Prince of Dharma (123 page)

Kausalya was staring at the window. ‘I understand that, Sumitra. But how could she have changed the room? Even sorcery can’t alter the design of the palace itself. If she did wield such huge shakti–and, mind you, that’s a very big if–then we would be able to tell at once just by seeing how the building’s structure is changed.’ 

Sumitra nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right! She’s changed the structure of the building! Ask Drishti Kumar to check. Go on!’ 

Kausalya looked at the captain. ‘What do you think, Captain? Could you find out for us if this part of the palace could somehow have been altered through sorcery?’ 

Drishti Kumar hesitated, glancing at Maharani Sumitra. 

‘Go on, Captain,’ Kausalya said. ‘You can speak your mind freely.’ 

‘Maharanis,’ he said, ‘I can vouch for this myself, since this section of the palace used to be the senapati quarters a long time ago. This was before the end of the last asura war and I was but a slip of a lad then. Yet I remember every wall and crevice of this apartment well, because it was my father’s.’ 

‘Of course,’ Kausalya said, looking astonished. ‘That was before the cantonment complex was built, wasn’t it?’ She looked at Sumitra. ‘Before we came here as young brides, Sumitra. A long time ago.’ 

‘Just so, maharani,’ Drishti Kumar said. ‘Yet not so long ago for those who remember.’ 

Kausalya nodded. The captain had lost three uncles and four brothers in the Last asura War. This apartment must be filled with painful yet nostalgic memories for him. ‘I understand, Captain. Tell me then, do you recall this room specifically?’ 

‘I do, maharani. It was our pooja room then as well, since it’s the only north-facing room.’ 

He pointed at the window with the haft of his spear. ‘Our altar was located on that wall too, since it was the north wall.’ 

He paused and looked at Maharani Sumitra. ‘And the window was always there.’ 

Sumitra cried out in shame and humiliation. She buried her face in her hands, unable to bear the disappointment. Manthara wanted to drop her old-hag act and leap up and down. But she was aware that although they weren’t watching her directly, everybody was keenly aware of her presence, and the two guards who had first entered the apartment were still standing to either side of her, their spears pointing at her heart and her vitals. 

She allowed herself a smile of triumph, concealing it with a cry of relief. Throwing her hands together, she raised them to her forehead, directing her words at the altar across the room. ‘Truly, the devi watches over me and protects me!’ 

She resisted the urge to spit after saying the words. Just a little while longer and this charade would be over, and she could continue with her efforts on behalf of the Dark Lord. She needed to perform another yagna and summon Ravana soon. Shifting the corridors of the palace as well as her quarters from one end to the other had used up every last ounce of her shakti. And to have accomplished this feat of dark sorcery without anyone noticing … that was surely her crowning achievement. Now, drained as she was, she needed more power desperately, and only her master could provide that. 

She also needed healing badly, and only Ravana could do that as well. The wounds that Sumitra had inflicted on her with the trident were concealed for the moment by a maya spell. Even if the Third Queen insisted on having her strip-searched here and now, they would find nary a blemish on her bony chest. But beneath the illusion, the wounds were still there, still bleeding, still shriekingly painful. 

ELEVEN 

Sita gained the top of the Sage’s Brow, Nakhudi close behind her. 

She arrived just in time to hear the brahmarishi say to her father, ‘You shall resist this approaching asura horde and defend Mithila with great honour and valour.’ 

Maharaja Janak stared at the sage with a strange mixture of emotions. ‘Maha-dev, you are infinite in your wisdom. May you not reveal to us what the outcome of this conflict will be?’ 

‘Nay, Janak,’ the sage replied. ‘That is forbidden to me. Not because I do not wish to set your mind at ease, but because the samay chakra has infinite minute variations. Just as a compass may not point precisely to the north or the east, thus a future event may have an outcome that is not wholly good or bad. And this is a broad simplification. A compass needle may point not even north-east, but north-by-north-east, for example. In the case of geography, this will result in a definite direction.’ The seer pointed his staff over the maharaja’s shoulder. ‘That way is north-by-north-east exactly, but in mortal events, too many factors and lives are interwoven in a constantly changing, enormously complex pattern. So your great and pious city may survive, yet if you were to lose someone dear to you in the conflict, would you count it as success or as failure?’ 

