THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM Page 2

  Saidulu, twelve, and Ramesh, fourteen, are close friends and spend practically every minute of the day in each other’s company. Last night, as was their habit, they went for a walk in the direction of the Kalikadevi tree, where an old temple lies in ruins. Halfway to their destination, however, they saw a man pouring vessel after vessel of kerosene over bales of hay that stood in a row by the house of one of the village elders, Saraswatamma.

  Arriving just in time, the two boys got into a fierce struggle with the man—a struggle that the boys won thanks to their resourcefulness. The man has been identified as Aravind Nookala, a man reportedly born in this very village, who had left the village as a child and is said to have returned last week.

  There were other wounds found on Nookala’s body, but most prominent are the ones on both sides of his head, presumably inflicted by Saidulu’s crutches. His motives for wanting to burn the village down are still not clear, but the police have hinted that this might not be Nookala’s only crime. He is yet to regain consciousness.

  The boys have sustained minor injuries. A detailed report will follow.

  News segment on Ee Roju presented by Sonali Rao

  7:35 p.m.

  | Feb 23, 2001 |

  The story of the Palem man, who two nights ago attempted to set fire to his village, has now taken a new turn. Police investigations have found seven dead bodies at various locations in the village. Though they are reluctant to commit to anything certain at this stage, our sources close to the police believe that it is very likely that Mr Nookala was behind at least some of these killings. Saraswatamma, whose house was the closest to the scene of the night’s events, is understandably quite rattled.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Saraswatamma.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘My husband is a landlord, Madam.’

  ‘What happened here last night?’

  Saraswatamma pointed in the direction of the bales of hay. ‘We keep them here to feed our cattle,’ she said. ‘It is dry hay, and the weather is so hot these days. Only god knows what would have happened if he had set fire to them.’

  And he probably would have, if it were not for the courage and presence of mind shown by two young men. A short while ago, I had the opportunity to talk to Ramesh.

  ‘I don’t know why we turned in this direction,’ Ramesh said, rubbing his forehead with the back of his wrist and balancing himself on his crutches. ‘We normally go from the other side, crossing Avadhanayya’s house. For some reason yesterday, Saidulu said let us go from here, and I said yes.’

  Whatever it was that made them take that route, it is definitely not a stretch of imagination to say that if they had gone by their usual route, they would not be standing here with us right now.

  ‘One look at him and I knew he was up to something bad,’ said Ramesh. ‘When he saw me, he came running and knocked my crutches off. He also slapped Saidulu, so hard that he fell to the ground and rolled some distance away.’

  ‘What were you feeling at that time?’

  ‘I was very angry. I was asking myself, “Why is he doing this? Why is Aravind Anna behaving like this?” I asked him about it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He walked up to me and kicked me again and again—in my ribs, on my thighs, everywhere he could. He kept saying none of us deserved to live. He kept calling me a shameless dog.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Then Saidulu found one of my crutches. He must have made his way to where we were by the sound of our voices. He crept up behind Aravind Anna and hit him on the head.’

  The camera panned to reveal a second boy standing by Ramesh’s side. A thin, triangular face endowed with monk-like serenity. A sharp, straight nose. Narrow, dark, out-of-focus eyes. Dilated pupils. He played with his empty right shirtsleeve.

  ‘I… I could tell they were to my left,’ he said. He bent his head at an angle as he spoke. Every once in a while, he shook his head in small, twitchy movements. ‘I groped and found Ramesh’s crutch. I picked it up and just swung it.’

  ‘How did you know which side they were on with such certainty?’

  ‘I… I just knew.’

  Ramesh said, ‘We spend a lot of time together. He is very used to my voice.’

  The microphone moved back to Saidulu.

  ‘Uh… then I felt fingers—his fingers—close around my throat and push me down to the ground. He sat on top of my chest and started punching me. I… I could not breathe.’ His fingers moved to his cheek and nursed a wound that was still tender.

  ‘I crawled over to where they were and hit him with one of my crutches,’ Ramesh said. ‘When he rolled over on his back, we both jumped on him and pinned him. But he kept hitting us. He kept slapping us. “Die, you mongrels,” he was saying, “Die, you motherless pieces of crap”.’

