Translated from the Malayalam by Shyma P.
A long night lay ahead for Rukmini. She reached for her notebook in which she had jotted down details of the hundreds of major and minor cases, booked under the SC/ST Atrocity Act, both won and lost. As a diligent student of law who was vocal in identity politics, this was her immediate repository. Most of those cases had been dismissed. Some were defeated in court while some others were withdrawn following settlement outside court. However, these cases bore testimony to the public prosecutors’ inclination to oblige the offenders.
Rukmini’s heart thumped in anticipation. Her clammy palms and soles made her shiver. Rukmini stepped out of her room for some respite.
Her mother was still awake in the next room. Rukmini’s movements got her out of bed.
“Finished preparing dear?”
“That is easier said than done….”
The mother and daughter pulled two chairs beside the window in the hall and sat down. Beyond the window lay the four or five terraced lands and below them, the paddy field glimmered in the light of the nearly full moon. Torch lights and cheers intercepted the thin film of mist that blanketed the dusky field.
“Achan might be back soon. I’ll make some coffee. You sit here….”
As they sipped their coffees, a silhouette with a torch ascended the steps. Rukmini went and opened the door. Her father stood on the laterite courtyard in a dripping, mud-splattered towel. Near him was a bucket with wet fish.
“You were right. Some tiny muddy-water fish is all I could get."
He walked to the garden tap. “Bring me a towel.”
He washed his hands and feet and changed into a fresh towel. Mom and daughter followed him to the backyard with a knife, rock salt, an earthen pot and a pail of water. “Go and get some sleep dear…we will do the cleaning and be right back.” Amma insisted. Rukmini nodded.
She had no doubt about the malicious design that drove her colleagues to invite her to tomorrow’s lunch at the bar council. Snippets of chats at the dining table flashed through Rukmini’s mind.
“As if I am going to eat what you serve me….”
She shut her eyes tightly.
The next day dawned with the beep of Remya’s text. “Ruku…we’ll be waiting for your fish curry.” Rukmini chuckled.
The aroma of snakehead fishes, marinated in garlic and pepper overnight, sizzling in coconut oil, small fish dumplings cooked with coconut on a piece of plantain leaf, and another chilly gravy with the snakehead fish heads, smothered in pepper and tamarind wafted through the kitchen. Rukmini ladled out some gravy into her palm and tasted it. The salt-chilly-sour blend was perfect.
“I am sure they won’t even taste it dear. But then, you shouldn’t be the one to refuse their invitation.” Achan flipped the snakehead pieces carefully with a spatula, lest they crumbled.
“Confronting or challenging these people directly is foolhardy. Let’s play the game our way, instead.”
Amma poured the fish curry into a casserole.
The parents looked at their daughter with pride and a little concern.
Their efforts and hers hadn’t gone wasted. She had become a lawyer, a successful one at that.
This was Rukmini’s first case after taking charge as public prosecutor. It was yet another SC/ST atrocity case where the plaintiff was hit on the head by an iron rod and subjected to the ignominy of caste slurring for questioning a trespass into his property. Nobody had the right to unload building materials in his property. The plaintiff was Rukmini’s paternal uncle’s son, Kaleelninnaparambil Kappakutty. And here she was, Rukmini, about to go with her fish preparations, to a feast plotted to woo her into settling the atrocity case outside court. She had sensed danger the moment Remya Nair and Sussanah approached her yesterday noon, with an extraordinary fondness and eagerness for camaraderie.
“We have been watching you eat lunch alone. Why can’t we eat together? Let’s do it tomorrow? An inter-caste dining? No. I didn’t mean it that way.” By that point, Remya had begun to stammer, Rukmini recalled. She had been invited for lunch by a savarna clique- Remya Nair, Sangeetha Namboothiri, Susan and Satish Varma.
Rukmini wasn’t expecting Varma in that group…must be a ploy to coax her into the illusion of a shiny future with her ex-lover. This was the guy, who had waxed eloquently about his deep love for her and her coveted role in transforming his life into a political laboratory six months back. She was never convinced by his flashy rhetoric. On the contrary, the endless talk on the future of their relationship and its uncertainties was becoming extremely annoying to her. Then, one day, she heard from someone that he had realized the risk factor involved in a political life and was planning to migrate to Canada. Without a moment’s hesitation, she had wriggled her legs free from the manacles of that political love.
Rukmini had smiled and accepted their invitation for lunch.
