The Taste of Water: A Novel

By Franky Dias

The Taste of Water weaves history, folklore, humour, irreverence and adventure on two continents in a sweeping story spanning three generations set against the backdrop of Indian mythology and Western philosophy.

Victor and Shambu, two young boys mesmerized by a performing cyclist in their sleepy village of Uppal, South India, hatch a mischievous plan to prevent his macabre live burial finale—the first of many collaborations in their lifelong struggles with ambition and success, lust and love, power and impotence, and sin and redemption.
Victor achieves success as a telecom analyst in Toronto and New York City during the dot-com boom. His spectacular rise to fortune is matched only by his painful fall into excess and depravity. Shambu becomes a feared man in the underworld, selling cheap government booze. But his success, too, comes at a price.
Along the way we meet Rama Rao, a Brahmin storyteller and exorcist who plays chess with malevolent demons; Meena Rai, whose husband kills her lover then remains locked up in their house for decades until convinced to leave his room to murder again; the Alvares sisters, devout spinster twins who strip naked to scare away ghosts and later engage in nocturnal activities with one; Girija Bhandari, a young mother who cures inflamed eyes with jets of fresh milk from her breasts; and Zuao Manuel De Souza, famous for vanquishing a demon with the power of his rosary.
By turns magical and mystical, tragic and triumphant, The Taste of Water tells an unforgettable tale.

A different India, a surprising India, and a refreshing India. Utterly original. A rare and authentic slice of life in the villages around Mangalore—one that should be preserved in a time capsule.
- Richard Crasta, author of The Revised Kama Sutra

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franky Dias
• Release date: Nov 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781927023341

Franky Dias

Franky Dias grew up in a small village near Mangalore, India. At the age of twenty-one, he moved to Mumbai and worked as a bank officer. Later posted to Goa for five years, he wrote and produced a musical, then moved to Dubai where he worked in international banking and wrote a column for the local newspaper. He is fluent in Konkani, Kannada, Tulu, Hindi and English. In 1990, he and his wife, along with their daughter and son, then three and six years old, moved to Toronto, Canada. Franky Dias spends his time composing music and writing, and lives between Canada, India and the south of France.

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Praise for The Taste of Water: A Novel

A different India, a surprising India, and a refreshing India. Utterly original. A rare and authentic slice of life in the villages around Mangalore—one that should be preserved in a time capsule.

- Richard Crasta, author of The Revised Kama Sutra

The Taste of Water: A Novel

By Franky Dias

First Canadian Edition

Published by Life Rattle Press, Toronto, Canada

ISBN 978-1-927023-34-1

Life Rattle new writers series ISSN 1200-5266

Copyright © 2012 by Franky Dias

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the author is an infringement on the copyright law.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Edited by: John Dunford

Cover Design and Illustrations by: Noel Aranha

For

Brij, Nandita, André and Nimu

Table of Contents

Book One: Meena

Book Two: Maya

Book Three: Leela

Book Four: Grace and Karuna

Acknowledgements

Book One

In the beginning arose desire.

- Rig Veda

HAD THEY KNOWN THAT THEIR prank would ultimately lead to impotence, the boys might have never carried out their plan. However, at the age of twelve, two boys living in a sleepy South Indian village were hardly aware that impotence, as an affliction, could possibly exist.

It all began quite innocently on a Saturday morning during the summer when a cyclist and his assistant arrived in the village of Uppal. They held brief consultations with Dhindo Konkana, the potbellied grocer, and Mighty Moustache Bhima Rai, the teashop owner, and struck a verbal contract which permitted the cyclist to mount a riding marathon in the maidan in front of their establishments.

Never before had the maidan, an open field partly shaded by an ancient peepal tree, witnessed so much emotion and such excitement. Fierce cockfights, tiger dances during the Dassera festival, snake charmers, circus performers, vendors of bangles and combs, magicians, occasional appearances by travelling dentists and medicine men were nothing compared to what was about to unfold. The cyclist’s assistant had drawn a perfect circle about thirty feet in diameter, sprinkled chalk powder to mark its circumference and announced through a loudspeaker that the cyclist would be riding nonstop for seven days and nights. As if that was not enough, he proclaimed that at the end of the marathon, the cyclist would be buried alive for three hours in a freshly-dug grave in the middle of the circle. The assistant then asked the crowd, Will the cyclist emerge alive from the grave? The question was repeated countless times during the week.

The question itself gave rise to new questions as the entire community was gripped by a steadily rising tide of anxiety. Is it humanly possible to cycle nonstop for seven days? What about sleep? What about bodily functions? How will he urinate and defecate? Will he survive the ordeal? Is there a real cyclist or is this a case of junther munther hera pheri jadu tona, black magic monkey business?

