PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  ‘Even better,’ the rishi said, ‘my brahmacharyas will be happy to make such a vessel for your use. Of course, the young shishyas are welcome to watch and learn. We keep a supply of ready-cut balsa logs expressly for this purpose, and we are accustomed to lashing rafts together in an hour or two. My boys are quite happy to build one simply for the distraction it provides from their usual chores. I will see to it.’

  From the ripple of excitement that spread through the brahmacharyas, it was evident that his acolytes agreed with this view.

  ‘We are indebted to you for your grace and hospitality, rishiji,’ Vishwamitra said.

  Lakshman spoke up. ‘Mahadev, may I ask the rishi one last question?’

  Vishwamitra nodded. ‘Go ahead, rajkumar.’

  ‘The katha you narrated so eloquently was mainly about Shiva and his epic meditation on the loss of his consort. Kamadev hardly plays much part in the whole story. Then why is this spot named after Kama?’

  Rishi Adhranga smiled, turning his face to his shishyas, all of whom were smiling as well.

  Lakshman looked around, puzzled. ‘Did I say something unseemly?’

  ‘Not at all, shishya,’ the rishi replied. ‘It’s just that every time the katha of Kama’s Grove is narrated, the listener always asks this very same question. Who will answer this time?’

  Dumma’s hand had shot up even before the rishi asked the question, Rama noted with amusement. Adhranga beamed at the young acolyte.

  ‘Tonight seems to be your night to speak, young Dumma. Very well, perform this last service to our guests.’

  Dumma spoke rapidly, his words tumbling one over the other like a series of child-acrobats at a country mela. It was obvious he had this answer down pat. ‘The story is not just about Lord Shiva and Devi Parvati, but about their great love for one another. A love that neither samay nor karma could tear asunder. It was for this reason that the devas sent Kama, god of love, to try to awaken Shiva from his deep meditation. Hence this spot is named in honour not just of the god of love but for the epic love of Shiva and Parvati. Kama’s Folly, Kama’s Grove, this is the most sacred lovers’ rendezvous in all the three worlds.’

  He stopped to catch his breath, glanced at his teacher, then went on unexpectedly: ‘And good sirs, some day when you find your own life’s true love, then you would be well advised to visit this grove with your beloved and seal your bond in this most romantic of spots!’

  Rishi Adhranga’s face lost its beatific smile and he sputtered indignantly: ‘How many times have I told you, Dumma! That is not part of our katha-vidya. You are not to repeat that last part ever again! Am I understood?’

  Young Dumma’s face fell. ‘But guruji, they said you had changed your mind and I should make sure to tell our esteemed guests about this romantic side of our sacred shrine.’

  Rishi Adhranga’s face turned dark. ‘Who said that? Show him to me!’

  Young Dumma looked around at his fellows. They were all standing around with completely innocent expressions, as if they had no idea what had just transpired. He shifted uncomfortably, then hung his head, his babyish features curled into an appropriately contrite expression.

  ‘Perhaps I mistook their words, guruji. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  Rishi Adhranga scanned the faces of his acolytes intently.

  ‘What are you all staring at? Go on and start fetching the material for the raft. You heard the brahmarishi. That raft has to be ready before daybreak. Get to work then, Shaivites. Om Namah Shiva. Praised be the name of Shiva.’

  ‘Om Namah Shiva,’ they repeated, and scuttled about busily.

  Adhranga caught sight of Dumma standing alone, waiting to be chastised further. ‘You too, Dumma. Go on and make yourself useful.’

  Dumma grinned with relief and sprinted to join his fellows. Rama had the distinct impression that the young acolyte wasn’t quite as contrite about his lapse as he had looked earlier.

  Rishi Adhranga scowled and turned back to the princes and the brahmarishi. Vishwamitra seemed to be staring at a point high up on the trunk of a nearby jackfruit tree. Rama couldn’t tell if he was offended or amused by the young acolyte’s outburst.

