PRINCE IN EXILE (115 page)

Prince Angad bristled as if the comment had been directed at him personally. He replied with a snarl in his voice. ‘Yet your father, Maharaja Dasaratha of Ayodhya, fought more wars than any mortal king in recent times, I have heard. Is that not true?’ 

‘It certainly is,’ Rama replied calmly. ‘That is why he was so well qualified to speak on the subject.’ 

Angad was about to respond to that with a remark that Rama suspected would be at least as caustic as the look that came over his face, but King Sugreeva stopped him by raising his hand and tail both at once. This time, Rama noted, the raising of the tail was a show of authority rather than respect. Or perhaps it was always a show of authority. He would have to find out by asking Hanuman later. 

‘You will excuse Prince Angad,’ Sugreeva said in a voice that seemed sadder than the brief altercation warranted. ‘He has passionate views on the subject of war.’ 

‘Not war in general, Father,’ Angad said with a look of exasperation. ‘This war.
Our
war.’ 

‘Yes, yes,’ Sugreeva said, looking dismayed by Angad’s outburst. ‘But let us not trouble our visitors by debating it now, shall we? Hanuman’s friends have come here for a reason, I am sure, and it would only be fair to hear them out first.’ 

Angad’s tail twitched in a very unique manner, flicking from one side to the other and back, the tip curled tightly into a ball. Rama suspected it was the vanar equivalent of a hand flailing out, or a foot stamping down. ‘But that’s the whole point, Father. Why are we entertaining guests when our whole future is at stake? Is this the time to be wasting our time on mortals and their problems? Have we not problems enough of our own? Let Hanuman take his friends and play with them if he likes, why should we waste our time listening to their problems?’ 

‘Enough!’ 

Sugreeva’s voice was a whipcrack on the back of a mule. It lashed out, slicing through the quiet morning. At that instant, the vanar king’s face hardened into an aspect of authority so immutable that even Angad stepped aback, reverting to a half-crouch instinctively. A startled vanar or two in the trees around chittered in fright but subsided almost at once. Sugreeva rose upon his lower limbs, straightening his own back and drawing himself up to his full size. Presented thus, he was an imposing sight, and Rama felt the hackles on the back of his neck and hands rise as he saw the resemblance to his own father. Yes, this was a king first, and a father second. He would tolerate opinion and advice from his own son, but not insolence and questioning of his authority. Rama had been on the receiving end of such a whiplash once in his life, and that once had been enough. As he recalled how he had felt at that moment, his heart went out to Angad. 

‘We will hear the visitors first, then resume our council later,’ Sugreeva said in a quiet, iron-hard voice that left no room for response or argument. Angad lowered his head at once, keeping his eyes as well as his tail down. There was no show of rebellion or petulance in the young prince, which was admirable in itself. Only a faint trembling in his right upper limb betrayed his emotions. He was not happy at being admonished but he would not rebuke his father. 

Good boy
.
Whatever your differences
,
always remember that he is a king before he is a father
.
It is the lot of all kings everywhere
.
Their raj-dharma
,
the royal dharma of a sovereign liege
.
Someday
,
you too will bear that heavy burden
.
Perhaps then you will begin to understand it
. 

Rama hesitated. ‘King Sugreeva,’ he said. ‘If I may speak?’ 

Sugreeva made a tail-flicking gesture instinctively, then, when Rama did not respond, added in spoken words: ‘Please.’ 

‘I know that what I am about to say is not my concern. But I sense that the matter that troubles the minds of your people is of grave importance and urgency. I agree with Prince Angad in that a king’s dharma compels him to see to the needs of his own kingdom and people even at the cost of hospitality to visitors. Our mutual friend Hanuman has apprised me earlier of your difficulties and the civil war that remains the only viable option left to you. But I also see that, like all good kings, you abhor the notion of waging war against your own people. What king would spill his own people’s blood in the name of ruling them? How can a king rule a kingdom if he himself attacks that kingdom?’ 

Sugreeva was looking at Rama with an expression that was somehow sharp as well as revealing. ‘Go on, Rama. Your words intrigue me. It has been a long time since anyone spoke so directly to my heart’s concerns. Speak your mind freely.’ 

