T. WIGNESAN.

 

 

 

The Night Soil Man

(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.

 

 

 

                                      Chapter One : Night Soilers.

 

         « 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 Temple Priest, was in charge of the preparations. For a while, the Hall sank in sighs and dragging of chairs, and crossing of legs and clearing of throats. Then a silence sat on them as everyone present felt a strange sense of uneasiness. Pandaram who was standing at the far end of the table, near an exit-door to the Temple-courtyard, shuffled up to the centre and said something to the Food Committee Chairman, and as he was doing so, his left hand went automatically to his lips --a gesture of politeness among inferiors-- and actually he should have used his right hand to cover his lips for fear of spittal thrashing from his tongue, but it had already found its way to his posterior and gnawingly worked itself in. The Food Committee Chairman looked startled. The only other time he looked so astonished was when someone in the past eight days of committee meetings called him, Beeru-Beeru, which was his name or at least, a nick name, which had stuck from long, unfailing use. He had himself come to like the name so much, that attempting to use it himself and conscious of his reputation with imported beer, he spelt it out, on one occasion, in a local Temple circular as Biru-Biru. The Food Committee Chairman turned to Swami Arokya-Pandiar, the Reception Committee Chairman, who was seated to the right of him and whispered something. The Swami who was noted for his listlessness, out of habit brought on by what people said of him, did not so much as bend his neck or twist it to hear what Biru-Biru became suddenly worked up about. The Swami suavely nudged the Programme Committee Chairman in the pork chop, and uttered quite loudly so that everyone could hear, and also because, so long as the Chairman, Lawyer Koveeyan, was around, this was the only opportunity he was going to get to make himself heard and felt, though his presence was sought by the highest sources in the Hindu community for this the first ever Hindu conference. Pandaram appeared highly agitated and leaned over the edge of the long table, as though he were correcting, urging or restraining the Swami who blurted out in a cultivated, in parts, sing-song tone, « It has been brought to my ear by a source close to the Preparations Committee that the Honourable Lawyer Koveeyan, our Chairman, had been so constantly interrupted during his staggering speech that he failed to move the motion so that it may be carried as a resolution. We all realise this was mainly due to a minor oversight on the part of our Chairman. We all wholly understand he is going through trying times with his eminent Wall-Dash case on.... « No, no, nooo, no ! » strained Pandaram ; « Waugh-Dawn... Waugh-Dawn, Waugh-Dawn », came the chorus-urge from the Food Committee Chairman, who rose elegantly, folded the loose end of his dhoti between his legs and clasping it with his thighs, sat down again, wiping the rings of perspiration with his tessellated shawl...... « Yes, yes, as I said before, the Honourable Lawyer Koveeyan was so rudely interrupted, so many times, that he is now going to table the motion for our careful consideration. »

            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 Temple hymn (thevaram). Rather hesitantly the Tamils in the audience (the plenary planning session included several non-committee members as well) joined in and soon there was a regular din, for many just proceeded to the second verse while yet others hung on the ends of the first or second lines of the quatrain, humming and moaning away the ragas. Most of the Northern Indians --Punjabees and Bengalees-- it appeared, were left behind in this chorus, for, though too vaguely remembered, the Tamil melody confounded their musical sense, and they were somewhat upset by the speed with which the Tamilians ran away with the hymn in their quick-fire, fee-fo-fuming, staccato voices. The Swami swayed, humming with his eyes tightly closed, hardly audibly, then suddenly he unclasped his arms and waved them, a thousand batons urging. Voices were raised, an army of crows in full throttle. Wee Ming San grabbed his cases and dashed out by a side-door and found himself in the Temple-courtyard and had barely stepped on a prostrate figure, doing his penances, when three women in white sarees, praying near the main altar, let out piercing yells. The prostrate figure, bare-torso-ed, and smeared all over with cow-dung ash (viputi) and kunkunam, curled into a ball and rolled over the side into a water tank with a splash. The Priest who had been mumbling mantras in the inner altar for the evening puja came running out with his brass, ceremonious bell still in hands, his dhoti tucked like a jodhpur and yelled out something in Sanskrit, quite plainly his mantras, which he had not completed. The Brahmin Priest apparently was more concerned about the water in the sacred tank being polluted than the presence of the bearded Chinese photographer with the frightful looking hardware. He raised his bell and clanked it severely over his head and ran towards the tank. Ming San standing bewildered in the straight line of fire from the Sanskrit mantras, took no chances and scooted, and not exactly being familiar with the inside of a Hindu Temple, he soon found himself surrounded by a high cement wall. As he ran round the central altar dome, containing the inner sanctum, he stumbled over other prostrate supplicants and crashed with his leather cases into a collection of several brass jars and oil-wick lamps and stuck his camera into a tray of sour rice with raisins and banana slices, proffered for the Gods. Meanwhile the hectic devotional in the Conference Hall had come to an abrupt end with the screeching they heard from the three women and the Priest’s mantras, and as they dashed out into the courtyard, they saw and soon realised what had happened, and let Pandaram chase the photographer and explain. As the Swami was not as agile on his feet, or at least, he was never seen to be running like the others, way was made through one of the doors for him to make his way to the courtyard. He moved with the grace of a high fashion model, who had overslept, past waking. The Brahmin Priest was ranting and raving, his shaven Mohican hair-cut and pigtail, giving him an appearance no one who had never seen a Brahmin priest could take quite seriously. As soon as he saw the Swami, he was struck dumb. He stilled his brass bell, placed it on the cracked cement floor, pressed his palms together in acknowledgement of his superior’s presence, and hastily proceeded to extract the drenched Tamil boy from the knee-deep water tank. It was all the Swami had done: he stood stock-still, just looking ahead, a characteristic pose everyone felt eight years as a disciple (seeshan) in India was well worth the time. Everything seemed under control until Ming San, who had scarcely recovered his wits, attempted to extract his camera from the tray of proffered rice. Pandaram, the Temple-assistant, yelled, and two or three of the Chairmen joined him in unison, and the photographer started to run again and found his way out of the Temple courtyard through the main gate which a cowherd feasting his cows on the Temple grounds had opened out of curiosity.

            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 Independence problems? Eh.  Do you think we can beat the buggers over it all? Well, well, these are the questions I want your opinion on. I’ll tell you, Thamby, don’t think about it now, come round tomorrow night, and we’ll talk at home. Alright. You know my place. Alright? Actually, I must tell you in confidence, Rasah too might come down from Ipoh for the conference. My daughter, my eldest, you know, addressed the invitation in person, and I am sure if he comes, the first night itself, he will dine in my place. You’ll see. So come round, Thamby and see. »

            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 Temple: « reporter, reporter! » He turned. Someone grabbed him by the elbow and pushed him in the direction of the exit doors to the courtyard, shouting out: « Let Kangesaperuman’s son through! »

            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 three o’clock, understand, three o’clock in the morning, you stupidoe, and start cutting. Now, do you understand me? » yelled Biru-Biru, so excitedly, in a high-pitched, womanish drone, that all the planning members still trying to sort out the chaos - at the other end of the courtyard - over the incident of the photographer, turned and rushed over to the water tank.

