Mugeboina Shabdam (Muted Sound)

Paddam Anasuya

Translated by Joshi Babu Palli

I was taking a rest after coming back from school when I heard someone knocking on the door. I was surprised to see Peddaiah standing in front. He looked very tired. He had never looked like this before. His face was full of wrinkles. He told me he was devastated after his breadwinning son’s death. As he came in and sat, he seemed lost in his own grief.

I asked, ‘How is your health Peddaiah,’ while sitting beside him.

‘Life is so difficult now, bujji,’ he said, holding his tears.

He had never been to any hospital despite being an octogenarian. But it seemed that he had become really weak and enervated mentally after his son’s death. He looked like the grief of the whole world had a face.

‘Where are you coming from?’ I asked him as I served him the tea.

‘I am coming from Teetugumpu,’ a village named after teetu (flute), ‘it's been two days. I need to inform everyone about the remembrance ceremony of my elder son (peddanna). After visiting all the villages, I came here in the morning to meet your father,’ Peddaiah said while sipping on the tea. 

My father is also from the same teetu group. As he went on to stay with his in-laws after marriage, he settled in Pusugudem but Peddaiah stayed in Teetugumpu.

He got up from his chair and said, ‘I'll take leave bujjaa, I need to go to pusu gudem.’

‘Why are you doing all this at this age? Why don’t you ask your younger son, (chinnanna)?’ I asked.

‘If he were useful, why would I need to do all this? Anyway, Sunday is the ceremony, do attend’ he said.

‘Have you informed the dhol players to perform on that day?’ I asked.

‘I am leaving.’ He left without answering.

Since then, my thoughts have started revolving around dhol players who I had seen in Teetugumpu. I am the first girl in my family to get an education and job. After settling as a teacher in palwancha, a village in Bhadrari Kothagudem district, going to Teetugumpu became a rare thing. The last time I recall I went there, was when I was in intermediate college. I got to know about dhol players at that time. Those memories are still alive and fresh.

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Teetugumpu is surrounded by bamboo gardens, along with that it is also covered by dense forest. There used to be only a walkway to reach Teetugumpu. One evening, three persons came to Teetugumpu wearing their dhols across their shoulders. It was damerakupoddu – the time when lotus flowers shrink and only the leaves enclosing them can be seen in the pond. It was the death ceremony of mavayya – maternal uncle – on that day. There was a 60-year-old person among the three dhol players. His eyes were sharp as a deer. His voice sounded like a waterfall. He looked calm and composed. One could sense something special within him. All the three dhol players were standing before mamayya’s house.

Women sitting inside the house came out to welcome them by applying turmeric and kumkum to dhols and invited them inside. It the gandhari time­ – the Koya word for night.

The sound of the first dhol started and was echoing in the gumpu. Two people were playing the dhol while the third person was looking after the works of the ceremony inside the house. He was very tall. Despite crossing sixty years he didn’t look like an old person.  He had a wide face, curly hair, and sharp vision. He appeared like he had a lot of experience in conducting the ceremony.

I asked him his name.

He said, ‘Kannappa,’ while caressing my hair.

I was observing the whole event by standing at the corner. They painted aanalapen – ancestral spirits – on the wall pasted with limestone and turmeric. They poured jonnalu ­– sorghum – on the floor and put a kunda – pot – over it.  Outside of the house, they mixed a full bucket of water with turmeric and used them to bathe bedridden old women. Some women were hysterically dancing to the sounds of dhol. The elder dhol player Kannappa told them to sacrifice a hen to the aanalapen while the women danced. Kannappa separated the intestine and heart of the hen and made it into five parts after burning them on coal. One part was kept for aanalapen, second part was kept on both the sides of the door, while the third one was kept at the ceiling of the hut. Another part was thrown at the top of the house/roof. After cooking the hen, the dhol players were given the first preference followed by elders of the clan. Dhol Kannappa [Dhol is a term of endearment used by the writer] started singing the purbam – the Koya word for the history of the clan – exactly at the midnight. The whole clan had immersed themselves in his songs. How was the Koya community born? How did the departed member of the clan get his surname? How do people with other surnames relate to him? Dhol Kannappa explained these in his songs until the early morning. The Koya people present there enjoyed the purbham and happily remembered the origins of their clans. When dhol Kannappa was leaving after completing the ceremony, I felt like he was leaving with the history of Koya people and their customs on his shoulders. I felt as if the support that helps the Koyas to stand on their own was leaving.

