inka felt as though something within her was fading, becoming thinner, paler. The vibrant and colourful dances continued around her, the waves of exquisite perfume ebbed and flowed, yet she felt a dimming, a diminution, a strange dampness and sense of dross edging in around her, dulling the gleeful delights of the party.

There was a banquet of exotic foods laid out for all the revellers, the rich aromas mingling with the scents exuded by the devas and the accharas, as well as with the fragrances of the celestial flowers – mandarava¹ and mañjusaka – it was a feast, a delight to the eye and to the sense of smell, but Ninka found herself turning away. All this bounty, this joyful play, palled and lost its glamour.

She was seated beside her betrothed, the deva prince she was soon to be wed to but, perhaps affected by the waning of her interest in all around them, he had been ignoring her and was deep in rapturous conversation with a deva to his left, a jewel-bedecked beauty whose eyes shone with fascination and delight at Malabhari’s every word. She was entranced by him. The prince was equally fixated on her so Ninka scarcely had to say, ‘Please excuse me,’ before she drifted quietly away.

The dancing and the party-games, the absorption in the food and drink, were undisturbed by Ninka’s departure. Quietly she floated beyond the edge of the glade; she had had nothing to eat, after the token sip of nectar she had had to take at Malabhari’s bidding.

In the shade of the trees across the lotus pond Ninka noticed that her gossamer robes seemed more sombre² in tone than they usually did. She moved her arm out into the full sunlight of the morning yet, even there, the blues and purples were definitely less rich, the edges almost grey. As she moved her hands around, picking up different pieces of the fabrics she was wearing to look at them more closely, she felt a strange stickiness in her armpits. ‘What is this?’ she wondered, reaching to test the sensation with her fingers. Not only did a faintly rank tang strike her nose but she saw flakes of skin, a dusty slough, gathered on the tips.

‘I am fading indeed,’ she realized, ‘and there’s nothing I can do about it³.’ She had not had any food when with the nagas, having lost her appetite and she knew that having not eaten for some time, the signs she was now experiencing meant that the deva-life she had lived for so long was coming to an end⁴. Her hands and feet now hurt and she could see that she no longer had the radiance, the aura that would, in the past, have easily dispelled the shadows beneath the circle of trees beside the pond where she was sitting.

A wave of tiredness washed over her but she felt restless, agitated at the same time. She curled her legs beneath her and leant against the trunk of one of the trees, trying to find a comfortable way of sitting but the moss bank she was settled on now felt hot and hard, and the tree-trunk, the bark of which should have been soft and spongey, dug into her back and seemed to be a mass of knots and gnarls.

‘My end is approaching fast⁵,’ she realized, ‘I don’t think there’s going to be the usual seven days of fading. What should I do?’

---

From the age of about three Rains, Prince Vidudabha was aware that he was doubly special; not only was he the first true-born son of King Pasenadi, and thus heir to the throne of Kosala, but he was also half Sakyan and of the same family as the Buddha who everyone revered so much. As if any extra glory needed to be added to his name, he was also often told how very rare it was to have a Sakyan mother and a father from Kosala or Magadha – no one of his nurses or nannies or pages could recall such an honourable match since the Sakyans were famously proud of their purity of birth.

The King doted on him – as his longed-for heir – and since Vasabha did not have any more children in the immediately following years, Vidudabha was showered with attention and praise. As Vasabha’s only child she cared for him deeply, but she was forced to bury her dismay and disapproval when he behaved in ways that would have earned him an earful in the lean-to that Vasabha grew up in but, here in the glittering chambers of the palace, his brattish selfishness and moodiness were chuckled at and labelled ‘charming’ and ‘princely pride’ and even praised.

When he had just reached five Rains there came a day when Princess Vajiri, now in her early twenties, came to the end of her patience with him. As a much bigger sister, or at least half-sister, she had more liberty to speak her mind than most in the court. She was a much-loved and respected member of the family, her only fault, in the eyes of her royal parents, being that she had determinedly refused every offer of marriage ever made to her.

The family were all together sharing a convivial meal at the palace. One of the servants brought in some dishes of food and, unwittingly, since he was carrying several items, had put his left thumb into the edge of the food arranged on one of the plates. The young prince saw this as the dishes were brought to the table and barked out, ‘Take your disgusting shit-covered hand out of my food. You should throw that all away right now and, Father, order his hand to be cut off![^6]’

‘Vidu! Don’t be such an obnoxious little prig,’ Vajiri snapped at him. ‘Here, Sudhamma, give it to me, I’m happy to eat it. I’m sure your hands are clean.’ Vajiri always being one to be ready to set formalities and conventions aside when practicalities demanded it.

