“Madam, you are not eating?”
Bhuvana looked up from her book. It was the man sitting across. He was big—barrel-chested, heavy shouldered, and strong. His dark pitted and scarred face sported a bushy mustache. His hair was closely cropped. He was wearing a white shirt whose first two buttons were undone to reveal a bushy chest. There was gold all over him—thick gold chain with a tiger-claw pendent, a thick rope-like gold bracelet and an enormous ring on his left ring finger.
Bhuvana smiled slightly. “No,” she answered shortly and tried getting back to her book.
“You will get nothing past Chenagalpet,” he continued. The train rattled on through what appeared to be pitch dark and desolate landscape, endorsing his words.
“It’s ok, I’m not hungry,” she replied. “Thank you,” she added as an after thought.
The man and his wife exchanged glances. She was a thickset woman in an orange saree. Faint yellow of the turmeric she must’ve applied in the morning still clung to her ebony cheeks. She sported prominent tiruneeru (holy ash) on her forehead and an enormous amount of heady jasmine flowers on her well-oiled and neatly plaited hair. Like her husband, she wore a quantity of gold. She also seemed to be in early stages of pregnancy.
“You can share our food if you’d like to,” the man pressed on. His wife smiled persuasively.
Bhuvana sighed silently. Avoiding their kind concern was going to be an impossibility. “That would be nice,” she smiled slightly.
The wife brought out a paper plate, carefully served lemon rice and potato chips and held it out to Bhuvana. She accepted it with murmured thanks.
“Are you from Chennai?” the man asked, friendship and familiarity established with the exchange of food.
Bhuvana could guess why he was curious. She didn’t look anything like a regular Chennai girl traveling to Madurai by Pandian Express. In her sleeveless vest, cargo pants, printed stole, sneakers and backpack, she looked more like a foreign tourist. Not to mention her green eyes.
“No,” she said briefly.
“Must be from Mumbai,” the man smiled. Bhuvana noticed that despite his looks, the man’s smile was charming.
“You can say that,” Bhuvana offered and crossed her fingers discreetly.
“First time to Madurai?” he asked, wolfing down his dinner. His wife held out water even before he asked.
Bhuvana paused, contemplating how truthful she should be. Her last visit was so long ago that it appeared to be many eons ago. Maybe it was.
“Yes,” she settled for an easier truth.
“Planning to visit the Meenakshi temple?” the man smiled.
“No,” her head said. “Yes,” she told him.
The man nodded, approving her answer. “No temple as beautiful as our Meenakshi temple. Thaye Meenatchi,” he closed his eyes and prayed briefly.
Bhuvana looked down at her half eaten food. She constructed a bubble around her, trying to keep these kindhearted intrusive people at bay.
She looked up to see that the man was looking at her curiously. She met his gaze blandly. Yet his eyes narrowed. Bhuvana noticed the shrewd glint in his eyes.
“If you need any help in Madurai madam, please get in touch with me. I work there,” he said. His wife looked at him with what perhaps was adoration in her eyes. “I’m Chockalingam, Inspector of Police,” he said. “Take my number,” he said, but somehow it sounded like an instruction.
Bhuvana took her cell phone out and saved his number. The last thing she wanted was to make a police officer suspicious.
“What else are you planning to see in Madurai? Tirupparankundram? Mahal?” Inspector Chocaklingam continued in a friendly tone.
Bhuvana shrugged. “All of it, I guess. And some of your god men -- they seem to be making the news,” she pointed to the Tamil daily she was holding. It bore a picture of a middle aged god man with a up and coming film star. “Popular Film Star Anand Visits Jai Guru!” the headline screamed.
Inspector looked down at it briefly and snorted. “Jai Guru? He’s a fraud!” he wrinkled his forehead in disgust.
“Really? But the website on him proclaims that he is the 12th birth of Yogananda, a saint who lived during the later Chola period,” she said, watching the Inspector with amusement.
The Inspector shook his head. “The things people would believe!” he said. “He was an accountant till four years ago. He is a fraud if ever there was one!” He looked at Bhuvana seriously. “Don’t get involved with him madam, I guarantee you that it is a racket!”
Bhuvana lay staring at the ceiling of the train compartment later that night. She usually liked the top berth, as it was as much personal space as one can get in a train. But the narrowness, the sleeping form of a stranger across and the night light close to one’s nose ensured minimal sleep. She could hear the Inspector’s gentle snoring from below. Someone slammed the bathroom door closed. The train made a stop somewhere and some passengers got in. Somebody groaned somewhere along the long compartment.
Bhuvana fixed her eyes on the revolving fan blades and thought. She was running out of time.
* * * *
It was 11:00 a.m. when Bhuvana stepped out of her hotel situated in the heart of the city near the temple. The room she had gotten herself was decent, although the receptionist was agog when she’d checked in earlier that morning. Bhuvana had been roused to fix him with a stare which made him falter and stutter. What an idiot!
Now, the heat hit her. She must’ve been really mad to choose end of April to visit the city, but she had no choice. It had taken her almost six months to make a contact and to fix the visit.
Madurai was as crowded as she remembered it from all those years ago. So many shops, so many people, so much noise! The imposing temple tower was visible almost immediately. Bhuvana avoided looking at it.
A cycle rickshaw cruised along her. “Rickshaw madam? Rickshaw?” the rickshaw puller looked at her hopefully. Bhuvana said the address she was looking for. “Come on madam, I’ll take you there. Fifty rupees!” the rickshaw puller said.
Bhuvana hid a smile. They did treat her like a foreigner. “Twenty,” she negotiated. They finally arrived at 25 and set off. The man took her through labrynthine alleys that characterized the old town.
