King Lavana’s One Night

King Lavana’s One Night

A magician walked into the court leading a black horse. The king climbed into the saddle, and in a single night he lived a hundred years. What he went looking for afterward changed everything.

Vasishtha drew a small breath. From the babul tree beside them a leaf broke free and fell to the water, floated a moment, then drifted away.

“Rama, this question is as deep as it is simple. The answer to it lives in a story. There was once a king who lived a hundred years in a single night. And when he woke, it took him years to work out what was true. Listen to his story. Then we will come back to your question.”

Rama settled down, resting one hand to the side. The river ran slow.

“In the northern land of the Pandavas,” Vasishtha began, “there was a king, and his name was Lavana. Lavana came from the line of Harishchandra, a king of the solar dynasty. Mountains stood along the borders of his kingdom, a river ran through its middle, and in his capital there was a court whose lattice screens caught the afternoon light so finely that even travelers from far away fell quiet for a while when they saw it.”

The magician

Nothing of note was happening in Lavana’s court that day. The afternoon watch was sinking toward evening. The ministers sat with their manuscripts open, the treasurer was reading out some accounts, the general had just delivered a message from the border, and Lavana leaned forward a little on his throne to listen. One hand on a sandalwood mace, the other on his knee. His age was drifting toward the middle years. The hair at his temples had gone lightly white. In his eyes was the weariness that belongs to a king who has seen a great deal and is no longer easily surprised.

Silver lamps burned far down the length of the hall. It was daylight outside, yet the light filtering through the lattice was not enough on its own. A faint breeze came through the high windows and stirred the flames of the lamps now and then. The pigeons outside could be heard from very far away. The minister was speaking of some matter of irrigation.

Just then the doorkeeper stepped forward. There was a slight hesitation in his voice.

“Maharaj, a man has come into the court without announcement. He says he has something to show you.”

Lavana lifted his head slowly. The minister stopped. The general put a hand on the hilt of his sword, only out of habit.

“Let him in,” Lavana said.
The doors opened. An old man came inside.

To call him old would not be quite right. The years were on his face, though not in his bones. His beard was lightly white, a black band was tied at his temple, and in his hand was some old wooden staff with three or four beads knotted onto it. His feet were bare. His clothes were plain, yet there was something about them, as if they stood above the dust, as if even the dust kept a little distance from them. There was no hurry in his walk. He came to the middle of the court and stopped and looked at Lavana without ceremony. His eyes were pale, without laughter, and not silent either.

“Maharaj,” he said. His voice was low and settled, yet every word found its own place in the emptiness between them. “I am a magician. I have come from far away. Your court holds a great deal, great men, diamonds and jewels. But there is one thing you have perhaps never seen.”

The minister coughed lightly. The general’s hand was still on the hilt of his sword.

Lavana studied the magician for a while. Then a faint smile came to the corner of his lips.

“What is it you want to show me?”

The magician said nothing in reply. He set his staff on the floor with a small sound. Then he opened his palm and raised it slowly upward, as though lifting an unseen curtain.

And a horse was standing in the court.

The manuscript fell from the minister’s hand to the floor.
The horse stood there, behind the magician, in the middle of the court, as if it had always been there. Black. Completely black. So black that the lamplight falling on its hide simply stopped, like the surface of water into which the light was sinking. Long legs, a high neck, a mane so thick it brushed the ground below. Its breathing could be heard, slow and heavy, like a creature that had crossed a great distance and was now steadying itself. Its eyes were no longer black. Its eyes seemed to burn from within, like a lamp whose flame cannot be seen from outside.

A hush fell over the court. No one spoke. Only the breathing of the horse could be heard.

Lavana looked at the magician. Then at the horse. Then at the magician again.

“What is this?”

“Maharaj, it is a horse.” There was no excitement in the magician’s voice, no pride. As if he were telling a child about a stone.

“I have seen many horses.”

“This one is different from all of them, Maharaj.”

Lavana leaned forward a little.

“Different how?”

The magician lifted his staff again, slowly, the way one lifts a flower. He held out a hand toward the horse.

“Maharaj, mount it. For a single moment. Then I myself will tell you how it is different.”

The minister said quietly, “Maharaj, be careful.”

The general’s gaze carried the same warning. Lavana looked at them, then at the magician.

“Who are you?” he asked. Perhaps he should have asked it earlier.

“Maharaj, I am a magician. And I have no aim of any kind to bring you harm.”

Lavana looked at the horse again for a moment. That eye of the horse that was like a lamp. Then he rose.
Two steps from the throne brought him to the horse. He reached out and touched the mane. The mane was soft, cold, as though it had been dipped in night water and drawn out.

Lavana set a hand to the saddle and in one leap was mounted.
And the court was gone.

