But the advisor had come prepared for just such a welcome. He nodded and sighed, ‘You always wanted more, bhabhi, which is not a bad thing at all, but if you hadn’t pushed your luck, your boys would have been living the high life of princes, not resorting to thievery.’
‘Princes?’ Nandan sprang to his feet. ‘Mother, what is uncle talking about? I want to be a prince. That is what I am. I feel it inside of me.’
Manmaani lowered her gaze, her mouth tightening. Observing her annoyance, Chakrawaru carried on, ‘But it serves no purpose raking up the past. It will only sour the sweetness of this moment and make us lose precious time. Time that is so crucial for planning our future, a very prosperous future.’
‘I don’t like riddles,’ Ashwath came to stand beside his mother. ‘What kind of prosperity do you have in mind?’
‘I like the sound of it very much,’ declared Nandan. ‘Whatever may be uncle’s proposal, it will be better than this hellish existence.’
‘Leave the room, boys,’ Manmaani snapped. ‘Chakrawaruji and I have a lot to talk about.’ She waited for the door to shut behind them and then smiled at the advisor, ‘Now, we can talk in peace.’
‘I think I can be of assistance, mother.’
Chakrawaru glanced quickly at the one who had spoken and saw a man with a face aged beyond his years. He hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Like a snake, he thought with a faint shudder. Of average height and a muddy complexion, at first glance the man appeared rather dull. But a closer look changed the impression. His head, a trifle too large for his slim body, was tilted to one side, as if listening keenly to every sound. The long nose extended over the thin slash of a mouth, deep grooves on either side of it running down to the sharp chin. Chakrawaru’s gaze flicked to the eyes and they held his attention. Deep-set and hooded, they seemed to read his mind. The intruder bowed, ‘I am Shunen. I hope you remember me.’
Quickly scanning his memory, Chakrawaru found a pale boy seated on a mound of mud, lashing at a puppy with a long twig. ‘That’s for disobeying me and that’s for growling at me and that’s for . . .’ Shunen, Manmaani’s second son, born after Ashwath. The solitary boy had reminded Chakrawaru of his own younger self and yet, despite the similarity, he had held an aversion for him. It was the eyes, unforgiving and cruel.
‘It is obvious you need us, uncle, otherwise why would you visit our squalid house to make us an offer?’ Shunen’s lips barely moved. ‘But the question is, why should we help you?’
From his pocket, Chakrawaru drew out a package wrapped in red cloth. ‘Be so good as to take a look at this. It will answer your question.’
Shunen glanced through the document, an undertaking by his mother establishing their debt. Crumpling the parchment into a ball, he dropped it into an oil lamp. ‘There! That is the end of our debt to you. Now we can talk like equals.’
Chakrawaru chuckled. ‘That was merely a copy of the original document, which lies safe with me, under lock and key. And now that I have become aware of your family’s nefarious activities, I can have you all arrested. Did you say equals, Shunen? No,’ he scoffed. ‘Never!’
‘Forgive him, bhaiji,’ Manmaani pleaded, shooting Shunen a warning look, ‘he is young and foolish.’
‘Very well. Let us not waste time. This is what I propose, you live in the palace for a month as my guest and I shall pay you handsomely for it.’
Manmaani’s beady eyes widened. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It will all become clear soon enough, but first you must reach Sundernagari, before the big party.’
‘But there will be expenses,’ jumped in Shunen. ‘Like buying clothes, hiring a carriage, and our financial condition is . . . well, you know where we stand.’
‘I had carried a purse for exactly this purpose,’ Chakrawaru sighed. ‘But Ashwath has already helped himself to it.’
Outside the room, Hussuri had her ear pressed to the door, her long jaw hanging slack. She hurried to Ashwath, finding him sprawled on their untidy bed. ‘We are going to Sundernagari,’ she announced. Then with one hand on her flat bosom, she drew a deep breath. ‘To attend a party, at the palace! Oh my god!’ And picking up a quill, she began to scribble on a piece of paper.
Ashwath looked incredulous. ‘I can’t believe uncle Chakra has come all this way and after all this time, to invite us to a stupid party.’
‘Hush, I am writing a poem for the king.’
