The House of Blue Mangoes (4 page)

Solomon was thunderstruck. When he had walked past the rock the previous day it had been bare. The lawyer was still talking but his words did not register. This was serious, far worse than anything he had had to cope with during the years of his leadership – epidemics, drought, quarrels and feuds. It was bad enough that outsiders had attacked his people. But if this marked the beginning of a full-scale caste war, they were in for a very bad time.

What Solomon really wanted to do was scream, rave, rant, throw up his arms in despair as he regarded the obscenity on the rock. For a fleeting moment, he wished he was the young boy he had once been – before responsibility had descended upon him, along with self-consciousness, restraint, and a sense of his own inadequacy. He composed himself.

5

Solomon had first heard about the infamous Breast Wars from his mother and later from his father and uncles. The conflict, which latter-day historians label more neutrally the breast-cloth controversy, marked the culmination of an especially vicious phase in the caste struggle in the deep south. It began in the small towns and villages of the kingdom of Travancore but inevitably spilled over into neighbouring Madras Presidency, which by the middle of the nineteenth century had grown into one of the largest and most populous provinces of British India. Tinnevelly and Kilanad, in which Chevathar was located, were the two worst affected districts in the Presidency.

The violence had been brewing for some time. Non-Brahmin caste groups like the Andavars and Nadars, who had acquired wealth and economic clout, demanded enhanced social and religious standing. Those above them in the caste hierarchy were determined to resist their aspirations.

Unlike in the rest of the country, the caste tree in the south had, broadly speaking, only three levels of branches – Brahmin, non-Brahmin and those beyond the pale. Initially, the skirmishing was principally between the powerful non-Brahmin castes like the Nadars, Andavars, Thevars, Maravars, Vedhars and Vellalas. The Brahmins were concentrated in the cities and the great temple towns, and would only be properly singed by the flames of war a little later on.

Exacerbating the dissent was Christian missionary activity from the seventeenth century onwards. Tens of thousands of non-Brahmins, especially those near the bottom, accepted the Word of Christ, principally in order to edge their way past those who opposed them by claiming, as their new religion urged, that all men were created equal in the eyes of God. One of the social customs to be challenged was dress: hitherto tradition had ordained that the various members of the caste tree should bare their breasts as a sign of deference and subservience to those who perched higher in the branches. Accordingly, the untouchables went bare-breasted before the Pallans, the Pallans before the Nairs, and so on until the Nambudiri Brahmins, who deferred only to their deities. At the urging of the missionaries, Andavar and Nadar women began to cover their breasts. This, unsurprisingly, threw the upper castes, especially the men, into a frenzy of insecurity and frustration. Andavar and Nadar women who clothed themselves were abused in public, even beaten. Finally, unable to bear the torment, the middle-ranking castes went too far. ‘We have a divine right to gaze upon your filthy breasts and you should be flattered that we do so. They are ours to enjoy. Whatever benefits your new faith bestows upon you, this is not one of them,’ declared a landlord in Travancore in 1858, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he wrenched the blouse off a pretty Andavar woman who had recently converted to Christianity. Riots tore through the area following the outrage. Despite the royal government stepping in to ease the situation, tension continued to simmer in the kingdom and in the adjacent districts of Madras Presidency, which shared a long, porous border with Travancore.

It soon became apparent that if the authorities did not take swift and decisive action, there would be unrest on a massive scale. Despite this, neither the British authorities nor the Travancore Maharajah took any action for a while.

Slightly over a year earlier, some Indian regiments in the army had spearheaded the first major uprising against British rule. The 1857 conflict (variously called the War of Independence or the Mutiny or the Sepoy War, depending on whom you consulted) was sparked off by the rulers’ ignoring of local caste and religious taboos. For some years afterwards the British showed a marked reluctance to interfere with Indian customs and traditions.

In the face of the authorities’ lack of action, the people took matters into their own hands. In January 1859, violence exploded throughout Travancore. A local official, claiming the authority of the state, stripped some Nadar women of their upper garments. Rioting broke out and lasted for days. The next to be targeted were Andavar women in Melur, the capital of Kilanad district, who were similarly disrobed. Retribution was swift. A band of Andavar toughs went on the rampage, looting and burning houses in the Vedhar quarter. Prompt action by the authorities contained the violence, but elsewhere the situation was still extremely volatile.

