The Faith of Ashish (16 page)

"No work tomorrow!" Boban Joseph announced to the laborers as they lay down their tools on the final day of harvest. "Tomorrow belongs to you! And when the sun is at its highest point, my father will reward you for all your hard labor, exactly as he promised. You will enjoy gifts of fresh provisions and a magnificent harvest feast!"

The next day, as the first rays of morning sun shone over the mountains, the entire settlement came alive with eager anticipation. No one wanted to sleep away the day of celebration that belonged to them. No one wanted to miss a single moment of the magnificent feast—not even the preparations. At full light, Anup chose the most respected men in thesettlement to dig a roasting pit. The women came after and filled the pit with wood and kindling. Anup lit the fire and tended it himself.

"Here they come!" Little Girl screamed. It was she who first saw four of Mammen Samuel Varghese's servants on the path. Two walked ahead and two behind, shouldering long poles between them on which hung young goats, fully dressed and ready to roast.

All day the wonderful fragrance of roasting meat wafted throughout the village. While the goat meat sizzled over the fire pit, Mammen Samuel's bullock cart arrived, bearing huge metal pots filled with rice. Smaller pots held curry and chutney, and a great deal of vegetable stew with red chili peppers floating in it. Bowls of curds . . . guavas and custard apples . . . stalks of red bananas.

Each man, woman, and child in the settlement got a banana leaf to pile high with the wonderful fare. And after the feast ended, each family received packages of rice, wheat, and spices.

The laborers were not alone in their joy. Whenever Mammen Samuel brought in a good harvest, the entire town rejoiced, for the powerful landlord took care to celebrate his good fortune with acts of generosity.

Prem Rao, the square-shaped, bushy-bearded spice dealer who wore a bright red turban, took sorrowful inventory of his sacks of spices. The day Virat had passed him on the road, sitting cross-legged and selling
marsala
spices to the village ladies, his spice sacks had stood upright. Not completely full, but still plenty plump. No longer. Now the sacks lay flat on the ground, all but empty. And because another vendor had started selling spices in the village, the women took one look at his depleted sacks, shook their heads, and turned away toward his rival.

So Prem Rao went to see Mammen Samuel. "My father sold spices in this village, and my grandfather before him. I must make my sacks once again plump with spices or I will have no spice market left. I cannot afford to fill all of them, yet if I don't, still more of my customers will pass me by and go to the new vendor."

"I did have a fine pepper harvest last winter," Mammen Samuel said in a most agreeable voice. "The pepper is especially strong and pungent, picked on the very day the first two berries showed red, almost ripe yet still hard."

Prem Rao licked his lips in eagerness.

"And my cardamom is already dried and carefully packed. The chilies, my workers continue to pick even while we talk."

"The three most popular spices," Prem Rao said.

"I can sell you a goodly amount of all three—on your good credit alone. Then you can use your money to buy the other spices you need."

Prem Rao's black eyes glistened with eager anticipation. He touched his forehead and bowed slightly. He belonged to the
Vaisya
caste, the merchant caste—third down from the highest. One caste below Mammen Samuel and two below the Brahmin. Still a respected caste, however, not servants like the Sudras.

"What must I do to earn your favor?" Prem Rao asked.

"A good man feeds his own family and gives help to others," Mammen Samuel said with exaggerated modesty. "For you, the interest charged will not be high."

At the end of the harvest, Mammen Samuel found opportunity to secure goodwill from as many people as possible— goodwill would continue on long after the tradespeople's storage bins, or spice sacks, were empty once again.

Mammen Samuel Varghese had learned to be a profitable landlord at the knee of his father, Nadir Lazarus. A cruel and haughty man, Nadir Lazarus Varghese, yet his business tactics made him extremely rich and greatly feared. But hated as well. Once, as he rode his horse alone on a dark pathway, a crowd of twenty-two armed men intent on breaking his iron grip on the village surrounded him. He escaped by turning the horse around and jumping it across one of the large ground wells he used to irrigate his fields.

Brahmin Keshavan's father, Brahmin Debarma, came to Nadir Lazarus and demanded a share of his harvest. "Go home, old man," Nadir Lazarus told him. "Do not bother me again. I will never give you one rupee." That night, Brahmin Debarma died in his sleep. Immediately, the Brahmin's family accused Nadir Lazarus of murder. Because everyone feared the Brahmins, authorities bound the great landlord in chains and locked him up in jail. The humiliation was more than the proud Nadir Lazarus could bear. The day he was released, he came home, took poison, and died in his bed.

No one in the village ever spoke the name Nadir Lazarus Varghese in Mammen Samuel's hearing. Mammen Samuel could not abide the humiliation. But in the privacy of his own house he said, "I am not like my father. The people love me. I am good to them."

