Queen of the Earth

by Devika Rangachari

And then, all of a sudden, my father summons me to his chambers.

  ‘Your aunt tells me you know what is going on,’ he says without preamble. I nod and he goes on quickly, ‘That saves me from lengthy explanations. I will leave at dawn. And I might be away for some days. Your brother will be coming with me.’

  ‘Will it go well?’ I ask, knowing the question to be an exceedingly foolish one.

  He looks exasperated, but then his eyes soften, as they always do when they settle on me. ‘Of course, it will go well! Do you doubt your father?’

  ‘Never! How can I ever doubt you? I just want you to be back safe and soon.’

  He takes my hand in his rough, calloused grasp. ‘If this goes the way I want, you will be the princess of an even larger kingdom. And your destiny will be greater, more magnificent than I ever imagined for you.’

  There is a lump in my throat. All my life, he has been away on raids and battles, and while I have always worried for his safety, I have never been as affected as now. Is it because I am older and better able to grasp the attendant dangers? Or is it because he has never faced as formidable an enemy as the Bhaumakaras? If he wins, though, he will be able to rewrite the history of the Somavamshis—and this thought makes me swallow back my tears.

  I hear them leave at dawn but I do not rise to see them go. I have already bid farewell to Yayati the night before.

  ‘Do you know,’ he says to me, ‘that Ranabhanja has made his realm so rich that everyone is eyeing it? But we are the first to strike.’

  ‘And his family?’ I ask. ‘What happens to them?’

  ‘They will be captured, of course.’ Yayati is scornfully dismissive.

  Later, my aunt tells me that Ranabhanja is loved by his people; that his queen, Vijayamahadevi, is equally popular; and that they are a very cultured couple, interested in the arts, music and dance, and literature. I do not spare them much thought; politics and war dictate that they will be destroyed along with all that they have built. They will become mere names in the saga of our family’s glory—to be reviled—and their destruction at my father’s hands, praised.

  I am in the grip of a black mood. I try hard to break out of its iron clutches, but there is a great sense of unease in me—a foretelling of something that is to go wrong.

  I absorb myself in my writing and compose little poems to amuse myself. As the sun wanes, I set out on long walks and I go where my feet take me—around the palace, the royal gardens, the forest beyond, right up to the limits of the royal complex where the guards positioned there look at me grimly, their disapproval writ large on their faces. I have to resist a compelling urge to push past them and explore what lies beyond. Will I spend my life in this palace, never allowed to take a step beyond the safety zone that circumscribes my life? And if and when I marry, will my husband bind me with rules as well?

  My aunt sits with me when I return from my wanderings. We share a companionable silence.

  It is unbearably hot; the rains are some weeks away and although it is night, the sun’s presence is solid. The air is heavy with heat and I feel dull, my thoughts moving sluggishly in my head. I wave my hands before my face to create a breeze. My robes stick to my skin, uncomfortable and prickly, and I reach for a cooling drink from the pitcher by my cushions.

  ‘Think of the army,’ my aunt muses. ‘Fighting in this weather is nothing short of torture. That heavy armour, those weapons …’ Then she sits up straight and beckons me closer. ‘I have some news.’ I raise my eyebrows at this unwarranted secrecy, but she frowns. ‘You never know who is listening. There are spies everywhere. You know that.’

  When I am safely beside her, she says, ‘There is further chaos among the Bhaumakaras. The king is expected to die any day now. His physicians have given up hope. His son will take over from him, but he is new and untrained. And there are so many claimants to the Bhaumakara throne!’

  ‘What will happen now?’ I ask. This is good news for us. It means that the Bhaumakaras are still completely occupied with their internal struggles and my father can inflict as much damage on them as he wants.

  ‘We will have to wait and see. My spies tell me that the king’s son should not be underestimated. For your father’s sake, I hope they are wrong.’

