PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  The trishul, identical to those carried by the tantrics in the scene she had just witnessed with the help of her asura witchcraft, clattered into the chaukat, the sacred ceremonial square used for Vedic rites, and was lost in the billowing flames of the fire. She screamed at once and leaped forward to try to retrieve it. Throwing the trishul might be interpreted as disrespectful, and she had taken too much care with the whole elaborate ritual to spoil everything now. She bent over the energetic flames, fuelled by prodigious amounts of ghee and the remains of the Brahmin boy that she had sacrificed earlier. There. Between an almost denuded thigh bone and the skull with its contents still bubbling. She reached into the fire, burning her hands and losing her eyelashes and eyebrows as well, and retrieved the trishul.

  It was flaming hot.

  She clutched it firmly, enduring the unbelievable pain, and tried to understand what had gone wrong. She had thought it such a clever plan, to use the tantric’s murder to incite a civil riot. Or at the very least a stampede. With several hundred thousand men, women, children and animals thronging the avenues, ringed in by armed and nervously alert soldiers, starting a riot had seemed easy enough. And things had been going so well. The tantrics and Brahmins had fallen for the bait just as she’d known they would. And the PFs had done their job as usual. With the malevolent mantras she’d released into the avenue earlier, the minute the maharaja and those two seers had been cloistered away in the sabha hall, their minds should have been clouded by confusion and senseless rage long enough for them to engage in violence that would perpetuate its own cycle of retribution. It had been a brilliant plan. A major civil riot would have broken out over a tiny, irrelevant non-issue. And at the right time, she would have sent out a mantra to inflame the horses of the PFs on Raghuvamsa Avenue and cause a panicked stampede. A bloodbath should have resulted.

  ‘Rama!’

  Yes. Rama had come into the picture. And had spoiled everything. She still didn’t understand how he had done it. By singing an anthem? That was ridiculous! How could people be moved by a stupid patriotic song? What was a country anyway? Just a land occupied by different people. What was there to get so emotional about?

  Yet he had done it. Had broken her mantra’s power. Dispelled the dark fugue she had tried to cast over the minds of the groups involved. Turned her plans to dust as easily as wiping out a sloka written in sand. True, her powers were still nascent, still growing. But she had tried so hard. And sacrificed so much. Just to have kept her worship of the Dark Lord of Lanka, Ravana, secret for so many years: that itself was a great feat in this holy deva-worshipping city of Ayodhya. Surrounded by an ocean of self-righteous Aryas, she had kept the tiny black flame of asura faith alive here single-handed. Even Kaikeyi, her erstwhile ward and queen of this mighty kingdom, did not know the truth behind her power and influence. What it had cost Manthara to elevate her to this position. But all this was to change, starting today. And nobody, let alone a stripling of a boy, should have had the ability to thwart her dark designs.

  ‘Rama!’ she cried out again, waving the trident in a hand blackened by deep oozing burns.

  Foolish hag!

  The voice that boomed forth from the heart of the fire was as fiery as glacial ice applied directly to an exposed heart. It blazed with cold, nihilistic rage against her, enveloping her in black flames.

  She gasped and struggled to bow her head, touching her forehead to the ground. ‘My lord! I did not sense your arrival!’

  How dare you speak that name in my sacred space? Have I not forbidden you before?

  She searched her mind desperately, ignoring the agony of torture the flames inflicted on every inch of her being. It was like being whipped with fire and ice both at once. ‘My lord? You mean, Rama?’

  Do not speak it! Foolish creature!

  ‘My lord, I …’ She bowed again, repeatedly, striking her forehead on the floor until the skin broke and blood began to flow, bubbling instantly as it encountered the flames that enveloped her. ‘Shama! Mercy, my lord. Shama!’

  You would be wise not to underestimate that one. He is a creature of dharma, and they are not easily dissuaded from their path.

  ‘My lord, never again. I beg your forgiveness.’

