Yama's Lieutenant and The Stone Witch Read online

  All she had wanted, in life and in death, was to fly. Soar upwards, higher and higher, feel the gentle hug of the clouds, break free of its cottony embrace and disappear into the vastness of the heavens, surrendering forever to the wild exhilaration of endless flight. Dhumorna had got what she wanted. More or less.

  The Rodhana had been devised and resurrected by her, after the original had been torn down, thanks to her ill-advised actions, and had literally unleashed the forces of the thousand hells of her beloved. She had done it for all the souls who had made mistakes (or ‘sinned’, if you wished to be pedantic), massive ones that had scarred the soul and needed so much damage control it was almost not worth it. For those who saw no reason to roll over and resign themselves to an eternity of punishment and pain, it would serve as a symbol of being able to right the wrongs that had been committed.

  She loved the elegance and simplicity of it. The Rodhana was a monument of hope and proof, if any were needed, that no matter how far you hurtled along the path of vice and destruction, you could find your way back to all that is good within, provided you were willing to make the effort and sacrifice everything. In return, every single trace of evil that was lodged deep, eating away at the soul, would be flushed out, leaving only lasting peace and a deep sense of fulfilment.

  The girl she once had been, and probably always would be, drifted through the mists, far from aimless, an insubstantial yet powerful presence, rather like the funerary smoke she was named after, checking the barrier constantly, strengthening its shimmery surface by lending a part of her essence, giving freely of herself. All around were those who had willingly laid down their lives so the Rodhana could be brought into being. Like her, they too had sacrificed everything and now lay in the blissful state between wakefulness and sleep. They were the itvaras, her cherished ones who had been willing to make amends for their wrongs. And had done so.

  Consigned to a dreamlike existence, they were not tormented by the pangs of hunger or thirst nor the slings and arrows of memory and regret. The great burden of expectation, with its crop of disappointment, was no longer theirs to bear. It was from this state of peace and tranquillity that they reached within themselves and did their part to imbue the Rodhana with strength, so that Mother Earth could be kept safe from the worst evildoers locked away in Yama’s hells.

  She watched over them all, bolstering their efforts with her own, keeping the magic born of blood and sacrifice safe and sound. For it had to endure as long as it could. Even magic such as theirs would not last forever. In the distant future, which would nevertheless be too soon for her liking, there would arise a need for release and rebuilding. But she would deal with it all in good time. For the time being, she was proud of them, and kept their stories safe in her heart, where even time could not steal them away.

  It was hard to believe that she had been desperately unhappy a mere heartbeat ago. Or was it a couple of lifetimes ago? Miserable, and trying in vain to be a bigger part of her husband’s life, she had actually pulled it off. Thankfully, Yama had been restored to his full strength and they were unified in a beautiful way that transcended the bond of matrimony. Within the comforting mists of the Rodhana, she could look back on her past without the agony the act usually engendered.

  She wandered through the hallways of her former home. A ghost who could never fully return, even if she wanted to. The palace of gold that Yama’s grandfather Twastha—vishwakarma of the devas—had built him. Some said it was the finest edifice in all the three worlds. Wrought in ivory and gold, the walls were adorned with the most magnificent carnelians, sapphires, diamonds and rubies. It was so massive it seemed to extend forever in every direction. The sun god had blessed the abode of his beloved son, personally ensuring that it was always bright and golden.

  Yama’s sabha was one of the wonders of the three worlds, as befitting the bastion of Dharma—a hallowed place where the scales of justice were balanced and everyone got what they were owed. It was murmured, in awed whispers, that the splendour of both the palace and sabha was beyond anything the mind could conceive, and that it could bestow on its inhabitants anything the heart desired, sparing them the horrors of ageing, misery and pain. The place was always pleasant, with a soothing breeze that ensured its blessed denizens were spared the inconveniences of inclement weather.

