Salwa fell, as Jaipal held the body of his brother. The sally of the Salvi from their hidden vestibule had been nothing but the last, desperate act of a defeated enemy determined to die with all that remained to them, their honor and their swords. Srichandra had lead the counterattack, flying down from the walls he had so recently taken, his sword wet and shining in the light, while the sreni reserves rallied and drove across the causeway to the aid of their embattled comrades and the senapati Govindraj himself arrived with his cavalry to reinforce their assault and help the mahouts regain control of their elephants. The dasas were put to the sword, having only delayed the inevitable.
The towns gate was breached, and the yavana pikemen poured in a tide of iron, driving all who opposed them back just as their glorious ancestors had driven their enemies across the deserts of the west. And still Jaipal held his brother. The other arms of the army were successful as well. The forces of the Salvi Gana Sangha, what remained of them, retreated to the keep at the center of the town. There, they made one last desperate stand while their wives sang hymns to the gods and the Buddhas and piled high the oil soaked fuel and committed sati en masse, cradling their children to their breasts as they threw themselves wailing upon the burning pyre. And still Jaipal did not move from his brother’s side. The town was plundered. No mercy was shown.
The besiegers vented all the frustrations of those miserable months crouching beneath shields and shitting in ditches and huddling around too low-fires upon the hapless townsfolk. Tonsured brahmin and elder kshatriyas were shown no more courtesy than shudras or slaves. Women, whether haughty ganikas or stoop-backed washermen’s wives, were taken screaming from their homes. They were pulled from the temples, where they clutched the many armed aspects of their gods, as if hoping that those stone figures would come alive and smite the invaders in answer to their prayers. And Jaipal did not move.
Those very-same temples were stripped of their gold, the rubies were pried from the eyes of the mudras, silk tapestries were pulled down and heaped like dirty linens upon carts and even the sacred bordello where the davadasis of Lakshmi made their abode was plundered of its jewelry and cosmetics. Children were tortured in front of their pleading parents for the location of hidden treasure caches, and even the ghetto of the untouchable chandalas was put to the torch, the men of the Mitra Dynasty forgetting all the strictures of the manusmrti and their own fear of ritual pollution in their lust for plunder! Jaipal, did not move. The sun set and the moon rose to stare with silvered tears upon the atrocities still taking place below, and Vakpati, the stench of wine heavy on his breath, found Jaipal, Sohpanals body stiff and cold in his arms, and finally he was forced to rise.
The day came and the karagrahins, hated even by their kin it was said, as all tax-collectors are, with their trains of club-bearing slaves to assess the loot, to ensure the King was given his due, and a cakrapala as well, to begin a survey of the land and assess the damage to the city and to determine just how many families of the lower castes should be conscripted to repopulate it. The bodies of the King’s soldiers were collected, and the Prince ordered that the captured citizens be given leniency to see to their own dead. The officers had some trouble enforcing this order, especially amongst the bhrtakabala. Fights broke out. One mercenary, unwilling to relinquish his hold even for a moment on the girl he had taken, beheaded his own nayaka and was close to inciting a riot before a parasika put an arrow through his heart. Carrion birds and half-wild dogs descended upon the city like some horrid imitation of the army which had taken it, and hundreds of arrows were expended in driving them back, though not before many bodies had been parted from their limbs.
Pyres for the dead were made and the town’s pottery guild, those who survived, were put to work in the ruin of their workshop making urns for the very bodies of those who had slain their brothers and dishonored their sisters. Jaipal placed his brother upon one such pyre, besides several other dead of their guild. He placed upon his chest Sohanpal’s spoon, his bow, and the little pots and phials of rouges, oils, and tinctures he had always carried with him and was loathe to be seen without wearing. “Oh great compassionate Buddha! Today these brave men have ended all worldly relationships!”
The acharya had begun to pray, the pyre was lit, the flames starting with a hiss and a spark. “May they be free from all animosity, free from oppression, and free from trouble!” Jaipal watched with dead eyes as the flames advanced from the three corners of the pyre towards the bodies. Sohanpal’s face seemed oddly serene, his skin flush in the light of the fire, as if he were merely napping instead of laying dead from a tusk through the belly. “May they guide themselves to bliss! May all creatures, all living things, guide themselves to fortune!” Fortune… That was what he had sought. Fortune and redemption, not for merely his own soul, but the soul of his father. And it had cost his brother his life. “Happy at rest, may all beings be happy at heart! May all beings be happy at heart!” Jaipal shook his head, silent tears falling, and beat at his thigh with his fists. There was no happiness for one such as he. There would be no redemption. The sins of his father, his sins, could not be exorcised. “They wait for you now, ohh great Buddha, awaiting respectfully for you to receive, guide, and enlighten them!” The first tongue of flame reached the dead. It came from the north-east. This meant, it was said, that the deceased would be reborn amongst the world of men. Jaipal fell to his knees.
