‘You’ve got to be joking. Just ordinary pieces of broken glass I picked up in the garden.’
That disconcerted her till I smiled.
‘They are, they are, you liar.’ She hugged me tightly.
Adinathji and I settled the business of the loan quickly. One eighth of one percent less interest than the last time.
* * *
It was late when I returned home. I let Mangal stable the horses and slowly climbed up the stairs. Queen Karmavati was waiting for me. A little unusual to see her at this hour and that, too, in my chambers. Normally she would have summoned me to her wing. Was Father all right? I saw the vermillion sindoor on her forehead and the bangles on her hand and relaxed.
‘Why are you limping?’
I wasn’t. More like shuffling, trying not to agitate the soft swollen rocks at my crotch. ‘A little weary, I guess. Could do with some rest.’ I thought that was neatly done. A subtle hint to postpone the interview to a more sanguine hour. She was not about to fall for this pathetic ploy.
‘How did the meeting with Mehtaji go? And what rate did the two of you decide upon? I bet he took you for a ride and we are all going to have to pay for it.’
No point asking my second mother how she knew that I had gone to Adinathji’s and what I had discussed with him. Mother made it a point to know anything and everything that happened in Chittor or outside, if she felt that there was an ultra-remote chance that it might affect her future. Information, she believed, was not everything; it was the only thing. The sad part was that she often lost sight of the fact that it was a means and not an end in itself. If she had it, even if it was useless, she felt in control. There was no point getting mad with her. I have, to this day, not understood why Father didn’t appoint his favourite queen head of intelligence.
Queen Karmavati had a complicated network of spies and the most tortuous but fail-safe way of checking whether the information she received was a hundred percent reliable. Add to that, her astounding arsenal of grilling techniques. She was single-minded, uncouth and effective. She would stoop or rise to any means; tease, coax, cajole, threaten, blackmail, broker, barter, whatever it took to elicit some inane, nasty or critical tidbit.
She wasn’t likely to leave until she had stripped me of the entire day’s details. I was too tired to be perverse and parry her queries. I made a clean breast of everything. There was nothing I could do to assuage her voracious appetite for gossip, hearsay, rumours, omens, insinuations, arcane references and obtuse offences.
‘Surely you didn’t come at this time of the night for this inconsequential tittle-tattle.’
‘Let me be the judge of that. You may be heir apparent but, let me hasten to add, more apparent than heir, at least so far.’
The rivers of maternal affection were in spate tonight. I was the first-born and Queen Karmavati was not about to forgive me that. It is her son Vikramaditya she favours for the crown.
‘I came about the nautch girl in your harem. Are you man enough to keep her under control? Or do you want me to do it for you?’
The nautch girl she was referring to had just drawn in a soft sibilant breath of pain and hurt. After years of abuse, my wife had still not got used to the Queen’s endearing references to her. She had been standing behind the curtain of coloured glass beads for at least half an hour now, waiting patiently with a silver lota of water. She had spent over a month threading the musical beads. If you stood at a little distance from the curtain, you could see a peacock with a telescoped neck and a very long feathery tail. There was something queer about its left eye. She had inserted the wrong shade of bead there; it looked as if it was walleyed.
I have told her not to wait up for me. Today, yesterday or ever. But she does as she pleases. My wife has a mind of her own. When Mother Karmavati leaves, she’ll come out, pour the water into the intricately carved gold tumbler which also serves as the lid of the silver lota, hand it to me, and then remove my shoes.
I can do no wrong in her eyes. That is not quite true. She has a highly-developed ethical sense but I am permitted anything, well, almost. I am certainly forgiven everything. Tantrums, ill humour, physical violence, the crassest of behaviour, politeness, bewilderment, despair, wild and vile swings in moods. What I bid her, she’ll do uncomplainingly, except for one thing. I am treated as a child. What I do, say, or think, does not affect her.
