Song of the Ankle Rings

by Eric Alagan

  ‘Remember,’ whispered Chinnamma, ‘delicious food served by your bangled hands is the main course. You are the dessert.’

  She placed her finger under my chin and raised my face. I bit my lower lip and cast down my eyes.

  ‘Good,’ said Chinnamma, for that was the prescribed behaviour. It was silly, I protested, but I was no dog’s tail and in time she straightened me.

  Afternoons were more relaxed, and I got to bathe the lazy cows, feed the skinny goats, and rub down the horses.

  ‘Remember, no horse riding. It is so unedifying for a maiden to straddle a horse,’ said Chinnamma.

  But she and Father underestimated my resourcefulness. The farm was quite sizable and there was a willing stable boy and his grandfather, the stable master. I bribed the old man with my cute smiles, and the boy with sweet rice and honeyed savouries. And they taught me horse-riding. It was our secret.

  I harboured many little secrets, such as spying on a young village couple. In the mornings, the man drove his flock of goats, their little tails forever flicking non-stop, to pasture. In the afternoons, his wife brought lunch in an earthenware pot, perched on a cloth bun wrapped on her head. I too tried the balancing act but, after breaking several pots, gave up. The couple shared their meals under the shade of a tree, fed one another, and embraced. On most days, the man, throwing furtive glances, grabbed his wife’s hand and disappeared behind some shrubs. I suspected their motives and, embarrassed, covered my face.

  ‘Remember, a chaste woman never leads in bed,’ said Chinnamma. ‘Your husband is lord, lover, and leader. You are a book. Let him in, let him explore and relish the leaves of your pages. A fruit which drops at his feet will never hold the allure and sweetness of one which he reaches and plucks. You must be a book and a fruit. Feed his imagination and fill his hunger.’

  Whenever Chinnamma used the word remember, she turned grave, and I committed those words to memory. Except for the horse-riding part.

  How the years had passed, I sighed again. Now the time to return had arrived, and I was on my way to join my dear Kovalan.

  Throughout the journey, the guards kept a sharp lookout for Arakans but detected no evidence of the wild men’s presence. But I felt a strange comfort knowing the beast-men were there, in the hills and trees.

  After several days of sleeping in tents, and wearied but with excitement rippling throughout the caravan, we entered Poom-Puhar and made steady progress through Pattinam, the City District. There was already a small crowd along the streets and these swelled in numbers as we made our way east towards my home in Maruvur District.

  My marriage to Kovalan was a few days away and Father had launched preparations about a week earlier, to coincide with my return. Buntings of glorious flowers of loud colours and subtle fragrances adorned the streets in Maruvur, prayer flags waved in the cool breeze descending from the north, tall sugarcane cuttings heralded the promise of sweetness for the couple-to-be, and lately transplanted banana stems bent heavy with flower and fruit.

  As we made our slow way, a party of musicians joined our procession as vanguard. Drums and trumpets announced our arrival. Street criers ran ahead shouting our names and a calendar of promised events to follow. Closer to home, several dance troupes and their musicians and criers added to the gaiety. Priests appeared and merged with the motley procession and lent their repetitive chants, adding a touch of mystical spirituality to the celebratory mood.

  For a person who had been quite mischievous, I had now grown self-conscious and remained well under the canopy of the carriage, not daring to show myself. And Chinnamma placed an elegant shawl around me and covered my face with a veil.

  ‘Remember,’ she said above the din, ‘you’re no more a child. Bury your foolishness, be the maiden you are now. Make me proud. Make your parents proud. Make your husband happy.’

  In keeping with her manner, I nodded with gravity.

  ‘Remember, no more horse-riding,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  I wanted to protest but, in an instance, realised she and Uncle knew of my clandestine afternoon activity. Chinnamma looked straight ahead. Her faint smile was fleeting but revealing. The stable master must have secured Uncle’s blessings before allowing me on the saddle. My little secret must have made for an interesting topic during the farm workers’ meal times.

  Another thought planted, an embarrassing one: did they also know about the shepherd couple? I studied Chinnamma’s face.

  After several long moments, she smiled and said, ‘Yes, I know, but not Uncle.’

