|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
![Text Box: [This novel - written in a month during July-August 1967 in Madrid, Spain – is being published now in defiance of the Post-Colonialist critical theory in Literature, and if post-colonialism posits some kind of apology for writing or proposes some convenient excuse for its reception, then, I don’t want any part of it. Apart from an insignificant number of corrections in the language, the text remains exactly as it was typed in 1967.]](NIGHTSOILMAN1_files/image003.gif)
(A NOVEL)
© T. WIGNESAN 1967
ISBN 2-904428-03-8
CONTENTS
An Explanatory Note...........................................................................
p. 2.
Chapter I : Night
Soilers......................................................................
p. 3.
Chapter II :
Night Soil
Talk................................................................. p. 27.
Chapter III : The
Transformation........................................................ p. 43.
Chapter IV : The
Night Soilers............................................................
p.
Chapter V :
Postscript..........................................................................
p.
Chapter VI : Stop
Press........................................................................
p.
« Gentlemen, Sirdar, Sirdar, Gentlemen, aahem ! » The Pro-Tem
Chairman cleared his throat, swayed and
croaked : « We have all given it a great deal of thought, and we are
sure, beyond the slightest, dim shadow of a doubt, and I am sure you will all
agree with me at this plenary, marathon session, and a…hem, hem, the solution
to all your problems and difficulties quite fortunately is simple, and I think,
and I am sure you think so too, Gentlemen, we must move the motion and carry
the resolution with determination as befits an adventurous community such as
ours. We have all got to remember, no matter what our language, religious or
colour differences, we belong to the same
community, and we must set an example that will be a guiding light to all other
communities here. It is a great pity the great Mahatma is not here any more, is
no more with us, to see what his children are doing so far away from home, from
Mother India, and I also mean the great island of Sri Lanka, but I am sure, you
will all agree with me in expressing these sentiments, especially towards our
Ceylonese brethren (the Food Committee Chairman intoned : "here,
here, here, here !", and all the organising committee members turned
to look at him : some mumbled, but most just looked blankly at him) --a
hem, hem, yes, towards our brethren, and I am sure none of us holds anything
against them even if Ravana
took our Sita away, ah, yes, we don’t (the chairman
chuckled and cleared his throat and swallowed)-- and here, I do not propose to
go into history, but I must say we all are very familiar with the goings-on in
our epic literature; still, it forebodes me to stick to the agenda as you are
all no doubt aware we have barely a jot of time left before our guests arrive
for the Opening Session tomorrow ---no, No, no, day after-tomorrow, and you
very well know how much depends on this conference to rally our peoples, our
community together, especially in these trying times, now that our great
Mother-lands are prohibiting dual nationality, and we are faced with the
prospect of capitulating here, or returning en bloc to save, stand and fight
for our countries ("here, here", the Food Committee Chairman again
interrupted, and the others gave him straight, curse-under-the-breath looks)
--a hem, ahem, hem, I must not be carried away, and therefore, I will come back
to the topic under discussion and deliver all of you from the boredom of
service to your communities, as I am sure, you all have family responsibilities,
and those who haven’t should. Just like me. I am sure you must have all given
up invaluable time to come here the last eight evenings, religiously --and as
you all know, I am now engaged in the Waugh-Dawn Case, and I can’t even find
the time to talk to the Press --a hem, hem ("here, here, a hem, hem",
broke the Food Committee Chairman, and burped a serious dhal stench, while
rising slightly from his chair to readjust his dhoti, at which someone rose, went over and spoke to him, and
everyone appeared satisfied, and they stopped glaring at him)--a hem-hem, I
feel therefore strongly moved at this stage to bring this dedicated committee
of workers, mind you, I mean ‘workers’, myself included, no matter what some
people might think, for after all, in the service of religion, aren’t we all workers (at which the speaker and all
the Committee members turned to look at the Food Committee Chairman who sat
transfixed, his eyes riveted on his leather slippers, except for a faint rhythmic
movement of his crossed ankles and knees, which accelerated every few seconds
or so, quite violently enough to cause the water in the brass tumblers and
pumpkin-shaped water containers (chembus) on the table to tremble, spill and slurp) -- a
hem-hem, I must remark at this juncture that it seems our Food Committee Chair
is too impatient to get to his responsibilities, and we don’t blame him (the
leg action abruptly ended and no sooner the speaker resumed, it began again)
and so, with great reluctance, I must take leave of you here today, and bring
this Plenary Session of the Organising Committees of the Pan-Malayan Maha-Hindu
Conference to a close, and before I do so, with your kind permission, please
allow me to offer my organising
committee’s grateful thanks to the valiant service rendered by the Food
Committee, the Reception Committee, the Farewell (Dinner) Committee, the Sound-Microphone-Music
Com., --I hope you don’t mind if I simply say, ‘com’, instead of ‘committee’,
in order to save time, --a hem, hem, hem-- yes, yes, the Housing Committee, the
Women-Guests Committee, the Invitations Committee, and ah, yes, the Spokesmen
Com., and I must thank you for making me the Chairman of this as well, and then
I think I will be able to shoot two birds with one stone and talk to the Press
on my Waugh-Dawn Case, as they have been chasing me around for some time now,
and I can see our reporter friend even here today, and I hope to put an end to your
suffering once and for always --aaaaa ah, Kangesaperuman’s son over there (heads revolved for a
