The Wrath of the Hellfires, page 51
“The Samrat said I could remain in his council for as long as I wanted, and I would always be welcome in the palace.”
Seeing Pralupi shake her head irritably, his resolve had strengthened. “Even if uncle hadn’t said all that, I would go, mother. It is by not going that I will definitely lose everything.”
Ghatakarpara squinted in the harsh sun of the frontier, surveying the bedraggled cluster of houses that made up the hamlet of Balipura, clinging to the side of a small hill. It was a little past noon, and the houses were all shuttered, the windows closed to keep the day’s heat out. There wasn’t a soul stirring anywhere, the land flat and open to the east, the barren Arbudas rising to the west.
The prince spurred his horse, and in minutes, he neared the first set of houses. He sniffed the air searchingly before passing on, riding along the wide, mud-paved lane that served as Balipura’s main road. He rode slowly, sniffing all the while until his nose detected the delicate fragrance of aguru.
My grandfather makes the best incense in all of Malawa, he remembered Aparupa once telling him.
Ghatakarpara drew to a halt before a large house from where the fragrances of goparasa and sandalwood joined that of aguru and lifted into the still midday air. The house was walled off from outside, the only visible entry through an old door made of heavy wood. The door was latched shut from inside.
Dismounting, the prince crossed to the door and pushed at it. It barely budged. He knocked.
There was no response.
He knocked again, harder. Then he pushed the door repeatedly, rattling the latch inside.
“Who is it?”
Ghatakarpara’s world went still. So still he could hear his heart beating in his chest.
“Aparupa?” he called in a hushed, disbelieving voice.
“Who is it?” the voice repeated, with a note of uncertainty.
“It’s me.”
Silence.
“Aparupa… I have come for you.”
Silence.
“Open the door, Aparupa… please.”
Silence.
“I have left everything and come to be with—”
“You lied to me.”
Ghatakarpara leaned on the door in desperation, hands rolled into fists, pleading.
“I am sorry for everything, Aparupa, but I can explain—”
“Go away.”
“Please listen to me—”
The sound of a door shutting. Heavy, decisive and permanent.
“Aparupa, please… just listen to me…” Ghatakarpara knocked on the door. “I am here for you. I am not returning to the palace… You are all that matters to me…”
The boy had no idea how long he stood at that door, cajoling the silence behind it. When he finally stepped away, sick and miserable at heart, his shadow was no longer stumpy underfoot; instead, it leaned along the wall at a crooked angle, a lonely human shadow among a hodgepodge of angular roof shadows.
Unable to decide what to do next, unwilling to turn away, desperately hoping Aparupa would relent and that the door would suddenly open for him, he stood staring—
“Aaaaaa… aaau…”
Ghatakarpara turned to see Dveeja on the road behind him. The man’s eyes were bright, and he looked happy to see the prince.
“Uuuh… aaaii…” he mouthed, grinning. “Aaaa…”
“Dveeja,” the prince looked at the man in anguish. “Aparupa doesn’t want to see me.”
“Aaai… uuuu…?” Dveeja looked at the prince, his face crumpling with concern.
The boy nodded, feeling the weight of the world in his chest. “She is not willing to listen to me; she won’t even open the door.” He hung his head in dejection.
“Uuuu… uuh…” Dveeja grabbed the prince by his arms and shook him. “Ai… aaaa…” he beckoned, waving his hand as he started moving to the side of the house. “Aaaaa…” he called, looking back, making sure Ghatakarpara was following.
Turning a corner, they followed the wall to a small stone well at the back of the house. A narrow door had been built into the wall next to the well. Bending low, Dveeja slipped past the door, motioning to the prince to do likewise.
Once inside the compound, Dveeja led the way to a side door, which was also closed.
“Aaai…” he called. “Aaa… uh…”
Footsteps.
The door opened to frame Aparupa in a rectangle of semi-shadow. She stared at Dveeja and then at Ghatakarpara. Her eyes were red, as if from crying, and her lips quivered with rage. “Why is he with you?” she demanded.
“Aparupa—” the prince began, but the girl cut him off, snapping at Dveeja.
“Tell him to leave immediately.” She turned and went into the house.
Dveeja turned to Ghatakarpara and motioned with his hand to the boy to wait. “Aaah… uuuuu…” Pointing to himself, he indicated that he was going in. “Aau… uuu… aai?”
The prince nodded.
Dveeja went in, shutting the door behind him. Ghatakarpara stood in the sun, unmindful of the heat as he tried to listen for sounds from inside. He thought he heard Aparupa’s voice once or twice, raised in anger, but he couldn’t be sure, though he did hear Dveeja once from an upper-storey window.
Time passed and the prince was tiring. He hopped from one foot to the other, afraid to leave the spot, when he heard footsteps approaching again.
