It could only be Mala’s. “A white one?” If the tigress was dead, so must be Mala and Dhara. But he didn’t say he’d found their bodies. She was suddenly puzzled. “My lord, did you know Angulimala?”
“Uncle. Uncle-ji, if you must. Yes, before she became a peaceful yogi. Her outlaw army terrorized travelers on my roads until we made a pact. Paid her like one of my generals and her bandits like my own soldiers. She left me in peace then but harried the Kosalas mercilessly. A good arrangement for both of us, but one day she just disappeared. Got tired of the life. Wanted some peace. Fighting will do that to you.” He was talking beyond Sakhi, not even seeing her, which was a relief. “None of her lieutenants has half her brains and courage. Remarkable woman,” he said with a half smile.
“Yes, my lord.” So the story was true. Whatever life this Mala-Angulimala chose, she would always be remarkable. Sakhi would never forget that night when Mala took Dhara away on the tigress. But where was she now? And where was Dhara?
“Did you get some meat from the deer we shot today? Took a half dozen. Should be plenty.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“We’re rendering the fat to soak the wood for the pyres.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Do you have enough bandages? Medicines?”
“The shaman’s wife Ghosha has brought all her potions and salves from their hut.”
“And you’re in charge, eh?”
Well, perhaps Sunita was right. Everyone was coming to Sakhi to ask what to do next.
“Excellent work. Anything else you need, send Mohan,” the king added.
“I will, my lord.”
“Uncle, Sakhi. Uncle.” He drained his bowl and smacked his lips, then stared at Sakhi in silence, waiting for something. She glanced down nervously, knowing what he wanted and not believing he could want her at the same time. Yet he made no move.
Then he laughed. “Well, off you go then to manage things, like a good girl.”
“Yes, my lord.” She jumped up and scurried away, almost forgetting a bow. As she stumbled out of the tent, she heard him laughing.
Nanda was waiting outside the tent. He leered as she emerged. To be so full of grief, and mortified, insulted, and angry at the same time was too much. It took all her will to walk off with her head high. As soon as she was out of sight of the king’s tent, she raced away, brushing her tears aside.
When she got back to the hall, Tilo was weeping. Ghosha gave her a potion, but it was a long time before Sakhi and the shaman’s wife could comfort her. When she finally slept, Sakhi curled up next to her and put an arm around her.
As she lay next to Tilo, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to share a king’s bed.
Harischandra’s tale
Inside the chandala’s hut, the air was so close it was hard to breathe, so Dhara took her grass mat outside, but to sleep was unimaginable. She had lived a lifetime in a day. She sat up, looking into the fire, unable to stop worrying about her clan’s fate.
Harischandra walked out of the shadows. His loose, wet hair hung down his back, nearly as long as Mala’s and Dhara’s. He sat down across from her. “All day I focus on my task. Or I try, but while Surya’s rays pour down and Agni’s fire roars up to meet them, my thoughts stray to bathing in Ganga’s waters.” He reached for the small dented iron pot that still held some rice from the evening meal.
“How do you know Mala?”
Quiet reigned, broken only by the songs of insects and the river’s distant murmur. “Your guru and her man were the chandalas here once.”
“Her man?”
“Angirasa. A Sakyan noble from the king’s own family. Once the most brilliant scholar in Varanasi, yet he performed this work with humble grace, so I am told. I try to remember him as I tend the pyres.”
The yogi had never spoken of a husband or lover.
“Their beautiful daughter brought life to this place,” Harischandra said.
“Their daughter?”
“Yes,” he said, looking at Dhara with curiosity. “She would be about your age now. Mala never spoke of her?”
“No,” Dhara said. “She told me nothing about her past.” She stopped. We’ve got you, you outlaw bitch, the Kosalan warrior had shouted. “Some—some in our village said she was an outlaw, but I didn’t believe it.”
“The infamous Angulimala, Gruesome Garland, with her necklace of rotting fingers. She cut them from her living victims. That was after the beggar king cut—but if she has not told you her story, then it is not for me to do so.”
