500 BCE – 100 CE | KINGDOM OF PADMAVRITA, SANGAM ERA TAMILAKAM ~
The battlefield lay smothered in smoke, a pyre for nameless warriors.
Flames curled about the torn KODI (flag) while ash sifted down like a funeral snow, soft yet acrid with blood and burnt flesh.
Splintered ANJILI MARA PARISU (Anjili-Wood Shield) and broken VEL (Spear) rattled in the wind, carrying both broken chants and curses spat at gods who had turned away.
Then came the stroke.
Steel parted flesh with a sound more like dreadful than thunder—sudden, inexorable. The VAL (Sword) burst through a man's back,
KĀṬYĀYANĪ MAKAN YUKTARAV.
(KĀṬYĀYANĪ SON AMOGH)
Gold and MUTHU MAALAI (pearl garland) flashed crimson; the pale PON MANJAL (golden turmeric) of his skin bloomed red in an instant. The blade slid free, wet, and the silence that followed was heavier than any cry.
He staggered, breath torn from his lungs, blood bright at his lips. When he turned, there was no outcry, no curse—only a small curve at his mouth, fragile as a lamp's last flame.
In front of him there stand,
VYOMIKA MAKAN AMOGH,
(VYOMIKA SON AMOGH),
He was draped in a deep KARUNTHUNDAI VESHTI (black ceremonial dhoti/robe), the sacred hue of the great EASAN (Lord Shiva), its edges traced with fine gold. Strands of RUDRAKSHAM (sacred rudraksha beads) circled his neck, coiled upon both arms, and clasped his wrists.
His straight hair was drawn back into a KONDAI (hair knot/bun), bound not with cloth but with a loop of RUDRAKSHAM (rudraksha beads), each bead gleaming like dusk-lit embers.
His jaw clenched, but his eyes gave nothing—not tears, not release—only the raw stillness.
"I am sorry…!!" The words rasped out, stripped bare. His eyes never moved nor did he. While the fires roared on and ash fell without mercy.
Then~
AMOGH eyes snapped open; the clang of steel and cries of battle dissolved into the rustle of flags—turmeric-yellow and SENTŪRAM (vermilion)-red—swaying against the stone DEYVA MAṆṬRAM (temple tower/dome).
Sunlight scattered across the pillared AMBALAM (hall/pavilion), glinting off the smooth surface of a low PĪTHAM (ritual seat/platform). A figure—
ARASAN PARANARASAN.
(KING PARANARASAN.)
He sat upon it, still and upright, the faint sheen of SANDHANAM (sandal paste) and MANJAL (turmeric) catching the light.
He was clad in a VEḶḶAI VEŚHTI (bright daytime ceremonial dhoti), its PON VIRIYAL (gold border) rippling faintly like sunlight on river water. Across his chest fell a SEVAPPU SĀTTAM (red upper cloth), folded with measured precision.
A PON ODDIYANAM (gold belt) girded his waist, and from his neck hung a single MUTHU MAALAI (pearl necklace), resting upon the glow of sandal paste.
His arms bore slim PON VANKI (gold armlets), and a narrow PON VALAYAL (gold bracelet) traced each wrist.
His hair, thick and drawn back into a high KONDAI (hair knot/bun), gleamed with oil, bound by a small PON PATTU (gold-thread) cord.
Upon his brow, a mark of SANDHANAM (sandal paste) burned faintly beneath the light — calm, unshaken, as though the day itself awaited his command.
Beneath the pillared AMBALAM (public hall/pavilion), a man sat upon a low PĪTHAM (raised seat/platform).
YAZHINI MAKAN VAISEN
His body gleamed with sandal and turmeric paste, pressed upon him by those who came forward.
A deep KARUNIRAM VESHTI (dark-hued dhoti) wrapped his form, its PON VIRIYAL (gold border) glinting beneath the firelight, and a SEVAPPU SĀTTAM (red upper cloth) fell from his shoulder to his waist, clasped with a plain PON PINAM (gold clasp/fastener).
A single line of SANDHANAM marked his brow; a PON VANKI (gold armlet) rested upon his arm, and a fine PON MAALAI (gold garland/necklace) lay against his neck, catching the light as he bowed his head.
MUNIVAR (sage), ANDHANAR (priest), marked his brow; grey-haired elders from distant ŪRS (villages) traced blessings on his shoulders.
NĀṚ (men) and PEṆ (women) wrists stretched through the crowd to touch him—their hands trembling, not with fear, but with a joy too vast for words. The air pulsed with chants and laughter.
In the crowd a small boy was pushed, he fell down, Startled, stumbled and began to weep.
Vaisen's eyes found him. His face broke into a smile, tender as dawn over a lotus pond. He lifted his hand in beckoning him to come towards him.
The boy shook his head, shrinking back.
Vaisen smiled and rose, none had dared move in the stillness of that NANNĀḶ (sacred moment), Yet he did.
A hush fell. As he walked into the throng, Vaisen didn't care; he just took that boy in his embrace, and led him back.
