The Legend of Ramulamma
She closes the Case
The Joint Collector had been shot dead by naxalite revolutionaries, after luring
him to a midnight meeting. When the news spread the next morning, everyone rushed
to the house of the much-liked young administrator, who had showed so much
promise, not only through his energetic actions, but his open concern for the poor.
That such a man, rare to find in high positions of government, should have been killed
out of hand exposed the so-called revolutionaries to be what they really were, a bunch
of unprincipled dacoits or so said every right-thinking middle-class man on reading
the ghastly news next morning.
Ramulamma was one of the crowd that rushed to the house of bereavement.
Normally, she would have been stopped by one of the policemen on guard duty,
chivvied and insulted, since she was only an old dalit midwife, and she would have
spent a good ten minutes arguing at the top of her voice that she had been called to
massage `Madam,' who everyone knew was suffering from aches and pains, but no one
would have let her through, though they all knew her, till the bearer came from the
house of the `Chota Sahib,' the junior administrator of the district, and gave her
permission to enter through the back door on the kitchen verandah. But on the morn
of the horrific crime, the sentries stood about in hang-dog fashion, ignoring and being
ignored by the crowd of mourners. The servants had laid out several dozen chairs on
the front lawn for everyone, and tea and biscuits were being served in a constant
stream to the people gathered there. Ramulamma, as befitted her lowly station in life,
went round to the back of the house, and without coming close to anyone sat on the
edge of the group of village women, sitting on the kitchen verandah, and wailing in
traditional sing-song style. Though some of the grief was formally expressed, almost all
felt deeply about the death of the young man, for all had been touched by his quick
kindness when appealed to, and his ready willingness to bend rules to help the poor.
Few could remember a better officer.
The lamenting women each said how they were looking forward to his
forthcoming marriage, which was to take place just a few weeks away, just after the
great festival of Sivarathri. The older ones mourned why God had spared them instead;
others beat their heads on the stone floor and wailed that they now could never bring
up his sons. Mrs. Kowshikar, the dead man's mother, had allowed the wailing to go on
for half-an-hour, and then came out through the kitchen mesh-doors, her sallow
cheeks streaming with tears, to request them to quieten down, the Collector Sahib and
the Superintendent of Police were in the living room, with all the other sahibs, and
they were discussing important matters. The voices dropped, but the lamentations
went on, and in fact, none of the authorities would have wanted it ended, they
themselves were in a state of shock.
The women could hear the mandal official, who had discovered the body, go over
the incident for the umpteenth time, as if by re-telling the event somehow it would turn
out not to have happened at all.
The Legend of Ramulamma
"Sir, Mr. Kowshikar was in a high mood, Sir. He was very confident. I begged
him to take a couple of constables along, for he was going into the pitch-dark forest, I
said, at least let someone drive away snakes. But, No! Sir! He was determined to go
alone. He smiled at me, Sir! Put his hand on my shoulder, and said, `Don't worry. They
have asked me to meet them because they also want peace. I will bring them to the
conference table, this stupid bloodshed has gone on long enough.' I pleaded with him
saying the message could be a hoax, but he smiled and said it came from a very
trustworthy source. I should never have let him go, Sir, but he gave me a direct order. I
hung about in my office till two in the morning, and when he did not return, we went
out as a search party. And I myself found him, Sir, still smiling, Sir, lying on the forest
floor, shot through the heart. Look at him, Sir, look at him! Still so peaceful!"
The women could hear the officer weep. The Superintendent of Police in charge
of the district spoke briefly in English: "By God! I will hunt out the rascals and pistol
everyone with my own hand!" Ramulamma had heard enough English in her long life
to understand him, and wondered fleetingly what new calamities would descend on the
heads of everyone. At that moment, the tall and aristocratic Surinder Reddy emerged
silently from the kitchen, and regarded the women coldly, but not without compassion.
"What are you all crying about," he asked peering into their faces. " It is I who
am destroyed. I have lost my brother-in-law. My sister is widowed before marriage. She
is ruined for life, and I have to live to see this day. Go home, all of you!" With that,
disdaining further talk, he wiped his eyes and his flowing gray moustache with a silk
handkerchief, and went back in.
The women sat silent for a bit. The sudden appearance of the most powerful
man of their area had cowed their spirit, even as his form always had wherever seen,
clad severely in spotless white cotton kurtha and dhoti. His wealth he displayed only
through the glittering rings he wore on every finger, and his power by the short
mahogany baton he carried restlessly in his hands. One by one they got up to leave,
Ramulamma with the rest. As she went round the corner, she saw the small tight form
of the grandmother standing by the bedroom window, gazing into nothingness. The old
woman beckoned to her silently.
