Read Online Between the Assassinations by Aravind Adiga - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aravind Adiga
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Shankara thought, He is of a higher caste than me, but he is poor. What does this thing mean, then, caste?
Is it just a fable for old men like him? If you just said to yourself, “Caste is a fiction,” would it vanish like smoke; if you said, “I am free,” would you realize you had always been free?
He had finished his fourth chikoo milk shake. He felt sick.
As he left the ice-cream shop, all he wanted to do was to go visit Old Court Road. To sit by that statue of the dark Jesus.
He looked around to see if the police were following him. Of course, on a day like this he could not go anywhere near the Jesus statue. It was suicide. They would be watching all routes into the school.
He thought of Daryl D’Souza. That was the man to go see! In twelve years in the schooling system, Daryl D’Souza was the only one who had been decent to Shankara.
Shankara had first seen the professor at a political rally. This was the Hoyka Pride and Self-Expression Day Rally held at the Nehru Maidan—the greatest political event in the history of Kittur, the newspaper would say the following day. Ten thousand Hoykas had filled the maidan to demand their rights as a full-fledged community, and to ask retribution for the five millennia of injustice done to them.
The warm-up speaker talked about the language issue. The official language of the town should be declared Tulu, the language of the common man, and not Kannada, which was the Brahmin language.
A thunderclap of applause followed.
The professor, although not himself a Hoyka, had been invited as a sympathetic outsider; he was sitting next to the guest of honor, Kittur’s member of Parliament, who was a Hoyka, the pride of his community. A three-time MP, and also a junior member of the Cabinet of India—a sign to the entire community of how high they could aim.
Eventually, after many more preliminary speakers, the member of Parliament got up. He began to shout:
“We, brother and sister Hoykas, were not even allowed into the temple in the old days, did you know? The priest stood at the door, saying, ‘You low-caste!’”
He paused, to let the insult reverberate among his listeners.
“‘Low-caste! Go back!’ But ever since I was elected to Parliament—by you, my people—do the Brahmins dare do that to you? Do they dare call you ‘low-caste’? We are ninety percent of this town! We are Kittur! If they hit us, we will hit them back! If they shame us, we will…”
After the speech, someone recognized Shankara. He was led into a small tent where the member of Parliament was relaxing after the speech, and introduced as the plastic surgeon Kinni’s son. The great man, who was sitting on a wooden chair, a drink in his hand, set his glass down firmly, spilling his drink. He took Shankara’s hand in his hand and gestured for him to squat down on the ground beside him.
“In the light of your family situation, your high status in society, you are the future of the Hoyka community,” the MP said. He paused, and belched.
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand what I said?” asked the great man.
“Yes, sir.”
“The future is ours. We are ninety percent of this town. All that Brahmin shit is finished,” he said—flicking his wrist.
“Yes, sir.”
“If they hit you, you hit them back. If they…if they…” The great man made circles with his hand, to complete the slurred statement.
Shankara wanted to shout out in joy. “Brahmin shit!” Yes, that was exactly how he would put it himself; and here was a member of Parliament, a cabinet minister in the government of Rajiv Gandhi, talking just as he would!
Then an aide led Shankara from the tent. “Mr. Kinni”—the aide squeezed Shankara’s arm—“if you could make a small donation towards this evening’s function. Just a small amount…”
Shankara emptied his pockets. Fifty rupees. He gave it all to the aide, who bowed deeply and told him once more that he was the future of the Hoyka
Shankara thought, He is of a higher caste than me, but he is poor. What does this thing mean, then, caste?
Is it just a fable for old men like him? If you just said to yourself, “Caste is a fiction,” would it vanish like smoke; if you said, “I am free,” would you realize you had always been free?
He had finished his fourth chikoo milk shake. He felt sick.
As he left the ice-cream shop, all he wanted to do was to go visit Old Court Road. To sit by that statue of the dark Jesus.
He looked around to see if the police were following him. Of course, on a day like this he could not go anywhere near the Jesus statue. It was suicide. They would be watching all routes into the school.
He thought of Daryl D’Souza. That was the man to go see! In twelve years in the schooling system, Daryl D’Souza was the only one who had been decent to Shankara.
Shankara had first seen the professor at a political rally. This was the Hoyka Pride and Self-Expression Day Rally held at the Nehru Maidan—the greatest political event in the history of Kittur, the newspaper would say the following day. Ten thousand Hoykas had filled the maidan to demand their rights as a full-fledged community, and to ask retribution for the five millennia of injustice done to them.
The warm-up speaker talked about the language issue. The official language of the town should be declared Tulu, the language of the common man, and not Kannada, which was the Brahmin language.
A thunderclap of applause followed.
The professor, although not himself a Hoyka, had been invited as a sympathetic outsider; he was sitting next to the guest of honor, Kittur’s member of Parliament, who was a Hoyka, the pride of his community. A three-time MP, and also a junior member of the Cabinet of India—a sign to the entire community of how high they could aim.
Eventually, after many more preliminary speakers, the member of Parliament got up. He began to shout:
“We, brother and sister Hoykas, were not even allowed into the temple in the old days, did you know? The priest stood at the door, saying, ‘You low-caste!’”
He paused, to let the insult reverberate among his listeners.
“‘Low-caste! Go back!’ But ever since I was elected to Parliament—by you, my people—do the Brahmins dare do that to you? Do they dare call you ‘low-caste’? We are ninety percent of this town! We are Kittur! If they hit us, we will hit them back! If they shame us, we will…”
After the speech, someone recognized Shankara. He was led into a small tent where the member of Parliament was relaxing after the speech, and introduced as the plastic surgeon Kinni’s son. The great man, who was sitting on a wooden chair, a drink in his hand, set his glass down firmly, spilling his drink. He took Shankara’s hand in his hand and gestured for him to squat down on the ground beside him.
“In the light of your family situation, your high status in society, you are the future of the Hoyka community,” the MP said. He paused, and belched.
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand what I said?” asked the great man.
“Yes, sir.”
“The future is ours. We are ninety percent of this town. All that Brahmin shit is finished,” he said—flicking his wrist.
“Yes, sir.”
“If they hit you, you hit them back. If they…if they…” The great man made circles with his hand, to complete the slurred statement.
Shankara wanted to shout out in joy. “Brahmin shit!” Yes, that was exactly how he would put it himself; and here was a member of Parliament, a cabinet minister in the government of Rajiv Gandhi, talking just as he would!
Then an aide led Shankara from the tent. “Mr. Kinni”—the aide squeezed Shankara’s arm—“if you could make a small donation towards this evening’s function. Just a small amount…”
Shankara emptied his pockets. Fifty rupees. He gave it all to the aide, who bowed deeply and told him once more that he was the future of the Hoyka
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