‘Well, at least I have to commend your judgement and taste in choosing girls,’ she retorted. ‘What does a princess give a poet who has some talent?’ she wondered aloud. Veera looked at her hopefully. She turned in a quick, unexpected movement and kissed him on the cheek, a small peck. She turned her head away as a wave of coyness overpowered her. She bit her lower lip to stop the quivering.
Veera was stunned, but now emboldened, prodded her. ‘Do you call that a kiss in Chola land?’ he queried. ‘Talk about Chola miserliness. My poem was definitely worth more than that.’
She was struggling to stifle her laughter. Would she be offended if I place my hand on hers? he wondered. He went ahead and placed his hand on her lap. A shiver ran through her body and she brushed his hand away. ‘I should have done it all,’ he murmured, ‘when I saved you from the water.’
‘What?’ she demanded in mock anger.
‘Nothing. Doesn’t a man have the right to open his mouth under Kulasekharan’s regime?’.
‘Yes, you can open your mouth,’ she quipped as she relented, ‘but only when I am kissing you.’ She closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip before she kissed him again. Her rigid body softened. Their lips met and they could feel the creases across each other’s lips. The taste of lac she had used to adorn her lips was bitter. He thrust his tongue between her lips. She resisted and then gradually gave in. Her breath rose and fell like the tides as she panted. His hands encircled her and tightening his grip, he felt the side of her breast.
She recoiled in surprise. ‘You keep your filthy hands to yourself. Don’t you ever touch me there,’ she admonished him.
As much as Veera wanted to go further, she still had reservations. She was in no mood to relent. She kept pushing off his hands when he tried to touch her.
But with patience, he broke her resistance. A few days later, he was placing his hands on her bosom.
‘What did you think of me when you saw me first?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to duck you in the pond and I did it.’
It angered her, as if she did not want to be reminded of their childhood animosity.
‘Not then, idiot, when you saw me now.’
‘When I saw the princess, I wanted to make love to her at once.’
After a moment of icy silence, she quietly continued her inquiry. ‘And what is that His Highness wishes now?’ she asked saucily, her eyes not leaving him despite her face turning crimson.
‘I would like to make love to her three or four times this night,’ he answered with a hopeful grin.
*
The soil under their feet was like a carpet and they were oblivious to their surroundings along with the wind and the trees that rustled in it. They could only hear their hearts thundering along with the sound of every vein pulsating like war drums. They embraced each other tightly and not even the flimsiest of breezes could pass between them. Yet a layer of perspiration formed between them and mingled as they had just a few minutes ago.
On a bed rich with the smell of composting leaves and a dense overgrowth of creeper vines above, their love was consummated. The thorns and sharp stones hurt her back but she did not mind. Their lovemaking was almost primitive, the need to quench the fire adding to the vigour and ardour. In the autumn night when the moon was but a sliver of silver in the dark sky, the prince and the girl affirmed the love between them.
Her bosom seemed like rounded hills of marble topped by black jasmines. As he took her nipple in his mouth, it stood proud and erect. He heard an incoherent cry and paused, not knowing whether it was pain or pleasure, but she urged him on. A surge of unfettered pleasure permeated every part of their bodies. In the loftiness of their passion, when all creation seemed to pause, he shivered and she felt his seed within. He seemed to have transferred the warmth of his love within her. Veera trembled as he rolled off her. Nothing else seemed to exist at that moment.
Veera observed her while she slept. She looked more beautiful with a content smile spread across her face. She was indeed like a secure haven for him, from the fears of the future and memories of the past. It was then that reality struck him. Infected with a reckless greed to own the woman he loved, he had trespassed. He now remembered Akshayan’s warning. He might have jeopardized his entire life in a minute of lust.
‘What have I done?’ he wondered aloud.
‘You have made one girl very happy,’ she murmured, half asleep.
Veera’s mind was numb. What if the news got out? The queen and Sundar would kill him.
‘This could spark a discord and you don’t care?’ Had he initiated the conflict rather prematurely?
