Indradhwaja - II

                The day after the sacrifice ended, Vasu had called for a council of his generals. There were four of them, and he looked at them as they took their seats on either side of him in the small court in his palace that he had reserved for meetings.  Babhru was tall and stooping, well into his middle age. He was a distant uncle of Vasu’s on his mother’s side. A fierce warrior with the mace, he had wide shoulders and a bald pate with grey hair flowing down from the temples in thin curls. Raghava was equally tall and built like a bull, with bulky forearms and a hairy chest. His thickly bearded face had a constant frown, which made him seem perpetually angry. He was the only one among the four of them who was from Chedi. Born as a woodcutter’s son, he had killed more than twenty of Vasu’s soldiers in the Battle of Suktimati ten years ago. Then there was Padmaketana, lean and wiry, just a couple of years younger than Vasu and the youngest among those present. He was a skilled marksman and Vasu’s right hand man. The man most important among the four was Paijavana, a short, stout man with a cheerful countenance and mischievous darting eyes that never missed a thing. He could speak more dialects than any other man that Vasu knew and had travelled far and wide. He had many spies in his employ throughout the lands and it was he that opened the conversation.

                “The young Kuru king has taken a wife” said Paijavana. “You would have known Shantanu. He is still as impetuous as he was when he was a child.”

                Vasu nodded. Shantanu had been a constantly bawling brat of six when Vasu had bid farewell to old King Pratipa.

                “I hear” continued Paijavana, “that his wife is almost twice his age.”

                “That brat’s uncles would have thrown a fit” grumbled Babhru.

                “They are old and weak. My king, the time is ripe if Hastinapura is to be picked. Shantanu is too busy with his new found trophy and there are no warriors of note in Hastinapura.”

                “I will not turn against the Kurus” said Vasu firmly. “Kurujangala might be rich and prosperous, but they provided for me in my childhood. Old King Pratipa was as close, a father to me as my own long gone sire. I will not turn against his son.”

                Paijavana turned quiet.

                “What of Magadha?” asked Vasu.

                “Magadha?” bellowed Babhru. “What is there in Magadha?”

                “Cattle” piped up Paijavana, “the greatest horde of cattle east of Panchala and the greatest horde of gold east of Kashi.”

                “Girivraja cannot be felled. Many have tried to break the knot in the mountains and as many have failed.”

                The scowling woodcutter’s son spoke. “Afraid, old man?”

                “How dare you, you arrogant brute? Come to the arena and I will show you a thing or two about my fear with my mace.”

                “Silent” said Vasu.

                “Correct me if I am wrong, my king” said Paijavana, showing a wide smile of perfectly shaped white teeth. “I believe you have an eye on the east.”

                “I do. The east is relatively weak, but for Magadha. Surround Girivraja and plunder Anga and Kikata. The valley of Girivraja is abundant, but I do not think it is abundant enough to feed their cattle for a whole year. They will need the grazing fields to replenish once a cycle is through. They have to bring their cattle out of the knot in the mountains and we will not allow them to do it. They either let their cattle starve and starve with them or they let us take as many of their cattle as we want.”

                “And as much gold too” said Padmaketana in a low voice.

                “I do not want to conquer Magadha, just plunder enough to appease the gods and their hungry priests.”

                Babhru nodded.

                “Why my lord that is an excellent thought” exclaimed the spymaster.

                “It is done then.”

                “As you wish my lord” said the woodcutter. “I will make sure you have an akshauhini ready by winter.”

                “And I will take care of the arms, horses and elephants” said the young archer.

                “Good” said Vasu. “Let us plunder enough to shut up Indra and his priests once and for all. I do not want to go to war again.”

