Free THE PUPPETEERS OF PALEM by Sharath Komarraju Page B

concrete, stood by the gate in front of the house, facing the village. The larger one was located a hundred or so metres behind the house, beyond the field it irrigated. He charged only a nominal sum for a pail of water but he did not allow anyone to come near it. Only heor one of his servants was allowed to draw water from his well.
    The third and final factor that contributed to Avadhani’s status in the village was the breed of buffaloes that he owned. Imported by his father from Ongole when Avadhani was a little boy, they had been passed on to him after his father’s death. He had taken good care of them and had made sure the next generation of buffaloes were as profitable as the last. If Rangayya was able to make such a good living selling milk, it was all thanks to Avadhanayya and the first-rate buffalo that he had sold to him. And for such a small price too.
    But lately, Avadhani had begun to have competition. A couple of years ago, KomatiSatyam, his immediate neighbour, had razed his shack to the ground and erected in its place a brick house of twostories. For good measure, he had had it painted a spotless white with a touch here and there of a pleasing blue. Then he had gone one step further and had a bore pump installed in front of his house, free for anyone in the village to use. And KomatiSatyam was not nearly as particular about who touched his pump as Avadhani was about his well.
    Soon, Avadhani’s house became ‘the smaller house next to Satyam’s house’. When visitors asked for Avadhani, they were asked, ‘You mean Komati Satyam’s neighbour?’
    It was, however, a few months later, when Satyam received a batch of twelve choice buffaloes from Ongole—healthier, plumper and more beautiful—that Avadhani’s defeat was complete in the eyes of the villagers of Palem. All he had now to fall back on was his field—which in recent times, like most other fields in Palem, had been steadfastly refusing to support plant life, no matter what.

     
    Chanti looked around the room in which the three of them sat, and wondered again at how little things had changed in Palem. When he had arrived that afternoon, he had thought it looked a little drier than he remembered it. But then, it was almost summer, he had reasoned. For a few years now, summer had eaten a little into both spring and winter. Nothing surprising, global warming and all that, he mused.
    But very little of the essentialthings had changed, he noted. Mandiramma Banda, the piles of hay by Saraswatamma’s house, the school building and Gandhi’s statue, the new Shivalayam (by now about thirty years old), Prabhakarayya’s house, Ibrahim Bhai’s shack—everything was just as he remembered it.
    Why, even here in Thatha’shouse, everything was the same. Those clay puppets still hung from the kitchen doorway, swinging around in the breeze. The old radio with the big black speakers was still there, though from the dust it had gathered on top, he could tell Thathaprobably didn’t use it much anymore. Thatha’sold cot was as sturdy and spotless as ever. Yes, those days, they did build things to last.
    Thatha himself looked good for someone pushing eighty. Yes, his face had shrivelled to the point where it was all nose now, his lips were deathly pale and the skin on his cheeks showed cracks that looked ready to burst open. But somehow, beyond the thick glasses, some of the fire in his eyes had remained, and his voice still carried the same note of thoughtful authority as always.
    ‘When did KomatiSatyam build that house, Thatha?’ Sarayu asked.
    Sarayu’s voice had grown tender. She used to speak in a shrill, commanding voice to everyone but Aravind. But years in the city had taught her to mellow down. Her tone, as befitted a lady, now barely rose above a whisper. Culture, wasn’t that what it was called?
    His eyes travelled down to her feet. The sight surprised him. In his memory, he had always pictured Sarayu’s feet as big and manly. He recalled