Song of the Ankle Rings

by Eric Alagan

  ‘Anguished though he was, by the loss of his only son and a dear friend in such proximity one to the other, the prime minister remained steadfast to his duties. He proposed, and the king agreed, for my humble self the privilege of carrying on my guru’s work as royal jeweller. A great honour, for which I owe an everlasting debt to the prime minister, but a huge responsibility too, sir, one which I struggle with my immature skills.’

  ‘A heartfelt story, sir, but why share this confidence and what of your suggestion?’

  ‘It is no special confidence but a tale well-known throughout Madurai, and I related the story so you would better understand the store of love the prime minister holds for you. He considers you as the son he once had the joy of embracing.’

  ‘And I am grateful for it, sir, and hope to repay his deep trust and kindness. But you were about to suggest a solution, one to unhook me from my predicament.’

  ‘Yes, but let me share another story, sir, the last I assure you, about how an artificer jeweller gives birth to a work of art,’ said the royal jeweller, and threw a glance behind him before continuing. His eyes, passionate, danced with excitement as he invested in the story.

  ‘First, the artificer tests and selects the purest of ores to blend the base metal, though base it is not, be it silver or gold. Then, he chooses the gems, and it requires a sharp eye to check for flaws lost even to light. And he cuts the stone. There are veins often not visible to ordinary eyes, but the cutter senses and splits so the jewel gives along the natural breaks yielding blemish-free facets and edges proud and unchipped. Then comes the most difficult task of all—the mould. Craftsmen roll the ankle ring from a beaten sheet of gold or silver, then curve the tube and fuse the joints. The craftsman polishes the vein on the outer circumference but the fold inside remains, and it distorts the music made by the jewels within. Therein lies the weakness, the ordinariness of all ankle rings.’

  The royal jeweller kept looking over his shoulder, as if fearful of eavesdroppers, or perhaps, as one expecting an intruder. And his behaviour intrigued but also exasperated me.

  ‘But for the queen’s anklets, my guru used a mould,’ said the man, his voice having softened as if he spoke a rare secret.

  ‘Yes sir,’ he said, ‘not a sheet but a mould to cast the cylinder, an unheard of and arcane technique for a tube. He then cut grooves on the inside diameter of the tube, another secret skill he had developed. The width and depth of these grooves determined the eight modes of music. These mysteries died with him in the Arakan jungles.

  ‘The perfect ornament comes not only from the stones but also from the mould which must be flawless. This is where most craftsmen are impatient and therefore fail. It takes a master, not only a master of craft but also a master of patience, to extract perfection at every stage of his creation.

  ‘My guru, Guru Nallathamby, was such a master of craft and controlled calm. There was none other like him, sir Kovalan, and his creations have no imitations for, after crafting the queen’s ankle rings, he broke the mould under the king’s expressed orders.’

  The royal jeweller stopped and searched my face with his accusing eyes. Receiving no response, he said,

  ‘And here you are also with an ankle ring, sir Kovalan, of an identical build and perfection but claiming some imposter fashioned it.’

  ‘I made no such claim, sir, only that I purchased it from Telamonius the Greek. But what does it matter who I bought my anklets from? I am accused of having stolen the queen’s anklet. Of this, I am innocent, I swear.’

  ‘But do you not see, sir, they are the one and same charge levied on your life.’

  ‘And when my dear friend Anandan arrives, he will corroborate my story.’

  ‘And he is a dear friend and will say anything to save your life. Sir Kovalan, can you not weigh how feather-light his witness is on the scales of justice?’

  ‘But truth is truth. That as it is, what will you have me do, sir, and I remain piqued by the mysterious suggestion you harbour but yet to reveal.’

  ‘The prime minister and I are sympathetic and concerned for your life, sir Kovalan, for no piece of jewellery, no matter how exalted, is worth the price of a man’s life.’

  ‘It is the truth, sir Royal Jeweller, I did not steal the queen’s ankle ring.’

  ‘You did not steal the anklet, sir Kovalan, and so I am convinced, as is the just prime minister. But someone has stolen the queen’s anklet and you, sir, had in your possession a treasure the likeness of which is an uncanny twin of the lost specimen.’

  ‘Your words confuse and in a certain light instil fear, sir Royal Jeweller.’

