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‘YOU ARE A MIMOSA CRYING touch-me-not,’ I said. Kannagi went silent, and that irritated me. ‘Say something, for my fingers crave to explore but the knots on your garments remain fast.’
‘Why do you vex so, Athan? Do I not give myself when you demand?’
‘Yes, but only when I demand. You never give freely of yourself.’
But I stopped quarrelling when Kannagi broke into tears. She heaved and sobbed, and I showered kisses on her to pacify. It was fortunate that we lived on our own as I did not want Mother, ever ready to defend her son, to pick on Kannagi. As for Father, a chasm had opened between us, and it reduced even our greetings to nods and grunts.
Another night, as I watched Kannagi sleep in peace, a perplexing rage swelled within me. Earlier in the evening, we had had an amorous encounter. She had cringed and made me feel as if I was a violator.
‘Man’s adharma, sins, have three roots,’ she said. ‘Desire, anger, and errors of judgement.’
Her words, appropriate for philosophical discourse perhaps, flew as arrows into my bristling and brittle needs. For all I heard were accusations that my carnal rights were lust, my justified outrage was anger, and my insistence on living a conjugal life was an incorrect path. She expected me to look and admire but not embrace, embrace and enjoy but not indulge, and indulge in sweet words but not infuse life into them.
It was frustrating, and I found fault with her teachers on the farm. They had incarcerated my Kannagi, the mischievous one who loved life, and sent back, in her stead, a frigid stranger. I also wondered whether these withholdings of favours were deliberate attempts to have me dancing to her tunes.
Anandan had warned of the repertoire of wiles some women employed.
‘Beware, lest you end up a jalra,’ he said, ‘keeping count on hand-cymbals to the music modes a woman dictates. That’s why I prefer to flirt from flower to flower. No pubis hood will subdue me.’
Every encounter presented a new hunt where I had to stalk, corner, and win her over and over again, night after night. It was exhausting, and all the more when the prize held no new wonders or intoxicating joys. And even after succumbing, she laid prone and did not respond to my overtures.
‘You might as well live a desert nomad’s life and mount a goat,’ said Anandan. ‘For a wife who lies as a log is no better than a goat which stands bleating.’
Hearing him speak of bestiality, I had vomited.
‘You refuse to even tease awake the wicks in the lamps, and our nights remain moonless,’ I said.
‘Someone might see, Athan,’ she replied.
‘Who?’ I cried loud.
She meant me. And as our conversation and night ripened, often we found ourselves engaged in quarrels. But regardless of Anandan’s urging, I refused to force myself on her, for it was demeaning and unworthy of any man, especially a husband. For me, when given it is a gift of love; when taken it is a theft committed in the shadows of the night. How apt, I thought, that Kannagi kept the lamps doused.
Whenever the pain of unreleased desires overwhelmed me, I sneaked into my private room to pleasure myself and then, exhausted but not satiated, returned to our conjugal bed. These episodes rendered me small and feeling unwanted. I did not wish to injure Kannagi but at the same time, felt myself losing my mind.
‘Have the main course at home, my dear Kovalan,’ said Anandan, ‘but if you wish for something more enchanting...’ He smiled, leaving the obvious unspoken. Sometimes I hated him. But most times, he was just distasteful medicine.
Anandan was right, and I knew many luminaries in the country who did just that—upright family men and stalwarts of society and patrons of the arts who harboured a seedier side. Some of these men of stature purchased and supported harlots and enjoyed exclusive access to the women. Others, succumbing to the blandishments of these women of soiled morals, brought them home and set them up in small houses quaintly referred to as shiru veedu, within the vast family holdings. These tenements often occupied a corner in the estate and it was possible to maintain two distinct households and for the two families, and the queens, never to meet.
And Anandan was persistent—even the king has a harem, he declared—and I would soon run out of arguments, making me even angrier. Our exchanges would escalate and lead to harsh words. And shaking with anger, I would stomp out of Anandan’s house.
After one such quarrel, I broke ties with him. I did not confide in Kannagi for she would prevail upon me to make my peace with Anandan. Worse, what if she insisted on knowing the reason for our quarrel? She was wary of Anandan’s morals but the two of them were friends too, and I would not disparage him to her.
