Narobha’s treachery and murder of Tungabhadra led to a kingdom steeped in conflict. Narobha is killed by Tungabhadra’s vengeful son, Pasupati, who is then murdered by Narobha’s son, Jeyasinghan, seizing the throne. Princes Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, Tungabhadra’s grandsons, survive Jeyasinghan’s assassination attempt with Sivappi’s sacrifice. They return, overthrow Jeyasinghan, and, under Parvata Vardini’s guidance, Srikrishna is declared Rajah with Anirudhdhan as his deputy. A marriage alliance between Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan’s sister, Sudakshina, is announced to ensure peace.
Chapter 26/26: Zenith of Wisdom
Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
A few months had passed since Parvata Vardini had crowned Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan. It was the predawn hours, before even the roosters announced the coming day.
As instructed, no guards lined the route from the palace to the Manvi River. Parvata Vardini left her residence, her figure a silhouette as she reached the royal court and pushed open its towering doors. She stepped inside, her gaze lingering on the empty court for a while before settling on the keris displayed near a shield. After a moment’s hesitation, she took the keris in her hand, a slight struggle evident, and walked out of the court and the palace without a backward glance.
Stepping out of the court, the chilled breeze once again enveloped her, raising goosebumps on her elderly skin. Reaching the riverbanks, the earthy scent of algae mingled with the fresh water, filling her senses. As if guided by an unseen hand, she descended into the river without hesitation, offered a silent prayer, immersed herself in the cool water, and then emerged. She stretched out both hands, water streaming from them, the cursed keris resting on her open palm. With a final release, she let the keris slip into the flowing water, then dipped herself several more times, as if cleansing herself of something defiling.
Finally, she stilled and stood in the water, gasping softly. She stepped out of the river in the lingering darkness, leaving her discarded footwear behind. Her bare feet sank into the powdered sand of the Manvi’s bank as she began walking along the path leading out of Taravati – decades after she had been abducted and brought into it.
This was the same route, she recalled, that Tungabhadra had taken her in his chariot, stealing her away. The memory quickened her pace, each soft thud of her bare feet audible in the stillness. With a decisive mental thud, she severed the thought as if it were a lingering dream, and with each subsequent step, she shed another layer of her past burdens. She felt like a mere instrument, free from responsibility for all that had transpired, just as her Goddess had promised through Valli’s words.
After a long walk, as she reached the gates of Purvadasa Nagadutta, her father’s monastery, the sun finally broke the horizon in the east.
Jeyasinghan, driven by ambition and paranoia, murders Pasupati and seizes the throne. His reign is marked by fear and instability. Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, with the aid of the loyal Panbalan and the selfless sacrifice of Sivappi, confront and kill Jeyasinghan, restoring order to the kingdom.
Chapter 25/26: Yearning for a New Dawn
Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
Jeyasinghan’s lifeless body, still mounted on his horse, was brought back to the palace, a grim spectacle for all to witness in the darkness of midnight. Srikrishna, Anirudhdhan, and Panbalan followed the procession, arriving in the lamplit courtyard.
“Victory to Rajmata Parvata Vardini!” the crowd chanted, their voices filled with relief and hope.
As Parvata Vardini emerged into the courtyard, the three men dismounted and paid their respects by placing their closed fists against their chests.
“Are you alright?” she asked, her gaze filled with concern as she embraced her grandsons.
“Yes, Rajmata,” they replied.
Turning to Panbalan, she acknowledged, “You are a true warrior.”
“As are you, Rajmata,” Panbalan replied.
“I know my dearest friend and ally, your grandmother Sivappi, gave her life to save my grandsons. Her thoughts were always for my well-being. She will be honored as the war goddess of Taravati, and a temple will be built for her at the border.”
“As you say, Rajmata,” Srikrishna affirmed.
Panbalan knelt, his eyes closed. His shoulders trembled as he fought back his emotions.
The following day was declared a day of mourning for the late king. Jeyasinghan’s cremation was carried out with full state honors. Neeli, her eyes filled with sorrow, bid farewell to her son’s remains and returned to her village that same day. Before departing, she looked at Parvata Vardini, her voice tinged with disappointment. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“This isn’t about what you or I desire,” Parvata Vardini replied. “A kingdom needs the support of its people. Without it, it will fall, like a palm tree severed at its roots.”
The next day, after a long interval, the court of Tarvati convened. Nearly every resident was present, eager to hear who would take Jeyasinghan’s place.
“What if Anirudhdhan and Srikrishna clash down the road?” Janaki mami voiced her worry as she walked towards the court.
“Yes, that’s been on my mind too,” Kesi mami replied.
The military leaders, headed by Panbalan, the traders led by Sokkalinganatha Chetty, the Vedic literary figures by Vaidhyanatha Ganapadigal, the Hindu priests by Saiva Sidhanta Sivacharya Neekantar, and the Buddhist priests by Ratna Manjunatha were welcomed into the court and shown to their designated seats.
The courtroom soon overflowed, with some citizens standing in the outer rows. Among the attendees was Valli, the celebrated fortune teller from the Pandya kingdom, who had sailed a great distance to reach Taravati, her keen eyes taking in everything as she found her place.
Accompanied by Anirudhdhan and Srikrishna, Parvata Vardini entered the court, greeted by a thunderous ovation. With no signs of age, her gaze steady and resolute, she wore a simple cloth belt around her waist, adorned only with a dagger. Despite the lack of jewels, she exuded an aura of authority, resembling the compassionate Prajna Paramita, the goddess of wisdom.
As the court conductor raised his hand for silence, the noise subsided, and a hush fell over the assembly. “With the blessings of Sri Gautama Siddhartha Sri Venkata Natha and Sri Parameswara, the blessed lands of Taravati and Durgavati have entered a new era of optimism and hope. I, the son of a devotee of my motherland, Gnana-desikan, hereby commence the proceedings of this court. Priest Ratna Manjunatha, address the court.”
A wave of excitement rippled through the crowd. Manjunatha stood up and began –
“Om gate gate paragate.. paramgate bodhi svaha.“
“With the blessings of the lord, I move a motion to appoint Maharani Sridevi Parvata Vardini as the interim queen, empowered to issue interim orders.”