Rama drew a deep breath and chose his words carefully. ‘My lord Sugreeva, there may be a way in which you can accomplish your purpose without resorting to war.’ 

Sugreeva leaned forward, his face inscrutable. ‘How?’ 

Rama glanced briefly at Lakshman, and at Hanuman. Both of them seemed as intrigued as Sugreeva. The other members of the vanar council were also watching Rama with open curiosity. Only Angad kept his head lowered glumly. But Rama sensed that he was listening intently as well. How could he not? Rama was speaking his heart’s concerns as well. 

‘If you will accept my assistance, I will go to Kiskindha, challenge the usurper Vali to single combat and kill him for you.’ 

THREE 

In any mortal court, chaos would have broken out after Rama’s words. Here, there was silence so dense, Rama could hear his own heart pounding in his chest. Somewhere down the mountainside, a young vanar issued a resounding ‘Cheeka’, followed by a chorus of admonishing chitters, then the morning fell silent once more. Overhead the sun grew stronger, shattered shafts of light finding their way in through gaps to warm Rama’s shoulders and the nape of his neck. The heat felt good. He had been too cold these past few days, too cold. The air smelled of oranges and thyme, and the distinctive, not entirely unpleasant, odour of vanar fur. He felt the eyes of a thousand vanars upon him, measuring, gauging, studying, and felt their fascination and shock at his bold proposition. He waited for King Sugreeva’s response. 

The vanar king was looking at Rama. He had not taken his eyes off him nor blinked since Rama’s extraordinary pronouncement. Rama knew better than to match gazes with him; he allowed the vanar king to study him to his heart’s content. He waited patiently, knowing that Sugreeva must wait as long as necessary before speaking. Any wise king would, when confronted with such an announcement by a strange Kshatriya in open sabha. Rama knew full well why the vanar liege delayed his reply. He had had enough time to think this part of the plan through on the long trek here. 

Sugreeva remains silent because he knows that when he speaks next he must reply yea or nay
,
and he is not prepared to give either response
. 

But there was something more, he sensed. Some trace of understanding in the exiled vanar’s silence that belied the obvious. A light in his golden-red eyes that hinted of deeper knowledge and understanding. What did that look mean? 

Rama cast his mind back through the thick repository of his memories of his father. He had seen just such a look often on Dasaratha’s face. A specific memory came to him then. Father seated on his throne, watching … watching … 

It came to him like a slow sunburst illuminating the dark crevasses of his mind. Dasaratha watching an engrossing Sanskrit play being performed by the court players. As in most Sanskrit drama, there invariably came a point, usually somewhere in the third act, when the plot turned dark and despairing, when it seemed that the situation was unresolvable and beyond redemption. At that moment, someone, usually either the least expected character or a completely new entrant, came into the play and brought news or made an announcement or otherwise introduced an element that altered the course of the action dramatically. It was so definitive a part of Sanskrit dramatic structure that Rama even recalled the phrase used to describe it: the flaring of the torch. Like a mashaal flaring to life, illuminating the dark recesses of the labyrinthine tunnel of story, showing the way, arduous and risk-fraught and seemingly impossible to navigate though it was, but a way out nevertheless. The flaring of the torch. And Dasaratha had always assumed a certain look at that point. As if, he too, despite the hundreds of plays he must have seen over his lifespan, had been overcome by the dark despair that had befallen the protagonists at that juncture, and when that playwright’s device came into play, like a torchlight blazing out, he was equally overcome by the luminosity that dispelled the darkness. A look of … gratitude. Of thanking the devas that the means of deliverance had been shown. 

That was the look in King Sugreeva’s eyes at that moment. Rama knew that look so well, it was as if his father’s soul looked out through those vanar eyes of red, flecked through with golden motes, set deep in the hollow cheekbones of a furry simian face. 

‘Great one.’ 

The voice had come not from the king but from the vanar who stood before him, his back still held as straight as a rod. Then Hanuman bowed low to address his liege reverentially. ‘Permission to speak, my lord.’ 

‘Go ahead, Hanuman.’ Sugreeva’s eyes remained on Rama. 

