by Eric Alagan
A man, his rich clothes torn and bloody scalp hanging loose over one ear, pointed at me and screamed before dashing away.
And I too ran after him and into a swirling dust storm that had blotted the sun. Like a blind drunkard, I toddled this way and that. People, carrying gold figurines and all sorts of loot from the palace, pushed and rushed past me. I do not remember how long I wandered thus but reached and climbed over the twisted remains of the majestic gates through which I had earlier in the afternoon entered.
The tremors from the palace grounds continued to follow me into the city. Each rattle produced loud cracks in the street and sharp slabs of stones pushed up, destroying roads and blocking the path of fleeing people. Many called for their loved ones; some grabbed pitiful possessions; and others, overwhelmed, stood dazed or wandered aimless.
Cows and long horned bulls stampeded and trampled people. Goats leaped over mangled bodies and smoking debris and, landing on the other side, waved their brisk little tails and hurried into the dust. Sheep, their wool on fire, cooked alive as they bleated and dashed. Elephants, crazed with fear, thundered and trumpeted, and humped down the streets, trampling picket fences and felling trees in their path. Everywhere I looked, I saw dead and dying people.
The ever-thickening and thinning crowds knocked me here and there. Crying in anguish and having lost my way, I ran along the dusky dust-filled streets. The fire had spread from the palace to the servant quarters, and the wind carried fiery embers and set alight trees and the many shanty stalls in the nearby markets. Oil lamps, found in every house, toppled by the earthquake, ignited new fires and devoured dwellings. The firestorm grew in ferocity, and smoke and dust suffocated and blocked out the sun.
Amidst the mayhem, I heard the neighing of horses and shouts.
‘There! There goes the witch! Seize her!’
The mounted soldiers thrust their hips and spurred their horses.
With a shriek, and for a moment forgetting the excruciating pain in my chest, I ducked into a house and ran into the occupants, who were dashing out carrying their possessions. A young man stopped, fascinated by my singed and smoking hair; my chest, bloody red; and, my bulging eyes wild and darting. An older man appeared out of the dust and pulled the young man away, and both disappeared into the swirling smoke.
I stumbled through the house, passed the debris-strewn backyard and reached the neighbouring street. The city had turned dark and towering rings of smoke blanketed the cheerless sky. The rumble of earthquake continued unabated, the ground shifted, and I swayed as if on a rocking boat.
‘There she is,’ cried a voice, and again horses neighed and hooves clattered as my pursuers picked up speed. ‘Stop! Stop!’
My head spun as I staggered from corner to crevice and, unable to move any farther, collapsed onto a pile of recent debris. My breath shot ragged and sharp, and with each exhale dust rose around my nostrils.
The whinnying of horses drew closer and my eyes flickered and squinted through gritty stinging smoke.
Tip-toeing hooves appeared in my arc of vision, followed by a pair of sturdy feet that landed with thuds on the ground and kicked up little puffs of dust. The legs, as thick as tree trunks, approached, and a heavy hand settled on my shoulder.
‘Fear not, little sister.’
I WAS ON MY BACK, MY head rocking from side to side; a covering of cloth and hides shivered and shook above. The distinct sound of hooves and squeak of wheels meant I was jolting along in a carriage. Feeling a stiff tearing pain, I lifted the heavy blanket and peered underneath. Wet bloodied bandages wrapped my chest.
Memory flooded back—the grinning face of Savaali blocking the sky as he looked down. His face twisted into deep concern as he surveyed my torn body. Placing a roll of hides under my head for a pillow, he gave a reassuring smile and disappeared. But I could hear him moving about and talking in urgent whispers.
The Silent One appeared, as if to assure me further, and I was grateful for the consideration shown by these brutish fellows. Then, he too disappeared from sight. But the brothers remained in the vicinity. Savaali gave voice to soothing words for my comfort. I gathered they were lashing together a stretcher for I was in no condition to sit on a saddle.
‘The soldiers,’ I whispered, my voice hoarse, ‘beware the soldiers.’
