“In silence, they rebelled. In silence, they roared.”

A Tale of Resistance and Resilience in Pre-modern Kerala

By Jeena Chhabra

(This is a work of fiction, shaped by practices and traditions remembered in the folklore of pre-modern Travancore, Kerala. It bears no resemblance to any person, living or dead.)

Before the Story Begins

This story begins in Kerala in the 1980s, but its roots travel backwards through whispered memory and folklore to pre-modern Travancore, where birth decided distance, clothing carried meaning, and a woman’s body could become a battlefield for power, shame, and defiance.

It remembers a world ordered by caste and ritual, where Namboodiri households stood at the top of the social ladder and those below were forced to live by rules of distance, touch, speech, and submission. Women knew these rules intimately; lower-caste women bore them most brutally.

Travancore’s folklore still carries stories of bodies watched, taxed, exposed, and controlled. It speaks of women denied the right to cover themselves before dominant-caste men, and of the so-called Mulakkaram, or “breast tax”—a memory whose exact history remains debated, but whose humiliation has never left the telling.

This tale is not offered as history. It is fiction drawn from oral memory: from old houses that keep secrets, from women who swallowed their cries, and from those who found a way to rebel, even in silence.

Note on Malayalam Terms: Malayalam words have been retained where they carry cultural, emotional, or historical meaning that English cannot fully capture. Many are explained briefly when they first appear, while the glossary at the end offers fuller reference for readers who wish to return to them.

The Jackfruit Afternoon

It was a hot, humid day when the Narayanan family sat on their veranda, busy with the jackfruit. Thamara (lotus) watched as Parvathi, her mother, cut open the huge, ripe chakka (jackfruit). She reached out to pluck one small piece but was stopped by her grandmother Janaki Amma’s stern voice from behind. “Huh! Nikke, penne (wait, girl). Smear your hands with oil first, or they will become sticky. Have you forgotten everything while staying in the hostel?” Thamara made a face and picked up the coconut oil her mother had kept beside her. She poured a little into her palms, rubbed them together, and continued watching her mother at work, occasionally reaching for a piece.

“Parvathi, are you going to take the whole day?” Janaki Amma asked. “When I handled the kitchen, I could cut one whole jackfruit in ten minutes, and by then my kanji (thin rice gruel) would also be ready. And my veranda would not be as dirty as this.” Parvathi kept her head down, neatly removing each piece of fruit embedded inside the giant jackfruit. She focused on the work, refusing to rise to the bait.

Soon the sweet aroma of jackfruit filled the veranda, and Thamara began devouring the pieces one by one. “Don’t make that your lunch, girl, or your stomach will be upset. We can make several other dishes with this.” A loud thud made them all look up. Another one followed. Thamara shrieked with delight and ran out to glimpse the huge ripe jackfruit that had bid farewell to its mother tree and fallen to the ground. “Careful, girl!” Janaki Amma shouted, while Parvathi smiled.

After her husband’s death, Parvathi had come with her only child, Thamara, to live with her mother-in-law in Kerala’s Kottayam district, close to the Meenachil River. Thamara continued her studies in a hostel in Bangalore and returned home during vacations. It had been difficult for Parvathi to adjust to the countryside, having been born and brought up in Bangalore, but financial security and a safe home were now the priority for both mother and daughter. Her thoughts were interrupted by Thamara’s excited voice. “Amma, this one is huge!” she cried, trudging into the veranda with Ammu, the labourer’s daughter, who lived in a small shack nearby. Together, the two girls carried the enormous jackfruit between them. Thamara spent most of her vacations exploring the countryside with Ammu, who was four months older than her.

Janaki Amma looked proudly at the prize the two girls had brought into the house. It was one sight that had not changed in all the years since she had married and been brought into this ancient Tharavad (ancestral family home).

She remembered her mother’s large house in Attingal, in Thiruvananthapuram district, and the scent of the spice plants that had grown around it filled the corridors of her fading memory. As a little girl, she had danced through that house and accompanied her father to oversee the rice fields cultivated by daily-wage labourers. Later, when she married Achutan, she became the lady of this Tharavad in Pala. Achutan had been fond of fruit and wanted mango, jackfruit, and plantain trees around the house. Over the years, the trees had never failed to bear fruit. When Achutan died in 1982, Mukundan, her only son, became her lifeline. Janaki’s misfortune deepened when she lost Mukundan in a car accident two years later.

Three years had passed since then, and Janaki survived only because her son had left a part of himself in Thamara. Her eyes grew moist, and she silently pushed away the pain in her heart. “Appachi (paternal grandmother),” Thamara called out to her grandmother, “Ammu says there is an ancient, dilapidated Tharavad (ancestral family home) nearby that is haunted. She says there is a history to it, and that you know about it.” Ammu looked down guiltily. “I didn’t know Thamara did not know,” she said. Appachi looked sternly at Ammu. “Well, if anyone must tell Thamara, I will do it—but only when she turns eighteen.” “Appachi, I will be eighteen in two months,” Thamara protested. “Good,” said Janaki. “Then I will take you there during your next holidays and tell you all about it. Until then, you,” she said, pointing at Ammu, “will not utter a word.” Ammu nodded and quietly made herself scarce.

The House No One Named
“Amma, do you know anything about the haunted house?” Thamara asked over her mother’s shoulder as Parvathi stirred the payasam (sweet pudding) on the kitchen fire. Parvathi pretended to ignore her. “The payasam will be ready in five minutes. Be a good girl and ask Appachi to take out some more jaggery from the store. She keeps it in the big rice drums in the attic.” “Amma, please tell Appachi to take me to the haunted house.” “Thamara, you know she won’t change her mind, and I think I agree with her. She has your best interests in mind. You are still at an impressionable age.”

Thamara knew she did not want to wait until her next holidays. She was determined to uncover the history of the haunted house and make this visit special. Later that afternoon, she ran to the cemented veranda, slipped her arms around Appachi’s neck, and asked, “Can I practise swimming in the bigger brook this time?” Appachi was instantly reminded of Mukundan as a child, garlanding her neck with his arms whenever he wanted to go to the bigger brook and play with his friends. Thamara was just like him, she thought. “Well, yes,” said Appachi, “but be careful. Take Ammu with you; she swims like a fish. And please wear decent clothes.” Thamara skipped away with Ammu towards the bigger brook, which was fifteen minutes from the house. Janaki Amma watched until the girls disappeared from sight. She sighed and wished her dear Mukundan were still alive. Then she would have had a young grandson to spoil too, along with her dear Thamara.

The Secret Plan
As they walked to the big brook, Ammu chattered on. “Thamara, the haunted house is scary, but I love going there. We have to walk another fifteen minutes from the big brook and cross the main road. Janaki Amma will never give you permission, but we can go if you want. I can ask Gopal Chetan (older-brother figure) to take us there. Opposite the haunted house lives Bhagirathi Amma, who will be happy to narrate the tale if we give her some money.” “How much?” asked Thamara. “Anything between ten and fifteen rupees. She loves pukayila (tobacco leaf), and her sons don’t give her money for it.” “That much I can manage from Appachi,” Thamara said confidently. “But time is the problem.”

“What if we say we are staying a little longer at the bigger brook tomorrow?” Ammu asked. Thamara thought for a moment. “Wait. Let us do it the day after. Appachi will go to the mill to get the copra hulled and pressed into oil, and that takes at least four or five hours. Yes, that is the day. I will get her permission today for the day after. Tomorrow, I will help Appachi around the house and pluck vegetables and fruits from the field. She loves it when I help with household chores.” Ammu was excited. “Let me talk to Gopal Chetan and ask him if he will accompany us. When I come to give milk tomorrow morning, I will tell you if our plan is on. Agreed?” “Agreed,” Thamara replied, filled with enthusiasm and joy. With all the excitement, the girls hardly swam that day. Instead, they carefully planned their visit to the haunted house.

The next day, Ammu arrived as usual with milk from her cowshed. Thamara saw her and ran behind the house well, their usual huddling place. “Gopal Chetan said he will take us,” Ammu whispered. “Can you give him some plantains in exchange?” Thamara nodded. “All right, we are set. Ask Appachi to send for me around eleven; otherwise, she will know we planned this together.” “Don’t worry, Ammu. Appachi will be off to the oil mill tomorrow. Now go,” said Thamara, afraid their whispering would raise suspicion. Ammu walked away after handing the milk vessel to Thamara.

Thamara went behind the kitchen and saw her mother making coconut paste on the stone. She peeped inside and saw Appachi counting plantains, jackfruits, yam, and pumpkin, all fresh produce from their own field. “Appachi, let me help you count. Tomorrow morning, I can also help you pluck greens from the backyard.” “Bless you, my child. It is lovely to have you here,” Appachi said, sitting back in relief. “Appachi, why don’t you keep someone to help you with all the counting and stock-taking?” Thamara asked with concern. Appachi laughed. “Why, girl? Do you think I am old? If I don’t use my hands, legs, and brain, then I will become like the vegetables you are counting.”

“Appachi, can I go every other day to the big brook? This small one is no fun, and I love the big brook.” Appachi smiled and nodded. “But not tomorrow. I must go to the oil mill, and I want you to come with me.” “Oh no, Appachi! I thought I would help you around the house every alternate day and go to the big brook on the others.” “No, Thamara. I need company. It is a long journey to the mill.” Thamara made a face and left the kitchen. There was no way she could contact Ammu and tell her the plan had to be called off. Gopal Chetan had to be told too. There was nothing she could do, so she wandered into the fields around the house.

The next morning, Thamara woke up and went to the kitchen, where her mother was standing before the steaming puttu kudam (vessel used to steam puttu), waiting patiently for the puttu (steamed rice cake) to cook. “Amma, I don’t want to go with Appachi to the mill today,” Thamara declared. Parvathi turned around and smiled. “Who is going to the mill today? Appachi’s knees are hurting, and she is in bed. She has sent word to Ammu that she should take you to the big brook—not only today, but every day until you leave.” Thamara screamed in delight and hugged her mother, almost lifting her off the ground. “She loves you, Thamara,” Parvathi said. “And she disciplines you better than I do.”

Thamara ran to Appachi’s room, hugged her, and smothered her with kisses. “Appachi, you are the best!” “Go, girl. Go and enjoy your swim. Take some plantains and jaggery with you if you are going to swim longer,” Appachi said with a smile. That worked out perfectly. Thamara had almost forgotten the plantains for Gopal Chetan. “Appachi, please give me some money. I want to buy some savouries from the thattukada (roadside food stall).” “No,” said Appachi. “Your mother can make you anything you want. I don’t want you eating from outside, girl. But here is some pocket money for urgent needs while you are here. Sometimes you can give Ammu something, since she is taking you to the brook often.” Thamara looked at the fifty rupees in her hand and admired her prize. She could not have asked for more. Her cup was full.

The Haunted Illam of Kadanad
Ammu arrived sharply at ten in the morning with a towel and a change of clothes, and Thamara soon joined her, waving to her mother. The two girls trotted up the hill road towards the brook. As they neared the village church, Ammu spotted Gopal Chetan and waved to him. Thamara handed him two small bunches of ripe bananas, and all three set off on their exciting journey. They passed the brook, crossed the main road, and Gopal led them through the green paddy fields, past a small pond, and into the adjoining village of Kadanad.

Thamara was tired after walking for more than forty-five minutes under the scorching sun. Ammu held her hand and coaxed her on. “Just five more minutes.” Just then, they saw a dense patch of land shaded by tall neem trees and, in contrast, smaller ashwagandha and tulsi (holy basil) plants. The green was so thick that it was difficult to see the structure hidden within it. Strong medicinal smells drew Thamara’s attention, and she asked about the place. Gopal replied, “Oh, that is the house of a very famous Vaidyan (traditional physician). They say he makes gold out of metals and chants late into the night. Your Appachi knows him well; she has sent farm produce to him through me several times.”

The Vaidyan’s ancestors had practised medicine on that land for generations. Curious, Thamara went closer and peeped in. Both she and Ammu were fascinated by the compound, enclosed by a dense, unmanicured garden overflowing with rare herbs, creepers, and trees. Thamara had never seen so many plants of different shapes and sizes in one place. It was, quite aptly, the Vaidyan’s living pharmacy, ensuring ready access to fresh medicinal ingredients.

A kulam (pond) stood at the edge of the property, probably serving hygienic, ritual, and therapeutic bathing needs. Gopal added that several students came there to study. The courtyard of the house was barely visible through the dense greenery. Fascinated, Thamara made a mental note to ask Appachi about the Vaidyan who supposedly made gold out of metals. All of this resonated with her secret desire to become a traditional medicine practitioner.

Gopal led them towards a narrow, tiled house ringed on all sides by plantain trees. The thrill of the journey was beginning to quicken in the air when Thamara suddenly whispered that the pukayila was missing. “Don’t worry,” said Gopal. “I’ll introduce you to Bhagirathi Amma—Bhagi Amma, as everyone calls her—and slip away for two minutes. Give me the money, and I’ll bring it from the roadside shack.”

“Amma!” Gopal Chetan called out. A frail old woman emerged, hopping forward on one leg, the other folded beneath her, a long stick gripped firmly in her hand. “Amma! I am Gopal from across the Meenachil River. Your grandson and I studied together.” “Gopi!” Amma’s face broke into a smile, and she beckoned them to sit. “No one is in the house. My son and daughter-in-law have gone to the paddy field.” “Amma,” Gopal said, lowering his voice with excitement, “I have brought two girls I know. They want to hear the story of the haunted Tharavad.” “Ah!” Bhagi Amma’s eyes sharpened at once. “And have you brought pukayila for this old woman?” “You talk to them, Amma,” Gopal said quickly. “I’ll get it for you.” Bhagi Amma smiled, pleased, and nodded. “And don’t forget some vada (savoury fritters) from the roadside vendor. My daughter-in-law never makes savouries, and now that I am old, I long for good things to eat.”

Thamara looked at Amma, unable to keep the impatience from her voice. “Will you be able to walk with us to the nearby haunted house and tell us about it?” Bhagi Amma gave a dry little smile. “I don’t have to walk, girl—and neither do you. Come, sit beside me and look straight ahead.” Thamara and Ammu settled on either side of her on the veranda and followed her gaze. Only then did they see it: the stone structure hidden beyond the wall, half-swallowed by wilderness. Wild trees and thick shrubs had crept over the massive house as though trying to bury it, leaving only the lonely well at the far end of the Tharavad visible in the distance. Something about that sight made the day feel charged with promise.

Gopal Chetan came running back with the pukayila and handed it to Bhagi Amma. She folded the tobacco leaf with practised ease, tucked it into her mouth with relish, and seemed instantly revived. “Ah, now Amma can enjoy the storytelling,” she said, her face softening into an endearing smile as she leaned back against the wall of the small veranda.

“My Moutushi (grandmother) narrated this tale to me, and it has come down through generations. The women in that lineage lived at least ninety years,” Bhagi Amma began, lowering her voice as though the house itself might be listening. “I will start where the Ottamthullal (traditional satirical performance-poem) begins the story and add the details my ancestors preserved. The massive Illam (Namboodiri Brahmin household) served as the Tharavad (ancestral family home) of Raman Namboodiri, the Thampuran (lord), and his family: Meenakshi, his wife; Saraswati, their daughter; and Padmavati, his mother. In those days, the Tharavad was always alive with helpers and staff.”

Inside the Old Illam

The bard described the Illam in rich detail, but those who belonged to the land knew it even better. If one stood up, Bhagi Amma said, one could still make out its L-shaped form through the wilderness: the vertical wing held the Thampuran’s room, while the horizontal wing contained two kidappumuris (bedrooms), the chayip (side room or storeroom), and the large adukala (kitchen). The built-up area was modest, yet every room was spacious, solid, and cemented to last. A broad open corridor, sheltered by a tiled roof, ran along the front of both wings. Open on the sides but covered above, it served many purposes: it offered shade during the rains, space for pujas and ceremonies, and a place where the Thampuran often held meetings of the ambalam (temple) committee. Thamara, her curiosity now fully awakened, asked if they could visit the Illam one day. Bhagi Amma replied that there was no one to stop them, though no one wandered there anymore because the place was believed to be haunted. The girls made up their minds to tour the Illam.

Apart from the main house, there was also a two-room structure built for visiting relatives and guests. The whole compound was made of stone, with sloping tiled roofs over each structure. Beyond these stood a large circular stone hall consecrated with a statue of Lord Vishnu. It had been used for marriage ceremonies and choroonu (first rice-feeding ceremony), but Meenakshi had once planned to use it for a dream of her own. “What dream?” Thamara asked at once, leaning forward. “Wait, girl,” Bhagi Amma said. “We will come to that later in the story. And one day, if you are brave enough, you may visit the Illam yourself. The villagers say it is haunted, and nobody goes there.” Thamara and Ammu exchanged excited looks, already imagining the visit.

None of the family members or guests had easy access to the Thampuran’s room. Even the female cleaning staff were expected to finish their work quietly and quickly make themselves scarce. The Thampuran slept alone in his grand room on the north side of the Tharavad, where two huge beds made of mango wood stood in silent grandeur. That part of the house was reserved for him and for the nefarious activities no one dared speak of openly. The room was neatly cut off from the main building, although a corridor connected the two areas like a concealed passage between two worlds.

Raman Namboodiri, popularly known as the Thampuran, was a tall, lean man who was always dressed in a mundu (cloth worn around the waist) and thorthu (thin towel-like cloth). On his otherwise clean-shaven head, he wore, with great pride, his kutumi (tuft of hair marking a Namboodiri Brahmin), folded into a neat knot on the left side. He was extremely unpopular in the village and known to be miserly. The Thampuran was very different from the rest of his family, and the villagers and workers in his paddy fields preferred to avoid him. Even among Namboodiris there were ranks, and the Thampuran belonged to the highest. Orthodox to the extreme, men like him regarded themselves as the true custodians of the ancient Hindu order.

At night, the Thampuran would claim his conjugal rights by going to the other side of the Tharavad and coughing three times outside Meenakshi’s bedroom. Hearing the cough, Meenakshi would slip out, pretending to relieve herself, and join him. Once the act was over, she would return and sleep beside her daughter. As Sarsu grew older, this charade became increasingly difficult. The child would offer to accompany her mother, worried that she might fall in the dark. Thamara and Ammu exchanged meaningful looks when they heard of the Thampuran’s night-time routine.

