|| 1 ||

The beautiful young girl executed a perfect swan dive from the top of the rock, her graceful body hanging suspended in the air before slicing the surface of the lake with barely a splash. She emerged more than a dozen yards away, her pretty face smiling. Her companions laughed and applauded. Another perfect dive as always, Princess!'

Kunti tossed back her lustrous dark hair and swam strongly across to the far bank. It was a good fifty yards away and even the strongest swimmers in her company did not dare try to race her. Kunti was in the habit of swimming one hundred breadths daily, and could still race them all home to the palace afterward. They contented themselves with playing at swimming on the shady side of the lake, the more boisterous ones splashing water at one another and squealing, the vainer ones braiding flowers into each other's hair to make the merchant's sons in the marketplace turn their heads as they passed.

It was a lazy afternoon, the sun slipping to the western sky, songbirds calling in the trees, flocks of geese and ducks and pheasants flying overhead; butterflies flitted over the flowers, deer grazed on the soft kusa grass nearby, and at one point in the slow indolent afternoon, a young lion crept down to the lake on the far side of the glen and drank his fill, keeping a wary but unafraid eye on the laughing cavorting maidens, before slinking back into the shadowy depths of the jungle.

Kunti was on her eighty-ninth lap when she felt the change. She paused in mid-stroke, treading water. Something was different.

The lake was quiet. The songbirds were silent, the bees had ceased buzzing, and the dragonflies that had been humming over the water were no longer to be seen. The ducks had ceased their quacking in the rushes. Even the birds flying overhead did so silently, the angled shadow of their passing the only indication of their presence.

Across the lake, she could hear the faint sounds of her companions playing and laughing, but they too seemed to sense something was wrong, and hushed one another. From the forest, a lion emitted a single dismayed roar, as if protesting, then he fell silent too. Kunti turned in the water, frowning as she tried to understand the cause of this change.

A shadow began to grow in the center of the lake.

The sky was clear blue, the sun dipping in the west but still half a watch from sunset. There was not a cloud in the sky to cause the shadow. Yet, as Kunti watched with puzzlement, the center of the lake began to grow darker and darker.

Could it be fish? No. The shadow was circular and concentrated in the center of the lake, not moving the way a school of fish might move.

As Kunti watched, the shadow began to darken, turning the sallow surface of the water black as pitch. The water then began to swirl.

Kunti was closer to the far bank of the lake than to the center. But even here, a good dozen yards or more from the edge of the dark water, she could feel its pull.

The swirling black water began to turn round on itself, spinning faster and faster.

In moments, it became a churning, the water breaking and producing waves that should have been white-tipped but were dark instead. Now, Kunti could feel herself being drawn in by the force of the churning, pulled towards the center of that swirling vortex.

Strong swimmer though she was, she had to strain to pull herself back. Grabbing hold of a willow root that dipped into the water, she wrapped the tendril firmly around her arm, standing on the muddy floor of the bank in waist-deep water, as she watched with rising alarm.

The center of the lake had turned into a whirlpool.

The whirlpool churned and spun faster and faster, like no vortex Kunti had ever seen or heard of.

It was as frenzied as a whitewater rapid, roaring now with great force.

Across the lake, she could see her companions standing on the shore of the lake, backing away in fright, as they watched this freakish display. Kunti could not believe this was a natural phenomenon.

She had been swimming in this lake with her friends since she was old enough to swim, which was not longer after she was able to walk. She was a young woman now, all of fourteen summers of age, and she no longer needed nurses to accompany her. The kingdom of Kuntibhoja was at peace and had been at peace for decades. The nearest neighbors, Avanti and Mahishmati, were not at war with Kuntibhoja or with each other. She had no need of bodyguards and could handle herself if need be. But for the first time in her life she wished she had both bodyguards and a sword with her.

What good would a sword do against a water demon?

Nothing, probably. But it was all she could think of. That, and the realization that she should do as her companions had done and get away from the lake at once. Even if she was on the wrong side, and would have to walk all the way around the bank to get back to her companions and the pathway that led back to the palace. She should get away from this thing, whatever it was. This was some unnatural phenomenon.

Yet some part of her resisted.

She could not bring herself to turn and climb up on the bank, to run away from the churning maelstorm that was now roaring and spinning in a dervish frenzy, sending water spraying across the tops of the trees that hemmed the lake.

She watched, compelled by a fascination she could not explain.

The whirlpool swirled now in a descending cone, the dark water of the lake foaming white. The roar of the water drowned out all other sounds but at the edges of vision, she glimpsed birds flying, animals fleeing, and underfoot, she felt creatures of the under-earth scurrying away from the waterside.

Something began to rise from the center of the maelstorm.

Not a demon. A man.

A rishi, clad in the red ochre garb of the forest hermits, hair matted and piled overhead, possessed of the aging, withered limbs and wasted body of the lifelong penitent engaged in bhor tapasya.

There was nothing withered or aging about his eyes.

They shone with a ferocity that was unnerving. Large, bulging eyes in a bony angular face, their pupils were a unsettling grey. The penetrating gaze from those eyes scanned the shore of the lake, as if searching for something. Kunti had the sense that he was searching for landmarks, to ascertain his exact location.

Had he come from the underworld? How did a man emerge from a whirlpool in a lake? What force was raising him up now above the water, into thin air?

As she watched with open amazement, the old rishi lowered the point of his raised staff, pointing at the whirlpool.

At once, the maelstorm subsided, settling suddenly into a calm unbroken surface. The wind that had howled a moment earlier died away. The ripples and waves caused by the disturbance ceased. The lake was now as calm and still as it had been before. The cries of the agitated birds, the sounds of animals in the forest, the scurrying of insects, all subsided.

The rishi stood on the surface of the lake, as comfortably as a man standing on solid ground. As Kunti watched, he began to walk across the lake, the soles of his feet dipping into the water lightly, merely breaking the skin of the water, hardly disturbing it otherwise. He was headed directly for Kunti's side of the lake. As he neared the bank, he caught sight of Kunti, and registered her presence.

Kunti felt a sudden chill in her heart. All at once, the balmy summer sunshine felt icy cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, realizing how wet her garments were, and how scantily clad she was. Her outer garments lay on the other side of the lake, where her companions and she had discarded them. She wished she were there right now, surrounded by her playful friends. They would have been screaming by now, but Kunti was not given to outbursts of emotion. She stood her ground, remaining calm. The rishi was almost at the shore anyway.

He was staring straight at her now, his piercing gaze taking in her lack of proper attire, her dishevelled and damp condition, her shivering posture… What must he think her to be? She looked far from a princess right now. As she glanced up anxiously, she saw his eyes darken visibly, turning from grey to jet black. A darkness swirled around him like a cowl, exactly like the water of the lake had turned dark and swirled. A miasma enveloped his face and head. She saw his dark eyes shining from inside the miasma, directed only at her as he reached the bank and stepped ashore.

For a moment, the thought struck her that could be a Naga, one of those denizens of the nether realms who were said to rise to the surface of the world and assume any form they pleased. The man who emerged from the lake could well be a snake in a man's body. He had emerged from a lake. His eyes were as fierce as any snake's venomous gaze. The darkness of the water could be caused by his venom. And this human form could just be a disguise to enable him to approach unsuspecting humans.

Like me! She thought, on the verge of panic now. The rishi stood mere yards from her. He stared at her with those piercing dark eyes, his concentration intense, his hand gripping the wildwood staff hard enough to cause his knuckles to turn white, every aspect of his posture suggesting a predator about to attack.

Remember who you are, she told herself firmly. You are no ordinary young girl. You are Pritha of the Yadavas, daughter of Surasena, sister to Vasudeva, adopted daughter of Kuntibhoja of the Bhojas, princess and heir to the Bhoja kingdom. You will not let yourself be intimidated by anyone-or anything.

She released the breath she had been holding. Gathering her errant emotions, Kunti bundled them together, tied them in a tight knot, then tucked them away. With perfect self-control, she joined her palms in a namaskaram, bowed her head low, and intoned: 'Vanakum, Swami. Welcome to our humble kingdom of Kuntibhoja.'

|| 2 ||

The rishi stood glaring at her. The intensity of his gaze seemed not to lessen even when she greeted him. His bony face and penetrating eyes remained as fierce, his posture still one of attack.

'Who might you be, young doe?' The voice was surprisingly pleasant, a startling contrast to the fierce appearance.

Kunti inclined her head. 'May it please your holiness, I am daughter of Kuntibhoja, king of the Bhoja nation. I go by the name of Kunti, after my father.'

He continued to regard her with the same severe scrutiny. She waited, unnerved inwardly but determined not to let it show. He raised his staff, and strode towards her. She resisted the urge to flinch, cry out, back away, or run, though all these presented themselves as desirable actions.

The rishi reached the spot where she stood, still dripping from the lake, and passed her by without pausing, working his way up the path.

And then he was gone.

She could see him, striding away through the glade, his tall bony form moving through the trees. Away from the lake, away from her.

She heaved a giant sigh of relief and all but collapsed to the ground. She sat there, just breathing for several moments as she collected her wits. From across the lake, she heard the faint sound of voices calling.

She looked up and saw her companions on the far bank, shouting and gesturing frantically.

She raised an arm, acknowledging them. They gestured to her, calling to her to come across the lake.

Kunti thought she had never been so glad to see her friends, silly though they could be at times, and overly obsessed with clothes and jewellery, and appearances, and most of all, men.

She got to her feet, still amazed to be alive.

When that old rishi had come striding towards her with his staff raised, she had been certain he was going to attack her.

