The Vengeance of Indra

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “Whom do we go to battle against?” Holika’s voice shivered, though she couldn’t say if it was because of the cold water or the sudden hardness of Hiranyaksha against her.

  “It could be the human king, if there’s any fight left in him. It could be the devas.” The asura put his arm around the Witch Queen’s waist, drawing her close, and she responded by latching herself tightly around his neck. His golden eyes bored into hers, as if looking into her soul. “Who knows, we might even end up fighting them both.”

  Holika stood on tiptoe and pulled the asura’s head down to her. Their lips and limbs locked in feverish haste, hardness and softness creating delirious spaces for one another, and the heady aroma of their lust blossomed and fused with the exotic scents around them.

  * * *

  “Salutations, my lord.”

  Indra, his elbows planted on the parapet he was leaning on, looked over his shoulder at the door connecting his bedchamber to the balcony, where a figure stood in silhouette, lit from behind by torches in the bedchamber, yet hidden in the shadows of the door, out of the pale moonlight illuminating the balcony.

  “Matali.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  As Indra pushed himself upright, the figure stepped onto the balcony. The moonlight showed a deva, stocky in build and swathed in a dark shawl that imparted him an air of secretiveness. A stylishly scruffy beard, iron grey in colour, adorned his chin, and he had a broad forehead with a high, receding hairline. He wore small but heavy earrings. His eyes were large but retained a sleepy appearance on account of heavy, drooping eyelids.

  “I am all set to leave for Sindhuvarta, lord,” the deva announced.

  “You know what to do once you reach the kingdom of Vikramaditya.”

  It wasn’t a question. Matali inclined his head silently.

  With a nod of satisfaction, Indra said, “Gandharvasena and I will be there shortly.”

  “Then I shall depart tonight itself, my lord. I shall await your arrival.”

  “I don’t need to remind you that the human king is smart and…” Indra paused briefly, before forcing himself to continue, his mouth twisting as he spat out the word, “… brave. You know how the Ashvins and the Maruts fared. Whatever you do, be very careful.”

  “I will, my lord. You can trust me.”

  The lord of the devas nodded with finality. Taking his cue, Matali bowed and stepped back. In what appeared as a deceptive shifting of shapes and shadows, the deva slipped and melted and oozed across the balcony and the bedchamber until he dissolved from sight altogether. For a moment, Indra blinked and stared at the spaces that Matali had occupied and vacated in rapid succession, before turning back to gaze over Amaravati.

  The balcony jutted out from one of the highest spires in the palace, offering a sweeping view of the city that shimmered under a light veil of mist the same colour as the moonlight. It felt as if the light had been poured from the heavens and lay congealing amid the city’s parks and woodlands. Closer to the palace, the mist sent fumbling fingers around the high rocks and cliffs, but stayed firmly away from the abyss, as if in dread of what might be lying in wait in its depths. The night air was still as the palace and Amaravati slept.

  But Indra himself was without sleep.

  When Shukracharya had first told him what Gandharvasena was capable of achieving, the deva’s jubilation had known no bounds. All that hatred for Vikramaditya piling up inside him, all the shame he felt thinking of the Ashvins and the Maruts returning humbled and humiliated, the deep yearning to settle scores that accompanied him everywhere — Gandharvasena was the answer to all of that. The desire to crush the human king burned so bright that he had wholeheartedly followed every one of Shukracharya’s suggestions, and now they were on the verge of journeying to Avanti.

  However, with the calming influence of time, it had dawned on Indra that this alliance of theirs was temporary, that the devas and asuras were no more friends than they had been before. With Vikramaditya out of the way, the tussle for Veeshada’s dagger would once again take precedence. He would be a fool to believe that the asuras had set aside their quest for the dagger in good faith, and if Shukracharya was in the hunt, it was imperative that the devas learned of the Halahala’s whereabouts first.

  Which was where Matali came in.

  Indra thought he spied movement somewhere beneath, and he dropped his eyes to the broad palace courtyards way down below. The courtyards were lit by torches, and in their light, he thought he saw a shadow flit and weave past. He followed the shadow as it slid onto the southern drawbridge, but within moments, it was gone, swallowed by the darkness of the yawning abyss.

