In the beginning, there was only the wrath of the curse...
T.V. Varkey’s latest novel, The Vanishing Generations, is a tale of epic proportions about a family in Kerala and its brush with changes wrought by modernity on a traditional society. An excerpt.
By T.V. Varkey Translated by A.K. Srikumar Publisher: Tranquebar Pages: 620 Price: Rs 799
When Kunjilona, son of Isthaak of Cholkkonu, married Mariamma, daughter of Thaandamma of the Paalat family, and consequently was adopted into the clan, the residents of Kudamon were filled with trepidation, as if they were in the middle of a bad dream. The event was akin to a hot summer wind buffeting them, catching them offguard. Fate had confronted them with a cruel injustice. Should they let the marriage happen?
However, as had happened a hundred times before, all they could do was to maintain a helpless silence without uttering a word in protest.
There were, in fact, clear reasons and enough evidence for their apprehensions. Inexplicably, over seven generations all young men who wed girls of the Paalat family had come to meet a premature end soon after they had fathered female progeny. A mild fever or vomitting would precede these tragic deaths. Amidst the rank odour of medicines and spells, those young men would suffer for a few days, and then die. By and by, oppressed by the stranglehold of time, that ancient house fell silent, the pale hues and smells of widowhood stained those walls. And outside, no one cared anymore, nor enquired.
What alarmed the residents of Kudamon, who had been witness to many of those macabre events, was the fact that Isthaak of Cholkkonu, himself no stranger to the morbid past of that family, should condemn his own offspring to a similar fate. He was a successful businessman whose fame had spread far and wide. “How could he …?” the question quivered on every tongue. The more they thought about it, the more there seemed just one plausible answer. “Wealth takes priority over the vanishing generations relationships, of father and son, of the divine and the human.” The wise among them consoled themselves saying, “Can anyone wipe out the lines, the fate scripted on his cranium?”
Given these circumstances, no sooner did the people of Kudamon set eyes upon the bridegroom Kunjilona, with his fair, handsome physique, large eyes and enchanting smile, than they felt a deep affection for him. Like a morose, brooding July welcoming a brilliant, sunsoaked August, they stood in their soiled cotton towels and sweat soaked undergarments and admired him. The father’s prosperity, they realized, had devolved to the son too.
In that instant they too In this book, Saran discerns the threads that tie together his experiences as a diplomat. Using the prism of Kautilya’s Arthashastra and other ancient treatises on statecraft, he shows the historical sources of India’s worldview. This book takes the reader behind the closed doors of the negotiations and top-level interactions—from Barack Obama to Ex Prime Minister Manmohan Singh on the success of the nuclear deal. adopted him as their own. Perhaps they were obliged to do so. They belonged to the same soil after all, having shared the rain and the waters of the rivers in the land. To add to this, the flavours of the wedding feast that lasted seven days on the Paalat courtyard remained fresh on their tongues and in their memory; their fingers still smelt of the spicy aromas of venison and fish.
Of course, people still murmured about the deception underlying this marriage, fully expecting to be soon shaken awake in the dark of some night by heartrending wails, and having to hurry toward Paalat with lit torches.
There were two or three myths prevalent in Kudamon concerning that ruinous curse. One ran like this: seven generations ago, a Paalat elder had stolen a golden cross from Kudamon church, melted it and sold it in the Pandyan country. He was, in fact, a functionary of the church, the treasurer. On the seventh night of his return after concluding that transaction, he vomitted twice, then he collapsed. At the time, he was already father to a baby girl. The unfortunate man left behind a hoard of wealth, which he himself was not destined to enjoy, but he also did bequeath to succeeding generations the consequences of his transgression. And the people bore witness to the disastrous consequences, the remorseless, precise workings of fate.
There was another faction whose version went like this: seven generations ago, an elder had grabbed the wealth of his siblings who were lame, blind and deaf. The cataclysmic events that had followed were the result of his avarice.
Then, there was yet an- other theory. Once a noble foreigner, in the course of his travels, sought shelter at Paalat. Having welcomed the guest, an elder plied him with liquor. Fascinated by the wayfarer’s heavy purse, the host strangled the foreigner and buried him in a pit of cow dung. It was following this never- solved crime that divine retribution was visited upon the house of Paalat, people said. Over generations, a cruel form of death had come to haunt that family.
Kunjilona knew nothing of these stories nor of the curse, at least in the beginning. The insinuations people made had no effect on him. Marriage, for him, was the harbinger of independence and personal growth. He was now a man. He was now entitled to stain his lips with betel juice. Henceforth, he too would have a voice in the affairs of the house, at par with the elders. With growing awareness of the possibilities life offered, came the urge to seek out fresh pastures.
On his wedding day, wearing a fresh mundu, the upper cloth wrapped around his shoulders signifying rank, and the cynosure of every eye, he strode in the shade of an umbrella held aloft by his brother-in-law, to the church seven miles away. There they waited at the threshold of the church, until his bride arrived on an elephant, caparisoned in golden lace with a cushioned seat; her breast adorned with multiple necklaces; led by the elders, she entered the church. He went in, too, and amidst the chanting of prayers and marital vows, he placed the golden thali about this young beauty’s neck and gently pulled the veil over her head.
Kunjilona knew nothing of these stories nor of the curse, at least in the beginning. The insinuations people made had no effect on him. Marriage, for him, was the harbinger of independence and personal growth. He was now a man. He was now entitled to stain his lips with betel juice. Henceforth, he too would have a voice in the affairs of the house, at par with the elders.
Extracted with permission from The Vanishing Generations by T.V. Varkey, published by Tranquebar