RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (45 page)

EIGHT

For perhaps the first time in his long and wearying life, Bejoo felt no pleasure at seeing the familiar towers and skyline of Ayodhya appear on the horizon. As the grama topped the hilly rise that led up from Mithila Bridge before trundling down the raj-marg into the Sarayu Valley, he felt none of the relief and satisfaction that his fellow PFs felt in that moment. Their gruff voices, several shot through with more than a little anger at their painful wounds and abject humiliation, rang out in the still dawn air around him, lending the grama’s last leg of travel a festive atmosphere. He did not share in it. All he felt right now was trepidation and gloom. 

His mood had not altered by the time the grama rolled sonorously through the first gate and wound its way up Raghuvamsha Avenue to its destination, the royal quadrant. The high stone walls of the eighth gate only worsened his mood. Once, this had been a bustling intersection where citizens, merchants, and anyone and everyone had freely roved. A public space like all the rest of Ayodhya had been. It was hard to believe that was only a decade ago. Now, the forebodingly high stone wall that marked the end of the public sections of Ayodhya and the start of the highly restricted royal quadrant, was a symbol of the new Ayodhya, a city divided into two parts: One, the public prosperous trading and residential public city where almost a lakh of citizens of all castes, creeds and persuasions still lived in cosmopolitan harmony as they profitted, worked with and traded with one another. Two, the royal quadrant, where only a hundred or so royally favoured clans resided in luxuriant elegance, their lives, estates and activities separated from the hustle and bustle of the outer city – the Lower City as it had come to be called derisively of late – while they remained in the sheltered shadow of the Fortress. 

For that was what the palatial complex had become now. A veritable fortress. 

Bejoo looked up despondently as the grama entered through the trade gate of the royal quadrant – the front gate was only for royalty or the court-favoured clans – and felt even more depressed at the sight of the massively reinforced structures that had been erected a decade ago and added to considerably in the intervening years, altering the once-beautiful open architecture of the royal palace complex into an ugly forbidding military enclosure. He sighed. As a soldier, he ought to have appreciated the superior protection these architectural changes provided to the royal Suryavansha Ikshwaku dynasty which he was sworn to protect with his life. But as an Ayodhyan and Arya citizen, he felt more pity and sadness at what had been lost in order to gain this superior level of protection. Was it worth it in the end? He had never thought so, and today, feeling as despondent and morose as he did, he felt that the loss of the former beauty and sense of freedom and interconnectedness that the old layout had provided was too high a price to have paid for better defense. Much too high a price. 

He put thoughts of architecture and security out of his head as he pulled up the team before the cantonment stables. Men rushed forward to take the weary horses and tend to them, moving with military efficiency. It was the work of moments for the vital contents of the wagons to be unloaded and carried to a suitably safe location indoors where they would be barred and sealed and guarded closely. And inventoried. 

He sighed, stretching his travel-weary limbs and started towards the lockhouse with reluctant steps.

Pradhan Mantri Jabali was already waiting by the entrance of the lockhouse, alongwith his munshis. Bejoo didn’t like the minister. He hadn’t liked him when he had been just a minister, he had liked him even less when he became War Minister and his notorious War Council was imbedded as a permanent fixture instead of the ad hoc committeed it used to be; now, he actively disliked him as Pradhan Mantri. The chief of the ministers of the sabha, the assembly that administered the kingdom and its capital city under the guidance and oversight of the king, ought not to be a bigotted bad-tempered self-righteous and overly pious war-mongering old man. Especially when he followed in the footsteps of Sumantra, perhaps the finest prime minister the Kosala nation had ever had. Bejoo had never been high enough in the military chain of command to have been privy to the inner workings of Dasaratha’s government, but he hadn’t needed to be. The results were there for all to see, from the highest senapati to the lowest sipahi. Those in Dasaratha’s army had been proud of the fact that the Last Asura Wars had been 22 years ago and that peace had reigned supreme since then; a peace they took pride in being responsible for instituiting and maintaining.  Those in Rama’s army – or, more accurately these days, Mantri Jabali’s army – took pride in the fact of Ayodhya’s military supremacy and how effectively intimidated even their closest allies were by that supremacy. Governance by cooperation versus governance by sword, Bejoo thought with more than a little bitterness. Like all old kshatriyas, he believed that the true purpose of the warrior class was not to wage war and inflict violence, but to help preserve a state where neither was necessary. He did not speak such thoughts aloud. These days, under this regime, such thinking was considered—