while, and Wee Ming San, the photographer, standing with the reporter, Thamby, who had been struck dumb by the proceedings,
suddenly flinched, coughed and gathered his flash equipment and box of bulbs
closer to himself and was only saved the embarrassment of being the only
Chinese in the meeting by the sudden violent clanking of all the brass containers
on the speaker’s table, which was brought on by a vigorous attack of
leg-shaking from the Food Committee Chairman, whose hefty, scared thighs showed
through the one-and-a-half yard poplin dhoti, already worn transparent around
the buttocks and the knees; he was beginning to perspire and he kept twisting
about to un-stick the clothes against his stretched, plumpy
body; the speaker took a breather and mopped his balding head, the sweat
sprinkled on his short-sighted glasses whenever he leaned and jerked forward,
his lower abdomen pressing against the rim of the table, to make his point
emphatically ; he went on swaying in this manner for some time longer
until he managed to shift the table a few paces forward, thus removing the
threat of the Food Committee Chairman interrupting his speech with the
excitable leg-action) --and so, ahem, so, I have this to say to you, Gentlemen,
and it is with great regret I find myself the only one gentleman not properly
clothed as befitting our community in dhoti and salwar (shawl), and I am sure, you will all very clearly understand why,
because I have come straight from the Supreme Court and have not had the time,
even to have my customary vaddai and tea at Chettiar Street,
for as you know, so many people, from the Press and former clients I saw,
pressed me with boiling questions, and so, consequently, I told my
driver : Driver, dash me to the Mariamman Temple Hall, and here I am. However let me
not take any more of your time, and let me say, here and now, I am extremely overjoyed
and more than grateful for the honour you have bestowed upon me to be your
Chairman for the entire conference, for the full five days. Thank you, Gentlemen, I remain your undying servant. »
He took his chair,
wiping his long prognathous face --eyes and lips--
with his hands, and then mistakenly mopped his brow and back of the neck with a
rag which had been specially placed on the table by the Preparations Committee
for the organising committees. Pandaram, the
assistant to the
The Swami stood for a
while, bolt upright, his arms folded in front of him, without batting a lid and
looking ever so calm in the direction of Wee Ming San, the photographer, who
rolled out his consumptive cough again and fumbled with his flash equipment.
The Honourable Lawyer Koveeyan was beside himself with embarrassment. He cool-ly looked at the Swami,
expecting to distract attention, but found that Pandaram
had come round behind his chair and the gathering concentrated on him.
« I thank you
Swami for taking the trouble to re-invite me to speak again to this admirable
body of workers : I shall no doubt oblige. »
The Swami stood stock
still. Koveeyan rose from his seat. The Swami seemed
caught in a pose. Koveeyan sat down, a trifle
disconcerted. He became even more visibly flustered and turned round and spoke
to Pandaram, who slouched out of sight, while the
Chairman began to drum with his finger nails, first on the chair and then on
the table, dextrously, his fingers clenched and unfurled individually,
rhythmically producing a sort of a nagging tabla raga. Whether it was on account of this
background rhythm or not, it could not be definitely said, the Swami swayed
gently and suddenly broke out in a womanish wail. For a moment, everything seemed
somewhat inexplicable, but soon Pandaram emerged, a
tumbler of butter-milk in his right hand, and as he walked towards the table to
place it before the Chairman, he blurted out in an easily recognisable
The incident had
virtually emptied the Conference Hall, except for the reporter and the Programme
Committee Chairman, who also held the Invitations’ Chair jointly. He had been
eyeing the young reporter for some time as a prospective son-in-law. Mylvaganam, the programme man, put his arms round the
shoulders of the young man and drew him aside from the onrush to the exit doors
to the courtyard.
« There are a
number of very important matters I want your opinion on, Thamby.
I certainly would be grateful for an interview. You know, I knew, your father.
You didn’t know that, did you ? Yes, yes, as I thought,
I knew him. He was a fine man, very fair, you know, like my wife’s skin, just
like poplin. I know they all say he was a hellofa Sando, don’t you believe it. He just knew more regulations
and stuck to it than the other fellas in the railway.
Why I’ll go so far and say he could take Lawyer Koveeyan on, any time, when it comes to strict
interpretation of the law. » He
turned and changed his hand on the shoulder. Thamby
felt trapped, but somewhat willingly though, as he had always a pain about a
father he had never known.
« You see, Thamby, I know why the rumour circulates he was a drunkard
and brawler. You know that fella Eleeyavan,
that fella la, that fella
they call, Ear-Bite Eleeyavan, because he bit his dhobi’s ear in a fight over
his trousers he thought the dhobi was wearing, well, Thamby,
I won’t tell you now, but his wife once ran away with someone, and that is why
all the rumour. Anyway, I must say your father’s skin was more like my eldest’s, your know her, she is
the one helping to produce our programme. I am just the official, you know, I
don’t know much about these things now you know, though in my time, people used
to say I could even take our Rasah editor on any
time. Anyway what do you think about our
With this, the wiry,
the long-armed programme man, who is also co-chairman of Invitations, unclasped
the reporter and left him standing at the front door of the Hall, which opened
out into a narrow, mud pathway, past two separate stone parapets, whose pillars
were mounted with the models of two, docile looking cow-heads. This gateless
passage was to be the entrance for the delegates and observers for the
conference. Thamby stood there watching the
cow-heads. Their horns were elaborately worked over with clusters of
frangipani, their eyes painted blue, their snouts stark red and the rest a
pallid yellow. Hardly had he the time to wonder why the models of the cows had
no eyebrows, when he saw his photographer rushing past into the main street.
