Madhavan Litanies

8/12/2019 Madhavan Litanies

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EXCERPTS FROMLITANIES OF DUTCH BATTERY

A NOVEL BY N. S. MADHAVAN

I was born on 24 April, 1951, the year when eighteen smallpox vaccinators from

Ernakulam arrived in our delta, across the Vemband backwater, looking for newborns.

No sooner did the islanders see the vaccinators' flotilla of machwa-boats embark from

the other shore they bolted their doors. Even suckling infants sealed their lips tight as

though they'd sensed something. Thus, my life began in stealth and silence.

Before the vaccinators, census enumerators had paid a visit to our delta and the

neighbouring ones. They had started the headcount in February by writing numbers with

white chalk on the doors of houses. This routine had alarmed many islander; they

thought it was an elaborate ruse to help the vaccinators, who were to follow. Some of

them had immediately gone into hiding. As a result, the population of the deltas did not

tally with the census figures.

It was in the same year, 1951, that Jeevitha Naukawas released at Lakshman Talkies

in Ernakulam months before I was born. The movie continued to run until my mother

could go out and see it, after the customary confinement following delivery. Glass

bangles named after the movie remained quite the rage at annual church fairs for many

years to come. Tailors stitched wedding blouses with puff sleeves similar to those wornby the lead actress in the movie. A ditty I learned, before I ever knew the prayers of

Confession and Creed, went like this:

Jeevitha Nauka kananamenkil

Kodeda, kodeda naalanna

The forerunners of Jeevitha Nauka were movies based on stories from history or the

epics. Everyone knew the story in advance. It was the way of telling the story thatcaptured the viewers' attention. It isn't possible to bring an element of surprise into

stories that are well known. But when Jeevitha Naukareeled out of the rickety projector

at Lakshman Talkies, scrolls of a new story were unveiled on the silver screen.

Unpredictability became a part of storytelling.

Cinema publicists were quick to realize this. They wrote Jeevitha Nauka's synopsis


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differently: "the virtuous hero, Soman's (Thikkurissi Sukumaran Nair) wealth is coveted

by this brother's wife, Jaanu (Pankaja Valli). She schemes to have her cousin married to

Soman. However, Soman is deeply in love with a lower-caste girl, Lakshmi (B.S.

Saroja). They get married. Unable to stand Jaanu's cruelty, Soman leaved his brother's

house with his newly wedded wife. They make Lakshmi's modest hut their new home.

Their jeevitha nauka raft of life floats calmly on the worldly ocean until, one day,

Soman dies in a car accident.'

Here, tantalizingly, the publicists stopped short. They kept us in suspense the new

factor that had got into storytelling and left my heart skipping a few beats with their

concluding sentence: 'watch the rest on the silver screen!'

Our delta, called Dutch Battery, was young. Its soil not hardened yet. With a bit of

digging one would find shards of calms and shells of not-so-primordial marine

organisms. Dig a little deeper and you would find brackish water and soggy sea sand.

Not many people dared to excavate further. If they did, they might have found chests

filled with Venetian ducats guarded by the ghosts of black slaves, baby dragons

crawling out of Chinese silk pennants, enameled dinner china that had belonged to

Carmelite priests, burnt altars of chapels set on fire by the Dutch, and other such things.

History was the most important commodity our delta imported. History grew dense on

Lanthan Bathery since it couldn't break free of the island's confinement by water.Stories had to be invented to temper its pen-up-intensity.

All that I am writing is born out of what I saw, heard and experienced !Oh chumma! I

am kidding. I made up some of them. I didn't have enough playthings in my childhood. I

had to invent stories to kill time.

I would plant a kiss no, not on Amma's cheeks, but on her forever half-opened lips.

And then I would ask, 'Amma, tell me a story.'

She would sit as if she hadn't heard me. Perhaps Amma had learned from cinema

publicists how to arouse curiosity. A guileless smile would shimmer across her face. I

would again press a kiss on Amman's lips, which had the tang of sweat and salt. Her

eyes would close. Returning my kiss, she would playfully complain, 'Are you mad, baby,

my Koch?'


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'Please, Amma, tell me a story, a made-up story.'

My next kiss lasted longer. Pushing me aside, Amma would say, 'Go away, Koch.'

'Any story will do,' I pleaded. When I grew restless, and tears welled up in my eyes,

Amma would draw herself closer to me, and ask, 'Am I a movie theatre like Menaka

Talkies to release a story every time you ask?'

I would rush into her lap. Running her fingers through my hair, Amma would begin

narrating the story, 'Miss Kumary was the daughter of an incredibly rich gentleman.'

'Sathyan must be poor then' I would add.

'Did I tell you this story earlier?'

'Um.'

'Then go away.' Amma would push me away.

I wouldn't move. I kept rubbing the red wart on Amma's neck like Aladdin had rubbed

the magic lamp. Soon a story would arise out of Amma like the genie with folded arms.

This was the manner in which stories were made in Lanthan Bathery: by the sense of

touch.

! ! !

Inside the church, Amma handed me over to Vicky Aunty, who was to be my

godmother. When I looked up, I saw Father Pilathose who wore a black cassock over

his creased dress and a white satin stole, embroidered with an ornate cross in golden

yellow thread, around his neck. The priestly vestment, which was a new sight to me,

scared me. I began to cry. Sexton Anthony, who was standing nearby, said, 'Every kid

does that.'

Father Pilathose made the sign of the Cross on my face with his breath. He hastened to

go inside. Sexton Anthony explained in a hushed voice, 'To wash his hands.'


