Prince of Dharma (125 page)

‘Maha-dev,’ he said, his voice choked with emotion, ‘you ask me, a man who has devoted his entire life to the attainment of spiritual salvation, to give up the chance of absolution, enlightenment and even nirvana? You ask me to damn my eternal soul irrevocably? To be lost in an endless cycle of karmic rebirth, forever suffering for my sins and crimes?’ 

‘Not just you, Janak, but all Aryas living at this time. For it is in their interest that you seek to destroy this asura menace. You will not be alone in your spiritual excommunication. Every living Arya will share in that eternal crime. This is the price you pay for using the Brahm-astra.’ 

The sage gestured with the staff in his other hand. ‘You have but a little time to wield it, Janak. Use it now and save your people.’ 

The sun slipped below the edge of the horizon and the last rays of the sun god faded from the sky. From the south, the distant rumbling of the approaching asura army grew into a roar of exultation. The long day had ended. Night had fallen on Mithila city, for perhaps the last time in its illustrious history. 

Maharaja Janak turned his face away, sobbing. The tears that he could not release before now spilled freely down his lined face. ‘I cannot do it,’ he cried. ‘I cannot commit such a sin. It would be like condemning all of mortalkind to eternal damnation. We would be no different from asuras then, human in appearance but ungodly in our lost aatmas.’ 

Vishwamitra sighed. ‘Then we are lost. For I cannot wield the weapon. As a seer ordained by Brahma himself, it is the one dev-astra forbidden to me. Were I to attempt it, I might destroy all of humankind. This is a precaution laid down by mighty Brahma in his infinite wisdom. For no one person should possess so much power.’ 

There was a long moment of silence then, as everyone assimilated the implications of the seer-mage’s words. 

Into that silence, Rama said, ‘I will do it, Guru-dev. I shall wield the Brahm-astra.’ 

*** 

Bejoo waited on the top of the hillock, on the south bank of the Sarayu. His view of the southern horizon was limited by the rising cliff beyond which lay the beginings of the Southwoods that led eventually to Dandaka-van. The sunlight had faded as well, leaving a misty haze that illuminated everything with an ominous pinkish light. He could hear and feel the thundering approach of the invaders clearly now. The entire ground seemed to rattle and shiver with the impact of those pounding hoofs, claws, talons, pugs and whatever other terms described the nether limbs of asuras. Loose soil fell in a ceaseless shower from the sides of the cliffs, adding to the particles of dust and haze in the air. 

It was like being in the heart of a funeral pyre after a battle, surrounded by the smoke of a thousand burning corpses. The only thing missing right now was the awful sweet stench of roasting human flesh. Bejoo was glad of one thing: at least this time he wouldn’t have to lug the bodies of fallen comrades to the pyres. This time it would be someone else’s task to carry him. If there was enough left of him to carry, and if there was anyone left to carry it. 

The dustcloud was a solid wall now, rising as high as the eye could see. As he watched, it seemed to slow visibly, the roiling reducing to a slow churning. After a moment, the thundering impact reduced as well. He understood at once what was happening: the asura hordes were slowing as they came in sight of their destination. 

He watched as the cloud hung suspended in the air, thick as a brick wall and as dense. 

For a long moment, nothing happened. The rumbling died away completely and the valley fell silent as a stone. The wall of dust remained motionless and still, neither advancing forward nor dissipating, catching the residual light of the sun, sunken below the horizon but still throwing its rays high up into the sky over this part of the earth. 

Then, like a dancer’s face emerging from a diaphanous veil, the asuras emerged from the wall of dust. They seethed and swarmed down the valley at a pace twice as fast as a mortal walk. They were almost at the end of their long march now, the march that had begun on the shores of a bayside town named Dhuj many hours earlier. Their alien jaws salivated in anticipation of their inevitable triumph. 

Bejoo saw movement out of the periphery of his vision. He raised his eyes and saw the tops of the cliffs swarming with dark shapes. asuras were climbing down the almost vertical sides, swarming like lizards descending a wall. He watched as the asura armies covered the earth before him, approaching steadily. A mile, then half a mile, and finally, a quarter-mile away. 