“Oh you come to visit Jai Guru amma?” the rickshaw puller commented when he finally reached his destination. “Actor Anand came here a few days ago! I saw him. Very good looking,” he shared.
Bhuvana got down silently and paid him off. She was in front of a traditional row house in a typical Brahmin locality. The doorway was open and led into a short corridor, where Bhuvana left her shoes and entered into an open square courtyard. The house was built around the courtyard, with a narrow staircase on the left side leading to the upper story. A tulsi bush stood in the courtyard. A copper cauldron full of water was also there. However, there was nobody in sight.
Bhuvana stepped forward and took some water in a metal mug (sombu) and splashed cool water on her face.
A shadow moved in the farther side. “Yaaru?” a woman’s voice floated through.
Bhuvana stood there silently. An old woman, probably in her sixties, attired in the traditional nine-yards came out slowly. She looked at Bhuvana and said, “Vaango,” a little uncertainly.
“Jai Guru?” Bhuvana asked.
The woman looked at her searchingly. “He is not here,” she said apologetically.
Bhuvana felt a snake of anger twist in her stomach. “Where is he?” she asked quietly.
The old woman sighed. “I don’t know. Nobody tells me anything,” she said. “You can sit in the meditation room if you want,” she offered.
Bhuvana thought about it and then nodded. The woman hobbled her arthritic way to a closed door on the right of a courtyard and opened it. Bhuvana entered it. It was unmistakably a prayer and meditation room. It sported all the paraphernalia of a holy man--images of different gods on one wall and a small silver pedestal in front of them, which was obviously the focal point of Jai Guru’s devotion. There were fresh flowers on the idol in the pedestal, a silver kuthu vilakku still had a burning flame and some voluminous text was open in a wooden stand in front of it.
The floor was in cement and cool to Bhuvana’s bare feet. She looked back to see the old woman watching her. “Are you from abroad?” the woman asked her.
“No,” Bhuvana said and walked around the room, checking the date calender on the wall, a small bookshelf laden with religious texts, a CD player, some saffron robes on a clothes line close to the ceiling, and the small window that opened into the street outside.
Nothing. She felt nothing. He had left her nothing. The snake twisted in the pit of her stomach.
“Would you like some coffee?” the old woman offered.
Bhuvana paused undecidedly and then nodded. She needed some time to gather her thoughts. She followed the old woman out who made her sit on a wooden bench outside the room, facing the courtyard. Bhuvana examined her surroundings after the old woman disappeared in what appeared to be the kitchen. The walls had some photos of family members, posing awkwardly. Bhuvana realized with a small surprise that the old woman was probably Jai Guru’s mother.
The old woman came back with fragrant coffee in the traditional tumbler-dabara. Bhuvana sipped it and looked at the other woman. “You have no idea where your son went?” she asked her.
The old woman sighed and sat on the ground. “Who informs me of anything in this place?” she said. “I am just the cook.” She looked up at Bhuvana. “He had a good job, you know. Paid well. Suddenly, one day, he gets a vision. His guru visited him, he says. Only son, became an ascetic over night,” she said, wiping her eyes.
Bhuvana nodded. Immature ascetic with a faulty vision. Hackable like a computer without firewall. Child’s play. She looked at the old woman, willing her to talk.
The old woman looked up at her and swallowed. “Now, I am just scared. I can’t say who comes and goes here anymore. Strange things come in and go out of the house,” she said.
Bhuvana narrowed her eyes. “What things?” she asked.
The old woman sighed. “What do I know? Who tells me anything?” she said.
* * * *
She sensed him following her almost immediately after she left Jai Guru’s house. She wandered around, getting lost in the maze of narrow alleys opening into main streets and disappearing into narrow alleys again. She ignored the touts who called out to her to buy sarees, footwear, gold jewelry, and even gift items. She went past small street-side temples, old choultries, swarms of Gujarati tourists, crowded tea shops, and crazy traffic through all this chaos. She felt him clinging to her trail persistently.
Maybe it was time to confront him. She ducked into a small shack-like restaurant. The personnel and customers all gawked at her. She sat at a plastic topped table overlooking the street. He entered the restaurant behind her, looked around, spotted her and casually walked over to her table. He slid in to the chair across her and grinned at her.
He was a lanky young man with masses of wild, unkempt hair and beard concealing most of his face. He was dressed in saffron kurta and dhoti. He wore bathroom chappal on his feet. His forehead was plastered with holy ash and kum kum. Two bright eyes shone through all the hair and they were contemplating her as if she was the biggest joke he’s ever encountered.
Bhuvana stared at him.
He grinned again. “You will not get it,” he said simply.
The waiter hovered, ogling at both of them with fascination. The hirsute young man ordered two coffees. The waiter left their side reluctantly.
“Who are you?” Bhuvana asked.
The young man leaned forward. “You surprise me,” he said and pulled out what looked like a joint and lit it. The sweet smell of the smoke confirmed it was marijuana.
Bhuvana smiled derisively. “If you are trying to scare me, you are doing a poor job of it,” she said.
The young man guffawed.
“No Bhuvaneshwari, I am not trying to scare you. I know better,” he said. The waiter arrived with the coffee in miniscule glasses. The young man sipped his with obvious enjoyment.
Bhuvana assimilated what he said. “Where is Jai Guru?” she asked at length.
The young man shook his head. “Jai Guru is an idiot and a coward,” he replied.
Bhuvana felt the snake rise and constrict her chest. “You cannot keep me away,” she hissed. “Not this time!”
