Today, of course it is not easy for an accused man to remain adamantly silent like he did. Promptly the crowd will leap on him, screaming, ‘Dey, do you think you can get away as Kazhuvan did?’

30

THE NEW DAY DAWNED IN Gopalla village.

The sun on the horizon, in the cloudless sky, red like a thindora fruit, was a relief to the human eye.

On Mangamma Road, there were two tall men on horseback. They were strangers; even the language they spoke was strange. They were a part of the Company—the one on the black horse was a White official and the one on the white horse was a dark native, his assistant. He was far more dignified, and fairer than the White man.

The White official sported a tall hat and red sideburns down his cheeks.

The native wore a red silk turban, ornately embroidered; he didn’t have sideburns, but he had a broad twisted moustache like a ram’s horns and two huge eyes popping out of his face, looking threateningly all round him.

The White man spoke fast in his tongue and the native responded in the same language.

They stopped short when they happened upon the sunrise. One could never tire of that sight; it was a daily wonder, a flower that has just bloomed. One could gaze at the new sun with pleasure as one would gaze at a young girl yet to age. A pleasant sun!

Only a sun at this stage can be looked at for more than a few seconds. Once it rises some more and gathers heat it will hurt the eye.

The White official exclaimed in excitement, ‘I’ve seen sunrises on the oceans and atop mountains. This is the first time I am watching the sun rise on a flat landscape. This is impressive. I hadn’t expected such beauty.’

‘True, this is a marvel, indeed.’

Before entering the village, they passed several haystacks along the fields.

‘Are these houses?’ asked the puzzled White official.

‘No, they aren’t,’ replied the native. ‘They are cattle fodder. The villagers stack their plant stalks after the harvest so that they dry and turn into hay.’

‘Why go through such trouble? Why not just heap them up after shedding the rice grains?’

‘Hay stacks are not heaped as easily as you think, sir. Even that has to have an order. You can’t just pile the millet and corn stalks any which way as they could rot in the rain during the monsoon. No cattle would feed on them. They have to be stacked by size, then walled up with thatch and plaited so that they are protected from the wind and rains.’

The White official brought his horse to a halt and looked at the neat haystacks in amazement. Well, it is no surprise that a strange White man was amazed. The people of Gopalla still laugh at the folk from Tiravasi standing in amazement at this sight.

Apparently two men from Tiravasi had gone round and round the stack asking in wonder, ‘How will the one who is tying the thatch come out?’