Prince of Dharma (107 page)

But the wall had closed behind her magically. It was seamless and solid once more. More solid on the inside that it had been on the outside, for Manthara’s spells had been designed to keep sounds from going out of the yagna chamber, not the other way around. Sumitra was trapped within the very secret chamber she had been trying to find. 

FOURTEEN 

Among the more incredible sights of that long night run was the view of the Ganga. It was toward the end of the first half of their journey and Rama sensed that they were nearing Visala. Until now, they had been travelling through heavily wooded plains and rolling hills. They emerged into open plains for a few yojanas, mostly brushland except for a handful of farms. 

A field full of cows lowed in sleepy surprise as they shot past. Rama wondered what they saw, or thought they saw. By now, the brahmarishi’s party was racing through the Brahman corridor at a speed easily seven yojanas an hour. At that rate, all the cows would have seen was a dark-blue cloud of some foggy substance rolling across the field, with some human-like forms within it. The reverse was also true. A pair of dark shuddering figures looming in their path turned out to be two elephants in musth, indulging in the oldest dance of all. The Brahman corridor curved upward, over the furiously mating bigfoot, and then down again. The elephants never even noticed their passing, or if they did, it was probably absorbed in the tantric energies of their dance of bliss. They sped over the rutting beasts, then down again, and were gone in a flash. 

They came over one final rise, the familiar hump of a millennia-old alluvial deposit that Rama knew at once was the ridge of a river valley. He was right. A moment later, the corridor curved sharply upward, then steeply down the far side of the ridge. They shot down almost vertically, then the corridor straightened out into a more gradual incline, and that was when Rama and his companions were given a clear view of the valley of the Ganga. 

Even at night, shrouded in the darkness of an almost completely moonless night—the moon had risen and set an hour earlier, too weak and weary to offer much help—the beauty of the vale was breathtaking. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge that this was no ordinary river vale but the blessed and sacred Ganga herself that added a final sheen of lustre. Whatever the reason, that instant was the first time that Rama wished he could actually stop right there, on that downward-sloping incline, and wait for sunrise. But like so many other incredible sights and experiences since he had left Ayodhya, this sacred vision was not meant for him to enjoy at leisure. And so they had sped on, descending further into the valley, until they were on the famous flat plains of the sacred river’s banks, the Brahman corridor undulating below and before them then straightening out to shoot ahead until it reached the very edge of the silver ribbon that lay a yojana or so ahead. 

The corridor ended at the bank of the Ganga. Previously, when it had encountered obstacles like the rutting elephants or a stream, or even a deep ditch or pit, it had simply carried them across or over. But this time, Rama saw, it was actually stopping. He could see the end of the corridor dissipating as he watched, the fog unravelling and melting away into the darkness. 

Rama sensed himself slowing. The brahmarishi was altering their speed to give them sufficient time to halt before they reached the end of the corridor. 

He felt a vague sense of disappointment; in its own way, the running had been enjoyable. In that state of physical challenge, he could simply give himself over to the extreme exertion, blanking his thoughts and emotions for the duration of the exercise. With a return to normality came the return of mundane thoughts, feelings, anxieties. How was Ayodhya preparing for the invasion? Were they sending a force to support Mithila? Did they even know there was an invasion imminent? How was his father’s health? How had his mother received the news of his success—and of his delay in returning home? 

As he came to a halt, body dripping with sweat, his whole life seemed to come rushing at him like a bandit lying in wait to ambush him. No wonder then that each time he gave himself over to the flow of Brahman, he felt more reluctant to return to his own self, to the real world of everyday cares. In that magical plane, everything seemed possible, no problem unsurmountable, every dream achievable. Here, it was the complete opposite. Well, not complete, but close. 

The night rushed back in like a wave descending, washing over him. Smells, night sounds, the coldness of the air, the familiar but briefly unfamiliar sensation of standing on solid ground once more. 

