He plunged in just as, in the distance, a commotion started from the road towards him. He waded furiously through the maize for about fifty feet, then he backtracked a dozen steps before deftly parting the tall stalks on his left without breaking them. He lifted his left leg high through the gap and leapt sidewards, leaving an unbroken stretch of maize behind him. He pushed on at right angles to his original path until he heard his pursuers spill out of the cowshed. Then he stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe; if his heartbeat was as loud as it seemed to him, they could have heard it a furlong away. The lead soldier ran to the spot in the maize field where he saw the stalks were slightly parted and plunged in, following the trail of ruffled grain. By the time he emerged on the farther side, others had come around the field, hoping to cut Murali off. Some way ahead, the mooing of a cow caught their attention. The animal looked restless, as it strained at its rope and stood away from the coconut palm to which it was tied. Next to the palm was a farmhouse. Most of the crowd and the soldiers ran to the farmhouse and went in by a gap into a walled-off courtyard. An old lady sat there on the veranda steps, winnowing a ‘morum’ of paddy. She looked up in fright. The ‘morum’ loosened from her hands and slid to the floor as she stood up shakily and moved back to lean her spine against the pillars that held the roof up. “Don’t be afraid,” said the soldier. “Did you see a young man with a gun come by?” “No,” she replied, “I have been here for the last 15 minutes and saw nothing.” This seemed to satisfy them, as they backed out and went around the house. Across a mud fence was a field of sugarcane big enough for a man to hide in. “He could have gone into that,” said one passenger. The soldier leapt across the fence and looked up and down the first line of cane.
Nothing was out of place. After a few minutes of searching around, they turned back. Meanwhile, some of the others had gone gingerly around the cornfields; none dared enter. Looking for a man in a twoacre maize field was tiresome any way, but this one being armed and desperate, it would have been a perilous affair. By this time, they could hear the blaring of horns and the rumbling of engines from the highway. The traffic had resumed and the others were waiting. After talking to one another, the soldiers decided to abandon the search. In frustration, one of them turned and sprayed a hail of gunfire into the standing grain, taking in about one-sixth of a circle. Had Murali been in its arc, he would probably have taken a bullet. “We will get him in a day or two,” they said aloud as the crowd trickled back to the bus. Murali was now alone, but he did not allow himself to relax until the last of the vehicles had lumbered away and silence reigned around him. Then he collapsed and fell back, taking a swath of maize with him. He closed his eyes and lay there, breathing heavily and trembling through every limb. It was a quarter of an hour before he looked around him. Even though the evening was getting on, there was still too much light and too many houses and farms around. He would have to wait for darkness again. He reached out for a cob of maize presenting itself just inches from his face, peeled away its coverings roughly and bit down on its lily-white kernels. The maize was not ripe and as he chewed, it tasted like raw milk and flour, but he knew it would nourish him. He lay on his side, waiting, half asleep yet watchful. Clouds were gathering above him, but not enough to hide the sunlight that poured in from the west. Somewhere, there must be silver-lined clouds and a glorious sunset. But he could not see it from where he lay; all he saw right above him was a black mass of clouds that seemed to grow darker and angrier by the minute.
A flock of egrets flew by effortlessly, in perfect formation. In a few minutes came a disorderly horde of crows, cawing and flapping along. What a difference! he thought. The egrets took the long fluid strokes of a master swimmer, while what the crows achieved looked like the dog-paddle of novices. Somebody had come to untie the cow, for he could hear her bells tinkle. The night had settled in firmly, when Murali finally crept out from his hideout. The farmhouse lights were going off one by one. Going to the highway would be dangerous. He would head south along the farmlands and come on to the small road that led west from Wagera. Had he been able to get off at Wagera, this was the road he would have taken. He went quietly, keeping clear of the houses, across paddy fields, over fences and walls. Once in a while, Murali heard a dog bark hesitantly, but none came close to sight. The next brick wall was higher than usual. He climbed it and just as he was dropping down on the other side, the beast came upon him from his left side. Murali did not want to shoot, for this would attract too much attention. Instinctively, he crouched, thrust his hands forwards with fingers held out like claws bared his teeth and snarled menacingly. This somehow stopped the dog short. It locked its eyes on him and continued a low guttural growl. They must have stood there face to face for almost a minute, trying to stare each other down. Ultimately, the canine looked down and backed away. As Murali rose to his full height, the animal turned around and loped off into the darkness, barking defiantly even as he went. Lights came on in a house about a hundred and fifty yards away, but by this time, Murali was on to the next property and running as fast as he could make it. He crossed yet another compound before he slowed down. Another hour, and many dog barks later, he finally came to the familiar road. He climbed up to it, knelt down on its gravelled surface and sobbed like a child. It was like finding a long-lost friend. It would be only two kilometres to Dibara. But he did not want to reach the village. He would turn off onto the side road just before reaching the village and then down the alley between Kumar’s house and the tailor’s shop. He would pass by the godown and a couple of neighbours; then he would climb over the last fence and into his own backyard.
The first raindrops, like tiny beads, gently stung his arms and face. Then as he trudged along, curtains of water fell around him, but he did not notice it one bit for he was almost home now.
