Prince of Dharma (121 page)

Vishwamitra had said as much when appealed to by the maharaja. But the seer had seemed curiously calm and unruffled as he spelled out how poorly prepared the Videhan capital was to face the oncoming asura forces. Even if it had been equipped with an army the size of, say, Ayodhya, Gandahar or Kaikeya, the three most martially powerful Arya cities, Mithila would not have been able to withstand such a massive surprise assault. 

Even as they spoke, the outlying areas of the capital were being evacuated, all civilians and travellers brought into the city-fortress. Soon the gates would be shut and the walls manned. But despite its formidable defensive design–identical to that of its sister city Ayodhya–Mithila’s defences were in no condition to face such an attack. It would take days, if not weeks, to rebuild the infrastructure needed to maintain a long siege, and that was only conditional on having an army large and well trained enough to undertake this mammoth task. 

These reinforcements could possibly be had from the other Arya nations–most likely from Ayodhya, their closest neighbour. But that itself would take time. And their enemy was a few yojanas hence and approaching rapidly! Nay, the sage said decisively, they would have to face this onslaught on their own, with their existing resources. 

After that harrowing session, Maharaja Janak, the seer-mage and the two rajkumars had made their way up to the top of this tower. From this vantage point, the sage said, they would be able to view the city entire as well as see the approach of the asura armies. 

Now, the brahmarishi pointed with his staff. 

‘They will come from the south. Look now and see the fury of their approach.’ 

Maharaja Janak and the two princes leaned forward, staring southwards. The city walls themselves extended outwards in concentric circles for a distance of a full yojana from the centrally located tower. The Sarayu river flowed beneath the tower and the palace complex itself, the architecture designed to vault over the gentle river without disturbing its natural course. The river flowed roughly north-west to south-east. As they peered out beyond the first city wall, they could see the golden thread of the sun-kissed river winding its way into the distance. At some point it crossed its sister river, the sacred Ganga, before continuing its journey to the ocean. 

The brooding darkness of a dense hilly forest, the Mithilan equivalent of the Ayodhyan Southwoods, loomed over the river’s south bank. Several yojanas further south, beyond the Shona river and the placid groves of Siddh-ashrama, these menacing woods grew in size and denseness to become the dreaded Dandaka-van, the haunted forbidden woods that marked the southern border of Videha and all the Arya nations. Mithila was the southernmost Arya city, designed to stand, like its sister Ayodhya, as the first line of defence against any attack from the south, the direction in which the distant island of Lanka lay. 

As Rama’s eyes followed the brahmarishi’s staff, he saw what he was seeking. Shockingly close, just a little way beyond the end of the Sarayu valley, was what seemed to be a rising fog. It was clearly moving in a northward direction, rolling steadily across the lush green Videhan landscape. He knew that what seemed like fog was in fact a cloud of dust raised by an enormous force marching at considerable speed. The cloud’s rolling swell trailed to a plume that dwindled and rose in the far distance. He wondered that nobody had noticed such a huge dustcloud. It must have been visible for several hours after all. But then he recalled that there were no other towers this tall in Mithila, and that nobody kept watch for such things as approaching dustclouds. 

‘Brahma be merciful,’ Maharaja Janak said, his voice still strained from the throttling he’d received at the hands of the demon king. ‘That front is well over a yojana wide!’ 

‘Nay, raje,’ Vishwamitra replied. ‘It is closer to three yojanas wide. The asura hordes prefer to travel in separate armies, but with all travelling laterally, so that each feels it is in the front line while keeping a prudent distance between individual species.’ 

‘Three yojanas wide,’ the maharaja said faintly. ‘What size of army could cover a front that wide?’ 

‘And six yojanas long,’ Vishwamitra said calmly, as if estimating the size of a Brahmin procession at a tirth-yatra. ‘This is the main force of Ravana’s vast army. The forces he sent to the other Arya capitals are less than a fifth of the size of this single horde. As I estimate it, his combined asura armies number over ten million in all.’ 

‘Ten million?’ the maharaja said, leaning weakly against the stone overhang of the chamber. 

