Tales Of Theyyam

By Sachin Dev

Part-I

The Man who owed a Debt.

The fog misted up the windshield of the jeep, rising off the ground, dropping the visibility down to almost zero.

Nacreous wisps, splitting up with the playful wind, and then joining up to form hazy shapes, like a mythical monster. A chuzhali chekuthaan from the Tales of Theyyam that Jagan had heard from his mother, ages back. Funny, he thought, how memories rose up like dead bodies surfacing in water, bloated and ugly, in spite of weighing them down with heavy stones.

Maybe it was this place. The enchanted forests of Irutti. Home. Oh correction, reporter. Was home, no longer is. He hung onto the rusted sidebar on the jeep as they bounced from one precariously perched rock to the next, the overarching creepers around them showering his head with dew, devil-spit and dead leaves.

Someone sitting in the back screamed.

The driver laughed, a maniacal laughter that bounced back from the over-hanging boughs they were traveling under. He was middle-aged with grizzled stubbles on his head, an old ‘ray-bon’ sunglass, bought from the temple thiruvala grounds possibly from eons past, hanging askew on his sharply angled face. He had an impressive full beard shot through with grey, neatly oiled into a V, just like his face. A face that reminded Jagan of a spade.

The sounds of the shovel crunching through gravel and dirt. Scraping mud, and that final metallic twinge when coming up short against the bedrock. The soft thud of a body dropping into the hole. And then again, the sounds of the spade, flinging scree, loose dirt and chunks of broken stones. Covering up the dead.

Jagan recalled one of his early lessons of writing copy, to avoid purple prose and be objective in his journalistic reporting. But you had to call a spade a spade to his face, right? Except maybe this one was two steps away from becoming a full-fledged psycho from the sound of his laughter. And certainly, couldn’t take a joke.

“Chetta, maybe you should slow down, a bit.”

Jagan offered, craning his neck to the back to see who had screamed in terror. The faces in the back were shrouded in shadows, huddled together for warmth against the encroaching twin forces of wind and cold, their faces covered by brightly knitted monkey caps and thick old blankets. He couldn’t make out their individual features. Just a collective set of vaguely humanoid features, grey and shadowy.

===============================================================

Jagan had kept the glass of half-drunk chai back next to the whistling teapot and was turning away, when the shopkeeper called out to him.

“No one has gone into Irutti, in a while, son. What did you say, you wanted to do there?”

Jagan didn’t answer immediately. “I owe someone a debt, chetta. Someone who now lives in Irutti. Thought will clear up the odds.”

“Who? Thomachan Mothalalli? He’s the only one who’s got business outside the village. Rubber and stuff.” The man was persistent. Jagan thought he was way too curious for this early morning. He just nodded, noncommittally.

“But still, you look like a nice sort of person. That’s why I am telling you, be careful son. Haven’t heard anything good about these people from Irutti. Most of them, are criminals of some sort or the other. Come here, as a last resort against the system.” The man leaned across the shop-front, the early morning fog and the condensation from the teapot making his face appear hazy. His voice dropped to a sotto,

“The police never make it out alive. Sir, you aren’t a cop, no?”

Jagan felt a sudden spike of pure black terror bubble up through his conscious then. He lit his cigarette, and his hands shook before the flame caught, the sight of the familiar cherry-red tip of his cigarette in the dark chasing that momentary surge of terror inside him.

“No, chetta. I am actually a reporter, with the Mathrudesham paper.” He gave the man a wry smile and moved away, leaving the money on the shop-front and the man gaping after him.

The rest of the passengers had magically appeared as he had waited for the driver near that rust-bucket of a jeep, savouring that first cigarette of the day. Nobody spoke anything, just silent nods, a ghost of a smile and they had clambered into the back of the Jeep. Obedient sheep, being led into the market for slaughter. He had leaned across and asked, “Driver...?”

Someone tapped him from the back. “That would be me. We’re full now. So we can start.”

Jagan had jumped. It was the driver, who had materialized out of the crawling mists that covered both sides of the road. Like a ghost. The man offered a wan smile, propping his ray-bon sunglasses onto his head.

“Your luggage?”

Jagan shrugged, taking a last drag on his cigarette. “Oh no, just this bag, I can keep this on my lap.”

“Okay. Keep a hand free, hold tight onto the sidebars. It’s hilly and the forest hasn’t yet gone back to sleep.”

Jagan considered the statement. What? The forest hasn’t yet gone back to sleep?

The man offered no further explanations and so he climbed into the jeep, careful to avoid the rusting bars. There was no windshield, and the tarpaulin cover was rolled up and pushed under the front-seats. Jagan turned back to look at the tea-shop owner who had advised him on how to get to Irrutti. But the man was already busy, doing his magic, making the tea flow in the air and land into tiny glasses without spilling a drop anywhere. His eyes were distant, glassy. Lost in a dream about becoming a premiere of a country perhaps, one day. As the engine spluttered and started, Jagan’s reverie broke.

For one unfathomably long moment, Jagan’s heartbeat spiked up. An uncanny alarm clock shrilling inside his body about some unforeseen danger. As if that view of the ramshackle teashop on the side of the state-highway 293 was his last sight of the civilized world. Fast disappearing into a swirling cloud of grey and white exhaust as the Jeep drove away. He wanted to jump out of the Jeep and run back. But they had pulled away now and the old engine was picking up speed. There was no rear-view mirror, just the broken handle on that side. He shook his head ruefully.

Driver’s voice broke through to him, deep and sonorous.

“My name’s Kuttapai.” Jagan noticed he had dropped his glasses back onto his face, perched on the tip of his nose. He wondered how much of that thin dirt road cutting through the jungle the man was able to make out in this weather.

“Don’t mind me asking, but I have never seen you here before. And I know most of these fellows. What is your name, son?”

“Jagan.”

“Hmm Jagan-mone…first time here, no? Let me guess. You want to learn the magic of Theyyam from the forgotten masters?”

