Prince of Dharma (77 page)

The serving girl had already gone far ahead, her absorption in her newfound role making her forget that the hunchbacked daiimaa she served was physically impaired and unable to walk as fast. Manthara wasn’t bothered. She was used to falling behind. She used the time to daydream of the sweet revenge she would wreak on the House of Suryavansha this day and the next. Already, she knew, the armies of Ravana had begun landing on the western shores of the subcontinent. As the Arya nations went about their foolish rituals and so-called civilised activities, the greatest host of asuras ever assembled was swarming across the land. That was one bit of news these sickeningly self-righteous Ayodhyans had no clue of; and by the time they learned it, it would be much too late to defend themselves. 

And in the event that they would still seek to defend and put up a futile resistance—for the Aryas were proud to the point of death—the Lord of Lanka had planned a careful strategy to sabotage their defences and disable their armies. The plan Manthara was now executing was a part of that larger plan of sabotage. And this time she would not fail in her given task. Too much was at stake for her. 

She shuffled down the corridor, her stunted torso and twisted gait turning the simple act of walking into an awkward, angry series of contortions. Her bent shadow was magnified a dozenfold by the early-morning sunlight streaming in through the corridor windows. Her crooked shadow loomed across an old portrait of Maharaja Dasaratha, painted back when he was a young warrior-prince, casting a pall across his handsome features. 

SEVEN 

Lakshman turned to Rama. ‘Brother, what happened? Where did you go at night? Why did you speak thus to the brahmarishi? He took grave offence at your tone and your argument.’ 

Rama’s face was expressionless, his tone quiet. ‘I meant no offence. He would have been angered no matter what I said or did.’ 

Lakshman shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand.’ 

Rama put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Come, let us finish our acamana first. Then we shall go to Guru-dev together. All will become clear to you then.’ 

Lakshman’s mind was filled with a dozen questions. But he knew better than to press the point. In any case, it was already growing late, the rising sun filling the grove with warm sunlight. Soon the appropriate time for performing their morning rituals would pass. He followed Rama without question or argument. 

There was no river near Siddh-ashrama. Instead, a large catchment pond on the eastern side served the needs of the ashramites. The elder rishis had finished their ablutions earlier but a steady flow of young acolytes came and went as Rama and Lakshman performed their morning prayers, offering thanks to their ancestor Surya for his life-giving sunshine, reciting the maha-mantra Gayatri, along with other rituals. 

When they were done, their faces and bodies cleansed, they took a little sacred food as nourishment—papaya from the same grove, served on large velvet-soft banana leaves. As soon as courtesy permitted, Rama and Lakshman rose from their places, thanking the Brahmins politely, and headed for the brahmarishi’s hut. Everywhere, white-clad brahmacharyas, saffron-clad rishis and red-ochre-clad maharishis were busy preparing for the northward journey, yoking bullocks to carts, tying their meagre belongings into small bundles. There was very little chaos or noise. Everyone greeted Rama and Lakshman warmly and with great respect. The role of the two princes in the successful completion of the yagna had earned them the undying love and gratitude of the entire hermitage. 

As they neared the brahmarishi’s hut, Lakshman heard a loud voice calling Rama’s name. He turned and saw Vajra Captain Bejoo coming towards them, his stocky, muscular, leather-clad form a stark contrast to the billowing dhotis and ang-vastras of the Brahmins. Rama waited with evident impatience as the Kshatriya commander approached. 

‘Rajkumars,’ Bejoo said, saluting them. ‘I have something very disturbing to tell you. We must speak privately at once.’ 

‘Privately?’ Rama asked. He gestured at the ashram. ‘We have no secrets here, Bejoo-chacha.’ 

Bejoo rubbed his bristling chin uncertainly. ‘Even so, it would give me some satisfaction if we could discuss my … ah, news … in not so public a place.’ 

‘I think I know what your news is,’ Rama said quietly. 