Indradhwaja - I

                Gusts of wind blew up swirling clouds of dust into the eyes of the people gathered to witness the sacrifice. A large piece of ground had been marked and consecrated a year ago for the event. For the last seven days, the crowd had gathered in the morning, most of them travelling by foot from the city that lay to the south of the sacrificial ground. Every day a sacrifice had been made before the thirty foot long pole known as the Indradhwaja, or Indra’s pole. This year too, there had been little rain like the last one and that had only encouraged the priests of Chedi to be more vocal about the need for the sacrifice. A large platform of earth had been raised in the middle of which were burning three huge fires. The king of Chedi sat by the middle one, facing east pouring libations of clarified butter into the fire as the priests around him chanted hymns to the god of gods. Away to his left, just beyond the edge of the platform was a bamboo pole rising some twenty feet into the air. It was wrapped in strips of red and white cloth as well as thin strings of gold.

                As the fire crackled and burned sending stinging clouds of smoke into his eyes, Vasu wondered how he had let himself be talked into this. A year ago, he had been enjoying his life with his wife and their three children with the fourth one on its way. He was still in the prime of youth and had been happy and contented. At the edge of just twenty he had led his own army east from the lands of his ancestors, the Kurus. He had crossed the Yamuna and plundered the city of Suktimati on the eponymous river. The Chedis had capitulated on the first day of battle itself. Vasu was an able commander and a determined warrior, trained in the gurukula outside Hastinapura. He had not wanted to remain on the fringes of the court of the Kurus however and had decided to found his own kingdom. Chedi was not much of a kingdom before Vasu arrived, just a lose group of villages surrounding Suktimati on the western bank of the Suktimati river. There was no king and no army. His soldiers had broken through the ragtag bunch of peasants and hunters who had armed themselves with primitive axes of stone to fight the invaders from the west. The wooden palisade surrounding the city stood no chance against his elephants, although there had been just ten of them. The beasts broke down the wall and quite a few houses, before Vasu had ordered a stop to the carnage.

                He had rebuilt the city, with a strong mud wall several feet thick surrounding it. There had been no king in Suktimati and hence, no palace. He had a grand palace built for himself and brought his wife and his year old son. Priests had chanted hymns and anointed him King of Chedi. That was ten years ago. All that he had wanted was his own kingdom to rule and he had obtained it. He settled down to enjoy his youth with his wife and his children. But the priests were never content. They had seen his prowess in battle and had known the plunder that was possible with his abilities. Persistently they had tried to seduce him to battle, to further his conquests, to expand his kingdom. But Vasu had not been interested. That was until the draught of the last year. The rain god was angry warned the acolytes of Indra. A king and a kshatriya should always look for the benefit of his people, they had said. And the benefit of his people demanded that he make sacrifices in the name of the god of rain and thunder. A great sacrifice would be conducted to honour Indra and Indra himself had ordered that the festival of Indra’s pole, the Indradhwaja be celebrated in Chedi.

                For a year every single morning, he had rode out from his palace to the vast sacrificial ground to the north of the city where the pole had been erected and had prayed to it and made offerings to the brahmanas and the priests. The festival had culminated in the grand sacrificed that would carry on for seven days. Every morning, afternoon and evening, sacrifices would be made to the king of gods, while the king offered libations to the holy fires. The priests of Suktimati had grown fat over the year even as the rest of the city stood on the brink of starvation. Yet, they had not been satisfied. On the first day of the seven day festival, they had prophesied that Chedi would again be prosperous only if the king would ride out to war. The plunder of his conquests would be offered to Indra, in the form of his priests of course and then and only then would Indra be appeased and grant mercy on the people of Chedi. “To war, to war!” had been the chant of the crowds gathered to witness the sacrifice on that day and Vasu had found himself trapped. He had raised a hand and silenced the crowd and then promised them that they would go to war once the sacrifice was over. The smiling priests had then presented him with a chariot which they claimed had been sent by Indra himself. The chariot was made of a wood that Vasu had never before seen and was constructed in a strange fashion. It seemed to be lighter than any of his own chariots, although he had still not ridden it. The priests had proclaimed that Vasu would be invincible in the Indraratha or the chariot of Indra. The crowds had once again cheered and shouted for battle.

