Ponniyin Selvan -1 | Fresh Floods |Chapter - 5 | The KuravaiKoothu

Ponniyin Selvan - 1

Fresh Floods | Chapter - 5 | The Kuravaikoothu

The friends had strolled out of the anthappuram when a feminine

voice reached them. “Kandamaaraa! Kandamaaraa!”

“That’s my mother—wait a while here, will you?” and

Kandamaaran vanished within the ladies’ quarters again.

Vandhiyathevan, left to cool his heels in the corridor, could not help

but listen to the muffled sounds of women throwing a barrage of

questions at his friend, who stammered and stuttered his answers. A

burst of tinkling laughter assaulted him, as well.

Perhaps they were laughing at him, Vandhiyathevan wondered,

and felt his face grow hot with shame and anger. But there was no

more time to be wasted on such thoughts; Kandamaaran re-

appeared that very instant. “Come on,” he grabbed his friend’s hands

and dragged him away. “There’s a great deal I must show you!”

While they made a duly thorough inspection of such grand sights

as the Kadambur Palace’s moonlit courtyards, dance and music

halls, large granaries, marble terraces, beautifully carved alcoves

and balconies, towers, commemorative plaques, kalasams and royal

stables, Vandhiyathevan put forth his question as nonchalantly as he

could. “The ladies seemed to be very merry when you left me to

answer their questions—were they so very overjoyed at my arrival?”

“They certainly were happy to see you—my mother and the rest

liked you very well. But you weren’t the reason for their laughter—”

“Oh? Who, then?”

“You know, don’t you, that Pazhuvettarayar has married a young

woman after all these years, at this advanced age? He’s brought her

here with him in a closed palanquin—but listen to this: he won’t send

her to the women’s quarters! He chooses, instead, to keep her

locked up in his own apartment. One of our maids happened to catch

sight of her as she peeped into their rooms through the palagani,

and described her in such glowing terms that no one knows what to

make of it. They’re now speculating about her birth and identity—

maybe she’s from Ilankai, Kalingam or perhaps even the Chera

kingdom! You’re aware, I suppose, that the Pazhuvettarayars

originally hail from those parts?”

“Of course; you told me so, yourself,” Vandhiyathevan waved a

careless hand. “Be that as it may—how long has it been since the

old man married this mysterious beauty from who-knows-where?”

“Not more than two years, I should think. Rumour has it that he

doesn’t leave her alone for a moment; takes his beloved lady with

him in a palanquin wherever he goes. People have been trading

gossip about his marital escapades for quite a while now. What else

do you expect when a man of his age and standing gives in to

temptation and stoops to spending all hours with a young girl?”

“That’s no reason for such widespread talk about old men and

their predilection for young women; shall I tell you the truth about

such gossip? Women, my dear Kandamaaraa, are jealous creatures.

I’m not putting down your family—merely commenting about their

nature, in general. Kadambur’s royal ladies are dark-complexioned

beauties; Pazhuvettarayar’s young wife is a golden nymph, with skin

like a delicately tinted lotus! Hardly surprising, is it, that they should

comment about her in such terms—”

“Golden—but how on earth would you know? Have you seen her,

then? Where, and when? If Pazhuvettarayar ever caught wind of it,

you’d be dead in moments—”

“You know me, Kandamaaraa—I’m hardly the man to be terrified

about such things. In any case, it wasn’t what you think. I was part of

the crowd at Veera Narayanapuram, watching the Pazhuvettarayar

cavalcade as it passed by me. By the way, I did hear that the

elephants, horses, palanquins, parivattams and everything else were

part of your welcoming committee—”

“True enough. What of it?”

“What, indeed? I merely compared his magnificent entry, with

mine –”

Kandamaaran chuckled appreciatively. “We gave

Pazhuvettarayar the welcome due to the Empire’s Treasurer—while

you, as a warrior staunch and true, deserved something a little more

spontaneous, shall we say? If, by MurugaPeruman’s grace, you

should happen to become something more—such as the Kadambur

royal family’s son-in-law, for instance—you’ll find that your welcome

changes entirely!” He paused. “But you were about to speak of

something else, weren’t you? How did you ever know that

Pazhuvettarayar’s beautiful wife was a golden nymph?”

“Ha, there I was, gaping at Pazhuvettarayar as he passed me by,

majestically seated on his elephant—truth be told, Kandamaaraa, he

seemed more like Yamadharman on his terrifying black bull—and

lost in daydreams about how, one day, I should like to ascend to his

height. A closed palanquin followed him. I was wondering about its

occupant, when a slender hand crept out and pushed away its silk-

screen a little, allowing me a glimpse of a golden face. And that was

all I saw. From what you’ve been telling me now, she would seem to

be his young wife.”

