Navutty swaggered into the tea shop, as he always did every morning. In one sweeping glance his bloodshot eyes took in the people in the tea shop and came to rest in one corner, respectfully kept vacant for him.
Navutty was not a bully. But he had his way. Maybe, it could be the mean look in his eyes; or his thickset, swarthy features; or the contemptuous manner his thick lips turned down when he met company, which helped him to take charge of the situation.

There was the thrust of intimidation in his crude appearance. Most of all, it was the way he bellowed. He never spoke. He bellowed. There was something of the buffalo in him... in the baleful look, the wide nose flaring above his thick lips, the bull neck corded and set on broad, heavy shoulders. As he walked in bare-bodied, every muscle of his body stood out, rippling with each measured step.

Manutttan, the mason on his way to work, decided to nip down to the tea shop when he caught sight of Navutty with his catch of six plump ‘braal’. Almost everybody in the tea shop immediately sat up, as they caught the smell of freshly caught fish, and became aware of Navutty’s unmistakable presence, as he blocked off the sunlight at the door. When he swaggered in, easing his massive shoulders through the narrow door, all pandemonium broke loose.

“Ha Navutty etta, what have you there?”
“We have been waiting for you.”
The eagerness and anticipation in their voices was music to his ears. Requests got cross connected.
“Crab or Braal?”
“What’s the price?”
“Must be the price of gold!”

“What does Braal taste like? I have not had it for years,” said Choyi, “for I cannot afford it. Eda, Velu when your mother cooks it, be sure not to forget me.” For everybody knew that Velu’s mother cooked like an angel.
“Eddo, better still, why don’t you stop beating that poor slip of a girl who is your wife at day’s end, and squeezing out all her day’s wages to go to the Kallu shop” (toddy shop). Man, save that money for Braal”, suggested all the village folk.

“Save one for me”, came on urgent requests, thick and fast.
“Make it two”, Please don’t say no, and tell us that they are all for your family pot.”
“Come on, spare us some.”
“But I had already asked Navutty ettan yesterday for this morning’s catch,” wobbled out a lone voice in anxiety.
“How can that be?” challenged another, “I had already asked Navutty ettan the day before.”
“That cannot be,” argued a third, “for Navutty ettan knows that, today a boy is coming all the way from Kondotty to see my eldest daughter, Karti!”
“Ahhhhhhhh!” poured forth their collective understanding of this fragile situation. Together they nodded in assent. The pleasure of eating Braal could be delayed by a day, if it meant gaining a son-in-law for the village.
“Navutty etta, bring down the price for Imbichi ettan. Poor man he has so many expenses ahead,” pleaded a couple of voices.
This was rustic bonding at its best.
“Whoever heard of braal being served for lunch on the first visit? What if he does not decide to ....” sneered Koru.
It would not be Koru, if he did not come out with these grim prophecies.
“Kashtam!” Up went the index fingers to the nose tips of each man gathered there, in synchronised contempt.
“This Koru, has never a thought for others! How can he? He has no daughters!”
“I did not mean that,” Koru retorted, “What I...”
“Thenkgya da moodu, Ollakya, Chembu, Maanga tholi” swore the rest forcefully. (Translated into any language it meant the coconut’s bottom, rice pounding stick, Yam, the skin of a mango... but the way they said it, it sounded like some terrible obscenity!)
“First tea. Then we will talk,” Navutty bellowed in a superior way.
Voices folded back, in murmured agreement.
“That’s right, Navutty ettan should be given tea. After all, he must be so tired after the night’s vigil”, Raru sneaked in a suggestion, hoping to get first preference in being given the fish, for showing such concern for Navutty’s well being.

Navutty never liked Raru, for it was well known that if his bulls did not keep pace with his commands, Raru used to throw lighted match sticks into the ears of his bulls. At other times, he would twist their tail so severely, that his bull’s tails had got broken in different sections.

If there was one thing Navutty loathed, it was cruelty to bird or beast. He cared achingly, for all these dumb creatures. Raru’s fawning ways did not go down well with Navutty.

Daily ritual

Now Navutty, had come to catch the early morning bunch and have the first sip of tea of the day. Like the rest gathered there, never once had he skipped this important ritual of having tea at Gangadharan’s tea shop. More tea would follow at home. But to get his systems going, this tea with the rustic bunch had a special meaning.
So all of them could wait for the sale of fish till after that.

His broad nostrils quivered with anticipation, as the strong smell of the fresh brew reached him. Three huge bunches of nendra pazham (Kerala bananas), strung up near the doorway, gave off their peculiar ripening smell, mingling with the strong odour off the bare bodies of the men, who worked all their lives with earth and dung. They brought along with them, the sweet smell of hay and the rich field fragrances of wild grass, fern and sun kissed paddy.

Rising above all this, was the mesmerising country smell of the smoke, from the dry palm fronds crackling in the open fire place, in a corner of the tea shop. Bubbling sounds from the cooking pots filled in the small gaps of friendly chatter.

