Aravindan got up to wash his hands. As usual, when Achumman put out his hand to take the used dishes, Aravindan stopped him, ‘Don’t. My mother taught me when I was young that one should do these things oneself. Don’t spoil me now.’
Aravindan went and sat on the parapet of the front veranda. There was a gentle breeze. The leaves of the small mango tree nodded in the dense dark.
The Paliyam struggle had entered Aravindan’s consciousness through the bits he heard when he was in the primary classes. When some of the young boys from Karimpadam and Vadakkumpuram spoke with great fervour about it, the boys from the Paliyam would move away as though they had not heard anything.
Aravindan had not understood why the struggle had taken place. Someone had said that the struggle had been for the right to walk through the path that adjoined the temple. Why did one need to do satyagraha for the right to walk on a path? Aravindan had not understood. The Paliyam forces that stood guard at the entrance to the family house did not exist by then.
When the boys from Vadakkumpuram kept making pointed remarks about the Paliyam family, Ramabhadran would pretend he had not heard and slowly move away. But Sivanandan, who studied in a class above them, would get angry. He would say, ‘Why were they so stubborn about walking through our front yard? That was just arrogance. Aravindan, if it were you, would you permit it?’ Sivanandan sat on the veranda that ran round the school building as he said this.
Why did the people from Karimpadam insist on walking through the front yard of the Paliyam? Aravindan could not understand it. Would Kesavan, the toddy tapper and Gokulam, the weaver, permit others to walk through the yards in front of their houses? Kesavan’s tapping knife was sharpened twice a day.
‘When he says the front yard, he actually means the path in front of the house,’ Ramabhadran explained secretly one day. ‘When all the houses on that path belonged to the people of the Paliyam, we did need some protection. Our womenfolk walk through that path. Why should every other person in the place walk there?’
Krishnan, the Ezhava boy, had a reply to that. ‘Thuruthu Ouso and Kizhakkumpuram Simon and Usman could walk that way. Why should only the Ezhavas not be permitted? Even people of lower castes walked that way to work in the Paliyam compounds.’
That was news to Aravindan. Christians and Muslims and Jews could walk that way. But some people could not, they would be prevented by the guards in front of the Paliyam house. When he looked questioningly at Ramabhadran, he hesitated before he replied, ‘That is like that, Aravindan. Some people were considered lower castes. One is born into one’s caste, how can that be changed?’
With that, Aravindan’s lack of understanding expanded. The magic that made people take on a different colour by birth was beyond the grasp of that little brain. Later, during his Bombay days, when he heard the stories of his friends from the northern states, he realised that this was nothing—whole villages had been burned in the name of caste; wells, water sources, schools and even hospitals were known by their castes; there were panchayats, the village councils, that ordered young people who married outside the caste to be killed, inhuman tribal elders who prided themselves on their castes—the world had changed so much, and yet these places still lived in some dark ages.
But Kochi had not been like that. The churches, synagogues and mosques inside the area of the Kottayil Kovilakam said a different story, a story of unity, of tolerance, of goodness.
His eyes were closing of their own accord. Aravindan got up. It was impossible to write that night. So far, he had not let a day pass without scribbling something. It was as though this was becoming a new routine. Or, perhaps, a new burden.
He could not get up late, as he usually did. The next day, he had to go to Pattanam before the sun was high as Perumal had told him. Selvakumar from the Tanjore University was expected the next day. Selvakumar had been associated with this study right from the beginning. Anyway, Perumal did not have many days left here. He had to ask Selvakumar a number of questions before he left.
Aravindan shut the front door and walked to his bedroom.
Dr Cherian said that this was just a beginning.
‘A big beginning,’ Perumal added. ‘Perhaps, from this we shall explore new paths that have been covered in darkness till now.’
‘Years back, I had been to see some nannangadis, you know, burial urns, and came this way accidentally.’ Cherian explained. Cherian was the leader of the excavation team.
