When a wife dies, it is said that her soul will peep into her husband’s bedroom at night. Or she will become part of the air he breathes. That is the afterlife of a wife.
“Marry someone else.”
Why did Chakki say that? Perhaps she had thought of all the circumstances and thought that that was the best piece of advice she could give him. Or perhaps she knew how her husband wanted to enjoy himself. He would need a woman for that.
Everyone said that Chemban Kunju had lost his right arm. It was true. Chakki was the cause of all his prosperity. There wasn’t another woman of her caliber on the seafront.
And now what could Chemban Kunju do? Would Panchami, his little girl, be able to look after his house? Karuthamma wouldn’t come back, and he would never send for her.
“Marry someone else.”
Those last words kept echoing in Chemban Kunju’s ears. He consulted Achakunju.
“What do you think, shall I marry again?”
Achakunju said, “that is the only way. Your child needs a mother.”
“But no one will be the same as my Chakki.”
“Nobody could take her place.”
Chemban Kunju entrusted Panchami to the care of Nallapennu. Then he and Achakunju went off in search of a bride.
Achakunju gave him sound advice in the matter. Chemban Kunju was not the old Chemban Kunju any more. He had some position now and some wealth. So he had to find a woman good enough to fit his new station in life.
Chemban Kunju agreed. Not only that, Chemban Kunju was now a tired man, both in body and spirit. He couldn’t work as he did. This was the time to relax and rest.
And so one day in the course of their inquiries, Chemban Kunju and Achakunju came to know of a good woman. She was the widow of Pallikunnath Kandankoran Valakkaran, who had died some time ago. Pappikunju, his widow, was in somewhat straightened circumstances.
Without a second thought Chemban Kunju gave his consent to the marriage. It was from her house that he had first got the idea of good living. She, too, was agreeable. They informed the village Headman, and Chemban Kunju brought her to Nirkunnam. She brought a grown-up son with her.
Pappikunju, although she had been through hard times since Kandankoran’s death, was still an attractive woman. Her face had character. Yet Panchami did nor like the strange woman who had come into her house. She ran to Nallapennu for comfort.
“You must not say anything, child,” Nallapennu advised her.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Your father will be angry.”
Panchami wept. She didn’t know why.
For the first time in his life, Chemban Kunju felt ashamed of his old house. It was not smart enough. He laughed awkwardly and made excuses to Pappikunju.
“We built this house a long time ago when I didn’t have a boat and net. And my Chakki was not particular about such things. So we didn’t build a new house.”
He wondered if his Chakki, who had advised him to marry again, would have approved of his new wife. He looked round him. He was certain that she was there somewhere.
Panchami had been crying at Nallapennu’s house. Chemban Kunju called out to her to get acquainted with her new mother.
“Go, my child,” Nallapennu said.
With tears, Panchami said, “I am not going.”
“ I shall come with you.”
Nallapennu wiped Panchami’s face with the corner of her dress. She begged her not to cry. Nallapennu arrived holding Panchami by the hand.
“She is only a child,” Chemban Kunju said. “She is crying for her mother.”
Chemban Kunju held his daughter fast in his arms and said, “she will be a good mother to you. Don’t cry.”
Pappikunju’s son Gangadattan lived with them as an unwelcome guest. He couldn’t get close to either his stepfather or Panchami. Gangadattan was a grown boy. He was a burden on Pappikunju. Just as Panchami wondered why and how he came there, so he himself wondered why he had come there. He wondered too if his mother had married again to help him get started in life, not just to make ends meet for herself.
The taste of the lovely food Pappikunju cooked for him when he went to buy his boat at Pallikunnath still lingered in Chemban Kunju’s memory. That meal was the mainspring of his idea of a good life. Now he was going to eat that kind of food three times a day.
But somehow the dishes did not turn out to be the same as the ones he had enjoyed at Pallikunnath. The food did not have the same taste or flavor.
Chemban Kunju had a mattress made. It was the same kind as the one at Pallikunnath. But Pappikunju seemed to be losing her color. Would the sea breeze of that village ruin one’s complexion. He began to think that Pappikunju did not have her old radiance any more.