  ‘How did you feel then? Were you afraid?’

  ‘Very afraid. I thought I was going to die. We were trying our best to keep him down but he was hitting us so hard. Then he picked up my crutch.’

  ‘Did he hit you with it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ramesh turned and lifted his shirt. A solid line of pink and purple ran across his back. The skin along the borders of the wound was swollen and had turned dark blue. Tiny spots, like perforations, appeared at irregular intervals along the length of the wound.

  ‘That was when Saidulu bent down and bit him in the thigh. Aravind Anna screamed. He was still shouting abuses at us to let him go. “Let me go, you scoundrels,” he said. “Let me go so that I can kill all of you.” Seeing Saidulu, I grabbed hold of his other thigh with my teeth.’

  Saidulu said slowly, ‘He pulled our hair. He slapped us hard on the back. He did everything he could, but we did not let go.’

  ‘Then he started pleading with us,’ Ramesh said. ‘“Please let me go,” he said. “You are killing me”.’

  ‘But you did not let go.’

  Saidulu and Ramesh shook their heads.

  ‘You were afraid that he would kill you if you let go.’

  They nodded. ‘We knew he would definitely kill us if we let go. We just hoped that we could hold on long enough until someone from the village came there.’

  ‘Did someone come then?’

  They shook their heads.

  It would not be until early in the morning, when Lakshmayya, one of Saraswatamma’s servants, found the three of them unconscious by the bales of hay. The two boys had passed out in the arms of their attacker, and thankfully for them, he did not wake up before they did.

  ‘Lakshmayya?’

  ‘Haan, Amma.’

  ‘Where did you find Saidulu and Ramesh this morning?’

  ‘Near Mandiramma Banda. I take Tulasi out to the hay for a feed, and I find the boys and Aravind babu there, sleeping.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What to do, Amma? I go back and call Saraswatamma and Raji and Upender and Ellayya and everyone.’

  ‘What about the man?’

  ‘Aravind babu? He does not wake up. Even after doctors come and pick him up, he does not wake up. They said he is in a cama or something.’

  ‘Coma.’

  ‘Haan, yes, yes.’

  We have received confirmation from the hospital that Aravind Nookala is still in a coma. Efforts are being made to revive him. But what can be done to revive the fallen spirits of the villagers here? That something like this could happen in a quiet, sleepy little haven like Rudrakshapalem beggars belief. The parched earth, the quiet atmosphere, the Arthur Cotton dam and the Godavari in the distant background—everything looks so harmless, so innocent. Sometimes, it seems humanity chooses the strangest places to show its ugly side.

  For Ee Roju, this is Sonali Rao.

  Chapter Three

  2001

  ‘One full, to Palem,’ Venkataramana said.

  Coins wedged between his fingers, a pen tucked behind his ear, the conductor looked wearily at the twenty-rupee note. Then he cast a leisurely eye a
t Venkataramana’s blue shirt, his white jeans, his black Nike shoes and his imported bag. ‘Got anything smaller?’ he asked, and then added, ‘Sir?’

  Venkataramana shook his head.

  The conductor sighed and grabbed the note. Muttering under his breath, he punched a hole in the ticket with his pen and scribbled something behind it. ‘I go as far as Dhavaleshwaram. You can take a cart from there to Palem.’

  Venkataramana nodded and took the ticket. So nothing had changed in all this time then, he thought.

  ‘Why are you going to that dead village anyway?’ the conductor asked, sizing him up again.

  ‘I was born there.’

  With the metal end of his ticket holder, the conductor tapped on the railing. The bus started moving. There were plenty of empty seats but the conductor, like all self-respecting practitioners of the trade, preferred to stand. He held his balance with a minimum of fuss, writing something down on a piece of checked paper.

  Venkataramana closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. It was a hot morning and the trip was a long one. The last thing he wanted now was to have a pointless conversation with a bus conductor.

  Buses had once held an almost unbearable fascination for him. In the first eight years of his life, he had taken a bus exactly three times.

