And with that, pepper became the black pearl of the hillsides with the pet name ‘curry’. The pepper vines climbed to the eastern side too. More farmers and their workmen entered the forest to clear away the bush and plant vines. They realised that these vines could be grown on hillsides and valleys too.
The rules of the market also changed. When merchants and middlemen from other areas started coming with bullock carts, filled with sacksful of pepper, the number of ships increased too. Everyone who touched this curry made a profit—the farmers, the merchants, the sailors, the Yavanas.
The farmers who cultivated the maruthu areas also woke up. Those who had finished the work in their paddy fields started going up the hills. There was more profit and less work. Besides, pepper was not like paddy. If you gave paddy, you got vegetables, fish and liquor, if you gave pepper you got gold and other Yavana things.
Manikkan was one of the few farmers who refused to go up the hills. He was one of the biggest farmers in the area. He said right at the beginning, ‘I don’t want pearls or gold. I didn’t start work in the fields because I caught sight of the Yavana ’s gold. My father who placed my hand on the plough also had not seen Yavana gold. What grows here is food for our people. We cannot live on roasted wild meat like the tribes of the hills. Our pearls are these grains that fall here. One can get those only here.’
‘Let the Yavanas bring gold and take away the curry. That is their job. Our duty is to grow grains. One can use pepper to spice up the meat to go with rice. But, there is nothing to replace rice. When man rejects the soil, dawn will be from the south, rains will cease, rivers will become thinner and shores will bulge out. The maruthu land will become waste pala land. That is the transformation of the thinas. When the farmer realises his mistake and returns with apologies, the old soil need not accept him. Nature would also have some calculations of its own.’
Kichan could now understand the meaning of Manikkan’s words. It was the prophecy of a farmer who kept faith with the soil; the generations before, who had kept the same faith. The ancestors were speaking through Manikkan, the first farmer who had embraced the soil, who had known the truth of the soil… Kichan sat, sighing over the old days.
Manikkan left the earth with the advent of smallpox that came from somewhere. He took Valli along with him. Their two sons, who had never touched the soil, were left behind. They did something that they called farming. The younger one who would not listen to anyone had tried going up the hills once. Someone had persuaded him that the wealth lay not in the paddy in the field, but in pepper from the hills. But, it was crowded there by then. He stayed there for some time, not able to get to grips with that either. Finally, when he could not bear the hard life of the hills any longer, he came back, complaining about Manikkan. If only his father had gone up the hills in those good old days, at least half of the pepper there would have been theirs. Local merchants and Yavanas would have been queuing up before their house.
Only Kichan knew why Manikkan had not gone up the hill in the good old days. But who wanted to listen to the words of a true farmer now?
The land that they had acquired with such enthusiasm was hardly cultivated these days. The stream that flowed across had also become thinner and the sides were falling in. When there was no one to tie them to a plough, Manikkan’s beloved bulls were taken away by the butcher. The soil was reluctant to yield before those who didn’t want to touch it, did not want to pick up a plough. When the yield was poor, the sons cursed the soil, cursed their implements and cursed the workers. They did not forget to curse their father too, who had not done what he should have done in time.
Luckily, Kichan had left the place by then.
Manikkan used to say, this soil is not ours Kichan, it does not belong to anyone. It just belongs to this place. When someone who can work on it takes it on, it becomes a duty, a duty that one should do with a full heart. Therefore, those who get more should learn to share. A man who has known hunger will not hesitate to share food.
Remember, no one has yet learnt how to count the senses of the soil. It knows everything, much better than us. Each sprout we see, wants to be petted, made much of. Like a woman, like a child. It is the affection of the handler that gives it life, makes it sprout.
Kichan could still hear Manikkan’s voice in his ears. Though Manikkan had at first been lazy to go to the fields, once he started work, he had become a responsible farmer. As his responsibilities increased, he became a better farmer, a greater farmer. The truth of the soil, the truth of the place, the truth of his ancestors, entered him too.
Once the Yavana ships left the port, a great celebration took place, under the patronage of the ruler himself. This happened every year without fail.
Once the rains were over, it was not only the ruler’s treasury that was filled with money, the purses of the people of the area also bulged. So, they too awaited the grand celebration. Three nights passed in a flash in eating and drinking and dancing and singing. A festival without a God or a temple. Perhaps, the great idol of such celebrations was the kuttuvan himself.
The bank of the river was full of boats, which had brought people from other shores to come to take part in the celebrations. They had heard a lot about these celebrations. Earlier they were reluctant to come and take part in these festivities that tended to remind them of their own lower status.
They too had inlets and ports, but they were not as convenient as the Muchiri. If, at least, a few of the ships that berthed here turned that way, those shores would also have become as prosperous. After all, only the ports where ships berthed could become prosperous.
But the lodestar of the Yavana ships pointed only to Muchiri. The ships too had got accustomed to following the channels that the star dug into the seas. When it was almost time for land fall, a mist would come down and cover the sights of the captains, it was said. With that, only one port would be visible before them— Muchiri. Only Muchiri. That was her good fortune.
