PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  The news from the city was shocking enough, but Rama’s reaction had been even more alarming. It was good to see Rama looking like his brother again.

  ‘Hey,’ Rama called out in a more cheerful tone. ‘What say we race back to the first gate? Order of arrival decides who gets to colour the others’ faces first, agreed?’

  ‘Agreed!’ cried the three of them in happy unison, ululating and crying encouragement to their horses as they began raising a dust-cloud that filled the breadth of the raj-marg.

  The four brothers shot forward like a single arrow from the same bow, heading home to Ayodhya.

  ***

  On the uppermost rise of the mango grove, high above the rajmarg, the doe lowered her head and watched the four mortal boys ride away. The head of the arrow still stuck out from her leg, but the wound had stopped bleeding; Rama’s hurried tourniquet had been rough but effective.

  Still reluctant to endure the pain of changing that might well open the wound once more, the doe licked around the edges of her injury, trying to come to terms with what had happened today. She had been sent here to Ayodhya on a mission. That mission itself was simple enough: to accompany her uncle Kala-Nemi on the long journey north, aid him in infiltrating the great mortal city of Ayodhya, and wait until he accomplished his own assignment, which was to assassinate a certain mortal named Rama Chandra, first-born son of Maharaja Dasaratha. So when Kala-Nemi had assumed the bhes-bhav of the seer-mage Vishwamitra, a brilliant idea suggested by her cousin Lord Ravana during their briefing, she had taken the form of a deer, a favourite disguise that had fooled humans many times before, and waited in the woods outside the city. In the event that Kala-Nemi failed—unlikely but certainly possible, given the presence of that ancient enemy of the asuras, Guru Vashishta—she would take up and execute the same assignment.

  But something very peculiar had happened as she waited for her uncle’s return. That strange mortal boy had found her unexpectedly. Taken her by surprise. Even her heightened rakshas senses had not warned her of his presence until he had her in his grasp. That itself was so unusual as to be a first in her lifetime. She was young by rakshas standards—barely five hundred years old to her cousin Ravana’s five thousand years— but like all rakshasas, she was preternaturally tuned to any risk or threat. Yet she had sensed nothing, just the pleasant northern wind, the spray from the river, the scents of flowers and unripened mangoes—and the next instant, the mortal boy had her in his arms, enfolding her like a lover in his warm embrace. It had taken her breath away, shocking her speechless and immobile for several vital seconds. She, Supanakha, who was called the river-tongued by her fellow rakshasas back in Lanka!

  The only explanation she could conceive of now, coming to terms with that bizarre capture, was that he had posed her no threat or risk, and hence his body odour and aura had been so benign that her finely attuned senses had included him as part of the environment itself. It defied everything she had learned and experienced about mortals, but there it was, the only logical answer. And when he had touched her, had there actually been affection in that embrace? Could a mortal, those brutal, rapacious two-legged beasts, actually feel affection for a four-legged mute animal?

  But there was more confusion, and other questions too. When those vile intoxicated men—behaving more like normal mortals in her experience—had attacked her without provocation, once again the boy had behaved uncharacteristically. He had saved her life. And dressed her wound. And risked his own life and limb to stop her attackers. Altogether, it was too much for one morning.

  Now, she licked one last time at her healing gash and prepared herself for the change. Painful as it might be, she must return to her true form. She needed hands rather than hoofs to remove the arrow before it festered.

  She focussed on the change, using the emotions swirling within her to try and distract her mind from the inevitable pain. Even so, when it came, it was tortuous. The arrowhead, deeply embedded in her doe form, remained where it was as her living flesh and tissue morphed and transformed around it, cutting and tearing her changing flesh and tissue, causing greater internal bleeding and damage than the original flesh wound.

  Finally, she could take no more. She screamed. A scream neither wholly deer-like nor Yaksa-like. Simply the scream of a living being in terrible agony. Damn you, damn you mortals all to hell!

