Where the Rain is Born: Writings about Kerela

by Nair, Anita

‘Think of your grandfather, little one, keep his image in your mind,’ said Kurambi Amma, coming up to the door. Girija invoked her grandfather, who had died of a snake bite long before she could remember, and placed the payasam and water on the floor.

  She came out and closed the door. Then she served out some payasam on another leaf, lighted an oil-drenched leaf torch and went to the southern courtyard. The offerings meant for the spirits called Biran, Pena and Bhandaram were always placed outside the house, with a lighted cloth torch, because they were the spirits of people who had died evil deaths. ‘Those who drowned are called Biran,’ Kurambi Amma had explained to Dasan when he was a child, ‘those who hanged themselves are Pena and those who died of smallpox are Bhandaram.’

  Kurambi Amma and Dasan bathed, put on wet clothes and cooked turmeric rice over a fire in the courtyard. They then served the rice on banana leaves and sprinkled kuruka grass and sesame seeds over it. Kneeling by the side of the leaves, they clapped to the crows, inviting them to come and accept the offerings.

  ‘Not a single crow, Achamma,’ exclaimed Girija, who was watching from the verandah. What had happened to the crows that came every morning and perched in the yard and on the well parapets, cawing with hunger?

  Kurumbi Amma knelt and clapped over and over again.

  ‘They’ll come,’ said Dasan. ‘It’s a busy day for them today.’ The same rituals were being performed in almost all the Hindu houses in Mayyazhi that day.

  At last a crow flew towards them, but it suddenly changed direction because it heard someone else clap louder.

  ‘Eight o’clock, oh God!’ Kurambi Amma felt desperate. Where had all the ancestors gone? Why were they staying away? She clapped her thin hands repeatedly.

  Dasan stopped his efforts to attract the crows and sat down on the steps. He felt chilly, in his wet mundu.

  ‘Come, come,’ Kurambi Amma called out again, looking up at the sky and clapping her tired hands. ‘Come, come …’

  Kurambi Amma’s heart was heavy and she felt like crying. Her voice grew shriller.

  The sun climbed higher. A crow flew up at last and landed near the banana leaf. It ate the turmeric rice and sesame seeds and gazed at Kurambi Amma with a drunken look. It was a miserable crow with bald patches on its scraggy neck.

  ‘Come here,’ Kurambi Amma called it nearer, affectionately. The crow cocked its head to one side and looked at her. It lifted a wing and scratched underneath with its beak. Then it flew down and perched on Kurambi Amma’s banana leaf.

  ‘So you’ve come at last, thank God!’

  Kurambi Amma stared at the crow. It pecked at the side of the leaf and scattered rice and sesame seeds in all directions with its feet. Then it pecked at a few morsels again.

  Kurambi Amma’s eyes filled with tears as she watched it.

  ‘What is it Achamma?’

  ‘That’s your grandfather.’ Kurambi Amma burst into tears. Was it really Kelu Achan, this scraggy crow with the bald neck?

  The festival in the Church of the Virgin was as important in Mayyazhi as the Thira Festival in the Meethambalam temple.

  As soon as the month of Kanni began, Kunhukutty Achan could be seen balanced on a wooden box suspended from the high steeple, whitewashing the walls of the church. This marked the start of the preparations for the festival.

  The Padiri, the priest, came out and seated himself on a chair under the mango tree with his stole around his shoulders and his cap on his knees. The Kappiyar, the sexton, stood next to him with a sheet of paper in his hand. They would now auction the land for the stalls and booths for the festival.

  ‘A booth near the lamp-post, ten by eight feet.’ The Kappiyar read from his paper and looked around. Bangle sellers from Mangalore, halva makers from Kozhikode, hypnotists and gamblers from unknown places, they had all come to bid for a shop or a booth.

  ‘Ten rupees.’

  ‘Ten and a quarter.’ That was the bangle seller.

  ‘Ten and a half.’ The hypnotist.

  ‘A quarter rupee more.’ The gambler.

  And so it went on until the bangle seller bid for fourteen rupees.

  ‘Fourteen rupees. Once. Twice. No one?’ The bangle seller looked around anxiously. Everyone was silent. The Padiri moved in his chair.

  The land near the lamp-post went to the bangle seller.

