The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “Yes mahaguru?” Hiranyaksha’s face was impassive as granite as he towered over the sage.

  “The Halahala... ” Shukracharya nodded and paused. The court fell silent as everyone present drew in their breaths. “It no longer enjoys the protection of the Omniscient One.”

  “Then where is it?” asked Hiranyaksha with anxiety. “Have the devas got...”

  “No,” the high priest shook his head. “Not yet. It is in the possession of a human king named Vikramaditya.”

  “A human king...?” Surprised murmurs spread through the court. “How did it come into this human being’s possession?”

  “The bones tell me that it was given to him by the Omniscient One himself,” Shukracharya replied. As more wonder went around the court, the sage added, “According to the bones, this king is a formidable force. But, at the end of the day, he is only human. I fear that the devas will make a move to claim Veeshada’s dagger from him without much delay.”

  “We mustn’t allow that to happen,” Hiranyaksha glowered.

  “Do the devas know of this development, mahaguru?” the Witch Queen posed the question, blue eyes clouding with worry.

  “They do,” the high priest confirmed. “The news was delivered to Indra a little while ago.”

  “Then there’s no time to lose, lord,” Holika exchanged a grim look with her consort-brother. “We have to take the dagger from this human king before they can.”

  ***

  Dusk had fallen over Ujjayini and the first stars had made their appearance, growing in brightness as the day diminished in size and strength, the western sky fading from orange to ashen pink to purple. Lamplights came on all around the busy city, its thoroughfares swelling with shoppers, its markets and squares echoing with the hoarse cries of hawkers selling grain, fruit and sweetmeats. In street corners, magicians and jugglers strove to outdo one another in entertaining passersby, as small knots of young men and women loitered about, strutting and preening in age-old courtship rituals. Old men sat under awnings swapping stories, chewing tambulam and rolling dice, while elsewhere, the chime of temple bells drew the more devout out of their homes. Down by the riverside, where boats were being lashed to their moorings, the taverns were well on their way to achieving full capacity.

  The royal palace was silent in contrast, with only the plaintive melody of an evening raga issuing from a chamber set to the back of the palace.

  The music came from a pair of rudra veenas being played by Vikramaditya and Vararuchi, the strains perfectly synchronized as the brothers pitted their skills in a sporting effort to outdo one another. Over a series of elaborate alankaras the ensemble rose to a crescendo, building to a point where both men virtually abandoned themselves to the enchantment of harmony. When at last the strings of the two veenas fell silent, they raised their heads and looked at each other, smiling in delight and mutual admiration.

  “That was a simply beautiful, Vikrama,” said Queen Upashruti, who had entered the chamber while the brothers were playing. Her eyes shone as she gazed at Vikramaditya in appreciation.

  “Thank you, mother,” the king replied as he laid his veena down and stood up. “But I do think Vararuchi played better than I did. He always does.” He turned to smile at his brother, who was standing respectfully to one side. “He’s the one who taught me this wonderful raga that he learned during his travels through the Southern Kingdoms.”

  The queen gave Vararuchi a passing glance, struggling to bring on a token smile that barely turned the corners of her mouth. When she spoke, she reserved her praise for her own son. “Then you have mastered it well, Vikrama.”

  Vararuchi, on whose face the joy appeared to have died, offered a broken smile of his own before turning to Vikramaditya. Swallowing hard, he bowed. “Allow me to take my leave, samrat,” his voice and manner were stiff and formal. “I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Why are you going so soon?” the king protested, even as Queen Upashruti maintained a cold silence, refusing to make eye contact with Vararuchi or be drawn into the conversation. “I was hoping we could play one more raga”

  “I have... some work,” Vararuchi replied, groping for an excuse. “I need to talk to Amara Simha... about Ghatakarpara. Just making sure he takes care of the lad.”

  “Of course he will,” Vikramaditya sounded perplexed, but seeing Vararuchi’s resolve, he inclined his head. “But if you think it’s important, I won’t stop you. Sleep well, dear brother.”