‘When I saw the large number of pottery shards that were being found in the land around here, I thought they should be collected and kept together. Shajan, my colleague, had heard about a brick wall underground and had collected the pottery that had been found near there. Some casual investigations were conducted into these, but they soon petered out. Seven years back, Roberta Tomber of the British Museum, an expert on clay pottery, visited Kerala and identified some of the pottery as Roman amphora. This opened the way for new investigations.’
Sometime earlier, all the explorations were around Kodungallur. Through years of explorations and digging that yielded no results, Muziris or Muchiri proved as elusive as ever. And the search had to extend to nearby places as well. Now, all that had become a part of history. Excavations conducted at Pattanam, under the guidance of the Kerala Council for Historical Research and the Archaeological Survey of India, were being helped by the Tamil University at Tanjore and some universities in England, the US and Italy. This was now the fourth season. More emphasis was being placed on understanding the way of living in those days rather than just collecting artefacts. They were searching for markers of the culture of a place, the culture of a period.
Even as they struggled to complete the fourth phase of the excavation before the onset of the monsoons, faces of the young people and Dr Cherian showed immense self-confidence. ‘We wake up each morning with the expectation that something new is awaiting us at the site. And we have not been disappointed so far.’
They sat on chairs set in the yard of a vacant house—Perumal, Aravindan and Selvakumar, who was an archaeologist and a professor at Tamil University.
A group of young people were cleaning, sorting and bagging the samples collected earlier and piled on tables set out. Further away, in a corner of the compound, excavation continued. The archaeologists and students and helpers were busy with their spades and trowels in the deeper reaches of the trench. With the help of the differences in the colour of the mud, they were marking the pathway of a stream that had dried up centuries ago.
‘Each layer of the soil, as we go deeper down, has a different story to tell,’ explained Cherian.
‘How far do you plan to go?’
‘Until we reach a layer that has not been touched by man.’
As each layer of soil was turned over, pages of history, pages written over centuries were being turned. The relics of different ages.
‘The theory is that the soil should be removed in spoonfuls. Each grain of sand might have something to say.’ Selvakumar was laughing. The edges of his jeans were covered with mud. He had just come out from standing in the muddy water of the trench.
The trench was now about four metres deep. Though the historians did not want to commit themselves, this could be the relics from the first or second century. Each day, some new discovery seemed to be showing the way to the archaeologists. The Roman coins and the amphora they had found in the earlier stages were no longer news. They had found many more samples. They had found some two million shards of pottery, two thousand identifiable pieces amphora and pieces of smooth pottery that were from the Middle East. One piece showed characters in the Tamil Brahmi script. With Roberta Tomber certifying that it was the largest collection of Roman pottery found outside Rome, one gets an idea about the give and take and the comings and goings over the seas that took place over two thousand years back.
The most notable finds in this series were the remains of a boat jetty—nine stakes, to which boats could be tied. A boat, some six metres high, tied up
to a stake, and next to these, a small building in the manner of a godown. Carbon dating had placed these remains in the first century. Different types of ornaments, pendants, beads and semi-precious stones had also been found.
‘At what date do you place the evidence of first human habitation?’ Aravindan enquired.
‘Since the iron of the implements found show that people lived here in the Iron Age, there must have been human habitation here at least a thousand years before Christ.’
‘That would take it back about three thousand years from us, right?’ Aravindan looked at Perumal wonderingly. Perumal nodded.
Another find had been about 400 cm below the surface. In that fairly barren stratum, they had found shards of some shiny material, which others had not found—memorials that had waited under the soil for the seekers to come, not losing their sheen in the rain and the wind.
‘Each new find shatters some old beliefs,’ Cherian said. ‘Already the claim that high-quality rouletted mud pots were found only abroad had been discredited. Even before people from West Asia and Rome landed here, the inhabitants here had made high-quality mud vessels, jewels, clothing and decorative artefacts. The small axe-shaped gold ornament and the weaving shuttle were exceptionally well-crafted. Since so many ships had put in at this port there must have been shops for their repair. When a temple yard at Bernike in Egypt was excavated they had found a jar, made in India, holding about seven and a half kilograms of pepper. This proved that our pots had also crossed the seas to other lands.
