Laldasa (23 page)

“That was unusual?”

“Quite. Normally, I would have known more than I would have time to tell, or you have time to hear.” Namun lay his napkin aside preparatory to leaving. “I have a most uninspiring meeting to attend. I would much rather regale you with tales of your father's various crusades, but my meeting, while dull and possibly sleep-inducing, will be lucrative.” He smiled ruefully. “I am told that the presence of a real scientist in a room full of marketeers sells contracts. A bit of whimsy on the part of the Goddess, no doubt, but there it is.” He rose. “I believe you provided the last meal we had together. My turn, I make it.”

“Uncle-“

“I insist. It was delightful to have my opinion consulted on a matter that did not have to do with a problem of chemistry or engineering. It helped alleviate the fear that I am becoming mono-dimensional.”

“An impossibility, Uncle Namun. You have more dimensions than most ten men.”

Namun laughed. “Flatterer,” he said and gave Jaya the respectful greeting and Ravi a cordial hand clasp, no doubt raising a few eyebrows and noses about the room.

There was a promise of warmth in the air the next morning. Ana rose early, dressed, and went into the gardens for her devotions. She was watching the dance and ripple of sunlight across the surface of the pond when she realized she was being observed. Not a pompous devotee this time, she thought, and hushed herself mentally. To disdain pomposity in another was, itself, pompous.

She turned her head. Jaya, of course.

“I didn't mean to disturb you,” he said, and stepped from the tiled walk into the dewy grass.

“I was finished, really. Just contemplating Ram-ji's canvas.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

She pointed at the pond with its patterns of wind ripple and fish dart. “Water, wind, fish, and light—the palette of pakriti. He paints with life.”

Jaya remembered his childhood lessons in Divine Metaphysics. “Pakriti? Maya, don't you mean—illusion? The fish aren't really made of gold, the water isn't covered in diamonds, the saroj are not emeralds—just weeds that float. You only imagine you see jewels.”

“How cynical. Is that really all you see here—weeds and fish and water?”

“I see reality.”

“Ah, now that is the illusion. Imagination is our spark of Tara-ji. Through that spark, we see the real. With the eyes of the body we see only the material—that is maya. The reality lies behind and within and around it.”

“Can you see that?” he asked, his tone no longer sarcastic.

Ana turned her eyes back to the pond. “Yes, but not with physical eyes. One must marshall inner sight as well.”

“To see the illusion.”

“To see through the illusion. To see that the spirit is maya to the material and the material is maya to the spirit. If you would see both worlds, use both eyes.”

“Hmm. What sage taught you that?”

“Experience.”

He changed the subject. “Well, if this is Sanat-Ram's canvas, then you are certainly the center of His portrait this morning. That gown is beautiful on you. You should wear it often.”

Ana responded to the compliment with a strange mixture of pleasure and unease. She smiled, smoothing the flame-hued fabric over her arms.

“Why are you wearing it this morning? Do you have some special plans for today?”

She stared at him, taken completely aback. “I ... we're ...
 
Aren't we going to Asra today? It is Bhaktar, and tonight is the Mesha Festival ... ”

Jaya scratched his cheek and stared at the pond. The bright reflections hurt his eyes. He blinked at Ana as if the sight of her had the same effect.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, you see, I ... It's been a while since I've been to Asra. At the New Year, I think. Jivinta goes, of course. I'm sure she's expecting to make a party of it.”

“Which will not include you?” she asked bluntly.

“What would be the point? All that social jockeying and political preening is beyond me. I'd be out of my element there.”

“Since when has going to Asra been about social jockeying and politics?”

“Since I can remember. Asra is like the Kiritan. People go there to be seen sitting in the best seats in their best clothes.”

Ana realized she was angry. “No! Asra is a place for seeking Ram-ji, not political affiliations. If that is what Asra has become on your world, then you are wise not to go there.”

His expression shifted from wry to contrite. “I exaggerate. Don't listen to me. Of course, there are people who go to Asra to-to put in an appearance, but I'm sure there are those who really believe, even in Kasi.” He smiled.

Ana stared through him, rubbing her arms, suddenly chilled. “I want to go home,” she said, and fled into the House.

She was waiting for him in the broad doorway to the solarium when he reached the House, looking sheepish. “I'm sorry. I exaggerate too.”

“Peace?” he asked, and gave the respectful greeting.

She returned it. “Peace.”

oOo

Jaya hadn't seen the inside of an Asra for over a year (his claim to have attended a New Year devotion was an exaggeration), but it was not something one forgot. He still had a vague child's awe of the soaring lines and amplified dimensions of the overturned silver bowl; was still affected by the glory that cascaded from the central dome through a complex pattern of graceful incisions. It made one want Ram-ji to exist whether He did or not. He wondered what Ana felt as she gazed around her at the ersatz radiance of the Divine.

She was part of the radiance. The flaming silk of her garment came to life in the drifting sunlight; the gem at her forehead covered her face with a spray of crimson. Like luminous droplets of blood, he thought, then shook himself in vague horror.

They were seated just to the left of the curved fan of shimmering stone steps that descended from the altar to the Rama Fire's glorious pit. They were front row seats in a special, ornamented box reserved for the Taj Houses. A similar box sat to the right of the steps—this one, for the Holy Ones. Behind them were arrayed the Vadin and their families, and behind them sat the politicos of the Sun Crescent.

Only Sarojins and their guests sat in the Taj box now. The Royal House of Kasi had no peers in the Crescent. The Rani Melantha's noble House of birth made its home in the outlying Lake District, while the one-time warrior clan of Sivarashtra presided over Nawahr. Other minor Lords sat behind the Taj box, while further back, still, were the lesser nobles, the merchants, and the merely wealthy.

