My Lady of the Bog

by Peter Hayes

  This moment of absorption, like the precise instant of falling asleep, cannot be apprehended, as its very nature is a forgetting. So, too, for me, this merging happened. I slipped into Sikandar’s world, losing consciousness—for a time at least—of whom and what and where I was as I wandered the roads and breathed the bloody and ebullient air of fourteenth-century Rājputāna.

  In the tale, we were returning to camp, cantering over the high desert plain, filled with both excitement and apprehension. We passed an ancient hilltop fort, deserted save for a pair of kites riding the thermals high overhead. Then, with the waning day, our war party reached the river border, where we stopped at a little village to water both our horses and ourselves.

  And as I dismounted, there came that time that always does when, subtly sated by the tale, you sigh and raise your eyes from its pages. But, oddly, when I did just that, all I saw was the tan desert plain stretching off in all directions.

  At first, I was amused (if somewhat surprised), though as seconds passed and the illusion persisted, my amusement morphed into astonishment, then dread, and finally into that disorienting panic you feel when you know that you’re dreaming and command yourself to wake, but the spell of sleep will not release.

  I looked about. There were men and horses all around me, grayed with dust from head to toe. I could smell their funk, feel the heat of the tropical sun on my back and the cool river water between my toes.

  Then to my wonder, my panic dispersed and I was flooded by a delicious sensation of youth: an emotional glow and physical well-being I hadn’t felt in years. Tired as I was, I could run a mile if I had to, and to feel that strength and possess it in its fullness was sublime. God, I’d forgotten what it felt like to be nineteen!

  Again, I looked about. Everything was the way it was in the book, only more specific. My companion’s tunic was split at the shoulder; another man’s face bore a strawberry stain. And the dust! We were covered in it, as though we’d rolled in a vat of flour!

  A toothless old gent wearing a loincloth approached me now and touched my feet. He begged me to follow, leading me to a scrap of carpet beneath the shade of a banyan tree. At my approach, the villagers folded their hands in respectful greeting. My shadow shot a trembling plume in the air. And it was only then the penny dropped and I realized that I was Sikandar! It was his youth and vigor that flowed in my veins.

  Yet more intoxicating than the strength of his body was the nobility of his soul. It existed beside my less innocent nature without either seemingly affecting the other—the way fire and water in a painted landscape lie side by side, yet never dry or wet each other.

  The entire village was gathered round, gawking. The women wore saris without cholis, exactly the way that Vidya had described; the men’s loins were wrapped in diaper-like rags. They gave off an odor of dried sweat and bitter lemon. A naked brown toddler staggered forward and, reaching out, touched the glittering hilt of my sword. Sikandar (and I) lifted him up and the child broke into high-pitched laughter. Then his little brown digit twitched and shivered, and he peed in my/Sikandar’s face as everyone else burst out laughing.

  I was appalled. But my alter ego joined right in as if the event were the very epitome of hilarity, the incarnation of mirth. And, alongside my dismay, I could feel his amusement—fresh and foolish, frank and free.

  For instead of dropping the child in the dirt, he, in whose body I was apparently residing, threw the still-micturating urchin into the air so that the child shrieked with wild abandon and his golden stream arced in the sun, anointing us all. Sikandar (whom I was beginning to fear was a fool, noble heart or no) regarded this drenching as a ritual bath, equivalent to a dip in the River Ganges. To his way of thinking, the god in the child, delighted by our victory, was bestowing his blessings by pouring this rare oblation on our head! And I saw that for one who thinks in this manner, it’s very easy to be happy.

  I waited for someone to throw us a towel, but towels, apparently, were not yet invented or, none at least, were forthcoming (though I will admit if I hadn’t known what the vile liquid was, I’d have found its cooling effects rather pleasing).

  Then again, Sikandar’s loving acceptance of the boy was politically astute, for it won the villagers’ trust. Within minutes, we were brought bowls of rice and buffalo milk, sugared and spiced with pistachios, cardamom and raisins. Maybe it was my youthful appetite, but it tasted heavenly: like rich rice pudding, only better. After eating, we listened to the villagers’ petitions. Those who were ill, Sikandar had examined by his physician who prescribed herbs, compresses, baths and massage. In several cases, I recognized the patient’s symptoms and wanted to scream, “No, that girl needs penicillin!” but it was, of course, the year thirteen-something.

