GITANJALI MURARI
The Crown of Seven Stars
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
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Acknowledgements
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Copyright
EBURY PRESS
THE CROWN OF SEVEN STARS
Gitanjali Murari has over twenty years of experience at senior creative positions in TV production and top entertainment networks.
An avid reader with a passion for cinema, she also enjoys rock music, especially while writing! She is based in Mumbai.
To the seekers of Truth and Freedom
‘Expansion is Life; Contraction is Death’
Swami Vivekananda
Dear Reader
The tale I have set out to tell in the following pages soon slips under the shadow of one character’s Saade Saati, the dreaded seven and a half years that befalls each of you, at least once in your lifetime. You fear it, for it results in nothing but failure; failure that eats you from the inside, corroding you, until you wish you were dead. And when you emerge on the other side of it, you weep, not with relief, but because you are quite broken.
You rightly wonder why I exclude myself from this unpleasant fate. I do so, my innocent one, because it is I you blame for your Saade Saati, invoking and cursing me constantly.
Yes, I am Destiny. And I promise you an enthralling story of one man who dared to fight me, catching me quite unawares, so revealing the truth about these accursed seven and a half years. A truth that no astrologer, soothsayer or clairvoyant ever cares to tell, for they don’t know it themselves.
So, dear reader, turn the page and fulfil your ‘destiny’.
1
King Yajatha woke up with a cry. It was the same dream, the same recurring nightmare, and like every night, he was relieved to find he was in his bedchamber and not standing alone in the desolate monastery. Still, his heart pounded, the blood throbbing in his head, his throat parched from a terrible thirst. He took a gulp of cool water from the pitcher by his bedside and felt slightly better. Sighing heavily, he went to his window and looked out at the night.
A full moon shone brightly and by its light, Yajatha could see across a long distance. There wasn’t a whisper of a breeze, the air heavy with the smell of jasmine growing along the high palace wall. And beyond it stretched a meadow of tall grass, the moonlight glistening on every yellow blade. Yajatha swallowed, his gaze helplessly drawn to the far side of the meadow. There he discerned the faint silhouette of the edifice that troubled his sleep night after night. He regretted coming to the window, but had been unable to stop himself, his feet moving against his will.
In the thick silence of that late hour, the monastery stood there, accusing him, shouting wordlessly across the space between them, the testimony of his guilt. Yajatha turned away sharply, the headache worse than before. ‘I must hide it from view,’ he whispered, rubbing his temples with shaking fingers. A wave of weakness overwhelmed him and he tottered back to his bed. But sleep eluded him. The monastery lurked under his eyelids, branding itself on his mind. Tossing restlessly, he prayed for it to go away. And then an idea came to him.
‘I will plant a woodland. Yes, that’s it! A woodland of tall trees between the palace and that . . . that building.’ He couldn’t bring himself to mention its character.
Yes, he would tell the royal gardeners tomorrow to plant thousands of copper pod saplings. They grew astonishingly fast. And most certainly in a year’s time, he would be able to look out of his window upon the sea of yellow flowers without being reminded of his great failure. Perhaps then, he would be able to forget. Yes, perhaps then, he would be able to sleep.
Destiny, the master storyteller, smiles. ‘I promised you an intriguing tale,’ she tells us and points to the same bedchamber. The sky begins to lighten outside the window. It is a new day, only a few centuries later.
A steward stepped in softly, gently pulling aside the white silk drapes screening the royal bed. ‘Your Majesty,’ he bowed, anxiously appraising the king’s pale face. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Vasuket sighed deeply, rising from the bed, murmuring the sacred word ‘Aum’ in a desultory fashion. Bowing perfunctorily to the morning sun outside his window, he sighed again. Another day yawned before him like the unending days of the past few years.
The steward spoke in a low voice, ‘I have prepared the bath, Your Majesty.’
Vasuket nodded, his dull gaze skimming over a pair of butterflies flitting on the windowsill, and going beyond the palace wall to the woodland of copper pod trees—Yajatha’s wood. His boys had enjoyed a good ride through it. Perhaps they had ventured too close to the accursed ruins. Suppressing a moan, he turned away and the butterflies, after a moment of indecision, fluttered out, veering away from the woodland into the busy, lively streets.
The pristine white walls of Sundernagari, the beautiful capital city of Aum, were splashed with colour. Flowers hung not just from the trees and shrubs bordering the wide avenues but also covered the white walls and doorways of every home, every building. Even horses and bullocks wore marigold garlands around their necks. The citizens nodded and smiled at each other, hope in every face, the exuberance of their children tugging at their hearts.
‘We are celebrating spring for the first time in six years,’ a shopkeeper told a visitor. ‘We pray it will bring cheer to King Vasuket and draw him out.’ He paused, a smile of reminiscence on his face. ‘His Majesty would visit each neighbourhood, look at every house, mansion and modest home, judging it for its flower decorations. Seeing the city once again decked out will perhaps remind him of the tradition.’
‘How is he, our king?’
‘The tragedy has taken its toll on him. We haven’t seen him ever since. It’s as if he doesn’t exist.’
