The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

The woman quailed as Kulabheda slurred and ranted on top of her. At last, mustering courage, she pleaded. “Please... please don’t do this. My father will reward you handsomely if you will let...”

  “Your father will. reward me?” Kulabheda interrupted, throwing his head back in uproarious laughter. “No, no... Princess Rukma, I’m afraid Harihara is in no position to reward anyone. For he is below us in the dungeons, with nothing left to give. I have taken everything he had. His kingdom, his treasury... everything. If anything, I am in a position to reward your father – with his and your own mother’s life.”

  “Please have mercy on them,” the princess whimpered.

  “I will, I promise you.” Kulabheda sobered down just enough to quaff a goblet of soma that he held in his hand.

  “All I want is your assent in marriage,” he continued, wiping his lips crudely with the back of his hand. “Agree, and your parents will come to no harm. You have my word. And imagine – by marrying me you can be queen of Heheya! Queen of the very kingdom you grew up in. How many princesses are blessed with such luck?”

  “Why are you doing this to us?”

  “Why? You ask why?” Kulabheda’s face darkened and he flung aside the empty goblet in rage. “You spoke of your father rewarding me... I was your father’s most loyal general; I served him and Heheya faithfully for years. But when the time comes for him to give you away in marriage, he chooses to favor some silly prince or the other over me! That’s the reward I get for my loyalty.” Kulabheda paused to catch his breath and grunted. “Perhaps he thinks a soldier isn’t worthy of a royal princess. So I’ve decided to seek your hand as king of Heheya.”

  “I’m... I’m sure my father didn’t mean ill,” Rukma tried to reason. “He would have given you anything else had you asked for it.”

  “I wanted you, but he ignored me,” Kulabheda leaned over the princess, his bloodshot eyes drunk with lust. He licked his lips lasciviously, his face inches from the princess’s. “So now I am left with no choice but to take what is mine.”

  Suddenly, Kulabheda threw himself on the princess, pinning her down with his weight. As he plunged his head into the soft curve of her neck in crazed passion, Rukma wriggled in desperation and let out a shriek.

  A moment later, the bedroom door was kicked open with a loud bang.

  As the door swung clumsily on a broken hinge, a giant of a man wearing a high ponytail barged in, brandishing a heavy scimitar. His face, however, was hidden in shadow.

  “Who are you?” Kulabheda demanded, swiveling around.

  “Your nemesis,” the intruder answered. With a smirk in his voice, he added, “How interesting to know that the new king of Heheya cultivates an interest in wrestling with women.”

  Kulabheda pushed himself off the bed, his eyes flashing with anger. “The new king of Heheya also feasts on the corpse of the person he has killed,” he said, reaching for his sword on the side table.

  As he straightened, the giant stepped into the light. Fear swelled in Kulabheda’s eyes on recognizing the man. “Oh, it’s you!”

  Just then, alerted by the crashing in of the door, three Royal Guards came rushing to the bedroom. Swords raised, they launched themselves at the intruder. But in a series of fluid, lightning-fast moves, the man parried the attack, severing a guard’s arm and carving open the stomachs of the other two.

  Seeing that the intruder was busy fighting the guards, Kulabheda raised his sword and lunged at the man’s broad back, which was turned to him. But at the last moment, the giant spun around and wove out of the way of Kulabheda’s sword. Thrown off balance, Kulabheda stumbled forward – straight into the tip of the other’s scimitar aimed directly at his chest. The heavy sword pierced the flesh and buried itself firmly in Kulabheda’s heart.

  As the giant pulled his scimitar free, blood welled out of the wound and Kulabheda fell on the carpeted floor, lifeless.

  The intruder straightened and looked at the cowering princess, her face white with shock and fear.

  “Fear not, Princess Rukma. You are safe,” he reassured. “I come from the court of King Vikramaditya of Avanti. I am here under orders from King Vikramaditya to free King Harihara.”

  The man bent to grab Kulabheda’s head by the hair and lifted it off the floor. He raised his scimitar, and then looked at the princess, who was staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

  “Please close your eyes,” he said.

  Rukma nodded and screwed her eyes shut, shielding her face with a forearm for added precaution. The scimitar descended, hacking Kulabheda’s head clean off his body.

