Song of the Ankle Rings

by Eric Alagan

  After one such quarrel, I broke ties with him. I did not confide in Kannagi for she would prevail upon me to make my peace with Anandan. Worse, what if she insisted on knowing the reason for our quarrel? She was wary of Anandan’s morals but the two of them were friends too, and I would not disparage him to her.

  But this was later, for the early days of our married life started off well.

  Upon her suggestion, we toured temples, enjoyed one another’s company, and our honeymoon turned out rather well. She prayed and paid respects to the gods, and I looked forward to our evenings. It started off as a carefree time but as the days progressed, I noticed some strange traits. She lingered, ever longer, at every deity ensconced in the temple sanctums, and in time I ended up waiting for hours, and in the process lost all cheer. One evening, we were in the throes of passion and, in a bright voice, she recounted a wish to visit a particular temple. It devastated me that she was not present in body and mind. I went limp and withdrew. Later that evening, in a gentle tone, I mentioned her callousness. She expressed no regrets, but instead questioned my fixation on carnal matters.

  After the first weeks of touring, we settled into the routine of married life: Kannagi managed the household; I focussed on my fledgling business. She did an excellent job, but I met with disappointment.

  The merchants I approached, my father’s circle of collaborators, proved traditional in their views and deflected every one of my ideas.

  ‘What you propose is interesting, Kovalan my boy, but let me first have a word with your father.’ But I did not wish Father to intervene, resolved as I was to make my own way.

  Then we received great news. Kannagi was with child. My joy was fathomless, and those were the best months of my life.

  But fate was cruel and Kannagi suffered serious bleeding that triggered a spontaneous abortion. Losing our child devastated us, but more so Kannagi. With my wife miserable, I could not bring myself to leave her lonely. Therefore, setting aside my business plans, I spent all my time ministering to her needs. It brought us closer, and we tried again for another child.

  But when she suffered several more miscarriages, Kannagi grew despondent and threw herself into prayers and temple visits. When I attempted intimacy, she turned cold. I had to start and hold the conversations, because she spoke little and even then only of the mundane, such as meals and prayers. I shared my love of song and music, and though Kannagi tried hard, she knew little regarding the arts and could not engage with my enthusiasm.

  Kannagi withdrew into herself. Our mothers, besides making motherhood statements, were not of much help. Upon my urging she wrote to her Aunty Chinnamma and when that kind woman replied, our situation improved. Kannagi became receptive and on occasion we even indulged in intimacy.

  But after several exchanges, the letters stopped coming. The courier service crossed Arakan lands, which was always fraught with dangers. One day her father brought shattering news. Her uncle robbed and murdered on the Arakan road, and her grief-stricken Aunty Chinnamma had thrown herself on the funeral pyre and committed sati, ritual suicide.

  The news devastated Kannagi. She collapsed and her face twisted and mouth locked open as if in a wail but no sound ensued from her throat. I watched speechless as she lay crumpled on the floor and heaved and gasped for breath. She was suffocating before my eyes. Fortunately, my father-in-law administered a sharp slap to her back. That shocked her to draw a quick breath. But the wailing that followed frightened and kept me awake for many nights.

  Kannagi had often spoken of her aunty and knew her as a jovial and accommodating person. But it was obvious that there were chambers hidden in the woman’s heart that no one else was privy to. I shuddered at the thought of self-immolation. It was a horrendous practice that few people discussed and even fewer practised.

  Kannagi wished to visit the farm but thankfully her father put a stop to her; all the more when he learned that she was again with child.

  I offered many lavish sacrifices to the gods and contributed fabulous donations to temples. A child would save Kannagi’s sanity and restore some normalcy to our lives. But alas, when she again miscarried, I lost my poor dear Kannagi and my home sank into a gloom from which it never recovered.

  She resorted to fasting and took advice from lice-ridden swamis and strange fortune-tellers who filled her mind with all sorts of esoteric ideas founded on magic and mysticism.

  I tried hard to accommodate her unpredictable behaviour, but occasionally lost my patience. Once, I even uttered harsh and undeserved words regarding her barren womb. It was cruel of me, but I could not retrieve the words already let loose. In desperation, she even suggested adopting a child. This was unheard of and, the child’s lineage unknown, would not do. I rejected the scheme outright. Unfulfilled in love, my focus turned to commerce, but I suffered several failed ventures.