‘I remember he once rode into our town with his entourage,’ recalled the visitor. ‘Those were the merriest days we ever had, such entertainment! And Vasuket! He was just like a loving father, concerned about every family’s welfare.’
‘Yes,’ sighed the shopkeeper. ‘Those were good times. Aum had felt like one big family.’ After a small pause, he added, ‘The tragedy chipped away our faith in Aum.’
The two men looked at each other in silent understanding.
‘Every citizen took pride in Aum’s ancient history,’ Destiny begins to tell us, her smile enigmatic. ‘Every classroom resounded with the lesson that the kingdom had been named so by its founding fathers to remind its people of the primordial sound that pervaded the universe. For it was believed that Aum’s reverberation would one day reveal to the faithful the eternal light, the truth that is forever effulgent. And then, the founding fathers had avowed, not humans but gods and goddesses would walk the earth, the sound and the people becoming one.’
Two butterflies alighted on bales of cloth, their colourful wings opening and closing. The shopkeeper smiled suddenly. ‘T
his spring will change everything! The king will step out of the palace and our faith in Aum will be restored.’
‘But have you considered another possibility?’ The visitor raised an eyebrow. ‘What if Vasuket refuses to come out, sending Chakrawaru instead? Everyone knows the advisor runs the kingdom now.’
At that same moment, the king stood gazing at the portrait of his queen. Perhaps he glimpsed reproach in her face because he suddenly became conscious of a pang of guilt for delegating his responsibilities to the advisor. ‘He is doing a fine job, my dear,’ he hurried to reassure her. ‘I would have been lost without him. He saved me when I was drowning in grief.’
Dragging his feet to the next portrait, he looked into the laughing faces of two lads, their arms around each other. ‘My boys, my darling boys. Forever young.’ His eyes misting over, he moved on, paying his obeisance to the kings of the past.
King Yajatha exuded an air of severe gravity, and next to him, his heir, King Pavitr, radiated purpose. Their regal bearing transmitted such power that for a moment, just a fraction of a moment, Vasuket straightened and was once again Monarch of Aum. But when his eye alighted on Meghabhuti’s portrait, his shoulders drooped. ‘My dear friend, I miss you terribly. My family, you, all gone too soon.’
The steward peeped in at the door of the musty gallery. ‘Your Majesty, breakfast is served in the garden today.’
‘But why outside?’ the king looked perturbed. He preferred staying indoors, with the shadows keeping him company.
‘Beg pardon, Your Majesty, I was told you wished to see the spring flowers—’
Vasuket interrupted, ‘The spring flowers?’ He passed a hand over his eyes and mumbled inaudibly.
‘What is it, Your Majesty?’ the servant looked anxious.
Vasuket shook his head and shambled out of the room. The steward exhaled with relief, fingering the gold coins in his pocket. He had been paid handsomely for setting up the king’s breakfast in the arbour.
Stepping into the garden, Vasuket was instantly overwhelmed by the riot of colours and the heady perfume of flowers. It was a fine day, a day to rejoice in the beauty of spring. The purity of the blue sky, the tenderness of leaves and grass, the untiring songbirds, everything in the garden surged with new life. A twinge of excitement stirred within his breast, and he closed his eyes, seeing the happy faces thronging his chariot, showering him with marigolds, the velvety petals soft against his skin. ‘The spring festival of Sundernagari,’ he murmured, his voice wistful.
But wait, someone beckons us from the wings. ‘It is the ghost of past events,’ Destiny explains. ‘Events that occurred in the last six years. You must follow them, for when you return, you will have a better understanding of my ways.’
2
A gaunt frame pressed itself deep into the shadows and as soon as the sentry passed, it slunk out, going down on its knees before a large door, peering through the keyhole into a sunlit room. The two princes and another young man laughed uproariously while Vasuket, almost youthful with a full head of dark hair, looked on with an indulgent smile.
A broad back blocked the spying man’s view. ‘Your Majesty, it is time Prince Agraj joined me on a tour of the military commands. After all, he is the future king.’
‘Oh, I too would like to be a part of this expedition, General Meghabhuti,’ interrupted an impetuous voice. ‘It would be such an experience for me. Father, grant me permission please.’
The heavy tread of the patrolling sentry alerted the man outside, and he hurriedly moved away from the door. Then making a pretence of having just arrived, he nodded at the guard and stepped into the noisy room.
His gaze softened, alighting on the young prince pleading with his father, the small, pale face flushed with excitement.
‘Listening at the door as always, weren’t you?’ Meghabhuti’s dry voice intruded into his thoughts.
Vasuket chuckled, ‘Ah, Chakrawaru, do knock some sense into Anuj. After all, he is your ward!’
Chakrwaru bowed, ignoring Meghabhuti’s gimlet eye, ‘I think our great general is better equipped for that, Your Majesty. All I can do is beg the prince to consider the feelings of his devoted teacher. It breaks my heart that His Highness wishes to put an end to his studies.’
‘Oh no, I never meant that,’ Anuj rushed to Chakrawaru’s side and the tutor smiled, instantly gratified.
