Faltering under her steady gaze, Harihara looked away. “We cannot have another Kulabheda raising his vile head inside this palace,” he mumbled. Laying the palm leaves on the table, he reached for a quill. “Rukma is gaining in years, and her place is in her husband’s house.”
“I presume you have communicated your decision to Vikramaditya’s court as well?”
Harihara’s head snapped up, his eyes hot and indignant. “Why should I?” The flat monotone of her voice notwithstanding, he was wise enough to guess that the queen had presumed no such thing. “Rukma is my daughter. What business is it of anybody’s where I choose to give her hand in marriage?”
“You won’t even let the son of your oldest ally in Sindhuvarta know?” For the first time, there was an inflection in Sumayanti’s voice, chiding, barely a ripple in satin.
“I will… when the time is right.” Again, the king avoided his wife’s eyes.
“Vikramaditya is the only reason why Rukma escaped Kulabheda’s clutches.” The queen’s words were now underscored by an accusatory tone. “Vikramaditya is the only reason why you and I are sitting here, breathing in the fresh air and soaking in the warm sun, instead of wasting away in the stale dungeons below. And you act as if you owe him nothing.”
Harihara threw the quill down in exasperation.
“Look, I have work to do.” He thrust his hands toward the tabletop piled with palm leaves. “The garrison of Payoshni lies in ruins, and four villages need to be built from scratch. Our Minister of Revenue is awaiting my approval on increasing taxes and levies, and I have to go through this proposal of his. So stop bothering me now.”
Reaching for the quill once again, he added as an afterthought, “And lest we forget, Avanti is the only reason the kingdom of Heheya had to suffer the wrath of those pishachas. Look at the losses we have incurred,” he pointed his quill in the general direction of the palm leaves.
“You can’t be serious,” Sumayanti looked aghast at the suggestion. Seeing her husband squirm, she added, “And if I am not mistaken, Vikramaditya has offered more than just his regrets for what Heheya had to endure. I am told Kalidasa brought a chest of gold with him for our treasury.”
“So? What about that?” Harihara eyed the queen combatively. “One chest of gold doesn’t go far to compensate for our losses.”
“It isn’t about a chest of gold. It is about what allies do for one another.”
“I have lent three thousand of my infantry and a thousand of my cavalry to help protect Avanti from the Hunas,” the king grumbled. “Don’t go around lecturing me on what allies are supposed to do. Now if you will leave me, I can get back to work.”
Sumayanti rose, but instead of leaving, she walked across the room to an east-facing window. Reaching up, she pulled the drapes drawn across the window apart, allowing the morning sunlight to flood the chamber. The sudden surge in brightness made Harihara flinch.
“What are you doing?” he protested, blinking and raising an arm to ward the light off his eyes. “Please shut it.”
Ignoring the plea, Sumayanti stared out of the window that overlooked an orchard of mango, papaya and neem trees.
“What made you suddenly decide this was a good match for Rukma?” she asked.
The king peered at Sumayanti. Bathed in the golden-white light of the morning, he felt she had acquired a soft translucence that reminded him of the mother-of-pearl statuettes that formed the pieces on his chaturanga board. The thought of the chaturanga set with its exquisitely carved war elephants, chariots, cavalry and infantry – a gift from King Mahendraditya on his coronation as king of Heheya – made Harihara uncomfortable.
“Why isn’t it a good match?” he countered. “As queen of a powerful kingdom, our daughter will enjoy the status and respect reserved for the most privileged of Sindhuvarta.”
“This despite what is supposed to have happened in the palace of Girivraja?”
“Rumours,” Harihara waved a hand dismissively. “Mere rumours. Who is to say what actually happened?”
“There was a witness–”
“Humph!” The king snorted, cutting Sumayanti off mid-sentence. “Since when did we begin to trust the word of a common musician over that of a king?”
The couple stared at one another for a few moments, the deadlock stretching and humming balefully in the ether between them.
