Victory City(91)
And every day Pampa Kampana tried to write. Tirumalamba Devi saw how hard it was for her, in spite of the skill of her hand. Finally she spoke up. “What I see,” she told Pampa Kampana, “is that because of your eyes, your hand moves very slowly, much more slowly than your mind, and that is hard for you. You can actually compose with great rapidity, isn’t it, but you can’t set it down fast enough, and the enforced slowness must be very frustrating, yes?”
Pampa Kampana made a small movement of the head, meaning to say, perhaps, but I have no other choice.
Tirumalamba Devi found the courage to make a bold suggestion. “When immortal Vyasa was composing the Mahabharata, he also did so at a very fast pace, no?” she asked. “But Lord Ganesh, who was taking the dictation, could keep up with him, no? Even when his pen broke, he broke off one of his elephant tusks and wrote with that. Isn’t it? For this reason we also call him Ekdanta, Ganesh One Tooth.”
“I am not Vyasa,” Pampa Kampana said, and a rare smile spread across her face. “And you still have all your teeth, I’m sure, and I also know that your ears are not so big.”
“But I can write as fast as you can recite,” Tirumalamba Devi said with shining eyes. “And if my pen breaks, I’ll do whatever it takes to go on without stopping.”
Pampa Kampana considered this.
“Can you dance?” she asked. “Because Lord Ganesh is a fantastic dancer. Can you ride on a rat? Will you wrap a serpent around your neck like a scarf, or around your waist like a belt?” Now her smile was very wide.
“If that’s what it takes,” Tirumalamba Devi said firmly, “then I will learn.”
* * *
—
Achyuta Deva Raya entered the Lotus Palace looking for someone to kill. He was a swarthy man in his fifties, thick-bearded, gap-toothed, pot-bellied, angry as only a man obliged by his detention in a remote place to suffer the attentions of country dentists can be. He was dressed as if for combat, in a leather jerkin over a chain-mail vest, well-worn boots on his feet, a sword at his waist and a shield on his back. His companions were a disorganized band of drinking ruffians that had provided his only social life in Chandragiri, and behind them came his official royal escort, a band of women warriors from the palace guard whose expressions bore witness to their anger at the lascivious approaches made by the king’s friends on the road, the king’s own inappropriate behavior, and their professional embarrassment at the brutish bad manners of the new monarch whom they were obliged to bring into the room of the Lion (or Diamond) Throne.
Waiting to greet him was what remained of the royal family: Krishnadevaraya’s senior queen Tirumala Devi and her mother Nagala Devi, Princess Tirumalamba Devi, and her husband Aliya Rama, whose decision to style himself as Aliya Rama Raya, while technically justifiable because of his marriage to Krishnadevaraya’s only surviving child, was certain to be seen by Achyuta as a red rag, inflammatory, even a declaration of war. “When a man has been exiled as long as I have,” Achyuta said, “he returns looking for revenge. The one responsible for my ruined life—my noble brother—is no longer here to face my wrath. But, in his absence, you people will do.”
“Twenty years is a long time,” Aliya replied, “and we can see that your banishment has not been kind either to your appearance or to your character. However, welcome, Uncle—I use the term of respect even though I am your senior by several years. Bisnaga is yours, as the late king decreed, and be assured that nobody here will consider rebellion against his will. But you should know that the people of the palace—the city’s aristocrats, its ministers and civil servants, and these formidable women of the guard—are loyal to the empire itself, not only to the occupant of the throne. They are loyal to those who have treated them well during the twenty years of your absence. Let me put it to you more plainly. They love the late king’s daughter, his only living child. And I am her chosen husband. So they are loyal, also, to me. The people outside the gates are the same. It is Bisnaga they love, and the king is the servant of their beloved, and must never betray it. Therefore be careful how you act, or your reign may be brief.”
“In addition,” Tirumala Devi said, “my father King Veera of Srirangapatna, my mother’s husband, guardian of your southern border, is watching closely, and should he be displeased, it would not go well for you.”
Achyuta turned to Princess Tirumalamba Devi. “And you, young lady, what do you say? Do you have some threats for me too?”
“My closest friend and second mother, the lady Pampa Kampana, sees everything through blinded eyes,” she answered. “So, learning from her example, I will say everything through closed lips.”
Achyuta scratched the back of his neck. Then his hand strayed to his sword and he grabbed the hilt, released it, grabbed it again, released it again. Then he scratched the top of his head with his right hand, ruffled his thick, unkempt, and graying hair, and furrowed his brow; while his left hand reached into his right armpit, like a man hunting for fleas. Then he shook his head, as if in disbelief. He looked over to his drinking buddies with an expression that said, Well, you’re not much use, are you. Then all of a sudden he burst into loud laughter and clapped his hands. “Family life, eh?” he cried. “You can’t beat it. It’s good to be home. And so, let’s eat.”