The forest

First the light went. Then the fragrance. Then the breeze that had been coming through the high windows.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground.

Above him were trees. Very tall, very dense, and through their leaves the sunlight came down in pieces. The air held the scent of some wild flower, sweet and damp, the kind that never reached the palace. Somewhere near, water was running. A bird called. Far off, another answered. A dog barked. Then went quiet.

He looked at his hands.
Dark hands, caked with earth. The palms were rough, so rough that lines like grain husks had formed across the grip of the fingers. The nails were packed with dirt. On the fingers were the marks of old wounds, some from old thorns, some from a knife.

Then his gaze went to his feet. The feet were bare, and the soles had grown such thick skin that it seemed they had never worn sandals or shoes at all.

Now he touched his chest. Broad, and thin. He felt the ribs under his hand. And at his back, at the waist, a reed bow was tied. A cloth band at his waist held three or four arrows. Near his foot lay a small dead animal, something like a rabbit, its blood already spilled, now drying.

He lay like that for a while. His eyes were open, but nothing inside was working.

Lavana? What was a Lavana?

He tried to find the word inside himself. The word came, but it would not connect. Like a name that belonged to someone else and was slipping out of memory. Then that word too slowly faded.

Now another name rose up inside. It was for him, for this man who lay on the ground, whose hands were dark. This name was not complete either. This name was spoken, it seemed, in someone else’s voice, in a woman’s voice, one that called to him when he did not come home for a long time.

He tried to get up. His legs were tired. Perhaps he had been walking all day. As he rose, a light cough stirred in his chest and reached far down into it.

Then he was on his feet.

The forest was all around him. The air was light. He picked up the dead rabbit with one hand, as if it were an everyday task. He knew which direction to go. Where that knowledge had come from, he did not know himself. It had simply arrived, the way water seeps into a clay pot.

He began to walk.

Dry leaves broke under his feet. With every step, some voice inside was losing hold of something. The silver lamp flames of the court, the light through the lattice, the minister’s manuscript, his own throne, his own turban, his own royal ring. Each thing was slowly becoming like a story that belonged to someone else, one he had heard long ago. And even that story he could not fully remember.

By the time he reached the edge of the forest, all that remained inside was a tired hunter, a rabbit on his shoulder, arrows at his waist, and feet that turned toward home on their own. The name Lavana had fallen away somewhere behind him.

Harkeyuri

Home was a hut. Mud walls, a roof of dry grass and leaves, on one side a small doorway with a cloth for a curtain. Nearby lay a heavy stone on which someone used to sharpen an axe. The ground was swept clean, marked by the broom. In one corner stood a clay pot, a leaf on top of it for a lid.

A fire was burning outside. A woman sat beside the fire.

She was dark. Very dark. Her color was such that in the evening light she sat like a third shade between the fire and the earth. Her hair was tied back in a thick bun, a small piece of red cloth bound over it. Above one eyebrow was an old scar, from a thorn or from some quarrel, and because of that scar one of her eyebrows always sat a little higher, which gave her face the look of always asking a small question. Her neck was long, her arms thin yet strong, her fingers dark and quick.

She was pounding some root. In front of her was a clay bowl in which a little green pulp was gathering. Without looking toward the fire, she nudged it a little with a small stick.

When the hunter came near, she raised her eyes.

“You’re back?” she asked. Her voice was not loud, yet every word came out cleanly from within, as if she had spent many years learning to speak and now let a word out only when it was needed.
The hunter set the rabbit on the ground in front of her.

“Just this?” She looked at the rabbit, then at the hunter.

“Nothing else showed itself all day.”

“Nothing showed itself, or something did and you fell asleep?” There was no anger in her voice. A light teasing. She raised one eyebrow a little higher.

“Both,” the hunter said. And he took off his turban, which was really only a scrap of cloth, and set it on the ground.

A low laugh came from the woman’s throat, one that did not quite reach her face. She stopped pounding the root.

“Drink some water. Then sit.”
She poured a bowl of water from the pot and held it out. As her hand came close, the hunter paused a moment and looked at it. The green of the root clung to the tips of her fingers.

He took the water. Drank.

“Where are the children?” he asked.

“At the river. The older boy has gone with his bow, the daughter behind him, the little one along too. They will be back by evening.”

The hunter sat down. By the fire, on the ground. He leaned his back against the wall of the hut.

The woman looked at him. Not for long, just enough to see his face.

“You’re a little strange today.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. There’s something in your eyes. As if you’ve seen something.”

The hunter lowered his eyes. He said nothing.

The woman too was quiet for a while. Then she began pounding again.

“I’ll cook it tonight,” she said quietly. “The daughter says every day, Ma, make something new. So tonight I’ll make this.”

