Prince of Dharma (78 page)

‘Then, Guru-dev,’ Rama said respectfully, ‘I have a boon to ask of you.’ 

Vishwamitra stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Speak it then, rajkumar. All that you ask shall be granted to you today. You have earned the right to demand any boon of me. If it is within my power to dispense, you shall have your heart’s desire.’ 

‘Maha-dev,’ Rama said, ‘grant my brother and me leave to return home to Ayodhya.’ 

The brahmarishi replied without hesitation. 

‘Rama, you do not need my leave to return home. Ayodhya is where you must go. You are to be crowned king-in-waiting in a few days. Your people need you to be there at that auspicious occasion, to take the reins of statehood from your illustrious father and continue the glorious lineage of your Suryavansha ancestors. Dharma demands that you must be there in time for that auspicious occasion.’ 

Lakshman’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be this easy? Were they to be allowed to leave without any debate or discussion? Surely it wasn’t possible? Let it be so, he prayed. 

Rama seemed to be as stunned as Lakshman at the guru’s quick acquiescence. ‘Then I shall take your leave, maha-dev. My brother and I shall return to Ayodhya at once, to take up arms and defend our nation against the oncoming asura assault that threatens our civilisation. With your ashirwaad, brahmarishi, we shall return to fight for our lives and our homeland. Pray, grant us your divine blessing.’ 

Vishwamitra smiled, his lined face still wreathed in a gentle expression. ‘You shall have my ashirwaad, Rama. And you shall have much else besides. But first, stay and hear my words. I know of the vision you have been given in the dark hours of this morning. I feel your eagerness to return home to do your duty to your family and your nation. If that is your wish, I will not stop you. You are free to go as you please. But you must know one thing before you go.’ 

And the brahmarishi paused and leaned forward, directing the full force of his intense ice-blue gaze upon Rama. 

‘If you go back to Ayodhya, you will be doing exactly what the Lord of Lanka wishes of you.’ 

EIGHT 

It took Rama only a second to find his voice, yet it seemed as though aeons passed in that second. The morning sunlight, so comforting on his bare shoulders, suddenly lost its warmth. The air, balmy on this early spring day, began to feel cold, tinged with the frosty bite of the distant Himalayas. Insects that had shurred busily and birds that had chirped melodiously all seemed to fall silent. The very ether that he occupied seemed to want to push him out of existence, to fill the space his being occupied. 

‘Maha-dev,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly steady despite the turmoil he felt within himself. ‘I do not fathom your meaning. How could my returning to Ayodhya possibly please Ravana?’ 

Vishwamitra nodded sagely. ‘It would and it must. You see, Rama, this is a test by the devas. They are subtly coercing you to return to Ayodhya. To do the logical thing. Protect your family, your home, your kingdom.’ 

Rama stared blankly at the seer. It was as if the brahmarishi was speaking some foreign language. He could hear the seer, understand his every word, but he could not fathom the meaning behind the literal meaning of what he was saying. 

‘But, maha-dev, what other choice do I have?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Unless you mean to say that there is no invasion? That I was misinformed?’ 

Vishwamitra shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, no. Your visitation this morning was no trick. Nor was your nightmare vision, young Lakshman. Nor the occult encounter our Vajra Captain Bejoo had a little while ago. The forces of Lanka have indeed landed on the shores of this great subcontinent, and even as we speak they are swarming across the desolate deserts of Kutchha. Before this day has ended, they will reach the first true major settlements of the Arya nations and begin wreaking a terrible vengeance.’ 

‘Then what else can I possibly do?’ Rama asked. ‘How can I not return home to protect my home and my loved ones?’ 

The sage sighed. He spread his hands. Vishwamitra was a large-boned, handsomely proportioned man, his every limb shaped as perfectly as a well-designed weapon of war. His palms were flat and deeply scored with more lines than Rama had seen on any person before. He raised one hand, then the other, holding them at chest level, like scales of an invisible balance. 

