CHAPTER 34

THE NANDHI MEDAI

As the second jaamam crept on, deepening the night, Mamallar and Gundodharan stood talking at the entrance to the Naavukarasar monastery. The sky was clear, shorn of clouds even by evening. The moon shone lustrously, its sharathkala brilliance transforming the little village into gandharvalokham, a land of unearthly beauty. The village temple’s golden stupi dazzled in the moonlight from its thunganai maadam, a little distance away. A gentle night breeze rustled through; moonbeams danced on the coconut tree’s leaves, turning them into molten gold one instant, and black sheaves the next. Nature’s performance outshone a talented magician’s, as the leaves turned from silver to green-black and silver again, within moments.

“My Lord – to think that you, whose exalted person must rest upon silken sheets, surrounded by life’s every luxury, within a royal palace, must lie down upon a barren thinnai in this god-forsaken monastery like an orphan, a vagabond with no place to call home?” Gundodharan’s voice was full of anguish. “I cannot bear the thought!”

“Gundodhara … I’ve just finished arguing with Ayanar,” Mamallar sounded weary. “Must I go through it all with you as well?” When Gundodharan opened his mouth to speak, he interjected. “My father didn’t raise me in royal palaces all my life, Gundodhara. I’ve lain on silk sheets strewn with jasmine flowers – but I’m used to bare forest floors with naught but a tree-root for a headrest as well. In comparison, this monastery’s thinnai looks smooth and soft, doesn’t it?”

“My Lord, it pleases you to be flippant … but I cannot help but feel terrible. To think that I’m the reason you’re being subjected to such difficulties – if I’d just mentioned your identity to one of these villagers …?

“Gundodhara, I’ve known people who’ve made wrong decisions and then regretted it bitterly – but this is the first I’ve seen someone do something right – something perfect – and then bemoan it so. Do you know how I’ve longed to go among my people, without being recognized as the Emperor’s son? And now, finally, I have such an opportunity within my grasp, all due to you. Ah! Do you know of the delight that fills me at such widespread knowledge of Sivakami’s prowess in dancing?”

“My Lord, it is not just news of Sivakami Devi’s excellent proficiency in dance that has reached this little village – but the valour and spirit of the Pullalur battle as well!”

“Truly, Gundodhara?”

“Yes, my Lord. News of the brave and courageous Prince Narasimha Varmar’s exploits in battle have trickled into this little rural retreat as well – and the villagers have been pestering me to share some of the details with them. I’ve promised them that I will satisfy their thirst for knowledge this evening. They’ll be waiting for me in the temple precincts by now … would you like to join me?”

“I will – but careful; make no mischief such as revealing my true identity or some such thing.”

***

Ayanar’s two ‘disciples’ were seated on the steps that led down from the Nandhi medai; the villagers ranged themselves around them on the clean, freshly brushed brick-laid floor surrounding the elevated Nandhi medai. Gundodharan had launched into a remarkably detailed description, giving a blow-by-blow account of what exactly had transpired on the battlefield. In particular did he dwell on Mamallar’s exploits during the battle.

“Do you know how he fought? One instant you’d spot him in a section of the battlefield; the next he’d be found beyond the high walls, right at the other end! You could find out his location in the battlefield at any given point – his sword flashed like Lord Vishnu’s dazzling discus, glinting in the sun … and that was how you knew where the Crown prince fought, lopping off the heads of enemies in a heap that grew with each minute. Why, who else could possibly cut through the enemy hordes with such speed, such valour, such excellent precision? Indeed, Lord Yama had taken residence in prince Narasimha Varmar’s sword, that day. When he swung his weapon through those milling vermin, enemies dropped off like flies in their tens, hundreds, thousands …!”

“Ah – but these are just like Prince Abhimanyu’s valourous tales in battle!” exclaimed someone in the audience. For quite some time, the villagers, just like many throughout the Pallava Empire, had been listening to daily renderings of the Mahabharata, that great epic that sets out every aspect of valour and wisdom in the ancient world. It was not surprising, therefore, that everyone was caught in recollections of the courageous Arjuna and his warrior son, Abhimanyu.

“Indeed, Mamallar’s bravery was like that of Abhimanyu – but there’s a difference: Abhimanyu lost his life in battle … while here, it was the enemy hordes that could not meet Mamallar’s sword and ran helter-skelter from the battlefield. And the one that scampered away before everyone else was the Ganga king, Dhurvineethan!”

“Where did Dhurvineethan run to, I wonder?” enquired one interested villager.

“Towards the south, or so I’ve heard. In fact, I’ve heard too that Mamallar and Commander Paranjyothi followed hot on his heels right up to the banks of the River Then Pennai,” drawled Gundodharan, and then turned abruptly towards Mamallar, seemingly irritated. “And why do you pinch me, sir?”

A spark of outrage glittered in Mamallar’s eyes. Meanwhile, someone in the crowd called out: “All this is very well, but how came you to know about Mamallar’s exploits? What was Ayanar’s disciple doing in a battlefield?”

“Now that’s a very good question …” Gundodharan murmured as he got up from Mamallar’s side, and began to edge away from the Prince. “And it looks as though I cannot escape answering it!”

Standing well away from Mamallar, he pointed a finger at the Prince. “See him? Well, he … I mean, he’s really the – well, he’s truly – why do you stare at me so, sir? Listen, all of you: he’s the real disciple of the sculptor Ayanar. In truth, I am a soldier in the Pallava army; when Mamallar went in pursuit of Dhurvineethan, I followed his forces. My horse fell lame on the way, and I had to lag behind. Then I was caught in the terrible floods, climbed into the pot-raft with these people … and here I am!”

The next instant, excited whispers and exclamations swept through the gathering. Everyone poked each other’s ribs, waggled hands and used sundry other gestures to garner the other’s attention, murmuring furiously. Many swore that they had guessed that Gundodharan could not possibly be Ayanar’s disciple. “Has Mamallar too, been caught in these floods, do you think?” wondered one.

“I’m worried about that as well,” confided the erstwhile disciple of Ayanar.

“Why, he might even land up here, washed up by the floods!” quipped another.

“Indeed he might!” chimed in Gundodharan.