The hunter watched the fire. The flame swayed lightly in the breeze.

Inside him there was no longer anyone by the name of Lavana. But one thing had stayed, something he could not understand himself. An old habit, like the unfinished fragment of a habit from some other life. When he heard the woman laugh, a faint stirring moved inside him, as if some distant kinship were coming back to mind. But that stirring too sank quickly. The woman kept pounding the root. The fire kept burning. Far away the birds chirped for the last time.

“Gurudeva,” Rama broke in here. “Did he not recognize her? This woman, this hut, this life, all of it was new to him. And yet he sat there as if all of it were his own. How is that possible?”

“Rama,” said Vasishtha, “understand this from your own dream. Last night your mother was gone. In the dream you knew she was your mother, you did not have to think about it. The kind of knowledge that comes in a dream has no source. It simply is. In Lavana’s dream too, this hut, this woman, this life, all of it was already within him, without memory, without learning. This is the first power of consciousness. Listen on.”

Rama fell quiet and listened.

The children came home in the evening.

The older boy walked at the front. Fourteen years old, now only a little shorter than his father, a dead bird already slung over his shoulders. His face was serious. He did not laugh much. He was one of those children who understand very early how few things there are at home.

Behind him was the daughter. Eleven years old. She came running, dry leaves caught in her hair, a twig in her hand on which she had fixed a few small fruits carried back from the forest. Her face was round, her eyes large, and when she looked at her mother her eyes began to glow like music. Her laughter did not stop at the mud walls of the hut, it spread out in every direction, all the way to the neighbors.

Behind them was the youngest boy, seven years old. He came near without a sound. He looked at his mother, then his father, and without a word he came and sat on the ground beside his father, his knee touching his father’s leg. His hair fell over his forehead. His eyes were large, always a little afraid, as if he were always seeing something the others could not.
“Bapu,” the daughter held out the twig. “Look, three fruits, all red.”

The hunter took the twig. Held it in his hand. Looked at his daughter’s face.

“They are very good.”

“I saw them first. Bhaiya kept saying, go higher and they get better. I said, no, these ones are good. And look, these are the best.”

The hunter pulled a fruit from the twig. Set it on his daughter’s palm.

“You first.”

The daughter refused.

“No. Bapu first.”

“You first.”

“Bapu first.”

This argument happened every day. In the end the hunter put the fruit in his mouth. It was sweet. The daughter at once put her own fruit in her mouth and began to laugh.

The older boy set the bird on the ground.

“Ma. This is today’s.”

The woman looked at the bird. She stroked her son’s head with affection, a faint gleam in her eye, of pride.

“That cut on your hand?”

“It’s fine.”

“Show me.”

“Ma, it’s fine.”

The mother took hold of his wrist. There was a scratch on it, the blood already dried. She looked for a moment, then let it go.

“Put a little turmeric on it tonight.”

“Yes.”
The youngest boy drew a line on the ground with a twig. Then rubbed it out. Then drew it again.

The hunter laid a hand on his head. The child bowed his head a little, drawing the weight of the hand toward himself. He did not close his eyes.
Night came. The woman cooked the root. All three children sat around the fire. The hunter tucked the daughter’s twig into the cloth band at his waist.

The daughter asked, “Bapu, will you take me to the forest tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still little.”

“I’m not. Bhaiya used to go at that age.”

“Bhaiya is a boy.”

“So?”

The hunter stopped. He looked toward his wife. His wife raised her eyebrows.

“We’ll see,” the hunter said.

The daughter burst out laughing, because for her that was a yes.
The night ran long. Everyone slept near the fire. The hunter stayed awake the longest. Above were the stars, so many stars that counting them was out of the question. The air was light. He looked at his palm. It was dark. He understood that it was his own palm. And by now, knowing this did not even feel strange to him.

The name Lavana had slowly sunk. The way a paper set on water slowly sinks, growing light at first, then heavy, then out of sight.

The years

Years passed. The river dried many times, filled many times. Seasons changed. In one season a dog died, in another a new dog was raised. One year a part of the hut fell in, then was rebuilt. The older boy grew sure with the bow. His voice deepened. His shoulders broadened. He could go hunting alone now and often came back before his father.

The daughter grew up. From eleven to thirteen, from thirteen to fifteen. Her laughter rang out a little less now, but when it did it was as strong as ever. She had learned to tie things up from her mother. She had learned to knot her hair back in a bun. She could carry the weight of the water herself now. But her eyes were the same, always asking something, always holding their ground.

The youngest boy grew, and stayed just as quiet. He did not learn to read, because there was no one in the village to teach. But he kept making all kinds of shapes on the ground with twigs. Sometimes a bird, sometimes a tree, sometimes something no one could make sense of. Once his mother asked, “What is this?” and he answered, “Nothing,” and rubbed it out.

