Kempanna

Kempanna was the village idiot. Everyone knew him and everyone ignored him. He was like the sole electricity bulb that hung naked outside headman Ramappa’s house. The first time it lit up, the whole village celebrated. The first time it died down, the whole village mourned. Now, it flickered to life sporadically, and no one even noticed.

The commotion under the peepul tree awoke Ramappa from his afternoon nap. He sleepily rubbed his eyes with the green and white checked towel that permanently adorned his shoulder. He was unaccustomed to being awakened so rudely at such a precious do-not-disturb period in his daily routine. Crossly, he observed the gathering under the neem tree. Thimmappa was obviously agitated, moving vigorously in a half-circle around the tree, waving his hands wildly. Suresha, Mallikarjun, and Ramakrishna were huddled under an overhanging branch, with their hands raised heavenward, as if in prayer. The others were to the far side of the tree, and not clearly visible. Little boys jumped about in glee, calling to each other, and cackling like the little monkeys that they were.

Ramappa rose from his comfortably shaded resting place on the verandah of his large red-tiled house, wrapping his towel around his head as he did so. He loped towards the neem tree, taking out a betel nut from his waist-pouch, and popping it into his mouth.

“Arrey, what is happening here?” his stentorian voice boomed, making the other villagers stop in their tracks.

“It is Kempanna, sire”, Thimmappa answered apologetically. “He has climbed up the peepul tree, and is threatening to jump from it.”

Ramappa saw at once that this presented a unique set of problems and frowned.

Firstly, today was the Amma Shakti puja, an auspicious day celebrated with religious fervour by the entire village.

Secondly, the procession of Amma Shakti was to pass this very spot – in fact, the procession typically stopped for at least 10 minutes here. The pause was ostentatiously to offer prayers to the sacred peepul, but was more to showcase the importance of Ramappa, the village headman. He and his wife, (with her head covered, of course), would offer 10 coconuts, which the pujari would break continuously in a great show of pious vehemence, and the pieces would scatter all over, forcing the villagers to break into a gathering frenzy, for this was the holy prasad.

Thirdly, the Health minister was coming from Bangalore tomorrow. He was coming to inaugurate a primary health care center, since it was an election year. The primary health care center was no more than a small white-washed building half a kilometer away from the village. It promised to discourage both doctors and patients, and to fall into disuse in precisely 2 months, much earlier than the electric bulb.

Kempanna had to be dissuaded at all costs to jump from the peepul tree. If he did jump, the Amma Shakti puja would have to be cancelled, which meant that the village would face drought, famine, and pestilence for yet another year. She had not smiled with favour on their village for the past three years, and Ramappa did not want to take any chances this year. He was loathe to forego his single shining moment in the entire year, when the procession stopped in front of his house, just because some idiot had taken it upon himself to jump from a tree. Besides, the Health minister’s private secretary had specifically asked that all ailing patients and accident victims be kept as far away as the PHC as possible, so that the media could focus on the positive efforts of his government, rather than have a field day interviewing dying patients.

All in all, nothing short of a disaster, thought Ramappa, as he folded up his dhoti to his knees and tucked the loose ends into the fold.

“Hey Kempanna!” he shouted, squinting upwards. Kempanna made no attempt to respond. He was clothed in rags, his hair all wild and matted, and was perched on the branch like Hanuman about to leap to Lanka. He was gazing raptly into the distance, like a desert traveler lapping up a mirage eagerly.

“Hey Kempanna!” Ramappa shouted again. “Why don’t you come down? I can give you some food to eat!” Kempanna continued to ignore him.

“We have been calling to him for nearly half an hour now, sire”, Mallikarjun informed Ramappa in a low tone. “He does not seem to even hear us”.

Ramappa scratched his chin thoughtfully. “ What do you think could attract him to come down?” he mused, as the other villagers gathered around him, relieved that some one else was in charge now. Suggestions ranged from food to clothes, shoes, a bath, and money. None of these had worked, so Ramappa did not have any good answer to his question.

“Why not send someone up to bring him down?” suggested Suresha.

“Good idea!” Ramappa slapped him heartily on the back. “Will you do that? The village will be eternally grateful!”

Suresha was momentarily taken aback. He had neither expected his suggestion to be accepted with such alacrity, nor had he expected that he be asked to bell the cat. Reluctantly, he agreed, inwardly wondering whether this was Ramappa’s way of taking revenge on him for demanding an increase in the daily wages of the farm hands. Anyway, he decided, if he rescued Kempanna, he would be the village hero, not Ramappa!

He stood at the foot of the tree, wondering which was the best way to get to Kempanna. He stroked the tree with his right hand and brushed it against his forehead as a mark of respect, and then began to secure his foothold. The villagers made encouraging noises, and Suresha felt heartened. It would not be a big deal to climb the tree, but it would certainly boost his stature in the village. He made his way to the first set of branches of the peepul tree, and paused to take stock.

