The Celebration

Short story

By Raymond C. Pillai

THE sky all around had a lurid glow as cane fires lit up the De cember evening. It was the close of the crushing season and those who had not finished harvesting their cane redoubled their efforts while the more fortunate ones rested from their labours. The Gounden house hold was one of the lucky ones. With good weather, enough cane trucks and a hard-working cane gang, they had managed to move out all their cane. Now they took their ease in the cool of the evening and chatted idly over their bowls of yaqona.

“We’ve had a good crop this year, amma”, Rama said to his mother.

“Twelve hundred tons at the very least. And the final payment on last year’s crop was a good one too. I think we can kill a goat for Christ mas and celebrate. Nothing very big, mind you. Just a small affair for the family members only”.

Rama’s mother was taken aback.

“It isn’t a year yet since your father died”, she said indignantly. “What will people think?”

“People will always think the worst of others. But we have nothing to fear. We said all the necessary prayers after appa’s death. And the kriyakaram was a big one. We killed three goats, didn’t we? Nobody can say we didn’t observe the period of mourning correctly”.

"It’s the first Christmas since he died”, his mother persisted.

“Look, amma, it happened 10 months ago. You can’t go on mourn ing him for ever. You have to stop some time”.

“Ramu, is there ever a time when

we stop remembering completely? I There are some things which are not easily forgotten, because they have ■ become part of us. Since your father and I were married, 40 years have I passed. That’s a long time”.

Too long, thought Rama. He had never got on well with his father.

“It’s different for you, amma. I don’t have to remember him”.

“I know you never liked your father, but that’s no reason to forget him now. True, he used to treat you harshly at times. But there was a reason for it. Your father wanted you to grow up into a strong, honest] man. That’s why he brought you up so firmly. And not just you only. We all felt the weight of his hand at one ; time or another. But we’ve all bene fited. We are wealthy. We are res pected in the whole district. And we are still a united family. So many families quarrel and break up after the father dies. But has that hap pened to us? And why hasn’t it hap pened to us? Because your father showed us the right way. Even though he is no longer alive, his spirit is still with us, keeping us united and happy”.

Rama had listened patiently to his mother’s homily. After all, she had earned the right to her illusions. But he could not check himself any longer.

“If his spirit is still with us, then I say we should celebrate Christmas the way he would have celebrated it —with feasting and drinking. He always enjoyed life. You know that well enough. He wouldn’t miss his meat and whisky for anything. I’m

sure he wouldn't want us to sit around like fools just because he wasn’t alive to share the occasion with us”.

“I’m sure your father would be filled with sorrow to see you making merry so soon after his death. Wait a little longer, and then you can have as much feasting and drinking as you want”.

“But how much longer, amma?

We didn’t do anything for Easter or Diwali. How long are we going to continue as if we were corpses our selves? I say we should kill one goat at least for Christmas. And people can say what they like. I don’t give a damn!”

Rama had his way in the end. He was the eldest son after all. But his decision was strongly resented. When he brought home the Christmas goat, the family showed not the slightest interest and this made Rama very sore. At the very least they could have asked him whjtt the goat had cost.

THE Christmas celebration proved to be a dispiriting venture. With the exception of Logesan, who was the youngest and who dared not cross his brother, the others found reasons for not being present. The two sisters said they were unable to travel. Their damn fool husbands must have got them pregnant again, thought Rama. Govinda had to go and see his ailing mother-in-law. A likely story! That mother-in-law of Govinda’s was strong as an ox and twice as stupid. Gopal gave the same reason as the year before—he was afraid somebody would set fire to his cane if he left his farm. All feeble excuses! Well, let them stay away if they liked, fumed Rama. If they wanted to be stubborn, that was their own affair, but he wasn’t going to let them spoil his pleasure.

The goat was slaughtered early on Christmas morning. In the past, Rama’s father would have conducted the job personally, wearying every body with his imperious commands.

Today that privilege was Rama’s. He took charge of the operation as if born to the task and gave orders with the aplomb of a veteran.

Logesan held the goat down by the legs while Rama forced a drink of water into the goat’s mouth—the final kindness. Then a deft stroke of the knife sliced through the animal’s throat, releasing a jet of hot blood.

“Look how you’re holding that basin, you ass!” Rama shouted at his son, Anand. “You’ll let the whole stuff spill on the ground”.

Anand did his best to hold the basin steady as the blood gushed into it erratically. The animal’s eyes

dilated in terror, its body heaving in spasms of agony. Uncomprehending, crazed with pain, it struggled to raise its head and look at its tor mentors, but Rama’s firm grip on its muzzle held it prisoner. Hot, tor tured blasts of air snorted through its labouring nostrils. Its body arched in agonised convulsions. Des perately it fought to regain its feet, but the combined weight of the two men brutally quelled all resistance.

The spasms slowly ceased as its life ebbed out. It sagged and went limp, defeated.

The basin was almost full—froth ing, dark, sinister. The flow of blood dwindled to a trickle. Judging the right moment expertly, Rama motioned to Anand to remove the basin. It was not a second too soon as a stream of undigested food spurted from the severed gullet.

Rama twisted the head round and sawed through the spinal cord. The goat convulsed once more, then sub sided. The deed was done.

