A Preface to Man

by Subhash Chandran

  However, things did not go strictly according to Naraapilla’s plan. The stone bait could not sway Kunjuamma at all, except for stirring a minor regret in her that she could not consume it then and there, as by that time she was too full with the sumptuous repast she had had for dinner. Naraapilla’s effort to bring things to a boil by telling Appu Nair the next day about his sister’s flaw too found little success, and on the fifth day, as a compromise formula, he started chewing pan. That was Pooshaappi’s masterstroke. To uphold the promise he had given to Appu Nair, from then on, Pooshaappi regularly stored in his shop for Naraapilla, scented arecanut, flavoured tobacco, and fine tender betel leaves that rivalled even the softness of Kunjuamma’s underbelly—all procured from Aluva market. Seduced by the potent fragrance of flavoured tobacco, Kunjuamma gave birth to six children in the span of a decade, with strictly-observed intervals of one and three quarter years.

  When Kunjuamma spent the period from 1930 to 1940 dutifully producing heirs, Naraapilla too did not remain idle. He immersed himself in building a beautiful house in the plot north of Ayyaattumpilli. The stones that arrived by boat at Punneli kadavu were carried as headloads by the workers till Ayyaattumpilli. The jackfruit tree and teak trees on the eastern boundary, and the jujube tree for the rafters, were cut down. The wood of the white ironwood tree, more durable than teak, had been sourced in advance through the carpenter Gopalan. To prevent the limestone sacks from hardening from contact with rain water, Appu Nair helped stack them in the anteroom.

  For pre-natal and post-partum oil baths and massage treatments, a hot-water bathroom, with a roof of coconut leaf-thatch, had stood in the yard for nearly twelve years. The new house coming up was to the north of that too. Unable to resist the lure of the mineral vapours emanating from the stacked stones meditating to be transformed into the house, on some nights, unknown to Naraapilla, the hugely-pregnant Kunjuamma staggered out to the plot on the north side. The hacked-out laterite stones, coated with the honey of moonlight, smiled at Kunjuamma; overcome by irresistible pregnancy cravings, she devoured the pieces she broke off from the edges and corners of the laterite stones. Before going to sleep, she drank water and let out a satisfied burp.

  Before the sixth delivery, they shifted to the house that would later be referred to as the New House. Naraapilla entrusted Appu Nair with the onus of ensuring that termites did not attack the old house. Appu Nair led the war against termites by sprinkling the house with herbal infusions. But the empty house in which termites had entrenched themselves, defeated him. He scampered everywhere looking for a tenant. Eventually, the small family of a wife, son and a school master from the government school in Aluva, fell into Appu Nair’s net. Sweeping the old house clean, Menon Master and family, who would gain attention in Thachanakkara later as the tenants of Ayyaattumpilli, started living there.

  The phrase commonly used by the folk of Thachanakkara later to describe the passage of the years—‘Much water has flown under Aluva bridge’—was invalid in describing those years that followed Naraapilla’s marriage. Because, it was only when Kunjuamma’s belly was swollen with her sixth baby and laterite dust, that the new bridge to Aluva town unfurled like a wave at Kamari kadavu.

  As the evening sun warmed the yard of the New House, Kunjuamma, convulsing with labour pangs, paced there from north to south and back, accompanied by the midwife Kalyani. Padminiyamma, the wife of Menon Master, joined them, holding rags torn off old cloth. Govindan, Kunjuamma’s eldest boy, sat sweating on the parapet, looking at her. His three younger brothers with snotty noses, stood around him, puzzled. Menon Master’s son, the eleven-year-old Achyuthan, with large, intelligent eyes, stood near the fence, gazing at his new friend’s mother pacing up and down with her distended tummy. Looking at her son, Padminiyamma spoke to all the boys, ‘Well, what’re you boys standing here to see? Um, go, go! Go and play somewhere else!’

