The Saga of Muziris

by A. Sethumadhavan

  ‘No, Achumman, I left my job quite some time back.’ Aravindan folded the papers and got up. ‘This is nothing in particular. I felt I had to write down some things. About old times, old memories. And some of the sights that one sees now.

  ‘That’s good. There will be a lot to write once you start.’

  ‘And some of the things that Perumal spoke about. If I don’t write it down immediately I’ll forget it all. Growing old.’

  When he washed his hands and sat down to dinner, Aravindan insisted that Achumman also eat with him. Achumman tried to avoid it as usual, ‘No Menon, that won’t work. Everyone should sit where they belong.’

  ‘It will work, Achumman,’ Aravindan did not wait for him and laid the plates on the table. ‘You don’t have to serve anything, just leave everything on the table. We’ll help ourselves. Now, sit here.’

  Achumman did not protest any further, but sat at the table with his head bent. Aravindan felt that Achumman’s eyes had become moist. After a while, Achumman cleared his throat and said, ‘I was really wonderstruck when I read in the newspaper about the things that had been dug up in Pashnam or Pattanam as they call it in newspapers. At one time, people from other places used to make fun of the people of that area, calling them pashnis, those who starved.’

  ‘Do you know, Achumman, once upon a time, this was the place where the maximum amount of gold and money changed hands.’

  Achumman, wrapped in thought heaved a long sigh and did not seem to have heard that. He said, ‘Even if there are problems and there is not much money, one’s own place is best.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Think of your sister. It is so many years since she went from this country. Is it possible to see her even if you wish to? In the end, there was only that Appukuttan to give your mother some water. He was blessed to be able to do that.’

  Aravindan thought, what Achumman said was true. His mother’s soul would not have attained salvation just because he went to Chelamattom and performed the prescribed rites. A real son is one who is there when needed. Appukuttan was the only one who managed that. At least, when the family property was divided, Aravindan had told his mother to do as she pleased. Sreedevi too had not objected. Anyway, the American citizen saw all this only as land to be sold sometime or the other.

  The day before the documents were prepared his mother had asked, ‘What’ll we give Appukuttan? We have to give him something substantial.’ After thinking a while, his mother gave the answer too, ‘We have to give him at least twenty cents—double of what we give the Kudikidappu people who have stayed on the land.’

  Sreedevi had murmured in his ear, ‘One Appukuttan equals to two Kudikidappu.’

  Their mother had identified the land that was to be given. There were forty cents of land on the road, next to the timber mill. Appukuttan could be given half of it.

  In those days, twenty cents of land was not anything much. But now you could say it was worth forty or fifty lakhs. Today, there isn’t an inch of land available anywhere there. Appukuttan had built his house there. Since he had learnt a trade in his youth, he managed to live comfortably.

  After he had said that, Achumman must have felt bad about it. He tried to soften the words, ‘Nothing to complain about. Your mother did more than what was necessary.’

  When he saw that Aravindan’s face had darkened, Achumman changed the subject, ‘Let that be. Have you read the Kokila Sandesam, Menon?’

  ‘I’ve only heard about it.’

  ‘The story goes back about five hundred years. There was a great scholar named Uddhanda Sastrikal at Kanchipuram in those days. According to the story, his wife belonged to our place. She belonged to the Marakkara family near the Bhagavati temple. Sastrikal sat on the banks of the river Kambayar in Kanchi and sent his wife this letter.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Sending messages through birds and clouds—that was the way they did these things those days. Some Germans who had come to Kuzhur for the Athirathram, the world’s oldest Vedic ritual, had come here because they had heard this story.’

  Aravindan remembered reading the story of Uddhanda Sastrikal, who had lost to Kakkassery Bhattathiri in a debate and had to go back to Tamil Nadu. There used to be a test of logic and debating skills at the Tali temple in Calicut every year. And every year, this Brahmin from Tamil Nadu would beat all the locals and win the hundred and eight purses of gold coins that was the prize money. The local Brahmins had banded together and searched for the young Kakkassery Bhattathiri to defeat this arrogant outsider.

