Her left arm was in a sling. Her back was plastered with thick neem paste, mixed with tissue-repairing Ayurvedic medicines. Miniature bandages covered most parts of her body, protecting nicks and cuts to make them heal quickly.
‘One doesn’t need to be Vyomkesh to figure this out,’ said Sita, referring to a popular fictional detective from folk stories.
Arishtanemi laughed softly.
The chariot had been brought to Sita’s large chamber in the Ayuralay. Sita had examined it thoroughly. It had been very cleverly done.
Wood from another type of tree had been used to replace the two suspension beams. It was similar in appearance to the wood used in the rest of the carriage. It looked hardy. But was, in fact, weak. The nail marks that fixed the beams on the main shaft were fresh, despite care being taken to use old nails. One beam had cracked like a twig when strained by the speed of movement on uneven ground and the sharp turns. The beam had collapsed and jammed into the ground, seizing up the axle. This had brought the wheels to an abrupt halt when at a great speed. The chariot had levered up on the broken suspension beam as its front-end had rammed into the ground.
Very cleverly done.
Whoever had done this had the patience of a stargazer. It could have been done many months ago. It had been made to look like an old construction flaw, a genuine error. To make the death appear like an accident. And not an assassination. Sita had uncovered the conspiracy only through a close inspection of the nail marks.
The chariot was Sita’s. The target obvious. She was the only one who stood between Mithila and its expansionary enemies. Urmila could simply be married off. And Janak … Well. After Sita, it would only be a matter of time.
She had been extremely lucky. The accident had occurred when the last bend had almost been negotiated, making the chariot drag in a direction different from where Sita was flung due to the inertia of her bodily movement. Otherwise, she would have been crushed under the wheels and metal of her chariot. It would have been an almost certain death.
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Arishtanemi.
Sita had no doubt in her mind about who the perpetrator was behind her supposed accident. ‘I was willing to consider an alliance. Frankly, he could have become the head of the royal family, too. After all, I have bigger plans. All I had asked for was that my father and sister be safe and treated well. And, my citizens be taken care of. That’s it. Why did he do this?’
‘People are greedy. They are stupid. They misread situations. Also, remember, outside of the Malayaputras, no one knows about your special destiny. Perhaps, he sees you as a future ruler and a threat.’
‘When is Guru Vishwamitra coming back?’
Arishtanemi shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
So we have to do this ourselves.
‘What do you want to do?’ repeated Arishtanemi.
‘Guru Vishwamitra was right. He had told me once … Never wait. Get your retaliation in first.’
Arishtanemi smiled. ‘A surgical strike?’
‘I can’t do it openly. Mithila cannot afford an open war.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘It must look like an accident, just like mine was meant to be.’
‘Yes, it must.’
‘And, it cannot be the main man.’
Arishtanemi frowned.
‘The main man is just the strategist. In any case, I can’t attack him directly … My mother had prohibited it … We must cut off his right hand. So that he loses the ability to execute such plans.’
‘Sulochan.’
Sulochan was the prime minister of Sankashya. The right-hand man of Sita’s uncle Kushadhwaj. The man who ran practically everything for his king. Kushadhwaj would be paralysed without Sulochan.
Sita nodded.
Arishtanemi’s face was hard as stone. ‘It will be done.’
Sita did not react.
Now, you are truly worthy of being a Vishnu, thought Arishtanemi. A Vishnu who can’t fight for herself would be incapable of fighting for her people.
Mara had chosen his day and time well.
The boisterous nine-day festivities of the Winter Navratra always included the day that marked the Uttarayan, the beginning of the northward movement of the sun. This was the day the nurturer of the world, the sun, was farthest away from the northern hemisphere. It would now begin its six-month journey back to the north. Uttarayan was, in a sense, a harbinger of renewal. The death of the old. The birth of the new.
It was the first hour of the first prahar. Just after midnight. Except for the river port area, the city of Sankashya was asleep. The peaceful sleep of the tired and happy. Festivals manage to do that. The city guards, though, were among the few who were awake. Throughout the city, one could hear their loud calls on the hour, every hour: All is well.