Bejoo stared at him. ‘Mayhap so, Rajkumar Rama. But it is not the news alone, but also the manner in which it was conveyed to me that is most disturbing. You recall my lieutenant Bheriya, whom I dispatched—’ 

‘Bejoo,’ said Rama. ‘It doesn’t matter how you learned about it, what matters is that you were informed of the invasion too. You wish to tell us that the Lord of Lanka has landed his armies on the shores of the subcontinent and they are already swarming across the land, headed for the Arya nations, is that not so?’ 

Bejoo’s ruddy complexion paled by at least two shades, a difficult task since the Vajra Kshatriya’s florid face was sunburned from constant exposure almost to the point of charcoal duskiness. He swore on his patron deity Shani and spat to one side, an act that drew disapproving frowns from passing brahmacharyas. After Brahmanical study and Vedic learning, the only other preoccupation of the ashramites was the cleanliness of their sanctified environs. 

‘My prince, I don’t know how you are aware of this news, or when you came by it—’ 

‘Only a little while ago, Captain,’ Rama said quickly. 

‘Well, then if you know about the invasion, you also know the urgency of the situation. If our sources of information are correct, then the invaders will be at the gates of Ayodhya within two days. Why, by tomorrow past-noon itself they might enter the outer limits of the Kosala nation and wreak their havoc on our fellow citizens! We must act at once! We must inform Ayodhya.’ 

‘Captain,’ Rama said calmly. ‘I know the urgency of the situation. That is why I am about to ask Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s permission to return to Ayodhya at once. If you will wait but a few more moments, Lakshman and I shall gain our guru’s ashirwaad and join you on the road home.’ 

Bejoo grimaced. ‘With all due respect to the brahmarishi, rajkumar, your first duty is as a son of Kosala and a prince of Ayodhya. I have some measure of Brahmins and their love for pontification. Why wait precious moments debating the spiritual facets of the crisis? Let us go now. I have already given word to my Vajra that we shall ride at once. Shani willing, we can be at Ayodhya before sunfall. Any delay could cost precious lives.’ 

Rama’s voice was firm. 

‘My first duty is to fulfil my dharma, Captain. And dharma decrees that our oath to the brahmarishi supercede all other concerns. We cannot leave without our guru’s blessings. Have patience for a few more moments.’ 

Without waiting for Bejoo’s response, Rama nodded to the Vajra captain and walked the last few dozen yards to the brahmarishi’s hut. Lakshman, who had held his silence until now, followed him and caught hold of his arm. ‘An asura invasion? When did this happen, brother? Why didn’t you tell me?’ 

An odd look came over Rama’s face. It was the same expression Lakshman had seen on the evening after the Bhayanak-van battle, when he had tried to learn what had happened after he had been knocked unconscious. The question that had provoked the response then had been Lakshman’s puzzled demand as to how he could have been knocked senseless during the battle without sustaining a single visible injury. Rama’s face had looked exactly like this then. 

‘You were about to find out in another moment, Lakshman. This is the same matter that we were on our way to discuss with the brahmarishi. The fact that Bejoo learned about it somehow as well doesn’t change anything.’ 

Lakshman searched Rama’s face closely, trying to hold back his own surge of anger. ‘Is that what you learned during your trip to the jungle last night? You heard somehow of this invasion?’ 

Rama’s face closed over, growing expressionless once more. ‘Among other things.’ 

He put his hands on Lakshman’s shoulders and squeezed hard. ‘Let us go to the seer now. Bejoo was right about one thing, time is precious.’ 

Lakshman nodded. ‘Let’s go.’ 

Bejoo watched the princes walk away. He had to exert a great deal of effort to stop himself yelling out, roaring with fury. Kshatriyas were not renowned for their self-control; some sub-castes firmly believed that too much self-restraint bred weakness. The only thing that held him back was the knowledge that causing a commotion would only delay things further, by drawing the attention of the brahmarishi, who disapproved of vulgar Kshatriya outbursts. Bejoo’s men and Bejoo himself had not taken a drop of soma or sniffed a whiff of ganja in the eight long days they had been stationed with the rajkumars and their new guru. In this place of Brahmins, Kshatriyas were the subordinate caste, disobeying the ashram’s austere rules at the price of their own moksh. 

