The Saga of Muziris

by A. Sethumadhavan

  They walked slowly.

  ‘Once the school closed, the wait for the Chakyar Koothu performance started,’ Aravindan said.

  ‘That’s true. Those forty-one days were greatfun,’ Ramabhadran nodded. ‘When it neared its end, everyone would get depressed. We had to wait another year for the next performance.’

  ‘That’s how I became interested in listening to stories and telling them.’

  A stage would be built in one corner of the temple yard and the koothu performance would be held there. The forty-one days performance that started on the day after Vishu, suited the weather. Annual examinations would be over and children and their mothers could relax. The hot summer weather made sleep elusive. It was pleasant to sit in the open, fanned by the night breeze, and listen to stories. There was always a big crowd for the performance. A pandal right before the stage would be filled with the Namboodiris who had married the women of the Paliyam. They were usually fairly old, and great connoisseurs of the art.

  During the koothu, the chakyar, who narrates the story, had the license to say anything about anyone. Since the Namboodiris were considered upper class, the chakyars used this power to the full. The Namboodiris had sufficient sense of humour to appreciate the jokes even when they were the butt of ridicule. Unmindful of the wives sitting on the other side, the jokes often crossed all lines of decency.

  The chakyar did not spare the senior achan who sat in a special chair, slightly to the back of the pandal. When the ‘Aranya Kanda’ of Ramayana was narrated, the Namboodiris in the pandal would become the members of the monkey army and the senior achan, the oldest monkey. The chakyar would point to an ugly Namboodiri when the story was about Ambika and Ambalika getting pregnant from Veda Vyasa. He would lean forward with his hand on his knees and gazing fixedly at the chosen target, he would say, ‘Imagine the good fortune of getting a child from someone like that.’ It was said with such a funny air that even the target’s wife could not help laughing.

  People were afraid to get up from their seats during the narration. If you drew attention to yourself you were sure to be at the receiving end of some ragging. The older chakyars spoke of the inspiration that descended on them when the headdress for the performance was placed on their heads.

  The famous Ammannur Madhava Chakyar had his debut there, that too on his sixteenth year. The oldest lady of Paliyam, the Valiya Kunjamma, had wanted to hear the young boy from the group narrate the koothu that day. Though he had been taught well by his uncles, young Madhavan was nervous. Anyway, he decided to go for a five days narrative and started. When the first night’s narration was over, the Valiya Kunjamma sent a messenger to say: ‘I’ve heard enough; Madhavan need not continue.’ She also sent three rupees as remuneration for the one day’s performance.

  Madhavan was upset. He had taken on five days, and to withdraw after one day, tasted of defeat. He hesitated to take the money, but the messenger left it there and went away. Kunjunni Achan, however, told him that he could continue for another three days, which consoled him a little. By the end of three days, audience overflowed the temple yard. The three days were eventually extended by another twelve days. The elder lady, who watched and heard the narration on all these days, finally congratulated him and gifted him with two mundus and five rupees. It was from this incident that Ammannur developed the will to be good both at narration and facial expressions. In later years, he would say that before he took the stage for each performance, he would think of the elderly lady who had been his first critic. Ammannur Madhava Chakyar became one of the greatest actors that India had ever seen.

  Aravindan’s mobile rang softly. It was Raghu, his son, from Kuwait.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Here, in Kerala. We are going towards Karippayi Kadavu. It is a long time since I’ve walked that way.’

  ‘Oh,’ Raghu’s grunt held dissatisfaction. ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘Why? Has anything happened?’

  ‘No, I asked only because it is quite some time since you are away. Mother is alone in Bombay.’

  ‘She’s not alone, she’s got people with her.’

  ‘And, you, alone in some other place.’

  ‘It’s not some other place, Raghu, it’s my place.’

  ‘Your place!’ Raghu responded. ‘And, who’s left there?’

  ‘People live here, you know. There are enough of them left.’

  ‘Mother said your check-up was overdue.’

  ‘I can get it done after I get back. Actually, I feel much better. Had I done this earlier, I could have avoided one of the surgeries.’

