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PUHAR WAS a flourishing seacoast town where the River Cauvery joined the sea. This story begins with the marriage of Kovalan, the hero of this tale, and Kannagi being celebrated, with the whole town rejoicing and feasting, every citizen having been invited by an announcer riding on an elephant up and down the streets of the city. Kovalan and Kannagi lived a happy married life in their comfortable home until the day when Madhavi, a young danseuse, gave her first dance recital before the king.

In recognition of her talent the king presented her with a garland of green leaves and one thousand and eight pieces of gold. According to custom, Madhavi could now select a lover for herself. She passed the garland to a hunchbacked woman who stood in the city square, where wealthy citizens passed or congregated, and announced, ‘This garland is worth one thousand and eight pieces of gold. Whoever buys it also becomes the husband of the most accomplished dancer honoured by our king.’ Kovalan became a ready customer for this garland, and gained admission to Madhavi’s bridal chamber and forgot all his problems and responsibilities in life. When he was not making love to her, he spent the time listening to the music of her steps.

The city was celebrating Indra’s festival. There were music, dancing, and entertainment everywhere; special prayers were said in the temples; people moved hither and thither in gay dress, and the air throbbed with speech and laughter. Kovalan and Madhavi went about together and enjoyed the festivities. At the end of the day, Madhavi went home, freshened her body with a bath in a cool, scented fountain, put on a new set of ornaments and dress, and in Kovalan’s company passed again through the illuminated city to the seashore, which twinkled with lamps hoisted on poles around groups of merrymakers and gaily lighted ships anchored off shore. Madhavi had her own corner on the beach, with canopy and screens set up for privacy, away from the tumult of the waves and the din of the crowds. When they had settled down, Madhavi took her lute out of its silken cover and tuned it. Kovalan took it from her, casually ran his fingers over the strings, and burst into a song in praise of the river and the sea and then addressed to a beauty tormenting a lover with her slender waist and weighty breasts, ‘who walks like a swan in the shade of punnai trees, where the waves break on the shore.’

‘O foolish swan, do not go near her, your gait cannot rival hers.’

Another song said, ‘Your father kills the living things of the sea by catching them in the meshes of his net. You kill living things by catching them in the net of your long eyes.’

‘She is a goddess who dwells there in the sweet-smelling groves of flowers’ ran another. ‘Had I known of the existence of this goddess, I would not have come here at all.’

Madhavi pretended to appreciate the songs, gently took the lute from his hands, and began a song of a lovelorn girl pining for her vanished lover. ‘Through the swamps, fenced by the park…someone came and stood before us, saying, “Make me pleased!” and we could not take our eyes off him.’

‘Seeing the swan playing with its mate, a godlike one stood looking on all yesterday. He would not leave our minds, even as the gold-tinted moss cannot leave our body.… O crane, come not near our park, for you will not speak of my present lovesickness to my lord of the sea-trace. Do not approach our park…’*

Kovalan muttered, ‘I merely sang a good composition, but she has her mind on someone else who inspires her.’ He withdrew his hands from Madhavi’s, saying, The day has come to a close, let us stir ourselves.’ She did not get up. But he hurried home.

After he was gone, Madhavi got into her chariot and went home. She dressed and decorated herself afresh and moved to the upper terrace and sang more songs, danced, and fell into a languor. Thereafter she wove a garland with several flowers, and, taking the pale inner petal of the screw-pine, etched a message of love on its smooth surface: ‘This moon, who has risen with the love-anguish…should kill the poor lonely ones with his sharp darts.…Please understand this.’ She called one of her maids and sent her off with this message to Kovalan; she was to repeat the message orally, and then give him the garland wherein he would see it written.

The maid came back to say that Kovalan had rejected the message and the garland. Madhavi felt unhappy but sighed, ‘If he does not come tonight, he is certain to come tomorrow morning,’ and spent a sleepless night.

Meanwhile, Kovalan said to his wife Kannagi, ‘We must leave this town.’