  Despondent that they didn’t even feel like playing though it was a school holiday, the boys moved away under the leadership of Govindan, occasionally stealing backward glances. Only a girl child seated on Naraapilla’s lap bawled with an open mouth, thrashing her limbs with hands extended towards her mother. Naraapilla kept cursing and whacking her thigh. Suddenly, Appu Nair stormed in, all excitement. ‘Brother-in-law, I went and saw the new bridge inaugurated yesterday. Aww! You will go hari hara! Looks as if the Malayalam letter “ga ga” is written repeatedly. On the southern end there is a plaque etched with the name of His Majesty!’ He took the thorth from his shoulders, fanned himself with it, and sat on the parapet.

  Kunjuamma and the midwife eyed him with irritation. Aware that it was one of the occasions which gave her special privileges, the midwife took on a pointed, peremptory voice and said, ‘Here a woman is in labour and waiting for delivery. That’s when a brother pops in with his bridge-vidge news! Just shut up, Appu chettaa!’

  Naraapilla’s hand shut the mouth of the crying baby on his lap and he said, ‘Kunju, it’s going to be easy to remember the year of birth for our sixth child. The year of the new bridge!’

  ‘For that, let the sixth baby arrive first!’ the midwife smouldered, still irritated.

  At that point, holding her lower back, Kunjuamma ran inside screaming, ‘Ammae.’ The midwife Kalyani ran after her, screaming even louder, ‘It’s time, Naraapilla chettaa!’ Hesitating for a moment, Padminiyamma with the experience of only one delivery of her own, joined them, still clutching the rags. A flash of worry about his sister shot through Appu Nair when he saw Naraapilla grinning at him with betel-stained teeth. From inside, a shriek ‘O, my Thachanakkara thevare!’ soared and subsided.

  When the air from the New House hit her face, the sixth offspring of Ayyaattumpilli, a female replica of Naraapilla with the same face and a complexion as dark as Indian rosewood, cried out loud with the same mouth, as the little finger of the midwife wiped blood off it.

  This bawling newborn was the one who would deliver Jithendran three decades later.

  FIVE

  Two Kinds of Rivers

  10 April 1999

  …I have once seen Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai in person. I had gone to a friend’s place in Changanacherry. Hearing of an award ceremony, for a collection of poems by the thespian Premji, being attended by Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai and the first chief minister of Kerala, we went there. Now I recall, the book was called Mattamma. Having reached early, we took our seats right in the front. Premji and Thakazhi came onstage before others. Just as the programme was about to start, the audience rose to their feet, with a buzz. The cheering was for the leader of the people. He and Thakazhi greeted each other with folded hands. Both of them were aged. Tears of the times past seemed to sparkle in their eyes. In their mutual respect, there wasn’t an iota of pretence.

  Today, when I heard of the demise of Thakazhi, that scene came to my mind.

  ‘Marthaanda Varma bridge … Prince of Travancore … on 14 June 1940 … umm … one thousand one hundred and fifteen … ingineers … gi bi ee truss coat, yem yess duraiswami ayyengar … contract … jay cee ga … gammon el ti di.’

  Govindan, the eldest son of Naraapilla, and Achyuthan, the only son of Menon Master, jointly read the letters on the plaque of the bridge, etched in Roman script right below the royal emblem of the silver-trimmed conch shell.

  On their way back from school in the evening, they were entering the pedestrian walkway on the left side of the Marthaanda Varma Bridge. As they left the plaque behind and reached the midsection of the bridge, the children peered at the river—flowing on the right, caressing the Shivaraathri grounds, going past the bridge to split against a small green isle on the left, to branch off into two—appearing as the forked armrests of a hermit’s rod. They laughed in mirth, when the cool breeze, which was tracing strange scripts on the surface of the water, blew over the expanse of the river, making their shirts balloon. The bridge was redolent with the smell of freshly-roasted snacks.

  Till now, every school-goer on his way to school in t
he ferry had his eyes trained on the bridge under construction. They now knew the name of the haughty, jacket-clad sayipp who stood under the wavy arches of the bridge, showering the workers with invectives—G.B.E. Truscott! The avaricious-looking pattar with red sandal paste on his forehead, the person seen with him must have been the same Duraiswamy Iyengar, the name now etched on the plaque.

