Bharat raised an arm, warding off her words, blocking his view of her, as if he could not bear to look at Manthara’s face. ‘I do not hear you any more. I do not see you any more. You are no longer human. No more one of us than a mist-wraith or a graveyard ghoul. I banish you from this house for ever. If you ever cross the threshold of Suryavansha Palace again, may Devi herself strike you down in her fury, for I will not spare you again as I do now. I bid you go from this place at once. Take nothing, for you have taken enough from us already. Go from here and never return.’
Silence hung from the eaves of the cavernous hall when his words had faded. Manthara stood gaping at him with her mouth open and her hands hanging limply by her sides, stunned.
‘Go before I kill you,’ Bharat said, not shouting, but speaking in a voice so potent with threat that even Kausalya’s hackles rose. Manthara staggered back, falling over her own feet in terror. She stumbled and struck her head against the pedestal of the sunwood throne. Recovering, she stared one last time at Bharat’s face, as if convincing herself of what she was seeing and hearing.
A look of pure hatred came over her face, a look so evil that Kausalya almost cried out to Bharat, Strike her down, strike her down now, or have her shadow hanging over us for ever; kill her and be done with it.
But she could not bring herself to say the words aloud. Because she knew that what Bharat had done was right. Whatever the hag had done to them, whatever evil she had wrought, it would be ten times worse for them to stain their own hands with her blood. Bharat had done the just thing in sparing her. A painful and immeasurably difficult thing, but the right thing. Even Rama would have done no differently. He will make a good king, she thought, even in that moment of desolation and loss. As good a king as Rama would have been. The realisation pierced her heart, causing a moment of pure agony. In that instant, Kausalya truly accepted her loss, and the kingdom’s loss as well. Rama was gone. And yet Bharat had done right in sparing the life of the witch who was responsible for Rama’s absence.
Upon the dais, Bharat, finished with Manthara, set his mace down and knelt before his mother, checking her pulse and breath in anxious concern.
That was when Manthara struck back.
The green witch raised her clawed hands and screamed again, as she had done before raising the witchfire ball to strike at Kausalya. Then she began to chant some arcane asura mantra, perhaps the same one she had uttered earlier, it was impossible to say. She chanted and raved, spittle flew from her lips, and her hands rose and fell in a rictus of rage and frustration.
But nothing happened.
No green fire flashed.
No witchfire ball appeared.
No invisible darts or daggers struck at either Bharat or Kausalya.
After a long moment of shocked silence, Manthara lowered her hands, staring at them in disbelief. ‘My lord?’ Her voice cracked in dismay. ‘My lord, why have you deserted me now of all times? Now when I need your shakti most? Give me power, my lord. Let me complete the task you have entrusted unto me. Let me destroy this family and wipe their last traces from the face of the earth!’
She fell to her knees, sobbing and raising her arms to the ceiling as she screeched her banshee screech again. ‘Give me shakti, my lord!’
But nothing happened. Nothing extraordinary took place. The green witch was gone. In her place there was only an old hunchbacked, wizened daiimaa, kneeling at the threshold of her own ruin, weeping tears of angry frustration.
EIGHT
They were outside the city and on the raj-marg when Sumantra caught up with them. The pradhan-mantri rode up alongside, reining in the six-horse team pulling his personal chariot. He stepped down on to the king’s road, paying no heed to the dust of his own passage swirling around him, and strode to where they had stopped at the sound of the chariot’s approach. The prime minister prostrated himself on the road, touching Rama’s feet.
‘Rama!’ he cried. ‘Rama!’ When he looked up, his age-lined face was wreathed in tears. ‘Grave injustice has been done today. A grave injustice.’
Lakshman fought back his own emotions as he watched Rama raise the broken-hearted man to his feet. Blinking away more than mere dust from his eyes, he saw that several pedestrians and mounted travellers had stopped to stare at the odd sight of the country’s foremost statesman prostrating himself before what appeared to be a lowly janitor, for Rama and Sita were still cloaked in the garb of chamars.