                Another gust of wind blew the flames towards Vasu’s face and the sudden blast of heat brought him out of his reverie. The chanting of the priests was reaching a crescendo. Somewhere in the background, a goat was bleating, the one that was to be sacrificed in some time from now. His fourth son, a baby of ten months was bawling in his mother’s arms a few yards away. Suddenly, Vasu wanted to flee the scene when the chanting stopped. The chief priest had raised a hand and was pointing at the sky to the north. Vasu saw a flock of white swans flying towards them from the north. As the king, the priests and the spectators stared at the flock, it slowly circled around the sacrificial ground descending until one by one, the swans landed near the Indradhwaja. They were more than fifty in number, silently walking around the pole, fluffing their feathers. And then, as suddenly as they landed they took off again and rose to the sky heading south. The crowd stared in amazement even as Vasu turned to the chief priest who had closed his eyes and seemed to be in a trance. The flock of swans rose higher and higher as they flew south and soon they had turned into specks in the sky. Vasu’s own hand had stopped in mid air with a ladle of clarified butter as he had watched the swans, the butter dripped from the ladle crackling into the fire and startling him. The chief priest opened his eyes and stood up.

                “The gods have spoken” he proclaimed in a high, strong voice. “Indra himself has blessed this sacrifice with every man and woman here bearing witness. It is the wish of the god of gods that Vasu, the King of Chedi become the King of Kings on this earth. He has blessed the chariot that he has sent down to help the king and has ordered that his pole be carried into battle at the head of the king’s army, for it will strike fear into the heart of his enemies and render them helpless against his attacks.” The crowd cheered loudly. “Rise my king” said the priest turning to Vasu, “rise and be known as Uparichara, the one who flies through the skies, for when you course across the earth towards your enemies, they will verily feel that you are a god descending upon them from the heavens bringing his wrath.” An acolyte appeared from somewhere with a garland of lotuses in his hand. Vasu stood up, towering over the shorter, bald-headed priest who had headed the sacrificial rites. He bowed as the priest placed the garland around his neck.

“To victory” shouted the priest, turning to the crowds.

                “To war! To war! To war!” shouted the crowds.

Daughter of the Mountains - II

The next evening as the sun was going down in the west, Ganga walked toward the tent that the charanas had set up for her and her friends and attendants. As she entered the tent, the girls were giggling at a private joke. Ganga herself was bursting with happiness. As she walked in, all the girls broke off their laughter at once and stared at her. She felt a blush creep up to her face.

                “What” she cried, trying hard not to smile.

                “Nothing at all, my princess” said the youngest of the girls, a slender fair skinned girl of ten and four named Nandini. “They were wondering if we will all be moving to Hastinapura now.”

                “Now why ever would they get such an idea?” said Ganga laughing. They all laughed as well.

                They teased her throughout dinner, but she remained silent, lost within herself smiling and laughing at their jokes without even listening to what they were saying. Later, she lay awake tossing and turning, pretending to be asleep as the girls continue to chatter until one by one, they all too fell asleep. Suddenly, Ganga felt something move at her leg and turned around.

                It was Alaka, her closest fried among the girls. She was crept across to Ganga and lay down beside her covering herself with the same, huge sheepskin blanket as Ganga.

                “So tell me” she whispered.

                Ganga turned to the curious dark eyes staring at her in the half light of the dying embers of the fire that lay smoking in the centre of the tent.

                “We talked all day.”

                “Come now, Ganga. I know that. Tell me what you talked about my princess.”

                “The king has graciously proposed that we be wedded.”

                “And? Did you say yes?”

                “Not right away. How could I?”

                “Still you did agree?”

                Ganga nodded silently.

                “Are you sure about this, my princess?” asked her friend. “You will need to go away to Hastinapura.”

                “I know, I know” replied the princess of the Kushikas, sighing softly. “I thought a lot about this. I am not of age with him. True, I am a princess and it might even serve to flatter myself by saying that I am still beautiful, but you know as well as me, Alaka. I am not young.”

