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Authors: Kay Marshall Strom

Tags: #Book 1 of the Bless ings of India Series

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BOOK: The Faith of Ashish
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5

 

 

 

T
he sun rose high in the sky, heating the tin cup tied over Virat's mouth so hot that it scorched his lips. He longed to shift it to one side, but he dared not. Should a droplet of spittle escape his mouth and pollute the ground, it could cost him his life.

In rice paddies on either side of the road, Sudra workers— both men and women—bent over almost double as they planted seedlings in their fields. Back-breaking work under an unforgiving sun. Rivulets of sweat glistened across their bony bodies and soaked the thin cotton of their
saris
and
mundus,
and
chaddar
turbans. Their children hurried back and forth lugging buckets of water to pour over the seedlings.

When Virat was leaving to dispose of the dead cow, little Ashish had called out one last question: "
Appa,
why do the gods let animals die in lands where people must not touch them?"

"You ask too many questions," Virat had chided him." Things are the way they are, and there's no more to be said about it. If you keep asking why, you will get yourself into trouble."

Now that Virat thought about it, his son had asked a rather good question.

"Who would take away your dead animals if it were not for me?" Virat demanded out loud, defiance ringing in his voice. Beyond the rice paddies lay the land of the twice-born, the pure ones, the upper castes who were loved by the gods. Already the air smelled cleaner, and mango groves grew more lush and fragrant. Virat anchored his new drum under his arm and beat out a measured cadence. Through parched and blistered lips, he called: "Untouchable coming! Untouchable coming!"

As soon as he saw high caste villagers, Virat dipped low so that his broom would erase his unworthy footsteps from the dust on the road. Step, dip. Step, dip. Step, dip.

"What could such a one be thinking to walk openly on our road?" a stout man grumbled loudly to a younger man beside him. His companion made a face of disgust and spat noisily. Vir at bowed his head low and took care not to defile either of them with his shadow.

"Untouchable coming! Untouchable coming!" he called. Fragrances of paradise floated on the breeze and intertwined themselves with spicy aromas. Surely it was true; the twice-born
were
favored by the gods.

Off to one side, sheltered under the spreading branches of a neem tree, squatted a square-shaped man, bedecked in red cloth and with a bright red turban wrapped around his head. A bushy gray moustache and beard obscured the man's face. He sat among half a dozen sacks, all of them standing upright and wide open.

The man glowered at Virat. "Stay clear of my spices!" he warned.

Virat slinked to the other side of the road.

A woman in a purple
sari
moved up to inspect the spice merchant's wares. "A measure of cardamom," she said.

The red-turbaned spice merchant dipped out a handful of cardamom seeds and wrapped them in a broad banana leaf.

"Cinnamon too," the woman said. "And cloves. Yes, and cumin, I believe. Hmm mm . . . and coriander as well."

"Very good," the spice merchant said to the woman. "You will grind masala today?" He dipped his hand into first one sack and then the other, wrapping each selection in a leaf.

Without realizing it, Virat paused to watch the transactions. When the spice merchant caught sight of him, he grabbed up a stone and heaved it. It caught Virat square in the chest and knocked him flat on his back.

"Be off with you!" the merchant hollered. "Don't you be polluting my market and my wares!"

Virat bowed as low as the broom would permit.

"Clean up your pollution!" a man from up the road ordered.

Adjusting the cup over his mouth and dipping to sweep while also staying off the road, Virat scurried away as quickly as he could.

Another accusing voice called after him: "Is it not enough that you pollute our water? Must you also pollute our ground?"

Virat leapt off the path and fell to his knees, for it was Brahmin Keshavan who spoke to him from the shelter of a mango grove. Virat caught a glimpse of the Brahmin's bonethin features, harsh and holy.

"You do not keep to your place,
chamar.
It is not a mystery why you have raised so wicked a child."

"Next to the gods"—that's how Brahmin Keshavan referred to himself. It must be so. His
mundu,
tied halfway up his chest, was of spotless white linen, woven with a rich
kara
all around the edge—a lavishly wide strip of green and yellow silk threads. Even the wealthiest men only wore such finery for important occasions. Over the Brahmin's left shoulder, across his smoothly oiled body and on down under his right arm, hung the sacred thread that marked him as a member of the Brahmin caste.

