The Vengeance of Indra

by Shatrujeet Nath

  If the special treatment being meted out to Kalidasa had hurt, the fact that the palace had not considered him worthy of being informed of Ghatakarpara’s kidnapping — his own nephew’s kidnapping — was like a slap on the face. From what he had understood, the news of the prince’s disappearance had arrived in the palace the previous evening, and even a full day later, the palace hadn’t bothered to let him know. It was as if the palace had chosen to disassociate itself from him, cut him adrift, in the hope that that would somehow mollify the traitorous Kalidasa into returning to Avanti’s service.

  Smarting with anger, but also afflicted by a deep sense of alienation and hopelessness, Vararuchi pondered his next move as he neared the Kshipra. One part of him wanted to turn back and return to the comforting arms of his mother, the one person who did not judge him poorly for what had happened in Lava years ago. If the palace did not want him, he did not need the palace either, and it was entirely the palace’s loss, he told himself. But a more belligerent part of him screamed to be heard, indignant at being treated so shabbily, demanding answers, asking for justice and refusing to give up what was his by birthright — a place at the council table and an uncle’s right to know about his nephew’s well-being.

  It was this part of Vararuchi that held sway, pushing and propelling him to take the boat across the Kshipra, ride through Ujjayini’s western gate into the city and cross the palace causeway to confront his brother for answers.

  Entering the palace, Vararuchi traversed the hallway and began mounting the stairs, anger, sorrow and regret pulling him in different directions. Reaching the top, he turned into the gallery leading to Vikramaditya’s chambers when, most unexpectedly, he ran into Upashruti and Pralupi, who were both coming from the opposite direction. Standing within an arm’s length of one another, the three of them stared, not knowing what to say, yet unable to dodge and pretend they hadn’t seen each other. Vararuchi could almost see the hostile vibes coming at him from the Queen Mother.

  “Greetings, mother,” he mumbled, bowing his head, suddenly unsure of himself.

  “Greetings indeed,” Upashruti arched an eyebrow, her voice dripping sarcasm. “I see you have found the time to attend to the needs of the palace. We should all be grateful, I presume.”

  “I am always available for the palace, mother,” Vararuchi said, regretting his choice of words almost immediately. He was saying the right things, the servile things, and not giving voice to the words of rebellion brewing and boiling in his chest. He hated himself for that.

  “Of course,” the Queen Mother smirked and rolled her eyes. “Your nephew has been kidnapped by the Hunas, Amara Simha is halfway to the frontier and you just show up saying I’m always available for the palace.” Upashruti mimicked the words in a crude impersonation of a male voice. “Sure, I believe you.”

  “I di...” Vararuchi began saying, but he stopped on seeing the two women brush past him and walk away. He stared into Pralupi’s face and saw his half-sister stare back at him, her eyes dull and half-closed in studied insolence. Pralupi turned away with a dismissive toss of her head, and mother and daughter departed, not sparing a glance for Vararuchi.

  They will not listen to you. They don’t want to listen to you. Don’t you see, they’ve already made up their minds about you.

  Staring at the retreating figures, the samrat’s brother felt the hot surge of rage wash all over him, burning his cheeks, warming his innards. Clenching his hands into tight fists to control the sudden tremor in them, he swallowed hard once, then a second time, forcing down the bile that was rising up his throat like venom. Tears of outrage stung in his eyes, and blinking them away, he turned and walked off — in a direction opposite to the one that would have taken him to Samrat Vikramaditya.

  * * *

  Dattaka leaned back in his chair and frowned at the palm-leaf scroll lying on the table before him. The frown had been there all afternoon, like a fever under his skin, ever since the scroll had arrived in the official dispatch from Udaypuri. But with so many pressing duties to attend to, Dattaka had been compelled to keep the scroll off his mind. Now with the day’s drills complete, the Guardsmen units out on patrol and the command centre hunkering down for the night, its commander finally had the capacity to return to the bothersome piece of palm leaf.

