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NEDUN-CHELIYAN, THE Pandyan king, swung his cape over an arm as he hurried down the gleaming corridors. His queen, Kopperun-Devi, tired of her games and satisfied that she had chastised him enough, had sent word. Upon hearing the invitation, the king dismissed his counsellors and, lips pursed, strode to the queen’s palace wing, eager to mollify and win back her graces.
The Maha Devi, a fickle woman, had on an earlier occasion, also summoned the king who had bustled forth. But her trusted handmaiden, the old hag, had stopped the king at the threshold to his queen’s chamber.
‘The queen has taken ill,’ said the old hag, with a triumphant glint in her dead eyes.
‘What poison have you fed her this time?’ said the king, his eyes blazing with fury.
‘Only that brewed in the slippery honey pots of your whores.’
Nedun-Cheliyan grasped the jewelled handle of his dagger but the witch pushed out her shrivelled chest in a dare. The king, his chest heaving in anger, flicked and rolled his cape over his arm. Turning around, he hurried away, fearing his rage would better his reason. And the crone cackled in his wake.
I, Thiru Pillay, the trusted Royal Jeweller to the Crown, spied it all back then, and watched the same drama unfold again.
The king and queen did not know the old hag worked for me and, thus alerted, I intercepted the royal. So, here he was again rushing after the hag to meet his first love, the Maha Devi, determined that nothing would frustrate him.
Just as he reached the turn to the queen’s wing, my desperate voice rang out. ‘Maharajah! Maharajah!’
‘How dare you! Be gone, Pillay, unless you yearn for death.’
I sank to my knees and touched my forehead to floor, even as the king’s steps receded. I held up an embroidered silk cushion. Resting on it was the exquisite rarity.
‘The queen’s treasure, my king, I found the anklet!’ I said.
Upon hearing the news, the king stopped in mid-stride and turned.
‘The queen’s anklet, my king. And please forgive me for having lost it.’
The king hurried back and reached for the anklet. After a blink he snatched and examined it.
‘It is unblemished and none the worse for mixing with dust.’
‘And so it is, my king.’
‘Rise, Thiru Pillay. This will be a welcome gift to your queen. You’re forgiven, and thank you.’
‘I did myself apprehend the thief, my king, when he came to my manufactory to sell it. The thief now awaits his fate in the subterranean cells.’
‘Ensure a fair enquiry befitting our Pandyan legacy.’
‘He denies his guilt, my king, but admits to another even more onerous.’
‘Oh?’ The king raised his eyebrows.
‘My, my lips quiver, my king, to even think let alone give voice to the man’s impudence.’
‘Speak up, man, or would you rather we stand here and grow old?’
‘The thief claims the anklet as his own, his wife’s rather,’ I said, and swallowed hard. ‘And he further claims it cannot be the queen’s, for it fits only his wife. If it fits another, even if she is the queen, then she too must be his wife.’
‘What? How dare the scoundrel!’ Then the king paused. ‘Or is he a mad fool spewing nonsense?’
‘Please forgive me, my king.’ I sank to my feet again and clasped my hands.
The king caressed the anklet with his thumb and that calmed him. He said, ‘Perhaps you misunderstood him, a dangerous mistake. We don’t doubt your sincerity, Thiru Pillay, but question the power of your recollection.’
‘The Captain of the Royal Household Guard was witness to the travesty, my king.’
‘Very well then,’ said the king. Looking down the corridor, he commanded. ‘Who’s there?’
An attendant, standing in an alcove, stepped out and bowed, and the king said, ‘The Captain of the Guard, before our presence. Now!’
‘Right away, my king.’
The man hurried off and somewhere far away, in the endless corridors, voices called, reverberated, and echoed.
‘Recollect with care, Thiru Pillay, were those his words? A life is at risk here.’
‘My memory of what took place is unassailable, my king. Our esteemed prime minister had already questioned the thief at great length and, discovering no innocence, had the man incarcerated in the dungeons.’
‘My king,’ said the old hag, her voice a dry croak, ‘time slips and with it my queen’s enthusiasm to receive you.’
