The Man with a Black Cap Crazy about Stories

                                                      Raghavendra Patil

                   The dividing line between fact and fiction seems too intricate to think of…. Sometimes when a story is being told, it appears to be real and at some other times when a fact is narrated, it sounds like a fiction. Grandfather used to make children sit by him and narrate stories… it was like this and it was like that…. If I, who never saw his face, make a story out of what he told them, some elements of my own life are likely to creep into it. Just see here, note this… they would say, and create an evidence. Instead, let us consider a real event that Basu of our village climbed the tree in front of the temple in order to make a pole for Hanumant Dev’s palanquin. He sat on a branch from which a swing was hanging and began cutting the very branch off. If this stark reality is narrated…the entire narration is sure to grow into a queer image…. They would deride it on one pretext or another… grumble that the character lacks logical development, gaps are not bridged and so on—and reduce Basu to a mere actor in a play. All in the name of logic! Logic is an egg dropped into Lord Timmappa’s hundi. It is lost to me and you, worse, lost to Him too.  It would never come to be hatched either. Let it be. If you ask me why I tell all this… and if I am hatching an egg, my reply is simply ‘yes’. If the young bird hatches out fluttering its gentle wings to peck your head, yes, only then you say that it is a fact. Otherwise, you will use worn out phrases like ‘growth of characters in the story… and this and that… and peck the heads of others. Of course, you have the freedom to do so. After all, who am I to tell you to mean something this way or that?

                 Coming to the point, it is only recently that I met this chap with a black cap. I was waiting patiently for a bus to return home at Gokavi bus stand. It was past 12 noon. The 11o’clock bus was yet to leave. When asked about this delay, a bus conductor sitting in the controller’s cabin informed me that the 11o’clock bus had been cancelled.  I murmured to myself ‘Useless fellows, if they can’t ply buses on time, better they be cow-herds.’ It was then that I heard a voice coming from my side, ‘This is not a singular instance, sir.’ I was a little startled and saw the man with a black cap looking into my face smiling. ‘Why do you get so much upset with the cancellation of a single bus? That is an instance of how our state is run, isn’t it?’ He began talking in this strain….

                I have seen a lot of such people wearing coats and black caps. Usually they criticize the government and gossip when they come across men of about thirty five to forty years of age, clad in ironed clothes. He was perhaps one such critic. When I was about to turn my face away from him without responding, he asked, ‘When do you have your next bus, sir?’ ‘Next bus? I think I have to wait for the 3 o’clock Jamakhandi bus…’ I said. The man got emboldened by my response. ‘At 3 o’clock … There’s still a lot of time. Come on, let us sit down somewhere.’ He almost dragged me and compelled me to sit beside him on a cement bench. On asking, I told him I was from Kollolli. ‘Oh Hanumappa of your place is our family God… I never miss the Kartika utsava there, sir’ he said.  I did not ask him where he belonged. It was obvious that he needed no questions or excuses to chatter. The only thing he wanted was someone to listen to him and hence he started unwinding the reel of words now.

                    He told me some odd name of a village in Hukkeri  taluk as his native place. He told me the name of the circle and also the name of the village Sonagutti or Monagutti nearby. ‘You must have heard the name of our village’ he said. I had, in fact, never gone to that place. I knew nothing except the name of Hukkeri as a taluk in Belgaum district, just as Athani and Raybag were. ‘ Oh that’s why you don’t know me. Had you known our village, my name would have been quite familiar to you’ he said. I grew curious. I reviewed the name of his village to see if there was a clue to his name in it. But there wasn’t any. So I asked, ‘How is it that someone can know you if he knows your village?’ He explained,‘ Our family is very well-known not only in our village but in the  neighbourhood as well. That is why Kulkarni Shyamarao’s name is inseparable from the name of our village.’ It was how he introduced himself to me.

