Warp and Weft

By Vinay Jalla

God made man
Man made money
Money made man mad

Narayana, the protagonist, is orphaned at an early age. He is looked after by his aunt. His aunt dies due to an illness, making Narayana homeless. He wanders on the streets of Zarivaram like a vagrant looking for something to eat. He cannot escape from poverty, which sticks to him like a leech. When drought strikes his village, he witnesses people dying in hordes in front of his eyes. Death brings a new reality; he begins to see life differently. He is shocked to see the Silk Street people untouched by the calamity – they seem to be selfishly enjoying the pleasures that money brings with it. He observes how destiny changes the fortunes of rich people. He makes a selfish pledge to himself: to earn money and become the richest person in his village. He ruminates a lot, patiently listens to astrologers, wise men and fools too. He strives to achieve the impossible. Will fortune favour Narayana?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vinay Jalla
• Release date: May 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301829590

Vinay Jalla

Creative writer and journalist with over 15 years experience in print, online and broadcast media

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Warp

and

Weft

Vinay Jalla

First Published in 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Vinay Jalla

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting

the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or

actual events is purely coincidental.

To my grandmother

INTRODUCTION

The novel begins in the 1930s, and is set in Zarivaram – a fictitious village in the midst of rocky, barren mountains in south India.

Zarivaram, better known as the ‘cradle of silk’, is a major producer of the famous Zarivaram Saris known for its broad zari borders and ornate motifs, with each sari weighing about six hundred grams.

The climate in this part of the world is dry and warm. There is hardly any change even during the changing seasons – it’s consistently hot throughout the year. However, there is some respite during the harvest festival of Ugadi. People rejoice themselves on this day by feasting on sugarcane, sweet potatoes and beans.

Generally, people bear the brunt of heat and quench their thirst by drinking water stored in earthen pots. These earthen pots have a story of their own – they not only help in cooling the water stored in them but also act as safe hiding places for the black scorpions that are natural habitats of the region.

Some men of Zarivaram quench their thirst by drinking a liquid of a different kind. Commonly known as kallu, it is a white, fizzy alcoholic drink (toddy) prepared by collecting sap from the Palmyra tree. The agile toddy-tappers climb the tall, slender palm trees like garden lizards. The sap, known as neera, drips into small earthenware mud pots that are tied to the tree. After fermentation, neera becomes kallu – the elixir of Zarivaram men.

Most of the houses in Zarivaram are built with mud and straw, and lime-washed white. Above the door of every house hangs a pregnant net, which holds a coconut. It acts as a good omen, keeping demons at bay. In front of the threshold of every home you can see floral designs called muggulu drawn by the women first thing in the morning. It is a meticulous process wherein finely ground white powder is directed between the thumb and the forefinger, resulting in an ornate pattern on the floor.

Chaapal river is the lifeblood of Zarivaram. It is home for hundreds of fish, a few water snakes and plenty of crabs. The water is mainly used for irrigation. During Ugadi the paddy fields are so rich and green that they shine like emeralds.

CHAPTER 1

It was Monday or Thursday or Friday.

Hey, you worthless woman! Venkataiah brawled, as he entered the house, holding a bottle of toddy in his hand. Nagalamma came hurrying, leaving the chore she was doing, at the service of her husband. She wiped her brow with the pallu of her sari and stood timidly in front of him. Venkataiah asked, What were you doing inside? Is somebody there with you? I don’t trust you at all! He waited for no inspiration to start an argument over something or the other. And soon this verbal cruelty would turn into physical abuse. Domestic violence was a regular feature in their marital life. He would beat her almost every day and she would sulk in a corner for hours.

Venkataiah took a swill from the bottle and hurled vile abuses at his wife. The curses filled the air, You need to be kicked left and right. Your mother was a whore and you are no less. Nagalamma did not utter a word. She just stood there and took the blows. She just prayed, hoping he would calm down soon.

