A Minor God

A minor shrine, for a minor god. A god who might never have been if it weren’t for an old woman, brown and wrinkled, like the bark of a tree. This is how it works- a few yellow flowers, plucked surreptitiously from the rich man’s garden, a bit of vermillion, three stones, and a desperate hope. This is how gods are born in this country.

The woman comes everyday. She wears a fraying blue sari, a much patched up blouse that might have once been blue, or black, but now is a dirty grey. The prayer is the same everyday.

She doesn’t know how much more she can take. The drunken shouting, the demands for money, the occasional pushing around. One night, she had thought he would kill her, he was so drunk. Drunk, and with the brute strength of some wild animal. Yes, he might have killed her that night, if Balayya, the neighbour hadn’t come to her rescue. There was little that could be secret in their slum. It had taken Balayya and three grown men to subdue him that night, and divest him of the grinding stone he was wielding. She almost wished he had crushed her head that night. At least, then, it would have been over. She was tired, so tired.

She wishes she was dead.

She wishes he was dead.

That was a terrible thing for any woman to wish for her son, but whatever love had been there, had long been eaten away by the bitterness and fear.

So, that was her prayer everyday, as she stood with her palms closed together, head bowed, in front of the god. Him or me. Kill one of us. Please let it be today. And she put fresh flowers on the stone.

One morning she found that someone else had been visiting the shrine. A freshly broken coconut lay before the stones. And some marigolds. She wondered who it could be.

Now you have two prayers to answer, she thought. But don’t forget, I asked first.

Everyday after that she found a coconut and flowers. It piqued her curiosity, for coconuts were expensive, and she wondered why someone who could afford one each day would come here, rather than propitiate the deity in the bigger temple, further down the road.

One morning, she was so hungry, she used a stone to cut up a slice of the juicy kernel inside and eat it. After all, they were just lying there. The god didn’t seem to be interested. All the same, she felt a little guilty, and not a little afraid. Gods were notoriously capricious. You never knew when they would take offence.

So, the next day, she made her way a little earlier to the shrine. The sky was just beginning to lighten when she reached. Nobody was there. She settled herself on a small rock, sheltered from view by the trunk of the banyan tree. At least, the stranger wouldn’t see her if he came from up the road.

Not many minutes later she heard some footsteps. Cautiously, she peered around the tree. She recognized him immediately. It was that boy that worked in Vedappa’s canteen. What was his name? Rama? Raja? Something with R. He was the newest citizen of their little world. Like so many others, he had come to the city from his village, looking for work. It was the story of so many, nobody asked him the specifics. What was there to say? They had all travelled the same road, they all knew the poverty and helplessness that drove feet onto paths unknown. He was quite young, maybe around fifteen or sixteen, she hazarded. Vedappa had taken him on. Vedappa was a kind man, he always gave a helping hand to those who came to the shanty, especially the young ones. Perhaps it was his way of thanking the gods. Although, there was a limit to his altruism. She didn’t think he paid very well; he couldn’t- seeing as he barely made enough for himself. And the slum lord who owned their land, their homes- well he took enough from all of them to make it impossible to save any money. Yet, here was this boy-Ramana- that was it- here he was, with a coconut and flowers. Suspicion raised its head. Was he stealing the coconuts? Well, if that was the case, then she needn’t feel guilty at all. No God would care much about stolen offerings. Hmmph.

She must have made some sound, because Ramana suddenly looked around, straight at her before she could hide. They stared at each other for a minute. Then he turned and started walking away.

She resumed her usual routine after that, and didn’t see him for a few weeks. But then one day, his voice startled her.

“What do you pray for?”

There he was, with a bunch of yellow flowers and a coconut.

“Where do you get the flowers from?” she asked, in reply.

“Barathamma gives me them for free” he replied. Barathamma was the local flower seller. She sold jasmine, and marigold, two rupees for a strand or five, depending on the customer.

“Why does she give it you for free?”

“Because I told her that I pray for my mother who is sick, in the village.”

“And do you?”

He shrugged.

“My mother is dead.”

“Then what do you pray for?”

“Money. Lots of it.”

“What do you pray for?” he asked again.

How much should you tell a stranger?

“Death”, she said.

He nodded, as though he understood, and perhaps he did.

There were no secrets in their little slum.

After that, they met fairly regularly at the shrine. On some days she would be early, on other days he would wait for her. They exchanged some news- he told her the gossip from the canteen, she told him about the lifestyles of the rich people she washed dishes for. He was interested in the details. How big was the TV? Did they have curtains? Were they silk? Was the furniture wood? Were the pillows soft? He was borrowing their lives to build his dream house.

One day she brought him some paayasam. She had to buy the milk (ten rupees!) but there was no money for raisins and cashews. It was simple milk, sugar, rice preparation. He slurped up every last drop.

When she didn’t turn up an entire week, he made his way to her hut. She had been ill, she told him. Fever and cough; she had forced herself to go to work, because she wouldn’t get paid otherwise, and anyways she had no money for a doctor. But the cough had gotten worse, and the fever hadn’t gone away, and for the last two days she had had to stay home.

He took her to a doctor, and paid the fees, bought her the medicines. It meant no coconuts for the God they both prayed to, but he thought it might be forgiven.

When he brought her home, her son –Krishna- was there, drunk as ever, although it was only late afternoon.

“Found yourself a replacement son, old woman?”He sneered.

She didn’t say anything, but turned to Ramana.

“Thank you child,” she said, “Now-go away.”

“First you go lie down, Amma.”

It was the first time he had called her anything.

Amma.

“Yes, “Amma”, her son called- “go lie down- but first give this son the money”

“She has no money,” said Ramana, “leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s ill?”

In two strides Krishna had Ramana held up by the collar of his shirt.

“Shut up or I’ll knock your brains out. Who are you to tell me what to do? She’s my mother. I’ll hit her, or take her money, or kill her- it’s not your business, do you understand? Now get out before I rub your face in the dung outside!”

“Please, please go away, Ramana,” she begged, terrified.

Ramana left, and didn’t come to see her again.

Ten days later she was well enough to go to the shrine.

He was there.

“Why didn’t you come and see me?” she asked, hiding her delight and relief in seeing him behind a faux petulance.

“I didn’t want to get beaten up” he said. “Your son is too strong for me.”

She was immediately contrite.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I pray that he will die soon.” she said. “That’s the death I pray for.”

“Yes, I know, Amma” said he, and put his arm around her shoulder.

That day, they did not pray.

The next day, she had a bruise on her arm.

“He did this, didn’t he?”

“What does it matter?”she said, “It is my fate.”

“I am tired,” said he, “of fate and of waiting for prayers to be answered.”

She was a little frightened.

“Don’t do anything dangerous.”

“It’s ok,” he said, “the battle is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift.”

Two weeks later, Krishna’s body was fished out of the nala nearby. It was presumed he had fallen in one night, drunk as he usually was. She performed the rituals for him. She did not weep though, as she watched the flesh of her flesh burn.

The next morning, she took some flowers and a coconut to the shrine.

Ramana was there.

He waited while she offered the flowers and bowed her head.

They sat in silence for a while.

“In all my life,” said she, “I found only this one god who did anything for me.”

“Yes, Amma,” he agreed. “This is a good god.”

They walked home together.