“Study yoga,” Atimaya said contemptuously. “She should have sons and not be chasing after moksha, isn’t that so, Sakhi?”
“Well. Why shouldn’t she?” Sakhi replied with a slight tremor.
Atimaya looked startled. Sakhi bent her head over her loom, as if making certain the warp and weft were straight and square, though she knew perfectly well they were.
“Who are you to say that Dhara or any woman couldn’t take yoga’s path, Atimaya?” Her voice grew stronger. “In fact, who is to say that to follow Lord Shiva’s practices is the only way to atman?” She thought about Tilo’s face as she bent over her nursing son. “What about the loving bliss a mother feels when she holds her baby at her breast? She gives everything to her child. Isn’t that also liberation?”
Sakhi looked up from her weaving. They were all staring. She caught Jagai’s eye. The way he was looking at her made all her embarrassment return full force. She was just a girl, after all. Who was she to speak on such matters? Her father would have disapproved. Or perhaps not. A goddess needs a consort, he had said. Yes, but she is still a goddess, Sakhi said to herself, whose love is divine as any god’s. Her father’s face rose before her, smiling.
Then she had the strangest thought of all. Bhallika and I will have five sons.
She knew it as surely as she knew the sun would rise in the east tomorrow.
Tat tvam asi
Dhara said nothing about what she’d witnessed between Mala and her father. There was nothing to be done about it. Instead, she threw herself into her lessons. She even followed Mala’s orders, waiting for permission to practice traveling.
And travel they did. They had wonderful adventures, even going back to see Nalaka. He asked more questions about Dhavalagiri and the Kolis, but he knew the answers before she gave them.
He had to be Sakhi’s long-lost brother. Why didn’t he say something? The fact that he hadn’t made Dhara hesitant to ask directly. “You should come to our village and meet my friend Sakhi,” she asked once, watching his face for a sign of recognition. He laughed and changed the subject.
Now and then, the memory of seeing her mother with Bhallika and her father with Mala filled her with confused emotions. She loved her guru, but she felt betrayed. If she were ever to marry, which she was sure she would not, she would never be unfaithful.
To escape these troubling thoughts, Dhara threw herself into puzzling out the teachings Mala imparted to her. It often seemed that the more she tried to analyze them, the less she understood them. Mala assured her that it was normal, even desirable, to struggle with the concepts.
The one thing that made sense was tat tvam asi. You are that.
You are that. She turned it over in her mind. I am that, she found herself repeating silently at all times of the day. The pines swayed and sighed in a mountain breeze. I am that. A cloud rolled over Dhavalagiri’s shoulder. A squirrel scampered past. A stream rushed out from under a melting snowdrift. I am that. Steam rose from the pot bubbling by the fire. The stars burned in a cold midnight sky. I am that.
One day Mala went hunting and left Dhara to her practices at the cave. Dhara was repeating a quick series of poses in the clearing, moving quickly to keep warm on the beautiful early spring day. The rhythm of her movements matched the rhythm of sunlight and shadow created by a brisk wind. Whenever she raised her hands to the sky, the sun burst out from behind a fast-moving white cloud, and when she bowed to the ground it went into shadow. The light and wind invigorated her so that when she finished the practice, she had the exhilarating sense that sunbeams lit her from inside. She sat on the rock to meditate.
As she sat, a hawk gave a keening shriek. She put her hand up to shade her eyes as she searched the sky. Maybe she could make a friend of it, the way Nalaka had made friends with the desert cat Caracal.
She reached out to its mind. The hawk had already made its dive and was rising with a hare in its talons. I am that. Hawk and hare. Life and death. The bird and its prey disappeared into the blue.
The sun glowed through the flesh of her fingers. Was it inside or outside her? Her flesh was permeable. Vibrant energy ran up her spine, and suddenly the nerves all over her body did not end at her skin, but extended into the world. What was inside her was the same as what was outside; it was all one. Something enormous was about to happen. Did she welcome it or fear it? Her heart beat fast.
