Theeyoor Chronicles Page 8

  ‘The police will be here soon,’ someone said.

  ‘Don’t care who comes, we’ll hold our meeting.’

  Every person in the crowd seemed to agree with the sentiment.

  Presently, a car arrived and two police inspectors and another person got out of it. One of the inspectors was a tall, lean man. A whisper spread through the crowd: ‘Kuttikrishna Menon, Kuttikrishna Menon…’ I had never seen him before, and was surprised to see that the fearsome inspector was as thin as a bamboo pole. The other inspector was short, fat and fair-skinned. I heard people say that he was the sub-inspector from Thalipparamba, Beeran Moideen, and that the third man was the magistrate Venkittarama Iyer. A bus arrived soon after, and seven or eight policemen got out of it.

  The magistrate clambered up on the foundation of a fallen-down house and said, ‘This place has been placed under curfew. You cannot assemble here. Please disperse.’

  Immediately, Vishnubharateeyan – he had come to see me the previous week in Kulappuram and we had talked for a long time – stepped forward. ‘We don’t recognize the curfew,’ he said. ‘We refuse to leave and will get on with our assembly.’

  An invigorating sense of warmth coursed through my veins, and my skin broke out in goosebumps.

  A man with a big moustache rushed through the crowd. ‘Don’t leave,’ he shouted. ‘Stay your ground, don’t leave.’

  People squatted on the ground, and Vishnubharateeyan began his speech: ‘Brothers, comrades…’

  Something was about to happen.

  The magistrate and Beeran Moideen moved towards the stage, while Kuttikrishna Menon and another policeman started pushing people back with their batons. Suddenly, a procession appeared and moved towards the crowd. Slogans rang out like claps of thunder:

  Inquilab zindabad!

  Perish British rule!

  Destroy feudalism!

  Swept up in the energy of the moment, we repeated the slogans at the top of our voices.

  ‘I’ll kill you, you sons of bitches!’ Kuttikrishna Menon roared.

  The police started laying into the people with their batons.

  ‘I’ll not move even if you kill me.’ Vishnubharateeyan held the tricolour aloft, and lay down on the ground.

  A kind of madness seemed to take hold of Kuttikrishna Menon. He began flailing blindly with his baton. A man struck on his head went down with the cry ‘Amme…!’ A nightmarish scene ensued. The crowd surged forward, crying ‘Kill him! Hold him down!’ Some snatched the batons from the policemen and returned the beatings. I heard the sound of gunfire – three shots in succession – and saw a man fall face down, having been shot in the leg. The next moment, a large stone landed on the pistol in Beeran Moideen’s hand.

  Kuttikrishna Menon had been struck on the head with a stone. He withdrew and leaned against a wall. Jostled by the heaving crowd, I was very near to where he was standing. In spite of the blood pouring down his face, he was shouting incoherently and brandishing his baton. Suddenly, I saw a hand wielding an iron spatula rising above his head, and the next moment he slid to the ground with a grunt. I backed away quickly. The crowd had begun to disperse. Beeran Moideen and the magistrate ran for their car and got in. I looked around for my companions, Chandutti and Kunjiraman.

  ‘Run,’ Chandutti said, materializing suddenly by my side and pulling at my arm. ‘It’s dangerous to stay here now.’

  ‘Where’s Kunjiraman?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s behind that tree. His kneecap is busted.’

  It was chaos, but we got to Kunjiraman. Holding him up between us, we began to move away from the crowd. His knee had swollen, and he cried out in pain every time the leg touched the ground. We hurried aimlessly through the spreading darkness. We thought we could hear an approaching train, and in a while, we saw its headlight and realized we were in a compound north of the railway track.

  Getting our bearings gave us courage, and we began walking along the railway track. But it was not an easy journey. We stopped at every dog bark, looked constantly around to see if anyone was coming, if we saw a light in the vicinity, we hid in the shadows until it faded away. Kunjiraman’s knee was getting worse by the minute and he was in agony. Soon, he couldn’t walk at all, and only Chandutti and I know how we managed after that.

  Even now, the memory of that night sends a chill down my spine. I cannot describe how we managed to reach Pazhayangadi jetty. We untied a small boat tied to a pole and rowed across the river. It was only when we reached the other bank that we began to feel safe.

