Prince of Dharma (74 page)

He had transported her to the spot of the ambush. Where she had intercepted and killed the Kshatriyas last night. The stench of death was still thick in the air, mingling with the scents of the recent rainfall. Her bellyful of tiger flesh threatened to expel itself. Her entire body screamed with fear. 

A horde of crows and vultures rose squawking and screeching into the air, startled by the sudden appearance of the two rakshasas. 

Ravana’s ten heads turned and scanned the underbrush. Above him, the sky was a light greyish blue shot through with streaks of saffron and vermilion from the rising sun. 

He walked over to the foot of a huge boulder, the very boulder on which she had waited before the ambush, his bulging upper body silhouetted against the brightening sky. He kicked at an object lying on the ground. The object flew across the dusty path on which she now sat and struck her chest. 

She tried to catch it but it slipped and fell, bouncing on the ground, mud adhering to its sticky wounds. It was a severed human head, the eyes badly gouged by the birds. It still wore a battered helmet with the lightning-shaped sigil of the Vajra Kshatriyas. 

FOUR 

Has your memory been refreshed sufficiently? Or do you need a few more taps on your skull to get it fully functional? 

‘Master,’ she said, scrambling to her feet, keeping her eyes down and her head obsequiously low. ‘I saw this group of Kshatriyas leaving the main party back at the ashram. They were clearly on their way back to Ayodhya. I was afraid they would bring reinforcements. I thought it was important to kill them and prevent word of the princes and the seer reaching Ayodhya.’ 

Supanakha, the last time we spoke, in the groves of Anangaashram, I distinctly recall telling you to only observe the princes and the mage, not interfere with them. Don’t you consider killing a dozen men to be a violation of that order? 

‘I meant you no disrespect,’ she cried, pleading now. ‘I thought you would be pleased. I called upon you all last night. I had a plan.’ 

The only plan is the one I made for the invasion of the mortal realms. I’m not interested in your puerile plots or your feeble excuses. You disappoint me greatly, cousin. What am I to do with you now? 

She fell to her knees, then stretched out fully on the ground, her hands extended towards his cloven leather strapped lower limbs, prostrating herself in the most abject of postures. It was something she had never done before in all her five hundred years. 

‘My Lord, great one, ruler of all the three worlds and supreme commander of heaven, earth and hell! I beg your forgiveness. I will do any penance you prescribe. Don’t kill me. Please. I am a good fighter. I will be of use to you in your war against the mortals. I beseech you, let me live and repair the damage I have done.’ 

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 peepal 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.’