PRINCE IN EXILE (42 page)

Now, here, his pedestal was a grassy knoll that rose a yard higher than the surrounding ground. No legendary seer-mage stood by his side, enhancing his voice. No deathless rhetoric came to mind. But still, he had to speak. He would not have a riot on his conscience, much less a revolt. 

‘Desh-vasiyon,’ he began.
Countrymen
. 

A gentle wind sighed around him. It took him a moment to realise that it was the collective exhalations of the people themselves, not a river-gust. They had been waiting anxiously for him to speak. 

He looked down at Sita on his right. She smiled up at him reassuringly, giving him love and encouragement. Lakshman on his left nodded brusquely, reminding him of the need for strength. 

He went on with greater confidence. 

‘Countrymen. The king has chosen to make my brother Kaikeya-putra Bharat his successor. Bharat is an honourable and generous man, and he will make a good king. Though he is young in age, he is old in wisdom. He is strong of hand, yet gentle of touch. He is quick to root out injustice and evil, yet careful to nurture knowledge and art. In every way possible he is the ideal king. I believe with all my heart that he will make a great ruler, and do his lineage proud. Now that he has been chosen as the crown prince, we must all respect the king’s decision. My father was wise to choose Bharat over me, and I am happy with his choice. If you love me, if you wish to see me happy, if you wish to see Ayodhya and every other city, town, hamlet, village and home in this great kingdom rise to even greater heights of peace and prosperity, then do this much and no less. Take all the love you feel for me. All the joy, the affection, the admiration, the pride, the respect, the honour, and the willingness to obey, and give it to my brother Bharat. He is your crown prince now. He is
my
crown prince as well. Honour and love him, for in doing so, you honour and love me as well. When I return, let me hear that you behaved as good Kosalans, that you worked with Yuvraj Bharat to keep this nation as great as it is today. Do this for me, and fourteen years in the forest will pass as if they are fourteen months, nay, fourteen days, and I shall be proud to return to this land I call my home.’ 

In the utter silence that met the end of his speech, Rama bent down and grasped a handful of dry earth. Tendrils of grass were uprooted, snapping off in his hand. Mud trickled from his clenched fist as he raised it high above his head for all to see. 

‘Bharat-rajya satya-rajya hai, Kosala ke vasiyon, sada sukh raho!’ 

Bharat’s rule is the just rule. People of Kosala, stay content for ever! 

With a roar that filled the clearing and the forest for miles around, sending flocks of settling birds fleeing into the sunset sky, the crowd of commonfolk surged forward, touching, holding, embracing, kissing Rama. Before he could shout a word of protest, they had caught him up in their arms and raised him aloft. With one voice they shouted a variation of the chant he had heard ever since he was a child. The original chant had always been ‘Dasaratha-naam satya hai’, literally ‘Dasa’s name is truth.’ 

What they shouted now was: ‘Ram-naam satya hai! Ramnaam satya hai!’ over and over and over again, until the rhythm reached a frenzied pitch, rising to a deafening climax. 

Rama’s name is truth. 

THIRTEEN 

‘Rani, make haste. He calls for you now.’ 

Kausalya started, almost spilling the thali with which she had been performing the aarti pooja. There were aartis being conducted throughout Suryavansha Palace this evening; the sound of pooja bells and chanting voices filled the entire palace complex. Every one of Dasaratha’s three hundred and fifty untitled wives was assembled in the large aarti hall of the neighbouring concubines’ palace, performing a rigorous ritual, chanting in a final appeal to the devas to spare their husband-liege. The melodious music of their voices raised in ecstatic harmony filtered all the way up here; it almost drowned out the sounds of restless angry crowds on the avenue outside, the shouts of enraged citizens, and the all-too-frequent clash of steel upon steel. Almost, but not quite. As Mantris Jabali and Ashok had said, speaking on behalf of the rest of the council when they came earlier to visit the maharaja and pay their respects, ‘Half of Ayodhya is shrouded in grief today, and the other half is clouded by anger.’ 

