The Spider Who Weaves
“Precious child, it’s twilight in the East. Arise, for your people need you now.”
Often, when a skilled singer performs, she inspires curiosity in her audience. How is she able to control her voice with such precision? But when singers of the highest renown perform, curiosity morphs to wonder. These words are very similar. Occasionally, people use them interchangeably. But these words are not the same. Curiosity is inquiring about what one sees in front of oneself. Wonder is about meditating on what lies beyond. The seen and the unseen. Few singers can inspire this in people.
Sruti was one. The audience in front of her did not heed her final stanza and rise to applaud her. Instead, they sat stunned and shivering, transported somewhere beyond. But she certainly was not experiencing the wonder they were. When her voice quieted, her focus immediately returned to the noises in her head. Terrifying scenes of blood and violence and pain. It was as if someone stuck two blades into her eyebrows, and poured in nightmares through the resulting wounds. Everything and everyone around her was mere illusion. Only the pain was real.
Was she going crazy? Was she being haunted? Possessed? The holy texts she read in school contemplated such things, but it was always a punishment for sin. And she could not, for the life of her, figure out what she’d done wrong.
Maybe this was what drove her mother to do it. Yes, people admired her for it, but normal women just didn’t cling to those rituals anymore. Maybe this sickness drove her mad too.
Perhaps Sruti was also going to snap one day and jump in a pyre, relishing the endless quiet. The respite from the incessant noise.
Sruti returned to her senses for a moment—the King and the Acharya and numerous other rishis greeted her in tears, speaking some nonsense about “the sublime.” But Maya rescued her, that territorial, imperious girl. The Princess clasped Sruti’s arm and walked her back to her room.
“Rest now, darling,” Maya said. She kissed Sruti’s forehead. “You look so tired.”
Sruti buried her head under her pillow and willed sleep to take her. She saw Maya and her friends. The King. All the people who loved her. Trees. Rivers. The skies at night, stars glittering. The dust blowing off of old books, windows into truths stretching out further than the memory of man runs. Shapeless and formless.
Then a crack. Terrible lightning falling from the skies. Gongs and deep chants. A corpse on the ground, in a pool of his own blood. Strangely familiar. Hazy, but coming into focus.
A crowned brow.
The King.
* * *
Satyam, the royal physician, had just finished a late night of drinks with the King. The anniversary was a few days ago. Strangely enough, Sruti never seemed to reflect so much on her parents’ death—she was too young to have really known them. But Satyam and the King felt limbless without their old friends, even after all this time.
On a short walk through the courtyard back to his room, he heard crying and saw the girl under a tree. Perhaps she was suffering like him after all. She saw him and gave a small smile of welcome through her tears.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” Satyam asked.
She looked down, weighing something. After looking back up and searching his face for a moment, she gave an answer he didn’t expect after all.
“I had a dream. The king. Dead and bloodied.”
Odd. Poor girl is still so young, he always forgets. He smiled. “It was just a nightmare, you mad girl.”
“But this one seemed so real. Like I’d seen it before.”
“I was just with him, he’s fine!” He patted her back. “Shall I get you something to sleep peacefully?”
She nodded, convincing herself, and sniffed. “Yes, please.”
“Go back to your room, then I’ll meet you there.”
He returned to his stores, rummaged for some poppy, and brought back a small tincture for her. She drank it, grimacing, and drifted off. He shook his head and ambled back to his chambers. She was so like her mother. So lovely. So loving. The girl had tears for everyone but herself.
But a thought crept up, unbidden. Perhaps she was also like her father. Like the spider who weaves its whole world from its own body. Like the ancient sages who meditated out of their own bodies and played freely in the cosmos. The webs of intrigue and secrets and lies that lay subterranean in the hearts of men could not stay there for long with Hari around.
That’s the power of a Mind rishi.
He changed course and returned to the King. The monarch was gazing out his window to the shadowy grounds, lost in thought. Likely contemplating his young ward in this time of mourning. That bright young mind, those wide searching eyes, so desperately alive in a mausoleum of bitter memories.
Satyam gathered himself. “Your Majesty.”
The King turned around and saw his friend. “Satyam, back for another round?” He smiled. “I’m glad. I could use the company.”
“No sir, I’m here to…” Satyam sighed. “I wanted to tell you about a dream Sruti had.”
The King snorted. “Okay, maybe you don’t need a second round after all.”
“Just listen. She saw, well… she saw your bloody corpse. I just thought, if she’s anything like her father, that it’s possible she read someone’s mind. Perhaps someone is thinking about your death. Not necessarily nefarious, maybe someone is thinking of it in fear, but…” He trailed off. The King’s eyes had widened in a moment of recognition before rearranging themselves into studied neutrality.
“Hmm. Maybe. Don’t overthink this. But… keep me updated about any other visions she has.” And, after a moment. “We must care for her, Satyam. We’re all she has left.”
“Of course.”
Satyam left slightly bewildered. One thing was clear, though. The Sruti he saw under the tree was not new to suffering. It seemed she had become a stranger to her own bed.
He would need to harvest much more poppy.
