Prince of Dharma (43 page)

Rama surveyed his work for a moment, then he turned and walked back to where they stood. 

He bowed to the brahmarishi. ‘Gurudev,’ he said, indicating the stream. ‘You may now cross without immersing yourself.’ 

Lakshman followed the brahmarishi’s gaze. The tree-trunk lay where Rama had tossed it—
like a bale of straw!
— forming a perfect makeshift bridge across the stream. 

The guru put a hand on Rama’s shoulder. ‘Well done, Rajkumar Rama.’ 

He turned to Lakshman, and even in the growing darkness Lakshman could see the twinkle in the seer’s eyes. ‘You are wondering how your brother has suddenly gained the strength of a bull elephant, Rajkumar Lakshman.’ 

Lakshman shut his mouth abruptly. ‘I am, gurudev.’ 

Vishwamitra nodded. ‘This is the result of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. Already they have begun to transform your physiognomy, altering the very cellular structure of your bodies, enhancing your abilities and empowering you in numerous immeasurable ways. This little display of raw strength was only a small taste of the full effect of the maha-mantras. Soon you two will be able to do much more than simply pick up and toss dead trees.’ 

‘We two?’ Lakshman’s voice caught in his throat. ‘Even I, mahadev?’ 

The seer smiled. ‘Of course, young Lakshman. The mahamantras act differently on different individuals, it is true. They may enhance some aspects of Rama’s mind and body while altering other aspects in your own makeup. But alter they will, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Already you can see the effect of their miraculous empowerment. Look at your brother and at yourself. Look closely.’ 

Lakshman looked at Rama. It took him a moment to adjust, the way one had to refocus one’s vision when gazing suddenly across a vast distance after staring at a close object for too long. 

Then he saw it. 

The tips of Rama’s fingers, the corners of his eyes, the orifices of his nostrils, his mouth, all exuded a faintly glowing bluish light. Rama glanced down at the palm of his right hand, plucking out a splinter from the tree-trunk, and tossing it away. Lakshman saw the point at which the splinter had embedded itself shallowly in Rama’s flesh glowing brighter, deeper blue, as if his blood itself had been infused with the power of Brahman. 

Lakshman looked down at himself. The same phenomenon was happening to him.
I’m filled with Brahman power. We both are.
And as the realisation came upon him, so did the awareness of the transformation working within his cells. He could feel his power and strength growing with every breath he inhaled. 

‘And in time,’ the brahmarishi went on, ‘after the mahamantras have fully empowered both of you, I may induct you in the use of dev-astras, the divine weapons of the devas themselves. Imbibing Bala and Atibala are an essential foundation before taking that step.’ 

Lakshman was impressed.
Dev-astras? The mythic weapons of the great wars between the devas and the asuras? Given to me and Rama
! ‘Gurudev,’ he said, folding his hands. ‘Truly, your vidya is immense and mighty.’ 

The brahmarishi gestured with his staff. ‘Come now, rajkumars. It grows dark. Let us make our way to Anangaashrama.’ 

They crossed the rivulet easily over the tree, its squat broad trunk quite comfortable to walk on. 

As boys, Lakshman and his brothers had played at walking over small ravines on saplings barely the thickness of a wrist-width. This fat trunk he could have walked blindfolded. He leaped down on the far side behind the brahmarishi and Rama, stopping to look back at the dead tree. 

‘Gurudev, should we leave the tree as it lies?’ 

The brahmarishi glanced back. ‘It might be better to remove it.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you might like to take care of the chore, Rajkumar Lakshman?’ 

Lakshman grinned. He had been hoping the guru would say just that. 

*** 

Supanakha watched from the face of the cliff. She was suspended barely ten yards from the foot of the rise. She had stopped in her downward descent to watch Rama pick up the tree and toss it across the rivulet. Now, she watched as Lakshman picked up the same tree and threw it to one side on the far bank. Lakshman dusted off his palms, looking as pleased with himself as a child who had won his first race, and turned to follow his brother and his guru into the thicket. In a moment, the three of them had vanished into the fruit grove. 

Supanakha completed her descent, pondering the meaning of this new development. So the brahmarishi had administered some form of Brahman magic to the two rajkumars, something which made them much stronger, and presumably faster and more tireless as well. This was something she would have to report back to her master. Her cousin. 

She gnashed her teeth at the thought of facing Ravana again. For a while, she had dwelt in the fantasy that she would just follow her saviour Rama and observe him on his journey south. She could bear to do just that for a while longer; he was immensely watchable. And she still wanted to try to understand this human youth who had risked his own life to save the life of an anonymous doe. But she couldn’t deny the fact that she was, after all was said and done, a rakshasi. And not just any rakshasi, but the cousin of Ravana. And she had a mission to execute. 

No matter how much she hated the idea. 

She snarled her displeasure, the sound echoing in the sleepy stillness of dusk. 

EIGHT 

They blinked in surprise at the soft warm glow of oil lanterns glimpsed through the trees. As they approached the clearing, the outline of a large plain hut came into view, limned by the illumination from a pair of lanterns. It was a simple thatch-wood hut, put together with mud, straw and dung. The most basic building unit of Arya common architecture. 

The hut was made in the familiar rectangular shape of an ashram, a simple straw awning over the doorless doorway, and seemed large enough to house fifteen or twenty men at best. Two cows and a calf were tethered to a bamboo pillar, munching steadily on freshly plucked darbha grass. They lowed sleepily as the visitors approached the aangan of the hut. Rama noticed that the aangan had been freshly swept with a thrashbroom, judging by the faint parallel lines in the flat ground. 

