The seasons changed as did the landscape, but Saahas took no notice, locked as he was in the past, painfully lingering over every event. Sleep eluded him, the spectres of dead, crucified men rising up to torment him. ‘You are helpless, Saahas, you can’t do anything,’ they screamed and he pushed on, riding through forests and farmlands, shying away from the gawking gaze of strangers.
‘You have recovered well,’ the pundit had said on the day that Saahas bade him goodbye, ‘although the scars will fade slowly.’
‘But there are some wounds, punditji, that never heal,’ he had wanted to say. Even after a year of aimless wandering, he smiled to himself wryly.
‘Some more rice?’ Saahas looked up briefly before shaking his head. A shout from across the small dining room had the boy scurrying away with the rice pot.
Four men hunched over their plates, darting sharp glances at Saahas, their faces hard. Three of them wore daggers tucked in their cotton belts. ‘Not from these parts, are you?’ asked the one with a broken nose, picking his teeth with a grimy fingernail. Saahas shook his head again, quickly counting out a few coins. ‘What’s your hurry?’ Broken Nose rose to his feet, covering the short distance between them in two strides. ‘Join us for a smoke,’ he said, trying for a friendly smile. For the third time, Saahas shook his head and hurried out through the low doorway.
The sun had lost its sting, its pale light sketching long shadows on the gravel. Saddling the horse, Saahas patted its drooping head. ‘Tired? Yes, so am I. Let’s find a place to rest for the night.’ He led it away from the cluster of shabby hovels, going down a sloping road. At the bottom of the road, he stopped, shading his eyes from the setting sun. Waist-high grass waved at him, its soft rustle inviting. Sinking down in it, he sighed, a crushing weariness hitting him like a tidal wave.
He jerked awake. The pearlescent moonlight washed the meadow in a ghostly stillness. Instinctively, he reached for his sword, just as his horse whinnied in alarm. A ringing blow above his right ear blinded him, colours sparking in his head. Saahas scrambled to his knees, hot blood trickling into his eyes. Someone tugged at the ring around his neck. ‘No,’ he screamed, scrabbling for his attacker.
‘I told you it was gold,’ he heard a coarse voice, the voice of the man with the broken nose.
‘And . . . won’t you look at this?’ another voice cooed. ‘A sword! We could sell it, eh? And the horse too.’
‘But what do we do with him?’
‘Kill him,’ said Broken Nose.
‘I have a better idea,’ a fourth voice interjected. ‘Leave him for the wild dogs. The smell of blood will bring them out soon.’ They left, bickering over the spoils, and he lay, the oozing blood matting his hair and clumping his lashes.
‘Water,’ whispered a gruff voice, thrusting a calfskin into his hand. ‘You had better leave—’
The man broke off coughing as a sharp elbow jabbed his throat. The next instant, he was knocked to the ground, hands like iron bands around his neck.
‘You made a mistake by coming back,’ Saahas growled, squeezing hard. ‘You made a bigger mistake by not killing me. Where is my ring, damn you? Give it back. It was the only good thing left with me, the reminder of all that I ever loved.’
The thief clawed at him, his legs thrashing, desperate to live when a series of low growls alerted Saahas to a new danger. Cursing, he released the man and scrambled in his bag, finding in it the one thing the thieves had left behind. The tiger skin. He unwrapped it from its cover just as wild dogs came out of the grass, their snarls rumbling from empty bellies. But at the sight of the shimmering stripes, they stopped, wary and uncertain. Saahas waggled the skin, slowly inching back. Crouching low, the dogs bared their sharp teeth, their eyes fixed on him. All of a sudden, he flung the tiger skin at them and the animals yelped, bounding back.
‘Run,’ he shouted, sprinting through the grass.
‘Thank you, bhai,’ panted the thief, running alongside him.
‘Don’t call me that,’ he snapped. ‘I want my ring.’
The thief led him into a wasteland, pointing out his snoring mates scattered untidily beneath an open sky.
‘You stay here,’ he whispered to Saahas, and tiptoed over, his nimble fingers rifling through the pockets of his friends. He found the ring at last, his face splitting into a broad smile.
‘Not so fast, Bhuma,’ Broken Nose snatched it back, swinging a club-like fist. But the point of a sword pricked his throat, and he froze.
