. "Which is to say, each individual has a special part to play in the drama of life. Everyone must choose the right course according to the circumstances given him, without any consideration for his personal interest. Everyone must act for the good of all."

Fury burned inside Saji Stephen. Through gritted teeth he asked, "That is the practice of Brahmins, then? Even as you refuse the low castes and outcastes spiritual equality? Even as you keep the most powerful positions of temple priests for yourselves alone? Even as you deny the people the right to communicate with Hindu gods in any language but Sanskrit, which only you Brahmins are allowed to learn?"

"You may be an Indian by birth, Saji Varghese, but you have no understanding of the Indian way," Brahmin Rama said. "Every class has its particular function. And every man has the responsibility to fulfill his particular task to the best of his ability, but always with devotion to the gods and at all times without personal ambition."

Saji Stephen's lips curled in a mocking grin. "Good," he said. "Fine. Shall we begin by taking up Mr. Ambedkar's suggestion that in the newly independent India we oppose both Brahmanism and caste oppression? We can accomplish this goal by publicly burning the
Manusmriti."

Brahmin Rama jerked back, as though he had been hit in the face. With a shaky hand, he pushed his slipping spectacles back up on his nose. "The virtue of the Brahmin class is wisdom, which is what I came here today to offer you. You have repaid my kindness with an attack on our sacred writings. You are indeed a foolish man."

Rama stood up, turned his back to Saji, and walked away.

Saji Stephen wanted to laugh at him. He wanted to mock him and call out ridicule that would ring in the Brahmin's ears all the way back to his house. But the sky had suddenly grown quite dark. As Brahmin Rama retreated down the road, the first drops of rain splashed onto the dry earth.

At the first patter of rain, Glory Anna gingerly pushed open the door of her room. Seeing no one about and eager to feel the fresh drops on her face, she eased out and headed toward the veranda.
Tears of God.
That's what her grandmother used to tell her of the rain. Well, Glory Anna was badly in need of God's touch, even it was nothing but his tears.

But Glory Anna never made it outside. For at the very moment the rain called to her, it also drove Saji Stephen into the house. Glory Anna rounded the corner and, for the first time in her life, found herself alone, face to face with her father.

"Oh!" Saji Stephen exclaimed. "Are you still here?"

Still here?
What possible answer could Glory Anna give to such a question? She eased back toward her own door.

"You cannot stay in that room," Saji Stephen informed her. "It is the one I intend to take for myself. Tomorrow you will move in with the wife of my youngest son."

Glory Anna shrank back, her eyes searching for a way out.

"Sheeba Esther will serve as your guardian," Saji Stephen told the girl. "See that you cause her no trouble."

Glory Anna wanted to cry out that she would not leave her grandmother's room. She wanted to beg Saji Stephen to have mercy on her and let her be. To plead with him to forget all over again that she was still there. But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a soft, mewing cry.

Rain beat down on the roof, but it could not drown out the angry voices that echoed through from the back of the house. Saji Stephen groaned. His two daughters-in-law were at it again. Their families were simply too crowded, especially when rain drove them all inside.

Saji's elder son, Rajeev Nathan, allowed—no, he
encouraged—
his wife, Amina, to rule over the women of the household. And Amina did so eagerly and with a heavy hand, for she was by nature a bossy woman. Nihal Amos's wife, Sheeba Esther, was of a more agreeable temperament—though her husband constantly pushed her to stand up for herself. But Sheeba Esther was still young. She had been raised to hold her tongue in the presence of her elders, a trait Saji Stephen greatly appreciated.

I shall give each family a room of its own, Saji Stephen decided. Glory Anna will be under Sheeba Esther's care, but the girl can bear the responsibility for Amina's children. Maybe then, I will finally have some peace in my house.

Saji Stephen pushed his way through Rajeev Nathan's whining little ones, intent on delivering his message to the two daughters-in-law. But Amina met him with a message of her own.

"Do you see how I must work?" she said to Saji Stephen. "It is too much to expect of me. Now that you are landowner, you can get us the servants we need. And not only servants. Now that you are landlord, you can . . ."

Saji Stephen turned and hurried back out to the safety of the veranda. Tomorrow he would tell his daughters-in-law. Yes, tomorrow would be soon enough to deliver his message.

Sons who consider themselves so wise they should offer advice to their father! A daughter-in-law who dares issue demands to her father-in-law! Villagers who shout out accusations to the landowner! Lectures from that skinny Brahmin! It was all too much for Saji Stephen. He was the new landlord. He was the most important man in the village. He was the one with all the power.

I will show them I am in charge!
Saji vowed.

Yes, but how?

They will see me display my power in an unforgettable way!

But in what way?

I will force every one of them to respect me!

But how to accomplish such an end?

Saji Stephen made it a point to stay away from the back of the house and let his sons and his sons' wives battle their way through their days on their own. He didn't go to the village either for fear of being confronted by angry villagers. Day after day he sought refuge in his private rooms. He sucked on the bones of roasted lamb and went over and over the offenses committed against him. As his fury grew hard and sour, he laid his plan.

In the dusk that followed the first full day of the rainy season, without speaking a word to anyone, Saji Stephen crept out of the house through the rain-soaked veranda door. He edged his way along the muddy garden far enough to allow him a good look at the road. It was deserted. Saji Stephen hurried down, taking care to stay tucked away in the shadows. Keeping a watchful eye in all directions, he made his way to the beginning of the Brahmin settlement. The entire way, he didn't pass another person.

Once in the Brahmin section of the village, Saji Stephen hunkered down low and eased into a stand of tamarind trees. He knew the area, though not well. Certainly he knew of the enormous anthill that stood between the trees and the back of Brahmin Rama's house. Everyone knew that. Because a great snake with especially dramatic markings had taken up residence in that anthill, the Hindus looked upon it as a particularly holy place.

Squinting into the rain, Saji Stephen could make out the knobby edges of the anthill. It was not yet the month of
Naga Panchami,
which meant it was too soon for the dedicated worship of the revered snake goddess. Pity that. Even so, the anthill flowed red with rain-streaked vermillion powder. The gift of worshippers. Spiced turmeric offerings floated in the muddy puddle at its foot.

A glance behind him—one to the right side and another to the left—then a quick step back. Saji Stephen's foot slipped, sending him sprawling. As he pulled himself from the mud, a knot of fear rose up in his throat. Not that he believed Brahmin Rama's boasts about possessing magical skills and an ability to see into the future. Still, the rains had started early. And they were falling exceptionally hard. And one could never be too careful around the house of a Brahmin, especially one with such an anthill beside it.

Swiping a hand over his rain- and mud-streaked face, Saji Stephen stared at the anthill. It stood waist-high and was as big around as a tree stump. Home of the revered cobra. Saji Stephen edged closer until the anthill was close enough to reach out and touch. Only then did his resolve began to quake.

The sun had long since set in a moonless sky. Soon the earth would be black. But in the lingering twilight, Saji Stephen caught sight of a rise beyond the anthill. On top of the rise someone had constructed a crude fire pit.

Quickly Saji Stephen clawed his way up the slippery hillside. He grabbed one of the large stones out of the pit and tossed it at the anthill. The rock struck the side with a thud, knocking away a good-sized chunk. Congratulating himself, Saji Stephen grabbed up another rock. He eased his way closer to the edge of the rise and took more careful aim, then he threw again. This time he managed to smash away the entire red-streaked top.