As Kichan and Manikkan stepped onto the broad wasteland early in the morning, light seeped in from the east. The land without boundaries stayed under the thin film of mist, waiting for the smell of human beings. There were a few bushes and thorny plants here and there. A small stream, which had fought with the river Choorni, flowed across; both sides filled with thickets of pineapple plants.
‘There might be snakes, keep a thorny stick with you,’ Valli had reminded as they stepped out of the house. Kichan had laughed. The snakes had to fear the men who worked on the land, not the other way.
It was getting lighter—the colour of the earth changed as the light turned rosy; the beauty of a young virgin. Manikkan took a pinch of mud and put it on his tongue. It held a sweetness that he had not tasted before. And with it a smell that he did know well. His body thrilled. He was trying to remember, where had he sensed that smell before?
He remembered finally. It was the smell of Valli in the first days of marriage as she lay close to him shyly, the smell of a virgin.
Manikkan’s eyes opened wide. He realised that the aged earth of the small fields he had tilled earlier had a sort of mildewed, sour taste to it. This was the virgin who awaited the touch of a man. She had been waiting for him, for him alone.
Manikkan’s mind celebrated. He walked around, looking, seeing, feeling. The earth lay spread out, vast and waiting. It had the same beauty, the same smell, the same taste.
His stomach still held the gruel that Valli had made him drink at the break of day. Anyway, he did not feel hunger now. The sights he had seen had filled him. It was his good fortune that he had gone to see the kuttuvan that day, his good fortune, the good fortune of this earth.
When Valli had asked that day if they didn’t have enough and whether they needed to be greedy, it was Kichan who had replied. He had said that it was not about ‘having enough’. This was not greed for more land. It was the duty of the farmer. Virgin soil that faded under the sun, untouched by human hand was a challenge to the manhood of the farmer. To pretend that you had not seen the soil was ingratitude to the race of farmers and to Manikkan’s father, who had placed his hand on the plough.
As the sun rose above head, the smell of burning grass spread. Kichan felt that his throat was also burning. He walked towards the stream, followed by Manikkan. Here the smell was of pineapples that had ripened and split. They walked into the stream through the pineapple thicket from which they could hear the hiss of snakes. There was no clay or mud, just clear sand. They curved their hands and took the water up to their mouths. The same sweetness was here too. They drank again and again.
As he climbed out of the stream and belched, Manikkan thought that the gruel that Valli had forced down his throat in the morning, so that he would not be hungry, had finally gone down properly. His mouth held the sweetness of the stream water. The water in which the virgin soil bathed would also be sweet.
It was a wonder. The river Choorni that flowed near his land and house did not have the same sweetness. And with that the farmer in him awoke fully. They would not have any problem with water. If a canal was dug to the other side, there would be water there too.
He walked forward with renewed energy. The sun had started moving in the opposite direction above his head. He stopped then. One half of the day was over. If he walked back at the same speed, they would reach the place where they started by dusk.
Enough. This was enough. As Valli always said, one should take only what one’s hand could hold.
He removed the piece of cloth tied round his head, wiped his neck, face and chest. Then he bent forward and touched the soil with feeling. He picked up a pinch and tasted and swallowed it. He broke a branch from one of the bushes and planted three sticks in three different places.
Manikkan muttered, ‘This is now our land, Kichan.’
‘It was ours even before,’ Kichan laughed. ‘The land on which the farmer’s glance falls, is his.’
When Manikkan’s spade fell on the virgin soil, she shuddered, struggled and even fought. With the second blow of the spade, she moved and struggled again. And then waited for the third blow to fall.
Manikkan was also waiting. Valli had taught him to wait. ‘Don’t be greedy. One had to wait for the woman and the soil to wake up.’
With the next careful blow, like an emotional outburst of a sensuous girl succumbing to the advances of a beloved, the earth’s water broke. And with that communion both of them felt even better. This was proper soil. They had wandered in search of her, of this soil, all these years.
Manikkan could feel his mind strengthening. He could stand straight and tell the kuttuvan, ‘This is my soil, touched by me. I shall plough this soil, throw seeds, harvest. She had been waiting for me.’
But he would not talk about one thing, he decided. He would not talk of the sweetness of the soil, of the sweetness of the stream water. That was something he had to hide. Farmers had to find some things for themselves. Nature was mischievous, hiding things in various places. It was the duty of the farmer to seek and find them.
‘Don’t be in a hurry, Manikkan’, Kichan murmured. ‘We must find out the taste of the soil in each area. The top soil and the next layer will have different tastes. We must find out the differences in the tastes and we shall bring the first plough to the place where the soil is soft and there is moisture.’
Kichan had realised at first sight itself that that this soil would not be easy to tame. She was stubborn; did not know the smell of men. He had stood and watched how the seed bulls handled the horns and kicks of the cows in heat with patience and skill.
But Kichan was sure of one thing. This was pure show. She had been waiting eagerly—for the sharp point of the plough that would tear through her, for the feet of the bulls that would stamp over her, for the flowing strength of men.
