The Sea of the Dead by Asokan Charuvil. Tr. from Malayalam by K. M. Ajir Kutty

Representative Image: Courtesy: Pinterest

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his old building near the sea is a Kasthurba Sadan. A sign board is still hanging from it. The paint on it came peeling off and the letters faded. The building is largely damaged. The roof in a corner has caved in. A great number of the roof tiles are ruined. The mortar on the wall has come off at many places. The graffiti of an old election is still seen on that part of the wall where the mortar has remained stuck.

The official recognition for this Sadan remains suspended now. No officials ever come here for inspection or something. Spinning wheels (Charkkas) and other instruments which have been in disuse for long are lying in rooms gathering dust.

Acacia trees which were planted by officials from the forest department in the recent past have thrived and are now shielding the building from view. The courtyard and the roof are all covered with dry leaves. People who go for a blow of wind on the beach in the evening will not see this building so easily.

School children who would come to see the sea from schools in the past used to pop into this building. They would take the lunch brought by them sitting in a row here. They could see from close quarters how different types of Charkkas worked, how soap was made and books bound etc. There were many women who would chatter like jingles there at that time. The ambience then was redolent of a fragrance blended with women’s charm.

Now silence alone reigned here. The sound of wind blowing from the sea shaking the acacia trees alone was heard. The institution’s lifetime chairperson, Soumini teacher, after the gap of so many years today took the Charkka and dusted it. She started to spin the yarn after oiling its wheels sitting cross-legged flat on the floor.

The yarn came out of the bail of cotton like an obedient child and wound itself around the spool. The teacher was annoyed at the particles of flying dust which made her nose run. She would raise her hand and wipe the running nose on the arm of the blouse. Her white khadi sari was soiled after having sat on the floor with its cement flooring chipped off. She had to use all the strength that was left in her lean hands to make the spinning wheel turn.

The other person living in this institution is the old man called Ulahannan Chettan. He would sit on the sill of the door all the while looking at the sea. With the coming of the rains, the sea changed its nature. It became like a hungry wild animal and grew dark like a jungle. The beach was littered with ashes, bones and plastic carry bags. Wind by which rain drops flew about blew constantly.

During the rains, it is the beach of the dead. The place is known as a spot for the ritual of Vaavubali, performed to feed the souls of the dead with sacrificial rice symbolically eaten by crows in legions. A great number of people would come every day with earthen pots filled with the bones of their dead ones who were once their mentors and dear ones. A lot of deaths occur during rainy season.

A somewhat tall ceremonial oil lamp of many wicks will be lit and placed on the sand. The earthen pot is broken and thrown into the sea. The sack of ashes is untied and emptied into the waves. With that the rituals come to an end; so simple. When the waves come striking against the shore later, the burnt pieces of bones, shreds of the broken pot and ash will be deposited on the beach.

There was the frightening roar of the sea throughout the night yesterday. Towards daybreak its intensity weakened slightly. It was on hearing a grinding noise that Ulahannan Chettan woke up at dawn. Soumini teacher was spinning the yarn sitting in the portico.

She was lost in thought. As he observed her thus, he could not restrain himself from laughing. She had one of her remaining teeth sticking out between her lips. She murmured something as it if to nobody:

“At first it is the Thriprayar Ekadasi festival. Then at Guruvayoor; Kadalaasseri Vaavaaraattu ritual, Aaraattupuzha Pooram festival and in the end the Irinjalakkuda festival, all coming one after another in that order and with that the festival season too comes to an end.”

Ulahannan Chettan felt he was watching a scene in a movie shot with the roar of the sea in the background. This woman is more emaciated now. The frequent bouts of asthma have made her chest look like the cage of a pigeon. All that one could see on her face was numbness frozen with some unknown determination.

By the time Ulahannan Chettan came out waking from sleep, she, as was her wont, would have changed clothes after the morning bath. She would walk toward the highway with a leather bag in hand. On either side of the road were attractively built houses. She would walk into each house and call out to the occupants authoritatively:

“Soumini teacher has come. Bring the contribution for the Sadan.”
“One Soumini teacher has come, mother!”
“Oho, did she come?”

