The Queens of Hastinapur

by Sharath Komarraju

  ‘You have not come from Pundra,’ she said softly. ‘How did you think you could deceive my brother with so obvious a lie?’

  ‘My lady, how—’

  ‘You have those eyes, my dear.’ She patted Jahnavi’s face and drew away, as if suddenly a fear had taken hold of her. ‘Come,’ she said to the soldier, and walked away.

  Jahnavi sat on the raised stone ledge next to the brass water tumbler. She undid the clasp of her cloak and set it aside in a heap. Then she removed her upper garment, a loose, clingy piece of coarse cotton pinned to both shoulders. With a pull of the fingers the knot of her lower garment came undone, and she slipped out of it, taking care to pull the legs out so that the fabric would not get wet on the floor.

  She grazed her fingers on her nipples, felt them awaken, harden.

  Midsummer feast was three nights away. Nobody had told her this, but the three of them would be executed – perhaps in the town square, perhaps in some dark dungeon – after the festivities had died down. That meant they had at least three days to plan their escape.

  She picked up the brass vessel, slid it along the water’s surface, allowed it to fill up. Then she emptied it over her head.

  Bathing water on the mountain had always been comfortably warm. Not so on Earth. Not so for certain in a prison on Earth. She gritted her teeth as the water flowed down her back and a shiver shook her body. The marks on her wrists seemed to burn, and the bruises on her shins and ankles – left by the chains – stung, as though the juice from one of Dhanvantari’s special herbs had been squeezed on them.

  People on Meru would worry after them. They may even send an army of sorts for their rescue. But it would not be before a few weeks had passed that they would find anything amiss. Mother Ganga, she thought, looking up at the window of the room, out at the drifting white clouds in the sky. Can you hear me? You and I have fused once, and they say that all ladies of the river have the gift of the sight, that they can peer into each other’s minds even when separated by great distances. They say they can feel one another, because they are born of one, and they serve the one Goddess.

  She closed her eyes and cleared her mind, as she had been taught. But she heard nothing.

  Another mugful of water streamed down her body. She began to scrub her arms, taking care not to touch her wrists. The itch in her throat had deepened in the last few hours, that aching, thirsty itch for the cool, smooth water of the lake, that cleansing of the soul, that rejuvenation of the spirit.

  Even if Mother Ganga had heard her, she would still have to convince the Wise Ones. The Wise Ones would need to call a council. Indra would need to agree that the lives of three Meru people were indeed deserving of summoning an army. The sages would meet in their huts and debate. Sage Parashurama would vote for the battle, but Vasishtha and Brihaspati, those paragons of virtue and peace – what would they say?

  Nishanta was but a messenger, a mere rider. Hundreds of his like rode their steeds up and down the slopes of Meru every morning and night. She, Jahnavi, was but a virgin maiden, yet to partake in the fertility rite. She was yet to study a Mystery in its entirety. Kubera was the only one among the three who was a real Celestial, but even he must have a successor he had been training for a few years.

  Why would they come for any of them?

  Even if they did, even if everyone agreed on the first time of asking, the mere process would take in excess of five days. And then the assembling of the army, the choosing of a leader, the forming of a strategy – all of that would take an additional five. And she had not yet begun to count the number of days they would take to reach Mathura. They would have to come by land, because large numbers of armoured soldiers on barges would attract attention.

  So at the earliest, they would arrive in half a moon, perhaps longer.

  By then, Jahnavi, Kubera and Nishanta would be rotting corpses.

  Her heart grew heavy with dread. With the water streaming down her face, she wept quietly. How had she thought she would be successful in this mission? She remembered the joy in her heart as their boat passed the Cave of Ice. She had entertained thoughts of fame on her return, perhaps even anointment as one of the foremost ladies of the mountain. Maybe in the next fertility rite, she had thought, she may even get to lay with one of the Wise Ones.

  What foolishness!

  A mere girl – that was all she was.

  She took a lock of hair in her hand and held it to her nose. The putrid stench was gone. She took a whiff of her underarms. No smell there either.

