“Yes. Oh, yes,” she said.
They giggled like children as they hurried around the pond. Each gardener they passed was absorbed in his task and took no notice of them. They were hiding in plain sight.
They plunged into the tangled foliage. Dhara stumbled behind him in the half-light. At last they reached an enormous old banyan.
“Up here,” he said.
As they climbed, Dhara’s heart swelled. She laughed with delight when Siddhartha pulled her up on the rickety platform. She looked around, breathless. Above, little pieces of silver sky were visible through the leafy canopy.
Then suddenly she could feel the place pulsing. The thick boughs, the green foliage, the decaying planks of the old tree house that just a moment ago had seemed so solid shimmered and wavered before her eyes. Once again the world revealed itself as an illusion, as it had done before in Varanasi and before the battle in Kalamas. This secluded spot, like everything else, was only a bright speck floating on dark nothingness. Its waves rolled beneath her feet. Its waters would swallow her.
“Siddhartha. I’m afraid.” She held him tight. She could feel his heart beating fast, too, and his body shaking against hers.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything is a hallucination! But in whose mind? Is it in mine, or is it the Mind? Siddhartha, I’m going mad.”
“No, no. You’re all right. I know that feeling. When it first happened, I was just a boy, watching the oxen straining against the plows. Father was whipping his team; the blood spattered everywhere. I saw the drops on my new golden antariya. The animals’ suffering almost overwhelmed me.” She held him tighter, to keep them both sane. “And I wondered, why is there all this suffering? Why is there anything at all? Is it all just a dream?”
“It is just a dream!” Dhara cried.
“This is real,” Siddhartha said, and covered her mouth with his.
They clung to each other, their embrace the only thing that kept them from spinning into a terrible, dark unknown. Her kisses were desperate; his caresses urgent, demanding; their bodies ached to be one. Their hunger was too deep to ever satisfy. Then they were falling, falling through black space and spinning stars. When at last he thrust inside her she cried out with joy and fear; she forgot everything but him. They rocked in unison. The world exploded into light. She wanted him inside her forever. This was forever, this moment. That was all she knew.
Dhara awoke first, every nerve instantly, intensely alive. She sucked in a breath. Already, her body was different.
She shifted on her side and studied Siddhartha’s sleeping profile. Sunlight dappled his naked body. Birdsong and the drone of insects filled the air. What had they done?
He opened his eyes and turned to face her.
“I’m going to have a child,” she said.
No smile. No light of joy in his eyes. He was silent for a moment. “Ah, beloved. What have we done?” he asked, echoing her thought. “Round and round, birth and death, one life following another, unable to get off.”
They lay silent in each other’s arms for a long time.
Small miracles
“We have persuaded the new physician that Dhara should spend time in quiet contemplation at our Summer Palace, as we call it,” Siddhartha said with a smile. He sat at Bharata’s side, holding his hand, talking to him just as if Sakhi’s son could understand, as if the fever that seized him more than two months ago had never happened. Bharata stared at him, mute, eyes glazed, seeming not to hear.
Gossip about Dhara’s pregnancy was rampant. Sakhi had no interest in the rumors that the child wasn’t Siddhartha’s. Bhallika had hastened home after Bharata fell ill and Jivaka hadn’t come since. He had shut himself in his apartments, not seeing any of his royal patients.
“I had a craftsman make sure there was no rotted wood anywhere, and he built a solid stair up to it so Dhara would not have to clamber up the trunk.” Siddhartha continued to talk as if Bharata was listening. “In her condition, she must be careful. But she wove the thatch, and I put it up.”
Sakhi ran her fingers through her tangled hair. He meant well, but this talk about his and Dhara’s retreat at that old tree house struck her as a self-indulgent charade, like the simple, plain clothing he and Dhara wore to emulate the sages. Why would she care? Bharata had not moved or spoken for weeks. His limbs had lost the slim vigor of his ten years and become flaccid. He stared unblinking into nothing all day. At night, when Sakhi awoke from the light sleep that never left her rested, she would rise from the hard pallet next to Bharata’s bed and see the glint of his unfocused eyes in the moonlit room.