                     After this, he posed me an unforeseen question,‘ What about the availability of farm  workers in your parts, sir?’ I was a little alarmed at this.  Probably, he needs some farm labourers from our village, that’s why he is showering kind words on me, I thought. Hence I gave a guarded reply, ‘There’s labour problem in our village too. We  also bring them from outside for cutting sugarcane and working a press and things like that. We get them from Kurabyata and Betgeri region. People migrate from there during drought, you know.’ ‘No no, we don’t need workers’ he retorted, ‘ I enquired casually. We have eight to ten people to do our farm work. That’s not a worry at all.’ I asked him, surprised, ‘You have got so many labourers. How much land do you have then?’ He started counting now, murmuring to himself. He thought of his various fields named after different trees and different soils. At last he arrived at the grand total of seven hundred and fifty acres. Heaving a sigh of despair he said, ‘That’s what remains in my hands now.’

                          ‘Remains in your hands? What do you mean? I don’t understand’ I said. ‘That means exactly what you criticized this government for. To tell you the fact, our family has a long history. Vishwambar Sharma was its founder. It is believed that he belonged to Shringeri. He was a profound scholar and  great ascetic.  He went to Pampakshetra later. Krishnadevaraya was ruling then.’ As he continued, I yawned in spite of me. ‘ Vishwambar Sharma had a lone son by name Vagbhushan Sharma. As the latter grew up, there was some conspiracy in the palace. Consequently, Achutaraya came to power. He was very sensual.  Nevertheless, he believed in religious rituals like worship, yaga, yajna etc. He founded an endowment fund called ‘Ananda Nidhi’ in order to foster such rituals. Our elders were intimate with him. In return for this good faith, he granted our family jahagir of sixteen villages in Gokak and Hukkeri taluks.’ I interrupted him, ‘That’s fine. But why did your family choose this drought-stricken area of all? In Teerthahalli and Shringeri , what all farmers need to do is to sow seeds in their fields, go home to relax unworried until they come back to reap the corn finally. Instead of choosing such a fertile land, what made them accept this barren one?’ He felt that I doubted his words. Breathing heavily, he said, ‘See, sir, you believe whatever I say, truth or lie. Nothing, I get nothing, to gain by telling you a lie. Take my word for it. In fact, my elders had to accept this barren land as a part of a plot against them. The minister and the document writer were hand in glove with each other in this conspiracy. The minister had a whore. The area of land set aside for us was gifted to her son and this drought-prone land was tied to our neck. Just see the fun. Gold turns into iron in the hands of an unfortunate fellow. Let it be, it’s all an old story. We get what we deserve.’ He went back to pick up the story of his family.

                   ‘It is believed that even after receiving this gift land our ancestors continued to live in their native place. Later, after Achutaraya’s demise, the palace was ridden with internal conflicts. It led to a gory situation of beheading people mistaking them for supporters of either this side or that. To crown it all, Achutaraya’s wife wrote to Adilshah in Bijapur about this. Tired of this turmoil, our family left the place and came over here. So far, so good. Listen to me further. After the reign of Achutaraya, came the rule of Bijapur. It was followed by the Maratha rule. Aurangzeb’s rule somewhere in the middle. The Peshves came later, followed by the Company Sarkar. Despite all this, our jahagir remained intact. Sometime in the middle, the Company Sarkar passed the Jameendari Act making our right on the land still firmer. All those who came to power from time to time, honoured our right. Yes, all of them. But see, what has happened now. A government of our own people is in power today. What good has it done to us? It says the land isn’t yours. It has passed the Tenancy Act. Now we have our own people  tearing and eating us.’

                ‘What were the villages given to you as jahagir in Gokak taluk?’ I asked him. He said, ‘Four villages – Kolavi, Benchinamardi, Hosur and Khangaon. Cultivable land in other villages had already gone. In Kolavi, only a forty acre piece remained. But the owner had approached the Land Tribunal. See, what wretched times have come! If we kindly allow someone to cultivate our land on our behalf and ask him to give us only a bit of grain in lieu of it, he would claim the entire land as his own! Of course, I did not budge, that’s a different matter. I took a cart-load of people and gave him threats. I caught someone to warn him that his life was jeopardized if he earned Rao Saheb’s enmity. I managed to get the case withdrawn by him stuffing money into his hands. Now his name is removed from the Record of Rights. Nevertheless that dirt eating son of a bitch has again gone to the Land Tribunal.’ Calling him names, he continued, ‘I have come here in connection with the same case now. The bastard has failed to submit the related documents to the court. I have tightened everyone right from the Village Accountant to the Tahasildar. Let him moan, the wicked chap! He has taken adjournments in the last four hearings. Let that be. He is dancing madly to the tune of some people. He will soon be a beggar.’ Before he continued, the porter in the bus-stand announced that the Jamakhandi bus was ready to depart. I got up hurriedly. The man bade me goodbye saying, ‘Let us meet again.’

