The first rakshak bristled. ‘Scares? You’d do well not to use that word when speaking of rakshaks, holy man! Nothing scares a rakshak.’
His companion put a hand on his arm, quieting him. ‘As I said, there are strange rumours abroad. It is difficult to know how much is truth and how much idle speculation or malicious gossip. We who guard the ways hear much but know little for certain.’
He continued before the first rakshak could speak again. ‘We had news of a team of rakshasas breaking into the royal palace and ravishing two queens and killing several dozen palace guards before being cut down by a volley of thunderbolts flung by the mighty seer-mage Vishwamitra, resurrected by the mantras of Guru Vashishta.’
‘Two queens ravished?’ Lakshman blurted in startled surprise. Rama poked him in the ribs, admonishing him into silence, but he was not amused at the inaccuracy of the so-called ‘news’.
‘Untitled queens,’ the rakshak replied. ‘And another rumour spoke of an army of asuras amassing in the Southwoods at the behest of the Lord of Lanka. At the height of the feasting and celebration, when the army and PFs are all heady with wine and the gate-watch is least manned, accomplices of the asuras within the walls will open the gates and let them into the city, to pillage and run amok.’ He added belatedly: ‘Or so the rumours say.’
Ridiculous! Rama almost broke his silence too, startled at the malicious incorrectness of the rumours. Do you think Ayodhya’s entire army and guard will be reeling around drunkenly just because it’s Holi? Fool! He was on the verge of countering indignantly that his father had ordered the gate-watch tripled, and the army kept on full alert. The orders had been issued by Dasaratha to Sumantra, who in turn had informed the senapatis of each akshohini in a private briefing. The army would patrol the city in plainclothes with weapons concealed so as not to alarm the citizenry. No soldier on duty would take a drop of soma today, and six-hour duty shifts had been allotted, ensuring that three-quarters of the full force would be on duty at all times, day or night.
But an ordinary Brahmin acolyte could hardly speak of such things, so he held his tongue, seething.
Vishwamitra seemed unruffled. ‘Even if this gossipy chatter contains a smidgen of truth, my good man—and mind you, I do not grant it even that much licence—what does it have to do with us? Why bar the road to Ananga-ashrama? Surely the asuras do not seek to waylay simple men of God such as us?’
He leavened the questions with a good-natured chuckle that matched his portly appearance. ‘What would they hope to gain after all? Vishnu’s blessings?’
The first rakshak, the one Rama thought of as the son, looked down darkly at the seer. ‘How do we know that you aren’t asuras yourselves? There’s been word—’
He broke off, glanced around, and swallowed before continuing gruffly: ‘There’s been word of asuras who alter their bhes-bhav and appear as common travellers, or even as nobility and royalty to deceive us protectors. They say three rakshak wardens have been murdered in the woods by such deceivers.’
He hawked and spat angrily, missing Rama’s foot by inches. ‘I’d give my right arm to get one chance, just one, to put my lance through one of them khottey-sikkey! I’ll show them how we deal with asuras here in Kosala!’
He’s scared, Rama realised. That’s why he’s so belligerent and rude. He doesn’t know whom to trust.
Vishwamitra replied calmly: ‘And you may get your chance sooner than you think, young man. But now let us pass and go about our holy business. The great Lord Shiva will not be pleased if
we do not reach Ananga-ashrama in time to complete our ishta.’
The older rakshak looked down at his halter for a moment. ‘I wish I could be of help, old one. But our order has decided that until we receive orders directly from a king’s envoy, we are not to permit anyone to pass over Mithila Bridge.’
He backed his horse away a few paces, preparing to turn around and ride back to his post. ‘Carry out your ishta on another auspicious day. Now, return to Ayodhya before sunset. There will be a curfew outside the city and throughout the kingdom, and all travellers without authorisation scrolls will be dealt with on the spot. These are our orders.’
He turned his horse around, and the younger rakshak did the same.
