‘Will you teach me?’ I asked on a whim, completely forgetting my earlier intention of trying to get her to leave Mathura as early as possible.
Angai smiled. ‘Maybe not, Majesty,’ she said.
I frowned. How dare this woman say no to the greatest swordsman in the land? Did she even know whom she was turning down? ‘And may I ask why not?’ I said, my annoyance ringing through.
‘You’re not ready to learn yet,’ she said simply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can try to teach but unless you discard your ego, you won’t learn much.’
I was stunned by her audacity. My sword arm was well-known all over Aryavarta and no one ever told me I wasn’t good enough to learn. How dare this woman!
‘It seems to me, madam, that it’s not my ego but yours that’s in the way,’ I replied. ‘For all your acrobatic trickery, you still could not best me in the fight.’
‘That may be,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Then why waste time trying to learn this “acrobatic trickery”?’
‘So that the next time we fight, you can’t claim handicap. I can take you down, staff and whip, as easily as I can best you in a sword fight. I don’t want it to be an uneven game.’
‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘I will teach you all that I know. It’s up to you to learn.’
We began our classes the very next day, despite howls of disapproval from Harisena. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he pleaded. ‘We can simply tell her this is now territory under the imperial Garuda protection, and that she’s not welcome anymore.’
‘Expel her?’ I asked. ‘That won’t look good.’
‘I can write to her brother,’ he suggested. ‘Tell him to call her back. Though as the regent of a sovereign monarch, he’s not obliged to listen to us…’
I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I will emerge from this with my wits intact and maybe learn a new martial art in the process too. Not a bad bargain, I think!’
Harisena scowled. ‘Then I will accompany you while you train. I don’t trust that woman.’
I clapped my friend on the back. ‘You don’t trust anyone as far as I know. By all means, be there.’
The next morning, both of us reached the arena early as decided, and found Angai offering prayers to her staff and whipcord. Freshly bathed, she had flowers in her hair and had smeared her broad forehead with ash and vermillion. Emeralds and rubies glinted on her ears, arms and wrists; a red silk sari tightly draped accentuated every curve and sinew in that lithe frame. She looked like a temple priestess, I thought, a devout devadasi ready for her morning performance. Harisena and I exchanged looks, me curious, he amused. Angai caught our glance and frowned.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
‘We are not used to fighting in such finery,’ joked Harisena.
‘My sword doesn’t make me any less a woman than yours makes you any more a man,’ she replied, brusquely.
‘That’s a strange thing to say,’ I said. ‘My sword is a part of who I am as a Kshatriya.’
‘And my art is a part of who I choose to be as a woman,’ she said.
The next hour was spent in what seemed to me a series of meditated tumbles and somersaults. ‘To understand Silambam, you have to understand the logic behind it,’ said Angai. ‘It is a form of martial arts first documented by Saint Agastya in his book Kampu Sutra.’
‘Why do you fight with staff and whip?’ I asked, as I re-enacted the set of calibrated movements that she was showing me.
‘It’s all about balance and leverage,’ she replied. ‘The staff and whip give you extra leverage. You back it up with deft footwork, or Kaaladi, and the hand-lock blocking technique, or Poottu. The acrobatics is only a small part of this. The more important parts are hand–eye coordination, endurance, stamina and of course, flexibility.’
‘Can the staff be of any length?’ I asked.
‘Typically it should be three fingers from your head but there are smaller versions too which can be concealed easily,’ she said. ‘The Kampu staff can be reinforced or not, depending upon the use you put your craft to,’ she said. ‘Occasionally we also use more conventional weapons like the Vel, which is the spear, the Val, the sword and the Kedaham which is the shield.’
‘When we were fighting, I saw you hit certain points of my body,’ I asked, remembering the pain that shot through my veins.
Angai smiled. ‘You are a sharp student indeed, Majesty,’ she said. ‘That’s Varma Adi Murai or the art of attacking the nerve spots in the body. It effectively disables opponents, all but the most exceptional ones.’