Meenakshi, the Thampuran’s wife, was referred to as Cheria Thampurati (young lady of the house). She was a simple woman, laden with svarnam (gold jewellery), and confined within the Illam. In those days, Namboodiri women were known as Antharjanam or Akathamma (women who lived inside the household). They could not be seen by men of other castes, or even by Namboodiris outside their immediate family. Meenakshi was the daughter of Sankaran Namboodiri, a powerful feudal lord in Alappuzha district. Like other Namboodiri girls, she had no formal education, but her mother had insisted on bringing an Aashan (teacher) to teach her the alphabet. She was taught to write on mud with her forefinger. Much against the Thampuran’s wishes, Meenakshi insisted on doing the same for their daughter Saraswati, or Sarsu, and later sent her to the Ezhuthupalli (traditional village school).

Meenakshi did not talk much, chat, or argue with the Namboodiri. She had her own ways of expressing displeasure. If she was unhappy with him, she would stop eating or have the Illam calf tied to the Namboodiri’s veranda without fodder. The constant mooing of the calf, answered by the desperate cry of the cow from the shed, would frustrate him until he gave in. Most importantly, the Namboodiri did not want to earn the ire of his father-in-law, Sankaran. Raman Namboodiri and Meenakshi had a son after Sarsu, but the child died soon after birth. Meenakshi never conceived again, and the Thampuran had broached the subject of marrying again for a male heir so that his property could remain with his descendants. Women had no right to property in those days. Meenakshi responded with silence. The Thampuran warned her that he would wait until Sarsu attained puberty before remarrying, confident that the child would then understand.

Sarsu was a beautiful young girl, referred to as Kochu Thampurati (little lady or young princess of the house). Her mother insisted that she learn to read and write. There were two mutts (learning centres meant exclusively for Namboodiris), but not a single Namboodiri girl studied in either of them, so Sarsu was not sent there. Then there were Ezhuthupallis (indigenous schools attached to churches and open to all castes), although Namboodiri children avoided them for fear of being polluted by other castes. Only a few girls from the Nair and Ezhava communities attended the Ezhuthupallis. At Meenakshi’s insistence, the Thampuran arranged a special desk for Sarsu in the Ezhuthupalli, far removed from the other children but close enough to follow the Aashan (master). A Nair woman was arranged as the child’s chaperone, accompanying her to school and back.

Sarsu had two friends at school: Anjana, a Nair girl, and Chakki, an Ezhava girl. Both were the same age as her. Anjana kept a formal distance, mindful of caste, but Chakki was more reckless and carefree. Sarsu loved chatting with her and would coax her to walk home together after school. Chakki often obliged, secretly wishing she could visit Sarsu’s home for a feast, though she never said so aloud. When Sarsu described chakka pradhaman (jackfruit pudding), Chakki could only salivate. Sarsu, on the other hand, longed to exchange her life with Chakki’s. How wonderful it would be to step out of the house unchaperoned, splash about in the brooks, run around trees and orchards, leave her hair loose, and sit with her peers while studying. On their way back from school, Chakki would climb trees while Sarsu watched, longing to do the same. If her father ever heard of these antics, she knew she would be forbidden from studying altogether.

Young Sarsu was afraid of her father. She had grown up hearing him assert his authority over the staff, her mother, and her grandmother. She did have brief, occasional conversations with him about her friends and school, although the subject did not interest him much. He constantly forbade her from mixing with girls of other castes. A Kanakku Aashan (mathematics teacher) came to the house because the Thampuran wanted to train her to help him manage his hundred acres of land, its produce, and the staff he controlled.

Padmavati, the Thampuran’s elderly mother, popularly referred to as Valiya Thampurati (senior lady of the house), also lived with him. Though she was the oldest in the household, she remained agile, moving about the house and attending mainly to religious chores. She and the Thampuran rarely spoke and preferred not to cross each other’s paths. Occasionally, when he tested her patience, her stern voice would address him simply as “Namboodiri.”

As the afternoon sun warmed the day, the trio slipped deeper into the forgotten era Bhagi Amma was weaving for them. “Now that you know the characters,” she said, “we will begin the story.”

The Thampuran’s Shadow

The Ottamthullal opens with the Thampuran seated comfortably on his wooden armchair, the only piece of furniture on the large veranda outside his kidappumuri. His casual mundu and thorthu, wrapped around the lower half of his body, had been pulled up to his knees as he sprawled at ease. With him sat a small audience: the village Thattan (goldsmith) and the Aashari (carpenter). The Aashari had been summoned to make a separate bed for Sarsu. The child was growing, and the bed she shared with her mother was no longer large enough for two.

The Thattan was examining a pair of golden studs that the Thampuran wanted enlarged without adding any extra gold. Sarsu would soon come of age, and family tradition demanded that a girl’s first menstruation be marked with a grand ceremony. The Thampuran disliked the goldsmith’s suggestion that more gold would be needed. Irritated, the Thattan muttered sarcastically, “Why not ask the Vaidyan who practises Rasa Shastra (traditional medicine involving metals and minerals) to make suvarnam (gold) from parada (mercury)? It will cost you less.” One stern look from the Thampuran silenced him.

Thamara looked perplexed. What was Rasa Shastra, and how could mercury be made into gold? Bhagi Amma shrugged. “I do not know the details,” she said. “The Ottamthullal described a Vaidyan living nearby who practised Tantram (esoteric ritual knowledge) and used Rasa Shastra to make both medicine and gold from mercury. The importance of the Vaidyan will come later.”

Thamara immediately thought of the mercury in thermometers and remembered her mother warning her never to bite one by mistake because mercury was poisonous. She made a mental note to read more about Rasa Shastra and to ask Appachi, whose great-grandfather had been an Ayurvedic physician. “Did the Vaidyan who practised Tantram play a role in the haunted house?” Thamara asked. “Wait, girl,” Bhagi Amma said, irritated. “Don’t jump ahead. You will come to know how everything is connected.”

The Thampuran looked up at the sky and rose hurriedly from his chair. It was time to take his rounds in the paddy fields. The arrangements with the goldsmith and carpenter were settled through barter: a fixed quantity of rice and plantains over two years in return for their services. The aristocrat was a mean businessman and would not part with money easily. As a custodian of religion and owner of village temples, he held considerable power over artisans and common people.

The paddy fields belonging to the Tharavad sprawled across acres. The Thampuran could easily have had a servant carry his wooden chair or hold an umbrella while he took his rounds. The chair would have been useful if he wished to rest or reprimand labourers. But he preferred to move alone. He did not want his wife and daughter to know that he used these rounds to stare at the women workers, and any attendant would gossip.

In those days, lower-caste Hindu women in parts of Kerala were expected not to cover their breasts, especially in the sight of Namboodiri men. If they did, they could be fined under what folklore remembers as the breast tax. Poor women, including girls who had attained puberty, were left with little choice but to comply. If a woman covered herself, the Thampuran would either flick the cloth away with his walking stick or order her to remove it herself. What pleased him most was forcing an accompanying husband to do it, because it gave him power over both man and woman.

Every day, the Thampuran indulged this habit during his rounds. At night, he sometimes summoned women of the lower castes to his Illam. This had been going on for years. One of his faithful assistants kept him informed of women visitors to the village and of lower-caste girls who had newly come of age.

Rules of Fear

On days when he expected a night visitor, he would ask for warm water to gargle or demand an early dinner, pretending he felt poorly and wished to retire. Meenakshi was expected to understand that he would not be claiming his conjugal rights that night, and that there would be no coughing outside her room. He believed she remained unaware of his activities.

The Thampuran’s latest obsession was Kuyil (cuckoo), Achu’s wife, who belonged to the Pulayar community (historically oppressed caste group). He wondered how he had failed to notice her when she was an unmarried girl working in his fields. But it was not too late, he thought. Today he wanted to see her. Thamara and Ammu exchanged a shocked look as they heard of the Thampuran’s habits.

“Aiyo, Amma! It is late,” Bhagi Amma sighed, bringing the trio out of the spell. “We will continue another day. I am tired.” Thamara was disappointed and pleaded for more, but Bhagi Amma was clever enough to stop her tale at its richest moments. She had to ensure that her pukayila stock was replenished, and it was getting late for the girls. Ammu insisted they should leave. “Bhagi Amma, we will come every day until you finish,” Thamara said. “Sheri (all right),” Bhagi Amma nodded. Saying goodbye, the trio turned homewards.

The walk back was quiet. Thamara could think only of the Thampuran, his daughter Sarsu, and Kuyil. What had happened in their lives that the Tharavad (ancestral family home), or Illam (Namboodiri Brahmin household), had become haunted and desolate? In some ways, Ammu could imagine herself as Chakki and Thamara as Sarsu—if wealth and caste were the only differences between them.

Thamara entered her own Tharavad deep in thought. Appachi spotted her on the veranda. “Did you not go to the brook?” she asked. “Yes, Appachi.” “Then how is your hair dry?” Thamara knew she was caught. “Oh, I did not feel like swimming. Ammu and I were chatting, and she swam a little.” She did not dare look at Appachi and went inside, wondering whether she would be allowed to go again the next day.

Early the next morning, Thamara avoided her grandmother and kept herself busy in the kitchen and the vegetable garden, plucking leafy greens and anything else needed for the meals. Then she took a change of clothes and started walking towards the kulimuri (bathing room) near the well. “Thamara!” Appachi called out. The girl turned slowly, worried. She was caught, and she knew it would be difficult to survive Appachi’s questioning. “Do you not feel like swimming today?” It was an unexpected question, but Thamara stayed alert. “I do, Appachi,” she said cheerfully. “Then why are you bathing now? You know the custom is to bathe after returning from the brook.” Caught again, Thamara smiled sheepishly. “I forgot, Appachi.”

Nothing more was said. Thamara sat close to Appachi and helped her dip green chillies into curd before drying them in the sun. Once dried, they would be stored in tin boxes and fried as an accompaniment to rice. “Tomorrow we will cut bitter gourd for drying,” Appachi said with a smile. “Appachi, do you know any Vaidyans nearby?” Thamara asked. “Why? Are you unwell? Then you must rest,” Appachi replied at once. “No, Appachi. I was wondering whether I could become a traditional medicine physician. I have heard it takes years of practice and that it is useful to apprentice with a good Vaidyan. I am curious to see how they work.”

Appachi’s face lit up at once. There was, she thought, no better place to learn Ayurveda than Kerala, and the idea of Thamara staying close to her filled her with a quiet, unexpected joy. It would be a blessing to have the child beside her until she closed her eyes. With barely concealed excitement, she promised to take Thamara to the house of her old friend, Keshavan Vaidyan. He was famed for healing serpent bites, she said, and she had once seen him draw a patient back from the edge of death—a sight so astonishing that the memory still stirred her. “But you will need a sturdy nose,” she warned, smiling, “for the whole place smells of medicines, oils, herbs, and boiling concoctions.”

“There may be very few practitioners of this art now, but from what I have heard, the Vaidyan’s ancestor certainly practised it. I am not sure how much Keshavan does, if at all.” Thamara made a note to learn more about this fascinating branch of medicine. They both looked up when they heard Ammu calling out to Thamara and waving from a distance. “Go, my girl. Have fun swimming,” Appachi said, smiling while secretly imagining Thamara staying with her and becoming a traditional medicine physician.

“This is the most exciting holiday I have ever had, Ammu,” Thamara said as the three trudged across the road towards the haunted house in Kadanad. “And today we must get up ten minutes earlier.” “Why?” asked Ammu, who was enjoying Bhagi Amma’s tale. Thamara coming home during the holidays was always a treat for Ammu, as she often got to visit the Tharavad and eat good food, but this time felt like a prize. She had heard about the haunted house lying desolate for decades but had never known the mystery behind it. Thamara ignored her question; her mind was full of the Thampuran, Sarsu, and Kuyil.

Gopal Chetan stopped by the thattukada to buy parippu vada (lentil fritters) and pukayila. Both girls knew the purchase was priceless. At eighteen—or almost eighteen—they wondered how they would have lived through the Thampuran’s era, and that too bare-breasted. Nowadays, parents and families insisted that young girls cover themselves properly. How strange, Thamara thought, to imagine an age in which a woman could be punished for covering herself. Appachi was very clear that Thamara and Parvathi should come out fully clothed from the kulimuri. There were many labourers around the house, and women had to preserve their dignity and not become a feast for roving eyes. Thamara always carried her long pavada (long skirt) and blouse to the bathroom and came out dressed.

Bhagi Amma smiled at them and made space for the three youngsters. She gladly grabbed the parippu vada wrapped in banana leaf and ate two with relish. “I will have the pukayila later at night, when my children go to sleep.” Thamara reminded Bhagi Amma that she had been talking about Kuyil, the Thampuran’s latest obsession. “Oh yes,” said Bhagi Amma, and sank back into the narration, carrying the three of them into history.

Kuyil, the Cuckoo of the Fields

Kuyil was a charming Pulayar girl who had recently married Achu, a man from her own community. As a baby, she had cried in a voice that sounded like a cuckoo, and so she came to be known by that name. Before marriage, many young men in her community had admired her, but she had given her heart to Achu. She was the only woman in her settlement with waist-length hair. With large eyes, a graceful body, and stone jewellery around her neck and arms, she was Achu’s pride. Her community had celebrated their marriage with a small ceremony and festivities that lasted all night.

Achu and Kuyil had built their own thatched cottage within the settlement. Kuyil stayed home for a week after the wedding before returning to work in the paddy fields with her husband. The Thampuran’s roving eyes caught her on her first day back, and after that he looked for her every day during his rounds. The other women labourers warned her to fade into the background whenever the Thampuran came near, but Kuyil paid no heed. She was still soaring in the happiness of her marriage to Achu.

On the fateful day, the Thampuran saw Kuyil chatting with other women in the fields. Her back was turned to him, and her long wet hair fell to her waist. It looked as though she had taken a dip in the nearby brook to cool herself, as labourers often did during the hot, sweaty months. When the women noticed the Thampuran, they removed the thin towels they had used to cover themselves against the heat. Kuyil turned to see who had interrupted their conversation and was caught off guard by the Thampuran’s lecherous stare. Instinctively, she gathered her hair across her chest. “Adhyaprasangi (insolent woman)!” he exclaimed.

Hearing the raised voice, Achu came running from nearby, while the other women dispersed to save themselves from the Namboodiri’s wrath. Trembling with anger, the Thampuran addressed Achu. “Have you not taught her how to behave before a Thampuran? Her breasts should be bare.” Achu looked up, covering his mouth with his right hand to avoid polluting the Thampuran, and said in a small voice, “Thampuran, it is only her hair. No cloth has been used.” “Hmm. Send her home tomorrow night,” the Thampuran said. “Make sure she comes after nine, straight to my room, without any noise. Let me see if I can teach this insolent woman a lesson.” Achu stood dumbstruck and motionless. The Thampuran walked away, confident of being heard and obeyed.

At the end of the paddy field, the Thampuran stopped by Kumaran, the Gomasthan (account keeper). “No edangazhi (traditional measure of grain) for Achu and Kuyil,” he said. Each labourer normally received two edangazhi of paddy for a day’s work. Kumaran nodded, and the Thampuran turned homeward, satisfied with his punishment and consumed by thoughts of Kuyil.

On his way back, he took a diversion and went to the Vaidyan. Surprised, the Vaidyan looked at the Namboodiri and asked what had brought him there. The Namboodiri smiled. “What else?” “But I have already given you a month’s quota,” the Vaidyan said. “As I told you, medicine in the required dose can save life, but poison in large quantities can kill. I am morally bound as a physician to do no harm. The number of doses you are taking in a week can cause serious harm or even kill you. It takes me a month to make a week’s dose, and I have several sick patients who need this medicine.” One stern look from the Thampuran silenced him. The Vaidyan went inside, brought out a small cloth pouch, and handed it to the Namboodiri.

That evening, the Thampuran was restless. He should have called Kuyil that very night, he thought. Hearing voices near the kitchen, he stepped out onto the veranda and saw two figures lingering in the dark. “Aare aane (who is that)?” he called loudly. Meenakshi replied that she had called a Thirummukari (massage woman) and was giving her rice in return for her services. The Thampuran returned to his room to rest and dream of his prey.

Meenakshi heaved a sigh of relief as she watched Kuyil and Achu disappear into the dark. Achu carried his thorthu in his hand like a pouch, holding the three edangazhi of rice, the kind Thampurati had secretly given him. Meenakshi was kept informed of events in the fields, and the labourers adored her. She had been horrified to hear that Achu and Kuyil had not been paid because Kuyil had covered herself with her hair. She had secretly sent for them to ensure they had kanji to eat that night.

The Humiliation in the Fields

The next day, for no particular reason, the Thampuran went for his rounds a little later than usual. He walked onto the varambu (raised ridge between paddy fields), waving his stick stylishly as he approached a group of workers. Strangely, all the women had their backs turned to him and did not seem to know he was coming. He had barely reached them when he slipped, his right foot plunging into a deep pit in the ridge. He shrieked. The women turned at once and, seeing him, bared themselves in obedience to caste custom. But the Thampuran was in too much pain to notice. Labourers ran towards him, but none dared touch him for fear of polluting him. Kumaran came running and, being a Nair (dominant caste below the Namboodiris in the local order), was considered the most suitable person to help the Thampuran to his feet.

Soon, the Thampuran’s chair was brought from the far end of the field. He slowly stood, wincing in pain. The hole was deep, and Kumaran suspected it had been made by hand, and recently. He himself had walked over the path the previous day, when the ridge had been firm all around the paddy fields. Kumaran ordered four labourers to carry the Thampuran home on the chair. Furious, the Thampuran told Kumaran to come and see him at the Illam.

Meenakshi and Padmavati saw the Thampuran arriving on the shoulders of four men but did not bat an eyelid. He shouted for Meenakshi and ordered her to send for the Vaidyan. As he was being carried to his room, he heard a stern male voice from inside. “Who is shouting at you, Meenakshi?” The Thampuran froze in his chair as he recognised the voice of his father-in-law, Sankaran Namboodiri.

