Fiction: Two women are in love with the same man – Madhavi, a dancing girl, and Kannagi, his wife

I could never resist my feelings for the nice boy who became my husband. It was a bit too much for my mother to handle. Amma blamed my father for it. She complained that he was encouraging his only daughter, who had become hopelessly besotted with the son of his closest friend. In my head, I was already scripting and rescripting our love story, which was going to be one for the ages, and insisted on disappearing into my perfect storyland.

This annoyed Amma no end. And she might have been right about Appa as well. For he was my only scale drawing of how a man ought to be. He was always the nicest of men. Appa was also one of the most successful merchants in Puhar, the capital city of the mighty Cholas, and was the foremost trader of grains and spices. People always said that it was not his formidable acumen for trading that set him apart, but his benevolence and generosity. I loved that everyone loved my father. And that he loved me, best of all.

Amma did not mind that. “Men are silly creatures,” she remarked. “Your father is better than most, but he is still a man. It suits me perfectly that his only child has claimed his heart and not some foul vesha or exquisite dasi. And don’t you ask me what those things mean. You will know when you do.”

Appa would carry me on his shoulders when I was younger, or I would hold his hand as we walked along the promenade of our beloved Puhar, every time his ships came in. The harbour, Maruvurpakkam, was our pride and joy, for this was the point where the River Goddess Kaveri merged herself into the sea with a silvery rush of exquisite recklessness, their ardent union forming an estuary that was so extensive and deep, the biggest ships in the world could come and go, safe as you please. Or so my father said.

“The River Goddess is the greatest,” the sailors and fishermen, swaying and somewhat unsteady on their feet, sang to each other, well within my hearing, chuckling all the while, with the casual familiarity and veneration they had for the river that was their life, “but like all women she is half a whore, which augurs well for us mere mortals, except when she is pitching an unholy fit and flooding the banks, destroying our boats, baying for our blood to drink and our bones to chew on.”

“She wouldn’t mind our embrace. Provided we have tools the size of a palmyra tree!”

My father would frown, and that was the end of that.

At the time, I had no idea what “half a whore” or even an “entire whore” meant but I knew enough not to ask my father or mother about it. Besides, hadn’t Amma said that I would know what I wanted to know when I did? I preserved the words carefully in my head until I was old enough to figure out the meaning on my own. And then I wished I had remained ignorant because forevermore, I would worry endlessly about the half of me that was supposedly a whore. Like the great river Kaveri, on whose lap I was raised, I wondered if I was half goddess and half whore. The thought of being either was terrifying.

Puhar was originally called Kaveripattinam because it was built on the bank of our beloved Kaveri of schizophrenic disposition. The people referred to it as Puhar, an endearment, that sprang forth from their great affection for this greatest among cities. And it was beautiful.

Our King Karikalan’s enormous palace was at the heart of Puhar, and it was grand indeed. I remember it well enough, but I can’t recall the particulars about the bustling streets, the many temples, or even the neatly ordered marketplaces hawking everything from gold and gems to freshly caught fish. My memory plays tricks on me, leaving me utterly confounded about what is real and what isn’t, what happened and what didn’t, the things I buried and those I conjured up.

Whenever I think of my Puhar, I can only recall the details of my parents’ residence where I spent my childhood and the home I made for myself. To be fair, messy memory alone isn’t to blame. I knew these parts of Puhar best because I seldom stepped out and away from the familiar comforts of my home. Which is why my little sojourns to the port with my father hold such a special place in my heart.

It was one of my favourite things in the world to feel the sea breeze in my hair and take in the sights and smells as he told me about the ships standing proud and tall in the harbour. The big ones with the strong beams of timber lashed together, formidable prows and majestic sails were intimidating and most impressive. They were the ones that sailed to places with exotic names like Eezham, Nagapuram and distant Burma, returning with precious cargo stored in large warehouses on the shorefront.

“A demon guards the warehouses,” father told me with mock solemnity. “If anybody were foolish enough to lay their grasping paws on the valuables that bear the tiger stamp of our King Karikalan, they would find their eyeballs have been gouged out by the vigilant demon with bloodshot eyes and a lolling tongue. And he also carries a club. He is not to be confused with the one who stands guard at the crossroads and devours those with falseness in their hearts – swindlers, cheats, and loose women – before spitting out their bones.”

I hated this story. It frightened me no end to think of demons prowling about looking for swindlers, cheats and loose women in my Puhar, which always seemed so warm and welcoming, filled with all manner of marvels that soothed the senses and stirred the soul. How could the most beautiful and bountiful place in the three worlds harbour anything at all that might be construed as beastly? Naturally, I was a foolish little girl who grew up to be an even more foolish woman

Excerpted with permission from The Wife and the Dancing Girl, Anuja Chandramouli, Rupa Publications.