Scion of Ikshvaku (8 page)

The brothers were all set to go back to the
gurukul
two days after the horse saddle incident. Ram visited the royal stable the night before their departure to groom his horse; both of them had a long day ahead. There were stable hands, of course, but Ram enjoyed this work; it soothed him. The animals were among the handful in Ayodhya who did not judge him. He liked to spend time with them occasionally. He looked back at the sound of the clip-clop of hooves.

‘Lakshman!’ cried Ram in alarm, as little Lakshman trooped in atop his pony, obviously injured. Ram rushed forward and helped him dismount. Lakshman’s chin had split open, deep enough to urgently need stitches. His face was covered with blood, but with typical bravado, he did not flinch at all when Ram examined his wound.

‘You are not supposed to go horseback riding in the night, you know that, don’t you?’ Ram admonished him gently.

Lakshman shrugged. ‘
Th
orry… The hor
th
e
th
uddenly…’

‘Don’t talk,’ interrupted Ram, as the blood flow increased. ‘Come with me.’

Ram hastily sped towards Nilanjana’s chambers along with his injured brother. En route, they were accosted by Sumitra and her maids who had been frantically searching for her missing son.

‘What happened?’ shouted Sumitra, as her eyes fell upon the profusely bleeding Lakshman.

Lakshman stood stoic and tight-lipped. He knew he was in for trouble as his
dada
never lied; there was no scope for creative storytelling. He would have to confess, and then come up with strategies to escape the inevitable punishment.

‘It’s nothing serious,
Chhoti Maa
,’ said Ram to his
younger stepmother
, Sumitra. ‘But we should get him to Nilanjana
ji
immediately.’

‘What happened?’ Sumitra persisted.

Ram instinctively felt compelled to protect Lakshman from his mother’s wrath. After all, Lakshman had saved his life just the other day. He did what his conscience demanded at the time; shift the blame on himself.
‘Chhoti Maa
, it’s my fault. I’d gone to the stable with Lakshman to groom my horse. It’s a little high-spirited and suddenly reared and kicked Lakshman. I should have ensured that Lakshman stood behind me.’

Sumitra immediately stepped aside. ‘Quickly, take him to Nilanjana.’

She knows Ram
Dada
never lies,
Lakshman thought, filled with guilt
.

Ram and Lakshman rushed off, as a maid attempted to follow them. Sumitra raised her hand to stop her as she watched the boys moving down the corridor. Ram held his brother’s hand firmly. She smiled with satisfaction.

Lakshman brought Ram’s hand to his heart, and whispered, ‘Together alway
th
,
Dada
. Alway
th
.’

‘Don’t talk, Lakshman. The blood will…’

The Ayodhyan princes had been in the
gurukul
for five years now. Vashishta watched with pride as the eleven-year-old Ram practised with his full-grown opponent. Combat training had commenced for Ram and Bharat this year; Lakshman and Shatrughan would have to wait for two more years. For now, they had to remain content with lessons in philosophy, mathematics and science.

‘Come on,
Dada
!’ shouted Lakshman. ‘Move in and hit him!’

Vashishta observed Lakshman with an indulgent smile. He sometimes missed the cute lisp that Lakshman had now lost; but the eight-year-old had not lost his headstrong spirit. He also remained immensely loyal to Ram, whom he loved dearly. Perhaps Ram would eventually be able to channel Lakshman’s wild streak.

The soft-spoken and intellect-oriented Shatrughan sat beside Lakshman, reading a palm-leaf manuscript of the
Isha Vasya Upanishad.
He read a Sanskrit verse.

‘Pushannekarshe yama surya praajaapatya vyuha rashmeen samuha tejah;

Yatte roopam kalyaanatamam tatte pashyaami yo’saavasau purushah so’hamasmi.’

O Lord Surya, nurturing Son of Prajapati, solitary Traveller, celestial Controller; Diffuse Your rays, Diminish your light;

Let me see your gracious Self beyond the luminosity; And realise that the God in You is Me.

Shatrughan smiled to himself, lost in the philosophical beauty of the words. Bharat, who sat behind him, bent over and tapped Shatrughan on his head, then pointed at Ram. Shatrughan looked at Bharat, protest writ large in his eyes. Bharat glared at his younger brother. Shatrughan put his manuscript aside and looked at Ram.

The opposing swordsman Vashishta had selected for Ram belonged to the forest people who lived close to Vashishta’s
gurukul.
It had been built deep in the untamed forests far south of the river Ganga, close to the western-most point of the course of the river Shon. The river took a sharp eastward turn thereafter, and flowed north-east to merge with the Ganga. This area had been used by many gurus for thousands of years. The forest people maintained the premises and gave it on rent to gurus.

The solitary approach to the
gurukul
was camouflaged first by dense foliage and then by the overhanging roots of a giant banyan. A small glade lay beyond, at the centre of which descending steps had been carved out of the earth, leading to a long, deep trench covered by vegetation. The trench then became a tunnel as it made its way under a steep hill. Light flooded the other end of this tunnel as it emerged at the banks of a stream which was spanned by a wooden bridge. Across lay the
gurukul
, a simple monolithic structure hewn into a rocky hillside.

The hill face had been neatly cut as though a huge, cube-shaped block of stone had been removed. Twenty small temples carved into the surface faced the entrance to the structure, some with deities in them, others empty. Six of these were adorned with an idol each of the previous Vishnus, one housed Lord Rudra, the previous Mahadev, and in yet another sat Lord Brahma, the brilliant scientist. The king of the
Devas
, the
Gods
, Lord Indra, who was also the God of Thunder and the Sky, occupied his rightful place in the central temple, surrounded by the other Gods. Of the two rock surfaces that faced each other, one had been cut to comprise the kitchen and store rooms, and the other, alcove-like sleeping quarters for the guru and his students.

