Page 22 of The Legend of Meneka
My gaze runs over the small structure before me. Unlike the finery of Amaravati, Shiva’s temple is little more than a cave. Carved into inconspicuous rock by the side of the road, it is bathed in evening shadows. I step inside onto a sandy floor. A quiet, mysterious energy thrums through the cave. Tree roots clamber upon rock walls, their thin, hairy fibers gripping the wide gray stones.
The cave is small, hardly large enough for two people to stand in. I am alone here in the stormy dusk, but some devotee not too long ago brought incense sticks. The air smells like resin and ginger, and tiny embers flicker, throwing dim, wavering light. At the very center of the temple is the power I am to meditate upon—a lingam resting on a yoni. Shiva with his Shakti.
I undo the topknot that holds together my hair like a sage’s. Water drips from my locks onto my neck as I squeeze it out. I leave my long, dark hair undone.
My eyes flit to the walls. Shapes blink, reaching for my attention. My fingers brush on jagged rock carvings, and the legends grow alive in my head.
Here is Shiva, a pillar of endless tapasvin fire, with neither a beginning nor an end. Here he is, a warrior beheading Brahma, the Lord of Creation, for Brahma’s incestuous longings. Shiva, a forest-dweller, arrives for his own wedding in rags and ashes, innocent of the required decorum. Shiva, a grieving husband, weeps, enraged, setting the universe ablaze when he learns of his wife’s death.
Outside, thunder cracks, a long, drawn-out rumble. Rain cascades down a graying sky.
I blink and the legends of Shiva disappear. Indra does not call to me personally, but the thunder is a reminder. I am Indra’s creature. Shiva is the Lord of the Universe, but I am too small, too distracted for him. If there is any god who cares for me, whomustcare for me, it is Indra.
Without warning, a sharp grief lances through my heart. The circumstances of my mission crash into me. Slowly, I sink to my knees. A deep homesickness grips me, making my muscles weak. Memories churn—Queen Shachi kneeling, bringing me a golden rattle when I am three. The grove where I watch older apsaras dance, yearning to be as graceful as them. My early illusions, a chubby fist curling into mudras. Lord Indra as he blesses my first mission.
Make me proud, the lord of heaven says in memory, his eyes infinitely kind.
I will, my king, I whisper before I leave.
Embers dance at the edges of my vision, and tears trickle fast and thick down my cheeks. Amaravati’s tether tightens, making me gasp. My fingers open into an unplanned mudra, Sorrow’s Shore, a lonely figure on an abandoned beach, revealing to me my own despair.You are my salvation, I think.How could you send me to my doom?
Make me proud, Indra answers, his only reply. His voice twines with Rambha’s.Your devotion unquestioned.
I thunk my head back to the rock wall. My mind hunts for the lore of Indra. Hero of a thousand battles, tamer of the great elephant Airavat, savior of the mortal realm, lord of rain and fertility, vitality and song—the litany runs through my head without landing on anything meaningful. It should be easy to immerse myself in his greatness, something I seeded and nourished in his garden before my mission. Yet here in the mortal realm, I am bereft, my devotion isolated when I need it the most.
Abruptly, I shake myself.
I rise.
Coming here was a mistake. Anirudh will want to know how I feel after the meditation. I am already lying to him about myself. What is one more fib? I do not need Shiva. I am no sage. I am anapsara, and I need Indra. I already have several jewels from him, which I need for my mission. I have not been using the tools I have been sent with, and I move, resolving to find them, to seduce Kaushika like I am meant to. I make my way to the cave’s entrance, to drench myself in the rain again, a prayer to Indra forming on my lips.
Before I can leave, lightning flashes again. Two cloaked riders appear in the twilight. A woman speaks, challengingly. A man answers, amused. His cloak falls back for a second, and his aura spills onto the road. Stone, tree, horseshoe, all sparkle with his light before he covers himself again. Kaushika’s power ripples toward me, and I draw back, adrenaline coursing through me, suddenly alert.
They ride closer, nearly upon me. From where I am, hidden within the inconspicuous cave temple, I can see and hear them clearly. I breathe, and camphor and rosewood spiral into me.
“—because of them, surely,” the woman says. She tips her head up to the rain. Water trickles down the wrinkles in her forehead. “Even you cannot deny that.”
“I deny nothing, Rani,” Kaushika says. His face is hidden in the hood of his cloak, but I can almost see the smirk. “I’m less interested in what the devas do as an uncontrollable form of nature, more in how their actions interfere in the mortal world. Tell me, which one interests you?”
“Is there a difference? A deva is a deva.”
“Would you like me to teach you philosophy?”
The queen snorts. “I would like to know why I should risk angering an immortal, child. My line has prayed to the devas for generations. My people are loyal to swarga. Why should we stop now?”
A chuckle escapes me at this strange queen’s quick tongue. Threaded through it is wonder and horror. Here it is, my first true evidence of Kaushika actively conniving to stop mortals from succoring Indra. How many have already joined his cause? According to Rambha, heaven does not know, but this queen does not seem to be the first royal Kaushika has approached. I remember what Anirudh said about Kaushika traveling for personal business.Fomenting irreverence for IndraisKaushika’s business. Why?
It is what this queen has asked too. Whoever she is, she is no fool. From the gray in her hair, she is older than both Kaushika and me by several years. For a brief second, Kaushika’s lips thin at her reference to his youth. Then he smiles, as though the annoyance never existed.
He cocks his head. “Perhaps the better question is if you would displease a sage.”
“You dare threaten me?” the queen begins, turning to him.
Kaushika removes his hood, a movement that silences her from speaking further. He takes off his cloak, then the kurta. The queen watches warily as he drapes his garments over his whickering horse, revealing the holy thread that slashes across his bare chest like a scar. The queen’s eyes widen when she sees it, as if she has suddenlyremembered he is no ordinary youth but a mortal with great magic. He touches the thread, his gaze contemplative.
My fingers twitch. I have not seen the holy thread on him before, though it is a sage’s due. He has not cared for such ritual before—then has he worn it now simply to intimidate the queen? He is as cunning as I have been told, yet he fills up my senses, the water droplets trapped in his eyelashes, the topknot I bizarrely itch to release, the manner in which he sits astride his steed. An unrecognizable aching hunger grows within me, unfurling like warmth from my throat to stomach. I swallow, the movement oddly thick.
“There are devas,” Kaushika says quietly, spreading one arm out, indicating the rain. “And then there are sages.”
