Theeyoor Chronicles Read online

  Srinivasan had firm opinions on why the different factions within the Party fought with each other constantly.

  ‘Differences of opinion are common at all stages of the revolution, especially at the beginning,’ he said. ‘There’s one line of thinking that focuses on the annihilation of the feudal class through farmers’ strikes. Another line of thinking wants to attack and destroy police stations which are instruments of governmental control. A third that is against violence calls for large-scale popular disobedience to resist the oppression by feudal landlords. They believe violence should be a last resort, acceptable only in the rarest and most unavoidable circumstances. And then there are those who argue that guerrilla warfare is possible all throughout India, and those who think it is entirely impossible. The thing to remember is that, despite all these different opinions and viewpoints, a solid revolutionary movement has already become a reality in India.’

  Explaining the intricacies of revolutionary politics clearly and succinctly is something that Srinivasan did well, but when it came to having a firm view on what needed to be done in practical terms, he too floundered. He made regular trips to Kozhikode, Ernakulam and Thiruvananthapuram to meet with his friends who were considered intellectuals, and had long philosophical and theoretical discussions with them. But on his return to Theeyoor, he was unable to do anything to raise awareness among ordinary people or to get them organized. The truth of the matter was that he was from an old feudal family – one of his ancestors had been a local tax inspector, and another a magistrate – and in his heart, he retained a deep-seated disdain for ordinary folk and their politics. Meanwhile, Kunjigovindan and Chandran wanted desperately to organize some kind of action in Theeyoor and the neighbouring villages, but their extensive discussions with Srinivasan resulted in no significant plans.

  Finally, one night, they did something.

  Chairman Mao Zindabad

  Power through the muzzle of a gun

  We are with Naxalbari

  Perish the revisionists

  They made posters with these slogans and put them up all over Theeyoorangadi. The next day, at exactly 10.15 a.m., a police jeep stopped in front of Theeyoor Primary Health Centre. Policemen dragged Chandran out of the office and put him in the jeep. Then they stopped at the Rural Bank where Kunjigovindan worked and at Srinivasan’s house.

  It was late in the evening by the time the three men were let out of the police station. They had been thoroughly beaten and showered with blood-curdling abuses, and as they made their way gingerly along the road, people moved away from them in fear. The very next day, Chandran applied for a month’s loss-of-pay leave from work and went back to his village. And the day after that, Srinivasan was gone too – his relatives sent him away to an uncle who was a businessman in Bombay. Kunjigovindan found himself all alone. A month passed, but Chandran did not return. Kunjigovindan did not have the courage to go to his village to see how he was doing, because the police were watching his every move. He spent his days enveloped in a deep sense of disquiet until, one day, he received a letter from Chandran. He was done being a servant of the establishment, Chandran wrote, and was going to dedicate his life to the liberation of the downtrodden. He promised to meet up with Kunjigovindan soon. But months passed, and there was still no sign of Chandran. Finally, Kunjigovindan gathered up his courage and went to his village, a place called Kolassery near Thalassery. And that was when he found out the truth – Chandran had gone off to Dubai!

  His Marxist comrades had disowned Kunjigovindan as soon as they realized that he entertained views which were contradictory to the Party line. But unperturbed by their rejection and animosity, he continued to argue with them. Even his everyday conversations were peppered with the phrases ‘comprador bourgeoisie’, ‘fundamental contradiction’, ‘petit bourgeois ignobility’, ‘social imperialism’, ‘war of eradication’, ‘bankruptcy of parliamentary democracy’ and so on. After a while, people began to find him and his manner ridiculous, but he continued exerting himself with newer and more obscure philosophical analyses and vocabulary until, finally, everyone started calling him Theory Kunjigovindan to his face.

  I walked along the road by the side of the river leading away from Theeyoorangadi with Sadanandan maash. About a furlong and a half down the road, he pointed to a house barely visible through the thick greenery.

  ‘That house there … that’s Theory’s house,’ he said.

  7.

  As we entered the yard, Kunjigovindan was sitting on the veranda of the house. A thin, tired-looking man dressed in a faded handloom shirt and a lungi, he had a bald head and a greying beard.

  Kunjigovindan chucked away the beedi he was smoking, and welcomed us with a smile. Sadanandan maash introduced me to him and told him the purpose of my visit. With no discernible change in his expression at the mention of his son’s suicide, he pulled up some chairs and invited us to sit.

  ‘Well, that was the result of a crisis,’ Kunjigovindan said, as though beginning to explain a philosophical matter. ‘Personal, but at the same time social,’ he said, in English this time, and fell silent as though he had nothing else to add.

  I realized that he was not going to talk unless he was asked a direct question. So, I asked.

  ‘Govindetta, are you still involved in politics?’

  ‘I have absolutely nothing to do with political parties these days.’

  ‘What do you think of the old Naxal line now?’

  ‘It was the right response at the time. But obviously the movement could not progress further. A lot of the decisions and actions taken by the Marxist–Leninists had the reductionist tendencies of leftist sectarianism. And then there was the issue of Charu Majumdar’s ego. In my opinion, that’s what destroyed the movement. He behaved as though he was a community elder. To be honest, there were objections right from the start against his philosophy of the annihilation of class enemies. Nagi Reddy, for example, has always argued that the killing of individuals was only justified if it was part of a mass movement.’

