The Saga of Muziris

by A. Sethumadhavan

  One major problem remained. What field should Kunkamma enter? Aravindan lost two nights’ sleep over that question.

  Finally, he got an answer from Gayathri: ‘Something she knows, Achachan.’

  Aravindan was sure that this had been inculcated by Professor Appa. That traditional risk-averse Brahmin, trusted only the known paths. He kept his distance from the hi-tech cities, flyovers, highways, bypasses, superfast trains and other stuff of modern times. The paths leading to Connemara library and the book shops in Mount Road were clear and exact. He laughed at Aravindan’s complaint that such exactness killed the eagerness of young ones to find new paths. However, Gayathri’s words cleared Aravindan’s mind about Kunkamma’s future.

  Something she knows!

  What would be the fields that Kunkamma knew about? When he asked himself the question a number of times, he got the answer too: The path taken by her peramma. There was no doubt about that any longer.

  Kunkamma’s peramma had very few dreams or desires. Ironically, it was Chukran who had planted the seeds of her desire to own godowns on the shore in her head. Everyone had a small part to play in the way the future was to unfold.

  Once he was clear about the time and place to plant Kunkamma in and the responsibilities that she had to be entrusted with, Aravindan was relieved. He could now let her go her own way as Perumal had suggested. With her ability and some luck she would prosper.

  Her moves so far had reassured him that her beginning was not bad. Though the people who said that the Vadakkoth group was growing by leaps and bounds were mostly jealous rivals, Aravindan felt that there was some truth in what they said.

  But, even Aravindan had not expected Kunkamma’s sureness of touch. She had taken to business like a duck to water and left her mark everywhere. She did not seem to feel any strangeness in this new world. She was willing to seek new paths, had the guts to take harsh decisions when needed, and could beat the new corporate world at its own game. The writer was now reassured that this was the time and place where she belonged and he had been right to extract her out of the old Muchiri and bring her here. Kunkamma seemed to feel that she should have entered the world much earlier.

  Kichan liked to believe that this was the strength of Yavana association. He believed that anything good came from the Yavanas and that trade over the seas was in the blood of Yavanas.

  Aravindan now felt better. He no longer had to keep an eye on Vadakkoth Kunkamma. She knew how to look after herself. It was good to get rid of one character, who made him lose his sleep.

  This was a mission, a continuity that nature had insisted on. A Vadakkoth Kunkamma to bear witness when Muchiri that had been drowned in the waters of the great flood took birth again as Kochi, a Kunkamma, who had traversed centuries with lessons learnt from the past.

  Aravindan heaved a sigh of relief and entered other parts of his writing.

  Achumman’s letter came, but in Appukuttan’s handwriting. With a note from Appukuttan himself.

  One could read Achumman’s difficulty in making someone else write his letter for him. Even before the Kerala winter set in, Achumman’s hand had developed a small tremor. Last winter too, he had felt that his fingers were stiff and would not move, but he had placed a towel on the lantern and warmed his hands with it and the stiffness had vanished. This time it seemed more serious. He was finding it difficult to separate his fingers. He had always been particular about the shape of letters and didn’t want to write shapeless letters. He had trained himself to sing with the lyrics, word perfect, by reciting the Ramayana and Bhagavata in tune from childhood and often got angry at the way the youngsters pronounced the words of the songs.

  Aravindan thought, these were fingers that had travelled over time.

  The letter really showed the awkwardness he felt in making someone else write the letter. Appukuttan’s writing too showed the boredom of writing down someone else’s words. Achumman’s daughter and her husband had come from Coimbatore bearing great love and affection recently. Their son, who had been born nine years after the first daughter, was now old enough for the ritual feeding of rice. They had vowed to do that at Guruvayur temple. The son-in-law was very particular that it should be at the hands of the grandfather.

