PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  ‘Rajkumar Rama, do you have a thought you’d like to share with us?’

  Rama looked up at the sage, resisting the urge to blink against the bright blaze of the fire. His pupils must have dilated as he drifted off, because although the flames were no higher than they had been before—the rishis only used as much wood as was absolutely necessary—they seemed to glow with much greater intensity. Did Vishwamitra’s voice carry a faint inflection of irony?

  The sage seemed to know everything he was thinking. Rama was fairly certain by now that the mantras formed some kind of link between himself, Lakshman and Vishwamitra, giving the brahmarishi access to their innermost thoughts and feelings.

  Oddly, he didn’t mind it very much. After all, he had nothing to hide. Least of all from his new guru.

  ‘Mahadev, my brothers and I were weaned on such terrifying stories of the Southwoods. The so-called Bhayanak-van. The forbidden forest, domain of the asuras. The desolate place, lair of demons and darkness.’

  He gestured at the rishis gathered around the fire. ‘This grove is on the periphery of that same dreaded Southwoods, within reach of its evil influence. Yet the rishis of this ashram don’t seem troubled by rakshasas or other asuras. Here they live outside the protection of Ayodhya and of the rakshak rangers, beyond the boundaries of the Arya nations, unmolested and unharmed. I don’t understand it. For hundreds of generations, our people have believed these Southwoods inhospitable and uninhabitable. We have travelled unchecked as far north as the Norselands and the frozen wastelands of Siber, yet our supremacy has never been able to extend south of the Sarayu. And yet, here we are, in this beautiful glade that is as tranquil and fragrant as any flower grove of Ayodhya. An idyllic grove, a heavenly grove, apparently safe and free of all evil influence. It flies in the face of everything known about the Southwoods. How is this possible?’

  Vishwamitra was seated directly across from Rama, his face barely visible through the heat-haze from the fire. ‘Well asked, rajkumar. A puzzling conundrum that deserves a satisfying reply. And you shall have it. Rishi Adhranga, I believe you would be the best one to respond to Rajkumar Rama Chandra’s question. Please, would you grace us with your knowledge?’

  The rishi nodded sagely, bowing his head and folding his hands to the seer. ‘It would honour me to share my vidya with these proud princes of Ayodhya, mahadev. I am fortunate that you deem me worthy.’

  He stroked his beard steadily for several minutes, evidently a favourite gesture when preparing to speak. Rama noticed that the rishi’s pepper-and-salt growth was shiny with spilled berry juice but it didn’t seem polite to mention it.

  Adhranga’s dark eyes glistened in the light of the fire. He seemed able to stare directly into the flames for any length of time without blinking. Rama could imagine him staring at the sun until his pupils turned white: he had that hardened look of the pure penitent about him. A man who welcomed the blasting heat of the desert or the bone-numbing chill of winter merely as notches on an endless sugarcane rod, to be marked off without care for how many were done or how many more lay ahead. What little flesh he had on his bones was all sinew and gristle, so tightly stretched that his limbs appeared to curve slightly, in the way that a great longbow carved from stubbornly hard wood bent with great difficulty.

  When he spoke, his voice was clear and soft, with the tone of one who believes in conserving every breath to offer in the service of his deity. A word spoken needlessly is a missed opportunity to say the name of the Lord. The voice that spoke the words in Rama’s head was Adhranga’s, but the rishi himself was still silent, stroking his beard in the same steady rhythm, rocking slightly on his folded legs.

  Rama was suddenly flooded with flickering images of Rishi Adhranga seated before his pupils, in the shade of an enormous banyan tree, the same tree beneath which they now sat. Except it was early morning, almost sunrise, and the rishi was younger, his hair completely black, as was his beard. But the rhythm and manner in which he stroked his beard were identical. He does it when delivering his morning pravachan, and when he sits with his fellow rishis and shishyas every night at their prashna-uttar sessions, and every time he’s posed a particularly difficult philological query. He strokes it like this for a long time, and all the rishis wait patiently, knowing that he’s about to deliver some special wisdom.

  With an effort, Rama struggled to empty his brain of the sensations flooding through like a river in spate. He silently spoke the first mantra that came to mind. It happened to be the Gayatri mantra, that most sublime of all verses, the sloka that paved the way for all auspicious beginnings. He sensed another consciousness doing exactly the same thing, like an echo.

  Opening his eyes, he saw that Lakshman was moving his lips silently as well. We are both struggling with the change wrought by the maha-mantras. Becoming something other than human.

  As suddenly as the sensations had flooded his mind, they drained away, like water vanishing down a gutter.

  He sighed, relieved.

  At that moment, Rishi Adhranga began speaking aloud.

  NINE

  Shatrugan and Bharat waited restlessly outside their father’s chambers. There seemed to be an endless coming and going of serving girls and vaids, all of whom walked past with quick anxious steps. Finally, after some hours, the traffic slowed, and everyone else had left the maharaja’s chambers except for Guru Vashishta, Kausalya-maa and the royal vaid. Susama-daiimaa came thrice to ask them to come to the bhojanshalya for their evening meal, and thrice they refused. They understood from her nervous entreaties that nobody else had eaten either, except for Kaikeyi-maa. The hour grew very late, but even so, they could hear sounds outside the palace walls. Sumantra came by at one point and told them that the sounds were from a crowd collected outside the gates. Although no official word had been given to the people, the news of Dasaratha’s collapse had spread throughout the city and many Holi revellers had left the celebrations to gather at the palace gates where they waited for news of their maharaja.

