സാക്ഷി — The Witness
While the country slept, the greatest threat to India’s democracy had taken birth. It spread its wings like a dragon, breathing fire into the nooks and corners of the country, creating havoc and chaos. It was unstoppable. Those who tried to chain the dragon were never seen again. Stories were widespread of how camps were set up solely for torturing arrested people, particularly young blood. The ones who escaped were haunted by memories of the dark rooms and battled death for the rest of their lives. Those were dark times, probably the darkest in Indian history.
“It is time to change history. We can’t be idle anymore. It is time that we rise and bring the state machinery down. Our names should go down in history, not as cowards, but as brave comrades who fought for their people, who fought for freedom. People are not allowed to gather anywhere and are being arrested without trial. The press has been censored. So the need of the hour is freedom, and it will always be so — man requires freedom for everything, to think, to write, to speak, and even to die! We come from different homes, from different religions, and with different ideologies. But now, we are here to fight as one, against this lawlessness. Let us fight together to bring back the freedom our forefathers had gained for us! Long live the revolution!”
“Inquilab Zindabad!” The young crowd responded with their blood boiling for revolt against the atrocities happening in the state. Shivan’s words were always inspiring and I was proud to stand beside him in all our ventures. We were always together — inseparable! Little did I know that this was his farewell speech and that his voice would live only through me.
That night, all of us had gathered to discuss matters regarding the protest planned for the next day, at the roots of our Muthassimaram — Grandmother tree. The aged lady offered her lap for all, irrespective of caste, creed or color. For time immemorial, she was the sole witness to all the happenings in the village, and her boundless arms provided the perfect spot for our meetings. But the trampling of boots and the piercing whistles of the men in khaki stopped us short.
“ആരൊക്കെയാടാ അവിടെ കൂട്ടം കൂടി നിൽക്കുന്നേ?നീയൊക്കെയാണോടാ ഇവിടുത്തെ വിപ്ലവകാരികൾ? നിങ്ങളിൽ ആരാടാ ശിവൻ? (Who’s there? Why are you all gathered here? So you are the new revolutionaries, eh? Who among you is SHIVAN?)”
Shivan stepped forward from the group, with a smirking smile, and responded, “അലറണ്ട സാറേ !! നിങ്ങൾ അന്വേഷിക്കുന്ന ശിവൻ ഇവിടെ തന്നെ ഉണ്ട്!!” (The one you’re searching for is right here, no need to shout, Mr Inspector!)
“നിനക്ക് നാട് നന്നാക്കണം അല്ലെടാ? (You want to reform this land, EHH?)”
“ഞങ്ങളുടെ സമരങ്ങൾ ഈ നാടിനും വരും തലമുറയ്ക്കും വേണ്ടിയാണ്. മരണത്തെ ഞാൻ ഭയക്കുന്നില്ല സാർ. ഈ തീ ആളിപ്പടരും. വിപ്ലവം തുടരും. (Our protests are for this land and its people. I do not fear death, Sir. This fire will become widespread. Revolution will continue!)”
All of us together pushed Shivan towards the Muthassimaram and formed a wall in front of him. We were not going to give him to those cruel hands so easily.
“എല്ലാത്തിനേം തൂക്കി വണ്ടിയിൽ കേറ്റടാ! (Gather the lot and throw them into the vehicle!)”
That loud, sharp voice could not be mistaken. It was ‘The Beast’ — Inspector Janardhanan. He had received special training and was known for his cruel ways of torturing people. He would turn your urine into blood and your sweat into salt. But we were ready to face him, we would turn the state machinery down. It was the need of the hour.
As if waiting for his orders, his subordinates charged towards us and started beating us with their lathis, simultaneously pulling us towards the police jeep, parked at a distance. I ran towards Shivan, for he was their ‘No.1 target’. Janardhanan had already reached him before me. He had him pinned onto our Muthassimaram while he struggled for breath. With all my might, I kicked Janardhanan, making him let go of Shivan. Meanwhile, Shivan took out his dagger and flashed it furiously before the Beast. It struck his arm and blood gushed out. Infuriated, Janardhanan took out his pistol and fired at Shivan. Blood splashed everywhere, not sparing me nor our dear Muthassimaram.
“അബ്ദുക്കാ, ഒരു സുലൈമാനി! (Abdukka, one sulaimani!)”
Raman’s voice brought him back to reality.