Tell me, you worthless woman! he went on, Who’s that man who went out of our house before I came in. Who? Tell me who was it otherwise I’ll auction you at the market square. You will be ogled by every man in the village.

Please stop it, Nagalamma pleaded. Whom are you talking about? There’s no man in my life except you. What have I done to receive such rude remarks from you? She held his feet and said, Why do you taunt me and my mother every day. You are my God, and broke down.

He kicked her aside and lay huddled in one corner of the two-room house. He wriggled about for a while and soon fell asleep.

Nagalamma washed her face and thought of preparing the mid-day meal. There were no vegetables in the kitchen. She had to go to the market to buy some with whatever little money she had. She never had enough money to run the household.

Nagalamma walked to her neighbour’s house to borrow some money. The scene was no different there. In fact, it was worse. Gowramma’s husband had knocked down Gowramma with a pounding stick and the poor woman’s head was bleeding.

Nagalamma tiptoed inside Gowramma’s one-room house. Her cruel husband was not around. Gowramma looked at her neighbour with tear-stained eyes and asked, Why are all men alike?

Nagalamma replied with a sense of deep sympathy, Because all women are alike.

Gowramma continued, Yesterday he went to the temple and vowed in front of Lord Venkateswara that he would not touch the toddy bottle again…but today he seems to have forgotten his promise...

Nagalamma sighed and said, I think we shouldn’t try too hard to understand men. It’s wise to just accept them, especially when they are under the influence of alcohol. Anyway, get up; I’ll tie a cloth around your head.

Gowramma refused her hospitality, but Nagalamma insisted, Now stop being stubborn. I’ll make a turmeric paste and apply it on the wound. It’ll heal in no time. She then bandaged the wound with a clean piece of cloth and smiled approvingly at her first-aid handiwork. She then asked, So what have you prepared for lunch?

Gowramma sighed and said, Well, I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it at all. We were so busy fighting. She managed a wry smile. Thanks for reminding me. He will come back soon and demand food like a hungry lion. I better have something ready before he comes. I have to go to the market. Luckily the baby is sleeping. I can’t carry her in this hot weather. She patted her daughter who was sleeping soundly in the hammock. I’ll prepare fresh-water fish curry. He likes it so much…

We wives take so much care of them, said Nagalamma. We prepare what they relish but still the treatment is… Listen, even my husband likes fresh-water fish curry. But I’ve got no money. I’ll cook some lentils instead…

Gowramma held her head and got up uneasily, Don’t worry about the money. I’ve had my day's share of beatings. And yes, I’ve got some money. I'll walk with you to the market.

The Sunday market in Zarivaram was crowded with tent-like structures planted haphazardly all over the field. Fruit sellers, fishmongers, toy vendors, cloth merchants and several other sellers sold their wares amidst plenty of noise and babble.

The fishmongers had a roaring time. The best fish were displayed on Palmyra leaves. Each seller was trying to shout harder than the other. Small fish, fresh-water fish… ten for two annas. Come here! Our fish are still alive!

The sun was throwing its heat with force. With sweat gleaming on their faces, both the buyers and sellers played a healthy game of bargain until a fair deal was reached. It was always the Zarivaram women who won the bargain battle. They seemed to possess a knack of dealing with the vendors who wanted to make a fortune on a Sunday afternoon.

Gowramma bought two medium-sized fresh-water fish for an anna each. She handed over one to Nagalamma. Nagalamma was thankful. She said curtly, Gowramma, you are so kind.

The two women came home and prepared the fish curry. It was an elaborate process. The fish had to be scrapped on a rough slab of stone to get rid of the external gills. Then they had to be salted with rock salt, sliced vertically in circles and cooked for a full one hour with all the traditional spices. When it was finally ready to be served the strong vapours wafted and woke up the drunken men.

Venkataiah, now half-sobered, ate the fish curry with rice and appreciated his wife’s culinary skills, No matter what's said and done, Nagu, my love, what tasty fish you prepare. He licked his fingers and lips, and laughed sheepishly.

