Cuckold

by Kiran Nagarkar

  Sometimes after lunch, they played cards or Mamta brought the multi-coloured game of checkers and unrolled it like a carpet. His Highness would have preferred to have played without stakes but his wife insisted that money was what made the games fun and exciting. They hadn’t ever discussed it or cast lots but the pairs got fixed soon after they arrived in Kumbhalgarh. The Princess and Mangal were partners against Mamta and the Maharaj Kumar. As the days passed, one thing became clear: the three of them were completely outclassed and outmanoeuvred by the Princess. She looked what she was, a little saint whose innocence shone through like burnished armour while she masterminded every devious scheme of self-advancement, buccaneering and profiteering known to man or woman and many unknown to both.

  It was impossible to grasp the enormity of her mendacity, the subtlety of her finger-work and her sense of aggrieved outrage when she was caught red-handed. Her rapacity was as great as her inexhaustible charm. She may be dealt the worst hand of cards, she may have had a run of one plus one every time she threw the dice for the last four hours but she always managed to be ahead of the others. Her standard ploy was a diversionary tactic: she dropped her odhani, the screw of her earring clattered down, something had got into her eye, would someone please use the end of his or her kerchief to get it out. By the time she had rearranged her odhani, retrieved the gold screw or someone had located the boulder lodged between her eyelid and eye, the complexion of the game had changed beyond recognition: her hand of cards had improved to the point where she collected the prize money or her coins were way ahead of the others. On the rare occasions when no ruse worked and all seemed lost, she would get an attack of hiccups or sneezes and accidentally scatter the coins on the cloth board.

  ‘Damn that fly,’ she slapped her chest hard, ‘it’s been bothering me since we started playing.’

  The Maharaj Kumar leaned over and gripped her hand. The side of his wrist rested on her breasts.

  ‘And pray, what do you think you are doing, Your Highness?’

  ‘Just helping you catch that fly.’ He squeezed her hand. Beads of sweat broke out on her upper lip.

  ‘Let go of my hand, Highness.’

  ‘I will. Once you let me have the fly.’ He kneaded the bones of her hand till you could hear them crack a mile away. Her eyes smouldered with pain and anger but her fist remained tightly closed. Mangal and his wife looked at this family squabble in alarm. They had never seen the Maharaj Kumar so adamant. It was obvious he was hurting her.

  If the back of my wrist, the Maharaj Kumar thought, can recognize that softly pounding breast of hers, surely she can identify her nocturnal visitor. The appearance of normality, the feigned amnesia of couples who, a couple of moments back had been locked in each other’s arms, had always struck him as the quintessential duplicity of mankind.

  The card fell from her hand. Mangal picked it up to reassure himself that it was real paper and not a trick his eyes were playing on him. Husband, wife and the Maharaj Kumar collapsed with laughter. The Princess was not amused.

  ‘You planted that card in my hand, Highness. You are an abominable cheat.’

  She threw her cards down and stomped out of the room. Mamta ran after her and brought her back after much pleading and coaxing. They resumed the game. That little detour seemed to have improved the quality of her cards enormously.

  Chapter

  29

  The news from home and the rest of the kingdom has been mixed. The freak monsoons of the previous year, and the unseasonal flooding have ruined the crops. The economy is in bad shape and there’s a major recession on in the country. The farmers need money to buy seed but the exchequer’s almost empty and the Finance Minister Adinathji is unable to advance any loans. Under the circumstances, Father’s done what most monarchs in the world would: encroached on our neighbour’s lands, marauded, plundered and wherever possible, annexed territory. The choice was between the Sultanates of Delhi and Malwa. Father, as is his wont, weighed the pros and cons and took a shrewd decision. He opted for the former. Both Delhi and Malwa have lost their energy and vigour and are on their last legs. Ibrahim Lodi of Delhi and Mahmud Khalji of Malwa, are kings bereft of ideas and unable to control their nobles and vassals. Malwa would have been a walkover but for the fact that Mahmud Khalji has a prime minister whom he distrusts but who happens to be both a Rajput and very capable. His name’s Medini Rai. It is, as I have said repeatedly, Father’s greatness that unlike his predecessors, he does not choose to commit any hostile acts, let alone start a war with Rajputs. As a consequence, the Sultan of Delhi has been receiving news for the last few months about Rana Sanga helping himself to big chunks of Lodi land.

