RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (52 page)

TWENTY-TWO

Bharat was careful to keep his movements slow and unthreatening. The kingsguard kept their spears pointed at him, maintaining the protective ring around Rama. Over the tips of the spears, Jabali and Bhadra glared at him with deep suspicion. Even Rama was standing with arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowed. 

“Rama, I only wish to say a few words,” Bharat said.

Bhadra stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Lord Rama, I told you it was a mistake to bring them here. They will try to impede and obstruct every chance they get. That is their plan.”

“It is part of the conspiracy to keep Ayodhya from realizing its full potential,” Jabali barked in his stentorian manner. “These two should be given the severest danda under law to set an example.”

Rama raised a hand, commanding silence from both flanks. “We have already ruled upon this matter. Let us not waste time rehashing it.” He looked at Bharat directly. “You were made to understand your position. It is extremely delicate. My advice to you,” he flicked his eyes to include Shatrugan, “is to hold your silence and do as instructed. Anything else will only worsen matters for both of you.”

“Rama,” Bharat said in as placative a tone as he could muster, “It would only take a moment of your time.”

Rama looked at him. Bharat looked back and tried to appeal to Rama personally. But all he saw in Rama’s dark eyes was a resoluteness that he knew too well. Once Rama got that look in his eyes, nothing could steer him off the course he had embarked on. Not for nothing did the kusa lavya bards call him Maryada Purshottam Rama. Rama Who Does As He Says.

“My time belongs to Ayodhya,” Rama said. “And Ayodhya cannot spare the moment.”

And he turned his back on Bharat, turning to face the eastern sky where daylight had broken and the first tentatively probing rays of the imminent sun were turning the sky above Ayodhya golden. Some of that golden hue fell upon Rama’s silhouette as he turned and somehow, despite the beauty of the illumination, it lent him a dark, terrible aspect. Samrat Rama Chandra. Emperor of Ayodhya, lord and master of all Aryavarta, the civilized world, Prithvi-loka, the mortal realm. 

All this, Bharat realized in a flash of insight even as the kingsguard PFs moved forward, jabbing their spears at him and Shatrugan. One point pricked his side, piercing the skin, drawing a trickle of blood. He did not feel it. Nor did he care about the harsh mocking tones of Bhadra and Jabali who ordered the guards to escort Shatrugan and he from the tower and see that they were secured and that they were not permitted to come into the king’s presence again. That last image of Rama staring out at the rising sun, cold hearted and resolute, stayed with him. It was the rock against which the surging tide of his emotions pounded and broke unrequited. 

***

The sun had risen by the time Bejoo had a chance to speak with the Prime Minister. He waited as Yuvarajas Bharat and Shatrugan were escorted under armed guard from the tower and taken to the palace. His eyes met Bharat’s as he passed by, and Bejoo was saddened to see the look on Bharat’s face. It was the face of a man facing a death sentence. He knew that was not the case, because the news of how First Queen Mother Kausalya had intervened and had Bharat’s and Shatrugan’s dandas transmuted was all over the city, but apparently to Bharat and Shatrugan, even the alternative was no less a punishment. 

His fist tightened in anger on the pommel of his shortsword as he considered the injustice of it all. Princes of Ayodhya, sons of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku line, patriots of the Kosala nation, Rama’s own brothers! Being treated like criminals! It was beyond tolerance. What he failed to understand was why he had not been arrested too. From what he had heard, Bharat and Shatrugan’s only crime had been to discuss and question the king’s new martial policies, which under the new law could be construed as treason. Yet it was he, Bejoo, with whom they had discussed and questioned those policies. So then why was he not being interrogated, arrested, or somehow reprimanded for the same? There was only one possible answer: The spasa or spasas whose reports had resulted in their being arrested had not been able to provide any concrete details. Because had they provided concrete details, it was inconceivable that Bejoo would not be arrested by now. Which meant that they had been arrested on mere suspicion.

No, not mere suspicion. As a preventive measure.

