Short Story: IDENTITY

Hello everyone. For my second post I'd like to take you to the chilli fields of Guntur, in Andhra Pradesh. I actually wrote this story while travelling through Guntur in a rickety bus a few months ago. Its a story about the fragility of our identity and how easy it is for us to lose the things that we identify ourselves with. Do leave your comments and critique please. Its highly appreciated.


IDENTITY

Ramalinga Reddy had always likened himself to an Elephant in terms of strength of muscle and memory. Time and again he had proven this by never forgetting a good deed and never forgiving a bad one. He prayed to the Elephant God Ganesha with great fervour, whom he thanked for these extraordinary qualities. It was a simple image that simple minded farmers and labourers understood, respected and feared, giving Ramalinga the aura of a kinglike landlord only portrayed by the revered heroes of the Telugu film industry. So when Ramalinga Reddy, at the age of 58, was diagnosed with Alzheimers, no one was ready to believe it.

At first it was relatively difficult for the farming community of Guntur to even understand such a disease. Yal-zhemerenu? (al-what?) they used to say. How could a man forget things because of a disease? Diseases only caused cough and fever. Was this one also because of beedi smoking? Ramalinga had to call a specialist to the Guntur Chilli Farmers Guild just to explain his predicament.

The hardest hit by this news was Prasada Reddy, a fellow landlord, member of the guild and Ramalinga's childhood friend. He spoke to the specialist privately and for long to understand this condition. Unlike Ramalinga who had studied until his matriculation, a rare feat for his time, Prasada was illiterate. He had learnt to make a rudimentary signature, but still preferred to use the thumb stamp for signing on documents, as he was used to it. He always believed that he needed longer, more sought out explanations to complicated topics, although this habit paid off more than that of those who could read a few sentences and now believed that they had mastery over all analysis.

Prasada approached his friend at his place a few days later. "What are you going to do Ramalinga? The doctor told me this condition keeps getting worse with time. You can't bear this alone Ramalinga. You'll need some help. Preferably, call over some family?."

Prasada was hinting at Ramalinga's one and only son, Krishnaraja. Ramalinga's wife had died a long time ago in a car accident and his son was his only immediate family. Ramalinga had sworn on his wife's funeral pyre that he would make her dreams for her son come true. He left no stone unturned to give his son the best education even in the outskirt rural area of a barely developed Guntur. Before long, his son became an engineer and as the trend of the day dictated, he left for work in America, returning only once since then to marry a local girl just like an obedient son. Ramalinga had never met his grandson who was 5 years old now. Ramalinga's great public pride at the status of his son, which lifted him further in the community, was constantly marred by his great personal loneliness, which he seldom admitted, only to his closest friends and confidantes in uncommon fits of heavy drinking.

"My son has become a foreigner Prasada", he said in his characteristic slow, heavy voice, "Why will he leave his foreign comforts to come back to the heat and mud of the farms?" Prasada thought for a while and then said, “Is there no one else? You have always spoken very nicely of your niece in Rajahmundry". Ramalinga gave out a guttural cough, "She is a very nice girl. But how can I entrust my property to another family. I know things have changed in the cities Prasada, but here, once a girl gets married, she becomes of another family, not our own, and her family wont treat my hard worked lands as their own, not till I place it on their name. I have many relatives Prasada, most of whom I've treated very generously. It was my duty, sometimes my pleasure. But they will only see me as a means to easy wealth. That, I know for certain. No, no. There is only one way. My son, my blood. He has been borne of this soil. I must go to him and entrust all of myself to him. Lord Ganesha will take care of the rest. I am going to sell my lands and mills Prasada. I don’t know when the disease will take over me, so I must do this fast and leave for a foreign land." The thought of seeing his friend go, made Prasada very sad. He stared at the newly planted tulsi plant in the middle of the courtyard. The two of them were like that plant once. Young and full of vigour. Nothing seemed impossible then. That age would wither a stall wart like Ramalinga so quickly, was a cruel reality to Prasada. He stopped a tear from emerging in his misty eyes and said, "Very well then my old friend. I will help you sell your property before you forget its existence, and before you forget me", with a chuckle. "Non sense Prasada", said Ramalinga,"Its not so easy to bring this Elephant down". They both laughed for a while and just as Prasada got up to leave he turned to Ramalinga and said, "Maybe you should call back your old clerk Pramod Rao from Bombay. He knew your lands and dealers well. Maybe he could help you get a good price. He owes you that much at least for all that you've done for him." Ramalinga looked at him strangely, "Pramod? -I never hired any clerk by that name. Definitely not. Stop playing with my mind Prasada, its not funny". Prasada apologized to Ramalinga and while he walked back he thought about how quickly this disease was progressing, that he couldn't’t remember his most trusted clerk Pramod Rao.