  The change complete, she stood naked at the edge of the forest, tears rolling down her furry anthropomorphic face. Her large curved ears twitched several times as she reached gingerly for the arrow. Her clawed fingers probed cautiously at the edge of the torn skin. The good news was that the arrow hadn’t gone into bone yet, just flesh. If she could just pull it out, the wound would heal naturally. That was one of the benefits of being a Yaksa: she would heal the wound in a day or two and in a week the scar would be barely visible. But right now, that didn’t console her much.

  She screamed again when the arrowhead tore its way out of her arm. This time, it was less the bleat of a wounded doe and more the shriek of an outraged rakshasi. The birds and creatures of the riverbank sensed the difference and grew silent and still.

  The cry echoed in the sunlit valley, rippling down to the river and the raj-marg that ran alongside it. By the time it reached Rama, a good chariot-length ahead of his brothers, it had almost faded to nothingness. Still, he raised his head a fraction, his grin of triumphant concentration fading as he sensed the suffering of another living creature.

  A moment later, the faint echo was driven out of his mind as he saw what lay ahead, and he held up his hand, calling a halt to the impromptu race.

  SIXTEEN

  Maharaja Dasaratha paused at the entrance of the sabha hall. He had expected the news of the morning’s events to spread like wildfire through the city; already, the captain of the guards had brought word that a substantial crowd was amassing outside the palace gates. But it had barely been half an hour since he and Guru Vashishta had escorted Vishwamitra to the reception hall of the palace. How on earth had all these people collected here so soon? The sabha hall was designed to accommodate two hundred seated official court delegates and a thousand observers.

  As far as he could tell at a glance, it was filled well over capacity in both respects. The sheer press of the crowd forced him to pause at the entrance to take in this unexpected scenario.

  The crowded hall buzzed with the chatter of a hundred excited conversations. Dasaratha caught the words ‘rakshas’ and ‘Vishwamitra’ spoken by several different voices with varying degrees of awe and amazement. What was that old Arya saying? ‘Yesterday’s rumour, today’s legend?’ Never truer.

  Even the court crier, a young stripling with a high-pitched falsetto voice that grated on Dasaratha’s nerves, was distracted enough not to have noticed his maharaja’s arrival; leaning on the court standard, he was whispering energetically to a particularly attractive serving girl bearing a water jug. The crier seemed more interested in looking down the girl’s blouse than in keeping the Suryavansha emblem aloft. In ages past, that lapse alone would have cost the youth his life.

  But Dasaratha settled for clearing his throat gruffly. The serving girl gasped at the sight of the king and instantly melted away into the crowd. The crier leaped to attention, blushing bright crimson, as he struck the standard thrice on the wooden floor and sang out the traditional entree.

  ‘Kosala-narad Ayodhya-naresh Suryavansha Raghuvansha Aja-putra Shrimad Maharaj Dasaratha rajya sabha mein padhaar rahein hain.’

  King of Kosala, lord of Ayodhya, heir of House Suryavansha and House Raghuvansha, Son-of-Aja, The Honourable Emperor Dasaratha now graces the royal assembly with his esteemed presence.

  By the time the litany of ancestral lineage and royal titles had ended, the chatter had died away to a whisper which also subsided as Dasaratha strode the forty-yard length of the ceremonial red carpet to the royal podium. As he climbed the seven silver-plated rose-petal-bedecked steps to his raj-gaddi, he was rewarded by a dignified silence: his pres
ence still commanded enough respect to ensure that nobody chattered once he entered a room. His right knee wobbled slightly as he reached the top and he resisted the urge to grip the ornately carved arm of his throne for support. For the first time in his long reign, the enormous gold-filigreed bulk of the Suryavansha throne seemed much too large for his frail and weary body. As he reached the seat of Kosala unaided, he sent up a silent prayer to his ancestors, asking for strength to endure the rest of this startling and difficult day. He turned around to face his court.