On the day of the toddy festival, hundreds of men, mostly sari weavers, assembled at the outskirts of the village, screaming and cursing with delight. It was a joyous occasion for them. The priest, who was supposed to conduct the puja, trembled in fear. He knew that if he made a slight mistake the drunkards would pounce on him.

The idol of Kallu Thalli, the Toddy Goddess was placed beside one of the palm trees. The priest smeared turmeric paste all over Her and dotted Her forehead with vermilion. He lighted camphor on a small plate and circled the flame in front of the idol. He then held out the flame to be revered by the men assembled there. They nearly snubbed out the flame. The priest warned, Be careful, you might burn your fingers. But the drunkards cared less.

The priest said to Venkataiah, who was in-charge of the festival, What about the holy offering to the Goddess?

Venkataiah replied brusquely, What’s the urgency? You don’t have to tell me when the offering has to be made. I know when to do what. Konda Kothi will come and climb the tree soon.

It would be auspicious to do it before noon, the priest suggested and lowered his head in fear of repercussions.

Stop eating my head, you silly priest, shouted Venkataiah. Konda Kothi will be here shortly.

Konda Kothi, a specialist toddy-tapper, appeared like a hero. He was a short, thin man. He was bare-bodied except for a loincloth. He knew that without him the proceedings would not start. He acknowledged the huge crowd with a benevolent smile. The crowd whistled and cheered at him. He knew what was expected of him and jumped into action straight away.

He stood beside the tall palm tree behind the Goddess and inspected it. Approving with a nod, he tied a huge earthen pot around his waist and started the climb. The crowd clapped on. Konda Kothi was swift. He was at the top of the tree in no time, camouflaged amongst the palm leaves. He saluted the noisy crowd and extracted the first pot of toddy, which was considered to be the holiest liquid by the ‘toddy worshippers’.

Konda Kothi came down with the pot. The crowd hailed him and screamed in delight. The priest first offered the toddy to the Goddess and then handed over the pot to Venkataiah.

Venkataiah stood on a tall rock and said in a hoarse voice: People call us drunkards, but I feel it’s a great honour to be given that title. What is toddy? It is a refreshing drink that brings relief to both the body and soul. Long live our intoxicated brethren. He then ordered the crowd, You thirsty souls, come here one by one and quench your thirst with a drop of this nectar! Men charged towards him like starved dogs.

The moon hid behind the dark skies. It was Amavasya – a moonless night. The wind was blowing hard. Nagalamma was in labour, and howled in pain. Venkataiah, who was drunk as usual, recharged his senses. He did not know what to do; he was helpless. He stood outside his house and called out blindly but no one was around to help him. He grew agitated and walked from left to right and from right to left. He had only one thing to say to his wife, Don’t worry. Everything will be alright. God is there.

But deep inside he knew that nothing would be right until a midwife came. He looked at the skies. It looked dark and menacing. Then a streak of lightning struck the coconut tree. His eyes widened and he grew scared. It started pouring. He lifted his arms and ran like a mad man to his neighbour’s house. He banged the door as hard as he could. The neighbours woke up. Venkataiah explained the situation. Gowramma rushed to help the woman in distress.

It continued to rain incessantly. Venkataiah looked up at the skies and prayed to God, O Lord of Seven Hills, bless us with a boy this time. You took away four daughters even before they could see their mother’s face. I want a son. I will name him Narayana. I will come walking to your abode on the hill. I’ll weave a special sari for Goddess Padmavathi. Please grant me this wish… He kneeled in a puddle of water and shed tears. He waited impatiently for Gowramma to open the door and break the good news.

The winds howled in pain, synchronising with the sounds of Nagalamma’s labour shrieks. Venkataiah could not bear to hear the cries of agony. He closed his ears and eyes. His heart drummed against his ribs. A streak of lightning flashed in the sky accompanied by a fierce thunderbolt.

Heavens above, Lord Krishna and Arjuna were involved in a celestial conversation.

