The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “The subjects of this kingdom love their king and queen dearly, mother,” the Healer replied. “Their concern for the queen easily finds words.”

  “I hope you realize that the queen’s illness isn’t minor,” said Vetala Bhatta. “She has been in the care of our court physician for two years and has shown little improvement. And there’s probably no better physician in Sindhuvarta than Dhanavantri.”

  “I can but try where others have failed.”

  Although the stranger spoke the words in a matter- of-fact manner, the raj-guru thought he detected a subtle attempt at putting Dhanavantri down. He also saw how the Healer had cleverly deflected every pointed question that had been posed to him. But before he could probe any further, the samrat spoke.

  “I expect you would want to be rewarded if you are able to cure the queen. So what would your price be?”

  “That would be premature, your honor,” the Healer answered. “I am still to see the queen. And even if I do think I can be of assistance...” he paused to look fleetingly at the Acharya. “...I think you would like to see some evidence of progress in the queen’s recovery before you decide whether it’s worth having me in the palace treating her. So it would only be fair to discuss this at a later time.”

  Vetala Bhatta opened his mouth to lodge a protest, but he was beaten to it by the king.

  “As you wish,” said Vikramaditya, rising from the throne. “Now if you will allow me, let me escort you to the queen’s chamber. Dhanavantri, would you care to join us please?”

  “Yes, samrat.”

  The king and the Healer filed out of the Throne Room, closely followed by Dhanavantri. As the Queen Mother and the rest of the councilors and courtiers emptied into the hall outside, the Acharya stroked his beard thoughtfully. Though he couldn’t put a finger to it, there was something smarmy about the stranger that the raj-guru found quite distasteful.

  Making a mental note to keep a close watch on the visitor, the Acharya shuffled out of the Throne Room and joined the group making its way to Vishakha’s bedchamber.

  ***

  With the sweep of its glazed marble floor, its broad arched windows that let in the scented breeze blowing down from Mount Meru, and the sixteen massive columns holding up its domed ceiling, the central hall of the palace of Amaravati was by no means small. Yet, as Indra looked down from the head of the grand staircase, everything about the hall below appeared to shrink in size, dwarfed by the seven hulking rakshasas who stood at the foot of the stairway in a crude semicircle.

  Tall and imposing though each one of the seven was, their size wasn’t all that made them remarkable. What also caught the eye were the hard, bony exoskeletons that covered their bulky torsos, the ultramarine blue of their skins, and the four black horns that sprouted from their heads – two sweeping upward and back, two curving down toward their shoulders, pointing forward. Their handsome faces were dark and brooding, and their eyes were filled with the dull gleam of quicksilver.

  Indra smiled to himself as he descended the stairs, watching the rakshasas go down on one knee and bow their heads in obeisance. It was the first time the lord of Devaloka had looked at ease since the Ashvins had returned from their disastrous outing to Sindhuvarta.

  “Rise, sons of Diti,” commanded Indra with a wave of his hand.

  The rakshasas, however, stayed on their knees until Indra came to a halt at the bottommost stair. They then got to their feet and stood with bowed heads, each a good two hands taller than their king.

  “Greetings, my lord,” one of the rakshasas spoke in a low rumble. “What can we do for you?”

  Instead of replying, Indra stepped onto the hall. Two of the giants immediately made way, allowing the deva to walk past them to one of the hall’s windows. For a while, the deva stared out the window, arms crossed behind his back, his eyes on the cliffs protecting the palace. Then wheeling around suddenly, he looked at the rakshasas.

  “I want you to destroy the city of Ujjayini,” he said, his voice cold with anger. “Destroy the city, kill its king, and retrieve the Halahala and the Hellfires for me.”

  The figures by the staircase glanced at one another. “By the Hellfires you mean... our mother’s swords?” the rakshasa who had spoken earlier asked.

  “Are there any other by that name?” Indra frowned in irritation. With a slight shake of his head, he cleared his mind of the distraction. “Yes, Diti’s swords. And the Halahala that is stored in Veeshada’s dagger.”

  “Who is this king who has possession of the Halahala and the Hellfires, my lord?”

