CHAPTER 2

GREEN-EYES AND WITCHES

Aadal Arasu Chettiar was generally known to be the most competent man in Thiruvamuthoor and the surrounding villages. It helped, of course, when one was the owner of considerable property, jewellery, livestock, buildings and cash—enough to choke a horse, as some unfair relations might say—and God knew what else, besides.

Aadal Arasu Chettiar himself, though, knew better. It was no big deal if you inherited wealth in millions from your ancestors—the trick was in ruling over it, and handling people—both those who wished you health and those that didn’t, and especially the latter—with minute precision. And in this, he told himself often, he had done very well, so far. He rarely let his heart rule his head; seldom allowed his emotions to take the upper hand, and controlled everyone and everything with an efficiency envied by everyone he knew.

Or so he’d thought.

Until, eight months ago, his first son and heir, Ramalingam, chose to drown himself in the famed salt-water pond of Suryapuram.

It hadn’t been his fault, of course; everyone said that accidents always happened. And judging by evidence; it certainly had all the appearances of one.

Had it been one, though?

Wealth, authority and consequence always bring animosity and hatred in their wake. Aadal Arasu had made more than his share of enemies in his eighty-odd years; he knew enough to guard himself and his family when necessary. Ramalingam, however, favoured his mother’s family when it came to decision-making and judgement; his years had not served to sharpen his perceptions. He had been too careless for his own sake…and now, rumours abounded that Ramalingam’s death had not really been an accident.

Aadal Arasu himself had come to the conclusion that Ramalingam’s death had been carefully planned and executed. It was now a matter of time before the people responsible could be marked, and their own fates carefully decided—if nothing, he had the man-power and resources to carry out his plans without a hitch, which he fully intended to. An heir to the Amuthoor lineage had been killed—blood would be shed before the affair was done with, for good.

Something else had happened, though, before he could control his grief and outrage, and move on to a satisfactory conclusion of affairs. Amuthoor’s heir apparent was dead—which meant that, out of Aadal Arasu’s six sons, the second—Viswanathan—inherited the famed Amuthoor wealth.

Aadal Arasu could not decide which depressed him more—Ramalingam’s death, or the fact that Viswanathan inherited the whole caboodle, lock, stock and barrel. Well, Viswanathan’s heir, really, for he was dead too.

That had been more of a shock to him than Ramalingam’s own demise—and for more reasons than one. What bothered him much more, though, was that he—he and that wild little demon he’d married— had left behind a son…a son, of all things! Which meant that he was the successor. The successor to God knew how many crores of money, tied up in property, lands, buildings and factories. The owner of nearly two whole villages, and other interests, besides.

His heir.

Seated in his favourite easy-chair that September morning, he mused over the irony of it. He had thrown Viswanathan out of his life, banished him from the dominions of Amuthoor forever…and his son would be taking charge of Amuthoor, soon.

He was too intelligent to deny the impotent rage he felt at fate’s cruelty—nothing, nothing would have made him accept anybody or anything connected with Viswanathan. But long-standing custom and the law alike said that the wealth of the forefathers had to be handed down to the heirs—their sins as much as their wealth. And so he had to make arrangements to wrap it all up and hand it up on a golden platter to this…this…

What was that name again? Something outlandish—he hadn’t liked at all. He consulted the blue-coloured inland letter for the hundredth time. Ah, yes…an unfamiliar name—pretentious, artificial. But then, Viswanathan had never had much sense. Too dreamy, by half, and far too idealistic. He’d chosen to believe in the ‘good side of people’ when he ought to have known that such a thing never existed—and had duly met his fate.

Aadal Arasu wondered what fate had served him up with now. Amuthoor was far too important to be entrusted to a raw, green boy—for boy he undoubtedly must be—how old could he possibly be, twenty-seven, twenty-eight? What did city-breds know about land-holdings, property and the affairs of villages, anyway?

He shook his head, disgusted. This was too much. And the boy was arriving today, by the morning train, of all things. No prior intimation, no notice…just an enquiry if it would be all right, and then a crisp telegram that he would be arriving, and that was it. Not good, not good at all. It showed an impulsiveness highly unbecoming in a future ruler—for that was how Aadal Arasu always pictured his position, to himself. Everyone else saw it that way too. This was feudal country—with all the trappings of lords, slaves and the power of life and death-even if everyone concerned yelled themselves hoarse that this was the twenty-first century, and the country had moved on. A feudal country, which still retained palatial residences, petty arguments that led to colossal battles, huge manpower, willing servants, retainers who would give their life for one (literally) at the drop of a hat, lands and legends that out-lasted every human living on it…and a dozen other factors, some of it dark and mysterious…and some unbelievable, in this day and age.