“Hmm!” Sankaran looked up at Raman in the chair. “Have you stopped walking, only to put weight on these poor people?” Sankaran had heard rumours of Raman’s conduct but had never found concrete proof. As a concerned father, he often asked Meenakshi about her married life, but his daughter always said she was happy. “I fell into a hole on the varambu,” Raman said, hoping for sympathy. “A hole? What hole?” Sankaran asked. “How can there be a hole in the varambu? Those ridges become so hard from constant use that heavy farm tools can be dragged across them. They are broad and sturdy enough for even the Maharaja’s vehicle.”

“Acchan (father),” Raman said, “these scoundrels working in my field have conspired and made the hole intentionally. I walk that path every day, and this has never happened before.” “And why would they do that?” asked Sankaran. “Do you not give them edangazhi? I have never heard of such a conspiracy.” “Acchan, I give them two edangazhi for a day’s work.” “Hmm,” said Sankaran. “Then there must be something else I am not aware of. Anyway, Meenakshi sent for me, and I am taking Sarsu home for a few days. Her Moutushi wants to see her. Shall we have her coming-of-age ceremony at my Illam?” “Acchan, that will be difficult. I have made arrangements here, and my two sisters are coming to conduct the ceremony.” Sankaran debated whether to insist but held back. He was concerned that Meenakshi might bear the brunt of his anger if he pressed too hard. He had heard troubling rumours about Raman only after marrying off his daughter and bitterly regretted not having enquired more carefully before the marriage.

Raman politely asked why Acchan had not informed them of his visit. Sankaran ignored the question. Unlike Raman, Sankaran was a much-loved and respected Namboodiri. While the norm was to give two or three edangazhi for a day’s labour, Sankaran gave five. At the end of every month, he also gave two coconuts. On special occasions, such as family birthdays or festivals like Onam, he distributed new mundu and thorthu to the workers and sent sweets from the Illam. He made sure any labourer who fell ill or was injured was tended by the Vaidyan. Sankaran did not demand that lower-caste women bare themselves before him, and he made sure his sons followed the same code. This made him a popular feudal lord, and labourers migrated from Thiruvananthapuram, Kollam, Kottayam, Devikulam, and Padmanabhapuram to work in his fields.

As the sun set, Sankaran and Raman sat down to relish the feast Meenakshi had prepared for her father. Sankaran took a small golden pouch from the folds of his mundu and placed it in Sarsu’s hand. “Your grandmother has sent this for you.” Sarsu opened it excitedly and saw ruby-and-gold stud earrings. She hugged her grandfather in delight, and Sankaran embraced her warmly. “Eat your food and go to bed. We will leave early tomorrow. I have brought the vallam (boat) with the swing inside,” he said, smiling. Sarsu loved her grandfather’s beautifully decorated vallams, especially the one with a wooden swing. When she was a baby, her uncles had even built a cradle inside it. “Meenakshi, are you sure you do not want to come and visit your mother and brothers? You can return in a week, or earlier.” Meenakshi silently shook her head, and Sankaran gave up.

Chavarakode Narayanan Vaidyan, a renowned Ayurvedic practitioner who specialised in martial medicine, marma therapy (treatment of the body’s vital points), and regional plants, came to the Tharavad late that evening at Meenakshi’s request. When he saw her, he placed his pouch of medicines down and performed a Kalari Vandanam (formal Kalari salutation), bowing from the waist, touching both hands to the floor, and bringing them to his chest in deep reverence. Thamara was curious and interrupted Bhagi Amma. “Why did the Vaidyan bow to Meenakshi?” Bhagi Amma’s reply gave her goosebumps. Meenakshi was respectfully known as Meenakshi Gurukal, the only known woman Kalaripayattu practitioner in the region who had mastered the art and been recognised as a master teacher. Narayanan himself had trained in Kalari but had abandoned the path before becoming a Gurukal, choosing instead to devote himself to marma therapy and Ayurveda.

The Thampuran was embarrassed to see Narayanan and greeted him sheepishly. “Do you know each other?” Sankaran asked curiously. Narayanan nodded. “Yes, the Namboodiri has visited me a couple of times and I have referred him to the local Vaidyan in this village. I am preparing a special medicine for him and will deliver through the local physician.” “Oh, I did not know Raman was unwell,” Sankaran said, glancing at Meenakshi, whose face remained blank. The Vaidyan consulted Meenakshi, pressed two marma points—one at the hip and one on the leg—applied hot fomentation with herbs tied in muslin, and then spread freshly prepared medicinal paste on the Thampuran’s leg. Narayanan looked at Sankaran and said, “You did not need me. Gurukal could have treated him easily.” “Why did he say that about Meenakshi and why did he consult her?” Ammu asked. Bhagi stretched her legs and replied that Meenakshi Gurukal had also been trained in marma therapy as part of her Kalaripayattu training.

Narayanan prescribed navara kanji (medicinal rice gruel made with navara rice and mixed with herbs and spices) once a day for ten days. The Thampuran felt better after the fomentation. Meenakshi gave the Vaidyan five edangazhi, as Raman ordered. She would have liked to give him some of the savouries and sweets her father had brought from Alappuzha, but the Thampuran forbade her.

When the Vaidyan was leaving, Sankaran privately asked him what was wrong with Raman and was shocked by his answer. “What did the Vaidyan say?” Thamara asked, curious and worried. Bhagi Amma smiled. “Patience. You will know in the end.” Thamara interrupted again. “How do you remember and recount so many details?” “There are many of us who have seen the dramatic enactment of this story many times,” Bhagi Amma replied. “This house has been my ancestral home for decades. Three generations of my family worked in the Thampuran’s Illam and fields. In those days, we had a hut here instead of this small house. There were sixty of us helping in the Illam and in the nearby fields, growing plantains, jackfruit, coconut, mangoes, and root and leafy vegetables.”

“The paddy fields had another eighty workers. Those who worked in the Illam knew what happened inside and gossiped among themselves. My own family worked in the Illam adukala, the kitchen, for more than three decades. People who work in a kitchen hear everything. Most importantly, that night marked the beginning of the silent rebellion and a demonstration of women’s power—something unheard of in a caste-ridden society dominated by Brahminical authority.” Seizing the interruption as a convenient pause, Bhagi Amma ended the storytelling for the day. Thamara insisted she would not be able to sleep after hearing about the beginning of the silent rebellion, but Bhagi Amma was adamant.

The three walked back in silence until they reached the brook. Thamara and Ammu took a quick dip to make sure they looked wet, towelled their hair so it remained slightly damp, and changed. Thamara was taking no risk of being caught by Appachi now that the story of the haunted house was beginning to take shape. Ammu predicted there would be violence that night at Raman Namboodiri’s Illam, but Thamara reminded her that Bhagi Amma had spoken of a silent rebellion. Besides, the Thampuran was injured, at least temporarily—what could he do? “Maybe Sankaran found out about the Thampuran and slew him,” Gopal Chetan added.

The next morning, Thamara woke to find neither her mother nor Appachi inside. She ventured out to the nearby field and saw both of them watching labourers climb coconut trees and throw down the fruit one by one. Appachi saw her and said, “Good, you are awake. I have sent for the local carry van, and we are going to the oil mill.” “But Appachi, these are tender coconuts,” Thamara protested. “We will have to wait until they dry.” “Don’t teach me, girl. Go and look at the front of the house. I have already brought all the dried coconuts down from the attic, and they are ready to be loaded onto the van. We are going to the oil mill today, and you will accompany me.”

While time stood still in the Namboodiri household, where a silent rebellion was taking shape, Thamara sulked in present-day Kadanad and dragged herself to the oil mill. Appachi’s two friends were there and were happy to meet her. She exchanged pleasantries with them and waited in silence until their turn came. Each coconut brought by Appachi met its destined fate in the hulling machine, and crystal-clear oil surged out with the promise of nourishment. Appachi tried to cheer her up by buying her ethakka pazham (plantain fritters), but Thamara’s mind was waiting for night to fall at the Namboodiri Illam.

Tired and exhausted, Appachi and Thamara walked back to their Tharavad and ate a simple meal of choru (cooked red rice), moru curry (buttermilk-based curry), and chakka kuru mezhukkupuratti (jackfruit seeds sautéed with spices). That night, while lying in bed, Thamara asked her mother whether any of their ancestral women had gone around bare-breasted. Parvathi was taken aback. “Why do you ask?” “Oh, I was reading a book and wondered.” “Well, tradition says so,” Parvathi replied, “but they were mostly Pulayar women, from the lowest castes.” “Amma, do you believe in caste?” Thamara asked. “We have been brought up to believe in it, and you can see that it still exists here in the village.” “Sad,” Thamara said, turning to the other side and thinking of the rebellious night the next dawn would hopefully reveal.

Ammu arrived early, trying to contain her excitement, and Thamara quickly joined her with her pavada, blouse, and thorthu for changing after the dip. “Appachi, Amma, we are going, and we will be late today. I want to spend a lazy day swimming on my back.” “Wait, Thamara!” Parvathi ran after her and handed her a packet full of savouries—rose cookies, diamond cuts, and aval (sweet rice flakes), neatly wrapped in large plantain leaves and tied with coir. Then she handed over two packets of podhi chor (packed rice meals wrapped in banana leaf), one each for Thamara and Ammu. Ammu was delighted. “Even if you girls decide to come back in the evening, this meal will keep you full,” Parvathi said. Thamara quickly remembered Gopal and Bhagi Amma and asked if she could have two more. “Mother, we feel very hungry after swimming and can easily polish off two each.” Parvathi smiled, went back, and brought two more podhis. Thamara wanted to tempt Bhagi Amma with the podhi and persuade her to complete more of the story that day. Gopal Chetan met them at the corner, and Thamara offered both her friends some of the goodies. All of them munched as they hurried along, while the sun threatened to burn them and the humidity promised to drown them in sweat.

“Bhagi Amma, look what we brought,” Thamara said, offering her one entire podhi. The old lady beamed and greedily opened the packet to taste the rose cookies. She was beginning to love the children and their story time; she no longer felt quite so lonely. By the time the children left, it would be time for her son and daughter-in-law to return from the fields. The regular stock of pukayila was an added pleasure. With her stomach full of savouries, Bhagi Amma began again, captivating her small audience and weaving them back into a bygone era.

That night, Meenakshi sent Sarsu to sleep with her grandmother. She wanted her room to herself so she could carefully lay out and pack Sarsu’s clothes, along with the savouries she had prepared for her mother and brothers. Sankaran was particular about timing; he would look at the sun and announce his departure in the morning, and nothing would delay him.

Sankaran went to sleep in Raman’s huge room, where two large beds faced each other. Raman and Sankaran did not talk much; each retired to his own bed for the night. Raman was already feeling better after the Vaidyan’s treatment and could limp without much pain. The vilakku (oil lamp) outside on the veranda was left burning, while the two lamps inside the room were dimmed. As Sankaran’s breathing deepened into loud, rhythmic snores, there came a slow, steady knock on the door. “Who is that?” Raman shouted, struggling to sit up. He had hardly slept. “You wait,” Sankaran said, suddenly wide awake. He stood, adjusted his mundu, and opened the door while Raman slowly rose and limped behind him.

The First Witness

When the door opened, Sankaran picked up the lamp and stepped out onto the veranda. He was shocked to see a large crowd of Pulayar women, at least fifty in number, all bare-breasted and carrying burning chootu (dried coconut-palm leaf torches). They had spread across the open space before the veranda. “What brings you here at this hour?” Sankaran asked in a stern voice. A young woman stepped forward from the crowd, bare-breasted, her oiled skin glistening in the dark and her long hair flowing to her waist.

To Raman’s horror, it was Kuyil. He had forgotten that he had ordered Achu to send her to the Illam that night. The sudden fall, Sankaran’s unannounced arrival, and the Vaidyan’s treatment had driven the summons from his mind.

“Cover yourself, child—and all of you too,” Sankaran said, looking at the crowd. Raman’s heart sank as Kuyil spoke in a small voice. “Thampuran asked my husband to send me here tonight.” Another middle-aged Pulayar woman added, “She was afraid to come alone, so we all came with her, hoping the Thampuran would be pleased to see so many of us at his service.” Sankaran was no fool. Everything he had heard about Raman was now confirmed before his eyes. Horrified, he looked back at Raman, who stood frozen.

Sankaran’s rage deepened when he saw Meenakshi standing across the corridor, hidden in the dark. He addressed Kuyil and the women in a stern voice. “This is my daughter’s home, and I do not want to see a single woman walking bare breasted here or coming to the Illam at night. I will not spare anyone who disobeys me.” Then he looked at Kuyil more gently. “Go, child. Go home. This will not happen again.” The crowd dispersed, and Sankaran returned to his bed, fuming with anger.

On the other side of the corridor, Meenakshi slowly moved back into her room. The Antharjanams (Namboodiri women confined within the household) had carried out their plan seamlessly, and the mastermind was none other than Padmavati, her mother-in-law, who was fed up with her son’s conduct. When Achu and Kuyil did not receive their edangazhi two days earlier, their community had advised them to approach the Cheria Thampurati (young lady of the house), who was known to be kind. That same day, they had come to Meenakshi and told her that the Thampuran had ordered Kuyil to be sent to him the following night.

Meenakshi and Padmavati were livid. It was not that this was new, but Meenakshi had had enough, and the Thampuran had also been threatening to take another wife. “This man needs to be reprimanded,” Padmavati said, though she knew that neither she nor Meenakshi could stop Raman directly. And so the plan was born.

Both Meenakshi and Padmavati knew that Raman was intimidated by Sankaran, a respected feudal lord who tolerated no nonsense. Padmavati advised Meenakshi to send word to her father saying she missed him and wished to see him. As expected, Sankaran hurried over the next day to visit his precious daughter and grandchild. Kuyil was instructed to come on the night fixed by the Thampuran, accompanied by as many Pulayar women as possible, all bare-breasted. The whole scene unfolded before Sankaran without exposing the Antharjanams’ role. Fortunately, Raman’s sudden fall had made him forget to cancel his order to Achu, and so Achu and Kuyil were also spared his immediate wrath.

That night, Raman saw a different side of Sankaran, who roared at him and threatened dire consequences if he did not mend his ways. “No wonder they dug a hole for you. Are you not ashamed of being a Namboodiri, a so-called protector of all? You have a daughter who will soon be as old as Kuyil. Is this disgrace a regular practice in this Tharavad?”

“If my sons come to know of this, they will slay you,” Sankaran warned. “Meenakshi is my only daughter, and even after I repeatedly asked her, she never told me of your activities. Had I known, I would have taken her back with me.”

Neither Raman nor Sankaran slept that night, and the house woke early. Sankaran said he would leave by vallam before the sun grew fierce, and Meenakshi busied herself packing food for him and Sarsu. The journey from Kottayam to Alappuzha by vallam took a good three and a half hours. Sankaran ignored Raman while taking leave and went to Meenakshi’s side. “Do you still want to stay here, or will you come back with me?” Meenakshi said nothing. Sankaran took Sarsu’s hand and walked away.

The Thampurati Who Was Gurukal

Two days later, the Thampuran was feeling much better and was preparing for his first early-morning visit to the fields after the fall. The Vaidyan had come that morning and said the leg was healing well. With another day’s rest, he could resume his usual activities.

The Thampuran sat lazily on the veranda, watching Meenakshi perform the thulasi pooja (ritual worship of the holy basil plant). Her long wet hair hung past her waist. He liked her hair loose, though like most Thampuratis, once it dried she would oil it and twist it into a neat bun on one side of her head, decorating it with thick strands of fragrant mullapoo (jasmine flowers). Her tall, slender frame moved gracefully through the Illam, unlike his own body, which had begun to suffer aches and pains. He attributed her strength to her training in Kalaripayattu. As a young girl, her father and elder brother had given in to her wish to learn the art and arranged for a Kalari Aashan (martial arts teacher) to visit the Illam and teach her.

Meenakshi had devoted herself fully to becoming a qualified master of Kalaripayattu (Kerala’s traditional martial art). Before her marriage, in her father’s Illam, she would demonstrate techniques of unarmed combat, strikes, kicks, and grappling. She was proficient with weapons too: sticks, daggers, swords, spears, and shields, both for attack and self-defence. Her two brothers and Sankaran proudly showed her skills to relatives and friends. Raman himself had once been fascinated when Meenakshi performed before him for nearly an hour without pause. She had wanted to continue practising and open a Kalari school (traditional martial arts training space), but the Thampuran was not convinced that such ambition was appropriate for a Namboodiri woman and never encouraged her.

Meenakshi was always decked in svarnam (gold), as her mother had been, and her mundu had a rich golden border. Sankaran always brought her some gold when he visited, so Raman did not have to indulge her on that account. This time, he had brought her a pair of gold earrings similar to Sarsu’s, but larger. Raman wondered whether she was happy with him. She enjoyed all the comforts she had known in her father’s house, even if Sankaran was richer. She had no reason to be displeased, he thought. He was confident she knew nothing of his nightly summons to lower-caste women. He made sure they entered through the backdoor late at night, when everyone in the Illam was asleep. He preferred to ignore the night Kuyil and the Pulayar women had come to the Illam. After all, nothing had happened. Sankaran had merely created an unnecessary scene. Meenakshi, being Namboodiri, knew very well that men of the family claimed unspoken rights over lower-caste women. Since she had neither objected nor complained, Raman decided not to dwell on it.

“Let us stop here for the day. I am very tired,” Bhagi Amma said, breaking the spell. “We will continue tomorrow. And Thamara, don’t forget to bring some sweets and savouries for this old woman.” The girls and Gopal Chetan took leave of her and started walking home. “Don’t forget the dip in the brook,” Thamara said. “I am keener to open the podhi chor (packed banana-leaf rice meal),” Ammu replied, giggling. She had longed to open it and taste the feast but could not do so in the middle of the storytelling, as Bhagi Amma would have been distracted.

