Kaand II
The second kaand, the kaand of conflicts and battles ...
New readers:
Please read "Prarambha" and "Kaand I" before reading ahead.
Chapter 4 Bandish in Charukeshi (audio) rendered by Ashwini Bhide-Deshpande
Rama … The wind beat mercilessly against his skin, already raw from numerous bruises and cuts. He staggered to the steps of the gate, clutching a rain-drenched jute cloak around his body and over his head. Every few steps or so, he looked over his shoulder, as if expecting his pursuers to materialize behind him any moment. He had been traveling ceaselessly for five days now. The journey had always been impossible, and he wondered where he had found the strength to reach this far. Rama, he thought, Rama gave me my strength. His steed had already given up two days ago. Tired and hungry, the fine stallion lay down to breathe his last breath in the upper pass of the Hindu Kush. It had been a heart wrenching moment for him, putting his faithful companion to the cold steel, rather than submit it to the agony of slow, cold death. But he had done it …
The unpleasant task with his sword done, he had continued eastwards towards the safety of home. Hopping from caravan to caravan, he had inched towards his goal -- Aryavarta.
“Kaun Hain Re?” Who goes there? The guard at the gate shouted in his direction. Though it was pitch dark, he barely heard the swish of a dozen bows rise up in unison. As of this moment, resting on a dozen taut, quivering bowstrings, were arrows dipped with the most lethal poison of all - the venom of the black cobra.
He knew. After all, he had trained them - a lifetime ago.
His hands tightened around the handles of the daggers hidden in his cloak. These were bad times, bad times indeed. His last encounter with a human had almost cost him his life, and he decided to err on the side of caution.
The wound on his left shoulder awoke with an excruciating pain, and it took all of his resolve not to let it affect his stride. By now, he guessed, the spasas of the enemy must have reached this place bearing his description. Ironic, he though, that his present state should prove to be his doom, a master of disguise betrayed by his description.
He walked a few paces till he was under the lanterns that swung noisily over the gate.
“Kaun Hain Re?” the voice asked again.
“Shivnath. Returning from the Great Fair over the Hindu Kush.” He spoke slowly yet firmly. One of his hands shifted from the hilt of the dagger to a small, concealed roll of documents that served as his identity at any given time. Shivnath, he thought, that was close. He could have said six other names, and would have been able to produce the parichay-patra, the scroll of identification with the prints of his fingers, for all of them from the concealed bundle. His own name, he had almost forgotten by now.
A small crack opened in the door, and a pair of unseen eyes took a long hard look at him. After what seemed like an eternity, a hand extended from the crack and asked for his parichay-patra. Shivnath made quite a show of looking for it in his cloak, and then produced it just in the nick of time. The official on the other side was getting visibly restless. The hand vanished instantly after procuring the scroll.
Shivnath knew what was happening on the other side, or so he hoped, if the enemy had not penetrated the gates of Kosala itself. The dvaarpaal, gate-keeper, was verifying the information in the scroll with the list of fugitives and spies collected meticulously by the spasas of Kosala. Even if the tiniest bit of information bordered on the dubious, a swift and efficient machine would be thrown into motion. He would be directly led to the interrogation quarters where he would be interrogated until he broke down, or his information was validated. He had led quite a few of such sessions himself. No doubt that if someone from the mukhyalaya, the main branch in Ayodhya, was present, they would readily identify his face. But boon, or bane, he could not decide right now. Some wounds were not physical, and his wounds were still fresh and raw. Betrayal he was used to, it was a professional hazard. What had surprised him was his proximity with the traitor. Had he known earlier …
His musings were interrupted by the clank of chains as the door was opened.
“Andar Aao!” Come Inside!
A wave of relief washed over him as he walked inside. The official handed him the scroll and allowed him to enter Kosala. Another also offered him the directions to the nearest dharmashala, public lodging for travelers.
Shivnath thanked them profusely, and walked away into the darkness. He scanned discretely for a tail, and did not find one. After he was sure that they had returned back to their watch, he side stepped into a narrow lane that led him in the very opposite direction that the guard had suggested.
