Ponniyin Selvan | Fresh Floods |Chapter - 2 | Azhwarkkadiyaan Nambi

Vandhiyathevan spurred his horse down from the banks, towards

a path that went south. His heart, at the moment, was light as a

feather, almost tumbling cartwheels in delight—much like the boats

that had skimmed forward so effortlessly on the lake’s surface. His

had always been an optimistic nature, willing to anticipate pleasure

rather than pain. Sheer exhilaration bubbled up from deep within,

coursing through his veins.

Something whispered to him that he was about to embark on a

strange and wonderful journey. Ah, if he could feel such delight just

by stepping into Chozha dominions, how much more enjoyable

would it be as he journeyed beyond Kollidam? How alluring would he

find those lands, overflowing with natural beauty? What would the

people, especially the women, be like? Such rivers, streams and

delightful, clear ponds! What a magnificent sight would the

RiverPonni present, enshrined in countless poems and epics? Her

lush banks, crowded with Punnai, Konnai and Kadhamba trees,

weighed down with their fragrant blossoms would gladden anyone’s

heart! Doubtless he would be treated to the sight of red lotuses,

kuvalai and kumutham flowers in ponds, enticing him as they

unfurled their delicate petals, their subtle scents wafting towards him

in welcome. Richly carved temples, built by Chozha kings renowned

for their piety would greet him on either side of the river’s banks,

affording opportunity for quiet devotion.

Ah, Pazhaiyarai—divine, beautiful Pazhaiyarai! The illustrious

Chozha capital that had wrested pride of place from such Chozha

mainstays as Poompuhar and Uraiyur. The latter cities were nothing

more than insignificant villages, at the moment. Such temples,

mansions, palaces, wide avenues, soldiers-quarters, magnificently

carved stone temples for Siva and Vinnagara temples for Vishnu as

Pazhaiyarai boasted, were never to be found anywhere else.

Vandhiyathevan had heard tales that the simple, charming Thevaram

and Thiruvaimozhi verses, sung with touching devotion by versatile

musicians, were capable of melting even a stone. Now, he would

have an opportunity to listen to such soul-stirring melodies himself.

That was not all: soon, he would have the honour of an audience

with one who was popularly held to be the equal of Manmadhan in

beauty and Velan, for courage: none other than Maharaja

ParanthakaSundaraChozhar himself. Even more important—he

would meet his daughter, the much loved and revered Chozha

Princess KundhavaiPiratti as well.

Provided, of course, he met with no danger upon the way.

What if he did, though? He had his spear; his trusty sword hung

sheathed, at his waist; his armour protected his body from injury.

Best of all, his heart possessed enough courage to overthrow any

calamity.

But then—there were MaathandaNaayakarAdithaKarikalar’s

instructions to him as well: they would prove a stumbling-block

indeed. He wasn’t to descend to brawling with anyone, no matter

what the provocation. Well, that might prove a difficult proposition.

Still, he had managed it thus far, a considerable distance, hadn’t he?

Just two days more. Until then, he would have to keep his temper in

check.

It had been Vandhiyathevan’s intention to reach

KadamburSambuvaraiyar’s palace by the time Aadhavan sank in the

west; he set a steady pace and soon, found himself trotting up to the

Veera NarayanapuraVinnagara Temple.

The AadiThirumanjanam festivities meant that the already

popular shrine was teeming with droves of people, filling even the

surrounding groves.

Stalls had erupted in every available corner, selling slices of jack-

fruit, bananas, cuts of sugarcane, sweet-meats and savouries;

others sold flowers with which women loved to adorn themselves,

and lotus buds meant for divine worship. Some stalls were

overflowing with heaps of coconuts, ilaneer, fragrant incense like

akhil, sandalwood paste and other necessities such as betel-leaves,

jaggery and puffed rice; business was brisk. But fun and frolic had

their place as well.

It was not just the vendors who thrived—at certain appropriate

corners sat astrologers, palmistry experts, men who advertised

themselves as masters at reading signs and divining the future, and

slick magicians who swore to remedy any poisonous bite. People

milled around all of them, enjoying the sights and scenes.

