Rao’s eyes closed, as he savored the memory.
“On my knees. He came up to me and extended his hand, but I refused the offer. I stayed on my knees for several minutes, not because I was still shocked, but because I was praying.”
He opened his eyes and stared at the blinding sky of India. “I understood, then—I knew—that God has not forsaken us. I knew the asura was doomed.”
He brought down his eyes to meet those of his friend. “Trust me in this, Maloji. If the thing can be done, Kungas will do it.”
* * *
Silence reigned for several minutes. Then, with a little shake of his head, Rao spoke again. His voice was perhaps a bit harsh.
“The empress wrote the letter to ask for my advice. The Cholas have offered marriage to her. The eldest son of the dynasty.”
Maloji studied Rao intently. “And what did you say?”
Rao flexed his hands. He spent a few seconds examining the opening and closing fingers, as if they were objects of great fascination.
“I urged her to accept,” he said forcefully. “The Cholas are the most powerful independent kingdom of south India. Their proposal was full of quibbles, of course, but they are still offering a genuine alliance. A marriage between Shakuntala and the Cholas would strengthen us like no other. I am in full agreement with Dadaji Holkar on that matter, and I told her so very clearly.”
Maloji looked away. “That must have been a difficult letter for you to write,” he said softly.
Rao’s eyes widened. “Why?”
Maloji snorted. A moment later, he brought his gaze back to Rao. It was a sad gaze.
“Old friend, you cannot fool me. Others, perhaps. But not me.”
He said nothing else. For a moment, Rao tried to meet Maloji’s level gaze with one of his own. But only for a moment.
“It is dharma, Maloji,” he murmured, studying his flexing fingers. “I have lived my life by duty, and discipline. And so has—”
He took a deep, almost shuddering breath. A faint sheen of moisture came to his eyes.
“And so has she.” Another breath—he made no attempt to control the shudder, now—and he finally, to another man, spoke the words. “She is the treasure of my soul, Maloji. But I have my duty, and she has hers. We will both be faithful to our dharma.”
His fingers became fists. “That is the way it must be. Will be.”
Maloji hesitated. He was perhaps Rao’s closest friend, but this was a subject they had never discussed. With a little shrug, he decided to widen the crack.
“Have you ever spoken to her?”
Rao’s back stiffened. “Never!” he exclaimed. “That, alone, would be a betrayal of my trust. She was given into my care by the Emperor of Andhra himself, to safeguard the dynasty. It would be the foulest treason for me to betray that trust.”
Maloji shook his head. “You are not her father, Rao. Much older than she, true. So what? If I remember right, the oldest son of Chola is no younger than you.”
Rao made a short, chopping motion. “That has nothing to do with anything. She is the purest blood of India. The heir of ancient Satavahana. I am a Maratha chieftain.” For a moment, he managed a grin. “It is true, I am considered kshatriya—by Marathas, at least. But my mother’s father was a peasant, and no one even knows the name of my paternal grandfather, although he is reputed to have been a tinker.”
His powerful hands relaxed. A great sigh loosened his muscular body. “The world is what it is, Maloji. We must be true to our dharma, or we lose our souls.”
His whole body seemed to ooze against the stones of the wall, as if he were seeking to find oneness with the universe.
“We must accept, that is all.” Rao turned his eyes to his friend. The moisture was gone, along with any outward sign of pain. Suddenly, he grinned.
“It has been difficult, I admit. I remember, the first time—” He chuckled wryly. “She was thirteen, perhaps fourteen years old. She had done especially well in one of the exercises I set her to, and I praised her. She laughed and embraced me, pressing herself close. Suddenly—it struck me like a bolt of lighting, I will never forget the moment—I realized she was a woman now. And not just any woman, but—”