  After the infirmary came the court of judgment. My royal Siamese twin had a standard inside him, a wheel of law, and he referred everything back to this measure—though for a fellow who claimed to be a gentleman and a scholar, his sense of justice was swift and tough. There was no inquiry into the felon’s background. (Was he a substance abuser? Did he come from a broken home?) There was no chance to plea bargain, either. For a man who had raped a girl, Sikandar ordered emasculation and the sign of a vulva burned in his brow.

  There were no lawyers, no appeals. No sooner was sentence passed, then the rapist was taken behind a thin wattle wall and a few minutes later, we heard a quick thwhack and a vicious sizzle, followed by a doglike yowl. Then ‘Abd al-Wali strode forth grinning, wiping his sword. The last I saw of the unfortunate felon, he was seated on a blanket, his wound coated with tar, the brand still smoking on his forehead.

  Yet, tough as Sikandar was, he was merciful. Several delinquents prostrated themselves and I could feel the weight of their contrition move him. One, whom he might justly have killed, he had whipped. Another was fined; the third, a hungry boy who had stolen a melon, was let go along with the sternest of warnings, a small silver coin, a basket of fruit, and the solemn assurance that if Sikandar ever heard of him stealing again, even a single corn of barley, he would return and personally feed his person to the water tigers, limb by limb.

  Then, after our horses were fed (not hay, but strange, congealed balls of grain), Sikandar was weighed against bags of wheat, rice, mangos and barley, and rolls of silk and cotton cloth—a fraction of the booty carried out of Indore—which was then distributed to all. He cracked open a barrel of toddy and gave the children milk sweets and halvah. With a single gem, he established a fund to feed the poor, “with special consideration given to widows, orphans and to those smitten by the fist of calamity.”

  Finally, he ordered the planting of shade- and fruit-producing trees and the digging of wells and tanks for bathing, promising the villagers he would send an official to “dispense justice, regulate merchants, recruit artisans, collect taxes, provide alms for holy mendicants and reward loyal servants of the Shah.”

  In return for his bounty, the villagers fed us, praised us, opened their huts and hovels to us, offered us their daughters’ hands in marriage and renamed their village Sikandarpur.

  As we departed, the children ran after our horses for as far as their little legs would go. The men, already half-blind on toddy, smiled toothless grins, and the ladies beamed behind their new saris, except for a few young girls who were openly weeping and pulling their hair as, in the space of a couple of hours, they had fallen madly and hopelessly in love with ‘Abd al-Wali Mirza.

  Soon we came to the infamous pillar. In the cinnamon sunset, the monument looked less horrific than fey, like something astonishing seen in a dream: a house made of human faces. Its odors were masked by night-blooming jasmine mixed with the smoke of the tribals’ dung fires. Still, a thin, fecal poison invested the air, and the moon tinged the heads with an unearthly splendor.

  It would have been wiser—we decided, too late—to have passed by in daylight or have detoured around it altogether, for our men were superstitious, and the sight of the heads awoke in them terrors. We rode
by in silence, averting our faces so as not to invite the Evil Eye. Once we had passed, Sikandar commanded the tower be razed, the heads returned to the widows of Indore, and the plaque dispatched to his father’s palace.

  Chapter 25

  It was Ghazil who greeted us on our return. I don’t know what I expected the distinguished counselor to be: his expression was even more pinched than I’d imagined.

  Sikandar bent down before him and respectfully took the dust of his feet.

  “No more of that,” Ghazil protested. “You are clearly your own master now.” He paused. “Though I will continue to advise you, if you so desire.”

  We watched from out of the desert dusk the caravan approaching. Humped on the horses’ backs were the bent cylinders of silken soumaks, gold bars and silver plate, fist-sized bags of various gems, parcels of ambergris and aloes wrapped in purple paper. There were Alexandria candles, raisin wine and beakers of rosewater commingled with musk; even Shami apples, soap cakes and lemon loaves.