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Pramod rao came into Ramalingas notice after he had mediated in a purchase of land between Ramalinga and a famous villain in Telugu movies. After his study of accountancy, Pramod, like many city youth had dreamed of making it big in Telugu cinema, just to find out that it was a very closed industry dominated by a few individuals. After all, cinema in the Andhra Pradesh state of India had the power to make gods of mere mortals, and the keys to this heaven wouldn't just be passed on to any outsider. After playing forgettable parts in a few films, Prasada decided to go back to what he had a gold medal in. He started helping producers and actors with their accounts and property matters and it was during one of these interactions that he had met Ramalinga. Impressed by his skill and meticulous nature, Ramalinga offered Pramod a well paying job. The persuasive nature of Ramalinga, and the convenience of a stable salary proved too much for Pramod, who ended up working for Ramalinga for five years, during which he helped him in all his business affairs.

Eight months ago, Pramod had landed himself a government job at the statistics dept in the Bombay Municipal Corporation, and requested Ramalinga's permission to go, stating that the city offered a better opportunity for him since he wanted to marry and have a family of his own. Ramalinga, who had treated Pramod like family, had indulged him, encouraged him to grow a moustache like his own and instilled in him the look and feel of lordship made complete from the gold rings to the pendulous abdomen, felt like another son was abandoning him. Prasada Reddy thought of it as one of the prime reasons why the illness had taken over him.

Prasada knew that the best person to handle the selling of Ramalinga's property was Pramod. His own clerks had little idea of Ramalinga's dealings, and he himself tread the world of paperwork with fear, due to his illiteracy. He wrote to Pramod at the only address he had of him, the statistics department of the municipal corporation of Bombay. He had not approached Ramalinga for a home address or phone number since the time Ramalinga had stated that he did not know anyone named Pramod, and had felt offended. Maybe placing Pramod directly in front of Ramaliga would be better for his memory thought Prasada. In about a week, he received a reply from Pramod Rao from Bombay. In it, he wrote that he knew no Ramalinga, he had never worked in Guntur and that there had probably been some mistake at Prasada's end.

It was a cruel, cruel world thought Prasada, where the ones you did the most for, stood on your shouders to scale the greatest walls and then forgot about your existence once they were on the other side. He felt ashamed of what he had done. He felt that atonement would only come from tellimg Ramalinga about the whole thing, whether he remembered Pramod or not.

As it turned out, Ramalinga was taken aback when he heard about the matter from Prasada. But as is classical of early Alzheimer's, Ramalinga's memory lapse had been transient. He explained to Prasada how it wasn’t his fault that Pramod had sent such a reply but his own. When Pramod had first told him about the job in Bombay, Ramalinga had been taken over by grief and rage. In a fit of anger he had called Pramod a traitor and an opportunist. Pramod had only wanted to move away geographically, but Prasada had banished him from his heart and regretfully driven him off. It was no wonder that Pramod had made such a reply. After all that had happened he probably wanted nothing to do with Ramalinga. Prasada could only sigh.

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In a few weeks, Ramalinga had sold off his grinding and processing mills successfully. His good standing with the community ensured many buyers who had been eyeing his property for generations. For the final sale of his lands, his precious chilli fields, Prasada had suggested the day of Ugadi celebrations.

For the people of Andhra, Ugadi signified the coming of the new harvest and the new year, a time for celebration, prayer and deals. Not only would his last harvest be highly profitable for Ramalinga, the plush Chilli fields would make his lands seem even more desirable. The best way to sell the fields, Ramalinga had decided, was to auction the land in parts and to sell them to the highest bidder.

This practice, seemed odd to Prasada, who had always felt that Ramalinga was highly possessive of his fields. He believed that Ramalinga would've rather sold his lands at a lesser price to a buyer with a conscience for farming and an appreciation for the soil, than divide them up and accept the best price. Perhaps he had not managed to find such a buyer, thought Prasada, or perhaps there was the hand of his foreigner son in this. Prasada shuddered to think of what would become of his friend in a foreign country, especially if his son had truly forgotten his values and given in to cultureless western ideas; commonly thought of as evil by the rural folk.

The auction was to be held in an enormous temporary tent held up with bamboo, and covered with thick cloth, like a circus tent. Large mounds of raw chillies as well as chilli powder had been displayed on the ground to provide a sense of what marvels had been bought by each bidder. Guntur is one of the highest chilli producing districts in India. Ramalinga's produce, which would merely seem like a mountain of red powder to the average eye, was a stack of gold to the connoisseur, of which there were many in the rickety tent hall, from local landlords to spice companies to foreign importers. Ramalinga seemed particularly pleased that day.

Halfway through the bidding though, something dramatic happened. Outside the tent hall, the buffalo cart races, a certain specialty of the region's Ugadi celebrations were in full swing. One particularly pair, which had been tortured to run beyond their senses could bear, ran wild. Not only did they trample part of the surrounding audience, they ran right through the tent hall where the bidding was happening. It took everyone by surprise. There was chaos within the tent. Two of its walls began to collapse. As the bamboo came off the ground, a strong wind blew a significant
amount of chilli powder into the air, splashing a gust of chilli powder into the eyes and nostrils of Ramalinga and the organisers.