  Sumantra had done the impossible as usual, assembling all the important officers of the court within the short time it had taken Dasaratha and Guru Vashishta to complete the welcoming formalities to honour their great visitor. Every single one of Ayodhya’s eight cabinet ministers was present in the front row— Drishti, Jayanta, Manthrapala, Vijaya, Siddhartha, Jabali, Arthasadhaka, Ashoka—and Sumantra made nine. It was odd to see them dressed today in uncharacteristically commonplace homewear—spotless white cotton dhotis and kurtas—until he reminded himself that it was Holi and an official holiday. Obviously, they had been preparing to begin the Holi celebrations when summoned to court. No doubt, if Sumantra’s hard-riding chariots had arrived a few moments later, the eight chosen representatives of Ayodhya’s eight major constituencies would have been washed in rainbow hues, faces and clothes stained with the coloured rang powders and tinted waters symbolising the arrival of spring. As it was, they all looked unusually fresh and alive today, clearly infected by the same excitement that was sweeping the entire congregation. Only Jabali, the stern Grekos-influenced rationalist, looked sour-faced.

  But then Jabali always looked sour-faced.

  Guru Vashishta and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had followed Dasaratha on to the podium. As the seer-mages turned to face the sabha together, a collective murmur rose from the sizeable contingent of Brahmins that made up more than half the mass of the crowd. They were witnessing a sight that their forefathers would have given a right arm to view. Dasaratha’s eyes flicked across what seemed to be every last one of the city’s prominent Brahmins and purohits, all clad only in the traditional white dhoti with the black thread marking their caste criss-crossing their bare chests and bellies. And quite considerable bellies they were, Dasaratha noted wryly. From the expressions of devotional ecstasy on their well-fed faces, he could see that they were struggling to keep from prostrating themselves and kissing the sacred feet of the divinely ordained Vishwamitra.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dasaratha caught Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra stealing a sideways glance. The court recorders sitting off to one side, their quills poised over their parchment scrolls, were watching him intently, waiting for his first words. The ministers were waiting, their attendants and secretaries were waiting, the Brahmins were waiting, the courtiers were waiting … even the royal guards, present in five times their usual strength, were clearly stiff-necked with anticipation even though their discipline compelled them to stare directly ahead.

  Dasaratha drew himself up as straight and tall as he could manage. He had rigorously followed every formality of protocol so far, prolonging the inevitable as long as possible. Now, he could dally no longer. It was time.

  ‘Ayodhya ke vasiyon, sada khush raho,’ he said, uttering the customary prayer for an auspicious beginning to the sabha. Ye all who dwell in Ayodhya, may you live happily here for ever.

  Sumantra responded with the customary ‘Maharaj ki jai hon!’

  ‘Long live the king!’ echoed the assembly lustily.

  The court crier then introduced their visitor, adding an extra flourish to his litany: ‘Brahmarishi mahadev saprem swami tapasvi mahantya Vishwamitra atithi satkar ka swagat hai.’ Brahma-anointed great master, supreme lord of penance and wisdom, our honoured guest the sage Vishwamitra now graces us with his esteemed presence.

  Guru Vashishta now made a formal introduction of their great guest, presenting him to the sabha at large and to the king in particular. Dasaratha knew that this was all for the benefit of the assembled observers and court recorders, but he had never been so glad of the time-taxing formalities of royal protocol. Vishwamitra turned and offered a namaskara to each minister and pundit in turn as Guru Vashishta called out their names. Even Jabali managed to reduce the sourness on his horsey face to about a third of its usual grimacing disapproval as he was presented to the seer-mage.

  Dasaratha used the time to try to think through all the various options available to him. But the introductions went surprisingly quickly and before he could even concentrate properly, Sumantra was at his side again, whispering to him to commence with the formal agenda of the sabha.

  With an invocation to his guest to be seated, Dasaratha enthroned himself, resisting the urge to sigh as the massive gold-plated sunwood throne took the oppressive weight of age and indulgence off his weary feet.

  ‘Khamosh! Sabha jaari hain!’ the crier sang out. Silence, court is in session.