Across the border, in the extreme south of Travancore, a mob, a couple of hundred strong, armed with silambus and aruvals, descended on a village near Nagercoil, barely five kilometres from where Charity Dorai would be born a couple of years later, and attacked the Christian Andavars there, burning and looting and stripping breast-cloths and bodices from the women. The Andavars began to retaliate. Instead of being assertive, the Travancore court made vague noises about respecting custom and tradition. But it was too late for that. When it became evident that the Travancore Maharajah wouldn’t be able to sort out the problem, missionaries and other concerned citizens petitioned the supreme authority in the south, the British Governor in neighbouring Madras, Sir Charles Trevelyan. Aware of the riots in his own Presidency and mindful of the gender of his chief, Queen Victoria, Trevelyan ruled that Travancore should prohibit the stripping of Andavar women. The intervention of the British authorities broke the back of the situation. When the ugliness in Travancore subsided, it had a calming effect on the tense districts of Madras Presidency.

The memory of the 1859 Breast Wars was burned into the minds of all those castes who were affected. Now it seemed that someone was trying to revive those terrible days . . .

Solomon began to register the words of Vakeel Perumal, who had never once stopped talking in all the time he had been thinking. ‘And the fact that the message was written at all and that, too, in grammatical prose, proves that whoever was responsible for this outrage was an educated man, which rules out most of the villagers.’ The man had a point, Solomon conceded.

From where he stood, Solomon could see the bustle and energy of the Pangunni Uthiram fair. Gypsies in bright clothes wandered among the soberly dressed villagers, little stalls offered tempting trinkets and foodstuffs, and the world seemed to go on much as before, largely unaware of the terrifying future that lay in store. ‘I’ll convene a meeting of the village panchayat this evening,’ Solomon said, and he began to walk away. Vakeel Perumal muttered something too low for Solomon to hear, and then repeated it in a louder voice. ‘I hope this will at least see better leadership from you.’

Solomon’s self-control left him. He saw himself walk up to Vakeel Perumal, catch a fistful of the blinding white shirt the lawyer wore, and say slowly into the fat face: ‘You will not speak to me like that ever again, in my presence or out of it. I hear of anything and I’ll break you in half.’

He released the lawyer and took the path towards town. A few minutes later he heard racing feet behind him, and turned slowly. It was his younger son Aaron, his favourite child, unruly hair flying in the wind, his sleekly muscled legs propelling him effortlessly along the road. He caught up with his father, and said worriedly, ‘Appa, I just heard . . .’

‘Yes, Aaron, things don’t look so good.’

‘My friends and I can go and find the men who did this. They’ll wish they’d never emerged from their mother’s . . .’

‘No, no violence. The village panchayat will meet this evening and decide what to do.’

‘Oh, and appa, I thought you should hear this . . . Someone said they had seen Joshua-chithappa in Meenakshikoil . . .’

Solomon smiled. If true, this was the best news he had received all day. He was closer to his first cousin Joshua than to his own brother and he had missed his support and friendship in recent years. Could it be that Joshua, whom he had last seen a decade ago, was back in Chevathar?

‘Who saw him?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Oh, Nambi said a friend of his had heard that someone had seen Joshua-chithappa . . .’

Solomon’s smile disappeared. So it was a silly bazaar rumour then!

6

Deputy tahsildar Shanmuga Vedhar, the ranking government functionary in this part of the district, thought rather highly of himself. His self-esteem rose even further when he was ensconced in his office in one of the busier parts of Meenakshikoil town. It wasn’t much, six foot by six foot and sparsely furnished, but he liked the feeling of authority it gave him. It made him forget that he was stuck in the least important town in Kilanad, itself the smallest district in Madras Presidency.

Indeed, whenever he sat behind his table, he saw himself as part of a chain of command that stretched all the way to the office of the Collector, the head of the district, and beyond that to the most powerful figure in the Presidency, the Governor in Council, no less. And, if he was lucky and his lobbying of his superiors was successful, Meenakshikoil might become a fully fledged taluqa very soon and he would be promoted to tahsildar. That had a nice ring to it, Tahsildar S. Vedhar! This was what he had studied for; this was what he had passed exam after exam for; this was why he was the first man in his village to receive a college education; this was what made it all worthwhile: this table, this chair, the cupboard filled with innumerable land records and yellowing files that contained within them reams of verbiage relating to incomprehensible disputes . . .