She turned, expecting to see the guru at the threshold of the pooja room. But only the palace guards that Drishti Kumar had insisted stay close by her side stood there, their hardened faces intently watchful. The pooja room itself was filled with the women of her staff, their soft Banglar voices kept low to avoid disturbing the maharaja. There was no sign of the guru or of anyone else who might have spoken her name. But Kausalya knew better than to question her instincts. She was knowledgeable enough to know that a blind insistence on rationality could cloud one’s mind as easily as superstition. She handed her thali to an associate, indicating to her and the other women to continue with the aarti. It was important to complete the cycle of repetitive chanting without any interruptions. 

As she left the pooja room, making her way quickly down the corridor towards her private chambers, she was glad of that: at least the aartis kept occupied the incessant flow of visitors and well-wishers whom she had to receive all day long. With everyone inside the aarti halls, the corridors and hallways were virtually deserted. She did not have to offend anyone by rushing past without accepting tearful regrets at the events of this morning. If she heard one more such regret voiced, she believed she would scream loud enough to shatter crystal. 

The guru was indeed waiting for her at the door to the innermost chamber. ‘Rani,’ he said, speaking normally now. ‘It is good you came at once. He is conscious, but he will not be for long.’ He paused briefly to make sure she understood his meaning. ‘He has returned to us only to speak his last words. Heed them well and say your farewells. He will come no more to you henceforth.’ 

She was silent a moment. Then she nodded briefly, silently: there were no words to express what she felt at this moment. She touched the guru’s feet, taking his ashirwaad, and then passed into the chamber. Her own bedchamber, the very same one where Dasaratha had come to her only a fortnight ago, like a whirlwind. Tonight, that whirlwind was dying down at long last, preparing to leave these shores. 

She adjusted the pallo of her sari, as befitted an Arya wife in her husband’s presence, and made her way to the man lying on the bed. He was breathing raggedly, in slow, hitching gasps, like a pair of smith-bellows unable to fill themselves with sufficient air to keep the fire alive. 

‘Kausalya,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling yet somehow aware of her presence. ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, my love, I beg of you, forgive me … ‘ 

She fell to her knees beside the bed, grasping the hands he held out to her, joined in supplication. ‘There is nothing to forgive, Dasa. You did what dharma demanded.’ 

He turned his head from side to side, still staring up wild-eyed at the ceiling. His face was wreathed in sweat, his mouth open in a grin of agony. ‘I owed her two boons … ‘ 

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, fighting back the tears that threatened to wash her away like the Sarayu in spate. ‘You had no choice.’ 

He gripped her hand in an iron fist, crushing it. He turned his face to her, snarling like a wild beast. ‘
We always have a choice. Always!
’ 

She was chilled by the fury in his face and voice. Yet she knew that his anger was directed not at her but at himself. His grief and guilt and rage had awoken this savage beast within the failing body, a ghoulish echo of the young virile Dasaratha she had first met and loved. 

‘
I should have denied her the boons. Should have struck her across the face and thrown her aside like the whore she is and always will be!
’ 

She cried out, as much on account of the pain of seeing his state, as at the agony in her crushed fist. ‘Dasa!’ she sobbed. 

Almost at once he fell back, releasing her hand, lapsing back into delirious, maudlin self-pity. ‘But I was bound by dharma. And I could not deny its call. I could not … could not … And so I destroyed it all, by the granting of two simple wishes. Denied my true heir, destroyed my legacy, and played into the hands of our enemies, all with two simple boons.’ He laughed the laughter of a maniac who has forgotten everything except pain. ‘The ancient asura gods must be laughing today, high upon their craggy perches, laughing at Dasaratha for doing what no asura army could ever accomplish … laying waste to Ayodhya the Unconquerable!’ 

‘Dasa,’ she said desperately, trying to break through his self-obsession. ‘Don’t torture yourself thus. You did nothing wrong. It was all Manthara’s doing. She was manipulated by Ravana, and with the use of asura sorcery she manipulated Kaikeyi, who in turn manipulated you … ‘ 

‘YES!’ he shouted, almost gleefully. ‘But in the end it was not any of them who banished Rama into exile. It was me! Dasaratha! Your Dasaratha!’ He turned his head to look at her with the pitiful gaze of a loyal dying beast. ‘This man you once loved. This king you once married.’ 

‘And still love. And am still married to.’ She caught his hand, ignoring the pain in her own fist. ‘Listen to me, Dasaratha. Bharat is an honourable man. He has gone to the forest to bring Rama back. To reinstate him as prince-heir.’ 