As the sun sank low on the horizon, Mammen Samuel sat on his veranda where he could hear remnants of the echoed songs and laughter from the feasting laborers. He opened his leather-bound book of accounts, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and leafed though the pages one by one. Beside each laborer's debt, he added five rupees for each family member who sat at the feast. Fifteen rupees for Virat's family. The same amount as his original loan.

A
very good harvest," Mammen Samuel Varghese said with a sigh as he settled himself on the veranda.

"Very good," Boban Joseph agreed.

"Oh, that wild man I brought in to help with the harvest . . . that fisherman . . . he killed the tiger. Did you know?"

"That is a very good thing," Boban Joseph said, but he kept his eyes averted from his father.

"The tiger had already been injured," Mammen Samuel said. His voice took on a harsh and brittle tone, no longer like a father talking casually with his son.

Boban Joseph's eyes darted from his father to the floor, then with desperation to the steps that led to the garden.

"Your friend—the one called Gokul who likes to run races on his horse—he suffered a serious injury in an accident, I understand. Two weeks ago, as I hear. You know about that, I assume?"

Boban Joseph swallowed hard. "Gokul can be foolish. And careless, too."

"So it would seem. The injury occurred while he was out on his horse, then? Participating in a race, you say?"

Boban Josepeh fidgeted uncomfortably. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Why are you so interested in Gokul?"

"Your other friend, then. Beeja Ram. The lazy boy who cannot be bothered to work or learn to read. I understand he wears a bandage on his arm and shoulder. He also suffered injuries in an accident?"

Boban Joseph, his face pale and distressed, stared at the floor.

"The same accident as Gokul, perhaps?"

Sullen resignation flooded over Boban Joseph and he slumped back against the wall.

"Two men came to see me today," Mammen Samuel said. "They were the no-good fathers of your no-good friends, Gokul and Beeja Ram. I paid a goodly sum to each man so they would take their sons home with them and say nothing of the details of their accidents to anyone."

"Yes, yes!" Boban Joseph blurted. "It is true that Gokul and Beeja Ram and I set out to kill us a tiger. We heard that one had entered the woods and we wanted to prove we were strong enough to kill it with nothing but our sickles and knives. But we couldn't do it."

"So you injured it and let it go free?"

"We had no choice!" Boban Joseph insisted. "That tiger almost killed us!"

"You left an injured tiger to prey on our village! You left an injured tiger to threaten my harvest!"

Boban Joseph jumped to his feet. "So what if the tiger got a water boy, Father? So what if it had gotten a couple of the women too? What difference do a few outcastes make to people like us?"

Mammen Samuel, eyes flashing and jaw clenched tight, glared in furious disbelief at his son. For a long time, he said nothing.

"You, Boban Joseph Varghese, are the son of kings and warriors," Mammen Samuel finally said, in a voice curiously calm. "Outcasts are not your enemies, my son. Your enemies are the Brahmins, because they envy you. That boy Rama, he is your enemy. He will smile to your face, but behind your back he will pronounce a curse on you and do his best to destroy you. The outcastes know their place, but the Brahmins are certain in their belief that they are better than everyone else."

"But it was because of Rama that I wanted to kill the tiger," Boban Joseph said. "I wanted to prove my strength to him."

"You proved your foolishness and your pride. Nothing more," Mammen Samuel said. "Right now, Rama is most likely deriding you for polluting him."

Boban Joseph slumped down and let his head sink into his hands.

"You must be stronger than the Brahmins, but not because you attack an innocent tiger. No, you must be stronger because you are smarter."

Mammen Samuel looked at his son and shook his head slowly. "Are you listening to me, Boban Joseph? You
must
be
smarter!"

Morning and evening, darkening shadows of night and breaking light of day. Pray at the union of day and night. Mammen Samuel sat alone in the great room, his legs crossed, and stared straight ahead at the picture of Jesus on the wall. "Thanks be to God that I am not like all the others in this village." He paused. "Make my son Boban Joseph to be a good, obedient son, and a wise man. Make him to act in a way that does not damage our family's good name." For good measure he added, "Punish the Hindu son of Brahmin Keshavan for his sins more severely than you punish my Christian son for his." Mammen Samuel bowed low and said, "Amen."

The captive toddy cat shrieked and screamed in furious frustration. It scratched and tore at the sides of its makeshift cage with sharply pointed claws, screeching every time one of its claws caught in the rough-hewn box. Another sleepless night for everyone in Mammen Samuel Varghese's household. But when anyone mentioned letting the animal go free, Saji Stephen screamed and cried and stamped his feet. So the toddy cat stayed. As always, Saji Stephen got his way.

T
he hot season blasted in with a vengeance, scorching the earth so hard and black that the baked land cracked and fractured into odd-shaped scales. Under a blinding white sky, rice paddies floated in and out of focus. Heat melted everything into a shimmering blur.

