Tiger Hills

by Sarita Mandanna

  It was customary for the Coorgs to send at least two members of every household to welcome the Goddess. They trekked to Tala Kaveri from every corner of the land, alongside scores of devotees from as far as Mysore, Canara, and Kerala. Young and old, the healthy and the infirm, rich men being carted fatly along by bullocks and horses, beggars hunched over their bowls, bald priests and shaven-headed Brahmin widows, all united briefly in their quest to witness the miracle of Kaveri’s rebirth and to seek her blessings.

  Being a practical-minded race, the Coorgs had long realized the other potential of the festival—that of a vast and convenient meeting ground for the marriageable to see and be seen. The festival was full of anxious mothers chaperoning their nubile young daughters. Knots of flower-plaited girls glanced from under lowered eyelashes at the scores of young bachelors cockily strutting through the temple grounds. Many a marriage had been speedily arranged from a meeting at the festival, and Devi had realized full well just why Tayi wanted her to go. If her knotty, arthritic legs had permitted, Tayi might have dragged Devi there herself.

  “Will you come, kunyi?” Thimmaya had asked last week.

  “No,” Devi had replied simply.

  Tayi looked daggers at her son. “Maybe you should,” he pressed Devi. “I have to find you a good husband soon, and so many boys come to the festival … ”

  Devi pouted prettily. “Are you in such a hurry to see me leave then, Appaiah?”

  “No, of course not, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Thimmaya said, glancing helplessly at his exasperated mother.

  Devi turned pensive as she hauled the pickle onto the ledge of the verandah. Even her father was growing impatient with her, she could tell. How long would she be permitted to turn down the proposals? Calling out to Tukra, she made her way around the side of the house to the chicken coop.

  She sighed as she bent over the squawking chickens. “Cheh, Tukra. This string is nowhere near tight enough. Do you want the chickens to flap free halfway through the forest? Are you in such a hurry to get to the shanty today?”

  The Poleya blushed under his dark skin in spite of himself, sheepishly rubbing one foot against the other. “Why?” Devi narrowed her eyes as she expertly retied the strings. “Ayy, Tukra. So I was correct, wasn’t I? You are up to something! What are you rushing to the shanty for? Is someone waiting for you there, eyes upon the road?”

  The hapless Tukra blushed even more violently. “That … I … she … nobody, Devi akka,” he stammered.

  “So!” Devi exclaimed triumphantly. “Who is she? Come on, you had better tell me before I tell everyone.”

  “Aiyo! Devi akka, please! That … she … I … we … the sardine seller,” he confessed. “We … we have arranged to meet there today.”

  “Romance, and right under my brother’s nose! Shall I let him know what you will be up to at the shanty while his back is turned?”

  “Aiyo!” squeaked the alarmed Tukra, and Devi relented.

  “Don’t be such a mouse—I will say nothing,” she said, laughing. “Here, the chickens are trussed tightly, now hold them still.” Smiling, she plucked a single feather from each of the birds. “All done. And there—I can hear him calling for you.”

  Indeed, Chengappa was shouting from the verandah. Tukra! Ayy, accursed Tukra! Where was he, did he plan on reaching the shanty after the shops were shut? Were the chickens going to take themselves to be sold? And who was going to carry the basket of bananas? Tukra scampered around to the front of the house, chickens slung from both arms, their wings flapping in alarm until it seemed like Tukra had sprouted feathers and might rise into the air himself, fluttering and squawking all the way to the market.

  Devi broke into peals of laughter as she watched him fly. And then she stopped abruptly. Even the Poleya had found love, it seemed, in a place as mundane as the local shanty. Meanwhile, she had waited and waited, but Machaiah remained stubbornly absent.

  She had spotted him at a wedding once, in the distance. “Look, isn’t that Kambeymada Machaiah, the tiger killer?” she had whispered excitedly to her friend.

  “Who? Where? Hmm … you might be right.”

  “Of course I’m right—look, can’t you see his galla meesé? Only a tiger killer is allowed to sport a handlebar mustache and those sideburns.”

