PRINCE IN EXILE (29 page)

‘I did,’ she said softly, walking closer. ‘I have a message from your father for you.’ 

Rama blinked. His father? But his father was right here in the same room. Why would Dasaratha ask Kaikeyi to speak for him when he could address Rama himself? ‘Is my father indisposed? I am concerned for his health. If he has lost his voice again, as he did on Holi day, I can fetch him some herbs that will soothe his throat.’ 

She smiled oddly. ‘Your concern is well intended, but misplaced. Your father is well, better than he has been in years. His health need not concern you now, only his words. For these express his desires. Now heed me well. For he has asked me to speak on his behalf, and I do not wish to have to repeat these words. Are you listening closely?’ 

What was this? Some kind of test? Rama glanced at his father. Dasaratha remained as he was, but he seemed to have stopped crying. Instead, he was sitting very still, as if listening to every word they were saying. It was very strange indeed, but if Dasaratha was not objecting by word or gesture, then clearly Kaikeyi was speaking the truth. Rama followed Kaikeyi’s example by using Sanskrit highspeech, taking care to employ all the formal terms and phrases. 

‘Speak, Rani-maa. I am listening intently to your every word. Say it but once and it will be done as you wish. Speak my father’s wishes to me.’ 

Kaikeyi said in a clear and ringing voice, audible throughout the chamber even though Rama was only standing a yard or two distant, ‘You are to go into exile at once. Do not stop to take any clothes or belongings. Say no farewells to anyone, but leave this very minute with the clothes upon your back, no weapons or tools or possessions except what you now carry. Go to the heart of the Dandaka-van and reside there off the fruit of the land for twice times seven years, and by doing so cast off all claims to your inheritance and the throne of Ayodhya for ever. Do you understand what you have just been told, Rama?’ 

He stared at her silently for a moment, not daring to move, or even breathe. ‘Yes, I do.’ 

‘Then go now,’ she said flatly, without trace of either cruelty or regret. ‘And do not return until fourteen years have elapsed.’ 

He kept his eyes on her, riveted, unable to move or even blink. ‘These are my father’s wishes?’ 

‘They are,’ she replied as flatly as before. ‘Do you debate them?’ 

He looked at his father, sitting like a child on the floor, head in his hands. Dasaratha made no word of denial or protest. ‘I do not.’ 

‘Then obey your father’s wishes. Go into exile now. And remember well the terms I spoke of.’ 

And with those words she turned on her heel and walked back across the chamber to the spot where Dasaratha sat. 

Rama stood for one endless moment, his entire world set ablaze, his mind and heart and very soul on fire, and then, with one lurching step, he started towards his father, his knee already bending in anticipation. Then her words came back to him, ringing in his ears like temple bells.
Say no farewells to anyone. 

After another moment, seeming aeons but only a fraction of a second, for Rani Kaikeyi had not yet covered the few dozen strides to the maharaja, Rama turned and walked towards the door of the kosaghar. He opened the door and went out, neither looking behind him nor stopping. 

KAAND 2

ONE 

Sita was dressed and pacing the chamber. She turned and ran to him as he entered, barely waiting for him to shut the doors, throwing her arms around his neck and lavishing kisses as if he had been gone for a month rather than a mere half-hour. 

Then she saw his face and stopped. ‘What is it?’ Then, when he didn’t respond, more urgently, ‘Rama, what is it? Tell me, my love!’ 

He still didn’t answer. 

He had held himself together all the way back through the long winding corridors of Suryavansha Palace, grateful for the early hour and the relative absence of palace staff. But now that he was here, alone in his chambers, in these familiar rooms where he had spent so many sheltered years of his life up to now, and in the circle of these arms where he felt he had spent all his previous lives up to this one, in these twin overlapping circles of warm familiarity the strength ebbed from his limbs at once. He felt barely able to stand. Fighting Tataka had not been this hard; releasing the Brahm-astra was surely easier; facing Parsurama was child’s play in comparison. 

He unwound Sita’s arms from round his neck, as gently as he could manage, and went to the bed. He turned and sat on its edge, almost slipping down to the floor but catching himself in time. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, striving to focus on the simple impossibility of the art of breathing. Only breathing, breathing as if his life depended on it. And it did. His life did depend on this simple act of taking in air and exhaling it, an act so simple he had repeated it millions of times since emerging from the womb. Then why did it seem so difficult now? Why was it suddenly like trying to breathe through crushed glass? Every breath an agony, every exhalation requiring a lifetime’s energy to expend, every pause between breaths an eternity. What had happened to all those years of pranayam training? Of yogic mastery? Why had all his skills and learning fled him now? 

‘Rama,’ she said, slipping to the floor, clutching his feet. ‘Please, tell me. What did your father say?’ 

He shook his head. His eyes felt cold and dry, as they should feel if he had been walking on the high slopes of Gandahar in the deep winter. That was odd. He had expected tears by now. Indeed, they felt ready to come. But none did. He seemed to have forgotten how to initiate the act of crying, just as he had misplaced the art of breathing. Perhaps he had only strength to manage one at a time. Perhaps if he stopped breathing, then the tears would come. And with them, blessed oblivion, an end to all questions and feelings. 