Seating him on his lap, he bent low and whispered— "Why the tears, ILAM-KUMARAN (young boy/child prince)?"
The boy weeped and said, "They said… I cannot touch you."
Vaisen's laughter rang out, brighter than conch music. Dipping his hand into the KALABHAM (sandal–camphor sacred paste), he spread the fragrant paste across the child's cheeks.
"Who said? Not I. Then why the tears, ILAM-KUMARAN (young boy)? Touch me now." Vaisen said, his voice low and sweet.
The boy's sobs broke, scattering into sudden, bright laughter.
A ripple passed through the crowd—soft exhalations, glances exchanged, hands pressed together in quiet reverence.
Near the center, ARASAN PARANARASAN (King Paranarasan) watched, shoulders loose but eyes sharp, a faint, proud curve tugging at his lips as he took in the small, fragile joy unfolding before him.
One ANDHANAR (female priest) called out; "Our AIYYAN (lord/young master)—the next ARASAN (king)—wears not only garlands, but a heart as vast as the sea!"
The courtyard thundered with MUṚASU-like delight, voices rising, clapping, laughter mingling with the rustle of saffron and SENTŪRAM (vermilion) banners.
At the edge of the AMBALAM (public hall/pavilion), AMOGH stood like a shadow cast in stone. His gaze lingered on the small figure cradled in VAISEN's arms, then drifted down, slow, deliberate, unblinking. The air seemed to tighten around him.
A group of ILAM-KUMARANs (young boys) ran past, their shouts bouncing against the stone pillars.
One collided with his leg. The boy froze, bowing quickly. "TŌSAM ENNĀL (I apologize)!" he whispered, voice trembling.
AMOGH's eyes fixed on him—cold, deep, endless. The boy's knees wobbled, his breath caught, and his companions shrieked in panic, scattering like startled birds.
The child who had struck him tripped backward, heart hammering, feet barely touching the ground before he darted away.
Near him, a cluster of PENṆGAḶ (women) murmured, glances flickering like candle flames.
"Is that AIYYAN (prince) AMOGH?" one hissed, voice tight with fear. "Yes… it is." Another shook her head. "He supported a deceitful man in the corpse of innocence." "What is he even doing here? My blood boils just seeing him."
A hush followed, then a cautious glance toward ARASAN PARANARASAN (King Paranarasan). "What can we do? Even the Arasan… let him dwell in the palace. Not by choice, but because AIYYAN VAISEN (Lord Vaisen) begged."
"One side is AIYAAN (lord) VAISEN the definition of humility and the other side is the definition of crue—" she cut herself in mid.
Eyes flicked from VAISEN, calm, radiant, to AMOGH, whose stillness devoured the light. One side of the AMBALAM (public hall/pavilion) glowed with celebration—the heir at the heart of blessings.
The other held a silence that felt older, heavier—like something waiting to wake.
"It is good that ARASAN PARANARASAN (King Paranarasan) took all his power…" one whispered,
"We do not know what he might do." "His VIDHI (fate) has found him; none can escape their own VINAI (karma/action-result)." Another breathed, "Do you think he got it all?"
AMOGH did not move. His mouth stayed tight, lips unmoving, yet the weight in his gaze fell upon the whisperers like a chill wind.
One PENṆ (woman) met his eyes and flinched; she pinched another, stifling a breathless murmur. Silence spread like a tide.
Finally, one muttered, voice barely audible, "Let us go… from here."
One by one, the crowd dispersed, leaving AMOGH standing alone at the edge of the AMBALAM (public hall/pavilion), still, immovable, a shadow among sunlight and saffron.
The air thrummed with MURASU (war drum) and muted chatter, but a sharp call sliced through.
ANDHANAR's (female priest) voice rose, carrying both command and care:
"AIYYAN (lord/young master) VAISEN! NANNĀḶ (auspicious moment) wanes—let the ILAM-KUMARAN (young boy) run free."
Vaisen's eyes flicked to her, a quiet nod answering. The child scrambled down from his lap, tiny feet pattering across the polished floor, laughter spilling into the hall.
A sentinel's shout cut the murmur:
"VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother) approaches!"
Instantly, whispers died. The hall stilled under the weight of reverence. Even the breeze seemed to hush. VAISEN rose from his PĪTHAM (raised seat/platform), posture regal, every movement measured.
The VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother) entered, her gait serene, a tender smile illuminating her face. She was draped in a PĀNDU VESHTI (pale yellow-coloured dhoti), its PON VIRIYAL (gold border) tracing a quiet shimmer along the folds.
Over her shoulder rested a SEVAPPU SĀTTAM (red upper cloth), woven fine and heavy with age. Her hair was drawn into a NEER KONDAI (water-bun hairstyle), bound with a single thread of VELLĪ PATTU (silver thread) that caught the light like moon on still water.
A MUTHU MAALAI (pearl necklace) lay close to her throat; PON KUNDALAM (gold earrings) adorned her ears, and a broad PON ODDIYANAM (gold waistbelt) steadied the cloth at her waist.