‘What do we do now?’ he pondered, now sitting next to her foetally curled body. She had pulled up a gossamer cloth to cover her nudity from the cold night breeze. She looked up at him determinedly as one who had made a decision.
‘We are going to make love one more time and then go home,’ she said firmly.
CHAPTER 8
THE SLAVE MARKET
Ram was stunned at the extraordinary trade in human beings taking place before him. He had known that slavery was a societal institution based on the exploitation of one human being by another. But even that knowledge could not prevent him from being shocked at the scale of it. One could walk for a mile here and not see a free person.
The trader within him paid heed to every happening in the market. In Khambayat, the port market of Gujarat, five hundred slaves changed hands over an afternoon. The wars of the world had created a slave market whose dynamics were mindboggling. After a major battle, thousands could find themselves on the auction block. The hideous din of the market was unbeArable. It was a whirling centre of raucous activity with Turks, Arabs and Mongols all haggling over the prices of human beings.
Khambayat was a port on the west coast of the Gujarat peninsula, with the Mahe river on one side and a restless gulf, a shallow arm of the Arabian sea, on the other. Most of its inhabitants were not natives. From yellow Mandarins and moon-pale Arabs to dark Abyssinian slaves and, of course, brown Indians, one could see all races here. It was a trading centre where people from all civilizations congregated to conduct commerce. Special streets were earmarked for merchants who traded in coral, sandalwood, pearls and precious gems. Skilled craftspeople brought fine silks, woven fabrics and exquisite ivory carvings to sell them here.
Slaves had been relegated to the unobtrusive smelly end of the market. The market area was made up of many stalls, each with a paddock and a raised wooden stage. There was a small shaded area, where the slave trader sat on a cotton-filled cushion with all his needs, including food and drink, placed at an arm’s reach. Every trading day, just an hour before the market began, the slaves would be brought in chains lest they escape in the melee. Slaves endured the sun most of the time and were given water and a limited meal of gruel at noon. The whip was frequently used to control them and it gave rise to a smell of fear. Branding the slaves with a red-hot iron rod added a smell of burnt pork to the air.
In the eunuch stall, three Negroes towered over the rest, boys of seventeen who already had rippling black muscles. Their heads were shaved and their noses upturned to display their nostrils. They were the most wanted commodities in the trade, kidnapped from their villages on a faraway continent, castrated, then sold in markets in India. The sultans of Delhi needed such slaves to maintain their harems of thousands of captured Hindu girls.
The slave traders’ guild was well organized, dealing as they did with captured people. One problem that the guild had not overcome was the glut of sightseers, who came for many reasons; the vilest came to ogle or tease. Real buyers moved surely and quietly, without letting others know who they preferred. One by one, slaves were chosen, examined thoroughly and then the haggling began. The trader would enumerate the imaginary prowesses of the slave and then a deal was struck. A newly bought slave usually left with a relieved look, as if he were going on a holiday. This was in a way true. While slaves suffered appalling privations during
their capture and display at the market, once they were placed with a family, they were reasonably well treated and accepted somewhat as members of the household.
The trader who had bought him was a man with a sullen disposition and a foul temper. He had used every expletive befitting a man of the gutter at Ram, the only slave who had come to the auction block every single day and yet not been sold. The trader would shake his head in despair. They had castrated the wrong man. He told him in frustration, ‘If you are not bought by this weekend, I’d rather throw you into the gulf. You may be a slave to the sharks.’
He could understand the trader’s annoyance. He realized he needed a buyer; it would at least save him from the ordeal of being exhibited in the hot sun like an inanimate piece of furniture. And he would be greatly relieved. But as the captives continued to be sold and replaced with others, only he remained. He had been an exhibit for a whole month and yet no one had bought him.
When some prospective buyers came along, he stood as straight as he could. Once, a woman who looked like she belonged to the aristocracy, remarked, ‘Look, how handsome he is. But what use is a craftsman without his tools?’ He resented her remark, but it struck him that although she was nearly twenty paces away, he could still hear her clearly.