He walked slowly, dragging himself every so feet by sheer will. He knew the bylanes like the back of his hand. If he reached his destination before daybreak, then he still had hope. At one point, he stopped and coughed out what he thought was blood -- it was too dark to see anything. With a renewed sense of urgency, he picked up his steps, negotiating the twisted lanes in the dark.
A ghatika or so passed before he stood before his destination -- a brick house that reeked of late night revelry. It was the courtly brothel, where highly skilled nayikas entertained the rich and the influential.
He spoke the pass-phrase to a hefty gate keeper, and the man jumped back a few feet in alarm. Vaishnava !! You?? he cried out in surprise. Vaishnava was yet another of a long string of aliases that Shivnath kept at hand.
“There is … no time … no talk here. I need … medicine,” Shivnath stammered and lurched forward. The guard caught him and easily lifted him over his shoulders. He took the wounded spy inside through a side door and led him to a private chamber which the mistress of the house had particularly reserved for Kosalan spies.
The guard placed him on a couch and went off to fetch his mistress. Shivnath cried out in pain as he felt his left shoulder brush against the wooden frame.
As he waited alone, he replayed back the events of the last few days. He had ventured west on the information that there was a large force amassing on the borders of Kosala, and that the farmers were being enticed into picking up arms against the local officials. He did not think much of the news, and had gone with just one other -- his second-in-command. That had proven to be his undoing. For the very person whom he trusted had betrayed him to the enemy (or was it enemies ?). He had barely escaped with his life and had been extremely fortunate to reach this place.
His eyes had started to droop when there was a rustle of curtains to his right. Shivnath’s hands went automatically for his daggers, but he relaxed when he saw that it was Krutika, the mistress herself, bearing a tray of food and drink.
“Namaskar Arya!!” Greetings Noble Visitor, she greeted him formally.
“Krutikey, now is not the time for formal frivolities. A great danger rides behind me from the West. They have … they have turned our own against us … We must make haste …”
Krutika cut short his outburst by placing the palm of her right hand on his lips.
“Shhh, Arya … Do not speak of such things loudly. I know what you mean.” She gave him a nod of assurance and placed a goblet in his hands.
“Drink this,” her tone was more a command than request. Shivnath readily obliged. First things first. His body needed nourishment, and there would be enough time later for talks and strategies. He observed Krutika eyeing him with amusement. “You will need strength for what will come later, Arya Milind!”
Shivnath had drunk half of the bitter-sweet liquid when he noticed that Krutika had, for the first time, used his birth name -- a secret that only a few officials in Ayodhya knew. And, he realized with a start, a secret that his enemies knew now too. How did Krutika … ?
Milind never finished his thoughts. The poison worked swiftly and he dropped onto the floor before Krutika. His hands groped frantically to clutch her throat, and his vision blurred slowly until everything faded into a cold darkness. He never saw the tall man who had entered the room and now stood towering above his corpse, dressed in green-and-gold, wearing a ring with a snake-and-crescent emblem embossed on its head.
“We are doomed,” Kausalya’s words rang out in the Suraksha Kaksha. “Yes, Mahamantri Sumantra, we are certainly doomed if we lose our morale on such empty threats.” She gestured at a silk scroll lying on the table before them.
Her eyes scanned those present in the room. Mahamantri Sumantra, Guru Vashishtha, Mantri Jabali (more than his usual morose self), and a few other handpicked officials from the Defense Ministry. Her eyes rested on the chair to her right, the chair of the Chief Commander, the Senadhipati, which lay empty after Dasaratha’s demise. This first circle was surrounded by another circle of chairs, empty but for one, intended for the court scribes and personal aides to note the events. Mahamantri Sumantra’s personal aide, Amalendu was furiously scribbling on his parchment, religiously noting every detail of the meeting.
