"I know where he is," muttered Hashkat. "That shaggy haired, slew-footed monster ate him."
"Most assuredly, I did not," retorted the bear, with a reproachful glance at Hashkat. "It would be a physical impossibility as well as a logical fallacy. I am the hermit."
20. The Ashrama
"My name is Jamba-Van." The bear motioned toward the door of the ashrama. "Come, all, and be welcome. Allow me to offer whatever rest and refreshment you desire."
So saying, Jamba-Van led his visitors into the main room of the hermitage, where he bustled about, finding more stools and benches, setting out bowls of fruit and pitchers of cool juices, as eagerly attentive as any human host to the comfort of his guests. When Tamar identified himself and his companions, the bear politely nodded to each in turn.
"Few travelers seek shelter here," Jamba-Van said. "More precisely, none at all. I am thus especially honored that my first guests include not only a king but, as well, a learned brahmana."
"Your hermitage is lovely," said Mirri. "Are you the one who built it?"
"No," said Jamba-Van, modestly shaking his head, "merely small improvements here and there. Nor is the ashrama mine. I am only its custodian. Naturally, I profit from the opportunity to read, study, and reflect on cosmic matters."
"Most remarkable!" Rajaswami exclaimed. "To think that a savage creature of the forest should devote himself to such noble endeavors. Most remarkable, indeed."
The bear's muzzle twitched. "Brahmana, are you implying that what you call a savage creature lacks the intelligence and sensitivity to pursue those subjects? Would you find it more appropriate," a low growl began rising in his throat "for one to pass his days lurking in the woods? Benighted, uninstructed, unaware of the finer things in life?"
"Not at all," Rajaswami protested. "I only observed that it was extraordinary."
"Extraordinary?" Jamba-Van burst out. "Why so? Is a bear less capable than a brahmana? Unfit for subtle reasoning?"
Jamba-Van reared up to his full height, gnashing his teeth, roaring at the top of his voice. Rajaswami nearly tumbled off the stool while the bear stamped his feet and flailed his arms; then, before Tamar could decide what to do, Jamba-Van went lurching toward the shelves, where he seized half a dozen pots and dashed them one after the other to the ground.
"Ah. That's better." Jamba-Van blew out his breath. "I beg your pardon. These moments do come upon me. Pay no heed."
"That's the trouble with bears," Adi-Kavi whispered to Mirri and Tamar. "They're moody folk, but you never know what mood they'll be in from one moment to the next."
"I find it beneficial and soothing, when I'm unsettled, to break a few pieces of crockery," Jamba-Van went on. "It never fails to have a calming effect."
"Glad to hear that, old boy," said Hashkat, while the bear fetched a broom and swept up the shattered pots, "but you must run through a lot of kitchenware."
"I fashion more," replied Jamba-Van, seating himself at the table. "I find that pot making, like tending my garden, frees the mind for philosophical speculation." The bear, now altogether composed, turned a benign glance on Rajaswami. "Before I was-ah, carried away, I was about to agree. My circumstances are somewhat unusual, yet quite logical and plausible. Would you be pleased to hear an illuminating anecdote?"
"Of course, honored colleague, if I may call you that," said Rajaswami. "We shall find it most instructive."
The bear folded his paws and relaxed on the stool. "Unfathomable are the ways of karma," he began. "Consider this example: Once, in the forest, a wild bear caught sight of a wandering brahmana: long-bearded, wrinkle-browed, with an air of such wisdom that he must surely be a sage or great rishi. Instead of letting him go by in peace, the bear sprang from the bushes, snarling and rattling his claws. The rishi, in no way alarmed, pressed his palms together and bowed courteously."
"Namaste, O worthy bear," said the rishi. "You appear disturbed in spirit. How may I be of service to you?"
"You can start," growled the bear, "by providing my dinner."
"I travel lightly, as you see," answered the rishi, "and carry no edibles with me. However, I'm sure I can find something to satisfy you."
"I've already found something," retorted the bear. "You. I intend to eat you up."
"All creatures must have nourishment," said the rishi, unperturbed, "you as well as I. All right, then, go ahead and eat me up. Where do you wish to begin? Since I'm mostly skin and bones, you must be hungry indeed."