  To her great credit and ignoring her own situation, Kannagi worried for my well-being and suggested approaching our friend Anandan, who had had some small success in his trade ventures. She was unaware of our friendship-ending quarrel. Nevertheless, I put pride in a pouch and visited Anandan. When I could not meet him, I left a message for him to call on me.

  Meanwhile, my relationship with Kannagi lost the spark and profundity of love. And I found little faults with her. In hindsight, these were trivial and unfair to her, but I had grown petty and our circumstances enlarged and echoed every little error. In secret, I even blamed Kannagi for our misfortunes. But in my more generous moments the dark thoughts directed at her devastated me. This guilt made matters worse. Life overwhelmed, and I sank into frequent bouts of gloom.

  JUST AS MATTERS WERE spiralling into the abyss, my dear friend Anandan graced my household with his long-expected visit. Heartened that he held no ill feelings I embraced him. We clung to one another and exchanged declarations of friendship.

  And Anandan had brought a companion—Telamonius! The Greek had advanced in years and looked more weathered. The thick brown hair, bouncing about his ears, had turned white, and his beard had gone straight and stiff, a dirty besom.

  ‘How sing the anklets?’ asked the Greek. ‘I pray their song keeps you enchanted, and your incomparable wife pleased.’

  The Greek mentioning the anklets precipitated pain, as they harkened back to happy days long since faded into the fog of familiarity. Moreover, the ankle rings were part of my wife’s private wardrobe and not a matter for public discourse. The Greek, though versed in Tamilakam’s mores, had broken etiquette.

  But I hid my displeasure and said, ‘All is well, sir, and you continue to speak fluently our sen-Tamil.’

  ‘And you, sir Kovalan, remain generous, as I well remember.’

  The Greek made a show of bowing. Telamonius’ abundant deference did not sit well. It reminded me of the wariness felt when I first met him. But he was Anandan’s declared friend and, pushing aside my lack of enthusiasm for the Greek, I received my guests with abundant hospitality.

  Talk touched on this and that topic, and meandered, and, as liquor loosened tongues, we found ourselves on grounds favoured by all virile men. Enchanting maidens. And one maiden in particular, a celestial beauty, with teasing nipples, hips of a honey bee, and a welcoming pubis.

  ‘Accompany us, my dear Kovalan, and pay court to the king,’ said Anandan.

  ‘That is the stated excuse on everyone’s lips,’ said Telamonius, ‘but the main event is the fair maiden, Madhavi, descended from the heavens. By all reckoning, she is an accomplished dancer, and this is her public debut. There will be many jostling for the privilege, and pleasure, to become her patron and protector.’

  ‘Why would I want to attend any happy performance when my dear wife, Kannagi, is even now confined to her chamber and recovering from yet another miscarriage?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear of your wife,’ said the Greek, his reply swift and insincere.

  ‘That explains your dullness, my dear friend,’ said Anandan, and he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. T
elamonius intervened.

  ‘Perhaps it is all the more reason for you to cheer yourself with dance and music, sir Kovalan. Something to put good spirit in you which, contagious as it is, you can convey to your dear wife.’

  ‘Our friend Telamonius has spoken wise words, dear Kovalan,’ said Anandan, ‘for besides music and dance, Madhavi is a mistress also of the erotic and profane, having attained perfection in these arts, rendering her an unrivalled courtesan. She is versed in science and astrology, in oratory to seduce, in the language of gestures, and knowledge enough to engage even sages and seers. And there is more, but I see your eyes already glaze with indifference.’

  ‘Her patron protector is the king himself,’ said Telamonius. ‘That is, until he confers the responsibility to another. Her beauty is storied, and some say to breathe the air around her is to partake heavenly prana, the essence of nourishment for body, soul, and all six senses.’

  ‘You will also get to see our Illustrious Majesty, King Kari-Kaalan,’ said Anandan, taking over as if the two had come rehearsed, ‘and many accomplished men who, with a gesture, can help realise dreams, of which you harbour one or two perhaps. Is this not the reason you wished to meet me, to rejuvenate your fledgling commercial ventures?’