Brahmin Keshavan's eyes squinted into slits and his thin mouth puckered in disgust. Still, his eyes never left the intruder. Virat fell to his knees and crawled past the great Brahmin, taking care to mind his shadow.

"This road is not open to you," the Brahmin said.

The first lessons an Indian child learned were to show respect to Brahmins and to gods. Even so, Virat gathered his courage and dared to speak.

"Show mercy to my son, I beg of you. He is but a very little child."

"
Varnasrama-dharma,"
Brahmin Keshavan replied in a cool voice. "The sacred law clearly shows that
dharma
is not the same for everyone. All people are not held to the same rules. The
dharma
of a child is not that of an old man, just as the
dharma
of high birth is not that of the lowly. Still, a general conduct must be followed by all."

"Ashish is an innocent," Virat pleaded.

"Innocence is not the same as purity," Brahmin Keshavan said. "Pray that your son will die in defense of a Brahmin or a cow so that he might possibly secure a place in heaven. To die for polluting our water merely shows how little he learns as he passes from one life to the next."

His veneration for the Brahmin quickly turning to stifled anger, Virat said, "I wish to speak to the landowner."

"In that case, continue along the road until you reach the last house. You will find Mammen Samuel Varghese preening on his veranda." An unmistakably vicious tone tinged Brahmin Keshavan's smooth words. "And,
chamar,
do not touch your feet to our road!"

Virat hurried away, taking care to stay off the road, to sweep away his footprints, to hunch low and to bow humbly.

"Your son cannot escape the law of
karma
any more than I can escape the passage of time!" the Brahmin called after him.

Life and death, rebirth and another death, over and over and over again. The endless circle spun around in Virat's head until he could hardly walk straight. Do good and be reborn into a better life. Do wrong and come back as something worse. Coming into life the son of a
chamar
was bad enough, but what if Ashish was doomed to come back as an animal, or a snake, or even a plant? And all for the sin of a drink of water on a hot day.

Word traveled fast. By the time Virat caught sight of the landowner's lavish home, Mammen Samuel Varghese would be ready for him.

6

 

 

 

B
abu!" Mammen Samuel Varghese bellowed. "Do not make me wait!"

Mammen Samuel's Sudra servant rushed out to the veranda, head bowed, a fine embroidered rug slung over his bare shoulder and humble apologies tumbling from his lips.

"Place it under the jasmine vines," Mammen Samuel ordered.

With deft diligence, Babu threw the rug down on the veranda and straightened every wrinkle out of it before quickly ducking back inside the house. He reemerged bearing his master's flat wooden desk supplied with an inkwell and quill pen. One more run inside, and Babu laid down a thick leather bound book in which his master recorded every detail of his business accounts.

"Go!" Mammen Samuel said, waving his servant away.

After settling himself stiff and straight on the rug, Mammen Samuel set about thumbing through the pages of his accounting book. He paused here and there to check this figure or recalculate that accounting, after which he dipped his pen in the inkwell and printed some notation or other in his tight, cramped script.

By the name
Sekaran,
he printed:
Baby born. Raise charge for family grain allotment.

By the name
Debarma
he printed:
Wife injured, cannot work.
Cut her rice allotment.

By the name of
Usha
he printed:
Husband died, burial required. Double family debt.

One man after another passed by on the road. Each in turn touched his forehead in deference to the small, stout man, so daintily put together, his moustache and beard always neatly trimmed. Mammen Samuel seldom gave any of them notice. When he did happen to look up, he would shout to whomever passed, "You! Where are you going?" The passerby always bowed low and answered politely, only to have Mammen Samuel dismiss him in mid-sentence with a curt nod and a wave of his hand.

"Babu! Bring me tea!" Mammen Samuel called. It wasn't really that he desired more tea. Rather, he clung to a deep belief that if he failed to keep constant watch, Babu—along with all the other servants—would stop work and stand about gossiping. He suspected that on occasion they even stretched out to nap. Well, they would find Mammen Samuel Varghese much sharper and more cunning a master.