Manikkan was standing there, his gaze fixed on the land without boundaries. Kichan realised that doubts had started taking shape in his mind as usual. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Kichan touched him on the shoulder and asked, ‘What?’
Though Manikkan replied it was nothing, Kichan could guess what was going through his mind. This was not like the small fields that they had handled till then. Before them lay the earth, like a sea without waves. When he had taken possession of the huge area in a frenzy with Kichan, when he had gone to see the kuttuvan in a hurry, he had not felt that he was taking on something that he could not handle.
He realised new meanings in the words that the kuttuvan had said that day. He had said that the earth that was seen and the earth that was walked over did not belong to him, only the earth that his hand had touched would be his. Earth that had been touched, earth that had been handled. He had not planted those sticks in the soil, but in the depths of his mind.
Manikkan felt stubborn about it. This was his earth. He would work on it, no one else would touch it.
Kichan said the same too. He too had made some calculations in his mind. Both of them knew how to work in the small parcels of land that Manikkan’s father had acquired long ago. Here, they had to start from the beginning. The field had to be separated into plots, boundaries raised between plots and canals dug so that water could be brought to each of those plots. The fertiliser, cow dung and green leaves had to be brought from the other side, through water. Where would the boats berth? The clods would separate on the first ploughing, though the soil was firm. Then they had to bring the water in and make the mud soft. Once they did this and ploughed again the soil would become pliable. Valli and her friends would throw the seeds and then replant the seedlings.
‘What do you think, Velumban? You think all this is easy?’
Kichan gave a start when the voice fell on his ears. It was Manikkan’s father. He was the only person who called him that. Did Manikkan’s father also lose heart?
Kichan stood for a moment, his head bent and eyes shut, and then he murmured, ‘This is the duty of the farmer, Father. This is for you and for Muthappan in the Nadukkallu.
’
Kichan felt a warm palm on his head then. It was Appan’s hand, the hand of Muthappan, the First Farmer. He bent his head before them.
Kichan knew that while it was all right to be stubborn, things were not going to be easy. Manikkan was still standing there, dumbstruck. Kichan tried to laugh, ‘Never mind, Manikkan. It will all come right. We are now in possession of the largest stretch of fields in the place. And you will be the greatest farmer that the community of farmers has ever seen.’
Manikkan nodded as though he did not believe it. But Kichan was sure that, since he had been pushed into it, Manikkan would handle everything.
And so, he was not surprised when Manikkan got up at dawn and went in search of blacksmiths. He had already started his search for people to work and cattle for ploughing. He had heard that some bulls that were accustomed to the yoke and plough were running wild on the shore. If they were not too old, they could gather them up. He had also heard that the bullocks that drove the carts carrying salt from the salt flats towards the north were not much in use now. The salt-carriers would be willing to let them go if they were offered paddy in return. But not used to working in the fields, he wondered if the bullocks would learn to drag the plough.
Kichan was busy calculating various things in his minds. So was Manikkan.
No one had ever imagined that the pepper, which hung on wild vines in the hilly areas, would come to be so important. No one had planted those vines, no one looked after them. When the Arabs, who had caught the smell, climbed up the hills, even the kuravars, who went along as guides, did not know what they sought. They watched in fascination as the newcomers plucked some berries from the wild vines, chewed them and nodded their heads.
Though the first lot of Arabs went away without saying anything, more boats started landing soon. Though the red-skinned people who got down from them looked for guides to go into the forest, the kuravars and villavars were afraid to enter the place of the Goddess Anankh and pluck berries from there. The goddess who dwelt among the rocky promontories, in the huge trees, in the needle-like branches that pierced the sky, would come down as wind, as rain, as lightning. The people of the hill knew that she who guarded the forest and the fields could be appease and angered easily.
But, the people who had crossed the seas were not willing to turn back. When they prepared to go into the deep forest without any guide, those who watched were struck dumb. They knew what awaited these newcomers who entered the goddess’s sacred places without permission. But they were even more stunned when the outsiders came down the hill with huge sacks filled and tied up.
When they went in without any guides, they had found double of what they had seen the last time. How did these strangers, who had entered the forests not knowing the inner paths, not afraid of the wild animals and the poisonous snakes, manage to do this?
No one had any doubt. This was her blessing. Anankh herself had protected the strangers and shown them the way. Why had she done that? They found the answer to that question as well. They would bring luck to the villages. Perhaps, their footfalls would make the forest and hill flower.
‘Good times are coming,’ someone said.
Though not convinced, people who liked dreaming echoed, ‘Good times are coming.’
That was a beginning, a big beginning. The people who had come, first just plucked the berries, filled their sacks and took them away. Their ships were also small ones. Strong oarsmen guided the ships near the lee side of the shore and when they reached the port, small boats carried the cargo to the ships.
No one had tasted the green berries that grew on the wild vines. And those who did, did not like the unfamiliar hot taste. Though the servants of the Arabs did know the value of berries across the seas, they did not reveal that secret. Like children picking wild fruits, they clambered on to the trees and plucked the berries from the vines, filling sacks and loading the sacks into the boats. Slowly the number of people who wanted these berries increased and the prices increased too, as the divers who dove for pearls watched enviously.