The next day, as the girls were leaving, Parvathi came running after them with a small basket of goodies and five podhi chors. “Who is the fifth one for?” Thamara asked. Parvathi smiled. “I am accompanying you today. Appachi’s sister is visiting and will soon be here to keep her company. I feel like a walk and a swim myself—and of course, I want to see how well you swim now.” There was silence as Thamara and Ammu looked at each other, shocked by this unexpected turn of events. The three of them walked in silence until Ammu spotted Gopal waiting for them at the corner. She gestured to him to return. Perplexed, he turned back and walked away.

At the brook, Thamara debated whether she could trust her mother with their secret. Knowing Appachi and Parvathi, Ammu was not in favour and discouraged her. Both girls were disappointed and hardly swam. They returned home without eating lunch, and Parvathi could not understand what had dampened their spirits. The walk back and the rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Appachi’s sister wanted to take Thamara to her home in Alappuzha for a few days, but Thamara resisted vehemently, saying she wanted to spend time with Appachi and her mother. Who could have guessed that she was preoccupied with Raman Namboodiri, standing at the Illam door, ready for his field visit? The girls were desperate to know how it had all led to the house becoming haunted.

The next day, the girls decided to leave early because they wanted to finish the story. Thamara asked her mother to make a generous amount of payasam (sweet pudding made with rice, jaggery, and coconut milk), and Parvathi agreed. Thamara was determined to tempt Bhagi Amma with the payasam and draw out the rest of the tale in one sitting. “Are you well enough to swim?” Parvathi asked. “Both of you looked so dejected and uninterested yesterday that I thought we would have to find new ways to keep you engaged.” “Oh no, Amma,” Thamara said cheerfully. “It was just one of those days. We are energetic today. Please don’t worry if we are a little late; we want to make up for yesterday.” Parvathi handed the payasam and four podhi chors (packed rice meals wrapped in banana leaves) to the girls, who skipped away happily.

Bhagi Amma was eagerly waiting for them and immediately asked for the pukayila. Gopi gave her some, and Thamara said, “Amma, if you tell us the whole story today, we will give you a surprise gift.” She opened the steel dish, and the aroma of payasam filled the air. Bhagi Amma agreed, but made them promise they would continue visiting her even after the story ended. Thamara gave her word, and together they climbed back onto the imaginary bus and landed once more at Raman Namboodiri’s Illam.

The Day the Fields Went Bald

The Thampuran waved his walking stick and set out for his inspection round. On the way, he met Vishnu Namboodiri, who asked after his injured leg. Holes in the varambu were rare, and news of Raman’s fall had already travelled through the village. Vishnu did not have the courage to ask about the Pulayar women who had gathered outside Raman’s house. Both Raman and Vishnu shared the services of an Ezhava woman named Dakshayani, who pounded rice into powder in both Illam kitchens, working deftly at the large querns each household owned. It was Dakshayani who had told Vishnu Namboodiri’s Thampurati about the bare-breasted Pulayar women gathering at Raman Namboodiri’s house with Kuyil. Raman took leave and walked into his fields. So, the whole village knows, he thought bitterly. How he wished he could pound and beat the scoundrels who had spread rumours and dug the pit in the varambu.

The rice seedlings had grown, and transplantation had begun. It was a hot afternoon, and the workers were taking turns to dip in the nearby brook. It was only noon, yet some had already opened their choru podhi (rice lunch packets) and were eating in groups. As the Thampuran went around, women young and old uncovered their chests before him, submitting to the humiliating custom. Raman made a mental note to tell Kumaran not to let them eat for more than fifteen minutes. The sooner the transplantation was completed, the more economical it would be. Reduce their edangazhi if they take longer, he instructed Kumaran.

Raman saw Achu uprooting seedlings for transplantation and asked where Kuyil was. Achu pointed towards the interior of the field, where the Thampuran could not reach without stepping into the muddy water and walking some distance away from the varambu. “Go and get her,” the Thampuran ordered. Achu stood motionless, quivering with anger, his eyes fixed on his firmly planted feet. The Thampuran lashed out at him with his stick. Achu winced but did not move. Taken aback by his disobedience, the Thampuran ordered a Pulayar woman standing nearby to fetch Kuyil. The intimidated woman ran across the field without looking back. Time seemed to stop as the workers waited with bated breath. Kuyil came towards them, graceful and composed. As she approached, the Thampuran’s desire sharpened at the sight of her swaying hips and the long hair she had drawn across her chest with her thorthu. She stood before him in silence. “Anusaranam ille?” he asked. “No obedience?”

“Remove the cloth, as is the norm,” he shouted. Kuyil stood still. He repeated the order. This time she replied, “Valiya Thampuran asked me to keep myself covered.” “Oh, now you threaten me in Sankaran Namboodiri’s name? Does he give you work and edangazhi?” Raman asked menacingly. “This is the last time I am asking. Will you bare your chest or not?” Kuyil did not move. Furious, the Thampuran ordered Kumaran to send for the Kshurakan (barber) at once. He sent one worker to fetch him and another to bring a chair. Within ten minutes, while all the workers stood in silence, Nagan the Kshurakan came rushing in.

“Shave off her hair,” the Thampuran said, looking at Kuyil. Kuyil screamed, clutching her hair with both hands and pleading. The workers stood shocked and afraid. Nagan looked worried. “Lord…” he began, but one look from the Thampuran silenced him. Two male workers were ordered to make Kuyil sit before Nagan. They held her by her hands and legs as she screamed, struggled, kicked, and protested. Achu rushed forward to rescue her but received another lash from the Thampuran’s stick. Two men were then ordered to hold him down too. The women began wailing, their cries joining Kuyil’s in helpless protest. Nagan sharpened his knife and, with a heavy heart, began shaving Kuyil’s head in uneven patches. Soon there was pin-drop silence. Kuyil sat still and motionless. Her long, beloved hair fell away, and that day something broke within her and within the Pulayar community. As her hair fell, her chest was exposed, and the Thampuran watched with cruel satisfaction.

Kuyil slowly rose, walked a short distance away, and sat down, motionless. As Nagan cleaned and packed his knife, Achu came forward, bowed his head before him, and gestured to be shaved too. To the Thampuran’s surprise and disgust, all the workers—men and women—lined up behind Achu to do the same. It was clear that the community stood with Kuyil and Achu, protesting in the only way they could. The field slowly filled with kashandi thalagal (bald heads). Every worker, male and female, except Kumaran, had their head shaved in silent rebellion. The Thampuran watched for a while, then walked away pretending to be indifferent. Who cares about these polluting castes and their hair, he thought as he turned towards the Illam.

No more work was done in the fields that day, and no one went to collect edangazhi. The entire Pulayar community walked home deeply hurt, angry, and humiliated. The women wailed as they went, unable to bear the loss of their hair. Kuyil blamed herself for the community’s misery. She feared Achu would no longer love her without her hair; he had once told her that he had fallen in love with it the first time he saw her. Back home, the whole community sat together in the open, their bald heads shining in the dark. Only the elderly and the children who had remained at home had been spared. No hearth was lit in the Pulayar settlement that night.

The Thampuran walked back into the Illam and sat on his veranda, a little nervous after the day’s events. What if Sankaran came to know? It was none of his business, Raman told himself. He owned the land and had the right to decide how to treat his workers. He decided to bathe and walked to the kulimuri near the well, a little away from the main building. As he approached, he saw an unfamiliar woman coming from the side of the well. “Who are you, and what brings you here?” he asked. “I am an Ezhava woman. Thampurati has asked me to help with some work in the adukala,” she replied. “Hmm. I have not seen you before.” He looked around to see if anyone was nearby. Seeing no one, he turned back to her. “Remove the towel from your person. Don’t you know how to respect a Namboodiri?” he said softly, careful not to be overheard.

The woman removed her towel reluctantly, and Raman stared. “Hmm,” he said. “Draw me some water from the well for my bath before you go to the kitchen.” He walked behind her towards the kulimuri. She tried to put the towel back on, but the Namboodiri clicked his tongue in warning. The woman pointed to an appachembu (large water-storage vessel) and said the water had already been drawn. “Do as I say. I need fresh water,” he replied. Disgusted, the woman began drawing water from the well while the Thampuran watched. Leaving the second appachembu brimming with water, she hurried towards the Illam kitchen.

Little did the Thampuran know that she was Dakshayani, the rice pounder who also worked in Vishnu Namboodiri’s Illam. She was also Meenakshi Thampurati’s most trusted helper. Dakshayani had told Meenakshi about the Ezhava and Pulayar women who had visited the Namboodiri’s kidappumuri at night and had kept her informed about Kuyil. Meenakshi used to send messages through Dakshayani to Kuyil, inviting her secretly to the Illam to collect edangazhi.

That day, Dakshayani experienced the Thampuran’s conduct firsthand. She was astonished that a man with such a dignified wife could still seek power over every woman in the village. Disgusted and angry, she resolved to tell the Thampurati both about the events in the field and about her own encounter near the well.

After his bath, the Thampuran returned to his room and kept thinking about Kuyil. Seeing the young Ezhava woman near the kulimuri had only deepened his obsession. Even with a shaved head, Kuyil had a charm no other woman possessed. The day passed quietly. Meenakshi and Padmavati were silent as usual while serving the meal. “Who is the new Ezhava woman who came to help in the kitchen this evening?” the Thampuran asked. “I have never seen her before. Is she good at her work?” Meenakshi remained silent. Padmavati replied, “Yes, she is good. What do you think?” Her question made the Thampuran uncomfortable. He fumbled for words and said, “The mathanga curry is good today.” Padmavati was not finished. “She is Dakshayani. She works in this Illam and in Vishnu Namboodiri’s.”

The Thampuran choked. “Why do you keep women who work in both houses?” “Because I like to know what goes on in Vishnu Namboodiri’s house,” Padmavati said acidly. “Amma,” the Thampuran said, “you should not indulge in such behaviour.” “I cannot help it, Namboodiri. I am your mother, and we are alike in many ways.” The Thampuran finished his meal and walked away, thinking that his mother had a stinging tongue.

The Thampuran could not sleep that night—not because he felt guilty about Kuyil or the Pulayar community, but because he remained obsessed with her. When he could no longer contain himself, he decided to claim his conjugal rights and douse the fire consuming him. He walked quietly through the corridor towards the two other kidappumuris and began coughing rhythmically to attract Meenakshi’s attention. He was more comfortable that night because Sarsu was away. He coughed and coughed, but there was no movement inside. Then, unusually, a cough answered from the other side. Each time he coughed, a reply came from behind the door. This continued for some time. Perplexed, the Thampuran stood his ground and kept coughing. Finally, to his relief, the door opened.

His relief turned to shock when Padmavati stepped out, tying her long hair into a knot. He was caught off guard. Nervous, he began coughing again. She stared at him. “Do you need anything?” “Is Meenakshi not there?” he asked. “Yes, but she must be sleeping. It is nearly midnight, and I do not think she is as restless as you.” Padmavati smirked. “I can help if you want something.” He coughed again, pretending to be unwell. “I heard her coughing,” he said, still unconvinced that Meenakshi was asleep. “That was me, not her. Don’t you know the difference between your mother’s voice and your Thampurati’s?” she asked. “I recognise yours,” Padmavati continued. “I was trying to humour you by coughing back. I don’t think Meenakshi is going to get up, so you had better go to sleep—unless you want something from the kitchen.”

Embarrassed by Padmavati’s sudden appearance and sarcasm, the Thampuran hurried towards the adukala. Since sleep eluded him, he might as well have some plantains or savouries made by Meenakshi. He took the lamp hanging outside on the veranda and quietly opened the rustic wooden kitchen door, looking for plantains at the far end opposite the hearth. He did not want his mother to wake again or suffer another blow from her acid tongue. Suddenly, a fearful female voice asked, “Who is there?” The voice came from the kitchen loft, a large storage space for farm produce and big cooking vessels. A face appeared at the top of the loft stairs. It was the same woman he had seen at the well. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Dakshayani replied that the Thampurati had asked her to sleep at the Illam because there was much work to do in the kitchen early the next morning. She often did so.

On seeing her, the Thampuran was pleased, thinking he had found a woman for the night and could perhaps ask her to visit his kidappumuri. Then he remembered Padmavati’s words: Dakshayani also worked at Vishnu Namboodiri’s Illam. Should he warn her to keep quiet and still ask her to come to his room? No, he thought. Not tonight. His mother might be awake. “Do you know where the plantains are?” he asked. Dakshayani climbed one step up the loft and handed him a couple. “Go back to sleep,” he commanded, and walked away disappointed that he had to let his prey go.

The next morning, as the Thampuran was preparing for his regular round of the paddy fields, he heard Kumaran calling out. “What happened? Why are you not supervising the fields?” the Thampuran demanded. “You know these lower-caste people—any excuse to sit idle or take a dip in the brook.” Hearing the commotion, Padmavati and Meenakshi came out of their rooms. Kumaran was breathing heavily; he had run all the way to the Illam. “Thampuran, not a single worker has turned up, and we cannot lose even one day while transplantation is going on.” “How dare they!” shouted the Thampuran in rage. “See if there are any extra workers or family members in Vishnu Namboodiri’s fields. Wait—I will come with you,” he said, reaching for his walking stick.

As he was leaving for the fields, he saw Nagan the Kshurakan entering the Illam. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Before Nagan could answer, Padmavati said, “I called him to trim the tails of the cow and the calf.” “What?” exclaimed the Thampuran. Shocked and irritated by his mother’s snide remark, he said, “Mother, your head is not in the right place. Whoever heard of a cow and calf getting their tails trimmed?” He looked at the Kshurakan again, but before he could speak, Padmavati interjected. “Go, Namboodiri. See if you can save your crops, or you will have to tuck up your mundu and sweat in the fields from morning to evening.”

Exasperated by his mother and worried about the missing workers, the Thampuran walked out. To the left of his kidappumuri, the fields rose slightly and were thick with plantain trees. Little did he know that all his field workers were crouched there in hiding, waiting for him to leave. Meenakshi had heard the grim tale of the community shorn of its hair and had asked them to come to the Illam secretly once the Namboodiri had departed for the day.             

When Shame Changed Sides

One by one, the kashandi workers, men and women alike, gathered outside the Illam kitchen. Meenakshi and Padmavati watched their bald heads in horror. Padmavati felt ashamed that her son had caused such misery. “This Illam is cursed,” she said, putting her hands to her head. Meenakshi remained silent and beckoned the workers to sit. She then offered five edangazhi to each worker respectfully. When Kuyil’s turn came, Meenakshi went into the kitchen and brought her a mundu, some coconuts, and a large jackfruit. Looking at her lovingly, she said, “I assure you, nothing more will happen to you. I give you my word.” Meenakshi knew what hair meant to a woman, especially to a young girl, and how painful it was to be shorn of it. Kuyil was only three or four years older than Sarsu. This must stop, Meenakshi told herself, exchanging a determined glance with Padmavati.

Together, Meenakshi and Padmavati beckoned the Kshurakan to the chayip. Nagan went around the back of the Illam, since his caste status did not permit him to enter through the main spaces. What happened that day shook the entire village and the Namboodiri community both within and beyond Kadanad.

“Thamara!” a voice interrupted, and the spell was broken. Both Ammu and Thamara turned. To Thamara’s horror, she saw Radha Mani, Appachi’s friend whom she had met at the oil mill. Thamara froze. Before she could say anything, Bhagi Amma beckoned Radha Mani to sit. Radha Mani bluntly asked whether Thamara’s grandmother knew she was there. Bhagi Amma intervened. “Radha, I am only telling the children Raman Namboodiri’s tale because they were keen to hear it. In return, I get some company and pukayila.”

“Come on, Thamara. Since I have found you here, I may as well walk you back, or I will never hear the end of it from Janaki.” The girls walked back with Radha Mani in silence, while Gopal slipped away somewhere along the route. His disappearance went unnoticed, and Radha Mani chose not to comment. Just before they reached the Tharavad, Ammu took leave and walked towards her hut. Janaki hurried to the entrance when she saw Thamara and Radha Mani together. Thamara walked towards the kitchen while the two older women spoke in hushed tones.

The next day, Janaki Amma took Thamara to task and demanded a full account of how many times she had visited Bhagi Amma and whether Ammu had been the mastermind. Thamara was forbidden from leaving the house, and Ammu, sensing trouble, made herself scarce. Parvathi felt sorry for Thamara but did not say a word. She simply went about her work, making sure that each day the kitchen produced one or two of Thamara’s favourite savouries.

A week passed in silence. Then Janaki Amma could no longer hold on to her anger. She knew that in another week her dear granddaughter would leave for Bangalore, and the house would once again scream with silence. She called Thamara and asked whether she wanted to hear the rest of the story, now that she was halfway through. “I could have told you,” she said, “but Bhagi is the official narrator, and I must admit she weaves it well, with details.” Thamara hugged her and pleaded to be taken to Bhagi Amma’s house. Appachi refused, saying she would send the car for Bhagi the next day and have her dropped home after dinner. “I think she can complete it in one day,” she said. “As an incentive, I will give her a good variety of produce from our field and some pukayila.” “Appachi,” Thamara pleaded, “can we call Ammu too? I was the one who forced her to go.” “Quiet, girl,” Appachi said. “I know she must have made it irresistible for you. Otherwise, you would not have had the courage to defy your grandmother.”

The next day, Parvathi woke Thamara and announced that Bhagi Amma had arrived and had been waiting for some time. Appachi was asking for her lazy granddaughter. Thamara had slept past nine, forgetting that this was to be the day of the climax. How had the Namboodiri’s Tharavad, once so full of life, become a haunted house? So many questions crowded her mind. She had come to like Padmavati and Meenakshi, who had both stood up, in their own ways, to the cruel Thampuran. But she was longing to hear more.

On the veranda, Bhagi Amma sat on the ground near Appachi, whose short frame was perched in an armchair. To Thamara’s utter delight, Ammu sat smiling on Appachi’s left. Unable to find words for her gratitude, Thamara leapt into Appachi’s lap, garlanded her neck with her arms, and smothered her with kisses. Beside Bhagi Amma lay two large jackfruits, a sack of tapioca, and another sack of coconuts. A small packet of banana leaves, probably filled with pukayila, was tucked into Bhagi Amma’s lap. Appachi had given Bhagi Amma enough incentive to entice her to the Tharavad for her muthu (pearl), Thamara.

