The Curse: Of the House of Lotus

By Marlene Jeanrenaud

This is a story of the extreme power of love and its ability to
surmount even supernatural barriers. Omens hint at things
to come, and surprises lurk behind every corner. It all began
centuries ago when two lovers arranged to be married are
separated by royal decree. When Premanand, Neelam's
betrothed is murdered, rage drives her to curse those who
would separate true lovers. In modern day, Samantha Cooper
decides to volunteer at a clinic in Nepal, thinking it would
solve her marital and life's problems. There she is handed
an ancient document by a patient with the request for help
in its translation. Samantha becomes deeply involved in an
ancient mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682226438

Book preview

21

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING – NEPAL 1835

During 1835, the Rana dynasty ruled Nepal. Chaos and royal intrigue was paramount during this period, and the scheming and ambitious wife of Rupendra Bikram Shah was known for her infidelity.

The notorious Queen Rajendra Bikram Shah, as was her habit, took as a lover anyone she fancied, irrespective of his status in life, liaison, or commitments.

One such hapless victim was Premanand. His name meant ‘Blessed is he who is loved by God.’ He was noticed by the queen when he crossed her path one day outside the palace. Seduced by his burnt-amber colour and exquisite features of this tall young man and dreaming of his velvet skin under her eager hands, she wasted no time ordering him brought to her.

When Premanand, the Queen’s favourite lover was murdered, she called all members of the Royal Council together then proceeded to close the gates to the Open Courtyard. She demanded from the 500 noblemen information on the murder. To save their own skins, they turned on the young and ambitious officer who had called the meeting. Mayhem broke out and the young officer’s men turned on the 500 and massacred them mercilessly.

No one knew that the event that sparked this massacre would be the root of the Curse of the House of Lotus. No one knew of the broken-hearted young girl and the sorcerer’s words.

* * * * *

At the age of five, Premanand was betrothed to the new-born Neelam, their marriage arranged for the year Neelam turned fifteen. Unlike most arranged liaisons, Premanand and Neelam grew up together and loved each other passionately. They looked forward to the auspicious day with impatience and great expectation.

Two months before the event, while Premanand and Neelam’s families were enthusiastically making arrangements for the happy day, the queen spotted him and immediately sent her manservant to bring Premanand to her. From that day on, his life and his body were her property. Everything he knew, or ever wanted, was ripped from him. She ordered his wedding postponed. He became a prisoner within the palace walls and his beloved Neelam was kept from him.

For eight weeks, Premanand reluctantly submitted to the queen’s every whim. He fed her fruits, knelt before her so that she could rest her foot on his back and tied her sandals. He satisfied her in bed on her insistence and orders. One day, while she was occupied choosing new clothes, Premanand happened upon a gardener whose son had had the same fate at the hands of the queen.

The gardener, Chianandra, watched as she paraded Premanand around like a prize pet. He took pity on the young man and felt compelled to help him. The man’s grief for the loss of his own son at the hands of the queen, because she had tired of him, obliged the father in him to reach out to another’s son. He waited for an opportunity to approach and befriend Premanand.

The young man told the grieving father of his betrothal to the love of his life and the plans they had for their future. Whenever the opportunity arose, the two would talk about their individual pain. Finally, Premanand decided to devise a way to meet Neelam, asking Chianandra to deliver a message to her.

The two young people arranged their first clandestine meeting in the House of Lotus. Putting all tradition aside, they gave themselves to each other with a consuming need and love which filled them with joy. They had sanctioned their love forever. Over the next six months, their secret meetings continued and intensified. Their passion and devouring hunger for each other could not be contained. They lived only for their shared moments, forgetting all other restraints and dangers.

One day Neelam arrived at the usual time and place, but Premanand, usually already there waiting and impatient to see her, was nowhere to be found. A package awaited her in his place. Neelam recognised the ornate palace seal immediately and a sharp dagger of concern cut through her chest. Premanand took far too many risks, sending her packages. Neelam slid a finger under the flap, breaking the golden seal, hesitated, and then tore at the handmade paper – a sense of foreboding and urgency overtaking her. A white shirt of fine hand-woven silk unfurled like a flower in spring. She gasped. Premanand’s wedding shirt, the one that matched hers, lay in her hands like a gift from a lover. It was their secret token of love to each other; they had worn the identical undershirts on each of their secret meetings, not waiting for their wedding day.

