Queen of the Earth Page 4

  The Bhaumakara attendants wait by the carriage, impassive.

  I have already bid farewell in private to my father and brother. Yayati does not say much but clings to me as if he is remembering a time when we meant so much more to each other. The ties of blood are the strongest of all bonds, after all, and who are we to gainsay it?

  ‘Will you come to see me soon?’ I ask, my voice rough with unspilled tears.

  He nods but glances towards our father as if seeking permission from him. He is increasingly afraid to hold a single original thought or opinion in his head—and this is what has driven a wedge between us.

  My father holds me close. ‘Be well. And do not lose hope. I will make it worth your while.’

  I am puzzled. What can he possibly mean? I search his face for an answer and open my mouth to frame a question. He silences me with a look.

  I am drawn away into a round of weeping goodbyes with my attendants.

  His words will eventually make sense to me but for now, I let them slip and walk towards the carriage, resolute. Whatever happens, I will face the future with courage and fortitude. I will be true to my name.

  The journey is a nightmare. The carriage has been built more for service than comfort. The wood is hard and digs into my body and the entire frame jolts unbearably. I am repeatedly sick and seem incapable of holding down the smallest morsel of food or even a sip of water.

  Both sets of attendants are distressed, mine and the ones that the Bhaumakaras have sent. They can do little to alleviate my discomfort.

  I see nothing of the landscape we pass; my eyes are shut tight. I finally huddle down on the hard bench, insensible to the hours that pass, floating in and out of a state of consciousness.

  I am dimly aware of someone—my aunt, by the sound of her voice—coaxing me to suck a slice of lemon that makes me retch all the more and of someone—her again—stroking my forehead and murmuring soothing words that ultimately lull me into a spell of blessed sleep.

  When I eventually wake, it is with the knowledge that the worst has passed. I am weak but whole, and it is a relief to know this. My aunt is by my side, her face full of travel weariness and deep concern in the dim light of approaching darkness.

  ‘Two days,’ she says in response to my unspoken query. She shakes her head. ‘You have never been this ill before. Perhaps you are not used to the rigours of travel. Or perhaps you have worried yourself into this state.’

  A Bhaumakara soldier hastens by to tell us that we are nearing journey’s end.

  I look out at the unfamiliar landscape. I have seen nothing of the forests that we have travelled through to reach the coast, but we seem to have emerged from them into an area of tall trees brushing against the sky, palm and coconut by the look of them. A cool breeze blows in, reminding me that we are near the water. A river shimmers by and I can see the dim outlines of boats on it. This must be the Vaitarani, I think. I know that Viraja nestles between the Mahanadi and the Vaitarani, and that the latter runs closer to the city. My spirits lift slightly and the wind eases the ache in my head.

  I see the pallor on my face in the small jewelled mirror that my aunt hands me. There are lines of exhaustion around my eyes and I can taste the sour tang of sickness in my mouth. This is not a propitious time for my new family to view me, but it is not in my hands. Let them know how arduous the journey has been and how much I have endured just to meet their peremptory demands.

  When the carriage eventually stops, my head swims. I close my eyes to steady myself.

  In a few minutes, my aunt helps me alight and I see that we are before a large building. It is solid and squat, and the only indication that this could be a palace is from the many lights that stare out from the various floors and the guards that stand, silent and square-jawed, by the massive entrance doors. This is very different from the luxurious palace that I have grown up in, which was greatly admired for its beauty and elegance, and for the many objects of art that decorate its corridors and chambers.

  I am ushered by the same attendants into a plain, unlined corridor that leads into many more, all mimicking each other, and finally into a chamber that is more notable for its sparseness than anything else. Even the sconces of the torches that line the room are severely plain; ours were always crafted with finesse.

  There is no one of rank to receive me. No one comes to greet me; there are no words of welcome or solace.

  I wait uncertainly, expecting to be taken to meet the king or some other member of his family. Instead, I am given some plain robes to change into, a simple meal of milk and fruits, and told to retire for the night.

  The attendants depart.

