‘And I must deny it yet again!’
The seer’s voice softened. ‘Dasaratha, be reasonable. What I offer is an antidote to war. An end to the endless cycle of karmic violence and bloodshed that has plagued us since the beginning of time. A permanent peace in the three worlds of patal, prithvi and swarga-lok.’
Dasaratha uttered a sound that was half a laugh and half a cry. ‘Your antidote is worse than the venom it seeks to cure, mahadev. I have told you already, it is unthinkable to give you what you demand. Ask anything else of me and you shall have it.’
‘Ayodhya-naresh, your decision is not a wise one. I ask you yet again, reconsider. Or else you will commit the mortal sin of violating the sacred law of dharma!’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dasaratha coughed harshly, hacking into his fist. He tried to speak, but choked on another fit of coughing. Sumantra quickly provided a spittoon for his use, then offered Dasaratha a goblet to sip on. The maharaja used both before replying in a voice hoarser than before. Beside him, Rama sensed his brothers exchanging worried glances—none of them had any illusions about their father’s state of health, but none of them knew how to alleviate the current stress that he was under. As fascinating as the debate was, Rama felt anxious that it end for his father’s sake.
Dasaratha’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight. ‘Honoured one, even another hundred years—were I blessed enough to live that long, which I doubt—would not make me reconsider my decision. What I said before is final and binding.’
Vishwamitra was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was deathly quiet. ‘It is not in the nature of seers, let alone a brahmarishi, to repeat oneself. Nor should you deny your clan-oaths and defy the code of the Kshatriya. But because the Suryavansha dynasty and the Ikshvaku clan whence you spring are so renowned for their service to the seers, I repeat my request one more time for the benefit of your sons, these fine and proud young princes of Ayodhya.’
He turned slightly, pitching his words slightly louder for the benefit of Rama and his brothers. ‘Hear me, O Lord and Ruler of Ayodhya, seat of mighty Kosala, greatest of the Arya nations of the world. Grant me the dakshina I demand by right. And we may yet pull out the thorn before the bush grows beyond our reach.’
Dasaratha’s head bowed wearily. ‘Sage, I cannot sacrifice the life of my son at the altar of your faith.’
‘You would rather sacrifice the lives of your people instead?’ Vishwamitra’s voice was sharp.
‘If such be the will of the gods, so be it.’ Dasaratha’s voice was cantankerous, edgy with fatigue and brain-weariness. Rama knew that in the next instant, both men would be trading insults and then the fat would really hit the fire. If Brahmarishi Vishwamitra took offence at Dasaratha’s comments, this debate would end with a curse rather than a decision.
‘Father, mahaguru, shama.’
Both Dasaratha and the visitor stared in surprise at Rama as he stepped forward, kneeling before the throne while simultaneously bending his neck before the seer. The seer acknowledged Rama’s apology for the interruption. Rama rose to his feet and looked up at his father, who was frowning down at him.
‘Father, forgive my naivety. But may I ask what exactly is this dakshina that Brahmarishi Vishwamitra desires? And why do you break the code of the Kshatriya by refusing to grant him his dakshina?’
Although his brothers didn’t say a word, Rama felt their solidarity with him. What exactly was at stake here?
Maharaja Dasaratha bowed his head again, shutting his red-rimmed eyes. Sumantra stepped forward, peering at him anxiously, but Dasaratha waved him away weakly. After a moment, he opened his eyes once more, speaking hoarsely but clearly.
‘He wishes to conduct a great yagna. This is the culmination of his two hundred and forty years of penance. But each time his purohits prepare the sacred altar for the yagna, rakshasas defile its sanctity and disrupt the preparations. Even as we speak, the propitious time for the completion of the yagna is wasting. He must complete the ritual within the next seven days in order to achieve his spiritual goal. To this end, he interrupted his penance and came to Ayodhya today to request protection against the rakshasas.’
Rama was baffled. ‘But Father, this is the essence of the Kshatriya code: to protect those who cannot, will not, or must not fight. We are sworn to protect the seers and Brahmin classes with our lives, just as they are sworn to teach us all knowledge and guide us spiritually. Why do you refuse such a request?’