“Treason!” Jabali said sharply, pointing his forefinger – accusingly, it seemed to Bejoo – with the tip of the finger crooked, a result of the aging minister’s advanced arthritis. Bejoo archly noted the curious resemblance between the angle of the crooked finger and the mantri’s hooked nose. “Open treason that must be punished at once!”

Bejoo sighed inwardly. He had expected this very reception. Although he had hoped for a few moments of respite before the haranguing began in earnest. And perhaps, Shaneshwara willing, a brief audience with Rama himself, so that I may try to put things in perspective before this old vulture twists it all out of recognition and embarks on another of his notorious demon-hunts. He tried to put aside his weariness and despondency and face the pradhan mantri squarely. “Pradhan Mantri, allow me to explain what happened,” he began. “The grama—”

“—was waylaid by a band of brigands!” the Prime Minister said loudly. “Yes, yes, I already have the facts. Now it is time to take action. Such an open act of treason must be punished most severely and swiftly, before word of it spreads to our disgruntled allies and encourages further rebellion. We must crush the offenders with an iron fist!”

Whose fist? Bejoo wondered bitterly. Not your own, I’m sure. Indeed, the minister’s right fist lay curled like a misshapen claw by his side, the result of what appeared to be a particularly bad arthritic day in this bracing autumn weather. “Pradhan Mantri, if you will let me narrate the exact events—”

Jabali jerked his bent finger dismissively. “Don’t waste your breath, boy. My people have told me everything already. I got word last night itself and have already taken appropriate action.”

Bejoo’s heart sank. Boy? At 68 years, still a boy? “Pradhan Mantri, if I may suggest a diplomatic course of action that will hopefully avoid needless bloodshed—”

“Needless?” The old minister laughed scornfully, his white brows twitching in his long face. “Bloodshed is not merely needed, it is imperative! A kingdom is ruled by force, not by words. Diplomacy is irrelevant. Ayodhya does not negotiate with rebels. I already know which band of brigands was responsible for this latest act of treason.”

“You do?” Bejoo blinked rapidly. “But it was no band, Pradhan Mantri. Merely two young boys upto some childish prank—”

Again the open-mouthed laughter burst in his face, the white brows twitching. He could smell the Pradhan Mantri’s breath. Surprisingly, the man retained most of his teeth in pristine white condition even at his age. Even though he must surely have been a good decade and a half past Bejoo’s own age. Then again, Jabali was notoriously given to extolling the virtues of fasting and self-deprivation and their beneficial effect on one’s aatma and state of mind. When a man rarely ate, no wonder his teeth stayed as good as new! 

“Come now, Grama-rakshak Bejoo. I hardly expected you to be taken in by that subterfuge. I have received a full report. The boys were merely placed in the path to confuse you and your men. The real bowmen were concealed in the rocks and the surrounding jungle. After all, you don’t really think that two little striplings could outshoot and outfight an entire entourage of the finest Purana Wafadars in his Lord Rama’s force, do you?”

Bejoo wanted to start by protesting that since the very term Purana Wafadar meant ‘Old Veteran’ it ought to have implied that the force was made of exactly that, old veterans of previous wars. Such as himself. The young untried army regulars who had been enrolled into the elite force these past few years did not deserve to be called Wafadars, being as they were untested and untried in actual war conditions, and they most certainly were not Purana, none being over 30 years of age! While they looked and trained well enough to dissuade most potential attackers, in a pinch they were hardly the elite fighting force they were supposed to be. The truth of the matter was that the ‘two little striplings’ had outshot and outfought the entire entourage. Despite the warning given by the boy who had so cleverly severed the horse riggings as Bejoo had attempted to break away, he had still followed the boy at a safe distance and arrived at the main length of the grama in time to watch the two young bowmen rout his men thoroughly in one of the most impressive displays of bowcraft he had ever witnessed. Not just ‘one of’, it was the most impressive display apart from just one other previous display I once had the privilege of witnessing, when a certain other pair of bowmen engaged in a far deadlier battle a long time ago in a jungle called Bhayanak-van, against a yaksi giant named Tataka. 

