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Authors: Sarita Mandanna

Tags: #Romance, #Historical

Tiger Hills (8 page)

BOOK: Tiger Hills
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The Nayak turned to the Reverend. He had come, he boomed, on behalf of Devanna's father to invite the Reverend to a very special celebration in the Kambeymada village. A nari mangala was going to be held there, for the first time in almost three decades. Since Devanna's presence was required, he would not be attending school for the remainder of the week. Offering no further explanation, the Nayak then whisked Devanna away.

When Devi returned home that evening, pouting because Devanna had been allowed to leave his classes in the middle of the day but not her, Thimmaya ruffled her hair, amused. “How would you like to attend a tiger wedding?” he asked.

“Tigers get married? Where? How?” asked a startled Devi, all petulance forgotten. Thimmaya laughed, telling her she would have to see for herself—they were going to a tiger wedding in Devanna's village the next day.

“Tayi, did you hear? I am going to a tiger wedding!” Devi said,
as she ran into the kitchen. “A tiger wedding, a tiger is getting married and he has called me to his wedding.” She sang all that evening until an exasperated Muthavva shouted at her to be silent. “A tiger wedding,” Devi sang sotto voce, “what does she know, I am going to a tiger wedding … ”

She was up before sunrise, needing none of the usual cajoling to get her out of bed. She wriggled impatiently as Muthavva braided her hair and lined her eyes with lampblack, leaning from the window to call out to the sleepy Poleyas who were hitching the oxen to the cart in the mist-filled courtyard below. “Ayy, did you hear I am going to a tiger wedding? Tukra!” she yelled, as she spotted the servant boy, “are you coming too?” Tukra dolefully shook his head. “Oh … Well, don't you fret,” Devi called out. “When I come back, I will tell you everything that happened, minute by minute.”

“Will you stop distracting the servants and let them finish their work?” Muthavva scolded. “Stand straight or your braid will be all crooked.”

Finally the cart was loaded; Tayi had finished her morning prayers; and Thimmaya, the children, and Tayi set off for the Kambeymada village. Devi pestered them with questions all the way. Why hadn't anyone told her about tiger weddings before? Did fish and birds get married, too? Did the tigress have to wear a sari?

“You'll just have to wait and see,” her brother, Chengappa, said, grinning, “and you'd better be nice to the bride or she will eat you alive.”

Thimmaya smiled as he listened to the banter. It was good they had left early; they would be in the Kambeymada village by dusk. Some of these stretches were notorious for wild elephants, and he did not want to risk an encounter. He let his fingers drift over his matchlock. They would be fine … and elephants or not, he would not have missed the tiger wedding for anything. When was the last time a tiger had been hunted in Coorg? Twenty years ago? Thirty? Even earlier?

They arrived at the Kambeymada village a little past sundown. The sky was a swollen, luscious purple, like an overripe jungle fruit, its skin rent here and there to reveal the first stars. The young men of the village stood at the entrance to the green welcoming the guests, and women flitted about like fireflies, filling and refilling the brass urns of water afloat with fragrant rosebuds and tulasi. Devi perfunctorily splashed some of this perfumed water over her face and hands as she searched excitedly for Devanna, but it was too crowded to see very far.

People thronged the green, the din of their voices rising above the lowing of the tethered oxen and the pounding drums. A large tent had been erected at the far side of the open space, auspiciously facing east. Rows of chairs and wooden benches were arranged before it, for those who were too old or too drunk to stand. A bonfire burned fiercely in the middle of the green, staving off the cold and the milky strands of fog floating through the air. The commissioner of police, Dr. Jameson, the Reverend, and a few prominent planters and their wives threaded through the crowd, their presence further testimony to the reach and influence of the Kambeymada clan.

The white sail of the tent billowed in the wind, and Devi tugged impatiently at Thimmaya's hand. Smiling, he hoisted her onto his shoulders.

“There,” he said, “there is your tiger.”

A log shifted in the fire, sending sparks shooting high into the night. Devi blinked. A colossal tiger glared through the smoke, frozen in mid-leap toward her. It hung suspended from the roof of the tent, its head held high with ropes, its legs splayed, its lips yanked into a rictus of a snarl. The stripes on its back gleamed in the firelight, and the rest of its fur was orange, a fiery, burnished orange, the color of the sampigé flowers that Muthavva liked to wear in her hair.

