The Vengeance of Indra

by Shatrujeet Nath

  Fighting the giddy spin of the room and the accompanying wave of pain that cascaded down his neck and shoulders, he paused, ear cocked in the direction of the broad, wooden door, waiting to hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Nothing.

  He turned his attention to the small window set high in one wall, impossible to reach because there was nothing to stand on, and impossible to breach because of the thick mesh of iron bars stretched across its opening. Outside, whoever had been pounding grain had gone silent, and for a moment, it seemed his cries were going to be answered. But the next instant, the rhythmic beat of a mortar striking a wooden pestle resumed, and he felt the despair rise to his mouth, bitter like bile.

  “Hey,” he half-shouted, half-snarled, flinching as the pain triggered a kaleidoscope of sparks under his eyelids. “Let me out of here, you... you retards. You don’t know who I am. I am Ghatakarpara, nephew of Samrat Vikramaditya. Release me now and I will make sure you are treated with mercy. Release me. Hey.”

  The prince had no idea where he was or how many days had passed since the evening he had been waylaid by the little stream. He had surfaced to consciousness slowly — it had felt like rising out of a river, submerging again, then coming back up for air, sinking, then up again — and he couldn’t say for certain how long he had been drifting in and out. He had a vague recollection of people carrying him on a litter made of cane, a strip of blue sky with high, rugged mountain ridges on both sides slipping past over his head. Another time, he lay on hard ground, a fire was burning nearby while the sky overhead was full of stars, and he could hear someone playing a drum. Maybe these were just dreams, though the more he thought of them, the more he knew they weren’t.

  Because always, always, there had been that splitting pain in his head. Inside his head.

  Ghatakarpara touched the back of his head gingerly, feeling around the spot where he had been struck with the quarterstaff. Probing through the rag that had been tied there, his fingers encountered something soft and lumpy under the crude bandage — a dressing for the wound, he guessed. He withdrew his hand and sniffed his fingers; the pleasing scent of turmeric mixed with some other herb filled his nostrils.

  He had regained full consciousness just that morning — at least he thought it had been morning from the quality of the light entering the cell — to find a meal of fire-baked rotis and yoghurt laid out for him. Utterly famished, he had attacked the food, washing it down with a small pitcher of lukewarm water. His hunger partly sated, Ghatakarpara had assessed his situation and concluded that although he was at the mercy of his captors — who, like common thieves, had swiftly rid him of his councilor’s gold medallion — they had attended to his injury and fed him, which meant they posed no immediate risk to his life. However, this said nothing about their identity or their intentions behind taking him hostage, and that greatly bothered the prince.

  Except for the earthenware utensils he had used and the rough goat-hair blankets that had covered him as he had slept, the cell was bare and gave no hint of culture or geography. Failing to ascertain where he was, Ghatakarpara had been on the verge of dozing off when the noise of a mortar pounding grain close by had caught his attention. He had been yelling ever since but to no avail, and now all that shouting had left his throat hoarse and scratchy.

  “Hey, please, I want some water.”

  The pounding continued. The prince wondered whether they could hear him at all, and if they could, whether their act of ignoring him was part of a torture method meant to break him. Another part of him — one whose opinion he didn’t want to consider — told him that the pounding was nowhere but in his imagination.

  “Please…” this time his voice cracked harshly, “some water, please.”

  The pounding ceased.

  Ghatakarpara held his breath, waiting to see if it resumed as it had earlier. Moments passed and there was nothing to fill the emptiness inside and outside the cell. The square patch of light from the window laboured across the floor, as if carrying the full weight of the sun on its gossamer shoulders.

  Footsteps outside the door.

  Using the wall for support, so he wouldn’t collapse from dizziness, the prince got to his feet. He took one, then two, then three faltering steps towards the door, seeing if he could rush the person coming in, but after the fourth step, he was yanked back by the chain clasped to his wrists. Looking at the taut chain extending from the wall bracket, Ghatakarpara realized he was not even halfway to the door and let out a sigh of disappointment.