At that moment, she heard Rani’s low growl. Dhara dropped her hand as the tigress walked toward her, slow and deliberate. The great cat rumbled again, deep within her throat. Her blue eyes immobilized Dhara. The tigress had been waiting all this time for just such a moment, when she could pounce on Dhara and tear at her flesh. Dhara could almost feel Rani’s fangs at her throat.
Rani went into a crouch, tail whipping. Dhara couldn’t look away. The tigress growled again.
“Don’t—don’t hurt me, Rani. Please.”
Back and forth the tail whipped. The great cat sidled forward, her eyes fixed on Dhara, her prey. “Mala.” Dhara tried to scream, but nothing came out.
Oh, Rani, she beseeched silently, don’t kill me. I am you!
Yes. Rani’s voice was in her head. And I am you.
“Aaah.” Dhara exhaled. Blood pumped in her veins. Her skin tingled and quivered. All seventy-two thousand nadis thrummed with life. Her nerves were not nerves, but tiny motes flowing out of her body. They joined with particles of air that first seemed to move at random, but no, they moved in some strict design, folding in and out in streams around Rani, the rock, the trees, everything, in beautiful geometric patterns.
Then it was as if an invisible hand squeezed her, like a potter squeezing and shaping his clay. Her senses went wild. The sun’s rays stroked her fur. Her fur! Her vision sharpened and widened, almost as if she had eyes on the back of her head. All colors greyed as everything became sharper. The cedar was no longer fresh green, but the color of a stagnant pool, yet she could discern every needle on every bough.
The pressure on her body increased. She couldn’t stand it. She would die.
The scent of a hare, of a mountain goat, of a boar, a deer flooded her nostrils. The pressure was suddenly gone. She reeled in her senses like she was reining in her pony from a full gallop, but with much more precision. They were her senses, and yet they were not. They were Rani’s.
Which scent to follow? She did not speak, but sent the thought to the tigress.
We should follow something small, Rani said. A pheasant.
Yes, something small. She stretched her paws—her paws!—out in front of her and then rocked forward, extending her legs behind her, trying to accustom herself to the sleek, powerful body while at the same time knowing she would never be at home in it. She had an urge to run, but the voice inside her said, Slowly, now. She padded into the forest, putting each large paw down with practiced soft steps so that not a twig broke. Ahead there was a patch of low, thorny barberry bushes. Dead leaves still clung to it, along with some last remaining fruits that Dhara knew to be red but that looked brown to her tigress’s eyes—a good spot for a pheasant to hide.
She crouched, folding her powerful legs beneath her so that she could spring at the right instant, and waited, with perfect concentration. The world around her was filled with motion, light, and sound. A cloud of midges swarmed above a puddle of recently melted ice. Dappled sun poured down on snowdrifts and the dark wet ground they left as they receded toward the cedars’ deep shade. An unseen stream rushed and bubbled from under the frozen white blanket covering the rocky scree nearby.
She watched in perfect stillness. She had no sense of time passing, though moment by moment a squirrel would leap from one branch to another, the shadows would change angles, and the melting snows filled the stream with a hushed roar.
A rustle and a flash, and the pheasant burst from the barberries—she sprang and closed her jaws around it before its wings flapped a
second time. The bird’s warm blood melded with the dusty taste of dry feathers. She growled deep in her throat.
Dhara buried her fingers in the tigress’s warm fur as they sat next to each other on the meditation rock. Rani’s head swiveled from side to side as she sniffed the air.
“Was I really you, Rani?” she said aloud.
I allowed your consciousness to become part of mine. The tigress fixed her blue eyes on Dhara. You were a guest, so to speak. It’s not the same as becoming another creature entirely, though you may one day accomplish that. Mala-ji has great hopes for you.
“Thank you, Rani.” Dhara ached with pride. “Do you know what the best thing was?”
A meal of raw pheasant?
“I can’t say that was very tasty, no.”
Then what?
“The way time stopped, and I thought of nothing.” She couldn’t capture the feeling in words. “I can’t describe it.”
Rani gave her that cold, fierce, blue-eyed stare.
I would be surprised if you could.
