Vadha

by *Paul-Cooper

I have seen two blossomings of the Kurinci flower and twenty-four black monsoons since Kalinga Magha first landed on the shore of our island Kingdom. He arrived as the rainy season ended – greenery erupting from every hollow, pepper vines snaking up every tree. Cranes and peacocks drank from the bowls of mangrove roots, elephants rolled and snorted in watering holes, and the mists were slinking back to stalk the lush valleys of the Hill Country.

The thousands of soldiers Magha brought with him trudged for days through our country's red mud, sinking in potholes and cursing their gods in all the languages of the mainland. Farmers knee-deep in sprouting paddy fields looked up as they passed in a mile-long column, and muttered to each other that war had come again to Lanka. The months of rain had swollen the rivers, and it took Magha longer than he expected to reach Polonnaruwa through the flooded river crossings.

                                                                 ---

I watched Parakrama Pandya, the King of Lanka, standing at his balcony and trembling as his successor's army gathered like stormclouds outside the city. It was a beautiful day. The air was heavy with cinnamon, nutmeg and toasted cashews, and the sun warmed my skin as I stood there. I had never seen the King afraid before.

You will have seen him standing out on the palace balcony some days, maybe giving a speech, or riding an elephant at the head of festival processions. You have seen his strong jaw and bright eyes beneath the silk turban, the gems sewn into his clothes, and the way he seems to give off light like a second sun. That is not how he looked on that day.

The wrinkles around his eyes had deepened ever since a breathless messenger had brought the first news of Magha's invasion from the East; in the last few days, when the remnants of the royal army limped back through Polonnaruwa's lotus-stalk gates, the King had stopped eating. Grey hairs began to appear in his luxuriant beard after the high priests took Lanka's finest relic – the tooth of Buddha himself – and buried it on the mountain Kotthumala for safekeeping. When I saw him then, he looked twice his age.

'This is it, Asanka,' he murmured. 'We are all going to die.'

'Yes, your majesty,' I replied. I didn't know what else to say. Familiar reassurances ran through my head: I have led a good life. There were transgressions, yes, but I have never hurt anyone. I hoped Magha's soldiers would make it quick, that it wouldn't hurt.

A pair of the King's bodyguards entered the chamber and bowed. They were tall soldiers with thick beards, muscles bulging like mangos and skin tanned almost black from years of guard duty – the sort of men I am always in awe of, for I am small and thin, and couldn't fight in a battle or in an alleyway even if I were forced to. They looked as though they could tear banana palms in half with their hands, but in their eyes, too, there was fear.

'Your majesty!' one of them announced. 'We've barricaded the gate as you ordered, and the citizens have been brought inside the walls. What are your orders?'

'It's no use,' the King sighed, without turning around. Outside, satinwood trees and mango palms murmured in the breeze that blew in from the Indian Ocean, and a flock of parakeets swooped noisily past the window. 'I will not subject my people to a siege. We are only delaying the inevitable. Open the gates. Leave them open. We must pray that this "Magha" is merciful.'

'But your highness...'

He turned around, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears.

'I wish only to make love to my wife one last time. Send for her! Asanka,' the King whispered, settling his eyes on me as the guards left to fetch the Queen. 'I know you will want to see Sarasi. You should go to her.'

'Thank you, your majesty,' I said. Thinking of Sarasi's golden eyes, my body began to ache. Bowing, I turned to leave, but the King rushed forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. The physical contact startled me, for I cannot remember ever touching him before.

'Asanka!' he whispered tearfully in my ear. 'You are the most enlightened man I have ever met. Tomorrow you shall write your poetry in heaven!'

He choked back a sigh, and hung his head. I still didn't know what to say. As I left, my head was filled with thoughts of the rivers and gardens of heaven, the way the Persians describe it – plucking pomegranates from laden trees, the fountains of milk, wine and honey. Compared to that, our endless cycle of rebirth seemed bleak and uninviting. Whatever awaited, I thought, at least I would know by tomorrow.