Dasaratha shook his head. ‘You do not understand, Rama. I have already offered him the services of my best warriors, my Purana Wafadar battalion; my entire army is at his disposal if he desires its services … I can do no less, for as you say, it is our sacred duty to protect and to serve the holy men. Yet the brahmarishi rejects all my offers and insists on his own choice of protector.’ Dasaratha shook his head in despair. ‘He insists on having you, my son, even though he knows full well that even my mighty army was once routed by this king of demons. Indeed, I would not be sitting here before you today were it not for the intervention of your clan-mother Kaikeyi, who saved my life not once but twice on that same battlefield. This Ravana is no ordinary rakshas, Rama, as my own wounds testify.’
Second Queen Kaikeyi, then Princess Kaikeyi of the western kingdom of Kaikeya, had ridden in her father’s stead at the head of his host, accompanied by Maharaja Dasaratha, Kaikeya’s closest ally during the asura wars.
Dasaratha had faced Ravana himself in single combat, sustaining a wound that would have been mortal had Kaikeyi not intervened and spirited Dasaratha away to safety in her own chariot. Later, at the close of the battle, Dasaratha’s chariot was destroyed by the Lord of Lanka. Kaikeyi put her own chariot between them and held out long enough for Sumantra to come to their rescue with reinforcements. Eventually the combined armies of Kosala and Kaikeya had pushed the asuras back, and Dasaratha had always claimed that had Kaikeyi not saved his life twice, who knew what the outcome might have been.
Before Rama could speak aloud, Bharat stepped forward with his customary eagerness. ‘Let me go then, Father. I shall protect the brahmarishi and see his yagna completed successfully. Offer him my sword and service.’
Dasaratha smiled indulgently at his second oldest. ‘You are brave and bold as your namesake, Bharat. Well did I name you after the founder of the Arya nations, great Bharata himself. But alas, this is not acceptable to the brahmarishi either. He wants Rama, and Rama alone, to accompany him back to the forest.’
Rama felt everybody turn to look at him as he spoke. ‘Then let me go with him. I will be blessed to perform such a great service.’
Vishwamitra wheeled around, his piercing eyes finding Rama and pinning him with an expression of ferocious pleasure. ‘You see, Dasaratha? Even he is willing to go with me. Now, you have no argument left to oppose me!’
Dasaratha rose to his feet, his fist trembling. ‘He does not understand, sage! He is young and inexperienced. You are one of the Seven Seers. The asuras can no more harm you than they can harm the flow of Brahman itself. You are virtually immortal and invulnerable, shielded by mandalas, mantras and dev-astras, divine weapons and shields given to you by the devas themselves. But my Rama is merely a mortal boy. He is no match for asuras sent by the Lord of Lanka. He does not even have the full measure of these demons!’
Vishwamitra replied calmly: ‘And they do not have his measure.’
‘What can a fifteen-year-old boy do against such creatures? Rakshasas, no less! Rama is fresh from the gurukul, barely of marriageable age. He should be out right now playing Holi with his brothers and friends, enjoying the prime of his youth, celebrating the spring of his life. Not listening to this weary debate. He is too young for such matters. He is no more fit to fight Ravana’s two strongest demons than I am to fight Ravana himself at my age and in this condition!’
‘He may surprise you yet, raje. After all, he is your son.’
Dasaratha shook his head vehemently. ‘Do not persist in this exorbita
nt demand, mahadev. I beg of you! Today, at the spring feast, I am to announce his succession. In less than one fortnight, on his sixteenth naming day, he will be crowned heir to the throne of Ayodhya. Have a care for his future if not for his youth.’
‘I care a great deal about his future, Ayodhya-naresh. That is why I promised you that I would bring him back safe and sound before the date of the coronation. You have my word on it, the word of one of the Seven Seers.’
Dasaratha seemed on the verge of crying out. He controlled himself with an effort and said in a voice that was only one level above a broken-down sob: ‘Shama, mahadev. Ask of me anything other than this. I cannot give you my first-born. Take anything you will from me, but not my Rama.’