Rama stood up and flicked the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand. “He’s a big bugger, isn’t he?” he said. “Over 100 pounds in my estimation”.

Logesan murmured assent but Anand said nothing. Anand’s face was blanched. He was sickened by the slaughter, more so because it was quite unnecessary. Young as he was, he was still perceptive enough to see that the goat was only a sacrifice to his father’s ego.

Rama was not pleased with Anand’s squeamishness. “Look at

this boy of mine. He is nearly old enough to have hair on his chin, but he’s frightened of a little blood”, Anand was stung. “It’s not the blood. It’s the pain that we give the animal when we kill it”.

“Nonsense!” said Rama. “It doesn't feel a thing. It gets such a shock that it doesn’t know what’s happening to it. Look at that goat there. See how peacefully it lies. Do you think it feels anything? Not one bit. It’s gone. Finished”.

There was indeed something peaceful about the way it lay there, looking calm and composed even though its head was missing. Flies started buzzing round the neck of the carcass, and as the blood on the grass began to thicken and grow dark, the violent scene of a few minutes before seemed more remote and less reprehensible.

THE goat yielded 55 pounds of

meat, which should have pleased Rama, but he was still furious be cause the whole family was not pre sent.

“They should have come”, he complained to his mother. “We always used to celebrate Christmas in a big way. It was fun for every body. But this year they think they can have more fun by themselves in their own homes. Our neighbours must be laughing at us. They know we killed such a big goat, and now there’s no one to eat it. Well then, if nobody wants it, I’ll eat it all by myself”.

“All this is your own doing, Ramu”, said his mother. “You had no patience. You could not wait for even one year to show that you are the big man of the house now. I kept telling you, but you are too big now to listen to an old woman like me”.

“Amma, that’s not true. I just wanted to enjoy Christmas”.

“Since when have you become a Christian, Ramu, that you must cele brate Christmas?”

“Haven’t we always celebrated Christmas? Christmas is not a reli gious thing. It’s only a public holi day. It’s a time for feasting and merry-making”.

“All right, then. You go ahead with your feasting and see how much you enjoy it”.

“I will enjoy it!” he said defiantly.

“Shanti!” he roared at his wife.

“Why isn’t the fried meat ready

yet?”

“I’m just doing it now. I have only two hands, you know”.

“Your tongue seems to be work ing more than your hands nowadays.

Hurry up with that meat”.

A few minutes later his wife

brought in a bowl of chopped meat and liver mixed with fat and blood.

It was done just the way he liked it, with plenty of chillies. In a separate saucer lay the goat’s testicles, lightly fried in oil and neatly quartered.

When Rama’s father had been alive, the first meat was always reserved for him. No one might eat until he had tasted first and pronounced himself satisfied. It was almost a seignorial right, confirming him in his place of honour as head of the house. Now the old man was no more. His mantle had fallen upon Rama’s shoulders, and with it all the prerogatives.

“Ah, it’s a long time since I’ve had such tasty meat”, said Rama with exaggerated relish. In truth he was disappointed to find the meat a little tough, but he was not going to let his chagrin show.

“Here, Anand”, he called to his son. “Take some of this meat”.

Anand shuffled to the table re luctantly and put a few spoonfuls of fried blood into his cupped hand.

“Have some of this too”, said Rama, pointing to the saucer.

“I never eat that”, said Anand hastily. The prospect of eating goat’s testicles repelled him.

“Go on, it’s good stuff”.

“I never eat it”, repeated Anand dully.

“Well, you are going to eat some today, my boy”.

“Why are you forcing him?”

Anand’s mother intervened. “He says he doesn’t want it”.

“Stop molly-coddling the boy.

He’s going to do what I tell him.

Here, eat this”. Rama picked up a piece from the saucer and thrust it at Anand.

Anand took the preferred morsel.

With a tremendous effort of will he bit into it and tried to swallow but the spongy texture and somewhat amoniacal tang of the flesh made him retch. He rushed out to the drain which ran past the kitchen window and vomited until he was exhausted.

“See what you’ve done to the boy!” cried Anand’s mother. “Why are you being so stubborn?”

“He’s just enjoying his Christmas Day”, said Rama’s mother bitterly.

“He just wants to show that he’s the big man of the house. And he has proved it by bullying his son”.

“Stop it!” shouted Rama. “I’ve had enough of you people!” With a violent motion of the hand he swept the meat bowl off the table and stamped out of the house.

His wife looked sadly at the meat strewn over the floor. She had pre pared it so painstakingly, the way her husband liked it, and he had

flung it aside to be trampled under foot. Tears of exasperation welled up in her eyes.

“It’s no use crying, Shanti”, her mother-in-law said to her. “Men never change. In 40 years of married life I never managed to change the ways of Ramu’s father. And I don’t think you’ll ever be able to alter Ramu either. He’s too much like his father. Make the most of your happy moments, and pray that the hard times are few. That’s the only way to endure a lifetime together”.

Shanti made no reply. There was practical wisdom in the old woman’s words, but hardly a grain of comfort.

Still, there was no point in lingering over her troubles. She brushed back her tears as if nothing had happened.

Then she bent down and began pick ing up the pieces of meat one by one.