The Toss of a Lemon (41 page)

Minister catches Vairum’s eye and suddenly feels fiercely annoyed with the younger man for observing all, daily, in silence, never taking a stand. Vairum clearly has no political ambitions—why is he here?

“Isn’t that right, Vairum?” Minister lobs. “Look at what your mother is doing for you—you owe her the world, isn’t it?”

Vairum wags his head noncommittally. Such statements, his gesture might imply, are self-evident and need hardly be spoken.

Vairum goes again that night to the Ramayana Sivakami sponsored but finds himself unable to bear being surrounded by Brahmins. Several of his friends told him that day that they would be attending the other Ramayana because they were interested in supporting its message of non-Brahmin liberation. He is interested in that, too, and thinks, They
are
my gods. Can
I
not worship them
as
well in
an atmosphere I find
more sympathetic?

He takes Vani home, then goes and joins his friends. He is a little shocked by what he sees: Rama and Lakshmana as comic villains, Sita as a harlot, and Ravana made to seem a hero—as though this story were written on the other side of the world from the one he knows. He isn’t sure how to reconcile this with his daily prayers to the Ramar in his home, except to think that his prayers are private. He has his convictions and can’t escape his heritage. They are the gods of my home
and I am
obliged to worship them, he thinks, but he is not obliged to worship them in the company of people he cannot like or respect. How can he share their religious feeling if he doesn’t share their caste sentiment?

He decides that the Self-Respect Ramayana is not an act of devotion, but it doesn’t need to be. He prays at home. This is something different.

When Sivakami serves him breakfast the next morning, she asks Vairum to report on the performance, which she will not attend until the last night. His response is predictably disappointing.

“Amma, even weddings are more unique than these Ramayana performances,” he dryly points out. “Why waste breath? Attendance was good.”

Muchami reliably gives a much more satisfying account, taking nearly an hour to describe the costumes and mimic the highlights of the evening. Gayatri, who had attended, claims she is entertained all over again by Muchami’s show, but also assures Sivakami, “It’s
first
-class performance, Sivakamikka, take it from me.” She repeats, with emphasis, the English phrase that has passed confidently into bourgeois Tamil.
“First-class.”

Muchami also, however, brings the unwelcome wisdom that nine-year-old Laddu, who had been given permission to attend, was spotted at the wrong tent. Sivakami mentions this to Vairum, who catches Laddu up by one arm from the corner where he is napping and delivers a brief but thorough thrashing.

“You were given permission to attend the performance your grandmother sponsored. You were not given time and freedom to do whatever you want. As long as you live under this roof, you will abide by what you are told. Clear?”

Laddu drops back onto the floor, sobbing.

The next day, Sivakami doesn’t bother asking Vairum for his report but rather waits for Muchami’s, which he delivers with all the enthusiasm and verve of the days prior, though he omits one detail. Gayatri notes this omission and says nothing: Vairum was seen once more under the canvas roof of the other troupe’s performance tent.

“You all have enjoyed terrific success,” Dr. Kittu Iyer says stiffly, in a rare acknowledgement, that same morning. The night before, that of the third performance, Self-Respect’s audience equalled Sivakami’s. “With the kinds of concessions the Justice Party has achieved for the non-Brahmin sector, one can’t help but see a time when very few Brahmins would want to live in Tamil Nadu,” he mumbles tangentially. “Opportunities are becoming scarce for us.”

“Oh, pshaw!” Ranga Chettiar ejects. “The presidency’s Brahmins have had their rampant nepotism but slightly curtailed. This hardly heralds your starvation, my good fellow!”

“Well may we all starve if our country is run by an administration chock full of fellows whose ICS examination scores are deplorably below par.” Mani Iyer trembles indignantly.

“Yes, none of you fellows has been able to satisfactorily explain the continued inadequacy of performance by non-Brahmin castes on all academic and standardized measures,” Dr. Kittu Iyer accuses. “And these reserved positions in colleges and the government can hardly offer much motivation to improve.”