  The Sultan is a deeply suspicious man and regards almost all the high-ranking men in his own kingdom as potential enemies. It is a condition that is as trying for him as it is for those upon whom his suspicion falls. His victims lose their lands, families and heads but the victimizer too must pay a terrible price: his support at home dwindles, his ubiquitous doubts become self-fulfilling and the toxins of insecurity must surely eat into his very soul. If the platitude ‘trust breeds trust’ is even halfway credible, then the reverse must also be true. If Ibrahim Lodi has ignored Father’s depredations it’s because he’s been too busy quelling a series of revolts of his deputies in outlying provinces. He finally managed to put down the internal threats to his throne or at least keep them in abeyance, and rode posthaste to confront the Rana.

  Queen Karmavati pestered and pursued Father till the day he left, trying to get him to appoint Vikramaditya governor of Chittor while he was away but Father was not to be swayed. He appointed my younger brother Rattan governor, and took Vikramaditya with him to the battlefront. Court gossip has it that Queen Karmavati has fallen out of favour and Rattan is now being groomed as heir apparent. It may well turn out that Rattan will ascend the throne after Father but it would be shortsighted to underestimate the Queen’s power and influence. It is more than likely that Father took Vikramaditya with him to keep him away from mischief at Chittor while also making certain that he got exposure to a real war. (Incidentally, Mangal’s sources say that the Queen gave in only after Father had made some kind of deal with her though nobody knows what the terms of the agreement were. I can only vouchsafe two things. One, that she didn’t plead my case as heir apparent and two, that we are bound to find out the substance of the covenant in due time.)

  The Delhi and Mewar forces collided against each other near the village of Khatoli on the borders of Haravati. The battle lasted five hours at the end of which the Delhi army decided that flight was the better part of valour and took to its heels. Father was shrewd enough to take a Lodi prince prisoner. He was released after the Sultan paid a ransom which ensured that while Mewar may not feast the rest of the year, we would at least be able to eat from time to time.

  * * *

  I was giving the finishing touches to my two hundred and seven page introduction to Shafi’s book when there was a knock on the door. Whichever servant was knocking was in for the bawling of his or her lifetime.

  ‘Come in.’ The door opened. ‘What the…’

  It was my wife looking brand-new after a bath. Her eyes were alight. What awful mischief was she up to?

  ‘Shall I complete the sentence for you?’

  ‘You know very well that I’m not to be disturbed between seven thirty and twelve thirty in the mornings.’

  ‘Not even in an emergency?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Got you, didn’t I? You are such a spoilsport. Surely I’m allowed to ruin your routine once every eighteen months.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll race you to Ranakpur.’

  ‘I bet on all fours.’

  ‘Very funny. Get up. Mangal and Mamta are waiting in the courtyard.’

  ‘Have you …’ I stopped short again. I had become a one-response man. Every time my wife suggested one of her impromptu projects, she didn’t have any others, my reaction
was to ask her whether she had gone mad. Didn’t I know by now that she was born that way? She was certifiably insane. It was an infectious kind of craziness. Mangal, Mamta and I were also suffering from advanced symptoms.

  ‘How are we going?’

  ‘We’ll ride, how else?’

  ‘You’ll ride?’

  ‘And beat you to it.’

  ‘And what do I get if you lose?’

  ‘My bangles.’

  ‘I have them. Remember, you lost them at cards.’

  ‘You cheated.’

  ‘You should talk.’

  As usual she turned the question right back at me.

  ‘What are you betting?’

  I looked out of the window. ‘The flowers from the parijat tree.’

  She stared at me quizzically for a long time and then at the tree which covered the ground with hundreds of red-stemmed white flowers every morning.

  ‘You are the most generous human being I have known. Don’t move. I’m going to take out your nazar. I said sit still. I don’t want anyone casting the evil eye on you.’