  For your blasphemy, and for your failure this day, I should excommunicate you at once. This is how I ensure perfect discipline in my ranks. The soldier that falters, dies. You have done more than falter, Manthara. You have failed me today. You were given tasks to perform; none were successful. You know how I deal with such failures.

  Manthara cried out in naked terror: ‘No, my lord! I beg you! Do not abandon me! I shall do penance to atone for my error. I shall never utter that filthy word again. I beg you!’

  The fire raged around her still, as if relishing the taste of her fear. She was in a state beyond agony now. Her entire being was seared through with liquid heat, unbearable and inescapable.

  Finally, the fist of fire released her, returning to the chaukat.

  Only because I have need of you, wretched one. But make that error once more and excommunication will be the least of your fates.

  Manthara trembled silently. Her head was bowed low enough that her forehead touched the rim of the chaukat itself. She could smell the stench of her hair burning. And somewhere through the mist of pain and mutilation she knew she had soiled herself in both ways. Still she abased and abused her tortured self. The Dark Lord was a greedy deity and it was better to give more than less. Finally, she felt his anger abate slightly.

  I will withhold your penalty for the time being. But remember, it is only in abeyance, not erased. Now, pay attention, hag, for it is vital that we do not let this setback affect our greater plans.

  ‘My lord,’ she begged, her voice quivering with terror. ‘Whatever you say, it will be done. I will not fail thee again.’

  Even as we speak, both those old Brahmins are working their insidious charm on Dasaratha. Soon, he will concede to Vishwamitra’s demand.

  Manthara raised her head slowly. Her eyes were bright red, blazing coals in her dark face. ‘My lord, if you will it, I can go into that sabha hall and use my powers to destroy them all. In one act of terror, we will be rid of all the ruling heads of Ayodhya. The princes will have joined their father by now, and—’

  Stupid, stupid woman. You would destroy yourself, use your shakti to explode like a human bomb, would you? That is not an act of courage, you twisted crone. It’s utter idiocy. We want that sabha to end peacefully. We want Maharaja Dasaratha to agree to the seer-mage’s demand. That is our plan. Do you understand now? Or do I have to scourge you again to get it into your thick head?

  Manthara’s mouth hung open, trailing a line of thick saliva. ‘My lord …’ She swallowed. ‘Truly, you are magnificent.’

  Enough. I tire of this discussion. When I have need of you again, I will call upon you. The Day is at hand.

  The flame caressed her gently, insinuating itself into the sockets of her eyes, making the fluids bubble and stream down her face. Manthara quivered in ecstasy.

  And when Ayodhya is in my clasp, you will be rewarded. Here is a token of my appreciation.

  Manthara gasped and raised her head, staring at her arms, her body, feeling herself all over, unable to believe the power and ease of her master’s sorcery. ‘My injuries, my burns, they’re all gone! Oh, master, you are magnificent and munificent beyond all measure! Your power is—’

  The flame blazed one last time, shooting out in all directions, filling every square inch of the secret prayer room, enfolding Manthara in a sorcerous shroud that blazed without burning. She screamed with ecstasy and delight throwing out her repaired limbs to the unholy fire, embracing it with every fibre of her being. It was cold, like a cloak of ice rather than fire. As she knew her lord’s naked body might feel against her own bare skin. She savoured the unholy ashirwaad of her dark deity.

  As suddenly as it had blazed out, the fire withdrew, sucking itself back into the chaukat, then extinguishing itself in
one last whump of flame. The chaukat was cold and empty, the last bones of the dead Brahmin boy gone, the chamber dark and silent.

  With a great sigh, Manthara got to her feet and went to fulfil her master’s command. She looked exactly as she had done when she had entered the secret room; not a hair was out of place.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  They were almost at the royal bhojanshalya when a rather too shapely form emerged, sighing and belching at the same time, rubbing her bare midriff, looking like a cat that had eaten far too much fish and now regretted her gluttony. Lakshman and Shatrugan’s playful banter stopped instantly, Shatrugan cutting himself short before the punchline of a particularly mischievous play on the Sanskrit and commonspeak words for ‘nubile young girl’. Bharat’s face lost its smile and he slowed his pace.

