Read THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM Online
Authors: Sharath Komarraju
THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM (7 page)
‘Do you have any thoughts on why Venkataramana went to Palem, Sir?’
‘
Arey
what is this? An interrogation? How will I know why he went there? Do you think he told us? These days do people tell their parents where they are going? “I am going out”. “I will be back in a few days”. “I will be back for dinner”. That is all they say. If he had told me he was going to Palem, do you think I would have let him?’
‘Why would you not have let him?’
‘
Arey
, the boy is from America, Madam. What will he do in a place like Palem? He would get bored. I would have told him that.’
‘But he lived in Palem before, didn’t he?’
‘Ya, when he was a kid. But when you are a kid, you don’t get bored, na? He came here when he was ten, just a little boy. And he came to India only a few days ago. Do you think he would remember anything about Palem?’
‘If he didn’t remember anything, why did he go there?’
‘Now, is that my job? Is that not the job of the police? Ask the police, na? What are the police doing, that is what I want to know.’
‘Does he have any enemies in Palem?’
There was a pause. The man looked as though he couldn’t believe the question that was thrown at him. ‘
Arey
Madam, the boy is from America. America! Why will he have enemies in East Godavari?’ He looked away at someone outside the field of the camera’s lens. ‘
Dimaag nahin hai kya isko?
’ he said.
‘So do you have any message for the police, Sir?’
‘I think whatever they are doing is not correct. They should start investigating and find out who killed my brother’s son. We have friends in very high places. If they don’t start moving tomorrow, I will make them move.
Arey!
Police is supposed to catch the criminal as quickly as possible. Four days! Four days ago it happened and they still have not set foot in the village. There are some vested interests here that we will get to the bottom of. This is not correct. No, this is
not
correct.’
The woman sat with her hands on her lap. Her sari pallu covered her head. Her forehead was bare and there were dark circles around her eyes. She spoke in a clear, measured voice, choosing her words with utmost care.
‘It must be a terrible shock to you, Mrs Reddy, to hear of the death of your son?’
The woman nodded once. ‘It is always hard to deal with death in the family. When it happens suddenly like this, it only sinks in as time goes by and you start to miss them more and more—especially the little things.’
‘When did you first hear of it?’
‘Tuesday. It was early in the morning. I was just making breakfast when I heard something on the TV. When I heard his name, I came out and watched.’
‘It must have been a terrible shock to you,’ the interviewer said again.
The woman looked at her and smiled. ‘You are still young. One thing you will learn about life is that it will go on.’
‘But surely, you must want to know who it is that –’
‘Killed him? Yes, I want to know. I wonder if it is true what they say in the papers. They think it is Aravind, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘The boy was a good friend of Chanti’s when we were in Palem. I wonder what made him so violent.’
‘The police are looking into it right now.’
The woman nodded.
‘Now Mrs Reddy, do you have any idea why your son went to Palem?’
The woman peered into the camera. ‘Chanti has never forgotten Palem. He would always remind me of the times when we lived there. We never went back in all these years, but I guess I always knew in my heart that he would go back some day.’
‘And he asked you for permission?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He told me everything.’ She looked up and smiled again. ‘He was my youngest son.’
My favourite son
, her eyes said.
‘But you don’t think there was some… special reason why he went there?’
‘What reason could there be?’
‘Well, some of the others’ family members mentioned a letter from Palem…’
‘A letter from Palem asking them to come there?’
‘We don’t know that for sure. But at least three of the other four people who died left for the village upon receiving this letter.’
The woman’s brows frowned in thought. ‘I cannot remember anything of the sort. I am sure Chanti would have told me about it if he had received a letter.’
‘Do you think the police are doing enough to catch your son’s murderers?’
‘Well, I am sure it is natural to want to be in a hurry, but I would rather they take their time and perform a thorough investigation.’
‘But in four days, Madam, they have not even entered the village.’
‘I am sure they have their reasons.’
‘Do you have anything to say to the police on the matter?’
‘No, I am just a housewife. I am in no way qualified to tell a policeman how to do his job.’
‘So you think they are doing enough?’
‘I am sure they are doing their best.’ The kind, matronly smile never left her lips.
‘Do you have any message for our viewers?’
She started to shake her head, then suddenly stopped. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I want to say a few words to the family members of the other four kids who have lost their lives.’