  “He is a human and his name is Vikramaditya.” Retracing his steps from the window, Indra began pacing the breadth of the hall. Over the course of the next few minutes, he gave the giants a sketch of the Halahala’s narrative, culminating in the devas’ failures at recovering the dagger.

  “By fleeing the way they did, the Ashvins made a mockery of us devas in front of the human army,” Indra concluded, gritting his teeth. “It is now up to you Maruts to restore the pride of Devaloka by killing the human king and bringing me the dagger and the two swords.”

  “As you command, my lord,” replied the leader of the rakshasas. “We shall proceed for Ujjayini right away.”

  “Make sure the attack is swift and ruthless,” the deva raised a cautionary finger. “The Ashvins made the mistake of giving Vikramaditya’s army time to strengthen the city’s defenses. You will take them by surprise, when they are least expecting it. And while you’re at it, make the humans pay for their arrogance.”

  Once the rakshasas had lumbered out of the hall, Indra mounted the staircase to a balcony that overlooked the palace courtyard, pausing just long enough to pick up a goblet of soma along the way. Leaning against the parapet, he prided himself on his decision to send the Maruts to Sindhuvarta.

  Conceived by Diti after severe penance and ritualistic sacrifices, the Maruts had originally been one single demonic entity growing in her womb. Endowed with immense strength and great magical abilities, the demon child was being borne by the sorceress with one purpose in mind – the destruction of Indra and Devaloka.

  Indra, however, had got wind of her scheme and engaged a yaksha from Kubera’s court to seduce Diti – in the hope that the yaksha’s mystical semen would secretly poison the fetus. Diti expectedly fell for the virile yaksha’s charms, and while they made passionate love, the yaksha tried destroying the demonic fetus inside her. But so great was its strength that his semen only managed sundering it into seven lesser parts – from each of which a Marut was born.

  Distraught and enraged at seeing her plan of giving birth to an all-powerful rakshasa being foiled, Diti abandoned the seven babies, leaving them to their fate inside a draughty cave in the ridges of the Himalayas. It was in this cave that Indra had found the unwanted Maruts, blue and stiff from the cold, starved and barely alive. In a rare stroke of selflessness and compassion, the lord of the devas brought the babies to Devaloka, where they were nursed back to health.

  As he raised the goblet to his lips and savored the soma, Indra smiled to himself once again. Bringing the Maruts to Devaloka had proved to be a masterstroke. Fed on a routine diet of hatred for their heartless mother, the seven rakshasa babies had grown up abhorring the asura blood that coursed through their veins. And now as powerful giants, they swore unflinching fealty to Amaravati and its ruler, leading the devas in many successful campaigns against their own brethren from Patala.

  Tossing down the contents of the goblet, Indra wondered why it hadn’t struck him to send the Maruts to Ujjayini the first time around. There was nothing any human army could do against the fearsome might and wizardry of Diti’s seven rakshasa sons.

  ***

  Ujjayini was reveling in the glow of twilight, the palace’s western wall splashed vermillion, when Vishakha turned her head to look at the Healer.

  At first this development went unnoticed; the Healer’s eyes were closed as he sat on the floor by the queen’s bedside, deep in meditation.
The only other person in the bedchamber, the elderly nurse, had her back to Vishakha as she went about setting the small table for the queen’s evening meal.

  The silence within the bedchamber was in stark contrast to the hivelike activity that had prevailed earlier in the afternoon, when the Healer had been ushered in to take a look at Vishakha. The palace household, buoyed by expectation, had crammed itself into the room, while the passageways had ebbed and flowed with palace attendants eager to catch a glimpse of the happenings inside.

  Once the Healer had made a cursory examination, he had asked for Vishakha’s face to be treated with a sandalwood and turmeric salve. Drawing a tantric mandala on the floor by the bed, the Healer had placed a red hibiscus in each of Vishakha’s hands, before seating himself in front of the mandala. Then, after uttering a few invocations and propitiating the Dasa-Mahavidyas, he had slipped into a meditative trance.