‘Rama!’ She tugged at his arm. ‘Speak to me!’ 

He shook his head again, trying to make her understand how impossible speech was at such a time. How futile. What could he possibly say? How could he explain that all his dreams, his aspirations, his hopes had been savagely ripped out from his heart like an uprooted tree in a monsoon storm? How could he make her understand that nothing he said would make any difference at all? 

To his surprise someone spoke in a voice exactly like his own, speaking on his behalf. 

‘I have to go,’ this voice said aloud. It sounded detached, remote, almost beyond caring. ‘I must leave you and go.’ 

Sita reared back, her eyes wide with fright. ‘What do you mean? Go where? Why? For what? Is there a new wave? Did someone bring news of it just now? Where are they attacking?’ 

It took him a moment to understand that she was referring to the asura invasion. 

He shook his head yet again. It was becoming quite a habit. Again the voice spoke, and this time he recognised the familiar vibration of chords in his throat, felt the reverberation of sounds in his chest cavity. It was he speaking, yet he still felt as if it was another he, a physical he that he was detached from and could float loose of the real Rama at any moment. ‘I am to go into exile. Into the Dandaka woods. At once. Now, this very minute. I am to say no farewells, take nothing except whatever clothes I am wearing now. No jewels or ornaments, weapons or things. I am to stay there in exile for twice seven years. Fourteen years in all. In exile.’ 

He had repeated ‘in exile’ several times. He felt like saying it over and over again, like a mantra that could ward off some evil spell. Or perhaps by saying it enough times he could break the spell he seemed to be under. This state of being without feeling, speaking without being conscious of the act, seeing without being able to make sense of what he was seeing: what else was it if not a spell? A spell cast by life itself, by the turning of the great wheel of time. 

She stared up at him for one long, breathless moment. Then she rose and stood before him, looking down at him. He had to lift his head to look at her now. He did so with the same remote detachment, as if he were moving someone else’s head. 

She slapped him. 

She put all her strength behind the blow. His face was flung sharply to the right, his vision blurring out of focus before the world swam back into view, accompanied by several motes of swirling light, and he found himself facing the wall. He turned back to look at her. Something told him that he should raise his hand and touch his cheek, to feel where she had slapped him. But his hand felt as if a mace and lead-weight ball had been chained to it, and his face, which should have burned agonisingly from the blow, only felt numb. As if he had fallen asleep in a cavern of grey ice and had just awoken. That would explain the frozen feeling in his entire body. 

‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Stop teasing me like this. I’ve heard about the games some clans play. I thought the Suryavansha Ikshwakus were above such petty chicanery. Don’t insult my intelligence with such a feeble trick.’ 

He hesitated. He wasn’t afraid of another blow. He was afraid of how she would respond when he didn’t burst into embarrassed laughter and admit sheepishly that it had been just a post-marital game - he had heard of such games too; they were immensely popular in Kaikeya, played with great enthusiasm, bordering on cruelty - as she expected him to do now. Finally, he spoke, because there was nothing else to be done, bracing himself for another slap, keeping his voice surprisingly quiet and calm. It felt as if he was speaking through an ice-numbed mouth. 

‘Kaikeya-maa, my stepmother, once saved my father’s life. Actually, she saved his life twice. In exchange, he granted her two boons. She could ask anything of him her heart desired, at any time. She chose to withhold her privilege until today. Today she asked him to honour his promise and grant those boons. The first boon she desired was that Bharat, her son, should be crowned prince-heir. The second boon was that I, Rama, should go into exile in the Dandaka woods for fourteen years.’ 

She slapped him again. Harder this time, although he wouldn’t have thought that possible a moment ago. He still didn’t raise his hand to his cheek, but this time he did feel some sensation. Like ants crawling over the skin, or under the skin. 

‘I told you, no games.’ Her voice was deathly quiet. 

‘It’s no game, Janaki. This is exactly what I was told when I went to the kosaghar just now.’ 

‘Your father told you this?’ 

‘No. But he was there. He heard every word. He did not deny it or stop her. Kaikeya-maa told me this, and then dismissed me.’ 

‘It isn’t true,’ she said. Her voice faltered slightly for the first time. Ever so slightly, but he caught it. Already he was attuned to the nuances of her emotions, as if the intensity of the events of the past few days had bonded them in some way that was more powerful than a lifetime of normal marriage. ‘It can’t be true. Dasaratha-chacha would not do such a thing to his firstborn.’ 

‘He didn’t do it, you’re right about that much. Rani Kaikeyi did it.’ 

‘He wouldn’t let her! He would have stopped her!’ Her voice rose sharply. 

Rama shrugged. ‘He was bound by an oath.’ 

‘Even for an oath, he would not turn his own son out of doors.’ 

