Fragments from a shattered Image: Fragment 14

Kripa welcomed Drona with open arms. Kripi too was happy to be with her brother, in the land where she grew up. Drona tamped down on the resentment he felt as he saw Kripa's house. How fortunate Kripa was! He was all but adopted by the King and was now the Guru to princes. He lived in luxury.

In contrast, he, Drona, spent his days in stark poverty. In spite of being superior to Kripa in both knowledge of weaponry and in skills, he was in the position of having to depend on his brother-in-law! It was galling.

Aswathama showed no visible enthusiasm for the changed surroundings. But he was grown now. The years that Drona spent with Parasurama seemed to have driven a wedge between him and his only son. Aswathama was a stranger to him now. But Drona was too caught up in his own plans to notice that.

Drona was resolved to change his situation. He would become the guru to the princes. And he knew Kripa well enough to know that he would not mind. He might even be glad.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 8

Pandu found the burden of his heart only increasing. The days passed in affairs of the state but the nights were nightmares. His wives were patient and understanding, neither uttering even a sound of reproach. He wished they would at least shed a few tears. But they kept smiling as if his impotence did not cause them any heartburn.

Their attitude only made him feel worse, not better. No one spoke a word, but he felt the crushing weight of their expectations. The bards sang his praises, the citizens extolled his greatness and all it served was to remind him of what an utter failure he was. His whole life seemed meaningless and futile.

He left on a Dig Vijaya. It was an escape, he knew, but he did not want to be in the palace anymore. He did not want to be in the proximity of the two women who had chosen to share their lives with him and to whom he had been unable to give anything. He did not want to wait for the inevitable question of when he was going to give an heir to his Kingdom. He did not want anyone to know that he was unable to do what even a mindless beast was able to.

So he went to war. And he vented all his anger, all his frustration in the battlefield. He had been ruthless, trampling his enemies to dust. He was not satisfied with defeating; he had to destroy.

For, in the battlefield, he could fool the world that he was a man.

He enjoyed the battlefields; he reveled in the trumpet of elephants, the neighing of horses, the clanging of swords, the twanging of bowstrings, the whoosh of the arrows and spears. He rejoiced at the smell of blood intermingled with that of sweat, metal and the excrements of men and beasts. He laughed at the carrion birds circling high above, waiting for the day’s battle to end.

At the end of one day’s battle, he came upon one of his soldiers, retching by the side of a tent. He was a young man and it was evident that it was his first campaign.

The young man was embarrassed by his weakness and had mumbled an apology. But Pandu was staring at where the soldier had emptied the contents of his stomach on to the grass.

He had done the same on his first campaign. He had never imagined that a battlefield could be a place of such brutality, where men turned into killing machines, where life had no sanctity, no value. His uncle had placed a hand on his shoulder and had told him. “Do not be ashamed of the horror you feel. It is not your weakness, but your strength. We are Kshatriyas and we cannot shun warfare. But the day we lose our compassion for those we kill, the day we stop being horrified at the brutality of our acts, that day we lose our humanity and Dharma as well.”

Pandu looked around him with sightless eyes. What had he been reduced to! What monster it was he had become!

He had come to escape, to prove himself a man by ruthlessly destroying his enemies. But all he had proved was that he had become a monster.

And he returned, smiling outwards, but chagrined inside. All the wealth he had conquered, he had placed at his brother’s feet. His brother who should have been King if he had not been born blind; his brother who would have been a better ruler, who would not have reveled in the fearful screams of his enemies. His brother who wanted to be King, who resented him for stealing his birthright.

The decision to leave the palace for the forest had been taken on that day. The day of his return. He told everyone he was going on a hunting trip to the forest with his wives. No one objected. After all, they had had so little time together.

His wives suspected something. Kunti it was who asked him, “Swami, why are we here?”

He drew a deep breath. “I am abdicating the throne Kunti,” he said calmly. “I am not worthy to be King. I am not going back,”

“And what reason would you give your people? Your elders?”

“I killed a couple of deer today,” he said. “I’m going to tell everyone that it was a sage and his wife sporting in the form of deers, and that they cursed me to fall dead if I ever touch a woman in desire again!”

“Convenient,” Kunti observed. “It resolves all your difficulties. But have you spared a thought to us? Your presence in our lives is all we demand. Is that too much to ask for?”

He looked at her. He had never loved her more than he did at that moment.

“If my presence is all you require,” he said. “Then you must accompany me. God knows there isn’t much else I can give you!”

“Don’t speak like that!” Madri’s hand was over his mouth. “We do not require anything more for our happiness!”