  ‘They need not, sir Kovalan, for I was turning over in my mind how to satisfy the king and save your life. My king is an honest and upright man, sir, and if it were up to him alone, he would release you in the blink of an eye. But consider the precedent so planted, and the flood of wild petitions his favour will set free. The governance and justice of any nation teeters on a fine needle-point balance. Once tilted, it will take great effort to regain its equilibrium. A king who loses his moral fortitude to govern will be a fool to press his rule by the point of a spear. As you can well imagine, there is more at stake here than an accused’s life, more than the fate of one man.’

  The captain of the guards arrived and presented himself. It became apparent the royal jeweller had soaked up the time to await the guardsman; and I wondered for what purpose.

  The royal jeweller turned to the seasoned soldier and said, ‘Captain, with all the great demands on your time, thank you for honouring us with your presence.’

  ‘I am but bound by the prime minister’s wish, and he has made clear I must accord priority to any requests concerning sir Kovalan. But I will be frank, sir Royal Jeweller, I am busy with not even a moment’s rest break.’

  ‘Yes, and the prime minister has been generous with the time not of his, but thank you Captain, and with it, my apologies. A man’s life hangs on a spider’s silk and you will be proud to see justice done.’ Turning to me, the royal jeweller continued.

  ‘Here is confirmation from the Captain of the Royal Guard, himself descended from a foremost Kshatriyan family of warriors and a flawless witness, that the prime minister remains ever vigilant for you to receive justice.’

  ‘And found innocent,’ I said.

  ‘But of course, and found innocent,’ said the royal jeweller.

  ‘I am grateful, sirs, to all of you who continue to humble me to my rightful place even though I harbour doubts about your intentions, sir Royal Jeweller. Please forgive me for asking again, but tell me what you propose and what I must do.’

  ‘Confess, sir Kovalan, as suggested by the prime minister, and with my agreement also, and acknowledge the anklet is not yours to claim.’

  ‘No! No sir, how can I take the blame when I am blameless? No!’

  ‘Please, sir Kovalan, I beg you to hear the admonishments of reason. Disclose that you did indeed pick up the queen’s anklet from the street somewhere and, having given in to some moment’s weakness, kept it for your own. On my part, I will take the blame for my carelessness and suffer whatever punishment the king deems fit. Let the consequences of my shoddiness be my price for not having better husbanded the jewellery entrusted into my care. The prime minister and I will plead on your behalf to our king who, righteous as he is, will find sufficient grounds to set aside the death penalty without tilting the scales of Pandyan justice.’

  ‘Your suggestion does not differ from the prime minister’s, which I have already declined. No, sir Royal Jeweller, I thank you and am grateful but cannot and will not—.’

  ‘Please allow me your indulgence but for a moment more, sir Kovalan.’ As he spoke, the man chopped his palm for emphasis.

  ‘If you continue to insist the anklet is yours, it will only cast aspersions on the prime minister, for going to such lengths to secure your release. Our Pandyan soil does not relish blood, sir, and sully it not with your precious lifeblood. What do you hope t
o gain from this continued intransigence?’

  ‘My word challenged, sir Royal Jeweller, my honesty mocked, and integrity stripped naked.’

  ‘Yes, mocked and naked, and even our king Nedun-Cheliyan has detractors who mock his effigy on stage and street dramas for having taken a mistress. It is unbecoming but comes with the freedoms we enjoy. And we have great sages who live their lives unclothed. It is not the end, sir, to stand naked and mocked, but adds to our merit, even as we shake the dust off our feet and journey on this great adventure called life. Please, do not allow whimsical notions to distract your safety when graver matters continue to twist and tighten around your throat.’

  ‘My notions are not whimsical, sir Royal Jeweller, for what else makes a true man if not his integrity?’

  ‘Is it integrity, sir, or perhaps pride in play here? But what does this or any other word matter? These seductive words are the playthings of bards who gather in sangams, gatherings of sorts for the privileged, to fashion verses and spout erudite arguments. All for coin, base coin, sir, even as they poke their fingers in the air about this and that exalted ideal.

