Ponniyin Selvan - 1 | Fresh Floods |Chapter - 8 | Who is in the Palanquin?

Ponniyin Selvan - 1

Fresh Floods |Chapter - 8 | Who is in the Palanquin?

A confused babble of voices arose from the men gathered in the

courtyard, as everyone seemed to speak at once. Discussions,

opinions and arguments erupted in a dozen corners and for a while,

Vandhiyathevan was hard put to understand a single word or

recognize the man who uttered it.

Sambuvaraiyar, who seemed to come to his senses first, spoke

up. “Aren’t we required to furnish Pazhuvettarayar with some sort of

answer?” His voice rang in strident tones around the courtyard.

“What is the purpose of arguing endlessly amongst ourselves? The

night is into its third jaamam as it is; the moon swims in the night sky.

We must come to a decision—quickly.”

“I am plagued, if you will pardon me, with a doubt. Perhaps

others harbour the same sentiments as I,” came the hoarse voice

that had spoken earlier. “Should the Lord of Pazhuvoor not object, I

should like to voice it and seek clarification.”

“It is Vanangamudiyaar who speaks, is it not?” said

Pazhuvettarayar, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Let him rise

and come to the light.”

“It is I, indeed. And here I am.”

“I reserve my fury for battlefields and enemies—not those I

consider my allies and friends. You may speak your mind without any

scruple.”

“I believe I will. The King of Pazhuvoor lists certain crimes against

King SundaraChozha Maharaja, but is it not true that some level the

same charges against Pazhuvettarayar, as well?” asked

Vanangamudiyaar. “I do not say I believe it—indeed, I do not—but I

should like to know the truth, in any case.”

“Pray, enlighten me: what is the truth that you wish to know?”

“This assembly is well aware of the fact that the Lord of

Pazhuvoor married a young woman a few years ago—”

Sambuvaraiyar’s voice cut in at this point, burning with anger.

“This is outrageous—I am sure I speak for everyone here when I say

that we object to Vanangamudiyaar’s tactless comment. To address

our peerless leader in such a way—to level such an accusation

against our general, our leader who has our best interests at heart is

akin to blasphemy! In short—”

“Much as I appreciate the sentiment, I entreat Sambuvaraiyar to

remain patient, and allow Vanangamudiyaar to ask his questions.

There is nothing more poisonous than a mind riddled with suspicion;

far better to lance the boil and relieve oneself of unending doubts. I

did, at the late age of fifty-five and more years, marry a young

woman—I admit this with no qualms whatsoever. But when, my

friends, have I ever declared myself an incarnation of Lord Rama, in

this Kali Yuga? Neither have I claimed to be an EkapathniViradhan;

bound to one wife. I fell in love with her and she with me; we found

our hearts united, and wedded each other according to ancient

Thamizh customs. Pray, is this a crime?”

“No—not at all!” rose several voices in unison.

“It was never my intention to accuse you of matrimony, My Lord.

Who, amongst us, has bound himself to merely one wife, after all?

And yet—yet—”

“Yes? There is no reason to hesitate. Ask what you will.”

“There is talk that Pazhuvettarayar listens far too much to his

young queen, the Ilaiya Rani. Worse—that he consults her even

regarding affairs of state and royalty. That he takes her with him

where he goes.”

A mocking cackle erupted in the crowd.

“Stop!” Sambuvaraiyar sprang up again, voice shaking with fury.

“Who dared to laugh, just now? Show yourself! What gives you the

right to jeer at our leader?” He unsheathed his sword, almost

growling.

“If it is any consolation, it was I,” admitted Pazhuvettarayar. Then,

he turned to Vanangamudiyaar. “Tell me—is it such a crime to take

my lawfully wedded wife, who bears my thaali around her neck,

wherever I go? It is true that I rarely stay away from her—but to

accuse me of consulting her regarding state affairs is unjust. I have

not done so, and never will.”

“If that be the case, I pray that Pazhuvettarayar answers just one

more question—and I shall pronounce myself satisfied. What does a

closed palanquin, meant to stay within the walls of an anthappuram,

do here? What is its place among those who are involved in

discussing such serious matters as the succession? Is there anyone

within? If not, whose are the bangles that clinked a while ago—or the

throat that cleared itself?”

