Cuckold

by Kiran Nagarkar

  ‘Are you all right, Shehzada?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, I am. It’s your cousin who is not.’ Seven swift blows with his dagger and Rajendra was no more. There was the stillness of death amongst us. Salma or Nikhat, the poor girl crumpled to the ground. I picked up Rajendra. My clothes and hands were bloody. I wanted to bring down the gods in my impotent pain, I looked at the ceiling, at the lamps, at Sajani Bai whose voice had seen everything there was to see, feel and experience in this world and yet had missed out on Rajendra’s death, I looked at my uncle, I looked at my dead cousin. My body shook and shivered but would not release the scream in me. Oh Rajendra, why did I not get closer to you earlier instead of waiting for our Gujarat campaign to start?

  I heard the sound of metal leaving its scabbard once, twice, thrice. Rao Surajmal, Narbad Hada, Rawat Jodha Simha. They had encircled the Shehzada. The others were unsheathing their weapons. I eased Rajendra to the floor, got out my sword and stood in front of Bahadur.

  ‘I don’t need any protection, Maharaj Kumar. If they have the guts and the honour, I’ll take them all on, one after another.’ ‘In my father, Rana Sanga’s kingdom, you’ll hold your tongue, Prince, and give me your weapons.’

  ‘Do you expect me to die without defending myself, Prince?’

  ‘There will be no more killing, Shehzada. Hand your weapons to Mangal.’ I knew that if I looked at him, he would start a who-stares-whom-down contest. Instead I held the three potential leaders of retribution in our camp with my gaze. I could feel the heat of the Shehzada’s internal conflict. Could he trust me? He himself had attacked an unwary man. Would turning defenceless be his best defence? Perhaps the enormity of what he had done was beginning to dawn on him. I doubted if he was given to introspection or regret. He would rather fight but he knew I was his only hope.

  The Shehzada handed his dagger and sword to Mangal.

  ‘He’ll not leave Deep Mahal, alive, Your Highness,’ Hada Narbad advanced on both me and the Shehzada.

  ‘He is our guest. Anybody who dares so much as touch the Shehzada’s hair, I will kill him first.’ Was it tall talk? Was I going to take on the hundred-odd people in the hall. ‘I am the Maharaj Kumar.’ I spoke each word separately. ‘Put your weapons down and go home.’

  They stood undecided. Would they have listened? Or would they have revolted? Either way, I would never forget the look of loathing, contempt and animosity in the Hada’s eyes. The Queen Mother walked towards us along with my aunt.

  ‘Did you not hear the Maharaj Kumar? Sheathe your weapons and go now. Give us time and room to grieve for our grandchild.’ Grandmother turned to Prince Bahadur. ‘You have the Maharaj Kumar’s and my word that no one will harm you. I loved you, beta, but you’ve dishonoured both Mewar’s and my hospitality and affection. Go in peace.’

  Perhaps Mewar and its people will never forgive me for not avenging Rajendra’s death. Had I too just sealed my fate?

  Chapter

  16

  You can exorcise the devil. But how do you rid yourself of a god?

  When the Maharaj Kumar reached the palace, the guards on duty saluted him. Should he dismount? Why had he come home anyway? Befikir stood patiently while he tried to figure out what he was doing at the gates of his own home at three in the morning. He was hopelessly confused. All he wanted was to go to the carpenter’s workshop, pick up a long sharp saw, come back and lie in his bed. When he had settled down comfortably, he would take the saw and, starting from just above his eyebrows with steady, even strokes go all the way round his head. When the top one-third of his head along with his brains had fallen off, he would finally be able to sleep peacefully. No more thoughts, no more questions, never mind his wife and her tiresome romance and to hell with this terrible blight called life.

  ‘Sire, Your Highness,’ the sergeant major asked him, ‘do you wish me to leave Befikir in the stables?’ Why send Befikir to the stable, he wondered. The horse had more sense than he did. Befikir knows where his home is, who his master is, he understands technical terms like trot, canter, gallop and stop. He obviously knows his dharma. He was the Maharaj Kumar and he didn’t know why he was at his doorstep. And having got there, what he was expected to do. Well, there was nothing to do but get down and climb the stairs to his wing and sit down on his bed and resolve what he was to do with his life next.

