2

A gaunt frame pressed itself deep into the shadows and as soon as the sentry passed, it slunk out, going down on its knees before a large door, peering through the keyhole into a sunlit room. The two princes and another young man laughed uproariously while Vasuket, almost youthful with a full head of dark hair, looked on with an indulgent smile.

A broad back blocked the spying man’s view. ‘Your Majesty, it is time Prince Agraj joined me on a tour of the military commands. After all, he is the future king.’

‘Oh, I too would like to be a part of this expedition, General Meghabhuti,’ interrupted an impetuous voice. ‘It would be such an experience for me. Father, grant me permission please.’

The heavy tread of the patrolling sentry alerted the man outside, and he hurriedly moved away from the door. Then making a pretence of having just arrived, he nodded at the guard and stepped into the noisy room.

His gaze softened, alighting on the young prince pleading with his father, the small, pale face flushed with excitement.

‘Listening at the door as always, weren’t you?’ Meghabhuti’s dry voice intruded into his thoughts.

Vasuket chuckled, ‘Ah, Chakrawaru, do knock some sense into Anuj. After all, he is your ward!’

Chakrwaru bowed, ignoring Meghabhuti’s gimlet eye, ‘I think our great general is better equipped for that, Your Majesty. All I can do is beg the prince to consider the feelings of his devoted teacher. It breaks my heart that His Highness wishes to put an end to his studies.’

‘Oh no, I never meant that,’ Anuj rushed to Chakrawaru’s side and the tutor smiled, instantly gratified.

Not even the officials of the city orphanage, where he had arrived some forty years ago swaddled in a blanket, could confirm that Chakrawaru had come with a name. Sallow and lacking in vigour, the nameless child melted into the shadows with his books, eavesdropping on the secrets of other boys. And he heard many a whispered confession, hoarding them in his memory, using them to avenge slights, more imagined than real. Soon he acquired a sobriquet. ‘There goes Tedha,’ the word went around. ‘Stay away from him. He can twist even a pleasantry and get you into trouble. Beware!’

As he grew up, the nickname threatened to stick and impede his scholarly ambitions. Desperate to be rid of it, he rummaged painstakingly, first amongst official records and then through a cupboard full of old things. There he found a scrap of paper. It fell out of a faded blanket that, an official confirmed, had been wrapped around him years ago. ‘Chakrawaru,’ he breathed, reading the name on the paper, rolling it on his tongue, tears of gladness trickling down his cheeks.

It was Prince Anuj, then a boy of ten, who insisted his tutor live in the palace. Chakrawaru had been taken aback by the boy’s affection, never supposing a child, royal or otherwise, to pay him scant attention. But Anuj, fragile and sickly, unlike his sturdy sibling, clung to him, and when Chakrawaru looked into those trusting eyes, a weight on his heart shifted. Anuj quickly became the pivot of his existence, his reason to be.

But it hadn’t been the same with Agraj. Chakrawaru’s gaze swivelled to the strapping older prince, deep in conversation with Meghabhuti, the warrior General of Aum. He scuttled towards them, crab-like, but they glanced at him without really seeing him. He turned away abruptly, the glint of tousled brown hair catching his attention.

The same age as Anuj, Saahas had a ruddy complexion, his high cheekbones flushed with good health. Unruly hair fell untidily over his forehead, and his dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief. A smile played constantly on the well-defined mouth and his athletic frame, always poised to spring into action, was in direct contrast to the fragile appearance of the younger prince, drawing the latter like an iron filing to a magnet. Ever since Saahas had returned to Sundernagari after completing his education at the gurukul, the two had become inseparable.

They stood together at the large picture window, Saahas tall and sinewy, Anuj leaning towards him, as if for support. Sour acid rose up in Chakrawaru’s throat. It tasted of jealousy.

‘Your Highness,’ he sidled up to them. ‘What is going on?’

‘Sir, we are making plans for the future. After I finish my education, Saahas and I are going to travel the world. Like two adventurers!’

Chakrawaru stiffened. His outraged glance at Saahas was met with a nonchalant smile. ‘Royalty doesn’t go gadding about the countryside, young man,’ he admonished, his receding chin aquiver.

‘Worried that my son is putting wild notions into your student’s head, eh, Chakrawaru?’ Meghabhuti’s voice boomed from across the room. ‘I will take care of that.’ To Saahas he said, ‘You will soon join the Defence Academy.’

The boy flushed, bit his lip and turned away. ‘You have no choice in the matter,’ Agraj teased him. ‘When I am king, I shall appoint you my general.’

For one moment, all eyes turned towards the arched recess carved deep into the wall at the end of the room. The royal pagdi nestled within it, the light of a single lamp reflecting off its surface and creating a halo around it. Spun of the purest gold, the turban sported a triangle of seven emeralds, each the size of a pigeon’s egg, symbolizing the Saptarishi, the seven sages and guardians of Aum. It was believed the sages watched over the kingdom from the night sky, the king, their direct representative on earth.

‘When you were a child, you would wear the pagdi for fun,’ Chakrawaru told Anuj with a chuckle. ‘It was too big for your little head then.’

‘I am sure it fits now,’ cried the prince, moving towards it.

