CHAPTER 4

SIVAKAMI'S BIRTHDAY

Ah. How long it’s been since we last saw Sivakami! Surely it’s Maamallar who has been confined within the suffocating walls of Kanchi, and not us? There can be no objection, then, to us venturing outside the gates of the city. We shall pay a visit, then, to Aayanar’s beautiful house of sculpture, nestling within the folds of the adjacent forest.

The difference in the great sculptor’s home, as opposed to the appearance it presented eight months ago, is astonishing. The place is no longer bustling with activity, and the incessant ‘kal, kal’ sound, signalling sculpting work going on, is missing. None of Aayanar’s students are to be seen, chiselling away industriously at boulders, under the trees framing the house.

The very trees themselves present a pitiable appearance. Eight months ago, when we first stepped into the vicinity of the house, spring had spread its sweetness in the surrounding forest, and mango trees sported fragrant clusters of flowers and little shoots, while arasu and aal trees put out glistening, golden little leaves, heralding the arrival of a new season. Now, however, leaves of a dark, gloomy black and green colour cover some of the branches, while dry and brittle leaves cling uncomfortably to the rest of the limbs, awaiting their time to join the untidy clusters on the ground. The forest floor is dotted with small, murky pools of water, gloomy remainders of the rainy season.

A chill wind rustles through the forest, causing leaves laden with the previous night’s rain to tremble noisily, throwing droplets of water onto the ground. It was as though the trees themselves were weeping over the sorry state of affairs now reigning. The songs of the birds are perhaps the only thing that have not changed with the change in seasons—lilting tunes and notes ripple through the branches all around the house, but even these beautiful songs seem, somehow, lifeless and empty. The enthusiasm and brightness that had characterized those tunes were absent—indeed, the songs seemed to reflect the sadness pervading the surroundings, bemoaning the happy, carefree days long gone.

As we approach the house, two people come into our line of vision, sitting under a tree, working—one of them, is indeed, Aayanar himself. But where’s the gentleness and deep calm that filled the sculptor’s eyes when we last met him? What could be the reason for this ferocious energy ripping through his features? What are he and his companion doing? They seem to be crushing leaves and squeezing the juice into containers…a stove burns near them, and a pot containing the juice of various leaves is bubbling on it. More pots are scattered around the two men, containing varying colours…ah, it now appears, on closer inspection, that Aayanar is engaged in concocting colours and pigments, used for drawing and painting.

Orders from the Emperor Mahendra Pallavar, fighting his battles on the war-front, reached the sculptors working in Maamallapuram, asking them to stop their work at once, and with this change in plans, Aayanar returned at once to his forest dwelling, accompanied by his beloved daughter. He despatched his students to all the corners of the Pallava Empire, bidding them build Bharatha mandapams in all the temples…all but one of them, whom he retained for his own purposes.

For quite some time now, Aayanar had removed his thoughts from sculpture, carvings and classical dance—they seemed now, to centre almost exclusively on the return of Paranjyothi from his sojourn to Nagarjuna Malai.

Soon, however, news of a very different kind reached him—news about Paranjyothi and his activities, that perplexed him very much indeed. Scraps of information, floating around the city and the surrounding countryside, soon came to his ears—rumours that the young man had joined the Pallava army, was now the commander of the Pallava cavalry, and was producing unimagined feats of valour on the battlefield.

Naganandhi Adigal too, it seemed, had put an end to his frequent visits to the forest dwelling. As the days flew by, Aayanar’s thirst to learn the secret of the paintings of Ajantha—of the pigments that would never fade with age—grew into an unquenchable, roaring fire of longing. He bundled his sculptures and efforts at carving into oblivion, and concentrated on mixing, straining, and producing colours, pigments and paints, intent on hitting upon the combination by some method or the other. Such was his drive and intensity that he lost interest in Sivakami’s dance rehearsals as well—which, in a way, was extremely convenient to his daughter.

Sivakami, these days, rarely had time to bestow on everyday, common-place activities—all her hours were spent in passionate, intense devotion to the lord of her soul, he who had risen like a resplendent sun in the sky of her life and brightened every minute of it, he who had unfurled the soft, sensitive petals of the lotus that was her heart, and made a shrine for himself there—she spared no thought on anything, or anybody else.

She felt, with a passionate, almost painful intensity, that she had received a bounty from nature—the love that she carried in her heart was a precious gift from the gods. No one on this earth before had ever received it, and no one would, in the future. It was her duty, therefore, to spend hours indulging in fantasies about her lord, and the life she would spend with him, and she derived immense delight from these thoughts. Oh, such memories, so many stolen minutes of love and longing! One moment, these fantasies raised her to unimaginable heights of ecstasy, in the next they plunged her into the crashing abyss of despair…one minute, she spent cosy hours in conversation with her beloved—the next second, she quarrelled violently with him, plunging her to the depths of sadness and remorse. It seemed to her that in these eight months—eight long, fantasy-filled months, she had experienced more pain filled with an exquisite delight, and more happiness laced with almost unbearable pain, than anyone else ever could, in aeons.

Be that as it may…we shall soon meet Sivakami—she must certainly be inside the house, alone, in all probability. We may as well step in, and find out her state for ourselves.

We approach the house…and we stop in confusion, for we can hear, quite distinctly, the sound of voices floating through the doorway. Here we are, eager to spend a few minutes with Sivakami, pleasantly discussing events bygone, hoping to find her relaxed and at ease…but who is this, speaking to her? Her deaf aunt, perhaps? No, that couldn’t be. Those are the voices of men—two or three at a time too. Who could they possibly be?