“We’re just a sage and his wife at a humble forest hermitage, only it’s right on the palace grounds. This way I can spend afternoons at court with my father.”
Siddhartha’s animation subsided.
The military faction openly criticized the prince’s plain garb. Matters of the spirit were all well and good, but before the envoys of other clans their future monarch looked weak without his court sword. The dark yellow-gold circlet inlaid with a single rare drop of amber at the center was the only sign of rank Siddhartha wore, and the warriors mockingly called it his third eye. The decadent, perfumed Sakyan courtiers mocked the prince and princess behind their jeweled hands. No true sage bathed and dressed in such clean, fine, white Varanasi linen, they sneered. No yogi’s locks were freshly washed and fragrant with sandalwood oil.
“Only those we invite may attend us at the Summer Palace, and you shall come often,” he said to Bharata. “Do you know why?” Bharata’s face remained vacant. “Because I have told all the scholars and sages at the royal ashram how wise you are for your age,” Siddhartha said, smiling more deeply, “so my father’s priest Bhela has decided you shall study there, if you wish, once you are well.”
At this moment Bhallika strode in. “Namaste, my prince,” he said, bowing over his paunch. “What’s this about the royal ashram?” He was wrapped in an elegant antariya that he did not fill out as he once had; he had lost a shocking amount of weight in the few weeks since his return. His most recent venture had not profited as well as he’d hoped. There were circles under his eyes, and the mustache that Sakhi fell in love with a decade ago and of which he was so vain was not properly trimmed or oiled. He took in the rumpled bedclothes, the basin of cold water and used rags, Sakhi’s disheveled hair and wrinkled antariya that was sour with several days’ sweat.
He knitted his brow. “Choti!” No one answered. “Mitu! My son’s bed needs fresh linens.”
“I will send Choti to the roof,” Mitu called. “The ones we washed yesterday have certainly dried.” Her voice faded.
Bhallika exploded. “Sakhi! Our finances might be strained, but we cannot allow our son to lie in his own filth like this. I told you to buy more linens.” Bharata still ate, if food or liquid were put in his mouth, but he wetted and soiled himself like an infant. “By the gods, you can’t just stay on your little pallet like an ascetic, as if that would help anything.” He glanced at the prince and flushed.
Sakhi’s face grew hot, mortally ashamed in front of Siddhartha, who held Bharata’s hand and said nothing.
What had become of capable, competent Sakhi? She had forgotten to send Mitu to the weavers’ market to fetch new linens, like she forgot or ignored so many other things. Mitu tried to handle the duties that she let slide, but the other servants quarreled with Mitu, and Sakhi had no energy to interfere. On his return, Bhallika had taken over running the household, which left him no time to plan a new venture.
“Forgive me, prince,” Bhallika said, his face dark with anger and embarrassment.
Everything came clear. Sakhi saw Bhallika’s anguish. She had thought he didn’t feel Bharata’s illness as deeply as she. He’d always loved rambunctious Bhima and budding warrior Arjuna and the tiger cub twins more than their quiet and wise oldest son.
With th
at same clarity she saw her own selfishness. She had thought she had Bharata’s welfare uppermost in her mind, that a good mother would not leave the side of a child struck down in such a terrible manner. In reality, Sakhi only thought of her own suffering. Her other sons needed her, but she hardly thought of them. And as for Bhallika, she couldn’t look him in the eye, feeling it was her infidelity that had brought this tragedy.
“I must go.” Siddhartha raised Bharata’s hand to his chest. “I will come back to talk more about your education.”
Even in her paralyzing humiliation, Sakhi grew angry. To act as if Bharata could understand was foolish, even cruel. False hope would only add to everyone’s torment.
“Yes, we’ll talk when you come back.” Sakhi brushed hot tears away and bent towards her son to lift him so Choti could make the bed with fresh linens. As she slipped an arm under his shoulders she noticed one of her tears had fallen on his cheek. With her free hand, she started to brush it away. Then she noticed one in the corner of his eye. He was crying.