The ashes were collected, the urns filled, and the army disbanded. Srichandra had sought Jaipal before he left. The cakrapala wished to hire men to stay on for the garrison. There were reports, Srichandra had been told, that proof of the hated Pushyamitra’s support for the rebellion had been found amidst the ruins! The walls had to be repaired, the granaries and armories restocked, lest the armies of that inimical foe of the sangha come to avenge his vanquished minions! Jaiapl had refused him without a word, and the nayaka had then pressed a sack of coin into his hands. “Sohanpal’s share of the spoils!” He had said. Jaipal had let it fall to the flour. The pity Srichandra had tried to mask with his smile made him want to vomit, to strike the man, to strike himself. He only accepted it when finally Srichandra threatened to hold his brother’s ashes ransom if he did not. He hidg the sack in the folds of his turban, for he could bear to carry it by hand nor mix it with the rest of his purse.
He left Salwa at dawn of the next day, accompanying a small band of other sreni from the village of Sakarwa, his home. It was an irony that Jaipal was in no mood to appreciate that his term of service had ended closer to home than it had began! Salwa lay upon the Grand Trunk Road, in the heart of the Arayavarta, and though the great Empire of forged by Chandragupta and sanctified by Ashoka lay in ruins, the once peaceful and prosperous reaches of her territories riven by sectarian feuds and the petty ambitions of even pettier lords, the infrastructure lain down by those most beneficent of departed monarchs was still intact. Mostly anyway.
The Grand Trunk Road took the form of a raised causeway of rammed earth, it’s sloping sides secured by now crumbling layers of weed-eaten brick. Sandstone pillars lay at regular intervals, one every kos, besides the road, many defaced, some toppled entirely, but others still declaiming in the prakrit of the sages and several other languages besides the distance remaining till one reached Patilaputra, the once glorious capital of the Maurya Dynasty, now a miserable den of harlots and charlatans and the seat of power of the arch-traitor Pushyamitra Shunga, who as minister to Brihadratha, last of the Maurya, had slain his weaponless lord while leading troops in a parade in his honor! Dark was that day, and darker still were the days to come, for without the sponsorship of the Maurya and with the inveterate enemy of the sangha ruling in Patilaputra, the sangha had come to experience hardship not felt since the days of Devadatta’s schism!
The returning sreni walked with a palpable excitement, the joy at their returning discernible in the very way their sandals struck the pave-stones, all save Jaipal who walked as if still marching, eyes downcast, clutching his brother’s urn to his chest, and at all times staying ten paces behind his fellows, for having taken Sohanpal’s ashes and still obviously grieving, he was impure. They passed many merchants on their way, most driving ox-carts piled high with sloshing amphora and with an undisguised lust towards Salwa, eager to relieve the victorious soldiers of the King of their hard-won booty for a few cups of palm-wine and a few cut coins. They called out blessings and offers of sale to the passing guilds-men in competing voices, but the sreni ignored them, soldiering on through the clouds of dust thrown up by the wheels, so close were they to their destination that to dawdle even for a moment to haggle would have been as unthinkable to them as signing on for a whole other campaign! There were many horse merchants as well, mostly yellow skinned saka and hairy balijhas, driving their herds east to the attend the horse fair at Mathura now that the rebellion had been put down and the roads finally opened! Jaipal and Sohanpal had often spoke of pooling their earnings from the war and purchasing a horse, and Jaipal could only clutch the urn a little tighter and close his eyes at the sight of of the majestic herds of horse-flesh passing be the sides of the road.
When dusk fell they sought shelter in the tumbled ruin of an old nimishdaya. The Grand Trunk Road had once played host to innumerable such inns, all sponsored by the Empire, all regulated, all with clean water and warm beds and uncut wine, but now the vast majority of them were nothing more than mounds of rubble fought over by troops of monkeys or acting as the retreat of the odd ascetic with his begging bowl and collar of iron. But this one had been taken over by an enterprising family of shudras, who had, if not with great skill, then at least with great enthusiasm, repaired portions of the structure with grass and palm leaves and who even had hydromel to offer their guests! Jaipal of course stayed outside of the inn, but the proprietors threw up a tent for him and brought out a bed and his guildmates, with more vehemence than Jaipal would have liked, impressed upon the innkeeper the folly of accepting his coin. His fellows did not attempt to speak with him. He did not care.
They journeyed on like this for a few more days. The farther east they went along the Grand Trunk Road, the fewer the merchants became, the fewer peasants with their pole-packs and teamsters with their oxen they saw, and the more refugees they encountered. They came in wretched trains, men women and children, the backs of their donkeys pilled high with what little could be salvaged of their former homes. They were of all castes it seemed, kshatriya women without bulaks to adorn their noses nor gilded hoops to go about their waists, vaishya men without an ox to drag their plow, even a few brahmins, their shikhas cut, who hid their faces beneath dirty veils in shame. There were many monks as well, their saffron robes torn, their begging bowls empty. “Why did they not stop in Mathura?” One of the sreni asked. “The King is just and will surely shelter you!” “The alienages and almshouses are too full!” They they would reply. “No one will sell us land to settle on! They will accept only my wife or a child as payment!” They would reply. “From where had they come?” “From the demesne of the Shunga!” They would cry. “Why did you flee?”