A hint of a smile softened Ashwath’s craggy features, his gaze resting tenderly upon her. ‘Remember our first meeting?’
Hussuri frowned and was about to rebuke him when she saw his face. ‘We saved each other,’ she grinned.
That day, Ashwath had set out to participate in the wrestling competition held annually in Hussuri’s village.
The horse champed at the bit, eager to lengthen its pace on the empty road. ‘I am just as keen as you to get to the match and win the purse of gold,’ Ashwath cracked his knuckles. ‘Go boy go.’ The horse shot forward but almost immediately a figure appeared, arms flapping, running straight towards him. Shouting curses, he pulled hard at the reins, the horse rearing on its hind legs and unseating him. As he fell, he vaguely registered a woman, tall and gangly, standing frozen, her wide-set eyes gawking at him in surprise.
Bouncing down a slope pitted with stones and rubble, Ashwath splashed into a pool, his arms flailing. Water poured into his nostrils, into his open mouth, and he choked, ‘I can’t swim . . . help . . . I can’t—’
‘You don’t need to,’ a woman’s voice cut in, one thin arm hooking under his chin, jerking his head above water. ‘Stand up,’ she commanded, ‘the water is only knee-high.’
Shaking droplets out of his eyes, he glowered at her. ‘This is all your fault.’
She shook her head. ‘It was the wind. It snatched my poem.’ He was about to jeer at her, but the words stuck in his throat, her gaze owning him. ‘You can have this,’ she said, holding out a sheet of crumpled paper.
‘What is it?’ he looked perplexed.
‘My poem.’ The words were uttered with such childlike pride that it drew a laugh from him. ‘Read it to me,’ he said, taken aback by his own indulgence.
Two red spots bloomed high on her cheeks, a spark lighting up her vacant eyes. ‘The blue sky, up, up so high . . .’
‘But I didn’t hear a word,’ Ashwath laughed, pulling her on to his lap, ‘my thumping heart told me to marry you at once, so I could listen to your voice every day, for the rest of my life.’
9
The ministers gazed in bewilderment at the giant baobab before them. They had arrived at the forest of the Gondi after a bumpy journey, only to be led to an enormous, dead tree with its bare, crooked branches clutching at the sky in vain. Suddenly, a chorus of soft feminine voices wafted across to them, carried on the heady scent of roses and jasmines. ‘Sorcery,’ the council exclaimed in alarm. Laughing, Saahas disappeared through a large opening into the baobab, and the ministers, after some encouragement from Tota, trooped after him.
Fragrant with the smell of flowers, the hollow interior extended to a great height and was lit with criss-crossing rays of yellow sunlight filtering through tiny chinks in its walls. Dozens of Gondi women stirred tender buds into wooden vats, their song fading away at the sight of the visitors.
The chubby minister clapped his hands in delight, ‘It is a perfumery.’
‘Indeed, sir, it is,’ Saahas grinned. ‘Now let me introduce you to the man who made this possible, the Gondi Chief, Bukkal.’
Shyly stepping out of the shadows, Bukkal made a deep bow, his headdress of long feathers sweeping the ground. ‘To have you amidst us, honourable ones, our privilege it is. And I not the man behind this workshop. My friend, the general, all his idea it is.’
Amused at Bukkal’s quaint speech, the ministers were nevertheless touched by his sincerity. Inhaling deeply from a vat, one of them declared, ‘This perfume, it is so fresh!’
‘Flowers of the lemon tree, sir. Woul
d you like a bottle for your wife?’ The girl held out a little clay vial. The minister pulled out a purse, but she shook her head, lowering her gaze to the ground respectfully.
‘A small gift it is, noble sir,’ Bukkal beseeched, ‘humbly I request each of you, receive the bottles. Our gratitude and love mixed in it, may forever remind you of us.’
Observing the council eagerly make its selections, Saahas whispered in the chief’s ear, ‘With their patronage, you will be soon perfuming all of Sundernagari.’
Bukkal’s eyes shone. ‘To thank you, I have no words left inside my heart, dear friend.’
When it was time to depart, the ministers found their caravan loaded with all manner of gifts. From fresh honey to medicinal roots, it left a heady trail of flowers and spices winding out of the forest. ‘A wonderful trip indeed,’ they sighed, stopping at a roadside eatery.
