RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (55 page)

But the hand never rose, nor was the axe removed from its sheath on the bearkiller’s waist. Instead, the man did a shockingly unexpected thing.

He bent down and allowed the snarling leaping pack of dogs to jump upon him and have at his throat and face, without offering any resistance. 

FOUR

The lady Vedavati was playing the veena. 

As she picked out the variation on Raga Bhairav, making the melancholy raag sound even more disconsolate and doleful than usual, she felt the peculiar mixture of grief and transcendence that only music could unleash from the depths of the human soul. 

The stringed instrument seemed to express her feelings more eloquently than words ever could. Then again, even if words could express what she truly felt, and even if she could find the perfect words to achieve that task, to whom would she address those words? 

To Maharishi Valmiki? He was a mentor, a father figure, a guide and guru. There were some things one could not say to such a figure—things one would not want to say. 

To the other women of the ashram? Certainly not! They were all wives of devout brahmins, each so pious and absorbed in the daily rituals and chores of ashram life that they were wives and mothers only in the most literal sense. At night, instead of lullabies, they sang mantras to their newborn babes. The life of a kshatriya woman—a warrior princess no less—would be incomprehensible to their religious sensibilities, if not outright offensive. She had to conceal even the fact of her prowess with weapons and intimacy with violence from them, for fear of inviting shock and dismay on a daily basis. While she shared a common gender with the other women of the ashram, she knew that they were completely different kinds of women, almost a different gender altogether and would never be wholly alike. 

To Nakhudi? She was a friend, yes, and there had been times when she had cried and pressed her face into Nakhudi’s meaty shoulder and had found comfort in her former bodyguard’s strength and presence, by the knowledge that she had known her back when she was simply Sita Janaki, the only person apart from Valmiki himself who knew her entire story. But that very intimacy and long-standing relationship also caused her some embarrassment. She enjoyed Nakhudi’s company as a friend and equal now, the one woman she could talk to freely and without fear of censure or criticism, the one woman who lived within the general environs of the ashram yet had not renounced life and society altogether. She needed Nakhudi as a companion and friend, and to break down completely and express her heart’s deepest, darkest feelings and thoughts would put too great a burden upon that relationship, force Nakhudi to become protective and maternal. As it was, the former bodyguard had a tendency to play the old role again too easily, even slipping and addressing her as “Janaki Devi” or “Princess” at times. Were Sita to yield to these impulses and treat Nakhudi like a confidante of her most intimate fears and sorrows, Nakhudi would certainly feel compelled to take action and address her former mistress’s plight; perhaps even do something that would draw undue attention to them all. 

And if there was one thing that Sita did not desire, it was attention. Especially the attention of Ayodhya. Cut off though they were in this isolated forest hermitage, deep in the Naimisha van forest, she was nevertheless reasonably well informed. The constant traffic of brahmins and acolytes to and from various other ashrams and cities, distant as well as near, ensured a never-ending supply of news and updates. She had followed the growing hardening of Ayodhya’s political position this past decade with growing dismay. And now, when it was believed that the sunwood throne was about to embark on its most ambitious programme of political expansion and consolidataion, the last thing she wanted was to draw the scrutiny of that powerful juggernaut upon her tiny community. 

She had long ago given up any hope of reconciliation. 

For one thing, the very absence of any attempt on His part—she refused to take his name even in her thoughts—to find out where she was, how she was, and more importantly, how their sons were faring, had long ago convinced her that he had hardened his heart and mind and blinded his senses and memory to her very existence. To their very existence. Herself and her sons. What father ignored his wife and sons for ten whole years? What husband turned his back on the woman he had once claimed to love more than life itself so remorselessly? What dharma impelled a grihasta to abandon his family for some obscure ideal of philosophical ethics?