"Babu! Work harder!" he called out at regular intervals. "Move faster, you lazy boy! I am watching you."

When applied to servants and women, Mammen Samuel considered gossip a most irritating attribute. When it affected him positively, however, he deemed it as nothing less than the passing of necessary information, or the issuing of an important warning. Whether gossip or warning, long before Mammen Samuel saw Virat or heard the beat of his drum, Babu brought him word of the pitiful Untouchable coming up the road to see him.

"The
chamar,
is it then? The one whose son dared to drink from the pure well?"

Before Babu could answer, Mammen Samuel said, "As soon as he arrives, serve me my midday meal. Hurry now, and tell Boban Joseph he is to join me."

 

 

"He's coming!" Mammen Samuel's fourteen-year-old son announced. "I see the wretch walking beside the road."

"Hush," Mammen Samuel scolded Boban Joseph. "Keep your eyes away."

He signaled Babu to lay out a silver plate for the savory
idli
cakes, and polished copper bowls of
chutney,
and a silver pot of
sambar
vegetable stew.

Virat stopped at the edge of Mammen Samuel's raised veranda, so comfortably sheltered by waving coconut palms. He looked with amazement at the banana and mango trees, and breathed in the fragrance of wild jasmine. Carefully he swept away his footsteps and laid his drum aside. Without a word, he knelt down and bowed low with his face in the dirt.

Rice.
Idli
and spicy hot
chutney.
More rice, with
sambar.
Curds to cool the heat of the hot peppers. Mammen Samuel busied himself squishing the fine food together between his fingers. He paid not the least notice to the prostrate
chamar.

"Eat, eat!" Mammen Samuel urged Boban Joseph. "You are now a man, and food is plentiful."

Squishing, squishing the food between his fingers, mashing it together into a mush. Then, in one swift circular motion, Mammen Samuel gathered it into a ball and brought it to his mouth in his dripping hand.

"Mmmmmm," Mammen Samuel murmured happily. "Eat, boy. Eat your fill. Then you shall have more!"

Virat raised himself and looked up in wonder at the food spread out on the veranda. Such a feast, and on an ordinary day! How could it be? For the people who lived in the mud huts in the untouchable section of the village, most meals were rice flavored with a sprinkling of curry and a handful of hot peppers. Meat when an animal died, but when everything stayed healthy, mostly rice.

As Mammen Samuel's speedy fingers prepared his next bite, Boban Joseph stuffed a dripping bite into his mouth. Then another bite for Mammen Samuel, his two gold teeth glinting in the sun each time he opened his mouth.

A peacock, eager to impress an indifferent pea hen, fluttered onto the edge of the veranda and proudly strutted about. Shrieking for attention, it spread out a most remarkable tail of iridescent blue and green. With a startled cry, Virat fell flat on his stomach. Too terrified to move, he stared at what looked to be countless eyes staring out at him from the peacock's tail.

Mammen Samuel laughed out loud. He nudged his son and pointed to the frightened man lying in the dirt. The two roared together.

"Have I taught you well, Boban Joseph?" Mammen Samuel asked in a loud voice. "Do you fully understand the role of those who are dependents in the village? Of servants and Untouchables?"

"Yes, Father," Boban Joseph said.

To Babu, who stood mutely at the side, Mammen Samuel ordered, "More food for your master! And more food for your master's son!"

How long Virat knelt in the beating sun, perspiring among the mustard flowers and the preening peafowl, he couldn't tell. The spicy fragrance of the air, and the rumbling hunger inside his stomach, made him dizzy and confused.

A poorly plucked sitar whined from inside the fine house. "My sister needs much practice before that can rightly be called music," Boban Joseph said. He shook his head, as if to free his ears of the jarring notes.

Mammen Samuel ignored his son and motioned instead for Babu. The servant hurried over with a basin of water. First father, then son, washed the remains of their meal off their hands and dried their hands on the towel tied around Babu's waist.

