I
The last time I had heard from Soorya
was in September 2006, three months after he was forced to flee
his magical Malabar village with his lady love. It is almost
fourteen years now and all my attempts to trace and contact him, since, have
failed.
During our Military days, it was believed
that the friendship between soldiers doesn’t last beyond the guard room.
However intense might be the companionship in the barracks, it abruptly ends,
when one of the friends is posted out to some remote corners of this
vast nation. A letter or two may be exchanged before all correspondences
gradually fizzle out. But, surprisingly, our relationship outlasted our
military tenure. We first met at the training centre, with our freshly shaped
crew-cut, and then we were together again as fellow technicians, not once but
twice, in different Airbases. So, it was a long time; long, long time together,
by any service standard.
Soorya was clearly a man of paradoxes. And
I believe, it had something to do with his childhood; a sort of a fait
accompli. He was brought up among extreme contradictions. So we need to first
skim through his childhood days to appreciate the man and his character. To me,
his childhood in that surrealistic Malabar village always remained a story
straight out of folklore. I had indeed planned, on a number of occasions, to
visit that mystical Malabar village, but as we often do with easily accessible
and gettable things I kept deferring my plans each time, till one day when I
suddenly realized I would never be able to take a look at it.
The dreamy village has already been wiped
off this planet and it is impossible now to get a first-hand account of its
rainy hills and fields. But the impressions, built on Soorya’s emotional
sketches of those days, are still fresh and lively within me. I am just going
to reproduce those images, as exactly as I can and, without interfering in
the middle or attempting to moderate them.
* * *
II
The boatman’s oar splashed in a pleasing
rhythm, breaking the incubating silence over the river with each swing of his
arms. In the 1960s, Ambipuzha, like most other Malabar rivers, meandered clean
and serene, swirling between rolling hillocks; misty in the morning, shining
golden under the afternoon beams and shrouded in dark-silence when the sun
dropped beyond the hills. For Soorya, crossing the Ambipuzha on that sunny
evening would ever remain an unfading early memory of his life. Then seven or
eight, he sat between his father Kunju and mother Parvathy on the thwart of the
wooden boat. Parvathy held his shoulder tightly whenever the wooden boat
rolled, groaned or creaked. A flock of green parrots with their curved red
bills, parrots of the hills, larger in size and greener in colour, flew out
from the drooping coconut leaves, made a semi-circle above the wide stretch of
water, screeched, flew in the setting sun and disappeared into the woods. A
few yards before the shore the lean boatman, with his pencil-thin legs below
his folded-up dhoti, jumped into the shallow water and ran up to pull the bow
to beach the boat, just like a farmer leading the bull with its nose ring. He
kept holding it moored so that the boat would not float and roll over when
passengers got out. There was no jetty, not even a pier. Soorya lifted his knickers
thigh-high, helped by Kunju. The water was cooler than he expected and the
river sand so soft under his feet, for a moment he didn’t want to move out. He
felt a tickle on his toes when little fishes darted to nibble. Those ferried
across hurriedly followed one behind the other, towards the trail on the
mud-bank. On the shore, a red flag flapped on a tall bamboo pole. Soorya, at
midstream, had seen the flag fluttering above the treetops, but he never
thought it could be so high.
Chuvnna karayilekku swagatham, ‘welcome to the red shore’. Read the
graffiti.
Next to the graffiti was
a sketch-map, again in red, on a banner made of jute bags with bamboo
frames that gave some idea of the topography of the new world. There are three
villages on this side of the river and Aruvikkulam was the farthest one.
Soorya couldn’t really recollect how he
had felt about this whole process of replanting his family. But then it hardly
mattered. In those days families never sought children’s suggestions on such
things. Even otherwise, who could foresee such smooth ‘sailing-in’ on that
afternoon would conceal a disastrous final exit decades later!