  The army trails into the palace courtyard at dawn. I wake to the sound of horses snorting and stamping their hooves, their harnesses jingling and someone barking orders. There is a great flurry of footsteps, and I run downstairs to greet my father and brother. Their faces are bright with triumph, their clothes are bright with bloodstains, and I can’t repress a shudder as my father pulls me to him and hugs me. Clearly, they have won; there is no need for words.

  ‘Father cut off Ranabhanja’s head,’ Yayati tells me later with unbearable pride in his voice. ‘He and his wimp of a son, Digabhanja. We found him trying to drag his father to safety, away from the battlefield. So we dispatched them both. Now they can keep each other company in the afterlife.’

  The air smells of blood and sweat and I feel a bit sick. ‘And what of his wife? Was she spared?’

  Yayati looks exasperated. ‘And why would we do that? She was cut down with the other women in the palace. Right in the middle of their weeping and wailing.’

  My brother’s bragging annoys me—he is behaving as if he crafted this victory all on his own. I focus on the fact of my father’s triumph. This has definitely set something in motion, but we will have to see how the aftermath impacts us. For the moment, though, the Somavamshis are supreme.

  Yayati claims my attention again. ‘We must celebrate our victory. With just one move, we have doubled our territories and gained in strength.’

  ‘What about the Bhaumakaras?’ I am cautious.

  ‘What about them?’ Yayati waves his hand dismissively. ‘They were nowhere to be seen. I think they have acknowledged our might and are ready to bow to us.’

  How stupid can you be? I think. Aloud, I say, ‘I don’t think they will remain quiet for long.’

  ‘Don’t bother your head about all this’ is Yayati’s cutting reply. ‘All you have to do is count your suitors for now there will be many. And only the best among them will wed the daughter of the greatest of the Somavamshis: Janamejaya, the first of his name.’

  And he is right.

  As the days go by, more and more emissaries arrive at court, asking for my hand on behalf of one or the other kingdom. My father, still basking in the glow of his win, is gracious towards them but does not commit himself. He keeps them dangling, playing one off against the other, until the tension among them is palpable—but he is holding out for the highest bidder. I am on tenterhooks all the time, wondering what my fate is to be.

  Finally, after several long months of this game, the proposal he is looking for materializes and I am informed forthwith.

  ‘The Ganga king of Shvetaka, Indravarman, has asked for your hand,’ he tells me. ‘There can be no better offer than this one. Indravarman’s star is rising fast; soon they will rule the entire coast. And they have connections with the south, so there is no dearth of men and armies, should they require them.’

  So it has finally happened.

  The Gangas have been on everyone’s lips for a while now as a political line that is sure to eclipse its opponents in its steady climb to power. In fact, had they been any closer, they would have posed a huge threat to us. I can’t repress a thrill of pleasure—I am to marry a powerful man whose future is golden. Perhaps he will rule all of Kalinga some day and the Somavamshis will rise further in his wake. I will, in that case, be the most important woman in this land.

  I feel a bit of sourness, too. I am to cast my lot with a stranger and I have no say in this. Yet such is the way of royal alliances. Society decrees that my father will decide my fate; there is very little I can do to change anything, even if I had wished to. The prospect of leaving my home daunts me even as thoughts of my future husband fill my mind. It is a bittersweet feeling.

  Matters proceed quickly. The Ganga kin
g sends gifts and an astrologer to match his calculations with ours so that the most auspicious date can be selected for the wedding. The other emissaries are dismissed and they depart, grumbling and deeply annoyed at the time they have wasted at our court. There is great interest brewing all over Kalinga at this new political alliance. Strategies need to be reworked to factor it in and my father receives new offers of friendship from several ruling lines.

  My aunt plunges into my wedding preparations with great enthusiasm. I am besieged daily with new clothes and jewellery, and beset with so many questions and choices that I sometimes feel like walking away from it all.

  And I do find solace in my solitary walks; they give me some space to breathe and restore my spirits. A part of me is curious, though, about what my life is to be like in Shvetaka.