  This is intentional—a way of reinforcing the unequal terms between our families as they stand now. I am being shown my place. This treatment rankles; I feel intensely humiliated.

  My aunt is tight-lipped with disapproval. This is no way for a member of a royal family to be treated, whatever the circumstances. She is effusive with her affection as if to compensate for the treatment that has been meted out to me. She sits by my side, stroking my head until I am almost asleep, and it is only then that she departs to seek her own chamber.

  When I wake in the morning, she is there by my side, insisting on dressing me in preparation for the summons that had come a little earlier. I am to present myself in the royal audience chamber as soon as I am ready. The marriage rites are to take place immediately thereafter and the Somavamshi entourage is slated to leave once they are done.

  ‘Not even an invitation to stay on a single day.’ My aunt’s back is stiff with resentment as she winds the silken cloth around me. ‘It is as if we are not welcome at all in this place.’

  She stands back and admires me once her task is done, and then leaves me to the ministrations of my attendants who comb my hair and fasten the jewellery around my neck and limbs.

  My stomach is churning. Within an hour, I will have to face a court full of strangers, all of whom will be hostile.

  My father might have lost this round but he has proved to all of Kalinga that the Bhaumakaras are not invulnerable. There will be many more aspirants to power who will seek to emulate him and lay claim to Bhaumakara territory. Some might even taste success in the doing.

  Perhaps even the way I have dressed now will be an affront to the Bhaumakaras. Simplicity is their badge, their creed—and I will flout this in my bright red silken robes and the jewellery that flashes in my ears and hands and at my throat. I see a mixture of envy and distaste in the eyes of the Bhaumakara maids, and this makes me lift my head up higher.

  Let them make of me what they will. I am a Somavamshi, the daughter of a seasoned warrior, and I will not be cowed down by these people. I will hold my own in this court.

  I am led down a series of faceless corridors and into a wide, echoing chamber lined by people on all sides. The man I am to marry sits on the throne at the far end.

  I fix my eyes on him. He rises as I approach and I bow to him with the exquisite courtesy I have been taught.

  He is short and stocky with a stubborn jaw that is set in tense lines. He is dressed as simply as the rest of the people around him—in bland, almost colourless robes—that makes it difficult to distinguish him from the ones he rules.

  A bald man in saffron robes comes forward and ushers us to a room that leads off from this one. It is clearly a shrine, for there are paintings and images of the one who I recognize as the Buddhist god, and an altar with flowers heaped on it. There is a faint whiff of incense in the air and I inhale it deeply. The aroma steadies me.

  A few people have come in behind us; I am conscious of their presence and of their eyes boring into my back but I stare pointedly ahead. In all this time, no one has spoken to me. I wonder if my aunt has been allowed to follow me in.

  The bald man, the Bhaumakara priest, begins to chant in a deep, sonorous tone. I try to listen carefully, but it is in an unfamiliar language and I find my attention wandering.

  The air in this small cham
ber is stifling; my skin prickles with sweat and my head feels heavy with the weight of the ornaments tucked into my coiled plait. I long for a sip of water or some cooling draught, but there is none at hand.

  Beside me, the Bhaumakara king stands straight and stiff. The priest chants on and just as I am beginning to wonder at the length of the ceremony, it is over. He holds a hand over us in blessing and we bow to him in unison.

  It is done, I am married.

  The memories of that day stay in my mind. Sometimes they are clear and lucid but often, they are a confused tangle of impressions and events—a day that went by too fast but whose hours and minutes dragged as well.

  I vividly recall my aunt holding me close and exhorting me in fierce whispers to be brave, reminding me that she loved me dearly and that her life would be bereft without me, and of the tears rolling down her face as she sat in the carriage that was to bear her home. A part of me went with her.

  I recall our priest’s voice raised in argument—the marriage had not been conducted according to our rites; its validity was in doubt in his eyes—and of the Bhaumakara priest’s rejoinder that the Saugata had blessed this union and there was no need, therefore, of any other form of divine sanction.