"Eh?" The bear scowled at him. "I'm not at all hungry."
"In that case," said the rishi, "why do you want to eat me?" The bear hesitated a moment, frowning. "Because I'm a bear. It's my profession. That's what I do."
"Have you never contemplated doing something else?" the sage inquired. "Perhaps you wish to become a rishi?"
"Certainly not," snapped the bear. "Bear I am, bear I'll be."
"If you devour me, you'll surely be a rishi," the sage replied. "Once you gobble me up and digest me, will I not turn into your flesh and blood? There I'll be, in your muscles and sinews, heart, brain, and nerves, and you'll never get rid of me."
"Consider this logically," the sage continued. "You're not hungry. You don't want to be a rishi. I haven't offended you. Therefore, why do you choose to harm me? Furthermore, you didn't get up this morning expecting to find me; and just think, suppose you'd taken another path, or I'd taken another path, we'd never have met in the first place."
"Stop! Stop!" roared the bear, who was not in the habit of thinking about anything at all. "You're making my head hurt. My brain feels like it caught rheumatism: It smarts and twinges; it's going to explode at any moment."
"Yes, thinking is a bit uncomfortable," said the rishi, "but you'll get used to it. A matter of time and practice."
"I'm sorry I ever laid eyes on you!" howled the bear. "Go away, let me be."
"No, I won't," the rishi answered. "You started this business, you'll have to finish it. Calm yourself. Come, walk along with me awhile."
The bewildered bear finally agreed. For many days, as they strolled through the forest, the rishi discoursed on stars and planets, suns and moons beyond the sight of the sharpest-eyed eagle; of creatures so tiny their universe fit on the head of a pin; of paradoxes, riddles, anomalies, speculations. The bear, in time, began feeling that a bearish existence was an extremely small and boring one; and, at last, he begged the rishi to instruct him.
"I was that bear," said Jamba-Van. "The rishi became my teacher and led me to this, his ashrama, where he taught me to read and write. He allowed me to remain and study while he continued his wanderings, promising one day to return. Here I have waited ever since. I regret that my bearish disposition gets the better of me on occasion; but, when it does, I can always smash a few pots."
Tamar had never seen his acharya so happy. Rajaswami seemed to have taken root there, spending hours in philosophical discussions with the bear. When Rajaswami declared that infinity was a straight line, the bear maintained it was a circle-and grew so unsettled that he nearly ran out of cookware to break. Hashkat, during these sunny days, drowsed under the fruit trees. Garuda, in the balmy air of the hermitage, complained less than usual. The bird had lost none of his adoration for Mirri, but had, in turn, gained his own admirer: Akka, who constantly stayed close to him, groomed his feathers, and wheedled Garuda into carrying him aloft for short flights.
Each night, Tamar made up his mind that they would leave the next day. Each morning, he had no heart to order a departure. He told himself he was delaying for the sake of Rajaswami, to let the acharya enjoy a few more hours of pleasure, then admitted this was his own reluctance, so strong he could not overcome it. After a while, he understood. Simply, he was happy here.
Mirri he had never felt closer to her. They were seldom apart, except for her lessons from Adi-Kavi. As promised, the suta taught her some of his skills.
"I try to see the world as it is," he began, "but you can see it in different ways. Our learned brahmana lo
oks at it with his logic; but it's not always a tidy place, the world. It's full of odd cracks and crevices, and spaces in between; and more possible than you might imagine. First thing is to have an open heart and a peaceful mind."
To Adi-Kavi's delight, Mirri soon caught the knack of putting herself into deepest slumber, scarcely breathing; to turn her body fiery hot or icy cold; to stay motionless, without the least twitch of a finger or blink of an eye.
When Tamar asked to learn, Adi-Kavi sighed. "If I read your heart aright, it's divided every which way; and too many things rattling around in your head, all arguing with each other. Later, perhaps, when you sort them out."
Regretfully, he knew the suta was right. While Mirri kept on with her lessons, he went off to find the bear, who was tidying up the kitchen.
"My learned colleague and I have paused in our discussions," Jamba-Van said cordially. "We are reconsidering our positions on the nature of infinity."
