Everyone kept saying Madurai, which was about a hundred leagues and several days away. But Uncle’s farm was on the outskirts of the famed city of culture and worship.

I also looked forward to seeing Chinnamma, who was much younger than Mother, and remembered her as having a wild streak about her. Chinnamma was direct, shocking, and mischievous. She had naughty humour, and spoke of matters that made me blush. I last saw her when she and her family visited us during the previous harvest festival, Pongal. She taught me many things, including the strange behaviour of adults.

I recalled one late afternoon when Father returned in a foul mood. Chinnamma and I remained cloistered in my room while the drama unfolded in the house.

Father, in his anger, found fault with Mother, and words and voices escalated. I heard a crash, a brass tumbler sent flying across the vast kitchen; then jingling footsteps, and Mother running into her room. Even at home, Mother geared herself for battle and went about dripping in an assortment of jewellery. I welcomed the ornaments because, when I was up to my usual mischief, the tinkling of her bangles and anklets forewarned her arrival. And I always looked innocent by the time she appeared.

After her dramatic but well-choreographed run to her room, Mother remained locked behind the doors. Chinnamma wore an intriguing smile. The servants, intent on not drawing attention to themselves, went quiet, scurried in silence, and spoke in whispers. The household sank into deep gloom. Meanwhile, Father withdrew upstairs to his work room.

Chinnamma and I were having dinner when Father came downstairs and called Mother. We stopped and listened hard. There was no reply. Father called again. He was standing outside Mother’s locked doors. Not receiving a response, he persisted.

‘Is Father angry?’ I asked.

‘Not anymore.’

‘Is Mother angry?’

‘Wait and watch the drama,’ said Chinnamma.

‘If Mother does not eat, she will starve, shrivel into a dried pea pod, and perish,’ I said, with genuine concern.

‘Your mother is so layered that she perspires even when bathing in cold water, and it’ll take two full moons of starvation before she withers to my weight.’

That horrified me. Poor Mother starving and reducing into a stick insect. But recalling that day later, I chuckled. Chinnamma was much fatter than Mother and I wondered how Mother would ever wither to Chinnamma’s weight.

After a pronounced series of sharp raps and calls, by which time all the servants, their features twisted in anxiety, had gathered to peep from the kitchen, Mother relented and opened the door. Father slipped in, closed the door again, and drove home the bolt. Hearing the unmistakable snap of metal on metal, the servants sighed with relief and returned to their chores.

‘Now, will Mother eat dinner?’ Not yet clever enough—I became clever only later in the day—I remained worried that Mother might wither and get mistaken for a stick insect.

‘Yes, but not until an hour or more,’ said Chinnamma.

‘Why?’

Chinnamma called it a couple’s game. I remembered making a face, for I did not know adults played games. According to her, there were several scripts. In this play, the woman took the role of a victim, and often welcomed it because of the rewards promised when the man, feeling remorseful, made amends.

‘These little dramas add spice to life,’ said Chinnamma, ‘and result in babies, especially drama-children.’

‘Mother always says I drama, so does that make me a drama-child?’

‘You are a drama-child because you were born ten years into your parents’ marriage.’

‘What do you mean, Chinnamma?’

‘Well, if you were born in the first year of marriage, you would be a love-child.’

‘I don’t understand!’ I stamped my foot and cried.

‘No tantrums now. I’m Chinnamma, not your father.’

‘Sorry, Chinnamma.’

‘Okay, listen. In the first year of marriage, the honeymoon year, couples seldom quarrel because they’re blind with love, or rather with the newness of married life. The man is poetic and the woman never has a headache. But by the tenth year, the man’s snoring is not music but an irritant, and the woman’s unwashed hair is, well, unwashed hair. Familiarity loses the fragrance of discovery and the stink of life needs perfume and spice.’

‘And they make a drama-child!’ I interrupted and clapped with glee.

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2019

Song of the Ankle Rings, an adaptation of Silappatikaram

Continued on Monday: The River Incident

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I wondered why we required an armed escort, for did not our Cholan king’s reputation send even snakes slithering into their holes? Mother admonished my careless talk regarding the king, but I persisted with a litany of why-why-why.

She said the divide between the Cholan and Pandyan realms was with deep forests and hills, and a wild race of demonic people—Arakans—inhabited these lands. I had heard the name mentioned in whispered awe. The Arakans were cannibals and would attack unwary city-dwellers who commuted between the towns.

‘And they are especially fond of carrying away young damsels such as you.’

‘Does that mean you are safe, Mother?’ I asked.

She pinched my arm and I let out a sharp cry. But Father’s cart was several paces ahead and the clattering of hooves, the tinkling bells festooned to carriages, and the ever-present noise that accompanied people on the move, drowned my cries. Deciding not to risk more pinches, I wiped my tears and asked.

