Age of Frenzy Read online

  Age of Frenzy

  MAHABALESHWAR SAIL

  Translated from the Konkani by

  VIDYA PAI

  NEW YORK • LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY • NEW DELHI

  Contents

  Age of Frenzy

  P.S. Section

  About the Book

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  It was at daybreak that Saaton Nayak led his pair of bullocks and set up the plough in his field at Khargali. It was quite cold and a thin film of mist hung about the forest which flanked the narrow strip of farmland. As he urged his bullocks on, the clamour of a troop of monkeys and the rustle of leaves as they swung from tree to tree carried to his ears. A peacock darted out of the forest and perched on a branch, shrieking raucously before darting off again.

  A twinge of apprehension and fear gripped Saaton Nayak’s heart. He shouted at the bullocks and the plough moved forward, cutting open the earth in neat furrows. They were quite alike, this pair of strong animals, with large humps on their backs. The tuft of hair at the tip of their tails looked like the tassels on a monarch’s palanquin.

  They had barely gone up and down twice when the plough’s wooden peg came loose and it wobbled crookedly. Saaton Nayak tried to knock it back with his scythe but the peg split into two. He would have to whittle a new one now, and so he left the bullocks in the field and went in search of a sturdy piece of wood.

  Suddenly a tiger crept out of the undergrowth and the bullocks froze, wide-eyed in terror. Roaring loudly, it pounced on the red bullock and snapped its neck. The other one, with dark patches, leapt up shattering the wooden framework of the plough but the bridle rope remained wrapped around its neck. The tiger attacked it next and brought it down. Saaton Nayak saw the tiger and began to scream, waving his scythe. The tiger stared at him for a moment, then slipped back into the undergrowth and vanished into the forest. The two bullocks lay spreadeagled on the ground. Their windpipes had snapped and the tiger’s teeth and claws had dug deep into their backs.

  Saaton crouched beside his animals sobbing disconsolately for a while. Then wailing loudly and beating his breast, he returned home. The villagers crowded about him, and their hearts sank when they heard him. A strange fear gnawed at their bellies. They believed that tigers wouldn’t touch cattle when the bridle rope was about their necks. But this one had killed two bullocks when they were yoked to the plough. Deva, what sort of calamity is this.

  The weekly puja performed every Monday at Shirvaddo, the locality where the Nayak community lived, was only four days away. The fear in people’s hearts refused to subside. We must beseech the Lord to show us a way out, only He can save this village now. All the rituals must be performed properly.

  That year Venku Nayak’s family had been elected to perform the rituals and conduct all the festivals on behalf of the Nayak community. A stretch of farmland in which two khandis of paddy seedlings could be sown was set aside for the gods. The family that was responsible for performing the puja was allowed to cultivate this land. Every Monday the head of the household would perform the puja at the little shrines of the guardian spirits of the village. It was also his responsibility to see that all commitments to their village deity Lord Ramnath, were satisfactorily discharged during the year.

  Venku Nayak arrived that evening with a platter of sweetened beaten rice in one hand and a vessel containing oil in the other. His elder son held a flaming cloth wick, and his ten-year-old granddaughter had a coconut in her hand. They moved towards the little shrine that was dedicated to Ghar Avai, the Big Mother, the wife of the founder of the settlement. Then they went to the enclosure where the khunti, the holy stake was stuck into the ground, and finally to the Barmo shrine. Venku Nayak poured some oil into the stone lamps that stood before each deity and set them alight. He placed a fistful of phov, or sweet beaten rice in each shrine and prayed loudly.

  Of all the deities in the settlement only Santeri had a tiny shrine made of golden hay and dry grass with a little thatched door that was opened only on Mondays. This Santeri was an anthill, as tall as a fully grown man, with innumerable peaks and protrusions that were moist and fresh as though they had just been formed. No one knew when this anthill was formed or who had started the tradition of worshipping it. It must have existed before their forefathers settled at this spot. Yet it continued to grow and rejuvenate itself through the years. Its roots had plunged deep into the netherworld; countless ants and worms and snakes found refuge within it.