At this, Jagan blanched a bit. But he grinned, trying to deflect that question, “Kuttapai-etta, you know everybody at Irrutti, then?” His heart beat just a bit faster.

The man laughed, showing pearly white teeth that shone in the dark. “Everybody knows me. Because the folks who come back from town, they need Kuttapai’s jeep to get home. You see, there is no other way into Irrutti. There’s only the Kuttapai travel service that takes you in and out. But you didn’t tell me, where are you from?”

Jagan glanced ahead, trying to peer through that impregnable swirling wall of dark and fog. “From hereabouts only. My mother is originally from here. Her name is…Dakshyayani Thampooratti.”

“Ohhhh….You are Daksha-kutti’s…son?” Kuttapai’s face shone like a temple lamp lit in the sarpa-kaavu of a dark forest. Jagan saw that the man wanted to say something but he clammed up. He nodded to himself and then focused on the road.

Jagan sat in silence, taking this in. Dakshayani Thampooratti. His mother was famous, a rebel in her own rights, having been one of the few people from Irrutti who had moved beyond the village. One of the very few to escape from Irrutti. Jagan had never met his father but his mother Daksha was the only woman who had performed the Devakoothu Theyyam, in service to the Goddess. Not many women who had had the Goddess descend into them, survived the madness. Dakshayani did. And she had actually escaped the clutches of Irutti. And so, he reasoned, the people still remembered her to this day. Despite thirty two years that had passed. Because she was the promised Manavati to the Demon-King, the girl who had defied the chekuthaan-guards of Irutti, to make her escape out of this cursed place.

And now he was back here. The prodigal son, return of the prince. He shivered and it wasn’t just the cold of the grey dawn, slithering in through the thick mouldy blanket that he peeked out from beneath.

It was true, for Jagan at thirty-two years of age, this was the homecoming. Though he had never imagined it would happen thus. To see the forest that was only bright in his fervid imagination come alive for real. The creepers and the solid dense wall of green that covered both sides of the mud road, had always been a special part of his childhood. Lived through countless times in his own head. Fashioned from the stories that his dear mother, the forgotten bride of the demon-king, would tell him before he slept.

The stories were coming true, weren’t they. Stories, they are never just pure imagination. The seed of that story planted long time back is always real, he thought. As real as the fact that his mother had once had the Goddess herself reside inside her own mind.

And that’s when fear took hold again, deep in his churning gut. What about the demons, then? Were they real too?

He thought he saw movement inside the forest. Faint shadows that shimmered. The air itself seemed heavier, thicker. Laden down with presence of the roaming undead spirits. The forest department had warned him of strange creatures that had been sighted inside the Irumbikudil forests, a forest reserve that had not been fully mapped. Countless stories of men disappearing. Though none of this was corroborated by any official reports. It was only because of his consummate skills as a journalist that he managed to get some of these stories out. Interviews with retired officials and government servants and the family members of the ones who had disappeared. The stories were a mess of entangled unbelievable accounts. As an investigative journalist covering supernatural events, Jagan had gained a great sense of the ability to dehusk the nonsensical from the real ones. So armed with a sense of cynic, Jagan had combed through all these accounts and finally came to the conclusion that there was a thin patina of truths that underlay some of these otherworldly descriptions.

That Irutti was indeed a place on the map of this world that was unhinged by the laws that governed the normal world.

The witnesses spoke about the lights. Just before the disappearances of their colleagues. That the forest was lit up, with fluorescent lights like that of fireflies, but a brighter green, like the spark of copper sulphate experiments from his school chemistry labs made into a raging fire. They swore on their family deities about the disembodied voices in their heads that seemed to direct the men astray and have them roaming the thickets in unending loops.

The sound of the revving motor and the burning tires startled him. They had stopped just near a yawning gorge. Kuttapai looked at Jagan, a blank stare and gestured with his sharp anvil of a jaw. “You need to walk from here.” He said, in a voice that almost sounded mechanical. The man’s eyes were glazed, unfocused. Jagan nodded, stepping out, walking to the edge of the gorge.

He then lit his second cigarette of the day and took a long satisfying drag, listening to the jeep race, dragging over boulders. He was just turning around when the world around him exploded.

A bright flash.

Blinding light that arced out wards from over the tree tops. Bright flares of green that danced and stung his eyes. This was followed by a loud bang. An implosion that sucked air around him, clapping his ears. Instincts took over as he ducked and threw himself onto the ground. The muffled explosions sounded all around him like a set of land-mines triggered and then slowly died down. Jagan risked a glance, peering out.

The Jeep had disappeared. Nor was there any sign of Kuttapai or his fellow passengers.

Jagan’s blood froze in his veins. Where had the others disappeared?

He stood up slowly, felt a trickle of blood and wiped it off. His eyes were still adjusting to the loamy darkness that lay thick around him. Listening to stealthy movements down in the rock-riddled ravine. Brief flashes of light, weak and green, winking out against dark undergrowth.

The forest hasn’t yet gone back to sleep.

Did it sense him? Did it want him next? Jagan studied the forest around him, that eerie sensation being watched, very strong in the back of his mind. He knew forest ecosystems well. But something about Irutti felt off. And then it struck him. The silence. It was disconcerting to stand in a forest as vast as this and not hear the sounds of life. The constant sibilance of the crickets, the occasional hoots of the Malabar langurs and shrill badgering of brightly coloured birds. Nothing. But maybe, it was still too early. The dawn light hadn’t cracked through the dense canopy above. Then he corrected himself. There was light. But it was filtered. Like the pale reflections of a dark room experiment gone wrong.

Shadows were dispelling slowly around him, with the coming of the dawn. But the wispy fog was like a persistent animal, a hunter on his trail, dogging his footsteps as he stumbled through the undergrowth, brushing past the spiderwebs and the wet dew drops. He noticed a walkway, a dried mud path meant only for pedestrians to cross the canyon. The only way across.

