By this time the exquisite dhotis in his bundle had enchanted Valiachan. The dhotis with golden lace were so thin that he had not seen such stuff even in the royal household at Tripunithura. They almost lived up to the old stories of dhotis that could pass through a ring. With that, the people of the Paliyam realised something. This was the first time they were seeing really good stuff. Till now what had been brought as first class could only have been the second quality or even lower. The prices were very high too.
The next time he went to Tripunithura the younger members of the royal family would crowd round. He wouldn’t tell them the price. Let them decide for themselves.
Though a lot of people did not like this sudden appearance of Devayyan, Valiachan found a new world opening out. When he had spoken for a while to Devayyan, he was sure of one thing: Devayyan was not a middleman who came to trade, he was a weaver. His eyes opened wide at the realisation.
‘Come, sit down here,’ Valiachan said, pointing to a side of the veranda, with a tinge of respect in his voice. Devayyan did not sit down, but stood leaning against the raised veranda, hand folded as a mark of respect.
A man who could weave these wonderful dhotis with his own hands! The people of the Paliyam were seeing such a man for the first time. Those who came to see the man after hearing about his arrival also could not believe it. They looked at his right hand in wonder. Those hands with two fingers missing was doing all this.
It was a wonderful beginning. Valiachan put the man who wove the cloth on a higher plane than the merchant who sold it and that forged a bond that went beyond just buying and selling. Valiachan started thinking how he could deal directly with the producer instead of using the middlemen. Not only would he be able to get better cloth at reasonable prices, he would also be able to order whatever he wanted. Though everyone was not equally pleased, since the Valiachan had made up his mind, they went along with it.
Devayyan stood there, stunned. When he came to this unknown place with his bundle, he had not thought of such developments. The man before him was like the king of the place.
Valiachan bought a number of dhotis, paid for them and also gave Devayyan gifts. But he realised that Devayyan did not seem wholly pleased. His face showed some tension. He thought that the man had been away from his own place for a long while and that made him look sad.
But, Devayyan was in a quandary. He was breaking the instructions of his preceptor. The rules were strict. The first piece that was woven by a student who completed his studies was for Karumariamman, the goddess of the village. It had to adorn her first. The next was for the preceptor and then the next for the chieftain of the village.
The weavers believed that weaving was a sacred gift given by the gods. Therefore they were of the opinion that the man who created it should not have to wander trying to sell his wares. Creation and selling should be kept apart. It was unlucky to fix a price on what you made. The merchant would take care of the selling, who had trickery in his blood. Devayyan had never understood that. Why should there be someone between the man who made the goods and the one who bought it? Why shouldn’t the weaver speak directly to the man who bought the dhoti? The middlemen were buying the labour of an entire family at a small price and selling it at double the price. What was wrong with putting a price on the fruit of your labour?
The elders refused to listen to these arguments. Though he obeyed them to begin with, it was as though something was boiling in his mind. And so, one day, he decided to do the unthinkable and set out without telling anyone. He did pay attention to one instruction from the elders though. He would not boast about his own place and its skills. Let people find out on their own.
The trade dealings between Devayyan and the Paliyam continued for a while, putting the Nairs, who had been the middlemen in the trade, into difficulties. They were no longer able to buy at a negligible price and sell at a high one. Hearing of Devayyan’s success, others also started bringing their stuff. With the competition, the merchandise improved and the prices fell. Not just the Paliyam, but some of the other important households also started buying from Devayyan and his people. Some of them reached the royal household of Tripunithura also.
If the producers brought their wares as bundles, crossing rivers and hills, directly to the consumer, where was the place for the merchant? A direct bridge from the one who made to the one who used? The merchants realised that this was dangerous. A strong link in a chain that was generations old was breaking up. If others too followed the path of Devayyan the whole community of merchants would die out. How could they get rid of these incomers? The merchants thought hard. Though they tried spreading some rumours about the quality of the material it did not work before those who knew when they saw good stuff—good quality thread, excellent skill, thin cloth that was almost otherworldly, fair prices. The Tamilian weavers were becoming very popular.
That was when a new brainwave occurred to the Nair merchants who had lost their business. If they were such good weavers, why did they want to sit in Tamil Nadu and weave their cloth? Let them come here and do their work. All facilities could be provided. If it was such a magical skill, the people here could also have a glimpse of it.
Valiachan too must have found virtue in the idea. Though he nodded immediately when told of it, it was only later that Devayyan realised the trap that lay hidden.
Three pits were dug in a corner of the school playground. He went to Valiachan for his blessings before the first timber was installed. When he tried to offer a dakshina in the betel leaves, Valiachan prevented him. ‘What’s all this? You don’t have to bow before me. Go to the temples and offer as much as you can. They’ll bless you and everything will work out.’
He went back to Tamil Nadu and arranged to bring the looms. When he came back to the pits, he found that there were five instead of the original three. When he asked about it, there was a sly smile on the face of Unni Menon Modikkaran who said, ‘What’s wrong with that, Devayyan? You are doing something. Why not another two looms?’
