The Village Drummer

When the drumming  began in the sea, it was faint at first. A hollow throbbing, that could be attributed to the defence exercises that usually happened this time of the year. So no one in the village took it seriously. It was just one more sound that added itself to the other sounds they had got used to. The horns of an approaching ship, the sounds of children playing, the waves rushing constantly up and beating against the rocks, the singing and dancing in the fishermen’s hamlets, their noisy quarrels.

But over the next few days, the drumming increased in tempo. From a hollow throbbing, it became an insistent, forceful beat. As if stamping itself into people’s consciousness. Someone beating away somewhere with a persistent energy. Dhum. Dhum. Dhum. With every beat, there was a small ripple on the ocean’s face. A ripple which only the most careful observer could notice. The sound puzzled them, they came near the beachfront, leaned forward with their ears pressed against the sky or into the sand, to listen to someone drumming away in the sea.

When the news reached the government at the capital far away in the interior, forthwith a team was despatched to inquire and file its report.

The team began making its investigations. As  the sound still persisted, now a  steady throb, they had  the necessary instruments as well. Equipment to record the sound, to time the gap between the sounds, tape recorders, mikes and also ear muffs. For they had to work  absolutely undisturbed.

There is really no extraordinary noise. They said in their first report to the government.

Nothing at all, they insisted. It is just these people’s way of getting attention. And the noting was made,  the file meticulously put away in the appropriately labelled file. But the file too  shook for no apparent reason. Perhaps the information it contained, now hidden away from all eyes, echoed with the drum that still beat away under the ocean.

When the noise remained persistent, however, the police arrested the village drummer. He had played his drum on every festive occasion the  fishermen marked, at their weddings and birthday parties. The drummer insisted he was innocent. He had not done a thing. Instead, it was his  drum that had been stolen. He had requested  the fishermen to dive deep into the ocean to retrieve his drum for him. He was sure some evil genie who was jealous of his powers had stolen it and was simply playing on it, drumming away far below in the depths the ocean, unconcerned about the racket he was raising. But the policemen threw their heads back and laughed uproariously. Their stomachs, sagging with corruption, lolled like spoiled drums.

You think we believe this, drummer?  It is evil magic you are playing, that’s what it is. And they threw him into the deepest dungeons.

Deep in the dungeons, with the walls closing in on him, the drummer beat on the walls, in vain, pleading to be heard. Instead the noise outside only rose in mockery.

There is really too much noise, said the government in the capital. They just cannot keep quiet.

We cannot have so much noise. Tell them to be quiet.

And so a cavalcade comprising an impressive ministerial delegation left for the village by the sea. Being ministers, they could not decide among themselves as to what was to be done with the recalcitrant sea side village that was behaving in such an uncivilised fashion. One minister wanted the strictest of reprisals, another wanted negotiations but in a phased manner, and still another thought perhaps they were making a noise because they wanted an election, some kind of representation, autonomy – all those things for which people usually make a racket.

Of course they could not come to any conclusion. And as the drumming increased in intensity and volume the nearer they came, they just could not make themselves heard. They screamed themselves hoarse, shouting while stuffing their fingers into their ears.

When they reached the village, they found they could not speak at all. It was all thanks to the shouting they had done in the course of their six-hour journey to the sea. They had a sore throat and so retired to their hotels, hoping a good night’s sleep and a warm bed would return their voices to them. But their hopes were dashed. Their throats itched and scratched, their lost voices seemed to have vanished irretrievably. And though they asked in sign language, they could not hear what the waiters said because the drumming noise drowned out most things, even the waiters’  feeble apology that there was no hot water. It was because the villagers could no longer go fishing, because of the mysterious drummer in the sea and because of that, there was no money to pay for the electricity and thus the geysers could not run. But all this was drowned out in the dhum dhum dhum dhum – that repetitive, throbbing, endless, boring drumming over and over again. In the end the inevitable happened. The ministerial delegation tired of trying to make themselves understood, traumatised by their lost voices,  returned to the capital, in  silence.  They could not speak nor could they hear a thing. The drumming had been so deafening.

Send the army in. Roared the government. And the television and the radios began reporting that the army was needed for a  militant group had taken control of the fishing village.  They had also smuggled in strange weapons from enemy nations and were wreaking a psychological war by their drumming.

The army rolled in with tanks. No one in the village knew of their arrival because obviously no one could hear the tanks. Only when the bombing began did they realise that something terrible was amiss. That things had gone wrong. People ran helter-skelter, in fright. They could not even scream for mercy, for like the others, their voices too had gone.

They are a stoic lot. There is no call for mercy. Bomb them so that they are wiped out. Said the government and the commander passed on the orders.

The bomb dropped silently almost softly, and spread itself out like a mushroom cake. Everything happened quiet and in slow motion. The houses folded up like cards, flapping against each other, trees broke into half, the stumps sitting up in stunned surprise. Men, women, children and babies fizzled into thin crystals almost like a soda bottle being opened and then disappeared altogether. After that a deathly silence prevailed.

The high military officials in the capital watching it on their big screens could not stop congratulating themselves. There was much revelry and celebration. They clapped, patted each other on the back and fired into the air.

And turned their attention back again to the screen. They saw the soldiers surge ahead, march down the streets, head for the dungeon. There was the village drummer, still beating with his fists on the walls, that were already stained red, as was the ceiling,  and even  the floor, with his blood.

It took one gun shot to kill him. But they fired again and again, not sure. For they had not heard the shot. Though the redness rose like a tide around them. In their desperation, for of course, they could not hear their own gunshots, they fired more shots, everywhere, into the air, around them, against each other. Just to be sure of their power, the power of their guns. They had never before seen death come so silent, never before had blood been split so quietly, and in such a hushed manner.

At the capital, where the superiors waited, the sound of the drumming,  slow and insistent but  picking up  in degrees was still as clear as before. And they could not hear the gunshots, but only watch the grisly scenes unfolding before them as  in a silent movie.

After the deed was done, the commanding officer called  up his superiors.  He was  flushed with his success in the operations. The insurrection had at last been quelled. We have killed the mastermind. Shot him down.  But of course he could not hear them,  the already deaf superior officer in vain kept straining his ears, his temper rising. What fools those superiors were? Here they were, doing a brave job and there was utter silence.

He beat his fists on the walls, over and over again, explaining things, hoping to be heard. The insurrection was over, could he bring his men home?  But no one heard him, no one responded while his men fought amongst themselves, driven crazy in their own deafness.

Watching him, his superiors could only sign. It’s a strange place, that one. People get infected by it.  A pity really, for he was one of our best officers.