Parvathi came hurriedly from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her saree and excited not to miss the fun. After the scrumptious breakfast of kappa (tapioca) and kadala curry (black chickpea curry), Bhagi Amma had quickly summarised the story for Appachi and Parvathi, which made waiting for Thamara easier.

“Finish the story before lunch so we can have you dropped home after that. I want the car to go to the oil mill in the evening,” Janaki Amma said firmly. With pukayila planted firmly in her left cheek, Bhagi Amma took flight and landed straight back in the Namboodiri Illam.

The Silent Rebellion

Raman Namboodiri walked into the Illam, waving his stick and looking forward to a good wash and rest. Before he entered the courtyard, he heard a strange sound: commands recited in a steady, rhythmic cadence. He usually entered his room through the backdoor—the same door through which he admitted the women he summoned to the Illam at night. But that day, curiosity and the unfamiliar sound drew him towards the courtyard. He stopped at the entrance, shocked to see a bald woman leap into the air, a dagger-like stick in her hand, performing swift jumps and strikes. Another bald woman gave the commands, while the youngest spectator, a bald girl, watched in fascination. The Namboodiri stood frozen as he realised he was watching his wife, mother, and daughter, all shorn of their crowning glory and engrossed in Kalari practice.

“Shiva, Shiva,” murmured the Namboodiri as he came to his senses and heard his mother giving the Kalari commands. Even as he stood motionless, Meenakshi shifted into a stretch like a tiger waiting for its prey. She held the ottakkol (curved wooden Kalari weapon) menacingly in her hand. “Meenakshi!” screamed the Namboodiri when his shock gave way to anger. All movement stopped. Meenakshi and Padmavati looked up at him defiantly, while Sarsu ran into the house. Raman’s heart sank as he watched his young daughter flee with a bald head. He wished he had not insisted on her return from Sankaran’s house. He had never imagined he would have to see his wife and child in such a state. Padmavati, despite her age, had always had the thickest hair, hardly streaked with grey. How could they even think of doing this? Women were so proud of their hair.

“What has possessed all three of you?” Raman screamed. Meenakshi stood silent, but Padmavati looked straight into his eyes and said, “We thought you liked bald women, so we are trying to please you. Besides, there are more bald women in the village now than women with long hair, so we thought we should follow the trend.” “Stop this nonsense, Mother. I don’t know what you are trying to achieve, but I cannot bear to see you all like this. Let me get hold of that Kshurakan,” he said through clenched teeth. “For what?” Padmavati retorted. “When you ordered him, he obeyed. When I instructed him, he did the same. Do not forget that I am your mother.” “You must ask me before you do anything to my wife and child,” the Thampuran snapped, turning his back and walking towards his room. Behind him, the Kalari practice resumed, but the Thampuran did not look back. That night, dinner was served and eaten in silence.

Furious with Kuyil and the Pulayar community for bringing trouble into his home, he decided to teach them a lesson. That night, sleep evaded him. He twisted and turned in rage and helplessness. What if Sankaran came to know that the women of the Illam had shorn their hair? Sankaran was extremely fond of Meenakshi and Sarsu and would not spare anyone who upset them. Meenakshi’s two brothers were formidable men, and Raman wanted nothing to do with them. Seeing Meenakshi in her warrior form had been unsettling enough.

The next day, Raman started early for the fields. He wanted to ensure that Kumaran reduced the edangazhi of the entire Pulayar community. One edangazhi was more than enough, he thought, to teach the insolent labourers a lesson. How dare they show solidarity with Kuyil and Achu when he was punishing the two offenders? It was the duty of Pulayar and other lower-caste women, he believed, to bare their breasts before Namboodiris, and Kuyil had disobeyed. He walked up to Kumaran, instructed him to give only one edangazhi for a day’s labour, and then asked for Achu. After that, he continued around the fields. While he was speaking to Ashokan, one of the supervisors, he saw Achu approaching.

“Carry on with your work,” the Namboodiri instructed Ashokan, then walked towards Achu to speak to him privately. Achu stood close by with his right hand over his mouth, his eyes fixed on the Namboodiri’s feet. “Send Kuyil to me tomorrow night, and make sure you bring no one else. I am warning you—I will not tolerate any drama like last time, or you will pay the price for it. She can enter through the backdoor of my room. You will wait under the far-off mango trees. When she comes out, you may accompany her back. Again, I am warning you: do not inform anyone, and do not bring anyone with you.” Achu stood silent as the Namboodiri walked away.

That night, the Namboodiri decided to break the silence at dinner. “Meenakshi, I am not happy with your Kalari practice. I do not want Sarsu involved in this. She will soon come of age, and I would rather you focused on the ceremonies that must be arranged. What is this madness you have suddenly taken up? And Mother, where did you learn Kalari commands so proficiently? I am warning all three of you: remain within the corridors and do not step out of the Illam with your bald heads. Do not test my patience.” He finished his dinner and walked towards his room. Near the kulimuri, he thought he saw some movement and called out, “Who is there?” There was a slight rustle of leaves, then silence.

The next morning, the Namboodiri woke with excitement, thinking of Kuyil’s visit that night. He kept coughing near the kitchen and announced that he might be coming down with fever, so he would return early from the fields and retire for the night. He told Meenakshi to prepare Rakthashali rice kanji (medicinal red-rice gruel), because he felt poorly. “I wonder whether it is your immunity or your unbridled self that keeps bringing you down so often,” Padmavati retorted. Disgusted by his mother’s acid tongue, he hurried away. Meenakshi was innocent, he told himself; it was Padmavati who put ideas into her head and incited her to rebel. He was sure the decision to shave their heads had been his mother’s idea. Recalling Meenakshi’s daunting Kalari practice, he decided to keep a safe distance from her for some time. Anyway, Meenakshi would always be there—but not Kuyil. The Pulayars were a rebellious lot, and he was not sure what they would do next.

Thamara and Ammu were jolted when Janaki Amma interrupted Bhagi in the middle of the story. Well versed in the tale and anticipating where it was headed, Janaki warned Bhagi to avoid objectionable language, as the listeners were young girls and still impressionable. “Don’t worry, Janaki,” Bhagi Amma said. “I know you are concerned about your granddaughter.”

The Night of Choriyanam

It was early evening when the Namboodiri returned from the fields. He saw the women practising Kalari and wanted to shout at them to stop. Watching his quiet, docile Meenakshi spring and leap unsettled him. But that day he wanted to conserve all his energy, and he had no wish to invite another remark from Padmavati. It was becoming harder and harder to bear his mother as she grew older. He felt sorry for Sarsu, certain the child would not have willingly consented to having her hair shaved.

He went to the kulimuri, washed his feet, and bathed. As he returned, he saw the cleaning woman leaving his room and was pleased. That evening he longed for pukayila, but was afraid of doing anything outside his routine that might attract attention.

The Namboodiri quietly took the gruel Meenakshi had poured for him in the adukala and walked towards the veranda outside his room. The kanji, he thought, would give him strength and vitality for the night. He imagined that after this, Kuyil would come to him readily, subdued by his power.

The moon shone brightly, and the Namboodiri lowered the lamp in his room. He could see a faint light in Meenakshi’s room and in the adukala. They must be winding up the day’s work, he thought. Next, he quietly opened the backdoor to his room and left it ajar to avoid a knock from his visitor and minimise any noise. The girl was late, but he soon grew excited when he saw two figures approaching. He stepped out and beckoned hurriedly. Kuyil walked in timidly, her bald head visible in the moonlight. The Namboodiri sighed as he saw her. Impatiently, he closed the door as Achu walked away towards the distant trees.

“Don’t worry. I have forgiven you,” the Namboodiri said quickly, ushering Kuyil towards the bed. “Go and lie down, girl.” Kuyil sat on the bed but soon fidgeted and rose, visibly uncomfortable. She kept standing and sitting without saying a word. Irritated, the Namboodiri went to the front door to check that it was locked, then hurried back to her. “Why are you so restless, chakkare (dear one)?” he asked, trying to sound tender. Kuyil winced and clutched the pillow to cover herself. The Namboodiri had barely reached for her when, suddenly, a sharp sting struck him and he began itching furiously. He groped around in the dark, muttering that the bed was itchy. Some leaves lay scattered where the pillow had been. He picked up a few to examine them, only to be stung again. Within moments, both he and Kuyil were scratching helplessly. The Namboodiri realised that someone had deliberately placed choriyanam (stinging nettle) under the pillow and rubbed it into the bed covering. As they scratched at their skin, a loud, soulful moan rose from the veranda. “Stay here,” he commanded Kuyil, picking up the lamp and opening the veranda door.

As expected, the Illam calf had been tied to a pillar on the veranda, calling out to its mother in the cowshed at the far end of the premises. The mother cow answered in protest.

But more shocking still was the sight of Meenakshi’s kidappumuri standing open. His Thampurati was laughing and speaking with a bare-chested man at the entrance of her room. “Adukkaladosham (sexual misconduct),” he gritted through his teeth, scratching his back. In the lamplight, he could see the man’s glistening back and, to his horror, thought he looked like Achu. He moved towards the room with the lamp in his hand, then rushed back suddenly, remembering that Kuyil was still in his room, unguarded.

“Get dressed,” he spat in a low voice. Kuyil, still itching badly, rose in haste. “Get out,” the Namboodiri snarled, opening the backdoor. “And be prepared to become a vidhava (widow), because I will not spare your husband if he has dared to enter the Illam.” Exhausted and terrified, Kuyil rushed out through the backdoor. The Namboodiri then hurried towards the veranda to catch Meenakshi red-handed. As he approached her bedroom, he saw the man slip inside and Meenakshi close the door from within. The calf continued to moo as the Namboodiri banged on Meenakshi’s door. It did not open. Instead, Padmavati’s door opened, and the Valiya Thampurati stepped out of her kidappumuri defiantly. “Hmm?” she said, looking at him.

“Mother, I have witnessed Meenakshi committing adukkaladosham, and I suspect it is that young man, Achu. And where is Sarsu? I thought she would be sleeping with her mother.” “Really?” Padmavati asked innocently. “Why would Achu come here? Did he come looking for his wife? But again, what would Kuyil be doing here at this time of night?” Her mock innocence made him stiffen. “Meenakshi is a beautiful Thampurati,” she continued. “You would know better whether you give her enough attention, or whether she must seek it elsewhere and commit adukkaladosham. By the way, Meenakshi asked Sarsu to sleep with me tonight as she had work until late. Anyway, adukkaladosham must be addressed, and I will support you.”

For once she seemed to agree with him, but the thought was short-lived. “Do you want me to send for Sankaran and his sons if you want a Smarthavicharam (ritual inquiry into alleged misconduct)?” Padmavati asked cynically. “Mother!” the Namboodiri rebuked her sternly and walked back towards his room. Padmavati was always threatening him with Sankaran’s name, and he hated it. She knew Sankaran was formidable and that Raman himself was uneasy in his presence. As he walked away, he shouted, “Get the calf out of here, or I will beat it to death.”

The Namboodiri fumed through the night. So, his own family was conspiring against him, and Meenakshi—who never spoke in retaliation—was part of it? She had deliberately sent Sarsu to sleep with Padmavati, and that was suspicious. He had no doubt that Padmavati was the ringleader. Exasperated, angry, and tormented by constant itching, he tossed and turned until the early hours. Both beds, he realised, had been smeared with choriyanam. Fortunately, Padmavati had removed the calf. But the man in Meenakshi’s room troubled him. Could Meenakshi truly be committing adukkaladosham? Since when? Or had it all been staged for him, as the calf tied to the veranda was certainly a sign of protest by his Thampurati? Did she know Kuyil was coming to his room, despite his warning to Achu to keep silent?

He could not afford to have Sankaran there. The bald heads in his Illam would certainly invite the old Namboodiri’s wrath. What if the entire Pulayar community turned against him, or that wretched Kuyil and Achu filled Sankaran’s ears? He would have to observe quietly. He gritted his teeth at the thought of a man entering the Thampurati’s kidappumuri. Meenakshi came from a renowned Namboodiri family and surely knew that different rules applied to Namboodiri men and their wives. Men could have relations with lower-caste women, but the same freedom did not apply to Namboodiri women. Still, he had a strong sense that the scene had been staged and that Kuyil and Achu were involved. The choriyanam on the bed had been planted, and he remembered the cleaning woman leaving his room earlier that evening. She must have been told to do it—and by whom, if not Padmavati? Someone had exposed Kuyil’s visit to the Illam.

He dared not mention Achu’s name, or Kuyil’s presence in the Illam might also be revealed. Should he confront Meenakshi? Would she tell Sankaran or her brothers that she had been accused of adukkaladosham? Sankaran had already witnessed the night when the women came bare-breasted to the Illam; it was better not to expose himself further.

The next day, Meenakshi behaved as usual. She remained silent even when addressed, nodding now and then. Could she really have or want a lover? The wretched labourer-like man could not hold a torch to him—Raman Namboodiri. Had she stooped so low? No, he thought, that could not be. He believed himself a good husband and a good lover; why would she indulge in such shameful conduct?

The Namboodiri tried to start a conversation with Meenakshi, but each time Padmavati intervened with a snide remark, and he had no patience for her. Sarsu had gone to the Ezhuthupalli. He remembered that he had forbidden the women from stepping outside the Illam with their bald heads. Meenakshi had paid no heed and sent the child anyway. People would think his family sympathised with the Pulayars. Worse still, Sankaran had sent some Tamil labourers from Padmanabhapuram to Kadanad because there were more workers than needed on his own land. If any of them told Sankaran’s labourers that Sarsu had been seen with a bald head, Sankaran and his sons would come over at once. Raman would be in trouble.

The Girl Called Chakki

The Namboodiri remained quiet for the next few days. He did not see Kuyil or Achu in the fields, and Kumaran said they might have migrated, as farm labourers often did. Despite Kumaran’s persistent probing, no one in the Pulayar community was willing to reveal anything about Kuyil and Achu. The Namboodiri found it difficult to accept the loss of Kuyil. He was often irritable and punished the farm labourers unnecessarily.

One day, Murugan, the Namboodiri’s confidant, came to the Illam early, before the Namboodiri was ready to leave for the fields. He spoke to him in hushed tones, leaving Raman perturbed and anxious. Soon after, the Namboodiri hurried out of the Illam. As he was leaving, he heard Padmavati call after him. “Looks like your tail is on fire, Namboodiri. Get it doused in the river; the water in the Illam will not be enough.” Raman swore under his breath and hurried on.

Bhagi laughed as she repeated Padmavati’s comment, and her audience joined in. “Parvathi, Thamara, go and get some chutta chakka kuru (roasted jackfruit seeds) and kandhari (fiery Kerala chilli) for all of us. I think lunch will be delayed, since Parvathi too is enjoying the story and is only reluctantly getting up to keep an eye on the cooking.” Parvathi beckoned Thamara to follow her to the kitchen. “I quite like Padmavati,” Janaki Amma declared. Parvathi nodded as she walked away. Thamara, wanting the last word, announced that Meenakshi would put an end to this nonsense because she was honing her Kalaripayattu skills. She looked to Bhagi Amma for endorsement, but the old woman only smiled. “Wait till we get there. All I can say is that Padmavati was a character to be reckoned with. She never minced her words. My grandmother used to say one should have Padmavati’s courage and stand up even to one’s own children, if need be.” Janaki Amma, of course, knew the end, but she did not want to spoil the fun.

With some chakka kuru (jackfruit seeds) tucked into her cheek, Bhagi Amma took hold of the imaginary bus again and drove her passengers back to the heyday of the Namboodiris. Murugan had brought bad news. Kuyil and Achu had migrated to Sankaran’s land in Alappuzha district, and the gossip was that Sankaran had written to the Maharaja of Travancore, informing him of Raman Namboodiri’s misdeeds and asking for a trial. The Kshurakan had been summoned to Alappuzha to testify about what had happened to the Pulayar community in Kadanad.

The Namboodiri sat in the field, worried by everything Murugan had told him. He certainly did not want to fall foul of Sankaran, nor did he want to end up on trial before the Maharaja’s court. He quickly instructed Kumaran to give every labourer four edangazhi and one mundu and thorthu on each festival day. This, he thought, would be enough to win the Pulayar community back to his side, though he feared Vishnu Namboodiri might resent the sudden change. Vishnu had always wanted to give his workers three edangazhi, but Raman had insisted that two was enough. Since they lived in the same village, the two Namboodiris had agreed not to compete with each other.

As he paced through his fields, he noticed a familiar woman walking with a small bundle on her head and a carefree young girl skipping beside her. The tall young girl did not look Pulayar. She wore beads around her neck and ankles and had a spring in her step. As the two came closer, the Namboodiri recognised the older woman as Dakshayani. He waved his stick towards the thorthu covering her chest. “And you,” he said, looking at the young girl. Dakshayani gave in, removed her thorthu, and announced that the girl with her had not yet come of age. Then she hurried away, pulling the girl by the hand.

As Dakshayani walked away, he heard another Pulayar woman at the far end calling out to ask about Kuyil. Before the Namboodiri could put two and two together, he saw Dakshayani running with the young girl. So Dakshayani had gone to Alappuzha, he thought. And for what? Was Sankaran gathering evidence against his own marumakan (son-in-law)? Before he could think further, Murugan came and whispered, “Thampuran, Dakshayani is very clever. The girl with her is her brother’s daughter, Chakki, and two weeks ago they held a community lunch to celebrate her coming of age.” The Namboodiri gritted his teeth in anger. These lower-caste people were becoming defiant as well as deceitful, he thought. Still, Dakshayani would have to be handled carefully, as she seemed to be trusted by the women of his Illam and by Vishnu Namboodiri’s household. Her trip to Alappuzha unsettled him deeply. Sankaran must be using her to gather evidence against him.