‘Halt, rakshak!’
Vishwamitra’s voice rang out sharp and clear, his nasal twang and chuckling tone gone. ‘Look at me.’
The two rakshaks turned their horses back again, peering suspiciously at the seer. The younger man already had his lance in hand, and the older was reaching for his sword.
Rama glanced at the brahmarishi and saw a faint haze surrounding him, like a cloak that fluttered inches from his skin, sheathing him loosely all over. It shimmered in the bright sunlight, flecked with gold and blue tones. Brahman power. Vishwamitra’s appearance had reverted to its original form.
‘I knew there was something not right with this lot,’ the younger rakshak began, spurring his horse to ride the travellers down.
A bulb of brightness popped out of the brahmarishi’s aura and travelled to the rakshak, stopping him and his horse dead in their tracks. An identical bulb struck his older partner. The bulbs hit the faces of the two rakshaks with a wet plopping sound, and enveloped their heads, like translucent balloons filled with a treacly fluid. The substance of the bulbs began to seep into their eyes, ears, nostrils and mouths. The rakshaks’ eyes widened in alarm, their nostrils flaring with panic; then, abruptly, twin expressions of perfect calm descended on them. They smiled, and their smiles were so goofy and unlike themselves that Rama almost laughed out loud in amazement. They look happily high on ganja!
‘What’s with them?’ Lakshman whispered, nudging him.
‘Those things the brahmarishi shot at them, they’ve acted as some kind of tranquilliser.’
Lakshman stared at him perplexed. ‘What things?’
Rama glanced at his brother curiously. ‘The things on their heads. Don’t you see them?’
Lakshman looked. ‘All I see are those goofy grins on their faces.’
Why am I able to see them when he can’t? The answer that sprang unbidden to Rama’s mind was as vexing as the question itself: For the same reason that you had the dream of Ayodhya’s rape and he didn’t. Your karma and his are intertwined, yet separate. Do not forget: you are blood-brothers, so close you feel like two halves of the same person, yet even two halves must differ in some ways. This is one such way. Accept it, move on.
With an effort he cleared his mind of these distracting thoughts.
Vishwamitra raised his staff and strode forward. For a moment, he continued speaking in the voice of the portly Brahmin.
‘Thank you for your concern and for sharing your news, good rakshaks. Lord Shiva strengthen your arm and protect you from harm.’
In mid-sentence his voice changed back to its normal bass, but of course the rakshaks were long past noticing such incongruities.
Rama and Lakshman followed Vishwamitra as he walked to the bridge. An entire platoon of rakshaks were spread out across the northern end, backed by elephants that swung their trunks to and fro restlessly. A single barked command from their ebony-skinned captain, and the elephants would line up to make any passage impossible, the rakshaks joining shields to attack.
Rama had never seen rakshaks fight but he had watched them train. They were clan-sworn to protect and guard the way-stations, bridges and forest ranges of the Arya nations: gatekeepers of the Arya world was how they described themselves. Infant rakshaks were given weapons to hold even before they were weaned. These men on Mithila Bridge would die without surrendering or retreating. And if their orders were to let nobody pass, then nobody would pass.
But they weren’t equipped to deal with the Brahman powers of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra.
‘Rakshaks!’ the seer called out, raising his longstaff. His aura flowed thick and fast around his body, alive with swirling motes of gold, blue and bright jade green. A dozen, then another dozen bulbs of luminescence br
oke free from the translucent flow and shot towards the rakshaks and their pachyderm reinforcements.
It was all over in moments.
THREE
They emerged on the south side of Mithila Bridge, a light sheen of river mist spray on their bodies the only thing they had to show for the crossing. Toll-free crossing, Rama amended, still smiling to himself at the goofy expressions on the faces of the rakshaks. Even the elephants had gone cross-eyed and rolled their trunks around in spirals before slumping to their knees. One had defecated copiously as he passed, following the release with a deep sigh of contentment. He had patted the wrinkled grey flank of the mare for good luck, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Perfume of the road, his father always called it. He was glad the encounter with the rakshaks had gone so easily. A fight would have resulted in spilt blood. A lot of it. It was one thing to defend oneself against violent poachers or marauding asuras, but the idea of taking Arya lives sat uneasily on his conscience.
