The Mountain Goddess

by Shelley Elizabeth Schanfield

  Ghosha and Mala had told Dhara the same thing. She had never believed it until she began to experience a yogi’s powers. “I was just a child. Do you think I did him harm?”

  “I cannot say.” Harischandra looked into the flames. “You can do penance for it. Then you must set about not to think bad thoughts at all.”

  She was a long way from the power not to think bad thoughts. “Please continue.”

  “Where was I?”

  “The merchant Bhallika had just come along.”

  “Ah, yes. Vishvamitra said, ‘My good Bhallika, I am tired and would take advantage of your hospitality, but I have no robe to lie down upon. This man owes me one, but has no money to purchase it. Take his wife and son in exchange for a new one, which you must have among your goods.’

  “Bhallika was astonished. ‘Holy one, accept a robe, staff, and bowl as my gifts to you. I do not trade in slaves.’

  “‘You dare defy me?’ the sage burst out. ‘Give me what this man owes, or I will reduce your goods to ashes and cover you with boils.’

  “Bhallika took me aside. ‘Go, quickly! I swear before Varuna, the giver of wealth, that I will take good care of your wife and son, but go now.’

  “He gave me a handful of coins to tie in my antariya, and urged me to hasten away. I had no choice. It was a long time before I knew what happened to them.

  “For five years I wandered, and on my wandering came upon Bhallika. He told me he had taken my wife to Taxila, where she was given shelter by Mahavira Jain’s followers. But bandits attacked his caravan on the way. After Bhallika’s guards chased them off, Rohit was nowhere to be found. They searched the forest on either side of the road, and only found his bloody clothing.” Harischandra closed his eyes.

  “Then,” he said quietly, opening his eyes again, “ten years ago, my wanderings brought me to these cremation grounds. When I arrived, I encountered a terrible scene. The chandala had been brutally tortured and left for dead. I cared for him until he died, built his pyre, and took on his sacred work.”

  “Why was he tortured?”

  “A story for another day, Dhara.”

  “But what about Vishvamitra’s promise to lead you to moksha?”

  “I think about him night and day, so he is always with me, as he promised. Now and then he appears in the flesh. He treats me kindly, and has shared teachings of profound beauty and wisdom with me that he has shared with no other.”

  “He is kind to you?” Dhara was mystified.

  “Yes. You see, he is a great teacher. He taught me that I must uproot all my anger—against him, against Yayati, against all my enemies—from my heart; all desire, too, to see my wife, to return to my kingdom and clan; and all grief for my son and all I lost. When I have done this, I will liberate myself from sorrow and know the bliss of atman.”

  Harischandra stretched out on his mat and turned his back to the fire. Then he looked over his shoulder at her. “And now, Dhara, do you think Saibya and I should have obeyed her father? Would we have been spared all the pain I have just described to you?”

  Dhara was thunderstruck. “I don’t know. I must think about it.” In a short while, Harischandra’s soft breathing said he was asleep. Dhara wanted to shake him awake. How could they be safe if the chandala before Harischandra was beaten to death for no reason? Mala would never have left her here if she’d known. Then it occurred to her that in that whole long tale, he had never said how he met Mala.

  She wouldn’t dare wake him, though. She stared up at the stars without seeing them, pondering his words.

  If she had been obedient to her parents, she would never have run away to study with Mala. Rani might still be alive. The Kosalas might have attacked anyway, but she would be with her family, with Sakhi, instead of far away in Varanasi. But would the Kosalas have attacked if Harischandra had defeated them long ago? And the lessons this Vishvamitra imparted to Harischandra, what of them? Mala spoke of rooting out desire and hatred, just as Harischandra had, and said it was the way to self-knowledge, to true freedom, to bliss. But was that really the way?

  Wild, inchoate hungers filled Dhara. Anguish over Rani’s death and her clan’s fate made her desperate to fight the Kosalas, to avenge her people and the beautiful, regal tigress. At the same time, she wanted to see everything, to know everything, to experience everything in all the worlds, in the whole of creation. She sensed that something terrible and wonderful would happen to her soon and she wanted it now, whatever it might be.

