Prince of Dharma (13 page)

Lakshman took Marut, another old battlehorse that had seen better days and greater challenges. Sometimes while astride the ancient destrier he felt as if he was riding back through time itself, into the ancient days Shatrugan had spoken of, a time when war was a simple fact of daily existence and a Kshatriya was a warrior not just by birth and name, but in his daily actions. To defend the Arya nations and die defending them, that was all a Kshatriya was expected to do. It was his dharma, just as the Brahmins or priest-class must maintain the sanctity of Arya dharmic rituals and traditions, the vaisyas maintain the trade and commerce that were essential for Arya economy, and the sudras perform the less desirable yet necessary duties of cleaning, foraging, hunting, and otherwise ensuring the health and maintenance of the community. In those days, caste divisions had been a vital part of survival. Today, even a sudra could rise to Kshatriya status through diligent effort and application. In the age of Dasaratha, being a Kshatriya was no less honourable, yet it was much less exciting than the days that Shatrugan found so attractive. 

But Lakshman wasn’t Shatrugan. He didn’t fear war, yet he didn’t desire it either. He could do without battling asuras and slaughtering rakshasas, all his life if need be. To do one’s duty as a Kshatriya was inevitable and desirable, yes, but this was fine too, to live in a time of peace and calm. 

‘We’re bred for war, you and I, old Kshatriya,’ he said, leaning to nuzzle and pat Marut’s neck as he rode down the empty marg. ‘But what else do we fight wars for, if not to win peace? Let’s hope we get to enjoy this well-deserved peace for another thousand years, right, brave one?’ 

The battlehorse flicked his head and whinnied, his powerful strides belying his age as he found his wind. 

As he turned his head briefly, Lakshman caught a glimpse of Marut’s forehead, still marked with the grisly scar of an axe-wound that would have felled lesser horses. He understood the gesture: even the old battlehorse would take peace over war any day. 

SEVEN 

Sumantra had arranged the arghya items Guru Vashishta had ordered and was waiting at the palace steps. The sky had turned crimson and saffron in the east and the deep midnight blue Dasaratha had seen from the akasa-chamber had turned to a lighter blue, the exact shade of the white-and-blue china vase he had been gifted by the Greek envoy just last week. It was an auspicious blue, the blue of Brahman, and Dasaratha felt a stirring in his heart as he walked with his mahaguru and pradhan-mantri towards the gates of his palace. 

Vashishta continued speaking softly as they walked, his voice audible only to Dasaratha’s ears. They often adopted this method to get Dasaratha through the rigorous rituals of official ceremonies. Dasaratha had long since accepted the impossibility of remembering every minute detail of the intricate chain of actions and words that were strictly required by Vedic tradition. 

Yet he wondered how Vashishta could recall these hundreds of thousands of details with such flawless ease. This was only one of the many reasons that Kshatriyas gratefully and gladly accepted the spiritual guidance of the Brahmins. This way a Kshatriya was free to concentrate on his real duties rather than clutter his precious time and mindspace with countless details. Yet sometimes even Dasaratha wondered if that wasn’t precisely the reason why Brahmins made these rituals so intricate and complex! 

Still, after a lifetime of listening unobtrusively, he was comfortable with receiving the guru’s constant flow of instructions and advice. It was not a matter of who was in command, as some foolish clan-chieftains made it out to be, but simply who possessed the best knowledge on a specific matter. Besides, even the palace guards saluting them as they walked in the pleasant dawn breeze were not aware of the guru speaking in Dasaratha’s ear. It was as if, Dasaratha often mused, the guru could telepathically transmit his words directly into Dasaratha’s brain. 

‘And lastly, even by error, do not mention my old association with him, back when he was a king, before he became a spiritual man. Since his reformation and his subsequent elevation to brahmarishi stature, Vishwamitra does not like to be reminded of his former life.’ 