Vidudabha, despite being only just five, was very ready to display his authority. ‘How dare you talk to me like that! I’m the Crown Prince, I will be your King soon, you should have your tongue pulled out for speaking to me that way! Father, do something!’

Glances were rapidly exchanged across the table, between King Pasenadi and Mallika and Vasabha, Pasenadi and Vajiri, Vajiri and Vasabha... The King realized it was up to him to take some action – he would not take such drastic steps as his son asked for and he searched for an equable middle way.

‘Come and sit by me and share my plate, my boy. This is all guaranteed pure. I’ll sort things out with the servants later. Let’s not spoil what was such a pleasant repast. Vajrii, apologise to your brother for being rude, please.’ He shot his daughter an imploring look, as if to say, ‘Don’t wind him up or it will be hell for his nannies, his pages, and his mother for days.’

Vajiri was well-acquainted with her little brother’s moods and she understood the need, however, she was still a kshatriyan princess so she responded, ‘I am sorry I spoke rudely to you, Your Highness, please forgive me. Although that does look delicious and it would be a shame to throw it away.’ A cheeky smirk formed at the corner of her mouth and she cast her eyes down, not to be too confrontational.

Vidudabha was doubly incensed now. The servant, Sudhamma, had backed off so that the dishes could not be swept from his hands. Instead the prince smashed his fists on the table and knocked everything in his reach to the floor. In the same moment he sprang up from the cushions he was sitting on and stomped out of the chamber trying not to burst into tears of rage and frustration and thus appear to be weak. He was so upset that he struggled with the door latch and his angry sobs were heard by everyone before he could run away. This made it even worse:– I’ll show her! She’ll be really sorry.

---

Princess Vajiri’s rooms were in the part of the palace close to Queen Vasabha and Queen Mallika’s private chambers. Vidudabha had not been there very often but he remembered that once, when his mother was taking him around with one of his nannies, they had been invited in and Vajiri had shown him the view from her windows and given him a little tour of her place. There was a miniature painting that she had made a point of showing him. She had said how it was her favourite thing. It wasn’t studded with jewels, or anything like that, but it was very finely painted for something so small. The picture was of a golden stag and, as she had told him at the time, trying to impress him with the story, it was about a previous life of the Buddha when he had been a deer⁶ who had saved the life of a king who had tried to kill him.

It was a few days after the incident with the servant and the dish but Vidudabha was still seething and bent on revenge. He waited until there was a time when the King and his royal mother, together with Queen Mallika and Vajiri had all gone off to the Jetavana in the evening, to listen to a talk by the Buddha. With the thought in mind, ‘Now’s my chance,’ the Prince feigned sleepiness and seemed to be dead to the world in his own rooms. He kept as quiet as a mouse.

Once all was still in his part of the palace, the servants either dozing or absent. He snuck warily along the passages, his heart beating wildly. He got to the Princess’s apartments without being seen and, to his great joy, he found there was no lock on her door.

Just as he recalled, the miniature painting, with its enamelled frame made of different metals, was fixed on a pillar just by the main window. He climbed up on a low bench, expecting to unhook the picture and take it away. When he reached up and grasped the frame, however, it seemed a little stuck and, wanting to be quick and not wanting to be caught, he wrenched it away from its mounting which was much more solid than he had bargained for. It took a good tug and, along with the picture, a big lump of plaster came off the pillar as well.

His not-very-well-thought-out plan had been that it would be a few days before Vajiri noticed that it was gone:– She’s got so many fancy things, she’s bound not to realize!

Now, with this great big block of the coloured plaster missing, she’d see it was gone right away. What should he do? Beginning to panic he looked around the room and saw there were lamps burning beside the small shrine she kept there. He grabbed one of these and held it at the corner of one of the draperies. The flames caught the cloth; he shoved the painting into a pocket at the back of his breeches and ran for the door.

The walkway was still empty and, with heart pounding even faster than before, he scurried back to his rooms as fast as he could. To his horror, just as he was at his door, his mother came round the corner from the opposite direction. She was not looking in his direction so he quickly turned around and pretended that he had just come out of his chambers rather than being about to go into them.

‘Hello Mother,’ he greeted her casually. ‘I thought you were all going to the Jetavana today.’

‘We were, but then we heard that the Master was away so plans changed. What are you up to?’

‘Oh, nothing. I was just going to see...’ he had to think quickly, ‘some of the other boys,’ meaning his occasional playmates among the children of the Kosalan nobles at court. He tried to sound as casual as possible.

To his even greater horror, his mother then asked, ‘What’s that in your pocket?’ He must have let a corner of the picture frame stick out or make a weird bulge.

