Nero: Ambalapady (Part II)

Continued from here. Sorry for the delay. Much reorganisation of thoughts been happening over the last few months.
***

Shavasamudra, despite its name, was a cheery beach. It was hidden away from the tourists because the Government promoted Malpe as a tourist destination instead. The name was less deathly, they thought. No one cared if the water was an unnaturally spectacular turquoise - unlike the rest of the coast where it was darker and almost grey. No one cared if the sand was the milkiest of whites - not off-white or yellow. No one realised that harshness didn't come to Shavasamudra naturally - the waves were never harming, and the sun was always tempered. But then, who would want to go to a beach called The Corpse Beach? Who would want to bathe in that bloody water (A poet even wondered if all that blood made it blue. He was clearly confusing water with litmus paper)? Who would want to be at a beach with the most haunting of forts looking on grimly?

It didn't seem to affect the locals. They were there nearly each evening: they all had their routines and their favourite spots where they met and socialised. Many would walk along the edge of the water, the stronger waves kissing their feel lightly. They would walk from the port in the South to the fort in the North or the other way around, a healthy two kilometre walk against a strong sea breeze. A bunch of boys played cricket with a heavy tennis ball on a grassy patch near the fort - they were wonderful players of swing bowling. What actually happened at the beach, though, was a free exchange of gossip.

Stories started in one corner of the beach and almost magically transcended groups of gossipers until the whole beach was talking about it. One man would tell a story to the six other men who were listening to it around him. Then someone walking past this group would spread tell the story to someone else walking in another direction. And with these walkers, it reached other groups and so on.

Like all small towns, Kapmannu had a grand tradition of gossip. Like in all small towns, you couldn't cook payasa in Kapmannu without the whole town smelling it. The grapevine was as complex as it was unreliable - stories were often founded on conjecture, half-truths, legend and myth. Frequently, the source of the gossip changed the nature of the gossip. Veeresh's gossip would have information about which party bought how many cigarettes and paan that afternoon, and how this act affected the story. The seven doctors in the hospital always had medical theories to support the gossip they spread, and the lawyers claimed knowledge of vague properties owned in vaguer towns that contributed to the story.

Embatmuru, the owner of the tea-stall would always connect every piece of gossip with some conversation that happened in his tea-stall. Everything always started there.

Krishnaprasad had come the previous week for his morning tea and idlis when Ramanan entered the stall. Two things were wrong about this - Ramanan never came to the tea stall in the mornings because his daughter made tea for him. Also, Ramanan's eyes looked particularly tired. The first thing he told Krishna was, "I'm still alive, kid!" Krishna took out his revolver and pointed it at Ramanan. They looked at each other menacingly for a couple of seconds before bursting out laughing. Ramanan said, "Six months, kid! The Goddess was wrong!" Krishna finished his idlis, went to the basin to wash his hands and said, "If you keep talking like this, the Goddess will make sure she's right!"

When Embatmuru heard of the murder, he spent the entire morning wondering who the Goddess was, and what Ramanan had done to anger her.

Krishnaprasad was a constable with a theory based on gossip. When his bosses worked out the procedural why and how of the murder, he engaged in the substantial why and how. Krishna knew something about the murder that people around him didn't know. At least, they didn't seem like they knew, else they would have been discussing it.

Ramanan's murder was predicted, actually prophesied, by an Oracle.
***

Krishna still remembered that bus ride back to Kapmannu from Ambalapady. He was a little edgy and worried, while Ramanan laughed away.

"Kid, that guy there's looking at me weirdly," Ramanan laughed, "Maybe he'll get up, draw a dagger from his pocket, and stab me!" Krishna didn't say a word. "You could kill me! You like Lalitha, I know that. But she's marrying the other guy. You could get angry with me for not controlling my daughter, pull out your service revolver and shoot away," he continued laughing. Krishna turned to look out of the window. "Don't take it to heart, kid. I cant say anything to my daughter. I'd prefer you, frankly. That Nero's a bit soft in the head. But I cant force..." Krishna got up and walked to the door. When the bus slowed down, he jumped off. He was at least thirty kilometres away from home. He walked in the opposite direction - back towards Ambalapady.

