A Kuttanadan Saga

Chapter One — The Child of Chembakassery

You have never seen my face, my child, nor have you ever heard the sound of my voice. To you, I am just a name on a family tree, a ghost from a time so distant it feels like a fairy tale. But I was a son, father and grandfather. I was known as C. T. Varkey. In 1891 I was entrusted to my parents and before the earth claimed my bones, I was a child just like you. Though my body rests beneath the soil, my soul—as our Holy Church teaches—has passed beyond the mortal veil, returning to the presence of God to await the grand resurrection and the eternal life promised in Christ.

Long before this land was called Kerala, I lived in the 1700s in the kingdom of Chembakassery.

Ah, you should have seen it back then! No asphalt roads, no puffing motorcars, and certainly no glowing glass slabs stuck to our palms. Our world was carved out of water, mud, and green as far as the eye could see. We lived in a house made of heavy timber and thatched palm leaves, where the air always smelled of woodsmoke, roasted coconut, and wet river clay.

I was never alone. The house was loud, bursting with the chaotic energy of my brother and sister like a tree full of noisy parrots! We were a wild pack of children, running barefoot through the paddy fields with our mundus tucked up to our knees like little marsh cranes, chasing dragonflies under the blazing sun. My eldest brother was always inventing grand, foolish adventures, while my little sister trailed behind us like a tiny shadow, crying like a broody hen if we ran three paces ahead of her.

We didn't have much, but we had the backwaters. We spent our days diving off the wooden jetties, watching the giant kettuvallams glide past, laden with pepper and spices meant for merchants from faraway lands.

But a child's peace does not last forever. As the old saying goes, "When the monsoon cloud gathers, the dry roof must prepare." The shadows of war were creeping toward Chembakassery. The great King Marthanda Varma of Travancore was eyeing our little kingdom, and the world we took for granted was about to be rewritten. Sit with me a while, and let me tell you how it all began...

Chapter Two — Roots Planted in Edathua

The peaceful world of my early childhood could not hold back the tide of history. As the middle of the eighteenth century approached, the quiet life we knew in Chembakassery began to fracture. King Marthanda Varma's campaign to unify Travancore swept across the Malabar Coast like a sudden monsoon gale. Small principalities were falling, trade routes were seized, and rumor spread that Chembakassery's autonomy would soon be dissolved into the expanding kingdom of Travancore.

My father, Thomas, was a practical man of strong foresight—he could smell rain three days before the sky turned grey. He saw the shifting winds of power and realized that the old royal patronage, coastal security, and pepper trade connections of Purakkad were no longer certain. He chose not to wait for total upheaval to land on our doorstep. Word had reached him of the vast, untamed marshlands further inland—Edathua. It was a challenging land, low-lying and dominated by Kuttanad's wild waters, but it offered rich, virgin soil, safety from coastal conflicts, and room for a family to plant roots that no king's sword could easily tear up.

Packing our essential belongings, farming tools, and seed stocks into a sturdy kettuvallam, Father and Mother led us up the winding river channels, leaving our ancestral home behind to begin anew. Settling in Edathua demanded everything we had. While Father and Mother, Mariamma, set to work building a modest house on a raised earthen platform to keep out the seasonal floods, we three siblings forged a bond that only shared sweat and mud can create.

My parents, Thomas and Mariamma, were not merely settling land; in everything they did, they stood as true representatives—pillars of dignity, faith, and traditional authority for our family and community. In times of local disputes or community decisions, the neighbors looked to Father for his steady counsel, while Mother was sought out by young women across the parish for her wisdom and quiet strength.

Jacob, being the eldest, took to Father's side immediately. He carried himself with an early maturity, his shoulders thickening as he helped clear the dense bushes along the riverbanks, lay heavy timber foundations, and build the mud dykes (varambus) needed to hold back the rising waters from our paddy fields. Jacob was stubborn and unyielding against the elements, but he was fiercely protective of us. Whenever the heavy work or the strange surroundings intimidated me, Jacob's calm presence reminded me that our family could master any land we set our feet upon.

