Many locals in this subcontinent, who have experienced and imbibed the English language and its cultural values, have indeed adopted an antagonistic stance towards English and England. However, the reality is that none of them would dare to erase the English they have acquired from their minds or refuse an opportunity to live in England.
It is observed that Shri Narayana Guru studied and practised the scriptures, ethical treatises, Vedas, meditative disciplines, and ascetic practices of Brahminical religion and spirituality. Yet, it appears that these are intricately intertwined with the linguistic codes of Sanskrit.
It is understood that Sanskrit is a language with an intensely feudal character. The Brahminical essence of this language may weave into the mind a symphony of melodious sounds, poetic elegance, cosmic rhythms, ecstasy, bliss, intoxication, delusion, illusory visions, and, to an extent, bewilderment.
Due to this language’s heavenly and refined distinctiveness, in a feudal linguistic domain, it may subtly prevent individuals from engaging with codes that negate its feudal structure. If carefully orchestrated, the Brahminical spaces of this language might act as a divine elixir in their minds and bodies. Even someone destined to live as mere riff-raff in society can rise to the divine radiance of Brahminical essence.
However, this Brahminical radiance has a hidden underside. For an individual to shine brilliantly, there must exist a vast underclass in society—descending step by step into a great abyss, living in squalor, covered in grime, with minds filled with foolish nonsense, reeking if approached, and existing as an offensive, inauspicious presence to the eyes and ears.
Each of these individuals perceives only the repulsiveness of those below them. They come to know that what emanates from those above is a sweet, fragrant charm.
This destructive hierarchy, unimaginable even in English, is the pinnacle where the linguistic codes of Sanskrit have woven a fantastical universe, a land of celestial nymphs and frolicking Gandharvas.
When Shri Narayana Guru embraced Brahminical religious heritage, it must be said that he entered this Gandharva city. However, in this subcontinent, rising to social leadership is impossible without such a path. A mere Nanu would struggle to bring about social transformation. In contrast, for Shri Narayana Guru, this might have been somewhat effortless. It seems unlikely that even the Ezhavas would accept a mere Nanu.
The profound power hidden in seemingly trivial linguistic codes is what has been simply addressed here.
It was previously noted that Shri Narayana Guru wandered through British-India. In truth, it was not Shri Narayana Guru who travelled thus, but rather Nanu, a young man from the lower strata of Travancore, who journeyed through neighbouring realms and marvelled at astonishing sights.
To grasp the true intensity of this experience, an illustration is provided here.
Consider a young Indian taxi driver named Nanu, with the personality of an average Indian taxi driver—neither exceptionally charismatic nor utterly lacklustre. He has learned to speak a bit of English, though without much depth.
By chance, this man once got the opportunity to work as a taxi driver in England for about a year.
In India, clad in the khaki uniform typically used to demean ordinary workers, he was accustomed to hearing endearing terms in his mother tongue like “Oi, you!” or “What’re you doing, mate?” from police officers daily, while also relishing the grand beauty of film songs in the same language, living in a state of ecstatic rapture—swaying, panting, startling, and being startled. Life in England, however, was utterly astonishing for him.
Clean and orderly streets, people, and public conduct. No blaring horns from vehicles causing annoyance. No demeaning behaviour was observed in anyone. There was no hesitation in entering a police station. Even if the police harboured any prejudice, there was no room in their verbal codes to express it openly.
This man returned from England—a major event back home. “He worked in England, didn’t he?” Nanu realised that taxi drivers in India are subjected to severe degradation and treated as an underclass. This realisation didn’t come from a forest exile but from England.
The standard of taxi drivers in this country must be raised. Saying this is easy, but implementing it is not. The reason is that the official and social customs entrenched in India for ages cannot be changed by any legislation.
Moreover, taxi drivers themselves would not acknowledge that they are an underclass. Voicing such a thing publicly would cause trouble. Their admirers, individuals, and families might cease their adoration.
Worse still, a mere Nanu cannot bring about social transformation. A mere Nanu—addressed as “you,” “oi,” or “oi, Nanu”—would be battered by the linguistic codes that lacerate a divine soul. Only a spiritual guru could command a following.
Nanu studied Sanskrit, the Vedas, and such profound, esoteric literature, attaining divine wisdom. He became a guru, a swami, a great spiritual leader. Now, he could elevate the standard of taxi drivers in India.
However, this guru has arrived at the pinnacle of feudal linguistic codes. He is addressed as “Adheham” (highest level he), while taxi drivers are seen as “avan” (lowest he) by the masses at the top of this hierarchy.
The England he envisioned has no connection whatsoever with the pedestal of Sanskrit scholarship. They are polar opposites, standing at opposite ends for ages. One cannot become the other.
The guru might elevate a few taxi drivers by granting them various titles and honours. Yet, other taxi drivers remain unmoved from the old standards of linguistic codes like “you,” “oi,” “what’re you doing,” or “avan.” They may not even feel significant resentment, as they have likely already identified those they can demean.
Moreover, other taxi drivers cannot even conceive of the real England. Deceived by local films, they see England as a land of monsters. Shouting, clamouring, and guffawing, they offer resounding applause and support to Indian heroes who triumph over the English in such deceptive films.
There is indeed a significant difference between Nanu, a person from the lower caste, and Shri Narayana Guru, the divine figure. Linguistic codes create this distinction. When referring to the same individual as Nanu or Shri Narayana Guru, this difference can be emotionally felt.
It seems that creating such a striking dichotomy—splitting and separating a person’s personality and mental disposition into opposing extremes—would require immense cunning and calculated moves in English. Even then, it is doubtful whether English could replicate the intensity of the dual personality that feudal languages can effortlessly produce through seemingly trivial word codes.
Phrases like “You, oi, what’re you up to?”, “avan” (lowest he), “his,” “such insolence,” “rogue,” “scoundrel,” “shameless fellow,” “stop your buffoonery,” “who do you think you are?”, or “I’ll smack you in the face!”—used by peers, subordinates, and superiors to control an individual—would ensnare a mere Nanu in their linguistic reins.
In contrast, Shri Narayana Guru is an entirely different entity. People refer to him with words that carry divine restraint. Likewise, others interact and speak with him in the same manner.
This is a profound reality in the world of feudal languages. Through mere words, a person becomes entirely different. Seeing the two as one is impossible, and attempting to do so would be highly distasteful.
To truly grasp this, try addressing those typically called “brother,” “sir,” “teacher,” “professor,” “doctor,” “madam,” “ji,” or “bai” without these honorifics. You’ll immediately feel a significant shift in perception. It’s as if a grand veil has been lifted from their personality. Without this aura of divinity, their words may hold no more value than straw, especially if they lack any other assertive power.
It is well-known among speakers of feudal languages that words can evoke profound emotional changes in the human mind. However, it is understood that legal systems have not yet accounted for this. The reason is that English jurisprudence remains unaware that words can cause such personality shifts and splits.
I began learning about many renowned figures in English literary traditions from a young age, such as Oscar Wilde. Though of Irish descent by blood, he cultivated an English persona in the literary world. He possessed both a “great” persona and one smeared with disgrace in history. However, English cannot create a personality split by addressing him as “adheham” (highest he) versus “avan” (lowest he).
The disgraced individual and the literary giant are one and the same Oscar Wilde.
In India, it’s a playground of “great” figures everywhere! So many great men, ubiquitous! Yet, what’s the point? In England, such a parade of great men is nowhere to be seen. Still, the personal dignity cultivated and maintained by ordinary people there is noteworthy. In English, even those who aren’t “great” can develop and sustain significant personal dignity.
Broadly speaking, this indicates that in India today, officials and, to some extent, allopathic doctors are “adheham” (highest he) individuals, while the general public are “avan” (lowest he) individuals. I won’t delve into the depths of this issue now.
It is documented that Shri Narayana Guru was an advocate of non-violence. To uplift the Ezhavas, he did not engage in physical confrontations with Hindus, temple-dwelling communities, or Shudras (Nairs).
Before delving into this matter, it must be noted that it seems he lacked a band of militant followers for such aggressive actions.
Without such manpower, individuals often resort to isolated acts like throwing bombs or firing guns at one or two perceived adversaries.
In the northern parts of this subcontinent, individuals like Bhagat Singh gained fame through such acts. However, it seems these actions rarely garnered support from the local populace. On the contrary, if those committing such acts were caught by the surrounding crowd, they might have been dealt with on the spot. Yet, in distant places and in history, print media often glorified them as great men.
It can be said that Shri Narayana Guru did not resort to such shallow tactics for fame.
However, when claiming he was a non-violence advocate, the question arises: what does this term “non-violence” mean?
No one has ever claimed that the refined and highly courteous English-speaking locals are advocates of non-violence. They make no such claims.
Yet, many prominent figures in societies that brutally suppress and degrade vast populations are seen as non-violence advocates. A prime example is Gandhi.
A member of a family that held power over Porbandar’s enslaved masses for generations, he addressed both the great and the small as “nee” (lowest you). No violence or aggression is apparent in this.
A schoolteacher addresses fellow teachers and students as “nee.” No violence or aggression is visible here either.
But in reality, from the perspective of English linguistic codes, these actions show friendliness to one side and suppression to another, despite using the same word.
To understand this, consider the other side. In Porbandar, the enslaved use “nee” among themselves, indicating friendliness. But when they address the elite or Gandhi’s family as “nee,” it is an attack, pure violence.
Yet, these lower strata are non-violence advocates. They do not physically attack the elite. However, the truth is that this causes mental turmoil among the Gandhi family and Porbandar’s elite. Their mental equilibrium falters. They might even plan to burn the lower strata’s huts at night.
Students use “nee” among themselves, as friends. But when they address teachers as “nee,” it is neither friendly nor non-violent. Yet, students are non-violence advocates and do not attack teachers.
However, teachers may lose their composure and harshly discipline these “non-violently” behaving students.
The truth is that the English cannot grasp the demonic violent codes lurking within this non-violence.
Gandhi played the leader of this perverse non-violence. Many naive English saw him as a “Mahatma.” Since their language lacked such a term, “Mahatma” was imported into English. Yet, no other Mahatma has been found in English history. What happens next remains to be seen. Today, England is a playground for feudal language speakers.
This demonic violence within non-violence means the other side becomes the aggressor.
When a non-violent agricultural worker enters a police station and politely addresses the inspector as “nee,” the resulting outburst remains unknown to foolish legal systems even today.
Shri Narayana Guru’s non-violent actions likely fostered a violent mindset among Brahmins, who, despite not killing animals for food, are staunch non-violence advocates. But what can be done? The English rulers nearby could not comprehend the violence within this non-violence.
Quote: Without the aura of divinity, a person’s words may hold no more value than straw, especially if they lack any other assertive power. End of Quote
The above-quoted sentence appeared in the previous writing. Upon reflecting on it, I decided to write a few sentences about it before moving forward.
This is indeed a persistent issue in regions where feudal languages are spoken. Revolutionaries, lawbreakers, law-abiding citizens, and others caught by the police face this problem. Likewise, when two opposing sides engage in verbal disputes or other confrontations, the side with less social or physical strength is affected. Without displaying divinity, their words render them utterly insignificant.
Yet, even if the weaker side attempts a civil and peaceful conversation, the problem persists.
Once the weaker side is framed within terms like “nee” (lowest you), “oi,” “pennu” (lowest girl), “enthada” (what’re you doing?), or “enthadi” (what’s that, girl?), they and the crowd slip into the emotional abyss of thousands of words, expressions, and meanings in the language.
An ordinary Indian citizen cannot seriously discuss or converse with a government official, employer, or even a police constable. When “nee” replaces “sir” or “madam,” and “avan” (lowest he) or “aval” (lowest she) replaces “he/she,” anyone with a modicum of personal dignity or self-respect feels as if they’ve fallen into a cesspit.
It might be said that formal education can somewhat alleviate this mental state. In schools and colleges, local language institutions introduce students to the lower rungs of language, so such words may not cause significant distress to those raised in this system.
However, in feudal language regions, without divinity in one’s persona or a display of physical strength, many individuals and movement leaders often cannot engage with the opposing side. For example, a local LTTE leader (from the Tamil Tigers) attempting to discuss matters at a Sri Lankan police station, a Naxalite leader trying to speak at an Indian police station, or a Kashmiri freedom movement leader conversing with Indian military officers—all face a common communication failure: officials do not use respectful words in address or reference.
This matter is set aside for now.
It seems unlikely that Shri Narayana Guru fully grasped the depth of these issues.
The discussion was about the Ezhava movement’s focus on Malabar. That is the topic, and we must not stray into other matters.
However, I wish to briefly revisit a previously mentioned point before proceeding.
This concerns Shri Narayana Guru’s retreat to the forest for ascetic practices.
It is often heard that people in this subcontinent and beyond go to forests for asceticism, rigorous meditation, and similar pursuits.
In Sanskrit traditions, a person’s life is divided into four stages, noted in Wikipedia and elsewhere as part of Hinduism. Thus, it can be understood as part of Brahminical religion, not applicable to the lower strata.
Brahmacharya: Leading a simple life in early years for education. (What education remains unclear.)
Grihastha: Living as a married householder.
Vanaprastha: Residing in the forest or outside the home, engaging in meditation.
Sannyasa: Renouncing everything to become an ascetic.
From Wikipedia
However, it seems not everyone followed this path. From limited historical knowledge of the past 2,000 years, it appears that ordinary people—Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas—rarely adopted this forest-bound practice.
The Shudras and lower strata below them seem unconnected to such practices.
In Edgar Thurston’s Castes and Tribes of Southern India, despite detailing numerous communities, there is no record of them dividing life into four stages. Instead, they seem to have strived for divinity in social life through conflict and struggle.
I won’t delve into that now. Instead, I’m considering why people retreat to forests for meditation.
Forest life is likely very challenging, even without threats from wild animals or venomous creatures.
Yet, in India today, many large commercial enterprises have created environments offering mental tranquillity akin to forests. This tranquillity is most essential for software coding and related fields.
Writing software demands immense concentration, precision, and meticulousness. A tiny error in critical code could be catastrophic—like a bomb meant for abroad landing in a nearby beverage shop.
To enable such concentration, large companies build fortress-like setups with high walls, guards, and security systems to block out unwanted faces, words, laughter, jeers, or mockery.
Similarly, many major commercial enterprises in India operate in such insulated environments, far removed from the real India filled with unpleasant noises, grandiose claims, distasteful sights, low-grade expressions, and people.
Government institutions, doctors, other authorities, teachers, and professors strive to keep this ordinary India at bay. Yet, they are integral parts of these same unpleasant realities. I won’t elaborate further now; perhaps later.
What concentration, unattainable at home or in the village, can be gained from the forest or a cave?
In England, people meditate, but there’s no tradition of seeking concentration in mountains, snowy peaks, forests, or caves (this applies to Great Britain and continental Europe).
If an 11-year-old neighbour and friend greets 45-year-old Isaac Newton with “Hello Isaac, how are you?” in the morning, it’s unlikely to disturb Newton’s mental state. It might even bring him joy.
Newton faced numerous intellectual conflicts in his life, some of which may have caused distress. However, when Nanu, a young man, focuses intensely on spiritual matters at home, cloaked in mental divinity and Gandharva-like radiance, and a servant, friend, teacher, family member, or a Nair from the neighbourhood says, “Oi, why’ve you locked the room?” or “Oi, Nanu, go fetch the cow,” in an affectionate tone, the resulting turmoil in his mind and divinity would not affect Newton.
Being addressed as “nee” (lowest you) or referred to as “avan” (lowest he) would cause a significant erosion of Nanu’s divinity.
When attempting to run the transcendent software applications of divine knowledge at home or in the village, such words can feel like being lashed at the edge of a whip.
Meditating in the forest might yield the kind of mental concentration that people in old England enjoyed.
The above is based solely on the superficial characteristics and functions of linguistic codes. I lack the knowledge to definitively state whether meditation has deeper dimensions or mechanisms.
Such dimensions may or may not exist.
Last edited by VED on Mon May 26, 2025 5:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Quote: Without the aura of divinity, a person’s words may hold no more value than straw, especially if they lack any other assertive power. End of Quote
The way feudal language codes affect the concentration required for meditation, study, and other activities demanding acute intellect is worth examining at this juncture.
It seems, and is commonly stated, that someone born, raised, and living at the lowest rung of feudal language codes, accustomed to their degrading expressions, may not feel the turmoil these words evoke. For a suppressed individual or mind attuned to this state, they might live and think without experiencing significant mental distress from the constant barrage of such words, unaware of their sting.
Such a person might engage in rigorous ascetic practices or meditation in their own room. The turmoil arises when some begin to perceive them as a great figure, venerating them and elevating them to lofty linguistic positions.
This can often produce the opposite effect. When oscillating between polar opposites like “nee” (lowest you) and “ang” (highest you), or “avan” (lowest he) and “adheham” (highest he), and being tossed between low and high statuses, the mind and personality are likely to experience significant distress. For such individuals, it may be better to retreat to a forest or cave to continue their ascetic practices, if feasible.
A similar situation may arise if a student from a high-quality English school is suddenly enrolled in a government-run regional language higher secondary school after Class 10. Their mind and personality might be shaken.
I won’t delve into that now but will return to the main thread of this writing.
Historically, the young Nanu, who would become Shri Narayana Guru, likely had siblings, friends, neighbours, and community members who were Ezhavas. His thought process and mental disposition may have differed from theirs. Given the feudal nature of the local language, its word codes likely influenced him.
With English governance overseeing from afar, one could aspire to social freedoms and personal upliftment. Feudal languages provoke an intense desire to play the leader everywhere. The image of having a few followers or disciples, or being at the centre of a group, is something these languages greatly valorise, instilling such aspirations in those who encounter or hear of them.
It is unclear to what extent these emotional triggers affected or influenced Nanu. It seems that when studying any great figure in this subcontinent, this aspect warrants special examination. Local English observers have no understanding of the intensity of this phenomenon.
In feudal language societies, many daily occurrences are interpreted and explained differently by the English. However, I have observed that they lack any grasp of the true social and emotional drivers behind these phenomena. From their refined communication environment, they offer foolish explanations, groping in the dark.
In the societies they attempt to explain, there are numerous horrors embedded in mere communication, which they struggle to acknowledge. Accepting that phenomena absent in English exist in the world is itself a difficult proposition for them.
Next, consider how Nanu, as a young man, thought and acted beyond the traditional Ezhava mindset and personal boundaries, and how his peers, elders, family, and others perceived and tolerated this.
Often, seeing someone among them with greater thoughts, ambitions, or connections causes significant mental anguish, envy, and opposition among peers. This is a daily reality in feudal language societies.
Ordinary people cannot easily see someone who eats and behaves like them as divine. However, if that person holds a royal title, an IAS or IPS rank, or another exalted position in feudal language hierarchies, the language codes automatically proclaim their divinity.
Moreover, many Ezhavas around Nanu likely lived in a degraded mental state. How they ensnared Nanu within the linguistic codes, treating him as one of them or otherwise, and how he managed this, are matters worth considering. The extent of his mental alignment with them is the question. The language is not English but feudal, and when mental disparities exist, the word codes in daily conversation often evoke mutual disdain.
Before being known as Shri Narayana Guru, it seems unlikely that those around him saw supernatural divinity in Nanu. The reason is that the language fosters a yearning for divinity while simultaneously inciting intense rivalry in others.
Yet, some came forward to present him as a leader, using his name to organise movements and rally crowds. It is worth pondering how this came about.
In Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf, there is a detailed, methodical explanation of how to influence people’s minds, organise them into a movement, and suppress rising movements. These are highly relevant in feudal language regions but largely inapplicable in an English nation.
However, it seems that the ideas in that book are irrelevant to Shri Narayana Guru’s context.
I have no clear picture or details of how the young Nanu gradually became Shri Narayana Guru. Still, I feel it worth mentioning one or two things that have come to my knowledge.
I plan to discuss a bit more about the indicant word codes found in feudal languages before moving forward.
In feudal languages, words like “nee” (lowest you) versus “ang” (highest you), “avan” (lowest he) versus “adheham” (highest he), and “aval” (lowest she) versus “avar” (highest he/him, when referring to a singular male of high respect) are typically understood as isolated pairs at opposite ends of a spectrum, from disrespect to profound reverence. However, in reality, these words, positioned 180 degrees apart, wield immense and often sinister power.
The lower form of address establishes a hierarchy, granting the speaker various rights, authority, supervisory power, the right to address the other, the other’s obligation to heed, the authority to command, and the other’s duty to obey, all in explicit or implicit measures.
When “nee” becomes “ang,” these dynamics are entirely reversed. For example, if the initial state can be seen as a 70-30 ratio in terms of numerical value, flipping the words could shift this to 30-70.
Hundreds or thousands of words subtly or overtly influence professional, familial, social, emotional, and sensory relationships between individuals. When “nee” becomes “ang” (sir, madam) or “avan” becomes “adheham” or “avar” (highest he/him), the software-like codes embedded in thousands of words undergo value shifts in subtle spaces. What was 30 becomes 70, and vice versa, and so on.
The provided GIF attempts to illustrate this, depicting the shifting of rights, authority, and other dynamics on a scale, with a bit of imagination.
These words don’t just carry linear values. They also embody dynamics like weighing down versus lifting up, pulling versus pushing, dragging down versus elevating, plunging into a pit versus pulling out, expansion versus contraction. Public and private information, personal relationships, and more are encoded in these invisible word codes, with varying values. When “nee” flips to “ang” or “aval” to “avar” (highest he/him), numerical values and directional codes can be upended.
Each individual is connected to countless others, directly or indirectly. In feudal languages, every person exists within an intricate web of such connections. If someone is shifted from “nee” to “ang” or “avan” to “avar” (highest he/him) or vice versa, this complex web of personal relationships can collapse, causing a profound mental upheaval for the individual and others.
I won’t delve into the angles formed where these connections intersect, nor the software-like codes of life and mind, for now—those can be addressed later.
The true source of phenomena like road rage, often seen in feudal language regions, may lie in the collapse of this web. As feudal language speakers increasingly populate English nations, such road rage may be rising there too. Often, it’s the polite who exhibit this rage. A peculiar trait of feudal languages is their ability to provoke even those who behave simply, politely, and respectfully, though others can be provoked too.
To illustrate the changes caused by shifts in indicant word codes, consider:
“Va” (come): “Nee va” versus “Ang va.”
“Padikk” (study): “Nee padikk” versus “Ang padikk.”
“Paranju” (said): “Avan paranju” versus “Adheham paranju” or “Avar paranju” (highest he/him said).
“Chodikk” (ask): “Nee chodikk” versus “Ang chodikk.”
Using words at opposite ends of the spectrum significantly alters the speaker’s intent and the nature of the interaction.
For instance, “Avalude kundi nokk” (look at her (lowest she / her) buttocks) may be a crude, humorous phrase evoking sensual pleasure. But “Avarude kundi nokk” (look at her (highest she / her) backside, referring to a respected female) often invites immediate physical retaliation, signaling insolence, defiance, insubordination, contempt, assault, or abuse.
Consider a lower-caste individual passing the IPS exam (with reservations). Constables, inspectors, and DYSPs stand before him with deference, saluting. Yet, among old friends, the dynamic shifts. These friends, likely engaged in jobs defined by degrading feudal word codes, might say, “Oi, go sit there,” reducing him to a mere link in the social web they’ve woven, dragging him from lofty heights to the societal pit.
The nine rasas (emotions) described in Natyashastra—shringara (love), karuna (compassion), veera (heroism), roudra (anger), hasya (humour), bhayanaka (fear), bibhatsa (disgust), adbhuta (wonder), and shanta (peace)—are experienced differently depending on the indicant word codes used, creating distinct mental states in others.
For example, humour: a great “adheham” or “avar” (highest he/him) mocking with laughter versus a lowly “avan” doing the same evokes vastly different responses in another “adheham,” “avar” (highest he/him), or “avan.”
Feudal languages are a realm of thousands of intricate, subtle dynamics. Though few probe this deeply, everyone is acutely aware of the turmoil and mental stress these dynamics cause.
In English, however, things are static, like an unmoving rock. The phenomenon of indicant word codes doesn’t exist.
Modern psychology, a hollow academic pursuit, often uses technical jargon to explain mental fluctuations, pain, and turmoil. Yet, a precise understanding of these word codes could enable accurate study, measurement, and correction of such states.
Even if a lower-caste individual achieves greatness through ascetic practices at home or in the village, they may not escape the pull of these word codes. Retreating to an uninhabited forest might offer liberation, though wild animals’ behaviour is unpredictable.
Another point: where English governance directly ruled, providing English education to lower-caste children likely caused mental turmoil among both lower and upper castes. This isn’t a topic to gloss over. Only by examining the subtle, invisible web of personal relationships can one understand the mental upliftment and turmoil English education brought to individuals, families, and societies. No one seems to have undertaken such a study.
This digression was necessary to highlight that Shri Narayana Guru, his associates, and others were part of this same social web.
In feudal languages, there’s no escape from the tug-of-war of words hurled at one. Unlike fishing hooks or tools that lift from pits, English lacks such manipulative word codes, offering some freedom from these mental strains (though mental issues in English societies aren’t discussed here).
In feudal languages, significant value is added when a lower-status individual hints at connections with society’s elite. This is an undeniable fact. It’s neither arrogance, boasting, delusion, misconception, nor madness. In rural villages today, even knowing a police constable personally is a matter of considerable worth for an ordinary citizen.
In the past, for a lower-caste person to claim close ties with local Nairs was a significant achievement. It’s worth noting that most ordinary people in India today can be likened to the lower castes of old. The language codes impose similar limitations and degradations on them. The personal upliftment emerging among the public in British-India was almost entirely extinguished when British-India was merged into the newly formed India.
Historical accounts of Nanu, who rose to become Shri Narayana Guru, the Ezhava leader and social reformer, highlight his connections with Nairs from a young age and later with a few Brahmins. This suggests he lacked strong English language connections.
While connections with the elite carry value, they hold little significance in English. In feudal languages, an IPS officer’s friend might receive respectful words at a police station, whereas a labourer’s friend would face degrading language codes. However, someone accustomed to daily verbal degradation might not notice it. The malice in using such words lies not in the police but in the language itself.
Introductions of Shri Narayana Guru’s family are carefully worded to avoid degradation in language codes.
Quote from Wikipedia: It was a relatively well-off Ezhava household for that time. His father, Madan at Kochuvilayil, was a Sanskrit teacher with knowledge of astrology, Ayurvedic medicine, and Hindu epics. As a teacher, he was called Madan Asan. His mother’s name was Kuttyamma. End of Quote
Madan, I understand, is a traditional deity worshipped by Ezhavas and some other lower castes. As Ezhavas sought to align with Brahminical religion, the name Madan may have become unacceptable to them. I’m not certain. If a prominent actor portrayed a character named Madan in a grand film, the name might gain widespread attention and acceptance.
The name Kuttyamma raises issues. In Travancore, the suffix “amma” seems to have been a Nair privilege. How it was appended to an Ezhava woman’s name remains a question.
Adopting, indicating, or claiming the traditions of society’s elite may indeed carry merit. However, this is often unacceptable to those at the top, who see those rising as mere pits in the language codes, not people. This is beyond the comprehension of the English.
Consider accounts of Shri Narayana Guru’s childhood antics.
Quote from Wikipedia: For the child, it was amusing to run and touch untouchable lower-caste people seen from a distance, then enter the kitchen without bathing and touch women or men who strictly observed purity, thus defiling them. End of Quote
A police head constable salutes a 45-year-old IPS officer named Gopal Krishnaswamy. He addresses the officer’s daughter and wife with “Madam” after their names. But when the IPS officer, his daughter, and wife walk past the constable’s house, the constable’s teenage son casually asks:
“Gopala! Ragni, your daughter! Radha, off to the temple?”
Gopal Krishnaswamy is powerless. The head constable is a senior police union leader with significant political influence. If provoked, he might retort with a blunt “Get lost.” Moreover, in English, the boy’s words seem innocent, with no profanity. So why is the IPS officer flustered? Is he deranged?
This not entirely implausible scenario illustrates how Nanu’s disruptive behaviour as a young boy could have upended social norms and courtesies. However, Nanu defiled Ezhavas, sparking signs of distress in them.
The language codes are saturated with social hierarchies. Without altering them, English social norms and personal relationships cannot be implemented.
Quote from Wikipedia: He met Kunjan Pillai, who later became his spiritual friend Chattampi Swamikal. Kunjan Pillai introduced Nanu to Thaikkad Ayyavu, a yogi. Under Yogi Thaikkad Ayyavu, Nanu Asan studied Hatha Yoga and other practices. End of Quote
An auto-rickshaw driver befriends a policeman to curb rude police behaviour. Personally, this is significant growth. The police might teach him their ways, and he might gain access to their gatherings. However, this doesn’t bring social reform or elevate police conduct.
This video, stumbled upon recently, depicts such an incident. Blaming the policeman may be futile. They lack clear guidance on proper conduct, and IPS officers fail to provide it. I recall a YouTube video by a retired IPS officer claiming people only obey when treated rudely.
Worse, many IPS officers today mimic the behaviour of police characters in regional films. Their training comes not from English classics but from feudal language screenplay writers. Some IPS officers adopt the manners of police constables.
In reality, both policemen and auto-rickshaw drivers are educated in regional language schools. They grow up using terms like “nee,” “eda,” “entha da,” “edi,” “entha di,” standing, bowing, clasping hands, tucking mundus, saluting with “sir,” grovelling, kneeling, standing shamefully by classroom doors, facing parental scoldings, enduring punishments, shouting, bickering, and behaving disrespectfully, fully mastering the mindset of a lower-caste individual.
The policeman adopts the teacher’s rudeness, the driver the student’s subservience. The policeman fears that politeness will let the driver dominate. Meanwhile, the driver is unsure how to reciprocate politeness with dignity.
Shri Narayana Guru, travelling in British-India, observed the English language mindset reshaping governance and social freedoms, not Brahminical traditions or mysticism. Yet, it seems puzzling that young Nanu pursued Hindu traditions.
An Indian taxi driver in England befriends a policeman, marvelling at their courtesy. He returns to India, expecting similar friendliness from local police, only to find they’re not English police.
Similarly, the driver assumes Indian taxi drivers match their English counterparts. In reality, England is a dreamland for him. He convinces himself he’s their equal, pursuing formal education and an MA to prove it. To what end?
British-India was likely a dreamland for Travancore’s Ezhavas, who aspired to be like the Thiyyas there. That was the context then.
It doesn’t seem that arbitrarily elevating those long oppressed in society’s lowest rungs to its highest echelons, without any basis, constitutes social reform. Rather, it risks plunging the entire society into the depths of degradation.
There are a few points to discuss regarding this, but they can only be addressed on another occasion.
It’s unclear what path Shri Narayana Guru and his associates envisioned to uplift the Ezhavas. When Palpu, an Ezhava, studied in British-India and later in England, becoming a doctor, and returned to Travancore, he was denied permission to practice as a doctor in government hospitals or elsewhere.
Travancore was a region with rigid hierarchies, comparable to the strict discipline of today’s Indian Army. No one can be blamed for this. If the son or nephew of an ordinary low-ranking soldier becomes a commissioned officer in the same battalion or unit, it creates significant issues. Handling such complex dynamics with restraint is extremely challenging even in Hindi.
Dr. Palpu faced a similar predicament.
The social equality Nanu, a young man from Travancore, observed in British-India’s administration wasn’t achieved by altering local social norms. It was merely a natural outcome of English administrative practices, not deliberate efforts by the English to bring social transformation in Malabar.