  A key rattled in the lock and the door swung open to admit a figure smothered in shawls.

  Ghatakarpara stared at the figure in surprise. He had been expecting a male guard, a big loutish character or a battle-scarred brute, someone who fitted everyone’s popular notion of a minder. Instead, the person who entered the cell was a woman of indeterminate age; from the strands of grey hair that had escaped her headdress, he judged her to be in her forties or early fifties. She had a pair of stern grey eyes, which she now turned on him, the corners of her lips turning down in a disapproving frown. In her hand was another earthenware pitcher, larger than the one that he’d been served water in.

  As he stood staring at her, the woman plonked the pitcher rudely down on the floor. Then, without a word, she whirled around and headed for the door. She had crossed the threshold and was swinging the door shut when Ghatakarpara finally found his voice.

  “Where am I?”

  For an instant, the woman looked at him with her piercing gaze. Then, heaving the heavy door on its hinges, she slammed it shut and slid the bolts in place. The prince heard the lock click and the woman’s footsteps recede. A minute later, the pounding of the mortar picked up once again.

  Ghatakarpara sighed, feeling deeply dejected with life. Whoever his captors were, they had left him with an elderly woman as his jailor. A woman. Not even a warrior. Just an ordinary woman who did mundane chores like pounding grain, for whom getting her grain pounded was of higher priority to slaking her prisoner’s thirst. It showed how little a threat his captors thought him to be, how insignificant he was in their scheme of things.

  Leaving the pitcher of water untouched, Ghatakarpara returned to the comfort of the wall. Leaning against it, he slid to the ground, weary and depressed, and sat hugging his knees with thoughts of Aparupa flooding his mind, cramming everything else out.

  * * *

  The sword hung on the wall to the right of Vikramaditya’s seat at the council table, flanked on one side by an ancient map of Sindhuvarta — gold-thread embroidery on faded red silk and dating back to the reign of the early Adityas — and on the other by the javelin that Dharmaditya, Mahendraditya’s father, had used to bring down the twin man-eating tigers that had once terrorized the locality of Bhojapuri, when Bhojapuri was no more than a sleepy little village. The sword was long, with a great curved blade of old steel, its weight so considerable that not everyone found it handy in battle. It — and its twin, for they were a pair — had been designed with Mahendraditya’s bulk in mind, and all through his warring life, the king had used only those two in combat. Its hide-bound hilt was scuffed from long use, the knuckle guard crisscrossed with nicks and scratches from umpteen other swords and axes met in years of conflict.

  It is a strong sword and it will keep you safe. But remember, son, a sword is only as strong as the courage of the hand that wields it.

  Staring distractedly at the sword, thoughts of Mahendraditya running through his mind like snatches of echo, the samrat remembered the first time he had taken it to battle — the night they had freed Betaal from captivity in the cremation ground. The fury and terror of that battle was still fresh in his mind — he remembered running through the fire and smoke, cutting and hacking his way through the Huna defence to get to the banyan where Betaal was imprisoned. The sword had mutilated and killed dozens of barbarians that night; that had been new to him, but was routine for the sword. Over the years, it had carved a bloody path wherever he wen
t, leading his army against the retreating savages. He had used the sword until the last of the Hunas and Sakas had crossed back into the Great Desert, and Vikramaditya realized that were it not for the Hellfires, he would probably still be using it. He wondered where its twin — the one given to Vararuchi — was; Vararuchi had fought with that sword until his expedition to the Southern Kingdoms introduced him to the urumi and the katari, which had since become his favourite weapons.

  “Where is Vararuchi?” the samrat frowned and turned his attention from the sword to those seated around the council table.

  The abruptness of the question took the depleted council by surprise, and five pairs of eyes stared back at Vikramaditya in mild incomprehension. Kshapanaka, Varahamihira and Shanku sat to his right, while Dhanavantri was to his left, with King Harihara for company. Harihara, by virtue of being a royal guest, had been invited to join everyone in the council chamber, but he was quite out of his depth as he listened to the consultations.

