RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (22 page)

“Visitors! You have been warned. I, Aja-putra Raghu-putra Dasarathaputra Kausalya-putra Siyavar Rama Chandra Ikshwaku Suryavansha Ayodhya-naresh, command you to turn around and leave our city at once. We have no desire to engage you in physical combat, but if you fail to comply, we shall be compelled to do so at once. Begone!”

She blinked. That was a hard line to take. Did he need to be that harsh? Had he pursued the diplomatic option with sufficient enthusiasm? How had the attempt fared? Was he driving the situation to a confrontation when it might be avoided? But she held her silence. However great her concerns, she would not make the mistake of undermining Rama’s authority by questioning his choices and actions or words. He must have good reason for taking such a hard line with the outsiders. He would not have taken this approach unless all others had been exhausted.

She tried to see the visitors outside the gates, but it was impossible from where she stood. The others stood or sat around her, aware of her presence – they had greeted her respectfully one and all through eyes and silent gestures – but were focussing their anxiety on listening too. That was a safety precaution. If they could see outside, those outside would be able to see within. Gate security was one of Ayodhya’s legendary military assets, imitated but never equalled the world over. So she simply sat on a wooden bench under the shade of the overhang and listened to Rama’s words and the responses of those outside, which she could hear quite clearly.

“If you were whom you claim to be,” said the pale white stranger on horseback, “it would mean a great deal. But the words of an imposter mean nothing.” He looked almost amused, the faint hint of a sardonic smile on his strange but not unattractive features.
If this is a rakshasa, he is like no rakshasa I have seen before.
“And that is why we are here. To expose you as an imposter and install the rightful ruler of Ayodhya upon the sunwood throne.”

He glanced up at Rama, head cocked at an angle, one eyebrow slanted upwards, as if measuring the distance and force it might take to leap up to the top of the high spot, but only in an academic, theoretical way. “We have been very patient until now. But we are starting to tire of this haranguing and heckling. Let me reiterate my earlier command – open the gates and let us in, and we shall manage the transfer of power in the least inconvenient manner possible.”

Haranguing and heckling? Who is this impudent fool? No wonder Shatrugan threw a spear at him!
Right then, he felt like loosing a volley of arrows at the arrogantly smug stranger rather than responding to his absurd insults. But Ayodhya was listening and an accusation had been made that was deadly in its very conception. He could not leave it unchallenged now.

“Stranger,” Rama said, putting steel into his tone and ice in his eyes as he looked down. “You insult not only me but the crown I represent and the people I serve. Such libellous accusations cannot be permitted to go unchallenged. If you have proof to support your wild allegations, show it now. Or face corporeal penalties.”

The slender face, virtually a framework of bone with skin stretched tight as a drum across it, dipped downwards briefly then rose again to display a smile as unsettling as the full-toothed, yawning grin of a skeleton. “I was hoping you would ask. It’s about time.” The stranger plucked a yellow scarf from his saddle and raised it high, waving it slowly in some prearranged signal.

Rama tensed at once, anticipating treachery. It was the kind of signal that would typically be used to call up the first attack of a massed force. Only the colour of the scarf – yellow – suggested preparedness rather than an attack alert.

He relaxed only slightly when a palanquin was brought up the rajmarg at running speed. It was in fact carried by rakshasas, and that in itself was enough to make his hackles rise – and put everyone else behind and below him on edge, he expected. But they were women rakshasas, though no less burly and muscled than any males of their kind, and the ease with which they carried the heavy, ornately carved and filigreed doli the hundred-odd yards was impressive. He recognized the sigil of the House of Pulastya with a growing sense of unease, and then caught a glimpse of the national sigil of the kingdom of Lanka on the other side as the bearers turned the palanquin before setting it down with unrakshasalike gentleness.

There was a moment’s pause, as tangible as a held breath. Everyone waited for the occupant of the palanquin –
a royal Lankan palanquin of the house of Ravana himself
– to emerge. When she did, with a rustling of silk brocades and jangling of heavy jewellery that was clearly audible in the deathlike hush that had fallen, it elicited a release of breath and gasp of shock that he could sense if not actually hear from all along the Ayodhyan walls.

