The Anthappuram Incident

Centuries ago, the great Pallava emperor Mahendra Varmar, ruling a flourishing empire from his capital at Kanchi, had made sure that the epic Mahabharatham (the great ancient tale of dynastic war) was narrated in every quiet corner of his country. It was a land where peace and compassion, nourished by old Jain and Buddhist traditions, had taken deep root. But a certain war-fervour, the emperor felt, was an absolute necessity to draw the people out of their gentle stupor and ensure that their martial instincts remained as sharp as ever. Bharathamandapams (stone pavilions built expressly for the reciting of epics) sprang up at his command. The practice had continued, almost without interruption, across Thondai Nadu all these years. Vast numbers of people would gather in the evenings, either in these pillared halls or in open-air clearings, to sit beneath the stars and listen to their favourite stories. Wandering singers and padinis (female bards) appeared by the dozens. They were blessed with the unique talent of taking the countless stories and side-tales from the epic, weaving them into appealing songs, and singing them to the villagers in voices rich with emotion.

There was the story of Archunan, who, wandering on one of his pilgrimages, caught sight of Chithrangi, the Princess of Manipuri, in a garden just outside her kingdom. They fell in love, and in due course, a most beloved son, Aravaan, was born. As the scion of a princess from a valiant hill clan and the great Archunan himself, it was no surprise that young Aravaan grew into a phenomenal warrior. When news of the great Kurukshetra War reached him, he journeyed at once to join the Pandavas and offer his sword. Now, it was the custom in those days to choose a flawless young man—a great warrior blessed with every gift known to humanity—and sacrifice him as kalabali (a ritual offering on the eve of battle) to ensure a grand victory. Naturally, the talk turned to this practice before the war could begin, and Aravaan spoke up without hesitation. “Here I am,” he said gently. “Sacrifice me, so that you may be granted the victory you deserve.” The Pandavas possessed no one quite as valorous as he; left with little choice, they took him at his word and sorrowfully gave him up as the battle-sacrifice. The people of Thamizhagam lost their hearts to this brave young man, Veera Aravaan, who had offered himself with such grace for the sake of his people. Small shrines were built for him alongside the ones erected for Draupadi Amman, and spirited festivals were organised and celebrated with great fervour in his honour.

Tonight, beside the sea-washed rock carvings of Maamallapuram’s Five Chariots, the tale detailing his many sterling qualities and valorous deeds seemed to have finally come to an end.

“Long live Emperor Sundara Chozhar, Lord of the Three Worlds!” Loud, enthusiastic chants rose up, cleaving the salty night air. “Long live the illustrious crown prince, Aditha Karikalar!”

This was the customary cue for the audience to stretch their legs and wander home.

“The story is over for tonight, I see,” murmured Aditha Karikalar, watching the crowds thin. “Malayamaan will be back in a matter of moments.”

“Aravaan’s tale might be done—but what of you, and your own tale, your highness?” asked Parthibendran, turning to him. “That isn’t over, is it? Not by a long shot.”

“Malayamaan’s vigour never ceases to amaze me, you know,” the crown prince said meditatively, looking off into the darkness. “At his grand old age, too—and he stays awake until midnight, walking all the way to these clearings just to listen to stories. Imagine the willpower of the man!”

“I see nothing particularly marvellous in merely staying alive for years and years,” Parthibendran shrugged. “This place is fairly littered with doddering old men who can’t get to sleep, dragging themselves to storytelling sessions to while away their empty time.”

“And you are comparing the great Lord of Miladu to those drooping men who have done very little worth remembering in their lives? Ah, Parthibendran, think of the number of battles he has seen. Dare we even suppose that we will be alive at his age? And if, by some stroke of luck we are, I highly doubt we would be quite as able.”

“Well, if you must know, your highness, it isn’t exactly difficult to see why those old-timers are striding around, fit and healthy at their age.”

“It isn’t? What is the secret, pray?”

“They never lost their hearts to petty little priests’ daughters, for one thing. Neither did they sit around moaning about their lost loves or weeping at her very memory. And even if they had set their hearts on some woman—well, their methods were swift and efficient. They simply dragged her by the hair, flung her into their anthappuram, and that was it. The matter was settled.”

“Nandhini is no ordinary priest’s daughter, Parthiba. There is some mystery surrounding her birth, I think… no, I am quite sure of it.”

“Be that as it may, your highness—what does it really matter? Who cares if she is the daughter of a priest, a king, or a nobody? What does her parentage change? Look at that ancient relic, Periya Pazhuvettarayar himself. He stumbles upon her on some God-forsaken forest path, and what does he do? He drags her back to his harem, of course, and throws her in, the ninth wife after eight others.”

“You know, I never could understand that, either,” Aditha Karikalar said softly.

“You couldn’t make sense of why an old man fell for her fatal charms and let himself be reeled into her wily net?”

“No. I mean why a woman who professed her love for me—who then fell in love with Veera Pandiyan and tried to save his life—would finally submit to this old man, body and soul? I confess I do not understand that.”

