The Idyll of Ecard ¹

BY CHANDRAPAL

This legend I have heard told so often by the village folk living in the outskirts of Tiruvallur; and yet I have had great difficulty in piecing this together into a continuous, consistent and credible narrative; for, while in all the different accounts I have received there was not any considerable discrepancy as to the ending of the idyll, they were all slipshod and vague as to the events, not to say the details, of the lives of the protagonists, individually and together. So indifferent were those who told me this tale as to all such details, and in such a flustered and impatient manner did they hurry and gloss over them, that it gave me the impression that they looked upon them not merely as irrelevant and in-significant but also as decidedly the kind of things one did not talk about. Consequently the different accounts were rather varied, and the differences they presented to me so very irreconcilable.

I have tried to give the tale a form and a sequence, and to embellish it to the best of my ability with a description of the place, from what it is now, as it must have been in the days when this tale is said to have happened. But I am only to aware of how far it falls short of the power and impressiveness that it had when it was told to a gaping audience with all the intense solemnity and authority of a religious recital.

On one of the little rocks which seemed to be stranded in the midst of the scraggy, scanty pasturage a cowherd of about seventeen years of age was sitting, statuesque in immobility, with his back to the sun. It was high time for him to call the cattle home. But he did not move. He was crouching on his crook, pressing it to the ground with his left hand and resting his right elbow on it. His right cheek was thrust upward by his right palm and consequently his mouth also was drawn upward to that side. The sun was descending slowly, very slowly, as if gathering momentum for its final plunge down, beyond the distant cluster of cocoanut palms. It was, as it were, grinning with malicious pleasure behind his back; and every moment its grin was growing broader and broader. Presently, unable to contain its mirth, and afraid of giving offence, it would hide its face behind those distant palms. But he heeded it not. . . .

He was looking with listless eyes at the panorama that spread before him. His eyes strayed homeward to the village of Tiruvallur with its low thatch-roofed houses and the newly built temple which seemed to him to be brooding in the midst of the village like a woebegone shepherd in the midst of his reclining flock; to the yellow terraces of the local potentate’s abode at the other side of the village; to the highway which, in spite of its huge trees at regular intervals and narrow ditches black with sewage on either side of it, looked more like a beaten track than a road, because two deep and ugly ruts, along which myriads of bullock carts had plied up and down, ran through it. He contemplated the highway leading up from the village through the fields, its sweeping bend leading straight up to some distance from where he was sitting, and its winding, undulating way through Ecard, the rugged and uneven tract of land with its scrappy vegetation and its straggling trees. A far-away look came into his eyes as though he were striving to follow the winding process of the road beyond. . .

His thoughts were far away–back in the halcyon days in the pleasant pasture–lands high up on the Kaveri. With tantalising vividness his eyes beheld a girl with sheeny black hair flowing down to her hips, with wide and sparkling dark eyes, with lips ever parted in a dazzling smile. She was short and slim. Her complexion was a lustrous dark brown and her features were fine and well cut, though not regular, and in perfect proportion. She was standing with her hands on her hips, her head thrown back and her nose tilted up provokingly.

‘Amaravathi!’ He had breathed her name involuntarily, and he was startled by his own voice.

Amaravathi! –Free as the air in her movements; as frolicsome as any of the lambs, and as tender of heart as any of the ewes, which she tended. Amaravathi with whom he had played in childhood in front of their huts, played at tending sheep and at bull-fighting; with whom he had quarrelled too, occasionally. Amaravathi who was always glad to meet him in the meadows when they were tending their sheep; and, when they grew up, the only individual to whom he confided all his failings and pretensions, his hopes and fears. Amatavathi to whom he went for sympathy in affliction; and with whom he was always glad to share his joys. Amaravathi whom he was always glad to help out of any trouble. Amaravathi who sometimes looked up to him as to a father, and sometimes comforted and cheered him as a mother would a child. Amaravathi who . . .

