The astrologer’s heart heaved. It was customary to make a general prediction as soon as the horoscope was cast. The parents threw a questioning glance, signalling him to start. Somnath saw the baby through a blur of tears. There was deep anguish welling up within him.
There was no excuse for putting off the prediction. He might as well tell them the few things that were truthful and yet palatable, but he wanted to buy more time and so he told everyone to go to the temple. Though disappointed, the crowd left in a jolly mood. The boy bobbed with each jolt of his father’s shoulders and smiled sweetly at those following him. People from the roadside waved at him. The bania was an honest man and had earned tremendous amounts of goodwill. Even the ruler, Rana Rajasekar, had sent him a present.
The temple became noisier when the crowd reached it. The priests had been tipped off, and prayers in the name of ‘Chand Ram’, the boy, had begun. The words were uttered sonorously, but carried no meaning to onlookers untrained in Sanskrit. They just nodded and exchanged knowing glances whenever the boy’s name and caste were mentioned. Then the chanting was over and the prasad offered. The crowd climbed down the steps and went to the temple pond to get the child’s hair shaved off.
The square pond was paved with stones. An old man in soiled clothes took out a rusty knife and needle and washed them in a pot. The child squealed at the sight of the barber rather than at the prospect of what was going to be done to him. He struggled hard to wriggle out of the barber’s hold but to no avail as deft hands pierced his ears and tonsured his head. The boy’s bawling made him throw up all the sweets that he had been stuffed with and finally, when they took him back to the astrologer, he had fallen asleep, exhausted.
While the crowd departed for the temple, Somnath checked the horoscope again. He threw a few cowrie shells on a green cloth and counted those that had fallen upright. But all recounts and re-chartings meant the same. For the first time he prayed he was wrong. The horoscope reeked of death and destruction. The astrologer shivered, thinking, the child is a son of Saturn. He will go through pain, but he will also inflict it on others.
And then he realized he had almost missed something in his interpretation. The arrangement of Saturn and the sun in confluence was strikingly clear. How had he not discerned it earlier? The boy was born to dominate – perhaps even as a king or emperor. He would command millions. But how could all these contrasting events occur in one person’s life, and that too, a bania’s son?
Somnath often hated his profession because he had to see images that no one else could and suffer the sorrows long before others endured it. The fees fed him and sustained his body, but his mind was too frequently scarred. He shook his head and prepared himself for the real world. The party was returning. The entire crowd came and sat before him, as if he was about to relate a tale. Somnath tried to look unconcerned, as if he had mastered the situation. Dramatically clearing his throat to catch the attention of the crowd, he said, ‘The boy, Chand Ram, has a great future. He could even become the king of Hindustan!’ The only truth that he spoke that day elicited some hearty laughter, while at least one guffaw indicated disbelief.
‘Let the Rai Karan hear of it,’ somebody commented and the crowd dissolved into mirth, knowing very well that astrologers usually laid out the best possible outcomes and most of their predictions would never come true.
As Somnath walked out after predicting some more generalities, the sun was at its fullest. Yet, he felt cold. A vision of what was to happen passed across his eyes. He shuddered as he felt the irony; despite all his lies, the people had laughed at the truth.
BOOK I
CHAPTER 1
A BROTHER TO BEAT
The boys stared each other down with hostility. Suddenly, they charged, and in a jiffy, Veera held the Chola boy’s neck with his right arm. He began a vice-like stranglehold, and the boy yelled for mercy, but Veera could only hear the cheers of his mates.
‘Son of a whore, leave him alone. He is a prince!’ shouted a girl amid the din of cheering.
The crowd fell silent. The girl’s remark had hit its mark. Whatever his origins, Veera was the crown prince’s son and the Cholas were but vassals. Even the Chola boys remained quiet as the enormity of the words dawned on them. Veera seemed to stiffen. As the boy trapped in his hold squealed, Veera threw him down, sending him sprawling in the dust several feet away.