The young man took a pull of his joint and closed his eyes. When he opened it, there was a curious sharpness to his gaze.
“Let go of the anger. You’ve clung on to it for too long,” he said quietly.
Bhuvana’s eyes burned, the snake having reached her head. A curious pity filled the man’s eyes. He reached out to touch her hand. Bhuvana snatched it back as if burnt.
“I will find Jai Guru, make no mistake of it,” she said, her voice cold.
The man threw a few coins on the table and got up. “Just watch where you are going,” he said and walked out. He stepped out on to the street, walked a few paces and disappeared.
* * * *
Inspector Chockalingam had a nightmare. In it, he was caught in a kind of inferno—a raging fire surrounded him. Its hot tongues leapt out at him and burst on his face, almost singing his eyebrows. He tried to run, but he was trapped. He turned back to see the fire turn into the face of the woman he’d met on the train. She opened her mouth and he saw that she had fangs. Blood dripped from them. He heard inhuman wails. He felt suffocated his eyes thick with the smoke, his body burnt. And strangely, he heard bits and pieces of some song he’d never heard before. He woke up drenched in sweat.
He turned to check on his wife--fortunately, she was fast asleep. He got up from the bed, went to the fridge and drank a whole bottle of cold water. He was not a man who was rattled easily about anything. He had seen his share of violence in his career as a policeman in Madurai, but nothing had ever affected his sleep.
Melappudur Neeli. The name suddenly rang clear in his head. That’s what he had heard. In that folk song that he heard in his dream. A folk song unlike anything he had heard growing up in a village near Madurai.
His wife was sitting up groggily when he went back to the bed. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing. Went to the toilet. Sleep now,” he told her and settled back to a sleepless vigil.
“Are you allright?” his wife asked him the next morning, as he was getting ready for work.
“Just work pressure,” he told her and set out, after instructing her to be careful and not open doors for any strangers. He set out to the station on his bullet.
The station was in its usual buzz when he entered. However, there was something unusual -- someone was singing. About burning fields and dead animals. About destruction. Inspector Chockalingam realized with a start that it was the same folk song he had heard in his dream.
He searched for the source and found a young man squatting in the lock up. He was hirsute, with wild hair and flowing beard. He was dressed in saffron kurta and dhoti. And he was singing in a loud voice, completely oblivious to where he was.
“Who is that?” Inspector asked the constable.
“Nuisance case saar--was walking around singing loudly in the neighborhood in the middle of the night. Someone called up. Just kept him in for the night. Dope head,” the constable replied.
“Get him out, I want to talk to him,” Inspector said and went to his seat.
The young man was produced before the Inspector. He met the Inspector’s gaze with a curiously sharp gaze of his own. “My singing kept you awake all night too?” he asked.
* * * *
Bhuvana had come back to her hotel room in a towering rage. A rage that had become a second nature to her, like the pain of an inoperable cancerous growth—there always, burning, burning...
How dared he? How dared he ask her to let go of it? What did he know of it? Who was he?
She stood under the shower without taking her clothes off. How long! How long had she lived with it! How long had she waited, pitied as the hapless woman, laughed at for her helplessness, weakness, her inability to Do anything! How long had she let it grow inside her, unable to express it, powerless to channel it!
She felt her anger washed away by the water a little. It simmered down and coiled like a dormant serpent at the pit of her stomach.
She removed her clothes and showered properly. After she finished, she came out into the room and went to her back pack.She removed something she had taken from Jai Guru’s house -- a saffron angavastram (clothe draped on the shoulders). She took it in her hands and sat down on the floor and closed her eyes, focusing. She held the piece of clothe lightly in her hand, feeling Jai Guru’s aura, energy through it. Trying to get in touch with him. Locate him.
It was a tough job. She felt energy oozing out of her every minute. Her head ached, her chest ached, her whole body ached. She felt as if someone was putting a huge stone on top of her head. She felt sinking, sinking.
Then she remembered. The betrayal. The heinous breach of trust. The serpent uncoiled.
She found him finally, but his location made her frown with pain.
* * * *
Inspector Chockalingam sat immobile. The story told by the young man through his song was chilling.
A cruel and abusive zamindar at Melappudur. His young bride. He suspects her of having an affair with a farm hand and tortures her to death. She is reborn so is the zamindar. In this birth, she is the angry soul. Her parents notice her cruel streak and abandon her in the forest. She grows up there, her anger and her vengefulness growing with her. She roams around in search of the zamindar and kills him. Her anger does not die with this. She waylays travelers and drink their blood. She kills cattle. The story continues for many births. Finally, a Brahmin priest tricks her into giving away all her powers, traps it in a copper plate, buries it in some secret place and sends her north. It is said that Melappudur Neeli still tries to get back her powers so that she can wreak more havoc.
The Inspector looked at the strange young man suspiciously. The story was a folklore, one of the many that was passed down from generation to generation. It was unimaginable that the woman he met on the train could have any connection to this Melappudur Neeli.
The young man smiled as if reading the Inspector’s thoughts. “Those who can open the secrets of the copper plate know all the answers,” he said.
The Inspector frowned. Then he looked at the young man incredulously. “Jai Guru?” he asked.
* * * *
The bus smelled a mixture of neem oil, jasmine flowers, and sweat. It was crowded and loaded with all sorts of paraphernalia. The air was thick with conversations in the unmistakable Madurai dialect.
Bhuvana shrunk to her window seat. Jai Guru’s saffron angavastram was wrapped around her left wrist. Soon. Very soon, she told herself, her green eyes flashing.
The old woman sitting next to her observed her with interest. “Where are you going?” she asked.
