The Saga of Muziris

by A. Sethumadhavan

  Kochi was a weak principality caught between the comparatively stronger Zamorin of Kozhikode and the Maharaja of Travancore. Both these kings had attacked Kochi at different times on various excuses. Under these threats, extraordinary power was concentrated in the hands of the Paliyath, who was both the chief minister of the king and the commander-in-chief of the forces. Some of the Paliyath achans were capable and could use these powers effectively. The Kochi princes were often naïve and could not recognise the complications of intrigue. They had to depend on the wily ministers more than usual. Some of the Paliyath achans, at least, would have been cruel and greedy. At that time, though, there was no concept of a nation called India and the sight of the rulers did not cross the boundaries of their own small area of rule.

  The skill shown by some of the Paliyath achans in fighting, when necessary, and using the channels of diplomacy when they wanted to avoid it has to be admired. Other principalities and even foreign powers were more wary of the Paliyath achan than the ruling king. They often ignored the king and negotiated directly with the minister.

  Achumman came in with a small bunch of bananas. ‘It is the sweet, small variety, njalipoovan. A man had brought it from Manjali. I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘I like a lot of things. Only thing is, I’m not supposed to eat most of them.’

  When he realised that Aravindan was trying to trace the history of the Paliyam family, Achumman got interested. He pulled the chair over and said, ‘I’ve heard a lot at different times. Don’t know how true those stories were. Whatever it is, I’ve…’

  ‘Eaten their food a lot,’ Aravindan completed.

  Achumman was slightly embarrassed.

  Aravindan started reading aloud:

  When the last Cheraman Perumal divided his kingdom among the smaller kings, he had given the Perumpadappu Swaroopam, or the Kochi royal family, 52 katham, that is approximately 832 km of land and 18 noble houses. Paliyam was one of these eighteen. There is no record of when the family reached Chendamangalam.

  A branch of the Kochi royal family, Villyarvattom Swaroopam, became heirless. The last of them, Rama Varma Apathiri, gave away his right to the Paliyath achan who was a connection. A palm-leaf manuscript states it is the first document connected with the Paliyam family. There is also a version that says that when the last member of the Villyarvattom family, who were Kshatriyas, converted to Christianity, the king of Kochi took away his rights and handed over the land to the Paliyam family. There is a mention in some of the Western accounts of the period that there was a Christian ruler at that time in Kerala.

  The history of the Paliyam is not very clear till the beginning of the seventeenth century. It was the clever Komi Achan–I, who made the family so powerful. Komi Achan believed that the Portuguese, who were religious zealots and pirates, had to be controlled, or they would take over the land. He got a chance to do so when the Dutch who were the rivals of the Portuguese berthed their ships on some islands, off the coast. Having got news of the landing, he met up with the captain of the ship, Damascus Boom, one night and signed a treaty seeking mutual help. According to the treaty, the Dutch forces, which were in Ceylon at that time, were brought. They defeated the Portuguese in the battles fought at Mattancherry and Karapuram. The Portuguese suffered a final defeat at Thiruvanchikulam and left Kochi forever. With this master stroke, Komi Achan not only became the minister of Kochi, he also ensured that only members of his family succeeded him.

  He died after a rule of thirty years. His successors were not as able or intelligent and made a few losses, but the period of Komi Achan–II again proved to be important. When Kochi lost a battle against Marthanda Varma of Travancore, he was captured and taken to Thiruvananthapuram as a prisoner. But, the Travancore king had a high opinion of his abilities. Komi Achan knew that Kochi did not have the strength to stand alone. So, he signed a peace treaty with Travancore. This is the well-known ‘Achan Pramanam’ that was signed at the Suchindram temple.

  In the meantime, the forces of the Zamorin had reached the northern borders of Kochi. The Zamorin had planned to bring Kochi to his side by threats or offers and attack Travancore in concert. But the Suchindram treaty put paid to those plans. Komi Achan had foreseen this. His calculation was that the king of Travancore was more trustworthy than the Zamorin who was close to the Portuguese and the Arabs. Zamorin’s forces attacked Chendamangalam, destroyed part of the Paliyam house and killed a number of people by drowning them in the backwaters of Kodungallur. A large number of people were frightened by the atrocities and ran away from their homes. It must have been during these attacks that the Kottayil Palace was destroyed.