‘Oh, nothing.’ His heart going like a like a high speed tabla player’s fingers⁷. To his amazement she said no more and took him at his word. He then heard the shouts of, ‘FIRE! FIRE!’ coming from the distant reaches of the palace. His mother and the maids she had with her all turned to where the cries were coming from. The clamour rose rapidly and palace workers appeared from all sides, some running toward where the smoke and noise was coming from, while the maids and other helpers ushered the Queen and the Prince away from the chaos and smoke to safety.

---

They had heard that the Master was away just as they prepared to set out and Princess Vajiri had not actually been that far away when the fire started in her rooms. She had stayed with Queen Mallika and Kesini, chatting briefly after the evening excursion had been cancelled. The smoke had swiftly spread to her mother’s apartments where they were sitting. As soon as Kesini got a whiff of it she was up and in action at great speed, virtually shoving the Queen and the Princess out of the garden doors with her stump and her one good hand, and away from danger. After her own trauma in the seraglio in Kosambi, any hint of such peril from fire rapidly triggered her instincts. Out in the open area of the garden Vajiri clung to Kesini, her eyes fixed on the flames now filling the windows in dark gouts, billowing into the evening sky.

‘Don’t worry Miss, we’re safe out here. And I think the men are on to it already. They’ve got a line of buckets from the well over there. I think it’s going to be alright.’ She did her best to reassure her, though Kesini was as glad as Vajiri to be holding tight to someone.

---

Vidudabha did not actually want the painting – he had only taken it because he wanted to hurt Vajiri’s feelings and to deprive her of something that was precious to her. It was pure spite, not greed, so now he had to get rid of it.

In the aftermath of the fire, which he was glad had not spread too far, the absence of the painting was noticed but the room had been so badly damaged in so many other respects that its absence was not made much of. He heard a comment or two being made and it was assumed, that it had been simply knocked off the pillar in the effort to put out the fire, and it had been trampled or broken or lost in the general conflagration.

His sister was saddened and upset by all the destruction the fire had caused, and had been very scared by the flames, so the Prince felt that he had got his own back on her. To his amazement his response to his mother that evening had aroused no suspicions, and the ‘What’s in your pocket?’ question was never followed up. He had got away with it completely.

He thought it would be easy to get rid of the picture but it took a while to decide what to do, to make sure it was never discovered. He was never allowed out in the woods around Savatthi alone so he couldn’t just chuck it into the bushes somewhere. Besides, a hunter or a trapper might easily find it.

He could not bury it either – if someone saw him digging a hole in the garden, it would be such an odd sight that he’d have to explain what he was doing.

He couldn’t keep it in his rooms because people were always tidying and rearranging and decorating things, without asking him if they could, so any hiding place would not be sure to stay secret. He had it stashed for the moment in an air vent, high on the wall behind a latticed screen, but he had to get rid of it soon. Otherwise everyone would know he stole it, and that he had started the fire too.

It was thinking about the fire, then how they put it out, that made the Prince realize that the well in the garden would be the best place; it would only take a blink to drop it in and, since no one would or even could go down to the bottom, it would never be found there. He did his best to make a time when he was ‘just happening to be walking through the garden’ by himself:– If only people would leave him alone sometimes! It was infuriating how his mother, and all of them, never let him be.

Nevertheless he managed to be alone one afternoon and he contrived to have the picture with him, in his pocket again but better hidden this time, and to go by the well-head. He leant over the rim, as if curious to see down into the depths, and tried to sneak the picture around to his front. It snagged a bit but he got it there and then let it drop. There was a silent moment while it fell then a reassuringly loud ‘plop!’ as it hit the water.

‘Yes! Done!’ He was very happy. When he turned around he realized that there were other people in the garden:– Had someone seen him? Did they know what he was doing all along? Were they waiting to catch him and punish him? His heart raced as he looked about him. But no one seemed to be about to scold him, or drag him to his Royal Father’s Presence.

He was afraid, very afraid, and at that moment his role as Crown Prince and heir to the throne felt like it counted for nothing. His heart knew only fear of being caught and disciplined, shamed and beaten – and it was the shaming that frightened him more than any pain.

There was no indication that anyone had seen what he had done with Vajiri’s picture but that made no difference. In a blur of anxiety, terror, he decided he should hide. It didn’t make sense but that didn’t matter to his five-year-old mind: ‘Hide! Where can I hide?’

Still away from his nannies and helpers he ducked into a hay barn near the stables. No one was about at this time of the afternoon so he climbed up a ladder into the loft and hid. His fear was now the only force driving his actions.

Buried in the hay he listened for any sounds of wrath and retribution, people coming and looking for him. Time went by.

