Song of the Ankle Rings

by Eric Alagan

  But seeing my Athan’s business ventures fail, I had relented and encouraged my husband to approach his friend for help. It was a decision blessed by the gods, for everything had turned out well on the business front.

  After winning Madhavi’s patronage, Anandan proved himself a shrewd steward and our coffers began to fill. It surprised me that Anandan did not abuse his relationship with Madhavi. Neither did he dip into the till. He proved himself a reliable friend but also an enigmatic person. Perhaps he had much good within, but my fixation on his treatment of women had clouded my judgement. At my wit’s end I sent for him and, to my added surprise, he answered with a prompt visit.

  ‘For now, I’m overseeing Madhavi’s performing arts business, little sister,’ said Anandan, ‘arranging dance programs and gathering guests, all good paying people.’

  ‘What then could ail my Athan’s happiness, dear brother? I seem to know him less by the day.’ I scooped diced mangoes, jackfruit, and banana into a silver tumbler, and added cool fresh milk to the brim. ‘He does not even indulge in his songs, his one true passion. It has been weeks since he composed a verse. He does not sing anymore. The last song I heard him hum was his favourite and mine, one which has happy lyrics. But he sang in a soft voice, to himself. And it was in a sad tune.’

  ‘I harbour a suspicion and am guilty of the situation he finds himself in,’ said Anandan.

  I offered him the tumbler of milk and mukkani, the three fruits, and said,

  ‘Remove the void in your stomach, and the heat from your body, dear brother. So refreshed, share your suspicion though I believe you are guilty of only doing the best for my dear Athan.’

  Anandan threw his head back and poured the thick sweet brew down his throat. He dabbed his lips with the tail of his turban and said,

  ‘I’ve asked, no insisted, for Kovalan to take charge of the business.’

  ‘Take charge? But why, dear brother, will he not be lost without your help?’

  ‘Kovalan rewards me handsomely for stewarding Madhavi’s concerts but I harboured an agenda, little sister, and shall confess. Now that I have enough savings, adventure beckons, for it has been a long-cherished dream to seek my fortune in faraway Araby. Perhaps my going away, a selfishness on my part, is the source of his unhappiness.’

  The news of Anandan’s impending departure saddened me, for he had proven a dear and reliable feeding hand for Kovalan. But our friend too held dreams—and why not? We should not thwart his departure on our account, though Kovalan would miss Anandan’s brash love and unstinting help; and I would miss his reassuring presence.

  ‘He has to superintend the Madhavi business, but has yet to set foot in the dance hall.’

  ‘My Athan has not visited the dance hall? But why?’

  ‘The dance hall is an annex to Madhavi’s house and my dear friend exercises caution for fear of society’s gossip,’ said Anandan. He paused, and I sensed there was more.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, little sister, what might you think if he meets Madhavi, especially in privacy. She is but—’

  ‘—a maiden who lives alone—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘—but for her mother, Chitra-Vathi, and her maid servant, Vasantha-Mala.’

  ‘You’re well-apprised, little sister, but some say Madhavi is a matchless beauty, and what of your fears?’

  ‘I do not fear, for my Athan loves me dearly and is a righteous man.’

  ‘That he is, but his righteousness will move him to deny the petitions of men and corner him into unpopularity, little sister.’

  ‘What petitions, my dear brother?’

  ‘Petitions of the kind a brother cannot discuss with a sister.’

  ‘You speak in riddles, dear brother, trust me enough, please, and speak plainly.’

  ‘Kovalan views Madhavi as an artist worthy to behold, but most men who come to the dance hall view her only as a beautiful object.’

  ‘Say no more, elder brother, and accept my apologies for my dull approach in pressing you into such a corner. I am a silly woman judging the world from a woman’s view. I forget there is a man’s view too. Is that why my dear Athan avoids the dance hall, as he does not wish to confront these uncouth petitions which he will surely decline?’

  ‘I confess that Kovalan’s absence, which I encouraged until now, draws instead of drives away eager guests who fill the coffers, for the lion’s lack of interest emboldens scavengers. With his presence, and their petitions turned down, there might be a substantial decline in earnings. That would compel Kovalan to make good the shortfall from his private purse.’