  With an uncharacteristic absence of sound—no lavish silks to rustle noisily or elaborate court jewellery to tinkle and clatter today—the occupants of the sabha hall bowed to the maharaja and seated themselves. A fifth of them took the gaddis provided, the rest simply sitting cross-legged on the ground in traditional Arya style.

  Mahaguru Vashishta spoke in formal Sanskrit highspeech. ‘We are greatly honoured to have with us here such an illustrious and legendary guest. On behalf of this sabha and every citizen of Kosala, I offer Brahmarishi Vishwamitra every courtesy and respect—sampurn atithi satkar—that Ayodhya has to offer. We are your humble servants, mahadev. Please, grace us with your wisdom and tell us how we may serve you.’

  Vishwamitra rose, took a small step forward and addressed Dasaratha directly.

  ‘The blessings of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva be upon you and your lineage, Ayodhya-naresh Dasaratha. I am pleased to be here in the nation of the Suryavanshas. Sadly, my business here is not pleasure, but necessity. As time is of the essence, I will come straight to the point. It is my unfortunate task to inform you all that the greatest crisis in the history of the Arya nations is upon us.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The princes had begun to slow the instant Rama’s hand went up. Bharat’s chariot, barely behind Rama’s lead, came up beside Airavata and Bharat began protesting about Rama unfairly calling a halt. He broke off as he saw what lay ahead of them. All four princes brought their horses and chariots to a halt.

  ‘The first gate is shut,’ Lakshman said incredulously. ‘That hasn’t happened on a feast day since … well, since the Last asura War.’

  The gate was indeed shut. Or raised, to be more accurate. The enormous drawbridge of the first gate had been hauled up to wall the only gap in the fifty-yard-high stone abutment that was the city’s first line of defence. The raising of the bridge exposed the twenty-yard-wide moat which teemed with magarmach and gharial and deva knew what other water-dwelling predators. The moat walls were ten yards straight down, making it impossible for the deadly beasts to climb out—they had little islands in the moat on which to rest and breed and fight amongst themselves. Lakshman had always wondered what would happen if the moat was neglected during one of those pounding seven-day monsoon downpours and allowed to overflow its banks. But it had never happened in Ayodhya’s history. Ayodhyans took great pride in maintaining their city.

  Had the moat creatures been able to crawl ashore right now, they would have found considerable prey to feed on. A large crowd of travellers was gathered on the raj-marg, milling about restlessly, chattering to one another. They had quietened and turned at the sound of the approaching horses and chariots, but none of them seemed fearful. These are people grown in a time of peace, Lakshman thought. They’ve forgotten the horrors of war already, barely twenty-two years after the last invasion. Or perhaps they just want to forget.

  As the dust cleared, the travellers recognised the crown heirs of Kosala and several of them started forward, calling out anxiously in commonspeak.

  ‘Rajkumaron! Aap hi kuc
h kijiye, na. Hummey andar jaane nahi de rahey hain.’ Princes, do something. They’re refusing us entry into the city.

  The brothers exchanged glances.

  ‘I guess we should talk to the gate-watch,’ Bharat said, preparing to get off his chariot.

  Rama stopped him. ‘You and Shot wait here. Lakshman and I will go and talk to them.’

  ‘Whatever you say, bade bhaiya,’ Shatrugan said, but grinned to show he didn’t mind. The reference to ‘big brother’ was a long-standing joke on the few weeks’ age difference between Rama and his siblings. They all accepted his evident maturity as far more important than those crucial weeks, but even had they not been so convivial, Arya law left no room for doubt. Firstborn was first-born. And first-born always led. Bharat, the second-oldest by two weeks, had long ago got over any childish sibling envy at this fact and come to accept Rama’s seniority.

  Rama and Lakshman dismounted and tossed their reins to their brothers, who caught them deftly and tied them loosely to their chariots. Then they turned to make their way through the crowd, a task not as easy as it seemed. Besides the desperate pleas of the commoners to grant them access into the city, they were hampered by the surprising amount of luggage and cartage that blocked the raj-marg.