Kannagi knew that Kovalan’s funds were fast dwindling, through his buying presents and fineries for Madhavi. Kannagi had parted with her ornaments one after another in order that he might find the money for spending. She had been complacent and unquestioning. She replied now, ‘I have still a pair of anklets,’ leaving unexpressed the thought, ‘which you may pawn to buy presents for Madhavi.’

But he said, receiving the anklets, ‘This very night we will slip out of this place, go to Madurai, and start a new life in that city with the little money we may get by selling these. I will not be seen by my parents until I have redeemed my integrity. One becomes defiled to the very core through association with low, mercenary women, and by the time one learns the truth of the matter one is too far gone in damnation. This is no occasion for leave-taking. Let us slip away quietly.’

At dead of night they packed their clothes in a small bundle that could be slung over the shoulder, shut their house, and started out. The festive crowd had dissipated out of sight and all the noise of merriment had died down. They passed along the south bank of the river, which was deserted; on the highway they became merged with groups of minstrels and mendicants and wandering scholars and saints, travelling in the same direction, and forgot their own troubles listening to their talk. ‘We missed all this staying at home,’ Kovalan said.

They reached the ferry and crossed over to the north bank of the river and ultimately came to a town called Uriyur. Kovalan left his wife in a rest house and sought a tank for his ablutions. As he stood waist-deep in water, scrubbing himself, a stranger accosted him and said, ‘I want to speak to you.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Kovalan.

‘My friend, don’t you recognize me? I am from Puhar. I have worn out the soles of my feet tracking you, inquiring everywhere, “Have you seen such-and-such?”’

‘Why did you follow me?’ asked Kovalan sharply.

‘Madhavi has sent me, she is dying of grief at the separation. She begs a million pardons for any pain she may have caused you. She begs you to return home—begs your forgiveness for her mistakes.’

Kovalan brooded for a moment and said, ‘Go back.’

‘I saw your parents too, and they are heartbroken.’

Tell them that I’ll seek my fortune and return to them as a worthy son some day. I have been living in a sort of fantasy all along; now I see the realities. Tell Madhavi that I have no grudge against her, but I have definitely turned my back on the past.’

When Kovalan returned to his wife, they were ready for the road again. He did not mention his encounter with the messenger from Puhar, for fear of disturbing Kannagi’s mind. They trudged along and finally reached the bank of the Vaigai, which skirted the boundary of Madurai, the capital of the Pandyan kingdom. They viewed the soaring temple tower and the mansions of Madurai city and felt happy and relieved that they had reached the end of their quest. Kovalan stood on the edge of the river god, crossed it, and reached the city boundary.

In the city the couple were received into a colony of cattle tenders. They were lodged in a cottage, surrounded by a green hedge, with a cool inner courtyard and walls splashed with red mud, and a kitchen stocked with rice, vegetables, buttermilk, jackfruit, cucumbers, pomegranates, and mangoes. Kannagi felt happy to be running a home again after weeks of tramp-like existence. She washed the floor of the house. When food was ready, Kannagi spread a grass mat for her husband to sit on, and a green plantain leaf for him to dine on. After he was fed, she gave him betel nuts and leaves to chew.

With his lips red with betel juice, Kovalan sat back and said, ‘You have been forbearing; how your parents would grieve if they knew of the hardship you have gone through.’ He became regretful at the thought of his misdeeds. ‘I have wasted my life in the society of an easy going woman and scandalmongers, wasted my time talking loudly and guffawing at bawdy jokes.’

Kannagi said, ‘Why speak of the past again and again? I was unhappy, no doubt, but no one could have guessed how I felt in those days. Your parents were kind and considerate.’

In the end he said, ‘I will now take one of your anklets to the city, sell it, and come back with money, and then we will start a new life. Who knows? We may return home soon with riches and re-establish ourselves honourably.’ He embraced her before leaving, averting his eyes to conceal his tears; he felt depressed at having to leave her alone in the midst of strangers. As he briskly walked out, he was so preoccupied that he failed to notice a humped bull in front of him, indicating a bad omen.

