Manikkan’s father found out that Kichan had not only the fair skin of the Yavanas but also their smartness. Though he was not as old as Manikkan, his words and deeds were grown-up. He could understand anything, he also knew how to do things quietly. So, his father would always tell Manikkan, ‘Manikkan, we can trust this velumban. He will be a help to you.’
Though he had been irritated at first by this unnecessary praise, Manikkan got used to it in time.
Manikkan’s father had a secret desire. Kichan was not fair enough. He had to become as red as the apparition he had seen on the beach. Only then would he become a proper Yavana.
If Manikkan’s father wanted Kichan to become fair, Kichan’s dream was to become dark. To be as dark as the true sons of the place. But, however much he exposed himself to the sun and the sea wind, Kichan would not grow dark. As he grew older, he became more and more fair, more and more rosy, just as Manikkan’s father had dreamt.
However that might be, both of them grew in the care of Manikkan’s father. And so Kichan became a friend and a brother to Manikkan at the same time.
Two monsoons had passed since Manikkan brought his bride Valli. One evening, as he sat drinking his toddy, Manikkan’s father said, ‘Velumban, my son, now you too must have someone.’
Kichan did not understand. He already had all of them, why did he need someone else? When Manikkan’s father added that it had to be a velumbi or fair woman from the other side, Kichan stared at him. Why did he need someone like that?
But Manikkan’s father was not willing to give up. He started describing what that fair woman should look like. Kichan yawned. He had been working very hard in the fields and the sun had been fierce. Once he had his gruel and fell on to the mat on the veranda, he would wake up only when the day showed silver. Why on earth would he need a woman to disturb his sleep?
But Manikkan’s father did not forget about it, and kept reminding them of it. Manikkan realised that, like the apparition he had seen on the beach in his young days, the fair woman, from the other side, had entered his father’s mind. Manikkan’s father who had never been across the river believed that everyone from the other side would be fair. When Manikkan said this and laughed aloud, Valli got angry. What his father said was true, there would be pretty and fair women on the other side. Only such a girl would suit Kichan. Manikkan continued to laugh.
In the evening, when his mind woke in the influence of the toddy, Manikkan’s father continued to mutter, ‘I’ll bring a pretty girl from the other side, just let these rains get over.’
The shores grew cool, not after the harvest, but when the Yavana ships had left. That was the real Thiruvizha season, the season of festivities and celebration.
Kichan was unaware of all this. Manikkan’s father’s words had dried in his ear there and then. His thoughts were all about the work that had to be finished in the fields. Manikkan’s father knew that though there were five or six workers, both male and female, working in the fields, it was only the youngest, Kichan, who really worked hard. As he stood and watched the work progressing, he would say to himself: He is the only true son of the soil. If he had not crossed the river and come that day, what would Manikkan have done?
When age ate into him and his father fell ill, Manikkan was devastated. How would he run all this by himself ? His father repeated what he had often said, ‘You can trust our velumban. He’ll take care of you.’
To Kichan he said, ‘Velumban, my son, he is your elder brother. You must look after him.’
Manikkan’s father lay on his death bed for three days. It was Kichan who sat with him those three days and nights. Because, Manikkan could not bear to see the pain of others. He felt like weeping then.
Though he sat half-dead for three or four days after his father’s death, Manikkan woke up and started taking the reins of matters after that. He felt confident since he had Kichan with him.
Kichan would look after everything connected with the fields. He would do the work of three workmen too. The only condition was that his stomach should remain full. And that bad habit that Manikkan’s father had taught him in his young days. He had to get his small pot of toddy and roasted meat at dusk. Though Manikkan knew that Kichan’s stomach was one of those bottomless pits, he did not bother to find the depths of it. Kichan too never bothered to find out its extremities. Manikkan who worked with his people in the fields knew about hunger. And Valli, who came from the pala areas, where there was no cultivation, knew about hunger too. She kept Manikkan company in everything.