  He was about to fall on his bed when he heard his wife’s voice. Who could she be talking to? He had given strict orders the previous evening that the doors of her rooms were to be locked in perpetuity from the outside. Kumkum Kanwar could cook for her, bathe her and do whatever else her mistress wished but whatever happened, even if a fire broke out, she was not to be let out. The eunuch outside her door was fast asleep. He had a soft downy snore. When he exhaled, his mouth worked furiously to grab the air and eat it. Was he the one who was talking? No, he was far too busy eating some ambrosial stuff of which he could not have enough. The Prince could hear his wife’s voice better now. It seemed unlikely that she was conversing with this corpulent dead weight through a locked door. Not bad looking though. Must have cut a fine figure when he was young and despite the absence of extended genitalia, was sure to have been popular with the queens. The Prince was not quite sure about the institution of eunuchs. Granted, they could not beget and procreate but barring that, no royalty had as much time and opportunity to make out with some of the most beautiful and aristocratic women in Mewar. That voracious mouth had kissed and known and slept with God knows how many of the Maharaj Kumar’s mothers. Men are strange. They prefer to make believe that people make love only at night and that only the act of penetration is sex. The tongue, a truly penetrating instrument if ever there was one, and the rest of the human body, hands, lips, ears, the insides of thighs, toes, the belly button – was there any accounting for taste and erogenous sites – were discounted.

  For some reason, the thought of touching that genderless flesh was repulsive. The Maharaj Kumar had to grit his teeth when he bent down and slipped his hand in the eunuch’s pocket. It took some time and trying for the Prince to figure out which of the two dozen or so keys fitted the lock on his wife’s door. He opened the latch softly. Her bed was made as his own had been on the night of the wedding. Flowers were strung from the four posters and lay crushed on the mattress. She was lying on her back, not a shred of cloth on her. Her clothes were thrown helter-skelter as if someone in a rush of indelicate impatience had disrobed her. He stepped over the eunuch and lightly closed the door behind him. When he turned round, he froze. She was staring at him. What was he going to say to her? Just dropped by to see if you were all right? No, honest-to-goodness, I had a terrible nightmare and was a little unnerved and was wondering if I could sleep in your bed, no hanky-panky, promise. He realized then that she was totally oblivious of him. When she slept, her eyelids came down only three-quarters of the way. That left her eyes slightly ajar with white crescents showing at the bottom, so that you had the uncanny feeling that she was watching you with hooded eyes.

  Against the opposite wall was a low, red stool barely three inches from the ground. In front of it was a gold thali filled to overflowing with all manner of food, most of it sweets and pastries made from milk and curds. No, he said to himself, it didn’t look as if the meal was laid out for him. In one corner of the room she had drawn an incredibly elaborate painting with rangoli powder of the Flautist and herself dancing the raas on the banks of the Jamuna.

  He could not take his eyes off her. Her head stretched back pleasurably as if someone was running his fingers through her open tumbling hair. Suddenly she twisted and jerked away. ‘No, no, no, no, no, you are tickling my ears. Please, stop it. Are you going to listen to me? Anytime I ask you to do something you do exactly the opposite. Stop being perverse. Let go of me. Or I’ll pull your hair hard.’ He knew she was all alone but he also knew exactly what her lover was up to. He was caressing the inside of her outstretched arm, the peacock feather in his hand was now in the dip of her armpit an
d flowing down her left breast and across her navel while he was nibbling at the nape of her neck. She was kissing him now. Her hands were wound tightly around air. She called out to him, two of the god’s thousand names. ‘Girdhar Lal. Ghanashyam.’ There was such longing and love in her voice, it pierced the Prince’s heart.

  Get out, leave while you can and while you have an iota of dignity left in you. But he couldn’t move and he didn’t want to either. It was torture and it tore him up and he didn’t want it to stop. He had always thought that sensuousness was an over-inflated word, but she made him feel its force and flooding rapture and its place at the heart of the arcana of pleasure. He remembered the first time he had heard her sing. There was no withholding, nothing halfway, she gave it her all. She was doing the same now, staking everything she had.

  The ecstasy her face and body radiated brought him up short. Even as a child he had not known anything so complete and profligate. She seemed to be the fountainhead of joyousness. Whence her abandonment and exuberance? How could a mere human being be capable of such consuming rapture that she was not even aware of the world around her? She was a closed and complete circle in which he had no place. She and the Flautist were sufficient unto themselves. It was impossible to break in. He was excluded. Out.