‘Fear not, little sister,’ said Savaali who appeared over me again. ‘We only frightened them away. The earthquake destroyed much of the city. The inferno engulfs the rest. We’ll move east by north and reach the edge before sunrise.’
‘Savaali, not to the edge, not to your village.’ My fingers grasped his thick sweaty arm. ‘The soldiers will follow and exact vengeance on your people. Leave me here to die. Save yourself. Go.’ My energy drained, I again shut my eyes and laboured to breathe.
‘Eraivan tasked me to protect your well-being and do your bidding.’
‘Then I bid you, let me die.’
‘Death will come when he is ready, little sister. Now, bid me something else or save your energy.’
‘Then take me west, to the Cheran land.’
‘To the Western Ghats?’ Savaali scratched his chin, and his face lighted. ‘A good plan, little sister. Better than you suspect.’
And he left. But I could hear the two Arakans work in silence.
On several occasions some dazed wanderer, covered in grey ghostly dust or streaked by lines of blood, staggered forth. But seeing the fierce Arakans, these souls screamed in terror, found renewed energy, and ran away.
Then, a small band of soldiers advanced with drawn swords and levelled spears. When they were about half a bow shot away, Savaali called out to them.
‘We’re not your foes, Pandyan. And on this terrible day, of cracking earth and raging firestorms released by the earth beast, spend your attention and energy elsewhere. Do your better tasks than to shed more blood.’ Drawing his broad curved blade that emitted a pronounced shearing sound, he added, ‘And by blood, I speak of your blood.’
The soldiers bent low, ready but hesitant. They looked towards the senior soldier among them, a man of impressive stature.
‘We take our little sister, who lies there with grievous wounds, and will soon be on our way,’ said Savaali. ‘Stop and listen well, lest you invite death before he is ready for you.’
The soldiers halted; perhaps they too did not wish to see more blood spilled, even Arakan blood. But they did not back off.
My Arakan brothers, their incurved tongues bulging through parted lips and eyes popped open and frightening, hunched, ready to pounce.
The senior soldier wore a thin turban and, upon closer scrutiny, it was but a bandage. The man had been bleeding from a head wound. He stared, and I recognised him. His fine tunic was dusty and torn in places, his face swollen and his black moustache impressive but streaked with grey dust. He said something and his men, grateful to avoid combat, stepped back and lowered their weapons.
‘He is Captain of the Royal Household Guard, loyal to the Pandyan, but an upright man.’ Dazed as I was, my frail voice whispered, as if on its own volition, rendering me a curious onlooker.
‘An upright man, declares my little sister, but is there such a wonderful man in all the Pandyan reach?’ Savaali studied the captain from head to toe, and said, ‘Upright or not, perhaps you’re the right man to complete my task. We had as our guest until lately a rider who works for Sagasana, your first minister.’
The Silent One stood unmoving and eagle eyed, but Savaali sheathed his sword and took a step forward and said,
‘The rider confessed to stealing the life of my little sister’s friend and her innocent husband’s salvation, Anandan of Puhar, and I wonder whether you know these matters?’
‘I know the name Anandan,’ said the captain, the caution in his voice growing confident, ‘but the rider’s deeds, for now, stand only as accusations, and his guilt is not for me to pronounce.’
‘You underestimate the situation, Captain,’ said Savaali. ‘Your king perished
and took with him all his liveried courtiers of any slim worth. You might be dispensing justice as the new kovalan, for I see men with strong arms and ready weapons already rallying to you.’
‘Speak your task Arakan that which compels you from seeing to Lady Kannagi already so grave, and also keeps me from my more urgent distractions, as you so succinctly laid bare.’
‘You speak in plain words, a true task-master it would seem, and so be it,’ said Savaali. ‘Hear me then, upright captain. The rider works for Sagasana and upon further persuasion, confessed to working also for another of a more dangerous kind. A scorpion lurking in the crooked crevices of the palace.’
‘This scorpion, does he have a name?’ asked the captain.
‘Do you know the one called Thiru Pillay?’ said Savaali.
‘If by that name you mean the Royal Jeweller, yes.’
‘We speak of the same scorpion then, for though the rider stung the innocent Anandan’s life, the venom came from the veins of this Pillay,’ said Savaali.