No one knew where the sacks loaded on to the boats went, or what price they fetched. They were being bought for the fair-skinned Greeks, who were Yavanas to the local people.
When the number of ships and boats increased and the smell of curry started spreading, merchants and middlemen started crowding: ‘Do you have pepper? There are buyers for any quantity. You have to go to the forest, pluck the fruit, dry them and fill them in sacks. In return you will get gold coins, gold you have not even dreamt of.’ With that, the hunters and tribals of the hills started going into the forests where no light fell.
When the count of sacks that came down the hills became smaller there were fights on the river bank. The greedy middlemen and the assistants of Greek merchants started pushing and pummelling each other. Most boats were not being filled these days. The first few to come ashore took away full loads. The second lot too did not do too badly. The people who came later suffered. They were the ones who were creating all the trouble.
‘Instead of filling the first boat with all the stuff, couldn’t you have waited for a while, friends? Your crop went at such poor prices,’ they would say. That would aggravate the arguments and fights.
At the seashore, the ships waited with open maws for their victims. Middlemen had congregated there too. ‘Do you want to sell the sacks that have already been loaded on to the ships? You will get double the price.’
The people of the place stood and watched stunned as the berries that grew in the ownerless forests became golden merchandise as though by magic. The people who had not seen the trading that went on in the land could not understand what was happening at sea.
The monsoon was nearly over. As soon as they got a hint of the wind turning, the sailors would get ready to leave. As much merchandise as possible had to be loaded before that. The middlemen rushed about in their anxiety.
When the last group who had climbed the hills came back without much success, the merchants tied up their money bags. When the year’s trade had ended, they started making preparations for the next year’s trade. They started whispering to each other about what to do to get as much merchandise as possible before the ships came in the next monsoon.
The people of the place were trying to find out the truth about this black pearls that the foreigners sought.
‘Why don’t we ask Chami Vaidyan,’ someone suggested.
Chami Vaidyan knew everything. He knew all about the roots and leaves and fruits in the forest. But it was not easy to find Chami Vaidyan, who lived in a hut, somewhere in the deep forest. But, once a year, before the rains, he would come down with bundles of green medicines. Then, till the rains ended, he would build a hut far away from the river, under some tamarind tree. They would wait till then. And waited until, one day, Chami Vaidyan came down the hills.
He sat for a while after chewing on the pepper berry that had not lost the smell of freshness. The people who crowded round watched as his forehead wrinkled, his cheeks drew inwards and the straggly grey beard quivered. Finally, he shook his head violently, spat hard and muttered something. The people listened carefully.
‘Poison?’ someone asked.
‘Yes,’ said Chami Vaidyan, ‘terrible poison.’
That information spread all over the place. The red-skinned men were fighting over and taking away poison berries. But since even the worst snake poison did not trouble them, this too would be harmless.
The merchants and the middlemen were not bothered by the information. If there was a buyer, even poison was gold to a merchant. They had only one thing to say: they needed more merchandise. They needed more and more. It was not enough to just pluck the berries that grew naturally, the vines should be cultivated. Not just in the forest, but also in the villages, wherever possible. They did not know how long this need for these black pearls would last.
The older farmers laughed when they heard this. What did the merchants from other shores know about farmers? Farmer
s protected the purity of the soil they cultivated. One had to preserve certain traditions and rules when one cultivated the land. Their ancestors had told them what the duties of a farmer were. People who went into the forest to grow vines to climb on trees were not farmers. The tribals would do things like that.
Though the elders said so, some of the younger men had other views. They said: ‘Don’t trust the words of Chami Vaidyan, who is so old he can hardly see. It was usual for the elders to laugh at anyone who spoke of things they did not know about. No one would come all this way by ship and take all this trouble just to buy some poisonous berries. And how did people who chewed poisonous berries become so fair and red? How did they grow so big and tall with thick bodies and broad chests? If they can use the berries, we can also use them.’
Though they did not express the doubts, lots of people had questions on the other side too. They had been watching the comings and goings of these red-skinned people with suspicion. When the number and variety of the boats that did not come right up to the shore increased, they decided that some trickery was taking place beyond the seas.
And new questions arose. What these strangers were plucking and taking away could be black pearls grown under the eyes of the Anankh. Where was it laid down that a farmer should grow only things that grew from the soil? Whether it was a tree, or something in the mud, anything that grew in the wind and the rain and the cold was meant for the farmer.
And so, some young men got ready to go up the hills into the forest. And others followed them. But it was not as easy as they thought it would be. It was a challenge to clear the hilly forest tracts where wild animals and poisonous snakes lived and cultivate the pepper vines. Later, when Yavana ships pierced through the sea and started arriving, the local people realised how valuable pepper was. From large ships called kalam, which could hold any amount of merchandise, to small dugouts to reach the pepper through the river to the seaside, all came. The Yavanas always came before the rains fell. The merchants and the middlemen rushed around to collect as much pepper and other hill produce as they could before this.
The Saga of Muziris Page 19