RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (11 page)

“In case my lord prefers that he not be allowed to enter at all.”

TWO

“Who is this visitor?” Rama asked, dressing himself even as he spoke.

Hanuman bowed his head in the direction of his lord’s presence. “It is the bandit-turned-sage. The one they now call by the name of the termite ants who built their home upon and around his meditating body, and so deeply was he lost in meditation that he endured their swarming presence for many moons…”

“Valmiki.”

The vanar dipped his snout. “Valmiki. After the Valmik ants. But once he was known by another name.” Hanuman’s simian eyes grew dark and deadly, as Sita saw
his
war-face descend upon the otherwise golden and handsome vanar visage. “By the beasts he used to hunt and kill for profit and pleasure, and who savagely mauled him and left their mark upon his features as is the way of the forest.”

“Bearface.” Rama’s voice was clipped as he strapped on his sword. “Ratnakar,” he added. He turned, ready. “How long before he gets here?”

Hanuman cocked his head to one side. Estimating conceptual constructs such as time was not something vanars were known for. It was a testament to Hanuman’s desire to serve Rama that he had somehow mastered this puzzling art of telling time by mortal methods, rather than the perfectly acceptable vanar method that numbered everything up to ten (the number of digits on two paws) and anything beyond that as ‘many paws full’.

“He shall be at your palace gates in a few moments.”

Rama nodded.

“Do you wish me to despatch him?” Hanuman asked quietly. There was no menace or malice in his tone, merely a question.

Rama glanced at Sita. She remained silent, waiting to see what Rama said.

“No,” he said. “I will see him. But not officially, not as a visitor to the court. Go. Divert him. Tell him I sent you. Bring him around to…” Rama frowned. It had been fourteen years. Ayodhya had changed. “The sarathi quarters, behind the royal stables.”

Sita nodded, “A wise choice.” The sarathis, the charioteer sub-caste of kshatriyas, were loyal to the ruling family unto death. More importantly, they were good at keeping secrets. Anything discussed within earshot of any of them would never be repeated for the benefit of other ears.

Rama clapped a hand on Hanuman’s furry shoulder. “Go, my friend, Maruti. Swift as the wind your father.”

Hanuman went. Loping in great vanar strides, out the verandah and leaping over the balustrade into empty space with an unhesitating fearlessness that made her breath catch.

Rama continued staring at her. She found herself saddened by how completely he had discarded the Rama he was only a moment earlier and how completely his war-face, this maha-yoddha Rama, had replaced her Rama. She had hoped that in the safety and security of Ayodhya, he would be…different. Apparently, she had been wrong.

“What do you think he wants?” she asked, speaking the question she knew was on his lips unspoken. She had begun changing her garb the instant Hanuman was gone.

He shrugged. “We shall learn that soon enough.”

That was Rama the warrior-king. Not a wasted word or thought. Why speculate on something that would be revealed shortly? But she knew it was not that simple: in the brief moments between Hanuman’s missive and her query, Rama’s mind had undoubtedly raced through a dozen, even a hundred possibilities, and had discarded most. He would not fret or worry – that was never his way – but he was not completely inured to curiosity. He was as eager to find out as she was now.

Well. He was right. They would learn that soon enough. She pulled the sash of her garb into the semblance of a knot. Not as tight as she would have worn it four months earlier. She did it almost without conscious realization, but Rama noticed, and shot a glance in that direction. His eyes looked up and met her own. She felt a shock as something passed through her. Like the jagged, snaking, white-light vajra that crackled out of stormy skies and struck great trees, reducing them to smoking splinters with its power and fury.

No words passed between them. But she knew then that he
knew
. How? When? How long had he known? Her mind raced with questions, possibilities.

She brushed them all aside and focussed on the moment at hand, slipping on her own war-face, little though it pleased her to wear it.

There was no time to speak about it now. It would have to wait until later. Like most other things that did not concern immediate threat and survival.

They left the chamber together, armed.