Already, laborers had prepared the first field for rice planting. Anup commanded that trenches be opened to the second field to flood it. Workers followed to churn mounds of manure into the mud. At the completion of each section, teams came in to flatten the soggy ground, breaking up clods and leveling the land for planting. Virat, splattered with mud, drove one team of black water buffalo, yoked to a flat harrow. "Aim straight to the east," Anup told him. "Always aim straight to the east."

Latha filled her basket with rice seedlings that the women had grown in flat baskets covered with straw. She hunkered down in the muddy water of the first paddy and planted seedlings, one by one. Six inches apart. Row after row after row.

The sun beat down and burnt the women raw through their mud-caked
saris.

"Where is the water boy?" Latha sighed.

"Water!" the woman next to her called out. The woman's hands had started to shake uncontrollably.

One by one, the other women joined in the cry. "Water! Bring us water!"

But the water boy didn't come. In desperation, the shaking woman next to Latha scooped up a handful of mucky water and gulped it down.

Before the sun reached full overhead, Jebar—a string-thin man with filmy eyes who drove another water buffalo-pulled harrow—toppled off the wooden bar and fell face down into the paddy. He lay crumpled in the mud like a dead man.

Virat ran over to him. "Jebar! Get up, Jebar!" When the man didn't move, Virat turned him over and splashed water on his face.

"You have to let us rest in the shade!" Virat exclaimed to Anup, who had hurried over to see what happened.

"Yes!" one after another exclaimed. "We cannot keep working in the sun like this! None of us can."

Anup, shading his own eyes from the glaring sun, sighed and ran his muddy hand across his face. "Work early and late, then. We will all take a break in the hottest part of the day."

Throughout the rest of the hot season, the settlement came alive as soon as the stars began to fade in the still-black sky. Latha roused herself from her sleeping mat outside the door and stumbled into the dark hut. She felt around for the bowl of cold boiled rice she saved back from the evening meal. Just a quick breakfast before she and Virat hurried off to the paddies. With first light, they would start work—harrowing, planting. Flattening the ground, planting. Later, weeding, weeding, weeding.

When the sun grew too hot to bear, when even the water buffalo teams began to slow, the workers splashed water over their arms and legs and headed back to their huts to eat and wait out the worst of the heat.

Latha, like every other woman in the settlement, started a cook fire with only a handful of small twigs. It made no sense to generate any more heat than absolutely necessary. She poured water into her earthenware pot and dropped in rice, chilies, and spinach seasoned with tamarind and salt. Since Master Landlord had replenished their supplies of rice and wheat, Latha allowed an extra handful of rice for her family. Enough to eat, some to save back to eat cold for the evening meal, and a bit more left over for the next morning.

After Virat had finished his meal, after Ashish had finished his, Latha skimmed her hand around the edges of the pot to scoop up the last bites of spicy rice. Outside, the men laughed and talked and told stories everyone had already heard again and again. Latha ran her hand around the pot one more time in hopes of finding a bit more rice. Satisfied that she had gotten every last grain, she poured water over the pot to clean it. She poured more water over her hands and even splashed a bit on her face before she stepped outside to relax with the other women.

"Come, Latha!" called a bent-over woman with gray hair who could plant rice faster than anyone else. "Come and hear the news!"

In every spot of shade, a cluster of women or men sat gossiping. Sethu hunkered next to the gray-haired woman, but she never looked up at Latha. That's how it had been ever since Latha tried to help Devi.

"Not today," Latha told the woman. "I'm too tired. Maybe I'll lie down for a bit."

A black crow flapped down from the tamarind tree, perched on the roof of Hilmi's palm frond hut, and set up a raucous noise.

"That means good luck for the fisherman," the woman with few teeth said.

The bird flapped down onto the ground, but never slowed its cawing racket.

"Or maybe good luck for someone else," another woman suggested. "Make a wish and lay down your lumps of rice."

"You too, Latha," urged the gray-haired lady. "Maybe the crow will snatch up your lump. Maybe your wish will come true!"

"I have no rice to spare," Latha said as she turned back to her hut. "And no wishes left in me."

"
Amma,
see what I found!" Ashish, jumping up and down, could barely contain his excitement. "Come and see,
Amma!"

Latha had barely settled herself on her sleeping mat. Too soon she would have to get back to work. But Ashish couldn't wait, so she sighed and followed him into the hut.

Latha expected to see a pile of dry twigs—most likely a small pile. Even that would be most welcome. Instead, she saw a huge pile of mangos, some rich and juicy orange, and some still green.

"I picked them!" Ashish squealed. "I climbed the tree and pulled them off, and threw them down to Little Girl. We can eat them all!"

