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CHAPTER 23

“…BUT WHO HAS LOST?”

Sleep insisted on staying away from Sivakami, that night.

Her mind replayed the images and conversations she had received that day; the adventures of Gundodharan’s, for instance. Shame and loathing spread its tendrils through her as she remembered anew, the ease with which she had believed the untruths flung at her by Naganandhi, regarding the Crown prince.

Anger rose up against the bikshu in her heart, sharp and bitter. She wished desperately that she might confront him with his falsehoods, throw them back into his face as he had done with her, and listen for his stammering, half-hearted explanations with ill-concealed glee.

Amidst all these thoughts, however, nestled another apprehension: that of Maamallar’s quite reasonable anger and disappointment at their not having remained at the forest dwelling—especially when he had journeyed thither with the express intention of visiting them. Sivakami tried to console herself with the thought that the Prince possessed a warm heart; he would not be unduly angry with her. He couldn’t. Could he?

Eventually, tired out by her agitated reflections, she slept.

Half-way through her journey into the land of dreams, however, a loud noise woke her up and sent her scrambling into wakefulness. She listened, trying to pin-point the source of her disturbance; it was Gundodharan—yelling and shrieking in a raucous voice, fit to rouse the whole town…and the distinct sound of horse hooves on the ground, clip-clopping away.

She nudged Aayanar, who had been drowned fathoms deep in sleep, and the sculptor came to wakefulness with a start. Together, father and daughter walked out to the entrance, where they saw Gundodharan wailing, wringing his hands with anxiety. “Master!” he shrieked. “That dratted bikshu has stolen my horse!”

“My dear boy,” Aayanar tried to console him—in vain. “That horse was not yours to begin with, was it?”

Gundodharan refused to be comforted. “Leave alone the stealing part of it - as much as it bothers me, that isn't all,” he roared. “What I can’t understand is why he threw a damned snake at me!”

“What on earth…?” began Aayanar, puzzled. “Gundodhara, be kind enough to tell exactly what happened, will you?”

Upon which, Gundodharan gave an account of what had transpired earlier:

The bikshu had stolen out in the dead of the night, saddled the horse from the post to which it had been tethered, and had mounted it. Gundodharan, waking up by some sheer stroke of coincidence, had walked out at that instant—and promptly taken hold of the bridle. The bikshu, throwing him a glance of contempt, had untied a bag he held and thrown its contents at the younger man. Feeling a slithering cobra around his neck, the appalled Gundodharan had run away, screaming with terror…upon which the bikshu had spurred his horse, and made good his escape.

Much to his consternation, Sivakami and Aayanar did not appear to believe this remarkable explanation for a midnight adventure. They seemed to think of it a silly tale—concocted by his fertile imagination—and were inclined to dismiss it entirely.

That young man was resolute in standing by his version of the story, however. “I’m afraid I value my horse very much, master—and cannot rest until I have it in my possession again. I shall return only when I’ve done so!” After which pronouncement, he set off at a fast pace in the direction of the bikshu, and vanished beyond the horizon.

**********

Five days had passed since Aayanar and Sivakami had stepped within the confines of Ashokapuram.

The first three days were fairly uneventful, and Sivakami found that she had great difficulty in beguiling the long, daylight hours—a task that was even more daunting, to her father. They had journeyed thus far, acting on the guidance of the bikshu, which precluded the possibility of their moving any further from the little town until they heard from him—at any rate, this was the conclusion Aayanar had come to. Gundodharan’s tales had served to influence Sivakami so much that she no loner felt any inclination to proceed on their travels. Indeed, the thought of returning had begun to occur to her with increasing frequency, for every hour that passed.

Matters were in this state, when a few interesting events transpired on the fourth night of their stay in Ashokapuram.

By sunset on that fateful day, a low murmur—not unlike thunder, beating out its crashing rhythm, over the horizon—could be heard continuously. The sound increased in intensity as time wore on…until it seemed that the very ocean had breached its shores, waves pounding on the ground with ferocity—and it seemed to approach them, with every passing hour.

Abruptly, the sound swelled in volume—until it seemed as though thousands upon thousands of warriors were running pell-mell towards them, feet thudding against the earth.

Aayanar and Sivakami hastened towards the entrance of the Vihara. Glimpses of the road to Chidambaram could be had in between the trees that lined the road-side—and they could see men running along the path, as though all the demons of hell were on their heels.

