Arubankalai appears to be the last railhead to the south. Your keenness may carry you over a few more miles along the dead tracks beyond this station, but woefully it leads nowhere. They were destined to be buried alive within the bushes when the tracks first came here, some sixty odd years ago. This little township boasts of a cornucopia of rain and foliage while calm and tranquility follows as a matter of course. Idle chugging of railway engines and motorists reluctant to blow their horns is all praise for this nondescript county of a thousand long years. Countless temples dating back to ninth century A.D. bear a humble testimony to this serene landscape. But today, when I roll out the first few pages of this story, it has passed twentieth century. It is Monday, beginning of a new week, inception of a new era and birth of a new century.
Thus far the sun appears bright. Clouds as still as a mouse, have abandoned their routine hover. This is the last day of the twentieth century, a day to remember, a Sunday and weekend too. A festive mood has already set in. Camp fires will be held at night but cheap wine will follow suit right after the lunch. Dinner will be free for all. About thirty square kilometers of this forest, a piece of land like others is still ruled by a chieftain. Only for a few it is a strange historical happenstance that this holy day also transpires to be one hundred years of anniversary of independence. The chief has decided to pray for the well being of his fellowmen and to ward off evil spirits that drive people against his county.
When Hugues, only thirty-five, left his bogie at Arubankalai station it was five in the morning. He had boarded the train some four hundred miles away last night, north of this town. His fauces felt dry. The train air-conditioners are too heavy here. They can chill overwhelmingly and kill you. The blankets those come with the ticket have a mouthful of mites, ready to give you hives. At five in the morning the railway platform felt fresh, redolent of a quiet remote sea side and comfortable. The sea is not that far off from this place, only a couple of miles away in lone digit and the rawness of the morning breeze caressed his face like a tissue paper bathed in eau de cologne. Through the tranquil, hazy mist that suffused the cool breeze he could see a deserted makeshift tea stall fire its oven. Hughes is new here but not new to this country. After he put his first sip he noticed Nagarajan approach him. They were roomies at Oxford some ten years back and now Naga runs an NGO here.
They walked for over a mile to a tiny hamlet of a kindergarten school, a five bedded hospital, an office and a residential area for those who work here. Hughes was put up in Naga’s room and after a shower they left for the chieftain for a courtesy call.
The middle aged chief sat before his crowd praising them, who cheered in return. On seeing Hughes for the first time with Naga he waved at him. ‘You have a new friend of yours, an Englishman I believe,’ said the chief looking at Naga. He spoke fluent understandable English with a veritable touch of his mother tongue. He wore some sort of a half-pant
that looked like old Gazebos made out of tiger skin, to please the villagers. He had an authentic collection of feathers from rare birds that decorated his cap.
Hughes bowed, but the chief didn’t rise from his tailored pedestal that looked somewhat like a cathedra. He only made a delicate customary nod, respecting Hughes’ curtsy. It is a practice here. People or even foreigners don’t mind this gesture. The king shouldn’t leave his seat.
‘I am Conway, Conway Junior,’ Hugues said repeating his name again.
The chieftain adjusted his earplugs. He had a large derriere that stuck to his throne and he spoke little. His trade mark kinesics took care of the rest. This brought some kind of a phony seriousness and honesty to his otherwise indistinctive banal face.
‘Conway Sir, my grandfather, was here long back. I believe before you were born,’ Hugues spoke, but he quickly lowered his words aware of the chief not happy to hear about that. Nothing on earth can be there before a chief is born.
The chief smiled reluctantly and asked Hugues to take a seat before him.
“You mean Hugh Conway of Shangrila?’ the old man who sat beside the chieftain spoke with an eye on Hugues.
‘Yes Sir, my grandfather. We share the same name Sir. Hugh and Hugues.’
‘Funny,’ spoke the grand old man again. But Hugues couldn’t find anything funnier than what the old man spoke. He sat crossed legged before the chief, the undeclared king of the region.
It looked somewhat like a circus. The crowd, the murky makeshift cinema screen erected at a distance, the giant wheel, temporary shops from obsolete torn apart tarpaulins, the noise, the dust that blew in all directions, people selling crude, inexpensive goods shouting at top of their voice. The haze encircled those assembled, like a canopy. It looked amazing for some time, but the noise kept rising above the quaint flute someone blew, irked little by the lawlessness that arose. It is evident Hugues will be bored soon.
The chief, no less than a king, had ordered a goat to be sacrificed before the God. But a rather timid, uninspiring but not indeterminate and characterless ‘Association for the prevention of cruelty to animals’, under the leadership of mostly young school goers, now triggered by a bunch of cunning do-nothing seniors, had successfully banished all the goats overnight.
Hugues had taken his seat in the midst of the conference when the chieftain appeared angry and now his anger was determined to blow up the beginning of the new century. Hugues didn’t recognize the jester sitting next to him. The man was dressed in a shabby trouser unwashed for days, tied to his waist with a discarded elastic. His shirt looked equally awful, smelling when he raised his arms and his skin that peeped, bore marks of untreated eczematous lesions.
The jester stood up quickly from within the crowd and in a trice much like a magician, got into a clown’s dress he was carrying on him. Only at this juncture Hugues could notice a hatchling drool from his pocket. The young man now dressed in a clean cloak, looking like a medieval minstrel took out the baby tortoise from his pocket and said, ‘I know of this, Sir. Someone from the opposition must have intentionally hid all the goats to teach you a lesson of tit for tat. But don’t worry Sir, I have a tortoise for you.’
The crowd laughed at this, caring little for what the half-mad vagrant said. But the jester, disgruntled with his friends and paying little heed to the public, hurriedly made his way to the center stage where the chieftain sat, kicking his legs randomly to make his way.