‘Hand it over,’ Saahas commanded, and at the same time Bhuma yelled, ‘Watch out!’
Saahas spun around, catching the glint of raised daggers. His sword struck, swift and vicious, cutting off hands, arms, slicing arteries. Broken Nose retreated, shaking. ‘Take it,’ he begged, flinging the ring at Saahas. ‘Take everything!’
The circlet of gold fell, spinning into the undergrowth, careening over uneven ground, gathering speed, and coming to rest abruptly against a gnarled root. Saahas pounced on it, but the ring slipped from his grasp, rolling into a hollow at the base of a tree. It was a short tree, a lone one in that barren patch, its leaves shining silvery blue in the moonlight, its tassel-like flowers swinging gently in the breeze. Dropping to his knees, Saahas reached into the hole and exclaimed in surprise.
‘What’s this?’ He pulled out the ring, and along with it a bulky package that must have been wrapped in bark once.
‘Hidden treasure!’ Bhuma looked at him with shining eyes.
Bits of bark crumbled at his touch, a thick sheaf of parchment falling at his feet.
‘Make a fire,’ he commanded, and as a flame brightened the first page, Saahas’s eyes widened in shock, his heart beginning to race.
‘I, King Yajatha of Aum, have come to you in all humility, O great Shami. My shame is too great and I dare not tell a soul about it. And so, I made this long journey to you, to tell you everything, for you are the Tree of Forgiveness. Listen well to my confession and release me from my sin.’
I remember well the day I returned to my Aum after many months, bringing back with me the riches of the seas, the rare pearls of the gold-lipped Seep oysters. My beautiful Sundernagari shone like pure gold, the glow from the pearls permeating its whiteness, even touching the hearts of my people, making them burst into joyous song. It was all so wonderful then. A great idea easily took seed and flourished in my kingdom, for the very air was fertile, eager to learn, to expand. Many believed that Aum had reached the pinnacle of its glory under my aegis, but I knew better. It was the group of special monks, the Holy Thirteen, with their timely advice, who had made Aum powerful and prosperous.
When I took the pearls to the monastery, offering them as a gift, the monks laughed, ‘We already have the most priceless gem,’ they said. ‘It is the freedom of our spirit, King Yajatha,’ and bade me use the pearls for the throne.
I felt deeply humbled and blessed that day, and when I met my sons, my joy knew no bounds. Preyas and Vilas, well-versed in the arts, science and warfare, handsome and well-mannered, they were my true ornament. Such was their selfless love for one another that each was happy to forfeit the crown for the other. Well aware of my good fortune, there was only one thing I could not bear, to see either of them downcast.
One day, while out riding in the city, the brothers spotted a young woman, a vision on a horse. She came from the opposite direction, riding fast, her long, dark hair flying about her flushed face, the cropped top enhancing the swell of her breasts and the fitted dhoti drawing attention to her long, shapely legs. The earth stood still for the princes, their heartbeat erratic.
Tall and lissom, Utsukusha’s beauty was earthy with a seductive allure. Her complexion, dewy like the moist sunshine after a spell of rain, highlighted her large amber eyes sparkling with mischief. And her mouth, a full-lipped bow, promised unimaginable delights. Still, it wasn’t only her loveliness that drew men to her. An air of wilful recklessness, palpable in her carefree laugh and the wild toss of her head, excited them, making
them thirst for her brightness.
The brothers drew in a ragged breath. It was love at first sight.
Rivalry never seen before, rose up like a wall between them. Having no inclination to make the sacrifice for his little brother, Preyas declared his intent to make Utsukusha his wife. Enraged, Vilas hurried to the king, begging him to intervene, so that he too could stake his claim for the beauty’s hand.
With both my sons clamouring to marry the girl, I decided to consult the Holy Thirteen and sent word that I urgently needed advice. The abbot responded promptly, his message succinct. He and his brother monks had already divined my predicament and the solution lay in discovering whether Utsukusha desired to be a princess. This struck me as reasonable, and I hastened to meet the girl’s parents. When they confided that their daughter had already chosen her mate, I was overwhelmingly relieved, convinced that my boys would see reason and their ardour would die a natural death. But I had misjudged the power of their all-consuming passion, of its terrifying hold on them.
