‘What do you want to do?’ asked Arishtanemi.
Sita had no doubt in her mind about who the perpetrator was behind her supposed accident. ‘I was willing to consider an alliance. Frankly, he could have become the head of the royal family, too. After all, I have bigger plans. All I had asked for was that my father and sister be safe and treated well. And, my citizens be taken care of. That’s it. Why did he do this?’
‘People are greedy. They are stupid. They misread situations. Also, remember, outside of the Malayaputras, no one knows about your special destiny. Perhaps, he sees you as a future ruler and a threat.’
‘When is Guru Vishwamitra coming back?’
Arishtanemi shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
So we have to do this ourselves.
‘What do you want to do?’ repeated Arishtanemi.
‘Guru Vishwamitra was right. He had told me once … Never wait. Get your retaliation in first.’
Arishtanemi smiled. ‘A surgical strike?’
‘I can’t do it openly. Mithila cannot afford an open war.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘It must look like an accident, just like mine was meant to be.’
‘Yes, it must.’
‘And, it cannot be the main man.’
Arishtanemi frowned.
‘The main man is just the strategist. In any case, I can’t attack him directly … My mother had prohibited it … We must cut off his right hand. So that he loses the ability to execute such plans.’
‘Sulochan.’
Sulochan was the prime minister of Sankashya. The right-hand man of Sita’s uncle Kushadhwaj. The man who ran practically everything for his king. Kushadhwaj would be paralysed without Sulochan.
Sita nodded.
Arishtanemi’s face was hard as stone. ‘It will be done.’
Sita did not react.
Now, you are truly worthy of being a Vishnu, thought Arishtanemi. A Vishnu who can’t fight for herself would be incapable of fighting for her people.
Mara had chosen his day and time well.
The boisterous nine-day festivities of the Winter Navratra always included the day that marked the Uttarayan, the beginning of the northward movement of the sun. This was the day the nurturer of the world, the sun, was farthest away from the northern hemisphere. It would now begin its six-month journey back to the north. Uttarayan was, in a sense, a harbinger of renewal. The death of the old. The birth of the new.
It was the first hour of the first prahar. Just after midnight. Except for the river port area, the city of Sankashya was asleep. The peaceful sleep of the tired and happy. Festivals manage to do that. The city guards, though, were among the few who were awake. Throughout the city, one could hear their loud calls on the hour, every hour: All is well.
Alas, not all the guards were as duty-conscious.
Twenty such men sat huddled in the guard room at Prime Minister Sulochan’s palace; it was the hour of their midnight snack. They should not have left their posts. But this had been a severe winter. And, the snack was only an excuse. They had, in fact, gravitated to the warm fireplace in the room like fireflies. It was just a break, they knew. They would soon be back on guard.
Sulochan’s palace was perched on a hill, skirting the royal garden of Sankashya at one end. At the other end was the generous River Gandaki. It was a truly picturesque spot, apt for the residence of the second-most powerful man in the city. But not very kind to the guards. The palace’s elevation increased the severity of the frosty winds. It made standing at the posts a battle against the elements. So, the men truly cherished the warmth of the guard room.
Two guards lay on the palace rooftop, towards the royal garden end. Their breathing even and steady. Sleeping soundly. They would not remember anything. Actually, there was nothing to remember. An odourless gas had gently breezed in and nudged them into a sound sleep. They would wake up the next morning, guiltily aware that they had dozed off on duty. They wouldn’t admit this to any investigator. The punishment for sleeping while on guard duty was death.
Mara was not a crass assassin. Any brute with a bludgeon could kill. He was an artist. One hired Mara only if one wanted to employ a shadow. A shadow that would emerge from the darkness, for only a little while, and then quickly retreat. Leaving not a trace. Leaving just a body behind. The right body; always, the right body. No witnesses. No loose ends. No other ‘wrong’ body. No unnecessary clues for the mind of a savvy investigator.
Mara, the artist, was in the process of crafting one of his finest creations.
Sulochan’s wife and children were at her maternal home. The Winter Navratra was the period of her annual vacation with her family. Sulochan usually joined them after a few days, but had been held back this time by some urgent state business. The prime minister was home alone. Indeed, Mara had chosen the day and time well. For he had been told strictly: avoid collateral damage.
He looked at the obese form of Prime Minister Sulochan. Lying on the bed. His hands on his sides. Feet flopped outwards. As he would ordinarily sleep. He was wearing a beige dhoti. Bare-chested. He had placed his angvastram on the bedside cabinet. Folded neatly. As he ordinarily would have done before going to sleep. His rings and jewellery had been removed and placed inside the jewellery box, next to the angvastram. Again, as he ordinarily would.
But, he was not breathing as he ordinarily would. He was already dead. A herbal poison had been cleverly administered through his nose. No traces would be left behind. The poison had almost instantly paralysed the muscles in his body.
The heart is a muscle. So is the diaphragm, located below the lungs. The victim asphyxiated within minutes.
Perhaps, Sulochan had been conscious through it. Perhaps not. Nobody would know.
And Mara didn’t care to know.
The assassination had been carried out.
Mara was now setting the scene.
He picked up a manuscript from a shelf. It chronicled the doomed love story of a courtesan and a peripatetic trader. The story was already a popular play throughout the Sapt Sindhu. It was well known that Sulochan liked reading. And that he especially loved a good romance. Mara walked over to Sulochan’s corpse and placed the dog-eared manuscript on the bed, by the side of his chest.
Sulochan had fallen asleep while reading.
He picked up a glass-encased lamp, lit the wick, and placed it on the bedside cabinet.
His reading lamp …
He picked up the decanter of wine lying on a table-top at the far end of the room and placed it on the cabinet, along with a glass. He poured some wine into the empty glass.
Prime Minister Sulochan had been drinking wine and reading a romantic novel at the end of a tiring day.