My sister Annamma was the gentle spirit that kept our hearth warm during those relentless early months. While Mother cooked over open wood fires and prepared the earth for crops, Annamma was always at her side, learning to scrape coconut, weave palm mats, and manage the household. Yet, no matter how hard the day was, Annamma brought light into our home. She had a way of noticing small wonders—the first green shoots breaking through the dark Edathua mud, the migratory birds nesting in the reeds, or the soft evening breezes drifting over the backwaters.

As for me, I stood between them—learning the heavy toil of the fields from Father and Jacob, while inheriting Mother and Annamma's deep love for the rhythm of our home and the quiet grace of our faith. Together, we three grew up alongside our new homestead, watching wild marshland transform into green paddy fields and coconut groves through our parents' sweat. Edathua was no longer just a place we had fled to; it had become the soil of our family's future.

Chapter Three — New Beginnings and the Queen from Vaipur

As the years rolled on, the children of Chembakassery became adults of Edathua. The season came for our sister Annamma to leave our family hearth. She was married to a fine man, Koshychen from Kavalam—a breathtaking, emerald land cradled by the Pamba River and endless channels. Kavalam was a place where life was lived entirely upon the water, where canoes served as doorways, and the lush green fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Leaving Annamma in Kavalam was bittersweet, but seeing her build a life in such a serene, fertile haven filled our hearts with peace.

My brother Jacob, whose sharp mind was matched by his deep patience, found his true calling not in the mud of the paddy fields, but in the quiet discipline of teaching. He became an Asan, settling down to guide the young minds of the parish and village, passing on the art of letters and arithmetic scratched on dried palm leaves.

Then came my own turn to bring home a bride. My search took our family eastward toward Vaipur, a historic, elevated land near the banks of the Manimala River. Unlike low-lying Kuttanad, Vaipur was a bustling, ancient center of trade and agriculture, where hills met the rivers and the soil ran rich with timber and spices. It was from this proud, resilient land that my Rosamma came into my life.

Though the women of our era did not attend grand academies or hold titles as women do today, Rosamma was a powerhouse of nature—a true queen of our household!

Just as my parents had been before us, Rosamma and I grew to become representatives of our lineage in the parish and community. People held us in high esteem—not because we sought vanity, but because we carried ourselves with firm principles, unwavering faith and excellent family dynamics.

Where I was relentless and uncompromising in the fields—bending my back for long, exhausting hours under the blazing sun to hand-pick every single stray grain of rice left behind after a harvest, refusing to let a single blessing of God go to waste—Rosamma matched my discipline inside the gates of our homestead.

She managed our home with an eagle eye and a heart of grace. Nothing escaped her notice! She oversaw the coops of noisy chickens, managed the milk yields of our cows, watched over the drying parboiled rice spread across the courtyard mats, and accounted for every single coconut brought in from the farms.

Yet, for all her sharp command of our harvest, Rosamma was royalty in her generosity. She held letters of compassion written on her heart. With a watchful eye on the village around us, she constantly sought out the real needy—the widows, the struggling laborers, and the poor. Without seeking praise, she silently directed a steady stream of milk, eggs, fresh vegetables, and rice into the kitchens of those who had nothing to eat.

Together, we were two sides of the same coin: I labored to gather every grain from the earth, and my Rosamma ensured that those grains nourished not just our family, but the helpless poor and hungry.

Chapter Four — Wild Games and the Evening Flame

God blessed our union, and in time, our house in Edathua echoed with the precious cries of new life. Heaven sent us three beautiful, bright-eyed daughters in succession: Annamma, Pennamma, and Achamma.

Each time a new baby arrived, a soft, sturdy cotton mundu was suspended from a thick overhead beam in our room, tied securely at both ends to form a cloth cradle (thookku thottil). Rosamma nursed each girl with bottomless devotion, cradling them against her breast by the flickering oil lamp, pouring her strength into them.

As the babies grew from the cradle into beautiful and grace filled girls, our courtyard turned into a glorious battlefield of laughter.

