And yet, one went to war when one had to, when there was no other way to survive, to protect one’s own, to defend one’s land.
Was this campaign they were embarking upon, this grand Ashwamedha yagna, a necessary one? Would it serve its stated purpose and unite all the various factions of the Kosala nation and neighbouring principalities as well, or would it simply be seen as a naked act of aggression. An open declaration of war to serve Rama’s intentions of building an empire? Might it not be misconstrued to be the very opposite of what it was intended to be, as things often were in this world? And what then? Total war with all Aryavarta? With their own fellow Aryas, Bharatas, call them whatever one desired? Unite them at the point of a sword? Compel them to bow symbolically to the magnificent black horse – and, by implication, to Samrat Rama Chandra as well? Or, if they refused to acknowledge the horse and to let it pass freely to rove across their lands, symbolizing Rama’s claim over those territories, then what? Round them up like stray kine and force them to bow?
Lakshman’s bond with Rama was such that it far exceeded any normal mortal standard of loyalty. He would do every single thing he was told or expected to do, regardless of the consequences. But he was deeply concerned about some of Rama’s recent decisions; particularly those that he felt might have adverse effects on Rama’s own well-being.
In particular, this Ashwamedha campaign troubled him greatly. It was too loud a statement of imperial might and power, too provocative a display. He feared it might well stoke the fires of disagreement and churlishness into a full-blown rebellion. He was glad that the horse had chosen to head South at the outset rather than North. Had the stallion gone the other way, the pahadi tribes and the rugged Himalayan clans would have taken it as an outright taunt and come roaring down to do battle. Blood would have been shed before the horse could go more than a few dozen yojanas. Thankfully, the nations to the immediate South of Ayodhya were less belligerent and might be more prudent in their response to the yagna. At least, he hoped so.
He was also deeply uncomfortable with the deviation from the ritual. As per Vedic ritual, the Ashwamedha yagna had to be initiated by the Queen Consort in order to be fruitful. That meant Sita, of course, because Rama had no other wives or concubines. Lakshman knew for a fact that Rama had not so much as laid hands on another woman with that intent since Sita’s departure. Since only the King’s own consort could undertake the ritual, that left a void. The purohits had urged Rama not to undertake the yagna as it would be inauspicious to do so in the Queen’s absence. One or two bold pundits had even suggested—timidly and with appropriate deference—that perhaps Rama might choose to take a wife in order to fulfill the ritual requirement. After all, Arya kings were required by dharma to produce progeny, especially heirs, and Rama had none.
Rama would not hear of it, of course. Instead, he had ordered that a life-size effigy be made of Sita, carved from jet black lohitstone—the famed ironwood of the Sarayu Valley—and fixed upon a one-horse chariot. The statue had been used as a stand-in for the ritual, despite the disapproving protests of the purohits, and it was that same statue that now followed close behind the unbridled horse at the head of the great procession winding its way out of Ayodhya.
He twisted in his saddle to look back at the endless rows of foot-soldiers stretching out along the raj-marg as far as the eye could see, over the rise of Seventh Hill, and down to the Sarayu Valley, stretching yojanas back towards Ayodhya—and yojanas up ahead as well. The chariots and horse regiments had already gone on ahead and the elephants were being taken by a different route to avoid congesting the raj-marg further. The sheer logistics of the campaign were mind-boggling and if not for the rote obedience of Ayodhya’s troops, this undertaking would have been impossible. As it was, there would be a line of grama-trains following behind the army, stretching back all the way to Ayodhya, in order to keep this enormous fauj supplied and fed.
