On a Shoestring to Coorg

by Dervla Murphy

  I was advised to eat with the first sitting lest I might miss the Sambanda Kodupa ritual, which follows immediately after the Dampathi Muhurtham. From my seat near the door I watched many members of the bride’s family moving up and down the long lines of white-draped trestle tables, serving food with an unhurried air that belied their speed and efficiency. When each guest had a heaped leaf-platter before her someone called out, ‘Ungana?’ (Shall we eat?) and the feast began; it is considered very bad form to eat before everybody has been served. As always at a Coorg banquet, the main dish was curried pork, accompanied today by a lavish variety of irresistibly delicious foods.

  It is also considered bad form to get up before everybody has finished but an exception was made for me when Uncle Machiah beckoned from the door, calling that the Dampathi Muhurtham was almost over. As I hurried back to the hall the headman of the bridegroom’s party – always the last to ascend the platform – was giving his blessings and gifts. The groom then stood up to be led three times around the sacred lamp by his best man, who next presented him to the still-sitting bride. Having sprinkled Nalini with rice, Ponnappa gave her a gold coin which she received in both hands and then, holding it in her left hand, she put her right hand in the outstretched right hand of the groom and stood up. Next her bridesmaid tied the coin presented by the groom into the corner of her sari, and the young couple stepped off the platform for the Sambanda Kodupa ritual.

  This ceremony might be described as the legally binding part of the marriage – according to traditional law – since it involves the formal transference of the bride to the groom’s family and the granting to her of all that family’s rights and responsibilities. During the Sambanda the young couple stand at a little distance from the Muhurtham platform, with the bride’s Aruva and two of her kinsmen beside the groom, and the groom’s Aruva and two of his kinsmen beside the bride, while relatives and friends of both families gather near by to listen. According to a translation I obtained later in the afternoon, the main part of the Aruvas’ dialogue goes as follows:

  Bride’s Aruva: The people of both nads, men of the houses, relatives and family friends, are they standing in rows?

  Groom’s Aruva: Yes, they are standing.

  Bride’s Aruva: Will you give to our child Nalini of Ponnappa family, whom we are about to give in marriage to your child Ponnappa of Subbiah family, the Sambanda of the groom’s Okka?(Paddy-valleys.) Will you give her rights in the ten plots of pasture, in the cattle stand, in the ten pairs of bullocks, in the house, in the garden, in the ten milch cows, in the bamboo receptacle used for milking, in the cattle shed, in the manure heaps, in the axes, swords and knives, in the paddy in the granary, in the bellmetal dish leaning against the wall, in the wall-lamp, in the stock of salt in the kitchen store, in the buried treasure, in the stock of threads and needles and in all from one to hundreds of things?

  Groom’s Aruva: We give.

  Bride’s Aruva: On the marriage of our child into your family, our servants will carry on their heads goods and valuable things and cash in a box. If this is lost who is to be held responsible for the loss?

  Groom’s Aruva: I am.

  Bride’s Aruva: Then take these twelve pieces of gold (in fact eleven small pebbles are handed to the groom’s Aruva at this point).

  Groom’s Aruva: I have received the pieces of gold. If your innocent child, who is given in marriage to our boy, complains at the groom’s house that the cooked rice is too hot, the curry too pungent, the father-in-law too abusive, the mother-in-law mean, the husband incompetent and that she is not willing to stay with him, or complains that his people are too poor and goes back to her natal family and sits there, who is the person to be held responsible to advise her properly and send her back to us providing servants for company and torches to light the way?

  Bride’s Aruva: I am.

  Groom’s Aruva: Then take this witness money (he hands over a token coin).

  Bride’s Aruva: If our child were to suffer unforeseen misfortune (by this is meant the loss of her husband before she has conceived), who is responsible for sending her to her natal family with servants for company and torches for the road?

  Groom’s Aruva: I am.

  Bride’s Aruva: Then take this witness money (and he hands over a token coin).