And the tears stood in his eyes. The whole panorama became blurred to his vision, and faded out altogether. Instead, he saw the fresh green meadows by the Kaveri, with here and there a copse, and here and there a wide carpet of flowers, and the cool vistas of golden paddy fields spreading out far and wide on all sides. The smell of fresh verdure, of the flowers and of the sheep, made his nostrils tingle. He heard the bleating of the sheep; and, in between, the almost imperceptibly gentle lapping of the wavelets of the river against the bank and the faint but incisive soughing of the wind in the grove of mango trees on the other side of the river. But above all, a shriller and sweeter cry from the distance drummed against his ears and sent a thrill through his whole being–the piercing, almost primeval, ‘Hoy’ of his beloved playmate from across the meadows. . . .

The lowing of the cows he tended brought him back to sad reality. They were moving about restlessly, wanting to be taken home so that they may feed their young and be milked, and lie down and ruminate and sleep. In the intensity of their yearnings and their despair they stood hushed and immobile for a spell. The sun had set a while before, and the stars were peeping out one by one. There was an unearthly silence around him. It was as if Silence were there as a living presence–a presence that could be felt.

He looked intently at a star just above the horizon in the south-east which was twinkling away with all its might . . . It was winking at him. It was! What right had it to gloat over his misery to his face? . . .

Amaravathi was running towards him, like a blackbird skimming over the field, for succour from a chasing bull. How proud he was to support her terrified, clinging form trembling and sweating against his–to brandish his crook heroically above his head. He felt as if he was Krishna himself. He would not give that fleeting moment to be king of all the world. He would gladly die if the bull tore him to pieces then and there. But the bull beat an undignified retreat, though it tried to cover its loss of dignity by walking away slowly and nonchalantly. She looked all her thanks in her sparkling eyes and in her parted lips . . .

He thought, with a wistfulness which swelled into an oppressive and painful contemplation, of the calm, pleasant tenor of their lives in the little secluded village on the Kaveri; of their homes, low huts huddled together like sheep in a spread-out grove of cocoanut palms. He remembered the moonlight nights when he and she had played among the feathery shadows of the palms which seemed to dance on the sands bathed in moonlight; or had wandered by themselves when the shadows were still, with a faint suggestion of trembling, as if they were the reflection of the trees in some strange liquid surface of pale yellow.

He would lie awake of nights, outside his home, on a mat woven of cocoanut leaves with a low flat stool of wood for pillow, staring at the palms standing motionless in the still night in the mellow light of the moon, or on moonless nights silhouetted darkly against the inky, star-studded sky; and would wallow in a very vague and hazy reflection in which he would look upon them as souls stranded in the midst of life, brooding vacantly over the purpose of their existence. Suddenly there would be a fleeting rustle; as if they were disturbed in their reverie, they would shake their heads petulantly, but ever so slightly and lazily, and then they would drop into their still brooding again.

The cocoanut palm, being of all trees nearest to the human in shape by virtue of its distinct shaggy head, has always tempted man to project on to it his own vacant and futile speculations about life; and as ages and ages ago man pondered over the mystery of life, he does now, and will do till eternity. Even as a child he had been incited, by the strange insistence of the sight of the still and brooding palms, to wonder about the meaning and aim of life. But he had speculated with a child’s mind, a mind bright and flitting and gay like a butterfly, with the eager wonder which a child feels when it first sets eyes on a pleasant sight; and not with the sense of emptiness and futility which neurotic elders try feverishly to camouflage to themselves and to others by creating and fondly believing in the most outrageously fantastic myths.

Those palms had played a distinct part in the thoughts of the two of them. They were conversant with all their ways and whims. And when they had left the little village for good and had come to Ecard, they had recollected them as often and as vividly and with as much pleasure as the good people they had left behind.

The soothing rustling of the palms, their intermittent and rhythmic swaying, along with the soft cool breeze they wafted about and their occasional outbursts as of laughter, when of a night the two of them were resting after the labours of the day, was such a contribution to the pleasant anti cheerful ruminating and desultory chat they had indulged in by themselves in imitation of their elders. The palms were pleasant companions on moonlight nights, and fearful ominous ghosts on dark nights at which even the dogs would bark incessantly! On stormy nights they would sway and dance in the dark like possessed women, with their hair flowing wild; and curled up snugly in their beds inside their different huts, each would fearfully listen to them moaning and whining like women in travail.