But this was later, for the early days of our married life started off well.
Upon her suggestion, we toured temples, enjoyed one another’s company, and our honeymoon turned out rather well. She prayed and paid respects to the gods, and I looked forward to our evenings. It started off as a carefree time but as the days progressed, I noticed some strange traits. She lingered, ever longer, at every deity ensconced in the temple sanctums, and in time I ended up waiting for hours, and in the process lost all cheer. One evening, we were in the throes of passion and, in a bright voice, she recounted a wish to visit a particular temple. It devastated me that she was not present in body and mind. I went limp and withdrew. Later that evening, in a gentle tone, I mentioned her callousness. She expressed no regrets, but instead questioned my fixation on carnal matters.
After the first weeks of touring, we settled into the routine of married life: Kannagi managed the household; I focussed on my fledgling business. She did an excellent job, but I met with disappointment.
The merchants I approached, my father’s circle of collaborators, proved traditional in their views and deflected every one of my ideas.
‘What you propose is interesting, Kovalan my boy, but let me first have a word with your father.’ But I did not wish Father to intervene, resolved as I was to make my own way.
Then we received great news. Kannagi was with child. My joy was fathomless, and those were the best months of my life.
But fate was cruel and Kannagi suffered serious bleeding that triggered a spontaneous abortion. Losing our child devastated us, but more so Kannagi. With my wife miserable, I could not bring myself to leave her lonely. Therefore, setting aside my business plans, I spent all my time ministering to her needs. It brought us closer, and we tried again for another child.
But when she suffered several more miscarriages, Kannagi grew despondent and threw herself into prayers and temple visits. When I attempted intimacy, she turned cold. I had to start and hold the conversations, because she spoke little and even then only of the mundane, such as meals and prayers. I shared my love of song and music, and though Kannagi tried hard, she knew little regarding the arts and could not engage with my enthusiasm.
Kannagi withdrew into herself. Our mothers, besides making motherhood statements, were not of much help. Upon my urging she wrote to her Aunty Chinnamma and when that kind woman replied, our situation improved. Kannagi became receptive and on occasion we even indulged in intimacy.
But after several exchanges, the letters stopped coming. The courier service crossed Arakan lands, which was always fraught with dangers. One day her father brought shattering news. Her uncle robbed and murdered on the Arakan road, and her grief-stricken Aunty Chinnamma had thrown herself on the funeral pyre and committed sati, ritual suicide.
The news devastated Kannagi. She collapsed and her face twisted and mouth locked open as if in a wail but no sound ensued from her throat. I watched speechless as she lay crumpled on the floor and heaved and gasped for breath. She was suffocating before my eyes. Fortunately, my father-in-law administered a sharp slap to her back. That shocked her to draw a quick breath. But the wailing that followed frightened and kept me awake for many nights.
Kannagi had often spoken of her aunty and knew her as a jovial and accommodating person. But it was obvious that there were chambers hidden in the woman’s heart that no one else was privy to. I shuddered at the thought of self-immolation. It was a horrendous practice that few people discussed and even fewer practised.
Kannagi wished to visit the farm but thankfully her father put a stop to her; all the more when he learned that she was again with child.
I offered many lavish sacrifices to the gods and contributed fabulous donations to temples. A child would save Kannagi’s sanity and restore some normalcy to our lives. But alas, when she again miscarried, I lost my poor dear Kannagi and my home sank into a gloom from which it never recovered.
She resorted to fasting and took advice from lice-ridden swamis and strange fortune-tellers who filled her mind with all sorts of esoteric ideas founded on magic and mysticism.
I tried hard to accommodate her unpredictable behaviour, but occasionally lost my patience. Once, I even uttered harsh and undeserved words regarding her barren womb. It was cruel of me, but I could not retrieve the words already let loose. In desperation, she even suggested adopting a child. This was unheard of and, the child’s lineage unknown, would not do. I rejected the scheme outright. Unfulfilled in love, my focus turned to commerce, but I suffered several failed ventures.
To her great credit and ignoring her own situation, Kannagi worried for my well-being and suggested approaching our friend Anandan, who had had some small success in his trade ventures. She was unaware of our friendship-ending quarrel. Nevertheless, I put pride in a pouch and visited Anandan. When I could not meet him, I left a message for him to call on me.