The woman stayed the same. A little thinner. One eyebrow still high. Her laughter still came out of her throat the same way. Many times the hunter felt inside himself that he had never lived a life without this woman. It seemed to him that she had always been with him. Her habits were like air to him. Her laughing, her pounding of the root, the way she touched her foot to his as they slept at night. All of it had settled so deep inside him that pulling it apart was not possible.

In between another child was born. A little daughter. In her second winter she fell ill, the fever would not break, and one night she passed away in her mother’s lap. The woman did not weep for a long time. She just sat holding her. Then in the morning she wrapped her in a cloth and carried her with the hunter to the river. They dug the earth. Laid the body down. Poured the earth back.

When they returned, the woman began pounding the root.

“You won’t cry?” the hunter asked softly.

The woman did not lift her head. Her fingers just kept pounding.

“The time for crying comes later,” she said. “There are other children now.”

The hunter did not understand this. But he said nothing.

Many years passed in which nothing much happened. That was the remarkable thing about these years. They learned to go into the forest, they learned to read the weather, they learned to sit together by the fire every evening. The hunter once thought that he was happy, and in that same moment he took the word away from himself, because the word held something dishonest. Happy was not the true word. He simply was, and the peace that lives in simply being was inside him.

The name Lavana had gone somewhere under the ground, perhaps along with that little daughter.

The drought

Then for one year the rain did not come.

At first people paid no attention. In the second season a little rain had come, light. The river thinned but kept flowing. The roots grew fewer. The birds grew fewer. But no one yet spoke the word crisis.

The second year too the rain did not come.

Now the river truly ran thin. Dry moss began to show along its banks, the fish grew scarce, and in some places the water fell so low that children crossed where grown men once bathed. The forest changed from within. The leaves dried and fell earlier. The calls of the birds changed. A dry smell filled the air, one that had never been breathed in this forest before.

In the third year people spoke the name. Drought. Some of the old ones said it was just like one that had come once, many years ago. Those people were gone now, only their words remained.
The hunter began setting out early in the morning. He came back late in the evening. Sometimes a small rabbit. Sometimes a bird. Sometimes empty-handed. The older boy started taking his arrows in another direction, sometimes going a whole day without eating. The woman now learned to cut the root every night into the thinnest possible pieces. Every morning she watched the water sink lower in the pot. The crowd at the well kept growing. Then some of the wells dried up too.

The first death in the village was old Savitri. She had been someone’s wife, someone’s mother, but she had lived alone now for many years. One morning no smoke rose from her hut. A neighbor went and looked. She was on her mat, her head rolled to one side, her mouth slightly open.

Then a child. Then another old woman. Then a young man, who had grown weak, who one night before drinking his water had given the nearby dog a piece of the little flour he had left. His body was cold by morning.

The hunter said nothing to his children. But every night, as they slept by the fire, he counted them. The oldest, the daughter, the youngest. All three were breathing. This was his only prayer, one without words.

The daughter had begun to stay quiet now. Her laughter faded. But her eyes were the same. One night she asked, “Bapu, how long will this drought last?”

“I don’t know.”

“But one day it will end?”

The hunter thought. Then said, “Yes. One day it will end.”

The daughter perhaps understood. Perhaps that was enough for her.

The youngest boy went first.

He had been weak to begin with. Every body carries some limit of its own, and this child’s limit was perhaps lower. He had never eaten much, never asked for much. His body was thin, light-boned, and in the third season of the drought his eyes had sunk inward. His twig was no longer to be seen, but he kept drawing something on the ground with just his finger.

One night a fever came over him. His mother laid him down beside her. Touched his forehead. The forehead was hot. She gave him a little water. Then for a while she kept a hand on his head.

“Ma,” the child said.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t want anything.”

The woman stopped.

“Nothing?”

“No. Just stay here.”

The mother took his hand in her own. His hand was cold.

“I am here.”

The child was quiet for a while. Then said, “Where is Bapu?”

“Outside. By the fire.”

“Call him.”

The woman called the hunter. The hunter came, sat close, took the child’s other hand.

The child looked at his father for a while. Then said, “Bapu, those lines I drew on the ground, they were a bird.”

“Which bird?”

“One I have never seen.”

The hunter said softly, “I understand.”

The child fell quiet again. His breathing grew slower.

At some hour of the night he forgot to breathe.
For a long time the woman did not let go of his hand. Even so she did not weep. Nor did the hunter.

The older boy stood outside the doorway. His eyes were dry. The daughter was behind him. She looked at her brother. Then at the ground.

In the morning the three of them together carried him to the river. The daughter helped dig the earth. Her small palms filled with dirt.

