by Anita Nair
The other seemed to frown upon this proposal. He was not in favour of parting from his master. So much was clear from his next words.
‘I am of the opinion that it will be better that I too come to Trivandrum and then proceed to Bhoothapandi. These solitary trips are not very healthy. It is too early to forget the incident at Kalliankadu. There should not be another occurrence of the kind.’
‘What is the use of shirking danger? You can proceed to Bhoothapandi even now. There can be nothing worse than the danger that threatens us at present.’
‘Such commands are extremely painful to us. It is better to go to Keralapuram and proceed from there to Trivandrum with sufficient escort. But … even the morning ablutions have not been attended to …’
‘I am going to Trivandrum straight. After enquiring about uncle’s health, the other things can be settled. In the meantime, you must go to Bhoothapandi and pacify the Madura people … What’s that?’ The Brahmin sprang to his feet.
Immediately, Parameswaran Pillai sprang towards the doorway, and after one glance at the road, rushed back in haste, with an anxious face. ‘Jump over the wall … quick … some ten to twenty lancers are coming this way …’
The news, whatever its alarming import, did not seem to shake the Brahmin’s fortitude, in spite of the fear and anxiety throbbing in the tone in which it was conveyed to him. He slowly walked out of the doorway and vaulted over the outer wall with ease, followed by his faithful bodyguard. The lancers had by this time reached the southern gateway. Altogether there were fourteen of them under the leadership of the redoubtable Velu Kurup, who enjoyed in these days an unenviable notoriety for unexampled courage and cruelty, so much so, that his name had become synonymous with terror throughout the State. Everyone of the party carried a long spear in addition to the short sword and shield.
The leader Velu Kurup was a short thickset dwarf, ebony black in colour, with a low forehead, uneven protruding teeth and fierce bloodshot eyes that shone like crimson coals. The evil light that invariably shone in them and the unusual width of his shoulders, gave him the appearance of some savage animal, that has become extinct in the world. The trusted servant of Sri Padmanabhan Thampi, he knew no higher God than his hard-hearted master, and acknowledged no higher principles than his orders.
Entering the palace compound, the lancers conducted a hasty search through all the rooms from attic to cellar, and finding their quarry flown, crossed to the southern gate and looked for tracks in the mossy undergrowth that surrounded the palace. Following the faint trail for some distance, their pains were rewarded by the sight of the flying figures in front, at which there arose a wild shout of triumph from the pursuing throng, like the mad bay of hungry wolves.
Like timid rabbits pursued by hell-hounds, the Brahmin and his bodyguard flew over thorn and thicket, indifferent alike to physical pain and bodily fatigue, spurred on by the instinct of self-preservation. Dodging between trees and towering rocks, stumbling over hillocks and hidden ditches, on the unseen wings of fear, they reached the open spaces on the slope of the Veli Hills, when they saw before them a wildly attired member of the lower classes, known as Channars, gesticulating to them. Near him stood the stump of a super-annuated jack-tree, bare of leaves and boughs. By some freak of nature, its trunk had been hollowed out in the nature of a cylindrical room, and this the Channan pointed out to the fugitive pair. When the two were safely concealed within this, the Channan began to run to the west.
Intent on following the barefoot track, the pursuing party of lancers never paused near the tree-trunk but followed the footsteps that continued to the west, as planned by the unknown Channan. Satisfied that the lancers had passed out of sight, the pair came out of the hollow tree-trunk, and doubled back on their own traces, till they reached a clump of palms, where some more of the Channars were idling away their time. Of them they enquired whether there were any respectable Nair families in the neighbourhood, and proceeded in another direction on the information received.
Meantime, the lancers were in full cry. The leader was seen to exhort his followers not to slacken speed till the fugitives were run to earth, to which many a bloodthirsty villain responded in high glee, ‘If we are men, his head shall adorn our spears before long.’ But after an hour or so of continued running, they found that the tracks suddenly stopped and that they had been chasing the proverbial wild geese. While they were debating within themselves as to the next step, a burst of wild music suddenly smote their ears and they turned round. To the accompaniment of his own senseless song, a fantastic figure clad in filthy rags was performing mad capers before them.