Now, of course, it seemed silly to have thought it. Why would an old hermit attack a helpless young girl?

Then again, the old hermit had emerged from a maelstorm in a lake, a maelstorm that he seemed to have caused, then walked on water. He was no ordinary hermit, that was for sure. Who knew what else he was capable of?

She shook her head, trying to shake off the sense of dread that lingered after the rishi's passing. She took two steps into the lake, then stopped in ankle-deep water. Suddenly, she had no desire to swim. Not right now. Not today. Perhaps not for a while. And perhaps never in this particular lake.

She waved and gestured to her companions on the far side, pointing to the west. They waved back, acknowledging that they understood.

She turned and ran around the lake, through the trees. Not the way the old hermit had gone, the other way. The long way around. She didn't mind running an extra mile or two, so long as she did not have to face that scary face again. She covered the distance in record time, startling a pair of weasels back into their holes. The forest was slowly returning to its normal sounds and ambiance after the unnatural event at the lake.

She saw her friends through the trees and sprinted to meet them. They met in a clamour of cries and embraces and tears.

'-saw you in the lake and then that thing-'

'-thought you were sucked in-'

'-what would we tell your father-'

'-the King would have our heads for-'

'-what was that thing that came out of the lake?'

'It was a Nagdevta, wasn't it?'

This last came from Ramyakumari, a sweet but simplistic daughter of a cowherding family. Ramya was terrified of snakes and prayed daily to Garuda, Lord of Birds and arch enemy of all serpents.

'It was an old rishi, that's all,' Kunti told them. 'He asked me who I was, then walked off down the path.'

'Did you tell him you're the queen of this realm?' asked Jaggatpuri indignantly.

'I'm not the queen, Jaggi,' Kunti replied.

'You might as well be, since Raja Kuntibhoja doesn't have any sons.'

'Did he say who he was? I bet it's Brahmarishi Narada!'

'He didn't say and I didn't ask.' Didn't dare ask. She gestured back in the direction they had come. 'Let's go back. I have to collect my clothes.'

'Oh, I have them!' Sunidhi said, producing a bunched bundle she had been squeezing with both hands anxiously.

'Thanks for keeping them unwrinkled,' Kunti said, as she shook out the crumpled garments. She slipped them on quickly. 'Now, let's go home. This lake makes me nervous. That old rishi could come back anytime.'

They chattered excitedly as they walked. Most of their speculation was about the rishi's spectacular arrival. Kunti, having seen the event up close, had a theory.

'I think he used the water of the lake to travel from another loka to our one. The water is sacred Yamuna runoff after all. These old rishis have the power to ask the sacred River Goddesses to transport them through worlds, don't they?'

'But why come here? There are no gods here to visit. What possible business could he have in our kingdom?'

They were still exclaiming and speculating over the rishi's identity and mission when a man slipped through the trees behind them and began to follow. He stalked them for a while, staying close enough to hear what they were saying but avoiding being seen. His attention was rooted on Kunti most particularly. He watched her every move, took in her every gesture and word, admired the way she shook her wet hair, bumped her hip against a friend's to make a point, laughed with her head thrown back and hand raised to her chin. More than desiring her, he was hopelessly besotted. His longing was evident in his look, the way he smiled at her laughter, the wry shakes of his head he gave when she said something tart to her companions, and they squealed in delight.

This man was head over heels in love with the princess of Bhoja. He finally made his move a mile outside the city. Coming upon them from behind, he fell into step barely a yard aft of Kunti herself, matching pace with them.

The other girls noticed him first, their eyes widening as they saw him, then relaxing and smiling as he touched his finger to his lips to shush them. They kept his secret, but their own amusement at his presence undid them. Kunti noticed their unprovoked giggling and frequent glances behind and stopped suddenly, spinning around with her hands on her hips.

|| 3 ||

You scoundrel!' she said indignantly.

He all but collided with her. Her stoppage was so sudden, he barely had time to stop himself. His hands went out before him instinctively, and came to rest on her shoulders. She lost her footing and fell backwards, landing on her behind on the ground, and he tumbled on top of her, half-attempting to catch her and stop her from falling, half-trying to stop himself from falling with her. He half-succeeded: she ended up on her back on the ground, but he managed to stay on his feet. He had hold of her shoulders and helped her back to an upright position.

She shoved his hands off her shoulders. 'What do you think you're doing?'

'I thought I was coming to the lake to bathe with you,' he said in a soft, affectionate voice, 'but you were already gone by the time I reached. So I was coming to visit you at your father's house.'

She cocked her head. And what would you have done there? March into his court and asked him for permission to visit with his daughter?'

'Perhaps I would have asked him for permission to do more than visit?' he replied with a grin. Her friends gasped in mock outrage at this comment.

He glanced at them with an innocent expression. 'I meant I would have asked him for her hand in marriage. What were you girls thinking?' They laughed and flapped their hands at him.

Kunti relented and let her face relax in a smile. She glanced over her shoulder. 'You girls go on ahead. I'll catch up with you.'

'Don't be late or we'll tell your father!' they called out, then ran away laughing.

'We had a rendezvous on the north side of the lake under the ashoka tree after you finished your swim,' he said as they walked leisurely together through the woods in the late afternoon light.

'I never finished my swim today,' she replied. 'Something very strange happened.' She told him about the maelstorm and the strange snake-eyed rishi.

He stared at her. 'You aren't making fun of me, are you? This really happened?'

'I swear to you on my ancestor Yadu's name,' she said, reaching up to touch the lower boughs of apple trees as they walked. The apples were still tiny and green at this time, and she was careful not to jostle or break them free.

He whistled. 'Who does that? I mean, who comes out of a lake like a Takshak rising from the Naga kingdom?'

She turned to him with a gleam. 'That's what I thought too! He even looked like a Naga, his eyes dark and so intense, I thought he was going to open his mouth and show a forked tongue and then—' She crooked her forearm at the elbow and thrust her hand forward like a cobra striking. 'He was scary!'

'Probably just some old rishi-muni on an urgent mission to save the world,' he said, 'You'll probably never see him again. It was a good thing you didn't get sucked into that maelstorm yourself.'

'Would you have jumped in to save me if you were there?' she asked coyly.

He grinned. 'Of course. I have to protect the future mother of my future children, don't I?'

She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand held upright. 'First you joked about asking my father for my hand in marriage, now you're talking about motherhood and children. Aren't you forgetting one important thing before either of those things can happen?'

'What's that?' he asked, pretending to be genuinely curious.

'I have to decide if I'm ready to get married,' she said, ticking off the first point on her finger, 'then I have to decide who I'm going to marry.'

'Oh, is that all?' he asked, 'Well, the second point is already moot. As for the first, how about this summer? If you could decide by then, we could be married late autumn, the perfect time of year.' He gestured northwards. 'The cherry blossoms will be in full bloom by then. I know how much you love cherry blossoms, Pritha.'

She smiled with pleasure at his use of her given birth name. 'I do love cherry blossoms in bloom, it's true. That does sound very tempting. I will have to give it serious consideration.'

'Well, don't consider it for too long,' he said, 'otherwise, my parents might pack me off to Madri to attend a swayamvara.'

She stopped short, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. 'A swayamvara? In Madri? Whatever for?'

'For the same reason all princes go to swayamvaras, silly. To compete in the contest and try to win the favor of the princess. And if she approve, then to marry her.'

'In Madri, of all places?' Kunti asked scornfully. 'Those Madri princesses are older than the mountains and more wrinkled than old prunes!'

He looked at her with a half-smile on his face. 'Sounds like someone's more than a little jealous of Madri girls.'

'Jealous? Me, jealous of Madri girls? Why, I—,' she realized he was laughing at her and stopped herself. 'You're teasing me, you scoundrel. You know Bhoja and Madri always compete with each other, so you're just trying to make me angry.'

He shrugged. 'I'm not just teasing. The youngest Madri princess is quite comely, and she will be of age in a few years. I thought—'

She shoved him hard enough to send him sprawling. He was still laughing as she began striding purposefully towards her home.

'Hey,' he called, jumping to his feet and running backwards to keep pace with her, 'I was just teasing about Madri. But I am serious about my parents. They are getting restless, and the invitations to the swayamvaras are starting to pile up. I will have to start attending a few so other kingdoms don't start thinking that the Prince of Mahisha is afraid of competing.'

'You can do as you please,' she said, walking faster. 'What's it to me?'

'Hey,' he said, 'slow down. Now don't go off in one of your foul tempers. I did say that I intended to approach your father and ask for your hand. Not right now, not so casually, of course, but with proper protocol, in a few days.'

She slowed her pace a bit. 'I don't like to be rushed. You know that. I will make up my mind in my own way, at the right time. It could even be this summer, and then you could approach my father in the proper way, and it's even possible we could set a date for late autumn. But it had to be my decision in my own time. I thought you understood that.'

'I do, I do,' he said, 'And I know that it's not done for the boy to want to seem too eager. Marriage is a woman's decision, and it's your right to make that choice when you please. But can I help it if I'm so madly crazy in love with you, Pritha of Mathura, Kunti of Bhoja, apple of my eye, that I can't bear to wait another year, another season, or even another night, to make you my wife?'

She slowed even further, her face beaming with pleasure at his tone and his words. 'I am eager too,' she said softly, almost shyly. 'To make you my husband, Maheev or Mahisha.'

'Then what's there to think about?' He stopped and spread his arms. 'I love you, Pritha of Mathura, Kunti of Bhoja. I love everything about you, from your quick temper to your stubborn will, the way your back arches where it meets your hip, the way you toss your hair when you walk, your strength, your beauty, your love for fried tapioca—'

She giggled. 'Silly!'