“Hail to Taravati! Hail to Sridevi Parvata Vardini!” The crowd erupted in cheers, echoing through the hall. Manjunatha and Neelakantar assisted Parvata Vardini towards the throne.
Parvata Vardini stood facing the crowd, acknowledging their greetings. She offered prayers, and her seat on the throne. The crowd went crazy and the slogans erupted as high as the roof.
She issued several orders: the appointment of Panbalan as the chief of the army, rewards for Panbalan’s family, and donations to the Darma Kriti Vihara, the Sumedha Vihara, the Ananta Sayani Temple, and the Parameswara temple.
She also decreed the construction of a temple dedicated to Kotravai or Durga, the war goddess, at the city’s edge. Naming it the “Sivappi Ammai Temple,” she honored the fallen heroine. A hero-stone was erected at the site of Sivappi’s courageous fight, and land was granted to support the temple’s upkeep.
As the question-and-answer session commenced, Sokka-Linga-Natha Chetty, representing the traders, posed the first question. “For any nation to thrive, political stability is essential. The recent fights for power and the ongoing violence within the royal family have made us worry about what the future holds. How can we make sure our people have stability and prosperity?”
Manjunatha rose to answer. “Since the ministers are yet to be sworn in, I will address your concerns. We understand the necessity for stability. Our recent history has made it clear that internal conflict leads only to ruin. We are determined that Jeyasinghan’s reign will mark the end of such instability. Only with internal peace can we properly address external threats.”
He continued, “To address your concerns about who will rule next, the court wishes to propose this: Prince Brahmadasan Srikrishna, son of Vallabhan Pasupati, who was the son of the late King Tungabhadra and our revered queen, shall be the next king. Prince Anirudhdhan Chandramurti, son of Bharatan Parameswara, who was the son of the late King Narobha and our revered queen, shall serve as his deputy. They will share the duties of governing.”
Janaki Mami from the citizens stepped forward. “Many mothers here have lost their sons in this power struggle. What if these two princes have a power race in the future and cast a shadow over our future? We cannot keep losing our children because of pointless palace conflicts. Rulers should make our lives easier. If they can’t, they should at least not make them harder. But our lives have become difficult here.”
Manjunatha started to reply, but Parvata Vardini interjected, “The court respects and thanks all of you for sacrificing your sons for the good of the country, amma! I know this question weighs heavily on everyone’s mind. We have considered it deeply. We are aware of the strong bond between both princes. They have endured much and supported each other greatly. We believe their cooperation should evolve further. And we have a plan for that…” She paused briefly before continuing.
“Prince Brahmadasan Srikrishna will marry Sudakshina Vaijayanti, the sister of Prince Anirudhdhan,” she announced.
“That is a wise decision!” Sokka-Linga-Natha Chetty declared enthusiastically.
“Hail the Rajah of the combined lands of Taravati and Durgavati!” the court conductor proclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall, and the crowd roared in response.
“Hail the Deputy Rajah of the combined lands of Taravati and Durgavati!” the cheers continued, filling the air with renewed hope.
“Hail our mother, Rajmata, Nareswari, Sridevi Parvata Vardini!” the cheers reached a powerful crescendo.
arvata Vardini rose, acknowledging the unwavering support of her people. “No kingdom can truly flourish without the backing of its people,” she declared, her voice resonating with conviction. “The trials of the past have imparted invaluable lessons. I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your approval of our decisions concerning the future leadership.”
The court conductor then announced the adjournment of the session, yet the enthusiastic cheers and approving murmurs continued to echo throughout the hall.
Jeyasinghan, having murdered Pasupati, crowns himself king, but his reign is plagued by paranoia and fear of retribution from Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan. He attempts to assassinate the young princes during a hunt, but they are saved by the sacrifice of Sivappi. Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan find refuge with Priest Ratna Manjunatha, where they meet the loyal Panbalan, who reveals his allegiance to Parvata Vardini and joins their cause to overthrow Jeyasinghan. A plan is hatched to create chaos within the palace.
Chapter 24/26: X Marks the End
Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
Anirudhdhan entered the palace from the front, accompanied by Panbalan. Srikrishna entered from the back. All three had their faces covered with black cloth as they rushed towards Jeyasinghan’s bedroom, where the commotion was escalating.
“Enough is enough!” Jeyasinghan roared. “I will drag the old hag queen by her hair and cut off her head in public, the pros*itute!” he yelled and gritted his teeth as if they will break into pieces, raising his sword towards a supporter of Parvata Vardini. Suddenly, Srikrishna kicked him from behind, dislodging the sword from his grasp.
“You will pay for your slanderous words, you unlawful uncle,” Srikrishna declared, his eyes blazing with fury.
“You? So, all these are designed by that witch her group, is it. Do you still think you are the king. The kingdom is mine. You are just transit. You won’t see another sunrise, young man.” Jeyasinghan spun around to face him. As the fight erupted, Anirudhdhan joined Srikrishna. The conflict intensified, and as supporters of Parvata Vardini flooded into the palace, Jeyasinghan was forced into a retreat. He eventually leaped down the stairs, seized a horse, and fled towards the forest.
***
“Come, come… this is the way… come, come…”
Jeyasinghan heard a voice as he rushed away on horseback. “Whose that?” he asked.
“Go at once… The forest is good. The forest is divine. The forest is lonely… come, join our world,” the voice continued to echo.
“I say, whose that?” he shouted. His voice sounded rough and strained.
With a scary laugh like the cry of an owl, Sivappi appeared in the air, her sarong smudged to air, her grey hair flowing wildly, seemingly obscuring the rain-covered forest behind her.
“Goodwill or evil, it will follow you. No matter how fast you go,” the old woman laughed in a thunderous voice.
***
As Srikrishna pursued him, Panbalan called out to Anirudhdhan, “Prince!” Upon seeing him, he threw the keris towards Anirudhdhan. Anirudhdhan caught it in one hand and tossed it to Srikrishna, who was now also in pursuit. The three of them chased Jeyasinghan into the same forest where he had plotted to kill the princes during hunting. Jeyasinghan had a head start, but the other three had already spotted him in the distance. The horse’s progress was soon impeded as they reached the paddy fields bordering the forest.