  ‘Oh…’ he must have felt that here was no point in talking to his father. Raghu disconnected the telephone.

  ‘Your son?’ Ramabhadran asked.

  ‘Yes, Raghu,’ Aravindan said. ‘He calls from Kuwait on Fridays. It’s discounted rates on Fridays.’

  ‘Your wife must be asking you to get back?’ Ramabhadran’s face held a mischievous smile.

  ‘Ah…’ Aravindan nodded.

  ‘You should have brought her too.’

  ‘She’s not interested, Ramabhadran.’

  ‘But, why?’

  ‘She grew up in Bombay and so has no special feeling for Kerala, not even her village.’

  ‘One usually wants what one does not have, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘That’s what’s odd,’ Ramabhadran could not help laughing. ‘Here, people are digging deeper and deeper to find a place that’s lost, and others who have a place to call their own, don’t want it at all.’

  Aravindan did not say anything. He just grunted in reply.

  ‘Sit,’ Modikkaran Kunchu Menon said. The modikkaran was an official of the administration, whose main responsibility was tax collection for the Paliyam family.

  Unni placed the betel leaves, betel nut, and a two anna coin as dakshina, the offering to a teacher on commencing learning and sat cross-legged before Kunchu Menon. He sat on a small mat spread out on the veranda of the court at the Paliyam. In a chair before him sat Kunchu Menon, who was the key-holder to the treasure chest of the court.

  Paliyam Sekharan, the big elephant, stood near the banyan tree, chewing on palm fronds and swinging his ears.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Unni.’

  ‘Which family do you belong to?’

  ‘Thekkedath’.

  ‘Sankara Menon’s nephew?’

  He then continued, ‘I don’t really have the time. But when someone like Sankara Menon asks me, I can’t say “no”.’ Kunchu Menon looked rather upset. ‘I don’t feel like entrusting you to anyone else either.’ Unni nodded, embarrassed; the burdens of being Sankara Menon’s nephew.

  ‘Good that you came today. Today is a good day to begin anything.’ Kunchu Menon pulled the betel tray closer and rubbing in the perfumed chunam on the betel leaves in his hand, he added the betel nut and japanam tobacco. He folded the leaves carefully and pushed the whole into his mouth. ‘So, do you wish to draw?’

  Unni was struck dumb. He did not know what drawing was. He had heard that boys who finished their primary school went to the Paliyam katcheri, the administrative office of the Paliyam, to ‘draw’. It was not easy to find a place for that. Those who work in the katcheri were very busy. As custodians of the valuable records of Paliyam, they were reluctant to teach students who hardly knew how to write their alphabets neatly.

  He was afraid to even look at the modikkaran’s face. Kunchu Menon had his hair cropped close to his skull, the hairy ears held two bright earrings with red stones. A gold-trimmed chain of rudraksha beads lay on the jutting stomach. Broad stripes of ashes marked his forehead, chest, and arms. The stem of a betel leaf had been stuck to his temple.

  ‘All right. Where did you learn your letters?’ Kunchu Menon was quite choosy about the boys to be groomed at the katcheri.

  Unni’s glance went sliding away to the banyan tree. Sekharan was chewing the palm leaf and swinging his tai
l to chase away the flies. This was the elephant that carried the deity at the temple festival.

  ‘Sekharan’s all right there,’ Kunchu Menon’s voice rose. ‘Who’s here to learn—you or Sekharan? I asked you, where you had learnt your letters.’

  Unni’s throat felt dry. He stammered as he said, ‘With Thalappally Asan.’

  ‘Oh!’ Kunchu Menon’s face brightened. Though there were any number of small schools where children were taught their alphabets, most of them were useless. If the asan or teacher himself could barely write, how could the hands of the disciples move? But Thalappally Asan was different. All the asans were given three rupees by the Paliyath achan every month, but Thalappally Asan was given an extra eight annas.

  ‘Have you learnt the “Ashtaka” stanzas? Unni again fidgeted at Kunchu Menon’s question. Suppose he asked Unni to recite them.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Good. Let’s start then. Let’s start with a Sanskrit stanza “Karacharana Kritam”… Do you know it?’