  So ends the Sambanda ritual, and when I inquired about the rather mystifying presentation of eleven pebbles I was told that twelve pebbles (representing pieces of gold) symbolise the sum total of an individual’s rights within a joint family; and so when the bride’s Aruva gives eleven to the groom’s Aruva this signifies that the girl has forfeited most of her rights in her natal family, in exchange for those granted by her conjugal family. But one pebble is retained because she has a right to return to her natal family if divorced or prematurely widowed.

  By this time it was two-thirty and most people were departing, leaving only one hundred or so relatives to attend the Ganga Puja and subsequent ‘dance ordeal’ at four-thirty. Nalini and Ponnappa, both looking utterly exhausted, had retired to their rooms and I assumed their doors would remain firmly closed all afternoon. But when I got back to the hall after a shopping trip into Virajpet – where my appearance in a Coorg sari occasioned much delighted comment – I saw people constantly trooping in and out of both rooms and was warmly invited to do likewise. From the door of Ponnappa’s room I observed the poor fellow lying full length on a bed under a heap of tumbling small children – one of whom, need I say, had fair hair … In an effort slightly to alleviate his torment I urged Rachel to come with me to admire the bride’s ancient ornaments, but my daughter merely abated her gymnastics for long enough to say – ‘I prefer the bridegroom’. Tactful prevarications have never been her forte.

  In Nalini’s room, the money collected during the Dampathi Muhurtham was being carefully counted by the bride’s brother, tied in bundles and packed in a tin trunk. It looked a lot but most of the notes represented only a rupee or two and the total would scarcely cover one-quarter the cost of the banquet. Nalini was talking to three Indian nuns from Ammathi Convent School – one of them was the only Coorg ever to have become a Christian – and I sat on the bed beside her to study the bridal ornaments. I particularly liked her silver Kausara – a ring on each finger connected by silver chains over the back of the hand to a heavy silver wrist bracelet. No less beautiful was her Kasara – a similar ornament of toe rings, connected to an ankle bracelet. Most Coorg married women habitually wear a silver ring – a Kamoira – on the second toe of their left foot, as well as a plain solid gold wedding ring on the third finger of the left hand. Loveliest of all, however, was her Kakkethathi, a necklace of golden beads from which hung a large, crescent-shaped golden pendant, studded with rubies and edged with many small pearls.

  The next ceremony – the Ganga Puja – took place soon after four-thirty at the well behind the Kodava Samaj. For this Nalini was attended by two maidens (her first cousins) and a little group of older relatives. On the wall of the well were laid out a towel, a coconut, a hand of plantains, a bowl of rice, a lime, betel-leaves and nuts, vibhuthi (a coloured powder for anointing the forehead) and the bridegroom’s ornamental knife. Having washed her face, hands and feet, and prayed while anointing her forehead, the bride thrice sprinkled auspicious rice into the well as a salute to Ganga, the goddess of water. Then she placed three pieces of areca-nut on three betel-leaves and dropped them carefully into the water, so that they would not overturn. Next she half peeled the bananas and left them on the well wall while she cracked the coconut with her husband’s peechekathi and spilled all its water into the well. She chewed betel – an indulgence not permitted to unmarried women – while filling two brass pitchers with water and placing them one above the other on her head: and then her ordeal began.

  The ordeal called Battethadpa (obstructing the path) is another of those Coorg marriage customs said to be of Kshatria origin. When the bride, followed by her attendants, leaves the well to carry the pitchers around the ho
use and into the kitchen, she finds her way blocked by energetically dancing menfolk of the groom’s family. This gambol sometimes continues all night and a four- or five-hour session is common. Obviously it imposes a severe strain on the already exhausted bride, who is being closely studied by scores of her new relatives as she stands immobile, balancing two heavy pitchers of water on her head and only occasionally being allowed to move a few steps forward. Perhaps it is appropriate that a martial race should thus treat its young women, testing their fitness as mothers of the next generation of warriors, but I did feel very sorry for Nalini this afternoon.