A strange, uneasy hush settled over the courtyard. Since

everyone present had entertained Vanangamudiyaar’s suspicions at

one point or the other during the meeting, no ringing protest rose

against him. Sambuvaraiyar’s lips did, in fact, mumble a few words,

but they were too indistinct for anyone to understand.

Pazhuvettarayar it was, who chose to cleave the stifling silence

with his strong, confident voice. “An excellent question, and one that

deserves an explanation. Be sure that I shall give it when this

meeting is at an end. May I have half a naazhigai more? Surely my

esteemed friends trust me enough to grant me this favour?”

“We do, we do!” exclaimed many voices. “We have complete faith

in you!”

“I assure you that I cherish as much regard for Pazhuvettarayar,

as anyone assembled here,” explained Vanangamudiyaar. “I posed

these questions only because he bade me clear my mind. I swear,

here and now, that his every wish is my command, and I am

prepared to do anything to carry it out. Should I be required to

sacrifice my life in his service, so be it!”

“I have the greatest faith in Vanangamudiyaar’s loyalty; in fact, I

am aware of every one of your trustworthiness, and I cherish your

regard. For that very reason, it becomes all the more important for us

to remember why we chose to meet, and come to a decision about

several important affairs. King SundaraChozhar may live long and

rule his Empire as he wishes—but we are here to consider the

possibility that that rosy future may not come to pass. If the royal

physicians were to be proven right—if the comet in the sky proves to

be a portent omen—it behooves us to decide on the rightful

successor to the Chozha throne.”

“We request Pazhuvettarayar to give us his honoured opinion, on

these matters. None of us would venture a word against yours.”

“On the contrary—at no other time has it been so important for all

of you to speak up, and inform me of your views. At this juncture, I

should like to take the opportunity to remind ourselves of certain

events in the past. Twenty four years ago, the great warrior, saint

and pious ruler, King Kandaradhithar ascended the heavenly abode;

his son, Madhuranthaka Thevar was a mere infant, a year old, at that

time. It was for this reason that Kandaradhithar wished to place his

brother Arinjaya Thevar on the Chozha throne and rule after him; we

were informed of his sentiments by his devoted wife, Empress

SembianMaadevi. And it was loyalty to our king that made us agree

to such an arrangement. Unfortunately, cruel destiny did not allow

Arinjayar to rule for more than a year. His son

ParanthakaSundaraChozhar was a strapping young man of twenty

years; we, the empire’s pillars, the ministers, aides, chieftains, lords,

kottam and kootram officials gathered, discussed the best interests

of the country, and crowned him king. There is no doubt that this was

an excellent decision; until two years ago, SundaraChozhar gave us

no cause to doubt his rule. He consulted us upon royal matters and

events prospered as ever before. Now however, his health is

deteriorating—and that circumstance leaves us with certain

questions. Kandaradhithar’s honoured son, Madhuranthaka Thevar

is now an extremely capable prince; his piety, accomplishments,

intelligence and character make him an eligible contender for the

throne. In the meanwhile, AdithaKarikalar, SundaraChozhar’s

firstborn is stationed in Kanchi as the Commander of the Northern

Chozha Forces. My friends—who, among these two men, is worthy

of being the heir? I ask you to consider royal tradition and practice,

thus far; to consult what Manu Needhi tells us. What, according to

the dictates of fairness and justice, would be your decision? Would

you choose Madhuranthaka Thevar, son of the elder

Kandaradhithar? Or AdithaKarikalar, the grandson of the younger

ArinjayaChozhar? Think—think carefully; search your mind, and give

me your opinion …”

“Kandaradhithar’s son Madhuranthaka Thevar is the rightful heir

to the throne,” answered Sambuvaraiyar promptly. “That decision,

my lord, is according to the dictates of justice, fairness, and

righteousness.”

“True!” “This is my decision as well,” “I agree!” murmured the

others, one by one.

“Your opinion is mine; the Chozha throne does, indeed, belong to

Madhuranthaka Thevar. But such a decision, although easy to make,

will entail enormous difficulty if it must be enforced. Tell me—is

everyone here prepared to undergo any hardship, to make it so? Do

we swear to sacrifice our body, soul and wealth in fighting for

Madhuranthakar’s rights, and to restore them to him? Do I have your

assurance that you will all pledge yourselves to this noble cause at

the sacred feet of Goddess Durga?” Pazhuvettarayar’s voice fairly

rang with a new fervour.