The same moment, he heard cries from inside the
The first thing Thamby heard when he came into the courtyard was the Priest
lamenting that all this was a bad omen for the conference, and that a special puja early on the
conference morning was necessary to set things right. The Swami who stood
rooted in the centre of one wing of the courtyard nodded his head slightly, and
Lawyer Koveeyan said :
« Absolutely right. No harm can be done, but arrangements will have to be
made, here and now. »
The committee members
who were strung out, some standing in the doorways of the three exits to the
courtyard, moved closer and bunched around the Priest and the Swami. While they
were excitedly recapitulating all that had taken place, it seemed over and over
again, Biru-Biru, the food man, had squeezed his
liquid self, his rims of flab round his belly and breast swaying in front of
him ---into the area by the tank which was converted into a provisional kitchen
for the conference. The water tank was surrounded by a plot of un-cemented
ground, which was to be used for the three cauldrons: one for rice, one for sambal and one
for dhal. The cauldrons were to be
mounted on bricks, stacked high enough on three, triangular piles, to allow for
the fire-wood to burn through. The snag was the solitary coconut tree in full
thrust, growing from out and under the side of the tank. Objections had been
vociferously raised against the selection of the spot as a suitable kitchen,
because it was feared some dry coconut could take it upon itself to drop into
the boiling cauldrons on the day of the conference --especially as they could
not be covered for the sheer reason that the cauldrons had to be constantly
stirred in order to avoid burning the bottoms when cooking in such large
quantities. But Biru-Biru had the answer. He had his
committee vote that they get a climber to cut down the coconuts, green ones and
young shoots and loose leaves and all, the day before cooking, and it was
unanimously agreed that this was the most brilliant suggestion from any
chairman during all the preparations.
Biru-Biru
was conscious of this too, and took his job quite in earnest. While the
commotion had not died down, he made his way into the enclosure adjacent to the
Hall --where Pandaram, the lay brother, usually
slept-- where several women, the wives of committee men, were until the
commotion assiduously engaged in peeling, cutting and slicing the vegetables,
and sorting the rice and dhal, for the massive cooking session the next day. As
he waddled his way across the low, smooth-stone parapet into the veranda, he
urged solicitously:
« Ladies, ladies,
not to worry, not to worry, there is nothing to be worried about, nothing our
Lawyer Koveeyan cannot handle. Just get on with the
good work, ladies, and how’s about giving us a display of first class Tamil
cooking. »
The women giggled and
pulled their sarees round them for good measure, a
gesture of modesty in the presence of visitors or when addressed, and prepared
to settle down to their various chores. Along the walls were piled rows and
rows of wicker-baskets, containing all sorts of vegetables and potatoes. As it
was a religious affair, a vegetarian menu was imperative. Several coconut and atap leaf mats
were spread out neatly, beside the baskets, and on which were gathered the
sliced vegetables. One mat had brinjals, another
long-beans, and yet another, potatoes, and beside two huge gunny sacks, rice
and dhal, separately swirled on the cement floor, the imprint of fingers gone
over each patch still showing. Two women sat close to the drain on the raised
cement floor, next to the mud patch of the kitchen, and in their hands they
held winnowing bamboo baskets, with which in rhythmic gestures --one, two,
three, UP,-- they helped to free the rice or dhal of its dust. This was a three
stage undertaking. Mandore, the general purposes man, who normally works in the
Public Works Department, --and as one of the committee members was a Technical
Assistant, he was dragged into service for the community-- first measured out
with an open-cut, cigarette tin, ten hands on the floor, where two sorting
women sat with their feet tucked under their thighs. They would then run over
the rice and dhal with their fingers, in a zig-zag
motion, and pick out tiny, wart-like stones and live ticks which they crushed
against their thumb-nails and deposited them on the loose end of their sarees. After which, they would merely sweep the sorted
rice or dhal seeds into the winnowing baskets and hand them to the waiting
women, who performed the ritual of throwing the contents up in the air and catching
them back in the baskets, without spilling a grain. The wind did the rest and
wafted the dust all over the place. When the two women were in full throttle,
humming as they swished the baskets in their hands, the place was filled in
whirl-wind particles. Somehow the women managed to see through all that dense
dust storm and carried on their chores, singing or mumbling to themselves, and
as the dust settled on their sarees and faces and as
they wiped the perspiration with their hands and sarees,
it made them look like they had been smeared with shovels of dung-ash. Biru-Biru’s presence prevented them from singing. Thamby too could not help but notice Mrs. Mylvaganam, since the reason for his summons had been
dropped, without explanation. Biru-Biru moved in
among the ladies cutting up, husking and scraping coconuts for milking the sambal and tasted a pinch of shavings and exclaimed:
« How do you manage to get it so fine. It’s really lovely! »
Mrs. Mylvaganam who had been shaving the coconuts until she gave
it up to cut brinjals, turned round to him and said:
« That’s because
we have a wonderful thiruvalai
scraper... that’s why Mr. Germaan. But...
but... Yai was wondering, Mr. Germaan... tell me what I do. Do yai slice brinjals length-length
like this, like the Chinese do, or cut it anyhow like we do? »
Biru-Biru,
happy that he had been asked, it appeared, for advice, rushed over to her mat
where she was squatting on the floor, with one leg stretched out and the other
tucked under.
« Ah, yes, let us
see, Mrs. Mylvaganam, » he extended his hands.
She placed a twisted
mauve brinjal in his outstretched hands and then
handed him the knife. As he went to take it, he caught sight of her exposed
thighs and nearly dropped the knife onto them. He fumbled with the knife, but
couldn’t quite take his eyes off her thighs.
« Tell me...show
me...Mr. Germaaan, » and she looked up at him,
drawing the back of her hand across her eyes.