Moreover, the social elevation seen among some Thiyyas in Tellicherry and elsewhere lacked a solid foundation in the local community. Though many had proficiency in English classics and customs, most weren’t wealthy. Yet, when such individuals were integrated into English administrative systems, they refrained from corruption or local traditional practices, a testament to the unsung greatness of the English officials who served at high levels—an enduring legacy still overlooked. None of them were hailed as “chettan,” “ji,” “sir,” “guru,” “swami,” “ustad,” “mahatma,” or great social reformers.
This suggests that grand social changes in this land weren’t driven by mahatmas but by ordinary, untainted English speakers. However, it’s not accurate to say an ordinary Englishman was more capable than India’s mahatmas.
The point here is that British-Malabar also had various social hierarchies. These were gradually overcome through steady, profound advancement in English language knowledge, not through public speeches or theatrics. Formal education in local languages seems to have played no role either.
It wasn’t by adopting Brahmin traditions, forcibly entering Brahmin temples, or defiantly building Brahmin-style temples that lower castes rose.
Convincing anyone of this today is quite difficult. The mental elevation once seen among some Thiyyas in Tellicherry and other English-educated areas seems to have vanished entirely, erased by India’s shoddy formal education system.
Maintaining high social standing without wealth or vast landholdings feels like an impossible feat today. If someone tries, others eagerly use police constables to degrade them with “entha da” or “entha di,” crushing their dignity and personality.
From Travancore to the eastern regions of Canara, coconut trees, coconuts, toddy, and palm leaves were likely prevalent then. Coconut trees exist elsewhere globally, and we can assume toddy tappers exist there too. However, assuming or claiming they’re all Ezhavas seems delusional.
In British-India, north of Travancore, some Thiyyas in South Malabar (under makkathayam) and North Malabar (under marumakkathayam), as well as some Billavas further north, practiced toddy tapping as their hereditary occupation.
There seems to be no historical connection between these groups and Ezhavas. Edgar Thurston’s Castes and Tribes of Southern India suggests that when Ezhava labourers migrated to Malabar and mingled with Thiyya agricultural workers, it caused significant unease among Thiyya elites.
In British-Malabar, some Thiyyas rose to high government positions with English proficiency, while others gained social prominence solely through English knowledge. This likely caused considerable mental distress among Brahmins, Ambalavasis, and Nairs who lacked English proficiency.
While not exactly like the Indian Army, there’s a connection. A Thiyya labourer, dressed in a towel and cap, toiling subserviently in a Brahmin’s estate, fixed in place by terms like “inji,” “ane,” “eda,” “Thiyya,” or “Thiyyapad,” contrasts with a Thiyya serving as a Deputy Collector or basking in social glory through English proficiency. This creates a warped sense of value in the lower Thiyya and their kin, manifesting subtly as defiance, disobedience, aloofness, arrogance, or indifference in their expressions, behaviour, and words. It feels as if the subservience in the lower Thiyya diminishes slightly.
In the Indian Army, such attitudes in ordinary soldiers must be eradicated before officers regain mental control.
When Ezhava labourers began arriving in Malabar, Samoothiri officials noted their traditional ties to coconut trees. Consequently, in South Malabar, Thiyyas were recorded as Ezhavas in property documents, a practice that began when property registration was first introduced.
It’s unclear how Thiyya agricultural workers received this. Their communication and reactive capacity were likely limited. However, records indicate that elite Thiyya families strongly opposed it. Recognizing that Thiyyas wouldn’t accept this designation, Nairs in South Malabar began rigorously enforcing it in all Samoothiri lease documents.
Quote from Castes and Tribes of Southern India: It is quite possible, therefore, that, though Tiyans are written down as Izhuvans, the two were not supposed to be identical. State regulations keep the Izhuvans of Cochin and Travancore in a position of marked social inferiority, and in Malabar they are altogether unlettered and uncultured. On the other hand, the Tiyans of Malabar provide Magistrates, Sub-Judges, and other officials to serve His Majesty’s Government. End of Quote.
It’s likely that Travancore’s Ezhava movement leaders noticed Thiyyas being recorded as Ezhavas in Malabar documents. They probably learned other details too.
The upper echelons of Ezhavas in Travancore likely began receiving information about British-Malabar and the Madras Presidency. The primary reason was probably the numerous ties between Travancore and British-India. When Travancore farmers smuggled agricultural products to British-Cochin, Ezhavas and similar labourers, serving as workers or boat rowers, likely experienced the social freedoms of English-ruled territories firsthand.
It’s akin to a modern-day Communist leader visiting America. Despite their fervent ideologies and class struggle convictions, seeing America’s social life sparks an intense desire to at least send their children there, like a fever taking hold.
If lower-caste people in Travancore expressed the freedoms enjoyed under British-India’s systems, government officials might view it as a legal violation and suppress them harshly, absent strong protection.
In Travancore, lower castes couldn’t even dream of attending college or aiming for high government jobs. Sitting on chairs or sleeping on cots were mere fantasies, confined to dreams or daydreams.
Moreover, individuals like Dr. Palpu, an Ezhava, ventured beyond Travancore and joined English administrative systems as officials. It’s also known that figures like Kumaran Asan resided outside Travancore.
Ezhavas faced the issue of social standing. Some encountered Thiyyas in places like Tellicherry, who enjoyed profound social elevation and remarkable English proficiency. Though no mental or social connection existed between these Thiyyas and Ezhavas, the Thiyya agricultural workers were somewhat socially accessible to Ezhavas. The presence of toddy tappers and coconut climbers among them likely sparked hope and enthusiasm among Ezhavas, a reasonable assumption.
The presence of these Thiyya labourers and their occupational similarities served as a significant loophole for self-appointed Ezhava leaders to anchor themselves socially. Additionally, the complex issues within the Thiyya community may have facilitated divisions, aiding Ezhavas.
One issue was that the name “Thiyya” was used by two distinct groups as their caste identity, causing significant confusion among English judges and others when English governance strengthened. Two groups with the same name but entirely opposing traditions and family systems.
The makkathayam family system of South Malabar Thiyyas resembled that of Ezhavas. Both followed makkathayam, and both included toddy tappers. Exploiting this loophole, Ezhava leaders likely convinced English officials and missionaries that “Thiyya” was the local name for Ezhavas in Malabar. Rev. Samuel Mateer’s Native Life in Travancore reflects this misconception, identifying Thiyyas south of Calicut as Ezhavas but making no mention of those just north of Calicut.
North Malabar’s marumakkathayam Thiyyas faced two issues: proving they were distinct from South Malabar Thiyyas, and countering the Ezhava claim that all Thiyyas were one, which gradually threatened to engulf North Malabar Thiyyas.
It’s like a Pakistani taxi driver visiting England and discovering a relative holds a high position there.
In Travancore, Ezhavas could only claim menial government jobs. In Malabar, especially Tellicherry, Thiyyas faced sky-high social and official opportunities. Establishing a connection meant Travancore’s menial workers had relatives in Malabar holding prestigious positions. The connection had to be forged.
Syrian Christians and lower-caste Christians, who migrated from Travancore and ran large churches and institutions, likely manipulated and rewrote records at the government level to claim British-Malabar as part of Travancore’s geography. Hints of this appear in William Logan’s Malabar Manual, which seems less a personal work and more an official Malabar district record.
Young English/British officials arriving from England to serve in high roles lacked clarity. Misguided information from locals, riddled with cunning, influenced them.
Another issue, as noted earlier, was that Brahmins, their Nair assistants, aides, and subordinates defined Thiyyas as Ezhavas. Educated Thiyyas surpassing them was a major problem for Nairs. Thiyya children accessing English education in places like Tellicherry likely impacted Nairs most, creating a significant barrier for their children’s education.
The Samoothiri family established a special school in Calicut for Nair children. Yet, it couldn’t neutralise the tremors and upheavals English governance unleashed in social structures. This likely bred widespread resentment and hostility among Nairs.
Edgar Thurston’s definition of Ezhavas migrating to Malabar for labour—“altogether unlettered and uncultured”—may be accurate. Additionally, the generally dark complexion of Ezhavas could have been an issue. Most people globally, including darker-skinned individuals, harbour a dislike for dark complexions. This writer doesn’t intend to be judgemental about this mindset. I don’t deny finding the fair skin of some white people attractive, though they were continental Europeans, and their social environment wasn’t English-influenced.
Thiyyas with fair complexions, educated in English and living in an English milieu, likely enjoyed significant social mobility then, possibly causing unease among Nairs. Writings by William Logan and Edgar Thurston suggest Thiyyas and Nairs were considered the same group. In reality, Thiyyas in an English milieu may have seemed socially superior to Nairs in a Malayalam milieu.
Another issue emerged among marumakkathayam Thiyyas. Many Tellicherry Thiyyas, mentally elevated through English culture, lacked significant wealth or land. Conversely, Thiyya families east of Tellicherry, as landlords with vast wealth and land, existed. These groups harboured intense mental rivalry.
Despite wealth, eastern Thiyyas were trapped in feudal language’s social snares, verbally degrading anyone they encountered. Thus, Tellicherry Thiyyas demeaned them as “easterners.” In turn, eastern Thiyyas dismissed Tellicherry Thiyyas as hollow elites, finding solace in their wealth: “What do they have? I have 500 coconut trees. All they have is chatter.”
Eastern Thiyyas’ use of “on,” “ol,” or “inji” likely irked Tellicherry Thiyyas, especially those attuned to English communication’s elegance. In feudal languages, “inland” equates to a pit.
A slight digression: English governance uplifted some lower castes, sparking intense resentment and unease among others.
This prickly mental rivalry was poised to affect the English too. Wealthy South Asians visiting England saw most Englishmen in ordinary jobs. They realised that, in South Asia, such people wouldn’t even enter their homes, relegated to the ground outside. Many of these elites are now revered as national leaders in India and Pakistan.
Among eastern Thiyyas, two distinct groups existed: Kodaval Thiyyas, locally demeaned as agricultural workers and toddy tappers, and Vaishya Thiyyas, who self-identified as such, possibly including physicians, landowners, or small traders.
Migrating Ezhavas from Travancore likely first mingled with Kodaval Thiyyas, who, toiling in the sun, were socially degraded. Vaishya Thiyyas likely viewed them with disdain, maintaining distance in family ties. In feudal language codes, they stood 180 degrees apart.
It seems worthwhile to elaborate further on the social condition of Thiyyas in Malabar, particularly the marumakkathayam Thiyyas of North Malabar.
Some accounts suggest that certain Thiyya households had residences called “illam.” If true, the term “illam” likely carries Brahminical significance only when associated with Brahmins. This is because “illam” appears among North Malabar’s marumakkathayam Thiyyas, South Malabar’s makkathayam Thiyyas, Travancore’s Ezhavas, and even Pulayas. The attachment to “illam” may stem from its connotation of social prestige. The historical origin and relevance of this term are unclear to this writer.
Though Malabar Manual is attributed to William Logan, it’s understood to include contributions, revisions, interests, and social biases from various local officials.
The manual was compiled to provide the English administration with a detailed record of Malabar district’s affairs and communities.
Consequently, many officials involved in its compilation deliberately inserted their personal or social agendas into the text.
Thus, it’s reasonable to assume that Brahmins, Ambalavasis, and Nairs made concerted efforts to portray Thiyyas as inferior to the English administration.
Moreover, English officials and writers documented social realities based on observations in specific locales, often resulting in contradictory accounts.
In Castes and Tribes of Southern India Vol. 7, Edgar Thurston writes about socially elevated Thiyyas:
QUOTE1: In the pre-British days, a few of the well-to-do families of Tiyans lived in houses of the kind called nalapura (four houses), having an open quadrangle in the centre. END OF QUOTE
QUOTE2: But members of the community are to be found in all classes of society, and in practically all professions and walks of life. It is interesting to find that the head of a Tiyan family in North Malabar bears the title Cherayi Panikar, conferred on the family in the old days by a former Zamorin. A title of this kind was given only to one specially proficient in arms. Even in those days there were Tiyan physicians, bone-setters, astrologers, diviners, and sorcerers. END OF QUOTE
However, Ezhavas migrating to Malabar for labour likely viewed many Thiyyas as their equals.
Another quote from Castes and Tribes of Southern India Vol. 7:
QUOTE3: But, for the most part, the Tiyans—slaves of the Nayars and Nambutiris—lived in a one-roomed thatched hut. Nowadays, the kala pura usually consists of two rooms, east and west. Toddy-drawing, and every thing connected with the manufacture and sale of arrack (country liquor) and unrefined sugar, form the orthodox occupation of the Tiyan. END OF QUOTE
These varied perspectives resemble four blind men describing an elephant by touching different parts.
In feudal languages, individuals and groups adjust their posture—upright, stooped, or expansive—based on their interactions with higher or lower social strata, displaying diverse personalities.
Since the English Company first raised its flag in Tellicherry, Thiyyas, alongside Nairs, served among their armed guards and soldiers.
Malabar Manual notes:
Captains Slaughter and Mendonza and Ensign Adams with 120 soldiers, 140 Nayars and 60 Tiyars, and others, mustering altogether 400 men, accordingly took possession of the fortress that same forenoon... This indicates Thiyyas fought alongside Nairs.
Then a crisis occurred. The Nayars and Tiyars at Ponolla Malta deserted, and the sepoys refused to sacrifice themselves. This describes Nairs and Thiyyas fleeing together in fear.
After this the Mappilla picked a quarrel with a Nayar and was subsequently shot by the Tiyar guard. This recounts a Thiyya guard siding with a Nair and shooting a Mappilla.
These incidents date to the English Company’s early days.
QUOTE: CHANGHGATIKKURI KALYANAM - It is not, it appears, confined to people of the same caste, but the association was often composed of Nayers, Tiyars and Mappilas END OF QUOTE
This likely refers to what’s now called “money fights.” Termed “Changhgattikkuri Kalyanam,” it involved Nairs, Thiyyas, and Mappilas uniting. Traditionally, socially respectable Thiyyas and Mappilas likely joined Nairs in such events. Whether less respectable Thiyyas and Mappilas participated is unclear; if they did, it was likely within their own circles.
Another point is the Muthappan worship tradition, a spiritual movement among Thiyyas, closely linked with Malayans.
Kunnathurpura, east of Thaliparamba in North Malabar’s dense forests, seems tied to this tradition.
The most renowned temple of this movement is now at Parassinikkadavu, north of Cannanore.
Little is known about the families preserving this worship tradition over centuries, when Thiyyas had no affinity with Hinduism. These families likely lacked access to Hindu traditions.
They were probably not lower-caste Thiyyas but affluent households, as mentioned earlier.
Surprisingly, despite the significant population of marumakkathayam Thiyyas, Malabar Manual mentions neither the Muthappan worship, Kunnathurpura, nor Parassinikkadavu. This is puzzling. CPS recalled knowing about Muthappan worship from childhood. Were Hindus (Brahmins), their allied castes, and even government-employed Thiyyas unwilling to acknowledge Muthappan in official records?
Conversely, the English administration, particularly British-Indian Railways, reportedly took Muthappan worship seriously. Until a few decades ago, most North Malabar railway stations had associated Muthappan temples, later relocated and rebuilt due to railway expansions.
How British-Indian Railways developed such a close tie with Muthappan worship is unclear. A story heard in Cannanore, if true, doesn’t explain why temples were established at multiple stations. In Cannanore, the Railway Muthappan Temple is now on the left side of the road from Plaza Junction to Thavakkara. There’s a vague sense of an older worship site near the main railway station entrance, but it’s uncertain.
Details of this connection might exist in Indian Railway Archives, but accessing them requires official ties. Navigating this region’s rigid hierarchies as an ordinary person is challenging.
Historical records at Madras Fort might yield clues.
Local elites likely misled English officials with false information. Malabar Manual and other British writings mention Jains, Buddhists, Tamils, Arabs, Phoenicians, Persians, Ceylonese, Far Easterners, and Chinese, yet provide no in-depth information on Thiyyas, who were right under English rule. They were introduced as a servile group under Hindus.
By unifying numerous small kingdoms into Malabar district under the Madras Presidency, English rule sparked significant social changes.
In Tellicherry and elsewhere, lower-caste Thiyyas often rose through English education into administrative and social prominence. Their next goal was securing local leadership within the Thiyya community.
Feudal languages are inherently predatory, like carnivorous beasts. They enable those above to tear into those below with verbal codes, while also allowing those below to bite back at those above when opportunity arises.
It should be understood that English rule in Malabar didn’t intend to empower the lower strata to attack those above. Their social transformation was driven through the English language, not as a deliberate rejection of carnivorous languages, but simply as a reflection of their natural mindset.
Yet, over time, those at the top grew increasingly unsettled. If village labourers and auto drivers were granted social status above police constables, insecurity would grip the local police station. If word spread that the children of such labourers and drivers could surpass not only police inspectors but even IPS officers, the entire police department would be thrown into disarray.
This is the kind of upheaval English rule began to unleash in Malabar. Moreover, the old enforcers—Nairs and their Brahmin superiors—became obsolete and powerless within the new administrative system.
Local languages, being carnivorous, opened significant opportunities for the lower strata to bite back at those above.
The situation is even more complex. Beneath the lower castes lie even lower groups. Below Thiyyas are communities like Kurils, Paniyas, and Cherumars, all part of the same hierarchical ladder. Among them, some claim superiority over others, and disrupting this hierarchy triggers profound mental distress.
Quote from Castes and Tribes of Southern India by Edgar Thurston, Published 1906:
"It is a custom of the country for a man of a superior caste to pretend complete ignorance of the caste of an individual lower in the social scale. Thus, in Wynad, where there are several jungle tribes, one is accustomed to hear a man of superior caste pretending that he does not know a Paniyan from a Kuril, and deliberately miscalling one or the other, saying ‘This Paniyan,’ when he knows perfectly well that he is a Kuril." End of Quote
Misidentification or derogatory references in feudal languages cause significant mental distress. Maintaining such discomfort among lower groups is a tactic in feudal languages to enforce social discipline and obedience. Instilling mental and personal unease is a method to ensure compliance.
If a Kuril repeatedly insists they’re not a Paniyan, higher castes find it amusing, viewing both as akin to vermin.
A similar mindset began emerging among Thiyyas. Their persistent claims that they weren’t Ezhavas initially seemed a great jest to landlords and Nairs.
Many texts from that era parenthetically equate “Thiyar” with “Ezhava” or vice versa, often unnecessarily conflating them. For example, Travancore State Manual states:
"The Elavas, Tiyas and some of the Shanars in Travancore are asserted to have come from the north of Ceylon."
Travancore State Manual contains no discussion of Malabar. Why then was “Tiyas” inserted without relevance?
Such indoctrination was a strategy. Various contributors likely provided inputs to the manual, and some may have fed author Nagam Aiya information shaped by their own interests.
Another Malabar Manual quote:
"The Tiyar or Ilavar caste is the numerically strongest section of the Hindu population, numbering in all 559,717." This explicitly equates Thiyyas in Malabar with Ezhavas.
Another Malabar Manual quote:
"one-third for the expenses of the Tiyars, Cherumars or other cultivators attached to the soil..."
At first glance, this seems unremarkable. Cherumars were akin to livestock, enslaved on Nair and Brahmin estates, malnourished and unkempt. They were defined as “attached to the soil” or indentured slaves.
Socially, Cherumars were at the bottom, while Thiyyas stood much higher. Yet, this sentence lumps Thiyyas with those living in squalor.
Some Thiyyas may have lived in such conditions, but the mental blow lands on socially elevated Thiyyas, who might be described to the English as akin to cattle.
Castes and Tribes of Southern India recounts such an incident:
"In another case, a Cheruman, who was the servant of a Mappilla, was fetching grass for his master, when he inadvertently approached some Tiyans, and thereby polluted them. The indignant Tiyans gave not only the Cheruman, but his master also, a sound beating by way of avenging the insult offered to them."
These Thiyyas asserted their distance from Cherumars through this act.
Another quote from Thurston’s work:
"The Tiyans look down on the Izhuvans, and repudiate the relationship... An Izhuvan will eat rice cooked by a Tiyan, but a Tiyan will not eat rice cooked by an Izhuva."
Malabar Manual contains over 500,000 words—a massive work. Castes and Tribes of Southern India spans seven volumes, and Travancore State Manual comprises multiple volumes.
These were written and revised with quill pens, involving many contributors, whose interests likely shaped various pages. William Logan hints in Malabar Manual at disagreement with certain sections’ assertions.
Travancore State Manual states: “The Izhavans or Ilavans, and Tiyans, are the Malayalam toddy-drawing castes of Malabar, Cochin and Travancore.”
At first, this seems innocuous. It might appear to link Ezhavas with Malabar and Thiyyas with Travancore. But closer inspection reveals both are defined as toddy-tappers across Malabar, Cochin, and Travancore, using occupational similarity to equate them.
The term “Malayalam” adds another issue. A Travancore text defines the languages of Malabar and Travancore identically, despite Malabar being part of another kingdom.
Why a formal Travancore text meddled with a foreign kingdom’s affairs is difficult to question today.
QUOTE from Malabar by William Logan, on the quality of historical records of the South Asian Subcontinent:
... and even in genuinely ancient deeds it is frequently found that the facts to be gathered from them are unreliable owing to the deeds themselves having been forged at periods long subsequent to the facts which they pretend to state. END OF QUOTE.
This is William Logan’s opinion on the reliability of ancient historical records of this subcontinent:
QUOTE: ... even the facts and information gathered from records believed to be genuinely ancient are often unreliable, because those records were forged long after the events they claim to describe, with many manipulations and additions made by later individuals. END OF QUOTE.
The above quotation has already been cited twice earlier in this writing.
The image provided above first contains a quotation from Social History of India, written by a person who served as a professor at a prestigious university in Delhi, followed by the original form of that quotation.
It appears that this person repeatedly asserts in the book that Ezhavas and Tiyars are the same people. To substantiate this claim, the writer cites various individuals, including this writer (me), that scholar, and this Englishman, and it is in this context that these words were found.
The words are as follows:
QUOTE from Social History of India:
"Both men and women," acknowledges William Logan, "of the Ezhavas are remarkably neat in appearance and they are, besides, extremely careful as to their personal cleanliness.... In appearance some of the women are almost as fair as Europeans."
However, in William Logan’s Malabar Manual, the words are as follows:
QUOTE: Both men and women of the North Malabar caste are remarkably neat in appearance, although, like the Nayars, their clothing, both of men and women, is extremely scanty, and they are besides extremely careful as to personal cleanliness. The headquarters of the caste may be said to lie at and round the ancient European settlements of the French at Mahe and of the English at Tellicherry. The women are not as a rule excommunicated if they live with Europeans, and the consequence is that there has been among them a large admixture of European blood, and the caste itself has been materially raised in the social scale.In appearance some of the women are almost as fair as Europeans, and it may be said in a general way that to a European eye the best favoured men and women to be found in the district are the inhabitants of ancient Kadattunad, Iruvalinad, and Kottayam, of whom a large proportion belong to the Tiyan or planting community. END OF QUOTE.
The words cited in Social History of India as William Logan’s statements are actually about the Tiyars, specifically those in North Malabar. These statements primarily focus on the Tiyars of Kadattunad, Iruvalinad, and the Kottayam area near Tellicherry. However, in Social History of India, the word “Ezhava” has been inserted into these statements, attempting to portray them as defining a community in the Travancore kingdom, which at that time had no connection with North Malabar. This esteemed Delhi University professor shows great eagerness to rewrite history entirely by simply adding the word “Ezhava.”
However, such rewritten histories are a reality in India, British India, the Indian independence movement, Vedic culture, Hinduism, yoga, Aryans, Islamic traditions, Christian traditions, and more, where certain interested parties attempt to claim or appropriate historically appealing aspects in ways that suit their interests.
No one would typically notice that such a fabrication has been inserted into this work, which is widely cited and written by this professor.
However, while I was reading Malabar Manual and writing a commentary on it, I came across a passage that this professor had rewritten and cited. Normally, such a matter would not come to anyone’s attention. Malabar Manual is not typically read with such scrutiny, and even if someone does read it, it is unlikely they would notice such a detail.
At the same place where this professor cited this passage, other quotations were also found. One of them is as follows:
QUOTE: Bishop Robert Caldwell, an authority on South Indian people and their languages, observes:"The Ezhavas are fairer and more refined looking than the Nayars." END OF QUOTE.
Upon reading this sentence, I immediately felt something was amiss. The reality is that, during my time living in Travancore since the 1970s, while some people were fair for some reason, I had not observed Ezhavas having such a fair complexion.
A simple Google search did not yield any such quotation attributed to Bishop Robert Caldwell. However, in The Ethnology of India by George Campbell, published in 1866, similar sentences were found:
QUOTE: And yet the Teers are by no means a low and degraded caste; on the contrary, they are, as I said, a good-looking, and they are also a thriving prosperous people, who are largely educated in the Government schools, obtain much public and private service, are acquiring land, and are in every way well-to-do.They have (it seemed to me in Malabar) not the least aboriginal trace, but are fairer and in appearance more refined looking than the Nairs. END OF QUOTE.
However, it seems George Campbell did not realise that the connection between the people of Malabar and the Travancore kingdom first emerged after English rule raised its flag in this subcontinent. If there were any marital connections between the three distinct communities mentioned here before that time, they would likely have been very incidental. Moreover, the education and other qualities attributed to the Tiyars may simply be the result of the education and social freedoms provided by English rule in places like Tellicherry.
It is likely that Nayars, Brahmins, and Christians told English officials, missionaries, and writers that Tiyars and Ezhavas were the same. After all, consider George Campbell’s observation: QUOTE Tiyars... are fairer and in appearance more refined looking than the Nairs END OF QUOTE.
The progress seen among the Tiyars, who directly benefited from English rule, was indeed a threat to traditional elite families. By associating them with the lower-working castes of Travancore, it might have been possible to suppress them again. Ezhava leaders were also ready to stick to this narrative like leeches.
The fair complexion observed among the Tiyars in Malabar likely motivated attempts to establish a connection with the Ezhavas. In contrast, while the English were above the Tiyars, in Travancore, Ezhavas were traditionally defined as beneath the Shudras, who carried Namboodiri blood and were subordinates of the Brahmins.
The first is a gold standard, while the second is akin to a dustbin. If the English defined Tiyars under them with words like “You,” “he,” and “she,” in Travancore, Shudras defined Ezhavas with terms like “nee” (lowest you), “avan” (lowest he), “aval” (lowest she), “avattakal” (lowest they), “eda,” “edi,” “enthada,” and “enthadi.” Consider the brilliance of the Malayalam language—how many words exist to demean, endear, or otherwise define a person! With a slight change in tone, even an oppressive word can be transformed into one of devotion or affection.
Moreover, a Tiyar who had learned English could stand tall before the English, wearing their attire. However, today, ordinary people stand before police constables with bowed heads, tucking their mundu (cloth) between their legs, clasping their hands, and carefully using respectful words, just as Ezhavas had to stand before Nayars, maintaining caste distance norms.
There is indeed a significant difference between being directly under an IPS officer and being under police constables. However, in North Malabar, some Tiyars found themselves directly under the English, who were far above even IPS officers. The social conditions in places like Tellicherry allowed them to walk with their heads held high.
It seems that Ezhava social leaders in Travancore were not fully satisfied with their community’s proximity or traditional heritage. At the same time, the fact that the term “Tiyar” refers to two distinct communities, and that they are different from each other, was not an issue for Ezhava leaders. Their stance was that both groups were one and the same. As this perception spread, the two Tiyar groups merged into one in Ezhava spaces.
Even though there were historical barriers to marital connections between these two distinct Tiyar groups, for Ezhavas, both were considered suitable kin for marriage!
Readers may have noticed that this writing explicitly mentions ethnic (tribal, anthropological, or racial) details of individuals and communities. In this land, this amounts to asking about, stating, or indicating caste. Even in English-speaking nations, such matters are not considered racist when referring solely to the Anglo-Saxon people. However, when referencing continental Europeans, Africans, or Asians, they are often perceived as hate speech or racist remarks.
For example, in England today, if an incident occurs and the news reports “He is an Indian,” “He is an African,” or “He is French,” it is seen as derogatory, hate speech, or racism.
Note that asking a Brahmin about their caste is not considered derogatory.
There are many related matters to discuss, but I won’t delve into them now. However, when discussing ethnographic (anthropological) topics in this writing, such matters must be explicitly addressed. Without mentioning them, the words may feel like they are merely floating in a void.
As noted in the previous writing, the author of Social History of India is an Ezhava individual. It is understood that this person repeatedly asserts that both matrilineal and patrilineal Tiyars are indeed Ezhavas.
The situation is akin to the case of Kashmir. India adamantly declares that Kashmiris are Indians. However, this is something Kashmiris themselves should state. If they are Indians, they would know it, and that would be the simplest, most fundamental evidence to present. Yet, India is in no way prepared to relinquish Kashmir, a land of great natural beauty and people with striking physical features. Displaying images of Kashmiris and claiming “this is us” can provide a significant boost to collective identity on a global scale, at least for some time. “What fairness we possess!”
The situation with the Tiyars in Malabar during the 1800s was similar. If Tiyars were Ezhavas, the Tiyars themselves would be the ones most aware of this. However, it must be understood that neither group of Tiyars in Malabar at that time was aware of this connection.
The author of Social History of India quotes passages from another English administrator’s book, as follows:
QUOTE:
'The Ezhavas in the Palghat district,' records C.A. Innes, 'and the Tiyyas of the other parts of Malabar is a great caste ... they are difficult to be placed in the social scale since their status varies widely in different parts of the country ... There seems to be little doubt that the Ezhavas and Tiyyas are racially the same.'
It is true that C.A. Innes, I.C.S., an English official, wrote this in the book Malabar and Anjengo.
However, it appears that the scholar who wrote Social History of India omitted the final sentence. That sentence is as follows:
QUOTE:
There seems little doubt that the Izhuvans and Tiyans are racially the same, though the two communities now disclaim connection.
These omitted words muddy the waters significantly. It seems the professor deliberately left them out. However, only half of these omitted words are true. The Ezhavas acknowledged, declared, and claimed this connection. On the Tiyars’ side, the lack of acknowledgment was initially strong but gradually weakened over time.
Malabar and Anjengo is part of the Madras District Gazetteers, officially published by the English administration of the Madras Presidency. I have not read this book, so I cannot provide an in-depth analysis of it. However, it appears to have been published by the Madras Government in 1908.
A quick glance through the book reveals that it covers many intricate details about Malabar. However, a cursory search (Ctrl+F) showed no mention of the Tiyars’ traditional spiritual practices, such as Muthappan Vellattam, Thiruveppan, Thira, or Kunnathurpadi. Yet, it appears to include observations about numerous regions within the vast Malabar district of that time.
When reading such books, one observation about the perspective they offer readers comes to mind. The Travancore State Manual was written by Nagam Aiya, a high-ranking official in the Travancore kingdom. While his writings are deeply insightful, they instil in the reader a perspective aligned with the Travancore royal family. The reader may feel as though they are viewing matters from that same level.
In contrast, reading books like Malabar Manual, Native Life in Travancore, or Castes and Tribes of Southern India gives the reader a mental state of observing everything from above the highest castes and royal families of South Asia. This is largely facilitated by the fact that these books were written by English officials and use the egalitarian language of English, free from hierarchical connotations. If such a perspective were inserted into a local language, it might come across as arrogant or rebellious.
I am interested in reading Malabar and Anjengo, but my current situation as a writer leaves me with no time. It feels somewhat inappropriate to comment on a book I haven’t read, but I’ll share a quick observation.
Although these books are formally credited to British officials of the English administration, it seems unlikely that these officials personally conducted detailed studies across the numerous taluks, villages, hamlets, elite families, and lower castes in Malabar to gather such extensive information. This is because such an undertaking would have been impractical. Most areas lacked proper, navigable roads, and modern technology or tools were nonexistent. Travel was often by bullock carts, rowed or poled boats, and in some places, on horseback or in horse-drawn carriages. Accommodation and safety were also concerns in many regions.