Alas, not all the guards were as duty-conscious.
Twenty such men sat huddled in the guard room at Prime Minister Sulochan’s palace; it was the hour of their midnight snack. They should not have left their posts. But this had been a severe winter. And, the snack was only an excuse. They had, in fact, gravitated to the warm fireplace in the room like fireflies. It was just a break, they knew. They would soon be back on guard.
Sulochan’s palace was perched on a hill, skirting the royal garden of Sankashya at one end. At the other end was the generous River Gandaki. It was a truly picturesque spot, apt for the residence of the second-most powerful man in the city. But not very kind to the guards. The palace’s elevation increased the severity of the frosty winds. It made standing at the posts a battle against the elements. So, the men truly cherished the warmth of the guard room.
Two guards lay on the palace rooftop, towards the royal garden end. Their breathing even and steady. Sleeping soundly. They would not remember anything. Actually, there was nothing to remember. An odourless gas had gently breezed in and nudged them into a sound sleep. They would wake up the next morning, guiltily aware that they had dozed off on duty. They wouldn’t admit this to any investigator. The punishment for sleeping while on guard duty was death.
Mara was not a crass assassin. Any brute with a bludgeon could kill. He was an artist. One hired Mara only if one wanted to employ a shadow. A shadow that would emerge from the darkness, for only a little while, and then quickly retreat. Leaving not a trace. Leaving just a body behind. The right body; always, the right body. No witnesses. No loose ends. No other ‘wrong’ body. No unnecessary clues for the mind of a savvy investigator.
Mara, the artist, was in the process of crafting one of his finest creations.
Sulochan’s wife and children were at her maternal home. The Winter Navratra was the period of her annual vacation with her family. Sulochan usually joined them after a few days, but had been held back this time by some urgent state business. The prime minister was home alone. Indeed, Mara had chosen the day and time well. For he had been told strictly: avoid collateral damage.
He looked at the obese form of Prime Minister Sulochan. Lying on the bed. His hands on his sides. Feet flopped outwards. As he would ordinarily sleep. He was wearing a beige dhoti. Bare-chested. He had placed his angvastram on the bedside cabinet. Folded neatly. As he ordinarily would have done before going to sleep. His rings and jewellery had been removed and placed inside the jewellery box, next to the angvastram. Again, as he ordinarily would.
But, he was not breathing as he ordinarily would. He was already dead. A herbal poison had been cleverly administered through his nose. No traces would be left behind. The poison had almost instantly paralysed the muscles in his body.
The heart is a muscle. So is the diaphragm, located below the lungs. The victim asphyxiated within minutes.
Perhaps, Sulochan had been conscious through it. Perhaps not. Nobody would know.
And Mara didn’t care to know.
The assassination had been carried out.
Mara was now setting the scene.
He picked up a manuscript from a shelf. It chronicled the
doomed love story of a courtesan and a peripatetic trader. The story was already a popular play throughout the Sapt Sindhu. It was well known that Sulochan liked reading. And that he especially loved a good romance. Mara walked over to Sulochan’s corpse and placed the dog-eared manuscript on the bed, by the side of his chest.
Sulochan had fallen asleep while reading.
He picked up a glass-encased lamp, lit the wick, and placed it on the bedside cabinet.
His reading lamp …
He picked up the decanter of wine lying on a table-top at the far end of the room and placed it on the cabinet, along with a glass. He poured some wine into the empty glass.
Prime Minister Sulochan had been drinking wine and reading a romantic novel at the end of a tiring day.
He placed a bowlful of an Ayurvedic paste on the bedside cabinet. He dipped a wooden tong in the paste, opened Sulochan’s mouth and spread it evenly inside, taking care to include the back of his throat. A doctor would recognise this paste as a home remedy for stomach ache and gas.