‘However you look at it, when you examine what has been found to date, you realise that there was a fairly rich and civilised settlement here, some three thousand years ago,’ Selvakumar said. ‘The remains of the buildings made of brick, pieces of roofing tiles, floor tiles made of baked clay, jewels with stones and glass pieces and beads embedded—all these point to the celebratory nature of a civilisation that is detailed in the Sangam literature. The arrival of the foreigners later and the trade that resulted might have speeded up the process of development.’
Historians were trying to recreate the past life of a place.
‘Was Pattanam, Muziris?’
‘It might be folly to state so unequivocally. But it would be accurate to say that Pattanam was a suburb of the port of Muziris. As Muziris had been a fairly large port and as it was an emporium of importance like Alexandria, the port town might have extended its boundaries. Anyway, a port should not be seen as just a black dot on a map.
‘In, at least, ten Indian languages, the word pattana or pathanam means a town on the seashore or a port town. It would take extensive excavations in places all around before the boundaries of Muziris, which had vanished under the mud, became clear. So, as historians keep repeating, we too say, this is only a beginning, the first step towards some great discoveries.’
Later, when they came away after seeing huge rings made of clay, which were kept on the veranda of the camp office, Aravindan’s mind was filled with wonder. Those baked clay rings, which had been found the day before, probably belonged to a well.
As they got into the car, Perumal’s soft voice said, ‘Muziris has been sleeping under layers of time, evading all who looked for her. I’ll tell you something, Aravindan. The sights we see in Pattanam could change the history of India, perhaps South Asia, in future. Think of it—there were foreign ships that lay in the deeper waters offshore; country boats that moved busily in the river, laden with cargo; people of different hues, speaking different languages, congregated in the market place. When the so-called developed nations of today were in darkness, when international trade hardly existed, our Muziris had the ability to influence the financial structure of the world. Isn’t it fun to think of the place in those terms?’
As the car moved through the lanes, Aravindan asked, ‘How could such a rich culture and settlement vanish from the face of the earth so abruptly?’
‘Nature’s mischief,’ Perumal had a suppressed smile on his face. ‘The decline of the Roman Empire could have been the first knock on Muziris’ head. Though the flow of the Yavanas, as they called all the foreigners, stopped, the people of Muziris could not forget their old habits. The city held on for a while, supported by the West Asian trade, but the inevitable happened. And the last flow fell, when River Periyar broke its bounds…’
‘Still, so suddenly?’
‘It was not sudden. Nature takes such harsh measures only after bearing with the misdeeds of man for centuries. I had spoken earlier to you of the endless fight between the sea and the shore. When man forgets to guard the shore, the sea finds its own ways.’
Aravindan recollected what Perumal had said when they were discussing their journey to the place; about an attempt to retrieve a place, a time.
‘There have been other rebirths like this, many of them,’ Perumal reminded. ‘Like Pompeii in Italy had been destroyed by the lava from the Vesuvius.’
Aravindan nodded.
‘A place can’t hide under the soil forever. She, Muziris, had been waiting for a release from her curse, like Ahalya in the Puranas. But everything has its time and place.’
‘That is true.’
‘These artefacts should not become just items of curiosity to be spread over the mildewed shelves of the museums. They should initiate a journey to the life of those times, to a cultural landscape that had developed step-by-step.’
Aravindan sat with his eyes closed. A place that was centuries old was opening out before him. Human beings and other forms of life evolved through time, in that place. ‘Why don’t you write about this? This is your place, isn’t it?’ When Perumal’s voice came from nearby, Aravindan opened his eyes.
‘Instead of constraining Muziris to Pattanam, we have to see it as a much larger space. It was a time when there were few boundaries.’
