Song of the Ankle Rings
Page 25
Seeing our little sister’s dire state, they accorded her a hut with a clean floor and a foreyard well shaded by trees. The village medicine man worked wonders and with every sunrise, the little sister’s condition improved. I rejoiced and made many sacrificial offerings to the gods.
The little sister preferred to lie outside, with a soft kambali covering the bed. She loved to listen to birdsongs, and dozed off when fatigue overtook her. At other times, she stared at the blue sky. With nightfall, she marvelled at the sky, pin-pricked by stars of white, blue, red and yellow. During such moments, I spied the child in her.
But whatever recovery we noticed or thought we noticed in her, was false—a candle that flamed up before flaming out, for she deteriorated.
‘She’s weakened,’ said the ancient medicine man, himself straddling a foot each in tenuous life and inevitable death. He prodded the flaming logs and teased out red sparks as the embers settled. He said,
‘I’ve no herbs to staunch the ooze of her living juices, for hungrily they seek the freedom of light.’
‘But she is a strong one,’ I spoke in anger. ‘Perhaps your herbs soaked many times and already drained of their vitality, old man. Find fresh ones and I’ll pay you with new hunted meat.’
The Silent One placed a hand on my shoulder. That touch said much, for ill-temper was a companion I did not entertain. Our Kuravar hosts, seated around the fire, kept their silence and continued to devour their meaty dinner. Their smacking lips and munching sounds reminded me of continuing life.
‘The little sister has lost her will to live, Savaali, and in severe self-denial, refusing to even suck air to quench her burning lungs.’ The ancient relic was himself frustrated by his limited powers. He said,
‘She’s ready, Savaali, and it’s you who need to prepare for the inevitable.’
IT WAS DARK YET AND dawn hesitated over the faraway plains below. The village was in slumber, save for the Silent One keeping vigil a few paces away.
Kannagi lay warm under the woollen kambali covers and I hunched beside her.
‘The sky looks kind, brother Savaali. A good day to die.’
Her thoughts were far off, in the vague past where only good dwelled. My little sister spoke in whispers, her words coming slow, and the effort eating what little life remained.
‘Father used to call me gold and diamond,’ she said, ‘and ruby and pearl, and more. I never could guess which he would pull out of his chest. How about you, brother Savaali, did your father have special names for you?’
‘I had several fathers, little sister, yes, and each had a rude name for me.’
‘You are funny, do you know?’
‘I prefer male beauty.’
She tried to laugh and it must have hurt, but she said, ‘Listen, birdsong, trilling and so full of joy.’
Closing her eyes, she relished the tune, her new and only indulgence since we arrived. But it was early yet and there were no birds. Perhaps, she heard things deaf to the rest of us.
‘I never learned music,’ she said. Then, she opened her eyes and spoke fast, as if the last sands were leaking out, emptying the gourd.
‘I like your dance,’ she said with innocent relish, her new energy giving me desperate hope, ‘and perhaps, one day you can teach me your Arakan dance.’ She sighed, and my hope deflated.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ I whispered.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise, little sister,’ I said, and watched as she shut her eyes and dozed off.
Again, with panicked urgency in her tone, she opened her eyes and said, ‘Brother Savaali, will I meet my dear Athan? I miss him so.’ She grasped my necklace of bones and tugged. ‘Will I?’
‘Yes, little sister, you’ll meet your dear Athan.’
‘I am afraid, brother Savaali, that I will not see him again.’
‘But you will, little sister, close your eyes, will it with all your heart and it’ll be so.’
‘Yes, with all my heart, and when I awake, perhaps he will be by my side.’ She sighed and gave me a curious look as if seeing something beyond.
‘Yes, perhaps.’
‘I feel cold, very cold,’ she whispered. ‘Cradle me, brother Savaali, like Father used to, and keep me warm while I sleep.’
With great gentleness and care, I leaned over my little sister and placed an arm, barely touching, across her.
As if startled by a new thought, she opened her eyes. ‘You’re here. Good. Don’t leave me. I’ve been alone for too long.’ Her eyelids drooped, and she mumbled. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I’ll not leave you, little sister. See, you can feel my hand on your cheek.’
Her face, so tiny, snuggled into my large hand and she smiled, as contented as a child going to sleep with the promise of an enjoyable festival come morning. My arm rose and fell with her breaths, and I watched until I looked without seeing.
My arm stopped moving, and my little sister’s face turned cold, the chill not of the air or water. I looked skywards. Then, the trees drew my attention.
