The Immortals of Meluha
Page 76
And yet, as the initial shock of the ugliness and frenzied disorder wore away, the Meluhans started finding strange and unexpected charm about this city in constant chaos. None of the Ayodhyan houses were similar, unlike the Meluhan cities where even the royal palace was built to a standard design. Here each house had its own individual allure. The Swadweepans, unencumbered by strict rules and building codes, created houses that were expressions of passion and elegance. Some structures were so grand that even the Meluhans couldn’t imagine what divine engineering talent could create them. The Swadweepans had none of the restraint of the Meluhans. Everything was painted bright — from orange buildings to parrot green ceilings to shocking pink windows! Civic-minded rich Swadweepans had created grand public gardens, temples, theatres and libraries, naming them after their family members, since they had received no help from the government. The Meluhans, despite finding it strange that a public building should be named after a private family, were awed by the grandeur of these structures. A vibrant city, with exquisite beauty existing side by side with hideous ugliness, Ayodhya disgusted and yet fascinated the Meluhans.
The people were living embodiments of the Chandravanshi way of life. The women wore skimpy clothes, brazen and confident about their sexuality. The men were as fashion and beauty conscious as their women — what Meluhans would call dandies. The relationship between the men and women could only be characterised as one teetering on extremes. Extreme love coexisting with extreme hate, expressed with extreme loudness, all built on the foundations of extreme passion. Nothing was done in small measure in Ayodhya. Moderation was a word that did not exist in their dictionary.
Therefore, it was no surprise that the emotional, mercurial and uncontrollable rabble of Ayodhya scoffed at Daksha’s proclaimed intention to ‘reform’ them. Daksha entered a sullen city, as its populace stood quietly on the sides of the Rajpath, refusing to welcome the conquering force. Daksha, who had expected the Ayodhya residents to welcome him with showers of flowers since they had finally been freed from their evil rulers, was surprised at the cold reception he got. He put it down to enforcement by the Chandravanshi royalty.
Shiva, who arrived a week later, was under no such illusions. He had expected far worse than just a quiet greeting. He expected to be attacked. He expected to be vilified for not standing up for the Swadweepans, who also believed in the legend of the Neelkanth. He expected to be hated for choosing the so-called wrong side. But while he had come to suspect that the Chandravanshis were not quite evil, he was not prepared to classify the Suryavanshis as the ‘wrong side’ either. In his opinion, the Meluhans were almost without exception honest, decent, law-abiding people who could be unvaryingly trusted. Shiva was deeply confused about his karma and his future course of action. He missed Brahaspati’s keen wit and advice.
His thoughts weighing heavy on him, Shiva quickly disembarked from the curtained cart and turned towards the Chandravanshi palace. For a moment, he was startled by the grandeur of Dilipa’s abode. But he quickly gathered his wits, reached out for Sati’s hand, and began climbing the hundred steps towards the main palace platform. Parvateshwar trudged slowly behind. Shiva glanced briefly beyond Sati, to find Anandmayi ascending the steps quietly. She had not spoken to Shiva since that terrible encounter when she realised who Shiva was. She kept climbing with an impassive face, devoid of any expression, her eyes set on her father.
‘Who the hell is that man?’ asked an incredulous Swadweepan carpenter, held back at the edge of the palace courtyard by Chandravanshi soldiers.
‘Why are our Emperor and the sincere madman waiting for him on the royal platform, and that too in full imperial regalia?’
‘Sincere madman?’ asked his friend.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard? That is the new nickname for that fool Daksha!’
The friends burst out laughing.
‘Shush!’ hissed an old man, standing next to them. ‘Don’t you young people have any sense? Ayodhya is being humiliated and you are joking around.’
Meanwhile, Shiva had reached the royal platform. Daksha bent low with a namaste as Shiva smiled weakly and returned the greeting.
Dilipa, his eyes moist, bent low towards Shiva. He cried in a soft whisper, ‘I am not evil, my Lord. We are not evil.’
‘What was that?’ asked Daksha, his ears straining to hear Dilipa’s whispered words.
Shiva’s choked throat refused to utter a sound. Not hearing anything from Dilipa either, Daksha shook his head and whispered, ‘My Lord, perhaps this is an opportune time to introduce you to the people of Ayodhya. I am sure it will galvanize them into action once they know that the Neelkanth has come to their rescue.’
