‘The meeting about the festival at the Kattuppatti Mariyaayi temple took place last night. The decision that the village elders have arrived at is that . . . since Kumaresan, son of Velayyan, from the field around the rock, has married and brought a woman from the outside, the village will impose strictures. Therefore, no one from the village should engage in any conversations with them . . . No one should go and work in their fields for weeding or harvest, or call them to work in theirs . . . There should be no exchange of food and water . . . All of this applies to field labourers too . . . These controls will be in place until the Mariyaayi temple festival is over and the village council meets again to reconsider this decision . . .’

Long after sunrise and well into the day, they could hear the crier repeating this announcement in every field and homestead in the village. At first, Saroja was secretly happy that no one from the village would come anywhere near the rock now. But how long could this happiness last? Could they really live here without engaging with people, without transacting with them, looking at their faces, exchanging pleasantries with them? It would be a relief if Kumaresan took her to live elsewhere. Would he refuse to leave the rock and the fields? He might worry about his mother staying alone. They certainly could not take her along. She would much rather roast on this heated rock than go anywhere else. What would he decide then?

Her mother-in-law had started spending more time in the fields. Every time she returned to the rock, she spewed words of abuse that were like burning embers. Since the village’s decision had been conveyed, she’d been fuming and ranting even more than usual. She could not bear the sound of the crier’s drum resounding all over the place. As long as Kumaresan was at home, she didn’t raise her voice much, the force of her litany dwindling to a constant murmur. But the moment he went even a slight distance away from the rock, her voice suddenly gathered strength, making Saroja wonder where she had found this burst of vocal power.

Marayi did not even need a person to talk to. She could speak to the goats, the trees and plants, even while staring into vacant space. Keeping quiet was simply against her nature. Whenever she wanted to communicate with someone not present, she would just imagine them appearing in front of her. Listening to her, it seemed as though these imaginary interlocutors were actually replying to her. Apparently, earlier, she used to talk to Kumaresan’s father this way: