PRINCE IN EXILE (49 page)

Barely had they begun to leave the city limits behind, the terrible sounds of violence dimming to a dull blur, than a new series of sounds caused him to turn sharply and look back in surprise. 

He was shocked to see bright red gouts of fire and dense black smoke clouds erupting like boils across the island-kingdom. The sound of powerful explosions ripped through the air, producing shockwaves that he could sense if not actually feel, thanks to the Pushpak’s protective field. He stared horrified as the explosions went on relentlessly, raging from one end to the other of the island-kingdom, filling the sky and ocean for yojanas around with enormous reverberations and dense, evil-looking clouds of smoke. 

An aerial bombardment could not have produced a more effective carpeting, he thought, clutching his chest and settling himself on the Pushpak’s luxuriously padded seat. His hands shook and his legs trembled. Vibhisena was unused to war. And this … this was beyond war. 

Riots were one thing. Internecine blood-feuds were another. Even civil war was understandable. But this was self-genocide, if such a term existed. The asuras seemed hellbent on wiping themselves out. This was not the work of any one species or political faction: the whole of Lanka would have to be involved in staging such a massive series of explosions, ripping the very fabric of life itself. As he watched, the explosions continued, tearing apart entire neighbourhoods, demolishing whole kasbahs with each gut-wrenching outburst. 

He looked again at Ravana and saw that his brother sat as slack-jawed and glassy-eyed as before. Even the sight of his entire nation being demolished evoked no response from Ravana. Whatever the damage to his mind and vital functions, it was indeed great, or surely the demonlord would have shown some flicker of response, some reaction to this holocaust. 

And what of your plans now, Vibhisena? Your own dreams? What of the new Lanka you intended to build? 

He sat, sobered, and saw his grand plan shattered by each successive explosion. 

Few asuras would survive such mass-scale destruction. The few who did would be broken beings, devoid of all else but the simple instinct to stay alive. Survival itself would be a challenge. In the charred and ghastly ruins, the remnants of Ravana’s once-great force would eke out their last days like rats and roaches after a holocaust. 

Well, now at least the mortal realm need fear Lanka no more. The terrible might and awesome fury of this once-powerful asura stronghold was gone at last. There would be no further threat from Lanka. 

Vibhisena glanced at his brother again. 

Nor from Ravana
. 

They flew northwards, away from the burning, seething blister that was once Lanka. 

TWO 

Around late afternoon, Guha gruffly requested Rama to halt. The chief gestured at an ancient tree that dominated the clearing into which they had just emerged. 

‘This marks the southernmost border of my dominion. I cannot go any further, or I would violate my own sanction. It is forbidden to my people to hunt or fish beyond this point.’ 

He went to the skirt of creepers and touched one affectionately, as a man might touch the flank of an old and faithful cow. The creeper was as thick as the trunks of most younger trees, easily a man’s width across. ‘This is Nyagrodha, a great totem of power in these parts. He marks and guards our southern border. It will be auspicious to spend the night in his shadow.’ 

They looked at the tree. It was a magnificent being, towering higher than the tops of all its brethren. Like all others of its kind, it was as squat and broad as it was tall, seeming to crouch and touch the land with its root-tips. These root-tips, appearing more like creepers or vines, hung thickly from the edges of its looming branches, forming an almost impenetrable fencing. Guha went easily to a place where the hanging roots had not yet reached the ground, and parted the curtain-like downgrowth to reveal a shadowy bower within, into which strands of sunlight fluted in obliquely. 

‘My Ayodhyan friends, you may sleep here tonight as you would in your own akasa-chamber, unafraid of the forest elements. Nyagrodha is a great deity and protects all who offer him suitable obeisances. We will sacrifice to him before nightfall.’ 

He let the natural curtain fall again, glancing up fondly at the ancient banyan tree. ‘His roots extend for five dozen yards on every side. He moves himself some fifteen yards every year, sometimes twice as far. It is believed among my people that he was originally from a land far south, and walked his way up here because he sought the sacred Ganga. It has taken him nine hundred years to come this far.’ 

He patted the tree affectionately. ‘You do not have far to go to reach your goal, old one. Only a few yojanas more now.’ He continued speaking softly to the tree, lapsing into his forest dialect, falling into a hypnotic devotional rhythm. After a little while, he sank to his knees and clasped the roots of the tree, touching them to his forehead and chest. His bear-like voice assumed a piquantly melodious tone of reverence. 

Rama, Sita and Lakshman stood uncertainly for a moment, waiting for Guha to finish. Lakshman used the time to string his bow and rehitch his rig properly. 

When the chieftain had finished his little ritual and rose to his feet, Lakshman said, ‘I will go hunt for our meal now. There should be ample game in these woods.’ 

Guha frowned at him. ‘Do you seek to insult me now? Have I not been hospitable enough to you, my prince?’ 

He laughed at the nonplussed expression on Lakshman’s face. ‘There will be no need to hunt so long as you are still on Guha’s lands. If it is nourishment you seek, it is provided for already. Pray, settle yourselves down, my Ayodhyan friends, take some rest after your day-long trek.’ 

Lakshman exchanged a glance with Rama, who nodded. Lakshman shrugged and began unstringing his bow. Sita went to the gap in the hanging roots that the tribal chieftain had indicated and passed through into the shelter of the tree. Rama thought about whether to follow her. He decided to allow her some moments of solitude. He knew he could use some time alone too.
And I will have it soon
, he mused.
Fourteen years of solitude
. 

Lakshman finished unstringing his bow and turned to Rama to speak. He had barely said, ‘Bhai—’ when Guha put his fingers to his mouth and emitted the most piercing junglecat-call either of them had ever heard before: it carried far through the woods, and was distantly echoed by other identical calls. 

Satisfied, Guha crossed his oaky arms across his burly chest and grinned. ‘My people are as the birds in the branches. Always near, yet never easily glimpsed.’ 

Sita’s head emerged from between the hanging roots, eyes wide with curiosity, seeking out Rama. He shook his head, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She affected a pale, tired ghost of a smile and retreated into the bower once more. He thought of telling her to rest now. Sleep if she could. Sleep was the best immediate treatment for their present state of apathetic listlesness. But again he restrained himself. Leave her to find her own method of dealing with her condition. She was as strong in her own way as he was; she needed no manful over-protectiveness. 

A moment later, a trio of Guha’s clansmen appeared. Two of them carried a heavy basket slung on a rod borne on their shoulders. The third carried a bag hitched on his back. The basket was opened to reveal a fresh catch of river fish, the bag a large jar of honey. They laid the food before Rama and Lakshman, bowed until their heads touched the dust of the forest floor, then backed away. In moments they had vanished, melding seamlessly into the undergrowth. A moment later, a bird call so natural that even Rama doubted whether it was man-made issued, was answered by others, and faded away. They were alone once more, yet not alone, as Guha had said. Rama had no doubt that were they to encounter any kind of peril here, a hundred, or perhaps ten times as many, armed tribesmen would burst out of the forest and ensure their rescue. 

Guha unfolded a stack of banana leaves wrapped in a wet cloth. He looked up at the princes. ‘We will eat now.’ His voice was authoritative. ‘You have not taken anything since I do not know how long. Even last night at my feast, you did not partake sufficiently of my hospitality.’ The words were meant for all three of them, but the chief’s eyes met Rama’s briefly, communicating his knowledge that Rama had not eaten a morsel since the previous day. Rama did not argue the point; it was true. He had eaten only some fruit, and that out of sheer politeness. 

