PRINCE IN EXILE (13 page)
Yes, a rakshas must have taken over her body and soul. Nothing else could explain all those years of excess and self-indulgence and …
The images cascaded before her mind’s eye like a waterfall at Gangotri, mystical, mythical source of the sacred Ganga. She bathed in its wash, the memories fermenting and foaming thickly around her, purging her of every last crime of omission and commission. She laughed hysterically, then wept profusely, then shook her head like a madwoman, then ranted and raved and foamed at the mouth like a tantrik in a trance, wandering through her desolate palace, striking a vase here, shattering a mirror there—who was that wild-eyed witch anyway?—breaking her glass bangles, symbols of her status as a married woman, then walking upon the shards of glass until her bare feet bled all over the marbled floors. She left a smeartrail behind her everywhere she went, like the track of some gargantuan dying snail.
Somehow in her delirious rage of recollection, she wandered out into the chaukat of her palace, the square courtyard in the centre of the royal residence. She stumbled and fell against the fountain, striking her forehead on the foot of the statue, then broke yet again into uncontrollable sobs. The blood from the forehead cut trickled into the fountain and swirled in the eddy. Outside the palace walls, the roars of happy citizens, the festive pounding of dhol-drums, the palpable thrill of some momentous event continued unabated, an unfeeling backdrop to her solitary pain.
At one point, she thought she heard her name being called out. She raised her head and looked up—directly into the eyes of Lord Shiva, standing in his one-footed posture atop Mount Kailasa, the serpeant Takshak wound tightly around his blue throat, his trishul in his right hand, the other hand held palm outward as if offering a benediction and blessing. It was only the fountain statue, of course. The Ganga flowed out of his coiled locks into the fountain where she lay bleeding.
She thought she saw him smile down at her in sympathy, then say, ‘Awaken, Kaikeyi. Awaken with grace.’ But when she listened closely, she heard only the ragged rhythm of her own tortured heart. Slowly, as if she was an actor in a nightmare dreamed by someone else, she stumbled out of the chaukat, towards the gate of the palace, towards the sounds of celebration outside.
SEVEN
Sumitra was the first to see her. Kausalya felt the Third Queen’s arm on her shoulder, tugging urgently. She turned, expecting Sumitra to be pointing to some new show of adulation by the assembled citizenry of Ayodhya, a group of children chanting the praises of Rama and Lakshman perhaps.
The city seemed to have turned into one giant mad festival of lights, the people thronging the thoroughfares and margs by the tens of thousands at every turn, slowing the progress of the procession to a crawl. A distance that ought to have taken minutes to traverse had already taken up the better half of an hour since sunset.
Yet Kausalya would not have hastened their progress for anything in the world. It was thrilling to witness this show of joy and celebration, the sheer delight the people took in their prince’s victory,
her son’s
victory, the open-hearted love they displayed.
Effusive as ever, the city’s outpouring of love and admiration was flagrant in the extreme. The royal elephants were already festooned with gaily coloured streamers made from strips of tie-dyed cloth, the air glimmered with descending chamkee, tiny pieces of glittering tinsel fluttering everywhere, conch shells sounded constantly from the highpoints, kusalavya bards sang loudly new ballads lauding the achievements of the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman in the Bhayanak-van, on the road to Mithila, at Mithila, on the slopes of Mount Mahendra. At every crossroad, scores of red-faced children yelled their throats out endearingly. There were groups from every caste and guild. Kausalya even spotted a black crowd of tantriks raising a ganjafuelled chant, swaying like rubbernecked dolls, slashing themselves with razor-edged whips to prove their devotion, whirling in a paroxysm of ecstasy.
And then there were the young women, or even older women for that matter, trying desperately to catch the eye or ear of the two princes. These were by far the most vigorous of all. She watched the antics of this particular type at various points on the march, marvelling at the brazenness of some of the bolder women. Didn’t they know that Rama was married now? Certainly they did. Didn’t that dissuade them from seeking his affections? Not a whit. After all, she mused, if their beloved maharaja could have three titled queens and three hundred and fifty untitled concubines, why, then by that measure of reckoning, Rama was practically a virgin!