  He was struck then by a terrible realization. So far, however much things had gone wrong, at least he was in control of himself. The Flautist was his enemy. He hated him with a passion that went-well beyond an obsession. His hate was the only polestar and steadfast beacon in a world that had turned topsy-turvy on him. But the truth was, he didn’t give a damn about the past, all the humiliation and pain he had suffered, not even the shameless exhibitionism of emotion he had witnessed today.

  He wanted in.

  He closed the door quietly and slipped the keys back into the eunuch’s pockets.

  Chapter

  17

  I felt exhausted and empty. How could a bare twenty-four hours pile up so many upheavals, calamities and tragedies? It didn’t stand to reason. A curse upon you, Bahadur. We had lost you. Only God, Kausalya, and the Bhil shaman and I know how far gone you were. But we managed to bring you back from the clutches of Yama. If only fate or I had let you die. Damn you, Rajendra. You are no more but look at the havoc you’ve wrought. Mewar had spent months forging ties with the Shehzada Bahadur even as we were fighting his father and the Gujarat armies. Why? Because if there’s no chance of a clean-cut victory, let alone the conquest and annexation of an entire kingdom, then it makes better economic, political and military sense to make peace with your neighbours and live amicably with them. And then you throw wisdom and caution to the wind, dump all that careful work and nurturing down the gutter and wipe the slate clean. Now you’ll not be with me when I need you on my campaign. The honour of the venerable elders of our society is deeply wounded and if they could, they would be happy to have my head along with Bahadur’s. What honour are we talking about? Surely Mewar is larger and more important than a personal slight delivered many moons ago by a Prince and guest who had imbibed too much.

  You were going to avenge the death of three thousand Rajputs by telling the Prince that the dancing girls at the Deep Mahal were the Ahmednagar qazi’s daughters. Bravo. Your thirst for vengeance must be shallower than the foreskin of your genitals. If you had had a little patience, not to mention an iota of brains, you would have stuck around with me and I would have made sure that you got your three thousand heads at least twice over. I loved you, cousin, and I’ll miss you but I don’t need adolescent hotheads with me on my first campaign. One last thing. I was wrong, you didn’t wipe the slate clean. It was clean when Bahadur rode in through the Suraj Pol that first morning. We didn’t know each other. We were at best and at worst indifferent to each other. All his life now the Shehzada will recall his utterly disproportionate, hasty and immature final act in Mewar with loathing and disgust. He will never be able to forgive himself for paying back so much warmth, affection and kindness with blood and death. Infinitely worse, he’ll never forgive me for saving his life twice. Mewar will stick in his side like a festering thorn and he’ll bide his time to destroy a fond memory gone irretrievably sour.

  ‘Stop thinking about Rajendra Simha and the Shehzada, my Prince. Rest awhile,’ Kausalya patted my head.

  I cannot leave the subject well enough alone and return to it as to a scab on a wound that must be teased and prized open. Why can’t I be a good Rajput and see things simply, in black and white? There’s no gainsaying that a swift and just trial will earn me a high profile and much popularity. But surely, statecraft is a little more complicated than that. Bahadur is not the Sultan, at least not yet. His father is. If Bahadur is put to death in Chittor, not only will the honour of his father, Sultan Muzaffar Shah be wounded, the people of Gujarat will be affronted. That may prove to be dangerous. The inexorable logic of retribution and national pride will demand satisfaction and roll its armies towards Mewar. But aren’t we already at war? Yes. But the battle for Idar is a matter of territorial influence, that’s all. Neither Gujarat nor Mewar are fighting for their life or land. We are backing different claimants to the throne of Idar and are skirmishing on foreign soil. A war on our home ground is a different matter altogether. We may perhaps even inflict a terrible defeat on Gujarat. But at what cost to Mewar? Villages, towns and cities will be razed, a year’s crops burnt, the economy will be in shambles and tens of thousands of our people, farmers, artisans, traders, not to mention our soldiers, will lose their lives and be maimed. Spare the Shehzada and we’ll at least have a grateful father who might just remember that he owes us a favour, a very big favour.

  And yet, I ask myself, is it really reasons of state that demand a more mature and wise response? Or am I just out of touch with reality and my people? In my preoccupation with larger issues, have I lost sight of a simple truth? No leader can afford to scoff at populist measures without forfeiting his constituency.