Bhuvana turned and met her gaze. “Melappudur,” she answered. The old woman’s expression changed.
* * * *
Kathirvelan, Inspector, Crime Branch and a personal friend, observed Chockalingam through the haze of smoke he exhaled. “Why this interest in Jai Guru? Has some powers-that-be in your beat lost some money?” he asked.
“Oh, is that his racket?” Chockalingam asked.
Kathir shrugged and sipped his tea. “No proof, but his devotees are a mixed bag. Money laundering, funding subversive outfits, extortion, smuggling… We think money and other things exchange hands at this Guru’s place, but have not been able to prove anything,” he replied.
“Enemies?” Chockalingam asked.
Kathir took another pull at his cigarette. “Possibly. Who knows? Political thugs, naxal groups, underworld -- can’t rule out anything,” he said at length. “Or he could be just a simple holy man.”
Chockalingam nodded. Kathir fixed him with a hard stare. “Don’t get involved with this. Connections lead everywhere. Big mess!” he warned.
Chockalingam nodded again, but later that day, he found himself going to Jai Guru’s house.
It held the appearance of a funeral home. Jai Guru’s mother was sitting, shell shocked, leaning on one of the pillars supporting the courtyard. A few people were milling in and out. Chockalingam realized with shock that part of the house had been seriously damaged by a fire. It seemed recent, as there was still debris everywhere.
“It’s lucky that amma saw the fire in time. Otherwise the whole street would have burned,” one man told the Inspector.
The Inspector approached the old lady. She looked up at him.
“Vanakkam amma. I just wanted to ask you something,” he said.
She continued to look at him silently.
“Did a young woman come here yesterday?” he asked.
The old lady’s expression changed to one of terror. “She did it! She did it!” she whispered.
* * * *
The temple smelled of bats, stale oil, and tiruneeru. Like all old temples did. And this one was at least 1000 years old.
Jai Guru tried to focus on the blue flame between his brows. He wanted to be lost in the infinite blue, submerge in its bliss. But he was finding it difficult to concentrate. A strange breeze ruffled his clothes and hair. He knew she was there. He felt the pull like that of a magnet. He would not able to resist it once he got out of the temple, he knew. He sighed.
Footfall nearby made him open his eyes. It was the temple priest, dressed in dhoti that had lost its whiteness ages ago. “Swami, it is time to close the temple,” he said diffidently.
Jai Guru looked at him. Yes, it was time to go.
* * * *
The few men at the tea shop near Melappudur bus stop looked at the bearded young man with interest. Twilight had given way to a warm summer night, with a waxing moon throwing some illumination.
“This is the way to Melappudur sami,” one of them told him. “You will have to walk for two kilometers. Dei Sammugam, go with sami and show the way,” he instructed a teenage boy dressed in shorts and torn vest. A cloud suddenly obscured the moon above head.
The boy and the young man set out on the poorly lit dirt road to Melappudur. “Did you come to see the holy man in the temple, sami? He came two days ago. Stays in the temple all day long. Doesn’t eat anything until someone gives him something to eat,” the boy informed.
The young man smiled at him.
The boy walked along with him silently for sometime and asked, “Is there something bad going to happen, sami? People are talking about bad omens,” he said.
This time the young man did not smile.
* * * *
Jai Guru walked towards the river bank in the darkness. The temple was situated near the river, a little away from the village and was mostly submerged in darkness, save the dull illumination from the light at the entrance of the temple and the moonlight.
She was waiting for him, eyes flashing, hair flying, and half shadow, half human.
“I was waiting for you,” she told him.
“I know,” he replied.
“I need it back. Give it to me,” she said, unmoving.
Jai Guru shook his head. “I don’t have it,” he replied.
“Liar!” she hissed. “You have it! I know! Return it!” Her voice turned hostile, ominous.
“Go back. I have nothing to give you,” he repeated.
Her demeanor changed. She seemed to grow in size. He could feel the heat of her anger. “You cannot keep what is mine away from me!” she said and lunged towards him.
The bearded young man was picking his way gingerly towards the temple alone (his young guide having refused to accompany him beyond a point) when he heard a scream. It sounded like a growl; it sounded like a wail. It sounded inhuman. He broke into a run.
* * * *
Two days later, Inspector Chockalingam saw a news item which he had been half expecting.
“Gruesome Murder! Jai Guru Dead!” screamed the local Tamil daily.
“Jai Guru, the popular holy man from Madurai was found gruesomely murdered near the Melappudur temple. He was allegedly staying in Melappudur for the past two days. It is not known why he went there or what was he doing there. Local sources told us that a suspicious young man in saffron clothes was seen in Melappudur on the night of the murder. Police said that they are investigating the crime and are confident about nabbing the killer soon. Meanwhile, several important personalities, including film stars, have expressed their shock over this event.”
Chockalingam frowned and scanned the paper some more. His search was rewarded with a two-line news item on the fifth page. “Unidentified young woman found dead on the railway tracks 70 kms from Madurai, near Melappudur. Police suspect suicide and are trying to trace her family.”
“Breakfast is ready,” his wife called from the kitchen.
“And I am very hungry,” Chockalingam replied and got up with a sigh.
(Pazhaiyanur Neeli is a popular folktale/ballad from southern Tamil Nadu. In it, Neeli gets killed by her husband on the behest of his mistress. She is born again and goes on a rampage, killing her husband and about 70 people. She then becomes a local Goddess. I have heard about it second hand from the stories of other popular fiction writers, especially Sujatha and Balakumaran. This story has freely taken some inspiration from the folktale.)