The tears trickled silently down his cheeks as he thought of how all that had suddenly ended. Foraging hordes from the neighbouring enemy kingdom had swooped down upon them, like a kite swooping down on a blithe and innocent little chicken,–unexpectedly and as if from nowhere. They had had to fly overnight for their lives. And they had come and settled in this Ecard–so bleak and eerie–but at first so grand and wonderful.

It was here they had first become painfully conscious of the cruelty of man to man, of creature to its kind, of one species to another; of the sinister, secret strife that, in this world, goes hand in hand with the sheer zest in life. And they would sorrow and fear for the world and for themselves. It was Ecard which first intoxicated them, when they were alone of an evening in its midst, with the glorious illusion that only the two of them did exist in all that dark and vast universe. And the next moment it would crush them with the humiliating revelation that they were puny mites of no account in all the immensity of this world and the other worlds which peered at it from beyond through holes in the dark blue sky . . .

He worked as cowherd to all the cow-owners in the village; and she watered the young mango plants in the large grove near the village and collected cotton in the cotton fields in the evenings for her living. They could not meet very often …

But how dear were those meetings because so few; how sweet it was to wait for and dream of a meeting before it came about; and how sweet it was to sleep on the memory of it after it was over. His eyes would close, but her face, with parted lips and dancing eyes, would stand before him, and her sweet voice would keep singing in his heart. . .

Wave after wave of tender recollection of those glorious days when first they came to Ecard surged through his brain. They would sometimes meet after sunset, when their labours were over, and walk side by side along the lonely highway or stray into the groves or the fields or to the ponds in an eager search for the wonders and vagaries of Ecard.

He remembered vividly their first walk together along the very road he had been listlessly looking at sometime before. Ah! he could remember . . . It was a beautiful moonlit night. Even the dusty uneven road with the two ugly gashes running along its length was beautiful to behold and pleasant to walk along. For a stretch, the road ran through a little wood,–trees of various kinds growing wild together, wood-apple, margosa and guava, and on the sides of the road itself, the stately king trees with an occasional banyan or ‘asoka.’ The moonlight breaking through the foliage was so bright and the shadows so intensely dark and clearly outlined that the road looked like a clumsily spread carpet of curious, varied and weird designs in silver on a dark ground. The moon itself could only be seen through chance openings among the leaves and branches. But the play of moonlight among the gently swaying branches and the rustling leaves was most wonderful and pleasant to watch. From all around came the smell of fresh blossoms, of strange flowers they had not known before. And the ponds which were visible in chinks and patches gleamed like sparkling diamonds and shining sheets of gold. Their surroundings, in their entirety and in every detail, were so fantastically beautiful, that they just could not accept the fact that they were in this world, that they were walking along an ugly old track in the midst of a dreary and bizarre expanse. The illusion that they were wandering in another world, a strangely beautiful world, was so very incisive and enticing in its sweetness. And to heighten the illusion, to their infinite joy, when they came up to where the road ran through open country, the whole scraggy rugged tract of land, with its straggling trees and its few marshy ponds scattered far and near, was so transformed by the shadows and highlights cast by the moon that it seemed to have been metamorphosed by some magic spell into a cool and entrancingly beautiful landscape.

They had walked on in a trance, enraptured by an emotion which was an inextricable tangle of their emotional response to the beauty, mystery and grandeur of their surroundings and of their pleasure in relishing it together. And suddenly they had been startled by the consciousness of something queer. They had looked up impulsively to the left of the road to see the moon, and, not finding it there, they had looked about with a start and had found it shining at them from the right. (He seemed to be actually standing there on that moonlit road with Amaravathi beside him, looking wonderingly at the moon). At first they could not believe their eyes. They decided they had been dreaming, and had absent-mindedly thought it was to the left while it was actually to the right. Or was the moon playing hide-and seek with them, and laughing at their perplexity? It looked like it! The moon was beaming at them with a mischievously broad grin. They had suddenly looked back of one accord, as if the clue lay with somebody behind their backs who was in the confidence of the moon, and to whom the moon seemed to have given a sly and knowing wink. And they had found that the road they had come along had made a grand sweeping bend, and that the moon seeming to have jumped of a sudden to their right was no mystery at all. This discovery gave them a delicious thrill . . . . They had always cherished the memory of that incident. And ever after, when they looked at the moon their hearts would fill with gladness. They would remember that incident, and look upon the moon as a playfellow, almost expecting it the next moment to efface itself and to laugh mockingly at them, appearing behind their backs . . .