Now, I look down at my great-grandchildren today and I have to laugh! I see you sitting slumped like sacks of parboiled rice, staring into tiny glowing glass slabs at moving pictures of men flying around in red capes—what do you call them, Marvel superheroes? Iron Man? Thor? You tap your glowing rectangles, hunch your necks till you look like little turtles, and declare you are "bored out of your minds" the moment your battery dies!

Lord have mercy! If my daughters had been handed a tablet or laptop back then, they wouldn't have looked for 'apps'—they would have used it as a sturdy chopping board to scrape coconuts, slice kingfish, or swat annoying mosquitoes!

Our entertainment didn't come from a plastic box plugged into a wall; it came from the mud, the trees, and the evening breeze.

Annamma, Pennamma, and Achamma spent their afternoons playing hide-and-seek across the compound. They didn't need virtual reality goggles. Little Achamma would try to press her plump tiny body behind the massive, rough trunk of the jackfruit tree, fully convinced she was invisible to the world, while her muddy feet stuck out like two bright signals in plain sight! Pennamma would squeeze herself behind the broad, gnarled roots of the grand mango tree, holding her breath so hard her cheeks blew up like two ripe tomatoes. And Annamma—the cleverest monkey of the three—would dive headfirst into the giant haystack, burrowing like a field mouse until only a trail of yellow straw marked her hiding spot!

When the cool evening breeze finally blew across the river, it shook the high branches of our wild mango trees. Thud! Thud! Thud! Ripe, golden mangoes rained down onto the grass like manna from heaven.

There were no hand sanitizers, no silver fruit knives, and no delicate wet wipes back then. The moment a mango hit the dirt, the girls would pounce on it like hungry little tigers. They would wipe the mud right off on their skirts, bite straight through the sweet peel with their bare teeth, and squeeze the golden juice out until it ran down their chins and dripped all the way to their elbows! They would chew the fruit down to the bone and hurl the bare, hairy kernel into the bushes like a cannonball. They were sticky, covered in mud, golden juice, and haystack straw from head to toe—and yes, they were happier than my great-grandchildren whom I see now drinking Mango Frooti from a sachet!

When dusk fell, Rosamma would round up her wild pack, scrub the sticky mango juice from their glowing faces, and trim the wick of our brass oil lamp (nilavilakku). We would gather together on the polished floor—Rosamma holding little Achamma, while Annamma and Pennamma sat close to my knees, their hands folded neatly.

After our rosary, the girls would look up at me, waiting for their evening story. On one particular night, as the orange flame flickered against the dark timber walls, I spoke to them of the holy births that anchored our faith.

"Listen closely, my little ones," I said. "Long ago, far across the sea, lived an elderly couple named Joachim and Anna. They were good people who had grown old without a child. The world mocked them, but they never lost faith. Joachim prayed in the wilderness, and Anna wept in her garden. And God heard them! He granted them a baby girl—a pure, miraculous child named Mary, born to become the Mother of our Lord."

Annamma's eyes grew bright. "And then, Appachan?"

"And when Mary grew," I continued, glancing at Rosamma, "God chose her for the greatest miracle of all. In a humble stable in Bethlehem, she gave birth to our Lord Jesus, laying Him in a simple wooden manger. You see, children, God loves the humble and the crying heart. No womb is closed forever when Heaven decides to answer."

As I spoke, I looked across the lamp at Rosamma. Her eyes shone with quiet tears. She looked at our three lovely girls, then met my gaze. The unsaid prayer hanging between us grew heavy—we loved our daughters fiercely, yet our family's standing in Edathua's hard soil still longed for a son to carry forward the lineage.

When the girls were sleeping soundly, Rosamma turned to me in the soft darkness.

"Ichaa," she said quietly, her voice trembling with conviction as she looked toward me. "Just as Saint Anna prayed for Mary, and Mary bore our Savior, we must take our sorrow to the feet of the Divine Mother. We must go to Her shrine."

She spoke of the holy shore far beyond our borders—the shrine of Mother Mary in Vallarpadam. In that very hour, born out of our evening prayers and the stories of holy mothers, our decision was sealed. We would cross the waters and trust God for a miracle of our own.