When he finally made it across, he saw that the forest around him had spread out, flattening away to just shrubs and rolling grasslands in the distance. And far away, nestled amidst the undulating hills, were lights. Naked bulbs fighting vainly against the absolute darkness. But at least, they were lit. and that meant people.

The village was actually spread out beneath the hill. It was an idyllic sight. Houses spread far and wide, grey and white and yellow with red shingles and broken slats for rooftops. Surrounded by the forests on all sides, each house standing alone in that sea of green, slowly losing the battle to the encroaching vines, tangled roots and the slanting big branches.

Among all these, he had to find that one person. Messari Kutappalli Appan Thampooran. The man to whom he owed a debt.

The man…. who had killed his father.

Part-II

The Lady who Ascended.

By the time Jagan came down the hillock, struggling to keep his footing on the spongy wet ground crowded with dead leaves, it was closer to noon. The pale robin blue sky had morphed into a molten sheet of gold, the heat strangely diffused and not bothering him much.

The ground fell further away before him, into a series of undulating narrow mud paths that Jagan thought should lead him into the village. The grass stamped down by the countless feet before him that had walked into the same village.

Never to return, warned a voice in his head.

That was when it struck him that he still hadn't seen a single soul anywhere in the vicinity of the hillock. Even this close to the village. Something was definitely amiss. A village this size should at least have cows or goats grazing in these fields. The carefree children who ought to have been gambolling in the dirt, playing hide and seek amidst the large trees in the distance. He noticed a swing, tied to the lowest branch of the tree he passed by. Not moving, stand-still. The first house now popped up in his view, hidden behind the bend and the thick foliage. A squat single storey brick coloured building, unfinished, unpainted. As if the mason had just stood up and gone for his lunch, perhaps planning to come back and finish the job, but never did.

He approached the courtyard, noticing the piles of dead leaves from the trees around gathering over wet mulch that had not been cleaned up in a while. A patch of vegetable garden in the front, left untended, the melons ripe and bursting on the vines that could no longer hold them up. A cage, the door lying wide open on its rusted hinges, told him the owners had once kept a dog. The aluminium dog bowl was empty, long forgotten.

He should have heeded that.

As he stepped across the space leading into the courtyard, an explosive barking rent the air. Next thing he knew, he was down on the ground, staring into a slobbering brown muzzle and a huge pair of canines. He went rigid with fear, trying to stay still. He heard a voice barking out a clear concise command in a language he couldn’t quite place. A local hilly dialect.

“Kaala is trained to kill anyone who walks in through those gates. But first he toys with them. For you see, like all hunters, the hunting dogs get off on the smell of …a very base reaction. Fear. Unless of course, they are friends.”

The voice continued, measured and calm. The way he said that word, fear, it sounded like he was dispensing advice to a bunch of college kids on how to attend their job interviews. Jagan’s heart was hammering in his chest but it did look like Kaala, the black monstrous hunting dog, would listen to its owner. So he didn’t say anything in response.

“Lucky for you, Kaala’s bloodlust is sated for the day.”

“Kaala!” The man barked something in that same dialect, too clipped and fast for Jagan to make out. The dog padded over to the cage and curled up inside, licking its front paws obsessively, yawning.

Jagan slowly sat up and saw that he was now looking down the long barrel of a crude locally put together hunting rifle, the stock made of unpolished wood. Behind that gun, his hairy hands gripping the stock steady, was a thin man of middling height. The barrel of the gun didn’t waver and Jagan saw that his face was covered by a bushy beard, unkempt and scraggly. The man motioned for Jagan to get up with his gun. Jagan did that, very carefully, making sure his movements were slow and measured.

“Now, you will tell me the real reason you are here, stranger. You got thirty seconds, before I let Kaala out again. And what Kaala will not finish, I will.” His fingers tightened on the trigger.

Jagan put his hands up, his voice a piteous mewl of fear and begging. “Listen, I am here to pay off my debts to this person called Appan Thampooran. That is all. If you could please guide me to his house, I will be on my way and be no nuisance to you and your lovely dog. Please Chetta…that’s the truth, the whole truth.”

At the mention of that name, the man’s rock-steady grip on the rifle faltered for a moment. His calm expression fled and Jagan thought for a fleeting moment, he saw confusion and fear in those dark eyes. The man didn’t say anything for a long moment, his finger curling on that trigger. Then he let out a long breath, cursing and lowered the gun.

“Appan Thampooran?” He made a sign to the sky, like he was calling down for the Gods’ protection. He spit, a wad of red betel juice splattering the sidewall of his modest house. “If it’s business with that fucking Demon-King, then only the Gods can help you, mone. And you owe him a debt? That means you are as good as dead. But there’s a story there, mone. If you have come into Irutti to settle that, then I bid you welcome to my humble house. Wait a moment, let me get something to eat. I definitely need to hear that story.”

Jagan was surprised at this sudden change in the man’s demeanour. And that sobriquet with which he kept referring to Apan Thampooran – Demon-King ? What did he mean by that? From being almost shot to now being welcomed into his house. The moment he had stepped across that bridge into Irutti, his life-compass had gone spinning crazy. The man had disappeared into the house and Jagan felt his body, drained and spent of that sudden adrenaline surge. He sank down, leaning onto the verandah for support.

The man came back, a grim smile on his face. “Here, eat up. You look like you can have a good last meal.” He gave a short mirthless laugh, motioning to a steel plate that he put down in front of Jagan. Boiled tapioca and a fiery red fish curry gravy with a smear of smashed onion chutney. Jagan choked back a sudden sob as a clear memory rushed up through his senses. This had been his mother’s favourite dish.

It was cold but delicious and he realized he was ravenous. A man cannot survive on cigarettes, coffee and vengeance alone. Even reporters. He tucked in and finished the meal in a matter of minutes. The man sat in silence watching him all the time, smoking cigarettes. Jagan felt the need to smoke pretty urgently then, thinking back on that pack he bought off the tea-shop. That seemed like an eternity ago now.

“Okay, mone, I am going to be frank with you. You just look way too familiar, and I've been racking my brains as to where have I seen you.” The man said, blowing out a smoke ring.