            « 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. Co. How much more adventurous, if we voted as well. What, gentlemen, you must note is that with elections I would not stand much of a chance myself, but with a born organiser like our Food Chair... er.. for an election agent, tell me, who wouldn’t get elected? »

            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 Temple. We must show respect. No calamities, please. No calamities! » He bowed in the direction of the Chairman, who led the way back to the Hall and to business.

            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 Manila shirt-yellow, his khaki pants turned yellow with too much squatting on mud-stained floors. Ming San’s pained, self-stricken look, showing through the interstices of his sparse, strand-y beard and moustache, and his opium-stained uneven teeth and wiry physique. Indians in fear attributed such hidden prowess with kuen-thow, the « deadliest » form of attack with bare hands, to rickshaw-pullers. And the appearance of the camera caused many in the audience, and all on the platform, to preen themselves. And when Ming San turned his camera round on the fringes of the Hall, in the direction of the Temple and ‘kitchen’, the Chairman, quite unexpectedly, thrust into the audience and began his speech. For once, the Swami seemed taken aback as a result of the raucous opening tone.

            « 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 Temple premises. That will be a bad omen for the conference. And the men must not be found roving around the Coconut Plantation, between here and Mr. Mylvaganam’s house, looking for a quiet tree to slosh or splash as the honourable ladies will be going up and down that way for obvious reasons to Mr. Mylvaganam’s house, as stated earlier. So, as far as I can see, the Temple back walls are out, the coconut trees are out, and the front main street are out ; so, there is only one alternative, and that is, fellow planners, to use the LAVATORY ---the one and only lavatory and the Temple bathroom to do the washing in. Well... well.... now, gentlemen... do not become troubled, do not use up all your energy worrying, I have got the solution. » He paused for he looked as though he himself felt a tremendous urge to use the lavatory then. « The only trouble, I think is to behave properly. We must do as they do in London, queue for the bus…er…err..lavatory in single Indian file, even if the sambal takes quick effect. If we do this I will prophesy the one lavatory will be O.K. for the whole conference. »

          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 Temple could only have one lavatory, as if they did not know all temples at best had only one simple public convenience.

            « 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 Temple is old-style, you know what I mean ---only a rubber pot and no flush! »

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 Temple and religion. Even Biru-Biru, the food-chair, appeared quite alarmed that no one expostulated. He cleared his throat, sucked in his breath, and continued :

            « 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 Independence, and everyone there seemed satisfied that the long expected date of Freedom was sufficient reason to drop all pettifoggery, and Koveeyan was satisfied too that he had had another opportunity to talk and promote his image as an adept, impending electioneer. Then Biru-Biru rose, having been thankful for the rest while his superior spoke.

         « 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 all forms of gestures with hands, legs and heads were visible. A few even rose respectfully in silence, and took it most unkindly when those seated attempted to seat them. They took this act to mean that those seated were against the motion. However, much to Biru-Biru’s relief, Koveeyan rose and thumped the table with the words : « The Motion is carried unanimously ! »

        It was already getting quite late in the evening, and the session would have come to a close of its own accord had not some meddler decided to query if they had already engaged the Night Soil Man for the day after the next day, the day of the conference. Biru-Biru was nonplussed. The various committee chairmen at the table looked at Biru-Biru reprovingly. In fact, Biru-Biru, for the first time seemed at a loss for words. And he knew as a Health Inspector who had been around the place for quite a while and more that night soil men were hard to come by for day-work, as they all, to a man, suddenly disappeared into the fringes of the jungle-abodes at daybreak, for their food and sleep, until midnight the next day. There was hardly any time left to locate one at this late hour, when the night soil men were too busy going around in the green sanitary vans, doing their rounds, about the part of the town, built in the days when sewerage was unknown and thought quite unnecessary, especially as there were no fertilizer factories or plants around. For a while, Biru-Biru seemed on the verge of despairing, when suddenly he jumped up, knocking his chair back and startling the well-composed, and probably dozing, Swami, and shouted with delight :  

         « But, how can.... how can you all expect me to engage the man when only just now... just this minute.... you have passed the motion ? If I had engaged him, who knows, you’d all say: This Food Chair is a good-for-nothing idiot! »

            At this, Roti Singh muttered something which made Biru-Biru quite furious. « Don’t even use your turbans, some of you! » he railed and sat down.

            Many shook their heads and glowered at the Food Com. Chairman, unable to say whether he had made fools of them all, or whether, even if he were a fool not to have engaged the Night Soil Man earlier, he was to be admired for his repartee.

            Koveeyan then rose and begged the audience to relieve the Food-Chair of his presence at the session, so that he may go looking for the Thoadtee in question. Reluctant as he was to leave the session without formal farewells, Biru-Biru was forced to gather his dhoti about him and take his leave unceremoniously, much to the relief of the Sikh and while a closing speech was being made by Koveeyan, the Plenary Chairman of all the preparations and the scheduled conference and the Chairman of the Spokesman’s Committee.

        The three outlets of the town, the three tar-dirt roads, north and south and west, were roads into insurgency. They led out of the mud-bogged valley into interminably concealing activity among thickly forested granite hills and quick-sandy mining pools : the orderly tufts of rubber trees and squeezed out tin mines, the mortar wells and blue sea water down the edges of chugged up rivers. While boulevards paved the river banks on either side, the outlets --on main-line rubber bales, tin ingots, iced-packed fish, logged-dipterocarp and petroleum-tanked diesels-- throttled suffocatingly in melting tar-stirred dust storms amid dismounting bus-loads, passengers who preferred to leg it. It was typical of a need which sought to ingratiate itself from within. Once the visitor is whisked in from the air, his praises must of needs sing within the confines of a lavishly ingrown but cloistered hospitality. So that it did not matter if the vital ways, in and out, became absorbed in the garrulity of the jungle; so long as there were patronisingly extended hands to assistance and aid as soon as the wiles of the jungle encroached. In the meantime, these roads remained the means, the inroads of the alter ego.

         On the West Road, the Temple and Hall formed the venue of the Hindu meet. By contrast to the distracting frenzy of the day, the night was moonlit and effete on Thaipusam night. Hardly had the last exhorting words of the Plenary (pro-tem : for they had forgotten to make things rather final) Chairman died away, then the co-respondents in this affair burst out into the front courtyard of the Hall and clustered around the two pillars at the entrance. The entrance had been decorated in the meantime, and this gave rise to much comment. Young, whitish-green halves of coconut leaves, folded in the middle into knots through which were passed festoon strings caused the leaves to point their sharp ends downwards. Both the cow-head pillars, minus gate, and the pig iron studded portals of the Temple itself opened out into the street : the shanty town, the interminable rows of Chinese shop houses, food-stalls, petrol-pumps, cinemas, badminton courts, railway coolie lines, and in the background, flower-potted eminence of rich towkay bungalows of cement and cast-iron wire-netting. At the back of the Temple, the coconut-toddy grove, the sporadic Chinese vegetable gardens, stray clusters of ill-defined Malay atap-huts, and along the slopes on the way out to the city-centre over wild hills, a Brigg-type Resettlement Camp and Mohenjo-daro-planned « sections », public water-taps, police lookout posts, barbed-wire and the painful attempts to nourish tell-tale thorny roses in the front lots of hutments on numbered streets.