To this there were a surprising number of answers. Many, as Jaipal had both expected and feared, were disciples of the Buddha, persecuted, they claimed by the mad King Pushyamitra! But there were many followers of the laws of Manu amongst them as well, men and women who told stories of savage atavi tribes come pouring out of the forests to burn their villages, of khondi and mleccha warbands marauding from the east, barbarians seeking the holy blood of the twice-born to quench the never ending thirst of their gods at their altars, of rebellious cities put indiscriminately to the sword such that no distinction was made between those loyal to the King and those who were not, of impetuous gana sanghas rebelling and dethroning their rightful lords, in addition to the many victims of the usual intercine conflict between feuding houses which characterized the political life of all realms in this most violent of ages, and the peasants and merchants caught in the crossfire. There were even those who claimed to have been oppressed by Buddhist lords, students of the vedas driven from their lands, their sacred flames extinguished, their hermitages burned! Jaipals wanted to scoff at these tales, but the fear and loss he saw in the eyes of those who told them told him that they could not be lying! But most troubling of all, were tale of a resurgent Kalinga Dynasty far to the south. That ancient foe of the Maurya, who’s lands the great Ashoka had salted and who’s kingdom had been so thoroughly decimated that the weight of the many sins perpetrated by his army had lead him to seek the Buddhas grace, had returned to wreak its vengeance! “What of Salwa?”, many of the refugees would ask. “We have heard that it is a town most prosperous! There would we find succor?” The sreni would exchange dark looks, and shake their heads, and Jaipal was forced to ponder whether his own actions had led to families such as these being cast out upon the road, and the only conclusion he could draw, was yes.
Finally, as the noon sun began to sweep the deeply rutted stone of the road with it’s regal gaze, the waves of heat rising from the road like torrid spray from a ships rudder, they came upon the pillar and the path which lead to Sakarwa. Not an hour later, they had arrived. The village of Sakarwa lay upon the muddy banks of one of the tributaries of the Yamuna, which was itself a tributary of that most hallowed of flows, the Ganges, and no small measure of that river’s beneficence seemed to reach Sakarwa, for she was a prosperous, as far as villages go.
Sakarwa was a guild town through and through, encircled by softly swaying fields of purple and ocher sessum and leafy mustard bisected by well maintained canals fed by ox driven araghattas. The creak of the wood, the splash of the water, the low moan of the oxen, these were the constant companions of Jaipal’s childhood, and he had to pause and squeeze shit his eyes to stop himself from weeping as he heard them, as a gentle breeze brought the bitter smell of mustard sweeping towards him, as the splash of push-poles wielded deftly by the pilots of the shallow-drafted river boats which took the oil in great amphora to Mathura and the shouts of the porters who loaded them reached his ears along with it. He only wished Sohanpal was there in body, not as ashes, to hear it with him.
Jaipal heard the clang of tin cups, and opened his eyes. An elderly man was crossing the path, leading two young girls behind him. He walked with the stooped-backed gait of one who had spent their youth in heavy labor and had been forced to continue in that occupation well past the time a filial son or daughter should have hauled begun hauling things for him. They were dressed in rags, their faces filthy. A swarm of flies dogged their every step, a fact to which they seemed oblivious. They were chandalas, untouchables, and the sreni, despite their eagerness to enter Sakarwa and finally see their loved ones, stopped to turn their heads from them. All except Jaipal. One of the girls met his gaze. He should have turned then, should have drew his sword and ran her through for daring to meet a twice-born’s eyes. There would be ablations to perform now, rites of purity to enact. Jaipal did not care. How could he? His brother was dead. He had failed his family. He was, in a sense, lower than they. The old man tugged roughly at the girls arm with one hand and smacked her lightly across the back of the head with the other, which elicited not even a whimper from the child, and the untouchables hurried away.
Their approach was spotted by some of the villagers, and soon elated shouts and heartfelt greetings were ringing in the air. Jaipal’s guild-mates all bowed to him, shooting him apologetic smiles, and turned to rush towards their families. Wives and mother rushed from their homes to embrace their husbands and sons with warm tears, and men came shouting after them, garlands and cups of hydromel and wine already in their hands, and Jaipal was left to march like a damned soul on his was to naraka towards his home. He saw it soon, a walled compound surrounding a two story manse of, if not fanciful, then at least of sturdy and tasteful construction, a manor which seemed almost to have been plucked from the suburb of a larger town and dropped here in Salwa, the abode of a prosperous clan of rural, would-be nagaraka striving to separate themselves in appearance from those very bucolic environs which had given them peace and prosperity and towards which they were ever resentful. His father had had the place built, and such was the shadow the man still cast over them all that they still maintained it as he had required them to while he was alive. The white-washed wall was more cracked and sun-bleached than he remembered it, the stone darvapala snarling besides the store-front had lost a tooth, or had that always been missing? But besides that it looked exactly as he remembered it. Somehow, this revelation filled him with alarm. Jaipal stepped beneath the awning spread out over the store, beneath which painted amphora and voluminous bowls of oils of all kinds lay upon a huge rug, and addressed the old man sitting there, idly fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan.
