And this is theirs—rather innovative,“ he smiles, shifting position, dropping his right hand and lifting his left:
“Ravana’s noble head and body
Rejoined on the
funeral pyre.
Dravidian pride
and
sorrow now
But
battlefield’s
bloody mire.
The flames of truth
and purity
Must in your eyes leap higher.
Ravana’s children! Avenge this death!
Unite in the name ofyour sire!
Loose the blindfold of Aryan deception,
Every Shastri, lyengar, Iyer
Is a manufacturer of illusions
Yet these are the ones you hire
For your weddings, your blessings, your babies and homes
Whether you be Panchama or Nair
Self Respect, man! Do it yourself!
Beneath Ravana’s flag: the lyre!“
The Sastri concludes with a flourish.
“It’s not a lyre, it’s a veena,” Dr. Kittu Iyer snorts.
“Poetic licence, dear chap,” Rama Sastri responds.
“You can only take poetic licence with
poetry,”
the doctor explodes. “This is
drivel.”
“Does anyone know why the so-called Self-Respecters ended one night early?” Mani Iyer deepens his ever-present brow wrinkles. “Surely not to actually enable the populace to celebrate Rama’s return and recoronation in peace.”
“Surely not.” Muthu Reddiar strokes his upwardly waxed moustaches. “I passed their tent on my way here—they’re readying for performance, not packing up.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” remarks Minister, and the others frown in agreement or perplexity.
“My foot!” Murthy, who had held his tongue till then, screams in English. He has leapt up, fists and eyes clenched, face flushing from pomegranate to mangosteen. “Day after day this talktalktalk and no action. These fellows cannot fling about insults and expect best citizens would accept simply! Though they must think so because of you!” he spits at Vairum, who looks away, mild and skeptical.
“Have you ... a ... proposal?” Minister asks, though his tone makes it sound more like “Sit down... you’re... embarrassing yourself.”
“Yes!” Murthy cries, returning to his native tongue, ablaze with inspiration. There is a patch of dirty grey stubble on his dewlap, missed while shaving. It wobbles at the men as he reveals his idea. “I will lie down! I will lie across the path that these asses of the audience must take to attend the debacle, and prevent them from entering.”
“Bravo!” Rama Sastri starts to clap. “Take a stand, man—lying down! The show must not go on!”
Murthy heaves for the door, muttering and crying, “Must not go on, the show!”
“The peasants will never step over him,” Mani Iyer offers.
“No—they will go around him,” says Ranga Chettiar with exasperation.
Minister tries to intervene. “Please, dear man. Don’t be rash”—and he grabs for Murthy’s hand, but it is slippery and Murthy, inflamed by his vision, descends the stairs.
“Well, thank God
that’s
taken care of,” snorts Muthurunga Chettiar, half-reclined on a divan.
After some moments, Minister speaks. “I shan’t let him go to that place, alone—I shall try again, this evening, to dissuade him, and if he won’t be dissuaded, I will follow him. He is my good friend, like all of you, one of my constituency, and I owe him a debt of good faith.”
There follows a silence in which it seems several of the men mean to speak and change their minds. Rama Sastri finally breaks it.
“Ah—I had thoughts of slinking over there myself. Curiosity, don’t you know, the last night. Theatre is hardly theatre when performed by my man.”
“I am not curious—I am interested by this message of non-Brahmin uplift,” declares Ranga Chettiar.
“Tsk, let us join!” Muthu Reddiar waves dismissively. “It’s a spectacle!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Gopi Chettiar offers in response to Ranga Chettiar’s expectant look.
“We are not to be outnumbered,” Dr. Kittu Iyer says with stiff and evident reluctance. “There may be those still amenable to the Congress message. ”
“Quite,” whimpers Mani Iyer. “Oh, quite.”
Vairum clears his throat. “I’ll see you all there, then.” He smiles, templing his fingers, lowers his head and can’t help starting to chuckle, then laugh. Rama Sastri joins in, and then Minister, and the Reddiar. The others are not so compelled but smile perplexedly at their solidarity. It seems almost fated.
“Ho, ho, what is this?” the actor playing Rama exclaims jocularly.
“Hoi! Jambu, Bala, come, quickly! See what I have found!”
