Morning After the Storm - Part 4.

When Mathappan died a few months later, neither Chathan nor Neeli attended the funeral. That was against convention, an offence in fact, but Thampran took no notice.

Thunder had stopped, but the clouds remained. Chathan reached the end of the embankment and turned towards his house. It was no longer a hut. There were four small tile roofed brick buildings on that plot. The first one was his. It had a tiny outhouse in which he stayed. Maran occupied the main portion. Two belonged to his older sons who were both dead. There was another son, the youngest, who had left home in his teens and was never herd of again. Chathan kept hoping that the boy was still alive and would return some day perhaps as a rich man.

Looking at the last building, the old man thought of his third daughter, a simple and loving person who was the prettiest among all his girls. Many young men were keen on marrying her. Then a middle-aged person from the south, who was said to be an expert in building bunds, came to visit an ailing relative in Kadep. He stayed on. Everybody liked the polite and well-behaved Pulaya convert who went to church regularly. Thampran deputed him to check all the bunds in the fields of the Big House and give a report.

Those were the days when the Communist Party’s theatre group was performing to packed houses all over the State. Their dramas and songs were very popular. The themes, the tunes and the lyrics focused on the travails of agricultural workers. They appealed to the masses.

After a month at Kadep the bund builder took permission from Thampran and started an amateur troupe to perform a different type of play at the next Onam, the harvest festival. Chathan’s third daughter was chosen as the heroine. The artists met at nights and rehearsed at the house of visitor’s relative.

The play was never staged. Two months into the practice, the hero who had a real life interest in the heroine leaked out information that the drama master was actually conducting study classes for the Communist party. The visitor disappeared as soon as the news was out, leaving behind Chathan’s daughter pregnant.

In due course she was delivered of a baby boy.

One afternoon she dropped the infant while feeding, stripped off her clothes and ran out. Thampran arranged treatment for her at Cochin by a specialist. With medication she seemed to be normal but a new trend developed. She started sleeping with every man who was interested. One day she was found hanging from a mango tree. It was rumoured that she had contacted some horrible disease. Chathan and Neeli brought up her son and it was for him that the fourth house was built.

Those buildings were their own homes on land that now belonged to them. A new law stipulated that landowners had to sell homesteads to the tenants at prices stipulated by the government. Chathan and his two elder sons were entitled to ten cents each, but Thampran had given the entire fifty-one cent plot. People said that Thampran was en-cashing what would have been a useless twenty-one cents bit of land. They didn’t know that it had been a free grant.

The houses were built with government subsidy and loans. Thampran also helped. Before the construction was over, Neeli passed away in her sleep. How many full moons had she seen? Chathan had no idea. Not that it mattered. She had come when he called, and they had been happy together. And suddenly she was gone. Birds died, dogs died, Pulayas too died. That was the end. There was nothing beyond. Chathan felt no emotion as he watched Neeli’s body being engulfed by flames. There was only numbness inside.

It was different later, in the darkness of the night. Lying sleepless on a single mat spread on the floor, he remembered Neeli saying the previous night that her major regret in life was that she could bear him only three sons out of the twelve children they had. Those words turned out to be her last. He felt sad and lonely. He had never stayed away from his wife for more than a couple of days at a stretch except when he had to live in a coffin for months together.

Electric lights were burning bright in all the buildings. Power was free for the Pulayas. The big TV of Maran’s son blared out loud music. Maran’s grandson sat on the front steps with a book. Chathan wondered how many direct descendants he had. He couldn’t recall. But he knew that the land in his name would be partitioned into tiny bits after he died. Now even a Pulaya had to worry about such matters. One good thing was that the newer generations had fewer children.

Chathan approached his great-great grandson and asked, “What are you reading?”

“English,” the boy said without looking up.

The old man felt proud. Pulayas too were learning the sahibs’ language. They enjoyed concessions and job reservations. But what was the use? Apart from a few exceptions like Maran’s son, most of them dropped out half way through school. They neither knew the work on land, nor were they qualified for any other job, and often ended up as trouble makers.

Chathan went to the outhouse and sat on the bed Maran had bought him. Initially he was frightened of falling off, but soon got used to the comfort. A bottle of toddy and a glass were kept in a corner of the room. In the olden days the opaque juice tapped from coconut trees and naturally fermented, was served in earthen pots and drank from coconut shells.

Maran’s wife came in. She looked younger than her age. “Here’s some hot shrimp and coconut chutney,” she said. “It’s nice.”

“Good,” Chathan said.

“I’ll bring dinner after some time,” the woman said and withdrew.

Chathan turned to the toddy. He drank slowly, savouring the flavour. It was good, not the adulterated version that was widely sold.

For decades Chathan used to visit the local toddy shop every evening. His usual quota was two bottles. But once he drank nine at a sitting. That was at an unplanned competition with a visiting Pulaya who bragged about his drinking prowess. The fellow slumped to the floor as round nine started. Chathan finished his bottle to the applause of the onlookers. Two of them had to help him home later. Chathan laughed aloud thinking of that scene and how angry Neeli had been.

Continued at:

Morning After the Storm - concluding part.