‘He is fortunate to have a daughter who loves him so dearly.’ My thoughts swing back to my father. Once, I could not have imagined a life away from him.
‘What use is my love to him?’ Shashilekha says fiercely. ‘He is mocked, scorned and seen as a traitor.’
‘I will speak to the king-elect,’ I say determinedly. ‘Let the accusations be weighed properly and the punishment revoked. It is time.’
Before I can attend Shivakara’s summons at court, he appears. His forehead is furrowed with anxiety and his demeanour is sombre, far from his usual cheerful self.
‘Forgive me for this intrusion,’ he begins abruptly, ‘but I need to ask you something. It concerns your father.’
My heart leaps in panic but my tone is calm, even mildly surprised. ‘What is it you wish to know?’
‘Have you heard from him very recently?’
His gaze is sharp but I lie with practised ease. ‘Yes—but nothing apart from general tidings. He inquires about your welfare and that of the court.’
‘Is that all?’ he asks sharply.
He is waiting for more but will not get the truth out of me. I meet his gaze levelly and he drops his eyes first. A cold wave of relief courses through my body. He believes me.
‘I am sorry.’ His voice is rough with embarrassment. ‘There have been rumours, wild stories …’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I will be crowned tomorrow—and there are many who seek my throne. I must be careful.’
‘Yes, you should be vigilant as befits a king.’ I pause and smile at him. ‘And you will make a great one, I am sure. You will be mentioned in the annals of the Bhaumakara kingdom as one who rescued it from difficult circumstances and steered it towards glory.’
His smile is rueful, boyish even. ‘I feel as if I am not ready, but I have no choice. I must follow my late brother on this path. This is my destiny.’
When he leaves, I wipe my hands on my robes. They are slick with sweat and I look furtively at Shashilekha to see if she has noticed. She is on the other side of the chamber, her face in darkness. I can’t read her expression, nor do I really want to.
The coronation is marked by the typical Bhaumakara simplicity, perhaps even more so because the shadow of grief hangs over it. Shivakara looks nervous but resolute, and his boys are clearly bursting with pride as they view the ceremony.
Their mother’s face is devoid of expression, as always. I wonder why she seems incapable of displaying any emotion, why her presence is so colourless and why she is unable to voice any opinion. She is from a family of powerful connections and, hence, her marriage to Shivakara would have been deemed desirable. Royal marriages are such risky ventures. One might get money and influence through them but what of love and true companionship?
I express my loyalty to him in the formal words that the occasion demands. He is definitely a more pleasant occupant of the throne than the previous king.
‘I will require your advice at every turn, sister,’ he tells me.
‘And I will be glad to proffer it if I can,’ I say smoothly.
It can’t be an easy matter to govern both Uttara and Dakshina Toshali, the two huge parts of the Bhaumakara kingdom that lie on either side of the Mahanadi, and the numerous other feudatory holdings. This throne is not an easy one. But for the moment, there is jubilation and relief, in equal measure, in the court and across the kingdom. The Bhaumakara reins seem to be in capable hands but, of course, only time can tell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shivagupta talking earnestly to some soldiers. I wonder what he is saying to them and why they are paying him any heed. As if he senses my gaze, he looks up and bows. There is an air of suppressed excitement about him and the feeling of irritation stalks me all over again. What is the man up to?
Shivakara speedily proves himself to be a completely different king from his brother. He is compassionate and merciful and does not bear unreasonable grudges. And his judgements are often emotional. I watch him at court, and there is no evidence of ruthlessness, of vigilance, of suspicion—all the qualities that earmarked his brother’s reign. It was the latter, after all, who had brought my father to his knees.
‘One day, it will be your turn,’ I tell Dhruva as we sit in my chamber. He listens gravely and nods. Kusuma leaps about noisily, as is his wont, and sings to himself, drowning out much of our words. I seize him in my arms and cover his face with kisses while he protests loudly. Dhruva offers his face for a kiss, too, and my heart sings with love for them. Some day they will grow up and move away from me. But that day is far away; for now, I will allow myself to bask in their affection and them in mine.
