Gift In Green

By Sarah Joseph

An eco-spiritual search for light and life in a world inching towards dystopia Gift in Green, written originally in Malayalam, is a tantalizingly unconventional narrative that explores, on multiple levels, the pain and poetry that eventuate from the disruption of the intimate relationship between a people and their life-world, using water (the 'water-life' of the people of Aathi) as the overarching metaphor that mirrors the degradation of the society. Between the polarities of attachment and abandonment, darkness and light, predatory progress and the sheer will to survive, unfolds the saga of a people confronted by the behemoth of progress driven by Kumaran,who seeks to abandon water-life, threatening its very existence. But such is the author's faith in the resilience of life and nature and her belief in the futility of trying to control something as fluid and eternal as water-life that what promises to be the end is also the hope of a new beginning. This is the first instance in Indian literary history of a novel in a regional language being translated and published concurrently in English.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperPerennial
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9789350292648

Sarah Joseph

Sarah Joseph is an eminent Malayali author and social activist. All her novels have been well received and won prestigious state-level awards. Gift in Green - the translation of her previous novel, Aathi - was published concurrently with the Malayalam original.

Book preview

Prologue

Darkness sat brooding over the abyss.

The earth was formless and void,

Not a soul or fowl was upon it.

Then, one day, the boats set forth.

Many boarded, flaming torches in hand.

Dinakaran first, and in his wake the rest.

Flashes of lightning the face of water smote,

Setting fire to the aathi night.

Paddles in unison the water ploughed,

Slicing, splashing, spraying,

A crescendo of vibrations!

The rhythm quickened,

Faster and faster it grew.

Round and round Aathi they sped,

The pitch mounting feverish,

The feverish growing frenzied.

Paddles, boats, rowers, merged into one.

All ceased to be, became pure speed,

A spinning, blazing wheel of fire.

The celestial witnesses wondered:

The world, was it coming to an end?

The glory of God moved over the waters.

It all began when a thampuran, nearly dead, came floating down the backwaters. Thampuran, wrapped in a mat – oh, my son, my daughter – came ashore on our side of the waters. His body was seen bobbing on the waves by one of our ancestors who pulled him out, put him in his lap, and gave him a palm-full of water to drink.

The very next moment, Thampuran died.

There was nothing here then besides the forest and the water. Bird for bird, forest for forest, fish for fish: everything wished to die with Thampuran. Our ancestors pondered the matter. Surely this meant something. Thampuran could not have come and died on our shore for nothing; and that, too, on patthamudayam. And so it came about that every patthamudayam thereafter became a festival for us.

‘Keep us from harm,’ we pleaded and prayed.

We were rewarded.

The harvest doubled.

The fish and the mussels doubled.

The water doubled.

The children of strength doubled.

Except for Thampuran’s shrine, we had no other refuge in Aathi desham.

Man created God.

1

The Tent

‘Come in.’ With a clap, the man in dark glasses beckoned the boy.

The boy’s name was Siddhu. He went out fishing every day in a small boat. Yesterday and the day before, he had gone past in his boat. Though there was no fish to be had there, he still chose to make the detour on his way to the forest of mangroves that stood tall in the water with its abundant fish. Yesterday and the day before, seeing the man in sunglasses smile at him, Siddhu had hastened away and disappeared into the forest, rowing with all his strength.

Dinakaran, Siddhu’s elder brother, had strictly forbidden him to go anywhere near the tent. Siddhu did not tell Dinakaran about the man in sunglasses. It made him uneasy.

‘Why did you go that way?’ Dinakaran was sure to ask. Ponmani would be incensed too. Ponmani was Dinakaran’s dearest friend. They had an instinctive dislike for the people in the tent. Everyone else in Aathi – except Baaji’s father – felt the same resentment towards them. There was a reason for it. The tent people had encroached and misappropriated the land to the low-lying western part of Aathi, where the shrine of Thampuran stood. It had become, according to Ponmani, a disputed piece of land. The idea of ‘disputed land’ was beyond Siddhu’s grasp. Dinakaran explained that there was no title deed to the land where Thampuran’s shrine stood. Overnight, a tent had sprung up amidst Thampuran’s lantana trees. Then a man in dark glasses appeared and was seen walking about the place.