Siddhartha drew closer. “Bharata?” he whispered.
Bharata’s face, no longer vacant but alert, gazed back at the prince. He blinked. Another tear gathered under his lashes and trickled onto the folds of Sakhi’s antariya. “Oh!” she cried in sudden horror. “I’m hurting him.”
Bhallika rushed to her side. “My son, my son. Can you hear me?”
“Is it possible he hears?” she said to him. “I must not hurt him!”
Sakhi collapsed backwards. Bharata would not look away from her, would not let her look away. His eyes that had been dull and empty for so long were alive.
“My darling, can you forgive me?” For hurting you, she cried silently. For making love to Jivaka when I should have been with you, for thinking of myself and not you. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t answer. Bharata blinked again.
A vision rose in Sakhi’s mind of the dark fever goddess in the white raiment of the bereaved. Slowly and deliberately, the divine vision blinked.
Of course. The very ordinariness of the goddess’s gesture took her by surprise. She dropped her hands. Bharata still stared. “Dearest,” she breathed, kneeling over him. “If you can understand me, blink once.”
He closed his eyes slowly and carefully then opened them again.
Siddhartha’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “Oh, Sakhi, that was brilliant. Now let’s think of a way to say no.”
“Blink twice, of course,” Sakhi said.
“Yes, that’s it.” Siddhartha drew Bharata’s hand to his chest again. “Your mother is wonderful, isn’t she?” Bharata blinked once.
Bhallika put his arm around her. “Are you all right? Your face has gone white.”
Sakhi knew what she must ask. She met Bharata’s eyes. “Did—did I hurt you?”
Bharata closed them once, twice. Light poured from his face. The watery sunlight falling through the window brightened. The silk cushions glowed with more vivid greens and yellows and blues. Pink returned to Bharata’s cheeks.
Siddhartha whispered. “The wise say that for those who can live through its horrible crucible, illness is the greatest asceticism, the greatest discipline, a sure path to atman.”
Golden beams emanated from Bharata’s and Siddhartha’s joined hands and danced over them into the room. Sakhi couldn’t breathe. Bhallika stood up and staggered back. Choti covered her eyes with her hand and bowed over and over, muttering prayers to the Devi as she looked through her fingers.
“My brave Bharata,” Siddhartha said, his face full of wonder, “you are a true saint.”
It was a week since Bharata’s remarkable awakening. Sakhi was in the twins’ room playing dice with Nakula while Sahadeva set up his little army of wooden soldiers and knocked them down, over and over. She didn’t like dice and the clatter of falling soldiers made her head ache, but she forced herself to stay. It was her first visit to their chamber since Bharata fell ill. She didn’t dare dream that he would recover the power to speak or move, but the light in his eyes gave her a tiny space in which to imagine a future. Kirsa had sent several sages from the grove, who laid their hands on his forehead and pronounced him one who has achieved union with atman. Sakhi wanted to believe them.
Nakula gave a shriek as he won once more. Just then, Bhallika walked into the room. “I beat Ma four times,” Nakula said.
“He’s got his father’s skill with dice.” Sakhi stood and patted the folds of her plain antariya of thick, dark green cotton. At least it was fresh and clean. She drew the old green shawl closer around her shoulders. Though a little worn, it was still as thick and soft as when Atimaya carded the goat’s wool and spun the yarn.
Pushing away thoughts of Atimaya and Dhara, she arranged a smile on her face for Bhallika.
“We must speak,” he said. His face was hard. Sakhi’s smile faded. She followed him down the stairs. “He is at the postern,” Bhallika said, jerking his head toward the rear gate. “He has asked for you.”
She couldn’t meet her husband’s eyes. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
“Yet you knew exactly what to say to me.” He pressed his lips together. “Gods, woman, I’m a civilized man. I could have accepted that you slept together. But why did you feel compelled to tell me you’d fallen in love with him?”
“Wait.” Sakhi tried to catch Bhallika’s arm, but he evaded her grasp and spun on his heel.