“Oh, come now.” Rama Sastri, the lawyer, waves an orangewood stick at them and goes back to his cuticles. “All of your nephews and cousins and the brothers of your sons-in-law have profited from your acquaintance with our host. This is why you have so consistently returned him to office.”

The remark is all too accurate, but none of them needs to be reminded. Minister, as their host and the subject of this most awkward moment, grasps for a remark which will smooth it.

“I’m sorry,” the Sastri smirks. “That was tacky.”

Young Kesavan, the Sanskrit master, attending for a second day, rises, stretches and yawns. “I agree that the administration is far too Brahminically weighted. It’s not healthy for our future. But I, too, wish that non-Brahmin lobby groups could put the energy into self-improvement that they have invested in divisiveness and political manoeuvring.”

“I... I think,” Minister begins, “I know you all have real evidence of my esteem for you and your families. You have been my constituency and will remain so. What benefit could I expect if I didn’t return your trust?”

“You are a beacon, Minister,” Muthu Reddiar rejoins with hearty ambiguity. “We are all looking to you in this difficult time.”

“I have been waiting for that boy, that traitor—where is Vairum today?” Dr. Kittu Iyer springs to his feet, then looks a little dizzy. “You all have heard that he is now attending this Self-Respect whatever-it-is-called
^?
” he spits.

Minister had not heard this and becomes grave. “I ... he must have business in Trichy today. Are you quite sure? He didn’t attend the performance his mother sponsored for him?”

His cronies shake their heads, not sure whether they are glad or regretful to be delivering him this news.

At 3:30, Minister descends to eat his tiffin. Exiting the stairwell, he padlocks the door behind him. It’s only mid-afternoon, but with alien elements about the village, it’s best not to take chances. Crossing the veranda, he steps into the narrow hallway that opens into the great hall and pauses to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.

He’s sleepy. He’s been attending only the first portion of the performance each night, just long enough to show his support for Sivakami. Even this brief appearance, however, has meant he gets to bed later than usual. And the daily salon inevitably leaves him too stimulated to manage an afternoon rest.

Gayatri smiles at him and shoos the children from the dining room as he sits. She lays a banana leaf on the floor in front of him and goes to the kitchen to fetch a serving vessel full of freshly steamed idlis. She puts five on the leaf and returns to the kitchen for okra sambar. The oily crescent moons beneath her eyes are darker than usual—it’s been a busy week and she can’t get to sleep at night until her husband comes home.

“How is Sivakami Mami?” he commences.

“Resigned. We didn’t even speak of the other Ramayana today. Muchami gives such an entertaining—”

“Vairum has been seen at that other Ramayana.”

This is not a revelation to Gayatri. “He punished his nephew for the same transgression,” she says, though she is aware, on a level she can’t articulate, that it is not the same transgression at all. “Are you going to say something to Vairum?”

“I don’t understand his motives!” He shakes his head. “Does Sivakami Mami know he’s been seen there?”

“I would hope no one would dare tell her.” Gayatri stands to accept the baby from her mother-in-law.

“This is how big St. Joseph’s College graduates behave?” Minister jabs the air with his eating hand, scattering beads of okra, then jabs again at his food. “What can he be thinking? He’s not a child.”

“No, yes.” Gayatri jiggles the baby vigorously on her hip. “Maybe he needs a child of his own before he feels that.”

“Hm,” Minister grunts.

“He won’t say it, but I think he thinks Cholapatti Brahmins don’t accept him,” Gayatri ventures.

“They don’t,” Minister responds pragmatically. “So what?”

“So maybe this is a kind of revenge.”

“But no one cares but his mother!” Minister expostulates. “All he will do is give food for gossip and wound her.”

Gayatri murmurs agreement, because if she didn’t, she would have to suspect that Vairum may see this all too well, that his attendance is not a youthful caprice, nor a gesture of ignorance or naivete, and Gayatri, while she is shrewd, can’t think that way about a boy she likes.

The next day, when Vairum arrives in the salon, after the other members, Minister shouts at him. “What do you think you are doing? What about your mother?”

“My mother belongs to an old order,” Vairum responds evenly. “I am interested in a new one.”

