by Eric Alagan
‘Truly, the gods have blessed Madhavi with divine purpose,’ I said in a hoarse whisper into Anandan’s ear. ‘For she is the quintessential practitioner of the arts.’
‘Buy her,’ said Anandan. ‘The king offers her to the highest bidder. For there is none here wealthier than you.’ His eyes gestured toward Telamonius. My gaze remained on Anandan, but my mind raced and turned over exciting possibilities.
Madhavi, hands clasped, bowed and disappeared behind the long flowing curtains hanging on the walls.
‘Will she return?’ I asked, surprised at the panic in my voice.
‘No, but next comes the bidding and the world shall learn who will have the honour of becoming her new patron,’ said Anandan. And, as if having spied some disquiet, he added, ‘Enjoy the show, my dear friend, for I am sure my little sister, Kannagi, is fine.’ His misplaced concern only wrenched me with acute guilt.
‘Perhaps our dear friend, sir Kovalan, is enjoying himself even more than you know.’ This from the Greek. But I ignored the remark and the man.
The gruff master of ceremonies brought down his sturdy staff on the wooden block at his feet. As the three sharp thumps sounded, people turned as one to the source. The great hall fell silent, save for a few murmurs. The large man with robes that flowed to his feet, scanned the audience. Another thump of his massive staff and servant-girls appeared and collected the fallen coins.
‘For those of you good sirs who have yet to summon your generosity, this is the last call to shower your appreciation.’
A murmur of laughter rippled through the crowd. More coins flew into the air and landed near the girls.
With the last coin thrown and collected, the master of ceremonies, after seeking the king’s indulgence, summarised Madhavi’s story. The king had nurtured the virginal maiden as his own daughter and brought her to maturity in the arts. It was now his duty and pleasure to welcome a patron protector to assume the great responsibility of furthering Tamilakam’s art forms as personified by the peerless Lady Madhavi.
‘Take her for your wife if,’ said the bearded man and stared hard at the eager faces following his every gesture, ‘if and only if, she so wishes. But by the King’s Decree, you will not prevent her from practising and cultivating the arts. If you have the restraint to abide by these stipulations, step forward and make your petitions.’
The biddings came fast, starting with a hundred gold sovereigns. Some men laughed and cried out in derision at the pitiful sum but others rebuked them. But with every new bid, the stakes rose.
‘Five thousand gold sovereigns!’ The voice was shrill and accented.
Telamonius! The great hall fell silent and a slow murmur rose, the recovering chitter of insects shocked into silence.
Arguments broke out, some questioning the Greek’s credentials and wondering how this yavana would promote Tamil art. As voices rose and collapsed, the crowd’s mood shifted as did the ferocity in the rumble of voices. The master of ceremonies’ silence encouraged free rein of opinions. A yavana making a bid was unheard of and unexpected. Was there a Tamil to better the Greek’s offer? The initial restraint evaporated, and the crowd gesticulated; their unruliness gained strength. The king and his consort remained stoic and expressionless.
‘I am Telamonius, a Greek, yes,’ said the yavana, and his voice rose above the growing clamour, ‘but one who has lived and traded with and prospered from Tamilakam these two score years. And at age sixty-five, I know as much and even more than most men, worthy as you all are, gathered in this great hall, about Tamilakam’s arts. I am husbanded to a Tamil maiden of the finest persuasion. I speak Tamil and can promote your arts in the Greek-speaking world, for peculiar as it might seem to some, I even speak Greek.’
Muted laughter rose and snuffed out. Taking that for the crowd’s approval, he added.
‘Promoting Tamil art to the Greek world will be a prelude to even greater commercial opportunities for our two peoples. Am I unworthy of promoting Tamil arts?’
With the draw of a single breath, Telamonius debunked all the arguments boiling within the hearts and minds of his naysayers. Expecting the crowd’s reaction, he had come rehearsed and prepared.
‘If there remains anyone who feels my shadow will defile the purity of Madhavi, then let him step forward with coin heavier than mine,’ said the Greek.
