RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (62 page)

And now, if he was seeing correctly ahead, Bharat thought he might guess at the reason why protocol had been conveniently sidestepped. 

He saw what looked like a violent scuffle up ahead. A band of armoured and heavily armed horseriders—the setting sun flashed off their armour and reflected off their weapons as they swung them—seemed to be attacking a lone man in the frontrunner chariot. That would be Sumantra. Where was Lakshman then? Bharat had no idea. But he would certainly find out very quickly. He didn’t know who those men were or why they were attacking the aging pradhan mantri who had been acknowledged as one of the finest diplomats ever to grace Arya governance, and one of the greatest peacekeepers as well, but he knew that it could not be because Sumantra had wanted or invited violence. If Sumantra was engaged in a violent clash with an entire company of armed cavalry as it seemed, then the horsemen were the ones attacking without provocation. 

He urged his horse to gallop faster, pushing the mare to her limit. He was glad that protocol required at least a third of the marg to be kept clear for riders and chariots on urgent missions to be able to move quickly, and that his ancestors had built such fine kingsroads and maintained them so well all these centuries. 

Even so, all that fine planning and maintenance and a powerful Bhoja mare between his legs could not carry him to the aid of Sumantra in time. 

He was still a hundred yards away, Shatrugan neck to neck with him, when they saw one of the horsemen ride around the chariot and throw a pike at Sumantra’s back. The pike struck home—and stuck. The old man twisted, freezing in mid air, and that pause was all his attackers needed—they moved in, chopping and hacking and pounding at will, five or six of them at once, the cowards, and even as Bharat came within shouting distance, he saw the old diplomat fall upon the railing of his own chariot, collapsing with a sickening finality. 

“COWARDS! Leave him be!” Bharat roared, feeling the frustration and impotence of the past several days explode in a burst of righteous rage. 

Beside him, Shatrugan had unslung his bow and now loosed three arrows in quick succession. All three found their mark – in the torse and neck of the coward who had struck at Sumantra from behind. The man clutched at his throat as he fell off his horse, his death rattle audible even as the brothers bore down on the armed murderers. The other men continued to hack and poke at Sumantra with their weapons. 

“COWARDS!” Bharat shouted. 

At the sound of his voice, they broke away from the chariot, shot nervous glances back at the approaching horses, and spurred their own mounts into a fitful gallop, riding for the treeline. 

“STAND AND FIGHT, YOU CRAVEN!” Bharat yelled. 

But the horsemen had the advantage of being close to one of the densest forests in all Aryavarta, the fabled Southwoods. Even as Bharat and Shatrugan came abreast of the chariot, the horsemen were disappearing into the shadowy depths of the forest. 

Bharat would have ridden past the chariot and given chase but he saw Sumantra move and slowed his horse to a reluctant halt.  

“Go on!” he yelled at Shatrugan who thundered past him, loosing arrows as he went. “I’ll catch up. Don’t let them get away!”

He paused beside Sumantra, his horse snorting and shaking her head. Bharat reached out and grasped hold of the old statesman’s hand. He was sickened by the number of wounds on the man’s torso, head and neck. The butchers! What kind of soldiers were these to attack a solitary old man? 

“Who were they?” he asked, squeezing Sumantra’s hand gently. 

Sumantra coughed up a mouthful of blood, spitting it over the side of the chariot. His eyes were rheumy and filled with blood streaming down from a gash on his skull. An axe wound. He kept blinking, but could not see Bharat. Still, he recognized his voice. 

“Yuvraj Bharat,” he said, as he had said so many thousands of times before, through Bharat’s growing years when he had been both father’s friend and father figure to all four brothers. 

“Treachery within…” Sumantra said, then coughed up a burst of blood, much of which spattered on Bharat’s tunic. 