  I find myself thinking more and more about my future husband and, as the days go by, I find myself longing to enter this new phase in my life. Perhaps Indravarman will love me and look after me so well that I will not have cause to miss my father’s home. But what if he is cruel and uncaring and treats me with disdain? How will I be able to bear it, then?

  These thoughts keep me awake at night. Anticipation and apprehension assail me in turn. I learn that Indravarman is young and courageous, that he is credited with many victories, that the new-found glory of the Gangas hinges entirely on his deeds.

  All of a sudden, I am eager to know what he looks like. I am eager to hear his voice. I am eager to know his touch. I am falling in love with him, I think, and I blush to know how much I have changed in so short a time. The poems and stories on love that I have read and been told about are true, after all. This is a very powerful emotion; it transforms one from within. And perhaps he feels the same. Perhaps he will tell me so himself some day.

  My aunt is relieved that I am now somewhat reconciled to my future. She is spared the brooding silences and fretful responses that I have been assailing her with all these days. Now I can actually focus on the things that are being bought for me and the details of my new home.

  It is a long journey from our palace in south Kosala to the north Ganjam area of the Gangas. It seems that they also have an eye on Kalinga-nagara where another branch of their family rules. I suppose there is nothing but travel indicated for me for a while, and the prospect makes my heart beat faster. I have always wanted to see new lands, new horizons. Perhaps this change will be bearable, after all.

  At the same time, I will miss my family, my home and all the things that are dear to me. I will miss my aunt, her constant presence, her brusque manner, her solid support. Of Yayati I am not completely sure. The thought of separation from him was once unbearable. Now it is no longer so. We have somehow grown apart, he and I, but this was inevitable, too, given how different we are from each other. As for my father, I am unsure how I will manage without him to chart my life and his steady love, even if it was often roughly expressed.

  My life is changing; I will change along with it. This is all I know at the moment.

  The date is set. It is a few weeks away and I have begun to count the days and hours and minutes leading to it.

  I am in my aunt’s chamber. The maids are packing my belongings into huge chests and we are supervising them. My aunt wants the linen folded in a particular way and has scolded one of the maids repeatedly for not doing it right until she is sullen. I am looking on peaceably.

  The entrance to the chamber suddenly darkens and my father appears, his expression grim.

  There is an immediate stir, for this is an unusual occurrence. We are normally summoned to my father’s presence; it is rarely the other way round.

  My aunt and I jump to our feet and the maids melt away at his glance. Yayati comes in, too; he looks worried and angry, but his eyes don’t meet mine.

  My heart sinks. What has happened now?

  My father looks at me and his face immediately softens. I brace myself, for I know the news is bad. And it is clearly to do with me.

  ‘There is a problem,’ he says abruptly.

  I wait dully for the blow to fall.

  My father heaves a sigh. ‘There is a change of plan,’ he tells me. ‘Your husband is to be the Bhaumakara king, Shubhakara, the fourth of that name in his line. He has taken over as king now.’

  How can he do this to me? Does he think I am a parcel to have different destinations writ on me?

  ‘I will not marry this man,’ I say coldly. This is the first time I have spoken thus to my father, but I do not care about the consequences.

  ‘You do not have a choice,’ my father responds. His voice is harsh. ‘I have bought peace with this offer.’

  I turn and leave the room. I hear Yayati’s sharp intake of breath. My action is a sign of great disrespect to the king, but I am beyond logical reasoning now.

  Explanations rain down on me later—the Bhaumakaras are angry at the loss of their mandala territory and the Kalachuris, taking advantage of the situation, are bearing down on us from the other side. Caught between brewing crises on all directions, my father has finally used his pawn, his daughter. The Bhaumakaras are somewhat mollified at the offer of me as a bride, along with a large amount of money. In turn, they will help him, should the Kalachuris attack.

  Everything is as was decided—the wedding date, the clothes, the gems, the arrangements. The only thing that has changed is that one bridegroom has been substituted for another. And my happiness for misery.