With growing confidence and arrogance, he produced a large purse and shook it for all to hear. The Tamils muttered and whispered but none stepped forth. Their hesitation stiffened the Greek and, flushed, he committed a huge error of judgement. He veered from his script. He said,
‘Now all the world knows the worth of a Tamil maiden’s chastity.’
There was a momentary silence, and then, the crowd erupted with anger. Amidst the cacophony, demands for the Greek to forfeit his life were shrill and clear. A man standing behind slapped Telamonius’ head, and he wheeled around, ready to defend himself. Other men, their demeanour threatening, stood up to approach the Greek.
‘Halt! Halt, I say.’
The master of ceremonies thumped his staff. Some men hesitated but others tugged at the sleeves of the Greeks, who had tightened into a knot. The master of ceremonies shouted and thumped his staff but made little impression.
I caught the eye of Anandan and he mouthed something but the uproar drowned his words. People shoved and pushed, and some chairs toppled. Somewhere a conch blew and fast rhythmic steps approached the hall.
Attendants pulled aside the curtains and armed guards—with heavy swords hanging from leathered baldrics but shields held at the ready—clattered into the hall. The king’s bodyguard cooled the ardour of belligerence in the men. The people smouldered, but for the moment the soldiers’ presence restored order.
After the guards escorted Telamonius and his Greeks to the passage behind the curtains, renewed railing erupted in the hall.
‘Silence! The king wishes to speak! Silence!’ The master of ceremonies thumped his staff, and, seeing the king stand up, the people acquiesced and quieted.
‘Dear nobles, friends, and brothers of our Cholan nation,’ said Maha-Rajah Kari-Kaalan, and he gestured for peace. ‘Please, rest your feet and let us, as elders, resolve this unfortunate event of an otherwise pleasant evening. We find no fault in the yavana’s petition for the mantle of Lady Madhavi’s patronage.’ In a lowered and sad voice the king said,
‘Unfortunately, he has cast a slur on Tamilakam and on our women.’
‘For which he must die!’
No one knew from where the shout rang but the call burgeoned throughout the gathering and elicited more demands for blood.
‘Buy her,’ said Anandan.
My mouth went dry but, with every draw of breath, I grew excited with the prospect.
‘Buy her, my friend, for only you have the strength.’
I said no, my usual reaction to anything Anandan proposed, but already in my mind the sums stacked up: my share of inheritance, Kannagi’s dowry.
‘Decisions warped by emotions can never birth the best outcomes. Vex not just people. Embrace calm and good sense. The Greek will suffer to appear before the magistrates and allow justice full play,’ said the king, and he paused before continuing.
‘Even if the Greek forfeits his life, and I pray such will not be the outcome, we will have to hand over Lady Madhavi to his house and inheritance. These rules are of our own making and ridiculed will we be if the pigmentation of one’s skin dictates our justice, for even our gods are multi-hued from magnificent black to soft pink, and with all shades bridging the two. We can debate whether the Greek’s beneficiaries would promote Tamil arts, but for now such questions remain for future conjecture; though the auguries do not bode well for Lady Madhavi to find fulfilment of her destiny on foreign shores. But then again, has destiny not already funnelled us to this juncture?’
‘Her performance will draw hundreds, even thousands,’ said Anandan, and his hot breath discomforted my ear. ‘Did you see the gold collected at he
r feet?’
‘What?’ I said with quick irritation in my voice, my attention split between Anandan’s urgent whispers and the king’s steadfast words.
‘Save Madhavi from the Greek, as that’s what the king wishes,’ said Anandan. ‘Be recognised, for though he graced your wedding, he hardly took notice of you.’
‘Therefore, my good countrymen,’ said the king, ‘I shall hold the Greek’s offer until a day; giving one of you, purebred by the soil and salt of our Cholan lands, time to step forth and redeem the honour of our Tamil women.’
‘How do I do that?’ I asked in a confused daze. My mouth spoke even as my mind raced in all directions.
‘Buy her, become her patron.’
