CHAPTER 21

IN SEARCH OF A STEED…

Sivakami’s aunt stepped into the bullock-cart; the others fell behind, walking a scant distance away from said cart. Gundodharan accompanied them, trailing along, as he held his horse’s bridle in his hands.

“Appa, how did Gundodharan come by his steed? Ask him, will you?” was Sivakami’s whispered query.

“My child, I wasn’t even aware of Gundodharan’s mastery over these animals,” was Aayanar’s still bewildered answer. He turned to his erstwhile student. “Gundodhara, when and where did you learn the intricacies of horse-riding, my boy?”

“Revered master, saffron-clothed bikshus, who’ve supposedly renounced the world, are masters of horse-riding these days—this horse of mine was the property of one such. I dumped the young bikshu into the lake, and took his horse for myself,” Gundodharan chuckled at his accomplishment.

Well aware of Naganandhi’s rising anger at Gundodharan’s seemingly innocent remarks, Aayanar plunged into conversation. “Gundodhara, this behaviour is unbefitting of one who calls himself my student—how could you even consider such a means of acquiring a horse, boy?”

“Gundodharan wouldn’t have stooped to such behaviour, appa,” spoke up Sivakami. “I’m sure he’s weaving a fantastic story for our gratification.”

“Oh no, my lady,” Gundodharan intercepted with enthusiasm. “Upon my honour, I swear that I overthrew a young bikshu into a lake barely two kaathams from here—surely you passed it on your way?—I daresay he’s still floundering in the waters,” chortled the student.

“Aayanar, my friend,” Naganandhi turned to the sculptor, speaking in a voice that plainly indicated his agitation. “Do please ask him about his…adventures, as he styles them, will you?”

Aayanar having obeyed the bikshu’s instructions and exhorted his student to give a detailed account of his adventures, Gundodharan proceeded to do so:

“Well, my master, there I was, lounging under that tree beside our home, thinking about what I’d done to make you abandon me…and then I heard a number of horses clattering up the pathway—so I concealed myself behind the tree to find out who was making such a grand arrival. Within a few minutes, of course, every one of the visitors had galloped away, and I was left wondering about their horses, thinking that if I had even one, then I could ride and catch up with you. I was worrying about how I could accomplish this…when what do you think happened? A young bikshu walked out behind another tree, and asked if I’d seen Naganandhi thereabouts. I remembered that I’d seen him on the banks of the lotus pond—so of course, I told him what I knew. The young bikshu stood thinking for a while, and then walked away. ‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘Now I’ve a companion to relieve the tedium on my journey,’ …and so I followed his footsteps too. But that bikshu pulled a fast one on me…he walked to a tree some distance away, untied the horse that was tethered to its trunk, leapt on it, and rode away! And he didn’t give me as much as a ‘farewell’ greeting, on parting, either.” Here, Gundodharan shook his head mournfully. “Ah, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from all this, it’s the fact that Buddhist bikshus—present company excepted, of course—are not to be trusted in anyway, at all,” finished that young man.

“Gundodhara, be mindful of your words—it isn’t our place to speak so about Buddha bikshus who’re so much more learned than us,” admonished Aayanar. “And continue—what did you do, then?”

“Do, my master?” Gundodharan raised an eye-brow. “What could I possibly do, after what happened? I was sorrowful about the lack of a horse, for a while, but then, I perked up. ‘I’ve been blessed with two strong legs by the good God above, so I shall use them.” That’s what I thought, and I set off of my journey. I walked and walked for two whole days, and this morning, I was seated beside the lake, taking a bit of a rest, if you please…when who should come upon me, but our manner-less young bikshu astride his magnificent horse? I asked him about his remarkable lack of speed at once. “I said, ‘Good sir, you set off before me…and yet here you are, arriving after me—how is this possible?’…and he was astonished to see me, too. ‘Travelling on horse-back isn’t the best way to get about, young man,’ he said. ‘What with the Pallava Empire gone to the dogs, and the war having turned everything for the worse—did you know that soldiers are confiscating every horse in sight? I’ve been slinking around the roads, trying to get by without being seen,’ he said. For a while, the bikshu and I travelled together; he on his horse, and I walking beside him. The bikshu appeared to be very thirsty—he kept murmuring that he wanted water, every few minutes. I understood his plight of course, and was very sorry for him—thirst is a horrible thing to suffer, after all. And so I told him, ‘My dear sir, if you’re so very thirsty, then perhaps you should help yourself to a drink!’—and then I pushed him off the horse…and he landed into the lake with the loudest splash I’ve ever heard!” Gundodharan paused, eyes shining. “Oh, it was a sweet sight, to watch him quench his thirst, wallowing in all that water…”

Sivakami let an amused gurgle escape her at this remarkable statement—a reaction which ended abruptly, as Aayanar directed a glare at her. “My child, there’s nothing to laugh about at a recital such as this,” he snapped, and turned to Gundodharan. “You little idiot, do you actually mean to say—what did you do, next?” He spluttered.

“Master,” Gundodharan turned doleful eyes on Aayanar. “Surely you don’t think it a crime to try and quench a bikshu’s thirst?”

“Tell me what you did!” Thundered Aayanar.

“What did I do?” echoed Gundodharan. “When I found that the young bikshu hadn’t an inkling about how to even stay afloat, I pulled out his outer robe that had been lying on the bank, tied up one end to the trunk of a tree, and threw the other to him. I yelled out, ‘Young sir, here’s your means of salvation—use it, if you can, to climb out of the lake!’…and then I began to walk off…when he began to yell at me. ‘The olai! Good God above, the olai!” he shrieked, and so I turned around and asked. ‘What olai? What’re you talking about?’ ‘The olai that’s to be delivered to Naganandhi…it’s on the bank, over there!’ he shrieked again. What with bikshus screaming themselves hoarse…” Gundodharan shook his head, and then continued. “I walked up the bank, found the olai, and held it up, so he could see I had it. ‘Don’t worry about your palm-leaf, its safe enough, here,’ I said…and then I tucked it into my waistband, climbed onto his horse, and rode all the way here,” finished Gundodharan, with a self-satisfied air.

“Aayanar,” Naganandhi’s voice trembled with a cold, icy rage that not even the sculptor could fail to notice. “Would you be so kind as to retrieve the olai from your student, and give it to me?”

Aayanar threw a look at his student that spoke his trepidation. “Gundodhara,” he began, his voice radiating anxiety, “It appears that you’ve been calling yourself my apprentice with the express intention of injuring my reputation. What did you think you were doing?" he glared at the wide-eyed young man. “Be that as it may—is the olai in your possession? If so, you may as well give it to this bikshu; he’s Naganandhi, and the one for whom it was meant,” said the sculptor.

Gundodharan stared at the monk. “Is that so? Then I’ve been right all along, my master! And so, this is the bikshu Naganandhi...Swami, here’s your olai!” So saying, he handed the palm-leaves to the monk with every semblance of respect.

The monk took it, and retreated to the trees by the road, hoping to read them at once by the aid of the moon beams lighting up the sky. That this wasn’t possible, was obvious by the frustrated expression he assumed, in a few seconds. He moved away swiftly, and began to walk up the road.

Naganandhi’s pace increased dramatically; the others of his party had to struggle to keep up with him.

For a while, the sounds of a bullock-cart creaking along the road, accompanied by the frantic huffing of humans matching its pace were the only sounds to be heard; silence fell on the little party walking by the moon-light, and conversation ceased to exist.