Choli Govindan presented a striking figure. He was lean, almost gaunt. Always wore a lungi, folded up and knotted in a menacing madakkikuthu. Shirtless, the rest of his body glistened in a persistent sweat, beads rolling down from the sides of his forehead. Shoeless, he had an unsteady, tentative gait, seeming to tip over every time he put a bare foot forward. When he stopped to talk to someone, his body swayed laterally and frontally, forcing the startled listener to take a few steps back.
He was cross-eyed, hence the pet name Choli. He walked with his torso turned at a left angle to his forward path, which added a certain degree of uncertainty about his intentions. And he always seemed to be rambling incoherently, in a loud voice, flailing his arms about, as he challenged his neighbors, passersby, and virtually everybody else that crossed his path. Upon seeing him, one wondered: will he go left, veer right, or turn around and start chasing you?
Choli was a muzhukudian, a total drunkard. Shashti Parambu, vayanasala, angaadi, idavazhi, or peruvazhi, (festival grounds, library, market, byway, or highway), it didn’t matter. Choli was full-time thunny, under the influence 24/7. Women and kids were, understandably, frightened of him. Young girls, and anyone unaccustomed to Choli’s ways, studiously avoided his gaze. My heart beat a little faster every time I saw him approaching. Flight hormones kicked in and I either turned around and took another route or walked toward the mullu veli (fence) pretending to take care of urgent business, in a desperate bid to avoid him.
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| Avoiding Choli? |
No one observed Choli working, or indulging in any other means of earning a living. Not the least bit surprising, since he was a certified headload worker, the blue (or was it red?) turban wrapped around his head or occasionally slung over his shoulder announcing this fact to all those dared wonder. No lorry, truck, or kalavandi (bullock cart) for that matter, unloaded any material in the Eravimangalam pradesham (locality) without his knowledge. Not that he did much in the way of unloading. No way, are you kidding? First of all, as a headload worker, he belonged to that unique clique of workers who extracted maximal payments for minimal work.In an arrangement that seems magical, a homeowner has to pay the headload workers their customary fee, lovingly called nookku coolie, even if the owner employs his own workers to load or unload the goods. How this bizarre system works is a topic deserving its own Ph.D. dissertation in labor economics and contract theory; I am not getting into that. Second of all, given Choli’s unsteady hands and reputation for ruining almost any project he took on, no sane homeowner wanted him to handle their cargo. Homeowners paid him to keep him away, to stop him from being a pain in their butt, to put it plainly—a pookku coolie, if you will.
Choli met his match ... in my achamma (paternal grandmother). She saw through his drunken antics for the simple-hearted person he was. “Don’t show up before me drunk,” was her strict order. Yet, he came, showing up at our yard, his madakkikuthu respectfully unknotted and the head wrap untied and held in a bundle in front of his chest.
“Thamprattiye!” (“Madam!”), he called out.
“Thampratti illye evide?” (“Isn’t madam here?”).
“Ah, aara, Choli Govindano? Entha vende?” (“Ah, who is it, is it Choli Govindan? What do you want?”)
“Korachu kashu venam.” (“Need some money.”)
“Nee kudichittundalle?” (“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”)
“Aaye, njan oru thulli kudichittilya!” (“No, I am not. Not a drop.”)
“Kudichittu ee padi kadakkaruthenne njan paranjittillye ninnode?” (“Haven’t I told you not to come here drunk?”)
“Athinu njan kudichittilya thamprattiye. Sathyam! Korachu kashu venam. Oru athiyavashyathina. Adutha azhcha tharam. Thamprattide aduthallande aroda chodikka?” (“But I am not drunk. It’s the truth. I need some money. Will return it next week. Who else other than you could I ask Madam?”)
Obviously, despite his other frailties, Choli was well-versed in rank lying and flattery. Achamma had a weakness for the latter. To her foes she was a pit bull, to her flatterers, an angel. Thus, in these encounters, Choli invariably walked away with some money, which he duly put to good use on patta (moonshine).
I hardly saw Choli after I left for the United States. But one thing I can avow. You won’t find Choli’s ilk in the villages anymore. Gone are the minimalists of the shirtless, shoeless, and the workless kind. And few dare wander the streets drunk and unimpeded as Choli once did. The breakneck flow of autos, motor bikes, and Hyundais ensures that.