  Unni shook his head to say no.

  Kunchu Menon sat up straight. Unni looked around. It was as though the elephant and the modikkaran were chewing in competition.

  Kunchu Menon spoke, ‘A man had a duck. Repeat.’

  ‘A man had a duck.’

  ‘It laid a golden egg every day. Repeat!’

  ‘It laid …’

  ‘A golden egg every day.’

  ‘A golden egg every day.’

  ‘Write this neatly on your slate and show me. First, keep away that green stalk you brought. I’ll tell you when to use it.’

  Unni kept aside the green stalk he had brought to wipe the slate.

  When Kunchu Menon stood up and scratched his bum, the tail of the red breech clout he wore showed. As for Sekharan, it was as though flies would never leave his tail alone. When he made a grunting sound, his mahout, Ammunni Nair, called out something.

  By the time he had written the first line, Unni had forgotten the second one. The asan’s face grew red, the stems of the betel leaf on the temple shivered, as did the tail of the red breech clout.

  ‘I’ll say things just once, you have to remember. Since this is the first day, I’ll repeat it once.’

  When he wrote the second line, Unni’s fingers were trembling. Kunchu Menon took the slate from him and nodded after looking at what was written.

  ‘Not too bad. The boys who come from Thalappally Asan normally write more neatly.’

  That was how Thekkedath Unni started ‘drawing’ at the katcheri. Modikkaran Kunchu Menon was very particular about punctuality. By the time the clock at the katcheri struck nine, Kunchu Menon would have had his gruel with shallots fried in ghee and reached the katcheri, giving vent to loud burps. It was compulsory for the students who came to ‘draw’ to be present on the veranda of the katcheri before that. Most days, it was Unni who reached there first. He was scared of seeing the modikkaran’s face turn red.

  One day, he was a little late. The reason was that the yam, which was the morning’s food, had not got cooked. He had grabbed a small piece from the pot when he saw that his mother’s eyes were getting redder and redder from blowing the wet firewood into a flame. He had run all the way, chewing it.

  The other two students had reached on time. The modikkaran’s face reddened when he saw Unni come, panting.

  ‘And where did his lordship arrive from? Tripunithura?’

  Unni could not speak.

  ‘The sun did not stay long enough for you to measure the shadow?’

  Unni’s throat felt even drier.

  ‘I asked you. Don’t you have a clock at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does it keep local time or standard time?’

  Unni did not understand the meaning of the question. His eldest uncle explained later. The royal house at Tripunithura followed the local time measured by the length of the shadow. The katcheri followed the standard time by which the trains ran. Tripunithura’s nine o’clock could be the katcheri’s quarter to ten or ten.

  His uncle had told him that it was only in the beginning that he would be asked to write on the slate. After that, he would be given sentences written on palm leaf or paper. Those sentences had to be copied exactly—curved and slanted—on another piece of paper. That was ‘drawing’ at the katcheri. If a mistake was found, there would be a swish of the twisted strings. The strength and speed of the swish would depend on the gravity of the mistake.

  When the boys reached home, the mothers could make out how serious the mistake had been by the welts on the skin. But the mothers of the children who received the punishment had no complaints. It was the family’s good fortune that these children could sit on the katcheri veranda and learn to draw. After a couple of years of this practice, if the handwriting was good, they might get jobs in the offices of the Paliyam or in the katcheri itself. Since they had to copy the accounts and the reports of these offices, the handwriting had to be good and the writing had to be accurate and error-free. As they said, the family’s reputation had to show in the letters.

  The land of the village was all owned by the Paliyam. All others were their tenants. The tenants numbered about thirty thousand. They did not need to pay taxes to the government. Besides, in those days, when people who paid tax above a certain sum were the only ones who could vote, the tenants of the Paliyam could vote even without paying taxes.