Bejoo knew enough about politics to understand that this was the likely answer. It hardly mattered if Bharat and Shatrugan had been overheard voicing treasonous opinions or merely taking a stroll on the North Bank of Sarayu. They would have been arrested under any pretext, however flimsy. The whole point was not to actually charge them, merely to prevent them from interfering in any way with Rama’s plans. 

No, not Rama’s plans—Jabali’s plans. Bhadra’s plans. All those warmongering political power factions that stand to profit from Ayodhya going to war.

Yes, that made perfect sense. 

He watched as the man he had been waiting for finally emerged from the lane that led to the Seer’s Eye tower, escorted as always by his retinue of thuggish looking guards. Bejoo knew that each one of those so-called bodyguards were responsible for as many murders, assaults and other dark deeds done in the shadows of night than most condemned criminals in the dungeons of Ayodhya. But of course, all their crimes had been committed in the name of national security and in the service of Ayodhya, so they commanded respect rather than dandas. Such was politics. So would it always be. 

“Pradhan Mantri? A word, if you please?” 

Jabali frowned down his long nose. His thugs glared at Bejoo, waiting for a single word or gesture to crack his skull. The man closest to Bejoo, a menacing hulk of a fellow with tiny rat eyes, looked almost disappointed when the Prime Minister gestured them aside and deigned to step a foot or two closer to hear what he had to say. 

“Quickly, man, this is the most important day in Ayodhya’s history and I have a great deal of work to do,” snapped Jabali. 

Yes, of course, such as barking orders at the men who will actually go forth and fight and die for Ayodhya while you recline on the silken cushions of your royal palkhi and sip soma. 

“Aye, my Lord,” Bejoo said apologetically, “But I thought this meritted your immediate attention.” He gestured at the wagon standing a few yards away on Suryavansha Avenue. “I have succeeded in recovering the king’s property.”

Jabali frowned. “What rubbish are you blabbering abou—” He broke off as the sight of the wagon refreshed his memory. “Surely you don’t mean…” He shoved Bejoo aside roughly and strode to the wagon. A barked order and his henchmen raised the rear covering for him to peer inside, his bright eyes glinting with greedy delight as he viewed the contents. 

He turned to Bejoo. “You? You recovered the stolen war wagon?”

Bejoo bowed his head in humility. “Aye, my Lord. I had my men on the trail ever since the unfortunate incident, and they were able to track it down and return it safely.” He gestured towards the wagon. “Not one thing is missing. The complete inventory is present. You may have it checked.”

“I certainly will,” Jabali said sharply. “But what of the miscreants who held up the grama and wounded so many? Where are they?” He looked around as if expecting to see the culprits standing nearby, trussed in ropes and chains. Bejoo had no doubt that if that had indeed been the case, Jabali might well have given the order to have them executed right there and then. 

No. What he would do is to parade them and claim credit for their capture, and then have them executed. That’s his way. 

“They were dealt with most severely,” Bejoo said. 

Jabali clicked his tongue impatiently. “Yes, of course they were, or how else could you have recovered the property. But where are they now? Or…their bodies?”

Bejoo shook his head. “Lions.”

Jabali stared at him. “Lions?”

“Aye, my Lord. During the fight to recover the wagon, they were wounded and retreated deeper into the woods. Unknowingly, they strayed near a den. The pride tore them to shreds. They were in no state to bring here. There was virtually nothing left to bring in fact.”

Jabali’s eyes gleamed briefly as he contemplated this ultimate penalty meted out by nature in her mystical wisdom. “…tore them to shreds, you say.” He sighed. “Oh well. They were given their danda, that’s what counts.” The disappointment was palpable in his tone – he would have loved to have meted out those dandas himself, no doubt. He glanced again at Bejoo. “Quite impressive, Grama-rakshak…?”

“Bejoo, sire. You commissioned me yourself.” Demoted me, actually. But let’s not get prissy. You damn well know who I am, and who I was. 

“Yes, of course, Bejoo,” Jabali crooked a long finger. The way the skin creased on the bone reminded Bejoo of the claw of a starved fowl. “Well, you seem to have surpassed yourself, Grama-rakshak Bejoo. I shall have to see to it that you are given a suitable reward for your exemplary service to the king.” He began to move away even before he finished speaking. 

