Meera – Episode 3

Meera

An Epic Love Story

By Deepak Jeswal

Episode Three

The mansion, discount RX
built of stone, salve
with two forlorn spires looming over the premises like bored guards, was in the middle of a mammoth park, surrounded by tall and dark trees, making it almost invisible from the road outside. Two tall, spiked black iron gates stood mute witness to the travelers on it.  A gravel driveway snaked its way on the side of the garden, curving towards the entrance, and ending under a low porch. The house bore a sign of distinct dullness, and the drapes on the French windows were always drawn, as if the inmates had shut themselves off the outside world.

However, inside the house was a buzz of activity. Belonging to the resident officer of the East India Company, the house saw many important decisions being taken that sealed the fate of many a kingdom.

Raktaprasad looked a little worried and scared as he saw Sir George pace the Persian carpeted study in a pensive mood. The lust for bigger money from these ‘firangi’ people had brought Raktaprasad here, to sell his secret of the ensuing drama between Sujanbhoomi and Sahastragarh.

Furtively he eyed the lanky British sahib move from one end of the heavily filled room to the other. The translator, Hari Prasad, stood meekly, his head bowed, trying to curve the fold of his sweater at the waist to hide the hole that he had just noticed; a short dark man in mid-thirties, he did not like the British making their inroads into the land, but could not join the revolutionaries that were fighting the trespassers, as he had a family to support, and it made sense for him to earn money than merit.

The room, on the eastern wing of the mansion, was lined with shelves of books on one end, with the other overlooking the park through the tall French windows that were rarely opened, and were heavily curtained with folds upon folds of thick white drapes. On the farther end, a majestic teakwood table stood- large and bulky, with a matching high-rise chair behind it, the back of which was lined with a velvet of soft color. There was fullness to the room, very close and contracted. Due to this, there was a heavy silence inside, as if the quietness itself had a lot of weight that exerted its oppressiveness on the people present.

“So you mean to say that if these two stupid kings agree to a battle, we have a chance of getting in?” asked Sir George, still in his thoughtful mode, and pacing the room.

The translator translated; Raktaprasad nodded, unsure, to whom to address the nod- the translator or this thin as reed man who seemed to grow from the earth like a bamboo shoot, without any shape or break. His light blue eyes were unwavering over the elongated sharp nose, and his oblong face was freckled and ghostly, with just a small thin line to denote the lips. A grey suit hung over the skeleton loosely.

“And they will fight?” Sir George inquired. “Can you make them fight?”

The translator repeated the same in the local language, in a flat tone, soft and subdued- as if he spoke louder some horrifying sanctity of the room would be broken.

Again, Raktaprasad nodded.

“Do it…” said Sir George, turning and staring at him. “And do it fast!” Speaking to Hari the Englishman said, “Tell him that I want to see a battle on, within this month itself…”

His eyes shone with pleasure; perhaps the coveted Governor General post would be mine now, he thought.

He started to walk to the door. Immediately, Raktaprasad blurted out in panic, “He has not spoken about money?”

Hari called Sir George, who turned with a sharp look. He was not used to these local people calling him…he was to order them. When he heard Raktaprasad’s request a crooked smile formed on his thin lips.

“Greedy bastard! Tell him he will get 500 gold coins!”

Saying this, he moved out of the room, leaving Hari and Raktaprasad in the room.

Raktaprasad was smiling; his scar also stretched into a ghastly long line; with a limp, he walked to the door to go out, but stopped as Hari called out his name.  Moving towards him, Hari looked at him squarely, and with his short hand gave a resounding slap that reverberated in the silent room. Before Raktaprasad could react, Hari was out of the room.

 

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“I used to tell you that you are rearing a serpent in your midst!” she exclaimed, her nose twitching with nervousness and excitement.

Queen Laxmi stood towering over the seated King Devvrat who had his head bowed down. He could not believe his ears, as both the mother and son team told him the tale of the romance brewing between his beloved Rudra and the neighboring king’s daughter Meera.

He wanted to tell Laxmi to stop spewing her venom; but she was relentless. “I wonder where Meenakshi Didi is hiding now.”

“Meenakshi is on a pilgrimage, you know this very well!”

“Bah! As if her sins can be washed off! She is definitely a part of this whole charade!” Laxmi’s voice was sharp and high-pitched. “As if she would not know what her son is up to? I do not believe it! And Rudra…he did not for once realize that he is the Prince, the future owner of this land; what sort of a man is he? He has brought the entire generations of ours to shame! People will laugh at us! History shall curse us! Will the subjects ever look up to us in faith and fear? Never! They will spit on our faces. At least he could have thought about his poor wife!” She was hyperventilating.

They were in the open royal courtyard of the palace; a few pigeons played near the fountain at the entrance, that opened to the path leading to the palatial gardens; the gate, made of red sandstone, and a complex artwork by the artisans of Jaipur, was just a few meters away from where a high velvet draped chair was placed for the King to enjoy his moments of respite in the open air, and feeding of the pigeons. The entire courtyard was lined with a corridor, through which shapely doors, with the same artwork netted design, opened into the various parts of the rambling palace, a veritable maze of rooms and halls and galleries and secret chambers and dungeons.

