“What do you think you are doing, you filthy harlot?”
The princess screamed and dropped the shell. She turned to see the laughing face of Nimali, her arms loaded with fruit and pillows.
“You — you witch! I’ll have you flogged!”
“Oh, you will have to pardon me, princess. If you could have seen your own face you would pardon me, because it was the funniest thing since Ayah farted during meditation. But what would Thandivarman say if he saw you there, on your knees giving succour to another man?”
Citta started at the mention of Thandivarman, who was the second most exciting thing that had happened to her. It had all started with her father the king coming to visit, and that was a significant event in itself. Her father sometimes forgot to bring her a gift, but he always brought masculine certainty, a noisy, lively entourage that set the whole household buzzing, and a sense of occasion.
On this visit he did not summon Citta to the upper palace for three days. By the time the herald finally came to call her she was trembling, wondering what she had done to make her father angry. When she entered the throne room, however, he smiled warmly on her. She knelt before him, but he raised her up and kissed her on the forehead.
“Ummadha Citta, can it really be two years since I saw you last? You have grown into a beautiful woman. It is the sad burden of a king, that he must neglect his own kin to care for his subjects.
“You have always been my favourite daughter, and now I bring wonderful news. You are to be married.”
Citta’s betrothed was called Thandivarman. He was a prince of the Pallava, son of the famous king Nandivarman, who had restored his dynasty’s fortunes and reigned over his empire for half a century.
“But — then he is not of the Lion People? Does he even speak our language?”
“Love needs no language, daughter. You will soon learn Tamil, when you go to live with him on the mainland.”
“I have to leave the Island?”
The full meaning of her father’s words shattered Citta’s universe like lightning striking a tree. She had never given much thought to the world beyond the Island, and certainly never intended to visit it. For the past seven years she had not even set foot outside the city walls that surrounded the Lion Rock.
After some weeks of howling and sulking, however, she came to peace with the idea. In part this was because the monk Manichandra explained to her that all things were transient and that change was an inevitable attribute of existence; in part because her father said Nimali could go with her to her new home, and Ayah too. He also promised that the ceremony would take place on the Rock, although it would have to be in the Shaiva form. Citta talked to Manichandra about this.
“But if I worship the gods of the brahmins, it will distract me from the Noble Path.”
“No, child, there is no harm in it. Deities are beings like any other, and worthy of our compassion. They live so long that they believe they are immortal, and dwell in such bliss that they can never achieve enlightenment. So make your sacrifice to the fire god, and hope that he has the good fortune to be born human in his next life.”
Thandivarman himself was still across the sea, in his father’s kingdom. The day of the wedding would be the first time that bride and groom would meet. Instead Citta had been presented with a portrait of him, painted on a wooden panel. She had seen enough paintings of her father to know that the image would be ideal rather than accurate. In truth it imparted little information that she could trust, other then that he was a man, with brown skin, black hair and a long moustache, and even those things she doubted occasionally.
Somehow, though, the fact that she knew so little about her prospective husband made him seem more alluring. Into the emptiness created by Thandivarman’s absence Citta poured her wishes and longings and fantasies, so that he grew day by day, taller and stronger and more handsome. In her dreams he resembled a deva when he came to her, his arms enfolding her, his body crushing hers, and she would wake trembling and flushed.
Now, however, Nimali’s reference to Thandivarman filled her with shame. She contemplated the strange man lying in her sanctuary, and he no longer seemed like a sublime symbol of impermanence. Instead he engendered the same horror she would feel on finding a snake in her bed.
“Oh, Nimali, what have we done? We must tell Ayah immediately.”
Nimali stroked her friend’s face.
“And if we tell her, what would happen? They would hack off his head and throw his body on the dung heap. Caring for him is an act of compassion, and will earn us great merit.”
The princess bit her lip. Nimali was right; only their silence protected the man from summary execution. She dredged up some anger against the thuggish guards who she knew would commit such brutality against a fellow human without hesitation or compunction. Anger helped fuel her defiance.
Citta had always been rebellious, despite, or perhaps because of, her tranquil upbringing and profoundly spiritual bent. She had been delighted to learn that she was named after a distant ancestor, who was still remembered a thousand years later for an act of disobedience that changed the destiny of the kingdom. The first Ummadha Citta spent her childhood confined to a room in a tower, as a consequence of a horoscope that predicted her son would kill his nine uncles and seize the throne. Despite this precaution, however, she fell pregnant when she was sixteen. Her brothers were prepared to kill the child as soon as it was born if it was a boy, but with the connivance of her maid and her mother the queen Ummadha Citta swapped the baby for a girl child. The boy was smuggled to the southern kingdom of Ruhuna, from where he would one day return to fulfil the prophecy.
Citta remained unclear as to how her ancestor had managed to conceive, and who the boy’s father was. A maid had begun to tell her that part of the story once, but Ayah had caught them and sent the maid away, never to be seen again in the palace in the sky. Nonetheless the princess liked to imagine that she was not only descended from the first Ummadha Citta, but perhaps was the same irrepressible soul reborn.
