THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM (20 page)

All this time, she had been using him as bait. She had smiled at him, played with his hair, flirted with him—all with an aim to hook the bigger fish. He was nothing but a wriggling tapeworm for her.

He remembered Chotu’s words about how she had looked at Venkataramana with a manic smile on her face. Chotu had always known her true nature. Chotu had never been enamoured by her; a little scared, maybe, but nothing more. Hadn’t he been proved right now? Wasn’t she just a vain little predator, feeding on people’s weaknesses?

A sudden thought occurred to him. Maybe she had known that Chotu saw through her. Chotu had been the one person in their group who always seemed to
know
. Had she seen that as a threat? Had she gone to the Shivalayam after she had finished Seeta off so that she could… could Aravind be right about her? Could it be that
Aravind
had seen through her as well? Was that why he had never shown any interest in her even though she had practically thrown herself at him every chance she got? Did they all see that flash of cruelty in her that he, Chanti, had missed all this time because of his blinding love?

And if there was cruelty in her, was this place making it worse?

But, he thought, hanging back at the door to her room, why was
he
so on the edge? After all, he had left this village seventeen years ago. All this time, he had lived without a care for any of them. Thoughts of Sarayu had long been banished into a far corner in his mind. Why did they come back now with such force? He looked around him. Up in the corner of the doorway, a brown spider was spinning its web. It was this
place
. There was something about this place which made everyone dig up their past. In Palem, he thought, the past was not dead.

But what had Thatha
said? That if she got hold of one of them, she would be able control the person without the person knowing or remembering. He had said that
she
would use them against each other. And so far, that was what had happened—Seeta, Chotu, Venkataramana—all of them killed, maybe by one among them, or someone else, or maybe by more than one person.

Was there any reason to believe that the same person had killed all three of them? No, Aravind could have killed Ramana, Sarayu could have killed Seeta, and he… yes,
he
could have killed Chotu. If she was powerful enough to wipe out the memory of her puppets, she could have done the same with him. He did not remember doing it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have done it.

But if that were the case, how would anyone find out the truth about anything over here? Everything could be controlled, anything could be wiped clean. No, that wasn’t possible. There had to be one thread somewhere that would be uncorrupted, unsullied, which he would have to pick up.

He looked down at the door again. When he blinked, the flower and the grinning face flashed into view for a second and then vanished.

Yes, he thought, one uncorrupted, unsullied thread. She was the thread that ran through all of them. She was the only one who could have killed all three of them—and she had enough reason to kill at least two of them. She had it in her; anyone who could play a man like she played
him
could do anything. Anyone who could gaze upon a dead body with a gleam in her eye would not squint at murder. Yes, he thought, as his tongue passed over his upper lip and tasted its dirty saltiness. She had it in her.

He opened the door and stood at the entrance, listening to the low, steady breathing.

The devil sleeps alone, he had heard someone say, back when he was a kid. It might even have been Thatha. The devil sleeps alone, so she is always on her guard. Never, ever, think you’ve got her cornered. Take no chances. Slit her throat when you have the chance.

He stepped towards her, walking on tiptoe. Even if something was wrong in his logic, it had now become a question of self-preservation. With the sequence of killings, it was surely his turn to go next. Sarayu would not kill Aravind before she killed him—of that he had no doubt. On the other hand, if Aravind was the killer, he would certainly kill him first because Sarayu was a woman. He could dispose of her easily afterward. No matter how one looked at the situation, what he was doing now was right.

He closed his eyes, and the flower and the face flashed before him again. A new wave of fury flooded into him and swept the image away. He forced his eyes open and glared at the sleeping figure.

A tapeworm. Nothing more.

His wrist, as though acting on its own, started to flick open and close. He lifted one leg and placed it on the opposite edge of the cot, across her sleeping form. He then slid the fingers of his left hand into her hair and secured a grip, taking care not to pull. Her breathing became just a little haggard now, and her nostrils bristled.

A tapeworm.

‘Sarayu,’ he said softly.

