by Eric Alagan
‘Thank you, good lady, your complaint is clear now,’ said the prime minister. ‘And now, allow us to enlighten this eminent assembly on certain matters before we delve into the intricacies of your particular grievance. The Pandyan Court will never diminish the great works of our mighty Cholan compatriots in the east. May the rains shower their lands and yield bountiful harvests, and their herds multiply and escape affliction from diseases. And so we offer prayers for their well-being. We, Pandyans of the south, have very little deeds and accomplishments to our name, true, and what little success we claim, pales in comparison with your illustrious Cholans.’
Great shouts of protests erupted from the aristocrats and some stood up and eulogised Pandyan deeds. The prime minister allowed the interruption. And after enough voices rose and multiple stories of Pandyan exploits recounted, and satisfied that they had assuaged immediate tempers, he continued.
‘Yes, good teachers and high nobles of the blood royal, but our praises are best left to others to sing for we are students and yet to learn from this good lady the songs of self-praise. And though our Pandyan is mighty in arms and even Rome of the western empires seeks congress and has a magnificent cohort stationed on our shores as tribute in trade, we accede that perhaps we are younger in the better wisdoms of Tamilakam.
‘Our naïve nature compels us to believe in the supremacy of man over beast. We do not feed human flesh to carrion-eating birds nor kill our sons to appease a cow, revered as that gentle creature is in our mores. Though we grieve for the cow having lost her suckling calf, how much greater the grief of the queen who lost her prince, a mother who carried her baby son for ten months in her womb. Only a mother, my lady, will know that pain. In that regards please accept my sympathies.’
Kannagi bristled but before she could utter a word, the prime minister raised his hand and said,
‘That as it might be, did the prince’s siblings, manoeuvring for their father’s throne, rejoice or shed tears even as the wagon wheel crushed the young royal’s head? Was this justice for an animal’s grief or statecraft in play? Perhaps there are lessons and truths in your Cholan’s actions, good lady, which continue to elude us, old as we are in years but young in wisdom and yet having much to learn.’
Kannagi’s features twisted with fury and she laughed in a high-pitched voice, a jeering sound which morphed into cackles. The people in the assembly raised their arms and railed. The prime minister again held up his hand to counsel peace.
‘Please, good lady, even as we held our peace when you spewed, will you not lend us your ears without further impolite interruptions?’
Hearing the prime minister, Kannagi dropped to the floor and crossed her legs, knees spread wide. Her uncouth posture shocked and disgusted the men of breeding assembled in the sabha. The old prime minister, unfazed, continued in a measured tone.
‘You speak of a cruel fate having befallen your husband, Kovalan,’ said the prime minister. ‘You tie the deeds of the great Cholan kings to your husband, hoping the liaison will bestow favourable testimony to his righteousness, making his death all the more wicked and unjust. But is it not true he consorted with and lost his fortune to a courtesan, a woman of base repute? Is that not why you trekked over desolate lands, even risked the Arakan, to reach the unsullied sanctuary of Madurai, thinking the winds will not carry the stink of human tales? You now seek justice for a philandering husband who robbed you of your honour and happiness. This then is the true nature of his wretched fate. Our beautiful Madurai was a mere stage for the final part of his pitiful play. Smear not, my lady, the great accomplishments of your impeccable kings by weaving their illustrious deeds to your husband’s sordid repute, for this is undeserved association.’
In a snatch, Kannagi stood up but before she could utter her outrage, the Pandyan King raised his sceptre and said,
‘Thank you, esteemed prime minister, and please settle back, for you have apprised us of the full circumstances of this woman’s complaint.’ King Nedun-Cheliyan turned to Kannagi and said,
‘My good lady, it matters not to us the character of the person wronged but only whether he has suffered any injustice at our hands. We took a while to recall, occupied as we were by many matters of state and each clamouring for our first and undivided attention. Yes, your husband forfeited his life by our orders. Why do you say it is a travesty of justice? Please, speak your evidence without further ado as we sense our court grows impatient with the boiled seeds spilled here this day, for these promise no sprouting roots, let alone a bountiful harvest.’
