Cuckold

by Kiran Nagarkar

  It had been a highly contentious issue not just between the two sets of doctors, but between His Highness and the proponents of the starvation diet. Fortunately, the poor could not afford doctors most of the time and were blissfully unaware of the controversy. They drank water or refrained from doing so depending on their frame of mind and energy levels.

  Though she was semi-comatose and listless, the Princess resisted all offers of sustenance but the Maharaj Kumar was firm and persistent. Often she refused to open her mouth. He held the teaspoon of juice at her lips for minutes on end. When she continued in her obstinacy, he blackmailed her.

  ‘I’ve no objection to your suffering but I don’t see why I should be made to hold a spoon till my hand falls off.’

  If she could, she opened her eyes and looked at him piteously or with anger and loathing. It was pointless. He was willing to stoop to any means to force that damned juice and honey down her throat. One thing was certain, the only reason she survived that first night was because she had to wake up to retch and puke everything he fed her. He turned her on her side, wiped her mouth and body with a wet cloth when the vomit dribbled down her blouse and cleaned the cleavage between her buttocks gently when she had soiled herself. He changed her clothes and picked her up. This was when he realized that she would not require a change of clothes again. She was so weightless and her breathing so laboured, it was a matter of an hour or two before she receded into everlasting oblivion. He felt discouraged and hopeless. It was his pathological hatred of the Flautist that kept him going. Because if he didn’t, it would mean that her lover had once again beaten him. He put her on the other bed, so that the bedsheet and the jute cloth under the first could be removed.

  For days she hovered in a twilight zone.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘please let go of me.’

  He smiled to himself. How could he, for years now her betrayal of him was the only thing that had kept him going. What would he do without her?

  ‘Get up. Stop stalling. Is there no end to your selfishness? I haven’t done any work since you decided to indulge yourself. The children from the orphanage are dying and so are all the other sick people. Don’t you think it’s about time you got up and took care of them?’

  She closed her eyes. Why had he gone out of his mind when she had spurned him on their wedding night? She had the same bulges or projections that Sunheria, Kausalya or any woman had. They might be higher or lower, bigger or smaller, loose and dangling or firm and steady, but they were all breasts with a springy centrepiece and the same went for the slit in the middle. Wasn’t Kausalya good enough for him? Under normal circumstances he would have married two or three other princesses by now anyway. There had been more than enough offers and on two occasions the Maharana had been genuinely upset with him because not only were these important political alliances, the girls were supposed to be exceptionally attractive and talented. Even Rao Viramdev had suggested that he marry Rao Ganga’s granddaughter after the Rao’s death. It would be a gesture of appreciation of the services of the deceased to Mewar and strengthen the bonds between the two kingdoms. Besides, his wife’s uncle assured him that the girl did not have an iota of malice in her; just an inexhaustible supply of sweetness and vivacity.

  No, the Maharaj Kumar still couldn’t fathom what all the fuss was about. Once you had discounted extremes of caricature like buck teeth, squint eyes and exaggerated tics, why were some men and women more desirable and in demand than others? What was so special about his wife except that she had said no to him? Look at her now. She had shrivelled and her legendary transparent complexion was the colour of the slate he had used as a child. There wasn’t enough skin to go around and it seemed as if it was about to split open. Those breasts which had driven him to a voyeuristic sexual frenzy the night he had caught her in flagrante delicto were dry and creased and pitiably small.

  A phosphorescent green and mouldy syrup oozed out of her mouth. He wiped it with a piece of cloth. It smelled sour and looked poisonous enough to bore a hole through the palace floor. Was this the cholera or were these the final remains in her stomach? Was the Flautist watching? Would he want to make love to this woman again? Down below beyond the tall security wall of the palace, the crowds were singing one of her songs.

  In death and in life, I’m yours, yours alone.

  Take me. Do what you will with me.

  As stone or stray dog, as roach or rose, as fish or fowl,

  Whatever the shape of reincarnation, I’m yours, yours alone.

  You are free to reject me: I will never deny you.

  Beware, my beloved, of the pleasures of my body and soul.

  You are mine, mine alone.

  I’m your bride, your mistress, your slave.

  Has it occurred to you, my Lord,

  that you can only take and I can only give?

  You’ve had your day. Time to listen to me now.

  A god is but a stone till a devotee comes along

  and paints it vermillion.

  In death and in life, I’m yours, yours alone.

  Take me. Do what you will with me.

  The irony of the situation made him smile. There was a time when it would have made him run his sword through her and himself. She was in his arms and even as she was breathing her last, she was embracing someone else. Kausalya brought the rice broth, more like rice soup with a bit of chicken stock for nourishment. His hand shook as he took the bowl from her.

  ‘Sleep a little, Highness, I’ll feed her.’

  ‘I’m more pigheaded than you are. I don’t give in to her pleas to drink the kanji some other time.’

  He took a tablespoon of the translucent broth and tilted it in his wife’s mouth which was always half-open these days so she could get as much air as possible. She gagged and it trickled down. When she had settled down, he started again.

  ‘I’ll be firm with her. You’ve been here for seven days and nursed her night and day. If you should fall ill, I’ll not be able to look after two patients.’

