Tiny pink and purple flowers were growing valiantly amid thick clusters of weeds along the base of the temple’s walls. Nandini wistfully viewed their carefree and dainty movements as they danced in the light breeze.

She believed that to be born as a human being was a great blessing, but the idea of a life without tensions and complications was extremely tempting at times.

“Don't stop,” a male voice said intolerantly.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said quickly, looking down at the man resting his head on her lap.

She smiled at the impatience writ on Prithvi’s features and restarted the stroking of his lush black hair. Satisfied, he resumed his pensive inspection of the sky while fiddling intermittently with the fingers of her other hand.

 “Should I tell grandpa and ma after going home?” Nandini asked hesitantly.

“No, let your father’s friend do the honours in the evening,” he replied.

“Okay,” she agreed gladly.

Silence fell again. Nandini let it carry on for a while, and then impulsively enquired, “What are you thinking about?”

Prithvi looked at her contemplatively. “This red crap makes your hands look diseased,” he stated. “And smell weird,” he added disgustedly, sniffing her palm with distaste to bring home his point.

“It does not!” she said indignantly, snatching her hand out of his grasp.

Convinced of the beauty of the mehendi on her hands, she gazed at the intricate design fondly. He was probably the only person in the universe who could associate disease with the beautiful red lines that twisted and turned and swirled into patterns that swathed her fingers and palm and spilled over to her wrist… like a flaring infection that was ravaging her skin…

She blinked in dismay.

“You see it, don’t you?”

 “Yes, it looks like – No! No!” she rectified hastily, attempting to expunge the ghastly image from her mind. “I don’t - ” she stopped in defeat and looked at him exasperatedly.

He was grinning smugly at the ease with which he could manipulate her thoughts.

“You have a sick imagination,” she snapped as he reclaimed her hand again.

“If only you knew,” he muttered.

Her fingers stopped in tandem with her heart on seeing the wicked glimmer in his gaze.  She was sure he was to going pull her down to kiss her…

His fingers grazed the bangles on her wrist.

Instantaneously, something tautened in his expression. And to her surprise, he rose from her lap and smoothly got up to his feet. There was a reddish tint on his face as he gazed down at her dauntingly.

“Go home and get ready for college,” he stipulated brusquely. “Your exams are in three weeks, aren’t they?”

“How did you know?” Nandini asked diffidently, but thrown by his unexpected terseness, she hastened to stand up.

“Your grandfather shared his plans to bombard God with sweets if you manage to pass.”

“He wouldn’t say that about me! I’m a good student!”

“Is that why are you wasting your time here instead of attending classes?” Prithvi countered.  

“I have just two lectures today and the first one begins at eleven,” she mumbled.

“Then use that time to study in the library,” he said irately. “Or have you forgotten such a place exists?”

Nandini silently turned and walked away before he said something harsher and made her angry...or cry.

She’d not seen this rough side of him for a long time. The conversation had been an unpleasant  reminder of those days when he’d reduced her to tears every other day with his cutting tone and words.

Prithvi waited till she had disappeared from view, Then he sighed and bent his head, feeling guilty. He’d upset her for no fault of hers.

A white flower lying on the grass near the tree trunk caught his attention. He’d seen it being twirled in her hands.

He advanced a step and picked up the flower.

Looking at it thoughtfully, he strolled until he had reached the locked doors of the temple. He hesitated briefly, then moved ahead awkwardly and kept the flower on the threshold on the shrine...

***************************

Sumer Singh stared palely at the four photographs spread on the small table in the centre of the living room. Photographs of Adityaraj and Priyamvada. He had known in his heart that the horrible story behind his exemplary master’s second marriage was false. But he had never thought the truth would be so different and heart-wrenching.

He’d been taught since childhood to be Adityaraj’s shadow and to serve him diligently until his last breath. He should have fulfilled the pledge made by the men in his family since generations and helped Adityaraj in his battles. But he had gone off to pursue different goals. And as a result, he had ended up finding out the truth from outsiders. And there was the other shocker as well…Adityaraj had been friends with the Bharadwajs…

Their arrival in Shamli had not been a complete coincidence, but to find out that they were living next door to a family that knew the Rathods…

It was too much to grasp.

