Cuckold
Page 27
It was getting late, his troops were waiting and King Puraji Kika was looking at him with not a little puzzlement. The Prince extended his hand and took the flute. He was about to slip it into his belt (he would break it and disperse the pieces later) when his childhood friend stopped him.
‘Your Highness, when you accept a new flute as a gift, you must always play it first.’
You, too, Puraji Kika? And I thought you were my friend. ‘I don’t know how to play the thing. I don’t even know how to make a hole of my lips to blow into it.’
‘It doesn’t matter. A flute is a friendly, accommodating instrument. Blow somewhere in the vicinity of the first hole,’ Bhima was instructing him, ‘and you’ll hear a clear note.’
The Maharaj Kumar clenched his jaw, lifted the flute and settled his lips over the first hole and clamped his fingers on the other holes. He inhaled deeply and then blew the air out through his lips. There was no sound. Suddenly a cracked, shrill note issued forth followed by a twin-note cacophony. He realized his fingers had slipped.
‘There, you are getting the hang of it,’ Bhima told him encouragingly.
‘You call that music?’ the Maharaj Kumar asked him as if he was to blame for the bleating he had produced.
‘It will come. One day the notes will come together and sing a song of enchantment. All you need is practice.’
Sure, the Prince said to himself, no doubt, after I throw that damned reed into the marshes.
* * *
Weeks and many upheavals later, he was sitting in the middle of nowhere and the flute was still with him. He was sure Mangal was looking all over for him, trying to divert all the nasty rumours about his disappearance that were bound to be floating around in the camp. He was smart, that Mangal, he would slip in the first rumour himself before the gossip mills ran amok. ‘Let’s not mince words, we all know that the Maharaj Kumar doesn’t have the happiest of marriages. So he has a glad eye and a wandering hand. Wouldn’t you? No, no, don’t call him poor Prince, not in front of me at least. That man, this is just between you, me and the tent pole, the Prince has the raunchiest member under the sun. Let’s get this straight, I don’t blame him. What would you do if your wife turned out to be… no point repeating what everybody knows. Just before we came here, Shehzada Bahadur told him of this tawaif from Champaner. He said, “This is no harlot, Maharaj Kumar, this is a jannat ki houri, an apsara, a celestial beauty. Her face is the moon after the rains, her tresses are the nights of longing, her breath is rose petals falling from the weight of the morning dew, in her armpits is the perfume of a thousand mogras, her breasts are snowy peaks with the cherries of Kashmir to nibble on for as long as you wish, and between her thighs,” he sighed deeply here, “between her thighs, Highness, is heaven itself, not the first, not the second, but the seventh heaven.” From the day we came here, all the Maharaj Kumar could think of was going to Champaner to see this woman. After we crushed the Gujarat forces, there was no stopping him.’ Mangal would get some such tale abroad, and let the troops stew in envy and lust.
Where would Mangal look for the Maharaj Kumar? His men would comb every town and village. The desert, Mangal would take upon himself.
The Maharaj Kumar threw the flute up in the air, then twirled it around as if it were a baton. When he had had enough of this juggling, he put it against his lips and blew into it. The notes were clear and well-formed but the tones were disharmonious.
He had had every intention of throwing the bloody reed to the winds on that first day but had forgotten about it in the crush and fury of the battle. When he lay down late that night, it was stuck under him like an extra backbone. From time to time, he wanted to pull it out and at least put it aside but he was dog-tired and couldn’t bring himself to make the effort. He knew he was going to get rid of it for sure, either today or one of these days but it had stuck to him like a pariah puppy.
A few days later, a courier had arrived from Chittor. There was a brief but personal letter from the Rana and one with handwriting he could not recognize.
Jai Shri Eklingi
Dear son,
May the blessings of Shri Eklingji keep you from all harm.