"Ramulamma, stay with me. The light of my house is extinguished forever. But I
want every ceremony performed as it should be. My grandson is going to become one
with his ancestors, and we must do everything to help him. What does my daughter-
in-law know? She knows nothing, just modern nonsense."
The poor young man had been ruled over by his mother and grandmother who
had fought each other incessantly for his affections, alternately using the pretence of
his interests to seize power over his household. It had been a standing joke of the
district that the young woman he would one day make his wife would either be torn to
pieces by the two harridans, or elevated to the status of a goddess as a pawn in their
struggle for power. But the Reddy girl, people argued, born to the traditional
knowledge of holding and enjoying power, would most probably keep both old women
in their places.
Not that the announcement of the alliance was accepted without disbelief at
first, for the Reddys had a high regard of their own consequence and their caste, but
then times were a-changing, even for Surinder Reddy, and an alliance with a bright
The Legend of Ramulamma
young officer of the peerless `IAS' service, who was a Brahmin to boot, most probably
mollified the ageing aristocrat at long last into accepting his willful sister's choice.
Surinder Reddy had doted upon the girl, even younger than his own son, and had sent
her to far-off St. Stephen's College in Delhi, where, he should have known, she would
form an attachment to a bright fellow student, whatever the caste. But the devilish
revolutionaries had not only killed the boy but ruined her life for good.
Ramulamma looked into the tearless eyes of the matriarch, sunk deep in the
parchment of her wizened face. She wet the old woman's hands with her tears. "Amma!
God is with you! I am with you! All of us are with you, and he will live forever with God,
you can rest assured. He is one with God."
"Yes, yes, I know," said the matriarch a little impatiently. "But he should have
lived, lived, I tell you, to be Prime Minister! That girl brought death to my house! I
warned him! Inter-caste marriages are wrong! Don't I know? What I have suffered in
my life! Customs are different, beliefs are different how can a dog and a horse pull a
cart together? I don't want that Reddy fellow in my house, I don't want him to touch
his body! He has killed him with this alliance!"
"Amma, what are you talking? What is all this nonsense?"
Mrs Kowshikar had come to the window, and pulled her mother-in-law back
into the room with her screeching walker. Turning round, she put her head out of the
window. "Ramulamma, pedda amma's heart is broken, as is mine! What a miserable
woman I am, I cannot even cry at my son's death! I have to concern myself with
everyone else! Old mad people, dalit dais, policemen! Ramulamma, go away now. Come
back later, there is work for you to do."
As the midwife walked away she could hear the daughter-in-law's voice raised in
anguish. "Amma, never talk about caste in this house! He was against all such
stupidity, as was my husband his father, and your husband, Babu's grandfather, do
you remember, do you remember now?"
The next few weeks marked a bizarre time for Ramulamma. Despite her lowly
caste, she was a dai and a trusted person in the Kowshikar household, and she was
around constantly packing boxes, clearing out unwanted stuff, putting way and taking
out framed photographs of the dead boy, to be crooned over by them all, and conveying
messages to friends and neighbours, when they could come around for a chat and a
cup of tea. The government had said very kindly that the family could take its own
time before moving to a house of their own, but the elder women decided that what
had to be done one day had best be done as soon as possible. They could move back to
Bangalore, where they had their ancestral home, but a couple of tenant families were
there, apart from the Meteorological Office in the east wing, and ample notice would
have to be given to get them all to move out. In the meantime, a smallish private house
would be rented for a year, behind the new marketplace.
A crack team of the Special Armed Force of the police had encamped in town,
and in swift order three young naxalites, and a girl were shot dead, and their limp
bodies displayed as trophies in front of the District kutcherry. The dead girl had her
olive drab jacket pulled well over her small left breast, with its dark, congealed bullet
hole. She had been sixteen years old, and Ramulamma's cousin's daughter, when she
The Legend of Ramulamma
had been raped by three drunken constables. A month later, she had run away to the
forest, and now Ramulamma was seeing her for the first time after that. After paying a
few hundred rupees to constables she knew, Ramulamma collected the body, and
cremated it. Since it had been a police case, the prohith demanded double his fees for
saying the right prayers over the body, but then she was able to haggle him down a
little by reminding him that dalit though she was, she was the most experienced dai in
the district and the time of his brother's daughter was not far off.
