The bead-curtain at the door shirred as someone entered. Without looking up or breaking rhythm, she knew it was Captain Drishti Kumar. He was followed by more guards, who formed a quad around her, spears pointing within the square, and then by the maharanis Kausalya and Sumitra. She knew that Sumitra’s face blanched when she saw her on the floor, but the Third Queen remained silent, her jaws grinding hard together in a manner that was strongly reminiscent of her sons.
Manthara continued to recite her mantra with the self-absorbed air of a devotee lost in the ecstasy of prayer. After a brief consultation with the First Queen, Captain Drishti Kumar spoke in a curt but formal tone.
‘Daiimaa, rise to your feet and greet your queens.’
Manthara continued to the end of the repetition of the mantra, then, as the captain was about to repeat his command in a harsher tone, raised the prayer beads to her lips, kissed them devoutly, and placed them on the book stand in front of her.
As she struggled to raise herself off the floor, she saw that Maharani Kausalya wanted to order the captain to help her up, but decided against it. It was one of the things she had never been able to understand about Kausalya. How could the queen be so ruthless and so humane at the same time? But then that was the Arya way. To go to war against your own kith and kin, yet obey the rules of warfare scrupulously. Madness, mortal madness!
Manthara gained her feet at last and peered up at the two queens, who were watching her as intently as a mongoose watched a cobra. She joined her hands in a respectful namaskar. ‘Namaste, Maharani Kausalya. Namaste, Maharani Sumitra. You do me great honour by visiting my humble residence. To what do I owe this privilege?’
Kausalya’s eyes narrowed. Evidently, nothing Manthara had done or said thus far was what she had expected. That made the First Queen suspicious. She was trying to decide if Manthara had genuinely meant her ritual response or if she was just being bitterly ironic. The latter was more her style, Manthara conceded, but she had been careful to keep the statements accentless and plain. They weren’t going to catch her out on something as trivial as tone of voice!
‘Daiimaa,’ Kausalya said curtly, resorting to formal behaviour by the use of Manthara’s work-title rather than her name, ‘if you have anything to confess, do so now. The penalty for treason, conspiracy and attempted assassination is too harsh to commute. But if you show remorse and admit your guilt now it may bring some relief to your immortal aatma. When your judgement on Prithvi ends and you stand before that great celestial court in Swargalok, you may well be judged on the actions and words you now perform. Bear that in mind before you speak.’
Manthara allowed an expression of incredulity to appear on her wizened face. It was genuine, thanks to the First Queen’s own words. ‘Maharani,’ she said, hearing the surprise in her voice. ‘Treason? Conspiracy? Attempted assassination? Who has committed these crimes? If you are suggesting that I would be responsible for such heinous sins, then surely I would be judged not in Swargalok, but sent straight to Patal, the lowest level of Narak!’
Kausalya stepped forward. ‘So then you deny these charges? Think before you reply. Captain Drishti Kumar here bears formal witness to everything you do or say and may well be called upon to testify against you if so required.’
‘Deny? I cannot comprehend such allegations, my lady. How can I deny them then?’
Kausalya glanced at Sumitra. The Third Queen’s eyes were glowing like embers now, their soft brown pupils fiery with growing anger. ‘Sumitra? Do you want to say anything at this point?’
‘Only that she should have been an actress, not a daiimaa. She would have earned a fortune performing on the stage! She’s lying to save her skin.’
Manthara turned her distressed gaze to Sumitra. ‘Maharani? Would I lie to my own liege-queens?’
‘Yes, you would! You have lied. And killed, and conspired, and indulged in a hundred heinous deeds for the sake of your evil master. He’s your liege, not Dasaratha. Go on, say his name, admit it! Ravana! Say it!’
Kausalya’s hand caught Sumitra’s and squeezed it lightly. ‘Easy, Sumitra. Let me do the talking.’ She looked at Manthara again. ‘Daiimaa, by the authority of the maharaja himself, I am now ordering a search of your apartment. For the last time I ask you, do you wish to confess?’
