RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (47 page)

TWELVE

“A war against the entire world,” Bharat repeated softly, careful to keep his tone low and expressions guarded. 

They were seated in a temple in the sudra quarter of the city that they had been fond of frequenting ever since they were both young yuvajaras—princes in waiting—back in the day when hunting and training had seemed to occupy the bulk of their days. The temple was kept by a sudra artisan turned pundit who distilled his own soma and offered it to a select few on the condition that it be consumed only within the temple precinct and that no drinker should arrive or depart so intoxicated that he or she should lose control of basic faculties. To this end, each new arrival and person departing was required to hit a target set up by the temple entrance at least once out of three tries with a training arrow. Those who failed had to leave without consuming any of the famous concoction, and those who were unable to hit the target at least once on departure were never permitted entrance again. It was a strange method of ensuring temperance, but an effective one. After a few incidents when Bharat and Shatrugan had gotten too drunk and too much in trouble in their adolescent years, pradhan mantri Sumantra had guided them to this establishment. Bharat always suspected that it had been his father who had instructed Sumantra to do so, but he had never been able to find out for certain. Now, of course, both Dasaratha and Sumantra were gone and he would never know whose idea it had been. Either way, the method had succeeded. Both Bharat and Shatrugan had learned to control their drinking and long after they had stopped coming to the temple, they had maintained safe drinking habits. It was more than most Arya kings—or kshatriyas—could claim. 

“What does that mean?” Bharat wondered aloud. “Does he mean to invade our neighbours unprovoked? To resurrect the old asura bogey to justify expansion? What, exactly?”

Shatrugan shrugged. “Maatr Kausalya and Sumitra didn’t know for sure. But they are quite sure that Rama and his war council have been massing a war treasury for some time now, and using it to hire and train a prodigious number of new akshohinis, not just in Ayodhyan military precincts but across the entire kingdom.”

Bharat nodded sombrely. “Aye, that’s true enough. I’ve contributed my share of war wagons.”

“As have I,” Shatrugan admitted. 

“But what does Rama intend to do with this much mobilization? Who does he intend to invade? The last of the asuras are gone. The rakshasas that remain are all converts to Sanatan Dharma, thanks to King Vibhisena of Lanka. They’re as devout bhakts of the devas and practitioners of our vedic rituals as the Mithilans, I’ve heard said.”

“You heard truth.” Shatrugan took a sip from his earthen mug. Chandra’s soma was pure nectar as always. The very taste brought back boyish memories that took an effort to push away. “It’s troubled me as well as my allies. Even Maharaja Janak and Maharaja Kusadhwaja met me to speak on this very matter, alongwith several dozen other troubled grama-lords.”

Bharat nodded, quaffing his soma like water. “Mandavi told me so. She had word from Shruta Kirti. It was that very missive that prompted me to call a meeting of my local chiefs and that’s what brought me here today.”

While Rama and Lakshman were married to Sita and Urmila, daughters of Maharaja Janak of Mithila, king of the Videha nation, their brothers Bharat and Shatrugan were married to Mandavi and Shruta Kirti respectively, named sisters of Sita and Urmila, adopted daughters of Janak, but in fact they were the daughters of Janak’s brother Kusadhwaja, king of Sankasya, a pura in the Videha kingdom fed by the river Ikshumati. At the time of their wedding and several years earlier, Kusadhwaja’s ongoing feud with several other clans of the Sankasya pura region made it too dangerous for him to keep his daughters by his side, let alone arrange their marriages. So Janak had adopted his neices and raised them as his own. To most people, the girls were regarded as ‘Janak’s four corners’, the pillars of his household. It was only inevitable that they would all be married together – and pure good fortune that the eldest among them, Sita, happened to find a soul-mate with three eminently suitable brothers. In the years since, Kusadhwaja had not only succeeded in weeding out the hostile elements in his pura, he had united the clans and knitted together a veritable minor kingdom of his own, one that had begun showing signs of prosperity thanks to the rich fertile fields fed by the Ikshumati. Both brothers regarded the marriage of their daughters to the sons of Dasaratha as being responsible for their change of fortunes. Which was why they were so concerned to hear of Ayodhya’s inexplicable ammassing of a war treasury and build up of forces along the Kosala-Videha border. As the Kosala nation’s neighbouring kingdom, Videha stood to lose the most if Ayodhya went to war. Not because they feared Ayodhya would invade them but because they feared being forced to ally with their powerful warmongering neighbours and relatives and get dragged into yet another long and painful campaigne. Over time, the Chandravanshis had grown far more fond of spiritual triumphs than martial victories, and if they were called upon to support the Suryavanshis in a new war campaign, it would be with the utmost reluctance. 