‘No, Anuj,’ Vasuket frowned. ‘The crown of Aum is not to be trifled with. You are not a child anymore.’ Anuj’s face darkened and he was about to protest when Saahas pulled him away, whispering in his ear. Soon, he was giggling again, his good humour restored.

Meghabhuti would often say, ‘How we yearned for him. I had almost given up on ever becoming a father when my wife announced she was with child.’ And he would go on to add proudly, ‘When I held him for the first time, his little fist reached out for my sword, quick as lightning.’ The delighted father had instantly named the infant Saahasvajra.

From an early age, the boy was happy to take the lead whenever others, daunted by a hint of uncertainty, shrank. His sunny temperament made him popular in the gurukul, his mere presence infusing his classmates with strength. Yet Saahas was never content. Constantly thirsting for adventure, he would say in a voice husky with longing, ‘I want to travel, meet new people, experience different cultures.’ But Meghabhuti disagreed.

Having lost his wife when Saahas had just turned eleven, Meghabhuti had taken over the role of mothering his only child. And like every mother, he had learnt of the dreams and aspirations, the secret desires of his son’s heart. But the father in him was impatient, eager to have his boy follow in his footsteps. ‘Underneath the restlessness is an iron will,’ he had told Vasuket. ‘If channelled, it will unfold his true nature, that of a warrior.’

On the way back home from the palace, he told Saahas, ‘You are eighteen years old, not a child anymore. If not for my sake, then for Prince Agraj, you must join the Defence Academy.’

‘You are trying to shackle me,’ Sahaas railed. ‘I want to roam free like the cloud that goes where the wind takes it.’

‘You mean you wish to be at the mercy of circumstances,’ Meghabhuti snapped. ‘That is certainly not freedom. Freedom has to be earned by first surrendering to obedience.’

His father’s words confused Saahas. How could one be free in surrender? Dragging his feet to the Academy the next day, he was the last of the students to arrive, his chin jutting defiantly. The other young men watched him, an unasked question on their lips, was the general’s son cast from the same mould as his father?

That day and every day after that, Saahas stayed aloof, uninterested in the lessons, failing every test. His swordplay, in particular, flummoxed his teachers. Despite being light on his feet and comfortable with the sword in either hand, he slashed the air, unable to attack or defend.

‘It doesn’t feel right. How many times must I tell you I cannot do it?’ he told the master, flinging the blade aside.

‘He is doing everything he can to convince his teachers that he is unfit for the Academy,’ an exasperated Meghabhuti grumbled to Vasuket. ‘Sometimes I despair of him.’

The king roared with laughter. ‘He is a handful that one, but I am certain he will make a better general than you.’

Meghabhuti smiled. ‘I cannot wait for that day, Your Majesty, for I will not live forever.’ After a moment of reflection, he sighed, ‘In his heart, he remains a dreamer. He got that from his mother.’

‘A dreamer-warrior,’ Vasuket exclaimed. ‘I would say that is an excellent combination. He will be a visionary, my friend. Let me see what I can do.’

Arriving suddenly at the Academy the following day, he summoned Saahas, and listened to his impassioned plea, ‘Your Majesty, please believe me when I say I am not a soldier. I cannot wield a sword, it weighs me down. However hard I try, it refuses to follow my command. So, you see, I cannot become like my father. Could you please explain this to him?’

Vasuket patted Saahas on the shoulder, a suspicion of a twinkle in his eye, and left without saying a word. In a few weeks, Saahas received a parcel. Inside it was a steel sword fashioned especially for him, and it came with the king’s benediction, ‘May this sword be your Shakti.’

Running his hand down the twenty-two-inch blade, Saahas noticed a distinctive pattern mottling its surface, alternating between light and dark, like that of water flowing over pebbles. ‘A khanda,’ he breathed in awe.

There was only one other khanda in the kingdom, and it belonged to Agraj. When newly forged and delivered from the metalsmith’s yard, the prince had flaunted it, brandishing it before the fascinated boys. ‘The steel ingots came all the way from Dakhini, the kingdom in the far south. Kurikas says the unusual pattern developed when he forged the blade. That means more than one iron ore was used. He quenched it not in water, but in the ash of plantain leaves! It is truly an extraordinary sword.’

‘In gifting you the khanda, His Majesty has bestowed a special honour upon you,’ Meghabhuti told Saahas, worried that his son would stubbornly reject the king’s favour. But Vasuket’s blessing bore fruit. When Saahas clasped its wooden hilt, carved perfectly to fit his fingers, it felt exactly the way a sword should, faultless. The wide blade, two grooves running down its length, swung easily, delivering the strongest blow. While its spine was flexible enough to withstand the toughest shocks, the hard edges on either side met in a deadly point.

Saahas had heard of the blade’s reputation to cut through iron and when he tested its sharpness against shield and spear, it didn’t disappoint. The perfectly honed edges sliced through metal with the same elegance that they cut a strand of falling hair in half, the sword always maintaining its impeccable balance. ‘I love it,’ he exulted. ‘It moves at the speed of my thoughts, like an extension of my arm.’ Naming it Shakti, the Power, he felt invincible with it by his side, just as Vasuket had hoped. And his teachers heaved a sigh of relief, pleased in the certainty that the next General of Aum had been found.