  There was nothing earth-shattering in the contents of the scroll. It was a simple roster of the names of soldiers serving at the Sristhali command centre who had been picked for promotion. Since he was the head of the command centre, the list had been submitted to him per procedure, notifying him about the promotions. On the face of it, there was nothing out of line in any of this. But seeing the names on the scroll, Dattaka had felt mildly unsettled — he intuitively knew something was amiss, yet he wasn’t being able to put a finger on it.

  Pulling the scroll closer, the commander looked at the three names again. All familiar names, all three unremarkable men, soldiers who could be banked upon to follow orders, but from whom resourcefulness and clever thinking could never be expected. Which was alright; every army was full of such men, and it could be argued that armies needed men who followed orders and did not think much for themselves or asked too many questions. Still, Dattaka couldn’t see why these three had been chosen for promotion when there were other deserving candidates around. He himself had recommended half a dozen soldiers the last time the garrison headquarters had asked for suitable names, but none of them had been picked. Instead, these three...

  Scratching his chin, Dattaka studied the governor’s seal at the bottom of the scroll; it explained why none of the men he had recommended had received their promotions yet. This list hadn’t come from the garrison. It had originated in the governor’s office.

  And that, the commander understood, was what was really troubling him.

  It was highly uncommon for the governor’s office to recommend soldiers for rewards or promotions, and whenever distinctions were made, the chosen soldier’s service was so meritorious, his achievement so striking that the governor’s recommendation was more an added stamp of honour, a gilt-edged acknowledgement of duty to the throne. But there was nothing remotely spectacular or meritorious in the way these three men had dispensed their duties. They were average soldiers who definitely weren’t deserving of a governor’s recommendation.

  As he sat scrutinizing the names, it occurred to Dattaka that there was a pattern about them, something vaguely familiar. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became, but the pattern itself remained tantalizingly out of reach. Three names that he was familiar with, three soldiers he knew, three men...

  Heaving an exasperated sigh of defeat, the commander stretched his tired arms, unlocking the kinks in the muscles along his hands, back and shoulders. Then, with a tired yawn, he picked up the scroll and put it away with the rest of the communication that had come from Udaypuri. Within a few minutes, he had extinguished the lamp and was lying on his bed, preparing to slide into restful sleep.

  Three names that he was familiar with, three soldiers he knew, three men... Like a stubborn child that refuses to leave its playthings alone, his mind went over the problem in a loop. Three names that he was familiar with, three soldiers, three names written on a palm leaf...

  Three names written on a palm leaf.

  Dattaka sat up, his eyes wide in the dark, his heart beating in excitement. He had it. He had solved the puzzle that had been gnawing at him ever since he had set eyes on the contents of that scroll. He knew why the three names had been bothering him so much.

  Those were three of the six names in the list of suspects that he and Councilor Amara Simha had written down on a piece of palm leaf, once it had been discovered that the Huna scout they had captured had died of a mysterious snakebite. They were three of the six guards on duty the night the Huna scout had died.

  Three names written on a palm leaf. That was the pattern his mind had noticed.

  Although he knew he was clutching at a half-chance, Dattaka lay back
on his pillow with a sense of achievement. Councilor Amara Simha had entrusted him with the investigation of the scout’s death, and this was the closest he had got to a real lead. Three guards on duty when the scout had died. Three very ordinary soldiers. Yet, the same men get a promotion on the governor’s recommendation — and the governor had been at the command centre the night the scout had died.

  The shock of what had just crossed his mind made the commander gasp. A shiver ran through him, and he realized he would have to interview the three soldiers again to see if he could get them to confess what had happened to the Huna scout that night.

  * * *

  Burning up in shame and anger and incapable of summoning sleep, Shukracharya snatched up his ironwood danda and slung an angavastram over his shoulder before stepping out into the night. The sky was black and clear, stars running amok everywhere except around the spot where the moon shone near the summit of Mount Meru. The wooded valley was full of wafting breezes that bore the scent of devadaru and gentle banks of cool, white mist in alternating tides. Away to the right, as always, the horizon was awash with the glow of Amaravati’s lights.