‘But why, sir?’
‘Our boys can also stay and watch and try to learn…’
‘We’ve only asked for three looms.’
‘So what? We can always order two more. We only have to pay for them, right?’
When the Tamil looms started putting down roots in the school compound, it became a sight to behold. People came from neighbouring places to watch the magic of cloth being made.
Devayyan’s mind gave him no peace. It was wrong, it was going against the precepts of the weavers to share this knowledge with another far-away village. He had done this without the knowledge of his elders. If the preceptor, who was old and did not have the power of his eye, ever heard about this…
He could not spare any more fingers from his right hand to give his preceptor.
It was a wonderful beginning. The people of the village who had heard only the rhythm of the percussion instruments during festivals were listening to a new rhythm. The rhythm of life overcoming circumstances.
Two young men from Karimpadam and Palathuruth were the first disciples. When they placed the dakshina before Devayyan and touched his feet, they were full of enthusiasm.
Weaving did not prove to be as easy as they had thought. Devayyan had said right at the beginning that he would not work from there. He had a home and a village, a wife and small children. He had also promised his guru that he would not work outside his village. He could tell them how to do things. He would send someone to help them out in due time. They would have to take care of the rest.
‘Why, Devayyan?’ Unni Menon asked in a displeased voice.
Devayyan did not give a direct reply, but just bent his head as though that was enough. He then added, softening his stance, ‘But, I’m leaving two young men who know the work. They’ll take care of things. I’ll also come every now and then to see how things are going.’
Those two looms, which had been built to teach the young men of the village weaving, created a whole new
world of endeavour, a new way of living in the place.
Eighty-year-old Achumbava was ill when Aravindan went to see him and hear the old stories about handloom weaving. His voice was beginning to fade, but his memories were as sharp as ever. Achumbava straightened out his bent body as much as he could and sat in a chair, propped up by the backrest. In the attempt to recapture the old days, he became a sixteen year old again. His memories, and the stories Aravindan had heard, wove the history of a period.
‘We looked after it as we would look after small children,’ Achumbava, who had gone to the weaving house of Madhavan Asan as a sixteen year old, described how they prepared the pavu. ‘It could not take rain, it could not take strong sun. It would get soggy if the rain fell on it; it would fade if the sun fell on it. It had to be as smooth as skin on which the sun had not fallen.’
For a year after he went to the weaving house, Achumbava was put to the task of winding the thread. After a year, he was promoted to drying the pavu. And finally to actual weaving. The youngsters who went there to learn weaving were promoted step-by-step to the actual weaving.
‘Preparation of the thread is a terrible job,’ Achumbava looked at the calluses in his hands and repeated. ‘There would be wax and marks in the threads that came from the mills in Tamil Nadu. The bundles of thread were soaked in water for about a week, to be taken out twice a day and stamped to remove the marks. Then the thread had to be wound up and dried in the breeze in the shade. Flour and coconut oil were added to make the pavu, and then it was loaded on to the looms. Threads with counts from eighty to hundred and twenty needed this care before they could be used.
‘Each pavu would be about 300 metres,’ Achumbava’s son Sojan, who was the secretary of the weavers’ cooperative, put in.
In these modern times, when soil and the wind were contained by boundaries, it was difficult to get an uninterrupted stretch of three hundred metres of compound to stretch the warp. Now, they were splitting it into two halves of one hundred and fifty metres each. The warp was put out to dry, early in the morning, when there was a soft breeze and a gentle sun. It should not feel the heavy rain or the harsh sun. If the warp was not rolled up before the sun was high in the sky, the threads would thicken. If it got damp the threads would feel like the cotton flowers. The preparation of the warp was the labour of a whole family, for weeks.
The weavers of Chendamangalam were struggling to prevent the ingress of machines into all the stages of weaving, starting with preparation of thread, and the warp and actual weaving. They did not want to compromise the thinness and softness of the cloth. What they prepared, when they gently handled the thread and the warp, was the tradition of a place, decorated with borders. More than just a way to do things, it was a penance and a prayer to them.
How did they manage to maintain the purity of their craft?
Sojan had a clear answer to that: ‘While a lot of weavers go after machines and other modern techniques, our strength is that we stick to the traditional methods that our forefathers have taught us. We do not wax the cloth, iron it and process it; we just fold it by hand and send it to the selling outlet. Since we do not use artificial methods to make the cloth smoother, the cloth just keeps getting finer with each wash.’
After the war, when there were no jobs to be had, people of the place, of all religions and castes had seen handloom weaving as a good profession. A large number of Ezhavas, who made their living by tapping toddy, had come to this since the leader and preceptor of their community, Sri Narayana Guru, had spoken strongly against liquor. This was a respectable profession in those days.
When machine-made cloth from other places started reaching at a much cheaper price, the weavers found it difficult to hold on. It was not easy to protect the purity of a craft that was traditional and limited to the place. The weavers realised that neither companies nor individuals could hold their own against the influx of cheaper material, and a new culture of work and sale took shape. When the old weaving shops closed down, this became purely a home-based trade, that every member of the family could contribute to. The great village handicraft was thus reduced in size until it became a purely household craft.
