The Saga of Muziris

by A. Sethumadhavan

  ‘This must have been during the time of the Cheras, right? With the Pandyas and the Cholas on the other side…’

  Perumal laughed, ‘The stories are many, Aravindan. But there is no evidence as such. The Cheras were probably here after the ninth century. But since this was an important trading centre, there could have been some forces of the Cheras of Karur in Muziris, even in those days. The port and its surroundings might have been under their control too. When they became richer and more powerful, they probably introduced their ways, the council of elders and the panchayat and their deliberations here, too. So, in a way, these were some local chieftains, who ruled like kings. Since the area was surrounded by wilderness, it might not have been right to call it a country or to assign a king to it.’

  After some thought, Perumal continued, ‘There might have been many reasons why Muziris was the most important of the ports in those days, but Hippalus’s discovery certainly helped our ports on the western shore the most, especially Muziris. Though the port was not deep enough for the ships to come close to the shore, Periyar’s tributaries and other waterways might have been useful to shift the merchandise. When the middlemen were out of the game and direct trade became possible, lots of people came into this field. Merchandise moved from Muziris to Bernike, from there to Koptos on the banks of the Nile on camels and through the Nile and Juliopolis to Alexandria. This part of the journey would have been a difficult 500 miles through land and water. Since it was impossible to move through the desert in the heat of the daytime sun, caravans of camels moved in the night. Pliny calculates that it took around three months for the merchandise to reach Alexandria from Muziris.

  ‘As trade increased, Alexandria became one of the foremost emporia for sea merchandise in Europe. On the other side, Muziris grew as the gateway to the West. It is said that about one hundred and twenty sailing vessels reached the western ports of India from the shores of the Red Sea, every year. A large number of them reached Muziris, perhaps because the port was so convenient. It is said that the ships did not dock after sunset but stayed in the outer sea for fear of pirates. Goods were exchanged only in daylight. The ships that came were fairly big ones. The ships would anchor at the entrance, and goods were transhipped by smaller boats through the river.’

  ‘I’ve gone to Egypt,’ Aravindan said. ‘We went down the Nile in a small ship from Cairo to Aswan. I shall never forget that journey. And then to Alexandria. Mediterranean sights are enchanting. Let that be. Our Azad will have a lot to say about all this.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘He’s originally from here. He’s manager in a travel company in Cairo now. They arrange sightseeing tours for people who visit Egypt. He’s been there for over twenty years.’

  ‘I remember him,’ Ramabhadran nodded. ‘A good-looking boy who used to be around with Jaleel.’

  ‘He was close to comrade Jaleel. After quite a long while he broke up with Jaleel. I don’t know if the reason was politics.’

  ‘Jaleel had given up politics by then and was hanging out with writers and movie people.’

  ‘Anyway, Azad might also land up. Maybe, by next week or so.’

  ‘That will be great. It is a long time since a few of us oldies got together to talk of old things.’

  Ramabhadran’s face shone in anticipation. He was setting about an elaborate preparation for a chew. This was a new habit he had adopted.

  ‘My e-mail correspondence with him had been broken for some time now,’ Aravindan said. ‘When I said that I was coming here, he too got interested. He says it is some eight years or so since he came here. He didn’t have any company, according to him.’

  ‘So it took a Tamilian to get you old friends together, in your old place,’ Perumal laughed.

  ‘Even otherwise, it was always the Tamilians who kept us together and separated us as well. But this seems to be something that was meant to be. I mean, our arrival here and the digging at Pattanam. Perhaps, one needs something like this to remember one’s birthplace.’

  ‘May be Azad from Cairo will say the same thing?’

  ‘He’s an interesting person. Though he’s much younger than me, we were quite close to each other. Now that he’s been working in a travel company, his tongue must have grown longer still. You know what I mean.’