‘He had no choice in the matter. Kaikeyi had every right to demand the boons he had promised her. It was a blood-oath, given in exchange for the saving of a life. Not once, but twice.’ 

‘Even so … ‘ Sita turned around where she stood, like a dancer performing a step, banging her foot down hard. Her payals shuddered discordantly. ‘He was under pressure of a blood-oath. You are not. You have no obligation to respect his promise. You need not go at all! There!’ She flung out her arms triumphantly, as if by coming to this rational conclusion the matter was settled there and then, just like that. ‘You need not do what she bade you. She is only your stepmother. Your father did not tell you these things himself.’ 

‘I am my father’s son. I must respect his wishes, no matter if they are conveyed by some other medium.’ 

‘They’re not his wishes! You said so yourself. They’re her wishes! Hers!’ 

‘But the right to ask them was granted to her by my father. He was present in the kosaghar when she addressed me. He heard and was aware of the whole transaction.’ He rose to his feet slowly, reaching out to take her into his arms. ‘Sita, listen to me. There is no way around it. I must respect my father’s wishes. I must go into the Dandaka—’ 

‘No!’ She backed away, pushing his hands away roughly. ‘I will not let you! I will not allow you to go! I will fetch Kausalyamaa. Guru Vashishta. I will tell your brothers. I will go to the king himself if I must. To Rani Kaikeyi! I will prostrate myself and beg for her mercy. If she wishes her son to be king in your stead, so be it! She can have him crowned king and reign as queen-mother! Everyone knows that’s what she’s always wanted. But she doesn’t need to send you into exile to achieve that!’ 

He let his arms fall limply. ‘It doesn’t matter what she needs or doesn’t need. This is her wish, she has spoken it. It is my dharma to follow it through now. You may call upon whomever you please; nothing they say either will sway me. If anything, Guru Vashishta himself will agree that I must obey my father’s command.’ 

He looked around the chamber. He was shocked to see gloamy light seeping in from the veranda. Dawn had crept up on him unawares. ‘I should not have come here. I was specifically forbidden to say any goodbyes. I will honour that, by saying no farewell to you. Only this will I say: you will be well cared for here until I return.’ 

‘I won’t hear this!’ She put her hands over her ears, like a child shutting out a parent’s voice. 

‘You will live like a princess, no matter whether Bharat reigns or I. My brothers are great and honourable men, each one of them. They will ensure that your every need is met, your every desire fulfilled. The entire kingdom and wealth of the Suryavanshas will be at your disposal from—’ 

‘I don’t want any of it,’ she yelled, tears streaming down her face now. ‘None of it! Do you understand? Are you listening to me? Or are you just going to drone on without hearing a single word
I’m
saying?’ 

‘I’m listening,’ he said quietly. ‘And I understand your pain and anguish. But there is no way to undo this. Understand that first and foremost. I must fulfil my dharma, I must obey my father’s wishes, and honour the vow he once made. In fourteen years, when I return, I will try and make reparations for your long—’ 

‘I won’t be here,’ she cried, shaking her head from side to side over and over again. ‘In fourteen years or fourteen days, I will not be here. Do you understand? I’m not going to sit in this palace and wait for you.’ 

He was silent. Shocked. He had thought he had been shocked sufficiently for one lifetime - or at least for one night. But apparently the human heart had a greater capacity for hurt than he had believed possible. Still, with the shock and pain came relief as well. For her answer assuaged his guilt, the guilt that had been the reason he had come back here to his chambers rather than proceeding straight to the gates and out of the city as he should have done in the first place. If she would not stay, then she would not suffer, and he would feel a little less horrible. 

‘That is understandable,’ he said. ‘You have every right. No Arya wife in her youthful prime could be expected to stay fourteen years without her husband. Under Manu’s Law, a wife whose husband takes sanyas from the world can seek to marry again if she pleases. An exile is akin to a sanyas, for what is exile if not a total renunciation of all one’s worldly possessions, habits and desires? I will free you from our marital vows before I go. In fact, I will do so this very minute, by reciting the slokas of disavowal. After I have spoken them aloud, you shall be free to remarry and seek your own happiness.’ 

She flew at him then. He thought surely this time she meant to kill him, or wound him deeply at least. The rage in her beautiful face, the heat in her eyes, the hand raised in a clawing gesture … Instead, all she did was clap her hand upon his mouth and shove him back upon the bed, her tears dripping as hot and thick as spilled diya oil upon his forehead. 

‘If you utter that sloka,’ she said hoarsely, her throat constricted by her emotions and tears, ‘I will kill myself. I swear it. Don’t you dare utter a single syllable of disavowal! I’ll die before I marry another man!’ 

‘I was only suggesting it for your own good,’ he said. ‘It would be better if you try to put me behind you and live your life afresh.’ 

‘Haven’t you felt anything at all? Don’t you see what we share together? Is it only my body and my youth that you see before you? Do you not see the heart that beats within this breast, the mind that ticks behind this face, the soul that floats within this cage of flesh? Don’t you feel what I feel for you?’