‘Who are you? What’s your business here?’ the people of Aathi asked.

‘I am the owner of this land.’

They were shocked. He showed them several documents, according to which the land did indeed belong to him. In that case, where did Thampuran stand?

Dinakaran was the wisest man in Aathi. (He was also the tallest and the least talkative.) Quiet by nature, he was niggardly with words.

‘This is Thampuran’s land. It has been so for generations. It cannot have any other owner.’

‘The documents prove otherwise,’ asserted the man in dark glasses. Dinakaran, Ponmani and Kunjan Karnavar – the Elder of Aathi desham – went to the village office, which was situated outside Aathi, to make inquiries. What the man in dark glasses had said, it turned out, was true! The land was found to be registered in his name. Consequently, it was Thampuran who had trespassed. Dinakaran, Ponmani and Kunjan Karnavar were stunned. For generations, the people of Aathi had deemed that land to be Thampuran’s. No one had ever dared to take advantage of it in any way – not even draw a line on it, much less cultivate a square inch of it. The seeds that sprouted on their own had grown over time and become a dense bush around Thampuran’s shrine. Other than birds, squirrels, snakes, garden lizards, chameleons and crickets – familiar denizens of the forest – as well as amphibious creatures like turtles and frogs, no one had ever laid claim to it.

‘That doesn’t mean you cannot go there to light the lamp in the evening. It is a matter of faith, after all,’ said the village officer.

‘This is a hoax. These documents are forged,’ Dinakaran and Ponmani protested.

‘Then go to court and file a case,’ replied the village officer.

Given all this, why did Siddhu still go near the tent?

Behind the dark-spectacled man there appeared another one wearing a white topi.

‘Come here,’ he beckoned Siddhu.

There were some special things inside the tent. Baaji, Siddhu’s friend, had seen them. Baaji’s father sold pearl-spotted fish, karimeen, to the tent dwellers. They paid him Rs 300, even Rs 350, for a kilogram that would have fetched him only Rs 280 anywhere else. This was a cause for some friction between Dinakaran and Baaji’s father. Dinakaran would exhort him not to be such a Judas. ‘It is a matter of my livelihood,’ Baaji’s father would retort.

According to Baaji, there was a telescope in the tent. Seen through the telescope, the other end of the forest seemed close at hand. Those who rowed their boats on the other side seemed to be rowing on this side. Besides the telescope, there was a video camera as well. It had footage of Baaji’s father, showing him standing and bargaining over a karimeen basket held above his head. He could be seen tightening his dhoti around his waist, after asking Baaji to hold the basket (the words, barely audible in the clippings, sounded like ‘holdisboy’). He took out a beedi from behind his ear, fished out a matchbox from the folds at the waist of his dhoti, and flung the lit matchstick on the water after lighting the beedi. There was the ssh-ssh-ssh sound of the matchstick being extinguished on the water, and you could see the dead matchstick bobbing on the waves.

There was a gun inside the tent for shooting waterfowl. So far, Siddhu had seen only toy pistols. He was eager to see a real gun: a gun that could kill not only waterfowl but also human beings.

‘No problem,’ Baaji said. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you. In the tent.’

Siddhu did not have the nerve to go in, fearing Baaji would gossip and it was sure to reach Dinakaran. But he couldn’t get the better of his longing to see a real gun that could shoot to kill.

He had got a toy gun on the day of Korattimuthi’s festival. Ponmaniettan had bought it for him. Buying it was not easy; Ponmaniettan had to jostle his way through a large crowd, pushing and getting pushed about. In the process, his immaculately washed and ironed shirt had got crushed. The moment Siddhu had the gun in his hand, he pointed it at those around him. They were terrified. Siddhu couldn’t help laughing. Even the sight of a mere toy gun scared the poor fellows! Unlike them, he was fearless. He used to fantasize about himself as a nonchalant hero standing with an air of supreme confidence, his arms akimbo and his pockets bulging with two deadly guns.

Dinakaran gave Ponmani an earful for handing a gun to the stripling lad. It was a little toy gun that emitted small, red spurts of potash. Even so, what a lot of noise it made! At the very first burst, scores of waterfowl scrambled up in panic, taking to their wings. What a sight it made!

