Song of the Ankle Rings

by Eric Alagan

  We crossed the large swathe of green and shady trees of the Naalangadi Market. The first itinerant traders were already setting up stalls, rolling out mats, and displaying their wares. Kovalan picked up his pace, and I understood his intention. We navigated turns, entered side streets and alleys and, with some relief, exited the City District.

  The closer we reached the city outskirts, the poorer the neighbourhoods we passed. Humble structures made of mud walls and thatched roofs replaced palatial houses. The air carried whiffs of humanity: the foul smell of detritus and the overpowering tang of animal dung. The streets, unlike the well-swept roads in the richer districts, had turned disagreeable, riven with open sewers and spotted with animal faeces, and the ever-present red spittle from chewed betel leaf and areca nut.

  We left the city gates behind and followed the tree-lined road. Soon, the eastern sun caught up with us. To keep the slanting sun from scorching his head, Kovalan thickened his turban with a second piece of cloth. The sweet man cut some Palmyra leaves and fashioned a parasol of sorts, which he held up for me. I knew before long his arms would tire but, seeing how much he worried for my comfort, offered no protest. As the road extended ahead and the city walls disappeared behind, the well-arrayed trees yielded to natural and haphazard forest that confused us.

  Kovalan had never made this journey and therefore relied on my memory of the route travelled several years ago. He was not one to allow me to take the lead, but he had transformed and treated me as an equal. I welcomed his confidence, but the responsibility overwhelmed me. What a difference between the current venture and the carefree joy of travelling in the company of my parents and a full complement of servants and armed escorts.

  Madurai lay to the south moving west and about a hundred leagues away as the pigeon flies. Depending on the road conditions and detours, it promised to be a dangerous and taxing adventure but, defeated as he was, I dared not share my apprehensions with him. If we kept to the road, with luck we might encounter a passing caravan. Perhaps the caravan master might be a kind man, like my father. Father. My dear loving father. My diamond. My ruby. My pearl. All those pet names. For a few moments my tears welled. But I hardened myself. I have to remain strong. I will remain strong for my husband.

  After several hours and seeing my dear Kovalan tire, I suggested a rest break.

  ‘Athan, I need but a moment to catch my breath but will recover soon.’

  He moved fast to help unload my bundle and, having settled me under a shady palash tree, poured a measure of water. I plucked leaves from the tree and fashioned a plate, a skill acquired in Chinnamma’s farm. The thought of the poor woman’s fate made me pause, but I shook myself free. I reminded myself to remain strong and resolute.

  ‘Take your time, my sweet,’ he said, having spied my momentary lapse of focus, ‘for we have set out even before the cock crowed and the day stretches long before us.’

  Opening several containers, I scooped some cooked rice onto the leaf-plate. Rolling a ball of rice, I placed it in his palm and added some pickles and a shallot for taste. Though it was poor fare Kovalan enjoyed it with unhidden pleasure, reminding me of the young Maravar escorts who, years ago, ate with gusto from my hands. But I hid my welling emotions. I will not cry. I cannot let my husband see my tears.

  Upon his insistence, I ate my lunch too, relishing the closeness of his company. He mixed honey in water and we enjoyed a refreshing drink.

  Though it was only mid-afternoon, the trip had already proven arduous. I wondered how much longer our endurance would last, for I too was wearing out. I blamed myself for the ills befallen us: encouraging him into Madhavi’s arms, losing his wealth to that scheming old woman, and being unable to give him children.

  As these thoughts wrecked my mind, a light touch landed on my hand. Kovalan smiled and said,

  ‘I am much recovered, sweet, and if you are refreshed, let us press on.’

  I realised he had been holding back on my account. Perhaps I had underestimated his inherent male strength and should worry more about my ability to make the journey.

  We had long lost the outskirts of Puhar and I had become less certain of the route. With every step, we were leaving civilisation and entering the unknown. After talking it through, we decided it was best to keep to the tree line but within sight of the road. The plan worked well until the first fork on the road.

  Trees grew thick and without man-made markers and cultivations, something we townsfolk took for granted, I lost my way and grew distraught. The sun did not help. It seemed to set faster than usual. When I suggested we camp for the night, Kovalan did not complain or question.

