PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  ‘Looks like these Holi revellers came to spend more than just a feast-day in our fine city,’ Lakshman said as they manoeuvred through the carts, buggies and mounts—and the foot-travellers sitting cross-legged on the road.

  ‘The Holi celebrations last seven days. It takes most people twice that long to recover from all that carousing and feasting.’ Rama’s voice sounded distant and distracted.

  Lakshman shot him a glance, waving away a Tamil who was trying to show him his pedlar’s licence. The man was dressed in a lungi and had a coconut-cutter’s scythe tucked into his waistband. Lakshman wondered how the flimsy waist-cloth managed to stay up and hold the weight of the knife.

  ‘Are you all right, bhai?’ Lakshman asked quietly. ‘You looked like you’d seen a rakshas yourself when Bharat and Shatrugan told us about the happenings in the city.’

  Rama glanced at Lakshman. His eyes contained a faraway, lost expression, not their usual alert sharpness. ‘I had a dream something like this would happen.’ He seemed about to say more but was silent.

  ‘Something like this? You mean a rakshas invading Ayodhya? That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? When did you dream this dream? Maybe if you tell Guruji, he can interpret it properly. After all, seers can see visions of things to come. Maybe your dream was a prophecy.’

  ‘I’m no seer.’ Rama’s voice was cold. ‘It was just a stupid dream. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Lakshman was surprised. ‘Why are you so touchy about it? I was only suggesting—In the name of Shiva!’

  Lakshman was face to face with the rear end of a mithun, a buffalo-bison crossbreed from the north-eastern hills. The mithun was all of seven feet tall, even at the flank, and as Lakshman stared at the unexpected apparition that had seemed to appear in his path out of thin air, the mithun’s shaggy tail rose suddenly. Rama laughed as his brother side-stepped quickly to avoid whatever might follow that ominous action. In his haste, Lakshman swerved around a pair of red-faced children struggling to move a stubborn, braying donkey and came face to face with a bare-waisted man juggling half a dozen knives. He dodged the lethal display and almost stepped into a small cook-fire on which a dark-skinned Malayali couple were roasting rice dosa pancakes.

  The southerners glared up at him as he backed away, apologising. He bumped into a stark-naked long-bearded fakir and recoiled, doing a respectful namaskar as the holy man continued playing his wooden bow, drawing a piercing monotonous tone from the single-stringed instrument as he rolled his eyes back into his skull, lost in his ecstatic bhakti.

  Still grinning, Rama pointed up ahead at the relatively clear grassy shoulder of the raj-marg. Lakshman nodded with relief and left the king’s highway for a few yards before joining with Rama up ahead. Lakshman shook his head in bemusement. ‘This bunch doesn’t need to enter the city. They’ve got their own Holi mela right here!’

  They reached the gate without further adventure or discussion. Here the crowd on the raj-marg had overflowed on to the grassy shoulders on either side for several dozen yards in both directions. Lakshman noticed a stick-thin goat-bearded man perched quite comfortably on the crook of a shepherd’s short-stick, surrounded by a shaggy mountain horse, several northern-featured women and an astonishing number of children playing around them all. Gandaharis, he noted, from the northernmost Arya nation.

  An ageing senapati stood at the head of the platoon of armed soldiers before the first gate. While his men were dressed in the traditional white and red of the gate-watch, he wore a distinctive saffron-and-black uniform with the Sanskrit letters corresponding to P and F stitched on his shoulders in decorative gold embroidery. Lakshman recognised him at once.

  ‘Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, General of the Purana Wafadars, our battalion of veterans of the last asura war.’

  The senapati saluted his princes smartly, his movements belying his age.

  ‘Rajkumars. Quads of soldiers are already out seeking you and your brothers. I have orders.’

  ‘Senapati Dheeraj Kumar,’ Rama said, using the general’s name out of genuine familiarity: the youngest of the senapati’s sons had attended Guru Vashishta’s gurukul in the same batch as the four princes. ‘Why are these people not being allowed into the city?’

  The grey-haired veteran shrugged unhappily. ‘What can I say, my prince? Never before has Ayodhya turned away its own brothers and sisters. But this is a strange day. And I have my orders. I am to escort you directly to your father’s palace, under my guard.’

