She tries to explain the caste structure simply to Philipose, conscious of how absurd it must sound: The Brahmins—or Nambudiris, as they are called in Travancore—are the highest caste, the priestly caste, and like European monarchs they owned much of the land by divine justification. The maharajah is of course a Brahmin. A Nambudiri has the privilege of free meals at any temple because there’s honor in feeding a Brahmin; they stay free at guest houses maintained at state expense. Only the oldest son in a Nambudiri joint house, or illam, can marry and inherit the property; he alone can take multiple wives and often does, well into his dotage. Sons who are not firstborn are only allowed informal unions with Nairs, the warrior caste who are just below the Nambudiris. Children of such unions are Nairs. The Nairs are upper-caste, and like the Nambudiris consider themselves polluted by contact with lower castes; they are the overseers for the vast Nambudiri holdings, but these days they are landowners themselves. On a lower rung than the Nambudiris and Nairs come the Ezhava—the craftsmen who were traditionally toddy tappers but increasingly are in the coir business, or are landowners. The lowest caste are the landless laborers: the pulayar and the cheruman (also called adivasis, parayar, or “untouchables”). The “tribals” in the hills are outside all caste hierarchy; their traditional bond with the land on which they lived, hunted, and farmed was never recorded on paper, a fact that newcomers from the plains easily took advantage of.
“As for us Christians, monay,” Big Ammachi says before he asks, “we slide between these layers.” Legend has it that the original families converted by Saint Thomas were Brahmins. Hindu rituals remain embedded in the Christian ones, as in the tiny gold minnu, shaped like a tulsi leaf, that her husband tied around her neck at her wedding; or the Vastu principles followed in building their houses. Christians haven’t rid themselves of casteism. In Parambil, just as in every other Christian household, a pulayan never enters the home; Big Ammachi serves Shamuel in a separate set of vessels—but surely, Philipose has already observed this.
What she doesn’t tell him is that the Saint Thomas Christians never tried to convert their pulayar. The English missionaries who arrived centuries after Saint Thomas knew only one caste in India—the heathen who had to be saved from damnation. The pulayar converted willingly, perhaps hoping that by embracing Christ they’d become equals with households like Parambil where they were employed or bonded. That never happened. They had to build their own churches with Anglican, or Church of South India (CSI), rites. “Ideas about caste are centuries old, so hard to change,” she says.
Her son’s face shows his disappointment in his mother, his disillusionment with his world. He walks away. She wants to call after him. You can’t walk across a lake just because you change its name to “land.” Labels matter. But he’s too young to understand. She thinks her heart will break.
The ashari, the potter, and the goldsmith call Shamuel out of his hut. “Your son needs a thrashing,” the potter says. “What made him think he can go to school? Don’t you teach him anything?” Shamuel stands there, mortified. He begs forgiveness, crossing his hands to tug at both his earlobes while bending his knees, a gesture of obeisance to make the Baby Ganesh smile. Later, Shamuel canes Joppan harder than the kaniyan did, shouting that Joppan has brought shame on the family—he wants those living upstream to hear. The only crying heard is that of the boy’s mother; the nine-year-old takes the hiding silently, and isn’t the least penitent. He retreats just like a wounded tiger slipping into the overgrowth. Joppan’s resentful eyes make Shamuel fearful. He isn’t afraid of his son, but afraid for him.
Big Ammachi could insist the kaniyan take Joppan as a pupil. But she knows he will quit, and even if he agreed, the parents of the other children would pull them out. The next day the kaniyan’s lessons begin in earnest, using the sandy ground as a blackboard. Big Ammachi sends for Joppan, but Shamuel says the boy is probably swimming somewhere. When Philipose comes home, he shows his mother the palm-leaf “book” in which the teacher wrote the first letters—a and aa, e and ee (? and ?, and ? and ?)—with a sharp nail. The next day another leaf will be bound to the previous ones with a string.