Before leaving, she called Kappakutti uncle once again for one last round of exchanging reaffirmations.
Rukmini parked her vehicle and walked into the court verandah. Her colleagues were standing there, amidst the hustle, as though waiting for her, their faces taut with anxiety. Remya gestured to her if everything was ok. Rukmini nodded.
*
Once Remya left, Sangeetha looked at the mirror and wiped her face. Then, she turned on the tap and started cleaning the floating chunks of muddy-water fish from the wash basin.
The banality of the story wearied Rukmini. She put the book away and rested her head on the table. She hadn’t tasted the fish curry which the Rukmini in the story had served. Yet, its chilly-sour whiff was embedded in her memory and blood. She flared her nose to check if it had also pervaded her sweat.
“Bequeathed tastes and the fences they raise.” She thought to herself.
The sun ascended sharply from nine to nine thirty. The empty staff-room burst with conversations and the fragrance of myriad perfumes. “You have a substitute class in the first period teacher, 9B,” reminded the senior faculty. Rukmini smiled and nodded her head. Usually, she was free in the first hour. Neither was she assigned any duty of class teacher on account of being a junior. She used that time to prepare for the next class, evaluate homeworks, or read something. But, today she had to begin the next chapter on periodic table in 9B. She checked for appropriate videos on YouTube for illustration and found one. Then, she made a neat list of class activities in a paper and went to see Sister Joy for permission to use the smart classroom.
Rukmini had another substitution class in the third hour, 2B. This was her favorite class. These were the kids who would overwhelm her with their childish prattle, strange doubts that had no easy answers, and a hundred complaints. Unless it was to dodge Sister Jo’s prying eyes during her regular rounds to ensure discipline, Rukmini was never stern with them. On such occasions, the kids would play along with their teacher’s mock drill, sitting stiff with raised eye brows and suppressed laughter until the sister’s shadow went out of sight. That day, Rukmini decided to conduct a quiz on Environmental Studies, their favorite subject. She took the chocolate box she had got as gift, with her. She would give them to the winners. Even though she said winners, the kids knew it was for all of them.
The chaos from 2B was audible from a distance. Not that it was unusual during snack break. But only when Rukmini stepped into the classroom did she realize that something was very wrong. Anoop was sobbing from the second bench. Amala was sitting next to him, her hand on his shoulder. Around them were a bunch of kids staring at the floor. The silence in the room pulsated with remorse and regret. The disquiet stares turned to greet her. Rukmini greeted them back and walked to Anoop. She put her hand on his head and asked him what had happened. The sobbing got louder but, there was no answer. She turned to the other students. When they also chose to be silent, panic began to consume her. Anoop was crying so hard that he was finding it difficult to breathe. Rukmini thumped hard on the desk and repeated her question. “Miss, he punched Ajoy Philip and bust his lips. Now, he is just overacting,” someone said from behind.
Rukmini rolled her eyes. “Oh. So this is a case of physical attack. You know what’ll happen if this incident reaches Sister Joy, don’t you?”
“That is not true miss. They made fun of him.” Amala interrupted, getting up from the bench.
Ajoy Philip was sitting on the fourth bench, his head resting on the desk. Rukmini walked to him and raised his head. A drop of blood clung to his lip. She fetched the first aid box from the cupboard after comforting him, cleaned his wound and applied some antibiotic cream.
“Tell me what happened? Where is the class leader?” None of them spoke.
“Well, I won’t come to your class for substitution again.” She hardened her tone.
Amala stood up, “Miss…they were calling him ‘early man.’ He asked them to stop, but they wouldn’t. That is why he hit Ajoy Philip.”
“Is that true?”
“That’s his nickname miss,” Jyotish George shouted from somewhere.
Rukmini walked towards Anoop to pacify him. When he heard his nickname again, he sprang up from his bench.
“Tell him not to call me like that, miss.” The firmness in Anoop’s voice seemed to suggest that he wouldn’t spare anyone who would use that phrase again.
Rukmini didn’t feel like asking them to apologize to each other and settle the issue. Instead, she told them the story of the human race. She narrated how the dark-skinned, sturdy-built human body had evolved from the dark, cold and watery elements of earth. From the Stone Age to the modern world, the human body had undergone multiple transformations. If they wanted the beautiful world they read about in their story books, they should treat everyone equally. It was wrong to mock people on account of their skin tone or physique. Rumkini could sense the hundreds of questions that loomed in their tiny eyes. Her story would make sense to them in the future. They would find answers to all their questions by themselves. Clearing up their chaotic minds, and hers, would take time. She stopped the class for the day.