None of his four remaining sons—and three daughters—approved of Viswanathan or his heir—not that they had any choice over it, but they still saw fit to bemoan the loss of the eldest, who had been so ill-natured as to drown in a pond…but it was his duty to prepare them. This he did by talking out loud about the state of affairs in Amuthoor, the cruelty of fate in throwing it all into the hands of a green-horn, and that the famed wealth of the Amuthoor Jameen family would be reduced to a pile of ashes within months—and he would rather drown himself, in the manner of his eldest-born, before such a calamity came to pass.

A certain sense of justice sometimes impelled him to think about giving the lad a chance—destiny acted in such strange ways. Even destiny, though, had its limitations. And there matters stood.

The rest, of course, was in the boy’s hands. Provided he didn’t land on his grandfather’s doorstep, survey the impressive array of relations, servants and curious tenants and villagers….give a huge scream and bolt for it.

At this point in his cogitations, he turned—or at least, tried to turn his attention to other matters, when a squeal stopped him.

A large woman, sufficiently well endowed with three or four gold necklaces, a dozen intricately carved bangles, an elaborate silk saree and a large, red pottu on her equally large forehead swung open the door to his study. “Appa! He’s coming…I mean, that boy—Subbayya saw the cart approaching Amuthoor. They’ll be here in a few minutes!”

“Very well, Lakshmi.”

Aadal Arasu gave a deep sigh, and rose to his feet. Devoutly hoping that the Amuthoor genes would save him from unbearable shame, he walked to the front door, to welcome the heir to the ancient Amuthoor wealth.

********************

The bullock cart stopped directly in front of the residence, and Maari jumped down from his post. Aadal Arasu and everyone around craned their necks towards the back, wondering what kind of man was going to step out. Maari seemed to be helping whoever it was, and Aadal Arasu felt his heart sink a little. Anyone who required help to get down from a cart…

A tall man, built on the slender side, stepped down from the cart gingerly. He pulled at a bag inside the cart, resisting Maari’s efforts to make him comfortable. Slinging the bag on his shoulder, he positioned himself with his cane, shifted his weight to his left leg, and turned around.

A rose-leaf complexion that would have been the envy of any young woman, finely chiselled features, wavy, healthy hair swept fashionably over perfectly arched brows, and a faultless oval face met Aadal Arasu Chettiar’s startled eyes, and he let out a sigh. The boy was nothing like what he had expected. Nothing at all.

The new-comer climbed up the few shallow steps haltingly, his eyes on the ground—possibly to avoid stumbling. He reached Aadal Arasu, lifted up his eyes…and the old man received the shock of his life.

A pair of brilliant sea-green eyes, glinting like emeralds in the morning sun, looked up laughingly at his own, and never had Aadal Arasu perceived so clearly that the fates had played their worst trick on him.

A collective gasp broke out among the group standing around him.

“My God, the witch is back!” shrieked Lakshmi.

CHAPTER 1

THE OPEN DOOR

Nothing in life is quite as simple as it seems.

The thought crossed Vishnu’s mind as he stood at top of the steps, waiting for the train to grind to a slow stop at the little station.

It was an unusually beautiful morning—even by South Indian standards. The wind had a clean feel to it, even though it was pushing 10 O’clock. Vishnu swung his eyes over to the brilliantly azure-blue sky, the Neem trees nodding in the breeze, the wooden fence, painted an indeterminate brown that ran alongside the tracks, the station master who ran hurriedly out of his station, one or two stragglers who ambled out, vaguely curious about the train and its passengers.

He adjusted his cane, trying to rest himself in a comfortable position. Not that that would do much good. It was going to be a lot of trouble just getting off the train—the steps were more than a feet above the ground. He waited until the train stopped completely, held the bars alongside the doorway, and stepped down gingerly. Pulling his travel bag onto his shoulder, he limped slowly across the near-deserted station. Cramped inside the train, unable to stretch his legs, pins and needles were pricking him all over.

Just as he had expected, there was no one waiting for him. Ah, well. He had been warned of that, at any rate.