         The coconut-grove and the environs of the Temple and Hall lay in a depression, which had been partially raised in places to ground level by years of dumping from the areas’ rubbish bins, and the waste products from the demolition sites. Skirting the Temple grounds could still be seen the washed down banks of an old, ox-bow lake, which had dried up years earlier, as a result of the construction of a deep, monsoon drain, large enough to convey the muddy deposits and the sporadic gushing of conventional downpours, but not sufficiently wide enough to cope with the occasional monsoon storms. So that when the Monsoons managed to give the northern tip of Sumatra a miss, or when they alternatively passed over the main mountain range of the peninsula to the leeward side, there was bound to be an overflowing of the drain, resulting in a minor flood, and the resumption to some degree, of the course of the old river in the ox-bow, behind the Temple grounds. Life usually came to a standstill in this backwater. Mylvaganam’s atap-roofed plank house, built on stilts, escaped the deluge, but was not spared being isolated as a refuge from the myriads of insects and minor inhabitants of the underbrush on the otherwise dry bed of the old sawn off, crooked arm of the river. By and large, the brick walls of the Hall and Temple kept the waters out of the Temple premises.

         The Hall, a spacious cement floor, with a slightly raised dais of mixed log and cement, at the back, was covered by a high, open, timbered concave tiled roof, and had three doors, equidistant in the wall separating it from the Temple grounds. This wall and doors opened out immediately into a low, tiled veranda stretched right to the back of the Hall, where the Brahmin priest had his residence, and which was conveniently partitioned off from the Hall proper by a brick wall and wooden ceiling. In the centre of the Temple grounds was a low, square, bricked room, with a conically tapering dome, with ornate, but poorly imitated Madura and Amaravalli-like reliefs. This was the sanctum sanctorum, entry into which, supposedly in the environs of God Himself, was reserved for the Brahmin priest alone. At right angles to the portals of the inner sanctum were two brick walls of about two yards each. And from these, extended an open pavilion of columns, again with ornate stone figures, painted in primary-colours on a background of white-wash. Around all this stone structure, ran a cemented floor-cum-pavement, where supplicants and worshippers paraded ritually, according to their specific modes of penance or relative importance in the religious hierarchy. In one corner, opposite the Brahmin’s quarters, built into the surrounding walls of the Temple grounds, was situated a low altar on which stood a bronze figure of Kali. A little in front of it was a stone slab on which apparently the sacrifices were to be made. All along this wall was a two-feet wide soil patch, from which rose all varieties of creeper-plants which scoured and covered, in parts, the high enclosure. In places, cannas and crotons hid the base of the walls. Foot-deep water tanks of cement and brick slopped in their green moss base, situated in appropriate positions along this ritualistic walk. In front of the veranda to the fore, near the main gate, was situated the open mud-patch, the water tank, the coconut tree and a trough and wrack for the Temple milch cows. It was this open space which was now to be converted into the kitchen for the conference. There was a bath-room in the veranda of the Hall, between the entrance to the Brahmin priest’s quarters and the raised part of the veranda to the fore, which was now being used for the cooking preparations, and which, by the way, was where the Temple Pandaram normally slept, whether night or day, barring puja sessions and such occasional festivities as the Taipusam instigated conference.

            The lavatory itself was an ingenious construction. There was an open space in the compound wall near the Kali altar which was barred by a dark-cicatrised wooden door, with a bolt outside and a metal latch inside. Three roughly-hewn, plank walls with a zinc top, raised on stilts, formed the lavatory. A large enough hole in its floor gaped into the rubber-pot which received the offerings on the ground. Loose strips of sacking concealed the rubber-pot. There was neither place for paper or water in there. The users had to traverse the length across to the bath-room to perform their ablutions. The lavatory was visible directly from Mylvaganam’s veranda, although the coconut grove and wildly sprouting cherry and mango trees prevented an easy peek. There were enough ventilation holes between the planks of the loose structure of the lavatory, which was quite obviously an after-thought in the building of the Temple as it did not seem to blend naturally with the rest of the Temple, its brick walls and stone columns, its wide pavements of stone slabs, its ornate sculptural efforts in odd places, its general appearance of white-wash mixed with pink paint. With the exception of the mess the cows made and the shamelessly peeking weeds between the stone slabs on the pavement, it was a well-swept and well-watered place, though, by any stretch of the imagination, it was impossible to keep clean or free from foul smells.

 

 

© T.Wignesan 1967
                        Chapter Two : NIGHT SOIL TALK

 

            In places on this rubbish dump, dry, saliva-inducing billows of raspish smoke rose in fluffy curls. It was due to damp grass and lalang catching fire from one dumping to another, overnight. The Sanitary Board, either out of a lack of foresight or sheer oversight on paper directives, started the dumping of the town’s rubbish bins right near the heart of the town, where once, there were the glimmerings of a swamp, and each dumping, shaped lop-sided mounds and groves through which strained the tensile stems of fuming undergrowth and lalang. Fortunately though, for the residents of this area on the West Road to the coast, the night soil was carefully transported every night --that is, when the West-district, night soil crewmen were not themselves down with dysentery -- only to be haphazardly dumped inland (under one-foot of earth), against the hills in and about an area set aside for five-year plans and housing development schemes. And neither the East side, nor the West, and for that matter, because of the land-locked valley, drained by a muddy, sluggish river --the North and South too-- were spared the just quota of flies of a Blake-ian variety, from each diurnally-breeding cycle. Aptly too, the road on which --not along which-- this rubbish dump lay was called Temple Road, for some strange reason, perhaps because it wound round dismally and broken by the back-hand of the river, turned and ended up quizzically into another road bearing a Buddhist Temple, the only one of its kind which, once a year, collected a multi-racial worshipful of Sinhalese and Chinese, and a whole lot of others as sightseers on Wesak Day. The soft, decomposing belly of this dump emitted smells that could domesticate rotten blachan, and its treacherous, sub-cutaneous layers, locked in cigarette tins, sardine cuts and kerosine two-gallon tins, invited the local assortment of snakes as an habitual romping ground. Pariah dogs and stray broods of cats, slime-drenched to the claws, glowered among themselves in the dark, fuming nights, late into the interstices of a dizzily vaporising moon. Not just because the night-soilers rendez-vous-ed here, the late-nighters, living along the safe banks of the Klang river, took care to detour round to the other end of Temple Road. There was something, they said, spooky by night here. The whole dump actually heaved on occasions and shifted for obvious reasons with the mass of subterranean activity. It was not soil; it was not land: it was a kind of island, a stretch of vulcanising earth. It was the night-soil carriers’ perfect hideout, the prearranged excavation site, the select and correct pick-up place for those whose work began at the stroke of midnight --when even the flash of headlamps on cars, briefly tracing the surfaces of the roads and the by-walkers along the sideboards, disappeared-- and which abruptly ended at the first cock-crow. Quite in order therefore, no-one need have seen this West-section crew. There was the night soil man himself, two scrawny women : one the mother of the other around fourteen, another truck-loader who merely placed the rubber pots in strict order in the van as they were lifted and handed to him by the women, and there was Hassan, the van driver.