Crossing the muddy paddy fields with their sandy bunds proved difficult. Jeyasinghan stumbled and fell into the mud. As he scrambled to his feet and rushed towards the trees, the other three caught up.
“You are not supposed to do this to me! I am of your father’s generation, your elder!” Jeyasinghan pleaded desperately.
“Did you ever consider that when you plotted to stab my father on his back, dear uncle? Rajmata is of your mother’s generation, isn’t she? Did you think about that, when your people abused her? After all the wrong you’ve done, what made you believe I’d show you mercy? ” Srikrishna retorted.
“Did you ever think about it, when you planned to assassinate us during our hunting trip?” Anirudhdhan added, as they surrounded Jeyasinghan.
The moonlight illuminated the muddy field, making their grim task starkly visible. The cry of a lone fox echoed from the forest, soon joined by the howls of others. with a reddish eyes, At the edge of the rainforest on Mount Ranadhira’s slope, two hyenas appeared, their eyes gleaming red in the darkness.
“Prince!” Panbalan called out.
Srikrishna turned towards him.
“Chest!” Panbalan urged, gesturing. He wanted to steer the princes away from the cowardly act of backstabbing that had defined Narobha and Jeyasinghan’s past.
As Jeyasinghan frantically tried to draw his dagger, a unified “Heyyyyy….” echoed through the moonlit darkness. In that instant Srikrishna plunged the keris deep into Jeyasinghan’s chest. He forcefully penetrated Jeyasinghan’s torso, while Anirudhdhan held him firmly in place. Jeyasinghan’s choked cry startled the distant hyenas. Gasping for air from punctured lungs, his life finally sputtered out with a gurgling ‘khrrr… khrrr.‘
Suddenly, Narobha’s spectral form appeared in the sky as a flash of lightning, his voice booming like thunder, “Hey Maran Saththan, isn’t that enough? Please release my children from your vengeance…” The lightning illuminated the entire forest as bright as day, revealing Jeyasinghan’s terrified face to all three of them. Maran Saththan manifested on the other side as a long streak of lightning that struck a nearby tree, followed by a thunderous pronouncement: “Om.”
Driven by vengeance for his father’s murder, Pasupati assassinates Narobha, but is swiftly killed by Jeyasinghan, who seizes the throne. Parvata Vardini mourns Narobha, while the vengeful spirit of Maran Saththan revels in the bloodshed. Jeyasinghan, plagued by paranoia and guilt, attempts to eliminate Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, but their lives are saved by the unexpected intervention and sacrifice of the seemingly insane Sivappi.
Chapter 23/26: Silent Subversion
Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan – the sons of Pasupati and Bharatan and grandsons of Parvata Vardini – reached the Darma Kriti Vihara, a monastery nestled on a hilltop.
On their journey, they buried Sivappi by a jungle stream, marking her grave with a small rock. Their walk through the enchanting jungle was filled with tiger butterflies and plantain squirrels darting above the flowing water. The mountainous terrain consisted of a series of hills, each slope ending at a stream before the next uphill began. Some streams were knee-deep, and slippery rocks made crossing treacherous. These streams proved vital, providing drinking water as they carried no food and had no time to forage, knowing Panbalan and Jeyasinghan would be hunting them in the forest.
The Darma Kriti Vihara was administered by Ratna Manjunatha, an influential priest and a former student of Purvadasa Nagadutta, the priest of Taravati and father of Rajmata Parvata Vardini. He was surprised to see the two princes arrive at such an odd hour. He offered them refreshments and instructed his kitchen staff to prepare food for them.
As they descended into the nearby pond, where water flowed from sculpted figures – the mouth of a tiger, the breasts of a dancing woman, and the phallus of a squatting boy – the princes couldn’t help but smile. These artistic expressions, a fusion of local cultures, had originated in Suwarnadvipa.
A bikshu approached, offering towels and sarongs woven from tree bark. His face seemed familiar to Srikrishna – the same bikshu who occasionally visited his grandmother, Parvata Vardini. Yet, the bikshu gave no sign of recognition, simply leaving the offerings by the pond before departing with a strange demeanor.
At that unusual hour, after their arduous trek up and down hills with only stream water to sustain them, the simple porridge offered by the kitchen staff tasted like nectar to the weary princes.
Since the princes had sought refuge with him, Ratna Manjunatha listened intently to their story the next morning. While the princes relaxed, Manjunatha instructed his students to keep a vigilant watch on the surrounding hills for any signs of pursuit.
***
Meanwhile, in Taravati, the situation remained tense. Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan were missing, and so was Panbalan, Jeyasinghan’s military leader. People whispered that Jeyasinghan was behind it. People began to question Jeyasinghan’s authority, and a palpable unease settled over the kingdom.
Jeyasinghan, consumed by paranoia, became increasingly withdrawn, seeking solace in palm toddy. He would often wake up in the middle of the night, startled by nightmares, shouting in his sleep. Although he had become king, he was viewed as a usurper, and the loyalty of the people, particularly the palace attendants, remained firmly with Parvata Vardini. This created a deep rift within the court, dividing supporters of Jeyasinghan from those who remained loyal to the memory of Narobha and the rightful heirs.
A few days later, one of Manjunatha’s students alerted his master about a man approaching the monastery, a sword sheathed at his hip. The student informed Manjunatha and instructed the princes to retreat to the underground chamber beneath the statue of the Dhyani Buddha and seal the entrance.
The unexpected visitor was none other than Panbalan. Upon seeing the abbot from a distance, Panbalan raised his right hand, clenched into a fist, and touched his left chest. This was a secret gesture, a symbol of allegiance to Parvata Vardini and Narobha.