Kausalya saw that while Rama waved cheerfully to all his admirers, he didn’t have the lingering gaze and raised eyebrows of his brothers Bharat and Shatrugan, or even the occasional wide-eyed glance of Lakshman. Yet she knew that it was Rama who was unusual in this respect rather than his brothers: it was no shame for an Arya prince in the first flush of youth to dally with any number of women he pleased. It was considered natural to do so. Even the three giggling princesses of Mithila, Urmila, Mandavi and Kirti, seemed unabashed by the eager female attention showered on their new husbands; if anything, they actually seemed delighted that they had husbands who were so hotly desired. But they weren’t fooling Kausalya at all; she knew from long and bitter personal experience how that initial pride would fade and turn to self-doubt and then apathy after a hundred or so nights spent in their lonely boudoirs knowing that their husbands were in the arms of some other woman that night, and most other nights.
Rama, though, sat with his wife Sita, both waving and issuing namaskars of acknowledgement in perfect unison, as if they were one person, wedded not just in sacred matrimony but also in heart-lock. Lakshman still retained his seat by Rama’s side— or rather, by Sita’s side now—rather than on the other elephant palanquin with his brothers and his own wife, not seeming to mind that Rama’s attention was clearly focused on Sita. Even at the height of the frenzy, when they passed a crowd numbering easily a lakh or more at the concourse of Raghuvamsha Marg and Harischandra Avenue, Kausalya saw the little exchanges of words and touches that continued unabated between her son and his new bride. Yes, there was love there already. More than that, there was a bond.
She sent up a silent prayer to Sri the mother goddess for having brought home a bride who was not only well born and gifted with many physical and mental talents, but whom Rama had fallen so much in love with so soon. She had noticed the little intimate huddles and affections they had shown each other as children before Rama’s gurukul years, but after all, children who loved one another could as easily grow up to become indifferent strangers in adulthood. It was not so with Rama and Sita. Clearly, whatever bond of personality and soul they had shared in those tender years still remained, rendering them dear friends already. She had heard about their travels and adventures together, and wondered if those days and experiences had hastened this union of hearts and minds. Probably it had played its part; she knew how common battlefield romances could be, especially between Kshatriya men and women who fought side by side. But surely it couldn’t be the whole of the matter—that would be too simple an explanation. No, she decided firmly, there was clearly some deeper-rooted force at work here. She saw the way Rama pointed excitedly to the palace complex, looming now ahead of them as the elephants turned ponderously on to Raghuvamsha Avenue, pointing out to Sita the various palaces and other structures. She saw also the way Sita looked up adoringly at Rama as he spoke. That was no simple road-romance; that river ran deep.
A pair of young devdaasis broke through the PF cordon to run after Rama’s elephant, and when one of the young girls threw up a bunch of flowers, it was Sita who bent low enough to catch it in time, before passing it on to Rama. She laughed and waved back at the girl, who was shouting up incoherent endearments to Rama. Sita turned and said something to Rama, who laughed in return and tossed the flowers back into the crowd on the other side of the marg. The whole exchange took place so smoothly that Kausalya couldn’t help but feel the faintest twinge of admiration. Look at how perfectly attuned to one another they were already: she and Dasaratha had never been like that, had they? Not that she could recall. Not even in their young, wanton days.
She put a hand to her sari-clad breast in dismay as she realised that she was actually feeling envy of sorts at their happiness. She resolved at once that she would perform a special havan rite to ward off any ill-luck occasioned by any hostile observers. If she, Rama’s foremost well-wisher, could feel even the faintest touch of envy for him, then imagine the host of uncharitable thoughts that must be winging their way from other, less well-disposed minds.
Such a perfect mating would certainly bring its share of envious onlookers, starting with the many royal and noble houses that had hoped ever since his birth to make Rama their son-in-law. They would still hope, she knew, and would not expect that Rama might refuse to entertain any other matches. Yet, knowing her son and seeing how content he was, she felt instinctively that he would be unlikely to take another wife any time soon, if ever. That would bring a small avalanche of envy and resentment, and the warding ritual would be worth undertaking in advance. She must do all she could to preserve and sustain this nascent love. She knew how precious and fleeting it could be. Hai, Devi, bless us and preserve us in your grace.
