The Mahabharata of Palmira: Volume One: The Scales

mentions

Day Zero: Vyasa

1 Palmira decides on a story

It seemed so long since she had heard the sound of flowing water that for a moment she imagined she was listening to the ripples of a stream. She opened her eyes. She stared in a daze at the gentle flames.

She picked up her tongs and prodded the smouldering mass. The flames flared lilac. She tapped the tongs on the grate and put them down again.

She knelt up, releasing the cushion beneath her, and then dragged it along as she sidled on her knees towards a box by the wall. The box was made of wood, colourfully decorated on its front panel. Its open lid was leaning against a sendal hanging which covered the wall. The bottom edge of this hanging was weighted down by a row of cushions, also silk, but in a heavier material and richly embroidered.

She picked out a scroll from inside the box and began to unroll it, revealing a picture of a hunting scene. Suddenly she heard a noise and turned sharply.

‘Out!’

‘Palmira ―’

‘Out!’

She flung her cushion at the retreating figure but missed, knocking over a crossbow by the door. Taking a deep breath she unfurled the scroll again, and gazed at it absently.

In the distance a castle crowned a hill. The castle was coloured in reds and browns. Towards the right of the picture a stream flowed down from the hill, opening out beside a grove of trees into a watercourse with preening ducks. The land was coloured green; and the blue colour of the stream became striated with the same green, as the surface of the water extended.

By the pool stood a crane, its beak pointing upwards at a descending falcon. These two birds were depicted with a most delicate attention to detail.

On the extreme right of the picture two hounds, rather less lifelike, stood watching. To the left, in the foreground, a man was seated on a throne. He was dressed in a dark green robe with a purple mantle. The mantle was fastened at his left shoulder with a brooch of amethysts and emeralds. His right hand held a lily stalk with three flowers. His left hand pointed towards a second bird of prey perched on a stool at his feet, a white gyrfalcon.

A gold crown rested on the man’s head. His hair, too far receded at his brow to show there beneath the crown, fell at the sides of his neck in reddish locks curling up at the ends. Beneath the lines of his forehead his blue eyes were deep-set. The wrinkles under his eyes merged into furrows; and these in turn flowed out into the hollows of his cleanly shaven cheeks. Little spots of pink had been used to capture the force of life beneath this gaunt skin.

Palmira let go the bottom of the picture and the paper rolled itself up again. She became aware now of the two voices outside; but they were not distinct enough for her to catch the words...

‘What’s she doing in there? What was it?’

‘I wasn’t meant to see. You know she doesn’t let us go in her room without permission.’

‘Yes, but she was in there.’

‘I know but I forgot to knock. And if I’d knocked, she wouldn’t have let me in.’

‘Yes, but you saw whatever it was, so you might as well tell me.’

‘No! I just know she wouldn’t want me to tell anyone else.’

‘Yes, but I’m not anyone else! Come on, what was it you saw? Tell me...’

Palmira had now closed the lid of the wooden box. She got up, replaced the fallen crossbow, and tossed the cushion onto her bed. Her bedcover was of the same material as the hanging, and it fluttered at the force of the cushion, sending a ripple of air to ruffle the flames. Palmira glanced back at the fire. Then she heard the voices outside rise in anger. Suddenly there was silence and she hurried out.

When she saw them grappling together on the ground Palmira cleared her throat.

‘What’s this?’ She put her weight on her stronger leg and with her weaker foot prodded first one boy and then the other. ‘Henry! Eh? Henry! Come on, what’s this about?’

The two combatants separated and began to dust themselves off.

‘Well?’ persisted Palmira. ‘What will your mother say? You hardly ever argue, let alone fight. Why were you fighting?’

‘You don’t have to have a reason,’ said the first Henry.

‘Nonsense!’ cried Palmira.

‘We don’t need a reason to fight,’ said the second Henry. ‘We’re boys, remember. You’re always saying boys don’t seem to need a reason to fight.’

Palmira smiled, and then checked herself with a frown. ‘Come on, what was it?’

‘Palmira... did you actually predict we would be boys?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, to our mother...’

‘When she was pregnant with us...’

‘Ah! No. I don’t think your mother was that interested in finding out your sex. Not once I told her she was expecting twins. I think that must have put her off any further prediction.’

‘But how do you do it?’

‘Mother said you touched her, or listened, or something like that, and that’s how you knew she was having twins. But how can you possibly tell by touching if it’s going to be a boy or a girl?’

Palmira chose to ignore their questioning. ‘For the last time, boys, what were you fighting about?’

‘That’s our secret,’ said the first Henry. He had put a date in his mouth and was speaking with it lodged in his cheek. ‘We’ll tell you if you tell us how you do it.’

Palmira frowned. ‘Let me see... You were fighting over whose turn it is at the well. Eh?’

‘You’ve got a completely full cistern, Palmira.’

‘We both pumped today.’

‘Are you sure?’ She looked at them sternly. ‘I’d really like to have both cisterns full.’

‘And why do you always have us doing work for you? We’re supposed to be here for our education, not to do work for you.’

‘And then when we do work you complain. You’re always complaining.’

‘I’m always complaining?’

‘You are,’ insisted the first Henry, sucking the last bit of sweetness from the date stone. ‘If it’s not the work it’s our studies.’

‘And if it’s not our studies it’s the work!’ concluded the second Henry.

‘That’, said Palmira, ‘reminds me of when the Hodja met one of his neighbours ―’

‘Palmira!’ cried the first Henry, spitting out the date stone.

‘Not another Hodja story! Please, Palmira!’

