The Queen's Play (4 page)

HOME AT last, and yet terribly homesick. This island, this city of gold, cleverly wrested from his stepbrother after long planning and a fierce political, even a brief physical, battle, this seat of his vast empire, which extended out to include faraway continents at the end of the ocean, as also large parts of the peninsula in the north, where after years of quashing rebellions and forging multiple alliances, the king had been able to gain control of territories as far up as the mouth of the Indus to the left, near which he had seen and fallen in love with the queen, and the delta of the Ganga to the right, whence it sprawled out into marshlands and forests before meeting the sea, this island where winds from all directions, carrying a variety of scents and climates, converged to ruffle the flags of his rule high above the palace, this land of his birth and triumph, of his education and wandering, where in times past he moved now like a philan- derer, now like a sage, this earth of lush forests and groves where he first received the words of the holy scriptures from his father, the sage Visravas, descended from the great Pulastya himself, one of the ten mind-born sons of Prajāpati, the Progenitor, the First Born and the First Sacrificed, the Absent-Present One, and poured oblations into the sacred fire for the gods, was this home? Or was home in the forever changing flow of notes, of the myriad nuances and pitch oscillations, that rose up to enliven the air from his lightning-fast fingers holding the strings to the frets of the long, heavy lute resting across his chest, it seemed, in several places all at once? Nor was home in the hymns of the Sāma Veda, carefully selected and
calibrated to recall the sound that created the universe, which, if one was attentive, could easily be heard in the vibrations of a bowstring. And what of the sacred rituals and sacrifices, which he had patiently learnt over the years only to later unlearn with ever more persis- tence and fortitude? Surely, home was not the queen, consort, or the child, nor the dice that moved one through night and day to victory or doom. Home was something else entirely, a tiny transparent spot somewhere behind the eye past which one entered into unending space shining with light. Home was the desert, the lake, the mountain. A land of few shadows. Home was where the wanderer felt the cold, crackling wind without judgment, where he saw, forgot, remembered again, ancient rocks becoming ever harder in their losing tussle with the elements, where the light filled wings of black-necked cranes against the chain of the peaks, the indifferent stare of the eagle swooping down on its prey, the leopard's sprint along the river, the red outline of an ibex balanced on a cliff edge caught in a flaming full moon, the tinkling of distant bells, crystalline constellations that stood out sharply one moment and were cosmic dust the next were the impressions that washed over him, filled him with a feeling he had not known before, of a joyous vertigo, if it could be described thus, of falling into the swirling flux and recovering anew to pure breath, pure movement. This perhaps was home then, which each passing moment was now fast taking away.

Within hours of his arrival, the news had spread throughout the capital, and from then on the gaiety could not be checked, whether in the palace or the market square a wave of expectancy and happiness made people delirious. For the moment, squabbles, spats, vendettas were forgotten and all rejoiced in a feeling of pride, camaraderie, and, if one looked deeper, stupidity. The king had returned to his subjects after a long absence, having achieved whatever it was he had set out to achieve. The most powerful of empires had the most powerful of men back on the throne. This was what made the citizens elated, an elation at whose bottom lay
conceit, a conceit that stemmed from a certain misplaced conviction in one's superiority as a people, a belief toward which each of them had contributed by way of being ignorant, dogmatic, brave or cowardly in life or battle.