Manthara joined her hands again, this time not in a namaskar but in an attitude of appeal. Her hands shook naturally enough of their arthritic ailing, and putting a tremble in her voice came even more easily. ‘Mistress, I beseech you, whatever this misunderstanding is, I pray to the devas that it should be cleared away at once. I do not understand what it is I am accused of. Why do you torment an old lady thus?’
Kausalya’s eyes flickered for a second. Got you, Manthara thought triumphantly, smiling inside if not on the surface. The words ‘old lady’ had struck home deeply, she knew. All Aryas bore great respect for the elderly, but some, like Kausalya, considered it their dharma to always treat them with respect. She admired the strength of will that made the First Queen take such strong action against an old and disabled employee of the royal family. Clearly the Third Queen had done a good job of convincing her senior queen.
Kausalya paused, then said quietly, ‘If, by some chance, I am incorrect in my assumptions, then I shall ask your forgiveness for treating you thus. But at present, I must order Captain Drishti Kumar to conduct a full and thorough search of your apartment. Do you have anything further to say that could be of use to yourself?’
Manthara raised her hands skywards. ‘May Almighty Sri have mercy on my ageing aatma,’ she said shakily, knowing full well that the Mother-Creator was Kausalya’s patron deity.
She was pleased by the touch of anguish in her voice.
Kausalya’s voice, in contrast, sounded strained and worried as she said, ‘Captain, ask your men to search the apartment thoroughly. Spare no effort. And I would appreciate it if you would accompany me to the daiimaa’s pooja chamber. I wish to search that place personally.’
The captain issued orders to his men, ending with, ‘Break the place apart if you have to.’
Palace guards filed into the apartment in a seemingly endless flow, marching through the corridors and rooms. Manthara shook her head mournfully, muttering softly to herself in agitation. She felt Third Queen Sumitra’s eyes boring into her.
A guard called out from the north wall of the apartment, addressing his captain.
Drishti Kumar turned to the maharanis. ‘The pooja room, maharani. Come with me.’
Manthara waited a few moments as the two queens and the captain, accompanied by a double-quad of guards that seemed to be linked to the maharanis by invisible rods, left the room and entered the pooja room. She lurched after them, ignoring the guards working everywhere, tearing open mattresses, spearing pillows, smashing through the rear walls of closets and cabinets, taking their captain’s last words very seriously.
She heard a shout of outrage from inside the pooja room. It was the Third Queen.
As she reached the doorway of the pooja room, she heard Sumitra say, ‘It’s sorcery! Kausalya, I told you the woman’s a witch! She did this with her black art somehow. You have to believe me!’
Manthara entered the pooja room and looked in to see the main altar shifted carefully to one side to allow access to the rear wall. Captain Drishti Kumar, the two maharanis and their eight guards were arranged in a tableau that seemed quite hilarious to Manthara’s eyes. They were staring at the window that occupied a large part of the rear wall. The evening sky was clearly visible through it.
The light of the setting sun filled the room indirectly, lighting everyone’s faces in a soft reddish-orange glow.
Sumitra pointed accusingly at Manthara. ‘She did this somehow, Kausalya. She changed this whole room. I tell you, when I was here earlier, there was no window at all. Just a wall. And behind that wall was the secret yagna chamber where she’s been conducting her vile sacrifices!’
Kausalya was staring at the window. ‘I understand t
hat, Sumitra. But how could she have changed the room? Even sorcery can’t alter the design of the palace itself. If she did wield such huge shakti–and, mind you, that’s a very big if–then we would be able to tell at once just by seeing how the building’s structure is changed.’
Sumitra nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right! She’s changed the structure of the building! Ask Drishti Kumar to check. Go on!’
Kausalya looked at the captain. ‘What do you think, Captain? Could you find out for us if this part of the palace could somehow have been altered through sorcery?’
Drishti Kumar hesitated, glancing at Maharani Sumitra.
‘Go on, Captain,’ Kausalya said. ‘You can speak your mind freely.’