« Does it really
matter when it all gets inside the sambal and boils
into a soup, Mrs. Mylvaganam, » rapped the wife of the Food Committee Chairman, who
was sitting and measuring out a cauldron with a cigarette tin to see how much
rice they needed to put into it for about one hundred and fifty delegates. Mrs.
Mylvaganam quickly plucked the knife and brinjal from Biru-Biru’s hands
who then slouched about a bit and suddenly seeing the masses of banana leaves heaped on the mud-patch
beside the tank, yelled out :
« Mandore... mandooore !
Where the devil are you? I told you, you stupidoe, not
to cut the banana leaves today. How many times am I to tell you, you devil-man? What use is it for tomorrow? Or after? Look...look, how they are
torn already? And fading and dying, their colour gone! »
Mandore dropped his
cigarette tin, where he was sitting, nearly dozing from boredom, beside the
gunny sacks and rushed over to the tank.
« No, Aiyah, no Aiyah! Me clean
leaves now, now, » and proceeded to grab the leaves in armfuls and to dip
them in the tank.
« Absoloot stupidoe! » yelled Biru-Biru, in a frenzy. « Absoloot stupidoe! What
are you doing? Everything is ruined! Didn’t you see that madman fall into the
tank before. » He looked at his wife and the
ladies. He was in his element. « Empty the tank, you stupidoe,
first, before you wash them. In any case, who asked you to wash them ? I asked you : why
you cut them today. Throw them all away now....yes, give the lot to the cows...
there. And get up at
« Gentlemen,
gentlemen, I appeal to you, what can you do with stupidoes?
Here I am planning everything with precision and this stupidoe,
ruining everything.... everything. I give up... I give up... I
surrender... » He flung his arms up. It was evident, from the way he kept
turning to the ladies, the histrionics were for the benefit of the ladies. His
wife was the only one of the ladies still working.
« But, Aiyah,... Aiyah...
there are no other gardens around here. I have to go to the Third Mile for more
leaves », pleaded Mandore, in polite, polished Tamil, which Biru-Biru couldn’t quite understand.
« I don’t care wherr you go, you absoloot stupidoe. Why don’t you go...... to..... »
« Now, now, Biru », cautioned The Chairman.
« But, what can I
do, Mr. Chairman, everything is ruined. What’s the use of all the good cooking,
if they have nothing to eat it on? Just think, Gentlemen, day after, when the
delegates sit down on the floor to eat, and the sambal and the dhal runs down the
torn leaves, into their dhotis, what a mess it will all create in their bottoms
when they stand up, unable to eat. Think, Gentlemen, think. We don’t want any
disasters..... And if that happens, you will all say: everything went well, except for the Food Committee Chairman : he did not have the foresight to see this
happening. Perhaps, it is better you also organise a Laundry Committee.... I
always said there were too many committees and chairmen..... » There was
general laughter, Biru-Biru sulked.
« Come, come, »
said Lawyer Koveeyan. « It’s good you can joke
about it all. It’s not as bad as all that. » Biru-Biru
seemed to pretend to be annoyed at this remark.
« But, but....
Chairman Koveeyan.... it’s no joking matter. I am not
joking really. Think of all the wet-stained bottoms. I shall certainly give the
matter of my resignation much thought today.... » He was interrupted by
Mrs. Biru-Biru, who said something, no one could
clearly hear. « Yes... Gentlemen, I am sorry, but under the circumstances,
I would have to consider this breach in my plans as a matter of the utmost
urgency, and I humbly submit to you that I have no further alternative, but
to.... »
« No, no, no,
no, » cried the Chairman, and came over, his full six-feet-six of him and
placed his arm round the Food Committee’s shoulders and faced the members who
watched all these proceedings with new wonder. « I can assure you, worthy
Gentlemen, that here stands a man who is a born organiser. I am not a man who easily believes in astrology and the stars, but I
can assure you, here stands a man who I’d be proud to take in as my election
agent, if and when that longed-for Day comes, and I am asked to stand for house
of commons. After all, I am mad they only nominate us to the Leg.
Mrs. Biru-Biru muttered something at this juncture, but no one,
it seemed, paid her any attention. She was still working on the cauldron. While
somebody was asking what an election agent does, Koveeyan
muttered to Biru-Biru : « The job’s yours, you fool... come inside and
stop this tomfoolery ! » He smiled magnanimously to his wide-eyed
audience, and putting up one well polished leather (cow-hide) shoe on the
sacred water tank, he announced in style :
« Ladies and Gentlemen, now we shall return and proceed with the business at
hand. I cannot keep the Press waiting too long. They have to keep a deadline
much as we too have to, come shine or rain. So,
Gentlemen, I say, let’s proceed. »
He maintained his
posture for a while, his other hand on the lapel of his black coat, while one
hand pressed on, for support, coercingly on Biru-Biru. The crowd cheered, some even clapped, for no
apparent reason. The Swami looked stoned. The Brahmin Priest, after joining in
the cheers, shouted over everybody’s head, « My children, remember, this is
a
Back in the Conference
Hall, the commotion took some time to die down. As usual, as in the past eight
days of preliminary meetings, the committee chairmen were kept standing or
sitting on the platform, for several minutes at a time, while the committee
members and lay temple bystanders argued about something or other. And just as
the Chairman Koveeyan attempted to clear his throat
and begin his final oration, Thamby, the reporter,
who had in the meantime fetched his photographer, appeared. As he entered,
tongues started wagging again. Koveeyan was unable to
launch into his tirade because of the lack of attention he was so obviously
getting. Again, it was left to the prospective election agent, Biru-Biru, to call the Plenary Planning Session to order
and demand vociferously the attention of the organisers. But, unfortunately,
this very act delayed the proceedings further, as Biru-Biru,
earlier threatening to resign, had refused on this occasion to take his
rightful place on the table. Some felt that he was merely doing an act of tare harga-ing (raising his price, as the
Malay saying goes), and so, this started a discussion, with a string of snide
remarks in clear evidence, about the food man’s lack of sincerity and even
piety in these circumstances. It would have ended there, had not Biru-Biru heard, while he was being persuaded to assume his
position of authority, an attack on his planning
ability, and he immediately proceeded to take issue with the slanderer in the
pack. After much fussing, Biru-Biru finally ascended
the platform, folded the flaps of his dhoti with some needless ceremony and not
looking anywhere in particular began an elaborate effort to seat himself,
tossing his shawl about himself, several times over his shoulders.