Had Rama cared one whit for them, he would have come to the ashram long ago. Or sent someone at least. The fact that he had not done so was more chilling than the circumstances of her exile itself. Mere abandonment might occur in a moment of extreme anger or rage. But after the anger had cooled, after the rage had dwindled, surely a loving heart would feel some regret, some curiosity, some doubt? If not to admit its own fault—for which man liked to admit he was at fault?—then at least to question if the separation had been warranted. Even a condemned criminal was condemned for a certain length of time. How long was her sentence to be? And what crime had their sons committed even before birth that they were forced to grow up thus, deprived of their birthright, their social status, their dynastic heritage, their community, their home, their father? 

These were the unspeakable sorrows she expressed through her playing. Not the pain of being abandoned, exiled, forgotten—that pain had struck her ten years ago like a sword point piercing her heart, as she had watched Lakshman ride away in the chariot, back to Ayodhya, leaving her in the aranya, the wilderness of Rama’s abandonment. The sorrow of continued punishment, the danda of being deprived continually, every moment and every day, of her rightful place, upon the throne beside him, in his life, his house, his family, and most of all, within his heart. It was that unspeakable grief that she cried out through the straining instrument, turning heartache into music and music into the voice of womanhood wronged. As the veena softly wept, she smiled in woeful ecstasy, her eyes shut tightly, not a single tear leaving her dark lashes or staining her wheat-brown cheeks. For the veena cried for them both, herself and Rama, for their lost decade, for their lost love, for their lost destiny. 

“Milady!”

The voice cut through her playing. 

It was one of the ashram women, the wife of Dumma, judging by the sharp, high-pitched voice. The voice was a familiar one, cutting through the daily hustle and bustle of the ashram and the padapad rote chanting of the brahmacharyas on the occasions when Dumma was berated by his spouse for some new buffoonery or other, which, Dumma being Dumma, was almost every other day. But this time her voice was raised not in wifely irritation but in sheer panic. It was that sound of a woman terrified that cut through Sita’s desolate mood and brought her back to reality in a thumping instant. 

“Milady, soldiers!” cried the voice, with rising terror. “They—”

And then the horrible yet unmistakeable sound of a javelin punching through breastbone and flesh, and the wet splatter of bodily content out the other side, followed a moment later by the dull sound of a body falling to the ground. 

Sita dropped the veena and sprang to her feet, racing for the back of the hut, reaching for the discreet hole in the ground artfully concealed with straw and covered by a tribal shawl, where she kept her weapons. For she had known that someday this moment would come. She had not expected it to be today. But if it was to be so, then she was prepared for it. 

***

Kush watched in irritated amazement as Sarama and her brood, rather than viciously mauling and attacking the bearkillers, greeted them with adulation and joy instead. They ran from one to the other, wagging their tails, barking and yapping loudly. Sarama herself stood up on her hind legs and actually licked the face of the leader of the gang, who in turn rubbed her shaggy head and back affectionately and whispered sweet words to her. This went on for a few moments as Luv and he watched with growing pique and frustration. He wanted to send an arrow or three through the greasy hands patting the dogs and send the lot of them fleeing for their lives, but there was no call to do so. He loosened the pressure on the bow string, lowering the bow but keeping the arrow still in place, and glanced over at his brother. Luv rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust, clearly as irritated as he was. They would both be having a word with Sarama about whom she lavished her affections on. Of all the aranya outlaws to befriend, she had to wag her tail at Bearkillers! 

The leader of the gang had crouched down to greet the pack. Now that their intiial excitement had subsided, he rose slowly to his feet and spoke. He pitched the words in Kush’s direction with surprising accuracy. 

“I see you,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard by both twins, but not loud enough to carry much further. “Do not be afraid, we mean you no harm. We are friends of your Guru Ratnakaran.”

Ratnakaran? Kush glanced at Luv again. Luv shrugged but raised his bow slowly, cocking an eyebrow to let Luv know that they were not to trust these fellows so easily. 

“Our guru’s name is Valmiki,” Kush called back in as insolent a tone as he could muster. “And bearkillers can never be friends of our’s.”

The man chuckled, revealing two blackened teeth in the top row. He glanced back at his gang. “You hear that, people? We can never be their friends!”