Manikkan enjoyed feeding the hungry. He would always say that the grain sprouted for the sake of those who worked on the fields. And cows gave milk for the calves to drink. Only what was left over was for the owners. Kichan who knew this as well, worked very hard and ate equally hard.
It was later that his eyes fell on other things. Some of the people who worked with him evaded Manikkan’s eyes and stood around here and there. They would curse the hot sun and seek the shade every now and then. They would take up the pot of buttermilk that Valli brought and move away. If there were women working, they would be after them.
Though Manikkan also knew this, he was reluctant to irritate the workers. If they left him, it would be difficult to get others. The biggest stretch of fields in the area belonged to him. No one had given it to him, nor had he forcibly acquired it. It just happened that way. This was land that had been lifted from the sea by the gods of the mountains as company for the hills. That was how these lands had separated. There was the neythal area that belonged to the fishermen and the people who made salt from the sea water. There were the kurinchi areas where forest produce was found on hills and mountains, there were the pala areas that were wasteland, the mulla areas and the maruthu lands that were meant for cultivation.
Just as the kuttuvans, the local chieftains, had acquired the guts to say that all the land yielded by the seas belonged to them, once upon a time Manikkan’s father too had proclaimed that all the land belonged to him. No one came with opposing claims. The farmers in the area were too lazy to dig canals and bring water from elsewhere.
After one season of rains and one summer had passed since the death of Manikkan’s father, Valli reminded Manikkan: ‘Have you forgotten what your father told you?’ Manikkan looked at her questioningly.
‘A companion for our Kichu.’
Manikkan nodded as though he had suddenly remembered something. He said lazily, ‘About that fair woman. Where would we find a fair woman like father said?’
Valli became stubborn. She raised her voice, ‘Of course, we’ll get one. You haven’t looked for her. Since your father who made him hope has left this world, now you have to take care of the matter. You think our Kichu need only work like a bullock in the fields?’ We must look for her.
Valli’s words pierced his heart; Manikkan shivered. It had been a mistake. He felt that his father sat somewhere up above and reddened his eyes. When he had been young, he had been most afraid of his father’s eyes that reddened in anger.
Kichan had no thought of all this and just lived happily. Though he had grown into a man, he had never thought of a mate. He would spend the whole day in the fields. At night, by the time he filled his stomach and fell into the mat on the outside veranda, the river breeze would come to caress him. In that deep and undisturbed sleep, no unnecessary thoughts troubled him.
But on some rainy nights when he heard Valli’s soft murmurs and Manikkan’s grunts from their room, something would tinkle in him—anklets with bells he had never seen. He would shut his eyes tight and try to sleep then. No. He needed only the food they gave him and this veranda outside the house. And so the fair woman from the other side had never taken form in his mind. Actually, it was the other refrain of Manikkan’s father that used to make him mad—the one about how he had to get into a ship and go away one day. Where would he go in a ship? This was his home, these were his people. Who was there across the sea? After all these years did they think of him as an outsi
der?
His memories were of Manikkan’s father’s lap, of this veranda, of gruel with slices of coconut, of chutney with the small fierce chilly. Kichan remembered telling Manikkan once that he had come across the river because his father had called him. Manikkan did not believe him. How could his father who had never seen Kichan call out to him? But Kichan had a question to counter that. Then, why was Manikkan’s father at the shore of the river that evening, standing alone in the drizzle, with a banana leaf to protect his head. Why did the boy from the other shore try to cross the river at that particular time? Why did his father jump into the river when he did not even know how to swim, to rescue the boy who had been carried away by the waves?
Manikkan tried not to laugh when he heard all this. Kichan was just dreaming. His father had not waited at the shore of the river, nor had he jumped into the river to save Kichan. It was Lord Muthappan, himself, who had scooped up the boy with his hands and brought him to the shore. The boatmen had seen a pair of steely hands extending towards them when their vessels had been turned upside down by the river in spate. Those were Muthappan’s hands, Muthappan who stayed at the Nadukkallu. That was the truth of the river. Manikkan had not heard of anyone drowning in this river.