  ‘My mother’s second cousin’s parents live in Palem,’ the conductor offered.

  Venkataramana considered ignoring him and continuing the pretence of sleep, but a bead of sweat crawled down his temple and tickled his cheek. He rubbed it off with his handkerchief. ‘Hmm,’ he said.

  ‘The laziest people you will ever find,’ the conductor continued. ‘I tell you Sir, they invited us for their daughter’s wedding and the service was atrocious. Nobody used to wake up until at least eleven in the morning. You can forget about breakfast—you’re lucky if you get lunch on time.’

  Venkataramana smiled. So something had changed in Palem. Back then, he recalled it had been a village of early risers. The bus manoeuvred its way through the traffic at Hyderabad Central. His shirt was already soaked. It wouldn’t be until they reached the outskirts and the bus picked up some real speed that the breeze would bring some relief.

  ‘Flyovers, flyovers, flyovers,’ the conductor said, looking distastefully at the flying dust. ‘I was a young boy when they started this one, Sir. Sometimes I feel it will be better if I go back to my village and till the land. There is honour in tilling the land, you know.’ He flipped each bundle of tickets, one by one. His body swayed continuously to balance itself. ‘And the traffic. Sometimes I feel it will be so nice to go back to Godavarikani. I am from Godavarikani, Sir.’

  Venkataramana nodded.

  ‘My mother keeps asking me to come, but my wife… my wife does not want to leave.’

  Venkataramana looked up for the first time at the man’s face. All conductors looked alike, he mused. Just like all policemen and all postmen. It must be the uniform. And the things they carried. When you looked at a conductor, you did not really notice his face. You noticed the leather boots, the soiled khaki dress, the ticket holder, the coins between his fingers. And the impersonal tone in which he grunted and said, ‘Right, right.’

  But this man had a face, Venkataramana observed. Not a great face, but a face all the same. He has a house in the village, a mother who waits for him there, a father probably dead, a nagging wife who doesn’t allow him to bring his mother to live with them, maybe a young daughter who goes to school. He dreams of going back to the village, to a simpler time and a simpler place, away from the bustle. He probably knows that it will never happen, which makes the dream all the sweeter.

  The man looked at him and smiled in resignation. He had caught the meaning in Venkataramana’s glance. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My son is in fifth class now. After his school is finished and he finds a job, I think I will go back to Kani and till the land. Back to where I began. Back to my roots, you know?’

  Venkataramana heard the unsaid words too. Back to my mother, you know? He nodded. ‘I am sure you will.’

  ‘There is honour in that, Sir.’

  Honour. There was no honour in issuing tickets to passengers. And there was no recognition. Here he was a nameless, faceless entity masked by the khaki uniform and the ticket holder. Here, he was a conductor and would never be anything more. In his village, he would be surrounded by people he knew. He would be called by his name and be invited to participate in local festivals and customs, he would be someone.

  ‘Why are you going to Palem, Sir?’

  Venkataramana smiled at him. ‘For the same reasons you told me just now.’ He did not tell him the real reason, of course, because he did not know it himself. For seventeen years of his life in the city, three of which had been spent in Australia, he had not thought of Palem and his old life with anything but detachment.

  It had all started with that letter…

  ‘Oh, oh, people coming.’ They had reached the main bus stop. Through the windshield, Venkataramana saw a throng of people scrambling over each other towards the bus. Some of the younger men jumped in even before it had come to a stop. On both sides, people threw handkerchiefs through the open windows onto the seats.

  Venkataramana hurriedly scooted and occupied the window seat.

  ‘I have to go and attend to my duties now, Sir,’ the conductor said, stepping away. ‘If Seetayya and Vishalakshamma are still living in Palem and if they are still alive, tell them I said namaskaaram.’

  And with a smart salute that looked quite honourable, he walked off.