  Within two decades, Kochi had to surrender to Mysore. The Mysore nawab’s demands were: an immediate payment of two lakh sovereigns, four elephants and then a yearly payment of ten thousand sovereigns. Komi Achan went to Srirangapattanam and convinced the nawab that Kochi did not have the wherewithal to give so much and managed to get concessions. Later, Komi Achan went on a pilgrimage to Kasi and died of fever at Gaya.

  Sakthan Thampuran, who ascended the throne of Kochi, removed the then senior achan from his post as minister. But Govindan Achan, who claimed back the post in the times Rama Varma, was a powerful minister. Realising that the British wished to bring Travancore and Kochi under their suzerainty, Velu Thampy, the dalawa or prime minister of Travancore, and Govindan Achan made plans. They acquired the support of the French, who had a presence in Mauritius. Govindan Achan took a contingent of 600 soldiers and surrounded the bungalow at Fort Kochi where Macaulay stayed. The attack failed. Though the attackers killed the guards and released all the prisoners, Macaulay escaped through a tunnel. This was an incident that shocked the British administration in India.

  A large army arrived from Madras and defeated the insurgents. The achan surrendered and the insurgency ended. Though the Kochi king was not penalised for his share in the rebellion, the British were not willing to let the Paliyath achan go free. The usual punishment, for leading such a rebellion, would have been death, but Munroe, who became the Resident later, decided that since the achan had fought for his king, he was actually a patriot and could not be executed. But, the British did not want to leave him in Kochi and took him to Fort St. George, at Madras. The Kochi king did not have any income of his own. He was sustained by the taxes collected on his behalf by the local chieftains. The achan, even in his exile, made arrangements with the British for the upkeep of the royal family. He lived a prisoner in Madras and Bombay for about a quarter of a century and died at Kasi (Varanasi).

  With this, the hereditary ministership of the Paliyath achan ended. The great rebellion, however, remains an unforgettable chapter in the history of Kochi.

  During this time, the affairs of the Paliyam family were being looked after by the karyasthans or managers. The income was reduced considerably and the pilfering reduced it further. When they realised that this state of affairs could not be allowed to continue, the administration of the Paliyam estates were taken over by the government for a period of about twelve years. Later, the property was divided among its members, and the illustrious Paliyam family split into two hundred bits.

  Aravindan stopped with that.

  ‘That Tamilian scholar has worked so hard,’ Achumman’s face showed respect and awe. ‘He’s written everything down so clearly, as though he saw it all with his own eyes.’

  ‘That’s what they do, Achumman,’ Aravindan replied.

  Aravindan had wanted to tell Perumal two more stories associated with the Paliyam. One of them concerned the church at Vallarpadam. The original church had been destroyed in a flood, and the painting of Mary and infant Jesus that had been brought by Vasco da Gama was lost. Paliyath Raman Achan found it floating in the water as he passed by in a boat and rescued it. He not only handed it over respectfully to the church, he gave them a piece of Paliyam land to build a new church. He also gave a lamp that burned with an eternal flame. Even now, a representative of the Paliyam goes to the chur
ch at the time of the festival to pour oil into that lamp.

  ‘I am blessed to hear these stories now,’ Achumman’s voice was not quite steady.

  Aravindan had another thought then. Ramabhadran might not know some of these stories. He too would be interested in hearing them.

  Paliyam history for Ramabhadran, or his sons! We need an outsider to tell our own stories. Aravindan smiled.

  It was evening. They were standing in the deserted courtyard of the Paliyam school.

  ‘The school has completed its centenary, but still looks young.’

  ‘When we stand here like this, it is as though we become those young boys in shorts. It is almost as if there are sounds from behind the buildings, from the inner courtyard, from the classrooms,’ Ramabhadran said.