Thus, it can be inferred that much of the writing, content, opinions, and information in these books was likely contributed by local writers without the explicit permission, direction, approval, or scrutiny of the book’s author. It seems that higher castes and prominent families played a significant role in this process.
The sole purpose of writing this much here is to assert that there is no truth to the claim made by the author of Social History of India that Tiyars are Ezhavas. I recall seeing an indication in the Malabar Manual, published in 1887, that Ezhavas lived in Palghat and were distinct from the Tiyars.
Note that Malabar and Anjengo was published in 1908. In just 30 years, perspectives may have undergone significant changes.
Despite the Ezhavas having a large social organisation, figures like Sree Narayana Guru, Dr. Palpu, Kumaran Asan, and numerous Brahmin deity temples, it is evident that they experienced some sense of mental inadequacy. Otherwise, they would not have claimed affinity with a community that was reluctant to associate with them.
The situation is akin to continental Europeans claiming that England is part of their domain. The English are not willing to accept this, yet continental Europeans are not ready to let go.
However, this analogy does not fully apply to the Tiyars’ case. Unlike the English, the Tiyars did not traditionally maintain a comparable mental or cultural dominance.
In Malabar and Anjengo, the following sentence was found:
QUOTE:
The Tiyans consider themselves superior to the Izhuvans, and will not eat rice cooked by them; there are considerable differences between the dress and customs of the two communities, ... .
As early as the 1800s, Ezhavas may have started migrating to Malabar. This likely began as small social changes took root in the Travancore kingdom, possibly with the arrival of movements like the London Missionary Society.
It is necessary to clearly examine what mental inadequacy the Ezhavas felt and what mental elevation and superior dignity they found so attractive in the Tiyars. If they had not felt such inadequacy, they might have simply told the Tiyars to “get lost.”
I don’t know if mantras have the power to shake the cosmos, but it can be assumed that Sree Narayana Guru was someone trained in such esoteric skills. Writings suggest he studied such profound subjects. It is also written that he could cure incurable diseases and that his death was a state of samadhi.
I am not clear on what samadhi means.
I won’t delve into discussing these matters. However, the question that arises is why, with such a towering spiritual leader, did the Ezhavas strive to enter British India and include the Tiyars in their social definition?
Reading about Dr. Palpu on Wikipedia, he emerges as a remarkable figure—a social reformer, scientist, fighter against epidemics, and someone who even gained the attention of the Queen of England. He studied in England for some time.
Dr. Palpu’s case is somewhat akin to that of Gandhi and Nehru, though with significant differences.
Determining someone’s personality from photographs lacks precision. However, Dr. Palpu’s image and expression do not reflect the elevated demeanour seen in individuals influenced by English systems in Tellicherry. Yet, his attire suggests an attempt to embody Brahminical traits through language codes. The headgear indicates an effort to display social status.
One might ask, what’s the issue here? The point is that, despite being a follower of a great spiritual leader like Sree Narayana Guru, Dr. Palpu did not attain the qualities that English influence bestowed upon Tiyars in Tellicherry. It must be understood that Sree Narayana Guru’s discipleship did not liberate Dr. Palpu or other Ezhavas from the onslaught of feudal language codes like nee (lowest you), ninre (lowest your), avan (lowest he), avanre (lowest his), eda, or enthada—grand expressions of affection that oppress.
When discussing Dr. Palpu, it is noted that he came from a prominent family with distinguished names for his parents. However, these three aspects seem unrelated to the identity of ordinary Ezhavas in Travancore. Yet, introducing a person and their family with grandiose praise is a requirement of feudal language codes.
QUOTE from Wikipedia:
Dr. Padmanabhan Palpu, known as Dr. Palpu, was born on 2ᵗʰ November 1863 in Nedungode, a renowned Ezhava family in Pettah, Trivandrum district (former Travancore). His father was Bhagavathi Padmanabhan ... and his mother was Mathapperumal from Ayikkaravilakam Thoppil House...
Indian cinema superstars, when acting as impoverished characters, wear expensive clothes with slight dirt or tears. If they were to act as true destitutes—starving, physically wasting away, wearing cheap, low-quality clothes—it could severely damage their superstar image in the context of language codes.
This must be understood when introducing a great social reformer from a lower caste.
Dr. Palpu lived in the Madras Presidency for his studies. It seems that those writing such histories lack the awareness that the Madras Presidency was a different realm. It is clear from a careful reading of Wikipedia that all the positive social experiences Dr. Palpu gained came from interactions with the English, though this is nowhere explicitly stated.
The reason for mentioning Dr. Palpu here is to note that, like the author of Social History of India who repeatedly inserted that both groups of Tiyars are Ezhavas, Dr. Palpu did something similar.
When saying Dr. Palpu was a doctor, it must be clarified that it was not an MBBS as understood today. There is much to say on this, but I won’t delve into it now.
It is evident that while working under the Madras Presidency government, Dr. Palpu interacted with Tiyar officials and other socially prominent Tiyars in Malabar. This likely led him to believe that he, too, was a Tiyar and that the label “Ezhava” was a diminishment—a near certainty.
A common phenomenon among people from this subcontinent, but outside British India, who spent time in England, was that upon returning, they would head straight to British India and engage in grand, deceptive revolutionary rhetoric and public speeches to claim it. Gandhi and Nehru followed this path, aiming to seize British India.
Dr. Palpu attempted something similar, but in British Malabar, among the Tiyars, it was seen as an unnecessary social transformation. Unlike Gandhi and Nehru, who were wealthy and from higher castes, Dr. Palpu was from a lower caste and not affluent. However, the realisation that he, too, was a Tiyar likely gave him immense mental upliftment.
Dr. Palpu and his associates collected signatures from some Ezhavas in Travancore and submitted a petition to the king, requesting permission to join higher government jobs. This petition is believed to be called the Ezhava Memorial, likely authored by Dr. Palpu. I have not seen this petition, but I have come across some quoted sentences from it.
QUOTE:
“When the two most numerous classes in the State, viz., the Nairs and the Tiyas, have learnt to recognise the claims of each other and asked for a due share in the service of the State, Government have pointed out the former as being opposed to the interests of the latter.” END OF QUOTE.
QUOTE:
He (Palpu) exploded the myth of Nair opposition and asserted that the memorial of 1891 ‘showed unmistakably that the other classes were in sympathy with the Tiyas.’ END OF QUOTE.
The second quotation refers to the first. Both were found in The History of Freedom Movement in Kerala, a Kerala government publication. The title of this book itself seems either a blatant lie or a misrepresentation of history. Travancore was an independent kingdom until it lost its autonomy in 1947.
In both quotations above, the word “Ezhava” is replaced with “Tiya” (Tiyar). This seems like a significant manipulation. In a document addressing the concerns of Ezhavas in Travancore, they are given the label of Tiyars from Malabar. Through what may seem a trivial sleight of hand, one community’s identity, heritage, and legacy is conflated with another’s.
In reality, the easiest way for Sree Narayana Guru, Dr. Palpu, Kumaran Asan, and other leaders to uplift the lower classes would have been to teach them English. Moreover, avoiding oppressive words like nee (lowest you), avan (lowest he), or aval (lowest she) that degrade their mental, physical, and emotional well-being would have brought significant change to their identity.
It is clear that Dr. Palpu knew English. However, there is no record of him urging the socially oppressed to learn English or refraining from using oppressive language codes against them.
The Travancore administration was unwilling to grant Ezhavas higher government jobs, justifying this by claiming they lacked the necessary mental elevation. In Malabar, the English administration did not simply allow inferior individuals to disrupt and tarnish the governance system. Instead, they first created a group of Tiyars and others well-versed in the virtues of English language and culture before opening doors to higher government service.
Social egalitarianism in communication is a natural characteristic of English. If someone who has not internalised this is given administrative power, they may exhibit the arrogance, impulsiveness, and folly seen in many Malayalam-speaking officials today.
Moreover, in Malabar, the administrative system run by Brahmins and their Nair subordinates was stagnant and ineffective. In Travancore, that same system governed. In Malabar, the English replaced the Brahmins’ traditional positions. Brahmins used feudal language, while the English used egalitarian language codes. The two cannot be viewed on the same level.
The Sree Narayana movement established and runs numerous colleges and schools. However, the education and standards there cannot compare to the education and mental elevation provided by English administration schools in Tellicherry and elsewhere.
CPS studied in Tellicherry schools in the 1930s and later at Brennen College, and I, as a young writer, saw and read the books he studied at home. These included works by numerous English classical authors like Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, William Thackeray, and others. CPS (Govindan, CPS’ father) graduated in Economics, a subject that may include much nonsense. Nevertheless, it was studied in English. Such education naturally instils the ethos of traditional England and the English language in the individual.
However, from around 1970 to 1985, while living in Travancore, I had the chance to closely observe and interact with students and graduates of Sree Narayana movement institutions. Generally, these individuals had not even heard of the English proficiency, textbooks, or classical English literature that CPS (Govindan, CPS’ father) gained from English education. It was such individuals that the Ezhava movement sought to place in administrative roles. To achieve this, they conflated their identity with that of Tiyars in Malabar, who had acquired significant English proficiency and secured positions in the British-Indian administration.
Many individuals in this subcontinent with strong English proficiency are unwilling to speak English with those working beneath them, as it could foster significant mental growth in the lower classes. In feudal languages, this is seen as a great threat, as any enlightened social reformer would know. If the masses grow mentally, social reformers and others may become redundant.
In the Wikipedia article about Aurobindo Ghose, there is this sentence:
QUOTE: Young Aurobindo was brought up speaking English but used Hindustani to communicate with servants. END OF QUOTE.
Such traditional language affection is seen in great social reformers. This is the typical mindset of social reformers in this subcontinent.
It may also be true that the great mental elevation that Dr. Palpu and other Ezhava movement leaders saw in the Tiyars in Tellicherry lacked real depth. After all, they were speakers of a feudal local language, not the English.
Last edited by VED on Thu May 29, 2025 11:32 am, edited 1 time in total.
It is true that the English and other British individuals who came to this subcontinent endeavoured to understand the diverse kingdoms and communities here. This was a characteristic notably absent among the local people of this subcontinent. Knowing the intricate details, personal relationships, and affairs of those considered beneath oneself in the local language codes implies a form of intimacy with the lower classes.
No one would desire to display such a connection.
Feudal language codes transform the gaze of those observing filth or impurity into something harmful. This was briefly mentioned earlier in Chapter 4–28, regarding the Melanesian concept of a transmissible personality. Such notions exist in many languages lacking egalitarian codes, and the English would not have a clear understanding of these matters.
The belief that certain lower-class individuals, when touched, seen, or even approached, transmit bad omens, ill luck, or negativity, along with associated caste-based untouchability, has been a longstanding reality in this subcontinent. In truth, the only movement that decisively abolished caste-based untouchability here was the English administration. Even Islamic movements, which advocate human brotherhood and social equality, do not seem to have fully escaped the chains of this oppressive and terrifying caste system in this subcontinent.
When English and other British officers in the administration sought to study the characteristics and traditions of the regions and people they served, the information they received was often a mix of knowledge, ignorance, beliefs, superstitions, rivalries, and jealousies from the higher classes closely associated with them. However, these groups would strategically present this information in a way calculated to seem credible to English officials.
When Col. Munro, who served as Diwan in Travancore for some time, appointed a local official to the same position upon his departure, he noted the challenges that person would face, as mentioned earlier in Chapter 4–33:
QUOTE: This part of his character impressed me with a strong apprehension of his being misled in the event of his appointment to the office of Dewan, by the artful and unprincipled men who are around in Travancore. END OF QUOTE
Col. Munro, a Scotsman, suggests that Travancore’s social elite were cunning, manipulative, unprincipled, and unscrupulous. His Scottish background may have given him an instinct to detect the sly tendencies of feudal language speakers.
Generally, however, the English were less likely to possess such insight or characteristics. They typically behaved with a straightforward, almost naive honesty across the world.
In feudal languages, the maxim is that the innocent enable the wicked. It seems the elites of this subcontinent deliberately tried to manipulate the English, turning their good deeds into adverse outcomes.
It is evident that many such manipulations occurred in the compilation of the Malabar Manual. However, later books treated the erroneous information inserted into this text as authentic, citing and referencing it as such.
In the Malabar Manual, someone—possibly William Logan himself—clearly wrote that texts like Keralolpatti and Kerala Mahatmyam were deliberately crafted to bolster Brahmin dominance, describing them as a blend of nonsensical legendary tales.
Regarding Keralolpatti:
What is substituted for the real history of this period in these traditions is a farrago of legendary nonsense, having for definite aim the securing to the Brahman caste of unbounded power and influence in the country.
Regarding Kerala Mahatmyam:
The Mahatmyam is full of the usual inflated Brahmanical legends, and is not so worthy of serious analysis as its more popular form, the Keralolpatti.
Despite this, the Malabar Manual seriously considers the historical accounts in Keralolpatti, though I recall no significant indications of Brahmin dominance. It must be understood that no historical record other than Keralolpatti existed in Malabar or Travancore.
Before the English initiated historical studies in this subcontinent, events here were likely akin to the developments in an ant colony persisting for centuries.
Events unfold, followed by new events layered atop them. If the English arrived at some point to study this ant colony—its dynasties, kings, queens, and great wars—what grand events might they uncover?
Many books published after the Malabar Manual treated the manipulated information inserted by various contributors as eternal truths or historical facts, producing new works that treated these errors as gospel.
In 1871, some Shanars who converted to Christianity declared themselves Kshatriyas during the census conducted by the English administration across the subcontinent. As a result, English writers noted thousands of Kshatriyas among the Christians in Tinnevelly, and this misinformation spread through their writings. Later, the local administration declared this to be utter nonsense, yet the erroneous information continued to circulate.
This matter was mentioned earlier in this writing.
A similar case is the statement in the Malabar Manual that Tiyars are the Malabar name for Ezhavas. This folly seems to have tainted the credibility of many subsequent books, as their authors regarded the Malabar Manual as an authoritative and authentic study.
The claim that Tiyars are Ezhavas was a strong assertion by many non-Tiyars in the 1800s.
To prove this, some intriguing “discoveries” are written in these texts.
The English and other British studying this subcontinent’s history were like those studying an ant colony. They were unaware that ants might have emotions, provocations, intentions, or ulterior motives incomprehensible to humans. They couldn’t fathom that some information in this world cannot be expressed in English words. This limitation persists in their studies of ancient cultures like the Mayan, Inca, Egyptian, or Roman.
The situation in Malabar is similar. While the English elevated various communities here as part of humanity, they likely did not grasp the invisible emotional upheavals, hierarchical bonds, and social designs among individuals and groups.
In the Malabar Manual published in 1887, there are clear, and sometimes vague, references to an ancient great nation called India and a primordial kingdom called Kerala, often presented with a doctrinal intent.
However, in the 1600s, when English trading companies began commercial ventures across South Asia, establishing outposts in Madras, Calcutta, Bombay, and Tellicherry, there seems to have been no thought or discussion of a nation called India or a kingdom called Kerala. Yet, Europeans generally referred to the subcontinent as India, a name the English also adopted for this region.
By 1887, when the Malabar Manual was published, significant changes had occurred. As English establishments gained strength in Madras to the southeast, Calcutta to the northeast, Bombay to the west, Tellicherry to the southwest, and Delhi—the traditional power centre of Mughal emperors—they also began receiving strong support from the subcontinent’s enslaved populations. With each passing generation, the idea that this entire subcontinent was a single nation grew stronger.
By around 1900, it became easier for new generations to conceive of a unified nation, facilitated by sprawling railway networks, new long-distance roads, and police stations manned by English-speaking officers ensuring traveller safety. Moreover, public education began instilling in students the notion that they were citizens of British-ruled India.
The intricate web that held together the subcontinent’s diverse ethnic groups and the varied communities within its numerous small kingdoms was the English administration itself—not the Sanskrit heritage, epics like the Ramayana or Mahabharata, Vedic culture, Hinduism, Islam, or any other factor.
In Malabar and Anjengo, published in 1908, it is asserted as an indisputable truth that Kerala was an ancient kingdom and that Malabar and Travancore were part of a single region.
Such ideas, absent from the diary entries of the English Company’s Tellicherry factory in the 1600s, likely emerged later. Back then, the reality was a multitude of small kingdoms around Tellicherry, with their kings, queens, prominent noble families, lower classes of varying status, and enslaved people considered subhuman.
By the late 1800s, interpretations even suggested that “Chera” became “Kera.” The term “Kera” was found in various contexts, such as Naleekera (coconut), where it is a synonym for coconut.
A quick reading of Malabar and Anjengo sparked a new thought. Although these books are attributed to British officials in the English administration, the influence of local elites is evident in the words, sentences, and descriptions. Moreover, it seems implausible that a single individual, even today, could write such a book alone. These texts not only cover social details from regions like Wayanad, Kodungallur, Pandya territories, and Canara coasts but also reference numerous ancient texts. It would have been physically impossible for an English official to conduct such in-depth studies at the time.
Even today, without software like Google Search, it seems unlikely that a single person could produce such a work. Even with such tools, the information obtained would still be shaped by others’ deliberate writings.
After establishing that Malabar is part of Travancore, that this entire region is the ancient kingdom of Kerala, and that its traditional language is Malayalam, the narrative shifts to claiming that both groups of Tiyars are Ezhavas. With each passing decade, the two Tiyar groups were increasingly seen as a single ethnic group, and both were repeatedly asserted to be Ezhavas in these texts. This repetition raises suspicion: if all three groups are indeed Ezhavas, why do the authors feel compelled to reiterate this?
To prove that Tiyars are Ezhavas, manipulations involving the etymology of words and phonetic similarities are employed to argue that these three groups are one and the same.
The commonly accepted etymology of “Ezhava” is as follows:
Eezhathuruthu – Eezham + Thuruthu, Sinhala Island, Lanka
Nowhere in this is the word Tiyar or Tiyyan mentioned. The next step involves manipulating the words Tiyar or Tiyyan. It is noted that the Tamil meaning of Eezham is Ceylon Island, and Dweep (island) is a Sanskrit word.
The “discovery” is that Tiyar resulted from the wear, distortion, and elision of Dweeper (islander) over time. It is said that newly arrived English and British officials unquestioningly believed such claims.
It seems that Dweep is a Sanskrit word. There is a feeling that the traditional local language in Malabar included neither Sanskrit nor Tamil. If true, it is unlikely that Tiyar derived from Dweeper, as no one, especially Tiyars, would have spoken Sanskrit.
Col. Munro’s statement that Travancore’s social elite were cunning, manipulative, unprincipled, and unscrupulous may apply to the entire subcontinent. British officials from Britain, unfamiliar with the contradictory behaviours, multiple personas, and ability of feudal language speakers to present truth and falsehood with the same expression, relied on local information. This was a significant flaw in their comprehensive writings. When new books and studies are based on such texts, a clear understanding of these flaws is essential.
It is unclear whether any English official thoroughly studied and wrote about the Muthappan worship tradition of North Malabar’s matrilineal Tiyars. If such a text exists, it would be worth seeing.
Generally, those claiming in these texts that matrilineal Tiyars are Ezhavas seem to lack even basic knowledge of such matters.
Although my formal education ended in 1982, I lived in Travancore from the 1970s to around 1985. During that time, no one there mentioned anything about Muthappan worship. Moreover, when Tiyya was mentioned, many assumed it was a Brahmin sub-caste.
About 30 years ago, I took a college friend from Trivandrum to a Muthappan temple in Cannanore to witness Vellattam. Seeing Muthappan adorned with vibrant decorations, a dagger-shaped chest mark, yellow face paint, a headdress, red attire, a sword in one hand, and a bow and arrow in the other, the friend was bewildered. After approaching Muthappan in line and hearing him speak, the friend likened it to a Kathakali or Ottamthullal performance, perceiving it as a tourist entertainment event. He referred to Muthappan’s words as “that person said so.” Even in the 1990s, knowledge of Muthappan worship in Travancore was minimal and dismissive.
Around 1982, when a radical revolutionary party governed Kerala, Trivandrum hosted a grand Onam celebration for the first time. The Onam procession included Malabar’s traditional arts, including North Malabar’s Theyyam. The general perception in Trivandrum was that Theyyam, Thira, Vellattam, and Thiruvappana were art forms for tourists. When these were displayed on public streets without their inherent spiritual context, it reinforced the notion that Malabar was a backward, wild region.
I had a chance encounter with the shamanistic spiritual movement of Muthappan some time ago, and I plan to write about it.
Last edited by VED on Mon May 26, 2025 11:25 pm, edited 2 times in total.
The above excerpt is from my earliest book, March of the Evil Empires: English versus the Feudal Languages. At the time of writing, my understanding of software was rudimentary. I had no expectation of writing further after that book. Thus, the words above suggest that future generations might explore the invisible, intangible connections between intricate software codes, mental phenomena, and reality.
I was raised in an almost entirely atheistic environment. I don’t recall visiting temples for worship or rituals in my childhood.
Moreover, from Class 10 onward, I was actively involved with the rationalist movement. There is much to say about this, but I won’t delve into it now.
Though my mind is eager to discuss topics like astrology, sorcery, black magic, yantras, tantric practices, talismans, and witchcraft, I cannot explore them here. My focus is on the shamanistic spiritual phenomenon of Muthappan.
I don’t recall hearing about this phenomenon in my youth. However, I had seen similar things—dance, drumbeats, vibrant costumes—in childhood Phantom comics, which depicted African jungle societies. Similar practices are known to exist or have existed in South American traditional societies and even in continental Europe.
Thus, I assumed such practices were largely the superstitions of uneducated people—primitive, beastly, barbaric, and savage. I also understood them as part of Hindu worship in modern India. I never questioned how they fit into Brahminical Hinduism, as I lacked clear knowledge of Hinduism’s true spiritual boundaries or which community’s heritage it belonged to.
Officially, through documents and conversations, I was considered Hindu by family tradition. It was much later that I realized Hinduism is fundamentally a Brahmin religion.
I recall someone describing Muthappan Vellattam as a ritual where a person drinks liquor and rants. The term Vellattam itself suggests a drunken dance, which is easy to grasp. Later, I witnessed Theyyam-like performances with loud drumbeats, frenzied shouting, leaping, and prophesying amid uproar.
In ancient Greece, a similar phenomenon existed called the Oracle, which involved prophecy but seemingly without the noise and chaos.
About 10–20 years ago, while living in a small North Malabar town during a period of multiple crises, I first directly encountered the Muthappan phenomenon and communicated with it.
Before this, in a major city outside Kerala, a North Malabar native spoke about Muthappan with a mix of humor and belief.
The primary reason for my crisis in that town was rooted in feudal language dynamics: when others see great potential in a person, they outwardly offer help while inwardly harboring insecurity, subtly undermining that person’s plans and taking pleasure in their failure.
I won’t delve into those details now.
However, after much effort, I rose from rock bottom and established a formal office with a phone and a signboard. That day, my mind was filled with immense relief, confidence, and self-respect. With minimal family support and the power of English in my mind, a small firm step could unleash a treasure trove of excellence in my endeavors. No one in that town could have imagined such a thing. My deep-rooted belief was that English alone could work astonishing miracles.
That evening, walking through the town with great relief, I noticed a temple with loud drumbeats and Muthappan dancing in vibrant attire.
I had visited that temple once before out of curiosity. Amid a crowd, I stood in line, offered 50 paise, and heard Muthappan say something I didn’t understand. I left, dismissing it as a barbaric ritual with no lasting impression.
But on that significant evening, hearing the drums, I entered the temple to rest. Muthappan Vellattam occurs there only on Fridays.
The name Muthappan didn’t evoke a refined social image. The crowd seemed socially marginalized—those at the lowest rung in feudal language hierarchies.
Later, I learned that anyone, regardless of religion, could enter such temples, meaning they lack the typical Hindu temple aura.
That day, I closely observed Muthappan’s persona. He sat in one place as people lined up in two rows—men and women separately.
Muthappan occasionally stood, performed subtle dance steps, and emitted a peculiar laugh-like sound in an unusual tone. Each person offered a coin or rupee, and Muthappan blessed them.
It was clear people were driven by deep superstition. But upon closer observation, Muthappan asked some individuals about their deeply personal issues with uncanny insight, discussed them, predicted resolutions, and offered guidance.
At times, Muthappan gazed at the burning lamp in front of the sanctum. It was evident he was accessing some invisible software system to speak about individuals with astonishing precision. Back then, I had little understanding of software systems.
With my mind full of relief that day, I joined the line out of curiosity. When I reached Muthappan, I extended 50 paise.
Muthappan looked into my eyes, then at the lamp, and said simply:
“You’ve attained a position of authority, devotee!”
It was something I hadn’t consciously thought about, yet it struck me profoundly. That very morning, I had established a formal setup!
Muthappan continued:
“The position isn’t secure, hear me!”
My connection with Muthappan, which began that day, continues today. There’s more to say about this, perhaps in the next writing.
The experience at the Muthappan temple profoundly challenged my atheistic beliefs. However, it didn’t lead me to view Muthappan as the creator of the universe. Instead, it reinforced the notion that there is much beyond the reality perceived through the eyes and other senses.
This is no longer a groundbreaking idea today. With the proliferation of computers, the internet, smartphones, and other digital devices, it’s not difficult to accept that realities exist beyond what human senses can perceive.
While some may argue these are merely physical scientific discoveries, I lack the expertise to definitively state whether modern software coding relies on mathematical concepts like geometry, calculus, polynomials, logarithms, algebra, or quadratic equations. However, it seems plausible that in transcendental software systems, mathematics, energy principles, and more could be created, rewritten, or deleted. There’s much to say on this, but that’s not the current focus of this writing.
Regarding my experience with the Muthappan phenomenon, it has, on several occasions, paved the way for profound changes in my personal life. Muthappan has conveyed insights with precise, unambiguous words, free of double meanings. These communications are typically brief, confined to short sentences or a couple of words.
Over the years, my visits to the Muthappan temple have decreased, primarily due to the distance.
I’ve often noticed that what Muthappan says to a specific individual is understood by them, but not necessarily by those standing nearby.
For example, for several years, I traveled across Kerala, driving a private jeep and later a two-wheeler daily. I narrowly escaped numerous accidents, returning home safely. During the day, engrossed in business, I didn’t dwell on these incidents. But at night, lying in bed, thoughts of these near-misses, mingled with business anxieties, would surface.
Once, at the Muthappan temple I regularly visited, I included this concern in my prayer before the deity. These weren’t short trips but journeys through unfamiliar streets without relatives or friends, day or night, on roads where hundreds of vehicles seemed to charge aggressively from all directions.
When I reached Muthappan in line and offered my hand, he looked into my eyes and said, “Go boldly, devotee. Muthappan is always with you.” If those nearby heard, they likely wouldn’t grasp its significance.
My understanding of the Muthappan phenomenon developed slowly. Reading about it often yielded low-quality information, dominated by legends rather than objective historical data, which lacked a strong sense of reality.
However, I believe the mechanism behind this phenomenon cannot be fully captured by the legends surrounding it.
An ordinary person, adorned in vibrant costumes, transforms into Muthappan. This personality shift is fascinating. I’ve observed it at times.
The person, dressed in costume, circumambulates a small structure called the sanctum, holding a sword, I believe. They recite thottam (ritual chants) in a low voice. I don’t know what these chants are, as I’ve never heard them clearly. Drummers beat in rhythm with Muthappan’s steps and subtle dance movements.
Gradually, the person’s personality transforms. Their voice changes completely. This process takes about 30 minutes, by my estimate, until the person fully becomes Muthappan.
Notably, while I’ve visited Muthappan temples in Kunnathurpadi, Parassinikkadavu, and another, I’ve never felt a deep connection or engaged in significant communication with Muthappan there, nor gained clear insights. However, at the temple I regularly visited, things were distinctly different.
Initially, I lacked any intellectual or rational framework to understand this phenomenon. But as I learned about software, I began to think that an external software code or application infiltrates the brain or life software of the individual.
The person who becomes Muthappan is human, yet an extraordinary software system seems to enter them.
If you have a smartphone, you can connect with Google Assistant, Siri, or Alexa. To draw an analogy, the phenomenon here feels like the operation of a transcendental computer system with processing power roughly 35,000 times that of today’s supercomputers.
I’ll reveal the source of this “35,000” figure later—it wasn’t related to the Muthappan phenomenon. If accurate, it suggests a computing process of similar magnitude underpins this phenomenon.
This experience has significantly influenced my thinking.
From 2004 to 2006, I wrote on a British website, later published as a digital book titled Software Codes of Reality, Life and Languages!. The influence of my experiences with Muthappan may be evident in that work and subsequent ones, including Codes of Reality! What is Language?, The Machinery of Homœopathy, and Software Codes of Mantra, Tantra, Witchcraft, Black Magic, Evil Eye, Evil Tongue &c.
I’ve had many experiences with the Muthappan phenomenon, but most are too personal to document here.
This phenomenon is a spiritual tradition of North Malabar’s matrilineal Tiyars. Centuries ago, some from this community may have arrived on North Malabar’s shores, possibly via sailboats, from elsewhere in the world. Displaying physical prowess, they were gradually taught the local language, enslaved through language codes, and made agricultural laborers.
It is said that Malayan communities perform Muthappan Theyyam. According to Malabar and Anjengo by C.A. Innes, ICS, Malayans claim they were once Tiyars but were enslaved by the Kottayam king.
Falling into South Asian hands often meant enslavement. As noted earlier, a few years ago, British sailors on an armed vessel hunting pirates were detained by Tamil Nadu police when their damaged ship reached the coast, imprisoned, and sentenced to five years in cells with a hole in the floor as a toilet, seemingly to degrade them.
In the 1990s, Travancore officials visiting Malabar spoke of the Theyyam phenomenon with contempt, despite their degrees in science and mathematics, flaunting their modern knowledge. Yet, they likely knew nothing of smartphones or software. These are the people conflating North Malabar’s traditions and communities with Travancore, including the claim that Tiyars are Ezhavas.
The Kalarippayattu martial art of Kadathanadu (around present-day Badagara) in North Malabar is now claimed as Kerala’s heritage. Many such conflations are occurring.
Centuries ago, Muthappan Theyyam may have begun when a few people, possibly from Central Asia’s Tian Shan mountains, arrived in North Malabar. However, the matter is complex, as other Theyyams exist in North Malabar, some involving Nair families. Instead of precise historical records, only legends persist.
Nevertheless, the Muthappan phenomenon and its associated thottam chants have been preserved by certain families for centuries without adulteration, though some dilution seems to have occurred today.
Each generation’s sense of social, political, and historical reality is shaped by what they witness from childhood onward.
In 1980, my home in Trivandrum got a telephone—a remarkable event. Before that, making a call required visiting a Post & Telegraph office, paying a fee, and often queuing. Most people didn’t have phones, as authorities restricted access, viewing them as a status symbol not meant for the masses.
Around the same time, I saw a government employee’s family in Quilon get a phone. A young child there grew up using it, so phones were never a novelty for them. Similarly, social and political realities are shaped by early experiences.
I first heard about the Kashmir issue in the 1970s. Kashmiris lacked a strong Indian identity. Small rebellions flared and faded, and some revolutionaries were executed by India. Yet, for most Indians, Kashmir’s status as part of India is ingrained from childhood. Suggesting otherwise is as explosive as claiming lower castes aren’t Hindus—a notion many would reject. However, such beliefs often stem solely from early exposure.
From the 1600s, Malabar’s social and political consciousness began shifting gradually. Unknown to most, certain groups covertly manipulated these changes, steering them toward their own goals—a process likely unnoticed then and now.