  ‘That was shrewd of you, brother, but was it righteous to lead men on by offering them false promises? As for money, my dear husband has a generous heart and will put coin to cost to help Madhavi realise her art to greater heights.’

  ‘You speak of righteousness, my dear little sister. We’ve known one another since our childhood, and you know I’ve no need to prove anything. Society embraces you when you’re up but even your shadow will step on you when you’re down. I’ve no desire to attain the unreachable ideal which righteous men spew but don’t practise. I’ve no need for righteous living, for I’m already living and it’s enough.’

  I went silent, for Anandan had spoken from the heart. It was not for me to judge him. He was right for now. Perhaps in time, with more love, varied experiences, and reflection, he would realise there is a greater right. And thinking perhaps to right away set him on the straight and mundane, I said,

  ‘Marry the chaste Madhavi. Stop all amorous petitioners. She will be your beautiful wife and avoid public stage. My dear Athan saved her once from the clutches of men. You save her from the curse of the devadasi.’

  Anandan threw his head back and laughed. He did not laugh at me but at himself.

  ‘You love me as your dear brother and therefore overlook my wayward ways, but I’m no man of destiny. I am but a mere man-servant who tosses the spear to the hero who destroys the demon and gains immortality. And no one will recall the servant’s timely intervention.’

  ‘You speak poorly of yourself, my dear brother. If what I hear about Madhavi is true, she will transform you into a man worthy, which you already are but have yet to recognise.’

  ‘But first she must choose to husband me. For you see, Kari-Kaalan has decreed she can select any man for a husband but no man can impose on her. Once selected, no man shall reject her too. And even if she desires a celibate holy man and he dares scorn her choice, he will do so under pain of losing his head.’

  ‘So I have decided, she will choose you before some shrivelled sannyasi appears.’

  When he heard my words, Anandan laughed and so did I. It was a strange feeling—to laugh—and I realised how much misery had taken me for his constant companion. But it was not the time to dwell on my wretchedness, and so I said,

  ‘I will help Madhavi see you for what you truly are—a good man and my esteemed brother. I will speak to her as one woman to another woman.’

  ‘I’m not a marrying man, little sister,’ said Anandan, and he laughed again. ‘My eyes dance when they spy a comely maiden and my head enjoys resting in the soft pearl-adorned bosoms of strange beauties. My vigour will cause grief to Madhavi or to any woman cursed enough to marry me. Would this be well-done of your elder brother? And will you, dear sister, spew into Madhavi’s ears rootless embellishments? So you see, perhaps in the twisted abhorrent life I pursue, I too am shadowing the path of righteousness. I deny innocent women my infidelity.’

  And he laughed ever more and that made me feel guilty, for I had misjudged him again. Perhaps he was a good man and as all men, he had his weaknesses but, unlike most, made no pretences. I could sense the flickering flame of dharma living deep within him.

  ‘There’s something more troubling you. What is it?’ said Anandan. ‘Come now, treat me as a brother, please.’

  He was right and, after some hesitation on my part and further encouragement from him, I was tru
thful. I confessed my fears. I said,

  ‘I trust Kovalan’s correct living but also harbour a wife’s reservations. Madhavi has such renowned charms, and a foolish woman’s fears bubble within me.’

  ‘Let me bury your fears, little sister. Ordinarily, I would not share these secrets of men but this fear of yours is reasonable and requires routing. In matters of harlotry, perhaps I know your husband better. On many occasions I sought to tempt Kovalan with easy servant-girls and even brought him to whorehouses. He will not set foot in houses of ill-repute and not succumb to the easy charms of willing maidens. Instead, he always fought my wily attempts by evoking your name and his unshakeable love for you. And when I pressed, he found quarrel and even broke ties with me.

  ‘Trust me, little sister, if I had found a flaw in his chaste armour, I would not have encouraged him to acquire Madhavi’s patronage, or now suggest he steward the venture. For Kovalan and you are my friends—my only true friends—and I will promote nothing to hurt you. Kovalan beholds Madhavi as a gifted artist and a business venture, an opportunity for Tamilakam’s arts to flourish to greater heights. I am poor even in this aspect, for I view her as a mere plough that provides plentiful produce. For him, the money is only a validation of his business acumen. It is the arts he wishes to promote.’