  The horn was blown loudly and Venku Nayak lit the stone lamp. He placed the offering of beaten rice and prayed, ‘Cereals and grains, flowers and fruits, trees and palms, tubers and roots … everything grows and bears fruit because of your benevolence. We shall place the fruit of your bounty at your feet, only then shall we take it home to feed our families. Our fields remain fertile because of your benevolence year after year. Give us good harvests, look after our fruits, our trees; don’t let us starve, slake our thirst … O Mother!’

  He took the coconut from his granddaughter’s hand and placed it before the anthill. By the following Monday, the coconut would have disappeared into the anthill. As he turned to shut the temple door, he saw some men standing outside. The people in the settlement didn’t normally attend the weekly ritual. So why were these men here, their nostrils flaring?

  ‘Venku bhau, did you ask the deity why all this is happening? Our calves get stuck in the mud, small coconuts fall from the trees. Tigers kill our bullocks even as they stand yoked to the plough. Is there something wrong with the way you worship the deities, or have the gods withdrawn their benevolence and protection?’ Mhablu Nayak demanded to know.

  ‘If they don’t protect the village what use are these gods to us? Why should we worship them or place balls of sweet beaten rice on their heads? Demand an answer, Venku … ask them!’ Babuti screamed.

  ‘Men are committing sins. The ridge gourd on the creeper at one’s door is whisked away before one’s eyes. Boundary stones that mark one’s fields are uprooted and pushed back overnight. So many sins … punishment is bound to follow.’

  ‘Don’t change the topic, Venku bhau. If the gods are looking after us, how is it that man commits sins? The gods must show us a way out of this. Or these deities must leave this village. Tell them that.’

  ‘Who am I to demand an answer from the gods? I’m only doing my job of performing the rituals every week. Everyone must come together to exhort the gods; the spirit of the Mulpurus, the founder of our settlement, must be awakened and must be invoked in an oracle’s body. Catch hold of this avsar and ask for an answer. Why do you stand here squabbling before the holy mother Santeri? If the serpent that lives within her body is outraged nothing can save this village.’

  ‘We’ll do that. We’ll demand an answer from the avsar. But be warned! If he says that the rituals are not being performed properly, you will be held responsible. You till the fields set aside for the gods and enjoy whatever they yield. You are answerable to the community.’

  The men turned away. As Venku Nayak shut the door of the shrine, he grumbled loudly, ‘They’ll argue with the gods. And fight with their own relatives in the settlement. Why blame the gods for everything? Why don’t you pick up your scythes and axes and drive the tiger away? But no. It’s easier to blame the gods!’

  It was well into the afternoon when a young man, eighteen or twenty years of age, trudged down the hill. Scared and tired, overcome by hunger and thirst, he crouched beneath the banyan by the temple. Two or three of the men sitting on the temple steps came up to him, ‘Who are you? Which village do you hail from?’

  ‘Are you deaf or dumb, or what? Creep into this village like a thief and now you won’t open your mouth. One blow with a stick and…�
�

  ‘No, no … don’t beat me! I fall at your feet, don’t cast me out!’ the youth pleaded.

  ‘Who are you? Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m from Divade village. Lakhu Nayak’s son, Ganaba.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  The boy began to weep. ‘I only drew a pot of water for those people and gave them directions to wherever they wanted to go. So they gave me a piece of jadd roti and some fruits soaked in sweet syrup. Just fruits, believe me. Nothing else.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘People said I’d eaten their thick bread and their meat. My father threw me out of the house. My mother wouldn’t come near me. They kept my wife away. Then all the villagers picked up stones and drove me out.’

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘I went from one village to another, but no one would let me stay. My mother used to say that one of her cousins lived in Adolshi, so I came here looking for her.’

  ‘What’s your aunt’s name?’