  With the head in one hand, the giant strode up to an indoor balcony that overlooked a large, enclosed atrium. The hall below was teeming with confused soldiers, many of them already scrambling up the curved staircase that led to the bedchambers and boudoirs.

  “Stop and listen to me,” the man commanded, his voice echoing through the courtyard. As the soldiers stared up at him in awe, he raised the severed head high. “Kulabheda is dead.”

  A collective gasp arose from the soldiers while the man continued addressing them. “Harihara is once again your king, and you will obey him. King Harihara’s orders are to arrest every one of Kulabheda’s Royal Guards. If any of them resist – you are free to kill them.”

  An enthusiastic murmur spread through the hall; some soldiers began hailing King Harihara. In the din, one of the men who had arrived in the urns came up to the giant and whispered into his ear. The leader nodded, tossed Kulabheda’s head down into the atrium and marched off.

  A little later, the giant and two of his men, accompanied by some of King Harihara’s loyalist guards, descended a narrow winding staircase that led to the dungeons beneath the palace. As they approached a cell set to the back, the guards began shouting.

  “Hail King Harihara! Glory to Heheya!”

  One of the guards unlocked the cell and entered it. In a moment, an elderly couple and three bookish ministers shuffled into the torchlight, their eyes blinking in a mixture of surprise, exultation and relief.

  “King Harihara, do accept my salutations on King Vikramaditya’s behalf,” said the giant, bowing with his hands folded.

  The old man smiled and looked at the queen and his ministers. “I knew Vikramaditya would do everything in his capacity to assist an old ally in trouble. What I didn’t expect was that he would send one of his best warriors to do the job.” Turning back to the large man, he said, “It feels really good to see you, Kalidasa.”

  “You, too, your honor,” Kalidasa bowed again.

  Harihara looked quizzically at the scimitar in Kalidasa’s hand. “I take it that Kulabheda is no more?”

  “He isn’t, your honor,” the giant shook his head as he sheathed the bloodstained blade.

  “And our daughter?” the queen spoke with a quaver.

  “Princess Rukma is safe, Queen Mother,” Kalidasa assured her.

  “Thank God for that.” King Harihara began leading the way out of the dungeon. As he mounted the stairs, he spoke to Kalidasa over his shoulder. “I presume you are here to escort me to Ujjayini as well?”

  “Yes, your honor. We need to leave at the earliest, so that we are well in time for King Vikramaditya’s rajasuya yajna the day after. Heheya being one of Avanti’s oldest allies, my king insists on your presence at the yajna.”

  “The honor is mine,” Harihara smiled with pride. “But do we have time for a bath and a decent dinner at least? That bastard Kulabheda fed us nothing but gruel the past week.” “Certainly, your honor,” Kalidasa nodded. “With your permission, we shall leave Mahishmati at sunrise tomorrow, so that we can be in Ujjayini by nightfall.”

  Arrivals

  T

  he sun had yet to shake off its slumber when the small boat slipped through the dark water, its prow pointing toward a row of bathing ghats that lined the eastern bank of the river Kshipra. There was sufficient daylight, though – enough to make out the ghat’s steps, which were dotted with early bathers, leading up stee
ply from the waterline. At the top of the steps were numerous large peepal trees, all still in shadow, from which flocks of birds periodically burst forth into the early morning sky. Behind the trees rose the ancient, white marble ramparts of Ujjayini, capital of Avanti.

  The sadhu sat to the front of the boat, taking in the scene with his deep, wide-set eyes, his fingers playing absentmindedly with a prayer bead made of rudraksh seeds. He was of medium height, muscular, his dark skin covered by a thin layer of ash. He wore a black dhoti and turban, and his broad and handsome face was covered by a rich black beard that reached down to his chest.

  “Are you going for the feast as well, gurudev?”

  The sadhu turned around to look at the wizened boatman, who had put forth the question. He stared at the boatman for a moment, as if in incomprehension.

  “The feast...” boatman repeated, pointing toward Ujjayini. His tone seemed to imply that what he was alluding to should have been glaringly obvious. “The feast in celebration of King Vikramaditya’s rajasuya yajna.”

  The sadhu looked at the city’s ramparts and nodded distractedly. He neither spoke nor turned to look at the boatman; clearly, the sadhu didn’t fancy a chat.