Sitting on the opposite couch, Prithvi studied the stunned middle-aged man kneading his temples. “Baba, I think you should go upstairs and rest for a while,” he advised gently.

Sumer Singh looked at him vacantly. He should have been showing that kind of concern for Prithvi. He was receiving it instead. Feeling terribly useless, he slowly rose to his feet and made his way out of the room towards the staircase.

“He lied.”

Prithvi glanced questioningly at the other casualty in the room. The rotund man sitting on the floor near his feet plainly hadn’t overcome his astonishment, but his excitement appeared to be rising steadily.

“Rajyavardhan Singh,” Sankatmochan elaborated elatedly. “He lied to you. Your mother couldn’t have written those terrible things in her letter. She couldn’t have blamed you for anything because her marriage had been a happy one!”

Prithvi leaned peacefully against the backrest, his arms linked behind his head.

“Maybe,” he murmured, reluctant to crush the nearly manic eagerness in Sankatmochan’s words. The cause of his mother’s grief had changed, not its depth…nor the circumstances of her death. But he could deal with those memories. The truth about his parents had been an unexpected and extraordinary gift. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

Content at the response, Sankatmochan relapsed into his ruminations. He was connected to the people in the story only through his friendship with Prithvi. He had only seen snaps of Adityaraj and his memories of Priyamvada were of a quiet and lifeless woman. But he was ecstatic for Prithvi...

He was likewise flabbergasted and thrilled by the friendship between Prithvi’s parents and the Bharadwajs. But then he’d seen many strange things in his life, and he believed countless spiritual forces were eternally at play in the universe. The old connections between the families just proved beyond doubt that Prithvi’s relationship with Nandini was preordained…the strings of their lives were knotted so securely that even the Gods wouldn’t be able to untie the bond…

He lifted himself slightly to pick a photograph from the centre table and settled back in his seat. He smiled at the picture of the dancing couple.

“Your father…. he was a great man,” he said admiringly, “A real hero. I’m feeling proud even though I’m not related to him. I can’t begin to imagine what you must be  -”

“Relieved.”

Bemused by the sincere but unemotional response, Sankatmochan looked at his friend. The unruffled approach was characteristic of Prithvi. And from the matter-of-fact tone in which Prithvi had narrated the story, he’d understood that his friend had heard the story with his mind, not his heart. Nevertheless...

“And proud?” Sankatmochan encouraged. 

“I respect the kind of person he was,” Prithvi granted slowly.

 “And I’m certain you must love him as well now,” Sankatmochan said gently.

Prithvi stared at his friend with mild amusement. “Mochi, I didn’t know the man.”

 “I know…but you'd hoped for so long to discover that the stories you had heard were wrong and that your father was innocent. You wanted to be able to – to look up to him and love him.”

“I wanted to find out that he deserved it,” Prithvi corrected him evenly. “And that ma was happy with him.”

“Yes, but -”

“Mochi, I don’t fret about people I’ve known for years,” Prithvi said dryly. “You seriously expect me to become emotional over someone I’ve never met?”

Sankatmochan chewed over the words. He had to admit there was a lot of sense in them, especially in light of Prithvi’s essential nature. His friend possessed an indifferent and intellectual core that usually tackled situations, people and emotions with the detachment of a born ascetic. And the only person in the universe who had the ability to cause devastation in Prithvi’s inner world was oblivious to the power she wielded. Even if Nandini did get an idea of her importance in his friend’s life, she wasn’t the kind to take advantage of that knowledge.

But she was a woman after all. Unpredictable and volatile. God save Prithvi if she ever decided to change the rules of the game...

*********************

Having finished his worship of the last small idol in the minor chambers, Sankatmochan walked towards the main sanctum. He could rest for half an hour now. As he rounded the edge, he spotted Nandini sitting in a corner of the shrine. She was concentrating on making a fresh flower garland, choosing blossoms from two small bamboo baskets in front of her. 

