Nandhini

Ah, yes. We left our young friend, Vandhiyathevan, on the wet, muddy banks of the Kollidam river, safely tucked inside a ferryboat. Now, as a faithful storyteller, I am honour-bound to tell you how he eventually made an explosive entry into the home of the Kudandhai astrologer, of all places. But we must not rush ahead of ourselves.

The Saivite, who had objected so bitterly to Azhwarkkadiyaan stepping into the boat, preserved a stormy silence until they were well out over the deep water. Then, he turned on our young man.

“Thambi,” he growled, “little brother, it was entirely on your account that I allowed this fellow on board. Order him never to utter that eight-letter word in my presence—or I shall have these boatmen toss him into the river. They are my men, you see.”

“Well, honoured Nambi?” Vandhiyathevan asked, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. “Did your sacred ears catch the message?”

“I am perfectly content never to mention the blessed eight-letter name of Narayana,” replied Azhwarkkadiyaan mildly, “provided this fellow never utters his five-lettered blasphemy.”

“Who is this idiot?” thundered the Saivite, his face turning the colour of an overripe plum. “Who dares me to never chant the divine five-letter word, the Panchakshara Mantram of Lord Shiva himself?” And he proceeded to chant in a majestic, booming voice: “Bind me to a stone pillar and throw me into the deep oceans—and I shall still chant Namachivaaya, praising the Lord who is always by my side!”

Azhwarkkadiyaan was not to be outdone. He raised his own voice in a sweet, clear song: “I searched within myself, and I found—the blessed name of Narayana, the Supreme Being!”

“Siva Siva!” muttered the Saivite, sticking his fingers firmly into his ears. He kept them there until the Vaishnavite had finished.

“Just listen to this fanatic go on and on about his precious God, Thambi,” Azhwarkkadiyaan sighed. “He complains so bitterly about Lord Thirumaal’s name even falling upon his ears. But doesn’t this very river, the Kollidam, flow down to us only after washing the divine feet of the Lord who resides in the great temple at Srirangam? And Shiva, of course, knows how blessed these waters are, which is exactly why he practically submerges himself in them to perform penance at Thiruvaanaikkaval, grateful for the high honour—”

With a roar, the Saivite pounced. He gave Nambi no time for another word. The two men began to wrestle wildly at one end of the boat, sending it tipping dangerously in the swirling current. When it looked as though they might all capsize, Vandhiyathevan and the boatmen hurriedly intervened, pulling the red-faced men apart.

“It seems, my devout friends, that you both wish to dive headfirst into this raging river and ascend to moksham (spiritual salvation) straightaway,” Vandhiyathevan told them severely. “I, however, still have a great many things left to accomplish in this beautiful world, and I wish to stay in it, if you please.”

“I can’t speak for their salvation,” muttered one of the boatmen, leaning heavily on his long oar, “but they are certainly on their way to the stomachs of the crocodiles. Look over there!”

They followed his pointing finger and saw a great, dark snout breaking the surface of the muddy water. Its terrifyingly sharp teeth were clearly visible in the bright sunlight.

“I am not afraid of them in the least,” declared Azhwarkkadiyaan, smoothing his rumpled clothes. “Do I not have the divinely powerful Lord Narayana, who once rescued the great elephant Gajendra from the terrible clutches of a crocodile? He will sweep me away from danger.”

“Only if he can find the time to tear himself away from the bright saris of the milkmaids in Brindavan,” snapped the Saivite, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Or, perhaps, Lord Shiva is caught up in his own difficulties,” mused Azhwarkkadiyaan, looking up at the clouds. “Like the time he carelessly granted all those boons to the ash-demon Basmaasuran, and had to come whining to Vishnu for assistance. Perhaps Thirumaal has had to rush off to save him again.”

“This Vaishnavite clearly suffers from a poor memory,” retorted the Saivite, puffing out his chest. “He forgets how Thirumaal’s arrogance was thoroughly crushed when Shiva annihilated the three demon cities during the Thiripura Samhaaram.”