  I swallowed dry air. With a finger under my chin, she raised my face and whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

  ‘When I was your age, I spied on my neighbours too.’ And she grinned. I looked away and bit my finger as expected of a shy maiden.

  ‘Here we are, your father’s house. And remember, no more mischief.’

  The grounds of my father’s house were ablaze with dozens of strangers moving about and attending to various tasks: putting up buntings and pennants, erecting tents, arranging garlands and flower pots. There were two outdoor kitchens—one vegetarian and the other non-vegetarian—under vast canopies where cooks were churning out meals for the army of helpers and early well-wishers.

  Father and Mother waited under the shade of the patio. They had grown fatter. Mother had applied kumkuma powder all over and her light skin looked pink. Father’s silvery beard and bull-horn moustache stood out in prominent contrast to his smooth deep brown skin.

  Mother brought out a silver tray filled with camphor, ash, and turmeric water, and conducted a small prayer to cast out evil eyes.

  After the prayer a gaggle of noisy women led me into the house where relatives and well-wishers mobbed me. There were too many of them, people whom I vaguely remembered, but also some new faces. But every woman treated me as if I were part of her close circle. Too many painted faces, too many fake smiles, and an avalanche of advice for the bride-to-be. The pong of their moist body odour—reminding me of damp cloth stored in musty cupboards—and bad breath were suffocating. I wanted to scream: Leave me alone. My caked smiling mask was in danger of shattering with exasperation and revealing my true self: an exhausted girl who yearned for a cool bath, a cup of milk, and some sleep.

  Kovalan did not sneak into the grounds, disguised as a guest, to take a peek. I sighed. He was not a spontaneous person, and had probably grown more stringent. I would not disappoint him, for I too had changed. I would be a mysterious book and an alluring fruit hanging on a branch—but not too high.

  Once rested, I rushed out to seek Kovalan but Mother stopped me. Father too stood in silent acquiescence with Mother’s wishes.

  ‘A bride-to-be does not wander about the streets to meet her fiancé,’ said Mother. I gave Father an appealing look, but he said,

  ‘Listen to your Mother, amah.’

  Did he refer to me as amah? Whatever happened to gold and silver, diamond and ruby, and all the other pet names? Amah! Was I that old? Many years ago, I swore never to grow old, but time had conspired his mischief.

  Disappointed, but I agreed with my parents. Kovalan would have to wait. Did I have a choice? I have to transition from maiden to married woman. Chinnamma’s lessons and reminders came to the fore. Remember.

  Looking back, I wondered how could I have done all those things with the boys: racing down the streets, climbing trees, swimming in ponds and rivers, screaming down valleys to hear echoes, and fighting? Fighting! I shuddered and hoped Kovalan would not recall my antics.

  I had changed in Chinnamma’s farm but for a moment, the pleasure of home had brought back the old carefree ways.

  MY WEDDING DAY STARTED with an early morning bath in water sprinkled with scented flowers and rice grains, and followed by a series of obligatory prayers. Discarding the damp garment, I reclined on a long seat with my wet locks of hair loosened. Sweet incense seeped through my hair and removed moisture while adding fragrance.

  Under the close supervisi
on of a matron, beauticians lined my eyes with black kohl; the rich eyeliners smarted and turned the corners of my eyes red. Then, I became a statue, with arms outstretched, and they applied henna and sandalwood paste, and coloured powder and saffron inks on my skin. A stylist combed and smoothened my hair, parted and braided it, and curled it into a heavy knot which she then adorned with strings of flowers, hairpins of gold, and precious stones.

  They turned me this way and that way, and layered me with silks. After which, they hung various ornaments of gold and silver. Next came the sweet-smelling garlands, by which time sweat trickled and tickled down my back.

  The bridal panthal, a shimmering marquee in gold fabric, caught and bounced the brilliant sunlight. Billowing silks, cascading from tall frames, gave the illusion of dancing walls. More colourful buntings of fine translucent fabrics criss-crossed the high ceiling. The astrologers had chosen an auspicious day in the winter months, and a northern wind brought cool relief flowing through the tent. But swaddled as I was, I might as well have been standing over a boiling cauldron.