These behind-the-scenes actions weren’t always a coordinated conspiracy. Often, individuals acted independently, driven by shared interests, making calculated moves. Meanwhile, organized entities with clear objectives, cunning, resources, leadership, and loyal followers also operated covertly.
This is how the Kashmir issue was maneuvered over decades, eventually linked to global Islamic terrorism despite no inherent connection. Framing Kashmiri discontent this way benefited India’s establishment, a calculated move they understood well.
In the 1980s, I noticed another cunning strategy. Hindi wasn’t widely spoken outside its native regions, but Hindi cinema’s captivating visuals were gaining traction across India. People admired the fair-skinned, charismatic Hindi actors, often describing fair individuals with trimmed beards as having “North Indian looks.”
The referenced video from Bombay Cinema World showcases a song from the film Aaradhana, created with heavy investment and catchy tunes to spread misconceptions and amass wealth.
In 1984, while in Bangalore, a professor with a doctorate—a rare achievement then—shared insights with me. Frequently invited as a trainer for central government programs, he revealed that a group in Delhi’s Central Secretariat was working to subtly promote Hindi across India. Their job was to introduce Hindi discreetly on various platforms without overt imposition. The strategy was to gradually infiltrate, like installing a small app and slowly expanding its presence—a meticulously planned approach.
Corporate advertisements on Bangalore’s TV programs were initially in English but gradually shifted to Hindi. At the time, TV wasn’t widespread in India, but new stations emerged yearly. Around then, Kerala began receiving TV broadcasts. Children grew up watching glamorous Hindi actors, marveling at their language and culture.
Today, Google India and other major websites encourage Hindi usage in their interfaces.
The professor noted that regardless of the ruling party, Hindi promotion would continue, gaining strength over time. Each new generation would increasingly see Hindi as their own language. Yet, for Malabar, Hindi has been an invasive language since 1947.
These points highlight the mental shifts in South and North Malabar. Efforts to indoctrinate people into believing both Malabars were part of Travancore likely began subtly in the 1700s, gaining momentum by the 1870s. Around the same time, suggestions emerged that Malabar and Travancore were under Hindi-speaking regions’ influence.
Few in Travancore may realize that Malabar was a distinct region with unique people, language, culture, martial arts, social environment, and spiritual traditions, once part of the illustrious British-India, specifically British-Malabar.
The same applies to the Tiyars. The existence of two distinct groups—patrilineal and matrilineal Tiyars—with no connection to Ezhavas, would likely be met with scorn or dismissal by Travancore’s Ezhavas today.
I plan to briefly examine the events that transformed both Tiyar groups into Ezhavas before continuing this narrative.
Expansive forest lands in South and North Malabar lie open for exploitation. The newly Christianised lower castes of Travancore view these with ambition, keen to assert that Tiyars are Ezhavas to foster the notion of unity between Malabar and Travancore populations.
The Ezhava movement in Travancore shares this aim. In Travancore, Ezhavas are confined to menial roles, but in Malabar, they could ascend to prestigious positions like the Indian Civil Service (ICS) or Imperial Police (IP). This transition feels transformative, turning dreams into reality.
For Malabar’s Nairs, Ambalavasis, and Brahmins, the British policy of educating Tiyars in English was a recurring nightmare. Convincing society that Tiyars are merely Travancore’s lowly Ezhavas would reinforce their social dominance.
Tensions simmer among Tiyars. North Malabar’s matrilineal Tiyars, exasperated, insist they are distinct from South Malabar’s patrilineal Tiyars. Yet, some claim matrilineal Tiyars are linked not only to patrilineal Tiyars but also to Ezhavas. Organised movements, equipped with printing presses, newspapers, magazines, and schools, propagate these claims, shaping public perception.
Feudal language divides matrilineal Tiyars into Vaishya Tiyars and Koduvazh Tiyars, positioning them at opposite ends of a social hierarchy through verbal codes.
Ezhavas from Travancore, infiltrating Malabar, introduce themselves as Tiyars, seeking marital alliances with Tiyar families. This is often perceived as deliberate social degradation, prompting some Tiyar families to label them ‘Eeyatiyars’ to maintain distance. Most in Malabar are unaware of Travancore’s social nuances.
Women from marginalised Tiyar families, working in English households, were sometimes treated as quasi-wives. Many gained proficient English, elevating their status beyond local concubines. Their Anglo-Indian children, raised with English fluency and paternal support, occasionally secured high-ranking British-Indian posts, though their mothers were not seen as equals to English women. These women likely harboured few grievances, despite modern postcolonial critiques.
Anglo-Indian Tiyars and socially mobile Tiyars—rising as officials, lawyers, or butlers under British rule—challenged traditional Tiyar elites. The British, ignorant of feudal language codes, married women from lower strata, disrupting local hierarchies. Some Anglo-Indian Tiyars emerged from humble origins, like lotuses from mud, causing further elite discontent.
These upwardly mobile Tiyars held administrative power but lacked social leadership. In feudal language systems, displaying verbal authority is significant, yet their influence over other Tiyars remained limited.
Two groups troubled these elites: families upholding shamanistic traditions like Muthappan, carrying ancestral prestige, and English-educated Tiyar youth forging egalitarian relationships beyond caste boundaries.
Globally, establishing spiritual movements is a potent method for amassing followers. By channeling devotion and existential anxieties, leaders draw adherents who view them as divine representatives. Few question their legitimacy, as direct divine communion is inaccessible.
Feudal language demands displays of servitude before deities—prostrations, obeisance, and submissive gestures. Whether the divine expects this is unclear, as feudal language constructs a deity reflective of its hierarchy. I have experienced the disorienting temple ritual, a rolling circumambulation performed spontaneously, which felt like an inversion of reality, possibly induced by a transcendental interaction with “brain software.”
A few months ago, a person who contacted me via email sent an English message received through WhatsApp. The message was about how a Brahmanical temple named Jagannath Temple came to be among the Thiyyas in Tellicherry, established by Ezhavas.
The author of this message is unknown. However, upon reading it, the contents seemed plausible. The message and its translation are included here. There is much to say about the matters in this message, which I plan to address in the next writing.
How Thiyyas associated with Ezhavas? A glance into history. For centuries, Thiyyas used to worship in their own sacred groves. Most of these groves were not part of an organised movement. To bring community rituals into an organised state, some prominent Thiyyas of Tellicherry formed a committee. This committee decided to establish a temple with an annual feast, similar to the Sri Rama Temple in Thiruvangad. Unfortunately, they could not identify anyone within the community to plan, establish, or consecrate the project, as they did not wish to involve Brahmins. Someone suggested the name of Sree Narayana Guru from South Kerala, who had established a couple of temples for non-Brahmins.
How were Thiyyas associated with Ezhavas? A glance into history. For centuries, Thiyyas prayed in their own sacred groves. Most of these groves were not part of an organised movement. To bring community rituals into an organised state, some prominent Thiyyas of Tellicherry formed a committee. This committee decided to start a temple with an annual feast, like the one held at the Sri Rama Temple in Thiruvangad. Unfortunately, they could not find anyone from their own community to plan, execute, or consecrate the project for divine service. They were unwilling to involve Brahmins in this matter. Someone mentioned the name of Sree Narayana Guru from South Kerala, who had established two temples for non-Brahmins.
As the committee did not want to involve Brahmins in establishing the temple, they entrusted Sri Varadur Kaniyil Kunhi Kannan to visit Sree Narayana Guru at Varkala and submit the idea that the Thiyya community should have a temple in Tellicherry, in the year 1904. Narayana Guru permitted the celebrated poet Kumaran Asan, as his representative, to convene meetings and ascertain the people’s reactions regarding the feasibility of a temple for the community.
Since the committee did not wish to involve Brahmins in establishing the temple, they tasked Sri Varadur Kaniyil Kunhi Kannan with meeting Sree Narayana Guru in Varkala to propose the idea of a temple for the Thiyya community in Tellicherry in 1904. Narayana Guru authorised the renowned poet Kumaran Asan to act as his representative, organise discussions, and assess the people’s response to the practicality of building a temple for the community.
Kumaran Asan, who was staying with Dr Palpu in Bangalore, accepted the invitation. Upon arriving in Tellicherry, the first meeting was held at ‘Parambath House’ of Sri Cheruvari Govindan (CPS’ father), Shirastadar, on the 9ᵗʰ of July 1905.
The report Kumaran Asan gave to Narayana Guru was: “Thiyyas are a socially and economically forward community, but they lack strong leadership.” As Sree Narayana Guru was busy awakening Ezhavas in South Kerala, he was not keen on travelling to Tellicherry. Therefore, the committee visited Narayana Guru again and invited him to Tellicherry.
Subsequently, Sree Narayana Guru arrived in Tellicherry on the 17ᵗʰ of March 1906. His instruction that “his arrival should be kept completely secret” was strictly followed. On the 23ʳᵈ of March, Sree Narayana Guru drove the pile for the temple construction at an auspicious moment.
The foundation stone was laid on the 21ˢᵗ of April 1906 by Sri Kottiyath Ramunni Vakil in the presence of the great poet Kumaran Asan. It was on the 13ᵗʰ of February 1908 that Narayana Guru consecrated the temple. He named it Sri Jagannath Temple, and the administrative committee was named “Gnanodaya Yogam”. (Although Narayana Guru was the President and Kumaran Asan the Secretary of SNDP, they were not interested in placing the temple or the Thiyya community under the control of SNDP!!!)
After this ceremony, Thiyyas became followers of Sree Narayana Guru. This was the first connection between Thiyyas and Ezhavas. After independence, during the compilation of the constituency, the then government recorded Thiyyas and Ezhavas together as a single community.
END OF QUOTE
This writing examines the message quoted in the previous post, detailing the sequence of events where the Ezhava movement from Travancore gained dominance over the Thiyyas in Tellicherry.
It must first be noted that it is clear the person who wrote this message was influenced by the ideological teachings of political movements that emerged after the formation of India as a nation and Kerala as a state. This personality trait can also be applied to most people living in Kerala today. The message was likely written within the last few years.
What clearly prompts this conclusion is the use of the term Thalassery in the English message. During the time when a staunch revolutionary, who sent his son to America, was ruling as Chief Minister of this state, place names historically used since ancient times were officially removed from public forums and educational curricula. Before this, English-literate individuals used Tellicherry as the place name for this region in English writings.
The person who wrote this message seems to have a decent command of the English language.
Another phrase that caught attention is South Kerala. This, too, is a term that gained currency in Malabar roughly 50 years after the formation of Kerala as a state.
Using South Kerala in a narrative about events from the early 1900s is historically misleading. At that time, there was no Kerala, nor was there a South Kerala. The correct term would be Travancore kingdom. However, in many forums where the history of this subcontinent is written today, such oversimplified writings are common. Individuals cannot be blamed, as this is how official guidelines are often provided.
I recall that until around 1990, people from Travancore in Kerala were commonly referred to as state people in Malabar. However, this writing pertains to the period around 1900.
QUOTE: For centuries, Thiyyas used to worship in their own "Kavu's".
തീയർ നൂറ്റാണ്ടുകളോളം അവരുടെ സ്വന്തമായുള്ള കാവുകളിൽ പ്രാർത്ഥിക്കുമായിരുന്നു
END OF QUOTE
Isn’t this a remarkable revelation? It can be inferred that centuries ago, descendants of a group that arrived in Malabar from some foreign land kept alive a faint light of their shamanistic spiritual tradition, like a flickering lamp, in these sacred groves. When local feudal language codes were imposed on them, binding many with demeaning linguistic chains, some in this group likely sank into a lower social status.
Even the English could have been subdued and treated as lifeless corpses if such demonic languages were taught to them.
The full meaning of the word kavu is unclear. I recall someone telling me that it is a name given to certain worship places of non-Brahmanical people. The term sarpakavu (serpent grove) is also seen. These groves seem to be typically associated with Nair family residences. I am unsure if Brahmanical temples are ever called kavu.
However, searching this word online today reveals that such traditional practices in this subcontinent are often lumped under the broad definition of Hinduism in many writings. This makes it easy to provide vast amounts of information. One can say anything when going with the flow. The strength of this flow lends great weight to such uncertain and dubious information.
It seems that many shamanistic spiritual movements were found among ancient, and somewhat seemingly primitive, communities worldwide. In truth, until the English rule strengthened in this subcontinent, Brahmanical traditions were also largely buried. It appears that many Sanskrit texts were sought out and brought to public and social knowledge by English East India Company officials.
In the heritage of the matrilineal Thiyyas today, the Muthappan spirituality, which survived various contradictory historical events, adverse temporal conditions, and invasions, seems to be defined as a lowly form of worship under the Brahmanical spiritual movement. Instead, shouldn’t the Muthappan worship be considered a stand-alone shamanistic tradition with its own unique and remarkable characteristics, independent of Brahmanical religion?
However, it also seems that none of these represent or embody the creator of the universe or the universal creation process. They may be other transcendental realities within the physical reality itself, manifested in the religions and deities we see today. Delving deeper into this topic is not possible now.
QUOTE: For making an organised way of community rituals, some prominent Thiyyas of Thalassery formed a committee.
സാമുദായിക ആചാരങ്ങളെ ഒരു സംഘടിതമായ അവസ്ഥയിലേക്ക് എത്തിക്കാനായി, Tellicherryയിലെ ചില പ്രമുഖ തീയർ ഒരു കമ്മിറ്റി രൂപീകരിച്ചു.
END OF QUOTE
Most Thiyyas who rose as officials under the English Company and later British-Indian rule were likely not from traditional affluent Thiyya families. Instead, they may have been individuals who passed competitive exams to enter service. Some socially upwardly mobile Thiyyas may have worked in English households. When given official responsibilities, in the local feudal linguistic environment, these responsibilities often transformed into authority. This is because language codes can bind an ordinary person, while simultaneously elevating the responsible individual to a position of power through these codes.
Thiyya officials, lawyers, and those who served as butlers in English or British households, among others, were poised to seize social leadership. However, they likely lacked significant leadership roles in the Thiyya’s traditional worship movements. These were maintained with non-material efficiency, commitment, and affection by certain families for generations.
These families may not have welcomed newly affluent individuals or those recently granted official authority. The apparent reason might be that these newcomers were seen as fleeting, like bubbles sprouting in yesterday’s rain, unlikely to last. A clearer reason could be that, in feudal languages, it is difficult for anyone to quickly secure a position within pre-existing personal hierarchies.
In this context, what prompted a group of newly socially elevated Thiyyas in Tellicherry to aspire to leadership and form a committee, representing the matrilineal Thiyyas from the interiors of Kanhangad/Kasaragod to Korappuzha in North Malabar’s southern end? Feudal languages indeed provide various incentives to leap ahead of one’s place in the hierarchy, which is a fact.
However, many in this subcontinent, during English rule, unilaterally and ambitiously sought to seize leadership of millions. Nehru and Gandhi are prime examples of such behaviour. Though neither came from British-Indian families, they projected themselves as leaders of British-India’s millions in England, despite no one granting them such a position.
QUOTE: It was decided by the committee to start an organised Temple with annual feast like Sri Rama Temple of Thiruvangad.
തിരുവങ്ങാട്ടുള്ള ശ്രീ രാമ ക്ഷേത്രത്തിൽ എല്ലാ വർഷവും നടത്തുന്നതു പോലുള്ള ഉത്സവം നടത്തപ്പെടുന്ന ഒരു ക്ഷേത്രം ആരംഭിക്കാൻ ഈ കമ്മിറ്റി തീരുമാനിച്ചു.
END OF QUOTE
While their community had its own spiritual movement, imitating a Brahmanical deity, rituals, and festivals without Brahman consent or cooperation, recreating them in a new form under their leadership based on personal preferences, and seizing social leadership in this manner feels somewhat amiss.
When I asked CPS about these matters, with the preface that she was very young at the time, she shared some insights. Her father was entirely agnostic, showing no interest in Muthappan worship or the newly sprouted Hindu beliefs in the community. However, Mr Kannan, her grandfather (her father’s father), was someone who diligently performed Muthappan worship rituals at home.
They lived in a house near the Jagannath Temple. She would play in the vast temple courtyard. When visiting the temple, she would first pray to the statue of Sree Narayana Guru, then to the deity’s statue. The priest would apply sandalwood paste to her hand, and she would receive offerings similar to those given in other Hindu temples, including avil (flattened rice), as she recalls. The priest was likely a Thiyya.
Mostly Thiyyas visited the temple. Nairs and those above ignored it. After the temple festival, there was a procession. She recalls something related to Rama’s arrow being part of the procession, though the details are unclear. The festival and procession included elephants adorned with chains on their legs, golden forehead ornaments, and other decorations.
In every way, a spiritual movement mimicking Brahmanical religion was created, gradually bridging the gap between Brahmanical religion and their community over time.
It’s akin to government constables creating their own IAS and IPS ranks, adopting the attire, uniforms, authority symbols, titles, command words, parades, and other paraphernalia of higher ranks, eventually erasing the social and hierarchical gap between constables and IPS officers.
In reality, such practices occur in the Kerala Police. I recall that in the 1980s, when constables’ uniforms changed from trousers to pants, it caused mild unease among senior police officials.
It feels somewhat wrong that those who traditionally worshipped Muthappan began praying to Sree Narayana Guru’s statue in a hurriedly built Brahmanical temple.
However, CPS mentioned that many affluent Thiyya families, who gained modern education in colleges and achieved social prominence, also lacked reverence for Muthappan worship. The reason could be that the thottam chants, drumbeats, and Muthappan’s dance to the divine rhythm of the chenda in the Muthappan grove, combined with seeing lower-status Thiyyas, made the Muthappan worship seem somewhat primitive to them. Brahmanical religion, by all means, seemed superior.
These modern scholars had no access to information about software or transcendental software back then.
QUOTE: Unfortunately, nobody could be identified within the community to do the planning / establishing & sanctifying the Project, as they did not want to involve Brahmins.
ദൗർഭാഗ്യവശാൽ ഈ പദ്ധതിയെ ആസൂത്രണം ചെയ്യാനും / നടപ്പിൽവരുത്താനും, അതിനെ പവിത്രമാക്കാനും ദൈവസേവാർത്ഥം സമർപ്പിക്കാനും ഉള്ള പ്രതിഷ്ഠാകർമ്മങ്ങൾക്ക് മുഖ്യകാർമ്മികത്വം നൽകാൻ പറ്റിയ ഒരാളെ, സ്വന്തം സമുദായത്തിൽ നിന്നും അവർക്ക് കണ്ടെത്താനായില്ല.
END OF QUOTE
Even today, finding individuals in this subcontinent with the personality, mental excellence, and exemplary qualities needed to undertake various responsibilities remains challenging. In a feudal linguistic environment that spontaneously generates contradictory mental states and definitions in individuals, events, and movements, personal traits are marked by caprice, instability, weakness, arbitrariness, inconsistency, and an inability to be entrusted with responsibilities, standards, or moral values.
The reason, in both physical and transcendental software codes, lies in how a person’s personality shifts and slides in various directions—upward, downward, or sideways—through indicant word codes when interacting, speaking, or referring to others, or when others refer to them. This creates constant flux in their mental state. To put it simply, when someone addressed as “sir” in one context becomes “you” (lowest nee or inhi), “he” (avan or oan), or “she” (aval or olu) in another, a significant transformation occurs in their personality and quality.
This issue is not unique to this subcontinent but is likely in any region where feudal languages are spoken. Consequently, individuals may naturally exhibit a dual personality, a dark disposition, cunning, and a defensive mindset, concealed behind a faint smile, sweet words, teary eyes, empathy, or sympathetic expressions. For some in this subcontinent who lived extensively in an English linguistic environment, this demonic mental state may have been slightly diluted, but it persists as a hidden venom or fangs, always ready to strike.
When the Travancore royal family sought to modernise the bureaucratic system by emulating British-India, establishing courts, police systems, written laws, and regulations, they found no one in Travancore capable of creating, implementing, overseeing, or establishing exemplary operational conventions. The reason was that appointing anyone to such tasks would lead to the new system growing into the deplorable, base, and contemptible standards seen in government offices in Kerala today.
Knowing this, explicitly or implicitly, the Travancore royal family borrowed officials from the British-Indian government service to establish, create clear regulations for, manage, oversee, and instil exemplary operational conventions in these new government institutions. It seems most later dewans and senior officials in Travancore were from British-India, though this is not certain.
While these officials could establish high-level conventions, it seems they failed to root these qualities downward. The reason is that society operated in a feudal linguistic framework. The powerful conventions created by such malevolent languages persist as local customs, becoming unwritten operational codes and practices in official and legal contexts.
The lower classes align their behaviours and customs to the rhythm of feudal language codes, finding in them a captivating poetic beauty, rhythm, and harmony. In the melody of servitude’s chains, they hear the divine notes of a veena. Holding the strings of demeaning words from low-ranking officials, they perform a dance of subservience. They define and describe this experience in their feudal language with grandiose, ornate words, proclaiming it as their enlightenment.
QUOTE: Unfortunately, nobody could be identified within the community to do the planning / establishing & sanctifying the Project, as they did not want to involve Brahmins.
............ കാരണം അവർക്ക് ബ്രാഹ്മണരെ ഈ പദ്ധതിയിൽ ഉൾപ്പെടുത്താൻ താൽപ്പര്യമില്ലായിരുന്നു.
END OF QUOTE
Reading this sentence today may not fully convey the depth of the social reality of that time. A movement was growing that disregarded and dismissed Brahmins. However, there was no need to involve Brahmins, as Thiyyas and Brahmins are distinct communities.
Yet, the matter is not so straightforward. What was happening in society was a massive upheaval of its very structure. Consider it this way:
Police constables seize the adornments, uniforms, authority symbols, and lofty word codes of the feudal language used by IPS officers, procure official vehicles with flashing red beacons, and build a rival movement that challenges and competes with the IPS model. They cease being subordinates to IPS officers and instead elevate some among themselves to higher positions.
Today, such an idea might seem utterly absurd and impossible, a foolish notion. Similarly, before the arrival of English rule in Malabar, what some disruptive Thiyya individuals in Tellicherry attempted would have seemed equally unthinkable and impracticable.
It is unlikely that any sensible IPS officer would provide leadership, support, or blessings to such an upstart movement by police constables. Likewise, it is hard to imagine any clear-headed Brahmin supporting or taking on the role of chief priest for the rituals in this pseudo-Brahmanical temple project in Tellicherry.
Today, things are different. The term Brahmanical temple itself is no longer commonly used. One can only imagine the kind of conversations that must have taken place among Brahmins, temple-dwelling communities, and Nairs regarding the temple newly established in Tellicherry with the blessings of the Ezhava movement from Travancore.
About 30 years ago, I was staying at a lodge in a town in Kerala, not far from here. Nearby, within a large walled area, lived a group of people officially defined today as a scheduled caste (Pariahs). Despite this label, physically, they were indistinguishable from others. Yet, in conversation, people referred to them by their caste name, which made it easy to downgrade the respectful pronoun ayaal (he/she) to the derogatory avan (he) or aval (she) in an instant through word codes.
One day, an annual celebration was held in their area, with a stage set up for various performances open to all. That night, a grand drama performed by the locals took place on the stage. The dialogues, audible through loudspeakers, could be clearly heard from the lodge where I was staying, piercing the usual nighttime silence.
The characters included high-ranking police officers—an SP, DIG, DGP, and others—speaking loudly, discussing grand official matters, issuing commands, and expressing obedience or emotional outbursts in clear, dramatic phrases. These grand dialogues were performed by individuals who, in reality, were engaged in various menial jobs in that area.
The next day, I was sitting with other lodge residents, and the topic of conversation was the previous night’s drama. Many were laughing, mocking the artificial and hypocritical grandeur of the mindset displayed by those they generally labelled as lowly Pariahs. Some repeated the dialogues from the night before, mimicking them with clownish expressions, foolish laughter, and distorted faces.
One person remarked, “These fellows were prattling on, acting like DIGs, IGs, DGPs, and what not, strutting about last night!”
Some even expressed a sneering, contemptuous attitude.
But things are different today. Scheduled castes (Pariahs) have a mandatory 20 percent reservation in IAS, IPS, and other services. It’s likely that 20 out of every 100 individuals in these professions could be from such communities. There is no impossibility today in these individuals becoming DIGs, IGs, or DGPs.
The significant mental shift among Thiyyas in Tellicherry in the 1900s was not driven by reservations. Rather, it was made possible by the remarkable enlightenment brought by the English language and the presence of English rule.
Nevertheless, one can only speculate how Brahmins and their subordinates viewed the attempts by some capricious Thiyya individuals to appropriate Brahmanical traditions. In a political tradition where even Shudras (Nairs) were denied Vedic study, the Thiyyas not only ventured into such pursuits but, inspired by the Ezhava movement from Travancore, built a temple and implemented the concept of Thiyya priests in place of Brahmanical priests.
One need not elaborate on the kind of mindset Brahmins would have had upon hearing the mantras chanted by these priests. In their private spaces, didn’t they likely indulge in various jests and mocking imitations?
It must be assumed that these newly risen Thiyya officials and others found no glory in their own social traditions, family heritage, or spiritual movement. This is hardly surprising. How could individuals from a community entangled for centuries in the degrading word codes of the local feudal language, designed to enslave, take pride in their heritage?
The reality is that various enslaved communities in these southern Asian shores had to wait centuries, braving perilous seas, crossing the seven oceans with unfathomable depths, enduring fierce storms in rudimentary sailing ships with minimal technology, and carrying the English flag to finally make their way to these shores.
QUOTE: Suggestion came that a person named Sree Narayana Guru from South Kerala established couple of temples for non-Brahmins.
ദക്ഷിണ കേരളത്തിൽ രണ്ട് ക്ഷേത്രങ്ങൾ അബ്രാഹ്മണർക്കായി സ്ഥാപിച്ച ശ്രീ നാരായണ ഗുരുവെന്ന വ്യക്തിയുടെ പേര് ആരോ സൂചിപ്പിച്ചു.
END OF QUOTE
It must be understood that a few Thiyya individuals in Tellicherry, who rose to great social and familial heights under English rule, could not find a universally accepted figure among themselves. Despite their proficiency in English and familiarity with English administrative officials, they faced the predicament of needing to seek a divine figure from outside their community.
There is an English saying: Distance lends enchantment.
Far away, in the Travancore kingdom, Sree Narayana Guru, who was leading the Ezhava community to great heights, was mentioned when a few Thiyya individuals in Tellicherry gathered to form a committee. One of the most misguided notions that had taken root among them was the misconception that Ezhavas and Thiyyas were the same people. This erroneous belief, propagated by various vested interest groups, had become deeply ingrained in them.
In Travancore, the Ezhava community was, at that time, socially and otherwise considered a lowly group. It seems that prominent figures among them, such as Dr Palpu and Kumaran Asan, had created circumstances to live outside Travancore.
In Travancore, an individual named Nanu, who built Brahmanical temples, rose to become the revered Sree Narayana Guru. His actions clearly demonstrated great courage and ability as an individual. However, though rarely acknowledged, the protective shield of English rule in the Madras Presidency was a tangible reality behind his courage.
Yet, it is unclear what exactly he offered the Ezhavas. The local language was thoroughly steeped in feudal undertones. While he rose as a swami, divine figure, leader, and ascetic, the Ezhavas who saw him as their leader could not attain such status. Social freedom was gradually granted to them by the Travancore royal family, under pressure from the Madras government. What was the purpose of intruding into the Brahmanical spiritual movement and staking a claim within it?
If Ezhavas studied Sanskrit, the Vedas, Upanishads, Smritis, epic poems, and more, would they reach the level of the small group of Thiyyas in Tellicherry who had advanced socially and personally through English linguistic culture?
Instead of disrupting the traditional Brahmanical spirituality, wouldn’t it have been more beneficial to support the Travancore royal family’s efforts to gradually uplift the lower classes, providing insights, information, and guidance to steer those efforts? This question might arise in an English person’s mind. However, such a scenario was not feasible. The feudal nature of the Malayalam language made daily communication between Narayana Guru and officials appointed by the royal family impossible. His use of ningal (you, respectful plural) might not suit them, nor would their use of his mere name suit him.
If the swami addressed them with ang (respectful “you”), there was no guarantee that officials wouldn’t retort with nee (lowest “you”) when the opportunity arose. Moreover, both sides would likely use avan (lowest “he”) or avanmar (lowest “they”) in private without hesitation. This made conversations prone to discord and disharmony. Aware of this, the official establishment approached interactions with a strong police presence clearly established, much like IAS officers today approach public interactions.
Even today, in Travancore, it remains difficult for an ordinary person to converse with a police constable or a clerk in any government department while maintaining their dignity and personality. This is the case of the modern Malayali who claims great enlightenment in enlightened Kerala.
This is the problem. Even Narayana Guru could not escape this issue. The caste-based hierarchy of that time persists today between officials and the common people.
However, the socially elevated Thiyyas in Tellicherry faced no such issue. They could communicate in English with English officials without displaying any subservience.
Yet, they sought to make Sree Narayana Guru, from a distant kingdom, their leader. The sole reason for this was the need to seize social leadership of the Thiyya community in Malabar and bring them under control. Feudal languages contain word codes that provide immense incentives to play the role of a leader.
While Narayana Guru’s work can be seen as profoundly revolutionary, in the social context of Travancore at the time, it could be defined within the existing social order as defiance, insolence, disobedience, insubordination, indiscipline, misconduct, impropriety, law-breaking, disorderly behaviour, perversion, unnecessary action, or punishable conduct.
For example, a teacher addresses a student as nee (lowest “you”). A new student, well-versed in English, joins the school and addresses the teacher as nee in return. Hearing this, other students follow suit, addressing teachers as nee. When officials investigate this defiant behaviour, the student who started it recites a couple of clauses from the Indian Constitution. Indeed, teachers should not demean or address students in a derogatory manner—it’s a serious offence that could cost them their job.
After reflecting on this grave situation, the teachers collectively decide that all communication will henceforth be in English only. As a result, a community that speaks only English emerges.
Years later, they reflect on what happened. The teachers, who now interact with them as close friends, once addressed and referred to them in a derogatory manner using feudal language. Back then, they had to stand before them with great subservience. Today, that is unthinkable.
If this sounds absurd to the reader, consider this: many South Asian descendants born and raised in English-speaking countries are unaware that such degradation occurs in Indian schools. The prevailing narrative they hear is that the English enslaved “Indians” and ruled here.
QUOTE:
As the committee did not want to involve Brahmins for establishing the Temple, they entrusted Sri. Varadur Kaniyil Kunhi Kannan to visit Sree Narayana Guru at Varkala and submitted the idea that Thiyya Community should have a Temple at Thalassery, in the year 1904. Narayana Guru permitted the celebrated poet Kumaran Asan, as his representative and to convene meetings to ascertain the reaction of the people about the feasibility of a Temple for the community.
Kumaranaasan who was staying with Dr. Palpu in Bangalore accepted the invitation and consequent on his arrival the first meeting was convened at ‘Parambath House’ of Sri. Cheruvari Govindan Shirastadar on 9ᵗʰ July 1905.
END OF QUOTE
Let’s examine a few points from the above quote.
It is unclear who Sri Varadur Kaniyil Kunhi Kannan was. However, he was likely a newly affluent individual or a landowner.
It appears that Kumaran Asan and Dr Palpu were residing in Bangalore. Dr Palpu was an official under English rule, and it seems Kumaran Asan found life outside the Travancore kingdom more comfortable, likely due to the mental and social oppression faced in daily life through feudal language word codes in his homeland.
The designation of ‘celebrated poet’ for Kumaran Asan may evoke admiration and respect among some readers of his poetry, but how many people near his own home would have read his poems at that time is questionable. Those from the Nair community and above would likely address and refer to him in a derogatory manner.
Consider the case of Sri Cheruvari Govindan (CPS’ father) Shirastadar. Some might mistake Shirastadar for a family name, but it is understood to be a high-ranking, powerful position just below the district collector in the administrative hierarchy.
