Prince of Dharma (11 page)

When the mantri did not go on, Vashishta asked with infinite patience: ‘Sumantra, where is the king?’ 

Sumantra raised his eyes reluctantly. 

‘Guruji, the maharaja is with First Queen Kausalya in her private sleeping chambers.’ The slight emphasis he placed on the word
with
left no doubt as to his meaning. ‘For the first time in fifteen years.’ 

There was silence for a minute. 

Then, slowly, like the first flush of dawn creeping across the benighted sky, a smile appeared on the face of the mahaguru. 

FOUR 

Dasaratha and Kausalya reclined on comfortable cushioned floor-mats in the first queen’s beautifully designed akasachamber. The room was perfectly circular, with an enormous domed roof that filled his entire field of vision when he lay back and looked up. The dome was made of the finest, most translucent glass in the kingdom, so flawless he could see the first flush of dawn spread across the eastern sky as clearly as if he had been lying on a grass mound out of doors. In fact, he mused, when he was young, akasa-chambers were not furnished. Their floors were carpeted daily with freshly scythed kusa grass, soft and dew-dampened, still smelling of earth. 

‘Raje.’ 

Kausalya’s gentle voice roused him from his daydream. Dasaratha raised himself on his elbow and looked at his queen. She looked contented and sleepy-eyed after their time together. Kausalya was a traditional Arya woman, brought up never to reveal her desires, yet not constrained from enjoying them when a legitimate opportunity presented itself. She was pleased by their joining, he saw, and her pleasure gave him pleasure. With Kaikeyi, his second queen, it was always a challenge. To see who could outdo whom, in what exotic manner. Almost a circus. And with Sumitra, his docile youngest wife, the third queen, it was like lying with a naïve gandharva, a forest nymph, so innocent and guileless was she, almost to the point of being unexciting. And with his other wives, it was only the sport of Kama. 

But this … what he felt now, lying in this state of bliss in the akasa-chamber, staring up at the new day washing the sky clean and preparing to paint a gorgeous sunrise, the first spring sunrise of the year, he felt … at home. It had been a long time since he had felt this good. 

‘Much as I would love you to come to me every day like this,’ she said softly in his ear, ‘you did mention something you wished to discuss with me. What was it?’ 

He smiled up at her. 

‘Yes, my rani. I do indeed have something of great importance to tell you. But any discussion about it will have to wait for later. Already I have spent almost an hour in your beguiling embrace. Much as I hate to leave your company, our good Sumantra and mahaguru Vashishta will already be seeking me out. And in another hour or two, the festival celebrations will begin in earnest and then the usual endless queue of court nobility and well-wishers will start arriving with their rang thalis.’ 

What he said was true. It was customary to visit a colleague or superior’s house on Holi and apply a little rang on their face; in Dasaratha’s case, all of Ayodhya looked upon it as a golden opportunity to share a rare moment of friendly intimacy with their king. Kausalya smiled at the mention of the rang thalis. She remembered nights spent massaging him with warm, gently scented coconut oil to cleanse the rang stains and soothe his tired nerves. Behind the public pomp and ceremony of the maharaja’s throne, there were a million such private inconveniences. 

She touched his arm affectionately, stroking the curling silver growth that sprouted thickly along the back of his hand. ‘Dasa, just tell me what’s on your mind.’ 

He took his first queen’s hand in his own and looked into her eyes. He wanted to see her initial, most natural reaction. He was not a great patron of the performing arts—to him hunting wild boar was a sport, not dancing with silver bells attached to one’s feet—but he was a great observer of human behaviour, a necessary skill for anyone dealing with the machinations and politics of high office, and he had considerable ability in reading human faces and reactions, particularly at unguarded moments. He spoke in an almost flat tone, denuding his voice of all stresses or emotions. He could have been asking her to bring him a paan, specifying what supari he wanted in it and whether he wished the betelnut flaked, cut or sweetened. 

