THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM Page 5

  ‘Yes. I have to.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I already have.’ And he took a purposeful step in his direction.

  The temple light grew more and more intense and blinded everything out. The entire scene—the shadows, the two men, the rotting lizards, the wet soil—dissolved in the growing ball of whiteness that slowly moved towards him. He backpedalled but covered no distance. He had once seen an old movie showing rats running on wheels. It was as if he was doing the same—in reverse. The ball steadily gained on him. It engulfed him and sucked him in. He opened his mouth, but no scream came out.

  Sarayu is walking.

  Where to? She does not know. She is wearing her blue-strapped, white Bata slippers. Her father bought them for her last month at the fair. She is walking through a dark passage, a mud wall on either side of her. Ahead in the distance, a flicker of light appears in a room, the door to which is half-open.

  She can hear the voice of a man muttering inside.

  Whose voice is it?

  She quickens her pace. The stars look so bright. But the orange lamp in that room burns so much more brightly. She has to get there. Now!

  She starts running. Her slippers make a sweaty, smacking sound against her feet. It is hard running in slippers. But that light—she has to get there. It grows larger and larger in her view. The muttering gets louder and more urgent. She is panting, but she is not tired. She is sweating, but she is full of energy. Her slippers are broken, but still stick to her feet.

  She reaches the door and opens it. The first thing she sees is the hurricane lamp. Turned so low, the wick is barely visible. The flame is steady, but so small. The room is now darker and dimmer. Thick, blurry smudges of red cover it. In the window, she sees the silvery glow of the stars. Yes, the stars are so bright.

  The man keeps muttering. He is sitting on a chair by a desk. A Reynolds 040 pen in his hand. White stem, blue cap. He is hunched over something. He is thin and his voice is more of a croak. The pen does not move. He is wearing a monkey cap. Father bought that at the fair too. For himself.

  Nanna?

  He does not turn. He does not know she is there. She does not go in and face him. She wants to, but she does not. She just stands there and watches. Father cannot write. He cannot read either. But she has been teaching him little things—the Telugu alphabet, to begin with. She has taught him to write ‘Mother’ in Telugu. She has told him that he should practice what she has taught him.

  He is still muttering something under his breath. Not many in Palem know how to read and write, but it has always mattered to Father, somehow. That was why he always insisted on sending her to Thatha’s house. Listening to stories will make you want to read, he told her. And once you learn, you will teach me.

  She doesn’t know where they are. She cannot recognize anything in the room. All she can see is the hurricane lamp. There is a black stain on it. Is it rust or is it soot? She must clean it. No one ever will if she doesn’t.

  His hand shivers. He places the tip of the pen on the paper and hesitates.

  Don’t.

  The pen moves. The red blurriness in the room lifts, little by little. Starlight streams in through the window. The hurricane lamp grows brighter. The light burns through the stain and dissolves it.

  Write!

  The pen moves faster. The room grows brighter.

  She wants to run to her father and hug him. She wants to see his handiwork. She takes a step towards him. But she finds herself outside the door. Her slippers start smacking again against her feet. She starts to pant once more. The door is open. She can see her father writing. She wants to call out to him. But she can’t because she is tired. Her legs are aching. Her body is fatigued with all the running. But she is running back through the passage. The mud walls are rushing forward on either side of her. The room is spiralling away. The orange light behind her is growing smaller and smaller. Oh, the stars are so bright.

  Chanti was hungry, and so was the boy. He lay on his back with his feet and hands in the air, waving. Every time the rattle made a sound, he gurgled in delight. A few feet away from him, snacks were being fried in oil on a kerosene stove. The smell of rice flour mixed with spices, salt and powdered chilli filled the room. Chanti’s stomach groaned.

  He heard voices in the other room. It was a dry, hot afternoon. From the colour of the ground outside and the parched fields that lay behind the house, Chanti guessed it was summer. A gust of arid wind was blowing across the land. The coconut trees that stood in a row along the edge of the field swayed in unison.

  He saw some coconuts piled in the corner. Suddenly he felt thirsty too. How heavenly it would be to feel coconut water slide down his throat just about now? He went over to the corner and tried to pick one up.

  Where were his hands?

  He held up his hand. All he saw was air.

  He looked down at his feet. All he saw was the crusted mud floor.

  He looked at the baby. The baby looked back at him; no, through him.

  The thirst and the hunger intensified. Now that he knew he could not quench either of them, he could not think of anything else. The snacks in the oil were just turning a pale yellow. They had to turn a particular shade of brown before they could be taken out.

  He heard more voices outside—excited voices, a woman and a man. Then he heard the creaking of a cot. Cots tended to creak during nights, Chanti knew from experience. The cot in their house creaked too, almost every night. His never did, of course, but the ones in the other room, where his parents slept—Chanti didn’t know why it happened, but it did—and by the evidence of what was happening now, cots creaked in the afternoon too. They creaked irregularly at first, then settled into a rhythm, something you could tap your feet to.

  The voices became more and more hurried. The woman was louder than the man. They did not speak in words anymore, just moans and grunts.