From what he could tell, they had landed on a knoll near the south bank of the Ganga. He could hear what sounded like rapids up ahead over the rise. Like the rest of this part of the Gangetic plain, the knoll was heavily shrouded in a profuse variety of semi-tropical as well as northern flora. Papaya and banyan stood beside date palm and coconut. Hibiscus reared their intensely coloured heads beside marigold and lionface. Rama could smell the rich soil, could almost feel the fertile power of this land. Only the Sindhu river to the distant north-west across the Hindu Kush range was as fertile as the land irrigated by the Ganga’s flow. Some day, he imagined, great Arya cities would rise here too and flourish. Cities as magnificent as Ayodhya and Mithila, Gandahar and Kaikeya. As long as the Ganga flowed, mortal life would surely go on. 

Then he recalled the shadow that fell across their lives in this historic crisis and his proud thoughts turned grim. There was still the asura invasion to survive. 

Ahead of him, Nakhudi and Sita turned around, examining their surroundings. Sita’s eyes sought him out. He nodded briefly at her. She turned away abruptly, ignoring the gesture. 

Lakshman came up beside him. He spoke softly in Rama’s right ear, ‘Looks like someone’s still sore as a mule at being outed, brother. Watch out for her back-kick!’ 

Rama dug his elbow into Lakshman’s ribs. Lakshman anticipated and dodged the elbow. He collided with Bejoo, who was coming up to join them. 

‘Easy there, Rajkumar. Takes a moment or two finding your land feet again after that magic flight, doesn’t it? Now I know how geese must feel when they touch ground again after flying across the earth.’ 

Rama gestured to them both to be quiet. ‘Guru-dev calls.’ 

The sage was beckoning to them. They went to him. The ground was covered with deep roots and trailing vines and creepers. They made their way up the side of the knoll to where the seer stood with his staff extended to arm’s length, facing them. The head of the staff glowed softly blue, casting enough light to see by. 

Walk with me,’ the brahmarishi said. He led them to the top of the knoll, parting the bushes that blocked their way. The sound of the river grew louder as they went further. They emerged from the shrubbery on to a small shoulder of land that jutted out sharply. 

They were looking down at the Ganga, dark and resplendent as a rope of black velvet in the darkness of the moonless night. The sage stood at the edge of the knoll and pointed down with his staff. The head glowed intensely brighter, illuminating the calm clear waters flowing below. 

‘Behold the Ganga,’ he said, ‘the destination of every devout Arya. Blessed are those who seek it. Graced are those who find it. Tonight, it is our goal as well.’ 

He pointed with his staff to a pathway leading down from the knoll to the riverbank. 

‘Come,’ he said, leading the way. As they went down the path, the seer continued: 

‘We shall cross from the bank below. But first, I have words to say to all of you. These words will save your lives tonight and perhaps even ensure the survival of Mithila tomorrow.’ 

Vishwamitra led them down the path to the bank below. The bank was clear for several yards, like many spots Rama had seen along the Sarayu that were marked for ferry crossings. Sure enough, a boat was moored to a rod embedded on the bank. It bobbed gently in the river, a sturdy, well-constructed little vessel that seemed just right to carry the six of them. 

They sat by the bank of the Ganga. The river flowed gently beside them, its passage soft and musical. This was not the fierce roaring of the Sarayu, glacial and ferocious as a Kshatriya army descending from the mountains. The Ganga was a Brahmin body, flowing serenely across the subcontinent from west to east. 

Vishwamitra hardly needed to raise his voice to be heard by his band. ‘In a few moments we shall cross these blessed waters. Our destination lies on the north bank, a few yards downstream.’ 

Bejoo frowned. ‘Forgive me, maha-dev. I am not overly familiar with this area and it is difficult to tell where exactly we are at night without landmarks visible. But I would think that Visala is at least half a yojana’s walk from here downriver.’ 

The Vajra captain indicated the sky above. ‘At least that is what I would deduce from the position of the Makar constellation in the seventh house.’ 

‘Well mapped, Captain. But we have a task to complete before we enter the gates of Visala. In fact, this task is the reason we came here. Back by the banks of the Shona, I deliberately emphasised Visala to avoid letting our enemies know our real destination.’ 

‘Our enemies, maha-dev?’ Lakshman looked surprised. ‘But there was nobody to hear us by the Shona. Only our own Kshatriyas and Brahmins.’ 

