Prince of Dharma (9 page)

She raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. ‘Dharma, my lord? A big word to use for a small act of daily habit. Surely all your queens begin their day by offering a few basic prayers to the ancestors, the gods, and to their lord and master? No decent married woman in Kosala would do any less.’ 

He shifted his gaze, pretending to examine the view through a latticed window. The dawn was just breaking and he could glimpse the neatly arrayed rows of flowers and smell the strong, arousing odour of jasmine, always her favourite. He knew her comment was directed at the fact that his second queen, Kaikeyi, was more likely to be sleeping at this hour than performing the ritual dawn prayer. He resisted the provocation in the comment with a small effort. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to rebuke or taunt him. 

‘Kausalya,’ he tried again, ‘how have you been, my queen? I trust all is well with you? You do not want for anything?’ He tried to put as much sincerity as possible into his voice, to sound suitably regal and king-like to deflect any further arrows of sarcasm. 

But she was not done yet. Barely begun. Her still lovely face twisted slightly in a small moue of mock surprise. ‘Me, great naresh?’ she said, using the Sanskrit word for lord this time— anything but his first name, he noted. ‘What is there about me that could possibly interest you any longer?’ 

He smiled with an effort. ‘Come, come now. You know that you are my first queen, my first bride.’ He gestured at the large empty bed that dominated the chamber. ‘We have shared so many happy nights here on this playground of pleasure.’ 

‘And we do so no more.’ The rebuke was as sharp and brief as a whip-crack. 

His smile faded. ‘Let me come to the point. I came here this morning because—’ 

She shook her head. ‘Not yet, my king. Not all your wives may be as diligent in their duties, but I was brought up better than that. There are traditions to be followed.’ 

Before he could protest, she clapped her hands. A serving girl, perhaps the same one he had passed in the hallway outside, appeared instantly, bowing low enough to almost strike her forehead on the floor. She had clothes on now, but he didn’t notice. 

‘Arghya,’ Kausalya said, and the girl scuttled away, returning at once with a large metal bowl and jug of water. 

He sighed as he took the seat Kausalya indicated. ‘My queen, this is ridiculous. Arghya is done to greet a guest honouring your house with a rare visit. Not your own husband!’ 

She looked up from her crouched posture as she washed his feet. ‘I could name guests who have visited our house more often, raje.’ 

That one cut deep. He reached down and grasped her arms, stopping her in the act of wiping his feet dry with the end of her own sari pallo. ‘I have to speak to you on a matter of great importance. Dispense with these foolish games.’ 

She looked down at her hands. At his large hairy fists gripping her wrists, pressing her gold bracelets into her slender forearms. ‘You are truly a great king, Ayodhya-naresh. You visit your first wife’s chambers after such a long absence, and this is how you show your affection towards her.’ 

He released her wrists at once, stung with shame. Even if she had goaded him, it was his own guilt that had provoked his temper. He turned away, unable to look her in the eyes for a moment. He had been away from her for too long; had forgotten that she was not Kaikeyi. And now, in re-entering her little circle of power, he had granted her the opportunity to taunt him, rebuke him, make him feel as guilty as a young bridegroom stealing a kiss from his sister-in-law. 

He willed himself to stay calm. After all, he had been prepared for this when he made the decision to visit her this morning. Whatever the provocation now, he would stay within the bounds of chivalry. 

But her next words were completely unexpected, as was her tone. Her voice was gentle and soft and sincere. And it came from right beside him. Her hand touched his bare arm and the very touch brought sense-memories flooding back. 

‘Raje,’ she said, again using the affectionate ‘e’ suffix instead of the more formal ‘maharaja’. ‘I apologise if I spoke harshly. It has been a long time since you graced me with your presence. I have been so long in my own company, I seem to have forgotten how to behave in the presence of my king.’ 

He was startled to find his eyes turning moist. The nape of his neck creeping with shame. 