The scene that Chemban Kunju had described a long time ago to Chakki with embarrassment - of Kandankoran and Pappikunju in each others’ arms-also remained in his memory. He wanted to act that scene himself. The scene added color to his conception of happiness and good living.
But there was no warmth in their kisses. Their embrace were not ardent. In the passion that Chemban Kunju worked up, the words that came out of his mouth were “My Chakki.” Similarly some other name escaped Pappikunju’s mouth too. Perhaps it was the name she used to call Kandankoran. They couldn’t get close to each other and really become one. It might have been different if Pappikunju and Chemban Kunju had been enjoined early in life.
The laughter was a little forced in that house. The fun was not spontaneous. There was a semblance of elegance in their new style of living, but Chemban Kunju felt uneasy about it. An undefinable regret kept burning him up. He couldn’t stay idle without work. He had never lived like that.
When the boats approached the shore, he would go there in his fine clothes. He would sell fish. That was how Kandankoran Valakkaran had lived. But it was not the way Chemban Kunju had been brought up. With Chakki’s death his ambition to be a bigger man also waned. And now he was trying to be Pallikunnath Kandankoran.
Even though he didn’t exert himself, Chemban Kunju’s health didn’t improve. He had lost his tan. His wanness did not become him. One day Chemban Kunju said to Pappikunju, “nowadays our share of the haul is poor.”
Pappikunju made no comment. Perhaps she had never expressed an opinion on such things.
“I used to bring home not only my share of the boat and the net, but also of the man at the helm,” he continued. “And my boats’ haul used to be double that of other boats.”
Then, his face lighting up with the memory, he said, “when I entrusted that to my Chakki it would multiply itself.”
He described to her how Chakki used to work and make money. He told her all about how she went east to sell fish, how she dried and stored fish. As he spoke, he saw Pappikunju’s face grow somber.
“I am not suggesting that you should do all that,” he said. “Chakki had been accustomed from childhood to do such things. You weren’t brought up that way.”
But Chemban Kunju felt that Pappikunju was hurt because she couldn’t help him the same way. Everything in that house, even the bed she slept on, was the result of Chakki’s efforts and thrift.
Gangadattan was another worry for his mother. He wanted to go away from there as soon as possible.
“I don’t like it when that girl looks at me,” he said. “One day she will say something. I must leave before she says it.”
How could she get some money and send Gagadattan away? Pappikunju knew that Chemban Kunju did not have the money. And she felt embarrassed to ask.
Panchami had resorted to another trick. She stuck close to her father the whole time. Pappikunju couldn’t get anywhere near him. Nor did Pappikunju try to separate the two. Panchami took no notice of her stepmother. She made faces at Gagagdattan. It was her opinion that those two had arrived for no reason at all.
One day when Pappikunju was walking along, Panchami imitated her behind her back and made fun of her. Pappikunju turned round and saw her. Nallapennu watched the fun from her house and laughed. Pappikunju wept.
Later, when Chemban Kunju came home, Pappikunju said, “you must keep an eye on this girl of yours. She is becoming a rascal.”
Chemban Kunju asked her what was the matter. Pappikunju was afraid that he would not appreciate it if she quote ill of his daughter. So she spoke in fits and starts. Chemban Kunju made allowances for the fact that she was a girl without a mother.
“She thinks nothing of me,” Pappikunju said guardedly. “The neighbors teach her to be so.”
Chemban Kunju called Panchami. She was in the neighboring house. When she heard his summons, she was terrified. After he had called her five or six times she came. Pappikunju had asked her husband not to beat her, but Chemban Kunju gave her two blows in his temper.
Panchami cried, calling out for her mother. At her cry Nallapennu came running and clasped her in her arms.
“What is all this, woman?” She asked Pappikunju. “Why are you taking it out on this poor motherless girl?”
Pappikunju retorted.
“To see that she is not spoiled,” Pappikunju said, making her antipathy to the neighbors implicit.
Nallapennu asked, “what has she done wrong?”
She turned toward Chemban Kunju and continued, “don’t listen to that woman and kill your child.”
“How does it concern you?” Pappikunju asked Nallapennu.