  The stars seemed so much farther away here in the lowlands, so much less bright. Not the fierce, cold, implacable fires of the mountain night. Yet their soft twinkling soothed her. She focused on the northern star that pointed the way to where magical Mount Sumeru stood at the center of the world. Sleep finally came.

  Two pilgrims

  When Chandaka woke to the cool spring morning, Siddhartha was already awake and Bhallika was sitting up. He was fiddling with the bags Lila had left last night with stiff fingers. When he saw their contents, he gave a joyous shout. Immediately he grabbed his side and groaned. As Maitreyi propped up blankets for him, Siddhartha and Chandaka told him about Lila’s nocturnal visit and plied him with questions about her.

  “I wish she had awakened me,” Bhallika said. “I haven’t seen her for several years.”

  “But how did you know her?” Chandaka asked.

  “When I met Lila, she was hardly more than a girl. Her father was an aged Brahmin who was losing his memory for the hymns and rites, and therefore was also losing his livelihood. Lila was his only child. He could no longer support her, and indeed, they looked on the verge of starvation. He begged me to help her.” It cost Bhallika some effort to speak. He had been badly beaten, and even Maitreyi’s magic touch would not heal him in a day.

  “Lila has spoken of this to me,” Maitreyi said.

  “You know her, too?” Siddhartha asked as Atri walked up with a tray overloaded with rice bowls, dried fruit, and shelled nuts.

  “I know her as the Naga tribe’s priestess to the Great Mother.” Maitreyi reached up to take the tray from her husband. “We exchange healers’ knowledge. She has brought me new herbs; sometimes I treat tribesmen she can’t help. Her people do us no harm and sometimes bring us offerings. How she became their priestess, I don’t know.”

  “Nor do I,” Bhallika said. “It’s a tale too long to tell of how I brought her to the sage Asita in the forest near Varanasi. Some of these old hermits are rascals and would abuse a poor young thing like she was, but he’s a real holy man. I left her with him, knowing he would treat her as a daughter. I visited several times.”

  “You should not talk, but rest,” Maitreyi said, seeing Bhallika wince. Bhallika was a great talker, though, and a few bruises wouldn’t keep him from the conversation.

  “She was happy tending him, and the irascible old fellow was clearly fond of her. A few years ago I went to Asita’s hermitage and found it deserted. I didn’t know what happened to them. The mystery is partially solved regarding Lila, but you, Atri, do you have any idea what might have happened to Asita?”

  “Recently our young friend Nalaka visited us after a long retreat in the Gandharan desert. He mentioned he’d seen his old guru,” Atri said. “He said Asita had renounced everything—food, clothing, shelter. Few of us reach that point when we can sever all attachments. Asita wanders the streets of Shiva’s city, seeking to die there and achieve moksha.”

  Everyone was silent as they began to break their fast.

  “We shall seek him out when we go to Varanasi,” Siddhartha said, cleaning the last grains of rice from his bowl with a forefinger. “Perhaps he will be in the park on Ganga’s banks that you spoke of, Chandaka, where the debates between sages take place.”

  “Nalaka told us that Bhadda Kundalakesa is coming to the city,” Maitreyi said. “She wants to debate the great Valmiki.”

 
“That would be far beyond what I dared hope for,” Siddhartha said. “One of the most radical and wise rishikis matching wits with perhaps the most orthodox and learned Brahmin among all the Sixteen Clans.”

  “I imagine you’ve heard such debates before, at your father’s palace or in Kapilavastu’s sacred grove,” Atri said, gathering up the bowls and putting them on the tray.

  “My father likes his reputation as an open-minded, tolerant man. In some ways, he’s entitled to it. If he believes anything, it is that the one truth has many names. You may worship any god or goddess in his kingdom, even those of foreign lands, or not worship any at all. You may even worship the Mother who was here before all our Arya devis and devas. A few Nagas even dwell in the city and make offerings during the dark of the moon—though human sacrifice is forbidden.”

  The prince paused to look off into the distance. Chandaka was stunned that Siddhartha knew of the small community of impoverished Nagas that lived near Kapilavastu’s gates in conditions an outcaste would shun. It was just the sort of thing the king thought he hid from the prince. Siddhartha might know far more than anyone guessed.