* * *
Kunju had recently joined as a
teacher in the Eka Adhyapaka School (single teacher
school) at Aruvikkulam which would go on to become the Aruvikkulam Upper
Primary School in later years. He thought of bringing his wife and the child;
so that he doesn’t need to cook, twice a day, and also the child can study in
his own school, learn Mathematics and grammar under his care. He could not
manage enough funds to own a house so he remained a tenant till his death and
shifted houses whenever the landlord wanted a hike in the rental. Kunju was too
respected a teacher to demand a rent hike from, so the landlords occasionally
requested him to vacate their houses on the pretext of one or other reasons. In
those days teachers were meagrely paid though they were well revered. It was
only after Soorya grew up and started working, Kunju could save some money, yet
not enough to own a house.
Aruvikkulam would long remain a red
bastion, electing communist local self-governments consecutively for fifty
years after the country’s independence; a record for unbroken democratic
communist rule anywhere in the world. The name of the little village would be
recorded in the annals of history for achieving this remarkable feat. Over the
years two of the Aruvikkulam comrades, sons of soil made their way to the top
and became government ministers. One of them, Narayanan Nambiar who held the
cooperative portfolio, had founded Aruvikkulam Service Co-operative Bank and
employed a number of comrades and some communist wives as clerks. The party did
not demand any ‘donation’ or deposits of money from them, as is the rule for
getting the white-collar jobs of clerks. But there was a catch; the employees
had to pledge their family’s lifelong bondage to the party. They would be party
warriors, ever ready to execute any task, from writing graffiti on walls during
election nights or attacking and maiming the enemies of communism who infested
the villages across Ambipuzha. The minister’s contributions are well recognized
by the people of Aruvikkulam and the number of cement plaques, later replaced with
granite ones, carrying his name in large fonts are proof of the work done by
this proud son of the soil.
The other proletarian minister was
Choyi, who was fondly called Choyiettan and who remained a minister till he
died. Once he became a legislator (MLA), Choyi shifted his residence to the
city of Kozhikode and sent his children to study abroad but, never to forget
his roots, contested every election from the constituency that included
Aruvikkulam village. He was so popular in Aruvikkulam that his rivals never got
two-digit votes from the area. Choyi allotted government money to build the
school library building with a large wooden shelf to store books. The minister
himself came to inaugurate the library and Soorya was the chosen lucky one to
receive the first book from the minister’s hand; not just a spontaneous
privilege accorded to a teacher’s son, but a rightful claim for a student who
writes little poems on rain and rivers, and received prizes for his scribbling.
Soon after the dear minister died in office, in dotage, the school library was
renamed ‘Choyiettan Memorial Library’.
Aruvikkulam never had any other
political party except the Red. The sickle-hammer-star fluttered at every
vantage point. The only exception was the Tricolour, the national flag hoisted
at the assembly ground of the AUPS (Aruvikkulam Upper Primary School) on every
Independence Day and republic day. At the small intersection, from where the
main road coming from Ambipuzha split into two small narrow roads before
running on to opposite hills, stood the ‘statue of martyrs’, an installation
made out of clay and red granite. It was here the Malabar Special Police during
British Raj shot the seven revolutionaries dead, who were the pioneers of the
communist movement in Aruvikkulam. The imperial police had long marked
Aruvikkulam village in ‘red’ on the wall-map at its Malabar provincial
headquarters at Kozhikode, for harbouring the dangerous leaders
of the peasant movement. The revolutionaries were hiding in the Machu, the
large wooden garret, of a nearby house. Choyi, then in his early twenties, was
the youngest member of that unfortunate underground communist team. Only Choyi
survived, what communists call, the infamous Midnight Massacre. When the
colonial police raided the loft of that house, of a local feudal Nair- turned-communist
at midnight, Choyi was at downstairs and the lady of the house hid him under
her teak cot in her bedroom. Though there were suggestive rumours about the
purpose of his visit downstairs at the unearthly hours, the party ruled out
such spicy gossips, absolved him and ratified that he went down to get drinking
water for his fellow comrades. The middle-aged housewife was summoned by the
colonial police for questioning; a number of times, but finally she was let
free. Five of the revolutionaries were shot dead in sleep; and two of them ran
out and fell dead on the road, at the exact location where the installation
later erected.
Choyi always had a knack of being at the
right place at the right time, an essential skill, an innate trait so
desperately needed for surviving on slippery slopes of political games.