Chapter Five — The Journey Across the Waters

Leaving our three little girls in the loving care of my brother Jacob and his household in Edathua, Rosamma and I stepped onto the wooden deck of a sturdy, broad-bottomed kettuvallam. With two strong boatmen guiding the long oars, we pushed off into the dark backwaters.

To undertake such a journey in the late 1700s was no light matter. There were no paved highways, no swift trains, nor modern conveyances. It was a test of endurance, a long and arduous pilgrimage powered solely by faith, muscle, and prayers.

Rosamma packed earthen pots of parboiled rice, salted fish, dried banana chips, and jars of clean water. For days, our world was the rhythmic splash of wood against water—splash, glide, splash, glide. We navigated the winding maze of Kuttanad's rivers, crossed vast, choppy lakes, and traversed the inland canals. At night, we tied the boat to heavy tree roots along the banks, sleeping beneath the flickering light of an oil lamp while the chorus of night crickets and quiet currents surrounded us.

As we travelled northward through the backwaters, the familiar waterways gradually opened toward the broad waters around Kochi. Our journey carried us past coconut-fringed banks, busy ferry crossings, and the ancient waterways that had long connected the villages of Kerala to the great trading port of Cochin.

And then, after days upon the water, we finally saw the white church of Vallarpadam rising beside the shimmering backwaters. The sight of the church, standing serene against the vast blue-green waters and framed by coconut palms, brought the journey to its end. The exhaustion of those long days dissolved into tears—not only of relief, but of gratitude. We had arrived at Vallarpadam.

Rosamma and I walked barefoot through the hot sand up to the church doors. For seven straight days, we lived as humble supplicants among a sea of pilgrims from distant lands. We spent long hours kneeling on the cool stone floor, the scent of burning beeswax candles filling the air. Rosamma, her hands clasped tightly, wept silently before the statue of the Blessed Mother, offering her tears, her heart, and her body to God's will. I knelt beside my queen, my rough, calloused hands interlocked with hers, begging the Heavens to look upon our home in Edathua and grant us a boy to inherit our lineage.

We made our vows, lit our candles, and stepped onto the kettuvallam to begin the long journey home, carrying back a quiet, burning faith that our prayers had echoed all the way to the throne of God.

Chapter Six — The Miracle of September and the Legacy Unfolded

Heaven, my child, does not measure time on a wrist-watch as you do. Months passed after our return, and the day came when Rosamma's eyes shone with a quiet, knowing light. A new life had taken root within her—a life born of tears wept on the far shores of Vallarpadam and carried across the waters to Edathua.

The monsoon rains had softened into the gentle breezes of September. On the eighth day of that month—the glorious Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary—our home was filled with tense anticipation. Women from the neighborhood hurried in and out of the room with warm water and soft cloths, while I paced the veranda like a trapped leopard, my rosary beads turning rapidly in my calloused fingers.

Then, through the timber walls, a sound shattered the quiet morning. It was not the soft cry of a girl, but a sharp, powerful, commanding roar that seemed to shake the very rafters of our house!

When the midwife stepped out into the courtyard, her face was beaming like the morning sun. "A boy, Varkey!" she called out. "A healthy, strong boy!"

I stepped into the room, my heart pounding like a temple drum. There sat my queen, Rosamma, exhausted yet radiant, holding a broad-shouldered, perfect baby boy against her chest. I fell to my knees beside the bed and wept—rough, heavy tears of gratitude. Heaven had heard us! Our journey in the kettuvallam, our tears at the altar, our prayers across the sea—all had been answered on the very feast day of the Mother of God. We named him Kunju Thomachen, our sweet, miraculous gift.

Kunju Thomachen did not merely grow in our home; he flourished like a teak tree planted by living waters! From the moment he could walk, he carried an undeniable presence. He had my unyielding work ethic and his mother's sharp, commanding intelligence. He learned the secrets of the river, the seasons of the paddy, and the mathematics of trade faster than any man in the region.