  “I admire him for this,” Siddhartha continued. “It’s not like in Prasenajit’s realm, where the entire populace must pay a tax to support the Brahmins and the sacrifices of the Vedas, no matter who or what they worship.” He sighed. “Yet somehow, there’s no life in the grand debates Father organizes.”

  “You could have fooled me,” Chandaka said. “You’re always one of the liveliest participants. Most of the time you can argue both sides of whatever theological argument they happen to be having.”

  Siddhartha wrinkled his forehead and smiled at the same time. “One freedom I have is to explore any idea. But I’m not satisfied.”

  “I don’t understand your dissatisfaction, my prince—” Bhallika began.

  “Is it so hard to understand?” Siddhartha said in frustration. “In Varanasi, real freedoms are at stake. King Prasenajit rules there now. He fears wanderers who obey no laws but their own conscience and make no offerings at any altar, but seek self-knowledge. He is quite capable of forbidding all debate henceforth. For the rishiki Bhadda to stride into this city ready to do battle with the king’s own Brahmin requires courage.”

  Needles of fear pricked Chandaka. Passions might be roused at this meeting between Bhadda Kundalakesa and the great Valmiki, Kosalan soldiers called in to quell a noisy mob. What if there were arrests, and he and Siddhartha were caught in the net? Well, they had come this far. There was no going back now.

  As Siddhartha and Chandaka made ready to leave, Maitreyi gave them each a fresh dhoti and handed them sturdy walking sticks and wooden bowls to tie at their waists for alms. “You look more like what you pretend to be,” she said, looking them up and down. “Although your hair is not matted like an old saddhu. But that is right, because you are young and just setting out on your sadhana.”

  Atri shook a finger at them. “Remember that you are on a spiritual quest, and don’t get distracted by Varanasi’s courtesans.”

  “When you get to the gates, be silent, Siddhartha. Keep your eyes on the ground. Say he’s taken a vow of silence, Chandaka, and do all the talking.”

  As the morning went on and they grew nearer to Shiva’s Shining City, others joined them on the road. There were many pilgrims like them, alone or in small groups, making their way to hear the gurus teach on Ganga’s banks and to get their blessings. A caravan of merchants was headed for Varanasi’s famed markets with goods loaded on heavy oxcarts. Light-skinned Arya nobles from conquered clans were resting on elegant litters carried by dark-skinned servants and driving gilded chariots to bring their annual tribute to King Prasenajit. Peasants trudged with vegetables or grains strapped to their backs to sell to the city’s housewives, and up and down the road Kosalan warriors or mercenaries from other clans rode alongside the caravans and conveyances of the nobility.

  In this great stream of humanity, Chandaka and Siddhartha were just two more wandering truth-seekers making their way to the Shining City. The road’s dust and noise did not encourage conversation. Bittersweet excitement filled Chandaka as they topped the last rise and saw the white palaces, mansions, and temples shimmering ahead under the morning sun. His heart gave an exquisite lurch.

  Siddhartha stopped at the top of a small rise to look down on the city. “I remember when I first saw Varanasi,” he said. “We came through that very gate on our way to Addhakashi’s mansion. Can you pick it out from here?”

  Chandaka looked toward the courtesans’ quarter, where his laughing, beautiful mother had taught him to sing and play the tabla and do many other things that perhaps she had not meant to, such as know when to tell the truth, or just part of it, or not to tell it at all. A patchwork of bright awnings covered the roofs of the city’s mansions. Chandaka and Kirsa had spent hours under the red and yellow silk one at Addha’s. In those days, he had a sixth sense about when sadness would overtake Kirsa, remembering a horrible night she couldn’t speak of, when the beggar king tore her from her mother and chopped off her fingers to mark her as his.

  He had been too young to truly understand much about what forced them to leave Varanasi. Over the years, he thought he’d pieced it together. A servant or perhaps one of Addha’s apprentices had betrayed Addha to her enemies for arranging a meeting between the Maghadan and Sakyan kings at her Varanasi mansion. When danger threatened the newly forged allies, Bimbisara and Suddhodana arranged to spirit her household away from danger to the Sakyan kingdom.

