Whirling Pools and Swirling Eyes

Aeons ago, or so the old story goes, God fashioned the first man, the AadhiManidhan (the primordial man), and gave him a home upon a quiet mountain slope. Sturdy rock caves guarded him from the wild winds and winter gales. Great, leafy trees grew thick upon the mountainside, their branches heavy with sweet fruit that satisfied every simple craving of his heart. The beasts of the jungle lived in a perennial, respectful fear of him. He led a life entirely free of worry, as free as the little birds that wheeled and tumbled in the open sky.

And yet—there seemed to be something sorely lacking. A hollow place rested somewhere in the region of his heart. A deep yearning, a quiet ache haunted him with the passing of every moment. He could not quite put a name to it, but some mysterious, invisible force seemed to draw him in directions unseen. He felt he was constantly seeking something he had neither seen nor experienced. By day, he allowed his imagination full rein over this beautiful mystery; by night, his subconscious took over in the form of troubled, wonderful dreams. This marvellous treasure that I seek, he thought, this luscious karpagakkani (the mythical fruit that grants all desires)—this strange force that tugs at me—how do I find it? When? The questions hovered over him day and night, and his heart fluttered like a trapped bird, aching for some sort of reprieve.

Meanwhile, on the very same day, God had given form to the AadhiSthree (the first woman). She lived on the far side of that very same mountain. The fruit of the trees quenched her hunger, and the sweet, cold water from the mountain springs slaked her thirst. She lived in a fine cave that afforded excellent shelter. For all intents and purposes, she suffered no want at all. And yet, a strange fire burned deep within her, tormenting her gently but persistently; a mysterious force seemed to bind her and pull her somewhere. But where did it wish her to go? And why did it possess her spirit so completely? These were questions for which she simply had no answers.

A towering mountain ridge thus separated the world’s first man and woman, preventing them from ever setting eyes on each other. But one day, following the dry vagaries of a scorching summer, a terrible forest fire began to rage across the slopes. So swiftly did it cut through the vast swathes of dry vegetation, its bright tongue licking the plants and ancient trees, that the man and the woman quickly realised there was no hope of escape through the jungle. The only way out was upward, to the rocky summit.

That was where they finally caught their first sight of each other.

They stood completely still, hardly daring to blink. Forgotten was the raging forest fire, and forgotten was the desperate reason for their climb. Gone was every earthly instinct of hunger and thirst. This, they realised in a heartbeat, was the very reason for their existence—to meet one another, at this precise instant. This was the mysterious force that had tugged at their waking hours and haunted their dreams. Within each other, they saw the key to their own hearts; within themselves resided the only means to fill the gaping emptiness that had shadowed their days. And having finally found each other, they knew with absolute certainty that there was no force on earth with the power to separate them. High above, in his celestial, sunlit abode, Brahmmadevan (the Creator in the high heavens) observed this magical meeting. Sensing that his good work had finally begun, he returned to his divine duties, deeply satisfied.

It would be quite safe to say that our Vallavarayan Vandhiyathevan and Princess Kundhavai resembled that first man and woman, in this very moment. This was what they had sought all their lives, whispered a quiet voice deep within their hearts. This was indeed what they had been waiting for; the single meeting that defined their very existence.

Unlike the AadhiManidhan and the first woman, however, the princess and the warrior were bound by the strict dictates of their society and culture. Neither could ignore the vast difference in their respective stations, which meant that they could not simply give in to their newfound, rapturous feelings. Their eyes, however, performed an elaborate, silent dance—sinking deeply into each other one moment, then nervously shifting to the flowers, the rustling trees, the butterflies, and the shimmering lake nearby the next.

Eesana Siva Battar, having decided that quite enough time had passed in silent conversation, cleared his throat. It was only then that both young people remembered their meeting had been convened for another, far more practical purpose.

“I believe you petitioned the priest to seek a private audience with me?” Princess Kundhavai’s voice held a good deal of aristocratic severity. Her authoritative tone, perfectly calculated to snub any pretension, touched Vandhiyathevan to the quick.

He straightened up to his full, impressive height in spite of himself. “I am not sure I may volunteer an answer without first knowing your true identity,” he returned, very much on his mettle. “I wonder,” he murmured, his eyes glinting, “has the good priest led me here in error?”

