Muchami reliably gives a much more satisfying account, taking nearly an hour to describe the costumes and mimic the highlights of the evening. Gayatri, who had attended, claims she is entertained all over again by Muchami’s show, but also assures Sivakami, “It’s first-class performance, Sivakamikka, take it from me.” She repeats, with emphasis, the English phrase that has passed confidently into bourgeois Tamil. “First-class.”
Muchami also, however, brings the unwelcome wisdom that nine-year-old Laddu, who had been given permission to attend, was spotted at the wrong tent. Sivakami mentions this to Vairum, who catches Laddu up by one arm from the corner where he is napping and delivers a brief but thorough thrashing.
“You were given permission to attend the performance your grandmother sponsored. You were not given time and freedom to do whatever you want. As long as you live under this roof, you will abide by what you are told. Clear?”
Laddu drops back onto the floor, sobbing.
The next day, Sivakami doesn’t bother asking Vairum for his report but rather waits for Muchami’s, which he delivers with all the enthusiasm and verve of the days prior, though he omits one detail. Gayatri notes this omission and says nothing: Vairum was seen once more under the canvas roof of the other troupe’s performance tent.
“You all have enjoyed terrific success,” Dr. Kittu Iyer says stiffly, in a rare acknowledgement, that same morning. The night before, that of the third performance, Self-Respect’s audience equalled Sivakami’s. “With the kinds of concessions the Justice Party has achieved for the non-Brahmin sector, one can’t help but see a time when very few Brahmins would want to live in Tamil Nadu,” he mumbles tangentially. “Opportunities are becoming scarce for us.”
“Oh, pshaw!” Ranga Chettiar ejects. “The presidency’s Brahmins have had their rampant nepotism but slightly curtailed. This hardly heralds your starvation, my good fellow!”
“Well may we all starve if our country is run by an administration chock full of fellows whose ICS examination scores are deplorably below par.” Mani Iyer trembles indignantly.
“Yes, none of you fellows has been able to satisfactorily explain the continued inadequacy of performance by non-Brahmin castes on all academic and standardized measures,” Dr. Kittu Iyer accuses. “And these reserved positions in colleges and the government can hardly offer much motivation to improve.”
“Oh, come now.” Rama Sastri, the lawyer, waves an orangewood stick at them and goes back to his cuticles. “All of your nephews and cousins and the brothers of your sons-in-law have profited from your acquaintance with our host. This is why you have so consistently returned him to office.”
The remark is all too accurate, but none of them needs to be reminded. Minister, as their host and the subject of this most awkward moment, grasps for a remark which will smooth it.
“I’m sorry,” the Sastri smirks. “That was tacky.”
Young Kesavan, the Sanskrit master, attending for a second day, rises, stretches and yawns. “I agree that the administration is far too Brahminically weighted. It’s not healthy for our future. But I, too, wish that non-Brahmin lobby groups could put the energy into self-improvement that they have invested in divisiveness and political manoeuvring.”
“I… I think,” Minister begins, “I know you all have real evidence of my esteem for you and your families. You have been my constituency and will remain so. What benefit could I expect if I didn’t return your trust?”
“You are a beacon, Minister,” Muthu Reddiar rejoins with hearty ambiguity. “We are all looking to you in this difficult time.”
“I have been waiting for that boy, that traitor-where is Vairum today?” Dr. Kittu Iyer springs to his feet, then looks a little dizzy. “You all have heard that he is now attending this Self-Respect whatever-it-is-called ?” he spits.
Minister had not heard this and becomes grave. “I… he must have business in Trichy today. Are you quite sure? He didn’t attend the performance his mother sponsored for him?”
His cronies shake their heads, not sure whether they are glad or regretful to be delivering him this news.
At 3:30, Minister descends to eat his tiffin. Exiting the stairwell, he padlocks the door behind him. It’s only mid-afternoon, but with alien elements about the village, it’s best not to take chances. Crossing the veranda, he steps into the narrow hallway that opens into the great hall and pauses to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.
He’s sleepy. He’s been attending only the first portion of the performance each night, just long enough to show his support for Sivakami. Even this brief appearance, however, has meant he gets to bed later than usual. And the daily salon inevitably leaves him too stimulated to manage an afternoon rest.
Gayatri smiles at him and shoos the children from the dining room as he sits. She lays a banana leaf on the floor in front of him and goes to the kitchen to fetch a serving vessel full of freshly steamed idlis. She puts five on the leaf and returns to the kitchen for okra sambar. The oily crescent moons beneath her eyes are darker than usual-it’s been a busy week and she can’t get to sleep at night until her husband comes home.
“How is Sivakami Mami?” he commences.
“Resigned. We didn’t even speak of the other Ramayana today. Muchami gives such an entertaining-”
“Vairum has been seen at that other Ramayana.”
This is not a revelation to Gayatri. “He punished his nephew for the same transgression,” she says, though she is aware, on a level she can’t articulate, that it is not the same transgression at all. “Are you going to say something to Vairum?”
“I don’t understand his motives!” He shakes his head. “Does Sivakami Mami know he’s been seen there?”
“I would hope no one would dare tell her.” Gayatri stands to accept the baby from her mother-in-law.
“This is how big St. Joseph ’s College graduates behave?” Minister jabs the air with his eating hand, scattering beads of okra, then jabs again at his food. “What can he be thinking? He’s not a child.”
“No, yes.” Gayatri jiggles the baby vigorously on her hip. “Maybe he needs a child of his own before he feels that.”
“Hm,” Minister grunts.
“He won’t say it, but I think he thinks Cholapatti Brahmins don’t accept him,” Gayatri ventures.
“They don’t,” Minister responds pragmatically. “So what?”
“So maybe this is a kind of revenge.”
“But no one cares but his mother!” Minister expostulates. “All he will do is give food for gossip and wound her.”
Gayatri murmurs agreement, because if she didn’t, she would have to suspect that Vairum may see this all too well, that his attendance is not a youthful caprice, nor a gesture of ignorance or naivete, and Gayatri, while she is shrewd, can’t think that way about a boy she likes.
The next day, when Vairum arrives in the salon, after the other members, Minister shouts at him. “What do you think you are doing? What about your mother?”
“My mother belongs to an old order,” Vairum responds evenly. “I am interested in a new one.”
The salon is astounded. Vairum has never expressed an opinion before and they, with the exception of Rama Sastri, realize now that they have been a little afraid to find out where he stands.
“You… you are worshipping Ravana?” asks Dr. Kittu Iyer, too shocked to reprimand him.
“No-neither of these Ramayanas is an act of worship. My mother’s is supplication. The other is a political statement.” Vairum accepts a cup of tea and a biscuit from a maid. “I worship the gods of my home in my home, every morning and night. I ask them, too, for the blessing of a child, but I will worship them no matter what they choose to give me in my life. I have been fortunate in most respects, so far. And I am interested in witnessing what all these Self-Respecters have to say.”