He placed a bowlful of an Ayurvedic paste on the bedside cabinet. He dipped a wooden tong in the paste, opened Sulochan’s mouth and spread it evenly inside, taking care to include the back of his throat. A doctor would recognise this paste as a home remedy for stomach ache and gas.
The prime minister was quite fat. Stomach trouble would surely have been common. And he was also known to have enough Ayurvedic knowledge for home remedies for minor diseases and afflictions.
He walked towards the window.
Open window. Windy night.
He retraced his steps and pulled the covering sheet up to Sulochan’s neck.
Sulochan had covered himself up. He was feeling cold.
Mara touched the sheet and the angvastram. And cast a careful glance around the room. Everything was as it should be.
Perfect.
Sulochan had, it would be deduced, confused the beginnings of a heart attack for a stomach and gas problem. A regrettably common mistake. He had had some medicine for it. The medicine had relieved his discomfort. Somewhat. He had then picked up a book to read and poured himself some wine. He had begun to feel the chill, typical of a heart attack. He had pulled up his sheet to cover himself. And then the heart attack had struck with its full ferocity.
Unfortunate.
Perfectly unfortunate.
Mara smiled. He looked around the scene and took a final mental picture. As he always did.
He frowned.
Something’s not right.
He looked around again. With animal alertness.
Damn! Bloody stupid!
Mara walked up to Sulochan and picked up his left arm. Rigor mortis was setting in and the body had already begun to stiffen. With some effort, Mara placed Sulochan’s left hand on his chest. With strain, he spread the fingers apart. As if the man had died clutching his chest in pain.
I should have done this earlier. Stupid! Stupid!
Satisfied with his work now, Mara once again scanned the room. Perfect.
It looked like a simple heart attack.
He stood in silence, filled with admiration for his creation. He kissed the fingertips of his right hand.
No, he was not just a killer. He was an artist.
My work here is done.
He turned and briskly walked up to the window, leapt up and grabbed the parapet of the roof. Using the momentum, he somersaulted and landed on his feet above the parapet. Soon he was on the rooftop.
Mara was the invisible man. The dark, non-transferable polish that he had rubbed all over his skin, along with his black dhoti, ensured that he went unseen in the night.
The maestro sighed with satisfaction. He could hear the sounds of the night. The chirping crickets. The crackling fire from the guard room. The rustling wind. The soft snores of the guards asleep on the roof … Everything was as it should be. Nothing was amiss.
He ran in the direction of the royal garden. Without any hesitation. Building up speed. As he neared the edge of the roof, he leapt like a cat and glided above the ground. His outstretched arms caught an overhanging branch of a tree. He swung onto the branch, balanced his way to the tree trunk and smoothly slid to the ground.
He began running. Soft feet. Silent breaths. No unnecessary sound.
Mara, the shadow, disappeared into the darkness. Lost to the light. Again.
Chapter 14
Mithila was more stable than it had been in years. The rebuilt slums, along with the ancillary opportunities it provided, had dramatically improved the lives of the poor. Cultivation in the land between the two fort walls had led to a spike in agricultural production. Inflation was down. And, the unfortunate death of the dynamic prime minister of Sankashya had neutralised Kushadhwaj substantially. No one grudged the now popular Sita her decision to carry out a spate of diplomatic visits across the country.
Of course, few knew that the first visit would be to the fabled capital of the Malayaputras: Agastyakootam.
The journey was a long and convoluted one. Jatayu, Sita, and a large Malayaputra company first travelled to Sankashya by the dirt road. Thereafter, they sailed on river boats down the Gandaki till its confluence with the mighty Ganga. Then, they sailed up the Ganga to its closest point to the Yamuna. They then marched over land to the banks of the Yamuna and sailed down the river till it met the Sutlej to form the Saraswati. From there, they sailed farther down the Saraswati till it merged into the Western Sea. Next, they boarded a seaworthy ship and were presently sailing down the western coast of India, towards the southwestern tip of the Indian subcontinent. Destination: Kerala. Some called it God’s own country. And why not, for this was the land the previous Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram, had called his own.
On an early summer morning, with a light wind in its sails, the ship moved smoothly over calm waters. Sita’s first experience of the sea was pleasant and free of discomfort.
‘Was Lord Parshu Ram born in Agastyakootam?’ asked Sita.
Sita and Jatayu stood on the main deck, their hands resting lightly on the balustrade. Jatayu turned to her as he leaned against the bar. ‘We believe so. Though I can’t give you proof. But we can certainly say that Lord Parshu Ram belongs to Kerala and Kerala belongs to him.’
Sita smiled.
Jatayu pre-empted what he thought Sita would say. ‘Of course, I am not denying that many others in India are as devoted to Lord Parshu Ram as we are.’
She was about to say something but was distracted as her eyes fell upon two ships in the distance. Lankan ships. They were moving smoothly, but at a startling speed.
Sita frowned. ‘Those ships look the same as ours. They have as many sails as ours. How are they sailing so much faster?’
Jatayu sighed. ‘I don’t know. It’s a mystery. But it’s a huge maritime advantage for them. Their armies and traders travel to faraway regions faster than anyone else can.’
Raavan must have some technology that the others do not possess.
She looked at the mastheads of the two ships. Black-coloured Lankan flags, with the image of the head of a roaring lion emerging from a profusion of fiery flames, fluttered proudly in the wind.
Not for the first time, Sita wondered about the relationship between the Malayaputras and the Lankans.
As they neared the Kerala coast, the travellers were transferred to a ship with a lesser draught, suitable for the shallower backwaters they would now sail into.