Lord Krishna, the charioteer, told Arjuna, Our wheel has struck a strong bolt of lightning.

Arjuna asked, Does this mean there’s something happening on earth?

"Yes, it’s the birth of a baby."

"Bless the child," said Arjuna in a tone of benevolence.

"Hey Arjuna, the child will become a king or a beggar," proclaimed Lord Krishna.

Arjuna was thinking about the child. He smiled and said, As you say, My Lord.

Whoa…whoa...

That was music to Venkataiah’s ears. He roared with laughter and jumped in joy. Om Namo Narayana! Victory to God! I’ll break a coconut on every step leading to your abode on the Seven Hills, he screamed. Venkataiah rushed to the door of his house with great expectation. The baby was wailing. Venkataiah cried in joy, Yes, the baby is a boy. No doubt about it. It is Sri Narayana himself.

Gowramma opened the door. Her face expressed a mixture of happiness and gloom. Venkataiah feared the unexpected. Even before she opened her mouth to speak, he asked, Is my baby boy doing well?

Gowramma hesitated for a moment and answered, Sorry, Nagalamma could not be saved. Fighting back her tears, Gowramma carried the baby in her arms, leaving Venkataiah in a state of numbness.

Venkataiah recollected the memories of his marital life, but all of them were painful. He was cruel to her. He gave her sorrow and nothing else. How could she be happy when he was kicking her? The woman had prepared the best fish curry the other day, but he had only tortured her with cruel words and behaved like a beast. He had suppressed her freedom and wishes, her dreams and desires. He had given her nothing precious, not a single gold or even a silver ornament.

He cursed himself and felt utterly worthless. He banged his head on the mud wall of the house and shot more wild curses. After a few minutes, he crawled to the bed where his wife rested. He broke down, kneeling beside her. For the first time in his life he realised how important a woman is to a man. He had lost a dutiful partner who fulfilled all his needs. Now, he was alone. For a moment he wondered if he had not troubled her so much she would have lived for hundred years or even more. Why did God not take away his life? He thought that he was unworthy. Not a single day did he come home without getting drunk. He deserved to be punished. He banged his head again at the foot of the bed and shed tears.

Venkataiah became a complete drunkard after his wife’s death. He had to sell the house to pay his toddy debts and even borrowed money from his acquaintances. He was lost in his own inebriated world and had forgotten all about his son.

Venkataiah’s son was taken care by Gowramma and her husband. Venkataiah did not like his son being brought up by people belonging to a lower caste than him. He would often barge into their house and shout, You low class people don’t even deserve to look at a member of our caste. You are dirty pieces of the society. Gowramma, my son doesn’t need your poisonous nectar. He can survive without it. But Gowramma’s husband knew Venkataiah’s crooked tongue. Sometimes he beat him if he crossed the limits. Venkataiah would then mollify. He would touch his neighbour’s feet and beg, Brother, give me some money. I’m starving… Gowramma’s husband would give him a few annas out of mere generosity. Venkataiah would snatch the money and run to the toddy shop.

After getting fully drunk Venkataiah would totter to the graveyard where his wife was buried, and sit next to her tombstone – an ill-shaped mud structure. Sometimes he would trip himself over the railway tracks on the way to the graveyard. Many a time passers-by would help him walk to his house.

It was eleven in the morning, and in about half an hour the Bombay Mail was expected to pass Zarivaram. The silk traders hurried in their jutkas and crossed over to the other side of the railway crossing before the train came into view. Money and time meant a lot to these businessmen.

Venkataiah sat cross-legged on the wooden bench outside Thagabothu’s toddy shop located in Drunkard’s Colony. He gulped down his staple diet. He had become slightly insane after his wife’s death. His drink was his only companion – it meant everything to him. He sat alone and drank all day. He had neither friends nor foes to accompany him. As days progressed he even started singing fanatical songs. One line went somewhat like this: "I’m not a fish to live in water but a man who can drink an ocean full of toddy..." And when he uttered the word man he would thump his chest with his fist and curl up his moustache as an act of patriarchal supremacy. Once he had finished the contents in the bottle, he would fling it so hard that it always missed an orphaned boulder lying four feet away from the bench. He would then curse the bottle or the boulder or himself; whichever took his fancy at that moment.

