The Turn

This is the story of Sukumar uncle whom I knew as a kid. He used to wave at me and my brother occasionally as we walked past his house to the school. My father knew him well. We lived in a village and everybody knew everybody. My father owns a small areca nut plantation. Sukumar and my father used to discuss prices of crops and efficacy of pesticides. Sukumar uncle never visited our house and looking back now, I don’t think that it was because we were from different castes. Perhaps there was something in Sukumar’s persona that repelled people and it was as if they did not want him to pollute their houses with his negative aura.

As me and my brother grew up and went to different schools and colleges, we forgot about him. Much later, once when both me and my brother had come home from abroad-me from London where I was a dentist and my brother from Australia, where he was a successful doctor-my father asked us whether we remembered Sukumar uncle. ‘Yes, I do’, we replied in unison. Father smiled and went on tell us his story, with a bottle of beer in his hand. So, here is Sukumar uncle’s story as told by my father with a little modification in the narration without affecting its heart.

……

Sukumar ran his dark and stout fingers over his sumptuous belly and belched loudly. ‘Good meal, good meal’, he repeated so that his wife, who was cleaning the greasy utensils in the kitchen could hear him. Gayathri had cooked a lavish dinner of mutton biryani and fish curry that night. She knew that her husband was in good mood and that comforted her. Sukumar could not live without eating meat at least once a day. Only Gayathri knew how he liked his food and she took utmost care not to disappoint him at the dining table. Any laxity from her side would mean nursing a bruise, a cut or a burn for weeks.

Sukumar sat in front of the television and began to eat pieces of neatly cut apple, arranged artistically on a glass dish. Monsoon rain of the Western Ghats was lashing heavily outside and Sukumar stared through the glass windows at the steady flow of water falling down from the rooftop. It was time for his daily news on television and politics interested him immensely. After all, he too was a party man. He supported the ruling party and he had considerable clout in the political affairs of his village. In fact, his ancestors were the oldest registered members of the ruling party. Sukumar took pride in this.

His family had benefited substantially from its association with the rulers. They had built a sizable empire over a period of several decades in the form of land holdings and stashed cash and jewelry in bank lockers. Sukumar owned areca nut, coconut and rubber plantations, all cash crops with considerable revenue. He was once the local Panchayat president too. He made his money, had a fling with a lady secretary of his office and lost the next election. It did not bother him much. He was respectfully called the ex-president anyway.

Apart from his promiscuity, Sukumar was also well-known in the village for his temper. He lost his cool for the flimsiest of reasons and he had even man-handled a couple of servants for not doing the household chores to his satisfaction. After the second incident, people refused to work in his house. You may argue that the era of feudal landlords, wherein it was a common practice to whip the servants and take their women as a matter of right, is over. Especially in the coastal regions of Karnataka which have always been progressive, these things were almost never heard of even when we were kids. That is the reason why there was no help for Gayathri at home and Sukumar found it difficult to get laborers to work in his farm. So, he had to make do with occasional smacking of his wife-for sugary tea or bland fish curry.

As he watched the local news on television, Sukumar heard somebody calling out his name outside the gate of his house.
‘Sukumar sir, president saar! Lend me a torch to go home! Sukumaar saar!’

Sukumar rushed out of the house and switched on the lights of the gate. It was raining steadily now and suddenly the power went off. A bolt of lightning struck somewhere with ferocity followed by a deafening thunder. Sukumar saw the face of Aitha in the momentary flash of the lightening, holding the latch of the gate. He had a torn umbrella in his left hand and an old and dirty cloth-bag hung from his right shoulder. He was drunk and he wobbled.

Aitha was a tribal who lived a kilometer away from Sukumar’s house. He was around thirty, lean and had a bony countenance. He worked as a laborer in plantations and was an expert in climbing areca nut trees. This was a tricky job as the climbers once atop a tree, had to pull the top of the adjoining areca tree towards them using a hooked stick and hop onto that treetop. In this fashion, the climbers covered the plantation in quick time by not getting down from a tree to climb the next one. Aitha executed this task effortlessly and was quick at his work.

But over the years, as the price of rubber rose and rubber plantations increased in acreage, he had shifted to the job of rubber tapping. This was more rewarding to Aitha in terms of money and gave him more spare time to loiter around. People frowned and disapproved of his choice but it was after all Aitha’s life and his choice. Wasn’t it?

During the previous year’s harvest season, Sukumar had asked Aitha to pluck areca nuts from his plantation but Aitha had flatly refused. He was a regular in Sukumar’s farm before but this time he was not interested. No other laborer was willing to work for Sukumar either and this had infuriated him. He was firmly of the belief that Aitha had instigated others against him but he could do nothing. He had to hire laborers from the neighboring village at exorbitant wages.

Sukumar went inside the house and fetched a torch and umbrella and slowly walked towards the gate.

‘What happened?’, he shouted at Aitha.

‘I lost my torch. It fell down somewhere. I can’t find it. Can you lend me a torch so that I can walk home? I will return it tomorrow morning’.

Aitha was reeking of liquor and Sukumar noticed that his right hand placed on the gate was shaking. Sukumar thought about Aitha’s refusal to work for him and seeing his temerity to come to his house on a rainy night and ask for help, his blood boiled with rage.

‘You bloody ba**ard! You can’t come and work for me and now you have the gall to ask me for a torch!!’, Sukumar screamed.

Standing sideways near the gate and holding the grills with his left hand, Sukumar slapped Aitha’s arm hard and pushed him back. Aitha swayed unsteadily and then fell backwards on his haunches.