  Alighting from the cart at exactly 12:10 p.m., Venkataramana crossed the muddy road and made his way to Mahender Reddy’s paan shop. He felt no nostalgia, no memories came rushing to him. He felt as if he had been there yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Nothing had changed. They had still not corrected the spelling of ‘Mahender’ on the signboard at the front. Oodles of Crane nut powder and7’o clock shaving blades hung down from the roof. The glass display case still stacked endless packs of Gold Flake and Charminar cigarettes. To the left, occupying a good third of the counter, sat the tools of every paan shop owner worth his salt—betel leaves, nuts, aluminium foil, jarda, a box of red-and-yellow sweetener ribbons and a bowl of cherries. The row of open tins at the front contained sweets of all kinds. He noted that his favourite Poppins tin was still there.

  The man sitting behind the counter was the illusion-breaker. He was young—not more than a boy—and smooth-faced. Where had Mahender Mama gone?

  ‘How much for Poppins?’ he asked.

  ‘Two rupees.’

  It had been fifty paise then.

  ‘Give me one. And one Thums-up.’

  ‘Cold is ten rupees. No-cold is eight rupees.’

  ‘I will take cold.’

  The boy tried not to watch him while he drank. There was something of Mahender Mama in him, Venkataramana thought, though he could not place the resemblance exactly. He saw a flicker of the old man when the boy sneered at him. Yes, he had the same thin, feminine eyebrows.

  ‘Where is Mahender Mama?’

  ‘Dead. He got the coughing fever last year. Coughed continuously for a year. Doctor said he will get better. He didn’t.’

  The Thums-up was stale. But it was cold. Ramana licked his lips and thought of some Black Label on ice. The best you could get here in Palem was toddy at Ratthayya’s hovel, and that too only after dark. For now, Thums-up would have to do.

  ‘You are not from here,’ the boy said. His eyes asked, ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I am originally from here. I was born here.’

  The boy raised his eyebrows and twitched his nostrils. ‘Whose son are you?’

  ‘I used to live with my uncle. You must know his name. Narsayya.’

  ‘Oh Narsayya, yes. He moved to the city a long time ago. Nanna used to get letters from him when he was alive. But since last year…’ he shrugged and opened a cigarette pack. After lighting one and taking a puff, he held the pack out in Venka
taramana’s direction.

  Venkataramana shook his head and looked away. The road to the village stretched out in front of him, baked in the afternoon sun. On either side of the road, roofed by parched straw and held together with brittle, muddy walls, stood huts of various sizes. Names rushed into his head—that one with the white curly patterns on the wall was Poshamma’s, that one with the crude gate had to be Daanayya’s, this one with the hole in the door was Ibrahim Bhai’s and that one…

  He stepped out into the sun and immediately felt his neck burn. He walked along the bend in the curve past Karnam Prabhakarayya’s house (it had a compound wall and a gate now, he noted) and stopped at the Gandhi statue near the school. It was a little worn from what he remembered, but there it stood, nice and tall. It was here that they used to line up on Independence Day and salute the flag.

  Now a couple of crows sat on Gandhi’s head and clawed at one another for territory, cawing and screeching.

  At the bottom of the statue a figure stood hunched, shoulders raised, holding something in his hands. He looked like a circus clown walking on stilts. On moving closer, Venkataramana saw that they were crutches. He was dressed in a smart white shirt and grey pants, the trouser legs fluttering about in the hot, dry breeze.

  The cawing of the crows got louder. Another crow joined the scuffle atop the statue.

  The boy looked at him and frowned.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Venkataramana asked. The boy was holding in his hands a perfectly shaped paper boat. ‘That is very nice.’

  The boy looked down at the boat and back up at him. Without a word, he held it out to him.

  ‘Oh no,’ Venkataramana said. ‘You should keep it. You must be very good with your hands.’ He tried not to let his glance drop below the boy’s waist. Ask him about anything but the legs. ‘Don’t you have school today?’

  ‘School starts at one.’

  The group of crows had descended to the ground. There were about seven or eight of them now, clawing and scratching one another. Around them, nothing stirred but the boy’s empty trouser legs. He had seen the boy somewhere before. Without the goat-like hair covering his chin and upper lip. But he looked no more than twelve, this boy. And Venkataramana had not visited the village in seventeen years.