‘My king!’
The captain snapped to attention and saluted. The king ignored the crone but turned to the guardsman and said, ‘The thief you hold in the subterranean caves, what spoke he regarding the queen and the fitness of this anklet?’
For a moment the captain looked confused but in those blinks of an eye, and seeing me, the royal jeweller on my knees, his memory flooded back.
‘Out with it, man, and be quick about it!’ said the king, having remembered his queen’s summons and become impatient.
‘My king, the queen—’ said the crone.
‘Silence!’ said the king, and he pointed a finger at the hag who slunk back.
‘Captain?’
‘Yes, my king, the accused Kovalan declared, and these are his words as my memory reminds me: She, meaning the queen, can only be his wife because no other woman has the dignity, the chastity, and the purity to wear this divine anklet.’
‘Your words vex me and I find them hard to believe, captain, and yet am compelled to, because your reputation for honesty is as unwavering as the morning sun.’ The king grasped the anklet tight and the muscles on his forearm tensed.
‘Those were his words, my king,’ said the captain, ‘but—.’
‘Should I inform my queen,’ said the old hag, speaking across the guardsman, ‘that the king has more important matters to attend to, matters regarding a common thief?’
The king glared but the wretched witch did not wait for a rebuke. She wheeled and glided away on swift feet hidden under the sweeping hem of her white sari.
The king turned on the captain and said, ‘But what, captain, but what?’
‘Begging your pardon, my king—.’
‘Yes, yes!’ said the king, interrupting the guardsman.
‘In my humble opinion, my king, the prisoner’s words might lend another meaning. Moreover, he said he had words for your ears and requested an audience.’
‘Does the accused not trust the integrity of our prime minister?’
The king threw a look at the corner around which the old hag had vanished. He turned to the royal jeweller and said,
‘We’ve heard enough. Thiru Pillay, are you sure of the man’s guilt?’
‘On my life, my king, I am very sure.’
‘It will be on your life, Thiru Pillay,’ said the king, ‘and what of the prime minister?’
‘I cannot speak for the prime minister, my king, but he found no hints of innocence and had been relentless in asking the thief to confess the crime.’
‘Should we summon the prime minister’s presence, my king?’ asked the captain.
‘No, he is hosting the lately arrived Romans,’ said the king.
The king fingered the anklet and again looked towards the petal covered corridor leading to the queen’s private wing. The hour was late, and he needed to appease her to sit next to him when the Roman senators presented their credentials. Having arrived at a decision, he pushed out his chin and spoke in a commanding voice.
‘And whatever fanciful interpretations you ascribe to his words, captain, they apprehended him with the queen’s ankle ring and therefore guilty enough. Furthermore, I am sure the prime minister offered him clemency in trade for a guilty plea.’
‘He did, my king, but the Cholan ingrate rejected our Pandyan generosity,’ I said.
Knowing it prudent not to add further, I turned to the captain. And so did the king. Thus prompted, the captain, having no choice, said,
‘I heard Thiru Pillay offer clemency on behalf of the prime minister, but the man declined. He insisted his innocence and claimed he had no need for clemency.’
‘Very well then, captain, you know the penalty for stealing from the king. Do your duty!’
With that, the king, holding the anklet high, as a child having found a bright new toy, hurried along the flower-strewn aisle. His feet shot out and crushed the soft petals, which wept their fragrance, to overhaul the old hag before she fed mischief into the queen’s ears.
The captain saluted after the king and threw me an accusing stare. But his ferocity remained caged by oaths of loyalty to crown, country, and commands.
For myself, with head bowed, I retraced my steps. The prime minister said as courtiers we need to spend lies to save lives. A noble ideal but one that will make us all liars. What good is a law if not pressed to the hilt and what use a courtier not versed in statecraft? And I am an erstwhile student of statecraft—perhaps even better than the good prime minister. What’s more, history will thank me for saving the secret of the ankle rings, a secret that my Guru Nallathamby was intent on taking to his grave.