  With the passing of the hours, the pulsing anticipation had dissipated, and people had slowly trickled out of the bedchamber and returned to their duties, Kshapanaka being the last to leave. Had she stayed a while longer, Kshapanaka would have been the one to observe her sister staring at the Healer, but as luck would have it, it was a servant bearing Vishakha’s meal who noticed the change in her queen.

  Barely breathing, her round eyes on Vishakha, the servant tiptoed over to the nurse.

  “The queen...” she whispered.

  “What?” The nurse turned sharply, catching the urgency in the maid’s tone.

  She gazed at Vishakha for a moment, eyes widening with excitement. Then, unburdening the servant of the tray, she leaned close to her ear.

  “Fetch the queen mother,” she hissed. “Don’t waste any time and don’t tell anyone else about this. Now hurry.”

  In a matter of minutes, Queen Upashruti and Kshapanaka were standing by the foot of the bed, looking indecisively from Vishakha to the Healer. Kshapanaka took a step toward her sister, but the Queen Mother placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. Shortly, they were joined by Vikramaditya and Dhanavantri, and the four exchanged anxious glances.

  “Why is she staring at the Healer?” Vikramaditya asked, drawing Dhanavantri aside.

  The physician shrugged in response.

  “She looks a lot more alert,” murmured the king. “Should we try to get her attention?”

  “No,” Dhanavantri shook his head vehemently. “Let us wait and see what’s happening.”

  Just then, the Healer opened his eyes. For a moment, he stared unseeingly in front of him, before raising his head to look at Vishakha. The queen’s eyes locked with the Healer’s fleetingly – and then, as if a spell had been broken, she blinked and turned to look at the other faces observing her. She displayed no signs of recognition, but the brightness in her expression and the mild curiosity in her eyes were completely new.

  The royal household looked at the Healer for guidance. Seeing him incline his head, Queen Upashruti released her hold on Kshapanaka’s shoulder. The princess went to her sister’s side and reached out tentatively for her hand, but Vishakha pulled away, her face clouding with alarm. Kshapanaka’s face fell, but withdrawing her hand, she proffered a reassuring smile.

  Vishakha stared back, showing no intent at reciprocation. She then cast her doubtful eyes around the room before returning to Kshapanaka.

  “Water,” she spoke clearly, even though her voice was that of a timid, frightened child.

  As the room held its breath in anticipation, Kshapanaka leaned closer to Vishakha.

  “Do you want some water?” she asked, choking with emotion.

  Seeing her sister nod, tears rolled freely down Kshapanaka’s cheeks. It was the first time Vishakha had responded to anything since that fateful, sunny morning.

  “Water for the queen,” Dhanavantri looked at the nurse, feeling the lump in his throat.

  A goblet of water was handed to Vishakha. She drank deeply, studying the ring of faces around her. At last, lowering the goblet, she looked from Kshapanaka to the Healer.

  “Where am I?” she asked in a trembling voice.

  “Among friends,” the Healer replied, placing a comforting hand on her head. “Now you must rest.”

  As Vishakha slumped obediently onto the pillow, the Healer turned to Vikramaditya. “Let the queen rest, your honor.”

  “What about her meal and her medications?” asked Dhanavantri.

  “She can be given her meal. Your medications.” the Healer shrugged. “They won’t harm her, I suppose. But sleep is what she needs most. Please make sure she sleeps well. I shall see her again tomorrow morning.” With that, he bowed and walked out of the room.

  The samrat watched the Healer depart before turning his attention to the bed, where Vishakha was still appraising everyone in confusion. When their eyes met, Vikramaditya saw a slight frown develop on Vishakha’s brow. As she looked away, he wondered what was going through her mind. Turning around, he followed the Healer out of the bedchamber.

  “Can you tell me what has just happened?” Vikramaditya asked as he caught up with the retreating figure of the Healer. “Is her memory... returning?”

  The Healer slowed to a halt and turned to the king. “Right now, the queen doesn’t even know who she is, your honor,” he spoke patiently. “I’ve only brought her one step forward by making her conscious of her surroundings. It’s going to take a while before things start coming back to her.”