‘In the last six months alone, I have brought you no less than seventeen proposals.’ It is my second mother who cuts my pointless meandering short. ‘Even the most conjugally happy princes marry several wives. Look at your father. He loves me dearly but he knows his duty. Marriages are political alliances. They are also a safeguard. They ensure a long line of succession and they prevent any queen from getting too big for her shoes.’
Mother should talk. She’s got feet bigger than Chittor, bigger than Rajasthan, bigger than the throne of Delhi, and she’s constantly putting them in her mouth. Where was this homily on marriages leading to? I have been married once and I’m sick of it to the pit of my stomach. Does the queen really love my father? I respect him as I respect no other man but then I don’t have to sleep with him. How can any woman bear to look at him, let alone make love to him? My wife fainted the first time she saw him. Father pretended that it was the heat or maybe the effect of one of those long and dire fasts young women undertake before marriage. But he is too shrewd not to know that nightmares and the villains in Pataldesh look less terrifying than him. One eye he lost to his brother, an arm to the Lodi of Delhi, the drag in his right foot he owes to Muzaffar of Gujarat, and as to the cuts and nicks and wounds and slashes on his torso, the dummies we use for target practice are more whole than him. There are few men braver or more driven than Father. Perhaps bravery is the ultimate addiction.
‘Are you listening, you fool? I can see your eyes floating in sleep but there are matters here that need urgent attention. The nautch girl.’
I was wondering when you were going to come back to my wife, for this nocturnal visit could only be inspired by your daughter-in-law. ‘She has cut off our noses. And our izzat. Our illustrious family name is mud. While Chittor burns, your nautch girl continues to dance.’
Anything for a vivid phrase, Mother. No flames here, though; the last ones were quenched over two hundred years ago when Rani Padmini and her women jumped into the johar fires the day Alauddin Khilji captured Chittor. But the phrase which the visitor from across the seas used, I believe, was Emperor Nero sang and fiddled while Rome burnt.
The eunuch, Bruhannada who was a silent party to our conversation had a slight, supercilious smirk on his lips. I would have preferred it if Queen Karmavati had not spoken about these things in front of him; or the eunuch had had the decency to excuse himself while matters of state or the business about my wife was discussed. But that would only amount to deluding myself. There’s hardly anything that transpires in the palace and at Chittor that the Queen’s eunuch is not privy to. He is clever, devious and I sometimes suspect, he is the Queen’s evil genius. His etiquette is impeccable and he is always careful to do the bare minimum of bowing and scraping that protocol says is the Maharaj Kumar’s due. I am never less than civil to Bruhannada but there is a coldness in my heart that would rather not utter his name or deal with him.
‘Dance? You mean bathroom singing?’ I had vowed not to utter a word but the queen always succeeds in subverting my silent resolves.
‘The tawaif has graduated from mere singing to dancing. She was swirling on the first floor of the Tridev Mandir while the crowds, eunuches, princes, servants, maids, princesses and queens watched from below. A fine view from under the latticed balustrade as her skirts rose and billowed. A riveting sight even for weary eyes like mine.’
The Tridev Mandir. My grandfather Raimul built it for the family when he beat the forces of the Hatyara Uda and was crowned. One of my favourite temples. Nothing elaborate. Delicately but not excessively carved. Serene. Private. It has a terraced structure. Eklingji
Shiva on the ground floor, the Flautist on the first and the Sun-god on the second.
‘I’ll wager my brother Vikramaditya had ring-side seats.’
‘Leave him out of this. He is not the issue. The tawaif is. Besides, if his wife was dancing, you too would have been there gaping.’
‘She’s not even fourteen yet.’
‘What difference does her age make? The older you men get, the younger you want your pleasures. Look at your uncles. They want girls before they reach puberty.’
Was this true? Would I too end up like them?
‘Get rid of her before she makes our family the laughing stock of Rajasthan.’
* * *
She placed my foot on her knee to remove my mojari. I raised it and lifted her face up. She did not withdraw her eyes.
‘Did you? Did you actually dance?’
‘I don’t remember.’
