Prince of Dharma (31 page)

The parade wound its way down Harshavardhana Avenue, tracing the heartline of the city in its slow, stately progress. The sounds of conches, elephants, dhol-drums, trumpets, flutes, Brahmins chanting, people shouting, children crying with joy, all mingled in one enormous cloud of jubilation. The citizens crowding the streets were painted with rang and drenched with water. The soldiers riding the elephants and chariots, astride the war horses, marching in full battle armour, all strode proudly under the admiring gaze of their families, their friends, their people. This was Ayodhya’s day for displaying her colours, in every sense of the word. From the sigils of the different noble houses to the banners of vaisya merchants and sudra traders, every varna, tribe and clan in the great Arya nation of Kosala participated in this grand spectacle. 

As the parade reached its destination, the people migrated down-city to the rolling northern bank of the Sarayu. Here the royal procession parked and dismounted, flanked on three sides by the representatives of the army, administration and nobility. On the fourth, the south side, was the citizenry, seating itself cross-legged on the bank of the river. This enormous stretch of land was in fact well within city limits, between the third and fourth gates. Ayodhya was designed to include a microcosm of the entire landscape that surrounded her. Manu, the ancient king who had built the city, had planned well and with foresight. Ayodhya was not a city that walled out the world; the world was here, within its walls, as much a part of her structure as the river that wound its way literally beneath her greatest buildings. 

It took the better part of an hour for the parade to wind down and the people to settle down. 

Finally, when the riverbank was carpeted for the better part of a mile with gaily stained white-clad kurtas and saris sitting in long neat rows, Rishi Vamadeva stood on a large hummock that served as a natural dais and led the people in the traditional chant. 

‘Yatha raja tatha praja.’
As is the king, so are his people
. 

‘Yatha raja tatha praja,’ chanted the people. 

Birds took flight in the thicket downstream, swooping across the river, veering away from the Southwoods—a few stragglers boldly going to the very edge of the dark, malignant forest— and returning in a wide arc to their original roosts. 

The chanting was followed by the customary bhashans, speeches by various mantris and political representatives of the four castes and the several dozen varnas and gotras, efficient divisions of labour equivalent to the guilds of Western nations. Except for a few dozen house banners mounted on tall poles to mark out the leading noble families, the crowd was a mélange of varna, race, sex and community. The banners flapping in the warm westerly wind made a sound like faint applause. Brahmins sat beside sudras, vaisyas with Kshatriyas, all intermingling freely. 

Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra stood and made a speech that was hugely popular on account of its being blessedly short, and then invited the maharaja to speak. 

Maharaja Dasaratha’s weathered voice carried easily across the heads of lakhs of his citizens, all of whom had been waiting eagerly to hear their king speak. Even those well past drunk on bhaang or charas managed to settle down sufficiently to listen. Perhaps Guru Vashishta had magically enhanced their ability to hear him over the sounds of the river and the chirring of hummingbirds in the thicket downstream. Whatever the reason, the maharaja’s voice was clearly audible even to the farthest citizen sitting several hundred yards downstream. 

Dispensing with the ritual benedictions quickly—one of the advantages of being a Kshatriya-king was that you could leave it to the Brahmins to take care of the religious and ritualistic formalities—he came to the point. 

‘Today we have among us a legendary and illustrious guest. Guru Vashishta has already extolled the story of his ascension from a bold warrior king to the exalted Brahmanic stature he holds today. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra needs no further introduction. But what most of you may not yet know is that he brings us disturbing tidings.’ 

THIRTY 

Dasaratha held up a hand to still the murmurs of anxiety that greeted his introductory remarks. 

‘There is no reason to be alarmed. Even as you enjoy your Holi feast, the war council of the Arya nations is preparing to convene, and I promise you we will find ways to deal with and crush this possible threat without delay. Rest assured that your liege will seek the quickest and least violent solution to the problem. You will be kept informed of further developments as they happen.’ 

He paused, feeling sweat pop out on his upper lip as the sun rose higher in the spring sky. 