‘Saar, don’t hit me. How can you hit me like that? I am just asking you for a torch. Give me that and I will go away! I promise that it will be returned tomorrow’.

Sukumar was beside himself with anger. How dare this lowly tribal talk to me like this? And look at his tone! Sukumar opened the gate, walked up to Aitha who was slowly trying to get up and kicked him on his chest with all his might.
‘That serves you right, sco*ndrel! Get lost from here’. Sukumar turned around, closed the gates and walked back to the house.

Aitha writhed in pain and cursed Sukumar loudly. ‘You are a shameless coward’, he yelled at Sukumar’s back. ‘And a tarty crook too. You think I don’t know what you did to that panchayat secretary!? Hah!! Hitting a poor soul like me! All motherfu**ers!’ Aithe let out a hearty laugh and stumbled away from the gate.

Sukumar heard every bit of Aitha’s humiliating words clearly. He could feel his ears heating up and his moustache jumped in unrestrained fury. He was in a state of frenzied wrath unsure of what to do about the unexpected insult.

‘I must teach him a lesson. I must make sure that he regrets his words till his death’, he muttered under his breath. He stood silently for a while. A thought ran in his mind as a curved smile broke on lips. ‘Why not?’, he asked himself aloud and took measured steps towards the bedroom. It had been a long time since he had the thrill of thrashing anybody. He flung open the wardrobe and pulled out a long leather belt. As Gayathri watched from the corner of her eyes, Sukumar rolled the belt around his fist and walked out into the rain with a torch and an umbrella.

Aitha had started trudging slowly and unsteadily towards his house. The terrain was undulating and there was not a single habitation in the vicinity except Sukumar’s. The rain was a steady drone and it was almost impossible to make out the bald contours of the forest path which led to Aitha’s house through a shrubby forest patch. Sukumar caught up with him just as Aitha took a turn from the main road and hit the forests. Suddenly there was a whizzing sound as the black length of leather hit Aitha’s back violently. He screamed in horror and pain and fell flat on his face. Sukumar kicked Aitha on his ribs and again on his shocked face. Blood spluttered out from Aitha’s mouth through broken teeth as he made a painstaking effort to get onto his knees.

‘Saar, don’t hit me saar! Why are you hitting me? What have I done to you?’, Aitha pleaded in a hoarse tone and with great effort sprung to his feet and suddenly made a dash into the forests. Sukumar was taken by surprise and he ran after him hurling abuses. He quickly caught up with a limping Aitha.

This time a hail of blows fell on Aitha as the leather belt swished incessantly. Aitha rolled on the ground trying frantically to block the strikes with his elbows and satchel but the attack was relentless. Sukumar was panting. His eyes were bloodshot, heart thumping and he could feel the rise of blood in his loins. He enjoyed the sound of the belt whipping Aitha’s skin through his torn shirt. ‘This is what I have been waiting for, to show this as**ole his deserved place’, thought Sukumar as he continued the assault.

Exhausted, Aitha almost stopped his protest and efforts to ward off the blows. His frail frame was no match to the masculine massiveness of Sukumar. The stinging pain of the flesh and the ceaseless rain began to unclutter his mind. The high of the arrack had long evaporated and he was acutely aware of his battering by Sukumar and the unbearable agony. As the cobwebs in his mind cleared, Aitha remembered his visit to the blacksmith that evening. He was asked by his wife in the morning to get an old knife sharpened and Aitha had paid ten rupees to the blacksmith for the job. The knife was in the bag! ‘If only I could get my hands on the knife!’

Sukumar was continuing his attack with belt and his feet. Aitha went on with his pitiful cries for mercy as he slowly pushed the satchel under his stomach and lay with his face down. He groped inside the bag and amongst the modest contents, soon found the wooden handle of the knife. He crawled slowly towards Sukumar’s feet and continued to beg him for mercy. Sukumar laughed and spat at him, mocking him, ‘Oh, you know how to beg too’!

Suddenly Sukumar felt a stinging pain near his right ankle. Warm blood gushed down and mixed with the falling raindrops. A screaming Sukumar bent down to hold his leg with dread in his eyes. Aitha sat on his knees and pulling Sukumar’s head down by the hair, stabbed him hard on the back of the neck. The knife sunk easily into Sukumar’s thick flesh as he made a gargling sound from his throat. Blood bubbles trickled from his nose and mouth as he flailed his hands feebly and collapsed to the ground in a heap.

Aitha stood up, steadied himself and briefly looked at the convulsing body of his tormentor. Then he bent down near Sukumar’s head and jabbed him thrice on the lifeless back, puncturing his heart. He pulled out the knife, held it against the torrential rain, washed his face and feet and walked home.

………

We looked at father in disbelief as he finished the story. ‘What happened next’?, we wanted to know.

‘The usual things’, father said. ‘Aitha was arrested after a couple of days and charged with murder. The case dragged on for years. Aitha spent some time in jail, may be a year, I think. Then everybody forgot about the incident. Sukumar’s wife moved to Dubai to live with her only son. After seven years, Aitha was acquitted. The police could not find the murder weapon and they could not prove that Aitha was responsible for the death. They did not even appeal against the judgment’.

‘Where is Aitha now’?, my brother asked.

‘He is still here. Must be over sixty now. Nobody can beat him in hopping from tree to tree in areca nut gardens, though whether he will climb or not is entirely decided by his whims!’, father said with a smile.

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