  Govindan and Achyuthan ran along the narrow walkway trying to outpace an evil-faced lorry that drove across the bridge, trembling and praying. Stacked to the brim with rice bags and a scrawny lad perched on top of the mound, the lorry drove past the boys, mocking them with its black fumes. The dark lad on the top, holding on to the ropes and preening, made faces at the beaten contemporaries trailing behind, and displaying the rictus of the winner, let out a whoop of victory. The next moment, the vehicle ground to a halt. A herd of cattle headed for the market was crossing the Thottakkattukara junction. Govindan and Achyuthan caught up and ran ahead of the lorry, not forgetting to return, with interest, the grimaces and hoots to the lad atop the vehicle.

  Normally, Achyuthan’s father would have been with them at that hour. If Menon Master was with them, all this frolicking would not have been be possible. Today, he had gone to invite some brilliant guy from UC College for the inauguration of the school’s annual day. The absence of the father made Achyuthan feel more grown up, while the absence of the teacher made Govindan feel more of a kid. Govindan had just joined first standard in the Aluva Government School, after completing class fifth at Aalungal School. Achyuthan was in the second standard at the same school. The son who was fortunate enough to be in his father’s class!

  Govindan’s two brothers, Padmanabhan and Parameswaran, were studying in the fourth and second classes at Aalungal School in Thachanakkara. Chandran, their four-year-old younger brother, and their two sisters, constituted a triumvirate of mouths battling for their mother’s two teats. To wean Chandran, Kunjuamma had procured the bitter extract of aloe vera. But if she were to apply it on her breasts, it would get ingested by the two-year-old Thankamma and the infant Chinnamma.

  Passing through the bridge, via Thottakkattukara junction, and along the long gravel road watched by Thachanakkara thevar, they reached Pooshaappi’s shop, when Kuttan Pilla climbed down the steps and detained Achyuthan to enquire, ‘Who, son, is the new arrival at your house?’

  Achyuthan opened his palms in a non-verbal ‘Aaa’ to indicate ignorance. Catching hold of Govindan’s arm and pulling him along, he speeded up his pace in anticipation.

  Swadeshabhimani Kuttan Pilla found it a struggle to mount the steps back to reach Pooshaappi’s sanctorum. Pooshaappi’s eldest son, Parameswaran, who was commonly called Kochu Parashu, had made some recent improvements to the shop. Pooshaappi was now installed in a room which had limestone plaster over laterite stones and numbered wooden planks for its opening. The roof had premium tiles, which Kochu Parashu himself had fetched, covered in hay, from Angamaly on his bullock cart. Extending the veranda, and thatching it with palm leaves, he had created an annexe to vend sarsaparilla sherbet and spiced buttermilk. Pooshaappi’s testicles inside his mud-coloured single mundu now resembled yams, mature enough to be dug up and yanked from the soil. As Kochu Parashu was there in the shop most of the time, Swadeshabhimani Kuttan Pilla’s presence was rarer nowadays. During the gossip sessions, since he was on the wane and his shots lacked their punch, he had started fading. He was also gradually getting on in years. However, his nose for gossip had not diminished.

  That day, sipping his jaggery-sweetened coffee from a copper tumbler as he ambled out to the yard, Govindan noticed on their tenant’s doorsteps, an attractive pair of plastic footwear in addition to the slippers of Menon Master and Achyuthan.

  The footwear of someone with large feet.

  Menon Master was sitting on the parapet, having seated the guest in the armchair.

  He was almost bursting with joy and pride. He had been nervous when he went to invite him for the school annual day. Would his old friend recognize him? Even if he remembered, would he be shown due consideration? However, when they met in person, all misgivings had disappeared. Not only did he agree to grace the occasion, he even accompanied his old friend to visit his newly-rented house. All the way to Thachanakkara, coming down the college hill and walking up Kaniyankunnu, they reforged the links of their friendship that time had sundered. Still not convinced, Menon Master looked again at the man, whom the whole of Kerala venerated, lolling on his soiled easy chair!

  Menon Master recollected how they had gone to talk about a raise in their salary, on the day the Guru arrived at the Sanskrit school of the Advaithaashramam.

  ‘After I came away from the school, never did I manage to see Swami again,’ Menon Master mused, overwhelmed by regret.