A magnificent elephant, bearing it’s elaborately carved seat on its back, rumbled it way among the running soldiers; seven or eight horses surrounded it, matching its progress. Several armed warriors were astride these horses; at one side of the crowd were an odd group of soldiers bearing a flag-pole—the pole, however held a flag that hung in tatters, and was almost in pieces.

All through the night, soldiers in groups numbering anywhere from ten to fifty ran past the Vihara. The sound made by their thudding feet effectively drove away any chance of sleep, to its occupants.

Sometimes, Sivakami could see clusters of soldiers running around the imposing sthambam in the middle of the town—even passing through the very street in which the Vihara stood.

Asked of Aayanar, the sculptor replied that battle must have taken place, somewhere nearby. “The runners are the ones who’ve been defeated in battle, I daresay,” he replied. “Only the vanquished run thus, my dear.”

“In that case, the vanquished must be our enemies, appa,” commented Sivakami. “They don’t look like Pallava warriors, do they?”

“What would I know, my dear?” answered Aayanar—rather listlessly, if truth be told. “Nothing can be distinguished in the dark, after all…but I too, think that the contingent led by Narasimhar must have won in battle.”

The commotion vanished during the hours of the night, however. By sunrise, when the mellow light touched the earth’s surface, all traces of the vanquished, armies, flag-poles, and horses had melted away, leaving no trace of its existence.

Sivakami had made the entrance of the Vihara as her ‘guard-watch’, since morning—hoping against hope that stragglers might yet pass the roads. Would not someone who knew of what had occurred in battle pass their way, and might she not gain some information of what had transpired?

A jaamam had passed by since dawn—and the soothing silence surrounding the Vihara was abruptly broken.

The sound of horse hooves clattering over the roads assailed her ears.

And then the horses themselves came into view, thundering over the earth—the sheer numbers overwhelmed her. How many were there…ten? Fifty? An hundred, or perhaps even a thousand…? The sight of beaming warriors seated astride the beasts, proudly holding swords and spears brought a smile to her face. They did look delighted, to be sure…as did the warrior who sat on a magnificent stallion, holding aloft a flag-pole that sported the striking Rishaba banner. Sivakami’s heart blossomed with a curious thrill of exhilaration and pride—it was all as she had thought then! The enemy had been defeated, and were even now forced into retreat…wile the Pallava hordes had gained a victory…!

Moments after the cavalry contingent had passed the Vihara, she espied a couple of stallions trotting along the road—followed by a chariot. Her eyes widened with surprise as she saw the horse and chariot turned at the curve around Emperor’s Ashoka sthambam, and approached the Vihara.

Why, though? She asked herself. Perhaps they were trying to catch up with the cavalry contingent, by cutting across this side-road?

But oh…who was the warrior, seated on that striking stallion, nearing her at a fast pace…? It could not…her eyes were deceiving her, surely. It could not be…Sivakami’s heart fluttered with such intensity that she was sure it would freeze to a halt.

For the warrior was none other than Narasimha Pallavar.

Suddenly, a wave of emotion swept through her. Sivakami’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of her beloved Prince astride a horse—for what reason, she knew not. Her throat constricted, and with an almost unnatural bashfulness, she turned, almost stepping through the doorway leading inside the Vihara.

“Ah!”

The sound of an exclamation caught her. She stopped, hearing the unmistakable clip-clop of a horse being reigned in at the last possible moment, and turned back towards the street.

Maamallar’s eyes—those intense eyes that could sear through her very soul—very now gazing at her, as though they would pierce her heart and learn all its secrets. She saw, with a pang, that they held a mixture of immense delight and surprise; intense love tainted with raging fury, as they rested on her…

The glance lasted barely a second; the next instant, the stallion had turned, and vanished through the trees at the pace of the wind.

Commander Paranjyothi, who had been following Maamallar astride his own horse—though throwing her a brief glance, did not stop. His steed too, vanished within an instant of passing her.

The chariot which came rattling behind them held only one occupant—the charioteer himself; Kannabiraan, in this instance. The moment Sivakami caught sight of him, she signalled to him, urging him to stop at once.

Kannabiraan obliged at once, and pulled at the reigns holding the chariot’s horses. The axles holding together the equipage shuddered as though they were in danger of imminent collapse—and the royal chariot came to a thundering halt.