  You can trust me, Matali had said. Indra knew he could. A loner and a survivor, Matali had served him well in the past. The deva had a way of burrowing under obstacles. And he wasn’t afraid of getting his hands — or his conscience — dirty.

  Matali would find out where the human had hidden the dagger. Matali would figure a way of finding out.

  Ransom

  The door to the council chamber was straight up ahead, dark, heavy and uncompromising, barring Shanku’s path like an old adversary. Experiencing a nip of hesitation at its sight, the young councilor dropped her pace a fraction, and for one fickle moment, she was overcome by the urge to turn back and slip away.

  The moment passed and Shanku approached the door, conscious of the time she had last been on the other side of that great bulk of carved wood — it was the day after the serpent-dragon had attacked Ujjayini and the yaksha had tried to kill Vishakha in the meadow. They had all been in that room with the samrat, discussing the looming iron crisis precipitated by Shoorasena’s capture of the iron mines at Dandakabhukti. To offset the shortage of ore, the council had agreed that the Acharya would lead a diplomatic mission to Queen Abhirami’s court, to try and convince Odra to trade iron with Avanti.

  It felt as if that day was eons ago. Not surprising, Shanku reflected as she pushed at the door; so much had transpired in the palace since. That day, both Vetala Bhatta and Kalidasa had been present in the council, and Vararuchi had not yet returned from the battle to save Dvarka; whereas now, the raj-guru was headed for Uttara Tosali with an intent to strengthen Avanti, while Kalidasa had picked an unbelievable quarrel with Vararuchi and Avanti and left the palace, never to return…

  Shaking thoughts of Kalidasa aside — and wondering if things would have turned out differently had the Acharya been present when the madness bore fruit — the girl stepped inside the council chamber, nodding her greetings to the councilors still present in Ujjayini. Amara Simha sat to the left of Vikramaditya’s high chair; beside him was Dhanavantri, who, she guessed, had returned late the previous day. Kshapanaka and Varahamihira sat across the table, to the samrat’s right. Vararuchi, she knew, was not in the palace; he had left to visit his mother Ushantha three days ago. The samrat himself stood leaning over a small table set by an open window, browsing through a scroll.

  “Shankubala,” he exclaimed, looking up from the scroll. “Sit. I shall join you in a moment.”

  Dhanavantri smiled and patted the seat next to him, and Shanku sidled into it. A quick survey of everyone’s expressions confirmed that she wasn’t the only one feeling subdued. Amara Simha, Kshapanaka and Varahamihira were also circumspect and absorbed in their own worlds, it seemed.

  “Do you still need to knock and enter through doors?” A small smile played on the corners of Dhanavantri’s puffy lips, and Shanku realized his attempt was to enliven the atmosphere a little. “Can’t you just…” he waved his hands around vaguely, “…appear here… next to me, or… wherever?”

  The girl smiled shyly and shook her head. With her new talent — her gift, as the Mother Oracle put it — she knew she could if she wanted to. She was practising every day, discreetly, and getting better at it, wielding her talent with greater confidence and precision. But that hadn’t been the point of the physician’s question. Dhanavantri had only tried infusing some levity — though going
by the response it fetched, he needn’t have bothered. Amara Simha offered a perfunctory smile and went back to studying the chamber’s high ceiling. Opposite them, Varahamihira pretended not to have heard and continued biting and examining his fingernails. Kshapanaka, consumed by her own thoughts, exchanged looks with Shanku before darting a glance at the samrat. No one was inclined to say anything, and Dhanavantri joined in the indifference by placing his hands over his big paunch and gazing placidly at nothing in particular.

  The ensuing silence was awkward, bloated and self-conscious. Shanku wondered if she should be polite and ask the physician when he had returned, but mercifully, the hush was broken by the rustling of the palm scroll that the king was reading. Five pairs of eyes turned to Vikramaditya in guarded anticipation as he approached the council table.

  “It has been a while since we all assembled here and exchanged notes.” The samrat dropped into his chair at the head of the table and placed the scroll at his elbow. “I have a few things that I wish to discuss with you, but first, do any of you have anything that you would like to bring to the council’s notice?”

