human eyes in over … how many years was it? Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty?
Several minutes later, while Somasra was still trying to decide whether he had seen correctly, the real Vishwamitra, still disguised as a sudra hunter, strode through the gate, following the same route as the impostor who had assumed his form.
This time, even Somasra’s alert vision failed to recognise the visitor.
SIX
Manthara hated her own shadow. It was one thing to be a hunchback and quite another to see the deformed evidence of her own misshapen form projected ten times lifesize on to a wall. But the serving girl holding the mashaal had been slow in getting out of the carriage after her, and was following Manthara when she should have been ahead of her. The flickering flames of the backlight sent Manthara’s shadow fleeing ahead of her, dancing across the cobbled street then up the wall that marked the end of the blind alley. At this dark hour, after yet another sleepless night in a succession of sleepless nights spent in anxious anticipation, the sight was more than Manthara could bear. She turned abruptly to face the startled serving girl and laid her hand across the wretch’s face. The girl cried out, whimpering, but kept her hold on the mashaal. Even in the flickering glow, the marks of Manthara’s long bony fingers stood out as clearly as lashes on the girl’s pale young cheeks. She stared wide-eyed, not knowing what her error had been, and Manthara didn’t bother to inform her. She had already turned back and was shuffling the last yards to the door at the end of the alley.
Manthara paused for a moment to listen for the sounds of the night patrol. But her sharp ears heard nothing except the faint sound of the seventh gate being lowered with a booming like distant thunder. It was getting dangerously late. She must return to the palace before the change of guards which took place at dawn.
She raised her hand to knock on the door but it opened even before her knuckles fell on the battered and scarred wood. A short dark figure clad in a flowing black chaddar gestured her in impatiently. She entered a small room dimly lit by a foul-smelling pair of candles and sparsely furnished. The serving girl followed her, extinguishing the mashaal as usual. The walls of the windowless room were painted black and appeared bare of any decoration, but Manthara knew from past experience that when illuminated by a violet light, phosphorescent writing would be revealed, covering virtually every square inch of those apparently blank surfaces. Forbidden tantric symbols in a tribal dialect long since forgotten by most Aryas, pagan markings from a primitive age when the thousands of deities in the Vedic pantheon were regarded not as manifestations of the One True God but as individual gods in their own right, a polytheistic outlook that was considered blasphemy in these civilised times. Even worse, these wall markings professed allegiance to the darkest and most forbidden of those ancient deities. Not the benign and just devas that civilised Aryas worshipped, but the primordial spirit-lords that the asura races bowed to—and a few discontented Aryas like Manthara herself. Manthara herself was shrewd enough to keep her worship of asura gods a secret; there were no blasphemous symbols painted on her walls, in phosphorescent paint or otherwise. Even her yagna chamber was secret, unknown to even her mistress and ward, Second Queen Kaikeyi. By painting his walls with such symbols, this tawdry tantric was inviting trouble. The kind of trouble that came dressed in the purple and black uniform of the Purana Wafadars whose job it was, among other things, to seek out and arrest such demon-worshippers.
She turned to the man. ‘Do you have what I need?’
He didn’t reply. He rarely talked, this one. Most tantrics affected that posture in the belief that it gave them an aura of great wisdom. Manthara didn’t
Several minutes later, while Somasra was still trying to decide whether he had seen correctly, the real Vishwamitra, still disguised as a sudra hunter, strode through the gate, following the same route as the impostor who had assumed his form.
This time, even Somasra’s alert vision failed to recognise the visitor.
SIX
Manthara hated her own shadow. It was one thing to be a hunchback and quite another to see the deformed evidence of her own misshapen form projected ten times lifesize on to a wall. But the serving girl holding the mashaal had been slow in getting out of the carriage after her, and was following Manthara when she should have been ahead of her. The flickering flames of the backlight sent Manthara’s shadow fleeing ahead of her, dancing across the cobbled street then up the wall that marked the end of the blind alley. At this dark hour, after yet another sleepless night in a succession of sleepless nights spent in anxious anticipation, the sight was more than Manthara could bear. She turned abruptly to face the startled serving girl and laid her hand across the wretch’s face. The girl cried out, whimpering, but kept her hold on the mashaal. Even in the flickering glow, the marks of Manthara’s long bony fingers stood out as clearly as lashes on the girl’s pale young cheeks. She stared wide-eyed, not knowing what her error had been, and Manthara didn’t bother to inform her. She had already turned back and was shuffling the last yards to the door at the end of the alley.
Manthara paused for a moment to listen for the sounds of the night patrol. But her sharp ears heard nothing except the faint sound of the seventh gate being lowered with a booming like distant thunder. It was getting dangerously late. She must return to the palace before the change of guards which took place at dawn.
She raised her hand to knock on the door but it opened even before her knuckles fell on the battered and scarred wood. A short dark figure clad in a flowing black chaddar gestured her in impatiently. She entered a small room dimly lit by a foul-smelling pair of candles and sparsely furnished. The serving girl followed her, extinguishing the mashaal as usual. The walls of the windowless room were painted black and appeared bare of any decoration, but Manthara knew from past experience that when illuminated by a violet light, phosphorescent writing would be revealed, covering virtually every square inch of those apparently blank surfaces. Forbidden tantric symbols in a tribal dialect long since forgotten by most Aryas, pagan markings from a primitive age when the thousands of deities in the Vedic pantheon were regarded not as manifestations of the One True God but as individual gods in their own right, a polytheistic outlook that was considered blasphemy in these civilised times. Even worse, these wall markings professed allegiance to the darkest and most forbidden of those ancient deities. Not the benign and just devas that civilised Aryas worshipped, but the primordial spirit-lords that the asura races bowed to—and a few discontented Aryas like Manthara herself. Manthara herself was shrewd enough to keep her worship of asura gods a secret; there were no blasphemous symbols painted on her walls, in phosphorescent paint or otherwise. Even her yagna chamber was secret, unknown to even her mistress and ward, Second Queen Kaikeyi. By painting his walls with such symbols, this tawdry tantric was inviting trouble. The kind of trouble that came dressed in the purple and black uniform of the Purana Wafadars whose job it was, among other things, to seek out and arrest such demon-worshippers.
She turned to the man. ‘Do you have what I need?’
He didn’t reply. He rarely talked, this one. Most tantrics affected that posture in the belief that it gave them an aura of great wisdom. Manthara didn’t
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