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Authors: Aravind Adiga
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detonator went off, and it blew the fertilizer all around the room. That idiot who made it thought making a bomb is as simple as sticking a detonator into a bag of fertilizer. It’s a good thing, otherwise some of those boys would have been killed.”
“What is the youth of this country coming to?”
“These days, it’s all sex, sex, and violence. The whole country is going the Punjab way.”
One of the cops caught him staring, and stared back. He turned away. Maybe I should have stuck around with Urmila Auntie. Maybe I should have kept indoors today.
But what guarantee that she—even though she was his auntie—wouldn’t betray him? You never knew with Brahmins. As a boy, he had been taken to a wedding of one of his Brahmin relatives. His mother never came to such events, but his father put him in the car, and then told him to play with his cousins. The Brahmin boys invited him to join in a competition. An inch of salt sat on a slab of vanilla ice cream; the challenge was for someone to eat it. “You idiot,” one of the others shouted, when Shankara put his spoon down, a scoop of salty ice cream in his mouth. “It was just a joke!”
As the years passed, it was always the same. Once, a Brahmin boy in school had invited him home. He took a chance, he liked the fellow, he said yes. The boy and his mother invited Shankara into the drawing room. It was a “modern” family—they had lived abroad. He saw miniature Eiffel Towers and porcelain milkmaids in the drawing room, and he felt reassured that he would not be ill treated here.
He was given tea and biscuits, and made to feel perfectly at home. But as he left, he turned and saw his friend’s mother with a cleaning rag in her left hand. She had begun wiping the sofa where he had been sitting.
His caste seemed to be common knowledge to people who had no business knowing it. One day, when he had gone to play cricket at Nehru Maidan, an old man had stood watching him from the wall of the playground. In the end, he called Shankara over, and examined his face, neck, and wrists for several minutes. Shankara had stood helpless during the examination: he just looked at the wrinkles that radiated from the old man’s eyes.
“You’re the son of Vasudev Kinni and the Hoyka woman, aren’t you?”
He insisted that Shankara walk along with him.
“Your father always was a headstrong man. He would never agree to an arranged marriage. One day he found your mother, and he told all the Brahmins, ‘To hell with you. I am marrying this beautiful creature, whether you like it or not.’ I knew what would happen; you would be a bastard. Neither a Brahmin nor a Hoyka. I told your father this. He would not listen.”
The man patted him on the shoulder. The unselfconscious way in which he touched Shankara suggested that he was not a bigot, not caste-obsessed, but just someone speaking the sad truth of life.
“You too belong to a caste,” said the old fellow. “The Brahmo-Hoykas, in between the two. They are mentioned in the scriptures, and we know that they exist somewhere. They are a people separate entirely from other humans. You should talk to them, and marry one of them. That way everything will be normal again.”
“Yes, sir,” Shankara said, not knowing why he said it.
“Today, there is no such thing as caste,” the man said with regret. “Brahmins eat meat. Kshatriyas get educated and write books. And lower castes convert to Christianity and Islam. You heard what happened at Meenakshipuram, didn’t you? Colonel Gaddafi is trying to destroy Hinduism, and the Christian priests are hand in glove with him.”
They walked along for a while, until they came to the bus stand.
“You must find your own caste,” said the man. “You must find your people.” He lightly embraced Shankara and boarded the bus, where he began to jostle with young men for a seat. Shankara felt sorry for this old Brahmin. He had never in his life had to catch a bus; there was always the
“What is the youth of this country coming to?”
“These days, it’s all sex, sex, and violence. The whole country is going the Punjab way.”
One of the cops caught him staring, and stared back. He turned away. Maybe I should have stuck around with Urmila Auntie. Maybe I should have kept indoors today.
But what guarantee that she—even though she was his auntie—wouldn’t betray him? You never knew with Brahmins. As a boy, he had been taken to a wedding of one of his Brahmin relatives. His mother never came to such events, but his father put him in the car, and then told him to play with his cousins. The Brahmin boys invited him to join in a competition. An inch of salt sat on a slab of vanilla ice cream; the challenge was for someone to eat it. “You idiot,” one of the others shouted, when Shankara put his spoon down, a scoop of salty ice cream in his mouth. “It was just a joke!”
As the years passed, it was always the same. Once, a Brahmin boy in school had invited him home. He took a chance, he liked the fellow, he said yes. The boy and his mother invited Shankara into the drawing room. It was a “modern” family—they had lived abroad. He saw miniature Eiffel Towers and porcelain milkmaids in the drawing room, and he felt reassured that he would not be ill treated here.
He was given tea and biscuits, and made to feel perfectly at home. But as he left, he turned and saw his friend’s mother with a cleaning rag in her left hand. She had begun wiping the sofa where he had been sitting.
His caste seemed to be common knowledge to people who had no business knowing it. One day, when he had gone to play cricket at Nehru Maidan, an old man had stood watching him from the wall of the playground. In the end, he called Shankara over, and examined his face, neck, and wrists for several minutes. Shankara had stood helpless during the examination: he just looked at the wrinkles that radiated from the old man’s eyes.
“You’re the son of Vasudev Kinni and the Hoyka woman, aren’t you?”
He insisted that Shankara walk along with him.
“Your father always was a headstrong man. He would never agree to an arranged marriage. One day he found your mother, and he told all the Brahmins, ‘To hell with you. I am marrying this beautiful creature, whether you like it or not.’ I knew what would happen; you would be a bastard. Neither a Brahmin nor a Hoyka. I told your father this. He would not listen.”
The man patted him on the shoulder. The unselfconscious way in which he touched Shankara suggested that he was not a bigot, not caste-obsessed, but just someone speaking the sad truth of life.
“You too belong to a caste,” said the old fellow. “The Brahmo-Hoykas, in between the two. They are mentioned in the scriptures, and we know that they exist somewhere. They are a people separate entirely from other humans. You should talk to them, and marry one of them. That way everything will be normal again.”
“Yes, sir,” Shankara said, not knowing why he said it.
“Today, there is no such thing as caste,” the man said with regret. “Brahmins eat meat. Kshatriyas get educated and write books. And lower castes convert to Christianity and Islam. You heard what happened at Meenakshipuram, didn’t you? Colonel Gaddafi is trying to destroy Hinduism, and the Christian priests are hand in glove with him.”
They walked along for a while, until they came to the bus stand.
“You must find your own caste,” said the man. “You must find your people.” He lightly embraced Shankara and boarded the bus, where he began to jostle with young men for a seat. Shankara felt sorry for this old Brahmin. He had never in his life had to catch a bus; there was always the
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