“I really do not understand why you two must quarrel so endlessly,” sighed Vandhiyathevan, settling back into his seat to enjoy the river breeze. “Why don’t you just pick your favourite gods and worship them in peace?”

As to why exactly the Saivite and Azhwarkkadiyaan were at each other’s throats, or what caused a religious argument to end in a near fist-fight on a quiet riverboat—perhaps it would be best if I paused to explain the fervour that gripped the local people in those distant days.

For more than six hundred years, Jainism and Buddhism had reigned softly and supremely as the favoured faiths across the Tamil lands. The people had reaped wonderful benefits from this quiet era: fine sculpture, painting, dance, and poetry blossomed under their patronage. But eventually, the seasons turned. It became the time of the Azhwars and the Naayanmars (the devoted saints of the Saivite tradition). Together, they kindled the great Bhakthi movement in earnest, pouring their hearts into divinely beautiful songs composed in simple, chaste Tamil.

Their campaigns to bring these faiths back to the ordinary people were extraordinarily powerful. They wove music and art into their worship. The beautiful pasurams of the Azhwars and the celebrated verses of the three Saivite saints—compiled into the Thevaram—were set to charming, almost celestial music. These melodies melted the hearts of anyone who listened, raising religious ardour in the villages to a fever pitch.

Temples that had been graced by the songs of these saints were instantly elevated to a new height of reverence. Where once shrines had been built of simple brick and timber, they were now being reconstructed in solid, enduring stone, meant to last until the end of time. The great Chozha king Vijayalaya had taken up this monumental work, and his descendants expanded upon it with joyous zeal.

Meanwhile, the neighbouring lands of Kerala had seen momentous events of their own. In a tiny, leafy village called Kaaladi, a remarkable child was born. At a tender age, he renounced the comforts of the world and became an ascetic—the great Adi Sankara. A deep thirst for knowledge led him to master the languages of the North, and he soon became an unparalleled expert in the ancient texts. He eventually raised the flag of Advaitha philosophy (the doctrine of non-dualism), besting scholars far and wide in fierce theological debates. His monks and disciples travelled the length and breadth of India, bringing his teachings to eager ears.

This was the atmosphere roughly nine hundred and eighty years ago—when Kalki first penned this tale in the middle of our own twentieth century. The Tamil country was caught in a fever of religious imagination. While it brought much beauty, it cannot be denied that a few poisonous weeds grew in that fertile soil. Fierce Vaishnavites and Saivites clashed on street corners, armed with thorny arguments. Advaitha philosophers joined the fray to add their might. Quite often, lofty theological debates ended in undignified scuffles.

There is a rather quaint little story from those days that perfectly captures these squabbles. Once, a staunch Vaishnavite was walking in the shadow of the towering walls of the Shiva temple in Thiruvaanaikkaval. Suddenly, a stone fell from above, striking him sharply on the head. His forehead began to bleed freely. He craned his neck upwards and saw a crow sitting on the temple’s grand tower, the vimanam. The bird’s clumsy landing had clearly dislodged a loose stone from the ancient structure.

Instantly, all the man’s distress vanished. He even forgot the blood trickling down his face. “Ah, devout crow!” he cried happily. “You must be a staunch Vaishnavite from Srirangam! Keep at it, my friend! Destroy this temple tower at once!”

Such was the mood of the land. Knowing this will surely help you, dear reader, understand the passions that drove our characters.

The boat bumped gently against the opposite bank. “Go to hell!” the Saivite offered as a parting blessing, hurling the curse at Azhwarkkadiyaan’s head before marching off on his own path.

The Kadambur soldier who had accompanied Vandhiyathevan departed as well, heading towards the nearby town of Thiruppanandaal to procure a horse. Left to fend for themselves, Vandhiyathevan and Azhwarkkadiyaan wandered up the bank and sat down under the generous shade of a sprawling arasu (peepul) tree. Hundreds of small birds flitted among its heart-shaped leaves, chirping and gossiping in enthusiastic tones.

