The House of Blue Mangoes (18 page)

The Andavar team had lost the first two games. At the start of the next game, as the strongest Vedhar boy launched himself into the attack, a single Andavar boy faced him head on. The rest of his team drew themselves up behind. Keeping a wary eye on the circling Andavars, the burly Vedhar boy swatted the boy in front of him to the ground with contemptuous ease. As the child fell, he grabbed hold of his attacker’s staff and clung on. The bigger boy grunted, and tried to recover his weapon. He aimed a kick at his adversary, to no avail. The only way out for him was to abandon his staff and accept defeat but he wasn’t about to be bested by the annoying creature in front of him. Just then three well-aimed blows delivered with all the anger the opposing side could muster crashed into the nape of his neck, his head and his legs. He fell to the ground and lay still. The elated cries of the Andavars were cut short by the unnatural stillness of their victim. Both sides took to their heels.

When news of the tragedy spread, the first to arrive on the scene was Muthu Vedhar. He refused to allow the wounded boy to be taken to Father Ashworth’s nearby dispensary. Instead, he was heaved into a rough litter and taken to the vaidyan’s house a couple of furlongs away. He died on the way. That day, his father and the rest of the Vedhars solemnly vowed at the Murugan temple to avenge the death of the child with the blood of every Andavar male in Chevathar and Meenakshikoil.

Early the next morning, while the moon still hung in the sky, the Vedhars once again assembled at the Murugan temple. Bells rang out to focus the attention of the Gods, following which Subramania Sastrigal, who had been reluctantly pressed into service by his son, mumbled Sanskrit shlokas and gave every man vibhuti and prasadham. He exhorted them to emulate the fearless warrior Arjuna who had fought with no thought of friend, kinsman or neighbour. ‘Yours is a just fight, these evil men do not even spare the lives of children. And, above all, remember what Lord Krishna said on the battlefield:

“
There is nothing more welcome for a warrior

Than a righteous war
. . .

Die and you will enter heaven

Conquer, and you will enjoy the sovereignty of earth
. . .”’

29

Barely a kilometre away, Father Ashworth and Solomon Dorai knelt in prayer before the rosewood Christ. As soon as he had learned of the death of the boy, Solomon had instructed his men to expect an attack at any moment. Just before dawn broke, he had walked over to the church.

The priest had spent the night in prayer and meditation. He had remonstrated and argued with the Lord, sought guidance, pleaded for answers. ‘Tell me, Lord,’ he had shouted at one point, ‘what good can come of this unholy battle? If this is your will, how can you justify it? The Hindus see it as a part of the great wheel of life turning, turning, turning, every act of destruction mirroring or giving rise to an act of creation. The almighty Shiva performs his terrible dance that creates even as it destroys. But what answer do you have, Lord?’

When the headman was announced, he ran out of the church to meet him, but his brief moment of hope died when he saw Solomon’s face.

‘There is still time to call it off, Solomon.’

‘I’d like to pray, Father,’ the headman said. ‘And some of my men would like to receive the Lord’s blessing. My Hindu fighters have already visited the temple, and the Christians would like to be able to worship as well.’

‘This is not right, Solomon. This fight will not add to your glory, your greatness.’

‘Father,’ the headman said formally, ‘I would like to pray and listen to the Lord. If you are unable to assist . . .’

‘Let me help you stop this, Solomon. I’ll be your emissary. You know you can prevent it. All you need to do is tell me what will be acceptable to you.’

‘I’ve told you what I’ve come here for.’

‘Solomon, I’m begging you to listen. How will men remember you? As someone who sanctioned the killing of other men just because they belonged to another caste. Think, Solomon, these men till their fields just as you do, they have families like yours. Do you think killing them, driving them away from this land, will end all your troubles? Do you think that if this becomes a purely Andavar village, all your problems will be over? Do you think there will be no more rape, no more fights? You can put an end to this . . .’

‘I did not start it, Father, but it must be ended one way or the other. I want to spend time with my Lord but if you cannot help me, I will go.’

Slowly, like an old, old man, the priest began looking through the Bible, and finally found what he was searching for. He read out the words of the warrior Joshua: ‘One man of you shall chase a thousand: for the Lord your God, he it is that fighteth for you, as he hath promised you.’

