by Eric Alagan
‘You know me, sir, but I know you not.’
‘I know of the prime minister’s horses lost in the Arakan lands and a few other matters which led me to conclude your identity.’
‘Then you know my husband. How is he, sir?’
‘Yes, I have met sir Kovalan, but please, Lady Kannagi, have a seat.’ As a mark of respect, he removed his turban.
‘My husband, how is he? Tell me, sir, is he safe?’
‘Please,’ repeated the man and extended his arm in invitation. He was distant and confident, did not smile but there was an ingrained respectfulness about him.
‘I will remain standing, sir, and may I ask, who are you?’
‘My name, as I am, is unimportant but for now I am Captain of the Royal Household Guard, and I apologise for my young subaltern just now at the gates. He was less than decorous when receiving you. He was under public glare and somewhat unsettled. I have since counselled him.’
‘Thank you, sir Captain, but please delay no further, what news of my husband, for I come with evidence to prove his innocence. But my heart crackles with anxiety.’
‘Prove his innocence? How so, my lady?’ The captain’s eyes, till then steady and piercing, flickered.
‘My husband had sent for his friend, my brother Anandan, to prove his innocence. Did my husband mention my brother’s name?’
‘I know this name, Anandan, and the prime minister—.’
‘Sagasana!’
‘Yes, Prime Minister Shree Sagasana sent his personal rider to fetch the witness, sir Anandan. Unfortunately, we received desperate news by carrier pigeon that Arakans had waylaid and killed him. Even now, we have a search party scouring the kurinji hills. How did you come by the prime minister’s horses?’
‘The Arakans did not kill my dear brother, sir captain. Sagasana’s rider on Sagasana’s orders murdered him.’ I paused for a sudden reaction but there was none. ‘The news shocks you not?’
‘I make no judgement, my lady, but you level a grave accusation on a flawless man. Are your words supported by proof or float on shifting sands of suppositions?’
‘Proof from my brother Anandan,’ I said and, from the folds of my sari, produced the roll of leather, ‘even as he bled to death from wounds grievous inflicted by Sagasana’s rider.’
‘And where is the rider now?’ said the captain as he took the leather scroll.
‘Held in the hills to answer for his guilt. I would have drunk the murderer’s foul blood but my Arakan brothers recognised him for many atrocities exacted on that stretch of road. And for now, they hold him until I return with my husband safe.’
‘There is some dangerous play here, I surmise,’ said the captain, ‘an attempt perhaps to force the course of justice. The rider is a trusted confederate of the prime minister and your strange brothers will reap a martial response for his kidnap. There have been many raised voices in court because of atrocities already committed in the commons and based on what evidence there is, the perpetrators are Arakans, your declared brothers.’
‘The play, sir Captain, is in the halls of this palace and you hold a specimen script.’
‘Intriguing, for this scroll hints at some treachery, my lady, but it mentions not the prime minister’s guilt. The rider, if he is the murderer also, will receive punishment, but by Pandyan laws. I’ll send an escort with you to meet your Arakan brothers and you will counsel them to release the man.’
‘You have galloped ahead, sir Captain, but do you not see Sagasana’s hand in the murder? My Arakan brothers witnessed the attack, and the rider confessed.’
‘Perhaps it was the Arakans, my lady, who attacked, and the rider made to confess under threat. And even if the rider was the killer, one cannot assume it was a task committed at the behest of Prime Minister Sagasana, who is a man of impeachable integrity.’
‘How then did I come by Sagasana’s horses?’
‘The Arakans, whose kinship you claim, gave them to you, did they not? Perhaps the question pregnant for an answer is, how did the Arakans acquire the horses?’
‘I can see that my words, sir Captain, move you in circles.’
‘I am no judge but a kaavalan, a guardsman, my lady, tasked to uphold peace. There is the king and men wiser than me to counsel and make weighty decisions regarding innocence and guilt. But apprised of the untimely death of your brother, you repaired here waving petition and purported proof, and provoking play and spectacle at the palace gates. Show me your proof and speak only words of promise.’