  “People from all over the kingdom are coming for the feast.” The boatman either didn’t get the hint – or chose to ignore it. “I myself have ferried nearly a thousand people to the city over the last two days. You are the first today, gurudev, but I am sure more will follow as the sun gains height.”

  The sadhu continued staring at the ramparts.

  “I will be going as well,” the boatman appeared happy to carry on a one-sided conversation. “And why not, I ask you? After all, the feast is in honor of our king – if we citizens of Avanti don’t celebrate it, who will? Don’t you agree?”

  The sadhu condescended with a small nod, in the hope that the matter would end there. He immediately paid the price for his mistake.

  “Actually, gurudev, it’s not only Avanti that is celebrating,” the boatman launched into another vigorous explanation. “The royal courts of Matya, Vatsa, Kosala, Magadha and Heheya are also attending the yajna, and I hear even some subjects of these kingdoms have journeyed to Ujjayini for the occasion.” He paused for a fraction of a second as a new thought occurred to him. “Is your holiness also from one of these kingdoms?”

  The sadhu turned and considered the boatman. There was something unsettling in his gaze that made the boatman look away nervously. At last, the sadhu shook his head and returned his attention to the walls of Ujjayini, which were now framed by the golden glow of the newborn sun. The boatman, for his part, didn’t hazard any more words.

  A few minutes later, the boat nudged the bathing ghat. Picking up a staff and a cloth bundle that lay beside him, the sadhu disembarked.

  “What do I owe you?” he asked, fumbling at the folds of his dhoti.

  “Gurudev, you are a holy man... I can’t accept money from you...” the boatman began obsequiously, but his manner suggested tokenism. And when the sadhu proffered a coin, he reached for it without the slightest demur, eyes gleaming in joy. “Thank you, gurudev. The palace grounds are easy to find. You just have to walk through the gate at that corner...”

  The sadhu raised a hand to hush the boatman. “I have come from very far and I have travelled long. I know how to find my way.”

  Ascending the ghat’s steps, the sadhu ran a quick hand around the cloth bundle, patting it gently, as if feeling for something. For a moment, he couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for, and his features turned anxious. But when his palm brushed against a hard, pointed object at the bottom of the bundle, he exhaled in relief.

  The dagger was safe. All that remained was to seek out the man it was meant for; the man who was somewhere inside Ujjayini’s walls... somewhere inside the royal palace.

  ***

  Queen Mother Upashruti leaned out of the ornate, canopied balcony adjoining her bedroom, breathed in the scented morning air and smiled contentedly to herself.

  Life was finally being kind to her.

  From where she stood, she could see the broad sweep of the expansive lake that surrounded the royal palace of Avanti on all four sides. The lake was full of pink lotuses in various stages of bloom, and stately swans glided here and there on its surface. The far edges of the lake were lined with jacaranda and gulmohar trees, on which kingfishers sat making a meal of the day’s first catch. The palace causeway spanning the lake was to the queen’s left, although she couldn’t see it now because of the bedazzling sunlight reflecting off the water.

  Turning to her right, Queen Upashruti looked across the lake toward the palace grounds, on the other side of a wide thicket of deciduous trees and shrubs. Her ears caught the faint bustle of human activity coming from that direction, and she again smiled softly. The queen knew the grounds were full of people preparing for the rajasuya yajna.

  Once the priests invoked the blessings of ancient gods and performed the sacrificial rites, the son born from her womb would assume the title of samrat – overlord of Sindhuvarta. And the kings of all the neighboring kingdoms – many already reduced to vassal states, still others only nominally independent – would swear allegiance to her son and the throne of Avanti. Life was indeed becoming kind to her.

  The rajasuya yajna, the pure honey-gold sunlight splashed over Ujjayini, the tranquility and contentment borne by the morning breeze. None of these was imaginable even ten years ago, when not a day passed without news of a costly victory or a demoralizing upset in battle, coming from one quarter of Sindhuvarta or the other. The uncertainty had started much earlier, of course, not long after Upashruti first entered the palace of Ujjayini as King Mahendraditya’s bride. The barbaric hordes from the Marusthali had already swamped the faraway principalities of Salwa and Gosringa, but the threat turned real with the Hunas and Sakas making steady progress eastward, swallowing the kingdoms of Nishada, Malawa and Kunti before laying siege to Avanti and Matsya.