Her guru was an outcaste who had a lover and child, who had at one time commanded the feared bandit army that terrorized the Uttarapatha. In her mind’s eye, Dhara saw a girl her own age running to the yogi, throwing her arms around her, and Mala weeping happy tears.
“I could tell you my story, though.”
“Yes, please,” Dhara said. She wasn’t really interested, but so much had happened that she just couldn’t bear to think about all of it. Perhaps his story would distract her.
“Your father was chief of the Kolis, yes? Perhaps he spoke of King Harischandra who drew Lord Shiva’s bow, which no other mortal has strung since the days of Indra’s son Arjuna.”
Dandapani’s severed head flashed before her. Father was dead. She mustn’t let Harischandra see he’d upset her. “That was you?” she managed to ask.
He beamed. “Yes. I was a great archer. But I preferred my Maghadan blade. Hard as a diamond, it was. But as much as I loved the warrior’s arts, I loved to listen to the wandering sages who passed through my father’s kingdom. One was the famous Vishvamitra, a great warrior in the days when gods and demons were often seen in the world of men. But he gave up his kingdom and practiced strict asceticism for hundreds of years to become a potent sage.”
Sakhi’s father had told many stories about Kshatriyas aspiring to become Brahmins; probably even about this one. Bhrigu always ended the tales with a lecture about the dangers of rejecting one’s dharma. It was no easy task, he said, for a warrior to cleanse himself of the blood of those he slew in battle. It was the priest’s dharma to perform the rites that removed the stains on the warrior’s karma. The worst thing, Bhrigu would add bitterly, was for a Brahmin to take up the martial arts. Sakhi said he felt that way because one of the older brothers she had never known tried to become a warrior and died in battle. Sakhi. Let her heart’s sister be alive!
“I trust I am not boring you?” Harischandra asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m thinking about my home. Please go on.” She wiped her eyes. “I do want to hear it.”
“Vishvamitra gave many teachings about heroes and sages who only told the truth and always kept their word no matter what the consequences,” Harischandra continued. “I was so inspired that I took an oath before him to never tell a lie or break a promise. I swore I would give away my inheritance if only he would stay as my guru. Father said nothing in front of Vishvamitra, but later admonished me, reminding me of my duty to my caste and clan. Not long after, Vishvamitra left. Things were peaceful for a few years, but then we learned that King Prasenajit was preparing for war.”
“The Kosalas again!”
“I’m afraid King Prasenajit has swallowed up many clans. My own father was fatally wounded battling them. As he lay dying, I led our troops to a bloody victory. He lived long enough to tell me how proud he was.” Harischandra’s eyes were moist. “But I took no pride in the slaughter I had inflicted. My father’s most trusted advisor, General Yayati, urged me to march into Kosala while we had them on the run, but the very thought of more war and destruction revolted me. I made peace with Prasenajit.”
“I don’t understand why you didn’t fight,” Dhara blurted. “It’s a king’s dharma to fight evil. And Prasenajit is evil!”
“He worships the gods according to the dharma, and rules with som
e justice, if not mercy. He’s power hungry, but not evil. One hears tales about his young son Prince Virudha, though.”
“Virudha? He was at the cave. He slew Rani. I hate him for that.”
“Like his father, Virudha lacks compassion. Unlike his father, he lacks a king’s sense of duty to his people. He is under the spell of his fanatical Brahmin tutor. Virudha, you see, is the son of a beautiful Sakyan slave, a base-born woman that his father loves above all his other queens.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“To some, Virudha’s impure lineage means he should not ascend the Kosalan throne. The Brahmin tutor urges Virudha to purify his mother’s lineage with unspeakable rites, the sort of sacrifices our ancestors put away long ago. He hates his own mother, and he hates the Sakyans, because she was a gift from the Sakyan king Suddhodana. His father is blind to all this.”
“I will kill him.” Dhara stared into the coals, imagining that she was leading a host across a battlefield strewn with men’s corpses and the carcasses of war elephants.