Rukmini was unusually observant during lunch time that day. She glanced at the dishes on the table. Vegetables sautéed with coconut pieces and curry leaves, avial, pullissery made with yellow cucumber, taro or raw banana, kalan made with ham, beef roasted with coconut pieces and pepper, mackerel fried with pepper and garlic…do these dishes also carry the caste of their cooks?
“By the way, how old are you, teacher?”
The senior faculty asked her, while serving her cow peas stir-fry added with coconut slices.
“26,” she said, annoyed, and waiting for the next enquiry into her marital status.
The spicy black chana gravy made her choke.
“You cannot always stay unmarried...let’s not delay it further.”
Someone from her left started.
“That is quite difficult in her case…she is too progressive to fill the caste column in her certificate. It is difficult for us to guess her caste as she has relocated from another place. Neither does she give away anything with her appearance or articulation. With nothing, how can we help her find an alliance?”
Rukmini was amused by the trajectory the conversation was taking.
“Aaha! So now you are publicly asking what my caste is?” The others stared at each other.
“Did you assume that nobody will enquire about your caste for your wedding just because you chose not to add it in your certificate?” Rukmini wasn’t sure if it was a warning, sarcasm, threat or a mix of everything.
“Usually, in such situations, people would be provoked to reveal their caste. Or, don’t you know your caste?”
They waited eagerly, licking the dubbah of curd clean with their fingers. For the first time, Rukmini felt angry at her parents for not adding her caste in the certificate.
“Hasn’t anyone at home told you? Wouldn’t you know when you go to your hometown? You should know what your caste is, teacher.”
“Of course she knows! Only that she doesn’t want to tell others, isn’t it, teacher?”
Rukmini tossed the curry leaves from the lid to the tiffin, shut it close, and pulled the curtain on what felt like a very normal day for others. For her, it marked the beginning of a new trajectory in life.
She didn’t have class in the afternoon. So, she opened the book to complete the story she had left half read. She glanced through the line on inter-caste dining, “the first community feasting arranged by Cherayi Sahodaran Ayyappan in 1917,” in the book. The dignity experienced by the people who had steamy rice served to them on plantain leaves was tangible to her. So could she sense the gratification in the person, nicknamed Cheruman Ayyappan, standing in their midst with the broadest of smiles. The distance between that feast to this lunch in the story was disappointing. The fingers in the story drenched in elegant tastes and the merciless brains that operated them made her nauseous. Her past had an overpowering hold on her being.
Rukmini’s parents were two young outcastes, who chose to live and build an equitable world together. A hard-earned government job brought more hues to their life. They vowed to annihilate the caste system that had made them pariahs, through their daughter, and rejoiced the day she took her admission in the first standard without filling the columns of caste and religion in the register. When others went on holidays to their ancestral homes, they reserved tickets to faraway cities. They didn’t inherit any aunties, uncles or cousins. Instead, they found relatives in the neighborhoods of their rented apartments, and later of their own home. In the rare occasions when her blood relatives came to stay with them to attend exams, Rukmini’s parents made sure they didn’t spend more time than was necessary with their daughter. Only once did she visit her mom’s place during a funeral. They had returned as soon as they could. She had a faint memory of a house partially protected by a blue tarpaulin sheet, and plants around it, next to a paddy field.
They were parents optimistic of escaping from the grip of an asphyxiating history. They just had to let go of their caste-ridden past and sculpt a new life…like raising a casteless daughter. But, the more they tried to dodge history, the more it dogged them through documents. Their identity clung to them like a leaden rock. It wasn’t like water, an adaptive fluid, like they had assumed. They found the latest dialogues on self-respect anything but reassuring. Assimilation felt more promising to them than assertion, what with their humiliating and hurtful past. Rukmini felt sorry for them. Yes, they were now able to laugh at their naiveté and joke about their duplicitous friends who had jeopardized the idea of such coalitions. She even remembered the time she mocked her parents when one such reverie had led to laughter and incessant coughs afterwards. “So, this is the thundering onset of spring,” she had said.