‘Go ahead, Madam.’
‘I know this must seem like the end of the world for you,’ the woman said. ‘And these first few days are the toughest. These few days you fill find yourself thinking of nothing but the person you’ve lost, the clothes they used to wear, the things they used to say, the sweets they liked to eat… but it will get easier. Life might not seem worth living right now, but if you get through these first few days, it will become better again.’ She had begun by staring right at the camera, but now she was looking past it into the distance, as if her own words had transported her to her past. After an interminably long silence, she said, ‘All the best.’
‘Thank you, Madam.’
‘Namaste.’
Life has to go on and that is the message Mrs Reddy wanted to share with our viewers. It is a message that we hope all the people affected by this tragedy will use to help ease the pain of those wounds.
However, for the police, the work starts now. It now seems certain that these five people had received letters from Palem shortly before they left for the village. What was in those letters? Who wrote them? If we answer these questions, will we be a little closer to unravelling the mystery surrounding these gruesome deaths?
For
Ee Roju
, this is Sonali Rao.
Chapter Nine
2001
S
ituated a few hundred metres east of the new Shivalayam, Avadhani’s house had once been the only brick-and-cement house on this side of the temple. It was a house with two bedrooms, one sitting room, a hall and a kitchen. For many years, the villagers of Palem had no trouble guiding visitors to his place. The directions were simple—‘Take the eastward path from the Shivalayam and stop at the first brick house.’
Avadhani was also the only person in the village who owned two
wells—one for drinking and one for irrigation. The smaller one, built of smooth, grey concrete, stood by the gate in front of the house, facing the village. The larger one was located a hundred or so metres behind the house, beyond the field it irrigated. He charged only a nominal sum for a pail of water but he did not allow anyone to come near it. Only he
or one of his servants was allowed to draw water from his well.
The third and final factor that contributed to Avadhani’s status in the village was the breed of buffaloes that he owned. Imported by his father from Ongole when Avadhani was a little boy, they had been passed on to him after his father’s death. He had taken good care of them and had made sure the next generation of buffaloes were as profitable as the last. If Rangayya was able to make such a good living selling milk, it was all thanks to Avadhanayya and the first-rate buffalo that he had sold to him. And for such a small price too.
But lately, Avadhani had begun to have competition. A couple of years ago, Komati
Satyam, his immediate neighbour, had razed his shack to the ground and erected in its place a brick house of two
stories. For good measure, he had had it painted a spotless white with a touch here and there of a pleasing blue. Then he had gone one step further and had a bore pump installed in front of his house, free for anyone in the village to use. And Komati
Satyam was not nearly as particular about who touched his pump as Avadhani was about his well.
Soon, Avadhani’s house became ‘the smaller house next to Satyam’s house’. When visitors asked for Avadhani, they were asked, ‘You mean Komati Satyam’s neighbour?’
It was, however, a few months later, when Satyam received a batch of twelve choice buffaloes from Ongole—healthier, plumper and more beautiful—that Avadhani’s defeat was complete in the eyes of the villagers of Palem. All he had now to fall back on was his field—which in recent times, like most other fields in Palem, had been steadfastly refusing to support plant life, no matter what.
Chanti looked around the room in which the three of them sat, and wondered again at how little things had changed in Palem. When he had arrived that afternoon, he had thought it looked a little drier than he remembered it. But then, it was almost summer, he had reasoned. For a few years now, summer had eaten a little into both spring and winter. Nothing surprising, global warming and all that, he mused.
But very little of the essential
things had changed, he noted. Mandiramma Banda, the piles of hay by Saraswatamma’s house, the school building and Gandhi’s statue, the new Shivalayam (by now about thirty years old), Prabhakarayya’s house, Ibrahim Bhai’s shack—everything was just as he remembered it.
Why, even here in Thatha’s
house, everything was the same. Those clay puppets still hung from the kitchen doorway, swinging around in the breeze. The old radio with the big black speakers was still there, though from the dust it had gathered on top, he could tell Thatha
probably didn’t use it much anymore. Thatha’s
old cot was as sturdy and spotless as ever. Yes, those days, they did build things to last.
