Chapter 13 — In search of a new beginning
Year 2378, Dwapara yuga
85 years before present day
“Witch!” shouted one of the villagers gathered around the priest’s hut. “Demon-mother!” cried another.
Inside, the priest covered his ears with his palms. “Eesanae! Why do you torment us so? Why do you cause us much misery?” he exclaimed, in a mixture of rage and despair.
Beside him, his wife lay on the cot, unconscious. The infant lay by her side, motionless. It had but three limbs, and a misshapen head. Its jaw was broken, and its head was more skull than face. He covered it with a piece of cloth, he could look at it no longer. There was a low knock on the door. He took no notice of it.
The knock was repeated, louder this time. “It is I, Nambī.”
The priest gathered himself, and slowly walked to the door. He unlatched it, and cracked it open. The village headman stood at the doorway, and the villagers stood packed behind him in the street. Their voices rose in unison, and began to shout curses again, but Nambī raised a hand to silence them. He then turned to the priest. “Come, let us talk inside.” he said, taking a step over the threshold. He stepped into the hut and shut the door behind him.
Inside, the headman reached out and clasped the priest’s hand tightly. “This is most unfortunate, pūsāri.” he said in a sombre tone, looking over at the woman and the lifeless child. The priest remained silent, and sat on the edge of the cot.
“The village folk want you to leave Malaivāsal.” the village headman said, bluntly. “They think your wife cursed.”
“That is not true!” snapped the priest, and his eyes flashed red.
“Appanae!” Nambī raised his arms. “I do not doubt it, priest.” Nambī replied. “But it falls on my head to keep the peace in these parts.” He waited for a reply, but did not get any. “Listen to me,” he placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “You and your wife are not safe here. The people want you dead, and I have done all I can to appease them, at least for now. You are a good man, but I cannot talk reason to these folk. For the third time, Meenakshi has delivered a stillborn. The villagers hold this to be an ill-omen of some great impending doom. Nothing I have said has convinced them otherwise.”
The priest was not listening, he was absently stroking his wife’s forehead.
Nambī sighed. “For all that you have done for me, I am truly grateful. For my part, tonight I will have my bullock-cart wait for you at the end of the street. Arulan will take you to the river. Please, I implore you to leave Malaivāsal, for your sakes and your wife’s.”
The priest looked up, despondent, but remained silent. He nodded.
Nambī sighed, inwardly relieved. He walked to the door, and turned back. “It is our ill-luck. We do not deserve you, learned priest. I wish you safe travel and better fortunes.” He slipped out the door, and shut it slowly behind him. He ordered the villagers to disperse, and soon, all was silent.
——
Sure enough, a small cart waited at the end of the street. It was well into the night, and the moon shone weakly down as the priest grasped his wife’s hand tight, and walked out his house. She was in a daze, and followed her husband as he led her past the huts and towards the cart. They reached the cart, and he helped her climb in through the back, and threw their bundle of meagre belongings beside her. She sat there, with a blank expression on her face, and grasped the bundle tightly around her chest.
The priest turned away, and walked to the front, where Arulan sat ready with the reins in his hands. He stepped on the mounting plank and hauled himself to sit by the driver. A few villagers stood in the doorways of their huts. Even in the dim light, he could make out their faces frowning with anger and derision.
With a low whistle, and a gentle tug on the reins, Arulan turned into the street, and guided the cart through the narrow lanes. Soon, the houses grew sparser, and they left the village behind, and reached the fields. From the rise, they could see the river up ahead, a silver ribbon dimly reflected in the moonlight.
Kannanār turned back to look at his hometown one last time. The usually dark village of Malaivāsal was lit up brightly, the low thatched roofs silhouetted in the flames of a single hut that burned in the night, tall flames reaching up into the starry sky.
——
“Ayya!” called the boatman.
Kannanār woke up from his tired sleep. It was well after dawn, the sun was climbing up into the sky.
“Here, beyond these fields lies the capital, Karkottai.” the boatman said, as the coracle hit the muddy riverbank. Kannanār nudged Meenakshi awake. Around them, women were washing clothes, and children frolicked in the shallows. Young men dove off high rocks, and a mahout bathed his elephant further downstream. The elephant sprayed water high into the air with its trunk, and the children screamed in delight as it rained down upon them. Nobody paid any attention to the weary, dishevelled travellers in the small craft.
Kannanār and Meenakshi stepped onto the shore. They walked up the stony embankment, and endless paddy fields spread out before them, a vast blanket of green. A narrow, sandy dyke meandered in between. They started down the path, Kannanār leading Meenakshi by her hand. She was still in a trance, and blindly went where she was led.
Farmers were hard at work, some of them singing loudly as they drove the stout oxen that pulled the heavy ploughs, tilling the soil. Birds chirped in the air, and a gentle breeze blew past them. Even this cheerful setting did little to lift Meenakshi’s spirits.
They walked, and in the midst the fields, they came across a small open shrine, with a small lingam. A tall priest stood beside it, with a basket of flowers in his arm. He was offering them one by one to the lingam, slowly chanting prayers. Kannanār watched, as they walked past, and stopped short. “Stop!” he cried, throwing his hands in the air.
The priest in the shrine looked up, annoyed at the interruption. His ash-smeared forehead wrinkled and looked sternly at the man before him, and the woman behind him. “You intrude my ritual?” he asked, lowering the basket.