He had heard her speaking to her grandfather while he was at the back of the temple. He looked into the sanctum but Bhoothnath wasn’t inside. 

“Grandpa has just stepped for some work. He’ll be back soon.”

Sankatmochan turned to Nandini and returned her smile. Needing to rest his legs, he walked towards her and sat down on the floor at a respectable distance. He was also eager to discuss the startling stories he had heard in the morning. 

He started to speak, then held himself in check. Nandini had appeared cheerful from a distance, but up close she looked wan.  She wasn’t focussing on the garlands. Her mind was clearly far away. But though her fingers were moving mechanically and her manner of choosing the flowers seemed random, the garland being formed was radiant and exquisite … 

 “Mochi bhaiya, you haven’t told me that story yet,” she said suddenly.

“Which one?” Sankatmochan asked, puzzled.

“The story of how you and Prithvi became friends,” she reminded him.

“Oh that one….I’d intended to tell you long ago but it slipped my mind,” he lied. He’d not been sure at that time if he could share the tale as it would have exposed many aspects of Prithvi’s background that were unknown to her at the time. But her knowledge was bound to have increased after the meetings with Uday Singh Rathod and Rajyavardhan Singh.

“Could you tell me now?” Nandini requested tentatively.

“I will,” Sankatmochan smiled broadly, and with the flamboyant air of a storyteller, he said, “I’ll have to start with a bit of my own history. I was born in a poor family. My father was the priest in a small shrine in a remote village. We didn’t have a lot of money but we were happy.”

“Then during one monsoon, diseases swept through the village, and my parents succumbed. I was left an orphan at the age of eight,” he sighed. “The villagers were kind. They tried to look after me and families took turns to feed me. I would have been fine there but I was eager to explore the big world outside the village. So I ran off one morning with a caravan that was passing through our village. I travelled with them for a week and then I got bored and left them to travel on my own.”

“That was a dangerous thing to do!” Nandini exclaimed.

“Yes, dangerous and foolish. When hunger became unbearable, I stared begging and stealing to survive,” he said shamefully. “I wandered from one place to the other for a long time, learning the basics of many trades. One day, I reached a place that was famous for the thriving wildlife in its forests. I was tired of walking so I sat down to rest near a cobbler’s tiny shop on the outskirts of the hamlet.”

“At noon, the cobbler went back home for his lunch. He had not shut his shop properly. So I went inside to look for spare change. I didn’t find money. I was going to leave the place when a long procession of cars passed through that road,” Sankatmochan said, recalling his wonder on seeing the bevy of gorgeous cars passing through the dusty village.

“Big jeeps formed the rear of the convoy. The last jeep in line stopped in front of me. The men in the jeep were dressed in black clothes and maroon turbans,” he reminisced. “A small boy was sitting on the lap of the man in the passenger seat….”

**********************

The fair and round-cheeked boy in clean but threadbare clothes scampered from the man’s lap and jumped down from the vehicle. Bubbling with excitement, he examined the scenery. This was the first time he’d been allowed to accompany the family on this yearly trip.

The guard also disembarked in his wake. He caught the prince’s hand protectively and both walked up to the youngster in the shop.

Sankatmochan watched open mouthed as they approached, and then a large mojri landed in front of him. It had a tear in the sole.

“Repair it quickly,” the man ordered.

Sankatmochan quickly saw an opportunity to make money. It was a small hole and he knew the fundamentals of this trade. He could easily repair the shoe. He picked up the mojri and walked to the working seat.

As he hurriedly began mending the mojri using the tools left behind by the cobbler, the little boy came closer to observe him. Sankatmochan looked at the fellow who seemed to be about six or seven years old. There was a faded bruise on his right cheek.

“What’s your name?” the child asked.

“Sankatmochan,” he smiled apprehensively.

“My name is Prithvi,” the small boy grinned back.  

