I chanced upon M Mukundan’s “On the Banks of the Mayyazhi” in a second-hand bookshop. When I read the summary on the book jacket I was sceptical if I would like it because it had two themes that I haven’t been able to take to very much in the past – politics and magical realism.

Boy was I wrong! I finished reading it yesterday, and this captivating novel still has me in its hold. Here is the book jacket summary before I get into the review.

Mayyazhi (Mahe) in the forties: a melange of native myth and legend and shimmering French elegance. Wine flows through the streets where horse-drawn carriages speed by day and night. A folklore has it that souls hover as dragonflies over the Velliyan Rock in the sea.

A wave of nationalism sweeps over the town and a group of dedicated young men determined to free Mayyazhi from the French set the wheels in motion. Dasan, a promising young man, destined for a brilliant career in the French government, finds himself in the thick of the movement.

Mukundan, one of Kerala’s best known writers of fiction, captures the spirit of a period of transition with piquant cameos of a Mayyazhi now lost forever. 

And how! Mukundan makes it impossible to separate fact from fiction, magic from reality. Very loosely based on some real incidents in old Mayyazhi, the novel takes us through two different generations in the history of the town.

It begins with vignettes of a strongly Indo-French Mayyazhi where the term locals include Malayalis, the French, and French-Malayalis. The last set are part French, part Indian; people like Leslie Sayiv or Missie who can speak fluent Malayalam and who are knitted firmly into Kerala’s culture, and people like Sergeant Kunhikannan who can speak fluent French and are part of the French government. The interactions among all of them are closely interlocked forming the foundation for firm friendships. Take Kurambi Amma and Leslie Sayiv, for example. Every evening Leslie would come in his fine horse carriage to Kurambi Amma’s house and talk of “village matters until dusk, helping themselves now and then to a pinch of snuff.” This was the sort of easy camaraderie that cemented relationships between the Indians and the French.

This peaceful co-existence was not to be for long, though. Communism enters Mayyazhi, warming the blood of youngsters like Dasan, Pappan, Vasutty and others, who form the second generation of Mayyazhi. Dasan, who is well-educated, turns down the chance to go to Pondicherry or France for higher studies, and instead joins India’s fight for freedom. His involvement unspools a thread of occurrences that awakens Mayyazhi from its languorous state of being placidly content in servitude, igniting the fire for independence. It’s not an easy task for Dasan and his band of rebels as many of the town folk are unconscious of a concept called freedom. Damu Writer is genuinely puzzled when he asks Kunhanandan Master.

“Freedom? What does that mean, Master?”

No wonder then, that we see the unique case of the enslaved tearfully waving goodbye to their masters departing from the shores of Mayyazhi never to return. Apparently, it really did happen. And there was really a Dasan-like figure who did his higher studies at the Sorbonne University and then joined the French Communist Party. Clearly, Mukundan has dipped into the annals of Mayyazhi’s real history and padded it up beautifully.

Legends and folklore are deftly interleaved with the very real political scenarios adding rich textures to the complex canvas of Mayyazhi’s society. Kurambi Amma is the dispenser of these stories, passing them down in the oral tradition by whispering into the willing ears of Dasan and Girija. One of my favourites was the story of Kunhimanikkam, whose “skin was the colour of beaten gold” and the whose image “decked in jewels and wearing a kasavu mundu, haunted the men of Mayyazhi while they slept.” To me, Kurambi Amma is like an incarnation of the town itself. She is the omniscient presence who lives through all the changes that Mayyazhi goes through, and is the eyes and ears of the town.

Mukundan seamlessly blends Kurambi Amma’s world of magical realism with that of Dasan’s practical one. When Uthaman, one of the newly sprung Communists, falls dead at the end of the ritual performance during the Thira festival, the good folk of Mayyazhi “were sure that the gods had punished him. Only Kunhanandan Master offered an explanation: ‘After all, he was a novice. He should have been more careful,’ referring to Uthaman’s heavy headgear. And just like that, we see the perfect juxtaposition of theism and antitheism, of logic and magic, both of which make up the fabric of Mayyazhi.

I fell in love with this seductive melange of politics, history, folklore, romance, and quixotic people that On the Banks… is filled with. Mayyazhi comes alive in all its glory thanks to the translation from the original Malayalam by the very capable Gita Krishnankutty who has captured the nuances and natural flavour extremely well.

I have never been to Mahe, as it’s known today. But now, even though none of the buildings remain, I would love to see it. Kurambi Amma’s voice is sure to guide me. Dasan might be lingering on the shore gazing, as always, at Velliyan Kunnu. The aroma of Missie’s cakes might still waft in the air while Leslie Sayiv’s horse carriage clatters past.

Verdict: A delicious read that should be savoured slowly and not just once.

Rating: 5/5