Bharat held on to the old man’s hand without flinching or turning away: he had seen his share of blood spilled, and had spilled his share as well. He listened and waited for more, but the wrinkled hand had lost all life and the eyes had shut, sticky with blood, and the old balding head full of white hair dyed crimson had fallen forward on the railing of the chariot, lifeless. 

ELEVEN

Nakhudi held up her hand, cocking her head. Maatr passed on the instruction, emphasizing it with a downward chop of her hand. 

At once, all those following froze in place. Nakhudi had spent several minutes reminding the group that she would be in charge and they must follow her lead in all actions. The twins knew that even though she had seemed to say this to the entire group, it was actually the two of them she was addressing. They had sighed impatiently and nodded reluctantly. And had almost immediately after regretted doing so, because Nakhudi set such a slow pace. But they had agreed and while they sometimes things that displeased Nakhudi, Maatr, or even Guru Valmiki on occasion, they never blatantly disregarded or disobeyed a direct instruction. It just so happened that they seemed to always find some loop hole in interpretation that they could take advantage of! 

Right now, though, with Nakhudi in front leading the way, and Maatr on second point just behind Nakhudi, they could hardly just race ahead, even though they knew they could make five times the pace she was making. Besides, that old fogey Bejoo and the rest of the retired soldiers were right behind them, and despite their age, they were pretty sharp and savvy; so Luv and Kush were behaving themselves and trotting respectfully behind Nakhudi and Maatr as instructed. 

There was a grim mood upon the group. The massacre at the ashram and the village had shaken everybody. The surviving rishis and brahmins of the ashram had been the worst affected, of course, being men and women of vedic learning and quiet meditation all their lives. The kshatriyas had recovered sooner but were no less injured emotionally by the experience. Such things were not supposed to happen. Not in the reign of the great Rama Chandra of Ayodhya. Then again, as Luv and Kush knew quite well because of their daily recitation lessons taught by Guruji himself, Rama Chandra was not entirely the great exalted being that he was often made out to be; he had feet of clay that were painfully brittle. The long epic poem that had formed the main body of their instruction by the Maharishi ever since they were old enough to recite and memorize long Sanskrit passages, told a quite unflattering version of the itihasa of the great King of Ayodhya’s life and adventures. Even the name seemed ironic to them now: Rama-yana, literally, ‘the travels of Rama’. 

Well, it seemed that the great Rama was on the move once again, and the slaughter had resumed. Why was it, they wondered – and had often asked Gurudev after their daily rote recitation lessons – that Rama’s tale was so replete with blood-letting and violence? Maharishi Valmiki had been silent for a moment, as he almost always was after being asked a question, then he had said that they must examine the poem he had composed and which they now knew well enough to recite by heart from start to finish, for themselves, and come to their own conclusions. It was important, he added, that one consider the actual verses and interpret them oneself, without an intermediary involved, even one as learned as himself, the creator of the work! There might be commentaries written about his Rama-yana in ages to come, and perhaps once the wisdom of Treta-Yuga dimmed to give way to the lesser self-awareness and thirst for knowledge of later Yugas people would pay less attention to the original shlokas he had composed and give more weightage to its recencions, retellings and commentaries instead, but for now, there was only the original text itself, and it would have to suffice. 

“A life must speak for itself, on its own terms, in its own words,” he had said gravely, looking at each one of them in turn with that penetrating yet deeply empathetic and benign gaze he had, making each of them feel as if he could see right through to the depths of their souls. “It is a mistake to listen to interpretations and versions of any fact and assume that they too are fact. Only truth itself is truth. Anything that refers, references or even repeats it is but a version. For no repitition can be perfect and exact in every detail. A man is a man. A portrait of a man, no matter how accurate, is not the man himself, merely a portrait. Similarly, a story of a man is not the man himself, merely a story. My Ramayana is already a version of itihasa, not itihasa itself. To know that truth, one would have to live and observe those events oneself—not merely as a bystander, or even a participant—but as Rama himself! Until you can walk in his paduka and be Rama, you can never truly know what he was and why he did what he did, you can only offer individual interpretations —and when it comes to interpretations, each one is as valid as any other. So be careful of judging him. For by doing so, you are judging only an ephemoron.” 

