Murder, Mayhem, and a Forest of Terrors

It was an old, gentle custom in ancient Thamizhagam to raise standing stones in honour of men who had embraced a warrior’s death on the battlefield. If it was just a simple stone, folks would call it a Nadukal Koil, a modest monument to memory. But if a deity were to be installed within its quiet confines, turning the precinct into a living temple, it became known as a pallippadai (a royal sepulchral shrine). Just such a monument stood quietly in the wilderness a little way from the village of Thiruppurambiyam, on the northern banks of the slow-moving Manni River—about half a kaadham northwest of the city of Kudandhai. It had been raised to remember the fallen Ganga king, Prithvipathi.

Historians often speak of Waterloo, Panipat, or Plassey as those great, heavy moments that shifted the very axis of world history. Well, for the Tamil lands, the battle at Thiruppurambiyam was just such an event. Because it happened a hundred years before our present tale, I feel it is important for you, dear reader, to understand its flavour and significance. The grand old Chozha dynasty, which had once boasted magnificent emperors like Karikal Valavan, Perunarkilli, Ilanjetchenni, and Thodiththot Sembiyan, was fated to spend some five or six centuries in near-darkness, completely eclipsed by the steady, looming rise of the Pandiyas down south and the Pallavas in the north.

Struggling for breath, squeezed tight between these two mighty giants, the Chozhas were driven to do the unthinkable: they abandoned Uraiyur, the city that had been their proud capital for hundreds of years. Journeying towards Kudandhai, they eventually settled in nearby Pazhaiyarai and slowly put down new roots, making it their home and capital. But their memories were long, and they never once forgot the glory that had been Uraiyur. Nor did they surrender their fond old title of “Kozhi Vendhar” (Kings of the Rooster City), which held the fragrant memory of that ancient place.

Of all the Chozha kings who later rose to prominence in Pazhaiyarai, old Vijayalayar could easily be called the greatest. He was a veteran of more battles than a man cares to remember, and ninety-six deep scars anointed his body, silent badges of his fearlessness. The wandering bards sang many a warm song in praise of this warrior, a man who thought nothing of his own flesh and bone when standing before his enemies. ‘The victorious king who bore ninety-six wounds…’ went one old song, while another spoke of ‘him who wore ninety-and-six scars like jewels upon his broad chest!’ Long after his time, poets still marvelled over his prowess. His brave son, Aditha Chozhan, was cut from the same cloth, earning bright honours in several skirmishes of his own.

Having lived a very full, exhausting life, Vijayalaya Chozhar had just completed his greatest duty. He had crowned his son as the new king and settled back, finally prepared to enjoy a little quiet respite in his twilight years. But the fates, it seems, had other plans.

You see, the Pallavas and the Pandiyas, restless and never quite content to simply rule their own vast kingdoms, had locked horns in ferocious warfare. The proud Pandiya scion went by the name of Varaguna Varman, while the Pallava ruler bore the grand title of Aparajitha Varman. Both were famed emperors, heavy with pride, and neither was willing to concede an inch. They clashed violently, over and over again—and, as bad luck would have it, their battleground was always the soft, green earth of Chozha Nadu. It was a terribly distressing time; the Chozha country was being crushed like a small farmyard bird caught beneath the feet of stampeding elephants, and its simple folk struggled just to survive the seasons.

Yet, even in this gloom, the old fox Vijayalayar found a way to turn the squabbles of titans to his own advantage. He would quietly gather his meagre little army and lend his forces to either the Pandiya or the Pallava side in any given skirmish. The winds of victory and defeat tossed him about alternately, but one thing was certain: the young men of Chozha Nadu were quickly being infected by a fierce, undeniable martial spirit. They were learning the ways of war.

It is common knowledge, of course, that Chozha Nadu is made wonderfully rich by the river Kaveri and the numerous sweet tributaries that crisscross the soil; almost all of them branch away to the south of their great mother. But there is one solitary tributary that breaks away from the northern Kollidam and slips quietly between that wide river and the sacred Ponni: the river Manni. And it was here, on the sandy northern banks of the Manni, that the Pallavas and the Pandiyas finally met for a last, bloody, and decisive battle.

