‘Rama,’ she said. There was no pleading or cry in her voice. She only said it with love, more tenderly than he had ever heard his name said before, except by his mother.
Don’t turn. Just walk to the door, open it, and keep walking. Don’t look back. If you look back, you will be lost for ever.
But she didn’t repeat his name. Only said it that once, and then fell silent. He heard the sound of her payals and jewellery clinking and tinkling as she rose from the bed and stood behind him, but she didn’t speak his name again. As if she knew that no amount of crying and wailing could persuade him to turn now that his mind was made up, now that his foot was set upon the path of dharma. She said his name that one time, and waited. And in the end, it was that perfect faith, that blind belief, that made him turn. For how could he ignore she who loved him dearly enough to respect his wishes and let him go, even though it meant the certain destruction of everything she had hoped for and aspired to? How could he just walk away from a soulmate so perfect that her very sorrow harmonised with the pain he himself carried in his own breast like a dying broken-winged sparrow?
He turned. And found her tearless and calm once more. She raised her arms to him, asking, not pleading.
‘Then let me go with you,’ she said.
TWO
The kosaghar doors stood open by the time Kausalya and the rest of the party arrived. The two guards on duty saluted Pradhan-mantri Sumantra, Guru Vashishta and the two queens but barred their way. Sumantra was rapidly approaching his endurance limit.
‘We have urgent business with the Second Queen, soldiers. Move aside and let us pass.’
The two Kaikeyans, part of the Second Queen’s personal rani-rakshak regiment, looked at each other nervously. They both had the trademark curling moustaches of the western kingdom, shined to perfection by the daily application of clarified butter. ‘Rani Kaikeyi has left the kosaghar,’ one of them said. ‘She has gone to the sabha hall, we believe. Before she left she sent couriers to the houses of the ministers, calling for a special plenary session of the council.’
Sumantra stared at them, flabbergasted. ‘She has called a session? Have you two been sipping soma on duty?’
They looked at each other again, unhappily, as if coming to a harsh decision. Then, with one movement, both men prostrated themselves before the prime minister. ‘Great one, we beg to be relieved of our duties as Rani Kaikeyi’s bodyguards. Pray, grant us sanctuary in the ranks of Kosala’s army.’
Sumantra looked even more bewildered. ‘You no longer wish to serve your clan-queen? Do you know what this means?’ He added impatiently, ‘Rise to your feet, men!’
They stood up, putting their lances aside. The way to the kosaghar was unbarred now. Seeing her opportunity, Kausalya moved past them and entered the chamber of complaints, followed by Rani Sumitra. The guru and Pradhan-mantri Sumantra remained with the guards. Sumantra was very curious to know their story. Kaikeyans were famous for their national fealty. Why, even the Second Queen’s personal bodyguard consisted solely of men, in keeping with the Kaikeya nation’s chauvinistic conviction that the only true Kshatriyas were men. For these two to have cast aside their clan-oaths and sought refuge in Kosala’s army indicated some great crisis.
‘What occasions this behaviour?’ he asked them sternly. ‘Why do two Kaikeyans sworn to protect their queen wish to leave her service thus? You know that as a consequence of this desertion your names will be forever cast out of the annals of Kaikeyan Kshatriya clans and seven generations of your descendants will be forbidden water, food, or shelter beneath any Kaikeyan Kshatriya roof? In effect, you will be as if in exile the rest of your natural lives.’
‘We know this, my lord,’ said the first guard. ‘But we cannot serve our duty any longer. There are some things that are beyond a clan-oath and fealty.’
‘Such as?’ Sumantra’s heart was pounding now. He thought he glimpsed what might have upset these men so deeply, but he wished to hear them say so in as many words. There were only two acts which could cause a Kaikeyan to break his clan-oath and forswear fealty to his queen. Two acts which no Kaikeyan could condone, whatever the circumstances, and which absolved even the extreme betrayal of desertion.
‘Denial of a mother’s duties,’ they said with one voice, naming the first, most heinous of crimes that could possibly be committed by a Kaikeyan woman. And as he had feared, they went on, naming the second of those unforgivable acts, ‘And king-slaying, my lord.’
