PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Vishwamitra said: ‘From the frozen tundraland of Siber, to be accurate. Much further north of Chinn. There the Russis name them whitecrane or sibercrane. Mostly they seek out the warmer climes of Marwar and Gujjar, but some grow weary of the long flight and settle here. They will return home to their snowlands in a few days.’

  Lakshman raised his hand, cupping his mouth, and emitted a loud piercing bird call. Thousands of red beaks rose in unison, seeking out the source of sound but not a bird took wing.

  Rama nodded in admiration at the immobility of the birds. They have never known danger before; they live fearlessly under Shiva’s protection.

  Lakshman grinned, proud of his imitation. ‘How was that, bhai?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ Rama replied, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Of course, it happened to be a jhilli’s mating call, rather than the chini kulang’s natural cry, but I’m sure they didn’t mind.’

  Lakshman’s face fell. ‘A jhilli’s mating call?’

  ‘Yes. Right now, those snowcranes are probably wondering since when marsh crakes grew so tall and poled rafts downriver.’

  ‘Go catch long fish with your short beak,’ Lakshman retorted, then glanced at Vishwamitra. The seer seemed absorbed in his contemplation. They poled along in silence for a while.

  The current flowed gently, just strong enough to keep them moving at a steady pace. After a while, the river grew much broader, wide enough for the raft to float smoothly along without needing constant correction. They sat then, keeping their poles ready beside them, with not much more to do than watch the countryside scrolling past. To their left the cliff face rolled by relentlessly, a blurring blackish-grey wall scarred by jagged red veins of ore. It blocked the rising sun for the first few yojanas, keeping it from falling directly on them, and the cool wind and moist spray from the river kept them refreshed and alert. To their right, the fruit thickets of Kama’s Grove fell behind after less than an hour, giving way to fertile marshlands, which in turn gave way to a succession of wood-thickets. These were populated by common animals who watched them boldly from the trees or banks without any sign of nervousness.

  Rama and Lakshman called out the names of trees, birds and animals as they came into view, arguing over the varied nicknames used for the species in different parts of the continent. When they fell silent, unable to identify a bird or a plant, the seer supplied its name, reeling off a succession of alternatives in a multitude of languages.

  After several yojanas, Rama began to realise that they hadn’t spotted a single predatory beast or heard any of the dreaded cries of the notorious forest hunters. No wonder the herbivores are so numerous and so bold; even their natural predators aren’t around to hunt them. Shiva’s umbrella of protection must extend right up to here.

  The sage remained standing the whole time, like a ship’s captain on his vessel’s prow, watching for signs of land. Or dangerous reefs. After the rajkumars tired of identifying species he fell silent too, and only the sounds of the river and the wildlife on its banks marked their passing.

  As the sun rose and found the centre of the river, the day grew warmer, losing its dawn chill. The water was warmer too, when they trailed their hands in it, and flowed much faster. The sound of the river, the calling of the birds and animals in the woods, and the placid calm of the whole landscape began to lull them.

  Finally, the landscape began to change. First to go were the woods, giving way to a strange semi-denuded habitat, neither wholly swamp, nor wholly forest. The trees here seemed malformed rather than destroyed, their trunks stunted, branches and leaves withered, flowers and fruit absent. The ground became marshland, but oddly brownish marshland, with no lichen or moss or reeds. As they rushed along, even these stunted waterlogged half-woods ended, followed by vast open patches where the aborted trunks of dead trees struggled to rise above an unnatural purplish-blackish undergrowth. The stink of these patches was awful, reminding Rama somewhat of the organic stench of fields filled with compost, but much worse. After another few yojanas, even these stench-patches gave way and a new phase began.

  The riverbank became stony, jagged black lohit-stone boulders lining either side, some looming so high they obscured any view of the forest beyond.

  The forest itself was dense, dark, impenetrable, the direct opposite of the benign profusion and fragrant calm of Kama’s Grove. The trees were enormously tall, their twisted, writhing shapes lunging out at one another like snarling beasts. Deep within their thick undergrowth, the glittering dark eyes of unseen creatures watched them pass, reminding Rama of a rksa he had once seen caught in a trapper’s pit. The great black bear had stared up at him with eyes as dark and fathomless as these hidden creatures.

  He was so busy watching the woods that he didn’t see when the cliff ended. One moment it was there to their left, towering above them, capped by the late morning sun, then it was gone, falling rapidly behind. He looked back and glimpsed the fast-disappearing cliff between the clawing limbs. It veered away sharply then vanished from sight, their last link with the normal world.

  The river slowed to a seeping sludge-flow, sluggish with thick undergrowth, covered with rotting logs, wormriddled limbs and mossy scum. The surface seethed with swarms of insects. The unnaturally sharp-edged boulders crowded in on either bank, and as the river grew narrower, they seemed to reach out to try and snag the travellers on the raft, looming above them like sullen elephants. The cries of predatory animals grew louder and more profuse around them: roars, howls, screams, maddened shouts and bestial yells. Angry screeches were countered by plaintive sounds of pain or fury; it was hard to tell which.

