Translator's Note: I know it's been a long time. My apologies, but work kept getting in the way - you know how it is. I thank you, again and again, for your support and your words of encouragement. You're the reason I'm still writing- and the reason I'm continuing. I'm going to continue translating Book 2 of SS. Here's Chapter 25, for your reading pleasure. Please comment, write back. Let's get the show on the road!
The more Gundodharan described the events of the Pullalur battle, the more were Aayanar and Sivakami seized with a desire to learn more about it. Eagerness bubbled up within them, particularly Sivakami, who was filled with an intense longing to hear as much as she could about Maamallar’s various courageous exploits.
Gundodharan spared no pains in telling them as much as he could, describing every event as accurately as he could. “Ah! Do you know what it was like, to see Maamallar delving within enemy ranks, and brandishing his sword? It didn’t seem just like any other commonplace sword, I tell you—it sizzled and dazzled through those shivering cowards like Lord Vishnu’s discus! A hundred flashes of lightning shot through it—and every flash of lightning leapt at the enemy, and severed each of their miserable heads—”
Abruptly, Gundodharan stopped, in the midst of his glowing recital of battle. “Master,” he turned to Aayanar. “There was an old bikshu in this Vihara—where’s he?”
“My boy, he hasn’t been here much, ever since we arrived. He remains within the Chaithyam, mostly. He comes to us twice each day, and asks us if we require anything,” answered Aayanar.
“Master, I’ve got to see him at once,” insisted Gundodharan. “I’ll return once I’ve seen him.” And he went away at once.
When Gundodharan reached the entrance to the Vihara, the sun was sinking slowly, to the west. It wasn't, however, an ordinary sunset that day—darkness seemed to roiling towards him on all sides, as though eager to swallow him up, not allowing twilight to set in gradually. Gundodharan looked up at the sky, puzzled, wondering about the reason for nature’s sudden deviation from the norm.
Dark, inky clouds rushed over the horizon, scudding over the skies from the Northeast.
“Ah, rain and gales are going to play havoc tonight,” he murmured to himself. “No wonder it was so sultry, all through day.”
He inched towards the Chaithya, which was situated a little away from the Vihara they were currently staying in, when he stopped. Voices filtered out to him from within. As dark as it was outside, one need not find it too difficult to imagine how inky black it must be, within the Chaithya itself.
Gundodharan took advantage of the deepening shadows gathering around the Chaithya, and edged closer and closer to the voices that wafted out to him. He held his breath as he nudged himself close to a pillar, concealing himself as much as he could. The following conversation reached his eager ears:
“Leave with them now; this instant. You’ll have to cross River Varaha before daybreak. If you can get some kind of a vehicle to transport you in any of the villages you pass, so much the better. Cross River Varaha before dawn tomorrow, at any rate.”
“And if they refuse to leave … ?”
“That would be a problem, yes. Something’s gone wrong, and now, all my plans have been laid to waste. Still—Lord Buddha’s everlasting grace might still turn everything in my favour. Make all the excuses you want to them, and get them to leave with you. Tell them, if you wish, that there’s going to be a huge battle here. And if all these don’t work, tell them that the Thiruppaarkkadal has broken its banks!”
“Swami! What’s this that you say?”
“Yes; the Thiruppaarkkadal is overflowing as it is…and if Lord Buddha wills it, the heavens will break over us—rains will deluge this area, and the banks might well break, tonight…”Naganandhi chuckled, suddenly—a deep, frightening voice. His next words were uttered in a voice even softer than before. “And do you know what must be done, if they still refuse, after all this, and the lake does break its banks and overflow? There’s still a theppam left in the Vihara, isn’t there? Get onto it, and make for that rocky outcrop we saw last month. It doesn’t matter who else is saved or isn’t; Sivakami must be taken to safety. Do you understand, Swami?”
Gundodharan’s heart beat fast, as he heard the last part of the above-mentioned conversation. His body tingled with an indefinable, vague unease at the sound of Naganandhi’s low chuckle.
A catastrophe was going to occur that night. And the means and duty of preventing it from crashing onto their collective heads was solely upon him, he realized. He muttered a heartfelt prayer to his deity, the lord who stood guard over the Pazhani Hills, Lord Muruga, for His support in whatever he was about to embark on.
The conversation at an end, both bikshus walked out of the Chaithya; Gundodharan followed them. Evening had sunk into night completely, by this time: though clouds still rolled in steadily from the Northeast, a few stray stars twinkled gently, in the south and western skies. One of the bikshus who had walked out from the Chaithya strode towards the Vihara; the other walked around the Chaithya, and headed towards the south-western direction.