     In one of the shacks near the river bank the pallid yellow flame of a kerosine lamp blanked out once in a while. A figure moved about in there. Except for the mooing of cows, the howling of dogs and an occasional police truck moving down Lornie Road, nothing disturbed the silence. But the cats and dogs scavenging on the dump observed the quiet, too. The moon was hardly visible and then only through shifting clouds, when the place and figures and trees could clearly be sketched against the white-washed walls and gaps in the sky, between the hills. Otherwise, the lights from Chinatown in the town centre, which kept open late, reflected from the low-hanging clouds spilled a glow over the dump and the outlying area; the heart of this glow was amber, but it was impenetrable, although it gave a false sense of making things visible.

     On a disintegrating, sawn-off tree stump crouched Thoadtee, in the habitual dozing posture, and though quite awake, his head was stuck and supported between his knees, his ears stopped. He had been there at his customary seat that no one else dared to usurp, for some half an hour and scarcely shifted. In the lambent darkness, even from a few yards away, you would think he was part of the decaying stump. A piece of hemp held up his short hose, his charred sleeveless, collarless and button-less shirt hung down, almost covering his pants. It covered it completely when he stood up though. He had never known underwear. Whatever he did, he hardly raised his eyes from his feet. If he did you were not the wiser. Thus his expression was that of one contemplating his toes which were in any case bleached and spotted to the under-skin, and because of this, gave the impression that they were all bone from sole to shin. He had never known shoes either.

     His soles seeped out from under and formed a sort of a hard bulging fringe that made his feet look like webs, the toes stretching claw-like and skewered, blistered and knobbed at their ends. All the nails had broken and fallen off, and in their places, either nothing grew or in one or two, a hard, rounded, downward curling nail or claw rooted itself. His feet did not fit or even seem to belong to the rest of his body. Even the veins under taut skin knotted as though no blood coursed through them. They looked the cleanest part of him though. His stout, stumpy legs were covered with long black hair, barely concealing the blotches of fresh wounds and sores and old scars --big, oval shaped, wart-like scars, stretching around varicose veins. The calves and heavy bones gave his strength away, although the thighs thinned in muscular movement, like his arms, while his hands resembled his feet : stubby fingers, bleached palms, thick, broad, jagged nails and the back of his hands, when he stretched them, close with myriads of lines, black with thick fleshy skin. A prominent square chin jutted with his downward gaze on a broad, flat face. The sockets of his eyes, deep and furried, crinkled his epicanthic folds. During the day his eyes were never visible. Although he had sharp brow ridges, his forehead was full and quite rounded, but the occiput flattened and disappeared while the neck seemed only to be connected to his skull by folds of skin. The high nose broadened on dilating nostrils and sharply lined crease-like fa ling lines collected together in a notch from a full mouth and hollow cheeks. A perpetual stubble filled his face, in places gleaned over by spaces of Spanish rot. Irregular wiry hair --haphazardly grey, white and black, oily and caked with dust-- trailed all over the sides of his large head. Because of this, his ears were not noticeable. His most prominent feature was that he was hairy all over, and it showed through on his barrel-chest and scoured all over his palish, dusky skin. He hardly ever saw the sun, and now, another feature was taking over. In some parts, along his hands, feet and lips, his skin was turning pink, and this would probably make him look like an albino sooner or later. He was capable of such absolute quiet, a sort of brooding stillness, which made you feel surrounded; you could feel him like a mountain around you ; he stifled your thoughts. There was almost, under his non-committal calm exterior, a blatant aggressiveness, which, if you tried to define by observation, turned into what seemed like blithe indifference. He had the quality of being able to give offence to his superiors, who were just about everybody, and yet he could affect the posture of remaining within his place, an aura of being constantly beaten settling about him. You wanted him to look at you full in the face precisely because of this, for you were never sure, if he was naturally arrogant or spiteful in a frightened manner. And yet, when you confronted him, he never turned his head away, like other night soil men, who sort of spoke to you from the sides of their mouths. Perhaps he looked at you all the time. You could never tell because of his epicanthic folds. Even if you didn’t look at him or weren’t aware of his being around, what you most certainly felt was his presence, although you could have smelled him long before that.

