Page 34 of The Legend of Meneka
“Thumri is the worst I’ve seen yet,” he says, nodding. “But many lands are suffering, whether they are Indra’s devotees or not. The lord of heaven is not endearing himself to many at the moment.”
His answers are clear, but underneath it, the moment of hesitation burns. He is unsure of how much to tell me. Maybe I should weigh this decision, see how best to draw him out, but I am too exhausted for games now, and unwilling to slowly unfurl him.
I speak bluntly, meeting his gaze. “Romasha mentioned my own country. You knew that is why I came here, but you didn’t think to tell me.”
“It would not have helped you to know,” he says again, but when he notices my hurt expression, his face grows withdrawn. He rubs at his eyes once. “It is your home. I am sorry to have kept this a secret.”
“Will you tell me now?”
Kaushika hesitates. My question is not a demand. It is obvious he has a choice, despite his apology and admission. Yet it is obvious that his choice shall have a consequence, even if the only true consequence of staying silent is how I will regard him in the future. Maybe it should not matter to him, but I know instinctively that it does. He would not have come to me otherwise. He would not be explaining himself.
I hold the silence, letting it sharpen until Kaushika finally sighs. “You asked me once where I go when I leave the hermitage,” he says at last. “This is where I go, Meneka. To find people who have been wronged by the devas—by the king of devas more than any of the others. Your queen was attacked by Indra. You told me yourself how she was acting erratically when you left. It is because she was seduced. The work of an apsara, if I must guess, though my investigations are limited. Queen Tara is too distraught, and the accounts vague. There is chaos in your homeland. I am truly sorry.”
I stare at him. Horror, fear, and guilt crash through me, seizing my heart in their currents. The sympathy in Kaushika’s eyes feels like a lie—not because he is insincere but because I am. I want to refute him. TarawasIndra’s devotee, but I was sent to her because she lost faith in the lord. Her seduction was part punishment and part peace, to dissuade her from her path of violence. Yet the words stick in my throat like bone. Even before Tara, there were other marks—some mine, some heard tell from other apsaras—mortals who had once been Indra’s followers. I did not question my missions then, believing in the lord’s intentions, but no matter the reasons, the lord has been attacking his own devotees. This even I cannot deny.
I know I should ask questions to preserve my identity. I should ask Kaushika what became of Tara, and try to investigate whether he suspects me of playing a part in it. But all the lies and pretensions die in my throat, unformed.
When I speak, my voice is a croak. “How do you know it was an apsara?”
Kaushika’s face darkens. “I’ve had some experience with them. I am familiar with their methods.”
I wrap my arms around my knees. I look away from him, unable to meet his gaze. It is clear he does not suspectmeof being an apsara, a victory I should exult in, yet I cannot. The question burns in meabout what he means by hisexperience.If he will truly admit that he killed my sisters, then it would be an act of war against swarga, and Indra would be able to retaliate. I would finish my mission here and now with such confirmation.
But suddenly I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know.
“You think heaven is corrupt,” I say instead.
“I thinkIndrais,” Kaushika replies, still frowning. “The lord of the skies and I have a history.”
Shadows shift around us as clouds weave in and out of moonlight. Dread buries its claws into me. Kaushika’s jaw moves as though tasting unspoken words, weighing the measure of them. I go very still. I want him to tell me more, but I do not know if it is for the mission or for myself.
“I used to be a prince,” he says at last, his voice so soft that I wonder if he is speaking for me or for himself. “I was an only son, heir to the kingdom of Kanyakubja. Ours was not a big kingdom. We were small and peaceful, trading in flowers and perfumes. I remember playing in those flower fields, and the gardeners singing. I remember Anirudh and I getting into trouble. I remember … happiness.”