'—your prowess at weapons and combat, a true warrior princess and a better fighter than most princes or princesses, your sense of dharma, your refusal to give up on any chore no matter how demanding until it is done to your satisfaction.' He continued in this vein for several moments. She realized with a start: He loves me. He really, truly loves me. This is not mere lust or youthful infatuation. He genuinely loves me and will care for me as long as he lives. This is a man I could spend the rest of my life with and be happy. I need to acknowledge his emotions, reciprocate his expression of love.

She started to go to him, then stopped herself, realizing where they were. The spires of the palace tower were within sight and the rumbling of wagons reminded her that they were within view of the busiest road out of the city. Instead of going to him, she pushed him away playfully. 'Nice speech! Now, go home. I'll see you tomorrow by the lake as usual.'

If he was disappointed by her failure to reciprocate his eloquent declaration, he did not show it.

'I'll be there,' he called out, 'And I'll make sure there aren't any Naga-men stirring up the lake into a frenzy!'

She had already turned and begun running; she waved over her head without looking back. She could imagine the look on his face without seeing it: sweet and wistful and handsome. She laughed to herself as she ran, and allowed herself the freedom to blush deeply and rosily at the thought that she might actually be planning her own wedding in a few weeks.

She reached home a very happy girl. It would be a long time before she felt as happy again.

|| 4 ||

The royal compound was abuzz with excitement, men and women rushing to and fro on various errands, the guards looking more alert than usual. Even the horses and elephants and dogs felt the excitement, whinnying, stamping their feet, and barking in their kennels.

'Princess! Your father wishes to see you at once. He has a visitor!' said Shatabdi, a round-faced palace staple who ran the royal household like it was her own fiefdom.

Kunti frowned. Her mind was still filled with thoughts of an autumn wedding and she hadn't quite registered the hustle and bustle around. 'What?'

Shatabdi took in Kunti's appearance with a look of horror. 'You can't go before him like that? What have you been doing?' She flapped her hands. 'Never mind. Shrutakirti! Mandakini! Take the Princess and get her changed into suitable attire. Now!'

The flustered maids hustled Kunti away. She glanced back helplessly at her companions who all wore worried expressions.

'This visitor,' she asked the maids as they dressed her hurriedly but efficiently in her chambers.

'A very important maharishi,' Mandakini sang out as she pulled Kunti's left arm through a sleeve, 'They say he's the same one who cursed Lord Indra for letting his elephant Airavata trample a garland he had gifted him.'

Shrutakirti, who was a mite slower witted, blinked as she fitted the last bracelet on Kunti's wrist. 'He gifted a garland to an elephant?'

'No, silly, he gifted the garland to Lord Indra. That's why he was so angry when Indra gave it to his elephant who trampled it.' Mandakini finished adjusting the garment and began combing Kunti's hair over an urn of smouldering sandalwood, fanning it out to catch the scented smoke.

'What was the curse?' Shrutakirti asked round-eyed. Stories of sages and their curses were a frequent topic of gossip around the palace. Brahmins were known for losing their temper, and for their penchant for spewing curses at those who provoked them.

'That Indra would fall from popularity just as the sage's garland had been allowed to fall, and he would one day become as insignificant as dust.' Kunti spoke the words by rote, recalling her itihasa lessons with the royal guru. 'That led to the great war between the Devas and the Asuras, which in turn led to the Sagar Manthan and the start of the eternal enmity between the two groups.'

Shrutakirti paused in the act of fixing a diamantine necklace around Kunti's throat. 'Devi save us! He is that sage? He's supposed to be the worst of them. What if he takes offence with something in Bhoja and curses us all to turn into asses?'

'It wouldn't make the slightest difference to you then, would it?' Mandakini snapped. 'Come on, finish up before Shatabdi curses us!'

Kunti saw the younger maid's hands were shaking. She smiled and took the necklace from Shurtakirti's hands, fixing it around her own neck herself. She put a reassuring hand on the maid's arm. 'Whatever you do, don't act nervous or scared around him. That will just make him madder. Be calm and keep your head down, and you'll be fine.'

Shrutakirti nodded but wrung her hands nervously as Kunti turned to leave her apartments

She forgot the maid and everything else as she strode quickly toward the royal hall, wanting to run but knowing it would not be proper for a princess to be seen running in the halls. She reminded herself to take her own advice. Stay calm, Pritha. However terrifying the stories, he's still just a man.

A man who had the power to travel through vortexes of air and water and had ruined the King of Gods with a single uttered curse.

|| 5 ||

The royal court of Bhoja was as silent as a tomb.

Even the court jesters, who were paid to keep people amused and entertained at all times, were uncharacteristically silent—because they weren't present at all, she noted. Her father must have ordered them sent away, to avoid causing any offence to the sage. Many brahmins frowned upon court entertainers. On the other hand, some enjoyed a taste of royal entertainment, even expected it. Especially the apsara and gandharva dances!

Her father, Raja Kuntibhoja, was seated on his throne, uncharacteristically sombre. That itself was strange: she was so used to hearing either her father's boisterous laughter or his cheerful voice here. His face was composed in a neutral expression, displaying no outward emotion. His ministers, courtiers and nobles all imitated his example, seated around the hall like wax effigies in a display gallery. The only movement came from the servants gently fanning the seat on which the sage was seated, beside the King's own throne.

The sage's long angular face was set in a perpetual scowl. His bush of matted hair, overgrown eyebrows and wild beard looked like they had never seen a comb. I bet he doesn't scent his hair with sandalwood incense! He was seated with one leg crossed over the other, staring at nothing in particular. With his stick-thin limbs, bony torso and long neck, he reminded Kunti of a perched grasshopper perched. He continued to stare into the middle distance, contemplating Devi knew what for an endless span of time. Kunti felt sorry for the servants standing by with trays laden with various offerings for the guest's refreshment. She could imagine how terrified they must be, though they stood ramrod straight and barely even blinked.

She wondered why on earth one man, any man, should have the power to terrorize so many. Just because he is a brahmin? That's not fair!

The unfairness of it outraged her sense of social justice but she sat as still and patiently as the rest. At last, the visitor raised his head.

'Raja Kuntibhoja,' he said in a voice as harsh and unconcerned with civility as his appearance, 'I shall partake of your hospitality. Kindly ask your first-born to attend me during my stay, as is customary.'

Kunti saw her father's eyes widen.

'Great one,' he replied with unctuous care, 'I have no progeny of my own. However, by the grace of Brahma, my cousin Sura of Mathura saw fit to grant me guardianship of his first-born daughter, Pritha. I have raised her as my own, and she is my sole heir. If it please you, I shall have her attend to your every need during your stay.'

Kunti felt herself flush, knowing that every pair of eyes in the court was turned toward her. Her parentage was no secret. If anything, it gave her a certain status: not only was she sole heir and Princess of Kuntibhoja, but she was also sister to Vasudeva, Prince of Mathura, the capitol of the Yadava nation. That made her a bridge between two nations. But right now, she would have given anything to have an elder sister, a brother, a half-dozen siblings, a hundred even! She sensed the sage's intense scrutiny on her and kept her own gaze demurely downcast.

'So be it,' said the sage Durvasa.

|| 6 ||

It was the only time her foster father appeared nervous and uncomfortable when addressing her.

'I need you to play a more modern role,' he had said, and she had laughed at his choice of words.

'Do you wish me to perform an entertainment for you, father?' she asked playfully.

'Sage Durvasa…' he paused. 'Is notorious for his temper. It would not do to make him irate. He is a powerful sage. A seer-mage. Kuntibhoja needs to please him and gain his blessings, not his curses.'

She nodded, matching his serious tone. 'Say what needs to be done and I shall see to it, father.'

'You must stand service on him yourself.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'Myself?'

He rubbed his leathery face. 'I am asking too much of you, daughter. You are a princess, a queen-in-waiting, not a—'

'I can be a serving woman, if that is what the good sage requires. A royal serving woman. I have seen how these sages expect to be treated during such visits. I have heard the stories. Read the itihasas. I know what fury their curses can bring. Besides, I have seen Guru Durvasa's powers at work. He is formidable. I would not want him irate at our good kingdom.'

He looked up at her. 'Our nation's good name and future depends on how well you serve the sage.'

She lowered her chin, all merriment gone. 'You can count on me, pitr. I will make sure he has no cause for complaint.'

She meant every word.

|| 7 ||

The following nights and days were a blur of endless chores. While the entire palace staff was kept on its toes by the presence of the venerated sage, none were worked as hard or as relentlessly as Kunti. Durvasa would demand anything he pleased at any hour he pleased, with no thought for her need for rest, comfort, or nourishment.

In the beginning, his demands were unusual and difficult, but not impossible.

'Go fetch me white marigolds,' he said one night at an unearthly hour.

Kunti bowed her head without hesitation and sent her maids running to go pluck the flowers from her own personal garden. But before the girls had left Kunti's apartments, she was summoned to the guest chambers again.

'They must be plucked by your hands,' the sage added, 'otherwise they are of no use to me.'

Kunti bowed her head without argument and backed out of the guest chambers. Once out, she ran faster than her maids and fetched the choicest white marigolds from her own garden. She ran all the way back to the sage and set them before him, catching her breath.

He did not so much as glance at them. 'I desire sabudana vadas,' he said, using the local term for fried tapioca. Prepare it with your own hands and make sure it is neither too hot nor too cool when you serve it to me.'

