She kept her head down for what seemed like an eternity, the gritty rain-dampened mud of the path coating her muzzle and filling her battered mouth. Blood and spittle oozed from her injured jaw to the ground in a steady drip. She waited, expecting at any moment to feel his powerful cloven foot stamping down on her neck, snapping her spine and crushing her to death.
When his voice spoke within her mind, it sounded almost amused. It was not the reaction she had expected.
Yes, that’s quite true. You do deserve to suffer for your misdemeanour. Disobedience cannot go unpunished in a martial race. It breeds insolence. But I might be able to turn your stupidity into something less damaging to our cause. Perhaps even to our advantage.
She waited, not daring to breathe, let alone speak.
Rise, cousin.
She did so slowly, shivering with fear and shock. She still didn’t believe he was going to let her live.
He was smiling.
At least, the central head was smiling. A few of the others were engaged in other matters, but two of them, one on either side, were clearly sharing in the central head’s pleasure.
Your foolish impulsiveness has inadvertently provided an opportunity to play another deception on our mortal opponents.
He gestured at a corpse that lay beneath a bush nearby. The body rose stiffly up into the air as if hauled upright by invisible wires. Supanakha recognised it as the corpse of the leader of the Vajra Kshatriya party. A man who wore the sigil and helm of the great grey wolf as his chosen totem. The order of Bheriya.
Ravana gestured, one of his heads mouthing mantras she could barely hear for all the cross-talk buzzing between the others. With the startling abruptness of great sorcery, the corpse came to life.
The soldier who had once been a Bheriya opened his eyes.
He looked at his resurrector, then at Supanakha. He did not seem alarmed at the sight of the two rakshasas, or at the unmistakable and terrifying fact that he was facing the king of asuras himself, Ravana, the Lord of Lanka. In fact, Supanakha noted through her mingled emotions and mangled thoughts, the mortal seemed oddly emotionless. She was familiar with this phenomenon. It was an unavoidable consequence of reanimation. You could restore a body to life, but something remained absent. The mortals called it aatma, the share of Brahman that was allotted to each living being at the moment of birth. Not that she believed in such mortal superstition. But the Kshatriya seemed alive in every way except that which mattered most.
Yes, he will do quite well for our purpose. Now, pay heed, cousin. You have used up the last of my patience. I will tolerate no further lapses. Am I clear?
‘My Lord,’ she replied, trembling. ‘If I fail you once more, I shall take my own life.’
He laughed.
Death would be a small price to pay for failing me. You well know that there are fools imprisoned in the lowest level of Narak who offended me in some trival way a thousand years ago. Go down and take a look at them sometime, then you might begin to understand the true consequences of failing me.
She shuddered. Her cousin’s appetite for inflicting pain was infinite. It was for good reason that the devas, outraged at his capacity for ingenious brutality, had erased his given name from memory and renamed him Ravana, He Who Makes The Universe Scream.
This mortal shall continue to Ayodhya. I have repaired his body but left a few wounds to substantiate his story of being attacked en route. He will return to Dasratha and relate the message that I am putting into his mind now. As you know, twice-lifers can be very good slaves. He will do my bidding without hesitation, and no matter what he’s called upon to do, he will have no fear for his own life and limb. After all, he is already dead!
The demon lord’s laughter filled the air.
Supanakha’s face twitched; she was unsure whether to smile in acknowledgement of her cousin’s humour, or to remain impassive. She chose the latter. It was best not to show any emotion before the Lord of Lanka. One never knew what might anger him. But she couldn’t help offering a small comment, speaking as meekly as she could manage.
‘A brilliant plan, Lanka-naresh. But might the Ayodhyans not recognise him as a twice-lifer? After all, the seermage they call Guru Vashishta is no less a master of the art of Brahman. Won’t he be able to see that this man is nothing more than a walking corpse?’
His smile disappeared.
Do you take me for a fool such as yourself? Just a moment ago, when we were in the jungle behind Siddh-ashrama, within half a mile’s reach of Vishwamitra and his two new chhelas, would he not have sensed my presence? Or eight nights ago, when I appeared to you out of a tree in the fruit grove beside Ananga-ashrama, did he sense my presence them? No Brahmin will be able to tell this twice-lifer apart from any other living mortal. He will seem as alive and normal as their own sons!