Although like a true communist he never believed in fate, he often advised his
children, in a hushed tone, looking around suspiciously as if to prevent
someone overhearing the secret theory;
“Working hard alone does not
guarantee success in life; you do need the lady luck to coyly smile on you”.
The
figure of a rustic woman and a man on the installation, a proletarian couple,
symbolized the wrath of the oppressed. The couple, woman a bit fairer and
lusher than the dark, plain and lanky man, looked up in unison at the raised
sickle in their hand. On the eve of the Worker’s Day every year, the martyrs’
column gets a fresh coat of blood-red paint.
A few years after Soorya’s arrival at
Aruvikkulam his school was upgraded with more classrooms and addition of a
number of teachers. The hillside was flattened to make a playground for the
children. Being the child of a teacher Soorya enjoyed a special status in the
roster. He was a well-known figure in the school, among pupils and teachers as
well. A slice of honour which Kunju’s gentleness generated fell on him too, and
he took special care to preserve the image, even at the cost of forgetting some
naughty, funny school pranks.
* * *
* * *
Soorya’s horoscope was written too late,
years after his birth, just before his school-leaving examination because his
father Kunju did not show much interest and paid little heed to Parvathy’s
persistent appeals. At last, a few days before the school final exam she
scribed the time and date of his birth in a piece of paper and once again
approached her husband.
“Now the child is leaving the school, let
us know where his interest lies, in science or in art subjects?”
Kunju
indifferently pushed the note into his shirt’s pocket. After a few days, when
he came back from school, Kunju smiled proudly, as if fulfilling her long
cherished wish, and gave her the horoscope, written on dried palm leaves,
nicely folded in a piece of old newspaper. She read and re-read the little
sheets, like a researcher in an ancient text, trying to read between the lines
and to understand the vague meanings behind the lengthy and complex sentences.
“The child is not going to stay with us
for long”. She told her husband, disappointed.
“Why? Is he going to Persia? At such
a young age!”
He did try not to sound overtly sarcastic.
“I do not know. But the horoscope
repeatedly says that he does not stay at one place for long”.
Then, what else?
“He will not be getting your help and
support in life”.
“Oh. That is non-sense. He is my only
child”. He laughed aloud.
“So contemptuous at scriptures?”
“Please don’t laugh like those
communists”.
“The child will suffer from decayed
and ugly toenails. But he will live long” she ended on a positive note.
* * *
III
Aruvikkulam literarily means a plunge pool
or a pool formed by a brook (aruvi). The large temple tank on the
eastern slope of the village is also called Aruvikkulam; perhaps the village
itself inherited its name from the temple pond. Aruvikkulam is a triangular
village. The three hills – one running parallel to the eastern skyline,
and the other two emerging from the opposite edges of the eastern hill and
almost joining together at their western ends form a perfect triangle. The
pass, a narrow escarpment between the southern and northern hills at their
western edge, makes the only entrance to the village from the outside world. It
is through this narrow gap in the west an unpaved spiralling road, the artery
that connects Aruvikkulam to the city forty miles away, enters the
village. Around five miles off the village, the road is broken at
Ambipuzha, a large river, and resumes on the other side of the bank. The
western sea wind, perpetually blowing in from the distant ocean, funnels though
the pass making the fold between the hills eternally windy.
Three hills forming a perfect triangle is
said to be a geographical wonder and its glory even reached Europe, when
foreign geologists visited the mountains, during the British era. The
villagers have their houses built on the slopes of Aruvikkulam hills and they
cultivate paddy in the isosceles farm in the centre of the hills. The wetland
in the middle, when flooded during the rains becomes a perfect triangle
reservoir. It is believed that Lord Parasuram came here just after carving
Keralam (the land of Kerala) out of the sea by throwing his holy axe towards
the wilderness of blue waters of the ocean. The myth says the sea receded till
the spot where the holy axe landed, forming a narrow curved land between the
Western Ghats and the ocean. Lord Parasuram reached the eastern slope of
Aruvikkulam soon after the divine recovery, built a temple for Varuna, the Sea
God. Then Lord Parasuram pressed his right thumb to make a depression on the
hill, instantaneously digging out a freshwater pond, purest of the waters in
the world, in an exact shape of a human thumb. Cupping the water in his palms,
he offered it to Varuna in gratitude. Aruvikkulam, the pond, and the
surrounding hills carved out of the sea by the divine enchantment, naturally
had magic in its veins. During the course of its existence, things would
happen, out of the blue and sometimes contrary to common beliefs and sensible
reasons. It has been reported that colony of an ancient tribe inhabited Aruvikkulam.