  Drying herself with her cloak, she took a deep breath. Mother Ganga had told her there would be moments on Earth when she would like to weep, and in those moments she must not hold back. ‘Crying will clear your mind,’ she had said, ‘and you will be able to hear your own voice better afterward.’

  Jahnavi put on her garments, one by one. If they had to get out of the prison alive, she thought, it was down to her. She cleared her throat, to release the catch. She looked up at the window, and through it she saw a brilliant blue sky. I will smell the air of Meru again, she told herself. I will drink from the Crystal Lake again.

  As they walked back up the stairs, she in front, the guard behind, with his weapon half-drawn in its sheath, Jahnavi said with as much authority she could muster, ‘Your name is Rishabha. Did you live your whole life in Mathura?’

  She heard his breath hold, but he did not answer. They reached the head of the stairs. She went blind for a few seconds, then she began to see smudgy shapes shuffling behind the bars on either side. The smell of dried sweat was back, and the torches that had been lit in the corners burned with a harsh, flickering light, filling the room with shifting shadows.

  ‘You do not bear the stocky look of Mathuran men,’ she said. ‘You look more like the men in my city. You wear a moustache. Your hair covers your ears. Your voice is deeper, like those who have been bred on the mountain.’

  Again she waited, and again she got nothing but silence from the guard. When they reached her cell he went ahead of her and signalled to the guard there. He entered the room and bent down to pick up her fallen shackles. He waited at the back wall, looking past her.

  She smiled at him and loosened her cloak, so that he could see the milky mounds of her shoulders. Her heart thumped inside, for she did not know the ways of men. Not on Earth, not on the mountain. Lady Ganga had said that a woman could turn a man around her little finger if she knew how to entice him with the promise of physical union. ‘Men are much like asses, Jahnavi,’ she had said. ‘You just have to know how to dangle the carrot.’

  Jahnavi could tell from the shiftiness that had come upon Rishabha that she had not been unsuccessful. But a nameless fear crept upon her. What if Rishabha responded to her overtures, and what if he decided to pay her a visit one of these nights? She could trust the Goddess to show her the ways of the flesh, but the thought of this cell, the sounds of men snoring and wheezing, the hard cold stone floor – it did not seem the right place, somehow, for a man and woman to lay together.

  She neared him and held out her hands. Rishabha clamped the iron rings around them. He kept his head down and mouth closed, breathing noisily through his nose. Just as he was about to pull his hands away, Jahnavi traced a line on his hairy forearm with her forefinger.

  He did not move away.

  ‘They say men of Earth like maidens who have milky smooth skin, Rishabha.’ She melted her voice down to a throaty whisper. ‘You do not have to break the rule. You do not have to speak to me. The language of the body does not concern itself with words, they say.’

  Rishabha licked his lips, and his eyes shot to the cell door. He pulled his hands away from hers. He slid his sword fully back into its sheath.

  ‘Tonight, then?’ said Jahnavi. ‘After the last meal, after all the guards have gone to sleep. I shall be here, waiting for you.’ She saw his eyes widen, both in surprise and with desire. ‘Send the guards away. We can cover the door of the cell with this cloak, for I shall have no ot
her need for it.’

  She reached for him, and he almost jumped away.

  ‘Have you not heard, Rishabha? All the great pleasures of life are present in a woman’s bosom. I invite you to partake of me. No matter how deep your thirst, I promise I shall slake it.’

  He was walking back now, and he seemed to shake his head and smile at her. Jahnavi fought to keep her voice from acquiring an edge of desperation. ‘You have not had a woman like me all your life. I can see it in your eyes. And if you spurn me, you shall not have another woman like me give herself to you.’

  With the smile still on his face, he looked around and ducked his head down once, in a half-bow.

  ‘What could you lose, Rishabha? What harm is there in sinning just a little with a shackled prisoner? What harm could a girl like me do to a man like you?’

  He did not reply. He turned and walked out, and signalled to the guard to lock the door.

