Cupid’s Bow

Lost in reverie, she did not notice the fire in the stove sink into ash. Startled, she thrust in a bundle of dry palm leaves, riddled with white ants. The flames sprang up, hissing. Tapa dubu chita pata—the leaves crackled, as though a riddle was being whispered between Vikramarka and Betala, the legendary king and the wily spirit from the old folktale.

‘What am I to do?’ The question circled in her mind, stubborn as smoke.

She sat in her chuttillu—the open courtyard kitchen—watching the pot. A few yards away, at the well, her husband was bathing. He called out to her, asking her to scrub his back. A hot wave of irritation rose in her chest. Still, she left the stove.

From the lintel of the chuttillu, she took the small packet of almond leaves she had tucked away the night before. With a sudden gesture, she tossed it into the fire. The edges curled, the green turned black, and soon the veins of the leaves and the withered kanakambaram flowers inside were swallowed by the flames.

She caught the edge of her sari pallu in her mouth and folded to the ground before the stove, eyes fixed on the fire devouring the flowers.

Those kanakambarams had been picked by him.

Every evening, once her mother-in-law had strutted off to the village square, hungry to gossip, eager to boast, her husband would dart into the courtyard, gather the flowers, strip plantain fibres, and braid them into a garland. When she lay down at night, he would place it in her hands, a gift wrought in secrecy.

She never wore the garland in her hair. Instead, she stretched it long and wound it around his neck. On his dark, glistening skin, the blossoms glowed like a string of coral beads. By dawn, those same coral beads left tender imprints across the pale skin of her throat.

But last night, his fingers faltered. The stalks were broken, the garland was loose, hurried, careless. It was not the flowers—it was the lost craftsmanship, the fading laghavam, the lightness that once played in his touch, that unsettled her. Morning came, and her neck bore no coral traces.

Her hand moved absently to her throat as she stared at the burning garland. From the well came his voice again, sharper now: ‘How long?’

Her anger flared. She did not answer. Rising swiftly, she turned her back on the kitchen, the courtyard, the well, and walked towards the forest.

It was the nineteenth day after the new moon. Clouds stretched across the sky, and shallow rain-pits on the ground marked where showers had fallen earlier. She walked on, stepping across them. As dusk thickened, a chill began to set in, but she did not slow her pace.

Suddenly, lightning tore through the heavens. For an instant, the darkened path was revealed in a burst of white, then vanished again into shadow. She paused briefly, then pressed on. A drizzle began to fall. She had set out without a rug or an umbrella, yet she did not turn back. The rain grew colder, the air sharper. This was a journey out of one story and into another, and though its path was strange, the cold was still cold.

The drizzle thickened, turned to rain, and she moved through it as though inside a dream. But in truth, the entire escapade had begun with rain.

It was midnight on that day too. Her husband was already asleep when the rain first tapped on the roof. She felt the moment was enough—garland or no garland. Drawing close, she embraced him from behind, her fingers gently stroking his curly hair, thick as clustered black clouds. He stirred, turned towards her. She slipped her palm into his.

But at once she recoiled. These were not the fingers she knew. Once, her hand had cradled into his so completely that their entwined fingers looked like the stripes on a squirrel’s back. Now, she could not hold his hand at all.

She rose, lifted the wick of the lamp, and carried its glow to the bedside. He looked at her questioningly. ‘What is it?’ The same familiar eyes smiled back. Yes, it was her husband. The flame faltered, trembled. She lay down again, but sleep did not come. He, however, drifted easily into slumber.

Once more she rose, raised the wick, and examined his fingers. In the dim light, they seemed unchanged. Weren’t these the same deft hands that picked kanakambaram blossoms at lightning speed, never once breaking a stalk? Were these not the same rough hands that scrubbed laundry against stone, softened by some secret grace?

Still holding the lamp, she let her gaze wander to his legs. On other nights he would sleep curled around her, his body a sheltering arc, her legs nestled against his. Now, even as she sought them, she felt no contact.

She brought the lamp close to his face. Yes, it was her husband. Even in sleep, he smiled. How handsome he looked. She set down the lamp and lay beside him once more.

But sleep refused her all night.

At dawn, when he called her to scrub his back at the well, her unrest overflowed. She could bear it no longer. And so she set out to seek Betala, who had entangled her in this riddle, and Vikramarka, who had deepened her wound, sprinkling chilli on an open sore. She resolved she would not leave them until she had her answer.

By the second night, she found Vikramarka in the forest. At first, the king could not fathom who she was or why she had come. Alone, seething, at that hour of night. He suspected she might be kin to Betala. He asked her to confirm his doubt.

She hesitated. Should she confront him now? Or should she draw them both—Betala and Vikramarka—into her snare at once? She chose the latter. Steeling herself, she said, ‘Raja Vikramarka, I am a married woman. I have come for your help. You must take me to Betala.’

Vikramarka did not know whether to laugh or to sigh. For eighteen nights he had been burdened with a single task: carrying Betala down from the tree, listening to the ghost’s endless riddles, answering each one correctly, only to see Betala climb back to his perch. He himself had not succeeded; what help could he offer her? Yet he remembered his duty. A king must never deny a woman’s plea. And besides, he was tired of Betala’s nightly games, and the thought of walking in a woman’s company, even for a change, appealed to him. So he agreed.

They walked a few miles in silence. She did not utter a single word along the way. Vikramarka tried to start a conversation, but it was of no use. At last, they reached the tree.

As always, Betala dangled upside down, his tail knotted to a branch. Vikramarka climbed up, lifted him onto his shoulder. But tonight, Betala’s gaze caught on the woman waiting below. Raising himself halfway up from the king’s shoulder, he hissed, ‘Raja, who is she?’

