THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM Read online

  Gowri threw her arms around his legs with a cry of anguish.

  Just as she was about to muster all the effort she needed to lift him up in her arms, just as he thought he was one micro-second away from being rescued, gravity came into play. His body dropped. The noose pulled at his spine.

  He heard the click, and the beginning of Gowri’s scream.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Diary of Sonali Rao

  March 16, 2002

  Dear Shilpi,

  I’ve had no replies from you for my previous letters, so I don’t know if any of them have reached you. I don’t leave the house much these days, so I give the letters I write to Avva, and she posts them at the local post office. I don’t know if anyone works there. I don’t know if Palem has any contact with the outside world. It doesn’t appear so.

  But writing to you makes me happy, Shilpi. If nothing else, it makes me think straight, even with my mind as muddled as it is. Over here, it is only thoughts of you and Mother and Father that keep me from going completely insane.

  My sleeping time has grown to sixteen hours a day now. I don’t remember much of my waking moments. But how clearly I remember my dreams—the sights, the sounds, the smells. I’ve grown so accustomed to dreaming that I am disappointed when I wake up. The stories in my dreams seem to be more real than all my experiences in real life.

  My latest dream is similar to the previous one—a congregation of shadows at the sarai shop. And the sound of liquid falling into a pitcher from a packet.

  ‘I don’t have any more money, Sanga,’ a steady voice says. He holds up something to the other man. The man takes it and downs it in one gulp.

  ‘My hands shiver when I don’t have it, Ayya. I beat her everyday… everyday… with my hands…’

  ‘She is your wife, boy. You’re doing nothing wrong.’

  ‘But Ayya, I feel so bad after beating her. I need to drink, Ayya. Give me some more money.’

  ‘I don’t have any more, Sanga.’ He holds up another glass. Down it goes.

  ‘I… you said you will give me money. I’ve taken money from so many people here, Ayya. What shall I do?’

  There is a silence. Steady Voice says gently, ‘Do you know what happens in the Mahabharat, Sanga?’

  ‘What, Ayya?’

  ‘There is a king who pawns his wife in a game to win back his kingdom.’ Another glass is filled and given. It goes down, followed by a satisfied sigh. ‘Your wife is your property. You can pawn her to pay off your debts.’

  ‘Really, Ayya? Really?’

  ‘Yes, boy. I know four men who will pay you enough to pay off all your loans and have enough money for a month of drinking.’

  Silence from Slurry Voice. ‘But what will she say?’

  Steady Voice laughs mockingly. ‘She is your wife. Isn’t it her duty to do everything in her power to keep you happy?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then more loudly, more confidently, ‘Yes!’

  ‘Does a farmer’s plough say no to ploughing the field? Does a milkman’s cow refuse to give milk? Do your clothes refuse to get washed? Hmm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why should your wife refuse to solve your troubles?’

  ‘She shouldn’t.’

  ‘If she does, you know how to deal with her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Slurry Voice said, his eyes glazing over in rage. ‘I will make her.’ His hands shivered. ‘I will make her.’

  ‘Good. I will tell you when to expect them.’

  An interesting point about these dreams, Shilpi, is that even though I see the same dream many times, I never get bored of them. Because each dream is slightly different. Sometimes I hear voices, or I see shadows, sometimes I see profiles, sometimes I am sitting inside the shop, or I am floating in the air—you know, it’s like seeing the same movie from different vantage points. Even though you know what’s going to happen and how it is going to end, you take something new out of it each time.

  When I told Avva about this dream, she just shrugged as if to say, ‘What’s wrong in that?’ You know, I’ve come here to find out about the Palem deaths, but the longer I live here, the more I feel as if the real story happened a long time ago; long before you and I were even born.

  Maybe it is that story that wants to tell itself to me. I should be glad, because that’s what I came here for. But Shilpi, I am scared. I don’t want to live here anymore.

  I want to come back.

  Love,

  Sonali

  Chapter Twenty Four

  2001

  Twisting the bracelet on her wrist, Sarayu asked, ‘You remember this, don’t you, Seeta?’