He nodded. He was powerless to resist their demand.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 4

Her eyes were dry now. She was past tears. What more could fate have in store for her! First her husband had died, leaving her widowed and with two small sons, not yet old enough to take the reins of the Kingdom.

But Bheeshma had been there. In spite of her tearful pleading to be King, he had refused, choosing to be regent instead. He respected her and sought her advice and it surprised her to no end when he started following her advice.

Satya had bloomed under her husband’s love and affection and when Chitrangada was born, she was content. Vichitravirya was an added blessing. She had contemplated a happy and contented old age when she and her husband could leave the Kingdom in Chitrangada's able hands and leave for the forest. With Bheeshma to guide and advise him, she had no doubt her son would lead the Kurus to even greater glory than before.

But all those dreams had been dashed to pieces when her husband had died so unexpectedly. Though he was very much older than her, she had never paid much attention to the difference in their ages. But at the moment of his death, she had noticed how worn and tired he looked. She had stopped her tears till his death, because he had always wanted to see her happy and smiling.

"Devavrata," he had whispered. He was the only one who still called Bheeshma by his given name. Devavrata had knelt by the bedside.

"I will take care of my brothers, father," he had said. "Chitrangada shall be a worthy successor."

Satya had seen the flash of anguish in her husband’s eyes as he gazed at his eldest son. Instinctively, she knew that Shantanu wanted Bheeshma to be King after him, and she too felt that it was the right decision. She had pleaded with him, even ordered him, but he was adamant. His vow was no light matter. He would not break it.

Then had come her father's death. He had sent for her from his deathbed. It was Bheeshma who took her to him. She had also taken her sons along.

"They are fine boys," Dasharaja had wheezed. "That elder one will make a fine king."

"Why, father?" She had asked him. "I would have been content even if my sons had to remain as princes. Bheeshma deserves to be king. He is worthy in every way."

"Maybe," he had said. "But it was my right to demand that for you. They could have refused."

"I don’t deny you had the right. But why such an ambition? Why King?"

He had looked at her, "I had the right," he had said finally.

She had sighed. "I do not," she had said.

He had fidgeted and then said. "You are the daughter of a King. I am only your adoptive father."

She had stared at him in consternation, believing his words and yet disbelieving.

"I am not going to tell you who your real father was. But you are a Princess. You have the right to be queen and your sons have the right to be Kings!"

She had turned from him, her thoughts in turmoil. Daughter of a King! Adopted by a fisherman. That spoke volumes for her status! She might have been a King's daughter, but there was no doubt that she was illegitimate. She was suddenly infinitely grateful to her father, not the unnamed King, but to the man she had called father all her life.

He had died the next day and she had returned to the palace after the funeral, not revealing the truth to anyone, not even to Bheeshma.

She had thought all her travails over when Chitrangada was crowned King. She had also seen the palpable relief in Bheeshma's normally impassive face. He had felt he too could relax his vigil.

And now this. Satya sighed. She had no more tears left to cry.

"Mother," Bheeshma walked in, still dusty and disheveled from his journey. He had not stopped to change. He had rushed in to see her straightaway.

She held out her hand and he took them, kneeling before her.

"If you had been there, he would not have died," it was not an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. Bheeshma was invincible in battle. Had he been in Hastinapura, the Gandharva would never have dared challenge her Chitrangada to a battle.

Bheeshma's hands tightened over hers. "Shall I get the Gandharva’s head for you?" His voice was even.

She shook her head. She had had enough tragedies, enough fighting, enough death. Revenge would not bring her son back. "Your brother needs you. Hastinapura needs you. Till Vichitravirya is old enough to be King, you should be here, by his side. And afterwards too."

He had gone to put down a rebellion in the eastern provinces. They both knew he had had to go. The rebellion had been crushed and he was on the way back when the news of his brother’s death had reached him.

"Chitrangada died in battle, as befitting a Kshatriya," Bheeshma said. "Be comforted, mother."

She nodded. It was cold comfort to a mother, but her son had not shamed his heritage, fighting valiantly till the end.

The Banished Secret: Chapter Eight

Aditya sat in a corner, feeling out of place and bored. He and Abhi had arrived at Shyam and Vina’s house at six and had been ushered into this room. It was a large room which was already full of people the same age as Abhi and Aditya had immediately felt out of place. He had found a seat in a corner and Abhi had stayed at his side for a while before Aditya told him to go and have fun. Abhi had resisted before gravitating towards his friends. There were a lot of Aditya’s students among the guests, and they came over to greet him before going back to mingle with their friends. Abhi was dancing with a girl whom he remembered having seen once or twice around the campus. Vina was flirting with one of the boys from their class named Aakash and Shyam was nowhere to be found.