Within the
ashram
, the princes of Ayodhya lived not as nobility, but as children of working-class parents; their royal background, in fact, was not public knowledge at the
gurukul
. In keeping with tradition, the princes had been accorded
gurukul
names: Ram was called Sudas, Bharat became Vasu, Lakshman was Paurav, and Shatrughan, Nalatardak. All reminders of their royal lineage were proscribed. Over and above their academic pursuits, they cleaned the
gurukul
, cooked food and served the guru. Scholastic mastery would help them achieve their life goals; the other activities would ingrain humility, with which they’d choose the
right
life goals.

‘Looks like you’re warmed up, Sudas,’ Vashishta addressed Ram, one of his two star pupils. The guru then turned to the chief of the tribe, who sat beside him. ‘Chief Varun, time to see some combat?’

The local people, besides being good hosts, were also brilliant warriors. Vashishta had hired their services to help train his wards in the fine art of warfare. They also served as combat opponents during examination, like right now.

Varun addressed the tribal warrior who had been practising with Ram. ‘Matsya…’

Matsya and Ram immediately turned to the spectator stand and bowed to Vashishta and Varun. They walked over to the edge of the platform, picked up a paintbrush broom each, dipped it in a paint can filled with red dye, and painted the sides and tips of their wooden practice swords. It would leave marks on the body when struck, thus indicating how lethal the strike was.

Ram stepped on the platform and moved to the centre, followed by Matsya. Face-to-face, they bowed low with respect for their opponent.

‘Truth. Duty. Honour,’ said Ram, repeating a slogan he’d heard from his guru, Vashishta, which had made a deep impact on him.

Matsya, almost a foot taller than the boy, smiled. ‘Victory at all costs.’

Ram took position: his back erect, his body turned sideways, his eyes looking over his right shoulder, just as Guru Vashishta had trained him to do. This position exposed the least amount of his body surface to his opponent. His breathing was steady and relaxed, just as he had been taught. His left hand held firmly by his side, extended a little away from the body to maintain balance. His sword hand was extended out, a few degrees above the horizontal position, bended slightly at the elbow. He adjusted his arm position till the weight of the sword was borne by his trapezius and triceps muscles. His knees were bent and his weight was on the ball of his feet, affording quick movement in any direction. Matsya was impressed. This young boy followed every rule to perfection.

The remarkable feature in the young boy was his eyes. With steely focus, they were fixed on those of his opponent, Matsya.
Guru Vashishta has taught the boy well.
The eye moves before the hand does.

Matsya’s eyes fractionally widened. Ram knew an attack was imminent. Matsya lunged forward and thrust his sword at Ram’s chest, using his superior reach. It could have been a kill-wound, but Ram shifted swiftly to his right, avoiding the blow as he flicked his right hand forward, nicking Matsya’s neck.

Matsya stepped back immediately.

‘Why didn’t you slash hard,
Dada
!’ screamed Lakshman. ‘That should have been a kill-wound!’

Matsya smiled appreciatively. He understood what Lakshman hadn’t. Ram was probing him. Being a cautious fighter, he would move into kill strikes only after he knew his opponent’s psyche. Ram didn’t respond to Matsya’s smile of approval. His eyes remained focused, his breathing normal. He had to discern his opponent’s weaknesses. Waiting for the kill.

Matsya charged at him aggressively, bringing in his sword with force from the right. Ram stepped back and fended off the blow with as much strength as his smaller frame could muster. Matsya bent towards the right and brought in his sword from Ram’s left now, belligerently swinging in close to the boy’s head. Ram stepped back again, raising his sword up to block. Matsya kept moving forward, striking repeatedly, hoping to pin Ram against the wall and then deliver a kill-wound. Ram kept retreating as he fended off the blows. Suddenly he jumped to the right, avoiding Matsya’s slash and in the same smooth movement, swung hard, hitting Matsya on the arm, leaving a splash of red paint. It was a ‘wound’ again, but not the one that would finally stop the duel.

Matsya stepped back without losing eye contact with Ram.
Perhaps he’s too cautious.

‘Don’t you have the guts to charge?’

Ram didn’t respond. He took position once again, bending his knees a little, keeping his left hand lightly on his hips with the right hand extended out, his sword held steady.

‘You cannot win the game if you don’t play the game,’ teased Matsya. ‘Are you simply trying to avoid losing or do you actually want to win?’

Ram remained calm, focused and steady. Silent. He was conserving his energy.

This kid is unflappable,
Matsya mused. He charged once again, repeatedly striking from above, using his height to try and knock Ram down. Ram bent sideways as he parried, stepping backwards steadily.

Vashishta smiled for he knew what Ram was attempting.

Matsya did not notice the small rocky outcrop that Ram smoothly sidestepped as he slowly moved backwards. Within moments, Matsya stumbled and lost his balance. Not wasting a moment, Ram went down on one knee and struck hard, right across the groin of the tribal warrior. A kill-wound!

Matsya looked down at the red paint smeared across his groin. The wooden sword had not drawn blood but had caused tremendous pain; he was too proud to let it show.

Impressed by the young student, Matsya stepped forward and patted Ram on his shoulder. ‘One must check the layout of the battlefield before a fight; know every nook and cranny. You remembered this basic rule. I didn’t. Well done, my boy.’