Whatever that was, Kichan could not even think of leaving this land where Muthappan ruled, where Manikkan’s father had lived. The fair skin that had been bestowed by some unknown person was becoming a burden now.
And so, when Manikkan reminded him of the fair woman he said firmly, ‘Manikkan, the fairness should be inside, in the mind. People who are fair outside might be black inside.’
Manikkan did not say anything further. Kichan started paying even more attention to the work in the fields to keep unwanted thoughts at bay.
One day, his eyes sparkling with a wild light, Kichan said, ‘This is not enough for us, Manikkan.’
Manikkan asked, ‘What do you mean?’
Kichan’s finger pointed to the distant boundary where the sky and the earth met. What met the eye was the usual—wasteland that belonged to no one, which no one wanted, with clusters of wild trees, bushes and bamboo thickets…
Manikkan did not understand anything.
Kichan called, ‘Come…’
They went walking. Dusk was falling. The wasteland lay endlessly in the golden sun. Kichan had realised that this was good maruthu land, with water flowing underground even in the hottest summer. Though no human hand had touched it in years, the colour said that this was fertile land. Choorni’s water covered it in the rainy season and brought silt and other residue. The mud was rich with it. There were bushes and wild plants here and there.
‘All this is ours now.’ Manikkan could only stare when Kichan said this. ‘When I say ours, I mean ours.’ Manikkan did not understand even when Kichan repeated himself with a sly smile. Manikkan did not have his father’s guts to claim all the land that he could see. And it was not usual for anyone to appropriate land like that without the knowledge of the kuttuvan. His musclemen would know when there was even a small movement in the place. His underlings with the power to collect tax would come running.
One had to pay tax to work in the fields. And then tax had to be paid in proportion to the yield. That was what Kichan could not understand. Someone had come from somewhere and established themselves as the rulers of the port. Since they were strong and had a few toughies with them, no one opposed them. Let them rule over the port of Muchiri and collect tax from the ship people and the merchants. They can do it because they were strong. But what right did they have to collect tax from the maruthu lands that lay outside the port area? The rulers of the port area need not try to rule over the land around too.
‘By what right?’ Kichan repeated. ‘The land was lying there and no one wanted it. And the farmer dug and turned it and exposed it to the sunlight, dug channels and brought water to it, moistened the land with his sweat and then the man who worked had to give tax to the bystander who stood and watched all this.’
That was true, Manikkan also knew that. But this was how it had been for generations. The owners got what the owners had to get. The farmers got what the farmers had to get. His father had always said so. He also had a justification for it. The protectors of the land kept them safe from thieves and robbers and rowdies and it was the duty of a good farmer to reach their share to them at proper time. It was when times were bad that one needed the help of the rulers.
‘And if we don’t give it?’ Kichan was rebellious.
‘They know how to take it,’ Manikkan replied.
‘Let them come here to take it; they’ll find out how strong the hands of the men who work are.’
‘No, Kichan, let it be,’ Manikkan pleaded. He was not ready to compromise on this though Kichan protested time and again. Finally he said firmly, ‘If you don’t come, I shall go alone to see the kuttuvan.’
And so, that day, for the first time, he went out without taking Kichan along with him. He was carrying some offerings for the kuttuvan.
The kuttuvan was a man of wisdom and of justice. He looked Manikkan over, measured him with his eyes. A face that had been cooked in the sun, muscles that stood out under the harsh winds, the veins showed under the dark skin on his limbs. A real born farmer. A born farmer and a farmer who took it up as a job were different. One who was born of the earth knew the truth of the earth. Whereas one who took it up as a job did his farming without actually touching the mud. The earth would never let down a born farmer. The beads of sweat that fell on each sprout became the grains, yielded many times over. That was the truth of the earth.