He passed through various parts of the city. At the bazaar he noticed walking past him an imposing man in a brocade coat, flourishing a pair of pincers to indicate that he was a master goldsmith, followed by a company of minor goldsmiths. At the sight of him Kovalan thought, ‘This must be the famous goldsmith of the Pandyan court. I am fortunate to come across him so easily.’

He approached him and said, ‘You are the prince of goldsmiths, I presume. Your fame is known even in Puhar.’ The goldsmith smiled patronizingly.

Kovalan now asked, ‘May I trouble you to appraise for me a piece of jewellery, an anklet fit for the queen’s feet?’

The goldsmith said pompously, ‘I’m generally concerned with the making of crowns and sceptres for our kings, but I am not totally ignorant of feminine adornments.’

Whereupon Kovalan produced the anklet. The goldsmith examined it with minute care and delight and declared enthusiastically, This is not an anklet that an ordinary woman could aspire to, it is fit only for our queen. Let me speak to her and come back. Stay in that hut. Don’t go away, I will be back soon.’

The king and the queen had had a lovers’ quarrel recently. The queen had left his company on the pretext of a headache. The king transacted some business with his councillors and left for the queen’s chambers at the earliest possible moment in order to pacify her.

As he approached the portals of the queen’s chamber the goldsmith crossed his path and after formal courtesies of address said, ‘Forgive my interrupting Your Majesty, but the matter is urgent. One of the queen’s anklets has been missing. I have managed to catch the thief and have shut him in my humble hut. He is a subtle thief who does not operate with daggers and crowbars but with black magic.’

It was a fateful moment, and as the king was in a hurry to meet his wife, he summoned the city watchman and ordered, ‘If you find the anklet in the possession of the thief, execute him and fetch the anklet.’ He was in a hurry, and the fates were gearing their engines for a tragedy, so the king spoke thoughtlessly, although normally he would have said, ‘Bring the thief before me.’ He uttered the sentence of death without giving the matter thought, and hurried on to the queen’s apartment.

The goldsmith returned with a company of men and said to Kovalan, ‘These men have come to examine the anklet at the command of our sovereign.’

Kovalan, pleased that he was coming so near a transaction, messed about with his bag again while the goldsmith explained to the executioners the minute details of the anklet about to be displayed. ‘It has workmanship of the highest kind; grooves at the neck; a slight depression with silver garlands entwining, and two leaves. It has a peculiar polish at the stem that has given it the facet of a crystal, reflecting off a diamond-shaped cutting.’

As he described it further, Kovalan’s eyes shone with pleasure; he took it as a recommendation from the goldsmith and remarked, ‘What an observant eye you have, you great artist in gold!’

‘True, true,’ said the crafty goldsmith. ‘Otherwise how could I have progressed in my profession? I am known for my searching eye, which can find out a lot of things.’ He glanced at his companions and smiled wryly.

When the anklet was produced, the chief executioner took it in his hand and examined it in detail. ‘Yes, it is the same anklet that you have described,’ he said.

‘Now let the man pay the price accordingly,’ said the goldsmith, and the men stepped forward, encircling Kovalan.

Kovalan looked about in bewilderment. More bewilderment when the chief cried, ‘This man does not look like a thief.’

‘A thief who has mastered his art will look least like one,’ said the goldsmith. ‘The science of thieving mentions eight methods that may be employed by an expert thief: drugs, illusion, control of mischievous spirits, and so forth; he can pick up your valuables and walk right into your presence while you watch him helplessly; he can make himself invisible, he can look like a good and saintly one and extract worship from you…’ The goldsmith expatiated on this theme.

Kovalan listened to it and said, ‘Let us come to a decision; if you noble men approve of this piece of jewellery—’

‘Spend no more time,’ said the goldsmith. ‘Finish your errand and let us go back.’

