Under the influence of his stories, the wall, which is Ramani’s waiting place, begins to take on a new meaning for the villagers. It is still the forbidden place, but the land beyond is no longer just the home of the gumma and his awful kolli devvas. Now it is associated with beauty and love and yearning and longing, the laughter of Kamadeva, the suryavamsi, the swetasanchari. The gumma has become the wandering, mesmerizing jogi; the kolli devvas have become jogatis longing for him.

But, Annaiah warns, gumma is dangerous. Don’t think he isn’t. I will tell you all another story, this time about your ancestors and what happened when they met gumma.

The villagers look at him sceptically. How can he, a stranger in their village, know of their ancestors?

I will tell you about the lake and the well in the land beyond the wall. That’s where your ancestors lived, Annaiah says firmly. The village is curious, so everyone settles down to listen.

See for yourselves what I can see, Annaiah says, waving his hands.

And the villagers do.

Your ancestors are there, on the bank of that serene lake on the other side of the wall, living peacefully. But gumma is always hovering. He wants that whole land for himself. He uses up all the water in the lake for his boiling pot. There is some water in one well, but everything else has dried up. Animals are dying, the crops have withered. The people of the village are vigilantly watching each drop that anyone drinks and praying to the skies for a solution.

The headman is sitting with his head in his hands, when the gumma visits the village in the form of a wandering jogi. He gets no welcome, not even from the women. Everyone is sitting around listlessly.

The jogi laughs and goes straight to the headman’s house. He says, ‘I can tell you how to get water.’

The headman looks up eagerly. ‘What should I do?’

The jogi gives an enigmatic smile. It needs a sacrifice.

‘We need to build a fire?’ the headman asks.

The jogi shakes his head. ‘No, to the water.’

The headman doesn’t understand. Water has never demanded sacrifice, as far as he knows. But he is at his wits’ end and there is no one that he can turn to for advice. What does the water want? he asks. A cock? A goat? A bull?

No, says the jogi. It wants a young woman.

The headman is horrified. Kill a young woman? What are you saying? The jogi waits it out. The headman holds his head, covers his face. The visitor sits there, impassively.

‘That is not all,’ the jogi says. ‘It has to be a young woman who is pregnant with her first child.’

The headman just shakes his head wordlessly.

The jogi now walks out onto the street. ‘Listen, people,’ he intones, ‘I have told your headman how to save the village and get water again. It is up to you if all of you want to die or if a sacrifice to the water is better.’