He spurred his horse into a canter, moving up the rise and beyond the Sarayu Valley in moments. Ahead lay the mist-shrouded silhouette of Mithila Bridge. The spray produced by the impact of the roaring white waters striking the rocks below cast a perpetual mist-shroud over the bridge. Seen now at this angle, with the rising sun peeping over the eastern horizon, the infinite droplets of water suspended in mid air caught the sunlight and refracted it, turning the air around the bridge into a glittering veil of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. It was a sight to behold. After being shown this same sight as young boys, Rama and he had taken to riding out here to view the sunrise over Mithila Bridge every day for a week, even though they had been forbidden at the time to go outside the Sarayu Valley. That was before they had achieved the age of seven and turned old enough to go to Guru Vashishta’s gurukul for formal education. Lakshman leaned on his pommel and smiled at the thought: those had been some of the best years of his life. The world had been filled with infinite wonder and hope, the impossible had seemed possible, the sky had loomed larger and bluer, the river’s cool water an elixir of youth, and they had been princes of the earth and all upon it. Princes of Ayodhya.
The smile faded slowly as he remembered who and where he was and the many duties, chores and obligations of his post returned to clamour for his attention and time. He was still a Prince, and Rama now a Emperor, not just a King. But nothing was the same again. Even the mesmerizing beauty of the sunlight refracting through the mist over Mithila Bridge seemed like a tawdry effect produced by a travelling theatre troupe for an hour’s entertainment. Those two boys who had sat thus upon this very ridge, chins resting on their palms, elbows on their pommels, gazing at this very sight with ecstatic rapture…those boys were long gone. And with them, all that they felt and hoped and dreamed was gone as well.
Lakshman shook his head to clear it of foolish fancies and childhood memories. Twisting his horse’s bit a little harder than was needed, he rode down the raj-marg past the endless lines of soldiers, picking up pace as he went. Some sipahis raised their wooden shields instinctively to avoid being struck across the face by the pebbles and stray stones kicked up by his horse as he passed, one of the routine hazards of foot travel on the king’s highway. The majority didn’t even bother with the shields and trudged on in the infinitely plodding way of all foot soldiers.
By the time he reached Mithila Bridge, he had forgotten all about those childhood mornings spent watching this magical sight from the ridge. Like the ridge itself, those idyllic childhood days were behind him now. He rode onwards, leaving them both behind.
The head of the procession had reached the junction where the raj-marg forked in three directions: one road went on over the hilly ranges to Mithila, another went west, and the third went east. The chariot with the black wax statue was almost at the crossroads as Lakshman came riding up at a brisk canter. The sarathi driving it was none other than the old pradhan mantri Sumantra, his straggly white hair tied behind his head, his large bald spot shiny with perspiration. He glanced back as Lakshman came up beside him, then jerked his head, pointing.
Lakshman looked in that direction and saw the black stallion stopped by the side of the crossroads, head lowered, munching kusa grass. He looked like any wild horse ranging freely, stopping where he pleased, foraging when he desired. And he was free. The great army following behind him was none of his concern after all. The whole point of the Ashwamedha yagna was that the horse represented Rama and that Rama was free to go where he pleased. It was only when he was stayed by any man’s hand that it represented a challenge to Ayodhya’s sovereignity and could be regarded as tantamount to a declaration of war.
Lakshman fervently hoped that no man would be foolish or rebellious enough to stay the stallion. Declaring war against Ayodhya was one thing; challenging the might of this great army was suicide. This was no mere token force symbolizing the sovereignity of Ayodhya, as the horse ritual customarily required; it was the entire fighting strength of the nation! There had rarely been a precedent for such a massive display of military might, if only be
cause most chieftains and tribal leaders might rightly view it as exceeding the requirements of the Vedic rite and amounting to imperialistic aggression. Which, Lakshman admitted regretfully, it was indeed.
He glanced back at the winding line, stretching back across the gently undulating dips and rises of the raj-marg, like a great serpent snaking its way across the land. Like the serpent it resembled, its sole intention was to swallow the independent nations and tribes of the Bharata world alive.