‘Pick it up!’ she demanded. ‘Always complaining!’ As she spoke Palmira set about fluffing up the cushions on the tiled floor of her yard. ‘Can’t you manage to keep these the right way up?’ The floor side of these cushions was covered in canvas, while the top was in a much softer sarsenet which suffered from the roughness of the tiles. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘the Hodja had a neighbour who also was always complaining. One cold winter he was standing next to this neighbour in the market place, and they overheard a huddle of people moaning about the cold.’ Palmira sat down on one of the cushions but the two boys remained standing. ‘This neighbour said to him:

‘"Hodja, you see how some people are never content! They’re always complaining. If it’s not the cold of winter, then they complain about the heat in summer! If it’s not the heat of summer, then it’s the cold of winter ―"

‘Yes, yes, I see, interrupted the Hodja hastily. But what will you have to say in the spring? I suppose you’ll complain then that they’re all too contented!’

The boys frowned. Palmira put her hand up to feel the breeze. She took a deep breath, letting the air slowly out of her lungs. ‘Now boys... I need to talk to you... By the way, which one of you came into my bedroom without knocking just now? Right, as a punishment you can go in and bring me some wine.’

‘Wine? From the cask?’

‘No, I filled up a bladder.’

The second Henry went inside to fetch it.

‘Oh, wait!’ Palmira shouted after him, noticing the bowl which now contained only stones and no dates. ‘More dates, please. And there’s some sour milk if you want...’

‘When are you going to get those half-half dates in again?’ the first Henry asked Palmira.

‘Who knows? When they bring them. Now, Henry, what was your quarrelling about?’

‘It wasn’t anything.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Palmira... has anything happened lately?’

‘Has anything happened? What do you mean?’

‘It’s just that you seem... You haven’t got a new boyfriend or anything, have you?’

Palmira laughed. ‘Why? Do I seem excited? Anxious? A new boyfriend! Out here? No, Henry. But it’s very observant of you. No, I’ve got a new stock of ore coming. It’s excellent quality. The best I’ve seen for ages. And almost as good as a new boyfriend.’

The second Henry came out slowly with a bladder of wine under one arm and two bowls balanced in his other hand. Palmira took the wine from him and he put down the dates and sour milk on the more shaded end of her table.

‘I’ve just been telling your brother about some ore that’s coming...’ Palmira took a sip of wine from the bladder. ‘That’s what I want to discuss with you. Wait! Olives! It’s your turn,’ she said to the first Henry. ‘Olives and honey, please — and you can take that in.’

The first Henry picked up the bowl of date stones and went inside.

‘Now, Henry, what were you quarrelling about?’

‘Nothing,’ answered the second Henry, still standing. He picked a date from the bowl. ‘When are you going to get half-half ones?’

‘Who knows? With the plague about ―’

‘But I thought you said it was only along the coast and over the sea. Those nice dates come from even further in, don’t they?’

‘That’s exactly why they don’t want to travel nearer the coast to bring them here.’

‘But... could they catch it from the things in your store house? I mean, the things the traders leave — can you catch it from things like that?’

‘I don’t think so, Henry. No, I don’t think so. But it’s probably wise of them not to travel much at the moment.’

The first Henry returned now with the olives and honey.

‘On the sunny end, please,’ said Palmira, ‘I don’t like my olives too cold.’ Henry put them down as instructed. Though the table was very low it served its purpose of keeping the food clear of the tiles. Occasionally a marauding ant would start to climb up one of the legs; but the smooth overhang of the marble top usually proved too much for these creatures.

‘Sit down, boys...’ Palmira dipped an olive in some honey and put it in her mouth, licking her fingers. ‘Now... I need you to help me work this ore I’ve got coming down from the hills. I’ve already spoken to your parents about it ―’

‘Why d’you need their permission?’

‘Well... It may be a little dangerous this year... Still, you two should be safe enough. Your mother isn’t very happy about it, but your father managed to persuade her ―’

‘But aren’t we going to be doing the same as last year?’

‘Yes, but last year you only did it for a couple of days, didn’t you? This year I’m going to need you for about fifteen days. Perhaps more if the wind holds out. I’m afraid you’ll have to get here first thing each morning to clear the furnace flues ―’

‘When’s it getting here, the ore?’

‘In a few days. Till then you can get in some hemp and halfa. And there’s some paper in the store that needs trimming.’

‘What about Mulciber? Isn’t he going to help?’

‘Of course, of course. He’ll come when the ore’s here. But once the ore’s all safely in I’m afraid I’ll have to go to the coast, so I’ll be leaving you on your own to work with Mulciber — don’t worry, I’ll only be gone for a few days. I just need to pick up a document. Of course, this year Mulciber will have to leave before dark — remember that his wife’s due next month — so you’ll have to do more clearing up. Now, in exchange ―’

‘Can we just do maths?’

‘That’s a good idea, Palmira, we’ll work for you if you let us have a rest from the Latin and Arabic.’

‘That’s a fair exchange, Palmira!’

Palmira smiled. She was silent for a few moments, dipping her finger in the honey. She waved away a hornet. ‘I had another idea,’ she said. ‘A story.’

‘A story!’

‘What, a real story?’

‘What do you mean, Henry? What’s a real story?’

‘One that’s just for fun,’ explained the first Henry.

‘Not for our education,’ added his brother.

‘I see... So you mean... one with beautiful princesses, handsome princes, lots of fighting, and a little mathematics too ―’

‘What?’

‘Palmira, when are you going to let us read the Abaci?’

‘When you’re ready to copy it accurately, Henry, and not before. Your Latin’s just not good enough yet. Besides, the Abaci is mainly about numbers. There’s more to mathematics than just numbers, you know. But of course, if you’re very impatient to start on it, perhaps we could spend the next two weeks just on Latin ―’

‘No! A story ―’

‘And a proper story, Palmira.’

‘Will you really tell us a proper story?’

‘Well, I don’t know how proper it will be. But I expect there will be some handsome princes, some fighting, perhaps a beautiful princess even ―’

‘When are you going to start? Now?’

‘What’s it called? What’s it going to be called?’

‘The story?’ Palmira took another sip of wine. ‘I’m going to tell you the story of Karna.’

2 Palmira prepares the ground

‘It’s a story’, continued Palmira, ‘set in India a long time ago.’

‘How long?’