                “My princess,” said the girl, “you may easily pass for a girl of ten and eight, I daresay.”

                “Still the Lord of Time awaits no one. Ten years hence, I might not be as beautiful and the good king will be in the prime of youth. What then? I must need to safeguard my position and my freedom if I become the queen of the Kurus. So I laid down a condition.”

                “What did you say?”

                “I asked of the king that I never be questioned for my acts, nor reprimanded. He is to never raise objection to either any of the things I do, nor question my intentions behind them.”

                Alaka smiled. “What young lover would say no to that? How much I would that all lovers honour that promise, that and the promise to get us the moon.”

                “That is not all” said Ganga. “I have also told the king that he would ever break his word, I would leave him and never return again.”

Daughter of the Mountains - I

That night, Ganga lay awake in the small tent which was next to the tent of the charanas. Her four attendants were sleeping soundly beside and around her, while she was thinking of the young boy king that she had met that evening. She was thinking that he could not be more than ten and eight years of age, almost half of her own age. He looked rather a lot like his father with his dark eyes and bushy eyebrows, a bulbous nose and thick lips. When he had come and sat down beside her, she had instantly recognized him by his looks. They had brought back memories of almost ten and nine years ago when she had met King Pratipa at Gangadwara.

                Back then, Pratipa had come to that holy place in the foothills of the Himavata named after the gates of Ganga where the mighty river fell from the lofty heights of the mountains to the plains below. Pratipa must have been in his thirties then, but he had looked much older as he stood in the powerful currents of the Ganga offering tribute to the gods and the ancestors. That was when she had first seen him. He was not particularly handsome, only good looking in a certain way. She had not known who he was and had approached him hesitantly and bashfully as he sat drying himself in the sun later. He courteously answered her questions with much civility and humility. She had been just a young girl of ten and six, nervous and frightened as she approached him but proud of her beauty and confident of her lineage. When she told him that she was a maiden of marriageable age and that her father was looking for a worthy suitor, he had grasped her hints and answered politely but firmly. Kings were known to take many wives, he had said, but he himself was devoted to his one queen. He had left her for the sake of their unborn son, for whose health and fortune he was praying for. He had accepted that she was beautiful, so beautiful he had said that she looked like a goddess. But, she was of an age to be his daughter rather than wife. Again, he had accepted that many king of his age would take girls of her age to wife, but he was very sorry that he could not do so. Bravely, she had bit back her tears as she had climbed the rocky slopes above the Ganga to her father’s pavilion. She had been a young girl full of dreams and seeing the king had enflamed her desires, only to be nipped at the bud by him.

                Yet, rejection had not affected her much, for in her heart she believed that she would one day find the right man, brave, strong and gentle, with a good heart. After all, she had been prophesied to marry a great king and give birth to a fearsome warrior who would attain great fame. The prophecy had been made by a wandering rishi or a sage who had come to her father’s house when she had been, but an infant. The sage had told her father of an ancient legend of the King Mahabhisha, who had desired to marry Ganga, the goddess of the river that was her namesake. However, he being human and she being a goddess, he could not marry her. But unbeknownst to him, the goddess of the river had also fallen in love with the human and she had resolved that in his later birth, she would be born in human form to be one with him. The sage had prophesied that Ganga was the river goddess born on earth and she would marry a great king who had once been Mahabhisha in his previous birth. Ganga had heard of the legend growing up and had not paid much heed to it in her childishness. But after her first attempt at love had ended in heartbreak, she had consoled herself with the fantastic prophecy and waited in anticipation for a king or a prince to come and sweep her off her feet. The years had rolled by and no one had come. Of course, her father had arranged suitors for her, but she had found none to her liking. The image of Pratipa had been etched in her mind and the dark, deep, soulful eyes of his had constantly beckoned to her.

