Tamar flung himself as far as the chain allowed. The chandala stood looking at him. He was short and stocky, bandy-legged, with long, muscular arms, naked except for the dirty rags roped about his waist. His dark skin was further blackened by streaks and smudges. The tangled, greasy hair fell below his shoulders. The chandala studied him a few moments, then said: "So, you're here. Did they tell you why?"
Tamar did not answer. He was choking on his bile. The chandala was actually approaching him. Tamar heaved at the stake, trying to uproot it. Failing, he scuttled crablike out of reach. The chain limited the distance.
The man moved quickly upon him. Tamar glimpsed the knife in his hand. The chandala, with remarkable strength, easily threw him face down and set a foot on the small of his back. He bent and gripped Tamar's arms. The man had a ferocious stench about him.
"Lie still or I'll cut you." Tamar realized the chandala was slicing through the ropes tying his hands. As soon as he felt the bonds part, he began clawing at the dog collar.
"Leave off," the man ordered. "A waste of time. It's a good strong lock. I know. I have the key." Tamar stopped short. "Set me loose. They've gone. Who'll know? What difference can it make to-someone like you?"
"A big difference."
"You're going to kill me. Have done with it." The chandala laughed. It was a wheezing, rattling sound. "Do you take me for a fool?"
"What, then?" The chandala squatted down beside Tamar, who shrank back as the man thrust his face closer. "You don't know?" He peered at Tamar with bloodshot eyes. "They didn't tell you?" Tamar shook his head.
"Why, you've been given to me. Here you are, here you stay. You're mine. My property." The man gave a broken-toothed grin. "See the joke? A chandala owning a slave."
Tamar saw the joke. It was too horrible not to be seen. The ground lurched under him. He finally realized what Nahusha intended. He had to be reasonable or go mad. "No, no, this can't be. I'm a kshatriya. King of Sundari."
"You're in my kingdom now," the chandala said.
"There's been a terrible misunderstanding," Tamar pressed on. "I'm supposed to be killed. Please. I ask you. I beg you." Tamar could not believe his own words. A kshatriya was begging a chandala. "For the sake of mercy."
"I'll keep you alive. That's all the mercy I can afford. You'll work for me. Once you're settled in and see how things go, you'll have plenty to do. It's always busy, days after a battle."
The chandala stood up. The sun was beginning to set. Wisps of smoke from the burning ground merged with the gathering dusk. "The chain's long enough. You can sleep inside the doorway."
When Tamar said nothing, the man shrugged. "Suit yourself." He started toward the hut. "Oh-watch out for the pye-dogs. They come scavenging around this time. They don't much care if their pickings are alive or dead. Change your mind, the door's open."
He disappeared inside. Tamar sat, face in his hands. He had been touched by a chandala. Caste broken. Himself a chandala. This was not acceptable. Therefore, the immediate thing was to convince himself the chandala had not really touched him.
Given this urgent task, he set about rearranging his memory. He had not even been near the chandala. It had worked out in some other way. His caste was unbroken. That was a lie. He knew it. Even so, he had to bury the fact-if he could not erase it-somewhere deep inside his head and let it shrivel there, forgotten. He did not succeed.
The chandala came out of the hut. He set an earthen bowl in front of Tamar, who stared at the broken bits of food as if they were scorpions. The man waited a moment or two. Seeing Tamar had no intention of eating, he shrugged and went back inside, leaving the bowl on the ground.
The moon was up, stars clotted around it. Tamar sat motionless, telling himself over and over that he was not a chandala. From the tail of his eye, he glimpsed vague shapes, like smears of ashes, darting furtively.
A pye-dog, scenting the food, slunk up, tail between its legs. It was more a skeleton of a dog, ribs jutting from sunken flanks, fur spiky, with bald spots and open sores. It crept forward, belly scraping the ground.
The pye-dog stopped in front of Tamar. Its hackles went up. The creature bared its teeth: half snarling, half whimpering. Tamar still did not move. The pye-dog inched ahead, then halted again. When, at last, it understood there would be no quarrel over the food, it stuck its muzzle in the bowl and gulped down the contents, then drifted off like a puff of smoke.
