Recap:

Driven by Parvata Vardini’s revelations about his true parentage and Narobha’s treachery, Pasupati is consumed by vengeance. His mother reveals that Narobha murdered his father, Tungabhadra, using the cursed Keris. Pasupati, fueled by this knowledge, retrieves the Keris with the help of the loyal Nambi, setting a deadly plan in motion. The stage is set for a confrontation and a potential shift in power within the kingdom. Narobha is assassinated by the loyal Nambi, who is then immediately killed by Pasupati.

Chapter 21/26: Vicious Vanquishing

Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

“Any ingots? Hey, Rani, got any?” Old Sivappi’s voice drifted through Neeli’s residence, a persistent drone. “The dead soul tried to carry ingots. Too heavy, abandoned in a forgotten chest.” Sivappi’s voice annoyed Neeli, who shooed her out.

Jeyasinghan had just returned from Narobha’s cremation, the flames licking the foothills of the mountain.

The crowd for Narobha (a) King Narasingha Sudan’s funeral was unprecedented. Every bloom of Taravati and Durgavati, even the tenderest buds, had been harvested for the rituals. Sandalwood of high quality, from the slopes of Mount Ranadhira, had been felled and brought forth by elephant, human, donkey, and oxcart. The funeral stage was built high on a raised platform, so everyone could see it. The path the body took was empty of flowers as they were all crushed by people walking.

A significant drama had unfolded there. Jeyasinghan had forcefully asserted his right to perform the final royal salute and lay the body upon the pyre, while Pasupati stood already adorned in the ritual attire for the same sacred duty. The priest had intervened, his voice firm, halting Jeyasinghan. “The King’s rightful heir shall perform this act.”

“What do you imply? Do you say I am illegitimate?” Jeyasinghan’s hand made a gesture towards a small flashing dagger tucked to his hip.

“Blood carries a foul scent. Ingots smell sweet, but you can’t take either from the fire,” Sivappi’s grating laughter pierced the solemnity, igniting Jeyasinghan’s fury.

The ministers and priests’ insistence on tradition, Jeyasinghan’s claim weakened, yet his ego swelled to a dangerous degree.

“Hear me, all of you,” Jeyasinghan’s voice boomed, his gaze sweeping across the assembly, finally settling on Pasupati. “You might have won now. You may even have stained your hands with my father’s blood to seize the throne. But mark my words. I am the son of Narobha, the great gambler and slayer. I possess his very essence, his might, his instincts. Let us see if these priests and ministers can shield you from my wrath.”

“To accuse someone of murder without proof is a crime in Taravati. I remind you of this,” Pasupati retorted, his voice steady despite the charged atmosphere. The priest, however, urged him to silence, reminding him that this was a time for farewell to the departed King.

Even in death, Narobha’s soul found no peace, yet he left this world with all the state honors.

Forty years after Narobha’s crowning, Taravati prepared for a new one. Coconut leaf decorations made the city feel lucky. Temples and government buildings were cleaned. Streets were swept, and turmeric water was sprinkled everywhere. Statues of gods on street corners and at doorways received many offerings, which were soon eaten by ants and sparrows.

Temporary shops were set up, and women were busy buying conch bangles from the Pandya kingdom, ceramic pots from the Song dynasty, and jems from Suwarnadvipa, along with aromatics from Suwarnabhumi. No one cooked at home because free food was given out in all anna-chatra-s.

Pasupati hoped the shadow of Narobha’s murder had faded from memory of the people. Yet, he knew doubts lingered in some hearts. However, emissaries from the ministers subtly wove positive narratives of Pasupati in bustling markets and serene temples, gently shaping public sentiment towards favor.

Parvata Vardini orchestrated a grand coronation, inviting Shivaite priests from Anuradhapura and Vaishnavite priests from Kanchipura, and Buddhist priests from Sarnath to bless Pasupati’s ascent. To turn the undercurrent of public feeling positive, she proceeded with such grand celebration.

As mangala vadyam-s, the auspicious music, filled the air, a shower of akshatas rained down from the people’s gallery towards the waiting crown, observed by Parvata Vardini from the attic. Vallabhan Pasupati became the King of the unified lands of Taravati and Durgavati. Beside him stood his queen.

Neeli hadn’t spoken since Narobha’s killing. Before the crowning, she returned to her village, even though Jeyasinghan wanted her to stay. She didn’t like politics; it scared her.

But Jeyasinghan was relentless. He sought out a priest from the Pala Kingdom, skilled in the Atharva Veda. On the very night of the coronation, under the cloak of midnight, Jeyasinghan and the priest performed secret rituals, hoping to gain power and bring about Pasupati’s demise.

Whispers of these dark practices reached the ears of the ministers and Parvata Vardini. By the seventh day of the new reign, the ministers, sensing the rising tension, proposed a meeting between Pasupati and Jeyasinghan. They hoped to avert another tragedy like Narobha’s fate.

Parvata Vardini, seeking a path to peace, agreed to appoint Jeyasinghan as a commander within the army’s leadership. The ministers conveyed this offer to Jeyasinghan and arranged for the two men to meet.

They met on a full moon day. Jeyasinghan was offered a grander palace, another for his mother in her village, and sacks of silver and gold to encourage his loyalty to Pasupati. With a seemingly agreeable smile, Jeyasinghan joined Pasupati in the backyard for palm toddy.

“We are one despite being in two bodies, my brother” Jeyasinghan said, draping an arm across Pasupati’s shoulders as he sat. Pasupati felt relieved, his longtime foe now appearing as a friend, freeing him to attend to other concerns. The evening flowed with rounds of toddy and fried fish. Soon, their laughter, fueled by the drink, echoed towards the main gate.

Around midnight, a heavy drowsiness overcame Pasupati. His head began to nod, threatening to fall asleep onto the wooden table.

Jeyasinghan stirred, a sleepy haze in his eyes, wiping a trail of saliva from his lip to the table. He tried to rouse Pasupati.
“Brother. Hello, brother…”

But Pasupati was lost to sleep. Jeyasinghan glanced around, his hand instinctively reaching behind him. He drew out the magical, cursed keris, tucked secretly at his waist, and brought it into the moonlight.

The keris gleamed. A malevolent energy seemed to pulse from it, accompanied by a chilling, silent laughter in Jeyasinghan’s mind –

Stab him. Hmmm. Yes. Why do you hesitate? Stab him. See my sharp tip. Yessss. Run your fingers along my edge. Feel how keen I am. Don’t I feel good in your hand? But you won’t truly own me, until you bury me in his flesh. Come on, it urged.

“Yesssss!” Jeyasinghan roared, rising to his feet. With all his might, he plunged the keris into Pasupati’s back. In that instant, the bright moon was abruptly swallowed by dark, ominous clouds.

—

Mindmap (Click to Zoom)

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Note:

• This fiction is a retelling influenced by series of historic events.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.