***
THE EXECUTION CHAMBER was at the end of the corridor and similar in layout to, but larger than, my cell. An altar dedicated to Yaman, the God of Death, occupied one corner of the room and a stone dais stood in the centre. A stone slab, about the height of a man’s knees, stood erect on the dais.
‘Give me a moment, sir Kovalan, while I attend to some matters,’ said the executioner.
‘I wonder aloud, how will you wash the blood of a blameless man from your hands? The hands that grasp the heavy blade soon to be wet with the blood of the faultless, will those same hands caress the love of your woman and cuddle the innocence of your child? How do you bring yourself to be fearful demon here and tender husband and doting father there?’
The executioner ignored my words. He completed his prayers before the formidable god he worshipped, and smeared his chest and arms with ash. He twisted and curled his moustache and, satisfied with their proud tips, bowed to the court officials in attendance to witness my death. Then, he turned, unhurried, and addressed me.
‘True, I have set free many lives with these strong arms and sharp blade,’ said the executioner. His eyes were intent, but his voice was soft, almost a whisper. It was unnerving considering his frightful specialty. He said,
‘If my acts were just, sir Kovalan, the gods will spare me, will they not? If there had been an unjust rolling of the head, I will surely answer for it, will I not? For no one, sir, no priest and no king, can vouch testimony and plead mercy on my behalf. Such are the deeds of man and attached to him alone—whether a lawmaker intent on expedience at the expense of equity, a judge who upholds an unjust law, a malicious prosecutor protected by his king’s favour, or a cursed executioner—if he errs, no law, whether corporeal or ethereal, can exonerate him.’
‘How do you sleep, executioner, after a day’s hideous task?’
‘Sleep, sir Kovalan, and what leads you to conclude I enjoy that simple pleasure? I am executioner, am I not? It is my fate, as yours has brought you to this grisly place. It is beyond me to dwell on answers when the questions you spout are flawed.’
‘And what questions, avatar of death, would you have me ask?’
‘How will berating your executioner help you? It is fate, sir Kovalan, come to collect his dues, has he not? Inescapable as are the next steps to follow, would you not rather wish for a quick clean cleave? If my emotions, moved by your admonishments, let slip my fingers, will the outcome be satisfactory for you or well-done of me?’
‘You threaten me with torture and slow death?’
‘No, sir Kovalan, for it is not my words you need fear but the strength of my arms and the aim of my eyes. For we are in a tragic situation and it behoves we conduct ourselves in a manner focussed on the inevitable when the fatal moment is upon us.’
‘You will have me killed and yet why this pretence at civility, this fake concern for my well-being even as you prepare to rob my life?’
‘Not rob you, sir, but I am executioner here to deprive you of your life, as a jailor would deprive a man’s freedom for lesser crimes.’
‘Is there a difference whether you call yourself executioner, killer, or murderer?’
‘Yes, sir Kovalan, there is, for even if we all must ultimately travel beyond the veil, how we purchase death is more important than death itself, is it not? You accuse your executioner of showing fake concern. You are angry. But your anger, sir, moves me not for it is not my teacher. I am tasked by royal edict to redeem a debt, am I not? The debt does not include humiliating you, hurling harsh words at you, or ill-treating you with strong arms. To do so would exact a price higher than that owed.’
‘It’s easy for you, executioner, to speak with such flourish for in a short time my body will go taut and my limbs kick wild as my head rolls to the dirt.’
‘And you will embark on a life anew, sir, and lucky are you, for most of us will know not when he will surprise us. Why do you not prepare for the journey, instead of swatting me as if I was a bothersome fly?’
I considered his words and grasped for ropes, ledges, and outcrops, and even a sliver of grass. Anything. A new life, he said. Could this be true? I had always believed in rebirth, as if death was but a continuation to another existence. But now, facing the blade, I was not sure. I was afraid to die, afraid of the unknown, afraid that the blade slicing down would banish me into oblivion to wander forever, lost in eternal nothingness. I had written rhyming verses and sang melancholic ballads, confident in my youth when death was not yet round the bend. I had been smug in the belief of a better life, that I had time enough to live and reap the rewards of correct living. But these last few days’ events had wiped my beliefs clean off my slate, as if they were sand particles picked up and blown away.