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Father Pilathose was under the spell of the Water Witch, which made him compulsively

wash his hands all the time. Hence his first parish had named him after Pilathose1. The

name didn't change even when he changed parishes. Only a few knew his real name.

Many innocently called him Father Pilathose to his face. As soon as he returned from

his rinse ritual, Father Pilathose asked, 'Do you renounce Satan, and all his works?

Godfather and godmother would need to answer.'

Edwinchettan2 and Vicky Aunty, my godparents, replied on my behalf, in unison, 'I

renounce them.'

'Do you believe in the Holy Catholic Church?'

I believe in the Holy Catholic Church,' the twin voices said.

'If so, what are the four marks of the Holy Catholic Church?'

'The Holy Catholic Church is One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic.' This time I spoke

through Vicky Aunty.

'Do you believe in these?'

'I believe,' they both said.

I saw Father Pilathose's fair palm as he brought it towards my mouth to place a saltcrystal. His perpetually cleansed hands had tiny furrows and the fingernails were yellow

underneath, as though he had walked in from a downpour. As soon as I was taken

inside the church, he retreated again to wash his hands. When he came back, the priest

asked us to intone the Creed. Everyone knelt down, 'I believe in God the Father

Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our

Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He

suffered under Pontius Pilate (those who prayed forced themselves to hold their giggle

back and hurried ahead with the prayer), was crucified, died, and was buried. He

descended into Hell. On the third day, he rose again. He ascended into Heaven and is

seated at the right hand of the Father!'

After they had said, 'Our father, who art in heaven,' Father Pilathose asked my

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godparents, who were still on their knees, 'Do you have any name in mind for the

Child?'

'Jessica,' Vicky Aunty said.

'Is there any saint by that name?' Sexton Anthony asked.

Edwinchettan and Vicky Aunty looked at my father's face. There was a long history

behind the name, Jessica. That was the name of a rag doll that my grandmother had

made for Amma in her childhood. Amma learned to rear babies with Jessica. She

pleaded silently with Father Pilathose, tears welling up in her eyes. Father quickly

turned the pages of the Bible.

'Jessica must be the feminine gender of Jesus,' Santiagu said.

'Do not talk such nonsense here; this is a church, Santiagu,' Father Pilathose

reprimanded. He looked up from the Holy Book and said to the audience, 'On the

world's first Easter Sunday, three women went to the sepulchre where the Lord was

buried. And they found that the stone had been rolled away from the sepulchre. They

entered, but they couldn't find the body of the Lord Jesus. These three women,

according to Luke 24:10, were Mary Magdalene, Joanna and Mary, the mother of

Jacob. Joanna has another name, Jessica. Hence the child's name will be Jessica.'

'Matilda had longed to name her child Jessica since childhood. Valia Asari, if you don't

mind, could we call her Margarita, too, after our mother?' Vicky Aunty asked. My father

nodded.

'All right, Margarita it is,' Father Pilathose said, looking at Sexton Anthony. 'Pregnant

women prayed to Saint Margarita for easy delivery. Known as the virgin from the Orient,

she was from Antioch, and was beheaded when she refused a man whom the Emperor

Diocletian commanded her to marry.'

'Please add Saint Anne, the patron saint of women in labour, as I prayed to her to

intercede at the time of Jessica's birth,' Amma said.

'Anne, too, the,' Father Pilathose said.


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'For courage and purity, please add my mother's name, Maria,' Appan1said.

'Okay, Maria.'

Neighbour Sylvia said, 'Saint Irene, who mercifully nursed the arrow wounds of the Saint

of Ponjikkara and Arthunkal churches, Saint Sebastian.'

'All right, Irene. That's it.' Father Pilathose was already in a hurry to wash his hands.

'Listen, Our Lord is making me say this; the name of Amma2of Avila is coming to my

mind,' Santiagu called out.

'All right, Theresa, the name of the Saint, who inspired many women to have a religious

vocation and join the Carmelite Church.' Father Pilathose turned to go back.

'Father, for remembering my daughter's godfather and for virtue, the name, Edwina,

too,' Appan said.

'Do you really want that name, Valia Asari' Remember, Edwina is also the name of our

Governor General Mountbatten's bride. Didn't she have something going on with Nehru

Uncle!' Before Santiagu could finish, Father Pilathose had walked off to wash this

hands. And, as her went, he said, 'Yes, Edwina also will be the name.'

Vicky Aunty took me to the anteroom where the stone font for Baptism was kept.Godfather Edwinchettan stood by me, touching my left shoulder. Father Pilathose spoke

in Latin. Unknown language is music, and I lay there, smiling. Father made me grasp a

lit candle. Touching my heart with coconut palm fronds and sprinkling water on my

forehead, Father Pilathose called out all my names. And, in the name of the Father, the

Son and the Holy Spirit, he made the sign of the Cross over my body.

Sexton Anthony opened a big, fat book in which Father Pilathose wrote my birth date,

and the names of my father, mother, godfather and godmother. And below these, myname: Kanakkukattathil Edwina Theresa Irene Maria Anne Margarita Jessica. At the

bottom of the page, Father Pilathose wrote the date and signed: Father Noel,

04/30/1951. That's how I got to know Father Pilathose's real name. As soon as the

baptismal water fell on my head, my mind vanished. Angels swooped down, seized my

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mind and flew back to Heaven. After a few years, I regained it though. Others have told

me the things I have written about the prelude to my life.

(Translated from Malayalam by Rajesh Rajamohan)

Litanies of Dutch Battery (2010) published by Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd, 11

Community Cente, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi- 110017, India

First published in Malayalam as Lanthanbatheriyile Luthiniyakal, by D. C. Books,

Kottayam, Kerala (2003)

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Madhavan Litanies