Several times Koveeyan attempted to speak and paused during this
diversion. What finally managed to calm the planners was the furious activity
which suddenly seized Wee Ming San. He began his spurt of clicking his camera,
in unison to the flash of the bulbs he held high, and as if this was a sign
from up above on this religious occasion with impending Thaipusam celebrations, the
planners were subdued. Thamby thought perhaps the
yellow streak he made across the Hall, weaving and tumbling over himself, in an attempt to get a worm’s eye picture of the
Chairman must have driven terror into them. The photographer’s complexion was a
hepatic yellow, his
« You know, Ladies
and Gentlemen, I mean, Gentlemen..... Mind you, Gentlemen.... Gentlemen....
Silence, if you please..... Yes, thank you.... a hem, hem....
I say... ahem, hem, hem... Yes, we... we are... all assembled here on this
plenary session to polish up all rough and loose ends, and it appears, by a
strange lack of faith, we have avoided the most important issue. And this,
Gentlemen, you will all note, at least, those of you who remained here late last
night to do the good work by burning the candles at both ends, is the brilliant
motion submitted by our Food Chair. I will now for your greater edification
read out the motion. Er.. er wait a moment, please... »
He searched about on
the table for the slip of paper containing the motion, and inadvertently
knocked the chembu,
the brass water jug, over the table, which clanked with a thud and dented on
the cement floor, and rolled about from side to side, its glittering brassy
surface, glinting to the flash of Ming San’s bulbs, but not without causing him
to jump and deposit his equipment on the laps of those seated in the front row.
Choudhury, the Bengali cloth merchant, who had had
his eyes fixed on the photographer during the latter’s gyrations in front of
the platform, seeing Ming San lunge at the sound of the falling chembu, jumped up
himself, toppling his chair, and narrowly escaping the points of Ming San’s
knotty fingers, let out a ghastly yelp and ran, staggering out the ‘kitchen’
door, and there, to the utter horror of the food committee, trampled over some
of the cut vegetables and winnowed rice heaps on the mats. For a while nobody
seemed capable of making any sense of what happened. From the rear of the Hall,
shouts of ‘get on with it’, ‘what the hell’, ‘damn, damn’, and so on,
resounded. Finally, a Ceylonese president of one of the numerous communal
bodies, rose and made such an arduous, squeaky speech, which nobody heard (much
less understood why he delivered the sermon) that, out of respect for the Jaffnese community, he was allowed to finish, and this
lapse brought the meeting round again to the motion in question.
The Chairman commanded Biru-Biru to raise the motion again.
Biru-Biru
happily obliged.
« Mr. Chairman,
Members of the Planning Committees of the Plenary Session of...... » He
was rudely pulled up by Koveeyan.
« Read out the
resolution, Man! »
« But, but... it
is still a motion, Mr. Chairman, » protested the Food-Com. Chair.
« Never mind what
it is, or was or what it will be, just deliver the motion, Mr. Food Committee
Chairman. »
The Chairman Koveeyan got up with such vigour from his chair to say this
that he had to bend down and pick up his chair to seat himself down again. This
caused a further delay. Biru-Biru rather solicitously
bent down with the Chairman to lift up the chair, and in the process managed to
get one end of his dhoti stuck under his leather slippers, and when he
straightened up, his dhoti came loose, and as he turned to face the floor, with
a jerk, was reduced to summary semi-nakedness.