From across the burning ground, they began to howl: first one pye-dog, then another, until the whole pack was in full cry, baying and wailing. Tamar clamped his hands to his ears. When the pye-dogs finally stopped, he still heard the howling.
27. The Chandala
Once, long ago, there was a tiger named Soma-Nandi; and there was a young king who climbed down into the pit where she had been trapped. Soma-Nandi was a big, powerful animal. With her sharp teeth and claws, she could have torn apart any hunter who came near. However, as she explained, the hunters knew this. So, they would merely stay away until she grew too weak to defend herself.
Also, somewhere in all this, there was a gopi called Mirri; but that was another, different story. He preferred concentrating his thoughts on the tiger. There was a point to be understood. After a couple of days, chained outside the hut, refusing to enter, Tamar at first believed he had grasped it.
Originally, the man had said he would put Tamar to work. He had not done so. Tamar was disappointed. He had reckoned otherwise. If the chandala made him work, he would have to unlock the collar; or, at least, the end of the chain attached to the stake and hold him like a dog on a leash. When that moment came, Tamar would rip the chain from the man's hands-always being careful not to touch him-possibly hit him with it, or whatever was needed to make him give up the key, and be gone.
Nothing simpler-until Tamar realized the chandala's cunning. Like the hunters with the tiger, the man was patiently waiting for Tamar to be broken by starvation.
One thing puzzled him: Why did the man keep putting out bowls of food? The man must know that everything he touched was polluted and Tamar would never eat it. He would have to change his plan a little.
Next time the man brought food, Tamar kicked the bowl away and upset it. The man picked up the morsels, dirt and all, and put them back in the bowl.
"I'm not wasting good victuals," the chandala told him.
"You want; you ask." After that, he brought no more.
Tamar was pleased. He gleefully calculated how he would cheat his captor, and Nahusha as well, by starving to death as soon as possible. He failed. Hunger did not defeat him. It was thirst.
The chandala left the hut each morning and came back late in the afternoon. That day, Tamar was stretched on the ground. His tongue felt as if it had been roasted, and his mouth full of sand. He would have been screaming in agony if his throat had not been parched shut.
As usual, the chandala stopped in passing to have a quick, appraising look at him. Tamar could barely raise his head. His tongue, which felt much too big for his mouth, lolled out between split and blackened lips.
"Drink?" said the chandala. Had there been any moisture in his eyes, Tamar would have wept with rage at his weakness. He gave a small nod.
The man had a flask slung over his shoulder. He unstoppered it, knelt, lifted Tamar's head, and carefully poured the tepid water into Tamar's mouth. Tamar drank every drop.
His caste was broken. There was no way he could lie to himself or pretend otherwise. He had drunk a elzandala's water from a chandala's hands. He had become a chandala. However, once his disgust and horror damped down a little, he realized there was an advantage. He had nothing more to lose.
His mind was still working. From then on, he ate every scrap and asked for more. His strength came back; he was actually feeling quite well. This was as it should be; because the next time the chandala brought his meal, Tamar set his new plan in motion.
He jumped up, seized the chandala by the neck, and began throttling him. The man stared at him with bulgi
ng eyes, his face turning blacker than it was. He made no attempt to break away.
"Key," Tamar said, between clenched teeth.
The elzandala made gurgling noises. He fumbled in his garment and brought out the key. "Unlock." Tamar loosened his grip enough to let the man breathe. "Then stand clear." The chandala obeyed. Collar and chain fell to the ground. He stepped away, rubbing his neck.
"Why didn't you just ask?"
"And you'd have given it?" retorted Tamar. "Of course. I'm sure you would. Out of my way."
"You'd have figured some trick, sooner or later," the man said. "You might even have killed me. So, avoid inconvenience. You've killed me anyway.
"You really don't understand, do you?" he went on, as Tamar hesitated. "Nahusha put you on a chain. He put me on one, as well. That's something else they didn't explain to you.