Before an anguished Shiva could answer, his caring wife spoke, ‘Father, Shiva is very tired. It has been a long journey. May he rest for some time?’
‘Yes, of course,’ mumbled Daksha apologetically. Turning towards Shiva, he said, ‘I am sorry, my Lord. Sometimes my enthusiasm gets the better of me. Why don’t you rest today? We can always introduce you at the court tomorrow.’
Shiva looked up at Dilipa’s angst ridden eyes. Unable to bear the tormented gaze any longer, Shiva looked beyond the Chandravanshi emperor, towards his courtiers standing at the back. Only one pair of eyes did not have a look of incomprehension. It was at that moment that Shiva realised that except for Anandmayi, nobody else in Dilipa’s court knew of his identity. Not even Dilipa’s son, Bhagirath. Dilipa had not spoken to a soul. Clearly, neither had Daksha. Possibly in the hope of a grand unveiling of the secret, in the presence of Shiva himself.
‘My Lord.’
Shiva turned towards Parvateshwar. ‘Yes,’ he said in a, barely audible whisper.
‘I will lead the army out since the ceremonial march is over,’ said Parvateshwar. ‘They will be stationed outside the city in the camp for the earlier contingent. I will be back at your service within two hours.’
Shiva nodded faintly.
It had been a few hours since their arrival in Ayodhya. Shiva had not spoken a word. He stood quietly at the window of his chamber, staring out at the city as the afternoon sun bore down in its dazzling glory. Sati sat silently to his side, holding his hand, drawing all the energy that she had and passing it to him. He continued to stare out, towards a grand structure right in the heart of the city. The structure, from this distance, appeared to be built of white marble. For an unfathomable reason, looking at it seemed to soothe Shiva’s soul. It was built upon the highest point in the city, on a gently sloping hill, clearly visible from every part of Ayodhya. Shiva thought it odd. Why was that building so important that it occupied the highest point in the city, instead of the royal palace?
A loud insistent knocking disturbed his thoughts.
‘Who is it?’ growled Parvateshwar, rising from his chair at the back of the chamber.
‘My Lord,’ answered Nandi. ‘It is the Princess Anandmayi.’
Parvateshwar groaned softly before turning towards Shiva. The Neelkanth nodded.
‘Let her in, Nandi,’ ordered Parvateshwar.
Anandmayi entered, her smiling demeanour startling Parvateshwar who frowned in suspicious surprise. ‘How may I help you, your Highness?’
‘I have told you so many times how you can help me, Parvateshwar,’ teased Anandmayi. ‘Perhaps if you listened to the answer rather than repeating the question again and again, we may actually get somewhere.’
The people were living embodiments of the Chandravanshi way of life. The women wore skimpy clothes, brazen and confident about their sexuality. The men were as fashion and beauty conscious as their women — what Meluhans would call dandies. The relationship between the men and women could only be characterised as one teetering on extremes. Extreme love coexisting with extreme hate, expressed with extreme loudness, all built on the foundations of extreme passion. Nothing was done in small measure in Ayodhya. Moderation was a word that did not exist in their dictionary.
Therefore, it was no surprise that the emotional, mercurial and uncontrollable rabble of Ayodhya scoffed at Daksha’s proclaimed intention to ‘reform’ them. Daksha entered a sullen city, as its populace stood quietly on the sides of the Rajpath, refusing to welcome the conquering force. Daksha, who had expected the Ayodhya residents to welcome him with showers of flowers since they had finally been freed from their evil rulers, was surprised at the cold reception he got. He put it down to enforcement by the Chandravanshi royalty.
Shiva, who arrived a week later, was under no such illusions. He had expected far worse than just a quiet greeting. He expected to be attacked. He expected to be vilified for not standing up for the Swadweepans, who also believed in the legend of the Neelkanth. He expected to be hated for choosing the so-called wrong side. But while he had come to suspect that the Chandravanshis were not quite evil, he was not prepared to classify the Suryavanshis as the ‘wrong side’ either. In his opinion, the Meluhans were almost without exception honest, decent, law-abiding people who could be unvaryingly trusted. Shiva was deeply confused about his karma and his future course of action. He missed Brahaspati’s keen wit and advice.