“What more could the enemy ask if we were divided amongst ourselves? He would probably win over us without shedding a drop of blood!! The path of our Dharma is treacherous, and we would do best if we continue to follow it to its entirety. Our dharma is to defend Aryavarta, from foes beyond its borders,” she paused, “as well as from those within.”
“Maharani, I request permission to speak.” It was Senapati who spoke. She nodded and he continued. “Maharani, our spasas have reported that our numbers are greater than theirs,” he glanced at a piece of parchment in his hands, “by a fair amount. Under normal circumstances, less than a quarter of our troops would have been sufficient to stop them. Do not forget that we fought alongside them not so long ago. We know their strengths and weaknesses. That said however, an army is only as capable as its leaders. With neither the late Maharaj nor the Rajkumars to guide us, our troops are nothing but a pride of wayward cubs.”
“Senapati-ji, I concur.” Kausalya’s voice grew heavier as she spelt out the stark realities of the Kosalan army. “If our king was still alive … If our brave Rajkumars were here to help us … If we had not been stabbed in our backs by the very people for whom we shed our blood in the Last Asura War … One could go on and on. However, this is not the time to lament upon our deficiencies, rather it is the right time to find their remedies. It would be prudent …”
She looked up as the door opened and Kaikeyi stepped inside. Their eyes met, and held each other for an instant, before Kaikeyi bowed to her.
“Maharani”
Kausalya acknowledged, nodding in return, and continued addressing the council. Kaikeyi came around the table, keenly aware of several hostile stares boring into her back, ignoring them, till she reached her place - to the right of the queen, in the second circle.
“As I was saying,” Kausalya continued her train of thought, “it would be prudent not to engage in open hostilities with our own. No matter what the outcome, it will be Aryavarta that suffers.”
An awkward pause lingered as Kausalya finished speaking. Finally, Kaikeyi broke the silence by addressing Kausalya herself.
“Maharani, if I may be permitted to speak.”
The request caught the council by surprise. Most of the council had not seen Kaikeyi in person in the last couple of years, and their memories of the erstwhile haughty queen had been nothing that could be associated with the civility of the current request. Some openly displayed their surprise, much to Kausalya’s amusement.
“Go ahead, Rani Kaikeyi.”
“Maharani, I would like to know why the council has been summoned in Suraksha Kaksha. As I received your request for attendance but a short while ago, I request a short briefing on the matter that threatens Kosala. If, as you say, this concerns Aryavarta itself, then it is indeed a matter of utmost importance.”
Kaikeyi could see that her statement had made the council, well everybody except Kausalya and Guru Vashishta, open uncomfortable. Mahamantri Sumantra lowered his gaze to the floor, and some of the ministers stole quick glances to each other, and to Kausalya, who sat on her seat with measured equanimity.
Kausalya looked at Sumantra, and with her eyes, urged him to speak. Guru Vashishta must have done the same, using his method of speaking into the mind, for Sumantra looked as if he was startled from his slumber and was eyeing the Guru with caution.
Finally, he cleared his throat and began to speak.
“Rani-ji, as you may have been aware, a couple of months ago, we began receiving rumors that some of our officials in the Western most provinces were having trouble with the citizens of their local constituencies. There were rumors, unconfirmed reports, that farmers whose lands had wilted under the harsh summer, had resorted to looting caravans passing through their borders in order to sustain their families. As there was no confirmation through our official channels, we could only send tentative instructions to our officers to maintain law-and-order and report back on such incidents as soon as they happened.
While the official position remained being cautious and not acting on mere rumors, Maharani Kausalya dispatched two of her trusted spasas to ascertain the veracity of the rumors.” Sumantra sighed and his voice lowered.
“Both the spasas never returned. We never found out through our secondary network of local spasas about what happened to them. The last report that we received was a message intercepted by our men,” he pointed to the silk scroll on the table. “This confirms our worst fears - that there is indeed an armed unrest growing on our western borders in which some of our local officials have gone missing, or worse, have been killed. Corrupt officials have penetrated the bureaucracy at almost all levels in the panchayats, and they have the support of elements from outside our borders.”