‘And four-fifths of that would make eight million,’ the sage said. ‘It is the second largest army ever assembled. The only force greater than this was raised by Ravana himself when he invaded Swarga-lok and sacked Indraprastha, the capital city of the devas.’ 

Maharaja Janak’s hands slid slowly down the stone pillar. He came to rest on the curved ledge of the window, sitting weakly as he contemplated the brahmarishi’s words. Then he lowered his head to his hands, moaning softly, ‘What have we done to deserve this fate, maha-dev? We are a good nation, deva-loving and pure of heart, deed and word. Our citizens follow the path of dharma and respect the laws of karma meticulously. I have devoted my life and resources to the pursuit of spiritual gain rather than the accumulation of material wealth. I have eschewed violence and embraced the creed of ahimsa, as have the majority of my people. We are known throughout the Arya nations as a Brahmin nation. Why then are we being subjected to such devastation?’ 

He looked up at the brahmarishi, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘Tell me, maha-dev. What have we done to deserve this fate? Why do the devas seek to punish us thus? What noble deed have we left undone, what mortal sin have we committed? If it is my fault, then let me be blamed and penalised. Why are my people to be subjected to this karma? What is their error?’ 

Vishwamitra looked down sagely at the maharaja. The chill wind sweeping through the open-walled chamber billowed his robes and bent his long white hair and streaming beard. The light of the setting sun caught his proud regal features, making his ancient battle scars shine red like freshly bleeding whiplashes. 

‘There is no error, Mithila-naresh. Neither your people nor you are at fault here. This is simply the way the samay-chakra turns. The great wheel of time does not differentiate between good and evil.’ 

‘But the devas do,’ Janak said, his eyes flashing with angry incomprehension now. He wiped his tears away roughly. ‘They see and weigh our actions and our thoughts. It was through his appeals to mighty Brahma and later the great Shiva that Ravana himself obtained the shakti he now wields. If a rakshasa with his unmatched history of countless sins and crimes can be granted such power, why should a holy and unblemished king such as I be treated so harshly? Have the scales of celestial justice been broken and thrown aside? Do the devas no longer respect dharma and karma?’ 

‘It is dharma and karma that save you today, good Janak. Your great and virtuous deeds and prayers have earned you an enviable position among mortals. Few individuals on this earth can claim as great a stake in celestial admiration as yourself. Even we, the Seven Seers, have watched and applauded your piousness and your great achievements from afar.’ 

Janak shook his head, still lost in his miasma of shock and grief. 

Vishwamitra continued in a more gentle tone: ‘In many ways, your eldest daughter Sita is a perfect symbol of the Videha nation. Pure, beautiful and honourable to the core. This great land deserves not to be wrested away as the lord of asuras sought to do with beautiful Sita. It deserves instead a long, honourable and dignified existence, free from pain and strife, violence and humiliation.’ 

‘And yet,’ Janak cried out, his voice cracking with his anguish, ‘who will grant Sita these things when Mithila herself is sure to fall tonight?’ 

‘I shall protect Sita,’ Rama said, stepping forward to show his face to his future father-in-law. ‘I won her hand before the people of Mithila, and I shall honour and keep her as she deserves. No asura, Ravana or any other, shall lay a hand on her as long as I stand.’ 

‘Nor as long as I stand,’ Lakshman said. 

Janak looked at both of them. 

Rama knew that his eyes and Lakshman’s were glowing with the light of Brahman. He could feel the shakti still coursing through his veins. It had not ceased to do so since the encounter in the assembly hall. Yet the voice that he spoke with was his own, uninfluenced by the power of the maha-mantras. He meant every word he said. After saving Sita from Ravana’s attempt to win her at the swayamvara, Rama was honour-bound to wed her. And if the first stirrings of emotion in his breast were any indication, he would do so for a more compelling reason than to uphold honour. 

Janak rose to his feet slowly. He put a hand on Rama’s shoulder, then did the same to Lakshman as well. His hand felt cool to Rama’s inflamed skin. ‘I would hold you to that promise, young princes of Ayodhya, just as I would hold Rama to his well-won commitment.’ 

