PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Just when he thought they were approaching the peak of the cliff, the marg grew darker still.

  The anjan trees huddled in closer, reaching across the avenue in an attempt to touch the protruding boulders of the cliff face. The boulders were larger and more unruly here, even though Rama knew that the marg-makers who maintained the king’s highway must have cut and planed them smooth. Maybe they keep growing after they’re cut. That was ridiculous—boulders couldn’t grow! But he stopped smiling when he saw a swatch of torn cloth caught between a jagged spur of rock and a clawing leafless branch, as if the two had come together like pincers to catch some hapless traveller.

  Looking up as he passed below the dangling strip of cloth, he could vaguely make out the sigil of the House of Janaka, belonging to his uncle the Maharaja of Mithila. There was that Mithila courier who disappeared last month with a message undelivered, Sumantra said. He could only just make out a faint dark stain below the stag-against-a-full-moon crest and forced himself to look at the road again. He felt a buzzing in his ears and swatted instinctively before he realised that there were no insects. Must be the damn iron in the rocks; the royal vaids say it affects our individual magnetic force and its harmony with the polarity of the planet.

  One final slow curve around a boulder that was far too large for even the tireless marg-makers to shape, and they were suddenly blessedly blinking at soft but still warm sunlight, out of the wretched anjan avenue.

  ‘Om Shiv Hari Swaha, Praised be the Name of Shiva,’ Lakshman said in a whisper beside him, and Rama sent up a brief prayer of his own. It felt as though they had just emerged

  from some dark tunnel filled with a thousand watching wild beasts. But all we did was walk up a byroad of the king’s highway in broad daylight!

  The raj-marg broadened considerably here, providing a respite for wagons and wheelhouses before they attempted the more dangerous downward journey. It brought back memories of his father’s old charioteer Santosha yelling orders to the horse-boys as they scurried about hitching horses to the back of the royal wheelhouse to help control the downward passage of the monstrous luxury cabin, and he was faintly disappointed at the absence of neighing horses, laughing soldiers and his father’s hoarse loud voice, and the overpowering stench of that familiar road perfume, freshly dropped horse dung! All that met them was the tracks of the countless wagons and horses that had passed this way before, and a few dried droppings. To the right, the looming periphery of the woods was kept at bay by a field of kusalavya grass that grew from dark scorched earth. They have to keep burning the woods as they try to come closer to the road. Even so, the skulking darkness of the thicket instilled a sense of foreboding that was strong enough to make his head ache. Like a beast that just sits there, biding its time. He wondered if the sage would take them into the woods from here. The faint line of a footpath cut across the desolate field, entering the woods through a narrow mouth between two crouching trunks. A fresh mark caught his eye and he knelt to examine a small round impression in the dry earth. Another seer with a wooden staff about the size of Vishwamitra’s had passed this way only hours earlier.

  Perhaps it was Vishwamitra himself. After all, he had come out of the Southwoods. The knowledge that the brahmarishi had endured centuries in the dreaded woods and had emerged alive and unharmed gave Rama a sense of reassurance, until he remembered that the seer had mastery of Brahman. While all I have is my bow and a shortsword.

  He had expected the seer to lead them directly into the woods, across the burnt field. But Vishwamitra was looking the other way, out at the valley, standing on the lip of a jutting promontory that stuck out over the cliff face to provide a scenic view of the Sarayu valley. The spot was popularly known as Ayodhyadarshan or Sarayu-darshan, all important things in Arya having at least two names. Rama and Lakshman stood alongside their new guru and looked down.

