Bride in the Hills – Chapter 18

Excerpted, with permission, from Bride in the Hills, Penguin Random House, 2024, a translation of the author’s acclaimed 1967 novel, Malegalalli Madumagalu.

Word has spread that Padre Jivaratnayya of Thirthahalli has promised to teach an enthusiastic Bettalli Devayya to ride the bicycle. The rumour has taken on many guises drawing people of the neighbouring villages to Bettalli. This should come as no surprise, given that the villagers find even bullock carts a thing to marvel at. For them, the alien word ‘bicycle’, the thing it represents, and the act of riding it, all appear like a wondrous, out-of-body phenomenon. On the tongues of the villagers who cannot pronounce ‘bicycle’ properly, the strange word has staged a conversion to beesekal, an everyday object – a grinding stone – that they are all utterly familiar with. As they have not set eyes in all their lives on a real bicycle, and in contrast, have seen a beesekal from the time they opened their eyes at birth, they call the bicycle ‘beesekal’. Rumour is rife that the padre can ride the bicycle and that he is going to teach Devayya Gowda also how to ride it. In their imagination, people visualise Jivaratnayya moving on the bicycle using his magical powers, just like sorceresses and conjurors in fairy tales traversed the firmament on their magic carpets or wooden horses.

All of a sudden, a hush falls over the crowd. As they wait, they can see padre Jivaratnayya and Bettalli Devayya walking towards the clearing. The coal-black padre is wearing jasmine-white clothes. A plain, white cloth with no border adorns his head. The shirt buttons under his open, unbuttoned white coat glitter in the sun. A stole, also white, is wrapped stylishly round his neck. The chain on his watch, yet another source of wonderment for the villagers, hangs down from his coat pocket. He has worn a delicate white dhoti drawn across so that he can sit astride the bicycle. For folks who have rarely seen even their Gowda masters shod in any kind of footwear, the sight of the bootees on the padre’s feet is enough to turn their curiosity into the highest regard. Despite their utter contempt for his caste, creed and his rumoured misdeeds including religious conversion, the villagers keep their hoods in without hissing, like subdued snakes, as they gaze at the slim, tall figure of the man.

Devayya, who is standing beside the padre, is more sturdily built; he is as fair as the padre is dark. His build and complexion are both traits of his family. In his attire and appearance, his Gowda-ness has, little by little, started to give in to kilasta-ness. He has not worn any headgear but sports a cropped head. Neatly pressed shirt, black coat and a red-bordered dhoti; stylish footwear, not from the Kannada region, but fashionable ones from the plains, imported via Shivamogga. But the single stud in his ear has not disappeared, the sole mark of his origins in the Gowda clan.

The clearing is in a part of the forest that has grown increasingly sparse; yet, it cannot be considered a meadow by any means. The area is thickly overgrown with bushes of sour greens, broken trunks of rose apple trees and low aramarala shrubs. It is a patch of land that cattle graze upon as well as the ‘inner space’ that serves as a sanctuary for calves. What could be termed pastures in the plains is not to be found in Malnad, in this landscape of forest-clad hills. It is hard to come by that kind of flat land here. This is why the padre has ordered the cartman Baccha to carry the bicycle, rather than pushing or riding the bike himself. Feeling proud and important that he has been chosen for the privilege of initiation into the New Civilised World, Baccha, who has earned the wrath of his fellow villagers, servants and serfs for his utter disdain for them, agrees euphorically to carry the bicycle; for, who other than someone as modern as him would be eligible to carry that novel vehicle which no one has ever seen before, and which is so bedazzling as to inspire one to cleanse one’s hands before touching it? And yet, a chill goes down his spine as he is about to lift it! He is suddenly faced with a problem: He does not know where or what to grasp in order to lift it. Once when he tries, the bell bursts into a trrreeennn … trrreeennn sound. Alarmed, he leaps up and moves away from it! Another time, his finger is caught in the wheel! Yet another time, his clothes are entangled in the sharp teeth of the chain and get ripped! What bad luck! But he has agreed to bring the bicycle to this blessed clearing. What’s to be done now?

When Baccha does not turn up with the bicycle for a long time, Devayya races back home, accompanied by another servant. What does he see? Baccha, standing at a distance, completely engrossed in watching the miracle machine, like an ardent devotee in front of God! ‘What are you gaping at, you fathead?’ Berating him, Devayya asks the other man to help Baccha, shows them how to lift it and has them carry it to the clearing.

Seeing the two men carry the bicycle, the entire clearing watches with bated breath. All kinds of comments – praise, disappointment, wonderment, distaste – start pouring forth.

‘There, there … the beesekal!’

‘What a wondrous thing? How it glows!’

‘Ayyo, our beesekal has two, flat, circular stones, one on top of the other … this seems to have two separate wheel-like parts?’