Vexed beyond words at the futile termination of their murderous quest, Velu Kurup was ready to take offence at the slightest word, and turning to the Channan, he asked whether two people had passed that way. But the mad fellow did not seem to hear him. Instead, the wild song continued. And then, it seemed that the rich resonant voice of the demented dancer put some vague fear into the heart of Velu Kurup. Nevertheless he addressed the madcap, ‘Stop that song, you rascal and answer me …’
Even this burst of anger did not seem to penetrate into the diseased intellect of the Channan. Only, he struck a different tune and suiting his pace and action to the funny rhythm of his composition, he sang about a fire-eating devil on the top of that particular hill. Velu Kurup could not brook the fellow’s impudence, and flying into a tantrum of rage, raised his foot and struck the madman across the cheek, when lo! … from nowhere, steel-tipped arrows began to rain upon him and his party, putting them to instant flight, in preference to an untimely end. For, two of them had already dropped dead on account of the unerring missiles of death.
When the lancer’s angry foot struck him across the cheek, for a moment, the Channan’s idiotic face seemed to clear to give place to a paroxysm of rage. But with rare strength of mind, he controlled the unbidden rise of temper, and continued his wild capers till the last of the lancers had vanished round the corner. Then he paused to look about him, and saw emerging from the shadow of another tree a long limbed Nair youth, carrying a gaily painted long-bow and a sheaf of arrows, like some legendary hero stepping out of the pages of some mythological book. The newcomer seemed to be possessed of incredible strength, for, in spite of his slender figure, he tossed aside the corpses of the dead lancers with his foot with ridiculous ease. Having collected the innumerable arrows that lay about the place, he held a brief conversation with the mad Channan whom he seemed to know, and vanished into the woods as quietly and as mysteriously as he had appeared.
—Translated from the Malayalam by B.K. Menon
The Village Before Time
V.K. Madhavan Kutty
This extract is taken from The Village Before Time, published by IndiaInk.
I was born in a little village in the interior of the old Palghat taluk, in central Kerala.
The majority of the villagers were Nairs. There are various types of Nairs—the Kiriyath Nairs, the Athikurissi Nairs, the Veluthedan Nairs and so on. Each group lived in their own special island in the village. Indeed, the entire village was a conglomeration of little islands, for the members of each caste lived in their own particular space, performed their own prescribed duties and reaped the fruit of their own actions. No one desired a reward greater than calmness of mind.
At a time when the Government and the ruling front were making attempts to install electricity in every nook and corner of Kerala, my village took pride in declaring that they were wrong to do so. Two electricity poles had been planted in the centre of the village, south of the Bhagavathy temple. On some nights, pinpoints of light came alive on them, flickered for a while like glow-worms and went out. Meanwhile, the village continued to foster its ancient lifestyle in most aspects.
The Panchayat Board in office at the time of Independence built only one road through the village. This has now become a narrow lane full of potholes. The road was named ‘Panchayat Road’ since there was at the time no one in the village worthy e
nough to give it his name. Had it been named after some village celebrity who had died, the relatives of other deceased celebrities would have protested.
The signboard that used to say ‘Panchayat Road’ has now disappeared. But there is a stone trough nearly a hundred feet long at the point where the road begins and the words ‘Donated by Valia Veettil Kunji Amma’ can still be seen clearly engraved on it. It used to hold water for the cart-drawing bullocks that passed that way. Cart-drawing bullocks are now a thing of the past. The well that used to be on the roadside near the trough has been filled up with mud. And the trough itself, dry and empty, no longer has the dignity or worthiness that a thing so old should possess. People waiting for a bus sometimes sit on the edge of the trough with their legs drawn up, or stand beside it, resting their umbrellas casually on the rim.
