‘No, my lady,’ said Nishanta, rubbing his sides with a grimace. ‘No flaming arrows, please.’
‘The eastern gate is the least watched, but there will be much commotion. Someone there may recognize you.’
‘That leaves the southern gate.’
‘And the southern gate leads you to the dock, where boat upon boat teeming with soldiers will welcome you.’
‘You seem to be saying we will be caught no matter where we go.’
‘No, good sir,’ said Devaki, ‘you asked me what the chances were of running into people. My answer: quite high. You will see people wherever you go. But that is not the same as getting caught.’
‘I think we should disguise ourselves as traders,’ said Kubera, looking around him. ‘We could go to the eastern gate, tell the guards there we have to get to the outpost. I oversaw the building of the post, so I know the lie of the land. We can break away northward and take the road that goes toward Hastinapur.’
Devaki listened. She adjusted her sari over her shoulder. She righted the bracelet around her wrist.
‘I suggest,’ she said, ‘that you go westward instead. Ever since you built your infirmary and archery ranges, more soldiers crowd toward the east. Besides, the midsummer feast is two nights away. Many travellers from the Middle Kingdoms will arrive by road and by water. There will be many ferries that will take you up the river, northward. It will be easier for you to blend in with the peasant folk.’
‘We shall need disguises.’
‘Rishabha will provide you with them, after sundown. Besides, you have your shroud.’
‘A shroud keeps us as blind as the others, my lady. We do not use the shroud unless we know the paths well enough to ensure that we do not run into danger.’
‘I see.’
‘I scarce think we have a choice here, my lady. We have two paths in front of us: one, your path, and two, the path to the gods.’
‘That is so,’ said Devaki, smiling. ‘It amuses me that you distrust me, even when you have no choice.’
‘What is it that you will have us do, Your Highness?’
‘There shall be a birth of a child in this prison nine moons from now, perhaps ten. It will be a secret birth. Kamsa will not know of it. Rishabha and I shall ensure that is so. Once the child is born, Rishabha will take it out of the prison, but he will need your help to transport the child to safety.’
‘Safety means Shurasena,’ said Kubera.
Devaki nodded. ‘For now, yes. Perhaps in ten months, things may change. But I wish for my child to grow up and return to claim the throne.’
Jahnavi said, ‘You wish to foster your son with us.’
‘Yes. I have seen your powers. They say Bhishma was fostered on the mountain, and that is where he has received all his strength.’
‘What if you do not have a son, Your Highness?’
‘Then my daughter shall avenge me.’
The gong sounded, and Rishabha broke away from his rigid posture to bend down and whisper something to Devaki. She got to her feet, clasping her hands in one another. The three of them stood up as well.
‘It is time for the inmates’ breakfast,’ said Rishabha. ‘The lady has to rest as well.’
‘We have spoken about everything you need to know,’ said Devaki. She took a step toward the door, but stopped and turned abruptly to face Jahnavi. She took both her hands in hers. ‘Jahnavi,’ she whispered. ‘The name of the Great River herself.’
‘Lady Ganga has trained me, Your Majesty,’ said Jahnavi.
Devaki’s eyes moistened, and when she closed them, two streams of tears slid down her cheeks to her chin. ‘The pain I live with every day …’
‘I know, my lady.’
‘You shall do all that I ask, will you not?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Jahnavi. ‘I shall raise your son as my own if I must.’
Devaki squeezed her hands and nodded. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
And then, with a quick indrawn breath and a firm rise of the chin, she turned and strode out of the room, acknowledging the bowing guards at the door with a wave of the hand.
After lunch that day, a guard brought a bundle of clothes and laid them just outside Jahnavi’s cell. Inside she found a green turban and a bright yellow and blue garment of the kind she had seen peasants on Mathura’s streets wear on festive occasions. There was also a small handcrafted box filled with kohl. A piece of parchment had been stuck to the hinge of the lid.
‘Apply this to your upper lip. You will pass unnoticed much easier if you dress yourself as a man.’