Kaikeyi sensed that the Mahamantri was clearly uncomfortable continuing from hereon, so she asked him for the scroll. An aide brought it over to her and she began to read.
The first thing that surprised her was the texture of the silk. It felt vaguely intimate, as if she had known it all her life. The scroll itself was pretty minimal. There was no embroidered symbols to confirm the identity of its sender. The writing itself was hurriedly done, as if the message had been sent through at great risk. The very risk that planted the message in the hands of their spasas. The message was short, she noticed, and in plainspeak. Her eyes went over the contents, and she froze when she reached the bottom. Though she did not recognize the name readily, she saw that it was marked with the seal of the serpent and the crescent moon.
The royal seal of Kekaya.
“The Age of Magic ...” the Pisaca drummed its legs slowly on the sides of its seat. “The Age of Magic … is … over.” It spoke slowly, weighing every word, pausing frequently in between words to choose the next one. “This,” a wave of one of eight spindly arms indicated, “is the … beginning.” Another long pause, and it spoke. “The beginning … of … The Age … of … the Earth.”
As if on cue, the room shuddered, and Mandodari cast a hasty glance around her as the echoes of the latest subterranean disturbance died in the distance.
The Pisaca then settled back into his seat, a hemispherical cocoon of earth and clay bound together with an gooey substance that reeked faintly of spent seed. Several moments passed before she realized that he (she assumed it was a male sitting in front of her) was waiting for her to speak.
“You say that Magic is past,” she started confidently. “But here I am, in the physical aspect of my being, and yet not so. Can you deny it?” Mandodari knew that a upper hand during the earlier stages of negotiation would get her the advantage later.
The Pisaca erupted with a shrill cackle that was obviously amused laughter.
“Magic?” It took longer to say the next words, still recovering from the bout of laughter.
“This is … not magic… Not the ‘real’ magic … Only tricks,” it focused each of its hundred eyes on the “image” in his presence. “Only tricks for little children… Dark … dangerous magic … Only Ravana!!” Mandodari was surprised at the fervor this insect displayed at her husband’s name. “Only Ravana had real magic.”
She felt the hundred eyes darken and dull as the king of the Pisacas settled down again. This was the last of her visits to the chiefs of each individual species in Lanka, to end the constant infighting and bloodshed that had considerably weakened the Asura population. In each case, a shrewd display of magic had helped her intimidate the leader, and press forward for their return under the united banner of the Lankan forces. The Pisaca, however, seemed far from impressed with the display of her talents.
“You speak the truth, wise king,” Mandodari changed her tactics. “But alas, my comatose husband is no longer in the position to display the real magic. And as a result, Lanka is about to be torn into pieces by selfish Asuras who cannot see beyond their own needs.”
The Pisaca sat silent for a long time. “Hmmmmm,” it spoke, in a half-squeak. “This is true … very … true … Ravana… protected us … fed us!! A new … man … every day!” The Pisaca’s eyes grayed over with the reminiscence of the golden days.
“Now!! We hunt … scavenge … fight … with others … and even then … starve!” the Pisaca was now visibly excited. Mandodari noticed several of its eyes light up with a strange green glow, as if some unseen force had been awakened inside the old King.
“What … you … say is … true. True … How can we help? Pisacas ... huh … not respected … by others. Not ... one … with others…”
“Oh mighty King,” began Mandodari, “it may have been so in the past. But today, things are different. Lanka rules under the white banner of the House of Mayasura, where every citizen who is faithful, shall be considered an equal. I have already spoken to the others. They have agreed to lay aside differences …”
“For the … time being,” the Pisaca interrupted her. “Only for some time. Later … yes … later … they will return. Lanka will … return! To the old ways … of Ravana!”
“They will ... only if the void left by Ravana’s absence is not filled by someone equally powerful.” Mandodari tilted her neck slightly, to emphasize the unspoken.