He was wondering if it might be polite to leave and was looking around to see if he can spot Shyam anywhere when a stranger came and sat down on a chair next to him.

“Hi,” said the man. “You are Abhi’s brother, aren’t you?”

Aditya looked at the man. He had never seen him before. He was tall, with a pleasant open face, and pair of very keen eyes.

“Yes,” Aditya said. “But how did you know?”

The stranger chuckled. “Easy to spot the resemblance. I’m Savit, by the way. I’m not from the college, I’m a family friend of Shyam. That’s how I met Abhi.”

Aditya nodded. “Nice to meet you,” he said, before relapsing into silence. What did one say in situations like this? He had never had any skill in making small talk.

“You’re a professor, aren’t you? What do you teach?” Savit asked.

“Economics,” Aditya replied, nearly suppressing a groan. It looked as if Savit wasn’t going to leave soon.

“I’m a total ignoramus where that is concerned,” Savit grinned. “Just scraped through with pass marks in school.”

Aditya smiled faintly, not knowing how to answer or if any answer was expected.

“You’re not drinking,” Savit observed.

“I have to drive home,” Aditya answered.

“Hmm… and your parents are on holiday, I heard.”

“Not exactly. They have gone to visit our grandparents.” Aditya wondered how Savit knew about their parents not being home, but he did not explain that his grandmother was ill and his parents would not be returning in the near future, not till she improved anyway.

“I see,” Savit said, smiling. “Well, nice talking to you, Aditya. Be seeing you around.”

Aditya heaved a sigh of relief as Savit disappeared into the crowd of dancing youngsters. But the sigh turned into a groan as Aakash sat down onto the vacant seat with an ingratiating smile.

"Here you are," an unknown girl with a bright smile grabbed hold of Aakash before he even greeted Aditya. With a muttered apology, Aakash went with the girl.

"Enjoying yourself?" Shyam took the seat.

"Would you feel offended if I say no?" Aditya was tired of trying to make conversations. At least with Shyam, he didn’t have to pretend.

Shyam shrugged. "Not really. Abhi did warn me you were kinda anti-social."

"I'm not, but I'm not comfortable with people I don't know." Aditya was offended. He wasn’t anti-social. He just liked his own company or those of his books more.

“Sounds anti-social to me,” Shyam teased. “If you’re tired of the party, go and have dinner. Buffet is arranged outside. You can go home afterwards."

"Abhi planning to stay here tonight?" Aditya asked.

"I think so. We'll be glad to have you too, you know." Shyam said.

"I think I'll go. I dread having to make small talk to people I don't know." Aditya hadn’t meant to have said it, but he wasn’t regretting having said it either.

Shyam laughed. "Well, Saina saved you from Aakash, didn't she? You didn't have to make any small talk."

"Not with him. But there was no one to save me from that Savit guy."

"Savit?" There was a slight frown on Shyam’s face.

"He said he was a family friend." Aditya said.

"Oh him! Yea. He's a bore. Come to think of it, he wanted to stay the night too. And so did a couple of others." Shyam frowned. "I’m beginning to see that we don’t have enough room. Abhi will need to go home. How am I even going to explain that?"

Aditya chuckled. "How fortunate l did not take you up on your invitation!"

"I'm bad at organizing," Shyam grimaced. "I will probably need to sleep on the couch too. Never mind. You go have your dinner. I shall bring Abhi too."

"He won't be happy," Aditya muttered.

"No, he won't. I'm hoping he'll..." Shyam's brow cleared. "I got it! I'll come with you two. I just need to throw a few things in a bag. How lucky tomorrow is a holiday!"

"What? But it's your birthday! You can't just leave your guests and go like that!"

"Vina will manage them. She owes me one anyway. And mum and dad won't mind too much. You did meet them today, didn't you?"

"Yes, when we came in. Why do you ask as if they’re strangers to me?”

“Just ‘coz they’ll be asking me later if you and Abhi attended. They’re not familiar with most of this crowd, but they know and like the two of you.”

“Well, I haven't seen them since I came in." Aditya couldn’t really make head or tail out of Shyam’s explanation.

"Oh, they'll be around somewhere. They don't enjoy this crowd, but they enjoy parties. I’ll just go and tell them I’m coming with you, and we’ll all have our dinner and we’ll go.”

"Well, if you're sure, you're welcome to come with us." Aditya gave in.

"Thanks big bro." Shyam flashed him a bright smile.

