Prince of Dharma (10 page)

‘Kaikeyi, if you don’t wake up this instant, I will pour this ice-cold water on your head.’ 

And if she danced for Dasaratha then, really danced, not the cautious, precisely choreographed natya performances designed for royal viewing but the wild abandoned frenzy of the Gandaharis or Kazakhs or Krygziks, then even his long ailing would not be able to suppress the urges he would feel. Yes, she would have that power over him once again. That sense of complete and utter control. 

‘Kaikeyi, this is your last warning, girl. Next comes the water. Brace yourself.’ 

Why did the stupid hag always call her ‘girl’? Just because she had tended her since childhood. It was ludicrous to call her that at this age. She was a mother. A queen no less. And yet Manthara still treated her like she was nothing more than a snivelling, spoilt little— 

‘Aaaah!’ 

She sat up in bed, opening her eyes to a watery hell. No, not hell, for hell would be hot and blazing. This was cold, ice cold, and the stupid hag had splashed it across her face and her chest— she still had the jug in her hand, as she stood there, grinning her crooked-toothed grin—like she was washing down a horse or, or, or … 

‘Manthara,’ Kaikeyi spluttered, wiping water from her eyes. ‘You witch!’ 

Manthara’s grin widened. ‘Yes, me witch.’ She dropped the arghya jug with a clatter and shuffled forward, reached out with one wizened, claw-like hand. Slapping Kaikeyi once across each cheek, hard enough to sting. ‘And you hussy. Now wake up, and see where your master has gone while you slept the dawn away.’ 

Kaikeyi blinked rapidly, the slaps completing the wake-up process the water had started. Manthara’s use of foul language told her at once that something was seriously wrong; the hunchback wasn’t above using bad language to express herself at times, but when she addressed Kaikeyi in such terms, it always meant that Kaikeyi had made a serious mistake, one that had repercussions on her, Manthara’s, own life and fortunes. And while Manthara could overlook a mistake that affected Kaikeyi alone, she would never, ever forgive a mistake that affected herself. That was a lesson Kaikeyi had learned a very long time ago, as a girl barely tall enough to reach Manthara’s knee, staring up with large infant eyes at the hulking hunchbacked woman who had absolute power over her life and needs, or so it had seemed then. 

Kaikeyi scooted to the far side of the bed, her miserable headache suddenly forgotten. Suddenly she was that little girl again, clinging fearfully to Manthara’s sari, completely at the mercy of her daiimaa. It had been years since Manthara had thrashed her physically but Kaikeyi suspected she intended to make up for lost time. She had that familiar diamond-bright gleam in her eyes and the part of her lower lip where her overhanging upper teeth rested was shiny with spittle. 

Kaikeyi drew her knees up to her chest, crouching at the far edge of the large luxurious bed, watching Manthara with feral darting eyes. She didn’t know what she might have done to enrage her surrogate mother-cum-nanny but she didn’t intend to sit still and accept whatever new brutality Manthara was planning to dish out. 

To her surprise, Manthara’s next words were a question, not the string of four-letter words she’d expected. 

‘How long is it since he came to you?’ 

Kaikeyi rose to her knees and stared suspiciously at Manthara, wiping away the water seeping from her drenched tresses into her eyes. ‘Who?’ 

The hunchback snorted. ‘Who? Foolish woman, your husband. The King of Kosala, master of Ayodhya, Maharaja Dasaratha, who else? How many other men do you share your bed with?’ 

Kaikeyi wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a real question or a rhetorical one. She had never been good with subtlety and the pounding in her skull had only become worse. Oh, what cheap brew had that lout at the inn poured into her cup last night? She held her head in her hands and struggled to frame a good answer instead. What was the question again? Ah yes, how long had it been since Dasaratha had visited her bed? Good question. How long
had
it been? 

‘I don’t know,’ she replied at last, truthfully for once. ‘A long time. Maybe a year, maybe longer.’ 

