"And you," Tamar said to Mirri, "of course, you have your eye on some strapping village lad, and your mind already made up."
"No. I'll take no part in it."
"Why not? You'll break the heart of some adoring, hopeful cowherd." "Because I care to make no choice."
"I've never seen such a festival. I'd like to be on hand for the happy occasion."
Mirri looked away and did not answer. Tamar went on:
"First, I need to find my companion. We were separated, I don't know what's become of him, and he knows nothing of what's become of me."
During this, he had been anxiously glancing up and down the riverbank. As best he could reckon, the current had borne him downstream. He would have to retrace his steps to where he had left Rajaswami and Hashkat. He shuddered at the thought of the acharya on his own in the wilds with only a monkey-and a feckless one, at that.
When he asked Mirri if he might borrow some better clothing and a pair of sandals, she nodded, tight-lipped, and gestured toward the nearby village. With the gopis trailing behind, chattering among themselves, he followed Mirri to a cluster of flat-roofed, open fronted buildings. A handful of youngsters was sweeping and sprinkling the market square to keep down the dust; banners had already been hoisted on long poles, with garlands slung between. Beyond lay cattle pens and fenced pastures of sweet grass.
Mirri led him across the veranda of the largest house and into a cool, shaded common room. The thickset man who came to greet them, his bronze skin darkened still more by sun and wind, was Nanda, the village chief He had, as Mirri explained, adopted her when her parents died. His wife, Yashoda, a gray-haired, vigorous woman in a neatly wrapped sari, hurried to offer a tray of fruit, then spoke apart with Mirri.
As Tamar sat on a bench at the wooden table, the two women disappeared, while Nanda eased into a place beside him and eyed the unexpected guest with curiosity. Unwilling to break hospitality by too closely questioning Tamar's business, Nanda took the countryman's way of sniffing around the edges of the subject. Tamar, however, told only of encountering the maidens on his way to the Sabla.
"Well, you're on the right path," Nanda said, "though you've a good long ways to go. This river here is the Kurma. Just you follow it upstream. You'll find where it branches from the Sabla.
"As for our village girls, pay no heed to their antics. Before the Choosing, they all go light-headed."
"Not all," replied Tamar. "There's one who tells me she won take part."
"Mirri. Yes." Nanda sighed. "It's time for her to wed, and expected of her. And there's not a lad who wouldn't be overjoyed if she chose him. Even if I put my foot down and insisted eh, she'd still do as she pleases. We love her as dearly as if she'd been born to us, but she's willful, with a mind of her own. Always was. A real marvel with our animals, though. The cows even give better when she's the one to milk them, as if they know what she wants and are happy to oblige.
"No, I'll not force her to marry. Even when she was tiny, there were times when she seemed to be waiting, looking for something no one else could see. So, best leave her to decide matters for herself.
"You, now." He cocked an eye at Tamar. "You re high-caste sort of fellow, plain as day to see, and a good many cuts above us folk here. You'd not be much interested in our doings, would you?"
Before Tamar could answer, Yashoda came with sandals, tunic, and cowherd's leggings. Tamar went to a corner of the room and put on the coarse garments. Through the open back door, he caught sight of Mirri by the pasture fence, where a white cow nuzzled her hand. He stepped outside and went to her.
She started as he drew closer, then said, "You're better dressed than you were, but no one would mistake you for a cowherd. I thought you'd go looking for your friend."
"I will. I wanted to thank you. I hope I didn't interrupt your conversation."
"With Surabi? I've named her after the magical cow in the old tales, the one who could grant any wish."
"So you were wishing? What for?"
"If I could wish." Mirri hesitated, then turned her eyes full on Tamar "I might wish you'd never come here." Tamar bridled. "I hadn't planned on it. What does it matter to you, in any case?"
"Because you've set my life topsyturvy. I was happily going about my business-until you came. I hadn't expected someone popping out of a river. My heart was my own, before that. As I wanted it to be."
"And now?"
"I don't know. It's all changed. I don't know what to do about you. I don't even know who you are."
"I told you all that was needed."