  ‘Keep your head down!’ Chinnamma reproved for the umpteenth time. Again, I was a little slow and felt a finger nudge my head down. I wanted to scream.

  Kovalan and I, and our parents and clan members sat facing one another. Before us were several large silver trays filled with coiled garlands and fresh fruits, rock sugar and sticky dates and savouries, and piles of fine silks. Taking pride of place among the spread of gleaming silverware were several trays of jewellery: gold and silver, all encrusted with colourful precious and semi-precious stones.

  The families engaged in the centuries-old ritual of choreographed play-acting. Father and Kovalan’s father, Sir Masattuvan, exchanged questions and made declarations regarding our marriage, with much nodding and approval from all sides.

  My focus was on Kovalan, who sat opposite. He had grown in height and filled out. I gave him a secret smile but his eyes shifted.

  Chinnamma nudged and whispered. ‘Eyes down. Look demure. Be graceful.’

  I kept my head down but raised my eyes and peeped through the veil. Anandan, the groom’s second, sat behind Kovalan. He too kept a stoic face, and I wondered whether I was the only inquisitive one in the assembly.

  Forced to look down, I counted the number of bananas on the tray. Then I counted the dates, but that proved impossible so I studied all the toes of the people: cracked nails, dirty nails, nails with silver rings, and a missing toe. What? I looked again. Yes, a missing toe. I peeped at the man and wondered how he lost his toe. It must have been painful. One woman had an additional toe attached to her little toe. It was nerveless and ugly. I snatched a look at Kovalan’s toes, and sighed with relief. He had perfect toes. I thus amused myself and—felt a pang. I missed my old self.

  It was only at that moment under the hot tent I realised I will never be that mischievous girl, ever again. Remember. I recalled my aunt’s whispers. Chinnamma was right. My parents were right. I agreed with adults. I had become an adult!

  My wedding also served as a lavish backdrop, a showcase for our two families to display their wealth and prestige. It was a huge commercial opportunity where important merchants, royal councillors, and courtiers gathered and renewed acquaintances. They transacted business and resolved festering disputes in an atmosphere of peer pressure and political patronage and greased with a mouth-watering feast and ready intoxicants. The nobles and merchants exchanged favours and brokered many new friendships.

  Lest the men outdid them, the queens, led by Mother and Kovalan’s mother and their circle of fat relatives and lady friends, draped in their finest silks and weighed down by gold jewellery, floated—lumbered—for their lesser sisters to gasp with envy. The women’s antics provided enormous entertainment, more than the music and song, as they busied themselves by hurrying here and there, and accomplished little else than to harass the poor stewards whose task it was to oversee the events of the day.

  The five days’ activities were the same, albeit with small changes: breakfast, lunch, and afternoon song recitals, succeeded by evening prayers, and a dinner that included dance and drama.

  The finale of my wedding day, managed with care, coincided with the foretold auspicious time, and Kovalan tied the nuptial tali string around my neck. Father engaged two sets of a dozen priests each: the first prayers in Sanskrit, in honour of the delegations from the Aryan lands in the north, followed by the more extensive chanting in my beloved Tamil.

  Maha-Rajah Kari-Kaalan, his Queen, and their entourage made a dignified late entrance and sent ripples through the crowd long before they appeared. There was a great commotion as people rose to their feet and surged towards the king. Guards, their arms locked, formed a human fence and held back the crowd.

  Kovalan and I fell at the feet of the royal couple, to receive their blessings. After saying a few words, they departed and drew in their wake most of the people who had come to witness our wedding. How silly of the people, for when they returned others had taken all the choice seats.

  After the speeches and just before dinner, Kovalan slipped a set of elegant ankle bracelets around my feet and sang in his rich voice, evoking envious awe throughout the eager gathering.

  ‘I bathe your feet with ancient rites

  Of turmeric dust, flower-scented milk

  Sandalwood paste hides shyness,

  Henna tempts with magic on skin

  Anklets filled with music adorn your feet

  With rubies perfect, blood red within

  Your virtuosity, my unbroken ancestry

  Silver, gold slipped on your toes

  Swearing in the temples of my father

  Our Love straddles Eternity, till

  Time dies, the Cycle completes.’

