PRINCE IN EXILE (106 page)

The man standing at the fore of her courtyard was clad in roughcloth reduced to ragged shreds from overuse. Once, it must have been a red-ochre dhoti and an anga-vastra, from what she could tell, but was a faded memory now, reduced to a grey nothingness with only a pinkish faint thread or two still retaining some colour. The body clad in these indistinguished rags was lean and emaciated, with ribs and bones protruding through skin as withered as old parchment. His face was almost wholly concealed by a white head of hair tied into the usual concentric bun, and a ragged white beard. An aquiline nose, kind, intelligent blue eyes and a hint of a once-fair skin beneath a deep permanent tan gave her some clue to the visitor’s origins. A wooden bowl dangling from the waist of the dhoti completed the picture. A sanyasi, Sita guessed. Probably a former citizen who had renounced all worldly responsibilities and turned sanyasi, living off the kindness of his fellow mortals. They were a common sight in all rural regions, but Sita had never expected to see one in this remote part of the deep jungle. The last sanyasi or sadhu she recalled seeing was back at Chitrakut where perhaps three of the wandering Brahmin mendicants had come begging for alms over the two seasons they had lived there. 

‘Namaskar, sanyasi,’ she said. ‘You are a long way from any tirth-sthaan or dhaam.’ In fact, she noted, he wasn’t even
on
the pilgrimage route, keeping a wary eye out for any companions he might have lurking behind trees. She knew better than to judge strangers by their appearances, after thirteen years of fighting rakshasas to stay alive. 

He smiled a slow, sad smile that delineated every one of the dozens of vertical curving lines around his eyes and mouth. ‘I have reached my dhaam-sharan, deviji. If this is the domicile of Yuvraj Rama Chandra, then I go no further. Tell me, will the prince spare a little time for a sanyasi who has travelled all the way from distant Ayodhya? I bring news that may interest his Majesty.’ 

Ayodhya? Sita reassessed the stranger less critically, her interest piqued. Yes, he did have the look of a northerner about him. And he had referred to Rama as yuvraj, crown prince. She glanced sideways. Her sword still hung in its thong belt by the doorway, only a short distance away. She tried to think of a way she could fetch it without offending the stranger. It was hardly acceptable to greet a Brahmin with a sword in one’s hand, even a wandering renunciate. And while they may be fifty yojanas away from civilisation, the man knew who they were: she did not wish rumours of her inhospitality to reach Ayodhya before she did. 

‘You are from Ayodhya then, swamiji?’ she said politely. The sanyasi was standing just beyond Lakshman’s roughly drawn line, she noted idly. But then, it was also impolite for a stranger to step across a threshold uninvited. 

‘Nay, Maharani Sita devi, I am from Patali by birth and upbringing. But I happen to come by Ayodhya, and I seek out your honourable husband to bring him news of great import. Alas, I came on foot and I am no hare. Every day I expected the procession to overtake me and arrive here first. But it would seem that Shiva has been benevolent to his humble servant. Am I right in assuming that I am the first to arrive here from Ayodhya?’ 

Sita’s eyes had opened wide at the mention of Patali. He was a fellow Vaidehan! Her own countryman! He would certainly have news of Mithila, of her father. And of Ayodhya too, and her sisters and in-laws … And what was this procession he spoke of? Suddenly, she wanted to ask him a hundred questions. But some propriety had to be maintained.
Maharani Sita
could hardly gush like a kul-nari on her first day at school! 

‘You are the first, swamiji,’ she said. ‘But I am remiss in the demands of hospitality. Pray, wait here a moment while I fetch water for arghya.’ 

‘That would be most kind of you, deviji,’ he said, then sighed involuntarily, his eyes looking over her shoulder. 

She glanced back. There was nothing there except the stoop and the three steps leading up to the hut. And her sword, hanging from the doorway—but she would no longer need
that
. 

‘Yes, swamiji?’ she asked respectfully. ‘Is there something you desire? Please, let me be of service.’ 

He smiled at her weakly. He was a little shorter than herself, she realised belatedly. Strange. He had seemed taller at first impression. It was only his unkempt head of hair that had made him appear taller, she told herself. In fact, he was at least three inches shorter than her, and so frail she felt like reaching out to steady him before he fell. 

