by Eric Alagan
He walked away in confident strides, and I grabbed Kannagi’s hand and spoke soothing words for her calm, even as we hurried, afraid to lose sight of the Arakan.
The village was not of thatched huts but caves and pitiful holes burrowed into hillsides. A warren of narrow and dim passages, scraping tight for full men, connected the hovels. Some of these tunnels turned tight corners, breaking into deep pits. Hidden within these damp pits, as we learned later, were several cunning traps filled with poisoned spikes to maim and kill unwelcomed intruders.
We followed the huge frame of Savaali, who carried a lit torch, our heads lowered to prevent colliding with the low rough ceiling. As our eyes grew accustomed to the dark of the warren, I discerned small movements, of people peering out of passages which branched in all directions. Every time the bodies darted or ducked, they caused shifts in the dim glow from burning torches not yet come into view. There were dark shadows silhouetted against shadows less intense. And the smell! A permanent odour, which we could not escape, filled the warren. The smell of stale air, unwashed bodies, and wood smoke tickled our throats and made our eyes water.
A gentle curving passage led to an open space so vast that the opposite end hid in darkness, all the more for a large bonfire in the centre caught our attention and blinded us. We were in the village centre, a huge crater carved into the hill. The gouge was a natural freak with the walls and floor hewn smooth. Above our heads hung the sky and the moon, and dark outlines of flourishing trees fringed the cusp of the skyline.
A thick crowd of people, who were swarthy, pot-bellied, and frizzy haired, closed around us. The blaze illuminated tattooed faces with bone fragments that pierced ear lobes and noses. The women, bare breasted, wore animal hides. But these wrappings were for decoration, not modesty. The children were naked, even the girls of age.
The crowd parted and allowed us a spot near the fire. All their eyes were on us. Occasionally, we felt a tug on our clothes and, turning, spotted a child with a finger in its mouth and a shy smile. Adults too touched our garments and even our hair. Then, there was the silence. The people did not talk or make the variety of noises, coughs, and sniffles that accompanies an assembled crowd. They were silent and seemed to be waiting, in a state of great anticipation. Only the sound of the crackling fire, as the wooden logs strewn on the flames splintered to heat and settled to burn, filled the vast chamber.
A movement, as if by some telepathic signal, and the crowd turned as one. A path opened. Heads bobbed above the crowd and several massive men, their shoulders built like bulls, strode up to the bonfire.
The leading Arakan wore an impressive leopard skin headdress, its jaws gaping in a snarling smile and its hide flowing down the man’s back for a heavy cape. He carried a tall spear; the wooden staff smooth from use. The Arakan’s thick black hair glistened, as if soaked in animal fat, and cascaded in bouncing waves down his chest to the waist. His large teeth, white and well formed, peered through the rough beard covering his entire face, leaving barren only the puff of his cheeks. His body was bare other than a strip of hair running down the middle from his chest to a sunken navel at his waist belt. He wore a deer skin, wrapped around his waist. The man’s bearing and his imposing presence made clear he was the clan’s headman.
‘He’s Eraivan, the god I spoke of, the village chief.’ Savaali whispered beside me. It was then I realised he had disappeared and now re-joined us. Caught in the heaving mass of smell and muscle, I was grateful for his reassuring presence.
‘He’s one of my fathers,’ said the beast-man.
I assumed he meant the man was an elder but Savaali, reading my mind, made matters clearer. He said,
‘I’m the son of his body, for my mother, before her death, told me it was so. Though she slept with many, surely, she said, it was Eraivan who impregnated her. I suppose a woman knows such things. And he acknowledges me as a son as do another elder or two.’ My face betrayed horror, for he said,
‘You look appalled, Poom-Puhar. But why, when in your custom several women share one husband, do they not? Is it so peculiar in our ways, several men share a woman? A child nurtured by a village has the blessings of many guides, does it not? Now listen to the Arakan who will also be almost human if not a god.’
The Arakan king, Eraivan, stood in front of the blazing bonfire, giving us to appreciate the full measure of his magnificent physique.