There was something else too, Aravindan thought, it was not too far from here to his father’s ancestral home. In fact, even the compound where the excavations were taking place had earlier belonged to some relatives. What Perumal said was true. There was a lot to write about. If you looked at it, there was so much, so much. But…
‘No, I don’t think I would be able to do that. Seeing and hearing is enough.’
Perumal could not understand the feeble tone in Aravindan’s voice. He said, ‘Even though I have no skill with words, I can see all this in my imagination. The Sangam poets must have decided to bless me. Why don’t you at least try?’
‘I don’t know,’ Aravindan felt that there was fear in his voice rather than just nervousness. He did not tell Perumal that he had started jotting down things. Let it be, let some time pass. He did not know if he would be able to take it further.
He felt afraid when the sheets of the calendar turned backwards. It was scarier to look backwards than to look forwards. When the calendar sheets went back centuries, it became a brooding sort of fear. In the torrents of past time that flowed, in the great flood new islands sprang up here and there. It was a new place, a new time, new sprouts, new breaths.
‘Let’s see,’ he said casually.
‘It should not be about fear,’ Perumal was trying to give him courage, ‘but the sorrow and anxiety of travelling backwards through time and space. That can’t be avoided. We are formed through this; future generations will be formed through this. It is because of this that history has always meant “possibilities” to me.’
After a while, Aravindan asked, ‘I have a doubt. Is this a rebirth, a resurrection? Or, are we just getting back something lost?’
‘Of course, it is both,’ Perumal said. ‘She had lain in penance for eons and then scattered beads and coloured stones to attract us, didn’t she? So, it becomes a mission, for those who received the message, to spread her story.’
‘That is true.’
‘Whatever that be, we can only see it through the eyes of Athira, through the eyes that gathered bits and pieces of history and opened it towards the new world.’
When he gave a half-hearted grunt in
reply, Aravindan knew that his mother would come in his dreams that night. When his mind was disturbed, his mother always came, as a cool breeze, as a caress.
But, it was someone else who came that day—She, Muziris. She lingered near him, laughing, playing with him, threatening him and reminding him.
When he got up the next morning, Aravindan had decided. He would write; he had to write. That old Muziris time had to appear in his jottings about his land. Only then would the history of later times be complete. This was a mission he had to take up.
Aravindan was very happy when Azad arrived earlier than he said. He had wanted to meet Perumal, and Perumal was leaving by the night train, that day. Azad had rung up from a hotel room in the town. When asked why he was staying in a hotel, Azad had a question in reply. ‘Though I say this is my place, what do I have here? If someone asked me in Cairo, which place I belong to, I say Kochi. If someone asks the same question in Kochi, I say Parur. Questions normally end there and no one has so far asked, “Where at Parur?”’
‘I have only some distant relatives in this place. And some memories—both good and bad. Last time I visited the place, I stayed at this hotel. Some of the relatives who had ignored me earlier now come in search of me, but it is impossible to stay with them. Also, you get used to certain comforts. I can’t bear the steaming heat or the mosquitoes. I don’t need fresh air and light, being used to the closed comfort of A/C rooms. If Jaleelikka ever got to know of this, he would get up from his burial site and come after me. With a few choice swear words, he would pick up that old thin cane and asked me why I needed more than a hand-held fan. The comrade would not have lost his fervour…’
Azad must have regretted saying so much. Old memories crowded and choked him. He did not say anything for a while. Aravindan had heard about his old days. Azad’s mother, his umma, had died when the boy was studying in the second standard. Azad did not remember the date or how she had died. One burning midsummer day, an elder from the family had come and taken him out of the classroom. When they reached home, there were lots of people on the yard. Two policemen stood on the veranda, leaning against the pillar. His umma’s body lay in the inner room. Her face looked odd and there were blue marks on her neck. Umma always complained about various illnesses. Some of the women from the nearby homes took him to the inner room. The windows to the western veranda were shut. He heard later that she had hung herself from the rafter there. People went to the fireworks shop in search of his father, but they were told that he had not come there that day. No one had seen his father after that day.
The Saga of Muziris Page 9