Kunti backed out of the chamber and went to the royal kitchen where she prepared the sage's favorite repast. She carried it in a silver dish covered with another silver dish, removing the top only when she laid it before the sage. He took a bite of one of the tapioca balls and ate it without a compliment or a comment.

'I also desire buttermilk flavored with mango,' he said. 'I would like to partake of it the instant I have finished my snack.'

Kunti's eyes widened but she dared not express herself. She backed out and this time she sprinted to the kitchen where she shouted at a cook to fetch her buttermilk at once from the cooling pit, while she ran to the fruit pantry and selected the ripest juiciest mango she could find. She poked open a tiny hole, tasting it to make sure it was in fact ripe and juicy. She didn't bother with slicing, instead she rolled the mango in its skin between her palms until the flesh inside was reduced to a dripping pulp. Motioning to the cook to set the silver bowl before her, she squeezed out the mango pulp through the hole, and stirred it with the handle of a wooden ladle.

A moment to wipe her hands clean on a kitchen cloth, then she raced back to the guest chambers, she slowed to a formal walk as she approached. She entered the chamber just as Durvasa was finishing the last tapioca ball. She proferred him the bowl and waited, heart still pounding, as he sipped of the treacly concoction. He made a sound that could possibly have indicated approval—or it might have just been him clearing his throat.

When he set down the bowl and she saw it was empty, she almost beamed with relief. He, on the other hand, did not indicate in any other manner that he had enjoyed the proferring. It did not matter. The empty bowl was satisfaction enough for her.

|| 2 ||

Over the days and nights, he ran her ragged.

The worst nights were the ones where he would summon her and ask her to prepare one of his favorite items and then, after he was done eating it, sink into one of his meditative trances. She would wait in the expectation of further requests, not knowing if he would summon her again an hour, half a watch, or even a whole watch later. She barely slept the entire time he stayed at the palace. He seemed to spend almost all his time in chambers, either meditating or discoursing with other brahmins and sages on various philosophical matters.

Oftentimes, he would ask her to fetch refreshments for himself and these guests, many of whom seemed discomfited at having the royal princess herself wait on them. Durvasa seemed not to notice or to care for their discomfort.

Once, he asked her to wait awhile. She stood unobtrusively to one side while they continued their discussion of some inscrutable passage in the Vedas, Vedangas or Upanishads. Suddenly, he asked for her opinion on some obscure aspect of the passage in question. 'Which interpretation do you favor?' he would ask. She blinked rapidly. 'Your own, mahadev.'

'Yes, but why do you favor my reading over the excellent interpretations of these venerated brahmins?'

All eyes in the room were on her.

'Because of the context, mahadev,' she replied. 'It is evident that the reference to storm in this particular instance refers specifically to Lord Indra, personified as a storm.'

'It does not say so at all,' said an elder rishi, looking irate with Kunti. 'The language refers only to thunder, lightning and a flash flood. There is no indication of personification at all.'

'But there is, great one,' she said, inclining her head to show respect for a superior mind. 'In the third line of the second verse of the fourteenth parva, the text specifically uses the masculine when referring to the fury of the storm.'

Everyone stared at her. Even the elder rishi looked gobsmacked. Sage Durvasa leaned back with a gleam in his eye.

'Any reference to a storm would be masculine surely,' he said.

'True, but in this case, the Sanskrit word used to describe the masculine fury of the storm is one that is associated with Lord Indra. 'With what thunderous fury does he strike…'' She quoted the rest of the verse from memory, then quoted three others that clearly named Lord Indra as their subject.

All the white haired heads were nodding by the time she finished the last quote.

'Hmmph,' said the irate sage. 'I concede the point. However, on the matter of the river being Saraswati…' He turned his gaze to Kunti. 'You are Raja Kuntibhoja's daughter? Commend your guru for me.'

She bowed graciously, avoiding mention of the fact that since only male kshatriyas were expected to be educated, she had read and mastered the sacred texts on her own, aided in private by a like-minded group of older women, much older than she for the most part, who believed in the maxim that if women could fight, women should be able to write. Had she enlightened the irate guru on this point, he would likely have choked on his sweet potato savory.

After the guests had departed, she waited patiently for Durvasa to say something, to acknowledge her contribution in some way, if not outright praise her.

He said nothing except to ask her to prepare more fried tapioca, this time with groundnuts.

This familiar pattern continued, with Durvasa frequently calling on her to clarify some point of controversy or to break a deadlock, but never acknowledging her scholarship or memory skills. If anything, he made it a point to always ask her to perform some completely mundane chore immediately after — clean his chambers, wash his garments, fetch him a particularly difficult-to-obtain item from the far end of the city — as if to remind her of her place. Intelligent, well read, endowed with scholarly gifts, yet still a serving girl.

She accepted all this with good grace. She toiled all hours without protest. Endured outbursts without a plaint.

The one thing that galled her was his stubborn refusal to permit her to handle the scrolls.

Durvasa frequently requested a particular text or several texts, often at a most inopportune time. She was tasked with going to the brahmin quarters, which was situated a good five miles outside the city walls, disturbing the bramacharya novices on night rotation — the round-the-clock verbatim 'pad-a-pad' recitals — and requesting one of them for the text in question, waiting while the novice fetched it, checking that he had fetched the right scroll (more likely than not, he had not), accompanying the novice back to the palace, up to the guest chambers, presenting the sage with the requisitioned scroll, waiting till he had finished with it, then accompanying the novice back to the ashram.

Inbetween, she would of course be asked to perform various of her usual tasks: fetching refreshments for the sage and any guests he may have at the time, or performing other chores he asked of her. The dismissive look that even the most hairless, green-eared novices gave her, asserting their superiority of sex, scholarship, and caste all in a single sneer, irritated her. But she endured even that.

What she could not brook was the fact that she was not permitted, at any time, or for any reason whatsoever, to so much as touch or breathe upon any of these sacred scrolls. The logic being that as a woman, subject to womanly foibles and monthly leakages, she was inherently impure and unfit to partake of the exclusively masculine domain of vidya, the sacred lore of vedic wisdom.

I can be as intelligent as any man, as well read as any brahmin, as insightful as any scholar, yet because I am a woman, I have no right to be any of those things? Hmmph! Saraswati, grant your daughter patience to endure such absurd bigotry.

On one occasion, the novice insisted (twice) at the ashram that he had sourced the exact text she had named. But when they arrived at the palace and presented the scroll to Durvasa, who immediately fumed and raged at being given the wrong text, the novice immediately pinned the blame on her. He claimed she had asked for this one and so that was the one he had brought; he could hardly be blamed for an ignorant illiterate impure woman's fault.

Of those insults, the one that stung the most was the accurate one: woman's. Yes, she was a woman and proud of it. Did this young upstart think he had emerged wholly formed out of Brahma's Egg? Did he speak to his own mother and sisters with the same tone? He knew very well that she had requested Parva 231, Canto 89, not Parva 89, Canto 231 which he had brought.

She said none of these things aloud, merely bowed her head and endured the hailstorm of outrage and insults the sage heaped upon her while the novice looked on, smirking, even though her heart raged with the injustice, the unfairness, the sheer bigotry of it all.

But none of these or similar incidents were the worst.

Oh, no, that was yet to come.

|| 8 ||

It was a cold rainy day in the first half of winter. Bhoja did not get snow, but it was far enough North and within blowing range of the Garwhal Himalayas to get bitterly, dangerously cold. Cold enough to freeze water and deliver the occasional shower of hailstones the size of a man's fist. And when the winter winds blew through the city, Shiva help any unfortunate who happened to be out of walls. The daily count of travellers and drunks who froze to death from exposure was in double digits at this time of year.

Durvasa had been in a particularly benign mood these past days. There was a rumor that the sage was planning to take his leave shortly; a rumor perpetrated by herself, based on a conversation in which the sage had been asked by another brahmin if he would be here in the spring. 'Distinctly not,' he replied, 'I must be in Uttarkashi before the winter snows set in.'

This alone had made Kunti want to yell and throw her hands in the air, perform several somersaults and tumbles around the chamber, then dance a very unprincesslike caper, hooting and cheering all the while. She did in fact perform all these antics, but only much later that evening, when she was safely in the privacy of her own chambers, with her friends.

'Finally, we shall be able to see you again daily as we used to,' they said, happily once the initial euphoria had died down. 'We shall go swimming in the lake, picking berries, climb to the top of the rookerie, and do all the happy things we love to do.'

She was about to correct them by saying that since it was winter, they could hardly do any of those things, but she realized it didn't matter. The point was, she would be free soon. Free to resume her girlish ways and indolent, carefree life as a young princess. She would rather dive into a frozen lake than serve the sage Durvasa another season!

So it was with sunshine in her heart that she waited on their honoured guest over the next few days. The passes to Uttarkashi generally snowed in during the third masa of winter. They were already at the start of the second masa. That left less than a fortnight before the sage would have to leave if he meant to reach his destination before snow closed the passes; ideally he should leave within the week.

Kunti was wandering in her mind, day-dreaming about resuming her sword-fighting training again. She had been so consumed with her round-the-clock duties here that her fight guru, a crusty old woman veteran who had served in the Bhoja army and trained three generations of royalty, had squirted a mouthful of betelnut juice with disgust at Kunti's irregular appearances, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and told her in the Bhojpuri dialect to come back when she was able to extract her 'head out of the elephant's backside', which required no translation. She missed the physical exertion of swordplay, the world reduced to just the edge of the blade, one's opponent's eyes and the elegant dance of death.

The first time Durvasa spoke, she thought she had misheard.