  Directing a particularly bitter glare at the capital’s lights — seeing them as mocking him in their profusion, revelling in his disgrace — the head priest turned his back to them and set out in the direction of Meru, using his staff and his intuition to find his way through the dense groves of devadaru, where even moonlight struggled to enter.

  He had been in torment ever since his return from the calamitous mission to the garden, smarting from the systematic humiliation that Brihaspati, his oldest nemesis, had dealt him. The evening had passed in a blur of rage and self-flagellation, where he had switched between swearing revenge on Brihaspati and cursing his reckless pursuit of Jayanta, which had severely affected the asuras’ chances of ever acquiring the mantras. But clearly, what grated most was the chamberlain’s self-congratulatory smugness at having outfoxed him, Shukracharya, in his own game of cunning.

  I got him to dress up like Jayanta and walk into this garden and play the jal-yantra. Brihaspati’s gloating face swam to the surface of the high priest’s mind. And look at what came in after him like a swarm of bees attracted to a pot of honey.

  Walking through the forest where fallen pine needles cushioned the soles of his feet, the high priest was aware that in his eagerness to befriend Jayanta, he had dropped his guard, and that, in turn, had handed Brihaspati the perfect opportunity to make a complete fool of him.

  You’ll definitely not be running into Jayanta. I have instructed the guards at the palace to ensure that such opportunities do not arise hereafter.

  Not for the first time, it occurred to Shukracharya that he had no reason left to extend his stay in Devaloka, but the knowledge that he would leave empty-handed, having gambled and lost to the one he hated losing to the most, was galling. How could he, mahaguru of the asuras, leave like this, jeered by the devas, his dignity in shreds? This alone was enough for him to consider slipping out of Devaloka under cover of dark, but he equally loathed the idea of being branded as a coward who fled into the night. Yet, the notion of staying back without any purpose, and giving Brihaspati the satisfaction of seeing him squirming and helpless, held no appeal either.

  So, Shukracharya did what little he could under the circumstances. He walked where his feet took him, unmindful of the mist, the darkness and the uneven ground. He vented his anger in dire warnings of revenge on the devas, and swore to humble Brihaspati’s hubris by somehow, somehow, taking away the mantras to raise Ahi.

  He was so lost in his misery and recriminations that he failed to notice the bank of mist forming around him. Deeper and deeper he walked into its folds, and it wrapped itself tighter around him. Yet, the high priest kept walking — until a sudden burst of moonlight made him aware of his surroundings. He stopped to look around him, and straight ahead, through the parting skeins of mist, he observed the huge trunk of a tree.

  He realized that he would have blundered straight into the tree had the moon not shed its light at the right time.

  Shukracharya was about to correct his path when he stopped short and stared at the tree blocking his way, his pulse quickening. He looked at the drifting mist, like curtains being drawn aside, and he watched the tree trunk emerge and take form.

  The scene playing out in front of his one good eye reminded him of something else that he had seen somewhere. Mist. And something hidden inside it. Something large.

  Not mist. Fog.

  Dense, white fog. And something large and shadowy inside it. Something gigantic.

  A tree. A gigantic tree.

  The high priest almost ceased breathing. That was what he had seen in Vetala Bhatta’s mind that morning by the bath — a gigantic tree, hidden in fog. And in a stunning flash, Shukracharya realized why that particular scene had seemed so familiar and had stuck with him all this while.

  His subconscious had recognized what it had seen.

  The banyan that holds up the field of endless pyres.

  Borderworld.

  Gandharvasena

  Warmed by a bright sun, the morning mist was rising off the palace lake as Vismaya ushered King Harihara onto a sheltered terrace, away from the day’s heat and glare. The terrace faced west and was landscaped with flowering creepers and trailing vines, swishing and rustling and billowing in the breeze blowing from across the Kshipra.

  “I hope the bathing arrangements were to your liking, your honour,” said the chief of the Palace Guards.

