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The Cutthroat Comrades
    Gopalakrishna Naidu had inherited all of Gandhi’s adamancy, most of his self-righteousness and a wee bit of his desire to save humanity. Upon realizing that he was endowed with such a desirable mix of messianic attributes, he fashioned himself as a father-figure for the landlords of Nagapattinam and, therefore, had taken upon himself the timeless task of protecting their vested and invested interests. As required of self-made heroes who shoulder such responsibility, he satisfied all the requisite criteria: he perfected the role of a leader who represented hope, claimed to symbolize change even as he continued to believe in age-old values, and unfailingly met his constituency on a regular basis. Having introduced this balding, middle-aged man in three-and-a-half formidable sentences, I step aside as a big-mouthed narrator-novelist, and instead invite you to catch him on his campaign trail.
    On a sultry afternoon in July when the sun sets the sky on fire, Gopalakrishna Naidu’s gleaming pleasure-car(simply called ‘pleasure’ by the villagers, and ‘car’ by those who have travelled in one) arrives at the doorstep of Ramu Thevar’s palatial bungalow, having traversed a picturesque Tanjore countryside replete with lakes and rivers and lushgreen rice fields and tropical coconut trees. In a cinematic wide-angle shot, the door of the ash-coloured Ambassador opens and we first spot Gopalakrishna Naidu’s gold-ringed right hand, and then we see the rest of him emerge, dressed in spotless hand-spun, hassle-free white cotton. As you visualize him walking from his car to his designated place, here’s the background song that should fill your eager ears: one in a million million / he walks like a kingly lion / one in a million million / he wears red red vermillion / one in a million million / he’s here to crush the rebellion . Trust me, such music sounds really upbeat when rapped in Tamil; what you see here is the tragedy of translation while the central character makes a transition.
    Seated, saluted, and having sipped the customary filter coffee, he begins business without further ado. Out of a compelling need to hear his own voice, and also because of the curiosity of the other landlords to learn the precise tenor of a bachelor baritone which commands and controls the entire district, Gopalakrishna Naidu is the first to address the Emergency Executive Committee Meeting of the Paddy Producers Association. Reality competes with cinematic representation when he takes control of thefloor: his audience looks keen; his speech stings; and his body, anaesthetized by this power-trip, appears motionless below the shoulders. He begins a rapid-fire round of attack.
    Govinda Raja Naidu, next-door neighbour and distant cousin, is handpicked to be the first sacrificial victim. ‘Our Kerosene Govinda has done us proud. Why do you think we are having this emergency meeting today? To celebrate his achievement. To congratulate this braveheart. His name now resonates in all eight directions. Soon, his face will become very familiar throughout the district when the Communists start putting up posters. Who knows, he may show up on the cinema posters, too. After all, more people watched our hero charging through Thevur market shouting death threats than watched MGR in Nadodi Mannan .’
    Some landlords laugh nervously. Gopalakrishna Naidu goes on. ‘Brother, carelessness will catch up with you soon. You will be dead meat before the word “kerosene” in your name has dried up. Indifference will not help. Every time a Communist corpse turns up, our peace is lost. The police hound us like dogs. If their local leaders, Thevur Kannan or Sikkal Pakkirisamy, hang themselves, or even if they hang each other, the Communists will blame us. Cases would be filed against us. If something happens to those dogs now, six villages will rush to the witness box. Will youthen summon ghosts to