Manthara nodded thoughtfully, setting the jug down on a chaupat table—Kaikeyi never actually played the game, but Dasaratha sometimes did. Several pieces—an elephant, a rook, and a few foot-soldiers—tumbled off the squarish board and clattered on the floor. ‘That was what I thought. Naturally, I assumed it was because of his health. An ailing septuagenarian does not desire physical intimacy as frequently as a robust young man.’ 

Manthara wagged a finger. ‘But you can never tell with men. They often feign weakness only to conserve their lustful energies for other, newer conquests.’ Her face twisted in a snarl. ‘I was fooled just as you were, believing his health kept him from your bed. Now, I see, he’s had his own agenda, the shrewd bastard.’ 

Kaikeyi’s eyes widened. Manthara’s abusive outbursts had never included the maharaja before. 

She shuddered. Whatever this was about, it was something she didn’t want to deal with right now. Not with a splitting headache. 

The old hunchback went on sharply, ‘What are you gaping at, girl? Standing around here won’t do us any good. We have to find out what the old man is up to, and quickly. Get dressed, Kaikeyi.’ She gestured at the suit of clothes she had placed on a couch. ‘Go on then. Jaldi! There’s work to be done.’ 

Kaikeyi did as she was told without argument. She had endured a lifetime of such bossing about, being told what to wear, what to say, how to say it, what to do and when and to whom. It was almost a relief to fall into this easy obedience. As she wiped the water from her face—this was to be the extent of her morning ablutions today, it seemed—she glanced repeatedly at Manthara, trying to read the daiimaa’s mood more clearly. 

Manthara stared at a diya beside the bed, her eyes fixed directly on the flickering flame. 

‘What happened?’ Kaikeyi asked as she stripped off the loincloth in which she had slept and put on a fresh one. ‘Why are you asking about Dasaratha? What did he do?’ 

Manthara’s attention remained on the lamp, her small glassy pupils transformed into tiny pinpoints of yellow fire by the twin reflections of the diya’s flame. 

Kaikeyi wrapped the sari around her waist with quick, practised efficiency. ‘Manthara,’ she said, starting to feel really scared now, ‘what’s wrong? Talk to me, won’t you?’ 

Manthara looked up at last. The reflected diya flame in her eyes seemed red now, deep fiery ochre, the colour of blood, if blood could flow upwards like a flame. 

‘The maharaja is in the first queen’s bedroom,’ she said. 

Kaikeyi paused in mid-fold, one hand at her hip, the other holding the bunched material at waist-height. She stared at Manthara, trying to absorb the implications of her words. It must be a joke. Dasaratha hadn’t entered Kausalya’s chambers in years! Except … except … Manthara never joked. 

‘Doing what?’ Her voice screeched on the second word. 

Manthara’s face twisted in another grimace of disgust. ‘Doing what men do to women.’ 

Kaikeyi started. Whatever she had been expecting or fearing, this was not it. ‘But …’ she began, confused and bewildered. She looked around, found the silver lota of water kept on her bedside table, picked it up and downed it in one long swallow. Her tongue worked again, although her throat still felt desert dry. ‘But why? Why her? I mean … I thought … You said he was too ill to …’ The implication struck her like a sledgehammer. A surge of anger rose like bile in her throat. ‘Why
her
, Manthara? Dammit! Why
her
?’ 

Manthara looked at her grimly. 

With the flames dancing in her eyes, she eerily resembled the rakshas in Kaikeyi’s dream. ‘That’s what we have to find out, you stupid woman.’ 

THREE 

Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra saw Guru Vashishta levitating a moment before he entered the yoga chamber. 