As sons of Ayodhya as well as sons in law of Mithila and Sankasya, Bharat and Shatrugan had the doubly complex task of finding out where their family’s political ambitions while remaining considerate of their fathers in law and their desire for continued peace. Add to that their own recently built kingdoms with their own individual mixtures of political complexities and complications, and it was shaping up to be quite a tangled web. 

Bharat voiced his anxiety again. “By Indra’s yoni-covered face, what does Rama intend to do with a force that size? Invade swargaloka and narakaloka as well as the mortal realm?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. But none of my entourage seem to be able to get anyone to talk. There’s a danda on any Ayodhyan caught or overheard speaking about military matters to any outsider. The danda, by the way, is execution on the spot by the PFs.”

Bharat stared at him. “Outsiders? Us?”

Shatrugan indicated Bharat’s insignia, now hidden discreetly beneath the cloak he had thrown on for their incognito visit to their old drinking spot, then his own mark of kingship, also concealed beneath his robes. “You’re king of Gandahar. I’m king of Mathura. Face it, big bhraatr. We’re not Ayodhyans anymore.”

Bharat finished his mug with a vehement flourish that barely masked his anger. “I’m not sure I’d want to be called an Ayodhyan anymore. Not in these times.”

Shatrugan grinned. Bharat had always had a tendency to over-react at times, especially when he drank. “You don’t mean that. No matter how many cities you build and name after your children or yourself, you’ll always be an Ayodhyan through and through. Let’s face it. So will I. Once an Ayodhyavaasi…”

“…always an Ayodhyavaasi.” Bharat finished with just a twinge of bitterness in his tone. He sighed and grinned back at his brother. “What can I say? I’m not a perfect master of dharma like Rama. I lose my patience at times.”

He held up the empty mug and waved it in the air for a moment. Shatrugan, who was facing into the temple precinct, saw Chandra’s eyes rise from his scroll, then drop again. The pundit would fetch them refills but only after a fair wait. Yet another of his efficient methods to enforce ‘safe drinking’ as he put it. 

Shatrugan offered Bharat his own mug. It was still half full and he was really just drinking to pass the time. These days, he rarely felt safe enough in Ayodhya to truly surrender his senses. It was partly the reason why he had insisted on leaving Shruta Kirti and his sons home. What did it say about his homeland when he did not consider it safe enough to bring his own family here any more frequently than was absolutely necessary? Nothing good, he concluded morosely. 

“It’s not just you,” he admitted with a deep sigh of his own. “Everyone feels the change. Just that they don’t have the luxury to remark on it for fear of their heads. Jabali runs a tight house. His spasas are everywhere.” Shatrugan glanced around. “I’d even advise you not to speak your heart too openly, bhraatr. The way things are going, one never knows.”

Bharat didn’t respond to that. He was looking off to one side with a speculative expression. Shatrugan glanced back over his shoulder to see what had attracted his attention. “Who is that? Someone you know?”

Bharat nodded slowly. “Someone you know as well. Remember Captain Bejoo of the king’s vajra?”

Shatrugan did a double take. “That’s Captain Bejoo?”

Bharat nodded. “Not anymore. He’s a PF now, I think. But knowing his calibre, I’d bet he’s still pretty high up in the inner circle. I’m going to have a few words with him.”

Shatrugan put a hand on Bharat’s shoulder as his elder brother started to rise. “Careful, bhraatr. These are dangerous times.”

Bharat retorted, “That’s why information is precious.” 

Shatrugan watched him walk over to the spot beneath a pillar where the former vajra captain sat nursing his own mug of soma. He had to admit Bharat was right: there were a great many things he would like to know as well. He just hoped Bharat remembered that the danda on Ayodhyans speaking to outsiders also applied to the outsiders who received the information. And with Rama’s dogged adherence to the law, it was possible that even his own brothers might not be considered exceptions to the rule. If they were caught or overheard discussing Ayodhya’s internal matters with a ranking officer of the PR, the danda would be on the spot execution for all three of them.