A bat, vividly dark even in the enveloping darkness, flew past him so near his head and so silently, that it startled him out of his reverie. To his feverish imagination it seemed a stray spirit from the nether world, a harbinger of death. . . .

She had been with him then; and every new experience brought him gladness and joy and nothing else. . . . And the snakes! Ah, the snakes! They had often been warned solemnly by the inhabitants of the place to be wary of snakes,–to talk loudly and walk noisily in the dark so that the snakes may be warned of their approach and take themselves off. They would remind themselves of these well-meant injunctions, only to forget them the next instant in their pleasant preoccupations. How glad he was when a snake crossed their path,–and snakes were plentiful. Her startled shriek was music in his ears; her frightened clutching of his arm, an experience the relish of which would not die for days. But even more dear was Amaravathi’s shame-faced laughing at her involuntary jumping up and screaming. And she would try to justify her action, smiling all the while, on the score that she’d only been startled, and was not at all afraid. ‘Of course. You’d only been startled,’ he would say laughing. . . . He was startled to find himself speaking the same words out aloud . . . .

A sudden, long-drawn-out wail pierced the stillness. It went deep into his heart and seemed to become a solid lump inside. It turned into the gasping, half-strangled groan of someone being strangled to death. Then it changed to the hideous, heartless laugh of the murderer at his victim’s last hoarse and frantic cry for help. It was a hyena . . . .

It put him in mind that the whole of Ecard was swarming with the spirits of people who had died premature deaths; people who had been murdered in these lonesome parts; people who had been drowned or had drowned themselves in the marshy ponds; people who had died of epidemics (or, according to the villagers, people who had perished under the wrath of the goddess of small-pox or of cholera). . . .

He remembered the day both of them had walked along the road branching out near an old margosa tree, and leading to the cremation ground and to another village beyond. They had walked along the dark deserted track, and had been struck with wonder when, turning a sharp bend, they saw before them, instead of a huge banyan tree which they had often seen from afar in daylight, a spreading firmament of brilliant twinkling stars. It was so marvellous and beautiful to look at, that they had stood transfixed to the spot, gazing with glad, wondering eyes at the sight. Then they had drawn near and had found that it was only an enormous swarm of fireflies disporting themselves amidst the foliage of the banyan tree. And, absolutely oblivious of the lateness of the hour and the curious rustlings and swishings which they had heard intermittently; they had gazed up spell-bound at the glorious sight, their hearts swelling with pleasure. And all the way back home they had turned round from time to time to look at the tree scintillating with myriads and myriads of tiny, twinkling lights, indulging the while in the self-satisfying thought that they alone among human beings had been privileged to enjoy that most bewitchingly beautiful and gladdening of sights.

The next day, they were told in the village that the big banyan tree was always at night swarming over with myriads of fireflies; and also (in hushed and awe-inspiring voices) that it was a terribly ghost-haunted place. There were, they said, almost as many ghosts haunting that tree as there were fireflies. And Amaravathi had shuddered. And when they remembered the curious rustlings and swishings, she had shuddered the more. And she would never again be persuaded to go to that place in the evenings. He had tried every manner of persuasion. He had told her it was all nonsense. That there were no such things as ghosts. That he was not afraid of them at all, if they did exist. And what had she to fear when he was by her side, to protect her from the slightest harm? But she would just shudder and shudder at the thought of the ghosts and refuse flatly. After a time he had persuaded her to go over to see, at least from a distance, the little firmament of sparkling fireflies. She had yielded solely for the pleasure of seeing the beautiful sight, though she would stand there trembling by his side, and would drag him away soon . . .

Amaravathi believed in ghosts and spirits and such things. He could not. It was all silly. Though everybody else believed in them too. It was absurd. How could there be spirits….

A pack of jackals began to howl in the distance. The howling approached nearer and nearer, and swelled up in volume. A shudder ran through his frame. He had heard them howling at greater proximity before, and he was not afraid of jackals at all. But now it made his blood run cold. He did not believe in spirits at all; but a fancy struck him that they were spirits from the nether world, and were coming with war-cry and wail to fetch him. The fancy possessed him and became a menacing reality to his fevered imagination. They were coming, ‘coming,–those spirits. At one time their cry was a sad mournful wail, and at another a blood-thirsty, fierce and triumphant war-cry. He perspired all over and shook with spasms of shivering. But the cry receded farther and farther and died in the distance, suddenly landing him with its cessation in the rainy season in Ecard when Amaravathi was with him.