‘I am Eraivan, king of my people and I welcome to our fireside Kovalan from the Cholan Puhar, and his angry wife, Kannagi.’ His eyes darted to me and then to Kannagi. ‘Our guests are tired and I am famished too. The hunt has been bountiful and our fleet-footed huntsmen, gone for days, evaded the king’s soldiers and returned safe with not a broken limb. For this great favour, let us offer thanks to our gods and prayers to our animal brethren, for each beast gave its life so we mere Arakans can live another day.’
Eraivan stepped back and an old skeletal man, a priest of sorts, wearing a garland of bleached bones, chanted prayers in some ancient tongue while another frightful looking man beat a small drum. The priest dipped a bundle of leaves in a pot of milk and blood, and blessed the carcasses which the hunters carried forward. The bony man and his assistant went into some crude spasmodic dance accompanied by guttural chants which the crowd echoed. This went on for some time. On and on. Repetition after repetition. Then, without warning they stopped. The dancing, the drum beats, and the chants. All stopped. The abruptness magnified the silence that followed.
The prayers and thanksgiving completed, Eraivan raised his arms and said, ‘Come people, let us now feast without care, for tomorrow’s promises remain fickle.’
A loud cheer broke out and the celebration ensued. Women jumped straight and high, and men pranced about like simians, landing on all fours before exploding into the air again. The full village sang, their voices throaty and interspersed by what I can only describe as screeches and screams from the women and children. The beast-men brought out drums, and a great clamour begun. Their music and singing was rhythmic, haunting, and enchanting in a rough raw manner.
The men passed around gourds that spilled some strange opaque liquid. Savaali thrust such a drink and motioned for me to partake. I did not wish to, and moreover the container could do with a good wash. But, upon his pressing insistence, I obliged. I held up the gourd and poured the drink down my throat. Palm wine!
The drink stung, and I spat out a foul spray. Instead of taking offence, the big man and his compatriots laughed. Savaali slapped my back, and I almost lost my balance.
‘Drink! Drink some more, Poom-Puhar, and this time—sip!’
He helped tilt the gourd and drenched my clothes. I grimaced with disgust and swallowed. Seeing eager faces, I was happy to offer my drink to one within reach. The Arakan snatched the drink but, apprehensive, he studied Savaali’s reaction. My host laughed, and the Arakan relaxed and emptied the potent liquor into his mouth, with heavy spills escaping and streaking down his shiny chest.
The strong sweet tang of roasted meat rose from the fire pits, and as the night stretched, we grew accustomed to it, as we did with the other strange odours in the air.
But one aspect of their culture, if these people had a culture, shocked me: their carefree and flippant approach to coitus. As the feasting and intoxication progressed, men carried away squealing women, their naked legs kicking, into the night. Women too pulled men by their hands into the dark. No one cared. No one reproached. It was all so very scandalous and uncivilised. Men and women indulged in physical relations with anyone of their choosing. Savaali had already shocked me with the revelation regarding his parentage. Women chose their partners. Men accepted without quarrel, or so it seemed. Perhaps given quieter moments, I might study their fascinating family arrangement and discover some sense. But for now, with the noise and pushing crowd and the celebratory mayhem, it was too overwhelming to accept. Kannagi grabbed my hand as if to instil caution—to hold my tongue—and we decided not to take notice of the people’s un
fettered debauchery. For that was what their practices were—devoid of all morality and chastity. And yet, there was something innocent and free about their behaviour.
As the night wore on, we confined ourselves to fruits and warm goat’s milk and, feeling more tired than full, looked forward to sleep. But it was not to be, for we found ourselves seated with Savaali at the great circular fireside. A thick press of Arakans, their bellies bloated with meat and liquor, gathered around us.
It was then I noticed, in the glow of the waving flames, the full measure of the green, red, and black beauty spots and tattoos on the Arakans. Intricate etches of demon gods and wild beasts adorned their chests, arms, and backs. All their foreheads carried some markings which rendered the Arakans even fiercer. The men sat about, legs wide and leather skirts parted, letting their manhood hang loose. Kannagi averted her eyes, keeping her resolute gaze on the flames. The women too sat without shame, but thankfully fat thighs covered the privacy of their hooded cobras. I too looked away from the round breasts of the young and the thin flat flaps of the old.
