THE COURTESAN OF JAIGARH (Complete)

Part 8-A Wedding in the Mountains

 The mountains stood like sentinels to the vast firmament. The valley below was a study in green, with the bright blue ribbon of a river snaking through it. The small town was not more than a trading post. It had catered to the merchants passing by the silk route for centuries. The mountains were rich in lapis lazuli, garnets, and tourmaline, which made it a rich little town.

Houses made of stone with wooden slanting roofs stood scattered on the hillsides. A narrow street passed through the middle of the town, housing the shops, school, and the apothecary. At the moment, a cold breeze was blowing, making the residents shiver on that winter's evening.

One of the houses, bigger than most others, with big bay windows, shuttered at the moment, and a carved wooden door, was decorated with colorful streamers and flags. One could hear drums playing inside and the lilting songs sung by women.

Hassan put on the embroidered silk tunic and the ceremonial cap. He was pulling on the kidskin shoes, when his mother, Miriam, looked inside.

"You aren't ready yet? Hurry up, son. Everyone is waiting for you in the room below," she scolded, getting impatient.

The sixteen years old well-built youth, with brown curls, almond-shaped eyes, and a ruddy complexion, hurried his steps down the wooden stairs. Below, the hall was full of guests, singing and dancing merrily.

On a thick Persian carpet sat a girl, her face covered with a veil, and jewels shining on her person. A couple of women and an old man, clearly a cleric, sat beside her. Hassan went to join them, sitting cross-legged and trying to get a peek at the girl.

"Don't get so eager, young man," one of the women teased, winking at him.

He colored painfully, blood rushing to his face and even turning his ears beetroot red. He cleared his throat self-consciously, then turned his attention to the cleric who was reciting verses from the holy book.

The wedding, a delightful occasion, was followed by a feast. The guests partook of soft bread, hot from the clay oven, choicest cuts of meat roasted on spits, and sweetmeats filled with raisins. Sherbets and yogurt drinks flowed freely. The revelry continued well into the wee hours of the morning.

Away from the merrymaking going on below stairs, Hassan gazed nervously, as his bride sat on the bed, her face still hidden behind the veil. He had secured the door, fearing some mischief by his friends. He cleared his throat again, a sign that he was gathering the remnants of his courage. Why did he feel this hesitation? It wasn't as if they were strangers. He had known Salima since childhood. They were distant cousins and had loved each other since they were not more than kids. They had played together and grown up together too.

Squaring his shoulders, he approached her, sitting on the bed by her side.

"Are you tired?" he asked, covering her hennaed hand with his own.

The girl lifted her veil and grinned at him, her eyes dancing merrily.

"Thank god, you spoke. I was thinking if the cat had got your tongue," she burst out laughing.

Hassan's face split into a broad smile. That was Salima for you. Full of beans, lively, and with not a shy bone in her body. Of course, she was no feather brain. Wise beyond her years, he had always sought her advice. That was one of the reasons why he loved her so much. He had never had eyes for anyone else. It had ever been Salima for him. It was fortunate that their families had agreed to the match. He wanted to spend the rest of his days with her, grow old with her, and raise a large family. Sons and daughters to carry on the family name and the flourishing business.

With his heart racing with excitement, he drew her near, taking off the heavy gold jewelry, and the silken robes, interspersing each act with kisses placed on her creamy skin. Salima helped him to disrobe, as eager as he was to consummate the marriage.

They lay beside each other, exploring, discovering, and learning together. Both were novices at this, but that did not worry them. They had all the time in the world to learn what the other liked. The first union, coupled with undying love, was always the sweetest. Nothing could erase that from their memory.

At the peak of their union, their hearts beat as one, as they rode the waves of rapture together. Later, they lay spent, whispering endearments and planning a golden future.

Far away, in the kingdom of Jaigarh, the preparations for war had picked up speed. King Yashvardhan, along with the prince and his commander-in-chief, was inspecting the barracks. The army was ready, but the experienced eyes of the old king could see some shortcomings.

"I think we should send an ambassador to Reshamgarh for peace talks," he spoke, addressing his son.

He knew that Harshvardhan with his young blood, and hot-headed nature, was eager to go to war, uncaring of the consequences for his people or the kingdom. Yashvardhan himself had seen many a battle, seen the devastation caused on the battlefield, the lifeless bodies littered on the ground and the earth soaked with the precious blood of his soldiers.

"Not at all," the prince retorted. "Somdutt is too wicked to listen to reason. He needs to be taught a lesson and I would gladly teach him one."

The king sighed, then turned to his ministers to impart instructions. War seemed inevitable.

A week had passed since Neelanjana had seen the prince. She was restless and wistful. Why hadn't he come to meet her again? Was he not pleased by their lovemaking? For lovemaking, it was, not a mere satisfaction of lust. She was sure that she had given him as much pleasure as she had received from him. He had been so tender as he saw her off at the mansion, promising to meet again. Then what was keeping him?

"Neelanjana, why aren't you paying attention to the master?" Madhulika's stern voice broke her train of thought.

"You need to improve your steps," she advised, showing her the dance steps, expecting her to perfect them.

With a clear lack of interest, Neelanjana tried to emulate the older woman. Menaka was watching from the sidelines, sitting on the velvet mattress and smoking a traditional pipe, letting out smoke from her delicate nostrils.

She noticed what was wrong with the girl. In her long years as a courtesan, Menaka had learned one thing. It did not pay to fall in love with your master. She had served the old king well, and then his son, Yashvardhan too. They had both been enthusiastic lovers, and generous with the gifts, but she had never professed to love them. They were royalty, while she was a mere courtesan. She knew her limitations. She could never aspire to be anything more. Even Lakshmi, her daughter, was the result of a passionate affair with a rich merchant. Menaka knew that love wasn't for the likes of them, and she would have to teach that to Neelanjana. The sooner she learned it, the better for her. Men were only interested in their bodies, not in marrying them. It had been the same through the ages, and it would continue to be so. Neelanjana must learn to live without love. That way lay sanity.