A curious thing happened just then. Kempanna moved forward on his branch.

“Look!” one of the boys yelled. “The idiot has moved”.

All eyes swiveled to watch Kempanna, who seemed motionless. Suresha shrugged – the boy must have been mistaken. He grasped the next branch above him, and moved his right foot upwards. As he did that, Kempanna moved again, setting up a cry amongst the villagers below.

“He moved again!”

Suresha paused, and watched Kempanna closely. A minute passed, and Suresha could feel the sweat gather on his brow. He started moving his right foot again, when the Kempanna moved forward again. They did this in tandem for the next few minutes, before it became clear. Every time Suresha tried moving up, Kempanna would inch his way towards the end of his branch. Suresha finally slid down, the taste of disappointment leaving his mouth dry.

It was now over an hour since the show first began. Kempanna showed every sign of resisting any advances to get him down. For the first time, Ramappa felt his optimism seeping out of his pores with the perspiration that made his clothes cling to him like a second skin. The puja was only two hours away, and his tension was mounting.

He mopped his brow with his towel. As he did so, a low moan emanated from Kempanna,and Ramappa looked up anxiously. Kempanna had sat down on his haunches, balancing rather precariously, and had started rocking himself slowly, moaning softly all the while. The villagers fell silent, staring up at this strange sight. Kempanna’s moaning became louder and louder, and suddenly, he stood straight up!

In a guttural voice, he shouted “Ramappa! Ramappa! Amma Shakti wishes to speak to you!”

A collective gasp went through the crowd gathered below.

“He must have got possessed!” Ramakrishna whispered to Suresha.

“Ramappa”, Kempanna roared. “Where are you? Will you not answer the summons of Amma Shakti?”

Ramappa shivered slightly as he cleared his throat. Folding his hands in obeisance, he answered, “Ma…Amma…I am here. Pray, what can this humble devotee do for you?”

“I need a new temple, Ramappa! I am stifled in the old one. Build me a new temple at once! Away from the village!” Kempanna looked imperious, his face shining with a divine light.

Ramappa bowed, shaking.

“Yes, Amma! It will be as you wish!”

“I need a new priest, Ramappa! The one who will take leave of his senses, and madly adore me, and only me! Do this by the new moon, and you will be blessed, else pestilence shall plague your village! Do you understand, Ramappa?”

Ramappa dared not look up.

“Yes, Amma! It will be as you wish!”

There was a sudden silence, and a soft thud. Kempanna had fallen to the ground! The villagers rushed to him, but he had landed like a cat on all fours, and he got up and simply limped away, leaving the crowd gawking after him in disbelief.

Ramappa mopped his brow again, heaving a big sigh of relief. At least the problem had been resolved for the time being. He would have to ponder Amma’s diktat, though. He didn’t have much time – the new moon was just 3 days away!

****

Kempanna stretched out comfortably in the shade, rubbing his full stomach contentedly. His plan had worked out perfectly. The PHC was now his temple, and he was the priest.

PS: This was a writing exercise I undertook earlier this year.

The Bus Stop

Lalitha knew she was already late because the news was over and film songs had started over the radio. She deftly pleated her pale pink cotton sari (which she knew was a bad choice, considering that she was so late), stabbed a giant safety pin into the pleats and her matching petticoat, and snapped it shut. Tucking the loose ends of her sari so that it sat taut, smoothing the stubborn pleats one last time, she plucked a bindi off the bindi pock-marked mirror, and slapped it onto her forehead. A last dab of her favourite sandalwood powder wrapped up her two-minute session in front of the mirror, and she grabbed her bag while slipping on her worn black slippers.

“Amma, I’m going!”
Her mother came out of the kitchen, and thrust the steel lunchbox wrapped in plastic into her hands.

Lalitha literally ran out the gate, and began walking at a furious pace towards the bus stop. Even without looking at the face of her ten-year old scratch-proofless, water-proofless watch, she knew she would need to break into a sprint once she turned the corner of the street. The bus-driver of her bus – No. 61, was one of the old-timers, punctual and personal. The heat of the sambhar-rice contents of the steel lunchbox burned through the plastic and she had to quickly shift it to the other hand. She turned the corner, and began a rather ungainly increase in pace, half-running, half-walking, her cotton sari literally offering a stiff resistance. She began to relax only on the home-stretch, since she could not see the bus in the line of her sight, and that meant she had at least two minutes to spare.

“Hi! Late again?!” Nalini smiled at her.

Lalitha nodded, as she caught her breath.

“I hate getting up in the mornings – who wants to get up so early?! It’s such a pain!”

Lalitha smiled absently, for in her anxiety, she had almost forgotten one thing, and that was definitely not a good sign.

Checking out from the corner of her eye, she heaved a sigh of relief – it would be a good day today after all. ‘He’ was there as usual, standing under the tree and reading the paper, and what’s more, wearing her favourite blue and white shirt Oh yes! It would definitely be a good day today!