“Hey Jatakhadga.” “Huh?” The man looked up, wiping sweat from his eyes as he squinted through the glare at the figure before him. “Jaipal?” Jaipal nodded, and, for the first time in days, found himself smiling. “It’s me. Mother still has you manning the store huh?” “Jaipal! You have returned! By the gods and all the the bodhavistas it is good to see you!” Jatakhadga rose, the bronze shackle at his ankle clinking slightly, and ran to embrace Jaipal, who held up a hand. The man stopped, noticing for the first time the urn Jaipal carried, and said. “I… I’ll get the mistress! And your brother! Sit! Please!” The slave turned and ran into the house. Jaipal just stood there. No battle nor siege he had ever participated in had made his nerves feel like this.
There were shouts from inside the house, and another man arrived, with Jatakhadga hot on his heels. He was most handsome of countenance, his his mustache oiled and curled, his hair impeccably trimmed, but his caste was betrayed by his well-muscled forearms and calloused hands. “Jaipal!” The man shouted, throwing his arms open wide. “Narpal! Brother!” Exclaimed Jaipal, and without thinking, the two men closed to embrace each-other, drawing apart only as Narpal saw the urn. “Jaipal? Is that…” Narpal trailed off. Jaipal could not answer. He shut his eyes against the tears welling up at their corners but it was useless. “What do you mean it’s my son? Where is he!” He heard, and through watery vision he saw his mother, Hemavati, arrive, followed by her serving girls and sisters, among whom was Narpals mother. Her face was unadorned, every wrinkle thrown in start relief by the light along with the white in her hair. She looked so old… When had that happened? Had she always been so?
“Buddhas grace! Jaipal! It’s you!” His mother exclaimed when she saw him. She too moved in as if to hug him, then stopped short, her eyes moving to his face, to the tears which flowed there, to the urn in his hand, to the face of Narpal, and she screamed. Hemavati threw herself at Jaipal, practically wrenching the urn from his grasp. She knew. How could she not? There were no words needed. Sohanpal had left to find his older brother, and his older brother, the man who should have protected him, and returned alone. Hemavati collapsed to the ground, her widow’s shawl falling from her head to the dust, cradling the urn as she had cradled her children in their use, wailing incoherently. Her sisters, both of blood and marriage, began to cry as well, falling about her as well, leaving Jaipal to stand above them. Jaipa’ls mother began to tear at her hair, to claw at her face, and when Jaipal tried to kneel down to console her, he found himself recoiling as a slap he had been unable to see coming stung his cheek. “My baby! Why! Why is he gone! Why have you let him die!” She cried aloud, rocking the urn like a child. Jaipal was not sure if she meant him or the gods, or perhaps both. It was as if he was experiencing Sohanpal’s death all over again! “He has gone to the Buddhas grace sister! He has gone…” Narpal’s mother tried to console her.
Jaipal felt a touch at his shoulder and looked up to see Jatakhadga standing above him, hand outstretched, silent tears adorning his worn features. He took it, allowing himself to be hauled up. “Please master. Come with me to the river.” Jaipal nodded, only dimly understanding, and allowed himself to be lead away from the scene, the mourning cries of his family following his every step like arrows shot after a fleeing thief. That’s what he was in a sense, Jaipal thought. A fucking thief, who had traded his brother’s life for a bit of coin.
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He walked as if in a dream behind Jatakhaga through those streets he had once found so much joy in running through, chasing or being chased by his brothers and their friends. An impromptu celebration was taking place in the village square, tables set up and wine served and garlands hung and fires lit and prayers sung for the safe return of the sreni. Jaipal pushed headless through it all, those who had once been his neighbors and teachers and friends, but who now seemed like strangers, withdrawing before him at a respectful distance, bowing and splashing ghee in his steps.
They reached the river and Jatakhadga bade Jaipal disrobe, which he did without expression. He waded into the water with a bar of soap and a dantakastha of rosewood, which he chewed as he cleaned himself before then brushing his teeth. He swam to the other side of the river, walked a short distance upstream, then swam back, again washing himself. When he emerged, Jatakhadga was there with a fresh change of clothes, smelling strongly of jasmine. Where and how he had so quickly gotten them Jaipal did not think to ask. There wasn’t much he could think of. They returned to their home, leaving his soiled clothes behind for the chandalas. Only his armored turban did Jaipal retain.
