Kottaratil Sankunni, the first Indian columnist?

Evenings at Kottayam in the 1900s. Friends K.A. Varghese Mappila and Kottaratil Sankunni and a few others meet to chat. Something of a needy rite. K.A. Varghese Mappila, editor of Manorama and Bhashaposhini and Kottaratil Sankunni wrote, subbed, edited, brought out in a manner Manorama, daily; took a break at 4 p.m. for talks over chai and paruppu wada at a potti kada, not sure; at these sessions Kottaratil Sankunni unroped tales more imaginative than factual; one day Varghese Mappila offered to serialise the tales in Manorama and Bhashaposhini; Ithihyamala got birthed; later editor of Lakshmibai, Vellaykal Narayana Menon bound the columns into a book. That's the story signed off by Kottaratil Sankunni in a preface dated, Kottayam, 5-9-1084 (17-4-1909), to Ithihyamala. In Calcutta, father read out an old Malayalam edition on Sunday afternoons and me enjoyed the tales dipped in magic; in recent times, wife Rama helps with the Malayalam telling from a revised two volumes of Ithihyamala. Abraham Eraly has a compressed English edition Tales once told: Legends of Kerala; 'These are not folktales, but historical anecdotes of a legendary character. Most of the events described in them lack hard historical veracity, but they are nevertheless invaluable for exploring the psyche of Kerala lying beneath the surface clutter of manifest facts,' writes Abraham Eraly. Me does not claim a Kerala psyche but surely have been touched by Kerala psyches; a risible, doubting and cynical psyche; an architectural must for a newspaper columnist and cartoonist and Kottaratil Sankunni, perhaps, is the first Indian language columnist. Experts may correct me though the thought remains; tales crafted with mind and magic locked for company; easily written; menu deep and wide as the kayals flowing by Kottayam. 'But more than anything else, these are fascinating tales in themselves,' writes Eraly.  It should have been a fine adda under coconut lined skies; for me, Narayanaththu Pranthan, the favoured. Pranthan rolled stones up a height, roared in fun as they rolled down; an entire day; in the evening, he cooked what he got, mostly rice; one evening he boiled the rice over a fire taken from a burning body in a masan; a ferocious goddess asked him to quit, he did not; she promised to fulfil any wish put up by Pranthan; can you shift my death date, he asked; she said no; and Pranthan went his way or as the Tamils say: Chithan pokku, Shivam pokku. Pranthan is a part of me from the time Father told the tale; rewind him every day. Life is an absurdity; Pranthan is absurd; we are absurd. Now two requests to the Kerala psyche: a film on Pranthan, imaginatively rich with loudness absent; a biography of Kottaratil Sankunni in English. He may be best for journalists 2016. India 2016 needs Sankunni most.