  Tired and overwrought but after a good night’s rest, and with clear minds, perhaps we could better plan the next steps. We ate a cold dinner of cooked rice, fresh mangoes, and bananas, and washed the meal down with milk. Daring not to light a fire, for fear of attracting attention to ourselves, we wrapped ourselves with kambali shawls, and the woollen garments kept us warm. I placed my arms around Kovalan and snuggled close, and overcome with fatigue, I fell asleep.

  The morning found me chilled to the bone and aching all over. Kovalan, also worn from exhaustion, snored in deep sleep. I lit a fire. When Kovalan awoke, we sat close and soaked in the meagre warmth of the small fire.

  After washing ourselves and having a breakfast of milk and rice, we set off again with the sun on our backs.

  I had become unsure of the way, but my dear husband did not complain or find fault with me. Instead, he took the lead and said,

  ‘All we need is to follow the western sun.’

  He was right, but whenever we confronted a fork in the ill-defined path, he pretended to consult the sun and shadows. Though altogether lost he played the part of confidence for my benefit, and I grew more and more worried. We came upon windswept terrain and, with no human constructs for guidance, the featureless land was difficult to read.

  We travelled with hope and prayers. On the third day we encountered craggy hills and thick forested swathes of green. The latter was ideal Arakan habitat. Many years ago, seduced by risqué dreams, I had wished to meet these wild people but not anymore, not now.

  More than once, Kovalan gave vent to his fears and wondered whether he had been too hasty in setting out without thinking through our journey, and the challenges city folks such as ourselves would encounter. Though worried to distraction, whenever he expressed doubts, I voiced small words of encouragement.

  ‘I should have sold the oil lamp and purchased a buffalo cart,’ said Kovalan.

  ‘That would attract tigers and bandits for sure, Athan. We’re faring well and as you planned, all we have to do is follow the sun heading west.’

  By the fifth day, we were saving our energy and conversations for the rest periods, which we took with increasing frequency and length. The sweltering sun, the burden of the bundles on our backs, and meagre meals continued to deplete our store of strength.

  The further we travelled, the wilder country we encountered. Kovalan beat the bushes with a wooden staff to flush out hidden rodents, whose startled bites could be fatal, or worse, serpents which might strike without warning.

  During the rest periods, he foraged for fruits and flowers. We ate the fruits and licked nectar from the flowers. These tiny drops of floral honey were a welcome source of energy. Foraging also helped husband our depleted store of food, for we never knew when the land would deny us bounty.

  When Kovalan spotted animal droppings or fresh spoor, he did not remark or point, but would take a wide circling detour. I did not question these strange manoeuvres but, sensing my unease, he would say,

  ‘As long as we follow the sun, we’re going in the right direction.’ And so we kept moving ever westwards.

  One late afternoon we came upon a small stream and took a welcomed bath. It was medicinal and rejuvenating. Having grown bolder by the day, Kovalan lit a small fire using virgin neem twigs and I dried my hair over the smoke.

  ‘Should we not be p
ressing on?’ I asked, looking at the western sun. ‘See the shadows but only a few leagues away, their jagged points pushing darkness towards us.’

  ‘You are right, my sweet,’ said Kovalan, ‘and let us best be going.’

  ‘What was that noise?’

  Before he could answer, the bushes opened and revealed dark men with frightening eyes. Some wore garlands of bleached bones, and others had curved horns protruding from thick fuzzy hair. The bull shouldered men circled and tightened around us. I clung to Kovalan.

  Every so often, a frightening man snarled and lunged, and when we cringed, the gang hooted with glee.

  ‘Arakans!’

  16: Beast-Men of the Hills

  THE TIGHT SHIFTING crowd of Arakans yielded to a man, a chieftain of sorts, as he pushed through to the front. He was thick in girth, with veins protruding proud on muscular arms, and around his neck dangled a gory garland of bleached bones. The beast-man growled in a thick voice, then cleared his throat and repeated in a gentler quality.

  ‘Are my words too strange for your ears? I said, you look like Poom-Puhar.’

