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.

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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.