He kept all this to himself as he said aloud: “Actually, Pradhan Mantri, I think—”

But Jabali was already waving his crooked hand at him dismissively. “What you think is irrelevant. The culprits who did this must be roundly punished for this treasonous action. We must make sure that this entire colony of outlaws is dealt with once and for all.”

Colony? Sure he doesn’t mean…

Jabali’s left cheek curled to reveal a brilliant white eye-tooth. “The so-called Maharishi Valmiki’s colony of brigands and rogues masquerading as sadhus. They are behind the theft of the Maharaja’s war wagon and this time they have gone too far. They must be entirely wiped out, down to the last man, woman and child, and I shall see to it that it is done.”

NINE

“Bhraatr,” Shatrugan said gently but urgently without preamble. “I desire an immediate audience with Ayodhya-naresh.”

Lakshman looked at his twin impassively. The years had altered their individual appearances so considerably, any onlooker viewing them together for the first time could be forgiven for not recognizing them to be identical twins, or even brothers. Shatrugan’s years of hard travel to the farthermost reaches of the kingdom and beyond, the hard outdoor living and fighting and endless waging of war had not been tempered overmuch by his assuming the throne of Mathura these past several years. If anything the years of kingship had toughened him further, tempering the unassailable steel of his character and will with greater wisdom, insight, and moderation. No longer did he fly instantly into rages or lose his patience at the slightest provocation when thwarted. He had assumed a certain gravitas and dignity that he wore as well as the robes of kingship. The sculpting away of his overly muscled physique by the years of hard travel and warring had stripped him down to a leathery wiry muscularity that lent him an almost pantherlike aspect when he walked on the balls of his feet. 

Lakshman glanced over his brother’s shoulder. Shatrugan’s entourage remained several yards behind their king, alert but affable. Whatever Shatrugan’s crisis was, it appeared personal rather than nationalistic in nature. 

In contrast to his twin, Lakshman had changed too but in wholly other ways. He had been lean and pantherlike when he had returned with Rama and Sita to Ayodhya in Pushpak ten years ago, skin burned nut-dark from years of open living and hard fighting. But the last decade had seen him spend almost all his days within the newly raised walls of the palace complex, virtually Rama’s personal guard and guide at all times. He had dealt with every daily crisis that cropped up – and at times, they did come thick and fast – from city riots to internal intrigues, with conspiracies and assassination plots, and the constant living under the air of stress and political intrigue had softened him outwardly to some extent, filling out his leanness, thickening his torso and face somewhat. Working out in the palace akhada had only expanded his muscles and bulk further, while he lacked the trimming and leaning effects of long travel or warring. At the same time, the stress had aged him quickly, the hair at his temples turning grey. Even his brows and the moustache he had taken to keeping showed grey amidst the black now, Shatrguan saw at this close range. It was almost as if Lakshman had become an older, wearier looking version of Shatrugan himself ten years ago. While Shatrugan had become an older more dignified version of Lakshman from ten years ago! How ironic, how appropriate that they had both aged to resemble older versions of one another. 

Lakshman regarded him with a measured glance. “Well met Mathura-naresh. What business do you seek to discuss with Samrat Rama Chandra?”

Samrat? The last time Shatrugan had met his older brother, Rama had still been just a Maharaja, a king of kings. Now he had dubbed himself Emperor? Then at least some of the rumours were true after all. He ignored the title and focussed on the man,  continuing to use the Sanskrit highspeech term for Brother which both lent intimacy as well as carried respect: “Bhraatr, my business is for Rama’s ears alone. I assure you it is most urgent. I request you kindly to announce me and permit me the pleasure of an audience with him at once.”