Out of sheer tiredness he sauntered to his wife’s grave. There he sat down on the sand and growled, The sand is so hot, and why is it so? Has somebody left a fire burning underneath? My bottom will get burnt if I sit here longer. Nagu, my love, do you remember the good times we spent together. You were shy and shy like a chicken. You were barely twelve then. But very beautiful! Jasmine in your hair…

A stray dog appeared from nowhere. It was trying to relieve itself behind Nagalamma’s headstone. Venkataiah flung a stone at the animal and spat. The dog whimpered and ran away from sight.

Venkataiah sat sweating in the hot sun. The heat was unbearable. He wiped his balding head with his dhoti and cried, My dear Nagu, why did you die? You’ve left me to suffer in this heat? As he got no answer, he got angry all of a sudden. He stood up and kicked the headstone. Hey worthless woman, get up! I am hungry. I want freshwater fish curry. Get up and cook. Don’t forget to add lot of spices. I like anything spicy.

He continued kicking the stone until his big toe bled. He screamed, I know how to wake up a worthless woman like you. He tottered towards the railway track. He walked on the gravel path between the rails. The Bombay Mail appeared. Venkataiah placed his foot on the track and waved excitedly at the approaching train. His vision was blurred. He shouted at the top of his voice, My worthless wife won’t get up to cook my fish curry. He pointed his finger towards his wife’s grave. The Mail was coming at full speed. It was barely a hundred yards from him now. He stood there like a scarecrow. That way! Run over that worthless woman’s grave. She does not… Before he could complete the sentence, the Bombay Mail ran over him and he was crushed under the wheels.

CHAPTER 2

Sunlight filtered through the branches of the tamarind tree. Two man-made structures co-existed in the shade of the tree – Chowdamma temple and a school. The temple, built with mud and stones and painted with white lime, had only three walls. The fourth wall never took shape as the benefactor had gone bankrupt by then.

Goddess Chowdamma, the deity who destroyed evil, was believed to possess divine powers and heal the invisible scars of her devotees. Chowdamma’s idol, three feet in height, was made of black stone and occupied the inner sanctum of the temple. Her worshippers considered Friday to be the auspicious day of the week. Devotees, mainly women, came to the temple early morning after washing their hair with cold water. It was also the day of sacrifice, a day to give up all evil doings. The women either sacrificed a hen or a goat to appease Chowdamma. Some women, who could not afford to buy a hen, left hatchlings in the temple premises.

The temple had no priest. It was built for the people and taken care by the people. Every morning, a woman would come and clean the temple, light the wicker lamp in the sanctum, apply turmeric paste on Chowdamma’s face with a big round of vermilion on the forehead, and finally garland the idol with marigold strings. This tradition was followed for many years. The villagers believed that the lady who performed this service was bestowed with supernatural powers.

Once decorated, the deity shone with a divine light. The glowing eyes spoke volumes about sacrifice and renunciation. The devotees recited sacred lines, which went somewhat like this:

"By doing one’s duties religiously,

the evil within and around us is destroyed.

Our lives are blessed by worshipping you."

The women of Zarivaram thus grew from strength to strength. They could easily perform all their household chores in Chowdamma’s remembrance and some women could bear the blunt behaviour of their inebriated husbands.

On a full moon day the village folk rejoiced in the temple. They came with chickens, hens and goats. Some who could not afford to buy animals played their part of the sacrifice by swiping their thumbs against the sharp edge of the pointed Trishul that was rooted in front of the shrine. This ritual would last the whole morning. Animals would be sacrificed after the first round of prayers. Firstly, the animal to be slaughtered would be 'asked' if it wanted to appease Chowdamma. The villagers took their cries for a yes and slaughtered them. Then the puja with lighted camphor would follow. Finally the sacrificed animals, minus the heads, would be taken home by the villagers to be cooked and eaten in Chowdamma’s remembrance.