“Apologies, ayya.” Kannanār clasped his palms together. He walked to the edge of the shrine, hesitant to step in. “The centhigaipū is never offered to the Lord Supreme along with the rest of the flowers...this is sacrilegious!”
The priest glanced at his basket and back at the shabby traveller. “What does an uncouth simpleton like yourself know about the Lord?” he challenged, his brows bristling. “Be on your way, beggar!”
“Appanae! I implore you!” Kannanār bowed his head. “I may not know much else, but this I do. The parijatam and the centhigai are never to be offered together! It is most blasphemous!”
And then they started to argue loudly. Kannanār remained at the entrance, and the priest continued to berate him. Neither was willing to back down. Some of the farmers from the fields gathered around them, laughing.
Suddenly, Meenakshi screamed at the top of her voice. “Enough! Enough, stop this absurdity! Are you both not priests?” Her eyes seethed with rage, she was no longer in a daze. “You! Your child is dead! Our third child, and not a day has passed since! And here you stand, in this strange land, squabbling with the first person you come across!” she then turned to the other priest. “And you! You stand in a place of worship and shout curses! What does it matter what flower is offered? You both stand here arguing over trivialities! Kali yugam is upon us, priests, and are your prayers going to stop that? Can they bring back my children? Will they?” She fell to her knees, sobbing. She hung her head, lamenting in grief.
Kannanār stood there aghast. The farmers fell silent. Meenakshi’s cries slowly subsided, her head lulled, and slowly dropped to the ground, unconscious.
“Meenakshi!” Kannanār ran to his wife. Picking her up, he laid her head on his lap. “Water! Some water for my wife, please!”
“Bring her to the shade!” a farmer shouted. They carried her under a tree, and laid her on a wicker cot. One of the women quickly fetched a towel and dabbed her forehead with cold water. Meenakshi stirred, but they laid her back down.
Kannanār felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the the priest from the shrine. “I apologise,” he said, in a sincere tone. “And it is most unfortunate about your child, I apologise again, I did not know. Forgive my harsh words...I thought you a wandering mendicant. I did not know you too are a priest.”
“No, forgive me. It was not right of me to interrupt you as I did. I apologise, it is your shrine. I am unfamiliar with the customs in these parts.”
“Good, then. We are both at fault, and forgive each other.” The priest smiled. “What brings you to the capital? What is your name?”
“Siva Kannan, and we hail from Malaivāsal.” he looked down at the grass, and paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. “We came here in search of a better life.”
“Search no more, then. Our Highness the Queen Umayāl Devi has built many temples in the city. I officiate at the Veerabhadran periyakovil myself. An obstinate priest like yourself could definitely be useful!”
“That is fortunate news! I would truly be thankful to you!”
“What games the Lord plays with us! You were destined to pass by and notice the flowers. This is indeed a sign from above. Go, go to the river, bathe and return. I shall take you to the temple myself. Let your wife rest here in the meanwhile.”
Kannanār beamed. “He has turned our fortunes around so quickly! Indeed His benevolence knows no bounds. I shall return as quickly as the wind. But before that...tell me your name, kind priest!”
The priest smiled. “Ah, yes—Kalikāman.”
——
Year 2380, Dwapara yuga.
The aged midwife stood in the middle of the darkened street, and shielded her eyes from the driving rain. The downpour was heavy, and seemed to get stronger by the minute. She was already drenched, and she needed to get back to the mother and her newborn. The young woman had been in labour since afternoon, and it was close to midnight now. The father had run out of the house towards the evening, unable to bear her screams of agony.
A loud bolt of lightning lit up the entire lane, and she noticed a figure hunched in the nearby shrine. She sighed, and struggled up to the entrance. The man knelt on the floor, oblivious of the rain.
“Ayya Kannanārae!” she shouted over the howling wind. “Your prayers have been answered! Your fourth child lives—a boy!”
The man sprang up. His face remained blank for a moment, and then he wept. “A...a boy?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Indeed, a healthy boy. This one is sure to live. Come, your wife looks for you.”
Kannanār stood up, and brushed his unkempt jet-black hair away from his face. He turned to the small stone idol before him, and fell once again to the floor. “You have not forsaken me, Eesanae! I will sing you a thousand praises every day until I am no more.” He got up, ran out the arched gateway. The midwife tried to follow, but her old legs could not keep up with the ecstatic father. She hobbled after him, careful in the slippery mud.
“Meenakshi!” Kannanār burst through the door, and his wife slowly opened her eyes. He walked to the cot and embraced her. Her face glistened with beads of sweat, and her clothes were soaked. She smiled wearily and tried to sit up, but her body ached. Gently Kannanār wiped her brow, and looked at the tiny form next to her.
The baby was wrapped tightly with a silk cloth, and only the face was visible. It was sleeping soundly in spite of the deafening rain, and tears welled up in Kannanār’s eyes again. He picked up the bundle, and brought it close to a lamp. The baby’s dark skin glowed in the soft light. A drop of rain oozed from the roof, and splattered on to the baby’s cheek, and it shivered, clenching its eyes tighter. Kannanār smiled. “Mukhilan.” he said. “My son, born in the downpour of a thunderous storm cloud.”
He turned to his wife, but she had fallen asleep, exhausted. He kissed her forehead, and outside, the rain continued, unabated.
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