In the festivities that broke over the isle, the king was the most distracted of participants. And because he was distracted, he rarely grew impatient. Scarcely had he stepped out of a long bath than the royal priests were upon him, covering him up in a heady mixture of incense smoke, flower rings, and ceaseless chanting. And then, even before the queen could intercede, someone among the courtiers, with a love of ceremonies, had suggested a second coronation to mark the homecoming. Others in the group leapt at the suggestion, loudly affirming their support, only if to quell the ennui that is second nature to those who don't have to earn their bread out in the open. But by now the king had grown distant and deaf to everything. And because this was so, the proposed coronation went ahead. Again the tiger skin was laid on the ground before the throne, again the sovereign walked across it in three measured steps in a rite recalling the three steps of the Deity incarnate traversing earth, heaven, and hell, as if with such a trivial performance alone one came to resemble the Lord of three worlds. One by one, the sparkling, colourful rings were slipped back on his fingers, which had not yet lost the harshness of his roving, ascetic days. Where not in the so distant past was only his topknot of tangled hair, there now came to rest the heavy, bejewelled gold crown. Evil lurked beneath this opulence everywhere, glittered through this cornucopia of colour, the useless bounty of riches, madness of ages, revealed itself in the elegance of the damasks and draperies, in the tip of the priest's finger marking his forehead with a daub of vermilion, in the finely carved cornices, in paintings and tapestries that covered the long, shadowy walls, in the form-drenched pilasters projecting into the assembly hall from eight directions, in the din of tom-toms and clarinets, in every whiff of smoke that rose from repeated offerings into the sacred fire, in the perfume of flowers, casual smiles,
ebullient voices, above all, in this velvety air of the make-believe. Home at last yet terribly homesick, the king felt like a monster trapped in a gilded maze of his own making.

And yet he had come back. But why? Because we never stop to think. Because we are incapable of stopping at all. Because we are obliged to move fast. Because endless possibilities confound us at each turn. Because our curiosity remains insatiable nevertheless. Because the trace can never be erased. Because life is a storm, a whirlwind, a lammergeier spreading its mammoth wings, coming at us at breakneck speed, and even when we run away from it, we run straight into it, tumbling down we go into the dark mouth opening to swallow us.

The queen watched silently from the side. The queen saw the proud bearing as before, the aloof pose monarchs affect to grace occasions such as these, for this, too, is one of their tasks, to please gods and subjects alike at the slightest opportunity, to regale them with food and drink, and in return receive the favour of one and the veneration of the other. That is the prescript of the ancients to the exalted one, which he is well advised to observe from time to time. But the queen saw something else too, which no one had seen. The queen saw the child she had never known, serene, innocent, supreme in his solitude, the watcher who could lose himself in the crush of cross currents of thought and action and not know it, who had somehow grown up to become his diametrical opposite, a fiercely astute and ambitious young ruler, bent on accumulating land and riches, more and more matter, anything that could be touched, controlled, consumed, enjoyed. The queen saw much more, but the queen still did not see all.

Then it happened suddenly. The king cast a glance at her, and the suspicion was confirmed. There was in that look something utterly alien to the gay surroundings, at first instance, merely a trifle bored, a trifle unsettled, but because the angle was right, and because in the complex geometry of shifting planes, the angle alone is the pathway to truth, she saw in those eyes a stirring that bespoke of events to
come, events of which even the king was unaware, events that would change everything and reveal the past in a different light.

Now the formal ceremony was over, and the wine was flowing freely. This was the moment the king had been waiting for. Soon the revelries would turn into orgies and the licentious behaviour would know no bounds. He briefly spoke to the queen, and left the hall.

He moved fast through the long, twisting corridors, perhaps from habit, perhaps from unease. In his room he removed all the finery, threw a simple shawl over his shoulders, and walked to the corner where hidden from the eye lay a trapdoor. Past this deception was a flight of steps, which soon enough opened into a cool, broad, ill-lit tunnel cut in stone. The passage ended in a barn behind the eastern wing of the royal stables. From there he could mount a steed of his choice, and trot through the gates into the street, as the best disguise for a king is simply to cast off his regalia and dismiss the entourage, for how many subjects ever get a chance to see their king from up close.