  For breakfast they brought her a bowl of brown liquid with white pieces of fish meat floating in it. She asked the guard what it was, but he turned away, stony-faced. She raised the bowl to her mouth and took a hesitant gulp. Then she spat it out on the wall. They were going to be prisoners for just three days. Why could they not feed them well?

  Rishabha walked past her cell down the corridor without looking at her. His staff rapped against the bars of the rooms. ‘Out, all of you!’ he said. ‘It is time for a wash!’

  Among the five men who hobbled toward the stairway, she saw Nishanta and Kubera, both with fresh wounds on the face and arms. The group was flanked on both sides by two guards holding whips. Nishanta looked up at her, but received a lash on his back. ‘Look down on the floor, you!’ said the guard.

  Rishabha followed them with arms tucked behind him, his stick dragging on the floor. He did not turn to look at her.

  An hour later, with hunger gnawing at her insides, Jahnavi crawled over to the bowl of soup and downed it in one gulp.

  Lunch was one boiled egg and half-cooked rice. As she sat picking at the grains, examining them for worms, the men were herded out to the stairwell again. All of them kept their heads hanging as they walked, their hands locked in front of them. Nishanta had a bleeding lip, she noticed.

  It appeared as though men were treated differently from women in Mathuran prisons. She had often heard it said that people on Earth did not respect women enough, that it was not like it was on the mountain, that women were subjected to all sorts of atrocities that could not be spoken about, and she had wondered with apprehension what was in store for her. But it looked like mistreatment of women did not extend to prisons.

  She bit into the egg. The bland, stuffy texture of the yolk made her want to vomit, but she clamped her lips close and told herself she was on the mountain and was biting into a succulent piece of mutton, seasoned with salt and cumin. And of course, she would wash it all down with the clear, life-giving water at the base of the White Rock.

  It did not make the egg taste any better, but it brought a smile to her face, and before she knew it, she had swallowed the foul thing.

  She felt full enough to belch, at the end, and turned over on her side to sleep.

  When she woke up, it had already become dark. The patch of sky she could see from the window had turned into a shade of yellow, and she smelled summer rain in the air. The guards lit the torches, and soon the air in the corridor became musty and warm. Anything for a swim in a lake just now, she thought, rubbing away a layer of sweat from her forehead.

  The men were taken out again, and brought back in. This time she saw Kubera holding his arm and limping.

  That afternoon’s egg left no appetite in her, but it would be nice to have a bowl of food to look at, to touch, to sift through. Jahnavi dragged her shackles to the door and called for the guard. ‘Can I get something to eat?’

  The guard did not turn to look at her.

  ‘I am talking to you!’ she said. ‘The men have eaten, I see. Why am I not being fed? Is this another of your king’s rules? That you must not feed your female prisoners anything at night?’

  The guard did not respond.

  ‘Do you think that pretending not to hear me will make me go away? I will stay right here the whole night. I will buzz in your ear like a mosquito until the sun comes up.’

  The guard came to her and hit the bars. ‘You like to speak, do you not, girl? You will get a speaking to, this very night.’

  ‘More than being spoken to, O guard, I would like to be fed.’

  The guard snickered in the firelight. ‘Oh, is that so? Then you will be fed too, my word. Rishabha will come and feed you all that you can eat tonight.’

  At the striking of the eleventh gong, the torches in the corridor were snuffed out. All but two of the candles were put off. The murmurs and groans all around Jahnavi died down, and in their place came sleepy slaps on thighs and necks to ward off mosquitoes, a chorus of lullabies sung by the beefy bearded man and the dwarf together, and pillow talk across the cells.

  ‘I am going to dream of my wife in Anga,’ said a harsh voice. ‘She is going to feed me jaggery and milk, and powdered rice mixed with dried mango pickle.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said someone else. ‘Be sure to bring some of that to breakfast tomorrow, for all of us to taste.’

  ‘What, the pickle?’

  ‘No, the wife.’

  A hoot of laughter went up. The speaker chuckled too, and said he would break the hands of anyone who dared to touch his wife, even in a dream.