People from the various shores would often have fights over the ships that did not berth and the trades that did not take place. Blood was often spilt. The maravars, who followed with knife and spear were often a threat to the ships in the early days. But when they found that such tactics did not turn aside the ships that were moving towards Muchiri, and point them towards their own ports, the merchants who had arranged these attacks slowly stopped them.
When the fights intensified, the kuttuvan would say with a small smile, ‘No one called the Yavanas here. It was only the good fortune of the land that brought them here, the blessings of our ancestors. They must have realised that when they reached here the first time. This was the port they had been searching for ages. After all, this was the destiny of ports, where all kinds of travellers are ordained to land. Who could change that?’
Anyway, for some time now, even with all these resentments in their minds, people from other nearby shores also took part in the festivities. Since such a celebration was not possible on their own shores, they too started waiting for these days. Though the unbridled prosperity of Muchiri troubled them each time, they managed to forget it in the fun of spending two or three days enjoying the festivities. But, when they returned, at least some of them who couldn’t resist boasting of their own soil, secretly hoped that the stars of their own land would also turn favourable.
Another season of celebration came.
In the afternoon, crowds would stream into the huge ground not too far from the river, with shouts and songs. By the time the sun came down a little on the western sky, there would be games of various types in the different corners of the ground. Each game would have a small crowd round it, clapping and encouraging the players. There would be kavadiyattam, mayilattam, magic, legerdemain, snake-charmers, cockfights, knife throwers and so on—anything that was entertaining.
By dusk, the ground would be full. There would be plenty to eat and drink. They could sing, they could dance. Anyone could join in, regardless of status or age or gender. The kuttu
van’ s servants would be wandering among the crowds in disguise to see that the celebrations did not get out of hand.
When darkness fell, the main stage in the middle of the ground would come alive with the light of the torches. The kuttuvan would sit on the high seat on the stage. On either side of him, the heads of various tribes and people connected to him would be seated. Below, in the front row, sat the uzhavars or farmers; the chantors or the merchants of liquor, and other merchants; villors or marksmen and others. Panars, the folk singers, and koothars or dance girls of ill repute, would have reached earlier. They came prepared with songs and dances suitable for the various seasons and times. Most were songs in praise of the kuttuvan— the valour showed by the line of rulers in battles, their fondness for their subjects and their generosity to all newcomers. Panars would come with exaggerated praises of all these qualities. The panar women, with their hair tied up on top of their heads, would sing, playing on the strings of the yazh with its curved horn. The viralis, garlands in their hair, gold ornaments on their body, tinkling gold bangles and anklets, would dance to the rhythm of the mizhavu copper drums, in the golden glow of the pandilvilakku lamp. The people would crowd around, keeping time to the beat of the dance, shouting encouragement. Since the weight of the gift would depend on the strength of the praise, the panars would compete with each other to sing better and better praises. By the end of it, the kuttuvan would start to imagine he had grown white wings and dream of flying through the air on those wings; those wings that could take him all the way to the heavens. If not anything else, his fame would have reached the seven worlds by then.
It was not only the kuttuvan who rewarded the singers. The better-off among the subjects would also crowd around to give gifts to please the ruler. The farmers whose crops had been very good, the liquor merchants, the other merchants whose sales had been good, the villors, and other such. They had songs made especially for them.
Oh memar of the chantors…oh memar of the uzhavars, oh memar of the villor s, the protector of those who made liquor, the protector of those who cultivated the land, the protector of the marksmen…
They would make the singers sing these songs in praise of the powerful. And the kuttuvan, who was the protector of the special interests of each of these groups, would listen to all this and sit straighter in his seat. The singing and dancing would go on till late in the night.
That was their occupation. But when the Yavanas started arriving, matters changed. The land now belonged to the one who had money in his hands. And so one evening, when the rains had stopped, one of the older panars went to the Yavana encampments and started singing about the greatness of the Yavanas.
Though the elderly Yavana, with a hawkish eye, did not understand the meaning of the words, he tapped his fingers and nodded his head in tune with the musical rhythm. And since they were a people who rewarded artists, the singer came away with his hands full of gifts.
And that was seen as a good beginning. Though it was difficult at first to convince the soldiers who stood on guard, other singers and dancers found their way inside the encampment. The song-writers too joined in with new songs in praise of the Yavanas. The dance masters took pains to choreograph new types of steps that would please the foreigners’ eyes. When hangers-on, who could interpret at least a few words of the songs too reached there, the Yavana encampments on the shore of the river too came alive. They kept aside the moonlit nights for this.
Although the Yavana merchants listened to and enjoyed the music and rewarded the singers with gifts, they were careful to maintain a certain distance from the locals. They had learnt to do so in their movement from port to port. These foreigners, especially the merchants knew who to get close to, who to keep a distance from.
Though Manikkan was assured of a front seat in any celebration where the important people of the locality came, he usually stayed out of all that.
He would say, ‘Kichan, this is not the celebration of those who work in the soil. That celebration is different. Our eyes should not be dazzled by the gold flaunted by outsiders. Our gold is what our mother gives us.’