            I guess this is going to be a sloppy month..... there’s a touch of gastric flu about, I should think.... last night, I felt it..... as I swung the first pot over my shoulder down Vanar Kampung, a viscous string of shit ringed my ear.... or else, it seems their aim isn’t any good any more... by the beard of my ears.... it must be time now..... what the damn-bloody hell is keeping the sanitary truck..... given half a chance these damn mosquitoes will hack their way into my viscera.... if it is going to be anything like that Year of the Grand Big Shit of '43, I think I’ll quit the honourable profession...... that fatty-fellow Health Inspector argued with that hefty Sikh..... salmonella one said no damn trichinosis the fatty yelled... the Chinese they don’t boil or fry their pork enough, they agreed  how can you, when you merely fling the shreds of trichinosis down into the greasy pan and fish it out without stoking the fire..... Allahma it’s got to do with the green they throw in with the meehoon (ricesticks).... the fertilizer shit pockmarking the leaves and stem they cannot see long enough to wash..... little wonder they say it tastes lovely.... i don’t know but sometimes i myself stop noticing or feeling  the stuff all over my bleeding self... like that underwearless woman sitting on her butt  over there.... the van broke down near the Third Mile the other night and i was suddenly doing her down the hume-pipe by the monsoon drain and she gaily digs her finger into my arse.... extracts it and delivers it a long, loving sniff with her nostrils stuck half-way down her finger.... glory be.... why would she work as a night soil attendant-carrier...... there’s no telling what puritanical homes they come from.... ooooooo.. these repressed rumps.... all they want is to do the strip-tease among vulgarly reacting strangers.... the sex act is the sadistic part of the ritual.. oooooo... for the life of me she is edging up now drawing her arse on that gravel patch.... if she comes any nearer  i’d turn over and bare myself on her face..... so there..... so, Muniammal, if the truck breaks down tonight and Hassan dozes off on the wheel, some buckets down Third Mile are going to stop-up the way i do you..... what the dung is keeping Hassan from showing up..... my, these mosquitoes sting the prod-piece too.... there.... look at her now, she’s got both her armpits on her knees..... did they think of that in the Kama Sutra..... raking her bottom as she grinds away at the areca-nut and betel leaves..... squirt.... there... she managed to splotch the skewered soya-sauce tin full of the pan juice.... aaaah... that reminds me, Hassan ought to be here now..... the drowsy heads are sallying forth from the late-night shows.... i can hear them singing the hit lilts which they had carefully memorised even before seeing the film.... now its already time for the fat juicy bottoms after bumping and thudding on plank floors to squirt away the gut-rot curry and chillies they used all day to work themselves up with.... it’s dark out there in the back-lanes of my beats and these late-night squirters really are a nuisance.... they leave me half-filled pots from last night and no sooner I’ve fixed the old ones and put in fresh empty pots they start squirting and complain to the Sanitary Board that i don’t remove or clean their lavs..... go on squirt, squirt to your..... till you burst... i’ll come by and give you a start.... the hind quarters of these kampungs are never even penetrated by the electric lights they have in their kitchen areas and that’s it..... the other day, I was minding my business.... you see, i do it this way.... first, i lift up the rubber flaps of all the lavs in one row of houses just so that it’s easy to start pulling and pushing the pots without having to use both hands... i had done this…  completed the formula.... and in the meantime, one squirter had already perched himself or herself.... and i started replacing the pots from the other end.... i don’t know i must have been far too quiet.... i was getting far too adept at this run for so long already, i could do the job with my eyes shut.... knew exactly how much shit to expect from each pot and used just that amount of strength to lift the pots out.... then i came to house n° 2 on the row, and for some reason, it was stuck.... the pot was so full of newspapers that i had to jerk it out and with it came a dhoti or saree and a huge yell a frightful yell that really got all the dogs in the neighbourhood up and baying.... my i bet no one heard of this incident again and the lost saree or dhoti ... never examined it myself... too drenched it was.... so there you are, some people fall asleep even in the lavs and with all that stealthy wind fanning the odours from under.... perhaps it’s the stench that makes them drowsy enough to fall asleep squatting.....  after all these years it has got so i cannot keep awake without the familiar smells and stinks of my clients’ shit..... guess they are just overpowered by their own shitty selves..... nothing like being in the shit business yourself.... i recommend it.... you are immunised.... you dispense it.... they swallow it that’s the difference..... by my bleaching albino skin the way these peoples go at it one would think they enjoyed shitting on others more than eating.... eat to shit rather than eat.... and then shit to eat that’s the Brahman cycle the sleep of Gods to keep them going from age to age to keep them safe and sound for a return performance... they can keep all their glory and show it all on Judgement Day.... i’ll have none of that reincarnation no oneness with the Atman either just one shitty view of this world... and i’ve had enough.... and so they sit and shit... and spit.... yee that too so long as it lands on others or us who wash it all away...... if this gastric flu takes on so this month i guess i’ll just have to pack it in with an enteritis complaint.... and let them all wallow in their shits..... or else i’ll sleep it out in my hole and it’ll be some good few days before they find me though.... the thing about this shammy middle-class lot.... they won’t come right out and speak to you... they’ll pass the word round to some gardener and the gardener will pass the word round to some driver and the driver would pass the word round to his boss-man and the lawyer-boss would order his clerk to speak to his servant and the servant would then piss it out to his paramour sweeping the drains in a third-class ward section in the shaky general hospital..... my that’s already some fifty miles the word has gone around already.... and then the underwearless sweeper will approach her husband with the request to locate me and find out why i had not emptied the pots the previous day... and she will then receive a plethora of abuse and a few blows for such a request since he would claim he was of a better higher caste than me.... and God knows what that class is.... and all this time no one would have the gumption to wait for me here (not that I blame them) or ring up the Sanitary Board and enquire if  i collected my daily wage.... it’s too respectable a way to contact me... but in the end it’s always that Biru-Biru fellow bless his happy soul who manages to get me sitting on this dump.... talk of shit why where the blazes do they get all this rubbish from and right in the middle of town too.... how appropriate.... they got the State Toddy Shop too right beside this dump.... thank goodness for that, the Vanar Kampung toddy inspector... bless his soul... hope it doesn’t have to transmigrate through the ages.... leaves me a jug now and then.... how they glare at me when i appear once in a while during the evenings for a bowlfull.... not for the inspector fella i’d be arrested i suppose..... so here we are on the rubbish dump waiting.... waiting to receive what others out of their joy give and give without question or relent.... if only they could move our assembly joint to some other place.... the blackguards, they don’t realise what these insects, mosquitoes and rubbish can do.... the cats... the dogs... they call them pariah dogs too.... and snakes... what about pariah snakes..... they live by night too..... goddamnit i found a lovely pair of  canvass shoes the other day on this dump --some rising badminton player’s I expect-- and the rascal Overseer boss would not let me wear it during my scavenging beat... when can i wear it then… when i’m invited to the Annual Royal Military Tattoo ... balls all these Overseer buggers... how did they think up this job --they as a post do not exist... they are neither here nor there... and they are not in between either... they have to kowtow to every damn official to boot... so, how did such a breed come into being... they never really work.... they never get promoted.... are they better paid... so what the hell.... who thought up these peoples who stand and shout...... canvass shoes are alright even if you can’t wear them.... at least you can hang them up in the shack for all to see when everybody is around in daylight.... but as things stand no Overseer can tell me to take my headlamp off.... boy things are beginning to happen around here ever since that General fella was sent to run the country.... why i skipped doing the Simpang Lima section because of the curfew.... thanks to the insurgents or do they call them terrorists… a convenient word.... that will teach them to go shooting at everybody without even aiming...... hugh…only two hours they had in which to do their shopping and feeding everyday and night.... even the cows and pigs and and fowl had to wallow in their dung and mire..... and the fools came up with the information at the end of the two weeks..... well perhaps not exactly fools..... i bet they had had enough of carrying their own shit around with them.... for what he has done to the golfers i’m all for the General Commissioner not to mention of course the breaks i get with the curfews..... damn if this Hassan feller doesn’t turn up soon.... i bet he’ll come swinging his truck into this rubbish dump and puncture all four wheels and say that he was delayed because he had had an attack of diarrhoea..... the bugger.... now he’s got his head up in Hari Raya..... the General is cleaning and mopping up the jungles of the last breath of Chinese assertion just so that he can hand the country back to the privileged classes and they are going to sit on us till we all cut our foreskins and kiss the floor crouching..... and when it pinches in the buttocks we won’t be allowed to cry out in anything but Malay...... bully to you Hassan..... then you can become a little squirter yourself and i’ll wash up after you have fouled and farted in style....... by God and all the Brahmins shaven by his gaze  it has got to be us pariahs who clean up these bursting backs...... dragged out of India, kicked out of Ceylon and shat upon here by two successive waves of conquerors.... my these are advanced thinkers these buggers..... they’ve got around to thinking about an hydro-electric project five year plans multi-million dollar dual-carriageways new stadium new mosques everywhere even if you you look with your eyes closed... but.... but a sewer..... why... so long as we can all squirt in style…

     A stealthy, between-the-ankles breeze stirred among the water-logged rushes of the dump and wafted to the dense nostrils of the night soil man and burnt itself out in the smouldering fires on the littered humps of the dump in pale, steamy fumes. Aandy, the truck-hand, stretched out on the dipped and chipped gravel road, stirred, raucously cleared his throat and spat out a red gob of pan juice which trailed in a spidery, saliva-lashed lump and landed dead centre on the driveway, picked out by the dim lights of the night soil van, revving as it turned in from the main, tarred, Brickfields Road. Other night soil carriers, huddled in knots at the other end of the dump, near the toddy shop, let out yelps --clipped sounds of joy that were neither canine nor human, devoid of any resonance, sharp and minute-- as they thought their respective vans had arrived. Headlamps were switched on by the three respective night soil men -- only heads of crews were fitted with miners’ headlamps-- just as if to flag down an air-liner, down the lampless runaway. The van with Hassan at the wheel swung round at the entrance to the dump, rammed up a heap of slushy rot, barely missing the Thoadtee himself, and routed the two yelling, yelping women and the truck-hand before its bulldozer thrust. There was a fearless urgency and playful daring in their voices as they danced about in the stillness and darkness, every moment an effort full of jerkiness. They hovered, clinging and shouting, on the driver’s door, as he fumbled with his gear and brakes and halted, rocking his van, and then he backed the van, to face the main road. The yelping stopped as soon as the engine quietened down. The headlamps at the end of the dump were switched off in disappointment. From out of no where, the loosely turbaned and well-swathed body of the Overseer emerged, only his dull-white dhoti and thalapa (headgear) being visible. He had his cane walking-stick with him, which he whisked about freely as he moved. He raised it and yelled: HASSAN!