Even as she still wept openly with the others for the murdered Kowshikar sahib,
she thought also now and then, in the death of her heart, of her dead niece, whom she
had brought into the world, and then sent away from it.
The matriarch sat in a stiff-backed chair, her walker in front like a shield.
"Ramulamma, I want all my grandson's books to be taken out of their shelves,
dusted and put away in boxes. No one is left to read them, they have come to us from
my father's day, who is left to know their value? None. That book in your hand was a
present to my father on his becoming an advocate of the High Court. It was given to
him by no less a person that Doctor Ferguson!"
Ramulamma had heard all those stories before, but some hurt inside her made
her listen carefully even as she went on with her dusting and packing. Doctor
Ferguson, whose statue still stood in front of the Methodist Church he had built under
his direction supervision, well, he was a very great man, though a missionary, and he
had adopted, and raised up Shri Kowshikar, the most famous advocate of his day, a
friend and host to several of the Indian National Congress leaders, who had fought for
and won independence for the country. Shri Kowshikar could have had any post he
wanted in the cabinet of free India, but had politely declined to join that rat race. He
had been a man of principle. His writing against caste, in support of women's rights,
for fair wages, and democratic institutions proclaimed his fame far better than his
aged, crippled, and ungrateful daughter ever could.
"Look at how that Reddy fellow has left his cigarette ash all over that shelf,"
cried the old lady angrily. "My father never smoked. My husband smoked only
occasionally, cigars from Cuba, they are not dirty like these cigarettes. He showed the
true nature of his Reddy culture with his cigarettes. I was opposed to the marriage. A
Brahmin marry a Reddy? Never! But he would not listen, he was an innocent boy
seduced by that low-caste woman, and he had to pay for it with his life. Clean that
shelf very, very carefully, Ramulamma, and bring some roses from the garden and put
rose petals with all those documents when you pack them. They are the history of my
illustrious family! What could that Reddy fellow understand? You know who is a true
Brahmin? Not these fellows in temples who hardly know the Vedas. A person is a
Brahmin only when he is truly learned. My father was the most learned man of his
age. My husband came from a well-known family himself, but he was happy to take on
the name of Kowshikar after he married me. He broke all conventions in honour of my
father! Rajagopalachari, that Gandhi, all, all would bow down low when they took leave
of my father!"
Despite the old lady's patent aversion, Mrs. Kowshikar leaned a lot on the help
given to her by Surinder Reddy, who never failed to pay a daily visit. He was stoic in
his grief. He had determined to send away his distraught sister to the Mataji Ashram,
The Legend of Ramulamma
to spend six months at least in prayer in the company of those holy women. His army
of servants helped pack the furniture neatly and in silence. When he left the house
after overseeing the work, he never failed to take leave of the old lady, though she
never returned his salutation.
Ramulamma was told to accompany the Reddy girl, and attend on her, on the
long way to the airport. The girl when she appeared that morning already looked like a
widow. She wore no kumkum, no bangles, and had on a plain white Bengal sari with a
thin colourless border. She sank without a word into a corner of the cushions at the
back of her brother's Mercedes, and after some hesitation, Ramulamma sat on the
edge of the cushions beside her. The clerk who would put the girl on the plane sat in
front, fussing with all the papers, and they drove off at high speed on the two-hundred
kilometre journey.
The girl was silent for most of the ride, staring into empty space, or letting the tears
trickle down silently. Once when she complained of a headache, Ramulamma
massaged her temples tenderly, and then she leaned her head on the older woman's
shoulder and began to talk disjointedly, of meeting young Kowshikar at college, of not
liking the shape of his nose at first, she said with a sad giggle, then coming to admire
him, love him to distraction, forcing him to acknowledge his love for her in turn,
confronting her brother like a tigress, and all for nothing.
They stopped for tea at a wayside Punjabi dhaba. While it was being made, the
girl sat on a granite boulder, and looked at Ramulamma through untidy ringlets she
tried to brush back. "I never cared about all this caste, and who can marry whom, you
know that, don't you?" she asked. "Why is it important to be a Brahmin, or not to be a
Brahmin, or a Reddy or a dalit? That old grandmother of his never liked me, or the
idea of our marriage. You know the whole truth, don't you?"
Ramulamma sat down beside the girl, and took her in her own arms, enveloping
that slim form with her large arms, and pressing her wet cheeks against the girl's.
