Mantravadi Mathevan Channar’s evening walks through the Ambilezhathu estate were a time of quiet reflection, a chance to observe the land he had worked so hard to cultivate. One such evening, as he passed a neighbor’s compound, a ferocious dog lunged at him, straining against its leash. Its barking was deafening, its growls filled with fury.
The dog’s owner, an elderly man, came rushing out. “Forgive me, Channar,” he said, bowing low. “The dog has been restless for days. I do not know what ails it.”
Channar observed the animal closely. Its eyes burned with an unnatural intensity, and a faint shadow seemed to coil around its neck like a noose. “This creature is not merely angry,” Channar said. “It is cursed.”
The villagers who had gathered watched in hushed silence as Channar stepped closer to the dog. The animal’s barking grew more frenzied, but Channar raised his hand and began chanting. The air around them grew still, and the dog froze mid-bark, its body stiff as a statue.
Channar sprinkled sacred water on the dog, his chants rising in intensity. The shadow around its neck began to dissipate, evaporating into the cool evening air. The dog let out a soft whimper before collapsing to the ground, panting heavily.
“It is free,” Channar said, turning to the owner. “But you must guard it well. Curses do not linger without cause.”
The next morning, the dog was calm and obedient, its once-feral demeanor replaced by a gentle disposition. The villagers whispered about the incident for days, their respect for Channar’s power growing with each retelling. From that day on, the dog became a loyal companion to its owner, a living reminder of the sorcerer’s intervention.