  6: A Stranger and a Celestial Nymph

  ‘YOU ARE A MIMOSA CRYING touch-me-not,’ I said. Kannagi went silent, and that irritated me. ‘Say something, for my fingers crave to explore but the knots on your garments remain fast.’

  ‘Why do you vex so, Athan? Do I not give myself when you demand?’

  ‘Yes, but only when I demand. You never give freely of yourself.’

  But I stopped quarrelling when Kannagi broke into tears. She heaved and sobbed, and I showered kisses on her to pacify. It was fortunate that we lived on our own as I did not want Mother, ever ready to defend her son, to pick on Kannagi. As for Father, a chasm had opened between us, and it reduced even our greetings to nods and grunts.

  Another night, as I watched Kannagi sleep in peace, a perplexing rage swelled within me. Earlier in the evening, we had had an amorous encounter. She had cringed and made me feel as if I was a violator.

  ‘Man’s adharma, sins, have three roots,’ she said. ‘Desire, anger, and errors of judgement.’

  Her words, appropriate for philosophical discourse perhaps, flew as arrows into my bristling and brittle needs. For all I heard were accusations that my carnal rights were lust, my justified outrage was anger, and my insistence on living a conjugal life was an incorrect path. She expected me to look and admire but not embrace, embrace and enjoy but not indulge, and indulge in sweet words but not infuse life into them.

  It was frustrating, and I found fault with her teachers on the farm. They had incarcerated my Kannagi, the mischievous one who loved life, and sent back, in her stead, a frigid stranger. I also wondered whether these withholdings of favours were deliberate attempts to have me dancing to her tunes.

  Anandan had warned of the repertoire of wiles some women employed.

  ‘Beware, lest you end up a jalra,’ he said, ‘keeping count on hand-cymbals to the music modes a woman dictates. That’s why I prefer to flirt from flower to flower. No pubis hood will subdue me.’

  Every encounter presented a new hunt where I had to stalk, corner, and win her over and over again, night after night. It was exhausting, and all the more when the prize held no new wonders or intoxicating joys. And even after succumbing, she laid prone and did not respond to my overtures.
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  ‘You might as well live a desert nomad’s life and mount a goat,’ said Anandan. ‘For a wife who lies as a log is no better than a goat which stands bleating.’

  Hearing him speak of bestiality, I had vomited.

  ‘You refuse to even tease awake the wicks in the lamps, and our nights remain moonless,’ I said.

  ‘Someone might see, Athan,’ she replied.

  ‘Who?’ I cried loud.

  She meant me. And as our conversation and night ripened, often we found ourselves engaged in quarrels. But regardless of Anandan’s urging, I refused to force myself on her, for it was demeaning and unworthy of any man, especially a husband. For me, when given it is a gift of love; when taken it is a theft committed in the shadows of the night. How apt, I thought, that Kannagi kept the lamps doused.

  Whenever the pain of unreleased desires overwhelmed me, I sneaked into my private room to pleasure myself and then, exhausted but not satiated, returned to our conjugal bed. These episodes rendered me small and feeling unwanted. I did not wish to injure Kannagi but at the same time, felt myself losing my mind.

  ‘Have the main course at home, my dear Kovalan,’ said Anandan, ‘but if you wish for something more enchanting...’ He smiled, leaving the obvious unspoken. Sometimes I hated him. But most times, he was just distasteful medicine.

  Anandan was right, and I knew many luminaries in the country who did just that—upright family men and stalwarts of society and patrons of the arts who harboured a seedier side. Some of these men of stature purchased and supported harlots and enjoyed exclusive access to the women. Others, succumbing to the blandishments of these women of soiled morals, brought them home and set them up in small houses quaintly referred to as shiru veedu, within the vast family holdings. These tenements often occupied a corner in the estate and it was possible to maintain two distinct households and for the two families, and the queens, never to meet.

  And Anandan was persistent—even the king has a harem, he declared—and I would soon run out of arguments, making me even angrier. Our exchanges would escalate and lead to harsh words. And shaking with anger, I would stomp out of Anandan’s house.