  ‘But there were other reasons also for the failure of the Naxal movement, weren’t there?’

  ‘Of course, yes. For one, the leaders of India’s organized communist parties were agents of imperialism and feudalism. They’ve been letting the workers down, working against them, right from the time of the independence movement. Unfortunately, the Indian working class is yet to understand this.’

  ‘Is that why the Naxal movement didn’t grow?’

  ‘Without a doubt. It is India’s official communists who betrayed the revolution and actively participated in its defeat. They were never really interested in exploring the congruence between the essence of Marxist–Leninist philosophy and the tangible realities of an Indian revolution. They were the actual reactionaries, it turned out, paying lip service to the idea of revolution when, actually, they were terrified of it.’

  Kunjigovindan seemed to be relishing the opportunity to talk about his favourite subject, and warmed up to it. I wanted to annoy him a little.

  ‘But you colluded with them yourself, didn’t you?’ I asked. ‘For quite a while in fact…’

  ‘Well, yes, I won’t deny that I too was infatuated with the idea of parliamentary democracy. I don’t think, in those days, I realized what it meant to be a communist.’

  ‘After the Marxist–Leninist movement came to an end, did you ever consider renewing your involvement with the Marxist Party?’

  ‘Absolutely not! That’s one mistake I won’t make! I walked out of the Party in 1969, and soon after that the Branch Committee expelled me officially. In 1973, I left my job at their bank. I decided cooperative communism was not for me.’

  ‘And after that…?’

  ‘I kept in touch with some of my Marxist–Leninist comrades. But now … Well, there is no more M–L now, is there?’

  Kunjigovindan’s voice betrayed a deep disquiet and disappointment. He lit another beedi and sucked it as though trying to soothe himself.

&nbs
p; ‘So these days … What do you make of the country these days?’ I asked, trying to bring the discussion to a close.

  ‘What’s there to say?’ he said in a voice thick with emotion. ‘Political parties are vying with each other to embrace with open arms new models of colonial servitude. What can an old man like me do about it?’

  ‘Would you comment on our nation’s political future?’

  Kunjigovindan seemed to find this question amusing.

  ‘My family are astrologers, diviners of the future,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘But I don’t believe in divining the future of politics.’

  I enjoyed the humour and intelligence in his answer. Sadanandan maash, who had been sitting quietly until then, also grinned. Someone cleared their throat from inside the house. Kunjigovindan got up and went inside. Sadanandan maash looked at me as though asking whether it was time to leave.

  I was somewhat disappointed that I had not heard anything about Sudhakaran. I could prolong the conversation, but I had to find a way to turn it away from politics. As I sat mulling over this, Kunjigovindan came back out with two glasses of tea.

  ‘Oh, there was no need for tea…’ Sadanandan maash said.

  ‘It’s just a glass of tea. No problem at all.’ Kunjigovindan’s voice reflected his disappointment in not being able to welcome us properly.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I had my tea just before you arrived,’ he said.

  The tea was over-brewed and lukewarm, and smelled of smoke. I downed half of it with some difficulty and continued the conversation.

  ‘You must find it hard to pass the time these days…’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, it is difficult. Reading is the only pastime I have these days. I have memberships in three libraries. I can’t sleep well if I don’t read. It’s a habit I’ve cultivated over the last forty or so years.’

  ‘I’ve heard that Sudhakaran was also an avid reader…’

  ‘Yes, he was. But his interest turned to spiritualism at a young age, so his reading was mainly in that area. Spiritualism cannot shed light on dialectical philosophy.’

  ‘Are Sudhakaran’s books still here?’

  ‘Yes, they’re all still here.’

  ‘Would it be possible for me to have a look?’

  ‘Why not? Come with me.’

  Kunjigovindan led us to the top floor of the house. As I climbed the stairs behind him, I caught a glimpse of a woman moving quickly behind the door. She was clad in an old sari, and her eyes, pleading and helpless on a pale face, pierced my heart.

  I was aware that Kunjigovindan’s wife and four daughters lived in the house with him. Having spent his life in political activism and philosophical discourse, he had not been able to provide for his children’s future. The oldest daughter had run away with a bus conductor while she was a college student and had come back home after a couple of days, the scandal of which had affected the whole family. Still, the daughters had received some marriage proposals but since Kunjigovindan and Sudhakaran had not shown sufficient interest in pursuing them, they had come to nothing. A couple of times, prospective families who had come to see the girls had left, bored and put off by endless philosophical lectures from Kunjigovindan. Thinking about those young women’s lives and their current mental status, a fog of sorrow settled over my mind, and I could not shake it off even as I entered Sudhakaran’s room.

  ‘This is where he spent most of his life,’ Kunjigovindan said.

  The room was dusty and covered in cobwebs, and looked as though no one had entered it in months. There were two shelves packed with books and magazines, and newspapers were stacked upon the floor. The air was thick and stale. I cracked a window open which let in some light and a gentle breeze, and began flipping through a couple of books. Kunjigovindan and Sadanandan maash said they would wait for me downstairs and left me alone.