Jagan shook his head. “Impossible. I have never been to Irutti before.”

The man gave a dry chuckle. “Of course, that I know. But…your face, it reminds me of…”

“Dakshayani Thampooratti?” Finished Jagan. The man’s mouth lay open in surprise.

Jagan continued, “Yes, you are right. I am the son of Dakshayani. From the Meleveettil family. From here, Irutti.”

The man clutched his face with both hands and groaned. “Oh what a blind fool have I been! Couldn’t even recognize Daksha-kutti’s son. Oh Goddess forgive me, but yes. Of course, you are the spitting image of her. What is your name, young thampooran?”

Jagan got up. “My name is Jagan. And please, I cannot thank you enough for the hospitality, this delicious food. This kindness.” He smiled. “How did you know my mother?”

“Know your mother? Everyone knows your mother, Jagan Thampooran. And this lowly creature, Nandan Unni is forever indebted to Daksha-kutti. Oh, the son of Daksha-kutti returns. This calls for a celebration, just you wait.”

He hurried back into the dark interiors of the house again and came back, with two small glasses and a bottle of clear viscous liquid. Nandan’s face cracked into a wide smile, “Here, Jagan Thampooran.” He thrust one glass into Jagan’s hands before he could protest and poured out the contents of that bottle. Toddy, Jagan guessed from the smell. “Cheers.” Nandan cracked his glass against Jagan’s and downed the stuff in one long gulp. Jagan laughed and downed his glass as well. The foul smelling alcohol burned all the way down to his intestines. He grimaced, spitting out the last few drops.

Nandan laughed now, “Mone, your heart will burn with this stuff. So go slow on the next one.” Jagan nodded, “Should have known better.”

“This one’s ‘Made in Irutti’ tried and tested by yours truly. And you don’t want to know what all has gone into the vat.” The man winked gulping his second glass by the time Jagan had filled up his. “So, tell me about Daksha-Kutti. Is she doing alright?”

Jagan stopped, his glass raised mid-way. His last conversation with his mother came back to him then, vivid and sharp.

“Promise me, Jagan. Look here.” He was standing next to her bed, silent tears streaming down his face. Her bony fingers cupped his face, forcing him to look up, into those storm-tossed grey eyes of his mother. For one last time. “Promise me that you will kill the man who killed your father. Apan Thampooran of Irutti is a cunning old bastard blessed with powers granted by the chekuthan jaathi themselves. But if anyone can do it, it is you Jagan. For you, you are blessed by Bhagavathi Herself.…” Her hands then curled on his, a death-grip as he wept, sinking down to his knees to come closer to his mother. She smiled then and Jagan felt his nerves explode with white hot pain. Electricity crackling through his hands, jolting his very bones. Purplish light that shot from his mother’s hands passing over his. His eyes grew wide, terrified and confused. And then that pain peaked and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, as he dropped soundless next to his mother.

When he woke up, his mother was dead.

The sounds of the shovel crunching through gravel and dirt. Scraping mud, and that final metallic twinge hitting the bedrock. The soft thud of a body dropping into the hole. His mother’s body. Covered in a white shroud from chin to toe, only her beautiful, serene face open to the elements. She would never again smile back at him or speak to him. The only thing that remained was a promise that lay between them. And then, the sounds of the spade, flinging scree, loose dirt and chunks of broken stones. Covering up the dead.

A promise made on a deathbed. To kill Appan Thampooran the demon-king, blessed of the Bhoothas.

He was fifteen that day.

“Nandan, my mother has been dead for seventeen years now.” The words hung suspended between them as Nandan choked on his fourth drink.

“Oh! I am sorry, Jagan Thampooran. I didn’t know.” His eyes were rimmed red now. Whether with alcohol or sadness, Jagan wouldn’t know.

For the next few moments, neither of them spoke a word.

Jagan sat staring into the space above Nandan’s head, his head alive with the furious memories of his childhood, the stories his mother regaled him with about growing up in this accursed place, Irutti. He felt that his life had been cleaved into two halves clearly. One part that ended the day his mother died, holding him to an impossible promise that had been the albatross around his neck. And the next seventeen long years, spent in toil, hard work and pain, to etch out a life for himself. But Jagan knew that all those years had just been a long interval to this movie of his life. It certainly seemed surreal that he would actually choose to come here finally. Because all the wheels had stopped spinning and all the fucking roads led back to his Rome, this Irutti. His mother’s home. The home of the man who had killed his father. A father, he had never known.

Irutti – home, a place cut away from the rest of the world, with its own laws of physics, seasons and even unexplained magic. Irutti, the centre of the world that had been carved out in his head, from the Tales of Theyyam narrated to him by his dead mother.

Irutti, here and now.

“And your father? Did Daksha marry outside? The whole village went into mourning after she disappeared. There were even rumours that she had ascended along with the Bhagavathy.”

Jagan rubbed his eyes as the first fumes of the toddy hit his head. He shook his head. “No, my father died before I was born.” Did he just say, ascended along with the Bhagavathy? “And wait, what does that mean, ascended ?” Not bothering to keep the incredulity and scorn out of his voice.

Nandan downed his fifth drink, slamming the glass down. “Exactly thirty two years back, the Goddess disappeared from the village shrine. The night that your mother, our beloved Daksha-Kutti also disappeared off the face of this earth. It was not supposed to happen.” His voice dropped a notch, as Nandan leaned forward and belched, his fetid breath fanning Jagan’s face. Jagan didn’t move away though, listening with rapt attention to this version of the story of his mother’s escape. Jagan believed that Nandan wouldn't lie to him. Not now. Not after thirty two years to that incident. He wondered whether the same chain of events that had dictated his life to take a full fucking U-turn back to Irutti also commanded the lives of all those within the village. Like they were all just living zombies, their lives contained within bubble-wrapped packaging preserved till their life-compass tilted back to this true north - the return of the prodigal son.

