by Eric Alagan
Once more, with Savaali leading, we walked through low, tight tunnels. Torches, plunged into sodden walls and others wavering in hands held high, lit the way. I now had a better measure of the village. As I had already discovered during the night, the village comprised caves, holes, and hovels in hillsides, and all connected by the work of nature and the hand of man. The warren of passages were in places walls of earth and in other portions, hard stone. Murals and strange markings adorned the stone walls. Much of the vulgar art depicted animal hunts, men with oversized lingams, and couples in various acts of rough coitus. There were also scratchings of gods and fanged demons.
Again, we avoided abrupt bends and pike filled holes until a faint patch of light greeted us in the distance. We heard birdsong and soon exited into the forest on the outer slope of the vast hill range, and the fresh morning greeted us.
As the day before, with the Silent One in the lead and Savaali bringing up the rear, we struggled to keep up with the Arakans as they moved through the forest. They ran in an easy lope, jumped over fallen tree trunks, and scaled up and dropped down from boulders, and always landed on sure feet. Their movements were fluid and the cohort always silent, gliding through the bush like ghosts. There was not even a grunt when they dropped from a height and the air punched out their lungs.
Kannagi and I tired early in the journey and the tribesmen offered to lift us on their backs as if we were children riding play horses. My dear wife dithered but I, almost fainting from fatigue, urged her to discard all inhibition. Seeing me clamber on a man’s back, she too did likewise. When one man tired, without hesitation another took over the burden of our weight and kept the unbroken pace. No one complained, no one slowed, and so they carried us until the next exchange.
We made good distance and within hours the trees thinned and we broke into the open. And a glorious day greeted us. We stood under an expansive sky filled with cotton clouds floating in a sea of brilliant blue. Waving grassland dipped and raced ahead, and paths snaked alongside mountain streams. The Arakans did not seem the worse for the journey but the run had exhausted us.
The day was already mature when we reached the small spur on the hill—the edge. Savaali pointed and said,
‘See that hill there in the far yonder, skirted by the line of trees? Beyond the crest lies the village of Puranchery, gateway to Madurai. Seek a woman who goes by the name Gayathri. She will provide lodging for you.’
‘Is this woman known to you?’ I asked.
‘No, only that other wayfarers mentioned her kind heart and a clean hut,’ said Savaali. ‘It is a steep path and will devour the better part of your day.’
When Eraivan referred to the lookout as the edge, the edge of civilisation, I had assumed we were entering civilisation. But I learned from Savaali, his king meant we were leaving civilisation.
‘We part here, Poom-Puhar,’ said Savaali, ‘for any sightings of Arakans will raise a terror and entice soldiers to hunt us down, for they hold no ready respect for our lives.’
‘You have been kind my friend, all of you, and I dread it will be well past the daylight hour before you repair to your homes.’
‘Think nothing of it, Poom-Puhar,’ said Savaali. ‘The gods go with you.’
‘My husband’s name is Kovalan, sir,’ interrupted Kannagi, ‘if you please.’
The huge Arakan with the abiding humour laughed and said, ‘If you wish me to address him as king sir, so be it, Kovalan sir. The gods go with you too, fiery little sister. Take that path leading away to the left, for it is a sly one and bends behind the huge boulder you see on your left. You cannot miss the village.’
I followed Savaali’s outstretched hand. He was right. An unsuspecting traveller would have missed the path.
When I turned to thank him, Savaali was gone; and so were all his men. One moment they were there, and the next moment we stood alone. Kannagi looked just as amazed.
‘Remarkable people, these beast-men,’ I said.
‘Men, Athan, not beast-men, please.’
‘Yes, my sweet. Men.’
‘Come, Athan, let us not waste the haste made by these selfless souls, for the horizon sucks away sunlight fast. It is best we seek shelter for the night in the village before we lose what precious little daylight remains.’
THE THATCH-ROOFED HUTS of Puranchery had low doors and were identical in construction, made from bricks of mud and rice straw, and slapped with flat cow-dung cakes to soak up the heat. Each house had a little garden. And a flimsy fence, made of weaved coconut leaves, marked out individual plots. The dirt streets, though well-swept, betrayed little invasions of grass sprouts here and there, hinting at the ever-ready forest waiting to reclaim the land.