This time the brahmarishi’s response was a long time coming. Rama saw that the seer had reached the end of his patience. Vishwamitra’s features had hardened into a mask of grim anger. At that moment, he looked more like the king he once was than a man of God. He took a step towards the dais and raised his staff.
‘So be it then, Dasaratha. I have no more business here. I take my leave. Good day.’
Vishwamitra turned, carrying his raised staff, and proceeded up the hall with long, decisive strides. Nobody else moved or spoke. They all seemed frozen. He’s leaving, Rama thought, without his guru-dakshina. It was a violation of everything he had been taught since childhood. Rama’s brothers looked at each other nervously. Sumantra set down the goblet and spittoon he was holding, and fell to his knees, praying. Even without hearing the words, Rama knew that the pradhan-mantri was invoking the Holy Trinity to protect them all from the krodh of the great seer-mage. Entire nations had been wiped out by the holy curse of brahmarishis for less cause than Dasaratha had just given.
Guru Vashishta stepped forward, his eyes blazing at Dasaratha, before turning to call out to Vishwamitra. The departing seer-mage was almost at the doors when the guru spoke.
‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra,’ he called. ‘I entreat you, stay a moment. This matter is not done yet. There are still words left to be spoken.’
Vishwamitra paused, but didn’t set his staff on the ground. Without turning around fully, he said over his shoulder: ‘I have heard all the words that matter. Nothing more remains to be said.’
‘In the name of our shared status as brahmarishis, I request you earnestly, come back to the dais. Give us but a moment to confer. To leave thus would be a great insult to the honour of the house Suryavansha and the clan Ikshvaku.’
‘Any insult here was given by your maharaja. It was my honour that was sullied. Now he must live with the consequences of his decision.’ Vishwamitra took another step towards the doors, but the guru’s voice made him pause again.
‘Then pray, give me but a moment to repair those insults and undo this mistake. For it is a mistake, I assure you. The house of Suryavansha is known for its munificence. Dasaratha’s own ancestor Maharaja Harishchandra gave away his entire wealth as guru-dakshina. And noble Raghu had already bankrupted his royal treasury by gifting all he owned to one rishi when he was called upon by another to deliver a fabulous sum as guru-dakshina. Raghu obtained the amount from Kuber, Lord of Wealth, and fulfilled his sacred obligation for the second time. The seat of Ayodhya has ever been known for its adherence to dharma.’
Vishwamitra partly turned his body, his eyes diamond-bright in the shadow of an ornate marbled pillar. ‘Your words contradict those of your king, great guru. Look! Even now he sits there silent while you implore me on his behalf.’
Guru Vashishta turned to look at the maharaja.
Dasaratha’s face was filled with such despair and pain, Rama could hardly bear to look at his father.
‘Ayodhya-naresh,’ the guru said, ‘and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. Both of you have reached an impasse. One asserts the right of a Brahmin to demand dakshina from a Kshatriya. The other asserts the right of a father to preserve the life of his son. This debate could rage for ever without an end. Nor would I have you fling insults at one another.’
‘What would you have us do, guruji?’ asked Dasaratha in a sobered tone. Rama could empathise with his father’s dilemma: he was torn between his concern for Rama and his desire to fulfil his dharma. ‘Pray, give us the fruit of your wisdom.’
Vashishta spread his hands wide, indicating the empty sabha hall. ‘When Manu Lawmaker, the first maharaja of Kosala, was crowned, in this very chamber, and on that very sunwood throne, he laid down two laws by which he would govern. Those two laws determine all life-and-death decisions in Ayodhya even today. Rajkumar Rama, would you tell us what those two laws are?’
‘The first law is to obey dharma at all costs,’ Rama said promptly. ‘For dharma is the moral code by which the pillar of Arya character stands upright.’ He paused, seeing the destination of the guru’s argument even before he spoke the words. ‘The second law is that the maharaja rules not for himself, his dynasty, clan, varna or family. He rules for the people. If he takes a decision that affects the people, then it must meet with the people’s consent.’