  The sprawling grounds had an abundance of majestic trees. Some had trunks of pure silver and leaves of gold. Some bore fruits while others could grant wishes. The exquisite gardens were a feast for the senses, and the profusion of flowers was so pretty it made the heart overflow with joy.

  There were always good things to eat and drink, dancers and singers to keep the sabha alive with merriment and there abounded every conceivable pleasure, aesthetic or otherwise. Birds trilled in the trees, and the music of their songs was so pure and sweet that it was said they could wipe out even the most stubborn traces of pain that had been carried over from a thousand lifetimes. Puppies, rabbits and fawns frolicked by the sparkling streams, spreading warmth and mingling playfully with the golden sunbeams that smiled down on the inhabitants.

  Great yogis and individuals who had distinguished themselves in terms of virtue, wisdom and achievement lent their aura to Yama’s abode and made it luminescent. The chanting of the sages could be heard at all times as they performed ceremonial rites to enhance the glory of Yama and imbue him with blessings so that he may perform his onerous duties with unflagging excellence.

  Unsurpassed as it was in terms of sheer exquisiteness and an overabundance of good things, neither the palace nor the sabha could fill her being with the sated joy she so craved. The thing that would fill her with elusive satisfaction and fulfilment, that would end the restlessness that gnawed away at her insides, was also the thing her runaway mind could not pinpoint with any degree of accuracy, or keep her from pursuing relentlessly and endlessly. It made her wish the birds and sages would be silent for a short while so that she could soak up the sound of silence and still the chaos in her head.

  It was truly unfortunate that she felt the way she did, given that fate had seen fit to bless her with so much. Mortal and immortal females alike would kill for a tenth of her possessions and yet she was as unhappy if not unhappier than those who had neither a roof over their heads nor clothes on their backs nor food in their bellies.

  As for her dear husband, the one she loved so much, he would be the death of her. There were times when she wanted him chained in his deepest, darkest dungeon and beaten bloody. She hated feeling that way but she could not help it.

  Yama was an enigma. He was Dharma, the deliverer of all who were righteous, and the scourge of malefactors, reprobates, contemptible cowards and the rest of their evil compatriots. He was the only celestial being who had been trusted with the paramount task of making the immortal soul give an account of itself during the course of successive lifetimes and then balance the ledger, so that the sum of deeds could be rewarded or punished accordingly.

  Her lord had never balked at the tremendous responsibility. For there was never such a one bound by the ironclad diktats of Dharma or duty as her consort. In fact, with him, everything became a duty to be performed to the best of his ability, including his relationship with his wife.

  Yama was the most dutiful husband in the three worlds. He always made it a point to inquire about her well-being, was considerate and respectful of her needs, and performed on their marital bed with precision and sensitivity, if not passion, and barring these interactions, he was content to leave her be.

  Chitragupta, his loyal record-keeper, had been pleased to take up the role of her mother-in-law, one she had never had nor wished for; he kept her duly apprised of the things that were expected of her. She was to conduct herself at all times in a manner appropriate to the consort of Dharma and forever be the embodiment of the auspicious woman.

  ‘Bedeck yourself in gold cloth and fine silks, and do not leave out the rich ornaments that were given to you as part of your trousseau. They serve a purpose that does not include gathering dust in a neglected corner of your wardrobe.’ He would harrumph at her undone hair and the simple, flowing robes that she favoured because they were comfortable and did not restrict movement when she chased after a deer or dived into a pool of water, all in a bid to feel something. To escape the emptiness for which there was no cure.

  ‘Our lord’s consort has to look alluring from head to toe if she is to epitomize Mahalakshmi and be the harbinger of prosperity for this dark realm, which the badly informed already view as an inauspicious place that serves to contain evil and reeks of the burden of sin. The purity of the soul should be reflected on the face, so that the great souls who honour us with their presence are moved to join their palms to pay obeisance at the very sight of our king’s royal consort.’