Lakshman expelled a sharp breath as they emerged from the cool shadow of the bridge’s overhang and stepped on to the dusty surface of the raj-marg once more. ‘Amazing! Bhai, if we knew that trick, we could get into any place we wanted!’ He dug an elbow into Rama’s ribs. ‘Even the princesses’ quarters at Uncle Maharaja Janak’s palace!’
Rama grinned at the thought of Lakshman loose in their uncle’s palace at Mithila. ‘You need to get married soon, brother. Before you become a father!’
Lakshman winked slyly. ‘And you need to get married before you become a monk!’
Rama shrugged good-naturedly. His self-control regarding matters sexual was notorious. ‘I’ll marry when the right girl comes along.’
‘You mean you’ll marry Sita when she comes of age! Don’t deny it, bhai. You’ve always had a soft spot for Maharaja Janak’s eldest.’
Rama felt a tiny pinprick of irritation. He didn’t like Lakshman speaking of Sita that way. Although I haven’t seen her in years, so why should I care? ‘You’re probably thinking of her younger sisters. Urmila, was it? The one with whom you were caught swimming nanga in the fountain?’
It was Lakshman’s turn to be embarrassed. He punched his brother in the shoulder hard enough to hurt. ‘She talked me into it. Besides, we were just babes. Barely weaned.’
Rama replied with deceptive innocence: ‘So when we meet her next, you’ll be sure to tell her that you’ve been fully weaned now, right?’
He dodged his brother’s fist this time.
Lakshman raised his hands in surrender. ‘All right, you got me. I always did like Urmi. Why deny it? In fact, I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard Susama-daiimaa and my mother talk about making a match with Janak-chacha’s four daughters and the four of us. Always when Shatrugan or I were within hearing distance.’
It was a logical match. Ayodhya and Mithila were sister cities, identical in architectural planning and most other ways. Both the clans were descendants of Ikshvaku, with the Ayodhyan Ikshvakus tracing their descent through Surya and the Mithilans through Chandra: lunar to Ayodhya’s solar. A marital alliance between the sunwood and silvermoon thrones would cement the already healthy relationship between the two powerful kingdoms and almost double the size of Ayodhya’s fighting forces. An alliance that strong could make the difference between success and failure when faced with an imminent asura invasion.
Rama was about to say this aloud when the seer-mage slowed ahead of them. For a moment he thought Vishwamitra was stopping to admonish them for their mischievous banter. Both Rama and Lakshman prepared themselves for a tongue-lashing.
But the brahmarishi spoke with surprising gentleness.
‘Rajkumars Rama and Lakshmana, on the south bank of the Sarayu the very hills and trees have ears. We are in hostile territory now. Your innocent banter may be heard by spies of the Lord of Lanka. Keep your tongues in check unless something important needs saying.’
Rama and Lakshman lowered their eyes respectfully. The seer-mage looked at each of them in turn, his white beard stirring slowly in a gentle breeze.
He added in a faintly amused tone: ‘Impossible as it may seem to you now, I was young once too. But keep your chatter for some more suitable time. Now, you need to conserve your energy. We still have a fair way to go to Ananga-ashrama and the daylight fades swiftly.’
He seemed to want to say something further, but turned away without speaking again. He resumed his powerful strides, as precise as the fourstep of a Kshatriya army on the march. Rama and Lakshman glanced at each other briefly, exchanging an identical look of ‘well, that wasn’t so bad after all’, and followed their new guru without speaking another word.