  The moment the bandsmen began to play dance music Rachel came bounding along from I don’t know where, and seizing Major Ponnappa’s hand (they seemed by now to be intimate friends) proceeded to execute a most complicated pas de deux with him. At its conclusion she continued to dance in front of the bride, without ceasing, for an hour and forty minutes; and, though only males are supposed to take part in the Battethadpa, she was constantly egged on by her fellow dancers.

  The Coorgs are a strange and delightful mixture of traditionalist and what you might call ‘unconventionalist’. They seem always ready to make allowances for the customs, whims and eccentricities of others and, much as they value their own ancient ceremonies, they are not fanatically rigid about detail if for any reason it seems desirable to improvise or permit modifications.

  When we left the Kodava Samaj at six-thirty, as the bride was entering the kitchen, I had misgivings about Rachel’s ability to walk three miles after so vigorous a dancing session; but she went leaping ahead of me, over-excitedly recalling the day’s highlights. These included being allowed to play with the bridegroom’s sword – which brought me out in a cold sweat, as Coorg swords are kept in good working order.

  On our way home the sunset seemed like an echo of those saris in the Kodava Samaj. At first the western sky was spread with pinkish-gold clouds, against which the ever-present Ghats were sharply outlined, their shadows a delicate mauve, while beyond a burnished paddy-valley stood the dark silhouettes of palm and plantain fronds, and all the noble trees of the forest. But soon the clouds deepened to crimson, as the clear sky above changed from pale blue to blue-green – and then to that incomparable royal blue of dusk in the tropics. Now the clouds were a rare, pink-tinged brown, above purple mountains, and moments later the first stars – chips of gold – were glinting overhead, and jungle bats bigger than crows came swooping and squeaking from the trees, and in the distance a jackal began his forlorn, eerie solo.

  16

  Praying and Dancing

  20 February.

  Today six banjaras – known to generations of British as ‘brinjarries’ – arrived in Devangeri with three covered wagons and set up shop on the maidan behind this house. These traders criss-cross South India with huge covered wagons drawn by pairs of magnificent Mysore whites, which, according to Hydar Ali, are ‘to all other bullocks as the horses of Arabia are to all other horses’. (In Coorg, where there are no representatives of the equine species, one begins to develop an eye for a good bullock.) Most brinjarries look exceedingly wild, ragged and unkempt but are cheerful, friendly and scrupulously honest. They spend five or six days in each village, exchanging the produce of their land near Mysore for surplus paddy which is eventually transported to areas where it is scarce and dear. When I asked why the Coorgs do not keep their surplus grain, and sell it themselves later on, I was told the cost of arranging transport for small quantities would make the profits not worth while. It is more economic to barter it now for a supply of potatoes, onions and pulses, which will rocket in price during the monsoon.

  It does one good to see such institutions still flourishing in 1974. This afternoon I bartered our surplus rice – Tim had presented us with enough to feed twenty Irish people – for potatoes and onions, which have recently become very expensive in the bazaar; and as I watched my little bag being carefully weighed on an antique scales, I remembered a letter written to Bombay by Arthur Wellesley before the Battle of Assaye: ‘The brinjarries are a species of dealers who attend the army with grain and other supplies which they sell in the bazaars. In general, they seek for these supplies which are sold for the cheapest rate and they bring them on their bullocks to the armies … Captain Barclay wrote by my orders to the brinjarry gomashta (agent) … to inform him that all the brinjarries of the Carnatic, Mysore and the ceded districts would be immediately wanted and that they were to load and join the army.’ That was in 1803 and already the brinjarries had become the mainspring of Britain’s military campaigns throughout South and Central India. There was then no issue of army rations and no army service corps; the Maratha and French troops simply lived off the land, looting their way through various regions and naturally not endearing themselves to the inhabitants. So when the British bought their supplies from the brinjarries at current market rates they made a good impression which has lasted to this day in South India.

