Translated fiction: Tired of making a living from singing and poverty, Mayilan runs away from home

We were their guests. They led us to our seats. They served the children ghee rice and mutton. Pots of toddy were placed before the adults.

“We have fish curry and narumpizhi made from rice. Please eat to your heart’s content!”

The heady aroma that rose up when the brew was poured from the pot into the cup left me elated.

“How do you make this?” I asked Azhakan, when my cup emptied in a second.

“I’ll tell you,” he grinned. “But it should stay a secret!”

“It can be made in many ways. This is how we do it: soak the rice, press it into balls, and dry it well in a large open-mouthed basin. Then add fragrant leaves of many kinds to it for one day and night. Then add the thaathirippoo, the flower that glows like fire, and also jaggery. You must stir the mixture well with your hands twice every day as you add the ingredients. Then pour the mixture into mud pots with narrow mouths, tie the mouths well with cloth and leave it for a long time. Finally, you have to pass it through a sieve of palm fibre made from strands cooked in boiling water.”

I noted down his instructions in my mind. Someday I have to try making this.

Once the spicy fish arrived, I must have emptied many more cups. For some reason, tears pricked at my eyelids. Mayilan and Chanthan, and the pain of our aimless wandering, must have swelled within me and flowed out through my eyes.

I wiped my eyes and reached out for another cup.

Azhakan stopped me gently. Enough, he said.

But I had another cup along with the dinner of mutton and rice. The heaviness of my heart had subsided somewhat. But I was not drunk. Our women came over for their dinner. The uzhavar had kept munneer ready to offer – a mixture of palm juice, tender coconut water and sugarcane juice. They too finished dinner and stepped out. The munneer’s gentle intoxication made some of them break into song. Their friends laughed and reminded them – that it was very late! We joined the uzhavar in the festivities again.

The merry sounds and happy sights drew us close. Some of our men too were eyeing the paraththa wenches. Young uzhavar men were still after them, I could see. I was surprised that their women were with them, but they still pursued the pleasure women openly!

The uzhavar cleared the space that had been readied for the dancing and music. We lowered our bundles. The humming and tapping sounds of our instruments as we prepared them attracted more people, who came over and stood around. The enthusiasm was infectious – our muzhavus and paras caught it quickly. We began by playing a maruthappann on our lutes. Ulakan picked up the karadika. When the slow opening beats began to give way to faster ones, the koothar’s feet gained pace. The drumming grew into a great rolling surge. Chithira and Cheera began to sing. Perumpaanan played the periyaazh; we accompanied him with our lutes. The uzhavar cheered loudly – the meal of sumptuous narumpizhi and the clear, strong brew seemed to have raised their spirits.

The opening dance, the varikkoothu, was followed by the kuravakkoothu. Mukkannan danced the pandaarakkoothu, and Velan the thudikkoothu.

Chanthan was unmatched in his performance of both the pandaarakkoothu and the thudikkoothu. I remembered how those who saw him dance would remark that the very gods were dancing in him! Each of us felt his absence but did not show it. Some of the koothar dressed up as women and danced the pediyaadal; it made the spectators smile.

The eyes of our muzhavu drums remained open till dawn. The dancing and singing stretched on till daybreak. In the end, when the music of the lutes and the drums and the pipes began to climb towards a crescendo, Cheera began to whirl in frenzy, like a possessed one. It alarmed me. Her hair fell loose and flew about; sweat streamed down her forehead; her clothes were falling off. She did not wipe the sweat or retrieve her garment. The jasmine in her hair and the beads from her choker necklace were scattering all around. Her eyes were a coral red; they glinted in the light of the burning torch. Was this Cheera? Or the dead little girl who slept on her pyre with eyes open?

She looked inexhaustible. Indeed, it was as though her garments would turn into wings and she would fly away! My heart beat hard. When the music and the drumming reached their crescendo, she collapsed all of a sudden. Ulakan and I rushed to her. Nellakkili was screaming. We lifted her up. One of the uzhavar brought tender coconut water; we sprinkled some of it on her face and wetted her tongue with it. By the time she opened her eyes, the koothaattam was over. The paanar had played the puraneerma on their lutes, awakening the new day with praiseful prayer.

Excerpted with permission from The Day the Earth Bloomed, Manoj Kuroor, translated from the Malayalam by J Devika, Bloomsbury India.