Janak joined his hands together. ‘Maha-dev, when you first arrived this morning, I told you in my throne room that my life’s only remaining selfish desire was to see my daughters wed happily. But what I ask now is not a selfish whim, it is for the greater good of the Videhan people in particular and the Arya nations at large. Tell me then, will Mithila survive this invasion or will we be overrun by the hordes?’ 

Vishwamitra was silent for a long moment before he replied. ‘I have already given you my prediction, raje. Ask me no more. To reveal too much would be to tamper with the finer workings of the samay chakra itself. For by knowing a certain event, a person may seek to influence that event and change its predestined outcome.’ 

Sita stepped forward, bowing her head formally and performing a namaskar as she approached the sage. ‘And is it possible to do so? To influence and change the outcome of an event?’ 

Vishwamitra turned his wise grey eyes on her. She felt them pierce through to her very soul, searching her consciousness the way a torch might illuminate a darkened cave. 

‘Rajkumari Sita, you share your father’s curiosity for metaphysics and spirituality. Your question is a very wise one. It deserves a wise answer. You ask me whether, knowing the predestined outcome of an event, it is possible to influence and change that outcome. The answer then is this: It is not humanly possible to know the predestined outcome of any event. This is what I was just trying to explain to your good father. The variations in the samay chakra’s movements are too complex, too minute, for any mortal mind to comprehend, understand, analyse and predict. Even astrology gives you only the broadest indications of what may transpire. Even if two persons are born at the same instant in the same place, they will not have the same life-history. This is a law of science, as you well know from your gurukul studies. Hence cold, hard, precise science determines the apparently mystical workings of the universe and metaphysics helps us understand those workings. But no mortal may master both science and spirituality equally and completely.’ 

‘And if a mortal were to master both, Guru-dev?’ Sita said. 

Vishwamitra raised his eyebrows. ‘Then that person would be a deva or devi, not a mortal. And to answer your first question again, yes, then he or she would be able to know the exact outcome of an event and could influence and change the outcome of that event.’ He sighed and gestured at himself. ‘I am unfortunately mortal. And at times like this, I am painfully reminded of it.’ 

Sita saw Rama looking at the southern side of the tower. 

Maha-dev.’ Rama’s voice was tight and tense. 

Sita turned to look at what Rama had seen. Her eyes found it at once but it took her several seconds to come to terms with the evidence of her eyes and accept that she was really seeing it. 

‘Devi protect us!’ she said hoarsely, clutching the hilt of her sword. She had changed into full battle armour after the swayamvara. 

The entire southern horizon was a rolling mass of dust. 

The dustcloud rose a hundred yards in the air, she saw, and spanned the horizon from end to end. Like a fiendish freak of nature, it caught the light of the setting sun, burning bright shining red. 

At that angle and in that light, it resembled a tidal wave of blood rolling towards Mithila. 

Bejoo stared up at the southern sky with a feeling close to awe. Except that the Vajra captain was filled with too much dread and anger to be awed by the incredible sight. Just knowing what was producing that dustcloud was enough to taint any admiration he might feel for the epic proportions of the sight. 

The Vajra captain was mounted on his horse once more. Sona Chita was beside him, and so was the rest of his Vajra regiment. They had arrived in Mithila barely an hour before the order went out to bring in all citizens and bar the seven gates. The Siddh-ashrama procession had been delayed at the Ganga crossing; every last Brahmin and brahmacharya had insisted on immersing himself and performing the full ritual before proceeding further. From the looks of it, Bejoo had commented, Sona Chita and the Vajra Kshatriyas had spent a little time bathing in the sacred river as well. 

