Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
T he power of a yogi comes from arduous meditation,” Romasha says. “Tapasya, as it is known.”
Seated on a pedestal circling the massive bael tree, Romasha is as beautiful as to rival many an apsara. Her thick hair is tied into a topknot, but tendrils escape to frame her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are focused on a small ball of fire sparking between her fingers. The fire flickers from between her hands, then races up her arms to her shoulders, curling around her neck like a snake. It coils and uncoils around her chest before coalescing into a contained ball of flames again.
I kneel on the grass in front of her, along with Anirudh and Kalyani. A soft breeze blows through the hermitage, carrying with it the scents of rain. We are gathered with the other hundred or so students of the hermitage, seated in the garden. Beyond are sheds where the horses and cows are stabled; behind, the open-pillared pavilion.
The three of us are the only ones to sit in a group, a concession shown to me because I am new. Fire flickers everywhere as students follow Romasha’s instructions. Some of these disciples use runes, others mantras. Parasara’s flames look like a dark eclipsed sun with a golden corona around it. Eka bounces playful blue sparks from one finger to another. Kalyani creates wispy embers, more like air than fire, but no less hot for it. Anirudh, who is more practiced, easily balances a lavalike orb with golden waves on its surface.
I alone hold nothing. Vacuum tingles between my fingers.
“Focus,” Kalyani whispers beside me, sensing my frustration. “Visualize the fire inside you. Aim that into the rune you’re attempting.”
I nod stiffly, but my fingers twitch, wanting to curl into the mudra of Agni’s Laughter. With it, I can create an illusion of flames so powerful, it would rival any of these yogis’ magic. Would these people know it is not true fire?
The golden tether tempts me to try, but I do not have my jewels to augment my magic. An illusion to fool this many people would tax me too much. I dare not deplete myself. I will need my magic once I break through Kaushika’s shield, even if my efforts to do so have been futile thus far. Besides, the mortals have not been able to tell my magic is celestial; power is simply power to them. An illusion of this size could expose me.
“Tapasya is no ordinary meditation,” Romasha continues. “It is the ember that kindles a spiritual fire, connecting a yogi to the prana magic of the universe. With it, we access the very same cosmic power the devas in swarga do. Devas rely on prayers to sustain their magic, but with intense tapasya, we yogis take the universe’s infinite power into ourselves. We are vessels of the universe, a part of it and the whole of it. Infinity both contains and does not contain parts.”
Since that first training session, I have fallen into a prescribed routine, similar to the other disciples. I am up before dawn—milking cows, collecting firewood, kneading dough, and washing floors. Then it is practicing in the courtyard, sessions that so far have resulted in nothing but frustration. Afterward, I break fast within a large communal shed, a meal of almonds and ghee-filled kichdi, or spiced millets with a tall glass of sanjeevani, which I pretend to relish, all the while missing the soma and wines of Amaravati. Then it is more lessons, either in a shed or the pavilion, or right here in the garden under a tree, each of them useless to me.
Romasha’s gaze shifts to me like she can hear that thought. “Look inside yourself,” she says. “Accept that you belong here, that you have a place here. Feel your breath flowing through you and know that it is simply a sheath for the universe’s magic. Access it.”
I return her look, trying not to laugh rudely.
It is absurd, this instruction. If I really did accept who I am, an apsara , would I even be here? Would these people allow me to be here?
For a week now, I have attended treatises on philosophy and history, on dharma and niyama, on religion and ethics. All of them speak of the same wisdom . To burn maya and find the path into true knowledge. Enemies of illusion, any of these yogis would reduce me to cinders given half a chance. Kaushika himself would lead the charge, even though he has completely ignored me since the first day. I have seen him attend the very same classes I have, as if he were not the master of the hermitage but an ordinary yogi.
Even now he sits a few rows behind me. A prickle goes through my scalp at presenting my back to a predator. I resist the urge to turn and look at him. As it is, his scent filters toward me, clouding my mind. I inhale, trying to capture the scent of rain instead.