The newly risen sun warmed Hanuman’s face as he sped over the rooftop of the palace. Leaping across man-made architectural edifices was not as convenient as loping through the deep forest and often he leaped across yards of empty space with no certainty that he would find a reliable paw-hold, but it did not deter him one whit and his utter confidence itself carried him forth without incident. The very first time he had leaped across the fortifications of Lanka, on Rama’s mission, he had instinctively learned what most vanars could not comprehend their entire lives: that travelling across man-made structures required an almost exclusive use of one’s paws and almost no use of the tail. Vanars generally depended on their tail, accustomed from countless generations of gripping tree trunks and branches with that vital appendage, and most failed to make the transition successfully, or quickly enough. Hanuman had adapted like a fish to water; it had even earned him a new nickname back home to add to the long list: roof-climber.

He made impressive use of his newly adapted skills, racing across the structural rises and dips of the palace rooftops to reach the forecourt mere moments after leaving the presence of his lord and lady. He flashed past a stunned serving girl leaning out of an upper storey window in the princess’s palace to gesture to her paramour below, causing her to gasp and drop the marigold she was clutching. He flicked his tail deftly, knocking the falling gendha flower back to her—she clasped it to her breast, thanking him with a quick smile—and continued on his way with barely a pause. A moment later, he hung briefly onto the last highpoint, a flat, open terrace atop which flew the gaily coloured standard of the Kosala nation and Suryavansha Ikshwaku clan, right below the golden sculpture of Surya the sungod, the patron deity and legendary forebear of the Raghuvansha dynasty that looked out upon all Ayodhya. A pair of sentries stationed upon the terrace, clad in the familiar uniformed garb of the Purana Wafadars or PFs as they were colloquially known, raised their arms and faces from their strung bows to wave in his direction; the vanar had become a familiar sight in the days since Rama’s triumphant return from Lanka, bounding across rooftops on some urgent errand or another for his lord. He nodded back, flicked his tail and leaped over the low wall of the terrace.

A few more leaps and bounds brought him to ground on the clean-swept street before the vaulting gates of the palace complex. A formidable-looking warrior in an officious-looking PF uniform glared fiercely at Hanuman, his prodigious white beard bristling. He reminded Hanuman of his king Sugreeva, except that where King Sugreeva’s features seemed cast in a perpetual expression of sorrow, the Ayodhyan’s face was unmistakably martial, fierce and commanding. He looked every bit the legendary martial commander he was.

“I have mentioned to you that you ought not to drop in so suddenly, have I not, vanar?” he said in a booming voice undimmed by years of roaring orders at entire akshohinis of men, horses and elephants. “You continue appearing magically from out of the open sky, one of these days you’re likely to find a brace of arrows bristling from your furry backside.”

Hanuman inclined his head respectfully, his voice contrite and sincere: “Begging your pardon, Saprem Senapati Dheeraj Kumar. My lord Rama urged speed.”

At the mention of the official mission the general’s demeanour relaxed. “Business?”

Hanuman inclined his head in the direction of the figure approaching steadily down the great expanse of Raghuvansha Avenue. “To intercept a visitor.”

Senapati Dheeraj Kumar’s fierce black eyes glowered at the approaching figure. He barked a few choice orders, sending men scurrying in every direction in an impressive display of well-rehearsed efficiency. In moments, an entire company of quads had formed a defensive formation bristling with lances and swords, barring the approach to the palace. Hanuman glanced with idle interest as the top of the wall bristled with the arrowtips of archers aiming down the avenue. Elephants, kept in readiness just around the corner, moved up from the flanking walls to add their trumpeting warnings and formidable bulk to the defensive position. With the shrewdly designed layout of the access road, walls and gate, the assembled forces could hold off an army for half a day if need be – although, of course, an army or even a sizable armed force would never have gotten past the seven ring walls, moats and other security arrangements that had been instituted by the late Maharaja Dasaratha since the Last Asura Wars, thirty-six years ago. Not for nothing was the city known as A-Yodhya, or The UnDefeated (and UnBesieged).