Shorya, who stood near the gate, recklessly throwing away pigeon-feed to the birds, more in irritation than in an endeavor to serve them, looked up at his mother shoving the fire down his father’s throat; his father sat, his head bowed down, his hand covering his eyes. For a second his mother and Shorya’s eyes met; looking at him, she gave a knowledgeable cunning glance pointing towards her husband, and smiling wickedly; he nodded and gave a small jerk to his neck, indicating her to continue the onslaught! He turned to see the sun; it was still some time for it to set.

“Do you think that such an immoral king shall be ever accepted by the public of Sahastragarh?” The shrew continued her game, her posture straight, her sari neatly tucked at her waist (after draping the pallu around her head) so that she could effectively use her slender fingers to optimum use in emphasizing her point. She had deliberately chosen a stark red sari, with bold designs of zari, so that even sartorially it did not leave in any doubt as to who was in charge. Her thin, pock-marked face that tapered at the chin was wrinkled now, the wrinkles covering the pock-marks in their aged folds. Yet, her movements belied any effect of age; she was energetic, and sharp and always on the move.

The king looked up at her and for the millionth time wondered why he had married her? If only his father had given him some more time, Meenakshi would have been his sole wife and Rudra his only son. What a world of difference there was between the two pairs of mother-son! Yet, that was not to be. He was forced into his second marriage…he still recalled the night he had told Meenakshi this fact! She had not said anything, not complained, she did not even cry, or stop him – she just beckoned him to do the duties that were required for this land that his forefathers had so laboriously built over the years. “And whatever happens, I shall be by your side” she had said. Alone, in her room, she had gone to shed a few silent tears.

“And I am warning you that the no-good Harshvardhan is using his daughter to usurp our kingdom!” she continued.

“Harshvardhan will do no such thing!”

At this juncture, Shorya broke in loud and resonant from where he was standing. “Don’t mind, Baba…but it seems you have gone old and senile…Are you no longer in touch with the outside world?  It has always been the ambition of Sujanbhoomi to take over Sahastragarh…and Arjun there will do it definitely, if we do not stop Rudra Bhaiyya from his mad pursuit. Please do not forget that Meera is to be married to Arjun; and your son is eyeing his fiancée. He has a good enough reason to declare war on us!”

The King stood up in anger; he hated this son of his, for the arrogance, for the deceit, for the disrespectfulness. And now, when he spoke in this rude tone, the King felt a gush of annoyance rushing through him. “Arjun is not the king of that country! He is a mere chief of army. I know Harshwardhan quite well!” growled the king. “We have a treaty with them; they will not declare war on us ever”

“Treaties are mere pieces of parchments; they get burnt under the heat of passion! And here it is the matter of their honor. Our person is violating upon their prestige” Shorya’s raspy voice rose in similar tenor.

“Shorya! Don’t forget that I am your father, and still the King of this country!” Devvrat’s eyes bulged out in extreme anger.

“Shorya!” Laxmi shrilled out, and in her best theatrical performance, she said, “This is not the way to talk to your respected father.” And turning to her husband, she laid her hand on his shoulders and said, “Calm down, my lord! He is just a child, and a little agitated over the fate of his beloved country.” She made him sit down on his chair, and turned to glare at her son.

Shorya realized his mistake; he should not have raised his voice…it would spoil the game.

“Laxmi, tell him to go from here…and I will speak to Rudra on this…now leave me alone!”

There were footsteps behind them. The King leaned forward to look around his wife, who was blocking his view. He saw a lady standing there, with a tall steel glass in her hands, her head covered in her dull blue sari, the eyes lowered.

“Yes, Roopmati?” asked the King.

“Baba…milk”

Before he could say anything, Laxmi started her second act of the drama. With her full sweetness and concern, she said, “Oh, my poor child! How sorry I am at your plight! What a great misfortune has befallen you. I pity your husband for running after shadows and leaving you, an exact reincarnation of Goddess Lakshmi”

With this, she went to her, and hugged her.

Devvrat witnessed the scene with aghast. But again, he had no time to react, because another set of footsteps echoed down the corridor on the side. This time, it was his messenger, from the main gate. He recognized the old man, who had served unwaveringly at the main palatial gate for the past forty years, without any demand or greed.

“Sire, there is a messenger from Sujanbhoomi wanting to meet you urgently”

“Call him in” ordered Devvrat, a small fear gripping his heart. A messenger from Sujanbhoomi? Was all well? Could Shorya and Laxmi be correct for this one time? In the meantime, he accepted the glass of milk from Roopmati, who departed after he handed over the empty glass to her, and prepared himself to meet the man who might bring some bad news!

When the envoy entered, Devvrat could not help but think that he had never laid eyes on any more ugly face- and the scar and limp added to the overall horrific image.

“My salute to His Highness!” The man bowed. “Our king sends this letter to you!” He handed over a folded parchment to Laxmi, who in turn gave it to her husband. “Your Highness, I would like your permission to depart!”