  ‘It seems she had many moles on her skin so she was known as Tilai mavshi. I saw her when I was very young, may not recognize her today.’ Still sobbing, he cried, ‘I beg of you, don’t drive me away.’

  The people became wary. They had heard that some people who practised a strange religion had crossed the seven seas and come to Goa. He who ate what these people touched would be cast out by society, he would become impure, they were told. These villagers had never seen those strangers though.

  The village headman, Khapru Nayak, was quite clear. ‘Lord Ramnath presides over this village, His presence makes the region holy and pure. No one who professes another religion, no man who has been cast out from our faith can spend even one night here. To let him in would be a big sin.’

  So eight or ten men with big sticks in their hands chased the young man across the embankment and past the stream into the low lying fields, the khajan by the river.

  Early the next morning, a corpse was found floating in the little pool where the deities were taken for a ceremonial dip on festive occasions. The whole village was terror stricken.

  ‘Tie a rope around the body and drag it to the khajan. Such a corpse cannot be consigned to the holy flames, nor can any funeral rites be performed,’ the village astrologer declared. But no one had the courage to move the corpse. It remained in the water all day.

  As Sada Nayak stood by the hedge behind his house, the next morning, he noticed a pack of vultures circling above the pool. A gut-wrenching tremor passed through his frame. His heart thudded as he grabbed the shovel in the courtyard and rushed through the fields towards the pool.

  Sada Nayak chased away the vultures and set about digging a waist-deep trench on the bank of the stream. A powerful entity seemed to possess his body. Grabbing hold of the corpse, all by himself, he dragged it into the trench and covered it with mud. He was a strong man, but by the time he finished the task, his head was swimming, and somehow he lurched home on faltering steps. He drew water from the well and poured the cold water over himself. Then, smashing the mud pot on the ground, he walked into the house in his wet loincloth.

  People from the neighbourhood stood in silent groups in his courtyard. One of them was a woman whose face and neck were covered with dark moles. Her eyes swam with tears. Suddenly Phati Nayak rushed up to Sada’s door. ‘Sada, did you bury the corpse on this side of the stream or on the other side?’ he screeched.

  ‘On this side.’

  ‘Sada, you’ve brought calamity on this village. A man who belongs to another faith cannot spend a night in this village. And you’ve buried him here for all time. There’ll be a catastrophe when the gods come to bathe there during the temple festival, the whole village will be destroyed.’

  One day a loud explosion was heard somewhere at the far end of the village. Had some huge banyan or peepal tree come crashing to the ground? Was it thunder? The sky in this month of Kartick was clear. People stared nervously in the direction of the sound, a strange sound that no one had heard before. Suddenly a cowherd rushed frantically down the hill. ‘Those white-skinned devils have entered this village. They’ve killed a huge wild boar up in the hills, saw it with my own eyes…’ he shouted.

  In a short while, the whole group descended the hill. Two senior white soldiers were on horseback, six foot soldiers half-ran half-walked behind them. Of them, three were brown-skinned locals. One of the men on horseback had a gun slung on his shoulder. The white men wore tight-fitting coats and breeches, fine shoes and had caps on their heads. The locals wore knee-length dhotis one end of which was drawn up between their legs and tucked into the waist-band at the back. They had on thick shirts and sandals and a kerchief wrapped about their heads. All the constables had swords strapped to their waists and carried batons in their hands.

  Lingu Nayak and Gana Nayak, who were working in the field, crouched behind the haystacks peeping at the soldiers. They were so fair, as though cast in sunlight. Surely these were the tallest and the strongest men alive!

  ‘People say they’re white-skinned, Lingu, but I think their skin is red,’ Gana whispered. ‘They eat the flesh of cows and drink human blood.’

  ‘A race of red demons. Their nails and teeth must be sharp, like pointed stakes.’

  ‘Their guns have fire inside, the spark goes right through a man and kills him.’

  ‘He dies immediately, or he dies later when his body begins to rot. They smear snake poison on their swords, I’ve heard.’