Echappar’s (name of a landlord), gravelly voice thundered above the din in irritation. “What? Puttu and kadala? Not again. It is days since we have had idli sambar!”

Not to be outdone, Navutty shot back, “Hmph! Puttu and kadala is the poor man’s fare, the food that sustains the hard working ploughman, and nourishes the mason. Idli sambaar?” he sneered, “are for those who sit in planter’s chairs and read newspapers. Not that they can make anything of it which I cannot tell you!”
The rest of his rejoinder was drowned in hearty, helpless laughter and much back-slapping, from the rest of the crowd.

All of the rustic folk fell in line with whatever Navutty had to say. For one, he had the gift of gab. By the force of his blunt convictions, he extracted just wages from the landlords. For he knew too well, how much the farming fraternity reeled under the crushing impact of rising prices for cattle feed.

It was the tenderness that he felt for his livestock, that made Navutty unyielding towards the landlords, corpulent and softened as they were by the lazy life, and forced them to loosen their purse strings. The other reason why all of Kokkivalllvu depended on Navutty was for the rare, river-fish delicacy, Braal.

Braal is a succulent, very tasty fish from the paddy fields and ponds of Malabar. Freshly caught it is snapped up in no time. No matter what the price. And the lucky buyer— mason, carpenter, locksmith, ploughman, all dropped whatever they were doing and were off like the wind, shooting past tangled undergrowth, vaulting over bunds, brushing aside slapping branches, once they purchased braal.

The expectation of a lunch with braal as the main dish spurred them on. Sharp stones cut their feet on their homeward flight. Nettles stung their legs, all the way down the narrow alleys which lead to their humble shacks. But it did not matter.

Navutty took in their collective look of anticipation. He could sense their huge hunger for the fish that he had brought in, that primitive, sensual, mouth-watering longing for a ball of rice to be dipped in the thick, spicy gravy, in which even the smallest sliver of braal, released a flavour like no other.

Now all of them stood unsteady with yearning. This was what gave him that sunburst of energy, and sent him night after night, to the slushy slime of paddy fields.

Tea ceremony

Kuttappan’s tea ceremony took on an even more energetic rhythm. He sloshed tea from a glass held in one hand, shoulder high, to another glass held in the other, held dangerously angled at the hip, in a slow, deliberate arcing movement, and reversed it in a return motion. His strong arms, God given, were meant for this tea-shop circus artistry, which he had perfected. All eyes were glued on him, and he never tired of his 5 minutes of glory. Every body waited, in mesmerised silence, as they got gently tugged into a state of pleasant reverie.

Chathan, Raru, Velu, Ithinayi waited for their froth-tipped glass of tea, served in small thick tumblers. That tea was like nothing else, a very special event in itself repeated day after day, bringing them the unforgettable comfort of togetherness.

The brew was special. It had very little milk, and was dense with tea leaves, and precious little sugar. But it had a magical flavour... the fragrance of palm leaf smoke, in each joyful sip. These were moments of surrender— to the gentle sounds of cooking from the humble clay pots on the earthen fireplace; voices rising and dipping between mouthfuls of steamed rice cakes; a chuckle here, a satisfied grunt there; deep sighs lapsing into pensive silence. There was a sublime contentment as they blew and blew, over the scalding tea in the thick glasses, held in their calloused hands.

In the early morning light that seeped into the dim, smoky tea shop, one could see faces with character... broad foreheads, cheek bones that took on the contours of coconut shells, lips puckered in eternal question; high bridged aquiline noses with nostrils sharply defined, rock solid jaws.

Most had finished their tea. Their eyes were rivetted on Navutty. His thick lips curved down just a little, partly in impatience and partly in speculative condescension, born of a sense of power which he exercised over such expectant situations.

Only he knew the art of catching the best river fish of them all— braal— a certain intuitive knack that others were never blessed with.

Every night when the world was asleep and all was silent, broken only by the distant mournful howl of a dog across the paddy fields, Navutty would wade into the bubbling, babbling, boiling, roll of water in the rice field.
His feet would gently accept the oozy slush, pushing up thickly through his toes. He could feel the swell and tumble of water round his sturdy legs. Little nibbling creatures, stole under foot, tickling the soles of his feet. Sometimes he felt a sharp sting of pain, as a crab clamped its pincers on his legs. He cared not.

Deftly, noiselessly he set the traps in the sluices between the bunds, through which water gushed across in a steady torrent. The trap was a funnel-shaped hollow mesh of cane, which Navutty himself made. On moonlit nights, one could see the dark curve of his massive shoulders and neck, bent low as he waded into the slimy waters of the rice field, with slow feline grace.

Once the traps were set in place, he would double back, pull out a stub of a bidi, light up and take a few deep pulls. A few satisfied puffs later, he would slowly wend his way home. Sometimes, one could hear him raise his guttural voice warning off the wild foxes, who watched him with circling curiosity as they set up an eerie, mournful chorus.