Here and there, birdsongs came alive. And I hummed a funeral dirge, one I sang when my mother went to her long sleep.
The journey awaiting the soul was a joyous one. The old ones who knew more than I could ever imagine told me so. If it were joyous why did I feel a great wrenching pain? Perhaps, if I willed it enough, with all my heart, I too would become happy. Perhaps. So, I laughed. I laughed hard and long until I cried. So did the Silent One.
And then the birds burst into full choral flourish and in the east, the first rays of a stunning sun promised a good day. My little sister was right—it was a good day to die.
CHERAN TOWNSFOLK, WHO came across some Kuravars, heard talk of a chaste maiden who, having rendered desolation on the Pandyan, had retired to the western hills, where a big Arakan with gentle hands and a ready laugh had cared for her. There were many stories, often conflicting, regarding the strange couple.
Whatever the realities, the paramount ruler of the western regions, Cheran King Senkuttuvan heard the exaggerated tales of a fierce woman who burned down the Pandyan with her curse and plucked and threw her raw breast to churn the earth in a terrible quake.
Living with a man, even an adopted brother, troubled the sensitivities of the civilised people. They rewrote the story and established the terms of my little sister’s final days. So, the brother became a woman. An Arakan woman. But even that was too wild. In time, she became an ascetic. Female ascetic.
A chaste woman, mourning the death of her husband, embraced one of three prescribed avenues for grieving widows: perish on her husband’s funeral pyre, disfigure her beauty, or suffer penance unto release. Strange and brutal practices of the civilised.
Accordingly, the story took life that my little sister chose the last of the three—she starved to death.
Senkuttuvan elevated Lady Kannagi to a deity of sorts. A statue rose, a poor copy of my little sister, but I was happy for her.
Thus, fate bestowed fame on my little sister, she of the slight frame and deep nature. Her life proved the astrologers right.
For many years, and perhaps even now, wanderers in the windswept western hills sometimes heard, in concert with the birdsong so well-loved by my little sister, the clean tinkling song of ankle rings. Ruby encased in gold.
As for myself, I returned to the fatty folds of my jolly woman and proposed marriage. She demurred, but I persisted and won her over with my charms. The great hunks of fresh meat I laid at her doorstep helped too.
We washed our feet in milk and, as prescribed by ancient custom, flung blood-soaked rice balls at all four corners to appease the gods—and the demons. It was difficult to tell them apart.
The fat one, with round hips and papaya breasts, already had five children, boys and girls. I believe one or two of the litter was of my seed. It mattered not, for this was the way of love at first sight, pre-nuptial marriage, as practised in the kurinji realms. It also mattered not that other hands had fondled the fru
it, for it tasted no less sweet.
The townspeople, who bought fruits in the marketplace, confronted this truth daily but it continued to elude them. And their women—mothers, sisters, lovers, wives, and daughters—carried a stifling burden.
But my kind, the Arakans of the kurinji hills, were a dying race. So said the wise ones—people such as my father, Eraivan, who would be god. Perhaps the townspeople knew better the art of survival. Perhaps. But these matters were beyond my simple mind.
And so, I married and lived a happy life with my bastard children and fat wife. Wives! She was enough to make two.
‘Hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah!’
END
About the Author
AT AGE 16, ERIC ALAGAN grabbed an entry level job in the aviation industry where he learned the intricacies of cleaning toilets and making lousy coffee for mechanics. He was the youngest labourer in Singapore’s fledgling aviation industry, and also the best looking. The former was a fact, and the latter was a hope. In time, he graduated to fixing airplanes and engines.
Twenty years later, he slipped into the corporate suites but kept his tool box behind his desk. It was a conversation piece—grease monkey made good. But his secret—the tool box kept him rooted. After swimming with sharks for a further twenty plus years, he retired to pursue his passion—writing.
Eric has published fiction and non-fiction books.
Married with three adult children, Eric considers himself fortunate—the children take after his wife. His hobbies include road cycling, philately, and reading books. His wife continues to love him. Like Creation, her love remains a mystery for him.
He retains his tool box—true. Continues to brew lousy coffee—also true. He is getting balder by the day because his wife loves him. Yes, go figure. Or pose your question in the reviews and he’ll reveal the secret surrounding his thinning hair.
Books by Eric Alagan
Non-Fiction
Human Capital Growth Model: Build Best in Class Teams
Performance Appraisal: A Scorecard Model
Fiction
Vel Pari: The Tamilakam War
Puli Thevar: Indian Freedom Fighter
Eric’s next novel is based on Puli Thevar’s fight against the English East India Company.
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