That made her smile. She looked out to the left and saw similar bundles outside Kubera and Nishanta’s cells. One of the prisoners – the dwarf – said, ‘Hey, what are the new people getting?’
And the guard replied, ‘New clothes. They are getting executed on the morrow. Do you want some as well, Akshaya?’
A guffaw of laughter from the other cells and a sullen silence from Akshaya.
When she carried her bundle to her seat, she found a shiny polished brass plate the size of her palm folded in with the garment. She picked it up and looked at her reflection. Her eyes had sunken into their sockets, although she had been in this place only two days. Her skin had acquired a withered, lifeless look. Her lips had lost all traces of pink. Her teeth had become yellowish.
It would not be too difficult to pass off as a peasant, she thought.
Rishabha came for them at night, after the torches had been extinguished. He carried a small candle in front of him, and opened all three locks without a sound. Around them, Jahnavi heard nothing but the sound of men snoring. She guessed that the big fat oaf – she did not know his name – was dreaming of his wife, and that Akshaya, the sly dwarf, was dreaming of the big oaf’s wife too.
That was the wonder of dreams. No one looked over your shoulder. No one cracked a staff on your bottom if you moved out of line or a bit slowly.
Dinner had been brought to the three of them that night. All the rest of them had gone downstairs to the dining room, and they had returned swaying and singing at the top of their voices. Jahanvi wondered if they had been given a glass or two of wine each, just so they would sleep well this one night.
Nishanta and Kubera were dressed in the same manner as her: turbaned, with a travelling sack slung about the shoulder. Rishabha led them down the stairs to the level on which they had spoken to Devaki that morning, and then further down to another level. From one of the windows Jahnavi saw the black rocks of the hill, dotted with tufts of moss and grass. They went to the front of the room, and when Rishabha knocked twice, an answering knock came from the outside, before the latch clicked and the door opened.
Four torches had been mounted on poles outside the prison, and two guards looked down on them from atop their horses.
‘Fret not, my lady,’ said Rishabha. ‘They are my men.’
He led them to the edge of the cliff, beyond the light of the fire. In the moonlight, Jahnavi looked around and saw the glowing city of Mathura stretched out in front of her. Carts moving. People milling about. Thick lines of smoke reaching up to the night sky from the chimney of every house and hut.
‘Take these steps down,’ said Rishabha, ‘and when you get to the bottom, go right. That will take you toward the western gate.’ In Kubera’s hands he placed a bag that jingled with coins. ‘Fifty gold coins with the seal of the High King. Pay your way out of the city if you need to.’
Jahnavi took his hands. ‘We owe you a great debt, Rishabha. Perhaps one day we shall meet on more equal terms.’
‘No, my lady,’ said Rishabha, shaking his head. ‘I am certain a day will come when Lady Devaki will call on you for a favour.’
‘And we shall be ready.’
He touched her hands to his eyes. Then he dropped them and stepped back. ‘This is the furthest I can accompany you, sirs, my lady. From here the journey is yours.’
As they made their way to the stone steps that would take them into th
e city, Rishabha said quietly, ‘Lady Devaki wishes you a safe journey home. And so do I.’
CHAPTER NINE
T
hey kept to the stone path that connected the northern and eastern gates. It had been an uneven, muddy way riddled with bushes and thorns when they had arrived. Kubera had overseen the clearing of the rubbish and the laying of the stones. They walked on either side of her, Kubera and Nishanta, as though they were protecting her, although Jahnavi did not know from whom. The road seemed deserted; but for an occasional galloping rider on horseback, it was as though the people of Mathura did not know it existed.
‘We shall keep away from the signal fires of the watchtowers,’ Kubera said. ‘Let us not venture closer to the walls, tempting as the darkness of the shadows is.’
The path was lit along both edges by torches mounted on bare, unpolished teak pillars. They passed two checkpoints on the way, each manned by two guards who shot them suspicious glances. They looked with particular misgiving, she thought, at her. Both times she resisted the urge to adjust her turban, to check if her upper lip was still black with the kohl, to walk with a more man-like swagger.