The door opened, and both Aparupa and Dveeja stood inside, looking out at the prince. Ghatakarpara looked at the girl’s stormy eyes and realized he’d rather sink and drown in them than float elsewhere in the world.
“I went to Udaypuri looking for you,” he said. “No one knew where you were, so I took a chance and came—”
Aparupa rushed out of the house and threw her arms around the prince, crushing him in her embrace as she burst into tears against his chest.
***
“Are you going to be wearing that hideous thing for the rest of your life?”
Smiling politely, Kalidasa stole a glance at the palanquin bearers, noticing how all four of them were struggling to keep a straight face, pretending not to have heard a word of what the Mother Oracle was saying.
“Why would you inflict something like that on such a handsome face?” the crone went on, clearly enjoying herself. She’d been back in her element the moment the palanquin had left the palace, and now that they were in the open countryside, she was virtually unstoppable.
“I was just… following Huna tradition, mother,” Kalidasa replied, looking sheepish, his hand unconsciously touching the hriiz. The skin around the scar was pink and puckered.
“By no means does it look like a scorpion.” The woman leaned out of the palanquin and peered up at the giant riding beside her. “Do you know what a scorpion looks like?”
“He is a poet, not an artist, grandmother,” Shanku said, laughing. “Stop teasing him.”
“Right. I hope he’s learned his lesson then and sticks to poetry,” the oracle cackled as she settled back in her seat.
Kalidasa rolled his eyes good-naturedly and looked at Shanku, who grinned back.
“Is it that bad?” the giant asked in an undertone, referring to the hriiz.
The girl glanced at it and shrugged. “It’ll take getting used to.” Seeing Kalidasa’s expression, she laughed again. “It’s fine. You know grandmother is exaggerating.”
Without anyone noticing, the two councilors dropped pace, allowing the little convoy to go ahead. They were to the northeast of Ujjayini, the city already lost behind in a fine mist of rain, riding to the spot where the Wandering Tribe had freshly set up camp. The afternoon air was cool, the sky evenly overcast.
“Tell me something,” said Kalidasa. “When I left Ujjayini, everyone seemed convinced I had broken all my ties with Avanti. Even Vikramaditya believed so, to some extent.” He fingered the sun-crest medallion around his neck, which he had got back the day before. “Did you also believe I had left for good?”
Shanku gave this so much thought that it felt as if she hadn’t heard the question.
“Honestly, I couldn’t make myself believe it,” she said at last. “All evidence pointed to the fact that you were not coming back, but anyone who knows you would realize there was no way you would turn your back on the Samrat. So, despite everything everyone said, I thought you would return. Which is why I never lost hope.”
Kalidasa nodded. They rode in silence, the horses’ hooves thudding softly on the muddy trail.
“I would never turn my back on you,” the giant said shyly. “You must know that.”
“I do. Which is also a reason I never lost hope.”
“What are you laggards doing?” the Mother Oracle hailed them. “Hurry up. I’m getting bored here.”
“Oh god,” Shanku groaned. The councilors spurred their mounts forward and drew abreast of the palanquin. “Happy?” Shanku asked.
“Can’t keep up with an old woman, is it?” the oracle looked at them shrewdly. She then poked her head out and called out to Brichcha, who was riding some fifty paces in front. “What have you thought about your daughter’s future, old man? In case you haven’t noticed, she is nearing marriageable age.”
“Grandmother,” Shanku muttered under her breath, trying to shush the woman.
The old warden reined his horse in and turned. “You’re the one good at predictions, so why don’t you tell me?” He smiled cheekily at the old woman, grinned at his daughter and flicked the reins to get his mount moving again.
“I don’t predict the future,” the oracle mumbled. “When will the idiot understand that?”
“Some family, this one,” Kalidasa shook his head at Shanku in amusement.
The party topped a rise. Ahead of them lay a green valley, and at its centre, like flowers in full bloom, was a profusion of yellow and red tents. The oracle leaned the other way and pointed, excited to be finally back among her people. “Isn’t that the most beautiful sight in the world?” she called to Brichcha, who nodded wisely in response.
“Speaking of the future,” Shanku glanced at Kalidasa, “Aren’t you going back to writing poetry now? It’s been a while since you wrote anything.”
Kalidasa nodded slowly. “Yes, but I want to take a break from poems. I am thinking of trying my hand at a play.”
“A play?” Shanku’s eyebrows went up. “You have a story in mind?”
“I was thinking of a love story about a king and a queen, where the queen loses her memory. The king is broken and—”
“And?”
“Maybe I will switch the roles around,” Kalidasa thought aloud. “It’ll be the king who will forget the queen, and the story will be about her struggle to win back his love…”
“The woman’s perspective?” Shanku smiled in approval. “So much better.”
The End
Shatrujeet Nath, The Wrath of the Hellfires