Everyone had gone inside when they returned. The storefront was boarded up, and Sohanpal’s urn lay besides the gate with a ghee lamp burning before it, as well as a pot of milk and water and a silvered plate in which lay a loaf of naan and a mound of vegetable pallao, still hot from the cook-pot. It had been Sohanpal’s favorite dish. Jaipal was escorted into the small courtyard of their home, where he was surprised to see Narpal awaiting him, sitting upon a swing besides the small but well tended flowerbed which had always been Hematavi’s pride and joy. The man looked grave, his eyes red and swollen, though he did not cry. Neither did Jaipal, for by now he had no tears. “Narpal I-.” Jaipa was cut off as his brother rose and brought him into a deep embrace. They said nothing for a few moments, for what was there to say? That his brother did not blame was obvious, and for that reason alone Jaipal felt that perhaps they could heal.
Narpal stepped back, sniffing loudly, blinked, then turned to Jatakhadga. “Jata, you may go. Get some rest.” The old man looked from Narpal to Jaipal, then back to Narpal, bowed, and left. Something occurred to Jaipal then. He had seen all the women of the household, save for one, his wife, Bauladevi. In his grief, he had nearly forgotten her, and he smacked himself for his faithlessness, drawing a concerned look from Narpal. “Brother! Bauladevi! Where is she! I want to see her!” Narpal’s expression turned from concern to… To something Jaipal could not recognize, but which worried him greatly, and his eyes grew somehow even darker. “Come inside brother. You will see her.” “What’s going on? Is she okay? Where is my wife?” Jaipal had to strain to keep himself from shouting, and Narpal drew back slightly, casting a nervous glance at Jaipal’s balled fists, and the sword and dirk still hung from his belt, and filled with sudden shame, Jaipal willed himself to calm down. “Come in. Please brother.” Jaipal took a deep breath and nodded, then followed his brother inside.
He was lead to the reception room, where a chair had been readied for him, besides which was a bowl of warm, scented water and a small table with a cup of hydromel. “Sit Jaipal.” Narpal gestured to the chair, and Jaipal did as he was told, first doffing his bow and quiver and unbelting his sword, though he kept his dagger at his waist, as was the fashion in that land. This was all exceedingly strange. Here he was, a brother and son returned from war, the second oldest man of the house, after Suratrana, his uncle, and he was being treated as if he were some nagaraka from Mathura, a business contact, the type of man his father had both admired and resented and strove to emulate and to force his family to emulate though they had none of them, save perhaps Sohanpal, had the temperament for it. A man to be honored and pleased and wooed and impressed, rather than a clanmate to be embraced.
Jaipal looked around. The room was much as he remembered it. There were couches, a small table with a chaturanga board and pieces, all arrayed for a game, the checkered space between them dusty and much unused, more a means to entertain guests than a hobby of the dwellers. Industriousness and a disdain for frivolity had been beaten into Jaipal and his brothers from a young age, though with Sohanpal, the lesson had never really taken. There was a vilna against one wall and a small easel and canvas and a set of brushes against the other, again, clearly not a popular pastime of the household. The frescoes adorning the walls had been re-touched, especially the faces of the various Buddhas, probably in part as a plea for his and Sohanpal’s safety, for all the good it had done.
Jaipal winced at that last, blasphemous thought, as Narpal bent down to wash his feet. Jaipal almost bolted out of his chair. “Narpal what are you doing? Suratrana still lives does he not? He is the grhastha not I!” Narpal sighed and shook his head. “Jaipal, I…” They were interrupted by the appearance of another figure, a man of Jaipa’s age and who looked so much alike him that as children they had often been mistaken for brothers or even twins! “Kiratpal!” Jaipal exclaimed, and he rose to embrace his cousin. “Jaipal!” They hugged for a moment, and were soon joined by Narpal. Three men, bound by blood and the death of a brother, or one so close he was considered one, men who had long grown used to coming to each-other for support and were now relieved, in a strange way, to be able to do so again. When as children their father had succumbed to one of his rages, when their uncle had come home too drunk to stand, when their mothers hid their faces for shame of the bruises which they nursed there, these three men had had only each-other to turn too, and their bond had only grown closer when Sohanpal had been born, for then it had been their duty to protect him as well.
Jaipal, Narpal, and Kiratpal parted, taking a moment to compose themselves, and Jaipal could see that Kiratpal too had only recently mastered his tears. Narpal stood besides their cousin, and the two men seemed to stare for a moment straight through him, as if contemplating a particularly difficult target at the range. Jaipal’s gaze bounced between them, his joy at this bitter-sweet reunion rapidly being replaced by a mounting disquiet. “What is it my kin? Where is Bauladevi? What about Suratrana? I wish to honor our grhastha!” At that Kiratpal visibly winced, and Narpal extended a hand. “Sit down brother. Please.” “No! Tell me where she is! Where is my fu-, where is my wife!” “Sit! Please!” Narpal begged, taking a step back. Jaipal’s mouth hung open, then he shrugged off the sudden shock of anger he felt at being dismissed and sat back down. The rattan of the chair creaked slightly in what seemed to him to be an ominous fashion.