Both men suspected the other was hiding a good deal of information. Both were determined to pry those secrets loose. The result was a rather amusing dance of words; they spent a long time talking in endless, polite circles, skirting around one topic after another, yet edging ever closer to what they really wanted to know.

“Well, Thambi?” Azhwarkkadiyaan made the opening move, resting his staff against the broad tree trunk. “You did go to the Kadambur palace, didn’t you? And you never even thought of taking me along.”

“It was all I could do to get myself in, Nambi.”

“Indeed? How did you enter, then? Or perhaps you never did manage it?”

“Oh, I did, right enough,” Vandhiyathevan smiled, leaning back against the cool bark. “When have I ever backed away from something I set my heart on? The guards at the gates did their very best to throw me out—but I spurred my horse and practically flew past them. They tried to block my way, but I sent every single one of them tumbling into the dust. Before they could gather their scattered wits and close in on me, my good friend Kandamaaran arrived to escort me inside.”

“I thought it might have happened that way. You are a courageous lad, Thambi. And then? Who were the guests? Did you see them?”

“So many that I lost count. And such powerful men, too! I couldn’t recognise all of them in the dim light. But Periya Pazhuvettarayar was there. And his wife. Ah, the sheer beauty of that young woman! Nambi, where would I find the words to describe her?”

“You saw her, then?” Nambi leaned forward, his eyes suddenly sharp.

“Did I not! Kandamaaran practically dragged me through the anthappuram. That is where I caught sight of her. Let me tell you, she dazzled every other woman in that room into the shadows. Her face shone like a full, radiant moon among those dark-haired ladies. All the celestial beauties of the heavens—Rambhai, Urvasi, Thilothamai, even Lord Indra’s queen herself—why, they would look like ordinary village girls next to her!”

“Well! That is quite a description. And what happened next? Did they perform the Kuravai Koothu?”

“They did. And wonderfully, too. I thought of you then, and wished you were there.”

“How unfortunate that I missed it. What else?”

“Well, there was the Velan dance. The dancers, the Devaralan and Devaratti, came into the courtyard and put on a fierce, aggressive performance.”

“What about the sannadham (the state of divine possession)? Were they possessed? Were there any predictions?”

“Ah, certainly. They shouted out the usual comforts: ‘There will be rains; the land will flourish; all our deepest desires will be fulfilled…’”

“Is that all?”

“I believe there was some muttering about royal matters—but to be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Ah, but you should have, Thambi! How deeply unfortunate that you didn’t. See here, you are a young man, a valiant and intelligent one. You must keep your eyes and ears open when it comes to the affairs of the Chozha empire.”

“You speak the truth, Nambi. I was just thinking the very same thing this morning.”

“Eh? Why only this morning?”

“Because Kandamaaran and I were chatting as we rode towards the river, and he happened to mention something about their famous visitors. Apparently, after I had gone to bed last night, they all gathered in secret and discussed some very grave royal matters.”

“What sort of royal matters?”

“Kandamaaran was maddeningly vague about it, so I really have no idea. All he would say was that something momentous was going to happen very soon, and that he would tell me all about it in due time. He was terribly mysterious. Nambi, would you happen to know anything about it?”

“About what?”

“There has been whispered talk everywhere about strange omens, hasn’t there? About the long-tailed comet appearing in the night sky—and how it portends a terrible misfortune for the Chozha throne. People are gossiping about it as far away as Thondai Nadu. Apparently, several great men have been gathering to consider who might be next in line to rule. What about you, Nambi? Who do you think will be the next Emperor?”

Vandhiyathevan gazed intently at the Vaishnavite, waiting to catch a flicker of reaction in his eyes. But Azhwarkkadiyaan’s round face remained as placid and unruffled as a temple pond.