  Fortunately for us, the police never found out about our involvement in what came to be known later as the Morazha Incident.

  So many years have passed … When I recall these old incidents, I feel a deep sadness. We had nothing then – not a single good mundu to wear, or timely meals, or a mattress to sleep on. All we had was our love and trust for each other, our comfort in knowing that each of us lived for the others. We knew for certain who our enemy was, and we had a clear vision behind each of our actions. But such certainty of values and visions has become a thing of the past as the times have changed beyond our wildest dreams. The British have been defeated, feudalism is over. There are no more famines. The nature of poverty itself has changed. All changes for the best, no doubt. Still, there has to be something wrong with the world when each person lives only for themselves, strives only for their own betterment. Either something has gone fundamentally wrong somewhere. Or…

  Four

  1943

  Acute food scarcity. Astronomical prices even for essential goods. A time when a whole day of labouring in the soil earned four annas while a coconut cost one anna. A sack of sugar used to be twenty rupees, but now it was 145 rupees. A bottle of kerosene was seven annas, and even if one had the money, there was barely any in stock. Those who lived on daily wages – the labouring classes – had been driven into abject poverty.

  By the middle of the month of Karkitakam that year, an epidemic of cholera spread through Theeyoor Thekkumbhagam. In those days, Karkitakam was the month of wretchedness and hunger, with such incessant rains that even the crows refused to leave their perch. By the middle of the month, the rain would be at its heaviest. On the sixteenth day, Mariyattam, a ritual performance of the Pulaya community, would be held, and Maritheyyams, personifications of misery-sowing deities, would be seen scampering across the land, hollering in the pouring rain. They would be appeased by the offering of a handful of rice or an old mundu, and a three-quarter anna coin would make them sing with happiness.

  That year, when the Maritheyyams returned to Theeyoor Thekkumbhagam, Umbachi, mother of Kukkiriyan who had dressed up as one of the deities – Marikkuliyan – was lying motionless on a mat in their hovel, drenched in her own blood-laced diarrhoea and vomit. None of the medicines and mantras worked, and she died that night. By the next morning, Kukkiriyan’s aunt and her two children were ill, and by evening they too were dead. From then on, death danced across the land, taking four or five people a day, sending waves of fear through the community, and making them neglect even the burial of the bodies of the deceased.

  When he heard the news, Appettan said, ‘We can’t just sit here. We’ve got to help.’

  Appettan, Kanisan Narayanan and I went to Thekkumbhagam although we had no clear idea what to do. Isolated within the flooded fields, the area looked as desolate as a burial ground. Even in the torrential rain, we could hear the screams emanating from the huts.

  The stench of dirt mixed with vomit and shit was overwhelming, and we covered our noses as we entered the huts. We were not prepared for the sight of the poor, suffering people lying on torn mats on the damp and dirty floors, too exhausted even to open their eyes. We trudged through knee-high sludge to a hut, and moved the coconut frond that served as the door aside. Inside, on the bare floor, face down in his effluence, was Kanjootty, the old man who sold woven reed mats at the weekly market in Theeyoor. No one seemed to be around to take care of him.

  Undaunted, showi
ng no sign of disgust or reluctance, Appettan cleaned up the vomit on the floor with a piece of areca spathe and some old rags. He went plodding through the mud, and came back with a pot of water. He went off again after telling me and Narayanan to boil the water. By the time we found some coconut leaves and husks, built a fire and boiled the water, he was back with a handful of rice, some salt and some sugar.

  Appettan mixed a little salt and sugar in a glass of the water in which the rice was boiled, and helped Kanjootty drink it. The hot, steamy beverage seemed to revive him a little, but not for long. As we watched, he started vomiting forcefully even as his bowels emptied like muddy flood-water. His body convulsed, and he writhed in agony holding on to his lower abdomen. His wide-mouthed screams wrenched our hearts. Sweat streamed down his wrinkled face, and his sunken eyes fluttered. When he stuck his tongue out to lick his parched lips, Appettan gave him another spoonful of the water. But Kanjootty was gone before he could drink it, and the water dripped down the corner of his mouth.