Feeling too timid to speak in front of the strange men, Sankatmochan redirected his attention to the mojri. It was repaired within minutes. He held it up to Prithvi.  But the man abused him badly and ran forward.

“How dare you try to hand that shoe to him, you *******!” the guard growled, snatching the shoe and dropping it to the ground.

Prithvi sharply said, “He doesn’t know anything. Don’t shout at him.”

The man instantly turned calm and bowed to Prithvi. “Yes, my lord,” he murmured. He inserted his foot into the mojri, then turned to Sankatmochan and handed him a one rupee coin.

“That’s too less. Give him one rupee more,” Prithvi insisted.

“As you wish, my lord,” the guard laughed and obediently gave Sankatmochan another rupee. He looked at Prithvi and warmly said, “When you become our king, I hope you shall be just as generous with us, my lord.”

“You don’t have to wait for that long. I’ll give you all the gold in the treasury after we reach home if you lock my grandfather in the dungeons,” Prithvi promised brightly.

The shop and the jeep rang with the laughter of the men.

“We’ll be the ones locked up if the king hears you,” the guard in the shop chuckled. He affectionately lifted the boy in his arms and carried him to the jeep.

Prithvi waved cheerfully at the big, scruffy boy who was staring blankly at him.

Sankatmochan came to his senses and waved back enthusiastically. 

**************************

Sankatmochan scuttled through the trees lining the enormous clearing to get an idea of the setting. But he had to keep stopping to gawk at the magnificent tents. He’d not seen tents of this size before. They were larger than most houses in the village, and their fabric was gleaming and thickly embroidered.

He had found out everything about the convoy from the villagers. King Rajyavardhan Singh and his family had arrived in the woods for a spot of hunting and recreation. It was apparently a regular event. A hunting lodge was always kept in readiness for the royal family. But the king enjoyed the ambience of the tents, which had been erected yesterday itself in preparation for their visit.

Sankatmochan was sure he would find items of value here and this was the best hour to make the attempt. It was lunch hour and the royal family members were sitting down for lunch at a big table in front of the largest tent. Sombre attendants were serving them solicitously. A man in a suit was standing behind the chair of the king. The child he had met earlier was nowhere to be seen.

Stern guards were on patrol but one large tent in a corner was relatively unprotected…

************************ 

“You stole from them?” Nandini asked warily.

“I couldn’t. I was caught,” Sankatmochan said glumly. “The guards dragged me to the place where Prithvi’s family was having lunch. There the king’s son, Harshavardhan, and grandson, Chinmay - ”

“He has another grandson?”

“Had. Chinmay was older than Prithvi. And he was a heartless bastard. Fortunately, he died in the same car accident that killed his parents.”

“Mochi bhaiya!” Nandini admonished.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sankatmochan squirmed. “So errr…yes, Chinmay….he and his father decided they wanted pre-lunch entertainment. Harshavardhan used a small branch and Chinmay borrowed his grandfather’s walking stick to hit me on my arms and back.”

Seeing the dismay on Nandini’s face, he chortled. “Don’t feel bad for me. I knew how to deal with the situation. After three or four blows, I pretended to faint. I heard Rajyavardhan asking the guards to tie me to a nearby tree and instructing that I must not be given food or water. I acted well for a few minutes, but then the delicious smells from the luncheon forced me to open my eyes. I saw them gorging on delicacies. I was very hungry. I asked for food but everyone ignored me…”

********************

A racket to the left attracted everyone’s attention. A small boy was scooting gleefully out of the woods, followed by two exhausted guards who were requesting him to stop.

Despite the pain and hunger, Sankatmochan felt curious about the child. The guard had treated him like royalty but he wasn’t dressed grandly like the people seated at the table. No one from the family was paying him any attention and he wasn’t asked to join them for lunch. Who was he…

Breathless and muddy, Prithvi chuckled while dodging the guards in his attempt to return to the forest, but then his gaze fell on the boy bound by ropes to the tree. He came to a jerky halt and his smile faded. Then with a new purpose, he ran towards Sankatmochan and halted in front of him.