  ‘I hope I dream of my mother,’ said another. ‘She has not visited me in a while. I am beginning to think she has grown angry with me.’

  ‘I shall dream of my little brother. He is being fostered at the ashram of Sage Nitthishta. He shall grow to be a fine scholar one day.’

  ‘My sister – she is getting married this autumn.’

  ‘My father – he said he will bring me some of Mother’s snacks next week.’

  And so on they told each other their dreams. Jahnavi sat with her head pressed back against the wall. By the time of the twelfth gong, the sounds had quieted down. The mosquitoes had disappeared. The prison descended into silence. She noticed that the guard she had spoken to in the afternoon was not standing by her door. That meant Rishabha was coming.

  She listened for sounds from the cells to her left, where Nishanta and Kubera were incarcerated. If they were planning an escape, she would expect to hear some whispering. But all she heard was the even breathing of sleeping men. Whether or not you were free in real life, she thought, you were always free in your dreams. You could be beaten, pinned and abused through all your waking hours, but you could always look forward to sleep, where you and your mind could roam in any glade of your choosing, and you could hold anyone’s hand, kiss anyone, make love to anyone. You could eat anything. You could undo all the wrongs that got you here, or you could do them again, this time better so that you never got caught.

  Sleep did not come to her, though. How nice it would be to dream of apple orchards and serene lakes. But if she fell asleep now, she felt certain she would dream of being chased on the mountain slopes by the lithe figure of Rishabha. It was better to stay awake and wait for him – in the hope that he would not come – than to fall asleep and see him for certain in her dreams.

  Shame. Fear. Guilt. Pleasure. She did not know what she felt. A maiden on Meru was brought up to never feel guilty about sexual union. Every girl she had spoken to remembered with fondness the first man they had lain with. Without exception, for all of them this first encounter had been at a rite, surrounded by incense sticks, ripe in the middle of spring. But here she was, in the heat of midsummer, in a dank prison, awaiting her first man.

  Without exception, for all the other maidens, there had been no other motive behind the union but the union itself. They could give in to the atmosphere, surrender to their senses. But here, she would have to plot against her lover. She would have to find a moment in which she could knock him unconscious, if not kill him.r />
  She hoped he would come bearing the bunch of keys that would open the other cells too. Nishanta and Kubera would know what to do. Once she got them free, they would sit together and plan ahead.

  If she failed, or if she gave any inkling of her true intentions to Rishabha – well, the consequences of that were too stark to imagine.

  Without her knowledge, tears flowed down her eyes. She wept in silence.

  The light at the beginning of the corridor became covered in shadow, and Jahnavi sat up. This was it.

  The metal-lined leather shoes cracked against the floor. The man’s step was slow but sure-footed. He came to her door and held the candle up to his face. Jahnavi recognized the vacant, nondescript eyes of Rishabha.

  She smiled up at him. ‘I am glad you have come. I have waited the whole day for this moment, I have.’

  He did not reply. He set the candle on the floor next to him and opened the lock. Then he picked up the light and came in, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘I think we should blow off the candle,’ she said, getting to her feet and slipping her robe to the side so that he could see her bare shoulder, orange and nubile in the dimness. ‘And you must promise me you will be quiet.’

  He approached her, and as in the morning, she gave him her hands. One of his keys went into the lock on the chain, and with a snap she was free. She rubbed her wrists. Her eye caught the ring he wore at his waist, around his belt, and the row of keys that hung off it. So he had brought it.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Take me in your arms.’

  That smile again, that crooked toothy grin. ‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he said, and bowed.

  Jahnavi’s hand was arrested in midair. ‘What … what is this?’

  ‘I have not come to lay with you. I have come to take you to Lady Devaki.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  H

  e led her, candle in hand, to the mouth of the corridor, and from there, they ascended the flight of stone steps. When they reached the head of the staircase, Jahnavi saw that the entire space was occupied by just two rooms guarded by four men with spears in their hands. Two locked gold-plated teak doors faced each other. Rishabha went to the one on the left and knocked softly, twice.