There were titters of laughter from the group. 

Kush sent an arrow past the man’s face, close enough to snip off a tiny lock of his hair and let him feel the wind of the sharpened iron blade whistle past his temple. It went home in the trunk of a teak tree with a dull thwock. 

The bearkiller lost his smile. His hand clapped to the side of his head, he said, much louder now: “Stop that! We said we’re friends, didn’t we?”

“Go tell that to all the bears you’ve killed,” Kush replied. Luv had left his spot and was circling around behind the gang. After all, they had spotted Kush somehow and his position was confirmed by his speaking, but they might not still know where Luv had been. “Especially all the little cubs, and the mothers protecting them. Tell them you were just trying to be friends.”

“We haven’t killed any bears,” said another voice. A woman came forward. She had a face marred by heavily pockmarked cheeks and there was something odd about her singlet and the way she held her bow that Kush could not make out right away. “We’re not really bearkillers. We’re outlaws.”

Kush laughed. “That makes me feel much better now. You only murder men, women and children, not bears, is that right?”

“We don’t kill anybody!” said the first bearkiller, the leader. “Unless they come around trying to kill us first!”

“Yes, well, we have the same policy. So if you’ll take your weapons and move on, we don’t want any trouble here, if you please.” Kush considered snipping an errant lock of hair on the man’s right side, to balance the one snipped on the left, then decided against it. He was keeping them occupied while giving Luv time to circle to their rear, not aiming to provoke an all-out fight. He wasn’t scared of facing this bunch, he just didn’t think they were worth the arrows. 

“Listen, you snotty nosed little fellow—” started the leader, then stopped as the pockmarked woman raised a hand and said something in his ear. “All right, Ragini, you give it a try.” He settled for glowering in the direction that Kush’s voice was coming from. 

The woman he had called Ragini raised both her hands to show her open palms. She took several steps forward, causing Kush to immediately take aim at her: “Please, believe me. We are not bearkillers or brigands in the sense that you mean. We do not murder people to steal their belongings. We are outlaws banished a long time ago to the aranya for various offenses—some unjustly laid accusations, and some genuine crimes as well. But none of that matters now. We are here to warn you and assist you. And we must move quickly as time is scarce.”

Kush suddenly realized what was odd about the woman’s singlet and the way she held her bow. Her chest was bumpy only on one side—it was flat on the other side, the side on which lay the arm with which she pulled her bow-string. He had heard about this from Nakhudi and seen women archers on the raj-marg who had also sliced off one side of their chests in similar fashion. It was the unmistakable sign of a true archer, one who had sacrificed a part of her own flesh in order to be able to hold and pull a bow-string as perfectly as possible. It gave him a little more respect for her. 

But he still kept the arrow pointed. 

“Whoever you are,” he called out, “we don’t need your warning or your help. Move on. This is your last warning.”

A bird call joined the various sounds of the forest, sustained just a little longer than the gurung liked to call. That meant Luv was in position and they were ready to take on the bearkillers in a two-way crossfire. Kush’s finger ached to release the arrow, not because holding the string taut for so long was hard, which it was, but because he was suspicious of the motives of these ruffians. 

Pockmarked Ragini shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. We are the only ones who can help you now. It was Maharishi Valmiki’s last wish that we should take charge of you and raise you as best as we could in case anything should happen to him. And your mother wanted the same. Will you not heed the last words of your own mother and guru?”

Last words?
A chill blade slashed through Kush’s nether regions, forcing him to lower the bow and loosen his hold on the string. If there was anything the bearkillers could possibly say that would cause him to lower his guard, that was it. What did she mean? Surely she didn’t mean that Gurudev and Maatra were…?

“THEY LIE, KUSH! Do not fall for their trick! Attack now!”

The voice was Luv’s and it came from the rear of the bearkillers. Kush had never known his brother to give away his position before—nor had he himself ever done so—but he also knew from the way he felt after hearing the woman Ragini’s words that Luv was hugely upset, and angry. And that, like him, he had come to the natural conclusion.