  “Yes … ,” her friend said dubiously, “but—”

  “But nothing. Why are we just sitting here? Come, let’s walk around and see just who is here,” Devi had suggested brightly, ignoring the suspicious expression on her friend’s face. She had dragged her across the gathering, but by the time they got to the other end of the crowd, Machaiah was gone.

  “Devi … leave him be,” her friend had said. “No, don’t look at me with those big-big eyes; I know what you are up to. Machaiah is out of your reach. Haven’t you heard he is a devotee of Ayappa Swami, God of the hunt?”

  Devi nodded, still anxiously scanning the crowd. “What of it? They say Ayappa Swami himself came down from the heavens the day of the tiger hunt, to reward his devotee. They say it must have been Him by Machaiah’s side, that it was He who guided Machaiah’s odikathi, that there is no other way a man could fell a tiger with only a sword. I have heard all of it. So what?”

  “So,” her friend admonished, pinching Devi’s arm, “you know that they say more than that. Do you know how many marriage proposals he has turned down? They say that like his celibate God, Machaiah is simply not interested in getting married.”

  “Huh,” scoffed Devi, “maybe it is only because he has yet to see a beauty like me.” She crossed her eyes into a squint and gawped at her friend until they both collapsed giggling.

  That had been such a long time ago, Devi brooded now. To her bad luck, she had not seen him since. She let the feathers she had plucked drift slowly from her fingers onto the rickety wooden floor of the coop. “Swami kapad,” she prayed absently as they floated down. “Lord, bless us.” A feather from every bird that left the coop, each feather a surety to the Gods, Tayi had taught her, so that no matter how many hens were sold, still more would come to take their place …

  Her friend from that wedding had got married herself, almost two years ago now. Her groom had in fact first asked for Devi’s hand. After she had spurned him, his marriage proposal rebounded to her friend, who had accepted at once. Devi had felt awkward when she had gone to help fill the trousseau boxes. “Oh, don’t be,” her friend had assured her. “Of course he would have asked for you first, who wouldn’t?” She smiled. “I should thank you, I suppose, for turning him down.” Devi bit her lip and said nothing as they stacked piles of brass pots inside the muslin-lined trunk. “You are getting yourself quite a reputation, you know,” her friend continued sweetly. “Keep turning everyone down like this, and soon very few will come forward to ask for your hand. No man likes to be rejected, Devi, and if you keep saying no even to the best of them … ” She shook her head.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” Devi had retorted, equally sweetly. “I am not going to agree to the first man who asks for my hand.” The tiniest of pauses. “I don’t need to. For me, there will always be more.”

  She expected too much, her friends told her. What was she holding out for? Devi would spread her hands and laugh, “I will know when I see him,” hugging the memory she held of Machu close to her heart. What could she say to them, anyway? That in her heart she was already bound to someone, had been from the first sight of him? That she was waiting for the tiger killer? How could she even begin to explain to Tayi, to her friends, what this felt like, this certainty that stemmed from the very core of her, the knowledge that she was born to be Machaiah’s alone?

  So many years ago it had been, the tiger wedding. She could no longer remember his face clearly. All that remained were impressions. The rich, river-stone timbre of his voice, the height of him, his eyes crinkled in laughter. So many years. And yet, the conviction of her feelings had remained, steady as a rock.

  It would happen, Devi knew, as surely as she
knew that the next breath would come. Machu would happen.

  He was still not married. All these years, and the tiger killer had remained a bachelor. It secretly gladdened her heart when she heard of the proposals he had spurned. She paid no heed to the rumor that he had undertaken a vow of celibacy, that he simply did not wish to be wed. How could someone so beautiful remain a monk? It was not possible. He was simply waiting for her, she knew. Surely he must have heard of her, the most beautiful girl in the Pallada village? Soon, very soon, he would come, drawn by curiosity. He would spot her and in an instant he would know. “Wait, weren’t you at the tiger wedding?” he would ask. “But how you have grown … ”

  Oh, it was useless. Devi scraped the broom over the henhouse floor with unwarranted violence, sending the birds skittering in alarm. Him and his accursed hunting! If he continued to traipse about the jungles, like some, some … junglee … and never attend any of the weddings and funerals and naming ceremonies and whatnots and wherenots, then how would they ever meet? “And this Devanna,” she thought angrily to herself, shifting the focus of her ire. “He has done nothing to help.” At first she had pestered him with questions about his older kinsman. “Tell me about your cousin Machu,” she had said to him with her most winning smile after the tiger wedding. What did Devanna know about him? When was Devanna going back to visit? Would Machu come here to the Pallada village?