  Perumal lit another cigarette. When Aravindan gestured as though to ask him to continue the story, he settled more comfortably and continued, ‘Muziris and its surroundings were very active in those days. One gets to know something about the life of the people only through the literature of the Sangam period like I said earlier. Pliny the Elder also speaks of a port called Muziris, which is far from the seashore. And about the pirates there. You get more details of this sea-trade from Periplus Maris Erythraei, originally written in Latin by an unknown sailor in the first century. It speaks of a town called Muziris on the shore of a river, twenty stadia away from the shore. That would be about four kilometres. There are clear indications of the sea journey from the port of Bernike, on the shore of the Red Sea to our western shores, in this book. The ports on the way, the merchandise that was imported and exported, the rulers of the area, the way people lived, even descriptions of the kind of boats that were used by the people of each place are given. In the fourth century Tabula Peutingeriana or the Peutinger map too, the sea routes and the ports are described. This speaks of a temple of Augustus, near Muziris, which means that there were settlements of Romans nearby.’

  ‘Weren’t there other ports?’

  ‘There were. Ships did berth at ports called Naura, Tindis, Nelkinda, Bekare and others. Perhaps, these might have been present day Kannur, Ponnani, Kadalundi, Niranam, Purakkad and so on. Since nature has this mischievous habit of making the sea swallow the land and then withdraw and rivers to change their courses, one can’t be absolutely certain. Once the trade became rich and gold started flowing, different places fought hard to make the ships berth at their ports. The people of these areas, farmers, merchants, rulers, middlemen, all of them would have intervened in this competition. Whatever that was, the Greeks preferred Muziris, perhaps because it was more convenient. Since the sound ‘za’ was common in the Greek language, Muchiri became Muziris to them.

  ‘One can find indications that the Greeks and the Chera kings had close contact. Dependants of some of the merchants must have sailed in these ships. The goods traded also changed with time. Spices other than pepper too started moving across the seas, valuable pearls and corals, ivory, clothes, why even the nard medicinal plant from the banks of the Ganga, started being exported from here. And besides, gold and silver, expensive clothing, good wine, metals different types of pearls, sindoor or vermillion too were brought in.’

  ‘How did things come from the banks of the Ganga to this place?’ Ramabhadran could not understand that.

  ‘It was only natural. When Muziris on the west coast became the easiest of the ports for the sailing ships to reach with the help of the monsoon winds, it became the most important entrepôt for exports and imports. And so goods flowed to Muziris from various parts of the country. Perhaps, even from China and other south-eastern countries. And so, our tiny Muziris also became an important emporium like Alexandria.’

  ‘I’m finding it impossible to believe. Imagine all this happening in these places around us.’

  ‘History takes malicious pleasure in teaching us to believe in things,’ Perumal laughed aloud. ‘Muziris always had an important place in the historical records of foreigners who have conducted research on the Indo-Roman trade. But what is surprising is that they were able to do so much then. All the trade took place in a space of three or four months. The rest of the time must have been spent in preparations. Aravindan will understand the difficulties of all this since he handles the logistics of ships and their cargoes.’

  Aravindan’s mind took him to the multicoloured pills in the plastic bag in his suitcase. And the charts prepared by Vasanthi.

  ‘Don’t tell me, Perumal,’ Aravin
dan shook his head. ‘All that I have earned from so many years of working is a large number of pills and check-ups on specific days. Vasanthi says that the logistics of the body is more difficult than that of the sea.’

  No one spoke for a while. Each of them was thinking of different matters. Ramabhadran heaved a long sigh. Perumal sat with his head bent.

  Perumal was thinking how lightly he had traversed a colourful period in history. What life force would the pictures detached from termite-ridden pages have? Some documents found somewhere, discoveries made by someone, arguments, counter-arguments and boring descriptions. Hadn’t he been trying to force the past of a place, mildewed and damp, into the containers of history?

  The dark had melted into the water. Lights gleamed across the river. On this shore too, lamplight spilled like a layer of oil on the road. A cool breeze was blowing.

  For a while, all of them sat without moving, without talking. When he saw Perumal dip into his pocket again, Ramabhadran looked at the luminous dial of his watch.

  ‘There’s a lot more to say, but later,’ Perumal got up.

  Perumal felt guilty. Was this the way he should have marked a place and the people who had glowed with the glory of a sunburst, beyond the foaming darkness of centuries?

