The last of the salon regulars slinks in-S. Gopi, another Chettiar, a grain and dry goods dealer. He has a couple of rice mills and has also recently started vending “Modern Pots” in new shapes and alloys, yet his tone around Ranga, his Chettiar castemate, bespeaks a defensive sense of inferiority. Gopi has no sons, and no shop in Thiruchi. Though he employs several of his sons-in-law in his concerns, his failure to expand beyond Kulithalai district is seen by some as a reluctance to build a fortune that will simply pass out of the family line. He has been heard proclaiming that small business is good business, but his customarily sarcastic tone makes it tough for Vairum to tell when he is sincere.

“High time to organize, man!” Ranga Chettiar exhorts Gopi by way of a greeting, as though they are in the middle of a conversation. Ranga’s youngest son has initiated a Chettiar Uplift and Cultural Preservation Society in Kulithalai and Ranga appears to have made it a project to needle Gopi-either pressing him for more support, financial and otherwise, than he is inclined to give, or suggesting backhandedly that he is a potential beneficiary. Vairum thinks often about this pair: same caste background, but such different fortunes. What has caused one to succeed and the other to fail, apart from dumb luck?

“Has your son made contact with the Justice Party?” Minister asks Ranga, not changing the subject but deflecting it from his guest.

“Oh, quite,” Ranga replies, in a gay, vague tone: he clearly has no idea.

“It’s a natural fit-I’m sure other Chettiar organizations are getting behind them,” Minister presses charmingly.

The South Indian Liberal Federation, increasingly called the “Justice” Party after its English-language daily, was founded by well-educated and generally well-off non-Brahmins. It is dedicated to opposing the independence movement, whose ranks are dominated by Brahmins: while Justice Party-ites murmur that of course all Indians want independence, they are devoted to preventing its realization at present because of the fear that, under current conditions, an independently governed India means a Brahmin-governed India. They will gain an ear among Brits who, regarding the Jew Montagu with no little disapproval, understand antipathy to moneyed minorities with aspirations to govern.

Minister, ever the cross-caste campaigner, is promoting the party among his non-Brahmin associates. He’s certain Justice will make a successful run. Even though, as a Brahmin, he can’t join the party, he wants to ensure he has many fingers in their pie.

“It’s a self-destructive concept, a non-Brahmin organization!” expostulates Dr. Kittu. “Moneyed non-Brahmins have no more in common with one another than they do with Brahmins. Except in this one enterprise, you fellows are always competing, always trying to set yourselves apart from one another.” He turns on Minister, his fellow Brahmin, with gentler reproach. “You shouldn’t be encouraging them.”

Minister performs a likable shrug and offers the doctor a plate of assorted sweets. Later this year, he will stand for his first election: he hopes to make the leap from Taluk to District Board. In part, Vairum knows, these men gather here daily because they believe he will succeed-he is the best-connected man in the district and increasingly relied upon for those connections. These men connect to one another through him. Maybe someday, Vairum thinks, he, too, will be such a hub. Not for politics, though. He knows that already.

Rama Sastri, whose attention is rarely held by the conversation but seems, to Vairum, not to have anything else to do, has spotted the letters page and is frowning at the circled item.

“Special interest here, wot?” He flourishes it inquiringly, and Dr. Kittu irritably snatches it.

Mani Iyer, reading over the doctor’s shoulder, starts, hurt in his voice. “Daily there are these criticisms of Mrs. Besant-”

“Drivel!” says the doctor. “Muckrakers!”

“Oh, now, gentlemen,” Minister sighs sympathetically. “Why would we trust self-hating Britons to give us guidance? But that’s not why I circled that item. What do you think of the prose?”

Rama Sastri re-examines and reads the letter aloud with special emphases to show he has solved the puzzle. “Do we have a stylist in our midst?” He pops his monocle and moues at Minister, who giggles in response.

“What’s so special about it?” Muthu Reddiar asks thickly as the others attempt to look knowledgeably disengaged, and Vairum is reassured to see that there are others here who are trying to hide their confusion, as well as at least one person who doesn’t mind showing it.

20. Far from Home 1919

HER BROTHERS HAD BEEN RIGHT: Vairum is leaving her. Sivakami had known this, and still, boldly, baldly, made her choice.

The seventeen-year-old Vairum, though, looks indisputably happy and proud. His valise is packed, his shoes shined; Rukmini, Gayatri, Minister and their children, and Vairum’s math teacher are gathered for the send-off. Murthy will escort Vairum and get him settled in the dormitory. Sivakami has nearly finished assembling a tiffin for them to eat on the train.

Muchami comes to the kitchen entrance to say the bullock cart is ready. With little to take, Vairum could easily have walked to the station, but what sort of fare-thee-well would that have been for a young man off to attend St. Joseph ’s College in Thiruchi?

Always, Sivakami glances at Muchami’s face to gauge her own emotions, but today his expression is not her own. No one feels about her son as she does. Muchami has concern for the child, and pity, and the restrained affection that develops with proximity, but does not have Sivakami’s passionate protectiveness. His pity is reflexive: Vairum is a child without friends. He is thought so sharp and so bright as to be unassailable. Even Gayatri, despite an interest in Vairum’s welfare, feels no fear on his behalf. Thangam is not here to show affection toward her little brother, and so Sivakami alone worries for the diamond-hard boy. She knows he will succeed, at college and afterward. He will become all he was meant to be. So what is she worried about? She has the feeling that if she could see far enough into his dark eyes, she would know, but Vairum doesn’t let her look.

Sivakami speaks in tones alternately too brusque and too indulgent: Has Vairum packed twenty neem sticks for his teeth in case he couldn’t find a good tree right away? And what about the shoe polish Minister brought him from Thiruchi?

“I can buy shoe polish there!” Vairum says.

“Obviously: that’s where he bought it,” she says, peevish now. “But we have no use for it here!”

Vairum has no patience for his mother’s sentimentality. He wants to rush out, rush forward. He hears the bullock snort and stamp outside.

Sivakami is not finished. “Every mother who permits her son to leave her asks him for a promise. I am the same as every mother.”

Vairum looks away from her, toward the door.

“Look at me,” Sivakami says. He looks at her feet. “Your father’s first wife was lost in the river which connects our small village to Thiruchi. I worship our Kaveri Mata daily, the river that gives us life. I ask her to spare the precious lives of our children. Promise me.” Sivakami strains toward him. “Promise you will not swim in that river. You drink her water, your clothes are washed in her flow. That’s enough. Boys will try to tempt you…”

Fat chance, thinks Vairum. Muchami reads it on his face.

“It will look like fun, but I cannot afford this. It is sacrifice enough to send you so far.”

Vairum looks troubled. “The cost, Amma?” He thought he knew all their financial ins and outs. They can afford this.

“The cost of losing you, to the city, to the river, to…” She can’t go on.