The way he runs his hermitage bewilders me. At home, reverence is a matter of seniority. Only the most elite apsaras teach mudras to younger ones, and that knowledge is guarded zealously, released through acts of devotion. I have argued often with Rambha because she is my friend, but were she Sundari or Magadhi, I would not have dared. Subtle but clear rivalry has always lingered between the apsaras—to be the most beautiful, the most ardent. To create the best illusions and take on the hardest missions. Lord Indra himself encourages the competition, considering it a sign of our love for him.
Here in the hermitage, Kaushika does not seem to care about such things. Though it is clear his word is law, he rarely interferes with how Anirudh and Romasha run things. I have seen him listen to other students with seriousness in the pavilion, even agree with their perspectives as they challenge his own thinking. Everyone has his regard, and he is clearly not afraid of being questioned, yet my own defiance of him has left him hostile instead of curious. Remembering the first day of training, I have moved around him carefully, even being subservient instead of challenging. I have endured his indifference for a week. It has gotten me nowhere. My body shifts in place, uncomfortable, as Romasha’s gaze moves away from me.
“There is only one being who personifies the complete power of the universe,” she drones on. “Shiva alone is so united with the power of the universe that he is indistinguishable from the infinite. Even the devas bow to his supremacy, humbled time and again by him. Yet, though he is powerful beyond measure, Shiva does not concern himself with the politicking of heaven and earth. That withdrawal from worldly interactions to learn of oneself is essential to pursuing your own magic here at the hermitage.”
Kalyani raises her brow at me. I realize I am frowning. I give her a halfhearted shrug and pretend to return to my magic, though I cannot help the revulsion that streaks through me at Romasha’s words.
The yogis in the hermitage often compare themselves to the Great Lord Shiva, claiming to follow his path, but they act more like the devas they hate than Shiva himself. The Lord of Destruction might have broken the cycle of karma, but that is because he turns the heat of tapasya inward instead of manifesting it into the world. Even his once-thriving abode at Mount Kailash is now icy, leached of life as he pulls the radiant power of the universe into himself. That is why he is the Lord of Destruction. Because life itself is breakable around him.
The yogis of the hermitage have no such power. Like Indra, who channels prana to wield lightning and storm, the yogis channel their own magic into the world through mantras and runes and consecrated herbs, all in order to effect change on reality. They do not retain their magic for greater enlightenment. Indra is right to be apprehensive of them. In their na?veté and power, they could callously diminish him, not knowing the damage they do to their own kind in the process.
Romasha stands up from the tree. She nods to someone behind me, and I turn in my seat to see Kaushika rise.
His aura is so strong, it calls to me. I can discern the chakras of prana heavy with magic inside his body, the discs shining in rainbow colors. A sapphire blue at his throat, glowing through his dark skin. The one in his heart emerald green. The one right above his head a purple so royal it takes my breath away. I clutch my tether to Amaravati with my mind, limp though it is, holding on to Indra even though Shiva resounds through the hermitage. Reveal your lust , I think, aiming my power at Kaushika.
I slam against his shield again. It is intoxicating to know that behind it lies the secret to his seduction. That if I only find the right path into him, I will receive a taste of victory. Like others here, surely his own knowledge of himself is flawed; he is, after all, their true teacher. My eyes move over his body, tracing the shape of his aura, looking for a way inside.
He and Romasha begin to walk from student to student, helping them unblock their energies. Fire rises from fingertips in beautiful, swirling shapes that merge with one another. Kaushika mutters appreciatively before moving to the next student. I know that he will not make his way to me.
Indra’s voice echoes in my head. Thwart him. How can I when he does not even acknowledge my presence? I keep my eyes on Kaushika’s sharp profile, the angles of his shoulders, the strength in his biceps. The tether from Amaravati coils around my heart. My fingers carve the rune for fire, a blossoming sun, and an idea strikes me. I hold on to the tether as I would if I were to create an illusion, but this time I direct it toward the rune.
Sharp pain squeezes my lungs. I gasp, dropping my tether.
It is a reminder. A warning.
I can only use Amaravati’s magic to do what Indra has allowed me—to dance and create illusions. I am not allowed to use Indra’s magic this way. A frustrated sound builds in my throat. That I will learn none of this mortal method is obvious. Yet I must endure this training, a waste of everyone’s time.
It is the one thing Kaushika and I agree on.