“Chakki entrusted this child to me on her deathbed. Chakki, whose food you are eating now.”
Through Pappikunju was a gentle person, she was a fisherwoman too. The fisherwoman in her awakened.
“All right, control your tongue,” she said. “You are talking to Pappikunju. I have seen life as the wife of Pallikunnath Kandankoran.”
Nallapennu spoke up and it was like a slap in her face.
“But now you are the wife of Chemban Kunju. And you are eating Chakki’s food. So come down from your high horse.”
Chemban Kunju stood helpless.
Pappikunju forgot herself in her anger.
“What right have you here? What is Chemban Kunju to you? You get out of here!”
Nallapennu was furious. She shook with anger and swore at Pappikunju. She said she had every right to look after that child. Not that she was Chemban Kunju’s confidante. Chemban Kunju was from childhood the playmate and friend of her husband. And she had the right to care for her husband’s friend and child. From the day Chakki arrived in that home she and Nallapennu were friends. They were like one. Though they had their disagreements now and then, they loved each other. That was the basis of her right. She repeated how Chakki on her deathbed had entrusted Panchami to her care. And she described the story of her devotion to Panchami.
“These children have been to me the same as my own children. The only difference is that I didn’t give them a place in my womb. Yes, that is my right.”
Nallapennu turned to Chemban Kunju and said, “Chemban Kunju, send this witch away. I shall look after Panchami.”
“You deserve this,” Nallapennu continued in her excitement. “You tortured a good woman and sent her to her death. You are a greedy one. And you sent your elder girl away into the wilderness. Now you have only this one. In the end-well, I won’t say it.”
Nallapennu could not control her temper. She turned again toward Pappikunju.
“On this seafront, if our husbands die we do not run after another man. That is our way of life.”
Pappikunju could not arrest the flow of Nallapennu’s tongue. Neither could Chemban Kunju. After she had exhausted herself, her temper cooled a little. But she was not prepared to give up her rights to Panchami.
“Are you coming with me, Panchami?” She asked.
Chemban Kunju stood motionless. Nallapennu was asking his own daughter to go with her. Panchami followed her.
In her whole life Pappikunju had never been subjected to such humiliation. Unable to endure her anger and sorrow, she asked Chemban Kunju, “was it for this that you brought me here? I have had a decent life till now.”
Chemban Kunju in his helplessness said nothing.
“Ordinary fisherwomen never dared to talk with me,” Pappikunju continued. “I come from the family of the Headman of the Ponnani seafront.”
Chemban Kunju, in an effort to comfort her, said, “this is how people are over here.”
“But, why did you keep quiet?”
“ What could I do?”
“What could you do! Indeed,” Pappikunju said. “I have lived with real men-and now this is my fate.”
Her anger now turned against Panchami.
“Your darling daughter followed her the moment she was called.”
“It was Nallapennu who practically brought up my two children,” Chemban Kunju said.
“Was it?”
Unable to control her anger, Pappikunju cursed, “she too will go the way of her sister.”
Chemban Kunju was shocked. It was a terrible curse. He had lost his eldest daughter. Only Panchami was left. He wondered if he would lose her too.
Pappikunju did not stop. Even it it was the end of her life, she was determined to say it.
“She is the same. Like her elder sister she, too, will find a boy like Pareekutti and gad about the seafront.”
Had Karuthamma loved a Muslim boy?
Suddenly the story was clear to Chemban Kunju. He now understood Karuthamma’s anxiety to return Pareekutti’s money! She -she-was Chakki a partner to it too? That was all he wanted to know now.
Chemban Kunju was like one gone mad. He ran to Nallapennu’s home. He pulled Panchami away from Nallapennu and thrashed her hard. Would she go with a Muslim he kept asking her. Nallapennu stood aghast, her mouth wide open. Panchami cried, calling out for her mother.
“Say you won’t go with a Muslim!”
When she could stand the thrashing no longer, Panchami said, “No, I won’t go with a Muslim, Father !”
Poor child! Did she understand anything? Perhaps she did. She too had seen it all. He sent her running to her own house.
That night Chemban Kunju was seen digging the place where Chakki had been buried. No one could say why. Perhaps he wanted to ask her himself.