When they returned, the woman began pounding the root.

The older boy went next.

He had gone out hunting. He did not return by evening. He did not return by night. The hunter set out the next morning to find him. He searched for three days. On the fourth day he found him. In a part of the forest where the trees were few and the ground was dry, he lay under a tree, his bow beside him, his arrows scattered. His mouth was open. His lips cracked. Flies on his face.

The hunter stood for a while. Then he sat down. He took his son’s head into his lap. His son’s face was dirty, leaves in his hair, the faint line of a mustache not yet fully come.

He had to carry him. But he did not get up.

He sat for a long time.

When he did get up, he lifted his son onto his shoulder. His son’s body was light. Very light. The hunter could not take in this lightness, how wrong it felt.

When he returned he said nothing to the woman. He just laid their son on the ground. The woman took one look. Then turned her face away, for a little while. Then turned back. She said nothing. She took a bowl of water and began to wash their son’s face.

The daughter kept watching. There was less of that light in her eyes now.

That night they buried him by the river.

On the way back the daughter took her mother’s hand.

“Ma.”

“Tell me.”

“Am I next?”

The woman stopped. Looked toward her daughter.

“No.”

“For certain?”

“For certain.”

The daughter understood something, but she did not let go of the hand.

“Gurudeva,” Rama said. His voice was trembling. “This is becoming hard for me to hear.”

“Rama, it needs to be hard. The heart of this story lives in its pain. For anyone who does not feel this pain, Lavana’s waking will stay no more than a marvel. When you feel the pain to this depth, then the knowledge that lies at its end will sink all the way into your bones. Listen.”

Rama was listening closely now. On the surface of the water a fish leaped. Some far-off bird called.

The daughter was now the only one left in the family.

Those days were slow. Very slow. Every morning the sun rose just as it always had. The river was as thin as ever. The air as dry. But within, time seemed to hang, ripening, ready to burst.

The daughter was growing weak. It came on slowly, a thinning that gathered over many weeks. Her color did not change, only her bones began to show clearly. Her wrist grew thin. Her eyes grew large, and the light behind them dimmed.

Every morning the woman gave her the best part of the root, cutting down her own share. The hunter said nothing. He knew that he too was cutting down his own share. This was never spoken. It simply happened.

One afternoon the daughter sat by the fire. Her legs stretched out in front. A hand on her stomach. She looked at the hunter.

“Bapu.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m hungry.”

The hunter did not lift his head.

“I’m going out. I’ll be back in a while.”

“What will you bring?”

“We’ll see.”

“Bapu.”

At last the hunter lifted his head.

“Tell me.”

The daughter looked straight into his eyes. One eyebrow sat a little high, the way her mother’s did.

“Bapu, will there be something tomorrow?”

The hunter held his breath for a moment.

“Yes. Tomorrow there will be something.”

The daughter tried to smile. It did not quite complete itself.

“For certain?”

“For certain.”

The hunter rose and walked toward the forest.

He kept walking until evening. Not a single creature showed itself. He reached the river, the water so low that the stones showed clearly. There were no fish. The birds were behind the high clouds, and bringing them down was not possible.

He stopped. Sat on a stone. He looked at his palm.

His daughter’s face had settled inside him. Her eyes, her half-laugh, her stubbornness.

He pulled bark from a nearby tree. Chewed it. Then spat it out.

On the way back he found a small root along the path, dried out, just enough perhaps for one person. He dug it up. Held it in his hand.

He reached home.

The daughter was sleeping by the fire. The mother sat beside her.

The hunter showed the root to the woman.

“Give it to the daughter.”

“And you?”

“Me later.”

“Then I will eat with you.”

“No. The daughter first.”

The hunter placed the root in the woman’s hand. The woman set it on the fire. Cooked it a little. Then woke the daughter.

“Get up. Eat a little.”

The daughter opened her eyes. Very slowly. Looked at her mother’s face.

“Ma.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

The woman’s lips moved to say something. But she said nothing.

“Even so, eat a little.”

“No.”

“Daughter.”

“No, Ma. You eat. Let Bapu eat.”

The woman lifted her up, held her to her chest.
The daughter rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“Ma.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell me a story.”

“Which one?”

“Any one. You tell it. I’ll listen.”

The woman began a story. Of some king, some queen, some bird that could speak by magic. Her voice was low. She let the story move slowly, matching every word to the pace of her daughter’s breath.

The daughter listened for a while. Her hand was on her mother’s wrist. The hand was light.

In the middle of the story the daughter opened her eyes once. Looked at the hunter.

“Bapu.”

“Tell me.”

“Will there be something tomorrow?”

The hunter met her eyes. He put all of himself into it.

“Yes.”