Silence descended on the gathering again.

“We are prepared to swear, in the presence of God, that we shall

sacrifice anything to uphold Madhuranthaka Thevar’s rights,”

Sambuvaraiyar, finally, spoke up. “All of us do wish, however, to ask

you something before we do: what are the Prince’s own sentiments?

Is he prepared and willing to ascend the throne? Many are the tales

of the piety of Kandaradhithar’s son—that he takes no joy in worldly

pleasures and devotes himself completely to the worship of Siva

Peruman. We have heard, too, that nothing could be farther from his

desire than to rule this empire. In addition, his mother Sembian

Mahadevi does not wish it either. We should like to know the truth of

such statements, if you please.”

“An excellent question—asked at the right time too. I shall answer

it in a way satisfactory to everyone. In point of fact, it ought to have

been answered much before. I beg your pardon for not doing so,”

Pazhuvettarayar began, with a preamble. “The whole country knows

that Sembian Mahadevi has done everything in her power to turn her

son from thoughts of the throne and towards worship of the divine.

What neither the country, nor its people know, are her reasons for

doing so. Should it ever become known that Madhuranthakar wished

to ascend the throne, PeriyaPiratti feared that such knowledge would

put a period to his existence—”

“Ah! Is that so?” exclaimed several voices.

“Indeed. Any mother worth the title would wish her son alive and

uncrowned, rather than see him rule and be assassinated.

Madhuranthaka Thevar, to whom his mother’s words are as sacred

as the Vedhas, duly devoted himself completely to God, spurned all

worldly pleasures and spent his time in worship of Siva Peruman.

For some time, though, his sentiments have been undergoing a

steady change. He has begun to feel that he has a right to ascend

the throne, and to wish to govern the country in the best way

possible. He is prepared to voice his sentiments in public, once he is

secure in the knowledge of your fealty to him—”

“And what is the proof of this?”

“Certainly, I am prepared to provide as much and more proof, as

you wish. But if I do—will you all swear to pledge yourselves to his

cause and rule?”

“We will! We will!” The gathering assented vociferously.

“I hope no one entertains any further doubts?”

“No, none at all!”

“In that case, there is no reason to delay—here is the proof you

have all been waiting for. And I have an opportunity to clear

Vanangamudiyaar’s suspicions as well.” Pazhuvettarayar rose,

walked majestically towards the palanquin in a corner, and stopped

beside it.

“My Prince—we require your presence amongst us,” he said, in

his humblest voice. “Do step out of the palanquin and cast your eyes

on these warriors, these pillars of strength who are prepared to lay

down their lives to uphold your noble cause!”

Vandhiyathevan, who had been listening to the courtyard

conversation with all his ears from behind his pillar above-stairs, now

leant forward carefully, and peered down.

A slender golden hand—the same, delicate, rose-leaf

complexioned limb he had seen that evening—crept out of the

palanquin, and gently pushed aside the screen. Except that, what he

had believed to be a woman’s bangle was in fact a kanganam, an

ornament usually worn by princes. The next instant, that face, the

one that resembled the golden fullness of a radiant moon, appeared

from behind the screen. A man with a form that rivaled the beauty of

Manmadhan himself stepped out, smiling at the warriors in the

courtyard.

Ah—wasn’t this Prince Madhuranthakar, the son of King

Kandaradhithar? His presence within a palanquin had made

Vandhiyathevan mistake him for a woman. He threw a swift glance at

the fort wall—was Azhwarkkadiyaan, who had committed the same

error, still eavesdropping on the scene?

Tree branches shadowed that section of the fort wall, however,

and nothing could be seen.

By this time, the courtyard below was resounding with ferocious

shouts and chants: “Long live Madhuranthaka Thevar! Long live the

Crown Prince!” Men unsheathed their swords, raised their spears,

and their voices to the heavens. “Vetrivel! Veera vel!”

To remain here anymore would lead to complications;

Vandhiyathevan slipped away from the pillar, returned to his bed in

the isolated balcony, and lay down.