“Now, with your permission, can I get on with these?” Harihara waved the two palm leaves in his left hand, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Without another word, Sumayanti turned on her heel and left the room. Harihara watched her depart until the door had closed firmly behind her, before returning to his revenue calculations. However, barely a minute later, he looked up distractedly, unable to focus on the numbers. The morning had passed off on a decidedly unsatisfactory note, and the king could sense a foul mood brewing in him. If he had to go through the rest of the day on his terms, he knew he had to reassert his authority over what remained of the morning.
Placing the quill back in its stand, Harihara tugged a tasseled bell rope that hung nearby. A tiny bell chimed somewhere, and almost immediately, an attendant appeared from an anteroom, bowing deeply.
“Fetch me some buttermilk,” he ordered. “Make sure they don’t spice it up with too many curry leaves, though. What they served yesterday wasn’t fit for stable boys. Also, draw those drapes before you go. This infernal sun is blinding me.”
As the servant began drawing the drapes, Harihara addressed him again. “I want you to inform the royal scribe and the court calligrapher to present themselves here this afternoon, after my siesta. Instruct them to come well prepared – they need to draft a very important letter intended for a king.”
* * *
The goblet was large and heavy, made of tempered brass and bound by an inlay of iron that formed an intricate pattern along its smooth, rounded surface. It was big enough to sit smack in the middle of Indra’s palm, bulging and spilling outward from the curl of his thick fingers.
Yet, ever so slowly, it changed shape.
First narrowing at the mouth, then progressively losing its roundness, it crumpled from the sides as Indra exerted greater and greater force on the hard metal, crushing it in his inexorable grip. The deva’s knuckles turned white and the tendons in his forearm shivered under the strain, but the grasp around the goblet grew tighter still until the cup imploded, sending a splash of red soma over the lip and running down Indra’s fingers.
The touch of the cool, tingling wine snapped Indra out of the black pit of rage he was sinking into. With a jerk of his head, he looked up and about him, his gaze barely registering the open sweep of the misty garden that rolled out from the foot of the wide terrace where he stood. Eventually, sensing the soma trickle down his forearm and drip on his toes, the deva glanced down at the twisted remains of the goblet.
A red-hot bolt of anger erupted and surged up his chest once again.
Taking a firm grip on the cup, his lips stretched in a grimace, Indra drew his arm and flung the goblet out across the terrace. The cup sailed through the air, a high arc of yellow metal, spinning and glinting as it went over the parapet. It fell on the marbled pathway that led down to the nearby lake, bouncing twice on the stone steps before disappearing into the shrubbery that bordered the pathway. As the sharp, echoing ring of metal on stone died in the soft folds of mist, a voice spoke from behind Indra.
“You must be patient, my lord. I am doing everything I can to please Kubera.”
Indra turned, his cold blue eyes settling on the gorgeous apsara who stood leaning against the arched doorway that connected the terrace to the splendid lake house with its steeply tiled roofs, water curtains, porcelain wind chimes and lilting water music. The apsara was a delight to behold, sumptuous in form, her milky-white skin gilded with the blush of dawn. She had deep black eyes, pools of subtle seduction in a face that could melt iron, and her lips almost pleaded to be caressed and kissed.
“I don’t doubt that, Me
naka,” Indra’s voice rumbled in his throat as he struggled to quell the rising tides of passion the apsara was stirring in him. Averting his gaze, he added, “And I hate him all the more for that.”
“Hush, my lord,” Menaka placed a theatrical finger on her lips as she stepped onto the terrace. “We are the yaksha’s guests and it is bad form for guests to speak ill of their hosts.” “He hasn’t had the courtesy to call on me or invite me to his palace,” the deva glowered moodily at the lake. “He hasn’t even acknowledged my presence here. It is as if I don’t exist. How is that good form?”
It had been three days since Indra and Menaka had arrived on the misty shores of Lake Alaka. The mist-wraiths that manned the ferry crossing had welcomed them without question or challenge, and once Airavata had been entrusted to the care of an old yaksha elephant keeper, the deva and the apsara had been escorted, unbidden, to the lake house on its tiny island. Neither Kubera nor any of his yaksha ministers or lieutenants had put in an appearance, though Indra guessed that Kubera knew about this sudden, unscheduled visit– and possibly even the reason behind it.