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Book Review: Faro's Daughter

It may be inaccurate to categorize Georgette Heyer's works as just romances. They do have romance in them, but none of them deal exclusively with romance. They are more of historical novels, rich in period detail and in human interest. She is a writer who can create plots that appear simple and even trivial, and yet keep a reader hooked on to the book till the last page.

The plot of Faro's Daughter may look simple, cliched and wholly predictable. A rich bachelor seeks to extricate his young cousin, a nobleman from the toils of a young woman whose aunt runs a gaming house. But Deb is hardly the traditional heroine with a sob story, and Max Ravenscar is not the philanthropic guardian angel who falls for her charms. From the beginning, it is a battle of wills between them, with neither able to get the better of the other.

Throw in Arabella, the saucy young sister of Ravenscar with a penchant for falling in love and falling just as quickly out; Lucius Kennet, an adventurer who hangs around Deb and has a way with ladies; Adrian, Ravenscar's cousin and The Earl of Mablethorpe, wholly infatuated with Deb; Lord Ormskirk, a middle aged nobleman who holds a mortgage on Lady Bellingham's house as well as her bills and who is desirous of making Deb his mistress; Sir James Filey, a repulsive man who is trying desperately to beat Ravenscar and challenges him to a race; Kit Grantham, Deb's younger brother, who is as heedless as he is expensive; Lady Belligham, Deb's feckless, but wholly practical aunt and Phoebe Laxton, a beautiful, but insipid young girl who is forced to run away from the man her parents had chosen for her; and we have a cast of unforgettable characters.

The plot starts interestingly with Adrian's worried mother importuning Ravenscar to save her son from “that female,” and unfolds with Ravenscar's visit to the gaming house and their subsequent clashes. Matters come to a head when Deb has Ravenscar kidnapped on the eve of his race with Sir James Filey and Kit forcibly takes the key from Deb and releases him since he's in love with Arabella. In the meantime, Adrian falls in love with Phoebe Laxton whom Deb had sheltered, and Lucius Kennet forms a scheme to kidnap Arabella. Georgette Heyer resolves all complications with enviable simplicity and when the predictable end comes to pass, it is with a realization that the journey has been far different from the anticipated one. Ravenscar is wholly indifferent to the world, and when Deb tells him that he cannot marry a wench out of a gaming house, he tells her that he was going to marry a wench out of a gaming house with as much pomp and ceremony as he can contrive. And since he is one of the richest men in town, we can imagine that he will contrive a great deal.

Book Review: The Talisman Ring

The Talisman Ring is one of Georgette Heyer's early novels. While the book combines the humour that is her hall mark and is set in the Regency Era and sports not one, but two romances, it will be hardly fair to simply categorize the book as a romance. It is a mystery rolled into a romance. And while the mystery occupies our minds, the romance creeps on us unawares.

The mystery revolves around the murder of Mathew Plunkett, who was killed sometime before the story starts. Ludovic Lavenham, the heir to the Baronetcy of Lavenham is accused of the crime and is a fugitive from justice when the story opens at the home of Lord Lavenham, Ludovic's grand uncle Sylvester who is in his deathbed. Enter Eustacie, the half french grand daughter of Sylvester with a thirst for romance and adventure and Sir Tristram Shield, another nephew of Sylvester who is prosaic and staid and with whom Sylvester has arranged a marriage of convenience for Eustacie and we find ourselves already intrigued. Throw into this mix Basil Lavenham, the Beau, the heir to the estate should Ludovic also die, who is suave and smiling and fancies himself one of the dandy set and all the elements of a romance is in place.

When Eustacie runs away and falls in with Ludovic, who has become a smuggler, the romance between the two is inevitable. She wishes to clear Ludovic's name and in this she is assisted by Sarah Thane, a chance acquaintance who professes to have a thirst for adventure equalling Eustacie's. Sarah is chaperoned by her brother Hugh, a harmless sybarite, whose memory retains only what is important to him. The missing Talisman ring is the key to solving the mystery, but who has it? Is it in the possession of Tristram, who is a collector of antique objects who has been most insistent that Ludovic is guilty and should be shipped out of the country? Or is it in the possession of Beau and does his belief in Ludovic's story and his conviction that Ludovic should have faced his trial instead of escaping hide a more sinister motive?

The romance between Eustacie and Ludovic blossoms almost immediately, Eustacie approving wholeheartedly of Ludovic's devil may care ways and recklessness, and Ludovic being charmed by her spirit and beauty and her naivete. The second romance in the book is more subtle and only in the last pages is the reader allowed a glimpse into their feelings, though their earlier exchanges hint at a deeper attachment for the other.