Aruvikkulam has many caves on its three slopes; speleologists and archaeologists
came from distant places to study and investigate, took away its ancient
residents’ tools and weapons to place them in their museums. In spite of years
of research, they could not explain why only Aruvikkulam attracted early
settlers while the neighbouring places did not have any trace of them. It is
believed that the monsoon rains, otherwise the elixir of life, inundated the
ancient men’s cave shelters for half of the year, forcing them away to the
remote eastern rain shadow mountains of Deccan. Only the brave remained here,
catching the frogs and freshwater fishes for survival.
* * *
Centuries later, frog catchers would
come, after the nightfall, with their Petromax (a bright lantern run on
kerosene), trekking the fields.
Soorya, watching the mobile
illumination in the inundated field, as he prepared for sleep would say;
‘Yes, the frog catchers have arrived
again’.
No one knew where they came from,
regularly at that time of the year when the fields were submerged after the
rains and when those little shapeless creatures started croaking using their
balloon cheeks, in the dead of the night. It is said that the frog hookers
have a wooden rod with a loop on it in one hand, the high-intensity lamp in the
other, and a sack on their back. Soorya had never seen a frog catcher clearly
but only their shadows, moving with the lamps, from a distance. The lights
moved slowly on the narrow varampu (the farm bunds), dark monsoon
waters reflecting the illumination, till the time he slept and when he woke up in
the morning he could see no traces of them, till the next night deepened when
those moving lights in the fields appeared again. During the day, sometimes,
the duck chaser would come with his long stick, chasing a raft of ducks and
ducklings or feeding them. The ducks in hundreds moved in an immaculate dynamic
order making wavering circles and curves around the duck-chaser. Like others,
he too comes from an unknown land, for at Aruvikkulam they only grow chickens
and hate the smell of boiled duck eggs.
The seasonal visitors to the village never
stop. They appear at a particular point in the cycle of seasons and fade away
when the next arrives. They don’t seem to age, for one found similar folks
appear year after year; like the large grey herons that fly in from faraway
lands to wade in the field and one could not be sure if it was a different or
the same bird that was seen last time. The palm reading black women in small
groups, with their heavy undulating bottom and dark oily belly with attractive
folds, carrying caged parrots and cards would come when the rains stopped. They
criss-cross the neighbourhood, trespassing over the trimmed hibiscus hedges,
forecasting good times. They come from beyond the hills and they speak Chentamil,
(a local variety of Tamil), and smile lusciously, lavishly exposing their betel
chewing teeth. The children gather around them and watch the parrot walking out
of its cage through the small door with the little iron grills. The cards with
pictures of gods and goddesses are stacked neatly in the tiny upper chamber of
the wooden enclosure. The fortune teller then opens the chamber and spreads the
cards on the mat and prompts the parrot with her left wrist moving in a
circular motion to pick one that foretells the future of the housewife sitting
in front of her. The forecast foretells – the bright prospect of her boy child
getting a job as a government clerk, coming of a rich groom asking for the hand
of their little girl in marriage, the time when her lazy husband would stop
drinking the stinking Arrack and go for work again and the prospect of having
good harvest next year.
“Amma, the times will definitely
change for good, before next harvesting season”, she predicts.
She can read her palm too for a special
fee that may include one more unit of paddy or a whole coconut.
When the chill in the air and wind
deepens in the Malayalam month of Vrischikam, gaudily dressed
gypsies sporting a long greying moustache and colourful turban on their head
descend in the dusty market. Their bottles contain greasy black peacock-oil
that the nomadic ‘Latans’ (quacks) claimed a panacea for all ailments
and arthritic pains.
“This is genuine peacock oil”.
They show the fresh peacock feathers kept
aside, as proof.
“We don’t practice quackery, but just
disseminate and popularise the knowledge, gifted to us by our forefathers”.