Both times Kubera did all the talking. On the second occasion he had to show the guard some of the gold coins Rishabha had given them. ‘I am a merchant making haste to Kuru,’ said Kubera, ‘and I must catch the boat that leaves at moonrise. My brother here is learning the trade and my nephew insisted on accompanying us.’
The guard did not look convinced, but when Kubera offered him two gold coins as a gift for letting them pass, he mumbled something to his companion, nodded and said, ‘Two coins each, for both of us.’
‘Gladly, my man,’ said Kubera. ‘I shall not breathe a word of this to the king, of course. You forget that you met us, and we forget that we met you.’
They walked on for a few more leagues until Jahnavi’s feet began to ache against the hard sandals Rishabha had given them. Just as she was about to ask if they should rest awhile – although they had warned her not to speak until they were on the Meru barge – they came to a widening of the road, and ahead of them they heard sounds of the tabla and the flute.
A few more steps, and the sounds of human voices filled the air. They followed the bend in the path, and it fed into one of Mathura’s main streets, bustling with people. Here kids were being dragged away from sweetmeat vendors. There young maidens were giggling over some baubles. In the weapons shop next to them, a well-dressed young man in a red turban pretended to examine the sharpness of a hand knife, but kept throwing sidelong glances at the women.
‘Perfumes for every occasion!’ a vendor yelled. ‘Ground from the very best flowers plucked from the gardens of Naimisha.’
‘Musical instruments! Buy one of my veenas and you will play like Narada himself.’
‘Mirrors, mirrors, mirrors – handcrafted and polished. You will never need to clean them again.’
‘Apples from the northern mountains! Red, soft, fleshy and sweet. Eat one and you will think you have partaken of the gods’ food.’
Threading their way between the buyers and the sellers, their eyes alert for any mischief, were the guards in their black uniforms and silver armour and upheld spears. Nishanta and Kubera each took her hand and moved to the gate.
‘By the gods!’ said Kubera. ‘Do these people not sleep at night? It is already past the ninth gong.’
‘It is two days to the midsummer feast, my lord,’ replied Nishanta. ‘And Mathura’s feast is the biggest of them all – some say bigger even than the one in Hastinapur. So there is no sleep for these men for the next three nights, I dare say.’
The crowd became thicker as the road became narrower. In the distance, Jahnavi saw the tall granite arch, flanked on both ends by the stone watchtowers they had built. Orange fires burned in swinging lanterns at the top of each, and Jahnavi thought she could make out the faint shadows of the guards that stood watch there.
Kubera leaned back toward her. ‘Whatever you do, my lady, do not speak.’
All of a sudden there were more guards around them, and they were shoving people into a single file. None of them gave her a second look. Rishabha had been right; there were so many people entering and exiting the city tonight that their best chance of slipping away unnoticed was to stay in plain sight and not draw attention to themselves.
Most of the people in front of them were shop vendors who were leaving the city for the night to camp on the outside, so that they could receive fresh supplies and return to their stores within the walls at sunrise. Each one handed over a rolled parchment to the guards at the gate, who unrolled it, studied it with a grim face, tossed a question or two at the trader, and waved them by.
It did not seem that difficult.
When their turn came, Kubera said, over the noise, ‘We are traders from Pundra who have just finished selling our excellent silk wares to the High King’s tailors. Now we are on our way home.’
The guard looked at Jahnavi. ‘What about him?’
‘That is my nephew, sir,’ said Kubera. ‘His teacher has gone to the mountains for the summer, and the little brat wanted to come along with me on my journey. I surmised that was better than letting him stay back and shoot stones out of a catapult at water pots.’
‘Show me your trader’s parchment,’ said the guard, and held out a hand.
‘Ah, the king did not give me my parchment, sir, although I asked for it. I was told if I showed you the coins he gave me as payment for my wares, you would be good enough to let me pass.’