The daughter nodded very faintly, then closed her eyes.

The woman went on with the story.

The night was deep. The fire kept dying down. The hunter had stopped putting wood on the fire, because the wood too was scarce now.

Where the woman’s story ended, she herself did not notice. For a while she did not realize that she was only humming now, that there were no words. Then that too stopped.

The daughter’s breath was faint now.

The woman held her wrist.

The wrist slowed.

Then stopped.

The woman held her like that for a while. Against her chest. She laid a hand on her back. For a while the daughter’s back rose and fell, but it was the mother’s own hand that was moving.

In the end the woman laid her daughter’s head back in her lap.

The hunter sat by the fire. He did not lift his head.

For a long time no one spoke.

When a faint light came outside, the woman rose. She wrapped the daughter in a cloth. The hunter picked up the hoe. The two of them went to the river.

They dug the earth.

Laid the daughter down.

Poured the earth back.
There were three small mounds side by side now.

When she returned the woman sat by the fire. She did not pound the root. For the first time, today she did nothing.

The hunter looked at her.

The woman rested her palms in her lap. One palm covered the other. Then she kept looking toward the fire.

The last night

Night came.

The woman said to the hunter, “Tomorrow.”

The hunter looked at her.

“Tomorrow what?”

“Tomorrow I will go.”

The hunter said nothing.

The woman untied the cloth from her bun, then tied it back.

“You know,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I need the fire.”

“I know.”

The woman closed her eyes for a moment. Then opened them.

“I cannot stay now. Three of them are under the ground. Not one bone of mine wants to remain in this hut anymore. My place is there, beside those three.”

The hunter said nothing.

“Come if you wish. Stay if you do not wish to come. That is your decision.”

“I will come.”

For a while the two of them sat by the fire. Then the woman said, “Remember one thing.”

“Tell me.”

“I love you. I have loved you for many years. Not once did I ever say it. Today I am saying it, and tomorrow’s going has nothing to do with why. I am saying it because until now the moment to say it had never come.”

The hunter watched the fire. The flame was low. A little of its light fell in his eyes.

“I do too,” he said. And added nothing more.

The woman laughed. The laugh that came out of her throat.

“You don’t talk much.”

“I don’t.”

“But your silence is good. I have liked it from the very start.”

“I know.”

“You know? How?”

“You told me on the first day. Don’t you remember?”

“No.”

“I do.”

The woman thought for a while, then laughed.

“So you said it today. I thought you would have forgotten.”

“I did not forget.”

The woman fell quiet.

The night moved on.

The morning came early.

The woman swept out her hut. She cleaned the root bowl and set it upside down. She emptied the water pot and set it to one side. She untied the red cloth from her bun, then tied it back, then untied it again. In the end she did not tie it at all, she just set it on the ground.

The hunter gathered wood by the river. He gathered all the dry wood there was. He built a pyre. Beside the daughter’s grave.

The woman came.

She looked at the three mounds.

“The little one,” she said softly. The first mound. Then the older one. Then the daughter.

She laid a hand on the earth. On each of the three in turn. Her palm did not linger long.

Then she turned toward the pyre.

The hunter looked at her.

“Wait,” he said.

The woman stopped.

The hunter drew the daughter’s twig from the band on his arm. The twig from many years ago. The twig was broken now, its fruits long gone, only a small piece of it left, which he had kept tucked in his band.

He gave the twig to the woman.

“Take it with you.”

The woman took the twig and closed it inside her fist.

Then she sat down on the pyre. The wood beneath her shifted a little. She folded her legs. She rested her hands in her lap, the twig in one hand.
The hunter lit the fire.

The flame rose from below. Slow at first. Then higher. The woman kept her eyes open. She looked at the hunter. One of her eyebrows was still a little high.

“Do not stop here. Rise up and leave the three of them. There is a great deal of life still left in you. But my place is right here.”

The flame touched the woman.

The woman closed her eyes.

The hunter kept watching.

When the fire died down, the hunter took off his turban cloth. He began to build a small pyre by his own feet. He laid dry wood beneath his feet. He set everything in place carefully.

He was about to sit down.

Just then something happened.

Waking

His eyes opened. The court was there.

The ministers, the general, the doorkeeper, all of them there. The same lamps, the same evening light on the lattice. The same pigeons outside. The same breeze.

And before him stood the magician, the same faint smile on his lips.
Lavana sat up. His hands were trembling.

He looked at his hand. The hand was not dark. No dark skin. No marks of thorns. There was a ring, the royal signet, of gold, of diamond.

He looked at his feet. There were sandals. Royal sandals.

He touched his chest. His breath was racing.

The minister stepped forward.

“Maharaj, is all well?”

Lavana did not answer.

He looked toward the magician.