He raised his sword, preparing to give the order to charge. He wouldn’t wait for those vermin to come at him. He would go to them and show them how Vajra Kshatriyas fought. 

And how they died. 

*** 

All eyes turned to Rama. He stood resolute, addressing the brahmarishi. ‘Grant me the Brahm-astra, maha-dev. Allow me to wield it and save Mithila.’ 

Vishwamitra’s eyes were filled with an emotion that Lakshman hadn’t thought the brahmarishi was capable of feeling; the seer’s face showed actual pain as he looked at Rama. 

‘You do not know what you ask, Rama. This is not like the other dev-astras I gave unto you earlier. This is the Brahm-astra, the supreme weapon of all creation. Used correctly, it can certainly dispel the asura armies before they overrun this city. 

But that is only a fraction of its boundless power. For by using the power of anti-Brahman, the antithesis of the force that all matter is created from, it cancels out Brahman itself.’ 

‘Forgive me, Guru-dev,’ Rama asked, ‘but I do not comprehend your meaning. Are you saying I cannot wield the Brahm-astra?’ 

Vishwamitra shook his head sadly. ‘Would that it were so. In fact, you are the perfect person to wield it. Infused with the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala, proven in your championship of Brahman by your triumph over the asuras of Bhayanak-van, endowed with the dev-astras I gifted unto you, you would be able to wield this weapon masterfully, destroying only the asura hordes and no more. Few other Kshatriyas would be able to do so as skilfully.’ 

The sage indicated the others, watching with rapt attention. ‘Not even your brother Lakshman, nor the valiant Kshatriya princess Sita, nor even her formidable guardian can claim to be as well versed in battling asuras as you already are, young Rama. Even at your tender age, you have championed the cause of Brahman more notably than a thousand thousand veterans of the last asura war ever did. For who amongst them can claim to have downed a rakshasi of Tataka’s mighty stature, her hundreds of hybrid offspring, as well as her ferocious sons Mareech and Subahu. Nay, Rama Chandra, it is as if mighty Brahma himself has chosen to bring you here for this very task.’ 

Rama nodded. ‘So this is the end for which I was brought here. Instead of going to Ayodhya.’ 

‘Indeed, Rama. This was your dharma. And while I did not know precisely what the end would be, I knew that the road was correct. Hence it was given to me to ensure that you came on this journey. Not just to gain a perfect bride and dispel the rapacious lord of the asuras, but to break the siege of Mithila with one single blow.’ 

‘Then grant me your ashirwaad, Guru-dev. And let me use the Brahm-astra before it is too late.’ 

Vishwamitra held up his hand, his lined palm as creased with age as his weathered face. ‘Wait a moment longer, Rama. There is one last thing I must tell you before you do this.’ 

‘Speak then, master.’ 

Vishwamitra sighed and inclined his head, as if unable to speak the next words directly. ‘There is a price to be paid for using the Brahm-astra. Because this is the ultimate weapon of Brahman, and because it employs the universe-destroying force of anti-Brahman, the wielder will lose all other Brahman shakti. In short, Rama, if you use the Brahm-astra, you will save Mithila and all Arya certainly, but you will lose all the Brahman power I have given unto you. You will become once more an ordinary mortal, stripped of all divine protection for your days on this mortal plane, and nothing you do or say will ever earn you even a mite of that power again. This is the toll demanded of the one who wields the Brahm-astra. Pray, answer me wisely now. Are you willing to pay this price?’ 

THIRTEEN 

‘So be it,’ Rama said. As he spoke, his eyes flashed with the blue light of Brahman and even his tongue flicked sparks of blue illumination in the gathering dusky light of twilight. ‘If that is all it costs to save so many lives, it is naught. Give me the weapon, brahmarishi. Let me do what my dharma demands.’ 

Lakshman reached out, catching Rama’s hand as he held it out to the sage. ‘Brother. If you do this, you will earn the wrath of the asuras for ever. And at your next encounter, you will be naked of all power. Without your Brahman shakti, how can you hope to fight against the forces of evil henceforth?’ 