His musings were cut short when he saw, through the window, Solomon Dorai approaching the office. He immediately began making preparations to meet the thalaivar. He settled himself more firmly in his chair, stiffened his posture, smoothed down his thin sliver of moustache, and opened a file on his table in order to look busy. The door opened, and he saw, with not a little irritation, that his clerk had let the headman in without asking him to state his business. This wasn’t entirely his subordinate’s fault, for Shanmuga Vedhar himself wasn’t sure how to deal with Solomon. As deputy tahsildar he outranked him. There was no dispute about that. But on the other hand, he was beholden to Solomon who, as the wealthiest mirasidar in the taluqa, made the single largest contribution of taxes and rents to his treasury. Why, only a year and a half ago, Solomon had acquired a cotton-growing village to the north of Chevathar, which meant he now owned three villages outright in addition to owning or renting much of the land in Chevathar. Why couldn’t Solomon be like the other mirasidars, the powerful landlords of the deep south, and luxuriate in his wealth instead of meddling in administration? Surely being a mere thalaivar was beneath him. Why did he bother? When he had once summoned up the courage to ask the thalaivar, Solomon had been brusque. Four generations of Dorais had served as headmen of Chevathar village before him; he wasn’t about to shirk his hereditary responsibility. None of this would have mattered in the ordinary course of events, for both of them had more than enough to keep them occupied. But lately they had clashed over the issue of the new road. The deputy tahsildar had had his way, but not without a battle.

As the thalaivar entered his office, Shanmuga Vedhar rose to greet him. He would have preferred to receive him sitting down but there was something about the thalaivar’s presence that made him feel like an errant schoolboy.

‘Vanakkam Dipty Vedhar,’ Solomon said shortly, using the appellation the locals had bestowed on the official soon after he had arrived in Meenakshikoil.

The deputy tahsildar returned the greeting and the headman wasted no time in getting down to business. Swiftly he added to the facts Dipty Vedhar knew.

‘I’ve called a meeting of the village panchayat this evening. If this is going to turn into a caste fight, we’ll have to be ready. I hope you will be there . . .’

‘Yes, yes, I will be there.’

They chatted for a little while longer and then the headman left. To Dipty Vedhar’s great relief he hadn’t brought up the new road again, but his relief was tinged with dread as he contemplated the evening’s meeting. He could already hear the headman’s argument: without the new road, the thugs couldn’t have entered the village unseen, the natural order wouldn’t have been upset and so on and on and on. Dipty Vedhar feared caste violence as much as Solomon did. But it was absurd to argue that the village should remain exactly as it was a hundred years ago, sunk in ignorance and poverty. When would people like Solomon Dorai understand that progress was inevitable?

The new road had increased the revenue collections of the Government. The main earnings of the state, besides land tax and rent, came from the salt-works by the estuary. More land was requisitioned for salt-pans, but even as production increased, transport was still limited to coolies who had to wade across the river with sacks of salt on their heads. Dipty Vedhar had proposed an all-weather road connecting the village to the town by means of a stone culvert to be thrown across the river.

At first everyone in Chevathar had welcomed the idea of a pukka road, except Solomon, not that he knew quite why. Most of the villagers had seen the road that ran through town, rutted and pitted though it was, and wanted a similar one for themselves. But when the villagers learned that Dipty Vedhar proposed to run the new road in as straight a line as he could from the bridge to Solomon’s house and then on to the salt-works, objections rose thick and fast. Muthu Vedhar, Vakeel Perumal and the priests of the Murugan temple felt that their stature in the village entitled them to a piece of the road at their doorstep. When they finally realized that the Government would not allow extra expenditure on the road simply in order to appease their egos, they immediately began to oppose the project. They argued that the traditional laws of pollution which forbade untouchables and the lowest castes from even venturing near the main village path would be broken not only by the inhabitants but by outsiders who would be able to wander at will into the village.