Veera turned to the girl. Those standing next to her stepped back, sensing the fury in his eyes. The girl stood her ground; to retreat would mean she was giving in. She realized that even if he killed her, none from her group would raise a finger in protest, let alone offer a defence. Veera began walking towards her, but she continued to look him in the eye. As he came nearer, she could hear his breath emerge like a snarl. Just before he reached her, he stopped. He turned around and a strange light passed over his face.
The moment he turned, the girl lost her nerve and tried to make a dash towards the relative sanctuary of the palace. But Veera knew she would do that. As she turned, he grabbed her, tearing her blouse. She began to scream and howl. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the filthy pond nearby. The water levels had dropped after the monsoons and the channel had receded, leaving an isolated puddle in which the water stood slimy and soiled. Veera shifted his hold to her plaited hair and ducked her into the water. When she came up gasping for air, he ducked her again. Every time she came up with more flotsam on her head. The group of friends and adversaries had moved towards the pond in a trance and watched the scene, mesmerized.
He gave her a final push and proclaimed, ‘There, you fat toad, stay where you belong.’ Even her brothers laughed nervously. His wrath diminished, Veera joined in the laughter.
*
Sibling rivalry, it is said, begins at an early age. A newborn sometimes arrives clenching a clump of hair or flesh – the remnants of its immature twin who lost the battle of survival within the womb. There was no such battle Veera had to fight, but that did not stop him from fighting a war the day his stepbrother Sundar was born.
Veera could never forget the day he had seen Sundar first. The nation had been euphoric – there was great rejoicing that a prince had been born to the heir apparent. Kulasekharan himself conveyed the news to Veera.
Strangely, Veera felt no resentment at the time. He was just inquisitive. When Kulasekharan instructed Veera to accompany him to the cradle festival – where the newborn would be introduced to everyone – Tara had first refused, aware of the controversy it would generate. But Kulasekharan had insisted. ‘They will recognize him as royalty. He cannot hide behind his mother’s sari forever if he wants to rule this empire.’ His mother had tidied Veera up and dressed him. Much against his protests, the grime was washed off his face and his ruffled hair was oiled and combed down.
Veera’s arrival at the ceremony hall had immediately silenced the joyous audience. He could sense the rancour and huddled closed to his father. Kulasekharan took Veera to the king, Maravarman Sundara, and both of them prostrated at his feet. The king could no longer resist. After all, the boy was his own flesh and blood. He beckoned Veera and when the child came close, he placed him on his lap. He gestured for Kulasekharan to take his place on an ornamented throne to his right.
Veera shivered. At close quarters, the king looked gigantic. He had trouble balancing himself on his lap. The king stretched his hand and a sweet materialized on it, placed there by an understanding aide. The king gave him the sweet, which Veera started to nibble at almost immediately and soon a stream of sweetened spittle soiled the royal lap.
There was a tall stranger seated next to his father with a pretty girl on his lap. The man looked leaner than his father, but he could sense the resemblance. It was, Veera would learn later, his uncle Vikrama, the brother of Kulasekharan and next in line to the throne. He observed the girl on the lap more keenly. Meena was a girl of six in a silk skirt and blouse. Most noticeable was the dimple on her cheek and a black spot next to it to ward off the evil eye. The
girl smiled at him warmly and he grinned back at her.
Two kids on the laps of their elders built a bridge of intimacy immediately and cemented it with their smiles.
As the function commenced, the king was asked to go over to the cradle. He lowered Veera onto the ground and gave him a gentle pat on his back. As the old king ambled towards the cradle, Veera continued to nibble at the sweet and sat back on the seat, which happened to be the throne of Madurai – the seat of power which ruled half the continent of Bharatvarsh. Veera would not understand why his father had leapt so unceremoniously to grab him off his grandfather’s chair until much later, but he never forgot the pearls that were strung on the sides and the soft cushion on the seat and how much he loved sitting on it. But many people in the hall noted Kulasekharan’s move and the rest would hear of it soon.