“What do you mean, it was not supposed to happen? And what the fuck does Ascendance mean?”

“Mone, I don’t know how Daksha-Kutti brought you up. But you see, within the confines of Irutti, our lives are in a never-ending loop. We are cursed from the moment we step into the boundaries of the village. Because the demons we bring in our hearts, they take on a separate life here.” Strained whisper. “...They come alive. Chuzhali Chekuthan, the blizzard demon. Rakta-Bija, the blood demon who hunts humans at night. Vayu Chekuthan, the wind demon. The Valiya Muthappa Chekuthan, a distorted version of the corporal sins of Gods. And a lot many smaller ones. Nobody is allowed to leave the village. Because here, the timeline is a never ending infinite loop. The only few who go into the town are the human forms of these demons. And you know what’s worse, these bastards play games against each other all the time. And we, the cursed humans left to fend as we can, are the collateral damage in their games of blood and carnage.”

“I don’t understand. You are drunk, Nanda-etta. You are just babbling now.”

At this Nandan leaned forward again and his grip on Jagan’s forearm was iron. His eyes bloodshot, face bathed in perspiration. But his voice was steady and calm.

“You will believe me. If not now, then soon enough. Because in a few hours, it is going to be dusk. Ascendance happens in two ways. One, if you attain the status of a God or a demi-god through the magic of Theyyam, our worship of the Bhagavathy. And the other is when you worship the demons, they bless you with the powers of a chekuthan.”

Jagan sat in stunned silence, trying to absorb this information into his fuzzed brain. There was a detached part of his mind, the vigilant objective journalist who was furiously sorting through what Nandan had just spoken, trying to sift fact from fiction. But there was also Jagan, the boy who had grown up on the tales of Theyyam, of how worshipping the gods through the forgotten art of this dance-ritual had afforded the status of demi-gods for some of the best among them. And how worshipping the demons afforded the others, power as well. Power enough to have trapped time and the lives of all inside this small village in a bubble world, away from the rest. It was a knife straight through the heart of that small gullible boy inside him, bringing to life his worst nightmares. These… were real.

“So you are saying, the Goddess abandoned you when my mother escaped from Irutti?”

Nandan nodded, “We haven’t had a thiruvalla here in Irutti ever since. But may be…” And his eyes as he looked at Jagan, were wet and shiny. “All is not lost. You are back…with us Thampooran. Maybe the Goddess hasn’t abandoned us, yet.”

You, my son, are blessed by Bhagavathy herself.

Jagan felt a slight tremor in his hands as his right hand juddered, the toddy spilling over.

“And what of Appan Thampooran?”

Nandan stopped drinking, his bloodshot eyes focusing on Jagan now. The room that had begun to swim around Jagan was coming slowly back to normal. Because in that terrified glance of Nandan, Jagan could feel the fingers of fear reaching out, to caress him. The sudden cold in the room was palpable. Terrifying.

“Mone, you must let him be. It is not worth it.”

Jagan felt the surge of heat rush through his body, fear, rage and frustration crowding his head. He stood up, slamming the chair back and thumping his fist on the low table in front of him. “You don’t understand. I must know. I need to know, Nanda-etta. My mother bound me to this impossible promise on her death-bed and it has been killing me every single day of my life, this fucking promise. Appan Thampooran, that bastard, he killed my father, Nanda-etta.”

Nandan was silent in the face of this outburst. He nursed that last glass, cradling it close to his heart. “Appan Thampooran killed your father? Dakha-kutti told you that?” His face was creased in a puzzled frown. “And what is it that you want with Appan Thampooran? To kill him?”

Jagan nodded silently.

Nandan didn’t reply immediately. He took his time, finishing that last drink of his. He got up then and stepped out into the courtyard, looking up into the sky. Storm-grey clouds skimmed low on the sky, a pale splash of orangish-purple light far in the horizon signalling dusk.

“It is not my place to stop you from anything. And I want to help Daksha’s son in any way possible, if that will help bring peace to her soul. So Jagan Thampooran, I will take you to the house of Appan Thampooran, if that is what you wish. But know this, an audience with him, means you are signing your own death warrant. He’s protected. By the Bhoothas, the demons, they all bow down to him. In the years after the fall of the Bhagavathy, the hold of the chekuthaan-jaathi on his men have only strengthened. And he himself is an Ascendant. One blessed by the Kaala Bhairavan Himself.”

Jagan pursed his lips, blowing out air. “We will see how the powers of the Bhairavan Himself can save that bastard. All I ask you is to show me the place. Nothing more.”

Nandan turned back to face him, his face grim. “Today is a Friday. And at midnight, with the amavasya complete, the demons will swarm the forests. And to keep his blessings, Appan thampooran has to come out to perform pooja for Him at midnight. They say, he offers a human sacrifice to appease the bloodthirsty Bhairavan. So you will definitely get to meet him. As he will be at the shrine next to his house.”

Jagan nodded. Nandan grabbed his gun from where it lay on the floor and whistled. Kaala’s ears flicked up and his face popped up, tongue snaking out to lick its muzzle. “You hear that, Kaala? We are going out tonight. Hunting demons.”

Part-III

The Man who would rule the world.

The sounds of night within Irutti were no different from any other village. The sibilant hiss of insects trilling all around him in the forest as they crept down the snaking mud-path that wound through groves of plantains and coconuts. The whisper of the wind through the fronds. The frogs announcing the impending rain. The first patter of soft drops plopping on the ground ahead of them.

And the swoosh of air parting for the demons as they landed.

The world ahead of them was lit up in that sudden green light that exploded mid-air. Nandan grabbed Jagan, his hand tight on Jagan’s shoulders pushing him down behind a thicket of plantain trees as something landed softly on the ground ahead. Jagan peered from between the thicket and his breath caught.