A dilemma reared its head in Gundodharan’s mind, for just a brief moment: must he now walk to the Vihara and warn Aayanar? How could he warn the sculptor, though? The bikshus’ conversation had given him a guarantee that they would be rescued somehow. Therefore, it was his duty to follow Naganandhi, he determined. Having reasoned so, he followed the monk discreetly, and stopped at a respectable distance. Naganandhi, having walked a slight distance, had slipped behind a tree, untied a horse, and was now astride it.
Ah! He was finally going to regain his stolen horse, exulted Gundodharan.
The wind had been increasing in speed steadily, every minute; it gusted forcefully over the earth, and Naganandhi’s progress, even on a horse, was necessarily slow. It wasn’t, therefore, very difficult to follow him. Sometimes, it was difficult to sense whether the horse’s hoof-beats were in front or behind him.
Ah, don’t hallucinate so much, Gundodharan told himself, and walked steadily.
Almost three naazhigais later, a long, unbroken ridge—not unlike a low mountain range—stretching for a long distance, met the eyes. At that very instant, the heavens broke over them: a deafening crash of thunder rolled over the skies, lightning split the horizon and rain began to pour.
The lightning flashed again; Gundodharan saw the bikshu tie the horse to a tree, and climb up the banks. He followed the bikshu’s footsteps, clambering up the banks too. It was not easy to crawl up—the heavy rain had loosened up the soil, and the ground was extremely slippery. Gundodharan clutched a tree that had grown close to the banks and levered himself up to the banks finally, with a great deal of difficulty.
As he scrambled up to the top of the slippery ridge, a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the countryside—and revealed a horrifying sight.
The magnificent Thiruppaarkkadal lake lay on the other side of the ridge, frothing and heaving in the gale. Waves crashed against the shore, as though it were a sea in a tempest. White froth tipped the waves as they beat against the barely containing waves, and it seemed, at that moment, that it truly was a paarkkadal—a sea of milk, cresting and plunging in the gathering storm.
A little away from where Gundodharan stood, a terrifying picture appeared before his eyes. A sight that almost make him petrify in barely concealed terror.
The sound of Naganandhi’s hoarse cackle, as he stood at the top of the ridge, raising his arms, threw even the noise of the crashing waves and the rain into the background. “Ha!” he laughed out aloud. “Hahaha!”
A small rivulet of water had begun to stream through a tiny canal, cut through the lake’s banks, beside the monk. The flow was increasing with every minute.
A small spade rested at the feet of the cackling bikshu.
*******
Kalki’s Note: A 'Vihara' is a place of worship of Lord Buddha, accompanied by the living quarters of bikshus. A 'Chaithya' contains only the abode of Lord Buddha.
*********
CHAPTER 25
“THIRUPPAARKKADAL”
The more Gundodharan described the events of the Pullalur battle, the more were Aayanar and Sivakami seized with a desire to learn more about it. Eagerness bubbled up within them, particularly Sivakami, who was filled with an intense longing to hear as much as she could about Maamallar’s various courageous exploits.
Gundodharan spared no pains in telling them as much as he could, describing every event as accurately as he could. “Ah! Do you know what it was like, to see Maamallar delving within enemy ranks, and brandishing his sword? It didn’t seem just like any other commonplace sword, I tell you—it sizzled and dazzled through those shivering cowards like Lord Vishnu’s discus! A hundred flashes of lightning shot through it—and every flash of lightning leapt at the enemy, and severed each of their miserable heads—”
Abruptly, Gundodharan stopped, in the midst of his glowing recital of battle. “Master,” he turned to Aayanar. “There was an old bikshu in this Vihara—where’s he?”
“My boy, he hasn’t been here much, ever since we arrived. He remains within the Chaithyam, mostly. He comes to us twice each day, and asks us if we require anything,” answered Aayanar.
“Master, I’ve got to see him at once,” insisted Gundodharan. “I’ll return once I’ve seen him.” And he went away at once.
When Gundodharan reached the entrance to the Vihara, the sun was sinking slowly, to the west. It wasn't, however, an ordinary sunset that day—darkness seemed to roiling towards him on all sides, as though eager to swallow him up, not allowing twilight to set in gradually. Gundodharan looked up at the sky, puzzled, wondering about the reason for nature’s sudden deviation from the norm.
Dark, inky clouds rushed over the horizon, scudding over the skies from the Northeast.
“Ah, rain and gales are going to play havoc tonight,” he murmured to himself. “No wonder it was so sultry, all through day.”
He inched towards the Chaithya, which was situated a little away from the Vihara they were currently staying in, when he stopped. Voices filtered out to him from within. As dark as it was outside, one need not find it too difficult to imagine how inky black it must be, within the Chaithya itself.