Sarayu’s voice formed a pleasing backdrop to the sounds of their footfalls and the quiet inner sounds of breathing and heartbeats. The perfume of the river enveloped them, keeping at bay the stench of the Southwoods that loomed on the cliffs to their right. Like an army host lined up ready and waiting … but for what?
The only thing Rama knew about the Bhayanak-van was that it was a forbidden forest, segregating the mapped Arya territories from the vast unexplored wilderness of the southern subcontinent. No Arya truly knew what lay beyond the dark dense Forest of Fear, which was the literal translation of Bhayanak-van. Even the Arya outposts along the coastline were always visited by ship, the outpost Kshatriyas seldom daring to venture too far into the interior regions. Those who had done so over the centuries had never been seen again.
The fauna was sparser here on this side of the river, the ground rocky and pebbled, unlike its lush northern counterpart. That was strange since the silt should have been as rich, as fertile. Up ahead, Rama saw a solitary tall tree growing out of the smooth red clay of the riverbank. A maharuk, which the common folk called the Tree of Heaven. It was tall for its species, well over twenty yards high. More unusual, it was in full bloom already, its pale trunk capped by a closely woven foliage ablaze with little golden-yellow flowers. Normally the maharuk bloomed well after spring began. So it’s just another sign of early spring, another good omen. The tree’s tall trunk, thick foliage and delicately scented flowers provided shade as blessed to a sun-weary traveller as the hand of a deva offering ashirwaad.
As Rama passed beneath the fragrant canopy, a gust of wind rustled the maharuk’s upper branches. With a sound like crisp silks rubbed together, the tree showered the three of them with gaily coloured flowers. At the same moment, a cluster of butterflies—so similar in colouring to the flowers that he mistook them at first—appeared before him, hovered momentarily above his head and danced away gaily.
The road turned to avoid a heap of large boulders which effectively obscured the view of the river and of Mithila Bridge. The terrain began to change almost at once. To their left a steady line of anjan trees rose ominously, effectively obscuring any view of the Sarayu valley. Patches of colour were starting to appear on the anjan trees—colloquially dubbed ‘ironwood’ for their sturdy blackish timber, as dark as the anjan grease used to line one’s eyes—and soon they would burst with a profusion of hues. But right now their dark green foliage and sombre trunks, some as much as eight yards high, made for a grim hedge that loomed over the road, overcasting the bright day with a monsoon gloom. After a moment, Rama realised what else was eerie about this natural avenue: there was no birdsong or insect sounds at all.
Humps of reddish-black boulders began to sprout from the cliff face to their right, like boils on the face of some diseased animal. As they climbed steadily upwards, the boulders grew more profuse until the entire cliff wall seethed with the gnarled dark protrusions. The rusty streaks and gashes in the black stone were signs of raw iron ore, Rama knew, but in the dimness of the ironwood avenue they resembled suppurating pus oozing from the dark boils. He’d heard it said that when the makers of this raj-marg had carted the iron-rich fragments of these boulders down to the city, the Lohars of Ayodhya refused to smelt them in their smithies, believing that Southbank iron was cursed and would not cut asura flesh. He wondered now if thi
s were true or just a superstition, one of the many that centred on all things south of the Sarayu. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch one of the ugly lumps; even the sage was clearly walking in the middle of the raj-marg, staying well away from the anjans at the left as well as the cliff face to the right.
As they reached the top of the raj-marg, Rama’s attention was caught by one particularly large boulder overhanging the road. It was so big it completely shut out the sun for a moment, so when the sage passed into its ponderous shadow, he was swallowed by darkness as smoky as dusk. From this angle it was difficult to be sure, but Rama thought he saw scores running along the top and the sides of the rock. Something crunched underfoot and he looked down to see scrapings of red and black, curled exactly like shavings left by a sutaar’s planing of a wooden plank. What creature or force of nature could have scraped ironstone hard enough to produce shavings? Nothing he had ever encountered in his short life, he was certain.
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 27