  ‘You tempted my dear Athan with harlots? How could you do this to him and to me?’

  ‘You are right, I tempted him and perhaps risked your happiness. I was impetuous and wanted him to indulge as I did. But he is a far better man than I can hope to become. Looking back, I wonder whether I can blame fate for having guided my actions. For now I ask, is a swami who recluses himself on a lonely mountain superior in purity to one who lives among whores but remains untouched by debauchery? Just as Lady Sita, commanded by her husband Lord Rama, entered the fires that shrunk in fear of her, Kovalan too bathed in flames and emerged pure. And for this test, I take undeserved credit for it was not a result I expected. You have nothing to fear from Madhavi or any other apsara maiden.’

  ‘Please forgive me, elder brother, for doubting your intentions. You indeed know the full measure of the good and purity in my dear Athan.’

  ‘So, my dear little sister Kannagi, will you entreat upon your good husband to pay Madhavi a visit? Impress upon him your thoughts that her hair is black and shiny, and not a tangle of serpents; her beauty is to be relished and not ravaged; and her art is to be admired by decent men such as her patron and not parleyed for anything less. Once satisfied that you harbour no fears or questions regarding his love for you, he will embrace the stewardship of his business. He will reject the petitions of these foul men and so drive them away, for they are cane squeezed dry of sugar; and in their stead, welcome men of honour to the dance hall who, even now, stay away for fear of being tainted by the company of these others.’

  ‘Your words are correct and perhaps it is just as well my dear Athan steers his ship.’

  ‘It’s agreed then. Good. If I might suggest, there is no dance event this evening, and it is Madhavi’s rest day. He can go to her house and return in peace.’

  ‘I will ask him to invite Madhavi to our house as a welcomed guest and my dear Athan will never deny me, and on the day of her visit, you must join us too, as an honoured friend and elder brother.’

  ‘Careful, my dear little sister, for you might become, before your time, an old aunty trying to arrange a marriage liaison.’ And when he laughed, I joined in the laughter too.

  After Anandan departed, I reflected on his visit. I had wronged him and that day I knew I had a true friend and brother. Anandan lived a strange life. Perhaps such are the ways of people born into poverty but strive to acquire a small measure of wealth.

  I also recalled the laughter released in my house. Anandan had left behind some joy. For that I was grateful. I resolved to help my dear poor Athan rediscover his zest for life and rekindle new joy in our hearts and hearth.

  But when I suggested he visit Madhavi and see to her needs, my Athan proved reluctant. The poor upright man. He feared rousing my suspicion, for Madhavi was an acclaimed beauty. I had to press him with arguments of reason and his responsibility before he agreed.

  I stood at the threshold and bade him a safe journey. But as his horse carriage set off, I felt an unexplainable and fleeting pin-prick in my heart.

  9: Madhavi’s Soft Scented Folds

  THE HORSES, THEIR BELLS chiming, turned onto the soft sand covered street, and the white-washed wall surrounding Madhavi’s mansion came into view.

  ‘Tree House.’ Anandan had said. ‘Madhavi refers to her dwelling as Tree House.’

  I sat behind the driver and cowered under a shawl from the prying eyes of the people on the street. My face flushed with embarrassment and heart thumped with guilt as if my innermost desires were transparent for all to see.

  My dear wife Kannagi had encouraged the visit to Madhavi and, protesting with reasons which grew ever weaker but in secret yearning to go, I relented, convinced that destiny has decided.

  ‘I will be back soon,’ I said, and felt a strange unease. Seeing Kannagi’s absolute trust, I asked again, knowing the unfairness of the imposition, for her to accompany me.

  And I felt relieved but shame when she replied, ‘I am drained and weak, Athan, and the physician suggested I need to rest.’