My foot slammed into her face. It was not the hardest of blows but it knocked her down. The lota rolled over several times before it clattered to a halt. Her lower lip was cut open, the blood had stained her blouse, the water from the lota had wet the back of her petticoat. She took my foot in her hands again, disengaged the shoe and brought my toe to her left eye first and then let it touch her right eye. I was her lord and master and she would not do me out of acts of obeisance. She did not ask why or wherefore, nor look aggrieved or wipe the blood from her lip. She was unconcerned whether I kicked her again or not.
I must have groaned.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked me and wiped my brow. I winced at the touch of her hand. Was ever a human hand so soothing? I could have wrenched her arm from her shoulder and flung it out of the fort. She picked up the lota, went out, filled it up and came back. She began to unbutton my duglo. I strode out in a dudgeon but was sure that she hadn’t noticed my theatrical exit.
I went to the stables and got the syce who was asleep to saddle Befikir. Mangal hurried after me. He looked puzzled and unsure of himself. Perhaps my sudden departures and swings of mood were taking their toll of him too. But his anxieties lay in another direction.
‘What should I do with her?’ he asked softly.
I gaped at his presumption. I may be livid with her but she was my wife. How dare he concern himself with her. ‘Who are you talking about?’ I asked brusquely.
‘The woman whom you saw in court the other day.’
‘Which woman? Can’t she wait till Thursday for me to look into her case?’
‘It’s the woman whose husband was complaining that she had been faithless.’ He was still talking in conspiratorial tones.
‘I didn’t ask for her.’
‘I know but I thought Your Highness might perhaps enjoy a new face.’
‘Did she want to come?’ That was the trouble with trusted old retainers. They think they know your mind better than you.
‘Gladly.’
‘And what about her husband? What if he cites me as the corespondent in the case?’
‘He’ll be away all night. He’s being tested at Rasikabai’s.’
‘You are a clever fox, Mangal, but I hope not too clever by half. What if she’s promiscuous and has some disease?’
‘Trust me, Highness.’
‘What does that mean? Like Shabari, have you tasted the fruit before your master?’
‘The Lord be praised. I thought you had given up wit and smiling altogether.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘She’s a virgin.’
‘Oh no, not a virgin please.’ He caught the dismay in my face and interpreted it as a moral scruple.
‘And in a hurry to lose her innocence. I have left her in the Chandra Mahal.’
‘Have her sent to the palace.’ Mangal looked as if I had singed him with a hot iron rod.
‘My prince, ghanikhama, but isn’t that going too far?’
‘You heard me.’ At least this one wasn’t a dancing girl like the one at home. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Sunheria.’
The syce had gone back to sleep. I kicked him, not too hard. He woke up and looked bewildered. The timekeeper’s bell tolled for midnight. The sentry called out darkly, ‘Jagte raho.’
‘Have you saddled her yet or not?’
‘I have, my Lord.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? Hold her steady.’
Mangal caught up with me in a minute; and the two of us rode out of the fort. The sentry at the Suraj Pol would not allow us to pass until I gave him the password. Since last year, we’ve initiated the system of leaving a different password for every gate to tighten security. Too many mercenaries and spies doing the rounds these days. Must pull up the sentries at the other three pols we passed. Should have seen the smirks on their faces. I’m sure they think we are going to ride to the next town for a night of debauchery.
The Ganga may be a holier river, it certainly is mightier but it is not my river. The Gambhiree is my mother and my memory.
As she is Chittor’s mother and memory. They bathed me with her waters when I was born and, God willing, they will wash me with her before placing me on the pyre. She is privy to all my doings, my innermost thoughts and the dilemma that wracks my soul. She is not judgmental and she has no answers. Her role is to witness all but she may not interfere. Perhaps she has opinions, even strong views, but she holds her tongue forever. Where do songs go when you cease to hear them? Where does the turbulence of the air disappear after thousands of birds flap their wings homeward at eventide? Where are the cries of the Rajput women who spatter their red palm prints on the wall and leap into the flames of johar? Where is my childhood, my catapult, my broken slate, my first parrot, my youth and first sin and all those that followed, where is my old age and the first time I saw the woman from Merta? Ask Gambhiree. She knows it all. We are all safe because Gambhiree will keep her secrets. She is, as her name suggests, deep and sombre and meditative.
