RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  “And?” Bharat prompted Drishti Kumar.

  The senapati raised his eyes to meet Bharat’s own. “Kekaya.”

  Shatrugan released a string of expletives. This time, Bharat didn’t stop him. He stared at the commander of the city’s outer defence network, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut with the blunt end of a spear.

  “Kekaya?” he repeated. “Are you sure?”

  The senapati nodded; his eyes said what his lips dared not. He was sorry to have to even repeat such a missive.

  Bharat turned and looked out again towards the outer wall, trying to see more clearly. It was not very far and the day was clear and unclouded. He thought he could make out the colours of Kekaya on a banner held ramrod straight by a frontrider at the head of a long column. Yes, that was Kekaya’s emblem, no question about it. Who was the big-built warrior sitting a massive Kambhoja stallion right next to the emblem-bearer? Was it…no, surely it could not be? But his eyes were sharp and those rough-hewn features and powerful upper body bulk were unmistakable, even at this distance. He groaned and buried his face in his hands as he recognized the man they belonged to. As if echoing his misery, Shatrugan swore yet again and put a hand on his back, speaking with a voice that mirrored Bharat’s own sense of dismay and disbelief. “That is your uncle, your mother’s brother, Bharat. Your own blood-relatives are out there too, ready to do war against you.”

  And it was true.

  For the army arrayed in neat columns and rows on the raj-marg, filling the length of the road down the Sarayu Valley as far as the eye could see, and no doubt extending back a good mile or two, was no asura conglomeration or rakshasa horde. Worse. Much worse than that. It was an army of their own best allies, their closest and most loyal neighbouring kingdoms, supporters and trade-sharers over centuries. There was not a kshatriya out there in those massed ranks, nor one within these city walls, who did not share either kinship or alliance by marriage or trade with someone from one of the other’s kingdoms. They were part of the great seven-nation Arya alliance that had withstood asura invasions, wars with distant lands and a hundred other crises. These were their own compatriots and friends!

  And now they were here at the walls of Ayodhya, as enemies in arms.

  What did it mean? How had this happened? What bizarre nightmare had overcome the world this otherwise normal, bright and sunny summer day?

  Shatrugan’s voice was quiet at his side. His brother’s anger was as quick to fire as it was to quench. Or perhaps it was the shock of seeing his own kith and kin that had sobered him. “You should go out there and speak with them,” he said. “This has to be some kind of misunderstanding.”

  I doubt it, Bharat thought miserably. Misunderstandings seldom outfit an entire army in siege gear and come marching in such numbers to one’s gates demanding entry and your immediate surrender.

  He was about to reply to Shatrugan when a chorus of shouts broke out from along the wall to either side. As he was still gazing outwards at the soldiers at the outer gates, he saw even their ranks tilt their helmeted heads to glance upwards. He saw the shadow of a dark and ominous cloud spread its wings across the moat below and the one beyond.

  Then he looked up and saw the horror that was unfolding in the sky.

  Valmiki felt as if he had leaped from the top of a cliff and landed in a thorn thicket. A thousand tiny pinpricks attacked every available inch of his body. He attempted futilely to use one hand to cover his eyes and nostrils, but even so, the tiny spores began to push their way inside, seeking to invade his body and infect him with their foul venom. So powerful was their toxic effect that he knew he would not survive if sufficient numbers entered his biological system. Already he could feel the poison pinpricks burning in his veins as his blood was infected at a level capable of downing an elephant. His only chance lay in completing the mahamantra he was reciting and in praying that the spiritual weapon he had developed through careful tapasya was potent enough to do its work. He almost screamed in agony as several of the spores slipped past his hand and between his fingers to enter his eyes, penetrating through the outer membrane of the eyes to dissolve and mingle with his optic fluids, like tiny pinpricks of flame igniting inside his eyes…. It was torture, yet he forced himself to maintain the unbroken chain of recitation; it was crucial that the mahamantra be recited without pause or error.