·                                    *                             *

             In the next five to six months, I saw the man with a black cap four or five times in Gokavi. Whether he had come there for the tribunal work connected with the Gokavi land or to ‘tighten’ the Village Accountant, the Circle Officer or the Tahasildar, I did not know. I was inclined to avoid him, an heir of Vagbhushana Sharma’s clan, fearing his torrential outpourings of words. However I was trapped one day. As I was going out of the bus stand, he met me and saluted me. Now I realized I was caught. Had I seen him in time, I could have avoided him. He said to me, ‘I think, you rarely visit Gokak. After our meeting the other day, I came here several times but I did not see you even once. Come on, our tribunal case is going to be finally decided today. It is nice to have the company of a friend like you on such an occasion.’

              He led me to the court and soon started looking for his lawyer. The lawyer was yet to come. ‘Our lawyer is an expert. He has made the defense lawyer lick the grounds with a single blow of his counter argument’ the man said. He went on applauding his lawyer’s acumen. In the meanwhile, the lawyer came there. He had besmeared his forehead with gopichandana. He too had a black cap on his head. As the lawyer approached, the man went a step further to wish him. Then the lawyer went past him saying, ‘The first in the court proceedings today is the verdict of your case.’ We followed him to the court hall and sat on a bench. The lawyer went further and occupied a chair. The Magistrate Saheb entered the hall in ten minutes. Somehow I had had a feeling that the Magistrate would be a man with grey hair and grey moustache. But to my surprise, he was boy-like and a gentleman with dark crop and clean shaven face. The whole hall gave him a standing ovation. A lawyer in black coat went to the judge holding a file and placed it before him. He said something to the judge in a whisper looking at the man’s lawyer from the corner of his eyes. Nodding, the judge raised his head to see the lawyer. The lawyer stood up as a mark of respect and sat down again. I saw the judge exchange a smile with him. No, it may not be. We have such illusions many a time.

                    The boy-like lawyer who talked to the judge then told something to the clerk too. The clerk, in his turn, got up and told something to the Daphedar, standing at the door. The Daphedar wore a white shirt and white trousers, resembling a character in a play. Now the Daphedar started calling out names. Consequently, a few people in the hall went out and a few others came in. The man’s lawyer and another person who moved as a viper, stood up and sat down together to register their presence. The defense lawyer seemed to smile at the man and salute him. The man patted on my back and introduced me to the respondent lawyer and then told me in a whisper that he had tightened the defense lawyer too. Meanwhile, the judge cleared his throat coughing, a little deceptively. Those who were engaged in prating lowered their voices to a whisper, all of a sudden. Even the whisper subsided gradually. Now there came the judge’s voice… the complainant… the respondent… the witness… the panchanama… etc. Besides, he went on quoting countless sections and rules and the man sat all ears to it. Having no knowledge of the language, I sat there winking. Now the man jumped to his feet jubilantly, threw away the cap and shouted, ‘Satyameva jayate.’ The Daphedar at the door, who had put on a crown-like cap, came running in. All the lawyers in the hall got up, and hiding a smile behind their lips, made signs to their clients to be silent. I could know nothing, nothing of it at all and got up, bewildered. Then the man pulled me and made me sit down with him. The judge hit his gong on the table bringing order back to the hall. Now he resumed his speech from where he had left it.

                   When the judge’s pronouncement was over, the man’s lawyer bowed to him. Then he went to the clerk to put his signature and told something to humour him. Now he moved towards the door with some documents in his hands. The man asked me to follow him out of the hall. I did so. When the man was busy conversing with some lawyers there, I came away quickly. I felt it was the right time for me to do so. In the broad scorching sun outside, the rocks on the Malliksab Mountain appeared more gigantic than ever. It was indeed frightening to think they would roll down.