“If we stand here, the line will have to stop,” he said to Sumantra, leaning over the rim of the chariot. “And if the line stops…”
Sumantra nodded. A veteran of more logistical operations than Lakshman had year-notches on his life-stick, he was well aware of the problems that would arise if such a large juggernaut had to stop and stand for even a few minutes. The resulting congestion and confusion would snarl up the raj-marg for hours. The best thing for such a huge force was to keep it moving, constantly moving, stopping only when they reached one of the designated overnight campsites. The old face turned eastwards, catching the sunlight which unkindly limned every one of the myriad lines and creases of the aged statesman’s features. In his own quiet, unassuming way, Sumantra was part of the unselfishly dedicated system that had kept Ayodhya functioning through every crisis, war and outbreak. Men and women like he were the backbone of the nation and of Arya civilization itself. The basic tenet of Vedic philosophy: to do one’s duty without concern or desire for the fruits of one’s labours, was rarely better exemplified than in men like Sumantra.
“Lord Bhadra has given instructions that if the horse should stop, it is to be encouraged,” he said quietly to Lakshman. Even though there was nobody within hearing distance—the first row of cavalry was several yards behind them—it was evident that he was speaking the words for Lakshman’s ears only.
Lakshman glanced at him curiously. They were not supposed to lead or guide the horse, merely to follow it. But Sumantra already knew that better than he: he had presided over the Ashwamedha yagnas performed by Lakshman’s own father Dasaratha decades ago. What did this odd instruction from Bhadra mean?
“Encouraged…?” Lakshman asked, nonplussed.
Sumantra nodded, his ragged white eyebrows almost concealing his dark brown eyes, but said nothing further.
Lakshman glanced back at the stallion. The animal took hold of a fresh clump of green kusa grass with his teeth, yanking it out slowly, then threw his head back and began munching on it happily. Frothy cud dripped from the sides of his mouth. He looked like he could stay there in that little patch of meadow beside the crossroads all day long. His tail twitched rhythmically, shooing off a swarm of midges and mites.
Lakshman considered the location where the stallion had chosen to partake of its impromptu repast. If the animal were to go eastwards as the raj-marg itself led, it would end up in Videha territory, the sister nation to Kosala. That would mean a direct challenge to Mithila, sister city of Ayodhya, seat of the moonwood throne of the Chandravanshi dynasty and ancient ally to Ayodhya, seat of the sunwood throne of the Suryavansha dynasty. Maharaja Janak of Mithila was the very opposite of an aggressive king; he had disbanded his army years ago, employing only a reserve guard and relying on a citizen’s militia that adored their liege and his kind paternal regime so fiercely that they acted as a better deterrent than any salaried army. Not a soul in the Videha nation would raise so much as a finger of aggression against Ayodhya, or attempt to captivate the sacred stallion on its ritual course; but in the unlikely event that there were to be an incident on Videha land, it would lead to terrible, undesirable consequences. Maharaja Janaka was not merely the kindest, most spiritually enlightened and humanitarian Arya king in all Aryavarta, he was also Lakshman’s and his brothers’ father-in-law, for all four sons of Dasaratha were married to Janak’s daughters or adoptive daughters.
Including my banished sister-in-law, he thought with a twinge of sadness even after all these years.
For the stallion to tread on Videha land, or so much as turn its head toward Mithila, could well bode disaster.
On the other hand, were the beast to head south and west, it would then pass through the great Naimisha-van forest, bordering the great central aranya—the Arya term for uncivilized and unsettled wilderness – and would transgress no borders or boundaries.
Lakshman knew the old pradhan mantri well enough to understand when he was attempting to communicate much more than he was able to say aloud. Sumantra was telling him that Bhadra—and no doubt the rest of the War Council—wanted the horse to stray into friendly territory, to provoke an incident and justify annexure. It was a heart-stopping thought but, he realized with a sinking heart, also the logical corollary of the yagna itself. The Ashwamedha yagna was not conducted merely to remind existing vassals of the king’s dominance; it was intended as a campaign of expansion and consolidation. His heart raced as he considered the horror of invoking outright war with his wife’s homeland. Unthinkable! Yet not for Bhadra, Jabali and those other war-mongers. He had heard them speak lasciviously of Videha’s considerable wealth as well as its lack of a standing armed force. Clearly, this was the first phase of their plans of empirical ‘expansion’. If they could give instructions for the horse to be ‘encouraged’ into Videha lands, they could as easily arrange for a few mercenaries to captivate the horse and justify Ayodhya’s declaration of war against the Videha nation for that transgression. In the horror that followed, it would hardly matter whether or not the men who stopped the horse had been Videha citizens or Kosala citizens or neither—their dead bodies would be all the evidence needed to inflame Videha’s passions and cause their citizen militia to take up arms in their own defense.