The Pisaca sat unmoving for a while, his eight limbs in constant motion. Mandodari had observed him enough to know that this was how he thought over things. The entire body at rest, only the limbs moving about in arcane patterns as though trying to solve a complex mathematical puzzle. It reminded her of an insect lying on its back, waving its limbs desperately to flip over. Though the thought was amusing, she maintained a serious expression.
The Pisaca ceased his motions after a long time while Mandodari waited patiently for him to speak. The silence was periodically punctuated by the tremors that shook the king’s cave and brought down a shower of dust and pebbles into the room. Mandodari was wondering over the cause of this disturbance when the king spoke.
“You wish … our support … to claim the throne … of Lanka?”
The reply infuriated Mandodari, but she maintained a her countenance. She wondered how the Pisacas had survived so far with such a feeble intellect. The king had spent an enormous amount of time to reach a conclusion that would have taken an eight year old child mere seconds. She forced herself a smile and replied, “Wise King, I do not wish to claim or usurp the throne of Lanka. Lanka has been ruled by the House of Pulastya since time immemorial. I would only like to be its … steward,” she chose her words carefully, “while my dear husband can recover from his comatose condition.”
“Then … why not … Vibhishana? … Ravana’s brother?”
Aah, Mandodari understood the game the Pisaca was playing. Beginning with seemingly innocuous questions, he wanted to exploit the tiniest chink in her armor, in a manner of speaking.
“You know as well as the entire population of Lanka,” Mandodari sighed and continued, “Vibhishana is a spineless, human-loving Asura who will never be what his brother was … is. In these testing times, I do not think that Ravana himself would have trusted his brother to carry out the task of governing Lanka. My sons, unfortunately, surpass their father only in their debauchery and giving Lanka to either one of them would only hasten its end. And so,” she looked straight at the Pisaca, “it has fallen on my shoulders to rebuild Lanka to its former glory and present it to my Lord when he awakens from his current state.”
The Pisaca sat unmoving throughout this exchange. A couple of his limbs twitched while he heard Mandodari’s reply, but she could sense that he was somehow studying her very minutely. I had underestimated him, but no more, she thought as he resumed his thinking posture.
After another ghatika or so, the Pisaca finally spoke.
“We have thought … together … and we think … we will support … you … to bring peace … to Lanka … for us … for Ravana!! Now go … go … we have … to sleep … long sleep.”
The “image” in front of the Pisaca flickered a bit before it faded off into the dull air. In her room, Mandodari stood up from her lotus-position on the floor. The meeting had drained almost all of her strength. She took a moment to pause before her mirror and looked directly into the eyes of her reflection. They were gleaming with a fierce desire that she knew all too well. Her first task was done. The fish had taken the bait.
“Asooan bhar aaye ri ...”
Urmila walked down the passage as the notes of Charukeshi wafted over the palace. It was the third prahar of the night, she turned her gaze towards the Eastern rampart. The moon rested peacefully in the night sky, nestled in its retinue of countless stars. She was headed towards the palace gardens to pick fresh flowers for the morning puja in Kausalya-Maa’s kaksha.
“Gori torey nainawaa..”
Mandavi. She smiled to herself. Looks like I am not the only one who cannot sleep tonight. Urmila stopped walking and closed her eyes, absorbing the swirling, melodious taans that descended upon her like the first drizzle of the shravan. Charukeshi reminded her of the purple bell flowers found on the mountains to the North. She imagined herself on such a field, the purple carpet extending from one end of the horizon to another. It was such with her - every Raag, every emotion, every person in her close vicinity; immediately blossomed into a color in her mind. Urmila had the gift of colors, just as her younger cousins Mandavi and Shrutakirti were adept in the arts of song and dance, respectively. Not Sita, she thought. She was always the warrior-princess.