  To the Nairs of Chendamangalam, a job at the katcheri, the seat of power, was the ultimate ambition. You were given four puthans, cash money in coins each month, and you were also given one and quarter measures of rice each day. The boy’s studies ended there. Or, if he was really interested, he could go to the Sanskrit school run by Narayanan Elayath of Pudukkudi Illom. He could study Sanskrit language and grammar there.

  That was the situation when the first school for boys of the area was started, in AD 888.

  The senior achan of that day had gone to Thiruvananthapuram to meet the Travancore king. He stayed for a couple of days at the Thevally Palace. One of those nights, he had a peculiar dream. A number of Namboodiri boys were seated on the veranda of the Paliyam and were reciting the Vedas. As he looked beyond the veranda, he saw that the pool on the eastern side was filled with lotus flowers. The senior achan woke up wondering how there could have been flowers in the pond that held just clear water. The next day, he happened to see a famous Malayalam school at Quilon and realised that this was the lotus pond he had dreamt of. The lotus flowers had bloomed listening to the recitation of the boys. He found out how such a school could be run and as soon as he came back, he started one like that.

  A small school with three classes started in the inner courtyard of the Paliyam. A boy joined in the third class, was promoted to the second and from there to the first. Rather like the classes of compartments in a train. When Muthuswamy Pillai from Veliyanad was appointed the headmaster, the school acquired a good reputation. The senior achan was particular that not only reading and writing were to be taught there, but also music and local dances. The school continued like that for about ten years. After that, the school that opened on account of lotus flowers, shut down because of lotus flowers again.

  The pond on the eastern side of the house had become a lotus pond by this time. Most of the temples in the area depended on this pond for flowers. When the flowers became insufficient for the use of all the temples, there was a hullaballoo and an investigation. They found that some mischievous children from the school were responsible for plucking the flowers and it was decided to discontinue the classes in the Paliyam compound. Instead, four schools were started in four corners of the village, and later, after various trials and tribulations, they were brought together to become this big high school.

  Ramabhadran paused in his narrative and then continued, ‘Its growth was not an easy one. Lots of people worked hard for it and that should be remembered.’

  ‘A school where children of all castes could study—for those times, it is a wonder; a wonder that the ru
lers of a small place could do this,’ Aravindan said. ‘Actually, the lotus bloomed then. A school that became a beacon when there was no light.’

  ‘That’s true. But people need to recognise that,’ Ramabhadran’s voice was plaintive. ‘By the way, have you seen that Vypeenkotta Seminary near the Kottayil Kovilakom?’

  ‘I saw the ruins properly this visit. Took a lot of photographs too. That seminary was built by Jesuit missionaries in the sixteenth century with the permission of the ruler of Kochi. The first printing press in southern India was started there. I believe the first book to be printed was a Bible in Tamil, printed with letters carved out by the priests.’

  ‘Someone told me, that Bible is now at the Sorbonne University in Paris.’

  ‘From the small classes, run by the asans who taught the children to write in sand, to a seminary for priests, there is a lot to talk about, right Aravindan?’

  ‘There is,’ Aravindan nodded. ‘You can say that the light of education fell on this land even then.’

  ‘I’m going…AIJ.’ AIJ was short for Abdul Ismail Jaleel. ‘I Azad remembered that he had been surprised when he got a postcard with these words in Jaleelikka’s handwriting. Why had he sent a card like this, suddenly? While pondering about it, he received quite a few cables saying that other people had got such cards too. Where was Jaleelikka going in such a hurry, giving advance notice to people he was close to? Before he could spend a lot of time wondering, the news arrived. Jaleel had left on a journey of no return. The iron hook on the ceiling of the house at Kaloor had been tugging Jaleel even when the house was being built, said some people. Azad found that difficult to believe, though.

  It was ironic that Jaleel, who had spent his whole life fighting for the rights of others, should have an end like that. Azad sat there, stunned, for some time. He felt like screaming aloud. When his mother hanged herself from a hook like that, when his father abandoned him, when he was kicked around by the children and cattle in the houses of relatives, who handed him over to each other in turn, he had not cried. Maybe merciful Allah was finally giving him a chance to let all those tears flow.