Prince of Dharma (36 page)

Come to think of it, why
couldn’t
they be spies? With a shock he realised that all his assumptions might have to be altered to suit the new reality they were facing. 

‘Alas, brave protectors, my journey must be completed this day itself, or my karya will be bhung. What lies ahead that makes the way so perilous? We are at peace yet with all our neighbours, are we not?’ 

The rakshak snorted. ‘Not for long, if Maharaja Dasaratha stays as docile as he has been for so long.’ 

His companion shot him a warning glance. Rama thought the second rakshak was an older man, although it was hard to tell without hair. He spoke less curtly than his partner, with some modicum of respect, and seemed apologetic about his young companion.
Father and son
, Rama realised with yet another flash of insight. ‘My fellow rakshak means no disrespect to our great maharaja, punditji. This has been an odd day, with many wild rumours abroad. Talk of strange happenings across the kingdom. We who watch and protect Mithila Bridge meet travellers from all parts of the land, and hear much that Ayodhya itself may not hear at all, or only days later.’ 

‘And what do your ears hear today, good man?’ Vishwamitra’s tone was cheerful but puzzled, as befitted a Brahmin ritualist seeking to return to his ashram with his apprentices in tow. ‘What scares you so that you seek to bar the raj-marg to righteous pilgrims?’ 

The first rakshak bristled. ‘Scares? You’d do well not to use that word when speaking of rakshaks, holy man! Nothing scares a rakshak.’ 

His companion put a hand on his arm, quieting him. ‘As I said, there are strange rumours abroad. It is difficult to know how much is truth and how much idle speculation or malicious gossip. We who guard the ways hear much but know little for certain.’ 

He continued before the first rakshak could speak again. ‘We had news of a team of rakshasas breaking into the royal palace and ravishing two queens and killing several dozen palace guards before being cut down by a volley of thunderbolts flung by the mighty seer-mage Vishwamitra, resurrected by the mantras of Guru Vashishta.’ 

‘Two queens ravished?’ Lakshman blurted in startled surprise. Rama poked him in the ribs, admonishing him into silence, but he was not amused at the inaccuracy of the so-called ‘news’. 

‘Untitled queens,’ the rakshak replied. ‘And another rumour spoke of an army of asuras amassing in the Southwoods at the behest of the Lord of Lanka. At the height of the feasting and celebration, when the army and PFs are all heady with wine and the gate-watch is least manned, accomplices of the asuras within the walls will open the gates and let them into the city, to pillage and run amok.’ He added belatedly: ‘Or so the rumours say.’ 

Ridiculous
! Rama almost broke his silence too, startled at the malicious incorrectness of the rumours.
Do you think Ayodhya’s entire army and guard will be reeling around drunkenly just because it’s Holi? Fool
! He was on the verge of countering indignantly that his father had ordered the gate-watch tripled, and the army kept on full alert. The orders had been issued by Dasaratha to Sumantra, who in turn had informed the senapatis of each akshohini in a private briefing. The army would patrol the city in plainclothes with weapons concealed so as not to alarm the citizenry. No soldier on duty would take a drop of soma today, and six-hour duty shifts had been allotted, ensuring that three-quarters of the full force would be on duty at all times, day or night. 

But an ordinary Brahmin acolyte could hardly speak of such things, so he held his tongue, seething. 

Vishwamitra seemed unruffled. ‘Even if this gossipy chatter contains a smidgen of truth, my good man—and mind you, I do not grant it even that much licence—what does it have to do with us? Why bar the road to Ananga-ashrama? Surely the asuras do not seek to waylay simple men of God such as us?’ 

He leavened the questions with a good-natured chuckle that matched his portly appearance. ‘What would they hope to gain after all? Vishnu’s blessings?’ 

The first rakshak, the one Rama thought of as the son, looked down darkly at the seer. ‘How do we know that you aren’t asuras yourselves? There’s been word—’ 

He broke off, glanced around, and swallowed before continuing gruffly: ‘There’s been word of asuras who alter their bhes-bhav and appear as common travellers, or even as nobility and royalty to deceive us protectors. They say three rakshak wardens have been murdered in the woods by such deceivers.’ 