“I’m afraid I am not knowledgeable about such worldly things, Thambi,” he said mildly. “What have I to do with royalty? I am merely a humble Vaishnavite, a servant of the devout Azhwars who sing the praises of Lord Thirumaal. All I do is follow in their dusty footsteps and travel from temple to temple.”

And, as if to prove his point, he closed his eyes and began to sing a sweet verse, “Thirukkanden Ponmeni Kanden…”

Vandhiyathevan cut him off without a shred of pity. “Do me a favour, Nambi, and kindly shut up.”

“This is a divine Tamil pasuram—why on earth would you ask me to stop?”

“Devout Azhwarkkadiyaan Nambi,” Vandhiyathevan said slowly, “I find myself entertaining a rather dark suspicion. May I share it with you?”

“By all means.”

“You won’t take a swing at me with that stout stick of yours, will you?”

“Would I dare even dream of such a thing?”

“Well then. All this heavy devotion—your endless piety, your arguments over Thirumaal, playing the staunch Vaishnavite, these songs, and the sacred clay symbols painted all over your body—I say that every single bit of it is a very clever disguise.”

“Ayyo! How could you? Good God, what sacrilege! What blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy indeed! Oh, come now, Nambi. All this is just a colourful ruse to cover up your lust, isn’t it? I have come across men like you before—insanely enamoured of beautiful women. Though what you see in them, I really don’t know. The obsession is completely beyond me. For myself, I detest the very sight of them.”

“It is perfectly true that some men have nothing on their minds but women,” Nambi replied, looking a little wounded, “but kindly do not lump me in with them, Thambi. I am no lecherous idiot masquerading as a holy man. Your assumption is deeply unjust.”

“In that case, why on earth did you ask me to deliver a secret message to the lady inside the covered palanquin? Harbouring romantic feelings for a married woman, too! That is the real reason you wanted to sneak into the Kadambur palace, isn’t it? It’s no use denying it.”

“I won’t deny wanting to go in. What I do deny is your crude reason for it. I had my reasons, yes—but it is a very long, sad story indeed.”

“Well,” Vandhiyathevan said, stretching his legs out in the dappled shade, “considering the soldier hasn’t returned with my horse yet, you might as well begin.”

“If you think this is just some amusing village fable, don’t. Every part of it is the absolute truth. Are you quite sure you want to hear it?”

“Only if you wish to tell it.”

“I believe I will. Even if I am in rather a hurry today. After all, I might need another favour of you sometime down the road, and if you know the truth, perhaps you will help me.”

“If it is an honourable request, I will. But you needn’t share your secrets if you feel uneasy.”

“But I must. The beautiful young woman caught in the terrible clutches of that old ogre—I mean Pazhuvettarayar—is named Nandhini. Her tale will astonish you, I promise. You will practically explode with anger at the injustice of it all.”

And with this solemn preamble, sitting beneath the rustling leaves of the arasu tree, Azhwarkkadiyaan began the history of Nandhini.

A quiet little village on the green banks of the river Vaigai, deep in Pandiya Nadu, was Azhwarkkadiyaan’s birthplace. His family was steeped in crushing poverty, but despite their hardships, every one of them was a fiercely devoted Vaishnavite.

One warm morning, his father had gone walking through the nandhavanam (the fragrant flower gardens) near the river, and stumbled upon a tiny infant girl lying all alone among the blossoms. Nobody came forward to claim the child, so he brought her home. She was a charming, luminous little thing, and the family instantly, hopelessly, fell in love with her. Because they had found her in that beautiful garden, the name Nandhini suited her perfectly, and she swiftly became the most cherished member of their humble household. Azhwarkkadiyaan, for his part, considered her his very own sister, and doted upon her.