  Flattered by this sudden interest in his family, Devanna had readily shared with her all he knew. At Devi’s instigation, when the servant had come from the Kambeymada home with the monthly stipend from Devanna’s father, he had even sent back a lavishly composed letter for Machu, extolling the virtues of the Pallada village and inviting him to visit.

  Both children had waited eagerly for a reply. When month after month there was nothing, and it became painfully obvious that there would be no response, they had consoled themselves with the thought that maybe Machu was simply too busy to reply. He was probably out there, deep in the jungle, hunting down yet more tigers; maybe if they listened hard enough, they might even hear the death cry of the unfortunate tiger echoing through the hills.

  Refusing to give up, Devi had tried another tack. “Why don’t you go back to your father’s home?” she had suggested one day in the middle of a cowrie game. Devanna’s hand had stopped in mid-swing and he looked at her, surprised.

  “What do you mean? Do you want me to leave the village?”

  “Oh no, no, silly fellow,” she had laughed, “why would I want you to leave? What I meant was, it would do you good to visit your father for a while. Maybe you could go back and get to know all your cousins, and then maybe I could come visit … ”

  Devanna had mutinously stuck out his lip and shaken his head, and Devi had lost her patience. “Oh, it’s useless,” she had burst out, throwing subtlety to the wind. “Why ever did Gauru akka and you have to leave the Kambeymada house? You could have been there right now and … and … ”

  She had known even then that she had gone too far. Devanna had swung to his feet, his face shuttered. “If my mother had still been there, Devi, then you and I might never have been friends.” Setting the cowries down upon the grass, he had walked away.

  “Devanna. Devanna! I didn’t mean it. Devanna! Don’t be silly now, come back, let’s at least finish the game … ”

  She had called after him a long while before he had finally turned around. Devi shook her head as she remembered. The things she said to Devanna. And yet he returned, time and again, to be by her side. She shifted the broody hens, feeling their eggs for cracks. How was he doing? she wondered with a rush of fondness, counting the eggs in each of the straw-lined nests. It had been months since she had seen him. Maybe she would ask Tayi if they could send Tukra to the mission tomorrow with some of the lime pickle. Devanna had always loved pickle with his rice—just like a Brahmin, Chengappa used to joke. Cheering up, she gathered the eggs in the folds of her sari and made her way back to the house.

  The next afternoon, Tukra returned with some news from the mission. Yes, Devanna anna was looking well. Yes, Tukra had handed over the pickle and had told him that Devi akka had made it herself. No, there was no letter for her, but Devanna anna had sent her a message. He would not be coming to the village for the October holidays, because he was going to the Kaveri festival this year. His grandfather, Kambeymada Nayak, had decided to donate a copper door to the temple. All of the Kambeymada men were required to accompany the patriarch to Bhagamandala.

  “All?” Devi asked Tukra, her eyes enormous. “Are you sure he said all the Kambeymada men?” Her heart leaped. Dear, dear Devanna. She ran inside to the kitchen. The cow had recently calved, and Tayi was steaming the rich first-milk into creamy, jaggery-laced ginn. Slipping behind her, Devi laced her arms about her grandmother’s waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. “Tayi, do you really want me to go to the festival?”

  Tayi snorted and kept ladling.

  “Tell me, Tayi, because if it is important to you, then I will go.”

  Tayi set down the ladle and twisted around to look at her granddaughter. “Do you mean it, kunyi?” she asked hopefully. “You will go?”

  Devi gazed guilelessly at her grandmother. “Yes, Tayi … if this is what you want, then this is what I must do.”