“Rama Chandra of Ayodhya,” said the widow Mandodhari, wife of the late Ravana, as she turned her proud, striking features up to the high spot, her eyes seeking him out balefully: “I told you our paths would cross again and the next time they did, you would face a reckoning for your injustices against me and my countrymen. That time has now come.”

FIVE

Hanuman had done what he could for the maharishi. He smelled the unguent-coated body one last time, sniffed in distaste, then sighed and rocked back on his heels. After a moment, he looked around, found a rag and wiped his hands clean as he had learned to do from watching Rama and Lakshman – slippery hands could mean death to a yoddha. He came out on the verandah, sniffing curiously. There was a strange, unnatural stillness around, a sense of pervasive dread. He reached up and took hold of a beam running the length of the corridor, disguised as a decorative part of the verandah’s overhang, and shut his eyes, allowing his snout to see what eyes could not. He smelled the sweaty body odour of armoured men all around, the enticing fragrance of the many females in the palace, the milky smells of children; from farther away, carried on the wind, were the scents of the city…

A map opened before his mind’s eye, a map of odours and smells, and he saw the city in a way no human could. Dogs, perhaps. Other animals too. But which other creature could match the powers of Anjaneya Maruti Hanuman, he who had earned the title Bajrangbali after the war of Lanka, and who drew his powers from his deep devotion and worship of Lord Rama Chandra himself? The keenest hound could have scented all that Hanuman scented in that instant, standing there on that verandah. But the hound’s brain could never have organized all that olfactory information and mapped it as Hanuman did. Therein lay his genius. The talents of non-humans, combined with the logistical organizational ability of humans. Seconds after he shut his eyes, he viewed the city as an enormous unfolding map of scents. And more than merely being able to place the origin of some particular scent or track it to its source as a keen hound might have done, he could read its significance and relate it to the whole picture.

He opened his eyes. His eyes narrowed, the fur of his face rippling in distress.

Rama is in trouble. Someone means to do him grievous harm.

He needed no commands, orders or instructions. He was a force unto himself. He leaped off the verandah with a careless ease that startled the wits out of sentries on the lower level who were still nervously apprehensive and overly alert – he waved to them to reassure their scalded nerves – touched ground briefly, then launched himself up into the air. He felt it was necessary to move swiftly: running or bounding would not do; he must
fly.
And so he rose up, above the palace, above the tall ancient trees in whose shelter royal Suryavansha Ikshwakus had played and danced and strolled and reclined for centuries, above the height of the Seer’s Eye, the tallest structure in the Arya nations matched only by its counterpart, the Sage’s Brow in Mithila, the capitol city of neighbouring Videha. And now he was above the map of scents, gazing down at Ayodhya once more, for the second time that morning – for it was only a brief hour or two since the greatest crisis in Ayodhya’s history had begun to unfold. And he soared through the air, the wind buffeting his limbs and flattening his plush fur as he soared the mile or so to his destination.

He slowed in mid-air, using the strength of his mind more than the muscles of his body, for his power to defy Prithvi Maa’s hold was more a spiritual one than a physical ability, and required the use of mental commands rather than mere bodily movements. His face grew grim and his warm brown eyes, ever brimming with adoration and affection for Rama, turned cold and steely as he saw what had alerted him.

The army that stood at the gates of Ayodhya did not startle or surprise him one whit. He had sensed its presence out the corner of his eye even as he had done his best to aid and assist Rishi Valmiki in his desperately heroic effort to save Ayodhya from the final villainous ploy of the rakshasa Kala-Nemi. He had not given it a second thought because he was wholly engrossed in one task at the time; that was his way. Rama was able to deal with myriad things at one time and handle them all effectively and with astonishing dexterity. But that was not the vanar way, and Hanuman was, after all, a vanar. At that time he had sensed that the forces amassed outside the gates were not an immediate threat. Just as he sensed that they had become a threat, gravely urgent and demanding critical attention
right now
.

