Reliving the Myth of the Enlightened Madman

APRIL THIS YEAR IS EVEN crueler and when we leave for Rayiranellur in the morning, the air is already beginning to bake. Few regions in India are as vicious in the summer as the district of Palakkad in Kerala. It is wet heat, the moisture adding an exponential quotient to the temperature. The drive is two hours and from the opposite side of the road, on the open back of a small truck, an elephant holds itself against the wind. We go on and a little later, there is one more vehicle carrying an elephant. Our driver turns out to be proficient in the economics of elephant rentals. The animals are hired to be part of temple processions and earlier they used to walk to their destinations, now that is not allowed. This, in turn, adds to the cost of hiring them. He says it can be as much as `1 lakh to `1.5 lakh for a few hours. There is also a tanker required to spray water in front of them during the procession. This is to cool down the road which in turn leads to the elephant’s feet not burning and that then prevents the animal losing its temper and running amok. He knows all this because in his own village, he is part of the committee that organises processions. That is not surprising. In Kerala, the most innocuous of people can be high-ranking members of local organisations.

We are chasing a myth and, while there are no shortfall of those, Rayiranel­lur has something curious to mark it out. It is where an enlightened man called Naranathu Bhranthan, who acted as if he was mad, used to roll a stone up a hill, then allow it to trundle down to the bottom and then roll it up again and on and on. You are not wrong if it reminds you of the Greek myth of Sisyphus. Except that Sisyphus was cursed by the gods to do this relentless repetition while Bhranthan did so of his own voli­tion. The driver stops the car at the side of the road and points to the right. A barren field is edged by a thicket of coco­nut palms, their fronds jostling for space and just over them is the curve of the hill looking unimposing, its peak lined with trees and the face brown and balding.

We take a turn off the main road, the path gets narrow. A rise begins and houses lean from wherever they have managed to get a foothold in and finally there is a gate, the promised entrance, and it is closed with a lock. Nearby, there is a house with a side room on whose door ‘Office’ is written. We knock on it. No one answers. We ring the bell of the house. No one answers. The journey appears to be still born. Someone from another neighbouring house appears and asks us to go farther. We walk and are soon in front on another gate that with an entrance arch. It is open. Beyond are a flight of steps, like a snake cutting the hill into two as it twists and aims for the sky. We don’t go in. Opposite to the gate is a home in which an elderly man sits. He is the pujari of the temple at the top. His name is Raman Bhattataripad. He bids us to sit and tells us about his family’s relationship with Naranathu Bhranthan and we turn to another myth, that of Bhranthan’s father, Vararuchi who is actually not from Ker­ala at all. He was a famous scholar in the court of Vikramaditya, as the story goes, proficient in science and arts of the time, from astronomy to grammar. He hears two birds prophesising his marriage to a woman from the lowest caste and does all he can not to. Years later, he acciden­tally marries her and then, excommuni­cating himself, goes on a pilgrimage and in Kerala, his wife becomes pregnant 12 times and each child is left at the wayside. They all get adopted by families of different castes, from the highest to the lowest, Brahmins to Parayans. Naranathu Bhranthan is such a child. One of the most famous poems in Ma­layalam, written by V Madhusoodanan Nair, is based on him and it begins— “O mother who gave birth to 12 children, I am the mad one among them…” The poem is a literary landmark in Kerala. On its 30th anniversary in 2016, as an ar­ticle in Deccan Chronicle wrote: “The first edition of ‘Naranathu Bhranthan’ went off the shelves in no time. Those who had failed to get hold of a copy poured into the house of the poet. He had to take at least 500 photostat copies of the poem written in his own hand. Then, it was no wonder that ‘Naranathu Bhranthan’ had 40 editions. The only other poem that has come anywhere close is Changampuzha’s ‘Ramananan’, which had 18 editions. The photocopy craze ended only after it was realised that the poem could be recorded whenever it was sang at poetry gatherings and private get-togethers. It is thanks to ONV Kurup that ‘Naranathu Bhranthan’ triggered a cassette revolu­tion. It was the poet whom Nair revered as a guru who prodded him to produce a record with all technical qualities, with background score to boot. From then on, the poem was omnipresent; from public events and desolate huts to marriage halls and buses, Nair’s deep nonchalant voice was everywhere.”