Bony wings crunched as they retracted into the body as the thing turned. The face, Jagan realized, was covered with a mask. That of an owl. A painted-on mask in colours of red, black and earthy orange reflected back to him in the light of the twinkling dust that sparkled the air around the demon. It’s face had an orangey-rufous colour on the crown and upperparts that looked like a flowing headdress, overlaid with broad, blackish markings on the central part of its broad chest and bare shoulders and spots of the same colour as reddish-brown on the bands on its bulgy forearms and wrists. White circles covered the areas over and below the yellow tawny eyes of a lion that now peered through the darkness.

Was this a human dressed up for a Theyyam dance? Or a demon?

“Moongan. The owl-demon.” Whispered Nandan beside him as if reading his mind. He clutched his rifle in a tight white-knuckled grip. Kaala beside them crouched low as well, ears flat, dark beady eyes focused on the deathly apparition just beyond the thicket.

Moongan, the owl-demon, cocked its head to a side. Like it was listening to the sounds of the undergrowth. And Jagan was sure, it could hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest and his laboured breathing, wheezing with fear. Demons were real then. Just like the stories. That kernel of truth in those stories laid bare, before his eyes right here. Barely a few feet in front of them and looking to hunt for the night.

Was this what his mother had escaped from?

Moongan stood still for a long moment, soft rain shying down its bare spine as grey clouds wheeled overhead, revealing the last sliver of the moon in that inky sky. And then to Jagan’s horror, the creature’s eyes fell on the thicket they lay hidden behind. It’s powerful legs kicked the ground, launching itself straight at them.

They both rolled away in opposite directions, Kaala leaping away with Nandan. Moongan’s red and black form burst through the plantain thicket, hands sweeping out. Wicked curled talons sliced through the top half of the plantain trees effortlessly. It let out a long eerie piercing hoot that split the night.

It had spotted them.

The yellow eyes seemed to widen, as it landed on him. Something like recognition flickering through them. But that didn’t stop it from rushing him, as he struggled to get up, scrabbling along the undergrowth, trying to crawl away. A single whooping cry. The soft flutter of feathers. And Jagan fell back as he felt a heavy weight straddle him, the odious smells of old wool, rotting meat and wet mud making him gag. He looked up, pain a dull heat spreading up from his lower body, making the world move in glacial slow motion. As if viewed through a shield of resin. The demon’s face leered at him, just inches away, and he realized it was not a mask. That was it’s real face. This was how a demon descended inside a human being looked. This was the demon’s form. Just like an owl, the large white circles around those jaundiced stare and the swathes of red crusted around its mouth, mocking him. Stuck there like dried blood. It swung its neck up and gave an ululating scream and Jagan realized that it was going to kill him. Survival instincts kicked in as a surge of adrenaline made him buck his hip upwards, trying to dislodge the demon. It didn’t budge. It just cocked its head to a side again, watching him for a moment. The owl towing with a barn mouse. It’s neck-bones cricked and then its mouth, long incisors jutting out through the side of its lips, cracked open.

To crunch down into his soft exposed throat.

He heard the gun shot at close range, making his ears ring. And the back of Moongan’s head exploded in a slimy gorge of blood and something thicker, a blackish ichor that rained down on Jagan’s chest. He screamed and kicked the body even as it dropped down, managing to disentangle himself, frantically wiping the foul ichor off.

Nandan came up, his gun smoking, a grim tired expression on his face.

“Didn’t want to use the gun on it but I had no choice. Problem is, we got to hurry now. Every fucking demon in the vicinity is going to converge down on this spot now. The dark is not an ally anymore. But perhaps, with the rain, their sense of smell can be off. We need to get out of here real fast now. You okay?”

Jagan nodded. The man turned and disappeared off into the dark again, keeping to the thickets, avoiding the pathways now. Kaala was in front, noiselessly padding ahead. These two had done this before. Killed demons, thought Jagan, trying hard to keep up behind the two.

The last sliver of moon in the sky had gotten swallowed up now, even as the hour approached midnight. Soft thuds on the ground as more demons landed on the spot where Moongan’s body lay cooling, black ichor bubbling on the charred ground around it. The sound of bare flesh getting ripped. And the nauseating sounds of slurping.

Then a chorus of angry whelps and hoots rent the air as these shapes took to the night sky in an explosion of wings.

“We are not going to make it.”

Jagan wheezed, ducking to avoid the low curving branch that popped suddenly into his vision.

“Do you want to get to Appan Thampooran or not?” He heard Nandan’s voice hiss, his face swimming in Jagan’s vision. “It’s over that rise ahead. See that narrow canyon? There’s only one path that leads away opening out into the temple courtyard, the shrine he will be coming to. With the lamps lit, the demons cannot get to you inside the shrine. And that’s where I will stop the bastards from getting past. They would need to come, one by one. Making it easier..”

He didn’t finish. A scream rose up in the forest behind them.

It hung in the night air, high and quavering, crowding in from all sides. Another one joined in. And then another, till the night was rent with the sounds of death. It seemed to cut through Jagan’s paralysis. He sped on, nodding at Nandan for confirmation. The man was made of ice, for he showed no emotion as he clicked with his tongue to Kaala to keep moving ahead of them. They swiftly pushed up, moving through the dense undergrowth and soon reached the rise of that hillock. Jagan saw the narrow rocky path through the canyon that Nandan had pointed out.

And beyond that, the courtyard of the temple. Hemmed in on all sides by a brick-laden wall topped by ancient sculpted figurines. And beside the figurines, reflected back to him by the dark waters of the temple pond, were the small lamps.

They could make it. They both could. Jagan turned back to Nandan, “Come on, Nand-etta, let’s get inside.” Nandan Unni didn’t reply but he pushed Jagan ahead of himself, following close behind, his feet pounding down the slope towards the temple path. Jagan put his head down and despite the dull pain in his sides, his lungs burning for air, he put on a burst of speed, flinging himself through the opening between the rocks. His feet churned through the stream that led to the pond. He stopped, to look for Nandan behind him, but to his horror, found the familiar presence missing.

He looked back and saw the man, crouched in that narrow opening, from where the gulch started trickling. He was looking out the way they had come, Kaala beside him, ears flattened, legs bunched up.

