960 AD, city of Rajbadi Danga, province of Karna Suvarna, kingdom of Gauda, in the land of Bhangala.
Prakasha received the various leftover foodstuff brought down by the family cook from the kitchen. His youngest son ran excitedly after the ducklings following a surati mother duck, trying his utmost best to grab hold of one. The ducklings scampered away all around from the boy in fright. The surati mother duck’s feathers bristled in a show of hostile resentment.
“Bhava, why are you disturbing those poor ducklings?” Prakasha squeezed and mixed the old cooked rice, vegetables, meats and gravies with milked-out grated coconut and some freshly grated sago to make feed for his chickens, ducks and geese. “If their mother suddenly turns on you, then you’ll know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of her wrath.”
“I only want to hold them, Father. I only want to play with them.”
"If you want to hold them, then you have to approach them gently, Son. Feed them, coax them, gain their trust, like I do. If you just keep rushing them and scaring them, they’re always going to run away from you. Here, look. When I call out to them, they come tamely to me without any fear. Look now, they even poke their beaks into my hand to find food."
“Why are those ducklings following a surati mother duck, Father? Why aren’t they following their own mother?”
“Because they think that she is their own mother. Because she was the one who brooded them until they hatched, then cared for them since they were small.”
“Why didn’t their own mother brood them herself?”
“Because she died before they hatched. A hungry cobra tried to steal her brooding eggs one night. When she fought the snake, she got sprayed with venom before the snake slithered away. So I had to continue brooding the eggs using a surati mother duck, until they hatched."
"What? That's weird!"
"Heck, you know my old friend Sarghuna, your Uncle Ghuna. He even had a hen continue to brood his duck’s eggs when the duck died from an infection. So the ducklings that hatched later are now following the hen around like their own mother.”
“Crikey! A hen mothering ducklings, that’s even weirder!” Prabhava shrieked in astonished disbelief.
"And she enjoys a good swim too," Prakasha continued casually.
"A swimming hen?" The boy then broke into a shrill laugh of kiddy mirth as he saw the unbelievable picture that formed in his head. "I want to see that! I have to! I must!" To his little mind, the world was often full of mystery and magic, making life constantly merry and wondrous.
"Well, it happens that I'm going to pay Sarghuna a visit tomorrow. I haven't seen him for some time. You can tag along with me then. If you promise me that you'll behave yourself."
"I promise, Father. I promise."
Just past seven years of age, Prabhava was always so ebullient and inquisitive. Seldom stationary for any prolonged period of time, he was a ball of energy in perpetual motion. Whether running around, playing, chattering away with someone, or pestering someone else to tell him yet another tale, from morn till dusk.
§
The day was bright and sunny. A warm, gentle breeze blew from the eastern plains. It had not rained for several days. The air felt dry.
The old man watered the beds of okra, long beans, tomatoes and brinjals with water which his sons had fetched from the well. The newly fruiting vegetables would be ready for harvesting in a couple of months or so.
He then looked to the other side. The rows of tapioca, sweet potato and sugar cane looked thick and luxuriant in their foliage. The tapioca and potato would give him plump succulent tubers. The sugar cane would hold plenty of sweet juice. A smile came over the man's wrinkled, weather beaten face.
"Uncle Ghuna!" a little boy's excited shout from the direction of the gate to Sarghuna's farmstead jolted the man from his ponderings.
Sarghuna turned around, looking pleasantly surprised by the unexpected appearance of his distinguished visitors, a tall smart looking well dressed man and his equally well dressed young son.
"Greetings, young man!" the man greeted the little boy gingerly. "Still looking hale and hearty as usual, aren't you?
"Greetings to you, Uncle. Where's the hen with the ducklings? I want to see them!" the boy continued, brimming with eagerness.
"They're foraging around in the backyard of the house now, I think. Go have a look there, Son."
The boy scooted off at speed to find the object of his wonderment.
"Your veggies are looking good, my friend," Prakasha surveyed the area. He was still sweating from the morning walk with his son from their home across the foothills. "Must be the soil around here."
“Yes, Lord Commander,” Sarghuna watched the ducks and geese picking out the snails, beetles, worms and borers on his plants. "They are, aren't they? You could be right. But I still sprinkle some manure on the beds, though."