"Yes, I know everything, and it does not matter, now or ever," she whispered. "That old
lady never knew her own mind. One day caste did not matter at all, another day, all
that mattered was caste. The great Ferguson Sahib adopted her father, and made him
into a great man, and they both worked against caste, mocked caste Brahmins and all,
but she, his own daughter, was always torn apart by caste. Once she was very ill,
delirious, we thought that week we had lost her, and her grandson never left her
bedside, he was truly great, he loved her so, and in that fever she would only babble
about caste. I felt sorry for her, still do. But who am I to say? I know who I am, and I
have never felt sorry, except once, when I was a child and saw my friend Manjula clean
a latrine, because her mother was sick. I was spared that because I was born into the
Asadhi caste of Malas. I was once beaten when I shared a roti with Manjula."
Ramulamma was not allowed to go inside the airport; but the Reddy girl turned
and gave her a sweet sad smile before she disappeared beyond the barrier, and that
was the last she saw of her.
One evening at the fair price shop, after she had collected her subsidized rice
quota, Ramulamma lingered to have a word with Gopalrao the dealer. He was a fat
man with a limp moustache, who perspired all the time, even in winter, and who had
been complaining to his customers over the last six years that he would be closing his
shop soon because of mounting losses. Which poor man could afford to do public
The Legend of Ramulamma
service, with both government and the public pinching into his livelihood?
Ramulamma chirped in sympathy whenever he complained but saw to it that he never
cheated her.
"Gopal bhai, the `elder brothers' should never have killed Kowshikar sahib," said
Ramulamma, sitting down with him on the stone floor in front of his shop, after he had
brought down the steel shutter and locked it into place. She brought out some paans
from a fold in her sari, and offered him two, saying she had made them specially for
him. "He was good for poor people, people like you and me. They have done a very bad
thing, and my niece has paid with her life for their wrong-doing, though, poor thing,
she was born to be tortured and killed. What else can a poor girl hope for in this life?"
Gopalrao chewed the paan with relish, and bundling it into a corner of his
cheek, looked nervously about. "Some people, you know how people talk when they
come to my shop," he said hoarsely, "they say the annalu had nothing to do with it. It
was a private quarrel who knows with these big people? But the annalu are hurting,
the police have found a good excuse to kill poor boys and your niece, she never saw
one day's happiness in this world, but God knows everything, mark my words!"
Ramulamma mulled over his words as she walked back to her hut slowly in the
gathering dark. Gopalrao was a fool, everyone knew that, but somehow he had very
large ears that captured all the gossip that was whispered around. His few confidantes,
like herself, were made privy to that knowledge, most of it harmless, unless it got to
the ears of an enraged husband. On occasion he knew of important matters almost
before anyone else. Some people even suspected him of being a police informer, but
she knew he did not have the courage. So, if the `elder brothers' had not killed
Kowshikar sahib, who had? Her mind carefully turned over Gopalrao's hoarse
whispers, and for a moment she wondered darkly about the deeds of the police, before
dismissing her suspicions even as they were being formulated. True, the police cared
nothing for civilian authority, especially as personified by young pro-poor officers like
Kowshikar sahib, but they wouldn't have killed him deliberately to get at a few naxalite
boys. No, that was out of the question, but there was no getting round the fact that a
mystery now enveloped that shooting.
The stress of eking out a living, selling some herbal medicine for stomach
ailments, added to two difficult deliveries in the neighbourhood that kept her awake
over several consecutive nights, almost drove the mystery of Kowshikar's shooting out
of her head. Then, at last, one night, when she was dropping off to sleep, someone
came unceremoniously into her hut, and started shaking her shoulder. She got up
groggily, her every limb trembling with exhaustion. It was Ratnamma.
"Ramulamma! Ramulamma! You must save my boy. They have taken him to the
thana, and will kill by morning and dump his body in the bushes. He is not a naxalite.
Yes, he is, he is, I warned him," continued Ratnamma amidst sobs, "I warned him how
it would all end, but he got cheated all the time by the big men, after he had worked all
day long moving bags of grain. He still had to go to bed hungry most days, so one day
he ran away, and came back one night a month later and said `Amma, I am a Naxalite
now, I shall bring justice to people!' I wept, how I wept, and I have prayed to all the
Gods to save my son, and now they have caught him. He never carried any arms,
Ramulamma, you know that," said Ratnamma, her voice cracking with pain and tears.
" He was just a servant to them, they gave him something to eat. Now the police will
The Legend of Ramulamma
kill him. They are already torturing him, my poor boy! You know the Sub-Inspector
Sahib! Save my son!"