Back in his house, he would fasten the rustic door of woven palm fronds, turn down the wick of his oil lamp, pull out his bed roll and slip into light sleep. He needed only a few hours of rest. Then he would be up, tautly stretching his arms up over his head. Rolling up his mat, he would step out towards the well, draw up some water, and pour the icy water over his head.

In no time he felt fresh and alert and before the first cock’s crow, he would be back in the rice fields, removing the fish traps. Then he would slip the braal, or the crab or the shrimp, caught fast in his trap into a sling bag and jog off to the tea shop to be met by the excited press of rural folk.

It was like homecoming, absorbing the local chatter, accepting the simple bonding born of many denials. Calmness and peace descended on him. Even his stern jaw unclenched a bit. The tension seeped out of his knotted shoulder muscles. For that one hour with these humble folk, those late hours in the dark rice fields was well worth the trouble he took.

Leaving home

Years passed by; I left for Sharjah, and started a new life, made new connections. I looked on with awe at a desert country so absolutely 21st Century! There was opulence, glitter and glamour, round every corner. The Arabs and expats from the East walked with a Western assurance. But even as I accepted the posh life cautiously, songs from the past took me to the farms and fields of Malabar. Often I thought of Kunjunni, Chettichi, Navutty, and all those who stood for the vibrance of rustic bonding.

After 10 years in the Gulf I made a trip home. I sat in my father’s easy chair, listening to a koel. There was the faint rumble of distant thunder. I suddenly became aware that a man was standing in the front yard. He wore a white shirt and lungi and was leaning heavily on a stick. He was bare headed, his face misted in white stubble.
There was something familiar about him. Who could this man be?

He gave me a slow, derisive smile. And then I noticed, the jut of his proud jaw, the fire in his eyes.
“Did you not recognise me?” he croaked
“I am Navutty. I am a cancer patient,” he spat out.
Seeing my shocked expression, he gave a short laugh. For he was a man who revered nature. He knew that deep in the trailing, knotted vines, past knee-high wild grass, in the dense crush of shrub, fern and bush, mother earth would generously yield those perfect answers to humble the menace of new fangled diseases.
“Cancer! Bah!”

Even that admission, he made with a kind of defiance. I was speechless and looked away. He continued to look me in the eye. Finally I asked him the most inane questions. He answered them in raspy whispers. I found it agonising seeing this shell of a man being humbled by cancer. I asked him to wait and went inside. I came out with some money and offered it to him. He shot me a look which was half challenging, half mocking.
Typically he looked away, at some distant spot between the palm trees.

For posterity

After a while he said, “Summer is at its peak. Looks like a lot of palm fronds have fallen to the earth. Your trees don’t look in good shape. How can they? You should feed them, just like you do your children. Turn the soil at the root. Open up a wide trough at the base and fill it generously with full branches of green leaves, cow dung, ash and bone manure before the rains. Immediately, they need salt. Sacks of it! Water them. It is very hot these days. Don’t you feel thirsty? The same with them. Give them water. And see how they reward you. You will feel fulfilled. Nourish them well, and you will nourish your soul.”

With that he stumped away to the back yard. I was nonplussed. I did not follow him, as I felt it was rude to trail after him. I waited for half an hour. Then an hour. Curiosity made me go and look out of the kitchen window.
Navutty had removed his shirt and was sitting on his haunches. I could count his ribs. He had finished tying up the last of the sheaves of dry coconut fronds, which he had cut to size and made into neat bundles. I felt a lump in my throat.

A little later he was back in the front porch. Catching sight of me he said, “OK, it is time I went home.”
I went up to him and pressed some money into his hands. Now he took it without hesitation. He did not want to take money free. Never wanted to be subjugated by anything, or obliged to anyone.
He squinted up and said, “Sun is overhead. Close to noon. Must get back home.”
His life had never been shackled to a wrist watch or a chiming clock. The sun was his faithful ally.
With a curt nod of his head, he eased himself out of the gate without a backward glance, taking care to see that the latch fell in place. Still the same old Navutty! Still so full of pride!
Stooped though he had become, his spirit stood tall.
I never saw him again.

But I know that on certain dark, moonless nights, there is a change in the sound of the tumbling waters in the paddy fields. I hear the surprised screech of a water fowl, and the whimper of retreating wild dogs. I peer through the mists of the night and catch a flickering glow of orange in the distance which gives a distinctness to the night. That pinprick of light suggests that someone is having a leisurely puff at a bidi.
Surely my eyes are not playing tricks.

It could be Navutty busy setting his trap. He has to. For, the next morning, his friends, Manuttan, Chathunni, Kunjunni, Ithinayi and Raru— all long gone— will be waiting with joy for him at Gangadharan’s crumbling, deserted tea shop, now over run by weeds and vines, and with most of its tiles missing. He could not disappoint them. He needed to hear their cries of utter joy as he held up his glistening catch.
And then I knew, that some people live on forever.