The Saga of Muziris

by A. Sethumadhavan

  In spite of being close to Jaleel, Azad was a believer. He had a lot of complaints to make to Allah.

  When the talk turned to Jaleel, light flashed in the eyes of K.C. Prabhakaran, an old-time communist and a close friend of Jaleel’s. As with a lot of young men of the area in those days it was Jaleel who had led KC into the movement. The relationship that started with hero worship from the young Prabhakaran, matured into a deep friendship. KC, who had recently turned eighty-one, was trying to recapture the whole period.

  ‘I met Jaleel and became a communist overnight,’ KC laughed. ‘His personality was so magnetic. Jaleel was working hard at that time, trying to organise the weavers and the bidi-makers. The front-line leaders came to spread word about the party before the election and the party grew roots in the area.’

  Jaleel had been behind the decision to make an issue of the right to walk through the road in front of the Paliyam. He had recognised that the issue at stake was not just the right to use a certain road, but a protest against the authoritarian rule of the landlords. A meeting to declare a protest and explain its purpose, was to be held at mattapadam in the evening. Jaleel had invited two of the ministers in the Kochi administration—Panampilly Govinda Menon and Sahodaran Ayyappan—both of whom had expressed their sympathy to the protest.

  On reaching the venue, the ministers demanded that the protest be deferred since the matter of entry to the temple for the lower castes, on lines similar to that of Travancore state, was under discussion. Jaleel wanted the ministers to explain their stand directly to the people. They however refrained from making any statements. Rather, they tried to dampen the people’s enthusiasm for the protest. Jaleel declared at the meeting that no matter what, the protest would be held, and the audience greeted that statement with applause.

  Though Jaleel was not an accomplished speaker, his evident sincerity attracted people. Each sentence he spoke earned rounds of applause. Once the protests started, though, Jaleel and his followers had to cross the border to Travancore and work underground. Jaleel had to direct the protests from underground for quite a while.

  It was at this time that the communists attacked the police station at Edappally. As policemen were killed, the search operations were very harsh. A number of known communist workers were arrested, but Jaleel and KC managed to evade arrest and stay underground. A number of ordinary people were beaten up and tortured in the process of the search. It was difficult to find safe sanctuaries at this time. Even adherents of the party were not willing to provide shelter to their comrades who were underground. They had to move from shelter to shelter, to evade the eyes of the police. One evening as KC walked with Jaleel, they found policemen in mufti, following them. They ran through the lanes that neither of them knew and hid in a field of tapioca, at first. That place too did not feel safe, and they ran further forward until they were finally captured by the riverside.

  Their hands were tied behind their backs, and they were made to walk through Manjali to Parur town. The lock-up days that followed were filled with extremely cruel forms of torture. Questioning and torture followed one another continuously. This process went on for a couple of weeks. After two weeks or so, when it became evident that neither of them had anything to do with the attack on the police station, the beating stopped. This peace lasted only a few days, though. Once again, Jaleel was taken out of the lock-up and questioned and beaten. Some comrades who had been caught elsewhere had, among other things, spilled that the money Jaleel got by sale of his property had been used by the party to buy weapons. With that, the beatings that had been stopped started again.

  The next day, the beatings continued even when he was taken to the well in the compound of the courts for his bath. Unable to bear it any longer, Jaleel evaded the eyes of the police and jumped into a well. The policemen dragged him out and started beating him with vengeance. They filed a case against him for attempted suicide. When relatives conveyed that his mother had not eaten for days and was bedridden, Jaleel could not bear it. He was very attached to his widowed mother, who had worked hard to bring him up. He took a difficult decision that day. Without telling anyone else, he resigned from the party. When he returned to the lock-up that day, he told KC about that. KC remembered that he had said just a couple of words in reply, ‘A big mistake!’

  Jaleel did not utter another word, just sat there with his head bent. He might have felt that it was a big mistake too. With that, Jaleel was released from jail. However, he continued to be a communist in thought and action and worked for the party.

  ‘Why did Jaleel leave the party? He had thrown away everything for the sake of the party.’