  The king’s question got the councilors looking at one another, not really knowing what to say, expecting someone else to speak first. At long last, Varahamihira propped himself up in his chair and cleared his throat.

  “I don’t have anything specific, but… yes, there is a lot of fear among the townsfolk. Of course, you all know that. Also,” he paused, as if making his mind up, “I sense some resentment building.”

  Shanku observed a pained expression pass over Vikramaditya’s face, but he blinked and made a brave attempt to conceal it. The new beard suited the samrat, she thought; it added to his charisma but also made him look sadder, more solemn.

  “I understand the fear, but resentment?” he looked perplexed. “Over what?”

  “It stems from fear, I guess,” Varahamihira shrugged. “And loss.”

  “The people think I shouldn’t have accepted the responsibility of keeping Veeshada’s dagger,” the samrat nodded, his brooding eyes on the motif of the sun-crest emblazoned on the table. “That is the root of our troubles, and I brought it on Avanti. But what was I to do —” he looked at the faces around him in helplessness, “refuse to honour Shiva’s trust in me? In us?”

  “Not everyone blames you for that decision, Samrat,” Amara Simha rushed in to offer comfort. “I can wager that those who do are an insignificantly small minority, and,” he gave a contemptuous snort, “are complete fools.”

  “Sending the Healer — I mean, Shukracharya — off has also hurt,” said Varahamihira. He winced and sneaked an apologetic glance at Dhanavantri, but the physician stared back in stoic silence. “The people had got accustomed to his miraculous cures.”

  “And, of course, they hold me responsible for that as well,” Vikramaditya’s voice had a bitter, gravelly edge.

  “Again, a small minority,” Amara Simha said emphatically. “The people of Avanti are in pain and fear, but they are proud of their king. Take it from me.”

  “Then why is there resentment, and why is it rising?” asked the samrat.

  “It’s actually…” Catching Amara Simha’s eye, the lame inventor hesitated. He gave Shanku a brief, sidelong glance, then drew his breath in. “Well, some of our subjects aren’t happy with us letting Kalidasa leave Ujjayini. They… they believe he is a threat to the kingdom’s security.”

  The chamber seemed to shrink and grow claustrophobic. The councilors sat quietly, avoiding each other’s gaze; the curtains hung unobtrusively, trying not to draw attention to themselves; even the early morning sunlight coming in through the long windows faded and folded and retreated into shadowy corners, as if pushed there by Varahamihira’s words.

  Sensing the carefully averted gazes of her fellow councilors, it struck Shanku that this was what she had feared when she had neared the chamber’s door. She had known that mention of Kalidasa was inevitable, especially in context to Avanti’s safety, and she had prepared herself to deal with it without letting her emotions betray her. But she wasn’t ready for people feeling sorry for her — it worried her to think that their sympathy would break her defences down.

  “Some of our subjects?” Vikramaditya raised a quizzical eyebrow at Varahamihira. There was an undercurrent of irritation in his tone. “With so many troubles to keep them occupied, I didn’t know our subjects had the time or wherewithal to worry about Kalidasa as well. If I may ask, who are these subjects?”

  Varahamihira shifted in his chair. It was Kshapanaka who answered.

  “There is fear among soldiers that sooner or later, Kalidasa will be a threat to us. The feeling is strongest in sections of the Imperial Army.”

  “The soldiers know what he is capable of in battle, Vikrama.” Seeing how distressing this was to the king, Varahamihira spoke soothingly, inadvertently addressing him by name. “Their fear is real. There have been sightings of him, and in every instance, he has been seen heading west. Everyone knows what lies to the west.”

  “We have to acknowledge that the soldiers might be right,” said Kshapanaka.

  “We will acknowledge things once we have irrefutable evidence of their existence,” the samrat replied heavily. As if to signal the matter closed, he turned to Dhanavantri. “The council is keen to hear about your visit to Vatsa. Would you be kind enough to oblige us with an account?”

  Starting with his arrival in Kausambi, the physician detailed all that had transpired in the palace of King Chandravardhan — his struggle to talk about the real purpose behind his visit, his treatment of Chandravardhan, the dramatic improvement in the king’s condition, his final broaching of the topic of Princess Rukma’s marriage and Chandravardhan acceding to declare Prince Shashivardhan the next king of Vatsa.