In the morning dense fog, I was walking towards Teetugumpu.  There is only a walkway to reach the place amidst forest that takes at least one hour journey. It's been so long since I walked through this forest. Is the Teetugumpu still the same as the walkway among those bamboo groves? Old memories kept popping up one by one. The trees were making ‘kirrrrr’ sounds while oscillating to winds. A woodpecker bird was hammering the bark of a Karangi tree with its nose and making ‘tak-tak’ sounds. It may be because of walking alone, but I felt some unknown fear. If we separate ourselves from nature, not just the forest but every sound of the forest scares us. I was experiencing this for the first time. My mouth started drooling after seeing tasty Nekkara tree – the red fruits among little green leaves were looking like noses of parrots. I continued walking after plucking some of them. I saw around ten people walking hastily from faraway. They appeared to be carrying someone in joley – cloth tied on a bamboo to carry something or someone. They were in rush and changing turns to carry joley utilising their full strength. I realised that they were carrying a middle-aged person in joley.  There was blood everywhere on his body and he was crying in pain. His muscles were torn and hanging on legs and hands. My body trembled after seeing this.

‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘The bear attacked him,’ a man said in a hurry.

I reached Teetugumpu by madhya sitram vela – the Koya word for afternoon. The bamboo gardens were no more there. In my childhood I once told peddaiah, ‘I want a flute.’

‘It should not be called flute, but it should be called teetu,’ he said in the koya language. It looked like there hasn't been much change in Teetugumpu since my childhood. There was no sign of TVs. The mango trees in the forest where we used to play were still there. In some houses, walls were painted with pictures. Peddaiah came towards me to take my bag and invited me inside the house. The elder sister-in-law, who was sitting on the veranda, couldn't control her grief. She was sobbing all the time while recollecting memories of her departed brother.  I consoled and offered her some water. But after seeing the situation I also couldn't stop crying. Children were looking sad seeing their mother’s grief. It was really painful to witness it.

‘You have been travelling since long time. Have you eaten anything? asked Peddaiah. ‘Please eat some food.’

 ‘I am not feeling hungry, Peddaiah,’ I replied.

‘By the way, where is the younger brother? (Chinnanna).’

‘He went to Mulakalapalli. He will come by sevadi vela (the Koya word for evening),’ he said.

‘Is it to bring dhol players?’

‘I don't know. Only your chinnanna would know. Ask him when he comes back,’ he replied, before leaving.

Elders of Teetugumpu were nowhere to be seen. Neighbours too were not coming. All the people in the house were silent. Chinnanna came at sevadi time. A person also came along with him. He wore a bag on his shoulder. He sat on the cot under the tent.

‘Chinnoda! Your younger sister is asking something,’ Peddaiah told chinnanna pointing towards me.

He looked at me. ‘What?’

‘The dhol players haven't arrived yet?’

‘They won't come,’ he said angrily before I completed my sentence.

‘If they don't come, who would do the ceremony?’ I felt confused.

Peddaiah's eyes became tearful when chinnanna said that dhol players won't be coming.

Chinnanna intervened again and said, ‘I took matam (religion).’ Then I saw he was wearing a cross around his neck. I was frozen.

So religion has entered into the Koya people, who have no concept of religion!

Is it the end for purbam that dhol players used to sing?

Won’t the dhol players who sing the age-old history of the Koya people come again?

The outside world did not know that Koya people too have their own history.

When Koyas were protecting their history, they were nowhere near them.

I feel that Koyas’ history is in its last days. We may have to make a joley to save it.

I turned back while thinking all this. The person sitting on the cot wore a white cloak and held the bible on his hands. He was about to start the prayer.

I felt like somebody was forcibly pushing me outside. Peddaiah was standing on the road keeping the oceans of grief and disappointment in his heart.