Kaushika pauses, and his gaze centers ahead of us, lost in memory. Behind us, I hear the conversation of the others at the camp. Kaushika inhales deeply, and his words grow even softer. I scoot closer, inches away from him, so I don’t miss a word, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“A great drought came to our kingdom,” he says quietly. “I was young, so very young. Ten? Perhaps eleven? Our flowers dried. My parents grew sick. They died of their illness as did many others. I found myself named king, but what did I truly know of ruling? My ministers and I consulted great gurus. We prayed to Indra in a puja we could not afford, a yagna with the last of our flowers, with whatever magic the kingdom could spare. We called and we called. But Indra did not come.”
I remain silent. In my mind, I picture him—a young Kaushika, the laughter of his dimples replaced with sorrow. I must have been a child myself then, running around Shachi’s grove. Indra flashes in my head, an image from my childhood, reigning in his court, concerned with petty politics, drunk so often in the company of older apsaras and gandharvas. All while Kaushika and his kingdom starved for rain.
“Indra’s indifference to my kingdom made outcasts of us,” Kaushika continues. “No one wanted to aid us. What if Indra punished them too? The devas could not be understood, their minds capricious, their wills beyond the ken of simple mortals. The gods abandoned my kingdom and so did our neighbors. Only one king responded to our pleas for help. He would help us with grain and medicines, even protecting us from the wrath of the gods, if I folded my kingdom into his own. I would become a vassal, but my people would be safe. Of course I agreed to his terms. Any king would have taken the same decision. I agreed, but my path became clear then. I needed to become powerful enough that such a thing could not happen again. Kings and queens were just pawns in the great cosmic game. I needed to learn to stand up to the devas. I left when I came of age, traveling from kingdom to kingdom, learning from different sages. It was they who taught me of Shiva’s way. Eventually, I began my own tapasya. I have been on the ascetic path since I turned twenty.” Kaushika turns to me with a lopsided smile. “I left to help my people, just like you. Somewhere along the way, I found more purpose within my own self. You and I, we are not so different.”
Thoughts collide within me, one after another. What spurred him to tell me this now? His sudden confession warms me, shames me, empowers me. I still want to defend Indra, but what can I say after everything Kaushika has told me? I think of the first time I met him in the woods and how he relented when I told him I came to thehermitage to help my people. I think of the warnings Rambha gave me before my mission—of how Kaushika scorned Indra’s emissaries when he became a sage. Kaushika’s hate for Indra makes too much sense now, but how far will such hate go? Does his wrath for my lord justify the crimes he has committed against my apsara sisters?
“You despise Indra so much,” I finally say. “Yet you prayed to him in Thumri?”
His shoulder lifts lightly, an evasion of my question. “We all pray to the deities for our magic. Yogis call to the gods in ancient syllables, constructing the mantras just so. That’s how Anirudh made the fire tonight, by asking it of Agni. Romasha’s light from before was a gift from Surya.”
“Have you forgiven Indra, then?”Has he forgivenyou?I add silently.
Kaushika shakes his head. “What we do as yogis is not mere prayer. We pray to the natural essence of the devas and devis, their bonding with the creative force that is prakriti. To commonfolk, prakriti simply means nature—rain or sunshine or air. They think that the devas of swarga possess and manipulate these powers. In a way, it is even true, but yogis know the subtle truth. It is prakriti—nature itself—that came first as a primordial force of all reality. The divinities of swarga are simply manifestations of prakriti’s own power. In his foundational form, Indra is a natural energy, formless and divine. But he presents himself as a man, with all of a man’s follies and pride. We can separate Indra the power from Indra the lord. We pray to Indra, the elemental force. Indra as a lord has much to answer for.”
Shock silences me.
I should know this, I think.
All I have ever known is Indra, the sire of Amaravati, the owner and keeper of my own celestial magic, but of course, he is so much more than simply that. He is the first of all devas, ancient and impenetrable.He is a power that formed and became sentient at the dawn of creation. I am dazzled suddenly by the realization of his age.
“LordIndra did not answer my prayer,” Kaushika says quietly. “It was Indra in his purest essence.Thatforce of the universe had no choice but to answer my prayer, as a simple cause and effect.”
