The Saga of Muziris

by A. Sethumadhavan

  That was true. He had had no thought of his age, of his ailments, about the medicines in the Vasanthi-chart. He had felt the freedom of forgetting everything, of having settled everything and floating through some other world. Finally, when he went to bed with burning eyes, the blue letters in the faded paper would develop stings and legs like black ants and parade before him. His ears would echo unfamiliar tongues.

  When he tied up the papers and stretched flat on his back on the cot he felt as though he had laid down a heavy weight. He would hand over some of these bundles to Ramabhadran the next day, early in the morning.

  A thin moonlight stuck to the glass pane of the window. The heat of summer had almost ended. It was as though the smell of the monsoon was growing closer. This was the monsoon for which the people of Muchiri waited prayerfully. The season of Vaikasi or Vaisakha when a whole shore would wake and dance in delight. As he lay there, gazing at the stars through the window, he eyes closed. After a long time, that night, he slept without dreams.

  When he handed over the papers the next day, Ramabhadran got flustered, ‘Who, me? To read? What are you saying? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ Ramabhadran could not believe it. He thought Aravindan was trying to make fun of him in some way.

  Ramabhadran could not help laughing when Aravindan reminded him of the stories from the Mahabharata that he had narrated with suitable gestures during the intervals between classes in school. This was mostly on Fridays. The interval was longer that day. ‘Those were just stupid things like what the chakyars did, Aravindan. I did get some applause when I tried out some of that at the Onam celebrations at Trichi, but that was only because they had not seen the proper Chakyar Koothu.’

  Finally, he agreed that he would look through them and added, ‘It’s all a question of destiny, isn’t it? There’s a time for everything—a time to write and a time to read. And Padmavathi is there. She reads more than I do. She’s more interested in this kind of thing.’

  Aravindan woke up with a start when the mobile phone woke him from a deep sleep at midnight. He jumped up and picked up the phone with trembling fingers. He could not make out the number since he did not have his glasses on. Could it be from Mumbai? Could there be anything wrong?

  But, it was Ramabhadran. His voice broke over the words in excitement. He was panting, ‘Aravindan, are you asleep?’

  ‘Of course, I am. What do you think the time is? It’s past one o’clock.’

  ‘Really? I did not look at the clock…’ His voice sounded as there was something caught in his throat. ‘Tell me, Aravindan, where have you been all this while?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s wonderful. It is so interesting to read. Padmavathi was the one who asked, “Where has this man been all this while?”’

  Aravindan’s heart was beating fast.

  ‘I’m so surprised. When Perumal and you spoke of things, I didn’t expect anything like this. That was mostly history. Lots of ships and the Greeks who came in them and the gold they brought and the pepper they took away. It’s no small thing to create a whole different world from all that.’

  Aravindan sat there, stunned. He was not fully awake yet. He had to go early to the airport and so had gone to bed slightly early. This was the first reaction of the first reader. Aravindan could not absorb it fully, yet.

  ‘I just started it for fun. And only because all of you were so insistent. I didn’t think anyone would read, I didn’t even want anyone to read it.’

  ‘Where did you get hold of these characters, though? Is it a novel or history? It’s a real wonder. Just think of the whole lot of people lying under our feet, having lived a life like that. Just thinking of it scares me.’

  ‘I really don’t know where they came from, Ramabhadran,’ Aravindan said rather nervously. ‘They were all there, somewhere. Perhaps, inside me.’

  ‘Anyway, don’t give up. Padmavathi says you should go ahead with confidence. There is a storyteller within you. Better late than never. I told you she reads a lot, takes books from the Samajam library and finishes them in a couple of sittings.’

  Aravindan did not tell him that he was afraid that the characters would give him up if he left the place.

  ‘All right, go to bed. You have to get up early, don’t you? I’ll get these papers there early in the morning,’ Ramabhadran said.

