It was the day of the mulakkaram. Cherthala was brimming with tension, waiting to boil over the edge. One small spark, a gentle push could shake the foundations of this society, and in the end, it would be a fire ignited by one woman, a brutal shove off the cliff. It was a hot summer afternoon, and Nangeli paced around her hut with restlessness and desperate determination. Her body felt subtle tremors with each step she took from her door to her window, and back again, and again. Nangeli thought of her husband Chirukandan with fondness, hoping he would be back before the tax collectors.
As the sun started dipping from its zenith, Nangeli heard a rapping at the door, not her own but her neighbour’s. With dreaded steps, she moved towards her window to peer outside. Through a crevice she witnessed the injustice that happened every month. Outside their door stood the tax collector followed by six men, their torso covered by a loose cloth of the same colour. The collector held a cane with which he rapped at the door again. A few moments later her neighbour emerged. He held out a pouch but was denied and a few words were spoken. Her neighbour went inside to emerge again, only this time he was followed by his wife. The woman’s torso was naked, her breasts uncovered in a display of meek submission.
Earlier in the morning, Nangeli’s neighbour had come to her house in search of comfort. Her breasts were covered then. She was anxious about the tax, having taken a debt to pay this month’s due.
“What if I’m taxed more? I can’t afford to pay more,” she had said, almost pleadingly, as if Nangeli could change anything.
“Why do we have to pay anything at all?”, Nangeli had asked in frustration, frustration built up from the time she reached womanhood. Her question was met with a heavy silence. “With what right do the Rajas collect this tax, birth? They rule the land, they tax it. They have no right over my body. Then why am I obliged to pay this tax, because of my birth or my gender, or both? Why do I have to pay taxes for having breasts, or being an Ezhava, when I had no choice over both?” And so Nangeli rambled, cursing the society she lived in, and everyone for not standing up to it.
Nangeli now looked at the tax collector, who wore a lustful smile, lust not for the body, but for dominance, of power over this woman and all who he considered lower than him. The woman’s head was bowed, a teardrop hanging at the corner of her eye, daring to fall. The collector nodded his head with satisfaction, his minions collected the tax, and they moved on to their next conquest, Nangeli. Nangeli moved towards her door in anticipation, listening to the tapping of the cane getting closer.
She heard a few mutterings outside her door, and then the knocks, the loud tapping of the cane. She wasted no time and took off the cloth covering her torso. There was no hesitation that day. She opened the door with silent confidence, looking the men in the eye. Their eyes on her breasts, a few nods, a few words exchanged amongst them.
The tax collector moved a little closer to her, “We’ve heard that you cover yourself and that you’ve been saying some objectionable words about mulakkaram.” Nangeli chose not to answer, so he continued, “You know that is not allowed.”
Silence brewed between them, dark and heavy. Their surroundings were still as if the wind itself had taken a break to watch the event unfolding. “So, Nangeli, will you not pay the mulakkaram?” The threat is barely hidden in his hard voice.
“I’ll pay.” But Nangeli had no money to fulfil her dues. She turned around, ostensibly, to get the amount. Nangeli walked to the back of the house with determined steps. She kept muttering to herself again and again, and again, “No more.” There was a stack of plantain leaves and a sickle on top of them.
She picked up the sickle and ran her finger along the edge. It was sharp, and it was waiting. She brought the sickle to her breast, and without any hesitation began slicing. As it cut through Nangeli’s skin, did the sickle know? That it wasn’t just cutting up a breast, but carving a place of its beholder in history, in songs and in paintings? As it moved to the next breast, the sickle wept bloody tears. At that moment, did the sickle feel? Grief, shame, guilt? Nothing, there was only numbness. Then, the sickle was a sword and with each slash, it cut deep into caste and injustice.
Nangeli’s torso was crimson as she placed her breasts on the plantain leaf and carried them on her outstretched hands. History remembers the scene that played out before her house; the horrified faces of the men, the wind dancing through the leaves, and Nangeli, her face stoic and wet. “Collect your dues,” she said as she collapsed.
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