  AMONG ENEMIES AND FRIENDS

  Anger is a deeply empowering emotion. It gets me through the days that follow, through the murmurs of pity and curiosity that surround me, through the farcical preparations for a wholly different ceremony that looms ahead.

  Feelings of betrayal assail me at all times. I wrap myself in a blanket of silence. None can penetrate it.

  ‘It is not your father’s fault,’ my aunt insists. ‘Political equations keep changing, you know that. And women of the family must be prepared to be used in this manner.’

  I offer no response to her remonstrations.

  Yayati keeps his distance from me. We have nothing to say to each other and he is probably afraid of annoying our father, who displays his impatience with me openly. Princesses are not meant to show their displeasure at the choice of a royal groom; their acquiescence is always taken for granted. They are not allowed to have feelings and expectations that diverge from those of their guardians. They are not allowed to have an opinion. He complains to my aunt that she has pampered me and fashioned me into a creature of wilful disobedience, and that he is not prepared to tolerate my unwarranted mutiny. I will do as I am bid and that is all he has to say on the matter.

  I asked myself if it makes a difference. I had not known the Ganga king and I do not know the Bhaumakara one. Both are complete strangers.

  The answer comes screaming into my head. It’s because I am to be married into a strange and barbaric house. I am nothing but a peacemaking gesture. It does matter!

  I feel no curiosity about my intended groom. I know that he is slightly older than me and that he deeply worships his great-grandmother, Tribhuvanamahadevi, who had kept the throne safe for his father until he had felt able to ascend it. I do not care what Shubhakara looks like or even if he will make me happy. He has made no attempt to send me gifts or any other token—his family practises a religion that preaches austerity, so there will be no glittering jewels or costly silk robes for me. I keep aside the vast majority of the clothes and accessories that I have collected—I will have no need for them where I am going.

  My anger eventually thins down to a dull resignation.

  What hurts me, though, is the Ganga king’s pragmatic acceptance of the change in plans; he makes no more than a feeble protest. Did I really expect that he would come charging down to our capital to demand his intended bride?

  All over this vast land, I must be an object of great pity and ridicule. All those emissaries who came seeking my hand for their masters and who were peremptorily dismissed must be ba
sking in the glow of this unexpected revenge. The sudden fall of the Somavamshi fortunes must be on everyone’s lips, especially those of the remaining members of the Bhanja family who have set up a new capital in Vijaya Vanjulvaka, far from their original ravaged home. The fact is that my father burnt his fingers in trying to extend his territory and now I must pay the price for his greed. The Bhaumakaras proved to be wilier than him in the end.

  As the appointed day approaches, an impediment to the wedding suddenly presents itself. Queen Tribhuvanamahadevi is apparently too feeble to travel. She can’t make the long journey from Toshali to us. Therefore, the ceremony has to take place in their capital city, Viraja, and I will have to journey there earlier than expected.

  Ironically, this comes as a relief. Anticipating a dreaded event is definitely worse than plunging straight into it. If this is to be my life from here on, I might as well start it sooner rather than later.

  Cryptic orders follow. I am to take no companions; whatever and whoever I need will be provided for me there. My entourage is to be small and contained. My father’s pride does not allow him to accompany me; instead, the court priest, my aunt and a couple of maids will be the only ones to stand witness to my marriage. The accompanying escort is equally minimal—two senior soldiers, a minister of the Bhaumakara court and a few women attendants. The number of chests I will take with me have been whittled down to two: the first with my belongings and the second with presents that my father is sending to his new son-in-law. These have been carefully selected—not too ostentatious to offend the latter’s austere sensibilities but not too cheap to tarnish the Somavamshi image.

  A carriage sent by the Bhaumakara king waits for me in the palace courtyard. It is plain and square with none of the embellishments that my father’s royal carriages routinely bear. Its horses, too, have clearly been selected more for their hardiness than their beauty.

  It is hot and bright, and the entire court has assembled to see me off. The silence all around deafens me—this is a parting that signifies defeat and submission. And this is the silence of anger and grief.