Bound now by jealousy, the brothers stalked Utsukusha night and day, at last discovering the identity of her paramour. Irul, a farmer’s son, was no ordinary boy. So magnificent was his physique and so brilliant his looks that the princes paled before him. They followed the love-struck couple everywhere, spying on them, watching their naked bodies entwine in the heat of passion, the image continuing to haunt them long after they returned to the palace, fanning their hatred. And then one night, on a dark, moonless night, as Irul made his way home whistling a happy tune, they fell upon him, cutting him to ribbons with their swords.
Hearing of the tragic event, I grew uneasy. My sons gloated, I am ashamed to say, watching Utsukusha break, her mind crumble, watching the once vibrant woman quickly wither and fade. Beside myself with worry, I barely slept, rising at dawn, wan and tired. I told myself I should confront them, but my father’s heart refused to accept their part in the crime.
The more I hesitated, the more damage it did. Utsukusha’s parents let the word out that the princes had wished to marry their daughter, and people started to talk, wondering why Irul’s murderer was still at large.
I rushed to the monastery, eager for the monks’ counsel, but they refused to meet me, sending instead a missive. ‘Your Majesty,’ it read, ‘your love has blinded you, your children are blinded by their selfish desire and the kingdom too will be blinded if you do not fulfil your duties. As a just king and a good father, you know what you must do.’
I returned to the palace even more distraught. ‘The monks should have met with me,’ I ranted. ‘How dare they send the King of Aum a curt message? It is my beneficence that ensures they not want for anything. They are at my mercy.’ I paced my chamber all day, working myself into a fury. ‘What do they mean, you know what you must do? Should I send my sons, my own flesh and blood, to prison, on a mere suspicion? That damned girl, how I wish she had never been born!’
And then I had an epiphany. ‘The monks told me to do my duty, to be a good father. So, I shall marry off my sons. Once they settle down and start families, all will be well.
Yajatha bluntly announced his decision to the princes, his tone so firm that they acquiesced meekly, neither wishing to diminish his chances to succeed to the throne. Quite soon, two beautiful and accomplished girls were found, and a date set for the nuptials. Invitations were sent out, and the king requested the presence of the Holy Thirteen to bless the royal couples. But the abbot sent regrets, assuring him that the monks would conduct special prayers for the newly-weds. Feeling slighted again, Yajatha grumbled to his sons about the abbot’s arrogance. Incensed, the brothers vowed to teach the Holy Thirteen a lesson, one they would never forget.
The princes hired a group of women from a brothel, and these comely damsels began to picnic at the small lake adjoining the monastery, frolicking in the water, singing and dancing. Quite soon, they caught the attention of the monks. The abbot politely requested the ladies to shift their picnic to another place, pointing out that their high-spirited revelry was disturbing the peace of the monastery. But the women, equally polite, refused to budge. Not heeding the abbot’s warning, his twelve brother monks watched the merriment, supremely confident of their willpower. Day after day, they peeped out of the high windows, spying on the girls. And then one day, the women beckoned to them. Except for the abbot, all the monks rushed out, their restraint shattered, eager to taste the pleasures of the flesh.
The princes informed the king that it was time to make the final move.
I organized a mass wedding for the twelve monks and from that day on, they obeyed me unquestioningly, for the moment they had broken their formidable vow of celibacy, their prodigious powers had fled them. Degenerating into mere priests, they dabbled in ineffectual rituals, spouting scriptures for wages, bowing and scraping before the wealthy. Oddly enough, the victory tasted like ashes in my mouth, smiting my conscience, and when I looked out my window, the monastery in the distance mocked me. Unable to bear the torment, I hurried over, hoping to beg forgiveness of the abbot.
But the building stood empty, a cold wind soughing through its vacant rooms, a desolate air clinging to its walls. Desperate, I searched everywhere and at long last found a message scratched deep into a rock. ‘O King, you paid no heed to my advice, and now Aum must pay the price for your ungodly actions. The wheel has been set in motion, heralding the rise of Aham.’
You Know What You Must Do. I fell to my knees grovelling, begging the silent monastery for courage. The time had come to set some things right and undo some terrible wrongs.