Gundodharan took advantage of the deepening shadows gathering around the Chaithya, and edged closer and closer to the voices that wafted out to him. He held his breath as he nudged himself close to a pillar, concealing himself as much as he could. The following conversation reached his eager ears:
“Leave with them now; this instant. You’ll have to cross River Varaha before daybreak. If you can get some kind of a vehicle to transport you in any of the villages you pass, so much the better. Cross River Varaha before dawn tomorrow, at any rate.”
“And if they refuse to leave … ?”
“That would be a problem, yes. Something’s gone wrong, and now, all my plans have been laid to waste. Still—Lord Buddha’s everlasting grace might still turn everything in my favour. Make all the excuses you want to them, and get them to leave with you. Tell them, if you wish, that there’s going to be a huge battle here. And if all these don’t work, tell them that the Thiruppaarkkadal has broken its banks!”
“Swami! What’s this that you say?”
“Yes; the Thiruppaarkkadal is overflowing as it is…and if Lord Buddha wills it, the heavens will break over us—rains will deluge this area, and the banks might well break, tonight…”Naganandhi chuckled, suddenly—a deep, frightening voice. His next words were uttered in a voice even softer than before. “And do you know what must be done, if they still refuse, after all this, and the lake does break its banks and overflow? There’s still a theppam left in the Vihara, isn’t there? Get onto it, and make for that rocky outcrop we saw last month. It doesn’t matter who else is saved or isn’t; Sivakami must be taken to safety. Do you understand, Swami?”
Gundodharan’s heart beat fast, as he heard the last part of the above-mentioned conversation. His body tingled with an indefinable, vague unease at the sound of Naganandhi’s low chuckle.
A catastrophe was going to occur that night. And the means and duty of preventing it from crashing onto their collective heads was solely upon him, he realized. He muttered a heartfelt prayer to his deity, the lord who stood guard over the Pazhani Hills, Lord Muruga, for His support in whatever he was about to embark on.
The conversation at an end, both bikshus walked out of the Chaithya; Gundodharan followed them. Evening had sunk into night completely, by this time: though clouds still rolled in steadily from the Northeast, a few stray stars twinkled gently, in the south and western skies. One of the bikshus who had walked out from the Chaithya strode towards the Vihara; the other walked around the Chaithya, and headed towards the south-western direction.
A dilemma reared its head in Gundodharan’s mind, for just a brief moment: must he now walk to the Vihara and warn Aayanar? How could he warn the sculptor, though? The bikshus’ conversation had given him a guarantee that they would be rescued somehow. Therefore, it was his duty to follow Naganandhi, he determined. Having reasoned so, he followed the monk discreetly, and stopped at a respectable distance. Naganandhi, having walked a slight distance, had slipped behind a tree, untied a horse, and was now astride it.
Ah! He was finally going to regain his stolen horse, exulted Gundodharan.
The wind had been increasing in speed steadily, every minute; it gusted forcefully over the earth, and Naganandhi’s progress, even on a horse, was necessarily slow. It wasn’t, therefore, very difficult to follow him. Sometimes, it was difficult to sense whether the horse’s hoof-beats were in front or behind him.
Ah, don’t hallucinate so much, Gundodharan told himself, and walked steadily.
Almost three naazhigais later, a long, unbroken ridge—not unlike a low mountain range—stretching for a long distance, met the eyes. At that very instant, the heavens broke over them: a deafening crash of thunder rolled over the skies, lightning split the horizon and rain began to pour.
The lightning flashed again; Gundodharan saw the bikshu tie the horse to a tree, and climb up the banks. He followed the bikshu’s footsteps, clambering up the banks too. It was not easy to crawl up—the heavy rain had loosened up the soil, and the ground was extremely slippery. Gundodharan clutched a tree that had grown close to the banks and levered himself up to the banks finally, with a great deal of difficulty.
As he scrambled up to the top of the slippery ridge, a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the countryside—and revealed a horrifying sight.
The magnificent Thiruppaarkkadal lake lay on the other side of the ridge, frothing and heaving in the gale. Waves crashed against the shore, as though it were a sea in a tempest. White froth tipped the waves as they beat against the barely containing waves, and it seemed, at that moment, that it truly was a paarkkadal—a sea of milk, cresting and plunging in the gathering storm.
A little away from where Gundodharan stood, a terrifying picture appeared before his eyes. A sight that almost make him petrify in barely concealed terror.
The sound of Naganandhi’s hoarse cackle, as he stood at the top of the ridge, raising his arms, threw even the noise of the crashing waves and the rain into the background. “Ha!” he laughed out aloud. “Hahaha!”
A small rivulet of water had begun to stream through a tiny canal, cut through the lake’s banks, beside the monk. The flow was increasing with every minute.
A small spade rested at the feet of the cackling bikshu.
*******
Kalki’s Note: A 'Vihara' is a place of worship of Lord Buddha, accompanied by the living quarters of bikshus. A 'Chaithya' contains only the abode of Lord Buddha.
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