RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  He knew one closely: old veteran Somasra had not had much to do with his days since being retired from his charge as gate keeper of the First Gate, no less, and Bejoo’s duties as grama-rakshak had involved much downtime between trips. They had both spent many pleasant hours together faffing over mugs of various beverages. When he had gone to Somasra and asked him if he wanted an opportunity to do more than just faff, the old veteran had glanced at him without a word, risen to his feet, grunting briefly as he wrested something wrapped in an old dust-layered length of cloth off a high shelf, then unwrapped it slowly and carefully to reveal a pike of a design Bejoo had never seen before. The seal of the Suryavansha Ikshwakus was unmistakeable, melded into the base of the pole, and Somasra had flipped the weapon over with an expert, heart-stopping ease to show it to him.

  Bejoo had raised his eyebrows in response, knowing a royal prize when he saw one, knowing also that such prizes had been handed out last by Maharaja Dasaratha during the Last Asura Wars and then only to those who distinguished themselves in battle. He felt his throat thicken as he realized what that meant. If there was a higher honour for any kshatriya serving in Ayodhya’s armed forces now or in the past three quarters of a century, he did not know of it.

  He glanced back and saw Somasra two men behind him and to his right at a diagonal. The old gatekeeper dipped his grizzled jaw at him, and Bejoo nodded back. He made out the long length of the pike rising behind the man, sheathed behind the old PFs saddle and ready for use. He wondered if he would get to see Somasra use the weapon and hoped not.

  In fact, he hoped this entire exercise would pass off peacably. The intention was to prevent violence, not to perpetrate it.

  After what seemed to be another yojana or so of slow maneuvering through thickly growing woods—it was difficult to judge how far one had travelled in such deep forest—Nakhudi finally held up her hand. Bejoo imitated her gesture, glancing back to make sure the others had seen his action. They had already reined in their mounts. He felt a flicker of pride. Ayodhya’s veterans were still sharp of eye and clear of mind and undoubtedly wise. Almost as a counterpoint he thought: If only her youth were even half as wise. He knew that the exercise they were about to undertake might well save lives; but he also knew that if things turned bad, these hundred lives and his own would be the least of the fatalities in the days to come.

  Nakhudi beckoned him forward. Since she had dismounted, he dismounted as well and walked his horse to where she waited. He looked over her shoulder but could see nothing ahead but endless rows of trees and shrubbery, identical to the yojanas of forest they had travelled through already.

  “Something is wrong,” she said. “There is someone in the camp.”

  “Someone?” he asked, puzzled. “What do you mean, someone?”

  She glanced at him with a look of unmasked irritation. “If I knew, I would have said who it was, wouldn’t I?”

  He bit his lip. It had been a long time since a woman had snapped at him. It reminded him of his long-dead wife, died in a fever epidemic almost fifteen years ago. She had been the only woman to roundly berate him on a regular basis, especially when he demonstrated one of his habitual flaws, of which, he had to admit, he had several. It had been how she expressed her love for him mingled with the exasperation of a very long marital relationship—they had been together over fifty years when she died.

  He said nothing, waiting for Nakhudi to go on.

  When she spoke again, she sounded gruffly contrite. “I didn’t mean to cut your throat. I just don’t like this whole situation. There is too much at stake. I care about these people. They are the only family, clan, nation, call them what you will, that I have left.”

  “Grama,” he said.

  She looked at him.

  “Grama,” he explained. “The original grouping of families linked by blood, marriage and comradeship. They travelled from place to place, living off the land, joining together to fend for themselves and one another. An extended family. It was the basis of early Arya society. The gramas went travelling across such vast distances, to this date, nobody knows for certain where they started from. The poets argue even now if they originated here in Bharata-varsha and then later migrated North-Westwards, or originated in those far Northern lands and then travelled here.”

  She looked taken aback at this unsolicited information, raising her eyebrows. “Were there arrowposts?”

  He frowned. “Arrowposts?”

  “Arrows, shot into tree trunks by the roadside to show which way to go next, an old traveler’s trick to help those following stay on the trail.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She waved in exasperation. “The poets can argue all they want. As far as I know, unless someone posted arrows directing everyone to go only this way or that, people go where they please when they please. In my culture, we don’t call that migration, we call it wandering the land in search of greener pastures.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Interesting. But—”

  She held up one large dark palm and for a moment he thought she was about to smack him in the mouth. “Do you mind? We can debate itihasa later. Right now, I wish to make sure my people are all safe and well.” She paused. “My grama, as you so eloquently put it. I shall go ahead through there,” she pointed, “and I need you to split the group into two and circle around through there and there,” pointing twice more, “and then wait for my wolf-whistle before showing yourselves. Clear?”

  He nodded. She flashed a dark grin at him and slipped away, moving with surprising ease and stealth for a woman her size. He wondered again how much of that considerable height and bulk was muscle and sinew, and how much…well, womanly splendor would be the polite term.