  It had taken all of Mahendraditya’s acumen and courage to stitch an alliance against the invaders, but the Hunas and Sakas had proved intractable. The queen still remembered the night when, hiding in the Labyrinth with the rest of the royal household, cradling the young Vikramaditya to her chest, she had learned that Mahendraditya had been mortally wounded by the sword of an unknown Saka warrior. She remembered the king lying on his bed, his life ebbing away from him as he held her hand and entreated her not to lose hope, even as the barbarians swarmed barely a few miles outside Ujjayini. She remembered the despair come crashing down on her as the king’s hand went limp in hers.

  With the passing of her husband, Queen Upashruti had felt that it was all over - that Avanti would inevitably fall. Yet, remarkably enough, Mahendraditya’s death served as a rallying point for the allied forces of Sindhuvarta’s kingdoms, and first under the command of Acharya Vetala Bhatta, and later under Vikramaditya himself, the invaders’ resilience was broken. Not only were the Hunas and Sakas dislodged from Avanti and Matsya, every tract of Sindhuvarta claimed by the barbarians was systematically prised back. So, in the Queen Mother’s mind, the rajasuya yajna was an opportunity for all the kingdoms of Sindhuvarta to formally offer their gratitude to her son.

  The queen’s thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of a door. Turning around, she saw one of her handmaidens standing a little inside her bedroom.

  “Your highness, Princess Pralupi and Prince Himavar- dhan are here to see you,” she announced. Seeing her queen incline her head, the handmaiden pulled the door open wide to admit a woman and a man.

  It was obvious that the woman who led the way into the darkened bedroom was Queen Upashruti’s daughter. Age – and the softness of their faces – was where mother and daughter differed. The queen habitually wore a benign expression, but Princess Pralupi’s face had a rough angularity, accentuated by a sour turn of the mouth, almost as if she was carrying life’s bitterness with her.

  “How are you, my angel? I’m so glad to see you.” Queen
Upashruti’s eyes shone as she embraced her daughter. “They told me you came last night.”

  “Yes mother,” Pralupi replied vaguely as she disengaged herself from the queen’s clasp.

  The Queen Mother searched her daughter’s face for a moment, then, remembering her manners, turned to Prince Himavardhan. “How are you, prince? I trust you had a good journey from Vatsa and are rested?”

  The man, who was cradling a white rabbit in his arms, smiled shyly at the queen before dropping his gaze, but he didn’t respond to her questions. Although in his mid-forties, the prince had the demeanor of a child, and his eyes rarely made contact with others. He merely stood staring at the marble floor, gently stroking the rabbit.

  The queen didn’t seem particularly bothered by this, and returned her attention to Pralupi. “Good, good. I hope the two of you are going to stay in Ujjayini for some time. I would love both of you to do that - and so would your brother.”

  Princess Pralupi nodded noncommittally. But before any more words could be exchanged, the prince suddenly shuffled up to the queen’s bed, his eyes shining eagerly. Reaching the bed, he began running his hand over the cobalt blue velvet bedcover. He then turned to Pralupi.

  “Sso ssoft,” he lisped, his voice was full of awe.

  The queen smiled indulgently and turned back to her daughter. “How is King Chandravardhan?”

  “He’s here,” Pralupi answered flatly. “You’ll see him at the yajna, I suppose.”

  The queen nodded, and then tried another track. “Did you meet Ghatakarpara?”

  “Not yet. We arrived late last night.”

  “ Oh, he’s grown into a nice strong lad.” Queen Upashruti’s voice brimmed with the doting pride that is unique to grandparents when talking about their grandchildren. “The Acharya has been training him well. One day, your son will make this family proud.”

  “But he’ll never become a king, will he?” Pralupi pouted petulantly.

  “Why do you say that?” the queen’s voice was sharp. “Mother, everyone knows Ghatakarpara is the ideal candidate for ruling Vatsa. But he won’t - because he’s not the son of King Chandravardhan. He’s the offspring of the king’s imbecile brother. So instead of my son, Chandravardhan’s incompetent drunkard of a son Shashivardhan will ascend Vatsa’s throne.”