Devvrat dismissed him off with a cursory wave of his hand, and with a slight tremble unrolled the single sheet. His pupils ran furtively over the written words, and as he read, the color of his face blanched, and he felt a sharp pain piercing his body. With a loud gasp, he dropped the message, and staggered back. Laxmi rushed to hold him; Shorya also left his place and ran to support the falling King.

“What happened?” Laxmi cried out hysterically. “Is everything fine?”

The King was breathing heavily, and he held on to Laxmi as a child would to his mother, his eyes staring ahead in shock.

“Say something, please! What was there in the message?”

“Sujanbhoomi…has…declared…war!” the king hissed out in between short gaps of his breath.

The messenger, Raktaprasad, had reached the end of the corridor. He turned to check the affect of the lethal communication that he had just delivered. He saw the King lying back in the chair, his eyes closed and Laxmi fanning him with the end of her sari. Shorya was bent, picking up the dropped piece of paper; when, Shorya was getting up, their eyes met. Both nodded and smiled.

It had all gone as planned!

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Tara had only read about it in scriptures and folklores. She never believed it could have ever happened to her; she had always believed that she had resigned to her fate claustrophobically sealed in the dungeon of Chanda Bai’s brothel – yet it happened. She fell in love! Love at first sight!

In the magnificent twilight that had spread its golden wings over the expansive gardens that bordered on the edge of Sujanbhoomi, bordering the River Mukti on the opposite side of her domain, she experienced turmoil of volcanic proportions erupting within her.

She replayed the meeting in her mind. He had bumped into her as she was turning a corner on the neatly trimmed hedge. They both fell, and he had scraped his arm against the thorny rose bush. When she had gathered the wits about her, she managed to see his handsome face, shining in the setting sun, and reflected by the rising full moon.

Now he sat opposite her, as he volunteered to drop her off the opposite end of the river, in his boat, as she was late, and had missed the boatman that was to take her.

He was in his late twenties, a perfect square cut face, deep set eyes, that immediately made friendship; a small, shy smile; a frame that was strong, but not grossly muscular; and he wore the brightest kurta that she had ever seen, golden and silver work, obviously belonging to a rich family.

As he talked to her, she felt the voice soothing her pained nerves.

Above her the blackening skies presented a spectacle of million twinkling stars; below the quiet river reflected them, breaking their splendor in resplendent and joyous sparkles; it was very quiet except for the boatman’s ore gently prodding the waters, a few insects singing their chorus and some sounds from the civilization of both the kingdoms, which to her were very off, very subdued and heavily curtained.  They were nearing the middle of the river, the lights of both the banks shining like fireflies.

“Who are you, lady?” he asked.

She smiled; could she tell him the truth…yes, she had to! She could never hide it for long; and she was unsure whether they would meet again! In her heart, she was aware that her love story was destined to last for the few minutes spent on this boat and the bandage that she had tied on his arm.

“I belong to Sahastragarh…in that white mansion there” Elegantly, she raised her hand to show the vulgar structure that was now enlarging as they neared the bank.

Immediately he clammed up, and looked away in disgust. “You belong to Chanda Bai’s house? Perhaps you should have told me earlier!”

“Would that have taken away your concern about mine traveling unescorted in the night? Does that wipe off the fact that I am a woman?”

“Yes, but what do you fear from the night?” he counter questioned, his eyes looking at her squarely; there was no derision, just a complaint! “Isn’t the night your best time; the hour when you awake and sell your false love to the world?”

She let out a low laugh, dejected, despondent. Tara, welcome to reality! “Yes, true. I sell off my body to earn a living but not out of choice but compulsion…and I sell my body not my dignity. I do not want to be robbed off it. So, your concern was well placed and should not vanish away by knowing my truth. And, I am sure, you would realize that we are also human beings, and have feelings, and do fall in love.”

He chuckled. “Love? What do you know of love when all you do is a stage show of it? I hate this form of woman- she is supposed to be a wife, lover, mother…not a fancy shopkeeper who displays her body for all to see and choose and use, wrapped in artificial emotions and false styles”

“You are so correct, babu! We should not do all this…but alas, there is a market for it. Not all men think like you…your own gender brotherhood forces us to become prostitutes! But you tell me…have you ever fallen in love? What is it like?”

He took a deep breath and a warm smile playfully danced on his soft lips. “Love..aah! From where do I start…love is God’s own emotion, one which he created to beautify the world! It is innocent like a prayer, deep as this creation and high as the divinity. It has nothing to do with the flesh, or the mind or the heart. It is a feeling from the soul…alas, mankind has corrupted love. It is so sad that man has not understood it ever, and shed blood for it, because love never demands…it always gives!”

She sat on the wooden floor of the boat, her arms around her legs, and her chin rested on her knees, and looked at him intently and wished she had born a different birth.

“Yes, I am in love!” he concluded.

She sighed and tears welled up her eyes. “Babu, who are you?”

“I am Rudra, the Crown Prince of Sahastragarh!”

 

To Be Continued.