He walked back home early, confused and unable to think of a way out of the mess he had created. There was no sign of movement at the Illam, and thankfully Meenakshi was not practising Kalari. He picked up the kindi (water vessel), washed his feet, sighed, and went towards his room. At the entrance, he froze. Sankaran was seated in his armchair, his face taut with anger. Seeing Raman, he shouted for Meenakshi and Sarsu. Raman stood still as Meenakshi and Sarsu entered slowly, followed by Padmavati. “What is this?” Sankaran thundered, pointing to their bald heads. “Acchan! I did not do this,” Raman said at once.

“You drove my daughter and granddaughter to this state. Thank your stars I did not bring my sons with me, or they would have cut off your kutumi and your head. Meenakshi means the world to me, and if my Thampurati sees our daughter and grandchild like this, she will die. Your own daughter will soon come of age, and you are looking at other…” The older Namboodiri fumbled for appropriate words in the presence of the women and the child. “Do not make me say words I will regret. Sarsu and my daughter are here, and I do not want them to hear what I think of you.”

Sankaran then rose and said, “I am taking Sarsu with me. She is better off away from this house. Her grandmother will make sure her hair grows back quickly too. Her coming-of-age ceremony will be held at my Illam, and if you resist, I promise I will drag you to the Maharaja’s court. I am leaving Meenakshi here only because my sons will not spare you if they see their sister without her beautiful hair. But after I tell them what you have done, I will send for my daughter too. Remember, I have informers everywhere, and I will know if you misbehave. Shame on you. I wish I had known about you before I gave my precious child in marriage to you.”

Sankaran took Sarsu’s hand and walked towards the door. Then he turned to Padmavati. “Do you not regret giving birth to such a son? He is a shame to the entire Namboodiri clan. If you have the courage, open his kutumi and have his shuddhi (purification ritual) performed.” As Sankaran left with Sarsu, Raman quietly walked out of the room, and so did the women.

The next few days were uneventful, both at the Illam and during the Namboodiri’s rounds through the fields. The workers were paid four edangazhi, as he had instructed, and business went on as usual. At home, Meenakshi continued her Kalari practice with Padmavati’s support. Dinner remained quiet and uneventful. The Namboodiri missed Sarsu’s chirpy presence, but in some ways the child’s absence helped him regain his position in the Illam.

The Namboodiri tried to win Meenakshi over by taking her to the temple festival, though he was deeply embarrassed by their bald heads. He knew the outing would look like a public announcement that his family sympathised with the Pulayars. But he had ordered only Kuyil’s hair to be shaved, he told himself, because she had disobeyed a Namboodiri. How could he have known the whole community would go berserk?

Both Padmavati and Meenakshi were excited to leave the Illam; it was a great day for them. The last time they had gone out was five years earlier, to Vishnu Namboodiri’s house for puja and celebrations at his new Illam. Dakshayani and Bhargavi, both Ezhava women rather than Nair women as custom would have preferred, were given responsibility for guiding the women through the festivities. In those days, Nair women accompanying Namboodiri ladies announced their arrival so that lower castes could keep out of the way and avoid polluting them. The Illam ladies carried their marakkudas (ceremonial palm-leaf umbrellas), as was the practice. The Namboodiri heaved a sigh of relief, hoping the marakkudas would hide, or at least soften, the sight of the two Thampuratis’ bald heads. Dakshayani’s presence throughout the outing made him uncomfortable. He had a score to settle with that cunning woman. She had lied to him about her young niece’s menarche and had secretly gone to Alappuzha. She could at least have informed him, he thought; after all, she worked in his household. The outing broke the silence, and for days afterwards Padmavati and Meenakshi talked about the festival. Mealtimes became pleasant again.

The days passed. Then one day Sankaran’s sons came to the Illam to take Meenakshi home. The Namboodiri was there, but Vijayan and Murali did not come to his side of the house. They did not stay for lunch and insisted on leaving early because harvesting work was underway back home. Meenakshi came to the Namboodiri’s room and stood silently at the door. He did not know what to say, but realised that stopping her would invite the wrath of Sankaran’s family. He nodded and said, “Come back with Sarsu in two days. Make your father understand that her coming-of-age ceremony next month should be celebrated here, as planned.” Meenakshi, as usual, remained silent and walked away with the bundle of clothes she was carrying. Padmavati walked her to the Illam exit in silence.

The Illam grew even quieter. With only two people in the house, there was little cooking or household activity. A week passed with no sign of Meenakshi or Sarsu returning. One evening at dinner, Padmavati reminded the Namboodiri that the new well at the Illam remained unfinished and needed stone casing. The well had been dug deep and was full of water, but the outer wall above the ground still had to be built. While Sarsu had been running around the house with the calf and goats, they had stalled the work and cordoned off the area with bamboo fencing. With the family away, Padmavati said, this might be a good time to complete all unfinished work. The trees around the kulimuri also needed pruning, as hardly any sunlight came through to dry clothes.

The next day, the Namboodiri told Kumaran to send labourers to the Illam to complete the well. Murugan joined him on his way back and filled his ears with gossip. Though still consumed by Kuyil, the Namboodiri listened closely when Murugan spoke of Chakki. When Murugan said that Chakki attended the same Ezhuthupalli as Sarsu, Raman froze. Ah, that was why the name sounded familiar. Sarsu used to chatter about their friendship and admired Chakki’s carefree nature. There was no tree in the countryside Chakki could not climb and no brook she could not swim across. Of course, as an Ezhava girl she could do all that, unlike Sarsu, who had Namboodiri customs to obey. Raman decided Chakki was not good company for Sarsu. Besides, he had other plans for her.

The next day, Murugan sent four workers—two men and two women—to complete the well work. Kumaran came and explained the task to them, promising two edangazhi, and then returned to the fields. Before leaving, he had explained the terms of work to Padmavati. She was glad to have workers around, as the Illam felt quiet and desolate without Meenakshi and Sarsu. She asked Dakshayani to cook kanji and kappa for them. Dakshayani told Padmavati that her brother Devan and his wife Karthiyani were among the labourers who had come for the well work. At lunchtime, the workers paused, washed their hands and feet in the nearby brook, and came to the Illam kitchen for food. Padmavati was supervising while Dakshayani served lunch when a tall young girl walked in and greeted the Thampurati. Dakshayani and Devan smiled at her. Dakshayani introduced her as Chakki, Sarsu’s koottukari (friend) and classmate at the Ezhuthupalli. Padmavati was pleased to see her and went inside to fetch a variety of savouries. She watched indulgently as Chakki swung on Sarsu’s swing under the mango tree.

“Oh, come on, Bhagi. Come to the point and tell us the crux. This is taking a lot of time, and it is past lunchtime,” Janaki Amma said impatiently. “No, Appachi,” Thamara intervened. “It is a beautiful story, and I want to hear it exactly as Bhagi Amma tells it. I have learnt so much about our past, and she weaves everything together so beautifully.” Janaki gave in to her granddaughter’s insistence, but announced that lunch should be served and the storytelling could continue afterwards. Bhagi and Ammu feasted on mathanga pachadi (pumpkin cooked in coconut gravy), koorka thoran (Chinese potato stir-fry), and edichakka thoran (tender jackfruit stir-fry). Mappillai samba rice, grown mainly in neighbouring Tamil Nadu, was served as the main course. The meal ended with payar payasam (sweet lentil pudding). The food made Bhagi Amma sleepy, but Thamara rushed to make kattan kapi (black coffee) to revive her.

As Chakki enjoyed the savouries and swung in the slight drizzle, the Thampuran walked into the Illam. He saw the young girl and desire flooded him. He moved towards her, but before he could reach her, Padmavati called him for lunch. The Thampuran quickly composed himself and went towards the kitchen. Chakki saw him but continued snacking, unperturbed. At lunch, the Thampuran’s eyes remained fixed on Chakki through the kitchen door. “Who is the girl on Sarsu’s swing?” he asked his mother. “I hope she is not a low-caste girl,” he added in a low voice. “She is Sarsu’s friend and classmate. I thought Dakshayani told you that,” Padmavati said with a smirk. “No, I don’t remember. So many workers come to the Illam that I get confused,” he replied.

Days passed, and the well-casing work progressed. Despite his best efforts, the Namboodiri could neither lay his hands on Chakki nor meet her alone. Padmavati was always on guard whenever the girl was around. At last, the work was finished, and Padmavati beamed with delight, saying she would send word to Meenakshi. The workers left, leaving the Namboodiri frustrated.

One day, the Namboodiri asked Padmavati to call for Meenakshi and Sarsu. “Sankaran has refused,” Padmavati said. “I did send a message asking her to return. Perhaps you should send one yourself—or go and bring them back.” “Hmm,” said the Namboodiri, and walked away. While returning from the fields before lunch that day, he passed Sarsu’s Ezhuthupalli. There he met Aravindan Ezhuthachan, who asked about Sarsu and whether she had joined another Ezhuthupalli. Aravindan also mentioned that Sarsu’s friend Chakki kept asking about her. The Namboodiri’s ears pricked up at Chakki’s name. He looked around the school, but his roving eyes could not find her. Disappointed, he walked home.

Padmavati was sitting at the entrance of the Illam, chatting with a young girl. As he neared the house, to his utter surprise, he realised the girl was Chakki. The Namboodiri’s heart raced. He beckoned to his mother for some water, hoping this would give him a chance to be alone with the girl. “Come, girl,” Padmavati said, rising at once. “Let me give you some savouries I made for Sarsu.” She walked to the kitchen, with Chakki following her hurriedly. The old mother was too clever for her son.

Bhagi Amma moaned that she was tired and that evening was already falling, dragging her listeners reluctantly back to the present. She wanted to go home and continue the next day. Janaki frowned. “You do not have to go into so much detail,” she said. “The children are at an impressionable age, and such vivid descriptions are unnecessary. Just finish the story and go home.” “Appachi, please don’t rush it,” Thamara pleaded. “I want to take pictures of the Tharavad and write this story for my school magazine. The details are what will make it interesting, and I am sure none of my friends know much about our pre-Travancore Kerala history.” Appachi gave in at last and asked the driver to take Bhagi Amma home and bring her back after breakfast the next day. Parvathi packed some plantains and rice for her. “You stay here, girl,” Appachi said, beckoning to Ammu. “Have dinner with Thamara.” Janaki listened with quiet pleasure to the girls’ laughter and chatter, knowing that once Thamara returned to Bangalore, the house would fall silent again. The girls helped Parvathi lay out dinner and ate heartily. It was not only Ammu who wished Thamara would never leave; Bhagi Amma, too, had grown attached to these visits. Neither she nor Ammu had ever tasted so many dishes in their lives.

That night, Thamara slept beside Appachi and asked whether she knew the end of the story. The older woman gave her an indulgent look. “I can tell you in five minutes, but I do not want to miss the chance to see my little one become a writer.” “Appachi, what will happen to Chakki?” Thamara asked. “Shall I tell you, then, and no more of Bhagi’s tale?” “No, no, Appachi. I don’t want to miss any details,” Thamara pleaded. She could relate to Chakki more than to Kuyil, because Chakki was more like her—carefree and in love with life.

Janaki sent for Bhagi the next day and asked Parvathi to prepare lunch with kalan (yoghurt-and-coconut curry), olan (mild coconut-milk curry), and upperi (fried vegetable preparation or chips). “Let us open the tender mango pickle, the kadumaanga (tender mango pickle), which should be ready by now.” On her own, Parvathi added a sweet dish—pradhaman (sweet pudding). When Ammu heard this, she jumped in delight, and Thamara smiled at her indulgently.

Bhagi brought her young nephew, Narayan, to the storytelling session, knowing the Tharavad would not deny him food. He was unlikely to see such a spread again in his life. Bhagi Amma rolled the pukayila in her mouth, tucked it into her left cheek, stretched her legs comfortably in front of her, and resumed the narration.

The Namboodiri was restless after seeing young Chakki moving so gracefully through his house. To his dismay, Padmavati was always hovering around the girl, and he could neither approach her nor speak to her alone. He told himself he was a Namboodiri, and it was his right to have any lower-caste woman he desired. Lower-caste women—and, in this case, the girl—should feel honoured to be invited to please a Namboodiri, he thought. He decided to work through Murugan. With Meenakshi and Sarsu away, this was the most opportune time to bring the young girl into the Illam. His mother was an obstacle, and he would have to find a way to keep Chakki away from the house. But what about Dakshayani? She was certainly a troublemaker, and since Chakki was her niece, she would surely carry the matter to Padmavati.

The next day, he summoned Murugan and expressed his interest in Chakki, along with his concern about Dakshayani. “Lord, this is no problem at all,” Murugan said. “Throw Dakshayani out on charges of theft and enjoy the girl. I will tell Devan, Chakki’s father, to send her.” Crafty Murugan laid out the plan, and the Namboodiri fell for it. “How do you know all this, Bhagi Amma?” Ammu interrupted. “Because Murugan had no loyalty to his master,” Bhagi replied, “and he passed his version of the story to his descendants and community, just as my ancestors did. The folklore says a local bard wove it into an Ottamthullal and performed it for many years. Of course, it is a dying art now. My mother and I saw one in our childhood, and my great-grandmother saw many. In fact, the bard once performed it for the Maharaja of Travancore and was rewarded with a gold coin.” “Go on, Bhagi,” Janaki urged, worried about the time.

The False Charge

That evening, when the Namboodiri returned from the fields, he did not see the kindi at the doorstep and called for Padmavati. She came running, puzzled, for no outsider had entered the house. Had anyone come near the Illam, the naya (dog) would have barked from his cage and the playful calf would have called out. The Namboodiri marched into the kitchen and called for Dakshayani, who wiped her wet hands and hurried out. “Where is my kindi?” he demanded, looking around. Then he turned on Dakshayani accusingly. “Mother, she is the only regular visitor, and she cleans my kidappumuri too. She has taken it and probably traded it for six months of rice.” Padmavati was unsure what to say. She had known Dakshayani for years and had never known her to steal, but the kindi was missing. “Send her out now,” roared the Namboodiri, “or I will send Murugan to her house to search her maadam (small hut). Better still, keep her here while I send him.”

Murugan was summoned for the task and returned within half an hour, brandishing the kindi. “Ah, there it is. See, Mother? Now throw her out.” Padmavati went sadly into her room, and Dakshayani left in tears. “Do not dare enter this Illam again,” the Namboodiri roared. He went to Padmavati’s room to console her, but she gestured that she wanted to be alone. “Do not worry, Mother. I have asked Murugan to bring his sister and mother to the Illam, and they will help in the kitchen.” Padmavati merely murmured that she would send word for Meenakshi to return. The Namboodiri froze, then quickly turned back. “Nothing will go amiss. Let them come in their own time. Why don’t you visit your elder sister in Ettumanoor? I will arrange a palanquin if you do not want to walk.” “I will walk,” Padmavati said softly. “No problem. Murugan’s sister will accompany you, and his mother, Parameshwari, can take care of the kitchen while you are away.” Padmavati said nothing. She was devastated by Dakshayani’s departure. Dakshayani’s mother had worked for the Illam too, and Padmavati had watched Dakshayani grow from a young girl into a mature woman.

Thrilled with himself, the Namboodiri ensured that all arrangements were made for his mother to travel to Ettumanoor the next day. Murugan’s sister, Valli, was young and talkative and would keep Padmavati occupied on the journey. Padmavati left early the next morning with Valli, and the Namboodiri asked Murugan to approach Devan and have him send Chakki to the Illam. Two hours later, Murugan returned, saying Devan was reluctant and that Karthiyani, Chakki’s mother, had said the girl was in theendari (menstrual seclusion). The Namboodiri was furious and told Murugan to threaten them with a heavy breast tax. The next day, Murugan confirmed that Devan had promised to send his daughter after three days, once she was out of theendari. The Namboodiri was impatient, but he did not want to break ritual norms, so he waited.

The Child Who Knew

Two days later, the Namboodiri grew impatient, but Murugan consoled him: just one more day. On the third day, the Namboodiri woke thinking that one more night stood between him and his prize. He got ready to go to the fields and finished the kanji Parameshwari had set out for him. Before he could reach the Illam entrance, Murugan came running in, saying he had seen Meenakshi and Sarsu walking back from the river. The Namboodiri sat down, stunned, on the veranda chair. Before he could regain his composure, Sankaran walked in. Murugan had not seen him because he had been walking some distance ahead of Meenakshi and Sarsu. Sankaran came and sat beside the Namboodiri, who rose respectfully. By then Meenakshi and Sarsu had entered the Illam and quietly gone inside without saying a word. “Raman, my daughter insisted on coming back. Something is troubling her, but she is not speaking about it. I am worried, and that is why I have personally brought them. Sarsu is not eating, and my sons are furious because no one knows what has happened.” The Namboodiri was puzzled. Unable to fathom the matter, he replied that he knew nothing and that all was well.

To his relief, Sankaran rose and said he must leave, since it was harvest season and both his sons were busy. As soon as Sankaran departed, the Namboodiri rushed inside and confronted Meenakshi. She went about her unpacking without answering him. He approached Sarsu, but the child remained quiet and did not respond to any of his questions. At his wits’ end, the Namboodiri walked towards the fields. He looked for Devan and Karthiyani but was told they were working at the far end. Unsure what to do, he stood in the field and beckoned for his chair. Before he could sit, he heard Murugan calling out and running towards him. “Now what? Why are you screaming?” the irritated Namboodiri asked. What Murugan told him left him stunned: Padmavati had also returned. For once, he did not know what to do. Something had clearly gone wrong, or why would all three have returned unannounced? He asked whether Dakshayani had come back, but Murugan said she had left the village because her own people were calling her a thief.

Murugan consoled the Namboodiri, saying all would be well the next day. As Raman walked home, he was confused about whether to summon Chakki, since nothing was going according to plan. Before he could enter the Illam, he heard the familiar Kalari commands and grew nervous. There stood his beautiful wife with short, cropped hair, leaping through the air without arms or weapons, this time demonstrating her skills in Thekkan Kalari (southern style of Kalaripayattu). The Namboodiri was both fascinated and afraid as he watched her masterful performance, apparently unaware of any audience. He told Murugan that he had seen live verumkai (unarmed combat) performances by masters who used specific marma points to immobilise an enemy and, when someone was injured, followed a full routine of Kalari chikitsa (healing practice associated with Kalari) to revive them. Sankaran had always boasted that his daughter alone could take on a group of men with her mastery of verumkai. Padmavati narrated the moves fluently and rhythmically, while Sarsu sat in stony silence. It was as if the whole household had turned against him, but he did not know why. The performance troupe fell silent as the sun set.