  ‘But in this harsh cell deep below ground, so close to the centre of the trembling world, and listen how the earth-mother sighs,’ said the royal jeweller, and he made a dramatic show of listening with a hand to ear as a dull rumble rolled under our feet, ‘we confront realities of life, we face the imminent dangers of your situation. Death, sir, has foisted himself on you as your constant companion, and it is he who mocks your helplessness and will strip naked your life.’

  ‘Death, sir Royal Jeweller, is welcome.’

  ‘Welcome, yes sir, go, welcome your poor dear wife to new life, renewed life, for as you did say, she waits with bated breath for the safe return of her garlanded husband. Should she, sir, drape herself in fine silks or flesh devouring flames on a funeral pyre? Should she now receive the headless cadaver of a proud man? Will this be well done of you, sir, well done of any husband?’ The man grew more and more passionate and he said,

  ‘You know her great sorrow because of your little indiscretion. Yes, and please forgive me for I too was no paragon in my youth. I too took the same path you, and indeed most young men take, to cross to maturity. The thrust of my argument, sir, and one of good sense, is why, pray tell, why? If you insist on your current intransigence, surely you will scale the executioner’s scaffold, and worse for your blameless wife. Compromise, confess, and masquerade, for all life is a play, is it not? Resolve this sorry trouble, sir. Take back your life and return to your wife. Live, sir, and thrive with your wife.’

  ‘Your words are seductive, sir Royal Jeweller,’ I said, ‘but they will not move me to lie. If one resorts to fanciful words to unlock forbidden doors, then one will embrace more the crooked path. The first lie always looks harmless, sir, and I speak from experience. But once surmounted, with each new lie, it gets easier, and the slippery slope and abyss awaits at passage’s end. I am born of this beautiful earth-mother, eaten her salt and fattened on her milk, I cannot and will not now ransom my life for a lie.’

  ‘It is not a lie, sir Kovalan, for how can you be so sure, how can you remain so adamant that the ankle ring belongs to your wife? Is it not possible, is it impossible sir, even if you consider the possibility remote, that you could be mistaken, that the anklet belongs on the feet of Queen Kopperun-Devi? A slim possibility, sir, yes, and as thin as a ray of light perhaps, but is it not possible?’

  I was growing exasperated with the royal jeweller’s unrelenting effort, and it reminded me of Anandan and how he would try to wear me down against my wishes. The memory of my youth stiffened my resolve: bullied into leaving my father’s house, bullied into attending Madhavi’s dance debut, bullied into going to her, and bullied all my life by my own seductive reasoning. I also suspected that the royal jeweller, though his words carried the trappings of logic and good sense, did not mean well. Below the surface of his reasoned arguments, I detected a trembling fear harboured.

  The thought struck. . This man, this jeweller, had probably stolen the anklet and was exploiting my predicament as a key to his escape. I stopped. In a flash the mist lifted with jaw-dropping clarity. Questions bloomed and stacked and cried for answers. Yes, he was the culprit. He must be. But I locked away my suspicions. Come my day in court, I will reveal my doubts. I will again ask the prime minister, in open court, to fetch my dear Kannagi. She will produce the second ankle ring and all will see the other half making the pair belonging to my queen, to my Kannagi.

  But a new doubt clouded my hopes. Why would the royal jeweller steal the queen’s anklet? He was a wealthy man himself. Who then was the thief? Not my charge to discover but, without a miscreant, I remained in their eyes the primary suspect. No matter, I consoled myself, for with my dependable Anandan’s testimony and my loving wife’s appearance with the twin, justice will save me.

  ‘Please, we are friends here, all of us, are we not, captain?’ asked the royal jeweller but the guardsman’s face remained impassive. ‘Do you not understand, sir Kovalan, your life is in peril? Speak the truth and at least you might find clemency at the feet of the king.’

  ‘Enough, sir!’ I said in a raised voice.

  ‘There is no need to raise your voice, sir Kovalan, but I ask you again, is it not possible the anklet might fit another woman, and not just your wife?’ The jeweller’s tone had become a little stringent. ‘Of course, if I suggested this woman could be a harlot with a known price—.’

  ‘Harlot?’ My voice barrelled loud. ‘You dare use that word in the same breath as my chaste wife—.’