Dinakaran snatched the gun from Siddhu, broke it into pieces and hurled it into the water.

‘Aren’t you ashamed to scare them like this?’ he admonished Siddhu.

The waterfowl returned on wings of gratitude.

There… the man with dark glasses! He beckoned again. ‘Hey, come here.’

Nudging Dinakaran out of his mind, Siddhu banked the boat. The white-topi man held out his hand, but Siddhu didn’t need anybody’s help to disembark.

‘Boy, your name?’ the white-topi man asked. ‘Siddhu, right?’ he said, laughing, before Siddhu could even begin to speak. Siddhu was astonished, but guessed at once that Baaji would have told them his name.

The front curtain of the tent was drawn. Inside the tent Siddhu could see a table covered with a red-and-white striped cloth.

‘Is there… a gun here? Siddhu asked.

‘Gun?’

‘Gun to shoot waterfowl?’

‘Who shoots waterfowl here?’

Siddhu fell silent. Dinakaran had told him that the people in the tent shot waterfowl. Siddhu was not going to mention it; he was not a fool.

‘Tell us. Who told you we shoot waterfowl?’

Siddhu felt fear creeping up on him. He wanted to see the gun and get away as quickly as possible. Being an honest boy, he couldn’t say nobody had told him.

‘Won’t you show me the gun, please?’ he asked. The dark-spectacled man and the white-topi man winked at each other.

‘Come,’ they said.

The gun hung on a palm screen in the middle of the tent. The white-topi man took the gun and trained it on Siddhu. Siddhu stood terrified, his hands raised involuntarily, his face blanched, his lips quivering and his knees knocking against each other. The two men exploded into laughter. The cloth walls of the tent shook.

‘That’s how brave you are? And you want to see a gun?’

‘Should boys be so scared, Siddhu?’

‘Here. Hold.’ The white-topi man held out the gun to Siddhu.

‘I want to go.’ Siddhu turned to run out of the tent.

‘This is just a toy gun. It won’t fire. Try,’ said the man in dark glasses.

‘No. I want to go.’

Siddhu lunged forward. The white-topi man barred his way. Siddhu would have screamed had the man not thrust a large piece of chocolate into his hand.

Siddhu rowed fast. As if reluctant to go forward, his boat only went in circles, though he rowed with all his might. He had meant to throw the chocolate into the water as soon as he made some headway. The very thought of it scared him, however. The men in the tent would be watching him through their telescope – even the smallest movement he made. He should not have gone into the tent. It was a mistake.

‘Siddhu!’ Baaji hollered from behind him. He came racing as though in a speedboat.

‘Why did you come to the tent?’ he asked, ramming his boat into Siddhu’s boat.

‘Just like that.’

‘Did you see the gun?’

‘Mmm.’

‘You know, the Storyteller has come. I saw him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In Markose’s house.’

2

The First of the Seven Nights

Hagar: the mother of Ishmael. That day, waking her and her son earlier than usual, her husband thrust into her hands a few loaves of bread, a small quantity of dates and a goatskin full of water.

‘Follow me. Take your son too.’

He mounted his camel.

He stepped out, walked ahead and led them to the wilderness where the mountains were bare and the landscape bore thorns and thistles. A sandstorm raged continually. Leaving them there, he turned and began to walk away.

‘Are you leaving me here forever?’ she cried out in panic. He did not turn back.

‘Why do you abandon your child and me in this terrible, lonely wilderness?’

He did not stop.

‘What wrong have I done? Tell me that at least. Don’t I have a right to know?’ Hagar screamed after him, but received no reply. She could only see his red robe lifting and fluttering in the desert wind. Heartbroken, she fell to the ground and lay there prostrate.

‘Except for a few dates and a half-full water skin, I have nothing. The sun spits fire on me and my child. I am singed within and without. The burning sand roasts my feet as though I am standing on a red-hot pan. You, who walk away from me… won’t you tell me how I am to take care of your firstborn?’

Beyond the mountain, the last glimpse of his red robe was fading out of sight. Hagar mustered all her strength and yelled at the top of her voice.