Ming San clicked his
camera, but his flash did not go off. Biru-Biru,
flushed and apologetic, squatted down, gathered his dhoti about him, and amidst
much laughter from those present, ingeniously rose, full clad again. The
audience cheered and were much in good spirits again and gave him such
attentiveness which could have made even the Swami envious. The Swami was
unmoved throughout the hectic goings-on all around him. He was seated to the
right of the Chairman Koveeyan, maintaining a
straight-backed posture which would have been a virtual impossibility even for
a fashion model, though his robe of washed-down rouge, with the amber showing
through the khadar
cloth, the insignia of the Mahatma’s India, was, if anything, like the loose
garments fashion models pass off as bedroom-wear. The sleeves hung loose at the
elbows and tapered off into a crunch before the wrists ; low neckline and
ligature held the waist, and though in one piece, it had a flap in the skirt, right
down under the knee. The colour of his leather sandals matched the dark and
brutish knobs of beads he wore round his neck. In his late forties, he was as
fresh of mien as a clean, unshaven, lithesome lass of twenty-five, and a close
crop, always giving the impression of having newly arisen from a clean baldy,
combined with the delicately untrammelled composure of his features --neat
eye-brows, neat nose, neat mouth, all correctly placed in an oval face-- made
him easily the most elegant Swami in the world. Even his speech was so correct
that coming from a man of a pale bronze complexion made many of his followers
believe he was a European in disguise. This belief gathered force especially as
he had taken to quoting from Walt Whitman’s Leaves
of Grass, the source of which he never adequately disclosed, ever since he
took office as resident preacher at the local Tamil school. And as he was
constantly appointed to various committees in charitable organisations by the
local set of Europeans, this myth was successfully perpetuated. The result was
that he was listened to with rapture. When he first arrived and settled in the ashramam, Hindu mothers flocked to listen to him and
chastised their children for failing to attend his lectures, which, no matter
how they were advertised as relating to the wisdom of India and Yoga, such as:
« The Breath of the All-Pervading Self », or « The Essence of
the Oneness through Pranic Energy », invariably
contained long extracts from the Leaves
of Grass. So far as it can be ascertained, this book of
« quotations » had never been translated into the Tamil language or
Punjabi, and yet he never attempted to adulterate the original, and so
delivered it in English. Local Tamil mothers who only understood some dialectal
Tamil were resolutely firm with their original observations of the Swami, which
were that here in his person was the ultimate expression of tranquillity, the peace that passeth
all understanding. All their impressions boiled down to the memory that his
stance over many hours, intermingled with quotations, never shifted, his voice
never faltered, his brow never wrinkled. He was the paragon of what their
daughters could never be, and what they wanted their sons to achieve. Pandaram, the lay brother, attached himself to the Swami,
and his duties, if anything, were cast in a rigorous, batman role, a discipline
which might go down well with self-mortifying yogis, but fell a little amiss on
the shoulders of a half-asleep, half-naked, unskilled labourer, used to no
greater chores than the intoning he had to keep up, while the Brahmin Priest
chanted away his mantras in the sanctum sanctorum. And when the Swami had
settled himself down in the local Tamil school’s office, and the local mothers
came in regularly to pay him homage, and the men had forgotten about his
existence --unless some wife chose to compare and ridicule her husband with the
Swami-- he decided (thinking it wise) to take on a disciple, which he resisted
for a full six months, since it came in the shape of a woman. And then it was
the men who had something with which to hit back at their envious wives. Some
said --close to the quarters of the disciple and Pandaram--
that when the Swami appeared silent, he was actually performing the task of
recalling line for line the Leaves of
Grass.
When Thamby rescued Ming San from the instant recriminations of
the worked-up committee members, when the chembu had
been retrieved and filled with water and placed at a distance from the Chairman
and the Food Committee Chair. --in fact, it was carefully placed,
directly in front of the Swami by the Pandaram, and
the audience were mentally assured that he was the least likely to attempt to
break his fast all of a sudden --the meeting prepared itself, with the usual
mutterings and grunts, and loud, raucous clearing of throats, to listen to the
motion. Biru-Biru rose, in fact, as he had been
standing all through the furore, just stooped the steatopygous
part of the anatomy, just long enough to give the appearance of sitting and
rising formally, and announced in a ponderous, falsetto voice, gradually rising
to a plaintive howl, the following declaration:
« I, on behalf of
the food com. would very much like to state the following words: That, in view
of the innumerable number of delegates who have been invited to this
conference, from all over the country, and THAT, in view of the fact that the
Organising Committees of Planners and select leaders of COMMUNITY had long ago
A….GREED to provide food for the DELE… GATES, and thAT,
in view of the fact that many who are not invited will be DETER….MINED to
attend this meeting ----and here I must pause and intimate THAT actually two or
three of my drinking friends yesterday told me they too will attend, and I must
confess I warned them that their names were not on the original Invitations
List, and yet they insisted THAT as this was a religious occasion, they had
every right as Hindus to be present, and so on and on, I did not know,
sincerely member com-members, what to say. So, you see WHY I say we must not
hold the conference and eating in the
same Hall. The freeloaders in the Toddy Shop across the road in the Coconut
Plantation will take this everyday meal sessions as a
grand opportunity for some easy thayiru (yoghurt), rice and sambal. I am not so much
frightened of this as that some of our delegates might take it into their heads
while waiting for their turn to eat, or during debates, to go over to the Toddy
Shop themselves, and you can all well imagine what a religious occasion this would all become. And
anyway, as I was saying..... »
Mylvaganam
and Roti Singh, both non-toddy drinkers, said
something together at this juncture, which could only be interpreted as,
either: « It alright, it’s a great occasion, why not! », or
« Christ, what does thayiru
cost ? »
Biru-Biru
suddenly appeared cheerful.
« The cost of toddy
in this shop is so high, Mr. Amiruk Singh, I would
not advise going there, but if you go down Sentul to
the Third Mile, I can assure you there they have undiluted toddy, first class,
all the time. But, if you want, I can give you the prices. Which one do you
want? »
« My name is not Amiruk Singh, for your information. I am Mr. Roti Singh Chandu, » said
the tall, grubby Sikh, with a squat, white turban, brown cotton pants and a fully
buttoned cream cotton coat, that he could have barely managed to get into, and
as he rose to object, showed that he was perspiring profusely under the arms,
the pit of his back and other plumpish parts not
polite to draw attention to.
Biru-Biru
was clearly disturbed. Licking his lips with a curved flexible tongue rather deftly,
he sucked in his breath with a sigh, and said very apologetically:
« Yes Mr. Roti Singh Chandu, how can I forget. I read your name in last year’s Royal Society of
Health’s pass list. I am indeed very, very sorry to make this awful mistake,
especially when we are in the same profession. Please accept my apologies, with
thanks. »
« Thank you very
much, Mr. Biru-Biru, I am sorry too that you didn’t
pass the examination last year. »
There was a moment’s
pause as members quite forgot what was before them that night and became
interested in this private matter, especially since the highest courtesy was
being observed.
