Drums and a Procession

  The beating of drums sounded from the street.  She glanced around, no one was close or watching. She ran down the hill from the house to the garage. The road was rough tar and stone, with a thin strip of abused grass, cut too close to the roots, in the middle and on either side.

  She ran on the grass, scared perhaps of falling and scraping her already scabbed knees. Just a little farther past the dinning hall and she would reach the garage and the weedy foliage of scattered seeds let thrive to hide their house from the curious eyes of the Indians who wanted to observe the white people.

  “Baba.” She skidded to a careful stop and turned to one of their hired workers who lived on this small farm with them. Parkie.

  “Baba,” He said again, “Where is father sab?”

  “Uh,” She twisted a bit of blonde strands behind her ear, “Dad’s sleeping now.”

  “Where is Victor sab?”

  She turned and pointed to the big kitchen and dining hall that was a separate house from where they slept. “I think he’s in there.”

  “Nandri.” He turned to leave but then twisted back, “Don’t go into the street, baba.”

  She shook her little blonde head and looked up at him with laughing green eyes, promising: “I won’t.”

  He nodded his black and gray head and walked away.

  She made sure when he glanced back that he saw her skipping off towards the path where the cow shed was. Away from the street. She ducked behind the bushes and waited until he climbed the seven steps to the dining hall. Then she crept back down the first path towards the waiting foliage.

  The drums where louder now, beating in a steady rhythm, but the patter of many feet on the road was frenzied. She checked her surroundings again before she squatted on the grass by the side of the road, and slid under the tall hedge.

  The other side of the hedge sloped downward and she slid until she dug her heels into the dark brown soil and blackjack weeds to stop. Those awful, ugly weeds.  She stood and patted her bottom, dusting the dirt off her light blue jeans – but it would still stain a little.

  The drums were closer, not yet in front of her, but maybe at the triangle where the three roads met. They would be coming down the road from Kodai Kanal, they always passed through Kodai. Yes, there weren't really any other houses from the other road – the one that led down to the plains of Palani where many pilgrims would gather at the Hindu temple.

  But they would walk down the Maduri road.

  She crept forward to the hedge and barbed fence that was her only protection from the drop to the asphalt road. She moved some leaves, crouching low, sitting on the ground – waiting.

  The drums were close, just to her right. She pressed her face to the fence, careful to avoid the barb, and waited for the first colorful Indian to pass.

  They came in a line, beating on colorful drums, dressed in male Panjabi; some had orange rags wrapped around their heads. Not turbans, but merely cloth tied in a knot. The next line was women. They were not the poorest people of course, and their saris’ were colored pink, red, and orange. A few had green, but there was not a blue one. No, not in the next line either. Or the next.

  They had on their heads – long black braided hair with garlands of jasmine pinned in – a white and red painted pot. She wasn’t sure if the pot was clay or aluminum. Probably clay, because she knew that there was burning coals in those pots.

  As she was watching the procession in fascination, a young woman carrying a pot on her shiny blue-black head jerked and twisted. Her mouth hung open and her eyes rolled back. She churned to a frantic music none could hear, and an older woman – possibly her mother – grabbed her, seeking to calm her. But she wouldn’t be calmed.

  The woman kicked out, hitting no one, and she curved back. She spun, her long braid flying out and her pink sari flaring around her legs. But the pot of burning coals stayed on her head.

  The little blonde girl’s eyes behind a thick hedge followed this young woman until she was past her vision.

  The next people who came also beat drums, but rolling beside them were two wooden constructions from which two men swung. She stared in horrified fascination at their white powdered backs and the huge hooks gouging through their flesh. Four hooks in the back and four on the legs – thighs and calves. They swung as swings in playground do; back and forth, back and forth, not a single outcry – though it must have hurt. One of them had the powder on his upper arms and hooks through them. The other let his arms dangle.

  They trundled past on wooden wheels.

  People passed. Colors, drums, and at one time a horrible sounding flute. But it was soon over and no one passed. The road was clear again and the impatient cars were allowed to putter along their way.

  She sighed and got up, stumbled through the uneven ground, scrambled up the slight incline, and wriggled under the hedge – looking both ways, making sure no one was coming. She stood up, spat out a leaf, dusted her dirty clothes, and shook out her hair.

  The sun was almost setting. She had time to pick some fruit before having to go in to take a shower. Rolling up the pant leg that kept catching her bare toes she heard someone coming. Glanced up. Oooh, just around the corner was coming Uncle Victor and Parkie. She ran into the jungle that was their farm.

  She knew the way – past the three plum trees, that big tomato fruit tree, and avoid the beehive. Get on the narrow trail to the cowshed, and go to the left after passing the rainwater ditch, brushing through tall weeds and crunching on dry sticks. Up to the bulls-heart tree – the only one on the property, it looked like custard-apple – the orange trees, guava trees, and finally the only lakwat tree. She went up just a little more, through the opening in the hedge of bougainvilleas, to the tar and gravel path with three stripes of grass.

  She paused and looked down at her jeans. They were full of the little spikes of blackjacks.  Those awful little weeds. Bending over as she walked up the pathway, she tore off the spikes and cast them aside. It was later than she imagined because she could see the light on in her room – which only meant that her older brother was showering. Or her little sister.

  She snatched an empty bucket from a flower bed and walked with it to the tap where she could get rusted water heated from the boiler to take a shower.

  The fruits hung on the trees, forgotten. The drums, the possessed woman, the swinging men, and the burning coals forgotten as she banged on the bathroom door, anxious for her shower before dinner.