She cringed, bowing her head so low she was bent over double. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I don’t understand. What mantra could achieve such a powerful deception?’
No mantra in living knowledge can do that. Nay, I will infuse him with the one thing that will make him indistinguishable from any living mortal. I shall give him an aatma.
Supanakha’s face revealed her surprise. She quickly wiped the expression off.
Yes, that’s right, cousin. A soul. It is something few brahmarishis can achieve. But as you know, my millennia of penance and prayer compelled the devas to grant me great power. Just as the seer-mage Vishwamitra re-animated the boy-prince Lakshman and sued the Lord of Death for the return of his aatma, so also shall I give this mortal a soul.
The voice turned crafty, revelling in its own brilliance. The faces turned to one another, leering and grimacing with pleasure and arrogant glee.
But it shall not be his own soul. No, cousin. I shall infuse this body with the soul of a man who will be more suited to my plans. A great assassin, as well as a great actor …. But first, I must help you realise the folly of disobedience, my sweet doe.
And as she watched in dull, glazed terror, as transfixed as a frozen doe before a pouncing tiger, he unclasped the leather thongs crisscrossing his chest and began to undulate. In pairs, his second set of arms emerged from their binding, just below the first pair and just as muscular and powerful. Then the third pair. Then the fourth.
By the time the sixth pair emerged, almost at his waistline, she was beyond fear. All she could do was lie back and await the execution of his punishment.
The wilderness echoed with her screams for a long time.
FIVE
‘Brother!’
Lakshman rushed forward to embrace Rama. His brother’s body felt hot and sweaty, as if he had just run a full yojana without pause. Lakshman looked at Rama’s face. He looked no different. The same straight features, the classically handsome Suryavansha profile, hair as dark as a raven’s wing, coal-black eyes, smouldering as if capable of bursting into flame at any moment, neither too widely set nor too closely, focussed as if gazing at a point a thousand yards distant. It was their father who’d once said that Rama had the look of a perpetual archer: always focussed on the eye of a target that only he could see.
‘Brother?’ Lakshman said again, questioning this time. ‘Are you all right? I woke to find you gone. Where were you all morning?’
Rama’s hand gripped Lakshman’s shoulder. Lakshman felt as though a python had coiled itself around his bicep, squeezing tightly enough to make his every nerve scream yet barely aware of its own strength.
‘I’m all right, Luck,’ Rama said softly. He released Lakshman’s shoulder gently.
Lakshman stepped back. He glanced at the brahmarishi, who was watching them both intently, his narrow eyes slitted with concentration. In the growing morning light, Vishwamitra’s uncut white hair, bushy brows and long beard glowed with dazzling brightness, each strand illuminated by the slanting first rays of the rising sun. Set against that stark backdrop of whiteness, the seer’s eyes seemed as closely and deeply set as the eyes of the tiger as they gleamed from within the shadows of the peep
al boughs.
Vishwamitra came forward, stopping a few yards from Rama and Lakshman.
‘Rajkumar Rama,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Where do you appear from so unexpectedly, clothed in effulgence like the ancestor and founder of your dynasty, Surya-deva himself?’
‘Pranaam, Guru-dev,’ Rama said, folding his hands in a namaskar.
Lakshman couldn’t help noticing that while Rama’s voice and gesture were respectful, there was something in his manner that made him seem different somehow. Almost verging on insolence. But that was unthinkable. Anyone else, perhaps. Despite the pride with which all Aryas regarded the guru-shishya tradition, it wasn’t unheard of to have a rare disagreement or two. But to think of Rama as being part of such a disagreement? Acting insolent to a guru? Impossible!
Yet there was something in the seer’s tone as well. A coolness that was unlike the warm affection Vishwamitra had displayed these past few days. Especially since yesterday, after the successful completion of the yagna, the brahmarishi had been almost paternal in his manner towards both of them. Certainly he’d never spoken as brusquely to Rama as he did now.