  “Do we know why he isn’t back yet?” Vikramaditya’s gaze travelled over the council before coming to rest on Shanku. “You did send a rider yesterday, as I had asked...”

  “I did. Right after we spoke about...” the girl checked herself. “The rider should have delivered your message; had he failed for some reason, he would have surely returned and told me. Still, I shall check with him, just to be sure.”

  “I’m sure the rider must have done his job,” the samrat nodded, but the frown didn’t go away. “But it is strange of Vararuchi not to have returned to the palace — especially after hearing what has befallen Ghatakarpara. It is so unlike him. I hope badi-maa is alright...”

  “If that were the case, Vararuchi would have sent for Dhanavantri or Kunjala,” Varahamihira pointed out.

  “I shall speak with the rider, Samrat,” said Shanku, trying to reassure her king.

  “Why don’t we just send another rider to Ushantha’s place?” Dhanavantri suggested.

  “Let’s not panic,” said Varahamihira in response. “Something must have held him up, but it can’t be anything critical, otherwise he would have informed us. He must be on his way — for all we know, he’ll walk in through that door before we’re done, or later in the day.”

  “I agree,” said the samrat. “Let’s give him until tonight. If we don’t hear from him by tomorrow morning, we’ll send another rider.”

  With that settled, a momentary hush fell over the small gathering. “What were we discussing just before this?” Vikramaditya asked. “I’m afraid I got a little distracted. We were talking...”

  “I was asking how we are to take Indra’s threat to Ujjayini.”

  “Very seriously,” Kshapanaka butted in. “His intent was clear. He wanted to strike fear in the hearts of the people, scare them, put them in a place where they can see nothing good coming of our fight with the devas. I would say that Indra’s little speech was aimed at turning popular opinion against the palace.”

  As an uncomfortable silence took hold of the chamber, Vikramaditya looked at his councilors and asked, “What exactly is the popular opinion in Ujjayini these days?”

  “Well,” Varahamihira shifted in his seat, “It’s more or less divided like before. There are those who support us in our stand against the devas and asuras, and there are those who are unhappy, mostly people who have suffered much. But yes, after today...” the councilor exhaled deeply and shrugged.

  “What of today?” the samrat watched the elderly councilor closely.

  Varahamihira didn’t reply immediately. A lot had transpired today. He stared back at the king, waiting to see if Vikramaditya clarified the question, so that he could tailor his answer accordingly. The samrat, however, was equally dogged, not expanding on his question, and the stalemate dragged on for a few awkward moments.

  “Well, you see, the people have seen Indra,” the councilor spoke at last. “They have seen the lord of the devas. They have seen his elephant. They have heard his threats. They know what they are up against. Opinions can change.”

  “Maybe we should evacuate the city,” said Vikramaditya after a short pause, assessing his councilors. “Tell those who can leave the city — those who have other places to go to — to leave. And find safe and secure places for those who have nowhere else to go. That way, we reduce the risks a little.”

  “Formalize the exodus that has been happening ever since the Ashvins attacked us?” Dhanavantri raised a doubtful eyebrow.

  Seeing the samrat nod, the heads around the table tilted in contemplation of the idea.

  “What would be the impact of such a decree on the power of the throne, Samrat?” Varahamihira countered. “Would it not send a wrong signal to the people who are already scared — that the palace cannot assure their safety, so it wants them to leave? That the palace is incapable of protecting its own people?”

  “Varahamihira is right,” Harihara made his way into the conversation at last. “Your image as king can take a serious beating. Your image as Samrat of Sindhuvarta would also suffer.”

  “You make a fair point,” Vikramaditya considered Harihara and Varahamihira. “But I am not here to protect my image. I am here to protect my people from harm, and if that entails falling in their esteem, it is a sacrifice I am willing to make every day, all the time. The subjects of Ujjayini will not suffer if I can help it.”

