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In the heart of the ancient kingdom of Avanti, the sun dipped low, casting a warm glow over the sprawling palace. Its sandstone walls had borne silent witness to countless battles, feasts, and whispers of intrigue. Within these storied corridors, Prince Rajaseno, a young man of 21 summers, sat before a mirror, his reflection revealing a face etched with a mix of anxiety and determination.
His broad shoulders and muscular frame were a testament to his rigorous training in combat and governance. His dark eyes, fringed with thick lashes, searched the room as if seeking an escape from the fate that lay before him.
On the other side of the palace was the queen, Saudamini, lying on her opulent bed, her 52-year-old body adorned with gold and jewels that glinted in the candlelight. Her once beautiful face, now lined with sorrow, reflected the weight of the burden she, too, had to bear.
Despite her age, she remained a striking voluptuous figure, her regal posture belying the exhaustion that lurked beneath. Her long, silver hair cascaded over the velvet pillows, a stark contrast to the crimson silks that draped her form.
Rajaseno’s thoughts were a tumultuous storm. He knew the law was archaic, a relic of a time when the purity of the royal line was paramount. Yet, the love he had for his mother was unshakeable. The idea of lying with her filled him with revulsion, but he also knew that if he didn’t, the kingdom would fall into chaos.
The whispers of the ministers grew louder in his mind, their self-serving intentions clear. If he didn’t claim the throne, they would use his reluctance as a tool to manipulate the grieving court. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the ordeal ahead.
The Royal Priest, a sage-like figure with a flowing white beard and piercing eyes, entered the chamber. His robes were as immaculate as his reputation, and he carried with him an air of solemnity that could not be ignored.
He approached the prince, his voice low and measured. “Your Highness, the time has come. The future of Avanti rests upon your shoulders. Your father, King Trivikrama, knew the strength you possess. He believed in you, even in his final moments.”
Rajaseno met the priest’s gaze, his voice tight. “But why must it be this way, Guruji? To lay with my own mother… it’s a sin that weighs heavy on my soul.”
The Royal Priest’s eyes softened with understanding. “It is an ancient law, Prince. One that ensures the line of succession remains untainted by greed and ambition. Your father knew the risks of not naming a successor. His death in battle has left us with no choice but to follow the sacred texts.”
Rajaseno’s jaw clenched. “But to ask this of me, of my mother… it’s a perversion of the very traditions we are sworn to uphold!”
The Royal Priest placed a comforting hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Son of Avanti, do not let the shackles of tradition blind you to the truth,” he began, his voice filled with the wisdom of ages. “Look to our history, to the tales of your ancestors. King Dilipa, when faced with a similar fate, took a sage’s counsel and performed the rite with his widowed mother to preserve their line. It was not for pleasure but for duty. For the greater good of the kingdom.”
Rajaseno’s gaze remained on the floor, his mind racing. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he looked up and nodded. “Very well, Guruji. I will do what must be done.”
The priest’s expression grew more serious as he outlined the sequence of the function. “First, we must proceed to the royal court where the sages will chant the sacred mantras and anoint you both with holy water. The ministers will lay down their objections and offer their support, for they too know the sanctity of the law.”
The prince nodded again, his resolve hardening. He could feel the weight of his father’s crown, not yet on his head, but pressing down on him nonetheless. “And then, my mother will be taken to the consummation chamber,” the priest continued, “while you remain outside with the 50 female servants of the ministers. They are there to ensure the purity of the rite, to bear witness to the act that will seal your fate as king.”
Rajaseno’s stomach churned at the thought, but he kept his face stoic. “And what of me, Guruji?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“When the time is right, you will enter the chamber, and the door will be sealed behind you. The witnesses will remain inside, to witness and be the perfect proof of your union.” The priest’s eyes searched the prince’s, seeking any sign of wavering. “You must not fail, Rajaseno. The fate of Avanti hangs in the balance.”
With a deep breath, the prince stood, squaring his shoulders. “I will not fail, Guruji. I will do as necessary.” The words felt like a stone lodged in his throat, but he spoke them with the conviction of a warrior facing his final battle.
The royal procession moved through the hallowed halls of the palace, the air thick with tension. The sages chanted in the royal court, their voices resonating off the high ceilings and ancient statues. The ministers, a sea of scheming faces, watched as the queen and her son approached the ornate throne. Each step felt like a march toward a fate that defied the very fabric of their relationship.
The queen paused a bit and held Rajaseno’s hand, her hand trembling in his. “Rajaseno,” she whispered, her voice a mix of sorrow and resignation. “We do this for Avanti.”
The prince nodded, his heart aching. “For Avanti,” he echoed, his voice strong despite the turmoil within.
As the sages completed their blessings, the queen, Queen Saudamini, entered the chamber. The female servants, their eyes averted, followed in a silent procession. The chamber was vast, the walls adorned with frescoes of gods and goddesses, their expressions a mix of pity and solemn acceptance. The bed, a monolith of carved mahogany, dominated the space, its velvet coverings a stark reminder of the act to come.
Rajaseno followed her, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous chamber. His blue sherwani, studded with gold embroidery, fluttered around him like the wings of a majestic bird, the gold border of his dhoti gleaming with each step. A few pearl necklaces adorned his neck, the only sign of the youthful vitality that remained in this grim situation. His broad chest rose and fell with the deep breaths he took, attempting to compose himself for the unthinkable task ahead.
The fifty female servants, each a testament to the diverse beauty of Avanti, formed a semicircle around the bed. Their skin ranged from the warm, earthy tones of sun-kissed wheat to the rich, dark hue of freshly tilled soil. Each wore a crimson blouse that accentuated their modest curves and a red ghagra that flowed around them like rivers of fire.
The transparent red chunri that draped over their heads and shoulders created an ethereal veil, their eyes the only visible part of their faces, reflecting a spectrum of emotions—pity, shock, and fear. They had been chosen by the ministers to bear witness to this sacred yet disturbing rite, a testament to their purity and loyalty.
The queen, now alone in the chamber, took her place on the bed, her movements deliberate and heavy with the gravity of the moment. Her white sari whispered against the velvet as she reclined, the gold-embroidered border a stark contrast against the dark fabric.
Her gaze remained fixed on the intricate patterns of the ceiling, refusing to meet the eyes of the silent spectators. Above the bed, a crystal chandelier cast flickering shadows, its flames dancing in a silent ballet of light and dark.
One by one, the female servants entered the chamber, their sensuous movements a silent symphony of grace. Each step was measured, hips swaying gently as they walked on the soft carpets. Some allowed their chunris to slip slightly, exposing the bare skin of their neck and the allure of their deep cleavage, while others revealed the jewel-studded navels that marked their feminine beauty.
The air grew thick with the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, their combined perfumes creating an intoxicating aura around the queen.
Rajaseno stepped into the chamber, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He could feel the eyes of the court on him, their whispers a hiss of accusation and judgment. The female servant with the fallen chunri, her ample cleavage teasing the onlookers, walked up to the large, ornate wooden doors and, with a graceful tug, swung them shut.
The sound echoed through the chamber like the final note of a somber melody, signaling the beginning of the ritual. Two more servants rushed forward, securing the doors with heavy golden bars, effectively locking the prince. The queen was inside with their silent audience.
To be continued.
iSS