The bus drew up, ensuring that the bystanders got their daily dose of pollutants, and Lalitha got in after Nalini, quickly glancing to check where ‘he’ was. Their seats were already fixed, a privilege they had earned by being the first stop for the bus.

Until ‘he’ had arrived on the scene, Lalitha used to just take the first seat available by the door, since it made getting out from the packed bus so much easier. Now, the seat was a carefully chosen one, where she had to turn just slightly in order to see ‘him’ . Even though this ‘darshan’ lasted only three stops before people started crowding in, and she had to literally battle her way to get off, Lalitha was as tenacious as a puppy with a slipper when it came to the seat. Oblivious to her deliberate manouevers, Nalini had initially tried to change their place, but Lalitha would have none of it.

Comfortably ensconced, the nippy morning air setting up a ripple of goose-pimples through her body, Lalitha’s thoughts wandered to the first day when she had met ‘him’.

It had been a mournful Monday morning, a grey drizzle which mocked umbrella-persons and insidiously drenched the non-umbrella persons. She had been early at the bus stop, damply dry under her stout and patched umbrella, when she was startled by a voice at her elbow.

“Excuse me, this is where No. 61 comes?” His blue and white shirt clung to his skin, and his hair was plastered to his head, but the sparkle in his eyes and the sound of his voice made her heart leap into her mouth.

She nodded dumbly.

“It comes at 7, no?”

She nodded again.

“Thanks”. He moved away, and took up a spot under the tree.

Lalitha replayed that scene in her mind, probably for the millionth time. She still cursed herself for being so dumb. She could have been so much more vocal, perhaps even charming. She could have struck up a conversation.

“So, you are new here?” … or … “You are going to work?” … or … there were so many things she could have said.

Every “if-only I had…” led her into magic dream worlds, each possibility weaving another rich world for her, where she was loved and loving, a rainbow-tinted world, a world of ‘his’ arms around her, a world out of this world. A world of the perfect little house with a perfect green garden, and the tinkling laughter of their very own darling children; a world of silk and flowers and colorful glass bangles, a world of music and joy; a world the very antithesis of her dreary existence in a discolored dreary leaky house with a widowed mother, unreliable brother, and unruly younger sister; a world miles away from her drudgery at one of the many private schools which mushroomed around the city in mossy and damp one-room tenements. It didn’t matter then that she didn’t know his name, age, or caste, or where he worked, or how much he earned, or whether his family was big or small, or he had a greedy mother waiting in the wings – all that mattered was that ‘he’ was there for her every morning, without fail, reading his paper under tree at the same spot. Day after day, ‘he’ wormed his way into her life, nestling in comfortably, using just three innocuous sentences and a daily presence as tools to tunnel in.
*----*

As a rule, Lalitha could hardly wait for the summer holidays to get over. Her house stifled her, and she had nowhere else to go. This time it was particularly hard – every morning she lay in bed, picturing ‘him’ standing under the tree, reading the paper. She would walk slowly towards ‘him’, and ‘he’ would lower the paper, smile at her, and say “Where were you all these days? I missed you!”. One day she thought she saw ‘him’ at the market, and that added yet another variation to her daydreams. Once she would bump into ‘him’ when she was buying onions, at other times, her bag would split open and the vegetables would go tumbling about, and ‘he’ would appear magically to help her to pick them up, one by one, deliciously slow….

On the school re-opening day, Lalitha woke up early, sick with anticipation. For days she had pondered on what to wear, and had decided that her flaming orange sari with the green border was the best choice. Everyone had said she looked good in it. She had carefully purchased the matching orange flowers to wear in her head the previous day, and the green bindi was the other extravagant touch to her attire. She slid her feet into the new shiny sandals she had purchased, and walked out of the house calm and early. She knew she looked particularly fetching, and that boosted her confidence, and put a smile on her lips. She had thought about this day for a long time, and today she was determined to strike up a conversation with ‘him’. She rehearsed her opening line once more – “Can you please tell me what time it is on your watch?” She had decided that the line was innocent enough to be genuine, and yet she could expand on it a little more if she wanted.

Lalitha turned the corner, and what met her eyes struck her like a whiplash. ‘He’ was talking to Nalini! What was worse – they were actually laughing together! They must have come early. Maybe they had been doing this all during her summer holidays. Anguish swept through her like a giant twister, her heart caught up in the center of the storm, her body cringing in the onslaught. The rainbow-tinted dream bubbles hurtled through the black thunder, smashing into smithereens. Her leaden legs took her through an eternity across the road, where Nalini greeted her with a smile, and ‘he’ moved away back to his usual spot. Storm clouds threatened to pour and Lalitha pressed her eyes shut, determinedly willing them to dissolve. Nalini’s background chattering seemed to grow distant, as the alarming thud of her heart grew deafening.

After what seemed like a really long time, the bus drew up, and Lalitha got in first this time. She chose the seat next to the door.