Lakshman folded his arms, his overdeveloped chest muscles bulging as he did so. Shatrugan recalled having exactly the same upper body bulk and felt relieved he didn’t anymore. As one got older, it got harder to maintain muscle tone and an old wrestler soon began to sag like an old woman if he didn’t watch himself. He thought it wise not to mention that to his twin. These days, Lakshman was rarely in the mood to listen to brotherly advice on anything, be it physical maintenance or anything else. “In that case, you would have to wait. Someone is in the sabha hall with the Samrat. He cannot be disturbed until the conference is over.”

Shatrugan glanced at the barred doors behind Lakshman, guarded by six heavily armoured and armed sentries, all bigger built and tougher looking than Lakshman himself. He sighed and nodded, even as he said with a wistful smile: “Used to be a time when the doors of the sabha hall were always left open, for anyone to walk into and out of, and almost all sessions were open to all, even the lowest sweeper on the streets. Now, I hear the doors are always barred when the sabha sits in session and the public audiences are only permitted to attend the four seasonal sessions.”

Lakshman shrugged. “Times have changed. Ayodhya had to change with the times.”

Shatrugan shook his head. “Not all change is for the best.” 

He began to say something further, then thought better of it. Clearly, Lakshman was not interested in padapad talk, and he had no desire to get into another slanging debate as they had the last time. Brothers though they were – bhraatrey, to use the Sanskrit highspeech – they seemed to be on opposite sides of the political fence more and more these days. 

He walked back to his entourage, intending to stay in their company while he waited. He knew better than to try to pass the time bantering with his brother. That was one of the many changes he questioned and resented. Lakshman was no longer Lakshman. Nor was Rama. He leaned on the portal that overlooked the royal Udyaan and was sad to see that it too had been walled-in like everything else in this part of the city. He stood there, musing on how much Ayodhya had changed since he had left, indeed, since their father’s passing. In so many ways. 

He glimpsed movement on the path below and saw a familiar pair of aging feminine forms walking slowly together, heads bowed in conversation. He smiled to himself. There were two people who would not be as grim-faced and stern of tone as his twin brother. He paused to instruct his entourage to send for him at once the instant the sabha doors reopened, and then went down to the garden. 

***

Sumitra was the first to see him. She smiled and slowed, placing a hand gently on Kauslaya’s arm to stop her as well. They both looked back up the path as Shatrugan came at a steady trot, his broad swarthy face open in a wide grin. He dropped before them, touching each of their feet with heartfelt sincerity. 

“Maa, aashirwaad. Maa, aashirwaad,” he repeated, for though Sumitra was his womb-mother, in Arya families, Kausalya was no less his mother. In their turn, both greeted him with identical warmth and for an onlooker it would have been impossible to tell which was his biological mother. If anything, slight, small-built, delicately boned Sumitra seemed unlikely; while Kausalya, darker-complected but bigger-proportioned though no less feminine in form, seemed more likely. Both laid hands on his shoulders, Sumitra having to look up by an angle of more than two feet to her perpendicular. Looking at them both in that moment, Shatrugan thought to himself that the pride and pleasure on their faces could not be replicated in any official portrait, not even by the most accomplished artists in Aryavarta. 

“Maatrey,” he said, and put his meaty arms around both women, enfolding them in a bear hug that drew gasps of surprised delight. Sumitra glanced at her companion over Shatrugan’s bowed head and Kausalya’s eyes twinkled back in response. Shatrugan saw this without actually needing to look at their faces, and his heart filled with the tenderness of a boy who still longed for the days when mothers had been the protectors of the universe and the world had extended only to their guru’s kul and ashrama and back, and the four of them had been as one being with four heads and a single mind. He bit back a tear as he released his mothers and clapped them on their shoulders hard enough to make them gasp with amusement. 

“It is so good to see you,” he said. “I missed you. I missed it all.” He gestured with a bend of his head, indicating the palace and the city but what he really missed was the way things had been before it all changed, long long ago in a city far far away and yet right here, right now. 

The two Queens exchanged another glance and he saw that they knew all, understood everything. A great sadness fell upon him them, a profound sense of regret for all that had been, all that could have been, and that which would now almost certainly never come to be.