Stunned, she jumped up, tripped on the edge of her sari, recovered her balance and ran to the window to see if she could catch the delivery boy. She tried to remember if she saw anyone as she climbed the stairs. Did I? What did he look like? She failed to even recollect mounting the stairs, not to mention crossing the path of another. In any event they all look the same, all dressed in rags. Oh, this can’t be! This can mean only one thing – he’s not coming! That wicked witch of a queen has discovered our secret. What does this mean? Doubt started to creep into her shocked mind. Perhaps she misunderstood? Had Premanand changed the day or time of their meeting? Or worse, had he changed his mind and didn’t want to see her anymore? Was he returning the shirt to tell her that he wanted to annul their vows to each other? No, this can’t be true, he’d never leave me – our love is too strong. Her body convulsed as a sob escaped her. Neelam tentatively picked up the shirt and pressed it to her face – its softness against her cheek reassured her. She deeply inhaled Premanand’s smell that permeated the silk. A note fell to the floor. Carefully she picked up and unfolded the page.

Most honourable and loved Neelam, I am Chianandra, the confidant of Premanand. Tears distorted the writing, making it all seem more unbelievable. She blinked and wiped her eyes. Yes, she knew who Chianandra was; the gardener who helped Premanand to come to her the first time, but why was he writing to her? Why was he sending Premanand’s shirt? She brought the page nearer to her eyes and read further.

It is with the greatest sorrow in my heart and soul that I send you the one thing Premanand guarded with his life. It was, after you, the most precious thing he possessed. I do not want Her Majesty to put her hands on it. Premanand was stabbed in his bed this morning and the…

The words blurred, trailed off in her head, but at the same time slammed into her mind. Stabbed? No, it cannot be, he would be here any moment now! Like a hunted animal, she frantically looked around trying to see beyond the shadows in the room. With eyes dead to the world, she stared at the paper in her hands; seconds passed before she could force herself to focus and read further.

…and the killer escaped the guard. Her Majesty suspects the Finance Minister’s personal hand in this and is calling all members of the Royal Council together in the Open Courtyard this day. Honourable and loved Neelam, I know that this is a double loss for you, first to the Royal Lady and now to the gods. His spirit was pure and though he had to service the Lady, his heart was yours and he lived only for the day when she would tire of him. I had prayed that his fate at that future date would not be the same as that of my dearly beloved son, whom he succeeded. Now all has been taken out of our wishful hands and minds and he has moved on to drive the chariot of Ram. I will always be your dutiful and respectful servant to the day I die, even if we never meet in person. Chianandra.

The letter crumpled in her hand as her fingers closed tightly around it. She jammed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle her mounting sobs. Tears wet the paper. A rivulet of ink ran down her arm, staining her sari. A slow groan rose from deep within her, turning into a scream, frightening the nesting doves in the rafters. It crescendoed into a terrifying cry that echoed and bounced off the walls. Outside, pedestrians looked up at the disturbance. The flutter of multitudes of wings whirled and reverberated through the whole Temple Square, turning the air into swirling eddies of dust.

* * * * *

So it shall be! It is done! The ojha’s words rang in Neelam’s ears as she stumbled out and ran as fast as her legs allowed from the house encased in half-light with its pungent smells. In her flight she only saw the cobbles, uneven, threatening to submerge under water, muddied by the previous night’s downpour. Remnants of the day’s market in the gutter go unnoticed.

The parchment from the sorcerer with the words scratched thereon was strangled in her fist, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. Anyone, no matter where in the world, responsible for a separation like the one she and Premanand suffered, deserved this curse!

Her whole being ached from inner screams. She had the curse and the distant solace here in her hand; a curse that would only be lifted on condition the betrayed lovers are reunited, never to be parted again.