Now, this exotic executioner with a whisper for a voice and deep seeing eyes, gave hope. And even if he spun that hope in smoke, I was ready to grasp it. He had taken many lives. Perhaps he was privy to uniques which elude even the wisest of our sages of antiquity.
‘New life?’ My thoughts scrabbled, my voice hoarse, and it was all I could muster.
‘Yes, sir, a new beginning.’
A new beginning, promised the man, and I had scant choice but to believe, for the alternative was—nothing! I had accomplished nothing in this life but brought disappointment to my parents and grief to my dear Kannagi. I wanted to flee my failures. Slink into the dark and hide my shame. I had reconciled myself to disappear without a trace. A coward’s wish, a loser’s prize. But a new beginning held the promise of redemption. And death, a new beginning, was a choice given the condemned from a pitiful selection of one.
‘Thank you, sir executioner. Thank you.’
I softened my voice and smoothened my tone. The frightening man’s overwhelming sincerity and utter care for right conduct impressed me.
The man did not reply but held my gaze, and for a moment, perhaps a blink, I received him. I saw god. I saw purpose.
And I recalled the day, in the company of Anandan and a troop of attendants, when my dear friend and future wife Kannagi was away visiting her aunty, we had gone on a hunt. For sport, to gain a trophy to boast.
We spied a tiger that had taken a spotted deer. As the magnificent lord of the jungle clamped down its jaws, the deer’s hooves flailed, piercing the air with sharp crooked jabs. Gradually, the panicked kicks ceased. The legs extended and retracted, and stopped. The deer’s eyes relaxed as a look of peace, and recognition even, swept over the animal. It had all happened fast, several heart beats perhaps, but my eyes saw and mind registered, and I retained the scene. Now I was that deer, and my executioner the tiger. He had stolen my terror and rendered me brave, and I was grateful to him.
‘Are there any last words you wish to convey to anyone, sir Kovalan? In penance for what I am tasked to do, I shall gladly do justice to your wishes.’
‘You are a kind man, sir executioner, but I do not wish to wreck my blameless wife, Kannagi, with dying words, for already I am the source of all her suffering.’
I studied the court officials, witnesses to my execution, and after a moment, said,
‘But I have words for your king, Nedun-Cheliyan, and tell him, if you can muster the courage, that by denying me my day in court he has committed a deadly unjust. His sceptre is bent and his parasol stained. But I thank you also, sir executioner, for the gentleness you have this day shown me.’
‘I shall convey your words, sir, in this rest assured.’
‘Rest I will soon, sir executioner, and I have a wish of you.’
‘If it is within my power, sir Kovalan, consider it fulfilled.’
‘I do not wish my wife to behold my decapitated body or to see my blood spilt.’
‘I shall carry out your wishes, sir, and present you in a dignified condition to your wife.’
‘Thank you, and now untie me please, for I do not wish to die as a beast bound for sacrifice.’ Seeing the officials hesitate, I said,
‘I am a man, my friends, though perhaps not as brave as you. But I do not fear death, though this is an unjust verdict and sentence, and a cruel infliction upon an innocent. I will not flail my arms and wail, or flee around this chamber even as you reach and grab, and make a spectacle of such a solemn event. Neither will I shout myself hoarse, trying to borrow courage where there is none. I will not fight you or seek to vest injury upon you, for you have families and wedded wives awaiting your return.
‘Fear not sirs, my lamentations, during these precious few moments remaining. I will go peacefully and show how a true Tamil, who has eaten the rice and salt of Tamilakam, and drank from her sweet rivers, faces death.
‘But alas, the thought of my poor dear wife just now continues to plague me. I have not treated that chaste woman as well as a husband should have treated any wife. It wrecks my heart, which yearns for me to live. Not for myself, but only a little longer to shower her with the life she so richly deserves. For this reason, sirs, I beseech you, if you can find it in your hearts to release me for a few days and postpone my release.’