‘You have proof of this?’
Savaali tossed a roll of leather and the captain caught it in mid-air.
‘The rider’s confessions, written by his own hand. My king Eraivan, true to his promise, set the slave free. And even now the bird flees north, for he knows death awaits him in Pandyan courts.’
‘What for are these names listed here?’
‘Those are names of lives lost in the commons, topmost of which is the scorpion’s own teacher, Guru Nallathamby. The rider robbed those lives on the behest of your villain, and the blame vested on and paid by us, the hill tribes of kurinji. Go now, upright captain, for much doing awaits your keen attention.’
The captain continued to study the scroll a little longer. Then, shoving it into his waist belt, he said,
‘Thank you, but this alters nothing between us, Arakan, for there is much blood debt owed and, in a time, not distant, I might return to the kurinji hills with many pointed spears and true arrows prepared.’
‘And we Arakans will prepare ourselves too but with armour alone and not spears, for you are our brethren, fellow Tamils. Perhaps friend or foe we will settle another time. Go now, upright captain, dally no more but dwell on all that has today befallen this sad land of ours. And fare you well.’
‘Lady Kannagi,’ said the captain, ‘thank you just now in the sabha; your call alerted me and saved my life.’
‘I am glad for your safety, sir Captain,’ I said, and fell back, exhausted.
‘Sir,’ said the captain, a new gentler note in his voice as he addressed Savaali. ‘Rubble blocks the West Gate and it is impassable. And the south burns. Use the East Gate on your left and you will find a less treacherous route.’
The captain, betraying no emotion, stepped back and disappeared with his men into the thinning dust.
‘You’re right, little sister,’ said Savaali, ‘he’s a rare one and perhaps our two peoples have hope.’
The brothers tethered the two-wheeled stretcher to a horse and placed me on the makeshift bed. And as we set off, Savaali made clear his plan.
‘This fragile contraption will not do for any journey of length but suffice to get us to Puranchery. When they see us approach, the villagers will shriek in terror but will survive their ignorance. After some suitable rest and medicinal herbs, we’ll harness a gentle cart to take us to the Cheran lands and the Western Ghats where safety awaits among the Kuravars, who are kin to the Arakan.’
It was about this time that the pain surged and I lost all consciousness. I did not recall the reception upon our arrival at Puranchery. But Savaali and his generous ways must have prevailed and won over the villagers, for I detected the hand of women who had cleaned and dressed my wounds. And the carriage lent further evidence that our visit to the village concluded well, for I spied bundles of herbs and other such unguents meant for the infirm. But the pain returned, and it burned, but I did not cry lest it distressed my brave Arakan brothers who continued to risk their lives on my account.
The wagon shook as we drove off the road. It was daytime, this much I could tell from the sharp shafts of light piercing the gaps in the covers. The wagon stopped. And after a while, birdsong, sounds speaking of life and hope, reached my ears. But for me, only death awaited.
The covers parted and Savaali pushed his head into the carriage. Seeing me awake, he grinned, his face growing broad and filling with large white teeth.
‘Are you in pain, little sister, for though your wounds look clean who is to know how they fever?’
I shook my head from side to side.
‘Are you fevered?’
‘No,’ I said in a soft voice.
He touched my forehead with the back of a heavy hand and said, ‘You need more practice, little sister, for you are a poor liar.’ He placed a wet cloth on my brow. ‘These roads are well-travelled.’ He whispered as he fussed to make me more comfortable. ‘Many townsfolk seek refuge in the west. The Pandyan has grown lawless and even now another unruly band comes over the hill. We’ll hide among the trees until danger recedes.’
‘What news, brother Savaali,’ I asked in a weak voice, ‘is Puranchery safe? Did you see Amah Gayathri and her daughter?’
‘No, I did not see mother and daughter. I’ll tell you what I know. When we arrived at the village, though not ravaged by the earth beast, there was no chirping of birds or chittering of insects. Even the dogs laid low and ignored the cats. The rats, survivors as their kind are, long departed with the snakes and other wild creatures.
