Recap:

Valli narrates the growing tensions within the royal court. Narobha’s neglect of his duties and his favoritism towards his concubine, Neeli, have created a rift. Rumors and gossip spread, fueled by Neeli’s growing influence and her supporters. Pasupati, the son of Tungabhadra, witnesses the growing animosity and the subtle undermining of his position.

Chapter 17/26: Quietude Quashed

Part 1/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

Valli‘s words hung in the air, heavy with the wisdom of observation. “Maharani,” she continued, her voice steady, “like frogs content in their well, believing all danger lies within its rim, Pasupati and Jeyasinghan are limited by their own narrow perspectives. Like crabs in a pit, pulling each other down, neither can truly escape the cycle. This large conflict, as you see, began with those small sparks. Pasupati foresaw that the temple incident, that verbal assault on his mother by Neeli‘s people – women from the village of Narobha‘s concubine and Jeyasinghan’s mother – was a likely ignition point. And as he predicted, it was.”

Valli paused, then continued, “That very night, Pasupati was met with Jeyasinghan’s drunken fury. Jeyasinghan, astride his wild horse, howled challenges outside Pasupati’s home. Pasupati, hearing the slurred words, knew the toddy had taken hold. Neeli, present but at a distance, joined her son in his verbal attack. ‘If you have anger for us, coward, face me!’ Jeyasinghan roared. ‘Why take it out on my people? What right do you have to yell at them?'”

Pasupati, attempting to de-escalate, called out, ‘Why shout from the street, Jeya? Come inside. Let’s talk.’

But Jeyasinghan’s intent was clear. ‘I’m not here for pleasantries. Tell me, how dare you treat my people so rudely?’

Pasupati, struggling to maintain his composure, replied, ‘I treat everyone fairly. You don’t know what they said. You should be grateful I didn’t punish them, out of respect for you and your mother.’

Then Neeli intervened, her desperation to bring the queen’s twin marriages into public discourse evident. ‘I know what they said! And what was wrong with it? Shall we gather the court and have them repeat their words?’

Pasupati countered, ‘Such language is unacceptable. You are a leader to those people; you should guide them towards better behavior. But if you come to me with arguments, how can I?’

Neeli’s tone sharpened. ‘Are you advising me? You are not the crowned prince, are you? Despite you have married with kids, but the King hasn’t crowned you as prince yet. So, know your place and be silent. I am not accustomed to use delicate words your mother favors. For a woman of the land like me, decisions are clear, language is direct, and actions are bold. Remember that. Come, Jeya.’ With that, she and Jeyasinghan turned and left.

Valli’s voice grew softer. “Anger surged through Pasupati. Humiliation at being spoken to that way in front of his guards stung him. He longed to speak with his father, but knew Narobha would likely be at Neeli’s residence. He resolved to wait until morning. Yet, soon after going back to his home, an attendant arrived with a message: Narobha wished to see him.”

‘Where?’ Pasupati asked.

The attendant, eyes lowered, replied, ‘The Small Queen’s residence.’

Pasupati’s anger flared anew. ‘Small queen? There is no big or small queen. There is only one queen – my mother. If you cannot understand that, you should leave this country.’

The attendant stammered, ‘Sorry, Prince. The King is in ‘that’ house.’

Pasupati refused to go. Later, the attendant returned, insisting it was an order from Narobha.”

Humiliated and resentful, Pasupati finally went. He found Narobha drunk, his words slurred with toddy. The King questioned Pasupati’s behavior towards Neeli and her people, his patience already frayed. Pasupati, seeing the futility of arguing with a drunken man, simply said, “Let’s talk tomorrow, Father,” and left.

Valli’s tone became tinged with sadness. “Pasupati was acutely aware of the shift in Narobha since Neeli’s arrival. The once familiar sight of Narobha and Parvata Vardini together, in the park or by their banyan tree was now rare. When the roof has a gap, the leak is inevitable. Pasupati’s pain intensified during the next harvest festival.”

The harvest festival was a spectacle. Temples overflowed with offerings. Carts lined up, laden with paddy, sugarcane, and millets. Donations were meticulously sorted, destined for treasury, storage, or workshops. Different farming clans held unique relationships with their goddesses, like a mother to her children. But the farmers of Panai Kulam, the village where blacksmith Maran Saththan had been murdered, considered the goddess their sister. They arrived in new clothes with many oxcarts full of their offerings, wanting their ‘sister’ to see how well they were doing. They even sought special privileges for exclusive rituals.

After the pooja, a grand feast was held by residents of Panai Kulam, followed by games for all ages. A playful wrestling match for the young men of Taravati drew the attention of the young women.

Pasupati, accompanied by his loyal Nambi, watched from the sidelines. The victor was a childhood friend.

“Shall we test our strength, Prince?” he asked playfully.

“Not as Prince, but as friend,” Pasupati replied with a laugh, preparing to join in. He quickly pinned his friend. Offering a hand up, he smiled.

Valli’s voice grew tense. “Then Jeyasinghan arrived, his presence a challenge. ‘Test yourself against a real man, not someone who will yield. Show me your strength!’ The match began, aggressive from Jeyasinghan’s side, Pasupati focused on defense. But anger clouds skill, right? Jeyasinghan made blunders, and Pasupati swiftly capitalized, throwing him to the ground. Again, Pasupati offered his hand. But humiliation and rage twisted Jeyasinghan’s actions.”

Valli’s tone dropped with a note of horror. “In a shocking act of malice, Jeyasinghan kicked Pasupati below the belt. A cry of pain ripped through the air as Pasupati fell. Jeyasinghan stood and kicked him again, the sound sickeningly loud. Pasupati lost consciousness. When the other wrestlers protested, Jeyasinghan, his fist clenched, sneered, ‘I am the prince. Do you value your heads?’ He turned his back on the fallen Pasupati, mounted his horse, and rode away.”

Valli’s voice softened again. “Narobha came to Pasupati’s residence, where he lay injured.”

“Don’t take it to heart, Pasupati,” he said, his words hollow. “He might not have meant it.”

Pasupati, his voice laced with pain, replied, “A king must deliver justice. Without it, the country falls to criminals.”

Narobha offered no response, the indirect accusation of his favoritism hanging heavy in the air. He simply instructed the medics and left. Pasupati watched his father, his once idealized figure, retreating from his role. A chilling realization dawned: his father, the king, had abandoned him.

Valli concluded, her gaze steady. “Clashes between father and son are one thing, Maharani. But when they fester into a feud, the damage is profound. Children forsaken by their fathers are like rootless plants. Offer them all the support in the world, and they will still struggle to stand on their own.”

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Note:

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