After each harvest, Manikkan would also arrange a celebration. But that was for the ordinary people and not for the celebrities.
The grains would be piled up in small hillocks in the yard after the harvest. Manikkan’s creed was that he was entitled only to half of it. The other half belonged to the people of the village. He was very particular that the grain should be given without being measured. Whatever vessel a person brought, he could take it back full of grain. If it was a sack, a sack full. If a basket, a basketful. He was sure that there would be plenty left even if he gave away without any measure.
The hunters would come with reed baskets full of venison, the women of the cowherds would come with pots of curds, and they got grain in return, to fill their baskets and pots. Some of the smarter ones would ask for rice instead of paddy and Manikkan would extend the basket filled with rice to them without any reluctance. Valli would try to signal from inside, trying to dissuade him from such generosities, but he would pay her no attention. Valli knew about the difficulty of pounding the paddy into rice. When the women who pounded the paddy got tired, she would join in and relieve them for a while. The people of the area had got used to the ceaseless rhythmic beat of Manikkan’s pounding stones, over the years.
Though Kichan had tried to exert some control in the beginning, he gave up all attempts at interference when he realised that it was useless. This is the real celebration of the farmer, Manikkan would say, the festival of the man who works in the soil. This is our temple and our god. Cultivate the land, don’t let it lie fallow. Share the harvest with those whose need is greater than yours. This is the dharma, the duty of the farmer, it is for this that he is born.
Kichan was struck with wonder when he heard all this. Their Manikkan had changed so much. He who had been hesitant to take each step, had now become a big man.
On the day of celebration, Manikkan would also give gifts. But that was only to the people who had worked in his fields. The real harvest festival belonged to them. And so, he would have prepared the best of food and special liquor for them. The food with a variety of dishes made with fish and meat was prepared under Valli’s direct supervision. She would start her preparations well in advance. In a way, Valli and her companions enjoyed this festival even more.
Sometimes the panars, who sang, and the dancers would hear about the celebration and come; and some of the women of ill repute too. Manikkan would tell them, ‘You can sing and dance as much as you please. But you will get no gift of gold coins here. You will get a share of whatever is here. And another thing, I don’t want to hear any song praising me. Not only me, don’t sing songs comparing anyone with god. These people have only two gods: Ventan, who makes the rain and the sun and the mist and looks after the crops; and the ancestors who live in the stones.’
‘Sing about this soil. Sing about these people,’ Manikkan would point to his workers who worked in the hot sun and say, ‘The people of this place eat the pearls that they grow in the soil.’
When they heard this, some of the singers whose tongues were used only for the praise of kings would drop away, but some would still linger on—some of the old singers, who knew about Manikkan’s good heart. They would sing the old songs in praise of Indra and the ancestors. And their women would dance to that.
Manikkan was not bad at giving gifts either. His method was to give a share of what he got. And so, sometimes the singers would get silks and saris that had been given by merchants to Manikkan.
And so, though the most important people of the place did not join in, a lot of the workers waited eagerly for Manikkan’s celebrations. And since Manikkan and Valli saw their own prosperity in their happiness, they kept thinking of how to make it better, each year.
Vaikasi and Aani were months of waiting. Sailing ships would come from somewhere with the monsoon winds. And from them would come out some creatures that looked like
humans. The locals were afraid at the beginning. Later, they got used to them, and the men who came every year to the shores, became their guests—the visitors of the monsoon season.
The fishermen and the divers, who went to the sea, were the first to realise the coming of the monsoon. When dark preparations were observed in the corners of the sky, they would wait at the banks of the river. The arrival of the monsoon had to be seen in the water of the river and not in the sky—the way the colour of the water in the river changed; the way the flow changed; the mild feeling of damp in the breeze; the smell of other shores. When the small herds of clouds appeared clearly they would move to the seashore.
From then on, the older people would not allow boats to go to the unfamiliar sea. They would point to the waves of the river dancing in the breeze and say, ‘Now, you have to go here.’
For a sailor who had seen the seas, the rivers and backwaters were just ponds to play in; the fish of the river were just babies to a fisherman, who was used to the stubbornness of the fish of the sea. And once one got used to the taste of the salt water, one not only disliked the taste of the river water, but its smell as well.
Though they would stay stubbornly hunched in their huts and say that only a hopeless fisherman would float his boat in the river, when the fire in the kitchen did not burn they would move towards the river when the rain let up. They held in their minds the consoling thought that this was almost the season for the Yavana ships. Those who were used to the taste of sea fish would also appreciate the taste of the fish from the rivers. And so, the rainy season became the river season for the fisher folk of the place.
Therefore, the shadow of the first sail that showed on the horizon would fall on the eyes of the fishermen. With that, there would be waves on the shore too. The drums made of hollowed coconut trunks with leather on both ends would sound and with them the shouts of the people would also rise. These would spread to the boats on the river announcing the arrival of the festive season. The next three or four months would be a time of celebration.
The Saga of Muziris Page 20