1

King Yajatha woke up with a cry. It was the same dream, the same recurring nightmare, and like every night, he was relieved to find he was in his bedchamber and not standing alone in the desolate monastery. Still, his heart pounded, the blood throbbing in his head, his throat parched from a terrible thirst. He took a gulp of cool water from the pitcher by his bedside and felt slightly better. Sighing heavily, he went to his window and looked out at the night.

A full moon shone brightly and by its light, Yajatha could see across a long distance. There wasn’t a whisper of a breeze, the air heavy with the smell of jasmine growing along the high palace wall. And beyond it stretched a meadow of tall grass, the moonlight glistening on every yellow blade. Yajatha swallowed, his gaze helplessly drawn to the far side of the meadow. There he discerned the faint silhouette of the edifice that troubled his sleep night after night. He regretted coming to the window, but had been unable to stop himself, his feet moving against his will.

In the thick silence of that late hour, the monastery stood there, accusing him, shouting wordlessly across the space between them, the testimony of his guilt. Yajatha turned away sharply, the headache worse than before. ‘I must hide it from view,’ he whispered, rubbing his temples with shaking fingers. A wave of weakness overwhelmed him and he tottered back to his bed. But sleep eluded him. The monastery lurked under his eyelids, branding itself on his mind. Tossing restlessly, he prayed for it to go away. And then an idea came to him.

‘I will plant a woodland. Yes, that’s it! A woodland of tall trees between the palace and that . . . that building.’ He couldn’t bring himself to mention its character.

Yes, he would tell the royal gardeners tomorrow to plant thousands of copper pod saplings. They grew astonishingly fast. And most certainly in a year’s time, he would be able to look out of his window upon the sea of yellow flowers without being reminded of his great failure. Perhaps then, he would be able to forget. Yes, perhaps then, he would be able to sleep.

Destiny, the master storyteller, smiles. ‘I promised you an intriguing tale,’ she tells us and points to the same bedchamber. The sky begins to lighten outside the window. It is a new day, only a few centuries later.

A steward stepped in softly, gently pulling aside the white silk drapes screening the royal bed. ‘Your Majesty,’ he bowed, anxiously appraising the king’s pale face. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Vasuket sighed deeply, rising from the bed, murmuring the sacred word ‘Aum’ in a desultory fashion. Bowing perfunctorily to the morning sun outside his window, he sighed again. Another day yawned before him like the unending days of the past few years.

The steward spoke in a low voice, ‘I have prepared the bath, Your Majesty.’

Vasuket nodded, his dull gaze skimming over a pair of butterflies flitting on the windowsill, and going beyond the palace wall to the woodland of copper pod trees—Yajatha’s wood. His boys had enjoyed a good ride through it. Perhaps they had ventured too close to the accursed ruins. Suppressing a moan, he turned away and the butterflies, after a moment of indecision, fluttered out, veering away from the woodland into the busy, lively streets.

The pristine white walls of Sundernagari, the beautiful capital city of Aum, were splashed with colour. Flowers hung not just from the trees and shrubs bordering the wide avenues but also covered the white walls and doorways of every home, every building. Even horses and bullocks wore marigold garlands around their necks. The citizens nodded and smiled at each other, hope in every face, the exuberance of their children tugging at their hearts.

‘We are celebrating spring for the first time in six years,’ a shopkeeper told a visitor. ‘We pray it will bring cheer to King Vasuket and draw him out.’ He paused, a smile of reminiscence on his face. ‘His Majesty would visit each neighbourhood, look at every house, mansion and modest home, judging it for its flower decorations. Seeing the city once again decked out will perhaps remind him of the tradition.’

‘How is he, our king?’

‘The tragedy has taken its toll on him. We haven’t seen him ever since. It’s as if he doesn’t exist.’

‘I remember he once rode into our town with his entourage,’ recalled the visitor. ‘Those were the merriest days we ever had, such entertainment! And Vasuket! He was just like a loving father, concerned about every family’s welfare.’

‘Yes,’ sighed the shopkeeper. ‘Those were good times. Aum had felt like one big family.’ After a small pause, he added, ‘The tragedy chipped away our faith in Aum.’

The two men looked at each other in silent understanding.

‘Every citizen took pride in Aum’s ancient history,’ Destiny begins to tell us, her smile enigmatic. ‘Every classroom resounded with the lesson that the kingdom had been named so by its founding fathers to remind its people of the primordial sound that pervaded the universe. For it was believed that Aum’s reverberation would one day reveal to the faithful the eternal light, the truth that is forever effulgent. And then, the founding fathers had avowed, not humans but gods and goddesses would walk the earth, the sound and the people becoming one.’

Two butterflies alighted on bales of cloth, their colourful wings opening and closing. The shopkeeper smiled suddenly. ‘This spring will change everything! The king will step out of the palace and our faith in Aum will be restored.’

‘But have you considered another possibility?’ The visitor raised an eyebrow. ‘What if Vasuket refuses to come out, sending Chakrawaru instead? Everyone knows the advisor runs the kingdom now.’

At that same moment, the king stood gazing at the portrait of his queen. Perhaps he glimpsed reproach in her face because he suddenly became conscious of a pang of guilt for delegating his responsibilities to the advisor. ‘He is doing a fine job, my dear,’ he hurried to reassure her. ‘I would have been lost without him. He saved me when I was drowning in grief.’

Dragging his feet to the next portrait, he looked into the laughing faces of two lads, their arms around each other. ‘My boys, my darling boys. Forever young.’ His eyes misting over, he moved on, paying his obeisance to the kings of the past.

King Yajatha exuded an air of severe gravity, and next to him, his heir, King Pavitr, radiated purpose. Their regal bearing transmitted such power that for a moment, just a fraction of a moment, Vasuket straightened and was once again Monarch of Aum. But when his eye alighted on Meghabhuti’s portrait, his shoulders drooped. ‘My dear friend, I miss you terribly. My family, you, all gone too soon.’

The steward peeped in at the door of the musty gallery. ‘Your Majesty, breakfast is served in the garden today.’

‘But why outside?’ the king looked perturbed. He preferred staying indoors, with the shadows keeping him company.

‘Beg pardon, Your Majesty, I was told you wished to see the spring flowers—’

Vasuket interrupted, ‘The spring flowers?’ He passed a hand over his eyes and mumbled inaudibly.

‘What is it, Your Majesty?’ the servant looked anxious.

Vasuket shook his head and shambled out of the room. The steward exhaled with relief, fingering the gold coins in his pocket. He had been paid handsomely for setting up the king’s breakfast in the arbour.

Stepping into the garden, Vasuket was instantly overwhelmed by the riot of colours and the heady perfume of flowers. It was a fine day, a day to rejoice in the beauty of spring. The purity of the blue sky, the tenderness of leaves and grass, the untiring songbirds, everything in the garden surged with new life. A twinge of excitement stirred within his breast, and he closed his eyes, seeing the happy faces thronging his chariot, showering him with marigolds, the velvety petals soft against his skin. ‘The spring festival of Sundernagari,’ he murmured, his voice wistful.

But wait, someone beckons us from the wings. ‘It is the ghost of past events,’ Destiny explains. ‘Events that occurred in the last six years. You must follow them, for when you return, you will have a better understanding of my ways.’