“What’s that?” he says, sounding irritable. “My parents said to come and get her, so here I am.”

“I’m very sorry.” Sivakami is full of questions she cannot ask: who will greet Thangam on her arrival at their home? Has he made any provisions at all?

Vairum descends the stairs with a towel, scratching his head sleepily, and pulls up short at the sight of his brother-in-law. “Oh, priceless. You know she waited for you for months?”

“Vairum!” Sivakami indicates the back of the house with her chin. “Go take your bath.”

Vairum gives an exaggerated sigh of disgust and turns to go as Goli replies in an ugly tone, “I’ll look after my family, imp, and you take care of yours.”

“You see that you do that,” Vairum tosses back.

“I will.”

It’s a thoroughly adolescent exchange. At least Vairum is an adolescent; Sivakami wonders if Goli is much more.

PART FOUR

19. Keeping Faith in Kulithalai 1917

IN THE YEARS THAT FOLLOW, Sivakami continues giving arm’s-length advice on agricultural business, though she more often shares her opinions with Muchami than with her son. The servant faithfully reports all matters in which he feels he needs her approval, as well as discussing with her issues in which different approaches might be entertained. Vairum tells her nothing of what he sees or learns on his rounds, but he does discuss these in detail with Muchami, either at the end of the day or when they make rounds together, and so Sivakami knows her feelings are being communicated, though in the guise of Muchami’s own opinions. In this way, then, Muchami functions as her proxy, even with her son, when it comes to matters from which the world-and Vairum in particular-thinks her better excluded. She’s not sure why Vairum doesn’t discuss these matters with her: he seems to consider it a waste of time since she has no direct involvement. Nor has he ever indulged her basic curiosity about his life and interests, or about the world that has been, for so long, beyond her witness. It never seems to occur to him that she might have a perspective of value, and in this arena, where he has the right and confidence to do well on his own, she doesn’t want to press.

Thangam returns for the birth of her second child, bringing her first. When the time comes, Sivakami births this child, as she did Thangam’s first. Why? Because she attended the first, and both children have lived. One of the principles of a superstitious society is: don’t fool with working formulas. If once a practice has a good result, it becomes a tradition; to change it would be arrogance against fate.

One day, at her usual time, Gayatri comes brimming with news and sits in the courtyard, within earshot of Thangam in the birth room, Muchami and Mari weaving thatch and sorting rice at their posts and Sivakami in the kitchen.

“I don’t know if you heard,” she says. “It’s too terrible. That woman, Madam Besant, who has been agitating for independence, was interned a couple of weeks ago. Anyway, it has made her more popular than ever!” She holds a rolled-up newspaper in her lap.

“Jail?” Muchami asks doubtfully.

“Oh, yes! Do you remember who she is, Sivakamikka? She’s the English lady, head of that theosophical society, the crackpot.”

“She’s a great friend to Brahmins,” Mari contributes without raising her eyes from the rice grains she is sorting, tossing them in a shallow three-sided basket. “One of my relatives said she thinks we should return to Manu’s laws.”

“True, but she doesn’t even know what she’s saying.” Gayatri might sound as though she’s questioning non-Brahmins who admire Brahmin principles too intensely, but in fact it’s simply that it spoils her pleasure to tell a story to anyone who disagrees with her, even by a shade. “She doesn’t know any Sanskrit, or any other Indian language, and she advocates breaking down caste and giving full voting representation to everyone.” Gayatri knows Mari can’t approve of this. She continues. “It’s of real importance that she be brought down. The talk is that she is heading for Congress leadership. She says everything those independence types want her to.” Gayatri reflexively lowers her voice as though she doesn’t want to be overheard. “There has been a rash of articles lately, mostly written by one very interesting doctor, a Nair. He started the Justice Party-you know, they are firmly against this independence nonsense. So this week, he wrote a column about the behaviour of Madam Besant’s theosophical colleague, that Mr. Charles Leadbeater. You don’t want to know the details, but he behaved very improperly, with young boys, and it’s not good for voters-well, for anyone, to forget that kind of association. And so my husband added his voice to the chorus. Look!”

She opens the paper that she has been clutching, the Madras Mail, an English-language daily aimed at the Madras Presidency’s British business class. She folds it back to the letters page and points at one item, a few paragraphs long, circled in ink. “My husband wrote it.” She holds it longer than necessary under each eager nose: Sivakami is only functionally literate in Tamil, and Mari and Muchami not even that; none of them could pick English out of a lineup. Even Gayatri knows only from the position of the masthead whether she’s holding the paper upside down.

“He signed it ‘Keeping the Faith.’ It’s mostly about the need to preserve the empire, you know, continuity, India ’s rightful place in the world.”

Vairum arrives at the salon as Minister is arranging the papers on a settee: the Madras Mail is on the top of the pile, folded to display the letters page. One letter is circled in red ink, and Vairum picks the paper up to have a closer look at it. Minister winks at him.

One reason Vairum attends the salon whenever he can is to work on his English, which is still rudimentary, though quickly improving. While some of the conversation eludes him, he finds phrases echoing in his head later and tries them on his English tutor, or on Minister himself, who has agreed, at Vairum’s request, to speak to him only in that language.

Vairum runs his eyes along the lines of print with controlled desperation.

Sir-

(At least he knows that word, commonly used in Tamil for “teacher.”)

I am pleased to add my voice to the welcome cacophony which has greeted Mrs. Besant’s internment. Nothing is resolved without discussion, and I am certain this tempest will be confined in an appropriate teapot before long. I want to register my displeasure with Madam Besant’s reported increased popularity of which we, even so far away as Kulithalai Taluk, Thiruchinapalli District, have heard. Be assured that there are many in the provinces dedicated to the progressive aims of the Empire, Brahmins and non-Brahmins alike, and who understand that membership in the British family offers our motherland, India, her best chance for continuing her advance into the ranks of the world’s great nations. If there are those who now know nothing more than Madam Besant’s name and fame, and think, on that basis, to be led by her, this is but mere fad-which always shortly changes to “fade.”

Respectful regards,

Keeping Faith in Kulithalai.

“Kulithalai!” Vairum exclaims. “Was it written by one of your, um, friends?” He’s not sure what to call them, since they seem held together by something other than friendliness, a feeling he doesn’t quite understand but intends to: another reason he comes whenever he can.

“Better than that, son,” Minister says, going into his library, an adjoining room through a set of double doors. “It was written by yours truly.”