Idumbankaari

We return now to Azhwarkkadiyaan—or Thirumalaiyappar, to use his more respectful name—whom we had left standing rather forlornly on the muddy banks of the Kollidam river, and learn what fate had in store for him. He stood there, watching the dust settle, as Vandhiyathevan leapt upon his horse and went galloping away down the road to Kudandhai.

“That lad is a wily one,” Nambi murmured to himself, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “No matter how cleverly I try to trap him, he manages to slip through my questions like a wet eel. After all that effort, I haven’t learned a single thing about his master, or his mission. And what was his part in that midnight gathering at Kadambur? Was he even there at all? I am no wiser than before. Ah well,” he consoled himself, “at least I’ve packed him off to Kudandhai. Perhaps the local astrologer can wring the truth out of him where I failed.”

“Are you speaking to the arasu tree, Swami?” asked a voice right by his ear. “Or just talking to yourself?”

Nambi gave a little jump and turned around. Standing there in the dust was the soldier from Kadambur, the very same fellow who had fetched Vandhiyathevan’s horse.

“Ah, it’s you, my man,” said Azhwarkkadiyaan, quickly recovering his composure. “I hate to disappoint you, but I wasn’t talking to the tree, nor to myself. I was conversing with a ghost who has taken up residence in these branches.” He gave the trunk of the arasu an affectionate pat. “We happen to be old friends, you see.”

“Is that so?” The soldier raised an eyebrow. “And would your ghost be a Saivite or a Vaishnavite?”

“Funnily enough, I was just asking him that very question, but the dratted spirit vanished before I could wring an answer out of him. Never mind all that—what is your name?”

“Why do you wish to know, Swami?”

“Well, you saved our boat from capsizing out there in the middle of the swollen river, didn’t you? Surely I have a sacred duty to remember you and your family in my prayers.”

“My… my name is Idumbankaari, Swami,” the man stammered, looking a little uneasy.

“Idumbankaari… why, that sounds vaguely familiar to me, somehow.”

It was then that Idumbankaari did a rather peculiar thing. He splayed out his fingers, turned his palms toward the earth, placed one hand over the other, and began to waggle his thumbs on either side. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed intently on Nambi’s face.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” said Thirumalaiyappar, feigning total innocence. “What sort of sign is that, my friend?”

Idumbankaari’s pinched face darkened, his brows knitting together in a heavy frown. “I? I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh yes, you most certainly did. You placed your palms together in the exact gesture that our Bharathanatyam temple-dancers use to depict the first incarnation of Lord Thirumaal, didn’t you?”

“Thirumaal’s incarnation? I truly don’t know what you mean, Swami.”

“No? How very surprising! It is the Machavatharam, the great fish.”

“Macham—do you mean just a fish, perhaps?”

“Indeed I do. A fish.”

“Good heavens, what peculiar eyesight you have!” Idumbankaari laughed nervously. “First you see ghosts in empty trees, and now you see fishes on my bare hands. Perhaps you’ve been eating a bit too much seafood lately, eh, Swami?”

“Chee! Pray do not speak so disrespectfully, my man,” Nambi chided mildly. “Be that as it may—do you remember that rather aggressive Saivite who travelled across the river with us? Did you happen to see which way he went?”

“Don’t I, now? He walked with me all the way to get the horse, calling you every dreadful name under the sun.”

“If you’d be kind enough to share the specifics…”

“He said that if he ever laid eyes on you again, he would shave off your top-knot and make absolutely sure you were bald.”

“Ah, so he has taken up the barber’s trade as well, has he?”

“And he swore he would scrub away every last trace of Thirumaal’s holy sign—the naamam painted on your forehead—and smother you from head to toe in Siva Peruman’s sacred white ash instead!”

“Ha! In that case, I really must find this old and valued friend of mine for a reunion. And where are you off to now, my man? Perhaps our paths lie in the same direction?”

“Oh no, Swami. Why should they? I must get back across the Kollidam and return to Kadambur at once. If I delay, the master will likely have my eyes gouged out.”

“In that case, you had better hurry. Look, the boatman is just getting ready to push off.”

Idumbankaari glanced over his shoulder and saw that Nambi was right. “Very well, Swami. I shall take my leave of you, then.”

He began to trudge toward the ferry. Halfway there, he cast a look back. But Azhwarkkadiyaan, never one to be caught dawdling, had performed a little trick of his own. With surprising agility, he had scrambled up the rough trunk of the arasu tree and wedged himself comfortably among its thickest, leafiest branches. Idumbankaari stared at the empty space beneath the tree, thoroughly bewildered, seeing nothing of the Vaishnavite.

Down at the water’s edge, one of the boatmen cupped his hands and shouted. “Are you travelling to the opposite shore?”

“Perhaps in the next boat,” muttered Idumbankaari. “You may leave.”

“Well!” grumbled the boatman, picking up his long bamboo pole. “The way you were scampering up, I really thought for a moment you were in a great hurry to cross. I actually waited to take you on board!” Shaking his head at the madness of travellers, he began to paddle the heavy craft across the swirling river.

So I was right, after all, thought Thirumalai, peering down like a plump, contented owl from his leafy perch. He isn’t returning to Kadambur at all. Our Idumbankaari has a few tricks up his sleeve, this one. I think I shall stay right here and watch which way he goes. I saw him make the sign of the fish with my own two eyes. What could it mean? A fish… what does a fish represent, now? Could it possibly… surely not? But what else could it be? The fish is the much-vaunted symbol of the Pandiya flag—why not, then? Ah, it certainly could be! In which case, I must be just a little more patient. After all, the old saying goes that patience begets kingdoms, while impatience inherits a forest. Though, the way things are going these days, it is far better to rule over the trees and the animals than a country of treacherous men. Still, I may as well wait and watch.