                  Even after returning home, the man with a black cap who was queer on all counts, haunted me now and again. For him, victory in the land dispute was as great as that in the Panipat War. I laughed to myself whenever I recalled him proclaim in the court, ‘Satyameva jayate’ and jump and throw off his cap. What actually was the truth? What won truly? No one knew. If he threw away his cap and shouted like that in the court, he must be extremely sentimental. His peculiar behaviour had been reported in the local newspaper Samadarshi. The paper smelt intervention of capitalism in judiciary in the case. The Nirvana, another newspaper, described it under a bold headline, as a parody of honesty. It criticized the man’s victory and the Tenancy Act too. Ironically the paper said that the judgment brought honour to Indian legal system which should remain like this forever. Children, roaming around idly consequent upon their inadequate schooling, were divided on the issue. Some of them supported the Samadarshi and others the Nirvana. They sought my last word on the matter, as they knew my familiarity with the man and my presence in the court at the time of judgment. But nothing had yet settled down in my mind. So I left them to take their own decision.

                 By and by, the discussion about the man waned and his picture in my mind faded. But one morning, I was excited to see him alight from the bus at Kollolli. I welcomed him and led him to my house. As he sat in a chair, he remarked, ‘You deceived me the other day. In fact, I wanted to take you to our village that day itself.’ I explained to him that I had had some work and I could not inform him before leaving as he was busy. He said, ‘Let it be. Today I have come here to take you home.’ What a strange behaviour! Does he want to make me a witness in his case again? This question crept up into my mind. I promised to come to his village some other time. But he would not listen, ‘Oh that can’t be. I have come here just to take you there. You must come with me now.’ In the meanwhile, my daughter came out with a cup of tea for him. ‘Truly speaking, I have promised my family about your visit. They will be waiting for us’ this was how he intended to trap me. Trying not to fall a prey to it, I said in a lighter vein, ‘Why not, I will come. I am really tired of labourers, tenancy and the like. I will come and stay with you for four to five months and enjoy your hospitality. What do you say?’ But he asked me seriously to give up joking and get ready to go. Though I gave him a list of problems I had, he did not give in. He made me aboard the 9 o’clock bus with him.

·                    *               *                                                

                  We got off the bus at a cross, two and a half miles away from his house. Now a farm worker came running and took the bag from his hand. He had brought a roofed cart to take us to the house. Inside the cart, fodder bags were evenly laid and a quilt was unrolled upon them. There were pillows to lean against. It was more comfortable to sit in the cart than in a bus. When the cart set forth, two other farm workers followed it closely. The mud road was dusty due to frequent movement of the cart. However the cart did not oscillate violently but swung lightly from side to side. It induced me to sleep but the man kept me awake. First, only barren land was seen around. No greenery was in sight. But as we moved on, maize, grown head high, caught my eyes on either side of the road. I had no doubt that this rich green field belonged to the man. In our village, we moved heaven and earth and sweat blood to cultivate a small piece of land just because   the workers often played truant. It’s anybody’s guess how he managed so vast a land here. Besides, he visited various offices and the court in Belgaum and Gokavi almost every morning. Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked him about this. ‘Why should I work? If the labourers come to do my work, it means they are ready even to die for me. It is I who pronounce the last word whether an idler should live or die.’ I shuddered to hear this. Hence I left it at that. But he did not stop. ‘See, Lord Krishna Himself has said that work is worship and work leads to salvation. When it is the truth, imagine, how sinful the idlers are! To start with, I warn the idlers. If they mend their ways, it’s well and good. Otherwise, I will send them straightaway to God for going against His will. Am I wrong? What do you say?’ What could I say? I sat silently. The man was in a loquacious mood. He continued, ‘Remember, what Lord Krishna said, (when?!) Paropakarartham idam shareeram. How long will we survive? Not very long, isn’t it? So, as long as we live, let us help others. Death chases us on our heels. Let us continue to help out others with our good advice to obey God’s will. Don’t you think that Vivekananda and the like did the same thing? They did it on a large scale because they were ascetics. We are ordinary house-holders. All can’t be ascetics, can they? The world should also go on, you know. Our elders have set a path for us. It is enough if we follow it. That is the reward of this earthly life and life beyond.’ When the man, the successor of Vagbhushan Sharma, started piling up such philosophical thoughts, I felt I was being immersed into the water by someone pressing down my shoulders hard.