“I’m afraid I do; all too well,” replied Parthibendran. “What confounds me, though, is something else entirely. Having confronted that wretched Pandiyan, the eternal foe of our Chozha dynasty—a dastardly coward who runs and hides from his enemies at every opportunity, yet dares to call himself Veera Pandiyan—you come across a woman who shelters him, begging for his life… and then you leave her alive? I never could make sense of that. You could have, and must have, done one of two things: cut her into pieces that very instant, or, if you entertained scruples about killing a woman, trussed her up like a fowl and thrown her into our dungeons, at the very least. But you did neither. Ah, I remember the night now. You dragged Veera Pandiyan’s corpse out of the hut and flung it outside. We surrounded you, raving like maniacs, drunk with triumph. In the midst of it all, I couldn’t help hearing someone sobbing from within the hut. ‘Who is that weeping?’ I asked. You replied that they were women of the priest’s family, frightened out of their wits by what they had witnessed. ‘Do not go in, any of you; there is no cause to terrify them further,’ you commanded us. Flushed with victory, none of us were inclined to do so anyway. We made our way back, carrying aloft Veera Pandiyan’s head. You accompanied us as well, but you didn’t really participate in the joy and revelry of the moment. You seemed rather drawn and fatigued. I asked you the reason; you brushed away my questions,” recalled Parthibendran. “I remember wondering if you had sustained some grievous injury that we knew nothing about.”

“I had,” said Aditha Karikalar quietly. “Not physically, but in my heart of hearts; an injury that would never heal. I couldn’t—I couldn’t forget the sight of her, falling to her knees, shielding Veera Pandiyan, begging me to spare his life! Often and often I would anguish over her desperate plea. Oh, why couldn’t I have granted her this wish? If my own life could have brought her lover back, then willingly would I have sacrificed it. But it wouldn’t. Nothing I did, or could ever do, would make her happy, and I cursed myself for it. I went mad, knowing I was the reason for her misery. We pride ourselves so much on our valour, Parthiba. We believe ourselves equal to anything, able to carry out any task. Nothing is beyond us in this world! We look at ancient palm-leaves that announce: ‘Kings possess the essence of the great Maha Vishnu Himself; they are His representatives in human form’—and we actually believe it! But can we return a departed soul to its body? Has any member of any royal household ever been able to achieve such a miracle? We have the power to cause death in abundance, but no man has ever had the unique gift of bringing a corpse back to life.”

“And a good thing too, I should say,” Parthibendran snorted. “Imagine the catastrophic results if you actually possessed such a unique gift! You would have brought Veera Pandiyan back; he would have slunk away and buried himself in some other mountain lair, and the Pandiya War might still be going on today, for all we know. And all for the sake of a woman’s tears!”

“You are a cynic, Parthiba. An unfortunate creature who cannot appreciate women. You speak so callously because you have no idea about love, or its power.”

“Too right, your highness. I do cherish a wholesome hatred for women and all their works. That is also why I have never gotten myself into any twisted female’s toils. Now, your beloved friend Vandhiyathevan, on the other hand—hah! There is a hot-blooded idiot who needs no prodding to fall in love. All he needs is the barest glimpse of a face dusted with turmeric, and he scrambles to do her bidding with a stupid leer on his face. That is why you like him so much, isn’t it?”

“Back to Vandhiyathevan, are we? I did wonder if you had forgotten him during our conversation.”

“Ha, you never did appreciate my attempts to expose his true character. Well, I won’t. What happened next? Did you ever see Nandhini again? Or ask her why a woman who had pleaded and cajoled for Veera Pandiyan’s life actually agreed to marry that old fossil, Pazhuvettarayar?”

“Veera Pandiyan was finally dead. Once you had celebrated more than half the night away, everyone fell asleep, quite heavily,” Aditha Karikalar began, his voice dropping low. “I couldn’t. My eyes wouldn’t even close. Every nerve in my body quivered with the need to find Nandhini again; to explain myself, and beg her pardon. But then the next moment, I felt a fury that consumed my very being. All I was conscious of was the need to vent my terrible anger, as well. Whatever the reason, I had to see her; I would know no peace otherwise. I could not return to Chozha Nadu until I did. At midnight, I rose noiselessly, ensured that none of you saw me leave the paasarai (military encampment), and rode towards the oasis between the banks of the Vaigai. My heart thumped within my chest. My body quaked and shivered as though with a fever, and my legs trembled as I slipped off my horse. I crept, step by little step, towards the little temple of Thirumaal.

“Every single hut in its vicinity had been torched and reduced to ashes. A man and a woman, both old, squatted beside one of them in tears, lamenting their fate. I tiptoed closer—and recognition dawned. They were the ones who had brought Nandhini to the royal gardens in Pazhaiyarai. The moment they set eyes on me, their grief and terror seemed to mount by leaps and bounds.

“They couldn’t even speak for the first few moments. I soothed and pacified them, and then, finally, they managed to gather strength and answer my questions. Their first daughter lived, it seemed, across the river. She was pregnant and about to deliver, and they had journeyed to see her. Nandhini refused to go with them. Knowing her wilful ways and stubborn nature, and unaware of how to force her to do their bidding, they left her to her own devices and went by themselves. On their way home, they caught sight of a group of ruffians tying up a helpless girl hand and foot, trying to throw her onto a funeral pyre. Such atrocities were not uncommon in times of war. Terrified of even catching their eye, they hurried on their way, and returned home—only to find their huts burnt down. Nandhini was gone.