‘With Kannagi ill, my time is not mine and what do I know about promoting the arts?’ I spoke in a hurried whisper.
‘Reward me a share of the takings and I will handle Madhavi’s dance engagements.’
Anandan had quick answers to my every objection and my heart welcomed his rebuttals. He pressed his mouth to my ear and said,
‘You seek new business and here the gods present you with a perfect opportunity. Grow not heavy with concern, my dear Kovalan, for I will help.’
‘I now ask you, kind sirs and countrymen,’ said the king, and his words rose above the growing murmurs and reached the edges of the huge hall, ‘to retire beyond your thresholds and consider all that has happened here today. Seek the counsel of your wives and pray to the gods of your houses, and return with instruments and petitions to redeem our honour.’
‘You will help me?’
‘Of course, my dear Kovalan, I will help you become a prominent personage of the realms.’
‘Now go,’ said the king, ‘and neither hurt nor hurl abuse on any Greek you meet on your way, for one man’s impetuousness is not representative of his nation. Return in the morn with a generous heart and gentle news.’
‘Maha-Rajah!’ I stood up and, shaking with trepidation, gulped deep and raised my voice. ‘Maha-Rajah. Maha-Rajah!’
The king, who had already helped the Queen Consort to her feet, stopped.
The master of ceremonies banged his staff and the swelling commotion subsided. ‘Who calls the king? Step forward and show yourself,’ rang the commanding voice.
After several moments of hesitation, I stepped forward. Away from the cramped seats, I felt a sudden coolness in the air. But my knees wobbled and perspiration blistered all over my body. The master of ceremonies gestured and, taking the cue, I walked to the foot of the royal dais, bowed low, and said,
‘I am Kovalan, only son of Sir Masattuvan. My father is a grain merchant, pious before the gods, charitable to the unfortunate, loyal to the Cholan and righteous in all his dealings.’
The royal couple reclaimed their seats, prompting the rest of the congregation to settle down too, leaving me standing alone and vulnerable to everyone’s scrutiny.
‘Yes, we and the Queen were honoured guests at your wedding,’ said the king. ‘And how is our good friend, your father, Sir Masattuvan?’
‘My father is of good health, Maha-Rajah, and offers daily prayers of gratitude for the good fortune of your rule, for timely rains, and bountiful harvests.’
‘A true son of our Chola lands. He is not here today.’
It was not a question and not an accusation but a statement—the most dangerous kind. I said,
‘No, my king.’
The king smiled and in that tiny moment I detected, or perhaps deluded myself, a glint of approval sweep across his features.
‘Let us hear your words, for your voice was shrill and urgent,’ said the king.
‘Please forgive the impertinence of youth, my king.’
The king waved away my apology and smiled, hinting that I get to the crux of whatever I wished to say.
‘I wish to,’ I said, and paused for a deep breath and continued, ‘I wish to offer a petition better than the yavana’s. I wish to take the responsibility of patronage to nurture and further Lady Madhavi’s artistry.’
‘Masattuvan approves?’
‘My father, when he hears of my decision, will be well pleased, my king.’
‘Yes, we are sure it will please him,’ said the king.
By now I had recovered my calm and was more perceptive, and detected disapproval in the king’s voice. Perhaps he preferred the patron to be much older, one who would treat the beneficiary as a daughter rather than a—I dared not even think the thought.
‘And how is your wife, the dear child Kannagi, for I don’t see her here?’
It was the Queen Consort who posed the question. It was quite extraordinary for the public to hear her voice; a great honour, for people considered her the Mother of all Cholan realms. But instead of jubilation, I felt a sharp prick. It was as if the queen was reminding me to tread with care, for I already had a wife.
‘Resting at home, Maha Rani, for she has suffered a miscarriage. But the physicians are confident she will recover fully and quickly.’
‘She will need you now, more than ever,’ said the queen.
I understood the full import of her comment, but having rolled the dice in public, I resolved to see through the game, for failing to do so would shame me forever.