The train had started moving away—it stopped for less than three minutes in such tiny stations such as these. The station-master threw him a puzzled glance, as though trying to decide whether he should greet this lone passenger, and then decided that he would.

“Your first visit, sir? How may I help you?”

Vishnu had been too absorbed in his surroundings to notice the station-master’s approach. He turned, startled.

It was now the station master’s turn to do a double-take. He stopped short, took off his wobbly glasses and stared.

A tiny smile appeared on Vishnu’s face as he noted the station-master's reaction. “I must've looked lost indeed," he murmured. Aloud, he said, "How far is Thiruvamuthoor? Could you help me find some kind of transport?”

The station-master replaced his glasses, obviously embarrassed. “I—yes. Thiruvamuthoor? Of course.” He shot another glance at Vishnu, this time taking in the cane, and Vishnu’s stiff stance. “It’s two miles away, sir. You’ll need transportation, of course. May I know your name—if that is all right with you?”

“Why not? I’m Vishnu. Vishnu Aryaa.” Vishnu shifted his cane to his left hand, and held out his right. The station-master took it hesitantly, but Vishnu’s smile reassured him, and he shook it with vigour.

“I’m Sabapathi,” he replied, a smile transforming his lined, wrinkled face. “I’ve been here for the last three years—and it’s a boring job at best.” He stopped suddenly, wondering why he was telling this to a perfect stranger. The smile on Vishnu’s face widened.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sabapathi,” He said, beginning to limp towards the white wooden gates that led outside the station. “I know what you mean—it can be a bit stifling here.” His gaze swept across the length and breadth of the station. The stragglers had retreated, apparently bored with his arrival. “Is it always this empty?”

“Oh, worse, sir. “ He looked at Vishnu’s cane again, but the latter chose to ignore it.
“I’m from Thiruvamuthoor myself,” admitted Sabapathi. “If I may ask—are you here on…work?” He hurried on, not wanting to sound too curious. “We often receive people that way, you see.”

Vishnu’s attention had been wandering. He turned to his new-found friend with a start. “I’m sorry…? Um, no. I’m here to visit…” He paused. “Relations.”

“Oh.” Something in Vishnu’s voice warned him that further questions would not be entertained. Besides, it was too soon—the visitor had set foot in the place barely ten minutes ago. There would be time enough…later. Tactfully, he strode ahead, and raised his voice in a long, well-modulated call.

“Aeeyy…Maari!”

Vishnu watched in some amusement as a well-built man, snoring inside a bullock-cart, almost toppled over as he woke up. He recovered quickly enough, smoothed his lungi (he wore no shirt—who would, in this weather?), and trotted across to the station-master.

“Aiyyaa?” He muttered respectfully, his glance raking over Vishnu expertly. Vishnu felt distinctly queasy—almost as if he’d been undressed and covered up in a jiffy. Had he had any idea that he would be subjected to this scrutiny dozens of times in the next few days, there’s no doubt that he would have turned tail then and there. He didn’t, though, and put up with it.

“Aiyyaa (Sabapathi indicated Vishnu as he said this) wishes to go to Thiruvamuthoor, Maari. Take him up in your cart, and deliver him to his destination. And none of your tricks. Charge him the correct rate, will you?”

Maari looked pained. “I always do, saami,” he replied, his voice conjuring all the injury he plainly didn’t feel. Sabapathi was merely bantering, and he knew it.

“Don’t take that tone with me, my man—I know what you are. Our visitor is from the city, so see to it that he gets to wherever he wants to go—”Sabapathi stopped, and looked at Vishnu enquiringly. “Where would that be, sir?”

Too late, Vishnu realised ruefully that Sabapathi had cleverly found the means to learn his destination—in spite of his decision not to enlighten him. However, he could hardly refuse to answer now.

“Amuthoor Jameen Bungalow,” he replied, his smile unwavering. “And I’ll pay whatever I have to.”

Sabapathi cast him a reproachful glance—to accept the terms and conditions of drivers and other people involved in transportation was a certain way of getting yourself fleeced by them unmercifully. City-breds rarely had much sense, he thought, shaking his head. But then, it was hardly his business. Not at the moment, anyway. Still, he had learned one thing of importance...

Amuthoor Jameen Bungalow, eh? He mused, as he assisted Vishnu to settle inside the cart with a fussiness that his newly formed acquaintance didn’t much care for. And what would your business there be?

He watched the cart roll away on the uneven track, and decided that he would find out soon enough.