She opened her eyes and started to smile.

His left hand tugged at her hair, revealing her neck. She started to scream, but his wrist, just like it would have flicked a stone over the glassy surface of Ellamma Cheruvu, broke inward, and the blade sunk in. Her scream was arrested mid-way and finished as a gasp for breath. Her eyes were now red with fear.

He had once taught Chotu how to make stones skip. He had shown him how to flick his wrist at
just
the right angle. Even as he began to think it, his wrist acted, finishing the motion. The knife completed the cut.

She dug her nails into his calf and pulled at the muscle. Her breaths came in whispery grunts and moans. Her body retched. He felt blood drip down his leg, but he felt no pain. Every time he saw a spasm inject itself into her body and into the veins of her neck, he felt a new rush of pleasure. She could drain his calf of all the blood she wanted, as long as she was going to die under him.

‘Now, you’re the tapeworm,’ he said.

Her hands fell away, lifeless. That was the last thing she heard.

Chapter Twenty Eight

1984

A
ravind felt the clouds of gloom beginning to lift within his mind. The rain had stopped. The drains, usually dry, were overflowing with yellowish water, stretching endlessly, on either side of where he stood. On the ground, rivulets stringed together, dancing and disappearing into puddles. Baby frogs jumped in and out of the water, filling the air with croaks, while earthworms twisted and slithered in the wet mud, vanishing one moment and resurfacing the next. Children knelt on the ground, their faces almost touching the running water, and blew at their paper boats, propelling them forward. On each one of them, Aravind knew, would be an ant holding on for dear life.

The clouds in the sky had lightened too. For the last three hours, Palem had been drenched in grey darkness. The murmur of the Godavari had risen to a growl. The slow, growing rumble of the rising water against the closed walls of the Arthur Cotton dam, the slap Palem heard when yet another wave came crashing against the smooth concrete, the clap of thunder that boomed over the village every second minute—the rain brought with it a hope of cleanliness and bounty, yes, but it also brought with it fear… Palem’s elderly folk had not yet forgotten the great flood that had come and wiped out half the village, before the dam was erected. It was only after the rain receded and the sun shone on the dam as proof that it was still standing that Palem came out to enjoy the weather and offer their relieved prayers.

To Aravind, though, the rain meant only one thing—emptiness.

Every time it rained in Palem, be it a small drizzle or a torrential downpour, it went straight to the hole in Aravind’s heart and unplugged it, draining him of life. It was a hole that Aravind hoped would go away, and every extended spell of sunshine brought with it fresh hope that it was no longer there. But all it took was that sound of raindrops hitting the wooden beams of his hut, and the walls would close in again. The pit of his stomach would churn, and he would lie in bed and hug himself until the rain passed.

The aftermath of rain, then, meant only one thing—revulsion and anger. It had been long enough since she had left, and yet the memory of that last day was gored into his brain so deep that he could not help but be turned into putty at the mere thought of it. She had been sick for a while, so it was not unexpected. It was just that there had always been hope. Rain always brought hope with it, did it not? He had seen her waste away for months in her sweat-soaked bed, cough into her pillow and wipe her nose in it. He had heard her hoarse breaths and halting words. He could not have been more than three years old at the time, and yet how well he remembered.

Her last words were to him, not to his father. His father’s mind, never stable to begin with, had begun to slip further ever since her illness started, and by the end, he was as much a wreck as she was. Aravind remembered how, with relentless sheets of water pouring down in the background, she had held out to him, her son, a small wooden boat.

‘Take care of your father,’ she had said, before a bout of coughing took over and she turned around to wheeze into her pillow.

Aravind had taken the toy boat and rushed outside to try it out in the drain. He had not known then that his mother was about to go. He would not know for a few days afterwards, when he would suddenly realize that the cot was now empty.

The toy boat had sat on his shelf for all his life after that, and after the rains stopped and the clouds started to lift, Aravind would pick it up in both hands and clutch it to his chest. The rain had taken from him, but not completely. The toothpick-sized mast, the smooth curvature of its bottom, the sharpness of its edges, the fragrance of his mother’s touch that had not left it after all these years—these would find their way into his heart and plug that hole again.