  ‘You speak Tamil?’ I blurted, half in relief and half in fear, as I pulled Kannagi closer.

  ‘You squeak with a woman’s voice,’ he said, and there was a hint of mirth. ‘And why not Tamil? This is Tamilakam and we’re all Tamils, are we not? Though your kind views us as lowlier than the low.’

  It was some dialectical Tamil the beast-man spoke and his rolling and merging pronunciations were difficult to grasp. But with some concentration I understood, if not all the individual words, at least the intent behind his words.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ I said with a gulp, ‘truly I am sorry but assure you I meant no offence.’

  ‘Surely you did, Poom-Puhar,’ said the Arakan, ‘but I understand your predicament. This lot would terrify me out of my wits too if I came across them in the jungle.’

  There was a stunned silence, and the man threw his head back and laughed, his voice starting as a distant rumble which grew louder with each syllable.

  The shocking outburst spread to his cohort and guffaws erupted all around us. I did not know what to make of the jolly giant and his followers, and wondered if it was a strange feint, a prequel which bade ill for us.

  ‘I’m Savaali and the talkative one here is my brother, the Silent One.’ He pointed to another massive but stern man who had a high tuft of hair knotted on his head. ‘We mean you no sinister harm, Poom-Puhar, but what compels your footprints on our lands?’

  ‘I am Kovalan, sir, indeed from Puhar. This is my wife, Kannagi, and we are on our way to the Pandyan Madurai.’

  The Arakan turned to his people and muttered. ‘Kovalan.’ My name carried from one to another in the group and received smirks and hints of derision. The Arakan said,

  ‘You’re Kovalan, king, and which realms do you lord over?’

  ‘My husband is my king, sir, and he rules me, his kingdom.’

  Kannagi had interceded and her voice carried a hint of defiance. It was unlike her and though she had been outspoken in her youth, ever since our marriage and especially in public she always held back and let me do the talking.

  ‘And with a touch of anger too,’ said the Arakan. ‘And does she also carry your spear, Poom-Puhar?’ He laughed, and the Arakans roared too.

  ‘You are uncouth, sir, and it befits you, as after all, you are Arakan.’ Again, and before I could intervene, Kannagi had spoken, and in unconcealed anger.

  ‘I only jest, little sister, don’t reduce me to cinders with your so very fiery eyes. For don’t you know, our chieftain too calls himself a god, Eraivan, but he is quite Arakan.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and now we will be on our delayed way,’ I said, not wishing to prolong the conversation. I stooped to gather my things but the Arakan, Savaali, placed his foot on one edge of my bundle.

  ‘Well, Poom-Puhar, if you keep to this direction, you’ll reach your Puhar. Perhaps it’s a childhood pastime you indulge in, travelling in circles.’

  I wondered what new mischief the man planned. I tugged the bundle. But Savaali’s foot remained firm. I looked up, and he grinned.

  ‘If you speak correctly, sir, point to the right direction,’ I said. ‘It is a late sky and we plan to find shelter, for ill-equipped we are to spend another night in the wild.’

  ‘There’re no traveller’s hospice, why, not even a wayfarer’s shed in these parts, but there’s our Arakan village and a welcomed fireside for you to share your interesting story.’

  Kannagi touched my hand, and her eyes urged me to accept the man’s invitation. I frowned, but she was right. I straightened myself and conceded.

  ‘We are glad to accept your kindness, sir, and my wife and I thank you.’

  ‘Good, and we’ll sup on the flesh of a young boy, or, perhaps a gurgling baby.’ And he roared with laughter.

  Aghast, my jaw dropped, and I wondered what horror lurked behind the beast-man’s invitation. Kannagi’s hand tightened on my wrist and I sensed her courage, like mine, melt.

  ‘But is it not in keeping with what you townspeople believe that we of the kurinji hills are cannibals?’

  ‘I know not of such accusations vested on your people, sir.’

  ‘Oh? And yet, I horrified you when just now I suggested feasting on the flesh of a baby. You believed it true. But the same offer from a townsman, you would take for humour and seen through the jest.’