During that week in Uppal and in the neighbouring villages, no one spoke of anything but the riding marathon and the amazing acrobatics the cyclist was performing; how his bicycle obeyed his every command as if it was an extension of his limbs, how he was eating, drinking, shaving, showering and changing his clothes without ever dismounting, and how it seemed that he could go on forever if not for the ghastly finale the wily assistant had announced. Every morning, the assistant was seen digging the grave, steadily gaining a foot of depth per day. The mound of fresh red earth was growing ominously beside the grave and the cyclist kept circling its orbit. He was going to be sucked into it on the seventh day.

While everybody was engulfed by a tidal wave of anxiety, no one suffered as much as Victor and Shambhu. From the very beginning, the two boys had watched the cyclist with awe and admiration. They followed his every move. His countenance and his approach, they noticed, were not of a hero proceeding on an exciting mission. Instead, he appeared to be introspective and withdrawn, like a monk in contemplation.

On the first day of the marathon the cyclist touched the ground, his bike and his heart three times each with the utmost reverence, paying homage to the earth, his trusted instrument and the god residing within his breast. When he started riding, it was with a deep sigh and what appeared to be an attitude of resignation. He maintained a slow and steady pace. His rhythm changed only in the evenings when large crowds gathered.

He showered in public with several pots of water provided by the assistant, changed into fresh shorts and a chemise, and wowed onlookers with his acrobatic stunts. He looked to be in his late twenties, of a medium build, with intense, penetrating eyes. Riding in the relentless sun had baked his skin to a dark copper sheen. His shoulder-length wavy hair flew in the breeze like a lion’s mane.

Even though he ate nothing but steamed rice cakes and bananas during the entire week, the cyclist did not appear to be malnourished. He did not accept any food or drink from spectators except for a tumbler of lemonade from Mighty Moustache Bhima Rai’s teashop, prepared to his specifications with salt and sugar. Each day, urged on by the assistant, one of the spectators would buy the drink for him.

On the fifth and the sixth evenings, for two days in a row, the boys bought the drink and the assistant announced their names over the loudspeaker—Victor De Souza from Thanneer Kere and Shambhu Rai from Uppal Guthu. Victor and Shambhu were elated with pride.

They repeatedly told each other they were indeed witnessing the most groundbreaking, nail-biting, awe-inspiring, mind-blowing, kick-ass performance of their entire lives.

On the seventh day, utter commotion prevailed in the maidan. Hindi movie songs blared from the loudspeaker, punctuated by the announcements of contributions made by the spectators. The assistant displayed an uncanny knowledge of rivalries between the landowners and the merchants and harnessed it to his advantage. Dhindo Konkana, the potbellied grocer, had bought a shawl that was on display, and Raghu Rai, Shambhu’s uncle and the most prosperous landowner, had prepared a garland of rupee notes, both to be presented to the cyclist should he emerge alive from the grave.

The cyclist had attracted peddlers and hawkers like a magnet. The bangle vendor jingled his wares relentlessly. Young women thronged around him and in their delirious excitement of trying on bangles, necklaces and assorted trinkets, they dropped their pallus, the flowing, colourful, ornate ends of their saris that precariously protected their bosoms. One-Eyed Kareem attracted children with candied cashew nuts from Karkal and sticky dates from Oman.

The maidan was swathed in an aroma of roasting chana and peanuts as a chanawala from Bajpe drew customers with his rasping chant "Chana jhor gharam, chana jhor gharam (Roasted chickpeas, roasted chickpeas)."

The balloon vendor managed to sell a whole lot of colourful balloons with tiny reed attachments and the children blew them incessantly, creating a symphony of discordant notes.

On that Friday, at precisely three in the afternoon, the cyclist dismounted and proceeded to Mighty Moustache Bhima Rai’s teashop. When he returned nearly an hour later, after a bath and a meal of yoghurt and rice, he was attired in a spotless kurta and veshti. Some of the ladies commented that in his collarless shirt and traditional draped garment he looked as handsome as a bridegroom. When he lay down in the simple wooden coffin, the pandemonium ceased instantly and a thick shroud of silence enveloped the crowd.

Victor and Shambhu were right in front of the circle as the lid was nailed and the coffin lowered into the ground. With the exception of the grating of the shovels and the resounding din of the dirt striking the coffin, complete silence reigned in the maidan. The silence became more and more suffocating with every second that passed. Four men worked for nearly half an hour to fill the grave and the crowd remained speechless until the ominous hole was fully levelled. The ends of ropes sticking out of the red earth were the only evidence that someone was lying there beneath the dirt, buried alive.