It can be inferred that he, too, was an individual who rose due to the influence of English rule.
QUOTE:
The report given by Kumaranaasan to Narayana Guru was - "Thiyyars are Socially and Economically forward community but they lack sound leadership". As Sree Narayana Guru was busy in awakening Ezhavas in South Kerala, he was not much keen into going Thalassery. So the committee again visited Narayana Guru and invited him to Thalassery.
END OF QUOTE
It is clear that the newly affluent Thiyya elites in Tellicherry were unaware of the realities in the Travancore kingdom. Even when the committee convened to appoint Narayana Guru as their leader, none of its members had met him in person. Meanwhile, Narayana Guru, as a young man named Nanu, had travelled and lived (and possibly worked) in British-India.
He may have been well aware that the Ezhava movement’s claims and social reform programmes held little relevance in British-India. While it is true that Thiyyas were not permitted to enter Brahmanical temples, they faced no other legal oppression. Narayana Guru’s fame stemmed from building replicas of Brahmanical temples for Ezhavas without Brahman consent. What connection this had with the social progress of Thiyyas in North Malabar remains unclear even today.
Moreover, some Thiyyas in Tellicherry, likely spanning three or four generations, had benefited from the enlightenment of English rule. Many of them likely reaped advantages in physical appearance, knowledge of classical English literature, social dignity, and personal character.
If this is the reality, planning to lead them would be unwise. The invitation from subversive elements among the Thiyyas in Tellicherry, with their disruptive tendencies and goals, required careful handling. In terms of physical attributes, English language proficiency, and social status, the newly risen Thiyya elites in Tellicherry were likely above Narayana Guru.
Imagine African Americans in the USA, hearing about a lower-caste leader from India without clear understanding and inviting them to lead their community.
The newly risen Thiyya elites in Tellicherry had no real experience of social oppression or need for an inferiority complex, as their superiors were the English. Even if the English practised severe racial discrimination, it would feel like a sweet experience. Such discrimination would only inspire them to align closely with the English.
However, if a servant from a Nair, Varyar, or Namboodiri household addressed or referred to them with terms like their mere name, entha (what), on (he), eda (hey), inji (you, derogatory), oruthan (some guy), or ol (she), these newly risen Thiyya elites would never return to such a place.
If these Thiyya elites wished to uplift the Thiyyas in the rural interiors of Malabar socially, forming a committee to create an environment for English education would suffice. However, they would never convene or plan for such a cause. If they did, the children of Kodaval Thiyyas, who maintained great devotion and affection for landlords in the interiors, would also rise socially.
In a feudal language, this would evolve into an explosive inflation of personality. If the children of Kodaval Thiyyas, who defined these new Thiyya elites with terms like etta (elder brother), etchi (elder sister), ingal (you, respectful), or (he/she, respectful), or ol (she, respectful), rose socially, they would likely use equivalent derogatory terms like mere names, on (he), ol (she), poda (go away, male), podi (go away, female), eda (hey, male), edi (hey, female), or nee ara? (who are you?) and inji ara? (who’s this?). These are not fleeting nightmares seen in sleep but a volcanic flow spreading through daydreams. The elite, their wife, and children would all melt socially.
Meanwhile, by importing a social reformer from Travancore—unknown to most Thiyyas in North Malabar—building a Brahmanical temple, and introducing it as the worship centre for matrilineal Thiyyas, the committee would gain community leadership.
QUOTE:
The report given by Kumaranaasan to Narayana Guru was - "Thiyyars are Socially and Economically forward community but they lack sound leadership". As Sree Narayana Guru was busy in awakening Ezhavas in South Kerala, he was not much keen into going Thalassery. So the committee again visited Narayana Guru and invited him to Thalassery.
END OF QUOTE
There was a significant flaw in the report Kumaran Asan gave to Narayana Guru. What he observed and experienced was the status of a few Thiyya officials and elites in the social environment sustained by English rule in Tellicherry. However, in the rural interiors and overall, the dire conditions faced by the downtrodden in Travancore did not exist in North Malabar. I do not intend to elaborate on this now.
In connection with this, I can share one or two personal experiences. Around 1980–82, a Nair classmate from Trivandrum visited my family home in Tellicherry during a wedding. Seeing the people there, he seemed to assume I belonged to an upper caste. Most individuals were fair-skinned, and the women exuded strong personalities, possibly linked to the old matrilineal system. Moreover, the middle-aged women were born and raised under English rule.
At that time, it seems even wealthy Ezhavas in Travancore lacked such personality. Today, things have significantly intermingled, but I won’t delve into that now.
Another experience was around 1977 in Quilon, while staying in a rented house owned by a Nair family. The landlord was a widowed woman. On occasion, CPS would sit and chat with her. One day, a female relative of the landlord visited. Quilon was steeped in casteist attitudes at the time, and the landlord exuded a strong Nair disposition. The visitor, the landlord, and CPS were conversing, with the assumption that CPS was also a Nair woman. The visitor shared her experiences from Tellicherry, saying, “The Thiyyas there are just like us (Nairs).”
This observation was specific to a small area in Malabar and not a general, authoritative one.
Narayana Guru might have wondered what leadership he could provide to a community in Malabar described as ‘socially and economically advanced’. Though he was a divine figure, he was also human, with all the mental states and hesitations common to humans.
It appears the subversive elements in Tellicherry had to visit him again to extend the invitation. It is unclear who went, but these were individuals capable of making multiple trips. The social barriers in Travancore did not affect them, as they were citizens of British-India, enjoying the protection of the Madras English administration even in Travancore. The presence of the British-Indian Resident in Trivandrum further ensured this.
Financially, the travel costs to Travancore were not a significant burden for them. Meanwhile, for Kodaval Thiyyas under landlords in Malabar’s interiors, even travelling ten miles could have been a major ordeal.
QUOTE:
On 23ʳᵈ March Sri Narayana Guru drove the pile for the temple construction at an auspicious moment.
END OF QUOTE
It is unclear whether Narayana Guru was aware that the matrilineal Thiyyas had their own worship practices, distinct from Hindu (Brahmanical) traditions, at the time he performed this act. It is also unknown whether he knew of another group, the patrilineal Thiyyas, located beyond the Korappuzha river. If the temple in Tellicherry was built for both groups, there is no record of their consent being obtained.
It is uncertain whether those in Tellicherry attempting to unilaterally seize leadership of the Thiyyas were aware that Narayana Guru was from a foreign land. Moreover, it is unclear whether anyone considered what authority, permission, or right Narayana Guru had to drive the pile for a Brahmanical temple. Was it proven that anyone could drive the pile for such temples and sanctify them once built?
Was there a need to bring someone from abroad to prove this?
Regardless, the significant recognition Narayana Guru received from high-ranking officials in British-India likely greatly benefited him in Travancore. In Malabar, he was known as a great social reformer from Travancore, while in Travancore, he was recognised as a figure who gained significant acclaim in British-India. This overall benefited the SNDP movement and its leaders immensely.
QUOTE:
The foundation stone was laid on 21ˢᵗ April 1906 by Sri. Kottiyath Ramunni Vakil in the presence of the great poet Kumaran Asan.
END OF QUOTE
Note here that the foundation stone was laid by a vakil (lawyer). The newly risen individuals of high social standing—senior officials, butlers, and lawyers—were the ones attempting to seize social leadership of the Thiyyas.
The high status they achieved in Malabar was something the SNDP members liked to publicise in Travancore. Just as some taxi drivers in India gaining high positions in a taxi drivers’ association in England would greatly benefit them in India, this is a similar reality.
However, if one considers what relevance Indian taxi drivers fighting for dignified treatment from officials would have in England, the same question applies here.
When stated this way, it seems worthwhile to list the social changes experienced by Thiyyas in Tellicherry who had the opportunity to work closely with the English administration.
Some rose as traders supplying spices, toddy products, and vegetables to the East India Company on a contract basis. Many Thiyyas became private landowners. Some became building contractors. When railways began in British-India, several Thiyya individuals worked as engine drivers alongside Anglo-Indians, a role that likely required strong English proficiency. When motor cars emerged, many Thiyyas demonstrated exceptional skill in driving them.
In the English East India Company’s army, Thiyya individuals were appointed as subedars and jemadars. They served as soldiers alongside Nairs in forts at Dharmadam, Maliyankunnu, Morakkunnu, and other places. A 1936 official letter from the Government of Madras mentions a military regiment primarily composed of Thiyyas in earlier times.
It is noted that Thiyyas secured many clerical positions in the police department. In 1859, a Thiyya named Churayi Kanaran served as a deputy collector in Malabar district (the date’s accuracy is uncertain). Within a few decades, Thiyyas and other lower communities secured various government positions, some likely gaining significant English proficiency.
During a specific period, all ten tahsildars in Malabar district’s taluks were Thiyya individuals (the exact years are unclear).
Notable figures included deputy collectors like Churayi Kanaran and Uppottu Kannan; sub-judges like Panangadan Kannan and Diwan Bahadur E.K. Krishnan; tahsildars like Churayi Raman, Karayi Govindan, and Ondene Kunjambu; and vakils like Kunjappa, Kottiyath Ramunni, and Oyitti Krishnan.
Newspapers like Malabar Spectator and Kerala Sanchari were started by Thiyyas. There were also notable editors, journalists, and teachers. The first women from Malabar to earn doctorates, Ayyath Janaki and Murkoth Madhavi, were Thiyyas.
Thiyyas joined various government jobs. It is unclear how upper castes tolerated this, as these employees could enter upper-caste homes with the authority of their positions. However, with English officials above them, it can be inferred that officials were obliged to treat the public with utmost respect.
In Tellicherry, an English-administered region, while conditions were as described, in Travancore, lower communities lived in near social suffocation, oppressing each other. Bringing a revolutionary leader from such a group to Tellicherry and positioning him as a divine figure, spiritual guru, or great leader above the socially elevated Thiyyas was, it seems, a significant mistake.
For most Thiyyas who rose in Tellicherry, the greatest distress likely came from seeing Thiyyas below them rise. Though proficient in English, their minds and thoughts remained rooted in local feudal languages. If avan (he) or ivan (this fellow) rose unchecked, it would be problematic. Tying them down with ropes of control ensured social security. Having a Brahmanical temple in hand is indeed advantageous.
QUOTE:
It was on 13ᵗʰ February 1908 that Narayana Guru consecrated the Temple and named it Sri Jagannath Temple and the administrating committee was named as "Gnanodaya Yogam". (Though Narayana Guru was the President and Kumaranaasan was the Secretary of SNDP, they were not interested to add the temple or Thiyya community in the clutches of SNDP !!!)
1END OF QUOTE
Narayana Guru likely understood that including Thiyyas from Tellicherry—who had gained significant social freedoms, English proficiency, and official positions under English rule—in the SNDP could cause considerable cultural and psychological disruptions in its operations and activities. This was because the Thiyyas in Tellicherry, who flourished under the enlightenment of English rule, and the Ezhavas in Travancore, perceived as a downtrodden community, stood at opposite extremes in terms of social, cultural, English language proficiency, and social dignity.
The former group had English proficiency and the presence of the English administration, which elevated their mental horizons to great heights. Most of the latter group lacked English proficiency, social dignity, and had their mental horizons suppressed under the oppressive word codes of feudal language, like a canopy pressing down on them.
QUOTE:
After this function, Thiyyas became followers of Sri Narayana Guru. This was the first relation between Thiyya and Ezhava. After independence, during compiling the constituency the then Government clubbed Thiyya and Ezhava together.
END OF QUOTE
It is unclear how much truth there is in claiming that all Thiyyas became followers of Narayana Guru after the establishment of the pseudo-Brahmanical Jagannath Temple in Tellicherry. With the formation of India as a nation, the downtrodden in Travancore gained all social freedoms formally overnight. The creation of the Travancore-Cochin state and the advent of democracy likely greatly benefited the SNDP and its leaders.
However, they did not gain control of Malabar at that time. Multiple factions in Travancore likely aimed to seize Malabar, with the SNDP possibly being one of them. It seems almost certain that annexing Malabar to the Travancore-Cochin state would have brought both Thiyya groups under SNDP control.
The situation somewhat resembles present-day England. The English language, as a local tongue, allows private English individuals to easily converse and discuss matters with government officials. However, South Asian citizens cannot do so. Instead, the Constitution grants them the freedom to “react.” They can react anywhere and then go home! Feudal languages here do not facilitate resolving issues through dialogue and mutual understanding without problems.
A comment seen below a YouTube video states:
QUOTE 1:
Remember, the police have no authority to seize our personal ID proof, mobile phone, etc. We must react against such wrongful tendencies.
END OF QUOTE
The local language does not allow most people to speak with police personnel while maintaining their dignity. Addressing them as “sir” inflates their ego. Using ningal (respectful “you”) may cause significant emotional disturbance. The personnel might respond with than (informal “you”) or nee (lowest “you”). If an ordinary person reciprocates with than or nee, matters escalate into serious issues. In the past, Nairs would take such insolent lower-caste individuals to an isolated hut, tie them up, beat them, break their limbs, and starve them. While this no longer happens to that extent, something close to it still occurs.
A response to the above comment reveals further ignorance (other instances of ignorance are also noted):
QUOTE 2:
Then who has the authority to seize them? Please tell us… If law enforcers don’t have that right, who does?
END OF QUOTE
These comments can be found under the YouTube video with ID: I3d21cj9Do.
I won’t delve into this now. The point is the similarity between the English in England and the Thiyyas in Malabar. The English refer to the Anglo-Saxon ethnic group. They have no strong organization named “Anglo-Saxon” in England or elsewhere. If one exists, it is rarely mentioned. The main reason is that they likely never felt the need for such organizational strength, as their language inherently provides each individual with personal dignity, self-respect, communication skills, and the ability to interact socially without barriers.
Meanwhile, most others form organizations by rallying their people and aligning with officials from their community. They address their reactions, concerns, and issues through this organizational strength. The above comment urges people to “react,” but the language’s word codes do not grant individuals the right to converse.
In some Indian states, Malayalis form organizations under certain government officials. The person responding to the above comment demeaned the original commenter as an “over-smart avan (he)” but this is not quoted here.
In England, such external communities’ organizations are often engaged in private efforts to seize English facilities, regions, institutions, and individuals in their native languages. The English lack a collective organization to counter such encroachments, and any existing ones fail to understand these external communities’ intentions.
The story of the two distinct Thiyya groups in Malabar seems similar, though I lack definitive information. The Thiyyas in Tellicherry, in particular, stand out. Under English rule, educated Thiyyas had strong English proficiency and faced no oppression from the administration.
Why, then, did the Thiyyas need an organization? They had no need to confront Nairs or Brahmins. If Brahmins and their allies had Brahmanical temples, Thiyyas had their own, like Muthappan temples.
In Travancore, meanwhile, not only some Ezhavas but also Brahmins and Nairs likely had organizations, and even Pulayas may have had them. Some of these organizations seemed to thrive on conflict.
Through significant strategic manoeuvres, when Malabar was integrated with the Travancore-Cochin state to form Kerala in 1956, a vast region opened up for the Ezhava-led SNDP. It seems there was no Thiyya organization in Malabar to counter the SNDP’s self-interested plans.
In England today, outsiders have overwhelmed and eroded English traditions. Malabar faced a similar fate: a cultural onslaught from Hindi culture and its lack thereof on one side, and an invasion from Travancore’s Malayalam culture and its deficiencies on the other.
Malabar traditionally had various social shortcomings, which gained strength and spread to Travancore. Simultaneously, Travancore’s severe social deficiencies spread to Malabar. Today, everything is muddled. Not a trace remains of the invaluable cultural heritage provided by English rule.
With the Indian rupee’s value naturally and artificially devalued, Kerala today sees significant financial inflow compared to other Indian states. In the dazzle of this wealth, the distorted reality of many issues seems unnoticed.
This is a complex matter, which I won’t delve into now.
The point is this: bringing the Thiyyas of British Malabar under the Travancore-based SNDP was, it seems, like catching a mountain and tying it under a squirrel’s control.
To discuss how Travancore annexed Malabar and the seemingly minor yet profoundly impactful changes in social structure and growth trajectories, this writing must progress further.
To begin writing about those matters, one would need to follow the path of CPS, who grew up educated in British-Malabar, joined the Madras State Civil Service as an officer, transitioned to the Kerala government when Kerala was formed, worked in Malabar for some time, and later moved to Travancore.
Such matters cannot be written about now. Therefore, instead of tracing that path, it seems appropriate to provide some indications and details about how the Thiyya community might have merged with the Ezhavas.
It appears that Nehru, using military threats, forced Travancore to submit, making it part of India. This likely allowed Ezhavas to join government service at any level overnight. The merits and drawbacks of this can be examined later.
Ezhavas, along with various other traditional lower communities, secured significant reservations in government jobs. While this may seem positive, if there had been a more merit-based alternative, such reservations could be deemed utterly nonsensical. Unfortunately, no such alternative existed.
The hidden deceit within these reservations was that, in Travancore at the time, government jobs were not merely employment but a social status, a fact well-known to all. This understanding seems less prevalent among the general public in British-Malabar, where English rule had erased such traditional regional knowledge from people’s minds.
In British-Malabar, individuals with social dignity could address any government official as ningal (respectful “you”). Those with less social standing would humbly use ingal (a deferential term). Though seemingly minor, this created a vast, mountain-like difference in the dignity and mental calibre of British-Malabar’s people compared to those in Travancore.
I won’t delve into this path now.
In British-India, it seems some form of reservations existed for the lowest communities (today’s scheduled tribes), though details are unclear today. In the 1930s, the Congress ministry governed the Madras Presidency. When Minister Sri Prakash visited Tellicherry, some Thiyyas requested that Thiyyas be classified as a backward community and granted reservations. However, many prominent Thiyyas in Tellicherry opposed this, asserting that Thiyyas were not backward. This mindset arose from the enlightenment of English rule.
After meeting several Thiyyas, Minister Sri Prakash reportedly remarked how such an elevated community could be considered backward. He observed Thiyyas with refined attire and strong English proficiency. He may have been a native of Madras, and his name appears as a Chief Minister of the Madras Presidency during that era.
A minor point: during English rule, the Madras Presidency and other presidencies were governed by ministries led by regional parties, a detail often omitted in formal historical accounts today.
The idea of reservations for Thiyyas was reportedly unappealing to many prominent Thiyyas in Tellicherry. Even Govindan (CPS’ father) opposed it. English rule had instilled in them a lofty mindset that they were not backward in any way.
With the merger of Malabar and Travancore, significant differences began to emerge. I won’t delve into those now. Ezhavas received reservations in Travancore, but it’s unclear when Thiyyas did. With Kerala’s formation in 1956, Malabar seemed to sink into a deep sea geographically. Everything was decided in Trivandrum, where, despite some English proficiency, English administrative traditions were entirely absent. More on that later.
Various reservations began appearing everywhere. Professional colleges had categories like Malabar Merit and Travancore-Cochin (TC) Merit.
In Travancore, self-interested motives seemed to pervade everything. Malabar had not yet experienced significant merit in government jobs, as English rule had instilled the notion that government employees were subordinate to the public. In Travancore, however, it was openly accepted that government employees were social overlords, while the public were donkeys.
In Travancore, Ezhava interest groups, without hindrance, recorded Thiyyas as Ezhavas at the government level. Initially, Thiyya was documented as distinct from Ezhava in caste records, but gradually, Thiyyas were listed alongside Ezhavas.
Later, Thiyyas were recorded as a sub-caste under Ezhavas. These changes were made slowly in Trivandrum’s Secretariat. Meanwhile, Malabar’s two distinct Thiyya groups, caught in their social anxieties, struggled individually, fought each other, clashed with other local communities, and wasted time. This mirrors the covert efforts in Delhi’s Secretariat to promote Hindi nationwide. Today, many state citizens proudly learn Hindi, unaware they’ve been fooled—or if aware, they’re content.
Many Thiyyas take pride in being a sub-group of the grand Ezhava community. However, it’s worth noting that in Malabar, many Thiyya families have intermingled with Ezhava bloodlines. Thus, the historical shortcomings mentioned above may not be shortcomings for them. Today, in Malabar, many families claiming Thiyya identity include individuals with very dark or near-dark complexions, suggesting intermingling with Ezhavas or other communities.
Alternatively, such families may distinctly be Ezhavas or another group. This transformation among Thiyyas likely took around 200 years—roughly 15 generations—for Thiyyas to become a sub-caste under Ezhavas.
Historically, this is a significant development: a community with no connection to Malabar being subsumed under another’s identity.
A similar issue faces the English in England today. Outsiders are gradually subordinating them. Since this happens slowly, many English fail to notice or understand it. If this continues, one can only imagine the state of English society in 200 years. Falling under feudal language speakers, whose natural code is to crush and suppress those beneath them, is inevitable.
William Logan’s depiction in the Malabar Manual of North Malabar’s Thiyyas bears little connection to most Thiyyas today. See the quote:
QUOTE:
In appearance some of the women are almost as fair as Europeans, and it may be said in a general way that to a European eye the best favoured men and women to be found in the district are the inhabitants of ancient Kadattunad, Iruvalinad, and Kottayam, of whom a large proportion belong to the Tiyan or planting community.
END OF QUOTE
CPS was first appointed as a government officer in Travancore just before the 1970s. At that time, many in Travancore’s general public were unaware of who the Thiyyas were or their caste status. Travancore was then rife with intense caste-based conflicts.
Ezhavas harboured significant mental resentment and opposition toward higher castes. Meanwhile, in private, Nairs often spoke disparagingly of Ezhavas, sometimes using terms like kotti or chovvan. Kotti refers to tapping toddy from coconut palms, implying a lowly task, as toddy collection was considered degrading.
As a relatively young government officer with strong English proficiency, a fair complexion, and children well-versed in English, CPS was often mistaken for a Nair or Brahmin. Communicating in English with other officers and superiors in Travancore was itself an unusual social experience. More on this later.
(A point to clarify: today, the term officer in Kerala government circles and public perception is being reduced to mean peon or clerk. The term officer above does not refer to this degraded sense.)
In Alleppey, Quilon, and Trivandrum, CPS often rented homes owned by Nairs. Many of them displayed a clear disgust toward Ezhavas. However, I recall no one showing such an attitude toward CPS. Often, they treated CPS as someone of higher status.
Consequently, Nairs frequently expressed their disdain for Ezhavas in CPS’s presence, using derogatory terms without hesitation.
At the same time, I sense that Ezhava government clerks may have tried to imply CPS was “just an Ezhava” like them. Though our household lacked casteist thoughts, I believe CPS maintained an attitude that we were not Ezhavas.
Moving from the high standards of English administration to Travancore’s low-grade government official environment, CPS’s innate English-rooted official conduct clashed significantly with the local, customary practices in government offices. I won’t delve into this now. However, in Alleppey, a major corruption allegation was orchestrated by some subordinate staff, sent to the Vigilance Department through unknown channels. Small local newspapers in Alleppey also published such reports.
I won’t delve into these developments now. The absurdity of this allegation was that it was initiated by government employees steeped in corruption. CPS, a Malabar officer cadre member who never accepted a single paisa in bribes, faced this. A trait common in this cadre was a lack of hesitation in critiquing those of lower calibre, which I believe CPS also exhibited. However, English rule had vanished, and the setting was Travancore, where official culture was utterly perverse.
The ability to communicate clearly in English without subservience was fading. In Travancore, few state government officers had English proficiency. This does not refer to IAS/IPS officers, who likely had strong English skills then. I lack precise experience to confirm this.
Though the Vigilance Department began investigating, CPS likely did not take it seriously. Rooted in British-Malabar’s English administrative traditions until 1947, CPS probably thought, “I haven’t committed any corruption, so why worry about such complaints?”
However, while serving as District Registrar in Quilon, two police officers entered CPS’s office one day, sent by the Vigilance DySP. They requested CPS to visit the Vigilance office for the investigation.
In English-speaking environments, attending such discussions, inquiries, or negotiations—whether going to them or having them come to you—causes little psychological difference. In feudal language regions, however, this is not the case. When an individual enters another’s power centre without support, the invisible frameworks of language codes subdue them. It likely took the English some time during colonial rule to understand this.
I believe CPS was aware of this. Operating within the framework of British-Malabar’s English official practices until 1947, CPS reportedly told the police:
“This is also a government office. Inform the DySP they can come here to speak with me.”
The police left. Soon after, the DySP arrived—a person with decent English proficiency. They asked several questions, which CPS answered clearly. With the confidence of never having taken bribes, CPS spoke without weakness.
The DySP’s conduct was not poor. The conversation was mostly in English. Before leaving, the DySP recorded CPS’s name, family details, and mother’s name.
After the DySP left and the incident began fading from memory, CPS received a copy of the Vigilance Department’s investigation report. Reading it likely shocked CPS. It branded CPS a major corrupt figure, supported by various justifications. It was clear a deeply vindictive person prepared the report.
CPS couldn’t understand why this person harboured such animosity. Knowing the DySP’s name, CPS inquired about them among subordinate staff.
Some Ezhava employees had clear information. The DySP was the son of a locally prominent SNDP leader. These employees suggested contacting the DySP’s father.
They did so. Days later, the father revealed that when asked, the DySP admitted, “I’ve thoroughly trapped that Pattar woman with the report. Prosecution is certain.”
CPS then understood why the DySP recorded her mother’s name. In Travancore, it was reportedly customary to record Namboodiri women’s mothers’ names in government records.
The matter became clear. The long-standing Ezhava animosity toward Brahmins and Nairs manifested in the DySP’s actions against CPS, a matrilineal Thiyya from Tellicherry, trained in the English traditions, practices, and personality of British-Malabar.
Some years ago, a person approached me. One of their children needed to apply for the NEET exam, the entrance test for MBBS. Using my internet facilities and computer, the online application could be submitted conveniently.
This person was a Thiyya, and the application needed to include eligibility for seat reservations linked to their caste. When entering this information in the online form, the details shown in the image above appeared. As soon as this information surfaced, I took a screenshot and saved it in a private Telegram channel I had created. The image above is a copy of that.
No historian, however knowledgeable, would need much insight to deduce from this document that Thiyya is listed as a community subordinate to Ezhavas within the Ezhava category.
However, seeing such an erroneous, perverse, and deliberately falsified ethnographic record caused me some unease. This is because such records impose the historical and social experiences, grievances, claims, reactions, protests, and street battles of Ezhavas onto the traditions and heritage of the two Thiyya groups in South and North Malabar. These Malabar traditions, histories, and spiritual practices risk being subsumed, disrupted, and appropriated by another community. For instance, if North Malabar’s Muthappan spiritual movement fell into the hands of Travancore’s SNDP and Ezhavas, it would be utterly ruined.
Yet, for the Thiyya individual applying for the NEET exam, this was no issue. Whatever the category or community, however absurdly decided, it didn’t matter. Today, modern caste hierarchies based on new codes of status hold sway. The goal is for their children to become doctors, no matter how.
Government employees, doctors, advocates, journalists, and teachers in government colleges and schools are the new upper castes.
Among them, doctors, advocates, and journalists can display status symbols on their vehicles, attire, and residences. One cannot blame them for this. When noticed, these symbols prompt police and the public to address them with Brahmin-like deference.
Typically, when such symbols are spotted on vehicles, police exempt these individuals from checks. They may even have explicit instructions not to use common language with them.
Discussing such matters is deeply distasteful. Constitutional provisions for citizens’ dignity are reduced to mere farce by these realities.
Before mobile cameras, Travancore police would slap individuals they deemed insignificant, especially while driving. Ordinary citizens who responded or retorted faced such treatment.
Police first ensured the absence of titles like doctor, advocate, or journalist before acting.
About thirty years ago, another person took me along for moral support to discuss a matter with a police inspector at a station in a distant town. For me, it was a time of little social standing, my body frail, like sun-scorched straw. Yet, despite my withered frame, the English “software” pulsing in my mind, imparting vitality, never faltered.
The complainant, defendant, and their groups all bowed before the inspector with gestures akin to Hindu spiritual prostrations—sashtanga, danda, or pada namaskaram—as if venerating a divine soul. But a scrawny figure stood without bowing. The inspector’s mental state seemed to border on schizophrenia. My clear, honest answers to his startling questions held no deference, which he sought rather than the content of my replies. I had no connection to the dispute.
The inspector grew agitated. A Travancorean, he was unsettled when another policeman entered for an unrelated matter. He ordered the policeman to interrogate me and gestured to slap me.
The policeman, around thirty, asked questions but refused to slap me despite the inspector’s gestures. Furious, the inspector berated him. The policeman’s words still linger: “My dear sir, what are you saying?”
This incident has no direct link to the misclassification of Thiyyas in government records. However, it touched on the social dominance and preferential treatment afforded to doctors, advocates, and journalists through language codes, which I’ll elaborate on before returning to the main thread.
More needs to be said about the incident with the Travancorean inspector, who likely had a habit of striking people.
Some time later, while on traffic duty at Kerala’s border, this inspector stopped two youths from another state entering Kerala on a motorcycle, per newspaper reports. He questioned them, and their response may have lacked subservience or used ningal (respectful “you”). In Malabar, ningal was common until the mid-1990s, but formal education later framed it as offensive when used with officials.
The inspector likely slapped one of the youths. In Travancore, this was not unusual historically. People raised enduring slaps and abuse from teachers were trained by Malayalam education to tolerate and forget such treatment from an inspector.
However, two differences arose. The location was not Travancore, and, crucially, the slapped youth was an advocate practising in a district court. Within days, the issue escalated. The court, unwilling to forgive an assault on its “officer,” pursued the case. A trial followed, and newspapers reported an arrest order for the inspector. Matters likely went no further, as both parties belonged to the upper echelons of feudal language codes.
Such incidents are rare because doctors and advocates promptly declare their status. Delay risks hearing terms like eda, edi, or nee (derogatory “you”).
Recently in Trivandrum, a senior official, allegedly drunk, killed a person by crashing into them. Language code confusion reportedly occurred. The police inspector addressed the IAS officer as nee, without knowing that it was an IAS officer that he was addressing. Even the constable followed suit, humiliating the officer. Yet, without revealing his IAS status, the officer used a verbal weapon—declaring that he was a doctor—to escape the degrading language codes.
It’s unclear if officials supporting feudal languages are aware of this issue. Even an can elephant fall. However in feudal languages, the fall isn’t to the ground but into the stench of feudal language cesspool codes.
In the previous writing, I noted a record that referred to the Tiyya people as a sub-caste under the Ezhava people. I intend to mention a couple of points about another matter found in that record before moving forward.
The matter concerns the question of whether one has studied Sanskrit. The first point to consider is what relevance this question has for admission to a medical college. The second point is whether there is any connection between Sanskrit and Malabar. The Malayalam language today is steeped in Sanskrit words.
However, there is only one connection between this Malayalam and the ancient language of Malabar, also called Malayalam, and that is in name alone. It seems the relationship between the two types of Tiyya people is similar to two people sharing the same name. Due to this issue, I have started referring to the ancient language of Malabar as Malabari. This is because using the term Malayalam, its ancient name, when discussing the language of Malabar can cause confusion with the Malayalam created in Travancore.
There is even a suspicion in my mind that the antiquity of the Malabari language may have been cleverly exploited to secure classical language status for Malayalam.
I plan to elaborate later on the insights that have arisen in my mind regarding the differences between these two languages. It seems unlikely that the shamanistic spirituality of the Tiyya people would have Sanskrit traditions, as Sanskrit traditions are understood to belong to Brahminism.
Today, things are thoroughly muddled. Over centuries, hundreds of communities traditionally outside Brahminism, who were considered lower castes, have infiltrated and proliferated within Brahminism. As a result, the true inheritors of Brahminism—the Brahmin people—seem to have been pushed to the outer fringes of Hinduism, which is like a shell of Brahminism. This is my impression.