‘Ae … this is not a beesekal, man. I believe it is a “baisikal”!’

‘Look at that, they’re parking it on the ground … see how he is holding it!’

‘Unlike a cart where you have the wheels next to each other, here one wheel is in front of the other. Then how will it move, man? How does one stop it and get off, man? It is bound to fall on its side. Just watch, now!’

‘Hi … hi … hi … what’s that thing making the trrreeenn … trrreeenn noise?’

‘It’s a bell to make people give way!’

‘So, if we go on making trrreeenn … trrreeenns, will it clear the way by itself?’

‘Alelelele … Look at that Baccha! See how the lowly Holeya lad is showing off! Don’t miss that red head band or that shirt he’s wearing … Ohohoho … the dhoti has gone above the knee, too.’

‘What did you expect … he is to be a bridegroom in a day or two … in bed … snuggling next to Dodda Beera’s daughter Thimmamma…’

‘Hey, look, look how the padre jumped on it!’

A colossal surge of amazement, delight and excitement engulfs the crowd, resulting in a thunderous cheer that reverberates through the enclosing forest. Jivaratnayya sheds his turban and coat, though not his boots, folds and cinches up his dhoti tight, and demonstrates how to ride the bicycle on the rugged and uneven terrain, going a couple of rounds, before dismounting. The onlookers gathered on the periphery converge on the scene from all directions. In the ensuing melee, when the notion of discrimination between ‘touchables’ who belong to the upper castes and ‘untouchables’ seems to have all but vanished, the padre’s discerning preacher-mind wryly notes, ‘The bicycle, rather than the Bible or Christ himself, seems to be the most effective agent in propagating Christianity!’

Gingerly touching the bicycle tyre, Gutthi is amazed that it does not have the iron rim of a cart; instead, it is covered by a soft, thick, black something. Even as he says to himself, ‘They seem to have covered the rim with the kaalinga serpent that Lord Krishna slayed,’ someone rushing from behind tramples on his heel.

An angry Gutthi fumes, ‘Ae man, you don’t have eyes or what?’ Turning around, he sees a familiar face. Gutthi’s angry face breaks into a smile. ‘Ayyo, it’s you! I thought it’s some stranger.’

Aita responds with a grin, all teeth, and implores him, ‘Please let me also touch it once … please!’ and Gutthi makes space for him.

Aita caresses the various parts of the bicycle, savouring the very same thrill that accompanied his private explorations of the tender contours of Pinchalu’s alluring body in the early days of their intimate union; gliding his hands over them again and again, he sighs long and deep in bliss as he would at the climax of orgasmic delight.

When he feels another arm over his shoulder trying to reach out and touch the bicycle, Gutthi turns around to find supervisor Chinkra. He has put his well-oiled hair up in a bun and worn flowers. His lips are a lively red, chewing pan.

By then, the padre asks the crowds to clear out so that he can start his lesson with Devayya. Their curiosity unsated, they do not move. Then he suddenly presses the bell and keeps his finger there for a couple of minutes without a break! Startled, the crowds, pulling and pushing, beat a retreat to the edges of the clearing.

The riding lesson begins.

The cycle is now balanced with Baccha holding its handle on one side and the padre on the other. Devayya, adorned in his ‘cycle-styled’ dhoti, that helps to sit astride, takes off his coat and footwear. On padre’s instruction, he places his foot on the pedal and hoists himself with his full weight onto the seat. Baccha’s hand buckles under the impact of Devayya’s weight, the bicycle nearly falling over him. By then, the padre quickly pulls the machine back to position, asking Baccha to be careful. Beholding Devayya’s portly body, perched on the seat as if he were sitting on a trident, swaying this way and that, the crowds burst into a thunderous laughter – hihihhee … hahahhaa … hohohhoo – cheering and applauding him. Devayya, already in shock from the estranging experience of the bicycle grows angry at the humiliation. He is by no means fatigued; yet, his face pours with sweat from sheer excitement. Following his appeal, the padre sends word to the onlookers at the periphery: they must not laugh or shout; just hush. Instantaneously, all human clamour ceases, leaving only the hill bulbuls’ call from the bushes, the parakeets’ screeches as they fly above in a formation and the kingfishers’ meemeemee reverberating through the hush.

Baccha and the padre cautiously wrestle-push the bicycle on the rough terrain. Devayya strains to get a foothold on the pedal, his legs moving involuntarily up and down with as they move. Upon reaching a slight slope, Baccha releases the bicycle at the padre’s directive. Despite the padre’s herculean effort to control it, the bicycle hurtles forward, spurred by Devayya’s considerable weight till amid the excited cheers, it crashes into the aramarala shrubs. Devayya is face down on the thorny tangle of shrubbery. Red scratches adorn his cheeks, chin and nose. Dismissing the solicitous crowd, the padre, assisted solely by Baccha, manages to extricate Devayya and the bicycle from the thicket.