Encouraged by these thoughts, she helped Nimali settle the man on the pillows. Once he was made comfortable, Nimali addressed him loudly and slowly as if he were deaf.
“What… is… your… name?”
The man muttered something.
“Did you say Hashan? What are you doing here, Hashan? Where have you come from?”
He did not reply, but slumped on the pillows, eyes closed.
“Are you hurt? Where is your injury?”
Hashan gestured, haltingly but unmistakably, towards his groin. The girls looked at each other, and Nimali shrugged.
“It is an act of compassion.”
They found the wound as soon as they began to unwrap his sarong. At the top of his thigh, a vile black patch of dried blood glued the fabric to his skin. Citta gasped, but Nimali was pragmatic.
“It will have to come off. Are you ready, Hashan?”
She ripped the cloth away suddenly. The man jammed his hand in his mouth to stifle his agonised roar. Citta examined the ragged, discoloured wound, which was now oozing blood again. Compared to its sickly horror, his genitals seemed unthreatening, a shrunken member lying meekly dormant on sagging balls.
“What do we do?”
Citta suspected Nimali knew little more about treating injuries than she did, but the older girl’s confidence was compelling. She found clean cloths, soaked one in water and bathed the wound, then bound it with the others. Hashan’s eyes showed his pain, but he remained silent. When she was finished, Nimali sat back and viewed her handiwork.
“Well, we’d better get you some clothes.”
They returned after the evening puja, bringing more food and a fresh sarong. The man was sleeping, so they draped it over his loins, and left him in peace. The next morning they found him sitting up.
“Thank you for saving my life. Could I have some wine?”
His voice was still thick, and his accent heavy, but the words were clear. Citta was taken ab
ack.
“Wine? But wine stupefies the consciousness and leads to reckless acts.”
“Yes. Can I have some please?”
“We are followers of the Noble Eightfold Path. There is no wine on the Lion Rock.”
Hashan was crestfallen.
“I suppose that means there is no meat either?”
Citta’s shocked face answered his question, and he accepted a breakfast of water, bread and fruit without complaint. As he ate Citta noticed something.
“Why do you keep staring at our breasts?”
Hashan seemed embarrassed by the question, and mumbled his response.
“In my country… it is the custom for women to cover their bodies. A man will only see a woman’s naked breasts at a time of… intimacy.”
The girls looked down at their bodies in surprise.
“What, bind our breasts like peasant women labouring in the fields? It is a privilege of our rank to decorate ourselves and adorn our bosoms with jewels. If we are to hide our youth and beauty away, we may as well cover our faces!”
“Actually, in my country… no, never mind.”
Citta decided that, if the man was able to talk now, that he owed them an explanation.
“Tell us how you sustained your injury.”
“I was set upon by thieves, while travelling to Polonnaruwa. I am a merchant from the city of Basrah, who came to the Island on business. At the port of Gokanna, I met a man who promised to sell me cinnamon if I journeyed inland to the capital. It was a trick, though; the bandits were lying in wait for me on the road.
“I killed one of them, but his last action before death was to pierce my thigh with his sword. Bleeding, I crept away and hid under a bush. In the darkness the bandits could not find me, although they took my horse and all my belongings. After they left I tried to reach the nearest village, but the loss of blood from my wound sapped my strength, and I fell into oblivion.”
Citta listened to his story open-mouthed in wonder. Nimali, however, was not satisfied.
“Then how did you end up on the Lion Rock?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps a deva picked me up and placed me here, so that you could find me and save me.”
When Hashan smiled, Citta realised that she had not considered him truly human before. She had thought of him as some kind of animal that she had found hurt, and wished to nurse to health. In an instant everything became real. Her voice was cold, but from fear rather than antipathy.
“You follow the path of Muhammad. You do not believe in devas.”
He seemed to catch her mood, and grew serious.
“I am not so sure. They say that the first dwellers on the Island were spirits. Men used to trade with them, before the Lion People came and drove them away. One cannot walk this land without feeling the — forgive me, I do not know the words in your language. It is hard for me. In my own land I am considered a fair poet.”
“You speak very well, and I understand exactly what you mean. The presences all around you that cannot be seen. Some say the Island is a gateway to other worlds.”
“I can believe it. Besides, Muslims recognise the existence of powerful but invisible spirits. We call them Jinni.”
Nimali interrupted testily.
“This is very uplifting, but we need to go back to the palace and do our chores. Otherwise someone will come looking for us.”
An awkward silence followed, in which Citta would not meet her eyes. Finally Nimali stamped her foot.
“All right then, princess. I will go and do your chores for you, so that you may sit with your naga. I shall console myself with the knowledge of the merit I will earn by my skilful actions.”
Left alone with the man, Citta was shaken by an unfamiliar sensation of freedom. In that moment she understood what the monk had said about gods, and how they could never achieve enlightenment. Her tranquil existence on the Rock had protected her from harm, but also had denied her the full breadth of experience that led to wisdom.