I turn my attention to Anirudh and Kalyani. The two have been taking turns at teaching me privately, beyond the classes we all attend. “Is it true?” I ask quietly. “Did Kaushika tell you not to help me?”
Kalyani bites her lip. She glances at Anirudh, clearly unsure of what to say, deferential to his seniority.
Anirudh in turn gazes toward Kaushika. When he speaks, his voice is tired. “He told us not to help you excessively . He cautioned us not to do so at the cost of our own training.”
“Are you?”
Anirudh sighs. “We all saw how strong you are. How much magic you contain. You will be an asset here, even if he is reluctant to say it. Do not give up yet. We have not.”
Kalyani nods emphatically. Their support has more to do with making Kaushika proud of them than unleashing my own magic; for all I know, for their own Initiation Ceremony they might wish to claim teaching me—the incompetent student—as their great talent. Still, their confidence in my potential warms me.
“If I am an asset, then why doesn’t he help me?” I ask.
“He doesn’t trust you,” Anirudh says. “He can only trust people who have complete devotion.”
“Devotion to him?”
“To Shiva,” Anirudh says flatly. “Our meditation, our yogic practices, our very magic—all of those are offerings to the Lord. For you to deny yourself, Kaushika sees it as a denial of Shiva himself.” He shrugs, helpless. “We’ve tried mantras and herbs, asanas and the wisdom of the Vedas. By now we should have seen something. You are presenting a challenge.”
“Maybe only Kaushika can teach me,” I say. I glance again toward where the sage helps Yamortri. “This is his hermitage. He let me in here.”
“To allow you an opportunity,” Anirudh says. “He did not make any promises. Everyone here gets the same treatment. He did not even make promises to me , Meneka, and I am his oldest friend.”
“Really?” I sit up straighter. I imagine the two of them younger, growing up around each other’s secrets. I feel such excitement at this little nugget of information that my mind buzzes with possibilities and questions, and I don’t know where to begin. Before I can assemble my thoughts, however, a cry ripples through the air.
I turn in its direction and jump to my feet. Other disciples rise as well, all of us crowding around each other to see. A young, paleskinned girl trembles not far from the bael tree’s trunk. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted in a scream. Leaves crackle, then the tree begins to smoke.
Romasha utters a mantra before anyone else can. Next to me, Anirudh draws a rune of moisture as well. Both their spells hit at the same instant, and streams of water rush over the tree in a small, contained storm, stopping the fire from spreading. Yet, though all of us are standing, no one touches the girl. Everyone keeps their distance from her, their gazes grim, clearly following a protocol I’m unaware of.
Then Kaushika is there, kneeling by the girl, his hand on her forehead. He closes his eyes, and I notice what I did not before. It is not just the tree that kindled with fire. It is the girl herself. Under her pale skin flicker orange embers. The embers flash, from her forehead to her throat. She cries out, a tiny whimper, and my heart catches at the sound.
“What is he doing?” I whisper.
“Healing her,” Anirudh answers. “Every act of magic we do depletes how much we store inside us, yet healing does it most of all. Kaushika will need to meditate again to refill himself with what he is pouring into Navyashree now. He is generous with how much he’s giving her, and it is sure to have an effect on him, tiring him.”
“A lesson,” Romasha adds, hearing us. Her voice carries to everyone else as well. “Celestials do not burn from holding their magic because they channel prana through their deva king. They are protected, separated from the direct dangers of uncontrolled prana, because Indra forms a barrier to such powerful magic. But they can never have the kind of power we yoke either. Tapasya is fire. Prana is fire. If you do not contain it properly …” She lets her words hang as all of us watch the girl pulsing with sparks.
We back away as Kaushika picks her up in his arms, murmuring under his breath. The unearthly light under the disciple’s skin slowly flows from her into him. He does not look perturbed, but a serious line forms on his forehead, heavy with concentration. If anything, the combination of the fiery glow within him only highlights the alertness of his body. Even with my limited knowledge, I know this is a feat no one else in the hermitage is capable of.
My mission is churned in me by his unseen danger, by his quiet prowess. By how his senseless vendetta against my king, fueled by a self-assured prejudice, threatens heaven itself. Reveal your lust , I whisper desperately, but no image returns to me.
The girl still in his arms, Kaushika marches out of the gathering, Romasha on his heels.