  ‘It’s just a beginning, Ramabhadran. There is a lot more to say, a lot more of Muchiri’s stories…’

  ‘Of course, there are. That’s what I meant when I said not to let go of them. Don’t let your characters get mischievous, make faces, and run away. Try not to let go of all this when you reach there. Not just about Muchiri but about our place, our village too.’

  ‘I plan to hold on to them. I’ve made a lot of notes about that, so that I don’t forget.’

  ‘Good,’ Ramabhadran said. ‘You’re assured of two readers at the very least. We’ll read even if no one else does. No, there will be others too, interested in all this.’

  When he switched off the phone, Achumman was at the door with drowsy eyes.

  ‘It was Ramabhadran,’ Aravindan said.

  ‘I heard some of what you were saying. Anyway, it is good that you wrote all this. Even speaking and listening to all this is a good deed.’ Achumman’s voice, that had once sung a whole lot of sacred stories, even listening to which was said to confer blessings, broke down.

  Aravindan could not go back to sleep. Something was roiling up in him. It was true, he murmured to himself, there was a lot to say. It didn’t matter if no one heard, if no one understood. Most of what I’m saying is to myself. He lay in bed thinking. Sleep came in the early hours of the morning, but the alarm in the mobile phone rang almost immediately. It was time to get up. Aravindan rose from the bed reluctantly.

  It was raining outside. The first rain that came in the middle of May—the reminder of the monsoon. The wind outside the window held the smell of the monsoon. Appukuttan was ready in the yard with the taxi.

  ‘Bye, Achumman.’ As he got down from the damp veranda down to the steps, Aravindan turned back and smiled. Achumman folded his hands in farewell. His eyes seemed damp—the dampness born of a closeness that did not recognise age. Achumman knew that this was not a farewell like before. So did Appukuttan. This departure was only to return again.

  And yet, Appukuttan asked, ‘When are you coming next, Aravindettan?’

  ‘Well, you can be sure it won’t be too far off.’

  Rain grew heavy as he got into the taxi.

  ‘It’s a good omen, ‘Appukuttan’s voice said from behind.

  Aravindan, though, was afraid, as he looked the day through the wet glass of the car, that the flight would be delayed.

  As he sat inside the airport after checking in, Appukuttan’s mobile number appeared, ‘Is the flight on time, Aravindettan?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘The rain is very heavy here.’

  ‘It’s not so bad here.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes, it’s good.’

  Appukuttan signed off as though he was relieved. It was his responsibility to see that Aravindettan got on to this flight on time.

  The dark sky was clearing by then.

  As he drove from the Santa Cruz airport, Raghu’s voice sounded confused rather than complaining. He said that Gayathri was cross at her grandfather. When Raghu had asked her whether she wanted to come to the airport to pick up her grandfather, she had said ‘no’. Why did her grandfather, who noted down her vacation dates in Kuwait and the dates of arrival and departure each year, vanish like this? Since they had booked the tickets four months earlier, he would have surely remembered those dates as well. Why did he choose to go to the village just then?

  This was the first time that Raghu had to call for a prepaid taxi when they landed from Kuwait. He was so unaccustomed to it that he even made a mistake in giving the name of the street and the house number. Finally, it was Gayathri, who raised herself on
her toes to peer across the counter and gave the details correctly. That had given Vandana a reason to be sarcastic. Her husband had needed the help of a child to find his way to the apartment where he had been born and brought up. Raghu’s retort had been that children were expected to help grown-ups when their memories started fading.

  ‘That is true,’ Aravindan said. ‘Usually, if we are used to someone else driving, we often lose our way when we are on our own. One has to learn the paths one has been through, all over again.’

  ‘When I rang you at the village, it was as though you were in some place far off,’ Raghu said. ‘In another continent, another time zone. You did not ask your usual questions—about my job; about Gayathri’s studies; about Vandana’s thyroid problem; the time we started from Kuwait; the time we arrived here; the crowds at the emigration—all the usual questions. You were very matter-of-fact. You had never shown any interest in going to the village all these years. What happened now? That too, staying in someone else’s house with a cook.’ More questions lingered on Raghu’s face.