Bhuvana looked up from her book. It was the man sitting across. He was big—barrel-chested, heavy shouldered, and strong. His dark pitted and scarred face sported a bushy mustache. His hair was closely cropped. He was wearing a white shirt whose first two buttons were undone to reveal a bushy chest. There was gold all over him—thick gold chain with a tiger-claw pendent, a thick rope-like gold bracelet and an enormous ring on his left ring finger.
Bhuvana smiled slightly. “No,” she answered shortly and tried getting back to her book.
“You will get nothing past Chenagalpet,” he continued. The train rattled on through what appeared to be pitch dark and desolate landscape, endorsing his words.
“It’s ok, I’m not hungry,” she replied. “Thank you,” she added as an after thought.
The man and his wife exchanged glances. She was a thickset woman in an orange saree. Faint yellow of the turmeric she must’ve applied in the morning still clung to her ebony cheeks. She sported prominent tiruneeru (holy ash) on her forehead and an enormous amount of heady jasmine flowers on her well-oiled and neatly plaited hair. Like her husband, she wore a quantity of gold. She also seemed to be in early stages of pregnancy.
“You can share our food if you’d like to,” the man pressed on. His wife smiled persuasively.
Bhuvana sighed silently. Avoiding their kind concern was going to be an impossibility. “That would be nice,” she smiled slightly.
The wife brought out a paper plate, carefully served lemon rice and potato chips and held it out to Bhuvana. She accepted it with murmured thanks.
“Are you from Chennai?” the man asked, friendship and familiarity established with the exchange of food.
Bhuvana could guess why he was curious. She didn’t look anything like a regular Chennai girl traveling to Madurai by Pandian Express. In her sleeveless vest, cargo pants, printed stole, sneakers and backpack, she looked more like a foreign tourist. Not to mention her green eyes.
“No,” she said briefly.
“Must be from Mumbai,” the man smiled. Bhuvana noticed that despite his looks, the man’s smile was charming.
“You can say that,” Bhuvana offered and crossed her fingers discreetly.
“First time to Madurai?” he asked, wolfing down his dinner. His wife held out water even before he asked.
Bhuvana paused, contemplating how truthful she should be. Her last visit was so long ago that it appeared to be many eons ago. Maybe it was.
“Yes,” she settled for an easier truth.
“Planning to visit the Meenakshi temple?” the man smiled.
“No,” her head said. “Yes,” she told him.
The man nodded, approving her answer. “No temple as beautiful as our Meenakshi temple. Thaye Meenatchi,” he closed his eyes and prayed briefly.
Bhuvana looked down at her half eaten food. She constructed a bubble around her, trying to keep these kindhearted intrusive people at bay.
She looked up to see that the man was looking at her curiously. She met his gaze blandly. Yet his eyes narrowed. Bhuvana noticed the shrewd glint in his eyes.
“If you need any help in Madurai madam, please get in touch with me. I work there,” he said. His wife looked at him with what perhaps was adoration in her eyes. “I’m Chockalingam, Inspector of Police,” he said. “Take my number,” he said, but somehow it sounded like an instruction.
Bhuvana took her cell phone out and saved his number. The last thing she wanted was to make a police officer suspicious.
“What else are you planning to see in Madurai? Tirupparankundram? Mahal?” Inspector Chocaklingam continued in a friendly tone.
Bhuvana shrugged. “All of it, I guess. And some of your god men -- they seem to be making the news,” she pointed to the Tamil daily she was holding. It bore a picture of a middle aged god man with a up and coming film star. “Popular Film Star Anand Visits Jai Guru!” the headline screamed.
Inspector looked down at it briefly and snorted. “Jai Guru? He’s a fraud!” he wrinkled his forehead in disgust.
“Really? But the website on him proclaims that he is the 12th birth of Yogananda, a saint who lived during the later Chola period,” she said, watching the Inspector with amusement.
The Inspector shook his head. “The things people would believe!” he said. “He was an accountant till four years ago. He is a fraud if ever there was one!” He looked at Bhuvana seriously. “Don’t get involved with him madam, I guarantee you that it is a racket!”
Bhuvana lay staring at the ceiling of the train compartment later that night. She usually liked the top berth, as it was as much personal space as one can get in a train. But the narrowness, the sleeping form of a stranger across and the night light close to one’s nose ensured minimal sleep. She could hear the Inspector’s gentle snoring from below. Someone slammed the bathroom door closed. The train made a stop somewhere and some passengers got in. Somebody groaned somewhere along the long compartment.
Bhuvana fixed her eyes on the revolving fan blades and thought. She was running out of time.
* * * *
It was 11:00 a.m. when Bhuvana stepped out of her hotel situated in the heart of the city near the temple. The room she had gotten herself was decent, although the receptionist was agog when she’d checked in earlier that morning. Bhuvana had been roused to fix him with a stare which made him falter and stutter. What an idiot!
Now, the heat hit her. She must’ve been really mad to choose end of April to visit the city, but she had no choice. It had taken her almost six months to make a contact and to fix the visit.
Madurai was as crowded as she remembered it from all those years ago. So many shops, so many people, so much noise! The imposing temple tower was visible almost immediately. Bhuvana avoided looking at it.
A cycle rickshaw cruised along her. “Rickshaw madam? Rickshaw?” the rickshaw puller looked at her hopefully. Bhuvana said the address she was looking for. “Come on madam, I’ll take you there. Fifty rupees!” the rickshaw puller said.
Bhuvana hid a smile. They did treat her like a foreigner. “Twenty,” she negotiated. They finally arrived at 25 and set off. The man took her through labrynthine alleys that characterized the old town.