Manjunatha, Srikrishna, and Anirudhdhan gathered in the prayer room. Srikrishna was initially suspicious of Panbalan, but Manjunatha reassured him, “My dear princes, Panbalan works directly under Queen Parvata Vardini. The Queen Mother met him once as a child in a temple. He bravely asked her for a tender coconut.” Manjunatha smiled. “Impressed, she funded his education at Nalanda Mahavihara in the Gupta Kingdom and later appointed him to oversee her intelligence network.”
After a pause, he continued, “He was the grandson of her associate Sivappi, the seemingly mad old woman who just died fighting Jeyasinghan’s men. Sivappi and the Queen Mother were educated together at Purvadasa’s monastery. Panbalan is well-educated, intelligent, and was sent as a mole to Jeyasinghan’s court. Despite the close watch kept by Panbalan and Sivappi, these unfortunate events still occurred.”
When Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan turned towards him, Panbalan stood up, keeping his fist clenched against his chest and saying, “Hail our motherland, Taravati. Hail our mother, Rajmata Sridevi Parvata Vardini.” Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan echoed his words.
Astonished by his grandmother’s hidden network, Anirudhdhan inquired, “Why did Sivappi ask us to meet you?”
Manjunatha explained, “In a way, all three of us share the same guru – Purvadasa Nagadutta. When he was brutally murdered, I took over his monastery and shared the information I gathered with the queen. So, I have knowledge of important royal events and have been consulted, not by the kings, but by the queen herself.”
“I am aware of the growing discontent and the divisions within Jeyasinghan’s court,” Manjunatha stated. “A small spark can ignite a major conflagration. We need to stir things up, to make people turn against each other.”
“But how?” Panbalan asked.
“I will take care of that,” Manjunatha replied. “I will be leaving for Taravati in a couple of days. I will stay at Sumedha Vihara. It belongs to the Bodhisattva Temple. That’s where Parvata Vardini often offers prayers there on new moon and full moon nights. You will meet me there on that day. at the same place” Manjunatha pointed at the three of them. “No one should see you until you meet me.”
***
On the day of the new moon, Srikrishna, Anirudhdhan, and Panbalan left the monastery and began their descent down the mountain. As the sun began to set, they reached the outskirts of Taravati. Being the same age and facing a common enemy forged a bond among them.
As it was a customary practice, Jeyasinghan’s spies did not closely monitor Parvata Vardini’s visits to the Sumedha Vihara. After her prayers, she met with Manjunatha, the abbot from the Darma Kriti Vihara. Three young women approached, greeting the queen with deep respect. Parvata Vardini, a knowing smile gracing her lips, blessed them and offered each a flower from her talam, the brass plate.
That night, an unusual darkness descended upon the palace. The number of oil torches seemed to be fewer than usual, casting long, eerie shadows. The mournful hoots of Javan scops owls added to the disquieting atmosphere. Suddenly, a figure cloaked in black emerged from the shadows, silently moving through the palace.
One of Jeyasinghan’s guards, hardcore supporter of Jeyasinghan, patrolling the area, noticed the intruder. He challenged the figure, but before he could react, the intruder swiftly silenced him, slitting his throat with a single, swift motion. The guard’s body slumped to the ground, a silent testament to the darkness that had descended upon the palace.
Panic erupted as the other guards, alerted by the fallen guard’s choked ‘hrrk… kreeehh’ sound, rushed to investigate. The palace plunged into chaos as guards shouted warnings and drew their weapons.
“Rajmata’s people must have done this!” someone yelled. “Let’s kill them all! all of them!” another exclaimed, leaping forward.
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. Narobha is assassinated by the loyal Nambi, who is then immediately killed by Pasupati. However, Pasupati is then betrayed and murdered by Jeyasinghan, who usurps the throne.
Chapter 22/26: Uprising
Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
Jeyasinghan was swimming in the Manvi River, near its source in the Madana forest. Butterflies and bees competed for nectar from clusters of jasmine blooms, while a peacock displayed its magnificent plumage, attempting to impress two peahens nearby. As the scenery glided past, Jeyasinghan reached the Padmanabhi natural spring, considered the river’s source.
Suddenly, he felt paralyzed, unable to swim despite his best efforts. Turning, he saw himself ensnared by the coils of two gigantic pythons, their bodies disappearing deep into the forest. Their heads remained unseen, and their massive forms filled half the forest, their scales shimmering in the sunlight as their bodies intertwined and slithered.
Terrified, Jeyasinghan struggled but couldn’t even inch forward. He tried to scream but couldn’t utter a sound. The pythons began to constrict, their coils tightening around him, causing excruciating pain as his bones threatened to snap.
The snakes reared up, their heads towering over him. To his horror, Jeyasinghan saw that the snakes had human faces – the faces of Brahmadasan Srikrishna, son of Pasupati whom he murdered, and Anirudhdhan Chandramurti, the son of Bharatan Paramesvara, the son of Narobha and Parvata Vardini.
Their faces were green, their eyes bloodshot and terrifying. As they opened their mouths, Jeyasinghan saw their crimson tongues flicking out, threatening to engulf him. He recognized them, a chilling realization gripping him.
Their fangs resembled keris, and rings adorned their necks like the conch bangles of the Pandya land. With a predatory grace, each snake positioned itself on either side of Jeyasinghan, their fangs slowly sinking into his neck, inflicting agonizing pain.
Screaming, Jeyasinghan awoke from his bed, drenched in sweat. The nightmare left him trembling.
On the day he murdered Pasupati, Jeyasinghan had been consumed by fear induced by paranoia. After the deed was done, he saw Sivappi, the eccentric old woman, hiding in the bushes nearby. She had witnessed the murder and was screaming in terror, her hair disheveled.
As the toddy wore off, replaced by the weight of his betrayal, Jeyasinghan knew he had to act fast. He stormed to his residence, used his men to seize the main palace, and took control. He gave the palace guards a simple, brutal choice: side with him or face death. Most yielded to his threats and swore loyalty.
Laughing victoriously, Jeyasinghan walked towards Pasupati’s home, his mind already claiming the queen of the man he’d just struck down. But there, blocking his path, stood Parvata Vardini. Her once dark hair now streaked with grey, unbound and cascading down her shoulders, she held a long sword, her stance radiating defiance.