  “What splendid plunder!” the old man crowed.

  Sikandar corrected him. “Tribute,” he said, and reaching in his kurta, he withdrew the diamond and flipped it with a feigned indifference.

  Ghazil caught and beheld it for a time in silence. “This must be worth . . .” But he never finished, lost as he was in the immensity of his calculations. After a moment, he said, “And you received this from . . . ?”

  “The Queen. Of Indore.”

  “In return for . . . ?”

  “. . . our protection.”

  “I see,” Ghazil said, with somewhat less glee.

  “Ghazil,” Sikandar said, “I win a great victory and you act like it’s some mean defeat. May I remind you that I conquered Indore in a morning, without the loss of a single man? Its Queen has pledged us her allegiance and has paid us great tribute. The jewels of her crown scraped the dust of my feet. Why, in the name of the Ever-Merciful, are you scowling?”

  “Because not everyone will see it this way.”

  “And what other way is there to see it, pray?”

  Ghazil sighed. “You unilaterally abrogated a dozen treaties and, without consultation, formed an alliance with an enemy queen. If viewed in this way, your actions could almost be regarded as . . . treason.”

  “Treason?” Sikandar asked, disbelieving.

  “And another thing,” Ghazil went on. “Your participation in certain native rites does not go unnoticed. Some claim you are an apostate.”

  “Why? Because I worship with my men?”

  “Because you pray with them to others than the One.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  Me?” Ghazil laughed. “I have no opinion, theologically speaking. But you should know that, in doing so, you give comfort to your enemies.”

  “I am more concerned with the comfort I give my men.” Sikandar shook his head, and plucking from a passing horse a mango, ripped back its skin when Ghazil reached out and seized it, rudely.

  “Listen well, Sikandarji. If you do not first inspect with greater care the morsel on your tongue—or gaze more deeply into the nature of the sediment that seems to cloud your drinking water—these very details, beneath your dignity to observe could, in the blink of an eye, remove you from this world, and all your grand designs along with it. Our enemy gave this mango to you.”

  “Our former enemy. Present ally.” Sikandar snatched the mango back and bit into it. Oh, it was delicious.

  “Now,” Ghazil continued, “if we were to analyze the Queen Mayura’s actions—all sentiment aside, from a purely strategic point of view—how might we describe them?”

  Sikandar, I could tell, did not like the direction in which the conversation was heading. Nor did I. Though I, for one, had no say in the matter. I was beginning to grasp my unique position: I was Sikandar’s mute and inactive Siamese twin. I shared his mind and body, his memory, senses and his thoughts. I could taste the fruit, revel in his jubilation, and feel his desire, fear and pain, but I could not speak, act, or intercede.

  Sikandar sighed. “Bheda.”

  “Bheda. Yes. Divide and conquer. Pick one of the princes and align with him. Let the two brothers fight it out between themselves and, when both have exhausted their forces, walk in.”

  “Except it didn’t happen that way! I doubt at first she even knew who I was!”

  “Sikandar ibn Musa Khilji al-Hind! Do not play the fool with me. Do you really think that Queen Mayura doesn’t know the makeup of your house? Do you think her astrologers didn’t cast your fortune the day you were born and haven’t been poring over it since, probing it for weaknesses?”

  And though this observation was meant to give Sikandar pause, it gave instead a lovely consolation. Sikandar imagined Mayura saying his name and studying his character long before they’d ever met, and he found in this a curious comfort.

  “Next.”

  “Upekshā. And sāman.”

  “Ah. ‘Overlooking’ and ‘conciliation.’ You attack her country, but she doesn’t seem to notice. A minor infraction not worthy of mention. And with sāman, she charms the beast in you with words of praise and sweet appeasement, the way a snake charmer charms his deadly slave. Did she claim your appearance was divine intervention? You’re blushing. Ah, I see she did. Next!”

  “Dānā.”

  “Gift giving. Good. And not just any gift, but the mother of diamonds. Of course, if our kingdom falls to hers, she will get it back. And more. So while it’s a gift to you, to her, it’s more . . . an investment. Fifth?”