Hanuman spoke with his head held downwards, as if apologising for expressing his opinion. ‘Great one, I have seen the yoddha Rama Chandra fight. He has no match. He led a band of a few score against an army of fourteen thousand rakshasas and defeated them. He faced a rakshasa berserker single-handed and did not relent until he had brought it down. When he takes up a challenge, he does not rest until he has achieved victory. To have his sword in our cause would be a source of pride and inspiration for every vanar loyal to you. And if he indeed pledges himself to fighting the usurper Vali, then I do not doubt that Rama will triumph in that task as well. With Rama as your champion, you will surely regain your throne and end the rift that divides the vanar tribes once and for all. 

My lord, I humbly urge you to accept Rama’s offer.’ 

Hanuman bowed again, as deeply as before, and took a step back. 

An elderly vanar—his pelt silver-grey over his shoulders, back, head and face—asked to be permitted to speak. 

‘Speak,’ Sugreeva said. ‘All those who have an opinion in this matter, speak now, that I may consider your views before responding to our guest’s offer.’ 

The elderly vanar introduced himself as Sharaka, a general of Sugreeva’s army. He uttered formal words of welcome to Rama and Lakshman, with unusual invocations that Rama had never heard before. Finally, he came to the point. ‘Why would a yoddha as illustrious as yourself wish to fight in our cause? How do the troubles of the vanar races concern you? Surely there must be something that you require in exchange for this offer? Some reward or boon that you ask for in the event that you succeed in besting the usurper?’ 

Rama thanked General Sharaka for his greetings and invocation. ‘You are right in your assumption, sir. I have come here seeking the aid of the vanar armies to recover something which has been taken from me. That is why my brother and I journeyed here. It is only fair that I should make my terms clear before King Sugreeva responds to my offer. But before I do so, I must narrate a brief history of my life first. I apologise for taking up your time thus, but it is essential to understanding the present predicament in which I find myself. If you will indulge me, Lord Sugreeva, I will attempt to keep the tale as short as possible.’ 

King Sugreeva nodded. ‘It is better to know all relevant facts before arriving at a decision on such an important matter. By all means, Rama Chandra of Ayodhya, tell us your history. You are not well versed in the ways of vanars, so I also inform you that far from being averse to “taking up time” with the telling of histories, we are great aficionados of tales, the longer the better.’ Sugreeva flicked his tail briefly, playfully. ‘You might even say, we love long tales!’ 

Bemused by the ripple of delight that met these words, Rama bowed. ‘Then we mortals are not very different from vanars in this respect as well. Not having the advantage of tails, we make do by joining words together to grow
tales
.’ 

He was heartened by the roar of laughter that resulted. It took some shushing on the part of the older vanars before his audience was quietened again. He exchanged a quick glance with Lakshman who shrugged, raising his eyebrows. 

Rama explained as briefly as he could the history of his conflict with Ravana, starting from the time that Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had come to Ayodhya to enlist Rama’s services in the protection of his yagna, to the battle with Taraka’s hybrid hordes, then Taraka herself, then the guarding of the yagna at Siddh-ashrama, the journey to Mithila, the freeing of Ahilya from Agastya’s curse, the boon granted by Agastya in exchange for that act, the swayamvara of Sita Janaki, the encounter with Ravana at that event, the subsequent arrival of Ravana’s asura armies at Mithila, the unleashing of the brahm-astra, the decimation of Ravana’s armies and the end of the asura threat. He dwelled on his newfound affection for Sita, and their brief but happy wedding ceremony. 

With only a brief mention of his duel with Parshurama of the Axe, he cut forward to Ayodhya and the domestic drama that unfolded upon their return home. When he described how Queen-mother Kaikeyi, influenced by the old nursemaid Manthara—who was herself manipulated by Ravana— demanded as her promised boons from Dasaratha the expulsion of Rama into fourteen years of exile and the institution of her son Bharat as the heir to the throne, the vanars in the trees began spitting and hissing like a clutch of angry snakes. They subsided at once as Rama went on to describe the first idyllic months at Chitrakut and how he and Sita and Lakshman were resolved to spend their exile in peaceful coexistence in their beautiful rustic surroundings—until the half-yaksi, half-rakshasi Supanakha entered the picture.