‘Beti,’ he said, addressing her as ‘daughter’ in the time-honoured tradition of all Brahmins. ‘I have walked a great distance with little rest or respite. I wished to fetch your husband and yourself the great news from Ayodhya. It would be a blessing were I to sit on your porch and rest my weary limbs while you fetch the arghya water.’ He supplicated his hands in a self-deprecatory gesture. ‘But nay, nay. I forget that I am addressing the maharani of the Kosala nation! Foolish Sabarmala! Once again, I cross the bounds of propriety out of my own foolish selfishness. How can I accept arghya from you, my queen? It is I who should be washing your feet!’ 

She smiled at his sudden burst of self-reproach. ‘Swamiji, my father Maharaja Janak of Mithila raised me to be ever-reverential towards all Brahmins. Queen or no queen, you are a visitor to my house, and it is my duty to serve you. Please, do me the honour of gracing my porch and allowing me to wash the dust of the long journey from your weary feet. It is the least I can do.’ 

Still, he protested feebly. ‘But you are a queen. Your title transcends all petty social rituals.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ she replied. ‘But it does not transcend dharma. Please, grace our humble abode with your revered presence. I invite you into my house as a respected guest. Do not spurn my hospitality.’ 

He looked at her, his mouth working silently for several moments. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with emotion. 

‘All the things they speak of you do not do you justice, Maharani Sita Devi. Truly you are a devi among women. I will be the one honoured to step across your threshold and partake of the gracious hospitality of your domicile.’ 

And with those words, he stepped into the courtyard and walked slowly, weakly, to the porch. Inadvertently rubbing out part of the line Lakshman had drawn. 

SIXTEEN 

With no room to leap aside and no time to think, all Rama could do was wrench his torso out of the way, twisting his body at a right angle backwards. The javelin skimmed the hair on his chest, the air of its passage searing hot, and it struck ground with a sound like a butcher’s blade chopping through a buffalo’s hambone. In his backward-bent position, Rama could still see the patch of sky visible between the high branches of the elm. A golden wink blinded him momentarily, like the sun reflecting off an armour-plated chariot, and he blinked involuntarily. In the fraction of an instant it took him to reopen his eyes, the thing above the trees was gone. Only a slice of the brilliant blue morning sky remained. He knew instinctively that attempting any kind of pursuit was pointless. How could he chase a flying chariot, if that was what he had glimpsed? 

He was resting on his wrists, his hands supporting his bent spine. The posture was awkward but hardly impossible; he had his rigorous practise of yoga to thank for that. Straightening his spine slowly, flexing the larger muscles of his back and thigh rather than straining the backbone, he regained an upright posture. The javelin loomed above him, more a pole than a throwing rod. It had passed a hair’s breadth from his head and chest, yet he did not think he had been the intended target. That distinction belonged to the unfortunate being that lay pierced by the two-yards long fist-thick missile. Rama released a long breath as he looked down at the inert form of Mareech, the albino rakshasa’s eyes wide and screaming with terror. His taloned hands, their skin as webbed as a lizard’s, clutched the javelin embedded in his throat. The task that Rama’s arrow had begun was completed by this foreign missile. 

A flurry of sound and movement drew Rama’s attention. His bow was fitted and ready in the time it took him to turn. He centred it on the breast of Lakshman, staring at him from across the patch of marsh, stretching the cord to the zenith. 

‘Rama! It’s me. Lakshman.’ 

Rama kept the arrow pointed at the man who looked like his brother. ‘This disguise won’t serve you well, friend rakshasa. You should have picked a more innocuous one. A chital. Or a mithuna. Did you really expect to fool me by taking the form of my brother?’ 

Lakshman bent down and placed his sword on the ground, then raised his hands to show he was unarmed. ‘Bhai, listen to me. I’m Lakshman, your brother. I was with Sita at the hut but we heard you calling me, calling for help.’ 

Rama frowned. ‘If you’re Lakshman, then you would have ignored those cries. You would have obeyed my order to remain with your sister-in-law.’ 

Lakshman spread his hands in frustration. ‘How could I? It was
you
calling me! That rescinded your earlier order, did it not? Besides, if you were hurt or in need of aid, how could I just stand by and do nothing?’ 