Thatha
himself looked good for someone pushing eighty. Yes, his face had shrivelled to the point where it was all nose now, his lips were deathly pale and the skin on his cheeks showed cracks that looked ready to burst open. But somehow, beyond the thick glasses, some of the fire in his eyes had remained, and his voice still carried the same note of thoughtful authority as always.
‘When did Komati
Satyam build that house, Thatha?’ Sarayu asked.
Sarayu’s voice had grown tender. She used to speak in a shrill, commanding voice to everyone but Aravind. But years in the city had taught her to mellow down. Her tone, as befitted a lady, now barely rose above a whisper. Culture, wasn’t that what it was called?
His eyes travelled down to her feet. The sight surprised him. In his memory, he had always pictured Sarayu’s feet as big and manly. He recalled an incident when as kids, she had teased him about his small feet. Yes, her feet had been at least a third bigger than his. But now they were so… dainty. Now, he thought, looking uncomfortably at his own feet, his
feet were big and ungainly.
But she was wearing anklets. The same ones.
Some things do not change
.
‘Two years ago,’ Thatha
said. ‘His son is earning big money in the city, no?’
Chanti wondered how much money Avadhani Thatha’s
son made. He remembered how people had talked when this
house was built. Back then, Thatha’s
son had just begun working in the city and sending money home. Had he stopped somewhere along the way? Somehow, Chanti felt it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask.
‘I saw his buffaloes too,’ Sarayu was saying, tapping her feet on the floor. ‘Ongole?’
Thatha
nodded, his eyes still closed and his body slumped in the armchair.
‘I didn’t see
that
cow in your shed when I walked in—you know, the spotted one. What was her name?’
Thatha
smiled. ‘You have Gowri’s memory, my child. You still remember Surabhi?’
‘I used to drink her milk. She gives the best milk.’
‘Gave.’
There was a silence. No matter how much non-living things stayed the same, beings that lived and breathed changed all the time. A little bit of change each day, each second, until one day, they all stopped changing.
‘Oh,’ Sarayu said.
‘There is sadness in your voice,’ Thatha
said.
‘Well…’
Thatha
chuckled loudly. ‘You are a carbon-copy of your mother, my dear! Gowri. Gowramma. She used to listen to my stories with such rapt attention, such big eyes.’ He sat up and gestured with his hands. ‘But you know what? In the darkness, she used to hold hands with… with that boy. Subbai. I think they got married too. They did, did they not?’
‘They did, Thatha. I am their daughter.’
‘Oh yes, yes. I don’t remember things as well as I used to, my dear. Sometimes, I think in circles. Subbai hanged himself, did he not?’
Sarayu did not reply. Chanti looked at her pained expression and felt it was rather inconsiderate of Thatha
to have said that.
‘I brought you some peanut powder,’ Sarayu said after a while. ‘You used to like it.’
‘Yes, yes, I used to.’ He sank back into the armchair. ‘I used to.’ Suddenly he asked, ‘What is your name?’
‘You asked me ten minutes ago.’
‘Did I? Did you tell me?’
‘Yes. It’s Sarayu.’
‘Sarayu, yes. Sarayu. I don’t know why I keep forgetting it. It is such a nice name, too. Lord Ramachandra immersed himself in the Sarayu river before going back to heaven as Mahavishnu.’
Sarayu smiled. ‘I know. You told me this too, ten minutes ago.’
A knock sounded on the door, quiet and apologetic. ‘Who is it?’ Thatha
called out.
‘Adi… Chotu,’ the voice replied.
‘Chotu is here?’ Sarayu asked, raising an eyebrow and throwing a glance at Chanti.
‘Yes, my dear,’ Thatha
said. ‘Did you think I called just you two?’ Then, raising his voice, he called, ‘Push the door, Chotu. It’s open.’
Chotu’s face had not changed one bit. It was as if somebody had taken the kid’s head and transplanted it on an adult body, taking care to alter the size of each feature proportionally. His frame big and muscular, he stood beaming at them, filling the doorway completely. He was tall, probably six-foot-two, at a conservative estimate. Calling him Chotu had made sense when he was the tiniest of them all, but now it somehow felt ridiculous.
But Thatha
clearly was not given to any such considerations. ‘Em ra
Chotu, everything good with you? Come and take that chair.’
‘Forget about me, Thatha,’ Chotu said. He glanced at each of them and smiled in turn before bringing his eyes to rest on the old man. ‘How are
you
doing? Your letter scared me. I thought something was… wrong with you.’
