“No one to do his whipping for him,” the officer said. “That rotten fucker.”
The advocate looked up and was surprised to see that his friend was on the verge of enraged tears. The officer shook his head to regain his composure.
They drank in silence for a while, as the early winter wind blew gently around them.
“So,” the officer spoke again, “the lady of the estate offered ten silver standards for my land.”
“Yes.”
“That’s more than what I expected.”
The advocate nodded.
“What made you do it?” the officer asked. “Why didn’t you take the deal for me? Why did you decide to bring her down, and her family and the whole estate with her?”
The advocate gazed out at the darkening sky and thought for a long moment. The officer examined his face and saw that his cheeks had turned bright red from inebriation.
“She was rude to me,” the advocate told his friend. “I approached her in the most respectful manner. My father used to be the estate clerk, and my family name is a common one. But I am a graduate of the Hall of Great Learning and a holder of the imperial license of legal advocacy. That earned me the right to sit in her presence. She should have shown me the courtesy of offering to sit with her. But she didn’t. She left me standing there with my head bowed like a household servant. She was rude to me, so I decided I would destroy her.”
The advocate finished the drink in his cup, and when the officer refilled it, he drank all of it down.
“That is what I will do from now on,” the advocate said in a tone of such solemnity that it unnerved his friend. “I will destroy all those who are rude to me. I swear to Heaven that I will. I will show mercy to even my worst enemies if they show me the respect that I deserve. But those who do not, I will destroy so utterly that it will be as if they never existed in the first place. And that is how I will change all things under Heaven and make my name radiant in the chronicles of the historians.”
Outside the inn, frigid rain began to pour in a sudden and violent torrent.
Udātta Śloka
Deepak Bharathan
One: Dance of a goddess
The valley baked under the afternoon sun, and the river next to the ashram glistened. The last strands of afternoon prayers died as the verses of ślokas slowed. But the settlement buzzed with activity. The festival of god Mitra was at hand. In the evening the women celebrated by boiling milk and rice with generous dollops of ghee as an offering to the god.
Then the music began. The sound of flutes and drums wafted through the crowd, which eagerly awaited the wife of god Mitra. When she walked in, she was a sight to behold.
Kāila looked at his daughter with pride. It was her first performance as a woman, the wife of a god. Even at fifteen, Ritya was already a splitting image of her mother. Her beautiful jet black hair, which flowed to her hips, was braided with bright orange flowers. She had the slender figure of a dancer. Her red silks shimmered along with the gold bracelets all over her arms. Red dots lightly decorated her forehead and her cheeks. Her face blazed with pride and a sense of duty to her lord.
But to her father, it was her eyes that betrayed the otherwise perfect appearance. Her blue eyes had the sadness that her father had seen before. Even though Ritya had never said a word about her sorrow, Kāila had heard his daughter’s eyes speak. Maybe it was the love for a man or a sense of loss that she could never have her own children. He never asked her about it. His daughter was a dancer to the gods. She was promised to her deity Mitra. She had to play her part, just as he had to play his.
As custom dictated, the Rājan sat next to Kāila. The Rājan’s face, with a barely grown beard, betrayed the naked aggression that he displayed on the battlefield. The king was still a boy, only seventeen, but Kāila knew of no braver warrior among the Kshatriyas whose swords protected his people.
Ritya’s graceful body moved. Her palms folded to acknowledge the Rājan. She spun around, her feet moving quicker than her body. Her hands made quick angular movements toward the sky, and the crowd stood transfixed looking at the young girl.
“My priest, are you so obstinate that you will make your family give up the royal priesthood?” whispered the Rājan, his eyes transfixed on the dancer. Ritya was Kāila’s only child. The wife of a god could never marry a mortal. Since Kāila had taken a sacred vow never to take another wife, his family line would end. Someone else would take over the sacred duty that had been with Kāila’s family for eight generations.
“If that is the will of gods,” started Kāila.
“Yes, the will of gods indeed. Is that what you desire, though?”