After telling Ratnamma to lie down on her own bed, since weeping did not help
anybody anyway, Ramulamma, washed her face from the bucket of water she kept in
her hut, slipped her wet feet into her chappals, and wrapping her sari tightly round
her body against the early morning cold, set off for the police station. A pink dawn had
broken over the low eastern hills when she passed the building, an incurious constable
hawking and spitting loudly from the station verandah. Through those raucous sounds
she could hear the tired moans of a man in pain. She went on to the sub-inspector's
quarters set well back from the police station, and surrounded by a little garden, with
some vegetables at the back and a patch of marigolds in front. The sub-inspector, who
had slept on a cot in the front verandah, was sitting up on it, wearing a white singlet
that bulged over his tummy and a many-coloured check lungi tucked underneath.
"Arre, you 305, you son of an ass, I told you, get me a hot cup of tea five
minutes ago, where have you died? Chai! Chai! Chai!" The sub-inspector was clearly in
very good humour. A constable came running up carrying a tray, a teapot, a cracked
cup and a plate of biscuits.
"Ramulamma! You have come too late to earn anything! If you had come last
night, I just might have...but look at your breasts now, just bags to keep some
religious offerings!" He laughed good-naturedly at his own joke, and took a noisy sip of
hot tea between clenched stained teeth.
Ramulamma sat down at his feet and ceremoniously put her head on his bare
feet. He looked at her indulgently.
"Sirrr, you know, Sir, why I have come, I have come to save the life of a boy you
have in there," she said in a keening voice that it was good to employ at such
occasions. "He is innocent, Sir, I swear on your head, just foolish. If you give him some
food, Sir, he will do what you want." She looked pleadingly up into his face. The sub-
inspector was enjoying this hugely. He stretched a leg forward and pinched her thigh
between the nails of two toes.
"You whores think you can get around a man, don't you, even when you have
lost your beauty, just for old times sake?" He laughed to himself and drank more tea
noisily. "Do you remember how much money I have given you in the past? All my
mamul money from all the trucks that go past the station, you and the other whores.
How you used to circle the station like cats. But those days are gone. I am here to do
my duty, so get lost." He got up to go inside his small house. In desperation she caught
hold of the edge of his lungi.
"Sirrr, every year brings out new girls. I shall bring Gauri to you, you will like
her." He must be stopped from leaving her; every minute counted. He turned and
looked at her with interest.
"You know what I like?" He bunched his fists high on his chest. "Bring her
tonight, no, I am exhausted with office work. Bring her on Sunday, I shall prepare
myself with three plates of biryani."
The Legend of Ramulamma
"Sir, let that boy go, he knows nothing, he will be loyal to you."
The sub-inspector sat down and clapped his hands. The constable came
running back with a fresh pot of tea. The sub-inspector held out his cup solemnly and
the constable filled it very carefully. Sipping his tea, the sub-inspector looked at
Ramulamma carefully for a few minutes.
"What do you whores know about loyalty?" he asked thrusting his face close to
hers. "You whores nurture these naxalite scum, don't I know it? Will you weep if they
kill me tomorrow? You will spread your legs to the next SI. Why did you kill Kowshikar,
heh? That fool thought he was some sort of saviour for you scum, well he died a dog's
death. You know how much money our Reddy Dorra spent pandering to that fellow's
whims, just because his sister was besotted! All you women are whores, every one!
Reddy Dorra even risked his own life, sending word to these naxalite rascals, so that
his brother-in-law might make a big name for himself as a peacemaker. What
happened? Joint Collector Kowshikar got shot by his friends, and you want me to
spare one of these rascally dogs!"
Ramulamma fell at his feet again, and in a careful rambling tone, tried to tickle
his credulity and his lust. If he let the boy live, he single-handed could unravel what
the whole Intelligence Department had failed to do; he would have his own man in the
naxalite group. She lied freely, for if she got the boy to live that day, she could get him
to take the next bus to Bombay and disappear, maybe for good, or at least for five
years.
When she was done, the sub-inspector was sunk in thought.
You go home, I will see what I can do," he said at last. "But next Sunday bring
that girl round as you promised, or my constables will break all the pots in your huts.
And remember, I will half her fucking pay for every year she is over fifteen!" With a
laugh, he heaved himself inside his house, and Ramulamma walked back not knowing
if she had saved a life. The police station was very silent by then.
Three days later the local newspaper carried a police story that a dangerous
naxalite had been eliminated after a gunfight that had lasted all night, and Ratnamma
with her sari end stuffed into her mouth was left staring at the one and only picture of
her son, lying in an untidy heap behind a bush. After the wailing, a collection was
made to help Ratnamma get her son's body from the police for a proper cremation.