She went on. ‘Please, do me the honour of sitting with me in my akasa-chamber. Together we shall watch the new day dawn and you may speak your mind freely. I shall not forget the rules of royal hospitality again.’ 

He turned and gripped her shoulders so unexpectedly, so strongly, she gasped at first. Then she saw the look in his eyes. Not anger. Far from it. 

‘Please,’ he said, making no attempt to sound regal any longer, ‘say no more. Not another word. I am ashamed enough as it is.’ 

Her eyes widened. ‘Raje?’ 

‘Please. Believe me. I have never stopped loving you. Not a day, not an hour, not a moment has passed when I did not think of you.’ 

She stared. For once, Kausalya the silver-tongued was at a loss for words. 

‘I know,’ he went on, ‘that I acted foolishly, even cruelly. I neglected you without cause or reason, explanation or excuse. It is shameful in a Kshatriya, unforgivable in a king. But even after I realised it, I did not know how to express my regret to you. How to make amends. Even the gurus are not so wise in matters of men and women, Kausalya.’ 

She shook her head slowly. ‘I had no idea.’ 

He hung his head. ‘You do not know how many times I desired to come to you, to beseech you to forgive me. To let me start afresh.’ 

She looked at him as if seeing him now for the first time since he had entered her chambers. ‘You should have come. I would have forgiven you in a trice. If only you had come.’ 

‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I should have come. But I had not the heart. You know, you alone know, how much I fear rejection. I hesitate to venture where I might not find certain victory. For grieving as I was—yes, that is the word, grieving for our lost love—I could not bear the thought of you turning me away, pushing me out. Then I should have been lost utterly.’ 

‘How could I?’ she cried. ‘Turn you away? Push you out? You fool? You royal fool! I would have taken you in with open arms. I could never turn you away.’ 

He stared at her. ‘Is it true then? Would you have forgiven me so easily?’ 

She looked down for a moment. There was a ragged edge to her voice when she spoke again. ‘Perhaps forgiveness would have taken a while. I am no devi, just a woman. A woman still trying to be a queen. But I would have let you stay. Of that much you can be certain.’ 

They were both silent for several moments. Thinking of the nights they had lain awake in their respective beds, so near to one another, yet so emotionally distant. Longing, wanting, fearing. 

‘I
am
a fool,’ he admitted. ‘An old fool now.’ 

She looked up anxiously. The deterioration in his health had been no secret around the palace. ‘Have you had more attacks? The royal vaids—’ 

He snorted. ‘The royal vaids find my ailment fascinating to study, and impossible to cure!’ He shook his head. ‘I am being uncharitable. They do their best, it is true. Yet even the great medical science of Ayurveda doesn’t have all the answers.’ He shrugged aside the topic brusquely. ‘We will speak of that later, I promise. But right now, I am better than I have been in years.’ He gestured wistfully at the portrait of his younger self. ‘Not what I was once. Never again that strength, that burning ambition, that war-lust, that—’ He coughed once. ‘But I feel good. Better than I have felt in a long time. Perhaps that is why I was able to find the strength to come to you at last.’ 

He looked at her, a gentleness in his moist eyes that was more than mere politeness. ‘And I thank the ancestors that I did.’ 

She felt his gaze move down her face, to her breasts, her still slender waist, her flaring hips, her navel … He saw her fair almond-white complexion turn scarlet, the flush spreading from her cheeks to her throat … He moved closer. 

‘Kausalya,’ he whispered in her ear. 

Her knees buckled and gave way. She slipped down, her sari rustling, bangles clinking against each other. She crumpled in a heap at his feet, boneless, breathless. He sighed and bent with an effort. He caught her hands and pulled her to her feet. She came easily, not resisting, and he caught a whiff of jasmine and was instantly flooded with memories. Of their first years together, their first nights, when there had been only she and he, no second or third queens, no three hundred and fifty other wives, just a young prince and his princess, lying on a flower-bedecked bed in the open chaukat beneath the stars. The jasmine brought that back with a suddenness that was all the more shocking because he had blocked out the memories for so long. 

She looked up at him with eyes that were as wide, as beautiful—no, far more beautiful—as the ones in the portrait. No amount of artistry could capture the way the light caught her eyes, this glowing inner flame that made her seem both angel and conquering warrior princess. It was as if the years had never passed, as if she had never borne a son, as if he had never lost interest in her and grown distant, as if … 

He shook his head and released her, stepping back. His bare feet trod on the edge of the arghya bowl and tipped it over, spilling water and making a clattering sound that echoed hollowly in the large chamber. Neither noticed or cared. 

He drew her to the bed. As he did, he saw her reach out and yank on a slender tasselled cord tied to a post of the bed. A shower of cool, delicately scented rose petals coated the bed and their bodies. He was amazed. How many years had she waited, night after night, replenishing that cache of petals daily, for just this one moment when he would come to her again? He could not conceive of such infinite patience. He was astonished to find himself weeping with pleasure and pain both at once, the pleasure of her clasp and the pain of their long separation. 

He remembered then that he had not yet spoken to her of the real reason for his coming to visit her. 

Afterwards. 

He would tell her immediately afterwards. 

TWO 

Second Queen Kaikeyi was being murdered by a rakshas. The horned demon was sitting astride her chest, crushing her lungs with his bear-like bulk, hammering away at her head with his pounding paws, as rhythmically as a dhol-player at a Holi celebration. Bam-bam-bam-bam, pause, bam-bam-bam-bam, pause. 

He would have continued until her skull cracked open to spill out her brains but her thought of Holi seemed to interrupt his rhythm. He growled angrily and squeezed his thighs, making her ribs ache unspeakably. 

She struggled to open her eyes. Holi. What was it about the festival of Holi that had angered the rakshas? It was sometime soon, wasn’t it? She knew it was, because just the other day Manthara had told her that this was Bharat’s first Holi at home since the age of seven. Kaikeyi had been startled to hear this. She knew Bharat and his brothers had spent several years at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul, being schooled in God knows what. But they had been home for three seasons now, and it seemed like he had always been here with her. Had he really been away for eight years? Manthara couldn’t be mistaken, she was never mistaken. That was why Kaikeyi trusted her to decide everything for her. 

Where was Manthara now anyway? Why wasn’t she doing something about this damn rakshas sitting on her chest? And this head. Blessed Earth-Mother Sri. She wished the rakshas would just tear off her head and be done with it. Decapitation would be a blessed relief after this pounding. Then she might dare to open her eyes and resume her life once more. Of course it might be awkward to pursue a normal life without a head. Although of course the great god Ganesha had managed fine with a baby elephant’s head. 

Perhaps she could have a doe’s head attached, or better still, a stag, one of those giant Nilgiri stags, ten feet high at the shoulder, antlers bristling menacingly. She could picture herself, standing naked, her neckline ragged and blood-smeared, with the head of a Nilgiri stag, proud and black-eyed, antlers rising like a bizarre crown. Interesting. In a strange gods-and-monsters kind of way. Like a mythic victim of a terrible curse. Arousing, like those strange paintings of twisted creatures she had once seen at a foreign merchant’s stall on the road to Janakpuri. 

‘Kaikeyi!’ 

Or like those tribals she had watched performing that dance inspired by the forbidden shakti-pooja ritual. The dance had been so shockingly coarse, she had wondered what it would have been like to witness the ritual itself. Or even—bite your tongue—participate in it. The tribals had worn animal pelts, complete with heads and glassily staring eyes. That was how she would look if she had the head of a Nilgiri stag and the body of a woman, a perfect body like she used to have, before marriage, before motherhood, before living well and eating even better took their toll. What a formidable, terrifying, awe-inspiring thing she would be.