  When Aravindan repeated the question, KC remained silent for a while. He then said, ‘I never asked Jaleel that question up to the time he died.’

  Consideration for an old-time leader might have kept him from asking such unpleasant questions. The question, though, remained something that a lot of people wanted to ask and did not ask. It lingered long, especially, in the minds of Jaleel’s contemporaries.

  After the split in the party, Jaleel had fought the election in 1965 as an independent candidate. He had won the election with a good majority. But with a hung legislature none of them reached the Assembly. Another game played by fate. Anyway, that prevented any smear of ‘parliamentary dreams’ falling on him.

  KC’s voice broke as he started speaking of those days. It was not easy to recapture that period of struggles or to explain those individual resistances to a generation of communists who had made the movement a celebration of the good things of life.

  ‘I’ve never really understood Jaleelikka,’ Azad said. ‘He’d seen me as just a boy to begin with. By the time I grew up and grew close to him, he had left politics and become part of other worlds. The questions that I had kept aside to ask him, dried up. When I finally got an opportunity, I didn’t have the guts to ask him. He had pushed it all inside, unable to recognise that he was a much bigger man than what he thought. Communism was a romantic dream to him, perhaps, because he had an artist in him.’

  That was why he had been unable to absorb the split in the party and the tortuous travails of practical politics. One more among the romantic revolutionaries who had broken their heads against the stone walls of the real world, Aravindan thought. But why the surrender? Why this retreat by a person who could influence a whole place, a whole generation, in his day?

  As Azad had said, Jaleel had declared himself vanquished in the fight between his mind and the world. He himself might not have wanted to find the logic in it. He would have been led by the delicate mind of an artist rather than the toughness of a political leader. That is why, I like to think of Abdul Ismail Jaleel or AIJ with the purity of the artistic revolutionary, Aravindan told himself.

  Azad had come to say farewell. He was going to Mumbai by the morning flight to spend a couple of days there. He would make an attempt to meet some old friends there like Kadarikka from Koyilandy, who had given him a place to sleep when he landed in the big city—an inner room at the Malabar Military Hotel, in Worli, with its benches darkened from smoke. Though he slept putting two benches together, he had fallen down from that bed. Then there was Saravanan from Aruppukkottai, who worked in the cloth mill at Parel; Sujathan, who had found him his first employment as an accountant at the Seth’s shop; Mammadikka, who would often forget the name, place, and the money he lent to someone, and there were countless like that.

  It was long since he had gone to the place. Malabaris in Mumbai were like that. They moved without letting even the place know they had left. He had gone through Mumbai so many times. He would be disembarking at Sahar and catching a cab to Santa Cruz. It had never occurred to him to search out these old friends. He could easily have done it, but had not felt like it. But now, suddenly, he felt the need…

  He had spent all his earlier breaks abroad. There was no place in Europe that he had not seen—also the US, Australia, the old Soviet Bloc, South East Asia, the Caribbean Islands, all
of it. Since he was of use to them, the companies would facilitate his travel. The only place he had not gone was China. There was only one reason for not going to China in spite of having travelled all over the world. He had been going to places to see whatever there was to see. He did not want to go to a place to see only what was permitted to be seen.

  He had never felt like going back to his village on any of those breaks. Who was there in the village for him to take the trouble to go and see? Even if he went to Kerala, he would stay at the more expensive hotels at Kochi. In three or four days he would be fed up. Most often, he would cancel his leave and return. And so, it was a long time since he had had a long vacation at the village. And that too, only because Aravindettan had, with great effort, found out his e-mail address from the site of his company.

  Azad said, ‘Aravindettan, I feel as though I have changed a lot after this visit…’

  Aravindan looked at him questioningly.

  ‘I’m remembering a lot of what I thought I had forgotten. I have started feeling, after all, I may have some people I know in the village, Mumbai, Chennai, somewhere or the other.’

  Aravindan laughed quietly.

