A Game of Chaturanga
This was from a flash fiction prompt of the following:
Tell us a story where a community, collective, or movement is in some way a protagonist. Where individual characters are struggling to achieve something, or even really do achieve something, as part of a community, collective, or movement much greater than themselves. I am looking for stories that center the community, the collective, the movement, or whatever entity is Bigger Than Any One Person, giving them star billing and, well, a sense of life adequate to the real role that these collectives play in our lives.
In addition, I took the flash challenge, which added this extra, specific constraint for my entry:
The Bhakti Movement
7th to 12th century India
Knowing very little about southern India many centuries ago, much less the religious movement I was to write on, I took some time researching and pulled in my own threadbare knowledge of Indian life and culture for a narrative that fit the prompt as best I could. The major framing is for a young person in that community to confront some lessons of the world for the first time, with action, identity, and accountability having both individual and collective components delivered as a central point.
Divya was excited when her father, uncles, and grandmother returned that evening, but curiosity consumed her when she saw a guest with them as they approached their home from the road leading to their small village’s center.
“Amma! Amma! Who is that man?”
Her mother set down the basket and went over to Divya to peer out the doorway. “That is our guest for this evening, it seems. Don’t be distracted, girl, you can meet him but only after you help me prepare this.”
She helped her mother begin to cut and stuff the bitter gourd. The rest of their family soon arrived and Divya only got a brief introduction to their guest, being only a child with messy hands as she continued her work. His name was Akash. A middle-aged man who seemed mild and soft-spoken given how much attention her father gave him. She thought of a question in the brief moment before the group moved on into their home, but stifled her intrigue for the time.
She rolled out roti and asked her mother more about their guest. He was a farmer like them, or more precisely like her father. He was from Vazhapadi, a town several days from here by horse. Why was he here? He was traveling and needed some place to stay, but that answer from her mother had a telltale pause to the start of it.
Her mother checked the heat on their small hearth and began cooking the roti. She let Divya do a few as she was becoming practiced at cooking them without burning herself or the bread. Voices from the next room carried through. She wanted to listen in but managed to keep her concentration. Besides, if she left now her mother might admonish her, and if not she knew her mother would be left in here to prepare their meal all by herself. Divya felt an odd moment of sadness for her mother, and for herself when one day it would be her doing much the same. Fow now, she watched with interest as her mother made tempering for the dish with lentils, onion, and of course whole spices. The woman instructed as she went, talking about how to know when the oil is hot, when it is too hot, and so on. Divya was a little afraid of the hot oil if she tried it herself and admired the woman’s calm confidence in handling the small pan as it sizzled and spat.
They carried the full meal out to their family and guest and sat to eat with them. Akash gave thanks and compliments to the food. Divya asked him how long he’s been traveling. About the places he’s been to. She got one more question in before a gentle look from both her parents quelled the one, and the grown-ups were soon on to other topics.
They talked about farming. He had a farm and family like theirs. Divya didn’t like farming. She could accept it was necessary, but as much as she’d been put to work at a young age, she knew it would only be more when she was grown and she didn’t look forward to it. They talked about harvests and prices and she fantasized of a life where she could travel the land and meet different people, stay with them and have conversations like this. Her dad, her mom, her uncles, and her grandmother as far as she knew had never left their district except for a pilgrimage to a famous temple a few years before she was born. That was it.
“It never should have happened,” her dad muttered darkly, snapping Divya out of her reverie. The women had hands covering their mouths in consternation.
“Yes,” said one of his brothers, “it should not have. But after it did, it also should have been handled properly. Brahmin or no. Sudhra or no, they never should have let him–”
Divya’s arm was squeezed by her Amma, who quietly leaned over and whispered to her, “Come on, it’s time for you to leave to let the adults talk.”
“That is terrible,” Akash said, addressing the others and paying no mind to her being ushered away. “Sadly, it’s not the first story of its kind that I’ve heard,” he continued. Divya complied with her mother in a careful, slow manner. She rose to her feet while hanging on every word as the man spoke. Her tactic was not subtle enough and her mother quickly shoo’d her out in total silence.
Once she was out of the room and out of sight of the others, Divya lingered. She could still hear parts of the conversation, and quickly knew what they were talking about. Something happened in the community next to theirs, another farming village of 50 or so families. A Brahmin and a woman of the Sudhra or laboring caste. Adults were careful not to speak about it around her, but she learned little bits here and there. Some kind of recent scandal, certainly. She thought maybe the woman kissed him or maybe he kissed her, but whatever happened caused a lot of anger and shock, especially in her mother and grandmother. After a while that turned to outrage in the adults.
It was difficult to hear them and the most she could piece together was that Akash was also upset over hearing this story and had other examples from other parts of Tamilakam. It was part of the reason for his visit. She stayed nearby as long as she dared, but eventually the risk was too great. She retreated to her things.
It wasn’t long when her mother came to her. Divya sat patiently. She did everything she could to appear patient.
“If you like, you can go sit with them now–”
“Thank you!” She touched her mother’s arm briefly before bolting from the room.
The men were lounging, eating sweets and joking idly. The air was sticky and pungent from burnt hash. The Chaturanga board was out with pieces assembled. Divya fixated on the game. She understood how the pieces moved, but still could not beat her father when he allowed her to play.
“Do you know of the temple in Chidambaram?”
“Nataraja? Of course.” Her father made his first move on the assembled board.