The deva also knew that the passage into Alaka wouldn’t have been as easy – or the welcome as cordial, if it could be called that – had Menaka not been by his side.
The morning after their arrival, a narrow boat had materialized out of the surrounding mists and nudged the steps leading up to the pathway to the house. Upon investigation, Indra and Menaka had found that it was empty, and constructed to seat just one person under its small, sloping roof. The moment Indra made to get on board, the boat drifted away from the shore, but when Menaka attempted to get on, it bobbed in the water, docile and willing.
It was plain that the boat had come to claim Kubera’s gift.
Since that morning, the boat had routinely made an appearance two or even three times a day, bearing the apsara away into the mist before bringing her back hours later. On two occasions, Indra had tried to force his way into the boat, but both times the boat had easily slipped his strong grasp and receded into the mist, returning to the shore only for Menaka.
So the deva had reconciled to waiting, quaffing soma and chaffing at the delay, stewing with anger while the sensuous apsara kept Kubera company. He loathed the solitude and isolation of the lake house with its eerie music and its silent mist-wraiths who fulfilled every wish before the wishes were even clearly articulated. He had all the comforts he needed, yet he felt like a prisoner, confined to his island, held captive by the cold water and the clammy mist. He knew that the lake was dotted with hundreds of islands that housed palaces, markets and the yakshas’ magic-foundries, but he couldn’t help feeling lost and lonely in this strange, alien land that Kubera had claimed as his own so many years ago.
“Perhaps the yaksha king is hard to please,” Menaka offered by way of explanation. “Pardon me, my lord, but I will strive even harder.”
The sincerity in the apsara’s voice made Indra flinch just a bit.
“This is not about you, Menaka. This is just his way of trying to prove how superior he is. He knows I am here for a reason, and he wants to revel in the knowledge that he can make me wait for an audience with him.” What the deva left unsaid was that the delay in granting an audience also prolonged the time the yaksha spent with the apsara. “Kubera is a sadist.”
A sudden squawk came from just above Indra’s right shoulder, startling the deva. Glancing up, he eyed a wicker cage hanging from a bough of the cherry tree, the parrot inside it observing him with its beady, black eye. The first morning Menaka had been to Kubera’s palace, she had returned with the bird, a gift for her from the yaksha king.
“Stupid bird,” Indra spat in annoyance. “I have half a mind of wringing the silly thing’s neck.”
The parrot shuffled away a few steps, ruffled its feathers and cocked its head, as if waiting to see if the deva had any more niceties to add.
“Don’t say that,” said Menaka, opening the small door to the cage and crooking two fingers toward the bird, enticing it to come to her. The parrot responded immediately by hopping onto the apsara’s hand. “It is a beautiful bird. I’ve never seen one quite like this before.”
Jealousy sputtered and burst inside Indra, making him choke on his words. “There are lots of these in the hills around Devaloka. Nothing so special about this one. I could have got you a dozen of them had you said so.”
Feeling a sudden craving for soma, he regretted having thrown the goblet away. At that very instant, out of the corner of his eye, he sensed a mist-wraith appear near a low table placed next to the doorway. In the twinkling of an eye, the wraith placed a fresh goblet on the table and vaporized.
The deva made for the table. “Hasn’t Kubera given any indication of when he will see me?” he threw the question over his shoulder.
Picking up the newly filled goblet, Indra gulped a large measure of its contents down. As the spicy liquid sizzled its way past his gullet, the deva heard Menaka reply.
“All he’s ever said to that question is that when the time comes, you will be informed, my lord.” After a slight pause, she added, “He has also instructed me not to rob the joy out of our lovemaking by nagging him.”