  Meanwhile, the snacks continued to cook, ever so slowly. Tiny spots of brown were starting to appear around some of them. The coconuts sat there, delicious as ever.

  His stomach rumbled again. The boy was hungry too. He was now chewing on his rattle. He was probably thirsty as well. How could anyone not be on an afternoon like this?

  The cloth under his frantically kicking legs appeared to be wet. Was it sweat or urine? He could not lift the boy up and see for himself. If only he could somehow get him to turn over on his back…

  Turn over.

  ‘Ga,’ the boy said and turned over.

  No, it was not sweat.

  He heard the nawar being stretched in the other room. The voices grew hurried and stayed in step with the sounds made by the cot. It was as if the couple were speaking in the tune set up by the cot.

  Chanti looked at the stove once again. Low. Maybe if he could get that to medium, the snacks would cook a little faster. But how?

  The boy raised his buttocks into the air and propped himself up on his elbows and knees. ‘Ga?’

  Go.

  He pattered over to the stove.

  Change.

  He held the knob of the stove between his fingers and twisted it in one motion all the way to high.

  No!

  ‘Ga?’

  Chanti didn’t have time to reply to his question. Sparks had started to fly from the stove in all directions. One such spark fell on the pile of firewood that sat on the side, and at the same time, a gust of wind blew through the window.

  The cot continued to creak in the other room. The voices kept at it. Faster and faster.

  Stop it!

  ‘Ga?’

  I said stop it!

  The boy rolled over and gurgled.

  The cot creaked. Creak, creak, creak. The voices moaned. Mmm. Mmm. Mmmm. Were they laughing at him?

  He should go to the other room. He should find the mother. He should get someone to stop this. The pile of firewood was now fully ablaze. The fire was making its way back to the kerosene container now. The boy chewed on his ratt
le.

  He turned and started towards the door. But the door moved away. He lunged at it, but he seemed to have moved backwards instead. Because the door had gone farther away from him. He still heard the creaks and the voices, but they were now distant. He turned around to look at the boy. He was farther away too.

  The room, the fire, the boy, the window, the door, the swaying coconut trees, the wet spot on the floor, the creaking cot, the mangled voices—all of them were now running away from him, converging towards a point far, far away. The only thing Chanti heard through everything spiralling together into a soup of yellow and brown and black, continuous like the hum of a persistent mosquito, was the boy’s rattle.

  Rat-a-tat rat-a-tat.

  And as everything disappeared into a single black dot, he heard someone say, ‘Ga!’

  Stupid Mother does not let me play with toy took it away it’s my toy it’s my toy I hate her and Father shouts at me not at her I want my toy I want my toy back I hate her stupid Mother…

  Venkataramana felt the warmth of the boy’s fuming breath. His fists were closed in tight little balls. His eyes were half-closed, pupils dilated and his lips were moving continuously. No sound came from them though.

  ‘I said, shut up!’ the lady said. Venkataramana looked up at her face. It was a smooth, featureless surface that looked back at him. He could not tell what shape her face was. It was hard to say when you didn’t have anything but emptiness to go on. She was fair, though. Yes, fair by Palem’s standards.

  ‘Vishnu, look at him,’ she called out, and shook the boy. ‘Do you want Daddy to get angry on you? Hmm? Do you?’

  The boy shook his head immediately. His lips were still moving. His closed fists were white with the pressure.

  Always threatens me with Father do you think I am scared of him no I am not but he is such a bad man he is he has such a bad face when he is angry I get dreams of him at night and I get dreams of you yes you you you I need my doll Mother please I get so scared without it please I cannot sleep but I am not scared of Father no I am not but he has such a bad face…

  The driver of the car looked back for a moment. Another smooth, empty face. ‘What happened?’

  Venkataramana was in a cartoon—he remembered paying the big moustachioed man a rupee and peering through the box of pictures. They were apparently pictures that were not real. Sort of drawn by hand.

  Just for the heck of it, he wondered if he could paint a moustache on the driver’s face. The movie slowed down while he considered different shapes and sizes of moustache that would suit this face. An armyman’s moustache, oiled and well-trimmed? No, it did not suit the man’s voice. Maybe something smaller, squarer? No, the effect was altogether too comic. The man had a thin voice, but he also had authority. And he could scare little kids.

  Suddenly he remembered the man with the box of pictures. Rumour had it that if you didn’t pay him the rupee, he would push you into the box through the hole where the pictures played. Then you would become one of the cartoons and repay the man by playing the parts he wanted you to play. All the pictures in his box, they said, had once been little kids who still owed him a rupee.

  Yes, the moustache of that man would suit this man perfectly.

  As soon as he thought that, the moustache appeared, along with the grizzly beard and the stuffy nose and the large, thick eyebrows. But no eyes, no nose, no mouth.

  ‘Hmm?’ the man bellowed. ‘What happened?’

  The boy shrunk back into the arms of his mother.

  Stupid Mother I hate you now see how bad his face is and how crooked his nose his and he is making it all bad for me I am not scared but I want my doll back…

  ‘As soon as we go home,’ the man said, turning back, ‘we will put him in the dark room.’

