PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  SIX

  Bejoo wished the Brahmin caste had never been created.

  The Vajra captain sat on his bundled saddle and horse armour, scowling darkly enough to keep everyone else at bay. He wanted to be left alone. Around him, his Kshatriyas had already finished their meal and were sipping some fermented grape juice in place of their nightly soma. He would have paid a hundred rupees for some soma or even some cheap local wine, but there was none to be had for love or money in this godly part of the country.

  A plantain leaf with chunks of roasted meat, charcoaled vegetables on a stick and segments of fruit lay in the captain’s hands. As he ate, he watched the Brahmin camp downriver. The Siddh-ashramites had already finished their supper and were now singing, clanging their bell-clappers together in noisy rhythm to the beat of their devotional chanting. He wondered how they got their energy, carrying on that way after covering a dozen yojanas on foot and supping on vegetarian fare. What was it they said? ‘Prayer is meat and soma to the true devotee?’ Maybe there was something to it after all.

  As for himself, his bones ached as if he had walked those hundred-plus miles beside them instead of having ridden them out on his mount. He suspected that it was the stress of riding without any definite purpose that had worn him down more than the distance covered. O Shani-deva, he thought wearily, I’m getting too old for this traipsing around with Brahmins, going nowhere and doing nothing useful. If not for the little stir-up on the hill, he would barely have been able to put food in his mouth; a true Kshatriya earned his meat. Even there, it was the rajkumars who had done most of the fighting.

  A few yards to his left, the two rajkumars and their new Kshatriya friends sat eating and talking to one another. Bejoo noticed Rajkumar Rama laughing whole-heartedly at something Janaki Kumar had just said. Clearly, the prince enjoyed the slender mercenary’s company—they had spent their meal-hour talking and laughing more than eating. The wind was blowing across the river and Bejoo had heard several of the lad’s words as well. The Kshatriya clearly had a nimble mind and a witty tongue. Rajkumar Lakshman didn’t seem as taken by the Kshatriya - the junior prince had found himself on the receiving end of that sharp tongue more than once, to Bejoo’s delight. It wouldn’t hurt Lakshman to realise that there were wits sharper than his own.

  Around the Kshatriya campsite, Bejoo could hear the sounds of his men laying down pallets for the night. Despite the fact that it was early spring, the weather had turned surprisingly warm. After sunset a little bite had come into the wind, but it was barely a nip compared to the freezing chill of the northern nations. Bejoo and his Vajra had camped out without tents in temperatures close to freezing in the mountains of Gandahar. This was like a summer bask in comparison.

  He was still having some difficulty dealing with this whole trip to Mithila. And now the sage wanted to take them sightseeing! At least, that was what it sounded like to Bejoo’s ears. Why would they want to leave the main company and take a detour to Visala? To see the Ganga, that was why. The holy river of the Arya nations, its waters regarded as sacred and magical, the Ganga flowed past Visala, right through the Gautama groves. Bejoo was prepared to bet his horse that the sage wanted to bathe in the holy water and offer prayers. The Ganga was the holiest of rivers and the place where it flowed through the Gautama groves was of special significance to seers. No doubt the sage would want to take his ceremonial dip in the waters there before proceeding to Mithila. Maybe even spend another day or two showing the rajkumars the botanical wonders of the Videha plains. Why, at this rate, they would be lucky to return to Ayodhya in time for Deepavali!

  At times like this it seemed to Bejoo that these stubborn, aloof and superior-aired pundits had been put on earth only to vex and frustrate Kshatriyas. And the brahmarishi in particular was probably a fully ordained maestro of the art of Kshatriya vexation!

  The subject of his ire appeared just then, a tall, strong figure making his way upriver over the pebbled bank, his staff crunching as loud as a bigfoot hoof each time it struck the ground. Bejoo didn’t fail to notice the faint blue sparks that rose from each contact of the staff. That was the other thing that made him uneasy about Brahmins: they leaked Brahman power like a firefly leaked light. It made his hackles rise. Bejoo trusted things that could be seen, touched, tasted, felt, smelled—and hacked, stabbed and lopped off, not to put too fine a point on it.