The voice of the housewife could be heard from inside. She would be given one or two rupees. With it came the housewife’s barb also:

“Weren’t you a woman selling soap, honey and incense sticks on foot in the past? Why are you going about begging now?”

“This is not begging; this is a contribution for the Gandhi memorial. They are building a seven-storied building at the beach. It will be opened by Gujral. Nayanar also will come. The statue of Gandhi, the statue of Kelappan, the statue of Ezhuthachan, the statue of Karunakaran, the statue of Murali and all will be there.”

Ulahannan Chettan then remembered the drama Thyagathinte Prathifalam (Wages of Sacrifice) staged by the inmates of the Sadan. This woman had played the role of a woman known for chastity. It was with her hair decked with a string of jasmine that she had appeared in it. ‘Enough, O goddess, enough this trial…no  more of this’ singing that song she danced crying throughout. Twenty five silent years have passed since.

The hair of Ulahannan Chettan has greyed completely. It must have been a long time since the laterite stone coloured khadi jubba that he has worn was washed last. His cheeks beneath his perennially yellow, wet eyes are swollen and hung heavy. That face of his is glassy. It cringes only when the ulcer in the intestines aches. Both his legs are oedematous.  A sore which has refused to be healed for long is now bandaged with a piece of cloth.

Dragging his sore afflicted leg along, he slowly moved to the kitchen. He struck a match and lit a beedi and puffed at it. Then he put a vessel on the fire to boil some water for tea. Both the inner hall and the kitchen are wet with water leaking from the roof.

This building comprises a store room which doubles as an apartment, an inner hall, a kitchen and porticos. In the front of the store room, which is secured with lock and key, there is a sign ‘Chairperson’s Room’ written on a small plank. That is Soumini teacher’s bedroom as well as prayer room. The room contained glass-framed pictures of many gods and Mata Amritananda Mayi besides lamps, oil, cloth for threading wicks, vermillion, and sandal paste. As soon as she steps into the room from outside, she starts worshipping the gods singing devotional songs.

Ulahannan Chettan sleeps in the hall. It was a sight of disarray with a clutter of spinning wheels, boxes used for making soaps, utility knife used in book binding, vials for homeopathic remedies etc. Ulahannan Chettan would spread a thick blanket in a corner and lie down on it with his head resting on a pillow. During night he would cough continually; he hardly slept.

“What a life it is!?” after getting up in the middle of the night and lighting a beedi, Ulahannan Chettan would talk to himself:

“I’m completely fed up. I feel like killing myself. I could end my life with a few sleeping pills bought for ten rupees at any time. But then, I go on living finding solace in this sea. It is something for me to lean on; its drone is there all the while. I could say something to the sea. A sort of people would always come to the beach. They are people hailing from different backgrounds, actually. Then there are the souls of the dead too.”

How is this woman singing devotional songs sitting in the closed room related to me? I have lied with her for some time in that apartment. Her body then had soft flesh on it. Her eyes shone brightly. Her hair had the scent of coconut oil extracted from burnt copra.

Gradually ennui crept between us two. Ulahannan Chettan stayed awake and said:

“The play and fun that the bodies can enjoy are so limited. It is not a great thing that blood and sap are surging in one’s body. They are just physical materials whereas it gives the feel of a dip at one point, at another spot it is strength and vigour that welcome one, apart from giving the feeling of softness now and then.  All the same, after some time, you will be disgusted. And then a sense of guilt grips you.”

When she was filled with disgust, Soumini teacher started to murmur, sitting all alone. She would smile listlessly at intervals. Placing the trunk of metal and the thick blanket outside the apartment, she said:

“Look, this is the matter. The Christians always smell of buffalo meat. I can’t stand it. I’m Kiriyaath Nair. My mother’s father is a Brahmin belonging to the Tharananalloor Brahmin household. Who are you to me, after all? You aren’t the one who has come to have a conjugal relationship with me by presenting me with three pieces of half a length dhotis and three measures of oil, are you?”