‘Do you agree then, Nedun-Cheliya, that you are the accused?’
Upon hearing her disrespectful address, a murmur rippled through the length and breadth of the royal court. The king raised his hand to subdue the discontent.
‘Yes, we concede that you accuse us.’
‘Do you then submit to questions as an accused?’
‘We do so submit, yes.’
‘Did you or did you not pass a verdict of guilt and a judgement to have my husband, Kovalan of Puhar, beheaded?’
‘Yes, we so did.’
‘And what was the charge?’
‘We charged him and found him guilty of stealing Queen Kopperun-Devi’s anklet. And we shall save you further time, eager as your voice betrays to uncover the truth. We apprehended your husband, trying to raise money with the queen’s anklet, an identical twin to the second and there are only two of the kind ever fashioned.’
‘How would you know there were only two of the kind?’
‘Our former royal jeweller and peerless artisan, Guru Nallathamby, known throughout Tamilakam and the Aryan lands even, made the queen’s pair. As fate would have it, thereafter the guru left us and denied posterity the secret of his skills. Dear lady, there were only two of the uniques.’
‘If my ankle ring was identical to your queen’s, then I declare there were not two pieces but two pairs made, one of which belongs on my feet.’
‘That’s impossible, good lady, for the guru made only one pair. And he destroyed the mould by royal orders. Our orders. What you hold is at best a worthy imitation. But an imitation and no more.’
‘Were you there, Nedun-Cheliya, when this great Guru Nallathamby of yours broke the mould?’
‘No, but—.’
‘Was anyone else present, anyone now here present? How about you, Sagasana, were you present when the mould shattered?’
‘Is that your defence of your husband’s innocence?’ asked the king. ‘And you so readily cast aspersions on a man who left this world before his natural time, a man of impeccable dedication to the furtherance of the sciences of gemmology and metallurgy, and long service to Pandyan craftsmanship. We have been generous and indulged you long enough, good lady. Now, speak your proof or forever hold your tongue.’
‘Then hear me, Nedun-Cheliya, contained within my anklets are rubies, cut and polished from the finest and by the best.’
The king laughed and said, ‘Oh my dear lady, if that is your evidence it’s a matter easily resolved. The queen’s ankle rings contain flawless pearls; selected and perfected by Mother Nature herself. Hers are not gems mutilated by the hand of a mere man no matter what his mastery of skills.’
‘Then prove it and here is my proof!’
Kannagi smashed her ankle ring on the polished green granite floor. The ornament shattered and out flew rubies, blood red and angry.
Queen Kopperun-Devi, anxious, hesitated and said, ‘Please, my king, don’t, for I fear trickery. See how the woman heaves, her eyes so wild and portent of black magic.’
Though I stood far, I read the queen’s lips and heard the words in my mind.
‘The dice rolls, Maha Devi, and will soon reveal the truth,’ replied the king with a gentle smile. ‘Protest not, for how else should we meet this challenge? And who else but for your husband to enjoy the privilege of touching your feet.’
The king knelt and twisted and removed an ankle ring. ‘Fret not, my Devi,’ he said in a sof
t voice unheard by all but the queen, and those who read lips. ‘I’ll gift a new pair even more exquisite than these.’
Rising to his full impressive height, the king raised his hand above his bejewelled turban and threw the ankle ring down.
It smashed against the floor and cracked open, spilling white pearls that bounced and raced to the feet of the seated. The nobles cringed and curled their slippered toes, lest their touch soiled the royal jewels.
‘There! Pearls!’ The king declared in a triumphant voice. ‘You have your proof.’
‘The truth hides in the second, Nedun-Cheliya,’ replied Kannagi.
‘Redeem our honour, my king,’ said the queen who had already removed the second anklet, ‘and reinforce our justice.’
‘As you command, Maha Devi,’ said the king, with a bow. He took the anklet and, holding it up, addressed the assembly.