He glimpsed the guru’s white-clad long-bearded form between the closely bunched stone pillars that ringed the central chaukat. And for one startled moment, he could have sworn the guru was levitating. Not very high, perhaps just a foot or so—but rising steadily, definitely rising—above the ground. Sumantra’s view was blocked for an instant, just a fraction of a second as he rounded the last pillar, but when he reached the chaukat, the guru was firmly seated on the ground, eyes half-shut in the classic yoga-nidra asana of deep transcendental meditation. If it had been anyone else, Sumantra would have thought he’d imagined it and put it out of his mind at once. He was a scientific man, the most pragmatic prime minister the kingdom had ever had. Not given to tales of the Seven Seers and their fantastic mastery of Brahman sorcery. But he had never known quite what to make of Guru Vashishta. After all, the brahmarishi was a legend among legends. It was said he had been ordained by the Creator, mighty Brahma himself. Even Sumantra’s pragmatic outlook faltered momentarily before such a reputation. 

‘Namaskar, gurudev.’ His message delivered, the prime minister carefully kept his gaze directed at the guru’s feet, waiting silently for the sage’s response. 

Vashishta remained in the lotus posture for a few moments longer, his eyes shut, breathing slowed to the point of stasis. Out of the corner of his eye, Sumantra imagined he could glimpse a faint bluish tint to the sage’s white dhoti. Even the guru’s toenails seemed to glow briefly with the electric-blue tint. 

Sumantra blinked. 

The blue tint was gone. The dhoti’s edge was pristine, white as a sesa rabbit and spotless. He swallowed and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Perhaps he needed to have the royal vaids check his vision once more. 

He heard the the sage’s breathing gradually assume a more normal rhythm. He sensed rather than saw the sage’s eyes opening. 

‘Kaho, Sumantra.’ 

The prime minister glanced up, startled. The guru’s voice had seemed to come from within his brain itself, rather than from his lips. There was a faint hint of a twinkle in the brahmarishi’s eyes as he gazed serenely at Sumantra. And for an instant, Sumantra thought he glimpsed a faint sizzle of electric blue, like two very tiny bolts of blue lightning, within the orb of the seer’s pupils. Sumantra blinked twice and they were gone. 

‘Kaho, Pradhan-Mantri. Kya samasya hain?’
Speak, Prime Minister. What seems to be the problem
? 

Sumantra bowed his head, admonishing himself for giving in to his imagination once again. This always seemed to happen when he met Vashishta alone: it was as if the seer-mage was secretly toying with him, testing the limits of his scientific rationality. 

‘Shama, mahadev. Forgive me for interrupting your sacred meditation. There is a visitor who wishes to have your audience at once. Normally, I would have told any visitor to come back at a more suitable time, but this is no ordinary lord or lady seeking your ashirwaad.’ 

‘Who is it then? Speak, noble Sumantra.’ 

Sumantra could contain his excitement no longer. ‘Mahadev, it is none other than the great sage Vishwamitra himself! The famed seer-mage in person! He is standing at the gate of the royal palace, refusing to take a step inside. He says he cannot enter until invited by the lord of the abode. I pray I did nothing to offend him. I rushed directly here to inform you.’ 

‘You did the right thing as always, Sumantra.’ Guru Vashishta was as calm as Sumantra was excited. ‘Now you must go and inform the maharaja. Protocol demands that he and I must both go to the gate and welcome this illustrious visitor with all due formality. You understand what an honour this is. Vishwamitra has been in the deep forest, meditating for a great length of time. If he has interrupted his meditation, there must be a very good reason. It is imperative that all the necessary traditions and rituals be followed to the last detail. Go quickly and fetch Maharaja Dasaratha. I will make the other arrangements and meet you both in the foyer in a few minutes.’ 

Sumantra was not a nervous man and matters of protocol were his daily bread and butter, but he had never been confronted with the dilemma he was in right now. 

‘Mahadev, the maharaja …’ He paused, considering how to phrase the rest of the sentence. 

Vashishta saw the expression on his face. 

‘Sumantra? Aakhir samasya kya hai?’ he said with no trace of impatience.
What exactly is the problem
? 

‘Guruji, the maharaja is not in his chambers.’ 

‘So? You must know where he is then. You always know, Sumantra. You are the eyes, ears and conscience of the throne.’ 

Sumantra nodded. ‘Yes, I have an idea where he might be.’