‘Will we encounter these Arakans?’

‘I hope not and, as I said, these thick ugly men are especially fond of young maidens.’

And Mother gave me a look of silent challenge. I was young but not stupid, and no naughty words ensued from my runaway mouth.

Mother also recounted stories of debauchery, human sacrifice, and drinking of blood. When I asked about the Arakan women, Mother paused. Having made up a story, she said they were even worse than their men: they went about with exposed breasts, and smeared their faces with the blood of young boys. I saw through Mother’s ruse and did not believe all she said—except for the part that Arakan women were worse than their men. In that aspect at least, these wild women shared the traits of their more civilised sisters.

I yearned to meet an Arakan, perhaps a young girl or boy who would not alarm Mother. Once, during the journey, the soldiers tensed and the bullock carts tightened into a knot, sending a sizzling fear rippling through the petrified people. Unfortunately, the gods answered Mother’s prayers and there were no Arakan sightings. Another night we heard the faint sound of drums in the high hills, but again, nothing more.

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2019

Song of the Ankle Rings, an adaptation of Silappatikaram

Continued on Friday: Adult Games and Drama Children

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Our servants secreted much coin in their hands in return for carrying letters and news. Unlike the wealthy who wrote on velvety cloth, the common folk wrote letters on palm leaves. Our servants, worthy of working for Father, an accomplished merchant, charged more money for messages carrying commercial import.

There were half-a-dozen bullock carts, each drawn by a pair of sturdy well-nourished buffalo. Father, his man-servant, and the caravan master rode the first cart. Mother and I, and our hand-maidens, followed in the second. The third cart carried our luggage, and presents for Uncle, Chinnamma, and people of the village governing council, the panchayat. The servants, provisions, utensils, and tent and bedding material filled the rearmost carriages, which were larger and built for load rather than elegance.

Father also hired an armed escort of ten impressive young men led by a stern captain. These men, Maravars, carried iron-tipped spears and swords in scabbards slung across their backs, and wore leather body armour and brightly coloured turbans. Their horses were nervous and energetic and bobbed their heads and stomped the earth with eager anticipation. The escort also roped along several mules which carried their bedrolls, tents, and gear. It was quite an impressive company befitting the wealth and esteem Father enjoyed in Puhar.

In our wake was a long stretch of camp-followers—families, itinerant traders, and lesser merchants—who were also going our way but lacked the resources to hire an armed escort of their own. Travelling in caravan gave the camp-followers camaraderie and security. Unlike other caravan owners, Father did not collect payment from the hangers-on. It was beneath his station to do so. But this did not stop our servants from exacting taxes from these people. Father, well apprised of our servants’ activities, chose not to know provided they did not impose exorbitant levies.

During our journey, I became acquainted with the soldiers of the escort: wonderful and hardy warriors from the paalai, the semi-arid regions. These scarred men were bachelors—though many had lovers back in their desert homes. Lovers, and not wives. I found their family arrangement extraordinary but, for now, no one explained these matters. The soldiers yearned for meals cooked by a woman’s hands. They missed their lovers and mothers, and relished the food offered by the women of the caravan. I too shared leftover meals with them. And these men, who risked their lives every day and some only a few years older than Kovalan, took to the food with such gusto it put me to secret shame. After the first day, I apportioned the food before eating my share. It was a good habit I adopted, and for the rest of my life I always set aside food for the less fortunate. Father approved.

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2019

Song of the Ankle Rings, an adaptation of Silappatikaram

Continued on Monday: Arakan Debauchery

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The days leading to our departure were busy, harried, and filled with confused urgency. A steady queue of tradesmen and suppliers called on Father. He arranged provisions, bullock carts, and a dozen other items. Father also settled many matters regarding his business affairs and our house. There was much excitement among the servants selected to join us on the journey, and all of them received impressive new uniforms.

Mother was in a constant hair-pulling frenzy—and drove our servants to distraction—as she tried and retried garments for every festival and conceivable ceremony she planned to attend.

‘The villagers will expect no less from us,’ said Mother.

After several days and having decided that nothing in her wardrobe met her needs, a foregone conclusion whenever she prepared for a journey, Mother sent for the fabric merchants and tailors. The poor men presented dozens of samples. Soon, heaps of bright-coloured saris and shimmering silks dotted the central courtyard. After several days, she decided the new wardrobe was too grand for her sister’s farm and better reserved for occasions involving royalty and important people. She settled for the saris and fabrics from her many bureaus—material she had selected on the first day. After all, she reasoned, the people in the villages would not recognise her old garments and everything would be new to them. Thus, Mother resolved the most challenging of her preparations and the servants sighed with relief.