Both armies were massive, nearly equal in their terrifying strength. The Ganga king, Prithvipathi, had joined hands with the Pallava ruler, Aparajitha Varman; Aditha Chozhan had also thrown in his lot with them. The young Chozha king knew all too well that his own little force was but a handful of dust compared to the colossal armies assembled by the Pandiyas and Pallavas. Should the Pandiyas emerge victorious, the Chozhas would surely be wiped from the face of the earth. It was a desperate gamble to attach his tiny army to the Pallava banners, but he did it anyway, much like the gentle Kaveri pouring herself into the vast, churning sea.

For kaadham after kaadham, the warm countryside resounded with the grim fury of war. The armies, each complete with its ratha, gaja, thuraga, and pathaathi (the traditional four divisions of chariots, elephants, cavalry, and infantry), surged forward like black, storm-tossed oceans. Giant war-elephants crashed into one another like collapsing mountains, making the very ground tremble beneath them. The cavalry stormed the enemy lines, the long spears of the riders flashing in the dusty air like splinters of bright lightning. Heavy chariots rammed together and splintered into a thousand pieces, while the deafening, metallic clang of the foot soldiers’ swords rang all the way to the heavens. The earth itself seemed to shudder in distress.

For three whole days, the war raged without a moment’s pause. By the time the third sun began to set, the dusty plains were swallowed by a thick, red ocean of blood. Poor elephants and fine horses lay everywhere in lifeless, tangled heaps; the shattered husks of chariots littered the grim landscape like wrecked ships becalmed on a dead sea. Thousands upon thousands of young men had fallen on both sides.

Only a battered fraction of the Pallava force remained after the slaughter, and they were utterly spent, drooping with a deep, bone-weary fatigue. The Pandiya maravar (the fierce martial clansmen of the deep south), on the other hand, seemed as though they had been granted a magical boon against exhaustion. They kept pressing forward, eyes alight with an ill-concealed, thirsty glee.

A hasty, breathless council was called inside Aparajitha Varman’s flapping tent. The Pallava king, the Ganga king Prithvipathi, and Aditha Chozhan huddled together in the gloom to decide their next step. It was painfully clear that they couldn’t hold the line much longer. A desperate retreat to the northern banks of the river Kollidam was staring them right in the face.

And then, just as the darkness seemed absolute, a small miracle occurred.

Old Vijayalaya Chozhar—a man mapped with endless battle scars, so infirm he was practically bedridden, his legs so riddled with old injuries he could barely stand—had somehow found his way to the battlefield. He knew the truth in his marrow: if the Pallavas fell back across the Kollidam, the Chozha dreams were finished. It would take centuries for the embers of their glory to catch fire again. Understanding this, the grand old lion had dragged himself to the front lines. And there, he let out a ferocious, rumbling oath that seemed to breathe sudden life into the drooping Pallava ranks.

“An elephant—bring me an elephant!” he roared, his voice trembling with urgency.

“They have all been decimated, my lord. We have none left,” came the sorrowful reply.

“A horse, then—find me just one horse!”

“There are no horses left alive,” was the grim answer.

“Then does Chozha Nadu still possess at least two true warriors?” cried Vijayalayar, desperation ringing in his cracked voice.

Instantly, two hundred men stepped forward to answer his clarion call.

“Two of you—just two, with a true warrior’s heart and broad shoulders—hoist me up and march straight into the fray! The rest of you, follow us in pairs,” commanded this greatest of warriors. “If the men bearing me should fall, the two behind them will take my weight, and on we shall go!”

At once, two burly soldiers, each blessed with the height and heavy build of the mythical wrestler Bheemasena, stepped to the front and hoisted the old king onto their sturdy shoulders.

“Now! Carry me to the battle, now!” the old man roared.