     The truck rocked a bit. The brakes jammed jerkingly. Hassan dropped out of the high seat. The mumbling noises of the two women plugged up at the sight of the Overseer. Hassan clasped his songkok in his hands, out of respect, and while dusting his brass-buttoned, khaki tunic shamily, loped up to the Overseer, over the broken bottles and cans and scrounging dogs smelling around a female in heat, barely escaping being bitten, and calling out to Allah for having been graced by canine lust. He came and stood in front of the Overseer who had perched himself on a stone parapet which enabled a monsoon drain to bypass the dump to the river at the back of the toddy shop.

     « What yoo! Yoo know what time now? » queried the Overseer in Malay, trying very hard to sound somewhat annoyed.

     « No, sah! » said Hassan, looking askance and then, apprehensively, behind him. A pariah dog waddled up to him just then and suspiciously sniffed his legs and arse. « Aiyoh, you babi-binatang (pig-swine), » yelled Hassan.

     « What that? » The Overseer’s eyes widened and he took a step backwards and nearly toppled over the parapet.

     « The pariah dog! babi-binatang! », groaned Hassan while he picked up a stone and flung it violently over the heads of the courting dogs and dented his van’s mud-guard. « Allahma, how can, how can, » he spluttered.

     In the meantime, the subdued and flustered Overseer recovered himself and taking Hassan’s arm, stretched out at arms length, imperiously conducted him in the direction of the van, knocking one or two dogs about with his walking-stick. When Hassan was in the relative safety of his driver’s seat, he offered the following explanation for his lateness; no one was certain how late he was as no one had a watch with him, then.

     « Allahma, sah, I beringing lorry near railway stashen an’ my stomak, la, it pain an’ pain ; so I take lorry back to Kampung Baru. My stomak, sah, very bad, it pain, la, so, so big. How can, how can, jes donno la! » He shook his head, wiped his brow with his black-cloth songkok and fixing it wholly on his tousled scalp, struggled with his brakes and surged the van forward to what remained of the gravel road, nearly running over two furiously mating dogs in the process. Aandy had already perched himself on the top of the van ; the two ladies ran after it and swung themselves onto the back of the van, which was like the footway of a railway-guard’s van on a goods-train, with railings to hold on to and a space to put bottoms on and let the legs hang freely. The whole body of the van was partitioned into rows, of three layers, with lids on top and at the back, just sufficiently wide enough to accommodate the regulation rubber pots. Thoadtee had hardly stirred from his original position. The Overseer yelled out after Hassan and just managed to halt the van. Hassan dared not step out.

     « How can... la, Hassan, you forget, la, pots for Vanar Kampung... the new ones. If yoo don’ take new pots, yai yaddit, la. Somebody make complain’. They go’ Minister friend in gaveermen’. Yoo know, la, what happen then. I go lose my Overseer post and become thoadtee like yooo, la. »

     « Allahma, yavverybody go shitting nowadays, only, » gasped Hassan and Thoadtee got up unhurriedly, grabbed the new rubber pots, almost bright pink with unuse an flung them straight into one of the chutes in the van which Aandy kept open. For a while Thoadtee savoured the untarnished rubber, rubbing his hands and sniffing at his fingers ; it gave off a strong smell of burnt latex or caoutchouc, for once a welcome change in the familiar smells. He heaved as the van pulled out with a jerk, drew one leg up and rested his chin on one knee. Headlamps came on from the other end of the dump as yelps went up into the thinning air ; dogs barked and growled, and the rush of bare feet on the gravel receded......

 

 

 

     The appearance of Biru-Biru at the other end of the dump was enough to cause a commotion, let alone fright, even if it were not for the fact that he came looking for the Night Soil Man of the Brickfields crew. Biru-Biru was the overall boss of the West Section crews, although his duties as Health Inspector in the municipality entailed far more duties like slaughter-house supervision, catering inspection and mosquito or malarial control. As far as the night soil crews were concerned, he was the ultimate authority in this town, for they never came into contact with anyone else in the hierarchy, excepting the Overseer and the Pay-Clerk. And all the commotion would have come to nothing had Biru-Biru only condescended to enter the dump from the Brickfields Road end; instead, buoyed by his feelings of fresh importance, ever since Lawyer Koveeyan let it out that he could become his election agent, he was in too much of a hurry to let everybody in the government quarters of the Hundred Houses know the latest news about his sudden elevation in the higher echelons of power. Ultimately, that is, before the night was over, he hoped the news would reach his Health Officer’s ears. The Health Officer lived in a semi-cement bungalow on the Temple Road end, near the Buddhist temple. So, Biru-Biru took care to get off the bus at the Hundred Houses arrêt, rushed into his mother’s house in Block C, hurried her into giving him some leftover stringhoppers with cold curry, related everything that had happened at the plenary session as he saw it all between mouthfuls --told her that he was about to be made a politician-- and dashed out with his bike, (the seat of which was shoulder-high), without washing his hands and his right hand reeked of turtle curry, which is the only Indian culinary smell that could in any way rival the worm-eaten, prawn-paste of Malay blachan stench. At first, he tried to get on his bike, but decided against it and freewheeled it along, looking into every open veranda to see if there was a light in sight. Several clerks hailed him, but he hadn’t any time for them, and he was getting a bit desperate for someone important to tell his story to, when Palani, an Income-Tax sub-accountant, accosted him.

            « I say, Beeru-Beeru, where to now? So late? Just coming and going, eh ? »

            « Aaaah, Palani.... yes... yes... Just got some business to take care.... »

            « What, so late? » Palani put his arm around Biru-Biru’s shoulders and walked along. « Tell me, how’s the conference going? »

            « What! You know about it too! » He feigned incredulity and was pleased the subject was brought up so very easily. « You know what, Palani, I am getting really tired with this thing. Just work, work and work and no pay. And when I have done everything, planned everything and when the conference is over as a grand success, nobody is bothered to remember what work was put into it all. What do you think? » He paused and sighed. « Anyway, as for me, I am just doing it because our Right Honourable K. asked me to. If you don’t believe me, go right ahead, ask him. »

            « Now what will I want to do that for? »

            « What the bugger, I didn’t ask to be voted into the same managing committee as our Rt. Hon. in the Tamilian Sports Association, I tell you, but there you have it, I was. And so one morning, his driver comes round to my house, right here, with a note. And do you know what that note said? Would you oblige us with a visit. Signed, the Right Honourable. So, so, now I am in the conference preparations and planning right down to my knees. To tell you the truth, I am only doing it all for him. »

     In the meantime, they had passed the remaining blocks of the Hundred Houses and unknowingly passed the Health Officer’s bungalow too. When Biru-Biru realised this, he was furious with himself. Very adeptly he swung his bike round and began to walk back. Palani desisted and was about to separate, when Biru-Biru attempted to coax him.

            « Come, come, Palani. Just come la. I have to tell you something. We’ll smoke a cheroot down near there and talk. »

            « Where?” said the tense Palani, who was scanning the hedges all the time they were talking for a nice tree to slosh.

