Chapter 16 Bhumika
BHUMIKA
The entire household gathered to watch Priya and Sima go.
Billu pushed gifts from the kitchens into Priya’s hands, then directed his attentions to Sima when she protested that she couldn’t possibly carry everything.
Even Kritika offered them both a respectful farewell, and promised to keep them in her prayers.
Finally, Priya took Padma from Bhumika’s arms and pressed kisses against Padma’s cheeks and into her curls, then swore laughingly when Padma yanked at her braid in return. “Goodbye, egg,” she said. “Don’t swear like me, or your mother will skin me, you understand?”
Priya raised her head and met Bhumika’s eyes. Her expression grew graver. “I’ll be home before you know it.”
She and Priya had never been good at uncomplicated affection. And Bhumika could not bring herself to embrace Priya now, when it would feel too false, or too vulnerable—too much like an admittance that she feared she would never see her sister again.
“Keep yourself safe,” Bhumika replied. She took her daughter back—and if her hand grasped Priya’s for one moment, gripping her fingers tight, then that was Bhumika’s own business and no one else’s. “I’ll see you in the sangam,” Bhumika said. “Go.”
Priya nodded, her eyes a little shining, a little wet—and then turned her head, and walked away. And that was the end of it. Her sister was gone.
It was no surprise that Bhumika slept badly that night. She woke the next day in the early predawn with a sense of unease. Someone is here, she thought. Khalida, perhaps, bringing Padma to her. But when she blinked open her eyes and sat up, no one was there. A headache clawed sharply at her skull.
She stumbled through her morning, nauseated. She managed to feed Padma, then demurred when Khalida offered to bring her something light to eat. “Kichadi perhaps,” Khalida suggested. But Bhumika winced at the thought of trying to stomach anything and refused.
“Is there nothing I can do to help?”
“If you can find Kritika, tell her I’d like to speak with her in my study,” Bhumika said. She wiped Padma’s face clean, then smoothed back her hair. “I will see you later,” she whispered, and brushed her lips over her daughter’s forehead. Padma made a contented noise.
It was Jeevan, and not Kritika, who came to see her first. He entered with a bow. There was something cupped between his hands.
“Billu sent this for you, my lady,” Jeevan said, keeping his voice low. Khalida had clearly told him Bhumika was not feeling at her best. He placed the cup in front of her. “Tulsi boiled in water,” he clarified, at her questioning look. “Billu assured me it should help.”
She smiled, a little wryly, and lifted the cup. It was warm, a fragrant green scent rising with the steam. “Billu thinks tulsi cures everything,” she said.
“Your sister,” he said, gazing over her shoulder, “is of the opinion that Billu believes hashish cures everything.”
“Jeevan!” She felt her smile deepen. “I didn’t know you liked to gossip. I’m shocked.”
His lip twitched minutely. Then his expression smoothed out into blankness again.
“Kritika is on her way, my lady,” he said. “Shall I remain?”
“No, you have enough to do. Kritika is no trouble.”
Jeevan’s silence was somehow both respectful and deeply skeptical. Bhumika covered her amusement by taking a sip of the tulsi infusion. The warmth was pleasant, soothing. But it did nothing to ease her headache. Perhaps Jeevan should have brought her hashish instead.
“If you need me,” he said.
“I’ll summon you,” Bhumika said. “Of course.”
He bowed again, and then just as swiftly as he’d arrived, he departed.
Kritika arrived soon after. She wore a pale sari, her silver-white hair bound back neatly with beads of wood.
“I’m sorry I’m late, elder,” she said, seating herself across from Bhumika. “I was on the Hirana. Seeing to morning pilgrims.”
Her tone implied, heavily, that Bhumika should have been seeing to pilgrims, as the only true elder left in Ahiranya.
There was no point arguing with Kritika.
Bhumika had learned, long ago, that there were battles not worth fighting.
“I wish I could go more regularly than I do,” Bhumika said.
“I’m thankful for your help,” she added, with as much sincerity as she could muster.
Kritika had once been a rebel against Parijatdvipan rule, and fiercely loyal to Ashok.
Ever since his death she had dedicated herself to the spiritual care of Ahiranya—and to ensuring that her fellow ex-rebels would have a position of respect in the new city that was being built in the absence of the empire.
“So,” Kritika said. “What need do you have of me?”
“I know you want your people to pass again through the deathless waters,” said Bhumika. “If you have a select few who are willing—Kritika, I believe it is time to try.”