She sat contented and occupied with these thoughts in her own palanquin, keeping one watchful eye on Dasaratha beside her while basking in the glory of her son’s newfound popularity and adulation. The procession was approaching the main palace now, the gates already wide open to receive them. A fresh burst of noise, colour and revelry rang out in the square as the citizens and military declared their love for their champions one final time.
In moments they would be home, and she would welcome her daughter-in-law into her house for life. To think that she, Kausalya, had gone from being the neglected wife and anxious mother of two weeks ago to the ceremonially reinstated First Queen and proud mother of this great night. How strange were the ways of the devas. Who could have foreseen such a dramatic chain of events only half a moon ago? And yet she tried not to gloat at her newfound success too much. One never knew what new changes the samay chakra could bring with the next turning of that great wheel of time.
She was still basking in the roars and cheers when Sumitra caught her arm. ‘Kausalya. Look!’
She turned, expecting anything but what Sumitra was pointing to.
Rani Kaikeyi was running after their elephant. At first Kausalya actually mistook the Second Queen for some penitent driven mad by religious ecstasy. Kaikeyi’s appearance was shockingly dishevelled, her waist-length hair flying like a dark cloak behind her, her sari unravelling unheeded, her breast half bared … and was that blood on her forehead? What had she been up to? She was barefoot, and apparently her feet were wounded too, for Kausalya could see splotches of drying blood on them. If Kaikeyi had been carrying a weapon of some sort— a dagger, or perhaps even a lance, she wouldn’t have put that past the woman—then Kausalya would have assumed that this was a continuation of the hostile rage displayed on the eve of Rama’s departure to the Bhayanak-van.
But the Second Queen was empty-handed and clearly in great distress. Now, as she came up alongside their elephant, Kausalya could see the smears of tear-tracks down the woman’s face, the smudged kohl around her eyes, and the dripping wet sari hanging soggily from her buxom body. Something had happened to Kaikeyi.
She was shouting now as she ran, yelling hoarsely. Kausalya could just make out the sounds and catch an occasional word, but it was impossible to understand what she was saying. Kaikeyi stumbled over her own feet and for a moment Kausalya’s heart was in her mouth as it seemed that the Second Queen would surely roll under the elephant and be crushed to death. But ever-vigilant Airavata rolled his lumbering bulk and stepped over the fallen rani, the rear edge of his enormous foot landing on the corner of Kaikeyi’s unravelled sari pallo. Beside Kausalya, Dasaratha groaned at the sudden sideways roll of the palanquin and grumbled aloud about bigfoot and their insufferable ways. He hadn’t noticed Kaikeyi yet, his attention being occupied by a bravely saluting row of disabled PF veterans lined up on the left side of the procession. Kausalya glanced at him but didn’t draw his attention to the little drama unfolding on this side. She was still trying to understand what Kaikeyi was up to, and why.
The royal procession had reached the palace gates—out of which Kaikeyi herself had emerged—and a fresh wave of conches were being sounded triumphantly and deafeningly by a row of purple-and-black-uniformed PFs, bringing the long welcome to a culmination. Just as this new assault of sound exploded, filling the air for miles around with the sheer bullhorn fullness of its volume, Kausalya saw Kaikeyi rise to her feet, her sodden sari now caked with the dust and dung of the avenue, and reach out to the elephant ahead. She said a single word that Kausalya could make out, ‘Rama!’, and then the rest was lost in the bone-vibrating contralto of the conches.
As the maharaja’s elephant trundled through the gates, Kausalya saw Senapati Dheeraj Kumar ride up alongside Second Queen Kaikeyi, dismount, and begin speaking gently to the distraught rani. She looked around wildly, as if only just growing aware of her surroundings, and stared dumbly at the general. The senapati directed Kaikeyi’s attention back towards the marg on some pretext, preventing her from following the procession into the palace gates, and held her attention for another moment. The last Kausalya saw was a trio of agitated daiimaas rushing out through the gates, dodging the oncoming elephants, and going to Kaikeyi’s side, taking hold of her arms. None of them was Manthara, but then Kausalya had never seen Mantharadaiimaa rushing to intervene in one of Kaikeyi’s ‘scenes’.