Half Way From India (On Hold)

Prologue

Prologue

In the year 500 A.D.

          North of the sun, and south of the moon, lies the city of Patalimputra. Nestled in the care and protection of the great Himalaya Mountains, Patalimputra thrives and buzzes. Under the rule of the Gupta Empire, this time is the most prosperous for the people of northern India. Science and Mathematics have excelled as well as medicine and economy. The great city of Patalimputra is more than 100 miles wide and 100 miles long and is the capital area for all of India. The Gupta Empire is kept by the Mhasa line of rulers, Emperor Nirav Mani Mhasa and Empress Amala Sonal Mhasa. Their four year old son Mukul Suresha Mhasa, the heir to India, and their one year old daughter Sumati Sri Mhasa, shall continue the peaceful era that their family has started.

          Today is the celebration of 200 years since this great era of prosperity began in 300 A.D. All of Patalimputra is in a blur. There are dancers lining the streets, bodies are painted, pierced, and decorated. The music is never ending, and praises are sung to the great Lakshmi, goddess of good fortune and wealth, and to the king of the gods and heavens, Indra, for the time of excellence.

          But, not all the people of Patalimputra are celebrating. Close to midnight, along the north wall next to the palace, a dark, masculine figure darts into a grove of trees, his arms clenched around his waist. His dhoti, or tunic, is ordinary white with a loose fitting blue shirt over the top. He seems distressed over a grave matter. The steps of the man are light and as silent as possible. With black hair tousled, eyes wild, and beads of sweat collecting on his forehead, the man looks almost feral.

          In the middle of the grove, the man slows to a halt. Before him stands a woman. Her face covered with a faded red odhani, or veil. The common gaghra cholis she wears is a simple white skirt and blouse like a peasant, yet, there is certain elegance about her. She is beautiful, wavy hair like the night cascading around her shoulders, eyes like the sea, and lips like a rose. But she too has a look of urgency upon her face. She has been waiting for this man, her midnight visitor.

          The man steps towards the woman. They stand in the dark for a long while, as if waiting for the other to make the first move. The man is the first to move. From his dhoti, he retrieves a bundle, no longer than his forearm. The man holds the bundle of white cloth to his mouth, whispering silent words. He clutches the cloth for what seems forever and then, in his best effort to be inconspicuous, gives the bundle to the woman, which she takes hastily. The woman to holds and stares at the bundle of white cloth for a while, nods to the man, and goes her separate way. All this transpires without a single sound or word. Silence is the only thing heard in the meeting of the two.

          It is the man who is reluctant to leave. Long after the woman is gone, he stands in the dark grove of trees. Is he waiting for something else? Then, he flinches, and whips his head around behind him, as if he has heard a noise. The man darts off like a deer in the direction he came.

~

          The Empress Amala Mhasa approaches the throne room with anticipation. In the arms of the empress is something small concealed by an elegant deep blue cloth dotted with gold. She peers through the crack between the doors at her husband, who is unsuspecting of his wife and alone in on his throne. Empress Amala smiles to herself and uneasy smile. Before entering the throne room, she glances around at her surroundings, for eavesdroppers are not wanted.

          Empress Amala is often compared to the great Cleopatra, or Queen Nefertiti, some of the most beautiful women who have ever lived. Her odhani veil made of translucent white silk, decorated with elaborate embroidery. The sari she wears consists of a tight fitting shirt and leggings with deep colors or dark red, purple, black and a drape made from the same translucent white silk as her veil. The Empress’s midnight colored hair curls around one side of her neck, her face is adorned with the traditional Indian mehndi, or tattoo, on her forehead, and large golden hoops hang from her ears.

          Empress Amala’s husband, Emperor Nirav Mhasa, lifts his head when he hears his wife approaching. Emperor Nirav is dressed in his usual cream colored sherwani coat that hangs just below his knees. The close fighting pants he also wears are cream like his coat. The Emperor has a handsome, but sad face, with eyes of pale, milky green. Nirav smiles at his wife as she nears his throne.

          “What have you come for so early in the day my dear? The hour is very young,” Nirav asks.

          “It is this,” says Amala, bowing and holding up from her arms the object she had been carrying. Amala unwraps the cloth to show the small, round face of that of a baby girl.

          “My sister, Anuja, has passed on to another life, this is her daughter.”

          “What are you implying woman?”

          “I wish to take this girl in, and raise her as my own my lord. My sister did entrust her daughter with me before she died. This babe would be my daughter, and would never know her mother was my sister.”

Nirav looks skeptically at his wife. “Why should I conceal to all of Patalimputra and to the child herself that a princess of the Mhasa line is not of my blood?” he asks.

          “Telling the entire city of this child would mean certain disgrace, but from a different point of view, it would be an act of great humanity and kindness to take in a girl who has lost her mother.” Amala now sits at the foot of the throne, a pleading look across her face.

          “Does the child have a name?” questions Nirav.

          “Yes, Shashi Indrani, my lord.”

          “Then it shall now be Shashi Indrani Mhasa, royalty of the Mhasa line.”

          Amala’s lips break into the greatest smile ever known to mankind.  “Thank you my lord! I thank you with all my heart!”

          Nirav stops her before she leaves. “The child will not know that your sister is her mother, and it will be made known to the people that she is our daughter?”

          “Yes my lord,” Amala bows low.

          “Then make her Princess Shashi Indrani Mhasa,” says Nirav, a small smile playing on his lips.

          “Yes my lord!” Amala hurries out of the room, cradling her little girl as if she is the world.