The people were trusting and welcomed us with shy smiles, and children gathered and formed a small procession in our wake. As it was a woman we sought, it made sense for Kannagi to make the enquiries.
‘We seek shelter with Amah Gayathri,’ said Kannagi.
Immediately several hands pointed the direction. Some children offered to show us the way and others ran ahead, excited and calling out the woman’s name.
By the time we and the party of gambolling escorts reached our intended destination, a woman of indeterminate age and her daughter, a few years younger than Kannagi, were waiting to greet us. They were of a pleasant disposition and, as was the custom, clasped hands in welcome. The woman, clad in the white garments of a widow, addressed Kannagi.
‘Welcome, please,’ she said with reverence, ‘I am Gayathri, and this is my daughter. Who are you nice people come to seek me and for what purpose?’
‘Hello, Amah Gayathri, I am Kannagi and this is my husband, Kovalan. We are lately arrived from the Cholan capital city of Poom-Puhar. Some good people we met on the journey, upon learning our need for affordable lodging, suggested we seek your hospitality.’
‘I see the tali around your neck and so he is your good husband as you say. Pardon me for speaking plainly but we are two women, my daughter who has come of age and I, and with fate having taken my dear husband we live alone. And society demands many precautions before allowing anyone, and especially men, into our humble dwelling.’
Suspecting Kannagi might become defensive, I said, ‘All you say is correct, Amah Gayathri, and it is for my dear wife Kannagi for whom I seek shelter. A difficult journey has ravaged her health. For myself will sleep in a small corner of your veranda outside the locked doors of your house.’
Throughout the exchange, the entire village, it seemed, gathered in a tight knot around us and scrutinised our every gesture and weighed our every word.
Unfortunately, the people were not passive onlookers and several men interrogated us, as if duty bound to prevent any inadvertent occurrences and gossip. I felt myself growing annoyed at the implications to my integrity but had the good sense to conceal my feelings.
Only after gaining the approval of the people, Gayathri found her voice to grant us a room. I did not have to sleep on the veranda.
I took out the gleaming oil lamp and handed it to Kannagi, who offered it to our host.
‘Please, Lady Kannagi, keep your family heirloom for now,’ said the woman. ‘You wear weathered garments but below the dullness I detect fabrics of high quality. Your words are subdued but your bearing hints of one who had once lived as a queen. My daughter and I are blessed to have you and your husband as our guests. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish and partake of our meagre meals. As you depart, pay us what you deem fair, for your offer now is far too excessive.’
Gayathri led us into the house and we lowered our heads to enter the door. The air in the cottage smelled of flowers, and the dirt floor was clean. An arrangement of rocks served as a stove, and there was a small pile of stacked firewood. Several clay pots and receptacles cluttered one corner. There was little on offer but more than we could have scavenged on any jungle trail. Most of all, since we departed Puhar, this would be the first night under a proper roof.
Our roo
m was dim, lit by a dull light from a small window set below the roof. The window let in breeze while providing a measure of privacy.
I sat on a welcomed rope bed which had a mat covering, and Kannagi lay on another mat on the floor next to me. Weariness won, and we fell asleep.
18: Spend Lies to Save Lives
THE CAPTAIN OF THE Royal Household Guard, a tall, muscular man with purpose in his stride, escorted me to a large room. Rich sandalwood furniture and silk-covered cushions populated the elegant room.
Two men, of evident importance, luxuriated on divans and awaited my approach. The man of years was of slight frame and had a full head of hair and bleached beard. The younger man was rotund and bald, save for a ring of black hair that went around the back of his head from ear to ear, and had a thick bullhorn moustache. He was pale skinned, as if the sun had never set sight on him, and nursed a bandaged arm in a sling.