  ‘But what about these people? When will they be allowed in? They’re not rakshasas and asuras, they’re just ordinary commoners wanting to attend the maharaja’s Holi feast.’

  Lakshman saw that the motley band clustered on the rajmarg were watching the discussion eagerly. Several had picked up their belongings or boarded their mounts and vehicles, expecting that the rajkumars would secure entry for them into the city.

  The senapati pursed his lips. ‘Rajkumar Rama, what you say is true. But the beast that entered earlier was able to change his bhes-bhav to resemble the great Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. His devilish deception fooled almost everyone, including the gate-watch and the maharaja’s guard, and even the maharaja himself.’

  He gestured at the crowd gathered along the highway, now occupying almost a quarter of a mile of the road and still absorbing newcomers who were arriving with increasing regularity as the sun rose higher. ‘How are we to know that one of them isn’t an asura in disguise too? Or all of them?’

  Rama smiled wryly. ‘In that case, senapati, how do you know we aren’t asuras too, my brothers and me?’

  Dheeraj Kumar’s jaw slackened. Then he regained control of his dignity and nodded with a sharp smile. ‘Well spoken, rajkumar. But I have my orders. Please.’

  Rama sighed. There was no point arguing further. The senapati was only doing his job. Still, Lakshman felt his brother’s embarrassment.

  Several moments later, when the gate-watch soldiers cleared the raj-marg of commoners to allow the rajkumars’ chariots and horses to pass through, Lakshman felt even more acutely embarrassed. Every pair of eyes was on the four princes as they rode with their armed escort.

  And as the commoners were kept at bay at spearpoint while he and his brothers rode across the lower drawbridge, he felt like dying of shame. Yet, he noted, not one of those poor folk spoke a single word against the rajkumars. Instead, they cheered and blessed their princes with long life, fruitful marriages and all the usual Arya blessings.

  It is that damn rakshas’s fault, he reminded himself as they rode through the seven gates, passing similar crowds of commoners who had been caught between gates when the full alert had been called. Not our fault or Father’s fault. The fault of that rakshas, damn his soul to hell.

  EIGHTEEN

  Raising his hands to subdue the shocked murmurs that had met his announcement, the seer-mage Vishwamitra continued in a level tone. ‘Pray, hear me out fully. As some of you may be aware …’ his eyes met those of Guru Vashishta, ‘for a while now, I have been absorbed in tapasya, a brief penance with a single goal.’

  As if on cue, Guru Vashishta spoke up. ‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra,’ he said, ‘your dedicated lifelong pursuit of spiritual prowess is a model taught in every gurukul and ashram from the western borders of this great continent to the eastern extremities. It was through such rigorous tapasya—penance,’ he conceded for those who did not follow Sanskrit highspeak, ‘that you achieved your great deva-given prowess in the mastery of Brahman. Pray, tell us then, what is this necessity which compelled you to interrupt your sacred meditation?’

  Vishwamitra responded in the same idiom, using Sanskrit as pure as Dasaratha had ever heard.

  ‘Many thanks for your gracious words, Guru Vashishta. Coming from you, those words are high praise indeed. For your prowess as a seer far exceeds my own humble achievements. It was you who was responsible for my conversion from a ruling Kshatriya raja into a spiritual seeker, a rishi, then a maharishi, and eventually a brahmarishi
. Yet my entire life spans barely three thousand years, while your own illustrious light has shone for fully seven thousand. I trust that the citizens of this kingdom of Kosala appreciate the gift of your wisdom, as well as the great sacrifice you made when you chose to devote your services as a guru to guiding the dynasty of Suryavansha in matters spiritual and moral rather than pursue further spiritual ascension.’ Vishwamitra paused and looked around at the assembled Aryas, all of whom were listening with rapt attention. ‘For had he chosen to continue that path of ascension, your Guru Vashishta would be no less than a deva himself by now, I warrant.’

  ‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra lavishes profuse praise on my simple piety.’ The guru’s voice was gruff. So he is capable of feeling embarrassment, Dasaratha noted with amusement. ‘But enough about me. All of us are eager to hear you explain your alarming comment, my friend. What is this crisis that faces us?’