‘Did your God order you to do this?’

Atop the mountain, he stopped and turned back. ‘Yes, this is the will of God.’

The God who led me to your bed

And willed the river of life to flow,

Won’t you, for life’s sake, to that God listen?

Or was the will of God to you then, as now,

An alibi, and little else,

For your impotence as a man?

Clasping the baby to her bosom, she stood watching him as he descended the other side of the hill and disappeared out of sight. To hide herself from the heavy sandstorm that beat upon her, she sank to the ground, nestling the baby under her. When the gale subsided, the baby began to scream in terror on seeing her dishevelled; her face, her hair and her head cloth all covered with sand.

Her tears had dried up, as also the milk in her breasts. Dehydrated, her blood had begun to thicken. Every stream within her that had flowed ceaselessly like the unending mercies of God was drying up too…

Hungry, Ishmael began to cry.

My son, before this blazing heat dries up my breast, drink to the last drop.

She cuddled the baby to her bosom. Ishmael’s hunger was not assuaged, nor his thirst. He stared at her in terror.

Late into the night, hungry and weak, he cried himself to sleep.

Who would abide with her through the terror of that lonely night? In that scary wilderness that flayed her with fear, who would comfort her?

Her body trembled with exhaustion and her mind quivered with anxiety.

The sky above, her only ceiling. All around her, the wilderness: a vast, wall-less mansion that afforded neither provision nor protection.

‘The mercy of your father’s God is spreading blankets of darkness on the walls of the horizon… to keep us warm, my son,’ she tried to comfort the baby, whose jaws were chattering in the biting cold of the night.

Far into the night, a piercing wind continued to blow. The sand that had glowed like coals of fire in the day hardened into shards of ice at night. Within the folds of her robe, against the warmth of her bosom, Hagar hid her son.

In the darkness of this terrible night,

Wintry winds howl and needle me.

Oh, open not your cavernous mouth,

You hungry desert loneliness,

To swallow my baby!

Though tortured by thirst, she did not so much as moisten her lips with a drop of the water on which she knew hinged the hope of her son’s survival in the burning heat of the following day. Despite the hunger that tormented her, she did not touch even one of the few remaining dates.

The feeble light of the stars only deepened the loneliness of the wilderness. Now and then, like long, deep sighs, the dust storms continued to blow and buffet her.

The short night came to an end, somehow.

The long day began. Having blazed as much fire as he could, the sun hid himself behind the sand dunes to the west. For a while, the sand remained like cinders of fire.

Again night came, needling her with biting cold.

The water ran out. Wracked with thirst, her son began to scream and howl. Gradually, his voice became weaker. It petered out into a feeble cry like the choked ‘ki… ki’ of a bird whose neck is being wrung.

She squeezed out the last remaining drops from the water skin and moistened the parched lips of the baby. He cried all the more. Would it be her son first? Or would it be she? Who would be the first to die? Hagar shuddered at the thought of having to dig a pit with her bare hands to bury him in the sand and then wandering about in the wilderness all alone. But what if she were to die first? That terrified her even more. How could this be the will of God? Hagar trembled at the thought of her child crying in terror as he helplessly watched the vultures feasting on her dead body, or crawling in the burning sand in search of her.

No! No! It could not be. There had to be something far greater…

Hagar got up. The God of the one who disowned was also the God of the one disowned. She had to seek and find the wellspring of life.

Hagar began to wander about, struggling against the creeping hopelessness that tormented her. She crawled up and down the dunes, collapsing to the ground every now and then, exhausted. The whimpers of the baby continued to lick her heart like tongues of fire.

She pleaded.

To the sun blazing mercilessly.

To the gale blowing, deaf to the cry for compassion and justice.

To the endless stretch of sand that pricked fire into her exhausted, staggering feet. Show a little mercy. Give me a little more time. Be kind.

In truth, my child, a woman it was

Who cast you into the plastic will

Of your father’s enigmatic God.

That God now wills, he says,

To discard you to a dusty death

In this waterless wilderness.

As a woman, it’s not in me, my child,

In God’s name to let you die.

