by Eric Alagan
‘Why-why-why?’ In playful tantrum I hit my thighs.
‘I’ve just now told you, my yellow sapphire, and Chinnamma will answer all your questions and teach you many wonderful things.’
‘But you answer all my questions and already taught me everything there is to know. Is Chinnamma smarter than you?’
Father threw his head back and laughed. He said, ‘There are some things best left to Chinnamma.’
‘What things, Father?’
‘Things a young maiden, one such as yourself, might wish to know, ought to know.’
I was getting bored with talk regarding my forthcoming maidenhood. And I did not want to grow up and lose my teeth or turn bald. So, having finished the first mango, I went for my next favourite—the second mango.
‘You’ll also study the Vedas and Puranas, my platinum, and learn prayers expected of and befitting a future mistress of a household.’
‘But Mother is mistress of the household and quite enjoys haranguing the servants.’
Father laughed again, and I joined in his laughter. I loved him very much and gave him a great big hug. After finishing my second mango, I reached for my next favourite fruit—the third mango.
Overwhelmed with joy by the prospect of a long journey into new lands, the first in my life, I shared my excitement with Kovalan. But he grew sullen. I detected a tinge of envy. By going away on new adventures, I was in some strange manner doing better than him. His behaviour was disappointing for I thought he would be happy for me.
His joy was mine, but he did not share my joy. That made me sad. Now I did not want to go. I wanted to remain in Puhar to keep Kovalan happy.
But Anandan was excited for me and told stories of new adventures that beckoned.
I trudged home, angry and confused, and cried myself to sleep. But by morning, I had resolved myself to Kovalan’s apathetic reception of the news. He was right, and I would not abandon him again. This journey would be the first and the last without him. In the future, I would place him before all else, for I believe there was no greater joy than to make him happy.
What I did not know was that, instead of a year, my parents had conspired to keep me away from the boys for several years—until I lost my boyish antics and reached marriageable age.
I lost my rough edges in that time but also acquired a new skill, one that my parents had not wished—I learned to ride horses. But it was a poor trade for all those years without Kovalan.
3: A Child leaves and a Maiden will return
THE DAYS LEADING TO our departure were busy, harried, and filled with confused urgency. A steady queue of tradesmen and suppliers called on Father. He arranged provisions, bullock carts, and a dozen other items. Father also settled many matters regarding his business affairs and our house. There was much excitement among the servants selected to join us on the journey, and all of them received impressive new uniforms.
Mother was in a constant hair-pulling frenzy—and drove our servants to distraction—as she tried and retried garments for every festival and conceivable ceremony she planned to attend.
‘The villagers will expect no less from us,’ said Mother.
After several days and having decided that nothing in her wardrobe met her needs, a foregone conclusion whenever she prepared for a journey, Mother sent for the fabric merchants and tailors. The poor men presented dozens of samples. Soon, heaps of bright-coloured saris and shimmering silks dotted the central courtyard. After several days, she decided the new wardrobe was too grand for her sister’s farm and better reserved for occasions involving royalty and important people. She settled for the saris and fabrics from her many bureaus—material she had selected on the first day. After all, she reasoned, the people in the villages would not recognise her old garments and everything would be new to them. Thus, Mother resolved the most challenging of her preparations and the servants sighed with relief.
The morning for departure arrived and people in the neighbourhood turned out in force to wish us farewell. Stewards were busy with final preparations, there were hurried voices, and the mood was urgent and celebratory.
But I remained depressed. I longed to see Kovalan. I kept looking up whenever someone entered the house, confident he would appear. He could not let the moment slip. Surely, he would surprise me. And so I consoled myself. But as the time ripened, I hoped. Then, in the final hours, I prayed.
Anandan appeared with a gift, a wooden boat similar to the one destroyed in the river—Kovalan had forgotten the repair. On the day the boat smashed on the rocks, Anandan had laughed and clapped with glee. But on this day, he looked remorseful and without his usual spirit. Earlier in the day, he had met Kovalan but before I asked, he said,
‘His father sent him on an errand to Pattinam.’