It is true that there are ways penned in the sacred books some thousand years ago of sacrificing a tortoise in place of costly offerings like goats and other larger animals. Even the poor take pumpkins for oblation since antiquity. Bringing the offspring close to his lips and speaking a word or two quickly into the tortoise the jester laid it to rest on the hands of the holy priest. But as luck would have it the tortoise likely out of fear hid itself under its carapace. For half an hour or so a crazy commotion and ruckus ensued as if the moons of Neptune have unleashed a heavily laden box of pandemonium never witnessed before. A resounding clatter was soon evident as every other capricious soul began trying his hand on the poor creature to bring out its head. The last man standing was the chieftain himself. And when he too failed the jester rose to his feet and suggested that there is one way out but it will be too difficult for the king to do.
‘How much will it cost the exchequer?’ asked the chief angrily.
‘Not much Sir, but it’s a difficult task indeed Sir,’ the quick rejoinder came from the jester himself.
‘There is nothing on this earth the king cannot do,’ spoke the chieftain in anger, his face enraged, sullen and fierce. The deputy has seen nothing like this before. Quickly accomplishing his face like an ignoramus person the jester said, ‘Sir, why don’t you put your head before the deity. It is the best you can do from your end. Moreover your head doesn’t have a shell to hide.
Silence fell abruptly like an intolerable vacuity and soon the lull shattered the bliss in a jiffy. A fearsome fate waited for the jester in reticence. No one had spoken a word for quite some time since the jester let his words slip his lips like a nincompoop. At this the old man rose from his seat and with a swift jerk to his neck from right to left he eyed the law enforcers to take away the jester. Then quickly coming across the stage he announced that the chieftain had forgiven the jester as he firmly believes the jester to be nothing other than nuts.
As the crowd waited in composure all of a sudden the jester could be heard once more. He freed himself from the clutches of the men who carried him and in a clear and loud voice said, ‘I too am ready to sacrifice myself if the chief hesitates.’ But before he could speak more he was ferried like a backpack by four black men to the gate outside.
The next day Hugues found the jester at the local police station. The lockup was too dirty, not even worth an hour’s stay. The dust and grime had found a permanent fixture on the walls and the floor. Even if cleaned every day, there air remained the same.
He was not much expected at the station, Hugues knew about that. His own and his passport’s colour went against him.
‘Your friend a reporter?’ the station officer asked Naga rather casually.
‘A biologist,’ replied Naga, ‘a friend of mine since Oxford days.’
‘You mean the University?’ the officer enquired inquisitively, while his face filled with contentment. Oxford University has done the trick. The officer who was on a year’s contract was preparing for a permanent position in police services. Oxford’ was not new to him.
‘You mind a cup of coffee, Sir?’
‘I would be happy and happier if it’s black,’ said Hugues lithely, conveying that he was just a friend and nothing else. Marlboro did the rest.
The jester looked straight at Hugues from his seat inside the lockup. It was a small place, a ten by ten room, a lockup and a toilet. It was all that the station had.
‘Why did you do that?’ Hugues asked the jester still biting his nail, not seeking permission from the officer and looking straight into the lockup.
‘I am a professional jester Sir,’ quick was the reply from the depths of the darkness of the lockup.
‘A self made jester Sir,’ drawled the officer, disgusted with the happenings still unfolding.
‘I mean a self declared half-mad jester Sir,’ the policeman wouldn’t stop here. He rose from where he sat. He had a lean, stout frame in its dapper appearance, still enjoying the Marlboro stick, his fingers folded onto his palm to make a hookah out of it for more satisfaction.
‘You ask him more questions and he has his answers readied for all of them, plan A, plan B, plan C,’ the angry policeman had no intention of ceasing.
‘Look what he has done to my conscience, I can neither leave him nor hold him here,’ the officer stopped at last and took to his seat, disgruntled and disturbed.
‘They won’t believe me sir, I am nine generations into this trade, my forefathers were at the temple for some six hundred years sir,’ the jester spoke again from the darkness of his room.
‘You mean a court jester? Interesting,’ Hugues looked inside the lockup.
‘My great- great grandfathers had their names inscribed on the temple stone sir. You can’t miss that,’ the jester was not ready to surrender but stopped for a time managing his sullen breath.
‘Let them put me to the gallows, I don’t mind,’ he continued ‘after that, they may have to burn my effigy every year, can’t forget me sir, can’t forget me,’ he repeated in one breath with a laugh that sounded crazy and deranged.
‘He is talking bloody nonsense’ Hugues made a subdued statement staring at the rotten glass paper weight and rolling it, not expecting a rejoinder.
‘What can I do if the public has lost its wit?’ the jester spoke again. It sounded like a solo one act play.
‘Keep yeah mouth shut, it’s the only thing you can do that now,’ the officer shouted angrily at the jester. Hugues could see the jester bite a half- pound bread with the coffee.
‘Finish off your coffee fast, or they will finish me off,’ the officer spoke fast, faster than the jester could eat.
‘You tried to fool the government emissary with that tortoise? A very daring act indeed,’ Hugues couldn’t help making the statement, still fiddling with the paper weight.
‘If he can fool us with his tiger pants, why can’t I sir?’ pat came the reply from the jester.
‘He doesn’t seem like a half-mad man,’ Hugues added now looking straight into the officer.
The officer chuckled and said’ No sir, he has just made a screwball image cut out for his benefits, no half-mad he is.’
‘But I know of no other trade sir other than a pantaloon, just managing a free square meal from the temple, a harmless man sir, I am,’ mumbled the jester, still positioned in the depths of the darkness that was growing fast.
Some fifteen years later I got an email from Naga, a simple but a agonizing and heart-wrenching one.
‘You remember the jester? He has been put behind the bars for ninety-nine years.’
It would have been better if he would have been impaled that day.
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