catch the little quicksilver fish with his bare hands, wrestling and stick-fighting in the months after the harvest. All it needed, he thought with a deep sense of contentment, was the right set of circumstances for this middle-aged body to dance to the tune of a young child. He got out of the water after a little while, and let the sun dry him. His carters had spread a mat for him under the trees, a little away from the cattle. Solomon was about to begin eating when a thought struck him and he yelled to the chief carter, who had been with him for twenty years, to bring him some of their food in exchange for his. He handed over the mutton curry, rice and thoran that Charity had packed in exchange for their day-old rice and mango pickle. It was the food he had enjoyed in his youth, when caste, class and position hadn’t distanced him from this earth from which he had sprung.
The great magic of the afternoon enveloped him as they continued their journey northward. The bullocks were rested and they kept up a decent pace. A couple of hours across a rough boulder- and scree-strewn wilderness and they were within sight of civilization again, heralded as always by the challenge of fierce village dogs. Doves flitted across their path, the dun of their feathers scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding landscape. Reaching back into the cart for the shotgun he always carried with him on these journeys, Solomon loosed off a couple of barrels. The three doves he potted would make a nice accompaniment to the evening meal.
In the late evening, they hit black-soil country. Another half-hour or so and they would be at their destination. The cart-men clicked their tongues and twisted the tails of the bullocks and the animals increased their speed. The countryside around them was flat and cotton fields spread out in every direction. A flight of crows flew past, rough black tracks on the burnished shield of the sky. A few minutes later they were driving through the village: sixteen mud-and-palm-thatch huts on either side of a deeply rutted cart-track. The headman’s house was slightly larger than the others and brick-built but not even as grand as the small house Solomon owned in the village, a three-roomed structure of brick and mortar. The prosperity that the cotton boom had left in its wake had not yet changed the face of the village, for its harvests had continued to be poor due to lack of rain. Their arrival was clearly unexpected and a comet’s tail of runny-nosed children, dogs and idlers formed behind their convoy. Solomon drove straight to the headman’s house. Appa Andavar was clearly not expecting his landlord and was dressed casually in a dirty lungi. He leaped up from the mat on which he was sitting, simultaneously discarding his beedi, when he saw Solomon.
The headman was full of concern about another rainless year – how would he provide for his villagers and for himself if the crop was meagre? Solomon tried to reassure him as best he could. It was an Andavar village and the headman had heard about the attack on the Andavar girl, except in his version seventeen women had been attacked by a gang of Vedhars and Marudars. Solomon said that he was taking a personal interest in the matter and that there was no cause for worry. A goat was slaughtered before Solomon could even protest – the villagers had to provide the requisite hospitality to an honoured guest. After a while he sat down with the headman and the other elders to a meal of rice and a thin goat curry that was too heavily spiced with turmeric. The doves he’d bagged had been roasted but were inedible, and his estimation of the culinary ability of Appa Andavar’s household dropped even further. He politely refused an offer of toddy, despite knowing that that would mean the others couldn’t drink too, because he was suddenly very tired and wanted to wake up with a clear head.
He went to bed quite early. The inside of the house was hot and stifling, so he
The great magic of the afternoon enveloped him as they continued their journey northward. The bullocks were rested and they kept up a decent pace. A couple of hours across a rough boulder- and scree-strewn wilderness and they were within sight of civilization again, heralded as always by the challenge of fierce village dogs. Doves flitted across their path, the dun of their feathers scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding landscape. Reaching back into the cart for the shotgun he always carried with him on these journeys, Solomon loosed off a couple of barrels. The three doves he potted would make a nice accompaniment to the evening meal.
In the late evening, they hit black-soil country. Another half-hour or so and they would be at their destination. The cart-men clicked their tongues and twisted the tails of the bullocks and the animals increased their speed. The countryside around them was flat and cotton fields spread out in every direction. A flight of crows flew past, rough black tracks on the burnished shield of the sky. A few minutes later they were driving through the village: sixteen mud-and-palm-thatch huts on either side of a deeply rutted cart-track. The headman’s house was slightly larger than the others and brick-built but not even as grand as the small house Solomon owned in the village, a three-roomed structure of brick and mortar. The prosperity that the cotton boom had left in its wake had not yet changed the face of the village, for its harvests had continued to be poor due to lack of rain. Their arrival was clearly unexpected and a comet’s tail of runny-nosed children, dogs and idlers formed behind their convoy. Solomon drove straight to the headman’s house. Appa Andavar was clearly not expecting his landlord and was dressed casually in a dirty lungi. He leaped up from the mat on which he was sitting, simultaneously discarding his beedi, when he saw Solomon.
The headman was full of concern about another rainless year – how would he provide for his villagers and for himself if the crop was meagre? Solomon tried to reassure him as best he could. It was an Andavar village and the headman had heard about the attack on the Andavar girl, except in his version seventeen women had been attacked by a gang of Vedhars and Marudars. Solomon said that he was taking a personal interest in the matter and that there was no cause for worry. A goat was slaughtered before Solomon could even protest – the villagers had to provide the requisite hospitality to an honoured guest. After a while he sat down with the headman and the other elders to a meal of rice and a thin goat curry that was too heavily spiced with turmeric. The doves he’d bagged had been roasted but were inedible, and his estimation of the culinary ability of Appa Andavar’s household dropped even further. He politely refused an offer of toddy, despite knowing that that would mean the others couldn’t drink too, because he was suddenly very tired and wanted to wake up with a clear head.
He went to bed quite early. The inside of the house was hot and stifling, so he
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