“You’re a lucky man, my friend. Word is that no man has ever

managed to catch the smallest glimpse of her—but you saw an arm

and her face, didn’t you? What country did she seem to be from, did

you think?”

“I’ll confess that I didn’t really bend my mind to it, at that moment.

From what little I saw, though, I wonder if she might be from

Kashmir? Or one of those lands beyond the seas, such as

Saavakam, Kadaaram, Misiram—or even Greece? Perhaps she’s

from the Arab lands? I’ve heard tales that they cover their women

from head to toe the moment they’re born—”

From far away, the sound of instrumental music fell on their ears.

The beats and notes of Salli, Karadi, Parai, Udukku and a flute

blended together as they reached the friends.

“What’s happening?” asked Vandhiyathevan.

“It looks like the KuravaiKoothu is about to begin—they’re playing

the prelude, I think. What’s your pleasure? Would you like to watch?

Or prefer to have your meal and make an early night of it?”

Azhwarkkadiyaan’s enthusiastic words about the celebrations at

Kadambur, that night, echoed in Vandhiyathevan’s ears. His mind

was made up in an instant. “I’ve never seen a KuravaiKoothu,

Kandamaaraa—I should like to, now.”

The friends turned a corner in the long corridor, to find the glory

of a stage set for the performance in front of them. And in truth, they

were just in time: spectators had begun to arrive.

The stage for the KuravaiKoothu was set in the midst of a vast

space, a white-sand strewn courtyard, enclosed on one side by the

palace and the fort’s thick walls on the other. Drawings of roosters,

peacocks and swans were set up on the stage at appropriate

positions; various colourful decorations consisting of puffed rice from

roasted red grains, glossy red and black kunrimani beads, fragrant

flowers and turmeric-smeared thinai rice were sprinkled liberally.

Large lamps or kuthuvilakkus and oil-torches burnt bright in an effort

to dispel the encroaching the darkness—but smoke belched by said

torches and the fog-like density of various incenses like akhil

dimmed the light, producing a dramatic effect. Musicians had seated

themselves in front and by the sides of the stage, and begun their

performance with alacrity.

The thunderous beats, scented flowers and aromatic incense

wended their way into Vandhiyathevan’s brain and for a moment, the

world seemed to spin.

Once the chief guests arrived, there was no more reason to tarry.

Nine women gathered on the stage, prepared to begin their

performance. In accordance with the Koothu tradition of those times,

they wore garments moulded to their figures and jewellery that set

off their charms to perfection. Silambu anklets clinked on their feet;

their tresses fairly glowed with red flowers such as kanni, kadamba,

kaandhal, kurinji and sevvalari—all blooms set to gladden

MurugaPeruman’s heart. In addition to wearing them, they had

woven the flowers into a long garland as well, and themselves into it.

Some held parrots in their hands gracefully, fashioned from

sandalwood and painted in a riot of colours.

They paid their respects to the gathered audience; the Koothu

began in earnest.

The women sang songs in praise of MurugaPeruman, his

courage, the valour that led to confront demons such as

Soorapadman and Gajamugan; the stirring tales of his battles

against them; the enormity of the divine power he wielded that

vaporized entire seas and oceans, and his complete annihilation of

evil forces. They spoke of his beauty, his many attractive charms, his

compassion, and of the celestial women who, themselves the

epitome of beauty, yearned for the love of such a warrior; of

Muruga’s magnanimity in refusing the hands of such high-born

damsels and journeying to the wild mountains of Thamizhagam

where he wooed and won the heart of a simple tribal girl, who

shooed birds as she guarded thinai.

The stories they told; the songs they sang, and their beautifully

coordinated dances, not to mention the steady beats of the parai and

the melodious notes of the flute, set pulses racing and nerves

jangling in anticipation.

They finished, finally, with the age-old, traditional blessing:

“Pasiyumpiniyumpagaiyumazhiga!

Mazhaiyumvalamumdhanamumperuga!”

[Woe to Famine, Disease and War! Welcome, welcome, to Rains,

Wealth and Fortune!]

Their departure was the sign for the next, and more important

part of the Koothu to commence: the Velanattam, the dance of

Velan. Accordingly, the principal players, the Devaralan and

Devaratti, the male and female components of the dance, arrived on

stage. True to the roles they were to act, each was dressed in blood-

red garments and had twined gloriously red sevvalari flower garlands

around them. Their foreheads were smeared thickly with red

kungumam; their mouths glistened red with the juice of betel leaves

and areca-nuts. Their eyes, when they cast them around the

audience, glowed a bloodthirsty red.