Lakshman glanced around, keeping a wary eye on the crowd that began to gather quickly. The raj-marg was unusually busy for this hour. After the curfews and omnipresent threat of asura invasion that had darkened the Arya nations these past weeks, the clouds had parted to allow the sun of peace to shine through. Today’s coronation had put the silverfoil on the mithai, officially lifting all curfews and travel restrictions. These people gathering around curiously were from all over the kingdom, come to Ayodhya for trade, exchange, as well as to see the future king being crowned. He wondered how they would react if they knew that their future king was right here amongst them, clad in a cleaner’s grimy clothes and the dust of the road, making his way into exile?
‘Sumantra,’ Rama said, embracing the weeping prime minister. ‘Good Sumantra. Whatever is done is done. It is not meet that you follow us like this. You must return to the palace at once. My brother Bharat will have need of your decades of experience and your sage counsel. Ayodhya and Kosala have need of you. The sunwood throne and Suryavansha Palace need you.’
‘I do not serve brick and stone, gold and dust,’ the prime minister said, uncaring of the tears flowing freely down his face. ‘I serve the Ikshwaku Suryavanshas, the noblest Aryas since the beginning of time. And you, my lord, are the descendant of Suryadeva and Manu, the great progenitors of that great dynasty. You are the true heir to the Suryavansha throne. Therefore, dharma dictates that I serve you, my lord Rama.’
Rama reached out, gently wiping the tears from Sumantra’s lined cheeks with his bare hands. ‘Weep no more, chacha. For you are as a brother to my father, and so have my brothers and I called you chacha since we were able to speak. Listen well to my words now. You will still serve me by serving my last wishes. Go now, return to Ayodhya and await my brother’s return. Help Bharat rule wisely and well, long may he prevail.’
Sumantra seemed to regain a measure of control at Rama’s strong, calming words. When Rama speaks, even wild beasts cease to roar and snarl, Lakshman thought.
It was an old saying in Ayodhya, one that had some measure of truth, for when they were boys in Guru Vashishta’s ashram, Rama had displayed an extraordinary affinity with animals and a remarkable talent for soothing even the wild beasts of the forest by the hermitage. But grief was a more difficult animal to soothe.
‘Will you not reconsider?’ Sumantra asked, looking up at the face of his prince with heart-rending pathos. ‘Will you not return and save us all from the darkness that looms endlessly ahead?’
Rama lowered his hands, still damp with Sumantra’s tears. ‘What looms ahead is merely destiny, chacha. As long as my brother rules, the sun will continue to shine brightly on the sunwood throne and those who seek out its justice. If there are shadows, they are only those cast by the sun itself, for wherever there is sunlight, there must be shadow as well, its twin in nature. As for my path, it is set upon this road that leads eventually to the edge of the Northwoods, thence to proceed to the remote jungle of Dandaka-van, according to the terms of my exile decided by my father and my mother Kaikeyi.’
He raised his chin, indicating the marg ahead. ‘And now we must resume our journey, good Sumantra. For we have a long way to go yet, and I wish to cross the Kosala kingdom’s border before nightfall.’
‘Hold but a moment, Rama,’ Sumantra said, putting his hand out. ‘If you must go, if you will brook no other alternative, if this is the karma that you have chosen to accept for yourself,’ he dipped his head respectfully to Sita and Lakshman, ‘and for your new bride and your good brother, if this is
what you must do, then at least let me carry you in my chariot as far as the road allows.’
Rama hesitated, glancing at the chariot. Lakshman used the brief pause to look around once more. The crowd had swelled surprisingly fast. Or not surprisingly, when you considered the exceptionally busy traffic on the raj-marg today, and the fact that it wasn’t every day people saw their prime minister weeping at the feet of their prince-heir on the public highway. From the whispers and looks being exchanged by people in the crowd, he could see that their identity was no longer a secret. Had Sumantra not appeared, they could have continued to walk unrecognised down the road. But now, after hearing the words spoken by the pradhan-mantri and Rama, nobody remained in any doubt as to who they were. In another few moments this crowd would begin to clamour and demand to know what was going on. Why was their prince travelling in this lowly garb? Where was he heading with his wife and brother on his own coronation day? What was going on in Ayodhya?
So it was with great relief that Lakshman heard Rama say at last, ‘I see no violation of my orders in doing so, chacha. On behalf of all three of us, I shall be glad to accept your offer.’