  I placed my suggestion to Kannagi and, to my welcomed surprise, she agreed.

  ‘My brother Anandan is right, Athan. Go, and with new friends recover your zest for life, for it pains me to see you so reduced.’ She rested her gentle hand on mine. ‘And upon your return, promise to describe Madhavi’s artistry so I too might relish her gifts.’

  7: The Worth of a Tamil Maiden

  THE IMPOSING UNIFORMED man, seated behind the table, pulled back his sleeve and with a flourish wielded his thin iron pencil as he recorded our names on a palm-leaf. He looked up, expectant. Taking the hint, I reached for my money pouch. Anandan restrained my hand.

  ‘Allow me, please.’ He handed over a palm-sized but weighty cloth bag of gold coins.

  The man unloosened the draw-strings and peered inside, and his face lit up as he took a quick account of the gold.

  He gestured to an under-official, one of several standing a few paces behind him, who led us into an opulent foyer already filled with men from the upper crust of Puhar society, and all dressed in rich silks and pearl necklaces.

  Anandan, who seemed to know almost all the people in the room, pulled me along as he made the rounds in the tight space. Servant-boys moved about, serving silver cups of milk and watered honey. There were piles of fruit—sliced mangoes, bananas, jackfruit, grapes and more—heaped on silver trays arrayed on tables lining one wall. I drifted down the vestibule and faced a deep-carpeted corridor. Liveried guards, their lances bedecked with pennants, lined both sides of the passageway. I strolled with the slow-moving body of perfumed men.

  Anandan placed a light hand on my arm and a familiar but unwelcome face greeted me—Telamonius, the Greek. There were three other Greeks whose names did not register, but I gathered they were Telamonius’ workmen. After the quick exchange of greetings, I tried but failed to nudge myself away from the Greeks, for by then, the doors drew open and ushered us into the deep concert hall.

  A stern official, familiar with the behaviour of the wealthy self-important men streaming into the hall, raised his voice and spoke as he would towards unruly children. His booming vocals herded the men to their seats. As expected, there was some confusion, and it took all the restrained ferocity of the stern official and his glum assistants to resolve sitting disputes, and relegate the gathering to a measure of humming silence.

  The majestic doors opened again and released a retinue of ministers and courtiers, in tunics of shimmering silks and turbans adorned with pearls, plumes, and precious stones, prompting the gathering to stand and bow. The officials clasped their hands and dipped their heads in choreographed unison before settling into their chairs. There was a hushed excitement. Now and then, a minister or senior courtier caught the eyes of some luminary in the crowd, and exchanged smiles and nods. Again, the doors opened and in streamed sages and teachers in scanty vestments and white tunics, and priests in saffron robes. Again, we repeated the established ritual of standing and bowing with clasped hands.

  A sudden boom and blare of percussion and wind instruments reverberated around the hall. Moments later, dozens of musicians, beating drums and blowing trumpets, appeared.

  The noisy procession heralded the royal couple’s entrance. Maha-Rajah Kari-Kaalan and his Queen Consort entered the hall, followed by captains decked out in splendid brass armour and silken turbans adorned with dyed horse-hair plumes.

  The people stood up and bowed, and panegyrists recited flattering accolades as the royal couple ascended the steps to the dais. Maha-Rajah Kari-Kaalan, his chest covered in heavy gold and gleaming jewels, surveyed the great hall and, satisfied, settled on the throne.

  The master of ceremonies, a tall man in a heavy robe with silver embroidery, approached the royal rostrum and, after securing the king’s permission, began the evening’s performances.

  Several poets and sages recited verses and sang ballads praying for abundant rain and bountiful harvests, and praised the Cholan lineage, the Cholan Kingdom, and Maha-Rajah Kari-Kaalan and his Queen Consort. The people relished the elegance of the verses, and tossed scented flower petals into the air.

  I sensed the obvious displeasure and impatience of Telamonius for, on several occasions, he leaned to the side and demanded of Anandan.

  ‘When will the dancing girls perform?’