There was a lie in Anandan’s eyes but I was grateful for his feeble attempt to make me feel better. I had always disliked Anandan. He was a bully, plain-speaking even when he knew it would be hurtful, and quite vulgar in his interests. But he was also an enigma.
‘You leave a child and will return a maiden,’ he said. ‘Be safe, little sister. I am your brother and will always love you. I promise.’
Upon hearing Anandan’s words, I rushed to my room and cried. I had not expected such maturity from this irreverent boy. Perhaps I had been quick with my harsh judgments.
But I also cried for Kovalan. After some time, my tears emptied. Mother called and, burying my pain in my chest, I re-joined the preparations and farewells.
Our servants secreted much coin in their hands in return for carrying letters and news. Unlike the wealthy who wrote on velvety cloth, the common folk wrote letters on palm leaves. Our servants, worthy of working for Father, an accomplished merchant, charged more money for messages carrying commercial import.
There were half-a-dozen bullock carts, each drawn by a pair of sturdy well-nourished buffalo. Father, his man-servant, and the caravan master rode the first cart. Mother and I, and our hand-maidens, followed in the second. The third cart carried our luggage, and presents for Uncle, Chinnamma, and people of the village governing council, the panchayat. The servants, provisions, utensils, and tent and bedding material filled the rearmost carriages, which were larger and built for load rather than elegance.
Father also hired an armed escort of ten impressive young men led by a stern captain. These men, Maravars, carried iron-tipped spears and swords in scabbards slung across their backs, and wore leather body armour and brightly coloured turbans. Their horses were nervous and energetic and bobbed their heads and stomped the earth with eager anticipation. The escort also roped along several mules which carried their bedrolls, tents, and gear. It was quite an impressive company befitting the wealth and esteem Father enjoyed in Puhar.
In our wake was a long stretch of camp-followers—families, itinerant traders, and lesser merchants—who were also going our way but lacked the resources to hire an armed escort of their own. Travelling in caravan gave the camp-followers camaraderie and security. Unlike other caravan owners, Father did not collect payment from the hangers-on. It was beneath his station to do so. But this did not stop our servants from exacting taxes from these people. Father, well apprised of our servants’ activities, chose not to know provided they did not impose exorbitant levies.
During our journey, I became acquainted with the soldiers of the escort: wonderful and hardy warriors from the paalai, the semi-arid regions. These scarred men were bachelors—though many had lovers back in their desert homes. Lovers, and not wives. I found their family arrangement extraordinary but, for now, no one explained these matters. The soldiers yearned for meals cooked by a woman’s hands. They missed their lovers and mothers, and relished the food offered by the women of the caravan. I too shared leftover meals with them. And these men, who risked their lives every day and some only a few years older than Kovalan, took to the food with such gusto it put me to secret shame. After the first day, I apportioned the food before eating my share. It was a good habit I ad
opted, and for the rest of my life I always set aside food for the less fortunate. Father approved.
I wondered why we required an armed escort, for did not our Cholan king’s reputation send even snakes slithering into their holes? Mother admonished my careless talk regarding the king, but I persisted with a litany of why-why-why.
She said deep forests and hills covered the commons between the Cholan and Pandyan realms, and a wild race of demonic people—Arakans—inhabited the lands. I had heard the name mentioned in whispered awe. The Arakans were cannibals and would attack unwary city-dwellers who commuted between the towns.
‘And they are especially fond of carrying away young damsels such as you.’
‘Does that mean you are safe, Mother?’ I asked.
She pinched my arm and I let out a sharp cry. But Father’s cart was several paces ahead and the clattering of hooves, the tinkling bells festooned to carriages, and the ever-present noise that accompanied people on the move, drowned my cries. Not wishing to risk more pinches, I wiped my tears and asked,
‘Will we encounter these Arakans?’
‘I hope not and, as I said, these thick ugly men are especially fond of young maidens.’