Kausalya entered the kosaghar first. The pungent reek of some foreign agent assailed her nostrils, and the miasma of misty vapour that filled the air irritated her eyes, causing them to sting and water at once. Her entire being cringed and crawled with an unpleasant sensation, as if she had passed through a thicket of poisonous bramble-flowers and her skin had been afflicted by their noxious pollen. The kosaghar was gloomy and silent as ever; this was not a happy place at the best of times. But there was something more than the usual oppressive atmosphere that hung over a chamber reserved for mourning, grieving, or wretched retreat from the world at large.
She stepped into a viscous patch of something wet and unpleasant and recoiled. At first, in the gloamy murk of the sputtering diyas–almost all of them had burned down to the wick–she was certain the stain on the carpeted floor was blood. A terrible vision filled her mind’s eye, of Kaikeya dressed in her tight-fitting armour suit, flinging the gleaming spear she had carried back from the Holi mêlée. Only this time the spear was directed not at Kausalya, as it had been that day in the Seer’s Tower, but at Dasaratha himself. She pictured the spear striking Dasaratha and driving him back, to fall to his knees, spilling his life-blood.
She bent and felt the patch with great reluctance. She had to know. The relief that she felt as she recognised the familiar greasy feel and smelled the unmistakable odour of mustard oil was out of all proportion to the simple act.
But the sense of dread she felt remained. Like the tip of a thorn broken off deep inside an impaled thumb. She rose to her feet and resumed her course down the long pillars of the kosaghar. Behind her, footfalls sounded lightly.
‘Kausalya?’ Sumitra’s voice betrayed her fear.
Kausalya gestured at the Third Queen to wait there by the door. She could hear Sumantra’s voice speaking to the guards outside, then Guru Vashishta intoning in his quiet, calming way. Then she took another few steps further into the chamber and the voices faded to a distant murmur. This section of the kosaghar was duskier than the area by the doorway. Here, the diyas had almost all been extinguished, and the only light came from a single lamp flickering in the wind brought in by the open doors. As Kausalya approached this solitary flame, hidden yet behind a row of pillars, she saw a distorted shadow cast upon the floor and left-hand wall, as if a person were bending over with the diya in hand. She felt a flush of relief, her footsteps hastening to cover the last few pillars to the flickering source of light.
‘Dasa,’ she said. ‘Are you well? We were so worried. What happened—’
She came around the last pillar and stopped dead in her tracks.
The hunchbacked form of Manthara-daiimaa reared up before her. The daiimaa was holding a diya in her hand, and the light cast upwards by the little clay lamp threw her wizened features into garish relief. Normally, Kausalya was not offended by the sight of an ageing face–if anything, she loved the careworn lines of an ancient visage just as much as the wrinkled pinkness of a newborn babe–but there was something in Manthara’s sneering features that put her in instant remembrance of those childhood tales of chudails and vetaals. An expression of utter disgust for everyone and everything that could not be considered lovable by even the most trusting person on earth.
The daiimaa straightened as best as she was able, given her deformity. ‘Rani Kausalya. You have come at last. And about time too. The maharaja was just asking for you by name.’
Kausalya saw the huddled form leaning against the pillar behind Manthara. The daiimaa’s lower body concealed
most of it from her view, but she saw enough to know it was Dasaratha. Why was he just lying there? Was he unconscious? But Manthara had just said that he was asking for her, Kausalya.
Caution bade her keep her distance until she learned more about what was really going on here. The guru and Sumantra would be with her in moments. She bit back the accusations that were boiling up in her throat and spoke to the daiimaa as levelly as she could manage under the circumstances.
‘What are you doing here, Manthara?’
The words came out harsher than Kausalya had intended, she realised. But it was too late to take them back. She let them hang in the air, like a challenge. Let her make something of it if she wants to. Maybe she’ll show her hand at last, reveal her true self and condemn herself once and for all.
Manthara sighed with the utter weariness of one who has suffered long and hard under the yoke of royal servitude. ‘Tending to the maharaja, of course. Rani Kaikeyi asked me to stay and adminster to his needs as long as he chose to remain in the kosaghar.’
‘Chose to remain?’ This time the sharpness in Kausalya’s voice went up a notch. She took a step closer to the daiimaa as she spoke. ‘He was not the one who came voluntarily here. You said so yourself earlier. It was Kaikeyi who shut herself up here, after taking her vraths. It was at your behest that he came here at all.’
