Rama Sastri takes him up. “Come now, Vairum: you know very well you are making a political statement by attending one and not the other.”
“Fair enough. By that reasoning, staying home would also be a political statement.” Vairum watches the men watching him hold his own. “These are political times. The Self-Respecters offer an amusing spectacle. And they have a good point: the caste system is unfair.”
Murthy, returning from a trip to the outhouse, hollers from the door. “I have been waiting for you! How could you betray your mother and your people in this fashion?” he berates Vairum in Tamil.
Although most of the other salon members would have said the same thing, they find Murthy somewhat distasteful and hearing him speak their thoughts makes them wish, a little, to take some other side.
“Your father was like a brother to me and I am as a father to you. I forbid you to return. You will attend the real Ramayana from tonight forward, yes? Good boy.”
Vairum gives his father’s cousin a hard look, shrewd and not unaffectionate. “I am not as confident as you of how my father would have advised me in this situation. But I have my reasons, and I will attend the performance of my choice. Excuse me.”
Vairum rises and departs the salon before Murthy has a chance to react. Several seconds later, though, Murthy toddles stiffly down the stairs to give chase. He sees Vairum heading toward their houses at the other end of the Brahmin quarter and scurries after his swiftly striding form. At the end of the street, however, Vairum doesn’t go into his house but continues on as the road turns left-toward town, toward the river, who knows. Murthy stops, panting, at his own veranda, the other salon members looking on, down the street, from Minister’s door.
The next morning, Vairum comes back to the salon and, as always, peruses the newspapers, not speaking because he is not spoken to. Murthy is not in attendance, and the others hash things out among themselves. In a lull, Gopi Chettiar, who is also more observer than participant, asks Vairum’s opinion on a newly formed cereals-processing unit going up in Thiruchi.
“It will do well. I have invested,” Vairum responds, his fingertips joined, so his hands form a loose cage at his mouth.
The men are clearly surprised.
“Ah,” Gopi Chettiar clears his throat nervously. “They asked me… ”
“Get in now,” nods Vairum. “It will soon get expensive.”
“While we’re on the subject of investment,” Muthu Reddiar breaks in, smiling, “I wanted to let you know, Vairum-well, let all of you know,” he expands graciously, “my man, the Sikh, has telegraphed me that our shipment of Australian horses has arrived in Madras harbour. I wanted to thank you for your support in this project, Vairum. They are evidently sturdier than our Indian breeds, and the stallions should stud nicely with my line of carriage horses.”
“Glad to know it,” Vairum says, poker-faced. “Clearly a winning proposal.”
Minister is taken aback. Business matters are often referred to in the salon, since they are inseparable from the workings of politics and power, but this discussion verges uncomfortably on transaction. He thinks, though, that he may now understand how Vairum has been benefiting from these years in attendance. Now he quickly starts to feel pride in having drawn the boy in: Minister’s not a minister at present, his political fortunes may be at a low ebb, but he is still an influence peddler. The boy knows which way the wind is blowing, Minister thinks. And he is my friend.
Vairum catches his eye and they exchange a slight smile.
The morning after the sixth performance, Rama Sastri treats them to a recitation of the concluding stanzas of each of the performances. Both showed the episode in which Ravana is slain in battle by Rama. The Sastri has sent his reluctant servant to the performance each night, and the man has turned out to be an excellent reporter.
“This is our performance, close to Kamban’s words, if not quite,” says the Sastri, clearing his throat and proclaiming:
“With Ravana’s death, the fceld grows still
At such long last, the end.
Sita and Rama, reunited with dignity,
Paid respects by each foe, each friend.
And this is theirs-rather innovative,“ he smiles, shifting position, dropping his right hand and lifting his left:
“Ravana’s noble head and body
Rejoined on the funeral pyre.
Dravidian pride and sorrow now
But battlefield’s bloody mire.
The flames of truth and purity
Must in your eyes leap higher.
Ravana’s children! Avenge this death!
Unite in the name ofyour sire!
Loose the blindfold of Aryan deception,
Every Shastri, lyengar, Iyer
Is a manufacturer of illusions
Yet these are the ones you hire
For your weddings, your blessings, your babies and homes
Whether you be Panchama or Nair
Self Respect, man! Do it yourself!
Beneath Ravana’s flag: the lyre!“
The Sastri concludes with a flourish.
“It’s not a lyre, it’s a veena,” Dr. Kittu Iyer snorts.
“Poetic licence, dear chap,” Rama Sastri responds.
“You can only take poetic licence with poetry,” the doctor explodes. “This is drivel.”
“Does anyone know why the so-called Self-Respecters ended one night early?” Mani Iyer deepens his ever-present brow wrinkles. “Surely not to actually enable the populace to celebrate Rama’s return and recoronation in peace.”
“Surely not.” Muthu Reddiar strokes his upwardly waxed moustaches. “I passed their tent on my way here-they’re readying for performance, not packing up.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” remarks Minister, and the others frown in agreement or perplexity.
“My foot!” Murthy, who had held his tongue till then, screams in English. He has leapt up, fists and eyes clenched, face flushing from pomegranate to mangosteen. “Day after day this talktalktalk and no action. These fellows cannot fling about insults and expect best citizens would accept simply! Though they must think so because of you!” he spits at Vairum, who looks away, mild and skeptical.
“Have you… a… proposal?” Minister asks, though his tone makes it sound more like “Sit down… you’re… embarrassing yourself.”
“Yes!” Murthy cries, returning to his native tongue, ablaze with inspiration. There is a patch of dirty grey stubble on his dewlap, missed while shaving. It wobbles at the men as he reveals his idea. “I will lie down! I will lie across the path that these asses of the audience must take to attend the debacle, and prevent them from entering.”
“Bravo!” Rama Sastri starts to clap. “Take a stand, man-lying down! The show must not go on!”
Murthy heaves for the door, muttering and crying, “Must not go on, the show!”
“The peasants will never step over him,” Mani Iyer offers.
“No-they will go around him,” says Ranga Chettiar with exasperation.
Minister tries to intervene. “Please, dear man. Don’t be rash”-and he grabs for Murthy’s hand, but it is slippery and Murthy, inflamed by his vision, descends the stairs.
“Well, thank God that’s taken care of,” snorts Muthurunga Chettiar, half-reclined on a divan.
After some moments, Minister speaks. “I shan’t let him go to that place, alone-I shall try again, this evening, to dissuade him, and if he won’t be dissuaded, I will follow him. He is my good friend, like all of you, one of my constituency, and I owe him a debt of good faith.”
There follows a silence in which it seems several of the men mean to speak and change their minds. Rama Sastri finally breaks it.
“Ah-I had thoughts of slinking over there myself. Curiosity, don’t you know, the last night. Theatre is hardly theatre when performed by my man.”
“I am not curious-I am interested by this message of non-Brahmin uplift,” declares Ranga Chettiar.