She stared blankly at the sage, not wanting to commit the sacrilege of asking him to repeat himself, yet not able to believe she had heard correctly.

He gazed up at her patiently. He had been in a relatively less intense mood these past days. Less intense for Duravasa, of course, was like saying a hawk was less intense after he had eaten a full rabbit. It was not something that was easily evident to a casual observer but she had learned to tell a great deal from his most minor gestures, vocal patterns, and body language. One might even say that she could read Durvasa almost as well as she could read Sanskrit. Though Sanskrit rarely lost its temper and flew into a flaming rage if your tapioca cakes were a tad less crisp. Right now, he was calm, and he proved her right by doing something he rarely ever did: he repeated his request without a trace of irritation.

'I require an item fetched from Madri.'

She stared at him without response for several heartbeats. She was too taken aback to simply bow as usual and acquiesce.

'From Madri, Mahadev?' she said.

He named an item. Something so trivial that it could be found in any marketplace anywhere, or even right here in the palace itself, perhaps in this very guest wing. A paper fan, the kind that visitors from the Far Eastern kingdoms brought with them and traded for local spices or silks, the kind that Eastern women apparently held before their painted faces and smiled coyly behind.

What on earth could a celibate guru want with an Eastern woman's paper fan? Surely not to gift his concubine! Which was what those exotic items were rumoured to be most commonly used for: as gifts from rich men to their concubines. Obviously, the Sage had no women in his life so that could not be its purpose.

She dared not ask the next question, but he read it in her eyes anyway and answered it aloud. Apparently, he had learned to read Kunti almost as well as she had learned to read Durvasa.

'It must be from Madri, specifically,' he said, 'from the shop of the vaisya merchant Gupta. It will be easy enough to find, it is the largest store in the town market, with a substantial stock of baby elephants and lion cubs on display constantly.'

He glanced at the window. 'If you leave right now, you should be back here before the full moon.'

She was dumbstruck. She had no words. Did he realize that Madri lay beyond the hill ranges? That this was winter, and one of the coldest winters in recent memory—the coldest since before she had been born, apparently! Even the royal couriers and courtiers ferrying information to and fro between the two neighboring kingdoms had reduced their biweekly trips to once a fortnight, and then only if the news was urgent. Wars had been postponed to avoid crossing the Madri ranges in winter. Marriages called off. And he expected her to go all the way to Madri now, at the start of the coldest winter in memory, to fetch a paper fan?

He was still looking at her, as if reading every thought that passed through her mind.

'Tell Gupta I send my blessings and tell him that he may send his eldest son-in-law to Gajapura next spring, his work will be done. I have spoken to the appropriate authorities.'

She stood there, simply staring at him in utter disbelief.

He added mildly, 'The message must be delivered in person by you alone. No one else must accompany you or he will suspect betrayal. Once you deliver the message successfully, he will give you the fan. Bring it directly to me.'

Delivered in person? By her alone? No one else must accompany? Over the Madri hills in winter, during the season of hailstorms, when the bandit gangs, the bears and the predators virtually ruled those hills? It was insanity. Even the most seasoned courtiers went with a cortege of at least eight armed guards, and no woman, princess or not, went without a full company as well as elephants. He expected her to ride alone, risk death by exposure, by hail, by bandits, by predators, riding day and night without halts for food or shelter, just to fetch him a paper fan? She had suspected it all along but now she knew for certain: he was a torturer. An assassin. A murderer. A ruthless barbaric killer who cared nothing for the lives of the daughters of his hosts. He had probably left a trail of dead princesses and nobleman's daughters in his wake, scattered across the 500 kingdoms like chaff from grain.

And he asked this even though, as she herself had witnessed, he could simply travel from place to place through magical means, the way he had simply appeared from a maelstorm in the lake, a season and a half ago.

She wished that he had drowned in that lake, in that maelstorm of his own creation, drowned and choked and been washed up on the shore of the lake, pale, bloated and half eaten by fishes.

She saw by his face that he read her thoughts, or the general drift of them at least. He read it in her pauses, her stance, her wider eyes, her clasped hands, her slightly furrowed brow. Just as she could read his every change of mood and direction of thought in the way he breathed, inclined his head, or sat.

That was when she thought: I can't do this anymore. I can't go on.

But then she remembered her foster-father, Raja Kuntibhoja. How sad and desolate he had been when she first came to live here, broken by the loss of his wife and son in childbirth. How entranced he had been by her every word, gesture, action, not just in those early days which she barely remembered, but as she grew. How he had doted on her every deed. He lived and breathed by her. She could do no wrong.

He had spoiled her more than her real father would ever have spoiled her, or even her real grandparents. King Ugrasena and Queen Padmini were not the most demonstrative of parents, and whatever affection Kunti had received in her father's house had come from her brother Vasudeva. But a brother's love was different. Vasu was kind and gentle, but he was also mischevious and prone to teasing: he was but a boy too back then after all, and she was his sister.

Nothing and nobody came close to providing Kunti with the warmth, affection, lavish helpings of love and care and tenderness that Raja Kuntibhoja doled out on her. She had quickly come to realize how precious she was to him, how much he regarded her as a gift from the gods themselves; a ray of hope in the darkness of his soul. Unlike many kings, he did not seem to care that she was a daughter and that he had no son, that she was no actually of his blood and therefore his line would only continue through her in the most indirect way possible.

He had encouraged her every wish, however unusual, be it learning to master the sword, or learning battle strategy from the most expert general of his kingdom, or playing with friends of all backgrounds, ethnicities and nationalities, without regard for class, caste or social level. Kunti was her own woman, and unlike many fathers, especially rajas and maharajas, he had never sought to clip her wings or make her feel that her freedom was anything less than a natural birthright. For a man, he had been completely accepting of the Arya tradition of matriarchal governance, a tradition that had been mostly abandoned by those whom it ill suited these days. Nobody in Kuntibhoja doubted that it was Rani Kunti who would inherit the throne and kingdom were any ill to befall her adoptive father; nor did anyone doubt her ability to rule as effectively as Kuntibhoja himself.

Except when it came to this one guest. This was the one and only time he had asked her to perform the 'duties' of a modern, fashionable girl of high birth. She did not fear the stories she had heard of Durvasa's legendary temper and terrible curses, or the power he had displayed when emerging from the maelstorm in the lake. She only knew she could not bear to break her foster father's heart, or to cause distress to the people and kingdom she loved so much. She loved them too much to let this awful, self-centred man throw a temper tantrum and use his powerful gifts to cause misery to innocent souls.

It was this love that made her grit her teeth, bite back any reluctance and bow as gracefully as she could manage under the circumstances.

'As you say, gurudev.'

|| 10 ||

People stared at her as she returned three weeks later. Nobody could believe she was Princess Kunti. She looked like a ragged forest hermit, emerging from the deep woods to ask for alms.

When she paused for a moment to catch her breath, relieved to be breathing the spice-scented air of the marketplace again, a passing noble on a horse even tossed her a square stone. She let it lay where it fell and made her way wearily but with growing enthusiasm toward the palace.

Even the gate sentries stared with astonishment as she greeted them and passed through. She went through the kitchen and maids' quarters to avoid causing a scandal among the courtiers. The maids and serving girls who caught sight of her gasped. 'Princess!' one exclaimed. 'How — ?' She broke off, eyes filling with tears as she looked Kunti up and down with knowing eyes. 'My dear, shall I fetch the royal vaid?'

She shook her head, throat filled with an emotion she could not name. 'It is not my blood. I am well.'

That last was not entirely true. She was far from well. But it was no sickness or ailment she suffered from, nothing that ayurvedic herbs and ointments could cure or treat. It was a fever of the soul. There were things in the world that could affect a young woman in ways more damaging than a physical assault or a disease contracted.

She felt a great deal better once she had bathed, partaken of some nourishment, spent some time drying out and combing her hair over a scented sandalwood brazier. She was humming to herself as she finished, unaware that she was doing so, or that the tune she was humming was the same one her mother Padmini would sing to her and her brother Vasudeva to put them to sleep. It put her in mind of the gentle, comforting caress of her mother, of that warm maternal embrace, the softness of her cheek upon Kunti's own, the scent of her. It was hard living apart from one's family, separated as a child, knowing that every one of those people—father, mother, brother, cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents—all still existed, that enormous circle of warmth, comfort and filial affection, but that she was now outside the circle, a satellite moon destined to live in her own lonely orbit. What did it mean? Why did such things happen? She had brought comfort, warmth and joy to her foster father Kuntibhoja. But what of her own comfort, warmth and joy? Did she not deserve as much too?

She put these thoughts out of her mind as she finished her toilet, shook them off and breezed out of her apartments and all the way to the guest chambers. Sentries, courtiers, maids, running boys and everyone who passed her by could not help but look twice; some stared, others whispered, but she ignored them all. She walked tall and strong and did not stop for any distraction.

'Gurudev,' she said, bowing to Durvasa.

He looked up absently from the scroll he was perusing. She offered him the paper fan, presented upon her open palms.

He glanced at it with a frown, as if about to ask her what this object might be and why she was troubling him with it. Then he shook his head irritably and said, 'Put it anywhere.'

She placed it beside other items she had fetched for him during his long stay, each of which represented some arduous effort or sacrifice on her part. None of them had been touched or moved from their original position as far as she could tell. She did not dwell on this fact but simply turned back to him and stood politely waiting until he looked up again, questioning.

'Merchant Agarwal of Madri sends his gratitude and says he will surely send his eldest son-in-law to Gajapura next spring as instructed, and will ensure that the boy does not squander this priceless opportunity.'