Dasaratha jotted a mental note to look up Vishwamitra’s ‘former life’ in the royal library later. All he knew of the legendary seer-mage was that he had been ordained some fourteen hundred years ago by the great god Shiva himself. Before that, he had been a king, Dasaratha knew. Not a maharaja of united clans but a maharaja of some princely clan housed far to the northwest. Guru Vashishta’s cryptic reference—‘his reformation’— suggested he had led an interesting life back then. Certainly more interesting than spending two hundred and forty-two years meditating in the deep forest. 

The gates of the palace were wide open as always. These were peaceful times and Ayodhya took pride in the fact that its houses were never barred or locked, not even the king’s palace. In his entire reign, Dasaratha had never needed to lock them against anything or anybody. Even the palace guard, highly trained and alert though they were, were completely decorative. They were compelled to hold weekly athletic games to keep in shape and had developed a complicated choreographed ritual for the change of watch that had become a tourist attraction. The quad of four guards at the guardhouse by the gates had been joined by an entire platoon as was customary when the king emerged from the palace. Moving in perfect unison now, they performed an impressive variation of the changing-ofguards ritual, flipping their short spears and passing them from one hand to the other before setting them back on to their shoulders and saluting their king smartly as he approached. 

Dasaratha saluted back as best as he could manage, his chest and shoulder muscles protesting. He was the commander of all armed forces after all, the supreme senapati. He felt painfully ashamed of his overweight, decrepit body. Once, he would have been able to take on four armed Kshatriyas bare-handed, disarming them all in a matter of minutes. Now, he could only recall those martial asanas with deep regret and thank the devas he could still walk about and stand erect. 

‘Focus, Dasaratha,’ Guru Vashishta’s sub-audible voice said in his ear. 

Again that sense that the guru’s instructions were within his head rather than in his ear. The calm, iron-steady voice forced the maharaja to shed all his needless emotions and thoughts and concentrate solely on the task at hand. It was harder than it used to be. 

‘Focus.’ 

The guru’s voice was firmer this time, a coiled reprimand. Unknown to Dasaratha, who regarded tales of the legendary Brahman power of seers with healthy scientific scepticism, the guru possessed not just telepathy but complete mental control. He had ‘heard’ the maharaja’s distracted thoughts about his decaying physique. Just as he could now ‘hear’ Dasaratha’s thoughts straying back to the morning’s dalliance with his first queen … It would not do to have the maharaja’s distraction lead to an error in protocol or a misspoken word. This was no ordinary visitor they were receiving. Vashishta put the weight of his considerable personality into one final command. 

‘Focus.’ 

Dasaratha focussed. Forcing his mind to clear itself and direct its attention outwards. 

The figure standing just outside the palace gates was like a painting come alive. The striking twice-as-large-as-life-sized one hanging in the palace foyer, perhaps. That work of art had been painted over four centuries earlier by a king of the Suryavansha dynasty, Dasaratha’s illustrious ancestor Dilipa. The official chronicles of the Suryavansha clan, to which historical record 

Dasaratha himself had contributed from time to time, noted in its entry that the noble Dilipa had painted this portrait entirely from memory. Dilipa had returned from a chance visit to the ashram of the great sage Vishwamitra, greatly impressed by the sage’s insightful advice. That encounter had changed his life and fortunes, and the future of the Suryavansha dynasty itself, and as a tribute Dilipa had poured every gram of his considerable artistic talent into rendering the magnificent portrait. Since the great sage Vishwamitra had never actually set foot in the city of Ayodhya, that painting had stood as his representative likeness for these past four hundred years, becoming the basis for several lesser imitations, and even a statue in Seers’ Square. But today, at long last, Dilipa’s descendant Maharaja Dasaratha could vouch with pride and a strange swelling emotion that the painting’s accuracy was amazing. Perfect, down to the last detail, Great Dilipa. Absolutely perfect. 

The figure before him looked as if he had just this minute stepped out of that enormous canvas. 