There was a fire in your palace but you’ll be relieved to know that your wife is safe. We have not been able to ascertain the exact cause of the fire but initial enquiries of the police department seem to suggest that it may have started in your wife’s room when the lamp in front of the image of Lord Krishna fell down because of a gust of wind. Her maid from Merta, Kumkum Kanwar, unfortunately perished in the mishap. We are all grateful to God that the Princess suffered no harm beyond some burns.
Your mother sends you her love and blessings. We trust that the war is going well with you and our armies. May the light of the Sun-god shine on you always.
Your Father.
Jai Shri Eklingji
To His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar.
Your friend Leelawati agreed to take dictation from me and write this letter. I will not beat about the bush but come straight to the point. There was a fire on the seventh of this month in the room of Kumkum Kanwar, maid to the Princess, your wife. It started after midnight. It was the Princess who woke up with the screams of her maid and the smell of the smoke and rushed into Kumkum Kanwar’s room. She tried to save her but by that time it was too late. The maid tried to keep her mistress away from her, pleading with her that she was past saving but your wife persisted in trying to wrap her with blankets to douse the fire. When the brave girl realized that there was no longer any hope but that her mere presence was jeopardizing the Princess’ life, she jumped out of the window. The fall, unlike the fire, brought instantaneous death to Kumkum Kanwar.
The Princess has been badly burnt especially on her hands and forearms. I was away looking after my business in the village when the mishap occurred. As soon as I came back, I discontinued the services of the Raj Vaidya and asked Raja Puraji Kika’s physician, Eka, to look after her. Luckily, Shri Eka was in Chittor to receive thanks from His Majesty for saving the life of Shehzada Bahadur. He assured me that herbal poultices will not only heal the Princess’ burns but restore her blemishless skin. The first four days she was in great pain but the worst is over and I am happy to tell you that she is now well on the way to recovery.
There are a couple of things about the fire that are puzzling. Kumkum Kanwar invariably went to sleep by nine. She was not in the habit of reading and she always put out the lamp in her room before she went to bed. That particular night could not have been an exception since, as the Princess says, Kumkum, who slept the sleep of stones, could never do so until she had put out all the lights. There was no altar in her room, so the question of the altar light keeling over does not arise. The other curious thing is that none of the wooden furniture in her room is damaged. The fire seems to have begun and raged in her mattress and blanket. The investigation into the causes of the fire is in the hands of the new Deputy Minister for Home Affairs, Prince Vikramaditya. We’ll have to wait for his report on the subject to know the facts of the case.
I want you to know that till you return, I will not leave Chittor and will keep an eye on the Princess.
Look after yourself, Maharaj Kumar. Your life is precious to me but even more so to Mewar. At no point can you afford not to be vigilant or put your life at unnecessary risk.
May the flag of Mewar fly high. May you and your armies triumph in this war and may you return safely to our midst.
Blessings.
Yours obediently,
Kausalya.
P.S. This bit is from me, your beloved Leelawati. Father wanted to stop my maths lessons. He said I could learn Sanskrit, history, geography and music and painting but what need did a future housewife have of maths? I went and complained to Dadaji. He said the maths of the heavenly bodies makes the earth go round and the maths of money is what balances the equations of commercial and daily life. Even a housewife must deal in the commerce of daily life. Besides, whether you like it or not, he
told Father, maths is in her blood. Are you afraid because she calculates fractional interest faster in her mind than you do on paper? Let her study.
I am working on my presents for you. How about you? What are you getting for me?
Yours forever, yours and only yours,
Leelawati.