                Now, she had seen that same soulful expression in Shantanu’s eyes. Something stirred within her, drawing her to his being, filling her mind with his face. Yet, he was almost half as old as she was and she wondered if it would be prudent to encourage his advances. He was a young king of a vast and potentially powerful country, of that there was no doubt. But, talking to him, she could make out that he had grown up in a protected environment, without too much knowledge of the world beyond his own. Yet, he had learnt the scriptures, the histories of his line and whatever little philosophy had been taught to him and was interesting to converse with. She herself had grown up in close contact with many of the wandering sages and saints who came to the snowy heights of the Himavata for penance and meditation. She loved the snowy hills and the cold climate of her home. Yes, she had come down to the plains every spring to enjoy its lush, bright beauty, but she wondered if she would feel at home here in the sweltering heat of the long summers. She wondered if life in Hastinapura would be suited for her. Shantanu seemed to be of a gentle heart and calm temperament. But would he remain so was to be seen. He was still young, naive and still new to the heady intoxication of power. She would have to question him and test him, before she agreed to be his queen. She kept thinking about these things far into the night until sleep overcame her finally.

The Young King - III

Shantanu sighed and went in the other direction, where the Ganga flowed gently beyond the edge of the camp.

                Evening was descending on the camp and the sun was low in the west behind the young king as he walked down the grassy slopes towards the wide, white sandbank that edged the river. He passed the tent of the charanas away to his right and he could still hear the low singing of the charanas and the laughter of the women. He was still barefoot and the warmth of the sand caught him by surprise. Inside the woods it had been humid, but not quite as hot in the shade of the trees. Here, the sand had scorched in the sun all day long and although evening was setting in, it was still hot to the touch. He walked down quickly trying to get himself to the water soon. The water was still several yards away and he found himself in a quick jog now to reach the river, to save his feet from the blistering sand. The Ganga was swelling slowly now, the spring thaws of the Himavata feeding the millions of streams somewhere beyond the gate in the mountains called Gangadwara, the Door of Ganga. As he found the water and let its relieving coolness wash over his feet, he heard the sound of laughter, sweet as the tinkling of bells. He turned around and then he saw her, to his left, sitting on a low rock by the edge of the water, the flowing, gurgling waves playing around her feet. He felt his heart skip a beat. She was beautiful, ethereal.

                She was looking at him through deep, brown eyes still laughing, one hand raised to her mouth. Her skin was as white as cream and the white garments that she wore only served to make her seem fairer. Long, dark curls of hair fell down her bare shoulders, like waves of night. Shantanu was so mesmerized that he could only see her lips move, not hear her voice. He stood there dumbfounded for moments until he heard a voice, as if from far away.

                “Who are you?”

                He realized that the words that he was hearing were coming from the soft, pink lips that were mesmerizing him, but words would not form in his mouth.

                “I... I... Shantanu... Siddha of Hastinapura...” he blabbered.

                She laughed again. The sound was so sweet that he wished she would keep laughing forever.

                “I am Ganga” she replied.

                “You are?” He got down to one knee. “I did not realize I was in front of a goddess. I apologize for my rudeness.”

                “I am not a goddess” she replied laughing again. “I am Ganga, the daughter of Jahnu, king of the Kushikas. What is the king of Hastinapura doing in a camp of Siddhas?”

                “Well, we were on a hunt and we came across the camp and decided to rest here for the night.” He seemed to have found his wits again now and he walked to her and sat down on the wet sand beside her, leaving his feet in the water. The sand was still warm here, even though the moisture of the river had seeped through leaving it less than scorching. “I could ask the same of you however. What is the princess of the Kushikas doing here, so far away from home and in the company of naked, celibate mendicants?” He grinned broadly.

                She frowned at him in mock anger. “Beware of your words king. Are you questioning my chastity?”

