The second reason was less ethereal. Downright mundane, in fact.
“Ha!” exclaimed Rao, as they neared the entrance to Dadaji Holkar’s quarters. He turned his head and cast a skeptical eye upon the baby being borne behind them by his nurse. “You dote on that child, true enough. But you haven’t the patience for proper mothering.”
Shakuntala swept through the wide entrance leading to her peshwa’s portion of the palace. “That’s what grandmothers are for,” she pronounced, as imperiously as she made all her pronouncements.
* * *
And, indeed, Gautami was ready and willing to take care of Namadev. The more so since the baby was not that much younger than her own actual grandchild.
As he watched his wife and the two infants, the peshwa Dadaji Holkar—as was his habit—fell into philosophical musing.
“It’s odd, really, the way these things work. I am more and more convinced, by the day, that God intends us to understand that all things of the flesh are ultimately an illusion.” He pointed to the two children. “Consider, first, my grandson.”
Shakuntala and Rao studied the infant in question, the older of the two boys being played with by Gautami. The boy, along with his mother, had been turned over to a unit of Rao’s Maratha guerrillas by a detachment sent by Lord Damodara after his men had overrun the rebel forces led by Dadaji’s son.
“That the child’s lineage is mine, as a matter of flesh, cannot be doubted. At his age, my son looked just the same. But as for the spirit—it remains to be seen.”
Rao frowned. “You are worried about the mother’s influence? Dadaji, given the circumstances, the fact that the poor woman’s wits are still a bit addled is hardly surprising. The boy seems cheerful enough.”
“That’s not what I meant,” replied Holkar, shaking his head. “Are we really so tightly bound to the flesh at all?”
He fell silent, for a moment. Then, gave Rao a keen glance. “I’m sure you heard the report of your men. The Ye-tai officer who brought my son’s wife and child told them, quite bluntly, that he had killed my son himself. Yet, with Damodara’s permission, was turning the family over to our safekeeping. An odd thing to do, for a Malwa.”
Rao shrugged. “Damodara is a subtle man. No doubt he thinks—”
“Not Damodara,” interrupted Holkar. “It’s the Ye-tai who interests me. It must have been him—not Damodara—who spared the mother and child after slaying my son. Why did he do so?”
“Men are not always beasts. Not even Ye-tai.”
“Indeed so. But why did God choose that vessel to remind us, Rao? As well send a tiger into a burning hut to bring out a child to safety.”
There was no answer. After a moment, Holkar spoke again. “When the war is over, certainly if my daughters are returned to me safely, I will no longer be able to function as your peshwa. I have been thinking about it a great deal, lately, and have decided I no longer accept the basic premises of our Hindu system. Not as it stands, at any rate. There is a possibility—some glimpses which I got in conversations with Belisarius, and, through him, with what the Christians call the Talisman of God but I think—”
“He is Kalkin, the tenth avatar who was promised,” stated Rao firmly. “Belisarius himself said as much, in a letter he once sent me.”
Holkar nodded. “So I believe also. In any event, there will be—would have been—a version of our faith called Vedanta. I intend to explore it, after the war, but the effort will make it impossible—”
“Oh, nonsense!” snapped Shakuntala. “My peshwa you are, my peshwa you will remain. Philosophize at your leisure. You’ll have plenty of it, after the war. But I will hear of nothing else.”
Dadaji hesitated. “My daughters—after all that has happened, they will be unsuitable for a peshwa.” His kindly face hardened. “And I will not set them aside. Under no circumstances. Therefore—”
“Nonsense, I said!” The imperial voice, as always, rang with certainty. So might the Himalayas speak, if they had a tongue. “Do not concern yourself with such trifles as your daughter’s status. That is merely a problem. Problems can be solved.”