Perhaps it would do well if we waited awhile. We may as well stop beside the doorway, eavesdrop on the conversation for a moment and learn the true state of affairs, before barging in on Sivakami and her visitors.

The voice of a man floated out from the house. “My lady, why’re you angry with us? We were merely carrying out the orders of the Crown Prince…” the voice trailed away.

“Your Crown Prince and his orders….! I don’t care a mite about them,” came back the angry reply in Sivakami’s stern voice. “Maamallar has nothing better to do today, I suppose, and he thought he would notice the poor sculptor’s daughter just this once, did he? Hmm…what does that ivory box contain? Open it!”

“My Lady, this box contains the most expensive pearl necklaces ever found in the Empire—they were brought from the Korkai harbour, in the famed Pandya Kingdom. Nowhere will you find pearls of such beauty…not even the Empress of Harshavardhanar, Emperor of Kanyakupjam* possesses such necklaces. See how they gleam in the light, madam…” began one servant.

“Enough!” Sivakami snapped. “Who cares for these measly pearls? Go to your Crown Prince, and tell him this: there’s a huge punnai tree beside the lotus pond behind the house of Aayanar; if he ever cares to visit the place some morning, he’ll find the ground below the tree littered with so many pearls that they will make one gasp with pleasure. Tell him; tell him that his puny Korkai pearls could never, ever match the pearls of the punnai tree in brilliance or beauty! You’d better tell him to visit the tree on a morning…what’s in that gold box over there?”

“Madam, these golden boxes contain corals; corals that were buried under the sea by the Goddess of beauty—they were discovered by our powerful divers, and snatched away from the grasp of the scheming King of the seas…Emperors of this world would give anything to wear these corals, decorating their crowns; our Prince thought they were only fitting for the Queen of classical dance, who is famed throughout the Bharatha Desam, and so he sent them to you…”

“Of all the idiotic…! These corals may seem very beautiful to your beloved Crown Prince, but you’d better tell him that they’re no equal to the corals nestling inside the mouths of the parrots raised as the pets of Aayanar’s daughter, in her home. You’d better tell him to come and take a look for himself, if he isn’t satisfied with my claims…and what do those baskets contain?”

“Flowers from the royal gardens, my lady; fragrant blossoms of shanbaga, jasmine, and pichi, brought for your—”

“Oh, enough! Take them away; remove them from my sight at once! Tell your Crown Prince; tell him that Sivakami used to be passionately fond of flowers once, but that she’s lost all interest in them lately…wait a minute. Why did your beloved Prince send these treasures to my home?”

“He sent them as gifts madam, for today is your birthday.”

“Indeed? Oh my, how perfectly obliging of him. I’m gratified that he’s bothered to remember the birthday of a poor, lonely little sculptor’s daughter—but I’m sure there’s a mistake somewhere. Today isn’t Sivakami’s birthday. Tell him that he’s mistaken—Sivakami wasn’t born today—Sivakami was never born in this world, at all!”

Why, what a surprise…! Surely we saw Aayanar just now, outside the house, under a tree, mixing potions? But here’s his voice coming from inside his home, gentle as ever: “Sivakami, my dear girl…why’re you so angry? Why’re you haranguing these men? The Crown Prince has actually remembered your birthday and sent these treasures as gifts—”

“Oh, do be quiet, appa. The honourable Crown prince isn’t quite as innocent as you would have me believe. If he thinks he can dazzle me with these pearls, flowers and corals…oh, I’ll never trust him, never! You men…I believe I told you to take these gifts away? Well, why do you stay here? Take these, and get out. Leave, do you hear me?”

“Yes, madam. At once madam!” came the harried voices.

And we wait outside patiently, for the trembling servants to come out, bearing their refused treasures. But no one does. What kind of a mystery is this? Voices issue from the house, but there’re no other sounds; no footfalls, no movement. What could this possibly mean? Well, we may as well go in and find out the truth.

Oh, is there to be no end to our bewilderment? There’s no one inside the little house but Sivakami, who’s seated all alone in the huge stone throne designed by Aayanar for the Emperor. But then…who was she talking to, all this while?

Ah, the mystery is unravelled; it is Sivakami who is speaking, and she’s talking to herself.

“Men, come here at once!” She speaks to the servants, but of course, there’s no one there at all. However, she continues speaking as though there were men in front of her. “You’d better give this message to your Crown Prince from me: ‘The day the Crown Prince comes to Aayanar’s home, to visit Sivakami, is her true birthday.’ Tell him that, will you?”

Having said this, she remained silent for a few moments. When she spoke next, her voice was considerably different—the masculine voice of the servant who had spoken before. “Pardon me, my lady, but the Crown Prince gave us a message too along with his gifts—he said that he would come to your home, in his golden chariot, and visit you.”

Sivakami jumped up, beaming with pleasure, and spoke in her own voice. “Oh, is that true? Did Maamallar say that he was coming…Oh, then it really is my birthday today! Appa, did you hear that? Today’s your daughter’s birthday—please stop concocting those pigments just this once…why, that’s the sound of a chariot approaching!”

Indeed, the sound of chariot wheels rolling over the road reached her ears at the moment, and Sivakami bounded towards the front door, intense eagerness flooding her heart. Yes, it was Kumara Chakravarthy’s chariot, and there was Kannabiraan, driving it smartly…but someone else seemed to be seated within. Oh, how disappointing…! Whoever it was, it certainly wasn’t Maamallar…

Sivakami stood inside the doorway, clutching the post, like a beautiful statue turned to stone.


Glossary:

*Kanyakupjam: The general term denoting Emperor Harshavardhana's Empre, in North India.