the headman

Murder of the headman

We came to a small south Indian town almost 50 years ago as medical students. Years later, my husband retired, and we built a house close to an outlying  village. We had lived there too long to think of relocating elsewhere.

We found that our neighbours in the village were very clannish and kept to themselves. They probably did not appreciate our encroachment so close to their village boundaries and paddy fields.

They had strange celebrations with vigorous dancing by inebriated males and loud music. Fortunately there was no crime and they left us alone.

The village had a “headman”, a democratically  elected counselor who was in charge of the village affairs. Although he was elected by democratic vote, he had won the last four elections. This meant that he had effectively been in power for 20 years. He was grooming his son to take over after him. The young man rode a powerful motor bike with no crash helmet. He did have a thick rope like gold chain and bracelet.

People were afraid of him. I don’t think they really dared to vote for anyone else. Even though the ballot was secret, and electronic voting machines were used, the villagers thought that he would somehow find out if the political party (in short himself) he represented did not win by a landslide.

He had his choice of the women in the place, you couldn’t exactly call it rape. The women were supposed to be “in love” with him and he had several mistresses. He was very wealthy. He was in charge of all the government projects and funds to the village. He made sure he got his percentage , he even took a commission from the government “widow’s pension.”  Between the postman’s cut and his cut I don’t think the widows got much from the government. No official payment occurred without his knowledge and payment.

 The local primary school had a mid day meal program. The provisions were stored in his house. He actually  never bought rice, pulses, sugar, oil or eggs for his family.

He had a noisy black motorbike (just like his son) which he rode into town past my house every morning.

He disappeared for a couple of days and I wondered why. Then I saw the entire village turn out to hoist a political flag. My gardener was from the village and  I asked him

“Where is the headman? Why are you hoisting a flag now?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said, “the headman called two sisters to his house when his wife and son were away. They didn’t like what he did to them so they hit him over the head with the granite grinding stone from his own house.”

I was speechless.

He leaned closer, “They have buried him under the flag.”

“Who has?”

“The whole village. Didn't you hear the drums?"

I heard drums at least once a month. I had stopped even wondering what the racket was about. 

"People were tired of him and his ways. Besides, those poor girls. What did they do wrong?”

The headman’s wife came home  couple of days later. She searched for her husband. Someone started a rumour that he had run away with a woman from the next village. Since he was notorious for his womanizing, that piece of news silenced her for some time. After a few months, when he failed to turn up and there was  no sign of him anywhere, she went to the police.

They refused to take her seriously or register her complaint. The officer in charge of the police outpost said, “we never come to that village. We did many years ago, but they beat up our constables and tied them to a tree. The constables were there all night You have to solve this yourselves.”

The son briefly tried to assert himself. But, he was young and inexperienced. They villagers went to his house and forcibly removed the provisions for the school meals. The widows refused to give him money. Some young men ganged up, thrashed him and asked him to leave the village. After a few months, unable to bear the ostracization his wife moved away back to her parent’s village. 

The headman was never found. The flag fluttered for a few months  and then disintegrated with the elements.