Prithvi looked at the nearest palace guard.  “What did he do?”

“He tried to steal silverware from one of the tents, my lord,” the man answered in a low voice.

Prithvi stared disapprovingly at Sankatmochan. “It’s wrong to steal! Don’t you know God feels sad when children do bad things,” he scolded. “Why did you try to rob us?”

Sankatmochan fidgeted guiltily. He had thought he’d acquired a thick skin by now, but the innocence in the child’s direct gaze made him feel ashamed.  “I will not steal again,” he swore, “But please…give me some food. I’ll die of hunger otherwise.”

Anxious, Prithvi looked at the guard. “Go and ask the cook to bring food.”

“I can’t, my lord,” the guard apologised. “The king has forbidden us to give him food or water as punishment for his crime.”

Prithvi turned and looked angrily at the men stuffing their mouths. Then he noticed the cook standing outside the small tent at the furthermost end of the clearing. The rotund man was gesturing at him to come over and have his lunch. Prithvi answered the summons and walked off without looking at Sankatmochan.

Indifferently moving past the table laden with rich food items, Prithvi reached the cook and gladly took the plate containing two small rotis and a spicy potato curry. Then instead of going to the back of the tents to join the guards at their lunch, he spun and made his way back to Sankatmochan. 

Rajyavardhan Singh paused with a spoon near his lips as his grandson returned with food for the captured thief. He put down the silver item, swabbed at his mouth with a shiny white napkin and stood up, picking up the jewelled stick that was propped against the table.

The whole camp stopped breathing.

Harshavardhan increased his focus on food, but Chinmay gaped eagerly in anticipation.  

Manohar abandoned his post behind the king and rushed to block Prithvi’s way. He kept a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Don’t do it, my lord,” he murmured.

Prithvi shrugged off the hand and stepped around the bleak man. 

As he passed by the table, Rajyavardhan Singh piercingly said, “You will not give him food.”

Prithvi paused and looked at his grandfather. And to everyone’s shock, in a perfect imitation of Rajyavardhan’s rasping voice, he retorted, “You will not stop me.”

Some of the guards grinned discreetly, but most groaned and begged the prince in whispers to seek the king’s forgiveness.  Unmoved by the buzzing pleas in the air, Prithvi continued to walk towards Sankatmochan, who was feeling more and more bewildered by the sudden coldness in the attitude of the hitherto joyful child. 

Enraged, Rajyavardhan Singh strode ahead and hit Prithvi fiercely behind the knee with his sturdy cane. Prithvi stumbled and fell. The plate was thrown out of his hands. But it didn’t overturn, though one roti flew out and dropped on the ground.

Prithvi rose to his feet immediately. He walked to the roti and picked it up. His little fingers meticulously dusted it. Then he walked to the plate and placed the rescued roti separately in a corner. Lifting the plate, he covered the last few feet with the slightest limp.

“If he eats, you won’t,” Rajyavardhan warned furiously, trailing his grandson in high dudgeon.

Undaunted, Prithvi kept the plate in front of Sankatmochan and tugged forcefully at the ropes until Sankatmochan’s right hand could wriggle out. Then he pointed at a roti.

“This is the one that fell down. I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful,” he apologised while standing up.

Boiling at the disobedience, Rajyavardhan barked, “Manohar, tell the cook that he will not give Prithvi lunch again today.”

“Manohar, tell the cook that he must give all my meals to this boy till he is tied up here,” Prithvi sarcastically mimicked Rajyavardhan flawlessly once more, exploiting the condition the latter had laid just moments ago.

Rajyavardhan Singh slapped him hard.

 A drop of blood appeared at the corner of Prithvi’s mouth and seeped down his chin. He wiped off the trickle casually. “Not good enough. You’re getting old, Rajyavardhan,” he judged scornfully.

Frozen with disbelief, Rajyavardhan Singh stared at his grandson. He knew he should punish Prithvi for the insolence. But he felt immobilized by the firestorm in the boy’s eyes. He had seen it growing in the past year, but today especially, it made him feel as though he was foolishly damaging the most priceless weapon in his own arsenal.