‘Surely.’ Manthara tilted her head, reminding Kausalya of a carrion bird she had seen once as a child, gazing greedily across a battlefield strewn with grisly dead, as if deciding with which poor fellow’s innards to start the feast. ‘But his majesty’s health seemed to take a turn for the worse after his arrival here. I was only adminstering this herbal tonic to revive him somewhat.’
The daiimaa held out a glass jal-bartan with her left hand, showing Kausalya the dregs of some dark fluid within.
A cold fist grasped Kausalya’s heart, squeezing until she could barely breathe. Suddenly she understood the reason for the sense of dread she had felt upon entering. It was more than just the serving girl’s dying words, or Kaikeyi’s words as spoken through the medium of the dying serving girl, whichever one believed. ‘Where is your mistress?’ she asked harshly, not caring about her tone any longer. ‘Where is the Second Queen? Why did she send for my husband and then leave him here alone with you? What have you two wrought this dark night in this cursed chamber of pain and sorrow? Answer me!’
The daiimaa sketched a brief bow. It came off as a grotesque mockery due to her dwarf-like stature and protruding hump. ‘My mistress is in the sabha hall, as the guards outside, treacherous oafs that they are, have already informed you. First Queen Kaikeyi is overseeing an emergency samiti of the council of ministers even as we speak. As for why she sent for Maharaja Dasaratha, her husband, why, that is a matter you must discuss with her directly. Or with him, if you can rouse him now. And to answer your final question, well, she and I have been doing exactly what you and your son Rama Chandra have been doing these past weeks, securing our rightful place in the kingdom after his majesty’s passing.’
The daiimaa paused, a scornful smile flickering across her distorted face. ‘And now that I have answered your queries, Second Queen Kausalya, let me add this one further statement. You have enjoyed the luxury of reigning supreme for these past years despite the maharaja favouring my mistress in the boudoir. But now, with the balance of power suitably redressed, I urge you not to address me as offensively as you have done till now. Before, I may have been a humble daiimaa. Now, I am the governess-regent of a king of Ayodhya. It gives me great pleasure to inform you that you are now addressing Lady Manthara!’
There were bounds even to Kausalya’s legendary limitless patience, and she might have flown at the woman had a voice not spoken from behind just then. Guru Vashishta’s booming baritone carried the length of the kosaghar, preceding the sage as he approached.
‘Enough! You have spoken too much already, old crone. I command you to silence, in the name of the founder of this great dynasty, mighty Surya-deva himself! Shantam!’
Before Kausalya’s startled gaze, Manthara’s eyes flashed green. If she hadn’t seen it herself, she wouldn’t have believed it. But there was no mistaking that emerald gleam that lit up the daiimaa’s normally black pupils when the sage called out his command. They positively blazed with green fire. Kausalya took a step back, and was caught by Sumitra’s feverish-hot hands.
Manthara had finally decided to show her true colours.
THREE
The daiimaa’s voice was as soft as the hiss of a serpent, yet no less deadly in its challenge. ‘You dare to command me to silence, sage? I advise you to stay silent yourself!’
Kausalya heard Sumitra emit a startled gasp at the daiimaa’s effrontery. Neither of them had ever heard anyone, leave alone an ageing wet-nurse, speak with such rude arrogance to the seermage Vashishta. But that was only the first salvo in the old hunchback’s arsenal. She went on, her voice rising with unleashed fury, her eyes blazing sorcerous green, the green of asura shakti, as Kausalya knew from a thousand childhood tales. A corrosive, searing green flame that seemed to issue from as well as consume the daiimaa’s eyes like a pair of oil-dipped cotton wicks.
Manthara raised a clawlike finger, pointing it at Guru Vashishta. ‘Be warned, whitebeard! Your powers will not serve you in this matter! Too late you see fit to intervene. Too late you arrive like an unwelcome guest at a wedding feast after the last course has been served and eaten. Too late to save your precious Ikshwaku clan, your exalted Suryavansha dynasty, your feeble, fickle, faithless friends. With one masterstroke, your great child-champion has been disinherited from his throne and kingdom, cast out into exile, condemned to fourteen years in a place no less perilous than the nethermost region of hell. What use your great Brahman shakti now? Your yogic mastery? Your millennia of maha-vidya and wisdom? Dust and ashes, offal and filth! That will be your lot henceforth!’