  “Yes? Oh yes… very much,” Harihara answered, blinking and looking distracted.

  A palace hand had trailed the two men to the terrace, bearing a tray on which a tall brass tumbler was set. The chief of the Palace Guards took the tumbler and offered it to the king.

  “Buttermilk, your honour,” he said with a bow. “With very few curry leaves, as you had instructed.”

  The king took a sip of the cool, spicy drink and nodded appreciatively. In a moment, he asked, “Where is Queen Upashruti? I don’t see her about…”

  “The Queen Mother and Princess Pralupi have gone to pay obeisance at the Kali temple by the holy Kshipra, your honour. They left at daybreak, before your arrival, and haven’t yet returned.”

  “Ah, I see.” Harihara sipped his buttermilk and lapsed into silence.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t care for a bit of rest?” Vismaya asked. “Travelling all through the night must have been quite fatiguing.”

  “The bath was sufficiently refreshing. I’m quite alright,” Harihara waved away the offer, then looked searchingly at the palace. “Does the Samrat know of my arrival?”

  “Most definitely. I had him informed the moment I learned you were at the palace gate. I would have let the Samrat know even sooner had a messenger come in advance.” Then, gauging the intent behind the king’s question correctly, he quickly added, “The Samrat is visiting Queen Vishakha’s chamber; he should be with you any moment.”

  “Oh, is the queen better?” Harihara looked at the palace official in surprise. “I mean, is she recovering… from…”

  “I’m afraid not, your honour,” Vismaya gave his head a sad shake.

  “Oh,” Harihara said again.

  Reconciling to a wait, the king took another sip of the buttermilk and strolled over to watch the swans glide gracefully about the lake, while kingfishers dived into the water in search of food. Hearing Vismaya excuse himself, Harihara nodded over his shoulder in acknowledgement, but his mind was back on what had brought him to Ujjayini in such a rush so early in the day, that too unannounced.

  Three days earlier, the first reports of the fallout between Kalidasa and Vikramaditya had filtered into Mahishmati, borne by travelling tradesmen and soldiers returning from the frontier. The news came in unreliable snatches, and as it was hard to tell facts from loose talk, Harihara had directed one of his most dependable hands to piece the truth together. The officer had done a commendable job, his picture of the situation
in Avanti compelling Harihara to reconsider the politics of Sindhuvarta in the days to come.

  While leaving the services of Avanti, Kalidasa had made it plain that he was severing all old ties, and his ride west implied he was intent on forging an alliance with the barbarians. But what did this switching of loyalties really portend? For one, it made the Huna army even more formidable; the savages now not only had one of the most fearsome warriors on their side, but all the information the warrior had on Avanti and its allies was also theirs to exploit. Then, the fact that Kalidasa would naturally view Avanti’s allies as extensions of Avanti meant that none of the allies would be exempt from the heat of his anger. This, to Harihara, was worrying.

  These were the obvious and expected outcomes of Kalidasa changing sides. Harihara was more occupied with fathoming Vikramaditya’s response to the challenge Kalidasa had set down, and the course of action that the samrat would pick when Kalidasa returned at the head of a Huna legion. Because that, Harihara realized, would determine how the war for Sindhuvarta would pan out.

  He needed to get a sense of how that war would go before deciding whom to offer Rukma’s hand in marriage to — Shashivardhan or Shoorasena.

  Or now to Kalidasa.

  So far, Vikramaditya’s approach towards Kalidasa appeared needlessly conciliatory; he had literally granted his old friend the liberty of picking sides in the battle to come. Harihara found the samrat’s decisions irrational, and wondered who among Chandravardhan, Baanahasta, Bhoomipala and the Anarta chieftain Yugandhara would appreciate Vikramaditya for allowing Kalidasa to cross over to the Huna camp. He suspected none of them would, which meant their alliance was already under threat of coming unstuck the moment Kalidasa arrived at the frontier. And what about the rest of Vikramaditya’s council — how were they reacting to all of this?