The Deva Radha, herself, led the devotions this day. She was incomparable. The sound of her voice and the grace of her movements, like the grandeur of the Asra, could almost make a believer out of a stone.

Jaya still remembered the first devotional she'd presided over at this Asra. Her hair had been jet black then and, in his adolescent mind, she was the most beautiful being ever created—and easily the most terrifying. Her eyes had been like black flames—they still were. Piercing eyes, eyes that saw through things ... and people. Was that why he found them terrifying?

While he sat struggling with that question, Ana nudged him.

“Jaya Rai,” she whispered. “It's time to offer the Mesha prayers. Will you perform the Erai?”

He flushed. “I don't remember it.”

She didn't embarrass him by gasping or even indulging in ocular chastisement. As the Deva Radha swung toward their box to greet the Sarojin Chieftain and escort him to the Rama Fire as clan bhakta, Ana stood smoothly and performed the ritual greeting. Her prayer beads were already draped between her fingers.

Jaya felt icy tingles like the tiny feet of chill spiders dancing up and down his spine. A brief glance around the Asra revealed just about what he expected—a sanctum full of scandalized and incredulous faces stared at the Sarojin box. Behind him, their Avasan guests seemed unconcerned and beside him, Jivinta Mina gloated.

The Deva Radha smiled and nodded her approval. She returned Ana's greeting then turned to Jaya.

“Perhaps it would be appropriate, Nathu Rai, for the Chieftain of the Saroj to join your clan bhakta at the Flame.” She said it in a barely audible whisper with a smile tugging at her lips.

He nodded and followed when she led Ana to the Fire pit. She began the Erai immediately, her eyes closed, the beads still pressed between her fingers.

“There is a Spirit which is Life, Light, and Truth. He contains all works and all desires and all devotions and all perfumes. She enfolds the entire Universe and in silence loves all. This is the Spirit that is in my heart—smaller than the tiniest of particles, smaller than the atom. This is the Spirit that is in my heart—greater than Mitras' orb, vaster than Heaven itself, greater than all the worlds. This is the Spirit that is in my heart. This is Ram-ji.”

False words, thought Jaya. False. There was no such Spirit. Not in his heart, at any rate. But in Ana's ...
 
He glanced at her rapt face and had no doubt that something was there—the fire of faith ... illusion.

He recalled their conversation by the pond. Illusion and reality—which was which? Her reality was his illusion and vice versa. He didn't like that idea; it made him feel somehow insubstantial. If his reality was an illusion to Ana, then what did that make him?

He shook the gray thought out of his head and brought himself back to Ana's chanting. The verse was unfamiliar and sung in a homely Avasan dialect instead of the traditional prayer tongue. It quickly caught the attention of the other worshippers. As Ana's voice rose in the musical chant, all other voices fell away to a murmur. The Flame sizzled and hissed in its great bowl and Jaya held his breath.

“My thoughts praise You, O God, even as Mitras praises You in its rising. May I find continuing joy in being Your lover. Keep us under Your protection, forgive our sins, and never cease to love us. You made the waters to flow ceaselessly without weariness. May my stream of life flow into the river of righteousness. Sever the bonds of sin that bind me, but let not my thread of my song be cut while I sing. Let not my work cease before it is finished.”

She paused, and Jaya wondered if the silence was as loud in her ears as it was in his. She smiled as if receiving some secret communion, then nodded and rose. He rose in unison with her, watching her face in the fire bath burnish. Every eye was on them. Only the most pious continued to pray. As they returned silently to the Sarojin box, the voices grew once again in strength. Minds struggled to reclaim the prayerful attitude. Eyes fluttered closed.

Jaya sat self-consciously in his grand seat, wondering what was really happening behind those fluttering lids, and suspecting he knew. Scandal—a woman serving as bhakta for a Taj House, daring to lead the Erai prayers! Heresy—the prayer beads in the hands of a female who is not even a member of Orders! He could almost hear the whispers, feel the sly looks. He would experience them again at the celebration tonight. The thought made his stomach churn.

Suddenly, the tightness turned on itself and became anger. Stupid! He was thinking like his mother—shrinking from the prejudices of his peers. He realized he had lowered his head. He raised it, eyes sweeping a nearby row of worshippers. Their gazes—curious, arch, scandalized—skittered away to the Flame.

He looked at the Deva Radha, then. Her gaze, with its buried smile, was not so timid. It held his until he was forced to look away.

There were the inevitable whispers as they left the Asra. “Did you see ... ?” “Did you hear ... ?” Some bolder friends and acquaintances smiled and said they hoped they'd see the Rani Sadira at the Mesha celebration that evening.

At length, the ordeal was past and they were on their way home. Jaya sank into the padded seat of the long-coach's ornate cabin and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Remind me,” said Jivinta Mina, “to have Heli lay on more food for tonight. I have no doubt the Palace will be bursting its seams.” She patted Anala's hand. “You were quite a sensation, my dear. You know, Jaya, I wish your mother would have been there today. She would have had a fit.”

Jaya snorted. “At the very least.”

“And your father,” she continued wistfully. “He would have enjoyed every minute of it. To hear the prayers rendered so movingly ... ” She let her gaze wander around the interior of the cavernous coach. “It's been that long since we used this coach, you know. Spring five years ago. Just before he died.”

Hadas, seated beside her, impulsively took the old woman's hand.

Jaya changed the subject. “The Deva Radha seemed to know you.”

Ana blinked. “The Deva Radha?”

“Chief of the Holy Ones. Deva of the Cloud Order. Head of the Inner Circle and the Vrinda Varma ... ”

Ana's expression was entirely blank. “I-I told you I went to Asra. I met her then. I had no idea who she was.”

Jaya was skeptical. “You expect me to believe Avasans don't know who the Deva Radha is?”