‘Though you received and treated me correctly, sir Captain, I would rather present my proof to the king himself. With the prime minister already a suspect, even if you do not subscribe to my accusation, the only surety for my innocent husband’s release is to utter my words of promise, unhindered and unsullied, in open court.’
‘You trust me not, my lady?’
‘I’m not prepared to wager my husband’s life.’
‘I understand your reserve,’ said the captain, and he paused before adding. ‘But there is another matter, one of weighty import.’
The captain sucked in a long breath of air and exhaled. He moved to the window and stood looking out, as if gathering his thoughts and words. Turning, he said,
‘I do not know, my lady, if there will ever be a correct way to say this but as a commander of men who risk their lives, one of my misfortunes is to carry news of warrior deaths of sons, fathers, brothers and husbands to their womenfolk.’
It took some moments of stunned silence for his words to soak. Then I grabbed the man’s sleeve and shook. I did not utter a word, but tears flowed and wet my garments.
The captain did not restrain my hands, but neither did he offer words of comfort. He stood solid as a grand tree even as the floor trembled again. He knew, from his stated experience, that words were no balm for the terrible tear rendering my heart.
With chest heaving in despair, a fiery red coal in my stomach, and my knees threatening to soften, I said,
‘Tell me now, and leave no gaps for mystery.’
‘When we found your husband with an ornament, one similar in rarity to an anklet lately lost from the queen’s precious jewellery, we arrested him. The royal jeweller identified the anklet as belonging to the queen. The prime minister—.’
‘Sagasana!’
‘Yes,’ said the captain, and paused before continuing to recite, in his dispassionate tone, the rehearsed news. ‘The prime minister accorded your husband every opportunity to plead his guilt and seek clemency at the king’s feet. Your husband declined and persisted his innocence.’
‘And why must he plead guilty when the crime was not his?’
‘Even after we presented him with arguments of sound logic and unassailable sense, your husband declined confession in exchange for clemency. He remained steadfast. The king, his hand thus forced, passed sentence and tasked me to carry out his orders.’
‘And you murdered my husband!’
‘I am servant to king and kingdom, my lady, and yes, I had the king’s orders carried out at dawn today. Not by my hands but it could have been just as well.’
My knees bent and I sank to the floor, but the captain held me up. Without thinking, I leaned on the strong arms that took my husband’s life. But my growing anger brought me to my senses, and I pushed myself away from his touch and said,
‘My husband killed and my brother murdered; now take me to your king, guardsman, where I shall present proof of my husband’s innocence. I am cursed for being so late to save my poor husband, but am early enough to wreak vengeance. Revenge will not be reward enough, but I demand it, and what a sorry trade for lives so precious already lost.’
‘We have Romapuri in court.’
‘The Cholan allows petitions from his people when court convenes, no matter the occasion, is it not the same here in Pandyan?’
‘It is as you say, but petitions aplenty fill the day. There is not time enough to present more claims.’
Realising
that this man, this self-assured man who had my husband killed but considered himself guiltless, could deny access to the king, I did the unthinkable. I pleaded with him.
‘Please, sir, I have lost everything. Take me to court and allow me to redeem my husband’s name.’
The captain considered my plea. Then, he gestured to the soldier and servant.
‘Escort Lady Kannagi to the subterranean cells.’ And he said. ‘My lady, there you will collect your husband’s body and accord him burial for his peace and yours. Meanwhile, I shall make representations and try to secure time for your petition.’
‘Thank you, upright son of a blessed mother, for believing my words of promise.’
‘It’s not important what I believe, my lady, but only important that all who seek audience in our Pandyan court win an opportunity. If you fail to win today, return tomorrow, and if failure accosts you, return again and again as many do. Until you satisfy your day in court.’
23: In the Second Hides Truth
AS CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD, I occupied a loft and from that vantage point gained an excellent view of the busy auditorium below.