  Seeta, who had been staring at the dirty blue coin on Sarayu’s wrist, came to life with a start. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Sarayu blew away a strand of hair from her shoulder. ‘Do you remember what you told me when we tied it?’

  Seeta sat up straight, looking nervously about her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You said I was your best friend.’

  ‘You are, Sarayu,’ Seeta said. ‘You are.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sarayu. ‘Interesting indeed.’ She slipped a finger under the bracelet and stretched the thread that held it around her wrist. ‘You remember our school days, don’t you, Seeta?’

  ‘Y…yes.’ Seeta’s shoulders suddenly slumped and her gaze lowered.

  ‘How many friends did you have?’

  Seeta shook her head.

  Sarayu looked up just long enough to see that shake of the head. Then she immediately refocused her attention on the bracelet and her finger under it. ‘You did not have any friends, did you?’

  Seeta started twisting her index finger. She pulled and she twisted. Finally, she shook her head again and said, ‘No.’

  ‘What did they call you? They called you Feeta, didn’t they?’

  A moist redness sprang into Seeta’s eyes. She looked up imploringly at Sarayu.

  Sarayu did not see. She played with her bracelet. ‘Remember the days you used to eat your lunch all by yourself by the Gandhi statue, and the other kids would throw mango seeds at you?’ She looked up. ‘You do, don’t you?’

  ‘Please, Sarayu. Please.’

  She untied one knot of the bracelet, loosening it, making the coin bend to one side so that it caught the light of the sun. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, calmer. ‘What about now, Seeta? Have things changed?’

  ‘Stop. Why?’

  ‘Have things changed, Seeta? Do people look at you now? Or visit you? Do you have any friends now? Anyone to call your own?’

  ‘Why?’ Her question was the petulant whine of a child asked by a parent to turn down the lamp and go to sleep early.

  Sarayu carefully untied the second knot, loosening the bracelet further. ‘You have no one even now, do you?’ She looked around the room and gave a half-smile. ‘Who would want to come in here, anyway?’

  Seeta curled the toes of her feet tightly. Her head sunk to her chest. She continued to shake her head.

  ‘Tell me, Seeta,’ Sarayu said, ‘who played with you when no other kid in the village would so much as look at you?’

  Seeta looked up.

  ‘Who chased away all those seed-throwers by the Gandhi statue?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Oh, you remember.’ Sarayu’s face and eyes were expressionless. Only a single eyebrow lifted slightly to register the surprise. ‘You remember. That’s interesting.’

  ‘Of course I remember, Sarayu… I…’

  ‘If I recall correctly, you were going to jump in the well by the Shivalayam back then too, weren’t you?’

  Seeta blinked once, then lowered her head again.

  ‘That day… remember that day, when Prabhakarayya’s son tore your blouse and threw a five-rupee note in your face?’

  ‘Stop, please.’

  ‘You do remember. Then you must remember, too, who it was that talked you out of it. You must remembe
r, too, who it was that pinned a blade to his underwear.’

  ‘Stop, please, must we remember…’

  Sarayu methodically untied the third knot and let the coin tinkle to the floor. ‘Of course, Seeta, we must. We’re best friends, aren’t we?’

  Seeta, her chin immersed in her chest, stared at the rolling coin until it came to a stop.

  ‘Ah, yes, best friends,’ Sarayu said, smiling wistfully. ‘Best friends, who would tell each other every thing.’ In a moment, the smile narrowed, then vanished. Her features became calm again, her cheeks pallid. ‘Right?’

  ‘Sarayu, why…’

  Sarayu smiled at her. ‘Good old Seeta. Honest as always. You told me everything, didn’t you? Absolutely everything.’

  ‘Yes, why—’

  ‘You told me you slept with my man?’

  Seeta paused, and her eyes grew larger each second. ‘How… how… he promised—’

  Sarayu sighed and shook her head slowly at Seeta. ‘What did Prabhakarayya want from you, Seeta? Hmm? What did he want from you? What do all the men in the village want from you now? What are you to them? You’re not a person. You’re a thing—a thing to be used and thrown.’