                “Apologies if your feelings have been hurt my lady. But, I was just wondering. I have never heard of Kushikas coming down from the mountains.” The Kushikas were a mountain tribe who had the same common ancestors as the Kurus. The founder of the Kushika clan was one King Jahnu, son of the Kuru king Ajamidha. Ajamidha had had three wives, Dhumini of Gandhara, Nili of Vaishali and Keshini of the Kekayas. Their sons had fought over the kingdom of Ajamidha and the warrior king of old had divided his kingdom into three. The lands to the west of the Ganga up to the river Saraswati, he had given to Riksha, his eldest son, the lands to the east of the Ganga he had given to the sons of Nili, Dushmanta and Parmeshthi and to his sons from Keshini, he gave the mountainous strongholds in the foothills of the Himavata, the regions beloved to the gods. While the Panchalas and the Kurus continued their skirmishes and forays on the plains, the Kushikas had never left their scenic mountain sanctuaries north of Gangadwara.

                “You speak true king” she said. “We do not come down from the mountains. But I love the spring and the colours that it brings. I come down here for a few days every spring, just when the icy folds of the heavens above us start to thaw.”

                “I thank the heavens for the spring” he said. “For if it were not for the spring, you would not come down from the mountains and I would not see you.”

                She laughed again. “You are just a boy are you not” she teased.

                He grinned back sheepishly.

The Young King - II

“Siddhas” whispered Sunetra to Shantanu. Sure enough, Shantanu saw them. The Siddhas were wandering ascetics who wore nothing but a loincloth to hide their nakedness. They were men who had supposedly attained the eight attributes of perfection or the eight siddhis. Endued with magical powers, they were said to be capable of transforming themselves at will changing their size and shape. They spoke with others only when it was absolutely necessary and even among themselves, they spoke only rarely and even then in monosyllables. Sensitive to jibes and even to the occasional stare, they were known to flare up easily in anger and curse people, one of the few times that they talked to others outside their sect.

                Shantanu saw them in all shapes and sizes, tall ones and short, bald ones and great bearded ones with heavy knots of matted hair. Some had anointed themselves with ash and some had covered their foreheads in vermilion, but they were all without exception naked save the loincloth that they wore on a girdle around the waist. The group of huntsmen stopped on the edge of the camp on a signal from Sunetra.

                “Stay behind” he said in a low voice turning to the followers. “The king and I will be entering the camp.” The two attendants carrying the deer set down their load on the grass as Shantanu and Sunetra came down from their horses. They slipped out of their leather shoes and walked towards the camp, barefoot. The Siddhas considered leather as unclean and impure, to wear shoes inside their camp would be a certain invitation of their wrath. As they neared the camp, the duo heard a low singing as well as the laughter of women. It came from somewhere to the rear of the camp near the river and they made their way among the tents in the direction of the voices, trying their best to ignore the stares of the naked mendicants. Skirting their way around the centre where the fires were burning, they were suddenly struck by a pungent, stinging odour which had them coughing with tears in their eyes. Shantanu gripped his uncle’s arm in fear.

                “Go... go... gold” the old warrior whispered. “They are trying to make gold.”

                But of course, thought Shantanu. The Siddhas were rumoured to have learnt to turn anything into gold, but even among the Siddhas that knowledge was not common. A siddha had to undergo rigorous experiments and learn it firsthand. The most accomplished among the Siddhas knew two great secrets, the ability to transform material into gold and the ability to concoct amrita, the elixir of life which could bring back the dead. Shantanu was wondering about the mysterious lives of the naked and holy mendicants, when they came to a tent of black hide from which the low singing was emanating.

                His uncle was smiling. “Charanas” he said. “Come child. We may be able to rest here after all.” He entered the tent. Shantanu followed him inside.

                Inside the tent sitting around the embers of a fire were seven men dressed in the black robes of the celestial singers who called themselves the charanas. Some claimed that they were gods, others were less sure of their divinity, but they too like the Siddhas were wandering men, who sang praises of the gods. They walked bare foot and hence the name charanas, which meant barefooted in the language of the gods. The charanas, unlike the Siddhas were friendly folk and Shantanu found his uncle whispering softly to the black robed singer in the centre, obviously the leader. Beside him sat four women of fair complexion and lustrous black hair. Shantanu wondered whether they were the wives of the charanas, when they leader stood up.