Flush with indignation, the king of the devas spun around to face Menaka, his heavy bearded face livid at the thought of the apsara and the yaksha together in bed. He knew the pangs of envy were bizarre and misplaced – stupid even, considering his purpose behind bringing Menaka here – yet he couldn’t help feeling he was being cheated. He opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat as he observed the apsara put the parrot back into its cage. Her back was to him, and as she raised her hands to steady the swaying cage, the supple spread of her waist beckoned invitingly. His eyes trailed the curves and folds of her body, the sight filling him with a rush of passion that descended over him in an avalanche.
“What is it, my lord?”
Indra blinked and stared at the apsara. The parrot was back in its cage, and the apsara now stood looking at him with large doe-like eyes, the soft mist swirling around her softness, making her irresistible. The deva swallowed hard and remembered to exhale.
“I cannot let the yaksha have you all for himself.” Placing the half-empty cup on the table, Indra took two steps toward the apsara, his eyes burning with desire.
“The yaksha doesn’t have me at all, my king,” Menaka replied, stepping forward, opening her arms to embrace the deva. “In my heart and my mind, it is always you.”
The deva and the apsara came together in a tight, hungry clasp, hands groping over bare flesh, seeking purchase, fevered breaths escaping through wet, parted lips, nostrils flared to soak in the heady scents of love and lust. But as Indra dropped his head to plant a kiss on Menaka’s exposed shoulder, a harsh, grating, jarring squawk issued from the birdcage.
“Damn that bird,” Indra said through gritted teeth. The parrot seemed to be watching them with a great deal of interest. Staring back at it balefully, the deva took Menaka by the shoulders with the intention of guiding her into the privacy of the lake house. “Come, dear.”
The apsara was about to give in when she stopped and tensed. “Look, deva,” she whispered, placing a finger on his arm to stay him.
Indra followed Menaka’s gaze to the lake. Through the heave and flow of the mist, he saw the boat glide through the still waters, cutting through the white curtains and making straight for the steps at the bottom of the garden.
The deva’s brow knotted in anger and dismay. “Let him wait,” he growled. He hated the idea of being robbed of his pleasure thus. “We will make him wait. Let us show him he can’t always have his way.”
He began tugging at the apsara, urging her indoors, but instead of following her king, Menaka resisted. “No, my lord. I must go.” Seeing the frown deepen on Indra’s brow, she said, “What if he wants to tell me that he is prepared to see you? And because we delayed him, he changes his mind?”
With great reluctance, Indra loosened his grip on Menak
a’s shoulder. He watched her cross the terrace and go down the garden path – an exuberance of musk and nectar, slipping beyond his reach. The apsara waded into the water, which swirled and lapped at her slender legs in arousal. Her clothes clung and wrapped around the lushness of her hips, while the mist caressed her bare back and shoulders with soft, playful fingers. The very elements were eager to make love to her, Indra thought with bitterness as she climbed aboard the boat. He followed her departure until she faded into the embrace of white.
Draining the soma down, Indra cursed Kubera profusely for the indignities that the yaksha was heaping on him. Then, suddenly, the root cause of his predicament – of all his recent sufferings and setbacks – came up to him, floating slowly to the surface like a bloated corpse in water.
Vikramaditya.
It struck Indra that death would be too easy, too light a penalty for the human king. He needed to exact a greater, far more satisfying revenge, one that left the human pleading for mercy, for death, for release.
Vikramaditya would have to pay for all this humiliation in ounces, in slow drips of pain and agony and despair.
* * *
The air along the steep, winding stairway was thick with the smell of burned cannabis, growing heavier and more overpowering with the climb. It filled Jayanta’s lungs as he inhaled harder with every stair mounted, making him momentarily giddy, forcing him to place a palm on the curving stone wall to steady himself. The draught, if one was there at all, did little to clear the atmosphere of staleness and decay that leeched through the stairway’s cold, drab walls.
Jayanta nearly had to drag himself up the final flight of two dozen stairs, and when he ultimately made it to the landing, he leaned his back against one wall, out of breath from the long, arduous climb. The landing was large but poorly lit, with only one patch of oblique light shining through a high-set casement. The light had neither brightness nor warmth, and illuminated the centre of the landing like a weak spotlight, barely holding back the shadows that washed down the walls like a murky tide.
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 6