  Seeta shook her head and lowered her gaze.

  ‘Do you really think you have a chance with Aravind?’ Sarayu lowered her voice to a tender croon. ‘Hmm? You—who has never had a friend except when I took pity. You—whom the men of the village come to when their wives are not giving them any. You—who cannot even speak a word without stuttering. You—with your three lips… did you really think you have a chance with him?’

  ‘He… he promised—’ Seeta’s toes stayed tightly curled. ‘He promised…’

  ‘He promised, did he?’ Sarayu asked. ‘He promised not to tell anyone about you? But he told me—this morning—in bed.’

  Seeta shut her eyes tight and curled her toes further inward.

  ‘Men are such creatures, Seeta. You wouldn’t know—you will never have a man. But men have needs. The same need that made Prabhakarayya’s son tear your blouse, the same need that brings the men of this village to your house at night only to slink away to their wives before dawn, before they have to look at you, the same need that brought Aravind to you yesterday.’

  ‘But… but he came straight to me, yesterday, in the afternoon—’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarayu said softly. ‘He told me that too. If you’ve ever had a man, Seeta, you would know that men’s promises are as empty as that well in our Shivalayam.’

  Tears streamed down Seeta’s cheeks, forcing their way out of her tightly shut eyes. Her hands balled into fists as she slouched against the wall, sinking deeper and deeper.

  ‘How did you think that you could get Aravind, Seeta? Did it never strike you that he might—he might deserve better than you?’

  Seeta nodded and her body thrashed in throes of audible, broken weeping.

  ‘You did, didn’t you? When he gave you gifts, did you think he loved you?’

  Seeta nodded.

  ‘Poor girl,’ Sarayu said. ‘Some of them give gifts, some of them throw money in your face. All of them want the same thing.’

  ‘I… I thought…’

  ‘Do you know what hurts me the most in all of this, Seeta? The fact that you lied to me. You knew that I liked him. I told you. You knew that he was always going to be mine. I told you that too, and that is what has happened now. You knew that telling me would be the right thing to do. But you didn’t.’

  ‘I… I am sorry… Sarayu, I didn’t—’

  ‘We were best friends, right? I told you everything I knew. I shared everything with you. But you kept from me something like this—something about a boy, something about Aravind. And you hid this from me, all the while taking my help, using my advice, and you deceived me into thinking that we were, in fact, best friends.’

  ‘I am sorry… really—’

  ‘I trusted you, Seeta. I took pity on you, and I became your friend in spite of… how you are. But you repaid me well. You repaid me well.’

  ‘No no… I am sorry. No, please—’

  Sarayu bent down and picked up the bracelet. Smoothening it out on her thigh, she said, ‘Maybe there is a lesson for me in all of this. Maybe it was wrong of me to think that you were different from what the whole village believed you to be. But you—you’re just like your mother.’ She folded the bracelet on top of itself and picked it up in one hand. ‘You can take a bitch to the throne and crown her queen—but she will remain a bitch.’

  Seeta was on the floor now, holding her knees to her chin and sobbing, shaking her head.

  Sarayu stood up and dropped the bracelet on top of her. ‘I don’t know whether to feel sorry for you or to be angry with you, Seeta,’ she said. ‘I pity you for many things—most of all, for thinking that you had a chance with Aravind. You know, one should always know what one’s status is. You—and Aravind?’ She took a step towards the door. ‘But I pity myself more, for having trusted you, and for having thought that you were my friend.’

  She walked to the door and opened it, letting a stream of sunlight through. There she stopped, and without looking back, she said, ‘If I had known you were like this, Seeta, I would have let you jump into that well that day.’

  And she walked out.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  1984

  Avadhani’s torch threw out a wide, steady beam that lit their path. Chotu walked in front of them, paying no heed to the light or the darkness that extended beyond. His steps were firm and his direction decisive. Walking to the side and keeping slightly to the back of the group, Avadhani flashed his torch directly in front of Chotu so that the rest of them could see where they were going.

  When they reached the Shivalayam compound, Chotu stopped. ‘She’s near the lingam,’ he raised his arm and pointed.