Bejoo cleared his throat cautiously. Now came the tricky part. “Actually, sire, I desire no reward at all. No pecuniary reward, that is. Rather, I desire an opportunity to serve the king further, if he so wills it, and by your grace, of course.”

Jabali stopped and looked impatiently at Bejoo. “What did you have in mind, soldier? Be quick, I have much to do.”

Bejoo told him. 

TWENTY-THREE

The armies of Ayodhya were mobile before the sun had risen more than a double handsbreadth above the eastern horizon. It was an awe-inspiring display of planning, coordination and precision. Queens Kausalya and Sumitra watched from the highest balcony in their palace as the akshohini wheeled and enormous crescents in order to maintain their formation while navigating their way out of the city precincts. 

A dust cloud the size of a mountain rose up high above. Panicked flocks of birds crisscrossed the skies, alarmed by the great and unusual gathering of mortals below; their scavenging brethren began to collect overhead and follow the procession, knowing that such large gatherings of mortals usually meant fresh meat to be had, if not right away, then soon. Mortals rarely collected together in such vast numbers without great violence and numerous casualties resulting; it was an enduring trait of humankind. The exodus itself was an awe-inspiring sight, the immaculate uninterrupted movement of procession after procession belying the enormous drilling and discipline that made such efficiently coordinated movement possible. 

The great contingents took all day to exit the city, the supply trains bringing up the rear departing only in the late afternoon. This long tail would link the armies to the city across their campaign trail, providing the vital sustenance that enabled an army to fight abroad. More wagons would be added as required. Ayodhya was capable of supplying, feeding and maintaining a warring force as far away as three hundred yojanas. This impressive capacity made the city state a force to reckon with even in the most far flung corners of Aryavarta, and beyond. Unlike other nations, Ayodhya did not rely on its own surrounding towns and villages to supply its needs; it was entirely self-sufficient. The original reason for this self-sufficiency had been to enable it to withstand a prolonged invasion and multiple sieges. Today, that same self-sufficiency was being used for the exact opposite purpose: to enable Ayodhya to supply and maintain a force that ventured outwards aggressively. 

“A system created for defense perverted and used to perpetrate offense,” Kausalya said sadly. “I wonder what Dasa would say if he were here to see this.”

Sumitra put her hand reassuringly on the Queen Mother’s shoulder. “Dasaratha might not have been as averse to it as we are, Kausalya. Remember, he was a man of war. He believed in resolute action.”

Kausalya sighed. “You are right. That’s why it’s pointless to speculate on what the dead would have said or felt with regard to things now. But I can say this with certainty: I do not approve of what is happening today in Ayodhya. I do not approve at all.”

Sumitra nodded. “Neither do I. It is a monstrosity. A terrible misuse of power. If only we could speak to our sons and try to make them see how wrong this is…”

“Words cannot resolve every problem, Sumitra. For too long now I have begun to feel as if everything I say to Rama has been falling on deaf ears. Or blocked ears at least. It is as if he sees my point of view perfectly, knows exactly what I mean to say, but does not feel it is even worth the effort to debate it with me. He simply accepts it silently and discards it later like a garment that does not fit. If only he would argue at least, debate the issues at stake, I believe he would be compelled to see reason. But when a man turns himself to stone as Rama has done, he feels no need to bother with intellectual debate. He simply does as he pleases and nothing can sway him.”

Sumitra looked at her, concerned at the intensity in Kausalya’s tone and face. “You make him sound like a tyrant.”

Kausalya shook her head. “Not a tyrant, no…but yes, if a king, however powerful, does not use his power to serve, to build, to create, and starts to use the power instead to destroy, attack, bring down, then what difference between that king and a tyrant? I fear that Rama could well become one if he continues uninterruped upon this present path. You know how quickly and easily absolute power corrupts even the most idealistic mind. For all his fine qualities, Rama today is not the Rama he was ten years ago when he returned from Lanka, or the Rama who left us fourteen years before that. He has changed so much.”