“In all our history, no man in my family has ever touched another’s wife. If you want to shame yourself, face my sword! Either I win, or I’ll cut my own throat right here,” she declared, slamming her sword point into the ground. Her attendants quickly gathered around her, weapons ready. Tears streamed down her face, but her determination didn’t break. The Queen Mother of Taravati stood firm, like a mother hen shielding her chicks from a hawk.
“Narobha is burned to ash. It seems his spirit of wickedness lives on in you. If you truly desire to be king, act with courage, not like a lustful dog,” her voice resonated through the hall. Jeyasinghan, his arrogance deflated by her unwavering defiance, turned and retreated.
***
The following day, with the help of his Atharva Veda priest – since the regular priest refused to crown an unmarried man – Jeyasinghan declared himself king of Taravati and Durgavati. The coronation was a small affair, attended by only a handful of commoners and merchants. Parvata Vardini and her family pointedly stayed away.
Jeyasinghan often found himself reflecting on his actions:
‘I sought revenge for my father’s death and my own. But can I escape retribution? Has any kingdom ever survived such back-stabbing? What if I cannot escape the consequences? What if the next generation – teenagers like Brahmadasan Srikrishna or Anirudhdhan Chandramurti – seek revenge?’
The image of Parvata Vardini confronting him with her sword haunted him.
‘I’m sure she orchestrated both Narobha’s and Tungabhadra’s deaths. She seems innocent to his followers, but she’s cunning and deadly to those who threaten her. She disregarded her own husbands. Will she ever care for me?’
The following day, he exiled both princes to Durgavati, the kingdom on the other side of Mount Ranadhira – Srikrishna to the north and Anirudhdhan to the south, while keeping them under close surveillance. However, his paranoia continued to torment him. He couldn’t sleep well, always jumpy at any little noise.
The one who faces their enemy sleeps soundly, but the betrayer knows no rest.
***
On the anniversary of Narobha’s death, rituals took place along the Manvi River. All family gathered, including Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan. Afterward, Jeyasinghan, forcing a smile, invited the two youths to stay longer for a hunt the next day.
During the hunt, Jeyasinghan instructed Panbalan, his loyal aide and military head, to isolate and kill Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, staging it as a tiger attack.
They rode out on horses, followed by slow ox carts carrying supplies, leaving the city, crossing border farms, and reaching the Ranadhira foothills. The king and the princes entered the rainforest.
“Prince, this path leads to a grassland teeming with striped rabbits, their meat tender and delicious!” Panbalan suggested. They agreed. Panbalan went first, then Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, with Jeyasinghan last. The teens, no fools, noticed this leader-follower pattern. Despite the hunt, Panbalan didn’t offer them a bow and arrow, remained unused on his horse. Aware of Jeyasinghan’s nature, they exchanged knowing glances.
Reaching a flat grassfield nestled in the larger hill, they saw the sun-baked peak and the knee-high green patches on the slope. They dismounted, and their assistants gathered their tools – like glass lenses from Zhongguo, short dagger and bow and arrow from Tamil land – together.
“Look at this track,” Panbalan said, studying the grass. Jeyasinghan, Srikrishna, and Anirudhdhan approached.
“This is their usual path. We’ll set traps along it in several places and then hunt. We might get something by evening. What do you think?”
Anirudhdhan bent to examine the track, but Srikrishna heard the rasp of a sword being drawn – it was Jeyasinghan. Realizing the danger, Srikrishna kicked Anirudhdhan’s backside, yelling, “Ani, run!” He grabbed Jeyasinghan with both hands and shoved him down the slope.
The two princes sprinted uphill, deep into the forest, pursued by Panbalan and his guards. Running uphill was exhausting, and soon all were winded. But the princes couldn’t relax, feeling the constant gaze of Panbalan and his two men. Hiding behind the thick trunk of an ancient teak tree, Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan held their breath.
The jungle’s silence was broken by a cuckoo’s call, and then a Malayan ground pit viper emerged from the dry leaves, slithering directly towards their hiding place. Seeing Anirudhdhan, the snake flattened its body and began to rattle its tail.
Shocked, Srikrishna swiftly intervened, deflecting the cobra’s strike with his sword. He then swiftly slashed its neck. Anirudhdhan, stunned by Srikrishna’s quick action, hugged him in relief.
However, the commotion alerted Jeyasinghan’s men. “Heyyyy… Over there!” they shouted, rushing towards the princes.
Suddenly, Sivappi, the seemingly mad old woman, sprang from a tree branch, landing on one of the men and knocking him down. She then jabbed his eyes with her middle and index fingers. Another man, enraged, drew his sword and sliced her back, severing her arm, yelling in triumph. With a horrifying scream, she retaliated, but another sword strike brought her down.
Seeing their chance, Anirudhdhan quickly killed the soldier who had attacked Sivappi. Then, both princes hurried to her side. As Sivappi lay dying, she whispered, “Ratna….Ma.. Manju… Natha…” and pointed her one remaining arm towards the hilltop before she died.
“Oh, my mother,” Srikrishna’s voice trembled out of emotions, cradling her lifeless body. Anirudhdhan bowed his head in respect while Srikrishna’s eyes scanned for Panbalan, who had disappeared as his ambush turned against him. With Sivappi’s body resting on Srikrishna’s shoulders, they began their ascent of the hill.
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.
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.
Chapter 20/26: Treacherous Termination
Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
Narobha and Jeyasinghan came out of the palace hall. Narobha offered him a new brownish-white horse, imported by an Arab merchant. It looked mighty and powerful. The palace horse trainer received it on Jeyasinghan’s behalf and brought it to the horse tent for training.
When Jeyasinghan thanked him, Narobha patted him on the shoulder with a smile, as Pasupati watched from the aisle. Though both of them knew about Pasupati’s presence, only Jeyasinghan met his gaze eye to eye with a deceitful smile. Pasupati left at once, pretending that he didn’t mind. Jeyasinghan departed on the other side. Narobha reached his residence, refreshed himself, and stood on the terrace looking at the Manvi River. He enjoyed the sea breeze from the distant beach, enriched by its journey along the Manvi.