“Oh you come to visit Jai Guru amma?” the rickshaw puller commented when he finally reached his destination. “Actor Anand came here a few days ago! I saw him. Very good looking,” he shared.
Bhuvana got down silently and paid him off. She was in front of a traditional row house in a typical Brahmin locality. The doorway was open and led into a short corridor, where Bhuvana left her shoes and entered into an open square courtyard. The house was built around the courtyard, with a narrow staircase on the left side leading to the upper story. A tulsi bush stood in the courtyard. A copper cauldron full of water was also there. However, there was nobody in sight.
Bhuvana stepped forward and took some water in a metal mug (sombu) and splashed cool water on her face.
A shadow moved in the farther side. “Yaaru?” a woman’s voice floated through.
Bhuvana stood there silently. An old woman, probably in her sixties, attired in the traditional nine-yards came out slowly. She looked at Bhuvana and said, “Vaango,” a little uncertainly.
“Jai Guru?” Bhuvana asked.
The woman looked at her searchingly. “He is not here,” she said apologetically.
Bhuvana felt a snake of anger twist in her stomach. “Where is he?” she asked quietly.
The old woman sighed. “I don’t know. Nobody tells me anything,” she said. “You can sit in the meditation room if you want,” she offered.
Bhuvana thought about it and then nodded. The woman hobbled her arthritic way to a closed door on the right of a courtyard and opened it. Bhuvana entered it. It was unmistakably a prayer and meditation room. It sported all the paraphernalia of a holy man--images of different gods on one wall and a small silver pedestal in front of them, which was obviously the focal point of Jai Guru’s devotion. There were fresh flowers on the idol in the pedestal, a silver kuthu vilakku still had a burning flame and some voluminous text was open in a wooden stand in front of it.
The floor was in cement and cool to Bhuvana’s bare feet. She looked back to see the old woman watching her. “Are you from abroad?” the woman asked her.
“No,” Bhuvana said and walked around the room, checking the date calender on the wall, a small bookshelf laden with religious texts, a CD player, some saffron robes on a clothes line close to the ceiling, and the small window that opened into the street outside.
Nothing. She felt nothing. He had left her nothing. The snake twisted in the pit of her stomach.
“Would you like some coffee?” the old woman offered.
Bhuvana paused undecidedly and then nodded. She needed some time to gather her thoughts. She followed the old woman out who made her sit on a wooden bench outside the room, facing the courtyard. Bhuvana examined her surroundings after the old woman disappeared in what appeared to be the kitchen. The walls had some photos of family members, posing awkwardly. Bhuvana realized with a small surprise that the old woman was probably Jai Guru’s mother.
The old woman came back with fragrant coffee in the traditional tumbler-dabara. Bhuvana sipped it and looked at the other woman. “You have no idea where your son went?” she asked her.
The old woman sighed and sat on the ground. “Who informs me of anything in this place?” she said. “I am just the cook.” She looked up at Bhuvana. “He had a good job, you know. Paid well. Suddenly, one day, he gets a vision. His guru visited him, he says. Only son, became an ascetic over night,” she said, wiping her eyes.
Bhuvana nodded. Immature ascetic with a faulty vision. Hackable like a computer without firewall. Child’s play. She looked at the old woman, willing her to talk.
The old woman looked up at her and swallowed. “Now, I am just scared. I can’t say who comes and goes here anymore. Strange things come in and go out of the house,” she said.
Bhuvana narrowed her eyes. “What things?” she asked.
The old woman sighed. “What do I know? Who tells me anything?” she said.
* * * *
She sensed him following her almost immediately after she left Jai Guru’s house. She wandered around, getting lost in the maze of narrow alleys opening into main streets and disappearing into narrow alleys again. She ignored the touts who called out to her to buy sarees, footwear, gold jewelry, and even gift items. She went past small street-side temples, old choultries, swarms of Gujarati tourists, crowded tea shops, and crazy traffic through all this chaos. She felt him clinging to her trail persistently.
Maybe it was time to confront him. She ducked into a small shack-like restaurant. The personnel and customers all gawked at her. She sat at a plastic topped table overlooking the street. He entered the restaurant behind her, looked around, spotted her and casually walked over to her table. He slid in to the chair across her and grinned at her.
He was a lanky young man with masses of wild, unkempt hair and beard concealing most of his face. He was dressed in saffron kurta and dhoti. He wore bathroom chappal on his feet. His forehead was plastered with holy ash and kum kum. Two bright eyes shone through all the hair and they were contemplating her as if she was the biggest joke he’s ever encountered.
Bhuvana stared at him.
He grinned again. “You will not get it,” he said simply.
The waiter hovered, ogling at both of them with fascination. The hirsute young man ordered two coffees. The waiter left their side reluctantly.
“Who are you?” Bhuvana asked.
The young man leaned forward. “You surprise me,” he said and pulled out what looked like a joint and lit it. The sweet smell of the smoke confirmed it was marijuana.
Bhuvana smiled derisively. “If you are trying to scare me, you are doing a poor job of it,” she said.
The young man guffawed.
“No Bhuvaneshwari, I am not trying to scare you. I know better,” he said. The waiter arrived with the coffee in miniscule glasses. The young man sipped his with obvious enjoyment.
Bhuvana assimilated what he said. “Where is Jai Guru?” she asked at length.
The young man shook his head. “Jai Guru is an idiot and a coward,” he replied.
Bhuvana felt the snake rise and constrict her chest. “You cannot keep me away,” she hissed. “Not this time!”
The young man took a pull of his joint and closed his eyes. When he opened it, there was a curious sharpness to his gaze.
“Let go of the anger. You’ve clung on to it for too long,” he said quietly.