So did Vandhiyathevan, as he cruised slowly through the

organized pandemonium.

At one point, though, the uproar seemed to be at its raucous

best. Crowds of people thronged around, and some voices were so

loud that they permeated even the festivities. Evidently an argument

was in progress—and judging by the heated shouts, a vociferous

one.

Every instinct in Vandhiyathevan tugged at him to immerse

himself in the dispute; he simply could not help himself. He brought

his horse to a halt by the roadside, a little outside the crowd, and

climbed down. Communicating to the steed to remain in place was a

moment’s work; Vandhiyathevan patted the animal, broke into the

heaving crowd at an opportune position, and ploughed through its

ranks with alacrity. What he saw, when he arrived in its midst, made

him stop short in astonishment.

The cause of the massive argument and yells that almost

reached the heavens—were just three men.

They might be minuscule in number, but the surrounding crowd

more than made up for it. Each verbal combatant, it seemed, had his

own ardent following that shrieked its support whenever he put forth

a particularly brilliant argument—and this, Vandhiyathevan saw, was

the real reason for the clamour.

Once he had taken the time to observe all this, he bent his mind

to the dispute on hand.

One of the three men was almost smothered in sandalwood

markings that denoted the symbol of Thirumaal, or Lord Vishnu, and

wore a top-knot at the front of his head. His short and stocky build

proclaimed a hardened body; he held a staff, as well.

The second was a Siva devotee, adorned liberally with stripes of

viboothi, sacred ash.

The third happened to be clad in saffron and sported a bald head.

He, it was soon understood, was neither a Vaishnavite nor a Saivite,

but professed to be beyond such definitions: one who followed the

tenets of the AdvaithaVedantha philosophy.

“You, AzhwarkkadiyaanNambi, listen!” announced the Saivite.

“Haven’t we all heard tales of Brahma and Vishnu searching in vain

for the head and feet of Siva Peruman? Didn’t they fail spectacularly

to bind Him to such pitiful dimensions, and finally fall at His divine

feet, begging forgiveness for their transgressions? How, in all

honesty, can you argue that Thirumaal is worthier?”

This was the sign for AzhwarkkadiyaanNambi to brandish his

staff in a wide arc. “Stop this instant, you who worship the dust at

Siva’s feet!” he bellowed. “Your blessed Siva Peruman was the one

to rain boons on the undeserving head of Ilankai’s demon-king

Ravana—but didn’t all those ridiculous powers come to nothing,

before the divine bow of Vishnu’s incarnation, great Rama? How

could you possibly argue that Siva is the more powerful?”

The saffron-clothed Advaitha monk barged in. “Really, I fail to see

the point of these petty arguments. You may debate the greatness of

Siva or Vishnu until the end of time—but there would be no purpose

to it. The only truth, the greatest of them all, lies in Vedantha. You,

who still prostrate yourselves at the feet of mere deities, are doomed

to follow the paltry BhakthiMaargam; you are too ignorant to

understand that the spiritual path, Gnana Maargam lies above; and

the GnyasaMaargam, even more so. Once you arrive at this point,

you will realize that there is no such thing as Siva or Vishnu;

everything is Brahmam, the cosmic consciousness. Sarvam Brahma

Mayam Jagath. I should like to elaborate here on the excellent essay

in the Brahma Sutra Bhashyam written by SankaraBhagavadpaatha,

wherein he quotes—”

“Cease your ridiculous drivel!” yelled AzhwarkkadiyaanNambi.

“Do you even remember what your sacred Sankarachariyar did after

scribbling endless essays and commentaries on the Upanishads,

Bhagavad Geetha and Brahma Sutra? Listen to this:

Baja Govindham, Baja Govindham

Baja Govindham, Moodamadhe!”

Hear that? He’s instructing mindless idiots like you to chant the

name of Govindha and redeem yourselves, that’s what he says!”

And the crowd erupted into jeers, laughter and scornful

exclamations.

This comprehensively rude argument did not seem to have any

effect on the sanyasi. “Indeed, I have lost my mind, you top-knotted

ruffian! All you do is brandish your ridiculous staff in my face—and I

truly have abandoned my senses to even stand here, arguing with

the likes of you! I am, in fact, a moodamadhi!”