It was his favorite hour of the day — when a cool breeze dances about as if waving goodbye to the setting sun, when the birds soothe his ears with their songs, when the squirrels run about snacking on the titbits he throws out of his shop, when his shop buzzes with voices asking for one same order: the sulaimani! It was his best seller and has been so for over decades. The banyan tree opposite his shop would provide the extra seating during this peak hour. But for Abdukka, the Muthassimaram — the only changing constant in the village — would bring back memories and take him back to his youth.
Now, it had become a locus where gossip, debates, political speeches, satires, and cultural events would spring up. Abdukka rarely interfered in these conversations. If asked anything, he would just stroke his grizzled hair and give that one-tooth smile of his. Sometimes he would just start reciting poems or sing songs, mostly one of those that his aged radio set occasionally blurts out. The only time his shop was closed was when he traveled to Mecca for the Hajj. He wouldn’t for the life of him miss the pilgrimage. Nevertheless, his daily pilgrimage was to his shop and filling everyone’s heart his duty, which, regardless of age, makes Abdukka everyone’s favorite! But for the youngsters to be seen in Abdukka’s shop, it should either be a weekend or a hartal day. Since Kerala is famous for hartals for all sorts of problems happening around the country, it is quite common to see youngsters around the banyan tree holding debates or protests. Today was one of those days.
Abdukka handed over the glass of sulaimani to Raman, who then went over to his favorite spot under the tree. The familiar face of Madhavan could be seen in the vicinity, running around pasting posters on poles and walls, dressed up in his usual style — plain khaddar shirt and mundu. “Abdukka, one sulaimani, one baji!” Madhavan came in with a grin, placing the posters and the book he was holding on the table.
“So Madhavan, you’re off for a protest, I believe! Remember one thing, the sulaimani I make is out of love, to fill hearts and make the world come to a standstill! I hope it quenches your burning thoughts.”
“Don’t worry, Abdukka. My protests will never end in blood”, Madhavan assured him.
“Are you taking him too?” asked Abdukka, pointing at Cyril, who had claimed a spot in the shop since noon.
“Abdukka, don’t you know that he lives in his own world of fantasies and superheroes. He only thrives on Whatsapp and YouTube!”
Cyril snatched a poster and glanced at it, then wryly smirked, “I’ve been seeing you doing the same, all these years in college. When will you stop all these useless protests? #BleedRed! Wow, what a name! It makes no sense to me. You’ll soon be another subject of the trolls that I see on YouTube! Come, I’ll show you a video of one ridiculous protest done by people in our state!”
Abdukka smiles and hands over a glass of sulaimani and the baji to Madhavan.
“Look over there, Raman has already marked his attendance here! He won’t change his habits even on a hartal day.”
“He is divine, Abdukka. He won’t change,” chuckled Cyril and dragged Madhavan to the banyan tree where Raman was sitting, sipping off his sulaimani.
“Who do we have here, Bhakth Raman!” remarked Madhavan on seeing Raman.
Cyril added on to Madhavan’s satirical smirks, “At least, he does his duties better than you. Even on a hartal day, he gets up early in the morning, takes a bath and off he goes to the temple. You should see him with the Chandana Kuri and rudraksha as he comes out. Any girl would fall for him.”
Laughing at his remarks, Madhavan struck back. “Oh, come on Cyril, the girls of today believe in empowerment, and not spirituality!”
“Is that why you’re holding these protests and I see you quote from those books you have of people like V. T. Bhattathiripad? Man, gone are their days. Now it’s the age of smart men and technology. I’m pretty sure that if we hold a swayamvara now, any girl would choose me over you both.” Cyril’s words hit hard on Madhavan’s most-liked author.
“Don’t you dare talk like that of V. T. Mashu!” Madhavan hit back at Cyril.
“As if girls would queue up for you, Cyril!” Raman remarked, laughing aloud with Madhavan.
“Which girl would want an activist like you, or bother going after spiritual people like Raman? My sympathy for Meenakshi who has to bear with you, Madhavan! You both talk like the people on the YouTube video I was just watching. It’s ridiculous how the state has gone mad due to a verdict given by the Supreme Court on Sabarimala. I wouldn’t have dreamt that people have time for all this gimmick.” With that, he went back to his favorite destination — YouTube!
“Yeah, it’s ridiculous how the Court has interfered with religion. The court has no right to interfere in the matters of any religion. Ayyappan is a Naisthik Brahmachari and women should not be allowed to enter Sabarimala as it would break all traditions.” The staunch supporter of religious laws and traditions arose in Raman.