‘Today, after the Holi parade, I will announce the coronation of my successor. I will name our son Rama crown prince of Ayodhya.’ 

Of all the possible responses Dasaratha had expected, the expression on Kausalya’s face and the words from her lips were the last ones imaginable. In fact, they weren’t even in the range of responses he was expecting. 

Her face drained of all colour, turning her already pale complexion into an almost albino whiteness—she had always had a tendency to iron-lack in the blood, he recalled. His first thought was that she was fainting with shock. But then her hand, the one that had been caressing him so gently an instant ago, tightened on his forearm in a grip stronger than he had felt in years. Leaning forward, she looked at him with tears misting in her eyes and said in a voice choked with sudden shock: 

‘But you’re still young, Dasa. You still have many years of life and vigour in you. Your father Aja, his father Raghu, your ancestors, almost all the Suryavansha kings, reigned well into their grey years. Why, Raghu was almost thirty years older than you when he crowned Aja prince of Ayodhya. It’s too soon to step down from the throne. It’s much too soon, Dasa.’ 

Dasaratha found himself filled with an emotion so powerful, he was unable to find his voice for a moment. When he could speak again, the tremor in his voice betrayed his inner feelings. 

‘My queen, what breed of woman are you? I tell you I am going to crown your birth-son Rama prince of Ayodhya and you try to dissuade me! Is this the way a mother speaks?’ 

‘No,’ Kausalya replied. ‘This is the way a queen speaks, out of love and concern for her husband and king.’ 

Dasaratha was silent. Suddenly the smells and sights of the akasa-chamber seemed unbearable. Was it possible for any woman to love her husband this much? To be more concerned about her liege’s health than about her son’s inheritance? 

Dasaratha was no philosopher or sage, but he knew that what he had just witnessed, was still witnessing, was a hallmark in his long illustrious life. Kausalya had passed his test and proved herself a perfect wife. 

His eyes brimmed with an emotion that was simultaneously sorrowful and joyous. ‘You are like no other woman I have ever known, Kausalya.’ He didn’t need to add the obvious corollary: and like no other wife. 

Kausalya ignored the compliment, eyes still shining with anxious concern. ‘Raje, I beg of you, reconsider your decision.’ 

Dasaratha shook his head. ‘It is already marked on the royal calendar, my queen. Guru Vashishta has even picked an auspicious date for the coronation. The tenth day of the first half of the month of Chaitra.’ 

Kausalya sat up. ‘On Rama’s sixteenth birthday?’ 

‘Not just his birthday; it’s the most auspicious day of the year apart from the usual feast days.’ 

He appealed to her maternal side. ‘Almost as auspicious as the day he was born to you, my queen. That night was truly a great tryst of the stars and planets. It was as if the devas themselves graced his birth with good omens.’ 

Her eyes softened. ‘It was a miraculous moment.’ 

‘Miracle is the right word. He came to us when we had lost all hope of progeny. After all the yagnas and pooja rituals had failed to produce results. All of Kosala celebrated for a week.’ 

He saw her yield and pressed home his advantage. ‘What better muhurat to announce Rama’s coronation than the sixteenth anniversary of that miraculous day?’ 

She hesitated, torn now between her spousal concern and maternal pride. ‘But that’s this month. Less than half a moon from today! Dasa, all I’m asking is why so soon? It’s barely been a year since he’s been home from the gurukul. Give him a little time to grow, to learn. To marry even. Once the cares and weight of statehood fall upon his shoulders, he will no longer be a boy. Give him a little more time, Dasa.’ 

Dasaratha did something unexpected. He bent forward and kissed Kausalya’s maang, the tip of the centre parting of her hairline where a husband customarily anointed his wife with blood-red sindhoor powder, symbolic of the blood oath of marriage. He kissed her there, at that symbolic spot, with tenderness. When he drew back, he saw the surprise and pleasure in her eyes. And she saw the tears in his own. 