The morning for departure arrived and people in the neighbourhood turned out in force to wish us farewell. Stewards were busy with final preparations, there were hurried voices, and the mood was urgent and celebratory.

But I remained depressed. I longed to see Kovalan. I kept looking up whenever someone entered the house, confident he would appear. He could not let the moment slip. Surely, he would surprise me. And so I consoled myself. But as the time ripened, I hoped. Then, in the final hours, I prayed.

Anandan appeared with a gift, a wooden boat similar to the one destroyed in the river—Kovalan had forgotten the repair. On the day the boat smashed on the rocks, Anandan had laughed and clapped with glee. But on this day, he looked remorseful and without his usual spirit. Earlier in the day, he had met Kovalan but before I asked, he said,

‘His father sent him on an errand to Pattinam.’

There was a lie in Anandan’s eyes but I was grateful for his feeble attempt to make me feel better. I had always disliked Anandan. He was a bully, plain-speaking even when he knew it would be hurtful, and quite vulgar in his interests. But he was also an enigma.

‘You leave a child and will return a maiden,’ he said. ‘Be safe, little sister. I am your brother and will always love you. I promise.’

Upon hearing Anandan’s words, I rushed to my room and cried. I had not expected such maturity from this irreverent boy. Perhaps I had been quick with my harsh judgments.

But I also cried for Kovalan. After some time, my tears emptied. Mother called and, burying my pain in my chest, I rejoined the preparations and farewells.

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2019

Song of the Ankle Rings, an adaptation of Silappatikaram

Continued on Friday: The Caravan – First Hints

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Overwhelmed with joy by the prospect of a long journey into new lands, the first in my life, I shared my excitement with Kovalan. But he grew sullen. I detected a tinge of envy. By going away on new adventures, I was in some strange manner doing better than him. His behaviour was disappointing for I thought he would be happy for me.

His joy was mine, but he did not share my joy. That made me sad. Now I did not want to go. I wanted to remain in Puhar to keep Kovalan happy.

But Anandan was excited for me and told stories of new adventures that beckoned.

I trudged home, angry and confused, and cried myself to sleep. But by morning, I had resolved myself to Kovalan’s apathetic reception of the news. He was right, and I would not abandon him again. This journey would be the first and the last without him. In the future, I would place him before all else, for I believe there was no greater joy than to make him happy.

What I did not know was that, instead of a year, my parents had conspired to keep me away from the boys for several years—until I lost my boyish antics and reached marriageable age.

I lost my rough edges in that time but also acquired a new skill, one that my parents had not wished—I learned to ride horses. But it was a poor trade for all those years without Kovalan.

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2019

Song of the Ankle Rings, an adaptation of Silappatikaram

Continued on Monday: A Child leaves and a Maiden shall Return

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‘And Kovalan, did he force you too?’ asked Father.

I did not wish to blame Kovalan but also could not bring myself to lie, and so, I nodded and tried harder to cry. I made all the right noises, but no tears flowed.

‘There, there, don’t cry, my hessonite, but do you think Kovalan might want to sail your boat again?’ Father stroked my hair and planted a light kiss on my head.

‘I told you, it’s broken!’

‘And yet he encouraged you.’

‘But I did not want to, Father.’

‘Of course, my pearl, I know.’ Looking me in the eye, he said, ‘Young men behave so. Once your precious breaks, they will not want it anymore.’

‘But Kovalan said he will make good the repairs, Father.’

‘Some things cannot be repaired, my cat’s eye.’

‘What things, Father?’

He called my mother, his voice tinged with irritation.

‘Where is her lunch?’

‘What’s the hurry, it’s not as if your precious duckling is starving.’

Mother brought rice cooked with nuts and raisins, and fruits and milk. Placing it on a low table, she shrugged a shoulder at me and walked away, and I made a face at her.

I drank the milk with relish and chose my favourite fruit—sliced mango. As usual, Father watched as I put on a show for him. I ate and wiped the juice on my chin with the back of my hand, and my antics gave Father much pleasure.

‘You remember Uncle and Chinnamma; how would you like to visit them in Madurai?’

‘Are we all going to visit Chinnamma?’ I could not hide my excitement.

‘Yes, as a family.’

I threw up my hands and shouted with joy.

‘You can stay there until a year.’

‘And we can all picnic and enjoy ourselves.’ Again I threw up my hands with glee.

‘Yes, but Father has much work to attend to here and Mother too, and we will visit until a month before returning. But you can stay and enjoy yourself.’ He leaned close and said, ‘Without Mother picking on you.’