The Peerless Pandyan King Nedun-Cheliyan and Queen Mother Kopperun-Devi sat on a raised dais at the end of a long hall that had heavy drapes on the walls. Cool air entered the tall windows of the Rajya Sabha and wiped away the heat. Huge rectangular kites made from fabric hanged from the crossbeams, built into the high ceiling. Servants, hidden behind curtains, tugged on ropes routed over pulleys, and these swung the kites back and forth and their lazy movements further cooled the congested hall. An abundance of flower arrangements lent a colourful vista and emitted a sweet fragrance. Soothing incense smoke coiled to the ceiling, curved, and caressed the flowing drapes.
Sages and teachers sat in places of honour, as did the Roman delegation and senior Pandyan nobles, first among them the wizened Prime Minister Shree Sagasana, and generals and merchant princes. There were also many of the foremost artisans, including Thiru Pillay the Royal Jeweller, and masters from the performing, visual, and literary arts. And people of all classes and castes—by the king’s decree, even the lowliest—filled the standing room behind the line of luminaries.
Accomplished panegyrists recited paeans praising the king’s deeds of charity, the queen’s works of piety, and the richness and abundance of the Pandyan polity. After each such rendition, royal retainers presented gifts to the bards.
A murmur rippled forward from the far end of the hallway near the entrance. I sensed grave foreboding and hurried from the loft, and down the tight winding stairs, hidden behind the curtains. As I rushed down, the noise grew.
It was the raised voice of a woman—Kannagi!
By the time I reached the ground floor, there was a loud inhuman shout and the great doors pushed open. Kannagi rushed in with several guards at her heels. She ran here and there, avoiding the soldiers’ grasping hands. People exclaimed and gesticulated.
A guard had wrapped his arm around Kannagi’s waist but, determined, she dragged him behind her. More guards arrived and were about to lift the struggling intruder off her feet when I issued a sharp command. The men stopped and so did Kannagi.
In a few quick strides I approached Kannagi and snapped in a low voice.
‘Stop this spectacle!’
‘You promised an audience!’ said Kannagi, and she bristled.
She was a woman possessed. In her raised hand, she grasped an ankle ring. In unyielding black clothes, lush hair hanging loose, and eyes wide and ringed black, she personified an avatar of Kali herself.
‘Captain, please bring the good lady forward, so she may enlighten us,’ said the prime minister. I leaned down and whispered to Kannagi.
‘I made no such promise for today, but apparently you already have your day in court. Hear my good advice, Lady Kannagi. Speak your evidence, such as you claim to have, and leave alone conjectures lest these muddy your petition.’ So saying, I escorted her to the front and stepped back.
‘The hour is too late for my husband to seek justice,’ said Kannagi in a sharp voice that carried to the corners of the great hall, ‘but I am early enough to exact vengeance on his behalf. I am here to reveal the innocence of my poor husband who even now lies lifeless, murdered, away from the scrutiny of honest eyes.’
‘Contain your anger, woman,’ said the prime minister, ‘so we may seek gentle recourse for whatever ails you to have so challenged the peace in our Rajya Sabha.’
Kannagi’s gaze swept the royal court from left to right, seeking the voice that had spoken but her eyes looked without seeing, perhaps trying to catch everyone’s attention and no one in particular.
‘Who, who spoke those words? Reveal yourself!’ she screamed.
‘Why this show,’ said the prime minister, ‘and who gave such fierce insult compelling you to barge into these proceedings? But please, good lady, before you speak your petition, pay this court proper acknowledgements.’
‘Your king is an unjust king!’ retorted Kannagi. ‘It is not meet for me to pay him, or any others, dues. This king’s judgement has stained your court’s virtue. Let your king, as charged, speak, for I wish to hear his pitiful defence!’
But her outrageous accusations roused the assembly, stunned into silence until then by the unprecedented interruption. The small murmurs travelled round the auditorium and gained strength. The courtiers in the assembly took up the cry and clamour. Garlands and petals, meant for showering praise, turned into snaking javelins and pelted missiles, and the people waved fists and let their displeasure known.
‘Your jeers seek to drown my words,’ shouted Kannagi. ‘But you will hear the truth in this chamber this day.’