He looked to the south briefly, at the cloud of dust now filling the view from side to side for as far as the eye could see, as if the horizon itself was burning and coming closer by the minute. ‘Yet I fear that samay has decreed otherwise. Even I who believe in miracles do not see how we may survive this dreadful night, but if the devas were to see fit to allow us to do so, then on the morrow itself I would see Rama wed Sita with all due pomp and ceremony.’ 

The brahmarishi spoke quietly. ‘And you would do well to consider taking Rajkumar Lakshman here as husband to your second daughter Urmila, raje. As well as joining the hands of their brothers Bharat and Shatrugan with those of your nieces and adopted daughters Mandavi and Shrutakirti. Even without consulting the rajkumars and rajkumaris on whether this meets their individual wishes, I would venture to propose this auspicious and excellent match. I am certain that Maharaja Dasaratha and the maharanis Kausalya, Kaikeyi and Sumitra would be more than pleased as well.’ 

Maharaja Janak stared at the sage. ‘I would consider myself truly fortunate to see my daughters married into the House Suryavansha. And while I would need to make sure that each of them approves of the match, I can already tell you that my daughters are dearly fond of Rama’s three brothers and think highly of them.’ 

He shook his head, continuing, ‘But maha-dev, what is the use of discussing such matters when our very existence is in peril? By the time Surya completes tonight’s circuit of the globe and returns to us tomorrow morning, neither Mithila nor the House Chandravansha will remain. What good does it do us to speak of the marriages of my daughters at such a time?’ 

Vishwamitra smiled. ‘At such moments does history turn on its heel, just as our planet turns on its invisible axis, raje. There is no time more opportune to decide such matters than these cusps of history. If you indeed approve these matches, and I speak on behalf of the House of Suryavansha by saying that they would not disapprove of them, then consider my earlier prediction fulfilled. Your life’s desire will be granted, and on the morrow you shall see your four daughters wedded to four eminently suitable bridegrooms by their own consent. This I predict by the shakti given unto me by mighty Brahma himself.’ 

Janak’s face was a conflicting battlefield of emotions. ‘Mahadev, your coming here was a result of my life’s karma. May your words be true. I shall be blessed indeed if this were to come to pass as you describe it.’ There was no need for him to add, ‘although I cannot see how it possibly can’. His face spoke those words eloquently. 

Vishwamitra placed a hand on the maharaja’s shoulder in the same paternal gesture that the king had extended to the two rajkumars. ‘Then let me make another auspicious prediction, Mithila-naresh. This one will gladden your heart as well.’ 

The seer pointed his staff south at the looming dust-cloud. ‘I decree that this very night your great and virtuous city shall be given the fruit of its immense spiritual labours. You shall resist this approaching asura horde and defend Mithila with great honour and valour.’ 

TEN 

Captain Drishti Kumar led the way down the south corridor, his shortspear held in an aggressive attack stance. Four guards 

strode forward with him, two on either side, their speartips aligned perfectly with their captain’s weapon. Kausalya and Sumitra followed close behind the captain and the quad. Twelve more guards enclosed the two maharanis in the defensive quadrangular formation for which the Kosalan army was famous. 

The captain of the palace guard had arrived minutes after Kausalya and Sumitra reached the mouth of the south corridor, accompanied by sixteen of the ablest personal ang-rakshaks oathsworn to the royal family’s protection. He had listened briefly to Kausalya’s succinct explanation and had issued curt orders that were instantly passed down the line of back-up guards. 

Even as they approached Manthara’s residence, several dozen more guards were surrounding the wing of the palace where the daiimaa’s apartment lay, blocking off every possible exit and entrance as well as evacuating all servants and other employees to a safe distance. Ayodhya had witnessed enough treachery to ensure that any new evidence of disloyalty would be met with ruthless discipline. 

Sumitra had never seen the young captain of the palace guard look as grim as he did now. She noticed that Drishti Kumar had begun to resemble his father, the illustrious Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, more closely than ever. Truly, this father and son were the backbone of Ayodhya’s defence. As long as Kosala had Arya Kshatriyas of the calibre of the House of Kumar, Ayodhya would remain the Unconquerable.