  Vishwamitra nodded. ‘To know that, you need only understand the motive of my present tapasya.’ He turned once more to address the sabha. ‘It was to ask that the reign of the demonlord of Lanka be ended and that he and his minions be flung back for all eternity to the lower world whence they came.’

  A collective murmur of approval rippled through the audience.

  ‘I see from your reaction, good citizens of Kosala, that you have knowledge of the one of whom I speak.’

  Guru Vashishta responded instantly. ‘Sadly, old friend, word of that dark villain’s evildoing has travelled as far as blessed Ayodhya. We have some hearsay of the Lord of Lanka’s excesses.’

  ‘Be thankful then,’ Vishwamitra cried, his voice ringing through the packed sabha hall, ‘that you have only had word and hearsay of his doings. For if he has his way, that vile creature would invade your city and overrun your proud nation!’

  A storm of consternation exploded in the assembly. Several pundits and Brahmins called out anxious questions to the seermage.

  ‘Maharaja Dasaratha has already witnessed first-hand what the Lord of Lanka is capable of doing. The rakshas Kala-Nemi sought to impersonate me in order to get within the walls of the royal palace. Once inside, he would have embarked on a spree of murder and destruction like nothing ever seen before in Arya history.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘If a single rakshas is capable of infiltrating the most sacrosanct city in all the Arya nations, imagine what an entire army of rakshasas could accomplish.’

  ‘And rakshasas are only one of the several vile species at the command of the Lord of Lanka,’ Guru Vashishta added smoothly. ‘Some of our brave veterans may recall the horrors of martial combat against those terrible legions in the last asura war.’ He inclined his head respectfully towards the throne. ‘Our noble maharaja himself fought at the helm of the united Arya armies in those last terrible conflicts. In fact, it was his extraordinary valour that stemmed the invasion and enabled mortal forces to drive back the asura legions.’

  Time.

  Dasaratha spoke with as much calm and regal dignity as he could muster. ‘Guruji rewards me with rich praise for merely performing my duties.’ He performed a formal namaskara of sincere gratitude. ‘But since those terrible times, our intelligence has maintained a careful watch on the activities of Lanka.’ A gesture at Sumantra, who nodded in agreement. ‘It was my understanding that while Ravana continues to control Lanka and the gateway to the netherworld, he has not dared to attempt another ingress on mortal territories.’

  Vishwamitra held his staff casually, the way a warrior might hold his battleaxe between clashes.

  ‘You speak truly, raje. The asura forces have not dared to encroach on mortal territories since you drove them back across the ocean to their island hell.’

  Dasaratha wondered why Vishwamitra sounded as if he disagreed even when he was clearly conceding Dasaratha’s point. ‘Yes, that is what I just said. Ravana and his forces were pushed back to Lanka, and have not dared to cross the ocean and land on the shores of Prithvi again.’

  He added with deliberate casualness, not wanting to alarm those present who had little knowledge of such martial matters—it had been almost two decades since such matters had been discussed in open assembly, outside of the annual war council of the Arya nations—‘Except of course for the occasional stray rakshas, Naga, Uraga, Pisaca or other renegade asuras who ventured into the inhospitable peninsula below the Southwoods. And of course, the Yaksa tribes have always been free of Ravana’s command. Likewise the other species of creature that inhabits the jungles of Kiskindakhand and outlying areas.’

  ‘Indeed. Your knowledge is admirable, great son of the Suryavanshas. Yet despite all your precautions, the hated asuras have gained a foothold on the continent of Patal. A sizaeble one at that.’

  Dasaratha leaned forward, his thick brows beetling. ‘I hesitate to question your wisdom, mahadev. Parantu, what you suggest is quite impossible. As I said, our outposts and spies maintain a steady watch on all outlying regions.’

  Vishwamitra sighed theatrically. ‘And I say once again, the asura races have made deep and wide inroads into the uncharted peninsula. How, you ask. In the same way that a new religion or creed spreads through a continent, raje. Not a pure, God-praising creed like the Vedic Hindu faith, but the way a vile cancerous consumption creeps across the land. Or like a mist over the mangrove marshes of the eastern lands of Banglar.’

