Read Online Prince of Dharma by Ashok Banker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ashok Banker
Tags: Epic Fiction
Ads: Link
as a gentle drizzle fell on them. Seventeen long years separated that day from this one. And yet, the sight of the fountain brought back the memory as clearly as if it had been just days ago.
‘Kausalya,’ he called again, gently this time, as he passed into the inner chambers. A young serving girl, lying on a shaasan squealed and sprang to her feet, then froze, wide-eyed as a doe before a chariot, transfixed by the sight of her king bearing down on her. Dasaratha put a hand out, gripping the girl gently by the shoulder—and moved her aside gently. His elbow brushed her as he passed her, and he heard her emit a tiny gasp. He walked on without a backward glance.
He noted the distinct change in decor as he entered his queen’s private chambers. A muted, almost sombre effect achieved through sober colours and exquisitely chosen furnishings and artefacts displayed at perfect aesthetic intervals. Even the mashaal stands and candelabra were arranged artistically, their fluted vents designed to conceal their true purpose, which was simply to provide an upward exit for the smoke and heat of the flames. He shook his head wryly as he trod carelessly over intricately embroidered eastern carpets without even noticing their unusual weaves and patterns. It was like stepping through a doorway between ages, back into the past.
He paused, struck by the sensations coursing through his body. Once he had spent almost every single waking hour in these chambers, and all his sleeping ones. It was startling to see how little it had changed.
The chamber was empty. He was about to turn away, about to look elsewhere for Kausalya, when something caught his eye. The flash of a familiar face at the far end of the room. There, by the window, in an alcove where the flickering light of the mashaal barely reached. It drew him like an apsara drawing a traveller to her enticing embrace.
It was a portrait of Kausalya and himself. From back then. He winced at the difference between himself then and now, the slender, tautly muscled limbs that had thickened and softened, the torso that had seemed sculpted and so sharply masculine then and was now filled out and almost rounded, the face that was so clear and bright with ambition then, now turned dark and fleshy, the hair … Enough, enough. Bad enough that his physicians berated him constantly for his excess weight and lack of exercise; he didn’t need a picture from the past to rub salt into the wounds. At sixty-three years of age, physical appearance was the least of his concerns.
But he could stand to look at Kausalya a moment longer. Or an eternity. Her beauty still took his breath away. He reached out, compelled to touch that soft face, that smooth cheek unlined by years of care, childbearing and motherhood. She was a picture of Arya perfection: doe-eyed, raven-haired, wheat-complexioned, delicately featured, small-limbed, large-breasted … In her carefree smile, he could see himself, young, strong, unaffected by these mystery ailments and unaccountable fainting spells.
The sound of bells brought him out of his reverie. He turned with a rustling of his silk dhoti to see Kausalya, a pooja thali in her hands, standing in the doorway of her bedchamber. Unlike his own weary, illness-plagued body, Kausalya’s beauty had matured like a ripening mango, swelling just enough to enhance her femininity. And her eyes, those deep dark eyes he had once swore he could see his soul mirrored in, those eyes were still the same. Still smouldering. Except that right now, at the sight of him standing uninvited in her private bedchamber, they were closer to blazing.
‘Ayodhya-naresh,’ she said, using his formal title. ‘What brings you to this forlorn part of the city?’
He grimaced as the barb struck home. The First Queen’s Palace was right beside his own, linked by a common corridor, no more than a few hundred yards away.
‘It’s good to see you
‘Kausalya,’ he called again, gently this time, as he passed into the inner chambers. A young serving girl, lying on a shaasan squealed and sprang to her feet, then froze, wide-eyed as a doe before a chariot, transfixed by the sight of her king bearing down on her. Dasaratha put a hand out, gripping the girl gently by the shoulder—and moved her aside gently. His elbow brushed her as he passed her, and he heard her emit a tiny gasp. He walked on without a backward glance.
He noted the distinct change in decor as he entered his queen’s private chambers. A muted, almost sombre effect achieved through sober colours and exquisitely chosen furnishings and artefacts displayed at perfect aesthetic intervals. Even the mashaal stands and candelabra were arranged artistically, their fluted vents designed to conceal their true purpose, which was simply to provide an upward exit for the smoke and heat of the flames. He shook his head wryly as he trod carelessly over intricately embroidered eastern carpets without even noticing their unusual weaves and patterns. It was like stepping through a doorway between ages, back into the past.
He paused, struck by the sensations coursing through his body. Once he had spent almost every single waking hour in these chambers, and all his sleeping ones. It was startling to see how little it had changed.
The chamber was empty. He was about to turn away, about to look elsewhere for Kausalya, when something caught his eye. The flash of a familiar face at the far end of the room. There, by the window, in an alcove where the flickering light of the mashaal barely reached. It drew him like an apsara drawing a traveller to her enticing embrace.
It was a portrait of Kausalya and himself. From back then. He winced at the difference between himself then and now, the slender, tautly muscled limbs that had thickened and softened, the torso that had seemed sculpted and so sharply masculine then and was now filled out and almost rounded, the face that was so clear and bright with ambition then, now turned dark and fleshy, the hair … Enough, enough. Bad enough that his physicians berated him constantly for his excess weight and lack of exercise; he didn’t need a picture from the past to rub salt into the wounds. At sixty-three years of age, physical appearance was the least of his concerns.
But he could stand to look at Kausalya a moment longer. Or an eternity. Her beauty still took his breath away. He reached out, compelled to touch that soft face, that smooth cheek unlined by years of care, childbearing and motherhood. She was a picture of Arya perfection: doe-eyed, raven-haired, wheat-complexioned, delicately featured, small-limbed, large-breasted … In her carefree smile, he could see himself, young, strong, unaffected by these mystery ailments and unaccountable fainting spells.
The sound of bells brought him out of his reverie. He turned with a rustling of his silk dhoti to see Kausalya, a pooja thali in her hands, standing in the doorway of her bedchamber. Unlike his own weary, illness-plagued body, Kausalya’s beauty had matured like a ripening mango, swelling just enough to enhance her femininity. And her eyes, those deep dark eyes he had once swore he could see his soul mirrored in, those eyes were still the same. Still smouldering. Except that right now, at the sight of him standing uninvited in her private bedchamber, they were closer to blazing.
‘Ayodhya-naresh,’ she said, using his formal title. ‘What brings you to this forlorn part of the city?’
He grimaced as the barb struck home. The First Queen’s Palace was right beside his own, linked by a common corridor, no more than a few hundred yards away.
‘It’s good to see you
Similar Books