Yes, dear Shami, I had my sons arrested, and as they were led away, they blurted out every detail, blaming each other for their sordid crime. Then I summoned my council of ministers.
Yajatha removed the pagdi from his head and stepped down from the pearl throne, a sad, old man. ‘I wish to go on a long journey, and I don’t know when, or if, I will return. So, I must abdicate.’
The ministers stared at him, silent and confused.
‘My successor is not yet of age to rule,’ he continued. ‘The council must manage the kingdom till the day he ascends the throne.’ Drawing himself up, he proclaimed in a ringing voice, ‘The new King of Aum is Pavitr, the offspring of Utsukusha and Irul.’
Saahas dropped the pages into the blaze, his head in a whirl. Yajatha’s great personal sacrifice, Meghabhuti had told him. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow. ‘Too little, too late,’ he bit out, his grief turning to anger, anger that uncoiled inside him, feeding the fire of implacable hate. Crackling with terrifying intensity, it reshaped his mind and heart, like that of a man who survives a lightning strike and vows to destroy it thereafter.
‘Destiny,’ he muttered through white lips. She had been playing him all along, like a pawn in her vicious game. She had brought him here, to this tree, to mock him. He clenched his jaw, shaking a fist to the sky. ‘Not anymore. King Yajatha’s sacrifice wasn’t enough to stop the wheel. But I, King Saahas will shackle it. I will have my revenge, sooner than later. Destiny and her Saade Saati be damned.’
A sound made him aware of his surroundings, of Bhuma kneeling before him, his jaw slack in amazement. ‘Why are you still here?’
‘By Skanda,’ Bhuma gulped. ‘You are a king!’
‘Enough,’ he thundered. ‘Don’t you dare tell a soul about this. Now, get lost before I change my mind,’ and he gripped his sword.
The thief shot him a sly glance, ‘It is best you take me along. I have a slippery tongue, Your Majesty.’
‘Then I’ll cut it out,’ Saahas retorted, vexed.
Short, barely reaching Saahas’s shoulder, and squat, Bhuma wasn’t unlike his previous mates. Yet, in his full moon-round face, Saahas detected some warmth, the perky tip of the snub nose and the wide, frog mouth bearing witness to it.
‘I like to travel alone,’ he said finally, his tone brusque.
‘That’s all very well, Your Majesty,’ Bhuma’s voice was persuasive, ‘but I can be u
seful.’ Pulling out a bulging purse from his belt, he tossed it in his hand. ‘Your horse is gone, and you will need a new one.’
Saahas gave a small, tight sigh, ‘Very well, and drop the formal address.’
‘Yes, Your . . . I mean, sire,’ Bhuma agreed quickly. ‘I have one question,’ he added, continuing after a curt nod from Saahas, ‘where are we going?’
The answer came swiftly, sharp like the edge of a sword, ‘Wherever I can find a large army.’
Bhuma’s slim fingers twitched in remembrance of a profitable season not so long ago. ‘There is such a place, a kingdom called Purvichi. It is full of fine things and its king is known for both his wisdom and generosity. He has a very big force of trained soldiers. But we will have to make a long journey to get there.’
‘Then we leave as soon as we buy the horses,’ Saahas nodded. ‘Lead the way!’
27
Manmaani looked at the crowd. In the light of the torches, thousands of perspiring faces craned towards her. Like one mass of flesh, with one mind, she gloated. Hers to control. It was time to cast her spell. She stepped out from the high, pillared shrine and slithered up to the stone dais in her black and grey snakeskin dress, the platform jutting over the sea of humanity. A hush fell over the audience. She raised her arms, the long sleeves falling back to reveal the countless gold and diamond chains entwining her wrists. A warm breeze stirred the air, and Manmaani threw her head back, swaying, a cry gurgling up her throat.
‘Goddess of Aham, I call upon thee. Rise, rise in my bones, in my blood.’
A sigh resounded up to the sky, the crowd falling to its knees. Manmaani swayed more vigorously, her eyes rolling, thick coils of her hair coming undone.
‘I move your tongue, woman,’ she shrieked. ‘What do you seek?’
‘Mercy,’ Manmaani moaned in her natural voice.
The Crown of Seven Stars Page 13