  ‘Masters, children, the doves that cooed between the rafters, “some people”, and all sorts of other people, don’t know who all, right?’ Aravindan asked.

  Ramabhadran nodded.

  ‘These “some people” are always with us, to make us unhappy and to make us sad.’

  ‘That’s true, but actually, the good memories are more; there is very little that we need to fight against recalling.’

  ‘The people who studied with us, the people we saw, and the people we heard have all gone away. In those days, when there were no autograph books, we had hugged each other and said with tears in our eyes that we shall meet again. Those who we met again were few, though.’

  ‘It’s always like that, Aravindan. We are like cattle that move towards greener pastures. The wonder is that some of us do meet up again, sometimes.’

  ‘Like us, now.’ Ramabhadran tried to smile.

  Aravindan continued, ‘Vasanthi laughs at me saying that I buy the Malayalam paper just to look at the obituaries. It’s true, my eyes go to that page as soon as I pick up the paper. When I see some familiar names under the unfamiliar faces, I feel like asking, “Were they that old?” That’s when I remember that I’m also growing old; there is no special age to die.’

  ‘Some of the people left long before their time. Since I stay in the place, I have to see all that,’ Ramabhadran sighed.

  ‘Do you remember the group photo we took when we were in the tenth standard? It had been hanging on the wall at home. When we shifted to Bombay, I removed the glass and stuck it into an album. When I looked at it recently, I saw something rather odd. Some of the faces had got eaten away by insects. What was odd was that the faces of the living had been eaten away and those who are no more still stared with their beady eyes.’

  ‘Those who were not eaten away were the lucky ones.’

  They sat on the veranda of the school. The door to the inner courtyard was shut. Or, they could have gone and looked into the old classrooms and assembly hall to which it led.

  ‘The old headmaster’s room. I remember Vasudevan Master with his white full-sleeved shirt, the mundu and the grey overcoat that he wore. The room looks just the same. Only people have changed,’ Aravindan looked back and said. ‘I’ve often felt that the biggest contribution that the Paliyam made to the land was this school.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it. The only thing is, people are not willing to recognise that,’ Ramabhadran’s voice held an overtone of complaint. ‘Do you know, Aravindan, the school was started in a small way inside the house. That was years ago, in 888 AD.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the beginning, but didn’t know the year.’

  ‘Whenever I see the yard, I feel that it needs a small pond with lotuses in it. That’s because the school inside the house started because of a dream that the senior achan had, a dream of a lotus. Later, the reason the school was shut was also a lotus,’ Ramabhadran’s face held a reminiscent smile.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ll explain, it’s a long story.’

  ‘So many people who later became important, studied here. Starting with Panampilly Govinda Menon and T.C.N. Menon and Kutty Master’s son, Venkiteswaran, who secured the first rank in the IAS examinations.’ Since the school was a well-known one, students used to come from far off. There were masters too who were brought from distant places—some Menons and some Palghat Brahmins.

  ‘I still remember how proudly Kutty Master introduced his son Venkiteswaran and his daughter-in-law in the assembly hall. Old Rama Iyer, who taught maths and typewriting, created a new jingle after that, “Antha Venkiye paru, kazhuthe, kovar kazhuthe…Look at that Venki, you ass, you mule…”’

  When he got angry, Rama Iyer would take the student’s ear between his fingers, twist it and say, ‘Achi, pichi, achi, pichi.’ He would say that his students had come just to throw away their parents’ money.

  Aravindan remembered how Venkiteswaran had become a creature of wonder in the eyes of the children. What was this ‘IAS’? Though they asked the elders at home, none of them could explain. Finally, Vasukuttan, who came from near Chalipalam, explained that it was an examination conducted by the white sahibs to find the most intelligent young men in India. Those who got into service after the examination would become like the white men slowly. Their skin would become white and rosy, their hair would grow brown and their eyes would change into cat’s eyes. When they stepped out of the house, there would be attendants on either side of them, in white with a red band and gilt on their uniform. Whether these officers went to work or not, a thousand rupees would reach their houses on the first of every month.

