RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (66 page)

She felt Sumitra’s hand clasp her own in sisterly commisseration and squeezed back, thanking her sister-queen for her continual support. 

Since their husband’s demise two and a half decades ago, First Queen and Third Queen had been inseparable friends, and during the years that Kausalya governed Ayodhya as a Dowager Queen-Mother, Sumitra had been a valuable asset in court as well as in matters that required careful thought and interpretation of law. She had a particular gift for such matters and Kausalya was glad to have her with her now, for law played an integral part of the plan she had to try and turn Rama back from this empirical course he was set upon.

Rama turned to Jabali the instant the courier had left. “What further word? Have you heard anything? Has Bhadra returned yet? You did say he had gone to find out why the alarms rang out, when you stayed me from going myself.”

Jabali dipped his bird-like chin and nose once, acknowledging that he had indeed done so. “It would have pointless for you to inhale the dust of the marg and ride all that way just to learn what we could learn just as well sitting here in the command centre. That is why you have such vast resources deployed. You are an emperor now, Samrat Rama Chandra, not a chieftain who must ride out and check on every emergency yourself.”

Rama sighed. “Yes, I understand. Now speak, have you any news from the frontline? The courier could tell me nothing beyond what we had already guessed.”

Nothing? Was that what he called the news of Sumantra’s death? The man who had once sat him upon his knee as a very young boy and answered his every question about kings and courts with infinite patience. Kausalya shook her head, sighing softly despite herself. Rama glanced briefly in her direction but did not say anything further. 

Jabali placed his palms together and rubbed them briskly in that manner he had that Kausalya had always found pretentious. A skeleton rubbing two tinders together to kindle his own funeral pyre, was how her late dear Dasaratha had described it, with his customary wit. She remembered that now and stifled a laugh. It would not do to actually belittle the man in his presence; ridiculous as he was, he was nonetheless a powerful political figure and she could not afford to antagonize him in any way whatsoever. 

“It is as we feared. Your brothers have all gone missing. The excuse given is that they were in pursuit of the sacred stallion. But of course, we know better.”

Rama frowned. “My brothers? You mean Bharat and Shatrugan too?”

“Indeed. Is that not peculiar? That they should all three of them go after the horse together and disappear together?”

Rama shook his head slowly. “Not particularly. They are Suryavanshis. The yagna may be conducted by me, but it is for the future and stability of the Suryavanasha throne. They have a great vested interest in preserving the sanctity of the ritual and ensuring its success.”

“Exactly! A vested interest. For if the horse were to be captured and a challenge issued in that aranya territory, by whose authority would it be?”

Rama shrugged. “Nobody’s. Since the Southwoods do not come under any kingdom’s jurisdiction.”

“Aha. But what if your brothers had secretly formed an alliance with the aranya folk, the poor misguided mortals you expressed such sympathy for just a while ago, and conspired to capture the horse and challenge your authority?”

Rama looked coldly at Jabali. “These are grave accusations. Do not make them unless you have strong evidence to back them up.”

“Strong evidence?” The hawkish nose all but sneered at Rama—although that sneer like expression was one Jabali displayed naturally—and he turned and clapped his hands, issuing a command to someone waiting outside the tent. 

At once, several armoured men, dust-covered and bloody from obvious close fighting, entered, pulling a corpse with them which they laid down on the floor. Even Kausalya and Sumitra stood and peered in horror to see whose corpse it was. It was Sumantra, the poor old man’s body and face mutilated by multiple wounds and punctures. Sumitra and she both gasped in horror at the sight of the old and long-beloved prime minister. 

‘Sumantra!’ Kausalya said. She could scarcely believe her eyes. Yet there was no doubt it was Sumantra. Beside her, Sumitra clutched her arm hard enough to hurt, unable to even voice her own reaction. 

“Is this sufficient to begin with,” Jabali said, pointing a long bony finger at the body of his predecessor. “The corpse of our beloved ex prime minister, brutally murdered and stabbed in the back by none other than your own brothers as the first gambit in their bid to unveil this shocking plot and conspiracy against your throne!”

Rama stared down at the body, his own face revealing the intensity of his shock. “Did anyone witness this?”

Jabali gestured. “King’s Guard Captain Aarohan, sent on a mission under your own seal to roam the frontlines to ensure the security of the yagna stallion.”

A man stepped forward from the group. He was exceptionally tall and well muscled, even among the other well-built warriors. He wore his beard in a very distinctive style. 

He saluted Rama obstreperously. “Samrat Rama Chandra, sire. I saw with my own eyes Yuvrajas Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrugan inflict these wounds upon Sumantra.”