  Tayi’s eyes welled with tears and she dabbed at them with the edge of her sari. “My darling kunyi. Such a sweet-natured child, is it your fault if only braying asses have come asking for your hand? My flower bud, must you say yes to the first proposal that comes your way? Let it be so, kunyi, let it be so, you go to Tala Kaveri. I know Iguthappa Swami will send someone worthy of you. Here, look after the ginn, let me find your father and tell him.”

  Calling out to Thimmaya, Tayi set forth from the kitchen. Devi bit her lip and looked guiltily at her grandmother’s back. No matter, she consoled herself, Tayi’s prayers would soon be answered. For there was someone waiting for her at the Kaveri festival. Someone whose path would finally cross hers, someone entirely innocent of the upheaval that was soon to befall him.

  Chapter 9

  Devi peered out into the moonless night. The Bhagamandala mountain lay directly ahead, a bulge of deepest black stamped indelibly upon the dark. They had traveled for the past two days, Thimmaya and she, proffering gifts of smoked boar and pickled wild mushrooms in exchange for the hospitality of relatives whose homes lay along the way. Finally, they had arrived at the foothills of the Bhagamandala mountain. She drew the window of her room shut and, willing the slow sludge of minutes to pass, tried yet again to get some sleep. Tomorrow. She turned restlessly on her side. After all these years, he was here, the tiger killer, somewhere upon this very road. If she pressed her ear hard to the ground, she imagined, she might even hear his heartbeat rising above the thud and carry of the day as it gave up its ghosts, feel his breath intermingled with the scuffle and scurry of the night.

  She fell at last into a dazed, disturbed sleep; only minutes later, it seemed, Thimmaya was gently shaking her awake. It was early when they left, still well before sunrise, but despite the little sleep she had had, Devi had never been wider awake. She shifted fretfully in the bullock cart, tracing the crazed patterns that the lantern threw in their wake as it bobbed and swayed from the yoke. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. A few hours more. Glancing at Thimmaya, asleep despite the rocking of the cart, she leaned forward to where Tukra sat as he drove the oxen with encouraging “Hara, har-ra” sounds.

  “Ayy, Tukra,” she whispered, “cannot you make these feeble bulls of yours go any faster? I swear even Tayi could outrun them.”

  “What, Devi akka,” Tukra chortled. “Always making fun of me. They are making very good time and you know it.”

  Devi leaned back against the wall of the cart and sighed.

  Eventually they stopped in a large meadow at the base of the mountain, adjacent to the temple grounds. It was already quite full of oxen carts, a coruscation of lanterns winking across its expanse. Thimmaya clambered dow
n from the cart, extending a hand to Devi. “Come, kunyi,” he urged. “The river.”

  He wouldn’t be here, Devi knew. Machu and the rest of the Kambeymada family would have arrived a lot earlier at the temple for the installation of the doors. Even so, she looked anxiously about her, patting her hair into place as she tried to make out the passersby in the gloom.

  Thimmaya left Devi by the riverbank with the other women devotees and went further upstream to where the men were wading in by the light of their lanterns, lined up on the bank. “Kaveri amma,” Devi whispered. She gathered her hair into a loose knot and, hitching her sari above her knees, stepped into water still dyed black by the night. She gasped at its iciness. Mountain water. Sacred water, she corrected herself, the confluence of the river Kaveri with her two less venerated siblings, the bubbly, effervescent Kannika and the reticent Sujothi, who preferred to flow shyly underground. It was mandatory for every pilgrim to take a dip and salute the three sisters before proceeding any farther up the mountain.

  She waded cautiously in, hands extended in front of her as she felt with her toes for the firmest footholds. Mist hung over the river in great rolling banks, swaying gently from side to side as it was buffeted by the morning breeze. She waded in farther, her breath still harsh and shallow from the cold. The mist draped itself over her, brushing wet, welcoming fingers over her cheeks and arms as it enveloped her in its gauzy cocoon. A slow calm began to unfurl within Devi, spreading gently through her benumbed limbs. She turned dreamily to look at the bank, but it was gone, along with the other bathers, hidden by the swirling mist. She was alone in a silent, magical world. Treading water between the past and what lay ahead, balanced delicately on the cusp of all that had ever been, everything that was yet to come. She extended an arm and watched, entranced, as it disappeared into the gray.