CHAPTER 18

A JOURNEY, UNKNOWN

A cool, gentle evening in the wintry month of Karthigai saw the progress of a small cart, two bullocks harnessed to it and unencumbered by a dome typical of such contraptions, on the road to Chidambaram*.

Sivakami, the sculptor’s daughter, and her paternal aunt were seated in it.

Farther away from the cart—yet close enough not to lose sight of it completely, came Rathi, gambolling on the pathway, occasionally seeking out the grass that stretched away in all it’s greenery, and thus providing a sight to refresh sore eyes. Sukabrahmma Rishi, Sivakami’s irrepressible parrot, whiled away the time, fluttering above the cart, sometimes flitting about on Rathi’s back, at other times, alighting on Sivakami’s shoulders—and generally enjoying, as much as was possible, the pleasures of what promised to be a long journey.

Still further, keeping the cart within eye-sight, followed Aayanar and his companion, the Buddha bikshu, deeply involved in an animated discussion.

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The monsoon season had decided to shower the Pallava country with as much of its bounty as it could, that year—consequently, the month of Aippasi month had brought with it heavy rains and squalls, lashing down at the earth for not less than fifteen days. Lakes and ponds all over the country were bubbling over with the result of a satisfying season; streams, erupting along the sides of roadways as a result of plentiful rains, were overflowing with water, often overrunning their shallow banks and encroaching upon the pathways.

Nansei* fields of paddy had already been prepared for the second session of farming—while punsei* fields were ready to yield their stock of healthy, nourishing kambu and kezhvaragu, staple foods of the southern country.

Trees rose majestically along the roadside, offering welcome shelter to wayfarers, and the lush coconut groves dotted among the fields farther away presented a refreshing sight to a vision accosted by the sun—whenever it chose to appear. For, though it had been a while since the rains had taken pity on the land and withdrawn their assault, dark clouds still scurried across the horizon—much in the manner of travellers who could not afford the luxury of stopping even for a night, at an inn. Despite their harried journey—or rather, perhaps, because of it, they paused to shower a few drops of welcome moisture on the earth beneath them.

Through it all, a mischievous vaadai breeze threaded it way among the fields and grass, whispering around dark cool groves, floating over lakes brimming with water, and carrying the drops of water that wended their way from the sky—one felt tempted to burrow oneself under the warmth of blankets, as one felt its cold touch. Nevertheless, there was a certain pristine quality to it—a pleasant sensation which one did not want to forego entirely.

Perhaps the cold, yet pure vaadai breeze was partly responsible for the change in bird sounds that accompanied the cycle of dawn and dusk in the country—winged creatures which usually poured forth musical notes into the morning air, seemed to suffer from the malady of sore throats, as they warbled out raspy notes, muffled with the cold air—a change that surely heralded the beginnings of winter.

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Conversation between Sivakami and her aunt took place in the following manner:

“Sivakami? Will it rain today, do you think?” came her aunt’s query.

“A mountain? What—where? Where is it?” replied that young lady.

“Very true, indeed, my dear—peacocks are always overjoyed at the approach of the monsoon,” commented her aunt.

“Certainly; I should think there’d be no one who wouldn’t enjoy a little sunshine in the evenings…” replied Sivakami.

“What’s that you say?” was her aunt’s puzzled question.

“I beg your pardon; what did you ask?” came an equally puzzled enquiry.

Slightly deaf, Sivakami’s aunt never let herself be troubled by this faint malady, and loved to indulge in good-natured gossip—or failing that, a long and fruitful conversation, whenever she could. Consequently, the older woman pelted her niece with an hundred questions, observations and general prognoses about all things that passed her scrutiny during their journey. That young woman, however, lost in personal fantasies and imaginary situations of her makings, only barely grasped her aunt’s words, and gave as disjointed an answer as she could, to every question thus addressed to her. Her aunt’s failing auditory perceptions merely served to deliver a garbled version of the niece’s already pointless answers to her—and conversation proceeded thus, after a fashion, nearly six kaathams from Kanchi, from whence they had started.

The world outside may have been extra-ordinarily cool, courtesy of a lavish and generous monsoon…but Sivakami’s heart was an entirely different matter altogether. Her mind was consumed by a turmoil of raging emotions that seemed to erupt with the fury of a volcano; anger, and disappointment coursed through her veins—fuelled, at frequent intervals, by a fire that seemed to leap at her with its bright tendrils of pain.

