Prince of Dharma (24 page)

Dasaratha rose to his feet, the colour draining from his face. ‘Impossible! These are old and trusted courtiers! I sit with these men every day and discuss matters of state and defence!’ 

‘Do not blame yourself, raje,’ Vishwamitra said in a voice tinged with sadness and anger. ‘There was no way for you to know. This is the vile power of Ravana’s sorcery. He has eyes and ears within your very court. His spies live beneath the same roof that you inhabit, in the very heart of Ayodhya. And for every one you see here, there are a thousand others throughout your proud kingdom. This is how Ravana has struck back at you for defeating him in the Last asura Wars. He has corrupted your own people and converted them to his evil cause.’ 

TWENTY-ONE 

Rama darted through the crowd like a swallow through a thicket. The crowd was dense and growing denser by the second, but there was still enough space between them to allow a slender youth to slip through if he was quick and agile. Rama heard the yells of dismay from the gate-watch behind him, followed by his brothers calling out to him, and sympathised with their concern, but he continued down the avenue. All through Senapati Dheeraj Kumar’s kabbadi analogy, his attention had been diverted by that knot of black-clad figures at the far end of the lane, where Harishchandra Avenue was met by Jagganath Marg, the road leading to the sudra quarter of the city. As the senapati had continued speaking, Rama had watched that knot grow, more and more black-clad figures appearing from the Jagganath Marg turn-off until finally the knot had become an arrowhead. And then he had seen the unmistakable glint of sunlight reflecting off bright shiny objects. Weapons in use. He had known then that something was amiss down there, some aberration that was not a scheduled part of the Holi festivities. And because he had been preternaturally alert to precisely such signs as this, he had acted before speaking or thinking. The gates were about to slam shut. Getting Captain Drishti Kumar to reopen them would take precious minutes, perhaps longer if the captain was adamant about following the maharaja’s orders. So Rama had done the only thing he could do at once: slipped out before the gates shut, like a silvery mahseer slipping through a gap in a Banglar fisherman’s net. 

Now, he ran like his life depended on it. The crowds of bustling, excited people were too entranced with discussing the events of that morning to pay him any attention. Those that did glance his way saw merely a handsomely constructed young man in a hurry. He was on foot, running like a maniac, and carried no weapons or obvious marks of his princehood, just the simple whites he had worn that morning. Nobody recognised him instantly, and those that had a flutter of a doubt were unable to take a second look to check. 

He ran like lives depended on it. In moments, he had crossed that swirling river of humanity that the avenue had become. Reaching the end of the concourse, he slowed, seeing the familiar glint of raised spears up ahead. A roadblock. The ever-watchful PFs had already cordoned off the trouble and contained it at the bottom of the avenue. The people down at this end were largely commoners more interested in moving up-avenue to goggle at the rich architecture of the palace rather than paying attention to the disturbance behind them. Rama made his way through a group of excited young vaisya girls, all clutching hands together and laughing excitedly, led by a trio of hefty daiimaas. Then he was at the cordon. He looked over the interlinked V of two PF spears to see a curious lack of activity at the end of the avenue. The turn-off where he had seen the black-clad figures accumulating was deserted now. But several black turbans lay unfurled on the ground, along with a PF scarf or two. And an entire regiment of PFs was forming under the orders of a lieutenant, preparing to march up Jagganath Marg. 

Rama spoke to the PF closest to him, a wizened veteran with a small hole where his left ear had once been and a rash of shiny scars on the left side of his neck. 

‘What happened here?’ 

The PF spoke without turning back. ‘On your way, citizen. The savoury stalls are up ahead and to the right, along Sarayu Marg, on the way to the parade grounds. This is PF business.’ 

Rama raised his right hand, formed a fist, and rapped his prince’s seal-ring on the blade of the man’s spear. It made a metallic sound that drew the man’s attention. He swung around at once, spear lowering into a defensive stance. His partner, who had heard Rama as well, did likewise. 

Rama already had his hands raised, showing them he was unarmed. 

‘At ease, veterans. I only wish to know what happened. Do you recognise me?’ 

Both PFs glanced at each other and swallowed. ‘Aye. You’re Rajkumar Rama. Or a shockingly good imitation.’ 

