The Faith of Ashish (2 page)

I will
work with you,
Appa,"
Ashish had announced early on that fateful morning.

To the child, it was simply another day. Early each morning, Virat went out to scour the open spaces around the mud huts and up the road in search of animals that had died during the night with their valuable hides intact. He always hoped for a cow or a goat, but he counted it good fortune to find anything salvageable at all. Ashish often tagged along on these daily hunts. It pleased Virat to have him. The boy must learn, for one day he, too, would do this accursed work. The son of a
chamar
always grew up to be a
chamar.

But very early that morning a runner had come from across the bridge, from the high caste side of the village, and—careful to keep his feet off the polluted path of the Untouchables— had called out, "Virat! Virat the
chamar!
Come and take away a dead cow!"

No one of high caste birth could touch a dead animal, of course. It would instantly pollute them. So, however much they might despise Virat, they could not do without his services.

"You must not come with me today," Virat had told his son." Today you must stay with your mother."

But Ashish did not stay with his mother. As soon as Latha left on her morning trek to fill the water jars, the boy set out to follow his father. Virat was too far down the path for Ashish to actually see him, but that didn't matter. The child knew the way his father would go: he would take the small path to the main road where he would turn and follow it all the way to the river. So that's the way Ashish went.

When the boy got to the river, he caught sight of his father far ahead, on the other side of the bridge. Actually, Ashish could only see a faint shape, but he knew it to be his
appa
because the shape pushed a hand cart, and only his father did that. So Ashish had rushed across the bridge.

Beyond the clutch of mud huts, flattened dirt and dusty brush lined both sides of the pathway. With most of the trees cut down for their wood, the land lay barren—shades of brown and gray and sandy tan—broken only by a great patch of shimmering green up ahead. It was the scum-edged pond where Latha went each day to fetch water for the family. Only in the hot summer, when the pond dried into thick mud, did she risk going on to the river.

People of the washer caste lived around the pond. It was their job to clean the dirty clothes of anyone who could afford to own more than one garment. Already untouchable women had begun to gather at the side of the pond, dipping their jugs into the water as they chatted about their children. Farther along, dusty steps led from the washer folk's houses down to the water. Stained
saris
and muddy
mundus
lay in piles on either side of the stairs. One washerwoman after another grabbed up a dirty garment and beat away the stains in scummy water. At a signal that only the washer folk knew, waiting children dashed into the water to grab the colorful cloth away from them and spread it out over the rocks to dry. Red, yellow, blue, green . . . like giant rainbow-colored flowers blossoming in the bleak land.

"Look at the funny man!" a child called as he pointed to Virat.

Other children turned to stare and giggle.

"Hush, hush!" the adults scolded. They kept their own eyes averted. They knew. A cup kept an Untouchable's contaminated breath off roads where high caste feet would tread. A broom was necessary to sweep away the pollution of untouchable footprints. A drum allowed the disgusting one to warn members of pure high castes that a polluted, worthless one headed their way.

That awful day had started out an especially fine day, blessedly too early in the year for the sweltering summer air that would soon blast the land and scorch the soul. The dead cow lay in a field directly across the river, in the section of the village reserved for Sudras—the workers. Even though Sudras were people of caste, not outcastes like in Virat's section of the village, they occupied the bottom rung of the caste ladder. Were a Brahmin to kill a Sudra, his penalty would be no greater than if he had killed a dog.

Virat worked efficiently. First he skinned the cow. He laid the hide aside to dry into fine leather which he would later fashion into sandals for the highest caste feet. Next Virat removed the best of the meat from the bones. He wrapped each piece in a section of cloth and laid them one by one in his cart to take back to his side of the river. Untouchables were meat-eaters. In fact, the promise of meat is what had persuaded the village elders to allow Virat and Latha to settle at the far edge of the village.

The rest of the cow, Virat left for the vultures. They also needed to eat.

With a smile of success, Virat had grabbed hold of the cart handles and tugged his way back across the rough slats of the bridge. That night, he would enjoy meat with his rice. Everyone in the settlement of mud huts would take pleasure in a meal of meat and rice. No doubt, Latha and the other women had already lit the cooking fires in anticipation.

Up ahead, a clutch of small boys chased after each other, clouds of sandy dirt billowing around their bare legs. Startled, Virat stopped to stare. For a moment, he thought he saw his Ashish running in the circle, laughing with the other children. But no. It was another skinny brown boy with black hair and scratched-up legs.

When the boys saw Virat staring at them, they stopped and stared back. Embarrassed, Virat moved on. The boys pulled together and drew away. Virat didn't turn around to see how long they continued to gape at him.

Past where the boys played, the land grew full and lush. Here the houses were larger, framed by verandas and sheltered by leafy neem trees. They were even made of wood, though the boards had weathered to a dull gray. Here and there Virat saw a mango tree, fragrant with blossoms. One house had a good-sized cart pulled up to one side and a plow next to that. At the end of the house stood an extra room big enough for a cow. Or maybe only a goat, though even a goat would be wonderful.

Nice, this part of the untouchable village. Nice in a drab sort of way.

"Where is Ashish!" Latha had demanded as soon as Virat pulled his cart into their courtyard. "Where is your son?"

Virat stared at her, unable to comprehend the question.

Here at home. Here with his mother. Virat knew Ashish to be an obedient child, so he must be right here.

But Ashish was nowhere to be found. So Virat left his cart where it was—standing in the open, filled with the wrapped packets of fresh meat—and ran to search for his little boy.

"Have you seen Ashish?" he asked one person after another." Have you seen my son?"

No, no, no, each person said.

But then three boys pointed down the road and told Virat, "He went that way. He went to the bridge."

That's when panic seized Virat. He had run to the bridge and on across without stopping, bellowing all the way, "Ashish! Ashish! Where are you, Ashish?"

"You make a disgusting spectacle of yourself,
chamar!"

Ranjun the potter sneered from behind the pretentiously bushy mustache in which he took such pride. On his head he balanced a huge load of newly fired earthenware pots, skillfully bound together with twine. It made him look like a tree with globes of fruit growing out of his skull. Although he, too, was untouchable, his pots were used in the kitchens of the high caste houses—the most sacred place to be found in a house—so he considered himself better than the others on that side of the river.

"Do you really think a cup, a broom, and a drum will protect you from the wrath of the upper castes?" Ranjun laughed out loud. "Of course they will not! It is you who pollutes the ground! It is your shadow. Tell me, how will you walk through their land and keep your shadow off their road and away from their houses?"

Ranjun was a vicious man. When distressed or angry, he beat his wife with a stick, and his daughter too. Sometimes he did so even when he wasn't distressed or angry, just to make certain they knew their place.

Yet Virat answered Ranjun with respect. Not because he liked the man, but for Latha's sake. She considered Ranjun's wife Pooni her closest friend.

"I have business on the other side of the bridge," Virat said as he continued to walk.

Virat could feel Ranjun's eyes burning into his back. Business? Of course Ranjun knew what that business was. Everyone in the untouchable end of the village knew.