  Oh no not the dark room anything but the dark room tell him no please tell him…

  ‘Yes,’ the mother said. And now on her face appeared the features of Sarayu. No, Sarayu could never say something mean like that to a little boy. Scratch that. The face was empty again. Yes, an empty face was better than Sarayu’s face.

  Tell him no tell him no tell him no I will be good tell him tell him…

  ‘Yes, I think he needs to spend the night in the dark room.’

  Not night bad faces come to me at night I need my doll not night please…

  ‘Is he being a bad boy?’ the driver asked without looking back.

  ‘Yes, yes. A very bad boy.’

  The boy’s cheeks were red and his eyes swollen. His fingers clenched and unclenched repeatedly. His mother’s arm held him by his stomach, wrapped around him in a firm grip.

  Venkataramana thought, Pinch.

  He pinched her on the arm, just above the wrist. Dug his little nails into her until his knuckles whitened again.

  Hnnnn here you go this is what you get for taking my doll for making him make a bad face at me for telling him I am a bad boy I am not bad I hate you I hate you you like this huh huh huh…

  She shrieked. The driver looked back. Just for a moment.

  But a moment was all it took.

  The lizards did not move. One was curled in a C and the other was stretched out in a straight line. They were a few centimetres away from each other. The straight one was bigger, yellower, blacker. Uglier.

  The last bits of orange were beginning to disappear from the sky, leaving behind a dull grey. The light in the room was a mixture of receding daylight and light from the hurricane lantern, which was just beginning to assert itself. The corners of the room were already cloaked in darkness.

  Chotu suddenly became aware of another presence in the room. In fact, two people. He surveyed the room but found no one. Yet he could feel them sitting right next to him, on the cot.

  The straight lizard made a small but quick move towards C.

  C moved away with equal agility, and by tilting her tail the other way, turned into an S.

  What am I doing here? Chotu had not heard any words spoken aloud. Just thought. From the man.

  He is nice, very nice. Perfect for me, actually. This from the woman.

  Chotu fixed his gaze on the wall and willed the straight one to move. It moved another centimetre or so towards its target.

  S did not move. She did not even bother to turn and look.

  The man thought, Have I always loved her so much?

  The woman thought in reply, You will not leave me. Will you?

  No, but we need to finish this.

  I… I’ve thought of killing myself so many times.

  Chotu’s attention was completely focused on the wall. He pinned S down so that it could not move and then dragged the other one closer. S tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held firm.

  How nice it was to control lizards, he thought. Revenge for all those sleepless nights. Here, he was the master. They had to listen to whatever he said. S had wriggled under his grip so that she was now a reverse S.

  The straight one (which was no longer straight) had to crawl around to the other side to slip his tail under hers. She did not resist. Instead, she curled her tail around backwards so that it rested wanly on top of his torso.

  I have to give it to her. I have to. But—

  You promise?

  He crawled on top of her, stretching his upper limbs over her body to get a hold on the wall on the other side. Then lowering his body to align with her curvature, he gently mounted her as their tails flapped together.

  We need to figure this out—

  You won’t leave me again, will you?

  No, no, just these two days… and we will have understood everything.

  Two more days? Will it all be over in two more days?

  Should I give it to her? Should I?

  Satisfied with his accomplishment, Chotu sighed exasperatedly at the man’s hesitation. It was like watching a bad movie where the boy and the girl spend hour after hour wondering whether they have feelings for each other. No, this was his movie. None of that was going to happen here. He l
ooked up at his lizards. They sat there, unmoving, locked in the embrace. There was something very rewarding about bringing two beings together—even if they were lizards. He had originally planned to squash them after their union (would he be able to?), but now, maybe he would just let them go.

  Maybe I should not—

  Oh man, what was this guy’s problem? If you have something to give her, give it to her already!

  Yes?

  Yes! Trust me, she likes you! You! Give her whatever you have and she will love you for it. Look how pleasant the weather is. It’s the perfect weather for love. Show her your love and she will show you hers.

  An air of decision descended on them. Slowly, he saw the white outlines of two human forms appear like clouds of smoke, both entwined on the cot. Not clear enough for him to make out who they were, but clear enough for him to note that the man was definitely not him. He was disappointed at that, but only slightly.

  The man turned away from her, reached into his pocket and held out something in his hand. Chotu could not see what it was; an object of vague form, a swimming swirl of nothingness. But a peacock feather rose from the top of the object, its blue-green sheen quite spectacular even in the dim light. It was as if a bright white light had been focussed on only the peacock feather and the lizards; so clearly and sharply were they contrasted with the rest of the room.

  The girl took it from him excitedly. He still could not hear their words, but their thoughts were now suitably pleased and content. Yes, bringing two beings together was very pleasurable, whether lizards or humans.

  She threw her arms around him and they melted into a hug. The circles of smoke that marked their outlines dissolved into the surrounding darkness. Chotu was left with nothing, not even their thoughts.

  A breeze blew the window curtains aside. He looked up at the wall. His lizards were still there, just as he had left them. And at the edge of the cot, the peacock feather danced under the lantern.

  Chapter Eight