‘Great people of our storied Pandyan nation, behold the truth!’
He threw with force and the anklet flew hard into the ground. As did its twin, the gold ornament cracked and released a shower of—rubies!
After a stunned silence, the king gasped, ‘Rubies.’
‘Yes, rubies, bearer of the bent royal sceptre, bright blood rubies screaming my honour and lamenting my husband’s innocence!’
The king, clutching his chest, sank into his throne chair. A great clamour erupted from the assembly. Voices rose, arguments broke out. The queen’s crying voice drowned in the noise. The royal physician stood up and called for this and that. People shouted.
Seeing the retainers rush forward, I rallied my men to the king and formed a ring of shields around the royal dais.
‘Stand back! Give the king air! Stand back,’ I shouted.
The floor shook, and a tremor rolled under our feet. People screamed. Several swayed, as if debauched by demon drinks, and fell. But my men and I held firm.
‘Stand fast! Protect the king. The king!’ My voice rose above the clamour.
Another rumble and a third tremor, more powerful and pronounced than the earlier two, shook the auditorium. More screams erupted as panic spread among the people.
I allowed only the prime minister, the royal physician, and trusted retainers to attend to the king and queen.
From the deep corridors a loud cracking sound erupted, followed by shouts and cries of alarm. The floor rocked, and again my command rang out.
‘Hold fast, men. Rally to me.’
Throughout the commotion, Kannagi’s voice shrilled.
‘Do you wish to cling to your pathetic life, you pitiless excuse for a king? Do you hope to prolong your failed life until food tastes bland, eyes grow foggy, and ears hear no melody, and your manhood sags in shame unable to impregnate your wives and concubines? Do you hope to grow infirm and fall from the heaviness of age? Should you not pluck out your evil heart in payment for the gross injustice vested on my poor husband?’
With shaking hands, the king pushed himself to his feet, his bearing weak and incapacitated. He cast aside his turban of pearls and precious stones. Grabbing his chest, pulling his silk linens tight, he called in a weak voice. The ground shook and, as a man seized by falling sickness, the king wavered on his feet. A shout rang out.
‘The roof! The roof!’
Large pieces of stucco broke and fell, and strings of dust descended as if the roof leaked a sand storm.
‘You have not shamed me, good lady.’ The king shouted but his voice was feeble. ‘You cannot shame me, for I have purchased the shame by my own words and deeds.’
‘And yet you continue to draw breath!’ Kannagi, now a madwoman, screamed.
‘Then see me fall and consider my debt settled.’
‘The king! The king!’ Went up a shout.
The king collapsed and rolled down the steps. His attendants hurried down the steps after him. The king’s arm fell out-stretched, and his mouth gaped wide open in death. Seeing this, the queen screamed and she too collapsed. With great shouts of alarm, the prime minister and servants milled around the royal couple.
‘The king has died!’ Rang out a shout. ‘The king has died!’
‘The queen has fainted!’
The crowd converged but as pieces of plaster fell, they pushed back. Others shoved forward. Shouts and loud protests erupted as the melded body of people surged and receded.
A loud explosive crack echoed, and the stunned people screamed in terror. More commands rang out and attendants tried to guide the mad-stricken people out the corridors and doors. Another frightening sound erupted and the ground separated in a long jagged crack. More screams and shouts. People fell and others, desperate to escape, stepped on bony limbs and wobbly bodies.
Kannagi, as if a woman possessed with warrior traits, leaped on a plinth and grasped a burning torch. Waving it from side to side, she laughed. Her agility and small crouched frame, swaddled in black, personified a jinn from the netherworld.
Sensing her intent, I broke free from the cordon and closed on Kannagi. But she eluded my grasping hands, proving herself more agile than I had given her credit.
‘Stand back!’ she screamed and held the torch close to the curtains.
I hesitated. All around me people scrambled and ran, toppling over chairs and stepping on fallen debris.
‘The torch, Lady Kannagi, hand me the torch,’ I said.