The lieutenant had admitted that they had taken a dip. When asked why they hadn’t done so at the River Shona, where they had spent the whole of the previous evening and night, Sona Chita had explained to his captain, ‘Any other river is just water. It washes your body. The Ganga cleanses your soul.’ 

Bejoo’s soul didn’t feel very clean at the moment. As he sat on the fair ground and watched the asura dustcloud approach, he felt very dirty and tainted. Not by his own misdeeds, but by the very sight of that approaching holocaust. He was old enough to have memories of the last asura war. Bad memories, all. And now here was the stormcloud risen again, rolling across the land like a juggernaut of hellish destruction. 

He knew all the facts of the matter. Of how woefully inadequate Mithila’s defences were, how underequipped the army was in numbers, training and weapons. There was nothing he could do about that. By an ironic twist of karma, his mission to protect the rajkumars had brought him here to this neighbouring land and dropped him bang into the middle of a situation where he and his Vajra were among the most able warriors available. True, there were a few other strong orders. The Mithila bowmen, renowned for their skill with the unwieldy double-curved longbow, were lined up on the walls of the city, ready to wreak havoc. But they were pitifully few in number to begin with, and compared to the odds, they faced an impossible task. 

So this is what it comes down to, Bejoo thought sombrely. One last stand in a strange city, fighting unbeatable odds. No hope of survival, no chance of victory. Just certain death to face. A horrible, agonising, brutal end to a long and equally brutal life. There had been moments of great beauty, peace even. He had not fought any needless fights, nor taken life for pleasure as some warriors did when intoxicated by the power of their youth and strength. He had fulfilled his dharma, done all that was demanded of him, and had done it well. 

He had loved a wonderful woman, and had lived a fine life with her. He would leave her secure in life and wanting for nothing. Except for the children they had both desired so much and had never been able to have. In his prayers to his patron deity, Shaneshwara, Bejoo had prayed every single day that he would die fighting with his fellows by his side and Ayodhya behind him. He was getting half his wish. And Mithila was as worthy of defence as Ayodhya. He would die a good, honourable death. 

He reached his decision then. They would not wait within the innermost wall for the enemy to breach the gates. A last line of defence was hardly any use once the asuras broke into the inner fortress and township. By that time, all the remaining Kshatriyas in Mithila would be gathered here, making their last stand in these confined quarters, giving their lives to defend each inch of precious mother-soil. That was their duty, their dharma even.

But he was not Mithilan. He had leeway in choosing where to deploy his men and how to do so. Senapati Bharadwaj had said as much to him a short while ago. The veteran general knew that with these odds, no formation or strategy could even delay the inevitable. It was a hopeless, desperate, doomed last stand, and all they could do was make that stand bravely, taking as many of the enemy as they could before they died. Bejoo was free to do as he pleased. 

He decided he would do what he would have done in Ayodhya. There, with the inner city manned thoroughly and every egress and ingress guarded heavily, the city’s Vajra units would have been ordered to ride forth from the sally ports and inflict planned damage on particular parts of the besieging army before returning to await orders for the next sally. Of course, there they would be replenished with reinforcements and each sally would be carefully planned and ordered by senapatis observing from the Seer’s Eye to achieve a strategic gain. Here, he had no back-up, no strategy, not even the guarantee that he would be able to return safely to the sally port he had left from. But it was what his men were trained to do in the event of a siege, and it was better than waiting here and listening and watching the horrors of the first waves, waiting for the monsters to kill all the lines of defence and come rolling in to wash over them. 

This way, at least they would die as Vajra Kshatriyas ought to die—striking with the speed and accuracy for which they were named. Like bolts of lightning flung by the hand of Indra himself, digging into the flanks of the asura invaders and leaving them a little bloodier and messier each time. 

He rode a few yards forward, then turned his horse to face his men. They were drawn up in a straight line, unlike their usual spear formation, the cavalry, chariot, bigfoot all arrayed in one long row. At least it made it easier for him to speak to them.