AS DAYS WENT BY, Alinora saw that Drishya was indeed very much like all the other infants his age, sons and daughters of her sisters and friends who came daily to play with him. These were the children who had survived the massacre along with Drishya, each one a precious child that represented hope for the future, and it warmed her heart to see them frolic together. But there were times when she noticed him looking into the distance with contemplative eyes, almost as if he were thinking through some complex problem. When he saw her watching, he always smiled and gurgled reassuringly. She began to wonder if he was concealing his true intelligence for her sake.
She could not fault him; a part of her wanted him to be the child she had always desired, her own son. Even though she knew quite well he was no more her son than he was an ordinary babe, she liked the pretend play. She accepted his subterfuge. After all, he must appear completely normal and ordinary to anyone watching. If there were ears everywhere, those ears also had eyes connected to them. Unusual behavior could be more easily observed, without a word needing to be spoken aloud.
Eshnor seemed preoccupied and distracted as well. There was talk of rebellion and of an alliance against Arrgodi. Eshnor had always been clear on the matter of politics: whatever the problem, war and violence were part of it, they could never be solutions to anything. His staunch insistence on pacificism was both a necessary counterpoint to the constant heated tempers and enraged debates as well as a frustration to those who felt the time for talk and peaceful methods was long past.
Perhaps the best news that came out of Arrgodi was the rumor that Vasurava and Kewri had escaped into exile, and nobody knew exactly where they were even now, only that they were safe and well. She was relieved at that news. She was less relieved to hear that Rurka and the Mraashk rebels were seeking support from the distant realm of Stonecastle, ruled by their eponymous king who was, of course, the adoptive father of Karni, sister of Vasurava and therefore naturally sympathetic to anyone suffering under Tyrak’s tyranny. But Eshnor felt that Stonecastle was an ambitious and grasping king, a warmonger who would rouse his army and ride on Arrgodi without much provocation. He thought that Rurka had erred in bringing Stonecastle into this fray—but it was the only nation willing to risk Tyrak’s wrath by sheltering Mraashk refugees seeking to escape the Usurper’s yoke, and such support came at a heavy price.
If Rurka reached an agreement with Stonecastle, then Stonecastle might someday march on Arrgodi. And if Stonecastle attacked Arrgodi, Hastinaga could not stay neutral. Vasurava’s brother-in-law Shvate was too young and lacking sufficient power as yet to commit Hastinaga’s considerable might, but Shvate’s uncle, Prince Regent Vrath, certainly could. And if Vrath aligned with the forces against Arrgodi, then it was almost certain that Jarsun Krushan the Morgol would join in the melee. It would be a war on every front, and it could be decades, or even centuries, before peace descended on the Mraashk again. Eshnor knew and feared this more than the actual threat of violence. It was one thing to suffer the yoke of Tyrak. But was it worth risking war against the Burnt Empire in an attempt to throw off that yoke? And who was to say what the eventual outcome might be? After all, the Krushan dynasty, from which Hastinaga’s rulers were descended, specifically the Krushan line, were the forebears of the Mraashk. And Arrgo, founder of the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations, had been cast out by his own father, Ragan Krushan, and banished to these regions. There were still tribes who recalled that ancient humiliation and resented it, believing that Mraashk and Arrgodi had equal claim to the throne of the City of Elephants and Snakes, Hastinaga. What might begin as a sincere attempt to support an oppressed people and overthrow a tyrant might well end up as a war engulfing the entire continent.
So Alinora kept silent about her concerns, thinking she would give it another day or two, then another week, then another fortnight. For now, Drishya was her beloved son. He was healthy, happy, playful . . . Most of all, he was alive! The first child she’d had who had not been stillborn. Although she knew that was not true, the reality of his presence enabled her to pretend it was so. She was grateful for that.
Now that Drishya was walking, it was harder to keep track of him. Most infants took a few steps one day, then stumbled and fell, then gradually progressed over the next few weeks. Not Drishya. One day he was sitting and creeping and crawling, the next day he was standing up, and from that day onward, he walked like any toddler. He lurched, he stumbled, he almost fell—and sometimes actually fell—but mostly he regained his balance and continued on his merry way. He had some trouble going downhill. On one occasion, Drishya was sitting beside Alinora and playing with a wooden wagon cart. Alinora heard her name called by Aindavi and Kirtida, her best friends, and turned her head for a moment. As they approached, Aindavi put her hand to her mouth and screamed. She pointed over Alinora’s shoulder, and Alinora spun, her heart leaping with panic, to see Drishya trundling down the grassy slope. The cart had gotten away from him and was rolling downhill, and he had decided to follow it. As the cart picked up speed, so did Drishya, his chubby arms raised and waving as he sought to maintain his balance. The pull of Mother Artha, the earth goddess, drew him, and he ran faster after the rolling toy.
Alinora called his name and ran after him, followed closely by her friends. She could hear Drishya laughing in his baby gurgle as he went, and it was evident that he was neither afraid nor aware of the possibility of coming to harm.