  He would look at her face shorn of make-up, hands and feet unadorned by henna patterns, and take in the complete lack of ornaments or even a bindi before muttering something about slatterns and foolish mothers who failed to instruct their spoilt daughters on how best to conduct themselves in their lord’s abode.

  On hearing Chitragupta’s stern admonishment, her attendants would spring into action, as if Yama’s hounds were at their heels. She would be dragged off to a marble bath, bathed in milk and honey, scrubbed with gold dust and soaked in rose petals till her skin tingled with radiance. Then they would anoint her body from top to toe with perfumed oils.

  This would be followed by an elaborate toilette that involved a lot of holding still and the risk of a snapped neck as they tugged on her mane with ivory combs. A gargantuan effort was made to do up her wild hair, comb out her tangled tresses, braid them and further adorn them with flowers as well as ornaments. Her face needed extensive work as well, if their grunts of distress were
anything to go by. They would powder it with a vengeance, apply kohl to her eyes and then rouge her lips and cheeks.

  She would be draped in yards of fabric that involved a lot of folding and tucking. It was impossible to stride freely in those garments and it was imperative that she move with tiny, ladylike steps to avoid crumpling the exquisite fabric or have it fall off her frame. More than once she had risked falling face first or landing on her rump.

  The heavy ornaments came next, and she would have willingly gifted them to the poorer mortals to be spared the burden of having to bear their weight. Finally, her feet would be attended to and decorated with intricate designs using henna or lac dye before everyone stepped back to inspect the final product with something that was not quite satisfaction but close.

  Then they would present her to Chitragupta for inspection, who would harrumph some more. During such scrutiny she would fantasize about tearing off her monstrously uncomfortable clothes and accoutrements, flinging them at his prepossessing face and running away, naked, from the place. Instead, she would keep her eyes downcast and trot dutifully after him to light the billion lamps that festooned their royal abode and join the sages while they led the worship in praise of her lord, killing the protests that rose unbidden to her lips.

  Yama himself was too proper to voice his thoughts on the delicate subject but Chitragupta had no qualms about informing his wife that it was her duty to bear their lord strong sons and pious daughters, or insisting that she down gallons of potions seasoned with bull testicles or rabbit genitalia to make her fecund. To her secret joy and his supreme annoyance, her womb remained recalcitrant and refused to allow felicitous congress with Yama’s seed.

  It was around this time that Varunani came into their lives at the behest of Chitragupta, who insisted that Yama take another bride who would do her wifely duty and exert herself more strenuously in the direction of providing him with male heirs.

  ‘She is the daughter of Varuna, the lord of the waters and one of the guardians of the universe!’ he informed her gleefully, adding out of sheer spite, ‘A worthy and most auspicious match for our king!’ He looked very pleased with himself when the barb found its mark and drew blood, though his intended victim feigned indifference. According to him, it served her right too; as if one born of funerary smoke could ever be a worthy match for the great ruler of the nether realms!

  Varunani was beautiful, and she clearly liked nothing better than draping herself in the most exquisite garments, adorning herself with fabulous jewellery and playing the part of the perfect wife. In fact, she lived for it and thought nothing of lighting hundreds of lamps and singing songs endlessly for her adoring audience, lapping up the praise and applause like she could never have enough of it.

  Personally, she found Yama’s new bride superficial in the extreme, especially when she went out of the way to be nice to her ‘elder sister’, though they were both capable of reading the masked dislike in each other’s eyes. ‘A well-trained mannequin, with the depth and emotional range of a flea!’ she had concluded uncharitably about Varunani, though she would never say it aloud lest folks thought she was jealous about sharing Yama.

  In due course, much to Chitragupta’s chagrin and everybody else’s joy, a daughter was born of the union between Yama and Varunani. She was an exquisite creature with the dusky complexion of her father and her mother’s silken hair, ruby-red lips and fat cheeks.