Prasada, who had grown up surrounded by chilli all his life, was less affected, and was almost about to burst out in laughter (farmers folk have an odd sense of humour about such things), when he noticed that Ramalinga was in terrible agony, rubbing his eyes vigorously, and screaming. Perhaps, age had brought down his resistance as well thought Prasada, who quickly found a bucket, which he filled using a hand pump nearby and splashed it over Ramalinga.

Ramalinga gave out a sigh of relief, and taking his hands off his face, asked for more water. This was followed by a wave of surprised voices, the purport of which, Ramalinga even with his eyes closed understood all too well. He half opened one burning eye and saw a shell shocked audience staring at him. He ran!

Prasada had always lost out to Ramalinga when it came to physical strength, believing, like everyone else that Ganesha had blessed Ramalinga with great power. This time though, he caught up with him, with ease, and with even more ease, had wrestled him to the ground.

*******

A week later, a battered Pramod Rao stood in court, about to make his final confession. He had been beaten up by the locals, and then by the police. He had been buried under a mountain of evidence and he knew this was the end of the line for him. His confession though, was not a mere acceptance of facts stated by the state's lawyer, but like a seasoned actor at the climax of his film, he gave his explanation in dramatic tone and spirit.

Ramalinga had been good to him, yes. But his own existence was pathetic. In the quest for respectability he had driven his own son with an iron rod, and once his son could stand on his own feet, he ran away before he could walk. Ramalinga would have died a miserable and lonely death, and would have still left all his property to his son, who would have eventually sold off his lands anyway, so that his name, the aura, the identity he had worked so hard to build would be forgotten. Pramod had worked for him for five years. No matter how much he had served him though, he would have gained little, for old traditions of blood and culture came in the way of rewarding service.

It was an easy decision for Pramod to make. He admitted, that he was an actor par excellence. He could've been great, had it not been for the insecurities of the film industry. In the years he had spent there he had developed a keen interest into all the aspects of the film making business including, make up and costume. In a time of projectionist film 'stars', he was a character actor who could delve deep into his roles, so that nothing of himself would be revealed. He could become the part he played.

For a long time he had studied Ramalinga. He grew a moustache larger than his employer's, which he knew he could trim down and dye to make an exact match anyday. A paunch, not as exact, but no one really studied the contour of paunches in Guntur, let alone anywhere else. He moulded his face with plasticine, and darkened his skin with a charcoal emulsion. He practised everyday the mannerisms, the voice, the walk of the landlord, and when he was finally satisfied, he chose a fateful night when Ramalinga was significantly drunk in his loneliness, to walk up behind where he was sitting in his stupor, and dressed and looking immaculately as Ramalinga himself, he took out a steel wire with handles on either end and strangled him.

The next day, while Ramalinga was lying 6 feet underground in his own courtyard, a tulsi planted over him, to camouflage the new dig, 'Ramalinga' announced to everyone he met, that Pramod had left for Bombay.

Ramalinga's keys, his account books, his signature, his papers, his whole identity was an easy takeover. Pramod could've continued living as Ramalinga for much longer, except that he knew the inevitability of an eventual loophole in his plans. He revelled in Ramalinga's position and respectability for eight months, while planning his return to the 'self' as he had put it. He feigned Alzheimer's, and bribed a specialist from a far off city to make his position clearer. Everytime he was confronted with something Ramalinga would've been expected to remember, his feigned illness came in handy, not to forget, as an excuse to sell his property and leave.

He was amazed at how close he had come to getting away with it all, especially after Prasada Reddy had written to the Bombay Municipal Corporation and by some chance of fate, some person with the same name as his, had actually written back. Thankfully, Prasada had come to him with the information instead of investigating it further, so that he could concoct something believable and clear Prasada's doubts.

Fate, though had two unexpected surprises in store for him, and luck had not favoured him the second time. The buffaloes, the chilli powder, the strong splash from Prasada, that had uncovered his plasticine, it all seemed so improbable, comical even. But so was the fact that he, a fox, had been Ramalinga Reddy, the man with the might and memory of an Elephant for so long, so successfully.

As the police took away Pramod Rao to a jail where he would spend the rest of his life, Prasada walked out of court with Ramalinga's son, who had flown down when news had reached him of the events of the past few days. He was sobbing inconsolably with repeated denials of any knowledge of all that had occured, spattered in parts with admissions of his guilt for having neglected his father for so long. He had, in fact, little knowledge of the existence of any man named Pramod Rao. Prasada on the other hand was sad but also thankful. In an age where hard built status and reputation could be so easily hijacked, where identity seemed so easy to forge, reputation so easy to adopt, he was glad that he still used a thumb print for a signature. It was something real in an artificial world.



By Nishant.S.Yagnick( completed on 5th of april 2010)


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