  That Uddhanda had a connection with Aravindan’s native place, and that some Germans came in search of the place on the basis of that connection, which the locals did not know, was so odd to think about.

  He said, ‘Of course, there are a lot of white men who know Sanskrit well, especially Germans. They took away a lot of rare manuscripts in earlier days.’

  ‘I’ve heard Moosad Master talk about this. This Kokila Sandesam has detailed descriptions of the way from Thirunelli to this place, I believe. Then, about her house here, even about the pond where they used to bathe. I believe our place is described as very beautiful and wealthy. Also in Koka Sandesam, the poet describes Chendamangalam and the temple at Arankavu.’

  ‘That is just the way poets wrote in those days, Achumman,’ Aravindan laughed. ‘Even now, the place is beautiful. They say some new tourism programmes are afoot. As for wealth, we are not the ones to speak of that.’

  ‘The wealth is really the people of this place,’ Achumman tapped on the table. ‘However far they go, at least some of them feel the need to come back. That itself is great good fortune, isn’t it?’

  That was true, Aravindan thought when he lay in bed that night. There was a certain closeness that would not let go of you. Some unseen ties tightened and caught you unawares. They would tighten and pull you to this land. And now, among those who tightened the ties, there was Achumman too.

  His eyes were burning, perhaps because he had written in dim light for a long while. If Vasanthi had been here, she would have yelled.

  As he lay there with his eyes open some faded pictures entered his mind. Eleven elephants stood in a row on the night of Sivarathri. The percussion concert in the elephant stables, with more than a hundred artistes. From morning till noon, the beats increasing in a gradual crescendo…

  As the breeze came through the window and caressed him, his eyes closed by themselves.

  It was the usual complaint, voiced by people who had not visited their own village for years: There is no company here. If you had no one to go back to, what was the point in going?

  It was true, of course, as far as it went. Old friends were scattered here and there, all over the world. The people who had stayed back in the village hardly stepped out of their houses. Each had his own problems. Some could not be bothered. And quite a few had made it to the obituaries of the newspapers. You had to be careful when you asked for someone. Memory was not quite reliable where these comings and goings were concerned…Was the man alive still? Had he been alive when one came the last time?

  Each time he went near the Paliyam, Aravindan would remember those old evenings. There were no subjects under the sky that was not discussed when the group met on the veranda of Vasu’s Royal Typewriting Institute—from world affairs to local gossip. When he was studying, the discussions would end with a walk to the kadavus, the landing sites of the boats. They linked the land to the outside world: Paliyam Kadavu, Karippayi Kadavu and the Malavana Kadavu. Chendamangalam, which was surrounded by river practically on all sides, was a big island.

  By the time they returned from there, the newsreaders, who called out the news from New Delhi in Malayalam through the loudspeakers provided by the Nair Society, would have grown weary.

  When he reached the old meeting place, it was as though not years but centuries had passed. Everyone had left. Even the shape of the veranda had changed. Aravindan heaved a long sigh. He suddenly felt that he would like
a look at the Karippayi Kadavu. And the Paliyam Kadavu. Things had changed there too. Bridges now linked lands.

  It was dark by the time he returned. The Nair Service Society radio and the flower-shaped loudspeaker, no longer existed. The newsreaders, who had kept them informed, had also vanished.

  As he stepped into the lanes, which the dark had swallowed, he could feel something grow heavy in his heart.

  He felt like taking out the bottle that he had left inside the suitcase all these days. He wasn’t sure about Achumman’s reaction. So he was careful not to make a noise when he took out the glass from the cupboard. But when he dipped into the mud pot that was kept in the kitchen for cold water, he heard Achumman’s voice from behind.

  ‘You could have told me if you wanted soda or something of that sort.’