  One could believe what Vasukuttan said because he went each evening to the Nair Samajam Library and read The Hindu. His father, who worked in Thambaram, had strictly told him to read The Hindu, every day, to improve his English. They had heard that the format of the paper was modelled on that of The London Times.

  The first page of The Hindu those days was dedicated to advertisements. The librarian, Kurup, would grumble when he saw the holes in it as he locked up in the evening. People who were interested in the ‘wanted’ section would have cut out relevant ads from the paper.

  They all hero-worshipped Venkiteswaran as one of the most intelligent young men in the country, and respected Kutty Master in spite of his temper. He got angrier on days when he shaved, and on days his hair was cut, the anger would double.

  Not all of his hair was cut. The front half of the skull would be shaved in a semi-circle and the rest of the hair would be left for a tuft. When he got very angry, Kutty Master would untie his hair, like an oracle; he did not get possessed by any deity, though. That was when the cane that was hidden in the full sleeve of the shirt showed itself like a snake.

  Whatever that be, Venkiteswaran did not wait to become fair like the white man, or wait for his hair to grow brown, or his eyes to become light in colour. He died suddenly. No one knew why or how Venkiteswaran, who was an ambassador in some foreign capital, died.

  It was Sahadevan, who studied with them, who exploded the bomb, ‘The great Venkiteswaran was suspended from the Maharaja’s College once, and do you know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kleptomania!’ Sahadevan elaborated. ‘When some of the students who stayed in the Rama Varma hostel lost their watches and pens, they searched the rooms. All the things were found in Venkiteswaran’s room.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘He went to Trichinopoly and Madras to finish his studies.’ Sahadevan was very sure.

  Though Aravindan could not believe it, when Sahadevan swore that his elder brother who studied in the Maharajas told him the story, he did not argue. Anyway, kleptomania was an illness.

  Those days, they measured their school masters by the length and thickness of the canes they carried. Appu Menon, their drawing master, was an exception. He preferred to tell stories rather than teach the students drawing. They had just one or two periods of drawing in a week. When the stories were not completed within that period, the children would pray for some other teacher to take leave. The pattern was that the stories that started at the beginning of the year would come in instalments and wind up correctly, just before
the annual examinations. Appu Menon Master would even act out some of the parts.

  ‘You used to write some bits and pieces even then,’ Ramabhadran reminded him.

  ‘We had a hand-written magazine those days. Gopi, who went to St. Thomas College in Trichur, was its patron.’

  Aravindan remembered what Appu Menon Master had asked him when he saw some of the writing. ‘What is it? A love letter? Never mind, continue, at least your handwriting will improve.’

  As the memories came rushing in, both of them sat for a while with their eyes closed.

  ‘Never mind about that. What about the story of the lotus?’

  ‘Oh yes, that story.’ Ramabhadran got up. ‘Let’s walk to Karippayi Kadavu. It will be breezy there.’

  ‘All right.’

  They walked. The fields called mattapadam or exchange fields lay empty. Mattapadam grew lively the day before Vishu, the Malayalam New Year. A couple of days earlier, the merchants would come and built small frond-covered shacks. The merchandise would start coming in from a day earlier in boats and carts. It was an exchange market, a relic of the old barter system. In these markets, before the advent of a money-based economy, farmers and craftsmen from neighbouring villages used to exchange their wares. Things that were not available in other shops and weekly markets were available at this yearly mattachanda or exchange market.

  ‘Do you remember the things we bought at the mattachanda?’ Ramabhadran asked.

  ‘The first thing was always the kudumandi, the small drum, of course. Then there was the incha, the peeled bark my mother used to scrub herself with, roasted cashew nuts brought by the women, garland-firecrackers…’ Aravindan was trying to recollect.

  ‘After the market day, wherever you turned, you heard the noise of the drum and the whistle. It was such an unpleasant sound.’

  Appukuttan usually bought the things that his mother wanted, carrying them to their house on his cycle: soft cotton for the mattresses, baked clay pots, melons, vegetables for the rainy season. The pumpkins and yams, which hung in rope cradles in the corners of the kitchen, would last without spoiling till the wet season was over.