I saw her spin as the stick in her hand cut through the air and lashed towards my joints. ‘Watch the rhythm,’ said Angai. ‘In Silambam, you need to be fluid like the waves. Once you get into the rhythm, your weapons become an extension of that wave creating a deadly aura around your person.’
‘Still, you fight to win,’ intercepted Harisena, from his corner in the arena. ‘So how is this different from conventional swordsmanship?’
‘Because it does not believe that brute force alone can determine the outcome of a fight,’ she replied. ‘You believe in fighting hard. We believe in fighting smart.’
I shot a quick glance at Harisena and caught his eyebrow arching up in disbelief once again. I hope all this tumbling and spinning turns out to be worth my while, I thought. Otherwise Harisena’s eyebrows will remain permanently arched in disapproval. And I can do without that bit of facial acrobatics.
8
Home and Heart
BY THE TIME THE Kota affair had been wrapped up, it was time for Vasant Panchami. The bitter cold of Agrayan and Poush were behind us and everything had taken on a golden hue in the limpid sunshine of imminent spring. It had been nearly three months since we left Pataliputra and everyone was now homesick. The prospect of spending Vasant Panchami’s raucous revelry away from home did not appeal to most of us. Worse, Harisena’s spies were bringing with them disturbing tidbits about other allies across the empire, chief among them our old friend Byagraraja or the Tiger King of Mahakantar.
‘He is fortifying that bolt hole of his in Asurgarh,’ said Harisena.
‘What’s there to fortify?’ I said. ‘With its lake, moat and forest cover, it’s impregnable anyway.’
‘Yes, but why stockpile weapons and supplies? Why recruit men? What’s he up to?’ Harisena wondered out loud.
Byagra had been in touch with the Nagas before but the recent downturn in their fortune should have sent a strong enough signal to all our allies, the Tiger King included. But clearly, our atavic neighbour had other ideas.
‘You need to talk to Bhasma,’ said Harisena, holding his temples with long, tapering fingers. A scribe’s hand, I thought suddenly. But then, words could be weapons too; only sharper and less messy.
‘He says nothing,’ I replied. ‘Except that he wants to go home.’
‘Don’t we all?’ sighed Harisena. ‘But you need to put the Naga end in order. And send that southern princess back home too.’
Harisena had a point. After his very public groveling, Ganapati Naga was proving much more intractable in private. So far, he had resolutely refused to say ‘yes’ to an imperial garrison to be stationed in his capital. And while the proposal for higher taxes received a verbal approval from him, he was yet to sign and seal the agreement. Instead, he was plying us with food and drink, hunts and performances, telling us to delay our departure by another week and then another and another, till he spoke to those in his confederacy. Meanwhile, my men grew fat and lazy and grumbled about the inactivity.
‘I wonder what he’s playing at?’ asked Harisena. ‘The Nagas can’t do very much any more, at least not in a hurry. We have broken their backs. So why tarry?’
It then came to me in a flash. ‘I know why Ganapati is trying to hold us back!’ I said. ‘He knows someone will attack Pataliputra while we are away. He wants them to swoop in and occupy the city knowing it will take us at least twelve days to get back.
’
‘Byagra?’ asked Harisena, forehead creased in a frown.
‘Yes. We cannot dawdle any longer. We have to return home immediately.’
‘Pity,’ said Harisena, his eyes twinkling. ‘You won’t be able to finish your training. You were doing so well too.’
I laughed. ‘The princess will be disappointed,’ I said.
The twinkle quickly died out. ‘And what about you?’ asked Harisena, his voice strangely flat. ‘Will you be disappointed too?’
‘You’re getting better at this, Majesty,’ said Angai grudgingly. ‘I should never have agreed to teach you.’
I spun around, blocking her stick and swayed out of reach of her hissing metal whip.
‘Don’t fret,’ I told her. ‘This will likely be our last lesson.’
Angai stopped mid-spin and turned to face me. ‘You will not force me to leave for Kanchi, will you?’
‘We have no choice,’ I said. ‘My men and I are leaving Mathura. Since you are our responsibility, I have to make sure you are safely on your way back before we leave.’
‘You are leaving?’ she asked, clearly surprised.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Home is calling out. Pataliputra. Mother. Datta.’