  ‘You know that is not what I meant. Please. If a woman of ill-repute laid claim to the anklet, I could understand your outrage. But we speak of the queen. Concede at least that the anklet could have, once, many years ago, adorned her feet.’

  ‘Hear me, and hear me well, sir Royal Jeweller, no woman, and I mean no mere woman, can wear my dear Kannagi’s anklets.’

  ‘Mere woman, sir? We speak of the queen here, the Maha-Rani, Royal Consort to Maha-Rajah Nedun-Cheliyan.’

  ‘Do you not hear me, sir? I said no woman, because any woman who wears the anklet is my wife and it can only fit someone as chaste and pure as Kannagi, and she is my wife.’

  ‘Any woman, sir, you say if it fits a woman, she is then your wife? Are you saying the anklet will not fit the queen’s feet?’

  ‘No, unless the woman is my wife.’ I shook in fits of outrage.

  ‘I think your confusion leads you to spew anger, Kovalan. Are you saying, and pause before you reply and I warn you I am a loyal subject of my king and queen, if the anklet can fit the feet of my queen, Kopperun-Devi, then she is no more than your wife?’

  ‘Not no more, sir, she can only be my wife because no other woman has the dignity, the chastity, and the purity to wear my wife’s divine anklet.’

  ‘Are these then your last words, Kovalan?’ The royal jeweller thundered.

  ‘To you, Thiru Pillay, yes these are my last words!’ I matched his thunder with mine.

  Then, afraid that he might misinterpret my words, I wanted to recant but could not bring myself to bow. Not to this low-born man. Not to this thief. My shaking anger and stubborn pride would not allow an ignominious retreat. Instead, I lowered my voice and said,

  ‘But I will have more words for your king when the rider returns with my dear friend, Anandan. Please convey my humblest respect to the prime minister.’ I folded my arms.

  The royal jeweller, his face grim, addressed the captain of the guards. ‘The culprit has again rejected our offers of clemency and you have borne witness to all that has happened, and I hold you to it.’

  ‘If there is nothing more, I have to go, sir Royal Jeweller,’ said the captain.

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Thiru Pillay.

  The guardsman gave me a curious look, of great pity I thought, and left my presence.

  ‘Think carefully, sir Kovalan, of all we exchanged, and come to a good decision.’<
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  I could not allow this thief to get away with his guilt. I could not let him win. I had to triumph with my last word.

  ‘Sir Royal Jeweller, tell me please, all these secrets of the ankle rings which your Guru Nallathamby used in his craftsmanship—how did you come to know of them?’

  My question stunned the man and the green vein on his bald head bulged. His chin wobbled, and I wondered whether from outrage or terror. It did not matter what unsettled him but it pleased me. He swayed a little, as if the earth shook under his feet, before hurrying off.

  But my elation was short-lived when a sudden sharp pain pierced my chest with despair—I had sprung the trap too soon. What a fool! When would I ever learn to cage my anger? Now that the royal jeweller knew the flaw in his scheme, what would he do? My first reaction was to call for the prime minister or even the captain. But who could I trust? I had no choice but to wait for my day in court.

  I had stumbled upon the missing piece to the puzzle. It was not for money the royal jeweller had stolen the queen’s anklet. He wanted to learn his guru’s secrets. And how better than to break open the queen’s ankle ring.

  Another fear gnawed on itself and grew. My chaste wife would not have crossed the threshold. I suspected treachery. I even feared for my dear Kannagi’s safety. Oh gods of my father’s temple, what have I brought upon my poor innocent wife?

  Something tickled my ear and, looking up, I saw a thin stream of dust pour down from a crevice in the ceiling. The crack was not there before, or perhaps it had been but I must have missed it. Then, the earth did indeed tremble under my feet.

  20: Almost an Arakan Woman

  EVER SINCE MY DEAR husband returned to my embrace, the old predictions of the astrologers had kept me constant company; sometimes giving hope, and at other times thrusting fear into my heart. If the augurs were to come to pass, if I was to gain fame as foretold, how else could it be without my husband? He had to prevail and his ventures meet success. And when his wealth and fame bloomed, as a tide lifts a boat, I too would rise with him. But I remained troubled. Some unknown fear gnawed away at my calm. Once before, I bade him farewell and lost him to Madhavi’s arms. Now, that same dread of loss closed around me.