The family that Bhranthan was adopted into after being abandoned by his parents, according to Raman Bhattataripad, was his own. Their ancestral home, in a place called Chet­hallur, about 30-odd km away, is where Bhranthan was adopted after being found. Later, he came to these parts for studies and then at the top of this hill found the goddess Devi and enshrined her. That is how Bhattatiripad’s family continues to do the worship there.

WE TAKE HIS leave and begin the climb up. The hill, I had read, was 500-metre high, and it doesn’t look too daunting. The beginning is happy enough but soon the steps becomes heavier and the sun beats down harder. I keep sitting down to catch my breath. At one turn, the trees make way and a vista opens to the plains of the coun­tryside. Far below there are bare paddy fields clumped together, then the green of woods and then further on a series of rolling hills. They are all tinged bright in the heat. I look at the hill around me and can’t see how any stone can be rolled up and down here. It is suffused with undergrowth, uneven surfaces, stones jutting out, shrubs and trees. He would first have to clear a path, order the gradient and make it smooth. That would be a lot of rational background work for a mad enterprise. But I can imagine a storyteller shearing off all the inconvenient details, just taking a hill, a slope, a man, a stone and a myth being born. I go up, slower and wearier, until the steps end and there is a plateau and at one end a temple that is now shut. And at the far side, facing towards the plains, is a sculpture of Naranathu Bhranthan, looking like an ascetic with six packs, a boulder next to the feet. An enigmatic smile on his bearded face is the artist’s homage to the lunacy.

The climb down is easier and we head to the place nearby that Bhattatiripad said was where Bhranthan resided. It is a five-minute drive away. Bhranthachalam turns out to be a massive rock on which are also a series of small steps carved. On top of this rock is a temple. It occurs to me that if ever a human being wanted to roll a stone continuously, this was a far more pragmatic venue. But that is not the legend. On top of the rock are little holes with water. I remember Bhattaitiripad saying that one of them never goes dry. The gate is closed but there is no lock and we go in anyway. A couple who have also arrived follow us. He is a local and she has just recently joined a job in these parts. He is searching for a tree that has chains em­bedded in its trunk. It is where Bhranthan is supposed to have been chained. That is a little turn in the myth because he is not supposed to be really mad, just behaving as he is. I look at a tree near the shrine and see chain links in it at about ankle height. It has not been wedged there, instead the tree grew over it. He shows us a covered well and says Bhranthan is said to have dug it himself. Once we go down, I walk around the rock. At the bottom of the other side, there are niches like caves that never came into being. I am certain there is a story somewhere that this was where Bhranthan meditated.

We decide to go to Chethallur and see the house he was said to be taken in after being found. Bhattatiripad had said that his brother lived nearby and an half an hour later we are in the area asking around because we have no address. It is a village and everyone knows everyone and we are soon directed next to a school. We find the house by its name which has Naranathu in it. Bhattiripad’s brother, Kumaraswamy, says the ancestral house is a few kilometres farther away but in disuse. Also, the way to it is run down and we just wouldn’t be able to get there. He says there is also a stone in there leav­ing the question open as to whether it is the one that was rolled up the hill. But these are all stories after all. You chase a myth too long you end up with bits and pieces of many imaginations that don’t necessarily connect.

On the way back the skies open up. It is the first rain after a long hard summer and it is without abandon, as if the pent up thirst of the earth is being slaked. On the road, rivulets run, and they are foamy and white. Like soap, says the driver. He thinks it is because of the road being hot through and through and being hit with the cold of the water. I see a truck carrying an elephant coming. A little while later there is another truck that is standing on the road, maybe waiting for the skies to temper. On its back stands an elephant too, calm and still like a sage in the middle of the torrent’s fury.

Fact File

How to reach: The fastest way to get to Rayiranellur if you are flying in is from Kozhikode airport, about 55 km away. Pattambi railway station is 13 km away

Best time to visit: Winter is the traditional tourist season but the best time to be anywhere in Kerala is the monsoon if one doesn’t mind getting one’s feet wet

Other places of interest: A visit to Rayiranellur is best clubbed with travel to other interesting destinations in the state. Kozhikode and Palakkad have plenty of those and a four-hour drive also brings one to the high range Wayanad district, known for its salubrious climate and forests

Pro tip: The climb to the top of the Rayiranellur hill is taxing but manageable even for those who aren’t at peak fitness but be sure to wear shoes and carry water

About The Author

Madhavankutty Pillai

Madhavankutty Pillai has no specialisations whatsoever. He is among the last of the generalists. And also Open chief of bureau, Mumbai  

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