"You told me nothing." She seized his hand as Tamar reached out to her. "What are these?" She touched the thin white scars deeply bitten into his wrist. "The marks of a bowstring. Warrior's marks?"
"And if they are?" He broke off. Yashoda was calling him. Mirri turned away. Tamar hurried into the house. From the veranda Yashoda beckoned urgently, saying that someone had come asking for him.
There was great excitement in the square. Nanda and a crowd of villagers had gathered to admire the pair of fine horses and to murmur over the splendid quality of the sword, bow, and quiver tied to Gayatri's saddle pack.
"Rajaswami!" Tamar pressed through the circle of onlookers to embrace the old acharya.
"Ah, here you are, safe and sound." Rajaswami's face lit up at the sight of Tamar. "Excellent. And what a pleasant little spot for a rest. My bunions need some consolation after scrambling along that riverbank."
"How did you find me?" Tamar, much relieved, drew him apart. "Where's Hashkat? His life is spared. He'll be glad to know."
"I'm sure he would be, if he'd waited to find out. But, you see, he ran off."
"Broke his word? Wretch! He promised, he swore."
"Don't think too harshly of him," said Rajaswami. "A monkey's dharma no doubt encourages that sort of behavior. Otherwise, he was most helpful. He went up and down the river, watching for you. When he saw you come out, he ran back to tell me. So, here I am. And you, my boy, where did you get those clothes? They have a distinct odor of cow."
Yashoda, meantime, had come to welcome this second visitor. Tamar signaled Rajaswami to say nothing of their quest. Yashoda, in any case, asked no explanation and invited the grateful acharya to wash and tidy himself She ordered some of the village youngsters to fetch buckets of water; and, in a quiet corner behind the house, Rajaswami scrubbed away the dust and grime while Tamar replaced the cowherd's garments with his own buckskins.
As the acharya wrung water from his beard and soaked his tender toes, Tamar quickly told him of Shesha, Nanda Raja, and the gift of the ruby; and finally, of the gopis and his meeting with Mirri.
"Ah-yes, one thing more," Tamar admitted after some hesitation. "You see, what's happened acharya, I'm in love with her."
Instead of showing surprise or disapproval, Rajaswami only smiled cheerfully and shook his head. "Oh, my boy, I doubt that very much. You may believe so at the moment you're a young man, after all. But, no. Let me point this out:"
What seems to be love beyond any question Is usually a case of simple indigestion.
"I'm quite sure she's a perfectly splendid young lady," Rajaswami went on, "but I needn't remind you there's a question of caste. Plainly put, you're of the nobility, whereas, dear boy, she's a shudra, the lowest caste of all except, of course, for the chandalas, so low they count as nothing whatever.
"That in itself presents a serious difficulty," he warned. "Even apart from the difference in caste, you're hardly in proper circumstances for affairs of the heart. But, cheer up. By tomorrow, when we're on our way again, it will all be forgotten."
"No, it won't-" Tamar began.
Yashoda was calling them for the evening meal. Rajaswami eagerly took a place at table beside Nanda. Tamar, without appetite, barely touched the food that Mirri silently brought. The girl, in fact, never spoke or looked at him, but stayed with Yashoda, talking in whispers.
Only after all had eaten, and Yashoda was laying down mats for the visitors t
o sleep on the veranda, did Mirri step forward. She stood a moment, gave Tamar a quick glance, then turned to Nanda.
"I've changed my mind," she said, as if in challenge. "Tomorrow, I'll take part in the Choosing."
7. Thorns
Rajaswami had been too well fed to be very much awake. Tamar was too happy to sleep at all. Sitting cross-legged on the dark veranda while the acharya drowsed, he kept up a long, one sided conversation, going over every word he and Mirri had exchanged as if he were admiring precious jewels.
"She'll be at the Choosing," he said, for the third or fourth time. "You know what that means."
Rajaswami opened one eye. "It means, as you've already told me, she'll choose her future husband. As will the other village girls. It should be an enjoyable rustic festival. We might spare a few moments to observe it from a distance."
"What distance? Acharya, she's going to choose me; I'm sure she will."