A young man with a lance said, ‘Do you know what once happened when I drew my sword—it jumped into the thief’s hand and suddenly I found myself at his mercy. Some are so crafty and deft! Our king’s order must be carried out.’

‘No more talk,’ said a drunken man in their midst, and he hurled his scimitar at Kovalan, practically cutting him in two.

Blood flowed from the fallen man. The goldsmith and executioners withdrew. The goldsmith looked back as if gratified that he had had divine assistance in his crime. He had stolen the queen’s anklet earlier in the day and felt it a peculiar good fortune that he should have come across someone to take on that crime with appropriate evidence.

At the cowherd’s colony, a matron said to her daughter, ‘The milk in the pot has not curdled; tears dim the eyes of our cattle; the butter in the store is all hardened, lambs are dull, cows shudder and bellow, and their bell ropes have snapped. What calamity has befallen whom?’ They thought it over and pronounced the usual remedy for warding off evil and turning the mind to cheerful subjects. ‘We shall dance the Kuruvai, for our guest, for our beautiful guest watching us.’ An elaborate dance was organized in their midst.

Kannagi felt worried. Why was her husband gone so long? It was diverting to watch her hosts sing and dance as they depicted episodes from the life of the god Krishna, who was the patron god of milkmaids.

After the dance the matron went to bathe in the river, heard rumours about Kovalan, and hurried back home. Kannagi cried at the sight of her, ‘Friend, why won’t you speak? Where is my husband? Every particle of air in my lungs seems fevered. I can hardly breathe. Where is my husband? I feel restless. Help me, are people saying anything about him? Don’t hide anything from me.’

‘They said he was a thief who had stolen the royal anklet, and executed him,’ said the matron.

Kannagi fell in a faint, recovered, and raved against the fates, the country, and the king. ‘The Pandyan king, reputed to hold a righteous sceptre, has committed injustice. My husband a thief!’ She shouted at the top of her voice and called up all the women and the girls who had been dancing and addressed them. ‘Could my husband be a thief, thieving my own anklet! O sun god, you are witness to all things of this world. Is my husband a thief? Answer!’ she cried commandingly.

Kannagi gathered herself, her stature seemed to swell; her eyes blazed with anger. She cried, ‘Here is my anklet, the widowed one. They have killed my husband, unable to pay the price for the one he had with him. Now who is the real thief?’

Followed by a sympathizing crowd, Kannagi strode through the streets of the city with authority in her gait and fire in her speech and looks. People trembled at the sight of her. Some persons led her to where her husband’s body lay; and the sun (as the poet who composed this tale explains) set behind the hills, in order to draw a curtain over the sad spectacle.

Night came on. Kannagi mourned. ‘Is it right that you should be lying there in that bloody pool while I…while I… Are there no women in this city whose purity could prevent such an injustice? Are there no good people in this country or women of purity and devotion to their husbands? How can such an injustice happen where there are good men and good women? Has god forsaken this town?’

While she lamented thus, hugging the inert body of her husband, strange things seemed to happen. She thought that she saw the body stir and her husband stand up and wipe the tears from her face and mutter, ‘Stay here, and go heavenward.’

Kannagi cried, ‘What is happening? Is it some mischievous spirit that is deceiving me? Where can I find the truth of all this?’ She left the spot and ran towards the palace, saying again and again, ‘I must get an explanation from the cruel king himself…’

The king was in the company of his wife. The bell at the gate tolled furiously. Over the sounding of bell Kannagi screamed, ‘Go and wake your king who has put his conscience to sleep, whose heart has become granite, and tell him that a wretched woman bearing a widowed anklet is at his gate.’

The gatekeepers were cowed by the appearance of the woman and ran to the king’s presence and announced, ‘Your Majesty, a woman of frightening aspect seeks audience. Is she Kali, the Goddess of Destruction? Is she…?’

‘Let her in,’ commanded the king. When she was brought in, he asked, ‘Who are you? What do you want here?’

‘You have murdered my husband. We came from Puhar only to seek our fortune here.’