She walked a long way until the cobbles changed to packed dirt. Air didn’t enter her lungs any more. Gasping for air, questions and doubts invaded her shattered mind. Did she do the right thing? She withered, felt ashamed, filled with remorse for asking for a curse to be put on anyone. Then the beautiful face of Premanand swam before her and she shuddered into a heap of sorrow.

It is done. There is no going back. We will be together one day, she quietly promised Premanand. Neelam got up. She sniffed and with the back of her hand, rubbed her nose and wiped away the tears. Slowly her eyes focused on the parchment. Carefully, she smoothed out the written curse; read it through once and hid it in her bodice. A final choking sob escaped.

Neelam ran her hand over the slight roundness of her belly, confirming the change in her body she had felt a couple of weeks ago. Fear had turned into a wish and a hope for the future. Her decision had been made. She would wait for Premanand until they meet again. The House of Lotus would become her permanent residence and the home for her descendants. Premanand, it will not end now – I have our future and that of our child to think of.

Neelam blinked, calmly gathered her sari and turned to go home.

CHAPTER TWO

SRI LANKA: DECISIONS – 2001

How much more can I take? After five years I’m still not used to it.

Samantha Cooper was soaked to the skin, and it wasn’t from rain. I’ll never acclimatise. I’m sure this is how a wet rag feels, she mumbled. Sweat ran down her back, trickled between her breasts and thighs. Her dark-blonde hair stuck to her forehead and the nape of her neck. It was impossible to keep her light floral sundress from sticking to her body. In her mind’s eye she could see her Victorian great-grandmother pottering in her rose garden just north of London – how far away that seemed now. Now, Great-Gran’s words echoed in Sam’s mind, Remember Samantha, ladies glow, men perspire and only animals sweat! But Sam was sweating, it was impossible not to. This humidity made breathing difficult – made her feel older than her forty-five years. It hung on her like a thick, damp coat drawing her down. She dragged herself along the pavement in front of the Inter-Continental Hotel in Colombo, carefully avoiding the red, lacy patterns of beetle-nut-juice mixed with phlegm spattered on the flagstones under her thin-soled sandals.

A large raven stood boldly in her path. He croaked and squawked as she approached. When she did not change course, he determinedly waddled, stiff-legged, towards her to defend his territory. Her stomach pitched. Get away, you horrible bird! You’re not getting me! That was another irritating thing about this country. The eerie blackness of the multiple ravens and crows menaced outdoor restaurants and beach picnics. No one could eat in peace or safety anymore. She shivered as if to shake off the bird’s foreboding of evil.

Samantha took a sterilising wipe from her bag without thinking, wiped her hands and, slightly lifting her hair passed it over the back of her neck. Her blue-speckled green eyes flicked irritation. She patted down her dress, conscious of not possessing the figure of a model but confident that years of practice gave her the know-how to hide shortcomings or ample areas. She could now walk into a room with assurance, carrying her medium height confidently while being aware that eyes lit up and were drawn to take a second look. People said she had style – she counted on this; though lately the slight sag in her shoulders reflected in her eyes. She knew she had lost her spark.

There were things that she wished she had here, but it was not that she only missed England, no – it was much more than that. She had lost herself. She desperately needed to find out who she really was. The sensation of being out of place, a stranger with no sense of belonging in either Sri Lanka or England overpowered her. Had she become a stateless person, someone without roots? That longing around her heart refused to disappear, no matter how hard she tried. It made her want to lash out, but at what wasn’t clear. What was she looking for?

Without any reason, thoughts of Luc, an old school friend, popped into her mind, adding to her discomfort. No matter how hard she tried to suppress these memories, they pushed the image of her husband, Pete, out. She wondered if this was part of her sense of loss. Where was all this leading? What did she really want?

