The Rise of Hastinapur (23 page)

‘Good,’ said Durvasa, climbing out. Panting a little, he went up to the knot and confirmed its tightness. Letting his sack drop to the ground, he kneeled down and opened it. He gave Pritha a necklace made of seashells and a silver coronet. ‘Wear this,’ he said, and proceeded to smear himself with grey ash. ‘If you put some of this on your body, you shall look just like the wife of a trader from Magadha.’

‘Wife?’

‘Fine. Sister, if you like that better.’

Pritha took the garments in the sack and went behind a tree to change into a gown and a knapsack. She tied her hair in two small buns, the way Durvasa had asked her to, and put the coronet on her head. Wearing the necklace she came out, to see the sage look grey-haired and wrinkled, with ash dropping off his arms and legs. He raised his eyebrows at her and said, ‘Your beauty is such that you cannot hide it with such adornments, my lady. Even in the clothes of a pauper you look like a queen.’

‘I wish I could say the same about you, my lord,’ she said, stepping out and tossing her clothes into the boat. ‘But you do look like a beggar!’

He laughed at that, but in a moment his eyes moved away, and he frowned. ‘I hear the song of the traders, and animals approaching.’ He came to her and took her hand. ‘We do not have much distance to cover, my dear, but I think we shall do well to run so that we may not miss the caravan.’

With that, they set off into the darkness.

SEVEN

T
hey came upon a thirty-foot marble arch, on the centre of which was mounted a serrated disc of gold. On the face of it was written a single line of Sanskrit: ‘Fire moves water’. Pritha looked down from the disc at Durvasa’s face, who inclined his head to the side. The trader ahead of them got asked a few questions, and now the guards were rummaging through the sacks on his donkey. Every now and then the animal would bray questioningly when prodded in the side with the tip of a spear. Pritha noticed that the guards here wore the same red armour that she had seen on the people of the war barges on the Yamuna. One trader passed through the gate, and the queue inched ahead.

Fires burnt on either side of the entrance, and whenever a breeze blew the flame flickered, sending shadows over the taut, wooden faces of the guards. When they spoke, it seemed to Pritha that only their mouths moved, and their voices were all gruff and rude. Her hand was nestled in Durvasa’s, and when she turned to him to say something she saw him staring up at the golden plate and the strange words. She looked at his eyes – two blue marbles – and wondered at where the man had taken his birth. Blue-eyed men, she had been told, came from the kingdoms further north from even the mountains of ice. She would have to ask Durvasa once about his homeland.

When they arrived at the gate Pritha became aware of a pungent smell of burning oil. She assumed it came from the fires surrounding them. The guard put his arm out and raised his eyebrows at them.

‘We come from Magadha,’ said Durvasa. ‘I am a trader, and this is my sister.’

‘Show me your arms,’ the guard said.

Both Durvasa and Pritha showed their arms. The guard peered at Pritha’s mark, rubbing it hard with his thumb and then examining it in the light of the fire. He then looked at her from head to toe, frowning. ‘You do not look like a Magadhan trader girl,’ he said. ‘Even your clothes do not look Magadhan.’ He turned to Durvasa. ‘Have you something else from Magadha?’

Durvasa said, ‘Sir, we have come from far away, please let us pass. This girl goes by the name Uddalaka in Magadha.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She is quite an important person in the court of High King Jarasandha.’ Then he cleared his throat. ‘His Majesty would not be pleased if he knew that Uddalaka was not allowed to enter Mathura.’

The guard’s stony face did not yield. He repeated: ‘Do you carry the seal of High King Jarasandha?’

‘Ah, no, I fear Uddalaka may have forgotten to bring her seal. But I do have something for you from Magadha.’ Durvasa searched in his bag. ‘Let me see. Ah, there we have it.’ He brought out a fistful of pomegranate-coloured flat stones and laid them out for the guard to see. ‘We have come to present Kamsa, the king of Mathura, with these. We think he may like to see them. Do you not?’

The guard’s eyes widened when they fell on the stones, and he beckoned his partner over to see. ‘My, oh my,’ he said, smacking his lips. He raised his hand and attempted to touch the stones, but Durvasa closed his fist and withdrew it just in time.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we came all the way here in the hope that Lord Kamsa would buy these stones from us. We know he is a lover of all things beautiful, is he not?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the guard uneasily, shifting on his feet.

‘Besides, these stones are said to be touched by the magic hands of Indra himself, the lord of rain and water, and they are said to have been forged in the quarry of Agni, the lord of fire. A sage from Meru once gave these to my grandfather, and it was passed down to me through my father.’

Behind them Pritha became aware of a clamour, and people crowded around them, jostling and peeping over one another at Durvasa’s clenched fist. ‘Show them to us!’ someone said. But Durvasa waited for the sounds to die down and then said, ‘High King Jarasandha said that these stones will bless Mathura so that her defences will never break, and she will rule the Yamuna for as long as the river flows in the lands of men.’

His voice had taken on a strange, echoing quality now, noticed Pritha, as though he were speaking from deep within a heavy fog. A hush fell around them, and when he opened his palm to expose the red stones to the fire again, holding them just at the right angle so that they would catch and reflect the light, everyone sighed at once. The guards, once again, leaned forward and pursed their lips in indecision.

Durvasa’s fist snapped shut once again. ‘But if you insist on seeing the royal seal which Uddalaka so regrettably forgot to carry with her, I think not that we shall come here again. There are enough Great Kingdoms on the other side of the Ganga who would give half their lands for a treasure such as this!’