He came to rest in a grove in the forest. From its edge flowed a brook where he dismounted. Here, far away from everything, he retraced in his mind the onerous happenings of the day. He decided to not return until later, to stay and build a fire. He took the axe from the saddlebag, and directed it at the fallen trunk of a tree. In the instant the axe was laid to rest, the jungle returned jumping and thumping to reclaim its place and sounds, the stream's gurgle, leaves rustling, shriek of a monkey, birdcalls, even the calm movements of the horse fell through the space and once more made it full. The jungle again was everywhere and everything, not a thought, not a movement remained which was alien to it, did not originate with or depend on it. In this place, where the sun couldn't break though with all its intensity, the trees constantly dripped with moisture. Lying on his back, the king gazed at a piece of sky through the waving mesh of pine needles, kept warm by the fire crackling in the cone of logs near him.

Meanwhile, in her new private quarters inside the palace, the
child had fallen into a heavy sleep, at first dozing fitfully, continu- ously rolling from one nightmare to the next, twisting her closed face into grimaces and sweating profusely, but in time, as the fatigue spread evenly across her body, softening the visions, the hallucinations dispersed, and she floated into complete darkness.

When the king awoke, he could not immediately gather where he was or how much time had passed. At his side, a few embers still glowed amid the ash heap, deepening and paling as the breeze moved through them, while above stars sparkled in the sky against the grey of the pines. The horse stood still, watching. The forest was quiet. Only the endless murmur of the stream. Then another sound. Light, hesitant footfalls. Then, silence. Just the stream. Then a second, different sound mixed with the first, barely detectable. A doe is lapping up water. A soft golden light filters through the trees, covers its form in a faint halo. Somewhere a night bird breaks into song. He moves closer but the doe does not budge, not even when he spreads his fingers through its coat. The doe looks on with wide liquid eyes, arches its back, and rubs its ear against his chest. Then, all of a sudden, it moves away and hops off. Enjoyment, better to leave it before it leaves you.

A calm sweeps over him, and he knows he will in time return
home
. Until then, he will carry out the role given him, waiting patiently for the seasons to pass.

Seasons will pass, but not without leaving their residue, and who can tell whether patience alone would be enough in the end to further his resolve along desired lines? Caught in the rapids, events like so many waves will raise him to the crest one instance only to shove him into the swirling spray the next, sooner or later will eat into his reserve, and in pain, in exhaustion, in anger, in fear, will he not become one more senseless man among many, drowned by the clamour of the multitude? The loftier your position, the faster you went down. For vertigo was unsparing at great heights. Only high up, at the very centre of things, did you begin to feel the full weight of destiny which was little more than the countless squirming wills
you had subjugated or influenced over the years that now, as dusk fell, drew in like menacing shadows to take you into their fold forever.

The king returned to the palace in the third part of the night, and proceeded straight to the queen's quarters. As he entered, he saw her reclining against the bedpost, and his figure at the door took her by surprise. What then passed between the two was ancient, pure, and simple, purged of all the needless emotions that one may, befitting his station, put to better use in the harem or the brothel. The king moved closer. But the queen held her place, impassively watching him close in, after how many years?, the slight distance between them.

It was thus that the three-night-long coitus began.

THIS IS a waste of time, dear Misa, a child's ludo really, said the queen, dropping the dice she had been quietly turning between her thumb and forefinger into the empty bowl before her. It fell straight into the bowl's concave bottom like a piece of lead, or so much dead matter, partly because it was slightly oblong and not a perfect cube.

For some time they had been sitting silently before the unopened game. Between them, as usual, lay the large board of sixty-four plain squares, set for a match, armies drawn close in its four corners, each commanded by a king, complete with his quadripartite force, a veritable image of war. The elephant, the chariot or the ship, the horse, the infantry. Everything was like before. Issuing from each of the four angles of the board, covering eight squares, in the front the four identical squat pieces, denoting the foot soldiers, and behind these the king, the elephant, the horse and, to the extreme left, in the crook of the angle, the chariot. Red was the colour of the warriors in the east, green of those in the south, in the west was stationed the yellow army, while the black held the north. Each king restless for victory over the others, the object twofold, first, to capture the square of the king commanding the army on the opposite top corner, thereby gaining an ally, and second, using the now combined force to slay the two adverse kings, and emerge victorious, reigning as supreme emperor.