The magician’s smile was the same.

“How long has it been?” Lavana asked. His voice did not sound like his own.

The magician said, “One night, Maharaj.”

“One night.”

“Yes, Maharaj.”

Lavana looked at his palms. Looked at his royal signet. The diamond was very clear. The flame of the lamp broke into many pieces inside it.

“One night,” he said again. He was not really asking. The words held something else.

The magician said nothing.

The minister took another step forward.

“Maharaj, the horse is no longer here. You seemed to go quiet for a single moment. That was all.”

“That was all,” Lavana repeated.

He looked at the magician again. Looked for a long time.

The magician said softly, “Maharaj, may I go now?”

“Wait.”

The magician stopped.
“Who are you, truly?”

“Maharaj, I am a magician.”

“And what I saw?”

The magician thought for a moment, then spoke.
“Maharaj, about what you saw, I can say nothing. One thing I can say. Look toward one side, beyond the border of your kingdom. Where the mountains are. Behind those mountains is a forest. In that forest is a small village. Whatever is there, you have already seen it. The soldiers of your kingdom can find it.”

The magician bowed his head once more. Then he turned and walked out of the court. When he reached the doorway he did not stop. For a moment the minister watched him leave, then turned back and looked at Lavana. Lavana’s eyes were not on the magician. He was looking at his own palm.

The search

All night Lavana did not sleep.

He sat alone in his chamber. Guards were outside, a bed of gold was near, a silk canopy above. He touched none of these.

Inside him there was a hut, mud walls, a roof of dry grass above. There was a woman who sat with one eyebrow raised, a daughter who brought fruit on a twig, a boy who was learning the bow, a little son who drew lines on the ground with a twig.

Who were they?

If they were a dream, then what was their death? If their death was a dream, then what was the thing that broke inside him when they died? And if that breaking was real, then they were real too.

In the morning he called his most trusted minister.

“Behind the mountains,” he said. “To the north. There is a forest there. In that forest is a village of Chandala people. I want a full account of it.”

The minister accepted the order, without asking why.

“Maharaj, by when?”

“As soon as you can.”

The soldiers went. It took them ten days to travel, to cross the mountains, to find the forest. Lavana sat in the affairs of state every day, but half his mind was elsewhere. The minister once said quietly, “The Maharaj seems a little changed.” Lavana said nothing to this.

On the twenty-second day the soldiers returned.

The minister came with them. There was an expression on his face that Lavana had not seen before.

“Maharaj.”

“Tell me.”

“The village is real.”

Lavana held his breath for a moment.

“Tell me.”

The minister gestured toward the soldiers. The oldest of them stepped forward.

“Maharaj, we crossed the mountains and reached the forest. We searched for three days. On the fourth day we found a small village. Ten or twelve huts. Of Chandala people. A drought had fallen there. A very bad drought. Many had already died. The rest were weak. We handed out grain, handed out water.”

“And?”

“Maharaj, there was a hut in that village that stood empty. Beside it were three small mounds. The earth was fresh, not some years old. And near the hut, a little way off, were the ashes of a pyre. Old ones. In the middle of them lay the burnt piece of a small twig.”

Lavana brought a hand to his mouth.

“And?”

“Maharaj, we asked the villagers. They said a hunter used to live in that hut, with his wife Harkeyuri and their three children. In the drought the children went one by one. Then the wife herself sat down on the pyre. The hunter has been missing since the next day. He was found nowhere.”

Lavana closed his eyes. He laid one hand on the wrist of the other. That wrist which had once been dark.

“And?” he asked with his eyes still closed.

“Maharaj,” the soldier said softly. “There is one more thing.”

“Tell me.”

“There is a little girl in that village. Perhaps twelve years old. She is Harkeyuri’s niece. Her mother too was lost in the drought. She lives now with an aunt. She looks like Harkeyuri, Maharaj. Exactly. And one of her eyebrows always sits a little high. A piece of red cloth is tied in her hair. Her eyes are the kind that are always asking something.”

Lavana’s eyes opened.

For a while he kept looking at the minister.

“Take me there,” he said.

Lavana went himself.

Without royal splendor. On an ordinary horse. Three soldiers with him. The minister with him.

Five days to cross the mountains. Then the forest. Then the village.

When they arrived, Lavana reined in his horse.

Huts. Of mud. Roofs of dry grass above. A courtyard swept clean of ground. On one side a heavy stone.

He dismounted and set his foot on the ground. The earth beneath his feet was familiar. He had no need to be told where he was.

He walked toward the hut. It was empty. There was no cloth curtain at the doorway now. Inside, on the mud, the same old broom marks.

Outside were three small mounds.
Lavana went to them. Sat down. Laid a hand on the first mound.

“The little one,” he said softly.