The prime minister was quite fat. Stomach trouble would surely have been common. And he was also known to have enough Ayurvedic knowledge for home remedies for minor diseases and afflictions.
He walked towards the window.
Open window. Windy night.
He retraced his steps and pulled the covering sheet up to Sulochan’s neck.
Sulochan had covered himself up. He was feeling cold.
Mara touched the sheet and the angvastram. And cast a careful glance around the room. Everything was as it should be.
Perfect.
Sulochan had, it would be deduced, confused the beginnings of a heart attack for a stomach and gas problem. A regrettably common mistake. He had had some medicine for it. The medicine had relieved his discomfort. Somewhat. He had then picked up a book to read and poured himself some wine. He had begun to feel the chill, typical of a heart attack. He had pulled up his sheet to cover himself. And then the heart attack had struck with its full ferocity.
Unfortunate.
Perfectly unfortunate.
Mara smiled. He looked around the scene and took a final mental picture. As he always did.
He frowned.
Something’s not right.
He looked around again. With animal alertness.
Damn! Bloody stupid!
Mara walked up to Sulochan and picked up his left arm. Rigor mortis was setting in and the body had already begun to stiffen. With some effort, Mara placed Sulochan’s left hand on his chest. With strain, he spread the fingers apart. As if the man had died clutching his chest in pain.
I should have done this earlier. Stupid! Stupid!
Satisfied with his work now, Mara once again scanned the room. Perfect.
It looked like a simple heart attack.
He stood in silence, filled with admiration for his creation. He kissed the fingertips of his right hand.
No, he was not just a killer. He was an artist.
My work here is done.
He turned and briskly walked up to the window, leapt up and grabbed the parapet of the roof. Using the momentum, he somersaulted and landed on his feet above the parapet. Soon he was on the rooftop.
Mara was the invisible man. The dark, non-transferable polish that he had rubbed all over his skin, along with his black dhoti, ensured that he went unseen in the night.
The maestro sighed with satisfaction. He could hear the sounds of the night. The chirping crickets. The crackling fire from the guard room. The rustling wind. The soft snores of the guards asleep on the roof … Everything was as it should be. Nothing was amiss.
He ran in the direction of the royal garden. Without any hesitation. Building up speed. As he neared the edge of the roof, he leapt like a cat and glided above the ground. His outstretched arms caught an overhanging branch of a tree. He swung onto the branch, balanced his way to the tree trunk and smoothly slid to the ground.
He began running. Soft feet. Silent breaths. No unnecessary sound.
Mara, the shadow, disappeared into the darkness. Lost to the light. Again.
Chapter 14
Mithila was more stable than it had been in years. The rebuilt slums, along with the ancillary opportunities it provided, had dramatically improved the lives of the poor. Cultivation in the land between the two fort walls had led to a spike in agricultural production. Inflation was down. And, the unfortunate death of the dynamic prime minister of Sankashya had neutralised Kushadhwaj substantially. No one grudged the now popular Sita her decision to carry out a spate of diplomatic visits across the country.
Of course, few knew that the first visit would be to the fabled capital of the Malayaputras: Agastyakootam.
The journey was a long and convoluted one. Jatayu, Sita, and a large Malayaputra company first travelled to Sankashya by the dirt road. Thereafter, they sailed on river boats down the Gandaki till its confluence with the mighty Ganga. Then, they sailed up the Ganga to its closest point to the Yamuna. They then marched over land to the banks of the Yamuna and sailed down the river till it met the Sutlej to form the Saraswati. From there, they sailed farther down the Saraswati till it merged into the Western Sea. Next, they boarded a seaworthy ship and were presently sailing down the western coast of India, towards the southwestern tip of the Indian subcontinent. Destination: Kerala. Some called it God’s own country. And why not, for this was the land the previous Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram, had called his own.
On an early summer morning, with a light wind in its sails, the ship moved smoothly over calm waters. Sita’s first experience of the sea was pleasant and free of discomfort.
‘Was Lord Parshu Ram born in Agastyakootam?’ asked Sita.