Hashan asked if he could wash himself. It was too dangerous for him to go out in the open, so Citta helped him over to the stone basin. He had bound the sarong around his loins, but his hairiness seemed somehow obscene, implying a bestiality at odds with his sensitive soul. All the men she knew were perfumed and shaven, face and body, except perhaps for an oiled moustache. The Moor Hashan had heavy tresses hanging from his scalp, a thick beard and dark curly fur on his chest.
He glanced across at her as he scrubbed his face.
“Might I know the name of the one who has saved my life?”
Citta tilted back her chin.
“You would not be able to speak my full name, nor remember it. You should call me Princess Ummadha Citta.”
“A princess, and yet you have chores?”
Citta blushed.
“My teachers say that it is not beneficial to my spiritual development to be spared all menial tasks. They tell the story about the novice who goes to see the wise old master, and says,
“ ‘Master, how do I attain Nirvana?’
“The master replies,
“ ‘Have you eaten your rice?’
“ ‘No, master.’
“ ‘Then eat your rice.’
“The novice returns an hour later.
“ ‘Master, I have eaten my rice. Please tell me what I must do to achieve enlightenment.’
“The master answers,
“ ‘Now wash your bowl.’ ”
Hashan’s baffled smile revealed that he did not understand the story, and Citta felt abashed. It had seemed so profound, so loaded with meaning, when Manichandra had related it to her, but from her own young lips it sounded empty, banal. The man sensed her embarrassment, and changed the subject.
“You are a woman of courage, princess Ummadha Citta, as well as learning. You take a grave risk in protecting me.”
“I am not so courageous. What punishment can they impose on me? They will not beat a princess of the royal blood. At worst they will give me more chores, which, since they tell me it is beneficial for my karma, is a blessing, not a burden.”
She was not entirely sure why she did not mention her forthcoming marriage, and the potentially catastrophic consequences of any scandal.
“It is you who are in danger, follower of Muhammad. If the guards find you they will surely kill you.”
“They would murder an innocent merchant, the victim of an unfortunate misadventure? Are they, then, not followers of the Eightfold Path?”
“There is no king of any nation, no matter what his creed, who would hesitate to slaughter an intruder apprehended in his private palace. Even if a deva put the intruder there.”
“I understand. Rulers who place principles above pragmatism seldom rule for long.”
“It is not like that. My father — the king must sometimes sacrifice his own hopes for awakening, in order to care for his people. It is not enough simply to do what appears to be right. Through awareness and wisdom, we can better understand the consequences of our actions, and make choices that best promote the welfare of all beings. We call these skilful actions, deeds which are not only virtuous but also wise.”
“Perhaps, then, the skilful choice for you now is to help me get better, so that I can sneak away, and nobody need come to any harm?”
“Liar!”
They were relieved to see it was Nimali who interrupted them, but this time she was not playing a trick. Her face was stiff with fury.
“Well, merchant, are you going to cover your lies with more lies? Or will you confess the truth? Either you tell the princess who you really are, or else I will.”
Hashan met her gaze with cool eyes, but said nothing. Nimali turned to Citta.
“You had better return to the palace quickly. A company of guards has arrived, and everyone is in uproar. Apparently they are looking for a foreign spy. They caught him on the road two nights ago, but he escaped — despite being wounded in the leg.”
Citta looked at the Moor, whose face show
ed no emotion. Then she ran from the gazebo. Nimali spat, and followed her.
Ayah was waiting for them by the door to the lower palace.
“Oh, girls, such a relief to see you! Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
Her voice was worn and familiar, like an old blanket, a voice in which the same tone expressed complaint and affection. It occurred to Citta that she cared more for the old woman than she did for her real mother. It would certainly be very wrong to put at risk not only Ayah, but everybody else at the palace, for the sake of a barbarous stranger.
“We were making a shrine on the south terrace. We like to meditate there, it’s very peaceful.”
Ayah did not miss Nimali’s sharp glance at Citta, but jumped to the wrong conclusion.
“Well, perhaps you can cultivate your loving-kindness when you are there. I heard about the row you two had. You are so lucky to be young and intelligent and healthy, to have time to study and meditate. Why waste your time nurturing the poison of hatred, just to use it on your best friend?”
Citta kissed her on the brow.
“Ayah, you are so wise, I am sure that in your next life you will be born an arahant. Now what is there to eat?”
Nimali tossed her head as she followed them inside but said nothing. The turmoil within the palace was in marked contrast to the usual serene calm. Servants scurried and gossiped, while soldiers stood around in officious groups, striving to combine surly deference with mistrustful menace.
“What is happening, Ayah?”
The old woman gripped her arm.
“Such a worry! An assassin, they say — at the very heart of the island. Your father is on his way. And so is your husband. Thandivarman is making the crossing from the mainland, and will be here in a matter of weeks. Before two moons have turned you will be a married woman.”
Citta was more shocked at the prospect of the imminent arrival of her betrothed, than she was by the possibility that she had been harbouring a dangerous foreign agent. She had made such an idol of the Pallava prince, idealised him to such an extent that it now occurred to her the reality could only be a disappointment. Once he arrived, his glorious potential would collapse into a dull mundanity that she would have to live with for the rest of this life.
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