“If all desires came true, the world would be a scary place, my Rājan.” Kāila did not know if the half-smile on the Rājan’s face signified recognition or resignation.
Ritya’s dance spoke of the first conflict of the Ārya tribes. The conflict had started one year after the first blood oath to the gods. She motioned by slashing her arms. Her expression morphed from pain to serenity as invisible blood spurted from her veins. Her eyes danced along with the rest of her body.
“They have started setting fire to the grazing grounds, Kāila.” The words were an almost inaudible whisper. The Rājan’s eyes did not leave the dancer. His face was expressionless.
“The Ādityas be kind on our souls,” Kāila whispered. Without the grazing grounds, their tribe’s eight thousand cattle and five hundred horses would starve. And so would the tribe.
The dancer stood with a deep resolve in her eyes. The tribe that does not respect the oaths of the Sun-Gods Ādityas could not be part of the Āryas, the noble ones. Anger flashed on her face. She raised her arms and stood on one leg, drawing her body into a dancer’s pose of battle.
“Only the grazing grounds to the east remain. I have not yet informed the Sabha.” The Rājan’s muted tone betrayed his helplessness. The Rājan was duty bound to inform the Sabha, the council of the lords and elders which had elected him, of this mortal danger.
“My Rājan, you need to tell the council.” The priest looked around. The Kshatriyas stood around them. Most of them were merely boys. They were Kshatriyas by birth and training. They still had to earn their varṇa through their deeds. Were they ready for war with the Dāsas?
Ritya arched her body upwards. With the poise of a trained dancer, she bounded to her right. Her arms angled down and attacked the tribes who had insulted her lord husband. Her eyes remained wide open and arms kept swinging at the invisible tribe around her.
“Dāsas hide in their stone cities, but we will persevere,” the Rājan said. Kāila did not know if the young king truly meant his words or realized the futility of saying anything else.
Ritya spread her arms wide. All the tribes were under the same dhárman. She gestured the question to the invisible tribes around her: will you be part of the tribe of Ādityas? The tribes had descended from the same gods.
“Let us reach out to the other tribes,” said Kāila in a hoarse whisper. The Rājan tore his eyes away from the dancer to look at his priest. The suggestion sounded more absurd coming from the mouth of the wise Brāhmaṇa. The Ārya tribes were hopelessly divided. The sun would rise in the west before the tribes united.
“The Sabha elected me to protect the tribe, and that I will do until my last breath,” said the Rājan. “We will never turn back, not until the last Kshatriya has fallen.”
Ritya stood erect with feet firmly planted on the ground. As she folded her hands to seek the blessings of her lord husband, the crowd erupted into a cheerful roar. The Rājan looked at her with no emotion in his eyes.
Kāila looked intently at his daughter. In the heat of performance, he had not noticed that her right ankle had hit a stone. She had not even flinched once during the performance. Her ankle was bleeding profusely, but his daughter did not seem to mind while basking in the glory of the crowd’s gleeful reverberation. Kāila hoped his young king would not do the same. But there seemed to be l
ittle else they could do now.
Two: Tears for a battle
The Kshatriyas faded into the deepening twilight. And they continued to ride. There was no looking back. The Āryas never turned back. The Dāsas could hide behind the stone walls, but no stone city could protect men who did not engage in an honourable fight. No Ārya tribe had ever come close to laying a siege to the stone city of the Dāsas. The Dāsas had grown more powerful as the Ārya tribes withered with starvation. But tonight the stone city would burn. Tonight the Dāsas would meet their maker. Kāila willed himself to believe it: the Kshatriyas would be victorious tonight.
Kāila had prayed with one thousand brave Kshatriyas. Many boys and a few weary old men looked to the heavens, asking for victory. Every man knew that this was unlike the skirmishes that the tribe had fought with the Dāsas often. War was here.