He hovered in the air above the gates, too high for anybody on the ground to notice him – even if they looked up, he was in the sun – yet low enough to easily see and hear everything that transpired below. He had observed crucial battles during the war of Lanka just so, hovering a hundred yards or so above ground, arms folded, tail twitching lazily in the wind; weeping as he witnessed the brave sacrifices of his fellow vanars as they stood against the bone-crushing onslaughts of hulking rakshasa hordes, grinning with joy as he viewed the same hulking rakshasas routed and decimated by the superior strategic skills and persistent stubbornness of Rama’s armies.

He prayed now that he would not witness such carnage here in Ayodhya.

Sita started at the sound of the woman’s voice. Surely it could not be—
Mandodhari
? Yet the haughty tone and regal condescension were unmistakable, as were the mannered Sanskrit with not so much as a hint of commonspeak. She had heard the voice often enough to know it well and hate it even more. She looked around at the tense, waiting faces of everyone around, cloistered in the shelter beneath the high spot. She saw her mother-in-law standing not far and their eyes met for a brief moment, exchanging a warm if necessarily distracted silent greeting under the circumstances, then turned her head this way then that, trying to think of a way to gain sight of the events transpiring outside the gate. There was no way, except…

She ducked her head beneath the crisscrossing diagonal struts and taking hold of the ladder, began to climb quickly and efficiently. Perhaps she moved too quickly, or perhaps it was the angle she chose. A sudden spasm struck the lower left side of her abdomen and she paused, feeling the blood drain from her face at the impact. It felt as if…as if something had twisted within her. Something? Or someone? She swallowed nervously, guiltily almost and glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Bharat, Shatrugan and the others avoided looking at her in a way that suggested they knew what she was up to and did not intend to bar her. But Kausalya was gazing directly at her with a clear view of her face and she bore a faintly curious expression. Sita swore silently at her own lack of self-control. Kausalya had noticed the spasm and now her eyes drifted down to Sita’s midriff. Sita swallowed and forced herself to resume climbing, exercising more caution this time. Just before the interlinked crossbeam structure of the high spot obscured her view of Kausalya, she saw the queen mother’s eyes find her face again, and there was a knowing yet sympathetic look in those upward-turned eyes that made her certain that Rama’s mother now knew that she was to be a grandmother. She put that out of her mind and climbed on, reaching the top of the high spot with her heart pounding more rapidly than she would have liked. The months of imprisonment – and pregnancy – had taken a double toll, and she was paying the price now. She reached the top of the high spot and stepped out onto the sturdy platform protected by a wooden escarpment that reached up to her shoulders – and up to Rama’s lower ribs, leaving enough viewspace to observe efficiently while still providing protection. It was used for defensive purposes during a siege – such as pouring vats of boiling oil, which was the reason for the pulleyrope system dangling down the centre of the central structure – but also for parleys involving a monarch. She suspected it had not been used for either in decades.

Rama, ever alert, shot her an appraising glance as she came to stand beside him, with no trace of commentary in his look. He was too focussed on the person who had addressed him moments ago. Sita glanced down as well, and at the sight of the tall, fair rakshasi standing beside the palanquin below, she felt a rush of mixed emotions, like oil and camphor mingling to give off a tiny explosive burst of boiling fumes. She forced herself to remain calm; merely standing beside Rama helped. His steadfastness was the stuff of which legends were made.

“You do recall me, do you not?” asked Mandodhari from below as the muscled rakshasis set a travelling seat behind her with practised efficiency. “I am the widow of the lord of Lanka whom you slew during your invasion of our nation and genocide of our people.”

“I recall you well, Queen Mandodhari,” Rama said in a voice of steely calm. “But my recollection of you is as the widow of the abductor of my wife and the precipitator of a tragic war that could well have been averted had he but abided by the law peaceably and admitted his guilt. I remember you also as the sister of the noble brahmin rakshasa Vibhisena whom I left in charge of the reconstruction of Lanka after the close of that unfortunate war, and as the reigning queen of the nation. You are welcome here to Ayodhya at anytime, and I would bid you kindly enter our happy city and enjoy the hospitality deserving of a queen and ally. But since you arrive at our gates with what appears to be a hostile armed force, dealing threats and slander, I have no choice but to have this conversation in this awkward manner.”