THIRTEEN

Bejoo was surprised when he recognized the man walking towards him. Yuvaraj Bharat? Well, technically, he was Gandahar-naresh now, ruler of the new territories up north beyond the Himalayas, a legend in his own time for having achieved what he had in that brutally rough country. But to Bejoo, he would always be that strapping young prince of Ayodhya who had stolen his best chariot and horse from right under his sarathi’s nose one festival day to run a race with his three brothers down the length of the raj-marg. Bejoo had been livid that day, but of course, he could hardly berate or punish a prince of Ayodhya. So he had punished the sarathi instead. He winced inwardly now as he recalled how hard he had come down on that poor fellow. Ah, but I used to be a hardass in those times, damn my battered soul. 

The man who sat beside him on the cool stone floor was much leaner and harder looking than the puffed up young prince of that day, almost thirty long years ago and he had discreetly clad himself so no evidence of his kingly status was outwardly visible. But it was prince Bharat, no question about it. And the man who had been sitting with him across the way and was now rising too to come over and join them, why, that was prince Shatrugan, for certain, now Mathura-naresh.

“You were hard on that poor sarathi,” Bharat said in a conversational tone, taking Bejoo by surprise. 

Bejoo started. “I cannot believe you still recall that incident, master Bharat. It has been a fair while since the days of your youthful excesses.”

“True. But the older one gets, the more fondly one seems to remember those youthful excesses, don’t you agree?” Bharat glanced at him sideways, waiting for a response. 

Bejoo nodded. Then grinned. “You were quite the hell raiser back then. Must make for some good memories now!”

Bharat nodded, grinning too. “Except that I always felt bad for the poor sarathi and how hard you came down on him that day.”

“Well, young master. As I recall, it was you who were responsible for his plight, not I. ‘Twas his job to guard the rath. He ought not to have been swayed by your sweet princely tongue.”

Bharat spread his hands in a what-to-do gesture. “True, true. But my words to him were compelling. Did he tell you what I said to him that day to make him hand over his reins to me so readily?”

Bejoo thought back a moment then shook his head. “Nay, that he did not.”

Shatrugan came over, flashed a smile of greeting, and sat down beside his brother.  

Bejoo took the cue and simply nodded back in return, understanding that they wished to remain incognito for some reason. He continued: “In point of truth, young master, I did not let him explain. It was the principle of the thing, I told him, if I recall correctly. A sarathi never surrendered his chariot on pain of death. It was his dharma.”

Bharat shook his head regretfully. “Not if his prince told him that another prince, Yuvajara Rama Chandra, lay injured and bleeding and he needed to commandeer the chariot to rush to his aid at once.”

Bejoo lost any trace of a smile. He stared bluntly at Bharat. “You told him that?”

Bharat nodded. “I was a young fool then. Used to getting my way. And I so wanted to win that race. Right, Shatrugan?”

Shatrugan nodded. “Surely. You always had to prove you were better than Rama, even when you weren’t.”

Bejoo shook his head slowly, remembering how harshly he had penalized the sarathi. “Poor man. Had I know that then…”

“You would probably have still punished him anyway,” Bharat said. “You were a tough old bastard back then, Captain Bejoo. No offense.” 

Bejoo nodded. “None taken.”

“That’s why our father put you in charge of his personal vajra. He took great pride in the way you ran that outfit. He was always using you as an example when trying to discipline us, wasn’t he, Shatrugan?”

Shatrugan grunted, smiling ruefully: “He did. I can vouch for that as well as the danda we got while he berated us for not being more like Captain Bejoo.”

Bharat glanced at the old man. “I have to admit, that was part of the reason why I stole your rath in particular, and not one of the others.”

“Oh yes, sir, he came down that raj-marg yelling, ‘I’m Captain Bejoo, make way, make way!” Shatrugan laughed, and Bharat laughed with him. With barely a pause, Bejoo joined in as well. The other drinkers in the temple precinct turned their heads to look at them curiously. Chandra pujari continued fanning himself slowly, frowning as if wondering whether he had served too many mugs of soma to this particular group. 