He had stopped listening halfway through her recitation.

She waited for some acknowledgement, some response. Anything. There was none.

That night, her friends came to see her, eyes wide and hands clasped to their chests with concern.

'Your face!' they said, taking her chin gently and turning her face this way and that to exclaim in dismay. 'Your arms, your legs, such bruises! These are purple and fresh. How did you come by them?'

She was silent for a long moment, emotion choking her.

'Hailstorm,' she said at last. 'On the road to Madri.' She added after a moment, 'And on the way back.'

They asked her a thousand questions, fussed and fretted about her like mother hens around a solitary chick. She smiled wanly at their fussing, allowed them to redo her hair, attempt to beautify her as best as was possible with a bruise-covered appearance, insisted they bring her favorite savories, invited her to go to the grain minister's son's wedding the next evening. She went along with everything except the last.

'I have to remain here, to serve our guest.'

They made pooh-pooh noises, waving their hands in disgust. They tried their best to convince her to sneak away for a few hours at least. The handsome son of the Jamadgura war minister was expected to attend, stoking gossip about his former steamy romance with the bride-to-be. Scandal and fireworks were to be expected. She heard it all as if from a great distance, viewed her friends as if she were meeting them for the first time, as if all this was strange and faraway, from another time, another Kunti.

She stayed in the palace the next day, making tapioca savories and almond buttermilk for the sage, fetching scrolls, cleaning his muddy wooden cleat slippers, and sundry other chores. The sound of the wedding music was faintly audible from the kitchen floor, plaintive and sad as a dirge to her ears. She wondered how people did such things as dressing up in finery, wearing jewelry, attending weddings, when the world was such a dark and stormy place. What was the point?

She woke up that night and found her pillow soaked; she could not understand how.

It occurred to her as she was drifting off into a restless asleep again: Could I have been crying? But she didn't remember crying.The sage Durvasa left the next day.

|| 11 ||

Memorize this mantra.'

Kunti looked up at the sage. They were at the egress of the guest apartments, the sage about to leave.

Raja Kuntibhoja had come to touch the sage's feet and ask for the customary blessings, which the sage had given. The king had hesitated before asking the traditional host's question: 'I trust everything was to your satisfaction?'

Kunti had felt no trepidation during the long pause before the sage responded. She had passed the point of anxiety a while ago on the trip to Madri. Or perhaps even before. It did not matter. She no longer feared Durvasa's curse or anything he may say now.She was long past all that.

'I have no complaints,' he said finally.

She was looking at her father's face when he heard his guest respond. She saw Raja Kuntibhoja wait, expecting more. Some small words of praise perhaps. A compliment. Maybe even a lavishing of admiration for his daughter's impressive attentiveness and diligence. But of course there was nothing. Sage Durvasa did not praise, compliment or lavish admiration. That single sentence was all he had to say. It was enough. Coming from him, it was the equivalent of a thousand effusive praises. Many of his courtiers, noblemen, brahmins and other seers would say as much to Raja Kuntibhoja in the months and years to come, expressing their admiration for his daughter's extraordinary dedication to the most feared brahmin visitor. There would be plenty of compliments later. But none from Durvasa. Not now, not ever.

Now, Kunti waited at the egress with the customary earthen bowl of yoghurt, which she had offered to the departing guest, and which he had partaken off without comment. He had returned the bowl to her palm and she had thought that he would then begin walking, and continue walking—out of the guest apartments, the palace, the city, the kingdom, her life. He could not walk fast enough.

Instead, he had paused.

And said to her: 'Memorize this mantra.'

Then he recited a very brief couplet. The instruction, and the mantra that followed, were delivered quietly, barely loud enough for Kunti to hear. Nobody else was close enough to hear. The words were intended for her ears alone. He spoke the words and then walked away.

She stood there a moment, expressionless, holding the earthen bowl with the dregs of the yoghurt upon her palm, as the sound of his wooden cleat slippers sounded on the steps leading down from the guest apartments, rang as they crossed the stone floor to the archway, then grew softer, then muffled, then finally faded as the sage left the palace complex and was gone, out of her life forever.

She never saw him again. Her father came to her and embraced her warmly, releasing an immense sigh of relief.

'Kunti!' he cried out. 'Sweet child, you have done us all proud. All Bhoja thanks you today.'

People crowded around them, smiling, laughing, moving about and talking normally again, abandoning the stiff, sombre attitude they had assumed in the past several months of the sage's visit. She saw her father's gratitude and relief reflected in all their faces. Raja Kuntibhoja was only saying aloud what they all felt.

She knew she should smile at him so she smiled. But there was no mirth in her heart. She did not see what she had done that was so special. She had been given a task, she had done the task to the best of her ability. Whether or not the task had been appreciated and had earned her the recognition of their guest did not matter at all. She had performed her duty, as was the modern custom. It was what any young daughter of a decent noble household ought to do.

|| 12 ||

She went through the rest of that month in a daze, unaware of when she ate or rested or slept or participated in the endless activities her friends involved her in.

She did everything, said all the right words, dressed the right way, but those close to her knew she was not herself, her heart was into anything she did.

Her friends expressed concern for her. Her father showed sympathy for her 'exhaustion' and suggested she might wish to visit her hometown, Mathura, to recover from the ordeal she had been put through.

Everyone was sympathetic, supportive, effusive with praise, admiring, sensitive, caring, but none of this what she wanted.

What did she want then? She did not know.

All she knew was that it was not this, or that, or anything.

Just…something else.

It was a whole season later, in the spring that she woke one night, to a mercifully dry pillow this time, and remembered the sage's parting words.

'Memorize this mantra.'

She had memorized it. Memorizing shlokas by sandhi rote recitation method was something little toddlers were taught to do. It was the way all knowledge was learned, passed on, stored over generations. Memorizing one shloka was like storing a drop in that vast ocean of knowledge.

But for the Guru to call such special attention to it, the timing of his giving it to her, the solemn tone with which he had imparted it, something in his eyes, his manner, his gesture as he stopped her from repeating it back to him, the flaring of his nostrils and widening of his pupils, told her that this was no ordinary shloka.

She mused on the possible purpose of this shloka. She sensed now what she had not realized at the time. This shloka was meant to be, in some way, a reparation for all that she had endured during her long service to the guru. A payment, even. A reward of sorts. She had heard stories of brahmins imparting mantras to hosts who treated them with special grace. Gifts from the gods, they were called. How a simple couplet of rhyming Sanskrit verse could be a gift, a payment, a reward, she did not know. But the stories said that reciting those mantras produced magical results. The results differed from story to story, but all concurred on their being magical. The poor became rich. The sick became healthy. The lovelorn were united with their lost loves.

She stopped herself short.

She had been pacing her chamber, sweeping from end to end endlessly, a practice she had fallen into in the months since the Guru's departure.

It was often the only real exercise she took. Her old habits of running, swimming, racing, horse riding, hunting, archery practice, swordplay, javelin throwing, had all fallen by the wayside.

She had barely seen her friends for a whole season and a half. Two were married, she had heard, the others were betrothed. Girls their age did not stay single long. Girls your age, she reminded herself. She knew her father had been showered with requests from Kings and Emperors, asking that she host a swayamvara and permit suitors to vye for her hand as was the custom of the land. She could still refuse them all at the end of the tourney, if none pleased her. But they all wanted a chance at impressing and catching the eye of the legendary Kunti of Bhoja, she who had served the irascible Guru Durvasa and kept her house safe from the ill favor of his cursing tongue. She was the most desirable bride in fifty kingdoms and princes were as restless as princesses— they all wanted to be wed while still young.

Her father had reminded her, gently, that the longer she waited, the more young princes her age would find other brides, less suitable than she but still brides nevertheless. Princes must have wives, just as princesses must have husbands. It was simply the way of the world. But she didn't care about age or availability. The thought of marriage sickened her to the stomach.

He had sensed this, sensed also that somehow, her dislike of the topic of marriage was related to the Sage's visit. 'Did Gurudev say something to you about your future prospects?' he asked her one day after she had staunchly refused yet another request for a swayamvara. 'Did he perhaps foretell your husband-to-be and your life together?'

She frowned at her father. 'He said not a word of such things.'

He blinked. 'Then what is it, my child? What ails you? Do not deny it. I have seen you these past weeks. You take no pleasure in the things that once delighted you. You spend all day sequestered in your palace. You go nowhere, see no one, and have turned in against yourself. You are like a ghost of the laughing, active, happy Kunti you were before he came here. I cannot believe that your change has nothing to do with the Guru's visit. If he said something to you that put fear into your heart, that made you dread marraige or your future husband, tell me now. Men such as he can often make stark pronouncements that terrify us mortals, but their intention is often to caution and help us prevent future calamities, not prevent us from living altogether.'

She shook her head slowly. 'Guru Durvasa said nothing about such things. Or about anything to do with me personally or my future, nothing at all.'

And this was true. Guru Durvasa had barely paid her any heed except as a vehicle to serve his needs. Bring this, fetch that, go there, summon so-and-so. She was nothing more than a glorified servant to him. What did he care about a servant's future prospects? All he cared about was having his needs fulfilled.

'Then what is it, daughter?' King Bhoja asked her, his face lined with anxiety. 'Something ails your heart. I see it in your every aspect. It festers like a sickness in you. It is poisoning your zest for life. Tell me what it is. If it is within my power to give you what it is you desire, I will give it to you, no matter the cost and the effort. Speak but once and you shall have your heart's desire.'