  Kaikeyi turned and saw them approaching. She uttered a noise of exasperation.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Her voice was shrill and grating, flecks of paan visible between her teeth, the blood-red tobacco juice spraying out as she spoke. ‘First you disappear all morning—and what a morning!—and then Manthara vanishes without telling me where she’s going. And your father—let’s not even start on him, I don’t know what’s got into him today. Nobody seems to care a damn about me in this palace any more.’

  Lakshman and Shatrugan proffered the expected bows, their outstretched fingers barely brushing the hem of Kaikeyi’s sari. She gestured vaguely, her ashirwaad—if she issued any—obscured by her mouthful of paan. Her lips were bright from the tobacco juice, a gory contrast to her pale northern complexion.

  Lakshman observed that her eyes seemed bloodshot and wilder than usual, and the snappishness in her manner a bit more pronounced. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought she was nursing a hangover: but Second Queen Kaikeyi always made it a point to announce proudly in public that she never touched alcohol as it was so unladylike. It was an odd boast, since neither his and Shatrugan’s mother Third Queen Sumitra, nor First Queen Kausalya had ever touched alcohol in their lives, and never thought it necessary to remind the world of this fact. But then Kaikeyi did love to sing her own praises, even when nobody else seemed interested in singing along.

  Bharat went with his mother, who was haranguing him about how nobody in the palace seemed to care about royal protocol any more, and how short-staffed she was, and how her seamstresses had utterly botched up her choli for the Holi parade, and how tiring such festivities were for a queen but nobody seemed to care, and so on. He glanced back briefly, giving his brothers a look of despair that Lakshman had seen often.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Shatrugan said. ‘When she gets like that, it makes me so mad, I’d like to grab her fleshy shoulders and shake her until she just shuts up!’

  Lakshman looked at his brother. Again he wondered at the cosmic irony that had bonded Shatrugan and Bharat so closely while he had formed an identical bond with Rama.

  ‘You take one shoulder, I’ll take the other,’ he said aloud. ‘She’s too tough for you alone!’

  Shatrugan looked at his brother, surprised. Then he saw the twinkle in Lakshman’s eyes and let his scowl turn into a smile. ‘Yeah, she is, isn’t she? If only she’d use some of that Kshatriya strength to fight rakshasas instead of taking it out on poor Bharat.’

  Lakshman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe Bharat shouldn’t be such a victim too. I mean, he could stand up to her once in a while. He’s not a milk-drooling babe any more.’

  ‘She’s his mother, Lakshman. And never mind him, do you think either of us could raise our voice to her?’

  Lakshman shook his head, acknowledging Shatrugan’s point. The very thought of addressing an elder aggressively was anathema to any decent Arya. And though some parents could and did relax behaviour norms—Maharaja Janak of Mithila gave his daughters more freedom than most kings gave their sons, for instance—Ayodhya walked a line closer to rigid traditional formality than liberal individualism.

  ‘Anyway, at least he’s learned to deal with it. He doesn’t let her feed him like a stuffed boar like when he was a kid.’

  Shatrugan conceded that point. Before they had left for Guru Vashishta’s forest academy, Bharat used to be the first one in the bhojanshalya and the last to leave, supervised closely by either Kaikeyi-maa or Manthara-daiimaa. Now, he was more watchful about his diet, more aware of his physical appearance. ‘And thank God our maa isn’t like that,’ Lakshman added.

  ‘Speaking of her,’ Shatrugan said, ‘shouldn’t we see her first before having naashta?’

  Lakshman caught a whiff of some fried savoury: samosas, he guessed. He adored samosas and jalebis. ‘I guess we should,’ he agreed reluctantly.