Bhuvana’s eyes burned, the snake having reached her head. A curious pity filled the man’s eyes. He reached out to touch her hand. Bhuvana snatched it back as if burnt.
“I will find Jai Guru, make no mistake of it,” she said, her voice cold.
The man threw a few coins on the table and got up. “Just watch where you are going,” he said and walked out. He stepped out on to the street, walked a few paces and disappeared.
* * * *
Inspector Chockalingam had a nightmare. In it, he was caught in a kind of inferno—a raging fire surrounded him. Its hot tongues leapt out at him and burst on his face, almost singing his eyebrows. He tried to run, but he was trapped. He turned back to see the fire turn into the face of the woman he’d met on the train. She opened her mouth and he saw that she had fangs. Blood dripped from them. He heard inhuman wails. He felt suffocated his eyes thick with the smoke, his body burnt. And strangely, he heard bits and pieces of some song he’d never heard before. He woke up drenched in sweat.
He turned to check on his wife--fortunately, she was fast asleep. He got up from the bed, went to the fridge and drank a whole bottle of cold water. He was not a man who was rattled easily about anything. He had seen his share of violence in his career as a policeman in Madurai, but nothing had ever affected his sleep.
Melappudur Neeli. The name suddenly rang clear in his head. That’s what he had heard. In that folk song that he heard in his dream. A folk song unlike anything he had heard growing up in a village near Madurai.
His wife was sitting up groggily when he went back to the bed. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing. Went to the toilet. Sleep now,” he told her and settled back to a sleepless vigil.
“Are you allright?” his wife asked him the next morning, as he was getting ready for work.
“Just work pressure,” he told her and set out, after instructing her to be careful and not open doors for any strangers. He set out to the station on his bullet.
The station was in its usual buzz when he entered. However, there was something unusual -- someone was singing. About burning fields and dead animals. About destruction. Inspector Chockalingam realized with a start that it was the same folk song he had heard in his dream.
He searched for the source and found a young man squatting in the lock up. He was hirsute, with wild hair and flowing beard. He was dressed in saffron kurta and dhoti. And he was singing in a loud voice, completely oblivious to where he was.
“Who is that?” Inspector asked the constable.
“Nuisance case saar--was walking around singing loudly in the neighborhood in the middle of the night. Someone called up. Just kept him in for the night. Dope head,” the constable replied.
“Get him out, I want to talk to him,” Inspector said and went to his seat.
The young man was produced before the Inspector. He met the Inspector’s gaze with a curiously sharp gaze of his own. “My singing kept you awake all night too?” he asked.
* * * *
Bhuvana had come back to her hotel room in a towering rage. A rage that had become a second nature to her, like the pain of an inoperable cancerous growth—there always, burning, burning...
How dared he? How dared he ask her to let go of it? What did he know of it? Who was he?
She stood under the shower without taking her clothes off. How long! How long had she lived with it! How long had she waited, pitied as the hapless woman, laughed at for her helplessness, weakness, her inability to Do anything! How long had she let it grow inside her, unable to express it, powerless to channel it!
She felt her anger washed away by the water a little. It simmered down and coiled like a dormant serpent at the pit of her stomach.
She removed her clothes and showered properly. After she finished, she came out into the room and went to her back pack.She removed something she had taken from Jai Guru’s house -- a saffron angavastram (clothe draped on the shoulders). She took it in her hands and sat down on the floor and closed her eyes, focusing. She held the piece of clothe lightly in her hand, feeling Jai Guru’s aura, energy through it. Trying to get in touch with him. Locate him.
It was a tough job. She felt energy oozing out of her every minute. Her head ached, her chest ached, her whole body ached. She felt as if someone was putting a huge stone on top of her head. She felt sinking, sinking.
Then she remembered. The betrayal. The heinous breach of trust. The serpent uncoiled.
She found him finally, but his location made her frown with pain.
* * * *
Inspector Chockalingam sat immobile. The story told by the young man through his song was chilling.
A cruel and abusive zamindar at Melappudur. His young bride. He suspects her of having an affair with a farm hand and tortures her to death. She is reborn so is the zamindar. In this birth, she is the angry soul. Her parents notice her cruel streak and abandon her in the forest. She grows up there, her anger and her vengefulness growing with her. She roams around in search of the zamindar and kills him. Her anger does not die with this. She waylays travelers and drink their blood. She kills cattle. The story continues for many births. Finally, a Brahmin priest tricks her into giving away all her powers, traps it in a copper plate, buries it in some secret place and sends her north. It is said that Melappudur Neeli still tries to get back her powers so that she can wreak more havoc.
The Inspector looked at the strange young man suspiciously. The story was a folklore, one of the many that was passed down from generation to generation. It was unimaginable that the woman he met on the train could have any connection to this Melappudur Neeli.
The young man smiled as if reading the Inspector’s thoughts. “Those who can open the secrets of the copper plate know all the answers,” he said.
The Inspector frowned. Then he looked at the young man incredulously. “Jai Guru?” he asked.
* * * *
The bus smelled a mixture of neem oil, jasmine flowers, and sweat. It was crowded and loaded with all sorts of paraphernalia. The air was thick with conversations in the unmistakable Madurai dialect.
Bhuvana shrunk to her window seat. Jai Guru’s saffron angavastram was wrapped around her left wrist. Soon. Very soon, she told herself, her green eyes flashing.
The old woman sitting next to her observed her with interest. “Where are you going?” she asked.
Bhuvana turned and met her gaze. “Melappudur,” she answered. The old woman’s expression changed.
