The Vengeance of Indra

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “Five or six days.”

  “You do understand that this is a garrison headquarters, where lots and lots of soldiers from all over Sindhuvarta come and go.”

  “The Second Captain said so the other day,” the girl sniffled.

  “He could have been posted to…”

  “No, something has happened to him. Something bad. Because…” she fumbled with the small cloth bag she was carrying and withdrew a circular object. “Because I saw a woman wearing a bangle exactly like this one, and the woman said her husband had got it for her five days ago. Around the same time I last heard from Ghataraja. He made this bangle for me, and he told me he was making me its pair. The two bangles are identical.”

  Dattaka reached for the bangle and held it up to the light. His expression was skeptical, but Atulyateja was staring at the bangle intently. The garrison commander appeared to have stopped breathing.

  “Is that made out of bamboo?” Atulyateja asked slowly.

  “Yes, commander,” said Dattaka, handing him the bangle. “Two snakes swallowing each other’s tails. Great workmanship. Never seen a design of this sort before.”

  The long-forgotten face of the old woodcraftsman who had set up his shop next to the taverns by the Kshipra rose to the surface of Atulyateja’s memory. The man had come to Ujjayini from god knows where, and he and Ghatakarpara had spent hours inspecting the man’s wares, intrigued by the variety on sale — folding fans resembling peacock tails, bamboo and shell wind chimes, boat-shaped lamps that actually floated on water, daggers with hilts fashioned to look like animal heads… They had ended up making friends with the man, who had then started teaching them wood carving. While Atulyateja was quite bad at it, Ghatakarpara had a natural flair for woodcraft, and in a fairly short time, the prince had mastered the art.

  One day, the craftsman had set Ghatakarpara the challenge of making a snake bangle, one of the most complex — and therefore, rare — designs to craft. The prince took a month to learn the technique, but when he finally showed the bangle to his teacher, the old man had sighed and patted him proudly. Few made the snake bangle these days, the old man had proclaimed. Of those who did, none made it better than Ghatakarpara, he had insisted. A week later, the man had been found dead in his shop, a happy smile on his face.

  Ghataraja.

  The garrison commander turned the name over in his mind as he rolled the bangle between his thumb and index finger.

  Ghata-raja. Ghata-karpara.

  “What does this soldier of yours look like?”

  “He is young… and very handsome,” the girl blushed. “Black eyes, no beard. He looks and behaves as if he is someone very important, like maybe a Second Captain or something.”

  “Have you seen him wearing something like this?” Atulyateja pulled out his ceremonial sun-crest medallion from under his tunic and held it up by its chain. “This one is silver, but his would be of gold.”

  He was conscious of the stares he was getting from Dattaka and Subha, but he ignored them and looked at the girl.

  “No,” the girl frowned. “He couldn’t afford gold, anyway. His father is a weaver.”

  “Hmm, does he have long hair that keeps falling over his eyes, which he then keeps brushing away like this?” The garrison commander did what he thought was a close enough impersonation of Ghatakarpara sweeping his hair out of his eyes.

  “Yes, he is so adorable doing that.” The girl’s voice broke with relief and she leaned forward in her chair, blinking excitedly at the commander through her tears. “You know him, don’t you? Where is he?”

  Atulyateja’s eyes were hard and sharp as they darted from Dattaka to the Second Captain. He gave them a small, curt nod, which they both interpreted correctly. As they stiffened, Atulyateja addressed Aparupa again.

  “This woman who has the other bangle… who is she? Do you know her or her husband?”

  “The woman works at our house sometimes. And she told me her husband works at one of my father’s shops.”

  “Here in Udaypuri?” Seeing the girl nod, he asked, “Does this husband have a name?”

  “Kubja.”

  The garrison commander looked at the Second Captain. “Pick this fellow up and bring him here.”

  The captain had taken two long strides to the door when Atulyateja hailed him. “Bring in the wife as well. And not a word to anyone about why they’re being brought here.”

  Once Subha had left, Atulyateja and Dattaka exchanged glances.