‘Well, let’s see... I think it was supposed to have taken place about five hundred years before the Buddha Gautama. So that would make it a few hundred years after the Prophet Moses. So, well, you can work it out, a thousand years before the Christ of Nazareth, fifteen hundred years before the Prophet Muhammad ―’

‘We only asked how long ago. We do know our dates. I thought you said it was going to be just for fun.’

‘Is it a true story, Palmira?’

‘Well, the story I’m going to tell you is based on a story told to me a few years ago, and that in turn was based on a great and ancient story about the Bharata people of northern India. That great story may have had some truth in it. But Vyasa’s version would have had rather less. And the story I’m going to tell you has definitely no truth in it whatsoever. In fact, Vyasa would probably be cross if I pretended mine was the same story at all ―’

‘That doesn’t matter if his story wasn’t true either — if his wasn’t true, why should it matter if you change it? They’re just both not true.’

Palmira smiled. ‘I wish it were as simple as that, Henry. No one owns the truth, no one owns facts. But fiction, well, that’s another matter, people get rather attached to their own... That reminds me... That reminds me of when the Hodja was once a witness called to testify in court ―’

‘Palmira!’

‘Not another one!’

Palmira ignored their protest and continued.

‘You see, a friend of the Hodja’s had been accused of stealing some sacks of wheat from the village grain store: these sacks, or ones very like them, had been found at this friend’s house. Well, he asked the Hodja to concoct a story in court to protect him.

‘You’re not seriously asking me to lie in court, are you? Me? A respected man, a Hodja, wearing a turban, to lie in court before a judge?

‘"But that’s why, Hodja. They’ll believe you. In any case, you tell stories to young and impressionable children — surely you can leave a learned judge to make up his own mind!"

‘"But my friend, don’t you know that I refuse to lie even to a child! Don’t you know that I always start my stories Once upon a time there was and there wasn’t... a three-headed giant or whatever. Now you’re asking me to lie in court!"

‘Unfortunately for the Hodja,’ continued Palmira, ‘when his friend was interrogated he actually told the court that the Hodja had been the source of the wheat. So the Hodja was summoned to explain.

‘My learned judge, began the Hodja, I admit that it was I myself who sold the accused those sacks of barley

‘Barley! cried the judge. Hodja Nasreddin, he said sternly, "we are talking here about wheat, not barley."

‘Yes, sir, but if one is making up a story, does it matter if one is talking about wheat or about barley?

‘So, you see...’ continued Palmira. ‘...Where was I?’

‘How do we know where you were?’ complained the first Henry.

‘Palmira, will you promise not to keep interrupting with Hodja stories once you start properly?’

‘Well...’

‘And when you’re telling it can’t you try not to keep saying well. It’s irritating, Palmira.’

‘And you see. You’re always saying that.’

‘Well, I see...’ Palmira narrowed her eyes slightly as she looked at them. ‘Thank you, boys, it’s very kind of you to point these little things out... As I was saying, the story I’m going to tell you is not true to Vyasa’s. But you see — sorry — Vyasa himself in any case thought it was the sort of story you could only ever really tell your own version of. And Vyasa — do you remember him? No? Perhaps you were too young... He came from India... He had matted hair, very long ―’

‘Oh! Him! That smelly old ―’ The first Henry stopped in his tracks and shrank back slightly behind his brother, who looked down to avoid Palmira’s glare. But when Palmira started to rise the second Henry looked up at her.

‘We didn’t think, Palmira, we forgot... We forgot what happened... We remember now... Sorry, Palmira...’

Palmira went inside, limping more heavily than usual.

‘Why don’t you think before you speak!’ complained the second Henry.

‘You’re one to talk,’ returned his brother. ‘I mean think,’ he added. ‘I just forgot. Anyway, don’t you remember Palmira once saying that if you always think before you speak, you end up never saying anything at all. And you can be sure she thought about that before she said it.’

Palmira came out again carrying a jug of water and three cups. She poured some water for herself and the two boys.

‘Drink, or you’ll end up with humps like camels.’

She took a few sips of the water herself and sat down on her cushion.

‘Where’s the wine?’ she asked. The second Henry handed her the bladder, and she took a mouthful. The boys watched her in silence. They seldom saw her drinking wine. She replaced the bladder against the leg of the table, adjusted another cushion against the bare white plaster behind her, and leant back in her corner.

On the inside of the rectangular yard the plaster was exposed. But on the outside grew vines and creepers which turned in at the top to spread thinly over a wooden trellis spanning the four walls. This cast a mottled shade over the tiles; and at certain angles the sun pierced through quite easily.

The lower part of the four walls was solid; but the upper part consisted of slender white balusters supporting a plain coping on which in turn rested the trellis. Between the pillars the vines were thinned to admit the view beyond.

The marble table was at the north-west corner of the rectangle. It was against the walls of this corner that Palmira usually made herself comfortable. The twins would sit beside her against the west wall. Or sometimes facing her, leaning over the table, especially when they had books or papers to work on; from this position they could see the doorway to the house through the north-west balusters.

At the north-east corner a passage overgrown with prickly pears opened into tracks leading to the road. An opening in the middle of the north wall joined the yard to another passageway. To the left this led to the house. To the right it led to the storehouse and a workshop.

‘So,’ continued Palmira, ‘where was I?... Yes, you see, the story of the Bharatas has been told again and again, countless times. Vyasa knew his version by heart. In Sanskrit, of course. Some of it he had composed himself, some was based on older verses. What a memory he had! He told it to me in Latin, translating from the Sanskrit as he went along — because I didn’t know any Sanskrit. I can’t remember how many days it took him to tell it. He called each section a Parva, and he told me one of these every day. He compared the story to an ancient carpet, handed down over the centuries, into which different people had woven their own threads — a carpet which one could tell must have been wonderful, enchanting, but which had become a little ragged, slightly threadbare here and there, with the occasional patch. What I am going to do for you, boys, is to try to pick out my own favourite piece, which I hope lies near the centre, the heart of the ancient carpet. And I will try to weave into it my own threads, and put my own colours in the areas I think are worn thin. So, in the end you will get Palmira’s little rug.