Soon the whispering began. The children asked repeatedly, Are they going to let him die? How long will we have to wait? The women sobbed. The men wrung their hands, ashamed and awkward, not knowing what to do, perhaps realizing that someone immensely courageous lay buried underground. Victor was suffocated by the rising tension and could hardly breathe. He told Shambhu, We have to get him out, right now.

The boys raced to Victor’s mother, Grace De Souza, who, with tears welling up, seemed almost waiting for them to come to her. She, along with the boys, approached her father-in-law, Zuao Manuel De Souza. He was seated in a wicker chair along with the other members of the village council watching the proceedings. Once Grace De Souza made her plea, it was as if a dam had broken, letting loose an outpouring of emotion, especially from the female and young spectators, and nearly everyone joined in her exhortation to save the cyclist from certain death.

Do we want his death on our hands? they asked. He is such a fine young man. Let us dig him up before it is too late.

Zuao Manuel De Souza looked at Moustache Bhima Rai, Raghu Rai, Dhindo Konkana and the schoolmaster Rama Rao and one by one they nodded in agreement.

Let us get him out, he ordered.

The cyclist instructed us to wait exactly three hours, the assistant insisted.

If he dies, we will bury you instead, thundered Zuao Manuel. Dig him up right now!

With utmost urgency, the assistant and the men got to work with their shovels. The coffin was raised, the lid pried open, and they found the cyclist lying as still as a corpse.

Please do not disturb him, the assistant pleaded. He will come back to life. He has slowed down his life force. He is an expert in yoga and pranayama. He knows how to control his breathing.

As far as the boys could see, there was no life in the cyclist. The crowd had conflicting opinions.

He must have left his body and will be back at the appointed hour, someone whispered.

I think he knows how to control his life energy. These yogis are capable of controlling everything, even life and death!

I am sure all this is an illusion. There is no cyclist and there is no coffin.

Impossible. I pulled the rope and lifted the coffin with my very own hands, a gruff voice countered.

Perhaps we should have left him in the grave for three hours, exactly as he wanted. Now if he dies we are to blame, a weak voice lamented.

The Alvares sisters started singing the Christian hymn Abide with Me. Participation was tentative at first. However, the indefatigable sisters persisted and gradually more voices joined in. Eventually, everyone lent their voices and resounding renditions of several popular hymns followed, sung with energy and fervour, in hope of waking the cyclist from his deep slumber. They sang bhajans, starting with Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram, led by schoolmaster Rama Rao to the rhythm of cymbals and traditional drums, ghumats and dholaks.

The village of Uppal had never heard such spirited singing. But the cyclist was unmoved. Victor began to lose hope.

Precisely three hours from the time he was entombed inside the coffin, the cyclist stirred to life and slowly opened his eyes. He gripped the sides of the coffin and sat up straight. Everyone clapped until their hands hurt. Stepping out of the coffin, bashful and somewhat embarrassed by the adulation, the cyclist was draped with the shawl by Dhindo Konkana and garlanded by Raghu Rai. For the first time in seven days the cyclist spoke, thanking the villagers of Uppal for their hospitality. He did not seem to be aware that he had been excavated before his appointed time.

We will be back again next year, and if you will permit me, the next time, I intend to be buried for six hours, he promised.

The entire crowd groaned at his words, as if anticipating the tension and pain.

I think he wants to challenge death, Shambhu whispered.

Waiting for six hours will be pure hell, said Victor.

Pandemonium returned to the maidan, for as far as the crowd was concerned another year was far away, and the villagers did not want to let go of the excitement and fun.

What about the madonji? Shambhu asked as they were leaving the maidan.

Baapre-baap, I totally forgot about the fish, said Victor. Let us go after him tomorrow afternoon. I will try and get a hold of the poison when everyone is resting.

The next afternoon, Victor sneaked into the store and quietly closed the door. Several rows of gunnysacks sat in the cool darkened room like monks in silent meditation. Victor ran his fingers over their round bellies trying to divine the contents and deciphered bags filled with rice, betel nuts, paddy, coconuts, black pepper and Kashmiri chilies. Finally, he recognized the lone sack that contained shining translucent blue crystals of copper sulphate. These crystals would be ground with burnt seashells, mixed with water, and sprayed on flowering areca palms soon after the first rains to kill worms. But it was also well known that finely-crushed copper sulphate crystals sink when sprinkled on a pond and quickly knock out fish. Victor stuffed several handfuls of the crystals into a cotton bag, sneaked back out of the store and ran towards the river.