Thus did Thirumalai mumble his thoughts to the invisible ghost in the tree. His patience was soon rewarded. Just as he had suspected, Idumbankaari did not climb into the next boat. Instead, he came walking slowly back, staring hard at the arasu tree all the while. He peered keenly to the north, south, east, and west, as though satisfying himself that Azhwarkkadiyaan truly had left, and then he arrived at the bottom of the tree himself. He cast another quick glance around him and made himself comfortable on the grass underneath it. Judging by the nervous looks he kept shooting about, he seemed to be expecting someone, or something—but the one place he never thought to check was straight up. It was doubtful if he would have seen anything, even if he had. Thirumalai had concealed himself so perfectly among the foliage that neither hair nor hide could be glimpsed.

A full naazhigai ticked by in the quiet heat of the afternoon. Up in the branches, Nambi’s legs were beginning to tingle with pins and needles. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure the cramped confines of the tree, but Idumbankaari seemed to have no intention of budging. Thirumalai weighed his options. There was no way to climb down without rousing the man’s attention; no matter how stealthily he tried to slip down the other side, some little rustle or snapped twig was sure to be heard. Idumbankaari had the sharp ears of a lynx cat, and a wicked little knife tucked into his waist, to boot. What was the guarantee that he would not simply plunge it into Thirumalai’s chest?

Well, what else was he supposed to do, then? Could he, perhaps, drop down directly onto Idumbankaari, howling like the ghost that supposedly possessed this tree? The fellow might be fooled—he might even faint from sheer horror. Or Thirumalai might just have to make a mad run for it.

Just as his discomfort was becoming unbearable, his penance seemed to come to an end. A man appeared, walking briskly toward the tree from the southwest—the road that led from Kudandhai. Some quiet instinct warned Thirumalai that this was the very person Idumbankaari had been awaiting all this while.

He was right. Idumbankaari sprang to his feet as the man neared. The new arrival immediately mimicked the hand gesture Idumbankaari had made earlier, palms placed one on top of the other, thumbs moving to depict a swimming fish. Idumbankaari did exactly the same.

“Your name?” asked the man.

“Idumbankaari. And yours?”

“Soman Saambavan.”

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“So have I. In fact, I came here to meet you.”

“Which path do we take?”

“The one to the west, of course.”

“Where to?”

“The foe’s pallipadai.” (A pallipadai being a memorial temple or shrine, built over the resting place of a great king or warrior).

“You mean the old monument near Thiruppurambiyam—”

“Quiet!” hissed Soman Saambavan, staring hard at the bushes around them. “What if someone’s eavesdropping?”

“Not at all—I checked quite carefully.”

“No possibility of anyone hiding around hereabouts, is there?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Time to start, then,” said Soman Saambavan. “I’m not very familiar with the paths so you’ll have to lead the way. Go on, first—I’ll be right behind you. Just… wait every few paces and see if I’m following.”

“It isn’t a very good path,” warned Idumbankaari. “It cuts through the jungle, and is littered with sharp stones and thorns. You’ll have to be careful.”

“Never mind; get going. And remember—it might be a forest track but you must conceal yourself the instant you see someone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I do!”

Idumbankaari set off toward the west, skirting the sandy banks of the Kollidam, and Soman Saambavan followed him after a brief interval.

Azhwarkkadiyaan stayed up in the tree all this while, listening and watching with keen interest. Ah, these truly are terrible times, he reflected, rubbing the life back into his calves. God has given me an unimaginable opportunity to learn something incredibly significant! Now it is up to me to use it wisely, and find out exactly what these men might be up to. Kadambur proved something of a disappointment—I couldn’t discover much there. This time… ah, this time, I will make sure I divine everything I can.

They are going to the pallipadai at Thiruppurambiyam. It can certainly be nothing but the old Ganga king Prithvipathi’s monument. Ah well, it was built a hundred years ago; no wonder it lies in ruins now. It’s situated in deep forest, too; the village is some distance away. But why are these two men journeying all the way into dense jungle to converse within the ruins of a monument for the dead? Surely anything they wish to discuss could be done right here. Perhaps there are others joining them? Why, though? And didn’t one of them mention something about ‘the foe’s pallipadai’? Who had Prithvipathi been the foe of? Ah, surely it couldn’t be what I surmised! Still, I shall have to see it for myself.

These men have taken the path that runs by the Kollidam. I shall choose the one that skirts the Manni River. True, that route is even more densely forested than this one—but when have forests, hills, sticks, stones, and rocks ever mattered to me? I’m the one to be feared more!

Muttering all this and a great deal more to himself, Azhwarkkadiyaan finally slipped down to the ground. He stretched, walked steadily to the south, reached the winding Manni River, turned left along its banks, and picked up his pace. He journeyed through dense, heavy jungle, down endless, overgrown paths without meeting a single soul. Hours later, he finally reached the crumbling temple-monument at Thiruppurambiyam. The gentle shadows of dusk had settled over the trees, and the sun was slipping quietly down below the horizon.

(Now, you might recall how our Nambi mused at the start of this chapter that Vandhiyathevan was a slippery sort of fellow. There is an old, rather lovely Tamil idiom for such cunning: if you build a thatti—a dense, closely-packed fence of woven twigs—and try to block his way, a lad like that will simply shrink himself down and slip straight through the fine, powdery lines of a kolam, the geometric rice-flour pattern drawn on a doorstep. It is a beautiful way of saying a man is quite impossible to catch. And Vandhiyathevan, to Nambi’s endless frustration, certainly possessed this marvellous talent.)