Ordinarily, Murthy would bow before an actor dressed as Rama, but this is not a Rama he recognizes: painted-on leer, unimpressive profile, sloppy clothes. Rage and hurt start to pump him full again with bravado. Anyway, he can’t bow: he’s flat on his back.
Two more heads bend over him: Lakshmana and Sita, they can be none else, but, again, what perversions!
“Brahmin,” says Lakshmana with glee, drawing a line from his own shoulder to hip to indicate the holy thread visible beneath Murthy’s rumpled kurta.
“What do you want?” Sita demands. Stubble pokes through “her” rice flour face powder and kohl beauty marks.
“The show,” Murthy squeaks, “must not go on!”
Rama turns to the others incredulously and Lakshmana starts a high-pitched giggle.
“Oh, come, let us get ready.” Sita turns away. “Leave him until big boss comes and we have an audience.”
“We have an audience!” Lakshmana jumps up and down a few times at Murthy’s head, to make him wince, then follows the others.
Murthy can tell from their nasal voices and funny gaits that they are comic actors—what sort of Ramayana features comic actors in the lead roles? What was the English expression Minister Iyer was using, some months back... cave of inequity? Lair of inquiety? It means something very sinful. He was talking about opium smokers in Calcutta: white people, women. Shocking. Murthy sighs and looks at his hands, folded on his chest, chubby fingers and stubby nails, and up again at the sky. It’s still blue, though each cloud blares orange off its western slope, heralding the dusk. He hears voices from around a bend in the path and tightens his bearing so he looks like a toy soldier at attention—knocked down.
“Ayoh!
Enn’ idhu?”
It’s a woman’s voice, accompanied by running feet. A family group looks down on him.
“Who is it?”
“An Iyer!”
“Is the Iyer hurt? Does he need assistance?”
They do not make eye contact with him, and stand at a respectful and non-polluting distance, slightly bowed, rigid.
“No, you silly people, the Iyer doesn’t need help,” Murthy bellows. “As long as he knows you dolts are not participating in this scandalous and disrespectful so-called Ramayana, he will be fine.” He returns his attention to the sky.
A crowd has dribbled in behind the first family. As they grasp Murthy’s intentions, some begin to look guilty. Others begin to smile behind raised hands. Yet others appear worried. None, however, passes him by and the crowd grows as fast and thick as the darkness, bottlenecking some four feet from Murthy’s prone form. A continual murmuring passes the message back and along.
A familiar voice rings out above the hum—Rama Sastri. “By Jove, it’s working!”
Murthy straightens still further. The next voice, Dr. Kittu Iyer, sounds pleased and pompous. “Well done. Well done, I say. Move aside! Step aside, here. At once!”
In the instant before they achieve the front of the crowd, however, something transpires to Murthy’s other side.
Rama! Sita! Lakshmana! Hanuman! Each springs from the bushes and takes his pose until they form a grotesque caricature of the classic formation, the very one that graces Sivakami’s main hall. Murthy is lying at their feet. As one, they glance down and their faces light up with exaggerated pleasure. They present Murthy to the crowd with a sweeping gesture, as though his is one more body on the battlefield of Lanka, and a great cheer rises up. Minister and the members of his salon emerge and break this sound bubble; at their appearance, a nervous hush falls like soap film upon the masses.
Now another shout is heard from behind the crowd, and all turn and crane to see: it is Ravana—tall, handsome, noble-looking, as he would not be in the conventional Ramayana—who at the end of the previous performance was borne away, cold and ashen, on a funeral bier. Now he brandishes a sword atop a silk-jacketed steed, which capers and snorts as vigorously as his master.
“He lives!” shouts the shrimpy Rama, and cowers, the heel of his hand pressed to his mouth. Lakshmana hides behind his brother; Sita bats her eyelashes at her former captor; Hanuman, a large-cheeked fellow with a tail, yawns and scratches.
Vairum approaches through a group of not only lower-caste labourers, but Panchamas (as untouchables are coming to be called), Christians, even Muslims, though each sub-group has clustered and holds itself subtly apart from the others.
“He lives! He lives! He lives!” The chant begins in the crowd.
But which crowd? For Ravana not only faces a crowd but leads one. Which is composed of... strangers. Vairum will later learn that the 05:40 Thiruchi local pulled in and deposited them—mostly young, many urban, some from as far away as Madras, all chanting Self-Respect slogans—on the Kulithalai platform, where this Ravana had met them.