  So, though his eyes were closing of their own accord, Aravindan tried to explain, ‘It is not the old village now, Raghu. I feel sad that it took me so long to understand this. Do you know, each place has layers—layers that you can see and you cannot see, sounds that you can hear and the ones that you can’t year. You have to acquire the eyes to see all that and the ears to hear all that. You have to be able to hold your eyes and ears open. It was only this time that I was able to do that, at least to some extent.’

  Aravindan realised how he spoke his language had also changed. The words that had been shortened and curbed by alien languages had developed a new tone with the concerted efforts of tongue, nose and throat.

  He felt that Raghu was afraid that he would slip into the stories of Muchiri and the jottings he had made. Raghu was thinking of what had happened to his father. When he was young, his father’s stories had mostly been about the sea—stories of brave captains, sailors, pirates. The stories told by his father who was intoxicated by the sea had always been great fun. The sailors and pirates had entered Raghu’s sleep many a night. Those sea stories had been so much more fun than the comics that he had started reading later. But who would want to listen to these boring stories of an unknown land called Muchiri? He wanted to ask his father a number of questions. Aravindan had slipped into a doze by then. The broken sleep of the previous night had overtaken him.

  Aravindan jerked awake when the car braked suddenly. The car had turned into a narrower road. There were a large number of vehicles though the early office rush was over.

  ‘Gutters,’ Raghu said. ‘Earlier Mumbai roads never had gutters. Now I feel that the roads are worse each time I come.’

  ‘That is called development.’

  Aravindan no longer felt that sleepy. He rubbed his face and sat up straight. He looked at Raghu’s face. His face did not look bright as it used to. Even as he drove he was immersed in some unpleasant thoughts.

  ‘What is it, Raghu? I noticed at the airport itself. It’s not just the roads of Mumbai that are changing, you are changing each visit too.’

  ‘Nothing like that, father.’

  ‘There is something.’

  Raghu did not say anything for some time. The car was taking another corner. Since it was a crowded hour, there were vehicles everywhere. Raghu suddenly said, ‘I’m fed up.’

  Aravindan looked at him as though he did not understand. He then asked, ‘Do you mean of life in Kuwait, of the company, or in your house?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ After a couple of moments he added, ‘Perhaps, of everything.’

  Aravindan felt like laughing when he heard that. Then he quietly put his hand on Raghu’s shoulder and said, ‘Such generalisations don’t suit a professional like you. I came to this city in my nineteenth year. During all this time, there have been occasions when I have felt like telling myself that it was enough, I was fed up. But, each time, this great city stopped me from leaving. This city does not allow anyone to say that it is enough. If the Mumbai man ever says it is enough that would be the city’s end. The city lives on the trust that we will never say that it is enough.’

  Raghu turned his head to look at his father.

  ‘The city knows only one phrase: not enough,’ Aravindan continued. ‘It is that phrase that drives everyone who runs through these footpaths as though in search of the medicine that eases the last breath. In the streets, at work, in the home, it is this mantra that is repeated: not enough. Go, go… forward’

  Raghu nodded lazily.

  It was Asnani from Lahore who had given Aravindan this mantra in the old days when Aravindan was struggling to cling on to his job in Mulji Padamsee. Not enough! Not enough! He would say that contentment and being fed up were man’s worst enemies. His family that had still not recovered from the wounds of the partition were climbing heights in business.

  From a humble textile business in Crawford Market they branched out to bigger shops in Kalyan, Bhandup and Andheri. They are no planning to get into export business in a big way. Asnani was the only one of the four brothers who went out to work. He too helped in the family shop once he reached Andheri in the evening.

  ‘Perhaps, you need a change. A real holiday!’ Aravindan said.

  ‘I come home on leave every year,’ Raghu was rubbing his hands in exasperation.