Rama smiled. ‘I’m Rama. Captain Drishti Kumar and my brothers are following after me. They’ll confirm it. Now tell me quickly, what happened here?’ 

The younger man, a hefty fellow with no visible facial scars, looked suspiciously at Rama. But the older man said slowly: ‘Some tantrics went berserk. Said one of the maharaja’s queens had assassinated one of their number. They wanted to take a petition to the maharaja to protest the man’s murder and demand he institute an inquiry at once.’ 

‘And?’ 

The veteran shrugged. ‘What’s to say? The city’s on full alert. Our orders are to let nobody through to the palace and to arrest any potential troublemakers. The lieutenant told them to put their protest through official channels. They became surly about it. Turned ugly fast.’ The old man gestured at the platoon marching down Jagganath Marg even as he spoke. ‘That’s the clean-up now. While they were scuffling with our men, some Brahmins came up and began screaming something about the tantrics stealing little boys from some orphanage, for sacrifices and suchlike. I don’t know any more. We were only called in a moment ago to keep rubberneckers away from this end of the avenue.’ 

Rama nodded. ‘Much appreciate the information, soldier … ?’ 

The veteran shrugged. ‘Pai. S.T. Pai. I fought with your uncle Janak’s regiment in the Mithila Brigade.’ 

‘Thank you, Sipahi Pai. You’ll have to let me through now.’ 

The PFs looked uncertain. Then the old one said, almost as if he was embarrassed, ‘You’d know the names of Maharaja Janak’s daughters then, of course. You being Rajkumar Rama, after all.’ 

Rama smiled. ‘Of course. We played together as children before my brothers and I left for the gurukul.’ He realised that the younger PF was watching him intently, as if alert to signs of horns sprouting or fangs popping out at any second. He said in a normal tone: ‘Sita, Urmila, Mandavi and Kirti.’ He added, ‘My brother Lakshman has a soft spot for Urmila, most people do. But I’ve always thought Sita was the beauty of the lot.’ 

The old PF sighed and lowered his spear, gesturing to his companion to do the same. ‘Aye, that she is. Forgive me, my rajkumar. This is a strange day.’ 

Rama patted the old man on his shoulder by way of gratitude as well as to show he didn’t have any hard feelings. He passed through the cordon just as the regiment of PFs were given the order to march forward up Jagganath Marg. He reached the turn-off and looked up the side road, barely a third as wide as Harishchandra Avenue but still broad enough to let the regiment march sixteen abreast easily. Further up the road, he could see the black robes of the tantric cultists intermingled with the saffron and green of the PFs. Several black-clad bodies lay sprawled on the marg, PF spears sticking out of them. A few saffron-and-green-clad bodies also lay beside them, trishuls embedded in them. There was also a white-clad tonsured Brahmin body or two in there. Rama guessed the PFs had succeeded in moving the Brahmins away and out of the riot. It seemed to be much harder to persuade the tantrics: after all, their faith was predicated on doom and the surrendering of all life to meet the coming apocalypse. 

The regiment marching down the road was preparing to mount a fresh assault on the tantrics. 

The cultists looked sullen and white-eyed. Several of them were banging their trishuls, wickedly sharp three-pronged tridents, on tiny breast-shields engraved with the image of Kali, the dark devi who governed vengeance and the tantric cults. 

As Rama watched, the officer commanding the regiment gave the order to prepare to charge. A bloodbath was about to take place. 

Rama darted forward, sprinting around the PF line—there was room at either end of the marg—and into the no-man’sland between the two opposing groups. 

He raised his hands. ‘In the name of Maharaja Dasaratha, your king and ruler, I, Rajkumar Rama Chandra, command you all to lay down your arms at once.’ 

*** 

It took Captain Drishti Kumar several precious moments to get the gates reopened. That delay itself helped Lakshman understand Rama’s unexpected action. 

‘He saw something happening and didn’t want to get delayed waiting for the gates to open again,’ he told his brothers. ‘That’s why he slipped through before they closed.’ 

‘But what did he see happening?’ Bharat grumbled. ‘Irresponsible of him to just run off like that.’ 

Shatrugan clenched his empty fists in frustration. ‘I wish I had time to go get my mace. I feel naked without a weapon.’ 

‘No bearing weapons on feast days, Shatrugan. You know the law.’ 