Mammen Samuel stood stiffly upright, the instinctive posture of short men. Freshly bathed and shaved before his meal, he wore white trousers that hung loosely and a
kurta—
a long tailed, collarless shirt. His hard, expressionless eyes fixed on the still prostrate
chamar.

"Why do you come to me?" Mammen Samuel demanded."You are a landlord," Virat replied, taking care to keep his head low. "You are a great man of power and wealth. I come to ask you to lend me money to get English medicine for my son. Please. I come to beg you to save my child's life."

 

 

Because his master ordered it, Babu brought Virat a clay cup filled with water. The Sudra servant would not hand it to the Untouchable, of course. Instead, he set it on a rock and walked away. As Virat grabbed up the cup and gulped thirstily, Babu hissed, "If all were as it should be, you would be living in a garbage dump."

"You know what you are," Mammen Samuel called out to Virat.

"Please, my boy is so little," Virat begged. "He has not yet seen his sixth summer."

At Mammen Samuel's command, Babu returned to the rock where the empty clay cup stood. He picked up another rock and smashed the cup to pieces. Such cups were intended for Untouchables simply because they could so easily be destroyed after impure lips touched them—another way to protect the pure upper castes from untouchable pollution.

"You know what you are," Mammen Samuel said again. This time it sounded more like an accusation.

Of course Virat knew. How could he not know? Everyone knew about the four
varnas—
the castes . . . and the outcast es whose
dharma
caused them to be trampled beneath righteous feet. Everyone knew the basic social order that governed Hindu society as outlined by Manu the ancient lawgiver in the
Manusmriti.

Everyone knew Untouchables fell outside the four
varnas
of
Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya,
and
Sudra.
Everyone knew the outcastes to be impure, subhuman, lower than animals and rodents and insects.

"Look ahead of you," Mammen Samuel told Virat. "Look to your right and look to your left. All the land you see belongs to me. Abundant fields, groves of cashews, mangos and bananas, and pepper vines climbing the trees. All of it is mine. Your pagan Hindu stories claim that the Lord Vishnu, by way of an axe, made a gift of this land to Rama all the way to the Arabian Sea. I say the God of heaven, the only true God, made a gift of it to me."

Virat lay on the ground before the landlord, sobbing into the tin cup still tied halfway over his mouth. He reached his arms out to Mammen Samuel Varghese and banged his forehead on the ground. "My Ashish is a good son. He deserves to live! Please, lend me the money. Please!"

"Stand up on your feet," Mammen Samuel said with a shade of disgust. "Take the cup off your face and the broom from your back,
chamar."

 

 

"My son is good and kind." Even though Virat stood before the landlord, he kept his head bowed, and he never ceased pleading. "He works hard, helping his father and his mother. I try my best to teach him to do right. Why must such a child be untouchable?"

"Because that's what he was born to be," said Mammen Samuel.

"His name is Ashish. His name is blessing. The boy is my blessing."

For many minutes the landlord, his face impassive, gazed in silence at the pitiful Untouchable. From his head to his feet, dirt and clumps of mud covered Virat. He dared not lift his eyes.

"Your son has the same number of years as my son, Saji Stephen," Mammen Samuel finally said. "For the sake of my own son, I will help your son. Also, because I am a Christian man, descended from a long line of Christians, I will take your Ashish to the English Mission Medical Clinic in my own bullock cart and I will pay whatever amount the medical man requires."

Virat fell to his knees. Tears flooded his face. "I will pay you back, kind sir. And whatever more you ask of me, I will pay that too."

"Come to the edge of the veranda so we can talk properly," Mammen Samuel said. "You can work off the debt in my fields. You and your wife."

"Yes, yes. Anything!" Virat said.

Mammen Samuel clapped his hands and Boban Joseph stepped forward with a paper and an ink bottle.

"To seal our agreement," Mammen Samuel said to Virat. Because Virat knew nothing about letters or words, and because he could think of naught but his broken son, he unquestioningly dipped his thumb into the ink Boban Joseph poured out on a rock and stamped it on the line at the bottom of the agreement.

BOOK: The Faith of Ashish
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