The general, preferring to rub his horse down, remained outside, his manservant and aide-de-camp protesting hotly. ‘Quit whining both of you,’ he admonished. ‘If I don’t take care of my horse once in a while, I’ll forget how to do it.’
‘But why do you need to do it at all?’ they argued.
‘Well, who knows what the future holds,’ he teased. ‘Perhaps one day you may decide not to work for me.’
‘Impossible, my lord,’ Lushai looked indignant. ‘I could never leave you.’
‘Sire, please do be serious,’ implored Tota. ‘Or Lushai will sulk for the rest of the journey.’
Saahas burst out laughing and tossed the straw brush to the manservant. The ministers, hearing the cheerful banter, glanced outside, their eyes lingering over the general. ‘Now, wouldn’t he make a fine king,’ one of them murmured.
‘Ah yes,’ said the chubby minister, glancing meaningfully at his colleagues. ‘But a lot would change then. And where would that leave Chakrawaru?’
Driving through the gates of Sundernagari, Manmaani and her family hung out of their carts, their faces taut with nervous excitement. ‘Back after twenty long, dreary years,’ she whispered, her gaze riveted on the gracious houses and parks. The streets, some asleep and some alive with revelry, gleamed ivory white in the moonlight.
Fountains and graceful statues peeped amongst the foliage, and tall turrets towered above wide avenues shaded on both sides with blossoming trees. Even at that late hour, a melodious hum of voices raised in song drifted on the night air.
‘Look,’ cried Hussuri, pointing to a group of musicians by a silvery canal.
‘This is the heartbeat of Aum, this city of wealth, of power,’ breathed Manmaani.
‘Power,’ echoed Ashwath, cracking his knuckles.
‘Yes power,’ agreed Shunen, following Nandan’s stare ogling a woman with her paramour. ‘Power to whip the debauched, the shameless.’
‘And there it is,’ Manmaani clasped her hands, ‘the centre of all power.’
Rolling down an arched bridge, the carts entered a broad, cobbled street lined with triangular torches, each bearing seven lamps. And at its very end stood the palace, lit with a thousand lights, like a gigantic chandelier floating on a sea of darkness.
To Manmaani’s chagrin, the royal guards led them to the rear entrance of the palace. ‘Like servants,’ she muttered but when she saw Chakrawaru, her resentment evaporated. ‘You stayed up for us, bhaiji, how kind of you.’
The advisor didn’t smile. ‘Welcome to the royal palace,’ he greeted them with stiff politeness. ‘Allow me to escort you to your quarters.’
Their footsteps rang on the white marble of a narrow corridor that widened into an open veranda overlooking a pool. The reflection of a perfect moon rippled in the water amidst hundreds of twinkling lamps and white lotuses.
‘How very beautiful,’ Hussuri clasped her hands, ‘the perfect spot for writing poems.’
But Chakrawaru hurried them on, leading them to a large cottage across the pool. It was tasteful but not sumptuous, comfortable but not luxurious.
‘This is hardly regal,’ complained Nandan.
‘But the food is fit for a king,’ Ashwath called out from the salon, ‘and served in real silver too!’
Gesturing to Manmaani, Chakrawaru led her into another room, shutting the door behind them firmly. ‘Now for a little chat. His Majesty has understood that he cannot indulge his sorrow indefinitely and so he is throwing a big party.’ Watching the widow intently, he continued, ‘But I am of the opinion that one happy event will not melt his grief, which brings us to the reason you are here.’
She waited, rapt, her small eyes unblinking and fixed on his face.
‘You are here to provide His Majesty with some agreeable company, that is, if you are able to impress him at the party.’
She didn’t dare smile, even though she was dying to burst into gleeful giggles. Destiny had brought her back, this time handing her the dice to roll. ‘I will strive to do my best,’ she said.
Satisfied, Chakrawaru held out a small purse. ‘The party is five days from now. Here is enough money to fetch you all a set of fancy clothes. Keep them simple and elegant, and teach your sons some manners befitting the genteel.’
The purse clinked heavily in her hand. ‘You may rest easy, Chakrawaruji, we will do you proud.’