              There was a burial ground just before we entered the village. Close by it, stood a pillar, a forlorn piece of sculpture. It roused my curiosity at once. I asked the carter to stop and went to the pillar in order to have a close look at it and save myself from the man’s turbulence of words at least for some time. It was a round and intricate pillar of about a foot diameter, an attractive and a skilled work of art. The sculptor had carved blooming creepers and roses round it in the space, one or two cubits above the ground. Just above that, in the second part of the pillar, there were rows of wild pigs, buffalos and elephants. It looked as though these animals bore the pedestal of the third part on their horns. On the frame of the pedestal were creepers again, besides carvings of cows and bulls. Amidst them were ploughs being drawn by bulls. On the bottom of this part, some mortals were seen, fighting against one another with weapons. These humans bore the next part. This part too had a carved pedestal, like the rest, on which some humans sat in padmasana, engaged in studies. Among them was Lord Krishna playing a flute. The face of the sculpture covered the rest of the pillar above. Look at it whatever way or from whatever angle you please, you could see the entire face. The sculptor’s skill was indeed amazing. I went round the pillar and observed it keenly. The coronet, carved above the face, suited the figure elegantly. If the ancestors of the man had founded the pillar there, they must have been historically prominent, I thought. What motivated them to do so? After viewing the pillar minutely once again, I came back to mount the cart. My visit would have been certainly worth it, had I seen only the pillar and nothing else. I wanted to know if the man had informed the Government about it. By way of explaining, I said to him, ‘See sir, this pillar is a historical monument. There is a department in the Government to preserve such things.’ The man stared at me for a while and shot back, ‘You say that I must have informed the Government about it. All right. What would the Government people have done? They would have dug it out in the dead of night and thrown it somewhere depriving it of any worship. But see, we worship it on every Amavasya and Dasara. We don’t forget it under any circumstance.’ Hearing this, I spoke of the pillar’s past and remembered to forget its present and future. I thought that it must have been erected by one of the man’s ancestors. (At once, I doubted my own words.) They did not even know why they had done so. Whatever might have been its purpose, the man’s great grandfather had made an innovative use of the pillar. If someone had done something which the family thought was wrong, he was tied to the pillar and whipped. On every Amavasya, a whip was placed at the foot of the pillar and offered pooja. ‘The pillar has great power. That’s why there is peace in our village. Of late the people around have also become its supplicants. They beg it to free their villages from din and disorder. They come on carts to worship it on Pournami and Amavasya’. While the man was elaborating the story, some people came from the village side dragging an old woman. The moment she saw our cart, she wriggled herself free and fell to the ground weeping. One of them came very close to the cart and reported to the man that the woman had stolen a few maize spikes from his field. The old woman managed to be in the man’s view and prayed to him  beating on her chest, ‘O father, you are my God. My grandson had had no morsel for two days. My heart couldn’t bear this. In order to save him, I plucked only two maize spikes. Please forgive me.’ She prostrated on the ground. The oxen retreated a step or two, swiftly. The man was unmoved and asked the carter to move on. Someone dragged the woman away and the cart went on. She tried to follow it bewailing. The man’s people pushed her away. When I looked at the man’s face, he said, ‘Discipline is discipline. It is wrong to break rules. The Company Sarkar should have hanged those who had gone on strike and broken rules on the pretext of freedom. Had it hanged those braggarts who shouted ‘we would do this, and we would do that’, people would have been loyal dogs by this time. As the Sarkar had failed to do so, the country was mortgaged to such sinners. It ruined itself and ruined people like us too!’ By now the cart came through the village and finally stopped in front of the man’s house. The carter descended and unyoked the oxen. The man got down and led me into his house.