My eyes, in desperate entreaty, studied the assembled men, but it was to no avail.
‘Please, sir executioner, I beg you again, fetch my wife Kannagi and she will bring the second ankle ring and prove my innocence.’
‘Sir Kovalan, we have travelled this path many times already, and my answer remains steadfast. We are here to carry out royal orders and no more.’
‘If not the prime minister, please at least request the captain’s presence, for I suspect he is an upright man and will lend me his ears.’
‘Sir Kovalan, it was by the captain’s orders relayed directly to me, but handed down to him from the king himself, that has brought us to meet fate.’
I sighed with heavy resolve and found renewed vigour as one defeated with back pressed to the wall but imbued with the nervous energy of the defiant.
‘If those are your final words to my plea, then tarry not, dear executioner, and be done with it. Delay not the fatal moment, for he grows impatient.’
They untied the restraints and a small sting of heat burned my skin as the rope pulled away. I clasped my wrists and rubbed to rid the numbness, and broke into a sardonic smile.
‘What humour you find, sir?’ It was the executioner, genuine concern in his voice.
‘I am a few moments away from losing my head but continue to tend to little discomforts. Notice how my wrists have bloated and the bluish bruises beneath my skin.’
‘If you massaged your hands a little more, sir, you will feel better, will you not?’
‘You fell into the same trance, sir executioner, worrying about little discomforts. An ironic humour, do you not think?’ I smiled and said,
‘I know a man, a wonderful man with an easy humour, and the thought of him gives me some lightness.’
‘A dear friend, sir Kovalan, from Poom-Puhar, I suppose?’ said the executioner.
‘No, but a rough man, an Arakan of the hills.’
He expressed mild surprise but I said no more, for already the guards had set about their tasks. They held my arms, one on either side, and led me up the three steps to the large stone slab. My heart pounded, wanting to break free of its cage. A terrible chill erupted in my lower back and swept over me in frigid terror, and I feared I might empty my bladders.
The executioner had asked that I relieve myself. He had not offered water. Despite the correct manner in which he had treated me, I had thought of him as cruel. But now I valued his decision. He was right. My bladder did not brim.
A light pressure on my shoulders brought me down to my knees. The curve in the upright stone slab, where my neck was to fit, looked clean. Was I the first?
More gentle pressure and my head went down and the cold stone touched the skin on my throat. I dry licked my lips. After a long deep breath, I squeezed my eyes tight and waited in agony. I detected shuffling of feet, followed by rustle of fabric and clink of metal. I wish I could plug my ears, keep out the sounds. A tight bandage around my ears would have helped. Then, my air lost, I heaved rapid breaths.
There was a sharp intake of air and I recognised it as the executioner. He must have raised his arms high. The blade.
A low uncontrollable growl emanated from deep within my being. I felt a dull crunch.
My eyes popped open!
My sight went hazy and images blurred. I felt weightless, as if floating. I saw people, or rather, portions of their blurry bodies—arms, legs, faces—and heard vague voices.
‘Truly, he was a fearless man,’ said a court witness.
‘Yes, a brave man indeed,’ said the executioner.
I stood beside the executioner, or so it seemed, and he stepped back as several guards pushed past him, heaving a stretcher made of rough sack material. They descended the short flight of stairs and laid down the stretcher. Morbid curiosity pulled me to the headless body. A man placed something on the chest. My head! My popped open eyes. I looked ridiculous.
‘I will directly carry the news of the execution to the captain,’ said a court witness. ‘He demanded a detailed report and will be glad to know the condemned did not suffer.’
‘Please suggest, in view of the Romapuri delegation, perhaps we should not exhibit the head in the market square,’ said the executioner. ‘The captain has the wet heart and the wise head to accept the suggestion.’
After the witnesses took their leave, the executioner—what was his name? I had not asked, and he had not granted it—knelt beside my body. He was silent, in contemplation or perhaps in prayer. He pulled the sack material over the corpse and addressed the jailors.
‘Bring me suture and needle, a bandage, and some fresh clothes for him.’
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