Shambhu waited for him at the Cobra Crossing. Victor handed him the bag. Shambhu peeked in and then touched the smooth crystals with reverence. The boys ran along the riverbed in their bare feet. They jumped over puddles and splashed violently through shallow pools of shimmering water, pretending they were invincible warriors chasing a powerful enemy. Constant running in the hills and through streams had rendered them lean and agile like a pair of panthers. With the exception of threadbare cotton shorts, they were naked.

They stopped at a deep pool near a clove tree. The stream did not flow anymore, at least not above the ground. But below the smooth pebbles and loose gravel of the riverbed, the slow moving water still connected all the surface pools and puddles. For the past few days the boys had seen silverfish darting and glistening in the still water. The previous morning, on the final day of the cyclist’s marathon, when Victor had gone to fetch cloves for pork curry, he had seen the humongous madonji, the most elusive and reclusive of all the fish in the rivers of the Uppal valley. A solid fellow, at least two feet long, the madonji was lazily taking in air on the quiet surface of the pool, thinking no one was watching him. With a madonji like that, one had to act quickly. But for the cyclist’s performance, the boys would have tried to catch the madonji within minutes of spotting him.

While Shambhu emptied the crystals into the elephant’s hole, a natural dimple in the mammoth black granite, Victor searched the riverbed and found a smooth khadapa stone shaped like a pestle. Shambhu used the khadapa stone to crush the crystals into a fine powder. He pounded with such force that he created sparks and smoke, which emitted an odour of burnt gunpowder. Victor cupped his palms around the hole to catch and redirect the escaping fragments. When it gained the smooth consistency of Lateef Sahib’s tobacco snuff, they emptied the powder into coconut shells and, each starting at opposite ends of the pond, they sprinkled the powder on the surface with a flourish, like experts sowing paddy in the fields. Once they emptied all the powder they waited, silent and dead serious. They knew the ritual well. For the drug to work, the fish must have enough time to eat the stuff undisturbed.

Within minutes silverfish started darting from one end of the pool to the other and then the first tiny fish rose belly up. The powerful chemicals were working on them. Soon countless silverfish bobbed up to the surface, gasping for air.

Victor and Shambhu looked at each other and agreed it was time to start. They waded into the water and began catching the fish. Every now and then they beat the water violently to spread the poison. The silverfish were drugged easily. Shambhu caught seventeen and Victor, who held the bag for both of them, caught twelve.

Catfish did not grow to more than six inches in the river. They lived at the bottom of the pool and fed on anything available. They, too, were feeling the effects of the powder and becoming giddy and surfacing for fresh air. Victor saw two of them. The first one was almost dead and Victor caught it with a single flick of his wrist. Then he went for the second, the bigger one, and as he grappled with the catfish, one of its vicious stingers stuck deep into his forefinger. It was so painful that he instantly urinated in the waist-deep water.

Shambhu came along, held the catfish firmly at the gills, pulled the fish away and smashed its body into the gravel.

Blood flowed in a bright red streak along Victor’s forefinger.

Piss on it, said Shambhu. It will stop the burning.

Aiy-yay-yoo, I peed in my pants, it is so painful, Victor said.

Shambhu opened his fly and directed a warm jet stream straight at Victor’s forefinger. It burned terribly for a while and then the pain was over.

The bag was soon nearly full but the madonji was still nowhere in sight. They dived into the pool and searched for him but he could not be found. Carefully and systematically they explored the pool until Victor finally found him among the pebbles and the rotting leaves right at the water’s edge. This fellow was incredibly smart; he was avoiding the poison by taking in the fresh water that seeped through the gravel. Victor signalled to Shambhu who tiptoed closer. Both of them moved with stealth and closed in on the madonji. Suddenly, he jumped and hit Shambhu on the chest and rebounded onto the gravel. They grappled with him and pinned him to the ground.

This fellow is humongous. Shambhu struggled to hold the fish by its gills. He will take a long time to die.

Victor opened the bag wide. Let us take him home quickly. Grandpa should see him alive!

They carefully placed the subdued but angry madonji in the cotton bag with the silverfish and had a good wash in the clean water upstream. As they were about to leave, Victor’s eyes began to itch.

Shambhu looked at him. Your eyes are red, absolutely bloodshot.

That stuff must have gotten into my eyes. Your eyes are red too.

Don’t scratch! Shambhu cautioned. That will only make it worse. Let us go to Girija right away.

Carrying the bag of fish, they ran at top speed to Girija’s house at the bottom of a hill. In less than five minutes, they arrived panting and breathless and called out to her. Girijaaaaaa!

Shh, Girija’s grandmother, Menku Bhandari, came out saying. Children, don’t shout. You will wake the baby.

Where is Girija?’’ Victor inquired. Our eyes are red and burning."

She is up on the hill collecting dry twigs for the fire, Menku Bhandari replied.

We will find her, the boys