The Thattan arrived early that evening with Sarsu’s new earrings, but the girl refused to come out of her room. At supper, food was served in silence by Padmavati, who herself did not eat. Sarsu and Meenakshi were conspicuous by their absence. The Illam slept quietly and woke quietly the next morning. Padmavati was the only one moving about, doing chores. The Namboodiri’s morning kanji was served outside his room, and he ate it in silence. When he left the Illam for the fields, there was no sign of Meenakshi or Sarsu. Wary of Padmavati’s sarcastic retorts, he refrained from asking what was wrong.

The Namboodiri kept looking for Devan and Karthiyani in the fields but could not see them. Perhaps he should postpone Chakki’s visit, he thought, since his household was disturbed. Murugan assured him that he was worrying unnecessarily and that Devan, afraid of paying a heavy tax, would certainly send his daughter that night. The Namboodiri’s desire overpowered his judgement, and he convinced himself it was better to get the Chakki matter over with, since so much effort had already gone into pressuring the family. He asked Murugan to give Devan four edangazhi and instruct him to bring Chakki only after nine at night.

Bhagi Amma shifted uneasily, adjusting her tired legs, and Janaki understood that it was time for lunch. In any case, the story was entering its final stretch. She gestured to Parvathi, who beckoned the girls to the kitchen. Bhagi and her nephew Narayan ate their fill of kalan, olan, and pradhaman. It was a feast for Ammu too, and Thamara watched fondly as her friend relished the food. Thamara worried aloud that she might not remember all the details when she wrote the story. Ammu assured her that she too would listen carefully.

With pukayila tucked into her cheek, Bhagi settled comfortably and resumed the story. “Please, Bhagi Amma,” Thamara pleaded, “whatever time it takes, do not cut the story short. I plan to write it down.” Janaki frowned, uneasy about the young girl being exposed to the darker details of the folklore. Yet secretly, she was pleased that her granddaughter wanted to write it.

That day, the Namboodiri again pretended to be coming down with a cough and sore throat. He kept coughing while hovering around the kitchen, but this time no one reacted. His early dinner was brought near his room, and he ate in silence. The lamps were lowered early in the Illam, and all went quiet. Murugan had left after reassuring him that Devan would bring Chakki after nine. All night, the Namboodiri sat near the window waiting for her, but no one entered the Illam. Irritable and angry, he fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. The next dawn was quiet again, with only Padmavati moving about the Illam and doing chores.

Two weeks passed with no sign of Chakki, and the Namboodiri grew restless and irritable. Then Murugan brought good news: Devan and his family had returned to the village after attending a relative’s wedding nearby. The Namboodiri was determined to punish Devan for failing to keep his word—if only he could get his hands on him.

Around ten in the morning, just before the Namboodiri was preparing to leave for the fields, he saw Meenakshi in her Gurukal avatar. She was moving through the open courtyard, practising Kalari. Padmavati gave the vaithari (rhythmic Kalari commands), and to his utter surprise, little Sarsu beat the chenda (Kerala drum). The resolution on Sarsu’s face shocked him. Her usually gentle, smiling expression had turned blank, fixed on nothing. Her hands beat the chenda rhythmically, driving her mother’s acrobatic leaps and jumps.

Bhagi suddenly stopped narrating and looked at the girls. “Training does not just sharpen reflexes,” she said. “It builds balance, flexibility, and an unshakable mind. That is what made Meenakshi who she was. This duality is what makes Kalari a way of life. Meenakshi had chosen an unusual passion for a woman of her age and era. No one nearby was as proficient as she was in the art of Kalari. She did not react to everything, but when she chose to act, nothing could stop her. She was raising her daughter the same way. Torn, shattered, insulted, and humiliated by the Namboodiri, she continued to live with him and defy him in her own way. She could easily have brought in her brothers or her powerful father to teach him a lesson, but she chose to fight her own battles.”

Fascinated by Bhagi’s description of Meenakshi, Thamara looked up at her grandmother and said, “Appachi, I want to learn Kalari and become a Gurukal, just like Meenakshi. For my career, I would like to become an Ayurvedic physician.” Janaki was ecstatic. “So be it. Come back to study here, and I will find a good Gurukal for you.” Ammu was thrilled and wished she could learn too. Bhagi was pleased with the outcome and continued. “Wait,” said Janaki Amma, “before you come to the end of the story, please take the children to visit the Illam and show them the place. That will help Thamara relive and write the story even better.” Ammu jumped up and down in delight, clapping her hands, while Thamara smothered Appachi with kisses. “Appachi, I will never forget this surprise.” Embarrassed by the gratitude shown for her gesture, Janaki asked Bhagi to stop for the day. The next morning, the girls and Parvathi would reach Bhagi Amma’s house around ten.

When the Illam Opened Its Memory

The next morning did not arrive so much as gather itself over Kadanad. The sky hung low and swollen, the air thick with the smell of wet leaves though no rain had fallen. Even the birds seemed to speak from a distance. Thamara woke before Parvathi called her, not with the easy thrill of an outing but with the unease of someone summoned. For days the Illam had lived in Bhagi Amma’s voice; now it seemed to be waiting beyond the fields, listening for their footsteps. Ammu came running before breakfast, breathless with excitement, but when she said, “Today we go,” she whispered, as though the house might hear its own name and stir.

By ten, Bhagi Amma was waiting on her veranda, leaning on her stick, the loose end of her mundu tucked firmly at her waist. Gopal Chetan stood beside her, unusually solemn, as if the road to the Illam had already warned him. Parvathi carried water, plantains, and jaggery, but Janaki Amma had added a pinch of turmeric and a few tulsi leaves wrapped in banana leaf. “Not because I believe in ghosts,” she had said sharply, before anyone could smile. “Because old places must be entered with respect.” Thamara tucked the packet into her blouse knot. Against her skin, it felt warm, like a small living pulse.

They walked past the brook, crossed the road, and entered the paddy stretch where the Illam hid behind the trees. The field around it no longer behaved like a field. The old ridges had sunk under tall grass, but the grass bent aside before them as though remembering the shape of feet. Plantain leaves, torn by wind, hung like old banners after a war. Coconut palms leaned inward, their crowns touching, and creepers crawled over stone, tree, and earth with the slow patience of fingers closing over a prey. Somewhere inside the green thickness, a kuyil called once, then fell silent, as if warned.

The first sight of the Illam made Thamara stop mid-step. From Bhagi Amma’s veranda it had looked abandoned, a stone house swallowed by wilderness. Up close, it seemed not abandoned but awake. The broken tiled roof dipped and lifted like a tired chest. The long open corridor stretched across the front, dark and narrow, like a mouth that had forgotten how to speak but not how to remember. The well stood at the far end, ringed with moss, its stone mouth black and still. A breeze moved through the compound, and the fallen leaves rose and settled together in a murmur—not like leaves, but like women lowering their voices when men entered a room.

“Do not run,” Bhagi Amma warned. “And do not laugh loudly.” Ammu clutched Thamara’s hand. “I am not scared,” she whispered, too quickly to be believed. Thamara trembled, but not only with fear. The Illam did not simply frighten her; it recognised her curiosity and pulled at it. Every stone seemed to have an old wound. Every shadow appeared to turn its face away just before she could look properly. The house was not empty. It was holding its breath.

They entered through the side where the old path must once have been. The ground was soft with damp leaves, but beneath them Thamara felt something firmer, as if the old courtyard still remembered the weight of daily feet—workers carrying water, Dakshayani moving towards the kitchen, Sarsu running after the calf, Meenakshi crossing silently from one room to another. Then she saw fresh impressions in the mud: small, round, uneven marks, like bare feet passing only moments before. She bent closer. Gopal called out, “Do not touch anything.” When she straightened, the marks had vanished, smoothed over by nothing she could see. Ammu’s fingers tightened around hers.

The corridor was cooler than the field. Sunlight entered in thin strips through broken tiles and lay across the floor like pale blades. A faint smell lingered there—old wood, wet stone, medicinal oil, smoke, and something sweet, like jackfruit ripening in a closed room. For a moment, the dead kitchen seemed alive: pounding stone querns, brass vessels, kanji bubbling, plantains stacked in shadow, women speaking in lowered voices while men believed themselves obeyed. Parvathi paused. “Do you smell that?” she asked. Bhagi Amma nodded. “Some houses forget nothing. Not even the kitchen.”

They moved towards the courtyard. Weeds had taken most of it, yet the centre remained strangely bare, as if swept each morning by unseen hands. Bhagi Amma pointed with her stick. “Here,” she said, her voice dropping. “Here Meenakshi practised.” The moment the name left her mouth, the spell broke: the visitors were jolted by a piercing sound, sharp and explosive, followed by a heavy, booming bass that seemed to strike the chest. Bhagi trembled, lifted a finger, pointed upward, and whispered, “Chenda!” Ammu gasped and hugged Thamara closely. Gopal turned sharply. Nothing moved except the trees, and even they seemed to sway in rhythm.

Thamara stepped into the cleared earth. For one heartbeat, she felt foolish. Then the air changed. The heat lifted from her skin. In her imagination, the weeds drew back, the broken walls rose, and the courtyard filled with a life that had not died but waited underground. She heard the roll of a chenda, low and distant, coming not from the trees but from inside the earth itself. In the corner of her eye, a figure moved—bald-headed, swift, terrifyingly graceful, a curved wooden weapon in her hand. When Thamara turned, there was only a shaft of sunlight and a swarm of insects turning inside it like sparks.

“Meenakshi Gurukal,” Thamara whispered, the name escaping her before she could hold it back. Bhagi Amma turned sharply, but she did not scold. Instead, she closed her eyes and murmured something under her breath, as if answering an unseen presence. The name moved through the broken courtyard like a spark through dry leaves; it touched the walls, slipped into the cracks, and returned to them changed—older, deeper, alive with a power that made Thamara’s skin prickle. In that instant, something fierce rose inside her. It was not fear. It was the sudden, blazing knowledge of women who had endured, resisted, and refused to vanish. She thought of Miss Teresa, her Anglo-Indian teacher, who had held her firmly by the shoulders when grief had broken her after her father’s death and her mother’s collapse. Miss Teresa had recited Jadine Lydia’s words in a voice that would not allow surrender: ‘She knew there was only one way out—not over, not under, but through. And so, she took a deep breath, dived right in, and emerged as something new.’ Now, standing in the haunted courtyard, Thamara felt those words strike through her like a drumbeat. Meenakshi had gone through. The women of the Illam had gone through. And perhaps, Thamara realised with a thrill that frightened and strengthened her at once, so would she. Parvathi’s voice cut across the charged silence. “Enough of standing in the middle,” she said, trying to sound practical. “Let us look around and leave before the rain comes.” Yet even her voice had thinned, as though she too had heard the house answer.

They crossed to the Thampuran’s wing, and the Illam changed temper. The courtyard had remembered courage; this side remembered fear, dominance, and suppression. The air did not whisper here. It pressed. The doorway to the kidappumuri gaped like a wound that had refused to close. Inside, one mango-wood bed had collapsed, its legs eaten by damp, but the other still stood, blackened and stubborn, as though waiting for a body that would never again rise from it. Thamara wondered which bed the Namboodiri had used and if it was the same one smeared with choriyanam leaves. The backdoor hung half open towards the trees, the same secret entry through which Kuyil, Chakki, and many others had once been summoned. A lizard darted across the wall. Ammu shrieked, then laughed at herself, but the laughter died quickly.

On the floor near the bed lay a small piece of broken red glass. Thamara bent and picked it up. It was smooth, warm, and bright as a drop of blood. “Leave it,” Bhagi Amma said at once. “Some things belong to the house.” Thamara opened her palm reluctantly. Before the shard fell, it flashed gold in the thin light, and for one wild second the room filled with the memory of the Vaidyan—mercury, makardhwaj (traditional mercury-based medicine), forbidden alchemy, medicines that promised strength and carried death inside them. Then the glass slipped from her fingers and vanished into the dust, as if the floor had swallowed it.

Then the well spoke. Not with a splash, not with the sound of stone falling, but with a long, low moan, like the Illam calf calling for its mother from the wrong side of time. Everyone froze. Even Bhagi Amma stopped chewing her pukayila. The sound came again, softer and deeper, and the trees around the well stirred though no wind moved elsewhere. Parvathi caught Thamara by the wrist. “We are leaving,” she said.

But Thamara could not leave. Not yet. The well drew her as surely as Bhagi Amma’s story had drawn her for days. Ammu followed, unwilling but loyal. The stone rim was cold and slick with moss. Thamara leaned over just enough to see the dark water far below. At first, she saw only her own face, pale and stretched by fear. Then the reflection shifted. Behind her, in the water, stood three women—one old, one young, one a girl—each with a shorn head, each looking not at Thamara but beyond her, towards the Thampuran’s wing, towards the room they had refused to fear.

Thamara stumbled back with a cry. Ammu screamed properly this time. Gopal rushed forward, but Bhagi Amma lifted her stick and stopped him. “Do not crowd the well,” she said, though her own lips had gone dry. “The Illam shows only what it chooses. And today it has chosen the child. It is said that the Illam chooses only those who can bear its sorrow without turning away; today, it has chosen Thamara to receive the women’s memory, carry their silence, and someday give it a voice.” Parvathi trembled and pulled at Thamara’s hand.

Then the magic loosened but did not break. A myna flew out from the tiled roof, scolding them with ordinary anger, and the rain began at last—first in fat, scattered drops, then in a silver sheet. Yet the Illam did not return fully to ruin. Water ran from the roof like sweat down an old body. The corridor darkened and gleamed. The broken rooms breathed out the smell of smoke, oil, wet earth, and long-kept sorrow. The girls ran, slipping through wet leaves, laughing because fear had become too large to hold inside. Parvathi shouted at them to slow down. Gopal held Bhagi Amma’s elbow. Behind them, the house watched through rain.

Before they left the compound, Thamara turned once more towards the Namboodiri’s kidappumuri. The rain had begun to bead on the old veranda, but that corner remained strangely dry, as if the clouds themselves refused to wash it. Outside the dark mouth of the room stood the armchair. It had not collapsed like the beds inside. Its wooden arms, black with age and damp, curved outward like the elbows of a man still expecting obedience. One leg had sunk into the moss, giving the chair a crooked lean, yet it seemed less broken than waiting. Water dripped from the tiled roof behind it in slow, measured drops—tap, tap, tap—like the walking stick that had once struck stone, ridge, and human skin. For an instant, Thamara saw the chair rock. Only once. Not with wind, but with memory. Ammu’s nails dug into her wrist. Beside the chair, in the wet dust, lay a fresh line, as though someone had dragged the end of a stick across it moments earlier. From inside the kidappumuri came a dry cough—one, then another, then a third. Bhagi Amma’s face changed. “Enough,” she said, and this time there was no storyteller’s relish in her voice. “Some places remember the master even after the house has rejected him.”

They did not stop until they reached Bhagi Amma’s veranda. Ammu was shaking, but her eyes were shining. “I saw them,” she said. “In the well?” Thamara asked. Ammu shook her head. “No. In the courtyard. When you stood there. For a moment, I thought you were not alone.” Thamara looked down at her hands. They smelled faintly of turmeric and wet stone. The packet Janaki Amma had given her was still tucked safely at her blouse knot, but one tulsi leaf had slipped free and clung to her palm.

When they returned home, Janaki Amma was waiting on the veranda, pretending to sort dried chillies. She looked first at their wet clothes, then at their faces. “So,” she said quietly, “the house allowed you in.” Thamara sat at her feet, too full to speak. The fear had not left her, but it no longer felt like fear alone. It had become wonder. It had become responsibility. The Illam was not haunted because the dead refused to leave; it was haunted because the living had forgotten how to listen. And now that Thamara had listened, she knew the story could not remain trapped inside Bhagi Amma’s voice or inside the moss-dark walls. It had to be written.

Bhagi Amma returned the next day to complete the last chapter of the tale. After the visit to the ruined Illam, the veranda felt different. Thamara no longer listened as a curious girl chasing a ghost story; she listened as someone who had stepped inside the house and been seen by it. Even Janaki Amma, who had known the tale for years, seemed quieter than usual. Parvathi sat close to Thamara, and Ammu leaned forward, unwilling to miss a word. Bhagi Amma settled herself, tucked the pukayila into her cheek, and began again. “After that day,” she said, “the Illam did not sleep easily. Silence had entered every room, but beneath it, something was gathering.”

The Ninth Hour

That evening, the sky darkened early over Kadanad. The afternoon sun withdrew behind swollen clouds, and dusk settled over the Illam before its time. By the time Raman Namboodiri retired to his room after dinner, the moon had risen low and pale, laying silver streaks across the stone corridor. He paced inside his kidappumuri, his walking stick tapping the floor with a dry, impatient rhythm. Thamara remembered the white line she had seen in the kidappumuri. He believed the night would restore what the women, the workers, and Sankaran had taken from him: command, fear, obedience. Murugan had sent word that Chakki would be brought after nightfall. The thought of the fearless Ezhava girl filled him with feverish anticipation.

But the Illam was not asleep. Behind closed doors, Meenakshi had already taken her position. Padmavati had lowered the lamps exactly as planned. Sarsu, pale and silent, sat near the inner wall with the chenda before her, her small hands resting on the hide as if waiting for a command that would decide more than rhythm. In the shadows near the courtyard, Chakki stood wrapped in a dark thorthu, trembling not from fear alone but from the weight of what she had agreed to do. She had not been brought as prey that night. She had been brought as witness.

Bhagi Amma’s voice dropped until everyone on Janaki Amma’s veranda leaned closer. “You must understand,” she said, “Meenakshi was not acting in anger alone. Anger burns quickly and dies. What she carried that night had been forged slowly—through Kuyil’s humiliation, Chakki’s fear, Sarsu’s silence, Padmavati’s shame, and every woman who had crossed that corridor afraid of being seen.”