It was story time and, as we were the newcomers, their expectant faces turned towards us. If we had no stories to tell, they wanted to know after our situation, and I repeated a tale already rehearsed which revealed enough to satiate their curiosity.
Then, Eraivan joined us and, without ado, grasped my arm and said, ‘Your flesh is as soft as a maiden’s but your bearing radiates boldness. And you travel the wild country alone, Cholan, and added foolishness to ignorance by bringing along your small wife, who is a temptress.’
‘It must be the habit of my position, sir,’ I said in anger, for his unwelcomed description of my dear Kannagi.
‘And what position is that, Cholan, and why the unprovoked ill temper in your voice?’
‘My position as husband and protector of my precious wife, Kannagi, and she is no temptress to men who live correctly.’
‘Ah, I see now what pricked your anger, or was it pride, or possessiveness? Say then, Cholan, who are these men who live correctly.’
‘Men who live correctly, sir, will behold my wedded wife as daughter or sister or mother, and accord the respect and protection her position demands.’
‘A good answer, Cholan.’
‘Do you sir, live correctly?’ I asked, letting my combative nature get the better of me.
‘My praise must come from another, should it not?’ said Eraivan. ‘But your question demands proof. Do you wish to hear my story or prefer to fall forward and feed the flame?’
‘We are tired, sir,’ I said, and straightened myself, ‘but will try to be good guests for a moment more at least and therefore hear your words.’
‘Lean back then and listen. Yes, my people live correctly and the proof comes from the earth beast which has left us unmolested for many generations.’
‘What earth beast do you speak of, sir, for I know of no such wonderful creature?’
‘It is a serpent, Cholan, of the fire breathing kind. She lives in the bowels of the earth and seeks openings afforded by evil deeds of man. And when the final grain of sand tilts the balance, the serpent will burst forth and devour all in its path before disappearing into the ground again. Many ages ago, even before time started his endless journey, the serpent devoured these kurinji hills, and we who inherited these realms know better than to pursue incorrect living.’
‘How will one know when the earth beast is about?’
‘She will cause tremors under your feet and send shivers up your spine, Cholan. But the Pandyan fools ignore her warnings, for already she makes her presence felt in Madurai even as you are relentless to reach her.’
‘Madurai promises repair to my fortune, sir,’ I said, ‘so I can provide my wife with a befitting life.’
‘Fate draws you there, Cholan, and your fiery wife.’
‘I appreciate your hospitality, but my dear wife, sir Eraivan, is the gentlest creature ever walked on this earth. She is the wellspring of abiding love and fathomless forgiveness, and I care not for your interpretation of her gentle nature.’
‘You misunderstand my import, Cholan, but it is what it is.’
With unbridled curiosity, Eraivan studied Kannagi. She cast down her eyes. But as his gaze persisted, she looked up. They remained so, oblivious to the people watching them. After several long moments, he broke off and said,
‘As my son Savaali discovered, your quiet wife is a deep one and I see it too. Our ancients, having gained the third eye on account of their severe fasts and deprivations of many sorts, foretold that amid our darkest days, a well-being would appear from the east to right matters gone asunder. As the fowls fly west and serpents slither away in fear, she will release the earth beast to shower flames and split the earth underfoot. She will churn the eager soil so that new shoots may sprout. She it is, for the well-being is of the feminine divine. And she will destroy the evil, even now closing upon my people, and save us.’
‘Are your people in danger, sir?’
‘Yes, Cholan, for a new breed of Pandyans, filled with ever-growing avarice, have committed wanton atrocities on Arakan lands, often on their own people. But they attach the blame to the Arakan. These are but excuses to force the king’s hand to drive out the Arakan. For these scheming men covet our lands. Thus far, we have prevailed, but their forays grow audacious and persistent. These are dark times for my peaceful people.’