  ‘My apologies, brahmarishi,’ Adhranga said, looking irritated. ‘I have told him several times before that it would not be in our best interests to spread that legend once again.’

  ‘Once again, rishidev?’ Rama tried to keep his face straight and suitably serious. It took some effort.

  Rishi Adhranga sighed. ‘Until recently, perhaps just a hundred or so years ago, this place was a notorious lovers’ rendezvous. It was believed, you see, that couples who … um … consummated their relationship in this sacred grove would experience a bonding as eternal as the love of Shiva and Parvati.’ He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘It made things quite awkward for our order, as you can well imagine.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Vishwamitra said, still keeping his eyes on the distant point. ‘We can well imagine.’

  Rama and Lakshman looked at the brahmarishi curiously.

  Vishwamitra glanced at them, then added quickly: ‘We can imagine how awkward it must have been. Very, very awkward, no doubt.’

  Adhranga nodded unhappily. ‘Couples sneaking through the grove all night, indulging in … grossly inappropriate behaviour … often while we were busy with our katha-vidya. And it would … distract some of our younger brahmacharyas while engrossed in their celibate studies. It’s hard maintaining celibacy when half the kingdom’s love-besotted couples are rolling about and squealing all around you.’ He shook his head, sighing. ‘Thank Shiva we don’t suffer those distractions any more.’

  ‘Yes, thanks be to Shiva.’ The brahmarishi was staring at the jackfruit tree, Rama realised suddenly, with a touch more concentration than was needed. Rama and Lakshman glanced at each other and turned their faces away, to avoid the rishi seeing the gouts of laughter that threatened to burst free.

  Rishi Adhranga shook his head. ‘I can tell you one thing, my friends. One hundred and twenty years old I am, and for almost that entire duration I have known only this ashram as home, devoted to the service of Shiva. But in all these many years, one thing that never seems to change is the shamelessness of young lovers in heat. Why, on one occasion, I was walking through the grove at dawn in search of some berries for our ritual—’

  ‘Excuse me, Rishiji,’ Vishwamitra cut in hastily. ‘But perhaps my companions could join your brahmacharyas and assist in preparing the vessel for our journey. And as we have to leave early, I have a few spiritual obligations of my own to perform before this night of Holi Purnima passes.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rishi Adhranga said. He beckoned to a passing acolyte. ‘Shambhu, our guests wish to observe how we make our rafts. Take them and treat them with respect. Brahmarishi, if you will follow me, I will escort you to the mandir we maintain on the north wall of the ashram. That would be the most appropriate place for you to offer your prayers.’

  Rama and Lakshman nudged each other as they followed Shambhu to the far side of the clearing. ‘Was the brahmarishi suppressing his laughter or was that just my imagination?’ Lakshman asked.

  ‘I think he was straining to hold back the loudest guffaw ever heard in the seven nations!’ Rama replied.

  Both of them laughed as they were led to where a group of brahmacharyas sat amidst a pile of freshly cut balsa wood logs, a pot of tar slowly melting over a cookfire, and vines and creepers they were weaving into ropes to use as lashings. They looked up as Rama and Lakshman approached. All of them rose suddenly, bowing deferentially to the princes.

  ‘Be welcome, rajkumars of Ayodhya. We are honoured by your presence.’

  Rama and Lakshman looked around, surprised. ‘I thought Shaivites renounced all worldly titles and hierarchies when they took their oaths,’ Rama said.

  The brahmacharyas looked at each other, grinning awkwardly. ‘That is so, rajkumar. But how can we ignore your royal stature?’

  Rama went over and ca
ught hold of the brahmacharya’s arm, taking him by surprise. ‘What is your name, my friend?’

  ‘Shankar, my lord,’ the surprised boy replied.

  ‘Shankar,’ Rama said. ‘Feel my arm.’

  ‘Rajkumar?’