« O, no, no, NO,
no, no! If you remember my results, I only failed in the practical of meat
inspection. I passed, according to my lecturer with flying colours in both my
theory papers and other practical fish stuff. You see, Mr. Chandu,
I am a profound vegetarian, and so how do you expect me to pass in Meat Inspection
Practical ? I tell you when I went before the
examiners, my brain was ticking with facts, all facts, just facts, but when I
saw that carcase, I was so overcome by the stinking smell, I could not breathe.
I nearly even fainted. That meat, I tell you, was unfit for human consumption, and the smell almost gave me a fit.
What do you say anyway? In that cold, damp country, even my nose could not and
refused to sort out other smells. They took me in Fish first. I was one of the
last to be interviewed. Fish is alright... but you see, by the time I went in
for the Practical, the fish also began to decompose, and the stink, I say,
affected my sense of smell. Immediately after this practical, they whisked me
to the Meat Practical, and the veterinary surgeon who was the examiner was, I
think, already suffering from nausea --just from that stinking smell, I tell
you. He asked me : ‘This here horse belly or
lamb ? Fit or Unfit?’ I said: UNFIT.
‘What’, he said and looked at his notes. ‘Unfit?’ He then took the piece
of meat and smelt it for a while. I was already ready to vomit. He looked at
his notes again, and then said: ‘Fit or Unfit?’ I thought he was kidding,
having examined about one hundred students already. His sense of smell too must
have become badly affected. Perhaps, I thought, he did not realise that the
meat had become bad during the examination which lasted some hours. So, I
thought, the thing to do is to give the answer the first student had given,
which he must have in his notes too. So, I said: FIT. He looked at me strangely and said: ‘If you were in your country, and you were there in the abattoir for
early morning inspection, and you saw this piece of meat, Will you pass it as
fit for consumption?’ I wanted to tell him that here in this country we do
not bother to go for early morning inspection, but he looked rather annoyed and
impatient, and so, naturally, I had to tell him, FIT, but I didn’t. I said, UNFIT.
He asked me why. I said ‘because in my country, it is very much hotter, even in
summer, and this meat will certainly go bad in no time’. He said, ‘O, yes,
yes’, and moved on to the next question on a pig’s stomach. So, you see why I
failed, Mr. Roti Singh Chandu.
It’s a question of the weather, hot or cold... »
At this the Sikh got up
and quoted from the Gita:
‘...
in heat or in cold,
in pleasure or in pain,
er..er...’
...... « I have
forgotten, sorry, no offence », he said, and looked at the Swami, who in
an instant came out of his trance and uttered: the beginning and the end of the
stanza, and just before he made to seat himself, continued to quote yet another
verse which had no connection whatsoever with the Gita, and it had something like
‘O, Captain! My Captain!’ in it.
The effect of Walt
Whitman on an Indian gathering of commercial vendors, clerks, lawyers, doctors,
engineers, teachers and others, retired and reemployed, below their youthful
capacity, was to invite loquacious self-congratulation and eventual admiration
for the Swami in their midst. Walt Whitman won the day. Even Biru-Biru appeared affected by the noise of O, Captain! My Captain! As for Koveeyan, he did not stir, as if to make absolutely clear
the poem did not altogether exclude him from reference. Alas, in the ensuing
silence, Biru-Biru rose and delivered the motion.
« And so,
Gentlemen, it has fallen upon me to bring to your notice that in view of the
fact that all through the five days of the conference, when delegates arriving
from distant parts of the country will be dining and drinking, and as they come
from so far, it is our duty to see that they are not embarrassed in any way
doing all sorts of chores, and see that they are provided with the utmost
privacy when they want or have to perform their ablutions and other like
matters. To be precise, we have to make all arrangements for lavatory facilities. That is it, Gentlemen, the lavatory
is the big question. And as some of the delegates have already arrived, I think
you will agree with me, Gentlemen, this is a most urgent affair. »
The delegate from Kota Tinggi, who had arrived a couple of days earlier and was
putting up with Roti Singh Chandu,
and who happened to come along to the Plenary Planning Session, on a
‘sight-seeing tour’, as he put it, rose and raised the following commotion.
« Does the Honourable
Food Committee Chairman mean to suggest by his last remark that those of us who
are coming from far away have not before coming performed our ablutions and so
on? »
« No, no, No, no,
no, » exclaimed and slammed Biru-Biru,
punctuating the air with his forefinger, at every emphatic ‘no’. « I do
not mean to suggest you have not done before coming what you have not done you
say or want to do, Mr. Honourable Gentleman, but what I want to say is that we
have only one lavatory, two in fact, that is, one bathroom with a cement tank
to do the washing in, and all we have left is the Priest’s private lavatory in
his house, adjoining the Hall. No need to get alarmed, Gentlemen. The Ladies,
it has been agreed, will have to be excluded from this arrangement, and Dear
Mr. Mylvaganam, who only lives a stone’s throw away,
in the Coconut Grove behind the Temple, has kindly consented to accommodate the
needs and requirements of the ladies, when and as often as they arise...... and
so the long and short of the motion is simply this : Where are all the
conference delegates going to pass water and pass motion, that is, shift their
bowels, during the long and hectic debates ? The answer is simply
this : We do not want all those novelists and journalists coming here and
writing that we have no shame or sense of hygiene, and that we defect all over
the place. Besides, ladies and gentlemen cannot defect at will in the
There were shouts and
squeals and audible mutterings. Some even got up and left to inspect the
lavatory then and there. They would not believe that such an expensive-looking
« But, but,
gentlemen, I must interject at this stage and save you the trouble of
inspecting and worrying, which is my job as Health Inspector as you all know.