Buses whizzed past him almost angrily in either direction on the highway. The occasional bike rode on the side of the road, unnaturally close to where he was walking. He tried stopping a couple of cars for a lift, but they didn't stop. An hour into his walk, he jumped off the highway into the fields and waded through the paddy. The mud was wet - it had rained the previous day. He convinced himself that it was a shortcut. His shoes were wet and grimy - it was like he had his own personal puddles to walk in, and despite the fact that he'd folded up his pants, they were fairly dirty too. The sea was a good two kilometres away, but he could feel its presence in the fields. It was almost an hour before he stopped to think.
***

Krishna was never too religious, but he was a bit superstitious. He couldn't explain it. Despite his scientific education - he had a B.Sc in Chemistry - he had this perverse fascination for the occult: the omens, the soothsayers, the predictions, astrology. He read his daily fortune each day in the local newspaper, and lived his life by it. He would choose his coloured banian depending on the lucky colour in the newspaper. He would look for his daily lucky number everywhere throughout the day. If the horoscope told him that he mustn't be adventurous, he wouldn't even flirt with Lalitha. Whenever he travelled, he kept tulasi leaves in each of his bags. He was terrified of black cats crossing his path and lizards falling on him.

Ramanan was the opposite. He read his daily horoscope, yes. But as a joke. He laughed about it and dismissed it. Every time there was a reference to his love life, he announced it loudly to his daughter, "I'm going to find a new girl today! At this age, with this leg!" The local astrologers, who lived in the same part of market street, were teased by Ramanan each day when he passed them on his way to buy supplies for the restaurant.

Krishna went to the Ambalapady Temple each Friday to witness the darshana - the sighting, literally - of the Goddess. The quaint, quiet temple came alive each Friday as one of its Trustees, a man of few words in normal life was possessed by the Goddess. It was a spectacle. Devotees from all around the area came there by about seven in the evening to witness it. On that Friday evening, Ramanan accompanied Krishna to mock the event.

Although he'd been witnessing this each week, the sight never failed to impress Krishna. The Oracle was placed in the centre of the hall where he would be possessed. People crowded around him in an irregular circle, crowding around the imaginary line to give themselves the best view of the event. The Oracle sat down on the floor next to two of the archakas. Some mantras were chanted, mango leaves were used to sprinkle water around the Oracle and on his head.

Gongs were sounded.

Slowly, the sounding of the gongs increased in volume. Gong, Gong. The temple bells added to the gonging. Gong, Gong.
***

Krishna continued trudging through the fields, the gongs still reverberating in his ears. The could even hear the archakas screaming their mantras over the din. He was right in front of the cirle, as he always was. Ramanan stood to his left, muttering into his ear every now and then.

"So, this Goddess, she's going to fly down from the skies?"
"Just watch."
"Ooh. I can see this misty figure flying down from that star there!"
***

The gonging continued. Louder than ever. The archakas were resigned to not being heard over the din. Yet, they shouted as laud as they could. One of them moved towards the oracle and whispered something in his ear. The gonging was louder than ever. The crowd raised their hands collectively in a namaskara. Some of them clapped with the rhythm of the gong. Gong, gong. Others, including Krishna, closed their eyes.
***

Krishna was tired from all the walking. It was unlikely he'd ever reach Ambalapady on this route. He sat down on a rock and removed his shoes. He shouldn't have pushed Ramanan to ask that question. He should've let Ramanan be. But Ramanan wasn't respecting the power of the process, and the only way to make him believe was to force him to ask a question.
***

Gong, gong. Suddenly, the Oracle stoop up and swayed to the throb of the gonging. The crowd imitated his action. They were all also swaying metronomically. The power, the tension was reaching the upper threshold. Ramanan let out a loud, derisive laugh. But everyone else was too involved to notice.