When his father was called to the ceremony, Veera was left alone. Then curiosity got the better of him. He walked closer and peeped inside the crib like everyone else had done. There was an ugly thing there, wrinkled as if it had a fishnet on its face. Veera did not like him at all. As Veera held the frame of the crib, the pearls that adorned it rattled. The noise woke the baby and he gave out a loud howl. The two brothers had exchanged their mutual animosity, the first signs of a hatred that would last a lifetime.
The baby’s squeals made his attendants hurry towards him and in the process they pushed Veera aside. He was examining his bruised elbow when he felt a friendly hand on his shoulder and turned to find the girl he had noticed earlier. She made place for him on her chair and held him close. The man who looked like his father patted him on the head and smiled.
When Kulasekharan returned to Tara’s chambers, he laughed and said, ‘You should have seen Veera ascend the throne. I had to leap forward to prevent him and avoid an incident. He can’t wait to rule the empire. Just like me.’
*
Years went by with the Pandyan kingdom living in leisure. The palace was now a huge complex flanked by the channels of the Vaigai river. The central palace consisted of the king’s living rooms and the main assembly hall where he held court. The ancillary buildings housed the rest of the royal family. As the crown prince, Kulasekharan occupied the palace next to that of the king, while Tara and her son had four rooms and a balcony to call their own in another wing.
The children had to undergo the drudgery of schooling in the forenoon but they made up for it by tormenting their teachers. No teacher would last out his entire term of employment – the royal brats would cut short the existence of even strong-willed people. A single teacher taught boys and girls of varying ages. Meena was now twelve, Veera ten and his brother Sundar running seven.
After their bout with education, the children would gather to play. There were nearly twenty boys and girls in the troupe headed by Meena, the eldest. Vikrama had married much earlier than Kulasekharan and had only one daughter. Like most other first daughters of the Pandyans, she was named after the patron goddess of Madurai – Meenakshi. Together with her cousins, she played in the palace grounds like urchins from the streets, certainly not befitting the royal blood in their veins. They went to the dairy shed and most were able to squirt the milk from the udders straight into their mouths. They would hurl stones on beehives, and the disturbed bees, in turn, would swarm out to sting unsuspecting passersby. The river channels ran well into the palace grounds, and most children got a routine ducking in them, after which their wet clothes would attract grime like flies to the fish market. By the evening, none of the mothers could recognize their wards. The group was noisy and boisterous, with mongrel puppies, tired of fighting each other, yapping at the children’s ankles.
The evenings were more sober and reserved for stories; usually it would be Vikrama who narrated to the large gathering of youngsters around him. Large torches and lamps kept the veranda of Vikrama’s palace well-lit.
Most stories reflected the pride that Vikrama had in his lineage and country. He would relate how the goddess from whom the royal family had descended ruled this country, the one who had eyes of the fish – Meenakshi. One evening he narrated the story of how a king of Madurai had condemned an innocent man to death for stealing the anklet of the queen. Kannagi, the plucky widow, challenged the king in court and proved him wrong. The woman’s anger, still unabated, then consumed the entire city in flames.
Veera asked his uncle, ‘How can an entire country suffer for one person’s wrongdoing?’ Vikrama replied, ‘The king is an embodiment of the will of his people. If the people let him have the freedom to do as he likes, they will end up as embers.’ These words were etched in Veera’s mind for a long time to come.
When Veera was eleven, his father was crowned king. The old king Maravarman vomited blood one day and ceased to breathe. The two boys stood by the entrance and watched the high and mighty of the country pay their last respects to the king’s corpse. The women of the house sang praises of the departed king in an oppari – the song of mourning – and they cried, beating their heads and chests, as the body was carried from the palace into the streets.
The boys were not allowed to go to the cremation ground. When their father returned, they could not recognize him, for his hair and beard had been shaved. He now wore the crown that had sat on their grandfather’s head earlier. The transition was smooth and the entire family celebrated the coronation.