Among those who have infiltrated are two groups of Tiyya people. Consequently, because they have studied and begun speaking the Travancore language of Malayalam, and because they have been enjoying old Malayalam film songs on YouTube, these two groups of Tiyya people may have appropriated Sanskrit traditions, heritage, and antiquity as if it were their ancestral legacy. From this perspective, it might seem that their heritage includes Sanskrit. However, if one traces back about ten to fifty years along this line of thinking, this Sanskrit heritage in the Tiyya tradition fades and eventually becomes untraceable.
Even in texts from the early 1900s, I do not recall seeing names of Tiyya individuals associated with Sanskrit traditions.
Now, let me return to the main thread of the writing.
I recall seeing indications in Edgar Thurston’s works about Ezhava migrations to various parts of Malabar. However, I have observed some shortcomings in the writings of English colonial administrative officers.
These are as follows:
Local officers significantly contributed to the creation of such texts. Often, they may have provided the information. Alternatively, they may have written certain chapters. If not, they may have written specific paragraphs or lines within chapters. Furthermore, when entrusted with proofreading or editing the manuscripts of such texts, these local officers may have added information of interest to them, removed information they disliked, or altered key adjectives, thereby changing the gravity, authenticity, importance, prominence, tone, grandeur, meaning, or implied significance of the information presented.
The reason for stating this is that I recall noticing that the information provided about the Tiyya people in different parts of Edgar Thurston’s works is sometimes contradictory or presents conflicting perspectives. It seems that these pages reflect different experiences and observations of different individuals.
The harsh feudal linguistic codes may have thrown the Tiyya people into various social directions and ups and downs, which could explain this.
It seems that Ezhavas had migrated to areas adjacent to Koothuparamba, just east of Tellicherry. I cannot recall the specific record that led to this impression. However, I recall that long ago, in areas near Tellicherry, among fair-skinned Tiyya people, there were individuals with very dark skin tones. Today, I am reflecting on these memories in the context of this writing.
In the 1980s, I recall reading in an English newspaper a sociological study report examining the intense clashes and bloodshed between Communist and Congress activists in Cannanore district. It found that these incidents were a continuation of conflicts that began long ago between local Tiyya people in the Tellicherry region and Ezhavas who had migrated to the Koothuparamba areas.
When Malabar was integrated with Travancore, significant differences emerged at the administrative level. Though this is not the place to delve deeply into this, I will mention a few points.
In Malabar, until 1947, officers served under the Madras Presidency Civil Service, and thereafter, under the Madras State Civil Service in the newly formed Indian state of Madras. Middle-level officers and above were direct recruits, proficient in English and well-versed in egalitarian ideals, as I understand it.
In Travancore, the situation was different. At the top of government departments were individuals directly appointed by the royal family, while below them were clerks who, through gradual promotions, rose to higher ranks. In other words, officers at the district level and above were those who had climbed from clerical positions. Generally, their proficiency in English was quite limited. Their approach to people was often shaped by a mindset rooted in Malayalam hierarchical language, such as "I am adheham (highest he)," while addressing others as mere avan or aval (lowest he/she).
When Malabar and the Travancore-Cochin State were integrated, at the government level, it was as if a highly auspicious, pleasant, and pure movement was merged with one that was entirely opposite—inauspicious, unpleasant, malicious, harmful, and destructive. I plan to discuss this topic more extensively later.
With the formation of Kerala, many government departments saw senior positions under IAS/IPS cadres filled by English-speaking officers from the Malabar Cadre. Naturally, among them were numerous Travancore officers who thought in Malayalam and were inappropriately labeled as "officers."
I will pause this topic for now. However, my point is that some officers from the Malabar Cadre in Trivandrum were Tiyya. They were likely well-educated in English and operated according to official English protocols. Others may have held a good impression of them. I lack direct experience to say this with certainty.
One day, while I was at a Nair (Pillai) household, conversing with the middle-aged lady of the house, she asked about my caste. It seems there was a social custom in Travancore at the time to inquire about caste. If this was about understanding someone’s race or ethnographic details, it would not be an issue. However, the matter is not so simple, and I won’t delve into that now.
I replied that my caste was Tiyya and that people in Travancore had little knowledge of this caste. The woman responded with great admiration, saying that one of the officers in her husband’s office was a Tiyya. Her tone suggested that Tiyya people were held in high esteem. At the time, I was unaware of the complexities of such matters, as I rarely visited Malabar.
However, around 1983, a person from the Koduvally Tiyya community visited Trivandrum. I knew this person from Malabar. He was young, a follower of Govindan (CPS’ father). Since he was unfamiliar with Trivandrum, I accompanied him to some places. At a government office, we met another young Tiyya man from his hometown, a clerk.
This man had no knowledge of English, came from a starkly contrasting social background to the Tiyya officers of the Malabar Cadre, and displayed a relatively inferior demeanor. Yet, he was also a Tiyya. At the time, things were not clear in my mind. How could individuals with the same caste name have such contrasting social standings?
However, in Tellicherry and other areas, a large group of Tiyya people existed who did not have access to the English-language environment provided by British rule. Most of them lived as laborers, followers, or dependents of local landlords and chieftains. Some may have owned small patches of farmland.
When viewed through the lens of India’s freedom struggle, this group refused to be enslaved by the British. Loyal to their landlords, chieftains, village heads, and authorities, they lived wearing simple mundu (dhotis), bare-chested, with palm-leaf caps on their heads. They sat on mats under the verandas of landlords’ homes, chewing betel leaves mixed with lime and areca nut, spitting in the courtyard or beyond, wiping their lips, and living with great patriotism.
The men worked in the landlords’ coconut groves and fields, in sun or rain. The landlords’ agents addressed them by name, using terms like oan (lowest he), or sometimes eda, enthada, or enthaane. They were often referred to as aittungal (items) and paid meager wages.
The women of this group, along with other agents and laborers, carried baskets to collect coconuts from hills and other areas, often uninhabited. They returned to their huts in the evenings.
This group desperately needed reservations in government service. Moreover, government regulations needed to be adjusted to address the way their agents and others treated them in the highlands. The English language itself might need to be eradicated from the administrative system.
In Travancore’s early days, Ezhava people claimed that Tiyya officers in government were Ezhavas, while Tiyya officers silently disagreed. However, with the arrival of Malabar Cadre Tiyya officers, who were the polar opposite of these Tiyya, Ezhavas did not need to explicitly point this out. In Travancore, many such Tiyya began learning new historical narratives.
Narayana Guru and the SNDP fought tirelessly for the social upliftment of Tiyya people.
Readers should note that, in reality, the Koduvally Tiyya are the polar opposite of the Vaishya Tiyya, not the Tiyya who worked closely with the British. However, in Travancore, at the official level, both Koduvally and Vaishya Tiyya stood almost identically opposite to the Malabar Cadre officers, especially if their English proficiency was low.
Broadly speaking, Malabar Cadre officers were a novelty in Travancore. At the same time, in Malabar, clerks and peons in government service were distinct from them. However, for Malabaris newly joining as clerks or peons in Travancore’s government service, the Malayalam language itself was novel to some extent. Most had gained some proficiency in Travancore’s Malayalam through formal education. Still, their spoken language often included Malabari words, which is indeed a fact.
It is not incorrect to say that various types of workers have existed in England over time. Due to its geographical proximity to continental Europe, a noble class also emerged in England. At the same time, Irish, Welsh, and Scottish communities have long existed in close proximity to England.
It seems that the English language itself largely shaped the personality of England’s working class.
I won’t delve into those complexities now. However, things were quite different in the South Asian subcontinent.
In this region, there existed—and still exists—a distinct group of workers, both male (panikkaran) and female (panikkari). There are also those who employ them. In Kerala, the phenomenon of Gulf money has, to some extent, blurred these class distinctions in certain areas, which is a reality.
Nevertheless, significant differences in linguistic codes often persist between workers and employers. Workers are addressed as nee (lowest you), avan (lowest he), or aval (lowest she), while employers are called angoo (sir), sar (sir), maadam (highest she), adheham (highest he), or avaru (highest he/she). These are well-known distinctions.
In some worker-employer relationships, linguistic codes aligned with respect or condescension may be used to reinforce hierarchical distinctions. For example, when a worker is older than the employer, two conflicting hierarchical codes may come into play. I have seen instances where, based on age, a worker addresses the employer as nee (lowest you).
Moreover, some workers may use these codes in reverse, as a form of defiance.
There is much to say about these matters, which I plan to address later.
Around 1982, I overheard a conversation in a village market just beyond Deverkovil. That area felt like the edge of the world, a remote hinterland. Yet, the market had two extremes: socially prominent local figures and mere workers.
A young man, about 24 years old, from a prominent Tiyya landlord family with vast coconut groves, stood before a female worker, around 45 years old. The age difference was stark. In a commanding yet polite tone, the young man said to the worker:
“Nanee, inhi (lowest you) must go with the basket tomorrow.”
He addressed a woman older than his mother by her first name and inhi (lowest you). While such address was not unusual locally, it struck me, coming from Trivandrum, as significant. I was raised to respect age, and I was about 21 at the time.
The worker stood with a submissive demeanor under the influence of the inhi address, responding with ingal (you, respectfully). I pointed out to the young man the impropriety of addressing an older woman by her name and inhi. He reacted as if I had said something foolish, responding:
“What else would you call a Tiyyatti (female Tiyya worker) if not inhi?”
Notably, this young man was also a Tiyya. However, he distinguished Tiyya workers (Tiyyan and Tiyyatti) as separate from higher-status Tiyya like himself.
If the linguistic codes of this conversation were reversed, the landlord would be inhi and the worker ingal. This would not necessarily signify social progress but could indicate a social shift.
Who one aligns with is significant. Aligning with workers allows them to feel closer to you, which higher-status individuals may consciously avoid. In Travancore, when Pulaya Christians began entering churches built by the London Missionary Society for Ezhava Christians, the Ezhavas distanced themselves. They reasoned that associating with Pulayas would jeopardize their ties with Nair households. The broader reality is that if Nairs closely engaged with Ezhavas who associated with Pulayas, their matters and references would carry the stigma of lowly linguistic codes. Such associations significantly alter linguistic codes, a reality rarely acknowledged but critically important.
The language and address used by the young man toward the worker, though seemingly minor, have profound social, psychological, and relational implications. These linguistic codes have impacted countless interpersonal relationships, official institutions, military discipline and efficiency, police department dynamics and discipline, individual mental stress, and more in Indian society. They are also tied to greed for money, reluctance to work, and numerous other issues.
In the military, young officers address even much older soldiers as nee (lowest you), following the same linguistic codes described above, fostering strict discipline and subservience. However, there are additional realities, which I will address later.
Some police constables are addressed as nee by IAS/IPS officers, while others are called ningal (respectful you). This, too, is significant and will be discussed later.
Decades ago, near Nadapuram, east of Calicut, lived a prominent Vaishya Tiyya landlord and social figure. He had a wife and children, maintaining a respectable family environment. He owned farmland in the hills with a house-like residence.
He lived there with a young female worker, with whom he had a daughter. He provided the worker with many amenities to raise the child. In an English social context, this would be a problematic family situation, with a husband having a child with another woman.
However, in feudal linguistic codes, additional complexities arise. The worker shared the same social status as other workers. Other workers, their kin, agents, and employers addressed her as inhi (lowest you) or olu (lowest she), while she called some ettan (elder brother) or echi (elder sister).
When the Vaishya Tiyya man interacted closely with this woman and their daughter, he had to create an artificial linguistic barrier. Alternatively, he would need to relocate her elsewhere, which was not easy or feasible.
Regarding this relationship and the marriage of their daughter, someone remarked to me:
“She’s just a panikkaratti (female worker), isn’t she?”
This description carried a profound definition, difficult to convey in English. The word nee (inhi) can be used in contexts of sweet affection, binding friendship, barren relationships, harsh commands, or as a weapon to wound adversaries. It can be a drop of honey, a mere link, or a weapon.
How a single word can carry such diverse, opposing meanings is remarkable. The intricate coding in sophisticated software systems that design language reflects this complexity.
What is subtly indicated here is how, over centuries, the invisible workings of feudal linguistic codes have gradually transformed the Tiyya people into diverse mental, physical, social, and other personalities.
The operation of linguistic codes can be slow or rapid, depending on the context.
With the formation of India, it seems that the SNDP and its direct opponent, the NSS, competed to establish schools, arts, science, and professional colleges. I do not have clear or precise details about these matters. However, I believe I have heard that Narayana Guru proclaimed that rather than temples, more schools should be established. I do not recall clearly.
It seems that the idea of providing public education to the children of the masses was first introduced and implemented in this subcontinent by British governance. I do not know whether anyone had implemented this in any region of this subcontinent before them.
Keeping in mind today’s barren and aimless education system, it is impossible to understand the plan that British governance attempted to implement.
This topic can be taken up for a clearer discussion later, as what is meant by education needs to be explained. This is not the place to delve into that matter.
Nevertheless, I will say this much: I understand that British officers observed certain common social and mental behaviours across hundreds of unrelated regions in this subcontinent.
Individuals are interconnected by some invisible links, and within those same links, they exist at different levels, bearing various limitations and certain demonic powers. No matter what kind of freedoms, privileges, responsibilities, or authority is granted to these individuals, they fall back into the pattern of societal hierarchy created by these invisible links. They behave in ways that determine their position within this pattern, displaying subservience, loyalty, harshness, ruthlessness, dominance, and a menacing demeanour, among other traits.
Furthermore, in accordance with their position in this societal pattern, individuals exhibit traits such as honesty, deceit, betrayal, and crookedness. They behave towards some others by stabbing them in the back, mocking, or belittling them. Towards others, they show excessive humility, admiration, honesty, and punctuality.
In reality, it may be true that such a societal pattern exists in all societies.
However, in English, linguistic codes have a surprisingly flat nature. One might subtly point out that individuals are not linked through words like lowest you, you, respectful you, lowest he, lowest she, middle level he/she, highest level he/she, elder brother, younger brother, elder sister, younger sister, uncle, aunt, father, mother, sir, or highest level she. It should be understood that when these words are translated into English, the various powerful directional codes they contain disappear.
Therefore, when individuals interact, most of the base behaviours mentioned above are not expressed in the human mind, character, or involuntary actions (reflex actions). This is because English words lack the hierarchical expressions that place individuals in pits, muddy puddles, low-lying plains, plateaus, hillsides, mountain peaks, divine summits, or clouds. Though this is a significant matter, the British are largely unaware of it.
Nevertheless, when they had the legendary opportunity to create and govern a grand nation called British-India across nearly half of this subcontinent, the truth is that they planned to eradicate the demonic behaviours in this nation’s social atmosphere and transform it into a jewel of English movements. Today, these facts are becoming unknown to everyone.
Rudeness in interpersonal behaviour among individuals in British-India is a social reality. However, this rudeness is not directed towards those they respect, but towards strangers.
Consider this depiction:
A bus stops. People are getting off. One person stands in front of the door at a distance that does not inconvenience those disembarking, waiting to board. More people arrive to board. They push into the space the first person had left for those getting off, leaving the first person behind. Those who come later keep pushing each other to get ahead and board first.
However, if someone whom one of this group respects arrives, that person makes way for the respected individual to board. A well-mannered behaviour!
The matter described above is an illustration of individuals standing in pits and on mountain peaks.
The person who pushed ahead to secure a position is praised by his (highest) associates. The person who gave up their position for the respected individual is defined by the respected person’s associates as someone with great manners (well-mannered).
The actions of these two praised individuals are of opposing natures. The bus and the boarding process described above are merely an illustrative depiction.
What has been depicted are the contrasting social realities and individual behaviours commonly found in feudal linguistic societies.
The relevant point here is Narayana Guru’s statement about the need to open schools. I will try to discuss this matter further in the next post.is not incorrect to say that various types of workers have existed in England over time. Due to its geographical proximity to continental Europe, a noble class also emerged in England. At the same time, Irish, Welsh, and Scottish communities have long existed in close proximity to England.
It seems that the English language itself largely shaped the personality of England’s working class.
I won’t delve into those complexities now. However, things were quite different in the South Asian subcontinent.
In this region, there existed—and still exists—a distinct group of workers, both male (panikkaran) and female (panikkari). There are also those who employ them. In Kerala, the phenomenon of Gulf money has, to some extent, blurred these class distinctions in certain areas, which is a reality.
Nevertheless, significant differences in linguistic codes often persist between workers and employers. Workers are addressed as nee (lowest you), avan (lowest he), or aval (lowest she), while employers are called angoo (sir), sar (sir), maadam (highest she), adheham (highest he), or avaru (highest he/she). These are well-known distinctions.
In some worker-employer relationships, linguistic codes aligned with respect or condescension may be used to reinforce hierarchical distinctions. For example, when a worker is older than the employer, two conflicting hierarchical codes may come into play. I have seen instances where, based on age, a worker addresses the employer as nee (lowest you).
Moreover, some workers may use these codes in reverse, as a form of defiance.
There is much to say about these matters, which I plan to address later.
Around 1982, I overheard a conversation in a village market just beyond Deverkovil. That area felt like the edge of the world, a remote hinterland. Yet, the market had two extremes: socially prominent local figures and mere workers.
A young man, about 24 years old, from a prominent Tiyya landlord family with vast coconut groves, stood before a female worker, around 45 years old. The age difference was stark. In a commanding yet polite tone, the young man said to the worker:
“Nanee, inhi (lowest you) must go with the basket tomorrow.”
He addressed a woman older than his mother by her first name and inhi (lowest you). While such address was not unusual locally, it struck me, coming from Trivandrum, as significant. I was raised to respect age, and I was about 21 at the time.
The worker stood with a submissive demeanor under the influence of the inhi address, responding with ingal (you, respectfully). I pointed out to the young man the impropriety of addressing an older woman by her name and inhi. He reacted as if I had said something foolish, responding:
“What else would you call a Tiyyatti (female Tiyya worker) if not inhi?”
Notably, this young man was also a Tiyya. However, he distinguished Tiyya workers (Tiyyan and Tiyyatti) as separate from higher-status Tiyya like himself.
If the linguistic codes of this conversation were reversed, the landlord would be inhi and the worker ingal. This would not necessarily signify social progress but could indicate a social shift.
Who one aligns with is significant. Aligning with workers allows them to feel closer to you, which higher-status individuals may consciously avoid. In Travancore, when Pulaya Christians began entering churches built by the London Missionary Society for Ezhava Christians, the Ezhavas distanced themselves. They reasoned that associating with Pulayas would jeopardize their ties with Nair households. The broader reality is that if Nairs closely engaged with Ezhavas who associated with Pulayas, their matters and references would carry the stigma of lowly linguistic codes. Such associations significantly alter linguistic codes, a reality rarely acknowledged but critically important.
The language and address used by the young man toward the worker, though seemingly minor, have profound social, psychological, and relational implications. These linguistic codes have impacted countless interpersonal relationships, official institutions, military discipline and efficiency, police department dynamics and discipline, individual mental stress, and more in Indian society. They are also tied to greed for money, reluctance to work, and numerous other issues.
In the military, young officers address even much older soldiers as nee (lowest you), following the same linguistic codes described above, fostering strict discipline and subservience. However, there are additional realities, which I will address later.
Some police constables are addressed as nee by IAS/IPS officers, while others are called ningal (respectful you). This, too, is significant and will be discussed later.
Decades ago, near Nadapuram, east of Calicut, lived a prominent Vaishya Tiyya landlord and social figure. He had a wife and children, maintaining a respectable family environment. He owned farmland in the hills with a house-like residence.
He lived there with a young female worker, with whom he had a daughter. He provided the worker with many amenities to raise the child. In an English social context, this would be a problematic family situation, with a husband having a child with another woman.
However, in feudal linguistic codes, additional complexities arise. The worker shared the same social status as other workers. Other workers, their kin, agents, and employers addressed her as inhi (lowest you) or olu (lowest she), while she called some ettan (elder brother) or echi (elder sister).
When the Vaishya Tiyya man interacted closely with this woman and their daughter, he had to create an artificial linguistic barrier. Alternatively, he would need to relocate her elsewhere, which was not easy or feasible.
Regarding this relationship and the marriage of their daughter, someone remarked to me:
“She’s just a panikkaratti (female worker), isn’t she?”
This description carried a profound definition, difficult to convey in English. The word nee (inhi) can be used in contexts of sweet affection, binding friendship, barren relationships, harsh commands, or as a weapon to wound adversaries. It can be a drop of honey, a mere link, or a weapon.
How a single word can carry such diverse, opposing meanings is remarkable. The intricate coding in sophisticated software systems that design language reflects this complexity.
What is subtly indicated here is how, over centuries, the invisible workings of feudal linguistic codes have gradually transformed the Tiyya people into diverse mental, physical, social, and other personalities.
The operation of linguistic codes can be slow or rapid, depending on the context.
During my youth, I experienced both the faint shadows of high-quality English education in my mind and the waste of time studying in a purely barren education system mixed with Malayalam and English, which was nothing but foolish.
In a high-quality English education, various noble values, goals, and other aspects were very clearly visible. At the same time, I do not recall seeing or experiencing any such things in Malayalam education or in the mixed Malayalam-English education. However, in Malayalam education, I did encounter a lot of meaningless moral preaching and the like. It seems fair to say that even the teachers who taught these lessons were well aware that no one would take them at face value.
At the same time, such moral preaching was entirely unnecessary in English education. This is because the evil thoughts that such preaching points to and advises against have no place in the English language or its words.
It was also clear that in the high-quality English systems of that time, there were specific assumptions and goals regarding exams. There was a deep understanding and knowledge in English educational movements about what should be evaluated through an exam. At the same time, I did not see any such things in Malayalam education.
There is much to say about all of this, clearly and in great depth. I intend to do so in a section dedicated to writing about education.
However, I will mention this:
The general mindset in English is that the privileges and comforts one has received should also be available to others. However, this mindset cannot be sustained in feudal languages like Malayalam. The thinking tends to be, "The benefits and privileges I have received should not be given to lowest he." In English, the individual referred to as "he" is, in Malayalam, differentiated as lowest he, middle level he, or highest level he/sir through intricate software-like systems operating behind physical reality. The mindset of "lowest he should not get this, should not be given this" versus "sir should get this, should be given this" persists in feudal linguistic societies.
Inspired by the English mindset, I have often, in my life, shared various privileges, information, technical knowledge, and pathways to meaningful relationships with others without any hesitation or anxiety. However, these actions turned out to be utterly foolish because the person I shared these privileges with did not have the English linguistic codes in their mind. Instead, they were individuals who categorised people as lowest he, middle level he, or highest level he/sir, firmly believing that "lowest he should not be given this, should not get this."
Everyone who received such benefits, information, and privileges from me treated them as if they had found a treasure, working to ensure that others did not get them. Moreover, I recall that some even attempted to belittle me after receiving such information and privileges. This is because, in Malayalam, it is understood that once someone receives a treasure from me, I become a pauper.
In the matters mentioned above, one might see the clear reasons for the so-called racial discrimination attributed to the British. I will not delve into that now.
In Travancore, it is indicated that the SNDP endeavoured to provide education to the masses under the inspiration of Narayana Guru. However, the question that arises in my mind is whether they ever clarified what education is or what its noble goals should be. Did those who led these educational efforts have a deep awareness of such matters? Leadership is indeed a matter of great enjoyment.
Are the Vedas, Upanishads, mantras, and other texts in which Narayana Gurudevan studied and grew considered education? If one studies them, will the destructive thoughts that feudal languages instil in the human mind be eradicated? Will great personality traits and thoughts of social equality take root in individuals within society?
Or is education modern mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology, medical science, geology, and the like? If one studies all these, will there be a change in the mindset of suppressing the stranger, which overflows in local societies and individuals’ minds?
The significant mental transformations, noble thoughts, and personal charisma that British governance brought about in Tellicherry and other regions, among certain individuals of the traditional lower Tiyya community, as well as the establishment of a high-quality bureaucratic movement in British-Malabar, were not achieved through such education, were they?
Last edited by VED on Thu May 29, 2025 8:47 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Long ago in Malabar, when British governance granted freedom to the enslaved, a former slave raised a cow and later took it to the market to sell. There, a negotiation took place. There was no certainty about the direction of this negotiation. However, the slave had previously seen the landlord negotiate the price of cattle at the market. The buyer asked, "What’s the price?" The slave replied, "6 rupees." The buyer said, "I’ll give 5." The slave responded, "That won’t do. You need to give at least 4 rupees." The buyer, shocked, said, "Then I’ll give 4." The slave thought again and said, "That won’t do either. You need to give at least 3."
It seems fair to say that the mental capacity of those who implemented education in Travancore, and later in India, after witnessing the education system in British-India, was similar to that of this slave. They had seen education, but they had no understanding of its noble direction.
It appears that the concept of education, including primary education, technical education, and vocational education, was first envisioned and implemented in this subcontinent by the English East India Company governance. Moreover, they were the ones who planned and implemented everything from nursery schools at one end to professional colleges at the other in this land.
Although Lord Thomas Macaulay strongly recommended to the East India Company governance that such initiatives in British-India should be implemented entirely in English, most regions started schools in local languages under the influence of local landlords. The funds for running these schools came from the education grants of the East India Company and later the British-India administration.
As a result, two entirely opposing types of education developed in British-India. When the nation of India was formed, this initially created two distinct groups of educated people in the region with different historical imprints and mindsets: one group educated through English, and the other fiercely loyal to local landlords or leaders, having missed out on English education.
The first group might have immersed themselves in new ideas, readings, and other pursuits through their English education. Meanwhile, the second group would constantly lament that the British had forced the first group to study English and made them their slaves, writing revolutionary songs and singing them to find solace and frenzy in their minds.
Today in India, the first group—those believed to have borne the slavery of the British—has almost entirely disappeared in most places.
It seems fair to say that the SNDP and their counterparts in Travancore, the NSS, likely witnessed the education systems in British-India. It is true that those who only know the local language might think that these two opposing education systems are the same, differing only in linguistic translation.
If education is conducted in Malabari, Tamil, Sanskrit, Malayalam, Kannada, Telugu, Hindi, Bengali, and other languages, the difference would indeed be merely one of linguistic translation. However, if one of these education systems is conducted in pristine English, the mental attitudes, personality, and behavioural norms it imparts are trained to be completely 180 degrees in the opposite direction, at great mental heights.
Although such pristine English education was not significantly implemented in this subcontinent, British governance did strive to provide high-quality English education in many ways. The administrative system in British-India supported such ideas.
It seems fair to say that many social leaders in the nation of India lacked a clear understanding of the distinct differences and purposes of primary education, technical education, and vocational education. Often, the focus of these leaders’ minds was on cunning tactics to preserve their social and political leadership. Additionally, many of them lacked substantial knowledge of English.
The steps taken by British governance with great precision for social upliftment were not the same as those taken by these local leaders.
It appears that while these leaders broadly thought about implementing systems like primary education, technical education, and vocational education in the region, they likely had no thought about what kind of people each of these would shape in the region.
Consider this:
One person becomes a carpenter, another a policeman, another a doctor, the next a government office clerk, another an IAS officer, and yet another an auto driver—people become various professionals through formal education. What kind of communication mindset has this education fostered in them?
(Watch the video) Search YouTube for: "You’ll react seeing how this policeman treats the driver."
In their interactions, speech, and behaviour, has this education eradicated the region’s traditional hierarchical disrespect, the subservience some are forced to display, the arrogance others exhibit, the hesitation of some to step out without a large group, and other such traits?
This is not the place to delve into the depths of education, so I will not proceed down that path.
However, let us understand the social structure of Travancore back then and India today: 1. The king, 2. The Brahmin, 3. The Ambalavasi, 4. The Shudra (Nair). The king is at the highest level, and the Nair at the lowest among these. Below the Nair are the Ezhavas, and below them are numerous other communities, with groups like the Pulayas at the very bottom.
The Nair defines this entire lower community as lowest you, hey you (male), hey you (female), lowest he, lowest she, those people, boy, lowest level girl, or simply by their name. This is the social identity and knowledge traditionally bestowed upon the lower community. The lower community must address the Nair as lord and their wives as lady, referring to them as such. The king, Brahmins, and others view the Nairs as Shudras.
Now look at the police department in today’s India: 1. The government, 2. IPS officers, 3. Grades from DYSP to Sub-Inspector, 4. Head Constables to Constables. IPS officers view policemen as servants.
Most people who have gained knowledge through today’s Indian education system are conditioned to address even the servant ranks in the police department as sir. While in Hindi, people initially referred to policemen as servants in the early days, with the education received in today’s India, things have moved to the level of sir/madam.
This is not the education that British governance envisioned!
The knowledge an individual gains through English education is that the government is the people. These people are above IAS/IPS officers and can interact with and address them as equals. Officers below them must speak to and refer to the public with respect.
Implementing this in British-India must have been difficult even then because most people were educated in local languages. Among those who cowered before a policeman back then, if someone with a different mindset through English education existed, it would spark resentment, anxiety, and jealousy in others. The thought would flare up: "While we bow before the policeman, how is this person standing tall? Who is he, and what does he think of himself?"
When the SNDP in Travancore envisioned education, they should have imparted an education that mentally uplifted those who had long bowed before the Shudra ranks without any personality, raising them to the level of those at official heights. I do not believe the SNDP had the knowledge, ability, mental strength, or English language proficiency to do so. Instead, would chanting "One caste, one religion, one god" through the streets with some noise elevate the personality of the people to the skies?
If all human races, all religions, and all gods become one, would the personality of the lower community rise to the skies?
Do you recall the slave negotiating the price of the cow at the market?
Many thoughts about education are eager to emerge from my mind, but I am holding them back for now. This writing is not currently on the path of discussing education.
The video provided above is a glimpse of the demonic nature in social communication that today’s barren formal education has fostered in the region. I will delve into its details another time.
I once felt, long ago, that the people of this subcontinent, defined as castes and arranged step-by-step in society like on a ladder, ended up in such a pattern of societal hierarchy because feudal languages had been sifting and sorting them for ages. In other words, if any group of people speaks feudal languages like Malayalam for generations, they will gradually be arranged into such hierarchical layers.
Although feudal languages function in this way, I was able to discern from reading some books written during British governance that this was not the only way things happened in this subcontinent. Though not explicitly stated in these books, I understood that various groups of people from different parts of the world had arrived in this subcontinent at different times.
When these groups learned the feudal languages of the region, they gradually became entangled in the local society’s hierarchies and were often suppressed. However, amidst this suppression, they displayed various levels of elevation and degradation, landing at different social heights and lows. Once they ended up in this state, it was as if their hands and feet were bound in chains. I think I will discuss this matter in more detail later.
In North Malabar, a community called the Tiyyas arrived from somewhere. In South Malabar, another similar group arrived. They too preferred to adopt the name Tiyya, possibly because, among the various communities below the Nairs in Malabar, the Tiyyas of North Malabar might have seemed the most prominent. It seems that the North Malabar Tiyyas did not enforce pollution distance rules with the South Malabar Tiyyas. Nevertheless, the North Malabar Tiyyas, who followed the Marumakkathayam system, firmly stated that they had no connection with the Makkathayam Tiyyas of South Malabar.
It seems that the traditional social customs of these two groups were different. Moreover, it appears that the Muthappan worship tradition of the North Malabar Tiyyas was not present among the Makkathayam Tiyyas. Spiritual traditions are the essence of what is defined as religion. From this perspective, it seems fair to say that these two Tiyya groups belonged to two different religions.
Until British governance established the Malabar District, these two groups likely existed as distinct communities, without seeing or interacting with each other.
It might have been with the establishment of the Malabar District and the initiation of various social activities by English movements in Travancore that the Ezhavas began migrating to Malabar in large groups.