"A vast subject." Tamar smiled. "Between you two sages, you'll get to the truth of it."
"Surely not," said the bear. "Behind one truth, there is always yet another. As you may find when you reach Mahapura. Yes, your acharya told me of your journey and how it might end."
"If it ends," Tamar said. "Tell me, O learned bear: Suppose travelers wished to stop and live here. Would it be permitted?"
"Contemplating the hypothetical situation you propose, the answer is: yes. Of course. What is the reason for your inquiry?"
"Merely to know," Tamar said.
During the next several days, Tamar and Mirri rambled through the woods or picked fruit in the orchard. Exploring upstream, they found a waterfall and waded, soaking wet in the spray and foaming current. As if by silent agreement, neither spoke of Mahapura and when Tamar planned to leave the ashrama.
One evening, they swam to the biggest of the islands. In a circle of tall ferns, Mirri paced light, dancing steps, moving from one graceful attitude to another.
Beckoning to Tamar, she murmured: Once, long ago, we danced like this In a forest, by old stones of Ruined temples. Do you remember?
Tamar answered: That night, we heard a flute play. The notes were trembling and shy. Who was the player? Who were we?
Mirri continued the verse: King and queen, or god and goddess, As we had been forever. What interrupted our eternity?
Tamar replied: Time stopped and held its breath, Waiting for us to rejoin each other. Now it begins anew. Forever then, Forever Once again.
In the ashrama that night, he dreamed of trees turning to gold. A death.
He said nothing of this omen to Mirri; nor had he the heart to tell Rajaswami, who woke bubbling with good spirits, eager to expound a new theory to the bear. Instead, he sought out Adi-Kavi and found him eating a melon in the garden. It was a pleasant, sunny morning. They talked awhile. Tamar later asked Mirri to walk in the orchard.
"I asked Adi-Kavi to carry the ruby," he began. "He said he would. I trust him. I haven't given it to him yet, but I soon will. That much is settled."
"And something else is unsettled. Why are you doing this?"
"He promised," Tamar went on, "whatever else happens, he'll find his way to Jaya." Mirri took him by the shoulders. "You're going at this sideways. Tell me straight out. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything's right." He looked squarely at her. "Have you been happy here?"
"You know I have."
"Will you stay with me?"
"Yes."
"I mean, in the hermitage. Jamba-Van will let us live here. He told me so.
"I'm not going to Mahapura," he said abruptly. "I must have known that when we first met. I kept pushing it out of my mind. I was ashamed even to think of breaking the warrior's code. Live by it. Die for it. I can't. Not now. Are love's arrows made of flowers, as poets say? No, they're stronger than that, and they've grown stronger every day.
"Keep my word to give up my life? To someone who may not exist? Once, I'd have accepted that. Promise made, promise kept. A king's dharma. No, that's over with."
He was speaking defiantly, as if to Jaya himself as much as to Mirri. "Was it real? Was it a dream? It makes no difference. I won't lose you for the sake of it. My promise to Jaya? I break it."
He pulled off the ring and threw it away.
21. Garuda Does a Service
"Come. That's a burden lifted." Tamar smiled and held out his hands to her. For a king and kshatriya who had broken his sworn word, his code of honor, and his dharma all within the moment, he felt, on the whole, pleased with himself, unexpectedly lighthearted. He motioned toward the hermitage:
"Let's go and tell them. Hashkat should be glad. He'll go back to ruling his Bandar-loka. As for Rajaswami that's going to be hard. My dear old acharya. I'm afraid he'll be shocked. At first. But he'll see the bright side: He can stay here, philosophizing with Jamba-Van. I think that's what he secretly wishes."
Instead of smiling back at him, Mirri stood staring, her dark features frozen, her eyes wide.
"What have you done?" she said in a fearful whisper.
"Done?" Tamar was puzzled. "I did what you saw. I set myself free. I put an end to a fool's journey."
"You believe so?" she cried. "You broke dharma."
"Yes. For you. It's what you wanted, isn't it? From the start."
"Not like this."
"How, then?" he burst out. "What more? I'm rid of Jaya. I'm not bound to him. I'm bound to no one. Only to you."
