The next day, Sivakami tells him to make a new slate and purchase some more chalk.

“Ayoh,” he sighs. “Has Laddu lost or broken yet another slate? Honestly, I…”

“No, Muchami, it’s for you,” Sivakami says proudly, glancing at Mari, who is washing the vessels following the mid-morning meal, squatting in the courtyard and scrubbing the pots with soap-nut powder and a puff of coconut coir, splashing them with water from the well.

“What will I do with it?” he asks, understandably confused. Mari, having overheard Sivakami conferring with young Kesavan, starts to grin.

“As long as you are chasing Laddu and making him attend the Sanskrit tutorial, you may as well attend it yourself,” Sivakami replies with mock gruffness. “I’m adding it to your responsibilities.”

Muchami feels his mouth shape into a silent “o,” much in the way he has tried, silently, to mouth the syllables of Sanskrit. He feels dismayed, as can happen when we receive something for which we did not dare hope. He is not a person who has spent time in self-definition. He is too busy, his personality too strong. It would have been a waste of his time. Now, though he would never describe it thus, his self-image is undergoing a jolt.

He is a member of what was once a warrior caste. His ancestors may have defended kings in a time before memory, which in their community is limited to a lifetime. Now their lot is with agriculture and service. They are a proud caste and, when serving, they serve fiercely. There are members of the generation after Muchami’s who attend school-those young relatives of his who were Vairum’s schoolyard defenders, for instance. One or two of his own generation may have done so, never for more than a few years. He didn’t attend. It didn’t matter.

He has altered as a result of his life in Sivakami’s household, from the time he subtly adopted Hanumarathnam’s Brahminical gait and manner. He has been further changed by his marriage to a woman who succeeds in observing Brahmin custom and prejudice more rigorously than most Brahmins-elevated, in Muchami and Mari’s opinion; estranged, in that of their families.

And now he is to sit with the children of the scholarly caste and repeat with them the sacred phrases of the ancient language, the language of the distinguished, the learned. Was it even permissible?

“Young Kesavan thought it a terrific idea,” Sivakami reassures him.

Is Muchami trembling?

Kesavan would think it a terrific idea: he is a progressive and positively delights in the idea of teaching Sanskrit to a servant in a Brahmin household. What hasn’t occurred to him, or to Sivakami, is that were Muchami to learn to read and write Tamil, he would be well qualified for some other job. He would have choice and mobility. Sanskrit, on the other hand, qualifies him for nothing.

Filled with a cautious, unfamiliar joy, Muchami finds a scrap of board, paints it black, leans it on the back of his hut, checks to make sure it’s drying smooth and gives it another coat the next day.

“Cha, chha, ja, jha, gna.”

“Cha, cha, cha, cha, gna.”

Laddu and his buddies suppress giggles as Kesavan turns to the garden door to address his newest student.

“Muchami. Try again. Cha, chha, ja, jha, gna.”

“Cha, cha, cha…”

“No, Muchami, listen. Chha.” Kesavan’s voice betrays impatience. His other students are not nearly so interested, but they can, at least, pronounce the syllables of this language they are purporting to learn.

Muchami’s brow is knit. “Cha,” he chokes out hesitantly.

“Oh, never mind.”

They move on to the next group of phonemes.

Muchami leaves his first class as dejected as he has ever been. He can hear that these syllables are distinct. But how to make them? He has no idea. How could it be as hard as this if children are doing it every day? Muchami speaks a different Tamil from the Brahmins’-one without Sanskrit inflections and terms. His tongue has not been accustomed to forming these sounds, which the sniggering boys have been instructed to use from birth, for words as common as “cooked rice” and “banana,” items for which he has either another word entirely or another pronunciation.

His inability puzzles him-he is, as he well knows, among the most perceptive men in the village, no caste barred. He is a magnet for information and he knows how to use it. These sounds, though, and the words formed from them, they seem to have no place to roost in his head. They fly at him like frantic pigeons. They make him panic. He tries to retain them but feels them flutter off.

Each of those first few days, Sivakami eagerly inquires what it’s like, to take a class. She expects his usual entertaining accounts, full of mimicry and insight. But all he says is, “It’s good! Good! The teacher is very good, smart boy. Could I have more sambar?”

How to say he has never learned a thing in a classroom and can’t figure out how to do so?

Mari does not ask him questions about his lessons. She flashes through her daily chores with defensive pride, and when Gayatri jokes that now it is not only Mari who is more Brahmin than the Brahmins, but her husband as well, Mari’s pride shrills fiercer still, daring anyone to prevent this.

As THE FIFTH YEAR OF VANI’S RESIDENCE in their home drizzles to a close, Sivakami feels pressure to perform some greater supplication on her son’s behalf than the pujas she has done daily for the Ramar. She resolves on commissioning a dramatization of the Ramayana, the story of Rama’s life and deeds. Vairum finds out for her which troupe in the region has the best reputation for flair and piety and writes a letter of request on her behalf. The troupe writes back; the dates and price are confirmed; she places their response at the feet of the four stone figures who govern her home and begs them again, be pleased with her and this re-enactment of their trials and victories. Send me a grandchild, one who will belong to this house and to you. The house drums around her with the noises of all those grandchildren who don’t belong, welcome as they are.

Now, two days before Sivakami’s dedicated Ramayana dramatization is to commence, Muchami brings unwelcome intelligence: another Ramayana will be performed in the village at the same time as hers, a different version.

Sivakami straightens from bending over a vat of oil, where eight vadais bounce and bubble. “Another Ramayana?” she repeats after him. “There are two Ramayanas: one written by Valmiki and one by Kamban, one Sanskrit and one Tamil, but they are one and the same. There is no… what did you call this?”

“It’s called the Self-Respect Movement, Amma. They call this the ‘Self-Respect Ramayana,’” Muchami reiterates shamefacedly. “I have heard it’s a version where Ravana is, well… ahem, the hero.”

Sivakami grimly squats and plunges the tongs amid the vadais to make them flip. Visalam squats beside her, patting vadai dough into sticky dumplings on a round, oil-blackened board, pressing her lips together and looking down, to keep herself from laughing.

“Will people go to see this, this… spectacle?” Sivakami demands. She lifts the crisped vadais from the vat and drops them into a vessel of yogourt, using her sari to wipe sweat from her upper lip and the corners of her eyes. Visalam slides a half-dozen more raw vadais into the pan, where they sink, begin to emit streams of bubbles and rise. Visalam starts to giggle, and when Sivakami asks, “What?” points to the pan.

“Please, Sivakamikka,” Gayatri says from the main hall, blowing on her coffee. “Don’t be discouraged.”

“Who is discouraged by these dirty, low types? Will Rama and Sita pay attention to these Brahmin-haters?” She stops herself from saying aloud the rest of her thoughts. Would my husband have gone to the “other” Ramayana? He used to go with them, the ones who said there is no caste. Did they say “Long live Ravana”? What appeal is there in a topsy-turvy world?