‘Maharanis,’ he said, ‘I can vouch for this myself, since this section of the palace used to be the senapati quarters a long time ago. This was before the end of the last asura war and I was but a slip of a lad then. Yet I remember every wall and crevice of this apartment well, because it was my father’s.’
‘Of course,’ Kausalya said, looking astonished. ‘That was before the cantonment complex was built, wasn’t it?’ She looked at Sumitra. ‘Before we came here as young brides, Sumitra. A long time ago.’
‘Just so, maharani,’ Drishti Kumar said. ‘Yet not so long ago for those who remember.’
Kausalya nodded. The captain had lost three uncles and four brothers in the Last asura War. This apartment must be filled with painful yet nostalgic memories for him. ‘I understand, Captain. Tell me then, do you recall this room specifically?’
‘I do, maharani. It was our pooja room then as well, since it’s the only north-facing room.’
He pointed at the window with the haft of his spear. ‘Our altar was located on that wall too, since it was the north wall.’
He paused and looked at Maharani Sumitra. ‘And the window was always there.’
Sumitra cried out in shame and humiliation. She buried her face in her hands, unable to bear the disappointment. Manthara wanted to drop her old-hag act and leap up and down. But she was aware that although they weren’t watching her directly, everybody was keenly aware of her presence, and the two guards who had first entered the apartment were still standing to either side of her, their spears pointing at her heart and her vitals.
She allowed herself a smile of triumph, concealing it with a cry of relief. Throwing her hands together, she raised them to her forehead, directing her words at the altar across the room. ‘Truly, the devi watches over me and protects me!’
She resisted the urge to spit after saying the words. Just a little while longer and this charade would be over, and she could continue with her efforts on behalf of the Dark Lord. She needed to perform another yagna and summon Ravana soon. Shifting the corridors of the palace as well as her quarters from one end to the other had used up every last ounce of her shakti. And to have accomplished this feat of dark sorcery without anyone noticing … that was surely her crowning achievement. Now, drained as she was, she needed more power desperately, and only her master could provide that.
She also needed healing badly, and only Ravana could do that as well. The wounds that Sumitra had inflicted on her with the trident were concealed for the moment by a maya spell. Even if the Third Queen insisted on having her strip-searched here and now, they would find nary a blemish on her bony chest. But beneath the illusion, the wounds were still there, still bleeding, still shriekingly painful.
ELEVEN
Sita gained the top of the Sage’s Brow, Nakhudi close behind her.
She arrived just in time to hear the brahmarishi say to her father, ‘You shall resist this approaching asura horde and defend Mithila with great honour and valour.’
Maharaja Janak stared at the sage with a strange mixture of emotions. ‘Maha-dev, you are infinite in your wisdom. May you not reveal to us what the outcome of this conflict will be?’
‘Nay, Janak,’ the sage replied. ‘That is forbidden to me. Not because I do not wish to set your mind at ease, but because the samay chakra has infinite minute variations. Just as a compass may not point precisely to the north or the east, thus a future event may have an outcome that is not wholly good or bad. And this is a broad simplification. A compass needle may point not even north-east, but north-by-north-east, for example. In the case of geography, this will result in a definite direction.’ The seer pointed his staff over the maharaja’s shoulder. ‘That way is north-by-north-east exactly, but in mortal events, too many factors and lives are interwoven in a constantly changing, enormously complex pattern. So your great and pious city may survive, yet if you were to lose someone dear to you in the conflict, would you count it as success or as failure?’
Janak joined his hands together. ‘Maha-dev, when you first arrived this morning, I told you in my throne room that my life’s only remaining selfish desire was to see my daughters wed happily. But what I ask now is not a selfish whim, it is for the greater good of the Videhan people in particular and the Arya nations at large. Tell me then, will Mithila survive this invasion or will we be overrun by the hordes?’
Vishwamitra was silent for a long moment before he replied. ‘I have already given you my prediction, raje. Ask me no more. To reveal too much would be to tamper with the finer workings of the samay chakra itself. For by knowing a certain event, a person may seek to influence that event and change its predestined outcome.’
Sita stepped forward, bowing her head formally and performing a namaskar as she approached the sage. ‘And is it possible to do so? To influence and change the outcome of an event?’