“Oy, I may have just a simple staff in my hands, you saffron-robed

hermit, but it has its uses—breaking the heads of the likes of you!”

And Azhwarkkadiyaan raised his staff, as though about to bring it

down on the monk’s unsuspecting skull—which sent the crowd into

wild paroxysms of delight.

The Advaitha ascetic, it seemed, was unfazed by such an

unbridled enthusiasm to bash his brains in. “My man, kindly rein your

fanaticism and keep a hold on your staff. I am disinclined to take

offence, even if you do wreak havoc on my head. Nothing you do or

say will make me angry. I shall not descend to your level and abuse

you either. That which strikes me is Brahmam; that which bears the

strike is Brahmam as well. If you do break my head, you would only

be injuring yourself!”

“Hear, hear, my dear friends,” crowed AzhwarkkadiyaanNambi.

“The sacred staff will now descend upon Brahmam’s head, duly

wielded by the supreme Brahmam itself. I’m going to bash myself

up!” And he stalked towards the monk.

Vandhiyathevan, watching the altercation, felt an overwhelming

desire to wrench the staff from the excitable Nambi and deal him a

few well-placed, sacred blows upon his revered person, himself.

But stay—the monk was nowhere to be found! He had taken

advantage of the Nambi’s antics, the general distraction, and made

his swift escape through the crowd.

Azhwarkkadiyaan’s devout supporters roared in approval.

It was now the turn of the Veera Saiva PathadhooliBattar, to face

the Vaishnavite’s ire. “Well, my beloved Siva devotee, what say you?

Prepared to go head to head with me in an argument? Or would you

prefer to make a speedy escape, like our friend the monk?”

“Ha, certainly not! I, unlike that verbose idiot, am no coward. Or,

perhaps you thought I might ape your blessed Kannan, stealing ghee

and curds from the homes of the Gopis, getting thrashed with

churners and—”

Azhwarkkadiyaan butted in before he could finish. “And your Siva

was utterly without blemish, I suppose? Who was the man who

played around instead of carrying earth to build a bund for River

Vaigai, and got caned for it?” And Azhwarkkadiyaan advanced upon

the Saivite, brandishing his staff once again.

It must be mentioned here that while the Nambi was a stout,

muscular fellow, the PathadhooliBattar was built along gaunter lines.

This seemed to be the sign for the surrounding crowd to promptly

gird their loins and prepare for all-out battle, in support of their

respective idols.

For some reason, Vandhiyathevan felt an instinct to end this

ridiculous bout, and stepped forward.

“Why do you fight amongst yourselves over such silly things?” He

said, in his clear voice. “Don’t you have anything better to do? If

battle is what you want, Eezham is in the midst of war and has plenty

of opportunities to test your mettle. Couldn’t you take yourselves

there and fight to your hearts’ content?”

Nambi turned to him in an instant. “Who’s the man who dares to

teach us our business?”

The crowd was now inspecting Vandhiyathevan. His bearing,

which suggested valour and a certain nonchalance appealed to them

—not to mention his open, handsome countenance.

“You are very right, Thambi—do teach these quarrelling men a

lesson,” they offered. “We will support you!”

“I shall tell you whatever I know, about such things,”

Vandhiyathevan elaborated. “It doesn’t seem to me that Siva

Peruman or Narayanan are fighting amongst themselves; from what

I can see, they’re on very friendly terms. Why, then, must this Nambi

and Battar try to break each other’s heads over them?”

This very reasonable explanation drew a round of laughter from

the crowd.

“You seem sensible, at any rate,” acknowledged the Battar. “But

charming speeches will not serve to end this argument, you know.

Tell me, young man, who is the greater god: Siva Peruman, or

Thirumaal?”

“Both,” was Vallavarayan’s reply. “They’re equals, and everyone

is free to worship whomever they please. Why must we fight over

them?”

“How dare you?” bristled Azhwarkkadiyaan. “What’s the proof

that they’re equals, eh?”