He was waiting for his palm toddy to begin his happy hour. Narobha turned around, expecting his attendant with the porcelain pot of toddy. But it was Nambi, Jeyasinghan’s assistant. On seeing Narobha, Nambi bowed his head in respect. Narobha didn’t mind, as Nambi often loitered inside the palace and royal homes, and turned back towards the Manvi.
A flock of parrots flew back to their mango tree near the palace after hunting all day. Narobha might not have been able to distinguish between the green parrots and the raw mangoes on the tree. The parrots’ ‘keewq.. keewq..’ calls filled the air, making the place lively and cheerful.
Nambi looked at Narobha’s back, which gleamed like a black rock, and the slight roll of flesh trying to form a bend on his belly from behind. He brought his hand to the back of his shoulder to take it – it was the unfinished-cursed-keris, glittering in the evening sunlight.
With his hand trembling, he saw the sharp tip reflecting a drop of sunlight, pulled his hand back momentarily, and then pushed the keris with full force into Narobha’s back. Before Narobha realized what was happening, the sharp keris punctured his stomach and emerged on the other side. The tip, that was holding the drop of sunlight a moment earlier, dripped Narobha’s brownish blood onto the floor.
With a wild roar that shook the surroundings, startling the parrots into flight, Narobha tried to turn and grab Nambi. As Nambi’s hand fumbled on the handle, he gripped the keris with both hands and fled, leaving a trail of blood across the corridor. He burst through the door just as Pasupati was stepping into his father’s residence.
On seeing Pasupati, Nambi, with a broad smile on his face on the successful execution of his assignment, said, “Oh, my King, I…”
Pasupati shut Nambi’s mouth with his hand, grabbed the keris from him, and stabbed him in his stomach.
“Aahhh… Maharaj…” Nambi shouted in pain.
“You thankless dog! How dare you kill my father?” Pasupati shouted and plunged the keris once again into Nambi’s stomach. Realizing what was happening, Nambi fell to the ground with a painful smile on his face.
On the other side, Parvata Vardini, hearing Narobha’s agonizing cry, raced to the stairs. The sight of him in a spreading pool of crimson made her gasp, and she instinctively reached down, her hand closing her mouth in a silent scream of shock.
But in Narobha’s fading vision, it wasn’t his wife. It was Maran Saththan, blacksmith of Panai Kulam, his face contorted in a triumphant, chilling smile, a spectral hand pressed mockingly to his own lips.
Parvata Vardini knelt, tears streaming down her face as she cradled Narobha’s punctured body in her arms, a desperate attempt to hold onto the life that was rapidly escaping away.
Through Narobha’s eyes, however, Maran Saththan’s form seemed to thickened, the spectral figure lifting him with unnatural ease, pulling him into a cold embrace.
“You haven’t died yet?” Narobha choked out, his voice a bare whisper.
The figure of Maran Saththan threw back his head, a booming, spectral laugh that seemed to physically shake the very foundations of the terrace, sending terrified parrots scattering from their roosts outside. “I was waiting for you, my impulsive customer! All this time.”
“How…?” Narobha’s eyes flickered, losing focus.
“Ask me why, Narobha,” the spectral voice hissed, laced with ancient malice. “Grudge. I need more blood. I am still so thirsty…”
Narobha’s eyelids fluttered, then slowly, irrevocably, sealed shut. Gently guided by her distraught daughters-in-laws, Parvata Vardini, her heart shattered, finally moved away from the lifeless weight in her arms.
Valli reveals the deep-seated pain and anger Parvata Vardini harbors due to Narobha’s betrayal and favoritism towards Neeli and Jeyasinghan. A confrontation ensues where Parvata Vardini accuses Narobha of breaking his promise to make Pasupati the heir. Their rancorous exchange leaves Parvata Vardini feeling trapped and alone. Seeking solace, she confides in Valli, who offers a cryptic and ominous warning about the inevitable consequences and the “thirsty” cursed keris.
Chapter 19: Seed of Subversion
Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
On her way, Parvata Vardini inquired about Valli, who remained unconscious since the previous night. After their intense encounter, Parvata Vardini felt a sense of detachment from her burdens. Problems seem huge up close, clouding judgment; distance brings clarity for better decisions.
Her steps led her to Pasupati’s quiet residence, his wife and children having left for their palace duties. Inside, Pasupati was pacing back and forth. He paused upon seeing his mother.
“How are you feeling now?” Parvata Vardini asked. He appeared recovered.
He tried to answer, but words failed him. Anger made his lips tremble, his breath heavy. He resumed pacing. Parvata Vardini waited, then asked him to sit. He complied.
“I know what troubles you. Jeyasinghan?”
“No. It’s you. You and your husband,” Pasupati stated, his voice steady like hers. Despite the unease, children confront parents eventually, often with lasting consequences.
“Are you truly my mother? Or am I adopted?” Pasupati asked, meeting her gaze directly.
“Do you seek to shame me? Why do you wish to wound me?”
“I hope you’re here as my mother, not as queen of the great king of united lands of Taravati and Durgavati, Narasingha Sudan. Let me be blunt. Fine, I’ll be the bad son, unworthy of the crown. If not me, shouldn’t Bharatan Parameswara, my younger brother, be your choice? Why do you both favor a concubine’s son so greatly?”
“…”
“Do you know what they said about you? As your son, I was angered. Is it wrong? But wasn’t it more your husband’s duty to silence such insults? Did he do so?”
“…”
“He confronts those who threaten his throne. Yet, Neeli‘s villagers continuously slander you, and he does nothing. Instead, he tries to suppress me and give the crown to his favorite’s son. He is fond of his power and his concubine, not you, your kids or grand kids. How can you permit this?”
“…”
“Besides being your son and his, what wrong have I done, Mother? Tell me?”
Despite his sharp words cutting deep, Parvata Vardini maintained her composure. “You are my son. Without question. Yes. That is the only ‘sin’ you committed,” she began, her voice steady. The pressure within her mind began to release, pouring years of pent-up tension. She recounted the past, a history she never intended to share, explaining the true reasons behind Narobha’s treatment of him as a lesser son.