  Somewhere, a lone wolf howled mournfully, and was drowned out by a pack of completely different beasts, threatening savagely rather than answering his solitary plea. A terrified animal screamed and thrashed around in a futile attempt at escape, its cries fading to a desolate whimper as its hunter caught up with it and ripped it apart with liquid shredding noises. There were stranger cries too, unknown species calling out questioningly to one another, as if communicating or seeking out their fellows.

  The sky had vanished almost completely, glimpsed only in slices and sections viewed through the panoply of clawing limbs. They were enveloped in a twilight that was not quite night-dark; here and there, greenish-yellowish patches glowed faintly on the ground and on the bark of trees.

  The raft ground to a halt with a grating that set their teeth on edge. Rama stopped poling at once, but Lakshman was slightly slower in following suit and the vessel’s momentum carried it a half-yard further. Rama felt the underside scraping over something yielding and fleshy, and a gut-churning stench rose from beneath the lashed logs: the water-swollen corpse of some unidentifiable creature.

  Lakshman turned his head and spat several times into the water, clearing his throat hoarsely. Rama resisted the urge to retch. Vishwamitra bent and picked up his staff. Rama noticed for the first time that the seer had wound a succession of coloured threads around the top of the staff, at the place where it was gripped: they were red ochre, parrot green and lemon yellow, wound tightly enough to form a knob. The colours seemed to glow faintly in the gloom of the forest as he raised the staff. The forest sounds died down slowly, as if aware of their presence, waiting to see their next move.

  In the stillness, the seer spoke softly, using the same calm tone with which he had named birds and trees earlier.

  ‘Rajkumars, welcome to Bhayanak-van.’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Rama!’

  Dasaratha’s voice was hoarse but the panic in his tone was unmistakable. The maharaja sat up in bed, sweat pouring down his face, hands stretching out desperately as if trying to grasp someone just out of reach. ‘Rama, be careful! The Bhayanak-van—’

  Kausalya was the first to reach his side, simply because she was closer. Bharat had snapped awake the instant Dasaratha uttered the first cry, but he was reclining in the baithak-sthan across the room and the comfortable nook had lulled him into a fitful doze.
He blinked himself awake as he joined Kausalyamaa beside the maharaja’s bedside.

  ‘Rama!’

  Dasaratha’s face contorted in a look of utter futility and despair. He clenched his fists tight and slammed them down weakly on his thighs. His body shuddered and he bent over, weeping.

  Kausalya offered a cloth to catch his tears, and was shocked to find them searing hot. The maharaja was still burning with fever.

  ‘It was just a dream,’ she said, caressing his shoulder, trying to soothe him. ‘Just a bad dream.’

  He turned jaundiced eyes on her. ‘A dream?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Bharat sat by Dasaratha’s feet, massaging them gently. ‘Just a fever dream.’

  Dasaratha looked down at himself, then at his surroundings, as if becoming aware for the first time of where he was. ‘A dream,’ he repeated dully, then pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

  A cluster of serving girls appeared in a flurry at the doorway, alerted by the sound of the maharaja’s voice. Kausalya ordered one of them to fetch some freshly squeezed juice and fruits in case the maharaja was able to take some nourishment, and dismissed the rest. The room fell still and silent again, but after a moment or two, Bharat heard the distant sound of cheering from the avenue outside the palace. Word had reached the crowd: the maharaja had regained consciousness.

  ‘A dream,’ Dasaratha repeated for the third time. He looked up at Bharat, who was still massaging his feet. He reached out and touched his son’s hand as if unsure whether he was real or a figment of his nightmare.

  ‘Bharat,’ he said slowly, wonderingly. ‘My son.’

  ‘Yes, Father, I’m right here.’

  Dasaratha raised his eyes to Kausalya. A light of hope shone in his pupils. ‘It was all a dream. Rama and Lakshman are still in the palace. Playing Holi. They never went to the Bhayanakvan. They aren’t gone to fight asuras. They’re right here, safe and sound, in their beds, asleep.’

  Bharat saw Kausalya-maa stiffen. He couldn’t see her face from where he sat but he could sense the pain in her heart. He didn’t know what he might have said had the question been posed to him. Might he have lied rather than tell his father the bitter truth? It was obvious that the maharaja was delirious and intensely troubled.

  Kausalya spoke softly. ‘No, my lord. They have indeed gone to the Southwoods. To fight asuras. They are under the protection of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra and are well armed and equipped. They will return home soon, safely.’

  Dasaratha cried out and put a hand up to his face, as if to ward off a blow. As he cringed in misery, Bharat’s eyes grew moist. He couldn’t bear to see his father like this.

  ‘Father,’ he said. ‘Rama is the best bowman in the kingdom. He’s better than even Shatrugan and I. He’ll come back safely. I know he will.’

  Dasaratha stopped crying. He uneovered his face, his hands clutching his chest instead, and looked at his son. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said faintly. ‘He is best.’

  Kausalya watched Dasaratha for a moment longer. The serving girl brought in some pomegranate juice and diced fruit. Kausalya told her to set it all down by the beside, then dismissed her. She went out backwards, starting in dismay at he maharaja.