Part II
After the snows
Escape
The gods had drunk deep and left only a slim silver crescent of amrita, of immortality’s nectar, in the moon. The stars shed no light on the crushed stone avenue, and the torches that lit the way from the palace to the gate on every other night were doused, just as Siddhartha had promised they would be. Still, it was not dark enough for Chandaka. They should have waited for the dark of the moon.
It was stiflingly hot for a spring night. Kanthaka’s muffled hooves made indistinct thuds on the hard-packed dirt. Maybe the guards wouldn’t hear the rhythmic plop above the splashing fountains, but how could they not see the giant warhorse approaching? The warrior on the high rampart looked to be dozing, but the two posted below on either side of the thick wooden doors stood at attention, staring down the avenue. They couldn’t possibly miss Kanthaka and his two young riders.
Chandaka had been clinging to the wild hope that they would escape unrecognized, but it was time to let go of that insanity. “Now we are really in trouble,” he whispered into Siddhartha’s ear. “You said you would take care of the guards. Tomorrow night there will be no moon at all. We could go then.” Or not. He thought of stealing back and finding the kitchen maid’s bed and forgetting about the whole thing.
“Trust me,” the prince whispered back over his shoulder.
Trust me. It’s what Chandaka had said a year before, when he led the way out of the palace grounds for that ill-fated midnight excursion into Kapilavastu.
That escapade started because Siddhartha chafed at his father’s restrictions. The king dictated that all Siddhartha’s excursions outside the palace be orchestrated so the prince would see nothing ugly or disturbing. How Siddhartha could prepare to rule the world without knowing such things puzzled everyone, but none dared question Suddhodana.
Thus, although Prince Siddhartha received instruction in the martial arts, the sciences of governing, and even in yoga and other esoteric practices from the best preceptors and gurus, he was forbidden to leave the grounds except for festivals or sacrifices or to give alms to Queen Prajapati’s houses of healing. On those occasions, he traveled under heavy guard.
The prince was sensitive about this, and about a year ago had suggested, just as a lark, a tour of the city. Chandaka was fifteen then and already considered himself a man; Siddhartha was fourteen. The idea was to visit a few inns in the less savory neighborhoods in Kapilavastu, and maybe a modest brothel or two. Siddhartha was shy about women, despite the lovely courtesans that were offered to him at the mansion of the king’s favorite Addhakashi, which amused Chandaka greatly. “We’ll find you a no-nonsense street girl,” he had said. “Someone who will care only for your gold and not that you’re a prince.”
It turned out that their adventure wasn’t much of a secret. Siddhartha’s bodyguards followed them and picked them up before they got anywhere interesting. “If you ever try this again, my son will have to find another charioteer,” the king said to Chandaka, who sprawled before him on the cold stone floor of the private audience chamber. Suddhodana did not specify exactly what would happen to Chandaka, but one could speculate it wouldn’t be pleasant.
In hindsight, Chandaka saw that it was a stupid idea to begin with. He wondered whether Siddhartha had wanted to be caught all along. After all, the prince had given his bodyguard the slip plenty of times to go with Chandaka and Kirsa to the treehouse in the thickest, most tangled part of the royal park. Chandaka had discovered it eight years before, when he and Kirsa first arrived in Kapilavastu, and over the years the three often spent the night there, lost in make-believe games—returning to their beds in the nick of time, thanks to Siddhartha’s uncanny ability to hide in plain sight.
Tonight, though, he and Siddhartha weren’t headed to their secret spot on a hidden path, but through the palace’s main gate. The nearer they got, the more Chandaka regretted agreeing to this mad escapade. He hadn’t thought it through at all. Siddhartha said he wanted to disguise himself as a student and go to Varanasi to hear the sages debate on Ganga’s banks. Then he would return to Kapilavastu. The prince said it was a more exciting prospect than sneaking off to the treehouse, and in any case, the days for childhood games had long passed. This was a direct challenge to Chandaka’s reputation for daring. He’d said yes without thinking.
