Gopala Iyer couldn’t quit some of the habits he had acquired in the military. His palate seemed to reject vegetarian food, and it also needed alcohol now and then. Men in the village gave him a wide berth because they were afraid of his sharp tongue. But the women were his ardent admirers. They laughed heartily at everything he said. He often plonked himself down at the entrance to his house and made fun of passersby. He once stood in front of the village priest’s house and called out, “Hey, Narayana Sastrigal! Give me a sacred thread, if you’ve got an extra one, will you? I can’t think of a more convenient way to scratch my back.” He delighted in these scandalous things, even courting women from castes and communities below his. Once, when he encountered Aravalai from the Paraiyar community carrying a bundle of grass, he said to her, “Listen, Aravalai. I am going to give it just one more year. If none of these fellows is ready to marry his daughter to me by then, I shall marry your daughter. My mind is made up.” When he said such things, women ran back into their houses, their hands clasped over their mouths.

Nevertheless, Aravalai never got the chance to have Gopala Iyer for her son-in-law. The country was ravaged by famine, and women were a bargain. If you could count on having enough food to eat, then you were among the most fortunate, and parents lined up to marry their daughters to you. Anandam Ammal did exactly that in marrying her daughter to Gopala Iyer. People said to Anandam Ammal, “Your daughter is only fifteen years old, and she is pretty as a parrot. Do you really plan to give her in marriage to that forty-year-old baldy?!” She simply replied, “Well, if she is destined to have a strong marriage, he will live long. Or else she will drape herself in a widow’s veil, a silk one at that, and enjoy rice and warm milk for the rest of her life.”