The children had their own hierarchy too. The undisputed leader was Meena – by rank and age. She always chose Veera as her assistant and Sundar was the first to rebel against this arrangement. It is said that those who wait end up ruling the world, and Sundar, who had patience, got an unexpected boost to his fortunes when a troop of twelve cousins arrived from his mother’s land in the Chola country. They could not have been more different from the Pandyan horde. The only person the Chola children knew there was Sundar, and their loyalties lay wholly with him.
Meena’s troop viewed this new bunch with distrust. The Chola children moved with the arrogance of those who had grown up on the banks of the Cauvery, which nourished Chola lands. Water was a marker of wealth in a rain-fed area; where other nations in Tamil country struggled to find water, Chola farms had it delivered to their doorsteps. On the other hand, a man could stand upside down in a Pandyan river during the peak of the monsoons and still not drown. Perennial water had indirectly bred a conceited race of Cholas with excessive pomposity. Veera’s first thought on seeing them was, If these Cholas can be so arrogant when they are vassals, imagine their haughtiness when they were rulers.
Sundar seized the opportunity and did the obvious. He formed a parallel group and declared war on Meena’s group. The two gangs fought whenever they got the chance. Meena was under pressure and her leadership was being challenged. Some of her followers vacillated and she was able to tide over the crisis only because of the steadfast support of her loyal ally Veera.
Among the Chola children was a girl called Sunanda. Her most prominent feature was her disproportionate head, which was accentuated by her serpentine hairdo. Veera and the girl had developed an instant hostility to each other. Whenever Veera lost a game or fell down, Sunanda was the first to scoff at the prince – and it was she who had called Veera a whore’s son.
*
Sunanda wasn’t sure if Veera’s fury had been quenched. He stood over her with clenched fists on his hips and a cruel smile on his lips. She endured the ignominy and as she tried to smooth her wet hair, Veera threw back his head and laughed scornfully. That was when Sunanda knew she would hate the boy for the rest of her life.
Veera realized his father would soon hear of the incident and that the version would be one-sided, where Sunanda would come out smelling of the finest flowers while he would stink like a stable boy. He did not care, however. Nothing could have irked him more than a comment on his parenthood. Or was it, he wondered, the fact that she had known about it at all?
The two groups spent the next few days on opposite sides of the palace grounds and avoided each other. But children ca
n never stay apart. Very soon, the two groups began their regular games together, but Sunanda did not come to the grounds any more. When she did return, Veera often found himself staring at her, wondering what went on in her mind. She caught him staring sometimes and defiantly glared back. More than his ducking, calling her a toad had affected her most. Whenever a frog jumped hastily out of their way, even her brothers smirked. Rather than add to the acrimony and bitterness between the two groups, Veera and Sunanda stopped talking to each other.
*
The two groups spent the holiday seemingly in unity until the day the Chola visitors returned to their land. The children resumed their earlier games, but one day, Meena did not turn up to play. The boys who went to call her were shooed away by a crowd of women who had gathered outside her door. The following week, Vikrama’s palace resounded with joyful music and the beat of drums. Members of the royal family arrived in large numbers. Curious, the boys queued up to watch the sudden flurry of activity, but were not invited in.
Though Veera and Sundar did not know what the event meant, they realized that Meena would no longer be joining them. There was a behavioural change in her too. She no longer gave Veera a spontaneous hug and demurred from speaking more than a couple of words. All his questions were answered with a nod of her head or in monosyllables. Meena had become a woman.
With Meena out of the way, the hierarchy changed. The rule became an oligarchy as Sundar and Veera declared peace for a while. They encouraged defiance in the younger children, who followed the steps of their newfound leaders and let all hell loose on the palace grounds. Not that the elders did not know those responsible for the chaos, but they did not scold the culprits. The deterrent was that the one who had thrown a stone at the mango tree in their backyard could become their sovereign one day – so it was safer to keep quiet.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 2