  The visitor picked up the fan made from arecanut spathe, fanned himself, and remained silent for a while. The eyes behind the glasses shut themselves into the many memories that refused to die down; then, after letting out a long sigh, he said in a heavy, grave voice, ‘I came away to the college the year he relinquished the mortal coils in samaadhi. I had visited and met him during his final moments too. How quickly have ten years gone by. I can still recall that careworn face. Oh, in the end, he was not at all the radiant Gurudevan whom we had met. Great men shouldn’t ever die old, Menon.’

  ‘Oh, was it that bad?’ Menon Master asked, as he felt the image of Gurudevan lighting up inside him, with his knowing smile that held within it all answers.

  ‘Really pitiable. I understood the honest ethos of Asan’s “Veenapoovu”, only twenty years after reading it—when I was witness to the last moments of Gurudevan. Such misery! pathetic!! Now I have come across the news that even the other Gurudevan in Shantiniketan is awaiting imminent death. Wonder if that great poet’s character itself has changed in his final days! Did you read about it, Menon?’

  Menon Master frowned, indicating that he was not getting the drift. Then his friend continued, ‘The great poet is supposed to have made some statements against Gandhiji! Tagore has even stated that the recent Bihar earthquake was a retribution for Gandhiji arraying the Harijans behind him.’

  When Menon Master heard his pained laughter, he felt disquiet smoulder within him. ‘I have been pondering over what you have written beautifully in one of your recent articles: genius alone cannot make a man great. The words are not exactly the same. But the thought touched me deeply, sir. Your implication seemed to be that a heartless intellectual is no better than an efficient machine.’

  He didn’t appear to notice that praise. He was still thinking about the finales. ‘What impelled me to join rationalist organizations, I think now, was my witnessing the final moments of Gurudevan. Neither Vedanta nor Rationalism has the answer to one question, Menon. That question is, at the end of it all, what is the meaning of our lives?’

  The weight of that question left even Menon Master feeling suffocated for a moment. But the duty of the host to lighten the heart of the guest came to the forefront of his mind. ‘Let it be,’ Menon Master said. ‘Sir, you must be past forty now. When I was coming to the college, I had thought you may have married and started a family. My son will be eleven this Dhanu. Why are you delaying it? That there isn’t a woman worthy of you in Thiruvithamkoor and Kochi, everyone knows. Even then…’

  The guest only laughed in a non-committal manner. By then, Padminiyamma had come and placed coffee and steamed rice dumplings, stuffed with jaggery and grated coconut, on the parapet. Realizing that the talk of marriage was in the air, she too stood there, wiping her hands. Menon Master took the cup and offered it to the guest. Sipping the coffee with the lingering smile, he said, ‘It is not being delayed; the decision is not to marry.’ After tasting the stuffed dumplings offered by Padminiyamma and acknowledging her culinary skills with his eyes, he continued, ‘See, coffee, rice balls, and meals, again coffee, rice balls and meals … Ha ha, you should also take into account that it is also in consideration of why someone should be bro
ught home only to be tethered to our kitchen.’

  Menon Master joined Padminiyamma in her laughter. The presence of the lady of the house swiftly lightened the atmosphere. The master told his wife, ‘Listen, Pappini, even though he is a teacher in the college, he is still a student. He has joined the Bachelor of Law course as a private student in Madras University. It’s when I heard that, that I invited him home. Ah, we have enough income to invite a student for tea, don’t we?’

  This time the guest also laughed heartily. ‘I don’t know if Padminiyamma has been told this by this worthy. When we were students as well as when we were teaching in the Gurudevan’s school, he too used to write. Poems and astute articles that hit the bull’s eye. Menon, do you remember the special issue of Yuvajanamithram in which your poem and my article appeared together?’ he asked, leaning forward in the easy chair.

  It was Padminiyamma who answered, ‘What are you saying! That Yuvajanamithram is guarded here like a treasure. When we move house, my son and I may be left behind, but the magazines and books will not be forgotten. That’s how he is!’ Emboldened by the familiarity that developed during the conversation, Padminiyamma offered one more rice dumpling to the guest.

  Menon took that allegation as a compliment. ‘I have quite a few issues of Athmaposhini with me. Wasn’t it in Athmaposhini that your article about the ultimate purpose of literature appeared? I had heard about the great poet being thrilled after reading it and how he made you write the foreword to his Sahithyamanjari.’