“Or has been changed.”

Kausalya nodded, turning away from the bird’s eye view of the endless rows of infantry, chariot regiments, elephant regiments, cavalry, and other units wheeling and proceeding out the gates of Ayodhya. Already the sun was risen high and the dust cloud churned up by the departing army had all but obscured the southern sky, as vast and wide as a mountain range that must surely be visible across most of the Kosala nation. “Or has been changed. By time. By experience. By the inevitable alterations that age and circumstances impose on us all. But also, I fear, by bad advisors. That is what concerns me most of all. The fact that Rama may be falling prey to the war-mongering hawks who seek only way one forward for Ayodhya, for all Aryavarta. What is that term they use now, Sumitra?”

“Republicans. After the idea of forming a republican nation that will be self-governed by the people through a democratic process.”

“Yes, Republicans. A fine ideal. A lofty purpose. But often a murderer will pretend to be a patriot in order to justify his killing spree. Some thieves will proclaim themselves levellors of wealth and friends of the poor to gain sympathy for his cause. So also a war-thirsty group of tyrants who seek only their own aggrandization and self-benefit will pose as benefactors of society in order to go about their selfish business with the full approval and consent of the very people they exploit and abuse. Republicans. Supporters of democracy. Peacemakers. They come in many guises but always with the same purpose: To enrich, empower and aggrandize the few at the expense of the many. Beware the king who cries out that he only serves his people while secretly taxing them to death and filling his private coffers with gold and public dungeons with dissenters. I would much rather have a king who was less rich, less powerful, less feared, but greatly loved, with a richer population, happier citizenry.”

Sumitra gestured at the wheeling hordes below. The sound of the armies moving out was so loud, it sounded as if they were in this very balcony, tramping and marching and yelling orders. “And you believe this is what Rama’s advisors are up to? Why they convinced him to undertake this Ashwamedha yajna?”

“Yes and no. The Ashwamedha yajna in itself is a ritual every Arya king undertakes from time to time. It is a ceremonial, symbolic act. Dasaratha conducted it once, and I, as his Queen at the time, performed the yajna. But this,” she waved a hand in disgust, “this is no ceremony or ritual. This is a war campaign. A carefully planned, orchestrated, mounted, financed, and managed campaign to spread Ayodhyan rule from one corner of the sub-continent to the other. No king ever sent forth an army of this size after the white horse. There is only supposed to be a symbolic force of riders following the horse, ensuring that none capture it and thereby symbolically challenge the authority of the king. But an army of this size?” She shook her head. “An army of this size can only be intended to crush, trample, roll over the countryside, leave a swathe of death and destruction in its wake. This is akin to what the Asura hordes sent forth when they began their invasion and attempted conquest of Prithvi-loka.”

Sumitra frowned. “And one argument raised by the likes of Jabali and Bhadra is exactly that. They say that not long ago the asura hordes led by Ravana sought to cut a swathe of death through the mortal realm. Now, it is time we mortals put on a show of strength so great that no other force would ever dare to attempt such audacity again.”

Kausalya made a sound of exasperation. “They are wrong. Invaders invade because they desire to take lands by force, to rape and pillage and destroy. To conquer. It is the most vile act of mankind, the lowest ebb of human behaviour. It is one thing to defend oneself against such invaders. But to imitate them? To emulate their example and send forth our own forces to invade, rape, pillage, destroy, conquer…? What sense does that make? For one thing, where are we sending these forces? Through our own lands! To subjugate our own people, and our neighbours and allies!”

“And a few hostile nations who are neither neighbours nor allies,” Sumitra added thoughtfully. 

“Yes, but who are not enemies either! And by doing this, we are certain to force them to become our enemies. For the sheer size of our forces will compel them to band together and unite against us, and so, we shall have created a new, more powerful enemy than actually existed. Besides which, what gives us the right to do all these things?”

Sumitra shrugged. “They say we must do it because we are Ayodhya. We are the land of freedom and courage. The nation that the world looks to for protection, for hope. They say it is our responsibility. Our dharma!”

