Prince of Dharma by Ashok Banker Page B

wiped the water from her face—this was to be the extent of her morning ablutions today, it seemed—she glanced repeatedly at Manthara, trying to read the daiimaa’s mood more clearly. 
     
    Manthara stared at a diya beside the bed, her eyes fixed directly on the flickering flame. 
     
    ‘What happened?’ Kaikeyi asked as she stripped off the loincloth in which she had slept and put on a fresh one. ‘Why are you asking about Dasaratha? What did he do?’ 
     
    Manthara’s attention remained on the lamp, her small glassy pupils transformed into tiny pinpoints of yellow fire by the twin reflections of the diya’s flame. 
     
    Kaikeyi wrapped the sari around her waist with quick, practised efficiency. ‘Manthara,’ she said, starting to feel really scared now, ‘what’s wrong? Talk to me, won’t you?’ 
     
    Manthara looked up at last. The reflected diya flame in her eyes seemed red now, deep fiery ochre, the colour of blood, if blood could flow upwards like a flame. 
     
    ‘The maharaja is in the first queen’s bedroom,’ she said. 
     
    Kaikeyi paused in mid-fold, one hand at her hip, the other holding the bunched material at waist-height. She stared at Manthara, trying to absorb the implications of her words. It must be a joke. Dasaratha hadn’t entered Kausalya’s chambers in years! Except … except … Manthara never joked. 
     
    ‘Doing what?’ Her voice screeched on the second word. 
     
    Manthara’s face twisted in another grimace of disgust. ‘Doing what men do to women.’ 
     
    Kaikeyi started. Whatever she had been expecting or fearing, this was not it. ‘But …’ she began, confused and bewildered. She looked around, found the silver lota of water kept on her bedside table, picked it up and downed it in one long swallow. Her tongue worked again, although her throat still felt desert dry. ‘But why? Why her? I mean … I thought … You said he was too ill to …’ The implication struck her like a sledgehammer. A surge of anger rose like bile in her throat. ‘Why her , Manthara? Dammit! Why her ?’ 
     
    Manthara looked at her grimly. 
     
    With the flames dancing in her eyes, she eerily resembled the rakshas in Kaikeyi’s dream. ‘That’s what we have to find out, you stupid woman.’ 

THREE 
     
    Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra saw Guru Vashishta levitating a moment before he entered the yoga chamber. 
     
    He glimpsed the guru’s white-clad long-bearded form between the closely bunched stone pillars that ringed the central chaukat. And for one startled moment, he could have sworn the guru was levitating. Not very high, perhaps just a foot or so—but rising steadily, definitely rising—above the ground. Sumantra’s view was blocked for an instant, just a fraction of a second as he rounded the last pillar, but when he reached the chaukat, the guru was firmly seated on the ground, eyes half-shut in the classic yoga-nidra asana of deep transcendental meditation. If it had been anyone else, Sumantra would have thought he’d imagined it and put it out of his mind at once. He was a scientific man, the most pragmatic prime minister the kingdom had ever had. Not given to tales of the Seven Seers and their fantastic mastery of Brahman sorcery. But he had never known quite what to make of Guru Vashishta. After all, the brahmarishi was a legend among legends. It was said he had been ordained by the Creator, mighty Brahma himself. Even Sumantra’s pragmatic outlook faltered momentarily before such a reputation. 
     
    ‘Namaskar, gurudev.’ His message delivered, the prime minister carefully kept his gaze directed at the guru’s feet, waiting silently for the sage’s response. 
     
    Vashishta remained in the lotus posture for a few moments longer, his eyes shut, breathing slowed to the point of stasis. Out of the corner of his eye, Sumantra imagined he could glimpse a faint bluish tint to the sage’s white dhoti. Even the guru’s toenails seemed to glow briefly with the