“You want proof? Well, that I can offer in plenty. You see, I was a

guest to Vishnu’s divine abode Vaikuntham yesterday, and whom

should I see there but Siva Peruman, also there on a visit! They

seemed to be great friends. I saw them seated on similar thrones,

side by side, and their height was exactly the same. Still, I didn’t

want to entertain any doubts and decided to verify it myself. I used

my arm as a measure—”

“Boy—how dare you make a mockery of us!”

Azhwarkkadiyaanfairly growled.

“Go on Thambi, go on!” cheered the crowd enthusiastically.

“—and found that my measurements were accurate; they were of

the same height. But I didn’t stop there, and decided to clarify the

issue once and for all, and asked them, Which of you is the

greatest? Do you know what they said?

“Sivan and Vishnu are like as peas in a pod,

If anyone disbelieves this,

Fill their silly mouths with mud!”

They didn’t stop with that. If anyone was stupid enough to still

fight over them, they gave me this, and ordered me to throw it in their

mouths!” Vandhiyathevan opened his right fist. In it was a handful of

earth—which he flung out.

The crowd went into a frenzy at once: people began to scoop up

and fling handfuls of mud at the Nambi and the Battar. Some tried to

prevent them from descending to such vulgar antics.

“Ha, scoundrels! Unbelievers!” shouted Azhwarkkadiyaan,

ploughing into the crowds. “Infidels!”

The scene seemed ripe for a full-fledged riot—but something

occurred, thankfully, to put a stop to the mayhem.

“Make way! Make way!” announced a voice in stentorian tones.

“Warrior among Warriors, the Most Valiant Udaiyar who broke the

ranks of Pandiyas and beheaded Maara Pandiyan; He Who Sports

Sixty-four Scars from Twenty-four Battlefields; the Treasurer of the

Chozha Empire and the Guardian of their Granaries; the Lord Who

Levies Taxes; the Most Illustrious and Noble PeriyaPazhuvettarayar

comes among us! Parak! Parak! Make way!”

Once the kattiyakkaran’s thunderous voice died away, the sounds

of a murasu took over, its loud beats echoing around, followed by

those who bore the Pazhuvoor standard, the palm-tree flag. Warriors

bearing spears marched upon the heels of these men.

And finally, in the wake of such pomp and glory appeared the

warrior himself; a dark man, proud of bearing and majesty in every

glance, seated atop a richly decorated elephant. It was a sight for

sore eyes, akin to a dark cloud nestling atop a craggy, jagged cliff.

The jostling crowd parted obediently to let him pass;

Vandhiyathevan followed suit, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of

the warrior. There was no doubt that it was PeriyaPazhuvettarayar

himself.

A palanquin covered with silk-screens followed upon the heels of

the elephant. Vandhiyathevan felt a prick of curiosity about its

occupant—but before he went any further, two things happened.

A slender hand, tinted a delicate shade of ivory appeared from

within the palanquin. It pushed away the silk-screen slightly, bangles

clinking melodiously.

A dazzlingly beautiful young woman’s face appeared from behind

the screen—like a radiant, pearly moon from behind a dark, rain-

laden cloud.

Now Vandhiyathevan was not, in the usual way, averse to

womenfolk, or impervious to the charms of a pretty face. The

opposite in fact, was true. The lady he saw possessed a brilliant

complexion and sculpted features; she shone like a golden, full

moon, in the velvety night sky.

And yet—Vandhiyathevan’s heart did not leap for joy at this

undoubtedly ravishing countenance. Instead, he was conscious of a

vague fear; an indefinable disgust.

The lady’s eyes alighted on something by his side; her eyes

narrowed as she stared hard. The next instant, a horrifying Screech!

could be heard—and the palanquin’s silk-screen fell back into place.

Vandhiyathevan glanced all around; his instinct warned him that

she had shrieked at something she saw, in his vicinity.

It was then that he caught sight of AzhwarkkadiyaanNambi, a

little behind him—leaning against a tamarind tree. The staunch

Vaishnavite’s face was almost unrecognizable, distorted with fury

and hatred.

Vandhiyathevan stared at him, astonished and somehow,

repulsed.