As far as Bejoo was concerned, even moksh could go take a long walk off a tall cliff. What good was salvation when demon hordes were invading your motherland? He wanted nothing more than to climb on to his horse and ride back to Kosala this very minute, stopping only when he reached the capital city, Ayodhya. If he had harboured any doubts after the encounter with Bheriya’s aatma in the Shani temple, they were dispelled now. His supernatural encounter could conceivably have been some kind of asura trickery—although he didn’t think so—but if Rama had learned the same news, then it was indisputable. The invasion that the Arya nations had feared had begun. 

The fact that twenty-two years had elapsed since the last asura intrusion made it that much harder to face. It was a little more than one generation since Aryas had begun to sleep soundly of nights, believing that the asura menace had been contained finally in that terrible last campaign. Even the PFs, the regiments who were the last survivors of those terrible assaults, believed that the asuras were still mulling over their ignominious losses in their island-fortress of Lanka, as their Dark Lord fumed and seethed with impotent rage. But now, it seemed, exactly the opposite was true: the asuras had been rebuilding their armies, and building ships all this while. And now, those ships and those armies were on Arya land. There was no time to waste touching the feet of Brahmins; it was time to raise one’s head, wield a sword and shout an impassioned invocation to the gods of war. 

Bejoo’s mission was to accompany the rajkumars and bring them home safely. Prime Minister Sumantra himself had issued that order, acting on the wishes of Maharaja Dasaratha. If not for that given directive, Bejoo would already be on his way back to Ayodhya, riding like Marut, the wind-deva. Instead, he had to stand around here and wait ‘a few more moments’. 

And as he knew from long experience with Brahmins, a few more moments never turned out to mean just that. 

Still, he smothered his impotent impatience and waited sullenly for his wards to complete their business. As he waited, he clenched and unclenched his ham-sized fists angrily, a short, dark man with a barrel chest, and a face that lived up to the name of his totem, the black bear. Brahmacharyas scurried around him, careful to avoid touching his leather garb and polluting themselves spiritually. 

Brahmarishi Vishwamitra stood on the small patch of grass-strewn ground before his hut, dispensing a few last sandeshes to the senior-most maharishis and rishis of the hermitage concerning the trip to Mithila. 

As Rama and Lakshman waited silently for the seer to finish, Vishwamitra repeated their planned schedule for the benefit of his rishis—the intention was to reach the River Shona by nightfall and camp there for the night, in the morning to proceed to the sacred mother-river Ganga, perform the customary rituals there, then continue to Mithila. It was possible they would reach Mithila by next nightfall, tomorrow evening. If not, then the following day. As always, the brahmarishi would go on foot along with his new acolytes, leading the procession. 

Lakshman felt a brief twinge of guilt as he heard their names mentioned, knowing now that Rama and he wished to go their separate way to Ayodhya. But he could hardly interrupt and correct the brahmarishi. 

The sage discussed a few more minor matters with his rishis, then the entire congregation chanted in unison, ‘Sadhu, sadhu,’ with palms joined and held high above their heads, retreating backwards to avoid showing their backs to their guru. A few of the more senior rishis remained, waiting until their spiritual leader was ready to begin the long journey. 

Vishwamitra saw the rajkumars and smiled, beckoning them forward. They performed the ritual obeisance as he blessed them warmly. Lakshman noted that the seer’s spate of barely concealed hostility seemed to have dissipated. Then again, perhaps he had misread the sage’s earlier state of mind. 

‘Long life, Rajkumar Rama, Rajkumar Lakshman. May your every deed be siddh from this day on, for you have served Siddhashrama nobly, risking your very lives and limbs these past eight days. Truly, you have brought great honour to your family and your dynasty.’ 

The rishis chanted again, ‘Sadhu, sadhu.’ 

‘Guru-dev,’ Rama said after he had regained his feet. ‘I pray that you are content with our service.’ 

‘You know it well, young Rama. I am more than content, I am proud of the choice I made. I could have approached any maharaja of the seven nations, asking him for his champion to rid the Bhayanak-van of the menace of Tataka and safeguard my yagna. Yet I knew that you alone, Rama Chandra, were destined for that noble task. As were you, Lakshmana, destined to accompany your brother on his great mission. I am vindicated in my choice.’