When
the gypsies depart and the summer sets in and when the children shoot
themselves off the school to enjoy the great summer vacation, it is the turn of
bicycle acrobats to enliven the nights of Aruvikkulam. A smoking generator kept
at the makeshift circuit spited kerosene fumes to light up the tubes tied on
coconut trees. Villagers said the cyclists ride their cycles nonstop, day and
night, for days, and sometimes for weeks; but Kunju didn’t buy their claim,
though he spared Soorya to allow him to witness the show once or twice.
“They play tricks on the villagers and
make money”, he told casually, disappointing Soorya.
“No one has seen the acrobat riding the
cycle eats or sleep, and no one knows how he passes urine and relieves himself.
He only stopped for a while keeping his right foot over the front wheel of the
bicycle without a braking system or a bell to ring”, Soorya countered.
Next it is the turn of the tall,
bearded perfume seller to make his annual appearance at Aruvikkulam. He comes
before the fasting season begins. Unlike other seasonal visitors, he lets known
his place of origin, as he claims he belongs to the land of Urdu speaking Sufis
in the northern desert. His drooping salt-and-pepper beard gives his face an
acute oval shape but fits well on his lean and flowing middle-aged trunk. He
wore a green sleeveless jacket with silver embroidery over his white Kurta
and a pair of hooked half shoes that resembled a couple of starved one-horned
rhinos, thanks to their rough overuse. But the most striking item of his
possessions was the attractive glass perfume box with glowing steel frames and
rows of little bottles of ‘Athar’ and colourful incense tubes. When the long
school bell rings children run out and curiously follow his fragile figure,
carrying the divine fragrance around him like a halo, along the long stretch of
the curly village road. He had fixed routine and regular customers who waited
for his yearly visitations. When he opens his precious glass casket in front of
the mosque, the children huddle around carefully scrutinizing his every action.
It is a moment to watch. He slowly takes out the heavenly coloured little
bottles, wipe them in a small velvet towel and, as meticulous as possible, just
like handling a precious gemstone, places them carefully in the palm of
prospective buyers.
* * *
IV
A year after Soorya joined the high school
on the other side of Ambipuzha (at the end of his education at Aruvikkulam
upper primary school), government engineers from Kozhikode visited Ambipuzha
with a proposal to construct a bridge over the river. The students were
thrilled, because when the bridge would become a reality, they could walk over
the river instead of depending on the ferry twice a day.
The news of river inspection soon turned
crazy, going berserk like disturbed yellow wasps on the hills. Villagers were
excited and the discussions, pro and against, continued for weeks.
“It will take two years to build a
concrete bridge over Ambipuzha”.
“The
bridge will bring buses on our road. Our children will cross the river and
study in town schools”.
“Don’t be foolish. A bridge is not a
one-way gate. Outsiders will invade our peace and tranquillity”.
“When the bridge is completed, jeeps
and Ambassadors (taxi) carrying homecoming Gulf returnees
would reach their yards”.
“The roads of Aruvikkulam will have to be
made wider for buses to run; and remember the government will acquire our land
and coconut gardens for widening the road”.
“Don’t be so selfish; Gandhiji did not
visit Aruvikkulam in 1937 just because there was no bridge. He left after
speaking to the people on the other side of the river”, Kesava Kurup, an
octogenarian and an odd Gandhian of Aruvikkulam, said supporting the need for a
bridge across Ambipuzha.
“We all had gathered on this side of the
river and I still remember Gandhiji standing among the crowd, draped in his
simple robes, waving us from the far side. Although his face was not very clear
I believed he was smiling”.
Then more than Gandhi, the left movement
had impacted Aruvikkulam; Apart from the white Khadi, in which the
politicians hide behind, and the photograph of the father of the nation hanging
in the headmaster’s room of the primary school, Gandhi’s influence on the
common people of Aruvikkulam was negligible. The outcasts and the oppressed
easily jumped onto the leftist bandwagon and the left leaders created an image
for themselves as victims and the hunted, even by Gandhi followers. The local
leftist leaders, in those days, teasingly called Gandhi, “Mottakkanti” meaning
‘Gandhi with the tonsured head’. The lower castes united under the left banner
and some upper caste people and zamindars joined them and immediately
became their leaders. Some others hated the leftists but faked support so that
their interests and wealth were not harmed.