  Vararuchi turned and bowed to Queen Upashruti. “Permit me to leave, queen mother,” he said.

  Keeping her face averted, the queen nodded, but made no further acknowledgment of Vararuchi. She waited for her stepson to leave the room before approaching Vikramaditya.

  “Are you sure it’s wise to send Ghatakarpara away?” she asked, her voice brimming with grandmotherly concern.

  “Hmmm? Oh yes, mother,” the king answered. His expression was suddenly distracted. “He’s not a child any longer, and he’s not alone. Amara Simha will be with him.”

  Queen Upashruti watched her son turn and go to a balcony, where he stood quietly, leaning against the rails. She followed him, and was surprised to see a pall of sadness clouding his face.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked in alarm.

  Vikramaditya sighed and shook his head. “Nothing much, mother,” he said in a melancholic voice. “It’s just that the raga we were playing was... is... one of Vishakha’s favorites.”

  The queen’s face fell and she looked away. When she turned back to her son, her tone was gentle but insistent. “It’s been nearly two years, Vikrama,” she said, placing a hand on his forearm. “How much longer will you wait?”

  The king continued staring into the night without reply.

  “No one believes she is going to get better,” Queen Upashruti pressed the matter. “Deep in your heart, even you know this. Why are you turning your face from the truth? There’s a full life before you – you have to move on.”

  The king maintained a stubborn silence.

  “King Harihara came to me yesterday,” the queen spoke to fill the silence. “He asked me if you would accept Princess Rukma’s hand in marriage. She is a nice girl and I...”

  “Why is King Harihara doing this?” Vikramaditya brushed his mother’s hand off with a mixture of anger and exasperation. “What’s wrong with him? He knows about Vishakha, still he has the gall... I was under the impression he’d come to Ujjayini for the yajna.”

  “There’s no harm in considering Harihara’s proposal,” the queen persevered. “After all, it’s a tradition among Kshatriya kings to take more than one wife, so there’s...”

  “No mother, that won’t happen,” Vikramaditya spoke with vehemence. “How can you even think I would consider something like this when you know that Vishakha is in the palace – just six rooms away?”

  Turning around, the king walked back into the room. Queen Upashruti tailed her son, meaning to say something conciliatory, but the king spoke first.

  “Mother, I have loved Vishakha from as far back as I can remember. Probably from the day the late king Vallabha brought her and Kshapanaka to Avanti and left them in the safety of this palace. I cannot turn my back on the woman I have loved and married just because of... her condition. It doesn’t matter if two years have passed or five. I will wait for her.”

  The queen again opened her mouth, but was once again interrupted by Vikramaditya. This time, however, his voice was gentler, more persuasive. “And how do we know she will not get better? Dhanavantri, Kshapanaka and the nurses are tending to her, and Dhanavantri has promised to do everything to find a cure.” Coming close to the queen, he added, “Please mother, we need to believe that Vishakha will get better. She needs our faith.”

  Queen Upashruti looked up into her son’s eyes and nodded, conscious that he was not amenable to reason.

  “King Harihara will be disappointed,” she sighed sadly.

  “Mother, I’m certain he will find oth
er suitable matches for the princess of Heheya.”

  At that moment, they were disturbed by the sound of the door opening. Looking around, they saw Princess Pralupi flounce into the room.

  “Come, child,” said Queen Upashruti, approaching her daughter, intending to welcome her, but the princess pushed past her mother and walked up to Vikramaditya, her eyes flashing in anger.

  “I hear you have decided to send Ghatakarpara to the frontier?” she demanded. “Why?”

  “Well, he is definitely going to Udaypuri,” the king answered evenly. “But the point about my sending him there doesn’t exactly count as he was the one who volunteered to go.”

  “Ghatakarpara is still a boy and doesn’t know right from wrong,” Pralupi snapped back. “As his uncle, you have to tell him what’s good for him.”

  “On the contrary, your son is old enough to think for himself,” answered Vikramaditya. “It’s time we all stopped making decisions for him.”