And Mother gave me a look of silent challenge. I was young but not stupid, and no naughty words ensued from my runaway mouth.
Mother also recounted stories of debauchery, human sacrifice, and drinking of blood. When I asked about the Arakan women, Mother paused. Having made up a story, she said they were even worse than their men: they went about with exposed breasts, and smeared their faces with the blood of young boys. I saw through Mother’s ruse and did not believe all she said—except for the part that Arakan women were worse than their men. In that aspect at least, these wild women shared the traits of their more civilised sisters.
I yearned to meet an Arakan, perhaps a young girl or boy who would not alarm Mother. Once, during the journey, the soldiers tensed and the bullock carts tightened into a knot, sending a sizzling fear rippling through the petrified people. Unfortunately, the gods answered Mother’s prayers and there were no Arakan sightings. Another night we heard the faint sound of drums in the high hills, but again, nothing more.
Everyone kept saying Madurai, which was about a hundred leagues and several days away. But Uncle’s farm was on the outskirts of the famed city of culture and worship.
I also looked forward to seeing Chinnamma, who was much younger than Mother, and remembered her as having a wild streak about her. Chinnamma was direct, shocking, and mischievous. She had naughty humour, and spoke of matters that made me blush. I last saw her when she and her family visited us during the previous harvest festival, Pongal. She taught me many things, including the strange behaviour of adults.
I recalled one late afternoon when Father returned in a foul mood. Chinnamma and I remained cloistered in my room while the drama unfolded in the house.
Father, in his anger, found fault with Mother, and words and voices escalated. I heard a crash, a brass tumbler sent flying across the vast kitchen; then jingling footsteps, and Mother running into her room. Even at home, Mother geared herself for battle and went about dripping in an assortment of jewellery. I welcomed the ornaments because, when I was up to my usual mischief, the tinkling of her bangles and anklets forewarned her arrival. And I always looked innocent by the time she appeared.
After her dramatic but well-choreographed run to her room, Mother remained locked behind the doors. Chinnamma wore an intriguing smile. The servants, intent on not drawing attention to themselves, went quiet, scurried in silence, and spoke in whispers. The household sank into deep gloom. Meanwhile, Father withdrew upstairs to his work room.
Chinnamma and I were having dinner when Father came downstairs and called Mother. We stopped and listened hard. There was no reply. Father called again. He was standing outside Mother’s locked doors. Not receiving a response, he persisted.
‘Is Father angry?’ I asked.
‘Not anymore.’
‘Is Mother angry?’
‘Wait and watch the drama,’ said Chinnamma.
‘If Mother does not eat, she will starve, shrivel into a dried pea pod, and perish,’ I said, with genuine concern.
‘Your mother is so layered that she perspires even when bathing in cold water, and it’ll take two full moons of starvation before she withers to my weight.’
That horrified me. Poor Mother starving and reducing into a stick insect. But recalling that day later, I chuckled. Chinnamma was much fatter than Mother and I wondered how Mother would ever wither to Chinnamma’s weight.
After a pronounced series of sharp raps and calls, by which time all the servants, their features twisted in anxiety, had gathered to peep from the kitchen, Mother relented and opened the door. Father slipped in, closed the door, and drove home the bolt. Hearing the unmistakable snap of metal on metal, the servants sighed with relief and returned to their chores.
‘Will Mother eat dinner?’
As I was not yet clever enough—I became clever only later in the day—I remained worried that Mother might wither and get mistaken for a stick insect.
‘Yes, but not until an hour or more,’ said Chinnamma.
‘Why?’
Chinnamma called it a couple’s game. I remembered making a face, for I did not know adults played games. According to her, there were several scripts. In this play, the woman took the role of a victim, and often welcomed it because of the rewards promised when the man, feeling remorseful, made amends.
‘These little dramas add spice to life,’ said Chinnamma, ‘and result in babies, especially drama-children.’
‘Mother always says I drama, so does that make me a drama-child?’