The captain said, ‘Honourable Prime Minister Sir, Esteemed Royal Jeweller Sir, this is Kovalan of Poom-Puhar.’ Turning to me, the captain said,
‘Please pay your respects to Shree Sagasana, Prime Minister and Grand Counsel to the Great Pandyan, and Thiru Pillay, Royal Jeweller to the Crown.’
The older man, introduced as the prime minister, stood up and took my hands. It was a warm and assuring welcome. I was grateful and took a quick liking to him. But Thiru Pillay remained seated, and I sensed he was no friend.
‘Thank you, Captain.’
With a polite gesture, the prime minister dismissed the soldier and guided me to a chair no less splendid than his own. An attendant appeared from behind the drooping drapes and served honeyed water.
‘Dear Sirs, I think there has been a misunderstanding and your soldiers committed a grave error in identity. They mistakenly—.’
‘Please, sir Kovalan, refresh yourself first,’ said the prime minister with a soft smile.
‘And we will do the questioning, if you will please,’ said the royal jeweller, his voice raspy, to which the prime minister lifted a hand to stay the man’s words.
‘What my good friend and eager colleague, Thiru Pillay, meant to convey was,’ said the prime minister, ‘for now, time is a premium for all of us. You see, we have a foreign delegation visiting, an eagerly awaited event but one that has lent disruption to our routines.’
I liked the prime minister’s conciliatory tone, but the royal jeweller, with his hooked nose and dark-ringed eyes, sat hunched as a vulture. The prime minister said,
‘Therefore, to resolve this misunderstanding, as you so rightly pointed out, allow me to recount what we know, and then you can share your knowledge regarding the matter in hand and educate our areas of ignorance.’
‘Yes please, Prime Minister,’ I said.
‘You, sir Kovalan, having lately arrived from Poom-Puhar, presented an ankle ring to an artisan goldsmith, hoping to raise money. Is this correct?’
‘It is as you say, Prime Minister.’
‘All would have been well and no need for this interview if not for the artisan having recognised the anklet as one uncannily similar to another he had once marvelled. You see, sir Kovalan, the artisan you met, and handed over the anklet to, is in Thiru Pillay’s employ. The man is one of a select few tasked to polish and restore the lustre of the queen’s ornaments, a job he had undertaken several times.
‘As fate would have it, on the most recent occasion, there was a tragedy of sorts. You see, when transporting the chest of royal treasures from the palace to the manufactory, under suitable guard and with Thiru Pillay himself supervising the transfer, a runaway wagon jostling and thrashing about behind a crazed bull ploughed into the carriage carrying the royal trunk, spilling the contents, including a pair of the queen’s anklets, onto the street.
‘Thiru Pillay, even after suffering a fractured elbow which he is still nursing, had his men throw a cordon around the affected area. They combed the place and turned over every grain of sand. Thankfully, the searchers rescued all the scattered ornaments, save for one anklet belonging to the queen.’
‘I fear the import of your story, Prime Minister,’ I said.
‘How did you come by this anklet, sir?’ The prime minister spoke in a soft voice, but his eyes were as alert as a hawk.
‘Your question intrigues me, sir, but I did not come by this anklet. It is mine, or more accurately, my wife’s, the chaste Kannagi. It was part of my wedding dowry to her.’
‘So, you claim it as yours in the first instance,’ said the prime minister, ‘before it became your wife’s, which by the laws of our Pandyan realms, and even by your Cholan mores, remains ultimately yours. Therefore, my question remains, sir, how did you come by this anklet?’
‘Very well, and since it will bring this sorry matter to a close, I bought the ankle ring from a trader, a Greek by the name of Telamonius, in Poom-Puhar.’ Noticing a defensive tone in my voice, I caught myself.
‘When, may I ask?’ said the prime minister.
‘Why, several years ago and before my marriage rites, Prime Minister.’
‘And where is this Greek, Telamonius, now?’ asked the prime minister.
‘He once travelled in trade between his Achaean homeland and Tamilakam, but because of an insult given to the womanhood of Tamilakam, my Cholan king had the man banished never to return. I know not where he is now.’
‘And what a stroke of good fortune that.’ Thiru Pillay muttered; his tone derisive, and he looked away with disdain.