  “Ghatakarpara’s place is in the palace,” the king’s sister dug in adamantly.

  “A young prince’s place is where he is needed most and where he can learn the art of administering a kingdom. The frontier will teach him things he would otherwise never learn.”

  “What if something happens to him there?”

  “In times like these, things could happen to people anywhere. But to answer your question, it’s a risk everyone who bears a sword for Avanti has to live with.”

  Princess Pralupi stared at her brother defiantly. Then, after a moment’s pause, she asked, “And what decision have you made about my son’s future?”

  “What do you mean?” the king looked flummoxed. “I just told you he has expressed a desire to go to the frontier and I have conceded to his wish.”

  The princess turned sharply to Queen Upashruti. “You haven’t spoken about it yet, mother?” she asked accusingly. “You said you would.”

  The queen stepped forward, looking perturbed. “We will talk about this later, dear. Now is not the time...”

  “What is all this, mother?” Vikramaditya interjected, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

  “Later... I will tell you everything...”

  But before the queen could complete her sentence, Pralupi turned back to face her brother.

  “I want Chandravardhan to make Ghatakarpara the next king of Vatsa.”

  “What?” Vikramaditya’s face registered utter amazement.

  “Yes, and you have to convince Chandravardhan to do this. He will listen to you. He has to listen to you.”

  “No,” the king shook his head, frowning. “I won’t do anything of the sort. Chandravardhan’s son Shashivardhan is the legal heir...”

  “Shashivardhan is a drunkard and a gambler,” Pralupi hissed.

  “That may or may not be true, but it doesn’t give me the authority to tell Chandravardhan to make Ghatakarpara his successor. Chandravardhan has been a trusted friend and ally of Avanti, and has stood by me. I won’t abuse that trust and friendship by doing what you ask.”

  “Even if it means Vatsa getting an incompetent king like Shashivardhan?”

  “Vatsa is an independent kingdom, sister,” Vikramaditya explained patiently. “It is not our vassal state, as some might like to believe. And Avanti does not interfere in how our allies run their kingdoms. That was one of the principles our father lived by. Let us not trouble the soul of King Mahendraditya by breaching that rule.”

  Pralupi stared at the floor in frustration, her fists clenched. When she looked up, her eyes were welling with tears.

  “You don’t love your nephew, and you don’t want him to become a king,” she said spitefully. “You just want him to remain in this palace as one of your faithful councilors, following you around and obeying orders like a dog.”

  She turned and stomped out of the chamber, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Envoy

  L

  et me warn you that I intend reporting your behavior to the royal court of Ujjayini. I will not tolerate such outright disrespect to the office of the governor of Malawa.”

  The high-pitched, nasal voice belonged to one of the two men seated in a stately room inside the fort of Udaypuri. The speaker was thin and tall, and had a large head that tended to stoop and bob forward as he spoke, giving him a vulture-like appearance. His dark, clean-shaven face showed signs of aging, and his gray hair was thinning under his official turban.

  In direct contrast, the man across the table was in his early twenties, with an open and earnest face, pink in complexion. He had square shoulders that hinted at a military background, and he wore his hair short, which complemented a clipped, black moustache.

  “My intention was never to disrespect you or your office, sir...” the younger man began, but he was immediately interrupted by the other.

  “Then how do you explain your decision to send a rider directly to the palace, commander?” the older man railed. “You are aware that protocol demands that all reports gathered in the province of Malawa should first be tabled before me. I am the governor of Malawa, and I should be the one informing the palace of what’s happening in and around my province. But because of your impertinence, the palace sends me news that there’s a perceived threat from the Hunas on our border. Do you know how silly you have made me look?”

  “My apologies, Governor Satyaveda... I would most certainly have delivered the report to you had you been present in Udaypuri at the time. But unfortunately you were deep in the jungles on your hunting expedition...”

  “Then you should have waited patiently for my return instead of bypassing me,” the governor bristled with indignation.

