Of Galloping Horses

Quite simply, matters stood like this: only the finest of women could make a fitting bride for her brother, a prince destined to achieve greatness and who had no equal among men. This woman, Kundhavai had firmly decided, was none other than Vaanathi. There was really only one small obstacle to her ambition, a single flaw in the Kodumbalur princess’s otherwise sweet disposition—Vaanathi was much too timid for Kundhavai’s taste. Surely a young woman about to wed a warrior among warriors, a princess destined one day to give birth to an emperor among emperors, could not afford to quake in fear at the slightest passing shadow? Plainly, there was only one thing left to do. Vaanathi had to be transformed into a fearless maiden, at all costs. It was with this entirely praiseworthy intention that Kundhavai had arranged the little charade with a fake crocodile. But the Kodumbalur princess had managed to exceed all of her expectations, emerging quite victorious from her trial.

Once the princesses had returned from Kudandhai (the ancient temple town), they climbed back into their boat, which cruised gently along the little river for a while. It was their pleasant custom to halt along the grassy banks where ancient trees grew in leafy profusion; the young women would then step down and play about in the cool water to their heart’s content. They did exactly the same today, lifting their skirts and descending from the boat into the shallows.

Abruptly, one of the girls set up a yell. “Ayyo (a cry of sudden fright), a crocodile!” She pointed a trembling finger at the opposite side of the great tree they stood beside. “A crocodile! Ayyo!” she screamed again. The rest of the handmaidens promptly took up the refrain, shrieking in apparent terror, and began to scuttle in every direction like startled moorhens.

The only exception to this panic was Vaanathi, who did not seem fazed in the least by the sudden commotion. The sight of the fearsome predator resting just a few bare feet from her, straddling the thick tree roots and gaping its jaws wide, seemed to inspire absolutely no fear in her. Neither did the sight of her obviously petrified friends, who were, of course, simply acting upon their chief’s instructions.

“Akka, a crocodile is truly fearsome only when it is in the water,” she calmly explained to Kundhavai. “This one is only on land. Do tell the others not to be so scared, please do!”

“Why, you little devil! You knew that it wasn’t real, didn’t you?” accused one of the girls, emerging from her pretend fright. “Someone must have told you the truth!”

“I wouldn’t have been afraid even if it had been a real one,” confessed Vaanathi, with a small, honest smile. “You see—I am truly terrified only of little wall-lizards and flying cockroaches.”

It was precisely at this moment that our young hero, Vandhiyathevan, came crashing through the thicket of trees and reached the riverbank, thoroughly eager to perform a daring rescue. He took one look at the fearsome crocodile, raised his arm, and threw his trusty spear straight at it. And then, that majestic young woman who had captured his fancy so completely came forward. She stepped smoothly in front of the beast, shielding the crocodile with her own body, and said something in a rich, remarkably melodious voice.

Ah—one, at least, of Vandhiyathevan’s deepest desires ever since he had first seen her at the astrologer’s home was now wonderfully fulfilled: she had finally parted her coral lips and spoken directly to him! And yet, there was still that crocodile, and it bothered him considerably. Why on earth was she standing in front of it, as though guarding the dangerous reptile? Why was she gently beseeching him “not to trouble himself”? And why, oh why, hadn’t the ferocious predator in question moved even an inch? Why did it lie there so unnaturally still?

Meanwhile, that beautiful young lady continued to speak. “Ayya, you apologised about barging into the astrologer’s home in Kudandhai without so much as a by-your-leave—and I am afraid we simply walked away without a word. Perhaps you might think that Chozha women are ill-mannered, but nothing could be further from the truth. My dear friend was feeling faint, and I was wholly intent on caring for her. That, I assure you, was the only reason for my sudden behaviour—”

Ah, what a wonderfully musical voice! Why does my chest heave and flutter so strangely as she speaks to me? Vandhiyathevan wondered. Why does a thick lump lodge itself deep in my throat? Neither the sweet bamboo flute nor the melodious veenai had ever inflamed him quite like this; the deep, resonant mathalam (a traditional two-sided drum) and the heavy, thundering drums of war had never roused him to such a quiet frenzy, nor shaken him to his very core! Why can’t I interrupt her? he thought helplessly. No words rise to my memory, and my tongue simply cleaves to the roof of my mouth—why? Why doesn’t the evening wind rustle through the broad leaves of the trees? Why do the rippling waters of the Arisilaaru seem to no longer flow? And that crocodile—why is it so incredibly still?

