The Forest Calls
The forest surrounded Kalluvayal, sneaked into its fields, set shoots, flowered. A forest where rosewood, ben-teak, karimaruthu, red silk cotton, venga, ironwood, wild lime, wild gooseberry, jungle fig, paratti, punna, wild guava, kambakam, flame of the forest, poisonous cheru and a thousand other trees jostled and kissed each other; where asparagus, wild ginger, snake gourd, sarsaparilla, incha vines and malanthudali embraced one another and exchanged stories; where leopards, sloth bears, porcupines, wild buffalos, wild bears, pangolins, civet cats, anteaters, snakes, mongooses, muntjacs, sambars, jackals, foxes and herds of elephants chatted, hunted, mated and frolicked. A forest that belonged to dragonflies, butterflies, cicadas, ants, termites and a hundred thousand tiny creatures.
Greedy two-legged creatures wielding axes had already made their stealthy entrance into the forest, but in those days, it was still a sacred place. A tender mist had fallen over the forest.
They sat on the rocks, watching the river before them, waiting for the boat. The Kabani was muddy from last night’s rain, its sandbanks dotted with the blue, yellow and white of thumba, kurunthotti and many other nameless wildflowers.
‘Kooo ... hoooi!’ Kelumooppan hollered. An answering holler reverberated from the other side of the river. A boat approached and pulled in before them, nodding in the currents, a young man with curly hair and only a towel around his waist at its bow, beating time to a silent song on his oar. They stepped in, and as the boat began to move, brushing against the waterweeds, Sara felt she was about to faint. It was the first time she had been in such a tiny, rotting boat. She held firmly on to both its sides and sat with her eyes squeezed shut.
‘Don’t be scared, even small children swim across this river,’ their escort, Kumaran, said, laughing. Two tobacco-stained teeth protruded from between his lips. His hair fluttered in the breeze.
They looked back at the chai shop. Kelumooppan sat on the veranda, leaning against the bamboo wall, waiting for a vehicle into town. They would not know then that, within a week, Padmanabhan would have to collect him from the police lock-up, his feet beaten to shreds and his toenails pulled out, or that the old man would spend the rest of his life waiting for his son who would never return.
A young woman rowed towards them in a bamboo raft. It was her abundant curly hair spilling over her shoulders into her lap that Sara noticed first. Red, round-necked blouse, black thread tied around a pretty neck, faded skirt, glass bangles ... Yams, taro, beans and brinjals in a woven basket.
‘Javana ... kooyi...’ the young woman called out. The boatman – Javanan – brightened as though the sun had risen in his eyes. He returned her call and shook the boat from side to side, and the Kabani rushed in, sending Sara to the brink of tears.
‘Stop it, boy,’ Kumaran scolded.
Javanan’s expression changed, and dislike wrinkled his nose.
As soon as the boat pulled into the riverbank, Kumaran jumped off and began to walk away.
‘Maashe, I must hurry. I forgot that the young master of Anjilikkunnil had asked to see me in the morning. You all take your time, just keep to the clear path.’
Excellent escort! Thommichan smiled as Kumaran disappeared into the forest.
On the riverbank, an elderly woman wearing a V-necked chatta and a gruff expression on her face and a pretty young woman with a basket-load of mud pots gave the strangers a searching look before getting into the boat.
‘What happened? Has this old thing sprung leaks?’ A touch of anxiety in the younger woman’s voice as she watched Javanan, who was bailing the water out of the boat with a piece of areca spathe.
As the boat began to pull away with its new passengers, the older woman called out: ‘Where are you children going?’
‘To Anjilikkunnil,’ Thommichan said, his voice almost drowned by the currents.
‘Be careful, son. Stick to the path and don’t forget to turn right at the njaval tree.’
Gruff-faced, yet concerned. Sara wondered whether the older women in this place had forgotten how to smile, whether their hard lives had wiped the smiles off their faces.
Lush ferns grew at the riverbank around black-hued rocks covered in tiny blue parakkurinji flowers. Minnows flitted in the rock pools and egrets meditated in knee-deep water.
‘Sara, let’s take a dip,’ Thommichan said, stepping into the water that was as cold as hailstones and sent a shiver right down to the soul. ‘You want to make me sleep in the forest tonight too?’ Sara was annoyed.
‘This is the river where Unniyachi, the beautiful goddess-like dancer from Salem, bathed.’
Old tales awoke in Thommichan’s memory, but Sara was unmoved.
‘Oh, like her bathwater has stagnated right here for all these years! You soak in it if you want.’
The light blue sari strewn with tiny white flowers began walking up the stone steps away from the river. Children rolling in the wet sand watched them. A vaka tree by the shore stood blazing fire-like with a canopy of bright red blossoms. The Kabani too was red-hued, Thommichan thought, stained with the blood of failed revolutions.
Excerpted from Valli by Sheela Tomy [translated from Malayalam by Jayasree Kalathil] with permission from HarperCollins India.