Vishwamitra turned his wise grey eyes on her. She felt them pierce through to her very soul, searching her consciousness the way a torch might illuminate a darkened cave.
‘Rajkumari Sita, you share your father’s curiosity for metaphysics and spirituality. Your question is a very wise one. It deserves a wise answer. You ask me whether, knowing the predestined outcome of an event, it is possible to influence and change that outcome. The answer then is this: It is not humanly possible to know the predestined outcome of any event. This is what I was just trying to explain to your good father. The variations in the samay chakra’s movements are too complex, too minute, for any mortal mind to comprehend, understand, analyse and predict. Even astrology gives you only the broadest indications of what may transpire. Even if two persons are born at the same instant in the same place, they will not have the same life-history. This is a law of science, as you well know from your gurukul studies. Hence cold, hard, precise science determines the apparently mystical workings of the universe and metaphysics helps us understand those workings. But no mortal may master both science and spirituality equally and completely.’
‘And if a mortal were to master both, Guru-dev?’ Sita said.
Vishwamitra raised his eyebrows. ‘Then that person would be a deva or devi, not a mortal. And to answer your first question again, yes, then he or she would be able to know the exact outcome of an event and could influence and change the outcome of that event.’ He sighed and gestured at himself. ‘I am unfortunately mortal. And at times like this, I am painfully reminded of it.’
Sita saw Rama looking at the southern side of the tower.
Maha-dev.’ Rama’s voice was tight and tense.
Sita turned to look at what Rama had seen. Her eyes found it at once but it took her several seconds to come to terms with the evidence of her eyes and accept that she was really seeing it.
‘Devi protect us!’ she said hoarsely, clutching the hilt of her sword. She had changed into full battle armour after the swayamvara.
The entire southern horizon was a rolling mass of dust.
The dustcloud rose a hundred yards in the air, she saw, and spanned the horizon from end to end. Like a fiendish freak of nature, it caught the light of the setting sun, burning bright shining red.
At that angle and in that light, it resembled a tidal wave of blood rolling towards Mithila.
Bejoo stared up at the southern sky with a fe
eling close to awe. Except that the Vajra captain was filled with too much dread and anger to be awed by the incredible sight. Just knowing what was producing that dustcloud was enough to taint any admiration he might feel for the epic proportions of the sight.
The Vajra captain was mounted on his horse once more. Sona Chita was beside him, and so was the rest of his Vajra regiment. They had arrived in Mithila barely an hour before the order went out to bring in all citizens and bar the seven gates. The Siddh-ashrama procession had been delayed at the Ganga crossing; every last Brahmin and brahmacharya had insisted on immersing himself and performing the full ritual before proceeding further. From the looks of it, Bejoo had commented, Sona Chita and the Vajra Kshatriyas had spent a little time bathing in the sacred river as well.
The lieutenant had admitted that they had taken a dip. When asked why they hadn’t done so at the River Shona, where they had spent the whole of the previous evening and night, Sona Chita had explained to his captain, ‘Any other river is just water. It washes your body. The Ganga cleanses your soul.’
Bejoo’s soul didn’t feel very clean at the moment. As he sat on the fair ground and watched the asura dustcloud approach, he felt very dirty and tainted. Not by his own misdeeds, but by the very sight of that approaching holocaust. He was old enough to have memories of the last asura war. Bad memories, all. And now here was the stormcloud risen again, rolling across the land like a juggernaut of hellish destruction.
He knew all the facts of the matter. Of how woefully inadequate Mithila’s defences were, how underequipped the army was in numbers, training and weapons. There was nothing he could do about that. By an ironic twist of karma, his mission to protect the rajkumars had brought him here to this neighbouring land and dropped him bang into the middle of a situation where he and his Vajra were among the most able warriors available. True, there were a few other strong orders. The Mithila bowmen, renowned for their skill with the unwieldy double-curved longbow, were lined up on the walls of the city, ready to wreak havoc. But they were pitifully few in number to begin with, and compared to the odds, they faced an impossible task.
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