  The very sight of the Brahman sparks made his stomach queasy. How did one fight powers like that? He put his leaf of food aside, unfinished, and stood up. Protocol, always protocol. Until the Brahmins decided to listen to the voice of the devas instead of Arya rules, at which point protocol, with everything else mortal, went out of the window and down into the stinky moat. Bejoo slapped his hands on his flanks, carelessly wiping them clean, and went to receive the brahmarishi.

  When he saw the sage making his way towards the rajkumars, however, he stopped and waited. He was within hearing distance of the group and watched as all four young men rose at once at the sight of the seer-mage. They had finished their meal and their leaf-plates had been disposed of moments earlier.

  The rajkumars bowed and performed reverent namaskars to their guru.

  ‘Pranaam, Guru-dev,’ Rajkumar Rama said. Lakshman echoed his brother.

  The sage’s voice was as serene as the idyllic valley in which they stood. ‘Pranaam, rajkumars. Have you eaten and rested well?’

  ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’

  ‘Good,’ the sage replied. ‘For we shall be leaving in moments.’

  Rama looked surprised. ‘Leaving, Guru-dev?’

  ‘We shall travel by night to hasten our arrival at Mithila.’

  ‘Then we shall not be stopping at Visala en route?’

  ‘We shall indeed. Without visiting Visala our journey to Mithila would be fruitless.’

  Rama and Lakshman exchanged a puzzled look. Bejoo noticed Janaki Kumar glancing at his companion as well, his eloquent eyes speaking silent words to the larger Kshatriya.

  ‘Jaise aagya, Guru-dev,’ Rama replied.

  ‘Very good, rajkumars. Now prepare yourselves for departure. We shall leave shortly.’

  Bejoo stepped forward. This was all news to him.

  ‘Maha-dev,’ he said, forcing a tone of polite reverence into his voice. ‘It would not be safe to travel by night. My Vajra—’

  ‘Your Vajra will slow us down, Captain Bejoo,’ Vishwamitra said calmly but firmly. ‘They must travel to Mithila by the rajmarg with the Siddh-ashrama procession. However, if you so wish, you may accompany us. But you must hurry and give your men last instructions. My company will not wait for stragglers.’

  Stragglers? Who did the mage think he was talking to? Bejoo swallowed his indignation and said in as level a voice as he could manage, ‘But Guru-dev, I am oathsworn to protect the rajkumars. Without my Vajra—’

  The seer cut him short. ‘Bejoo, in the nine days you have been with the rajkumars and myself, have you ever felt that they lacked protection in any way?’

  Bejoo tried hard to come up with a suitable retort but found himself unable to think of a single word. The rajkumars were more than able to protect themselves. Bejoo’s duty had become purely ceremonial.

  ‘No, maharaja,’ he said at last.

  The moment he said it, he wanted to bite his tongue off. He had addressed the sage as ‘maharaja’, implying that he now accepted Vishwamitra as his supreme liege. But it was too late to take back the error. If the seer noticed, he gave no sign.

  ‘Then let us end this tired line of argument,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Decide now. Will you accompany us on our mission or will you ride with your Vajra? Remember also, we walk in the light of Brahman. We are not permitted the luxury of chariots or mounts. If you come with us, you must come on foot. What is your decision?’

  ‘I shall come with you,’ Bejoo said. ‘Maha-dev.’

  The sage’s penetrating gaze stayed on Bejoo for a long moment. ‘Good,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘I am glad to hear it, Captain Bejoo. You a
re a fine Kshatriya and we shall need every sword and bow before we reach Mithila.’

  Bejoo didn’t know whether to blush or to blink at the unexpected compliment. And was he mistaken or had the sage addressed him with a mite more respect than he had earlier? ‘Captain Bejoo’ instead of the perfunctory ‘Kshatriya’?

  Then the full implications of the seer’s last words sank in. What did the sage mean by saying they would need every sword and bow? It sounded ominous. Was he planning to get into a scuffle with bandits on the road again? And what had he meant by their ‘mission’ to Visala? Bejoo had heard nothing of any mission before now.

  But Vishwamitra had already turned away to face the four young men again.

  ‘Now, Rajkumar Rama, I think it is time for you to introduce me to our new fellow-travellers. Our road to Mithila is long and fraught with many perils. It would be best if we all get to know one another as closely as possible.’