Finally, Bejoo stopped laughing, sighed deeply and looked down at the rough stone floor on which he sat. “Sometimes, I wonder if it was worth it. Being as tough a bastard as I was back then.”

Bharat glanced up at him quizically. “What do you mean?”

Bejoo shrugged. “Well, as time tempers once mettle, it also leads to introspection. I do not deny that a warrior’s countenance is part of a kshatriya’s dharma and all that. But sometimes I wonder. Is not a kshatriya also a man? A human being? A husband, a father, a brother? We are not just machines of war, surely?”

Bharat looked at him for a long moment. Elsewhere in the temple compound, a man raised his voice, demanding more soma harshly. The voice cut off abruptly as the drunken fool felt the blunt end of Chandra pujari’s staff. 

“That is a very insightful thing you just said, Captain Bejoo,” Bharat said at last. “A very very insightful thing indeed.”

Bejoo made a throaty sound. “It’s not Captain Bejoo anymore, boys. Hasn’t been for a very long time. I’m grama-rakshak Bejoo now. Although I suppose I’m technically some kind of ranking officer in the PF hierarchy, but don’t ask me where I figure in relation to all the rest of the organization. It changes every day these days, it would seem.”

He noticed Bharat and Shatrugan exchange a quick glance. Shatrugan seemed to nod briefly as if saying yes, go ahead to his brother. Bharat turned back to Bejoo with an expectant look on his face. 

“Actually, we’d like very much to speak with you about exactly that,” he said quietly. “About the changes.”

Shatrugan added: “That is, if you don’t mind speaking about such things with us privately.”

Bejoo drunk off the last of his soma, literally licking his lips and tips of his upper moustache. Ah, that Chandra pujari really had a deva’s touch. “Of course, young princes. The day when an old veteran and two princes of Ayodhya can’t speak freely, if privately, about their own city hasn’t come yet.” He lowered the mug and flashed them a broad smile and a wink. “Not as far as I’m concerned at least!”

He was pleased to see them both return beaming smiles. He raised his mug, requesting the pujari for more soma. And was surprised when the pujari actually fetched them refills. 

***

Pradhan Mantri Jabali continued to stare fixedly at the far end of the chamber as he listened to the spasa kneeling beside him. The man whispered in tones that only the pradhan mantri could catch. Not even the artist standing before the canvas across the chamber, attempting to capture the prime minister’s dignified pose in all its hawk-nosed grimness, could have caught more than a sussuration. Finally, the spasa finished and waited for his master’s command. Jabali remained staring at the same spot as before, for the benefit of the portrait which after all, he had commissioned. But two tiny spots of colour began to appear on his high protruding cheekbones, and in a moment, he looked as if he had painted daubs of crimson on them. Except for those two telltale signs, and the intensity with which his eyes bored into the pre-arranged spot across the chamber – a marble bust of Raja Harischandra, one of Rama’s most illustrious ancestors – there were no other indications of just how upset the aging minister had become after hearing his spasa’s message. 

But the spasa saw and read these signs correctly. And later, after he was dismissed and back in the security unit in the dungeon below the palace complex, he shuddered and told a colleague over their evening meal: “I wouldn’t want to be the next person to cross the old hawk.”

“What did you tell him that made him so upset?” asked his companion, less interested in the actual information than in knowing what, of the several dozen things he already knew of, had triggered the pradhan mantri’s anger. Slow as it was to trigger, that anger was a terrible thing to behold once fully stoked. He was more interesting in knowing the trigger from the point of view of self-preservation. Jabali had been known to kill the messenger more than once, if the rumours were to be believed. It would be useful to bear in mind that such-and-such a report might be the one to set off his formidable ire.

The spasa shrugged, stripping off a hunk of goat-meat from a marrow bone which he then sucked dry before tossing to the dogs who fought over it raucously. “Just that I saw yuvarajas Bharat and Shatrugan drinking soma with an old PF at the sudra’s temple.”

The other spasa frowned. “That’s it? What were they talking about?”

“Don’t know. Couldn’t get close enough to hear without arousing suspicion. Couldn’t have been anything very important, it seemed to me. They were laughing and drinking.”

The other spasa shrugged. “Politics.”

They enjoyed their goat meat and soon forgot the incident. 

The pradhan mantri, on the other hand, most definitely did not.