In a dusty corner of the field, the fighting still boiled furiously as the southern maravar pushed back the exhausted eastern ranks. It was into this chaos—into what looked like certain, bloody defeat—that Vijayalaya Chozhar made his entrance. Riding high upon the shoulders of his two giants, he gripped a gleaming sword in each hand. He spun them around with the supreme, careless grace of Lord Thirumaal wielding his divine discus. Plunging straight into the thick of the enemy, he began lopping off heads without a second’s pause. He was a force of nature; no man, it seemed, could stand in his way.

And truly, his terrifying courage worked a magic of its own. Soldiers who had been shrinking away, sick and tired of the killing, stopped in their tracks. They stood gaping in absolute wonder at the old man’s inhuman vigour. Slowly, a murmur rippled through the ranks. Men began to pat one another on the back, finding hidden reserves of strength, and surged back into the melee with fresh fire in their blood. In the space of a heartbeat, Jayalakshmi, the fickle Goddess of Victory, turned her bright, compassionate gaze upon the advancing Chozha men.

Seeing this, the Pallava commanders quickly forgot all talk of retreating north of the Kollidam. The three allied kings rallied their personal guards and threw themselves back into the fight with desperate strength. This sudden, combined ferocity was too much. The Pandiya lines broke. They turned their backs and fled, not stopping to draw a proper breath until they had crossed the deep frontiers of their own kingdom.

It was in this very battle that the brave Ganga king, Prithvipathi, met his end, but not before performing a string of glorious deeds. In his honour, his grieving men raised a memorial stone, and later, the pallippadai was built over it.

For many years after, that blood-soaked patch of earth lay bare and desolate. Not even a simple weed cared to push its way through the massacred soil. Folk gave the place a wide berth if they could help it, and soon, the patient forest began to creep back over the land. Inch by inch, the jungle swallowed the old scene of violence, draping its green vines over the royal monument. Jackals made their dens in the thick, thorny scrub; owls and other quiet night-birds found roosts in the canopy of dark, heavy-limbed trees. As the years slipped away, the temple lost even the handful of devoted visitors who were brave enough to face the wild beasts, and the stonework slowly fell into disrepair. By the time our story unfolds, the place was little more than a lovely, crumbling ruin.

And it was to this very ruin that Azhwarkkadiyaan arrived, just as the evening shadows began to lengthen into dusk.

Fearsome stone demons, carved with an excess of glorious detail, stood guard over the decaying structure. They glared down balefully from the edges of the temple’s mandapam, but their stony hostility bounced harmlessly off the rotund little man. Nambi was hardly the sort to be rattled by a few angry statues. Moving with a surprising, cat-like nimbleness for a man of his girth, Azhwarkkadiyaan sprang up onto the roof of the mandapam and scrambled into the thick, leafy embrace of an overhanging tree. He settled himself among the branches. His bright, sharp eyes were perfectly capable of cutting through the dense gloom, and his ears were pricked, ready to snare the faintest whisper.

The sun sank quietly beyond the horizon. A naazhigai ticked by in the silence. Then two, then three. The tropical night soon lay over the forest, thick and heavy as a woollen blanket. To Azhwarkkadiyaan, tucked up in the branches, the murky darkness felt rather stifling. Now and then, a dry rustle would rise from the undergrowth below. Ah, a small weasel, perhaps, scratching its way up a trunk! Somewhere in the distance, a solitary owl let out a mournful screech through the night.

A drowsy bird fluttered wildly to a higher branch, alarmed by the creeping weasel. And yes, out in the scrub, the jackals had begun to howl. A muted scratching noise came from just overhead; Azhwarkkadiyaan craned his neck up to look. A squirrel, perhaps, or maybe a wide-eyed chameleon—he wasn’t quite sure which small animal was picking its way up the tree. Through the gaps in the thick foliage, he could just make out little patches of the night sky. The stars winked down at him. Struggling to find a comfortable angle in that splendid, stifling isolation, waiting for goodness-knew-what, those distant stars felt like the only friendly souls in sight.

To pass the time, Azhwarkkadiyaan began—as one often does in such situations—a quiet, one-sided conversation with them.