“The priest and his wife came to the end of their recital. ‘Great prince, where is our beloved daughter?’ they cried, wracked with sorrow and worry. ‘What has become of her?’ I had suspected for some time that they were not her real parents; now, I knew for certain. Had they truly borne her, not for a moment would they have entertained the thought of leaving Nandhini all alone. Their distress didn’t move me; I couldn’t find it in myself to feel sorry for them. Nandhini’s fate, though… oh, the very thought seemed to cleave my heart in two! Sorrow had me in its fierce, unyielding grip. ‘Find your precious daughter’s wretched pyre, and throw yourselves onto it!’ I screamed. ‘Burn and die, you idiots!’ I cursed them with all my grief-filled heart, and returned to camp before dawn. You were still deeply asleep; none of you had known of either my departure or my return.”

“True; we didn’t,” said Parthibendran. “And then, on top of all that, to keep such a thing to yourself so long… the thought fairly turns my stomach. A fine way of treating your friend, your highness; keeping secrets from him. Not in my wildest dreams could I have suspected you of such—such treachery. Why, in your place, I certainly wouldn’t even have entertained the notion!”

“But you aren’t in my place, are you, Parthiba? I don’t think anyone could be, in the whole, wide world. Who knows how you might have acted, in my place?”

“What’s done is done, Ayya; there is no sense in re-visiting the past, or in pointless argument. What happened afterwards? When did you next see Nandhini? Was it after she had become the younger queen of Pazhuvoor, or before?”

“Had I managed to catch sight of her before, she would never have become the Pazhuvoor queen. We weren’t even around during the wedding; do you remember our disgust when we heard the news? My coronation as Yuvaraja occurred a few days later. My father, my grandmother, and others of influence didn’t want any ambiguity about the succession—perhaps they suspected that someone might instigate Madhuranthakar to ascend the throne? Whatever the reason, I was made not only the heir, but also awarded the proud title of Parakesari. I could now authorise stone inscriptions in my own name. ‘This vast Chozha Nadu is now yours and yours only, by right,’ announced my beloved father; his heartfelt words were echoed by his ministers, courtiers, commanders, and his subjects, with full force. Their resounding chants of victory pierced the very skies.

“Nandhini had completely faded from my memory during these times of joy and celebration. But something happened soon after the Pattabishekam that ensured she would never, ever leave my heart.

“The ceremony had just come to an end; an ancient Chozha crown now adorned my brow. My father escorted me to the anthappuram so that I might receive the blessings of my mother and my grandmother, not to mention the other royal ladies. Chief Minister Aniruddhar, my younger brother Arulmozhi Varmar, and the Pazhuvettarayar brothers accompanied us as well. My sister Kundhavai and her handmaidens stood in a large group, mingling with the various royal mothers; all of them dazzled in their best ornaments and finest silk dresses. Their faces shone; their smiles were brilliant on this joyous occasion; clearly, they had been expecting our arrival eagerly.

“But my eyes were riveted onto only one person—or rather, one face. Nandhini’s.

“My heart’s dearest, whom I had thought burnt to embers on a lonely pyre. But how had she arrived here, in the palace’s anthappuram? How had she managed to deck herself out in such fine garments and jewels, a queen among queens, eclipsing even those bred in luxury and majesty? And the light in her eyes! Her exquisite features seemed enhanced a thousand times from what I remembered. Her beauty almost blinded me. My heart raced; within moments, my besotted mind had built several improbable castles in the air. Was this day, the day I had been crowned heir to the Chozha empire, truly about to become the happiest of my whole life? Was she who ruled my heart and dreams finally about to be my queen in real life as well, my pattamagishi (chief queen)? Had the Gods bent their compassionate gaze on me finally, and wrought some sort of miracle—indrajaalam (a spectacular magic illusion), perhaps, or some fabulous trick that made all my dreams come true?

“And then, my mother, Vana Maadevi, took a couple of steps forward. ‘My child,’ she whispered, and embraced me warmly, bestowing her blessings.

“That very instant, something shocking happened. I heard someone scream. My father! Suddenly, he crumpled to the floor, completely unconscious. The place erupted in pandemonium. The others and I threw ourselves into raising the emperor and bringing him around. The royal women, except for my mother and Sembiyan Madevi, promptly disappeared to their own quarters.

“My father recovered soon enough. I took my sister a little apart. How had Nandhini managed to arrive here, I asked.

“‘Why, she has married Periya Pazhuvettarayar,’ revealed Kundhavai. ‘She is the Pazhuvoor Ilaiya Rani now.’

“I sustained a severe shock—as though a sharp spear had plunged clean into my chest. Many are the injuries I have borne in battle, my friend, but nothing can ever equal the blow I received just then. Nandhini—the wife of Periya Pazhuvettarayar!”

Aditha Karikalar pressed a trembling hand to his chest. Clearly, his heart ached. Even now.