“It will do well. I have invested,” Vairum responds, his fingertips joined, so his hands form a loose cage at his mouth.

The men are clearly surprised.

“Ah,” Gopi Chettiar clears his throat nervously. “They asked me… ”

“Get in now,” nods Vairum. “It will soon get expensive.”

“While we’re on the subject of investment,” Muthu Reddiar breaks in, smiling, “I wanted to let you know, Vairum-well, let all of you know,” he expands graciously, “my man, the Sikh, has telegraphed me that our shipment of Australian horses has arrived in Madras harbour. I wanted to thank you for your support in this project, Vairum. They are evidently sturdier than our Indian breeds, and the stallions should stud nicely with my line of carriage horses.”

“Glad to know it,” Vairum says, poker-faced. “Clearly a winning proposal.”

Minister is taken aback. Business matters are often referred to in the salon, since they are inseparable from the workings of politics and power, but this discussion verges uncomfortably on transaction. He thinks, though, that he may now understand how Vairum has been benefiting from these years in attendance. Now he quickly starts to feel pride in having drawn the boy in: Minister’s not a minister at present, his political fortunes may be at a low ebb, but he is still an influence peddler. The boy knows which way the wind is blowing, Minister thinks. And he is my friend.

Vairum catches his eye and they exchange a slight smile.

The morning after the sixth performance, Rama Sastri treats them to a recitation of the concluding stanzas of each of the performances. Both showed the episode in which Ravana is slain in battle by Rama. The Sastri has sent his reluctant servant to the performance each night, and the man has turned out to be an excellent reporter.

“This is our performance, close to Kamban’s words, if not quite,” says the Sastri, clearing his throat and proclaiming:

“With Ravana’s death, the fceld grows still

At such long last, the end.

Sita and Rama, reunited with dignity,

Paid respects by each foe, each friend.

And this is theirs-rather innovative,“ he smiles, shifting position, dropping his right hand and lifting his left:

“Ravana’s noble head and body

Rejoined on the funeral pyre.

Dravidian pride and sorrow now

But battlefield’s bloody mire.

The flames of truth and purity

Must in your eyes leap higher.

Ravana’s children! Avenge this death!

Unite in the name ofyour sire!

Loose the blindfold of Aryan deception,

Every Shastri, lyengar, Iyer

Is a manufacturer of illusions

Yet these are the ones you hire

For your weddings, your blessings, your babies and homes

Whether you be Panchama or Nair

Self Respect, man! Do it yourself!

Beneath Ravana’s flag: the lyre!“

The Sastri concludes with a flourish.

“It’s not a lyre, it’s a veena,” Dr. Kittu Iyer snorts.

“Poetic licence, dear chap,” Rama Sastri responds.

“You can only take poetic licence with poetry,” the doctor explodes. “This is drivel.”

“Does anyone know why the so-called Self-Respecters ended one night early?” Mani Iyer deepens his ever-present brow wrinkles. “Surely not to actually enable the populace to celebrate Rama’s return and recoronation in peace.”

“Surely not.” Muthu Reddiar strokes his upwardly waxed moustaches. “I passed their tent on my way here-they’re readying for performance, not packing up.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” remarks Minister, and the others frown in agreement or perplexity.

“My foot!” Murthy, who had held his tongue till then, screams in English. He has leapt up, fists and eyes clenched, face flushing from pomegranate to mangosteen. “Day after day this talktalktalk and no action. These fellows cannot fling about insults and expect best citizens would accept simply! Though they must think so because of you!” he spits at Vairum, who looks away, mild and skeptical.

“Have you… a… proposal?” Minister asks, though his tone makes it sound more like “Sit down… you’re… embarrassing yourself.”

“Yes!” Murthy cries, returning to his native tongue, ablaze with inspiration. There is a patch of dirty grey stubble on his dewlap, missed while shaving. It wobbles at the men as he reveals his idea. “I will lie down! I will lie across the path that these asses of the audience must take to attend the debacle, and prevent them from entering.”

“Bravo!” Rama Sastri starts to clap. “Take a stand, man-lying down! The show must not go on!”

Murthy heaves for the door, muttering and crying, “Must not go on, the show!”

“The peasants will never step over him,” Mani Iyer offers.

“No-they will go around him,” says Ranga Chettiar with exasperation.

Minister tries to intervene. “Please, dear man. Don’t be rash”-and he grabs for Murthy’s hand, but it is slippery and Murthy, inflamed by his vision, descends the stairs.

“Well, thank God that’s taken care of,” snorts Muthurunga Chettiar, half-reclined on a divan.

After some moments, Minister speaks. “I shan’t let him go to that place, alone-I shall try again, this evening, to dissuade him, and if he won’t be dissuaded, I will follow him. He is my good friend, like all of you, one of my constituency, and I owe him a debt of good faith.”

There follows a silence in which it seems several of the men mean to speak and change their minds. Rama Sastri finally breaks it.

“Ah-I had thoughts of slinking over there myself. Curiosity, don’t you know, the last night. Theatre is hardly theatre when performed by my man.”

“I am not curious-I am interested by this message of non-Brahmin uplift,” declares Ranga Chettiar.

“Tsk, let us join!” Muthu Reddiar waves dismissively. “It’s a spectacle!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Gopi Chettiar offers in response to Ranga Chettiar’s expectant look.

“We are not to be outnumbered,” Dr. Kittu Iyer says with stiff and evident reluctance. “There may be those still amenable to the Congress message. ”

“Quite,” whimpers Mani Iyer. “Oh, quite.”

Vairum clears his throat. “I’ll see you all there, then.” He smiles, templing his fingers, lowers his head and can’t help starting to chuckle, then laugh. Rama Sastri joins in, and then Minister, and the Reddiar. The others are not so compelled but smile perplexedly at their solidarity. It seems almost fated.

“Ho, ho, what is this?” the actor playing Rama exclaims jocularly.

“Hoi! Jambu, Bala, come, quickly! See what I have found!”

Ordinarily, Murthy would bow before an actor dressed as Rama, but this is not a Rama he recognizes: painted-on leer, unimpressive profile, sloppy clothes. Rage and hurt start to pump him full again with bravado. Anyway, he can’t bow: he’s flat on his back.

Two more heads bend over him: Lakshmana and Sita, they can be none else, but, again, what perversions!

“Brahmin,” says Lakshmana with glee, drawing a line from his own shoulder to hip to indicate the holy thread visible beneath Murthy’s rumpled kurta.

“What do you want?” Sita demands. Stubble pokes through “her” rice flour face powder and kohl beauty marks.

“The show,” Murthy squeaks, “must not go on!”

Rama turns to the others incredulously and Lakshmana starts a high-pitched giggle.

“Oh, come, let us get ready.” Sita turns away. “Leave him until big boss comes and we have an audience.”

“We have an audience!” Lakshmana jumps up and down a few times at Murthy’s head, to make him wince, then follows the others.

Murthy can tell from their nasal voices and funny gaits that they are comic actors-what sort of Ramayana features comic actors in the lead roles? What was the English expression Minister Iyer was using, some months back… cave of inequity? Lair of inquiety? It means something very sinful. He was talking about opium smokers in Calcutta: white people, women. Shocking. Murthy sighs and looks at his hands, folded on his chest, chubby fingers and stubby nails, and up again at the sky. It’s still blue, though each cloud blares orange off its western slope, heralding the dusk. He hears voices from around a bend in the path and tightens his bearing so he looks like a toy soldier at attention-knocked down.