Editor’s Note: For an overview of this book and a conversation with the author, click here.
Stories from Kalinga-Andhra by Sudhakar Undurti, published by SouthSide Books, ©2023 by Sudhakar Undurti. All Rights Reserved.
Guravayya was annoyed by his father’s response. He decided this was as good a time as any to ask his father some uncomfortable questions.
“Naayinaa. May I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you have any idea at what price Subbayya Setty sells our cloth to these white merchants?”
“That is none of our business – as long we get a decent rate ourselves. Let’s not break our heads over things that go on in the trade beyond our own transactions with the Setty”.
“Naayinaa, your thinking is old-fashioned. The Setty is taking you for a ride. I know what kind of a profit he is making:’
“What do you know about business matters? You are too young!” snapped Siddhayya. His annoyance showed through.
“Our village teacher’s nephew is a clerk with the French buyers. He even speaks their language. You know him very well… we are childhood friends. He tells me all about the business that the Settys are doing with the white men. Our merchants make at least two pagodas of profit for every pagoda they pay us. And as for these white merchants, you cannot even imagine the kind of profits they make”.
“Well, but then who will do business without an eye on profit?” Siddhayya wanted to put an end to all the foolish ideas that seemed to have got into his son.
“I agree, naayinaa! Everyone works for a profit”.
“All year long, we weave fabric and sell it to Subbayya Setty. Whenever we need money, he gives us advances and hand loans without any documents. This has been happening since my father’s time. He trusts us and we trust him. He has been paying us promptly at the agreed rates for the cloth we supply throughout the year. But he gets to sell his stock only once a year. When the white people’s ships get ready to lift their anchors to set sail, that’s the only time of the year that the Setty’s godown is emptied. That is when he gets the money from them. Isn’t he waiting for his payment all year long?”
“Why can’t we build our own godowns and stock the cloth? Why can’t we sell it to the Europeans ourselves? ”
“The goods in the godowns could catch fire; they could get drenched in the rain; rats or termites might eat them up. Who will bear this loss? We are small players, can we afford to give advances to weavers and expensive gifts and bribes to the mansabdars, diwans and officers of the king?”
“You always take the side of the miserably stingy business community, naayinaa!”
“That’s not the way to refer to them! You must treat them with due respect. After all, we wouldn’t survive, but for their patronage”
“Big deal! They wouldn’t survive too, without our goods to trade. You always talk about treating them most respectfully. But I have never seen them show you any respect- despite your age and experience! You have been a master weaver for several years. Our saint Veerabrahmam categorically declared that all human beings are equal. You claim to be his follower, but you still stick to caste differences. You revere the people of the upper castes – even those much younger than you, and some of them plain stupid and lazy!”
‘What has come over this boy today? He is talking utter nonsense!’ thought Siddhayya. He was disappointed by his son’s behaviour. ‘Instead of improving with age, his behaviour is getting worse,’ thought Siddhayya.
When Siddhayya’s father passed away, he had left four looms. Siddhayya added eight more. Fortunately, traders from the farthest parts of the world were queuing up to buy all the handloom fabric that could be produced and were demanding even more. Today, his looms were providing livelihood to fifteen families altogether. Two rangireeju (a community) families who had come from the war-torn Maharashtra kingdom to eke out a living in the village were now leading a comfortable life, thanks to their traditional skills in block printing.
Will Guravayya at least sustain the business with twelve looms? Or will he lose them all and end up as a pauper? If that happened, perhaps he, Siddhayya, was to blame. It was true that he had pampered his motherless son. Siddhayya took a decision on the spot. He must hand down at least three more looms to his son. That would require at least two years of hard work, but there was no other choice. He would be happy if his son became a successful master weaver.
All that Siddhayya chose to say in reply to his son’s tirade was:
“Do you really think everyone would simply discard their old ways just because a saint once said so? If it were so simple, this world would have changed into heaven long ago”.
While still in his youth, Siddhayya’s father had become a follower of the saint Veerabrahmam. Thereafter he strove to live by the teachings of the great seer who declared that all human beings are equals despite taking birth in different castes. It was under this influence that he had named his son Siddhayya. After all, the chief disciple of saint Veerabrahmam was Siddhappa of the doodekula saibu (a Muslim community considered to be of the untouchable category).
Siddhayya felt proud when everyone – including some upper-caste people – addressed his father respectfully as ‘Guruvayya’ (respected teacher). Siddhayya had named his son after him. The original name ‘Guruvayya’ got corrupted to ‘Guravayya’. The desire to renounce the world and become a sadhu like his father had been growing stronger in Siddhayya’s heart with each passing day. But, alas, he seemed to be getting further entangled in worldly ties.
“Naayinaa! Why should this Subbayya Setty sell cloth to the Europeans who come here in their ships? He is sinfully rich. Can’t he buy ships himself… ? For that matter, why can’t we buy a ship?… Just imagine! Our own godown! Our own ships…!”
Guravayya was lost in a reverie. In his imagination he was standing on the wharf, shouting orders to the dock workers, serangs and shipping clerks amidst cries of ‘Ariya…. Ariya’ and ‘Abees… Abees’ interspersed with the cautionary ‘Vadaar… Vadaar’. In his mind, he was walking authoritatively along the bund overseeing the coolies transporting bundles from the godowns to the wharf. The supervisor hurried towards him to whisper the figures from the receipts signed by the captains of the sail ships.
He was rudely shaken out of his fantasy when he heard his father’s voice.
“Son! When it is a great struggle for us even to add a single loom, how can we even think of buying a ship? The last person to own a ship in our country was Meer Jumla. My father used to tell me that the Meer Jumla owned ten ships for trading with the Persians. Subbayya Setty is not one to take chances. He’s like all other businessmen. I doubt if he could ever afford to buy a ship, but if he set his mind to it, he could very well become a partner. How many people own ships these days? It is the kumfinis (East India Companies) that own all the ships today. They have a total monopoly on the sea trade”.
‘This father of mine has ready answers to stonewall every new idea. He is incapable of thinking differently. His world begins and ends with those wretched looms; thought Guravayya in annoyance.
He said, “Why can’t all our merchants come together and set up a kumfini themselves and buy ships just like the white merchants?”
No one knows what Siddhayya’s reply would have been to this truly revolutionary idea from his son, because just then they entered the street of the Vysyas (trading community). They fell silent.
There was absolutely no way that either the father or the son could have known that the Dutch, English and French East India companies were established exactly along the same lines; and that, in addition, they also enjoyed monopolies over the trade with the East Indies, bestowed upon them by their monarchs.
Like all other houses in that affluent street, Subbayya Setty’s house too had a high veranda well above the street level, accessed by a few steps at the front. Just like all the other houses that stood in rows on either side of the road, it also had a tiled roof, supported by several pillars that held up solid beams of Burma teak wood.
Setty was seated on a platform flanked by two clerks. He was bare-chested but wore thick gold rings on most of his fingers, and a heavy gold chain dangled from his neck. After the formal greetings and savouring of buttermilk, the son and the father stood in the shade, one step below the veranda. When his father made a sign to him to hand over the receipt, Guravayya did so, noticing his father’s anxious expression. Unlike his father, he was not anxious, but rather curious to know how much the Setty was going to pay that year.
One of the clerks opened the accounts ledger and began to read aloud the details of old debts, advances given that year, and interest charged on the amounts. Throughout, Siddhayya stood humbly with his hands folded across his chest and kept repeating,
“Yes sir! Yes sir!”
Guravayya sat down on the veranda at the same level as the Setty and his clerks. His father’s subservience and unquestioning acceptance of the figures read out by the clerk irritated Guravayya.