  The view was breathtaking. The Sarayu valley lay below them, stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. To the north, the mountains of the Garhwal Himalayas rose steadily, vanishing into the mists of late winter. A thick carpeting of palas trees gave the north bank a rich red texture, like the intricate dense weave of the deep-pile Gandahari dhurries his mother loved to collect. The Sarayu’s white line formed an undulating border at the bottom of this roughly rectangular deep-pile rug. Rama could trace the point at which the river entered the valley, far to the distant left. It then passed out of sight beneath the shooting towers and vaulting arches of Ayodhya, roared down sharply over the twenty-yard drop of Aja-putra Rapids, turning into a foaming, seething bundle of cold white fire that calmed down only slightly as it expanded its width and worked its way steadily to the extreme far right of the panorama, beneath spray-shrouded Mithila Bridge, down the ragged boulder-strewn rapids, finally disappearing into a thicket of mangrove on its way to Mithila.

  When next I look upon you, my river-mother, I will have earned the right to be called Rama Rakshas-slayer. Or I will not look upon you again. This I swear.

  He looked at Lakshman and saw his brother’s eyes gleaming a little more brightly than before.

  Moving at the same time, both placed their hands on each other’s shoulders and squeezed tightly.

  When they turned, Vishwamitra was waiting.

  The seer-mage raised his staff and pointed silently.

  They followed him across the burnt field and into the thicket, turning their backs on their last sight of Ayodhya.

  FOUR

  Maharaja Dasaratha reached the last turn and paused to catch his breath. It had been a long day and a hard one, and he had eaten and drunk too much, as usual. Well, it’s Holi, he thought, trying to shrug it off. A little extra wine and meat on a feast day never hurt anyone.

  But the leaden weight in his distended belly, the piercing ache in his lower back, the crushing pressure in his neck and the back of his head, all disagreed fiercely. After a moment it dawned on him that he was not going to feel much better any time soon, and with a weary sigh and a muttered curse he climbed the last few steps.

  He stood on the red-marble floor of the Seer’s Eye, the star-chamber at the peak of the Seers’ Tower. Seen from without, it was a needle-like protuberance that spiralled upwards, like a talon touching the belly of the sky; from within, it was a circular platform open to the skies, its seven inward-curving pillars shaped like lances representing the Seven Seers who had raised and infused the tower with Brahman power. It was windy here, and the powerful currents yanked urgently at his clothes and hair, calling him to the edge and into the arms of oblivion.

  It would be so easy to simply let it carry me over. To float like a bird for a few moments until Prithvi Maa rushes up to embrace me. It would be an end to all his troubles and ailments, to this long, slow climb up the waterfall of time. He knew he should feel ashamed for even contemplating such a thought; perhaps it was the soma talking. Perhaps.

  He lowered his aching bulk to the stone floor, expecting to find it cold from exposure to the long winter nights; it was surprisingly warm. Brahman magic. Always, I am surrounded by the sorcerous power of mages. But for once, his ageing bones were grateful for the sorcery.

  He had come here to get away from the inevitable rush of questions and debate after the tribulations of this morning and post-noon. Vishwamitra had got his guru-dakshina. Rama and Lakshman were on their way to fulfil their dharma. Kausalya would be content, or as content as could be expected. The citizens had their prince-apparent, and their feast. The sportsmen their games. The vaisya book-keepers a whole new set of odds to manipulate now that the four biggest favourites were out of the games—Bharat and Shatrugan had opted out in the absence of their brothers.

  Even the lawbreakers in the city prison had their freedom, in keeping with ancient tradition. The city would celebrate this Holi like never before, the games and revelry continuing for the rest of the seven-day. Somewhere in that week, the war council would convene, and the warmongers would have their day as well, lobbying furiously for i
ncreases in weapons manufacture, siege defences, war machines, soldiers’ pay-scales, senapatis’ fiefs, rakshak deployment, and the devas knew what else. Everybody had what they wished for, or close enough.

  And what did Maharaja Dasaratha have? Nothing but a body that was falling apart faster than a mud wall in a flood, and a heart heavy with fear and anticipation. The setting sun dipped further, turning the silver thread of the Sarayu into gold, and he sighed as he instinctively muttered the sandhyavandana mantra: Soon I will run my course like all rivers must, and I will sleep in the breast of the ocean and dream no more nightmares. And Rama would rule in his stead. He felt a pang of guilt; was it fair to lay such a burden on so young and untried a boy? Ah, but king-rule was never fair, only necessary. It is his dharma to rule, just as it was mine in my time. His time has come.