  ‘Sunheria’s waiting for you at the Chandra Mahal,’ Kausalya told me as I changed into the white of mourning. ‘She’s been coming every day the past four days. See her today. At least talk to her or she’ll think you didn’t care to say goodbye to her before you left.’

  I marvel at Kausalya. She’s as possessive as they come but she never allows her biases to interfere with what she sees as her duty. I am the Maharaj Kumar. I need variety, change, a new face. She knows about Sunheria and over the past few months, has made it a point to be out of the way when the laundress has turned up. She wants my marriage to work. She’s one of the least religious women I know but she has undertaken three sets of the most rigorous fasts without telling me. Even now she doesn’t eat on Mondays and Thursdays. All this so that my wife will bear me a son and heir.

  ‘Are you really going, Maharaj Kumar?’ This was unlike Sunheria. She was not one to be easily depressed, certainly not by my departure. She had always, subtly but pointedly, asserted her independence with and from me.

  ‘Yes. His Majesty is waiting for me to take over command. I thought I explained it to you the last time we were together.’

  ‘May I come with you? You’ll want company. I’ll try and help you forget today’s terrible tragedy.’

  ‘That is thoughtful of you. But I’m going to war. What will you do there?’

  ‘I’ll wash your clothes. I’ll do anything you ask of me.’ She would not look up.

  ‘What is it, Sunheria? There’s something else on your mind.’

  ‘How blind you are.’ She had spoken simply, without any rancour. ‘I love you, Prince.’

  And I thought I could read people.

  I thought both of us, but especially Sunheria, had made it a point to treat our affair casually and disclaim all emotional involvement.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Prince. I’m not about to cling to you. You were the first person who treated me as a human being and did it as if it was the natural thing to do. But it’s not gratitude I’m talking about.’

  ‘I am coming
back, Sunheria.’

  ‘I’ll pray every day for your safe return. But I doubt it if you will return to me.’ As always she hid her rough, working hands with her chunni.

  I reached Lakshman Simhaji’s house at five forty-five in the morning. I should have gauged the mood of the crowd on the lawns when it took its own time to part and let me in. Inside Rajendra had been placed on a raised bier. I waited for everybody to leave so that I could be alone with him. He was wearing the saffron robes that a Rajput warrior wears on his last battle and journey. He still had the look of fatal surprise he had on his face when the Shehzada drew his dagger and plunged it in. In a few moments he would be buried under five or six feet of flowers. I took his hand in mine. My eye fell upon the gold kada on his right wrist. I had completely forgotten about it. I had given it to him the year we completed our studies. I slid it off. There was a legend carved on its inner wall: “We’ll grow battle-scarred and old together, my friend.” And all these years I had believed that affectionate words cannot pierce and kill. I wanted to swing his arm to the ceiling and back and shake him awake. Get up, get up, get off your arse, you lazy wastrel, get dressed and let’s make a move. There’s a war waiting to be fought. It was not as civilized as that. It was a string of dirty words from our Gurukul days. I had certainly shaken him up. His left leg was bent at the knees and his torso was no longer aligned with his head. But it was no use. He was not about to budge. I let go of his hand. It flopped awkwardly outside the bier and rested on the floor. I put the kada back.

  I came out and stood on the steps of the house. According to protocol it was the signal for the rest of the family and all the other mourners to say goodbye to him. Over a thousand people were waiting outside. They pressed forward menacingly. Someone set up a chant. ‘Blood for blood. Mewar’s honour calls for Bahadur’s blood.’ Soon everybody had picked it up. It was obvious that if they didn’t get what they wanted, they would be willing to settle scores with me. ‘Free Prince Vikramaditya and lock up the traitor Maharaj Kumar.’ It was not difficult to guess who had inspired this novel idea. The calls for my imprisonment rose by the moment. Good move, Mother Karmavati. Where the hell was that Mangal? Nowhere in sight. But I was in luck. If the situation seemed close to hopeless a second ago, it was now utterly beyond repair and redemption. Instead of Mangal Simha, God Almighty help me, the Shehzada was walking towards the mob. The bloody fool, as if he hadn’t caused me enough trouble. Was it a case of belated conscience or, as I suspected, he couldn’t forsake his theatrical bravado even now?