Dhruva tugs at my arm. ‘When will it be my turn?’ he asks quietly.
‘Not for many, many years, son. We must pray that your father has a long reign ahead of him.’
‘I want to be king!’ shouts Kusuma. ‘I will be the most powerful king in the world!’
‘You can’t,’ says Dhruva at once. ‘It will be my turn next—I am our father’s first son.’
Kusuma’s face crumples and his eyes fill with tears. ‘But I want to be king like you!’ he wails.
I hug him and wipe away his tears. ‘When your brother is king,’ I say, ‘he will need someone to help him and that will be you. You will be the best royal adviser in the world.’
Kusuma’s eyes shine with delight and he jumps to his feet, his tears forgotten. I wonder if they will remember this talk when they are grown men. Perhaps I will be there to remind them.
I let my father’s invocation to vigilance slip from my mind as the months go by. Shivagupta makes no further attempt to contact me.
My days are filled with the boys’ presence and serious talks with Shivakara. He is eager to learn the ways of the Somavamshi court from me, the procedures that it follows in matters of justice, the measures that it adopts for taxation and other administrative dues. He finds the differences between our rival systems fascinating; the Bhaumakaras are deeply influenced by their tribal mores whereas the Somavamshis shrugged off their humble beginnings a long time ago. Yet both are powerful, thriving entities in Kalinga, and a truly formidable match for each other in terms of strength and territory. I tell him much but not all; he does not need to know all our secrets.
I am in the Hamseshvara temple with Shashilekha some days later, circumambulating the shrine.
The priest comes up to us, pale with fear, with Dharmaratha at his heels. I had not noticed the latter entering the premises; he has come unaccompanied.
‘What is it?’ I ask, fearful. ‘Has something happened to Dhruva or Kusuma?’
I am subjected to Dharmaratha’s searching look again. ‘The king has summoned you back to court,’ he says. ‘The Somavamshis have declared war on us.’
THE THRONE AND ITS SHADOW
The court is in uproar but a hush suddenly descends as I enter. The silence is more sinister than any angry words of accusation and my cheeks burn with humiliation. I am the enemy—the daughter of the man who has challenged the Bhaumakara king for the second time. Who will believe me if I say I knew nothing of this?
As I walk past the lines of hostile faces towards Shivakara, I draw myself up straighter. I will not be cowed down by them. I was not raised to be a coward.
His face is drawn but he rises as I approach. ‘I am sorry to cut short your temple visit,’ he says in a low voice, ‘but the tidings are grave. Your father has called me to battle. Did you know anything of this?’
‘If I had, I would have told you,’ I say quickly. ‘I am as shocked as you. My father has no quarrel with the Bhaumakaras now. I thought my marriage had sealed the bond.’
‘Indeed, it had,’ he muses.
Dharmaratha steps forward. ‘My lord, we should question the Somavamshi emissary,’ he says firmly. ‘In the presence of the esteemed queen, he might be induced to speak the truth.’
Shivakara inclines his head and my heart leaps as Shivagupta is brought forward. His face is bland but he licks his lips nervo
usly.
‘Speak!’ Shivakara orders him sternly. ‘What do you know of this declaration of war by your master?’
‘I know nothing, my lord,’ Shivagupta says quickly. ‘I was sent here to serve you. My master has not deigned to take me into confidence.’
‘He lies!’ Lalitadeva growls. ‘He has been seen talking to the soldiers and slinking around. We have had our eye on him for a while. Sire, he is a spy of the Somavamshis.’
Shivakara looks at me again. ‘Sister, I beg that you speak the truth. Do you have any reason to suspect this man and his intentions?’
I look at the men before me, in turn. Shivakara is expectant, waiting eagerly for my reply. Dharmaratha’s face is hostile; so is Lalitadeva’s. Shivagupta’s eyes plead with me.
My internal struggle, if any, is brief; the filial bond wins.
I speak with as much conviction as I can muster. ‘I do not think he knows anything about the situation.’