That morning at breakfast, a slice of cold lacklustre toast brought her life into perspective. That is exactly how I feel. No prospects, except the garbage or bread pudding – nothing exciting, nothing meaningful! Solidified bacon fat on the dirty plates mirrored Pete’s insistence on having a full English breakfast each and every day. As if that would bring Britain back into their lives! The salt and pepper holder in the shape of an anchor, a gift from her mother, had suddenly represented home; that anchor she so desperately wanted to trip at the age of twenty seemed sorely missing. Now, Sam had a sense of floating directionless in a sea of indifference. The December holidays could not even raise a festive feeling.

Complacent in a twenty-year marriage, it took Sri Lanka for her to realise how empty her life had become. Purpose had disappeared. She found no time for herself, yet felt completely at a loss with too many long hours facing her.

A discomfort slowly joined the constant pull in the region of her solar plexus and moved to envelop her heart. The beetle-nutstained pavement accentuated her frayed emotional state. It only made her more conscious of her lethargy and nagging inner voice. The four-day break her and Pete had spent up country, to re-ignite the flame between them, had crystallised her deteriorating point of view. Pete, on the other hand, had enjoyed the break, convinced that all was well with them and the world.

His words were engraved in her mind. Why can’t you wear the emerald green dress? It’s only for an evening. Who cares if it’s too hot? No one will notice and it’s important that we make a good impression. If it’s too tight, just hold your breath.

But…

No buts. You can wear what you like tomorrow; I’m off to play golf.

Golf! But we only have a couple of days here, can’t we do some sightseeing?

We can do that on our last day.

Dumbfounded, she could only stare at him. In this heat he must be – no, he was – crazy! How could any sane person play golf in this climate? Noel Coward was right when he said: Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun; The Japanese don’t care to, the Chinese wouldn’t dare to; Hindus and Argentines sleep firmly from twelve to one, but…

She jumped as a shriek from the raven, joined by two mates, jerked her mind back to the present. The sun glinted off the birds’ satin blackness. Their beaks punched holes in the scenery as their beady eyes followed each step she took. Sam shook her head and sighed, defeated.

Her eye caught a news headline: POLITICAL TURMOIL.

The assassination of the leading political party’s candidate in front of his home a couple of days ago had refuelled her questions about the value people attach to life. It disturbed her when Pete had said that the assassination was a plot from the same party to gain points and gather sympathy votes from the opposition. But, as he predicted, the victim’s wife had stepped in to lead the party the same day and stand in the next election.

How can there be such conflicted values? What drives political aspirations here? What is happening in this beautiful world of ours? And where is it all going to end? Sam had rattled questions off, but Pete had already left the room. Without answers, these questions only added to her confusion and heightened her irritation. It was ironic that drivers racing at high-speed in traffic would slam on brakes, putting all in the vehicle at risk, just to avoid a raven calmly walking across the road. At first it amused her, but slowly the attitude displayed toward life made her wonder about the human race and their role in the universe. She had been shocked at the anger she’d displayed toward the driver the previous week.

What are you doing, dammit? You nearly killed that boy. God, I don’t believe you people! You stop for a bloody frog or a crow in the road, but not for a child!

Sam tried to replace her thoughts with others more pleasant, but the heavy air, filled with the smell of burnt coconut husks, assaulted her senses. Subconsciously she ran her tongue along her lips and the salty taste made her stop and close her mouth immediately. Who knew what you licked off your lips in this polluted air? You’re getting paranoid, Samantha! You’ll need to do something about the situation – and fast, she berated herself. Coconut husks are the general fuel used and its sticky smell permeated the very corners of one’s existence; even the tea tasted of it. It stuck to her sweatcoated skin.

Traffic noise rising up from the melting tarmac in swirling diesel-fumes added to her discomfort. Tata, the Indian Motor Manufacturer’s copy of Britain’s black Morris Minor, sped past dicing buses, put-puts and cyclists. Each tried to claxon dominance. While pedestrians jostled one another on pavements, Colombo absorbed each aspect with aged indifference. The stifling heat accentuated, sharpened and expanded the noise.

Why can’t these people tune their vehicles, for heaven’s sake? The pollution would be diminished by fifty percent. General decay – vehicles that threatened to fall to pieces at any moment, buildings covered with the black moss of dirt and rot – shocked Sam’s Western criteria but these conditions were modern for the locals. They were mobile. They felt themselves in tune with the outside world and were content. It exasperated her, mainly because she could do nothing about it.