  The sage’s diamond-bright eyes glinted in the flickering firelight as he looked at the two Kshatriyas. ‘It would not do to travel together without knowing one another’s identities, would it?’

  Bejoo saw that the sage directed his words pointedly at the slender Kshatriya. The young man dropped his eyes at once, but Bejoo thought he did so out of respect, not fear.

  Bejoo observed not for the first time that the shorter Kshatriya was unusually small-proportioned and thin. Bejoo himself was very short for a Kshatriya, or for an Arya, and as a young boy he had been thin and weak as well, until he had come under the tutelage of a senior warrior who had chalked out a diet and training programme that had slapped on the slabs of muscle bulk that he now possessed. That man had been Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, and under the veteran general’s tutelage Bejoo had blossomed into a champion wrestler, kabbadi player and mace thrower, winning several dozen tournaments before he was given command of the Vajra. He made a mental note to take the slender Kshatriya aside later and give him some pointed tips on how to turn that delicate frame into a muscular body.

  Rama presented the two black-clad Kshatriyas formally to the brahmarishi. ‘Guru-dev, this is Kshatriya Janaki Kumar and Kshatriya Nakhu Dev. They are travelling warriors for hire. They were on their way to Mithila when they heard the sounds of the bear family being attacked on the hill and went to their rescue. We fought the bandits together.’

  To the mercenaries Rama said: ‘Kshatriyas, pay your respects to the brahmarishi Vishwamitra. His legendary stature is too great for me to have to repeat here. My brother Lakshman and I are both oathsworn to the great sage. He is our guru.’

  ‘Pranaam, Guru-dev,’ both Kshatriyas said, almost at once. They had already greeted the sage as he approached, but did so again without hesitation, paying their respects formally this time.

  Bejoo noted curiously that both lads avoided meeting the seer’s eyes directly. He assumed it to be the effect of the brahmarishi’s formidable reputation and imposing personality. He was about to find out how wrong that assumption was.

  SEVEN

  ‘False message, Guru-dev?’ Sumantra’s voice sounded like a choked cry for help from the bottom of a deep well.

  ‘Indeed, prime minister. The news of the asura army’s impending invasion.’

  Everybody began speaking at once. Mantri Ashok spoke loudest. ‘Guru-dev, do you mean to say that there will be no invasion?’

  ‘Alas, mantriji. If only things could be that simple. Nay, there will surely be an invasion. Even as we speak, Ravana’s forces are making their way across the subcontinent like a venomous serpent slithering towards its prey. This part of the message was true enough. It was the point of first attack that was falsely given.’

  The seer-mage paused. He had everyone’s undivided attention. ‘The asura forces will indeed attack Gandahar and Kaikeya. Their ships will carry them up the Sindhu river to those two northwestern Arya kingdoms just as you have been informed.’

  The guru paused, glancing around to make sure he had the undivided attention of the entire council of ministers. ‘But those ships will carry only a small fragment of the asura forces, not the entire army as you have been led to believe. Because the attacks on Gandahar and Kaikeya are merely diversionary tactics intended to draw the Arya armies to those distant nations, and away from the real target of the Lord of Lanka.’

  Sumantra sat forward in his seat, looking alarmed. ‘The real target, Guru-dev? You mean, apart from Gandahar and Kaikeya, there will be an attack on another Arya city or kingdom?’

  ‘Exactly, prime minister. While a fraction of the asura armada is making its way up the Sindhu river, the majority of that vast fleet has already landed on the shores of Salset and Kerall, and are even now working their way northwards.’

  Northwards! Every face in the hall turned to the map on the wall. Their eyes focused on the western coastal regions of Salset and Kerall and travelled upwards … to the kingdom of Kosala, with the city of Ayodhya marked in bold, right in the centre of that trajectory.

  ‘Ayodhya?’ Mantri Jabali cried out in frustration and rage. ‘But our army has been sent to the north and the north-west already, split into two halves travelling in two separate directions! They are both already a full day’s march away. It will take a night and another day to send a messenger after them to call them back!’

  ‘Maha-dev,’ the prime minister said agitatedly. ‘Pardon my questioning your actions thus, but why did you not inform us of this vital news earlier, when there was still time to stop our army from marching?’