“Indeed, I am plagued by such doubts as well,” the princess replied mildly. “Who was it, exactly, that you wished to speak with?”

“I requested the priest to lead me to the Chozha dynasty’s most lustrous light. Emperor Sundara Chozhar’s illustrious daughter; the beloved younger sister to the Crown Prince Aditha Karikalar; she who was born older to Prince Arulmozhi Varmar; Ilaiya Piratti Kundhavai Devi…”

“Well,” Kundhavai smiled just a little, the corners of her mouth twitching. “It is indeed I who bear the crushing weight of all those grandiloquent titles.”

“In that case—surely you aren’t the same young lady I met in the Kudandhai Astrologer’s home, and later on the muddy banks of the river Arisilaaru?”

“Yes, yes, guilty as charged, on both occasions—especially when it came to my rather mannerless conduct. You didn’t expect to meet such a socially inept woman again, did you?”

“It is hardly accurate to term this a second meeting, Devi,” he said softly.

“Why not?”

“Because such a thing would be possible only if there were a parting in the reckoning. But you—you were never far from my thoughts for a single instant.”

A faint blush touched her cheeks. “I didn’t quite expect the citizens of Thondai Nadu to be such smooth adepts at conversation.”

“You prefer, it would seem, to heap all your praise upon noble Chozha Nadu, and bestow none upon the pitiful rest of the country.”

“I must confess that that is a crime often laid at my door—and with good reason. But you don’t seem to profess much affection for Chozha Nadu yourself.”

“Not at all. I like these lands very well,” Vandhiyathevan said breezily. “Except for two great perils that seem to accost unsuspecting men at every turn. A prospect that terrifies me, I assure you.”

“Indeed, the sharp swords and spears of Chozha warriors present a grave danger to anyone. Foreigners would do well to exercise considerable caution. Especially those with circumspect motives, such as spying, for example—”

“I beg your pardon, but those weren’t exactly the perils I had in mind, Your Highness. I possess a trusty sword and spear myself, and what’s more, I am even fairly well-schooled in the art of their use—”

“Oh, how true!” Kundhavai laughed. “Ah, fortunate were we indeed, the damsels privileged to witness your mastery in action upon the banks of the Arisilaaru! Why, your trusty weapon speared that hapless, stuffed crocodile with one swift stroke—a stroke so sure and deadly that it tore open the cotton packed inside it completely!”

Vandhiyathevan grinned, unabashed. “Ah, Ammamma (my goodness)! But then, Ammani, I must confess to complete ignorance about the brave demeanour of Chozha Nadu’s warrior princesses, who shudder and quake at the mere sight of dead, stuffed reptiles. I didn’t know, moreover, that Chozha warriors made a habit of attacking corpses. I believed the threat to be entirely real, and used my wits. Hardly my fault, or my spear’s—”

“It was entirely the fault of that stupid crocodile, I assure you,” she said dryly. “For it breathed its last before the brave Vandhiyathevan of the Vaanar clan could rip it apart and send it to a glorious warrior’s death, didn’t it? It certainly deserved its terrible fate. But stay—if these weren’t the perils you mentioned, what else?”

“The raging whirlpools in your rivers, as the flashfloods thunder and roar through them. They are never to be trusted. The bane of my very existence! I can barely describe how they battered me senseless.”

“You? In a raging whirlpool?” Kundhavai looked amused. “But you hardly seem the type to even set foot in water, let alone brave dangerous flashfloods.”

“As the old village saying goes, having wedded a ghoulish Vethalam (a restless phantom or spirit), one cannot suddenly refuse to climb the tall, brittle murungai tree to fetch it! Once committed to a cause, there is no backing out. And it would seem that having set foot in Chozha Nadu, getting snared in whirlpools and flashfloods is simply a part of everyday life. And all this, I tell you, happened because of a silly young man and his idiotic scruples. Would you believe me if I told you that he refused to utter a little lie?”

“This all sounds very mysterious indeed. Would you care to elaborate?”

“Why, so I will. The commander of the Thanjavur fort, Chinna Pazhuvettarayar, sent his men to capture me, branding me a spy. Me! Your beloved brother’s own messenger! I, however, had no desire to get caught before my mission was accomplished. I beseeched the young man of whom I’d begged accommodation to escort me—”

“Where did you stay the night, in Thanjavur?” she interrupted softly.