‘In that order?’ she asked. And then, realizing her mistake, she dropped her gaze. ‘I am sorry. That was impertinent of me.’
I shrugged lightly. ‘No matter. It’s no secret where my priorities lie. For me, Pataliputra will always come first.’
That slight tilt of the head again, as if she half-agreed but then not quite.
‘And your wife,’ she asked. ‘She doesn’t mind?’
‘Not at all. Datta knows what her role as empress demands.’
‘I wish I could meet her,’ said Angai, suddenly. ‘I think we could become friends.’
‘Datta? But she’s nothing like you,’ I said, remembering the fragile tear-stained smile that bid me goodbye three months ago. ‘She’s small and sweet. And she’s no warrior. I mean she’s learnt swordplay and can pick up a weapon if need be, but it’s only a life skill to her. What she loves most is her nest. That’s why I call her my little tailor bird.’
The severity of Angai’s expression dissolved into a disarming smile, one that showed off a dimple. ‘Tailor bird?’
‘She builds a nest,’ I said, ‘with leaves and twigs. Even when the rain soaks through and the wind threatens to blow it away, she doesn’t give up. No matter how scared she is, she will still hang on, tail up, sewing together a home she thinks will keep her own safe.’
‘A strong woman then,’ said Angai, listening rapt.
‘She tries to be, I think,’ I said. ‘Like my mother.’
‘You look up to your mother, Kumardevi?’
‘My father looked up to her too,’ I said. ‘She’s my shield. She doesn’t crack easily. She can take any number of blows to protect her own. But she doesn’t suffer indolence. With her, I can never be anything less than the best of me.’
For a while neither of us spoke. Then Angai said, ‘You are blessed, Majesty. You have beside you two exceptional women. As for Queen Datta, I think you’re mistaken. I know I have never met her, but I think in many ways she’s very much like your mother.’
She trailed off and then continued. ‘You see, not all strength needs to be wielded by a sword. Not all victories come with a drum roll.’
‘When you are an emperor, you need the sword. And the drumroll,’ I grinned.
Angai smiled. ‘True. But not everything that is won by the sword can be held by the sword too. You may not understand it now, but someday you will.’
‘Why not now?’
She turned her calm unblinking gaze towards my face. ‘I see a lust for glory in you,’ she said softly, almost to herself. ‘You will plant that Garuda pennant of yours across the length and breadth of this land.’
I kept quiet, not knowing what to say to that. The spell lasted but a few moments and then Angai woke up from it. ‘Pity you are in such a hurry to send me home though. Your training is far from complete even though you are a fast learner.’
I smiled. ‘Someday, princess, I will come to Kanchi. You can teach me then.’
Despite our best efforts, it still took us nearly three weeks to return home to Pataliputra. In the end, I had to do some dodgy diplomacy to get around the problem of our benevolent host. When he heard that we were preparing to leave Mathura, Ganapati ambled in, forehead furrowed, hands wringing and showing every possible sign of distress. Except his calm eyes told me another tale – he was wondering what prompted the decision to pull out so soon.
‘Majesty, why are you depriving me of the pleasure of your company?’ he wailed. ‘Have I done anything wrong? Has Mathura not lived up to its reputation as the most hospitable and friendly city in Aryavarta? Are your men not happy? If there has been any lapse on our part, please allow us to make it up to you. Do not forsake us, I beg you.’
I glanced at Harisena and saw his brow arch up. This was a clap-worthy performance, if ever there was one.
‘Dear friend,’ I spoke in my sweetest, most conciliatory tone. ‘My men and I are honoured and pleased with the kindness that you and your city have shown us. But unfortunately, we have been away for too long now and my men wish to return home.’
Ganapati’s beady eyes flicked from my face to Harisena’s and then to Ananta Varman’s, trying to look for signs of a trap. Then, finding no clues, he slipped back into his pretend-humility, ‘But … but … the agreement isn’t ready yet, Majesty. My scribes aren’t back from Padmavati and as you know we need King Nagasena’s signature too.’