‘O my most revered sister, is it not my duty to execute a thief?’

‘My anklet has been stolen,’ added the queen. ‘And it was found with your husband, who was trying to sell it.’

‘Here is another one, take it also,’ said Kannagi. ‘All the anklets in the world are yours, O queen, spouse of the embodiment of justice.’ She tossed her anklet in the queen’s lap.

The queen, looking at it, said, ‘This also looks like mine, but how is it there are three anklets now? I had only two.’

‘Does a thief take away or add? Do you know?’ asked Kannagi with bitter laughter. ‘What you are wearing on your left ankle is not yours, it belongs to the thief who lies in bloody dust.’

The king seemed to lose in a moment his regality, and the queen was panic-stricken. ‘My evil dream of last night—’ she began.

Kannagi asked, ‘Do you at least know what it is inside that rattles and tinkles when your anklet is shaken?’

The queen took time to understand the purport of the question and said, ‘Pearls, yes… Pearls inside.’

‘Break open my anklet, which is on your left foot, and see what is in it.’

The queen handed her the anklet without a word. Kannagi broke it open, and sparkling gems spilled out of it.

The king faltered at the sight. ‘What king am I to allow a goldsmith to sway my judgement?’ He tottered and fell from his seat, and the queen broke into a loud lamentation.

Kannagi watched the scene coldly and strode out of the palace, loudly shouting the virtue of her town Puhar and all the good things that had happened there since she knew it, in contrast to this city where evil flourished. She walked round the city thrice with unceasing laments, declaring, ‘If I am a chaste woman, I shall not let this city flourish.’ Then she tore her robes, twisted and tore off her left breast, and flung it over the city. Immediately the god of fire, in the shape of a brahmin of blue complexion, appeared before her and asked, ‘I will, of course, destroy this city as you command, but is there anyone you would spare?’

‘Spare only the innocent, the good, the learned, the infirm, and the children, and all dumb creatures.’

The city was enveloped in flames immediately. Those who could escape from the city poured out of its gates. The rest perished. The presiding deities of the town left. Kannagi roamed through its streets and alleys restlessly, bewildered and in a state of delirium.

The presiding deity of the city, with her head decorated with a crescent and her matted locks, white radiant face, half of her body dark blue and the other half golden, with a golden lotus in her left hand and a sword in her right, unwilling to face the sorrow-stricken wife, approached her softly from behind and murmured gently, ‘Blessed lady, listen to my words. I understand your suffering. I see the havoc that your rage has wrought on our city. Please listen to my words for a moment. The king has never committed any injustice in his life; he comes of a long line of righteous rulers who have observed strictly the laws of justice and humanity. But what has happened to your husband is unparalleled and is a result of fate. Listen, fair lady, to the history of his previous life. Your husband, Kovalan, in his previous birth was called Bharata and in the service of his monarch caught hold of an innocent trader who was selling his merchandise in the streets of Sangama and denounced him as a spy and had him executed. The trader’s wife was grief-stricken and wandered as a mad woman for fourteen days, raving and cursing, until she climbed the hill and jumped off a cliff, uttering her curse on the man responsible for her husband’s death. As a result of it, now you have to go through this agony. You will have redemption in fourteen days.’

This was consoling, and as Kannagi’s heart softened with understanding, the fire in the city abated gradually. She passed the fourteen days wandering and waiting. She walked along the river’s edge and reached the northern mountain tracts. A group of country girls while bathing and sporting on the mountain roads saw an extraordinary being who had only one breast appear before them. Her presence was electrifying, and the women worshipped her at first sight. Presently they saw her husband come to her in spirit form and take her heavenward.

The spot became sacred as that of the godly wife. A latter-day king built a temple on the spot and installed the image of Kannagi in it for public worship. The image was carved out of a slab of stone hewn from the Himalayas and bathed in the water of the Ganges, and it came to be known as Pattini Devi—meaning ‘the wife who became a goddess’.