  ‘Go on, feel my arm. Squeeze it, bend it, pinch it if you like.’

  Shankar looked around at his fellows as if wondering if he was being made the butt of some practical joke. Finally he turned back to Rama and looked at the prince’s hand. He reached out hesitantly and touched it.

  Rama nodded. ‘Go on, don’t be afraid. Squeeze it.’

  Shankar squeezed Rama’s hand.

  ‘Does it feel any different from your own?’

  Shankar shook his head.

  ‘You see then? I am flesh and blood, same as you are. A boy, same as you are. Mortal, same as you all. Treat me as any other mortal flesh-and-blood boy, then, please. Not as a prince or a lord or a deva. Just a boy. Is that understood?’

  ‘The same goes for me,’ Lakshman said. ‘The next one to call me rajkumar or lord gets a whack on the back of the head. Samjhe?’

  ‘Samjhe!’ they all chorused, looking surprised but happy.

  Rama nodded. ‘Now sit down and show us how you make your famous rafts.’

  Dumma came and sat cross-legged beside the rajkumars. ‘I’ll show you, Prince Rama!’ He made a face, catching himself. ‘I mean, brother Rama!’

  ‘That’s better,’ Rama said. ‘But I thought you, brother Dumma, were the expert on naughty stories rather than making rafts. That was quite a shock you gave your guru back there! I think he’s still recovering from the surprise.’

  Dumma grinned cheekily, all pretence of contrition gone. He leaned forward, speaking softly lest his guru should happen to overhear—even though the rishi was nowhere in sight. ‘If you like, I can tell you some more naughty stories. About Kama’s Grove. And the things that happened in there.’

  ‘Watch out, brothers,’ the brahmacharya named Shankar called out. ‘Dumma’s stories will turn your ears red with embarrassment! Don’t be fooled by his cherubic looks. He’s a rascal of the first order when it comes to jokes and pranks!’

  Rama looked at Lakshman. ‘Well, I think my brother and I wouldn’t mind our ears turning a wee bit red. Not purple, mind you, just a little pink, and maybe a bit darker too!’

  Dumma grinned. ‘Then prepare yourselves, brothers. Because I’m going to start with the story of one of your very own ancestors and how he crept into Kama’s Grove one Shivratri with his new bride. It was a moonless night and your ancestor was amorous to the point of priapism …

  THIRTEEN

  It was a sizeable chamber, perhaps ten yards by fifteen. But after a moment, as Sumantra’s eyes adjusted to the bluish glow from the guru’s staff, he began to discern another level, lower down.

  And beyond it, faintly outlined in the shadows, yet another level. He remembered from the rare past visits he had made to the dungeon that it had three levels in lengthwise sequence. The entire chamber was perhaps forty-five yards long and ten yards wide. Every fifteen yards, it fell by two full yards. The harder the criminal, the lower the level to which he was banished. The lowest level was usually waterlogged from seepage, he recalled. And the water tended to be cold, especially in winter, when the Sarayu’s temperature fell to a degree or two short of freezing.

  By the bluish light of the staff, he could see the chains and manacles bolted to the walls on this first level. They were all empty. There was nobody here.

  The guru walked slowly to the end of the first level and started down the stairs cut out of the rock. Sumantra paused a moment at the top of the stairs, peering ahead in a vain attempt to penetrate the darkness ahead. All he could see clearly was that the second level was also deserted. But there were dark patches and streaks everywhere, and he thought he could see something caught in the manacles. They look like hands, severed hands.

  Even as the realisation came to him, he caught the first whiff of the smell. The dungeon’s unforgettable rankness had reached him even before they had come through the second door. A combination of mildew, rot, old stone and earth, and the various bodily emissions of generations of unfortunate traitors and criminals. But this smell was something new, something unlike anything he had smelled before. It was the smell of the deep forest, of animal sweat and fur, of leather and blood, ash and ghee. He couldn’t think of any single thing that smelt like this. Yet it aroused a churning in his guts that made his bowels turn to liquid fire.