            « You know.... there...there » Biru-Biru pointed vaguely, but all the time, wanting to get back to the bungalow, which had a road lamp just at the front gate. He knew that if he could attract enough attention, the Health Officer was bound to come out and ask him some questions; in any case, he felt he could quickly enough supply the answers. Palani, like any one else at the Hundred Houses, had no desire whatsoever to pass up a chance on the local gossip and so, they walked back and halted under the road lamp and lighted up cheroots. Biru-Biru leant on his bike, put a foot on the pedal, facing the Health Officer’s front door. There was a light in the rear veranda and the bedroom. Under the front porch, a black dog, tied to a post, growled. Palani turned and winced, even though the gate was bolted.

            « Never mind that Alsatian; I know it, you know, » consoled Biru-Biru. Reassured, Palani positioned his spine along the rough, wooden lamp post, drew one foot out of his leather sandals, and balanced himself with his tucked-under sole.

            « So, as I was telling you, Palani, man, there is no good in all this activity. The only thing that pays is politics. You can talk and talk on culture or anything like that, it will get us no where, I tell you. » He must have felt he was not loud enough. So he cleared his throat loudly and coughed a couple of times for good measure and continued. « As I was saying, this is why I have decided to take on the offer. » And he looked again and again at the bedroom lights. There was no response.

            « What offer? » Palani asked.

            « What, man, didn’t I tell you. I am sorry, I thought I told you. » Then, in a matter of fact manner, he said: « Just nothing really, only that our Right Honourable proposed and announced today at the conference meeting that he wants me to be his election agent. » But he rolled all this out in a voice that was coolly directed at the bedroom window, and for some reason, got Palani up in a rage, probably because he expected to hear some juicy gossip, just for which he gave up a good slosh.

            « Adeeappa ! What the hec you call me for this? An’ whattayu looking and looking at that room for? » He had raised his voice so very quickly, that although it had the effect Biru-Biru desired, Biru-Biru was unnecessarily taken aback and managed to get his dhoti caught on the pedal he had been gently rotating backwards as he talked. At the same moment, while bending to extract the dhoti, his bike careened over and the pedal hit his shin-bone and tore his dhoti and Biru-Biru yelled in real pain as Palani tried to steady him.

            « What the damn.... leave me alone..... stop pushing... hey... hey.. »

The dog was up and barking. The front porch light came on, and a European in a dressing-gown descended the stairs and collared his dog. It shut up. From the distance, the two looked like they were having a fight.

            « Take your hands of me! » yelled Biru-Biru.

            « What man, I’m doing nothing, just... helping, » cried Palani.

            « Is that you, H.I.? » called an English voice from the porch.

            « Yes, Sir. Sir, H.I. West Section, Sir. »

            « Are you on holiday? »

            « No, Sir, I am not taking holidays until next year... Sir. »

            « Well, then, what the hell are you doing here, raising a ruckus! Aren’t you supposed to check on your night soil crews? » There was complete silence as Biru-Biru looked utterly astonished. « D’you know what time it is? Uh, H.I.?”

          In the meantime, Biru-Biru had lost complete control of himself, but in the fright, managed to collect himself and his bike.

            « Sorry.... Sir.... awfully sorry Sir... but... but… this vagabond is giving me trouble, Sir. Sure, Sir, I am going right there.... now, Sir.... sorry Sir, it will never happen again, Sir. Sir, Goodnight Sir. I hope you have a good night Sir, sleeping. »

          Palani, by this time, unable to hold on any longer, had found himself a nice hedge.

            « Goodnight, Sir.... » Biru-Biru ran with his bike until he came to the last lamp-post on the road, and leaning the bike against the post mounted, and with a push against the post, pedalled.

          Biru-Biru’s short, stubby legs never quite reached down to the full circle of the pedals, and yet, he never bothered to lower the seat. His posterior enveloped the seat and his tummy hung down and sagged on the bar, and he propelled himself on the gravel path by looking down and aiming kicks at the pedals. And it was thus he emerged at the toddy-shop end of the dump and braked and supported himself with one foot on a perforated, rubbish bin. Two night soil men switched on their headlamps. Other women and truck hands yelped and jerked.

            « MUNIAAAANDDEEEEE.... » yelped Biru-Biru.

One ageing night soil man came forward, and as his bow legs waddled, the headlamp rocked.

            « Turn your bloody lamp on the other side, » Biru-Biru yelled in Tamil.

The night soil man did so.

            « Where is the Brickfields Thoadtee? Dey? »

The night soil man merely pointed an arm in the direction of the other end of the dump where the truck was pulling out.

            « Go get him, you fool. » He lit his cheroot again and puffed. After a few puffs, the Overseer came over and saluted Biru-Biru.

            « O.K. O.K. Never mind all that, where is the bugger? »

            « He go now carrying shit sah! »

          Biru-Biru swore and coughed.

            « O.K. Where he go first?

            « Vanar Kampung, sah. »

            « O.K. O.K. » and putting steel in his voice, « and what are these buggers doing here Uh? Overseer? What do you think the time is now? » Biru-Biru strained so hard that he let out an explosive fart and startled himself in the process. This seemed to subdue him, but the Overseer couldn’t manage to hide his obvious glee, and Biru-Biru put steel into his voice: « See me in the morning. Sharp eight o’clock. Do you hear? » He wanted to get out of there in a hurry but couldn’t as the bin was not firm and heavy enough to be able to propel himself against it. So, quite unceremoniously, he got down and wheeled his bike out of the dump. He could hear the women helpers giggling. The men were quiet.

          Biru-Biru’s quite exquisite lady-like features made his plain awkwardness of movement look somewhat fine too, except that the flab under his chin gave him an aggressive look. Just then, because of his efforts to catch up with the thoadtee on the van, his entire torso became moist from the sweat dripping down his chin. As he hurtled down the driveway, along Vanar Kampung, he saw to his great relief the green sanitary van, parked almost in the middle of the road. It was quite safe, for it was about one o’clock then, and hardly a vehicle passed as they all took the Lornie Road to town. Hassan kept the engine running since a cool wind had started up from the river. Biru-Biru heard the sharp clap of metal lids falling on the chutes and thought the van was about to move. So, balancing down-slope on the freewheeling bike, he yelled at the top of his voice and clapped his hands. The two women were sitting on the road, keeping their bottoms warm while resting their arms on the wheels. Although night soil workers were easily frightened by any amplified human sound, particularly from civilised folk, they hardly paid attention to their problems as they naturally felt there was nothing they could do about such people. So, it was, they turned a deaf ear to Biru-Biru. Aandy, who was on the top of the van, adjusting the pots full of shit in their chutes, yelled out to the women to collect the pots left by the Night Soil Man at the entrance to the path leading to the kampung. Hassan fell asleep in his seat and forgot to cut his engine. The feat of clapping while cruising was too much for Biru-Biru, and because he had his eyes fixed on the van, he failed to see that his handle pointed away from the road, and it was only in the nick of time, he noticed, and skilfully jumped and plopped down on the road, and let his bike hurtle into the monsoon drain alongside. If anything, he was feeling quite pleased with himself for his amazing agility. For a moment though, he was stunned, despite his great yell. The noise of the crashing bike woke Hassan up, who taking this for a cue to pull out, revved his engine and threw the gear into position. The van lurched and the engine cut instantly. Aandy lost his balance and the women barely escaped being scraped as they began to stretch after Aandy’s commands. Biru-Biru, twisting and knotting his dhoti, around his waist, and running all the time, was on the spot in an instant, and his voice, for once, sounded quite manly and authoritative. Soon enough, everyone, including Hassan, were down and lined up behind the van.

