The Burning Lotus

4. For the Want of Revenge

Delhi

Raghav Chetan had walked till his feet had bled. He had finally staggered into Delhi, barefoot and hungry. That afternoon, he had sung in the bazaar and a few kind souls had given him some bits of copper. It had just been enough to buy a meal of dry bread.

The next day, he had sung from morn to twilight, leaving his voice hoarse and sore. He had chosen a good place in front of the vegetable seller and coins had chinked into a bowl by his feet all day. Of course, his patrons didn’t know that the bowl had been stolen. His vocal cords were unaccustomed to such rigourous work and had throbbed dully throughout the night in protest. He had, however, managed to scrape together enough to eat a slightly better meal and still have a little money left over.

This became Raghav Chetan’s daily schedule. Sing from morning to evening, breaking only to drink a little water or eat a little food. His luck changed a few days later, when a passing nobleman had thrown him a piece of silver. Pooled together with what he had saved, there was just enough to buy a flute.

Playing his flute earned Raghav Chetan more money than singing had. It was still another week before he heard what he had been listening for.

“We need it now! Our master is hosting a deer hunt for the Sultan tomorrow and insists that we serve this. It’s the Sultan’s favourite dish. We need to feed a large hunting party as well and you refuse to give us more than this measly amount. What are we to do?”

The servants’ voices were loud enough to reach the other end of the bazaar. It was important that everyone knew that their master had managed to ask the Sultan to hunt with them.

“What do you mean there is no more available?”

Raghav Chetan was no longer listening. He had heard what he wanted. There was only one forest in which the Sultan preferred to hunt deer. He smiled slowly. His plan was slowly falling into place.

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Raghav Chetan chose the raag carefully. He finally decided on Raag Bhimpalasi. It would be late afternoon by the time the Sultan passed by on his way back to Delhi. He would be sore and tired after a long, hard day in the saddle, longing for his nice, soft bed. The notes should complement and enhance those feelings.

He settled under a large peepul tree and practised till late afternoon. Raghav Chetan was a great believer in the power of music. Musicians had been known to make rocks cry and clear days turn stormy in the blink of an eye. It had to be done properly. Whatever his other faults maybe, he was devoted to music and refused to allow anything to corrupt it.

The minute the flute touched his lips, Raghav Chetan forgot everything else. He played from memory, like all musicians did, following the complex notes with deceptive ease. His mind was blank except for the music. He poured every emotion he had into it, the anger, the hurt, the shame. The flute turned them into things of painful beauty and the forest was filled with resounding notes.

There was nothing but the silver voice of the flute, echoed by the trees, the birds, the wind, the stream. The ancient melody unwound itself with all the grace of an uncoiling serpent, trapping its listeners like a serpent’s eyes trap its prey. The notes rose to the heavens and permeated into hell, soothing all those who heard it.

Raghav Chetan lost himself in these ancient notes, allowing himself to float away into a trance from which he did not wake.

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Khilji was riding towards home and bed when the golden notes first fell on his ear. He was looking forward to dinner and the woman who would be warming his bed tonight. They had managed to down three deer, two does and a stag. Their carcasses lay across the haunches of the servants’ horses. There would be a good feast tonight.