Rama stepped forward, eyes blazing with sudden fury. Despite the height difference and the superior build of the taller man, Rama seemed to tower over him by dint of sheer force of personality. “You saw them? Where were you when it occurred? If you saw them, why did you not seek to stop them?”

The man did not answer instantly. He seemed, Kausalya thought with a twinge of suspicion, to be irritated by Rama’s tone and manner.
Even though this is his emperor speaking, he still resents it!
She had also noted the lack of honorific before Sumantra’s name, not a common lapse among the scrupulously disciplined Arya kshatriyas. Who were these king’s guard anyway? She dimly recalled hearing of them once or twice in some Council session but their precise purpose eluded her. How odd that such a man should be the only one to come forward as a witness to such a significant event. And to blame Rama’s own brothers? She could not even entertain the possibility of such an accusation being true. It was instantly obvious that there was something amiss here. 

“I was riding towards Sumantra’s chariot,” the man said after a pause, “I saw the murder as I approached. I shouted to them to stop, but they saw me coming and rode away into the woods.” He added after a moment, “They had accomplices waiting for them ahead, who had captured the sacred horse. Outlaws of the forest.”

Rama stood before the man a moment or three longer, breathing upon him. Though the man was stone still, yet he seemed to be restraining himself, while Rama who was on the very precipice of utter rage, appeared perfectly in control of his faculties. Kausalya realized that she was looking at a man who was the very inverse of Rama. She did not know what that meant, but she did not like it one bit.
That man is dangerous,
she thought.
And he is lying, I’m as sure of it as I am that I am Kausalya.
She felt Sumitra squeeze her hand in as if in silent agreement, and knew that her sister queen-mother also saw exactly what she saw.

Finally Rama turned away, showing his back to the soldier and to Pradhan Mantri Jabali. In that instant, Kausalya saw something pass between Jabali and the man named Aarohan. She did not like that either. But her misgivings were washed away in a flood of emotion when she heard Rama pronounce his next words with the finality and grim commanding tones of a death sentence.

“Hunt them down,” Rama said. “Hunt them down and bring them before me, dead or alive. Do whatever you have to, use whatever force is necessary. Send the entire army into the Southwoods. But find the murderers of Sumantra and bring back the yagna stallion. Whatever it takes.” 

KAAND 3

ONE

In the gloamy hour before dawn, the Southwoods lay as still as a predator in waiting. The inhabitants that lived within its tree-shaded sanctuary were more numerous than the citizens of the most populous Arya city—and the cities of Aryavarta were more densely populated than any place in the mortal realm, including the rough but developing lands far to the west across the great oceans, whose envoys and traders frequently made the long and arduous journey across land to purchase the precious spices, silks and precious objets d’art of the subcontinent and the civilized nations farther to the east. 

Yet unlike the bustling metropolises of Ayodhya, Gandahar, Sumer, Akkad, Babylon, Assyria, Cathay, Ayutha and other great kingdoms that lay scattered like caches of precious jewels upon the Asian seaboard, the denizens of the great ancient forest went about their daily deeds as discretely as the secret guilds of asassins in the desert kingdoms went about their dark missions. To one another, the bustle and hustle was plain to see: the panther saw the ants who in turn saw the ant eater, who saw the rabbit, who saw the lion, who saw the deer, who heard the cricket who stopped chirrupping when the lizard approached, and so on in an endless circle of infinite inter-dependence. 

There was no individual independence in this world. Every living being depending on every other being to sustain its environment and by doing so, its daily sources of nutrition and survival. Like the assassins of the arab kingdoms, the predators of the deep Southwoods needed the hustle and bustle of everyday forest life in order to go about their own violent missions. 

But unlike the great cities of the mortal world, the deep forest had certain codes by which it endured. One of these was the tacitly agreed-upon rule of mutual co-dependence: When an intruder or intruders entered its environs, every denizen was obligated to issue a warning and intimate its fellow animals, avians and insects of the presence of the outsider. For outsiders always spelled danger; there were no exceptions to this rule. Be it ever so miniscule a threat as the careless ass that stepped on an ant’s nest and destroyed half a summer’s toil, or the overt menace of a pack of wild dogs seeking a fresh kill, any creature that chose to enter the dangerous perpetually twilight world of the dense jungle did so only for one reason: self-preservation. Whether that meant fleeing from outside enemies or seeking prey or food here, the end result was the same: the newcomers would fight, kill, feed or otherwise commit some form of violent aggression in order to survive and sustain themselves. It was the only way they, or any living being, could possibly survive in this ruthless world. The way of the jungle, the poets called it. And so it was: the only way to survive in here was to kill or be killed. 