‘A good shishya would greet his guru before venturing on any other task, young Rama. Surely Guru Vashishta schooled you in this primary fact of the guru-shishya relationship?’
Rama bowed his head cursorily, enough to satisfy protocol, yet too little to suggest genuine humility. ‘Maha-dev, the first thing I have done today is greet you. Pray, grant me the gift of your ashirwaad that I may see this day through by the grace of your divine blessings.’
‘My blessings are ever yours, young prince. For you earn them by your deeds and words, not by simply calling yourself my pupil. But why do you deign to ask for my ashirwaad now? Did you not think to ask me earlier when you ventured alone into the solitude of the dense Vatsa woods at an hour well before dawn? Had I not expressly forbidden both of you from leaving the boundaries of Siddh-ashrama without my permission?’
Lakshman glanced at the brahmarishi, startled. He had assumed that the seer was as unaware of Rama’s whereabouts as he had been. He berated himself silently; he should have known better. Of course the brahmarishi knew where Rama was all along. Why else were seers called seers? Rama kept his head lowered slightly, his tone immaculately polite. ‘Guru-dev, as you possess perfect awareness of most things that occur on this mortal realm, so also you must know that I did not leave of my own volition. I was called away by a power so great that I had no choice but to go where it took me.’
‘Rama, oh Rama,’ said the seer sadly. ‘Do not speak so naïvely. I have already spent many words praising your remarkable maturity and inborn wisdom. Son of Kausalya, you know as well as I that even the most powerful force on earth can only command us. It is up to us to choose whether to obey that command or not. Even the great wheel of time that turns the universe itself does not deprive us of free will. We each have the power to choose everything we do or say. You went because you chose to go. Is it not so?’
‘Yes,’ Rama said. ‘But maha-dev—’
‘Enough!’
The seer raised his hand, showing Rama his outstretched palm in the formal gesture of conclusion.
‘I will not stand here and debate issues that even a first-year shishya at any ashram knows fully well. My duties demand I return to Siddh-ashrama. Today, we proceed northwards to Mithila, thence to the snowbound slopes of mighty Himavat, where I shall resume my bhor tapasya. If you and your brother still serve me, you will prepare to depart for Mithila the moment your morning ablutions are done. I shall be in my hut until then.’
And with those words, the brahmarishi turned and walked away, striding swiftly back towards the ashram compound.
***
Vajra Captain Bejoo was praying when he heard his name being called.
He paused in the act of touching the idol, the tips of his fingers reaching out to the small oblong-shaped black rock which represented his patron deity Shani.
It was the last stage of the daily prayer ritual he had followed every day of his life since attaining manhood. He had poured the customary offering of mustard oil over the rock, sprinkled freshly plucked spring flowers and placed a garland of herb leaves around the deity. All that remained was to break the coconut. Before the ritual he had picked a desiccated coconut from the mound that lay at the temple threshold, and stripped away the tough strands of fibre, exposing the kernel.
Now, he had only to smash the kernel on the granite floor of the temple while reciting the Shani mantra, thereby sanctifying the coconut. Then he could partake of the coconut milk and the thick flesh which would have become sacred food blessed by the deva. By drinking the milk and eating the flesh, Bejoo would have partaken of the god’s essence, gaining not just his blessing but also his strength and courage in battle.
Shani, whom the Greek envoys to the Arya nations called Saturn, was the patron deity of charioteers. And for Bejoo, captain of a Vajra unit built chiefly on the swift striking ability of chariots, it was unthinkable to start a day without completing this simple but vital ritual. He had performed it on battlefields far from home, with malarial fever searing his brain, with the cries of his wounded and dying men filling the forest for miles around, with the screams and shrieks of charging asuras ringing in his ears, through the worst of times and the best of times. He would not miss it today, not for some foolish soldier who didn’t know well enough to wait until his commander was done with his morning prayers.
What could be so urgent anyway? They were in Siddhashrama, the most peaceful sanctuary in all the seven Arya nations, under the protection of the seer-mage Vishwamitra. There was no general alarm, no other indication that they were under attack or in any kind of danger. So why was this fool persisting in calling out Bejoo’s name when he could see he was in the temple?