                     The mansion in which the man lived resembled a fort. As we entered the threshold, a boy and a girl came jumping about and shouting, ‘Oh father came, our father came!’ He gave them a packet of sweetmeat from his bag. I asked him if they were his niece and nephew. He replied,’ No, no, they are my own children, by my younger wife.’ Then he took me into the hall. The hall was laid with quilt, and cushions were placed all along a wall to lean against. A large cushion, lying at a particular place, had made the place conspicuous. The man removed his shirt and coat and hung them on the hooks. Then he showed me to the bathroom in the house yard to have a wash. There was a maid servant in the bath room preparing hot water for bath. She gave me lukewarm water from a large copper pot. As I finished washing, another servant came in hastily to provide me with a towel. I returned to the hall and sat leaning against a cushion. Some photos of Vithal- Rukumayi and some possibly of the man’s parents were stuck on the door-frame. On all the four walls of the hall, not too high, were hung framed paintings. I appreciated his taste and started observing them. One of them was especially spectacular – bees are invading a woman… she stands in a scared stance stretching her arms out to shoo them off… her alarmed look, rich bosom, her simple dress like a house maid…  – all, all captivated my mind. As I was observing it keenly, the man came there. I asked him if they were Ravivarma’s paintings. With a boisterous laughter he said, ‘I would have said ‘yes’, had someone else asked me this question. But you are asking it. To tell you the truth, they are not Ravivarma’s but Talwar Kencha’s. Son of a bitch, Kencha has a deft hand. He draws a line and it’s over. Never does it need to be mended.’ I was really baffled. Requesting me to take my seat, the man gave me a glass of lemon juice. He too sat down leaning against a pillar. I drank the lemon juice draught by draught, as if to abate the fire of surprise in my mind. The man came again and stood close to me. He must be watching the same picture as I did – a large colourful building… around it, a hen, with its young ones, is busy scratching the dunghill; above, a little above the building, in the air, an eagle is floating… etc. I told the man that in case Talwar Kencha had pursued the art, he would have been a great artist. He retorted laughing, ‘There’s no school in this village, saheb. The government has, of course, started one now. But no one has bothered to send his children to this school. Tell me, what do they get from schooling children. How should the social system work if all children go to school?’ I was totally speechless at it. He came still closer to me and said, ‘Saheb, I ask you one thing, don’t mistake me.’ There was a severe demand in his eyes. He went on, ‘You are a story-teller and novelist, aren’t you?’ I could not help laughing and asked him, ‘What is there to mistake you? I occasionally scribble something, it gets printed in the Samadarshi and other local papers. That’s all. There is nothing special about it, sir.’  ‘No no, I mean, you… you please write my story and the story of our family including the peace prevailing in our village.’  He looked very humble. Even when he had seen the old woman being man-handled by his own people, he was unmoved. But now he was over charged with emotion. It touched me somehow. I stopped laughing abruptly and promised him to write his story at an appropriate time. He seemed to be gratified and requested me to relax till lunch was ready.

·              *         *                                                       

                After lunch, when we were sitting with a plate containing bêtel nut and betel leaves in front, the attendant came in to inform the man that Kamatar Chennappa was waiting outside to meet the latter. The attendant believed that Chennappa must have come in connection with his son’s marriage. Hearing this, the man was thoughtful for a moment. And then as though something had dawned upon his mind, he asked his attendant to show Chennappa in.