  What was the matter? Why had these people, who had never paid any attention to him all these years, suddenly become keen on having him with them. This daughter had left her mother’s body waiting for almost a day before she deigned to come. The minute rituals of cremation were over, they had left the place. She said that she could not wait till the tenth day for the rituals since her daughter had to attend the examination of the first standard. No one knew whether the telegram sent to Achumman’s son, who was in some distant military camp on the borders, had reached him at all. And so, Bhargavi had to depart this world without the good fortune of a ball of rice from her children.

  So, what had changed? Achumman did not understand immediately. Could they be hoping that his skill in cooking would enter the child through that first ball of rice? They said that his daughter had got a small job in a cloth mill. They had already built a small house with a bank loan and now had a motorbike too.

  He tried to get out of it, but when they insisted he thought he would go to Coimbatore for a few days. He would stay for two weeks at the most. Even that would be too much. But they asked him, why he want to stay alone in his old age. What would happen if he fell ill or something? Who was there to look after him? Even if it was a small one, they did own a house in Coimbatore.

  Achumman did not say that he was more comfortable in the even smaller hut that he lived in. This hut with its thatched roof was built on the ten cents of land gifted by the Paliyam family. He just remembered that it was the neighbours who had helped him to place rafters and change the thatch to roof tiles.

  Achumman knew that he would not be able to stay at Coimbatore for long. He always found it difficult to get along with his daughter. She was as stubborn as her mother. Even she did not know what she would say when she got angry. His son, who was the elder of the two, had been better, but once that Telegu woman got hold of him, he too became useless.

  Since they were being so insistent, he would go to Coimbatore. If Aravindan had any plans to come to the village in the meantime, he was to let him know. He would reach there from wherever he was. He was leaving his daughter’s telephone number with Appukuttan.

  Aravindan got a hint of the purpose behind Achumman’s daughter’s change of mind. Even if it was only ten cents, even if there was just a small tiled house, there was no reason to let that Telugu woman take it.

  Maybe there was another motive too. Aravindan remembered what Chandichayan, who lived in Andheri, had once told him. Chandichayan, who often shuttled away to Florida and North Carolina, once told Aravindan, ‘Do you know how fond my daughters are of me? Champagne flows when they open their mouths: “Our mother is gone, why do you want to live alone in that flat at Andheri and drink yourself to death? Just come here, and we’ll get you a citizenship. You can stay for six months with one of us and the rest of the year with the other.” They think that we people from Kozhencherry don’t understand all this. Do you know why they want to baptise me as a citizen?’ Chandichayan’s eyes would laugh from between the eyelids, heavy under the influence of Scotch. ‘For babysitting, Aravindan, dignified babysitting.’

  He would laugh until the Scotch and soda in his big belly were shaken well. ‘It’s cheaper to take your parents than to keep a maid. Also, you can be sure that they will not ill-treat the children.’

  Achumman’s clever daughter must also have thought of something like that. Since she had got a job in the cloth mill, she would need someone to look after the small child. There would also be someone to take the elder daughter to school or to buy something from the grocery shop.

  Both the letters ended with the same question: ‘You’d said that you’d be coming again soon. We haven’t heard anything from you. When are you planning to come this way? Everyone’s
asking how far your writing has got.’

  Aravindan wrote separate letters to both: ‘I’m coming, definitely, and without much delay. But, I don’t know exactly when. Life is so uncertain. Though the doctor did say that I should not travel too much, I haven’t changed my mind about coming. When I got myself checked up after I returned, the doctor reduced some of my medicines. Now they are back to the same level. The mother and son don’t listen when I tell them that it was the water and air in the village that made me better. Raghu keeps asking about my health when he calls from Kuwait. Now even his nine-year old daughter has started asking about it. It looks as though a copy of Vasanthi’s medical bulletin is reaching her as well.’