As she spoke, the green blaze in Manthara’s eyes grew brighter, filling the entire orbs, until their garish light fell upon the daiimaa’s face and upper body, overwhelming even the pure yellow glow of the diya.
Kausalya glimpsed Guru Vashishta’s white-clad form sweeping past her. The guru seemed taller than usual, looming above them all, but especially above the daiimaa, who seemed further dwarfed in comparison with the tall sage.
‘You have done enough damage already,’ the guru said, his gravelly voice a sombre and dignified contrast with the daiimaa’s hissing, spitting tones. ‘I should have suspected your evil ways earlier and acted sooner. But you were cloaked by the presence and protection of your mistress. Fool that I was, I neglected to look past the brightness of Kaikeyi’s obfuscating aura, or I would surely have glimpsed how deeply your black heart and sin-soaked aatma were steeped in the dark arts. Instead, I misread the signs and omens and failed to perceive your role in this villainish conspiracy. For that failing I must pay penance.’
‘Yes!’ the old hunchback screeched. ‘Penance you will pay! While I rule the roost like a queen in all but name. Do not delude yourself. You could no more have seen through my outer guise than a greybeard goat can see through its mountain! My master’s shakti is supreme in all the worlds. His time is come. While you and the rest of your clutch of seven, your time is nigh past. Go on then, whitebeard. Cast off your glowing robes and put on a hair-coat. Go out into the wilderness and seek the repentance you deserve. Suffer another millennia or two in silence while my master and I build a new world order, a world where your pathetic devas and devis will be forgotten, their idols smashed down and trampled into the dirt beneath the passage of our triumphant armies!’
Guru Vashishta advanced a step further upon the woman holding the diya. Manthara’s face was all alight with the green glow from her eyes now, Kausalya saw. It was as if the daiimaa had been set ablaze by some sorcerous flame and was literally burning in its rapture. Inside the cocoon of green flame, the old hunchback’s face and body were limned in black, like an outline sketched with a charcoal grease-s
tick.
‘I will brook no further blasphemy from your withered lips, old hag,’ the guru said. ‘Until now, you have worked your evildoing in darkness and in secret. But you stand exposed now, and you will not escape justice. I command you, yield this instant or face the shakti of Brahman.’
Standing behind the guru, with Sumitra in turn behind her, clinging to her arm, Kausalya saw the look of rage that passed across Manthara’s wizened features. The old daiimaa glared at Vashishta with an expression of such intense hatred that even Kausalya had to force herself not to turn her face away. The very fact that the old woman had stood up and confronted the legendary seer-mage so boldly thus far was itself shocking. Their worst fears had finally been proved beyond doubt. Manthara was in the thrall of the demonlord of Lanka, that much was clearly evident now. No other force in the three worlds would defy Guru Vashishta face to face, nor be able to accomplish so many dastardly deeds so near to the great seer’s presence. It was shocking to see that the daiimaa was so foolish, or so powerful, that she would dare to stand up to the guru himself. It made Kausalya cry out in the fastness of her own besieged mind: How could we have raised this serpent under our own roof and not seen her for what she truly was all these years? Yet the answer was as simple as faith itself: Because we trust our own. We trust them unto death.
For several moments the confrontation teetered on a knife-edge. The witch, for that was how Kausalya knew she would think of her henceforth, stayed deathly still in her sorcerous cocoon of green asura fire, glaring at the sage as if she would do battle with him to the very end before yielding so much as an inch. Nor did the guru himself yield an inch, his eyes flashing blue with the cold fire of Brahman, his white beard and flowing mane of hair lending him a terrible grimness.
Then, before Kausalya’s astonished eyes, Manthara turned around, putting her back to the guru and the two queens, and bent down. The daiimaa shattered the glass jal-bartan she was holding on the floor of the kosaghar, splitting it into jagged halves. She took one wickedly curved half and put it to the throat of the unconscious maharaja. The hand she used was encased in a mashaal-like blaze of green flame, casting a horrible deathlike pallor upon Dasaratha’s face.
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