Page 36 of The Legend of Meneka
Rambha looks up and stands. “Meneka,” she says, smiling as she approaches me, but she can’t get any other words out. I stagger to her, crushing her to me. We both fall to the grass, our limbs entwined. A laugh escapes her, but it is cut short as she catches my expression. I bury myself in her arms, trying to control my sudden anguish.
“Meneka, what happened?” she asks urgently. “Did he hurt you? Are you in trouble?”
I shake my head, but I cannot answer immediately. A flood of emotions consumes me. I am not just going to make a report to Indra’s agent, trying to understand the edges of my own devotion to the lord. This isRambha. Her hair tickles my cheek. Her scent envelops me, full-bloomed roses, honey, and peppery star-anise. I have missed her sodeeply.
Gently, she sits me down on the grass. “Meneka,” she says, putting an arm over my shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”
I stare at the ribbon of water beyond. I have so much to relate, and no map for where to begin. The last few weeks flash through me. The disastrous meeting where Kaushika spotted me for the first time. His charm, and my confusion. The fear I have been living in, which has morphed into reason—that Kaushika might truly have a point about Indra’s cruelties. His admission of his past, the conversation in Shiva’s temple, my performance of prana magic, the lack of any answers regarding my missing sisters. All of these tumble and swirl in me, pulling me toward a different part of the puzzle, never completing the picture. I think of the freedom that awaits me if I can only clear my head. Confusion, pain, and hope bubble to the surface.
Maybe it is that I have been lonely for so long. Maybe it is becausethe emissary they sent is Rambha. The truth of the last few weeks pours out of me, haphazard and winding. Once I begin talking, I cannot stop, and Rambha does not interrupt. I even come to telling her about Kaushika’s past—the most important thing that I have to share—yet something holds me back. I trip over my words, telling her about Thumri instead to cover my lapse. Shadows change around us, the afternoon growing warm. My voice becomes hoarse, and when I finish, there is a small silence.
Leaves swish, and wind ruffles my hair—hair that is still bound in a sage’s topknot. Rambha stares beyond the cliff, lost in thought. Slowly, she extracts herself from me. She stands and begins to pace back and forth, never once looking at me.
I watch her, but do not disturb. I know this expression well. I have told her so much. She is trying to sort through everything, alternating between Rambha my friend and Rambha my handler. Anything more I say now will only hinder her honesty and will.
She nods decisively once to herself, then comes back to sit next to me. She takes my hand, and I squeeze it. Her voice is soft and kind, and I interlace my fingers with hers, relieved even though I cannot tell why.
“Kaushika does not know you are an apsara,” she begins. “That is good. Very good. You have already been successful where Nanda and Sundari and Magadhi were not.”
I bow my chin in acknowledgment of her compliment, but I cannot lie to her. “When I first arrived … the things he said, the way he acted … I thought he must surely suspect what I am.”
“Yet everything you have done since then has allayed his suspicion. You have been devious. The words you said about the Goddess—that was inspired, my love.” Rambha utters a rich laugh, and even though it is as melodious as ever, something within me chills. The memory of my conversation within Shiva’s temple grows sullied. I spoke thosewords in purity and grace, even if my actions to sabotage the rest of the hermitage since then have been deceptive. Yet that moment with Kaushika was real. Surely, I related as much to Rambha?
My disturbed gaze meets hers. “How did I do prana magic, Rambha? How is this possible?”
There is true confusion in her eyes, but it flickers only for an instant. “Indra must have allowed it so you could succeed in your mission. That is the only way. It is unheard-of for an immortal to do this, but your mission is the most important one any apsara can undertake. Indra made an exception for you—he temporarily gave you the powers of adeva. It is something to be celebrated, Meneka. I do not think it has happened before.”
I consider her explanation. Ididpray to Indra to intervene on that ride with Kaushika. Perhaps the lord sensed my desperation. Perhaps he understood it as his own. Yet why is it that if he gave me this power, he would allow me to make a rune using my wild prana but not using the golden power of Amaravati? I open my mouth to ask this, but Rambha forestalls me, reading the doubt in my face.