Simply put, the bikshu Naganandhi had managed to kindle in her an emotional upheaval, with his detailed description about the Crown prince and his ‘doings’.

It is in the very nature of love to doubt unwarranted charges of cowardice and other lesser traits, when one hears of such accounts from outsiders, about a beloved person—one instinctively tries to disbelieve such traitorous words, and convince oneself that such could not possibly be true…at such moments, one is even prepared to indulge in a fierce and furious quarrel at the very perpetrators of such accusations. Such is the norm, but…

…what is one supposed to do when barbarous words of weakness, of wrong-doings, of an absence of valour are uttered; when such charges are levied against one’s beloved—by another, whose veracity cannot be doubted? What if they were indeed…the truth?

Anger immediately clouds one’s judgement—fury and impotent rage contort one’s vision…not only of oneself, but of the whole world. Fury and rage which are somewhat controlled among friends and those related by blood—these emotions assume great magnitude, and explode a hundred-fold, between those bound by the sensitive bond of romantic love.

No man dwelling in this humdrum world ever thinks of his beloved as an ordinary human female, a mortal woman living a mundane existence—he believes her to be an angel, a celestial being in mortal disguise, fit to live a life of luxury, feasting on nothing but wine and nectar all the hours of her life. Ah, she is a heavenly being who has come down to earth, to participate in this painful existence only—and only because of his love for her…and he will think of her in no other light.

The lady, on the other hand, spends almost all of her early years in fantasies about her beloved, pouring out a thousand sterling qualities onto him—a practise which she continues when she does meet her human, mortal, and very ordinary mate. Nothing that he does, will ever serve to bring him down from the pedestal that she has placed him on—she sees him as a demi-god fit to consort with princesses; he has bonded with her out of love, and she will believe nothing else.

Imagine then, the turmoil that would result if a man or woman ever comes across knowledge that directly questions, or contradicts such fantasies. Intense disappointment and despair come crashing down on the lady or the man subject to such a horrifying experience—it is as though they, after having lived a peaceful life on the heights of a beautiful mountain, have suddenly been pushed into a dark and miserable valley, far below.

Sivakami had constructed a loving shrine in her heart, carving the dimensions with as much lavish care as possible—and had placed Narasimha Pallavar on a beautifully embellished pedestal in said shrine, giving him a place hitherto uninhabited by any other…and had spent practically every waking hour of her adult life in complete and utter devotion to her cherished deity.

Naganandhi’s poisoned words had brought the shrine crumbling down to the earth—the deity, placed with such loving care, within, had been razed to little more than dust, within Sivakami’s turbulent heart.

The bikshu, skilled in misrepresentation, had provided his facts in such a convincing manner that Sivakami had believed him completely. There was no reason for her to doubt the truth in the details he provided...his words possessed such candour and honesty that she could not help but believe him. There could be no earthly reason, she surmised to herself miserably, for Narasimhar to remain cloistered within the confines of Kanchi, when war of such gargantuan dimensions was raging within the country. There could not be.

Paranjyothi’s courageous exploits, and his impressive feats in the Pallava battlefield had meandered through the lanes and by-lanes of Kanchi—they had even trickled down into the forest fastnesses of Aayanar’s residence, and into the ears of the sculptor and his astonished daughter. If Sivakami had harboured any doubt about the young commander’s prowess in the months that followed, those were soon resolved upon his visit to their home, eight months after their first fateful meeting, when Paranjyothi had saved them from near death at the hands of a crazy elephant—an event which had imprinted itself indelibly, in her heart. Almost involuntarily, her mind compared the commander’s valour with Maamallar’s secluded life within Kanchi—under the circumstances, it seemed to her that the title ‘Cowardly Crown Prince’ seemed not entirely inappropriate. Naganandhi’s tainted words had had their effect.

Where belief had entered one avenue of thought, it was not difficult to enter the next. Her mind sought out another, a much lewder accusation that Naganandhi had levelled at the Crown Prince—one that branded him as a weakling who found immense, forbidden pleasure in the company of women. Sivakami had heard innumerable stories of royalty—particularly those in which noble Emperors had given birth to weak and quivering princes who indulged in their taste for women—never once, in all her years of acquaintanceship with the prince had she thought to cast her own beloved in such a role. Now, however…if reports of his cowardice were true, then so must the tales of his exploits with ladies of lesser virtue.

