Translated fiction: A wave of nationalism sweeps over a languorous French colony in Kerala

Prominent among the native thiyyas of mayyazhi were Mayor Chekku Moopar, whose rosewood-black skin had not grown even a shade lighter though he had spent three decades in France, and Sergent-en-retraite Kunhikannan, who had fought wars in Indochina on the French side.

Chekku Moopar had come back to Mayyazhi with a French wife.

“What style he has!” the women remarked, looking at the stately, dark-complexioned Chekku Moopar strolling hand in hand along the street with his French wife.

Only Kurambi Amma, who adored every man in Mayyazhi who wore a coat and trousers, said wistfully: “If only he had been a little more fair-skinned.”

Unlike Leslie Sayiv, Chekku Moopar never mixed with the poor natives. No matter how many times he walked down the street, he never cast a glance at Kurambi Amma. After all, she would try to reason, he lived in France for so many years and even married a French lady, why should such a great man talk to her, coconut merchant Kelu Achan’s woman?

But Leslie Sayiv never kept the natives at a distance as Chekku Moopar did. He dressed more fashionably than Chekku Moopar and had the carriage with the best horse in Mayyazhi. And yet, he put his arm around Kelu...

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