The night air hung heavy, the tension thick enough to drown out the pungent scent of areca nut and betel leaf.
Ittamar cleared his throat with a wet, guttural rattle and spat into the brass vessel held by his servant, who didn't flinch as the long thread of crimson saliva splattered onto his bare hands.
His eyelids felt like lead. He hummed a low, off-key tune to keep himself upright, the sound cutting through the drone of the crickets in the coconut grove.
Any other night, he would be snoring by now.
But not today.
A shift in the breeze brought the rhythmic thud of hooves. Ittamar's eyes snapped open. A wide, red-stained grin split his fat face.
"They are here… Can you see them, Kutta? Look, look!" he said, his belly jiggling with the excitement of a child receiving a toy.
His servant craned his neck, his back bent in permanent servitude, and looked where Ittamar pointed.
A bullock cart rolled down the slope, carrying a large iron cage covered in cloth that was ripped in several places. It halted in front of them, and the cage lurched at the sudden stop.
Whatever was in that cage did not have a pleasant ride.
Kuttan peeked into the cage through one of the tears in the cover. It was dark, but he could sense something massive inside from the way the wheels groaned.
"You want to know what's inside?" Ittamar asked, beaming at him.
The carter jumped down, stretching his back until it popped, but he immediately reeled back and bowed low when he saw Ittamar's expression.
"You are late, bastard… I thought you'd never reach. Is 'it' fine? I want 'it' to be in perfect health before tomorrow. Understood?" Ittamar barked, red spittle flying.
The carter nodded rapidly, removing the towel tied around his head to wipe his sweat.
Two more soldiers appeared from the cart. They saluted Ittamar, but he ignored them, his eyes fixed on the thing inside the cage.
A sudden sound of coughing and rattling chains came from within. The cage shook violently.
The soldiers' hands flew to the hilts of their swords.
Ittamar took a step back, but his smile only widened when he saw his servant shiver.
"You haven't asked me, Kuttan. Ask… ask what is in it…"
"Wh..wha..what is inside, Master?" Kuttan managed to utter, swallowing hard.
Ittamar guffawed, his entire body shaking, before stopping abruptly to leer at Kuttan's terrified face.
"Inside this cage is death… don't be afraid. Not yours… It's Shakthan's… Shakthan's death."
The ragged sound of coughing came from within it again—unmistakably human. Yet Ittamar's eyes twinkled like a hunter who had captured a rogue elephant in his pit, and couldn't wait to tame it.
---
The kalari that Shakthan's father had begun as per the request of the then feudal lord of Mangalanad sprawled a cavernous sixty feet in length, carved into the red earth.
Hundreds of students from across the land came to learn the martial art from one of the finest to ever master it. But today, all of them stood along the premises of it, watching in awe as Shakthan practiced.
No one dared step in to interrupt him.
"Master, he has been at this for hours now," one of the students told the elder Shakthan as he stood watching his son practice.
The student did not receive any answer in return, and the emotions on the master's face were unreadable, like that of a stone idol.
Shakthan could see his father from among the crowd of students who were his audience today. His father did not speak but had his glare fixed on him.
He closed his eyes and focused; a mental image of the entire kalari formed in his head. The movements of air and the silent whispers helped in understanding the slight movements around him.
His entire body was his eyes.
With his eyes closed, his body flowed like water—smooth and flexible—performing each of the meypayattu forms with a precision that was beyond what the audience, also fellow students of the school, could even imagine.
The cold handle of the blade he held now was an extension of his entire body, and every inch of skin was abuzz with a kind of alertness that came to him only in the state of flow. The only sound was the hiss of his sword cutting through the air, as if the wind itself was singing praises, and the rhythm of his feet—the earth his chenda drum.
He was perfect; he knew he was perfect, and all he wanted now was his father to acknowledge him the same way the mistakes were pointed out.
One word of praise his closed eyes craved for.
A sudden wave of whispers cut through his focus.
He opened his eyes to see a part of the crowd make way for someone.
Kannan.
Kannan emerged from between the crowd. He casually walked up to the kalari, offered his prayer, and walked towards Shakthan.
"I need to talk," Kannan said.
"One swift blow and here your head will lie…," Shakthan said, pointing his sword.
"You still have time. You know what you are doing is outright stupid. You fall for the lightest of taunts. And tomorrow you will… you may die," Kannan said, shoving the blade from his face.
"So that you can go on my behalf? Who are you doing all this for exactly? For that girl?" Shakthan smirked and went back to his stance.
"Who are you doing it for? I know you well, Shakthan. You don't even want to leave this place. Now you are doing all this for what? At least I have a reason…," Kannan said, with his hand on Shakthan's shoulder.
"TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME…," Shakthan shouted.
Kannan reeled back.
"I said what I had to…," he whispered, and walked towards the crowd and into the darkness.
The crowd thinned to only one person—his stone-faced father.
When his father also turned to leave, Shakthan stopped.
"You have nothing to say?… Father?" he asked, breathing heavily.
His father stopped in his tracks but didn't turn around. The silence swelled to a near burst, and then he walked away.
With a loud shout, Shakthan threw his blade hard to the ground, where it lay bent.
Exhausted, he came down on his knees.
The dripping sweat hid the silent tears.
A few more hours and he'll fight what can possibly be his last duel, and his father couldn't bother to say a word.
There he lay down, under the stars that twinkled from in between the moving rainclouds, only his bent sword for company. Red mud stuck to his sweat-drenched body, and it flaking off him was the only thing that gave him a sense of passing time.
Memories and thoughts flooded him then—not dreams, for he didn't sleep.
He wished his mother was here, caressing his hair.
He wished his father was here, with a smile and praise on his lips.
He wished for Kannan's company. Those days of hearty laughter.
A feeling of dread shrouded him as he felt all of it slipping away from him, and the further they went, the sleepier he got until finally, with the owls singing lullabies, he slept—fully aware that on this red ground lay what could very well be his last sleep.