  After a moment, Kausalya turned to Bharat. ‘Putra. Your father needs to be alone for some time. Why don’t you retire to your bedchamber and take some rest. You can come see him first thing in the morning.’

  ‘And you, Maa?’

  ‘I will stay with him a little while longer. To tend to his needs.’

  Bharat wanted to protest, to stay and try to nurse his father back to health, but he understood that Kausalya-maa wanted to be alone with his father for some reason. It was her right and privilege. He nodded and bent to touch her feet, taking her ashirwaad one more time before he left the room.

  She touched his head affectionately. ‘Ayushmaanbhav, bete.’

  Kausalya waited until Bharat had passed out of hearing range before she leaned forward. ‘Dasa?’

  He was staring dully at the far wall. Unseeing.

  ‘Dasa, what is it? What was the dream you just had? Why did it trouble you so?’

  He turned slowly towards her. Still unseeing.

  She reached out and touched his cheek. His stubbled skin was fever hot and damp with sweat.

  ‘Look at me, Dasa. It’s me, Kausalya.’

  He looked at her, focusing for the first time since he had awoken. ‘My beloved Kausalya.’ Tears welled up in his eyes again.

  ‘Tell me about it. It will make it easier to forget. Tell me your dream.’

  He stared at her for a long moment, then looked over her shoulder at the tray the serving girl had brought in. She saw his line of vision and turned, picking up the juice and offering it to him.

  He took it and sipped, barely wetting his lips. It seemed to make him feel better. She waited for him to speak.

  ‘Satyakaam,’ he said at last.

  She looked at him.

  ‘The curse of Satyakaam.’

  She scanned her memory. Who was Satyakaam? An asura whom Dasaratha had fought in the Last War? A mortal enemy? Some would-be usurper? A challenger to the throne? A noble who had betrayed him? But she couldn’t connect the name to any memory. She had no recollection of any Satyakaam.

  ‘Who was he?’ she asked gently.

  He looked at the juice as if surprised to find himself holding it. He gave her the bowl and she put it aside carefully. Perhaps later, when he had unburdened his mind, she would get him to take some nourishment. For now, he seemed to need to talk, to relieve his mind of this ugly dream, or memory, or mixture of the two.

  ‘I loved to hunt,’ he began. ‘Before I met you, when I was young and strong and brainless. I loved to hunt more than anything else in the world. Except maybe women.’

  He remembered to whom he was speaking and hesitated.

  She shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m a woman too. You love me, that’s true.’

  He smiled back tentatively. But the smile barely moved his lips. He went on after a moment, more rapidly now, as if eager to get the telling over with. ‘Once I was deep in the forest. Hot on the trail of a Nilgiri stag. A big one. I had been after it for the better part of a full day. It was evening, almost sundown. I was tired and exasperated at not having downed it yet. My companions were searching for me; I could hear them calling faintly in the distance, miles away. There was a princess, I think. A beauty. I wanted to return with a trophy. Not empty-handed.’

  She listened. She saw how involved he was in the telling. As if the story was more than just a story. How his hands, face and body moved and jerked spasmodically, trying to participate in the telling. This incident meant something to him. Something very important. She had never heard him speak of it before.

  ‘Just when I thought I had lost it, I heard a sound up ahead. I went carefully through the bushes. It was thick and close there, the undergrowth. Tiger territory. I was on edge, my bow strung, my arrow ready to be loosed if I so much as breathed on the string. There was a waterhole up ahead. I could smell the water, and the odours of the animals that came to drink there. Many different animals. I heard an animal drinking, the wet slapping sounds, like a large stag’s tongue might make when slurping up water thirstily.’

  He clenched a fist, drawing back his right hand, raising his left. ‘I judged its position, behind a berry bush. And loosed my arrow.’

  He dropped his hands, his head falling forward. When he raised his face again, he was crying once more. ‘I went down to the waterhole, knowing I had hit it squarely. I found him there, his earthen pot fallen by his side, shattered into two halves. The arrow was in his throat, a mortal wound. He was clutching it, gasping for breath, for life. Life that I had stolen. Because I wanted a trophy. For a princess.’

  He stopped. Kausalya felt her own tears welling now. She could see how much anguish it cost him to tell the tale. She suspected he had never spoken of it before to anyone, ever. Had bottled the knowledge in his chest all these many yea
rs where it had festered and seethed. Until today, when it had burst free, loosed like an ill-timed arrow in search of a victim.

  ‘He tried to tell me something. I tried to beg his forgiveness. He pointed, unable to speak. Gestured at the water, at the broken pot. I held him until he died. He was a strong, handsome young man. In the prime of life. Like myself.

  ‘After he had passed away, I tried to understand what he had been trying to show me. I went the way he had pointed. I found a small path, worn from use. From his daily trips to the waterhole and back. At the end of the path, I found a tiny shack. Barely a cottage. A hut. Inside the hut were an old couple, weak and ailing. Both were blind.’

  Dasaratha passed a hand across his eyes. It came away dry, but he squeezed his eyes intensely, as if trying to release more tears, unable to understand why more would not come. He shook his head, still grieving for the death of that young man he had shot, forty or more years ago.