“Apāvṛṇorjyotirāryāya ni savyataḥ sādi dasurindra,” murmured the Brāhmaṇa to himself. Light of the Ārya: on your left hand, O Indra, sink the Dāsa. Kāila asked the god Indra to fight alongside the men in the battle. Even a stone city could not withstand the wrath of the gods.
Kāila tried not to think what if the Kshatriyas failed. The cattle would die first, and the children who depended on the milk would be next. He had heard of tales on death by starvation from the deserts of the west from which his ancestors had migrated. It was not a death he wished even on the Dāsas. The Kshatriyas could not fail. They would not.
It was a cloudy full moon. Just enough light to attack the stone city, but not enough light for the cowards inside the stone walls to know what was happening. Not until it was too late.
Kāila did not know how long he sat by the river bank meditating, but he suddenly realized how cold the night was. He shivered from the breeze of the river. When he opened his eyes, Ritya was beside him. Even in her stillness, she had the poised grace of a dancer. Her mother would have been proud. Even her breathing had been muted as to not disturb his meditation.
She started to speak but could not find the words. Kāila gently stoked his daughter’s hair. The girl laid her head on her father’s lap. She tried not to cry, but a tear dropped down her cheek. In times of sorrow, his daughter missed her mother even more. Kāila wanted to say that everything was going to be fine and the warriors would be safe. But he could not lie to his daughter.
“Is death a Kshatriya’s destiny?” she asked finally.
“Ātman knows no death, child. Protecting the tribe is a Kshatriya’s sacred duty.”
“There is a message,” she whispered.
He tried to read her face, he could not. Maybe it was the darkness around them. Or maybe it was the darkness in her. Her face did not betray her thoughts.
After he read the message from the Sabha, silence seemed to be the only sane thing to do. Father and daughter sat staring at the river that gave their tribe life. And yet at times, the river goddess unleashed her fury on his people. Without warning, floods came suddenly, destroying grazing grounds, cattle, and homes. A river that gave them so much also had a penchant to take away so violently.
“I do not remember what mother looked like,” Ritya said, still staring at the river, “But I still miss her. Sometimes I feel foolish.”
Kāila felt a pang of guilt. His daughter would never know the gentle caress of her own child in her lap. She would not die knowing that her own blood would grieve for her. He closed his eyes and brushed that thought aside. Regret was among the most inane expressions of life.
“If memory was the only reason for our feelings, then I would have never learned how to love you, my child. But I did, the instant I saw you.” He touched her face gently.
“We should go to the stone city, Father.”
“I will meet with the Sabha to discuss what is to be done. You will join the rest of village to move to safety.” Even as he said it, Kāila knew that safety was a relative term indeed.
“I will come with you.” It was neither a demand nor a threat. She stated it as a fact. Her voice remained calm and poise graceful.
The Kshatriyas had failed; the warriors had not turned back. Not till the last one fell. Just like the Rājan had promised. Maybe the Rājan’s priest had failed to give adequate counsel to the brave young warrior. Kāila dismissed the thought. Regret was indeed among the most inane expressions of life.
“Showing up at the gates of the stone city desecrates their memory,” the Brāhmaṇa said.
“Does it matter?” his daughter asked. “The dead Kshatriyas have no use for legacy. A living Brāhmaṇa might.”
She had learned well. Kāila stared at his daughter. Then he smiled. Slowly he began laughing. The irony of having to protect his legacy—knowing his line would end with his daughter—was indeed a cruel joke by the Ādityas. After a moment, Ritya joined in. Their laughter echoed through the valley; it was liberating to laugh at imminent death. Maybe Yama, the god of death, had a sense of humour after all.
Three: Mound of the Dead
It should have taken them three hours on foot to the stone city, but sorrow slowed them down. Ritya and Kāila drudged on. Step after step toward the field of dead. Daybreak over the valley was not warm.
In the late hours of night, the Sabha had been split. The fiery discussion had lasted the night. The swiftness of defeat crushed the tribe. The questions came quick: Why would the Dāsas not make for the village now that they had killed all the Kshatriyas? Why did a Brāhmaṇa have go to the battlefield to perform the last rites for the dead? A girl in the battlefield to see the dead? Even the Ādityas would not forgive such a sin.