  He ran his hand over his chin and face. There was a good growth of stubble there. Should he grow a beard? He looked at Kausalya. She was not about to give in and she was right. He gave her the bowl and went and lay down on the other bed. His wife was dead. She was fortunate to die before her husband, so Kausalya bathed her and draped her wedding ghagra around her. He walked ahead of the bier, the clay pot of agni in his hand. The whole of Chittor, even the priests from the Brindabani Temple had come to say goodbye to her. All the way down to the banks of the river, they sang the songs they had learnt from her. They placed her gently on the logs. She lay silent and serene as if waiting expectantly. He remembered his wedding day. It was the first time he had seen her and he had promised her many things. He had not fulfilled any of those vows. He had no business letting her go. He lit the torch from the fire in the earthen pot and touched the edge of her ghagra and then the logs. The flames caught instantly and surged upwards. The Flautist rose from them. He smiled. ‘The time for miracles, my friend, may I call you that,’ he asked the Maharaj Kumar superciliously, ‘is not the eleventh hour. It is the twelfth.’ He passed his hand over the flames and they retreated and died down. He kissed her lips. ‘Wake up, dearest.’ She opened her eyes. They were suffused with an infinite love. He picked her up in his arms and they ascended to the sky.

  ‘She hasn’t thrown up the last three times I’ve fed her,’ Kausalya told him.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Eleven hours, no, more like twelve.’

  The razor slipped out of his hand at least three times and nicked him badly.

  ‘I should let it slit your throat.’ There was nobody in the room but he knew who it was. Bhootani Mata was slashing his body, long clean gashes from which the blood welled up eagerly. ‘I warned you it was no easy task. What you wanted me to do was to overturn the very scheme of the universe, interfere with the private affairs of the gods themselves.’ The razor was going for his face now. ‘But
you wouldn’t listen. You said you didn’t give a damn about the costs or the consequences. You wanted the job done and quote, “no excuses, please”. I tried for years but anything and everything I attempted misfired. She got away. This time around I didn’t take any chances. I don’t want any more wrong blood on my hands. I planned for months, I worked out every single detail. Nothing could go wrong. I gave her cholera. And what do you do on the night that she’s supposed to breathe her last? You suddenly enter the picture. You countermand the doctor’s instructions, you force-feed her, you wipe her mouth and clean her arse, you sit in that room with its noxious fumes and you nurse her. You fuck up all my efforts and you bring her back from the dead. I should have given you the shits, not her. That way I would have got rid of all my problems once and for all.’

  ‘Didn’t want the wrong blood on your hands, you said and you killed half of Chittor to get at one little defenceless woman? Nine and half thousand dead as of last count and you call that a surefire hit? Even the gods won’t be able to save us from your precision.’ ‘She may have those thugs up there in heaven taking care of her, but I’ve got you, you little twerp. Nobody here or in the heavens wants to protect you. Frankly almost everybody would give his right arm, including His Majesty who’s already lost his other, to be rid of you. But that would be too easy. You are so clever and smart, nobody, not even an army of your worst enemies could wish you the kind of troubles you bring upon your own head. I’m going to sit in the wings and savour every setback, every humiliation you invent for yourself.’

  Chapter

  26

  Within a week, Greeneyes was walking about the house. On the tenth day she visited the orphanage. Rather, she intended to. The people of Chittor had got word that the Little Saint had resurfaced and stopped her at the Brindabani Temple. They forced the priests to bring out the image of the Flautist and installed it outside. From there on it was chaos. No Diwali, no festival, no birth, no victory in Chittor had ever been celebrated the way the Little Saint’s return was. They made her sing, they danced. They sang her songs, they carried her in a palanquin round the city. They stopped traffic, everything came to a halt. Offices were closed and shops shuttered. Everybody including the Commissioner of Police, the security guards, even some priests laid their heads at her feet. My uncle, my very own gruff and undeviatingly practical and hard-nosed uncle was about to bend down (don’t ask me how, the fort would have collapsed with his weight; we wouldn’t have known how to lift him and would have had to bury him there in front of the Temple) when the wise woman that my wife is, touched his feet and said, ‘Not you, Your Highness. Do not embarrass me in front of all these people.’ Wisdom or discretion prevailed but only for a minute. For the whole city now had two pairs of feet to touch: the Saint’s and Lakshman Simhaji’s.

  The procession had to stop at every house where there was a married woman. The woman of the house lit a lamp and performed an arati. It was evening by the time they had come full circle and were back at the Brindabani Temple. Every street and home was lit with clay lamps, everybody was distributing sweets to everybody. Someone suggested that the Little Saint be weighed in gold. Within minutes my wife was sitting in one plate of a balance that had been transported from one of the godowns for storing grain. Bangles, studs, ear and nose rings, anklets, belts, chokers, necklaces fell into the other plate and slowly, imperceptibly my wife began to rise. It was a thrilling sight, the ascension of the Little Saint; soon the two pans were level with each other and yet they kept piling the gold ornaments and jewellery. My wife was up in the air now. ‘You must stop,’ she cried. ‘You must stop now.’ But nobody listened to her. Suddenly the sky lit up with fireworks, the Police Commissioner’s gift to the city. For a full hour lighted fountains rose in the air. Rubies and diamonds and emeralds exploded in the most stunning patterns. You would have thought that the crowds would wind up and head for home after that spectacular show. But the revelries continued. The men and women and children sang songs, danced, and drank bhang. The Little Saint was made to sing the folk songs of Merta. Jugglers, nautanki actors and actresses, acrobats, charans, anybody with some talent put up a five or ten-minute show to entertain the crowds and themselves. At the end of each act, they clapped with gusto, regardless of how accomplished or boring or unconsciously funny the participants had been. My wife begged to be let off. They allowed her to go after the morning arati to the Flautist.