‘It’s important that I tell you this,’ she continued, ‘because, unlike the Hodja, who changed the word wheat to barley, I will use many of the same names, the same events, the same places that are mentioned in the ancient story. But it will not be the same story. I don’t even know if the places I mention exist, or ever have existed, or are where I say they are. Still, as Vyasa himself said, it is part of the very beauty of this wonderful old carpet that each person sees in it different patterns.’

‘What’s Sanskrit like?’

‘Well, if Latin is like a mother to most of the languages round the sea, Sanskrit is like a great-grandmother. Not all of them — Arabic and Hebrew, for example, they work in a different way. Perhaps that’s why you two find Arabic hard. People like Vyasa still speak Sanskrit in India today, but rather as they speak Latin round the sea.

‘So... Yes, first I must tell you a bit about India at the time of the Bharatas. According to Vyasa it was a very interesting time. The Hindu religion didn’t really exist yet: it was in the process of being born. They were times of change. The ending of an era, the last great flame of the kshatriya fighting caste. Yes, you’ll get plenty of brave warriors, a battle or two, the occasional god, perhaps. Of course, it’s mostly men in this story. Women, as usual, were given only a limited part to play. Yes... Things haven’t changed very much. I suppose I can’t complain for myself, of course, not now, but I’ve had to ―’

‘What exactly is this story about? It’s not going to be another one about how unjustly women have been treated, is it?’

‘I thought you said it was going to be fun, Palmira.’

Palmira laughed. ‘Did I say that? Another thing you’ll need to know about concerns the castes.’

‘The castes?’

‘Yes. There were four main castes. First of all there were the kshatriyas. I say first because they were the rulers. Kings and princes were almost always of this caste. Kshatriyas were trained and skilful in all forms of combat and weaponry, but particularly the bow. Not the crossbow, of course, that wasn’t around in those days. The dream of every kshatriya — or so they would tell you — was to become a great chariot fighter: you see, they fought on chariots. They used their bows and other weapons while a chariot driver manoeuvred the chariot about. There were often raids for cattle and other livestock between rival kingdoms, so it was useful to have your own kshatriyas around to defend you against the kshatriyas who attacked you.’

‘Were they like the old Roman chariots, these Indian chariots?’

‘No, they were more like boxes. They had a rectangular floor, and sometimes quite high sides — not too high or the warrior’s aim would be restricted. A right-handed warrior usually stood on the left, with his driver on the right, because it’s easier to shoot towards the left if you’re right-handed. The sides of the chariots were usually just wooden frameworks covered in wicker or leather — nothing too heavy, but offering reasonable protection. The weight of the actual chariot had to be kept down because of all the weapons and equipment the warriors carried with them. They even carried ropes and leather cords for repairs. All these were kept at the back of the chariot, so there had to be a sort of wooden leg under the rear of the thing. Otherwise, when the horses were unyoked — or set loose by enemy arrows — the whole chariot would have tipped backwards on its axle.’

‘Oh! Did they only have two wheels, then?’

‘Yes, much more manoeuvrable than four wheels. Four-wheeled ones were used for ceremonies, but not for fighting.’

‘And how many horses did they have?’

‘Horses? Usually four abreast. Though ceremonial chariots could have two or even more rows of them. The horses had to be specially trained because the harnesses they used were quite uncomfortable. Anyway, that’s enough about chariots, boys... We were discussing castes, were we not? As I say, the warriors were usually kshatriyas. Then there were the brahmanas. These were educated in all the religious customs of the Bharatas, and studied all the branches of learning.

‘Then there were the vaishyas,’ continued Palmira. ‘These were responsible for agriculture and commerce. Ruled, of course, by the kshatriyas. Last, and more or less least, there were the shudras. These were workers: they did most of the physical work, and were also the servants of everybody else. I believe that the four castes were supposed for ceremonies and so on to wear different coloured robes: red, the colour of blood, for the kshatriyas; white, the colour of clarity, for brahmanas; the vaishyas were supposed to wear yellow, the colour of grassland and livestock; and black, the colour of the earth, was for the shudras. But at the time of my story people would generally only signify their caste with something like a belt or sash, or a headband or headcloth in the appropriate colour.

‘There were one or two other castes. Sutas, for example. These had originally been people of mixed birth, a mixture of kshatriya and brahmana, I think. But by the time of my story they were considered very low caste by both kshatriyas and brahmanas. Their colour was brown.’

‘What did they do, these sutas?’

‘As a matter of fact, most of the suta men were chariot drivers. That seemed to be their traditional role. Quite a skilled job, not to say dangerous. And they also had to look after the horses. But at least they were allowed to work alongside the other castes. There was a caste, the chandalas, who were not even considered to belong to a caste at all. They were outcasts.’

‘And could anyone be a kshatriya if they wanted?’ asked the second Henry.

‘No!’ said his brother. ‘Weren’t you listening? It went by birth. Isn’t that right, Palmira?’

‘Yes.’

‘So they were a bit like knights,’ remarked the second Henry. ‘Like our grandfather, mother’s father.’

‘Exactly. There were many similarities,’ agreed Palmira. ‘And of course the brahmanas were rather like old Henry’s clergy. In fact, kshatriyas, though they were the rulers, were usually very respectful to the brahmanas. And it was considered a terrible sin for a kshatriya to injure or kill a brahmana. Nevertheless, there was occasionally some tension between the two. And of course, as always, there were exceptions to the rule. Old Henry must have told you about bishops who could handle a sword as well as any knight. Yes? Well, similarly there were some brahmanas who became very skilled in warfare; and some kshatriyas who were peaceful and devout.’

‘And what did the kshatriyas do when they weren’t fighting?’