  ‘It’s not that I wanted to avoid anyone, it’s just that I didn’t particularly want to meet anyone either.’ Azad looked guilty. ‘So, I thought I’d spend a couple of days at Mumbai during this visit. I even thought of extending my leave by a few days, but my boss vetoed it. His blood pressure rises if I am late by a couple of days. So, I decided that I would go to Chennai the next time round. I have spent so many days wandering round Kodambakkam and Vadapalani. Finally, it was the deity, Pillayar, at Vadapalani who told me to leave, saying I didn’t have a chance to survive there.’

  Aravindan thought this was more or less his story too. Though he had come earlier, this visit was different. It was as though a number of forgotten things had come in search of him as faded drawings, as faint sounds. As though somewhere around, there were people he knew. A show of strength by the long departed.

  ‘You know, I feel that we should have, at least, an e-mail group from here—a platform for people who had once been close to each other, to meet again, a venue for people to exchange their news.’

  ‘There’s nothing new about that, Azad. There are already a number of local groups like that. But I don’t know how active they are.’

  ‘I don’t have time for all this social networking. I’m not interested either. But I think, a group like the one I suggested might be interesting. The people we knew in our youth are scattered all over the world. Once in a while, we could all get together at the village, like this. Like those family get-togethers they have. This is also a family. To meet, to talk of old things; to talk and remember old things; to talk and forget old things.’

  ‘Not to remember or forget,’ Aravindan murmured. ‘As Perumal said, it is a sort of closure. Such returns are for closure.’

  ‘Once a year, or once in two years, with or without families,’ Azad was repeating his idea.

  Once in two years…Aravindan laughed inside. The report in Vasanthi’s hands, the affectionate warnings from Dr Kulkarni. Who knew who would be left at each return?

  ‘It’s a good idea. Let’s think about it seriously,’ Aravindan spoke softly. ‘We’ll first try to collect as many mail IDs and phone numbers as possible.’

  Azad’s mind seemed to be circling round the idea. ‘I’ll come at the same time, next year, for sure. It is holiday season for us.’

  ‘We’ll see, Azad,’ Aravindan spoke as though to pacify him.

  ‘I want to do what Bezalel Eliahu, now an Israeli citizen, did. A small home around the place where I was born, a small cottage would do—to stay when I come, once in a while, to claim that I have a bit of soil in my own land; to mingle with that soil when my time comes.’ Once he had said this, Azad seemed to find it amusing that he had spoken so much. ‘Though I’ve seen a lot of lands, I’ve never felt attached to any of them till now. It’s the first time that I feel such sentiments. Must be old age…’

  Aravindan thought it was time that Azad’s mind was turned to some other topic. He started speaking about the old Jewish settlers of Kottayil Kovilakam.

  Azad reminisced about the old times when he used to herd cattle on the hillside. Jaleelikka would rag him that he needed only a flute to be that archetypal tragic hero of Malayalam poetry, Ramanan.

  Azad started speaking softly, ‘I sometimes feel like laughing when I hear people talk casually about exile and the Indian diaspora. From you, Aravindettan, who went to Mumbai in search of a job, to the man from Chavakkad, who reaches one of the Gulf countries in a sailing vessel, all who cross the Walayar pass are exiles to us. The real diaspora, though, are people who were chased out of their own land and scattered all over. Like the Jews who suffered so much, for so long. After the destruction of the second temple in Babylon, Jews scattered all over the world to save their lives and to find some place for a living. They were not like us, we went to make money and stayed on…’

  ‘But, Azad,’ Aravindan said, ‘People who reach the various corners of the world in desperate search for a living, do not have it any easy either. It is not all that easy to live in Maharashtra and become more loyal than a Marathi, or be in an Arab country and be more loyal than an Arab, or live in France and compete to be more French than the ones born there.’

  ‘That is true, but the exiled man, thrown out of his country is still a very different species from the one who made a choice to go differently.’

  Azad had a lot to say about the arrival of the Jews in Kerala. Some of it was hearsay, some facts collected during his stay in Egypt.