The Oracle let out a loud scream. A shattering sound that signalled that the Goddess had arrived. The Oracle was the Goddess now.
***

Krishna wondered what had made him push Ramanan forward to make him ask the question. Maybe it was his giggling. Or the comments he made. But he didn't have to ask the Oracle that question, really. He could've asked him anything else.
***

The crowd went quiet. The archakas performed a couple of small procedures, before one of them announced, "Ask the Goddess whatever you want to know. Be warned. The Goddess is a powerful being and might be angered by trivial questions. Be warned. The Goddess is frank and honest. She will not hide anything from you simple because it is unpleasant. Don't ask her questions you would rather not know the answer to."

An elderly man was the first questioner, "My granddaughter - when will she get married? Will it be a happy marriage?"
The Oracle replied, in a baritone that the man didn't seem capable of producing, "Next year, before Shivaratri. The marriage will last forever, but how happy it is will depend on how co-operative she is."
The old man's face fell. His granddaughter was probably the rebellious sort.
Ramanan whispered, "Calculated guess. That man's granddaughter is about 25. You can tell from what he looks like. If they're looking for someone, and the way he asked the question, it seemed like they've been looking for a while, its safe to assume they'll find someone in six months - by Shivaratri. The rest of it was vague."


A lady brought a child forward and asked the Goddess to bless him. "He will do mathematics and science! He will do very well!" The Oracle said.
"Right. She looks Brahmin. Half the Brahmin boys from this area do engineering. Its a safe guess," Ramanan said.

"My wife isn't feeling all that good these days. She feels weak and doesn't talk much. What is the problem?" a middle-aged man asked.
"She's been possessed by a spirit..."
"...probably having an affair with the man next door..." Ramanan mumbled.
"...and that spirit doesn't agree with your soul..."
"...it isn't the neighbour, its that business rival..."
"...and your soul will have to consort with hers more..."
"...you must stop having that affair with that other lady and screw your wife more often..."
***

It was that last line that angered Krishna, he was convinced. He wore his shoes again and began walking towards the highway to catch the bus back.
***

Ramanan found himself pushed forward by Krishna, closer to the Oracle than he'd've liked. He was not prepared to ask a question. The Oracle looked dreamily in his direction. One of the archakas prodded him, "Ask! Quickly!"
Ramanan considered for a second before asking, "How long will I live?"
The Oracle considered its response for a couple of seconds, before declaring, "By next Deepavali, your child will kill you!" The Oracle collapsed in a heap. The archakas were too stunned to even rush to his help. The crowd moved away from Ramanan as if he could explode and die at any moment. Krishna was dumbfounded.

Ramanan just smiled.
***

Krishna reached the highway, got into a bus and headed back. He was still unable to think clearly.
***

To be Continued.

Nero: Shavasamudra (Part I)

Ramanan didn't make for a pretty sight. The wrinkles on his face made him look twenty years older, his hair was white and ruffled, his clothes always hung loosely and uncomfortably on his frame, and he walked with a perceptible limp. The women who saw him as a young man swore that he was amongst the most handsome men they had seen. Twenty years ago, his shoulders were broad, his dark hair, ruffled as ever, glowed in the sun, his large eyes never expressed much, but gave one the sense that they hid many mysteries, and he had a glistening set of perfect teeth. That morning though, looked worse than he had in years. Poor man couldn't help it. He had no control over what he looked like anymore. His eyes were shut to the world, and his body, robbed of its heat, had stiffened. His face, hacked with the most brutal of weapons, was barely recognisable. Only his daughter identified him by the clothes he wore on the previous day.
The fisherman who found him in the morning reckoned that he'd been tossing about for a few hours. He must have been let into the sea near the fort, the fisherman guessed.