It was well past 11 o’clock and they had all gone to sleep. It was dark everywhere, except for a box of light in the wall, where stood the little lamp that Usha had lit. It flickered dimly now, drawing on the last bit of oil, defying the darkness and keeping a lonely vigil for all of them. Above the sound of the rain, Usha’s mother thought she heard a faint knocking on the back door. She lay still; she thought it may be the dog rubbing himself on the raised edge of the door. But no, it came again and this time more distinctly. Two clear sharp raps. She nudged her husband awake. “There is someone at the back door,” she said. “What!” he snapped, annoyed at having been woken up. “It must be the dog,” he muttered. “No!” she replied. “Listen.” They sat up. It came once more. Two unmistakable taps on the door. They got up, switched on the lights and went into the middle room. “Who is that?” Muthiah asked loudly. His voice displaying more confidence than he actually had. The reply surprised them.
“It is me, Appa,” said a tired voice that they would have recognised anywhere, any time. How often they had longed to hear it. Muthiah rushed to the kitchen door, pulled back the bolt and threw the door open. A wet dishevelled figure ambled in from the dark. His wiry frame was smattered with dirt and leaves. He wore a rough bandage on his left forearm. As they fell into each other’s arms, the Kalashnikov that Murali was holding clattered to the floor between them. By this time, Usha was awake. She opened the door a crack and peeked through. Father and son were held together in an embrace. Subdued sobs punctuated their breath; their chests heaved against each other. Usha saw the rifle on the floor at their feet, with its barrel at an angle, pointing menacingly in her direction. Their mother stood a few feet behind, leaning on the wall. She had bunched up the hem of her sari and held it against her mouth, in an effort to smother the weeping that lay waiting inside. It was quite a while before the commotion died down, and with it the rain. The ladies went back into their rooms, while Murali and his father sat and discussed his predicament. Soon, they seemed to have come to some agreement and Muthiah went into his room. Usha heard their hushed voices and bits and pieces of the conversation before she drifted back to sleep. The only thing she could remember was Murali’s anguished tone telling his father, “I can’t go back, Papa, I can’t; you don’t know what they will do to me.” While Usha slept on, various things happened that night. It was only many years later that Murali told her.
When Muthiah emerged from his room, his face was set, as though some definite plan had consolidated in his mind. Meanwhile, Murali had taken off his clothes and wore an old shirt and ‘sarong’. “Let’s get to work,” his father said urgently. “Bundle the clothes you came in and bring them with the gun.” They went out through the back door. Grabbing a spade from the yard, they wound their way back through the coconut grove and stopped short of the vegetable patch. They went to work in the faint light of a half moon. Taking turns, they dug a 3-foot trench. “Put them in,” his father ordered. The metal stock and magazine shimmered dully as Murali held the weapon close to his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, before lowering it into its grave.
The clothes went in next and then they shovelled back the loose earth and stamped down on it a few times to make it firm. They walked to the cowshed and removed the plastic sheet that covered a large mound of coconut husks. They filled two sacks with it. They didn’t bother to replace the plastic sheet. As they turned to go, Muthiah stopped and took a penknife from his belt. He walked over to Budhi the cow, who looked up serenely at him. He cut her rope close to the halter; at least, this way, a long leash would not tangle and catch on something and Budhi would be free to search for grass. They lugged the sacks back and emptied its contents over the freshly settled earth. Now they only had to sprinkle a bucket of water over the pile and it would be done. The rest of the night was spent in packing their most precious possessions.
At the end of it, they had two airbags, a plastic suitcase, a metal box and an assortment of cloth bags. In the morning, Usha found these gathered in a corner of the middle room. Murali and his father had gone to get the most essential things done. There was one small hospital, fifteen kilometres away, where they could get his wound attended to. “What happened?” asked the doctor suspiciously, looking at the wound and then at his face. Murali looked down, while his father spoke for him. “He was husking coconuts, doctor, and you know the rain makes them slippery, doctor. One of the big ones was wet and it slipped from his hand. He lost his balance and hurt his arm on the husking spear, doctor.” “Hmmm,” said the doctor as he wrote on a card. He looked up with a hint of a smile, which made them wonder if he had swallowed the lie. “The wound is at least a day old,” he asked them. “Why didn’t you come earlier?” “I was away from home, doctor, and this boy will not do anything for himself.” “Hmm,” the doctor said again, as he gave the orders to prepare a set of instruments for the suturing. “Thank you very much, doctor,” his father said. Then with his eyes pleading and his hands held up in supplication, he added, “Doctor, please could you give us a certificate for his school?” There was a long silence, before the doctor shook his head to himself and agreed. “Meet me again after half an hour.”
Murali, who had sat there with a sullen impassive face, was led to the next room, as his father almost prostrated himself before the doctor with a profusion of grateful words. The next thing to be done was to meet their temple priest and get the letter that he had promised them earlier that morning. They were planning to travel to Mynnar on the coast, about sixty kilometres away. This was the closest point to the Indian mainland. It was indeed a strange arrangement. A Catholic padre in Mynnar and the temple priest in Dibara had known each other before, but now they were in active collaboration, helping their people. The temple priest had a few letterhead papers signed and sealed by the padre. The only thing to be done was to type in the details, saying that Mr Muthiah, the bearer of this letter, and his family belonged to his church. Deep in the innards of his steel trunk, wrapped in multiples layers of plastic, Muthiah had another set of very different papers. Their land documents, land tax receipts, family card, salary slips, the children’s school marksheets and a few others. As soon as they reached back, Murali changed into a loose, full-sleeved shirt that would hide the bandage on his forearm. By twelve noon, they reluctantly set out, each carrying what they could. As they came to the small wooden gate, Usha’s mother stood for a moment and looked back at their home. As though on cue, everybody turned and flung their arms around everybody else and wept in a chorus of muffled sobs. Their father was the first to recover.
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