At the ninth hour, the backdoor creaked. Raman rose at once, breath quickening. He expected Murugan’s low signal, then Chakki’s frightened step across the threshold. Instead, Padmavati entered first, holding the lamp low so that the light pooled at her feet and left her face half in shadow. “Chakki will not come,” she said calmly. “But someone else has come in her place.” Raman stared at her, confused, anger stirring before meaning caught up with her words. Padmavati turned towards the darkness behind her and lifted one hand. A slight figure stepped forward, tall and slender, her eyes covered with a strip of cloth, her small hands clenched at her sides. For one terrible instant Raman did not recognise her. Then the lamp flame rose, touched the curve of her face, and he staggered back as though struck. “Sarsu!” he cried, the name tearing out of him in disbelief. Padmavati’s mouth curved, not in amusement but in judgement. “Now you know,” she said softly, “what you are doing to another father’s child.” Sarsu tore the cloth from her eyes and fled into the darkness.

Shame and rage struck Raman together. He pulled at his kutumi and rushed to the courtyard door. The moment he opened it, the first sound he heard was the chenda. One beat. Then another. Slow, deep, and terrible. The sound travelled through the floor, climbed the wooden posts, and struck the walls like a verdict. Raman froze. Behind him, Padmavati’s vaithari rose—not loud, not hurried, but sharp enough to slice the night open. “Simha Vadivu,” she commanded.

Thamara looked startled. “What is Simha Vadivu, Amma?” Bhagi Amma turned to her slowly, as though she had been waiting for the question. “In Kalaripayattu, rage is not shouted; it is shaped. Simha Vadivu (lion posture) is one of the eight animal forms. The feet hold the earth, the body leans forward, the eyes fix on the enemy, and every movement carries ferocity under control. No one in that region could match Meenakshi in those postures. It was said an opponent weakened just by watching her move.”

Thamara looked mesmerised. “How do you know all this, Amma?” The old woman smiled, the kind of smile that carried old memories. “My husband trained in the Kalari before our marriage,” she said. “He learnt about the Thampurati through other Gurukals and watched the Ottamthullal several times. But hunger is stronger than passion. The land needed hands, and the hands that once learnt to fight learnt instead to plough.” She paused, then continued more briskly.

In the lion pose Meenakshi was no longer the silent Thampurati who served food, lowered her eyes, and answered cruelty with fasting or stillness. Her cropped hair shone in the lamplight, her body bent forward, her feet held the earth, and her eyes fixed on the doorway of Raman’s room. She did not call him. She did not accuse him. She just stood her ground.

The Namboodiri stepped out with his walking stick raised. Before he could speak, Meenakshi moved. She turned, leapt, twisted, and struck the air beside him with such force that the flame of the nearest vilakku bent sideways. Raman staggered back, though the blow had not touched him.

“That is the power of a true Gurukal,” Bhagi Amma said. “She need not strike first. She makes the guilty body remember every blow it has given.” Raman’s eyes moved wildly from Meenakshi to Sarsu, from Padmavati to the shadow near the wall where Chakki stood. When he saw the girl, rage and panic crossed his face together. So they knew. His mother knew. His wife knew. His daughter knew. The whole house knew.

Then the workers emerged from the darkness beyond the courtyard. Not many, not enough to start a riot, but enough to bear witness: Dakshayani, Devan, Karthiyani, Achu, Kuyil, and a few others whose heads were no longer smooth but covered with the first rough growth of new hair. They did not enter the sacred spaces. They stood at the edge, where caste had always forced them to stand. But that night the edge became a court, and silence became testimony.

Raman backed away towards his kidappumuri. “All of you will pay,” he hissed. “I am the Thampuran here.” Padmavati laughed then—not loudly, but with such contempt that even Bhagi Amma paused before repeating it. “A Thampuran does not need to announce himself, Namboodiri. Only a frightened man does.”

Raman turned back, lifted his stick, and moved towards Chakki, but Meenakshi crossed the courtyard in a flash. Before he could blink, the stick flew from his hand and struck the stone floor. She stopped inches from him, her palm held near his chest, not touching, yet close enough to make him feel the knowledge she carried. “Do not take another step,” her eyes warned. No word was uttered, but her gaze carried the force of a weapon drawn after long restraint.

The Well Took Her

For one moment, the Illam stood between two endings. In one, Raman would call his men, crush the workers, accuse Meenakshi, and bury the matter beneath ritual, caste, and male honour. In the other, the house itself would refuse him. Then the chenda sounded again, and out of the sudden stillness came a terrible splash from the new well. Chakki screamed first, the name tearing through the courtyard: “Sarsu!” Three Pulayar men leapt into the dark water without waiting for permission, but Sarsu had already surrendered to the grief she could no longer carry. She had entered the night as a living girl and was lifted out as a body wrapped in silence.

Meenakshi and Padmavati stood stunned. This had not been part of any plan. Sarsu had insisted on standing before her father because Chakki, visiting Sankaran’s house with her parents, had told her everything: the threat, the tax, and the command that she must submit or ruin her family. Sarsu, herself on the edge of womanhood, had heard of Kuyil’s humiliation, but she had never imagined her father’s lust would reach a friend of her own age. She had believed that if he saw his own daughter in that place, some buried remnant of shame would wake in him. Instead, the knowledge broke her. Meenakshi fell beside the well with a howl that seemed to split the Illam open. Padmavati’s cry followed, raw and old. The Pulayar men and women beat their chests and wept for the little Thampurati who had tried to save another child and lost herself.

Raman clutched his chest. Sweat broke across his forehead. He stumbled back and rushed towards his kidappumuri, knocking against the armchair outside his room. He staggered through the backdoor into the night, pushing past shadows and wet leaves. Achu moved as if to follow, but Meenakshi raised her hand. “Let him go,” she said. “For once, let him walk alone.”

After the first great wail, the Illam fell into a silence more frightening than grief. Padmavati and Meenakshi laid Sarsu on the ground and wrapped her in white cloth. They lit a lamp at her head and sat beside her, emptied of speech. Kuyil stood at the edge of the compound, her young hair beginning to grow back like dark grass after fire. Chakki knelt apart from everyone, shaking so violently that Karthiyani had to hold her upright.

“Did Meenakshi kill the Thampuran?” Thamara asked, barely breathing. Bhagi Amma shook her head. “Stories like this do not give easy answers, child. Did she strike him? No. Did she stop him? Yes. Did fear, guilt, medicine, and the house itself turn on him? Perhaps. The dead cannot speak, and the women chose not to explain. That is why the story survived—not as a confession, but as a warning.”

The Death No One Named

Bhagi Amma’s words slowed. Raman was seen near the brook that night by Narayanan Vaidyan, stumbling as though pursued by the very women he had tried to reduce to fear. He swung his stick at empty air, called out to no one, and fled towards the Illam before the Vaidyan could reach him. By morning, Raman Namboodiri lay dead on his bed. No wound marked his body. No hand could be accused. Beside him stood the kupi with the golden-red pills. The Vaidyan said what he had warned before: in excess, even medicine becomes poison.

The folklore says that after Raman’s death, Sankaran came and took Meenakshi away. Some said she never again lived in the Illam; others said she returned once a year to light a lamp near the well where Sarsu had fallen into her final sleep. Padmavati stayed for a while, sharp-tongued and unbent, but even she could not keep life inside a house that had spent itself on fear. The Illam calf was nowhere to be seen after that day, as if it had joined its young mistress in sorrow. The cow called out endlessly, night after night. The kitchen grew cold. The fields changed hands. Chakki was never summoned again. Kuyil lived elsewhere, but when her hair grew back, women in the fields touched their own heads and remembered the day shame had become rebellion.

Why the Illam Remained Awake

The Illam did not fall at once. Houses that have ruled for generations do not die in a day. First the voices left. Then the lamps. Then the cattle. Then the ceremonies. The armchair remained outside the kidappumuri, waiting for a master who had become a memory no one wished to honour. The well held the faces of women who had looked into it and swallowed their cries. At night, people passing the compound heard a cough from the Thampuran’s wing, the distant beat of a chenda, and sometimes, if the monsoon wind was strong, a woman’s laughter moving through the corridor like a blade.

“That,” Bhagi Amma said, leaning back at last, “is why the Illam is haunted. Not by ghosts alone. By memory. By injustice. By the silence of women who knew when to endure and when to rise. Raman Namboodiri wanted obedience to outlive him. Instead, it was their defiance that survived.”

On Janaki Amma’s veranda, nobody spoke for a long time. Even the ordinary afternoon sounds—the ladle in the kitchen, the crow on the jackfruit tree, the distant call of a vendor—seemed to keep away from them. Thamara sat with her hands clasped tightly together. She had come seeking a haunted-house tale; Bhagi Amma had given her a history of wounds, courage, cunning, and survival. The story had entered her like medicine—bitter, burning, and impossible to forget.

That night, Thamara opened her notebook. For a long while, no word came. Then she wrote the first line slowly: In silence, they rebelled. In silence, they roared. Outside, rain began to fall on the jackfruit leaves. Somewhere beyond the brook, the ruined Illam stood in darkness. But to Thamara it no longer felt abandoned. It felt as if the women had finally found another voice.

When Memory Became Medicine

Many years later, in the first heavy rain of the season, Thamara sat on the veranda of the Narayanan Tharavad (ancestral family home) with a bundle of pages in her lap. The jackfruit tree in the courtyard had grown older, its branches heavier and lower, but the sound of rain on its leaves was the same. It carried her back at once to hot afternoons, sticky fingers, Appachi’s sharp voice, Ammu’s laughter, and the day two girls had lied about swimming and walked into a story that would not leave them.

The pages were no longer the rushed notes of an excited schoolgirl. They had grown with her, travelling from hostel trunks to study tables, from the kalari (traditional martial arts training space) to the medicine room, from one monsoon to another. Some were marked with coconut oil, turmeric, old ink, and damp. In the margins she had left certain words in Malayalam—Illam (Namboodiri Brahmin household), kidappumuri (bedroom), pukayila (tobacco leaf), kalari (traditional martial arts training space), and makardhwaj (traditional mercury-based medicine)—because no English word could hold them fully. On the first page, in her own careful handwriting, stood the title she had finally chosen: The Avenging Bosoms.

As she turned the pages, Bhagi Amma came back to her clearly: the folded leg, the stick, the pukayila tucked into her cheek, the little pause before a dangerous turn in the tale. Appachi was there too, pretending to scold while listening more keenly than anyone. Ammu’s questions, Parvathi’s quiet presence, and Gopal Chetan’s anxious glances towards the road had all found their place in the manuscript. Thamara knew she had not written the story alone. It had passed through many mouths before it reached her hand.

She was no longer the girl who had stood trembling before the ruined Illam and seen women in the dark water of the well. That morning, after years of study, Keshavan Vaidyan had blessed her as his trained student. “You know enough to begin,” he had said. “Not enough to boast. Never enough to stop learning. But enough to serve.” His words had stayed with her through the day, plain and weighty, settling beside Bhagi Amma’s story.

Her hands, once sticky with jackfruit sap and ink, now carried the smell of herbs and medicated oil. They had ground roots on stone, prepared decoctions, held the wrists of feverish children, learnt the pulse, and cleaned wounds others could not bear to look at. Still, the older she grew, the more she understood that not every wound showed on the body. Some stayed in memory. Some clung to houses. Some passed from mother to daughter without ever being named. She had studied poisons, oils, metals, heat, breath, and pain. One day, she hoped to learn how mercury could be transformed in traditional medicine and used to prepare rare, life-saving remedies.

Perhaps that was why she had kept returning to the Illam. Between lessons in Ayurveda, evenings at the kalari, Appachi’s death, Ammu’s marriage, and Parvathi’s ageing, Thamara had written the house again and again. Each time she thought she had finished, some small sound drew her back—the calf crying in the night, Bhagi Amma’s cracked voice, the tap of the Namboodiri’s stick, the chenda rising in the courtyard, the well holding faces in its dark water. At first, the Illam had been only a haunted house to her. Later, she understood that it was haunted by what had been hidden, endured, and remembered. The ghosts were not figures in white. They were silences that had outlived the people who made them.

From the kitchen, Parvathi called, “Thamara, the lamp is going out. And remember, there is no electricity until tomorrow.” Thamara rose and trimmed the wick. The flame shivered, then steadied. Its light fell on the manuscript, the wooden medicine box given by her Guru (teacher), and the old pillars of the Tharavad. For a moment, she saw her life gathered there: the child with jackfruit sap on her fingers, the girl running behind Ammu towards the forbidden house, the student bending over palm-leaf texts and mortar stones, the woman now expected to heal others. None of these lives had ended. They had only folded into one another. The story had taught her to listen. Medicine had taught her that listening was only the beginning.

She sat down again, dipped the pen in ink, and wrote below the last page: Finished at the Narayanan Tharavad, in the first rains after completing my training as a physician. Her hand paused over the paper. There were names she could write and names she would never know. After a while, she added in smaller letters: For Bhagi Amma, who gave me the story; for Appachi, who let it be told; for Amma, who kept the house warm; for Ammu, who heard it with me; and for the women of the Illam, named and unnamed, who refused to disappear. The ink glistened for a moment before sinking into the page.

Glossary

Word / term	Meaning
Illam	A Namboodiri Brahmin household.
Tharavad	Ancestral family home.
kidappumuri	Bedroom.
adukala	Kitchen.
kulimuri	Bathing room.
chayip	Side room or storeroom.
kulam	Pond.
varambu	Raised ridge between paddy fields.
maadam	Small hut or dwelling.
kindi	Water vessel.
appachembu	Large water-storage vessel.
marakkuda	Ceremonial palm-leaf umbrella.
Amma	Mother; also used for older women with respect or affection.
Appachi	Paternal grandmother.
Appachan	Paternal grandfather.
Acchan	Father.
Chetan	Older-brother figure.
Moutushi	Grandmother.
muthu	Pearl; used as a term of affection.
Namboodiri	A Kerala Brahmin community.
Antharjanam / Akathamma	Women who lived inside the Namboodiri household.
Thampuran	Lord or master; used in the story for Raman Namboodiri.
Thampurati	Lady or mistress of the household.
Cheria Thampurati	Young lady of the house.
Valiya Thampurati	Senior lady of the house.
Kochu Thampurati	Little lady or young princess.
Pulayar	A historically oppressed caste community in Kerala.
Ezhava	A Kerala caste community placed below dominant-caste groups in the story’s social order.
Nair	A dominant caste below the Namboodiris in the local order.
Kshurakan	Barber.
Gomasthan	Account keeper.
Thattan	Goldsmith.
Aashari	Carpenter.
Aashan	Teacher or master.
Ezhuthachan	Teacher associated with traditional learning.
Marumakan	Son-in-law.
Theendari	Menstrual seclusion.

Word / term	Meaning
chakka	Jackfruit.
Chakkapazham	Ripe jackfruit.
chakka pradhaman	Jackfruit pudding.
chakka kuru	Jackfruit seeds.
chakka kuru mezhukkupuratti	Jackfruit seeds sautéed with spices.
kanji	Rice gruel.
choru	Cooked red rice.
podhi chor	Packed rice meal wrapped in banana leaf.
Puttu	Steamed rice cake.
Puttu kudam	Vessel used to steam puttu.
Moru curry	Buttermilk-based curry.
Kappa	Tapioca.
Kadala curry	Black chickpea curry.
kalan	Yoghurt-and-coconut curry.
Olan	Mild coconut-milk curry.
Upperi	Fried vegetable preparation or chips.
Thoran	Dry vegetable stir-fry with coconut.
Edichakka thoran	Tender jackfruit stir-fry.
Koorka thoran	Chinese potato stir-fry.
Mathanga pachadi	Pumpkin cooked in coconut gravy.
Payasam / Pradhaman	Sweet pudding.
Payar payasam	Sweet pudding made with lentils or beans.
Kattan kapi	Black coffee.
Parippu vada	Lentil fritters.
Ethakka pazham	Plantain fritters.
Aval	Sweet rice flakes.
Kadumaanga	Tender mango pickle.
Kandhari	Fiery Kerala chilli.
Thattukada	Roadside food stall.

Word / term	Meaning
Mundu	Cloth worn around the waist.
Thorthu	Thin towel or cloth.
Pavada	Long skirt.
Kutumi	Tuft of hair marking a Namboodiri Brahmin man.
Svarnam / suvarnam	Gold; svarnam is used for gold jewellery in the story.
Mulakkaram	“Breast tax”; a contested term in Kerala folklore and history.
Nagnamaya Mulakkal	Bare breasts.
Kashandi thalagal	Bald heads.
Adukkaladosham	Sexual misconduct.
Smarthavicharam	Ritual inquiry into alleged misconduct.
Vidhava	Widow.
Shuddhi	Purification ritual.
choroonu	First rice-feeding ceremony.
Kalari / Kalaripayattu	Kalari is a traditional martial arts training space; Kalaripayattu is Kerala’s traditional martial art.
Gurukal	Master or teacher.
Kalari Aashan	Martial arts teacher.
Kalari Vandanam	Formal Kalari salutation.
Vaithari	Rhythmic Kalari commands.
Verumkai	Unarmed combat.
Thekkan Kalari	Southern style of Kalaripayattu.
Ashta Vadivukal	The eight animal postures.
Simha Vadivu	Lion posture.
Ottakkol	Curved wooden Kalari weapon.
Marma points	Vital points of the body.
Kalari chikitsa	Healing practice associated with Kalari.
Vaidyan	Traditional physician.
Rasa Shastra	Traditional medicine involving metals and minerals.
Tantram	Esoteric ritual knowledge.
Parada	Mercury.
Makardhwaj	Traditional mercury-based medicine associated with Rasa Shastra.
Navara kanji	Medicinal rice gruel made with navara rice and mixed with herbs and spices.
Rakthashali rice kanji	Medicinal red-rice gruel.
Choriyanam	Stinging nettle.
Vilakku	Oil lamp.
Chootu	Dried coconut-palm leaf torches.
Chenda	Kerala drum.
Vallam	Boat.
Naya	Dog.
Tulsi	Holy basil.
Mullapoo	Jasmine flowers.