  And yet. And yet.

  The instant the three figures had vanished over the last rise, Dasaratha had felt his belly turn to ice. He had wanted nothing more than to get on his chariot and ride, ride, ride, the way he had so often in younger days, except that this time he would ride not to take his mind off his troubles, but to leave them behind once and for all. It had been hard going through the complex formalities of the parade, the pooja, the yagna and havan, the speeches and entertainments, the feasting and games. As for the hours after Rama’s departure, they were all a blur, a sunsmeared line of endless smirking faces and fake smiles—or so they had seemed to his cynically despairing mind.

  Finally, he had been able to take it no more. Borrowing Sumantra’s chariot—his own chariot was too lavishly bedecked to ride quickly—he had returned to the palace without a word to anyone, leaving the feast moments after it had begun, escaping it all.

  It had been strangely disquieting, that ride back to the palace grounds. The city roads were oddly silent and deserted— everybody was at the parade grounds, celebrating and feasting. Approaching the palace stairs, he had veered away at the last moment, distracted by a glance of sunlight off the towering Seer’s Eye, driven by some inexplicable urge to go up there.

  Now, he intended to sit here in blessed privacy while the city feasted. He could see the threads of smoke from the hundreds of tandoors set up specially for the feast, slender plumes rising into the ocean-blue sky that would be visible for a dozen yojanas. Like smoke from a burning city.

  There was enough meat roasting down there to feed every belly in the city for seven days; the royal huntsmen would be busy day and night, supplying fresh meat daily. His stomach churned in memory of the quickly and angrily eaten joints he had consumed while downing copious quantities of soma.

  Even at this height, the sounds of merriment and jubilation were faintly audible. Ten thousand serving girls. Thousands of dance performers, jugglers, sword-swallowers, rope-climbers, snake-charmers, knife-throwers, tightrope-walkers, bodypiercers, glass-eaters, mujra dancers, musicians, puppet shows, nautanki performers and several dozens of others that Dasaratha could hardly recall the names of, imported from every corner of the kingdom to provide the people with unparalleled entertainment while also educating them on the variety of cultures in their great nation. Every imaginable entertainment, cuisine and skill was on display, and the people fell on it all with the ravenous appetite of a child woken from a nightmare. The morning’s rakshas intrusion had been easily forgotten, a minor aberration on a day of great jubilation, dealt with decisively by Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s plan to launch a counter-strike against the asuras. Dasaratha smiled as he recalled the brain-numbing thunder of applause and cheers that had greeted his announcement of Rama’s ascension and forthcoming coronation.

  It didn’t take much to make Ayodhya dance, and she was dancing with joy now, celebrating the good omens of an early spring—which invariably meant a fertile seeding—and a new crown-prince. Even if that newly announced crown-prince had been dispatched to the dreaded Bhayanak-van to risk his life in service to his nation; he had heard the confident words of every second citizen and noble alike: ‘Rama will return safe. He has the power of right on his side.’

  It was a sentiment that Dasaratha could hardly contradict, no matter how dark his secret fears and anxieties might be. He envied his city her ability to hang her cares and dance. Dance now, my love, for who knows when the music will end and the screaming begin?

  Then he sighed, realising he was being uncharitable and unfair. They deserve their jubilee. It’s these fine people that have made Ayodhya the pride of all the Arya nations and made it possible for you to wear your crown with such pride, Dasa, don’t forget that. He rubbed his aching thighs, feeling the weight of his sixty years and a lifetime of kingship. Soon he would have to turn his mind to the matter of the intrusion, and the interrogation of the spies in the city dungeons, and to addressing the concerns of those who feared an all-out asura invasion. The war council would convene soon, and all would look to him, Dasaratha, He Who Fought In Ten Directions At Once, to propose a typically brilliant military strategy.