With the last drop of my ebbing strength,

Strength of body, mind and soul,

For your life I’ll fight and keep faith.

You must survive, and survive you shall,

The firstborn of the dispossessed.

The Giver of life will water give;

For God is life and life, water.

Afternoon. Ishmael suddenly became unusually still. Thinking him dead, she laid him by a bush and stood nearby, numb and motionless. Her heartbroken cry, welling up from deep within, died as though ripped in the middle.

Did she hear someone call her by name?

‘Who is it? Is anyone out there? Who are you, to have come to my help?’

It was the voice of her own desperate bewilderment that she had heard. The wilderness, frighteningly vast and lonely, was all there was. In the depths of sorrow and despair, she lay prostrate, covering her baby.

At once she heard her baby whimpering, and again someone calling her by her name. She grabbed the baby from the sand and dashed here and there, seeking the voice that had called her. Could it have been only the clamour of her own heart’s desperate hope? The fragrance of whose wind-wafted mercy was it that enveloped her? Who could it be, my God, in this terrifying solitude? Willing all her strength to her legs, Hagar groped and wandered about in the wilderness.

Who?

Where?

Then, as in a dream, she chanced upon the source of the sound: a mysterious bird, near the bush, flailing the ground with its wings. Hagar… Hagar… Hagar… Its downy feathers lay scattered all around. Blood speckled its wings, but heedless, it continued to thrash about, determined to knock the earth open.

Hagar stood transfixed as a spring gushed forth from the earth, like water squirting from the eyes of a pierced coconut. Incredulously, she stood and watched the bird drinking the water ravenously, dipping again and again into the pool around the spring and juddering its wings in joyful celebration. In a flash, Hagar ran back screaming, scooped up her son, flew to the spring, and immersed him in the water. Trembling, she poured a palm-full into his mouth and immersed him in the pool again and again. The flow of water continued undiminished, the source spouting more and more fresh water. Hagar soaked herself in the stream until in her breasts she knew the miracle of water turning into milk.

She settled on the banks of the small lake that lay between the barren hills and the thorny bushes. It was a bird near the water springs, she remembered gratefully, that had led her, like the wing-beat of life itself, to this water source in the desert. She felt humbled by the ways of God.

Hearing of the water source, nomads and desert tribes came in search. They saw the lake. Saw, besides, a woman, a baby in her lap, sitting on its banks.

‘May we, too, drink from this?’ the nomads asked her.

Hagar nodded assent.

‘And settle down near the banks?’ the tribes asked.

Hagar could understand the thirst of a people, the infinite value of water and the secret of life scripted into it. She said, ‘I have no objection. But you must know that water is life itself. I shall be the caretaker of this water, guard it and mother it for the sake of my child and for the sake of the children yet to be born. This water you shall have, but only if you agree to a covenant. I insist on this not in a spirit of power or of ownership, but in the name of life. I know the value of water. To me, the value of the first drop of water is the value of the life of my firstborn. You stand excited, seeing an ample source of fresh water here before you. But you know nothing of the value or meaning of that first drop of water, its coolness that flowed into my soul like the assurance of life itself. Others may not know the first drop of water. But I do, and I can’t forget what it means. Not a drop of water shall be wasted. I won’t allow it.’

The nomads agreed. They sensed her earnestness and they were desperate for water. ‘We acknowledge you as the protector and caretaker of the water. We will gather food for you. Only give us the water we need.’

That day the desert witnessed the birth of a water covenant. The nomads fed her and the child. They, in turn, bathed and drank water to their hearts’ content.

With the plentiful water, Hagar knew they could cultivate vegetables near the lake. Working together, they reaped a joyous harvest. Harvests hatched festivals. In due course, a people came into being.

Noor Muhammad ended his story. The first of the seven storytelling evenings drew to a close. The custom of storytelling evenings thus continued to take shape. People turned up with stories sprouting from the traditions of their islands. Their stories grew and burgeoned like grains in the Pokkali paddy fields, rooted in the primeval soil and nourished by the water and the warmth of life. Sailing from place to place, narrating stories here, there and everywhere, they arrived like birds of passage, their feet soiled with the red earth, their clothes reddened too, and their hair dusty. Their lips flowered crimson with stories and their eyes glowed with gladness.