Thatha
sighed and waved him to the chair. ‘Something
is
wrong, my boy. But not with me.’
Chotu sat down and swatted at his arms. He looked at Sarayu, then at Chanti and said, ‘There are so many bees here. Have we always had so many bees?’
‘Still scared of bees?’ Thatha
asked, snorting. ‘Whose son are you, boy? I have never remembered whose son you are.’
‘Gopalam is my father’s name.’
‘Oh, Gopalam… Gopalam who poisoned his wife and then jumped into Prabhakarayya’s well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Horini. You are
his
son, eh? Then you must be Kannamba’s grandson. She took you away to the city, no?’
‘Yes, Thatha. Bamma and I live in the city together. You wrote to my address there.’
‘Yes, yes, so I did. You know, kids, I have forgotten that I wrote you those letters. I keep thinking it was a dream. I keep thinking it did not happen. But you are here. So it must have happened. But I don’t remember anything about you all. But then, that is not saying anything, because these days I forget. I forget a lot.’
Would Thatha
be able to tell a story now like he used to in the old days, Chanti mused. One of the reasons he had come to Palem was that he had hoped to listen to a story told by Avadhani Thatha, one last time. He had not expected to see this old, rambling fogey in Thatha’s place. What did he want from them? Did he know even that much?
Thatha
turned to Chanti and pointed his finger at him. ‘You haven’t been speaking at all, Chanti. Still the quiet one, aren’t you? Your brothers still don’t let you speak?’
Chanti smiled.
Chotu said, ‘So… you’ve invited the others too?’
Thatha
looked at Chotu and shrugged his shoulders. ‘How am I to know? I don’t even remember writing the letter, my boy. When this girl here appeared at my door today, I asked her who the hell she was and what the hell she was selling. Because no one has stopped here at my door for a long, long time. Then she told me I had written to her. And then Chanti here showed up, and now you. But somehow, I knew
you
would come, Chotu. I knew you
would come.’ He pointed at the other two. ‘If these two had come, you would come too. I just knew.’
‘So, Ramana…’
Thatha
chuckled, cutting him short. ‘Ramana is already here, my boy! He is already here. He came by the afternoon cart. He will be here any time now.’
‘How do you know he is here?’
‘Ah, you know how it is, Chotu. Nothing stays hidden in Palem. He has been seen walking around near the school building.’
Chanti had a strange sense of foreboding about that. If Ramana had been called too, there couldn’t be any other reason for Thatha
calling them all here. Which meant
he
would be here too.
‘And Aravind?’ Chotu asked.
‘I don’t know about that boy. But you see how this is shaping up, don’t you? We are all here. Ramana is here. Who is the only one to complete the picture?’ He looked around the room at the three of them.
All of them knew the answer.
‘So I think he will come too.’ Thatha
craned his neck and looked out of the window. The evening light shone full on his face, accentuating every fold and every black scar. His mottled nostrils twitched and his lips parted in a smile. ‘I see someone coming.’ He groaned into a sitting position. ‘Yes, someone
is
coming.’
Chanti followed his gaze. A figure had just crossed the gate and was making his way to the front door. Chanti had not seen him in seventeen years but he recognized him immediately.
Now
, he thought,
now
there was no doubt as to what this was all about.
‘It’s going to be a reunion, kids,’ Thatha
said, his toothless smile broadening and his smooth bald pate shining. As he ran a hand over his scalp, his eyes glazed over like a ganja
addict’s eyes. ‘Yes, a reunion,’ he murmured. ‘It’s going to be a reunion to remember.’
Avadhani Thatha
reached out for the dark blue cylindrical box of Manikchand Gutkha and opened the lid slowly, one twist at a time.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The skin of his arms was only barely hanging on. His fingers were those of an anorexic teenager’s. His legs belonged to a polio patient. Overall, he looked like a matchstick that had burnt itself out and was now waiting to be thrown away.
There was the familiar evening chill in the air now. The best part of Palem in winters, to Chanti at least, was the chill that the air caught just before sunset. No matter how hot the day had been, the Godavari always cooled the village as the sun dipped. And the breeze from the river brought with it the light, musty odour of wet mud. It was divine. Always had been.