  Achumman’s face held a quiet smile. Aravindan felt embarrassed. ‘I don’t know if you too…’

  ‘I’m so old now, I don’t have anyone to answer to.’

  As he poured the drink into the glass, Achumman’s head appeared beyond the door.

  ‘Don’t you need something to munch on? That is the usual way, isn’t it? If you’d told me earlier, I could have got something.’ Achumman’s face held the worry of not being prepared.

  ‘Never mind, Achumman.’

  ‘There are chilli-pappads. Shall I roast a couple?’

  ‘All right.’

  Pappads with bubbles and the smell of roasted pepper, and jackfruit chips appeared on a steel plate

  Aravindan took a sip and said, ‘Do you know Achumman, since I came here, I am filled with memories of the old tharavad. The walls of the big hall were filled with portraits of men with old-fashioned earrings, men with beards, with huge moustaches. And then I felt there were people here as well, that I am not alone; there are people all around me whom I cannot see or hear.’

  Achumman looked wide-eyed at him.

  ‘When I go to bed, it is as though they are around me. When I lie sleepless, I feel as though someone is caressing my head.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Achumman looked around him rather nervously.

  ‘Achumman, it gives you strength to know that there are others to take your burden.’

  Achumman must have felt that this conversation was not going the right way. To change the subject, he started talking about the heat of the summer. It was said that such extreme heat meant that the monsoon rains would be unusually heavy.

  Aravindan had reached the half-way mark of his first drink when he realised that he had not offered Achumman. He lifted his glass and asked rather awkwardly, ‘Achumman, what about a drink?’

  ‘I used to, once upon a time,’ his face held the same quiet smile. Sweat flowed down the neck and chest. ‘I haven’t been drinking for some time now. Can’t afford to, for one thing.’

  Aravindan did not wait to hear anymore. He poured the whiskey into a second glass.

  Achumman lifted the glass to his nostrils and inhaled the aroma, ‘Ah! Such a wonderful smell.’

  ‘This was distilled by the white man with his own hands.’

  ‘You can make out, it’s well born by the look of it. It must be very costly.’

  ‘I don’t buy. Since I worked in a shipping company, some old friends still bring a bottle when they come. I keep them safe from Vasanthi’s eyes.’

  Achumman took a sip and nodded. ‘When we talk about the five senses in a grand manner, we usually forget one of them—taste! Only those who know can make out how grand that is.’

  Aravindan had heard that Achumman’s tongue could judge correctly if the curry, sambar, or the sweet pudding, payasam, served with the meal had stayed a minute too long, or the firewood was not properly dried.

  Achumman was slowly letting the drink trickle down, drop by drop. He did not even look at the eatables kept there.

  ‘The white man is the white man always. He shows his greatness in everything he does. So, even Achumman had the good fortune to taste this in his old age, right?’

  ‘I had thought of asking you earlier but then wondered how to ask an elder, an uncle…’

  Achumman looked at him as though he could not believe what he heard. ‘An uncle!’ Achumman wiped his eyes.

  ‘It is the first time that someone is saying such things to me.’ Achumman’s voice cracked.

  Aravindan picked up his glass and sat on one of the chairs near the dining table. Achumman sat on a chair a little away, as though he had gathered a little courage.

  ‘Children, locals, all saw me with the same eyes—as a dependant of the Paliyam family; someone who did not wag his tail only because he did not have one. But of course, that was the way it had to be. My father worked in their store and my mother in their kitchen. The food they brought from there in the afternoon would be enough for the night as well. We lit the kitchen fire only once in a while when my father brought some fish.’

  Aravindan too had heard a lot about the food that flowed from the kitchen of the Paliyam to the households in the village. A large number of poor Nair families of the area lived on that food.

  ‘Let the Paliyath achans and their kunjammas call me whatever. But when children, only old enough to be my grandchildren, call me Achu, I feel as though I have grown younger than them. And then I console myself. It is true; I was only as small as a child to them.’