  ‘Did I bore you, Aravindan?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not. Why?’ Aravindan looked at him in surprise. ‘It’s such fun to listen to all this.’

  ‘This was not the way this tale should have been narrated. No wonder people say that we historians are big bores. When we are forced to be stubborn about evidence, it is up to the poets to enter spaces that cannot be brought under control of history books. It is only the mind of the poet that can see the life of a people with the eyes of humanity and to approach it with empathy. And so, it is up to the poets to fill the gaps that we leave.’

  ‘That is true, Perumal,’ Aravindan nodded. ‘I can’t write, or I would have written this story.’

  They stood for a while looking at the dark of the river that was disturbed by small wavelets.

  ‘Earlier, when we stood at the Karippayi ferry, we would hear people shouting for the boat from the other shore. We would also join in the shouting for the heck of it. It is fun to hear the echoes. As though our voice had rebounded from the water. But, I think the shore is farther away here.’

  As though he had been waiting just to hear that, Perumal looked around, curled his fist into a megaphone and shouted loudly, ‘Poohoy…Poohoy!’

  After hesitating for a moment, Aravindan also joined in, ‘Poohoooy…Poohoooy!’

  Ramabhadran felt as though their voices had rebounded from the water of the river and split into many sounds.

  ‘I feel better,’ Perumal sighed.

  ‘You spoke of the birth and the ending of a place and then added a sort of epilogue to that…Right?’

  Perumal did not appear to have heard that.

  ‘It was as though someone responded to the shout from the water of the river, from Malavanapara, across the river…as though someone, someone…quite eerie.’ Perumal was standing there, his gaze fixed on the river.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Aravindan touched him on the shoulder.

  As they walked back through the dark, which had been greyed by the damp light of summer, Perumal did not speak at all. He walked along with his head bent.

  ‘Aravindan, the weight of history is a great one,’ Perumal’s voice was damp. ‘To carry it within one is…’ he stopped there.

  Ramabhadran was carrying the old four-celled torch. He walked in front, shining the torch between the lamp posts where lights burnt dimly. They walked slowly. Through the light that was not bright enough.

  Aravindan had rung up Appukuttan to arrange for his stay. When Appukuttan said that he would arrange for Achumman to stay with him, Aravindan had demurred, ‘Must you, Appukuttan? He’s so old. Should be around eighty now?’

  ‘Achumman? Old? That’s a joke,’ Appukuttan’s laughter reached across the wires. ‘People here are jealous because Achumman is the youngest of the lot. He’s the one person who does not buy any medicine from the dispensary run by the co-op society. After all, the rice he ate was that of the army of the Paliyam.’

  ‘Still Appukuttan, I can’t ask him to do things. It’ll be difficult.’

  ‘Don’t worry, that won’t be a problem. He was very friendly with some of the elders in our families. But you know, he is rather peculiar. You’ll have to hear some old stories. Mostly stories would be about the Paliyam. Though they’ll be highly coloured, you’ll enjoy listening to them.’

  Good, Aravindan thought. Even if they were highly coloured, as long as the stories had veins and sinews and a flow of blood, it was fine.

  ‘Will he be all right with the arrangement?’ Aravindan’s doubts had not ended.

  ‘Aravindettan, you just come here. We’ll take care of the rest of the things.’ Appukuttan’s voice had started showing signs of impatience. ‘It is so long since you had the good sense to do something like this. And that too, only because they started digging at Pattanam. I wonder where all they have to dig to make Sreedevi Edathi come as well.’

  Aravindan did not feel like saying anything further. Some of his mother’s habits had infected Appukuttan too. His complaints had sharp points on all sides.

  Appukuttan had a lot of energy and did everything with a strong will power. He had been fed by their mother all through his childhood. There would always be food for him to take home as well. Since they kept cows at home those days, there was plenty of milk and curd. Up to the time the property had been partitioned, and the last bit of land was sold, Appukuttan had taken care of everything.

  And finally, as though connected by some link from the previous birth, their mother had died in Appukuttan’s lap.