Sita and Jatayu stood on the main deck, their hands resting lightly on the balustrade. Jatayu turned to her as he leaned against the bar. ‘We believe so. Though I can’t give you proof. But we can certainly say that Lord Parshu Ram belongs to Kerala and Kerala belongs to him.’
Sita smiled.
Jatayu pre-empted what he thought Sita would say. ‘Of course, I am not denying that many others in India are as devoted to Lord Parshu Ram as we are.’
She was about to say something but was distracted as her eyes fell upon two ships in the distance. Lankan ships. They were moving smoothly, but at a startling speed.
Sita frowned. ‘Those ships look the same as ours. They have as many sails as ours. How are they sailing so much faster?’
Jatayu sighed. ‘I don’t know. It’s a mystery. But it’s a huge maritime advantage for them. Their armies and traders travel to faraway regions faster than anyone else can.’
Raavan must have some technology that the others do not possess.
She looked at the mastheads of the two ships. Black-coloured Lankan flags, with the image of the head of a roaring lion emerging from a profusion of fiery flames, fluttered proudly in the wind.
Not for the first time, Sita wondered about the relationship between the Malayaputras and the Lankans.
As they neared the Kerala coast, the travellers were transferred to a ship with a lesser draught, suitable for the shallower backwaters they would now sail into.
Sita had been informed in advance by Jatayu and knew what to expect as they approached the landmass. They sailed into the maze-like water bodies that began at the coast. A mix of streams, rivers, lakes and flooded marshes, they formed a navigable channel into the heart of God’s own country. Charming at first glance, these waters could be treacherous; they constantly changed course in a land blessed with abundant water. As a result, new lakes came into being as old ones drained every few decades. Fortuitously, most of these backwaters were inter-connected. If one knew how, one could navigate this watery labyrinth into the hinterland. But if one was not guided well, it was easy to get lost or grounded. And, in this relatively uninhabited area, populated with all kinds of dangerous animals, that could be a death sentence.
Sita’s ship sailed in this confusing mesh of waterways for over a week till it re
ached a nondescript channel. At first, she did not notice the three tall coconut trees at the entrance to the channel. The creepers that spread over the three trunks seemed fashioned into a jigsaw of axe-parts.
The channel led to a dead end, covered by a thick grove of trees. No sight of a dock where the ship could anchor. Sita frowned. She assumed that they would anchor mid-stream and meet some boats soon. Amazingly, the ship showed no signs of slowing down. In fact, the drumbeats of the pace-setters picked up a notch. As the rowers rowed to a faster beat, the vessel gathered speed, heading straight for the grove!
Sita was alone on the upper deck. She held the railings nervously and spoke aloud, ‘Slow down. We are too close.’
But her voice did not carry to Jatayu, who was on the secondary deck with his staff, supervising some intricate operations.
How can he not see this! The grove is right in front of us!
‘Jatayuji!’ screamed Sita in panic, sure now that the ship would soon run aground. She tightened her grip on the railing, bent low and braced herself. Ready for impact.
No impact. A mild jolt, a slight slowing, but the ship sailed on.
Sita raised her head. Confused.
The trees moved, effortlessly pushed aside by the ship! The vessel sailed deep into what should have been the grove. Sita bent over and looked into the water.
Her mouth fell open in awe.
By the great Lord Varun.
Floating trees were pushed aside as the ship moved into a hidden lagoon ahead. She looked back. The floating trees had moved back into position, hiding the secret lagoon as the ship sailed forward. Later, Jatayu would reveal to her that they were a special sub-species of the Sundari tree.
Sita smiled with wonder and shook her head. ‘What mysteries abound in the land of Lord Parshu Ram!’
She faced the front again, her eyes aglow.
And then, she froze in horror.
Rivers of blood!
Bang in front of her, in the distance, where the lagoon ended and the hills began, three streams of blood flowed in from different directions and merged into the cove.
Sita: Warrior of Mithila Page 13