  The next day Chittor was officially declared safe and the gates thrown open for the commerce of life to resume after months of isolation. The bridge over the Gambhiree was busy day and night. The families who had left Chittor during the blight – bless them, for what would we have done if we had had to feed and look after thousands more – came back home one by one. Soon Father and the Court too returned. Life was back to normal.

  I got my marching orders within ten days. I was to proceed to Kumbhalgarh forthwith with my wife, the ‘with’ was underlined, and supervise the repairs on the fortifications in consultation with the governor of the fort, Rawat Sumer Simha.

  Now who could say Father didn’t have a sense of humour? Kumbhalgarh, built by my great-grandfather, Maharana Kumbha, was not just one of the finest forts in the whole of Mewar, it was not even fifty years old and in superb condition. I was not quite sure who was being transferred this time, me, my wife or both? Obviously word about the change in the status of the nautch girl had reached Queen Karmavati and my brother Vikramaditya. I must say that I couldn’t blame the pair of them for taking remedial measures immediately. If push came to shove, I could be tried for treason, jailed or exiled. On what charges were they going to try my wife? It would be difficult to convict or slander a saint. Even the priests who were no partisans of the Little Saint had vetoed a suggestion from Queen Karmavati to ban the evening prayers which she led, as too risky. Bump her off and she would become an instant martyr. Her death would redound to my greater glory and there was a remote chance that I might become popular despite the fine job they had done in terms of character-assassination. The best solution, for the time being at least, was to contain the damage. Get the Little Saint out of Chittor. People might forget her, she could have an accident, anything was possible once she was out of sight.

  I love Chittor and never tire of it but I was relieved to be leaving it this time. If I was going to be marginalized, I might as well be away from the centre of action. My wife and I packed our stuff within a day. I went over after dinner to tell Father that I was leaving the next day. He was preoccupied or at least pretended to be.

  ‘I see that you are recovered completely.’ I didn’t bother to remind him that I had been all right for at least seven or eight months. ‘So what are your plans for Kumbhalgarh?’

  To follow your orders, Your Majesty. Fortify the fortifications of Kumbhalgarh.’

  He ignored my little jibe.

  ‘You do that. We’ll come and inspect the fort when we have work in that area.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  The farewell ceremony was over without undue pain to either party. I decided to ride around a bit before returning home. I went to the stables and got Befikir. Whatever had happened to Nasha, the stallion colt I had got for Leelawati? Funny, how I remembered her so often and yet had quite forgotten that beautiful horse.

  ‘Do you really want to come to Kumbhalgarh, Mangal? It’s going to be boring as hell.’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘You are my closest associate, Mangal. We hardly ever talk, that’s because you are privy to almost everything that I do. Without you I would have been dead several times over by now. I can be contrary and at such times, I take advantage of the one thing that you’ve given me unstintingly, steadfast loyalty. I had plans for both of us, Mangal, good, solid, challenging plans that would have made our country’s future more secure. But there’s no future with me. For the time being at least or perhaps for good, they are through with me at Ch
ittor. It’s absurd for me to tell you this since you are far better informed about matters and far more in advance than I am. You would be an asset to any of the ministers in the cabinet. I could talk to Lakshman Simhaji before I leave tomorrow. He would be delighted to have you with him. It’s likely that the Commissioner of Police here may be transferred. There I go again, telling you things that you are familiar with. I can’t think of a more capable and honest person for that position than you. That department needs to be overhauled, no, almost reinvented. You would do it brilliantly. Shall I talk to Uncle?’

  ‘No, Sire.’

  ‘Don’t be pigheaded, Mangal. You have to think of your career. Besides, Chittor and Mewar would benefit from your expertise and experience. And if, with some luck, I am back in favour, we’ll be together again, an inseparable pair. Stay Mangal, think of your wife, most of all, of your future.’

  ‘Sire, I beg you not to think ill of me for speaking candidly. But you leave me no option. We were born at around the same time and that’s how our fates got locked together. We were suckled by the same mother and my future became inseparable from yours. You’ve been good to me and I have risen faster than most. I would like to be of use to our country, not in some vague romantic way, but in a concrete and hardheaded fashion. It’s one of the many things I learnt from you. No heroics, just deliver the goods as efficiently and economically as you can. But I am a marked man. I know you believe that there is only one camp and it’s called Mewar but not everybody sees it from your angle. They think I’m your man and I’m automatically suspect. We are like lepers, Your Highness, anybody who’s seen with us gets tainted.