Since most of these migrating Ezhavas were engaged in manual labour and agricultural work, and were generally of a darker complexion, I understand that in the early days, the Marumakkathayam Tiyyas of Malabar did not socially accept them. However, it seems that the Ezhavas, with the support of Christians who came from Travancore and the Nairs of Malabar itself, slowly began to claim that they too were Tiyyas. Over the decades, this idea started to seem acceptable to the new generation in Malabar.
Subsequently, it seems that certain disruptive individuals among the Tiyyas in Tellicherry—who had recently gained official power, financial capability, and social status—used Sree Narayana Guru to upend the Tiyyas’ traditional spiritual movement. They established that the Tiyyas were Hindus, built a Hindu worship movement, and incorporated the Tiyyas entirely into this new movement.
Below are some excerpts from the book Malabar and Anjengo, said to have been written by C.A. Innes, ICS, in 1908.
Regarding Malabar:
The religion of the majority is Hinduism, but there is a far larger proportion of Muhammadans than is usual in the Madras Presidency.
At the census of 1901, 68 per cent of the people were classed as Hindus, 30 per cent as Muhammadans, and 2 per cent as Christians.
In South Asia, the British administration believed and propagated through official records, books, and other printed publications the grossly erroneous idea that everyone who was not a Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain, or Sikh was a Hindu. There was a significant error in the notion that everyone under the Brahmins’ influence was a Hindu. I cannot discuss that here now.
In the same book mentioned above, the following points are also noted:
First may be mentioned the great caste known as Izhuvaus in the Palghat taluk, and elsewhere in the Malabar district as Tiyans. They form the most numerous Hindu community in Malabar, and are difficult to place in the social scale, since their status varies widely in different parts of the country.
In North Malabar, for instance, the Tiyans claim to be a caste which does not convey distance pollution at all.
For example, in North Malabar, the Tiyyas claim to be a caste that does not require maintaining pollution distance at all. End of Translation
Pollution distance refers to the specific, regulated distance that the Nairs, Ambalavasis, and Brahmins required to be maintained from others. If the above is true, the Tiyyas are distinct from both the Makkathayam Tiyyas and the Ezhavas. I do not intend to delve into this topic (the Tiyya issue) right now.
What is very clear in the statements provided above is that the initial writing about the Tiyyas refers to the Ezhavas who migrated to Malabar. This indicates that the Nairs and others worked to include various points in this book to establish that the Ezhavas were indeed Tiyyas.
I will not take up this matter for discussion here either.
However, note that the excerpts provided above explicitly state that the Tiyyas are Hindus. This implies that the Vedic gods of Brahmin spirituality, the gods from the epic periods, the Vedas, Upanishads, Smritis, mantras, and other such elements are part of the Tiyyas’ tradition. In other words, even if they were not allowed to enter Brahmin temples, it is implied that they could externally participate in all of this.
But take note: the same book contains a specific sentence that clearly states something about the Tiyyas’ religion. Let us look at it:
Their religion is more purely animistic than that of the castes above them, and included in their number are the devil-dancers, astrologers, and other representatives of the primitive ‘medicine-man’.
Before providing the translation of the above sentence, let us first examine the meaning of the term medicine-man. It seems fair to define this term as follows:
A medicine-man is generally depicted as an individual in primitive societies who performs healing and related activities through magical rituals, other mystical, tantric, and magical powers and performances, often in the presence of drums and similar instruments. This term medicine-man can, if desired, be defined with malicious intent as a sorcerer as well.
Now, let us look at the meaning of the sentence defining the Tiyyas’ religion:
The meaning of animistic: Worshipping natural forces. End of Translation
Several points can be gleaned from the excerpt provided above. But first, we need to examine Freeman provides a translation of the term devil-dancer.
In the works of Edgar Thurston, Rev. Samuel Mateer, William Logan, and C.A. Innes, the term devil-dancer and the word devil appear in several places. The Theyyam dances of Malabar are depicted as devil-dances. Furthermore, it is written that the state observed in these Theyyams is one of being possessed by a devil. The meaning of the word devil is demon.
It is almost certain that those who informed Edgar Thurston, Rev. Samuel Mateer, William Logan, C.A. Innes, and others that the Tiyyas’ religion involves the worship of a demon were likely the local upper castes. Suppressing the Tiyyas of Tellicherry, who were rising in the light of British governance, was a necessity for their own survival.
Even though the Ezhavas did not have the Muthappan worship spirituality, their desire to align with it might have been a necessity for their social status and position in Malabar at that time.
Edgar Thurston, Rev. Samuel Mateer, William Logan, C.A. Innes, and others might not have had clear knowledge of the vested interests of the local upper classes when studying and writing about local communities. Any information they received would have had to pass through the sieve of these vested interests before reaching them. Moreover, in many of the books they are believed to have written, local individuals—either their subordinate officers or those in socially elevated positions—might have added various details.
Although the initial excerpts swear that the Tiyyas are Hindus, the final excerpt firmly states that the Tiyyas belong to a different religion and belief system altogether.
Nevertheless, bearing the blows of feudal language words, constantly displaying subservience to those socially higher, cutting each other down with words, carrying deceit in their facial features and expressions, and exhibiting a certain degree of primitiveness in personality and tone for the same reason, the Muthappan temples and other sacred groves where such people gathered might have seemed somewhat distasteful to the new generation of Tiyyas in Tellicherry, who had grown up with the light of British governance and English education.
It is only natural that Narayana Guru and the SNDP in Travancore, who promoted Brahmin connections and Hindu religion, would seem far superior. Moreover, they would also experience and recognize the magical sweetness in the many Sanskrit words pouring into the burgeoning Malayalam like heavy raindrops. The Vedic culture, believed to have sprouted thousands of years ago, some two or three thousand kilometres away from Malabar, suddenly becomes ancestral property overnight.
Seeing these new Brahmins, the traditional Brahmins could only stand in astonishment!
There is no clear record in the previously mentioned books written during English governance about the regions from which the Marumakkathayam Tiyyas and Makkathayam Tiyyas migrated to this subcontinent. However, in the book Malabar and Anjengo, said to be written by C.A. Innes, ICS, after stating that the Tiyyas are Ezhavas, the following sentence is included:
The tradition of their immigration is embodied in a well-known story which connects them with the Kammalan, or chief artisan caste.
The historical tradition mentioned refers to the old story of the Ezhavas’ migration to this subcontinent (Travancore).
In such books, which label the Marumakkathayam Tiyyas’ Muthappan spirituality and related practices as mere devilish dances, there appears to have been a significant effort to belittle the Tiyyas. The Brahmins, Ambalavasis, and Nairs of that time might not have had an issue with the Koduvally Tiyyas or other Tiyyas living as subservient groups. Moreover, today, there may be no need to suppress the Tiyyas who have risen socially through various reservations, as both groups likely maintain their social standing by openly displaying their inadequate personality and lack of mental capability. The very term "reservation" is a strategy and weapon used to claim inadequacy as a right.
However, a small group of Tiyyas in Tellicherry and other areas, who rose to high social levels under the shade of English movements without relying on any reservations, must have been a significant problem. This group achieved social elevation solely by filling their long-suppressed personalities with the immense wealth of the English language. They were imbued with the traditions of English and England. Even to the upper castes who had grown to high English standards, this group might not have been an issue.
However, it seems that for those who maintained great pride and social prestige in the local language, this group was indeed a problem. Among those who adamantly claimed that the Tiyyas were Ezhavas, these individuals might have been at the forefront. At the same time, a large percentage of Tiyyas likely had no clear interest in preserving their traditional ethnicity.
I came across a claim that the Marumakkathayam Tiyyas are descendants of a small group of people who migrated to Malabar from the Tian Shan mountain region in Central Asia centuries ago. I do not know what historical evidence supports this claim.
However, in 2013, some people from Tellicherry attempted to start a Wikipedia page under the name Thiyyar. Upon learning of this, I felt it was unlikely to succeed. The Ezhava organisation is very powerful, and today, many of their members are in the IT sector. Additionally, there are several communities willing to support their claims, with influential individuals in high positions. Wikipedia did not grant permission to display the Thiyyar page. Shortly after, the Thiyyar page, which had been kept in draft form on Wikipedia, was deleted by those managing Wikipedia’s India pages. See the image provided above.
It seems that the situation of the Thiyyar movement is similar to that of the Kashmiris. No matter how firmly they say, "We are not Indians," it makes no difference. People in India, who have no connection or concern with them, will repeatedly parrot, "Kashmiris are Indians, we are one with them."
However, there is a slight difference in the case of the Thiyyar. The group includes not only the Tiyyas but also those called Tiyyans. Feudal languages have driven a wedge between the two groups, placing them at two different social poles.
Moreover, a large section of both groups seems to lack awareness of a clear traditional pride or an appealing heritage. They do not seem to mind how their ethnographic identity changes. Each individual is concerned only with their own affairs. A Koduvally Tiyyan rising is a problem for a Vaishya Tiyyan, while a Koduvally Tiyyan might also harbour a desire to pull down and suppress a Vaishya Tiyyan if given the chance.
While writing the above, I thought of comparing this group with the Kashmiris—specifically, the Kashmiri Muslims. They too seem to have a clear ethnic difference from other people in India. Generally, they exhibit a decent personality in appearance. While one might quickly assume this is because they have ethnic ties with people in Afghanistan, I recall seeing physical development in many Tiyyas in Tellicherry who had received the brilliance of English movements, a development not seen in other Tiyyas.
However, when the children of this same group were born and raised in the nation of India, this personality development disappeared, especially if they lacked significant financial strength.
Although the Kashmiri Muslim community lived in various states of servitude under the Brahmins there, it seems fair to say that certain social principles in Islam might have provided their personality with a glow, clarity, and support—similar to the personality that the English movements instilled in some Tiyyas in Tellicherry.
It seems that the Kashmiri Muslim community had conflicts with the Brahmin Pandits in Kashmir in later years, which can be compared to the clashes that some of the lower-class Mappilas in South Malabar had with the Brahmin faction starting around 1836.
Quote from Wikipedia: The 100-year Dogra regime turned out to be a disaster for the Muslim peasantry of Kashmir Valley. Walter Lawrence described the conditions of the Valley's peasantry as being 'desperate' and noted that the Valley's peasantry attributed their miseries to the Maharajah’s deputies rather than the rulers themselves. The state officials apparently kept the rulers from knowing the conditions of the Muslim peasantry in the Valley.
Lawrence in particular criticised the state officials who belonged to the Kashmiri Pandit community. Lawrence provided evidence that while many of the Kashmiri Pandit officials may have been individually gentle and intelligent, as a body they were cruel and oppressive. Scholar Ayesha Jalal states that the Maharajas nurtured ties with Kashmiri Pandits and their Dogra kinsfolk in Jammu to trample on the rights of their subjects. Christopher Snedden also states that the Kashmiri Muslims were often exploited by the Kashmiri Pandit officials.
Walter Lawrence was an English official. Sir Walter Roper Lawrence was a member of the British Council and an English author who served in the Indian Civil Service in British-India and wrote travelogues based on his experiences travelling around various parts of South Asia, including places outside British-India, such as Kashmir. I will discuss this topic later.
What needs to be clearly stated here is that, while it can be said to a small extent that Islamic movements provided significant protection, support, and confidence to the lower communities, it seems that those defined as Muslims globally, or as Mappilas in Malabar, cannot be entirely said to be Islamic. I cannot delve into this topic now, as the matter of the Mappilas is an extremely complex historical subject. I intend to address it later.
However, I think it’s worth adding this: It seems that most Muslims around the world live and think in feudal languages. For the same reason, they act, react, clash, cooperate, and learn alongside those who speak feudal languages. This makes it difficult for them to break free from the grip of such languages. Mere spiritual ideals alone cannot provide protection from such matters.
It seems that the Islamic principle of social brotherhood might have offered some protection to Kashmiri Muslims from the hierarchical wedge driven by feudal language codes in their region’s language. This is because it’s unlikely that any other ethnic group in India could endure over 70 years in such a terror-filled atmosphere without losing social unity. In a similar situation, others would each focus on their own interests, aiming to elevate their children to IAS, IPS, or doctor roles, striving for social prestige while suppressing others.
I am trying to take the perspective that the Kashmiris are attempting to protect their social atmosphere and the culture it represents.
Recall the scene in the video included in the 95ᵗʰ post, where the policeman grabs the auto driver by the collar, startling and speaking to him aggressively. If the Kashmiris were pulled into this same social atmosphere, the personality of many of them would surely melt away. I see no great fault in their desire to distance themselves from such a nation.
The issue with calling them Muslim communalists is that it seems they do not welcome other ethnic Muslims from India into their land as permanent residents, or so I think it can be said.
Last edited by VED on Thu May 29, 2025 8:51 pm, edited 1 time in total.
If Indians enter Kashmir, buy land there, live with their families, and raise children, within one or two generations, the people there will change culturally and otherwise. The Kashmiri Muslim community might also be more likely to enter into marital ties with Indian Muslims. The social culture there will transform into the kind currently prevalent in India—a lowly culture of bowing before a government peon. The new generation there will have no regrets about this at all. Because they are a new people, bearing the bloodline of those who came from outside.
However, the Kashmiri Muslims of today do not seem to be a lowly people in that manner. It seems they are clearly a group with good pride and an unbowed mental attitude. To find the reason for this, one might need to examine their local language. Take a look at the video above. Is there not a slight indication of the same pride as that of the English people somewhere, one might wonder? Displaying such pride in front of those of a lower level might invite danger.
The general situation in British-Malabar was almost the same, along with the condition of the Nairs there, the two groups of Tiyyas, and the other people below them. The cultural, official, English language proficiency, and other highest qualities that British governance had nurtured in some of them were almost entirely wiped out when British-Malabar was annexed to India and Travancore without conducting any kind of referendum among the people of that land.
The two groups of Tiyyas became one single group. They began intermarrying. The Nairs of North Malabar and South Malabar, who had maintained a competitive spirit in some ways with them and generally did not enter into marital ties with them, also came under a single identity. Both of these things might have started during British governance itself.
But when it was forcibly annexed to India, the Ezhavas of Travancore began blending into the midst of the two groups of Tiyyas in Malabar without any boundaries.
The people from Travancore came without being influenced by any kind of English social atmosphere. The social standards among the Tiyyas in Malabar were turned upside down. The various English-influenced social norms, which many had once seen as high standards and tried to emulate, began to dissolve.
Perhaps because they saw significant damage being done to the social atmosphere, or because they felt it was moving in some evil direction, I recall hearing that some Tiyyas in Tellicherry and Koothuparamba had started trying to document the differences they believed they had with the Ezhavas.
But what needs to be clearly stated here is that among the Tiyyas themselves, there might have been at least three distinct groups: those who understood English cultural values, as well as the Koduvally Tiyyas and the Vaishya Tiyyas. If looked at more closely, other groups might also be identified.
Now, another matter: there might have been a significant difference between the Tiyyas of Tellicherry and those of Koothuparamba during those times. Decades ago, the first group might not have had Ezhava bloodlines mixed in. At the same time, the majority of the Tiyyas in Koothuparamba might clearly have had Ezhava bloodlines.
The situation today might be even more complex than all of this. I can see that very clear Ezhava connections have developed through marital ties among my Tellicherry relatives.
A few decades ago, a person in Tellicherry published a discovery, possibly in the form of a book or otherwise, claiming that the Marumakkathayam Tiyyas had come from ancient Greece. This first appeared as a newspaper report with the headline, Thiyyas are from Greece. But I recall seeing that in the following days, the headline had changed. The headline I saw later was this:
Ezhavas are from Greece and Ezhavas have come from Greece.
This incident comes to mind as a prime example of how, if one has control and ownership over mass media movements, anything can be written, speeches can be made in public squares, and videos and films can be produced to make claims stick.
Another person, without clearly mentioning the difference between Marumakkathayam Tiyyas and Makkathayam Tiyyas, claimed that the Tiyyas were from Kazakhstan and announced that they had compared their own DNA with that of some people there, finding similarities in both.
Now, I think it’s worth saying a few things about this similarity in DNA.
Normally, it goes from a father to a son, that son becomes a father to the next generation’s son, and so on—a bloodline moving through generations across decades, then centuries, and even thousands of years, like a single line. It seems there are people who envision a bloodline in this way.
But I think this is a very limited concept. Instead, look at it this way:
A person today has a father and a mother (parents). The father has a father and a mother. The mother has a father and a mother. So, the person today is connected through a bloodline to four people (grandparents) from two generations back.
Each of these four grandparents has a father and a mother (great-grandparents)—eight people. In other words, the person today is directly connected to eight people from the great-grandparents’ level.
What I’ve described is just three generations back.
Until the last century, the marriage age for women was around 11, 12, or 13. If we take an average of 14 years as the marriage age, within 100 years, there would be roughly seven generations. Within 400 years, there would be 27 generations.
Now, let’s look backwards. If a person today tries to trace their lineage backwards, generation by generation, let’s see how many people they might be connected to at each generation:
A person today might be directly connected to around 20 lakh people who lived in the 22ⁿᵈ generation back. In other words, in a region that had a population of just 20 lakh at that time, a person today might have a direct bloodline connection to everyone there. This 22ⁿᵈ generation back is only 330 years ago. As historical timelines go back hundreds or thousands of years, it can be seen that most people in the world today are connected to the same individuals from that time.
There’s nothing wrong with thinking this way. However, the individuals in this subcontinent today are different from each other in many ways. We need to look into what the reason for this might be.
If one were to examine the foreign paths where the DNA of the Tiyyas has been traced, I think it’s likely that faint indications of the DNA of communities in Malabar and other regions, as well as various communities from many other parts of the world, might be found. However, since I have no experience beyond hearsay about this DNA—neither having seen it nor gained deep knowledge about it through any other means—I cannot say much more on this topic.
Yet, I have previously indicated in a few books I wrote long ago that the phenomenon of physical reality, as well as the phenomenon of life, might have been created and is being operated by a supernatural software system. I cannot precisely recall what I wrote back then. However, I believe I clearly stated this in the books Codes of Reality! What is Language? and Software Codes of Mantra, Tantra, Witchcraft, Black Magic, Evil Eye, Evil Tongue &c.
I do not intend to delve into this topic now. The knowledge that has come to my mind is that human DNA, genes, chromosomes, and related elements are, in reality, not in a form or physical structure that can be perceived, understood, or directly experienced by today’s technological devices or human senses. Instead, they are the operational mechanisms of software codes written in cryptic software languages within some highly supernatural, physically transcendent computer system. I also understand that such codes might have the ability to define and influence human physical structure and personality traits.
I have received some indications that this understanding might be correct, through entirely unexpected circumstances. However, I do not intend to go into those matters now.
But I think it’s worth adding this much here: the languages humans use might themselves be a kind of software system. It is evident that they might be capable of interacting with the software of DNA and genes mentioned above, influencing them, and possibly adding corrections, errors, or other modifications to them. I will leave this topic here for now.
The people and societies that create and design feudal languages are not the same as those who create level languages like English. It is in feudal language societies that a great deal of effort goes into implementing the concept of equality between individuals, creating ideologies, carrying out revolutions, and so forth. For example, the French have staged numerous upheavals in their land for this purpose. Yet, despite all this, they have not been able to experience the natural and ordinary personality of the people of England. At the same time, England, too, had its royal family, nobility, and such.
In the French language, there are revolutionary songs for human personality and human equality. In old English, it might be difficult to find such songs or revolutions for human equality. Looking at it this way, it might seem that the French are the ones standing for human equality. The story of Malayalam is much the same.
The very theme of the poem Naranathu Bhranthan is an idea and plea for human equality. One can see in this poem a listing of the various lowly attitudes that Malayalam, a purely feudal language, creates.
However, when these grievances are sung in a melody, with beautiful words meticulously drawn from Sanskrit and Tamil and arranged with precision, what emerges are hollow social ideological thoughts. These thoughts, while appearing to have great depth, are filled with emotional excess, evoking goosebumps that naturally arise in the mind, and are cloaked in a mesmerising aesthetic form. The listener cannot even think about the terrifying human attitudes that the language creates. Instead, that person reaches a state of slight intoxication, and feelings akin to adoration for that very terrifying language take root in their mind.
There is an English phrase, vicious circle. Its equivalent in Malayalam is vishama-vrutham. In English, the meaning of this phrase can be seen as follows:
Vicious circle is a problem or difficult situation that has the effect of creating new problems which then cause the original problem or situation to occur again.
And:
Vicious circle is a complex chain of events which reinforce themselves.
The general idea derived from the sentences provided above is that the very thing being attempted to solve a problem circles back, creating the same problems again.
Feudal languages like Malayalam, as well as the poems mentioned above, are filled with such devilish codes and paths. I recently noticed that the person who wrote this poem, after listing the terrifying human attitudes created by Malayalam, is working on public platforms to impose that very same language on this land.
It seems my writing has slightly veered off track. I hope to bring the words back to the path of writing in the next piece.
Examining the words embedded in the language spoken by people, much like attempting to identify the genes, DNA, and chromosomes of diverse populations, is a feasible task.
When doing this, the way in which the information obtained from such observations is interpreted is also significant. It is understood that Malayalam contains words from languages such as Portuguese, French, Dutch, and Arabic. These words likely merged into Malayalam because, centuries ago, people from these regions arrived by sea and engaged in trade based on the barter system. The French, for instance, governed a small area called Mahé in Malabar for some time. The Portuguese also held limited administrative control in Malabar and Travancore for a brief period.
At the same time, numerous English words entered Malayalam. Until recently, it was nearly impossible to avoid these words when speaking or writing in Malayalam. For example, words like road, bulb, open, close, gate, action, film, manage, paint, brush, car, jeep, lorry, drive, handle, and mirror were commonly used. Moreover, in fields like science, mathematics, technology, government procedures, and filmmaking, English terms dominated. However, today, alternative Malayalam terms for these technical words are being artificially created. The primary reason for this is likely the prolonged English rule in Malabar. Another significant factor could be that the Travancore kingdom was closely aligned with the English administration in Madras. Other, less significant reasons may also exist.
However, over the past centuries, the local populace in England noticed new words entering their regional language. The reason at the time was English rule over various parts of the world. Words from the languages of those regions entered English, slightly reducing its quality—not due to pronunciation or similar factors, but because these words represented various primitive social customs from their native lands.
By observing a people’s language, its characteristics, its words, or the foreign words that have crept into it, one might uncover aspects of their historical past, gain new insights, or find clues to historical truths absent from written records.
In Malabar’s language, the presence of Arabic words was once very evident. One reason could be the commercial activities of Arab traders. Another might be that Arab sailors married local women, such as those from the Thiyya community, and established families in Malabar’s coastal areas (possibly while maintaining families in Arabia). Beyond this, more significant developments occurred. Early on, religious missionaries from Arabia converted members of Nair and other families to Islam. Even more impactful was the mass conversion of Mappila Thiyyas and many lower communities, like the Cherumars, to Islam in South Malabar, forming a large societal group.
However, the infiltration of foreign words into Malabar’s language occurred within the local language. What this local language was and where it originated are matters of interest for study and reflection.
In North Malabar, the most numerous and influential community seems to have been the matrilineal Thiyyas. If so, their traditional language’s words likely had a strong presence in the local language.
During English rule, the matrilineal Thiyyas, once defined as a community of great stature, were reduced to a lower status, a surprising outcome of the feudal language system.
The matrilineal Thiyyas fell under the control of the Nairs, which led to their plight. Had they been directly under the Brahmins, their situation might have been far better. When English rule arrived and legally liberated communities, the Thiyyas in places like Tellicherry rose under English authority. Such subjugation offered opportunities for remarkable mental growth.
Long ago, Brahmins elevated the Shudras under them to roles like aides, officials, and supervisors. In return, the Shudras are said to have offered various forms of gratitude. Allowing Brahmins access to their womenfolk was a rare form of gratitude, unparalleled in the world. From an English perspective, this might seem utterly foolish, but in feudal languages, such gratitude is seen as a divine opportunity to serve a master, social overlord, or guide.
By dedicating everything to a revered social authority, one could achieve great social elevation, leading to life’s fulfilment. This ideology and concept are evident in the visible links of the guru-disciple relationship.
When the Shudras offered everything to the Brahmins and attained this fulfilment, they gained significant social status.
Thereafter, every community in the region fell under these Shudras. Those suppressed to various levels became the lower communities. They lacked the ability to organise, as feudal languages divided them into higher and lower groups, fostering competition and rivalry.
This can be compared to modern police systems. Under the Brahmin-like IPS officers, the lowest are the police constables. The more respect, subservience, and obedience they show, the more authority and opportunities for misuse of power they receive. Officially, police constables are the lowest in rank.
Yet, even those with greater personality, knowledge, physical strength, mental fortitude, or social dignity fall under their control. Police constables suppress such individuals with words, reducing anyone—however dignified—to nee, avan, or aval. This effectively crushes their status.
The English remain unaware of this significant reality even today.
The point here is that the matrilineal Thiyyas in North Malabar likely fell under a Brahmin-dominated society. Today, it’s as if everyone in this state is under the IAS and IPS-led bureaucracy. However, the emerging social order is that people in any region are ultimately under the local police constables. As years pass since English rule, this archaic social structure continues to gain strength.
The matrilineal Thiyyas likely arrived on North Malabar’s coasts and fell into a Brahmin-dominated society where Shudras served as supervisors.
When Shudras addressed a matrilineal Thiyya family head, his wife, children, or kin with terms like inhi, oan, olu, edaa, edi, ane, or ale—publicly or personally—the family would be transformed into a state worse than that of Kozhikode’s pariahs, without doubt.
This wouldn’t happen in England or other English-speaking regions, which is why people risk dangers to migrate there.
The next question is: what were the languages of the locals and the matrilineal Thiyyas who arrived here?
Last edited by VED on Thu May 29, 2025 1:03 am, edited 1 time in total.
The language of Malabar was called Malayalam because it was the language of Malabar—Malabar’s language, Malayalam.
At the same time, in ancient times, the language of the social elite in Travancore was Tamil. Though it may be hard to believe today, when I visited Alleppey, a Travancore region, in 1970, I observed a significant presence of Tamil films.
However, public education, newspapers, and radio promoted Malayalam. As a result, people gradually, and eventually completely, moved away from Tamil. Yet, when I lived in Trivandrum between 1980 and 1983, I noticed a strong Tamil influence in the local language and communication.
The Travancore State Manual does not record any ancient inscriptions in Malayalam in Travancore. Most are in Tamil, including those about Onam. Moreover, it suggests that the Malayalam language that developed in Travancore may have been created by infusing Tamil with numerous Sanskrit words.
However, I recall writing somewhere that Malabar’s ancient language, Malayalam, likely had little to no Tamil or Sanskrit influence. I have not conducted any detailed study to support this claim. This observation stemmed from casually noting the words and expressions in the Malabari language. Recently, while browsing Malabar and Anjengo by C.A. Innes, I.C.S., I came across the following:
QUOTE: Altogether different is the language of the Malabar folksongs, some of which have been reduced to writing. ... the language is the ordinary colloquial Malayalam, and there are no traces of verbal inflections, and few Sanskrit expressions. END OF QUOTE.
The lower Christian and Ezhava communities migrating from Travancore to Malabar may have conveyed to English rulers that Malabar’s language was an uneducated, distorted version of the grand, traditional Malayalam spoken by primitive locals lacking literacy or knowledge traditions.
English and other British officials arriving in Malabar from England or Britain likely had little understanding of this subcontinent. After arriving, they relied on information from local officials, Christian priests, Ezhava activists, and social elites.
Moreover, while Celtic and continental European speakers might have learned Malayalam or Tamil with effort, this was likely challenging for the English. The reasons are many, but I won’t delve into them now.
Consequently, understanding Malayalam, Tamil, or Malabari languages may have been as difficult for them as deciphering animal sounds. Spending time among a specific animal species might allow one to grasp their communication system.
For example, ancient Bushmen in South Africa were noted to have such abilities. With the Sesiba musical instrument, Bushmen could precisely mimic the sounds of a specific ostrich species.
Picture: Bushmen
From the book: The Story of Africa and Its Explorers
Year: 1892 (1890s)
Author: Brown, Robert, 1842–1895
Some Bushmen could accurately replicate the footprints of various wild animals (including elephants and deer) in the soil to deceive them. They could also precisely mimic the calls, dance steps, and facial gestures of certain baboons. Others could respond to specific bird messages by producing distinct whistle sounds.
Similarly, the English likely began to slowly understand the local languages of this subcontinent. However, if Travancoreans told them that Malabar’s Malayalam was an uneducated form of the newly developed Malayalam in Travancore, they had little choice but to believe it.
I once did not question the notion that Malayalam emerged by blending Tamil with Sanskrit words. Now, I feel this may not be accurate. Before discussing this further, let’s consider that Sanskrit was artificially infused into Malayalam. For now, I’ll stop at this point.
In Malabar and Anjengo, after mentioning Ezhuthachan, it states:
QUOTE: The result was, in the words of Dr. Burnell, that “there was perhaps no part of Southern India where Sanskrit literature was more studied by people of many castes during the 18th century”; and to this influence may perhaps be traced the number of Sanskrit words to be found now even in colloquial use, as well as the development of the Malayalam poetical diction, which has been described as “pure Sanskrit connected or concluded by a few Malayalam words.” END OF QUOTE.
QUOTE: Of prose there is not much; the Keralolpatti, and similar historical and legal treatises of the seventeen and eighteenth centuries, are the earliest examples, but they are mainly translations from Sanskrit, and full of Sanskrit words; and Dr. Gundert considered that the best early prose was to be found in the Tellicherry records. END OF QUOTE.
Now, let’s consider Tobias Zacharias, who, after years of effort, published a 1,400-page English-Malayalam dictionary in 1907. He noted about Malayalam’s vocabulary:
Many Malayalees of the present day are suffering from a disease which may be rightly called a ‘morbid fondness of Sanskrit’, or ‘Sanskrit mania’. In recent times this has increased to such an extent that wholesale importation of not only Sanskrit words and phrases, but also of Sanskrit particles, prefixes and inflexions have, with some, become the rule of the day. ... Scarcity of prose literature in the Malayalam language, and an abundance of poetical works, wherein Sanskrit had an abnormally free scope, ... have very considerably contributed to this propensity. An English-Malayalam Dictionary (1907)
The Malayalam mentioned above clearly refers to the language newly created in Travancore, not Malabar’s language. This is evident from the earlier quote:
QUOTE: Altogether different is the language of the Malabar folksongs, some of which have been reduced to writing. ... the language is the ordinary colloquial Malayalam, and there are no traces of verbal inflections, and few Sanskrit expressions.
A key point here is Dr. Gundert’s statement that the finest Malayalam writings were in the East India Company’s Tellicherry records. Tellicherry is in North Malabar, and its traditional language’s words were, and still are, difficult for Travancoreans to understand. Gundert, a key figure in modern Malayalam, may have overlooked the Malabari language. There’s no definitive evidence to confirm this. Moreover, Gundert was German, and there’s a notion that the German language is somehow linked to Sanskrit. Germans still claim to be the true Aryans. If so, who are the claimed Aryans in India? That’s worth pondering.
Who might have written the high-quality Malayalam in Tellicherry? It seems possible that Christian migrants from Travancore engaged in office work there. I state this without any documentary evidence.
Last edited by VED on Thu May 29, 2025 1:14 am, edited 1 time in total.
When one community merges with another, it’s worth considering what might emerge in the future.
This merging can occur in various ways. The critical factor is who merges with whom.
People from feudal-language nations infiltrate English-speaking countries in various ways. Tamils from Sri Lanka secretly cross to Australia in small boats. Before President Trump came to power, thousands walked across the US-Mexico border unchecked.