Then they bowed their heads in silent prayer. Some time later Solomon rose, thanked the priest and left.

30

Under the setting moon, the sea lay thick and viscous, its thunder dimmed, the surf a thin white scar. It was hot and clouds blanketed the sky, threatening rain.

The men began assembling on the beach at dawn. Solomon’s fighters were the first to arrive. They formed a semicircle under the shadow of a dune, tense and expectant, repeatedly checking their weapons, bamboo silambus for the most part. Joshua and Solomon carried shotguns, the headman of the cotton village fingered an ancient flintlock, the barrel of which was held together by wire, and two other tenant farmers had guns that were little more than barrels with faulty foresights. Most of the fighters were armed with fearsome-looking aruvals with broad flat blades that could slice a coconut in two with the merest flick of a wrist.

As colour welled up in the sky, the catamarans of the fishing fleet set out for their distant fishing grounds, skimming across the sullen surface of the sea. The delayed monsoon had given them a few more days of fishing. About half a dozen catamarans bobbed in the still water beyond the surf. Solomon wondered why they hadn’t already left.

A thin blade of sound announced Muthu Vedhar’s arrival. His men broke from under the giant fronds of the palms lining the shore, preceded by the young Brahmin priest, a nadeswaram player and a drummer. Before the astonished eyes of their adversaries, Muthu’s forces advanced as though they were part of a religious procession. Vibhuti flashed on bare bodies, and the fighters held their arms with stately grace: staffs, aruvals, some crudely fashioned tridents, a dozen or so firearms, as motley in their assortment as Solomon’s own weaponry.

Solomon’s group was outnumbered almost two to one despite the fact that Muthu had managed to round up barely a hundred men for the fight, less than half the number he had hoped for. The Andavars fingered their weapons nervously, tense and exhausted from the constant vigil of the past week. Joshua sensed their mood and whispered to Solomon, ‘We should do something. Let’s get a couple of them as soon as they get within shotgun range.’

‘No,’ Solomon whispered back. ‘They have the poojari and musicians with them.’

‘But we’re playing into Muthu’s hands. He’s obviously got a plan.’

‘As we do,’ Solomon said. ‘We shall fight honourably or not at all.’

Just outside shotgun range, Muthu stopped. The music died down, and the musicians and the poojari trudged off. At a signal from the Vedhar chief, firearms began popping, their sounds rendered insignificant by the vastness of sea and sand. The firing was wild and the distance between the forces was too great. A lucky shot brought down one of the Andavars, who fell clutching his leg. He began to wail, a shrill, agonized sound that galvanized Muthu’s men into action. They began running towards the Andavars, stumbling across the soft sand. To Joshua’s dismay his men were beginning to shift about, as their enemies drew closer. A couple of them cut and ran, and he turned on the rest in a fury.

‘You cowards, I will shoot the next man who moves. Hold firm and you will succeed. Remember Valli, remember you are the only ones who stand between your women and children being butchered. Now fight like men!’

Solomon heard his cousin’s exhortations dimly, for it was as though an enormous space had opened between his physical body and his other senses. As if from a great height, he saw himself calmly sight down the barrel of his shotgun at the bulk of Muthu now fifty yards from him. A young man, speedier than the Vedhar leader, took the charge full in the chest and went down, his limbs softened and askew in death. Solomon shot again and another man staggered and fell. But Muthu charged on. Joshua got off a couple of rounds, as did the others, and three more Vedhars fell.

The impact of the charging Vedhar force broke through the defensive line. Their firearms now useless, the men went for each other with a ferocity born of the need to survive. With the exception of a couple of the Marudars, none of the men had fought professionally or for gain and certainly not to the death. There were veterans of drunken brawls, of course, and those who had kicked and abused neighbours and rivals over land or women. But peace had prevailed in Chevathar for over two decades and most of the men were not prepared for war. Their brief training melted away and with an undisciplined desperation the men slashed at each other with aruvals and silambus, determined only to live at whatever cost.