‘Well... They tended to play at fighting. They had tournaments, contests, exhibitions. And they loved games, especially if gambling was involved. In fact they took their gambling as seriously as their fighting. If one kshatriya challenged another to a fight, or to a gambling match — particularly a game of dice — it was considered the worst of cowardice to refuse the challenge. Yes, in theory they had a very rigorous code of honour.’

‘Are you ready to start, then?’

‘Patience! There are still one or two things I must tell you about. And by the way — I hope you don’t think I’m actually going to start the story today?’

‘What!’ cried both boys in unison.

‘Well, look where the sun is. Besides, I have to compose myself carefully before starting it. I have to organise my mind, collect my thoughts, choose my language ―’

‘Oh, you’re not going to tell it us in Latin, are you?’

Palmira smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What an interesting idea. No? How about Arabic, then?’

‘Don’t joke, Palmira. You know that’s still hard for us.’

‘All the more reason. Remember, everyone speaks Arabic along the coast. And it’s your father’s first tongue. Don’t you speak to your father?’

‘Of course we do, but not in Arabic.’

‘Anyway, Palmira, you said this story was going to be fun.’

‘What I meant, boys, was that I have to decide how I am going to phrase things. It’s not easy jumping straight in. I must think about how I can avoid the wells and you sees. The least I can do in memory of Vyasa is to tell the story with some dignity, which will be hard enough with you two around. One day I’ll tell you about Vyasa. It was he who showed me how to use the wind for the furnaces. I used to have to use bellows. Yes, he was certainly one of the most remarkable people I’ve met — and I’ve met many ―’

‘People! Men, you mean!’

‘Admit it, Palmira, we don’t get to hear of hardly any women that you’ve met on your travels. It’s usually men you tell us about.’

‘Nonsense... I suppose I may have more often met interesting men than women. But you see, that’s because men seem to stop women from doing interesting things.’

‘I don’t think that’s the only reason, Palmira, not in your case!’ The boys smiled knowingly at each other.

‘Well, I admit that interesting men have their attractions.’

‘Surely not Vy ―’ The second Henry managed to stop his brother from finishing.

‘As a matter of fact,’ corrected Palmira, ‘since you were about to ask, I was madly in love with Vyasa. The great pity is that he had taken vows of celibacy. Anyway, where was I? I do wish you wouldn’t keep interrupting me. Yes... Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll start. Tomorrow afternoon, after my siesta. After. I don’t want to be woken up, thank you. But wait — I must tell you a little about the gods.’

‘What gods?’

‘The gods of the Bharatas, of course. Or, I should say, my version of them. Because I have to say that I’m not very clear about them at all. You see, Vyasa never really explained them to me properly, he just left me to work them out. Anyway, I can at least tell you about the gods which may play a part in my story, even if they are not really like the gods of the Bharatas.

‘Well, there were the great three, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Together these three seemed to be the lords of more or less everything. But it may be that Vishnu and Shiva were really parts of Brahma, or aspects or guises of Brahma. I’m not sure. At any rate, Brahma seemed hardly ever to get directly involved in human affairs, though you do occasionally hear of Vishnu and Shiva intervening. Vishnu was in fact supposed to be born into human form from time to time.

‘But there were many other gods, less powerful than these three, who seemed to become involved in human affairs more often. Indeed, they sometimes used humans like pieces in a game which they played against each other ―’

‘Like chess?’

‘Yes, except that chess was not quite invented yet. Let me see...’ continued Palmira. ‘In my story there are going to be three quite important lower gods. There is Indra. He was much admired by the kshatriyas because he represented strength, power, physical skill. Then there is Surya, god of the sun. In my story he represents understanding and knowledge. And Dharma. Dharma was the god of morality, of values, aims and purpose. He was much admired by the brahmanas. And there were a number of gods who will play a smaller part in my story. There’s Vayu, god of the wind and weather. And the Ashwins. The Ashwins were twins, like you, though there the resemblance ends. They represented beauty and health.’

‘Aren’t there any goddesses?’

‘Oh yes, good question. Yes. Kali. Yes, I should mention Kali. She was very important. At the time of my story, she represents... Well, she was a mysterious goddess. Some say she was the consort of Shiva. Which reminds me, there’s the consort of Brahma, called Saraswati. There’s a legend that she invented the Sanskrit alphabet. Now boys, once I start, I don’t want any interruptions. If you don’t understand something, just wait, and if it doesn’t become clear in due course you’ll probably forget about it anyway.’

‘No interruptions at all?’ asked the second Henry, looking rather worried.

‘Well, if you’re desperate. It’s just that your interruptions are liable to break my rather frail chains of thought. I’d rather you could wait until I’ve finished for the day. That reminds me, talking of unwanted interruptions. Yes... I should tell you that Brahma tended to be terribly preoccupied. He was always busy concentrating. The whole world depended on him. Because if he stopped thinking about the world, even for just one brief moment, then the whole world would just cease to exist.’

‘You mean, the world was all part of Brahma’s imagination?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘But if he fell asleep, or stopped thinking about it, couldn’t he just imagine it again when he woke up?’

‘Oh no,’ said Palmira grimly. ‘You see, he was a figment of his own imagination as well. After all, he was part of the world. If everything was part of his imagination, where else could he be? So if he stopped thinking about the world, he himself would stop existing. And then he wouldn’t be there to imagine it all back again, would he?’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Isn’t it impossible?’

‘But Henry, where’s the challenge in the merely possible? Eh? Now... all this made Brahma a little wrapped up in himself, irritable even. And when one day Indra and Surya came to him, he had no time for them. You see, Indra had aspirations to be the chief of the lower gods, on account of his great strength and power. But Surya resented this, maintaining that his own knowledge and understanding were more important than sheer power. And indeed, had Dharma not been above such self-seeking pettiness, he too would have objected to Indra’s presumptions. At any rate, the other two decided that they should go and ask the great Brahma to settle the issue once and for all, and determine which was the most powerful, Indra or Surya. So they went along to see Brahma. Dharma went along as well, just in case the great god should decide that the power of Dharma’s morality was more important than anything Indra or Surya had to offer.