“The home of a flower-seller, just outside the fort. The poor woman was mute.”

“Oh. And her name?”

“I must plead ignorance. But I do know her son’s name. Senthan Amudhan.”

“I was correct, then. Proceed, please.”

“I took the lad up on my horse and set out towards Pazhaiyarai, when I realised that some of Pazhuvettarayar’s men were in hot pursuit. As I mentioned, I had no wish to fall into their clutches before I could accomplish my task. So, when we arrived at the Kudamurutti river, I instructed the young boy to carry on upon the horse, while I stepped down at that point. ‘They will believe me to be the rider and go after you,’ I told him. ‘Once they have you, they will realise their mistake. Should they question you about my whereabouts, tell them I fell into the river and drowned!’

“But that dratted boy seemed to be a direct descendant of King Harichandra (the legendary monarch who never once uttered a falsehood). ‘How may I lie that you drowned, when you’re no such thing?’ he asked me. And so, my lady, I had to turn my lie into the truth—all for the sake of his honest testimony. I tied him to the horse well and good, and jumped headfirst into the flooded river.

“Ammamma—the murderous whirlpools and treacherous swirls that haunt Chozha waters, especially by the banks! I had a terrible time trying to escape them and swim to safety. In the end, I had to grab hold of a sturdy tree root and haul myself, somehow, onto land. But Devi—what do you think I saw, even as I was swirling around in those dangerous pools, half conscious, fighting for every breath and aching for solid earth? What were my thoughts, do you think?”

“Pray, how may I know? Gajendra the elephant’s divine salvation, perhaps?”

“No, never. I saw kayal (the sleek, darting carp) fishes in the waters, my lady. They were caught in the currents and just as helpless as I was. Those beautiful creatures, long and sleek, reminded me instantly of the eyes of Chozha women. Even those strangled by traitorous water currents may somehow make their escape—but a man ensnared by a Chozha damsel’s exquisite eyes and their swirling beauty, I thought, may never free himself of their toils!”

“It’s a common habit, I’ve noticed, to blame women and their beauty for the mistakes and weaknesses of others,” she observed, a smile playing on her lips. “Men, in particular, are constantly guilty of this crime.”

“Indeed, I freely admit my sins,” quipped Vandhiyathevan brightly. “Why on earth wouldn’t I?”

Just then, the melodious notes of a flute wafted over to them from within the palace walls. Kinikini—the little thandai silambu twinkled like distant starlight as bare feet danced upon the stone floor, while the mathalam thundered its steady beats with majesty. The many voices of young women rose in sweet harmony as they sang an Aichiyar Kuravai (the circular dance of the cowherd girls), a beautiful collection that was part of that famed ancient Tamil epic, the Silappathikaaram:

“Kanrukunilakkaniudhirthamaayavan Indrunamaanulvarumelavanvaayil Konraiyantheenguzhalkelaamothozhi! Kollaiyanchaaralkurunthosithamaayavan Ellainamaanulvarumelavanvaayil Mullaiyantheenguzhalkelaamothozhi!”

(Will you not know, my dear friend, of the presence of Maayavan who draws fruits from the trees in our groves, and enters our herds, by the exquisite notes of the divine flute at his lips, smelling of the sweet perfume of jasmine and konrai?)

Kundhavai and Vandhiyathevan stood rooted to the spot in the quiet garden, completely spellbound by the song’s beauty and its aching devotion, until the very last note faded into the breeze.

Then, the instruments began to play again: the mathalam sounded its steady, earthy beat and the anklets twinkled once more; a sign that the Kuravai Koothu had resumed.

“The palace performs its dances today, no doubt,” ventured Vandhiyathevan gently. “I had the fortune of witnessing one such performance in the Kadambur Palace—not that they were the same, of course.”

“True. My companions are learning their pieces even now. They will begin to look for me soon,” asked Kundhavai, her tone softening. “And now, what brings you here?”

“As to that, Your Highness—I am happy to announce that I have finally accomplished my mission, the great task I set out upon from Kanchi. Having braved whirlpools, traitorous flash floods, and betraying eyes, I bring you this: your brother’s olai to you, safe and sound.”

And with a flourish that was entirely characteristic, Vandhiyathevan held out the precious palm-leaves in the dappled afternoon light.