“Now, you are being ridiculous,” said Madhavan, turning to Raman. “How can you talk like this? Do you have any proof that women did not enter Sabarimala 1000 years ago? Forget 1000 years, women have entered the temple before the 1991 verdict by the Kerala High Court. They have always been allowed there except for three seasons — Mandalakalam, Vishu and Makaravilakku. If they were allowed then, why not now? Why discriminate against menstruating women?”
“Madhavan, you should learn to respect the traditions and customs set by society. It is not right to violate all the customs that have been followed by generations just because a case was filed in the Court. I am not saying that we should discriminate against women. All are equal before God.” Raman struck back while grabbing hold of his rudraksha chain.
“I tell you that this society won’t progress unless we stop these superstitious practices, and now you talk about egalitarianism. Well, if everyone is equal before God, why can’t women be allowed up there in Sabarimala?” shouted Madhavan.
“Hahaha. Big words, eh, Junior Shashi Tharoor!! Why are you so bothered about all this? If you don’t have any better work, why not protest for entry of women into mosques as well?” Cyril snickered while the voices from the video he was watching could be heard amidst the argument.
Madhavan lighted a cigarette and went on. “See, you’re talking about gender equality in a country which has seen only one female Prime Minister and one female President even after 72 years of independence. For women empowerment, we must educate them first.”
“No matter what, they will fall behind, which is why we continue seeing such mockery in the state again. Men were born to rule and they continue to do so. All the decisions in my family are taken by my father. I will also be like him”, Raman replied, while raising his collar.
“For women empowerment to happen, male chauvinists like you both should be eradicated from this planet,” remarked Madhavan with a cunning smile. “What you need to understand is that empowerment should start from our homes. Even V. T. Bhattathiripad wrote about how women should come to the forefront and not limit themselves to the kitchen.”
“See, I told you, he always quotes these old generation folks!” Cyril laughed as Madhavan made a sulky face.
“Cyril, don’t you interfere with who I quote or read. At least I don’t educate myself through YouTube videos like how you do!” Madhavan continued, “Kerala has been known for its cultural reformations. We have a history of matriliny, where women managed households and affairs of the state much better than men. We were a welcoming society, an outward-looking society. Now, we’re just bothered about sending off our girls to marry as soon as they turn 21.”
“If I can’t interfere with your quotes and readings, you stay put from what I watch on my screen!” Cyril countered him.
“Madhavan, are you referring to what Basheer said yesterday?” asked Raman.
“Yeah, he was talking about how he would not allow his sister to study after she turned 21. If she wanted to study, it’d be only after marriage, provided her husband funds her tuition. He believes that girls should go about, all tucked up behind a burqa. If he can roam around wearing whatever he wants to and can continue his studies till whenever he likes, why can’t she? I am not against any religion, but I strongly oppose this neglect and discrimination against women. You are also more or less like him, Raman. Do you know that our GDP would rise to 27% if men and women participated equally in the labor market?”
“Everyone, please take note of Mr. Egalitarian’s facts.” Cyril would never lose a chance to mock both of them.
“You shut up, Cyril! How dare he accuse me, and call us male chauvinists?” confronted Raman. “And to top it all, trying to fool us with some Googled facts! I am not keeping my mother or sister at home to take care of the household. But there are some religious restrictions. When they are on their period, they must not enter the puja room or touch the idol. But these are customs that have been followed for over centuries. I won’t allow them to be broken and about our GDP, even our PM is least bothered about it! Why would I be then?” Cyril chuckled at that.
“See Madhavan, holding protests and asking women to enter Sabarimala will not guarantee empowerment for them. Will you allow your beloved Meenakshi to roam around the streets at night? Then she’d just make headlines tomorrow and activists like you will take to the streets holding candlelight marches!”
“Why are you bringing her into our conversation, Raman?” retorted Madhavan.
“Oh, so you don’t believe in empowerment for her? Is she not like the women for whom you’re going to protest?” Raman was not going to give up that easily.
“You’re just digressing from what I’ve said,” Madhavan remarked. “You’re just not ready to take a step forward.”
“No, I’m not digressing. You’re just lost of words when I asked about Meenakshi. If you can talk about breaking religious customs, then why don’t you come out of your comfort zone first?” demanded Raman.
“I’m not out of words. It is you who can’t come out of the comfort zones that religion has set for you. As for Meenakshi, she knows when to go out and when not,” Madhavan said sternly.
“Oh, so is there a right time and a wrong time for her as well? If so, then there can be right and wrong times in religion as well.” With that, Raman stood up. Abdukka, could be seen in the shop, handing over a sukiyan to a customer, while keeping an eye on the “chottu” debaters.