Devayya says, ‘Ae Baccha, go and fetch a bamboo pole.’

Baccha fetches a strong bamboo pole, about eight forearms in length. It is firmly latched to the handle with sturdy vines. The bystanders are summoned to help. Thimmi’s father, Dodda Bira, among others, eagerly vies to assist. They are asked to bend like oxen tethered to a yoke, and extend their arms beneath the pole. With the bicycle thus immobilised, Devayya ascends imperiously and settles down on the seat, while the pole-bearers pull the bicycle. The handle, securely affixed to the pole, precludes unwarranted turns. It is entirely controlled by the pole-bearers, moving solely in response to their pull and at their chosen pace, not Devayya’s. With no chance of a sway or topple, Devayya joyfully ‘rides’ the bicycle, as if on a palanquin. However, the padre knows better: All this amounts to mere elation, not education.

Gutthi observes that most of the people, including women and children from the Holeya settlement, have gathered in the clearing. Baccha, who is to wed Thimmi, is the star of the show. Thimmi’s father has also lent his shoulder to the pole, like a bullock. Thimmi and her mother, Sesi, are nowhere to be seen. To Gutthi, the bicycle riding lesson is a godsend. Aita is standing next to him, completely absorbed in the procession. He touches Aita’s shoulder gently and signals with his eye to follow him, and whispers in his ear: ‘I have some work, and I need to go. The elder Heggade of the Old House had asked me to go via Konuru and he has asked Aigalu, the schoolteacher to drop by. But I couldn’t go to Konur, as I came via Huvalli. So would you take this message to the Aigalu?’

As Aita nods perfunctorily and makes to rush back towards the Bicycle Show, Gutthi teases him with a smile playing on his face, ‘Didn’t your wife come with you? How could you come without her?’

Beaming, Aita says, ‘I did ask her to come. She said she wanted to collect the healing ilikivi greens. She seems to get sick every morning and throw up. So Kanna Pandita has asked her to have this dish made out of ilikivi greens.’ Hearing a great clamour erupt from the crowd, he runs towards the clearing.

Dodda Bira’s tumble has sparked an uproar. The padre had instructed the six conscripts lending their arms and shoulders to support the pole to accelerate; for, how would Devayya ever learn to pedal if the bicycle does not speed up? All six men broke into a run, and the crowd applauded to spur them on. Suddenly, old Dodda Bira tripped in a ditch. He clung to the pole despite the fall and dragged it a few feet before he collapsed. This comic incident heightens the excitement of the cheering crowd, their clamour reaching the sky. When Aita reaches the spot, Devayya has dismounted from the bicycle and is ministering to Dodda Bira.

With the setting sun, the tall hills of Kunda cast their shadow on the forest. The forest green, soaking up the previous day’s heavy downpour, resplendent with the sun’s patchwork of ochre colours, makes for a fabulous sight. The beauty and serenity of the twilight, in that transition from day to night, envelops Malnad! Anxious to reach their distant homes before dark, the crowds begin to disperse.

Adept in seizing every opportunity to emphasise the magnificence of his Christian faith to people of diverse communities, the padre pontificates to the crowd, with an extra dose of attention directed at Devayya. Seemingly lost in Nature’s beauty, in a voice dripping with sentiment, he holds forth. ‘How beautiful is God’s creation! This place and time are ideal for prayer! Let’s pray to our merciful Lord.’ With these words, he kneels down abruptly, his hands folded in prayer, eyes half-closed in devotion.

‘There he goes again … this padre!’ Voicing his dissent and disgust, holeya Manja of the Old House leads his people away.

Walking along with Aita, Chinkra exclaims, ‘Ayyo, Devayya Gowdaru has also knelt down, see…’ As they head home, they can hear the sing-song of the padre’s supplication in English: ‘Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be your name/ Your Kingdom come…’

‘What kind of prayer is this, I say? Kneeling in front of the forest! No idol of God! No temple! Our Peraduru troupe sings prayers so much better in the Bhāgavata play, right? What’s wrong with our master? Why is he hobnobbing with this padre?’

Amused by the mocking remarks of a serf from the Canara country, Aita guffaws suddenly, drawing Chinkra’s attention: ‘Hey look, look … don’t miss it … that holeya Baccha is also resting on his knees in prayer… hee … hee … hee…’

‘His knees or his bum, let him rest whatever he wants! How does it matter? Come let’s go … it’s turning dark, the stars have already risen!’

Aita looks up: Yes! Venus has already risen over the hills of Kunda, across the golden horizon in the west!