He did not know how long he’d been there but his belly had begun to growl. He did also hear voices calling his name and, as far as he could tell, they did not sound angry. The heated fear he had felt was now muted to a sick dread. Reason had begun to dawn and so he clambered down from the loft and met, straightaway, one of the stable-hands.

‘Young master! You’re ’ere! They bin lookin’ for youse everywhere! You bin playing up in the ’ay? Off y’ go.’ The Prince was tempted to get irate at one of the lower servants addressing him with such familiarity but the general cheerfulness of the lad had given the clue that rage and punishment were not in the air; a spark of hope dawned.

‘There you are my love! Where on earth have you been?’ Vasabha was wreathed in smiles. ‘You’ve got hay in your hair. It’s time for supper. Let’s get you tidied up.’ And that was it. No suspicion, no wrath, no punishment, just supper with a lot of nice food to eat. And the servants on their best behaviour. He really had got away with it completely.

Mara saw this all; a gratified smile and a narrowing of his eyes showed how fully pleased he was:– My boy is a good liar. He’s beyond suspicion even when so young. He will go far.

---

Ninka was alone at the water’s edge. The morning had brightened, by the usual reckoning of things, but her vision was becoming faint. Her raiment had lost all its colour; her skin was as washed out and lustreless as a wet rag.

She recalled the many conversations she had had with Ant regarding how to be joined in the next birth with your loved ones. She knew beyond any doubt that this life in the Tavatimsa Heaven was coming to its end so now it was the time to act. Everything depended on how she focused now⁸.

She gathered her energies and brought her mind to a single point, the memory of her belovèd fixed in a mental image before her. She was determined to be born as a kinnari so that she and Ant could continue their life joyfully together. She concentrated on the deep red colour It was emblematic of her dear one and after which she was named: ‘Kanavera, kanavera, kanavera...’

The world around her paled further and lost its definition: the sound of revelry across the lotus pond grew faint, the pounding rhythm of the drums merged into the beating of her heart: ‘Kanavera, kanavera, kanavera...’

A light within her heart grew a little brighter, softer. She lost the sensations of of the tree against her back, the ground beneath her. All external sounds and forms were subsumed in a silvery hush of high-pitched scintillation, a shimmering of her inner vision, a merging of all sounds into a song of suchness.

Waves of aching and itching rose and broke, dissolving into the silence; the acrid smell of her body, like a festering lily, registered for a moment then too dissolved into the formless, edgeless energy field that had been her life. All the senses reached their end.

She breathed out and did not breathe in again.

---

Queen Mallika had come from humble beginnings. Her father had been the chief garland-maker for Kosala and for the great city of Savatthi. When she had been espied by the roving eye of the King, in his youth, and he had raised her up and married her that same day, there was speculation as to whether the family would be allowed to carry on with their ancient craft, that had been passed on from generation to generation for centuries.

King Pasenadi was a kind man, as well as a proud kshatriyan, so when the question was asked of him – what would be most appropriate regarding the Queen’s family of origin? – he had said, ‘Let us ask the people in question.’ Mallika’s father and mother were summoned to the palace and were invited to speak honestly on the matter.

‘Father, Mother, what would please you best – to be raised up to be warrior-nobles? To move to the court and serve as a minister and a lady-in-waiting, with your other children as courtiers? Or would you be happier to continue to ply your trade in garlands and floral decorations, with guaranteed primacy in providing the Royal Household for all occasions?’

Queen Mallika’s parents glanced at each other briefly before her father spoke up, ‘Your Majesty, we have been honoured beyond measure in that you chose our daughter Mallika to be your wife and queen. We, however, are ’umble people and used to the company and ways of craftspersons – we would be lost in the palace and, to be honest, sad not to be able to exercise our skills at making flower offerings and the fragrant decorations that are not just our livelihood, but also the joy and delight of our lives.

‘If we would not seem ungrateful or rude in declining your kind offer to raise our whole family up, we would be glad to remain as we are, being the chief garlandiers of this nation and this fair city.’ He was stretching as best he could to speak in highly proper language, suitable for talking with royals, which was quite different to the conversations of the gardens, the potting shed and the workshop. The King had smiled and given his blessing, warmed by the pure-hearted sincerity and straightforwardness of Mallika’s family.

When she had moved to the palace, Mallika had left behind quite a number of brothers and sisters who all helped with the family garland-making in various ways. They married amongst the other members of the garland- and flower-dealing fraternity and brought many grandchildren and great-grandchildren into the world. Mallika’s youngest brother was called Abhaya and he was married to Siripuppha. They had several children, the youngest of whom was a girl, a radiant child whom they named Pujika who, even as a baby, loved the bright red kanavera flowers the best.

END OF PART I

Notes & References