Neither Ramulamma nor the sub-inspector tried to look at each other during the
proceedings.
Next weekend, someone from her village was going over to Rajnaik Thanda to
buy a cow. Since there was a belief that she could help in the bargaining, Ramulamma
was requested to go along. That evening at the Thanda, after the deal was struck, more
or less satisfactorily for both parties, large pots of local toddy were brought out in
celebration. Ramulamma, after a sip or two, went away beyond a little hill, perhaps to
answer the calls of nature. Two young men in half-sleeve shirts and trousers were
sitting by the small white-washed stone mound of some forgotten local Muslim pir.
Ramulamma sat down beside them under the Gul Mohar tree, and as they talked, its
red and gold leaves fell all over them.
The Legend of Ramulamma
On Sivarathri day, the great Surinder Reddy announced that since his sister
had decided to stay in the ashram indefinitely, he would distribute her saris to the
poor, and melting some gold make a donation to the temple as well. All afternoon long
he lay back in his armchair placed like a throne on his high verandah, while his
assistants brought out the saris and gave them to the poor women who lined up to
receive them. Every woman, one by one, with hands folded, and the gifted sari tucked
to her breast, went up and touched his feet, while he sat like a stone, hardly caring to
notice their obeisance. Then sweets were distributed in huge brass plates to all the
assembled men. At last, the great Reddy got up languidly and made his way to the
temple for the evening puja and the proper gratitude of the temple priests for his
munificent gift. It was quite dark when he returned to his armchair, and sank tiredly
into it. He was about to clap his hands to summon servants when a voice broke in
from the dark.
"Pedda Reddy Dorra, may you live for a thousand years! You have blest the
whole village on this sacred day!"
The deep verandah was lit only by a single bulb placed high on a cross rafter of
the ceiling. He peered uncertainly into the night, and made out Ramulamma's dim
figure squatting in the dust beyond the verandah.
"Ramulamma! Did you not get your sari? Well, there are always more, I can get
you two, yes, take two!"
"No, great Dorra! I do not want saris. If I could ask anything, I would ask
Yamaraja for the life of Kowshikar Sahib, for the sake of your widowed sister!"
"No one can gainsay their Karma, no one. What has been laid down from time
immemorial must be respected. There can be no change," said Surinder Reddy in a
deep voice. "You are a dai. You have given birth to life and you have seen life die. You
know that."
"Yes, Pedda Dorra garu! The fruits of Karma roll from generation to generation.
That great Englishman, Ferguson Dorra, what did he know of Karma? He mocked
caste; he adopted a pariah boy, called him a Brahmin, married him into a Brahmin
family, made him a great Advocate, but did his caste Karma leave him? No! It killed his
great-grandson, extinguishing the light of his house!"
There was silence for several minutes, except for the cicadas chirping in the
night. "How did you harijan woman find this out?" asked Surinder Reddy softly. "Yes,
you were always in and out of that house. That old woman must have babbled out the
truth in a weak moment, chee, how despicable!"
"No, she never did, but she was delirious once and spoke of it to her beloved
grandson. I am after all of her blood, and it was my Karma to hear it. But to him, it
meant nothing, he laughed it away, and it meant nothing to your sister, even as you
pretended it meant nothing to you!"
"Caste means nothing to me!" cried Surinder Reddy angrily. "Have I not just
distributed my poor sister's saris amongst you trash, given my money to you? I care
nothing for caste, I tell you. But to have your impure blood run in the veins of my
The Legend of Ramulamma
nephews, that is intolerable! I thought my sister would be equally revolted when I
found out the truth, going through Ferguson's papers, but she she women have no
sense of honour!"
"Was there no other way, Pedda Dorra Garu?" she asked softly from the night.
"None, none that was left me," said Surinder Redy grimly. "Did you think I liked
killing that boy? I have been sad since then. I cannot taste salt in my food any more."
"But everyone blamed the annalu for killing a good man," she persisted. "And
they have died like flies. They will exact retribution. They too have a sense of honour."
He looked down at her from his lofty height with a hint of humour in his eyes.
"And you, you who have swept my courtyard, you will take me to their court?" He
laughed softly, his handsome head thrown back.
"No, you are too great a man for a harijan woman like me to take anywhere," she
said simply. "But I have brought their court to you."
A single shot rang out, the bullet taking him in the chin, and he died choking on
his own blood as he laughed.