In evenings bursting with grief, Rukmini’s parents would share their childhood memories with her, most of which were related to fishing. Sometimes they would tell her stories of Russian kids. When she was old enough to read, they bought her story books. They were two kids with similar childhoods in two villages far away from each other. They shared memories of fish, which differed only in their names, frolicking in muddy waters. It was a matter of pride for them to introduce their daughter to the taste of that fish curry. Once again, the aroma of that curry filled her nostrils. She insisted on having muddy-water fish curry that evening, something her parents found very unlike her. Then, she told them about the story she had read earlier. They listened to her words, stroking her hair while inhaling the caste that pervaded in the atmosphere like a poisonous gas. That past where two kids, a boy and a girl, had been thrilled at their muddy-water fish catch, seemed very outlandish. Caste, which they assumed could be scraped off like fish scales had made its way into the bloodstream of people.
No Rukmini would fall for any savarna bait and concede defeat. “Rukmini could not have forgotten that she owed most of the arguments she made to defend her client, to Ambedkar.” Rukmini looked at the Ambedkar photo, which had recently found its place on the wall. The photo radiated an enthusiasm and pride that was infectious.
*
The Rukmini of everyday life was the opposite of the fictional Rukmini. She was not ignorant of her history. She had passed her graduation in history with a first class. At the same time, she was aware of its unwritten side, which she had often heard and experienced. She had mastered the skill of insightful perceptions, bequeathed to her by generations which allowed her to catch those signals lurking in the environment. She had seen deception in all sizes and shapes. She diligently went through her points once again as she sat at the table with her sly colleagues, tasting the dishes, one by one. When Susan Immanuel’s pepper-smeared roasted piglet slogged its way through her throat, she was meditating over her defense points, the spice and heat of which caused droplets of sweat to form on her nose. She declined Remya Nair’s handkerchief and its foreign fragrance extended to her as a token of camaraderie. Finally, as she was going through her closing remarks in her mind and nodding her head in excitement, while munching on the sweet-chilly-tangy mix of Sangeetha Namboothiri’s mango coconut gravy, together with the pieces of the snakehead fish fry marinated in pepper and garlic, someone dropped a question on the table like the clank of a bell.
“By the way Rukku…when are you getting married? Or are you looking for uprising and social change? We know what’s going on!”
The women sitting around her put on an expression of naiveté, hands on their emptied plates as they looked at her intently, expecting her to be embarrassed or bashful.
As though writing an answer to an expected question with utmost pleasure, Rukmini sat upright in her chair.
“Are you guys talking about Satish Varma?”
She asked, about to crush a pepper in her mouth.
The women looked away, as though singed by flame. Rukmini dipped her finger in the thick snakehead fish head chilly gravy and tasted it with great relish.
“Ha. It is true that we studied together for LLB and LLM. Also, he had helped me in my cases for a while. We had indeed dated at that time. But, being rebellious is a risk I cannot afford now. I am hopeful of getting into the magistrate exam rank list. Also I need to consider his caste and community. Just like you people advertise in matrimonial columns, “except SC/ST,” I guess I should give “except Brahmin/Nair.” She grinned at Satish Varma and got up to wash her hands. The women tried hard to stop their eyes from bulging. The fan couldn’t stop Varma from sweating. He undid the first two buttons of his shirt and got up from his chair.
“Wait…don’t leave. We are not finished here.”
With an air of authority, Sangeetha Namboothiri poured Satish Varma’s banana dessert into the paper cups. Ramya helped her. They wiped their hands in a napkin and sipped the dessert. Meanwhile, Sangeetha faked a coquettish tone to remind Rukmini of her help the next day.
Rukmini smiled and nodded her head. She held Satish Varma’s hand for a moment and winked at him. A tiny bit of cardamom from the banana dessert was caught in her mouth. She spat it out while stepping down the stairs.
“Will that Pulayan’s daughter betray us?”
Sangeetha asked, lowering her voice.
“No chance…they don’t have it in them.”
Susanna’s assurance brought a tide of laughter from the friends.
Walking back from the court after the case the next day, Rukmini chose to ignore the lowered heads in front of her. She returned Satish Varma’s glowing stare with a bright smile that exuded dignity and walked towards Kappakutti uncle who was waiting for her under the mango tree.
“We are blessed to have a person with an unsullied insight like you among us dear.”
He put his hand on her head with pride and affection. A gentle breeze stroke them as they stood beside each other, moved to tears of joy. It was like their fore parents were caressing them.
“Tomorrow is a Sunday. Come home. We’ll talk.”
Kappakutti invited Rukmini to his home.