  All this while, he continued falling, and even though his descent was definitely slowed by some supernatural benefactor – or benefactors – it was only a matter of time before he would fall to the ground. The cloud of particles was descending as well, and from the keening sound they made as they flowed in their tentacles across the sky, and the brief glimpses he caught through his fingers, he could judge their movement downwards to the city. The tips of the lowermost tentacles were already at roof level and at that very moment began to snake through cracks in eaves, openings in walls, any way they could find to get into people’s domiciles. The rest he did not need to see to know: Once at street-level, the individual spores whirled around in search of human hosts, and as they found them, they slipped into their bodies through any convenient orifice or the skin itself, and began to work their deadly poison. In a few more moments, the entire cloudswarm would be amongst the populace, infecting thousands, who would then go on to infect tens of thousands more. And once that happened, no mahamantra, however potent, could possibly undo its demoniac effects. Ayodhyans would die like ants on a bonfire.

  He had to stop it here and now. It was the reason he had come, why he had been sent.

  He felt a change in the air battering his body and tried to open both eyes for a moment. They teared at once and he was not surprised to see a reddish tinge to the world; the spores had entered in high concentration, infecting his organs of vision already. But now he faced a more immediate danger: even at a slower speed, he was still falling, and the closer he got to ground, the faster the inevitable pull of gravity. He saw with horror that the spores had spread out far across the city, to the farthest corners, and the bulk of the cloud’s mass had dissipated already. He was too late!

  Even as he saw this and felt rising panic, the spores that had been designated to attack him renewed their assault with added aggression. He felt the poisonous molecules push their way through his very skin, making their way in through his pores, making blood-sweat pop out on his skin as they made their way into his bloodstream. He writhed in agony. He felt the fire of their contact with his blood and the murky pain of their venom as they dissolved instantly, mingling with his precious life-fluid. Already, the effect upon his body was near-fatal. He could not survive more than a few moments longer. And from the way the spores had spread across Ayodhya, it did not seem possible that he could use these last seconds of his life to achieve his mission. He looked down and saw the ground of the avenue only a hundred yards or less below him, flying up to meet him at increasingly greater speed. His mind struggled to finish the mahamantras correctly, for any omission or slip meant starting over from the beginning, and he was running out of time.

  This cannot be the end, he said, fighting with all his will. I came here to serve a purpose. I must fulfil it! I must thwart the prophecy!

  But his limbs were already numb, his belly blazing with a heat that felt like a red-hot iron rod inserted into his navel. And he could feel darkness clouding his brain as he began to drift into unconsciousness. He finished reciting the mahamantras but already it felt pointless. He would be dead before he hit the ground. And while the mantra was taking effect – he could see the spores falling away from his body, deadened and rendered ineffectual by the shakti of the mantra – he knew it would not disable all the far-flung spores in time to save the city.

  There was only one chance left and he took it without thinking of or caring for the consequences to his own person. He uttered another brief two-word mantra, one that was designed to cause conflagrations. One of the two words was a secret name of Rudra, He Who Was Shiva, The Destroyer Of Creation, adding a potency
sufficient to reduce an entire forest to smouldering ashes. It was one used only as a last resort, but he was beyond desperate now: he cared not that he would die, only that he must succeed, not for the sake of personal glory or legend, but for the thousands of innocent Ayodhyans who would die for no fault of theirs.

  He uttered the last phrase of the shloka just as consciousness left him completely. He slipped into the final darkness without knowing whether he had succeeded or failed in his desperate attempt.

  A collective gasp escaped the throats of all those upon the avenue. Looking up at the sage Valmiki falling through the dissipated cloud of greenish black spores exuded by Kala-Nemi – nay, the cloud of spores that was Kala-Nemi – they watched in horror as he burst into blinding white flame. So explosive was the effect that most were forced to cover their faces with their hands, and even through their fingers they felt the searing heat of the conflagration.