“It’s not so easy to send a man to his death,” Harischandra said. He wasn’t talking to her as if she were a child. Dhara liked that, and stilled herself to listen well. “As I said, Prasenajit has a sense of justice. We made a treaty and I believed he would honor it, and for some years after, I ruled a tranquil and prosperous land. I invited sages from all the Sixteen Kingdoms and arranged great debates among the various schools of thought. During this time, I met my future wife, Saibya. She accompanied her father, a well-known scholar, to my court.
“Saibya was intelligent, kind, and pious, and for these qualities more desirable to me than any courtesan or fine noblewoman. But her father was a selfish old man, in spite of his knowledge. He wanted to keep Saibya with him, so he refused to consent to the marriage, saying her ancient Brahmin lineage was too good for a mere Kshatriya.”
“You were a great king! He should have been happy his daughter would be a queen. How could he?”
“Duty bound her to him, though he treated her like his slave. But she loved me, too. When her father was ready to leave, she refused to go. He refused to give us his blessing.” Harischandra sighed. “We went against our duty. The Law is clear. The dharma tells us to honor our parents.”
“But—but what if your parents are wrong?” she asked boldly. “Then isn’t it against dharma to do what they say?”
“Listen to my tale, and then tell me what you think. We put aside our uneasiness that our disobedience would be punished. For many years we were happy. Saibya gave birth to my heir, Rohit, an intelligent boy, handsome and cheerful. On his thirteenth birthday we planned a great feast in honor of his first tiger kill.” Dhara inhaled and pressed her lips together, thinking of Rani. “Many nobles and sages came from the Sixteen Kingdoms, including Vishvamitra. And then my troubles began.
“At the height of the festivities, Vishvamitra stood up before the assembled guests, put his palms together, and bowed. ‘King Harischandra,’ he said, ‘You have kept the oath you swore before me in your younger days, to speak the truth and keep your word.’ He stared at me intently. ‘I recall another promise you made. Do you remember you said to your father that you wished I would stay forever and be your guru?’
“Great joy rose in my heart. I imagined that he was about to offer to stay and teach Rohit. None of the rich gifts from the nobles seated at the feast could compare with such an honor. ‘Yes, of course, holy one. Your teachings inspired me.’ I waited for him to announce his intention to become Rohit’s guru.
“But this is what he said: ‘You promised to give away your inheritance should I consent to impart all my wisdom to you. Now make good on it. Surrender your kingdom and all your wealth to General Yayati, and I will show you the way to moksha. Your wife and son may accompany you into exile, but you three must never return on pain of death.’
“I was thunderstruck and couldn’t move. I had regarded Yayati as a second father, but seeing his evil grin, I realized that he had been planning this since I refused to follow his advice and invade Kosala.”
“But that’s horrible!” Dhara said. “General Yayati disobeyed his own dharma, to obey his king. He’s the one who deserved punishment.”
“He got what he deserved.” Harischandra looked sad, but Dhara was glad the general paid for such a betrayal. “He declared war on Kosala,” Harischandra continued, “and was defeated by Prasenajit. They put his head on a pike at the city gates, and sold his wife and children into slavery. Behold the workings of karma.” Harischandra sighed. “But at that moment, Yayati was king, and he stripped me of my crown, Saibya of her royal jewels, and Rohit of his birthday gifts, and drove us from the palace.”
“Did no one help you?” Dhara asked, outraged.
“The nobles all averted their eyes as we left the great hall. The streets were empty, save for the guards detailed to expel us from the city gates. The people feared Yayati’s cruelty and Vishvamitra’s powerful tapas, which would smite them if they helped us.”
“Vishvamitra was wicked. How can you say he was a great rishi?”
“You do not know his true purpose.”
“My lord Harischandra,” Dhara said in astonishment, “what true purpose? What of Vishvamitra’s promise to stay with you forever?”
“He has kept that promise.”
Dhara was amazed. “I don’t understand.”