                “Let us go and talk to them my sire” he said beaming, revealing crooked and large white teeth. Sunetra beckoned Shantanu to follow as he left the tent with the leader. Once again, Shantanu more than a little puzzled at the happenings followed his uncle back outside the tent. The charana led uncle and nephew to the fires.

                “Stay here” he said hoarsely and leaving them at the edge of the clearing in the centre of which the fires blazed, walked to the biggest fire of the three where a man sat pouring libations into the fire. Is that soma, wondered Shantanu as he saw the man bend low and whisper to the naked priest who was feeding the fire. The priest stared back at the charana, his eyes registering displeasure and the charana once again whispered to him. This time, he had said something more convincing for the siddha nodded in agreement. The charana rose beaming once again and walked back to the two royals waiting for him.

                “You can rest here for the night my sires” he said. “Of course you will have to leave your horses outside the camp and any arms that you may be carrying. Also, no leather and no meat. If you have been successful in your hunt and want to enjoy the spoils, I suggest you finish the dinner outside the camp. There is another clearing beyond the bend in the river to the north. It is downwind from here and will not carry the scents of your dinner to our holy friends.”

                “Much obliged sir” said Sunetra. “The king of Hastinapura will remember your help.”

                “Well, I certainly hope so” replied the charana winking at Shantanu. “Perhaps you may visit us after you have dined on meat. I hear soma agrees very well to the palate after meat.” He laughed loudly.

                “We will be grateful” said the uncle. The black robed singer walked away, back in the direction of his tent. Sunetra turned to Shantanu.

                “I will go and give instructions to the other my king. Why don’t you refresh yourself by the river? I will meet you at the tent of the charanas in some time.”

                “That is agreeable to me uncle. Perhaps you can ask the attendants to get the deer cooking soon. I am famished indeed.”

                “We will not be having venison for dinner tonight child. Do not take everything these people say literally. They are just testing our faith and our respect for them. We will partake of the fruits and the roots that they have. It will be an insult to them to ask them to refuse the food that they serve us after asking them to take us in for the night. The charanas will not mind too much, but I cannot say the same about the mendicants.”

                Shantanu’s heart fell a little. But his uncle continued “Of course the part about the soma was true. We shall most definitely partake of that as well” he winked at his nephew. “See you in a bit” he said turning towards where they had left behind their attendants.

 Shantanu sighed and went in the other direction, where the Ganga flowed gently beyond the edge of the camp.

The Young King - I

The forest was thickly wooded, sunlight only finding its way through in places and then, diffused by the net of leaves above. However, the signs of spring were obvious even in the dark half light under the evergreen trees. Creepers grew here and there sprouting leaves of bright green and the undergrowth was a pastel of rich colour. The hunting party picked its way among the woods slowly, the sound of the horse hooves and human feet muffled by a carpet of thick grass and leaves. There were twelve of them, four on horseback, and the rest on foot. At the head of the party rode a young man clad in the fine robes of royalty and with him an older man of greying hair and beard. It was the younger one who had been hunting. The foot soldiers followed the couple, with spears in their hands and ropes tied around their waists. Two of them carried the carcass of a dead deer calf slung on a pole. It was fresh kill and the party would dine on venison that night. The hunt had lasted for four days now and the young king had been leading them deeper and deeper into the forest. This was his first hunt, not counting the solitary excursion with his father years ago. But back then, he had been a mere spectator.

                “... and I didn’t realize it at that time, but it was just a cub” the king was saying.

                “And so it was” said the grey-haired man who was his uncle.

                “Was Devapi as good a marksman as I am” enquired the king.

                His uncle chuckled. “Yes, as good if not better. But remember child, you are king now, not your brother. He is with the gods now and the forefathers.”