Today, he had done the same thing. After the rain ended, bathed in sweat and breathing like his mother had on that last day, he had staggered to his shelf and dug under his old khakhi
knickers. But his hands had only scraped the cold of the granite. His boat was gone. And his thoughts had immediately gone to one person alone.

Ramana
.

He had come to his house the previous day when they were all at Cheruvu. It was Aravind who had sent him to get his catapult to shoot down some mangoes from the tree. Aravind had been wearing his khakhi
knickers yesterday, so the boat stood in open view to anyone who entered the room. And to Ramana, who regularly and gleefully stole from Avadhani Thatha’s
field, who loved making toy boats and playing in rainwater…

Aravind picked up his pace. He made no effort to dodge the puddles. The clouds had become thinner now. Just as Venkataramana’s house came into his view, the first wisps of sunlight broke through. Outside his home, he saw Venkataramana crouching on all fours in front of the drain and blowing on a boat. It was no paper boat. It was a wooden one.

Aravind covered the remaining distance in a frantic rush. ‘Ramana!’ The boy looked up, and the first emotion Aravind read on his face was that of fear. Yes, he had been right!

Venkataramana took his boat, ran into the house, and closed the door behind him. Aravind stood in front of the door, hands on hips, and lowered his head. He closed his eyes to tamper down the blind rage that was threatening to wash over him and wipe Venkataramana out. In a restrained voice, he called out, ‘Ramana’.

The door opened and Venkataramana’s father appeared on the doorstep. Just behind him, his hands wrapped around the boat, Venkataramana stood staring.

‘Give me back my boat,’ said Aravind.

‘It’s not yours! It’s mine! I… I
bought
it!’

‘Give it back to me.’

Venkataramana’s father stepped out. ‘Hey, can’t you hear what he is saying? It is his.’

Aravind did not talk to the elderly man. His eyes never left the object in Venkataramana’s hands. ‘Ramana, you know that is mine. Give it back to me. I will buy you a new one.’

‘What need does he have to take
your
money for it?’ his father said. He turned back to his son. ‘Oye, close the door and go inside.’ Turning to face Aravind, tying up his dhoti above his knees, he advanced a few steps. ‘
You
come to
my
house, and you bully
my
son?’

Aravind closed his eyes again. ‘He took
my
boat.’

‘Haat! What need does he
have to take
your
boat? We have all the money in the world. If he wants a boat, all he has to do is ask me.’

‘
My
boat.’

The man advanced and slapped Aravind full on the face. Aravind reeled and fell on the ground, his knee landing in a puddle and splashing water onto his face.

‘You,’ the man said, ‘son of a madman.’ He bent down and yanked him by the elbow so that he could land another blow on his cheek. What are you
and what are we? Haan?’ He picked him up by the collar of his shirt and pushed him back. As the boy fell back, he advanced, pulling up his dhoti further. ‘Haan?
You
dare to come to my place and accuse
my
son of stealing? Son of a
broker
!’

Aravind looked up at the window. From the grill he saw the eyes of Venkataramana, and his hands clutching the boat. And as invective after invective rained on him and his father and his mother, as blow after blow felled him, Aravind resolved that come what may, he
would
get his boat back. With each groan of pain that came out of his mouth, he swore on the death of his mother that he would get the boat back.

The blows stopped. The man wagged his finger at Aravind. ‘If you come to my house again, if I see you again talking to my son, I am going to
kill
you. I will smash your head open like your father’s head. Understand?’

Aravind wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on the boy at the window. There was fear still lurking in Venkataramana’s eyes.

His hands tightened into fists clasping the wet mud. He stood up on his feet and took a few faltering steps away from the house. Venkataramana couldn’t hide behind his father forever. He had to come out some time. He would lie in wait for him. He would get him. Come what may, he
would
get his boat back.

Even if he had to drown Ramana in Ellamma Cheruvu for it.