Sri Lankans accepted and tolerated the five major religions without a problem, and despite the raven and crow invasion, the rot and lack of hygiene in the country’s close environment, their attitude never ceased to amaze her. She marvelled at the accessibility of the country’s more than four-thousand-year history, and enjoyed the country purely because the culture fascinated her. The romantic stories of Ram and Sita, Ram’s tireless quest searching for her, and the bravery of Hanuman, the monkey god, carried Sam to different worlds.

Sadly, even the fascinating fables and the histories had lost their magic for her lately. She felt her minimal contribution as an art teacher made no impact. Unsure if these feelings sprouted from her inner discontent or from the desperation of those she tried to help, the answer remained impossible to determine.

During their short break at Sigiriya, they’d immersed themselves in the history-thick air surrounding the Mirror Wall and Gallery containing the Sigiriya Maidens but it had done nothing to relight the spark as she had wished. Here a massive, six-hundredfoot high, red-stone monolith rose from the flat expanse of the valley floor to accommodate the fifth-century citadel. It is a magnificent engineering feat, and regarded as one of the most beautiful royal cities that ever graced the earth, culture and tales still seep from the rock.

Sam had made the steep climb from between the gigantic lion’s claws to stand amongst the remnants of the palace’s water gardens. With the soft scent of jasmine awakening her senses, the touch of the soft breeze on her skin thrilled her. Her whole being soaked up the romance and power that flowed from each stone and corner of this perfectly designed masterpiece. Looking out over the green scrub-jungle, she imagined stepping into the slippers of Kasyapa’s wife. She remembered the story of how, after completion of this palace on top of the rock, Kasyapa murdered his father, King Dhatusena, out of paranoiac fear. How events such as these brought confidence or assurance to the palace women remained a mystery to her. It must have been lonely living with this mad genius. Incredible, I’ve had so many activities besides years of teaching, learning oriental painting and Indian dancing, and they only had the bathing pools, rock and water gardens, alternated with meditation and religious ceremonies as entertainment. How did they cope? And yet despite their restrictive way of life, it seems so meaningful.

She blamed her discontent on Pamela. Pamela, one of the few school friends she had kept in touch with, had flown into town a couple of days ago dressed in a spaghetti-strap red dress and threeinch-heeled string sandals. She brought a fresh breeze into Colombo. Her quick-stop visit to Sri Lanka heightened Sam’s confusion and insecurity. Pamela’s fervent descriptions of her worldwide travels and experiences working for a large international organisation had infected Sam. The seeds Pam sowed took to the fertile soil of Samantha’s restlessness and disgust with her lethargic way of life more efficiently than weeds in a lawn. Sam – desperate to discover how she could begin to change her life – consoled herself that the first step was always the hardest.

There was no sense in waiting; she had to talk to Pete that evening after the perahera, the religious procession. They had a lot to clear up. Surely he would understand what she was trying to say. Where was their marriage going? Or was it still going? That might be the first question. Perhaps they should see a counsellor. Impossible here though, for that they would have to go back to the UK. She wasn’t ready to return, nor did she want a divorce.

Is that only an excuse I’m using to retain the so-called security of marriage? Am I afraid? Sam felt she had invested too much in the marriage for it to end in permanent separation. No, there must be some other way. In any event it’s important that we thrash it out tonight at the latest.

Their early dinner before they left for the religious procession was the usual how was your day non-event. Later they took their seats with other invited guests on specially-erected stadium benches. Shortly afterwards, music and activity thickened the balmy night.

Musicians enticing the crowd with their tunes and excited school children led out the first of the fully adorned temple representatives. Elephants swayed as they carried colourful emblems of deities, followed by randolis – golden palanquins – bearing the deities’ consorts. It was clear that the elephants sensed the importance of the occasion; their immense size seemed to grow with pride as they towered over everyone. The crowd waited on tenterhooks to catch the magicians’ fast hands off guard as scarves turned into a flight of doves or bunches of flowers. Children recoiled in fear from the whip-crackers’ frenzy. They screamed in delight at the flight through the air, then the tumble back to earth by nimble acrobats, and watched carefully as the stick-and-sword dancers jumped with lightning-fast foot movements to avoid injury.