What is happening to me? he wondered. He realized his sense of hearing had become more acute. He had noticed other physical changes, like the fact that his voice had changed and his body hair didn’t grow any more. But how could being castrated improve his hearing?
He watched other slaves, too. Most slaves had an intensity in their faces, showing the suffering they endured when they had been purged from their communities. Bound to serve others from whom they could not escape, most of them initially resisted, but yielded after a few blows and a few days of starvation or till they cut their skin and flesh while straining against their chains to escape. Traders were deliberately cruel, meting out thrashings at the slightest provocation.
*
The Arab came in his flowing robes. He walked through the market and was tempted to add a few girls to his harem. But he dissuaded himself. There will be time for that later, he thought to himself.
Sheikh Abul Hassan’s business was trading Arabian horses. He was well known in Khambayat and sat on the traders’ council which ran the town. He did not spend as much time on the council meetings as others would have liked him to, but his clout in the market was immense. To his name was added the name of his tribe – Hassan – a testimony to the ancestral roots of the tribe and a reminder of its descent from the Prophet’s family. He was known for exporting horses to southern India and importing pearls from there to Arabia. He had a harem of twenty girls, and he picked up more wherever his trade took him, as if they were mementos of his visits. He now needed a eunuch to guard them. The only other eunuch he had was an old man who had served his father, but Abul felt constrained in the harem in the presence of the old eunuch, a sort of father figure.
As Abul Hassan continued walking through the slave market, he noticed Ram immediately, and stood rooted to the spot. When he surveyed the slave, he noted the gleam of defiance in his eyes, despite the red welts that covered most of his body. This man bears scars that run quite deep, Abul Hassan thought. Instinctively, he knew he was not much use as a eunuch – yet, something about him stood out.
Ram found his mouth had gone dry and his heart began to pound at the interest the Arab was taking in him. He looks much better than most customers, he noted. He stared at the Arab and remained silent, his eyes unflinching. Just when he was fretful about not catching the interest of a buyer, this Arab was showing attention, as if a passing god had heard his prayers, but he quickly withdrew that thought. If there were gods, he would not be standing on this auction block in the first place.
The Arab paused. The eunuch had evoked a completely unfamiliar and unsettling feeling in him. He examined him with the calculated stare he usually reserved for horses. To his surprise, the bells of intuition were ringing fully at finding such character in a gelded creature. Yet, he cannot be a eunuch, he thought sorrowfully, and shook his head.
Ram felt numb to the core when the Arab began walking away. He concentrated on the Arab, chanting to himself, Come back, come back. But the Arab did not turn. Ram let out a weary sigh. The sight of the Arab at the last minute had aroused some hope, but left him with despair. He was sure the Arab wanted to buy him and the trader would have given him for a price next to free. Defeat stalked him even when he had become a slave.
*
Hassan found it hard to concentrate. For a moment he thought he would wake up the girl sleeping next to him, but his thoughts would not leave the slave from the auction block. He got up from his bed and walked over to his balcony. The moon had crept in through the lush summer greenery surrounding his home. His balcony overlooked the Mahe, and the tide now rushed in with a gentle rustle. His hair, unencumbered by his Arab headdress, danced in the wet wind laden with salt. He was awake until the tide turned early in the morning.
Hassan may not have bought him, but the slave meandered through his musings. He remembered an unruly stallion he had once bought. He was a novice then, inexperienced in how the business was conducted. Yet, he had gone ahead and bought it. He could not explain why, but he had seen a similar look in its eyes: determination, pride, courage. He could still hear the mocking laughter of his brothers. But that had been the best decision of his life. The stallion had brought him riches, made him what he was today.
The sky was slowly turning orange at the eastern horizon. Closing his eyes, Hassan tried to let his mind’s eye wander and arrived at a conclusion.