Ah! those were memorable days. . . .

The sun’s rays, as if they were white hot swords, would sear the land from east to west. Day after day, day after day, they would sear the land. Till the land wilted and groaned, gasped for breath, and finally gave up its ghost in despair. The ponds would dry up, exposing their beds, which would seem much like the human skin corroded and broken up by virulent skin-disease, to dry and fester under the scorching sun. Most of the shrubs and plants and a few of the trees would become like dried up specimens of themselves. The ripening corn would droop and lay itself down to dry up and forget that ever the sap had coursed through its veins. And all live conscious beings would think and dream of nothing but rain, rain, rain. They would find themselves forced to face the terrible possibility that the monsoon had forgotten its yearly duty by them. Men and women would begin to joke and to fear that the monsoon had either forgotten its duty, or had mysteriously passed by them, or was no more. And at last! At last the monsoon would come upon them accompanied by thunder and lightning. Lightning in blinding flashes; and thunder which gave them the awesome impression of huge rocks rolling down rugged slopes or clashing down precipices amongst the mountainous clouds right over their heads. And the rains would pour down in torrents, and the winds. . . .

The dry ponds would fill over and break their banks and overflow; every shallow would become a puddle and every ditch a gurgling muddy stream. How many times they had stepped into the mire which spread far around every pond and had extricated themselves with difficulty, the filthy mud clinging slimily half-way up to their knees. How many times, walking dreamily about, they had inadvertently walked into a puddle.

Then there was the eternal croaking of the frogs. All the frogs in all the ponds would join in conclave and croak and croak and croak,–croaking their throats out as if they were sending up a plaint to heaven pleading for rain and more rain.

He woke up from the trance with startling suddenness, and was still more startled to hear the deep croak of one of those old bull frogs. It was the deep, long-drawn-out ‘moo-a-a’ of one of his cows from afar crying for its calf.

An owl screeched from somewhere. But in his dazed mind he could not decide whether it was the screeching of an owl or the screeching of Amaravathi, for it appeared so much like her startled screech when, as they were playing on the banks of the Kaveri, she stepped on some harmless crawler.

But how soon it had all ended! She had run up to the next village one evening on an errand for her mother. She was to have returned at dusk. It was long since dusk had set in, and her mother’s anxiety had turned to a consternation which gripped her heart. And, trembling with fearful fore-boding, the poor mother had walked up to the next village, and there she had been told that her daughter had left a good while ago. The mother had walked back home, her heart limp and heavy in her, despairingly crying Amaravathi’s name every now and then. She had hurried home buoyed up by the fond hope which swelled up in her, that Amaravathi might have returned home when she had been away. But Amaravathi was not at home. And all the villagers had set out in the darkness to search for her. They had searched and searched; but she was nowhere to be found. He had been among the van of the searching party, and he had run about madly here and there. How he had ran about! He had been like a wounded animal running it knows not whither. He could not think. He was speechless and wild eyed. He did not then or after know what exactly his feelings were at that time. But now he lived the whole experience over again in all its intensity. The same incomprehensible, frantic dazedness came over him. He just could not think anything. He could not comprehend it at all. His Amaravathi, his beloved companion! Where could she be? Where!

They had never found her. Ecard–gloomy, weird and mysterious–had gobbled her up and looked as glum and bleak as ever.

His parents had noticed his distraction, and on the insistent advice of the other folk who had also noticed it, had considerately sent him away to the far south to serve under a flourishing cattle broker.

Now, after a year, he had returned; and his family was prosperous. Wherein lay the prosperity? She was no more. How bleak and gloomy looked Ecard! What malice was on its face! Why, it looked like the face of the Devil itself. It was a habitation of malignant spirits; not a fit dwelling place for man. Why, why had they come to this Ecard?

A faint sigh rose up from afar and drew near, a long-drawn-out sigh of pent-up agony that swelled in emotion as it drew neater and nearer. It was the wind stirring among the distant palms. A vague chillness clutched at his heart.