“See, this is why I told you in the first place, not to be bothered by all this! You both look like roosters ready to pounce on each other,” laughed Cyril and plugged in his earphones.
“You stay out of this, Cyril!” Raising his voice, Madhavan continued, “Raman, if that’s your stand, then will you accept all practices that have been followed in India as a part of religion? Then why don’t you ask your sister to be a Devadasi and your mother to jump into the pyre!”
“How dare you talk of my mother and sister like that, you rascal?” Raman was furious. He grabbed Madhavan by the neck and pinned him to the tree. Cyril lost no time in turning his camera on. He found it to be a perfect moment to go live!
In desperation to free himself, with all his might, Madhavan gave a sharp blow on Raman’s nose from which blood started oozing. By now, people at the shop and nearby had gathered by the tree.
“നിർത്തീൻഡാ ഹമ്മുക്കുകളെ! പേ പിടിച്ച നായ്ക്കളെ പോലെ കടിപിടി കൂടുന്നോടാ? നാണമില്ലെടാ നിനക്കൊക്കെ? (Stop it, you idiots! Aren’t you ashamed to behave like mad dogs?)”
Abdukka’s loud and clear voice made the boys dumbstruck. Never have they heard him shout at anyone. The crowd slowly made way for him.
“ദേ നിൽക്കുന്നെ കണ്ടില്ലെ, രംഗബോധമില്ലാത്ത കോമാളികളെ പോലെ കുറെ ജന്മങ്ങൾ! ഇതാണോടാ നിൻറെയൊക്കെ വിപ്ലവം? വലിയ വിദ്യാസമ്പന്നന്മാർ, വകതിരിവോ വട്ടപ്പൂജ്യം! (Look at them, standing there like clowns who forgot to enter the play at the right scene. Is this your revolution? You are all so educated, yet you have no wisdom to differentiate between right and wrong!)”
“Abdukka, I think it’s better you talk after allowing women into your mosques!” Madhavan shouted, unwilling to listen to anyone preaching to him.
“Even if that’s the case, why do you have to be involved in our matters?” Cyril added on.
Raising his hand, Abdukka replied, “ഇനി ഒരക്ഷരം മിണ്ടിയാൽ നീയൊക്കെ എൻ്റെ കയ്യുടെ ചൂടറിയും!” (If you utter another word, you’ll regret it for life!)
Abdukka then moved towards the Muthassimaram, while Cyril fumbled with his phone to delete the post.
“മടുത്തു എല്ലാം കണ്ടും കേട്ടും മിണ്ടാതെ ഇരുന്ന്, മടുത്തു. സ്വാർത്ഥതാല്പര്യങ്ങൾക്ക് വേണ്ടി പോരാടുന്ന കുറെ രാഷ്ട്രീയപാർട്ടികളും അതിനൊപ്പം നിൽക്കുന്ന കുറെ മതനേതാക്കളും. (I have had enough of staying silent to all that I’ve seen and heard. A hell lot of political parties and religious leaders fighting for their selfish interests!)”
“എന്താണ് കുട്ടികളെ നിങ്ങൾക്കു സംഭവിക്കുന്നത്, സ്വന്തം ജീവിതം ബലിയാടാക്കിക്കൊണ്ടു എന്താണ് നിങ്ങൾ നേടിയെടുക്കുന്നത്? മറ്റുള്ളവന്റെ ഹൃദയം കാണാതെയും, കൂടപ്പിറപ്പിന്റെ കണ്ണുനീർ ഒപ്പാതെയും നിങ്ങൾ എന്ത് സമത്വത്തിന്റെ കൊടിയാണ് ഉയർത്തുന്നത്? (My dear children, what is happening to you? What are you gaining out of this? Which flag of equality are you upholding by being indifferent to the tears and the hearts of your brothers?)”
“കണ്ണുണ്ടെങ്കിലും കാണുന്നില്ല, ചെവിയുണ്ടെങ്കിലും കേൾക്കുന്നില്ല, മർത്യനു തൻ ബലം — തൻ സുഖം. മറ്റുള്ളവരെ കേൾക്കുവാനും, മനസ്സിലാക്കുവാനും, ഉൾക്കൊള്ളുവാനും കഴിയുന്നിടത്തു മാത്രമാണ് യഥാർത്ഥ മനുഷ്യൻ പിറവിയെടുക്കുന്നത്, അല്ലെങ്കിൽ അവൻ ഒരു മൃഗമാണ്… നിങ്ങൾ മൃഗങ്ങളാണ്, ചോരക്കൊതി മാറാത്ത നവുംസകങ്ങൾ. (Though you have eyes, you are not able to see. Though you have ears, you are not able to listen. For man, his own well-being is his only concern. But a real man is born only when one can understand, listen and accept the other. Otherwise, he is just an animal, a mere creature! You are animals, man-eaters who have not let go of their greed for blood.)”