The guard was built like an ox and his fingers looked like thick lumps of wood. He pushed his helmet back and scratched his head. Then he called for one of his friends, a smaller, thinner man, and they had a hushed conversation. The thinner man marched up to the front and said to Kubera, ‘We do not allow anyone to pass without a parchment.’
‘But the king himself gave me these, sir.’ Kubera dug into his bag and produced two coins. He held them up to the guards’ faces, so that they could see the king’s seal. ‘“The guards at the gate will not bother you,” he said, “if you show them my seal.”’
Another look at each other, and a small nod. ‘Who is this man?’ they asked, gesturing at Nishanta. ‘He does not wear the look of a trader.’
‘He is my brother, sir,’ said Kubera. ‘A good-for-nothing dolt who has been whiling away his time chasing women. I brought him along in the hope that he would learn some responsibility.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said the big guard. ‘Younger brothers can be such asses.’
‘And my father thinks I should show him the way, sir.’
The guard nodded. ‘Yes, yes. Even though nobody had to show you your way, I take it.’
‘Just so. But what is one to do? One takes the burden of one’s family on one’s shoulders.’
‘It is not always fair, trader,’ said the guard soberly. ‘But it has to be done.’ He took the coins from Kubera’s hand and held them up to the light. He gave one of them to the lean fellow and tried to twist the other with his massive fingers. ‘These do look like the king’s coins, after all.’
Kubera bowed. ‘Sir.’
The guard put his weapon away and ushered them toward the gate. As they passed, he said, ‘Say, your brother does not look like you at all. You have such pale skin and he is as dark as a raincloud.’
‘We were born to different mothers, sir,’ said Kubera, without a pause.
‘Ah. Honourable of you to worry so much for a half-brother.’
‘I lost my mother when I was no more than a babe, sir. His mother reared me like I was her own.’
The guard pursed his lips, pushed his helmet back again to scratch at his hairline. He said to Nishanta in a deep, grumbling voice, ‘You listen to your brother, understand? Do you not see how much he cares for you? Life is not just bedding women and eating the food your mother makes for you. Make something of yourself, fellow!’
Nishanta pretended to be suitably petrified. ‘I-I will, si
r,’ he stuttered.
‘Now go,’ said the guard, returning Kubera’s coins. ‘Take good care of your family, trader.’
They passed under the arch and walked out the other side, where a long line of carts stood, facing away from them. One of the drivers came jogging up to them. He had a whip sticking out of his blue waistband.
‘Going to the riverbank?’ he said. ‘Just three copper coins. My cart flies like the wind.’
‘My name is Suhasana,’ said the driver, after they had ridden out of view of Mathura’s watchtowers. ‘My mother called me that, she says, because I smelled like a lotus when I came out. Even when I played in buffalo dung as a child, its smell never stuck to me, they say. Even when I do not wash myself for days, I still smell like a meadow.’
Kubera said, ‘Your horse does not fly.’
‘Who? My Sarangi is old now. When she was the youngest filly in Mathura, she used to make the trip from the city gate to the riverbank in a quarter of an hour, I tell you. A quarter of an hour! But now she is old, the poor thing, and she does not eat very well. Do you, Sarangi?’ He clicked his lips and said something in a language Jahnavi did not understand. ‘But you will still get the boat that leaves by moonrise, sir, I assure you.’
Nishanta, who was sitting facing Jahnavi at the back, leaned to the side and asked Suhasana, ‘Do you know of any carts that take the road to the north, rider?’
‘Yes, sir, although I doubt you shall find any at this time of the night. The road is a long and dark one, and it will cost you much more than three copper coins, I think. But why take the road when you can take the river, sir? The water smells like sandalwood when touched by the moonlight, they say.’
‘Why do you say “they say”? Have you never taken the boat yourself?’
‘Oh, I have, sir. But my nose does not work. I cannot smell anything. All through my childhood my mother thrust things into my nose, sir. Roses, perfumes, incense sticks. Smell this, she would say. What does it smell like, she would ask. But it all smells the same to me, the air from the river and the water in the big gutter. A lotus petal and a cake of dung is the same to my nose.’
The Queens of Hastinapur Page 11