The men who poured in from the raj-marg and entered the Southwoods that hour before dawn intended to kill. They were trained for it, equipped for it, and even bred for it: not merely kshatriyas, they were Ayodhyan kshatriyas, and Ayodhya’s war cry spoke their own motto and conviction: Ayodhya Anashya! 

Ayodhya the Unconquerable and Undefeated. 

For Ayodhya was the one city in all the known world that had never been besieged, attacked, or invaded, successfully or otherwise. Because it was impossible to besiege, attack or invade, no sane force in the world would dare to attempt such a suicidal feat. The only one that had tried, once, had been the asura hordes of Ravana, and they had made it only as far as the outskirts of Mithila, which was a long way from Ayodhya. That great invading force of supernatural demoniac beings had been thwarted by a brahm-astra, a sacred weapon of the devas, unleashed by an Ayodhyan, none other than the same Samrat Rama Chandra whom these kshatriyas served today. That was part of the legend of Rama, the fact that he had halted the only known attempt to attack Ayodhya over twelve yojanas away! It was not even fit to be called an attack, let alone a siege. 

And now, with Ravana gone, the asura hordes extinguished from the mortal realm forever, even the severely weakened rakhsasa race of the lord of asura’s erstwhile capital, Lanka, diminishing in number with each passing year, there were no other forces, mortal, asura or otherwise, who dared or desired to challenge the might of Ayodhya by attacking the greatest Arya city on earth. 

But today, the enemy was not coming to invade Ayodhya. 

Ayodhya was coming to invade the enemy’s domain. 

And this domain, the fabled and dreaded Southwoods of mythic lore, until only twenty four years ago the domain of the fearsome yakshi giantess Tataka and her hybrid offpsring, was unlike any battleground, field or city these brave soldiers of Ayodhya had ever visited or fought upon. 

In its own way, it was as indomitable as Ayodhya herself, even if it did not boast seven great moats filled with ravenous predators, seven tall stone gates manned by awe-inspiring war machines, and all the mechanical and architectural marvels that mortalkind was capable of creating. 

In its own way, the forest was a living breathing force as powerful as the great military might of Ayodhya. 

In its own way—and on its own terms—the jungle was a formidable opponent unto itself, not merely a theatre of battle, but part of the enemy’s armory itself. The fact that it did not appear to be an armory, and could be assumed to be a staging ground or battlefield, was part of its sinister threat. 

Ayodhya might well be inconquerable, never-besieged, indomitable. 

But in its own way, so was the Southwoods. 

***

The first regiment of soldiers were not unaccustomed to forests or forest warfare. After all, the world was not so old and jaded as to have completely forgotten the forests from which mortalkind sprang not long ago. Many of these kshatriyas had spent their childhood and youth roving the wild countryside of Kosala, hunting, farming, herding. They were familiar with woods and with forest environments. They moved slowly and carefully, unburdened by the heavy armor that cavalry regiments like the king’s guard wore, bearing lighter pikes and swords. There were archers among them too, with fine Gandahari longbows. And they were told to expect an ambush. 

But to their surprise, they met with no resistance at all. 

They went further and further into the forest, the dim grey of the sky visible above the tall tree tops turning slowly whiter as they went, and even a full hour later, when dawn broke across the eastern part of the forest, not an arrow had been loosed or a sword swung in aggression. It was puzzling but not entirely surprising. Their commanding officers assumed the obvious: the challengers had been all bluster and intent but lacked the guts to follow through. It was easy enough to filch a horse, quite another thing to face an entire army, leave alone an Ayodhyan army. They had probably retreated or were in hiding, quivering with their blankets pulled over their sweating faces. There were some sardonic grins and shaken heads as the forward regiment went a mile then two miles then three without meeting any resistance. 

As dawn turned to daybreak and the first golden rays of sunlight twinkled through the trees, the men began to relax their guard, feeling that this would be an easy assignment after all. The only reason they went on at all was because the horse still had to be retrieved and the culprits put to death, their bodies brought back nailed to wooden posts to caution future challengers. 

Soon, the mood lightened and the men began to chat softly among themselves, even joke and relax their guard. Due to the nature of the forest, they were spread out considerably, and their commanding officers could not see or hear every single one at all times, so it was easy for them to simply squat against a tree trunk and smoke a beedi or chew some betelnut and chat softly about the pointlessness of this mission. 

The first inkling that they had of danger was when a peculiar sound came to their ears. It was a sound that was vaguely familiar yet not easily recognizable. At first, many assumed it was only insects or perhaps even the wind. But as it grew louder and closer, they became aware that it was neither of these things. 