  Everybody loved the precious little child, with the notable exception of Chitragupta and her own mother, Varunani, who resented anything and anybody who diverted attention from her own self. The new mother was content to ignore the baby most of the time, though she did coo or make a fuss over her when there was company, so that everyone might gush and say things like ‘Oh! She is the loveliest mother in the three worlds!’ or ‘The maternal glow on her lovely face is most becoming!’ or ‘How she dotes on her little one! It is enough to warm the cockles of my heart!’

  ‘Varunani is so busy playing the part of a perfect wife and mother that she does not actually bother with being either,’ she muttered to herself, wishing she could make the case out loud without seeming to be afflicted with a severe case of bitter envy. ‘But everybody loves to love her.’

  The baby was named Madhu Swapna, one of those excessively cloying names, meaning ‘sweet dream’. She rolled her eyes and hoped the child would turn out to be less of a nightmare than the mother!

  Dhumorna shuddered then, abruptly drawing the curtain on the past. After all this time, and even in the Rodhana, it still hurt—the memory of the fate that had befallen poor little Sweet Dream. She waited for her feelings to quiet down and the tranquillity to wash over her. Swapna was lost to them all. But it would never do to give up hope. What was lost could be found again. Provided somebody cared enough. She had to believe that.

  8

  The Last Kimkara

  Agni felt the stranger’s steady gaze, drawing him in with a quiet force that could not be denied. Even suspended mid-air like a papier mâché fairy, he was a big man. And strong. There was no overlooking the raw power that emanated from the apparition. Long raven hair, shot through with strands of silver, hung loosely all the way till the small of his back and shimmered along with the rest of him as the wind picked up its pace. Shadowing the dark face were ponderous brows, a dead giveaway of a quick temper, beneath which were deep-set eyes that saw right through you. His skin was burnished copper, and it glinted dully when it caught the lambent light of the moon.

  He was clad in robes of iron grey that fell to his ankles, loosely belted with a chain forged of a strange metal, which was unlikely to be of this world. The same could be said for the owner as well. The stranger would say nothing, not even when Agni was close enough to see the gnarled, twisted hand and all the way through it.

  With the slightest of nods, which Agni assumed was a sign to follow him, the big guy floated away deeper into the woods. Childhood was so far behind him, it might as well have been another lifetime, but his mum’s voice sounded loud and clear in his head, ‘I want you two to remember this! It is important! Never go away with anybody you have just met. Even if they smile and give you chocolates. In fact, it is not okay to take off with anybody alone even if they are close friends or family. Do you understand?’

  ‘What if we are given toys or money?’ Varu had wisecracked and, needless to say, Mum had not cracked a smile in response.

  Agni supposed he ought to have second thoughts about following ghostly apparitions but it seemed no more and no less risky than what he did every other day. So he shrugged and followed without a word into the great unknown.

  The trees were ancient, hulking presences that had been around forever, it seemed—a silent brooding presence that had stood undisturbed and untouched as the centuries and generations had gone by. There was wisdom in those trees, rooted as they were in the same spot from the moment of their inception till death came calling. An unobtrusive presence that stood outside the wheel of time, content to watch with clinical detachment as the secrets of the universe, at least in their part of it, were revealed to them.

  Agni gazed at the back of the one he was following without a clue. The mammoth figure seemed scary and reassuring at the same time. He remembered the first time the silver goddess had summoned him. It had been in Kodakara, when he had negotiated his way past similar thickets of gnarly trees and thorny scrubland into a ravine and the waterfalls that had spilled forth from it in a silver rush.

  The memories washed over him unbidden and his skin prickled as anticipation and anxiety flooded his being. Agni could feel his own eagerness but there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than for the stranger to turn around, take him unawares and bring a weapon down on his head in a single, fatal blow. Quick and clean.

  It would all be over then and he would be able to sink blissfully into nothingness and nobody would make outrageously difficult demands of him. It wouldn’t go down that way, Agni knew, and it didn’t.