Vishwamitra’s voice was unruffled and serene. ‘So it often seems, rajkumar. Yet in these hours of crisis, you can be certain that our foes have eyes and ears everywhere, observing us as closely as a cobra watches the jaws of the mongoose.’ 

Everybody looked around uncertainly. Nakhudi’s hand went to her sword pommel, her deep-set eyes darting from side to side as if expecting an ambush at any moment. Bejoo, still the rearmost, turned a complete circle before returning to his original stance, his hand also gripping his sword’s hilt. 

‘Keep your swords sheathed, brave Kshatriyas,’ the seer went on calmly. ‘You will have need of them before the night is past, but not yet. Now I must take a few moments to explain our task ahead. For though our mission tonight will seem simple enough, it is fraught with any number of hidden dangers that even I cannot describe clearly.’ 

The sage’s voice grew sombre. ‘The task we undertake is of a delicate and dangerous nature. As the one who leads you, I must warn you what lies at stake. It is likely that some of us may not live to see the sun rise this morning. And yet, if we fail to achieve this task, the proud city of Mithila will not survive to see the same sun set this same evening. This I know for a certainty.’ 

The brahmarishi gestured with his staff, pointing towards the east. ‘As Captain Bejoo rightly informed us, Visala is but a few short miles further east of here. On the outskirts of the city is the hermitage of the sage Gautama. I need hardly explain his history to you well-educated Aryas.’ 

‘The sage Gautama of yore?’ Sita asked, sounding astonished and reverential. ‘He of the Seven Seers?’ 

‘The very same,’ Vishwamitra replied. ‘Along with Vashishta, Bharadwaja, Jamadagni, Kasyapa, Atri and myself, Gautama makes up the fellowship of seven that mighty Brahma himself ordained for the protection and overseeing of mortalkind’s spiritual progress.’ 

‘But maha-dev,’ Sita said, ‘Maharishi Gautama no longer resides there. It is true that his ashram is situated on the outskirts of Visala. And many fortunate Arya sons and daughters are schooled at the gurukul there by the able rishis of Gautama’s order. But the great sage himself has been absent from that place for more years than anyone can count.’ 

‘I can count,’ the sage said. ‘And by my estimate, close to two thousand and three hundred years have elapsed since Gautama took the vows of samadhi.’ 

Rama spoke. ‘Guru-dev, by your own admission, the maharishi took samadhi. Is that not the same as leaving the mortal plane?’ 

‘Nearly so, Rama. Yet not quite. Samadhi is the ultimate penance. A total surrendering of one’s physical body in order to immerse oneself completely in the flow of Brahman. When a mortal undertakes it, it is equivalent to fasting unto death. But the Seven Seers may sustain themselves on Brahman itself, eschewing mortal necessities such as food and air indefinitely. Gautama remains alive within the ashram that he built himself several thousand years ago. Yet his vital signs have been slowed to such an extent that it is as if he lives no more. He has become akin to an effigy of his own self.’ 

Sita said, ‘Maha-dev, there is an effigy of Maharishi Gautama within the ashram, beside the tulsi plant in the temple. It is made of earth and painted with chunna. Due to its extreme age, it is overgrown with vines and creepers. Birds nest in its crevices and cracks. Yet if you look at it closely, you can see that it is amazingly lifelike in resemblance to the portraits of the sage in my father’s palace at Mithila.’ 

Vishwamitra looked at Sita. ‘Have you seen the statue yourself, rajkumari?’ 

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I have touched its feet and prostrated myself before it, as all the shishyas do each morning before starting their lessons for the day. It is a part of the daily ritual at Gautama-ashrama.’ 

Vishwamitra allowed himself a small smile. ‘Then you have met the maharishi already. That statue is Gautama himself, frozen by the sheer force of will into a state of suspended animation for the past two millennia and almost three hundred years!’ 

Sita stared at the brahmarishi. Her mouth opened and shut without saying anything. 

Vishwamitra nodded understandingly. ‘Say no more, rajkumari. The night is short and I have an important sandesh to give you yet. As I have just explained, the sage Gautama took samadhi. Every Arya child knows this. But do you also know why?’