  Appukuttan’s letter contained another piece of news: ‘Aravindettan, our Josa has decided to get married finally. She’s a widow, but from a good family in Madaplathuruthu. Her husband had been a soldier and had died somewhere on the border from snakebite. She has a ten-year old daughter. She has a job in the LP (lower primary) school. She too had refused to get married again. Finally, her people persuaded her. Both of them liked each other when they met. Our Josa looks smart as he used to all those years ago. I saw him standing before that petty shop with his hair combed back and with his full-sleeved shirt.’

  Aravindan sat for a while with the two letters in his hand. May Josa be happy, finally. He was a good man. Good that he realised that he needed a woman’s company, at last.

  He had forgotten a lot of things. But it was as though the mild cool breeze of Kerala winters had come with these letters. He badly wanted to sit and look at the flowering stars of the winter sky in the village. He had gone in the summer last time. So, he had forgotten what those winter nights were like.

  His thoughts returned to Achumman. Though they had stayed together only for a few days, it was as though that had made for some strong ties. Achumman must have felt the same too.

  He had thought for a long time about giving something to Achumman when he left. If he gave money it would appear to be payment for having cooked for him. Achumman might have been hard-pressed for money but he was too proud to accept what he would see as charity. What was there that would be useful to him? In the earlier days, he could have bought him a shirt and a dhoti. What was the point in buying a shirt for someone who refused to go beyond the bridge? He had seen two half-sleeved khadi shirts, hanging in the room. He had always worn ochre dhotis and now it was khadi dipped in ochre.

  Appukuttan pleaded helplessness when asked. ‘What can I say, Aravindettan?’ Appukuttan had laughed. ‘You know what he is like. He’ll probably get angry and say that we were treating him like an outsider. He’ll probably think I am behind it and yell at me.’

  Aravindan knew that was true. Since he knew that Achumman was very touchy, he’d been very careful about how he behaved with him.

  What could he do? He had to give him something. If he had children and grandchildren staying with him, he could have got them something.

  When he asked Ramabhadran for a suggestion, he too spread out his hands, ‘Give him something? What can I say? Something useful…I think you’d better ask him directly. If he doesn’t want anything, let it be. But I think you should ask.’

  Aravindan had asked Achumman directly with great reluctance. Achumman sat for a while without moving. After a while, he said in a low voice, ‘No, Menon. I don’t want anything. Just keep me in your memories. That would be the best gift you can give.’

  When Aravindan sat without speaking for a while, Achumman added, ‘How quickly these days passed. I’ve been so happy only once in my life. That was when I heard that my daughter had a child. What good did it do? I saw the child for the first time, when she was two years old. I had even thought of getting some money from somewhere and going to Coimbatore, but didn’t have the courage to. I didn’t know the place and didn’t know where to look for them.’

  Achumman’s eyes had filled up. His voice broke.

  ‘Actually, when Appukuttan spoke about your coming and asked me to come and stay here, I’d said no. Then I thought that since it was Janu Amma’s son, I would at least give it a try. Appukuttan also didn’t really expect me to stay beyond two days. It was only when I came here and saw you that I realised what sort of person you were.’

  After they talked for a while of other things, Aravindan came back to the same topic. Achumman sat with his head bent when Aravindan said, ‘Just something to remember me by…’

  Achumman spoke without looking Aravindan in the face, like a little boy caught in some wrongdoing, ‘I’ve got plenty to remember you by…’

  ‘Still…’

  ‘I’m not used to it, that’s why.’

  ‘If my mother had been alive…’

  Hearing that, Achumman stirred where he was sitting. He seemed to have wandered into old memories.

  ‘If you are very particular…’ he was still hesitating.

  ‘What is it, Achumman? Tell me.’

  Achumman went inside without saying anything and brought a small red bag. He untied the string and took out the old udukku. His eyes were damp as he touched it to his eyes and recited something softly.

  ‘I did not think I’d touch this again,’ Achumman’s voice broke as he tightened the mildewed strings.