His thoughts weighing heavy on him, Shiva quickly disembarked from the curtained cart and turned towards the Chandravanshi palace. For a moment, he was startled by the grandeur of Dilipa’s abode. But he quickly gathered his wits, reached out for Sati’s hand, and began climbing the hundred steps towards the main palace platform. Parvateshwar trudged slowly behind. Shiva glanced briefly beyond Sati, to find Anandmayi ascending the steps quietly. She had not spoken to Shiva since that terrible encounter when she realised who Shiva was. She kept climbing with an impassive face, devoid of any expression, her eyes set on her father.
‘Who the hell is that man?’ asked an incredulous Swadweepan carpenter, held back at the edge of the palace courtyard by Chandravanshi soldiers.
‘Why are our Emperor and the sincere madman waiting for him on the royal platform, and that too in full imperial regalia?’
‘Sincere madman?’ asked his friend.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard? That is the new nickname for that fool Daksha!’
The friends burst out laughing.
‘Shush!’ hissed an old man, standing next to them. ‘Don’t you young people have any sense? Ayodhya is being humiliated and you are joking around.’
Meanwhile, Shiva had reached the royal platform. Daksha bent low with a namaste as Shiva smiled weakly and returned the greeting.
Dilipa, his eyes moist, bent low towards Shiva. He cried in a soft whisper, ‘I am not evil, my Lord. We are not evil.’
‘What was that?’ asked Daksha, his ears straining to hear Dilipa’s whispered words.
Shiva’s choked throat refused to utter a sound. Not hearing anything from Dilipa either, Daksha shook his head and whispered, ‘My Lord, perhaps this is an opportune time to introduce you to the people of Ayodhya. I am sure it will galvanize them into action once they know that the Neelkanth has come to their rescue.’
Before an anguished Shiva could answer, his caring wife spoke, ‘Father, Shiva is very tired. It has been a long journey. May he rest for some time?’
‘Yes, of course,’ mumbled Daksha apologetically. Turning towards Shiva, he said, ‘I am sorry, my Lord. Sometimes my enthusiasm gets the better of me. Why don’t you rest today? We can always introduce you at the court tomorrow.’
Shiva looked up at Dilipa’s angst ridden eyes. Unable to bear the tormented gaze any longer, Shiva looked beyond the Chandravanshi emperor, towards his courtiers standing at the back. Only one pair of eyes did not have a look of incomprehension. It was at that moment that Shiva realised that except for Anandmayi, nobody else in Dilipa’s court knew of his identity. Not even Dilipa’s son, Bhagirath. Dilipa had not spoken to a soul. Clearly, neither had Daksha. Possibly in the hope of a grand unveiling of the secret, in the presence of Shiva himself.
‘My Lord.’
Shiva turned towards Parvateshwar. ‘Yes,’ he said in a, barely audible whisper.
‘I will lead the army out since the ceremonial march is over,’ said Parvateshwar. ‘They will be stationed outside the city in the camp for the earlier contingent. I will be back at your service within two hours.’
Shiva nodded faintly.
It had been a few hours since their arrival in Ayodhya. Shiva had not spoken a word. He stood quietly at the window of his chamber, staring out at the city as the afternoon sun bore down in its dazzling glory. Sati sat silently to his side, holding his hand, drawing all the energy that she had and passing it to him. He continued to stare out, towards a grand structure right in the heart of the city. The structure, from this distance, appeared to be built of white marble. For an unfathomable reason, looking at it seemed to soothe Shiva’s soul. It was built upon the highest point in the city, on a gently sloping hill, clearly visible from every part of Ayodhya. Shiva thought it odd. Why was that building so important that it occupied the highest point in the city, instead of the royal palace?
A loud insistent knocking disturbed his thoughts.
‘Who is it?’ growled Parvateshwar, rising from his chair at the back of the chamber.
‘My Lord,’ answered Nandi. ‘It is the Princess Anandmayi.’
Parvateshwar groaned softly before turning towards Shiva. The Neelkanth nodded.
‘Let her in, Nandi,’ ordered Parvateshwar.
Anandmayi entered, her smiling demeanour startling Parvateshwar who frowned in suspicious surprise. ‘How may I help you, your Highness?’
‘I have told you so many times how you can help me, Parvateshwar,’ teased Anandmayi. ‘Perhaps if you listened to the answer rather than repeating the question again and again, we may actually get somewhere.’