  We began asking people about how to treat cholera. Kunjanan Vaidyar, a medicine man from Kilimala, told us of a remedy that involved making a brew out of curry leaf stems, mussel shells and dried ginger, mixed with vilwadi gulika – a pill made of several medicinal herbs that had antitoxin properties. On our way back from the vaidyar’s home, we heard that a Jesuit priest, Father Caironi, was treating people near Cherukunnu. A large fire was built, and the cholera patient was made to stand close to the fire until the person’s skin almost blistered. Then the patient was given a mouthful of local arrack – preferably brewed from cashew fruit or beaten rice. We were told that Father Caironi had cured several people using this method. We began using Kunjanan Vaidyar’s medicine and Father Caironi’s cure in Thekkumbhagam, and found that both treatments were effective. Meanwhile, we heard that a healer by the name of Unithiri Vaidyar had come up with a medicine, vishuchikakudari, and had successfully treated people affected by cholera in Karivellur. So Appettan sent Kanisan Narayanan’s son Kunjigovindan to Karivellur to bring back the medicine. With the combined help of all these remedies, Thekkumbhagam was free of the cholera epidemic in a couple of months.

  Thekkumbhagam Chathu, the Congress Party leader who passed away last year of liver cirrhosis, was one of the people whose lives we saved. In those days, he was not involved in politics, and only became a leader around 1948 when the Congress organized the Desha Raksha Samiti – the society for the protection of the nation. One time, he had visited my parents when I was not at home, and hurled abuses at them. ‘Have you sent your son pimping for the Soviet Union?’ he had asked.

  It was two or three months after this incident that the police finally arrested me. A few days after I had served my time and got out, I ran into Chathu at the Theeyoor railway office. He came up to me all friendly.

  ‘I wanted to say something about that day when I went to your house and made some ruckus…’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was actually trying to help you.’

  ‘Really? How’s that?’

  ‘I purposely came when you were not at home. Otherwise the boys with me wouldn’t have left you alive.’

  ‘Well, that indeed was a good thing,’ I said. ‘I’m glad I was left alive so I can dish out a couple of slaps myself to the sons of bitches still around.’

  Five

  The high and mighty up in the mansions

  Feasting, fattening, frolicking in fun

  Have they ever seen a paddy seedling?

  Have they ever touched a stalk of grain?

  4.

  Six

  On 5 April 1957, the Communist Party won the state assembly elections, and a government under the leadership of E.M.S. Namboodiripad came into power. The culmination of our efforts, we felt. There was nothing more to achieve in this life. We organized a celebratory procession that started in front of the Theeyoor police station and ended at the railway station. Holding the red flags aloft, Appettan and I walked proudly at the front. Thousands of people attended the public meeting after the procession.

  Seven

  It was 1931, if memory serves me right. For a while, I had lived with my uncle in Kandoth. I must have been twelve or thirteen. Uncle was quite prominent among the Thiyya community there. One evening, a large group of people gathered on the veranda of his house. They were talking about a procession that was planned for the next day, and how to stop it from happening.

  I can still remember clearly as though it was only yesterday what Uncle said:

  ‘They’re bringing Pulayans. How can we allow those wretches to walk on these roads? What’s the point of being alive if that happens?’

  The next day, armed with stout sticks and firewood, Uncle set out with several other people to hold off the procession. My aunt and a few women followed them with the long pestles they used to pound paddy. They forbade me from getting out of the house. The men and women came back after a while, strutting as though they had accomplished something great.

  Uncle threw down the stick still in his hand, and spat loudly.

  ‘I think at least two are done for,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ my aunt asked.

  ‘A.K. Gopalan, and that fellow Keraleeyan.’

  ‘Are they dead?’

  ‘Mm, I think so. Well, they were senseless when we left…’

  Eight

  Set them free, set them free

  Our heroes Gandhi and Nehru

  Together we shall destroy

  Japan and their fascism

  Pull it out by its roots

  And bring it crumbling down

  By the time he had read this far, Bharathan was bored with his uncle’s diary. He had never taken a serious interest in politics or public affairs, and what he had read so far did not inspire him enough to read each and every one of those dry and dreary notes. He flipped through the notebook until he came to the last entry, numbered twenty-two. He decided to read it.