  Sikandar didn’t answer. Even I found Ghazil’s belittling tone difficult to bear.

  “I am waiting.”

  “Māyā.”

  “Deception. And how did Mayura utilize māyā?”

  Sikandar sighed. “She sent three guides. We must assume they are spies.”

  “Of course, they are. Did she send an ambassador, too, with his staff?”

  We looked at Ghazil. “She is sending one. Yes.”

  “Of course, she is. And they will all be spies, too. Perhaps the entire encounter was designed from the outset to insert her agents into our court. Did this occur to you?”

  “ ‘Abd al-Wali was leading us.”

  “Jī. ‘Abd al-Wali. Whose mother is a Rajput princess.”

  Sikandar was outraged. “Are you accusing ‘Abd al-Wali . . . ?”

  “I am stating his lineage. And finally . . .”

  “Indrajāla.”

  “Ah. Indra’s net. Those eyes, are they really that beguiling? Or is it her lips? Whatever it is, it must be absolutely mesmerizing to make you walk into her lair . . .”

  “I walked out of it, too,” Sikandar protested, “with the biggest gem in Hindustan . . .”

  “That, you did,” Ghazil conceded. He held the diamond up. “It is magnificent, I will admit. And bound to bring you untold grief.”

  Once again, we were mystified. “Why grief? It will bring us peace and great prosperity. After all, I have struck an alliance.”

  “Yes. With our enemy and the enemy of our allies, and by so doing have thrown the balance of power into chaos! What will our allies do, now their enemy has become our friend?

  “And let me remind you of something else. Your brother publicly vowed to conquer Indore. He will not be pleased with what you’ve done. For having allied with her, you must now oppose him. What’s that?” Ghazil asked, suddenly, pointing to our arm.

  “Nothing. A rakhi.”

  “That she gave you?” A marvelous smile broke forth on Ghazil’s lips. “Now, I see. You are smitten. This is not a political alliance. This is . . . a seduction! And by one long practiced in the art.”

  “She is hardly a temptress. She’s the mother of a young boy. Both her life and that of the child are in danger.”

  “And do you know why? It is said she is unearthly. That is why they wish to dethrone her.”

  “Unearthly?” we both asked.

  “Some say she is an apsaras, a nymph; others, a y
akshi1, rākshasi2 or vetali3—but all agree, she is not of this world.”

  “She is a widow,” Sikandar protested, “a royal widow with a small child.”

  “If so, she is a self-made one. For Rāja Mul did not die in battle, as you may suppose. It is said he ran, and she was so shamed and enraged by his cowardice that she picked up a saber and slew him herself. They also whisper she is corrupt and enjoys revels with aghori-tantrikas4 in cremation grounds.”

  “Pish,” Sikandar said. “Gossip. I’m sure they tell similar tales about us.” Anyway, whether Mayura was a demoness, a murderess or a libertine was not the issue: “I have given my word. Now I must keep it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at the basis of all, there must be good faith, Ghazil. There must. If the word of a prince means nothing, then nothing else has any meaning—neither contracts nor vows.”

  “Do you recall that dispute you had me settle in Dhun between that tailor and that merchant? Each month, they would agree on a fair price for the tailor’s labor; when the work was done, the merchant would pay.

  “One month the tailor’s payment was short. He inquired why. The merchant said, ‘Well, yes, you did sew that garment for me, but the lady who ordered it changed her mind.’

  “The tailor replied, ‘Exalted sir, this was not our understanding. Our agreement was that I would sew this cloth and you would pay me two rupees. The agreement was between you and me, not myself and the lady. I am sincerely sorry if you lost on your transaction, but whether you gain or whether you lose does not absolve your debt to me. For twenty years, I have not shared in your profits; why should I now begin to share in your loss?’ ”

  Ghazil looked interested despite himself. “And what did the trader say?”

  “What could he say? He was a greedy fool. I ordered him to pay the tailor the two rupees, plus two hundred more, and a hundred to the court for wasting everyone’s time.

  “But that’s not the end. The very next month, the merchant went back to the tailor with new fabric. The tailor examined it, then pushed it away, saying, ‘Cannot you see this fabric is torn?’ ”