But the prime minister, ignoring the man, said, ‘Sir Kovalan, you place us in a rather difficult position, you see, and I need to speak frankly, if I may. This anklet which you claim belongs to your wife, to you, to your family, well sir, it is remarkably similar to another belonging to our Queen, Kopperun-Devi. Indeed, it is identical to that which has been missing for some time now.’
‘I understand your thrust, Prime Minister, but it does not sully the truth I speak.’
The royal jeweller snorted and his behaviour provoked my anger. My face hardened, and I went still.
The prime minister raised his hand for calm, and said, ‘Please, sir Kovalan, perhaps my words come across as surprising. Nevertheless, we do not intend to stoke flames but to resolve the matter which I am quite sure, as you have already advised, is all an unfortunate misunderstanding. After all, your Cholan craftsmen are as skilled, if not more so, as those in our Pandyan realms. Why, with enough money, anyone can commission a goldsmith to craft an exquisite anklet fit for royalty.’
‘Esteemed Prime Minister of the Pandyan court, sir,’ I said, ‘if you already believe my truth, I do not understand where this talk goes, for it instils a great foreboding within me.’
‘Please, sir Kovalan, to assist with my quest, allow some leeway to present my piece and you will surely receive relief.’
‘You mean inquest.’
‘There is no inquest here, sir, for do you see stern judges and disbelieving faces arrayed against you? Certainly not,’ said the prime minister. His tone betrayed a tiny edge. It was evident he was an accomplished advocate, but restrained himself well. He said,
‘What you have here is an expert witness and artisan well-versed in the fashioning of gold adornments, the esteemed Royal Jeweller, Thiru Pillay, come to assist so we can better understand the situation presented us. And I, an old man who has committed his life to upholding justice and good governance.
‘Therefore, and please indulge me, may I enquire after your story, for your bearing is of one once accomplished and successful, and yet lately fallen on dire times. Any such revelations as you share will better enable us to appreciate how you came about owning such a treasured ornament and the need compelling you now to exchange this extraordinary heirloom for ordinary money. And why journey to Madurai for this sorry exchange, risking Arakan lands even, when Poom-Puhar is renowned for her men of means?’
‘Very well, Prime Minister, and your observations are correct for I am an adventurous sort, especially in commercial matters. As the only son
of a successful merchant, I hope to one day at least touch my forehead to the long shadow of my esteemed father, Sir Masattuvan. My father, sir, is a grain merchant. He is upright and hails from a long line of forefathers equally accomplished and in the service of the people of Poom-Puhar.
‘Alas, I met a courtesan of great beauty and talents, and even greater wiles, and admit having foolishly given credence to a misplaced sense of duty to her, and trapped by shameless lust, found myself on an intoxicating path. Having lost my fortune to folly as just rewards for betraying my betrothed’s love and trust, I returned to my blameless wife, Kannagi, and here I stand reduced by poverty, unable to face my dear parents, relatives and friends in my country of birth.
‘My dear wife, chaste woman she is, handed over her anklet, so I can redeem my fortune and honour, and once again walk among men of accomplishment. It is her wish. But for myself, my first and last purpose now is to provide my wife with a life I have so denied her. It wrecks my peace but my pain is a grain when compared to the heavy heartache caused my dear wife, Kannagi.
‘So I sought Madurai, to quietly and unrecognised go about my plans, but now a breath’s pace away from being accused of some alien crime.’
The prime minister listened, attentive, as I expanded my unfortunate story. He asked a question here and there but always displayed a keen interest in my words. I felt peace envelope me, for his manner was of one who had seen much pain and tragedy in his own long years.
But throughout the interview, I also discerned the disquiet and displeasure emanating from the royal jeweller. From his constant interruptions to the flow of our discussions it was obvious he had already whispered confusion and conflicting evidence to the prime minister.
When I had no more to say, the prime minister said, ‘We have here the royal jeweller, and he swears—.’
‘On my children and children’s children I swear,’ said Thiru Pillay. The thick green vein went taut on his bald head.