‘Come on, Lakshman. That rakshas didn’t follow the law, did he? Whatever Rama saw happening, it wasn’t any lover’s fall-out, I can bet you that. He saw trouble. That’s why he ran like that. And the best way to face trouble is with sharp steel.’ 

Lakshman shook his head. ‘You’re the limit, Shatrugan. Not every problem can be solved with violence.’ 

‘Well, when you meet your first rakshas, you try kissing and cajoling, all right? Me, I’ll settle for a good Gandahari mace any day.’ 

‘I hear that, bhai,’ Bharat replied, agreeing strongly. 

The gates opened and they sprinted out, Captain Drishti Kumar leading the way. He had already given orders to his men outside, and twin lines of soldiers had formed a long clear corridor down the entire length of the avenue. They were all fast runners, and in moments they had reached the turn-off where Harishchandra Avenue met Jagganath Marg. The captain ordered the PFs to open the cordon and they passed through. Lakshman caught a glimpse of an old PF veteran with a scarred neck and a missing ear staring at him curiously, then he was at the turn-off and staring at a frightening sight. 

Rama was standing between two opposing groups of armed men. On the far side was a mob of black-clad tantrics who looked as if they had nothing less than civil riot on their minds, while on the near side, backs to the approaching princes, were a force of PFs arranged into an attack phalanx, ready to charge. 

‘Rama,’ he began. Then bit back the cry. He was afraid of setting off either group. Both looked hostile and ready to fight to the death. Lakshman couldn’t see the faces of the PFs, but the tantrics looked white-eyed and wild, as if they were all intoxicated on ganja. 

His brothers exclaimed beside him as they took in the situation. He knew what they were thinking; he was thinking the exact same thing:
What’s Rama got himself into now? And how’s he going to get out of it
? 

Then Rama began to sing. 

TWENTY-TWO 

As the last stragglers left the sabha hall, Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra hurried to his maharaja’s side. Dasaratha sat bowed on his throne, his face buried in his hands, elbows leaning on the armrests of his throne. 

‘Maharaj?’ Sumantra’s voice was soft and concerned. ‘Are you well?’ 

‘Aye.’ Dasaratha raised his head with an effort that tugged at Sumantra’s heart. ‘I have no choice. I must be well to see our people through this great crisis.’ He struggled to his feet, waving Sumantra away when he tried to offer his hand. ‘What did we do wrong, old friend? I governed wisely and justly, did I not? I built on the works of my ancestors, raising Ayodhya and Kosala to new heights of prosperity and peaceful harmony, did I not? Then why am I plagued by these disasters in the twilight of my reign?’ 

‘Maharaj, you are the greatest king of your line, the greatest to sit on the sunwood throne. Never before have the Arya peoples enjoyed this long a period of peace and security. Your works shall be remembered for millennia to come. Do not blame yourself for the evil wrought by asuras.’ 

Dasaratha walked slowly across the empty sabha hall, nodding his head. ‘Perhaps you are right, Sumantra. Yet I cannot stand to leave this legacy to my sons. What else do we fight for in our youth and prime if not the future? And this is not the future I envisioned.’ 

‘Maharaj,’ Sumantra said, walking beside his king. ‘The future may not be as bleak as you fear. Never before in the history of the Arya nations have we been so strong, so rich, so powerful. At the end of the last asura war, when you led that fateful foray against the Dark Lord of Lanka, all seemed lost. We were outnumbered and outmatched, exhausted and decrepit. Yet we won. And won triumphantly. Today, we are not only far stronger than then, we have the vidya gained from those martial encounters, our military strategists have had decades to study the strengths and weaknesses of the asura races. Our population is almost twice as large as it was then. And you see how auspiciously things have begun for us. Instead of drawing first blood as they hoped, the asuras have lost their chief spy and infiltrator—no ordinary rakshas but the dread Kala-Nemi himself, blood-kin of Ravana! Their spies in the royal court have been outed. Even now, they are being interrogated in the dungeons below the city jail. Soon, we shall root out every traitor and asura sympathiser in the kingdom. Word has been dispatched to the other Arya nations to do the same. After this cleansing, the war council will convene in days here in Ayodhya. Take hope and courage, my beloved raje. We shall not only prevail, we shall triumph. And yours shall be the foot that descends to crush each one of Ravana’s ten skulls.’