  ‘I am dead against the politics of Israel. Especially, their stance in the middle of the Arab countries, spilling the blood of Palestinians; hurting their self-respect; the atrocities practised by them. They speak big words about the fatherland but do not understand the pain of the Palestinians, who lost their own homeland. I also do not believe that there will ever be peace in that area. But, we, who grew up among so many Jewish households, cannot ignore their scattering and the return to a homeland, after centuries.’ Azad continued, ‘They managed to become a world force in less than half a century.’

  ‘If you ignore their politics, we have a lot to learn from them,’ Aravindan agreed. ‘Their hard work; their pride in their nation!’

  ‘That is where the Jews from Cochin (Kochi) are different. They had grown up without undergoing any travails of persecution. They gave up a comfortable life here to go to a new place and work hard at things they did not know, only because of a sense of nationality arising from religion.’

  None of the old Jewish families were in Kerala anymore. Aravindan wondered where the children who had studied with him—Elias, Menahem, Simon, Aaron and Rebecca—lived in Israel.

  ‘When you write about the place, you can’t afford to leave out Bezalel,’ Azad repeated.

  ‘Bezalel?’

  ‘He’s one of the Jews who migrated from here in 1955. He had been Jaleelikka’s friend those days. He went there and learnt about floriculture and became one of the greatest floriculturists of Israel. Even our Central Government has conferred honours on him.’

  Aravindan remembered reading in the newspaper about the Malayali agriculturist who had conquered the Negev Desert in Israel. He had not realised that the scientist was from his own place.

  ‘I heard that he comes to this place every now and then. It might help you to spend some time with him.’ Azad also said that he would get hold of Bezalel’s telephone number in Israel. Though the man did not have any relatives left in Kerala, he did have friends.

  ‘Bezalel, I am told, goes to various universities to take classes on the modern theories in agriculture. Including some universities in North India…’

  ‘Anywhere in Kerala?’

  ‘That’s the joke. He was interested in doing something for Kerala. He even organised a trip to Israel for some of the ministers and officials from here.’

&nbs
p; ‘And?’

  ‘Another trip abroad at the cost of the exchequer! They did all the usual sightseeing there and came back. What else?’ Azad was laughing. ‘With that, he gave up the idea of greening Kerala.’

  Aravindan decided that he needed to see Bezalel. He needed to hear the experiences of the man who went from India and made a garden of the desert.

  ‘I heard that he was planning to build a small house in the village.’

  ‘I thought you said he had no one here?’

  ‘No, this is not for anyone in particular. It is for old-times’ sake. Also, to stay in when he comes, once in a while.’

  Aravindan could relate to that. When one is abroad, thoughts of the land you left behind troubles one. Here was such a man who had left the land more than half a century ago and was now trying to build a nest here. Big or small, a nest is a nest. Jews are people who know the truth of reclaiming. Anyway, in order to get the feel of a period, he needed to see Bezalel. Aravindan made a mental note.

  Achumman came in with the tea.

  ‘I’m leaving, Achumman,’ Azad smiled and said. ‘I’ll come again now and then. Not like before. I’ll bring Aravindettan and come. I can’t forget the taste of this strong tea, Achumman. Reminds me of that old Iranian tea in Mumbai.’

  Achumman’s face brightened.

  As he blew on the hot tea to cool it, between sips, Azad spoke about an Egyptian friend called Rashidi. He was a loner and a very peculiar man. There were very few people that he was close to. Even the ones he was close to were not sure when he would turn against them. So, most people preferred to keep a respectable distance from him. His interests were peculiar too. He came from a wealthy family of traders in Alexandria and had plenty of ancestral wealth. His main hobby was travel. There was no country he had not seen, no food he had not eaten. Whenever he reached a new country, he would seek out its seashore. His other enquiries would be about the oldest libraries there and the eateries that served purely local food. He had the theory that one could not get to know a land from its hills and mountains but only from its seashores and the food habits. Perhaps, his interest in libraries was due to a deeply buried memory of that great library that was burned down in Alexandria. When Julius Caesar set fire to the Egyptian ships that lay in the port, the library caught fire and burnt down.