Sarghuna had known Prakasha from his days as a young recruit in the cavalry. Their friendship had endured since then, Prakasha often turning to the older man for advice.
"Let's go up to the house for a cup of tea and a proper chat, Lord. It gets too warm down here after some time."
"Thank you. I could use a drink."
"Rita!" Sarghuna called out aloud to his wife who was busy in the kitchen.
“Yes, Ghuna,” Amrita wiped a plate. "What is it?”
"Boil a kettle of of your best tea. We have special guests."
The woman gave out a lively whoop. "You can depend on me, Husband. I'll have their tastebuds dancing with joy."
The two men talked about the latest developments, the weather, their own respective farms, the local politics, and pretty much everything else.
”Oh, Uncle,” Prabhava appeared.
“What’s the matter, Bhava?” Sarghuna enquired. “You look kind of disappointed.”
”The mother hen wasn't swimming with her ducklings," the boy whined.
"Of course not, my boy," Sarghuna stroked Prabhava's tousled hair.
"She was just standing there, looking on, at the edge of the pond,” Prabhava continued voicing his dismay.
"Because she’s a hen," the elderly farmer explained. "So she’ll always act like a hen. While the ducklings she’s mothering will always behave like the ducklings that they are."
"Father," the boy turned to Prakasha. "You lied to me."
"I was just testing you, Son," Prakasha responded. "And I wanted to make sure you came along with me to visit Uncle Ghuna and Aunt Rita. They have not seen you for quite a while. They have missed you."
"The important thing, Bhava," Amrita interjected, "is that the mother hen considers the ducklings as her own babies, and loves them and protects them, and takes good care of them."
"And that the ducklings trust and love the mother hen like she's their own mother," added Sarghuna.
Prabhava was then invited by Vishala, one of Sarghuna’s sons, to go with him to the rice paddy swamp to look at the fishes.
”Shala,” Sarghuna turned toward his son. “Pick some kangkung and some shoots, get enough fish from the traps, then bring them all back soonest to your mother. Our guests shall be having lunch with us.”
”Done, Father,” Vishala then walked away with Prabhava.
"Oooh, this tea is divine," Prakasha leaned back on the rattan chair, enjoying the drink served to him. "Where did you get it from, Amrita?"
"Where else if not Darjeeling, in western Bhangala, on the eastern Himalayas?" the woman smiled. "The place created by a thunderbolt issuing from the mace of Indra."
"And whose winds come from the breath of Shanker Mahadeva," added Sarghuna.
"Well, that explains it then," said Prakasha, bringing another smile from Amrita. "So what does the future hold for this youngest son of mine then, Sarghuna?" Prakasha tinkered with his cup. "If I could have the benefit of your sage wisdom."
"Lord," the old seer crushed small bits of betel nut in his dusty, worn out betel nut crusher with his wiry hand. "It pleases me greatly to hear a high ranking Ashvaka soldier seek my humble counsel. I have indeed pondered often on the fate ordained for your son. As befits his proud name, Prince Prabhava will grow up into a brave and strong warrior. However, he will be imbued with the restless spirit of an adventurer. Taking after his father, I would believe. His life, therefore, will be driven by his wanderlust. His many journeys abroad will end in a distant place, far, far away from here."
“And where would that place be, if I may know?”
“Yonder, across the Bay of Bhangala, roughly in the direction of the rising sun from Singhala Dvipa (Singhala Island). In a blessed land, on a peninsula that leads from Suvarna Bhumi, the Golden Continent, to Suvarna Dvipa, the Golden Islands. There would be where he will eventually find the ultimate happiness and peace that he would then have been craving."
"He also always gets so excited every time he hears about Daivi Khadga. That so called Sword from the Sky. He says that he wants to go and look for it, when he grows up."
"Daivi Khadga? The Sword of Arjuna. Of course. That's every young warrior's dream."
"Only, to me and to the Kambhoja people, it will always be the Sword of Kambhujiya."
"Is that so? Now, I wonder why."
"Well, King Kambhujiya, ancestor of the Kambhoja people and king of the first united Kambhoja kingdom, won it fair and square in battle from King Kuvala Shava of Kosala. But Arjuna, descendant of Kuvala Shava, only obtained it after he had slain Prince Sudakh Shina, descendant of Kambhujiya, with his arrow in cold blood."
"Really? That’s bad."