  “But they will come back, won’t they?” The samrat’s eyes, swimming with hope and anxiety, bored into the Healer’s. “She will recover fully, won’t she?”

  The Healer smiled inwardly as he detected the desperation in Vikramaditya’s tone. He liked it. It told him that he had been right in making the journey to Avanti.

  “We will know only when she recovers fully, your honor.”

  ***

  Shukracharya permitted himself another smile, this one more open, as he was in the privacy of the bedroom that had been furnished to him in the eastern wing of the palace.

  The bedroom was large and well-ventilated, with a comfortable bed, though Shukracharya had preferred a palm leaf mat to sleep on. He now lay on this mat, hands crossed behind his head, staring up at the shadows that danced across the ceiling in the light of the low lamp. Outside, much of the palace had retired for the night, with only crickets and cicadas keeping the sentries and gatekeepers company.

  She will recover fully, won’t she?

  Indeed she will recover, Samrat Vikramaditya, but only if you want her to badly enough. Indeed, she will recover, but only if you will give me what I have come for.

  Not for a moment did Shukracharya doubt that the samrat badly wanted the queen to get well – the bones never lied, and he had seen evidence of the king’s devotion in plenty all day. What he wasn’t sure about was whether the king would be willing to trade the dagger for...

  Shukracharya’s thoughts were interrupted by a low knock on the carved wooden door of the bedroom. Raising his head, he looked at the door, unsure if he had heard correctly. Two low knocks, one following the other in quick succession, told him someone was at the door.

  “Enter please,” he said. Getting up from the mat, he raised the lamp’s wick as the door opened to admit a wiry figure of medium build. As the light fell on the figure, Shukracharya remembered seeing the man in the Throne Room, and later in Vishakha’s bedchamber.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I am Vararuchi, brother of Samrat Vikramaditya,” the man introduced himself as he approached Shukracharya. “I have heard of how the queen is showing signs of recovery after you examined her.”

  “The road is long and filled with uncertainties, but I’m happy there’s been some progress,” Shukracharya inclined his head. So this was Vararuchi – one of the councilors who battled and killed Andhaka. “Is there some way I can be of help to you?”

  “Well...” Vararuchi hesitated. “You are... your healing powers are quite incredible, so I want... I would like y
ou to come and visit my mother.”

  “Your mother... You mean the queen mother? But she seems to be in fairly good health.”

  A shadow flitted across Vararuchi’s dark face, though Shukracharya couldn’t tell for sure whether it was just the flickering light playing tricks.

  “No, I meant my mother – the samrat and I are half-brothers. My mother isn’t here in the palace.”

  “I see.” Shukracharya processed this information, realizing it was something that could come in handy sometime. “What ails her?”

  “Arthritis.”

  “Easily remedied,” Shukracharya reassured. “How far away is your mother?”

  “A two-hour ride to the west, across the holy Kshipra.”

  “Shall we go and see her tomorrow evening then?”

  “I would be grateful if you came. Thank you.” Vararuchi folded his hands, bowed and left the room.

  Shukracharya returned to the mat, but instead of lying down, he drew his plain cotton traveling bag to him. Emptying the contents of the bag on the mat, he rummaged through the pile until he found the six pieces of human vertebrae he was looking for. Using a pinch of vermilion, he drew a mandala on the marble floor, before cupping the bones in hands and shaking them as he uttered a mantra.

  Throwing the bones inside the mandala, he leaned forward and began studying the pattern, trying to divine something more about the man who had just paid him a visit.

  There was something about the king’s half-brother that tickled Shukracharya’s curiosity.

  Warnings

  F

  or longer than anyone in Vanga could remember, the tradition had been for the Grand Assembly to meet once every fortnight to debate policy matters with the utmost dignity and decorum. But that sunny morning in Tamralipti, both tradition and protocol had been uncharacteristically breached. For one, the Grand Assembly had been convened out of turn and at short notice; for another, the chiefs of the republic’s eighteen principalities were all talking at once, shouting to make themselves heard over one another. The cool river breeze blowing through the assembly hall failed to dispel the apprehension and outrage hanging in the air.