Before Vikramarka could answer, she cut in. ‘Ask me, I will tell you. What does Vikramarka know?’

Vikramarka stiffened at her tone. Such blunt irreverence! Even Betala was startled. ‘All these nights I’ve called him “Raja, Rajan!” with respect, and here comes this woman tossing his name out so casually. Have I been too deferential all along?’ he muttered to himself.

But she was not finished. Facing Betala directly, she declared, ‘Betala, answer my question. If you know the answer and remain silent, I will thrash you by your tail. If you do not know the answer, I will still curl your tail around your neck and thrash you.’

Betala blinked, confused. ‘Who are you, woman? What is your question? And why should I answer it?’

Exasperated, she turned her burning eyes on Vikramarka. He, however, kept silent.

‘Listen, Betala,’ she said, ‘I will fit your lower body, tail included, to Vikramarka, and attach his lower body to you. Will you both agree?’

Vikramarka’s heart jolted. What would become of him if he returned to his kingdom with his noble head on a ghost’s body? Would his people prostrate at his feet, or at his tail? Would his queen faint in terror at such a sight? Betala too was rattled. If his own head were set upon Vikramarka’s torso, his powers would vanish, and besides, how would he relieve himself? How would he hang from trees with only two legs? His anger rose, but he did not lose his composure.

‘How is that possible, woman?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’ she replied. ‘The head is untouched. The body with Vikramarka’s head will still rule the kingdom. The body with Betala’s head will still hang from the tree. The head defines identity, does it not? Or so you claim.’

Her words pricked Betala. He remembered something, though he pretended not to.

‘What, Betala?’ she pressed. ‘Have you forgotten your own sixth tale? Raja Vikramarka, have you forgotten the answer you gave?’

Vikramarka and Betala could not help recalling the story.

A washerman and his friend, under certain circumstances, offered their heads to the goddess in a temple. The washerman’s wife was terrified; she burst into tears, and in her grief, was on the verge of taking her own life. At that moment, the Goddess appeared, assured her that she would restore them to life, and instructed her to place the severed heads near their bodies.

But in her confusion, she placed the friend’s head near her husband’s body, and her husband’s head near the friend’s body. The Goddess restored life to them, and both men rose—only to begin arguing at once: ‘She is my wife!’ each insisted.

After telling him this story, Betala had asked Vikramarka, ‘Whose wife is she?’

Vikramarka had replied, ‘The sciences proclaim that among rivers the Ganga is supreme, among mountains Sumeru, among trees the Kalpavriksha, and in the human body, the head is the foremost and incomparable. Therefore, the woman belongs to the man whose head is attached to the body.’

Pleased with the correctness of the answer and admiring Vikramarka’s wisdom, Betala had climbed back on to his tree. Thus ended the sixth story.

‘Yes,’ said Betala now. ‘I remember. And what of it?’

The woman’s voice quivered with fury. ‘I am that woman in the story.’

Vikramarka and Betala stared at her, baffled.

She sat on a stone, leaning back against a mound. The stone was cool.  ‘I love my husband’s hands,’ she murmured. ‘Washerman’s hands, yet not rough. Long fingers, knuckles rounded like tender drumsticks—I would joke that they could be cut and added to sambhar. And his back! When I embraced him, his chest-hair firm beneath my cheek, it was as if I pressed against the clouds themselves.’

Vikramarka flushed, uneasy. What must his queen be doing at this hour? Betala shifted heavily on his shoulder.

The woman went on. ‘His legs—long, dark, strong. The cracked soles of his feet pressed against me at night, and those very cracks would tickle me. And how many times have I taken the kajal from my eyes and softly touched it to the soles of his feet? His calves, firm yet soft, would cradle mine as we slept, locked together till dawn. But now? Now he pushes me away after a quarter hour and turns to the other side.’

Her voice broke. She let out a cry, raw as a bull’s bellow. Vikramarka shuddered beneath it, the tremor passing into Betala, who stiffened on his shoulder.

‘So what?’ Betala snapped.

She rounded on him. ‘You sages, you shastris, decided the head was everything. You bound me to a head and left me bereft of my husband’s body. Tell me, can a head give children? Is it only eyes that make a wife known? What do you ghosts know of marriage?’ She seized Betala’s neck, choking him.

Vikramarka begged her to loosen her grip. ‘He will slip back to his tree if you anger him. Please, restrain yourself.’ She let go, but her fury did not abate.

Betala straightened, indignant. ‘It is I who pose questions! And you dare question me? You are a character in my tale, just as I am a character in another. If characters rebel, how will the rice cook? You would throw away the head for the fragile body, which holds no thought, no mind?’

Her laughter was sharp. ‘If characters rebel, rice may not cook, but the lentils will not soften either! What folly is this, that all of you, with your heads, declared the body worthless? My husband’s head may nod in agreement, but it is his body that I seek. Whichever head owns his body, that man alone is mine.’

Betala fell silent. He whispered into Vikramarka’s ear. The king nodded. Then Betala cleared his throat.

‘Woman, I did not decree your fate. You are not mine to define. You are my character, yes, but I myself belong to another’s tale.’

‘Spare me these pot-and-vessel tales,’ she cut him off. ‘I have spoken my will. You refuse it. Then I shall write my own destiny. I choose the man who bears my husband’s body. That is the end of it.’

She turned and strode away.

‘Stop! Stop!’ Betala cried. Vikramarka ran after her, clutching Betala tightly on his shoulder. But when she reached the turning—where one story slips into another—she looked back and saw them far behind.

She quickened her pace, almost flying.

And she smiled.