A Sea of Stories

by Renu Ramanath

Mattancherry is a sea of smells. The salty scent of sea, the toasty fragrance of cinnamon, cloves and cardamom, the pungent aroma of the red chillies, the musty odour of the dingy godowns,  the reeking stench of the clogged drainage – all waft around you, blend into an incoherent stream of smells that envelope you. The streets of Mattancherry, and those of Fort Kochi, the other end of the narrow, crowded, crammed Bazaar Road (‘Bazaar,’ means nothing but the market), have worn the foot marks of travellers, for many, many, many years. And even who set foot on the island for the first time, whether travelling from a far-away continent, or from just across the bridge, feels like a voyager; a sea-farer.

Mattancherry is also a sea of stories.

The stories are everywhere, hidden away along every street, each lane, every nook and each corner. But they reveal themselves to you only if you know where to look; which door to knock and which creaking steps to climb.

The smells and stories had condensed into the mesh of narrow streets during the passage of centuries. The heavy, heady mixture of the smells and stories hits the traveller from across the shores along with the first, deep breath inhaled in the crowded lanes. The air holds a strange fascination, for anyone arriving from anywhere in the world, from any continent, from any corner of the globe. It calls out to the voyagers, across the vast stretches of water.

No wonder. The streets of this ancient port town have worn the foot prints of people from all over the world. Mattancherry belongs to everywhere. It contains a slice of everywhere. All the people who visited these shores had left behind a slice each of their cultures, their dreams, wisps of the soft breath exhaled during the tired slumber carrying memories of distant homes, of the countless nights spent under the stars, over the oceans. No wonder, the fragrance of these streets still entice the voyagers.

During day time, under the sweltering sun, these streets are tumultuous. Full of din, of clamour, from the chatter of people, from the buzz of the traffic, from the shouts of the workers. Yet, right within the racket, exists a deep silence. The silence that comes across centuries. The silence that never reveals itself to the insensitive ears. The silence that carries the weight of the centuries.

That silence belongs to everyone. To every voyager who sets his foot on this narrow strip of land, locked between the main land and the deep sea. And, that silence is everywhere. In the eyes of the young man selling colourful bangles near the boat jetty. In the ‘antique’ shops that dot the Jew Town, the shop fronts covered with a thin, almost unseen, film of eternal dust. In the spice shops that still sell pepper, cloves and red chillies. In the glass chandeliers that hang down from the roof of the Synagogue. Everywhere, this silence sits hushed, weaving that magic charm that lures the travellers from across the seas. It beckons the traveller, and envelops him with a soothing film of worn out memories.

These streets are the gateways to antiquity. Not only the antiquity seen displayed in the neat shop windows, but that antiquity which grew out of the silent sighs of the lonely travellers. It is palpable here, in these streets.

Mattancherry had always lived by the sea; by the smells, and the stories that emanate from the sea. It beckoned the traveller, centuries ago. And still, it beckons. And soothes.