‘Brahma, as you can imagine, was rather irritated at this deputation:

‘Can’t you see I’m busy! I haven’t got time to deal with your petty squabbles. You’ll just have to sort this out yourselves.

‘How? they asked.

‘It’s obvious, cried Brahma, rising to a temper. Just find out which of you three has the greatest influence on the world of men!’

Palmira took another sip of wine. ‘I think that’s all you need to know for the moment. We can start tomorrow afternoon. Yes? Good.’

Day One: The River

3 The parting

A jug of water stood shaded on the tiles beside Palmira. She drank a little from a cup on the table. The two boys were very quiet, but fidgeting.

Palmira took a long, deep breath, glanced through the creepers on the south wall, towards the grey outline of the hills beyond, and began her story.

•

It was midnight. A young woman, hardly more than a girl, crept quietly out of a tiny, broken-down hovel. She was in a little clearing, from which a single path led into the dense surrounding wood. The air was not clear enough to see the stars, but there were no clouds to disturb the moon shining alone in the black sky. The girl was walking quickly along the narrow path. She was carrying a bundle which must have been very heavy, because she had to stop every few paces to catch her breath. Her bare feet did not seem to feel the pain as they stepped on snapping twigs. They were hardened. Her big toes were long, leaning in sharply towards her other toes. She was covered in deerskins which were ragged, dirty and torn. She was crying softly as she went, snuffling between gasps for breath.

The path opened onto a river bank. She stood still for a few minutes, holding her bundle tightly, her eyes on the sparkling water, listening to the river. When her breath had steadied she looked round. She caught sight of something nearby along the bank and slowly bent her knees into a crouch, lowering her bundle and cradling it in her lap.

Then she gently placed the bundle on the ground and waded into the overgrown reeds that hid the margin of the river. She came out of the reeds carrying a large basket. It was made of wicker, in two halves fastened with leather straps. The wickerwork was tightly bound with waxed hide to keep out the water. The wax caught the moonlight as she put the basket down by her bundle. She undid the fastenings, removed the upper half, and took out a large sack and a tiny pillow. She wrapped her bundle in the sack and, straining with the weight, put it into the basket. Only the sleeping face of the baby was now visible.

Her hands moved across the sack and touched the boy’s cheeks. She cradled his head, kissed it, and placed the tiny pillow beneath him to soften the hardness of the wicker. She carefully replaced the upper half of the basket and fastened it tightly.

She tried to lift the basket clear of the ground. It was too heavy so she dragged it slowly towards the water’s edge. She waded in again, drawing the basket with her into the reeds. She slowly moved clear into the very centre of the river, where the water was still only waist deep. She held the basket steady in the current and whispered to her son, the two of them alone in the moonlit stream.

‘Oh my child, may the gods protect you from all who dwell in water, land, in sky and heaven. May all the paths you take bring you fortune, and let no one stand against you in your chosen way. May all those whose paths cross yours find in their hearts only love, and all evil chased away. Happy is the sun who will be able to watch over you. Blessed also is the mother who will take you for her son and name you, and who will suckle you when you are hungry.’

She let go her tight grip, and the basket flew away from her in the brisk current as though it had never been still. A voiceless cry choked on her lips as she arched helplessly towards the dwindling shadow.

4 A prayer is answered

The current avoided all the little creeks and channels, and carried the basket down the Ashwa river like a horse bearing a sleeping rider; till it flowed into the turbulent Charanwati. From the Charanwati, the battling streams drove the boy into the centre of the river Yamuna, dodging all the little islands and reed beds. The Yamuna, in turn, joins the great river Ganges.

The Ganges flows from beyond the great capital city of the Bharata people, Hastinapura, all the way into the sea at the north-eastern corner of the huge triangle of India. Halfway between the point where the Yamuna joins, and the coast, is a region then called Anga. Soon after the Ganges enters this region, the river curves slowly round a town called Nagakaksha. Near Nagakaksha, on the southern bank of the great river, was a secluded shrine.

A woman was sitting on the river bank. She had been praying at the shrine; but now was just gazing blankly at the water which flowed slowly round the shallow bend, swirling with strange eddies.

A man, a little farther back from the river’s edge, was still in prayer. He knelt with his face in his hands beside a huge block of stone, which was sculpted on each of its four vertical faces.

On one side of the stone the hero Rama was depicted defeating the evil demon Ravana. On a second side was shown Vishnu in the guise of a dwarf, appearing to the powerful but virtuous demon Bali. The third side was weathered in parts. It revealed a man with four arms and three eyes falling at the feet of a majestic adversary. Although the fourth side was worn almost smooth, an outline was just visible on it, of a horse, bridled and saddled, but with no rider. The shrine stood beneath a huge palm tree.

Perhaps a strange sound lifted the woman’s attention from the constant bubbling of the water. Or maybe from the corner of her eye an unexpected shape joined in the river’s vacant dance. For suddenly she shouted:

‘Adhi! Come quick!’

Her husband looked up blearily, as from a dream, and went to the river’s edge.

‘Look, look at that basket. What is it? Adhi, what do you think it is?’

The basket was drifting slowly past in the shallow water. Without answering his wife, Adhi jumped into the river and quickly reached it. He undid the straps and took off the cover. He took one look inside, then turned and shouted across to his wife on the bank.

‘Radha! Come and look at this!’

Radha was about to tell him to bring the basket up onto the bank, when a sound that had been pressing at the back of her mind burst through to flood her consciousness. She jumped into the water.

‘Radha! Surely our prayers have been answered!’

They both stood in the water, staring in disbelief at the little face peering at them, its beautiful black eyes blinking in vain to focus in the startling light.

‘Look at those ear-rings!’

‘Aren’t they huge! Why put such huge ear-rings on a little baby? Are they gold, Adhi?’

‘They look like gold.’