* * *
In his waking hours and at night the Maharaj Kumar had wished his wife dead. His imagination had run riot and plotted every kind of death for her. Death by drowning, small pox, falling off a horse, a cliff, every kind of accident, the overturning of a carriage, a landslide where a boulder crushed her ribs but kept her alive for a couple of days, death by halal, death by whipping, death by breaking one bone a day, death by hanging, and so on. But the most common form of death in his dreams was a fiery one. And yet when he heard that she had suffered burns and could have died in a fire, he went completely berserk. He was ready to abandon his armies, the war, and the terrible anticipation of the enemy’s next move. He would go back to Chittor. Back to his wife. He tied fifteen candles together and held his forearm for hours just above the point where the flames would singe him. What would he have done if she had died? No, that was unacceptable, he wouldn’t hear of it; quite simply he would not permit it. Because if something were to happen to her, he would have to put an end to his own life. Hadn’t he sworn to protect her the night he got married? He would stand guard in front of her room. He would eschew sleep forever. He would make sure she left the door open. And what if the Flautist came at night as he had seen him do that last night in Chittor? Kill her. Let the flames consume her. Was there a perfume more powerful and heady than the smell of burning flesh? He had a better idea. He himself would set both his wife and the Flautist on fire. Some erotic fire, what?
He went about the business of war with his usual eye for detail without losing sight of the larger perspective. He attended War Council meetings, planned alternate scenarios. He acted normally, he was absolutely normal. He knew he needed to be incarcerated instantly in an asylum.
He had been a judge at the Small Causes Court for years. You did not venture an opinion, let alone judge a case till all the evidence was in. And yet he had to admit that he found the discrepancy between the Rana’s and Kausalya’s versions disturbing. Neither had been at the scene of action. Whatever he might think or say of the Rana, he knew his father would not lie deliberately. Neither would Kausalya. But the Rana’s information was third hand. Kausalya, it was obvious, was conducting on-the-spot enquiries. Second hand reports were fine if the investigator was competent, unbiased and trustworthy. His brother Vikramaditya was not known to possess any one of the three qualities. Granted that the Maharaj Kumar had a jaundiced view of his brother but Kumkum Kanwar’s death was hard to explain. She was her mistress’s creature and too insignificant to arouse jealousy or rancour. The other possibility was suicide but that seemed unlikely. Her mistress loved her dearly and on the rare occasion when Kumkum Kanwar wanted something, she got it almost instantly. Besides, she was engaged to be married to one of the officers in the Rana’s personal guard and was in the throes of first love, hardly a time to kill herself. A fire cannot generate itself. An accidental fire, on the other hand, is always unruly and chaotic and would not limit itself to one person. The furniture and furnishings in the palace were excellent combustible material. It was not likely that they would escape untouched. Try as he might, the Maharaj Kumar could no longer play the objective and dispassionate jurist. He knew that someone had tried to kill the Princess. He may not know who it was but he had a pretty good idea and anyway he was willing to wipe out the whole of Chittor to get back at fate for daring to touch his wife.
Four and a half weeks later there was another letter from Kausalya.
Jai Shri Eklingji
To His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar.
I have failed you. I promised to keep an eye on the Princess but I wasn’t vigilant enough. From the day I returned from my village Rohala, I decided to be doubly cautious. After the food-taster had tasted all the dishes, I ate the food and only then served it to the Princess. A week ago, a full twelve hours after the Princess and I had had our lunch, both of us got severe pains and gripes in the stomach and acute diarrhoea. I sent for the Bhil physician Eka but within two hours both of us had lost consciousness because of dehydration and food poisoning. Our condition continued to deteriorate for forty-eight hours, according to Ekaji. Fortunately, he had been summoned at the very outset and had studied the colour and other signs of our faeces and was able to pinpoint the cause of our sudden and deadly illness. For deadly it was, according to Ekaji. A delayed-action poison had been introduced into our food. But for the Bhil doctor, we would both be dead now.
Both of us are out of danger and on the way to recovery. I assure you that there is no longer any cause for worry. For the time being, my daughter-in-law is cooking the rice soup on which the Princess and I have been living for the past five days. As soon as I have the strength to sit up, I will cook all the meals for your wife myself. I have also called ten of my most faithful and able men to stand guard round-the-clock in your and the Princess’ part of the palace. They’ll remain here till you come back. The physician informed His Majesty, the Rana, about the attempt on our lives and suggested that Kumkum Kanwar’s death may not have been an accident. His Highness has transferred the case from Prince Vikramaditya to Lakshman Simhaji’s jurisdiction. He has ordered the arrest of three servants and the cook. For some reason I feel far more safe now on behalf of the Princess. She is truly a brave woman and has not once complained about the terrible calamities that have befallen her since your departure. I’m ashamed that I have not been a better guardian to Her Highness. You are aware that I am not one to give false assurances but I genuinely detect a change in the climate in the palace since Lakshman Simhaji took charge. He has been to see the Princess and me every day and security has been far tighter here than it has been in a long time. As I had suspected, the cook who has been with you since childhood has been found innocent.