  I recall the Bhaumakara king announcing the tidings of the marriage before the people at court and my skin flushing hotly at their scrutiny.

  I recall being led to his chamber at night and of flinching at his touch, the embarrassment of not knowing what was expected of me, the feeling of alienation at the knowledge that my body was no longer mine. The Bhaumakara king was not one for soft words or for providing comfort and warmth. And I, in turn, had nothing to say to him. The rites that had bound us together for eternity had not accounted for our dissociation with each other.

  I am made known to his family. The Bhaumakara king has a younger brother, Shivakara, whom I had glimpsed earlier, but my bewildered mind had made no sense, then, of the sea of faces that confronted me. He is taller and has a more pleasant bearing than his brother. And he is the first one in this entire family who has bothered to ask about my father and after my comforts. I am grateful to him and my smile tells him so. Shivakara is married to a colourless woman, Jayadevi, who hovers behind him at all times and is clearly in awe of Shubhakara, the king.

  They have two children; I warm to both of them at once, for they are welcoming in the unconditional manner that only the very young possess. They are named after earlier Bhaumakara kings but have been given names for use by the family so as to avoid any kind of confusion. Therefore, the ten-year-old Shantikara, the third of that name, is Dhruva and seven-year-old Shubhakara, the fifth of his name, is Kusuma.

  Kusuma immediately puts his hand in mine and, at his brother’s silent urging, is all set to show me their toys when a glance from their uncle silences them and they slink away.

  This annoys me, but I reflect that I will have plenty of time to get to know them later. And I have every intention of doing so.

  Shivakara escorts me to their great-grandmother’s chambers. Queen Tribhuvanamahadevi has lain in a stupor for many days now and was too ill to attend the ceremony. She is huddled under thick covers, although this is the heat of the summer season, and looks frail and diminished. A pallor of imminent death shadows her face. It is difficult to believe that this woman ran the Bhaumakara kingdom till Shubhakara’s father felt able to take over.

  ‘She was ailing even when she took over as regent,’ Shivakara informs me in a low voice. ‘Some people tried to dissuade her, but she wouldn’t listen. She had to protect the legacy of her grandson. And great-grandson.’

  Clearly, she had held herself together by some supreme effort of will, but once she handed over the reins of the kingdom to Shubhakara’s father, her ailments must have surged back.

  ‘She was a very tough woman,’ Shivakara whispers. ‘You wouldn’t believe it to look at her now.’

  There is a smell of darkness and imminent death in the chamber and I turn away, trying vainly to conceal my distaste.

  There is a matter that has been troubling me all day and I decide that there is no better time to broach the topic than the present.

  ‘May I speak frankly with you?’ I ask Shivakara. He nods at once and I go on. ‘My father was given to understand that I would be assigned maids and attendants here just as I had at home. However, no one has come to me yet in that capacity except to help prepare me for the ceremony.’

  His smile is rueful. ‘I beg your forgiveness. It was extremely remiss of us to forget.’

  The unspoken reason stands in plain sight between us: this is a deliberate slight that is meant to humiliate me and show me that I am powerless to dictate my needs at this court. My original attendants have been summarily dispatched with my aunt and the priest back to my father’s court. I am, for all practical purposes, utterly alone. Now I wish I had not spoken. I do not want any favours from these people who seek to knock me down when I am already so vulnerable.

  ‘I can cater to my own needs,’ I tell Shivakara curtly. ‘If there is a shortage of maids at this court, I will do without.’

  He seems a little taken aback at the stark anger on my face but makes no comment.

  Later that day, he ushers a young woman into my presence. She is tall and around my age, dressed as simply as the others at court. What draws my eyes is the sullen expression on her face, a look of extreme bitterness. And this overshadows her natural beauty, her striking features.

  ‘Shashilekha will be your companion at this court,’ says Shivakara. ‘You understand that we can’t keep you in the style of luxury that you are accustomed to. Therefore, she will be the only one to attend to all your needs. Do not hesitate to ask her anything. She has been at this court all her life and knows its ways.’

