The Burning Lotus

2. The Price of Magic

Chittorgarh, Mewar

Ratan Singh allowed his eyes to rest on the prisoner in front of him. The court watched with bated breath, waiting for their king to pronounce the sentence. Raghav Chetan had been caught red handed and stood accused of practicing black magic.

The Rajput king was furious. The man had been a penniless musician when he had first seen him, wandering the empty market streets. Oh, yes, his tunes had been haunting, speaking to the king of beautiful things and magnificent places. If it had not been for his tunes, his bones would have probably been rotting in some obscure corner of the city.

In return, the man had chosen to spite him, spite the court with his accursed practices! Ratan Singh was a Rajput and refused to suffer such a slight to his honor. He had vouched for the man and his melodies. Now however, the evidence was strongly against him. A thousand curses plague him, in this life and all his lives to come!

Raghav Chetan knelt in front of his throne, his hands and legs clapped in irons. Two heavily armed guards flanked him and stared impassively ahead of them. The king’s mouth lifted slightly in wry smile. The man would suffer the same humiliation. He spoke, his voice reaching every last corner of the durbar.

“Raghav Chetan, you are accused of raising evil spirits. For this, your face shall be blackened and you shall be paraded through Chittor on a donkey.” He paused, to enjoy the look of fear and understanding that was slowly spreading across the prisoner’s face. Good, the man was beginning to understand just what the sentence entailed.  The prisoner opened his mouth to argue or plead for mercy or some such thing but Ratan Singh was far from done.

“You are hereby banished from my lands and if ever you are seen within its boundaries, it will mean your head.”

“My lord, I beg you, reconsider. I am innocent! Please, let me continue here! I shall sing the songs of heaven for you! I shall play harmonies no human has ever heard before! Sire, please, please let me go.”

All eyes turned in distaste towards the groveling prisoner who had turned into a blubbering mess on the floor. Curse him and his tongue of silver! The king could still remember. The morning was just giving way to the heat of the afternoon. Ratan Singh had been out riding around the fort. They were passing through the bazaar, on their way to the main keep, when the lilting raga had first fallen on his ears. The man had been dressed in an assortment of rags. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow with hunger. Yet the music he played seemed sweet enough to the king that it seemed possible to survive off the delicate notes.

A nod was all it had taken before the man had been brought before him. “I have never heard such music,” he had said. “How would you like to become part of my court?” The man’s eyes had lit up like diyas at dusk. The king had smiled. “I need to know your name first.” The ragged man had barely managed to croak out the words. “Raghav Chetan.”

A nod was all it took now for the soldiers to drag Raghav Chetan away. The man went kicking and screaming. He had none of the quiet dignity some of the other prisoners or the silent acceptance that a majority displayed. His chains rattled on the floor as the guards dragged him away and his curses echoed through the hall. The court watched in horrified fascination. “A thousand and one curses on you! On your house! On your sons and your wives! On your kingdom! By the spirits of the Underworld, I shall be avenged!”

Ratan Singh watched with a look of mild distaste on his face. He had learnt long ago that it was necessary to hide your emotions, letting the court see only what it wanted to see. He had become very good at it. Inside, he was uneasy. For the first time, Raghav Chetan seemed to be nothing more than a sly jackal, eating the scraps from the lion’s table. Ratan Singh sighed inwardly. He waited till the echoes of the last curse faded before turning his attention to other matters of state.

***

 Raghav Chetan stared sulkily at the cloud of dust that the soldiers’ fast disappearing horses had thrown up.  He had been bound and gagged and his face had been blackened with soot. They had paraded him through the streets on the back of a loudly braying donkey. The villagers had lined up along the path and jeered and taunted him. Some had thrown stones, some rotten vegetables. All the time he was left to fume in silence and vow to destroy the fort and all its inhabitants. The greatest insult had been when he had passed by the ladies’ palace. He could have sworn he heard feminine giggles as they laughed at his plight although none showed herself.

The soldiers had left him at the border. They had pushed him from the donkey’s back, his hands and feet tightly bound. He lay in front of those huge horses as helpless as a new born child. His eyes widened with fear when one of the soldiers had drawn his sword with a steely rasp. Were they going to kill him? The soldier had brought it down with deathly grace. It sliced through his bonds like an arrow slices through air.

Raghav Chetan allowed himself to relax a little. The soldiers burst into peals of laughter. Glancing down, he was embarrassed to find that he had soiled himself. Great, another insult to be added to the long list. As a final touch, the donkey had kicked him, its hooves bruising the flesh they touched. The soldiers had galloped away, taking the donkey with them. Apparently, he was not even worth as much as a donkey. He shouldn’t have been so surprised. They had taken away everything, including his instrument. All he had were the clothes on his back.

He spat in their direction. He had would have tried to bribe them, offer them unimaginable power, but the gag had tied tightly and he could only whimper or moan. For the first time in his life, his silver tongue had failed him.

He hauled himself to the nearest stream and did his best to ignore the pain. Maharana Ratan Singh would pay, as would Chittorgarh. First, however, he must wash off the signs of his shame.

The sun was touching the western horizon when Raghav Chetan turned towards Delhi, a bitter smile on his face.

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Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I’m always looking for feedback so please feel free to vote and comment!

Glossary:

Durbar: This means ‘court’. Durbar halls were often beautifully decorated and many artistes formed a part of it, including jesters, musicians, painters and dancers.

Raag: These are traditional melodies used in Hindustani or Carnatic (Indian Classical music). On the side, you'll find a video of one of the most famous raags, the Raag Megh Malhar or the Monsoon Melody, performed by Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia on the flute.

Bazaar: Market-place. Bazaars are present all over India even today although they are known by different names in different regions.

 Diyas: Lamps. Usually made of earthen ware, diyas can also be made of metal although these are not very common. They are usually filled with oil or clarified butter (ghee) and lit with a cotton wick.