As Sumantra ran to unlatch and lower the foot-steps that made boarding the chariot easier, Lakshman sidled closer to Rama.
‘Bhai,’ he said softly, ‘it would be best if we depart as quickly as possible. There is no telling how these people may take the news of your exile once their hearts accept the evidence of their ears.’
‘Fret not, Lakshman,’ Rama replied just as quietly. ‘They are all good Kosalans. Whatever their reaction, it will be motivated by love and concern, nothing more. We have nothing to fear from our own people.’
Lakshman wasn’t very sure of that. Even as Sita climbed aboard the chariot, followed by Rama, he glanced nervously around at the considerable crowd that now filled the highway. They were all murmuring and muttering unhappily, bending mouths to ears and debating the extraordinary scene that had unfolded before them, and what it might mean. A portly trader with a wagonload of grain called out anxiously as Lakshman climbed up on the chariot. He spoke in one of the regional dialects, obscured by a thick western accent. Lakshman didn’t understand anything he said except the one word, ‘Rama’. The man was answered by a group of carpet-makers with the tools of their trade slung around their waists. Instantly, pandemonium broke out. The crowd surged forward, reaching out for the chariot, calling out plaintively.
Rama looked as if he would speak to them, but Lakshman gestured quickly to Sumantra. The pradhan-mantri caught his meaning and nodded. With a deft flick of his wrist, the prime minister drove the horse-team forward, setting the chariot rolling down the raj-marg. The crowd fell back, but some ran after
their dust-wake as if meaning to follow them. Soon the chariot caught speed and outpaced them easily. Lakshman breathed more easily as he turned to look forward. It felt good to be mobile again. For probably the last time in fourteen years ,he thought bitterly. There will be no chariots, wheel-houses or horses in the Dandaka-van. Your weary feet will be your only transport hereafter, Shanks’s mare will be your only mount hereafter, so enjoy this ride while it lasts.
All four of them were silent as the chariot rolled on down the king’s road. They passed many people on the way, most on foot, the traders riding heavily burdened carts of goods and produce for selling at handsome Ayodhyan profits, and even a caravanserai or two, long lines of camel-borne tribes and enormous extended families numbering a hundred or more, all winding towards Ayodhya on this momentous day.
After a while, they passed the point at which their procession from Mithila had stopped on the way back home to Ayodhya, when Guru Vashishta had initiated the lighting up of the city before their astonished eyes. Glancing back, Lakshman could still picture the glorious effulgence of that magnificent display. Now the city lay shrouded by an early-morning mist wafting off the river, like a widow veiled in mourning. The brilliant lights, the cheers, the fluttering banners, the showers of rose petals, the shouts and chants of the crowd, the cries of the children, the yells of the maidens, all that seemed a memory of something that had happened several lifetimes ago rather than just yesterday. So much had changed in a single night. And, Lakshman thought grimly as he stood astride the rumbling chariot, gripping the hilt of his sword in an anger-tightened fist, much more would change yet. This was only the beginning. Fourteen long years stretched before them, like a desolate highway leading into a barren wilderness.
So this is the wages of heroism, he thought, and almost laughed aloud at the ludicrousness of their lot. This is how we are repaid for risking our lives to serve our people? Your justice is great indeed, devas.
Beside him, Rama stood in a silence matching his own, staring out at the road ahead, his profile carved in granite, smooth and unyielding. Not once during that long ride did Rama ever turn his face back to gaze upon the city. But Lakshman looked back several times, as if drawn by some powerful urge that would not release its hold on his heart.
Kaikeyi regained consciousness with a great inhalation of breath, as if she had been trapped in a windless tomb and was only now able to breathe freely once more. She gasped and coughed, choking in her eagerness to gulp in air. ‘Jal,’ she said as soon as she could manage speech again, ‘jal.’ Water.
Bharat offered a jal-bartan of water to her and she tried to take it, but her hands shook and the water spilt on the front of her sari. Bharat held the jal-bartan to her lips and she drank gratefully, emptying the vessel and then most of a second one. The simple act of slaking her thirst calmed her and she shut her eyes, leaning back against the cushioned head of the bed. She sat still a few moments, breathing.
When she opened her eyes again, there were tears in them. ‘Dasa,’ she said with more pain and regret than Bharat had heard her express before. ‘Dasa!’
