Chapter 8 — Embers to ashes
Year 1, Kali yuga
62 years before present day
“Nandā!” the priest called. “Come, the pyre stands ready.”
The young boy stared back at the old priest, wiping away tears. “What does it matter?” his voice shook with anger. “The pyre holds no corpse, does it? Not my father, not my brothers. It is but a pile of twigs and sticks.”
The priest hung his head. “I understand, son. Bu—”
“Son? To whom?” Nandan raised his voice. “I am no longer a son to my father! I am no longer a brother to my siblings!”
“Aiyyo!” the priest clasped his hands over his ears. “Your mother still lives, forget her not!”
Nandan remained silent, glaring back at the priest, trying to blink back the tears.
The priest slowly put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Please come with me, son. The anointed time is about to pass. This ritual cannot wait.” The priest pleaded, but Nandan stared back, his face still impassive.
The priest tried again: “Please honour your father and brothers, Nandā. The peace of their souls is in your hands.” he took a step back, and looked pleadingly at the boy before him. Nandan’s shoulders slackened slightly, and the priest took the opportunity to lead the way back to the riverbank. Many pyres burned high already, the thick acrid smoke obscuring the evening sky. A stiff river breeze swirled the fumes around, and making it difficult to breathe.
At the shore three pyres stood unlit, one next to the other. The priest and Nandan arrived at the first pyre, and stopped. “For your two brothers,” he said, motioning to the two pyres closest to them. “And for your father.” he pointed to the one at the end.
The old priest sighed, and began his duties. He began to chant the prayers, but his voice was heavy. He finished invocations, and lit a torch he had kept aside. He touched each of the pyres, the brothers first, and finally the one of the father. The dry branches caught fire, and the blaze rose, crackling loudly. The priest hobbled between the mounds, tending to them, every now and then stopping to feed them with oil and ghee.
Nandan stood there, absently watching the flames dance in front of him. The fire was unbearably hot, but Nandan felt none of the searing heat.
The priest was at the first mound when he noticed a figure standing at the water’s edge, close to the father’s pyre. He shielded his eyes from the flames, and squinted. “Vēni Ammāl! You are not to be here!” he called over the loud fire. “Have you come looking for your son? He is here!”
She didn’t respond, and seemed not to have heard them. She stood there, looking desolately into the burning branches.
“Mother!” Nandan cried out, and coughed in the dense smoke. “I am he—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Vēni Ammāl lunged forward, and threw herself onto the fire. Nandan screamed, and tried to run to his mother, but fell, stumbling in the ankle-deep slush. He craned his neck up, and saw the faint silhouette of his mother in the spiralling flames. A blood-curdling shriek rent the evening gloom, and Vēni Ammāl keeled over, silent forever.
Nandan scrambled up, his vision blurring from the smoke and tears. The priest caught him, and held him tight. “Stop, son! She is gone! There’s nothing we can do!” He fell on his knees, lamenting loudly.
Nandan slowly stood, his mind blank with shock. The fire had already consumed Vēni Ammāl, her limbs indistinguishable from the blackened cinders around her. Her head was turned up, the mouth still open as if still in a scream. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Behind him, the aged priest continued to wail, kneeling in the mud.
Nandan then turned to the west, where the tall ramparts of Karkottai was just visible in the dusk. Grey ash swirled all around him. The Thattān emperor did this to me. The Thattān dynasty must die, he swore, his fists clenched. They must all perish, just as my entire family did. He watched through the night, as the empty pyres and the corpse of his mother burned down, until all that remained were only ashes.
Read next—