About halfway downhill, he lost his balance, went head over heels on the grass—and kept on going. Alinora gasped, running faster. Drishya tumbled a few times, then came to a rest sitting up. His heavy head jerked forward on his slight neck, and he released a choked burst of laughter. Alinora came running up beside him and crouched down, cradling him to her chest, swaying from side to side, tears of relief pouring down her face. Her friends knelt beside her, reassuring her, touching her arms, touching Drishya, and she realized in that moment that, divine or mortal, it didn’t matter to a mother’s heart. To a mother, even a god infant was still her son, and even if he was invulnerable to every conceivable danger, she would still worry her heart out over him.
When she finally released Drishya from her smothering embrace, he smiled at her proudly and held up his fist.
“Ma!” he cried, the only word he could speak aloud. The wooden cart was clutched in his chubby fist.
“Ma!” he cried again, waving the cart at her until she nodded and acknowledged his triumph.
He had chased down the cart and caught it. To him, it had been a little adventure, nothing more. Soon after, he had his milk, burped happily, then fell asleep with arms and legs sprawled as usual, still clutching the wooden cart. She tried to pry it loose, but when the wood creaked as if it was about to crack, she let go at once. He wasn’t about to give up his prize that easily.
After that first little triumph, the adventures increased in number.
One day she was feeding one of the cows, Drishya beside her. He loved being around the cows. He had a way of putting his hand on their bellies, palm pressed upward so he could reach their bulging stomachs, and making a resonant nasal sound in his sinus before saying, “Ma!” It was possible he meant to say something completely different, but as it happened, it was an appropriate term to use. Cows were quite literally go-maata. Cow-mothers. She couldn’t help feeling that even his little ritual of placing his palm on their bellies and making that odd sound was a kind of blessing.
She wasn’t in the least surprised when some cows began yielding richer, sweeter milk than ever before. She was certain they were the very cows her little Drishya had touched.
One day she came out her front door to find every untethered cow gathered outside, waiting patiently. She stopped short, taken aback. The cows stood silently, as if waiting for something or someone. Moments later, the pitter-patter of little bare feet sounded and her dark rascal came to the threshold. At once, the cows sent up such a lowing and mooing that people came rushing from around the house to see what was going on.
Drishya clapped his hands gleefully, smacking the palms together in that uncoordinated way infants have, sometimes missing and slapping empty air, giggling open-mouthed. Then he raised his palms and showed them to the gathering of cows.
At once, they subsided. One solitary calf right at the back, probably unable to see from behind the big cows, lowed once, plaintively. Drishya put his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. The calf subsided as well.
Then, as Alinora and the other family members watched in amazement, he began making that nasal sound again. Except that this time it was almost recognizable, despite his inability to pronounce words clearly just yet. Alinora felt certain it was the sacred syllable Auma. The way Drishya made the sound, it was deeper, more primal somehow, like something that transcended language and words and meaning. Something that went back to the beginning of time and the human race. It was a sound filled with great power and history, made by the nasal septum of a two-year-old infant standing naked on his doorstep!
Then he raised his palm again and held it out to the gathered cows. Alinora blinked as something passed from that open palm to the cows. She could not say what it was exactly. It was not light, not quite a glow. It was wholly invisible—yet perceptible. Something that she could only describe as . . . a force. An energy. A blessing.
The cows lowed loudly again, this time with a tone of satisfaction, the sad-sack tone of cows since time immemorial, then turned ponderously and clumped their way back to their foraging grounds. They didn’t need to be herded; they found their way quite well by themselves.
Only the little calf remained. She started to follow her mother, then hesitated and turned her head back, looking mournfully at Drishya.
Drishya smiled. Alinora saw him beaming brightly as if he knew exactly what ailed the little calf. And he stepped off the threshold, almost losing his balance as he reached the soft grassy ground of the courtyard. She felt her arms reach out instinctively to grab him, but saw that he needed no help. He padded across the courtyard to where the calf stood waiting uncertainly.
He laughed and threw his little arms up to the calf’s neck, and to everyone’s surprise, he gave the calf a big wet kiss on her lips. The calf lowed softly, then was quiet. Drishya laughed and swung onto the calf’s back, sitting astride it as he must have seen some of the young govalas do.
The calf seemed pleased and lurched forward, running after her mother, following the herd. Drishya held on easily, laughing his gurgling laugh, absolutely fearless. Seeing him heading downhill, the cowherds closest to him began to shout out warnings and run after him. Drishya continued undaunted, squealing with joy. The calf mirrored his childish enthusiasm, galloping like a horse.
“Ma!” Drishya cried happily as he passed over the hilltop and out of sight. “Ma!”
It was still the only word he could speak aloud.
Shaking her head in amused despair, Alinora ran after him. Even though she knew no harm would come to him, she could not simply stand there as her son rode recklessly down the hillside.
From that day onward, until the end of her days, that little calf never once fell ill or had any complaints or problems. Eventually, she would become the oldest living cow. It was only much, much later that people realized the connection and harked back to the day Drishya had blessed the cow with his own life essence, shared through a kiss.