‘There is no more time, Kausalya. I am dying. The vaids and Guru Vashishta agree that my remission is a temporary reprieve before the end. The illness that plagues me has run its course, as I have run mine. Before I die, I will see Rama crowned prince, if it’s the last thing I do.’ 

FIVE 

Before Kausalya could respond to Dasaratha’s shocking revelation, the drapes at the entrance to the akasa-chamber stirred and a small female voice spoke deferentially. Kausalya replied at once, her wits always about her. Dasaratha made out a half-familiar phrase in the queen’s native eastern dialect, Banglar, then the girl left them. 

Kausalya turned to him. ‘You are needed. Guru Vashishta has sent for you urgently. He waits in your palace.’ 

Dasaratha frowned. Guru Vashishta would never disturb him in his queen’s private chambers unless it was a matter of great urgency. He hoped it wasn’t another territorial dispute over river waters and dams; he didn’t think he could stand another raging debate in a multitude of local dialects. He tried to conceal his weariness with jocularity. ‘Something to do with the coronation announcement this morning, no doubt. Probably he wishes to add yet another ceremony to the list. You know how Brahmins love ceremonies, my queen. They won’t let anything be done without elaborate never-ending rituals with lots of chanting, agar-incense and bells! Why are they always so fond of bells? I can barely pray with those bells clanging in my ears!’ 

He rose with an effort, impatiently waving away Kausalya when she attempted to aid him. He was more tired than he realised, but he would have died rather than admit it to her. Still, it had been worth it. He looked at Kausalya’s face, still faintly flushed, crow-black tresses loosened and falling about her shoulders, and felt a twinge of desire despite his condition. 

She smiled, as if sensing his thoughts. ‘It would not do to keep Guruji waiting.’ 

He was tempted to reply with a suggestive retort but said instead, ‘Do me the honour of accompanying me in the official ceremonies.’ Adding with a boyish grin, ‘It will make the bells more bearable.’ 

Kausalya kissed him on the cheek. He was touched to see tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Do you even have to ask? I will be at your side every minute if you but permit me. And if the devas permit, I would go with you to Lord Yama’s domain as well.’ 

He looked at her wordlessly. Her comment needed no explanation: only the dead travelled to the underworld domain of Yama, Lord of Death. 

Kausalya touched his arm gently, urging him to move. 

‘Go with grace, Dasaratha.’ 

He turned to leave, afraid to attempt any response. Even regal restraint had its limitations when it came to emotional borders. 

‘Dasa?’ 

Her voice was small, the voice of a tremulous young bride rather than a queen of the mightiest Arya nation. He stopped at the doorway of the chamber. 

‘Yes, my love?’ 

‘As always, I respect and shall uphold your decision. Yet do not fault me if I continue to hope that you will yet rule another forty sun-years.’ 

He replied without turning his head. If he looked at her face now, he would be lost, he knew. His voice was as tender as that of a young groom greeting his new bride for the first time in their marital bed, soothing her inevitable fear of the unknown male whose bed and life she was sworn to share until death undid their holy knot. 

‘My beloved, there is nothing more anyone can do. The vaids and the seers have done all that is humanly possible. The matter is beyond the abilities of all Vedic science and Arya knowledge.’ 

There was a brief pause as if she might have shaken her head slowly or gestured. 

‘Then let us appeal to those whose abilities are more than human.’ 

She stepped up beside him, hands folded in a namaskaram, and bowed to a point directly above his head. 

He raised his eyes and saw a portrait of the sacred trimurti— Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva—looking down at him, their open palms extended in blessing. 

The image stayed with him as he hurried through the connecting corridor, the torches flickering in an unexpectedly cool draught of wind. His shadow fled before him, then ran behind each time he passed a torch, playing tricks with his mind. He thought about the events of this morning and wondered if he had been wise to go to Kausalya as he had.