  Aravindan remembered the story that Achumman had told him about the Goddess Saraswathi being born in a low caste due to a curse from Sage Durvasa. This instrument was that birth. So, the lower-caste panars were entrusted with the task of reciting the old legends with this hand held drum as an accompaniment. It was said that the rhythm was laid down by Sage Narada himself.

  ‘Some days are like that. As the beat quickens you feel that it is not you who are doing that, as though you are losing shape.’

  Aravindan told himself that that was true, that you felt that you’re not there in the words, the songs, the beats.

  Achumman picked up the udukku in his left hand, tightened the strings some more and ran his fingers over the right face. Achumman’s face fell at the sounds that came. What came out were some cracked sounds like the voice of someone with a cough.

  Achumman shook his head angrily. ‘She’s also grown old. It is ages since I touched the instrument. Earlier, when the Sabarimala season came, I would take it out and run my fingers over it. Just for myself. So that I did not forget the beats.’ He then added as though to himself, ‘I can’t put up with false notes, whether it is leather or the throat.’

  His youngest uncle had picked up an old udukku and placed it in his hands when he was just twelve years old. Do what you can with it. Listen and try out, let your fingers get used to it. You will learn the true rhythm from the mistakes you make. And so, young Achu had started accompanying his uncle to the Ayyppan Pattus. As he sat in the last row and played the basic rhythm on his instrument, he had never dreamt that he would move to the front row someday. Still, he had the desire to learn new beats beyond the ones he had heard already.

  That desire was still alive in him, the desire for the unheard beats beyond the ones he had heard already.

  His uncle used to say that he did not have the ability to teach others—the curse of his grandmother that had fallen on him when he ran away at the age of seventeen with the washerwoman after making her pregnant. One could not teach an art to others with such a curse on one. And so, he had decided that Achuthan should be taught by Pachu Asan.

  The day he offered the ritual betel leaves and coin, asan said, ‘Let him start with the bit of coconut frond. We’ll think about udukku later.’ The asan was a peculiar person. He had such a temper that Achuthan had often wanted to leave the class and go home.

  It took him six months to get the basic rhythms straight. It was only then that the asan gave him the udukku. However, it took just about a month and half for the song and the rhythm to find each other. With that, the asan loosened up a bit. Achu became his favourite disciple.

  ‘Achuthan, the counts are exact in this. If your beats go wrong, your song will also go wrong,’ the asan
used to remind him.

  What pleased the asan most was the clarity of his voice and the accuracy of his pronunciation. This was due to the repeated reading of the Ramayana and Bhagavata that he had done since childhood. The asan grumbled that the words were not clear when most of his other disciples sang.

  Later, when he had disciples of his own, Achumman tried to teach him with the same affection that he had received.

  As Achumman wiped and put away the udukku, Aravindan asked suddenly, ‘Shall we get a new one?’

  ‘Just to look at? What’s the use?’

  ‘Such things are auspicious, even to just keep. It’ll remind you of old times.’

  Achumman thought for a while and then nodded as though he liked the idea.

  ‘I don’t know where you can get one. We’ll ask Appukuttan to look for one.’

  ‘Earlier, a man from Puthenchira used to bring them. Some of the asans too make their own. Times have changed, who knows where one can get an udukku these days.’

  ‘Never mind, Appukuttan will find one from somewhere.’

  ‘All right.’

  Appukuttan must have found one by now. They must have forgotten to mention it in the letter.

  Anyway, he shouldn’t delay his return any longer, Aravindan decided as he folded the letters. He would go once more. He would read over what he had written here in that atmosphere. The truth of this invocation from a distance would prove itself then.

  He had to go. He would go and return.

  What could he tell Vasanthi, though? It was likely that the language of the medical bulletin would be harsher this time. The numbers and words in the lab reports were not very pleasant. Dr Kulkarni was also proving proof against the friendship of the Chivaz. And it was likely that Gayathri as well as Raghu would intervene from Kuwait. Sometimes Raghu’s words were sharper than those of his mother. The habits of his workplace had shaped him too.