There is a mist on the river. The air is stifling, the moon is marooned in dark, sinister clouds. I take off my clothes, say my prayer and slip into Gambhiree. The water is black and cold. I sink in it like a stone. I let go. I float up. The waters swish around me. The strands of my muscles uncoil and my thoughts unravel. Black oblivion runs through my veins. Beware the river tonight. The tall ebony grasses sway sinuously and ensnare my feet. They call to me to come and forget the world above. Yama is abroad on his buffalo tonight. The river is his sister Yami. She is the temptress Death. Who can say no to Yami? Even her brother lies with her.
Flimsy phantoms rise to meet me. The watery faces of my ancestors scream soundlessly, their fluid octopus hands stretch and coil around me. Bappa Rawal, Rana Hameer, Rani Padmini, Hatyara, they all have urgent business with me but I can no longer lip-read their cacophony of demands. Perhaps if I sink deeper into the underworld, I’ll be able to help them.
Somebody’s pulling me up against my wishes. The gentleness of the undertow of the currents is deceptive. It’s going to kill me softly, sucking me down a spiral vortex. I can hear Mangal calling my name now. I do not respond. The river is my quietus and I have no intention of surfacing again. Mangal’s cries become more urgent and desperate. I wish he would leave me alone. He has spotted me and is forcing me up. It’s raining heavily. The raindrops pinch the skin of the river in a million places. My skin smarts as they pierce it and go right through. I am awake. Mangal calls out my name as if I had died. The water laps gently over me. I am exorcised of my demons. The moon is out and Gambhiree is a slow silver enchantress.
As Mangal and I ride back, I have no memory of swimming in the river. My body is the ebb and rise of black water.
The lights are on in my palace when I return. It’s like Diwali. She is awake. She’s wearing a screeching yellow silk ghagra with a pink chunni. Her blouse is the green of first grass. She has dressed Sunheria, the ancient dhobi’s wife, in new red brocade clothes and made her up to look like a bride.
Chapter
2
It�
�s such an elementary rule, I wonder why almost nobody follows it. If you want to find out how a department’s functioning or how the work’s progressing on a project, go unannounced. It has nothing to do with catching people with their pants down or with their hands in the till. It’s simply that that’s the only way you can see them as they are, normal people. Normally efficient or normally sloppy. Give them notice and they’ll get out the red carpet and put on a big show. But if all you want is to feel important, call them over. It is less trouble; your managers or ministers will be only too happy to take the day off and doctor the facts efficiently and you’ll never have to deal with unpleasant or intractable problems ever again. Sycophants are a king’s first line of defence. They protect him from the truth and build a fine mesh around him which filters all information. It’s not just that bad news stays out. Often good news and good people too are disallowed entry. Because what you hear and see is what they want you to hear and see. When the end comes and the chair is pulled from under you, take heart, your free fall will be swift and irreversible.
The problem, of course, is how to keep all your channels of information open without being overwhelmed by them. Is there any way to institutionalize sources of criticism? But even if there was, it wouldn’t help much because human beings are so adept at ignoring any point of view or opinion we don’t care for. Do I have any other ideas on the subject? None whatsoever, except one small, unhelpful hint. Nobody can help you keep your communication systems open. You’ve got to work at them yourself, reach out and most of all, listen.
I was at the Institute of Advanced Military Tactics and Strategy before the sun was up. One of Father’s oldest and most loyal followers is in charge of the place. Jai Simha Balech had known my father when he was in hiding and incognito, a long time before he became king. After ascending the throne, Father bestowed twenty villages on Jai Simha and gave him the title of Rawat.
‘Your Highness, what a surprise.’ The Rawat looked ill at ease. I had no reason to doubt Jai Simha’s integrity or loyalty. I was paying a routine visit and he had no cause for alarm or discomfiture.
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