  The festival started at noon on 5 October, with a single blast of dynamite. There were two blasts on the second day and three on the third. On the tenth and final day, there would be ten deafening blasts.

  Stalls selling glass bangles, marigolds, crosses, candles, images of saints and angels had come up all around the church.

  Pilgrims flocked to Mayyazhi. An endless stream of visitors flowed from the railway station and the bridge.

  ‘Do you think all these people have really come out of devotion?’ Pappan watched the crowd from the Vignanaposhini Library, which was right in front of the Church. You could watch the festival from start to finish from there. ‘They’ve all come to drink liquor.’

  ‘You mean this whole crowd is here to drink?’ Dasan laughed. Bhakti can make people more intoxicated than liquor.

  The library was full of people. Once the festival started, all sorts of people who normally never came to the library would flock in to watch the festival.

  The Mother of Mayyazhi, as the Virgin was known, loved her devotees, just as the Thiya gods, Gulikan and Kuttichathan did. And exactly like them, she made short work of her enemies too.

  One of the many legends Kurambi Amma had recounted to Dasan as a child was that of the origin of the Mother of Mayyazhi.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ she said, ‘a ship that was going over the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea sailed into the shadow of the Velliyan Rock. Suddenly, it was grounded, as if the anchor had been dropped. The captain and the sailors were stunned, for there was no obstacle in sight. Three days and three nights passed. The ship refused to move.’

  The sailors fell on their knees and prayed, their eyes raised to heaven.

  ‘Install me in Mayyazhi.’ The captain heard a voice. It came from the idol of the Virgin in the ship.

  The captain obeyed the divine command. He went ashore with the idol and placed it at an isolated spot.

  The ship moved.

  ‘Our church is built at the spot where the captain placed the idol.’ Kurambi Amma opened her ivory snuffbox, took a pinch of snuff and inhaled with her eyes half-closed.

  Dusk. The sun dipped into the great calm sea. The cross on the steeple was etched clearly against the limpid sky.

  The church bells pealed, gathering into themselves the grandeur of the sea and the sky. They resounded through Mayyazhi. The bells would ring continuously until the urukan, the procession bearing the holy image of the Virgin, came back to the church after circling the town.

  ‘Look, there goes the urukan,’ said Kurambi Amma as she sat in the verandah with her snuffbox open and her eyes closed, carried away by memories of bygone festivals.

  The awesome bells swayed above the sexton, who lay suspended from the bell ropes. As he rang the huge bells, he swung between the earth and the sky, following the violent movement of the bells.

  The procession wound its way through the Rue de I’Eglise with chariots, flags and coloured lamps. The scent of burning incense spread through Mayyazhi. Thousands of pilgrims moved with the procession, singing the praises of the Mother of Mayyazhi in many languages.

  Even after dusk, the sun refused to set over Mayyazhi.

  The procession came back to the church after four hours. The bells stopped ringing at last. As he let go of the ropes he had been pulling for hours, the exhausted Kappiyar fell down, losing consciousness. Blood dripped from his hands.

  For two whole days, the people of Mayyazhi had not slept. Men wandered around the church, drunk.

  Housewives were tired of cooking for guests. Only one house stayed dark and silent—Leslie Sayiv’s. Missie, who had always made cakes for the festival for as long as
people could remember, had not done so this year. Anyway, even if she had baked a cake, who would have eaten it? In the old days, people had come in carriages to her house and feasted and drunk the whole night long. Why would they come now, there was no one at home.

  The man of the house, whose task it would have been to welcome guests, had shut himself away behind closed doors, doing penance, his hair and beard growing thicker with the years.

  It was on the first day of the festivities that Missie lost the use of her right hand and leg. She fell down while mixing the batter for a cake and her head hit the floor.

  Mambi, the maid, shouted for help. Gaston heard Mambi’s cry as he drowsed with his guitar against his chest. He got up, opened the door a little and peered out.

  He saw Mamma lying prone on the floor. His heart turned over. He opened the door a little wider and began to go down the steps. Just then the neighbours arrived, having heard Mambi’s cry for help. Gaston withdrew at once.