“Jaipal…” Began Narpal, before trailing off. Kiratpal took over. “We agreed long ago that we would tell you everything the moment you returned. We don’t wish to heap tragedy upon tragedy but…” Kiratpal’s voice began to choke, and Narpal began to speak. “It’s about Bauladevi she… She has a child brother. A son…” Jaipal starred uncomprehending for a moment, before a smile bloomed across his face and his eyes began to shine. “Really! Am I so blessed! When? Where? Has she named him? I…” Suddenly he stopped, counting the days in his head, always coming up short. His mouth drew closed, his hands turning to white-balled fists gripping the arms of the chair, and he said, as evenly as he could. “Who is the father?” Jaipal swallowed and said. “Suratrana.” The arms groan and then twisted and then snapped as Jaipal rose from his seat. “I want to talk to her.” He managed to seethe through clinched teeth.
Narpal stepped forward, laying a hand upon his chest. “It is not her fault brother! She…” He looked to Kiratpal for support. The man starred at his feet, shaking his head. “My father still maintains that she came to him-.” “That’s dog-shit Kiratpal! We all heard her scream! You were the one who first fucking saw them!” Shouted Narpal with an fury that stunned even Jaipal. Kiratpal raised his hands. “Yes yes I know I fucking know! She was raped! My own father raped the wife of my cousin! I know I know! We are shamed! Our whole gotra is shamed!” “Where. Is. Suratrana.” Jaipal hissed, only with a supreme effort keeping his shaking hands form going to the hilt of his sword.
“Jaipal please! We were afraid of this! Afraid of you! That’s why we have told you this way!” “Afraid!” Jaipal roared, no longer able to contain himself. “Too afraid to write to me? That the honor of my own wife was violated! To afraid to punish the perpetrator! Where is our grhastha? I must be sure his manhood is taken!” “We did fucking tell you cousin!” Rejoined Kiratpal with an angry shout. “Sohanpal was supposed to tell you! When he didn’t return with you after a month we began sending letters!” “Well he fucking didn’t! And I never received them! Tell me he has been punished at least!” Jaipal kicked the chair, sending it flying to crash against the wall as Narpal stepped between him and their cousin.
“He has brother! Peace! Peace! Or by Buddha I will throw you out to calm down like our father used to throw Suratrana when he was drunk!” Jaipal took a series of long, deep breathes, willing himself to be calm, for the rage which burned in his heart to subside. Suratrana stepped forward. “We went straight to the sresthin! There was a trial and everything! Not a man of this village raised a voice in my father’s defense! Here!” He thrust a scroll at Jaipal, who eyed it as one might eye a cobra before finally taking and reading it, his eyes widening with rage as they followed the scrawl of snaking brahmi.
It was a judgment against his uncle, signed with the sresthin of the oil-pressers own seal. He had been sentenced to be caned, ten blows in total, and afterwards had been stripped completely nude and paraded through-ought the whole town backwards on a donkey so that all would know of his crime! And he was to pay Jaipal a rather hefty fine which, it was decreed, not a single lead ratti would come from the collective funds of the family. In addition, the child was to be considered both legally and soteriologically as a Jaipal’s son, a direct descendant of him in their gotra. Suratrana was to have no say in his upbringing!
Jaipal, with a curious sense of calm, rerolled the scroll, and placed it on the table. For a long while no-one spoke. In a distant room of the house, he could hear his mother still crying. “Are you calm brother?” Jaipal looked up, then back down again, unable to meet Narpal’s gaze. “Yes.” “May my father render unto you his fine?” Asked Kiratpal with baited breath. Jaipal waived a hand. “Yes.” His tongue felt like lead in his throat. From two separate entrances, Bauladevi and Suratrana were let into the room. Jaipal’s breath caught in his throat when he saw her.
She looked at him with tearful, dark eyes as she approached. She wore no jewels, no earrings nor bangles, no rouge nor mascara, just a simple sari and headscarf which framed the black hair spilling out from beneath it, but she was beautiful all the same. “Husband.” Her voice was soft, close to breaking, and she held a sleeping child in her arms, his eyes closed, a pink little thumb stuck in a pink little mouth on a pink little face beneath an unruly mop of dark hair. Bauladevi took a step toward him, and Jaipal, in an act which he would forever after curse himself, recoiled from her with an involuntary step back, tearing his gaze from her own. Bauladevi stopped, her whole body shaking, her lips quivering, and Narpal quickly took her by the arm and made her sit on one of the couches, whispering softly into her ear. Then it was Suratrana’s turn to come forth.