  I should have stayed up there with Jabali. Why in Vishnu’s name did I come down here? Fool that I am! I’ll never see daylight again now.

  ‘Steady, Pradhan-Mantri. Keep your mind free of negative thoughts. Here, take my hand.’

  The guru’s hand reached up to Sumantra. He stared at it dumbly for a second, then ventured down the steps. One, two, three … six. He stood at the second level and touched the guru’s hand, thanking him.

  ‘I can manage, gurudev. Pray, go on.’

  Vashishta turned and began the descent to the third and lowest level. Halfway down the steps, he paused abruptly. Sumantra was forced to stop as well. The guru raised the staff as high as he could reach, and flexed his arm. The light blazed brighter than ever, turning almost pure white in intensity.

  Sumantra was straining to see beyond the guru’s head and shoulders when the door of the dungeon suddenly slammed itself shut with a clanging impact that hung in the air like the echoes of a temple bell. He turned to stare up through the darkness.

  The door was barely visible at the top of the stone steps, only the iron bars gleaming faintly in the light of the staff. But the sounds coming from the far side were unmistakable. The door was being bolted and barred shut!

  He was starting up the steps when the guru’s voice stopped him. ‘Keys will not work on that door now, Sumantra. The force that bolted it shut wishes us to remain here until its work is done.’

  Sumantra turned back, staring at the back of the guru’s head. From this height, three steps up, he could see a little of the third level now. The seepage that had accumulated at the bottom of the pit over the years was now a slime-covered pool of dark fluid. That was all he could see. Just black water. Nothing else. And nobody. The stench he had smelled was coming from that pit.

  From something within it.

  As if sensing his thoughts, a voice spoke from within the foul-smelling black water.

  Come, Brahmin. Come to me and see what gifts I have in store for you and your mortal companion.

  And with a sputter of sparks like a mashaal being extinguished, the blue light of the guru’s staff winked out, leaving them in pitch darkness.

  ***

  In the darkness of Kama’s Grove, the doe’s downy fur glowed golden as a gilded idol. Supanakha moved slowly between the close-growing trees, stepping nimbly and delicately. Her wound of that morning was fully healed and she moved with an almost dainty gait, fully immersed in her role as a naïve forest-dwelling herbivore. She nuzzled the ground, as if searching for food or seeking the trail of her fellows. At times, she paused to raise her head, seeming to hear sounds inaudible to human ears, and shuddered briefly before moving on, away from the clearing.

  The light from the ashram lanterns faded gradually, and the sound of the brahmacharyas chanting Shaivite bhajans as they worked at the raft fell slowly behind, until they were mere murmurs on the wind, ghostly hints of human presence felt rather than actually heard. The floor of the grove was soft and mulchy beneath her hooved pads, as if it had drizzled lightly in the past evening. The scent of freshly dampened earth was rich in her nostrils, as were the smells of the berries of the grove and the overall pungent effervescence of botanical growth. The leaf-carpeted ground was pleasant and cool to walk on and she found several choice tidbits to munch on as she strolled leisurely.

  She had changed back into deer form before entering the grove. She had considered darkening her fur to blend in with her surroundings but the thought of chan
ging her golden sheen to a dull, lacklustre brown or even a matted black offended her sense of aesthetics. What if she should come across Rama and he should see her in that unattractive form? Why, he wouldn’t even recognise her. It occurred to her that if he came across her in her natural rakshasi form he would hardly recognise her either, but she dismissed that thought impatiently. Rama would see her as she chose to be seen. She owed him that much at least for having saved her life.

  She slunk slowly through the grove, moving from tree to tree cautiously. She had moved away from the clearing when the katha-vidya session ended. The minute Rama had risen and joined the other Shaivites, she had wished him good night silently, sighing as she watched his slender form move away.