"Or is that what you want to believe?" Rajaswami, yawning, sat up. "I've only been half asleep, so I heard half of what you told me the first time, and the other half the second time. And didn't you say she wished you hadn't come here? That you'd upset everything?
"Besides, dear boy, you can't take part. You? No, no, out of the question."
"Why not? These games, running, wrestling, archery how can I lose? Against cowherds? I'm a warrior, with better skill than any."
"That's precisely why you must stay out of it. You, a trained warrior, a king, set yourself against village lads? Absolutely improper! By the warrior's code, you may never challenge a lesser opponent. To do otherwise would be dishonor past mending.
"As for marriage between high caste and low," continued Rajaswami, "that could possibly be overlooked in a special case. But, my boy, the young lady may well choose some village youth merely to keep her life from being turned upside down by an unknown wanderer. And your own life? It is yours no longer. You pledged it to King Jaya if he exists. You have no business giving your heart to anyone, let alone accepting Mirri's, even if she offers it."
"Acharya, do you tell me I have no right to love?"
"Ah, my boy, at your age grand passions come and go. There's always another. It may sting and smart at the moment, and you have my sympathy; but, keep looking on the bright side.
"Apart from that," Rajaswami added, "you have all your journey ahead of you. The promise you made."
"But if it was only a dream? Acharya, what do you expect of me?"
"The proper question is: What do you expect of yourself? Will you break your dharma? My heart aches for you, whatever you decide; but it's altogether up to you."
Tamar stood and leaned over the veranda railing. The little square was empty in the moonlight. By morning, he well imagined, it would be alive with eager suitors, gopis and their wreaths of flowers, Mirri among them. He clenched his hand so tightly that the iron ring bit into the flesh of his palm.
"Come, acharya," he said at last, in a flat voice. "I'll fetch the horses."
"Now?" Rajaswami frowned. "Leave in the middle of the night, without a word of thanks for hospitality? A farewell to the young lady?"
"Don't ask me to do more than I can bear. Get your things ready."
Gayatri whickered fondly as Tamar patted her neck and swung astride. With Rajaswami trotting behind him, they rode silently across the square and toward the river. Only once did Tamar allow himself to look back. By then, the village was lost to sight.
"Majesty!"
Tamar reined up. In the pink traces of dawn, he glimpsed a long-tailed, slope-shouldered figure scuttling from the bushes. As Tamar dismounted, Hashkat, in a bowlegged, lurching gait, came to a halt in front of him.
"Forgive me." Hashkat wrinkled his brow and pressed his palms together. "It's not my fault."
"Forgive you for what?" Tamar eyed the monkey severely. "For being dishonorable? For breaking your word to me? For running off when I told you to wait? Or whatever else? You've been pardoned by the Naga Raja himself Why ask forgiveness?"
"Well, I don't. Not really, not for any of that," Hashkat replied, with no sign of being any way ashamed of himself "Considering the possibility of being gobbled up and digested by some ill-tempered reptile, I did what any decent, right-thinking monkey would have done: left the premises immediately. Among us Bandar-loka, one of the highest virtues is: Don't get eaten."
"I rather suspected that was the case," said Rajaswami. "My boy, you can't blame him for adhering to his principles."
"I only ask forgiveness for not joining you sooner," said Hashkat. "I gather you won the wrestling match and I simply wanted to thank you. I may be a monkey, but I'm not an ingrate. I saw you go into the village. I didn't dare follow. I'm too well known. I couldn't risk it."
"Of course not. An upcountry little village of cowherds and farmers is surely a dangerous place."
"For me it is," said Hashkat. "Oh, I used to venture in from time to time, lurking about here and there. Once, when the gopis were bathing in the river," at this, Hashkat gave a toothy grin, wagged his head, and chuckled gleefully "I crept up and stole away their clothes. They came after me like a swarm of hornets, but I was too quick for them. They spent the day plucking their saris off tree limbs. I can't say that endeared me to them."
"Naturally," he went on, "I'd sometimes pop into one house or another and make off with a nice lump of butter or some tasty victuals."
"You're a thief on top of everything else?" Tamar exclaimed. "A shameless robber?"