Hanuman watched Senapati Dheeraj Kumar’s PFs settle into their positions, and since vanars could not move their facial muscles in the manner that mortals did to produce expressions of humour, he raised his tail high and wagged it slowly to show amusement at this elaborate and efficient show of strength.

It was wholly unnecessary.

When Hanuman was here, not even an army could get through to Rama. Let alone one solitary man.

Valmiki did not slow his pace when he saw the elephants and archers and foot-soldiers move into the classic defensive positions at the palace gate. They caused him no anxiety. He had been expecting a reception; if it turned out to be hostile, so be it. He had not come to enjoy Ayodhya’s hospitality, nor to enjoy casual conversation and hot meals; he had not expected a welcome parade.

He strode on as the people on the street going about their business suddenly grew aware of the hustle and bustle at the palace gates and began to melt away down side streets and into their houses and establishments. Ayodhya had grown warier since his last visit, fourteen years ago. Then, the city had been one great festival ground, a never-ending mela, filled with colour, noise, spectacle, excitement and unbridled trust. Now, he sensed a nervous caution barely concealing a closely sheathed wariness. The people were less frolicsome, the mood no more festive. There was a sense of anticipation, of waiting for something inevitable to come to pass. A shifty suspicion in the way the citizens glanced around as they crossed the avenue or glanced out the windows of their places of business. He watched the avenue empty rapidly, as if in anticipation of a riot, and felt a sadness touch him. The old Ratnakar, bear-killer, poacher, thief and dacoit would have roared with laughter but Rishi Valmiki felt only regret for the long years of inner conflict and external threat that had reduced proud, bold-spirited Ayodhya to this distrustful state.

He maintained his pace until he was within shouting distance of the phalanx that barred his way to the palace gates. Then he slowed to a halt and raised an arm in greeting. He did not need to raise his voice overmuch to be heard: the last echoes of footfalls and slamming doors had faded away leaving a deadly hush that grew heavier until the avenue seemed shrouded in silence. Even the elephants had ceased their trumpeting and contented themselves with scratching their forefeet on the ground, waiting for the command to charge, trample, crush. Arrows bristled, speartips gleamed and a hundred shields shattered sunlight as the soldiers waited in terse silence. Ayodhya did not intend to be caught unawares, today or any day.

“I am Rishi Valmiki. I seek an audience with your king, Maharaja Rama Chandra.”

A bushy white beard bristled as a great head tilted proudly, and a man with a martial bearing and a stentorian voice that would probably have carried across raging battlefields boomed out: “I am Saprem Senapati Dheeraj Kumar. Lay down your weapons and permit yourself to be searched.”

Valmiki resisted the temptation to chuckle. He turned the palms of his raised hands sideways. “I bear no weapons. I come as a friend of your liege. You have no reason to fear me.”

“Ayodhya fears no one. If you are a true friend of our lord, you will have no objection to being searched.” And the general barked out two short, coded words that propelled two quads of spearbearing soldiers forward, moving in on Valmiki from either side. He sensed peripheral movement and turned his head just enough to catch sight of two more quads moving in behind him—they had appeared from two of several concealed sally ports embedded in the high wall that ran the length of the avenue. The four quads—sixteen spear-and-sword-armed soldiers in all— boxed him in and moved closer in a menacing, over-cautious manner that didn’t seem at all friendly to him.

He felt the first prickle of irritation. Careful now, old bandit, keep the leash tight on that temper.

“I request you once more,” he said, his voice still level and calm. “Permit me to pass unmolested or send for your Lord Rama. I am amenable to either option. Tell him Sage Valmiki tatha Ratnakar seeks to have words with him in private. Tell him my mission is of utmost urgency and every moment of delay costs Ayodhya dearly.”

The quads boxing him in did not slow. Their methodical goosestepping approach continued unabated, and his temper, held carefully in check, began to fray at the seams.

The response from the Senapati with the proud battle-scarred face and the prodigious beard did not appease him in the least.