"You can say that again,” Prakasha’s face now turned grim. “Sudakh Shina had given Arjuna a sound thrashing in an individual duel without arms, in the battle of Kuru Kshetra, which was described in the Mahabhrata. But Arjuna later loosed his arrow at Sudakh Shina from the back, from his divine bow Gandhiva, after Sudakh Shina had well and truly bested him in a face to face, man to man fight. You know, Sudakh Shina even seriously wounded Sri Krishna in that battle."
"You sound so sure about that story, my friend."
"Of course. I'm a Kambhoja. The blood of King Kambhujiya flows in me."
Talk of the ancient Kambhoja never failed to fire Prakasha up with fierce pride. They had always been known throughout the Himalayas as a valiant, heroic people.
"Now we're arguing over some mythical sword of more than twenty centuries ago," Sarghuna smiled.
"And we don't know if it even exists, much less where it lies," Prakasha smiled back. "It's all ancient legend now."
"So tell me, Lord. According to the Kambhoja version of the legend, where did Daivi Khadga come from originally?"
"If we go by the story first passed down to me by my grandfather, the sword was originally a gift to Sharma-Adad, a king of Great Ashuria, from Tudhaliya, king of the Hittites, whose kingdom was centred in the city of Hattusa. The Hittites were neighbours, allies and trading partners of Ashuria. The Hittites were legendary iron workers, their mastery of the metal unmatched anywhere else in the world. The sword was then among the most prominent items of a friendship treaty forged between former foes turned friends."
“Not bad. Not bad at all. Continue.”
“Some time afterward, Sharma-Adad in turn gave the sword to Prince Chander Burman, an ancestor of King Kambhujiya, when Sharma-Adad gave his consent to the marriage of his daughter, Princess Nin-Harrissi, to Chander Burman, to further strengthen the good political relationship between them. A relationship that had budded when Chander Burman answered Sharma-Adad’s request for special military assistance, by bringing a large contingent of Kambhoja mercenaries, comprising elite Ashvaka cavalry, to serve with the Ashurian army.
"Amazing. So Daivi Khadga did not come from the heavens then? What a shame." Sarghuna sighed with exaggerated dissappointment.
"Well, if it's any comfort, that lump of iron from which it was forged did come from the sky. It was a big block of star rock (meteorite). That's what gives the best steel for a sword, or so they say."
"No wonder it was so powerful."
"As is still commonly held among many Kambhoja, the legend of the Sword of Kambhujiya, or Daivi Khadga if you like, as a magic sword, may have arisen as an allegory to the first development stage of iron weaponry, which was then beginning to take the place of bronze weaponry and taking the world of warriors and warfare by storm."
"Now I understand," Sarghuna nodded. "Oh well. Let's just put it this way, Lord. If the quest for Daivi Khadga makes Prince Prabhava go out to the world, drives his ambition, and helps make a man out of him, it can only be good for him. By that time, whether Daivi Khadga really exists or not then would be a moot point."
"If that is his destiny, then so be it," said Prakasha. "For it was also destiny that once brought me here all the way from Badakshan, my Kambhoja homeland in the Western Himalayas. That was how my life as a cavalryman in the Bhangala army began."
"Do you still miss Badakshan, Lord?"
"I'll never cease to do, Sarghuna. Its magnificent scenery, its urvara bhumi, its elegant horses, its sturdy ponies, its excellently fragrant musk, its beautiful precious and semi-precious stones. Most of all, I miss the family I left behind, especially my mother and father. And my brothers and my sisters. If only I could experience all those things again. Maybe some day."
The royal court of the ruling Pala Dynasty of Bhangala and its army, especially the cavalry, was dominated by men of aristocratic Ashvaka ancestry. The Ashvaka, their name meaning horseman in Sanskrit, was an elite Kambhoja clan of accomplished riders who could shoot an arrow accurately in any direction from the back of a horse in full gallop, who came from the Pamir and Badakshan regions, far in the west, on the opposite end of the Himalayas from Bhangala.
Prakasha could have exploited his illustrious lineage and the good connections that came with it to speed up his career advancement, but, like a good soldier, he had opted to work his way by merit up the ranks. In the end, he had still impressed his superiors enough to eventually rise to Maha Senapati (Chief Commander) of the Cavalry. It was a most coveted position, because the cavalry formed the cream of the Pala army.