He had gestured to the moths flying around the oil lamp that hung from the pole of the stoop. “Like an insect that lives only a short time, any poem, portrait or description of a man is simply a moth. Hold it close to the agni of truth and that version burns to ash and disappears. Only the flame itself is truth. And who can enter into the heart of agni and live to report that truth?”

Now, they each wondered grimly if Rama Chandra had indeed sent those vicious murderers to massacre their friends and neighbours so brutally. If they could not judge his past itihasa, they could certainly judge his present actions. They dearly wished to know how a man hailed by the world as the king of dharma could be responsible for such undharmic deeds. This was not a debatable act such as the killing of Vali or the invasion of Lanka, both of which were contentious but justifiable in some way. This was pure and simple murder of innocents without cause, provocation or justification. Surely Rama could not be so hypocritical to have sent those men himself to do this unforgivable deed? There must be a better explanation—and as shishyas of the great Maharishi Valmiki, they would suspend judgement until they knew what that explanation might be. But it had better come soon and it had better clear all their doubts.  

They waited impatiently but with absolute discipline as Nakhudi and Maatr went up ahead to investigate something. 

Finally, Luv sighed. Kush glanced at him, reading him as easily as he could read the thoughts of his own mind. 

Luv looked at him in a certain way. To anyone watching the twins, it would have seemed just a look, with no particular meaning or inflection. But to Kush, it spoke as eloquently as words themselves. 

Luv was asking him if they should go forward just a bit, to take a small peek. 

Kush looked back at him with the faintest twinkle in his eyes. Again, that careful observer might not have seen any change of expression in the boy’s face, but somehow, Kush conveyed his response:

Yes!

Moving as one, both twins left their place behind a papaya tree and slipped ahead, following the direction their mother and Nakhudi had taken. 

***

Bejoo watched the boys go and knew they ought to be waiting patiently until Nakhudi or Vedavati returned and gave the order to push forward again. But he didn’t judge them. He had no problem following Nakhudi’s lead, she was as effective a leader as many fine commanders he had served under, and far better than many juniors he himself had commanded. But this was not a military operation, fought under the kshatriya code and in usual battle circumstances. This was something else altogether; he did not know it was exactly and that troubled him. It troubled him more than the actual massacre. Death and slaughter disturbed him as much as it did the peaceful denizens of Valmiki Ashram, but unlike them, he could think and act beyond the shock of those events. That was his job, and the essence of his varna. It was the reason why varna existed in the first place: so that enough individuals in any Arya community or kingdom were capable of doing their vital given task even under the most challenging circumstances and conditions. Such as a soldier capable of withstanding the horrors of violence and continuing to fulfill his dharma as a warrior. Or a house builder capable of building houses even while a war raged, because that was his dharma. Bejoo’s life had prepared him for violence and for acting despite the net of confusion and madness that violence inevitably cast upon those affected by it, but the massacre in the forest had shaken even that sense of kshatriya fortitude, not because of the horror of the deaths, for he had seen far worse, but because of the possibility that the marauders might have been on a king’s mission, as the discovery of the purses and their accoutrements seemed to prove. He was determined to find out the truth behind the attacks. And like the boys, he was as impatient to keep moving and get answers quickly. 

He was also troubled by Nakhudi and Lady Vedavati taking so long. A moment or two to check if someone lurked ahead—that was fine. But they had been absent several moments and that was not fine. 

As the leader of his company, he decided that the prolonged absence of his commanding officer entitled him to disregard that commander’s last order and move ahead.

He raised his hand, gesturing forward, and began moving ahead himself. The PFs would follow like shadows. 