The man looked even worse than Jaipal remembered him. He was not yet fifty years of age, but he could be mistaken for being sixty, with the sallow, fleshy face of a career drunk and oily, thinning gray hair and a paunchy body which could not seem besides whether it wanted to be corpulent or merely pot-bellied. “Jaipal. It is good to see you.” He said with a shaky voice, and Jaipal was forced to wrinkle his nose as the stench of wine assailed him. “I…” Suratrana began to say before stopping, with a look to Kiratpal for support, who refused to meet his gaze, his arms crossed across his chest. “Blame me you still do ehh? My own son! I am still grhastha of this clan am I not?” “Give him the fucking money father!” Spat Kiratpal, and Suratrana wheeled as if he had taken a blow, but quickly recovered. “Yes, umm well, here it is. Had to sell all my shares in the barge to get it but here it is. Let it never be said that Suratrana does not look to the good of the family!” No one replied, all looking away from the man as if he were an untouchable.
Suratrana held out a thick purse, jingling softly in his hand, and Jaipal looked at it. “Here you go boy! Take it then! Let’s get this over with!” For a moment Jaipal was a young boy again, standing in the kitchen besides the prostrate, sobbing form of Narpal’s mother, his father shouting obscenities as he stormed away, with his uncle standing over him, a small purse in his hand. “Take this boy, and go see if the chemist has some ointment for her.” He would say. Jaipal took the coin, and there was a palpable sigh from around the room.
“Good! Good! Now that’s all ahh, cleaned up. Sorry you had to come home to this mess Jaipal!” His uncle clapped him delicately on the shoulder, gesturing around the room as if by “This mess.” He meant a spilled tandoor of oil and not the violation of a woman and the disgrace of a whole family. “And I’m very sorry about Sohanpal! He was, he was a great young man.” Jaipal nodded, his eyes shut as he prayed for strength, for peace, for calm. “Your wife will be overjoyed to have you back as well! She’s a good woman she is! Your mother choose very well when she made the-.”
Suratrana never finished the sentence. He grunted as Jaipal struck him across the face with the purse, coins spilling out to tumble through the air like shooting stars burning up in the night sky. Suratrana hit the floor, and before anyone could react, Jaipal was on him, his dagger drawn, slashing out his throat and delivering three stabs to his belly. Blood flowed like out from the press and Jaipal rose, breathing hard, only now just beginning to comprehend what he had done. “Jaipal!” Narpal shouted, his face white with shock. “Father!” Shouted Kiratpal, who looked at Jaipal, enraged. “You killed him! You fucking killed my father!” Jaipal heard neither of them. He looked to Bauladevi, who sat on the couch, her child, his child, in a sense, now awake and screaming. She glanced from Suratrana, a look of shock still frozen on his already cooling face, then to Jaipal, to the dagger in his hand, and she collapsed to the floor. It was too much. Jaipal turned and fled.
“Nooo! Murderer! I’ll kill you Jaipal!” Jaipal tore from the room, nearly crashing into a bemused Jatakhadga who hearing the shouts had come to investigate. He ran out of the gate and into the street, still brandishing the bloody dagger. Shouts and cries of alarm went up from the townsfolk, many of whom had just been dancing and singing in celebration. “Stop him! Stop him! Murderer!” Kiratpal came charging out after him, and Jaipal took off running, people scattering before him as he cried for them to move. Kiratpal had taken up Jaipal’s bow and quiver and now aimed it at the back of his cousin. “No!” Narpal shouted. He too held a weapon, his brother’s sword, though it yet hung loose in his grip. Kiratpal released the string, and the arrow went wide, flying over Jaipal’s head and smashing a pot of sesame seed hanging from a rack by a workshop, spilling the little white grains all over the street. “Hey! Stop!” One of the townsfolk, a sreni, one of the very men in fact whom Jaipal had fought and bled besides beneath the walls of Salwa, made to tackle him, and he lashed out with the butt of his dagger, smashing his nose and sending him toppling to the ground. “Get him!” “Someone summon the srethin! “Jaipal you dog! Die!” “Cousin stop!” Jaipal ran on.
He ran from the village proper, making for the fields, for the river. He could hear the sound of scandaled feet hot in pursuit. Another arrow from Kiratpal, this one even wider than before, for his cousin, though a rare talent at the press, had never been a soldier, and whose only experience with the bow came from the range and from the occasional hunt when the King opened the royal reserves up to the populace. He had fucked up, had thrown his life away, and it was only now, as it so often is in life, that the rational part of Jaipal’s brain was awake enough to try and work up out how to escape from the problem it had failed to prevent.
Jaipal turned and made for a wide channel of foul smelling water which ran down into the river from the public toilets. He ran alongside it for a ways, lungs heaving in his chest, before suddenly plunging into it, the repellent liquid sloshing about his feet, before scrambling up the other side and crossing another such channel. The villagers who pursued him skidded to a stop at the edge of the first channel, unwilling to risk the ritual pollution which would come with crossing it, even by jumping! The crowd split, some heading for the river, others heading back to the village to go around that way. Only two of their number were brave or incensed enough to pursue, Narpal and Kiratpal! Neither much cared about how polluted they became, given that their who family, their gotra, now lay in ruins, and both knew exactly were Jaipal was headed, to a place the rest of their kin would never think to check.