  “How long have you known Ghataraja?” Atulyateja asked the girl.

  “Not long. We met at the frontier, near my grandparents’ house.” She paused and looked from one commander to the other. “You will be able to find him, won’t you? I know he’s only a soldier, but you won’t give up looking for him, will you?”

  “We won’t give up looking for him,” Atulyateja answered, amazed at the girl’s naiveté — and at the irony of how the only lead they had got so far in their search for Ghatakarpara was one that had walked in through the door, not knowing the value of what she had brought.

  * * *

  The spot that Shoorasena had picked for the exchange was a narrow, steep-sided valley that funnelled one of the many minor tributaries of the Yamuna. The valley was well inside Magadhan territory, a few miles clear of the border with Kosala, but in a poorly populated region away from the main highways and secondary trade routes between the two kingdoms. The adjoining terrain was rocky and scarred with ravines, the soil unconducive for tilling, so that apart from a few desultory packs of goatherds, people rarely ever ventured into the area.

  Which was why, from Shoorasena’s point of view, it suited the purpose ideally.

  The new king of Magadha squinted down the length of the valley, his eyes on the knot of twenty horsemen assembled at the far end, half a mile away. The riders appeared tense — which was normal under the circumstances — as they waited and watched for a signal from the group of horsemen milling around Shoorasena and General Daipayana. In the midst of the riders from Kosala, a figure sat astride a horse, his hands bound tightly in front of him, his mouth expertly gagged with a thick cloth. The man kept putting up a struggle every now and then, and it was taking two soldiers with drawn swords to keep him quiet.

  “That’s our man, the musician,” said Daipayana. Grinning through betel-stained teeth, he added, “They’ve definitely gone to great lengths to keep him from talking too much.”

  “I wonder why,” remarked Shoorasena, referring to the gag.

  “He would have screamed the sky down by now if they hadn’t, my king,” the Magadhan general answered. “He knows what’s in store for him once he switches hands.”

  Shoorasena nodded, then leaned backwards and craned his neck to look at Pallavan. The councilor was also trussed in ropes, but there was no gag over his pale, bloodless lips. He was emaciated, his cheekbones jutting out over sallow, sunken cheeks, his face gaunt and drawn. A mild discolouring of his right eye was the sole evidence of the first few beatings he had received in Girivraja’s dungeons.

  “You must be relieved to see that all those years of loyalty to Bhoomipala were not a complete waste,” Shoorasena said with a smirk. As Daipayana and the other Magadhan officers tittered at the jibe, the king thrust his chin in the direction of Kosala’s soldiers. “I, for one, would have been gravely disappointed with Bhoomipala had he put a common musician before a trusted minister of the council. No?”

  Pallavan sat on his saddle without uttering a word. Apart from sneaking one sideways glance at Shoorasena, he kept his face averted, staring at the team sent to bring him back.

  “Not in a chatty mood, are we?” said Shoorasena. “Where are all those magical words with which you charmed Magadha’s traitors into plotting against me? Where is that famed gift of the gab that made father want to have a diplomat like you in our royal council?”

  The councilor still said nothing, despite a sadistic prod in the ribs from one of the officers nearby.

  “The
esteemed diplomat appears to have lost his clever little tongue,” the general grinned.

  “The esteemed diplomat has only one thing on his mind —” Shoorasena transferred his gaze to Daipayana with a mocking smile, “— how to get past the border in one piece.”

  This time, there was hearty laughter from all around. Their voices must have carried, for the riders from Kosala shifted uncomfortably in their saddles, wondering what was afoot.

  Shoorasena waited for the mirth to roll around and subside before raising his hand. “Okay,” he said, with a small wave of his fingers. “Let’s be done with this.”

  The four soldiers guarding Pallavan nudged their horses forward. One of them took the diplomat’s mount by the reins, and all five horses picked a way down the stony riverbank, riding abreast, two soldiers to each side of Pallavan. Simultaneously, five horses left the other end of the valley, four soldiers escorting the desperate, wriggling musician.