The music rose to a crescendo, the musicians beating their hide-covered kettledrums into a thunderclap of sound. Instinctively, the crowd parted. “Look,” said Thimmaya, pointing. “There is the bridegroom.”

The musicians were moving forward, making their way through the crowd toward the tent. The kettledrums settled into a steady beat as they began to sing:

Be blessed and listen O friend, listen to this singer's song

In the depths of these jungles, in this wild heartland

A tiger roamed fiercely hungry all day, all night long

Restless was the starving tiger, under a twisted tree it lay

The fey moon had been and gone; no promises had it chanced upon

Uneasy dozed the mighty tiger, in the fretful first light of day.

A cheer went up through the crowd. The bridegroom was tall, taller than most of the men there. He moved with an easy grace behind the musicians, his best man almost on tiptoes as he reached an umbrella up high to shield the bridegroom from the damp.

Mortal men were on the prowl again, thus the tiger dreamt

With skill; with stealth; with guns; with arrows;

Their dogs hot upon its scent

It heard a barking and awoke startled. Looking all around

The tiger pricked its ears, its eyes ablaze

And then gnashed its fangs with a thunderous sound.

The bridegroom's kupya was a ceremonial white, pure as milk, his cummerbund crimson worked over with gold. A square of red silk was draped over his gold-spotted turban, its ends drifting down over his shoulders. He held a gun casually in one hand and a ceremonial walking stick, festooned with silk tassels and tiny bells of silver and gold, in the other. Devi stared at him, transfixed. Never,
not ever,
could she remember having seen anyone so beautiful.

He turned, laughing at someone in the crowd, and the gold studs in his ears glinted against skin the color of teak.

“Today,” it reflected grimly, “not one good omen have I found

Still, if the hunter should dare my path to cross

I shall rip him to pieces, I will fling him to the ground.

Today,” thought the tiger, sparks shooting from its eyes,

“His gun shall be decorated or the wails of his bride be heard.

Today,” resolved the fearless tiger, “today we shall decide.”

“But … but … I don't understand,” Devi said, bewildered. “Why is he marrying a tiger?”

Thimmaya tugged affectionately at his daughter's braid. “It is only a mock wedding, kunyi, an ancient custom to honor someone who has slain a tiger.” The man she saw there was a great warrior, he told her, Kambeymada Machaiah. They were all gathered this evening to celebrate his victory and admire his kill.

The mighty tiger arose and roared, its mouth was open wide

As it came bravely snarling, roaring, bounding forward

To where the hunters stood waiting outside

The hero took aim, his bullet sped, it tore a tiny hole

The tiger stumbled, eyes ablaze; then it leaped toward the sky

It fell to the earth; with fire dimmed and dying breath, it gave up its noble soul.

Devi slowly nodded, her eyes drinking in the pretend bridegroom.

When they went to the tent to congratulate Machu, for the first time in all her ten years Devi found herself utterly and uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Up close, he was even more fetching. He sat astride a squat, three-legged stool, his gun resting across his lap. A dimple flashed in and out of one cheek, and when he glanced briefly at Devi his eyes were a merry, sparkling brown. Thimmaya sprinkled rice over Machu's head and pressed a coin into his hands. “You have done us all proud, monae,” he said simply. “A true son of Coorg.”

Machu bent to touch Thimmaya's feet. “It is your blessings, anna,” he said, and his voice seemed to Devi like honey gliding down the inside of her arm. She hid behind Thimmaya's back, quite forgetting even to look at the tiger.

“Are you tired, kunyi?” Thimmaya asked anxiously later, as she
clung to his hand in the crowds. “Why are you so quiet? Shall we go find Tayi and ask the ladies to get you some dinner?”

Devanna came rushing up to them by the food hall. “Devi! Here you are. I have been searching all over for you. Did you see the Reverend? He is here, too. And the tiger, did you see the tiger? My cousin Machu killed it. My cousin! Did you meet him? Come on, you must meet him!”

