11

‘It went very well, bhabhi. I should say extraordinarily well.’ Relief made Chakrawaru generous with his words. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if His Majesty requests for a meeting with you, perhaps in a couple of days. And all thanks to you, Aum shall have its king again. I will call on you again, soon,’ and he bustled away.

‘Old Vasuket does not need cheering up,’ Manmaani remarked. ‘That is pretty obvious.’

‘Yes, mother and there is something else that is quite obvious, too,’ Shunen’s silky voice spoke in her ear. ‘I had the distinct impression that your presence averted a disaster—a disaster for uncle Chakra.’

‘What are you trying to say?’ she paid close attention, an arrested look on her face.

‘When we walked into the throne room, I heard whispers that the king intended to announce the dashing general as his heir. But that didn’t happen.’

‘Because Chakrawaru played spoilsport.’ Beads of moisture broke out on her upper lip.

‘And that is why we are here, mother, to throw a spanner in the good king’s works.’ Observing the emotions flit across her face, he added ever so gently, ‘We are just pawns on uncle’s chessboard. Once his work is done, he will throw us back into the box.’

Manmaani gripped her hands. ‘If you are right, then the stakes for this game are much higher than imagined.’ A cold shiver of anticipation ran up her spine. She couldn’t wait to meet His Majesty again.

Vasuket stared discontentedly at the woodland. It had been over four days since he had made Manmaani’s acquaintance, and try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind, constantly seeking out the memory of that particular moment when he had gazed upon her alluring face. ‘I will go mad,’ he groaned and rushed into the gallery, to stand shamefaced before his queen’s portrait.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you these last few days. I don’t understand myself. I don’t know what has come over me.’ The queen gazed back, a kind serenity reaching out to him from her sweet eyes.

The king sighed, ‘I miss you so much. I feel so, so alone.’

The light shifted in the gallery and a sunbeam fell across the painting, bringing the queen’s forest green dress to life. ‘She’s a poor widow, my dear,’ he pleaded, ‘with three sons. Perhaps I could help her, just enough so that her worries are taken care of?’ The sunbeam touched the queen’s face, turning up the corners of her mouth into a warm smile. ‘You approve don’t you, my dear? Of course, you do! You are compassion itself. I should have come to you sooner. Thank you, thank you, my darling.’

Manmaani chose her dress with care. A cream lehenga matched a choli knotted at the back, leaving her comely arms and shoulders bare. Her head she covered with an odhni, as delicate as a spider’s web, its border of dark green framing her face. Around her neck and wrists, she tied strings of white chameli flowers interspersed with small, fresh leaves. Once again, she darkened her eyes, skilfully transforming them into an almond shape. And for a final touch, she pinched her cheeks vigorously till they flushed a becoming pink. Walking with slow steps to the royal garden, she was a picture of wistful femininity, of bashful sensuality.

Vasuket rose to greet her, his heart skipping a beat. ‘Madam, thank you for accepting my invitation.’

‘Your Majesty,’ Manmaani quivered, ‘it is my honour and privilege.’

A sudden gust swirled the skirt around her ankles, winding it tightly about her buxom figure. The long odhni billowed, tugging to be free. Manmaani blushed, clutching at it in vain, her ample bosom rising and falling rapidly. His pulse racing, Vasuket leaned in close, inhaling the chameli scent, ‘You remind me of a painting I saw a long time ago,’ he murmured with a catch in his voice, his hands grasping her waist, ‘of a startled wood nymph, reaching for her flying scarf, her hair tossed by the wind.’

Manmaani gasped, lips parting and Vasuket, drawing a sharp breath bent his head, pressing his mouth to hers. The clouds rumbled, warning of a gathering storm, but he paid no heed, his old heart singing to its own romantic beat, uncaring of the approaching danger.