  Anandan counselled restraint, but the Greek remarked in a voice which carried, that had he known, he would have arrived much later for the dancing girls. This elicited frowns from some men seated within hearing distance but made no impression on Telamonius. In the wake of the poetry recitations several percussion and choral ensembles performed. More percussion and wind instruments followed the ensembles.

  Then, it was the dancing girls’ turn but Telamonius kept wondering aloud when if ever the star dancer, Madhavi, would make her appearance. The master of ceremonies heard the Greek and gave him a severe look, but Telamonius did not notice or did not care. Soiled by the Greek’s proximity, I cringed in shame.

  A sweet melody from a lone flute filled the auditorium and held the gathering in rapt anticipation. Fine pink kumkuma mist floated down from the ceiling and the tinkling sound of several dozen anklets heralded the star attraction. A stream of light-footed maidens ran out in a single file and the line curled within itself as would a shy millipede. Drums took up the beat, growing in vigour. The girls continued to mark time with their feet, their anklets in perfect harmony with the drums. Then, the music stopped, and the girls dropped to the floor.

  All, except one.

  There, standing at the centre of the curling line of crouched bodies, was a lone figure, and even in her veil, one could discern her exquisite beauty and alluring sensuality. As star of the evening, Madhavi needed no introductions.

  She mesmerised with movements of graceful flowing arms, gentle swaying of sculpted hips that accentuated a slim waist, and feet that marked entrancing beats. Music from an orchestra of drums, trumpets, flutes and veenas accompanied her every step and pose, and one could not tell whether she danced to the music or the musicians played to her fluid movements. The drum beats, her jingling anklets, and her flowing limbs enthralled and enslaved. Telamonius’ jaw fell open. He was a man possessed.

  As each raaga, or melodic mode, etched and ebbed, so too did I sense the musical moods and tinges of colours. Madhavi’s dance rendition brought to the fore all that was calm, peaceful, and beautiful—but always with a subtle tease and silent challenge. Her dance grabbed and painted my mind with dreams of fantasy and eroticism unrealised. She was an apsara maiden, descended from the celestial courts of the godly devas. Every man who gazed upon her saw his ideal, and she was perfection personified.

  I fell in love with Madhavi’s dance but also sensed that most men in the hall beheld her as no mo
re than an object of desire. The thought stirred inexplicable anger and envy in me. A trembling hope coursed through my being which at once warmed but also warned.

  Anandan said she had been a dancer in the private chambers of Kari-Kaalan. Her artistic skills had compelled the king, the foremost patron of the arts in his realms, to share his good fortune with his subjects. He was right. Madhavi’s divine gift of dance and gestures belonged to the annals of artistic excellence and public adoration, not for the private enjoyment of royalty.

  Without warning Madhavi’s eyes fell on mine. I caught my breath. In a hall tight with eager faces, unwavering eyes, and opened mouths, it was difficult to tell, given the distance, whether she caught my eyes or perhaps it was someone else who held her fleeting interest—someone behind or beside me. When she twirled again, and her face swept around and stopped for a fleeting moment in my direction with her eyes locked on mine, I knew we had seen one another. My heart skipped a beat. Before I could recover and offer a secret smile, Madhavi moved away and danced facing the royal dais. Disappointed, I waited, eager, for her to swivel, to catch her eyes again. Either she avoided me or I had imagined it, for she did not look in my direction again.

  I sensed sharp eyes watching me with intensity and, unable to resist the temptation, turned to see Telamonius. He gave a thin smile, and I returned a stiff nod.

  There was a great uproar of applause and the hall reverberated with the booming noise. The music stopped and Madhavi, her dance rendition over, bent low again and again to acknowledge the spontaneous and unrelenting cheers, and shouts of congratulations. Some men stood up and tossed perfumed flower petals and coins—gold coins—at her feet. This enticed the entire assembly to rise. Distinguished men made fools of themselves as their covert desires played out in overt displays of emotions. Some proclaimed their proposals and laughter followed shouts of: Madhavi, Madhavi—Devi, marry me—Take me for your husband. Other men copied these sentiments and similar calls carried around the deafening hall. Just as the clapping abated on one side, it picked up again along another wall and the rounds started again. There was so great a shower of gold coins thrown into the air, to land and spin at her feet, that it compelled an attendant to rush out bearing a parasol to protect her.