*************

Vishnu dangled his legs outside the cart, laid his cane by the side, and prepared himself to enjoy the beauty of the Tamil country-side around him.

It didn’t disappoint him. Lush paddy fields ranged along each side of the road, the stalks nodding gently in the fresh breeze that sprung up now and then—it gave the impression of rolls of green, velvety cloth rustling gracefully in the wind. Clumps of bushes dotted the landscape, and groves of coconut tress could be seen stretching away into the hazy, blue horizon. A roughly dug canal ran along the road, filled with rain-water—monsoon was approaching, after all. Softly tinted lotuses floated gently on the sparkling waters. In the distance, a tall, impressive stone structure rose above the tees, its domes reaching out to the sky. Vishnu recognized it for the Vaishnavaite temple he had been told about— it said much for its height that it could be seen two miles away.

Maari noticed his passenger’s pre-occupation with the view around him. “Ah, the temple is well over a thousand years old, sir. You ought to have visited it during the Chithirai Festival—now that would be a sight to see!”

Vishnu turned around with an effort. “It’s beautiful enough, now.”

“Hai!” Maari gave his bullocks a cursory whip. “I daresay sir, but the place is full of people, during the Chithirai festivals. Everybody enjoys themselves.” He shot a keen glance at Vishnu. “May I know your name, sir?”

“Vishnu Aryaa.”

“Ah.” Vishnu could almost see the wheels turn in Maari’s head as he mulled over this peculiar name. He seemed to come to terms with it, finally, though he was by no means satisfied with it. “We don’t have names like yours in these parts, sir.”

“Uh-huh.” Vishnu tried moving his legs—he was already beginning to feel cramped.

“I could stop for a while, if you would like me to, sir,” Maari suggested tactfully.

“No, that’s ok. It’s not too bad.”

“Accident, sir?” came the next query.

Vishnu felt the morning breeze whip through his hair, and grinned. Talk about rural curiosity. He had been in the general vicinity of Thiruvamuthoor for exactly sixteen minutes, and he was already being grilled pretty thoroughly.

Well, not the station-master, though. He had been curious too, but he at least had refrained from probing too much—except when he got me with that destination thing. And now this…

“Yes,” he replied in a non-committal tone. “I slipped and fell,” he added, anticipating Maari’s next question.

Throughout this conversation, Maari had been sitting in front of the cart, leaning to one side— watching Vishnu covertly. He now asked the question he’d obviously been burning to ask for the past few minutes.

“Relations here, sir?”

“You could say that.”

Maari seemed perplexed. “But how can that be? You either have relations, or you don’t.” He was suddenly aware of having over-stepped his limit. “If you don’t mind my asking you all this, that is.”

“No, of course not.” It was the only answer Vishnu could give, without Maari feeling embarrassed—if the latter ever felt any embarrassment at any time. Judging by his next words, it appeared that he didn’t.

“You’re very good-looking, sir,” he said, eyeing his passenger appreciatively.

Vishnu shot him a startled look...and then chuckled, aware of the innocence in the compliment, and his own perplexed reaction to it. He wished heartily, though, that he might be left in peace. “The credit goes to my parents, I think.”

“Are they in Chennai, sir?” asked Maari, thinking of the first city he knew. “Will they be coming too?”

A strange expression flitted across Vishnu’s face as his eyes focussed unseeingly on the horizon. “Um...not right now.”

Fortunately, after this, Maari seemed to realise that Vishnu was in no mood for convivial talk, and lapsed into silence.

The cart bumped along the uneven road, jigging over pot-holes, slowly but steadily. Vishnu stared at the fields around him—a land alien to him in every way, people he had never known, circumstances and experiences that had never come his way before. His heart sank, and the smile he had worn from the moment he’d stepped down from the train vanished. It didn’t help any, of course, that he hadn’t had much sleep on the train, and that his leg was troubling him.

I must have been mad, He thought wearily. Crazy, lunatic. What on earth ever possessed me to come here, of all places? I don’t know anyone. I’m never going to get along with them—what’re they going to say when they see me, for Christ’s sake?

But I shall have to. Even if I haven’t the faintest idea about how I’m going to go about it. I owe it—to them.

The cart swung with a rhythmic motion, the cowbells jangled pleasantly, and Maari seemed intent on inspecting his large, brown feet. When next he raised his head and looked at his passenger, Vishnu was seated awkwardly, his hands leaning on the bar placed across the cart—fast asleep.