  Achumman sat for a while with his eyes shut. Aravindan too did not speak. He would let Achumman travel through old times.

  After a while, Achumman’s face cleared up. ‘After a while, I learnt some skills that gave me some status in the place. I could play the udukku, could supervise the kitchen at feasts. I soon became an essential part of this place.’

  ‘That’s good, Achumman, each person has his path.’

  ‘I realise how valuable the skills are when a wedding comes up in a moneyed Dubai man’s family. They won’t listen if I say that I don’t have time. “Please come and just be there. There are plenty of people to actually do the work.” So go the pleas. When some of the newly rich say that they will give me as much money as I want, I show my proper character…’

  ‘I’ve heard those stories.’

  ‘Whether it was a wedding or a death, taking care of all the details of the ceremony and the feast was the duty of the people of the village. Invitations said that the guest should come and see to the conduct of the ceremony. If a ceremony was not conducted properly it reflected on the people as a whole. So, I don’t bother to see if it is a Nair family or an Ezahva family, as long as they are Hindus. Of course, they should have a minimum standard.’

  Aravindan had heard a lot about Achumman. His eyes would sweep over every single corner of the place, even if he stood at one end. Even if the pandal was beautifully made and the feast was excellent, if the serving was poor, the ceremony itself was a poor one, according to Achumman. So, he always went to these places with a group of young men, whom he had trained to serve. If one curry was served slightly off its place on the banana leaf, the youngster would hear about it. According to Achumman, the serving should be such that a blind man should be able to run his hand over the leaf and pick the curry he wants.

  ‘Those were the times,’ Achumman sighed. ‘Now, no one wants to conduct a wedding in a pandal in the front yard of the house. It is too much trouble. So you have the wedding halls, the caterers. If you have money in your purse, you can get people. Still, when the neighbourhood is no longer involved in a feast, there’s no fun.’

  Achumman was sad over the degeneration of the feast. People who could cook tasty food and those who could eat food, aware of the taste, were rare now. Most people wanted to grab something, eat it in a hurry and go away. It was a payback for those times when people who ate well were called gluttons.

  Aravindan got interested when he realised that Achumman was in a mood to talk. Achumman too did not resist when Aravindan poured another measure into his glass. Aravindan wanted to get him to talk about the Paliyam struggle.

  ‘That was a long time ago.
Why think about all that now?’ It looked as though Achumman would have liked to avoid the topic.

  ‘We have only heard about it. But you watched it from close quarters, Achumman.’

  The old man’s face showed dark shadows as he tried to remember the incidents of the struggle.

  ‘The Paliyam struggle,’ Achumman heaved a long sigh. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. Both sides had their rights and their wrongs. But both of them could have been more restrained.’ He was struggling in the stream of unpleasant memories. ‘No, Menon. Whatever happened later, this body is made of rice from the Paliyam. I shouldn’t be ungrateful.’ He was reluctant to continue.

  Aravindan thought how the soil had been soaked in a lot of blood. There had been the attack by the Zamorin of Calicut, and then Tipu’s attempt at invasion. After that came the attack by Kunhikrishna Menon, who had been a lieutenant of the Kochi king. At one time, the Kochi kingdom had been held together by the forces under the Paliyam family. All young and healthy Nair men dreamt of joining that force. At any given time, there were at least six hundred young men, who had trained under Kuttunkal Kurup, who awaited that call.

  ‘Achumman, have you thought about how the present day youth would see that struggle?’

  ‘It shouldn’t have gone that far. Both sides could have compromised a little. It went on for six months. People came forward to mediate, but nothing worked. Both sides were equally stubborn and held onto grudges.’

  These words came from the past. History was full of the penalties paid by those who refused to read the writing on the wall left by time—those who did not see; those who were reluctant to see; those who were in a hurry to rub them out without bothering to read them…He felt he could hear time’s sarcastic laughter from some corner.