Putting down their bundles, the Storytellers who came year after year would take a dip in the cool water of Aathi. Emerging from the water, they would clad themselves in white. The Karnavar of Aathi would then lead the Storyteller by the hand into the boat and make him sit on the prow. The ceremonial boat would lie anchored on the ferry bank that stretched like the neck of a bottle into the courtyard of Thampuran’s shrine. Even as the Storyteller took his appointed place on the prow of the boat, the Introducer would arrive from the east, rowing his boat. In faithful compliance with the traditions of Aathi, the Introducer – wearing a headgear and mask, a torch blazing in his hand – would step into the water.

‘Jalam saakshi!’ he would proclaim.

‘Jalam saakshi,’ the people would echo in unison.

‘Even as human beings were born, stories too were born,’ the Introducer would begin his prologue. ‘From the time the River of Life began to flow, stories have been sailing on it. The day stories dry up and the Storyteller ceases to turn up, Thampuran will go away from our midst. Life won’t be worth living, if that happens. But don’t worry. As long as there is water, stories are sure to sprout.’ Markose, a poet and a self-proclaimed ignoramus, was the Introducer on this occasion. The resonance of his voice was widely and deeply loved. The heartbeat of a people throbbed in that voice. At its highest pitch, his voice could rouse the waters and stir the boats. Markose continued:

‘We celebrate the birth of the Storyteller. We believe that he was born with fire on his tongue to speak the truth and to show us the way. The Storyteller identified the dates for our daughters’ weddings. He showed us where to dig wells. He prescribed where the rafters for our houses were to be fixed. He named our children. We received him as Thampuran’s voice. Thampuran returned to our midst through the words that sprang from his tongue, the essence of life embedded in them, in their tropes and embellishments. He moved in our midst, fixed the poles for our festivals and shared our food and drink. As for us, we sang and danced around him to the accompaniment of drums and ditties. He revealed himself to us. We beheld his manifestations in water, fire and forest. We were sure that he said or did nothing of his own will. We did what he advised and did nothing to the contrary. Nothing he prescribed ever proved fruitless. We were alert to every word of his. He had nothing; neither name, nor home, nor kin, nor clan that he could call his own. Yet, he was everything to us. He would leave us, being a wandering mendicant. But he would always return to us in one form or another, because he was faithful and truthful to the core. All we did was to wait for him, as the generations before us had done, as indeed the generations after us shall.’

That was the way the introduction always ended. The introduction over, the Introducer would take off his headgear, emerge from the water, and stick the burning torch on the stem of a plantain tree. Only then would the Storyteller begin his story, and the session would customarily end with a question: ‘How are we to apply the essence of this story to our lives?’ The people of Aathi would complete the story, seeking and offering answers to the question until daybreak.

As soon as the Storyteller ended the story of Hagar, Dinakaran stood up and said, ‘This is the story of the first evening. The Storyteller is Noor Muhammad. What we have to do now is to consider how we shall apply this story to our lives.’

‘Late. Much too late! You should have told us this story thirty-six years ago. Then it might have made a difference. Hasn’t Aathi been drained of all its robust young men like the waters of a breached dyke? If they were to return now, would they not stick knives into our stomachs?’ Kunjimathu expostulated.

It was no secret to anyone that it was to Kumaran that she referred: Kumaran who had abandoned his homeland thirty-six years ago; Kumaran who had not bothered to wonder, even in his idle time, how his homeland and its people fared; Kumaran who had now come back under the pretext of love for his land and was busy cultivating the people. It was hardly surprising that Kunjimathu reacted the way she did, given the depth and extent of her suffering. It was only natural that she was aggrieved. Hadn’t her life been wasted, after all?

Kunjimathu would, of course, strongly disagree. She had gained a new life, she insisted vehemently, rather than lost one. Even now, in the autumn of her life, was there anything she truly lacked? Beauty? Strength? Intelligence? Admittedly, the sharpness of her eyes had dimmed a little. Having left fifty-two springs behind her, she had become a little presbyopic. But her hair was still black, her complexion clear and bright, and her zest for life wholly intact.