‘And upon seeing my brother and myself, as creatures come down to tear away their virginity, the village women shrieked and ran away, beating their chests and heads. Their men were no masters of fear either, though some, forgetting their terror, ran at us with hoes and sticks raised high. But seeing how our eyes, my brother’s and mine, blazed with fury and our incurved tongues bulged out of our mouths, the men wet themselves and ran away, even overtaking their women and stepping over one another in their impatience to save their worthless lives.
‘But just as well, for with the village thus abandoned, the Silent One and I went about unmolested and helped ourselves to whatever herbs and salves were familiar.
‘Brave as I may be in the face of a ferocious tiger, in matters of medicine one needs courage of a different sort. And so little sister, I sewed. My hands trembled as if I were a feeble old woman. But they had their task. They tugged and stitched to close your gashed wounds, and raced to complete their task before consciousness and her terrible twin, pitiless pain, awoke.
‘And while I cleaned and tended thus, the Silent One wandered in search and coming upon this wagon here harnessed our horses. We suspected the village cowards would seek soldiers and bring them down on us, claiming an entire horde of my Arakan brethren had descended upon their village, for how else to justify their soiled clothes and redeem their honour. We therefore could not linger for your rest, but allowed impatience free rein to put distance between us and imminent danger.’
‘So, it was you who unclothed me?’ Even through the hot pain, I blushed.
The Arakan went quiet and, upon recovering, he said, ‘Let no shame hold your head down, little sister, for you witnessed our Arakan women, young and ripe, go about bare-breast, and many even with less.’
‘What about my modesty, big brother Savaali?’
‘There’s no shattered modesty, little sister,’ he said, ‘more so when life is at stake. What I beheld was a pitiful torn fragility. Your wounds pulsed angry blood and as I plugged the weeping holes, new squirts sprung here and there. Trust me, little sister, I saw no more but mangled flesh and threatening death. I could have fabled that some fairy or feminine, perhaps the villager Gayathri, ministered to your needs. But it would be another lie and enough of that kind of talk has already brought us to this day.’
‘Even so, big brother dear, my inborn reserve shies and I am unable to meet your eyes.’
‘Then pluck out and burn my eyes,’ he said and th
rust a carving blade at me, ‘for my eyes are too large for my black face, and frighten me when they look from the water.’
Even in my wretched state, I could not but betray a smile. His lips stretched wide in a grin but I spied the pain in his eyes and the innocence peeping from within, and that wrecked me.
A bird whistle reached us and Savaali tensed, but for a fleeting moment. ‘The Silent One is not so silent.’ Another bird whistle, this time shriller and more urgent.
‘I must go now, little sister, for a bird offers its neck for wringing.’ Again flashing a wide white grin, he left the confines of the wagon.
The Arakan had not defiled me or acted in immodesty; it was I who judged him wrong—yet again. How many times had I been wrong? When would I learn that chastity and modesty hang not only on clothes and actions but more so in one’s harboured thoughts?
Cautiously I lifted the cover. My left breast was missing. Cleaved! And memory came flooding back: the upright captain injured, his generous blood staining and spreading on his tunic; the sound of splintering glass; and the sharp swish of slicing sheets flying down. I watched as a clump of flesh fell off my chest. Then, the agony hit. Even now, the thought of that slice sent a chill down the length of my body.
Without warning, for even with his bulk he moved with the stealth of a cat, Savaali pulled aside the curtain, flooding light after him, and said, ‘The road is clear, little sister, and we resume our escape to the western hills where our cousins will keep you hidden and safe from any jeopardy.’
As we got onto the road and trundled along, the covers of the wagon parted and I saw in the distance thick streams of black smoke snaking high into the sky.
Madurai continued to burn.
MY BROTHER, THE SILENT One, and I kept to the trees, nursing our little sister the best we could during daylight and travelling at night.
We reached the Cheran lands and the Western Ghats, and our kin, the Kuravars, another maligned race, gave us shelter and succour in their village. Their existence unmolested by the Cherans, the Kuravars lived in luxury, in thatch-roofed huts instead of holes in precarious hillsides.