* * * *
Kathirvelan, Inspector, Crime Branch and a personal friend, observed Chockalingam through the haze of smoke he exhaled. “Why this interest in Jai Guru? Has some powers-that-be in your beat lost some money?” he asked.
“Oh, is that his racket?” Chockalingam asked.
Kathir shrugged and sipped his tea. “No proof, but his devotees are a mixed bag. Money laundering, funding subversive outfits, extortion, smuggling… We think money and other things exchange hands at this Guru’s place, but have not been able to prove anything,” he replied.
“Enemies?” Chockalingam asked.
Kathir took another pull at his cigarette. “Possibly. Who knows? Political thugs, naxal groups, underworld -- can’t rule out anything,” he said at length. “Or he could be just a simple holy man.”
Chockalingam nodded. Kathir fixed him with a hard stare. “Don’t get involved with this. Connections lead everywhere. Big mess!” he warned.
Chockalingam nodded again, but later that day, he found himself going to Jai Guru’s house.
It held the appearance of a funeral home. Jai Guru’s mother was sitting, shell shocked, leaning on one of the pillars supporting the courtyard. A few people were milling in and out. Chockalingam realized with shock that part of the house had been seriously damaged by a fire. It seemed recent, as there was still debris everywhere.
“It’s lucky that amma saw the fire in time. Otherwise the whole street would have burned,” one man told the Inspector.
The Inspector approached the old lady. She looked up at him.
“Vanakkam amma. I just wanted to ask you something,” he said.
She continued to look at him silently.
“Did a young woman come here yesterday?” he asked.
The old lady’s expression changed to one of terror. “She did it! She did it!” she whispered.
* * * *
The temple smelled of bats, stale oil, and tiruneeru. Like all old temples did. And this one was at least 1000 years old.
Jai Guru tried to focus on the blue flame between his brows. He wanted to be lost in the infinite blue, submerge in its bliss. But he was finding it difficult to concentrate. A strange breeze ruffled his clothes and hair. He knew she was there. He felt the pull like that of a magnet. He would not able to resist it once he got out of the temple, he knew. He sighed.
Footfall nearby made him open his eyes. It was the temple priest, dressed in dhoti that had lost its whiteness ages ago. “Swami, it is time to close the temple,” he said diffidently.
Jai Guru looked at him. Yes, it was time to go.
* * * *
The few men at the tea shop near Melappudur bus stop looked at the bearded young man with interest. Twilight had given way to a warm summer night, with a waxing moon throwing some illumination.
“This is the way to Melappudur sami,” one of them told him. “You will have to walk for two kilometers. Dei Sammugam, go with sami and show the way,” he instructed a teenage boy dressed in shorts and torn vest. A cloud suddenly obscured the moon above head.
The boy and the young man set out on the poorly lit dirt road to Melappudur. “Did you come to see the holy man in the temple, sami? He came two days ago. Stays in the temple all day long. Doesn’t eat anything until someone gives him something to eat,” the boy informed.
The young man smiled at him.
The boy walked along with him silently for sometime and asked, “Is there something bad going to happen, sami? People are talking about bad omens,” he said.
This time the young man did not smile.
* * * *
Jai Guru walked towards the river bank in the darkness. The temple was situated near the river, a little away from the village and was mostly submerged in darkness, save the dull illumination from the light at the entrance of the temple and the moonlight.
She was waiting for him, eyes flashing, hair flying, and half shadow, half human.
“I was waiting for you,” she told him.
“I know,” he replied.
“I need it back. Give it to me,” she said, unmoving.
Jai Guru shook his head. “I don’t have it,” he replied.
“Liar!” she hissed. “You have it! I know! Return it!” Her voice turned hostile, ominous.
“Go back. I have nothing to give you,” he repeated.
Her demeanor changed. She seemed to grow in size. He could feel the heat of her anger. “You cannot keep what is mine away from me!” she said and lunged towards him.
The bearded young man was picking his way gingerly towards the temple alone (his young guide having refused to accompany him beyond a point) when he heard a scream. It sounded like a growl; it sounded like a wail. It sounded inhuman. He broke into a run.
* * * *
Two days later, Inspector Chockalingam saw a news item which he had been half expecting.
“Gruesome Murder! Jai Guru Dead!” screamed the local Tamil daily.
“Jai Guru, the popular holy man from Madurai was found gruesomely murdered near the Melappudur temple. He was allegedly staying in Melappudur for the past two days. It is not known why he went there or what was he doing there. Local sources told us that a suspicious young man in saffron clothes was seen in Melappudur on the night of the murder. Police said that they are investigating the crime and are confident about nabbing the killer soon. Meanwhile, several important personalities, including film stars, have expressed their shock over this event.”
Chockalingam frowned and scanned the paper some more. His search was rewarded with a two-line news item on the fifth page. “Unidentified young woman found dead on the railway tracks 70 kms from Madurai, near Melappudur. Police suspect suicide and are trying to trace her family.”
“Breakfast is ready,” his wife called from the kitchen.
“And I am very hungry,” Chockalingam replied and got up with a sigh.
(Pazhaiyanur Neeli is a popular folktale/ballad from southern Tamil Nadu. In it, Neeli gets killed by her husband on the behest of his mistress. She is born again and goes on a rampage, killing her husband and about 70 people. She then becomes a local Goddess. I have heard about it second hand from the stories of other popular fiction writers, especially Sujatha and Balakumaran. This story has freely taken some inspiration from the folktale.)
Comments
Loved your writing, not to mention the plot and all that imagery, folk-songs et al.
Ever thought of cutting a book deal -- short stories to start with? Ideal for first-time readers of an author!