The cooperative movement rescued this craft from extinction. The first society that had two hundred members also marked the beginning of a new work culture in the land. Arrangements were made not only to supply thread and to sell the finished product, the members were helped to set up looms too. When people realised that they could own looms they started working from their own homes instead of seeking employment elsewhere. It was not easy for the small industry, with its tiny margins, to hold on. The challenge posed by the corporate sector was a tough one. When the income remained at a meagre hundred to hundred and twenty rupees, the men turned to other jobs. As far as the women were concerned this was just income from their spare time after housework was done. Still, when compared to the effort put in, the income was really small. They were able to work for something like a hundred and fifty days in a year at best. Those who had the skill to weave the dhotis with golden lace could earn more, but such people were not many in number. Most of the cooperative societies went into loss when the price of thread went up, and cheap clothes were available in plenty. It slowly became impossible for this traditional industry to survive.
As the warp stretched from compound to compound like the boundless flow of water, the dreams of a family formed its borders and patterns. Even though they took pride in this skill that had been taught to them by their forefathers, the daily food of the family could hardly be earned from this activity.
Achumman told Aravindan that Josa had sent word when he heard Aravindan had come from Bombay. Josa was involved in some urgent painting work at Thuruthipuram. Cleetus, one of his clients who worked in Dubai, wanted to finish the painting before the rains came; have the house blessed by the priest and move in before he returned to Dubai. So, he was giving four or five workmen, accommodation, and food to work round the clock. The work would take another week or so. Wouldn’t Aravindan be in the village till after that?
Venkali Pappu or Lime Pappu got his name by going round the village, lime-washing houses and walls. But no one called his son Josa, Venkali Josa. The reason was that he was not like Pappu at all. Josa could sing, could paint, could play football—in every way, he was the opposite of his father.
Aravindan had seen Josa for the first time in the company of Pailappan Master. Pallithara Pailappan Master taught history in the school at Gothuruthu. Pailappan Master’s very appearance commanded respect—he was about six feet tall and broad to match, with a round red face and thick joint brows, a salt and pepper moustache, and a completely bald head. Whatever the committee formed, whether it was for the feast day at the church, the boat race, the Chavittu Natakam or dance drama, a volleyball match, the permanent patron was Pailappan Master. The local people insisted that the first meeting to discuss any new programme needed Pailappan Master in the chair, in the middle, slowly wiping away the sweat on his face with the dhoti round his neck. The people of the thuruthu knew that if the letter pad and receipt book had the name of Pailappan Master as its patron, it became respect-worthy. He knew about this and in fact revelled in his nick-name of ‘patron’.
After all, Pailappan Master was a direct descendant of Pallithara Lona, who was one of the important Nazarenes and had actually seen Vasco da Gama in person.
The local people had tried their level best to make him a candidate in the panchayat elections. They even tried making the cardinal speak to him. But Pailappan Master turned all of them down. He told the people who had come to try and persuade him, ‘All that’s not for people like me. Politics doesn’t suit the people of Pallithara family.’
The people who came to persuade him also knew this for a fact. Where was the comparison between Vasco da Gama’s sword and the shaky chair of a panchayat?
Gothuruthu was a land mass that had formed of the dirt and soil that collected in the backwaters off Kodungallur. The land was very f
ertile and the tall grass that grew in abundance made it the grazing area of the cows of the royal family. In time, the deserted area became a place of refuge for robbers, who caught and ate the cows. They had a novel method of capturing the cows. There were plenty of jackfruit trees there. The robbers would eat the soft pieces of the fruit, and then lie among the grass with the outer pieces on their chest. The cows would smell the jackfruit and come near to eat it. The men would bring them down by their horns and kill them. They could not only eat the meat, they would also dry the skins and take them to Mala, to the leather factories there. The traders in leather were mainly Jews.
In the meantime, the Christians had had a run in with the Arabs on the pepper which was to be loaded in the Portuguese godown, and had got scattered. The Paliyath achan brought the Christians who had sought refuge with him to Gothuruthu and Koottukadu and settled them there. They cleared the land and started cultivating it.
Josa had told Aravindan earlier how he had started accompanying Pailappan Master. Josa had been studying in the sixth standard when he saw the Chavittu Natakam or musical play, Karalsman Charitam, at the feast day at Koottukadu Church, and the great king had captured his imagination then and there. Karalsman, with his shining, gilted clothes and the resounding music had stamped his way across Josa’s mind for days on end. Behind the king were the singers and the row of soldiers. With that he started out in search of feast days in churches. Daveed Vijayam or the Victory of David, Geevarghese Charitram or the Story of St. George, St. Philomina Charitram or the Story of St. Philomina, Angelica, Satyapalan or the Keeper of Truth…there were plays across the countryside. But his favourite was always Chinna Thampi Annavi’s Karalsman.
Emperor Charlemagne, who united European countries in the eighth century, became Karalsman in the Chavittu Natakam.
The Saga of Muziris Page 31