Devil dancers seemed to single Sam out, cloaking her in a shadow of fear. They danced just for her, calling, teasing, circling – tormenting her confused heart. She found herself silently wishing that the fire-eaters would spew out their consuming flames to cover these demons until only small piles of ash remained.

Behind the drums and noise, forty to fifty elephants of different ages, heads and trunks painted in colourful patterns and adorned with elaborate jewel-encrusted cloths, led out the tusker. Like a Christmas tree, flashing lights adorned the elaborate cloth on this magnificent tusked temple elephant. It carried on its back the illuminated howdah, with a replica of the dagoba-shaped, or stupa-shaped, casket of the sacred tooth – Buddha’s tooth. The elephant was draped in a slightly faded cloth covered with goldthread embroidery and gemstones. It reached midway down the elephant’s legs and covered more than half of its trunk. The cloth showed years of wear in snags, small tears and frayed edges.

The parade swayed and reeled, dipped and rose. Like ocean waves it swelled and receded with the breath of excitement. Drunken festival lights blinked on and off. A circus air overtook the solemn procession as it oscillated from one side of the city to the other.

An unexpected snort from Pete broke the spell and he snidely pointed to the un-illuminated spot behind the large temple elephant. Blinded by the bright exhibits, it took time for the other invited guests’ eyes to adjust and focus. Then, they saw it. Α generator bumped and grunted on the uneven road surface as it was pulled along.

The otherworldly enchantment shattered like brittle glass. All the glamour, tinsel, riches and gilt were now seen as less than paperthin. A sadder, rubbed-off-beads-and-sequins’ side of the frayed, nearly tattered cloths touched Sam as a stone dropped to the bottom of her stomach. Suddenly, she became aware of the dark shapes in the trees; the ravens menaced her even now as in their sleep – surely in cahoots with Pete, stripping her of the last veil of magic.

Sam’s effort to be optimistic faded completely as Pete sniggered and characteristically demanded the guests’ attention. No justification exists in any aspect of religious ceremonies! Pompously, he sensed his opportunity and quantified the costs of a perahera in dollars. Pete’s arrogance and sarcasm was evident to the guests around them, who acknowledged his words either with disapproving looks or ironic smiles. Sam cringed. She knew he was disillusioned with everything around him, but had not realised to what extent until now.

Did you know, Pete continued; his voice flat and disinterested, the elephant with the biggest tusks is always chosen to carry the relic. Yes, I know for some of you it is difficult to accept that only a male elephant could ever become the temple mascot. No female is allowed to fill that role, or be included in a religious pageant, as they are regarded as impure. Pete’s unabashed chauvinism jabbed at the disapproving women in the group. He revelled in his knowledge that man treated even the female of the elephant species as unworthy. Further, a woman is not allowed to mount a male elephant here. Even as a mode of transport, he added as a final sting. Indignation came from the women, some self-conscious laughter, while others turned away. It made Sam cringe.

Living here, you get used to it, Sam responded lamely as she thought back to their arrival in the country five years ago. Samantha always dreamt of learning everything about Eastern cultures and religions. For Pete, information became metal filings to a magnet as he read whatever he could about the Buddhist and Hindu religions. They had both looked forward to experiencing a completely different philosophy.

Full of anticipation for their new life, they arrived from the cold and organised England with the intention of learning and growing together. What greeted them was not only a much hotter climate, but also a culture that was a far cry from what they had so eagerly absorbed from literature.

Reality is seldom found in glossy coffee-table books or travel brochures. In place of humidity limping the body and putrid smells invading nasal passages, the reader gets a welcoming and pleasant dry printer’s aroma. The adjustment could be a shock and sometimes painful.

* * * * *

On their arrival that day late August