THE SPECTACLE: A Chronicle of Stolen Innocence

I

Little Magi woke up with a start, a sense of déjà vu and inexplicable despondence hanging apprehensively in the pungent air. When he did get around to collecting his scattered thoughts he realised with dismay that he had yet again emptied his bladder and his smooth bottom was translucent and wrinkled from the pickling soak since God knew how many hours. He flexed his fingers and his eyes screwed up in consternation when he found his mother’s full, soft breast missing from there. Why couldn’t she just stay in one place? Running around all day! She even walked in her sleep; he had caught her creeping out from Baba’s room in the mornings.

He ran straight to the cowshed, ignoring his mother’s strident objections to his bare bottom appearance. Lately, the only thought occupying his agitated mind, awake or otherwise, was Mitthoo. Ever since that little accident, to which he would rather plead amnesia, he found Mitthoo’s soulful gaze seemed to be glued to him faster than what his brother made for his kites.

Little Magi had always wanted to taste gudakhu, a paste of raw tobacco and jaggery that the geriatric population of the household seemed to be favouring. They all had their tiny boxes of gudakhu and could be seen at dawn and dusk rolling little beads of the red stuff in their fingers and rubbing their teeth and gums with it, the muddy spit running enticingly onto the chin and dripping off onto their bosoms. Magi was mesmerised. What made it irresistible however, was the fact that it was studiously kept out of his way. It took him one chair, one footstool, one stick and one hour of rigorous backbreaking labour before he could finally lay his impatient fingers on one such unsuspecting box hiding in its niche.

Memories of the last unbridled thrashing were enough to stop him from tasting the stuff himself. So he did the next best thing. He had Mitthoo taste it. Mitthoo, though obviously unwilling to try out such an adventure, had no option but to swallow it as he was already tied to a post by the shortest possible rope. He didn’t seem to care much for his virgin taste of gudakhu, since all he said was his usual “me, he, he, he! me, he, he, he!”. But his eyes said it all. They rolled upwards and disappeared into the sockets leaving the whites unsure in their new position. His hooves tottered whimsically, unbecoming of his sure-footed lineage and he fell in a swoon, his toothy mouth tightly shut. Now Magi had only seen people sleeping with their mouths open and Mitthoo’s deviant behaviour bothered him. So he took a handful of paddy panicles, nearest first aid at hand, and tried to force it through Mitthoo’s teeth. Not risking further experiments on his animal self, Mitthoo opened his mouth, and produced his usual “me, he, he, he! me, he, he, he!”, but at such an unnatural pitch that the entire household came running. The half dead Mitthoo was rescued from both an “overdose of opium” as well as choking on paddy. Magi’s presence and role at the scene of the accident was overlooked, given his age. Tsk, tsk, only four and already his first brush with near death -   -   -. Magi wisely kept his silence, but Mitthoo’s poignant eyes just before they rolled into their sockets wouldn’t let him be. He saw them wherever he went. So here he was, first thing in the morning, checking him out, as he had done, last thing at night.

II

Magi’s father Mahapatre had recently turned important in the village, ever since his nomination for the Dashami celebrations. His fifteen minutes of fame was here, but he was determined to stretch it to eternity. Not for nothing had he plied Nini, the village photographer, with XXX rum, twice already since last week. He has been preparing for this historic event since the last twenty-one days. Gone totally vegetarian, teetotal and he hasn’t even touched his wife. The last had been a little challenging, especially as the majority of visitors at the temple were girls and women in various shapes and sizes, all desirable. But, to his credit, he stood fast in the righteous path. The opportunity of a lifetime was too valuable to be squandered away for an unmemorable roll in the hay.

Dashami is here and the celebrations have begun. The crowds are descending fast and furious and masses assemble in groups, excitedly anticipating the unfolding spectacle. They dress Mahapatre in the temple itself. Resplendent in a red dhoti lined with a border of black and gold, his long hair flowing down the back, his skin shinning from the rub of sandlewood and haldi paste, Mahapatre, the timid Devi Mandir priest is a sight to behold. A finishing smear of vermillion tilak on his forehead, row upon row of fresh garlands around his neck, a tall glass of an undisclosed concoction down his parched throat and he is ready for his solo sitting with the reigning deity of seven villages, Maa Dakhini Chandi. The effects of fasting the last couple of days are upon him. His skin feels warm and his head is heavy, spinning lightly as the heavy encrusted doors of the sanctum sanctorum close with an ominous thud, locking him inside for his personal communion with Maa.

III

Back at the Mahapatra household there is excitement of a different kind. Magi’s mother is quite at a loss as to how to control the boy. The toddler is beside himself with anxiety. Mitthoo has gone missing and Magi has unleashed a thorough combing operation of all possible and several impossible places. Even got his mother to check down the well, in the basket of the bullock cart, the slurry pond of the biogas plant and in the patch of poisonous Datura shrubbery. All to no avail. Now, Magi urges his mother to go inspect the local railway track, the last search for all missing livestock. She would have none of it but he would have none of her either.

IV

The temple doors, meanwhile, open dramatically to the thunderous roar of a hundred drums, cymbals, bells and gongs. Mahapatre makes a spectacular emergence, his eyes bloodshot, his previously undocumented body rolling and heaving, pitching and swaying, executes a primitive dance in response to the ‘call of Maa’. The crowds respond feverishly as chants, wails and cries of jubilation and surrender rent the air. The clusters part reverentially as he advances upon them, still in trance, the sacred sword held high in his hands as to be visible all around. It has been dipped in vermillion paste, though its razor sharp glistening edge does shine through in some places. He reaches the podium and scans the exultant crowd. His fevered eyes search the photographer Nini and are visibly relieved on spotting the same perched on a nearby tree with both still as well as moving camera in hand.

V

Back home, Magi has managed to scream and kick himself into a faint so his mother relents and takes him on a search around the railway tracks whereupon the thronging assemblage of spectators and the jangle and beat of their celebratory excitement assault Magi’s unprimed eyes and ears. Without warning he breaks free and runs towards the mob, his mother following helplessly behind, handicapped by several yards of saree getting between her legs. He spots his father right away at the centre of the gathering, towering above the rest, looking like he has never looked before, ferocious, a man with a mission. An involuntary shout “Baba!” escapes him, though his little voice is drowned in the ensuing uproar. Magi understands this is an important moment and watches uncomprehendingly as his baba’s glistening sword comes down in one smooth flashing arc to the climactic screams of the onlookers. He looks on in horror as there is a spray of blood similar to that from a burst hosepipe and Baba aligns his mouth to take in gulp-fulls of the sanguinary drink pouring out straight from the severed neck. He has bad aim and most of the blood is wasted drenching Mahapatre’s torso, face and dhoti. As people celebrate the offering, the chopped head rolls off, still alive, a familiar “me he he he” bleat issuing from its lips, this time distinctly subdued. Magi watches with suddenly blurred eyesight, the head come to a stop at his feet, realising his search for the missing goat is over. The piteous eyes look seeingly at Magi and implore before they disappear into the sockets leaving the whites unsure in their place.