Akash nodded. “Long ago the town was named Thillai and back then, before Nataraja came to be, another temple to Shiva stood there.”
He reached casually and made his first move in the game. Divya’s father made another move immediately but without any haste in his motions. Akash responded in kind. They repeated this with another move and then both paused to consider the board. Divya studied as closely as she could without interfering. Her father finally made the next move. It wasn’t one Divya had considered.
“Ahhh…” Akash said. Either in thought from the game or from losing his place in his story.
“That’s the temple one of the Nananmar served in,” said an uncle from a prone position near the hash.
“Very good.” His hand halted halfway to the board. Which piece would he move? Divya always moved the elephant at least once by now. Akash’s hand settled on the horse and moved it out of its starting position. “Kanampulla, though that name came later.”
“Like the grass.”
“Like the grass. You know the story, I’m sure.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we do...” her uncle did not sound convincing. Her other uncle stifled a laugh.
“We do,” said her father, gesturing with a game piece in hand, “but it has been some years,” he smirked and placed it on a different square.
“Kanampulla was rich. Born long ago in a place near my village. Vaishya caste. Farmers. Like us, but they had vast and rich lands.” He moved a piece. “He moved to Thillai and served Shiva tirelessly in his temple. He used his wealth to obtain ghee to fuel the candles and lamps of the temple. Ghee is a blessed fuel for a temple, but so expensive when used that way. Soon his wealth was gone, so he cut Kanampul grass in nearby fields to sell. He used the money the same way.”
Her father brightened while making his move. “One season he couldn’t…”
“Yes, a drought. The reedy grass barely grew, and wouldn’t sell. So instead–”
“He used his hair,” came the same answer from different men in the room.
“His hair?” Divya immediately went wide-eyed for her interjection.
The others looked at her. Akash nodded. “He bowed his head to one of the lamps and spread his hair around the wick and lit it.”
She gawked.
“Shiva visited him for such a show of devotion,” her father instructed. He took one of Akash’s horses with his elephant.
“He did,” Akash confirmed. He took her father’s elephant with his chariot. It looked like her father was starting to lose. “Remnants of his family are still around my village, they say. We have stories passed down in our community. What’s not told about Kanampulla is that he set flame to that wick before Shiva visited him. It did what one might expect. His hair, his beard, then the tops of his clothing all went quickly. It engulfed the rest of him before anyone could reach him in time.” He looked at Divya apologetically, as an afterthought to what he said.
The room was quiet.
Akash shrugged. “It’s a story. Separate from the one that matters. His family was told the full story of course, and told their neighbors and so on. Sorry, was it my turn?”
Her father broke his stare and looked at the board. “No, sorry,” and quickly made his move. He pushed a foot-soldier forward. Divya puzzled at it. That move didn’t do anything.
Akash studied the board, reached toward it and retracted his arm cautiously. “Very tricky.” He folded his hands in his lap, eyes darting between the different pieces and squares.
“So he gave his life,” said her uncle.
“It’s not easy to become a saint,” Akash said with some levity, eyes still on the board.
“Why isn’t that included in the story?” her father asked.
The man scratched his head. “His family was worried about him. Some doubted he would take devotion to such extremes and thought he might be ill. I guess the full story suggests some truth in that, but I think it should be included. When family visited him, he was happy. He found his place in this world. Ok, here we go…” Akash moved a piece with great care.
“It does seem an important detail,” said her father, who responded with a move after hardly glancing at the board. She studied the pieces. She thought Akash was winning, and searched for good moves he could make, like her father taught her. She had trouble finding any. A couple moves looked good, but even she saw that they were traps. That foot-soldier he moved earlier was now stubbornly in the way of some of the best moves.
“Important? Absolutely. He didn’t care about his wealth. His cast. His well-being. He pressed himself into a higher calling of the timeless forces of good.” He made a move after some consideration. It was one of the ones Divya saw and might have made herself, but she wasn’t sure it would work.
His father looked the board over and then, almost apologetically, moved his king in a way she didn’t anticipate. Now the good moves for her father began to unfold before her. The game was not going well for their guest.
“Tsch,” Akash made a disapproving sound with his tongue. He sighed and picked up his king to offer to his opponent. “Very well played,” he said politely.
“You as well,” her father said and accepted the piece.
“Well, it’s late. I will need to be up early tomorrow.” He was leading a Kirtan tomorrow in their village. It was part of why he traveled to different places. “Thank you for the food, the place to sleep, and of course for the chaturanga lesson.” He picked up the small wooden box for the game pieces and began to fill it.
Her father smirked, “And thank you for the lesson about one of our saints.”
“Perhaps my real lesson is this: Power, money, caste, man, woman, it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. That goes for you too,” he said to Divya. “Meaning and actions, that’s what matters. Misbehaving Brahmin is one thing, but tolerance of that is a sign of a larger misbehavior. Kanampulla is a saint not because he was rich but because he gave so much of himself. He kept the lights going in that temple for years, honoring Shiva and allowing those to worship and find their own happiness or solace in peace.”
He held up one of the kings from the game. “Life is an unfair, incoherent mess. Even this guy will feel that way about it. And this one certainly will.” He took one of the foot-soldier pieces and held it next to the king. “Find meaning with your time here, and do that. Simple. After all, whatever station we are given in this life, we are all destined for the same place.” He put both pieces back in the box and shut the lid.