Many in the tribe had already abandoned the village for other tribes. As daybreak approached, some members of the Sabha joined the exodus. Tenacity was one of Kāila’s virtues. And his daughter, the wife of Mitra, had inherited that from him. She was going to the stone city with or without him.
Ritya had never seen a battlefield. She had not seen the stone city either. The stone city stood tall and expansive in the morning glow. She wondered how such barbarians had built something this majestic. The gates were strong, imposing, and shut. Not one Ārya had gotten through them. Not now and maybe never.
Kāila dropped to his knees. The sorrow had not hit him until he saw the dead. They looked younger in their stillness. The Dāsas had taken no prisoners. The Kshatriyas of his tribe were all dead. He cried not just for the brave but also for the innocent back in his village. Maybe the Dāsas would do him a favour and kill him from inside the stone walls. But they did not. He felt the Dāsas were watching him, poring through him. But they did not do a thing.
The blood of the young warriors had already dried. The Dāsas knew the attack was coming. Maybe someone had betrayed the stealth that the Rājan had planned.
Ritya walked through the field of dead. Forever inert, the dead no longer shared the sorrow of the living. His daughter’s eyes were searching for someone she had once loved. But looking for love among the dead was painful both in body and in spirit.
They found the Rājan. He lay, as they had expected, at the head of his party. Even in death, he looked majestic. The Kshatriyas had not even come close to the gate. They had perished with crushing swiftness for reasons that only the Ādityas could understand.
Ritya did not shed a tear. She stood there silently. Kāila started the ślokas. He murmured the prayers for the dead, for their Ātman to be released from the worldly pains and find moksha. His inaudible voice broke often. This was his final act as priest for his tribe. By the time he returned to the village, the tribe would no longer exist. This defeat clearly indicated the will of the Ādityas.
“Stone walls cannot protect the dishonourable,” Ritya said. Her tone had a seething fury that Kāila had never heard before.
“They will be punished,” she said.
Kāila wrapped his arms around his daughter.
“They will be punished,” she repeated. Tears welled up in her blue eyes. But she did not flinch. Poise and grace never left her side whether in sorrow or
in joy.
The sound started suddenly like they were surrounded by a thousand tiny temple bells. A shrill ringing reverberated across the battlefield. Kāila searched for the source, but Ritya found it first. He followed her eyes.
The lights appeared. They blinded him for a second, but he kept his eyes open. The lights shone like the bright stars in the night sky. Then gently, the lights floated up to the Brāhmaṇa and his daughter. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. Strangely he did not feel fear.
Ritya’s eyes widened as she looked at the brightness. She stood there transfixed and then she moved her face closer to the lights, like she understood what they were.
“Ritya,” started Kāila, wanting his daughter to stay away.
“Father, you need to leave,” replied his daughter. Her voice was heavy with purpose.
“Yes, we need to. Come.” He knew that was not what she meant.
The lights were now glowing all around them. Then as if the lights had sensed awareness from the young girl, they coalesced around her, moving and bouncing from one point to another. The lights were dancing.
She folded her hands and took a dancer’s pose in the field of dead. The lights kept dancing around her. The sun was no longer the brightest object in Kāila’s eyes.
The lights lifted her. She stood still. There was no fear in her eyes, only a deep understanding. She moved her lips to say something to him, but the words never made it out. She held her hand out, and her father stood looking. And then she gently floated to the stone city. The lights continued to dance around her like bright fiery fireflies.
Kāila’s knees collapsed as strength drained out of his body. Images burst inside his head, and he saw what the lights were telling him. A battle like he had never imagined. The gods, yes—they had to be gods—themselves fought in the battle. The weapons were unlike anything he understood. He saw flashes of Vajra, the thunderbolt, and Agni, the fire, used in the battle. There were other glimpses that his mind could not fathom.
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