The kuttuvan gave him a deep measuring look and said, ‘The wasteland is a dumb woman, who has never felt the fingers of a male. Her words, when they come, become sprouts, flowers, fruits.’
Manikkan nodded silently.
‘Measurements are made in many ways, Manikkan,’ the kuttuvan continued. ‘With the eyes, with the hands, with the feet. You cannot say that the land you have seen or the land you have covered on foot are yours. A person with eyes can see, a person with feet can walk across. But the earth has to be touched with your hands to become yours. Not just touched, it has to be stirred, it has to be watered with sweat and worked over. And as deep as you go, the earth will respond that much.’
‘And so, you can see and you can walk, but only what you can touch with your hand is yours.’
That was enough. Just a nod from the kuttuvan was sufficient. It was the law of the land.
Manikkan had not expected so much. When he walked away with his mind content, he realised that his father’s way had been the true one and he had been right not to listen to Kichan’s protests. He had managed to get what he wanted, without going against tradition, without incurring the displeasure of the rulers.
Though Kichan agreed with all that reluctantly, he had something to add. ‘There would be a time the farmers open their eyes. Other farmers will follow us in search of arable land, which is wasteland now. Slowly there will be a group of farmers. One day, that group will have questions to ask of the rulers. When a whole group of people work hard to get crops in the land that the gods raised from the sea as companion to the eastern hills, who should pay tax to whom? Should the one who worked, pay the one who watched? Or should the one who watched, pay the one who worked?’
Kichan would not let go of the argument. Though Manikkan consoled himself that it must be the force of the white blood that flowed in his veins that made him speak like this, he could not even think of opposing the rulers.
Kichan had another reminder for Manikkan. ‘Nature too had her rules and truths. When the land went against these rules and truths, the sea knew how to take back the land that it had given in its mercy.’
Very often, Kichan’s opinions were the contrary to Manikkan’s. He did not hold with keeping to traditions all the time. Traditions were the creation of the rulers, they made them to protect their own interests. What his subjects ‘felt’ right should be the only true way. Kichan had no half-
truths, his truths were always full truths.
Days passed. Kichan felt that once Manikkan had met the kuttuvan and got permission, he had forgotten all about it. He was always like that, always reluctant to take decisions. He was such a good person that any decision had to be measured and weighed before implementation. It was because his father had known about this quality that he had entrusted Kichan with the job of looking after Manikkan.
He had to be given a small push at the right time. That was all that was necessary. Once he got started, Manikkan knew what to do next. So, Kichan reminded Valli the previous night itself: Manikkan had to be woken up very early in the morning. They would need a lot of gruel too since they had a long way to go. He did not tell Valli where they had to go. If he told her, she would tell Manikkan. Women did not know how to keep secrets.
As they sat down to have gruel early in the morning, Kichan told Manikkan, ‘She came and whispered in my ear, early in the morning.’
When Manikkan asked who had called, Kichan pointed towards the edge of the sky tinted by the red of dawn and said, ‘She, the new land.’
Manikkan did not say anything further, but nodded. A farmer could not ignore the call of the land.
They bathed before dawn and went and stood before the Nadukkallu. The Nadukkallu where the spirit of Muthappan, the First Farmer, stayed. Manikkan’s father had never gone to temples, and believed in nothing but Venthan, who held the wind and the rain in his palm.
As on festival days, they gave water to that stone with a full heart. They bathed it in the water from the river, in cow’s milk, in the water of tender coconuts. They lighted a ghee lamp, offered honey and butter and rice and flowers and bowed before it. No farmer could survive without the blessings of Muthappan. He was the First Farmer, who had worked the land before iron and implements had come; he had worked the land with pointed sticks and stones. He was the beginning of a long tradition. They were the protectors and the guides, they who stayed in the sky and looked down.
The Saga of Muziris Page 18