Around the late 1980s, I had the chance, by coincidence, to interact with a few Sikhs planning to cross into Mexico for this purpose, in another state.
Feudal languages ensnare individuals and groups with rigid communication, social, and status-related constraints. When these individuals enter English-speaking countries, they experience immense mental freedom, unhindered communication, and social breadth.
However, those unleashed in English-speaking countries, equipped with their native language codes, can insult, degrade, constrain, and diminish the dignity of others, driven by a natural inclination to do so. The English are unaware of this. Yet, the presence of these unchecked feudal-language speakers causes unease and distress among some English people, which they cannot fully comprehend or articulate. Still, they may struggle to label these seemingly kind, smiling, and helpful individuals as malevolent.
Over time, as these feudal-language speakers rise economically and start commercial ventures, achieving great success, they gradually employ English people as workers.
Owning businesses or employing others doesn’t cause seismic shifts in the English language. However, in feudal languages, the definition of a worker—through words like you, your, yours, he, his, him, she, her, hers—triggers explosive changes in their indicant word codes, a concept unknown to the English. Similarly, perceiving someone as an employer or boss can cause unsettling shifts in these word codes.
The English are unaware that such indicant word codes even exist.
Over time, feudal-language speakers subtly transform the atmosphere within their businesses to align with their language codes. English employees slowly begin to understand feudal-language terms. When they hear nee (lowest you), a high-minded English employee might feel as if struck by a pickaxe. For a feudal-language employee, accustomed to such verbal blows from youth, it lands on a calloused psyche, causing no degradation—they live in that lowliness.
Centuries later, the English social atmosphere could transform into something resembling India’s oppressive social conditions. However, with various feudal languages infiltrating English-speaking countries, the changes may be highly complex, which I won’t delve into now.
South Asia’s regions don’t seem to share a common history, but I won’t explore that now. Let’s focus on Malabar.
In present-day Gujarat, Maharashtra, Goa, the Canara region, Malabar, and Travancore—areas parallel to the Western Ghats—coastal regions likely differed historically from those just east of them. I’m unsure if this is entirely accurate, but for Malabar and Travancore, it holds true.
Malabar comprises North and South Malabar, divided by the Korapuzha River. Common people in these regions had little connection. Even claims of ties among upper castes or social elites may not hold. Malabar’s terrain, beyond the coast, was filled with steep hills, valleys, dense forests, thorns, large rocks, and rugged paths.
Moreover, caste-based aversions meant social elites rarely travelled. Brahmins might be welcomed in temple guesthouses, but outside, they faced difficulties among lower communities who seized opportunities to use derogatory terms. Sea travel was mentally taxing due to the presence of Mukkavas, which posed significant issues.
This changed with English rule, which brought safe, orderly roads and government systems.
Lower communities likely couldn’t travel freely. No matter their disguise, upper castes could identify them through their movements, eating habits, or speech.
The Keralolpatti, dated to the 1600s–1700s, mentions tales—like Parashurama throwing his axe and Brahmins migrating to Kerala—not found in Brahminical texts. It seems to pose as an ancient text but was likely written recently to impose false historical narratives on locals and outsiders. It also appears to include ideas for Travancoreans to claim Malabar.
Ancient social overlords and organized religious groups were likely cunning intellectuals. More on this later.
It’s hard to pinpoint what happened historically. Much of what’s called Kerala’s history relies on the Keralolpatti. I lack the information to analyze this thoroughly.
Still, I can speculate briefly on what might have occurred.
Like feudal-language speakers infiltrating England today and subjugating locals, something similar may have happened centuries ago.
If a language has feudal traits, subjugating people involves ensnaring them with words, rendering them lifeless and servile by teaching them the overlords’ feudal language. I understand this is practiced today in India’s Andaman and Nicobar Islands and elsewhere.
When subjugated this way, no weapon can neutralize or resist it. However, if the subjugated resolve not to learn the overlords’ language and stand united, they might escape.
Malabar likely had small regions with feudal-language social structures. Another point: Malabar had a sparse population, with small settlements amid vast forests.
Whether the elite in these settlements were Brahmins is unclear. If so, they would have upheld Sanskrit traditions. Whether such a tradition existed in Malabar is unknown.
English officials’ writings note many distinct communities in Malabar. I’ll elaborate later. Though confined by caste, these groups had clear ethnographic and cultural differences.
This suggests that various lower communities arrived in Malabar due to distinct historical events.
These outsiders likely brought their unique languages.
Among them may have been the matrilineal Thiyyas, noted as North Malabar’s most populous group.
This implies their traditional language’s words likely dominated Malabar’s traditional language.
What about the words of South Malabar’s Mappila Thiyyas? The key question is who arrived first in North or South Malabar. Perhaps the Cherumars’ language spread. Or, words from various languages of those trapped in Malabar’s social web may have blended into its traditional language.
Generally, a small group arriving by boat or small sailship, landing on Malabar’s coast, and falling into the hands of local elites would have learned their feudal language, infusing their own words into the local language.
Having not studied linguistics, I am unaware of its contents. However, the word etymology caught my attention. Its meaning is the study of the origin of words and how their meanings have changed throughout history. In a Malayalam dictionary, this is rendered as padolpatti shastram (word origin science) or shabdolpatti shastram (sound origin science).
I have no information on how words were first created. However, when words are formed in the physical world, they likely acquire form, essence, sound, meaning, connections to other words, emotional impacts on human and other beings’ minds, and influence in transcendental realms. These are probably encoded in a supernatural, transcendental software system.
In computers and various software, when tasks are performed or created, codings are written behind the scenes, invisible to the user. Similarly, a transcendental software system likely operates in this manner, to put it simply.
The languages I know are English and Malayalam, along with a few words from the old Malabari language, once called Malayalam. I studied Hindi but later decided not to learn it, so I still don’t understand it. Long ago, I could read a little Tamil, but having chosen not to pursue it, I don’t know it well either. I once understood a bit of Kannada, but its story is much the same.
Not knowing these languages, and being fairly proficient in English, has allowed me to slip through potentially contentious situations across this country, like being coated in oil, so to speak. I won’t delve into that now.
To clarify, I discuss languages with very limited knowledge, claiming no linguistic expertise or any expertise at all.
My observation is that every language has a distinct decorative pattern. Words are embedded within this pattern. How words connect or are linked to each other may depend on the links within this pattern. While this partially relates to grammar, that’s not the focus here.
When humans, different human groups, animals, humans and animals, humans and physical world events, or humans and time are connected through words, these connections likely follow the pattern of those words.
I cannot delve into the depth of this concept now.
However, I can touch on a few points briefly.
In English, the pattern of words is often very simple. Words like you, your, yours, he, his, him, she, her, hers, they, their, them are linked in a pattern without complexity.
In contrast, languages like Malayalam, Hindi, Tamil, Malabari, and Kannada have indicant word codes for each word, displaying highly complex patterns.
The first image above illustrates, in a very simplified way, how the English word he connects through words across past, present, and future tenses.
The second image is a simplified depiction of how, in a feudal language like Malayalam, four individuals are linked by various indicant word codes for you. Explaining this image here is not feasible. Those interested can read the book pristine-ENGLISH! What is different about it? from the link provided.
The point is that each language has a natural, distinctive, and highly complex pattern of fundamental words with characteristic features.
At first glance, one might assume Malayalam, Tamil, Malabari, Hindi, and Kannada share similar word patterns, but this isn’t necessarily true. A striking difference in Malayalam is the ubiquitous presence of saar. Though widely believed to be a translation of the English sir, this is entirely untrue in Malayalam’s case.
In Malayalam, saar denotes a title, official position, social status, and more, appended to a name to proclaim rank. In such cases, it overrides English words like you, your, yours, he, his, him, she, her, hers, they, their, them, occupying their space. This can cause profound, intense mental shifts, transformations, and changes in a person.
As previously mentioned, every language may have its own distinct decorative pattern.
The way words are linked in Malayalam differs from English.
I won’t delve into that now.
The point is that speakers of one language may find it unimaginable to grasp the nuances of languages they’ve never even heard. For example, in some Australian Aboriginal languages, plurals are formed by repeating the singular word twice.
Moreover, the scripts in which languages are written may influence their pronunciation. I understand that Urdu is written in both Devanagari (used for Pali, Sanskrit, Hindi) and Arabic scripts. These distinct scripts, with their inherent scope and limitations, likely affect various aspects of the language. Since I don’t know Urdu, Sanskrit, Hindi, or Arabic, I can’t elaborate further.
I’ve heard that Bengali lacks the letter ‘va’ (വ), which impacts the pronunciation of many words and names in that language.
Similarly, the Malayalam letter ‘zha’ (ഴ), absent in many other Indian scripts, makes it difficult for non-Malayalam speakers to correctly pronounce words containing it, as readers may know.
Likewise, Malayalam letters like ‘ḷa’ (ള), ‘la’ (ല), ‘ra’ (ര), and ‘ṟa’ (റ) often cause slight unease for non-Malayalam speakers when using words with these letters. Many other languages merge the sounds of these letters into a single one or are unaware of one of them entirely.
Additionally, some Malayalam words lack equivalent forms in English. Conversely, the issue of English words lacking Malayalam equivalents has been somewhat resolved by artificially creating new terms, it seems.
Indian language scripts have distinct pronunciation and sound patterns. When English words are written in scripts like Malayalam’s, they undergo changes and distortions unimaginable to English speakers.
For example, words like thank you, sorry, or can I? become heavily distorted when written in Malayalam script. When translated into Malayalam, these expressions get entangled in rigid social hierarchy codes that are unthinkable in English. An average English speaker wouldn’t grasp that this happens.
The point is that each language is a highly complex software system, embedding social, interpersonal, and other possibilities, not merely communication tools or applications. Thus, before learning or advising others to learn an unfamiliar language, one should understand its underlying social atmosphere and impact on human personality.
Languages have a software-like nature. Some software, once installed on a computer, may bring the device and its user under others’ control. Yet, the user may remain unaware of this, lost in the intoxicating allure of the software’s dazzling illusions.
The flow and tone of words in unrelated languages may differ entirely.
Consider this:
Friend… is it kunkuma or youthful bloom
That colours your tender cheeks?
Is it a mere smile or a grape of love
That anoints your soft lips with sweetness?
The flow of words in this poem seems impossible in English. English has a different word flow, it appears.
But that’s not the main point here.
The point is that the hidden and overt codings behind other languages may be unimaginable to those unfamiliar with them.
What might happen when two languages with entirely different social bonding codes, word flow patterns, and social hierarchy codings mix?
They could blend in various ways, though I’m unsure of the exact methods. I can envision a couple of possibilities.
I plan to discuss more on this in the next piece.
Before concluding, one more point: there were crucial differences between how English blended with Malayalam in Travancore and in Malabar. Here, by Malabar’s Malayalam, I don’t mean the old Malabar Malayalam but the Malayalam that spread from Travancore to Malabar.
The discussion has reached the topic of the fundamental form of Malabar’s traditional language or which language was originally spoken in Malabar. However, I’ve started addressing some basic aspects of languages. A few more points need to be covered, but I must rein in the words and steer back to the main thread. With this in mind, I’ll compare a few more language characteristics before returning to the core topic.
It’s widely known that the phrase ethramathe? (which number?) has no direct equivalent in English. While English has words to convey the meaning, an exact translation of the Malayalam question is elusive.
In Malayalam, multiple words can be combined into a single written or spoken unit, unlike some other South Asian languages like Hindi, where this may not be possible. I’m not certain of this.
Let’s take some words from the Malayalam film song mentioned earlier: poongavilthadathil, premaardrachinthakalo, madhumaasakanyakalo, kadamizhiksethrathil, maniveenathanthrikalil, etc. Though they seem like single words, each comprises multiple distinct words. Such a feature seems largely absent in English.
I once ran a commercial translation service, converting English texts to Malayalam. This is when I noticed this clearly. The rate was 70 paise per English word, but applying this to Malayalam was challenging, as multiple English words often merged into a single Malayalam word.
Another observation is the way questions are formed. Consider premaardrachinthakalo? or madhumaasakanyakalo? The question form is fused with the words.
Another point is the phrase varaathirikkaruthu (don’t stay away). How would this be written in English? It means “do not do the act of not coming.” In English, “not come” would be needed, leading to You should not ‘not come’. But not come as a single phrase doesn’t exist in English.
Another observation is the omission of you, he, or she in phrases like evideyaanu pokunnathu? (where are you going?), eppol varum? (when will you come?), or naale pokukayaano? (are you going tomorrow?). In feudal languages, this omission is convenient, avoiding the anxiety of choosing the appropriate level of you, he, or she (e.g., nee, ningal, thaankal). This linguistic feature is a significant advantage.
Beyond these points lies what I’m about to discuss: it’s well-known that languages and words have both verbal (spoken) and non-verbal (through physical gestures and implications) forms.
About 25 years ago, while riding a scooter at high speed on a narrow rural road near a sparsely populated area in North Malabar, I encountered a viper crossing the road at a turn. Braking hard averted disaster. The snake, a few feet away, stood facing the scooter. The rider—me—was visibly shaken. The snake seemed to look at me as if asking my intent. I managed to convey through my eyes, without a helmet, a gesture meaning “go ahead.” The snake understood, moved forward, and crossed to the other side.
This incident illustrates non-verbal communication. Though I could say much about communicating with animals, I won’t delve into that now.
The key point is that non-verbal communication has a strong, direct connection to language.
Calling someone with a hand gesture involves extending the hand, fingers together, and moving them up and down in a specific way. Signaling “come here” uses a different non-verbal gesture.
These non-verbal signals can carry commands, pleas, obedience, control, discipline, subservience, defiance, or a mix of these.
Many verbal messages can be translated non-verbally, and non-verbal signals can be expressed as words. This is likely a familiar concept.
The critical point is that using and interpreting non-verbal expressions in feudal languages differs significantly from doing so in flat languages like English.
In English, the non-verbal signal for come translates to you come. In feudal languages, this signal may carry nuances like nee vaa (lowest you, come), ningal varoo (respectful you, come), or saar vannaatte (sir, please come).
This complexity is unimaginable to English speakers.
Non-verbal signals can be conveyed in various ways: through hands, body posture, walking styles, body language, eye expressions, facial gestures, subtle smiles, and more.
In feudal languages, indicant word codes infiltrate these signals, embedding complexities that English speakers cannot fathom.
A subtle change in a non-verbal signal can drastically alter or invert the indicant word code. For example:
“I just looked, and he attacked me.”
“When he came in angrily, I couldn’t stand up, so he scolded me for no reason.”
“I gestured for him to move away from where the tree was falling, and that’s why he got so upset.”
You may have heard people say such things. Their non-verbal signals likely carried a derogatory or insulting undertone. When a lower-status person uses such a signal, it often provokes anger, hatred, or violent impulses in the recipient.
Many phenomena labeled as mental disorders in pseudoscience today may stem from these silent, imperceptible factors.
*Note: Many aspects of non-verbal communication were discussed in detail in my 2011 book, Idiocy of the Indian Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act!
The English East India Company established a trading post (Factory) in Tellicherry in the late 1600s. The Malabar they encountered then was not the same as in the 1900s. Meanwhile, they and other maritime traders likely had regular contact with Canara and Travancore via sea routes.
Many English officials, and the English administration itself, studied various aspects of South Asia, which is only natural.
However, officials and researchers from England or other British territories may not have had clear information about the gradual social changes occurring in this subcontinent following the onset of English rule.
Connections between previously unlinked regions grew closer with each passing decade, likely significantly influencing languages.
Newly arriving English officials were likely unaware of these slow social changes. In fact, many young people in Malabar today don’t clearly know what Malabar was like thirty years ago. If this is the case, one can imagine the situation for English officials arriving from England.
From Travancore, some Syrian Christians, a significant number of lower-caste Christians, and Ezhavas likely migrated to Malabar quietly, without much fanfare.
References are made to Thunchathu Ezhuthachan and Kanchan Nambiar in connection with the origin of the Malayalam language. I don’t believe Ezhuthachan and Nambiar were entirely Travancoreans. Additionally, there are figures like Poonthanam and Cherusseri. Their writings don’t seem to be in Malabari Malayalam. However, I have no clear knowledge on this—it’s just a hunch. I’ve only seen or read their literary works to a very limited extent.
It seems Malabar had a distinct language with various dialects, likely unrelated to Sanskrit or Tamil.
According to the Travancore State Manual, Travancore’s traditional language was Tamil. Similarly, C.A. Innes, I.C.S., notes in Malabar and Anjengo:
The language of the copper plate grants, which were made by a Perumal who according to tradition was a foreigner, is rather Tamil than Malayalam.
At the same time, Malabar likely had a non-Tamil language, possibly the one used in Theyyam rituals and similar practices.
Malabar and Anjengo also states:
It is not impossible that colloquial Malayalam had already developed on different lines.
The term “local” likely refers to the spoken language used by Malabar’s people.
This suggests that by around the 1900s, two distinct languages existed in Malabar. English officials may have developed the misconception that the Malayalam spreading from Travancore, rich with depth, tradition, Sanskrit, and Tamil, was superior. Unlike today, ten miles was a vast distance back then. They had little choice but to believe what they heard, as verifying facts was challenging. This issue persists even today.
In reality, Malabar’s Malayalam likely held greater tradition and antiquity. Words like konchan (not chemmeen for shrimp), nenthrappazham (not ethakka for banana), periyekkeeynju (meaning “got off the path”), and meethappoyi parathu (meaning “go up and search”) reflect a distinct language, not mere illiteracy. No one informed the English officials of this.
One might ask how a new language could develop without any infrastructure or framework. There are points to discuss on this, but I can’t delve into them now.
My intuition suggests that literary scholars proficient in Sanskrit and Tamil incorporated their words and expressions into the pattern-design of Malabar’s traditional Malayalam, creating the modern Malayalam born in Travancore. I haven’t made any concrete discovery to support this—it’s merely a feeling.
If this feeling is correct, Malabar’s Malayalam may have lost even its name and is losing its identity. Yet, its pattern-design persists, albeit transformed, within another language.
However, V. Nagam Aiya in the Travancore State Manual opines that Malayalam was created by blending Tamil with many Sanskrit words.
Meanwhile, Malabar and Anjengo notes:
The classical epoch of modern Malayalam begins with Tunjattu Ezhuttacchan, who lived in the 17ᵗʰ century, and to whom is ascribed the invention of the existing Malayalam alphabet. The tradition is that he was a Nayar, who provoked the jealousy of the Brahmans by his genius and learning, and was by their magic seduced into the habit of drunkenness. To revenge himself he determined to exalt the Malayalam language to an equality with the sacred language of the gods and rishis; and accordingly proceeded to translate into it the principal Sanskrit epics such as the Ramayana, Mahabharata, Sivapuranam, Bhagavatha, all of which he translated while under the immediate influence of intoxication.
If true, this implies Malabar already had a Malayalam language before modern Malayalam, free of Sanskrit or Tamil words.
When Sanskrit texts were translated into modern Malayalam, the sacred, revered, divine language of gods and rishis merged into it. However, such divine elements were not part of Malabar or Travancore traditions but likely belonged to a long-lost people from northern South Asia or Central Asia, centuries or millennia ago.
Just as studying thermodynamics might imbue one with the traditions and thoughts of Sir Isaac Newton, Michael Faraday, Ernest Rutherford, or Francis Bacon, learning and speaking modern Malayalam may naturally instill Sanskrit traditions, which take root and flourish.
I recall reading a Malayalam scholar stating that calling Ezhuthachan the father of Malayalam is inaccurate, as it implies Malayalam is young, raising questions about its classical status.
Ezhuthachan likely built a new language by infusing Sanskrit words into Malabar’s traditional language pattern-design. Granting classical status to modern Malayalam has created confusion, as modern Malayalam is not the traditional one. Traditional Malayalam is Malabar’s language, which may deserve classical status. However, modern Malayalam speakers view Malabar’s language as the uneducated dialect of illiterate, socially inferior people. Moreover, it’s unclear how many ancient texts exist in Malabar’s traditional Malayalam. If any do, they might belong to the traditions of communities that migrated to Malabar.
The upper castes of Malabar’s traditional population may be the true Malayalis. The term “Malayali” used here poses an issue, which I won’t address now.
When a new modern Malayalam emerged over the framework of Malabar’s Malayalam, Travancoreans became Malayalis. Centuries later, they became “Mallus.” Gradually, Malabaris, once called Madrasis or Malabaris, also became Mallus. Years ago, I noticed foreigners using “Mallu” pejoratively, and this continues today, akin to how some Travancoreans privately refer to certain workers as “Annachi.”
However, things have changed. Travancoreans were likely unaware of how other language speakers perceived the term “Mallu.”
The writing has veered slightly off course. The intended topic was missed and will be addressed in the next piece.
Last edited by VED on Thu May 29, 2025 8:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I must discuss the decorative pattern-design inherent in languages. However, another thought has crept into my mind, related to an observation about filling Malabar’s traditional Malayalam with Sanskrit and Tamil.
It seems Tamil had no traditional connection with Sanskrit. I’m not certain. I’m unsure if Tamil Nadu’s traditional Brahmins lacked a Sanskrit heritage.
Decades ago, in a Tamil Nadu locality, I heard a young Brahmin, who had studied Sanskrit, remark that hearing Malayalam in his surroundings felt like hearing Sanskrit, as Malayalam is filled with Sanskrit words.
That may be true.
Consider words like salabhanjika, rani, chakravarthi, chakravarthini, kusumam, thalam, shilpam, gopuram, nagnam, pushpam, padukam, panchaloham, mandiram, dev, sundari, pranayam, chaithram, padmadalam, mandapam, rudra, veena, sharada, kala, kanakam, malar, kanyaka, veethi, rathnam, kampalam, kamam, mohini, hridayam, kavyam, lokam, sakhi, manju, shayya, lajja. Readers may recognise these from the song in the film Chemparuthi: “Chakravarthini, I opened my sculpted tower for you.” Which of these words are unconnected to Sanskrit? If only pure Malayalam words were used, it seems Kerala’s literary works would lack vocabulary today.
In my youth, Malayalam was flooded with English words. Yet, local language purists undertook massive efforts to counter this. A group of scientific literary figures worked to pour modern science and mathematics into Malayalam, and such groups may still exist. They faced no difficulty mastering the scientific and mathematical knowledge spread by English rule, and they seemed proficient in English. However, their stated policy was that no one in this land should learn English, as it’s a foreign language.
“We, the highly intelligent, will study science, mathematics, and technology in English, translate them into Malayalam, and you need only learn that!”
There were people to applaud, join rallies, and chant slogans for this cause, as people need something to take to the streets for.
Since most schools in Kerala used Malayalam-medium classes, scientific and technical terms likely spread quickly. Students learned and internalised that velocity is pravegam, acceleration is thwaranam, mass is pindam, force is balam, gravity is guruthwakarshanam, and so on. (I’m not certain if these translations are accurate.)
Yet, in speech and writing, English words like light, sound, open, gate, and road were often used. For light, Malayalam has prakasham or velicham. Instead of “put on the light,” one could say prakasham idu, prakasham theliyikku, or velicham theliyikku. Using such words poses no issue.
Similarly, for road, nirathu can be used. But what about tar road? One might say tharitta nirathu, though thar (tar) itself is an English word, albeit mispronounced.
Searching Sanskrit or Tamil might yield a suitable term for tar.
Here arises a question: If English is replaced with Sanskrit words, would Malayalam become more local?
Sanskrit influenced many northern South Asian languages, possibly originating in Central Asia. Meanwhile, ancient northern South Asian languages like Pali, Prakrit, Magadhi, or Ardhamagadhi may have had no connection to Sanskrit.
I won’t address Travancore now. What is Malabar’s connection to Sanskrit heritage? What link do matrilineal Thiyyas, Malabar’s Mappilas, or Pulayas have with Sanskrit?
It was noted earlier that Malabar’s Malayalam lacked Sanskrit and Tamil, as documented.
If so, what local glory is proclaimed by replacing English with Sanskrit words?
Behind this lies a tougher question: What greater glory or patriotism is found in escaping English rule only to fall under Hindi dominance? If one must submit, isn’t it better to submit to those with greater individuality or who grant greater individuality?
For some years now, it’s been possible to write Malayalam entirely without English words. Readers may notice that this writing almost completely avoids English terms.
In truth, I lack deep proficiency in Malayalam. How, then, is this possible?
When writing, I mostly think in English, with English words forming in my mind. For example:
My mind is eager to steer the discussion back to the historical social developments of Malabar. However, I must first address the decorative pattern-designs that lie at the core of languages, unmoving like bedrock.
Languages in the physical world may be created by brain software, part of billions of software codes that continuously design, control, operate, and sustain living beings, including humans.
Countless software codes likely operate behind every word. I’ll discuss this later.
It’s generally understood that humans learn languages from their ancestors and surroundings, not that each generation creates a new language.
However, a unique phenomenon was recorded among the Balala, an enslaved people under indigenous African landlord tribes. Living in extreme hardship, their adults and able-bodied individuals would leave their villages for days to hunt or gather food and resources in the forest. Young children, left in the care of elderly relatives, would play and talk together daily outside. Lacking a clear language, they created their own words, sounds, and hybrid terms. Their speech often lacked defined grammatical rules. Within a single generation, the character of their spoken language transformed.
Quote from The Native Races of South Africa by George W. Stow, F.G.S., F.R.G.S.:
and thus from this infant Babel proceeds a dialect composed of a host of mongrel words and phrases joined together without rule, and in the course of a generation the entire character of the language is changed.
This phenomenon suggests a powerful software system operating in the brain. I won’t delve into that now.
I understand some recognise a strong link between language and culture.
In the social atmosphere created by feudal languages, divine individuals and movements stand on one side, while lowly, inferior ones stand on the other. No matter the social revolutions or reforms, this remains unchanged.
Feudal language codes prescribe servility, respect, and reverence toward the divine, and contempt, pity mixed with disdain, or condescending affection toward the lowly. Local customs, public education, workplace environments, official conduct, police actions, and more strive to enforce, introduce, and train people and new generations into this bipolar social conduct.
In such a linguistic atmosphere, deviating from these codes of conduct or not aligning with them may be interpreted negatively. I won’t explore that now.
The point is to discuss the pattern-designs within languages. I’ll address this and return to the main thread, though it’s a complex matter. Fully detailing it here would delay reaching the core topic, so I’ve decided not to attempt that now. I can’t predict what will happen.
In Malabari Malayalam, you is expressed as inji, ningal, or ingal. I believe ningal was understood akin to thaankal in Travancore’s modern Malayalam. Meanwhile, ingal and ningal likely addressed those of roughly equal status. Ningal may shift to ingal when addressing someone of relatively lower status. Even today in Malabar, addressing a police inspector as ingal instead of saar seems acceptable. However, using ningal might trigger signs of schizophrenia in the inspector. A slight change in script can spark significant upheaval in the physical world, initiating changes in transcendental software systems. I’ll elaborate on this later.
In Travancore’s modern Malayalam, you includes nee, thaan, iyal, ningal, thaankal, saar, and madam/medam.
Consider:
Malabari Malayalam you: inji, ningal, ingal
Travancore’s modern Malayalam you: nee, thaan, iyal, ningal, thaankal, saar, madam/medam
This alone reveals a structural difference between Malabar’s traditional Malayalam and Travancore’s modern Malayalam.
These two languages create distinct links, shapes, and frameworks in personal and social relationships. Individuals connect differently. Viewed as software coding, clear differences emerge.
Imagine someone visiting an office in Trivandrum’s Secretariat, speaking with a peon, clerk, superintendent, section officer, and higher-ranking officers. They speak either entirely in Malabari Malayalam or Travancore’s modern Malayalam.
The choice of you when addressing each official carries a strong social definition. The possible word links in these two languages may differ.
If this communication scene could be viewed in the design view of transcendental software systems, each distinct you would create unique positionings for the individuals involved. Moreover, the presence and existence of two entirely distinct language pattern-designs might be evident.
As the discussion has grown complex, I’ll conclude today’s writing here.
I’m attempting to outline the difference in the decorative pattern-design between Malabar’s traditional Malayalam and the modern Malayalam that emerged in Travancore.
Until I finish discussing language pattern-designs, the writing can only progress slowly. The topics may feel tangled and confusing. I ask readers to bear with me.
Consider the English word he.
In Malabari Malayalam, the primary indicant word code forms are onu and oru. Another term, mooppar, is sometimes used, but I won’t discuss it here, as it might lead the writing astray.
Understand that onu refers to someone lower, and oru to someone directly above—positioned at 180-degree vertical opposites.
In Travancore’s modern Malayalam, he takes these forms: avan/ivan, ayaal/iyal, pulli, pullikkaan, addeham/iddeham, angunnu, saar.
I’m unsure if ayaal existed in Malabari Malayalam. However, the phrase aa aal (that man) was used. Whether it stood between onu and oru is unclear, as it denotes that man rather than translating he.
Thus, aa aal in Malabari wasn’t equivalent to Travancore’s ayaal. I can’t explore their differences here.
The phrase aa aal was also used for women.
In modern Malayalam, ayaal is linked to ningal. In Malabari, no word directly connects to ayaal. Inji links to onu, and ningal/ingal to oru. Hence, the ayaal usage in modern Malayalam seems absent in Malabari, as no corresponding you form exists.
In Malabari, those difficult to classify as oru or onu easily were referred to as aa aal.
If defined as onu in Malabari, a person is confined to terms like inji, chekkan, oruthan, eda, ane, enthaane, or their bare name.
In modern Malayalam, slotting someone as avan/ivan confines them to terms like nee, iyal, thaan, cherukkan, lavan, eda, enthaada, or their bare name.
Understand this:
In Malabari: onu–oru, positioned at 180-degree vertical opposites.
In modern Malayalam: avan/ivan, ayaal/iyal, pulli, pullikkaan, addeham/iddeham, angunnu, saar.
Instead of being flung between vertical extremes, in modern Malayalam’s transcendental software system design view, a person can be placed at various angles, like on a protractor.
This flexibility is absent in Malabari Malayalam.
Thus, a socially elevated person speaking Malabari isn’t equivalent to one in Travancore.
For a low-status onu in Malabari, a slight social elevation can abruptly elevate them to oru. Conversely, if a high-status oru loses social standing, they’re swiftly demoted to onu, 180 degrees below.
Onu and oru differ by 180 degrees in actions and communication.
An oru is an ettan or oruthar, requiring honorific suffixes. Their words and demands carry the authority of a boss, social leader, elder, or official. Disagreeing with them is seen as defiance, insolence, disobedience, or a direct insult, akin to saying “get lost.”
Meanwhile, an onu’s words must gain social weight differently. I won’t delve into that now.
In modern Malayalam, words exist to elevate or lower a person without extremes, carrying various nuances. These aren’t confined to vertical opposites, as modern Malayalam allows placement at multiple levels and angles.
Viewing this as software coding or design view, these two languages clearly have distinct pattern-designs. Readers may grasp this with some thought.
The number of indicant word code levels for he differs: two in Malabari, more in modern Malayalam.
The height and angle of each indicant word code determine how it connects with countless other words in the language.
For example, the English request sit down splinters into various Malayalam forms: irikk, irikkoo, irunnaatte, irunnaalum. In Malabari, kuthirikk and irikk are common, but irikkee is used toward those requiring subservience.
In Malabari, when onu becomes oru, or in modern Malayalam, when avan becomes ayaal or addeham, these link to different forms of sit down.
In modern Malayalam, as avan/ivan shifts to ayaal/iyal, pulli, pullikkaan, addeham/iddeham, angunnu, or saar, the pattern holds. Notice the difference in the number of indicant word codes.
Through countless words, their social meanings, connotations, emotions, taboos, mental stability, disturbances, and more, the simple English he connects in vastly different ways in these languages.