                Devapi was the eldest son of King Pratipa, the young king’s father. Although Shantanu had never seen him, he had grown up hearing about the virtues of his eldest brother. At the age of fourteen, Devapi had been strong, skilled and wise. The people had adored Pratipa who was good, just and god-fearing, but they had adored Devapi even more for not only had he possessed Pratipa’s mental abilities, but he was also physically adept, something that could not be said of Pratipa. Devapi had been an excellent marksman, accomplished with the sword and the mace, good at riding the horse and an outstanding wrestler. Maidens had been fawning over him and priests and soldiers had praised him as an able leader and eventually an able ruler. But Time had other ideas. He had been afflicted by a terrible skin-disease. Pratipa had tried to keep the knowledge of the disease secret. He had called physicians from far and wide, but the disease had no cure and by the time the boy was sixteen, his affliction was common knowledge at Hastinapura. Yet, he was loved by the people and Pratipa had planned to go ahead and crown him the king-in-waiting. He was opposed however, by the priests who claimed that the gods had ordained that one so afflicted could not take the throne. Pratipa had resisted at first, but he had been too god-fearing a man to oppose the priests and soon his resistance had weakened. Devapi himself had made matters easy on the old king. He had decided to renounce the material pleasures of the world and become an ascetic. That decision had broken Pratipa’s heart, but he had agreed.

                Pratipa had another son, Mridukesha. However, at birth Mridukesha had been promised to Shivi, his maternal grandfather. Shivi, the Vahlika had no children but Sunanda, who was Pratipa’s wife and to continue his line, he had asked to adopt Pratipa’s second-born. Mridukesha had grown up in the sandy, rocky hills of Vahlika far to the northwest, among his grandfather’s fierce tribe of horsemen. He was more a Vahlika than a Kuru, for although he continued to visit his father every year, every year Pratipa had seen him grow apart from the customs and cultures of the Kurus. After Devapi became an ascetic, Pratipa had tried to convince Shivi to let Mridukesha return to Hastinapura, but the boy himself had protested. He had grown to love the mountainous lands of Vahlika, the extremes of climates, the miles and miles of barren waste and the fierce warriors of the mountain clan. The Kuru lands with its humid weather, thick forests and sparkling rivers were alien to him, a second home at best. And so, Pratipa had prayed fervently to the gods for another son. Shantanu was born.

                Shantanu had grown up hearing stories of Devapi’s virtues and prowess. From his first words to his first faltering steps, from his first games in the great court of Hastinapura’s palace to his graduation from the gurukula on the outskirts of the city, he had been continuously compared to Devapi. He had taken the comparisons in good stead, pushing himself to be better than his peers, better, in his mind, than the ghost of his brother who was constantly with him. His parents had nervously watched him for signs of illness, but none appeared and he was soon named crown prince. Five months ago, his father had succumbed to the passage of Time and he had been crowned the king of the Kurus.

                The Kuru kings had all known to have a passion for hunting. Pratipa however, had been an exception and Shantanu had gone on a hunt only once with his father and that, when he was barely a child of eight. Sunetra, his uncle had accompanied them then as he was now, as they rode in search of a clearing to camp for the night.

Sunetra was the younger of his two uncles. Sunetra’s brother, Dharmanetra had been as pious and as peaceful a man as Pratipa himself. However, Sunetra unlike his other brothers had a bit of the old warrior in him and it was he that had trained Shantanu in archery and horse riding. Uncle and nephew were rather close to each other and Shantanu would always look to him in times of need for counsel.

                “Fire ahead” shouted one of the riders in the rear, pointing ahead somewhere to Shantanu’s right. Sure enough, Shantanu could see smoke in the distance from among the trees. There appeared to be a clearing of some sort where fires had been lit and the party rode towards it. Soon, they came out of the woods into a wide clearing clinging to the banks of the Ganga. The clearing was dotted with tents of various shapes and sizes and in the centre, burned three great fires. The party rode towards the scattered camp in a slow trot.