“Mitu,” he called out as he disappeared down the passage toward the kitchen. “If you need me, send Dimi to fetch me from Ratna’s chamber.”
“Yes, master,” came her distant reply.
In the alley, Jivaka leaned on a wooden walking staff. The rumor that he was planning to go had shocked Sakhi, and she had refused to believe it. Here was the proof.
“You’re going.” She pulled the shawl closer against the chill wind. It blew dead leaves off the neem tree’s branches and grey clouds that promised a storm across the sky. In the muted light, Jivaka’s olive skin looked pale, sickly.
“I am now a homeless one.” His elegant beard and trimmed hair looked incongruous, half naked as he was in the yogi’s dhoti. His hair would grow matted and his beard filthy.
The leaves swirled around his ankles. The wind whipped Sakhi’s unbound hair across her face. She pulled it back with one hand, glimpsing silver streaks in her luxurious brown waves. Whenever she had said she was too young for grey hair, Jivaka had said the streaks were moonbeams in soft, dark clouds.
Jivaka shivered.
“Oh, for the love of the gods.” She yanked off the shawl and swirled it over Jivaka’s head and onto his shoulders, half hoping he would put his arms around her and whisper that he couldn’t leave her. “You’re allowed something warm.”
He kept his eyes on the ground, twisting a firm, long walking stick with one hand. “I thank you for the shawl, Mistress Sakhi,” he continued flatly. “May your karma become stainless—”
“Stop!” The wind cut through her. She began to shake. “Don’t talk to me like—like we are strangers. You insult me.”
“It is no insult to thank you for the gift.” He leaned on the stick. “You know, Siddhartha gave me a gift, too. This walking stick. He even said he wished he could come with me on my journey.” He lifted his eyes. “You are a stranger to me now. How should I address you?”
Sakhi held out a hand. He made no move. “Jivaka, I—when I said to leave me, I didn’t mean leave Kapilavastu. I only meant—we couldn’t—not after… ” She couldn’t finish.
“You believe our love caused Bharata’s illness,” he said. “What can I say to convince this new, irrational Sakhi that it is not true? No one—not Kirsa, not Saibya, not all the physicians and so-called wonder-workers Siddhartha called on Bharata’s behalf—no one has treated such a disease.”
She shuddered. “What could it be but our love that caused it?”
His
face was gaunt. He had suffered over Bharata’s illness as much as she.
“Whether we were making love that afternoon made no difference in this hideous illness’s outcome,” he said. “You hate me as if I caused it.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It is my infidelity, my unworthiness that has done this to my son.” She started to weep.
His shoulders slumped further. “You hate me because nothing in my art can restore him. I’ve even made offerings to those gods we once mocked,” he said, gesturing at the heavens, “and called their wrath on my own head to make him well. I love him too, you know.” He wiped tears from his eyes.
“Jivaka.” She bowed her head. “I don’t hate you.” When he said nothing, Sakhi gathered her courage and raised her eyes. “Jiv—”
He was already walking away. She willed him to turn around with every atom in her body. He didn’t look back.
Mitu found her when dusk was falling, still standing outside the postern, shivering. “Mistress!” She stared in shock, speechless. “What—what has happened to you?” Her lips trembled as she wrapped her own shawl around Sakhi. In quick succession relief and pity crossed her face. “He’s gone then. At least he said farewell. Come in from the cold, my dear mistress. You’ll catch your death.”
“I am already dead.”
She pursed her lips tight. “How can you say such a thing?”
“I’m an unworthy woman,” Sakhi whispered. “Mitu, I hate myself.”
“Stop it.” Mitu slapped Sakhi across one cheek. “This is no time for self-pity. Bharata needs you.”
Sakhi hardly felt the slap. “He… he has become someone else… the light that comes from him… everyone says… ”
Mitu slapped the other cheek. It stung. “Bah, what do the sages matter? Bharata still needs his mother’s loving touch.” She turned on her heel.
“Mitu!” Sakhi gave a single sob. “Mitu, don’t leave me.”
The Mountain Goddess Page 48