Page 31 of The Legend of Meneka
“I wanted you away from the hermitage,” Kaushika replies. “The ascetic path demands withdrawal from the world. I did not wish to confuse you, asking you for something within the hermitage that I myself would counsel against while on the ascetic path. But I’ve recently come to learn that this needn’t be the only way to enlightenment—a knowledge you are learning too, is it not? Even so, your own heart must decide what you do. I will not force you.”
My heart skips a beat. One by one, all of us nod. Any of these yogis could have—shouldhave—refused to get involved. What were they getting from it, if not the loss of their own power, the deviation from their own philosophies? This is because of me.
Yet what amIdoing—agreeing to help these mortals when Indra himself has denied them? This is heresy against my own lord. Indra has his reasons for all he does. This could merely be another cunning move from Kaushika, something to foment more hate and irreverence against swarga. Something to sow confusion in my own mind.
I have no time to dwell on it. Romasha gestures to us, and the rest of us leave Kaushika to resume his mantra, while we descend into the valley, working in little groups, performing miracles into the long hours of night.
I pair first with Romasha, then with Anirudh, then with Parasara.My fingers carve the runes of wellness and comfort, the aum and swastik, the lotus, the conch, and a dozen other shapes whose names escape me. They merge with the mantras and the spells cast by the others, augmenting their greater power. Slowly, we ease the breathing of the villagers. We give them water and clear the grayness in their eyes. We lead them back into their houses, our words soft and low, where Kalyani and Eka take their pulses, clarify their nadi channels, and pour their own strength into them.
It is not enough.
Iam not enough.
Powerful though I am, the magic I hold comes from Amaravati. Whatever wild prana exists within me is only a trickle. The other yogis do not know this; they only see power as power, but I cannot use my enchantments like them. My runes are weak to begin with, and soon they fade into nothing. I begin to work separately from the others to hide this, a hindrance more than help.
The tether from Amaravati coils around my heart, lightly squeezing what is left of my own wild prana. It is a reminder I am Indra’s creature. That my very imagery of my own tapasvin magic comes from him, and the only reason I haveanymagic within me in the first place is because Amaravati feeds it. Once, brazenly, I try to use Amaravati’s tether to create a true rune—but as before, a sharp pain spikes behind my heart. Understanding pricks me in the limitation of my own power. I am allowed to create anillusionof a rune with my celestial power, not a true one. I can fake it, like I did before at the hermitage, but what good will that do here? My illusions cannot help these people. Only true prana can, and I have nothing left to give.
Night climbs, and I drift away from the others. The warm breeze that first ruffled my hair grows cooler. I find myself sitting next to an old mortal. He lies on the ground, his rheumy eyes open to the nightsky. His skin is mottled and wrinkled, his white hair sparse. All my tapasvin power is exhausted, so I simply take his hand in mine and pat it over and over again.
Tears trickle from his eyes, down the sides of his face into the parched earth. I am certain he does not know I am here, but perhaps he senses my celestial nature, for his voice comes out cracked, raw with disuse, speaking to a figment of his imagination. “I prayed,” he whispers. “I prayed, Sili, for you and our fields, daughter. Why—why—forsake—?”
His tears grow ragged, his breath labored. The man closes his eyes, and alarm goes through me. I scan the shapes nearby, looking for someone to help. I see only Kaushika on the hill above, staring at the skies, chanting.
Perhaps he senses my gaze. His own shifts toward me. I catch the glint of his eyes, and the anger smoldering within them. He does not stop singing, and his mantra takes hold of me, filling my ears as his chant becomes strident. I wonder what magic he is performing, and why my own heart recognizes it beyond waking memory.
Kaushika’s aura flares, power bursting within his chakras. He glows iridescent, a blazing torrent of light silhouetted by shadows, and tears flood my eyes to behold him in his glory. Through my blurred vision, I discern the magnetism of his gaze capturing my own, hypnotic, fierce. There is something in the way he watches me, pulling at me, as though he is trying to tell me something. But I cannot think of it now. I wrench myself back to the old mortal, whose breaths have turned into sharp, painful gasps.
Be comforted, I think desperately, holding his hand.Be at ease.
The mortal’s chest flutters rapidly in the throes of death. His eyes shoot open, wide and scared. Desperately, I try a rune one more time, but it does not even form—I am as useless as I have been since my early days at the hermitage.
I do not care if Kaushika is watching. I do not care that this is dangerous.
My hand curls into a fist. The fist opens up into a mudra, Indra’s Bounty, and an illusion forms—only for me and this mortal. In front of us, the mirage shimmers—a land green and lush, droplets trickling down plants, a field that blooms golden and heavy with crops. A spasm goes through the old man, a deeply held breath released.
His hand grows limp in mine.
It slips away.
He stills.
A cry rips through me, quiet and unheard, as in the same moment lightning cracks across the sky. Thunder rumbles as the stars disappear. Rain begins to pour, and my teary gaze returns to Kaushika as I finally understand why his chant was familiar. He is silent again, his eyes closed as rain drenches him, but moments ago he was singing. Singing an ancient, obscure prayer, one that has been forgotten even in heaven.
Kaushika called to Indra.
And Indra listened.
Confusion clutches me painfully, shaking my body with its cold fingers. I am weeping, unable to understand what I am seeing, unable to fathom the meaning of my mission, this enigma that is Kaushika, this cruelty of my lord toward Thumri. Have I been mistaken about Kaushika’s hate for the lord? Is their feud over?
The others trudge up to me in the downpour. I stare at them, rain mingling with my tears.
“We’ve done all we can,” Romasha says tiredly. “It’s time to leave.”
CHAPTER 14
The return is slower. After such an exhausting night, the others need rest. Yogis of immense power though they are, they are mortal, bound by their bodies. Even I feel a bone-deep weariness pressing my shoulders down. Kaushika alone looks like he can go on, but he glances at all of us, the hunched shoulders, the listless expressions, the hanging heads. He stops to make camp by a nameless tributary of the River Alaknanda.
We are silent as we tie our horses in the small copse. Anirudh starts a fire and Romasha begins to distribute rice cakes. Eka and Parasara are already in their bedrolls. For some time, the only sounds are those of quiet chewing and the gentle breathing of the horses.