I looked at Harisena and saw his eyes gleam. ‘Don’t worry, your Highness,’ he stepped in smoothly. ‘As long as we have your signature and King Achyuta’s as well, we can send our own scribes to Padmavati for King Nagasena’s approval. I am sure, once he sees the imperial messenger, King Nagasena will ensure the document is signed and sent back without any delay.’
‘Of course, of course,’ stuttered Ganapati Naga, beady eyes still doing a quick dance to look for a way out. ‘But … you see, the Naga confederation had decided that no decision about the group will be taken without the presence of at least one of the member rulers. So … it’s a matter of principle, Majesty…’
Harisena looked at me, now both brows arched questioningly. I smiled. ‘I am so touched by your concern for all the little details of the treaty,’ I told Ganapati. ‘If the confederacy has agreed to a rule like that, of course it cannot be broken. But there’s a simple solution to this. I am inviting you to come visit us in Pataliputra. You have been such a kind and generous host. Allow us to repay some of your kindness. Meanwhile, Harisena will get the document signed by King Nagasena and then you can put your seal to it.’
Ganapati was trapped. ‘But, but, Majesty,’ he stammered. ‘Mathura needs my presence. The law and order situation is quite precarious, I beg you. The forest bandits and river pirates are such a menace. The city will need my presence to protect it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I shall leave General Ananta Varman behind to keep an eye on both Mathura as well as Ahichhatra,’ I said. ‘Surely you agree there can be no better protector than him?’
‘No better ... of course … why not … an honour, Majesty,’ stammered Ganapati, bowing low enough for me not to be able to catch his true expressions.
I looked up and saw two pairs of laughing eyes – both Ananta Varman and Harisena had enjoyed this performance as much as I did. Ganapati Naga’s theatrics were nothing if not praise-worthy. As they caught my eye, all three of us burst out, ‘sadhu-sadhu,’ prompting Ganapati Naga to beat a hasty retreat to resounding applause.
Typically, if you asked one of the perennially self-absorbed, perpetually cynical nagarik citizens of the capital what s/he thought about Pataliputra, you would get a question in return – Purba (the east) or Apara (the west)? Purba Pataliputra, on the banks of the Ganga, was the tonier part of the city. Most of the wider streets, bigger
shops, better inns and taverns were to be found here. Sitting cheek by jowl with all this coin-clinking commerce were the gleaming copper-pitcher or Kalyan Kalash-adorned homes of the rich and powerful. The imperial palace lay at the heart of this commercial and political hub.
This neatly laid-out city-within-the-city was well known for its flowers. Every home had a garden and every garden had flowering trees, vines and shrubs. The main thoroughfare leading up from the ghats of the river right up to the palace gates were lined by these private gardens on one side and a large lake on the other. In the spring, both sides would be abloom – the lake thick with lotus and water lilies and the gardens ablaze with marigold, champak, oleander, flame of the forest and, of course, the flower that gave the city its name – Patali or trumpet. So entrenched was its renown for being a veritable garden that Pataliputra’s second name was Kusumpura, though the venerable Chinese monks in the city’s biggest monasteries had long masticated that variant to an unrecognizable ‘Ku-su-mo-pu-lo’.
For me though, the western Apara was the more interesting part of the city. Stretched out along the Sonbhadra, this part of Pataliputra grew up all higgledy-piggledy, almost without rhyme or reason. Houses jutted into each other with complete abandon. Lanes twisted and turned, split up and snaked their way between homes and hearts, and then suddenly stopped short as if they had tired of their destination. Gutters overflowed with the filth of the previous day’s excess. Stray animals jostled for road and mind space, alongside buffalo carts, ox-litters and the occasional donkey or horse rider. Pedestrians, big and small, made way.
Here too there were flowers but just like the people, they grew wherever they could, unintended, untended and untamed. Not brick paved like Purba, Apara’s dusty and muddy lanes would suddenly erupt in a riot of colour – the bright orange of a flame tree in summer, a carpet shower of coral jasmines in autumn and the rich red of silk cotton in spring. Here too the trumpet bloomed, a defiant splash of vivid yellow creeping wantonly out of cracks and crannies or anywhere it found just a fistful of earth to dig its roots into.
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