  The princes leaped to their feet as the royal vaid emerged from their father’s chambers. He was a tall, fair-skinned northerner with a long face lined with age, and bushy white eyebrows.

  ‘Vaidji? How is he?’

  He looked at the faces of the two princes, his brows knitting together anxiously.

  ‘Rajkumars,’ he said gently. ‘I will not give you false hope. Your father’s condition is precarious.’

  Shatrugan asked with unexpected belligerence: ‘Can’t you give him something? A neem potion maybe? We learned in Ayurveda that a weakness of the heart can be treated with—’

  ‘Rajkumar Shatrugan,’ the vaid said patiently. ‘I appreciate your knowledge. But there are some conditions that are beyond the scope of Ayurveda. Even the great body of Arya medical science has limits when issues of life and death are concerned.’

  ‘What are you saying, vaidji? That our father—’ Bharat struggled to finish. ‘That he may not have long to live?’

  The vaid looked at him sympathetically. ‘That is what I was trying to avoid saying, but yes, it is true. He may last a week, a month, or even more than one month. But I am afraid his time is coming.’

  Shatrugan’s face darkened with anger. ‘There must be something you can do. Guru Vashishta can do something. He has lived seven thousand years! He must know how to prolong Father’s life.’

  The vaid sighed. ‘I can’t speak for the mahaguru. All I can tell you is that our medical knowledge has exhausted itself. Now, whatever happens, it is out of our hands. Aagya, Rajkumars.’

  Shatrugan watched the vaid leave, his face tight with anger. ‘What good are they then? If they can’t help him at a time like this? What good is all that knowledge and learning?’

  Bharat put his arm around his brother. ‘Shatrugan, calm down. This is not a mace-fight. You won’t help Father by getting angry.’

  Shatrugan struggled with his anger. Finally he nodded. ‘I know you’re right, bhai. But I can’t seem to make myself un
derstand it.’ He thumped his chest with a clenched fist. ‘It’s as if something inside me refuses to accept that Father is … mortal.’

  ‘Only his body, young prince. His atma is immortal.’

  They looked up at the imposing figure of Guru Vashishta.

  ‘Pranaam, guruji,’ they said in unison, folding their hands before the guru.

  ‘I understand your anger, Rajkumar Shatrugan,’ he said kindly. ‘When faced with something as omnipotent as mortality, our first reaction is fear. And in a healthy being, fear always manifests itself first as anger. You are right to feel angry. But you must learn not to vent that anger. Instead, channel it into a more useful emotion. Turn it into prayer.’

  ‘Prayer?’ Shatrugan’s voice expressed his disbelief.

  ‘Forgive my asking, gurudev. But will prayer truly help Father now? If I pray long and hard enough, will Yamaraj, Lord of Death, spare his life for another twenty years? Or forty?’

  The guru looked sharply at Shatrugan. Bharat saw a spark of fire blaze in the brahmarishi’s eyes.

  ‘I will permit your lapse this time, young Shatrugan, because I empathise with the turmoil you are experiencing. But never again question so fundamental a practice as prayer. If every Arya, swayed by a momentary personal crisis, lost sight of his faith, this entire nation and all the Arya nations with it would be condemned to eternal damnation. You consider yourself strong, do you, Shatrugan? Then prove your strength of spirit as well as body, mann as well as tann. Keep control of your emotions and your tongue. You cannot put out a fire by adding the oil of your own anger into the flames.’

  Shatrugan’s rage melted away, washed clean by the guru’s verbal lashing. Bharat resisted the urge to move away, to avoid being included in the guru’s reprimanding. Instead, he stood closer to his brother, supporting Shatrugan with his presence.

  Shatrugan relented. He folded his hands and bowed his head to the guru. ‘Shama, gurudev. Forgive me. I forgot myself.’

  The guru nodded brusquely, acknowledging the apology. ‘You asked about prayer, young Shatrugan. About how it can help your father. I did not propose you pray for his recovery. His condition is beyond reprieve. Whatever is happening to him now is his own karma manifesting itself. Nay, I asked you to pray for your own sake.’

  Shatrugan looked perplexed. ‘For my sake?’

  ‘Yes. Prayer cleanses the soul at a time of crisis and prepares us to meet and face any challenge. Turn your harmful negative energy into the positive power of prarthana. Pray not for your father, rajkumar. Pray that you may accept the inevitability of his passing with grace and fortitude.’

  The guru whisked away down the long empty corridor, his words hanging in the air like echoes in a cavern.

  Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged a glance. Shatrugan looked down, embarrassed. Bharat squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s go see Father now.’

  Shatrugan shook his head. ‘You go ahead, bhai. I … I need some time to come to terms with this.’