  They turned away from the bhojanshalya with an effort and made their way to the third queen’s palace through a connecting corridor. A chorus of cries went up as their mother’s serving girls saw them coming and conveyed the news with the speed of sparrows chittering at the arrival of sunrise. Their mother was waiting for them, the aarti thali beside her, ready for the Holi morning ritual.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, beaming up at them. Both her sons had at least a head of height on her. Confronted with them, her small, roundish face still youthful and childishly winsome, she looked like a younger sister rather than their mother. ‘You boys must be hungry. Let’s finish your aarti and you can have your naashta.’

  She sighed briefly as she hefted the thali on her little hands. ‘I had to spend half the morning keeping Kaikeyi-maa company while she ate her breakfast. My stomach’s grumbling too.’

  ‘You mean Kaikeyi-maa’s already eaten?’ Lakshman frowned. ‘But isn’t she supposed to wait and do Bharat’s aarti first?’

  Sumitra gave her son a look that spoke volumes. ‘Yes, she is. But you know Kaikeyi-maa.’ She shook her head in bafflement. ‘I don’t understand that woman. Does she drink a cup of bile every night before sleeping? She’s always so full of bitterness for everything and everybody. You won’t believe the scene she made in Kausalya-maa’s chambers this morning. I thought the rakshasas had invaded the palace! Anyway, let’s not talk about such ashubh things before pooja. We all have a long day ahead.’

  Lakshman and Shatrugan exchanged a last glance before bowing to touch their mother’s feet. It was a glance of mutual relief that they weren’t Kaikeyi-maa’s sons.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The moment Rama’s face came into view, framed between two bougainvillea-twined marble arches, Kausalya was struck by a great urge to run and sweep her son into her arms, hugging him madly, the way she had done a year ago when he returned from Guru Vashishta’s ashram.

  That day she had been standing ready from dawn on the steps of the palace, anxiously awaiting his return after a gap of seven unbearably long years. When she saw the slender young man walking up the avenue, she was startled at first: this can’t be my Rama. Then she had recognised his delicately carved features, chiselled more finely than ever in adolescent masculinity. As he came closer, still absorbed in banter with his three brothers, she began to delineate the unmistakable silhouette of her father’s aquiline profile in his face as well as reflections of her own nose, jawline and chin, mingled to form a strikingly handsome face and personality that was entirely his own—unlike Bharat walking beside him, a smaller and much less bulky but otherwise identical clay-cast model of Dasaratha— and Kausalya was struck with a shock of delicious realisation that her son had left as a boy and come back a man. Then he had glanced up while smiling at some comment by Shatrugan or Lakshman and met her astonished gaze, and she had seen the startled look of recognition in his own eyes. She had let all protocol fall by the wayside as she ran down the steps, past the surprised night-watch, and swept him up in her embrace, her tears leaving streaky trails down his dust-limned shoulder.

  He was fourteen, almost fifteen, then. A whole year had passed since that emotional reunion. A year in which they had grown closer than ever despite the long separation, or perhaps because of it, and now not a day passed without
Kausalya spending an hour or several in her son’s company, making up for those lost years. But now, as she watched him enter the courtyard of her palace and walk through the arched entranceway, she felt a tearing at her heart and eyes that was as wrenching as the anticipation she had felt that day.

  Then, it had been the realisation that her little boy had returned a man. Today, it was the knowledge that he was about to become crown prince of Ayodhya. Crown prince! Even the sadness that lay in her breast like a hard, cold lump, the awful certainty that his ascension would be as a result of his father’s untimely demise, even that sad fact couldn’t lessen the joy of this moment. Earlier this morning, in the akasa-chamber, Dasaratha had reproached her for thinking like a wife rather than a mother.

  And so she had. But now that she had had a little time to absorb the unexpected news, to accept the inevitability of Dasaratha’s mortality, she had begun to think like a mother again. And now, flushed with the pride and exhilaration of her thrilling secret, it took every ounce of her self-control to remain standing as she was in the proper dignified posture, and not to shout out Rama’s name, run laughing to him, trumpet her message to the skies. She must behave immaculately. There would be eyes everywhere from now on, watching him as well as her. For if he was to become king, she would be queen mother, and there was a protocol to be followed.