  A mist? Cancerous consumption? New religions? What was the seer-mage talking about? Dasaratha was about to speak again when Vishwamitra raised a hand.

  ‘Allow me to explain, raje. All these years while the Arya nations have enjoyed peace and prosperity, while your armies have grown soft and gentle with inactivity, while the pursuits of culture and civilisation have occupied you rather than the bloody arts of warfare and mayhem, your enemies have been marshalling their forces. Today, the Lord of Lanka has an army twenty times greater than the combined forces of all the Arya nations.’

  A wave of unease rippled across the sabha hall. Even Dasaratha caught his breath. Twenty times? He couldn’t fathom such figures, let alone visualise them. He shook his head. ‘Mahadev, even if what you say is true—and I do not presume to debate your great wisdom—even so, the asuras would not dare step on mortal lands again. Our outposts would instantly relay the word of any impending invasion well in advance and we would choke off their approach even before they broach the rebellious oceans. However vast their armies, they would never be allowed to land on the blessed soil of Prithvi, let alone advance a foot of the five thousand yojanas to the gates of Ayodhya.’

  Vishwamitra nodded sagely. ‘True, raje. Your knowledge of matters military is renowned through the seven nations.’

  Dasaratha continued, emboldened by the unexpected praise. ‘Nowhere near your own formidable store of Kshatriya vidya, mahadev.’ Vishwamitra’s legendary prowess as a warrior-king as well as a fighting seer in the armies of the devas was the stuff of legend. ‘To continue: this asura army you speak of. It is still in Lanka, am I right?’

  ‘Indeed, raje.’

  Dasaratha smiled. ‘Then we have nothing to fear.’ He extended his relief to the sabha. ‘Even the largest ships existing today can carry no more than a thousand men. To carry an army that size, the asuras would require a naval fleet of …’ he glanced over at Sumantra, who was ready with the answer even before asked, ‘two million ships? Yes, two million large ships!’ He allowed himself a scornful laugh. ‘There are probably not trees enough on Lanka to provide the makings of such a large fleet!’

  Nervous laughter rumbled like distant thunder, but most eyes had stayed on Vishwamitra, awaiting his response.

  The seer-mage nodded calmly. ‘Dasaratha, you are indeed a great general. But even the greatest senapati cannot be in possession of all the facts. That is why I am here today, to bring to your notice first-hand these new developments and to show you the flaw in your perception.’

  Dasaratha shifted in his seat. ‘A flaw?’

  ‘True, the construction of such a fleet would take decades.’ Vishw
amitra gestured. ‘That is why the Lord of Lanka issued orders for work to be started the day he returned after his ignominious defeat at your hands, twenty-two years ago.’

  He allowed that to sink in before continuing:

  ‘Today, close to a million ships are ready and are moored in Lanka as well as at sea. It was on one such vessel that Kala-Nemi, the rakshas we faced down at your gate today, travelled to the western shores of Kutchha, whence he came on foot. If Ravana chooses, he can invade our world tomorrow, landing his forces all across the continent, sweeping like a wave of blackness across the Arya nations.’

  The seer-mage looked around at the stunned sabha. ‘And invasion is his intention.’

  NINETEEN

  They reached the palace gates without incident. The avenue was packed from end to end with people. Ordinary citizens and titled gentry alike thronged the large square before the palace gates. Both Raghuvamsa Avenue and Harishchandra Avenue, the perpendicular concourses that met precisely at the palace gates, were milling with citizenry. More people kept arriving by foot, by horse or on muleback; a tangle of chariots bearing the banners of aristocratic families blocked Harishchandra West. The usual festive mood was understandably dampened by the awareness of the morning’s intrusion. A quad of four soldiers stood around a roughly circular spot where the gravelled floor of the avenue was blackened and scorched. From the excited conversations of the crowd, the princes made out that the spot was where the two seer-mages had consigned the rakshas. The excited crowd cheered raggedly as the princes approached, some belatedly recognising them and reacting with a flurry of excitement. Several began calling out the names of their favourite princes. There was no question whose name was called most frequently. Rama’s brothers exchanged knowing glances: most of the callers were young women of marriageable age, encouraged by their mothers!