  “Sir, as you can see, the matter pertained to a Huna incursion on Avanti,” the younger man insisted. “They had attacked one of our outposts, killed seventeen of my men and left a warning for our samrat. As in-charge of this garrison, I surmised that the news had to reach Ujjayini without delay.”

  “You are a garrison commander of the Frontier Guard, not of the Imperial Army,” Satyaveda quibbled, his ego not permitting him to back down. “The Frontier Guard reports to the governor, and you stepped out of line by not reporting to me. Worse, when I sent word asking you to come and meet me, you didn’t show up for two days.”

  “Sir, I have been at the border, seeing to the defenses. I just returned this morning and here I am.”

  “Well, your overall conduct has been less than satisfactory, commander,” the governor grumbled. “You broke the rules by not following proper reporting procedures...”

  “Had procedures been followed, in all probability, the palace would still be oblivious of the Huna attack on that outpost, Satyaveda,” a voice boomed, silencing the governor.

  Startled, the men at the table turned to see Amara Simha striding in, followed by Ghatakarpara. Satyaveda jumped to his feet, his chair scraping on the stony floor.

  “What a pleasure, Councilor Amara Simha,” he twittered obsequiously, hurrying forward to meet the bulky warrior. “Greetings to you too, prince. Pardon me, but I wasn’t informed that the two of you were coming to Udaypuri. Otherwise, I would have come to receive you in person. Why didn’t you send word, councilor?”

  “Obviously, even we are lagging in the procedures and protocols department,” snorted Amara Simha, eyeing the garrison commander, who fought to stifle a smile.

  “Please don’t say that,” said Satyaveda, sounding flustered. “Come, please be seated...”

  “Would you rather that every procedure be followed, even if that means leaving Avanti unprepared and vulnerable to a sudden Huna attack?” Amara Simha demanded, ignoring the governor’s invitation and placing his large hands on his hips.

  “No, no, not at all,” stammered Satyaveda. “That’s not what I meant, no.”

  “So you agree Commander Atulyateja here did the right thing by giving top priority to the security of Avanti?”

  “Oh yes, absolutely. I mean...”

  “Good. That shows we are all on the same side,
” Amara Simha spoke decisively. “So let’s get down to business.”

  As Amara Simha lowered himself into a chair, the governor nervously watched Ghatakarpara approach Atulyateja with a broad smile. His eyebrows shot up in anxiety when he saw the two young men embrace each other.

  “How are you, my brother?” asked Ghatakarpara, slapping Atulyateja on the back.

  “Faring well, prince,” the commander answered with a smile as he disengaged himself.

  “We miss you in Ujjayini, especially when we go swimming in the holy Kshipra,” said Ghatakarpara, his eyes twinkling. “Just last week, Jayaati and I were talking about how old Mother Jaala tied the three of us up and took us to the City Watch tribunal when she caught us sneaking firewater out of her brewery. You had a soft spot for her second daughter, remember?”

  Atulyateja smiled in embarrassment, conscious of the older men scrutinizing them. Realizing this, the prince also checked himself. As he approached the table to sit down, he added, “Thank you for sending the rider to me with the report on the Huna attack, brother.”

  Once everyone was seated, Amara Simha turned to the governor. “Let’s take a look at the plans.”

  Satyaveda looked uncertainly from Amara Simha to Ghatakarpara. “Plans...?”

  “Yes, the plans. The defenses that have been put in place, where troops have been deployed, where scouts have been positioned... maps, you know, maps.”

  “I... don’t have those,” Satyaveda glanced at the three men, clearly at a loss.

  “Then what have you been doing here, governor?” Amara Simha was brusque. “Other than ranting about protocols not being observed, that is?”

  “I have the maps and everything else in my room,” the garrison commander interjected quietly.

  “So why are we wasting our time here?” Amara Simha got to his feet. Snapping his fingers, he added, “Come, let’s go there.”

  As Amara Simha and Ghatakarpara headed for the door, the governor of Malawa rushed up to Atulyateja and caught him by the arm to slow him down.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you had sent the rider to Prince Ghatakarpara?” he whispered. “And you never told me that the two of you were such close friends.”