Relief flashes through Shivagupta’s face and something else—the knowledge that we are now on the same side; we are conspirators.
The king sits back, satisfied.
The others know I have lied. They think I have done so to save Shivagupta’s life; I have done it because I have always been my father’s daughter. I have ever been his to command even if I do not always understand his ways.
‘My sister has spoken,’ Shivakara tells the court —and I marvel anew at his naivety. ‘No one had any prior knowledge of this. Send a message back to King Janamejaya that I have accepted his challenge. We will meet in battle a fortnight from now.’
Simultaneous messages are to be sent to the Bhaumakara feudatories. They are to be in a state of readiness; they might be called upon to fight if the hostilities escalate.
The palace buzzes with frantic preparations. The royal army is marshalled and inspected. Weapons are repaired, polished and surveyed. More are cast in the huge forges that stay lit night and day so that the air sizzles with their heat. Battle strategies are devised and elaborated.
Shivakara is everywhere at once, his face worn with the strain and tension. This is the first battle he will lead after becoming king; it is important for him that he win and consolidate his hold on the throne. I suspect he is a stranger to sleep now; his eyes are red with exhaustion and seem too big for his face.
Jayadevi has no comment to offer, no help to give. She stays in her chamber while the boys run around, getting in everyone’s way, and being gently chided by the officers and soldiers.
I rescue them from getting hurt while wildly brandishing someone’s gleaming sword and attempting to mimic a real fight.
Kusuma is near-delirious with excitement. ‘I want to fight!’ he cries, his cheeks red with the heat and exertion.
‘And you will someday,’ I say soothingly. ‘But for that, you need to be very strong and eat all the vegetables you are given.’
I have touched a sore spot. He would rather eat sweetmeats for all his meals and so, he subsides into a sulking silence.
‘Will Father win?’ Dhruva’s voice is so soft, I have to strain to catch his words.
‘Let us pray that he does,’ I respond mechanically. I turn them away from the courtyard filled with the sounds of shouting men and clashing weapons, and steer them inside towards the relative coolness of the corridors.
My mind veers from one possibility to the other. If Shivakara wins, my father will be humbled yet again and I don’t think I can bear it.
If my father wins, though, what will it mean for me? Will he annex the Bhaumakara kingdom to his? Will I be sent back to Kosala?
A shiver of excitement runs through me when I contemplate his victory. My father will virtually rule all of Kalinga; he will not only be the most glorious Somavamshi king ever but also the greatest in this land. Kosala will be the capital of the largest kingdom ever to exist in this region. And he might even involve me in some important task—to record some of his deeds, perhaps, because of my penmanship?
Oh, this is an impossible situation and the uncertainty is driving me mad!
Perhaps Shashilekha understands. She appears, as if from nowhere, gently prises off the boys’ hands from mine and leads them away. For once, I do not seek the solace of my chamber but climb the stairs to the roof of the palace.
I lean against one of the thick walls and look out over the city. The soldiers’ cries are muted now, as are the clang of bells and the brisk sounds of horses and carriages conveying people across the capital. From here, everything looks small and insignificant. The stone is smooth and warm against my back, and the cries of birds are all around me.
I sit down and breathe in the quietness. The moment’s repose calms me. Life is strange and unexpected and, like everyone else, I have no control over it. It serves no purpose for me to be agitated now; I will weather this storm like any other.
A fortnight flies by. I have not attempted to contact my father and he has sent no missive to me. I see Shivagupta once but I avert my eyes. I have no desire to speak to him nor have any officer of the court see us together. There is suspicion directed at me from all sides, as it is.
Shivakara reassures me that the court does not see me as a conniving person, that it views me with great respect. He is impossibly gullible, too trusting to see what is before his eyes. The truth is obvious for anyone who cares to see: pitted against my father, he is as a lamb before a wolf.
He attempts to reassure me. ‘Be of good cheer, sister,’ he says. ‘This is a strange fight I am embarking upon, but I will do my best. If I win, I will let your father go with honour. If I lose, I will still plead with him to let you remain with us at this court. I have grown to rely on your advice and my sons’ affection for you is clear to all.’