“Allour power comes from Indra,” she says. “You know this. Think of the blessing he gave to you before you left. Do you not remember feeling intoxicated with it? Perhaps he was permitting you more than you could know then.”
Her words are sensible, and I recall the way Indra pulled me from my knees, bathing me in his radiance. I recall the feeling of possibilities that flooded through me, as though I were suddenly capable of the most arcane of magics. Who am I to deny what the lord can do, and what he has made me capable of? He isIndra.He is the lord of heaven.
Still … Still …
“You doubt it was him,” Rambha says, seeing my hesitation. “Surely you do not think that you have discovered that which noother immortal has ever been able to do, Meneka? That you are like the devas themselves? Has Kaushika and his arrogance affected you so much that you’ve forgotten your own true nature as a celestial? Mortal wisdom is not something to pay too much attention to, my love—” Rambha cuts herself off and pauses.
She tilts her head, studying me.
“Of course,” she says softly in understanding. “It is not Kaushika. You’re disturbed by what you saw in Thumri. You think the lord cruel for what he did to that village. You doubt him now, his intent, his power.” Her face grows colder, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps you even doubt his divine nature. After all, if you can do such magic yourself, then surely he is not any more divine than you? Surely you have as much power as him?”
I do not speak. To utter any confirmation of these things, even to Rambha, could get me exiled. I lower my eyes, unwilling to challenge her but unable to lie and deny her either.
Yet I do not need to reply. Rambha knows me too well. She watches me for a long moment, then the coldness melts away from her voice. I hear her sigh. “I told you, you must keep your devotion pure,” she says.
My body jerks. I look at her, distraught, shrinking away, unable to believe that she should call out my weakness of devotion so blatantly, but she holds my hand tightly, and I realize her words are not said to punish me. Only to remind me.
“Thumri,” she says thoughtfully. “I remember it. Those mortals do not know their own history, but that is to be expected. Their memories are short, but in swarga we know the truth. Thumri used to once be a great, thriving kingdom. I remember their prayers, the scents of incense that would drift to Amaravati. The condition that plagues them is not new. It began at the time of the last Vajrayudh, a thousand years ago.”
A quiet wonder blooms in me to be reminded of how Rambha truly is so much older than I am, to remember an event so ancient. Her wrists curl effortlessly. An illusion forms from the tips of her fingers, and I see the lord she loves, distraught at his powerlessness to help his devotees. I see Indra in a way I have never seen before—a lord, kind and compassionate, who is driven only by service to mortals so they may live in prosperity. This is an illusion, but it is nevertheless true. Rambha sees the deva king with a gaze I can only aspire to, understanding him like no other. I watch the mirage, transfixed. Lord Indra bleeding golden blood as he breaks his fingernails, trying to squeeze prana from the universe so he may succor the mortal realm. Lord Indra fighting a thousand demons, unseen, unappreciated, while the mortals forget his magnanimity. Lord Indra brokering alliances with the asuras, in order to protect his kingdom and prevent devastation to humanity.
“During the last Vajrayudh, Indra retired to Amaravati to rest,” Rambha says gently, still molding the illusion. “Heaven closed its doors, and Indra did not answer prayers. Not because he did not want to, but because he could not, weakened as he is during every Vajrayudh. This was what caused the first drought in Thumri, and in many other places too. Many lives were lost. But Thumri survived, did it not?”
Survived, I think, picturing the dying old man and the sickening bodies littered on cracked soil.
“It’s been a thousand years,” I say quietly. “Why did the lord not help after the Vajrayudh ended?”
Rambha shrugs. She collapses the vision. “Mortals will pray to their gods to receive what they want, but when they do not get it, they turn so easily. When the first draught came, they blamed Indra and cast him aside. And so the droughts continued. You can hardly blame Indra for punishing them for their impiety.”