  It was twenty-five years since he had gone downstairs. Although he had been born and bred in Mayyazhi, its people had become strangers to him. Sometimes he peered out through the thick curtains at the window. He looked at the people walking along the Rue de la Residence or seated on the pier, but did not recognize any of them.

  Gaston felt only one emotion now—pain. Pain for his lost manhood. The pain of losing Teresa who had not stayed with him even a week. It was this pain that his guitar strings tried to express night after night, spreading its music over Mayyazhi. It haunted those who were asleep, disturbing them with bad dreams.

  Pathrose and Policeman Chathu laid Missie on the cot. She was unconscious and her head was bleeding.

  Someone ran to fetch a doctor.

  Gaston longed to know what had happened but did not come down. He could hear voices downstairs. He was afraid of people. A conflict raged in his mind. His mother lay dying, the mother who had wept unceasingly for him over the last twenty-five years. But he could not move to go to her. The voices frightened him. How could he go amongst them?

  No, I can’t go. Gaston locked the door from inside. He paced up and down the room.

  Missie regained consciousness next morning. She opened her eyes and looked around her. She saw Kurambi, Damu, Dasan, Pathrose and Policeman Chathu.

  ‘Gaston …’ Her lips moved. All eyes turned towards the staircase. The door upstairs remained closed.

  The tears ran down Missie’s cheeks. She lay in a faint, her eyes closed. Two small, pale feet could be seen outside her long black robe.

  Damu could not bear it any longer. He looked at the stairs and cried out, ‘Gaston, come down. Your mother is dying …’

  Behind the closed doors, Gaston’s footsteps quickened.

  Missie’s eyes stopped moving. Her body trembled from head to foot. ‘Gaston …’ Kurambi Amma wailed in despair.

  Damu stood on the bottom step of the carpeted stairs and called as loudly as he could, ‘Please come down, Gaston.’

  Gaston did not answer.

  Damu began to go up the stairs slowly, holding on to the banisters. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on him. He came to the closed door and called out again. There was no answer. He knocked repeatedly. Gaston did not reply. There was only the sound of frenzied footsteps moving inside the closed room.

  Damu came back, still leaning on the banisters for support.

  That evening, Leslie Sayiv’s Missie drew her last breath. Everyone except Gaston was at her bedside.

  The beautiful Missie, who used to walk in her flowing white silk dress on the seashore, hand in hand with the charismatic Leslie Sayiv, lay still on the rosewood cot on a faded sheet.

  With Missie’s death, the curtain fell on the golden age of Mayyazhi’s half-French citizens. An era ended with her passing away. She was the last link in the line of rich and generous half-French who had lived dignified and noble lives.

  The half-French would continue to play a role in the life of Mayyazhi, but they were never to achieve the same measure of greatness and nobility. Poverty and its attendant evils were to force them to lead mean lives. Beggars and prostitutes were to be born amongst them. Missie’s death marked the start of a tragic journey that was to destroy their very roots.

  People crowded to Leslie Sayiv’s house when they heard of Missie’s death. Her closest friend, Kurambi, wept her heart out, seated next to the bier. Dasan and Girija, who had loved her delicious cakes, bit their lips to keep from crying.

  Gaston still paced up and down his closed room.

  Finally, the mourners went home, and the bungalow was empty.

  It was past midnight. The sea was quiet under a clear sky spattered with stars.

  After years, the door that had remained closed opened. Gaston’s pale face appeared above the stairs. Golden hair streamed over his shoulders and a long, golden beard flowed under his chin. His blue eyes were as calm as the sky. Holding on to the banisters, he came down slowly.

  Missie lay on a silken bier in Leslie Sayiv’s empty living room, under the glittering crystal lamp, her hands crossed on her breast.

  Gaston went up to the bier and looked at his mother’s face. He knelt down beside her and said, ‘I’ve no one now, Mamma, no one.’

  He lay his head on his mother’s breast and sobbed until the sun rose over the Mayyazhi river.

  The Power of One

  Bill Aitken

  The power of one person to alter the course of history is best reflected in the career of Mahatma Gandhi, a briefless barrister whose inner strength overcame the might of the world’s most vaunted empire. 11 September 2001 gave more evidence of how one individual, even one who is a religious fanatic, can humble the most powerful of opponents. As my train pulled out of New Delhi three days after the devastating terrorist attacks on New York, I pondered the ripple effect caused by the dedication of one determined individual who skims a stone across the smooth surface of events, little aware that awaiting me in Kerala was another example of how one man can create waves.