‘That is one choice, certainly, Rama. The natural choice. The one which the devas expect you to make. That is why you were given the gift of that divine visitation this morning. That privilege is granted to but a few fortunate mortals and almost as few immortals. Do you see my point? You were being subtly influenced in favour of this choice. The nightmare vision of your brother Lakshman ensured that he would not argue against your decision, as indeed he will not. And the further sandesh from your Vajra captain, whose lifelong scepticism of all things supernatural was so miraculously overcome in a single encounter with a disembodied voice, cemented the decision. See for yourself then. Forces around you are pressing you to make this one choice and one choice alone.’ 

The brahmarishi let his right hand fall significantly, as if a five-kilo weight had been dropped on that side of the balance. 

‘On this other side is your second choice. There are no divine visions certifying this one, no Vajra captains trying to underline its importance; indeed, there is no influence bearing upon you to choose this path at all. You may almost ask the question, “Why this?” And you would be perfectly justified in asking it.’ 

‘But maha-dev,’ Lakshman asked, ‘what is the second choice? We already know the first choice is to return home to Ayodhya. What would be our alternative?’ 

‘Well asked, young Lakshman. After all, though I address my words to your brother Rama, you are as much a part of his karma at this moment. The second choice of which I speak is simply the path you were to take originally.’ 

And the brahmarishi let his left hand drop, but only slightly, as if a mere kilo weight had been put there, not nearly enough to outweigh the five kilos on the right side. 

‘To travel to Mithila?’ Rama asked slowly, looking baffled. ‘To attend the swayamvara and marriage you spoke of yesterday? But … what would be the point?’ 

The seer-mage smiled. ‘Now, Rama, you ask the real question. Not what the other choice is, but why?’ 

The word hung between them like a bee hovering in mid-air, droning. Why? 

The brahmarishi dropped his hands and said simply, ‘Because I have asked you to come.’ 

There was complete silence for several instants. Rama could hear the stubborn lowing of a bullock at the far end of the ashram, a good hundred yards away, and the muted grunts and coaxing of the young brahmacharyas struggling to move the difficult animal. From the sound, he could even recognise the bullock; it was a surly beast, given to moods and fits. But the chanting of the Gayatri mantra in its right ear would get it moving again. In the brief silence that followed, he guessed that one of the cleverer acolytes must be doing just that. After an instant, he heard the bullock snorting appreciatively and then the jangling of its bells as it began heaving the laden cart up the path again. 

‘Maha-dev,’ Rama said softly, ‘you said earlier that we are free to return to Ayodhya. You agree that the defence of our homes and loved ones is of paramount importance. Then what possible purpose could we serve by travelling in another direction altogether, into the heart of the Videha kingdom, to the capital city Mithila, fifty yojanas away from our home and duty?’ 

Vishwamitra raised his hands in a shrug. ‘What purpose did you serve by leaving your homes and loved ones in the first place and travelling with me into the heart of the Bhayanak-van? What purpose did you serve by risking your lives by facing Tataka and her bestial brood? What purpose did you serve by fighting Mareech and Subahu and ensuring the sanctity of my yagna?’ 

‘That was our dharma, Guru-dev,’ Rama said. ‘You came to our father’s palace and demanded as dakshina that we accompany you. All of Ayodhya agreed that it was our dharma to do so.’ 

The seer-mage nodded slowly, looking at Rama. The weight of years seemed to press down heavily on his lined features, as if a great burden of sadness had descended upon him all at once. ‘And it is your dharma to accompany me now to Mithila.’ 

Rama blinked several times. He felt as though the question that had hung between them like a bee had darted forward and stung him between the eyes. He felt the pain of the answer to that question piercing his brain now, sending a wave of agony through his entire being. 

‘Maha-dev,’ he said, ‘you know we live to serve you. Until you release us of our oath, we are your shishyas. If you insist we accompany you to Mithila, we have no power to resist you. We will obey without question. But pray, grant me the answer to one why. Why is it so important that we come with you to Mithila?’ 

Vishwamitra looked up for a moment. The vivid blue of the sky cancelled out the blueness of his own eyes, just as fragments of ice floating in the clear cold waters of the Sarayu became invisible. Rama was seized by an almost painful conviction that he would never see the Sarayu again, that his beloved river, his beloved home, were all floating away downstream like those fragments of winter ice, far out of his futile mortal reach. 