“What are you doing?” Jagan whispered, desperate and hoarse, his breath hitching.

Nandan just shook his head once. “We all have our debts, Thampooran. This…is mine to pay.”

Before Jagan formed his next coherent thought, a blood-curdling cry sounded from the valley, close now. Jagan’s eyes were drawn to the hillock, from where they had made it down to this ravine. Figures were crowding on that small plateau.

Demons.

Boiling down the hillside, in a shrieking tide. Flame coloured headdresses that had trailed ribbons streaming behind, long gleaming tusks visible even in the dark, talons shining in that strange burst of green twilight as they appeared one after the other on that hillside. Scabby flaking skin painted in multiple hues of orange, red and black, like actors preparing for their final act on stage. Lips drawn back in curling imitations of a death-rictus smile, yellowish eyes fixed on that lone man and his dog who stood between Jagan and death.

Jagan watched for a moment as Nandan calmly sighted along the top of his rifle and fired. A shot that echoed briefly in the valley followed by a sudden screech of pain. One down in a burst of blood and black ichor. But this only seemed to fan the ire of the demons, now hell bent on attacking them. A few took to the air. The rest were scrabbling over each other, down the hillside, their hoots and blood-curdling screams resounding through the valley.

“Go! Get inside, Jagan Thampooran. Or all of this, would have been in vain.”

Jagan’s heart was in his mouth and he was thinking, no, but he was scuttling backwards, his gaze never leaving Nandan. The man’s attention though was on the demon-tide now. Jagan saw him take aim and take a shot. And then in quick succession, his rifle panning across the landscape, squeeze off three more shots. Calm. Like a machine trained to do its job. All this time Jagan was thinking, but how many bullets does he have?

As if in answer, Nandan crouched down and began to reload. In perfect timing, Kaala gave a menacing growl and leapt onto the ledge beside the pathway. Jagan heard the sickening crunch of teeth rending flesh and the skittle of claws on bare rock. And then Nandan was up, the rifle sighting down again and his shots echoed through the valley.

Jagan didn’t know how long they could keep this up. But Nandan was doing this for him, for his mother and the promise that had haunted him for the last seventeen years.

And so Jagan turned and he ran.

Bursting through the outer grounds of the temple, Jagan pelted past the Madappura, the stage where the Theyyam would be performed in the olden days. It stood empty now, just the fire that burned in the tall granite-stone lamps mocking his fear as he scrambled up the slippery steps to the square-shaped pavilion. There were sculptures raised in relief on the stone-pillars at the four corners of the pavilion that now leered down at him, flickering in that eerie malodorous light cast by the lamps around. Shadows danced and flitted around the pavilion, even as Jagan’s vision reeled and his heart scudded inside his chest.

Here, inside the Mandapom, so close to the inner sanctum sanctorum of the temple, he felt a change in the air. Like there was another presence, floating just beyond. A power that caused the air to slightly ripple around him, like charged electric particles. Thrumming. Waiting. To be unleashed. That was when realization struck him.

The Goddess. She was inside him.

Something he had denied himself for the last seventeen years. But here, in the rightful place, inside this shrine, She would not be denied.

You, my son, are blessed by Bhagavathy Herself.

Those words, uttered by his mother on her deathbed, had not been figurative. She had literally meant just that. And so, when her mother had escaped the clutches of the Demon-King once and for all, she had ascended. Bhagavathy had Herself left Her abode, within Irutti and helped his mother escape. But simple truth was that the Goddess had never left her. The only woman to have performed the most difficult form of dance-worship, Devakoothu, in service to the Goddess, his mother Dakshayani Thampooratti had been a vessel for her Goddess for so many years.

And now She was back to where she rightfully belonged.

And it was he who had brought Her back to Irutti. He had found himself chasing and clutching onto those precious bread crumbs left by the Divine forces all through his life. Was this what all this was about? He wondered, his eyes flicking back and forth as shadows flickered and leapt about him.

And then one of those shadows started moving, resolving into a long pale shape that kept getting longer as it came closer, swimming up the steps towards him.

Pain suddenly ripped through Jagan’s head as something dark and terrifying tore itself out of his mind. The night sky blazed with a manic energy as reality convulsed around him. A sharp roll of thunder that felt like it rippled right through his head and the impact smashed Jagan onto his knees. Blood sprayed from his nose, his mouth. The world rotated around him, spinning and lurching. His vision was double, hazy and blurred for a moment.

“You…No, this cannot be!”

A scream echoed in the confined rock walls of the sanctum sanctorum.

That shadow revealed itself to be a man, a tall well-built man, but past his prime, with long greying hair that fell past his shoulders. His face had the same swirling patterns of red, black, yellow and white that Jagan had seen on the demons outside. A flowing headdress sat on his head and shoulders, the snarling face of Kaala Bhairavan carved on it. As the lamps inside the shrine flared with a sudden gust of wind and light fell on his face, Jagan thought he looked vaguely familiar. His shaggy brows, the frown-lines furrowed onto his forehead, that contemptuous curl of his lips as he stood, just on the top step on the Mandapam. That man’s hands were curled tight on a long walking stick and flashes of light reflected off the thin sharp blade that extended from that stick.

And in the brief flash of lightning that crashed down, Jagan saw the man’s features contort in fear. And disbelief. A strangled whisper in the night, “This cannot be!”

The man’s yellow-tinged eyes fell on Jagan, seeing him for the first time. Those eyes went wide, recognition and confusion warring inside them. He heard the man roar, “But you are not Daksha! She’s dead.”

“Maybe I am not!” A single clap of thunder.

The black coalescing shadows in front of the man took on a brilliant hue of light as they swam and materialized into a woman. Jagan only saw the back of her form as a million rays of light exploded out of her, the sanctum sanctorum lit up, brighter than daylight. Jagan knew he would go blind, if he gazed at her even for a second. But gaze he did, rapt with wonder and fear.