The school functioned peacefully under the tamarind tree, except on Fridays when a religious commotion flared up at the temple.

The teacher of the school, an old man of over sixty, came everyday without fail, at seven in the morning from the neighbouring village of Okkaooru. He would first clean the place with a broom, piling all dry leaves and twigs in a little heap. He would sit down after this chore and light a rolled tobacco called beedi. He burnt the little heap of rubbish with a matchstick and waited for his students, who were regularly irregular. At eight ‘O clock, he would strike the bell (a piece of a railway track and a detached metal rod). It was not of much help, except aching his eardrums. He smoked one beedi after another until a pile of ends was accumulated. He hated waiting, but what else could the poor man do. He was destined to wait. Sometimes, he even went to the extent of inviting each student personally to attend school. The students gave him some noteworthy answers:

You go, why do you call me! Are you feeling lonely?

I know, once I come there, you’ll thrash me with that long cane of yours.

Old man, why do you trouble me. Haven’t you got better work to do?

Destroyer of my sleep, go away!

How much money will you give if I go to school with you?

What’s special today? Have you got any sweets?

"Anyway, what’s the hurry? Education can wait but not my hot oothappams!"

That morning, the teacher sat on the stone bench and smoked a beedi. He struck the bell three times, and waited for his students, as usual.

He had become weary of waiting every morning. His hunchback and lean built displayed his malnourishment. He ate one ragi ball, which was prepared by his wife after a great deal of moaning. Every day she cursed her stars for getting married to an unfortunate individual like him.

It was ten in the morning. Three hours had gone by and no sign of a student. The teacher said to himself, Why don’t these people understand the importance of education. The idiots don’t know that it can change their lives. How dare the haughty kids answer back! The parents need to be blamed for their upbringing. Illiterate parents give birth to illiterate children! What an ideal situation! He mocked at the ill-logicality of the system.

A boy appeared on the horizon. He was limping across the road. Hey Ramu, come soon. It’s already late, yelled the teacher with excitement on seeing his first student for the day.

Ramu took his own time. In fact, he slowed down after seeing his teacher. He started crying as he approached the school. What happened, my gem? asked the teacher with suppressed patience. Why are you crying?

Ramu wiped the tears with his hand and said between sobs, "Mother gave me only one idli. I asked for two, but father hit me on my leg with a stick…"

Little Ramu, that’s okay. I’ll beat your father with my long cane. Now, stop crying and sit in your place. The class will commence soon, said the teacher who was very eager to start the lessons.

Ramu thought for a while and said, Who are you to hit my father? You have a right to hit me but not my father. The teacher got angry. He pulled out his long cane and whacked on Ramu’s back. Ramu howled in pain and fled to Snake Charmer’s Lane, where he lived.

It was nearly noon and the teacher decided to go home instead. He was tired of waiting for his 'rabbit-brained’ students. He decided to teach them only if they volunteered to learn. He would never again invite them to school or plead them to learn. He picked up his bag, which he had hung to a branch, and carefully adjusted his thick-rimmed black spectacles on his long nose. When he turned his back, the intelligent Iqbal came running as if he were driving a motorcar. He stopped near his teacher and said, "Saar, saar, I’ve come."

The teacher turned to face him and smiled faintly. The school is closed for the day, he said. Come tomorrow.

"No, saar, no. How can you close the school? It has neither a gate nor a padlock. Please teach me. I am in a mood to learn. I don’t know if I’ll feel the same tomorrow!"

The teacher began to smile at Iqbal’s idiosyncrasy. He liked him more when compared to the rest. He was alert and talked a lot. The teacher saw a flicker of hope in this student. At least, Iqbal had made the effort to learn the first two Telugu alphabets. "Okay, Iqbal, let’s get some