He looked as if he’d been struck. His breath hitched in his throat, and his eyes widened, mirroring the enormity of her words. A tremor ran through his hands, though he pressed them firmly onto his knees. “What happened to my father?” he asked, his voice a strained whisper, looking at the floor.
“Your father… he was not a man of virtue as you are,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, a flicker of ancient sorrow in her eyes. She paused, as if the words themselves were a bitter taste on her tongue. “He was murdered.”
Pasupati’s self-restraint started to crumble.. “Who was the murderer?”
Parvata Vardini’s gaze hardened, a steely resolve replacing the earlier vulnerability. The name, when it came, was clipped and precise. “It was your foster father, Narobha.”
Pasupati jerked as if struck by a physical blow. “Whattttt?…” His head shook slowly, a gesture of utter disbelief. Then, a dawning horror spread across his face, his earlier composure finally fracturing. His eyes, wide with shock, met hers. “Now I understand, Clearly, Mother. Very clear.” he whispered, the words laced with a chilling clarity. “How did he kill my father? How did that happen?”
“Using the keris in the palace hall,” she said, her voice heavy with the regret. “The cursed keris, the one whispers the tales of betrayal and death of this kingdom. You may wonder why I agreed for.. for.. everything? Oh my god, why you put me in this difficult position to discuss this with my kid? At that moment…” Her voice caught, a flicker of pain crossing her features. “I had no other choice, then. Pregnant with you, carrying the weight of my sinful beauty, where could I have gone? But I’d been given promise back then: you were going to be the one to take over the throne later.”
Parvata Vardini held his head to her shoulder and gently patted it. The soft sea breeze, carrying the scent of spice spice garden, drifted into the house, making the screens on the wooden beam sway slightly.
Night had fallen. Nambi, Pasupati’s loyal assistant, was organizing the manuscripts and palm leaf scrolls. When Pasupati returned from his evening visit to the temple and monastery, he summoned Nambi upstairs.
“King, the manuscripts are ready. You can begin reading the new epic, Civaka Cuntamani, from distant Tamil land. It was written about a century ago. This is the first copy to reach our lands, dear Maharaj, It may be a solace for your mind, as you are sick.” Nambi informed him, his usual respectful tone evident.
“Alright. Set them aside. We have a crucial task to complete,” Pasupati began, his words and eyes blazing with intense vengeance. The redness in his eyes thrilled Nambi.
When the innocent are convinced they wield great power, they remain in that illusion, ready to obey any command. Pasupati retrieved something from behind his back, concealed by Chinese silk. It was the cursed keris, the very one Narobha kept in the palace court as a symbol of his fortune.
Pasupati had made encouraging gestures, a silent command of “Go and do it.” His eyes wide with anticipation and obedience, Nambi took the cursed keris, concealing it against his back beneath his anka-vastra, the shawl.
The sun had fully dipped below the horizon in the west. The moon had yet to ascend. A thick blanket of darkness enveloped the land.
Valli narrates the growing discord in the kingdom. Narobha’s favoritism towards Neeli and Jeyasinghan leads to public humiliation for Pasupati. Despite Pasupati’s appeal for justice after being unfairly attacked by Jeyasinghan, Narobha dismisses the incident, leaving Pasupati feeling abandoned. Tensions simmer between the rightful heir and the favored son of the concubine. Parvata Vardini, increasingly isolated and disillusioned, witnesses her son’s suffering and the erosion of her own position.
Chapter 18/26: Rancorous Retort
Part 1/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’
Valli‘s voice, though soft, carried a weight of understanding. “It is true, Maharani,” she began, “that women are often conditioned to endure abuse and injustice, to accept unfairness. But the moment that injustice touches their children, that ingrained tolerance shatters.”
That morning, the silent bikshu had arrived. As always, his demeanor was detached, almost animalistic. He presented her with a rolled palm leaf, protected within a silk covering. Despite his repeated visits, there was no acknowledgment of her royal status, no gesture of respect, no formal greeting or farewell. He simply appeared and disappeared. Once he was gone, Parvata Vardini carefully unwrapped the leaf and read the stark message:
When promises are broken, the gods themselves should intervene to uphold them. Promises now seem to be fading away, while I see more and more eyes watching. — Manju Natha
The weight of the message settled heavily within her. She clutched the palm leaf, its edges digging into her palm, let out a soft sigh. The deep ache became a relentless undercurrent to her simmering anger, a constant internal boil that persisted all day long.
That evening, beneath the full moon’s silver glow, she sat by the lone banyan on the bank of Manvi River. Her inner unrest mirrored the shimmering river, her temple worship complete. Seeking solace, she sent her grandchildren inside, finding a space for her turbulent thoughts beneath the ancient tree’s sprawling branches.
Unusually, Narobha approached her beneath the banyan tree. “I was looking for you,” he said, settling beside her. Receiving no response, he inquired, “Are we going to the temple today?”
She turned, her gaze piercing his. “What?” he asked, a flicker of unease in his eyes.
“You are aware of what happened to Pasupati. A full day has passed, and you haven’t seen fit to discuss it with me?”
As anticipated, his reply was immediate. “That’s precisely why I myself came searching for you!”
The deliberate emphasis he placed on ‘myself’ grated on Parvata Vardini’s already frayed nerves. She knew his words were hollow. He hadn’t sought her out of genuine concern. Now that she had spoken, he was attempting to feign worry. Such responses only deepened her weariness. They were the carefully crafted shields of someone seeking to end a conversation, yet they chipped away at the speaker’s integrity, revealing a self-serving nature.
Parvata Vardini replied, “Let’s dispense with the pretense. How long has it been since you’ve accompanied me for the full moon prayers? How long since you’ve had an open conversation with Pasupati? Yesterday was significant. The entire kingdom buzzes with outrage at the injustice he suffered. Do you finally feel a sliver of guilt and now attempt to mask it with a sudden desire to visit the temple and feign concern? Do you truly believe I still see you through a veil of such naiveté?”
“But… I was simply asking about the temple. You seem upset.”