Kuttiraman Nair, who used to be the President of the Panchayat Board at the time the road was built, lived at the end of the road. This does not imply that the road was laid right up to his house because he was the President or anything like that. The road led to the Nair thara, the quarter where most of the Nairs, the dominant caste in the village, lived. If you walked along the road past the Nair thara and the fields, you came to the Ezhava thara.
The arrival of Abraham, the newly appointed village postman, was an event of note. It was the first time the villagers had set eyes on a Christian. Curly-haired Abraham with his dark, thick eyebrows and light eyes instantly became the centre of everyone’s attention.
At first, the Nairs would not accept letters from his hands. The situation changed only when Purayath Narayanan Nair declared that the touch of a Christian would not pollute. Narayanan Nair claimed that while working in Kottayam, he had seen the local Nairs there entertain Christians in their homes. All the same, Abraham was not allowed to enter the Nair houses in our village and if he was offered tea or water, he had to pour it into his mouth without letting the glass touch his lips. He was, however, excused from inverting the glass when he finished, as local custom demanded of the lower castes.
Every Sunday, Abraham walked sixteen miles to church in Palghat. He came back in the afternoon after lunching on mutton chops and biriyani in the Komala Vilas Military Hotel. It was rumoured that he drank two drams of whisky before lunch. Such things were not available in the village.
Abraham lived in a rented room near the Post Office and cooked his own food. He was the first outsider to come to the village and settle down there.
Damodaran Nair wanted to find out whether Abraham was a Catholic or a Protestant. Ascertaining the different religions and castes people belonged to and understanding the differences between them was always a matter of deep interest to Damodaran Nair.
‘You mean Christians have castes as well?’
‘Of course, and they’re quite rigid about them.’
‘Oh God! Abraham is a Nazrani, that’s all we need to know, Damodaran Nair.’
People would crowd in front of the Post Office when the mail arrived, hoping for letters or money orders from children and relatives. Abraham would open the postbag and sort out and arrange the letters. He would then hand over a locked, sealed leather bag to the Post Master. By the time the Post Master verified the number of money orders and the cash to be paid out, Abraham would have the letters stamped and read. He would then take the money orders from the Post Master, stamp them and call out the names one after another. Those with prior information would be waiting expectantly. Most money orders were collected directly from the Post Office by the addressees and the rest were sent to their respective destinations in the afternoon.
Abraham was usually given a tip when he took a money order to a Nair house. Although he was not particularly happy to receive it, he never expressed any displeasure. However big the sum of money he handed over, he received no more than a rupee. As he took the money and put it in his pocket, he would say to himself, ‘Why couldn’t they have come to the Post Office to collect this?’
The Nairs thought it beneath their dignity to collect their money orders from the Post Office. They thought it equally demeaning to write or receive postcards. ‘A letter should be a proper letter,’ said Chandu Nair once. ‘Only the writer and the recipient should know its contents.’
‘Who would want to read a postcard, Chandu Nair, and what harm if they did?’
‘Why should they? It’s best to use envelopes. Cards are below our status, they’re meant for inferiors, for mlecchas.’
There were two kinds of people in Chandu Nair’s world—Nairs and mlecchas. It was said that he once returned a letter to the Post Master because the honorific ‘Maharaja Rajamanya Sir’ had not been prefixed to his name. The fact that he was a titled Nair was something Chandu Nair never forgot and never allowed others to forget.
When Abraham was appointed postman, Chandu Nair tied a little basket to his gate. Not because he thought it fashionable to do so, but because he wanted to avoid accepting a letter directly from Abraham’s hand. On average, Chandu Nair received no more than one letter every other month.
Soon after Abraham came to the village, he bought a piece of land facing the Post Office and built himself a little house. He planted tapioca behind it. Later, he bought another piece of land near the first one and then a small mango grove. The villagers watched the tapioca grow and flourish. The Nairs consoled themselves, ‘Only Christians eat that stuff.’
In a year’s time, Abraham’s elder brother and family joined him. Two years later, Abraham married Thresiamma from Kottayam and gradually, there were eight Christian families in the village.