‘But there is another matter that is more pressing right now. The brahmarishi has come to me with the traditional demand for guru-dakshina. As you know, it is the sworn duty of any Kshatriya to immediately and unhesitantly grant the gurudakshina without question. The Aryaputra Suryavansha Ikshvaku Kshatriya line has filled the chronicles of Bharat-varsha with such legendary tales of generosity and munificence. And yet, the brahmarishi’s demand is so unusual that it behoves me to share it with you, my people. For his request is nothing more nor less than that I grant him the life of my son Rama!’ 

The silence that followed these words was so complete that it seemed for a moment that even the birds had stopped chirring, the river stopped gurgling, the grass stopped rustling in the breeze. 

‘I shall explain. The brahmarishi is performing a yagna at his ashram in the Southwoods. It is part of our greater attempt to protect ourself from the asura menace. It is imperative that his yagna is performed successfully and according to Vedic rites. But his ashram is threatened by rakshasas.’ 

An uneasy murmur rose from the crowd. 

‘Were these ordinary pooja-violators, common outlaws or outcasts, I would not think twice. My son Rama is the pride of our race, a champion in every sport he lays a hand to, a master of weaponry and Vedic knowledge, a superb specimen of Arya manhood. But the rakshasas the brahmarishi is plagued by are no ordinary asuras. They are front-soldiers dispatched by the wretched Lord of Lanka himself, sent to the Southwoods for the express purpose of rooting out the Brahmins and rishis. The asuras have controlled those dark, evil forests for generations and now they fear that our rishis and maharishis will purify those unexplored regions and make them hospitable for civilised Aryas. 

‘Three of these rakshasas, dispatched by the rakshas king Ravana himself, and backed by untold numbers of accomplices, are breeding in the Bhayanak-van. They make impossible the completion of the brahmarishi’s yagna, or any attempt to purify the woods. They are said to be desperate, vile beasts, capable of doing anything to ensure that the brahmarishi’s yagna is not completed successfully. Against these deadly creatures, the brahmarishi wishes me to send my son Prince Rama, to stave them off while he and his purohits perform the sacred yagna before the sacred full moon of Holi Purnima waxes to awamas. This is the guru-dakshina he desires.’ 

Maharaja Dasaratha paused to take the measure of his listeners. The crowd was enraptured by his announcement. Even the royal family on the podium exchanged wary glances, although their anxiety was related more to what came next than the announcement itself. 

‘It is at the wise suggestion of our esteemed Guru Vashishta that I place this matter before you, beloved Ayodhya. For before I even knew of the brahmarishi’s arrival or any of the other happenings in the Southwoods, I had arrived at the decision to declare before you all this morning my intention to crown my eldest heir, Prince Rama Chandra, the liege-heir of our kingdom.’ 

This statement was greeted by an uproar. People leaped to their feet, yelling, shouting and cheering. The pandemonium that broke out resembled the response to the outcome of a decisive battle in a hundred-year war. The air, so silent an instant earlier, was filled with the sound of a million throats crying out with joy. The birds in the thicket screeched, echoing the thrilled cries of the women and girls in the audience—in the devdasi group, Sreelata and Nandini were hopping up and down like mad rabbits—and a shower of butterflies descended from the sky to flit around the royal entourage like a fistful of rang flung by the devas from above. First Queen Kausalya’s face creased in a smile of relief and pleasure. It was one thing to know that Rama was popular; quite another to witness this enormous display of support and joy, and these auspicious omens. Third Queen Sumitra leaned across and took Kausalya’s hand, squeezing it warmly for a moment. Similar expressions of pleasure or approval were reflected on the faces of every member of the royal household present there, as well as those of the noble houses, whose young girls of marriageable age looked in the direction of the four princes like peacocks preening lustfully under a monsoon cloud. Even Mantri Jabali’s normally pinched, sallow face softened for a moment in a quick, impatient smile of approval, before lapsing into deep contemplation of some new Platonic moral conundrum. 