"If you, my lad, escape-they'll kill me. They'll look in from time to time to make sure you're here. If you're not, they'll have my life for it. They were clear and detailed along the lines of torture, too. Nahusha can be imaginative when it comes to torture. I'd die, at the end; but it would take a good while."
"You're lying." Tamar knew the man was telling the truth.
"Why should I? It's not your concern, in any case. Go."
"Do you think I won't? You'll do the same, if you have any sense." The chandala shook his head. "I've got my work. Has to be done. It's important."
"To you, not to me. Don't hang your life on mine."
"I don't. Nahusha did that. You stay, I live. That's all there is to it."
"I owe you nothing."
"Did I ask?"
Tamar had begun pacing, agitated. The chandala Watched, neither pleading nor threatening, saying nothing. Tamar wished the man would attack him, try to force the chain on him again. It would give him excellent reason to fight him to the death. Whose? He knew the man's strength; it had surprised him how easily he had surrendered the key. The chandala could likely break him in half without too much effort. That, at least, would settle it. The chandala waited, arms folded. The man even looked sorry for him. Tamar hated him for that.
"What will you do?" the chandala said at last. "Go or stay? Make up your mind. I'm getting hungry."
It had never occurred to him that a chandala might be hungry. It also occurred to Tamar that he was hungry likewise. "I warn you," he said, "I make no promise. If I leave, I leave. What you do about it is up to you."
"Fair enough." The chandala jerked a thumb toward the hut.
"Go in. Eat." The pye-dogs howling kept him awake. Worse, after he stretched out on the thin mat the chandala gave him, he was terrified of closing his eyes. The nightmare came to him: The man would put the collar on him while he slept. He thought of getting up and running as fast as he could wherever, anywhere. Let the chandala look after himself. Tamar had warned him. The howling of the pye-dogs turned into the screams of someone being tortured.
Tamar sat bolt upright, sweating. The chandala was snoring peacefully in a corner of the hut. Tamar's thoughts went around in circles. Nahusha had put him on a chain. The chandala had put him on a heavier one. He told himself this was not true. He could escape whenever he pleased.
He sank back on the mat as exhaustion washed over him. Tomorrow. He would go tomorrow, while the chandala was out of the hut. For some reason, he could not bear the idea of leaving while the man watched him do it.
He did not leave the next day. The chandala had plans: "Get moving. There's work to do. I told you I could use some help." Tamar had not expected to be quite so horrified; or, at least, to show it.
"What, afraid?" The chandala cocked an eye at him. "You were a kshatriya. Killing's a kshatriya's trade, isn't it? A potter makes pots, a warrior makes corpses. Who should fear their own handiwork?"
"I'm not afraid."
"No?" The chandala snorted. "I can see it in your face. You're sick with it, enough to drive you mad. Well, that's what Nahusha wants. He counted on that. You couldn't stand it. He was right. You'd best get out of here."
"He was wrong. I'll go with you."
Behind the hut was a stack of kindling wood. He and the chandala loaded a cart with it. The man tossed in some buckets, then, like a horse, set himself between the shafts. He motioned for Tamar to join him. Together, they hauled the cart across the barren ground toward the river. The bandy-legged man plodded on, back bent against the burden.
It was all Tamar could do to pull his share of the weight. He had begun breathing hard. He was gasping by the time they came in sight of the river. It was not the effort of heaving at the shaft. The reek of the place was choking him.
The chandala halted. There were some shapes lying on the ground. They looked like bundles of sticks wrapped in rags. The chandala unloaded the kindling.
"They bring them in wagons from the city," he said. "It was busy days after the battle. I've taken care of all that. These are just your ordinary paupers, starvelings, beggars. The usual.
"Set up a pile of kindling. Careful how you do it. Don't waste wood. I'll show you how. Fetch water. They have to be washed."
Tamar turned away. He put his hands to his mouth. He could carry water; he could manage to deal with building a fire. The rest-his stomach heaved. "Not touch them," he whispered. "I can't."