  The ball of fire that had been a human being an instant ago blazed fiercely as it fell towards the ground – moving at an unnaturally slow speed as if some unseen force cushioned its descent and defied the natural law of gravity. The searing white flame that enveloped the sage’s body shot out in all directions like spumes which raced at blinding speed along the tentacles of spores that extended across the city’s rooftops, snaking down into houses and streets and mansions now. As it whooshed through the air like a hawk in pursuit of a pigeon, thousands of spores were fried instantly by its searing passage, and fell in wisps of ash to the ground. In a moment, the entire network of dark tentacles was reduced to fingers of white flame, blazing brightly for a fraction, then extinguished for want of anything left to burn.

  In distant streets and lanes, miles away from the palace, as citizens went about their work or stood in groups discussing the rumours of strange unnatural events occurring elsewhere in the city, including some staring up in morbid fascination at the strange phenomenon descending from the sky, the white flames caught up with individual spores as they were about to enter one man’s ear, a woman’s nostril, a child’s body through an open cut on his left shoulder…. The people in question barely noticed the spores that would have brought about their death in hours, and completely failed to notice the tiny wisps of ash that now lingered floating in the air, little knowing how narrowly they had escaped a horrible, writhing death.

  Gazing down from his vantage point, Hanuman watched in dumb fascination as the rishi’s last act found success in the nick of time, destroying the last of the poisonous particles that were all that remained of Kala-Nemi. He had seen and heard and understood all. And now he also saw that the rishi’s final sacrifice would result in certain death as his blazing body finally approached the very Prithvi Maa he had prayed to so fervently only moments earlier. Barely a minute had passed since he had let Valmiki fall. Yet in that minute, the rishi had acted more bravely than any defender of this great proud city. Surely he could not be allowed to die now?

  Lunging with a determined roar, Hanuman bent down and reached for the burning body. His fingers closed around it and he roared again with agony at the scorching heat of the white flames as he grasped the body of the sage. He remained still for a moment, regaining his balance, and noted that the sage’s falling body was barely two yards from the broken rubble on the avenue when he had caught him. He shut his fist tight, then closed his other fist upon it, shutting out all access to air in a bid to douse the flames. He kept his paws shut tightly thus for a moment, praying, ignoring the pain and the singed fur on the backs of his paws. After a few moments, he opened them and stared down mutely at what remained of the great sage Valmiki.

  KAAND 2

  ONE

  As Bharat approached the towering, barred top of the seventh gate, a few flecks of white ash drifted down around him. He ignored them and nodded at the gatekeeper in charge of Ayodhya’s first line of defence. Although to visitors it was the first gate they encountered when entering the city, for Ayodhyans it was the last and outermost, hence the seventh. Among the sub-varna of kshatriyas that manned the gates generation after generation, it was a matter of pride that the seventh gate boasted the toughest security. It was here that the biggest fights, feuds and brawls tended to break out, especially amongst those who were afraid of flaunting Ayodhya’s well-enforced laws against physical altercations within city limits. Only the toughest and most weathered PFs tended to get duty here, and the man who nodded curtly at him looked like a fair specimen. He was a grizzled veteran with the signs of his tours in the Last Asura Wars prominently displayed on his purple-black uniform, a bear-like man who must have been a formidable sight fully armoured on the battlefield and was impressive if sagging even now, aging roughly, almost entirely white-headed – what little hair he had left – and Bharat had seen his familiar face peering down over the top of the seventh gate ever since he had been a boy. The younger man standing beside him looked half his age but what he lacked in grizzled appearance he made up for with an impressively built physique and a certain calm and deceptively slow look about his face and body that Bharat recognized at once as signs of a skilled and tested fighter. He wondered idly if the younger man was the elder’s son – family traditions ran strong in Arya varnas – then focussed on the matter at hand. There were more important things at stake here. The future of his entire dynasty and kingdom, for one.

  “Gatekeeper…” he elicited.

  “Somasra, PF,” replied the older man sharply.

  “Gatekeeper Somasra, open the sally port on my command, shut it immediately after I pass through and open it again only on my command

  – and after you eyeball me personally. Am I clear?”