‘But sir,’ said the guard, ‘we have orders not to let anyone in without either a brand or the king’s seal.’

‘We have the mark of Magadha on our arms, my man,’ said Durvasa, showing him his arm again. ‘I was born there, and I dare say I pledged my loyalty to King Jarasandha when I gave up my dear sister – my only sister – up for his court. Why, Uddalaka, have I not?’ Pritha nodded, and before she could speak, Durvasa said, ‘And what of Uddalaka herself, her prime of youth dedicated to the service of the king and his many needs. We worship the land of Magadha as much as you worship Mathura, and do we not all want the friendship of the two lands to last till the end of time?’

‘Yes,’ the guard agreed, ‘we do, yes.’

Durvasa drew back, returned the gems into his bag, and sighed deeply. ‘Ah, but if you men do not let us pass without the seal, you shall only be doing your duties.’ Upon getting an eager nod from the guard, he patted him on the shoulder. ‘We shall turn back if that is what you wish, but keep in mind, my man, that this may enrage King Jarasandha, and you may get a messenger from him soon, and he
shall
bear the seal; oh, he shall.’ Durvasa took Pritha’s hand in his and turned his back on the bemused guard. ‘Come, Uddalaka,’ he said, ‘let us go back and tell High King Jarasandha that his loyal servants are no longer welcome in Mathura. It will sadden him, yes, but that is the truth.’ They took a few steps away from the gate, and the group of traders in front of them stepped aside to allow them to pass.

‘Wait,’ said the guard, after they had descended the stairs. ‘Do not leave, trader.’

Durvasa stopped, but did not turn back.

‘Perhaps you are who you say you are,’ said the guard.

Durvasa threw him a scornful look over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps? If you so doubt me, guard, let me go and you shall have your answer –
perhaps
– in a few days from the High King himself. Can the town of Mathura afford to foster enmity with a kingdom as mighty as Magadha? Ask yourself that, guard, and you shall have your answer. Perhaps!’

The guard’s partner, a frail man with greying hair, who had hitherto stood watching, now sprang into action. Angrily waving the younger man into silence, he pottered down the steps and stood by Durvasa, bowing with his hands joined. ‘Fie! Fie on him for having spoken to our esteemed guests that way. I beg your forgiveness for both of us, sire. Please pass, and please take with us good tidings for Kamsa, the lord of Mathura.’

Durvasa looked at him with fury in his face for a long moment. Then he relented and said, ‘I do not wish to raise hell when you men are just doing your jobs. But I do wish you learn to tell real noblemen from tricksters.’

‘He … he is new, my lord, and he is quite young. Please forgive him, and please come, my lord. Please, my lady, please come.’ The man clambered back up the stairs, bowing to them after each step, and he nearly stumbled and fell once or twice. Back at the entrance, under the arch, Durvasa laid a hand on the young guard’s shoulder and nodded.

‘I am pleased by your spirit,’ he said. ‘If all kingdoms had guards like you, no spies will escape alive. But not all of us are spies, my man.’

The young guard murmured: ‘I beg your forgiveness, my lord.’ His face was wrought tight, Pritha noticed. If it were not for the glowering older man by his side who elbowed him in the hip, she doubted if the fellow would have bowed to them.

Durvasa dove into his bag and brought out two stones, and holding them out to the old man, dropped them into his palm. ‘One for each of you,’ he said. ‘Let it not be said that the subjects of Jarasandha have not inherited his generosity.’ At this, both the guards smiled, and after slipping the gems into their pockets, they signalled to the gatekeeper to let them pass.

EIGHT

P
ritha wore her veil as they entered the streets of Mathura. It was long after sunset, so the lamps in front of the huts on either side of the road had retreated within themselves. Here and there, people sat on rocking wicker chairs on their front porch, sipping buttermilk from their brass vessels, stopping their conversation to stare at them as they passed. Pritha held her veil in one hand and kept her head bowed. Through the light yellow fabric the lamps appeared to be nothing more than smudges, but she could clearly see curiosity on people’s faces. Here was a city that did not like visitors, she thought, twisting her nose against the smell of cattle dung that hung in the air.

They passed the streets and made their way toward the river, where the farmhouses lay. Durvasa walked with a sure step, as though he had come here before. He did not stop to talk to anyone, but she noticed he wore on his face the smile of a priest, and the ash on his body gave him an exotic, sacred appearance. Whenever a bunch of rustic men would pass them, he would take her hand in his and pull her a little closer.

Soon the path narrowed, and on both sides of her Pritha saw open fields. Only a few of them were flourishing, though, she noticed, and she remembered someone say to her long back that though Mathura was in between the two great rivers, the soil was muddy and wet, which meant large expanses of land were infertile. Even here she could see great patches of brown splotched across the green fields.

Each field, though, had a shed for cows and a barn full of caged containers which housed hens. All along her walk Pritha had to keep her nose bent at an angle so that she could at least close one nostril against the foul smell. Cows called out to their young ones, bulls snorted, buffaloes brayed, and tiny white chickens hopped and skipped along the ground, pecking at the soil.

Most of the houses she saw were made of brick and stone, and even here, out of the way of the main streets, every house appeared as though it had been just washed. In front of most houses she saw the picture of the golden discus that she had seen on top of the arch. Here the lamps appeared brighter; whether they really were or if they appeared so because there were no fires about (as they were on the streets), she did not know. The moon was perched at the sky’s zenith, and once in a while Durvasa raised his head to look at it, as though drawing strength from it.