As soon as Ram saw the Arab the next morning, he knew that he had come to buy him. Ever since his castration, he kept hearing a small voice within him. He remembered the voice he used to hear as a child and which his family had tried to exorcize. It had returned, and seemed to be his intuition speaking to him. The eunuch smiled through the gap in his teeth. Hassan motioned for the slave to come closer. He was right about this slave. His body, maybe, but his mind would never be ruled by a master. Anybody else would have asked, ‘Does that not disqualify a slave?’ But Hassan had not made his fortune listening to other people.
Hassan observed him carefully, scrutinizing him from head to toe. Then he asked the slave master, ‘Has he been gelded?’
The slave master replied, ‘Oh, yes. Do you want to look, Sheikh?’ as he stood up to remove Ram’s loincloth. Hassan noticed the slave swallow hard in shame and quickly raised his hand.
‘I will take your word. What is his price?’ he asked. The slave master assumed that the Arab was joking. He had been the brunt of too many jokes ever since this cursed slave had come to him.
‘A thousand dinars to possess this eunuch, Sheikh.’
Some people watching the unfolding exchange sniggered. Surely the man was jesting. One could buy eight Negroid giants for the price and the seller would even throw in a fair damsel to sweeten the deal. Ram steeled himself for the inevitable breakdown in negotiations since the trader had asked for an impossible price.
He couldn’t believe his ears when the Arab said abruptly, ‘I will take him.’
‘You must be joking,’ the man gasped. It took a moment for the trader to recover. He swallowed dryly and stood stupefied. The trader was on the verge of getting a windfall, but he was still full of disbelief.
‘I was joking,’ he protested again.
Hassan silenced any reply with a wave of his hand. He turned and his assistant came to hand over the coins. ‘There are four hundred here and you may come to pick up the rest from my home. Ask for the Sheikh’s palace in Khambayat, the one who deals in pearls and horses.’ He said that rather modestly, though most of Khambayat knew him. He beckoned to the slave to follow him. As Ram stepped down the pedestal, he wanted to slap the slave master as a parting gift, but restrained himself, lest it sour the deal.
The Arab smiled. His blackened teeth stood in contrast to his pale face. ‘Fro
m today onwards you will be called Hazar Dinari, the man whose price was a thousand dinars.’ Ram could only bow in supplication, and followed his new master, mesmerized by the footfalls of his fate. He stood on the ledge on the outside of the chariot while his new master was seated on a blue velvet cushion. Ram held on firmly and the chariot began to drive away from civilization. One of the horses neighed as they approached a huge walled enclosure. The chariot swerved and the gates of the manor, as if on cue, swung open. There was a path leading to a mansion and on either side stood innumerable trees laden with fruits and bushes filled with flowers, so many that they could not be plucked before they withered at dusk.
It was a mansion passers-by paused shamelessly to gawk at. As they alighted from the chariot, Ram stopped to gape at it too. The ample price he had been bought for did not prepare him for the breathtaking surroundings he was going to live in.
The palatial home had been built on the banks of the Mahe estuary, situated upstream from the town. It was built at a distance from the river to prevent too much damage when the Mahe overflowed its banks. However, there were many raised platforms that looked out onto the estuary. Though the Arab was a trader, he could no longer tolerate the noise of commerce so his house was far away from the bustle of the port. The cacophonous sounds of the market were replaced by the gentler sounds of the river here.
A few large dogs rushed to greet their lord and also announced his imminent arrival to the household with their barks. The dogs greeted their master and then turned their attention to the new entrant. Ram stood still as they sniffed him. After a minute, they lost interest and followed their master as Hassan walked in.
Guards armed with shiny swords, the blades large enough to serve as meat cleavers, roamed the gardens patrolling for intruders. They bowed in respect to their master when they saw him, but one guard smirked as the new eunuch was led inside.
Ram was made to stand in the foyer, while Hassan went in. A strange-looking man, shrivelled like a fruit past its prime, shuffled in from the interior of the house and signalled to Ram to follow him. He took him aside and made him undress. Assured that the new entrant was indeed gelded, he came back to report his finding to the master.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 11