The thought of her elder sister wandering about in the wild sent a jolt of pain through her heart. The spasas that Kausalya-Maa had sent to locate the whereabouts of Rama had only been successful in tracking the trio till the borders of the kingdom of Nishads. Their chief, Guha, had refused to divulge any information other than the fact that Rama, Sita and Lakhsman had passed through these lands on their way south. With Bharat and Shatrughan out of the city, Kausalya Maa and Mahamantri Sumantra had the difficult task of rebuilding the administration and the trust of the people in the Suryavansha clan.
Aryaputra !! As wave after wave of melodious taans echoed through the silent night, Urmila felt the familiar ache rising in her heart. Charukeshi was a perennial favorite among the brothers, but Lakshman was especially fond of the late night Raag. Mandavi had once remarked (when they were in Mithila) that Rama-bhaiyya was like the Raag Shri -- sombre and deep as the bottomless abyss in the ocean; Lakshman was intense and evocative like the Charukeshi; Bharat, a hefty mace welder like the Bhairav; and Shatrughan fresh and young as Basant. They had laughed together on this, all except Sita, of course; who always became quiet and pensive whenever they spoke of Rama.
Well, she thought wistfully, Aryaputra was fond of a quite a few late night melodies. The memory of that one night they had spent together gave her goosebumps. She missed him, Oh yes she did! Every waking moment and worse, every sleepless moment, she missed him with the entire essence of her being. Mandavi and Shrutakirti could at least visit Bharat and Shatrughan at Nandigram, even if for a few hours during the day. Even Sita-didi had Rama-bhaiyya to comfort her through their vanvaas. But Urmila, she had been left entirely to herself.
“Kaun tori bithaa, kaun jaaney dukhada ...”
She recalled the moment when Lakshman had informed her of his decision to accompany Rama and Sita into the forest. She had been shocked, but her Kshatrani upbringing forced her to put up a brave face. She had felt so proud to be the wife of such a dutiful Kshatriya prince and brother. She had even bade her husband farewell with a smile, thinking that it was all a misunderstanding and that the princes and Sita would return in a short while. But they never came back, after the death of Dasarath Maharaj, the pride was replaced by an equally intense sorrow and anger. Kausalya Maa’s resolve and strength had seen them through those times, and Urmila had unknowingly began emulating her. At times she could sense Kausalya Maa observing her work from afar, her face a strange mixture of paternal pride and regret.
“Jiya ki laagi tori, kaa tohey peed padi?”
Urmila was brought out of her reverie by the crisp, metallic sound of steel striking steel. Her first reaction was to take cover under a thick pillar, hiding away from the prying eyes of some would-be assassin. This was not the first time that somebody has attempted to assassinate a member of the royal family. Fortunately, every attempt so far had been successfully thwarted by the PFs that guarded the city. She crouched on all fours, as she had been instructed by her bodyguards, out of range of an attacker with poison-tipped darts or arrows.
Urmila expected the palace to be filled with the coded cries of the PF guards that would signal the capture of the culprit. The guards should have descended on the spot by the dozens as of now, she thought. The guards maintained a near-perfect code of cries that would readily pass on as authentic bird cries to a layman. Only the members of the royal court knew the details of such calls, to coordinate with the PFs during an emergency situation like the one she was currently in.
Silence. Urmila grew uneasy with the growing silence. Clang! Another blow. And another. The blows seemed to have a rhythm that she could barely discern. The absence of PF guards puzzled her enough to rise up and peek from behind the pillar on to the grounds below.
There were guards below. About two dozen or so (she counted hastily), fully armed in their battle gear (this surprised her), forming a neat circle around a solitary figure in white robes. One of the guards was engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand combat with the intruder, their swords clashing together, set to a near-constant rhythm. The intruder was skilled, she noticed, and was hardly wearing any protective clothing at all. He was clad in all white, from his turban to his robes. His white robes whirled and billowed as he gracefully dodged the blows of his opponent, the sweeping trails of his stole throwing the guard into confusion. The guard recovered from a particularly dizzying maneuver, and lunged forward to strike, only to find his sword, and his hand, caught in the angavastra. Urmila heard a distinct chuckle as the intruder jerked his hand back, and the helpless guard could only watch his sword flying away from him. He bowed his head and stepped out of the ring. Urmila watched with growing amusement as two guards stepped in for the combat. They were quickly dealt with, and so were the others - up to four at a time. When all the guards had either been disarmed or incapacitated due to a telling blow to their vitals, the intruder removed his turban and let his knee length hair loose.