  The soldiers on horseback dismounted in front of the Ramnath temple, a magnificent structure with thick wooden beams and huge pillars. The oil lamp in the sanctum glowed dimly as though it were burning deep within a dark cave. The leader of the group was surprised to see no one around. He turned to one of the local soldiers who served as an interpreter. ‘Where have these people gone, leaving the temple open like this?’

  ‘They’re scared, senor, must be hiding somewhere around.’

  ‘If we enter their temple and seize their gods, will they come out?’

  ‘Can’t tell, senor.’

  They drank water at the temple tank and took the path to Shirvaddo through the fields. There was no one in sight. Everything was quiet, as though the whole village and its people had vanished. The old soldier was angry. What sort of cowards were these people, taking fright and fleeing at the approach of other men.

  The settlement at Shirvaddo was like a part of the forest. Mango, jambul, and tall palms stood guard before each of the thirty mud houses thatched with hay and dry fronds. There was a tiny shack beside each house in which they stored firewood and pats of dry cow dung for heating bathwater during the rainy months. The soldiers hurried through the wide open plain that lay between Shirvaddo and the Brahmin quarters at Raigali.

  The Brahmin settlement at Raigali was quite different from that at Shirvaddo. All the houses stood within an extensive orchard of mango, jackfruit and orange trees, coconut and areca nut palms and pepper vines. A channel guided the water from a spring on the hill. It went through the large orchard belonging to the Kenkre family and then flowed through the orchards of the seven Shenai households before emptying into the irrigation canals of the fields below. On one side of the orchard was a spur of elevated land on which stood the temple of Ravalnath, the family deity of the Shenais.

  Captain Castel Figredi had heard that the Brahmins were the real decision makers in the Goan society. They were known to be an intelligent class who could read and write. It was important, therefore, to win their confidence, to initiate a dialogue with them so that the administration of the Goan region could proceed smoothly. But the Brahmin community shut their doors and remained inside.

  The captain knew that though it was three years since the Portuguese troops had set foot on Goan soil, the people in the villages still regarded them as a race of fearful demons. The use of bombs and explosives and the massacre of thousands of Moors had only reinforced this fear. Rumours that the Portuguese troops tricked people into eating cow flesh a
nd other forbidden items so that they were cast out of Hindu society had begun to spread through the countryside.

  ‘I am the captain in charge of this region. We have defeated Adil Shah and snatched Goa from him. You are now the King of Portugal’s subjects. Come, let us talk,’ he called out loudly. The interpreter rendered his words into Konkani. But everything remained still.

  The fair skin on the captain’s face flushed. He was a tall strapping man and his anger made him look even more intimidating. Leaping down from his horse, he drew his sword and rushed up to one of the houses. ‘I’ll break this down … set fire to the house!’ he screeched, kicking at the door.

  Finally one of the doors opened and a woman hurled a large wooden measuring cup at the soldier, hitting him on the chest. A short, stockily built elderly woman stood in the doorway like Chandika the warrior goddess, her eyes spitting fire. ‘Death be on you! May your body turn to ash!’ she screamed. ‘Why do you kick at the door, you wretched corpse?’

  The captain stared at her, quite taken aback. He’d never seen a woman in such a rage before.

  ‘Wretched creature! Crossed the seven seas and arrived here! This is a house where we follow rituals and practise our religion with care.’

  When the interpreter translated her words, the captain turned to her with scorn and said, ‘What religion are you talking about? Pack of cowards. You sit locked up in your houses, worshipping some powerless god, following worthless rituals!’ He turned towards the village and said, ‘A woman has the guts to come and stand at her door, and look at the men! Worthless cowards, hiding in their homes. Come out at once or we’ll enter your houses with these guns in our hands!’

  The woman suddenly let out a high pitched shriek that echoed through the settlement, ‘Come out! All you men, young and old, come out at once or these impure, unclean wretches will enter your homes. Don’t be afraid, come out.’