I nodded and gave him a mischievous smile. Then the joy bled off, leaving me empty. I looked forward to the adventure of a new place but not without Father and Mother. More puckering, and my lips pushed out, seeking sympathy.

‘I’ll miss you,’ I said.

‘I’ve told you stories about Uncle and Chinnamma’s farm, their cows and goats, and deer and rabbits.’

‘Horses and bullock carts?’ I asked.

‘Yes, bullock carts, my red coral, and you can learn to drive them.’

‘Can I ride the horses?’

‘No, maidens don’t ride horses, but you can learn to drive horse carts.’

‘But why can I not ride horses?’

‘Chaste maidens don’t ride horses. Moreover, horse riding is dangerous and you have the more comfortable and safer horse carts.’

‘Why-why-why?’ In playful tantrum I hit my thighs.

‘I’ve just now told you, my yellow sapphire, and Chinnamma will answer all your questions and teach you many wonderful things.’

‘But you answer all my questions and already taught me everything there is to know. Is Chinnamma smarter than you?’

Father threw his head back and laughed. He said, ‘There are some things best left to Chinnamma.’

‘What things, Father?’

‘Things a young maiden, one such as yourself, might wish to know, ought to know.’

I was getting bored with talk regarding my forthcoming maidenhood. And I did not want to grow up and lose my teeth or turn bald. So, having finished the first mango, I went for my next favourite—the second mango.

‘You’ll also study the Vedas and Puranas, my platinum, and learn prayers expected of and befitting a future mistress of a household.’

‘But Mother is mistress of the household and quite enjoys haranguing the servants.’

Father laughed again, and I joined in his laughter. I loved him very much and gave him a great big hug. After finishing my second mango, I reached for my next favourite fruit—the third mango.

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2019

Song of the Ankle Rings, an adaptation of Silappatikaram

Continued on Friday: Adult Conspiracy

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When I returned home, Mother was waiting. ‘So here you are,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you often enough not to go gallivanting with the boys.’

‘They’re my friends,’ I said.

‘They are young men and you are coming of age, and should start behaving as a proper maiden.’

‘I’m a child. You’ve said it many times.’

‘Not anymore. Go to your father now as he has things he wishes to say to you.’

I heard a throat clearing and saw my father’s figure fill the doorway. With a wide smile, I ran and hugged him around the waist.

‘Father!’

‘How are you, my diamond?’

He led me by the hand to his swing. I waited with eager anticipation and, as expected, Father scooped me up and settled me beside him. My happy legs hung loose, and I kicked my feet as if playing in water.

‘What is this, my gold, wet clothes?’ Father looked surprised. He pretended.

‘She was by the river, with the boys again,’ said Mother. I made a face at her and she said, ‘See her naughtiness. It is all your fault.’

I twisted my face even more and, with a huff, crossed my arms high on my chest.

Father laughed and said, ‘Come, come, my emerald, be polite.’

‘Okay, Father.’ I unfolded my arms and, with a fake smile, said, ‘Sorry, Mother.’

‘See how she dramas. Look at her!’ Mother sighed. ‘You and your father, do as you wish, I don’t care.’ So grumbling, Mother disappeared into her vast kitchen, and left me feeling sorry for the poor servants.

‘Did you see any crocodiles by the river?’

‘No, Father, but the boat sailed well.’

‘You mean the boat I purchased for your birthday and hid in my secret place?’

‘Oops!’ I covered my mouth.

Father laughed and, in a gentle voice, he said, ‘I’m aware, my little ruby, that you’ve discovered all my hiding places.’ Then, leaning in, he whispered. ‘But your mother does not know, so let it be our secret.’ I rewarded him with several conspiratorial bops of my head.

‘Where is the boat?’ asked Father.

‘Oh, the boys teased, so I rose to their challenge and sailed the boat in the river. Perhaps that was why the crocodiles kept away. You know, it was a wooden boat and crocodiles don’t like to eat wood.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, my blue sapphire, crocodiles detest wood.’

‘Oh, you know too? You’re a clever Father.’ Seeing my father’s pleased look, I brought my courage to full play and puckered to look pitiful.

‘But the rocks had no such qualms,’ I said, ‘and they smashed my boat and it broke.’

‘Oh dear, my emerald, some rocks can be so inconsiderate.’

I paused and wondered whether Father was teasing me. I had to put him to the test, and so I whined.

‘But it was not my fault, and Anandan forced me to sail it.’

I tried to force out tears, but it did not work. And I had forgotten to bring along my chilli—the green one. Not the red, because I was not silly anymore. After the Old Watchman incident, I resorted to the milder green ones.

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2019

Song of the Ankle Rings, an adaptation of Silappatikaram

Continued on Monday: Broken Precious

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