Meanwhile, my relationship with Kannagi lost the spark and profundity of love. And I found little faults with her. In hindsight, these were trivial and unfair to her, but I had grown petty and our circumstances enlarged and echoed every little error. In secret, I even blamed Kannagi for our misfortunes. But in my more generous moments the dark thoughts directed at her devastated me. This guilt made matters worse. Life overwhelmed, and I sank into frequent bouts of gloom.
***
JUST AS MATTERS WERE spiralling into the abyss, my dear friend Anandan graced my household with his long-expected visit. Heartened that he held no ill feelings I embraced him. We clung to one another and exchanged declarations of friendship.
And Anandan had brought a companion—Telamonius! The Greek had advanced in years and looked more weathered. The thick brown hair, bouncing about his ears, had turned white, and his beard had gone straight and stiff, a dirty besom.
‘How sing the anklets?’ asked the Greek. ‘I pray their song keeps you enchanted, and your incomparable wife pleased.’
The Greek mentioning the anklets precipitated pain, as they harkened back to happy days long since faded into the fog of familiarity. Moreover, the ankle rings were part of my wife’s private wardrobe and not a matter for public discourse. The Greek, though versed in Tamilakam’s mores, had broken etiquette.
But I hid my displeasure and said, ‘All is well, sir, and you continue to speak fluently our sen-Tamil.’
‘And you, sir Kovalan, remain generous, as I well remember.’
The Greek made a show of bowing. Telamonius’ abundant deference did not sit well. It reminded me of the wariness felt when I first met him. But he was Anandan’s declared friend and, pushing aside my lack of enthusiasm for the Greek, I received my guests with abundant hospitality.
Talk touched on this and that topic, and meandered, and, as liquor loosened tongues, we found ourselves on grounds favoured by all virile men. Enchanting maidens. And one maiden in particular, a celestial beauty, with teasing nipples, hips of a honey bee, and a welcoming pubis.
‘Accompany us, my dear Kovalan, and pay court to the king,’ said Anandan.
‘That is the stated excuse on everyone’s lips,’ said Telamonius, ‘but the main event is the fair maiden, Madhavi, descended from the heavens. By all reckoning, she is an accomplished dancer, and this is her public debut. There will be many jostling for the privilege, and pleasure, to become her patron and protector.’
‘Why would I want to attend any happy performance when my dear wife, Kannagi, is even now confined to her chamber and recovering from yet another miscarriage?’
‘I’m so sorry to hear of your wife,’ said the Greek, his reply swift and insincere.
‘That explains your dullness, my dear friend,’ said Anandan, and he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. Telamonius intervened.
‘Perhaps it is all the more reason for you to cheer yourself with dance and music, sir Kovalan. Something to put good spirit in you which, contagious as it is, you can convey to your dear wife.’
‘Our friend Telamonius has spoken wise words, dear Kovalan,’ said Anandan, ‘for besides music and dance, Madhavi is a mistress also of the erotic and profane, having attained perfection in these arts, rendering her an unrivalled courtesan. She is versed in science and astrology, in oratory to seduce, in the language of gestures, and knowledge enough to engage even sages and seers. And there is more, but I see your eyes already glaze with indifference.’
‘Her patron protector is the king himself,’ said Telamonius. ‘That is, until he confers the responsibility to another. Her beauty is storied, and some say to breathe the air around her is to partake heavenly prana, the essence of nourishment for body, soul, and all six senses.’
‘You will also get to see our Illustrious Majesty, King Kari-Kaalan,’ said Anandan, taking over as if the two had come rehearsed, ‘and many accomplished men who, with a gesture, can help realise dreams, of which you harbour one or two perhaps. Is this not the reason you wished to meet me, to rejuvenate your fledgling commercial ventures?’
I placed my suggestion to Kannagi and, to my welcomed surprise, she agreed.
‘My brother Anandan is right, Athan. Go, and with new friends recover your zest for life, for it pains me to see you so reduced.’ She rested her gentle hand on mine. ‘And upon your return, promise to describe Madhavi’s artistry so I too might relish her gifts.’
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