Choli wasn’t the only village drunkard around; he had plenty of company. Chothy, the mononymous coconut harvester (no relation to Choli), for instance. In his younger days, achamma sent out a call for his service and Chothy appeared instantly in his trademark costume of shorts, loincloth, and a head wrap, a vettukathi (machete) dangling from the holster in his black leather belt. He slid up the trees and dispatched coconuts, dry fronds, and dead sheaths showering down from the treetop with effortless ease. The income was good and going was great for Chothy. And then things turned even better, which, paradoxically, led to Chothy’s undoing.
All the able-bodied youngsters left for the Gulf or took the dream job of no work and all pay, a.k.a., the headload worker. With few coconut harvesters around, Chothy’s wages shot through the roof. His erstwhile punctuality gave way to incessant tardiness. Achamma waited impatiently for his arrival as if at a doctor’s office. Mutual funds, real estate, and 401(k)s were not yet in vogue, so Chothy deployed his new found income on keeping his spirits up. And as the spirits interfered with his climbing skills, his income plummeted. The circle was complete. As the saying goes, “Chankaran pinnem thengelu!”
Then there was Vareed, a KSRTC bus driver. Now, Vareed too, to the best of my knowledge, was full-time thunny. No matter. The KSTRC kept him gainfully employed, running the N117 Thrissur-Pathanamthitta Fast Passenger, night schedule! You see why we Keralites love the KSRTC so much, as I have touched upon here and here? They weren’t a bit worried about Vareed’s blood alcohol content and passenger safety. They had a duty to keep their bloated employee roll fully engaged and to continue to add to the public debt burden. To this day, this they do diligently.
There was Achunnair, a farmer. His saga, though, had a happy ending. Achunnair earned income on the side as a day laborer for selected clients, one of them being achamma, which is how I got to know him. For a while, achamma hired him to tend to our parched 2-acre plot, but the going got progressively unpleasant as Achunnair’s alcohol-induced absenteeism began to take a toll on achamma’s meager farm income. This led to constant friction, which ended with achamma uttering the infamous line much before it became such: “You’re fired!”
Perhaps learning a lesson, Achunnair went into a detox, if you can believe such a thing existed in my childhood. He emerged successful, kicking the habit completely. He went on to lead a successful life so much so he didn’t go back to his day-laborer job again.
There were plenty of other thunny partys but my favorite is Ravunni, an ayurvedic pharmacist. In his day job, Ravunni ran a Vaidyashala (Ayurvedic pharmacy) in Varandarappilly. The Vaidyashala was a pit stop for us whenever we had to take a bus from Varandarappilly. Occasionally during these stops, Ravunni offered us a few unakka mundiri (raisins) for good behavior, that is, keeping our hands off his medicine jars. It was a heavenly treat we longed for.
Years later, a walk through Varandarappilly to meet Ravunni became a routine affair on return visits. After catching up, we stuffed some rupees of gratitude down his shirt pocket, which he gladly accepted with a polite “Vendayirunnu.” (“Wasn’t needed.”). But soon, telltale signs began to show. Ravunni’s eyes were bloodshot, his speech slurred. By my first visit from the U.S., he had retired from the pharmacy and I found him loitering close to the arrack shop. He was a bit impatient about niceties, a tad embarrassed about his condition, and asked for money. I gladly gave; there was little else I could do. There was much unforgettable history.
I first met Ravunni when he came to our house to prepare attin braathu (goat broth) for my great uncle who had come down with some stomach ailment. As remedy, Balan Vaidyar, our family physician, prescribed a regimen of braathu and, get this, brandy. Where’s Balan Vaidyar when we need him?
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| Company's Sake |
For a period lasting several months, Ravunni came to our house in the evenings and cooked up the soup in an adjacent kayyala (storehouse) using utensils he brought with him for the purpose. We were pure vegetarians and admittance of any meat, nor brandy, into the house proper or using household cookware were a no-no. Despite the taboo, the exquisite smell of ulli (shallots) frying in coconut oil that wafted in from the kayyala was too enticing for an impressionable kid. How much I had hoped to get a spoonful of that, er..., soup! Alas, it was not to be. But the allure has lingered, if not for the braathu, certainly for the brandy—in moderation.