The only face that didn’t resemble all others was that of Second Queen Kaikeyi. She seemed frozen in a posture of shock and rage so intense that a crow might have been tempted to peck at her face in hopes of getting a chip or two of bitterwood for his nest. Behind her, the hunchbacked Manthara, seated within her lady’s palanquin, contorted her face in rage and frustration, her hands clenching into curled fists as twisted as the gnarled roots of the banyan tree that spread its ancient limbs over the royal entourage. The other wet nurses, Susama-daiimaa and Ahilya-daiimaa, were the only ones who heard the muffled grunts of anger that drifted out from the doli, and shifted away nervously. They knew and feared Manthara-daiimaa’s foul moods well enough to know when to keep their distance. It was obvious that the news of Rama’s ascension hadn’t been well received by the second queen or her aide. 

Bharat, Lakshman and Shatrugan were all happily hugging their brother and slapping him on the back. It would have been obvious to even a casual observer—the Greek envoy perhaps, seated among the foreign delegates—that the young princes were not divided in their response as their mothers were. They looked like a team of archers who had just won first prize in the annual tourney thanks largely to the efforts of their best player. Even the small jabs and punches they showered on Rama were more affectionate than envious. 

Maharaja Dasaratha held up a hand to ask for silence. It took a moment to be given, but finally the crowd managed to curb its exhilaration and heed his next words. 

‘Rama is to be crowned prince-heir on the tenth day of the new moon of Chaitra, the sixteenth anniversary of his birth. I promise you, friends, that before you have entirely cast off the hangover of today’s Holi feast and celebration, you will be fasting to prepare for a jubilee unparalleled in the history of our kingdom. Mark the day well in your horoscopes; it is the day a new star will rise in the Suryavansha universe.’ 

A Kshatriya girl, barely nine years of age and already marked with the scars and signs of a Mithila bowman, stood to ask the king if there would be pedas on that day. 

The roar of laughter that greeted this question was deafening. Pedas were the simplest, most common sweetmeat, available daily in the mithaigalli of any part of the city for a few paisa a kilo. Asking the king about pedas at his son’s coronation feast was akin to asking a wedding host if drinking water would be available at the banquet. 

Dasaratha received the naïve question with good humour, smiling indulgently and taking a moment to respond politely to the solemn-faced young apprentice. 

‘Yes, indeed, young bowmaster,’ he replied indulgently. ‘There will be as many pedas as you can eat for a month! And much, much else besides!’ 

He allowed the brief humorous respite to roll its course, then continued in a more formal tone. 

‘But you will recall that I began by telling you about my samasya. On the one hand, I am a father and a king, eager to see my eldest son appointed to the throne in my stead. After all, I will not live for ever, despite the heartfelt wishes of you, my friends. On the other hand, I am bound by the honour of the Ikshvaku clan and the Suryavansha dynasty, by the tradition and heritage of the Arya forefathers who seeded this mighty nation before venturing northwards to foreign lands where they settled the Germanic wildwoods. I am compelled by the repositories of our knowledge—the shastras and Vedas that guide us in all we do—and finally, by the code of the Kshatriya that asserts the duty of every warrior, king or common foot-soldier to grant his guru’s wish for guru-dakshina without question or hesitation. Above all, I am governed by dharma.’ 

At the last word, even the few sporadic whispered discussions faded away to utter silence. Once again, Ayodhya listened raptly. 

‘Dharma demands that I fulfil the seer-mage’s wish and send my son Rama Chandra, now officially your crown-prince-inwaiting, into the Southwoods to face and combat God knows what danger. A father’s heart cries out that I send my mighty army in his place, that I select my bravest warriors, that I go myself if need be, but at all costs keep my precious heir from this dire mission. But dharma,’ a heavy sigh, echoing the weight of age, long illness, and the burden of kingship that rested on his tired shoulders, ‘dharma is unrelenting and uncompromising. Dharma demands that I comply with the brahmarishi’s demand without question or doubt, hesitation or negotiation.’