Kunjimathu was flanked by her companions Karthiayani and Devaki. Pinching a dry tobacco leaf in two and giving one piece to Kunjimathu and the other to Devaki, Karthiayani asked everyone in general and Kunjimathu in particular: ‘What’s the use of bringing that up now? When Kumaran set out, leaving Kunjimathu behind, the mother of this blooming fellow who has told us this tale would not even have conceived him.’

Devaki said, struggling to hide her amusement, ‘Are you still stuck in your infatuation for that Kumaran, my Kunjimatho?’

‘Kumaran, my foot! Waiting for Kumaran? Yes, of course. My dog is,’ said Kunjimathu, incensed.

Devaki shook with laughter. ‘She is gnarled with age. But look how infatuated she still is!’

‘Devo, mind your tongue. If I were so infatuated, could anything have stopped me from going with him? But did I go?’

No, she hadn’t. Instead, Kunjimathu had steadfastly pursued her water-life.

3

He Who Abandoned the Water-life

Kumaran.

Should the son of a fisherman be only a fisherman? The offspring of a farmer nothing but a farmer? Immersed in water day after day, all year round, what can one hope to gain in life? What more than a few grains of paddy, some fish, a few oysters? Can one hope to build a decent house? Or move from a reed mat to a cot? Or dream of having decent clothes to wear? Or, even of using street lights rather than a palm-leaf torch at night?

Kumaran’s mother was incensed upon hearing all this. ‘Don’t forget your roots, boy,’ she would admonish him.

Kumaran’s mother sat weaving a smooth reed mat with a strong, beautiful border made of narrow strips of red and green. His father was bathing the buffalo. The cow and calf, already bathed, were chomping on karuka grass. As in many of the other houses in Aathi, there was a small lotus pond in the courtyard of Kumaran’s house. Kunjimathu, the girl whom Kumaran was to marry, sat cleaning fish in the shade of the firewood shed, which was full of dry coconut fronds, husks and shells of coconuts, and twigs of mangrove trees. Cucumber plants bearing white cucumbers spread over the roof of the shed, covering it entirely.

‘Staying here is a waste of time. If we are to get any work at all, we have to get out of this place and go somewhere else,’ said Kumaran. Exasperated, his mother threw down the knife with which she had been chopping fronds.

‘What madness is this?’

‘You are the one who is mad, not I,’ Kumaran retorted, picking up the knife and nonchalantly scratching his chin with it.

‘Don’t want to work with your body. That’s the problem,’ Kumaran’s father shouted.

Kunjimathu felt sad.

Kumaran came and stood near her, but she did not dare to look at him. She could not, until she had scaled and washed the fish, slit their sides, rubbed in the chilli-turmeric-salt paste, and handed them to his mother.

‘Hey?’ Kumaran stopped her as she passed by him. ‘Why so serious,’ he whispered, trying to finger her breasts furtively. Embarrassed and not knowing what to say, she sidled out of his reach.

‘You stink of fish,’ Kumaran remarked.

‘Serves you right.’

Kunjimathu’s father was also upset about Kumaran’s attitude. Her father would give her only to a man – by which he meant, one who took pride in working, heart and soul, with earth and water.

‘She is my only child. I don’t have a clutch of daughters. All my belongings – my land and water – are hers. I have trained her well to take care of them. Even so, she needs a companion. But it has to be someone whose work improves the land, and not a magistrate who would be a fish out of water in this place.’

Only Kunjimathu’s father had the mettle to say that. He belonged to a generation for whom the water had been salted by the rain of human sweat and not by the swell and sweep of the sea.

Kunjimathu was a pretty girl in the fullness of her youth: honey-complexioned, her limbs graceful and her hair luxuriant enough to weigh her head down. A mole on the tip of her nose added to the charm of her face. Going on sixteen, she was comely enough for even the most sober of ‘magistrates’ in the land to desire her hand in matrimony. Kunjimathu was, however, immune to the magnetism of magistrates. Her heart was set on Kumaran: stout-hearted Kumaran, who was a tenth-class-pass. But if Kunjimathu’s father had heard what Kumaran said, he would have slapped him with a chappal and chased him away.

To be a