“Dharma!” Kausalya laughed bitterly. “They do not know the meaning of the word. Dharma does not mean going to war when there is no threat to oneself! Dharma is not raising a force great enough to conquer all the known worlds and then use it to do just that. Dharma is not pretending to conduct a symbolic horse sacrifice and using it as a cover for a full scale invasion – of one’s own land! It is not dharma that drives them. It is greed, pure and simple. Lust for power. Arrogance. And because it is couched as dharma, presented with pretty words and fancy ideas like republicanism, democracy, a people’s kingdom, duty, responsibility, protection, necessity… because of this devilish subterfuge, it verges on tyranny. It is tyranny.”

“Yet Rama is no tyrant,” Sumitra said firmly, “on that we are agreed.” She might be the mother of a different son, but she could hear no ill spoken of Rama without debating it hotly. 

Kausalya touched Sumitra’s shoulder affectionately. “No, he is not. That is why it pains me so much to see him caught up in this manipulative politicking and vile rhetoric.”

They watched the processions for a while. The sun drifted overhead and passed into the afternoon, dipping lower and lower towards the western horizon. And still the regiments wheeled and turned and wound their way up the avenues and out the gates and up the raj-marg. It seemed as if they would go on thus forever. 

“What shall we do then, Kausalya?” Sumitra asked a while later. “We must do something. Otherwise there will be terrible bloodshed and once that occurs, the chain of violence will be set into motion yet again.”

Kausalya nodded. She knew what Sumitra meant. United by the Last Asura Wars, mortal nations had fought largely together, putting aside their own territorial ambitions and other differences to fight a common, far more powerful invading foe. But now that there were no Asuras left to fight, all those petty differences and ambitions had begun rising once again to the fore, needing but a catalyst to set the pile blazing into a bonfire of crisscrossing clashes that could only lead inevitably, eventually, to a great internecine war. There was far more than just Ayodhya’s future at stake here, or Rama’s reputation as a king. It was the future of all Aryavarta that hung on the outcome of this so-called Ashwamedha yajna. 

“Yes, we must do something and we must do it before those armies cross our borders and cross swords with our neighbours and allies, let alone other hostile ones. Once begun, this will lead to a war among the bharata nations such as has never been seen before.” Kausalya was referring to the original ‘bharata’ tribe governed by the legendary vedic king Sudas, who had fought and won the historic Dasarajna war, defeating Ten powerful kings to claim this sub-continent for the bharatas. Today, all Aryas residing in this part of the world were descendants of that great bharata king Sudas and his original tribe. Indeed, while the term Aryavarta described their civilization and culture, the correct name by which the sub-continent was known was Bharat, or Land of the Bharatas.

“A maha bharata,” said Sumitra, using the Sanskrit, wherein the word ‘war’ was implied contextually. “A great war of the bharata nations.”

“Yes,” Kausalya said, “A Maha Bharata. And once that happens, then it will be not just a great war but the greatest war of all time. That is why we must do whatever we can to ensure that this yajna goes no further than the borders of our Kosala nation.” Which was as it was supposed to be as per the vedic ritual of the ashwamedha: the horse was not expected to rove the entire mortal realm after all, nor was the king sponsoring the sacrifice expected to conquer the whole of Prithvi-loka. Merely his bordering kingdoms and regions. 

“Yes, Kausalya,” Sumitra said, agreeing whole-heartedly. “But what can we do? How can we stop it? How can anyone stop it? More importantly, who can stop it now?”

Kausalya shook her head sadly. “I do not know, Sumitra. All I know is someone must.”

They sat in silence then, watching the last of the army regiments exit the city gates. And Sumitra thought to herself how much of Rama’s strength, his resoluteness, his determination came from this woman, his mother. Now that Rama was older, approaching middle age, she could even see the similar line of their features clearly. The spiritual likeness was even more striking. 

If there is a way to set things right, she thought, then surely Kausalya will find it. If he is now an emperor, then she is the emperor’s mother.