Raman was seen wiping the oozing blood.
“നിങ്ങളുടെ അജണ്ടകൾ നിങ്ങൾ ഭംഗിയായി അവതരിപ്പിച്ചു. മറ്റുള്ളവന് പറയുവാനുള്ളത് കൂടി കേൾക്കാൻ മനസ്സുകാട്ടാതെ! യഥാർത്ഥ വിപ്ലവകാരി സ്വയം മറന്നു മറ്റുള്ളവർക്ക് വേണ്ടിയും, നാടിനു വേണ്ടിയും പോരാടുന്നവനാണ്. എൻ്റെ ശിവനെ പോലെ. നിങ്ങൾ കണ്ണുകൾ അടച്ചു, കാതുകൾ കൂർപ്പിച്ചാൽ അവൻ്റെ ശബ്ദം ഇപ്പോഴും ഇവിടെ മുഴങ്ങി കേൾക്കാം. അവനെ പോലെ സ്വയം ഇല്ലാണ്ടായ നൂറുകണക്കിന് ആൾക്കാരുടെ ബാക്കിപത്രമാണ് നാം ഇന്ന് അനുഭവിക്കുന്ന ഈ സ്വാതത്ര്യം! (You boys presented your agendas very well indeed, without even sparing a thought to listen to the other. A true revolutionary is one who lets go off himself for the service of others and his land. Like My Shivan! If you close your eyes for a moment and sharpen your ears, his voice will still be heard here! We are mere remains — of the sacrifices of people like Shivan — enjoying the freedom they gained for us.)”
“സ്വയം താഴ്ത്തുന്നവനൊക്കെ ഉയരും. ഏത് ജാതിയിൽപെട്ടവനാണേലും മതത്തിൽപെട്ടവനാണേലും നാം വെറും മനുഷ്യർ മാത്രമാണ്. കാലചക്രത്തിൻറെ കയ്യിലെ വെറും ഉപകരണങ്ങൾ മാത്രം!” (Those who humble themselves will become great. Irrespective of your caste or religion, we are just humans, mere instruments in the hands of time.)
With a heavy heart, the old man walked away lamely, mumbling to himself, and in the distance, his radio was heard blurting,
“മനുഷ്യൻ മതങ്ങളെ സൃഷ്ടിച്ചു
മതങ്ങൾ ദൈവങ്ങളെ സൃഷ്ടിച്ചു
സത്യമെവിടെ സൗന്ദര്യമെവിടെ
സ്വാതന്ത്ര്യമെവിടെ നമ്മുടെ
രക്തബന്ധങ്ങളെവിടെ
നിത്യസ്നേഹങ്ങളെവിടെ
ആയിരം യുഗങ്ങള്ളിൽ ഒരിക്കൽ
വരാറുള്ളൊരു അവതാരങ്ങളെവിടെ
മനുഷ്യൻ തെരുവിൽ മരിക്കുന്നു
മതങ്ങൾ ചിരിക്കുന്നു”
(Man created religion, religions created Gods
Where is the truth? Where is beauty? Where is freedom?
Where are our blood relations and our everlasting love?
Where are the avatars who come once every thousand years?
Man dies on the street, Religions laugh!)”
ആളൊഴിഞ്ഞു അരങ്ങൊഴിഞ്ഞു, കാലത്തിനു സാക്ഷിയായി മുത്തശ്ശിമരം മാത്രം ബാക്കി!
Everyone cleared off the scene, only the Muthassimaram remained — the sole witness of time!
About the Story: Don’t we often enter into heated arguments with the sole objective of silencing the other? Don’t we try to distract the audience from our flaws by blaming the other? Aren’t all of these defense mechanisms to safeguard our self-esteem? It is this “love for the self” that turns us into demagogues and creates divisions on the basis of identities. In such situations, it is highly essential to have a self-skeptic mind. Such reflections of our own self can aid us in easily resolving identity divisions.
Revolving around a witness of things in the past and the present, this tale throws light on how “ego” creates problems among 3 friends, in the light of the Sabarimala case.
About the Author: Feba Alan Varghese is an Engineering graduate who is very passionate about exploring new horizons. This is one such venture of hers, which she intends to develop further, thanks to the Young India Fellowship at Ashoka University.