  The group from the other side was a third of the way down the valley when Shoorasena turned to a man seated on a horse to his left and a little behind him. The man was old and bent and carried the air of someone accustomed to a life of servitude. Shoorasena raised an eyebrow at the man, who immediately bowed and peered at the approaching horses. At last, he inclined his head.

  “You’re sure?” Shoorasena asked.

  The man peered again before giving an indeterminate nod. “Almost, your honour.”

  “Yes or no?” The king’s voice rose sharply.

  “Yes, your honour,” came the hurried reply.

  Shoorasena turned back to face the horsemen. Everything went still, as those at both ends of the valley held their breath to observe the exchange. A wind blew dry dust down the valley’s sides, and the shallow river chattered over the stones. Somewhere, a crow was calling, and the clink of horseshoes on stone carried to Shoorasena.

  The two groups of riders met at the halfway mark. For a moment, the four soldiers from Magadha and the four from Kosala eyed one another over a distance of twenty yards, the hostility and tension plain in the stiffness of their postures and the set of their shoulders. Then, at an unseen signal, one of the soldiers from Kosala smacked the musician’s mount in the rump. The horse instantly moved towards the Magadhan line. In response, the soldier leading Pallavan’s horse let the reins drop and barked a short command. The horse stepped forward to cross over to the other side.

  And quick as that, the exchange was complete. Pallavan was being led away down the valley, while the Magadhan soldiers had the bound and gagged musician squirming in their grip.

  “What’s their big hurry?” Daipayana exclaimed. “They’ve got what they came for, safe and in one piece as we had promised.”

  Shoorasena looked past the line of Magadhan soldiers bringing in the musician. The riders from Kosala hadn’t even stopped to free their councilor’s bonds; they were hustling Pallavan’s horse along the uneven, shingle-strewn riverbank at a pace that was potentially hazardous for their steeds. At the end of the valley, the rest of the escort from Kosala was ready to depart, and there was a panicked urgency in the way the horsemen waited for Pallavan and his riders to join them.

  “It looks like they want to get away from here quicker than lightning,” remarked an officer.

  “It is natural,” the king trained a lazy eye on the officer. “They are two miles from the safety of the border. I would hope you would be as quick if you were ever two miles inside Kosala.”

  Shoorasena was about to return to observing the musician’s arrival when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the expression on the old man’s face — wide eyes, slack jaw, shock. A quick check told the king that the man was looking at the musician.

  “What is it?” he asked in a voice shot with alarm.

  “Your honour… I am… It is entirely my mistake…”

  “What is it?” Shoorasena roared. “Is it not the musician?”

  The man shook his head, terrified. “I am terribly sorry, your honour… My eyes… I am old…”

  “Take a good look and tell me, you fool,” Shoorasena snarled.

  “It is not him, your honour. This man is younger, heavier and fairer. I would recognize the musician anywhere. I served him the night he was at the palace entertaining the good king. This one is not him.”

  “Fool!” Shoorasena spat the word at the old man and whirled around to look at the prisoner kicking and writhing as his soldiers led him forward. The soldiers from Kosala had gagged him so that he wouldn’t shout out the truth, putting everyone on guard, he realized in a flash of rage. “Sound the alarm,” he shouted to Daipayana. “We have been tricked into parting with Pallavan.”

  Within moments, the shrill blast of conch shells filled the valley, a loud bellowing that climbed up its steep sides and spilled over into the adjacent ravines, where it came to life anew in booming, receding echoes. The shells spurred the riders from Kosala to greater urgency — instinct told them their subterfuge had been exposed. Shoorasena watched Pallavan and his escorts stumble and slide over the loose stones in a frantic bid to get to the other end of the valley…

  …and he saw the archers rise up from the ridges and warrens along the valley’s sides.

  This was the second reason why Shoorasena had selected this location to trade Pallavan. The terms of the exchange — which he himself had set as a measure of good faith to gain Bhoomipala’s confidence — curtailed the number of soldiers present to twenty a side. Great from the point of building trust, but the arrangement had severe limitations. It meant he couldn’t have more men ready for deployment in an emergency such as this one. Yet, that really was a problem only in flat, open countryside; the hills and ravines here had nooks and crannies in plenty, offering ample concealment for extra Magadhan soldiers.