There was silence for a moment as everyone absorbed the implications of the second rule.
When Guru Vashishta spoke again, it was in a lighter, almost mischievous tone. Rama thought he could see a playful twinkle in the ancient seer’s eyes. ‘Maharaja Dasaratha, do you deny the second law of Manu?’
Dasaratha looked puzzled. ‘Of course not, gurudev. The maharajas of Ayodhya have always ruled only at the people’s behest.’
‘Then there is the solution to your vexing dilemma. Abjure any further discussion on this matter. Proceed with the Holi ritual prayers and festivities. When you stand before the citizens of Ayodhya on the mela grounds today, confront them with the question. Let them decide if Rajkumar Rama is to go with Vishwamitra or stay here in Ayodhya. Ask Ayodhya to decide!’
In the stunned silence that followed, Rama saw the unmistakable gleam of a smile in the eyes of Vishwamitra.
TWENTY-NINE
‘Dashasu dikshu apratihatam ratham calayateeti Dasharatha.’
The chanting rose from a thousand Brahmins led by the court purohit Rishi Vamadeva. Seated cross-legged on a flat wagon drawn by a train of sixteen elephants, the Brahmins headed the procession winding its way majestically down Harshavardhana Avenue, the traditional starting point of the annual parade. A boy of not more than seven years sat at the head of the chanting Brahmins, his shaven pate decorated with caste marks in the shape of a Shiva lingam, an appeasement to the god of destruction that he might allow this moving machine to pass unharmed. The elephants trumpeted at varying intervals, punctuating the chanting of the Sanskrit slokas praising Maharaja Dasaratha. The wagon bearing the Brahmins was a little less than three yards wide and twenty yards long, rolling on eighty wheels each a yard high. The crowd lined up along the sides of the avenue were kept back safely by silken ropes held by PFs in full battle regalia but unarmed. The order to shelve weapons had been given by Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra after hearing the story of the near-riot on Raghuvamsa Avenue earlier that morning. Even so, the PFs still made an imposing sight, and the children watching from behind the ropes were as fascinated by their battle scars and towering stature as by the royal parade.
Among the thousands of children watching were two young vaisya girls, their packets of rangoli and pitchkarees still clutched in their hands, faces and clothes splattered and stained with a rainbow of hues. The taller of the pair, attractive in an honest, clean-featured way, seemed to have endured more rang-smearing than her partner. Her face was a bright crimson smudge relieved only by small patches of purple and indigo. From this quilt of gay colours, her bright blue eyes shone out eagerly, transfixed by the flat wagon.
‘There must be lakhs of purohits,’ her friend said excitedly. ‘Look at how perfectly they’re chanting together. That’s how Maa Prema always tells us to chant and we can never do it so well!’
‘How many times have I told you, Sreelata,’ the taller girl said impatiently. ‘A lakh is a hundred thousand. There aren�
��t even ten thousand purohits there, let alone a lakh!’
‘Oh,’ Sreelata said. ‘Well, I can never figure out number counting. But there certainly are a lot of bald heads on that wagon, aren’t there, Nandini?’
‘There sure are,’ Nandini agreed, smiling at her friend’s choice of words. ‘And the parade hasn’t even started yet. Just wait till you see the royal wheelhouse pass. It’s a hundred yards long, divided into four sections of twenty-five yards each, which are joined by little bridges so you can walk from one end to the other without getting out of the chariot.’
‘I thought you said it was a wheelhouse, not a chariot,’ Sreelata said, chewing on the end of her sari anxiously.
‘Yes, yes, wheelhouse,’ Nandini said. ‘And then you have to see the battle elephants. They’re so beautiful! There are lakhs of them in the royal army, but of course they can’t parade them all at once so they only bring out a few from each akshohini. That’s a division of the army. One akshohini consists of 21,870 elephants, 21,870 chariots, 65,610 horsemen and 1,09,350 foot soldiers. The army of Ayodhya has twenty-five akshohini, while another fifteen are quartered around the kingdom at various places.’
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 22