The sun had come down. The ripe paddy ears in the paddy field had given it a golden yellow hue. There stood Menon’s daughter’s house in progress, right next to Kappakutti’s property. Menon could have easily driven to his daughter’s house through his own property. But his caste pride had made him arrogant. Rukmini grit her teeth in anger. A thorn hedge would suffice to prevent any Menon from stepping inside this property again. She parked her vehicle in the roadside and walked to the courtyard. It was a neatly kept space bordered by hibiscus shrubs. A small crowd was waiting for her. Kappakutti’s children, grandchildren and other relatives were sitting on the chairs arranged there. All faces carried adoration and respect for her. Rukmini was overwhelmed. Each of them came to her to hold her hands in gratitude.
Kappakutti was the elderly karanavan in the community, the first person among them to have cleared tenth standard. Today, his children were officers in various ranks. Kappakutti always wore white dhothi and shirt. He was gentle and always had a smile on his face. There was a mark on his forehead where Menon had hit him with an iron rod.
“Everyone please move to this side. Let’s eat after serving our elders.”
They remembered their ancestors with gratitude for being with them whenever they were wanted. A portion of the food was set aside for them. Rukmini bowed before her ancestors in respect and thanked them for blessing her with a good memory, vocabulary and mental rigor at the right time.
The lunch was fantastic. They had snakehead fish fry, beef, thick muddy-water fish gravy, tapioca and rice.
When she was about to leave, Kappakutti uncle approached her with a packet. She refused to accept it. But he wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t go chechy.”
Two girls stopped her. They also had a gift for her.
“Open it.” They smiled. She unwrapped the package: a bust of Ambedkar holding the constitution, a deep blue sari spotted with yellow sparrows, matching bangles, earrings and a chain, and a small Budhha idol with the spiral knot.
Rukmini felt rejuvenated. The evening sun conferred a yellow tint on the courtyard. Rukmini said good bye to everyone, crossed the hibiscus hedge and stepped into the road. At that very moment, a kingfisher caught a small fish from the nearby canal and flew towards a bluer sky.
*
Notes:
“Once Remya left, Sangeetha looked at the mirror and wiped her face. Then, she turned on the tap and started cleaning the floating chunks of muddy-water fish from the wash basin”: These lines are taken from a highly anthologized story titled “Panthibhojanam” (“Community Feasting”), written by Santhosh Echikanam. They refer to a moment in the story after a lunch, where the character Sangeetha is forced to taste the muddy-water fish curry brought by the Dalit advocate Rukmini. Soon after Rukmini leaves, after falling into the trap laid by her scheming colleagues and agrees to settle an SC/ST atrocity case filed by her uncle Kappakutty outside court, Sangeetha throws up in the wash basin. Dhanya M D’s story “Ottaal” (“Fish Trap”) is a retelling of this story from Rukmini’s perspective.
“This is the thundering onset of spring”: A line from a poem by Binu Pallipad, a poet from Keralam.
Dhanya M. D. is a Malayalam writer, poet, and critic from Sooranadu, a village in Southern Keralam. Her stories and poems have been published in several magazines and anthologies. She published her first anthology of poems titled Amygdala in 2014 (DC Books).
Shyma P teaches at the Department of English, Payyanur College, Kerala. She has contributed articles on cinema, translation and culture in national and international journals. She has translated two books: Thottukoodaymayude Katha, a Marathi novel written by Sharankumar Limbale, into Malayalam (Mathrubhumi Books, 2022), and Letters to Violet, a poetry collection in Malayalam, written by Kuzhur Wilson into English (Temple of Poetry, 2018). Her translations of Malayalam poems, short stories and research articles have been published in journals like Chandrabhaga (forthcoming, 2026), Muse India (2025), Anyonyam Quarterly (2024), Malayalam Literary Survey (2022), and Indian Literature (2020), and edited volumes like the Routledge series on O.V. Vijayan: The Critical Insider (2024), Women in Sites of Conflict (2022), Malayalam Dalit Writings in Translation (2020), How to Translate an Earthworm (2018), Always in Bloom (2013), and The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature (2012). Her translations are part of the English undergraduate programmes of state universities in Kerala like Kannur University (Multiple Modernities, 2019 and Crossing Borders, 2019) and Mahathma Gandhi University (Nuances, 2017). She has presented papers on translation, cinema and culture in national and international conferences. Her translations and articles engage with the multiple articulations of decoloniality in the global South.