Sila-pattikaram

("The story of the anklet")

I recently read an English translation of the above Tamil epic purported to be written in 1 CE .

This epic relates the revenge the legendary Tamil woman Kannagi wrecks on the Kingdom of the Pandyan Dynasty in Southern India.

While watching the mesmerizing ballet from an old film noir rendition, couple of weeks later , subtle furrows of my mind were dredged up and the following episode from back when I was an engineering student in the 70s surfaced.

Some of you may be familiar with the concept of college "study-holidays": basically time off just prior to the semester exams to enable one to prepare and hopefully tackle those exams . I for one, never really used that period to study intensively, borne out by the subsequent abominable grades.

Once the study period dates were posted up on the notice board, off I would go to my grandmothers village just outside the town of Nellore, Southern India . To "study". A student railway concession ticket by Indian Railways 1st Class was affordable, being just some 400kms travel.  Aah, life.

A bit of study , intermingled with sumptuous cuisine of wholesome homegrown vegetables, rice from their own paddy fields, hand husked by dusky maidens made such escapades to the village memorable.

And of course the free movies.

Nellore had a movie-- nay cinema- theatre "Leela Mahal" and which would only screen "English" movies. The owner and my uncle Vacha were booze buddies and for vassals like me the entrance to the theatre was free. More often than not, I would occupy the balcony box seat , and invariably the only free patron there.

So one evening , I head out to the town with my uncle , and while he disappears into the office to carouse with the choicest of whisky, I am engrossed in a recent western or a Bond movie. Not the latest, but then who cares. Generally after the movie, Uncle and I would return home together , well before midnight.

On this particular evening, the movie ends just after 9 pm, I walk into the office, and the dude cleaning up the place informs, boss-man and uncle have left for a party and I am asked to make it to the hotel where they are accosted. A cycle rickshaw takes me into the heart of the town garishly lit with sodium vapour lights, to the "lodge" with the purported party.

It's now almost 10pm and I see no signs of the zonked and the highly inebriated persona making any move. I decide to head home on my own.

Another short rickshaw trip to the local bus stand, and to my consternation I have missed the 10pm bus: the next one is over an hour away.

Dinner at the eatery by the terminus helps pass time and soon I am in the rickety bus waiting to be transported home.

I am off the bus on the highway running through the paddy fields and out in the fields I can see the glow of uncle's village lights. A weak yellow light on the highway casts an eerie glow on the culvert by the bus-stop. Two old men seated on the culvert are pulling away on their cheroots. Thin grey smoke shrouds them.

As I cross the road and head down the path towards the village, the old main hails.

"Heading to Mypadu?”. My uncles village just outside Nellore.

"Yes"

"Vacha's relative", more of a statement than a question.

"Yes"

"Watch out for them" mutters the gaffer pointing to the paddy fields .

I step on the narrow path and squint in the dim street light casting its pale encircling glow and as I head down the path the glow fades away into the soft silver light from the full moon.

The whole country side, paddy fields and all look somnolent. The cicadas and frogs keep me company on this warm night with the hint of a sensual caress of breeze.

I am soon aware of a sepulchral silence: the frogs and cicadas have disappeared, all I hear is the crunching of my shoes on bits of gravel and my own breath as I hurry towards the glow of distant lights.

A distraction creeps up on me. I hear the soft jingle, like those of a woman’s anklet. And that jingle seems to keep pace with me. A gentle tightness clamp around my chest. The sound is unusual on this moonlit night.

I look back furtively, and see nothing. Just moonlight on the vaguely visible path winding its way back to the weak light on the highway by the culverts. The old cronies have disappeared. I hurry on.

The jingle follows. I pause mid-step. The jingle pauses too. My foot hits the path, a hear a single tinkle. I look back --nothing.

I take a quick step forward and try to hurry, the jingle is resumed and keeps pace with my footsteps.

I stop, the jingle stops.

A kind of panic makes its presence felt, I swing around in a rush, and there not more than 10 ft away is a swaying form of blue-white flame, some 12ft high, an arms width wide , much like a candle flame.

Fear grips me and I rush down the path towards the safety of the village lights, I look back once , the form has not moved, but I can hear merged with the pounding of my heart and feet on the dusty path a crescendo of anklet jingles. I reach the safety of the solitary street light on the paved road leading up to my uncle's house and as I pass another of those ubiquitous culverts, the old guy sitting there smoking , cackles "kurvee daiyallu" and laughs sardonically.

I look back,the flame form has flitted away into the vast expanse of the paddy fields to join up with other hovering forms.

A month later I am back in college and check out " kurvee daiyallu" in the library, the article mentions methane bursting into spontaneous combustion over paddy fields which is associated by locals as ghosts--" kurvee daiyallu" . All very cut and dry, but no mention of anklet jingles.

Easy enough explanation, but that does not throw any light on the jingle.

Ghosts or a figment of my imagination? I am in two minds, but have resolved not to walk the paddy fields after dark.

As the rock group Tito & Tarantula say in their song "After Dark":

Watching her

Strolling in the night so white

Wondering why

It's only after dark

In her eyes

A distant fire light

Burns bright

Wondering why

It's only after dark

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