‘I attend to my wife’s every need and whims, my queen,’ I said, letting my annoyance feed my courage but was careful to keep my tone restrained. ‘It was her insistence that brought me to witness the debut of Lady Madhavi.’
The queen’s lips curved in a small smile but her eyes did not dance with approval.
‘With the king’s approval,’ said the master of ceremonies and bowed to the royal couple. Turning to me, he said, ‘Let us hear your bid, sir.’
‘My bid is six thousand gold sovereigns and lest there is another who would challenge, I am prepared to raise my offer to ten thousand.’
A murmur of gasps and soft exclamations rippled through the assembly. The master of ceremonies slammed his staff on the block and brought silence back to the great hall.
‘This is no marketplace, sir, speak one price and say no more.’
‘Very well then, ten thousand gold sovereigns!’
I became patron and protector of Madhavi.
Later in the week, the king and his councillors, after taking care to weigh all matters of state and commercial interests, banished Telamonius never to return to Tamilakam.
But that night, having rescued a Tamil maiden from a yavana’s clutches and saved the dignity of Tamilakam, and enjoying the praise and flattery of well-wishers, I left the hall in a glow of well-being.
But my stomach churned and wild imaginations filled my mind. Pleading that my dear Kannagi was alone in the house and wishing to return to her without delay, I took my leave of Anandan and several newfound friends. Many of the men pressed gold coins into my palm to have the privilege of enjoying Madhavi’s private dance renditions. Tormented by whispered petitions and pulled by my sleeves, I snatched my arms free and urged my carriage driver to make haste.
Reaching home, I found Kannagi asleep, so I took a cold bath from the deepest of the three wells and returned to bed, careful not to stir my dear wife. Before long, I woke and wanted relief but could not bring myself to rouse Kannagi.
I sneaked into my private room and fondled myself and, as the shameful deed committed in the dark progressed, I imagined Madhavi pleasuring me. Madhavi! Not my dear Kannagi.
8: Kannagi’s Error
MY ATHAN SUCCUMBED to quick temper and spewed harsh words at our carriage driver and watchman. Once, he even uttered mean words to our servant-girls, and they broke into copious tears. What was the source of his ever-bubbling anger?
On our wedding night, when I sought to please him, he frowned with displeasure. Our tree climbing streaks, where he always wanted to win, and the river incident, where he thought my behaviour unbecoming, came to mind. Remember. And I recalled the words of my poor Chinnamma.
He is your lord, lover, and leader. Do not scare him, especially in
matters of intimacy, for a man’s ego is fragile. Do not expect him to please you. Your pleasure comes from seeing him satisfied.
I restrained myself and that won his approval. I would lay, pretending to be asleep and he enjoyed teasing and playing with my coyness. Chinnamma was right, and the first few weeks had been everything I had dreamed.
But in time, familiarity and routine crept into our lives, I supposed, and he would drop into bed, his angry sighs stifling our bedroom and shattering my peace. And sometimes he called out in the night, his voice edged.
‘Are you asleep again?’
I would answer him in a gentle voice and drape an arm over his beautiful body, my fingers searching the magnificent mane on his chest. But he would shock me with violence and, after satisfying himself, roll over to sleep without even a tender kiss to seal our intimacy. On most nights, when he turned cold, I planted soft kisses on his back but he would not yield. On other nights, I cried without a whisper, for I felt abandoned. After losing my babies, it grew worse and his rejections were hot skewers that thrust and twisted in my flesh.
Every morning, with new prayers promising renewed hope I welcomed the bright day and chirping birds, but in the evening, the familiar disappointment revisited. My dear Athan wallowed in misery and pulled me into the whirlpool, and I struggled to stay afloat. I concluded that he needed help and therefore resorted to the one person who knew my Athan best: Anandan!
Actually, I did not wish to approach Anandan, as I did not approve his addiction to harlotry and the debauched life he led. There was a time after our marriage, my Athan stopped calling on Anandan and did not even mention his name. Perhaps there had been some falling out between them. I did not pry but was pleased.