  How could he explain to them that he was weary of battles and warmongering. That all he desired was to spend his last waking hours in the soft perfumed arms of his first queen, his first love, and in the company of his sons. All those ten directions for which he was named seemed to have been shut off now, leaving only one way for him to go: down the long dark corridor into oblivion.

  ‘Dasa?’

  The voice was soft and concerned. Dasaratha knew the speaker’s identity even before he turned his head.

  ‘Kausalya?’ he said, surprised but secretly pleased. ‘You climbed all the way up here?’

  ‘You climbed, didn’t you?’ She smiled cautiously as she reached the uppermost stair. ‘Why did you leave so suddenly? I called after you but you rode like you were in a chariot race! I had to borrow Mantri Jabali’s two-horse to chase you here. He looked sour-faced as usual, and suspicious, and the Greek envoy goggled as if suspecting some royal intrigue.’

  Dasaratha shook his head, grinning. ‘Good. We’ll give the court something more interesting to talk about than asura intrusions. Come to me, my speedy one.’

  She came to him across the breadth of the Eye, bright parrot-green silk sari rustling sensuously as the wind caught at its folds, jewellery tinkling. A horizontal bar of sunlight struck her midway, illuminating her hair and flawless skin, making her shimmer in a green-gold haze, and he was filled with an emotion so pure and strong, he thought his heart would burst.

  She looked at him closely. ‘Should you be climbing up here in your condition?’

  He shrugged. ‘The vaids would like me in my bed all day and night. Would you rather have that?’

  She smiled fondly, sitting beside him, her hand on his thigh, lightly placed. ‘I would have you live a thousand years.’

  ‘Even after I sent your son into the Southwoods to fight rakshasas?’ He looked at her, trying not to show his anxiety. She was not one of those he had sought to run from, but he was still unsure how she felt deep within her heart. But there was no reproach in her eyes, no sullenness in her tone. Only a quiet acceptance.

  ‘You had no choice, Dasa. The sage demanded his gurudakshina, the people’s choice was unanimous. You could only say aye, never nay. Besides, if Rama is to be king, he must learn to fulfil his dharma without question.’

  He nodded, hiding his relief just as adroitly as he had hidden his anxiety. ‘It was not he who protested. I was the one who could not bear to fulfil the sage’s demand. Even in the sabha hall I had rejected it, and Rama all but dropped to his knees and pledged his sword then and there.’ He shook his head, recalling Rama’s eagerness to accede to the seer’s request as well as to please his father. ‘It was a blessed day that made me the father of that boy.’ He touched Kausalya’s hands, lying clasped in her lap; her bangles clinked softly. ‘And when he left with the sage, so calm and dignified, I tell you truly, Kausalya, at that moment I was never so proud to be his father nor so wretched at being a king.’

  ‘He will enhance your pride and make you forget your wr
etchedness,’ she said with complete conviction. ‘And will make you prouder yet. Wait and see.’

  He looked at her closely. ‘You have grown so much, Kausalya. My God. You were always strong as burnished bronze, but now you are forged and tempered steel.’

  She looked away, her eyes brimming with sunlight. ‘Steel that has been hammered, beaten, folded upon itself countless times, and dipped into the icy heart of a glacier.’ She looked at him, twin suns blazing. ‘Fifteen years in the forging.’

  A searing dagger of pain pierced his exhaustion. ‘Tempered, yes, forged, yes. But never beaten. I have wronged you, my queen. But you have grown stronger as a result. And in your strength I see Rama’s strength. My kingdom will rest in able hands. Crowning him will be the best thing I have ever done as a maharaja.’

  She softened. ‘You judge yourself too harshly. You are a man as well as a maharaja. Men make mistakes.’

  He nodded, more sober than when he had woken that morning. ‘You believe that my sending Rama and Lakshman to the Southwoods was not one such mistake?’

  ‘Why do you seek new ways to torture yourself, Dasaratha? You did what you had to. He will do what he must.’

  He sighed. ‘Well said, but hard words. I feel as if I have sent my son to his death.’