The salon is astounded. Vairum has never expressed an opinion before and they, with the exception of Rama Sastri, realize now that they have been a little afraid to find out where he stands.

“You... you are worshipping Ravana?” asks Dr. Kittu Iyer, too shocked to reprimand him.

“No—neither of these Ramayanas is an act of worship. My mother’s is supplication. The other is a political statement.” Vairum accepts a cup of tea and a biscuit from a maid. “I worship the gods of my home in my home, every morning and night. I ask them, too, for the blessing of a child, but I will worship them no matter what they choose to give me in my life. I have been fortunate in most respects, so far. And I am interested in witnessing what all these Self-Respecters have to say.”

Rama Sastri takes him up. “Come now, Vairum: you know very well
you
are making a political statement by attending one and not the other.”

“Fair enough. By that reasoning, staying home would also be a political statement.” Vairum watches the men watching him hold his own. “These are political times. The Self-Respecters offer an amusing spectacle. And they have a good point: the caste system is unfair.”

Murthy, returning from a trip to the outhouse, hollers from the door. “I have been waiting for you! How could you betray your mother and your people in this fashion?” he berates Vairum in Tamil.

Although most of the other salon members would have said the same thing, they find Murthy somewhat distasteful and hearing him speak their thoughts makes them wish, a little, to take some other side.

“Your father was like a brother to me and I am as a father to you. I forbid you to return. You will attend the real Ramayana from tonight forward, yes? Good boy.”

Vairum gives his father’s cousin a hard look, shrewd and not unaffectionate. “I am not as confident as you of how my father would have advised me in this situation. But I have my reasons, and I will attend the performance of my choice. Excuse me.”

Vairum rises and departs the salon before Murthy has a chance to react. Several seconds later, though, Murthy toddles stiffly down the stairs to give chase. He sees Vairum heading toward their houses at the other end of the Brahmin quarter and scurries after his swiftly striding form. At the end of the street, however, Vairum doesn’t go into his house but continues on as the road turns left—toward town, toward the river, who knows. Murthy stops, panting, at his own veranda, the other salon members looking on, down the street, from Minister’s door.

The next morning, Vairum comes back to the salon and, as always, peruses the newspapers, not speaking because he is not spoken to. Murthy is not in attendance, and the others hash things out among themselves. In a lull, Gopi Chettiar, who is also more observer than participant, asks Vairum’s opinion on a newly formed cereals-processing unit going up in Thiruchi.

“It will do well. I have invested,” Vairum responds, his fingertips joined, so his hands form a loose cage at his mouth.

The men are clearly surprised.

“Ah,” Gopi Chettiar clears his throat nervously. “They asked me... ”

“Get in now,” nods Vairum. “It will soon get expensive.”

“While we’re on the subject of investment,” Muthu Reddiar breaks in, smiling, “I wanted to let you know, Vairum—well, let all of you know,” he expands graciously, “my man, the Sikh, has telegraphed me that our shipment of Australian horses has arrived in Madras harbour. I wanted to thank you for your support in this project, Vairum. They are evidently sturdier than our Indian breeds, and the stallions should stud nicely with my line of carriage horses.”

“Glad to know it,” Vairum says, poker-faced. “Clearly a winning proposal.”

Minister is taken aback. Business matters are often referred to in the salon, since they are inseparable from the workings of politics and power, but this discussion verges uncomfortably on transaction. He thinks, though, that he may now understand how Vairum has been benefiting from these years in attendance. Now he quickly starts to feel pride in having drawn the boy in: Minister’s not a minister at present, his political fortunes may be at a low ebb, but he is still an influence peddler. The boy knows which way the wind is blowing, Minister thinks. And he is my friend.

Vairum catches his eye and they exchange a slight smile.

The morning after the sixth performance, Rama Sastri treats them to a recitation of the concluding stanzas of each of the performances. Both showed the episode in which Ravana is slain in battle by Rama. The Sastri has sent his reluctant servant to the performance each night, and the man has turned out to be an excellent reporter.

“This is our performance, close to Kamban’s words, if not quite,” says the Sastri, clearing his throat and proclaiming: