The Conspiracy at Meru

by Shatrujeet Nath

  All of a sudden, something took a vice-like grip on Amarka’s wrist, breaking his fall.

  The abrupt shift in momentum jolted his hand, and as he dangled over emptiness, a searing, tearing pain erupted at his shoulder. Blind and disoriented, he had just begun fearing his arm would come apart at the joint when he sensed a change in the flow of air currents and realized he was being drawn upward.

  “Take my hand and pull yourself up, brother.”

  Chandasura’s voice came to him as if from far away, but looking up, Amarka saw his brother leaning over his vyala’s shoulder, peering down at him. He grabbed Chandasura’s muscular forearm, which was supporting all his weight.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  Reaching out with his free hand, Amarka hauled himself up inch by painful inch, until with one final, powerful heave Chandasura yanked him up so he could climb onto the vyala’s back. The beast soared back toward the light, and Amarka held his brother’s shoulders with trembling hands.

  “That was close,” he said into Chandasura’s ear. “Thank you for coming after me, brother.”

  “I had to,” Chandasura threw a backward glance. The visor muffled Chandasura’s voice, but Amarka could tell he was smiling. “No way would I have gone back to father without you.”

  “It is the Maruts,” Amarka spoke as the palace came back into view, a sparkling encrustation on the spur of rock rising out of the abyss. High above the palace, four vyalas were engaged in mortal combat. “They are taking control of the vyalas.”

  “I know,” Chandasura grunted, urging his mount toward the four vyalas fighting overhead. “The mother sorceress should have strangled those seven at birth instead of leaving them in the cold for Indra to find and adopt as his own. But they are just seven – we can easily take them on.”

  Two of the four vyalas had been taken over by the Maruts, who were now clashing with the asuras riding the other two. Even as Shukracharya’s sons approached the group, one of the asuras fell off his vyala, his body cut in two by a Marut’s sword. Uttering an angry oath, Chandasura swooped over the Marut’s vyala, swinging his mace at the four-horned head. The Marut, however, saw the descent of the weapon just in time and dodged, but the mace still cut its cheek, making the demon’s silver blood run. The rakshasa responded swiftly, its sword arcing toward Chandasura’s head, but the asura parried the assault.

  Attack met with counterattack. The encounter was ferocious, bloody and closely contested. Though outnumbered, the Maruts fought with all their demonic strength, leaping from one vyala to the next, throwing the asura riders down to the ground one after another. The notion of the tables finally turning on their tormentors brought a ragged cheer out of Amaravati’s defenders. Emboldened devas rushed out to the fallen asuras, hacking at those who were unfortunate enough to survive the drop. Chandasura estimated that they had lost a dozen asuras, and more were going down with every passing moment.

  Knowing that stopping the Maruts was imperative, he pressed more and more asuras into the fray, and the advantage slowly tilted back in the attackers’ favour, as Diti’s unwanted seven began tiring. Moreover, notwithstanding their dauntlessness, the rakshasas were handicapped by their lack of skill in handling the quick-tempered vyalas. One by one, the frustrated Maruts dropped back to the ground in the hope that the attackers would follow them so the deva army could join the battle. But the asuras and their vyala mounts stayed firmly out of reach.

  The sky gradually turned grey to the east, and before long, the first light of a new day touched the tips of the vyalas’ wings.

  “We have wreaked plenty of havoc, as was demanded of us by father,” Chandasura said to Amarka, getting his vyala to turn around. “Let us depart.”

  Sweeping over the palace in a wide circle, the brothers signaled to the asura army. Slowly, the vyalas rose into the air, higher and higher, still rasping and screeching as they started heading south.

  Chandasura looked back at Amaravati one last time as he crested the summit of Mount Meru, but all he could make out was a pall of smoke stretching for miles, with the pinnacles of Indra’s palace poking through its dirty grey layers.

  A sight that would have pleased his father no end, he thought with satisfaction.

  Kubera

  Ghatakarpara peered at the prisoner through the grille set high in the door. The man sat hunched in one corner of the tiny cell, his back pressed against the wall, hands dangling between his knees. Eyes closed and head lolling to one side, he appeared to be asleep, but Ghatakarpara could hear him crooning softly to himself. He swayed forward occasionally, only to rock back on his dirty, cracked heels.

  “Has he said anything since I left?” the prince asked one of the three soldiers of the Frontier Guard who stood guard by the door.

  “No, your honour,” the soldier replied. “Not one word that any human can understand.”

  “Hmmm,” Ghatakarpara pursed his lips and turned back to the prisoner, who had also just realized there were people on the other side of the door. The man stared at Ghatakarpara with beseeching, fear-filled eyes, and instinctively covered his cheek with one hand, as if to guard himself from being slapped. Hugging his knees with his other hand, he rolled himself tighter into a ball, trying to make himself disappear into the shadows of the cell.

  He had been found wandering near the outpost of Balipura around mid-morning, just as Ghatakarpara was preparing to leave the outpost to survey the border positions nearby. When accosted, the man had been unable to explain who he was and what he was doing in the area, so the soldiers had brought him in for further questioning. Ghatakarpara had joined in the interrogation briefly, but not only did the man not seem to understand them, his entire vocabulary consisted of monosyllabic aais and aaus and uuhs. When even a few tight slaps failed to loosen his tongue, he was put in confinement, his fate to be decided once Ghatakarpara returned from his inspection of the border.

  “What should we do with him, your honour?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “We can’t just let him go,” the prince answered, squinting into the bright, noonday sunlight that emptied into the outpost’s courtyard. “For all we know, he could be a Huna scout.”

  “He doesn’t look like much of a scout, your honour,” remarked the third soldier, a veteran with a big, grey moustache. “He seems a little soft in the head to me.”

  “It could just be an act. Even his speech disability could be put on.” Ghatakarpara vaguely wondered whether the outpost would have a convenient dead body around so he could try Amara Simha’s trick on the prisoner. He promptly dismissed the idea, unsure if he could even pull off the stunt without losing the morning’s breakfast. “Are we certain he is a stranger to these parts?”

  “We checked, your honour. None of the soldiers have seen him hereabouts before. The men who caught him also asked a couple of local goatherds if they recognized him. None of them did.”

  “He has to be a scout then,” said the prince. “Unlock the door.”

  Entering the cell, Ghatakarpara took three strides and stood before the prisoner. The prince guessed the man to be in his mid-twenties.

  “Okay, enough of this nonsense. Who are you and what are you doing here? C’mon, speak up.”

  The man jerked his head back as Ghatakarpara barked the last words out. “Aaaaau… uuuuh.”

  “That is not going to get you very far,” the prince snapped. “Aaaai… uuh… aaaaaa…”

  “Perhaps all he needs is a sound beating,” suggested one of the younger soldiers.

  “You heard him,” Ghatakarpara pointed at the soldier, bending and bringing his face close to the prisoner’s. “You will be beaten, you will be starved, you will be tortured until we get the truth out of you. Do you want all that done to you?”

  The man flinched. “Aau… aaaaaa…”

  The prince straightened. His military training told him that he needed to carry out some of his threats for his words to be taken seriously. Yet, the absence of guile in the
prisoner’s eyes made him think twice. Perhaps the man was harmless. Then again, perhaps the man was an exceptional actor. It was all so exasperating. None of his training had prepared him to handle such situations.

  “Shall I take him out and tie him to the stake for a whipping, your honour?”

  Still unable to make up his mind about the man – and acutely aware that the soldiers were sizing him up and would judge him against the decision he took – Ghatakarpara was saved from offering a half-baked reply by the crunching of heavy wheels on gravel. Craning his neck around the open door, he observed a one-horse carriage roll to a stop outside the stockade that ran along the periphery of the outpost. A bright, colourful canopy at the back sheltered the passengers from the sun’s glare, and as the prince watched, the curtains parted and two women stepped hurriedly off the carriage. At the same time, three men – local villagers, by their looks – trotted up to the outpost’s gate.

  As the soldiers gawked at the arrivals in open curiosity, three guards approached the carriage with caution, their spears tilted and ready for any eventuality. One of the women – the younger of the two, Ghatakarpara noted – took a few steps in the direction of the advancing soldiers.

  Stopping just inside the gate, one hand on her hip, she demanded, “Who is in charge here?” Her voice was sharp and brimming with indignation.

  The soldiers were still exchanging uncertain glances when the prince stepped onto the verandah of the building that housed the cell.

  “I am,” he said in a tone lazy with authority. “What do you want?”

  The woman entered the compound, fixing Ghatakarpara with a cold and belligerent stare. Seeing her from closer, the prince realized she was young, probably just out of her teens. She was short and built on the slightly heavier side. Her face was round and chubby, light brown in complexion. A small gold ring adorned her nose, and her lips were full as they pouted at Ghatakarpara in anger.

  “Soldier, your men have captured and forcefully brought a man here this morning,” she said. “Is that right?”

  “Maybe,” Ghatakarpara shrugged and brushed a few strands of hair back from his eyes. “What of it?”

  “I want you to set him free immediately.”

  “Who are you? And what is this man to you?”

  “I am Aparupa, and the man is my maid’s son,” the girl pointed in the direction of the older woman, who still stood by the carriage. The woman, who was probably around forty-five, bowed her head and raised her clasped hands at Ghatakarpara.

  The prince looked at the ring of soldiers around the courtyard. “Does anyone here recognize the maid? Or her, for that matter?” He gestured at the girl standing before him.

  The soldiers had just begun shaking their heads when the girl snapped at Ghatakarpara. “Obviously none of them will. We are not from these parts. We are from Udaypuri. I am here visiting my grandparents, who have their home in the village of Balipura.” She turned and threw her arm at the three men who had followed the carriage on foot. “Ask them, if you don’t believe me.”

  One of the villagers came forward. “I am the local cobbler, sir. I have often mended the sandals, belts and harnesses of your men.” Ghatakarpara saw a handful of soldiers nod in agreement.

  “What the lady says is true, sir,” the cobbler continued. “Her grandparents have been living in Balipura for ages, and her grandfather is a well-known incense maker in this region. The lady and her maid come to the village at least once every year, and I know them both well, sir. I have even seen the boy a couple of times over the years.”

  “Satisfied?” Aparupa tilted her chin at Ghatakarpara in challenge.

  The prince couldn’t help thinking that the big, black eyes flashing at him were immensely attractive. “Bring him out,” he said to one of the soldiers.

  Cowering and shaking with fright, the man was escorted out of his cell. As he blinked in the harsh light, a hollow gasp escaped the elderly maid’s lips.

  “My son,” she uttered in a trembling voice, taking a couple of steps forward.

  The moment his eyes adjusted to the light and he saw his mother, the man rushed into the courtyard with open arms. “Aaaaai… aaaaa… aaaau,” he moaned in despair and threw himself into the woman’s embrace, the grief of separation and the relief of reunion weaving an unmistakable symphony in Ghatakarpara’s ears. Watching mother and son weep, Aparupa turned back to the prince.

  “How can you just take someone captive like that?”

  “He was moving around the outpost suspiciously, and when the men questioned him, he couldn’t provide any satisfactory answers,” Ghatakarpara replied.

  “Can’t you see he can’t talk and is mentally backward?” the girl shot back. “And you arrested him without even bothering to find out who he was?”

  “We asked some goatherds, but they didn’t recognize him,” the prince suddenly felt irritated at being pushed into the defensive.

  “Goatherds!” Aparupa literally stamped her foot in anger. Flinging an arm out, she shouted, “The village is less than two miles away. You could have asked there.”

  “Right. From now on, that’s what the Frontier Guard and Imperial Army will do every time they make arrests – parade suspects from village to village for proper identification. A circus of convicts touring the kingdom!” Ghatakarpara snorted in derision. “What a marvelous idea – somebody must suggest it to the king!”

  Spots of red heat blossomed and spread across the girl’s cheeks. “I didn’t say village to village. Balipura is just here.” “

  And what if he had been from two or three villages further away? Then it would have been fine to arrest him, beat him up and even kill him, I suppose?”

  Before the girl could stitch together a fitting retort, Ghatakarpara pressed his advantage. “And what are you standing here and ranting about? You know the fellow can’t talk and is mentally backward. Why did you let him roam wherever he pleased when one of you should have been keeping an eye on him? He is your responsibility, not mine. If you care so much about him, you should keep him in Udaypuri under lock and key.”

  “How dare you! Is that how you would treat a backward member of your own family?” Aparupa clenched her fists, frustration and rage shimmering in her eyes. “That’s it!” she blazed, wagging a finger at Ghatakarpara’s face. “You have no idea of what I can do. My father is a well-connected man, soldier. You will regret this day dearly. I shall make you stand before me and apologize for everything you have said and done.”

  The girl whirled around – her long plait of hair spinning with her – and stomped out of the courtyard. Watching her and her maid and the recently captive son climb back into the carriage, the prince wondered why she had kept addressing him as ‘soldier’. Then it dawned on him. He was attired in the common uniform of a Frontier Guardsman, and not the formal clothes and decorations that he habitually wore in the garrison of Udaypuri.

  “How stupid of her to be threatening you, your honour,” the old soldier with the big, grey moustache gave a wide, broken-toothed grin. “You should have told her who you were. But I think you still shut her up nicely.”

  With a feeble smile at the heads nodding around him, Ghatakarpara trailed the departing carriage with an inward sigh, feeling strangely empty and forlorn. He wished the girl would carry through her threat once she returned to Udaypuri. That was probably the only way he would see her again.

  * * *

  “Can I offer you another helping of rice?”

  “No, I am done,” Vikramaditya replied. “I can’t eat an ounce more.”

  “But I have…” Vishakha glanced at the samrat uncertainly.

  “You have…?” Vikramaditya gave the queen an encouraging nod.

  They were seated in a little alcove by the king’s bedchamber, surrounded by potted ferns and flowering vines. A small fountain gushed nearby, with three placid white fish swimming in the sparkling pool that formed its basin.

  “I made something for you.”

  The sa
mrat watched Vishakha reach under the table and bring out a small plate covered with a square piece of light muslin. Setting the plate in front of him, Vishakha removed the cloth to reveal six conical dumplings made of rice flour.

  “Aha, modaka!” Vikramaditya’s face lit up. “These are my favourites.”

  “I know,” Vishakha smiled back at him shyly.

  The king had picked one modaka and was about to bite into it, but hearing Vishakha’s words, he paused.

  “You remembered that I like these?” His voice quivered with hope.

  The queen dropped her eyes. “The Queen Mother told me you liked them,” she answered in a small voice.

  “I see.”

  Doing his best to keep the disappointment from showing, Vikramaditya bit into the warm dumpling, savouring the grated coconut and jaggery filling. It tasted exactly the way they had always tasted whenever Vishakha had prepared the delicacies in the past.

  “Delicious,” he said, reaching for a second one.

  “I heard someone say he couldn’t eat an ounce more,” Vishakha gave the king a mischievous glance.

  “I didn’t hear someone say modaka before I said that,” the samrat shot back playfully. “This is so good.”

  “Still not as good as the way badi-maa makes them,” Vishakha said. Seeing the king look at her in surprise, she added, “She is the one who taught me how to make these. Always so kind and generous and helpful she is.”

  Vikramaditya pushed his plate away and rose from the table. He couldn’t believe the queen had managed recalling even badi-maa– Vararuchi’s mother had never lived in the palace, and Vishakha wouldn’t have visited her on more than five occasions in all the time she had spent in Ujjayini. Yet she remembered badi-maa… but not him.

  “Wouldn’t you have one more?” Vishakha looked up at him, her eyes wide with doubt. “Aren’t they nice?”

  “Of course they are,” the samrat gave her a reassuring smile. “I am only saving them for later. Now come… it is my turn to give you something.”