                Reclining on a staff, Chennappa entered the hall and bowed to the man. When the man enquired him about his health, he replied, hesitant and his body shrunk, that the man could see it for himself. Then he sat at the other end of the hall. Staring at me, he asked the man whether I was the latter’s relative. As if he was waiting for the question, the man said promptly that I was a great man from Kollolli near Gokavi, an  author of big books and my name and writings often appeared in newspapers.  Chennappa had no doubt now that the guest was really a great man, beyond his estimation. It was clear that he was in a dilemma of how he should honour me. At last he bowed to me from where he was sitting, till his forehead touched the floor. As I said ‘no no no’ to register my dissent to it, the man intervened to say that it was Chennappa’s duty to honour me. He also told Chenna that I had consented to write the story of his family and it was the fact that prompted me to visit the village. I was nonplussed at this. Chennappa was glad and wanted me to write it aptly. Then he said to the man, ’I hope you’ve told him how you got the shop-keeper Kuber murdered and things like that, haven’t you? My name also comes to lime light with it, as a strand does with flowers. By the way, the Helavas of Lokapur must have preserved the story of your valour, haven’t they?’ The man turned to me and recounted the episode, ‘ Sir, here in our village, a boy called Kubera had once been running a shop. As he went on minting money, he began floating in the sky. The villagers tolerated him until he dared to speak against me. When this slip of a man humiliated me, the father of the village, people like Chenna were extremely hurt. They said they would finish him. But I told them resolutely that my heart would bleed to kill a son of our village. However the people were too hurt to oblige me. In the next eight days, they dragged him out of his shop and hacked him.’ I wanted to know if the accused were imprisoned. Chennappa proudly declared that when the man was with them, such a possibility was ruled out. According to the man, what the people did was the collective reaction of the whole village. Consequently, the case was dismissed in the lower court itself for want of witnesses. The man ended the story saying ’Oh it’s an endless Ramayana. Let it be’. Then he attended to Chennappa and asked him what had brought him there. Chennappa said, ‘ As you know, Dhani, my son is already grown up. So last Saturday, I waited for Lord Hanumanta’s oracular gesture to know the prospects of my son’s marriage. But, as you know, our Hanumappa is usually slow and sluggish in such matters. He grants our wishes only after considering their pros and cons. Not far from me in the shrine, the Kaktes too had been waiting for some oracular advice for days. But all in vain. Fortunately, Hanumappa granted. Even if I it to me without delay this time. That’s why I have come here to beg for your help die, my son would repay your money by serving you. Please, do this much for us.’ He bowed again till his forehead touched the floor. The man became a little pensive now and said, ‘See Chenna, these days money is a problem to me also. The court case and other matters swallow up my money.’ Chenna folded his hands and insisted again, ‘ Please, don’t say so Dhani , We depend solely on you. I pray, don’t you let us down.’ After this tug of war between them, when the man promised to consider his plea, Chenna prostrated at his feet.  The man advised him not to bring home a city bride as the city girls were adamant and averse to household work. Chenna made it clear that he was yet to choose a bride, and if Hanumappa and the man were gratified, getting a good bride would not be a problem. Then he left the place after saluting both of us again. The man asked me to relax for a moment and went in.

              The paintings of Talwar Kencha, the sight of the lone pillar and the story of murder told by Chennajja split my mind to pieces. I tried to sleep, often changing sides, in vain. At about five, the man came out. We had tea. Now he liked me to accompany him around the village and through his farm which he felt would be useful to me to write his story. His unfailing faith that I would write it surprised me. Mulling over this, I had my shirt and coat on. Then I said smiling, ‘Let us think about writing the story later. That’s not very important. When I have come here from a far off place, how can I miss seeing your fields and farming?’ To this he shot back, ‘No no, writing the story is also equally important.’ Not willing to argue with him, I ended it at that.

                 It was not an easy task to take a round in his land. So vast was it. We wandered till the sunset. Then we returned home. In every farm, two men and four or five women were working. When they heard their master’s voice, their throats used to dry up and they used to tremble. If he called out a name, the worker would come up, stand before him crouched, nod to his words humbly and go away when asked. The scene brought to my mind the workers in my own village who would be submissive while borrowing money but rude thereafter. I began to doubt whether these people – who stretched their arms for his alms so slavishly and bore punishment so meekly – were human beings at all. He was callous and imposing. He put the whole responsibility on them while going out every morning. But for their loyalty, he would have realized what it meant to manage so big a property. I said to him, ‘You are lucky to have such good workers. Our workers, you know, make us shed tears.’ ‘Send them to me. I would tie them naked to our pillar of justice, bathe them with boiling water and whip them so that they turn over a new leaf.’ His words made me really apprehensive. After this, whenever I happened to meet his workers, I observed them keenly. Who knew whether their skin was intact or…?

·                  *          *

                  After dinner, we sat conversing, with a betel nut-betel leaves plate in front of us. He was all the while reminding me of writing his story. His craze about being a story himself was inexplicable and mysterious. He informed me of his visit to Belgaum the next morning before I would get up. Now he showed me to a bedroom and  went in to his own. I was worried about his silence on my return journey. However I was sure he would take care of it. The bedroom was richly furnished – the cot, the bed, the man-size mirror on the right side, varied exotic paintings, probably Talwar Kencha’s creations,  hung in lines on all the four walls. It caught my attention indeed. When I was almost lost in it, I heard somebody call me, ‘Saheb sir’ from behind. A woman farm- worker stood there shyly. When I asked her what the matter was, she raised her head. I could see her seductive wide eyes now. Before I fell into the dirt of her sight, she blushed gracefully to inform that her master had sent her to massage me. I stared at her dismayed. Around her long neck was mangalasutra. I turned to the wall, and modulating my voice, asked her to leave. There was no sound for a moment. I turned back to see her still standing there, nailed to the spot. I repeated my command. But she told me that the man would skin her alive if she failed to do the job assigned to her. I promised her to manage him. Then she moved out gingerly.