  Shashilekha’s eyes flash in resentment at his words, but she veils it quickly.

  She stands to one side, her head bowed, while I am told more details about her. Her father is Shrinanna, a distant uncle of Shubhakara who has been serving at the court for many years. She is married to a Bhaumakara feudatory, Mangalakalasha. He, again, has been in the Bhaumakara service all his life and his forefathers before him.

  Shashilekha is from a noble family, therefore, with fairly important connections. Why, then, has she been given this task of serving me? Is it not beneath her station?

  The answer comes to me suddenly—I am now aware of the Bhaumakara ways of inflicting subtle but profound humiliation on those who stand against them. Shashilekha or her family have obviously done something to them to merit such treatment at their hands.

  I welcome my new attendant-companion with as much warmth as I am capable of feigning, but she is immune to my overtures. This task is distasteful to her; it is a punishment that she has been forced to accept.

  I resolve to piece this puzzle together. If she is to be my companion, we will have enough time to inure ourselves to each other’s presence. Once her guard is down, I will try and probe her wound. For now, I am content to have her move around my chamber and familiarize herself with my belongings. At least I will not be alone any more in this alien court.

  I have tried to put aside the one thought that has been troubling me like a sore tooth, but I now take it out from the recesses of my mind and examine it.

  More than a fortnight has elapsed since our wedding, but I am not yet reconciled to Shubhakara’s presence. Our unease with each other continues. Perhaps it is too early for me to make a judgement, but my instinct tells me that this will continue.

  There is always something that endears you to a person—a smile, a way of speech, a mannerism—but I have found nothing of the sort in him. He has made no effort to talk to me, to ask me how I am faring, to ease me to the complexities of my new home. He is resentful and so am I—my father is his enemy and I am a part of a treaty they agreed upon. Affection does not bind us together yet and probably never will. I have also noticed the effect he has on other members of his family—they are ill at ease around him and watch
their words.

  ‘I have brought your father to his knees,’ he tells me. ‘Let us hope he has learnt his lesson.’

  I lash out before I have time to think. ‘And he brought you to your knees before that!’

  We lock eyes and see the mutual hatred in them.

  In due course, I learn that he is sensitive to taunts surrounding his father’s accession; that the latter was ill-prepared to take over from his father, in turn, and required a woman to help him safeguard the throne. This has soured Shubhakara’s nature. In all fairness, though, he has clearly learnt the ropes of governance very quickly and does not tolerate any attacks on himself or his kingdom. Thus did my father fall into his trap—and I with him.

  SETTLING IN

  I bring Shashilekha with me to the Hamseshvara temple, which, for me, is one of the most important religious structures of Viraja. It is built to the glory of Shiva, a god I am deeply familiar with and pray to in moments of distress. I make no distinction between him and Vishnu, although they are worshipped by rival sects that often clash with each other all over this land. I see no need for conflict—there are so many gods for us to choose from who control different aspects of our life’s journey. So while Ganesha is the remover of obstacles, Lakshmi blesses one with wealth and Saraswati with wisdom. One can propitiate any or all of them.

  The god that the Bhaumakaras worship is stern, austere, remote. He abandoned his wife and child in search of truth, and the path he advocates is one of self-denial and simplicity. They call him the Saugata, the Shakyamuni or the Buddha, and there are shrines to him all over this land, many of them built on the Vaitarani’s banks. The chanting that rings out from them is strangely soothing, and I find myself stopping to listen to the words as I pass. I have not yet summoned the courage to enter any of these portals; tradition and the fear of the unknown bind me to my own faith.

  As we walk around the courtyard of the Hamseshvara temple, the priest eyes me with obsequious interest. The temple was built by an earlier Bhaumakara queen, Madhavidevi, whose name is inscribed on a black stone in the rear wall. The inscription further records that a priest was appointed by the queen for conducting the worship of the deity, and that a stepped well and market were also established by her near the temple. Both still exist today; the well is much sought after in the hot season for its welcome shade, and the market is a riotous, bustling place at any hour of the day. Even now, sounds drift across to us from that direction.