When Thresiamma arrived, the villagers watched curiously as she got down from the bus with her box and bag and followed Abraham to their house. She was a pretty, curly-haired young girl. She wore a long blouse and a mundu, the traditional Christian dress. Her jewels must have been worth five sovereigns.
‘Good-looking girl, pity she’s a Christian,’ remarked a foolish Nair, fortunately out of Abraham’s hearing.
The Christians thus established a new island in the village. Ten years later, they built a church, and a bishop came to consecrate it. By that time, Abraham had become the President of the local Christian Welfare Society. Affectionately known as ‘Avarachan’, he was now an accepted member of the village.
The branch Post Office had been elevated to a Sub-Post Office and an additional postman appointed as Abraham’s assistant. The fact that this assistant was a Nair touched a corner of Abraham’s heart with secret delight.
It was Abraham who imported rubber plants to the village.
By the time the Kerala Congress, a political party dominated by the Christians, was formed, Abraham had united with Jesus. The Kerala Congress had its own flag and signboard but could not find a candidate to contest the elections. Abraham’s brother, Thomachan’s constant lament was, ‘If Avarachan were alive, he would have been elected unanimously.’
The influx of new inhabitants to the village continued. Tapioca and rubber became part of the landscape of the village.
The conflict for votes between the Nairs and the backward classes continued. The value of Nair votes diminished gradually and low caste Hindus began to realize that their votes were not polluted.
Islands of religion took shape in the village in addition to the islands of caste.
—Translated from the Malayalam by Gita Krishnankutty
R. Prasanna Venkatesh/Wilderfile
Chemmeen
Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai
This extract is taken from Chemmeen, published by Jaico Publishing House.
Chemban Kunju was a lucky man. No one on the seafront got the haul that he brought home. His haul was often twice as large as that of the others. When he cast the net, it never went wrong. It was a matter of great wonder.
In the evening when he counted the cash, Chakki would say, ‘We must give away the girl now.’
Chemban Kunju never gave it a straight answer.
‘What are you thinking of? She can’t hang around like t
his indefinitely,’ Chakki would continue.
Chemban Kunju kept quiet. As long as he made good money, it didn’t appear as a big problem to him. He could do something about it the moment he made up his mind.
Chemban Kunju acquired all the accessories necessary for a boat. Now he could go to sea at any time of year. He had everything.
Pareekutti’s curing yard almost shut down. He was not getting any work to speak of. He had no money. His father, Abdullah Muthalali, came and blamed him for his state of affairs. He said that Pareekutti had given away all his money to a fisherwoman on the seashore. Karuthamma overheard the accusation.
She pressed her mother with the need to return Pareekutti’s money. She told Chakki what she heard Abdullah Muthalali tell his son. What could be more humiliating? In fact, hadn’t Pareekutti taken his capital and given it to a fisherwoman?
‘We shall pay it all back, wait,’ was Chemban Kunju’s reply when Chakki brought up the matter.
Then Chemban Kunju began even more grandiose plans! He must have two boats and nets. He must have land and a house. He must have money in his hands.
‘And then should one work all one’s life? Like Pallikunnath, one must retire and enjoy oneself,’ he said.
He was determined to fatten up Chakki a bit.
‘Oh yes, you think I am going to put on weight now?’ Chakki said.
‘Never mind all that. You will put on weight.’
Never before had Chakki heard Chemban Kunju talk of enjoying himself. He had developed a new concept of living.
‘Well, how are you going to enjoy yourself in your old age? Where did you learn this? You must have learned it somewhere,’ she said.
‘Of course you can have fun even in your old age. Go and look at Pallikunnath. You should see him enjoying himself. Let me tell you,’ Chemban Kunju said, ‘that woman Pappikunju is your age. But she is well preserved. You should see her with her hair combed back neatly, her lips red and the caste mark on her forehead. She is like gold to look at. That fisherman and his wife are like a young couple.’