Oh, how dare he destroy my hopes…my life, my heart? She thought, anguish filling her thoughts. The words of love that he whispered in my ears; the promises that he swore to keep, until his dying breath…

Oh, he had fooled her utterly, completely—truly a master of intrigue. And she…miserable little idiot that she was, had believed all of his honeyed words about his love for her, and his oath to place her, one day, on the Pallava throne as the cherished queen of his heart. Men were egotistical, vengeful brutes…and royalty, princes in particular, were little better than merciless, heartless monsters!

Such were the miserable thoughts that filled Sivakami’s hours during their journey, pricking her heart with the barbs of doubt and anguish, and allowing her no respite.

Sometimes, when her heart protested that it would bear no more, it seemed to her that her beautifully crafted world of harmony, with her beloved prince would exist nevermore…and that her life was doomed to one of endless sorrow and despair. Clouds beckoning the rainy season sped on their way towards their unknown destiny; Sivakami watched them hurry through the sky, treasuring the raindrops they let fall—she sometimes thought that the whole world wept with her, sharing in her misery.

To her fevered imagination, it seemed that it was not just this one life, in which she was destined for such anguish…it appeared that she had lived endless such lifetimes, thousands of such moments of agony, which had been filled with unending, heart-breaking sorrow.

But the mornings that invariably came after nights filled with such despairing thoughts—particularly those, during which the sun’s rays peeped out from behind wispy clouds, tingeing the raindrops dripping from the leaves into brief flashes of exquisite diamonds, left behind by nature for what appeared to be her sole enjoyment...these served to refresh her, and to move her mind from unpleasantness.

It may have been established that Maamallar was a coward and a weakling into the bargain—it did not follow, however, that she, Sivakami, must ruin her life, immersed in disagreeable thoughts.

I’m an accomplished dancer, she thought. The world is a huge place—surely it’s far, far larger than the Pallava Empire…and as Naganandhi so aptly says, surely there’re a thousand people, willing and waiting to savour the beauty and grace of my performances! Why must I subject myself to such agony, when I have an art form such as this in my possession…?

With such enthusiastic thoughts, Sivakami tried to achieve a modicum of rationality—it could even be said that she succeeded, moderately. Hours were spent in evolving large and elaborate fantasies in which she danced at huge and impressive palaces, filled with an audience that appreciated her every stance, received numerous compliments and was generally the centre of attraction, a figure of respect and devotion to many. It was with this picture in mind that Sivakami had persuaded her father to agree to the bikshu Naganandhi’s suggestions—and thus, they had begun their journey southwards.

The most involved fantasies and day-dreams, however, could not shield her from the unhappiness that dwelt inside her. No matter how much she tried to lose herself in visions of a rosy future, Sivakami still found it extremely difficult to forget her beloved, and the knowledge of his true colours. Her forced enthusiasm vanished during these moments, to be replaced by a dark anger that seemed to consume her soul, a misery that rose up in waves and smothered her.

The evenings, in particular, were the worst of all—when the sun set, and vague, unclear shadows crept around her, vanquishing light and cheer and her tenuous hold on happiness, increasing the crushing distress a hundred-fold, and drowning her in a sea of desolation.

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This evening too, had been one of general hopelessness, and Sivakami had almost resigned herself to her habitual grief…when something happened to divert her mind from its usual morose reflections.

Indications appeared, in front of her surprised eyes, that an army—and a large army, at that seemed to be approaching them at a fast pace.

Conches, trumpets and drums boomed out their joyful proclamations for the whole world to hear; the muffled roar of horses and other beasts of burden, of men engaged in conversation, marching towards a destination unknown assailed her ears—nearing them by every minute.

Within a matter of minutes, the first warriors, heralding the front lines of a huge army began to appear in their line of sight.


Glossary:

*Chidambaram: A famed temple city of Tamil Nadu, with Lord Shiva as the chief Deity.

*Nansei: A common tamil term that denotes lands of high fertlity - usually, paddy fields.

*Punsei: Lands of a slightly lesser fertility content - they're used for crops other than paddy, generally.