He was not surprised to see that the twins were already out of sight and hearing. Those two boys moved like arrows on a backwind. He only hoped that their very speed would not propel them into the arms of trouble too quickly. 

***

Sita knew something was wrong the instant she saw the horse. It was a magnificent black stallion, a great one, and it was adorned with the marks and signs of a yagna. This was no ordinary horse and it was not here by accident. She was well aware of the Ashwamedha ceremony being performed by Rama and the epic army accompanying the horse on what was clearly a campaign of empirical conquest and expansion. Seeing this stallion, she knew at once that this was the horse being used in the sacrifice. 

But what is it doing here? And why is it unaccompanied? 

The first question could be answered easily: the horse could have wandered into this neck of the woods. It was only a stone’s throw from the raj-marg after all, which was why Nakhudi and she had been heading this way, the quicker to reach their destination.

But the second question was a disturbing one. It was not conceivable that the horse could be allowed to stray on its own into the woods, out of sight of its followers. That defeated the whole purpose of the Ashwamedha yagna. It was imperative to follow the horse closely and watch where it went at all times. 

She exchanged a glance with Nakhudi who shook her head doubtfully. This was not right. 

They watched the horse for a few more moments. It was wandering aimlessly, nuzzling a patch of grass here, then snorting and moving on to find a more appetising patch elsewhere. It came towards Sita and she blanched, backing away to keep a distance. Even being seen near the horse could be misconstrued. Her heart beat faster as she looked over the animal’s rump. But there was nobody there, nobody in sight, just the forest. She listened and heard bird sounds from about a mile or two further up, just about where the raj-marg ought to pass by this section of the forest. This part of the woods were dead silent, which meant there were no other intruders here. 

Even so, she kept her distance from the beast. It flicked its ears to and fro as his keen senses smelled her out and Nakhudi too, but as they did not move or do anything that seemed alarming, he continued around the shrubbery behind which they crouched, trotting slowly past them, moving deeper into the forest. 

Nakhudi came closer to whisper to her. “You know what that is?”

Sita nodded grimly. “It’s no coincidence.”

“No, it isn’t. I don’t like the smell of this.”

“What should we do?” Sita asked. “If we let it stray further that way, sooner or later they will follow.” She jerked her head backwards to indicate the direction the horse was heading. Valmiki Ashram lay that way. 

Nakhudi rubbed her forehead slowly, as she often did when she was trying to think her way through an especially knotty dilemma. “We cannot stop it. Even touching it or being seen near it might be misunderstood.” She glanced in the direction of the raj-marg with uncharacteristic anxiety. “We should not even be this close to it.”

“But what else can we do?” Sita asked. 

Nakhudi thought for a moment. “Scare it away.”

“What?”

“Startle it into turning tail and heading back the way it came. And we should do it quickly, before the Ayodhyans come as they surely will.”

Sita nodded approvingly. “Very nice. After all, it is a horse.”

Nakhudi nodded. “Let’s go get it before it loses itself in the woods.” 

They turned and were about to start back when suddenly the sound of neighing came to them clearly. 

They exchanged a startled glance. Then started running. 

***

Luv grasped the mane of the stallion and patted his side reassuringly. “Easy there, big fellow. We won’t harm you. We’re just wondering what a fine beast like you is doing here in these forests!”

“He’s a beautiful horse, isn’t he?” Kush said, patting the horse’s rump and admiring the sleek muscles beneath the glossy coat. “I’ve never seen anything like him before.”

The horse snickered again nervously, but didn’t rear up or neigh as loudly as it had when the boys came sprinting up and started it. He even let Luv put his hand around his neck and bury his face in his soft, furry side. 

“Maybe we can keep him for ourselves,” Luv asked eagerly. “We’ll ask Maatr.”

“She’ll say no,” Kush grumbled. “Look at those marks. He must be part of some kind of yagna or something.”

“So? Maybe Guruji can complete the yagna and we can keep him afterwards.”