Ill at ease, he looked away from the child’s unflinching gaze and strode to the opulent tent that had been readied for him.

Harshavardhan got up hurriedly from the table, and urged his reluctant son to exit the uncomfortable scene and head to the tents. As soon as the family had departed, worried servants and guards began hurrying to their adored prince.

Prithvi turned towards Sankatmochan again. Tears that had been vehemently held back in Rajyavardhan’s presence were now beginning to pool in his eyes.  Rubbing the moisture away, he muttered, “I’ll bring water for you.”

**********************

Sankatmochan hoarsely continued, “In the evening, one of the guards noticed my sacred thread. He informed Prithvi’s uncle. Harshavardhan interrogated me…asked about my background. He got terrified on discovering that I was the son of a priest. Must have been a superstitious fellow. He felt he had invited bad luck and misfortune by ill-treating me, and wanted to recompense,” he snorted.  

“So they took me along when they returned to the palace. And Prithvi soon became my best friend and my family. But he had already won my loyalty that noon in the camp,” he said quietly. “And that was just the first of the countless occasions when…” he paused and gulped hard. A painful silence ensued for several moments. Then he admitted, “If you asked me to put him on a pedestal and worship him, I would do it happily.”

He glanced at the doors on hearing footsteps. “Nandini, I think Bhoothnathji is coming!”  

Nandini quickly wiped the tears streaming down her face, but more drops of water spilled from her eyes. She shifted her position to hide her stricken features from her grandfather and picked up the half-finished garland from her lap. Her fingers automatically restarted their work on the flowers, while tears continued to scald her eyes…

************************

Sumer Singh opened the door and looked enquiringly at the stranger on Ayodhya’s doorstep. 

The man, who must have been in his mid forties, awkwardly said, “I’m Kedar Narayan. I don’t know if Prithvi has told you…”

Taken aback, Sumer Singh asked, “You’re the one who – today morning - you told him about his parents?”

Kedar acquiesced with a hesitant nod.

Sumer Singh joined his palms. “I can’t explain what you’ve done for this family. I’m forever in your debt,” he said soberly.

Embarrassed by the older man’s moist eyes, Kedar had just averted his eyes when a male voice from somewhere in the room suggested, “You can start repaying by letting him step inside the house.”

Remembering his manners with a discomfited laugh, Sumer Singh courteously invited, “Please come in.”

Kedar stepped into the living room. He’d not been inside Ayodhya for years. Its interiors had changed drastically for the better, he noticed in the first sweeping look.

“You were worried you’d miss the drama eh?”

Kedar turned at the ironic question.

Prithvi was sitting at the large dining table, looking relaxed. A bulky book and two journals were open in front of him, and a large notepad with scribbles across the page lay next to the tomes.

“You haven’t told the Bharadwajs yet?” Kedar asked eagerly. He’d been hoping against hope since morning that the children would have waited for him so that he could witness Bhoothnath’s expression when he learnt of the fascinating coincidence.

“No…we decided to let you enjoy your fifteen minutes,” Prithvi replied indifferently, returning to the books.

Kedar stared at the young man, undecided if he’d actually heard a note of genuine benevolence underneath the mockery, and simultaneously noting that nothing about Prithvi’s behaviour suggested that he’d uncovered a momentous truth in the morning.

And the ‘we’…it had been used offhandedly …wilfully…

Did Prithvi know of his suspicions? It would be surprising if the boy didn’t. That, in turn, Kedar realised, would mean the ‘we’ was Prithvi’s civil way of saying that his knowledge of and opinion on their relationship meant zilch. And he was probably also being advised kindly to forsake any plans to interfere in the matter.

Not that he had any such serious intentions to antagonise Aditya's son, Kedar thought as he turned to speak to the man who had opened the door. Even on the basis of their limited interactions, he was beginning to believe that only a death wish could provoke a sane person to make an enemy of Prithvi…

******************************