"Of course. Completely shameless," agreed Hashkat. "You have to understand. That's what we monkeys do. Our business, so to speak, is-monkey business. What else? But now, in any case, I won't set foot in the village. One night, you see, I was a bit thirsty and sneaked into a cowshed. One of the gopis caught me milking her cow."
'Milk do you want? she cried. 'Milk you'll have! So she poured it all over my head. And swore if I ever came back she'd tie so many knots in my tail I'd never unravel them.
"That was warning enough." Hashkat protectively curled his tail around him. "She'd have done it, for sure. A handsome, buxom gopi, but a tiger when she's roused. 'I'm king of the monkeys, I tell her. 'Then here's your crown, says she, and bangs the bucket down on my head-it took me half an hour to pull it off No, I won't risk crossing that one's path again.
"So, I waited until you left the village. But, indeed, I'm in your debt. You wrestled that overweening angleworm for my sake. You saved my life-a small matter to a king like you, but of intense personal interest to me. Another essential rule in a monkey's dharma: Stay alive."
Rajaswami, meantime, had been clearing his throat and making hungry noises. Tamar, without much interest, lit a cook fire and laid out a meal from the saddle packs. Food being the furthest thing from Tamar's mind, Hashkat helpfully downed his benefactor's portion, smacking his lips, sucking his long fingers, and scooping up any leftovers.
"Now," said Hashkat, leaning back on his haunches, "I've told you I'm searching for little Akka, a promising young fellow, I hope he's come to no harm-dare I ask what brings you from Sundari?"
"I should think His Majesty's purposes are no concern of yours," said Rajaswami.
"Of course, they aren't," said Hashkat. "But that's another rule among the Bandar-loka: If it's none of your business, be sure to stick your nose in it."
Tamar's heart still weighed so heavily that he was glad to unburden it even to a monkey, and he explained the circumstances that had set him on his journey.
"You obey a stern dharma," Hashkat remarked, when Tamar finished. "Very noble, honorable, commendable, and all that. I admire and revere you for it, but-well, it's just not my style."
"You follow your own rules," said Tamar. "A monkey would hardly understand a warrior's code of honor."
"Oh, but I do," protested Hashkat. "I used to have one. I was born into the warrior caste."
"What?" exclaimed Tamar. "What are you telling us? A monkey-and a kshatriya? Impossible!"
"Majesty, it's true," Hashkat insisted
. "You see, I wasn't always a monkey. I was born a human being of noble family in the kingdom of Muktara. I confess I never took to being a warrior, to the disappointment of my parents. They chided me for being idle and frivolous, which I certainly was. When my classmates were diligently studying matters of dharma, or exercising with weapons, I preferred swimming in the river or climbing trees in the forest.
"When I was grown, they expected me to go off shooting arrows and chucking spears every time the king squabbled with his neighbors. The more I thought about that, the more I wondered: Why should I do harm to total strangers? And, for that matter, why should total strangers do harm to me? So I quit the warrior trade and took to the road, free as the breeze, living by my wits. Ignoble cowardice, according to the code of honor; to me, plain common sense."
"That tells us nothing about your being a monkey," said Tamar. "I'm coming to it," said Hashkat. "Yes, well, I was walking along the road one afternoon and there's a brahmana sound asleep under a tree. This old geezer had the longest beard I'd ever seen. I couldn't resist. I took the end of his beard and tied it around his ankles. Then I tickled his nose with a blade of grass until he woke, scrambled up the tree as fast as I could, and sat on a limb to watch the fun.
"Oh, you should have seen him stumbling, tripping over his feet, getting himself knotted worse than ever. I laughed so hard I nearly fell out of the tree. When he finally untangled his beard, he shook his fist at me, calling me a disrespectful, impudent ne'er-do-well."
"Make sport of a brahmana? he cries, his eyes like a pair of hot coals. 'Come down immediately, you wretch, and accept the punishment you deserve."
"I don't think so, I say, safe on my perch. If you mean to punish me, you'll have to catch me first."
"Insolent rogue," the old coot says, pointing a skinny finger at me, "you'll get your comeuppance no matter how high you climb. Hear me well:"