The muffled hoofbeats thudded. It wasn’t too late to turn around. Chandaka wasn’t confined to the palace grounds as the prince was. He could spend the evening at Addha’s mansion in the enormous kitchen, sampling the cook’s delicacies and flirting with the apprentices until fat Lakshmi waddled in to give the girls a tongue-lashing and send them out with heavy silver trays laden with rice pullaos and roast quail for the patrons. Then he would flirt with Lakshmi, who would laugh until her chins wobbled, pinch his cheeks, and tell him not to tempt her to spank him like she did when he was a child. He could wile away a few hours talking with Ratna about old times in Varanasi if none of her patrons were visiting. They had played together since Chandaka was a boy and she an apprentice to the great Addhakashi, the most famous courtesan in any of the Arya kingdoms. In those days their games were hide and seek or dice. Now Ratna played more grown-up games with him.
They were almost upon the guards. “The gate is closed,” Chandaka said in a tremulous whisper. “You said it would be open.”
Siddhartha smiled over his shoulder and put a finger to his lips. This did nothing to lessen Chandaka’s anxiety. He was quick-witted and as good at getting himself out of mischief as into it. In truth, unless it was a matter of a noble girl’s honor, no one cared much what Chandaka did alone, but what he did with the prince was another matter. His mouth went dry as he remembered how perhaps four years ago, in a fit of temper, Suddhodana had executed a messenger. The poor fellow brought news that the Bandit Queen Angulimala had disappeared without a trace and her leaderless army was creating chaos in the east. Of course, Suddhodana had done penance for his rash temper at the royal priest’s insistence, but that was little comfort.
Kanthaka halted. In a panic, Chandaka loosened his grip around Siddhartha’s waist, preparing to slide off the horse and run back to the palace. The enormous wooden gate slid to one side, creaking slightly on the oiled track. The two warriors remained at attention, not moving. A useful skill for a king, to be able to render warriors deaf, dumb, and motionless. A useful skill, if King Suddhodana would ever allow Siddhartha to fight in a real war and not just play war games on the practice field.
A little stable boy stepped from the shadows. “Take care, my lord,” he said in a loud whisper. The guards remained still as upright corpses.
“Back to the stables, now,” Siddhartha said in a low voice. Chandaka was in agony to get away, but Siddhartha watched until the boy disappeared. “On, Kanthaka.”
At this point, it was no surprise that the warriors outside the
palace walls were as unseeing as their counterparts inside. “What will your father do to them when he discovers you’re gone?” he asked.
“We should close those gates behind us,” Siddhartha said.
Oh, you mean I should, my prince, Chandaka almost said, but he bit the words back. He slipped from the horse. He could run inside and shut them, leave Siddhartha outside. Go back to bed and pull his cool linen sheets over his head. Or better yet, find that delicious new kitchen maid. It would be a good alibi to be found in her bed in the morning.
But he returned to the horse, grasped Siddhartha’s hand, and swung his leg over Kanthaka’s broad rump. They followed the wide king’s road through oddly deserted and quiet streets. “What will your father do to those poor guards?” he asked again, while thinking, What will he do to me?
“I left a scroll that says I will return unless I learn any harm has come to anyone because of my escape. In that case, I will fulfill the prophecy.”
Worse and worse. Chandaka hadn’t considered this at all. “What about me? I’m not interested in a sage’s homeless life!”
“Shhh. He won’t hurt anyone. Really, my friend, do you think I’m that interested in the homeless life?”
No, come to think of it. The prince gave serious attention to the wise yogis and rishis that taught him, but he didn’t emulate their ascetic ways. In fact, he loved the beautiful palace. “He’ll come after you.”
“I’ve thought of that. I’ve been dropping hints for weeks about how much I want to study in Taxila. He’ll send his men galloping west to Gandhara instead of east to Varanasi.”
“He’s not that stupid.”
“He’s that blind.” There was bitterness in Siddhartha’s voice. “Oh, I have thought of a good alibi for you,” he said, with forced lightness. “When you were unable to stop me, you decided to come and protect me as best you could.”
The Mountain Goddess Page 14