All of a sudden, I feel miserable. This is the only man to have shown me any real affection, even if he is a trusting fool.
I steel myself. There can only be one victor in this clash—and it will, hopefully, be my father. They are to meet soon after dawn on the morrow on a stretch of flat ground an hour’s march from here. My father must be encamped somewhere close at hand. The thought that he is near fills me with warmth and a sense of security.
Sleep eludes me that night. I lie awake, listening to the sounds of preparation in the courtyard. Hoarse cries of commands fill the air. Dharmaratha has been on his feet all day and night for the past few days. It is always the army commander who is hard-pressed at times like these. I think of his Somavamshi counterpart and wonder how long it will take for one of them to yield.
At dawn, I go to the balustrade overlooking the courtyard. The men are in readiness, bedecked in armour and in battle formation. Shivakara swings himself up on his horse and Dharmaratha moves into position behind him. There is a silence that hangs in the air.
Jayadevi suddenly detaches herself from the shadows and comes up to me. I wonder how long she has been standing there. We wait, side by side, for Shivakara to give the signal to depart.
‘How does it feel,’ Jayadevi murmurs, ‘to be an enemy in your husband’s court, to know that everyone regards you thus?’
The venom in her words stings me. ‘This is not of my doing!’ I hiss. ‘I am not responsible for my father’s actions. And I am as much part of this court as you are!’
‘You will never be!’ she retorts. ‘You are an outsider and will always remain one. Your place is back in Kosala, not here.’
All these months of silence, of pent-up resentment —I know that she has never liked me, but she has never spoken up before.
She goes on: ‘The king has no need of your false advice. He can govern this kingdom perfectly well on his own.’
Jealousy. It is this that drives her. Her husband seeks my counsel; her sons seek my company. I have nothing to say to her. Jealousy cannot be countered by mere words. Let her fester in her misery; I did not fashion it for her.
We watch the army depart in a silence that is pregnant with unspoken words.
Shivakara sits straight and proud on his
warhorse, his body encased in metal, his sword and shield held aloft. He is eager, yet deeply worried; his stance tells me so. The distance soon swallows him up.
This is the last I will see of him for now.
This is, in fact, the last I will see of him alive.
I pace my chamber, waiting anxiously for tidings of the battle.
Shashilekha is quiet but solicitous. She brings me food and drink but says nothing so that the sound of her voice does not intrude on my thoughts.
The wait seems interminable, yet very little time has elapsed in actuality. Long before the sun wanes and the shadows begin to gather, there is a commotion below.
I rush outside to see an outrider gallop in, half-dead with exhaustion but stammering out his news to the men who swiftly gather around him.
‘We have lost,’ I can hear him say. ‘They are coming in.’
In the distance, clouds of dust eclipse part of the sky until they suddenly clear to reveal a figure riding towards us at the head of a seemingly endless army. The lines twist and snake towards the horizon, line after line of soldiers marching relentlessly towards the palace.
When they are still some paces away, I see my father in the lead.
My heart leaps with sudden happiness.
They say death imparts serenity to the faces of those it claims. Yet Shivakara’s face is grim, even twisted. There is no repose for him even in the afterlife. The rest of his body is covered in blood; his own, they say. It lies there in the centre of the courtyard where they have thrown it.
Dharmaratha is dead; the rest of the Bhaumakara army has surrendered. They stand in a disorganized huddle on the side, watched by the hawk-eyed Somavamshi soldiers. And my father in the middle of it all—covered in glory, triumphant.
The facts are thus: the Bhaumakara army arrived at the battlefield at the appointed hour but there was no sign of the Somavamshis. Scouts were sent out but, in the meantime, the soldiers grew restive and agitated. Fear in battle is always compounded by an enemy that remains hidden. The scouts did not return, the sun beat down fiercely all the while and the Bhaumakara army grew rapidly dispirited, despite Shivakara’s exhortations.
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