"That's not true."
"Why? Because I broke one promise, you think I'll break another?"
"No. You don't understand."
"I understand I've thrown everything away and now you tell me it was wrong." Without hearing her answer, he turned on his heel and strode from the orchard.
He did not go to the ashrama. He went, rather, to the stream. He sat on the grassy bank and looked across at the island where they had danced. He put his head in his hands. Half his heart rejoiced at what he had done; the other half was horrified. Beyond that, he was shocked, bitterly disappointed by Mirri's words.
Her hand touched his arm. He looked up. "You say I don't understand. There's something you don't understand. I didn't tell you."
"Tell me now." She sat next to him.
"It's been in my mind for us to stay here. I couldn't decide. Then, last night, after we came back, I dreamed the trees turned to gold. Twice now I've had that dream. This time, it tipped the balance. Do you know what it means? It foretells a death. Yours? Mine? If we keep on with this journey? I can't let that happen. It won't, now I'm free of Jaya."
"You're not free of him," Mirri said quietly. "You're truly a fool if you think so."
"I put down that burden. I'd be a bigger fool to pick it up again. You, of all people, want me to do it? No. I won't."
"If you don't, you'll carry a worse burden. Your broken dharma, for one thing. For another: You'll never be sure of the truth. You'll always wonder and question, and chew it over and over: Was it a dream? Or wasn't it? You'll never be rid of Jaya until you know for certain. I've understood that since the night I offered you the garland."
"What does it matter whether I'm sure or not?"
"Because he'll always be a shadow between us. Unless you find out one way or the other, he'll haunt you every day of your life. He'll poison you. In time, it will kill you as if he used a sword. Do you call that being free?"
"If that's my karma, so be it. I can't take back what I've done." He stood and walked up the path to the hermitage, Mirri silent beside him. Rajaswami and the bear were at the table in the common room. Adi-Kavi sat cross-legged by the hearth.
"Revered acharya." Tamar formally pressed his hands together and bowed his head. "I have something important I must say to you."
"Indeed, my boy? What a coincidence! I have something important to say to you. My learned colleague and I have engaged in many discussions on the shape of infinity. Is it straight? Is it a circle?"
"Please, acharya."
"It is neither
," Rajaswami continued. "It is, in effect, rather like a figure eight. A remarkable conception."
"Acharya."
"Eh? Oh. Yes. What was it, dear boy, that you wished to tell me?"
"The journey to Mahapura."
"Ah. That. Of course." Rajaswarni's face fell. "I understand. The impatience of youth. Yes, well, it has been most pleasant here."
"We aren't leaving." Tamar glanced at Mirri, who was watching him with a look half anguished, half fearful. "You see."
"Shmaa! Shmaa! Incompetent nitwit!"
Garuda tumbled through an open window to land in a heap on the floor. He picked himself up and strutted back and forth in front of Tamar.
"You'll owe me plenty for this," Garuda crowed. "I won't forget. Don't you forget, either. I'll remind you from time to time. I've done you yet another service. A big one. Careless idiot, you must have lost this in the orchard. Lucky I found it."
Garuda opened his talons and dropped the ring at Tamar's feet.
"Good heavens, my boy, that was careless indeed," Rajaswami exclaimed. "How did you do that? And never notice? But, the bright side is: You have it back, thanks to our sharp-eyed eagle."
Tamar stared at the ring as if it had been a viper coiled to strike. Mirri's words beside the stream rang in his ears, all the more tormenting because, he admitted, they were true.
As though Mirri alone could hear, he said: Not for the warrior's code, Not for honor's sake, But for your heart and mine, Though at the end they break.
Mirri answered: Though at the end they break, Death will not keep them apart. No ring can bind us closer Than your heart that holds my heart. He bent and picked up the ring, which seemed so heavy he could barely lift it. He forced the cold iron circlet on his finger.
"I wish to be gone from here," he said. "Suta, fetch the horses."
"But, my boy, what were you saying?" asked Rajaswami. "Not going to Mahapura?"
"Not going-not until I found the ring." Tamar faltered. "No. I haven't lost so much honor that I can lie to my acharya. I threw it away."
The Iron Ring Page 12