The prime minister held up his hand and called for silence. An undertone of discontent remained palpable among the people and they were ready to explode. Kannagi wheeled on the prime minister and hissed.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Sagasana, born of the lowliest classes, but by the grace of our Great Pandyan’s father’s father, now a humble servant to king and country and also to you, my lady, and first minister to His Majesty, Rajaaji Rajan Nedun-Cheliyan.’ He paused and, not receiving a response from Kannagi, he said,
‘A heavy accusation that, unjust king, a charge so forceful never heard in this chamber since time started, and you have so readily identified our king as the accused even before we know what trespass has so unsettled you.’
‘So, you are Sagasana, are you? You let loose a monstrous scheme and beware, for it has come to feast on your flesh. You spew elegant words, and exude wisdom and justice, but you are quicksand beneath a placid pond. And while the water bears the blame, it is the scheming sand which sucks under the lives of the unwary.’
‘You speak in riddles, my lady, and even if you do not acknowledge my position, it behoves you to show decorum to my years. Moreover, since you seek redress in this court, you must accept this court’s authority. And such acceptance requires you to pay proper respects. Please grant us your name and speak your grievance.’
‘Keep your peace then, old man, and hear my complaint.’
‘Let not your voice boom, good lady, for you see, truth needs no thunder to herald its coming.’
‘But truth needs the herald of a booming voice, Sagasana, to rouse the slumberous indifference under the watch of this king.’
‘Please, good lady, I ask again, and with some insistence, honour us with your name and circumstances, and even do so with the gentleness found in all true women of Tamilakam.’
‘Satisfy your curiosity then, Sagasana. I hail from Poom-Puhar, where the Cholan hears whispers too but only from truth and justice.’
‘You claim to seek justice, good lady, when your own words do no such thing to this august assembly, for you shower rowdy flippancy and disparage the entire Pandyan Court in Romapuri’s presence. Do you not see the welcomed and valuable embassy?’ And so saying, the prime minister gave a small bow to the Roman delegation.
‘Not di
sparage, Sagasana, but to accuse and curse you and this entire Pandyan Court.’ And she undid a knot in the folds of her sari, took out a handful of sand and threw it into the air.
‘Oh god,’ said the prime minister. ‘Oh my dear child.’ He closed his eyes and held both hands to his ears. After a moment, he said in a heavy and sad voice.
‘My child, your hurt is grievous, but we have yet to determine where from the source of this great pain. Even if you consider all present here as vile, I ask again, where are your manners? Why are you so rude even to our wrinkled skin and grey hair? Bereft of all things good as we might be in your estimation, has your culture forgotten deference? Are you not of Tamilakam? Have your parents and teachers failed you in this too?’
The prime minister’s words stunned Kannagi, as if some old lesson had revealed its secrets to her. She sobbed loud and said,
‘You have taken everything from me, sir, everything. I am reduced to nothing, and have lost all that is good and gentle. I am empty and from my utter void only curses well. These I shall shower upon you in great abundance, for I have only curses.’
Many in the assembly showed anger; some looked perplexed; and all the while interpreters whispered into the ears of the Roman delegation who leaned back to lend attention but from the corners of their eyes studied the fascinating woman.
‘Let me recount to this sham assembly my complaint. Know also how a Cholan once offered his flesh to appease a hawk forced to free a pigeon. Another king of my motherland gave justice to a grieving cow who had lost her tottering calf to a prince, a royal son who had run over the calf with his chariot. When the cow rang the bell at his gate, the king declared his own son guilty and in recompense had the young prince crushed under a chariot wheel. This is the measure of justice from the Cholan kings.
‘From their capital city of Kaveri-Poom-Pattinam, where the harbour is so deep that the leviathans of the heaving seas enter without having their heavy loads taken off, came my beloved husband Kovalan; my one true lord, an accomplished merchant, and only son of Sir Masattuvan, himself a respected and honest grain merchant of a long line of peerless philanthropists. To overcome his cruel fate, my lord Kovalan and I came to your city to rebuild our lives. But you put him to death, you unjust people of Madurai. By your word you had my husband Kovalan killed, you unjust king. I seek justice, no, demand justice! You ask who I am. I am Kannagi. I am your death!’