As if on cue, the voice rang out again, much closer this time.
‘Bejoo,’ the man said. ‘Captain, you must listen to me.’
Bejoo resisted the urge to tell the man to go drown himself in the nearest well. It wouldn’t do to lose his famously short temper when saying his prayers.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the annoying voice, and raised the coconut kernel above his head.
‘Bejoo, it’s Bheriya. In the name of our friendship, I beg you, listen to me.’
Bejoo lowered his hands slowly. He placed the coconut on the mandap before the deity. Prostrating himself once again, he touched his forehead to the edge of the mandap then rose to his feet, keeping his hands joined and his eyes shut, and slowly backed away. When he was at least three yards away, he allowed himself to turn. His hand reached out and struck the temple bell with an instinct born of sheer habit, even though he hadn’t actually finished his ritual. He came down the steps of the Shani temple and looked around.
There was nobody in sight.
‘Bheriya?’ he called out, puzzled and irritated now. ‘Where in the three worlds are you, man?’
There was no reply. He frowned, on the verge of losing his temper. Why the devil had Bheriya come back here anyway? He should have been in Ayodhya by now, Bejoo’s message duly delivered to Maharaja Dasaratha, and then, if he had no other duties, he should have gone home to his new bride, trying to make little Bheriyas to carry his name!
‘Bejoo, listen to me.’
Bejoo swung around. The Shani temple was a small one, located in a thicket of neem and other assorted herb trees. It was where the rishis of the ashram grew the medicinal herbs and conducted their Ayurvedic research into new cures for various ailments. It was here that they grew the world-famous herbs that were said to cure the diabetic condition, among other miraculous natural herbal cures. Bejoo was alone here this morning; all the other residents of the ashram were busy packing their wagons in preparation for the journey to Mithila. Even his own men were engaged in their morning exercises, on his own orders. He scanned the neat rows of neem trees stretching away in all directions for several hundred yards, but couldn’t see hide nor hair
of any living soul.
‘What are you up to, Bheriya? Playing hide-and-seek with me? We’re too old for games. Show yourself, man.’
‘Bejoo.’ The voice came from behind him this time. Bejoo swung around, startled. He stared into the shadowy recesses of the stone temple. How could Bheriya have got past him and into the temple? This was the only way in, and the steps on which he stood were barely a yard wide. Even the wind-god Vayu couldn’t have got past Bejoo without his sensing it.
‘Bejoo, please. Time is short. Don’t worry that you can’t see me. Just listen. I have something very important to tell you.’
Bejoo ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Baldness was a bane of his family’s male lineage. He was comparatively lucky. His father and grandfather had been bald as marble statues by the time they hit thirty. He still had some of his hair intact. He felt the hackles on the back of his neck prickle as he looked warily around the deserted Shani temple.
‘Bheriya, I don’t know what you’re up to, but this is no time or place to be playing childish pranks.’
‘Bejoo! In the name of Shani-deva, heed my words. The Lord of Lanka has stolen my body and infused it with another man’s aatma. The Bheriya that is making his way to Ayodhya even as we speak is not me. He is a twice-lifer serving the king of asuras. His mission is to spread false information at the court of Maharaja Dasaratha and distract the maharaja and his generals from the coming invasion.’
Bejoo reached for his sword, then remembered belatedly that he never wore it to temple. He cursed himself for not keeping it by the temple steps. Living at Siddh-ashrama for eight days had made him soft.
‘Bheriya, I still don’t understand how you’re perpetuating this foolhardy prank. But Holi is over, and the time for spring-day jokes is past. Show yourself now, son, and let’s not have this kind of crazy talk.’
The temple bells rang.
Bejoo started, almost losing his footing and tumbling backwards down the narrow steps. Recovering, he caught the crumbling wall and stared up at the two pillars at the top of the stairs. Several bells of different sizes and heights hung between them. All the bells were ringing before his very eyes, their loud brassy peals deafeningly loud. He could actually see them slowing down then swinging out abruptly, just as if someone were ringing each of them one by one, reaching the end of the row, then starting over with the first one again.
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 55