As he grew into manhood, Kunju Thomachen became a titan of Edathua. He was a natural visionary—an entrepreneur who expanded our modest holdings into vast acres of golden paddy fields, managed timber and spice trade across Kuttanad, and built a name that earned the respect of high and low alike. Yet, despite his wealth and influence, he never lost the humility of his birth. His hands were always open to the poor, continuing the legacy of generosity his mother Rosamma had established decades before.

God blessed Kunju Thomachen with a noble, graceful wife named Ammini, and together they filled our ancestral seat with an astounding harvest of twelve healthy children! Can you imagine it, my child? A house echoing with the footprints, laughter, and bright futures of twelve siblings—branches of a banyan tree whose shade reached across generations.

Chapter Seven — The Divine Tapestry of Our House

Looking down at your world today, my child, I see how often people search for meaning in heavy words and complicated places. For us—for my parents Thomas and Mariamma, for my siblings, for my Rosamma, and for me—faith was never something distant. It was simply the air in our lungs, the wet earth between our toes, and the quiet rhythm of the river outside our wooden door.

Without ever speaking of high theology, our home gently rested in the shadow of the Divine.

My father, Thomas, carried the quiet strength of the Heavenly Father. Standing before the untamed marshes of Edathua, he saw promise where others saw wild mud. In the way he raised our home above the waters and provided for our table, he showed us the steady, unshakeable care of a Heavenly Father who anchors His children through every storm.

Jacob and I walked alongside the Son in the simplicity of our days. As a village teacher, Jacob shared the gentle patience of Christ, tracing the first letters for small, eager hands on palm leaves. For me, I felt the Lord closest in the hard, honest work of the fields. Bending low under the sun to pick up every stray grain of harvested rice was my quiet way of thanking Him, treating every small gift of the earth as something sacred.

The women—my mother Mariamma, sister Annamma, my wife Rosamma and Ammini my son's wife—were the quiet grace of the Spirit in our lives. Their presence was soft, nurturing, and full of unspoken wisdom. You could feel it when Rosamma quietly shared our milk and grain with a struggling neighbor, or when her soft voice turned my heart toward the long journey across the waters to Vallarpadam. They were the gentle warmth that kept the lamp burning in our home.

We lived with the peaceful knowing that our time on this earth is just a brief morning before an eternal day. We had no grand luxuries, yet our days were full, anchored by the Heavenly Father who held us, the Son who walked beside our daily labors, and the Spirit that breathed life into our quiet corner of the world.

When my eyes finally grew dim and the time came for me to return to the earth, I looked upon Kunju Thomachen, his devotion, his strength, and the massive family thriving around him. I knew then that our journey from the falling kingdom of Chembakassery to the marshlands of Edathua was never in vain. My bones rest in the soil, but through Kunju Thomachen, through his twelve children, and down through the blood that flows in your very veins today, my spirit lives on forever.

As Raquel Cepeda said: "When we illuminate the road back to our ancestors, they have a way of reaching out, of manifesting themselves...sometimes even physically."

Whenever the world feels too loud, my child, pause for a moment. Look up from your glowing screens, feel the earth beneath you, listen to the quiet breeze, and remember that you are held by that very same Grace.

I remember that, even as a child, my parents meditated on these words of wisdom given below. And this was what kept them grounded. These same words of wisdom were passed on to me and the next generations.

Thus says the Lord: Heaven is my throne and the earth is my footstool. What is the house that you would build for me, and what is my resting place? My hand has made all these things, and so all these things came to be, says the Lord. But this is the one to whom I will look: the humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at my word.

— Isaiah 66:1–2

Those words stayed with us as a reminder that God does not dwell merely in buildings made by human hands, but looks upon those who are humble, contrite in spirit, and faithful to His word. We also held close the words of St. Paul in Ephesians 6:13–15:

Therefore put on the armour of God, so that when the evil day comes, you will be able to resist the enemy and, having fought to the end, you will still stand. So stand your ground, with truth buckled round your waist, and integrity for a breastplate, wearing for shoes on your feet the eagerness to spread the gospel of peace.

— Ephesians 6:13–15