She hung her head in shame, for she heard the concern in her father's voice. She knew he cared greatly for her and could not bear to see her unhappy. But even so, there was nothing he could do. 'I am sorry, father. There is nothing you can do.'

'There must be something!' He flailed about mentally, searching for something to appease her. 'Would you wish to go home to your father's house? Would spending some time with your birth mother and father set your heart at ease? Is that your plaint? Does your heart ache for home? Say the word and I shall drive you there myself in my own chariot this very day.'

'No, father,' she said sadly. 'I would love to go home someday, in the summer perhaps, when the orchards of Vrindavan are lush with fruit, and Mathura's markets are bustling with foreign traders after the ships return from western ports. I would love to see my beloved maatr and pitr and my bhraatr Vasudeva again. But that is not what ails me.'

'Then you admit something does ail you?' he said, grasping at it eagerly. 'Tell me then, what is this canker in your heart that robs my beloved Kunti of her happiness and youth day by day? Is it a horse? A place? A song?'

He could not think of anything further to suggest and threw his hands up in the air. 'Speak!' She bowed her head for a long time. 'It is nothing within your power to give, father. There is nothing I desire. I am content here in your house. You are a good father and I bless the Devas for delivering me to your house.'

He clenched his fist in frustration. 'There must be something.'

She stood up, sighing softly. 'Permit me to leave your presence. I am tired and wish to rest awhile.'

She heard him calling for more wine, irritably. She wished she could tell him everything, but she could not.

|| 13 ||

Now, she paced the floor of her chambers, tracing the same route over and over again, as she went over every detail of the Guru's last instruction to her.

'Memorize this mantra.'

But what was the mantra? What did it do? She was certain now that it did something. How to find out what that was without actually using it. From the way the Guru had stopped her from repeating it, she had understood that merely reciting the mantra aloud would achieve some result. But surely there must be a way to know what that result was before reciting it?

He must know.

Guru Durvasa would know what the mantra did, of course. But he had not told her, and she had not thought to ask at the time. All she knew was that he had intended the mantra to be some kind of gift to her, that was the tradition after all. Her father had not thought to ask her if the Guru had given her any gift in parting because he had simply been too relieved that Durvasa had not cursed them. The thought that he had actually attempted to reward her for her services had not occurred to Raja Bhoja at all.

The mantra was her secret. She had told nobody about it. She had spoken to nobody about her ordeal, though many had asked. Everyone was curious and awe-struck at how a princess of Bhoja, a presumably spoilt, pampered, self¬centered rich powerful beautiful young woman had served a notorious brahmin for so long and so arduously, enduring such hardship and deprivation, without once giving offence. It was the talk of fifty kingdoms, as evidenced by the requests from those fifty for an opportunity to win her hand in marriage. There were stories and tales she had heard snippets of, most resembling the truth not even remotely; she had heard of them from the daiimaas, who had themselves been fishing for the true story. But even then, she had said nothing. The torture of those weeks serving the Guru were locked in her heart and she had thrown away the key. And she did not intend to speak of it to anyone.

Because speaking of it would have meant speaking of the other thing as well, the thing her father had tried so hard to pry from her. The pain of what happened on that fateful journey to Madri. And she could not bear to speak of that to anyone.

But now, she thought that perhaps the mantra was the key. Perhaps the Guru had given her the mantra as a means of appeasing her heart.

Perhaps even, if she dared think it, the mantra would bring her that which she had lost. Now, that would be a true reward. That would be reparation for all the hardship Durvasa had caused her. It would be a gift of the gods, truly. Could it be possible, she wondered? Could he really have been that insightful—and that powerful?

He was a great Guru, after all. She had seen him use his powers with her own eyes, the day he had risen from the lake. Surely he could do much more than simply control nature's elements to travel from one realm to another. He must wield true power.

Perhaps the mantra was magical. Perhaps it could set right what had gone wrong in Madri. Bring back what she had lost. Repair the damage to her shattered heart. Reward her troubled soul.There was only one way to find out. She had to recite the mantra aloud. She paced for hours, trying to decide, to work up the courage to actually do it. It was late that night by the time she arrived at a decision.

The night watch had completed their rounds and even the servants and staff had long gone to sleep. Except for the occasionally restless horse, hound or elephant from the royal stables, the palace complex was quiet.

She stood in her balcony, breathing in the cool bracing air of early autumn, preparing herself, and recited the mantra, once, carefully, enunciating each Sanskrit syllable perfectly, without a single error or repitition.

And then she waited.

|| 14 ||

The night blossomed with light.

It began as a slow gloaming, like the soft flush in the eastern sky at dawn, announcing the imminent arrival of the rising sun; except that it was near midnight now, and dawn was a whole watch away. The gloaming grew to a glow, and then suddenly the darkness was dispersed with a flash so bright, Kunti was blinded momentarily. She felt a surge of heat so intense that she cried out, expecting to be seared to death. But the heat receded as suddenly as it arose, reducing to the intensity of a crackling blaze in a fireplace across the room.

Her eyes were still dazzled from the flash of light. She rubbed them and blinked several times, trying to regain her vision.

There was a presence in her chamber.

She took a step back, her hip touching the stone balustrade that enclosed her balcony. There was nowhere else to go. She blinked again, trying to focus her blurred vision. Yes, there was definitely someone there, and he was the source of the heat she felt. Intense, banked heat as powerful as any fire exuded from his body. His face glowed with the heat, making his features hard to see clearly

'Who are you?' she asked, hearing the tremble in her own voice. Where was her sword? She scanned the chamber frantically. It was hanging beside her bed, behind the stranger. She looked around for a weapon, edging sideways into the chamber.

You summoned me, he said.

She started. The words had come not from his lips but from his being. Like a thought projected at her. She felt the heat of his mind touch her own and then dissipate at once. It felt like a tiny pinprick of heat had poked her forehead. She forgot her search for a weapon and clutched her forehead, feeling sweat break out at once. She cried out from the pain.

I caused you… discomfort? I did not intend to. I do not often assume mortal form.

The pinprick was more painful this time, the heat more searing. She cried out again, and thrashed around till she found a staff she used for practising stick-fighting. She pointed it at him. 'Stay back. I can call for a hundred guards in a moment.'

It is illogical of you to fear me. You were the one who summoned me. I am merely answering your summons.

She cried out, clutching her head. Sweat was popping out across her face now, rolling down in tracks. 'Stop doing that! It hurts!'

He was silent a moment, then she sensed the heat emanating from his presence reduce, banked to a mere warm glow, like a fire that had burned down. When he 'spoke' to her again, the sensation was like an uncomfortable warm prickling in her brain rather than the searing pinpricks of before.

Am I endurable to you now?

She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. 'Who are you? How did you appear in my chambers?'

Did you not summon me? I recognize your voice. It was you who recited the mantra.

The mantra. Durvasa's shloka.

'Who are you?' she asked.

He gazed at her steadily. I am known by many names. The most commonly used one is Surya.

She stared at him. The intense, searing heat; the sudden appearance out of thin air and the ability to project thoughts into her mind. Could it really be…? 'Surya Deva?' she asked in wonderment. 'The Sun God?'

He inclined his head. At your service.

At my service? What does he mean. ‘I don't understand. Guru Durvasa did not explain what the mantra does. I recited it expecting… something else.'

What were you expecting?

She hesitated for a second, then blushed.

A friend,' she replied.

I sense turmoil within you. You were expecting a lover. Someone dearly beloved to you but now lost… Am I correct?

She said nothing.

I am sorry to have disappointed you. But you did summon me specifically.

She frowned. 'I did not! I was thinking of someone completely different.'

The mantra summons any Deva of your choosing. But yet I am here. There is a reason for that: you intended me to be the one.

'I wished for my friend Maheev of Mahisha…' she stopped, her throat choking at the use of his name. She shook her head. 'I was a fool. I should have known my wish would not be fulfilled.'

This Maheev of Mahisha, he was dear to you. A lover perhaps?

She shook her head. 'We never consummated our relationship. Any intimacy between us was only emotional. I was resistant to the idea of a permanent bonding. He wanted marriage. The last time we saw each other, he wanted to vie for my hand in a swayamvara.'

And you did not give him this opportunity. Because you were busy serving the brahmin Durvasa at the time?

'Yes. And in the interim, to uphold tradition and family honor, he was compelled to attend the swayamvara of another princess. In Madri. By chance, I happened to be travelling through at the very time.'

He moved across the room slowly, seeming to glide rather than walk. Why do you assume it was a matter of chance?

She had no answer to that. It was a possibility that had never occurred to her, but now that it was suggested, it seemed obvious.

Durvasa was the one who sent you to Madri, was it not? And he sent you at precisely that time?

He was right. It was an odd coincidence that she happened to be despatched to Madri at the very time that Maheev was also there for the swayamvara. In fact, when she heard in the marketplace that the Princess was hosting her swayamvara, the first thing she had thought was: Maheev must be there. He could not refuse the invitation because it would reflect badly on his house. And when she went to the tourney grounds, there he was, handsome and resplendent in his golden armor on his gold-panelled chariot, as beautiful and perfect as the first day she had seen him on his visit to her father's palace, two years ago.

'Yes, I see what you mean,' she said slowly, 'it was as if Durvasa sent me on that pointless errand to Madri only so that I could be there in time to watch Maheev…' Again she felt her throat choke and shut her eyes.

To watch him die competing in that chariot challenge. An unfortunate mishap when a stray arrow struck one of his horses and caused his chariot to overturn. You ran to the spot where he fell and cradled his head in your lap and cried as the light passed from his eyes.