Knee length hair? Urmila realized with a shock, and next moment, some amount of relief.
Senadhipati Kaikeyi was conducting her military exercise for a batch of PF guards! Ever since Rani Kaikeyi had been made the Senadhipati, the Supreme Commander of the armed forces of Kosala, she had introduced combat exercises for the troops at unearthly hours to test their endurance and instill proactive vigilance in their minds. This was not the first time that Urmila was watching Kaikeyi perform her martial exercises, but this was the first time she was watching her conduct one for a group of soldiers.
The exercise over, Kaikeyi dismissed the guards. Helping herself to some cool water from a nearby matki, she paused to gather her breath. She had noticed Urmila walking along the passage a few moments ago, before the exercise had begun. She searched for the slender form of her daughter-in-law amongst the thick stone pillars and found her standing at the end of the corridor, looking down towards her. Urmila must have noticed kaikeyi looking up, for she hastened away towards the gardens in a moment or two. Kaikeyi sat down to rest on the black stone steps that led upwards from the water tank and the maidaan to the residential chambers of the royal family.
The cool breeze from the south soothed her sweat drenched body. She removed her angavastra and kept it at her feet. The muscles in her shoulders relaxed as the southern wind gently swirled around her.
This was not good. The guards needed more practice if they were to go up against anything Kekeyan. She refused to believe that her brother Yuddhajit was behind the intrusions into the Kosalan borders. Probably Senapati Gajapati. He was known to use such methods on their western neighbours, the Mlecchas of the desert. The bottomline was - the troops needed more training. And as the Senadhipati it now became her responsibility.
Dasa, dasa …. she replayed the meeting in the Suraksha Kaksha. Kausalya had obviously invoked the displeasure, if not full blooded wrath of many ministers and courtiers by inviting her to the meeting. What if she was the Kekayan spy? How can we trust her? She was sure the whispering behind her back had never ceased, even after the trial. Kausalya must have defended her as before, for the entire council to have agreed to her presence. Not Vashishtha, not him, she knew. He supported Kausalya, though he did not necessarily distrust Kaikeyi. Kausalya had capped off the invitation by not only trusting Kaikeyi with sensitive information regarding the Kekeyan intruders, but had made her the Senadhipati, the Supreme Commander of the Kosalan forces. As was her wont, she had then walked out immediately after the meeting, not waiting to talk to anyone. Or was she just avoiding me? She had never understood Kausalya. Sumitra - docile, naive and oversentimental. Sumitra she understood. She had also exploited Sumitra on several occasions, and lately, she thought, had driven her sons into exile. Though Manthara pulled the strings, that was no excuse for Kaikeyi’s behavior. She wondered why Kausalya trusted her, or merely did a show of the same, waiting for Kaikeyi to commit one fatal mistake.
Devi, she sighed. Give me strength to face the coming months.
She looked eastwards, as if looking for some sign that the Devi had heard her prayer. Streaks of yellow and pink were heralding the arrival of the new day. On the ramparts, the guards for the day shift were relieving their nocturnal comrades. Cries of “Bhor Aaiyee Re-e-e-e-e” signaled the change of guards from one post to another. Kaikeyi picked up her sword and strode purposefully to the center of the maidaan. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer and then began her daily exercise, her broad sword sweeping brilliant arcs of silver against the dark western skies.
The taans from Mandavi’s kaksha echoed across the courtyard as the servants of the Palace commenced their duties for the new day.
“Asooan bhar aaye ri, gori torey nainawaa
Kaa tohey peed padi?
Kaun tori bithaa, kaun jaaney dukhada
Jiya ki laagi tori, kaa tohey peed padi?”