The sound was a constant hissing. A sussuration similar to the sound of the wind shirring in trees in autumn or the ocean surf rising to the shore and falling back. Yet it was neither of these either. 

A man smoking a beedi was the first to grow certain he knew the source of the sound. He sat bolt upright against the trunk of the tree where he had been resting, dropping his beedi. It fell onto a damp patch of earth and was luckily extinguished at once by itself. He reached out and snatched hold of his spear which he had left standing upright against the tree trunk. 

“Snakes!” he said aloud. Then even louder, so his comrades could hear as well: “SNAKES! It’s snakes, coming towards us!”

The word was repeated and past along the frontlines, moving with surprising speed. The commanding officers heard it too and frowned. Snakes? What did the man mean? Had he seen a snake or perhaps even a nest of snakes near his position? What did that have to do with the rest of the army? 

They shrugged and ignored it. 

But as the sound grew larger, closer, and omnipresent, seeming to come from every direction at once and all around them, they grew uneasy. Men stopped chatting or lounging about and took up their weapons. Eyes scanned left and right, seeking out something, anything that would provide a more believable explanation for the sound. 

Slowly, as the hissing grew so loud and close that each man realized it could be nothing but snakes, they began to panic. Men retreated slowly, stepping backwards, seeking to get away from the wall of approaching sound. The HISSSSSS pervaded the entire forest now, it seemed. 

“Hold your positions!” ordered their officers. 

“Stay your ground, you lazy ruffians,” growled sergeants gruffly, passing on the officer’s orders.  

But many of the officers were sweating nervously as well. Some were old enough to have heard stories at their father’s and grandfather’s knees of the dreaded Nagas and Urugas in the Last Asura Wars. Snakes were not the most popular forest creature and every year on an allotted day, oblations and offerings were given to the snake deities to appease them and persuade them not to unleash their venom on mortals. Of course, everyone knew that the last of the asuras had been exterminated when Rama had unleashed the brahm-astra at Mithila twenty four years ago. But these were the Southwoods, dreaded site of so many fearsome fables and cautionary tales from ancient itihasa, and who knew what beings might still reside in this dense jungle? 

Suddenly, one of the archers cried out. They were the ones with the sharpest eyesight and he had seen something in the alternately shadowy and sunlit forest. 

He reacted by doing something no kshatriya was ever supposed to do: he threw down his bow and rig and turned around. He ran past his fellows, ignoring even his commanding officers who were to surprised to order him to stop. His face betrayed his terror at whatever he had seen. 

“Flee!” he yelled. “Flee for your lives!”

The others stared after him then at each other. The officers shouted sporadically to hold the line and hold their positions and the usual claptrap that officers were expected shout but none of the men were listening. They were all thinking about how the archer, one of the finest Ayodhyan bowmen, which made him one of the finest in the world, apart from the Assyrian horse bowmen and chariot archers, whom, it was said, were the best in the world, had thrown aside his bow and rig as if it was so much useless baggage, rather than the beautifully shaped polished and resin-waxed Mithila bow, a treasure to any kshatriya of the archer varna. It was a bow worth giving up one’s life for, and if the archer had thrown it aside, it could be for only one reason: the bow, fine as it was, would be utterly useless against the HISSSing thing that was approaching them, and while running away, would be an impediment while trying to get away through the close-growing trees and shrubbery. And if a bow and arrows, which could be used to kill or wound any enemy from afar, was useless, then what good were a sword, pike or axe which required close quarters to be effective? 

The officers had realized this as well. And sweating with anxiety though they were, they were still commanding officers entrusted with a mission. It was their dharma to fulfil that mission or die trying. Under Samrat Rama Chandra’s ‘Ram Rajya’ failing to do one’s dharma was itself punishable by death. So they roared instructions that nobody was to abandon their weapon, and every soldier must hold the line and engage the enemy. Failure to comply would result in the severest danda: on-site execution. 

That worked. Terrible though the HISSSing sound was and the thought of what it might be caused by, the fear of facing the wrath of danda was greater. Face the unseen menace and they might yet live. Run from it as the archer had done, and they would certainly be put to death. 

So they stayed, reluctantly but bravely. And raised their weapons when their officers told them to, and prepared to fight. 

A moment later, the source of the HISSSing was revealed. And it was every bit as terrifying as they had feared. 

The forest floor was writhing with a carpet of snakes. All racing along at considerable speed, winding their sinuous way across the ground, slithering over and under each other, intertwining, hissing at each other or at everything in general, some pausing to strike at one another, fangs lashing out angrily, milky white drops of venom flicking off their gaping pink maws. For as far as the eye could see the ground was writhing with the creatures. They were all coming as fast as they could, towards the frontlines of Ayodhya’s finest.