He hawked and spat angrily, missing Rama’s foot by inches. ‘I’d give my right arm to get one chance, just one, to put my lance through one of them khottey-sikkey! I’ll show them how we deal with asuras here in Kosala!’ 

He’s scared,
Rama realised.
That’s why he’s so belligerent and rude. He doesn’t know whom to trust
. 

Vishwamitra replied calmly: ‘And you may get your chance sooner than you think, young man. But now let us pass and go about our holy business. The great Lord Shiva will not be pleased if 

we do not reach Ananga-ashrama in time to complete our ishta.’ 

The older rakshak looked down at his halter for a moment. ‘I wish I could be of help, old one. But our order has decided that until we receive orders directly from a king’s envoy, we are not to permit anyone to pass over Mithila Bridge.’ 

He backed his horse away a few paces, preparing to turn around and ride back to his post. ‘Carry out your ishta on another auspicious day. Now, return to Ayodhya before sunset. There will be a curfew outside the city and throughout the kingdom, and all travellers without authorisation scrolls will be dealt with on the spot. These are our orders.’ 

He turned his horse around, and the younger rakshak did the same. 

‘Halt, rakshak!’ 

Vishwamitra’s voice rang out sharp and clear, his nasal twang and chuckling tone gone. ‘Look at me.’ 

The two rakshaks turned their horses back again, peering suspiciously at the seer. The younger man already had his lance in hand, and the older was reaching for his sword. 

Rama glanced at the brahmarishi and saw a faint haze surrounding him, like a cloak that fluttered inches from his skin, sheathing him loosely all over. It shimmered in the bright sunlight, flecked with gold and blue tones. Brahman power. Vishwamitra’s appearance had reverted to its original form. 

‘I knew there was something not right with this lot,’ the younger rakshak began, spurring his horse to ride the travellers down. 

A bulb of brightness popped out of the brahmarishi’s aura and travelled to the rakshak, stopping him and his horse dead in their tracks. An identical bulb struck his older partner. The bulbs hit the faces of the two rakshaks with a wet plopping sound, and enveloped their heads, like translucent balloons filled with a treacly fluid. The substance of the bulbs began to seep into their eyes, ears, nostrils and mouths. The rakshaks’ eyes widened in alarm, their nostrils flaring with panic; then, abruptly, twin expressions of perfect calm descended on them. They smiled, and their smiles were so goofy and unlike themselves that Rama almost laughed out loud in amazement.
They look happily high on ganja
! 

‘What’s with them?’ Lakshman whispered, nudging him. 

‘Those things the brahmarishi shot at them, they’ve acted as some kind of tranquilliser.’ 

Lakshman stared at him perplexed. ‘What things?’ 

Rama glanced at his brother curiously. ‘The things on their heads. Don’t you see them?’ 

Lakshman looked. ‘All I see are those goofy grins on their faces.’ 

Why am I able to see them when he can’t
? The answer that sprang unbidden to Rama’s mind was as vexing as the question itself:
For the same reason that you had the dream of Ayodhya’s rape and he didn’t. Your karma and his are intertwined, yet separate. Do not forget: you are blood-brothers, so close you feel like two halves of the same person, yet even two halves must differ in some ways. This is one such way. Accept it, move on.
 

With an effort he cleared his mind of these distracting thoughts. 

Vishwamitra raised his staff and strode forward. For a moment, he continued speaking in the voice of the portly Brahmin. 

‘Thank you for your concern and for sharing your news, good rakshaks. Lord Shiva strengthen your arm and protect you from harm.’ 

In mid-sentence his voice changed back to its normal bass, but of course the rakshaks were long past noticing such incongruities. 

Rama and Lakshman followed Vishwamitra as he walked to the bridge. An entire platoon of rakshaks were spread out across the northern end, backed by elephants that swung their trunks to and fro restlessly. A single barked command from their ebony-skinned captain, and the elephants would line up to make any passage impossible, the rakshaks joining shields to attack. 