He turned to leave, and then stopped. ‘Your dress has to be a deep shade of forest green,’ he said, his voice hoarse with urgency, ‘remember, no other colour but forest green.’
10
Smiling palace staff welcomed the guests, ushering them through the many stone arches, into the spacious hall. The guests checked on the threshold, the Pearl Throne room bedazzling them. Ropes of white jasmine encircled the many pillars studded with pure white gems, and silver filigreed lights, hanging from the high ceiling, scattered a million yellow rays over the silk carpets covering the vast floor. Thousands of fragrant lamps twinkled from alcoves in the white walls, reflecting in the gleaming jewellery of the guests, in their flushed complexions and sparkling eyes. It was a vision in white, imbued with a golden iridescence.
It was obvious to a keen eye that the opalescent glow emanated not from the lights or the gems. It came from the pearl throne, atop a flight of twelve steps. In the shape of a large open oyster, it was encrusted with rare golden pearls, their shimmering brilliance radiating out in waves. According to one legend, the sea god Varuna had presented the first King of Aum with the throne, bringing it up from his palace under the sea. And according to another, it was King Yajatha who had dived deep into the stormy seas of the west, combing them for the rarest of rare oysters, the gold-lipped Seep, plundering them till he had enough pearls for his throne.
Resplendent in beige silk robes, King Vasuket smilingly observed the congregation, the green emeralds in his pagdi dazzling in the soft, yellow light. ‘Ah, this is delightful! An apt setting for what I am about to do,’ he murmured, his gaze alighting on Saahas. Greeting one acquaintance after another, the general moved towards him, his stride fluid and strong. ‘A lion amongst men,’ Vasuket observed approvingly.
Dressed in an ivory mulmul shirt and a matching dhoti, Saahas’s clothes were too unadorned for a royal reception. Yet, an innate regality made him stand out in the simple clothes, accentuating his sinewy, athletic frame. The deeply tanned face smiled easily, laughter lines crinkling the corners of his warm eyes. No turban covered his head, the sun-bleached brown hair tucked carelessly behind the ears.
Swiftly climbing the steps to the throne, he bent down to touch Vasuket’s feet and the latter clasped him in a tight embrace. A hush fell over the hall, all eyes on the king and the general. The affection between the two men was palpable, magnified by the warm halo of light.
Barely able to contain his excitement, Vasuket whispered into Saahas’s ear, ‘Stand with me. I am going to make an important announcement,’ and turned a beaming countenance towards the assembly.
Chakrawaru gulped, his ashen complexion rivalling the white walls. He threw a wild glance at the entrance, the bright lights blurring his vision.
Blinking rapidly, he looked again and then he saw it, the glimmer of forest green silk. Manmaani appeared through the crowd, her sons and Hussuri following closely behind.
‘I held my breath,’ Destiny reminisces, ‘since I had offered the dice to the widow to throw just this once, all I could do was step aside and watch it roll.’
Vasuket took a step forward and in that instant, a movement in the crowd caught his eye. He frowned, disliking the distraction, more so when he was about to announce his successor.
There was a soft murmur and the gathering parted. It was a woman, very pale and shapely, swathed in a green dress. Searching anxiously for a familiar face, her kohl-darkened eyes flickered upwards, meeting Vasuket’s curious gaze. She blushed, fluttering her lashes in confusion.
‘Your Majesty,’ Chakrawaru broke in, ‘if I may be so bold as to interrupt you.’
‘What is it my good man?’
The advisor gestured to the lady, ‘This, Your Majesty, is an unfortunate widow, my departed friend’s wife. She and her children wish to pay their respects to you.’
Manmaani made a deep bow. When she looked up, Vasuket noticed her brimming eyes, the tremulous smile on her lips.
‘Hail King Vasuket, the paragon of mercy,’ she quavered. ‘I, a destitute woman, am indeed blessed today.’
Vasuket drew in a sharp breath. It was the colour of her dress, a shade of forest green that had been preferred by his queen. Emotions, long forgotten, stirred within his breast. It was summer again, deep green leaves rustling in the warm breeze, throwing cool shadows on the white walls of Sundernagari. Another soft rustle fell in his ears, the rustle of a green dress. And then the queen’s arms slipped around his neck, her cool cheek pressed to his.
The Crown of Seven Stars Page 5