  This evening, as I was reading Rachel’s bedtime story, Ponappa the tailor called – he whose wife died a few weeks ago. I did not at once realise that the poor man had been on the batter and an M.C.C. reduced him to an hour and a half of maudlin lamentations. His main obsession was the humiliating fact that the drugs given to his wife during her last illness had darkened her skin, previously ‘as fair as a European’s’, so that I never saw her ‘looking beautiful like a flowering jasmine’. He anxiously asked if I believed him, and repeatedly asserted that he could never have married a girl ‘with so much darkness on her’. Having given him three mugs of strong black coffee I at last succeeded in gently but firmly guiding him down the ladder – no easy task, by candlelight – and setting him on his homeward path. But I suspect he will have stumbled back to our ‘local’ as soon as my back was turned.

  As I write, a group of men and boys are making merry in the courtyard by torchlight: dancing, leaping, singing, shouting, drumming, fluting, horn-blowing – and exhaling such powerful Arak fumes that I shall scarcely need another M.C.C. this evening. They are celebrating, as I suppose Ponappa was, an annual Hindu festival which, being very light-hearted, particularly appeals to Coorgs. The Lord Krishna is supposed to be fast asleep tonight, so petty thieving is allowed by tradition and householders are meant to admit these roving bands who may help themselves to food, drink and small coins. They also play practical jokes on the community, such as throwing something unpalatable (but not polluting) down public wells, felling trees to block roads and filling with water the petrol tanks of buses or motor cars. Subaya very properly says they must not be admitted to this house because the owners are absent, but I suppose I had better go down now to tip them before they waken Rachel. They certainly make a cheerful scene, by the wavering light of unsteadily held plantain-stump torches, but their musicians are rather too far gone to be melodious.

  24 February.

  Today we were invited to a farewell lunch with the Chengappas in Virajpet and, it being Sunday, I decided to attend Mass in the Roman Catholic church. The large building was packed, mostly with women and children, and everyone sang hymns lustily if untunefully. By far the best feature of the interior was a simple Face-the-People altar of polished teak.

  As we left the church we were stopped by a skinny, frail-looking little man of perhaps thirty-five, who had collected the offerings. He asked Rachel her name and then exclaimed, ‘Rachel! That is nice bit of chance! This minute my daughter is to be christened Rachel also, so you must come to watch how she gets her name!’

  Turning to follow the proud father into the church, I marvelled that such a fragile creature should have begotten a child. Then we took our place beside the font, where a 40-day-old infant was being held by an elderly woman whom I assumed to be a godmother of granny’s generation. By now most of the congregation had left, though I noticed that one long pew near the font was full of school-children of mixed ages who seemed to be taking a lively interest in the proceedings.

  At the end of the twenty-minute cere
mony, Rachel II’s father turned to the elderly ‘godmother’ and introduced her as his wife; then he turned to the pewful and introduced it collectively as ‘my other children’.

  ‘How many?’ I asked weakly, feeling too pole-axed to do my own counting.

  ‘Thirteen, with Rachel,’ said the skinny little man happily. ‘So now we quickly have another, because thirteen is a bad and misfortunate number.’ He beamed at his haggard wife. ‘Perhaps we shall have the full score, the round twenty – my wife is aged only thirty-four – there is time.’

  . . . . .

  At the Chengappas Rachel for once said the right thing by remarking that she would like to live here always; and I can quite see why. There is never any fuss about the dangers of motor-traffic, or about getting too hot, too cold or too wet – she can run naked all day through the forest and over the paddy-valleys and in and out of as many streams and ponds as come her way. This morning she was out with friends from eight o’clock until ten-thirty and returned mud to the ears, having obviously had a whale of a time in some buffalo hole. I had to take her to the well and pour several buckets of water over her before she was fit to go out to lunch.