“Of course you’re finally allowing it,” Kritika said. A bad start. She did not sound pleased, as Bhumika had vaguely expected she would. Instead her mouth was thin. “If I may speak freely,” Kritika added.
“You may,” Bhumika replied, inwardly bracing herself.
“We follow you because Ashok made a vow that he would obey you. And we still believe in him, and always shall. But you’re barely clinging on,” Kritika said bluntly.
“The city is still in disarray. Peace is tenuous. One disastrous harvest, one full rebellion from the highborn, and you lose everything. You have had need of us to grow in strength for a long time. And you allow us our rights only now, after throwing your sister to the Parijatdvipans?” She took a deep, pointed breath. “It riles me, elder.”
Perhaps there would be less disarray if any of you had the patience for the dull work of keeping a nation functional, Bhumika thought. Silently, she let the irritation form, then drift away. She sipped her tulsi water.
“The deathless waters are dangerous,” Bhumika said instead, treading over an old argument with steady footsteps. “They may kill any of you. Tenuous as my power is, I cannot afford to lose anyone. It has made me rightly cautious.”
“My men and women are strong.”
“Strong people have been killed by the waters before,” Bhumika said quietly. “As you know.” When Kritika remained silent, Bhumika said, “That I offer this at all is a sign of my regard for the mask-keepers. And my desire to see us build Ahiranya together. I will be glad of powerful allies.”
“Then we should all pass through the waters, so you may have as many powerful allies as it is possible to have.”
Bhumika shook her head. The ache in her skull briefly sharpened.
Forcing back a wince, she said, “For all of you to make the journey would be an unwise risk.” Kritika was still frowning.
“You have waited this long out of respect for me. For Ashok’s memory.
” Mostly, she knew, for Ashok’s memory. “I ask you to trust my guidance in this, too. As he would have wanted.”
“I will wait,” Kritika said eventually. “If anyone must wait—I’ll accept it. I will ask a few of my brothers and sisters to share my patience. But not all. They have the right to become twice-born, Elder Bhumika.”
Bhumika inclined her head.
“Kritika.”
“Yes?”
“You need not call me ‘elder,’” Bhumika said. “I have told you so before.”
“I show you the respect I would have shown Ashok,” Kritika said, with a stiffness that was all brittle grief.
“Ashok would never have asked you to do so,” Bhumika said.
“But he did,” said Kritika. “He made us all promise to serve you, Elder Bhumika. So we shall.” She paused, clearly struggling with the desire to speak.
Then, quite sharply, she said, “But if I or any of my fellow mask-keepers were to consider turning on you—and we would not—I would point out that you are tainted by your association with the Parijatdvipan empire: your marriage. Your child.”
“Tainted,” Bhumika repeated flatly.
“I would point out that our country still does not have the freedom it was promised. Someone could easily claim you are another regent in all but name: a Parijatdvipan creature ready to keep us under the empire’s boot, who won’t allow her fellows power.
I would make it clear how easily you could be toppled.
But I keep Ashok’s promises for him, Elder Bhumika. ”
“There is no need to threaten me,” Bhumika said tiredly. “I’ve already agreed, Kritika.”
“I was not threatening you,” Kritika said, sounding genuinely affronted. “If I were threatening you, I would use my sickle.”
“Then you have a good reason to keep me alive and in power,” Bhumika replied. She gave Kritika a grim smile as she rose to her feet. “You have no sense of the kind of weapons the highborn use.” And if you do, you wield them entirely without subtlety, Bhumika thought.
“I know exactly what weapons the highborn use,” Kritika said.
“I’ve lived under their boot in a way you cannot comprehend, wealthy and protected as you have been, Elder.
I simply believe in more honest weapons.
As I believe in a more honest Ahiranya. The sooner we can rise and put the weapons the empire gave our people aside, the better. That is what I believe.”
That evening, Bhumika reached for Priya in the sangam. The shadow of her moved through three knotted cosmic rivers; the shadow of her voice called.
Priya. Priya. Where are you?
Priya did not answer her.
“I need you to send one of your men after Priya.” Those were the first words she said to Jeevan when he entered her chambers and bowed, eyes sharp with concern.
She had summoned him directly to her, after the second time she reached for Priya and found no answer.
Now, she was standing by the window—staring out at the growing darkness, forcing herself not to pace with anxiety.
She had never reached for Priya and found nothing before.
Never. “Urgently. The swiftest rider you have.”
He nodded. “What message should the rider carry?” Jeevan asked.