  FROM WHERE I STOOD, the balcony was in full view and Madhavi was looking out, with her back to me. She remained still as if in some deep contemplation. Not wanting to intrude into her privacy, I held back. I could not see her face, did not know her, and yet she cut a figure of loneliness.

  A lovely body-hugging sari, shimmering silk with plenty of sequins, wrapped her, exposing smooth flesh at the waist and shoulders. Though I loved the richness of silk, I did not care much for sequins, for they were tawdry and lent an air of frivolity to the wearer. But not on Madhavi, or perhaps, as most men in a similar situation, I looked beyond the obvious. On her, the sequins looked just right, or so I concluded, bringing out an allure of beauty that at once drew but also cautioned.

  I was a male mantis, compelled to trade one encounter for life itself. I stepped back, wanting to flee. But my legs refused to move. My heart took control of my head. Though she continued to gaze out at the night sky, she had sensed my presence. And I welcomed the fatal attraction. I waited, and my feet became my accomplice and did not bear me away.

  Madhavi turned, her deep-lined eyes darting from one small imaginary spot to another until they landed on me. I swallowed hard and felt the lump travel up and down my throat. I cursed the gods for having rendered men transparent—be it the moving apple in the throat or an aroused lingam.

  We stood so, our eyes locked. I recognised the visual embrace I had felt that fateful day at the royal hall. I waited for her to say something or to come forward to greet her guest, her patron. She remained still but for a full-faced and welcoming smile.

  My feet moved forward driven by the desire welling from the depths of my heart and the twitch of my loins. Her smile, confident but also streaked with submissiveness, sucked my life. The breeze brushed past her and carried her scent, warm and sweet, to my eager flaring nostrils.

  When we were at an arm’s length, Madhavi went down on her knees and touched my feet. Her hands sent a delightful shiver up to my head. She waited, folded low and hands covering my feet. I placed my trembling fingers on her shoulders and she rose on strong muscles, her movement fluid as though choreographed to perfection.

  ‘You kept me waiting, my lord,’ she said, and smiled.

  I felt a small stir but refused to parry. I wanted to say something rude, but her smile, so innocent and trusting, robbed my hard thoughts.

  ‘I dreamt with joy last night for my gallant, and today you have come and given me new life,’ she said. Tears glistened in the pools of her eyes. When I did not respond, some fear clouded her face.

  ‘If you feel your presence here is a mistake, go, my lord, leave me. If fate decides that you win my trust but
betray my hope, go, and breathe life to the written words.’

  ‘What terrible life have you lived, woman, to utter these strong words to your patron who wishes you well?’ My voice sounded strange and detached, rude and quite unlike me.

  ‘You live a charmed life, my lord, one I have no part in and it be the best not sullied by tales of my sorrow.’

  ‘I see before me a young, talented, and beautiful maiden brimming with life and future. What sorrow dares befriend and spoil your happiness? Share with me your woes and perhaps I might have a salve.’

  My words brought out her smile and, wiping the tears threatening to spill, she said,

  ‘Please, my lord, forgive my poor manners.’ She stretched out her hands in the gesture of welcome. ‘Let me offer you some refreshments of sweet wine so my sour matters will fall less heavily on your ears.’

  ‘And tell me, why do you call your abode Tree House?’ I tried to sound casual, choosing a safe topic to start over.

  ‘It’s a silly girl’s habit, my lord,’ she said. ‘Tree House, because it evokes many fond memories of my childhood.’

  ‘Child’s play?’

  ‘An uncle built a tree house once, and I spent many happy hours in it, imagining myself a princess and with dashing princes of the realms vying for my hand.’

  ‘And did they come, your princes?’

  ‘One prince did, and he has come today.’

  Embarrassed, I looked away and, seeking a distraction, my eyes settled on a child’s doll worn by many years of play.

  ‘Ah, you found Seema, the first gift I received from my uncle. Seema is my dear friend who never hurts or quarrels or competes with me. You may think me silly, my lord, but I am an only child and by giving names to little things, I surround myself with little friends. They make life less lonely. Here is Seema’s companion, Ranjan.’ The face on the second doll was identical to the first, save for a thick painted moustache. She picked up a carving of a prancing horse. ‘I call him Velan.’