As he watched his mother’s form, brilliant and terrifying to behold. Stars spasmed across his vision and an angry gale-force of an alien power swept past him. It was his mother. And not her either.

The Goddess.

Jagan looked away, shielding his eyes from that dazzling explosion of white light. Light that lanced through the man’s upheld hands. Jagan heard…no, felt the rippling squelch of something cutting through flesh and bone. A single drawn out scream of defiance, anger and then pain. The flash of heat that roiled outwards, blasted him further into the shrine, right at the feet of the Goddess’ statue inside. The man’s roar was cut off abruptly as Jagan heard steel clash and then the cold sick sound of steel grating through skin and bone.

And then there was silence.

Jagan waited for five more seconds, feeling every second with his loud thudding heart. And then he looked up. The light had faded. Soft rain dripped down from the shingles on the edge of the shrine’s roof and fell into the courtyard. Jagan saw the splatter of blood, but none of it had fallen inside the shrine. And strangely, even as he watched the rain drops mix with the dark red blood and that blackish ichor, the liquid hissed, bubbled. Evaporating into thin air.

And Jagan saw the body lying still in the centre of the courtyard.

Jagan pushed himself up, staring up at the Goddess’ statue. The eyes that stared back at him were alive, lit and on fire for a brief moment. And then they went back to cold stone. He felt a strange sense of calm as he felt that empty hollow in his chest. He knew that he had played his part. He had brought the Goddess back, to where She truly belonged.

And yet, something rankled deep inside him.

Was it truly over then? Was his promise to his mother fulfilled? Was this man, the bastard Appan Thampooran, whom his mother had hated with every breath of hers? The Demon-King, was now dead ?

He walked over to the courtyard, staring at the body. It was that of an ordinary man, and not that of a demon. The marks on his face, those brilliant colours of red, yellow, black and white were all gone now. It was just an ordinary face, streaked with the wrinkle of time and worry, an old man who lay still, like he was sleeping.

And then, the man coughed, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth and his eyes flickered open. Jagan knelt down, his heart in his mouth.

“Are you Messari Kuttapalli Appan Thampooran?”

The man coughed and his hand flashed out, grabbing Jagan’s forearm. “But you are not Daksha. You are not her! You are not….” He coughed blood again.

Jagan winced but didn’t look away. “No, I am here to pay her debts. To settle a score, thirty two years old.” His eyes were burning with hate, his breath coming faster. This man, this demon, wasn’t dead yet. “I am her son, you vile bastard. I am Jagannathan.”

Jagan shrugged off the man and hunching forwards, grabbed that stick which Appan Thampooran had been using. He stood over the man now, his own features contorted with hate, trembling with this need to get it over with. Both his hands gripped the stick in a white-knuckled grip and as all that hatred and frustration and anger built up inside him into a crescendo of a scream, he raised the stick above his head. wanting to bury the blade into the man’s neck.

But a whisper from the dying man made him stop.

“Son? Daksha’s son? Our son?”

That last question made Jagan stop. His hands shook, white knuckled around the knife’s grip. The world around him rattled loose, as it spun on its hinges. He heard blood rushing in his ears. He wasn’t sure what he had heard. He fell to his knees and grabbed the man’s head up.

“What…did…you…just…say?”

“That I have been waiting for thirty-two years for this to end, Jagannatha. You heard me. You …are my son. Our son, Daksha’s and mine.”

Jagan sat back, stunned. Cold from the rain and blood slick floor leached into his bones but his insides were burning up feverishly. No. Lies. Lies….the demon is still trying to trick him.

But then he looked at the old man’s face again closely, forcing himself to look. The features…that seemed vaguely familiar…and now he knew why.

He was looking at himself. In the mirror. Of how he himself would be, long years into the future. This man….whom his mother had hated all her life and had tasked with killing…was his father?

“And I know, I deserve this…for what I did to her all those years ago. I deserve to die. And the Goddess knows it. The only one who could kill me, of course was her. And that was Daksha’s plan all along.” The man coughed once, spitting blood. And he held Jagan’s hands again, this time Jagan could feel the cold caress of death in those fingers. He was speechless, hurt and angry. For all the lies that his mother had fed him. There was never another father, that love-story and the escape from Irutti, all that had been concocted stories. This man, to whom she was promised as a bride, had forced himself onto her and she had always wanted revenge for that.

He, Jagan realized, had always been a vessel for her revenge. In a plan plotted by forces greater than he could ever perceive.

“I didn’t know Daksha had kept her baby. Had I known, I would have brought you to Irutti sooner. But then, it was always going to be just Her or me, the Demon-King. I am glad you brought Her back. Mone…Can I call you that?”

Jagan blinked back angry tears that threatened to course down his grimy face. Appan Thampooran continued, his voice growing weaker, “I know, I don’t deserve to be called a father. But at least, I can die happy knowing that I at least met you. She named you right. Jagannathan Thampooran. The ruler of the world. You, are born of the strongest union of a Goddess and the Demon-King, Jagan. And am glad, you are here. You have a lot to learn…” He paused, spluttering for breath and wheezed. “With the Magic of Theyyam…Jagannathan, you are born to rule. And here, in this forgotten land of Irutti, you will. You will find your way in this world Jagan. Thank you…for releasing me from this cursed life..”

The man’s clasp grew tight for a moment and then it slackened. He lay back, lifeless eyes staring up into the sky.

Jagan sat there for a moment, his head still reeling with the revelations about his own life.

Jagannathan. Ruler of the world.

He got up, walking out to the courtyard, feeling the rain slick down his shoulders. In the far distance, faint green lights shimmered. He heard hoots and shouts.

His world was slowly coming back into focus, righting back onto hinges torn out a long while back. His world, it would never be normal. He understood that and then he realized, why his mother wanted him back in Irutti.

His father, the Demon-King was just one head of that hydra. There were many more. And it was left to him, Jagannathan, meant to rule this world, to cut the heads down.

He stalked out into the night, the pale light of dawn breaking out in the sky above him.

The End

By Sachin Dev