Rama shook off Lakshman’s hand. ‘Hush, brother. The time for debate is past. The sands of samay have run through our fingers now. This step must be taken and taken at once. Give me the Brahm-astra, sage. Give it to me now!’ 

The sage stepped forward, holding out the parchment scroll. But even as Rama’s hand closed over the tiny curl of precious papyrus, Lakshman’s hand lunged out and caught Rama’s fist. Rama stared at his brother, his eyes flashing blue sparks. 

Lakshman’s eyes shone back with equal intensity, lit by the shakti of his own power. 

‘Then let us share in this as well,’ Lakshman cried. ‘Let us wield the astra together.’ 

Rama was still for a moment. Then a smile opened his face from the mouth outwards, like an invisible blade unveiling his soul. It was a terrible smile to behold. ‘So be it, brother. Together in this, as in all else!’ 

As the others watched in wordless stupefaction, Rama and Lakshman stepped forward to the southern windows of the tower. Rama opened his hand, holding up the parchment with the mantra written on it. The corner of the tiny chit fluttered in the wind. Lakshman caught the other side and held it firm and still. 

With an invocation to the devas, speaking as if with a single voice, Rama and Lakshman began to read the Brahm-astra mantra. 

*** 

Bejoo’s horse charged forward with a loud neigh of protest. Even though the mare had given him years of good service and had served through any number of violent encounters, she had only carried him into battle against asuras once before. And, on that occasion in the Bhayanak-van battle, she had faltered momentarily and had needed to be goaded on. Now she tried to turn her head aside, seeking to take a different path, anything to avoid charging headlong at that seething mass of alien predators. 

The asura force stank. The reek coming off them was unbearable and indescribable. It was like a thousand cesspools and a thousand corpse-laden battlefields all thrown together. It was like the stench of fluids exuded by insects in the deep forest. Or by bats in a subterranean cavern that had not had fresh air blow through it for a thousand years. It was like death itself, and Bejoo knew the smell of death, for he had faced it often before. It drew you towards it, despite the disgusting odour, drew you in like a kite on a length of twine, calling you with its horrible yet mesmerising stench. 

Bejoo went to meet his death. 

The Vajra rode behind him. He could feel the pounding impact of the bigfoot, hear their trumpeting, the rattling of the chariot wheels, the lusty cries of his men. Arrows fired by the chariot archers flew overhead, arcing through the smoky air to fall out of sight in the asura ranks. They seemed like pitiful pebbles tossed against a thousand-yard-high waterfall. 

A hundred yards ahead, the line of asuras roared and howled and urged him on. As a war veteran, he understood why they weren’t advancing any more. They were waiting for their leader to give the command. When that command came, they would smash through Mithila as easily as a fist through a paper wall. But for now they waited. And he rode towards them like an insane fool. 

Now he could see individual asuras in the dense black mass. The air was foggier here, the dustcloud raised by the enormous army still standing high in the sky. On the ground, the dust-filled air coupled with the gathering dusk made it difficult to see clearly more than a few dozen yards ahead. But he could make out the unmistakable shapes of nagas, their large hooded heads rising yards above the ground. They hissed and seethed at his approach. And beside the nagas were yaksas, shape-shifters. Bejoo’s heart lurched. Yaksas were the only other species he hated almost as much as pisacas. The Elvish races could wreak havoc in his Vajra’s ranks. Their ability to morph into different animal forms, or even half-forms, meant that they could confuse the most obedient bigfoot or horse. Without their mounts, even Vajra Kshatriyas couldn’t hope to last long against the towering nagas and the inevitable uragas which would come in their wake. 

But it was too late for second thoughts now. Bejoo cried his battle call and forced his protesting mount directly at the front line of the asuras. Ten yards now, then seven, then five … four … three … 

And then he was amongst them, slashing into the top of the hood of the lead naga, a gleaming black-hooded beast stippled with red spots. The creature lunged at him, its yard-high fangs flashing, venom spilling from its eager sacs, its diamond-bright eyes glinting hatefully. Bejoo’s sword drove through the top of its hood, dividing its head in two. The naga swayed for a moment, then fell back, blocking its companions to either side.