“Listen and you will. Vishvamitra was the only one to accompany us out of the city, walking alongside me out onto the open road. I was in shock. This rishi I had loved as a youth had betrayed me. We had not gone far when Rohit, who had restrained himself during all that happened, burst into sobs. Saibya and I stopped to comfort him.
“‘My son,’ she said, her hands resting on his shoulders and her beautiful, wise eyes holding his. ‘We must have done evil in a past life to suffer this fate. It is our karma. We can’t change the past. We can only choose how to meet the present. Be brave. The road stretches before us to many strange and wonderful lands that we will explore without the royal life’s burdens.’
“Never was I more glad of my choice in a wife. Though the day’s events had almost crushed Rohit, his mother’s words stopped his sobs. The three of us embraced there on the road, and above us, a peacock cried out as it flew toward the setting sun. ‘Look,’ Saibya said. ‘It is a sign. To the west is Taxila. Think of it, Rohit. There we may hear the debates of the wise from the magical lands your tutors have spoken of—Parsee, Macedon, Aegypt. Your father has been generous with the hermits who dwell in the forests of the kingdom. We will find one of them nearby, I’m sure, and shelter with him tonight. Then tomorrow our new lives begin.’
“But she had forgotten one thing. Vishvamitra was still with us. ‘Harischandra,’ he said, ‘I left the few possessions we seekers after truth are allowed, my walking staff, begging bowl, and spare robe, in the great hall. I demand you provide new ones for me.’
“I told him that straightaway in the morning I would set to work finding a firm sapling for his staff, and Saibya said she would find grasses and weave him a bowl. ‘Father, give him your robe,’ Rohit said immediately, ‘and I will tear my antariya in two to make dhotis for us. We need nothing more.’” Harischandra bowed his head and wiped his eyes. “What a king my boy would have made.”
“How old is he?” Dhara asked, forgetting her promise not to interrupt. “Where is he now?”
“This all happened almost sixteen years ago. Around the time of your birth, I’d guess. So he would be twenty-nine, if he were alive.”
“He’s dead?” Dhara was stricken.
“Yes. You will see.” He stopped a moment, overcome. “Vishvamitra had other ideas about how to get his staff and bowl. ‘There comes a caravan,’ he said. ‘Sell your wife and son to its master to obtain what I need.’
“The caravan drew abreast of us and stopped. ‘Well met, O great Vishvam
itra!’ A youthful, richly dressed merchant riding at its head dismounted and touched his forehead to the sage’s feet. He sat back on his heels and his white teeth flashed under the faintest trace of a mustache. Indeed, the merchant hardly looked older than Rohit. ‘Dark is falling, and there are dangers on the road. Honor me by accepting my hospitality for the night. We will camp just around the next bend.’
“Vishvamitra put his hand on the merchant’s head. ‘Blessings on you, but how do you know my name? Have you seen me teach?’
“The handsome young merchant flashed his white smile again. ‘Indeed, I have. My name is Bhallika, and I am a Sakyan out to make his fortune,’ he said. ‘I heard you a mere fortnight ago, at the great gathering in Kapilavastu for the first birthday celebration of King Suddhodana’s son.’”
Dhara drew a sharp breath and shifted to her knees. “Bhallika! He saved my friend Sakhi. Was he talking about the prince Siddhartha?”
“Yes, indeed. You know him?”
“No. But he’s my cousin. We were born on the same day, my mother says. I despise him.”
“Why? You don’t even know him.”
“Because… because.” Dhara paused. “I don’t really know. My mother taught me to hate him,” she said, frowning. “Siddhartha’s mother was my mother’s sister, my aunt Maya. She went off to marry the Sakyan king before I was born. I’ve heard whispers that my father loved Maya, and not my mother.” She looked at her hands. No wonder her mother didn’t love her father. Too late, she understood what it must have been like for Atimaya. “It’s sad, I suppose. Seven days after my aunt Maya gave birth to Siddhartha, she was dead.”
“Sad enough for an infant son to lose his mother, without the hatred of others to burden him. Hate can travel great distances.”
The Mountain Goddess Page 22