Rama had never seen rakshaks fight but he had watched them train. They were clan-sworn to protect and guard the way-stations, bridges and forest ranges of the Arya nations:
gatekeepers of the Arya world
was how they described themselves. Infant rakshaks were given weapons to hold even before they were weaned. These men on Mithila Bridge would die without surrendering or retreating. And if their orders were to let nobody pass, then nobody would pass. 

But they weren’t equipped to deal with the Brahman powers of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. 

‘Rakshaks!’ the seer called out, raising his longstaff. His aura flowed thick and fast around his body, alive with swirling motes of gold, blue and bright jade green. A dozen, then another dozen bulbs of luminescence broke free from the translucent flow and shot towards the rakshaks and their pachyderm reinforcements. 

It was all over in moments. 

THREE 

They emerged on the south side of Mithila Bridge, a light sheen of river mist spray on their bodies the only thing they had to show for the crossing.
Toll-free crossing,
Rama amended, still smiling to himself at the goofy expressions on the faces of the rakshaks. Even the elephants had gone cross-eyed and rolled their trunks around in spirals before slumping to their knees. One had defecated copiously as he passed, following the release with a deep sigh of contentment. He had patted the wrinkled grey flank of the mare for good luck, wrinkling his nose at the stench.
Perfume of the road
, his father always called it. He was glad the encounter with the rakshaks had gone so easily. A fight would have resulted in spilt blood. A lot of it. It was one thing to defend oneself against violent poachers or marauding asuras, but the idea of taking Arya lives sat uneasily on his conscience. 

Lakshman expelled a sharp breath as they emerged from the cool shadow of the bridge’s overhang and stepped on to the dusty surface of the raj-marg once more. ‘Amazing! Bhai, if we knew that trick, we could get into any place we wanted!’ He dug an elbow into Rama’s ribs. ‘Even the princesses’ quarters at Uncle Maharaja Janak’s palace!’ 

Rama grinned at the thought of Lakshman loose in their uncle’s palace at Mithila. ‘You need to get married soon, brother. Before you become a father!’ 

Lakshman winked slyly. ‘And you need to get married before you become a monk!’ 

Rama shrugged good-naturedly. His self-control regarding matters sexual was notorious. ‘I’ll marry when the right girl comes along.’ 

‘You mean you’ll marry Sita when she comes of age! Don’t deny it, bhai. You’ve always had a soft spot for Maharaja Janak’s eldest.’ 

Rama felt a tiny pinprick of irritation. He didn’t like Lakshman speaking of Sita that way.
Although I haven’t seen her in years, so why should I care
? ‘You’re probably thinking of her younger sisters. Urmila, was it? The one with whom you were caught swimming nanga in the fountain?’ 

It was Lakshman’s turn to be embarrassed. He punched his brother in the shoulder hard enough to hurt. ‘She talked me into it. Besides, we were just babes. Barely weaned.’ 

Rama replied with deceptive innocence: ‘So when we meet her next, you’ll be sure to tell her that you’ve been fully weaned now, right?’ 

He dodged his brother’s fist this time. 

Lakshman raised his hands in surrender. ‘All right, you got me. I always did like Urmi. Why deny it? In fact, I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard Susama-daiimaa and my mother talk about making a match with Janak-chacha’s four daughters and the four of us. Always when Shatrugan or I were within hearing distance.’ 

It was a logical match. Ayodhya and Mithila were sister cities, identical in architectural planning and most other ways. Both the clans were descendants of Ikshvaku, with the Ayodhyan Ikshvakus tracing their descent through Surya and the Mithilans through Chandra: lunar to Ayodhya’s solar. A marital alliance between the sunwood and silvermoon thrones would cement the already healthy relationship between the two powerful kingdoms and almost double the size of Ayodhya’s fighting forces. An alliance that strong could make the difference between success and failure when faced with an imminent asura invasion.