‘You are a drama-child because you were born ten years into your parents’ marriage.’
‘What do you mean, Chinnamma?’
‘Well, if you were born in the first year of marriage, you would be a love-child.’
‘I don’t understand!’ I stamped my foot and cried.
‘No tantrums now. I’m Chinnamma, not your father.’
‘Sorry, Chinnamma.’
‘Okay, listen. In the first year of marriage, the honeymoon year, couples seldom quarrel because they’re blind with love, or rather with the newness of married life. The man is poetic and the woman never has a headache. But by the tenth year, the man’s snoring is not music but an irritant, and the woman’s unwashed hair is, well, unwashed hair. Familiarity loses the fragrance of discovery and the stink of life needs perfume and spice.’
‘And they make a drama-child!’ I interrupted and clapped with glee.
Now, as I lay in the tent, the caravan having stopped for the night and Mother’s snores keeping me awake, I wondered whether Kovalan and I would have a love-child or a drama-child. I was sure I would never quarrel with Kovalan. All our children will be love-children.
Chinnamma did not say how couples made love-children. The neighbourhood girls taught me that secret.
It started with an incident that turned my face red. It was an afternoon, and the adults were enjoying their naps. Taking the opportunity, Kovalan and I went to the river and frolicked.
His garment came loose. I gasped, and pointed and jumped up and down with fear. Some strange water creature had latched onto my poor Kovalan. In a flash, he covered himself with his hands and sank back into the water. He told me to go home. When I hesitated, he grew annoyed and railed. His behaviour shocked me, and I ran home in tears.
For many days after that, Kovalan did not visit and his absence broke my heart. It was also about this time he found a new friend, Anandan. Kovalan fetched him to meet me and we resumed our friendship. And we never spoke of the river incident.
When I shared my fears with the neighbourhood girls, they giggled and I grew up. No one at home associated the lingam, the stone image of Lord Shiva, with such crass matters. For me, the lingam was god. I also learned new words. Distasteful words. And I stayed away from the girls. But the thought of Koval
an’s lingam—it was safer to use this innocent word—evoked novel sensations. Embarrassing heart-racing sensations. I learned more adult things because of the boys.
Kovalan and Anandan scratched themselves below their navel and, wanting to fit in, I scratched myself there too. When Mother caught me touching, as she referred to it, she shrieked so loud that I feared a demon had possessed her. She ran into the kitchen and there was a ruckus.
Within moments, Old Ayah, who had been with us for a hundred years, ran out. The old coot dragged me by my hand—I did not know she could run so fast—to the well in the backyard. Scooping water, she washed my hands and poured several bucketsful over me. The well water was frigid and, as a brisk breeze blew, I shivered in fits. Old Ayah said in a stern voice that I should never touch myself. I did not know what the old coot was on about and my hand, on its own accord, reached to scratch. Without warning, Old Ayah let out a shriek similar to Mother’s and gave my hand a sharp slap. That stung. It hurt fiery red. I did not know the coot was strong too.
‘Don’t touch yourself, especially there, there, and there.’
She pointed to my chest and to the spot below my navel. I asked why-why-why, and her reply was emphatic.
‘Don’t! Only bad girls touch themselves.’
And she wagged a furious finger near my nose. The poor old woman shook with outrage, and spittle flew from her lips, making me blink and squint. It seemed the demon that possessed Mother had leapt into Old Ayah. Now I had another reason for not wanting to grow old: demonic possession.
‘Okay, Ayah,’ I replied.
‘Bad, bad, bad.’ More spittle from her and more blinking on my part.
‘Okay Ayah, okay Ayah, okay Ayah.’
I wiped away the imaginary spittle and smiled. The caravan had camped for the night. I was with Mother in the tent and she was snoring beside me. She rolled, faced away, and broke wind. Mother! I stifled a chuckle. Another reason not to grow old.
Then, a small pain seared my heart. I missed Kovalan. Tears slipped out of the corners of my eyes and I sniffed.