He was clad in the simple garb of an ascetic: a coarse red-ochre dhoti hand-woven from beaten jute, battered wooden toe-grip slippers, matted unkempt hair swirling around his craggy face, a long straggly white beard, red-beaded rudraksh mala around his neck. At a glance he could have passed for any of the dozens of tapasvi sadhus that emerged from the Southwoods each spring, gaunt and wasted from their rigorous abstinence and penance. Yet he possessed that same striking air of great inner strength and power that Dilipa had captured in that historic portrait. 

The appearance of a seer-mage who had once been a great Kshatriya and maharaja. The unmistakable arrogance and dignity of Arya royalty. 

He was facing away from them when Dasaratha, Vashishta and Sumantra approached. Staring out at the high slopes of the northern hills, the sloping ridges that eventually rose to become the foothills of the Himalayas. His long beard and weathered garments flapped in the wind. The attendant following on Sumantra’s heels gasped and muttered an exclamation of disbelief in Awadhi commonspeak. The startled servant, obviously shocked at the sight of a legend from history books come alive, clattered the arghya bowl and basin together and the sound rang out on the still clear air. There was no traffic on the vast expanse of Raghuvamsha Avenue this early on a feast day and the sound was as grating as a cartwheel cracking. 

It attracted the attention of the visitor. 

He turned, holding his hefty staff easily in one powerfully muscled hand. Dasaratha felt a tremor of anticipation. A sense of history in the making. He would be the first king of Ayodhya to be graced with the visit of this legendary seer-mage. And on a most auspicious day. Despite his resolve to keep his thoughts clear, it occurred to him suddenly that if he could convince the great sage to stay until the coronation, a fortnight from today, it would lay the ultimate seal of approval on his last act as king. His first-born, Rama, would go down in Arya history as the first prince of Ayodhya to be blessed at his coronation by not one but two of the greatest seer-mages and brahmarishis ever, Vashishta and Vishwamitra. Now that would be an epoch-making coronation! 

He opened his parched lips to speak the appropriate greeting, lowering himself to his knees to prostrate himself before the great Brahmin. But before he could say a single word, the living legend spoke first, breaking protocol and surprising Dasaratha. 

‘Maharaja Dasaratha, in keeping with the ancient tradition of guru-dakshina between Kshatriya and Brahmin, I have come to ask a boon of you. As is the custom, I exhort you to agree without hesitation or pause to grant me my heart’s desire, regardless of what I ask for. Honour your caste, your clan and yourself, and agree without delay. I, Vishwamitra, sage of sages, command it.’ 

EIGHT 

The doe leaped out of Rama’s arms. He had enfolded her in a gentle embrace, careful not to grip her too hard, and when he sensed her muscles tensing for the leap, he made no attempt to stop her. She jumped upwards and away, bounding across the grassy knoll in the direction of the river. Reaching the rim of the knoll, she paused and turned her head. Her ears flicked as she looked back with wide alarmed eyes. He smiled and rose to his feet, speaking softly, his voice barely audible below the sound of the river. 

‘Did I scare you? That was not my intention, little beauty. I was only eager to be your friend. Will you not come back and speak to me again?’ 

The doe watched him from the edge of the precipice, her body still turned towards the path that led down to the river, only her head twisted back towards him. She made no move to return, yet she did not flee immediately. 

Rama took a step towards her, then another. She did not run. He took several steps more, but when he was within twenty paces or so, her flank rippled and her ears flickered at a faster rate. 

So he stopped again. He called to her. She stayed where she was, watching him. For a long moment, they stayed that way, the boy and the doe, watching each other, the river rushing along, the sun breasting the top of the northern hills to shine down in its full glory. In the distance, the city caught the light of the new day and sent back a thousand glittering reflections. Towers and spires, windows and arches, domes and columns, glass and brass, silver and gold, copper and bronze, crystal and shell, bead and stone, all were illuminated at once, and Ayodhya blazed like a beacon of gold fire, filling the valley with a luminous glow. In the light of this glorious new day, it was easy to dismiss the nightmare as just that, a bad dream. And yet … he could still hear the screams, see the awful wounds, the gaping—