The plights of the hapless bow street runners, Hugh Thane's near-sightedness and tunnel vision, Sarah's artless prattle to throw their quarry off the scent provide laugh-out-loud moments that will have you, to quote Heyer herself, in stitches.

For those who have read Heyer, shades of Leonie can be discerned in Eustacie, but at no point does she feel like another version of Leonie. She is as different from Leonie as chalk and cheese while still sharing some of her traits. Ludovic is wholly charming and Sarah is the level headed heroine who manages to empathise with the adventurous spirit of Eustacie as well as to keep her more reckless behaviour in check.

The book, just like most of Heyer's other works, is well written and is rich in period details that makes the reader feel as if he is living the adventure. For Heyer enthusiasts, this book is a must-read.

Book Review: False Colours

False Colours is one of Georgette Heyer's later works and deals with the Regency period that made her so famous. The story revolves around the lives of the Fancot twins and their beautiful and devoted, but reckless mother. Christopher Fancot or Kit, the younger of the twins and the more sober one, is the protagonist of the story, though his more volatile older brother Evelyn, the Earl of Denville is an equally important character. The story deals with Kit's efforts to extricate Evelyn out of a difficult situation by masquerading as him.

The book, like Heyer's other works are rich in period details. Everything from the evening dresses of the ladies and gentlemen to their houses and chariots and boudoirs are described in perfect detail, which makes the places and people come alive for us. The people in False Colours from Kit and Evelyn to their mother, the hapless Sir Bonamy Ripple, the hedonist who fancies himself in love with her to Cressida Staverly and her grandmother to the miserly Cosmo and his son, Ambrose are all depicted with so much humour that we find ourselves chuckling as we read.

The plot may sound complex since it involves a masquerade, but Georgette Heyer makes it look simple. The book is one of the best reads and Heyer's mastery of her craft reads the reader spellbound.

The book has its laugh-out-loud moments, and moments that reduce us to helpless giggling. It has few anxious moments, but the undercurrent of humour makes even those light-hearted. And the romance is enough to satisfy even the most demanding of romantics.  The ending is superb and leaves us contented enough to want to read through it again.

Rediscovering Georgette Heyer

I started reading Georgette Heyer books when I was eleven. I had no concept of what was age appropriate and neither did my parents. They held that the more books you read, the better. And since English was not my mother tongue, they encouraged me to read as many English books as I could.

The first Georgette Heyer book I read was The Corinthian. I don't remember if I enjoyed the romance, but I do remember that I thoroughly enjoyed the humour. I remembered laughing out loud as I read it and reading aloud the portions that I found especially funny. The Corinthian was followed by Bath Tangle, The Civil Contract, The Conqueror and Beauvallet. While I found Beauvallet to be excruciatingly funny at times, I wasn't too impressed with Bath Tangle or The Civil Contract. And as for The Conqueror, I found myself both fascinated and repelled by William the Conqueror, about whom the book is written.

Then I forgot all about Georgette Heyer.

The next time I read her was after completing my post graduation, in the interim between having finished your studies and searching for a job. I took a membership in Trivandrum Public Library and found that they have a large collection of Georgette Heyer works. My mother and I both read and immensely enjoyed False Colours, The Convenient Marriage, The Masqueraders and These Old Shades before I joined a course and was not able to visit the library frequently.

So, Georgette Heyer was again consigned to the back of my mind and of my life.

Then, around ten years back, I started buying books again. I bought almost every title of Georgette Heyer I could find in amazon. As I started reading, what struck me the most was how detached was her narrator's voice most of the time.  And I found it such a refreshing change from writers who seem lost in admiration for the perfection of their creations. Georgette Heyer was either detached or gently mocking of her characters, making us feel that her creations were just as flawed as the rest of humanity. Her heroes and heroines are not epitomes of physical perfection nor intellectually superior to everyone around them. They are people, real, believable and relatable.

I also enjoyed her settings immensely. I have always had a weakness for historical novels, and her works made that period come alive for me. The rich details and descriptions made me feel as if I was seeing what was transpiring. Unlike many authors, there was no propaganda in her works. She was not out to prove the superiority of the British aristocracy; she was simply telling stories.

And what stories they were! From The Foundling to The Grand Sophy, From The Quiet Gentleman to April Lady, From Talisman Ring to Friday's Child, her plots are diverse, her characters human, her settings breathtaking, her dialogues witty and no two stories were ever the same. My mother was equally an ardent admirer of her books that I gifted the entire collection to my her and bought a whole new set for myself.

And even now, I find myself re-reading her books; and I still laugh out loud.