The lavatory like our ancient religion and time-honoured
At this, even Koveeyan, the Chairman, looked
unnerved. Grim silence ensued, for no one dared make fun of the lavatory, as it
had unexpectedly been connected to something as sacred as the
« But, but, you
see, I have solved the motion and all your doubts. I have arranged for Thoadtee, and I’m
sure, you all know him by his euphemism ---The
Night Soil Man--- to be in constant attendance, to clean and keep the smell
away from the Conference Hall, and empty the pot as soon as always it fills
up. »
At this, Roti Singh jumped up and posed the following question:
« What happens, Mr. Food Chair, when the Thoadtee carries away the pot to
empty it ---I know not where--- one of us wants to use the lavatory? The place
would become an utter mess, isn’t it? »
« Mr. Amiruk Singh Samsu, I must say
that for a man who has appeared on the London Pass List of the Royal Health
Society Examination, you are most surprising. The solution is simple ---simply
have two rubber buckets and substitute one for the other during the crisis you
raise, isn’t it? I have a better
suggestion though. If you are worried that there will be no pot when your turn
to squat comes, I suggest that you ask the last occupant when he leaves,
whether the pot was full or not, and if it happens that it was full, you can
then run round the back of the lavatory where the Thoadtee
will be opportunely seated and instruct him to substitute the spare pot. Alright, Mr. Amiruk Singh Samsu? »
At this, the Sikh
became red all over his face, especially because some members called out:
« here, here », in appreciation of the quick thinking on the sordid
subject produced by the Food-Com. Chairman. In a whining tone the Sikh began:
« First, I must say that even for a man who claims to have failed Meat
Inspection Practical because he is a vegetarian, you have failed to pronounce
my name correctly, that is, my honoured family name of CHANDU, not samsu, as you no
doubt must have your mind always on the pots of samsu distilled by the Chinese in
your district of inspection. Why, are you worried about the fact that someone
will find out that you are taking bribes for the distilling without licence?
The filthy she-beens! »
At this Biru-Biru became highly agitated and yelled in protest.
« What doooya mean making swear words..... she-binns....
Don’t you know this is a religious occasion? Uh !
Bhai! »
« How d’yoo expect to know what it means
when you have not passed the Royal Society examination? »
Biru-Biru
was both flustered and incensed: « I must warn you, Mr. Singh that you are
interrupting the Chair and therefore you must show greater respect. In fact,
since you don’t drink toddy, what do you do when you check on the toddy shops,
day in and day out, outside your duty hours? It is a well known fact where all
you Sikhs get the money to lend around at such high interests.... »
Before Biru-Biru
could finish his tirade, there was a free for all discussion which lasted quite
a while and virtually distracted the personal mud-slinging and interest which
it aroused. Koveeyan rose and lectured the audience
on Unity before
« And as I was
saying before I was painfully sidetracked by mindless issues (and he glared in the
direction of the Sikh), I have made all the arrangements; at least, the Thoadtee should
be in attendance, you know, he is the big bugger working in the Brickfields
district, and we can be assured of quick service. We will pay him two dollars
for each session, that is, each day of the conference; so that’s alright, I
suppose, and if anybody disagrees, I’ll pay it out of my own pocket... O.K. Mr.
Chandu ?
Here the Sikh made a snide
reference to his unearned income, and the animosity between the two nearly
broke loose again. After a moment or two of quick, decisive glaring between the
two, Biru-Biru continued in a less aggressive
fashion.
« However, for the
interest of those present, I might say that even in this sordid business, I
have managed to bring in some extra cash for the general coffers. I have
arranged that we be paid for the excreta. »
There were instant
astonished remarks. Biru-Biru remained calm with the
expectant air of someone about to be patted on the back.
« Yes, I have
arranged to get paid for the stuff. You know the Chinese vegetable farm, past
the coconut-toddy grove. Well, the Chinaman
there in charge has agreed to pay us for the excreta for his vegetable garden.
Only thing is that our Thoadtee
has to pour the excreta directly into the plants. I don’t know why, it seems
the Chinaman is fussy about handling
our stuff directly. So, let the devil take the Chinaman’s whim, we will collect later. What do you say? »
« How much will he
pay? » asked the Jaffnese Chief-Clerk of the
Treasury.
« Well, twenty
five cents a bucket, that is, a full bucket without the obvious liquid
matter. »
« But, how is that
possible, » moaned the Punjabi Cloth Merchant from Batu
Road, « since we shall all be eating sambal and dhal and yoghurt and most
of us are bound to purge with hot Tamil cooking. »
Well, you have to pass
your water elsewhere is all I can say, » ordered the Food-Com. Chairman
and sat down briskly. He was sulking at the reference to Tamil cooking that he
did not quite finish. « Do I have to tell you what to do all the time,
even with little things like that; O, God! Any two
year old would know what to do and where. As far as I am concerned, you can
purge away if you like, but not on my arrangements; otherwise, I resign, I
say! »
There was general
laughter at first, but the planners unanimously voted thanks to Biru-Biru, and he remained Chairman again.
« In that
case, » intoned the Food-Com. Chairman, « I have no choice but to
stand up and raise the motion before the house, that is: That the Plenary
Planning Session of the Pan-Malayan Maha-Hindu --whatever we may decide to call
it after the conference-- adopts the motion and passes a resolution that a Night Soil Man be employed throughout
the conference to be in attendance at the Temple lavatory. All those in favour,
please indicate in the appropriate manner. »
Some or most did not know how to indicate appropriately, and the resultant scene was rather chaotic, as a