A light of hope flashed in the maharaja’s eyes. ‘Bring him back then. Place me under arrest. Put me in the dungeon on charge of treason!’ 

She stared at him, wondering if he had gone completely insane. ‘Treason?’ 

‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘That will negate my promises to Kaikeyi! Better still, have him declare me insane. That way nobody can fault me for breaking a boon I made when not in my right mind.’ He cackled like a crone suddenly, sending a chill through her chest. ‘And was I not then in my right mind? Am I not now? Do this, Kausalya. Throw me in the deepest dungeon and place Rama on the throne.’ 

‘But … ‘ She did not know how to respond to this, so unexpected was it. Yet a part of her also acknowledged the fiendish brilliance of its simplicity. Declaring either a charge of treason or one of royal insanity would decisively negate any rule of Manu that Kaikeyi might invoke to enforce her boons. Then she remembered. ‘But it won’t be necessary. Kaikeyi has relented. She is out of the witch’s spell now, Dasa. Perhaps … perhaps she was always under her spell to some extent. Now she is free of it, she regrets it all. She herself wants Rama to be crowned heir.’ 

‘Not heir,’ he rasped feverishly. ‘
King!
’ 

‘There is no need to take such drastic measures as imprisoning you,’ she said. ‘Not that any of us would ever do such a thing, whatever the cause or provocation. Kaikeyi has repeatedly expressed her wish to take back her demands, freeing you of the boons you promised her, and reinstating Rama to his rightful place.’ 

Dasaratha chuckled. It was a low, throaty chuckle, like a man who has been taken by surprise, having been told a rich joke by the one person he least expected to tell such an anecdote. ‘You should know better, Kausalya. It does not matter what Kaikeyi says now. The deed is done! In the foul darkness it was committed, and the pact sealed with an act of passion and an exchange of bodily emissions. It was no less than any blood pact! My promise was made to Kaikeyi, but Kaikeyi was under the thrall of Manthara, and Manthara was in the thrall of whom? Tell me?’ 

‘Ra-va-na,’ she whispered, the word sticking in her throat like a handful of thorns. 

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘The Kaikeyi who wrested the boons from me last night in the kosaghar, that was not the Kaikeyi I once loved and married, nor the daughter of noble Bharadwaj of Kaikeya, nor even the sister-queen who lived beneath the same roof as you all these years. That was the lord of asuras himself, merely acting through a mortal agent. Last night it was Kaikeyi, tomorrow night it will be someone else.’ 

‘What are you saying? That Ravana was the one to whom you made your promise?’ 

‘As good as,’ he said, sombrely now. ‘He was the engineer who built the siege machine that stormed the impregnable walls of Ayodhya last night, and he will not let his work go unfulfilled. That is why I say to you, arrest me, fling me into prison, declare me a traitor to the kingdom, insane, incompetent, anything! But act!’ 

‘I cannot do such a thing,’ she cried out. ‘You know I cannot! Nor will anyone else in this house!’ 

He slumped back lifelessly. ‘Then we are doomed.’ 

He repeated the word over and over again, like a child’s litany at a forest gurukul. ‘Doomed. Doomed. Doomed.’ 

She almost didn’t hear the voice at the door, so shaken was she by his brutally honest and incisive perspective on the whole situation. 

‘Dasa,’ said the voice again, for the third or fourth time. ‘Please … may I … ‘ 

Kausalya turned to see Kaikeyi standing at the door, begging for permission to enter like any common serving maid. 

*** 

‘Vishnu’s blessings be upon you,’ Rama said, pleasing the farmer who had brought a stack of half-inch-thick maize rotis with a handful of parrot-green chillies. Sumantra took the rotis and mirchis from the farmer and set them on the large cloth spread out upon the knoll, along with the several dozen other items of food given by the other commonfolk. They were all homely preparations, evidence of the rustic simplicity of their givers. There were no elaborate dishes or princely preparations here; it was a far cry from the sumptuous table-crushing spreads that were laid out in the royal bhojanshalya at every meal, a veritable banquet of culinary delights. Yet in Rama’s eyes, these simple items of food were no less sumptuous in their generosity and richness of soul. Already there was enough food here to feed a hundred. And the line of people waiting with offerings in hand stretched to the clump of coconut palms at the far end of the clearing.