A vein began to pulse in Rama’s head. ‘You would not have been doing nothing. You would be staying with Sita, doing as I ordered.’ 

‘But, bhai—’ 

‘Was that so difficult? Just to stay by the hut? Did I demand too much of you?’ 

Lakshman’s face lost all colour. ‘Bhai, you can demand my life of me and I will gladly give it. But how could I stay there and listen to your cries for help? What else could I have done except come to your aid?’ 

‘You could have stayed. You could have remained there with her, as I told you to! You are my brother, are you not? You heard me well when I ordered you to stay, did you not? Why was that so difficult to do?’ 

Lakshman’s face crumpled. ‘Rama, I—’ 

‘Don’t take my name!’ Rama shouted. ‘Don’t speak my name again.’ He was still holding the bow, the cord stretched to the maximum, the arrow aimed at Lakshman’s breast. Lakshman was shocked to silence by Rama’s raised voice. His arms fell to his sides and he stared at the tip of the arrow as if willing it to come to him, pierce his skin, end his life. Anything but this. Anything. 

Slowly, Rama forced himself to loosen his grip on the cord. It seemed to take a very long time. Aeons passed. A civilisation grew and was reduced to ashes and grew again. Distant stars were born of the dust of creation and grew into blazing effulgent suns that sustained life upon a thousand worlds. Rama felt as if he held Shiva’s bow again, but this time without the shakti of the mahamantras to give him superhuman strength, and the bow was too heavy by far, he must set it down at once. It weighed heavily upon his limbs. The throbbing in his head grew to an unbearable pounding. 

‘This creature lying here behind me,’ he said slowly through bared teeth, ‘told me before he died that he assumed the form of a golden deer to lure Sita into the forest. But instead of her, I came after him. So he doubled back on his tracks, and began calling out in a mimicry of my voice, to lure you away from Sita. I told him his ruse was a failure, for my brother Lakshman would never leave Sita and disobey my order. Yet if you are here now, then it would seem that my brother Lakshman did indeed disobey my order, and enabled the rakshasa and his accomplice to succeed in their devious plot.’ 

Lakshman had stared in rising horror during these revelations. Now, he exclaimed and looked back in the direction of the hut. ‘Rama, then we must hurry back! Sita!’ 

‘Yes,’ Rama said. ‘Sita is alone, as you left her …’ In a tone unlike any Lakshman had ever heard him use before, he added, ‘… brother.’ 

*** 

Sita carefully carried the clay bowl filled with water around the hut and back to the porch, proud of herself for not spilling a single drop. Bending down, she placed it at the foot of the steps beside the feet of the aged sanyasi. 

The old man sighed. ‘Truly, you are blessed.’ 

‘By your grace, swamiji,’ Sita replied absently. She was eager to finish with the formalities of the ritual washing, offer the sanyasi some refreshment as was the custom, then wait a polite interval before asking him to narrate all the exciting news he had hinted at earlier. Her mind was already spinning with theories and images: a procession, he had said. That could only mean that Bharat and Kausalya-maa were coming to take them home from their exile. It would be a great procession, she had no doubt. No less than the one that had accompanied Rama and her to Ayodhya after their wedding at Mithila. That first real sighting of Ayodhya, its myriad lights illuminated magically by the chanting of the raag
Deepak
, was her most dominant memory of that pitifully brief time she had spent in her husband’s city. She wondered what glorious face Ayodhya would present on this occasion, to greet their returning prince. She had no doubt it would be the most splendid celebration imaginable. 

‘No,’ said the old man. ‘By the grace of the lord Kamadev.’ 

Had she not been so distracted with her own thoughts, she would have known that it was an inordinately odd thing to say, but so scattered were her thoughts, it was all she could do to concentrate on the task at hand. 

Her right hand scooped water from the bowl, splashing it gently, washing away the dust of the road to reveal … to reveal … the Brahmin’s feet. The feet of the wandering, renunciate mendicant who had walked all the way from Ayodhya, over kingsroad and country byroads, mud track and thorned ways, pebbled paths and stone-strewn beds of dried creeks. Feet that ought to have been chapped and cracked, cut and scarred, gnarled and roadsore. A veritable map of every step of his long suffering travels and travails.