He laid a hand on the second mound.

“The older one.”

He laid a hand on the third mound.

“The daughter.”

His palm rested on the earth for a long time. No tears came. His eyelids were heavy, and dry, as if the time for weeping had passed long ago.

After a while, there was a faint sound behind him.

Lavana turned and looked.

A girl was standing there. She would have been twelve. Dark. One eyebrow slightly raised. A piece of red cloth in her hair. Large eyes, asking something.

Lavana rose. He kept looking at her.

The girl looked at him too. Without fear. Without bowing.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Lavana opened his mouth for a moment. But no words came.

“Are you the king?” she asked again.

“Yes.”

“Then why have you come here?”

Lavana bowed his head very slowly.

“I came to see something.”

“What?”

Lavana looked at her. One of her eyebrows was slightly raised.

“You.”

The girl tilted her head to one side. She did not understand this answer. But she did not ask either.
Lavana took off his royal signet. The one with the diamond. He set it on the girl’s palm.

“Give this to your aunt. Tell her the king is sending it. And tell her that whatever this village needs will come.”

The girl looked at the ring. Then at Lavana.

“But we don’t need this. We need food.”

A small smile came to Lavana’s lips, very, very faint.

“The food will come too.”

The girl closed the ring inside her fist.

Lavana looked at the three mounds one last time. Then turned. He went back toward his horse.

As he left he said to the minister, “Grain must reach here within this week. Arrangements for water. Treatment for the sick. And a new well. In this village.”

“Maharaj, anything more?”

Lavana stopped. He looked back at the girl. The girl stood where she was, her fist closed.

“One more thing.”

“Go on, Maharaj.”

“Every Chandala settlement in the kingdom, build a grain store in each one. In a drought the help must reach them first. And let no orphaned child be left on the streets. Build a home for them. In the capital, and in every large city.”

The minister received the command with a bow.

Lavana mounted his horse. He turned back and looked once more.

The girl was still there. One of her eyebrows slightly raised.

The horse moved off.

The return

Back in the capital, Lavana seemed a changed man. You could hear the change more than you could see it.
He spoke less in court than before. But every word he did speak came from somewhere. The ministers soon learned that nothing could be said to the Maharaj now the way it once had been. He had no taste for a lie. He had no taste for baseless talk. When any report of the people’s suffering came, he heard it in full, never cutting it off in the middle.

The changes in the kingdom came slowly. But they came. Grain stores were built in the Chandala settlements. Homes were built for orphans. A rule was made that in a drought the help would reach them first. A new law came that any officer must give aid to any settlement without regard to its caste, and that any officer who broke this law would lose his post.

Lavana did one small thing that no one understood. He had a chamber in his palace kept empty. There was nothing in it. Just a floor of mud, plain walls. A clay pot in one corner. A mat to one side. A cloth curtain at the doorway.

At night he sometimes went there alone. He would sit for a while. Then come back.

One night the minister asked, “Maharaj, what is this chamber?”

Lavana paused a little, then answered.

“A hut.”

The minister bowed his head, did not understand, and did not ask either.
Rama was quiet for a long time. The evening on the water had grown deeper. The Saryu was turning black now, and only in a few places did the last strips of sunlight shine across it. Far off, a fisherman’s boat rocked gently.

“Gurudeva,” Rama said at last. “Was that a dream, or was it real?”

Vasishtha looked toward the water. Then toward Rama.

“Rama, it was both.”

Rama heard this, but did not understand.

“The life that passed within Lavana passed within his own consciousness. But at that same time there was a village, there was a woman, there were her children, there was a drought. All of it was there in its own place too. When consciousness grows intense, the inner and the outer become two colors of a single thread. In your dream you lost your mother. In that moment your pain was exactly what it would be in waking life. Your consciousness was one across both. This is why that pain does not let go of you for so long.”

“So which one is real?”

Vasishtha laughed. A very light laugh.

“Whatever sinks all the way inside you, that is what is real.”

Rama stayed silent.

Vasishtha reached out and touched the water. The water was cold.

“Rama,” he said. “After Lavana, no child in his kingdom died of hunger. For forty years. This was the true fruit of his dream. He came to know the sorrow of his people to such a depth that he could no longer look away from it. For anyone who comes to know their people’s sorrow at this depth, that people grows into a part of their own body, close as a limb.”

Rama watched a small bird flying over the water.

Rama asked, “Gurudeva, what became of that girl?”

Vasishtha did not hide his smile.

“She grew up. She studied. The first woman from a Chandala settlement ever to enter the royal assembly of the kingdom, that was her. She too was given the name Harkeyuri. That was her aunt’s request.”

Rama kept looking in that direction without saying anything.

The bird over the water had now flown far into the distance.