  Guru Vashishta was standing nearest to Sumantra. He laid a large, gentle hand on the prime minister’s shoulder.

  ‘Because, good Sumantra, I myself only learned of it a few moments ago. It took me that much time to rid the maharaja’s evil-infected soul and brain of the havoc the possession had caused. After delivering its message, the evil aatma left the reanimated corpse of the messenger and passed into our maharaja’s body. It was no easy task to exorcise it from his being. My first concern was saving Dasaratha; only then could I attempt to discover the true motive behind the possession.’

  A deathly pall of silence fell over the group.

  ‘We are lost then,’ Mantri Jabali said at last. ‘If the asura hordes attack before our army returns, we stand no chance. Even mighty Ayodhya cannot withstand an asura invasion without sufficient soldiers to man its defences. Our siege infrastructure itself requires twenty-five thousand soldiers working at all times to operate efficiently. Even if we put all the PFs to work round the clock, it will be insufficient.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Mantri Jabali,’ the guru said calmly. ‘The asuras will not attack Ayodhya.’

  ‘They will not?’ Sumantra said, looking as confused as the minister of war and the rest of the council. ‘But mahadev, you just said—’

  ‘Trust me, good Sumantra, all you wise and brave ministers of Kosala. The Lord of Lanka’s first goal is not our seven-walled city. He knows that Ayodhya the Unconquerable is too formidable a target against which to pit his forces directly. He will come here, but only after he has cleared a space around us and isolated our proud land from the other Arya nations. In order to do that, he intends to first focus his attack on our sister kingdom of Videha. It is the capital of that peaceful country that he first intends to overrun.’

  The sage directed their attention back to the wall map.

  ‘His main target in the first crucial offensive will be the city of Brahmins, Mithila.’

  ***

  Vishwamitra looked at the shorter Kshatriya intently.

  ‘Janaki,’ he said, his hand stroking his flowing beard thoughtfully. ‘An interesting name. It literally means “of Janak”. And Janak of course is Maharaja Janak, king of Videha and master of the moonwood throne of Mithila. What is your relation to his majesty, lord of Mithila?’

  The slender Kshatriya kept his head bowed, clearly awed by the brahmarishi. ‘Guru-dev, despite the meaning of my given title, I am not of the blood of royals. Although Maharaja Janak is my liege, as he is the liege of e
very citizen of Videha.’

  Bejoo thought he saw a faint wisp of a smile play across the sage’s weathered, beard-enshrouded face. What had the Brahmin found so amusing about the Kshatriya’s reply? It had sounded straightforward enough to Bejoo. The lad was probably just some knockaround bastard, conceived of a prostitute or dancer, had learned the sword from some army irregulars and when he was old enough to walk straight had decided to go into business for himself and make a few rupees. It was a tediously common history.

  ‘A very interesting reply,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Observe, rajkumars, how intelligently your new friend plays with the vocabulary and grammar of our great national language. “My given title” is what was said, not “my given name”. And indeed, Janaki can be a title as well as a name, its meaning being “of Janak” as I have already mentioned. Then your friend says, “I am not of the blood of royals”. And that is another shrewd choice of phrase. For Maharaja Janak’s heir, titled “Janaki”, was indeed adopted by the lord of Mithila, rather than birthed by his queen. And of course, every citizen of the Videha nation, highborn or low, regards Janak as his liege. So your new friend cleverly answered my direct question with an elegantly worded and quite suitable response that nonetheless succeeded in revealing nothing of the speaker’s true identity.’

  Bejoo stood up straighter, frowning. What was this new twist?

  Rama and Lakshman were looking at the sage with perfectly matched expressions of befuddlement.

  ‘Guru-dev,’ Lakshman said in a puzzled tone, ‘are you saying that Janaki Kumar lied to you just now? That he is in fact related to Maharaja Janak?’

  ‘Not just related, Rajkumar Lakshman,’ the brahmarishi replied. ‘I say your new friend is none other than Janak’s own adopted child. The heir to the moonwood throne and future ruler of Videha in the same way that your brother Rama is prince-heir of Kosala.’

  Bejoo blinked. What was the sage talking about? That delicate-looking fellow there? Royalty? Heir to the throne of Videha? Impossible! The fellow was a good fighter, that was true, but … but …