The Police arrived at the scene and asked the standard, pointless questions. His daughter cried in a corner in her fiancé's arms. His best friend, Sujata, looked on expressionlessly. A crowd collected and gossiped. He dealt with the wrong people, they told themselves. He was never a straightforward person, someone commented. Someone else pointed out that no one knew where he was from or what family he belonged to. He just landed up one afternoon and never left. This was his mysterious past catching up with him, a man suggested, much to everyone's agreement.

But Ramanan himself couldn't reply to all this. He just slept through it, and let the living slander his existence. He allowed his body to be dragged out of the sea and examined by various policemen and a doctor. He let them take notes in their pads on what they saw. When they were done, it was night, and he let his body be lifted on to a pyre on the shore and burnt.
***

Even today, if you take the third turn towards the sea from the road on which the Kapmannu Bus Stand stands, you will find yourself on a zigzagging road that narrows gradually until the two-storeyed buildings that line it almost converge into a single, indistinguishable mass of old-world construction, forming a canopy through which light struggles to penetrate. Then there are the wires - telephone wires, cable television wires, electricity wires, and these days, internet cables - all knotted in a disorganised mesh of struggle for survival, with the odd clothesline adding colour to the confusion. Constable Krishnaprasad dropped his nephews off at the Bus Stand, from where they would take a bus to Mangalore to their school, and turned into that street on his morning patrol. It was formally named after an obscure freedom fighter, Kapmannu's sole contribution to the freedom struggle, but was known only as Market Road, for its buildings housed myriad merchants - starting with the chilly sellers, their shops washed in the steamy red of dried chillies and chilly powder, and then the grocers with their rice and dals, followed by the silver shops, the jewellers, the dry fruits traders, and finally, in the most cramped parts of the road, the gold merchants with their glittering wares.

Its inhabitants had lived there for generations. Each shop-owner will be able to tell you about his ancestor who moved to here in Haider Ali's time, when Kapmannu was a bustling port town. Remnants of Haider Ali's port and fort stand unused now, except by mischievous boys playing hide-and-seek, and mischievous lovers playing their own form of hide-and-seek with the police. Back in those days, the merchants will tell you, goods that came in by sea from Cochin and Bombay were sold to wholesalers who sold all over the Mysore province. Kapmannu rivaled Mangalore for a while, but the British changed all that. In the Fourth Mysore War between the British and Tipu Sultan, the fort was captured by the Marathas, who were temporarily allies of the British, and the port was closed down. At this time, the merchants tell us, their ancestors made a mistake. Instead of surrendering to the British, they formed a civilian army and revolted.

News of the victory in Srirangapatna reached the Maratha soldiers camped in the fort, and they celebrated that night amidst talk of turning against the British and restoring Maratha splendour. The little civilian army, headed by the cult-figure, Kapmannu Nagendra, stormed the fort from the seaward side and caught the Marathas in the middle of their revelry. The unprepared, drunk Marathas made feeble attempts at putting up a fight but failed and fled. Nagendra, a muslin merchant by profession, declared himself the King of the new province of Kapmannu in a showy coronation. But in two days, the Marathas were back with a stronger, soberer and motivated force. Kapmannu fell, but Nagendra survived and hid amongst the forests of the Western Ghats near Mudabidri. In less than a month, Nagendra recaptured the fort for three days. But this time, the British quelled his resistance completely. He was killed in the fort, and his body was mutilated and left on the beach, tossing amongst the early-morning waves.

Minor revolts broke out every now and then for almost six years, and control over the port changed every few weeks. Each change of control would be marked by the body of the opposing leader being left on beach in the morning, tossing amongst the waves. The beach is known till today as Shavasamudra, the Corpse Beach. Kapmannu's economy sutffered badly as ships preferred the more predictable Mangalore. Slowly, the population of Kapmannu thinned until it was considered too unimportant to fight for. The British, who acquired control over the area, didn't bother to redevelop the port or reinforce the fort. Trade through land revived, though, and the merchants who stayed on in the troubled years, exist in their idyllic world to this day.