On the other hand, if a horse could be encouraged to go in one direction, it could as easily be encouraged to go in another.
Lakshman smiled.
He glanced at Sumantra who looked at him with interest. Lakshman knew that the old statesmen was sharp enough to have followed a similar line of thought, even if he might not see Lakshman’s solution to the problem. But Sumantra said nothing.
In turn, Lakshman himself dared not speak his thoughts aloud: he knew the efficacacy of Rama’s spasas too well to risk being caught saying the wrong thing himself. As the Enforcer of the law, it would not do for him to be caught subverting the imperial diktat. And Bhadra’s word was no less than Rama’s word.
Lakshman unslung his bow, put an arrow to the string and aimed at a rotting tree trunk lying at the edge of a thicket. It was just beyond the patch where the stallion grazed, the line of fire passing just behind the sacred horse itself. With a single motion, he loosed the arrow, sending it flying just behind the rump of the sacred stallion. The horse was never in danger: Lakshman was a master bowman. The arrow missed the beast by a clear inch or three, passing through the small cloud of midges around the stallion’s rear, but the wind and violence of its passing were enough for the sensitive creature to instantly lurch forward, its grazing forgotten.
A clump of half-chewed kusa grass fell from its open jaws as it neighed softly in dismay, then, with the inevitable skittishness of the equine species, it neighed twice more, sidling sideways nervously, then picked up its heels in a brisk trot, heading in a south-westerly direction. Precisely the opposite direction from the arrow that had grazed its rump. Towards the great central aranya of Naimisha-van and the Southwoods that lay beside and below it. No-man’s land. And certainly, no king’s.
Lakshman looked back at Sumantra. The old minister smiled approvingly, then dropped one bushy-browed lid in a loud wink.
Lakshman winked back, then rode on after the horse, into the woods.
Ayodhya followed.
THREE
Nakhudi and Bejoo made their way carefully through the woods on horseback, Nakhudi leading the way as she knew these forests and he did not. That is to say, he knew the paths and the raj-marg well enough, but they had left those behind a long way back. They were now in uncharted terrain and if no
t for Nakhudi, Bejoo had no doubt that he and his band could be wandering in these woods for weeks without being able to find their way.
Bejoo glanced back from time to time at the riders following them. The forest floor was littered with leaves that had been dampened by a shower or two that morning and the mulch formed a carpet that muffled their hoofbeats. Apart from the occasional snicker or whinny of a horse, there was almost no sound to indicate that almost a hundred men were making their way through the woods on horseback. Had they been young brash recruits like the ones he had commanded on that last grama-train, he had no doubt they would be drinking and laughing and bantering loudly enough to wake up the entire forest for miles around and alert anyone who might be ahead that they were coming.
But these were Purana Wafadars in truth, not merely in name like those new upstarts who wore the purple-and-black without having earned the colours. Every single man here was known personally to Bejoo, several older than he, veterans of war before he was so much as a suckling babe on his Maatr’s arm. All had seen battle numerous times and suffered injuries ranging from grevious to maiming, forcing them to retire from active duty and enter the PF regiments. Many had had the pleasure of serving directly under Saprem Senapati Dheeraj Kumar during the heydey of the PFs. Now, Dheeraj Kumar was long gone, en route to his ancestors, and it was his son Drishti Kumar who was now Saprem Senapati, two of his grandsons Captains of the King’s Guard, a grand-daughter a Captain of the Queen’s Guard, and numerous other grandsons and grand-daughters serving their nation in other martial capacities. At least three men in the group following Bejoo now had served under Maharaja Dasaratha himself in the Last Asura Wars, which made them old enough to be Bejoo’s grandfather.
RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA Page 46