I threw a quick glance at my soldiers. One man tossed a spear. I caught it and swung back, at the ready.
‘Stand back, sir Captain,’ said Kannagi.
‘Hand me the torch, my lady, or I’ll spear you.’
‘Slay me then, for you, a Pandyan, already murdered my husband and this will complete the reason for your bloody birth from a screaming mother.’
I did not intend to kill but only to disable, a pierce to the foot or hand. But again, Kannagi was swift, or perhaps it was hesitation on my part that rendered her the advantage. She torched the billowing curtains and the flames caught, raced up, and spread.
Another tremor rattled the ground and, with a loud crack, a second jagged split appeared and raced across the polished floor, throwing up explosive bursts of gravel and spits of sand.
Kannagi, fascinated by the earth cracking a few paces from her feet, stared with wide-open eyes.
Just as a shower of stones fell, I rushed forward and pushed her away, but a stone, about the size of a fist, hit me.
Like a sack, I dropped. If not for my turban, I might have died. My vision blurred, and all around me things moved leisurely, as if time had slowed his run to a stroll. It was many moments before I recovered a measure of faculties and felt warm blood streak down my face.
‘Captain, Captain!’ A soldier cried. ‘Look, the ceiling is in danger of collapsing, sir, we must leave!’
I was still recovering from the blow, and through grit encased eyes watched the terrible scene playing out.
‘Sir, sir!’ said the soldier. But the man’s voice might as well have been a distant dream.
A brisk breeze fed the flames and ignited a firestorm. People, their hair and clothes on fire, screamed and scrammed. Others raised their hands against the now constant rain of larger and larger pieces of plaster popping off the ceiling and walls. Thus distracted, they stumbled and fell. Bloodied and dust-covered men picked themselves up only to collapse under falling debris.
A round man with wobbling flesh, Thiru Pillay, evaded my gaze and hurried away, only to run right under a toppling plinth. His scream died as the stone crashed down and his stomach exploded in a burst of bloody red entrails.
Pushing and wriggling past the people rushing out, Kannagi stood mesmerised by the fierce inferno. Another tremor split the floor and the granite tiles popped one after another in quick succession.
A loud groan and a massive pillar dislodged from its anchor and leaned forward, a shower of debris heralding its impending collapse. My men, the fallen queen, and the prime minister, and the tight crowd of courtiers cowering under the shields were in danger.
‘Sav
e yourselves men. Move out everyone,’ I shouted. But it was too late.
The boulders rained down and my men died under the deluge, holding up their shields till the end. Explosive bursts of gravel and grit shot past, and I held up an arm to shield my face.
Something dull hit my chest, fell at my feet and bounced away and rocked to a stop. It was a turbaned head, separated from its torso. I recognised the sad but serene face of Prime Minister Shree Sagasana.
‘Captain!’ screamed Kannagi.
In an instant I jumped back and locked eyes with her. A shock of stones smashed the spot I had occupied a moment earlier. The stinging dust burst and engulfed me, and I lost sight of Kannagi.
24: The Little Sister Deified
THE CAPTAIN DISAPPEARED in the searing dust, and the massive pillar, its girth wider than the oldest tree, crushed the royal dais and all the people gathered under the soldiers’ shields. A great ball of fiery dust and smoke boiled and raced towards me.
I covered my face and, after some time, when I looked, the impressive auditorium did not shimmer in gold dust but suffocated in thick opaque soot; curtains did not wave in the breeze but tongues of angry flames licked and revelled in their death dance; and voices did not shout in anger but screamed in fear and terror. The heat grew intense and the oil in my dishevelled hair smoked.
A sharp burst, similar to the sound of a pregnant water skin exploding, filled the air, followed by tinkling and splintering sounds. A shower of glass shards came crashing down. I drew a sharp breath and looked down, engrossed by the raw wound gouged into my chest. A wedge of glass had sliced off my left breast.
The waves of pulsing pain punched out my breath and in a mindless panic I dashed out the splintered door.
‘Kannagi! Kannagi! The witch comes.’