  ‘What’s the point of that? You spend that leave either here or in that flat at Adayar. A month passes quickly. It is true, all of us are waiting for you to come and spend time with us. But I don’t know if that serves the purpose of a real holiday for you.’

  ‘What else would be a holiday?’

  ‘Something that these cities and flats cannot give you—fresh air, clear light, mist, rain, sunshine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not talking about hill stations or resorts or anything of that sort. Some place that has not been spoilt completely yet. A few days, for just the three of you, to forget everything, far away from everything, to be able to open your mind to the world.’

  ‘It is easy to talk. Where would I find a place like that?’

  They were caught in another traffic block. Long lines of vehicles hemmed them in from both sides. Though the distance to the flat was only five minutes’ worth, this block was likely to make it ten minutes at least. Aravindan paused for a moment, cast a glance at Raghu’s face and asked, ‘Have you ever thought of going to the village for a while?’

  Raghu shook his shoulders as though he had understood where the conversation was leading. His father had become possessed by the village with this visit there. It might take some time for the obsession to leave him and for him to become the old Mumbaikar.

  ‘I understood a lot of things this time,’ Aravindan tried to explain. ‘Though I had no one really closely related to me there, these last few days have been unforgettable. During the next check-up, I should be able to remove some medicines from Vasanthi’s chart, at least.’

  Raghu had his answer ready, ‘That was because you were able to meet some of your old friends there. Where do I have friends there? I would have to introduce myself as the son of so-and-so of such-and-such a house.’

  ‘This anonymity! Do you know the price of that? A week to spend without being recognised. It is people like you who have lived all your lives in cities who need to experience it. Have Vandana and Gayathri seen a village except in movies and on television?’

  Raghu did not say anything.

  ‘It is not just the peace, there is something beyond that, there— something that awakens you, something that cannot be explained. A certainty that there are people around you. You will not believe me, if I tell you. I was staying in an empty house that belonged to a distant relative of ours. The moment I entered the house, I felt as though I was not alone, as though the house was full of people. People of different ages, people of different kinds. The empty walls held the pictures of people I had never seen or heard of. An unfam
iliar smell pervaded the house, the smell of age, the smell of ancestors…’

  Aravindan was talking on as though in a dream. Raghu was by now really worried. What was his father saying? In what sort of language was he speaking?

  He asked rather nervously, ‘What is all this, father?’

  Aravindan was continuing as though he had not heard the question, ‘As though I had been taken over. But that feeling of tharavad, of the family, of tradition, even the place, the certainty that there were people around you, all give a real sense of well-being. The new generation that has grown up without that larger kinship doesn’t know the value of that feeling.’

  They had reached the apartment block by now. Gayathri was standing on the balcony and waving. Aravindan sat without opening the car door. He said, ‘Think over it. You have a whole year to think of it. Perhaps, during the next vacation, or during the Christmas holidays. The weather will be pleasant then. But if you want to show Gayathri proper rain it will have to be during this season.’

  The expression on Raghu’s face was one of disbelief.

  Aravindan laughed, ‘Have no doubts about it. Neither your wife nor mine will agree to it. It is up to you to make them agree.’

  As he got out of the car without replying and took out the suitcases, it was as though Raghu was thinking of something.

  Aravindan reminded him, ‘It is not all that unusual. Young people in Western countries are now searching for their roots. It is the people without roots who know the value of roots, the truth of roots.’

  Gayathri came running and hugged him. Holding her close, Aravindan said, ‘We have a duty to show her, to convince her at least. That we have roots. That only trees with roots that run deep can grow and spread.’

  As they entered the flat, Aravindan felt that Raghu was thinking deeply about something.

  When he started converting the office room into a writing room, Aravindan felt like laughing. Two activities that had no connection with each other. Vasanthi’s regular complaint was about the mess his table was in. What with the laptop and the scattered files, various papers, pens with different coloured inks and the table lamp—the table was always untidy.