Yours obediently,
Kausalya.
P.S. Since you have not bothered to answer my previous P.S., I refuse to talk to you. Kausalya Ma has taught me to knit and I have half-completed a sweater for an unmentionable person.
Love,
Leelawati.
* * *
The Maharaj Kumar was in a great hurry. He had nowhere to go, no one was waiting for him but he had an appointment to keep. The desert was big, very big. It should be possible to get lost in it. It was also barren, which is but another word for nothingness. It was a state of mind and body that he desperately yearned for. He wandered about. He had much to do. The sand was crinkled like frozen waves on water. Each wave was precision-contoured and each ridge of a sand-drift was fine as a strand of hair and unbroken. It was breathtaking, the work of a mastercraftsman who must have spent hundreds of years creating this abstract image of perfection that stretched all the way to infinity. His life’s work was cut out for him. He had to systematically dismantle the work of art, botch it till it was unrecognizable, churn it back to primal chaos. He took the first step and smashed his foot into the crest of a wave. He would work his way to the horizon and then move to the next trough. It was hard work. Befikir watched him indulgently, then trotted off. At four in the afternoon he was hit on the head with a sledgehammer. He fell down and his brains spilt on the sand. When he came to, it was night. He should have turned to ice but he was running a high temperature and sweating and shivering alternately. He had not realized until now that the stroke in a sunstroke was a real and physical one and of such disproportionate and violent force. He was very thirsty but Befikir was nowhere around. He tried to stand up. His knees buckled and he collapsed.
A shrill cold wind was blowing. Sheets of sand, fine as sheer muslin flapped back and forth. The whole of the desert was in turmoil. Entire sandscapes were being forcibly evicted and were migrating to unknown lands. Tornado sands rose genie-like into the sky. Camels, birds, men
and women, carriages, palaces and elephants flew up and slammed into each other.
The light was golden and through the crush of flying objects a golden woman strode towards him with such carnal and loping grace, he raised his hands to greet her. She walked past him. Her yellow chunni was in his hand. He yelled at her to stop but even he couldn’t hear himself in all the din around. She turned round and smiled. He thought he would die of her beauty. She ran towards him and fell upon his supine body. She unbuttoned his duglo with her teeth. Where had he seen her before? One of the buttons was in her mouth. She laughed as she shot it at him. It stung him on his exposed chest. He snapped her blouse open. Her hands were at his waist untying the knot of his trousers. He held her tightly as he felt himself come alive. He couldn’t get rid of her body-hugging pants. She laughed as her left hand slipped them off. She was sitting on top of him, his hands cupping her breasts. Any moment now she would slip him in.
‘Was it my brother Vikramaditya, Queen Karmavati or you,’ he asked her as he flung her back, ‘who tried to kill her?’
‘What difference does it make?’
Her breasts were once again an old pair of socks, her hair a grey nest of vipers and her edentulous mouth chewed upon the air. ‘You wanted her dead, didn’t you? Does it matter how or who does it?’ Bhootani Mata’s long, bony hand was playing with his crotch. He tried to throw her off but she was nailed upright to him.
‘No, I don’t want her dead. I want him killed.’
‘We’ve changed our mind, have we? You were willing to go any lengths to do away with her the last time we met at the Brindabani Temple. I counselled a little more patience, a little more time to think things over but you spat at me. Perhaps the time for vacillation is long past.’
‘Don’t you dare touch her, you bitch.’