Latha looked doubtfully at the pile. That mango tree, like all the trees in the settlement, was for everyone to use. "It wouldn't be fair," she said. "One or two, perhaps, but not all of them."

Ashish's smile melted and tears sprang to his dark eyes. "But I picked them special for us,
Amma."

Latha didn't think about her crestfallen son. Nor did she consider the wonderful taste of the juicy ripe fruit, or the pungent green mango chutney she could make. She thought about Sethu. Probably this very minute Little Girl was telling her about the mangos. That meant that soon everyone in the settlement would know whatever Sethu chose to tell them, which most likely would not be kind.

"
Amma?"
Ashish ventured. "I could give the rest of the mangos to the other people. Maybe they will reward me for picking them."

"Yes, yes!" Latha said. Everyone would certainly be pleased. No one had the time or the energy to pick mangos, and here they were delivered to them. "What a good boy you are, Ashish!"

Ashish grabbed up an armload of the fruit and ran to the doorway, but Latha called after him, "First take mangos to Sethu. And don't accept anything in return!"

"A fortune-teller came to the village!" Devi exclaimed the next afternoon when she arrived home from the master's garden." Master Landlord's wife sent for him. Master Landlord's daughter will marry soon, and his wife wants to find the best day to make a good marriage."

"I wish I could see a fortune-teller," Lidya said.

"He wouldn't tell you anything good," Devi told her sister. "I wouldn't even want to talk to him. I
know
he wouldn't tell me anything good!"

Sethu stopped kneading the
chapati
dough. She didn't say anything, but she listened intently to Devi's news.

"Bake the
chapatis
and feed your father," Sethu said to Lidya. She handed the girl the ball of dough, wiped her hands on her
sari,
and hurried outside.

Sethu went to Latha's hut and found her spreading out the glowing embers in her cooking pit. "This is for you," Sethu said. She handed Latha a freshly dug chili plant, dirt still clinging to its roots.

"Thank you," Latha said. She went to the side of her hut, poured out a puddle of water, then clawed out a muddy hole in which to plant the chili. She knew Sethu. This was her way of saying, "I'm sorry." Her way of saying, "Let us forget our dispute."

"My Devi brought news from the village," Sethu said, following behind Latha. She told Latha all about the fortuneteller.

"What has that to do with us?" Latha asked.

"I want that fortune-teller to tell me my fortune. I want him to tell me my baby will be a boy."

Latha said nothing.

"The master landowner owes me a double payment. I took care of twin girls for his sister.
Twin girls!
He owes me. When the others go back to the fields, I will go to the master's house and ask to see the fortune-teller."

An idea began to take form in Latha's mind.

Virat didn't sit outside and gossip with the other men for long. The sun burned too hot and his body was too weary. When Latha saw him coming, she said to Sethu, "Go home. Maybe I will find you before you go to see the fortune-teller."

Latha straightened the sleeping mat for her husband and brought him the water jug, freshly filled.

"Where is Ashish?" Virat asked.

"Carrying mangos to everyone in the settlement. I'm glad he is not here, Husband, because I want to tell you something." Latha told him about the fortune-teller and about Sethu's plan to see him. "I want to go with her," she said.

"Why? You have no baby to ask him about."

"No, but I have a son. I have our Blessing. I want to ask the fortune-teller about him. I want to ask what will happen if we stay here and what will happen if we go."

"No!" Virat said. "You must not go. I forbid it."

"Why?"

"Because you will stir up trouble for us. Here is what I tell you: Do what you are supposed to do, and no more. Go to the fields and work, and leave Ashish alone to do his work."

Latha closed her mouth and said no more. But as soon as Virat shut his eyes, she crept away to see Sethu.

"Foolishness and superstition," Mammen Samuel said to his wife. "I know the Brahmins and the low-castes demand fortune-tellers. But I say, leave the fortune-tellers to them. Let the fools follow their fallacies, if they will. But we will not."

Parmar Ruth smiled and bowed her head to her husband. When she first instructed Babu to arrange a time for her to take Sunita Lois to meet with the fortune-teller, she cautioned him to keep the meeting a secret from her husband. A young girl of but twelve years and soon to be married—was it not simple wisdom to look out for the girl's future in every way possible?

"And yet," Mammen Samuel allowed, "it is uncanny how often the foretellings of such a one do come true."

"Yes, Husband," Parmar Ruth said eagerly. "You are right about that. Foolish superstition for sure, yet uncanny nevertheless."

When the garden servant sent word to Mammen Samuel that the midwife Sethu had come with another worker to have her fortune told, Mammen Samuel's eyes glistened. "Tell her if she wishes to see the fortune-teller, then henceforth she must perform her duties as midwife—
all
her duties—without extra payment from me."