light of the moon.
Sometimes their path would run along the Chevathar and it saddened Solomon to see the cracked and dry bed of the river. He remembered the time, nearly twenty-five years ago now, when Joshua and he had decided to follow the river all the way to its source. It had been the monsoon season and about ten miles upriver the Chevathar had become a monstrous swollen beast, full of turbulence and violence, as it sought to free itself from its course. Their journey had been interrupted at a place where the river had breached its banks, rendering the road impassable, and they’d had to turn back. Although they’d promised themselves that they would try again the coming year, they had never done so.
As the carts rattled on beside the shrunken river, Solomon tried to follow it in his mind’s eye to its beginnings as a tributary of the mighty Tamraparani. Their boyhood ambition had been to get to the headwaters of the Tamraparani itself, where it rose on the slopes of Agastya Malai, the mountain to which the great northern sage Agasthiar had retired after giving the Tamil country its language, grammar and enough myth and legend to support several generations of priests, scholars and scribes, not to mention releasing the Kaveri from the confines of his water-pitcher, vanquishing hosts of demons and asuras, drinking up the water of the ocean to enable the Devas to exterminate their enemies who had taken refuge beneath the waves and, most famously, commanding the Vindhyas to stop growing until he returned from his sojourn in the south, which of course he never did. From its source Joshua and Solomon had planned to wander along the course of the river – down the Southern Ghats, across the vast Tinnevelly plain and all the way to the Gulf of Mannar. River of pearls, rajahs and rishis, the Tamraparani was only seventy miles long but it had been celebrated from the most ancient times and had firmly lodged in their imagination. As, of course, had the Chevathar. A mere stream at twenty-eight miles in length, it had certainly not been exalted in poetry, myth and travelogue, but still it was their river and it had always been a regret that they had never been able to complete the journey. Perhaps he would still make it, especially if Joshua were to return.
The convoy turned right at a tumbled mass of boulders. The road began to rise but the Nellores made light work of the climb and they had soon topped the incline and were in a rougher, less cultivated world, where the dead fields with their blond stubble of hay and rice stalks gave way to flat-topped acacia and gnarled outcrops of gneiss and granite. The young Sub-Collector from Ranivoor had once told Solomon that the rocks in this area were among the oldest in the world. What stories these stern silent witnesses could tell, he thought. There was need for caution now, as the cart-track had almost petered out and knobs of stone rose abruptly out of the ground. A cart could lose a wheel, or worse, an axle. They slowed to a trot. A village assumed shape and solidity as light began to trickle into the world. There had been a short, sharp caste riot here a few years ago in which four people had died, but now it looked peaceful enough. They rattled through it, a cacophony of sound – cocks crowing, dogs barking – marking their passage. The few villagers who emerged from their huts silently watched the three carts pass. And then they were through.
Ahead rose the great palmyra forest, the cockaded palms tall and erect. Eighty-seven acres and the bedrock of the Dorai fortune. All around them the land glowed a deep red as though the intense heat of summer had plunged deep within the earth and taken up permanent residence there.
A polished sky of crimson and rose hung low over the palmyra forest; any lower, Solomon Dorai thought, and the spiky tops of the trees would score its smooth surface. The toddy tappers were already at work, for they couldn’t leave their trees unattended,
Sometimes their path would run along the Chevathar and it saddened Solomon to see the cracked and dry bed of the river. He remembered the time, nearly twenty-five years ago now, when Joshua and he had decided to follow the river all the way to its source. It had been the monsoon season and about ten miles upriver the Chevathar had become a monstrous swollen beast, full of turbulence and violence, as it sought to free itself from its course. Their journey had been interrupted at a place where the river had breached its banks, rendering the road impassable, and they’d had to turn back. Although they’d promised themselves that they would try again the coming year, they had never done so.
As the carts rattled on beside the shrunken river, Solomon tried to follow it in his mind’s eye to its beginnings as a tributary of the mighty Tamraparani. Their boyhood ambition had been to get to the headwaters of the Tamraparani itself, where it rose on the slopes of Agastya Malai, the mountain to which the great northern sage Agasthiar had retired after giving the Tamil country its language, grammar and enough myth and legend to support several generations of priests, scholars and scribes, not to mention releasing the Kaveri from the confines of his water-pitcher, vanquishing hosts of demons and asuras, drinking up the water of the ocean to enable the Devas to exterminate their enemies who had taken refuge beneath the waves and, most famously, commanding the Vindhyas to stop growing until he returned from his sojourn in the south, which of course he never did. From its source Joshua and Solomon had planned to wander along the course of the river – down the Southern Ghats, across the vast Tinnevelly plain and all the way to the Gulf of Mannar. River of pearls, rajahs and rishis, the Tamraparani was only seventy miles long but it had been celebrated from the most ancient times and had firmly lodged in their imagination. As, of course, had the Chevathar. A mere stream at twenty-eight miles in length, it had certainly not been exalted in poetry, myth and travelogue, but still it was their river and it had always been a regret that they had never been able to complete the journey. Perhaps he would still make it, especially if Joshua were to return.
The convoy turned right at a tumbled mass of boulders. The road began to rise but the Nellores made light work of the climb and they had soon topped the incline and were in a rougher, less cultivated world, where the dead fields with their blond stubble of hay and rice stalks gave way to flat-topped acacia and gnarled outcrops of gneiss and granite. The young Sub-Collector from Ranivoor had once told Solomon that the rocks in this area were among the oldest in the world. What stories these stern silent witnesses could tell, he thought. There was need for caution now, as the cart-track had almost petered out and knobs of stone rose abruptly out of the ground. A cart could lose a wheel, or worse, an axle. They slowed to a trot. A village assumed shape and solidity as light began to trickle into the world. There had been a short, sharp caste riot here a few years ago in which four people had died, but now it looked peaceful enough. They rattled through it, a cacophony of sound – cocks crowing, dogs barking – marking their passage. The few villagers who emerged from their huts silently watched the three carts pass. And then they were through.
Ahead rose the great palmyra forest, the cockaded palms tall and erect. Eighty-seven acres and the bedrock of the Dorai fortune. All around them the land glowed a deep red as though the intense heat of summer had plunged deep within the earth and taken up permanent residence there.
A polished sky of crimson and rose hung low over the palmyra forest; any lower, Solomon Dorai thought, and the spiky tops of the trees would score its smooth surface. The toddy tappers were already at work, for they couldn’t leave their trees unattended,
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