He carried a banana leaf laden with fish covered with dollops of honey to Sita, using his shoulders and head to part the curtain of hanging roots. It was shockingly cool and pleasing in the shade of the ancient one, sufficient sunlight filtering in to suffuse the bower with soft, diffused light. The heavy overhanging acted as a buffering against the sounds of the forest as well, providing a sense of deep calm restfulness. The trunk of the tree was as massive as its exterior promised. Enormous, gnarled like the intertwined feet of a hundred elephants, it straddled the forest floor authoritatively, claiming its territory. And yet there was a sense of readiness in its curved and upward-springing lines, as if it could uproot itself and step away this very instant, moving northwards toward its destination, the sacred Ganga. Rama paused and admired it for what it was, an epic self-made sculpture wrought over nine hundred years. He bowed his head reverentially, sending a silent prayer to Nyagrodha. The Aryas did not worship trees or the deities of natural objects any more, had not done so for millennia. But they paid homage to the great force that was responsible for the creation of such objects, of nature herself. After all, one of the many names of the One God was Prakriti. Creation, or Nature. A gentle wind soughed softly through the unseen upper branches of the forest giant, as if acknowledging his show of respect. 

He found Sita standing on the bent foot of a gnarled root, reaching up to the trunk. She was tying a thread unravelled from her own garment to a part of the trunk. She finished knotting it tightly as he watched, then touched her forehead to the tree and uttered a soft prayer. 

She showed no surprise when she turned to find him standing there. He watched her leap down lithely, the muscles of her thighs and haunches tensing as she landed. She glanced at the contents of his outstretched palm. 

‘Fish and honey?’ 

She started to take the laden leaf from his hand, then hesitated. ‘And you?’ 

He looked pointedly at the food. 

She nodded and dropped cross-legged to the ground. 

He assumed a similar position, close enough to eat from the same leaf. 

They ate silently. The fish, surprisingly fresh, was lightly grilled. It fell apart in their fingers and melted in their mouths. The honey added a sense of balance to the crumbling white flesh, adding not just sweetness but satisfaction in the absence of wheat or rice. The whole tasted heavenly. Rama found a choice morsel, smeared it lightly with honey and offered it to Sita. She opened her mouth and ate it. He fed her another mouthful. She nibbled affectionately at his fingers, then fed him a morsel too. 

A twig cracked nearby with curious deliberateness, as if it had been snapped by hand rather than underfoot. 

Lakshman’s voice was hesitant, awkward. ‘Bhai, I would go with Guha and hunt some game for tonight. We require a sacrifice to offer to Nyagrodha. We have a long journey tomorrow, we must eat to keep up our strength.’ 

Rama started to rise. ‘I will go with you.’ He looked at Sita. ‘We could all go.’ 

Lakshman cleared his throat. ‘There is no need. Guha and I are sufficient. He says the game is so plentiful in these parts we will be back well before sundown.’ He paused, then added, as if by afterthought, ‘We shall return and build a fire in the clearing nearby, and begin the sacrificial ritual. There is no need for you to make any effort. Bhabhi and you can rest as long as you please.’ 

Rama glanced back to see Lakshman disappearing through the root curtain. He looked at Sita. She caught the expression on his face and nodded. ‘He wants something to do,’ she said. ‘It is better to let him go with the chief and hunt. It will do him good.’ 

Rama nodded and sighed as he wrapped the remains of their repast, bunching the banana leaf filled with the fishbones into a bundle. He dug a small hole with his hands and buried the leaf and bones in it, to return it to the earth. ‘What were you doing when I came?’ 

She frowned. ‘Doing? Oh. I was … ‘ She pointed up at the thread she had tied to the tree trunk. ‘Tying a knot.’ 

He smiled. ‘To hold Nyagrodha together? Was he broken?’ 

She smiled back, responding to the jest. ‘It’s an old Mithilan tradition. Or superstition. Call it what you will. Tie a thread from your garment to a banyan tree and make a wish.’ 

He took her hand. ‘Doesn’t that normally apply to lovers seeking to wed? Or married couples who are facing some threat to their unity?’ 

She clasped his hand tightly. ‘And to newly-weds praying for a long and harmonious union.’ 

‘Then shouldn’t the couple walk around the tree, as a parikrama? To strengthen the bond symbolised by the tying of the knot?’ 

She looked up at him with a doe-eyed softness that he had seen only once before: their wedding night. In that all-too-brief idyllic time between their arrival home and his fateful call to the kosaghar. She put her other hand on his, pulling him towards her.