“No, no … ,” Devi protested, but Devanna was already dragging her along. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and stole a shy glance at the bridegroom. The ladies of the village had walked through the gathering a little while before, bearing gongs and small brass pots filled with water; with dinner announced, the crowds around the tent had dispersed. Machu had arisen from his stool and was holding court, a group of giggling young lovelies hanging on his every word. “Oh, Machu,” they exclaimed breathily, hands pressed to their pert bosoms, “tell us again how you brought down this beast.”

“Machu anna,” Devanna called from behind the brocaded bustle of their saris, “this is my friend Devi.” Machu dimpled affably and waved. Devi felt her stomach slide. She forced a smile, peeling her lips back from her teeth. “My father says that you … ,” she began brightly, then halted midsentence. Machu had already turned back to the women.

“Machu anna,” Devanna called hopefully again, but Machu was too engrossed in recounting his tale to pay them any attention. “Well, never mind,” Devanna said resignedly to Devi, “at least you got to meet him.” He took Devi's arm and turned to leave. A sudden anger spurted within Devi and she shook herself free of his grasp.

“So you killed this tiger?” she demanded rudely. “Why is everyone making such a fuss? It doesn't seem that dangerous to me.”

There was a collective squawk of outrage from the women. “Just listen to the brat!” one of them exclaimed. “Not dangerous?” exclaimed another. “No, it isn't dangerous at all, hanging dead from the roof, but what would you do, I wonder, if you saw it coming at you in the jungle? Wet yourself, I should imagine!”

“I would not,” cried Devi indignantly. “I … I am the bal battékara. I'm just as good as any hunter.” She knew how silly her words sounded even as they came out of her mouth; she could see Devanna gaping at her from the corner of her eye. “Besides,” she continued in a sudden burst of inspiration, as she triumphantly crossed her arms, “this tiger doesn't even have any claws.”

The women glanced at one another and then burst out laughing. A particularly tall girl bent down to Devi. “It doesn't have any claws,
kunyi,
” she said, deliberately emphasizing the word, “because it was declawed after Machaiah killed it. The claws have been removed to be fashioned into brooches and earrings for the Kambeymadas. Like this one.” She pointed to the brooch that lay curved upon her bosom, fastening her sari to the velvet blouse below. A crescent of a claw, the palest green tapering into ivory, stripped of all menace by its capping of gold.

Devi's cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. She opened her mouth to retort, but Machu stepped in before she could say anything. “Leave it be,” he said, dimpling at the women. “My little friend here doesn't seem terribly impressed, but then we can't please everybody, can we?” He winked at Devi, and she found herself grinning foolishly at him. “Ayy, Devanna,” Machu continued, “is your friend always such a tigress?” The tall girl began to protest, and he shook his head. “Come now. Enough. She is but a child.”

Devi froze in horror, the smile wiped from her face. Had he just called her a
child?
Still chuckling, Machu turned to leave, shepherding his entourage.

The tent was now silent except for the tortured creaking of the bamboo frame as the dead tiger swung slowly above their heads. Devi bit her lip, close to tears. Beside her, Devanna took a deep, deliberate breath. “Did your head suddenly turn inside out?” he asked. “Why were you so rude?”

He had called her a
child.
She bent to pick up a jasmine bud that had fallen from the garland about Machu's neck.

“Devi, I am talking to you. What madness got hold of you that you had to be so rude?”

Devi closed her palm about the bud and whirled upon the startled Devanna. “Just leave me alone! Why don't you go pester him instead, your newfound cousin and his group of clucking hens?” She rushed off, ignoring the hurt in Devanna's eyes. “Where is my father? I want to go home.”

She slept fitfully that night, Tayi's breath whistling in her ears. She was withdrawn all through the journey the next day as well, unaware of the anxious glances from Tayi and the others. When the bullock cart finally turned into the courtyard of the Nachimanda house, to Muthavva's pleased surprise Devi flung herself silently into her arms.

“What's this?” Muthavva murmured, kissing her daughter's head. “Missed me, did you?” Devi said nothing, but burrowed her head deeper into Muthavva's neck.

As Muthavva tucked her into bed that night, Devi asked, “Avvaiah … when will I get married?”

BOOK: Tiger Hills
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