Some died immediately, their skulls cloven in two or frantically battered in. The rest heaved and struggled, trying to maintain their balance on the shifting sand. Joshua fought the stocky Marudar chief, their bamboo staffs swirling and slicing through the air like leaping fish, thrust countered by parry, followed by counter-thrust. His opponent was as unsteady on the sand as Joshua with his limp. And then Joshua began to tire. The years began to take their toll. Back, back, the Marudar chief harried him, and then neatly sidestepping a wild lunge by his opponent he brought his staff smashing into the bridge of Joshua’s nose, driving splinters of bone into his adversary’s brain. Without a murmur, Joshua fell face down on the beach.

Fortunately for his men, the whirling intensity of the battle meant that most of them were too preoccupied to notice their leader fall. Aaron, who had been fighting by Joshua’s side, saw however. He turned savagely on the Marudar chief. When he saw who his adversary was, the man smiled. ‘First I’ll kill you and then I’ll deal with the rest of your misbegotten family,’ he shouted.

After the first furious assault, Aaron began to slow down. He knew he would lose in full-frontal combat so he put into plan a strategy he had devised for precisely such a situation. He began retreating to an empty part of the beach, as the Marudar chief pressed home the attack. Half a dozen of his men rallied to his side, rolling back the brave efforts of the Andavar youths who surrounded Aaron. Then, as one, the Andavar boys scattered and to the consternation of the Marudar attackers, the ground beneath their feet began to move. The fishing nets that Aaron’s fishermen friends had buried beneath the sand slid forward now as the catamarans began to head out to sea. Aaron and his band attacked the Marudar men as they fell, clubbing them to the ground and then clubbing them some more. Flipping the nets securely about the injured and dying men, Aaron and his band raised their arms in a prearranged signal. Trapped like porpoises, seven men, including the Marudar chief, slid into the Gulf of Mannar.

31

After the headman had left him, Father Ashworth knelt for a long time before the altar, praying for a miracle. Then he wandered outside. Solomon had warned him not to come to the scene of battle. When Father Ashworth had protested, the headman had said firmly that he would post some of his men at the mission compound to ensure he did not leave. The priest did not argue but merely said that there was no need to send anyone to guard him; Solomon would need every fighter he had.

The sun shone fitfully through a sky packed with tiny grey curls of cloud. It was hot and oppressive and he began to sweat under his cassock. Leaving the mission compound, he climbed a small knoll that gave him a clear view of the beach.

Men, like insignificant stick figures, moved around languidly on the gleaming sand. Occasionally one would fall; he couldn’t say with any certainty if it got up again. Horror rose within him, renewed and huge. There were men dying on the sands, Vedhar, Andavar, Marudar, people he had lived with, laughed with, worshipped with. Father Ashworth knelt under the woolly sky and prayed but he had no words left to beseech the Lord; all he could do was remain on his knees, sinking deep into misery. Then, suddenly, he felt a great light flood him. As he watched, the rosewood Jesus, clad only in a loincloth, walked up to him and took him by the hand and led him down the slope to where farmers and thieves died in God’s name.

From a distance, a battlefield before the advent of modern artillery and warplanes was a quiet, self-absorbed place. The oaths and screams of dying men and enraged adversaries, the popping of firearms and the clash of sticks and knives and other implements of battle rose up and were sucked down again into the vortex, much as the scum at the centre of a whirlpool rises before being pulled under. To the dozens of spectators under the palms, the battle of Chevathar made little more noise than the subdued murmuring of the sea, making the grim struggle unfolding before their eyes seem like a puppet show.

But in the heart of the battle, the noise was furiously loud. With a roar, Muthu brushed aside the two Andavar men who were fighting him, and hurled himself at Aaron and the other boys. He had watched them lure the Marudar chief to his death, and knew he would need to exact immediate and crushing revenge if he hoped to rally his forces. He had almost got to the boy when Solomon brought him up short.

‘You will have to get past me to fight my boy,’ he said, his breath heaving out of him in great gasps. He was bruised and battered, and for a moment, Muthu felt compassion for him. He saw before him a middle-aged man, all the lightness and dash of youth gone, forced into a situation that he had no real control over. Then anger erased the moment and he attacked with all the strength, and guile, he had left.

Solomon had fared worse than Muthu so far but the moment he saw the big man’s staff cut through the hot air towards him, he found a new energy. He parried the blow and counterattacked. Around them the battle swirled and ebbed, following its own momentum, but from the moment their staves crossed, the two men were totally absorbed in each other.