  I had been invited by the Kerala tourism department to sample the state’s scenic beauties in the off-season and unlike most tourists, jumped at the chance to experience the last fling of the receding south-west monsoon. The highlight of my three-week tour (of which five days were spent profitably on the train, boning up on the culture and history of Kerala) was an elemental interlude anchored in a houseboat. In the early hours of the morning, an electric storm hit the waterfront at Alappuzha and in the cataclysmic aftermath of wind and rain, our lumbering barge was tossed around as though on the high seas. JMW Turner paid sailors to tie him to the mast in North Sea gales in order to let him experience at first hand the raw power of nature he wished to capture on his canvases, while here was I, at no risk of getting sea sick, enjoying the full fury of the elements for free. It’s true that with all the bamboo hatches battened down it was a bit claustrophobic, but on the other hand, the lake was only ten feet deep, a far cry from the fifty fathoms of Sir Patrick Spens at Aberdour where I had spent my childhood.

  Kerala is a sea symphony attributed to Lord Parasurama who is said to have cleaved it from the ocean south of Gokarna. The real composer, in my opinion, is the goddess Saraswati whose garland of rivers from the high ranges of the Sahyadri define both the physiography and sociology of the state. Kerala’s shelving coastline is the first step in the ascending uptwist of beauty so accurately termed ‘South Western Ghats’. This range that runs from Gujarat to Kanyakumari encompasses a constantly changing profile. The Maharashtra movement of this symphony is both dreamy and heroic in the mesa formations where Shivaji performed his death-defying mission in honour of the goddess Bhavani. Karnataka introduces the dramatics of the Jog Falls where the goddess Sharada spills 800 feet in four booming cataracts. To Kerala falls the prize of Anai Mudi, the highest peak in India outside the Himalaya, and at its feet the backwaters of Kuttanad where my journey began.

  I arrived at Ernakulam on a Sunday and was pleasantly surprised when accosted on the platform by a man
I took to be my government host. Government servants even in a rationalist state like Kerala are religious in their observance of holidays. Though they may pooh-pooh the claims of Vedic astrology and ignore the inauspicious period of Rahu Kal, every one of them carries in his head the list of Second Saturdays for the next decade.

  The gentleman, in fact, turned out to be a travel agent sent by an enterprising tour operator called Babu Verghese who had apparently got wind of my visit and by posting his man on the platform had beat the tourism department to the draw. By the time we reached the station exit where an official car awaited, I had been briefed most professionally on Babu Verghese and apprised of his revolutionary approach to tourism.

  I have always felt that official tourism in India is an ongoing farce where pathos and bathos seem evenly matched. This was proved when my government host, having turned up late, showed me to the back seat of a beflagged Ambassador car, then got in alongside and bombarded me, without so much as by your leave, with official statistics. After two and a half days on a silent empty train (11 September had halted all but the shameless in their tracks), I couldn’t believe my ears at this grossly insensitive introduction to God’s Own Country.

  I just sat there and gaped as per capita income statistics were hurled at my head and male to female ratios were hammered home vociferously. Fortunately, on the outskirts of Kochi, my tormentor halted the taxi and abruptly got out. To my eternal credit, I had said no when asked if I needed an official guide.

  As my tour unfolded, Babu Verghese assumed the role of Forster’s Mrs Moore. Everywhere I went, people uttered his name in a hushed tone of respect (echoing ‘Esmissess Mor’.) He sounded a bit like John Smith, the mysterious Cargo Cult figure of the South Sea islanders, a messiah who could deliver the goods. Significantly, Babu’s name was bandied about by the working staff of the houseboats and jungle lodges where I stayed, but never by the officer class, who perhaps felt guilty for stealing his ideas and cashing in on them. There was sympathy for Babu Verghese amongst the lower-layer professionals in the tourist trade. I got the impression that here was a visionary and engineering genius like Trevithick the Cornishman who actually invented a working steam locomotive but was upstaged by the canny Scot, James Watt. (Watt improved on others’ inventions to make them commercial successes and encouraged people to think he had invented them!)