The local crowd pulls back to form a ring with more of their own numbers, who have continued to appear at the rear of Ravana’s guard. Murthy has not moved, though he lifts his head and strains to see.
“How charming,” sneers Ravana, and suddenly turns his horse’s flank toward the salon members and sweeps his sword downward. The sun reflects red off the blade and they cringe into one another. “Nay, how convenient. The Brahmins and Brahmin-lovers have come to us.” Ravana looks beyond them, toward the tent, and they turn, also, to see the rest of the cast-some twenty actors-assembled behind Rama.
“Gentlemen,” Ravana booms. “The moment of justice’s proof has arrived!” Three of the actors take hold of Rama, Sita and Lakshmana, three others snap them into leg irons. In the same moment, Minister’s arms are pulled roughly back and his wrists tied. He looks back wildly to see a fiendish young face with huge white teeth and snapping black eyes.
“Release me at once!” Vairum hears from Ranga Chettiar, though he can’t see exactly what is happening.
“Brute!” This is Rama Sastri. All the salon members have been apprehended, except Vairum, who is not with them.
“As a rightful and invincible monarch of the Dravidian people, I declare the trial of our oppressors, betrayers and false prophets open. Lead the prisoners to the dock!”
Ravana wheels his charge and then stops with a puzzled frown, as though he’s heard something but can’t place the source. His glance breasts the crowd and then descends to a form at his feet.
“Halt,” Vairum hears Murthy squeak.
“Naptime?” asks Ravana.
“Sabotage, my liege,” offers an actor with a gaudy band around his arm reading “bailiff.” “He thought he could prevent the audience from coming in if he lay across the path.”
Ravana dismounts with a jangle and clank-earrings, chains, bangles, belt, hilt, scabbard, anklets-and steps up to Murthy, whose features contract in fright as he draws his hands to his breast like a dog showing its belly.
“How you Aryans under-esteem us,” Ravana tut-tuts. He takes a great stride, led by an immense foot clad in a gold-embroidered, curved-toe slipper with a stamped-leather sole, across and over Murthy’s sunken chest—a gesture of magnificent disrespect. Ravana’s horse follows suit and Ravana remounts.
“On with the show!” he cries, and gallops toward the tent.
Murthy is hauled to his feet by a couple of bailiffs and dragged along with the crowd toward the tent.
The painted backdrop, which, for the last week, has displayed scenes of palaces, forests and rocky beaches—Rama’s castle was mysteriously identical to Ravana’s, down to the personnel—now provides the atmosphere of a courtroom, with a ragged St. George flapping forlornly off the same flagpole as Ravana’s flag, which stands out straight, starched with rice paste. On a podium stands a statuette, dangling scales from one hand; instead of classical Greek garb, however, the female figure is wrapped in the manner of a Tamil country tribal.
As Vairum surges forward with the crowd, he realizes that his salon-fellows are not the only detainees. There are others who must have been frog-marched in with the crowd from points distant. But—that one, with the wire-rimmed spectacles and bald head—is he supposed to be ... ? If he were reduced by about three stone, perhaps he could pass. And why is that other prisoner clad in the jaunty cap and buttoned-up jacket of... ? But the hat is tied on with string, and that dark visage, with teeth poking out in all directions, hardly cuts the profile on which so many hearts are said to have been dashed. The men of the salon don’t look up often, but when they do, they are even more frightened to find themselves surrounded by characters whom they recognize from newspapers and books, but whose likenesses here are to those photos as the Self-Respect Ramayana is to the original. Vairum is concerned for the salon members and glad to be out in the crowd, should anything untoward happen. But until it does, he has to admit this Ramayana is far more entertaining than the other.
“And now, who is our judge?” demands Ravana of the crowd. “Who will sit in judgment on all those who, in weakness and greed, have downtrodden the rightful people of Dravida Nadu?”
“You, Ravana!” several young men chorus back. “You judge!”
Ravana blushes and fawns. “No, no, I really couldn’t.”
Uproarious laughter rises from the crowds and Ravana turns serious.
“No, I refuse to judge because I myself must be judged. I want to submit to trial along with all the others who have purported to rule and lead you. Let us put a halt to blackmail and subterfuge, and let the people judge who is to rule them!”