The descendants of Nagendra all inherited his name. Even if a Nagendra had two sons, they were both Nagendras, and their sons were more Nagendras. Only the daughters were spared this torture. In the early twentieth century, Nagendra the Eighty-Third will tell you, there were twenty-one Nagendras, all living in his ancestral house on Market Road. That was when a new system of nomenclature was devised. They would all be called by their number. Nagendra the Fifty Seventh, called Aivatyelu, a man who had studied Political Science in Madras University, objected to this system because he thought it was communist. His name was immediately changed to Sonne Nagendra, or Nagnedra the Zeroeth by the head of the family, Nagendra the Fifty First. Sonne accepted his new name proudly, and gave it to all his descendants. He also moved with his family to Bangalore.

Embatmuru (eighty-three in Kannada), the last Nagendra still living in Kapmannu, ran a tea stall on Market Road. It was where Krishnaprasad had breakfast each morning.

"Idlis and tea," he called out, getting off his motorcycle.
Embatmuru peered at him through his glasses and said, "Seven hundred and nine rupees, including today."
Krishnaprasad didn't reply to the pronouncement. He just adjusted his hair in front of the little mirror. Ganesh, who was sitting at one of the two tables in the stall asked Embatmuru, "You really think a policeman will pay you?"
"He did pay me some time ago when it reached a thousand."
"He paid the whole amount?" he asked, sipping his tea loudly.
"No. He paid me five hundred and asked me to adjust the rest."
Krishnaprasad behaved as if he hadn't heard a word, and sat down at the same table as Ganesh. His idlis and tea were kept on the table by the boy who worked in the stall. Ganesh kept up the chatter about corrupt policemen and how they take the world for granted. When Krishna finished his idlis and poured the tea into his saucer for cooling, Ganesh got up to leave.
He was paying Embatmuru at the counter when he suddenly asked, "I completely forgot to ask you! What about Ramanan? What have the police found out?"
Before Krishna could react, Embatmuru said mockingly, "He cant tell us. Its confidential."
"He cant tell us because the Police know nothing," Ganesh said, laughing.

Krishna finished his tea and left on his bike without paying. Embatmuru reminded him of the amount again, and Krishna nodded. He got a call from Lalitha. She said, "Come back here quickly? This inspector is asking us all kinds of questions." He said he would.

Like everyday, he stopped next at the little paan and cigarette shop - a box of steel, really, adorned by a tray with ingredients for paan, variety of mints in plastic containers, colourful, shiny, hanging ghutka packets, a daily supply of nippat and chakli, packets of chikki, an odd collection of unsold biscuits, and Veeresh. Veeresh was an index of the mood of the town. His eyes, magnified by the large, brown glasses he wore, his nose, mangled in a street fight years ago, his greying hair, thin lips and Gandhi ears were bursting with information. His face brightened on festivals and fairs, and shrunk when there was a death or epidemic (even if it was an outbreak of the flu). On days when exam results released, many people looked at Veeresh before the results, because a look at him would tell them what the general trend was.

Krishnaprasad barely got off his Police motorcycle, when Veeresh held out two Kings' accompanied by a sombre expression. Krishna expected this, it was understandable. Veeresh, though, didn't fail to ask him the same question he asked him every morning, "I thought you have quit, saar?" The constable replied, like he always did, "These are my last two."
Today, Veeresh had another question, "Police found out anything?"
Krishna put the cigarette in his mouth and picked up a match, "About?"
"Ramanan."
The match hissed and the flame neared the tip of the cigarette. An orange glow was followed by grey smoke, "I cant tell you."
Veeresh allowed himself a half-smile and added, "Your boss will tell me when he comes this afternoon."
Krishna smiled, mounted his motorcycle, cigarette in one hand, kick-started it and sped along Market Road towards Shavasamudra where, after two-hundred years, a body had been tossing in the morning waves.
***