“Enough. I have no desire for verbal games, nor will I prolong this charade. When do you intend to name him crown prince? This is typically done in their youth, yet he is now married with children. He has waited long enough. There is no purpose in this continued delay… and when do you plan to step down?”
“What has happened now? What is the urgency?”
“What more needs to happen? Jeyasinghan continues to humiliate Pasupati, and you do nothing to stop him. He and his mother stood at Pasupati’s very door, shouting their insults. You exert no control over them. Pasupati is the future king of this land. Such conflicts should be veiled, not displayed for the common eyes. Must I spell this all out for you?”
“Next king… Hmm… You see, it isn’t solely by birth. It’s about strength, intelligence, and the capacity to protect our people. We must determine who possesses these qualities before naming the crown prince.”
“What? Is there another contender for the crown in your mind?”
“I said we need to evaluate their abilities. This is about the well-being of our citizens, not merely our personal desires.”
“So, this has been your intention all along… And that’s why you’ve been delaying. Let me remind you of the promise you made when you married me. You pledged to make Pasupati the next king.”
That doesn’t mean my words are mutable. I will make a decision based on sound judgment and the counsel of the people’s representatives and my ministers.”
“Do not do this, Narobha.” Though Parvata Vardini’s voice remained level, it resonated with an unyielding resolve. And it had been decades since she had addressed him by his given name.
“Hmm… What did you say?” Narobha growled, his tone laced with a dangerous edge.
“This land is Tungabhadra‘s legacy. It should rightfully pass to Pasupati. This was my condition, spoken to you and the elder Narayana Bhattar, before I consented to our marriage. I am the one who brought this kingdom to you, and you are merely a steward, holding it until my son reaches the age to claim his birthright. Now that you’ve gotten what you wanted, you’re attempting to renege on your promise.”
“Times are changing. Our challenges are evolving. Narayana Bhattar is no more. I am seeking a strong king for our throne. Jeyasinghan would be a suitable choice. He even bested Pasupati yesterday.”
“That was no true victory. He disregarded all rules, just as you are now twisting your words. Like father, like son. The crown is not a mere possession for you, to bestow as you please. A king needs the support of his people; they must accept him as their leader. No one in Taravati desires your concubine’s son. Lineage matters in a kingdom.” A loud sigh escaped her lips before she continued, “I believed I was your first wife, yet you concealed your village partner, intending to keep her as a concubine. And now you seek to break your solemn vow and alter the very succession?”
“Why are you so worried? You should be grateful that I spared your life and treated you with dignity after I killed your former husband, the king. Have I ever complained about being your second husband? I don’t mind enjoying salak, but not if someone else has tasted it first..” Narobha retorted, a mocking laugh escaping his lips.
Parvata Vardini rose abruptly, a chilling resolve hardening her gaze with bitterness. Narobha’s dismissive smile met her fury. With a swift turn, she retreated to her room in her palace, the air thick with unspoken intent.
“Stop at once!” Parvata Vardini commanded, her voice sharp with suspicion. “I know the fortune tellers of your land are skilled in reading minds. And you somehow glean information from within the palace walls, yet you attempt to deceive me.”
“…” Valli remained still, her eyes closed, a deliberate pause hanging in the air.
“This is a well-worn tactic,” Parvata Vardini continued, her tone accusatory. “You interrogate various individuals, piece together fragments, and weave a narrative to feign the ability to foresee the future. I have no intention of remaining here any longer.”
Before Parvata Vardini could rise, Valli, still with her eyes closed, made a subtle gesture with her hand, a silent plea to stop and sit. In that instant, Parvata Vardini understood her own sharp reaction. She had believed Valli had touched upon her deepest vulnerability, a raw nerve that had erupted in a surge of anger.
Valli continued, her voice calm and even, “Upon reaching your private chambers, the solitude pressed in on you, and thought about your children.. Unable to contain the storm within, you collapsed onto your bed, your composure shattering into wrenching sobs.”
Valli’s voice then shifted, taking on a tone of profound anguish, seemingly channeling Parvata Vardini’s inner lament. “Within your very soul, you cried out, ‘Ammaa… why did you bring me into this world? You stole my youth, you took my father, you shattered my joyous marriage, and then you cast me into this hell. Now you have further complicated my existence with children, with the tangled web of human relationships and their affections. And now, once again, you push me down into the mire… Show me some compassion. O, goddess of compassion, save me from this torment!'”
Valli’s rigid defiance sharpened as her eyes snapped wide, bulging unnervingly, their stark whiteness like bone, sent a shiver of terror through Parvata Vardini. “Isn’t that what you pleaded with me that night?” Valli’s voice resonated, an unnatural echo that seemed to emanate from the very timbers of the roof above.
Parvata Vardini’s hands instinctively clasped together, rising into a gesture of profound reverence and terror. “Oh my, Pramitye!” she gasped, the full name of the fierce goddess barely a whisper on her lips.
“Hmm,” Valli growled, a low, guttural sound akin to the menacing rumble of a furious wild boar defending its young. “Listen to me. Break free from the illusion of earthly joys and sorrows, of love and attachment. This existence has been forced upon you by your world. You bear no responsibility for the events of the past, nor for what is yet to come. How long can you stem the tide of blood when others relentlessly accumulate their transgressions, ah? My wrath, channeled through the cursed keris, thirsts. Do not be so foolish as to believe you can stop it.”
“Ammaahh… It will be…” Parvata Vardini stammered, her voice choked with dread.
“Yes,” Valli’s voice boomed, heavy with foreboding. “Painful! Inevitable. Yet, I won’t abandon you.” As if in response to this pronouncement, the clear night sky outside was suddenly rent by a violent flash of lightning, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. With a sudden, unnatural force, as if a ripe coconut had detached from its tree, Valli propelled herself from her seat, her body slamming against the wall of the room with a sickening thud.
Parvata Vardini’s hands trembled uncontrollably as she raised them higher in desperate worship towards Pramita Devi. Beads of cold sweat erupted across her brow, each drop a testament to the sheer terror that gripped her.
*** End of Part 1/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’ ***
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.”