She lowered her head. The staff felt like a leaden weight in her hand. She leaned it against the wall and clutched her face in both hands. 'He was broken and bleeding and beyond help. He recognized me and was happy to see me. He said he had wished to see my face one last time before he died and there I was, a gift from the gods. He told me he loved me… '

And he wished you much happiness in your life ahead. Before he died in your arms.

'Yes,' she said, weeping openly now, 'yes. And I told him I loved him too — but I was too late, he was already gone.' She was overwhelmed and could not go on.

He waited patiently as she cried the tears she had held back since that day, the pain she had banked and hidden from Sage Durvasa, her father, her friends, the daiimaas, everyone, even herself.

Finally, she could cry no more. There would be more tears tomorrow. And the day after. And for many days to come. But for now she was drained. She wiped her face with the hem of her garment.

You mortals have such brief existences. It is always sad to see you fail to achieve your desires and die unfulfilled. Maheev's end was unfortunate. But you have a great and fulfilling life ahead of you. His dying wish is prophetic. You will achieve much happiness in your life – as well as great sorrow. Both are inevitable, I am afraid. Your place in the mortal world is a special one, your life and times extraordinary, and your sons –

'I don't want to know,' she said brusquely. She paused and tempered her tone. 'Please. Do not reveal my future. I know that as a Deva you have sight of all things past and future, seen and unseen. I do not wish to know what lies ahead for me. I want to live my life myself.'

He was silent for so long she thought she had offended him. But when he spoke again, there was no rancor in his voice. So be it, Pritha of Mathura, Kunti of Bhoja. I will speak of it no more.

'Is that why you came to me? To show me my future? Is that the purpose of the mantra?'

He smiled. She saw a flash of his teeth, or what appeared to be teeth in a mortal body, but which gleamed with the brightness of a rising sun. Light exuded from his eyes, his body, as he smiled, and she felt warmth emanate from him in a small wave. It passed through her with a stimulating frisson. Such power! Just from a smile.

I am not a fortune teller, Kunti of Bhoja. I do not appear when summoned to show mortals their future. I am Surya, Star of the Sky, Light of the World.

She smiled back despite her emotional state. There was something dangerously charming about him. Like the sun itself, your eyes would always be drawn back to him, even though you knew that staring at him too long would burn your eyes blind. Charismatic yet deadly.

'Then why did the mantra summon you?' she asked.

He took a step towards her. He had mastered his emanations now and she felt none of the searing heat that he had been emitting earlier. Just a genial warmth that was oddly comforting. His features blurred again, and she braced herself, expecting another blast of heat. But instead of the bright flash, his features rearranged themselves to form a new face, a new body, one that was so familiar, so desirable to her that she gasped involuntarily.

He smiled at her now with the face and form of her dead sweetheart, Maheev. Exact to the last detail.

To grant you your wish, Kunti. To give you the wedding night with Maheev that you desired. And the child that would have been produced from that union.

|| 15 ||

No!' Kunti cried out, aghast. She backed away, her heel striking something. She heard a clattering sound as the staff fell to the floor. 'I did not ask for this.'

Surya Deva in the form of her dead sweetheart Maheev moved closer to her in the same gliding motion. Maheev of Mahisha was of the Suryavansha line. A direct descendent of my own lineage. He is the progeny of my own seed. When you used the mantra to attempt to summon him, it was only natural that I, the sire of his bloodline, should appear.

She shook her head, still backing away from him. 'I did not ask for you, or any Deva. I thought only to use the mantra in order to see Maheev again one last time, if only for a few moments, to speak to him freely, to pour my heart out and say the things I neglected to say while alive.

To feel his touch, to press your lips against his, to hold him close and to melt in his arms…Do you deny that these desires were also in your heart when you uttered the mantra?

She looked down, embarrassed but unable to lie. 'We were to be wed this season, to be husband and wife. I had every right to feel those emotions, those desires.' As you have every right to live out that desire now, with me.

She was shaking her head before he finished the sentence. 'No. I cannot. It is one thing to desire, quite another to succumb. I am an unwed girl, I am not ready to be wed yet by my own choice. Some day I will find a husband whom I believe I can love as much as I loved Maheev. I am willing to wait until then. What you are proposing is impossible.'

His eyes — Maheev's eyes — glowed brightly for an instant, reacting to her refusal. She felt the heat emanating from him again. You are mistaken, Pritha-Kunti. I am not proposing. This is inevitable. Once the mantra has been uttered and a Deva is summoned, the summoner will be impregnated. The question of choice does not enter into it. The mantra compels me to instil my seed within your womb and ensures that you will bear a child of that seed. All you can choose is which Deva to summon, and what qualities you wish the child to possess in life.

She gasped, raising a hand to cover her mouth with her upright palm. 'But I do not wish this! Will you assault me then? Against my will?'

Nay, he said. Though I can. In your case, I am sympathetic to your situation. Your intelligence and strength of will impress me greatly. I do not wish to possess you by force. If you will not accept my gift in the usual way, through the union of man and woman, then I can impregnate you through the force of brahmaand itself.

She swallowed. 'What does that mean?'

He raised a hand, the palm beginning to glow at once, producing a tiny ball of heat and light, a spinning fireball the size of an almond seed. By passing my seed to you through the medium of my energy. Just as I engender life within the womb of Bhudevi, the goddess of Earth, through the life-giving power my sunlight.

She hesitated. And if I do not want this method either? If I refuse you altogether and bid you leave this instant?'

He sighed. Do not test the patience of a Deva, Pritha. You will have more interactions with my fellow Devas in your life. And your sons — He paused, recalling her earlier admonition. You would do well to keep good relations with any Deva or Devi. You will have need of our aid in your life to come. Do not make this harder than it has to be.

She reflected on that, her heart racing. Why had she uttered that mantra at all? That Sage Durvasa had brought her nothing but hardship and discomfort. She should have known he would never give her a simple gift. The man cared nothing for anyone. He had given her this mantra out of some patriarchal sense of tradition: men bestowing offspring upon woman as though children were things to be given and taken, rather than mutually created expressions of one human being's love for another. She wished now she had put the mantra out of her mind and never used it. But it was too late now: wishing would do her no good. She was a realistic woman. What had to be, was. All one could do was make the best of the inevitable.

There was also the practical matter of there being no alternative. She could not fight a Deva. And even if she tried and failed, what would that achieve. If what Surya Deva said was true she would require the aid of the gods in her life ahead. Not just she. Your sons, he had said. That tantalizing fragment suggested that her future children would need their aid as well. She could not act now out of pride and wilfulness and endanger her future, unborn children. Besides, she had uttered the mantra and desired all the things he had named. Maheev had been of the Suryavansha line. She had wanted one night with him, if only to give herself the satisfaction of showing him how much she loved him, expressing all that she had failed to express in life. To give him the gift of herself. To give herself the gift of him. She needed it… nay, she wanted it.

'I have one last question,' she said, her tone less confrontational now.

He waited, Maheev's handsome face set in that same wistful longing gaze that had always won her heart.

'Will Maheev…wherever he may be now…be able to hear what I say to you?' She hesitated, trying to find the right words. 'I suppose I'm asking if he will, in some way, be able to sense the feelings I express here and now? Is there some way to make that possible?'

He did not answer her immediately. She thought she had finally crossed a line, given offence to a powerful god.

But when he looked at her, it was with Maheev's face, Maheev's eyes, and, she could swear, Maheev's spirit. 'Pritha,' he said, in that same gentle respectful tone she had loved for its contrast to the loud, boisterous voices of most rich young men, 'Marriage is a woman's decision, and it's your right to make that choice when you please. But can I help it if I'm so madly crazy in love with you, Pritha of Mathura, Kunti of Bhoja, apple of my eye, that I can't bear to wait another year, another season, or even another night, to make you my wife?'

She raised her hand before her chin, shocked speechless. It was not merely a mimicking of Maheev. It was Maheev. By the grace of the gods!

He spread his arms. 'I love you, Pritha of Mathura, Kunti of Bhoja. I love everything about you, from your quick temper to your stubborn will, the way your back arches where it meets your hip, the way you toss your hair when you walk, your strength, your beauty, your love for fried tapioca—'

She shook her head in amazement, tears rolling down her face again. She began to walk towards him.

' — your prowess at weapons and combat, a true warrior princess and a better fighter than most princes or princesses, your sense of dharma — '

She put her upright palm over his mouth, cutting off the rest.

'Maheev, oh Maheev,' she said, her heart tearing apart and filling with unspeakable emotion both at once. 'I love you, my beloved. I love you more than anything else in this world. Would that I had told you when I had the chance, that last day we met, after the lake. I wanted to tell you, but I was too proud, too stubborn, too wilful, to admit that I wanted you as much as you wanted me. I was young and arrogant. I thought we had all the time in the world. I thought we had forever. I was wrong. I know now that all we have is the given moment. The here and now. There is nothing else. The future is uncertain, the past unreachable. We only have tonight. I should have told you how I felt, I should have held nothing back. Nothing would have given me more joy than to have taken you as my husband. I wanted to spend my life with you. I want to be with you, my love.'

She paused, then knew she could not stop herself now, 'Tonight.'

He opened his arms and embraced her. She crushed herself against his body. She felt a rushing of emotions, of love, lust, desire, sorrow, joy, as she had never felt before. For once in her life, she stopped trying to be in control, and let herself go completely. She gave in to the given moment. The heat grew within her and took her by storm. She allowed it to consume her. It blazed through her veins like a flood of fire. She let herself catch fire and burn. And he burned with her. Together, they gave themselves over to the blaze.