  Towards the end of her life, all her letters ended with one sentence: ‘I can’t cope any longer, Aravindan. I can’t run here and there in the compound and look after things. Luckily, Appukuttan is here, and things go on somehow.’

  In reply the son would write, ‘Don’t run any longer, Amma; try to walk slowly.’ Just a hollow joke.

  When Sreedevi, his sister, rang up from New Jersey, she would also speak of that last sentence in amma’s letters. It was not that the two of them did not understand the hint in her letter. Though amma had two children, she had been forced to depend on the good will of an outsider when she was not well.

  ‘What can I do, Ettan? Amma won’t come here, however much I call her. As for our going and staying there, what’ll we do about the children’s school? And their father has these long tours.’ Sreedevi’s voice held more guilt than sorrow.

  Aravindan felt like laughing when he heard this. His mother had refused to come even to Bombay, even though he had suggested that she come by air.

  Aravindan could understand Sreedevi’s guilt. She had been a difficult birth. Their mother had to have an operation and stay in the hospital for more than two weeks. There were lots of complications, perhaps, because their mother was quite old then. Bringing Sreedevi up had been difficult too. She was a child who hardly slept. She had skin trouble that kept her awake and crying. Aravindan remembered their mother pacing the yard with the child crying over her shoulder, and days of Achuthan Vaidyan’s oils and bitter medicines.

  Whether it was because her memory was failing or because she felt that there was no point in complaining, amma’s complaints had become less sharp. She was insistent on writing to her children herself, even when her eyesight started to fail. A mother’s letters to her children had a special touch to them; how could someone else imitate that? So, Janu Amma would write to her children herself. Finally, when her hands could no longer hold the pen, Appukuttan started writing them for her, without her knowledge. They were full of errors.

  The day Aravindan reached, Achumman had come near him, hesitantly. ‘I have heard about you though I haven’t seen you before. I had heard that Janu Amma’s son lived in Bombay.’

  ‘I have heard about
you and seen you.’ Aravindan laughed.

  ‘I’ve heard that you have a big job in the ships, in Bombay…’

  ‘It’s not in the ship, but on the shore. As for big and small, that depends one each person’s eyes, Achumman.’

  Achumman had not changed much from Aravindan’s old memories. He had the broad chest, the firm body and limbs and the jutting muscles and sinews of someone who had practised kalari, the martial art, in his youth. He had lost some of the spiky hair he used to have. The grey hair left on his chest lay in a tangle. A good figure of a man.

  There had always been two Achummans in Aravindan’s memories. One of them was the singer, who sang with verve during the festival season, before the big lamp in the pandal (marquee) and before the very large crowd that had gathered. The other was the Achumman who sat fanning himself on a three-legged stool in the corner of a kitchen at the houses where there were weddings.

  He had heard of the existence of a third Achumman—the strongman who was a part of the Paliyam force. His ambition had been to be the bodyguard of the Valiachan, or the senior-most male member of the Paliyam family. He wanted to walk behind that personage wherever he went. After the percussion concert, on the final day of the temple festival, the main performer would be called and the Valiachan would give him an onapudava, a new mundu. Achumman felt it would be a matter of pride if he could stand fully stretched, right behind the Valiachan, at such times.

  Once upon a time, the Paliyam Nair force had been the strength of the Kochi kings. This family was one of the remaining descendants. Earlier, there used to be a guard at the gate to the Paliyam encampment, albeit an ordinary local guard who did not have the elegance of a soldier or a policeman and hardly knew how to march.

  After retiring from the Paliyam force, Achumman joined Paliyam estate office, assisting Warrier in the accounts. People who could remember said that it used to be fun to watch the two of them hurry away together—the fair and good-looking Warrier, and Achumman, who was dark and hairy. When Warrier went to Mullurkara and Kuzhur and Thrikkur on various affairs, Achumman enjoyed accompanying him. He could see places, see people, see temples. If it was the festival season they even stayed for a couple of days. Kudalmanikkam, Arattupuzha, Perumanam— Achumman had acquaintances everywhere. He was equally crazy over elephants and percussion performances.