  It was like any other summer night—moonless, starry and humid. Aravind carried a digger over his shoulder and the rest of them followed him to the lingam. In the shadow of the big banyan, they saw another figure, pacing hurriedly on all fours. When she saw them, she bared her teeth and growled.

  ‘Sarama,’ Avadhani said.

  It was a low, drawn-out growl. When Avadhani flashed the torch at her, she took one quick backward step, then suddenly froze and raised her head, staring into the light. The five of them moved closer to the lingam, Chotu bringing up the rear at some distance. As the group drew closer together, the bitch backed up farther, her growls getting louder and more hurried.

  ‘What do we do?’ Aravind said, lowering his digger and glancing at Avadhani. Froth dropped from the animal’s jaws. All of them had their eyes locked on her, ready to react in case she attacked.

  ‘Move forward slowly, in a circle. No quick movements.’

  They moved as directed. Whimpering, growling and snorting, Sarama kept backing away until she stopped a few feet to the left of the lingam. There she bent down, bucked her knees and showed them her canines.

  ‘We didn’t need Chotu after all,’ Aravind said. He lifted the digger with both hands and waved it at the dog. She stared at it with savage concentration, ducked, and barked at it as it moved away. But she did not budge.

  ‘Hit her.’

  Aravind, who was in the process of pulling the digger back towards himself, stopped, and in one quick motion, lifted it and brought it down full on Sarama’s head. She yelped and snarled at the weapon, but Aravind was quick to pull it back. She turned her head and looked at Sarayu, who gasped and moved closer to Aravind. Then she looked at Chanti, who was holding a white can of kerosene. He took a step back. Then, slowly, her eyes narrowed on Avadhani.

  ‘Hit her again,’ he said.

  Sarama didn’t wait for Aravind to make his move. She bounded towards Avadhani and leaped at his flailing arm. When her teeth sunk into his forearm, he screamed and hit at the beast’s torso with the stem of the torch. But it did not budge. He did it again and again. ‘Take that, you bitch! That! That! Ah!’

  Sarayu s
creamed and Aravind jumped forward with his digger raised so that he could rescue Avadhani. But one of the old man’s blows had disengaged the animal. Now it was crouching in front of them again on all fours, lying low and looking up at them with her teeth bared.

  Avadhani dropped the torch and nursed his arm. ‘That does it,’ he said, panting. ‘Burn her.’

  ‘What?’ Aravind asked.

  ‘No!’ said Sarayu.

  ‘Burn her.’ Avadhani stood up tall and looked down at the bitch. ‘Just burn her. She won’t let us dig it up otherwise.’

  Chanti and Ramana held up their cans of kerosene. ‘Yes,’ Chanti said, his eyes blazing. ‘Let’s burn her.’

  Aravind nodded, his brows coming together in a puzzled frown. ‘Yes. Let’s.’

  Sarayu took out a box of matches and lit one.

  From the shade of the banyan, Chotu looked on.

  Avadhani stepped back and allowed Sarama to follow him. The remaining four circled her. Just when she was about to leap at Avadhani for a second time, Ramana sloshed her with kerosene. At the same time, Sarayu stepped forward and tossed a lighted match at her.

  And she lit up.

  ‘Yes!’ Avadhani said. ‘Good, kids! Very good!’

  A series of grunts and growls came from Sarama, but the fire ate into her flesh quickly enough. She took a couple of final steps in the direction of the lingam, as though in a final bid to protect it, and then collapsed. Her groans turned hoarse, sounding almost human, and then died down in desperate pants, each one growing more lifeless than the last. The smell of her burning flesh rose into the air.

  Around her, the children gathered and watched in fascination, mesmerized.

  Slowly, Sarama descended into silence, and the fire dimmed, having charred all of her. A thin, lonely flame persisted between the legs and clawed its way inward smokily, reaching out for the torso.

  ‘Good, kids,’ Avadhani whispered. ‘Good!’ He gathered the children together and pointed them to the place where Sarama had stood. ‘Now, come! Let’s dig.’