Devika Rangachari - Queen of the Earth

'I am Prithvimahadevi, the goddess of the earth.'
Prithvimahadevi is the daughter of the powerful Somavamshi king of Kosala. Her life is circumscribed by the rules that govern the existence of women of her royal family. She can only hope that she will marry a king whose power matches that of her ambitious father.
Instead she is married to her father's enemy, the Bhaumakara ruler, Shubhakaradeva, whose way of life she finds alien and austere, and who worships strange gods. There seems to be no hope for her to fulfil her dreams of becoming a great queen-until suddenly one day, there is... But is she willing to play the game of sacrifice and betrayal that this will entail?
The story of this ninth-century queen of Odisha by award-winning historical novelist Devika Rangachari will keep you riveted.

Dr Devika Rangachari is an award-winning writer whose book, Queen of Ice (Duckbill), was on the White Raven list, won the Neev Book Award for Young Adults and has been optioned to be made into a movie/television series.

Her other books include 10 Indian Monarchs Whose Amazing Stories You May Not Know, Tales of Love and Adventure, Swami VivekanandaA Man with a Vision, Harsha Vardhana,The Merry Mischief of Gopal Bhand,The Wit of Tenali Raman and Growing Up (on the 2002 IBBY Honor List).

She is currently the recipient of a prestigious national fellowship awarded by the ministry of culture to research aspects of gender and historical fiction in Indian childrens literature. Devika recently completed her postdoctoral research on gender in Indian history. Her published thesis is entitled From Obscurity to Light: Women in Early Medieval Orissa (Seventh to Twelfth Centuries ad).

Her doctoral research was published under the title. Invisible Women, Visible Histories: Gender, Society and Polity in North India (Seventh to Twelfth Century ad).

SIXTEEN SUMMERS

My tale begins the way of all otherswith my birthbut it is a rather unusual story. For most, it is an easy entrance into this world; for others, such as I, it is a tortured one. And birth makes no distinction between royal and non-royal, in this regard.

In giving me life, my mother abandoned hers. So there I was, a mewling, newborn Somavamshi princess, bereft of her love and viewed with distaste by the midwife and the others in the chamber. I am told that my mother was the focus of everyones concern then. No one had time for mea girl, unwanted and entirely dispensable.

It seems that my mothers death plunged my father, Janamejaya, into a sorrow so deep that no entreaties could touch him. Theirs was a union unusual for their times. Royal marriages are only supposed to result in allies and progeny, not give rise to a steady love that withstands many setbacks in fortune and power, and does not diminish even with death. Such was the bond between my parents.

My father was the Somavamshi king, and he was relatively young and powerful at the time of my mothers demise. There was no dearth of eager marriage proposals for him from across the length and breadth of Kalinga. Yet he chose to remain loyal to her memory and stayed a widower.

In my idle moments, I often wonder what was in my fathers mind when he beheld me for the first time. Perhaps he hated me at first, this second child of his, a girl and, moreover, one who had dragged his wife to her death.

You helped heal his sorrow, my aunt insists. He was lost for days until we placed you in his arms. I remember holding my breath. I was so worried he would harm you that I was prepared to snatch you back in an instant. But he kept looking at you as if he couldnt bear to tear his eyes away. And then... and then he held you fiercely to his heart! Her eyes fill with tears and so do mine.

The scene is so vivid in my mind. What was it that made him look at me so? Could there have been the shadow of my mother on my face? All I know is that there is a special warmth in his heart for me. His gaze softens when it rests on me, his voice becomes gentler. My early memories are of him crooning to me, laughing at my childish prattle, holding my hand and helping me to walkhis gruff voice a constant, soothing presence in my world.

Of all my childhood memories, one comes to me time and again. I am no more than eight or nine years of age, and in the palace garden at nightfall, skipping down one of the stone-lined paths. My father follows me, deep in conversation with his minister.

I am annoyed that he is paying me no attention, so I look away from the path and call out to him. And this is how I come to stumble on a loose stone and crash heavily to the ground. My wails of pain and outrage bring him running to my side. He hauls me to my feet and wipes the dirt off my face. I am sobbing so much that my breath comes in gasps, but my pride is injured more than my body.

The minister is deeply distressed. He takes one look at my torn dress and the trickle of blood running down my face from a cut and turns to my father. Should I send for the physician? The princess is hurt.

My father shakes his head, a frown creasing his brow. I know he is annoyed with me and the thought makes me sob even harder.

Stop that crying at once! he orders.

I do not obey right away because his attitude shocks me. I am expecting sympathy and concern but receive neither.

He glares at me till my sobs eventually die down and then he lays a gentle hand across my still-heaving shoulders.