  Through Shoorasena’s foresight, these additional troops now emerged from hiding to rain arrows on the men from Kosala.

  It was a bloodbath. The attack came in waves, and Kosala’s warriors could do nothing to defend themselves, much less launch a counterattack. Arrows thwacked into heads, necks, shoulders and torsos, and even some horses were hit. Bodies tumbled off saddles like sacks of potatoes, and distressed shouts and neighs filled the air. With the odds stacked so heavily against them, flight was the only recourse available, but even so, precise arrows chased and brought the fleeing riders down, one after another.

  Just three soldiers made it out of the valley alive. Only two crossed the border back into Kosala and lived to tell the tale. The third, badly wounded in the neck, fell off his mount a hundred yards inside Magadha, one foot still trapped in a stirrup, so that his horse ended up dragging his dead body across the border.

  Back in the valley, Shoorasena and Daipayana rode slowly over the round, slippery rocks to where Pallavan’s four escorts lay, decorated with feathered arrows. At first, they couldn’t see the diplomat anywhere. Then, turning slowly, the general sighted Pallavan sprawled at the river’s edge, face down, arms thrown wide, his head half in the running water so that his fine, silvery hair pooled out around his scalp in a ragged, undulating halo.

  Two arrows stuck out of the councilor’s back. One just beneath his left shoulder, one at his waist, both buried deep in the flesh.

  Arrest

  May I take a moment of yours please, Princess?”

  Pralupi, who was plucking red hibiscuses for the evening prayers, glanced irritably over her shoulder at the elderly soldier in the uniform of the Palace Guards standing some distance away, bowing to her, hands joined in a pranaam. He looked familiar, but it was only when she noticed his silver medallion that she placed him as the new chief of the Palace Guards.

  “What is it?” she asked, letting the annoyance show in her voice. She didn’t want the palace hands to be under the impression that she had time for their idle chitchat.

  “Pardon me, Princess, but I have a peculiar problem that I believe only you could solve,” the man said with a submissive smile.

  The princess said nothing, ho
ping that her silence would discourage him. It didn’t. The man turned and beckoned to someone. Pralupi’s gaze went to the rhododendron shrubs the man was looking at, and as she watched, a young woman stepped out from behind the bushes. The woman was tall and shapely, but she kept her head bowed, so Pralupi couldn’t see her face too clearly. Even so, the princess could tell she was attractive. Offering Pralupi a small pranaam, the woman went to stand beside the chief of the guards.

  Smelling a scandal, Pralupi arched one eyebrow at the soldier. Her expression was one-part enquiry, one-part accusation.

  “Princess, this is my niece Mithyamayi, newly arrived in Ujjayini from Viswapuri.”

  “Go on,” said Pralupi, her interest piqued.

  “She came here just this morning,” the man went on. “Her mother, my cousin, is no longer there, so she…”

  “No longer where?” Pralupi asked. “Where has her mother gone?”

  “Princess, she is… she left us and went.” The man looked briefly skywards, his hands rising subtly along with his gaze to make his meaning clear.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, Princess. As Mithyamayi has nowhere else to go, she has come here to me. Her mother wished it so.”

  “Okay, but what do you want from me?” Pralupi asked, turning back to start plucking flowers once again. She was losing interest in the soldier and his niece.

  “Princess, there is a problem. My quarters are here in the palace, along with those of the other palace guards. Naturally, Mithyamayi can’t stay with me. And there is no place of mine in the city where I can accommodate her.”

  “So?” Pralupi looked back at the soldier. Eyeing the niece once, she said, “What can I do about that?”

  “If you could find her some work in the palace, she could stay here with the other maids and servants. Anywhere in the palace would do — the royal kitchen, the palace orchards, fetching water, washing the laundry — any work would do.”

  “I don’t run the palace household,” answered Pralupi, looking around vaguely. “You should speak to mother… the Queen Mother.”