It was to train the inmates in making soap without using tallow that Ulahannan Chettan came here twenty five years ago. He has had his training at the Seva Samajam in Nagpur. He travelled through the length and breadth of India. He also has stayed with Vinobha ji for some time.

It was with a metal trunk painted green that Ulahannan Chettan had come. He had worn a Khadar jubba, pants and a vest coat of linen. He was too tall. He had a rose flower, which had not withered yet, stuck in a button hole. As he came up and stood in front of the Sadan, the sound of the spinning wheels working inside came to a stop. Many pairs of eyes peered at him through the window.

Ulahannan Chettan sat in the portico and opened the box. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat. The scent of Breyl Cream and shaving lotion came out of the trunk. There was a small picture of Christ also in the box. He had brought with him a fat book titled Jagajilli (The Incredible Hulk) for him to read as and when time allowed him to.

In those days Soumini teacher’s father, Dr. Narayana Pillai, would lie on an easy chair in the portico. He was incapacitated after a stroke. He had lost his faculty of speech as well. Even in that state he used to practise homeopathy on a small scale. Women fisher folk would come and take homeopathic pills given by him packed in bits of waxed paper.

Ulahannan Chettan manufactured National Bar Soap No.1.  It was in Kozhikode that the label for it was printed. The soap was good. It produced rich surf. The bars were made in green and red.

He rented a public address system from Chavakkad and conducted public meetings on village reconstruction programmes on the beach. All those meetings were presided over by Narayana Pillai. He would be carried to the venue of the meeting in his easy chair. The meetings began with a prayer song sung by Soumini teacher. Ulahannan Chettan would make a three hour- long speech on abstention, cleanliness and self-reliance.

Then Narayana Pillai died. With the coming of an ice factory and a prawn processing unit at the beach, girls stopped coming to spin wheels. Soap manufacturing alone went on without any hitch. Carrying the bars of soap in a large box on a bicycle, Ulahannan Chettan himself distributed it all over the place.

It was not long when certain handwritten posters appeared on the coconut trees and on the walls at the beach. They had only one question and answer: “What’s the name of the film that Soumini teacher saw in the company of Ulahannan Chettan at Krishna Cinema in Guruvayoor? Soaps Tell Tales. Soon Releasing: One Night at the Sadan (Eastman Colour).”

In those days both Soumini teacher and Ulahannan Chettan would sit for a long time on the steps looking away at the sea. They would not say anything. One day Soumini Teacher asked:

“Do you have fear?”

Ulahannan Chettan did not say anything. He looked at her face and then into those eyes in which the sea could be seen reflected. The eyes were wet. But, the face had the same expression of determination.

“I don’t fear anything.”

She herself answered her question.

The fishermen sang mirthfully in their canoes as well as at the toddy shop in the evening:

“Ulahannan Chettan and Soumini

Teachers are in love, chum.

They play Kathakali everyday

With eyes and hands, chum.

Hoi, thaanaaro thannaaro

Thana, thaanaaro thannaaro.”

Clutching two glasses of tea, Ulahannan Chettan came to the portico. Soumini teacher had stopped spinning the yarn on the wheel. The yarn already spun had come off the spool and was lying on the floor all snarled up. She was looking away remembering something. When she saw the glass of tea, she said:

“I have vowed to observe Orikkal today, that is, I will take food only once today. Today is the Ekadasi in the month of Karkkidakam. I will eat a steamed snack made with jaggery and desiccated coconut.”

Sipping from the glass, Ulahannan Chettan looked toward the sea. The rain had vanished. And the sun had started to shine forth. People are moving on the beach. Two canoes which were out at sea have returned. Both the fishermen and  fish vendors gathered around the canoes.

Soumini Teacher said:

“Kelappa ji is on hunger strike at Thirunavaya. Vinobha ji is coming. Perhaps, Mahatma Gandhi will come, too. There is a possibility also of Rajiv Gandhi coming. The Communists have turned the state into a police state, haven’t they?”

Taking the spinning wheel in her hand, she went inside.