‘Look how tiny it is, Adhi... It must only be a few days old — and yet, see how it looks... Look at its eyes, Adhi, like lotus flowers. And it has stopped crying. See, it’s looking at your eyes. And now at mine!’

The little baby did seem to be able to focus.

‘I think it’s a boy,’ said Adhi proudly.

They brought the basket up onto the bank, and Radha tried to grasp the baby’s little body through the sack. She felt something hard.

‘Aaagh? What’s this?’

She drew back the sack, which was bright red and lined with silk. There, gleaming in the sun, was dazzling gold. The child was wrapped in folds of what looked like chain mail, tiny rings of gold, tightly linked.

Adhi carefully picked up the chain mail with the little baby wrapped inside it, and put the bundle on the ground. The two of them gently unwrapped the mail, revealing the baby swathed in a red silk cloth. The golden mail appeared to be made to fit a large man, as armour to be worn round the chest. But they both noticed there was a small area missing from one corner.

The silk cloth around the baby was decorated with the round face of the sun, crowned with radiating flares. Radha pulled the cloth away. They discovered around the little boy’s tiny chest, almost tight enough to be a second skin, the missing section of chain mail.

The boy was certainly beautiful for such a small baby. He already had quite dense hair, curling at the ends; his skin was the colour of burnished copper; even now his eyes seemed to take everything in.

Radha and Adhi looked at each other.

‘Surely,’ stammered Adhi, with tears in his eyes, ‘surely it is the gods that have sent this wonderful, beautiful boy to us, in answer to our prayers... They have taken pity on a poor childless couple!’

5 Narada comes to town

The first thing they did when they got home was try to find a woman who would suckle the little baby, for the boy was now crying constantly.

While Radha went out to try to find a wet-nurse, Adhi stayed with the little boy. Every few minutes he would offer his little finger for the baby to suckle on, just to silence him for a few seconds. Adhi examined the golden mail. He noticed that each link was cut very precisely. And he was able to separate the linked rings without any great difficulty.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said to Radha when she returned, accompanied by a neighbour who had plenty of milk to spare. ‘As the baby grows we will have to disconnect a row and add another one, or he won’t be able to breathe. Or do you think we should take the vest off altogether?’

‘No,’ said Radha, ‘we mustn’t do that. He must have been wearing that armour for a reason. Just like the ear-rings. No, we will have to do as you suggest. Of course,’ she added after a moment’s thought, ‘I’ll have to keep adding an extra row to the bottom of the vest as well!’

And that is what they did. Rather frequently at first, because of course the little boy was growing fast. And though they were poor sutas it never once occurred to them to sell the armour, whose weight of gold they knew would have exchanged for more property than they had ever dreamt of.

They made a note of the day on which they had found the boy, and that became his birthday. Adhi called his son Vasu-shena, which means ‘born with wealth’. And word got round about this little suta baby with the huge golden ear-rings. It was not unusual for older boys and girls to wear ear-rings; but not at quite so young an age, or quite so large.

Soon neighbours and friends started referring to the child as Karna-veshtakika, which means ‘adorned with ear-rings’; and the name stuck. By the time he was a few months old the baby was just plain Karna.

Radha and Adhi often puzzled over the meaning of Karna’s golden ornaments. It occurred to them that he might be the son, not of a mere mortal, but of a god. There were certainly legends of babies being found under similar circumstances, who had turned out to be children of gods. But they did not know whom to ask. None of the brahmanas in the region was able to help them, though they all marvelled at the boy.

Then, when Karna was just over six months old, and had added several rows of links to his armour, a very celebrated rishi passed through Nagakaksha. He was called Narada.

•

‘Palmira,’ interrupted the first Henry.

‘I expect you want to know what is a rishi?’

Palmira poured a little water into her cup, took a sip, and offered it to the boys.

‘A rishi is usually a brahmana, but no ordinary one. Rishis are supposed to have special powers, or to be particularly holy. Some rishis are supposed to be able to see into the future. Some, like Narada, travel around living from the gifts and charity of the people they visit. But others live in seclusion far away from villages and towns, hardly ever talking to a living soul. These are usually called munis. They are supposed to have conquered all — almost all — their earthly desires. Some munis are so strict they do not even look for food and drink, but die unless people place food beside them. But pilgrims will often make the journey to see them and leave food for them. Others are a little less strict, and are prepared to eat grains and nuts and fruit which they find loose on the ground. Nevertheless, they will not take the fruit actually off a tree, for example; or an ear of corn while it is still attached to the living plant; but will only gather food that is already scattered, and that no one else will want or take. And yet... Well, some rishis are very different... They may be very eccentric, and at times live in great luxury. Narada wasn’t like this, but he was certainly very worldly, and as accustomed to the lavish company of kings as he was to the humble gifts of the poor. Now boys, try not to interrupt again until the end of the day. As I said before, if your problem doesn’t keep, then it probably won’t matter.’

Palmira continued her story.

•

‘We must take little Karna to see Narada,’ suggested Radha. ‘He may be able to solve the mystery.’

‘What if he takes the child away from us?’ asked Adhi.

‘I will not let him,’ said Radha defiantly.

‘What, even Narada?’

‘Karna will leave us when he is ready to, and not before. The gods have made me a mother, and a mother I will be.’

So they took little Karna to see Narada. They carried with them the rest of the mail in the red sack; and also the other contents of the basket in which Karna had been found. They had also put in the sack some gifts for the rishi: some puffed rice, some flour, and some clarified butter.

The rishi had chosen to receive the townspeople in the hall of an old temple near the main square. Adhi and Radha had to wait a long time before they were even let inside the building, and by then the sun was low and reddish in the sky.

Narada’s white robes made it easy to pick him out from the others in the gloom of the hall. He was standing at the far end. With Karna in her arm, Radha nervously approached the rishi. Adhi walked beside her carrying the red sack.

Without saying a word she presented the baby to the rishi, who stretched out his arms to receive him. Narada smiled, and was about to ask Radha a question when he noticed the baby’s ear-rings. With his free hand he felt the rings.