Nothing had ever influenced the
people of Aruvikkulam, as the communist movement did. In the beginning, the
comrade leaders came crossing the river. Like evangelists, the group trooped
down, with side bags filled with notices, pamphlets and black and white images
of revolutions from around the world. Sometimes they stayed at Aruvikkulam for
weeks, hosted by well-off party sympathizers. They took night classes and spoke
about the proletarian wars in which kings were deprived of their sovereignty,
princes became paupers and plebeians became the rulers. The party office cum
library stood at the dusty intersection where the road splits before heading to
the hills. Every evening, gramophone blared out revolutionary drama songs,
heralding a new dawn for the downtrodden. At the end of a hard day, the workers
drank toddy to relax and listened to poet Vayalar Ramavarma’s blood rousing
song ‘Balikuteerangale’ meaning Oh’ Martyr’s columns..! Comrades’ eyes filled
with utter contempt towards the enemies. Martyrs were eulogized and the rivals
were demonized. Red Flags were raised in the fields to signal workers to start
working, and in the evening when the flag came down they would stop and leave.
“The
truth is that the Communist land reforms put an abrupt end to the bonhomie between
the farmers and peasants”, landowners secretly murmured.
“We
promised you land reforms and its implementation marks the beginning of the end
of slavery endured by the poor and the downtrodden for centuries”, asserted
the evangelists, with euphoria.
“Farming
and feudalism are twin sides of a coin. You destroy one the other would follow
suit”, warned the farmers.
“Land
reforms have stopped the exploitation of the poor lower caste people”, declared
the minister who had come, crossing the river in a motorized boat to address
the villagers. He spoke about the necessity of workers to join the
innumerable trade organizations.
“There
are trade unions for government employees, teachers, students, toddy workers,
priests, tailors, carpenters, tree-climbers, taxi drivers, artisans, and farm-workers.
And if anyone is still left out we can develop new outfits for them or else
they can be co-opted in the existing ones. Anyhow, all of you must join at
least one of the wings”.
“The
bridge will open up the world before you. The communist world, the proletarian
world; Do you know how quickly our world is expanding? From the Soviet Union to
China to Cuba to Vietnam! The colonialists will soon surrender and vanish. We
all are waiting for a new spring to usher in; the communist spring. When the
bridge is ready, comrades from the town will visit you more frequently. Rains
and winds will not stop them. Their boats will not sink in storms. The news and
images of revolutions from the communist world will reach you more regularly”.
At Aruvikkulam,
neighbourhood meetings for the communist families were a routine and the
attendance compulsory. Each of the three hills had separate neighbourhood
committees for men as well as women and a few members from hill committees got
promoted to the Aruvikkulam area committee. Donations to the party, even if
meagre, were obligatory because the leaders believed when the workers donate a
part of their hard-earned money, it is easy for them to identify themselves
with the party. When you donate, you give away a chunk of your mind too. Three Granthashalas
(small reading rooms), one each on the three hill slopes, were started, and the
literate few read the party newspaper aloud and others listened. Books in
Malayalam with hard-covers and smooth pages published by Prabhath Book House
and Progress Publishers, Moscow, were supplied free of cost. Though hardly
read, these thick books were revered as symbols of knowledge and power.
Communist evangelists with voluminous books in their hands generated instant
respect.
Kunju
did not reveal his political affiliations after reaching Aruvikkulam. He had
great respect for Gandhiji and he tried to inculcate ‘Ahimsa’ in his students
by telling stories of the freedom movement. He disgusted violence and
revolutions but he was well aware of his limitations too so he took special
care not to reveal himself too much instead built a friendship with everyone.
The bridge was completed on time. Huddles
erected, and notices displayed on both sides of the bridge to prevent bicycles
on the bridge before the formal opening. Only pedestrians (no animals like cows
and bullocks) were allowed to walk over the bridge awaiting inauguration. And
finally, the minister came again, cut the ribbon, and walked across the length
of the bridge, with his entourage. The whole Aruvikkulam gathered on the
riverside. Children skipped schools and farmers postponed the harvest.
* * *
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