It began, to tell the truth, in a subdued fashion; man and woman

danced away on stage—by themselves, at times; in tandem, hands

inter-woven, at others. As the minutes went by, the crashing beats of

instruments picked up pace—and their dance turned turbulent,

reverberating with emotion. The Devaratti danced to a corner of the

stage and picked up a spear; the Devaralan pranced to her and did

his best to wrest the weapon from her. The Devaratti protested and

tried to fend him off; the Devaralan, after a prolonged effort, finally

grew tired of her refusal and delivered a mighty leap that set the

stage quaking. He grabbed the spear from his mate, upon which the

Devaratti crept away from the stage, as though trembling in fear at

the sight.

The Devaralan grasped the spear and began to dance; a dance

that grew in frenzy and mad, mad energy by the moment. A dance of

annihilation, of destruction, that razed down the pride and arrogance

of the demon Soorapadman and his evil cohorts. Velan hacked away

each of the demon’s heads but—lo and behold—they simply grew

back! The more they did, the more did Velan’s wrath boil over. His

fury reached enormous proportions; his eyes spit sparks of fire. And

finally, the demon lay dead at his hands. The spear dropped from the

Devaralan’s nerveless fingers.

Suddenly, every instrument stopped its agitated performance;

none but the udukku could be heard, rattled furiously by the head

priest. The Devaralan quaked and shivered on stage; every pore in

his body jangled with a sparking energy that seemed to fire up the

nerve-endings in his brain.

“The Sannadham!” whispered his audience, comprehending his

state as almost God-like, filled with the power of divine perception,

and the ability to foretell the future. “It is time!”

And indeed, so it seemed, as the priest rattled his udukku with

more energy than ever. Presently, he focused his attention on the

quivering Devaralan: “Vela! Muruga! Commander of the Divine

Armies!” he entreated. “Kandha! Destroyer of the Demon Soora!

Grant us your pearls of wisdom! Give us knowledge of what is to

happen!”

“What do you wish to know?” growled the Devaralan, shaking in

the grip of the Sannadham. “Tell me!”

“Will the rains come on time? Will our lands never lack wealth

and water?” asked the priest. “Shall the empire flourish? Would all

our desires be fulfilled?”

“The rains shall come! The land shall flourish! All your desires

shall be fulfilled! But you—you have failed—failed to satisfy my

Mother—failed to worship Her! You have not given Her Heart’s

desire!” shrieked the Devaralan, caught in the grip of other-worldly

power. “She asks for blood—my Mother, the fearsome Goddess

Durga, Mother Kali wishes for a sacrifice! She Who Guards the

World, the Supreme Goddess Chandikeswari, who vanquished

Mahishasuran wants a sacrifice!”

“What kind of a sacrifice?” asked the priest.

“Are you prepared to offer what She wishes?” The Devaralan

shook and quivered in frenzy. “Will you give what Her Heart craves?”

“We will; we will!” yelled the priest.

“Blood! The blood of kings!” The Devaralan screamed,

catastrophe colouring his voice. “My Mother craves the blood of a

royal dynasty that spans a thousand years!”

Firelight cast strange, vaguely terrifying shadows on the faces of

Pazhuvettarayar, Mazhavarayar, Sambuvaraiyar and other

dignitaries, seated directly across the stage. They glanced at each

other upon the Devaralan’s startling words; their bloodshot eyes,

already swimming with the mad fervour of the evening’s events,

traded furtive glances.

Sambuvaraiyar directed a quick look at the priest and gave a

barely perceptible nod.

The udukku stopped, abruptly. The Devaralan, shaking on the

stage, dropped like a felled tree. The Devaratti ran up, managed to

scoop him into her arms and made a hasty exit. The audience

dispersed in silence.

Somewhere, far away, jackals howled into the night.

Vandhiyathevan, whose nerves were almost as jittery as anyone

else’s, what with the excitement of the Koothu and its attendant

emotions, pricked his ears at the animals’ inhuman howls. His eyes

strayed almost involuntarily, to the fortress walls.

Azhwarkkadiyaan’s head rested there.

Vandhiyathevan almost jumped out of his skin, horrified. His skin

broke out in goose-pimples; the hairs on his neck rose, prickling in

terror. It looked as though—as though—someone had cut off

Nambi’s head and stuck it on the wall!

He blinked and stared at the fortress wall again—to find it empty.

Vandhiyathevan shook his head, ashamed at his morbid fancy.

Nameless fears and conjectures filled his heart; he could not find it in

himself to shake them off.