“Ah, my beloved stars, swimming up there in the dark waters of the night! You look for all the world as if you’re laughing at the stupidity of us humans down here. And I suppose you have every reason to. After all, you were witness to the bloody battle that was fought on this very site a hundred years ago, weren’t you? You watched the rivers of blood bathe this very earth. I am quite sure you must wonder why men are always at each other’s throats, or why they are so terribly fond of spilling blood. You see, most of them call this valour. Imagine! A man has been dead for a whole century, and still, they call him their foe. This lovely old ruin, you see, is apparently the ‘enemy’s’ monument. And tonight, they are going to gather here to confer about destroying the living—all from within a temple dedicated to a dead man! So why wouldn’t you laugh, oh twinkling stars? Of course you will. By all means, do!”

Good heavens, he thought, is this entire excursion nothing but a wild goose chase, then? Am I doomed to be cramped between these scratchy branches all night? Are those scoundrels never going to arrive? Perhaps my ears were at fault, and I simply heard them wrong? Or maybe those men with the fish insignias had just changed their minds and gone elsewhere? Ah, what a bitter disappointment that would be! If nothing happens here tonight, I shall never forgive myself—

Wait! There—there’s a light.

Ah, now it’s gone. Now I see it again. There was no doubt about it; someone was approaching through the trees with a flaming torch. No, there were two men. His long wait had not been in vain!

The two newcomers walked a little beyond the pallippadai, pushing on towards a small clearing in the dense jungle. One man settled himself on the ground, while his companion held the torch aloft, peering into the shadows as if obviously expecting someone else. A short while later, two more figures arrived. They stepped confidently, clearly fearless men and no strangers to this place. How else could they have possibly found their way through a well-nigh impenetrable forest in pitch darkness?

The latest arrivals muttered something to the men already assembled—but Azhwarkkadiyaan heard nothing of their conversation. Adada (an exclamation of sheer dismay), what a terrible waste of all his efforts! Why, it looked like he wouldn’t even be able to recognise these plotters in the gloom.

Presently, two more men arrived, and the dark little group conferred amongst themselves again. The very last of the newcomers held a heavy bag in his hand. With a flourish, he turned it mouth-down towards the ground—and gold coins tumbled to the earth, glinting beautifully in the warm torch-light.

“My friends!” The man with the bag let loose a maniacal chortle. “Witness the beginning of Chozha Nadu’s destruction at our hands—funded with gold from her very own coffers! Excellent, wouldn’t you say?” And he laughed even more.

“Lower your voice, Ravidasan,” advised one of the others. “Let’s not scream everything to the high heavens.”

“Ah, but who is going to eavesdrop on us out here in this desolate jungle? The jackals, the owls, and the weasels, perhaps?” snorted the aforementioned man. “But they won’t tell on us, thankfully.”

“Even so, it’s safer to talk in low tones, isn’t it?”

And then they really did begin to converse in muddy murmurs—which, unfortunately, did not bode well at all for Azhwarkkadiyaan, whose ears simply weren’t sharp enough to divine their words from that distance. There was no point, he thought, in staying cooped up atop the monument. Perhaps he ought to climb down and approach them on foot. For he had to know what they spoke—he simply had to. And if there was any danger that came with eavesdropping on them in the dark—well, so be it.

Azhwarkkadiyaan duly made an attempt to slip down from his perch—but his heavy body brushed against the tree trunk, rustling the foliage loudly.

Two of the men sprang up with a sudden growl. “Who is there?”

Azhwarkkadiyaan’s heart skipped a few uncomfortable beats. There was no way out now but to make his escape. And even then, they would certainly hear him blundering through the dry jungle, wouldn’t they?

Just at this moment, a large owl spread its heavy wings in the branches above.

“Oom—oom!” it hooted ominously in the still night air.

(I should mention, since our friend was so taken with the heavens that night, that there is a rather beautiful old Tamil word to describe those stars. They call them vinmeen, which translates quite literally to ‘sky-fish’—silver fish swimming forever in the vast, dark ocean of the sky.)