There was a spell of stillness. And the sigh rose up again, greater and more intense than before. And approached gathering in force. It sounded like a faint moan, turned to a soft wail.

They are coming, he thought, the spirits,–in battalions, in hordes of thousands and tens of thousands. The wail rose and fell; and ended in a deafening, prolonged shriek. Discordant noises rent the air,–thundering and booming noises; cries of rage and fury and of excruciating pain; dying groans, cries for mercy, shrieks of women, wail of children,–all sorts of noises impinged. on his ears from all around him. The trees knocked against each other like giants lashing each other with their gigantic arms. Their cries of pain and of triumph and their heartrending roars when giving up their ghosts filled the air. As in a thick and furious battle, the demons were fighting in the darkness, each against the others around, without. distinguishing friend from foe. The battle was devilish in fury.

Clearly; above all this pandemonium, he heard a distinct cry, ‘Come to me! Come to me I’

‘What’s this I hear? Who’s calling? Amaravathi! My Amaravathi! Is that you?’

‘Yes. It is your Amatavathi, your own Amaravathi.’

‘Amaravathi!’

She was in his arms and sobbing as if her heart would break.

‘Don’t cry, Amaravathi. It’s all right. We shall never part again. Don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you cry. We shall never part! Shall we?’

And she cheered up and smiled. That old open smile of hers,–in which the lips would part, showing the pearly white teeth and would never meet again–and her eyes shone bright even in the darkness. She took his hand in hers, pressed it and said softly, ‘Come with me!’

And the next moment he was walking with his hand in hers, never stopping, nor stumbling, nor tripping. The darkness, as if it were a living personality, hovered about them and oppressed them on every side. But he did not at all mind the darkness, for Amaravathi was with him. The wind blew their clothes furiously about. The trees and shrubs extended hungry ravenous arms in the dark to clutch him, moaning and raving all the while. His feet were caught bythe spirits fallen in the fray, spirits which crept like snakes and twined round his legs and pulled him. His feet bled. But what did he care! His clothes were caught and torn by those devilish arms in the dark, and his skin was scratched by sharp claws. But he did not heed anything. Amaravathi’s hand was in his. He was not afraid of the furious demons. He was with Amaravathi. That was what he wanted. Nothing else mattered.

He was going . . . Going he knew not whither. . . . But what did he care so long as Amaravathi was with him! He smelt the filthy stench of the mire around the ponds, but the fragrance of the fresh flowers in Amaravathi’s hair was more insistent. His feet brushed against the sharp edged weeds . . . But what did he care! Amaravathi’s hands were soft and cool. . . .

The wind stopped with mysterious suddenness. A faint lurid glow was in the sky. He was bewildered by the consciousness of being on the slushy bavk of a pond with Amara– vathi by his side. Sweet, dear old Amaravathi, she was with him again. She pressed close to him and put her arm round his waist. He put his arm around her and held her as if he would never let her go.

‘Come,’ she said softly, and gently pulled him forward. . . . They both fell into the water. . . . Water all around. . . . They were going down, down. Water all above. . . . They were still going down, down. He did not shriek or struggle. Amaravathi was with him. That was all he cared for. His feet struck the bed of the pond, and was caught in a tangled root or something. What if? . . . He was lying flat on the bed. . . . Amaravathi had placed his head on her lap. ‘Amaravathi, my own Amaravathi. . . . I feel so sleepy, so sleepy. . . . let me sleep on your lap for a while. . . . if only I could sleep on your lap for ever.’

‘Sleep, my beloved, sleep. You shall sleep in my lap for ever. And I shall sing you to sleep.’

The ending of this tale may well strike one as a poignant account of the malignant power of the spirit of those who have died before their time, and have thus been thwarted in the middle of their self-fulfillment, to kill their beloved who has been left alone by Fate to live and to enjoy life. But this, I must assert, was not the purpose, the profound significance, put into it by those who told me this tale. They did not intend it to be a morbid tale, to overwhelm one with a sense of fear and gloom. They ended the tale on an unmistakable note of elation, not the fatalistic elation of acceptance, but the bright and glorious elation of an unshakable belief in the immortality of the soul and the eternal inseparability of those mated by God.