Her eyes turned to Bharat’s face, searching, questioning. Her hand gripped his arm, fingernails digging into his flesh. ‘It was a nightmare, only a nightmare. None of it was true, was it?’
Bharat couldn’t bear to look at her face any more. At the anguish and regret of a woman who had been in the taloned grasp of a nightmare in which she committed unforgivable deeds; and now, awake again, could not live with the memories of those deeds. He glanced up at Shatrugran, standing on the other side of the bed. Shatrugan’s eyes were still red from comforting his own mother. Kaikeyi followed Bharat’s gaze, saw Shatrugan and turned on him, desperately pleading, ‘Shatrugan, my son. Tell me. It was not true. I did not do such a thing, did I? I could not have!’
Shatrugan looked away as well. Kaikeyi gazed around, but there was nobody else in the room, only a palace guard at the door - not one of her own clansmen. He stood indifferently, uncaring of the rani’s emotions, staring straight ahead as his duty warranted. Yet even in that unknown guard’s face and demeanour, Kaikeyi seemed to see something. A cold aloofness, a remoteness that went beyond discipline. An air of uncaring that verged on outright loathing.
She struggled with the bedcovers, almost falling over herself. The dressings on her abdomen wounds began to unravel.
‘What are you doing?’ Bharat asked, catching her before she could tumble headlong out of bed.
‘I must go to him,’ she said, her voice rising in hysteria. ‘I must go to him and apologise at once.’
He restrained her firmly. ‘Father is very ill. In a coma. He cannot see anyone. Only Guruji and Maa are with him, trying to do what they can to ease his passage to the afterlife. He has only a little while longer.’ Bharat’s voice was polite and well modulated, but there was no attempt to soften the blow, to break the news gently. After all, the implication lay in his words, you are more than partly responsible for his condition.
Kaikeyi stared up at him. ‘Maa?’
He frowned. ‘What?’
‘You called Kausalya maa and addressed me directly, without once calling me mother.’
Bharat looked away, his face showing no regret. ‘She is as much my mother as you are.’ He
added slowly, ‘Perhaps more so, these past weeks.’
Kaikeyi stared up at him, seeing that he meant the words, that they were not spoken merely to hurt her -Bharat actually felt more like Kausalya’s son than her own. If anything, that honesty hurt her even more than any display of pique would have. She reached out, taking his face in her hands. He had so much of her in his features, his craggy jawline, those high, wide cheekbones, the ever-so-slightly slanting eyes set together predatorially close, the narrow, low forehead with its bushy brows.
‘Putra,’ she said, her voice trembling. Son. ‘Putra, look at me.’
He looked at her reluctantly.
‘Do you … hate me very much?’ she asked.
He reached up and took her hands away from his face, returning them to her lap. ‘This is no time to sit around talking,’ he said gruffly. ‘I have much to do. There is trouble in the city.
Riots threaten. The council have offered their resignations. The mountain clans are calling for a referendum to—’ He shook his head. ‘This is the worst day of my life.’
‘Just answer me that one question,’ she cried as he started to rise. ‘Do you hate me for what I did?’
He looked down at her hand, grasping his ang-vastra. ‘How can a son hate his own birth-mother?’
She shook her head. ‘That is no answer. I want to know, Bharat. I want to know if you can live with the knowledge of what I did.’ When he didn’t answer immediately, she went on, ‘It’s true I was under the influence of that witch, that Manthara was drugging me and controlling me through her asura sorcery. But even before that,’ she released his vastra and covered her face, ‘even before that, I was filled with so much anger and hatred. I wanted more, more, more. Whatever I got, it was never enough, only a stepping stone to the next object of desire. And so it went, endlessly. Yes, Manthara controlled me and manipulated me, I realise that now that I’m free of her spell. She used me to her own ends. But she could only push me further towards a direction I wished to go anyway. She wielded me like a sword to penetrate to the heart of this great family, just as her dark master used her as the hilt of that same sword. But a sword is made for killing, or she would not have been able to use me. Her influence would have been useless on Kausalya … or Sumitra. That would have been like trying to use a flower to do a sword’s work.’
PRINCE IN EXILE Page 29