  There were several books on the Bhagavad Gita, studies and collections of sermons, among Sudhakaran’s books. He also had a substantial collection on the Vedas and the Upanishads, works by spiritual gurus from Swami Vivekanandan to Acharya Rajneesh, and books on magic, yoga, astrology, palmistry and such. My hand was beginning to tire from sifting through these volumes when I came upon A.K. Gopalan’s autobiography, Ente Jeevithakatha. The book did not belong to Sudhakaran. Kunjigovindan’s name and signature were on its first page.

  I was about to replace the book on the shelf when I felt something within it. Opening it, I found an old, yellowed postal envelope. Inside was a sheet of paper covered in tiny, tightly packed writing. The letter was dated 23 March 1977, and started with the greeting ‘My dear Kunjigovindan’ and was signed ‘Yours, with love, Achu’ followed by a sketch of the hammer and sickle in parenthesis. I felt that the letter was not something I could skim through quickly. So, without thinking about the ethics of appropriating a private letter without permission, I stuck the letter back in its envelope, put it in my back pocket, replaced the book on the shelf and left the room.

  I did not spend much more time with Kunjigovindan. We chatted amicably for a few minutes, and left saying our goodbyes.

  In the lowering sun, the shadows under the trees were thick. Night was arriving rapidly without warning.

  At the market, Sadanandan maash and I went our separate ways. I took an autorickshaw back to my room, anxious and in a hurry to read the letter in my pocket. As soon as I reached my room, I shut the door, took off my shirt and chucked it on the bed. As I took out the letter, I was overcome with a peculiar tiredness, and yet I stood on the spot and started reading it.

  23 March 1977

  My dear Kunjigovindan,

  I’ve been meaning to write to you for a few days now. I’m in some financial difficulty at present, and I’d be really grateful if you could help me with a loan of 200 rupees. I need the money urgently, and there’s no one else in Theeyoor these days whom I can confidently ask for help. I promise I’ll repay you as soon as possible. There was a time when this land and the Party needed me. But times have changed. My health is not what it used to be, and I have become unwanted. There are a couple of people, like Appettan, who are still alive. Although they are not in as penurious circumstances as I am, their lives are hard too, and it would be wrong to approach them with such a request. I’m aware that you yourself are not doing great, but I do believe you could help me if you decide to.

  I am, by no means, in a position to offer you advice. But I was once a very close friend of your father’s, and from that position I thought I might say a few things.

  I don’t get involved with party politics these days, nor do I care much about politics generally. But don’t think I’m completely unaware of what’s happening around us.

  There was a time when my friends and I used to trouble our heads with public affairs, dissecting and examining each and every issue carefully, just as you and your comrades do these days. We too had felt the weight of the world on our shoulders. I know you’ve been involved with the Party from the time you were young, but I don’t believe you began attending Party classes or discussions until 1964. Even when you became a member of the Marxist Party, you were only an ordinary worker. And yet, these days I hear people refer to you as an intellectual and a philosopher. Quite a dramatic development for someone your age!

  As for me, I had started becoming aware, even before the split in the Communist Party, that someone like me was superfluous to the Party’s needs. It was becoming clear to me that the only path left for the Indian communist movement was that of parliamentarism, despite continuing to keep up pretences that we still believed in armed revolution. The Indian bourgeoisie is not, in fact, as your Party is fond of saying, comprador bourgeoisie. We don’t have a government that dances to the tune of foreign interests. Our government is invested in protecting the interests of industrialists and landowners, this much is true, but our rulers are not consciously pawning our country to American imperialism or to anyone else.

  This country’s development will continue
to be driven by capitalism. The rich will become richer indeed, but the poor will also change. They will form different classes, and the interests of the working class will become diverse. There will be changes in the nature of exploitation and oppression. The leaders of the working class will accept the lifestyles of the upper class. These are not developments that can be stopped by the philosophy within communist textbooks.

  I honestly don’t believe that India’s agrarian workers and labouring classes are going to disregard democracy completely and get on board with the idea of liberation through armed revolution. Within a short period of time, people have come to have faith in democracy as a process of government. I was quite sure when the Emergency was declared that it would not hold for too long. And day before yesterday, they have withdrawn it. The Janata Party is coming into power, and you can be sure that there’ll be barely any difference in their economic policies, but their victory is still the victory of democracy.

  I don’t think, of course, that the changes in India’s social and economic situation will come about through peaceful means. But I am sure that people will not support the idea of armed revolution. In fact, banging on about the old ideas and concepts – class struggle, overthrow of bourgeois government and so on and so forth – is disingenuous, dishonest even. Ordinary people’s lives no longer unfold as defined in the old dogmas. The communists need to understand, and make others understand, this. If they don’t, if they continue to bungle along without self-reflection, their whole enterprise will be imbued with dishonesty. A chasm will open up between philosophy and practice, and the Party’s members will find it difficult even to understand the purpose of their being. They will become reactionaries even as they spout revolutionary ideas.