  At the time, Chandaka hadn’t understood why King Bimbisara insisted on taking Chandaka’s mother far away to establish a courtesan’s house in the kingdom of his vassals, the Licchavis. The kind, jolly man Chandaka had always called Uncle had told him it was dangerous for him to go with his mother, though at the time he would not say why. It was safer for Chandaka to go to Kapilavastu as the Sakyan prince’s playmate. Only recently he’d learned why. It had not lessened the pain of being torn from beautiful, loving Amrapali, pain he shared with no one.

  Tears started to Chandaka’s eyes. He ducked his head. One life had ended for him then, another had begun. Perhaps that was all rebirth meant. He had lost his mother but gained his closest and best friend.

  “You’re awfully quiet, charioteer,” Siddhartha said as they stood together watching the crowds pass. “What is it?”

  He could tell Siddhartha now that King Bimbisara was his father. Then he wondered: King Suddhodana must have known the secret of Chandaka’s parentage all along. Had he told Siddhartha, and Siddhartha concealed this knowledge from him, too? The thought angered him. How well did he know his best friend? As well as he knows me, he thought ruefully. I should tell him.

  The crowd became a crush and drew him and the prince into the slow-moving mass of people. The moment passed.

  Siddhartha turned to him. “Chandaka? Are you all right?”

  “Throat’s dry,” Chandaka said. “Dust from the road. Got in my eyes, that’s all.”

  An act of mercy

  The next morning, Sakhi left a sleeping Tilo to supervise the cook, and when she returned, Tilo was gone. She found her in Atimaya’s room. Tilo had pulled all of Atimaya’s clothes from a wooden chest and was dressing in red wedding garb.

  “I must dress for the ceremony,” she said.

  “You’re a widow, Tilo,” Sakhi said hesitantly. “Let’s find something white… ”

  She might as well have been talking to a stone. Tilo wound the red antariya around her hips in a dreamy trance and threw the end over her shoulder.

  Sakhi was in turmoil as they headed to the funeral. She was grieving; she was burdened with responsibility; she was isolated.

  She had not let the king seduce her.

  He couldn’t, wouldn’t speak of it at this solemn occasion. But she was frightened. Angry, too. She couldn’t get it out of her mind, even thought it was id
iocy; he probably hadn’t given her a thought once she’d left his presence.

  These thoughts flew away when they joined the subdued, decimated Koli clan down by the river. The practice field had become a cremation ground. Sakhi wondered if the Koli warriors would ever train here again.

  A bracing spring wind made the Sakyan pennants snap under the cloudless blue sky. Everyone was gathered before the three cremation pyres: the one Captain Sukesa had ordered built for Prem and his infant son, the one Deepa made for Dandapani, and the one stacked with the rest of the dead.

  As for the Kosalas, Deepa and his sons had dragged their corpses to the ravine the day before.

  Suddhodana did not even glance at Sakhi, but neither she nor anyone there could take their eyes from the tall, proud Sakyan monarch who was draped in fresh blue and gold silks that rippled in the stiff breeze. Suddhodana wore his hair, black streaked with grey, unbound, like a sage or wandering pilgrim. It fell over his shoulders and the wind played with it, but a gold circlet around his brow kept it out of his lean, sun-darkened face.

  The king dipped the torch into one of several clay jars filled with rendered fat. Garuda held a smoking ember to the torch and it flared. Soldiers stepped forward to pick up the heavy jars and pour the contents over the three pyres.

  Sakyans mingled with the villagers to watch the flames leap; some of them held their children’s hands, some just stood with their arms crossed over their chests. Rajesh was there, a white bandage around his head, leaning heavily on his wife. A horse had kicked him as he tried to defend his son Chitra just as the Sakyans arrived. Chitra stood on his mother’s other side with bandaged ribs and an exhausted, empty expression.

  Nearly everyone was accounted for. Most of the men were dead. Rajesh, Chitra, and Deepa were the only ones able to attend the cremation. The rest of the wounded Koli, along with the few injured Sakyan warriors, stayed up at the chief’s hall with Ghosha and her medicines.