            « Where is thoadtee? » he wanted to know, but he didn’t appear to be irate. Aandy said he was still doing the rounds in the kampung. Biru-Biru was about to swear, when the first hint of shit-stink hit him with the breeze lifting full-blast as he unwittingly moved close to a few shit-pots that had just been emptied into other less filled ones in the chutes.

            « My God! » he cried. « What the hell have you got there! »  He spat furiously on the road and retreated a few paces, and finding that this was no good either, quickened his pace till he came to a low, wooden bridge some thirty yards away. He motioned to them to get on with their work. From the bridge, he could already see the bobbing headlamp of the Night Soil Man, coming nearer and nearer towards the road. His strides were firm and wide. On his right shoulder he balanced with one hand, a rubber pot full of shit, and when he had got close enough to the van, he swung it down, without spilling even a string of shit, with the same hand and turned to pick up the empty pots. They told him. He looked up and towards the bridge. He crossed over to the sideboard and wiped his hands on the fresh, wet grass. Then he plucked some long grass and some lalang and proceeded to clean himself, his legs and then his arms with each handful. Biru-Biru watched all this with interest, but was getting quite fidgety at the same time. He beckoned to him, and the Night Soil Man stretched himself up to his full height --about six feet-- and started towards the bridge. He came and stood at one end of the bridge while Biru-Biru stammered at the centre, leaning on the rail.

            « Deh, I want you for a special job. Good money.... er… e… plenty. I am... picking you specially...., for this occasion. » Suddenly he sniffed the air aggressively and backed away automatically a couple of paces, and dropping his stammer, said: « Do you know the Mariamman Temple? »

         The Night Soil Man, looking straight down between his legs, shook his head.

            « Right, this is what I want you to do. Get this straight once and for always. Day after tomorrow morning, don’t go to sleep. You know when day after tomorrow is?

            The Night Soil Man nodded.

            « All right, what day is it? » demanded Biru-Biru.

            The Night Soil Man shook his head from side to side.

            « Then, what the damn hell do you mean you know when it is?” stormed Biru-Biru. « All right, all right... remember, not today, you know, but tomorrow, ...that is when you finish work the next time round, not today, you understand ? Eh? Do you hear me? »

          .....who the hell does he think he’s fooling the good old fat lum’... i like this guy or else i’d devise a way to flick some shit on him sure i would.... what’s the harm.... it can do good too... it can do everybody some good to have some of it on the skin not just inside where it’s supposed to be all right.... i guess if i took a couple of steps forward he’d run.... may as well try it and see what comes of it.................

            The Night Soil Man shook his head and advanced a couple of paces. Biru-Biru yelled: « Go back, go back! » and recovering himself at the other end of the bridge, shouted: « Dey, stay where you are.... right there... yes ! »

            ...... see what i told ya.....

           Biru-Biru held the end of his tessellated salwar up to his nostrils and blurted out : « So, be there sharp six o’clock, I tell you, Thoadtee. But first, take a bath and put some clean clothes on.........

            ........ the bastard.... who does he think i am... a... priest or something.... new clothes.... a bath.... should ask him for an advance.... but i know what i’ll get though..... best to wait till the damn shit’s over.... who knows if i scavenge around some of these bins i might pick up some damned good stuff and maybe a dip down the third mile well might help to put a shine on my skin.......

            The Night Soil Man was not paying any attention for he knew what they wanted him for. It was obvious....... a lot of urgent shit needs carrying if this guy comes looking for me personally...... There was something of a do going on there in the temple, he had overheard the conversation at somebody’s backdoor while they yelled in the kitchen or copulated, he could not say. The important thing is that on such do’s there’d be grub, and even if there wasn’t any money in it, he knew he wouldn’t have to cook for a week after that.

            « .... yah, fifty cents, if you stay all day and do all we want you to. So, don’t hang around anywhere, just be there sharp six..... »

          ..... the bum what does he think he is.... at six i bet his own pot wouldn’t have been emptied yet.... who is he kidding.... at six..........

            « ..... and if everything goes all right, I promise you a bottle of toddy each day of the conference....... »

           ........ now he’s talking the bum and i’m sure he’d do it too.... no shit.... he just gets it free or he just tells some one else to fetch it for me.... still i must say he’s a good old bloke..... quite dependable.... better be there on time even if nobody starts shitting until after lunch......

            « ..... and so, Thoadtee, » and getting no reply, Biru-Biru yelled, « Dey! Dey! What a fool, are you dead? I am talking to you, you shitty bugger. » The Night Soil Man nodded assent and scratched his neck sheepishly. « And don’t forget, you got to be up and there every day of the conference....... »

           ......i guess he thinks i was asleep just now and don’t really have to sleep during the day now ever or any day.... the blasted buggers.... i wish to hell with you with the temple with......the damned delegates with the priests with the swamis with the lawyers doctors clerks the damned buggers alllllllllalllaaalllla... i wish to hell you guys choke with your own shit and drop into your pots and i’ll come along and gather you guys up one by one and drop you one by one into the chutes and close your mouths and your eyes as after a stroke and gently wipe the shit from your faces and blow your noses for you so that you can all breathe and breathe the damn shit in which you are all stuck in which you stew in which you sleep everyday cuddling the shit you manufacture and all you do gobble out more and more shit from your mouths and put more food in for more shit out your backsides and i’ll come along and wipe you guys and dangle bells over you put napkins round your bottoms and pin them all up and wait and wait for the fun of your shit again and i’ll put another napkin on you.... the hell i’ll learn to put a napkin on you... i’ll put a deathlock on the napkin so tight so firm you’ll puke to shit and the shit can’t come out and it’ll hurt and hurt and you’ll puke and you can’t put more fodder in your mouths for more shit and you can’t talk and talk and you can’t meet to talk and hold conferences for God knows what and you are shitting all the time from your mouths.... and there’ll be no more conferences in His name and no man will meet with His name under his Name and i’ll go on making napkins and napkins and i’ll be in demand and everybody’ll be saying where’s my napkin  i can’t shit today...... and i’ll manufacture them in loads and loads all colours primarily shit colour and i’ll sell them at such high prices and they’ll all be sold out overnight and i’ll raise the price till nobody can buy even one..... until they can’t eat anymore and everybody’ll........

            « Stop it! Stop it! Thoadtee! » he heard Biru-Biru yelling. « Take your hands out of there. See » Just then Thoadtee realised he was scratching his balls. He stopped scratching and saluted Biru-Biru with the same hand, turned and was about to leave when Biru-Biru called out again: « Don’t fail. Be there, I tell you, or I’ll see that you lose this job no matter how much you like this Section. »

           ........ don’t blame the blithering ball scratcher...... he can yell as he likes... he’s still the best guy around..... at least he talks to me.... i wonder if  i’d like him better if he stops shouting and becomes one of those correct buggers careful about what they say and do in front of others yes sir i’ll be there to cart your smells away from your.... from the rosy undersides of your nostrils.

 

 

© T.Wignesan 1967