  “I understand, Samrat,” said Varahamihira, a faint smile of pride playing on his lips. “It is a sacrifice we will all make as your councilors.”

  The samrat nodded. “It is not fear for my citizens alone that prompts me to suggest an evacuation; there are less sentimental reasons as well. When the fighting begins, I want the Imperial Army, the Frontier Guard, the City Watch and the militia to focus on the fighting. I don’t want our soldiers distracted and running around protecting innocent civilian lives. I also don’t want the city’s resources stretched — when fighting erupts, everything Ujjayini has to offer should be available to our soldiers. The more civilians we have in this city, the more constraints we lay on our soldiers. Now is the time to free their arms so they can draw their bows back further, swing their swords higher and faster.”

  “I get it,” said Varahamihira, and all the heads around the table nodded in consent.

  “When do we start the evacuation?” asked Kshapanaka.

  “Let us hold that decision until Vararuchi is back,” the samrat replied. “I would like to hear his thoughts as well.”

  “Very well,” said Varahamihira. “Meanwhile, let us take stock of the troops available to us in Ujjayini. Should the devas launch a sudden...”

  Before the councilor could complete his thought, the door to the council chamber opened and a palace hand stepped in.

  “I apologize for intruding, your honour,” he said, bowing deeply. “But the Queen Mother seeks an audience.”

  The image of Upashruti being hustled away, but turning and stealing a dazed glance over the heads of the milling crowd, flashed before the samrat’s eyes.

  “With me?”

  “Yes, your honour.”

  “She is outside?” Vikramaditya’s voice rose in surprise.

  “No, your honour. She wishes to see you in her chambers.”

  Vikramaditya was quick to sense a distinct uneasiness in the way his councilors and his guest from Heheya avoided looking at him. Everyone sat in their chairs, wooden and circumspect, afraid of doing or saying anything that could fracture an already fragile situation. The samrat realized that Indra had opened a door that could prove impossible to shut again.

  “Let her know that I am with the council. I shall see her once we are done.”

  The samrat turned back to Varahamihira, but out of the corner of his eye, he observed that the palace hand hadn’t moved. The man stood by the door, shifting and shuffling. When Vikramaditya looked at him, he paled visibly, but stayed where he was.

  “Is there something else you wish to tell me?” the samrat asked.

  “No, your honour. Just that
the Queen Mother instructed me to tell you she wants to see you.”

  “Why don’t you go along and see the Queen Mother?” Dhanavantri said to the samrat, interpreting the hand’s words correctly. Glancing at the others, he added, “We will stay back and see what needs to be done next.”

  Seeing the other three councilors nod in agreement, Vikramaditya pushed back his chair, and as he rose, he addressed Harihara. “Pardon me, but I have barely spent any time with you.” Even as the older king began waving off the apology, the samrat continued, “I may not be able to join you for lunch, but I presume you would be staying with us overnight?”

  “I suppose so,” Harihara said uncertainly.

  “Wonderful. I look forward to meeting you at dinner. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  Nodding to his guest and his councilors, Vikramaditya stepped out of the council chamber, closing the door softly behind him. The walk to the Queen Mother’s chambers wasn’t a long one, but the samrat felt his feet drag all the way, a weight pressing down on his shoulders and chest as he drew closer to the turn that led to her door. Even as he stood at the threshold of the chamber, the door half-open in invitation — and half-shut, as if to give him one final chance of going away unseen — he wondered what good would come of this encounter.

  Upashruti was seated on a small stool, her hands on her lap, staring vacantly out of the window. As the door swung open, she turned and looked at Vikramaditya. Her eyes sought out his, searching his face for some sign that would tell her where she stood in her son’s esteem.

  “You wished to see me?”

  “Come inside, Vikrama.”

  Upashruti did not rise, but followed her son with her eyes as he approached. The samrat stopped well short of her, however, and stood diffidently to one side, avoiding eye contact. Neither of them spoke, each waiting for the other to make the first move.