The sun began to set, it’s white-yellow fury simmering like coals in a cooling furnace, becoming red then pink as the ruby disk began to fall beneath the horizon. Narpal and Kiratpal still ran, their legs straining beneath them as they ascended the hill, sun baked tufts of grass snapping beneath their feet, Narpal occasionally sucking in a great breath to shout out an entreaty to stop to Kiratpal, who always ignored him. Atop the rise lay a low, crumbling square of masonry, more a berm in some places than a wall, with an arch above its entrance inscribed with character so time-worn that none alive could read them. The village cemetery. Beside it lay a dagger, its blade black with dried blood. When Jaipal and Narpal’s father had become enraged beyond sense, shouting at imagined enemies, swinging his fists as if they clutched a sword at what he believed to be the spirits of foes he had slain when he had served the King as a soldier, this was the only place the four of them could go where he would not follow.
A chill descended upon them as they entered in spite of the warmth still radiating from the rocks. “Kiratpal! Again I beg you! Stop! We just need to capture him! He shall be judged!” Pleaded Narpal, swapping his brother’s sword in hand to clear away the sweat which stung his eyes. Kiratpal knocked an arrow to the bow he held, Jaipal’s bow, and looked back at him. “Like he judged my father?” Narpal shook his head, placing his sword in his to wipe the sweat from his eyes. “He’s not himself! Remember what I was like when I first came back? He was gone for over a year! It’s not our place cousin!” Kiratpal spat and turned to surveil the scene.
Low mounds of earth covered with parched yellow grass rolled into the distance like the waves of some putrid sea. Well trod dirt paths wound between them, and between small copses of thorn bush and dessicated groves strangled by parasol like banyan trees from inside which the angry hum of hornets could be heard. In one corner of the yard, squatted a rude mud hut, the abode of the untouchable grave-keeper, though, if he were present, he wisely chose to remain hidden. And then there were the urns, hundreds of them, thousands, made of red clay and half buried so that only their lids peaked above the dirt, as if they were mushrooms sprouting from the pallid flesh of some titanic and diseased corpse. Many of these urn were accompanied by hero-stones, engraved slabs upon which panegyrics to the deceased and the forms of favored deities were carved. Some of these stones were well maintained, their inscriptions legible despite the ravages of the ages. Many were not. And besides one such stone, sat Jaipal, leaning against it as if it were the arm of a couch.
Kiratpal scowled, and Narpal raised a pleading hand. “Don’t.” He said softly. His cousin growled and stalked towards Jaipal, who rose as when he saw them. “Murderer!” Cursed Kiratpal. Jaipal looked at him with hollow eyes. “I know.” Narpal and Kiratpal stopped short as they recognized the hero-stone. “Why did you come here?” Asked Narpal, his eyes fixed on the face of the stone and wide with terror. Jaipal shrugged. “I hoped maybe father might rise from his grave and kill me. How did you know I’d come here?” It was Narpal’s turn to shrug. “We always used to come here. When things got too bad at home. It’s the only place in the village you can get some privacy.” “You’re damned Jaipal! A thousand lifetimes will you be reborn because of this! You’re just like him!” Kiratpal aimed the bow at the hero-stone without drawing it. Though he was not the son of their father, their fathernot made his life any less miserable for that fact. Jaipal nodded and said again. “I know.”
“Jaipal! Surrender brother!” Jaipal sat down atop their father’s stone, handing his head. “Fuck that! You die here! It will save us the trouble of burying you!” Kiratpal drew the bow, aiming down the shaft, the head aimed straight at Jaipal. “You can’t kill him Kiratpal! He’s our grhastha now!” “Our grhastha? That office is cursed! Fucking cursed damn you! Three grhasthas has our clan now had, and look how it’s turned out!” “You’re next in line! If you kill him then that makes four that are accursed!” Begged Narpal, his hand raised. Jaipal looked up, saw the coral glint of the arrowhead pointing straight at him, but he did not move, instead standing up straight to give his cousin a bigger target, spreading his arms, willing the shaft to strike true. “End this! Please father! End this!” He prayed. “
“Yes! Yes! We are all cursed! Our whole fucking gotra! It ends here!” Kiratpal half shouted, the light of the mad shining from his eyes. Narpal raised Jaipal’s sword. “I won’t let you do it! This is not the way! You cannot repay sin with sin!” “Is that not what he has done?” “Of course it is! But that-.” “Then he fucking dies!” “Noooo!” Kiratpal drew back further on the bow, and Jaipal closed his eyes as he heard the sound of the bamboo arms creaking. “Stop!” The sickening sound of blade meeting bone and flesh, and the arrow so poised for his destruction fell harmlessly to the dirt. Jaipal opened his eyes.
Kiratpal lay on the ground, clutching at a bloody stump where once had been attached his hand. He was not crying out, no yet, just starring at it in mute shock. Narpal stood over him, breathing hard, blood dripping from the blade of Jaipal’s sword. Somewhere in the distance, a hyena cackled.