As Nandhini grew into a young woman, so did her devotion to Lord Thirumaal. The neighbours used to smile and predict that she would become another Andal, following in the footsteps of that great lady mystic; they thought she would surely give herself up entirely to God and a life of gentle, divine service. Azhwarkkadiyaan believed this more than anyone else. Such was his deep affection for the girl that when their father died, he took the responsibility of raising her upon his own shoulders.

Brother and sister would go on long, dusty pilgrimages together, visiting temple after temple on a mission to spread their faith. The sight of young Nandhini, wearing nothing but a simple garland of fresh thulasi (holy basil) leaves, singing sweet pasurams in her exquisite, ringing voice, was enough to melt the hardest of hearts.

Then, one day, Azhwarkkadiyaan left on a long journey to the sacred hills of Thiruvengadam. It was quite a while before he could return—and it was during this absence that disaster struck Nandhini’s quiet life.

The bitter, unceasing war between the Pandiyas and the Chozhas had finally escalated into one last, bloody battle in the dry plains around Madurai. The Pandiyas suffered a crushing defeat. Their king, Veera Pandiyan, lay bleeding on the battlefield, grievously wounded. A few of his most loyal aides managed to unearth him from beneath the massacred bodies and desperately tried to save his life. In the thick, dark hours of the night, they carried him to Nandhini’s quiet little home.

The young woman saw the broken king and felt her tender heart stir with deep pity. She tried her very best to nurse him, to offer him succour—but the Chozha soldiers had already caught the scent of their hidden enemy. They surrounded her home. They stormed the dwelling and killed Veera Pandiyan where he lay. And Nandhini, whose luminous, arresting beauty had instantly bewitched the powerful Pazhuvettarayar, was promptly taken away as a prisoner.

Three years had flown by like dry leaves in the wind since that terrible night. Try as he might, Azhwarkkadiyaan had never been able to see his little sister again. Ever since then, he had used every scrap of cunning and every means in his possession to try and meet her, just once, to speak with her, and if she were unhappy, to somehow rescue her from her golden cage. Until this very moment, however, all his efforts had been entirely in vain.

Vandhiyathevan’s heart softened at this moving recital. For one brief, impulsive moment, he even considered telling Azhwarkkadiyaan the truth—that the occupant of the curtained palanquin had actually been Prince Madhuranthakar, and not Nandhini at all. But some old, cautious instinct stayed his tongue. What if, he wondered, this entire tragic tale was nothing but one of the Vaishnavite’s carefully constructed fantasies? The mere thought made him decide to keep quiet about the strange events at Kadambur and his own midnight adventures.

In the distance, through the heat haze, they saw the soldier approaching from Thiruppanandaal, leading a fresh horse.

“Will you help me, Thambi?” Azhwarkkadiyaan entreated softly.

“But what can I possibly do?” Vandhiyathevan asked, his words careful and measured. “Pazhuvettarayar is among the most powerful men in the entire Chozha empire. He can make anyone dance to his tune. I am just one young man with a sword and no great connections. How am I supposed to help?”

He paused, watching the soldier draw nearer. “Nambi,” he began again, changing the subject, “do you truly mean to say you know nothing at all about royal affairs? Can you really not even make a guess as to who might ascend the throne if something were to happen to Emperor Sundara Chozhar?”

“Again—what do I know of such grand matters, Thambi? Now, if you were to ask the astrologer of Kudandhai…”

“Ah. And is he truly that skilled?”

“He is indeed. He happens to be an expert not just in reading the stars, but in divining your innermost thoughts. He can even deliver his predictions based entirely on the delicate state of current political affairs!”

I certainly must pay this paragon a visit, Vandhiyathevan resolved to himself.

Mankind has been thoroughly obsessed for millennia, after all, with learning what lies hidden in the future. Prince or pauper, philosopher or fool—no one is entirely exempt from that deep, burning curiosity to glimpse what time holds in store for them. It is hardly surprising, then, that our young warrior, burdened with the heavy weight of a royal duty and forced to navigate a perilous course, should wish to know his own destiny as well. Is it?