‘These are unusual... And certainly large enough for you to grow into,’ he added with a smile, looking into the huge black eyes which stared back at him. ‘So...’ Narada looked at Radha. ‘Why have you brought him to me? It is a boy, is it not?’

Radha nodded, but remained silent, expecting her husband to speak.

Narada tickled Karna’s cheeks to make him smile.

‘He very rarely smiles,’ said Adhi.

Narada raised his eyebrows without looking up. ‘Is that the problem?’ He tried to tickle Karna’s little chest.

The rishi’s face stiffened all of a sudden. He looked up at Adhi and Radha. Adhi was about to say something but Radha put her hand on her husband’s arm.

Narada slowly unwrapped the clothes that were swaddling the baby, and saw the golden armour. He felt it gently, passing his hand carefully over it. He allowed the swaddling clothes to fall clear as he held Karna up, naked but for his little golden vest, turning him around to examine his back.

While he was doing this Radha began to tell him how they had found the baby. When she had finished, Narada, still holding Karna, leant back against the edge of a long table nearby which was laden with gifts. He held the boy for a few moments, deep in thought. Then he put him down on the table beside the gifts, as though Karna were another one of these, picked up the swaddlings and covered him up.

There were still a few other people standing by at the fringes of the hall. With a gesture Narada ushered them out. He turned to Karna’s parents.

‘You say there was more of this armour. Have you got it with you?’

‘Yes, sire.’ Adhi reached into the red sack. First he took out the offerings for Narada, then he passed the sack to the rishi. Adhi placed the gifts on the table as Narada inspected the sack.

After examining the material of the sack itself, Narada felt inside. First he brought out the tiny pillow; then the red silk square. He looked closely at these and then passed them to Radha to hold. Finally he pulled out the chain mail. He spread it beside the baby on the table, moving aside some pots and jars to make more room. He raised a corner of the mail to his mouth and bit it. He peered at it in the gloom trying to find a bite mark.

He started to pace slowly along the length of the table and back, several times, deep in thought. Once or twice he glanced back at the armour. Karna meanwhile was gurgling peacefully on the table. His parents waited in silence, holding on to each other, not wishing to disturb the rishi’s concentration.

Suddenly Narada walked quickly out of the hall. Adhi and Radha could hear him shouting for something outside. He returned wielding an unsheathed sword in his hand.

Radha screamed, dropping the pillow and square onto the floor.

Flustered by this reminder of their presence, Narada apologised to them, and reassured Radha. He put down the sword and gently held her hands.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t touch your baby, let alone harm him. Pick him up for a moment.’

Radha did as she was told.

Narada approached the table, raised the sword high above his head, and brought it crashing down onto the spreadeagled armour. Radha, Adhi, and the table all jumped with the shock, and several pots of clarified butter rolled off and smashed onto the floor. Narada put down the sword and picked up the armour.

‘I need to look at this under better light,’ he said, and left the hall, taking the sword with him as well as the armour.

Adhi and Radha waited several minutes. They heard three or four more grunts and crashes from outside. Radha, without really realising what she was doing, put Karna down again on the table and began to pick up some of the larger pieces of earthenware from the floor.

Narada returned, a little breathless, and much distracted. He placed the mail in a heap by the baby and leant against the table, deep in thought.

There was just enough light creeping in for Adhi to catch the reflections from the armour. He stared at it, hardly able to contain his curiosity. Radha continued to salvage the pots.

Adhi walked nearer to the armour. The rishi ignored him. A look of distress appeared on Adhi’s face.

‘Radha!’ he cried, holding the armour up. ‘This... is not gold, Radha. It is not soft enough for gold.’

His wife got up from her pots and examined the mail with her husband. They could see that there was hardly a mark to show where the sword had smitten the metal.

‘Worthless!’ cried Adhi.

‘What does it matter?’ consoled his wife. ‘We were not going to sell it, anyway.’

‘But for Karna...’ began Adhi.

‘For Karna,’ interrupted Narada, as though starting up from a dream, ‘it is much more valuable than gold. Look at it. The sword has not deformed a single link by even a hair’s breadth! And yet the metal is flexible enough to allow the links to be unfastened. And to allow the child to breathe as deeply as he needs.’ Narada paused. ‘I must think,’ Narada added. ‘Will you wait?’

They nodded.

Narada picked Karna up and handed him back to his mother. Again the rishi sat against the table. After a while Karna started to cry softly, and Radha rocked him gently; she let him suck at her breast to comfort him, though she had hardly any milk. Adhi picked up the pillow and the square from the floor where they still lay and put them by the armour on the table.

After a while Narada slowly raised himself and walked towards them.

‘West of here, in Varanasi, lives a rishi called Charvaka. When Karna reaches the age of nine or ten, take him to see Charvaka. He is a rather strange man, but very... knowledgeable. He will advise you and your son. But take care not to let your son talk too much alone with him... Charvaka is not... not entirely good.’

Narada started to walk slowly out of the room, as though in a dream.

‘Sire!’ cried Radha, ‘What will happen to Karna? Is he...’ Her voice fell now almost to a whisper. ‘Is he the son of a god?’

Narada stopped. He turned and walked back to Radha. He took Karna from her and passed the baby to her husband. The rishi grasped her firmly by the wrists.

‘In the course of time, if all goes well, your son will become a great warrior. A great ratha.’

‘A warrior?’

‘If he chooses to become one. If he does not, he may live here in safety with you, as a suta. But if he chooses to become a ratha, let him. He will face danger. Indeed, he will face death. But if all goes well, while he has his ear-rings and his armour, no one will be able to defeat him in combat.’

‘But how... What should we do?’

Narada let go Radha’s hands. ‘As I say, take him to see Charvaka when you think he is ready. But he must keep his armour always with him; as I see you have been doing. And most important of all, he must always wear his ear-rings. Have you ever taken them off him?’

‘No, sire,’