Upon her wrists, a pair of PON VALAYAL (gold bangles) chimed softly when she moved. A faint mark of SANDHANAM cooled her temples — not devotion, but composure made visible.
She came to stand before VAISEN, he bent low, hands folding to touch her feet in respect.
She dipped her hand into the fragrant KALABHAM (sandal–camphor sacred paste), the thick paste warm against his cheeks.
"Long live MAKAN (son/heir)," she murmured, voice rich and musical.
ANDHANAR's (female priest) eyes shone. "VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother), the NANNĀḶ (auspicious moment) is auspicious."
The VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother) inclined her head, beginning to speak softly to ANDHANAR (Female priest), but VAISEN's gaze was elsewhere—scanning, seeking, sharp as a blade.
Then it landed for whom he was searching for—AMOGH.
The world seemed to contract around them; VAISEN's voice rang clear, slicing the hall: "Ilam Thambi! Won't you apply MANJAL (turmeric) and SANTHANAM (sandal paste) to me?"
A hush fell. Every eye is fixed on AMOGH. A whisper raced through the crowd, faster than fire in dry grass, carrying the shock of what was said.
The hall, once brimming with ceremony, felt suddenly electric with tension.
The AMBALAM (public hall/pavilion) held its breath. Sunlight danced across MANJAL (turmeric) and SENTŪRAM (vermilion) banners, but all eyes were fixed on the two figures at its center.
VAISEN stepped forward, voice trembling with a mixture of hope and frustration.
"ILAM THAMBI (younger brother)! Come here! Why do you stand so still? Don't you love me? Come!" His words rang against the stone THŪṆ (pillar), carrying both command and desperation.
AMOGH did not move. His stance was calm, almost statuesque, yet beneath the stillness, something fragile simmered in his gaze. It was not anger—it was a quiet ache, an unreadable weight.
VAISEN's hands trembled as he lifted the KALABHAM (sacred paste), dipping it toward him. "Ilam Thambi… are you angry with me? Apply it to me."
AMOGH's eyes met his. For a moment, the crowd held its collective breath.
His calm did not falter, but those who dared look closer could sense the subtle melting around his pupils—a silent surrender to an emotion he refused to speak aloud.
Before the gesture could complete, a sharp motion cut through the tension. The KALABHAM (sacred paste) was thrown aside. Gasps rippled through the AMBALAM (public hall).
All eyes turned to see an ANDHANAR (female attendant/priestess), standing firm, her hand steady even as shock flickered across her face.
VAISEN's voice cracked with disbelief. "What… what is this?"
The AMBALAM (hall) went silent as VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother)'s voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the murmurs. "What wrong has she done? Tell me!" Her gaze, deadly and unwavering, landed on AMOGH, who did not flinch.
"You," VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother) continued, voice rising like a storm, "with all your sins, think you deserve even to show your unlucky face here, to ruin this NANNĀḶ (sacred moment)?"
The crowd tensed. Whispers surged. VAISEN stepped forward, desperate, "PAATTAMMAI (Grandmother)… he is my ILAM THAMBI (younger brother). Without him, how can the rituals be completed?"
"Dead," VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother) spat, eyes blazing. "He died years ago. This… this standing here is nothing but a sinner."
Murmurs multiplied. Faces turned into confusion and fear. He—AMOGH—was their MAKKAN (heir/son), their hidden heir. The ARASAN (king) remained silent, the weight of authority pressing down on everyone.
VAISEN's voice faltered, pleading, but before he could continue, a single, thunderous command broke through.
"VAISEN! SIT. And you… AMOGH! Did I not say?" His voice turned calm but steady, "You may live here only under one condition: as if you never existed. Never let others feel you were here. Now… leave!"
AMOGH's eyes held VAISEN's for a heartbeat—a fleeting flicker of sorrow, of connection—but he said nothing. The command had been absolute, the silence of the AMBALAM (hall) near suffocating.
"Go!" ARASAN (king)'s voice rose again, sharper, leaving no room for argument. "And VAISEN… SIT. Do not make me speak twice."
Empathy swelled in VAISEN's chest, but he obeyed, pressing himself back onto the PĪTHAM (raised seat), watching the boy he loved turn away.
AMOGH walked, every step measured, a figure carved from shadows and light.
Whispers rose like restless wind, growing into a low hum of approval among the courtiers—satisfied that order had been restored, unaware of the quiet storm lingering in his eyes.
As he passed the VĒNDAN THĀY(Queen Mother), she signaled the VĒNDAN THĀY (priestess/attendant) with a subtle gesture. "Begin the MUDI SŪDAL (crowning ceremony)."
AMOGH heard the declaration, felt the ceremonial weight brush against him, yet he did not pause.
He moved forward, silent, untouchable, leaving behind an AMBALAM (public hall) that murmured with reverence, fear, and awe—all eyes following him, but none truly knowing the depth of the soul walking past them.
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