Even as his young heart rose and fell with this sudden tumult of emotion, the beautiful woman who had completely mesmerised him continued to speak. There was a strange, dream-like quality to the entire riverside scene; her voice reached his ears as if floating through a soft river mist.

“Ayya, your intentions were most honourable, truly,” she was saying gently. “You threw your spear at the crocodile to save us helpless females from its terrible, crushing clutches. And I assure you, your valour is entirely undisputed; such unerring accuracy is a very rare feat indeed!”

Suddenly, the rest of the young handmaidens, who had gathered under the shade of a nearby tree to observe them, broke into a loud peal of merry, ringing laughter. And just like that, Vandhiyathevan’s beautiful, sunlit dream crashed to an abrupt and painful halt. The delicate strands of the magical web that her melodious words had woven all around him simply broke with a sharp snap.

He stared very hard at the crocodile. Then, setting his jaw, he stalked right past the giggling maidens by the tree and approached the fallen beast. He placed a firm hand on the wooden shaft of his trusty spear, which was deeply embedded in the reptile’s tough body, and pulled hard. The spear, yielding to such robust treatment, came away easily enough—but what was this that spurted out of the gaping hole left behind? Was it warm blood and gore? Indeed, no. It was just soft lumps of dry cotton and pale plantain fibre!

Those girls—those wretched, entirely unfeeling girls—laughed again. And this time, they clapped their hands and almost danced about on the riverbank with unholy glee.

Vandhiyathevan wished fervently that the soft, muddy ground would simply open up right there and swallow him whole. Never, in all his eventful years, had he ever suffered such a crushing, burning embarrassment. Why, why must he be subjected to this crippling humiliation right in front of these laughing girls? If they were, indeed, girls—no, they were little demons! He decided he wouldn’t spend a single moment more in their teasing company.

Ah, my trusted spear, he thought sadly, looking at his weapon, to suffer such a terrible ignominy! How am I ever going to cleanse this awful blemish, and properly avenge you?

All of these dark, flustered thoughts flitted through his mind in a matter of mere moments. Had those who dared to mock him been men—ah, things would have been mightily different, then. These quiet, leafy banks would have seen a ferocious battle; none would have been left alive to stand around and laugh at him! This pretty little Arisilaaru would have carried their blood down to the great seas instead of its own red, rich, silty water! But these were women. What could a warrior possibly do but give them a very wide berth and walk away?

Vandhiyathevan stepped quickly away from them. He ignored even the majestic young woman who had so thoroughly captured his attention, and sprang up the sloping banks, almost leaping towards his waiting horse. That noble animal neighed warmly when it saw its master approach; but to Vandhiyathevan’s furious, burning ears, it sounded very much as though even his faithful steed was laughing at him. He treated the poor animal the way he could not treat the women: leaping swiftly onto its back, he delivered two stinging slaps with his leather reins. The startled horse, roused to sudden fury, practically galloped away along the dusty riverside road, kicking up clods of earth in its wake.

Kundhavai stood still, staring after him for a while as the stallion and the angry young soldier set off at a truly ferocious pace. She continued to watch thoughtfully as they grew smaller and disappeared into the golden distance, waiting quietly until the fine dust of their departure had completely settled.

Then, she turned back to her handmaidens. “Really, girls—you all need a proper lesson on manners,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You have every right to act any way you wish when we are entirely alone. But kindly do, please do strive for some basic decorum in front of others. And you really shouldn’t have laughed at him so openly. Why you couldn’t have just kept your silence in the presence of an unfamiliar young man, I shall never know. Tell me, what do you suppose his opinion will be now, regarding the morals and manners of us Chozha women?”