  “So Harihara gets what he wanted — a king for a son-in-law.” Amara Simha scowled, his elbows on the table, interlocked fingers grappling with one another in displeasure. “The fool had better behave now and stop trying to make friends with Shoorasena.”

  “We must send a messenger to Heheya promptly, informing King Harihara of King Chandravardhan’s decision to name Shashivardhan his successor,” said Vikramaditya.

  “There is no need,” said Dhanavantri. “Messengers from Kausambi have already been dispatched to King Harihara’s court, letting him know of the succession and accepting Princess Rukma as the future queen of Vatsa.”

  “So, the alliance of Sindhuvarta’s kingdoms stays intact,” Varahamihira sighed. “One piece of good news we’ve heard lately. Well, two actually…” With a small smile, he looked across at the physician. “This curing of Chandravardhan — sounds like you discovered a magical touch yourself.”

  “Indeed, despite your rather limited talents, you seem to have come good at last.” His tone cheery and playful like old, Amara Simha turned to Dhanavantri, poking the physician in the ribs. Laughter bubbled around the room, as this time, the humour caught and spread. Even the shadows seemed to unravel and scatter. “Hell,” Amara Simha grinned, “without even trying, we may have found a replacement for the Healer. But seriously, how did you do it?”

  “I don’t know if I played a part at all,” Dhanavantri shucked his fat shoulders, sobering up. “Chandravardhan’s physicians had been treating him ever since he fell ill, so it’s quite possible it is their efforts that brought about his recovery. I might have just been there at the right time.”

  “Stop it,” Amara Simha admonished. “Humility doesn’t suit you one bit.”

  “I’m not being humble,” the physician protested earnestly as laughter again rolled around the room. “I really don’t know if I’ve acquired a healing touch or something.”

  Varahamihira nodded his head sagely. “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

  “I presume you met Councilor Yashobhavi in Kausambi?”

  The samrat’s tone, coupled with the sudden change of subject, caught the councilors’ attention.

  “I did,” answered Dhanavantri.

 
; “What was your impression of him? Did anything — his behaviour, or something he said — strike you as… strange? Anything to do with Shashivardhan?”

  “Strange?” The physician let the word roll in his mouth, savouring it. At last he shook his head. “Not that I can recall. But why, Samrat?”

  Observing the five faces turned towards him expectantly, Vikramaditya took a deep breath. “Because, if my dear sister is to be believed, Yashobhavi is of the opinion that Ghatakarpara, and not Shashivardhan, should be crowned the next king of Vatsa.”

  For a few moments, the silence in the chamber was absolute.

  “Pralupi told you this in as many words?” Amara Simha shook his head in disbelief.

  Vikramaditya nodded. Composing his thoughts, the samrat detailed Pralupi’s obsession with having her son succeed to Vatsa’s throne. He revealed his encounter with Pralupi after the rajasuya yajna, when she had first urged him to arm-twist Chandravardhan into making Ghatakarpara the next king.

  “I told her I wouldn’t do it, and I thought that was the end of it. But she was back some days ago — the morning Kalidasa left us, incidentally — and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She insisted Shashivardhan was unfit to rule Vatsa and argued that King Chandravardhan’s council was of the same opinion. I was quite taken aback and asked her for names of these so-called councilors. I assumed she was bluffing, but she named Yashobhavi.”

  “Only him?” asked Amara Simha.

  The samrat nodded. “For now. Maybe there are others, though.”

  “What do we make of this?” asked Varahamihira, looking at the physician.

  “I don’t know,” Dhanavantri replied, trying to remember everything he could from his trip to Kausambi. “Yashobhavi was angry at Harihara for trying to dictate the terms of Rukma’s marriage to Vatsa, but that’s natural, given his loyalty to Chandravardhan. In fact, Yashobhavi’s loyalty has always been exemplary, so I find it hard to believe Pralupi.”

  “As do I,” Amara Simha agreed.

  “In which case, was Pralupi bluffing? She is quite capable of it…” the king pondered, stroking his newly grown beard. “But somehow, I got the sense she wasn’t.”