  The veteran nodded slowly, leaned sideways over the edge of the bridge, hawked and spat a jet-stream of blood-red tobacco juice into the moat. Something thrashed and rolled far below. “Pardon my speaking out of turn, yuvraj, but think you ‘tis wise to venture forth to that mob?”

  Bharat sensed Shatrugan about to bark a rebuke and squeezed his brother’s arm, stilling him. “You do speak out of turn, oldun. But wise or not, it’s necessary.”

  The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand – Bharat noted that the man’s forearm bore a distinct stain from years of this habit – and cleared his throat roughly. “Pardon my impudence again, young liege. But my advice is to exchange whatever pleasantries are needed from a safe vantage.” He jerked his head upwards, indicating the rampart walls high above him.

  Bharat resisted the impulse to smile. There was little to smile about this day. “Why? Do you fear for my life? Don’t worry. I doubt they would start a siege by cutting down a Suryavansha Ikshwaku without cause. An unarmed one at that.” He paused. “I intend to go out bare-handed and with only peace in my heart. Whatever their grievance, I doubt they would violate the kshatriya code.”

  Still the man remained standing in Bharat’s path. Shatrugan made a sound of impatience but Bharat gave him another gentle squeeze and his brother subsided. The young gatekeeper beside Somasra glanced impassively at his senior, and Bharat was intrigued to see a flash of some emotion there as well. Clearly, the two mismatched gatewatchers had been together for a long time, and the younger had his share of frustrations dealing with the older man. But he also respects him tremendously. As if feeling Bharat’s attention focussed on him, the younger man glanced at him and again there was something in his expression that suggested that Bharat pay heed to what the senior man was saying, as well as something else; a sense of apology for the older man’s brusqueness perhaps?

  “Yuvraj Bharat, you will pardon me,” the grizzled old veteran said in a voice hoarsened by years of chewing tobacco and yelling on the job. “I am only performing my duty. Would it be amiss of me to repeat my request that you speak to those outside from the ramparts rather than venturing out to meet them personally?”

  Bharat frowned. Now he was genuinely puzzled. This went beyond mere concern for his personal safety. What was the old man trying to say? And why was the younger man looking at him with th
at peculiar expression, as if he understood the old man’s reasons for saying what he did but still felt embarrassed about it.

  Shatrugan put it into words in his cut-and-dried manner: “He’s afraid you’ll slip the enemy in through our defences, Bharat.”

  It took Bharat a moment to fully comprehend the import of that statement, then it hit him with a flash of heat in the back of his brain. “Are you daring to suggest I would use my position to let my uncle pass through?”

  Gatekeeper Somasra spread his broad hands – they looked like they had been broken and incorrectly set a long time ago – in a placating gesture. “I’m following gatewatch protocol, my lord. Under threat of siege or invasion from a large armed and hostile force, nobody is to be allowed out or in. No exceptions. Total lockdown.”

  “I know the rules for lockdown—” Bharat began, then stopped.

  He looked at Shatrugan. For once, his brother was not upset or angry. He didn’t look like he wanted to smash the gatekeeper in the face. Bharat glanced at the younger gatewatch. The young man still looked somewhat sheepish – and no wonder – but still as resolute and standing shoulder to shoulder with his senior. He looked at the old man Somasra himself then, and as his first flush of anger passed, he saw something there that made him terribly, deeply proud to be an Ayodhyan. The man knew that questioning the actions and orders of a royal prince was grounds for immediate execution, should Bharat but give the word. The circumstances would be considered irrelevant. Kingship and military chain of command superseded everything else. Yet he had pressed his point. Why? Because it was the right thing to do. The man was right. Just because that was Bharat’s own maternal uncle out there, that did not justify his violating his kingdom’s laws. A lockdown was implemented for good reason. Otherwise, every royal family member could find some reason or other to sally forth and back, and the cherished gate security for which Ayodhya was world-renowned might as well be called a revolving gate-bar for children to swing on round and round.