"That's right. You can't. Because I won't let you." The chandala rounded on him. "How dare you think I would? They've had no kindness, no respect: nothing, nothing, all their lives. I'll give that to them now, at least. You? Even lay a finger on them? They disgust you. They sicken you. You loathe them-as much as they were loathed when they were still alive. You're filled with horror; you can't bear to face them. Ah, my lad, they deserve better than you. Get away from them. Let me do my work."
Despite himself, Tamar shrank back. He had never supposed the truth could shame him. The chandala's anger passed. The man was looking at him with an infinite pity such as Tamar had never seen. "Empty your heart," the chandala said quietly. "No disgust. No fear. Only love for them. Do that, you might earn the privilege."
For the next few mornings, he went with the chandala to the burning ground. He had not noticed, until now, the small bunches of faded flowers or sticks of incense that had been left there.
"Why not?" the man answered, when Tamar questioned him. "Do you think a beggar is mourned any less than a kshatriya? What caste is grief? Here, my lad, these folk are equal to a maharajah. All end the same."
"If the same at the end," Tamar said, "why should there be caste at the beginning? What does it matter?"
"You tell me," said the chandala.
The man still kept him at a distance and gave him only small tasks: fetching water, unloading wood. To Tamar's surprise, the reek that hung over the shmashana had vanished as well as the horror that first overwhelmed him. Watching the chandala's gentleness and humility at his work, he remembered the man telling him, "They deserve better than you." He wondered, now, if he better deserved them. Finally, he asked the chandala if he might help. The man looked him up and down. Tamar waited.
"Since you ask," the chandala said. He nodded briefly and pointed to a small figure. "Try."
As it was only a newborn child, it was easily done and took hardly any time at all. Even so, he felt greatly blessed.
That evening, as they sat in the darkening hut, for the first time Tamar could bring himself to speak his heart. In one burst, he told of his dream and journey, his love for Mirri, his dear acharya, his companions lost. For the first time, as well, he could grieve for Ashwara and dare to remember his look of joy at the end.
"He was the best of kings, a king as I'd have wished to be," Tamar said. "Dead. Slain by a traitor. An evil man still lives. Adi-Kavi would have told me that's the way of the world."
"One of its ways." The chandala set down his bowl of food. "There are others."
"Not for me. My way leads to Nahusha. I want his death."
"How will that serve you? Ashwara fought for justice, not revenge. Will you be less than he w
as?"
"I'm already less. A chandala. Do you say I should even give up vengeance? No. I eat it. It keeps me strong. Better than meat and drink."
"Beware how much you eat, then. It will poison you."
"Let it."
"If that suits your taste." The chandala shrugged. "Only tell me: How are you different from Nahusha?"
Tamar did not answer. He stretched out on the mat and went to sleep. The pye-dogs had started baying. He did not hear them.
Next morning, at the edge of the shmashana, Tamar sighted a figure stumbling over the barren ground. He dropped his load of kindling. Rajaswami, arms outstretched, was hobbling as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.
"Acharya!" Heart leaping, Tamar ran toward him, then stopped short. He stepped back and raised his hands. "Acharya no, no, keep away. You'll break your caste. I'm a chandala."
"My dear boy. Oh, my dear boy." Rajaswami did not halt but, against all warnings, flung his arms around Tamar. He looked aged even beyond his years, his face gray and haggard. "It doesn't matter. Let it break." Tears streamed down the acharya's cheeks. "It makes no difference. I'm with you again."
Two soldiers were trundling a handcart behind the acharya. They drew up and, between them, hauled out a shrouded figure. They roughly threw it to the ground, turned, and left the shmashana in all haste. The chandala went to see what they had brought.
"Stay calm, dear boy," pleaded Rajaswami. "Listen to me." Tamar broke from his embrace. The figure's wrappings had fallen away. It was Mirri.
28. A Life Thread Broken
The Sold he soldiers had halted by the roadside at the far edge of the burning ground. They stood idly watching. The chandala had started toward the shrouded figure. Tamar seized him by the shoulders and pitched him aside so violently, the man lost his footing. Rajaswami was plucking at Tamar's sleeve, stammering something. Tamar struck away the acharya's hand.