Ulahannan Chettan lit another beedi and puffed at it. That was the last one he had in his pocket. He crumpled up the wrapper and threw it away. His spirits came alive when he saw the sky clear of rain. I can go for a walk on the beach. Then I will sleep comfortably on the sand relishing the strokes of the blowing wind.

Soumini Teacher came with her leather bag in hand ready to go on a journey. She said:

“Today, if you’re Christian, you’ll be protected. If you’re pariah, you’ll be protected. The tribal Nayadi gets paradise itself. How many of the Ambalavasi caste Hindu girls live by washing clothes and doing chores in the kitchens of others, any idea,? Is there anyone to enquire about them?”

Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she stood for a while thinking about something. Then,looking into the distance she said:

“I’m going to Thirunaavaaya. I’ll stay in the ashram there. Now there won’t be any coming back here in this birth.”

When the rays of the sun got hotter and brighter, Ulahannan Chettan walked, dragging his sore afflicted leg, through the beach. The fishermen and the fish vendors have all gone. A dog with festering wounds drove away the crows that descended to peck at fishes scattered from the catch, barking at them. No human beings stirred anywhere.

When he grew tired, he sat in the shade of an acacia tree. Suddenly sunlight faded. The sky darkened with rain clouds. A cold wind blew past Ulahannan Chettan ruffling his hair and clothes. He was chilled and shivered. He started to talk to himself:

“Damn it, now I must walk back before it rains, dragging this diseased and painful leg. It’s dead cold and to go with it there is this devilish hunger. The ulcer in the stomach has started aching. O my God, O my God, have you forsaken me? It’s just now that you should take incarnation in the form of a beedi.”

By noon a car came to a stop on the tarred road beyond the acacia trees. A crowd of fisher folk children, no one knew from where, swarmed around the car. Three half naked men and two sodden and plump women got out of the car. The man who was carrying the pot covered with a piece of red silk cloth on his head was a bit aged.

Whose bones are in it? Father’s? Mother’s? Uncle’s? Elder brother’s? An old man’s? A youth’s ? Age difference does not matter to burnt bones. Souls too have no age. It was with folded palms that the two women walked toward the sea.

The children who had collected around them pushed and pulled one another to get some coins. It was the youngest of the men who distributed money. He threw some coins towards the sea for a fun. The children jumped at them and pocketed all to the last coin. The women were much pleased to see the children’s agility in action. They laughed smothering their mouths with hands.

When they came up on the shore, Ulahannan Chettan stood up. Seeing that the eldest of the men said:

“Give ten rupees to that khadi clad chief uncle. See, he’s our father’s age. He appears to be a sage.”
“Are you a Brahmin?”

As he was handing him the money, the youngest of them asked. Ulahannan Chettan did not say yes or no to that question. Holding the ten rupees in his hand, he staggered towards the toddy shop without wasting any more time.

******

Asokan Charuvil (b.1957) has more than a dozen collections of short stories to his credit. He appeared on the Malayalam literary scene in the late seventies and has remained a strong presence ever since. His stories are sharp commentaries on societies torn apart by competing ideologies. Although he has been a camp follower of the leftist movement in Kerala, as a writer he hasn’t spared even his own party from being brought under the microscope of criticism. Asokan Charuvil has won many prestigious awards including the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award, Cherukad Award and Edassery Award.
At present he is the Vice President of Kerala Sahitya Akademi.

M. Ajir Kutty (b.1957) is a bilingual writer, translator and poet in Malayalam and English. He has published more than twenty books both in English and Malayalam. He won the M.P.Kumaran Memorial Award for translation in 2009 from the Kerala State Institute of Language. Ajir was chosen for the Jibananda Das Award for translation 2022 at a poetry translation competition jointly conducted by The Antonym Magazine and the Bhasha Samsad, Kolkata. He has also taken the lead in introducing Kerala’s Mappila literature to the English-speaking people at large through his translations.

K.M.Ajir Kutty 
Manakoottam Thodi
Edava-695311
Thiruvananthapuram District, Kerala. 
Phone: 8547700029 E-mail:ajirkutty@gmail.com