Not even the officials of the city orphanage, where he had arrived some forty years ago swaddled in a blanket, could confirm that Chakrawaru had come with a name. Sallow and lacking in vigour, the nameless child melted into the shadows with his books, eavesdropping on the secrets of other boys. And he heard many a whispered confession, hoarding them in his memory, using them to avenge slights, more imagined than real. Soon he acquired a sobriquet. ‘There goes Tedha,’ the word went around. ‘Stay away from him. He can twist even a pleasantry and get you into trouble. Beware!’
As he grew up, the nickname threatened to stick and impede his scholarly ambitions. Desperate to be rid of it, he rummaged painstakingly, first amongst official records and then through a cupboard full of old things. There he found a scrap of paper. It fell out of a faded blanket that, an official confirmed, had been wrapped around him years ago. ‘Chakrawaru,’ he breathed, reading the name on the paper, rolling it on his tongue, tears of gladness trickling down his cheeks.
It was Prince Anuj, then a boy of ten, who insisted his tutor live in the palace. Chakrawaru had been taken aback by the boy’s affection, never supposing a child, royal or otherwise, to pay him scant attention. But Anuj, fragile and sickly, unlike his sturdy sibling, clung to him, and when Chakrawaru looked into those trusting eyes, a weight on his heart shifted. Anuj quickly became the pivot of his existence, his reason to be.
But it hadn’t been the same with Agraj. Chakrawaru’s gaze swivelled to the strapping older prince, deep in conversation with Meghabhuti, the warrior General of Aum. He scuttled towards them, crab-like, but they glanced at him without really seeing him. He turned away abruptly, the glint of tousled brown hair catching his attention.
The same age as Anuj, Saahas had a ruddy complexion, his high cheekbones flushed with good health. Unruly hair fell untidily over his forehead, and his dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief. A smile played constantly on the well-defined mouth and his athletic frame, always poised to spring into action, was in direct contrast to the fragile appearance of the younger prince, drawing the latter like an iron filing to a magnet. Ever since Saahas had returned to Sundernagari after completing his education at the gurukul, the two had become inseparable.
They stood together at the large picture window, Saahas tall and sinewy, Anuj leaning towards him, as if for support. Sour acid rose up in Chakrawaru’s throat. It tasted of jealousy.
‘Your Highness,’ he sidled up to them. ‘What is going on?’
‘Sir, we are making plans for the future. After I finish my education, Saahas and I are going to travel the world. Like two adventurers!’
Chakrawaru stiffened. His outraged glance at Saahas was met with a nonchalant smile. ‘Royalty doesn’t go gadding about the countryside, young man,’ he admonished, his receding chin aquiver.
‘Worried that my son is putting wild notions into your student’s head, eh, Chakrawaru?’ Meghabhuti’s voice boomed from across the room. ‘I will take care of that.’ To Saahas he said, ‘You will soon join the Defence Academy.’
The boy flushed, bit his lip and turned away. ‘You have no choice in the matter,’ Agraj teased him. ‘When I am king, I shall appoint you my general.’
For one moment, all eyes turned towards the arched recess carved deep into the wall at the end of the room. The royal pagdi nestled within it, the light of a single lamp reflecting off its surface and creating a halo around it. Spun of the purest gold, the turban sported a triangle of seven emeralds, each the size of a pigeon’s egg, symbolizing the Saptarishi, the seven sages and guardians of Aum. It was believed the sages watched over the kingdom from the night sk
y, the king, their direct representative on earth.
‘When you were a child, you would wear the pagdi for fun,’ Chakrawaru told Anuj with a chuckle. ‘It was too big for your little head then.’
‘I am sure it fits now,’ cried the prince, moving towards it.
‘No, Anuj,’ Vasuket frowned. ‘The crown of Aum is not to be trifled with. You are not a child anymore.’ Anuj’s face darkened and he was about to protest when Saahas pulled him away, whispering in his ear. Soon, he was giggling again, his good humour restored.
Meghabhuti would often say, ‘How we yearned for him. I had almost given up on ever becoming a father when my wife announced she was with child.’ And he would go on to add proudly, ‘When I held him for the first time, his little fist reached out for my sword, quick as lightning.’ The delighted father had instantly named the infant Saahasvajra.
From an early age, the boy was happy to take the lead whenever others, daunted by a hint of uncertainty, shrank. His sunny temperament made him popular in the gurukul, his mere presence infusing his classmates with strength. Yet Saahas was never content. Constantly thirsting for adventure, he would say in a voice husky with longing, ‘I want to travel, meet new people, experience different cultures.’ But Meghabhuti disagreed.
Having lost his wife when Saahas had just turned eleven, Meghabhuti had taken over the role of mothering his only child. And like every mother, he had learnt of the dreams and aspirations, the secret desires of his son’s heart. But the father in him was impatient, eager to have his boy follow in his footsteps. ‘Underneath the restlessness is an iron will,’ he had told Vasuket. ‘If channelled, it will unfold his true nature, that of a warrior.’
On the way back home from the palace, he told Saahas, ‘You are eighteen years old, not a child anymore. If not for my sake, then for Prince Agraj, you must join the Defence Academy.’
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