Traditions of Dead Generations

Round Four - Manipura, Pt 1

The chuta landed at the foot of her bed with a soft whump, waking her. The fruit was green and hard, not ready to be eaten, but the sight of it made Chitrangada's heart quicken. It had been many years since she had been woken thus. Could it be him? Could it be anyone else? Who else knew where she slept, and could place the fruit at her feet with so accurate a throw?

She pulled back the silks that framed the head of her bed and sat up, the nocturnal chirping of frogs competing with the pounding of her own blood in her ears. It had to be him. How many years had it been? Would he know her, sharper than she had been then, harder and leaner? She coiled her long braid on her head and stood, praying the grey streaks could be mistaken for moonlight. She snatched her gold-trimmed mundu before going to the window, quickly wrapping herself in a clumsy act of vanity.

She braced herself to see disappointment on his face, or perhaps confusion or, at best, belated recognition and mild embarrassment. What she saw instead was fear.

“Your husband is coming,” he whispered as he stepped from the dark shade the chuta tree into the moonlit lawn. Fifteen years. He looked exactly as he always did. “He wishes to see his son.”

Chitrangada's heart seemed to stop beating then. She brought her fingertips to her throat as if to draw out the words by hand, but none came.

“Chitri-jan,” Viyati's look softened, “I am coming up. Unbar your door, darling.”

She did.

*

Chitrangada walked her palms across Viyati's bare chest, touching thumb to finger as if to count how many hands wide he was. The pinky of her last hand brushed the purple lip of an angry scar between his ribs, a wound not yet fully healed. He stood patiently, waiting as she reassured herself that this was her Viyati returned to her, and not some demon. His hair, too, was growing grey beneath his saffron pagari, and he was thicker than the scrawny boy who had shared her bed, but she would know the look of devotion that graced his face even if it had been a hundred years. 

"You were at Kurukshetra," she whispered. "We had heard so many died there."

"Yes, many died," Viyati took her hand away from his scar and pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, "but not I, and not your husband. The sons of Pandu emerged victorious, and now Yudhisthira performs Ashvamedha. He will be Emperor of the Kurus."

Chitrangada listened and nodded. "Arjuna has followed the horse here, then."

"Yes, though I suspect he spooked the animal to wander where he wanted it to. He has been speaking of you since the battle ended. Arjuna lost both his other sons in the war. He is hurt, and... sentimental."

Chitrangada's eyes flared wide. "He has come for Babrunahana? But he cannot.... he is my heir. He is king of Manipura! He knew that when we were wed! If he has come to-"

"Chitri-jan, shh," Viyati lifted her hand to his lips once again, and stroked her hair with his other hand, "He does not want to take the boy. Only to see him. No, he is more interested-" a frown rippled over his face, briefly, but Chitrangada knew then what it was he feared, "Your husband comes to see you."

Chitrangada tugged her hands from Viyati's grasp and turned to look out over the balcony. "He is my husband," she heard the rustle of Viyati's garments as he shifted uncomfortably, "and your master."

"And," Viyati's voice was tense, "you have missed him?"

"It has been so many years," Chitrangada demurred, "I have missed the father of my son."

Viyati spun her around and held her by both elbows, looking into her eyes imploringly. She tried to look away, to keep her secrets ... but the morning would come soon enough. He would know when he saw the boy. Babrunahana was so tall, gangly and dark like his father had been. Only his mother's big eyes and thick lips disguised his paternity. One had to be looking to see it. She looked back at Viyati and couldn't help but smile. It was hard to be coy at her age. 

Viyati returned her smile and pulled her in to a tight embrace. "Not one day has passed when I did not think of you, Chitri-jan," he whispered into her hair, "I do not wish to share you with him this time."

"Yet he comes." Chitrangada lay her cheek on his chest, comforted by the racing of his heartbeat.

"We have set camp down in the valley. He thinks to be here tomorrow. Have you anywhere else to go? Perhaps you could travel-" Chitrangada pulled back from the embrace to smile sympathetically at the big warrior. 

"Viyati, Babrunahana must greet Prince Arjuna. It is his duty, and - and he is proud to call the great man his father. He will want to see him." Viyati opened his mouth to speak, but Chitrangada cut him off, "It is better his people think he is the grandson of Indra. And I must be here too, to guide him."

"Let me at least delay him. Send Babrunahana out to meet the Prince. Don't simply allow him to enter your home as if he rules here-"

"Arjuna will not like that."

"Let him pout, then!" Viyati burst out, loud enough to have woken Chitrangada's maids in the next rooms, "I tire of his tantrums and his demands! He is not king here! My son is!" Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, Viyati looked as strong and tall as any of the Pandava princes, and Chitrangada could see how he had chafed all these years as a mere attendant to men of greater rank. She wanted to ask him what feats he had accomplished at Kurukshetra; longed to know how he had proved his valor. He would have, she knew. He wore the colours, and more than that, had survived the battle. Arjuna should have rewarded him with land of his own. Viyati deserved something.

"Very well," Chitrangada conceded, moving back to his side and running her hands over his back, "I will have the gates closed to him, and Babrunahana will ride to meet him in the morning. I will stay here."

Viyati's relief was visible. She let him take her hand one last time. "I would stay here too, if you would have me."

 "You wish to stay with a used up old woman?" Chitrangada said faintly.

"You are no old woman," Viyati kissed her palm, the inside of her wrist, her arm. She had to step even closer to him as he wound her around him. "You are far more beautiful now than I remember. We are young yet, you and I."

If her maids had indeed awoken, they were discreet. The queen and her lover were alone together until dawn.