  ‘I did not know Arakans jested, sir.’

  ‘Why is that Poom-Puhar? Is it because you think we Arakans are less than human and delight only in wanton killing?’

  ‘Indeed, my dear uncle fell victim to murder on these roads,’ said Kannagi. ‘And my aunty, grief stricken, threw herself on his funeral pyre and met a gruesome death.’

  ‘You so quickly lay the blame of your uncle’s death at our threshold,’ said the Arakan. ‘And your aunt’s death is horrendous. But what civilised culture is it of yours that compels a woman to take her life in such a dreadful manner? Why treat your women as firewood when they are fruits of life? Or perhaps there’s another reason, a vile one; perhaps widows are irksome claimants of their dead husbands’ inheritance. Seek the source, little sister, and quench your questions.’

  ‘But sir,’ I said before Kannagi could respond, ‘all we know is that many travellers have lost their lives in these parts, and their mutilated cadavers brought back to Puhar.’

  ‘It’s then but easy to hang the deeds on us, for we’re diabolical, are we not? The unhappy rumours spread by your bards and court officials have given our Arakan heritage synonymous notoriety with cannibalism, human sacrifice, and all manner of demonic deeds.’

  Kannagi grasped my arm and looked into my eyes. I knew her meaning. She had spoken in anger and regretting it, and wanted me to rein my quick inclination to win arguments. She was right. I fought hard and held my tongue.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said. ‘I spoke in haste.’

  ‘Be aware, Poom-Puhar,’ said the big man in a gentler tone. ‘Murders committed in these parts, not by Arakans but blamed on Arakans. When jackals and vultures tear apart cadavers left in the open, the Pandyan also blame these natural acts of nature on Arakan cannibalism.

  ‘The Pandyan king’s soldiers hunt and kill my people for crimes not of our doing. And when you return to your civilised life, it behoves you to speak well and spread the truth to your brethren.’

  ‘You have explained well, sir,’ I said, ‘and I shall dwell on all you have argued, but for now the light fades and we best consider your offer of village. We, my dear wife and I, are of feeble heart and surrender ourselves to whatever you have planned for us.’

  ‘Melancholy fills your words, Poom-Puhar, but I don’t think your heart is frail. Not versed in the mores of physical arts perhaps, but not feeble. And your slight wife, she’s a deep one. I’m sorry for your loss, little sister. As for the rest, we do not intend our fierce demeanour and scraggy weapons for innocent wayfarers su
ch as you.’

  ‘Why then frighten us so, and especially my dear poor wife here?’

  ‘I am not afraid, my dear husband,’ said Kannagi, ‘but I am tired and wish for rest.’

  ‘The little sister betrays no fear, Poom-Puhar, and has some magical powers which elude my understanding. My hunters and I have been away for many days from our fires. We too are eager to return to our round women. The people of kurinji never write offers on shining sheets of water. If you agree, we shall venture to my village, where you can satisfy your rest. Let us now make haste, for the night brings its own special dangers.’

  The Arakans grabbed our bundles, including the heavy oil lamp, and set off in a run. The men were strong. Kannagi and I could not pace the swift hunting party, burdened though they were with our bundles and several carcasses of wild boar and deer.

  The beast-men kept to a rhythmic lope in a single file. Savaali brought up the rear, urging us on with some persistence. Moonlight peeped through gaps in the darkening canopy but the band was running into deeper jungle, into increasing blindness. I grabbed Kannagi’s hand and struggled to keep sight of the white soles of the hunter before me. Soon, I lost the hunter to the black darkness and Savaali called a stop.

  Kannagi and I, drenched in perspiration, and with hands on knees, coughed and panted. The Arakan waited with patience and I knew then he meant no ill towards us.

  Once we caught our breaths, Savaali, without a word, scooped Kannagi onto his back. She protested, but he ignored her and set off, leaving me with no choice but to keep pace. I ran in a red haze of heart-burning pain and almost collapsed from exhaustion.

  When we neared the village, Savaali let Kannagi drop to her feet. She lashed out at the liberty he had taken for having touched her, to which he replied,

  ‘Your words betray you, as my actions reveal mine.’