  He touched his naming thread, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a rudraksh mala and he was counting off prayers. ‘I think I’ll take guruji’s advice. I’ll be at the mandir praying if you need me.’

  Bharat watched Shatrugan walk slowly down the corridor. We each have to deal with life in our own individual ways. Brothers we may be, but we are separate individuals too. Even seemingly identical sections of an apple contain different numbers of seeds. Each of us has a different course ahead. We must find our own separate ways, wherever they may lead.

  He turned and went into his father’s chambers. Serving girls stood about whispering nervously. They leaped to alertness as he passed by. He reached the innermost chamber, his father’s sleeping room. As he parted the drapes, he paused. It occurred to him that the guru had spoken as wisely as always. His own first reaction had been anger too. But his anger had passed much more quickly than Shatrugan’s. Now, he was only afraid. Very afraid.

  The room was surprisingly bright, illuminated by hundreds of little clay diyas. They were arrayed in rows around the room, covering every available surface. It was the precise opposite of the dimly lit sickroom Bharat had expected. He blinked, surprised.

  ‘He fears the dark. His vision is dimming and he wants it to be as bright as possible.’

  Kausalya-maa smiled at him from the bedside, sensing his confusion. She was sitting beside the head of the maharaja’s bed, on a simple padded stool, a daubing cloth in her hand. Dasaratha seemed to be fast asleep, his face ashen and strained, but at rest.

  Bharat nodded. Kausalya-maa was still dressed in the sari she had worn to the Holi parade. She had not had an opportunity to change all day, choosing to spend every minute by the maharaja’s bedside. It made him feel guilty, not for himself, but for his mother, who had stormed angrily back to her own chambers and hadn’t shown her face since the encounter in the Seers’ Tower.

  Although, he remembered unhappily, Susama-daiimaa had commented on the huge dinner the second queen had ordered to her private chambers. Evidently his father’s condition hadn’t affected his mother’s appetite in the slightest. And here was Kausalya-maa, whom he knew hadn’t touched a morsel or sipped so much as water since his father’s collapse.

  He knelt by her side, touching her feet. ‘Maa, shama.’ Forgive me, Mother.

  Kausalya didn’t click her tongue or make any false protestations as most elders customarily did.

  Instead, she placed her arms on Bharat’s shoulders and said gently, ‘You have done nothing that needs forgiving, my son.’

  He looked up at her. She looked so gentle, so calm. He wished suddenly that he had been born as Kausalya’s son rather than Kaikeyi’s. ‘I heard her calling out to Father, shouting at the servants. I had seen him go up to the Tower minutes before, he does that sometimes when he needs to be alone. I told her he was up there. Only after she ran up the stairs did I realise she was carrying the spear. I followed her thinking she might not be in her full senses.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know she would go so far, say such awful things.’ He averted his eyes. ‘I can’t believe she threatened Father and you with violence.’

  Again, Kausalya didn’t sigh, make noises of commiseration or otherwise dilute the intensity of Bharat’s words. He understood and appreciated that greatly; it had been hard for him to say that much. It still felt like betrayal, to speak about his mother when she wasn’t present. But he had felt compelled to explain, to try and make Kausalya-maa see that he hadn’t known what was going to happen. If he had, he would have never told his mother where the maharaja had gone.

  Especially after he had seen Kausalya go up to the Tower as well.

  ‘We cannot control the actions of others, Bharat. Each of us makes our own choices, creates our own karma. You are not responsible for your mother’s actions. Don’t carry her burden of guilt on your shoulders.’

  He nodded. He knew what she said was wise and true. Yet the pain in his chest remained, like a chip of wood he had swallowed and which was now lodged in the space between his heart and his ribs. It throbbed with every beat of his life-blood, sending needles of anguish through his being. He clenched his fist, squeezing his father’s bedspread.

  Kausalya laid her hand on his fist. ‘Be strong, Bharat. Your father needs you. Kosala needs you. All will be well as long as you remember who you are and what your dharma is. The rest is beyond any mortal’s grasp. Free your mind of all guilt or regret. You have done nothing but honour your father and your line. Dasaratha and I have nothing but pride and love for you, putra.’

  At the last word, his heart caught in his chest. He felt the chip of wood burst into flame, searing his insides, turning his blood to lava.

  She called me putra. Son. My mother treats me like a contemptible stranger, treats Kausalya-maa with such loathing and disrespect, and yet she calls me putra. She regards me as a son. This is my true mother. She must be. Who else would show such love and kindness to the son of her arch-enemy? She is the one I m
ust turn to for guidance through this time of crisis.

  He bent down and caught hold of her feet again, clasping them tightly, holding on to her as if he would never let go.

  ‘Maa,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘Maa.’

  Mother.

  In the depths of his fever-sleep, Dasaratha stirred briefly, eyes fluttering without opening. He subsided again in an instant. His face was more restful, as if his soul had found some little peace in the midst of his suffering.

  ***

  Guru Vashishta and Sumantra were in the seal room when Mantri Jabali burst in. The minister’s usually immaculately groomed hair and dress were dishevelled and splattered with stains. He was out of breath and gasping as if he had run a mile or two.