‘Rama, that question can only be answered by coming to Mithila.’ 

The seer put out a hand, touching Rama’s shoulder gently. ‘And now it is time for us to depart on our long journey. I shall leave you for a few moments as I assemble my acolytes for one final prayer. You may use these moments to arrive at your final decision. Remember that I do not bind you to this choice: dharma binds you. You are free to return to Ayodhya at any moment you desire, just as you were free to refuse to accompany me into the Bhayanak-van eight mornings ago. The choice is now in your hands. Choose which route you will.’ 

Bejoo saw the brahmarishi coming around the hut, accompanied by an entourage of white-haired, white-bearded rishis. He pointedly pretended to be looking the other way until the Brahmins had gone by, neither wishing to give offence by ignoring the ritual greeting nor keen to indulge in formalities he had always considered a waste of time and energy. 

They passed by several yards from him, engaged in discussing something amongst themselves. He waited until they had gone, then strode quickly around the periphery of the hut. He saw the rajkumars standing below the banyan tree before the brahmarishi’s hut, looking as if they had both been struck by lightning. Bejoo’s stomach cramped suddenly, only partly because he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, and he had a sinking feeling that his worst fears were about to be realised. 

‘Rajkumar?’ he said, coming up to Rama. ‘If your leave-taking is finished, we should mount and ride at once. Ayodhya is a long way yet, and the asura hordes will not halt to ask their guru for ashirwaad.’ 

Rama’s face was a portrait of inscrutability. He looked like a man who had just seen the future and recognised it for what it truly was: a battlefield across which one had to fight one’s way one precious yard at a time. It took Bejoo a moment to realise that whatever the brahmarishi had just said, it had had a profound effect on the prince. Gone was the boy who had left Ayodhya a mere eight days ago; in his place was the man he was destined to become, a man soon to become king, and on whom the heavy weight of kingship appeared to have fallen already. 

‘Rajkumar?’ Bejoo repeated gruffly, trying to find a balance between his natural rough vulgarity and a more suitable tone. ‘What is it? What did the Brahmin say to make you look thus?’ 

Lakshman answered. His own face was as grim and forlorn as Rama’s, but the delicacy of Rani Sumitra’s features lent softness to the younger prince’s expression. Bejoo saw that in his own way, he was as devastated as Rama. But while Rama’s emotions were as inscrutable as craggy, granite-faced Mount Himavat during a winter icestorm, Lakshman’s feelings showed as lucidly as the mirrored surface of a lotus pond. 

‘Guru-dev says we are free to return to Ayodhya any time, but it is our dharma to go with him to Mithila.’ 

Bejoo paused for two beats of his heart, absorbing the words, making certain he had not missed any hidden meaning. These Brahmins were so maddeningly fond of their open and hidden meanings that one never knew for sure whether the words being said were the real message or simply the paan-leaf in which it was concealed. Layers within layers, wrapped in coded symbols to which only they held the mysterious key. But he could find no ambiguity in this sandesh; its meaning seemed to be entirely straightforward. 

He grinned, relieved. ‘Is that all? So go get your rigs and swords and let us ride to Ayodhya!’ 

Rama walked away, going to the banyan tree. This tree was the mother-tree of all the others in the environs of the ashram, a massive creation over three hundred and forty years of age. Its roots had long since begun to push their way out of the earth, wrestling with one another for space in the crumbling topsoil. Gnarled clumps of root had broken free in places, like the hirsute toes of a giant rishi who had stood three centuries on one foot in meditation. Rama put a foot on a knot of roots and stared towards the east, where the rising sun had begun to reveal itself through the densely growing firs on the eastern hills. Patterned sunlight lit up his profile. He seemed oblivious to the conversation, buried like the banyan in timeless contemplation. 

Lakshman answered for both of them. ‘Bejoo-chacha, Captain. You don’t understand. We must do as the guru desires. It is our dharma to follow him to the ends of the earth if he so commands.’