A head emerged from the doorway, hair tied in a neat bun on top of the head in the style of hermits. A young rishi with a smile as wide as his waist was narrow came out, beaming warmly. 

Shaivites, Rama thought. No other order would starve themselves so. The Shiva-worshippers were slowly gaining in numbers; although nowhere near equal the ubiquitous Vishnu and Brahma cults, Shaivism was starting to grow in respectability as well as popularity. 

Several more rishis poured out of the hut, most of them young acolytes—brahmacharyas sworn to twenty-five years of celibate meditation. All of them fell to their feet and tekoed their foreheads to the ground before the seer-mage Vishwamitra. Shaivites or Brahmins, all deva-fearing souls revered a brahmarishi. 

‘Ashirwaad, gurudev,’ they chanted in unison, their harmony honed to perfection by years of daily practice. ‘Aadharniya samman. Padhariyen.’
Blessings, great guru. With honour and respect, we invite you to enter and be welcome. 

‘Ayushmaanbhav, rishiyon.’
Long life, monks.
‘May your prayers be fruitful.’ 

A very tall rishi, his bun whiter and face more lined than all the others, hurried forward, prostrating himself before the seer and kissing his feet reverentially. 

‘Mahadev, you honour our humble hermitage a thousandfold with your presence. We welcome you and your noble companions to Ananga-ashrama. Blessed are all who enter here.’ 

‘Well met again, Rishi Adhranga. I accept your generous invitation on behalf of my companions and myself.’ 

Vishwamitra touched the flank of the mother cow as he stepped up to the doorway. ‘Forgive me yet again, wise one. I have learned the error of my ways.’ He presented his feet for the customary arghya, and was washed by Rishi Adhranga himself. The other rishis performed the arghya for Rama and Lakshman. 

Rama wondered why the brahmarishi had apologised to the cow. He vaguely recalled some legend from Vishwamitra’s past— relating to the seer’s first encounter with Guru Vashishta, if he remembered correctly. He would have to ask the sage about it at some appropriate time. 

The interior of the hermitage was just as plain as the exterior. Four windowless walls washed white with limechalk. Not a stick of furniture on the bare floors, only a pile of straw pallets at one corner. A very young brahmacharya acolyte, interrupted in the midst of setting out the pallets for the night’s rest, turned and stared dumbstruck at the sight of the sage and the two rajkumars. Uttering a gasp of amazed wonder, he fell to his feet, thumping his shaven pate on the floor. 

‘Brahmarishi, mahadev, ashirwaad,’ he gasped in a voice choked with adoration. 

Rama and Lakshman exchanged amused glances.
Now there’s an eager Brahmin
. 

The odour of fresh dung hung over everything, competing for their olfactory attention with the acrid aroma of fresh cow urine. Two of the many gifts of Mother Cow that included milk and leather as well. Though Rama didn’t expect to find the last two under a Shaivite’s roof: the cult was notorious for its self-deprivation and austerities, as their skeletally thin figures proved. 

Even before his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior, lit within by a single lantern, Rama could tell that the floor was made of recently hardened straw-and-dung, and had been freshly swabbed with cow urine. He had to resist the urge to wrinkle his nose, reminding himself that cow-dung and urine were known for their antiseptic qualities. Actually, he didn’t even mind the dung very much; once dried, it tended to fade to a nondescript muddy odour that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. It was the pungent stench of fresh urine that he had never been able to love. 

If only the sage’s maha-mantra gave me the ability to make cow urine smell like rose petals, he thought. Now that would really make me feel no discomfort here. 

Rishi Adhranga looked up, peering around his ashram in bewilderment. ‘What is that smell?’ 

‘It smells like … like a woman just passed through here, guruji,’ said one of his acolytes, as puzzled as his teacher. 

‘Not a woman, young brahmachari, more like … a basket of flowers,’ said another brahmacharya, looking just as puzzled as his companions. 

Lakshman was looking around too, sniffing for the source of the fragrance. Rama realised that Vishwamitra was the only one who was looking at him directly. The sage seemed to be unconcerned about the source of the smell. The other rishis had begun riffling through the straw pallets on the floor, clucking to themselves in incomprehension. 

Rama realised he had been holding his breath. He sucked in air and was amazed to find it smelling as sweet as that of his mother’s akasa-chamber.
I did it with the blink of a thought, by wishing that cow urine could smell like rose petals. Holy Vishnu, I never meant to actually change the smell
! 

He glanced up nervously at the sage, expecting to be admonished.
He should have warned us that we could make things like this happen just by willing it.
Already, the older rishis were looking at Vishwamitra and muttering comments about Brahman power. 

Rama was about to confess his innocent error when one of the young acolytes held up a rose in full bloom. ‘It was in the north-east corner, with the agarbattis. Dumma must have brought it in.’ 

‘I did not!’ cried the young boy who had been alone in the hut when they had all entered. Rama guessed him to be not more than seven years of age. He was clearly the youngest acolyte. ‘Just because I brought in a Queen’s Blessing once doesn’t mean I’m always bringing flowers!’ 

Rishi Adhranga held out his hand for the rose. ‘Powerful scent from a single rose.’ 

He glanced up at Vishwamitra with a knowing expression. ‘But no harm done. We of the order of Shiva usually eschew luxuries of any kind, including scent-giving blossoms. But we must consider this unexpected offering an auspicious greeting for our honoured guests.’ 

‘Indeed,’ Vishwamitra replied, his face inscrutable. 

Rama realised he could now smell the pungent odour of cow urine again.
He changed the smell back to its natural form, and made that rose appear to justify the fragrance. 

He avoided looking directly at Vishwamitra but later, while seated on the ground, eating the simple repast of the hermits, he happened to glance up and thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in the sage’s eyes.