‘You allude to matters beyond us, sir Eraivan, and we appreciate the words but not the situation you speak about. We, my wife and I, wish not to prolong your hospitality but to continue our broken journey in the morning. We spy eager faces seeking news but plead weariness for being poor guests with a yearning to rest our heads in sleep.’
‘Say no more, Cholan,’ said the Arakan chieftain with a deep sigh, ‘for tiredness sags your eyes and robs interest of the dangers facing my people. It is what it is. And we have been ignorant hosts and detained you beyond hours. We shall leave you now. I suggest you sleep here by the fire, for it will keep you warm. My people will bring you some wools to make it even more so.’ Eraivan slapped his thighs and stood up and said,
‘Good! I will see you in the morning before you depart with a suitable escort.’
17: The Edge of Civilisation
KANNAGI STIRRED, AND I sat watching her in the half-light, as has been my habit since we embarked on our journey. Marvelling at her unblemished beauty, my heart filled with leaping joy. But fearing that even my tender gaze might wake her, I stole away and sat on a tree trunk, axed to serve as a bench.
With brightening light, the village layout grew clearer. The centre was a vast hole cut by the hand of nature into the hill, for all around us were high cliffs. Caves pockmarked the steep slopes of hardened rocks surrounding us. The huge chamber was the epicentre of a long dead volcano. Shrubs covered the mouths of caves and, for a casual observer, the hill slopes looked serene and uninhabited. Trees had taken root on the cusp of the volcano’s yawn. Seen from the lowlands, the village centre was only a copse of trees on a hilltop.
I sat there gaping at the ingenuity of nature when Kannagi turned with a smile. We exchanged tender words of greetings and after which addressed the matter at hand.
‘The people are wild but friendly enough, Athan. But let us not dawdle, for Madurai beckons and we have many leagues more to trace.’
‘You are correct, my sweet. Please wait here while I seek the best of their lot, Savaali, and secure water to wash and something to eat before we set out.’
Before I could venture forth, the Arakan king, Eraivan, approached out of the mist. He carried an earthenware pot of coarse bread and fruits and, under his arms, two ewers, the larger filled with water and the smaller with fresh goats’ milk.
‘My people continue in their late slumber and myself prepared this selection. Wash and refresh yourselves, good people, and I shall directly return with an escort to guide your onward journey.’ And without more to say, he turned and disappeared into the misty haze of daw
n.
‘And what did he mean last night, Athan, by studying me with such curiosity even as he spoke of a feminine wonder from the east to save his people?’
‘It intrigued me too and is beyond my understanding, but let us not dwell too much on words fuelled by intoxicants, and instead make our preparations to depart.’
We completed our morning ablutions and fortified ourselves with the breakfast well-prepared by the hands of the Arakan king himself. Their customs were extraordinary. A king who prepared breakfast for wayfarers. There were no servants in Arakan families, but what of his wives? And Savaali’s mother has had several husbands. Apparently, so did many of the women in the village. All strange and even outrageous practices. But they claimed it was the way of our forebears. But Kannagi was right. We will have time enough to pause over such matters, for now Madurai awaits us.
When we had packed our few belongings, Eraivan, who seemed to have a good timing in such matters, again appeared. Savaali, his brother the Silent One, and an armed group followed in his wake.
‘Here, a small parting gift of smoked honey,’ said Eraivan. He handed a jar, carved from wood. ‘You have set your mind on Madurai and I wish you well. Make your fortune, good Cholan, and pray quickly depart Madurai on your fleet feet. For evil lurks there, a city once exemplary and stain free, and blind men will release the locks to the nether world. And out will spring the fiery she-serpent.’
‘My wife and I thank you, sir Eraivan, for your generous care and hospitality. We shall accord due weight to your counsel.’
‘Go now, Cholan, for my Arakans are restless to guide you to the hilltop, the one we call the edge. For, it is the edge of civilisation. But move with impatience, for in these lands the day grows old fast, and before a blink abdicates to its darker cousin. From the edge, you will gaze upon Pandyan country. Their roads are well-pressed and patrolled by their king’s cohorts. No welcome for Arakans, but welcome enough for you. Go now, and may all the gods and goddesses you pray to look after you and keep you and your good woman safe.’