  Twenty-two

  It was January 1964, I think. There was a major argument between Kanisan Narayanan and Panakool Kunjappa at the general body meeting of the Theeyoor Public Library and Reading Room. The apparent subject of the disagreement was the admission of new members to the general body, but in reality the issue was politically motivated. There had always been two clear factions within the Communist Party at the national level, with differing opinions on mission and policy. At the national congress of the Party in Vijayawada in 1961, both factions had competed furiously with each other, but neither had been able to attain the upper hand within the Party.

  By the time of the India–China war in 1962, things had deteriorated. Many of the prominent leaders, including E.M.S. Namboodiripad, were under arrest. A rumour that they were Chinese spies spread across the country. Later, A.K. Gopalan and thirty-one other members staged a walkout at the National Council meeting, which led to their suspension. The incident caused a rupture in the Party, creating a right-leaning faction led by S.A. Dange and others and a left-leaning faction led by A.K. Gopalan and Sundarayya. Other prominent members, too, took their positions – Gauriyamma, C.H. Kanaran, and KPR joined the leftist faction, while M.N. Govindan Nair, T.V. Thomas, and C. Achutha Menon joined the rightist faction. EMS continued to be the general secretary. In Theeyoor, the argument between the two factions escalated to the extent that, for a while, it seemed the Library and Reading Room Committee would be taken over by one of the factions. In those days, other than a few Congress and Janasangham supporters, most of the members were supporters of the right-leaning faction of the Communist Party.

  The note came to an end there with the word ‘Incomplete’ written in big, slanted letters under it. Bharathan sat still for some time, holding the bound notebook in his hand. Then he opened a drawer, dropped the notebook casually into it, and shut it.

  5.

  Sickle Achuettan ended his involvement with the Communist Party in 1964. Both factions approached him to woo him back into their fold, but he warded them off with a
simple answer: ‘I’ve given up politics.’ Until his death more than three decades later, he put his political views in writing only one other time.

  On 23 March 1977 – the day after A.K. Gopalan passed away – Achuettan wrote a long letter to his comrade Kanisan Narayanan’s son, Kunjigovindan. The purpose of the letter was to ask for a loan of 200 rupees, but its content was mainly about politics. It is curious that Achuettan wrote a letter and posted it when he could have met with Kunjigovindan in person any time he wanted. Perhaps he was reluctant to ask for a loan face to face and thought writing a letter was the better option.

  The letter came into my possession entirely unexpectedly over twenty years later.

  Kunjigovindan’s first wife died less than six months after they got married. She was struck by lightning. He remarried, four or five years later, and his second wife was a woman named Narayani from Vayalumkara. They had five children. The oldest was a boy, Sudhakaran, and the rest were girls.

  Six months before I came to Theeyoor, Sudhakaran died, hanging himself from a rafter on the veranda of his house. When I came to Theeyoor to write about the suicides, I had told myself that I would, as much as possible, avoid unnecessarily troubling the immediate families of the people who had taken their lives. My plan was to collect as much information from friends, neighbours and other local people, and approach the families only after that. And when I did, I would not pester them with questions, I had resolved, and would only listen to anything they wanted to say to me.

  I had gathered a lot of information about Sudhakaran from Sadanandan maash. Sudhakaran had taught science at Theeyoor High School. He was forty-one years old when he died. His wife, Marykutty, a teacher in the upper primary section at the same school, was from Thrissur. Theirs had been a love marriage.

  Sudhakaran had shown no interest in marriage until he was thirty-eight years old, but his love for Marykutty almost bordered on obsession. The sudden and complete change in a person who had been stern by nature even as a young man, who immersed himself in the world of spiritual and philosophical books, had amused his neighbours and friends. Sudhakaran had been open about his attraction towards Marykutty, and chatted and laughed with her in front of his colleagues and students. Playing on the diminutive ‘kutty’ which meant ‘little one’ in Marykutty’s name, the equation ‘Sudhakaran + Marykutty = Kutty’ appeared on the walls of the school toilets. Sankaran maash, the teacher in charge of the library, and a BP patient, had once discovered them canoodling against a bookshelf in the library and had lost his temper.