              I closed the door. The paintings hung on the walls seemed to grin at me. I put out the big lamp and left the small one burning. In the feeble light, even the painted walls looked pale. I covered myself with the rug. Even the soft bed and the fleece-like rug failed to elate me. Changing sides over and over again, I fell asleep at last to see an eerie dream – the bed I slept in, the cot, the paintings on the walls, even the doors, the paths to the fields and the fields themselves – all, all were being snatched away one after another by some people. The whole house was emptied! I felt cold, the rug had slid. I stretched my legs and felt for the rug. Something pricked my leg and I woke up, terrified. There was no cot, no bed, no paintings, no walls, no house, nothing. Everything had disappeared. I was sitting on a stone slab inside the desolated walls. All around were burial places, grave, raised seats, blue sky above, and in the West, the rising…. I started running unmindful of pebbles and thorns, shrieking ‘ O mother, o mother!’ When the gloom melted away and the pale dawn was in sight, I ran and ran, without caring for light or darkness, path or street, pain or fatigue. I ran, ran and ran.

               Nearby was a village. Someone going out for call of nature saw me running recklessly as the wind. He shouted at me to know who I was and why I had been running like that. He stopped me by stretching his arm across my path. My legs were unsteady and I sank there. Without a second thought, he made me drink the water he was carrying. Then he held my arm and lifted me, walked me to a temple not far away. He made me sit on a platform there. Those who had seen the scene rushed to the temple. They were eager to know who I was and what was wrong with me. On being insisted, I pointed to the direction from which I had come running. I told them that some landlord had taken me to his house and his house was in ruins by morning.  In fact, I shivered to recall this event. They whispered among themselves about the landlord and said, ‘Oh, this man is panicky. He needs to be given God’s prasaadam.’ Someone brought angara and applied it to my forehead. An old man came close to me, and staring into my face, asked me if I was a story-teller.  His question, at once, reminded me of the man who had asked me to write his story. It shook me to the roots. I sat looking at his face.

   Translated by V N Hegde from the Kannada original, “Kathe Huchina Kari Toppige Raaya,” Thudiyembo Thudiyilla, 2009.

Glossary :

               Hundi = a donation box

               Kartika  utsava = a festival held in the Hindu month of Kartika

               Jahagir = a land granted as a gift (gift-land)

               Gopichandan = sacred soil borne on forehead and on body by Vaishnavas

               Daphedar = the head constable

              Panchanama = Preliminary recording of the situation in presence of elders

             and sarpanch

               Amavasya = the new moon day

               Pournami = the full moon day

               Dhani = master

               Angara = sacred ash borne on the forehead

       Patil, Raghavendra. A retired Biology Professor, a frontline fiction writer in Kannada with four collections of stories and two novels to his credit. He is a recipient of the central Sahitya Akademi Award  for his novel Teru and  the  Karnatak Sahitya Academy Award for his collection of short stories, Mayiya Mukhagalu and Teru, and several other honours. His writings are purely native in language and content.  He is the editor of the Kannada literary bimonthly, Samaahita brought out from Dharawad.

Add: Raghavendra Patil, ‘Mayi’, 8^th Cross, Kalyananagara, Dharawad – 580 007

Phone : 0836 – 2444553 Mob.: 94804 55604

       Hegde  V. N. A retired English Professor, a short story writer and translator. Published a short story collection in Kannada. Translated the monograph, Mahamahopadhyaya  Gopinath Kaviraj from English into Kannada for the central Akademi and a  number of short stories and articles  from English into Kannada and vice versa for various magazines. Add : 187, Kapila, Hoysala Nagar, Dharwad – 580 003,  Karnataka. Mob. 9844284327.  Email. gangaa.hegde@gmail.com