  I had long since stopped trying to make sense of my wife. She brought two plates, one with burning coals and the other with salt, red chillies and all the other paraphernalia and made me close my eyes. I could feel the air swish and lap in my face as she moved her closed fists back and forth around my head and muttered something. She opened the fists and let the contents fall into the plate on the floor. They crackled and sputtered and spattered angrily.

  ‘May I open my eyes?’

  ‘May all your enemies die a terrible death,’ she was in a temper. The firecrackers were still bursting, if anything even more virulently. ‘See, see how much ill they’ve been wishing you. I’m to blame. I should have taken drastic action a long time ago. You watch me, Highness, nobody will come between you and His Majesty again. I’ll take care of you, I’ll vanquish all your enemies.’

  Dear God, did she not know who she would have to destroy first?

  * * *

  We were travelling incognito. Greeneyes had got picnic lunches packed for us. I had informed the Governor of our last minute plans and he looked a bit uncertain. Would Father approve? Was our trip as innocent as we were making it out to be? What if something should happen to us? Why the incognito? He was ambivalent about the Princess and Mamta riding with us. It seemed to reassure him that we couldn’t be up to much mischief since we were with our wives, but he would have preferred it if they had ridden in palanquins instead of roughing it out. What put his mind at rest was my request that four of his men go ahead and set up tents for us. My reasoning was elementary. He would have to send somebody or the other to keep a watch on us anyway. Might as well get them to do a little work.

  The road between Kumbhalgarh and Ranakpur is hilly and heavily wooded. The sun was out in his full glory but it was still several months to May when the rock of the Aravali ranges would heat up like fat in a griddle. We must have ridden for over two hours when the Princess who was ahead of us – why should I exhaust Befikir today, I figured I would conserve his energies for the final spurt – raised her right hand and brought us to a halt. To everybody’s surprise she took a bow and arrow from Mangal. She patted her horse on the neck and quieted him down. Had she sighted a tiger or a lion? Unlikely at this hour but not impossible. This was, after all, game country. Mangal had got his spear while I readied my bow and arrow. Greeneyes sat straight and still, then quietly fixed the arrow to the bow and pulled the string taut. We could see the herd of barasinghas grazing on an open grass patch to the left of the road ahead now. Did she know what a barasingha weighs? If the buck was wounded and not killed, it could rush her and lift her and her horse all the way to heaven.

  What was she waiting for?

  It was clear soon enough. She wanted the odds to be even. She would take a shot at him only if he had as much of a chance to maul or kill her as she had with him. Of all varieties of deer, the barasingha is, by far, my favourite. One look at him and it was obvious why the Princess had chosen him. The twelve-antlered one stood out, literally, head and shoulders above the rest of his tribe. His complexion was a russet gold. Even in the dark it would shine like a nimbus around him. He was at least five feet tall, that’s not counting his horns. He was lean and tight and without a gram of fat. The sinews on his legs were made of steel cables. They had three specific tasks: to charge; to round up his kinsfolk and retreat if his tribe was in danger; and to hold firmly to the earth when a contender to his throne locked horns with him. He had a neck like the double-barrelled thighs of a Gujarat wrestler. Every now and then he twitched his epidermis to get rid of a fly. But it was his eyes that set him apart from everyone else. They were keenly intelligent and kept a casual but vigilant watch over his wards. They were aloof and full of hauteur. Thus far, they said, and no more. The message was clear. Don’t trifle with me.

  He stared at the Princess for a long time and then turned his head dismissively. What you do is your business just so long as you leave my people alone. He grazed for a minute and looked up again. This time he sensed that the woman across was waiting for him. He pawed the ground furiously in a show of strength hoping that wiser counsel would prevail and she would leave him alone. It also gave him a couple of seconds to decide on his course of action. She was still watching his every move. It was clear to him now that he was the target. The least he could do was make it a moving one. He bolted. It was a magnificent sight as he took off, his front legs folded, his body including his rear legs straight as the arrow he hoped to elude. It was a smart move. He had alerted his people against present and imminent danger. There was a left to right stampede now. My wife looked motionless even though she swivelled a full 180 degrees, keeping the speeding beast in the dead centre of her vision. There was no slack in her backbone, neck or the muscles of her arms. The thunder was deafening and the duststorm obscured the view. He was out of sight now. She waited. He must have taken a three-quarter turn for he was back. He had accelerated his speed. There was a barely audible zing of the bow string and the arrow was out of sight. We waited till the entire herd of two hundred or so deer had disappeared and the dust had settled. He was lying on his side, the beast; the arrow had pierced his heart. He had died instantly.

  ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that, Highness?’ Mangal asked the Princess as she pulled out the arrow.

  ‘It was a fluke,’ the Princess said self-deprecatingly.

  ‘No fluke this.’

  ‘My uncle taught me.’ She was embarrassed by the attention she was attracting. ‘Let’s keep a leg and give the rest away to the villagers nearby.’

  I was not overeager to meet anybody. Not that the villagers would recognize me but one couldn’t discount the possibility that someone might have touched the Little Saint’s feet or danced with her in Kumbhalgarh or Chittor. It would put unnecessary stress on the Governor and we would soon have welcome committees waiting for us at every village and hundreds, if not thousands of villagers would accompany us all the way to Ranakpur. But the barasingha had been downed and there was enough meat there to feed seventy to eighty people. There was nothing to be done but locate the closest village. I was reluctant to leave the women by themselves but my wife, as usual, had the last word.

  ‘I can take care of myself and Mamta.’

  We discovered a hamlet three quarters of a mile away and spoke to the village headman and his friends. Barasingha meat is a rare treat reserved for feast days. The villagers were delighted with our gift and only too happy to help us carry their dinner home. They hitched two of their biggest bullocks and we were about to ride out with six young men when the headman asked whether we would stay for an impromptu lunch of paunk. It was an offer I was unlikely to refuse even on my deathbed.

  Paunk is no ordinary food. It is ambrosia and an enigma. Which mortal would have thought of using crisp vermicelli savouries made from chickpea flour as a foil to the lightly roasted green and succulent corn of jowar picked fresh from the far
m? Eaten soft and crunchy, it is deadly and unpredictable but spike it with lemon and what you get is a collision and collusion of sweet, sour, and salty that’s likely to go down as one of the high points of one’s life.

  When was I going to get to know my people? The men were tall and erect and handsome and the women were shy and beautiful. (This is, I realize, the paunk speaking but it also happens to be the truth.) They were hospitable and loved company. We sat on a dhurrie under the open sky. They wanted to know where we came from.

  ‘Chittor,’ we told them.

  ‘We knew it,’ they said. ‘You look like people from the centre of power, though you may for all we know, be powerless. But that busy, purposeful look is Chittor, no question about it. And the accent is a dead giveaway. And what is your name?’

  ‘Sisodia.’

  ‘Not related, we trust, to the royal family. If you were what would you be doing with the likes of us? But you never know, some princes like to travel incognito and keep a watch on their people. Hope you are not some of them.’

  ‘Sure we are. Can’t you tell from our haughty demeanour? Better watch what you say.’ My wife pointed to me, ‘That man’s making mental notes of everything you say because he is the Maharaj Kumar and I’m the Princess.’

  They found this very funny. They slapped each other on the back and the women giggled and nudged my wife on the shoulder. They bowed to us and fanned us and got into the spirit of things.

  ‘Your Highness, my daughter needs a husband. We’ll give you three cows and a dozen hens. What do you say, will you take her off our hands and make her the Queen of Mewar when, long live His Majesty, you become the king? The first one we believe is a saint but no queen.’

  ‘Saint?’ That was my wife again. ‘They call her a strumpet and a nautch girl.’

  ‘Really? The Maharaj Kumar need never worry about our darling daughter singing or dancing. She has no ear for music and has paddles for feet. But she’s docile as a cow, cooks a fine meal, washes clothes and gives a back massage that crushes your bones but makes you fit within minutes. There she is, the one who’s got her head covered by her mother’s chunni.’ The girl withdrew further behind her mother and chewed on the cloth of her chunni. ‘No, seriously, what do your parents do? Perhaps you have a younger brother who might fancy her.’