Later, she spots Philipose with Joppan, threading leaves to make Joppan his own book, and tracing letters in the sand for him to copy. Her joy vanishes when she sees the welts on Joppan’s back that are Shamuel’s doing. Why punish Joppan for a system he didn’t create? She tells Joppan she will be teaching him herself while the others are in school. She can’t undo the evils of casteism, but she can do this. In a year, the children will be ready to go on to the new government primary school near the church, where all will be allowed. A high school is going up behind it, and it will serve several surrounding towns and villages in the district.
Joppan is punctual, a quick learner and a grateful one. His swashbuckling demeanor is unchanged despite his beatings. But she can tell he yearns to be in class with his playmates. The day will come for both her son and Joppan when their studies end, and they will have to face the world, with all its duplicities.
CHAPTER 27
Up Is Good
1932, Parambil
Six years after tracing his first letters with the kaniyan, Philipose has yet to master a skill more vital to him: swimming. He refuses to concede defeat. Every year when the flood waters recede, he tries again. Joppan, who is more comfortable in water than out, perseveres the longest in trying to teach him. But the day comes when Joppan refuses to accompany him to the river, and not just because he works all day. It’s the first falling-out between the two friends. Philipose persuades Shamuel to go with him because he has vowed not to go alone.
When Philipose went off to primary school, Joppan enrolled with him. Shamuel didn’t approve but couldn’t say so to Big Ammachi. What did a pulayan boy need with letters? Then, after third standard, Joppan witnessed a barge adrift in the new canal near Parambil. It got wedged and took on water. The boatman was unconscious from drink. Somehow Joppan pried it free and then, by himself, poled it down to join the river and on from there steered it to the jetty in front of the godown of its owner, Iqbal. The grateful proprietor offered Joppan a job and he took it. Big Ammachi was furious with Shamuel, as though it were his fault! The job is a good one. Still, Shamuel wishes the boy would just work at Parambil instead. After Shamuel’s time, Joppan could take over from him. Wouldn’t that be the natural thing to do?
“Do you think this is the year I master it, Shamuel?” Philipose says as the two of them head to the river, while the nine-year-old windmills his arms, rehearsing a new stroke that he’s convinced will keep him afloat. Shamuel doesn’t reply, hurrying after the “little thamb’ran” just as he once scrambled to keep up with the boy’s father.
At the dock, the two boatmen are counting flies. One fellow’s front incisors jut out like the bow of his canoe, his upper lip draped around them. The sight of Philipose pulling off his shirt rouses the men from their lethargy. “Adada! Look who’s back!” the toothy one says, his gestures as languid as the slow river. “The Swimming Master!” Philipose doesn’t hear them. With his eyes wide open, pinching his nose, he takes a deep breath and jumps in. That much he has mastered: with his lungs full he will always pop up, though he only tries this in the shallows. And he does pop up, his glistening hair sheeting over his eyes like a black cloth. Now, his arms thrash wildly: his attempt at “swimming.”
“Eyes open!” Shamuel shouts, because he knows from his years with the thamb’ran that this confusion with water is always worse with eyes closed. But the boy doesn’t hear him. Joppan believes Philipose is hard of hearing, but Shamuel thinks the little thamb’ran, unlike the big one, hears only what he wants to hear.
“It’s shallow, monay,” the toothy boatman calls. “Just stand up!” The frenzied flailing stirs up mud and spins Philipose in circles, first on his belly, then on his back, then he heads down, white soles flashing. Shamuel has seen enough and jumps in and rights him like a jug that’s been knocked over.
The boatmen clap, which pleases Philipose. Despite his eyeballs parting ways from each other, he grins victoriously, pausing the celebration to retch and disgorge the mud he borrowed from the river. “I think I was nearly almost halfway across this time, wasn’t I?” he sputters.
“Ooh, aah, more than halfway!” the toothy one says. The other boatman laughs so hard he loses his beedi.
Philipose’s face falls. Shamuel leads him home, shouting over his shoulder, “Why you fellows need oars when your tongues can do the job?” He looks nervously at the boy, who is unusually silent. He did not inherit his father’s taciturn nature. Could it be the little thamb’ran is discouraged?
“I’m doing something wrong, Shamuel.”