  He thought he might not mind having a chance to find out.

  ***

  The strangers did not appear slashing swords and loosing arrows as Luv had feared. That itself was something of a shock.

  When Kush had called him back to alert the pack and he to the arrival of strangers, he had assumed it was one of those nauseating bear killer gangs come around these parts again. He intensely disliked those people and could not understand for the life of him why Maharishi Valmiki permitted them to visit. Somehow, gurudev always seemed tense and uncomfortable when they were around, but after they left, his mood lightened considerably and he would even display a rare smile at times.

  Once, when Rishi Dumma, who was prone to opening his mouth before he had thought his words through, had commented archly, “Mlechhas!” as the bearkillers left the camp, grinning lewdly and speaking raucously in the vulgar way they had. Several of the other rishis had sniffed in agreement and even the brahmacharyas had bobbed their bald heads, their little chchottis wagging.

  Even the twins knew the word was the most derogatory one any Arya could use, meaning barbarians or uncivilized people. And if Dumma was justified in using it to describe anyone, the bearkillers certainly qualified. But to their surprise, and everyone else’s, Maharishi Valmiki had swatted Dumma lightly across his shoulder, and said gruffly, “There but for the grace of Brahma, go you and I.” Then he walked away, retiring to his hut. But he had been in an exceptionally good mood for days afterwards and had even given the twins a holiday from their kavya practise.

  Nobody quite knew what to make of that comment. Did Maharishi Valmiki mean that anyone might become a bearkiller? That was impossible! Why would a brahmin, sworn to a life of yogic ritual fasting, penance, meditation and the pursuit of learning, suddenly take up the tools of violence and start killing the innocent animals of the forest? Brahmins had no use for earning, and were content to beg for their needs if unable to provide for themselves – or to starve. In any case, their calling exhalted fasting and starvation. And even if they changed varnas, as some brahmins did, to take up tradecraft or statecraft or even the use of weapons, surely they would pursue more honourable occupations than merely animal slaughter? It was unfathomable. Yet nobody dared question the guru or even disc
uss the matter behind his back. So, after several perplexed looks were cast around by all present, the ashramites returned to their respective chores – there were always chores to be done in an ashram – and thought no more of it.

  But Kush and Luv had never forgotten that day or that statement, and had known instinctively that it had a deeper significance than anyone else realized.

  Now, he saw the first of the strangers come into view even as the dogs flew into a frenzy, leaping and jumping and rolling in the air with the foamy jaws and gaping snarls of a pack ready to fight to the death if need be. And with a grim heart, he saw that they were indeed bearkillers. Those ragged clothes, stained deeply crimson-black with the blood of countless slaughtered animals, those rusting axes and long barbed-point spears they favoured, and those filthy faces with broken yellow teeth flashing in grinning mouths, the plaited hair plastered with tree sap in a mockery of Shaivite tapasvi sadhus…yes, they were bearkillers, all right. Luv even recognized a face or two as having been part of that same troupe that had visited the ashram some moons earlier, especially that one, a tall lanky man with a horribly scarred face but surprisingly clean and perfect teeth that flashed brightly against his dark face. He plaited his hair in a particular way that reminded Luv of a procession of Tantric Sadhus he had seen once, passing by as Kush and he waited for a grama-train. The man had seemed to be the leader of the bearkillers, from his bearing and manner on their last visit. It was he who had gone in with gurudev into his hut for a private talk – although what Maharishi Valmiki and a bearkiller could have to talk about, nobody in the ashram could guess at, not even Rishi Dumma who was usually quite adept at coming up with outlandish explanations for anything under the sun that he didn’t understand.

  Luv kept his arrow pointed at that ugly face, tightening his draw, ready to drop the man on the spot. The dogs were going crazy and he had no doubt they could take give as good as they got, but he knew that men who were capable of hunting and slaying bears were not likely to be brought down easily by a mere pack of wild dogs. And he would not stand by and let his friends be chopped down brutally by these…these Mlecchas!

  He sensed Kush coming to the same conclusion and tightening his draw as well. He also knew that Kush was aiming at the other man, the one to the right of the scarfaced one. That was one of the gifts Kush and he had always possessed, the ability to instinctively know what the other would be thinking, saying or even doing at any point in time. Even taking into account the usual conjoined consciousness of twins—the typical explanation everyone used to explain away their extraordinary feats of coordination—what they had was beyond explanation.

  The splitting of targets was a much simpler trick: the scarfaced bearkiller was on the left, as was Luv while the other man was on the right, as was Kush. Even without looking back at Kush’s position, Luv could map his possible lines of fire mentally, just as Kush could map his own lines of fire. It just made more sense to split the targets in that manner. As more targets came into view and the choices grew more complex, the decisions to split them grew more complex as well, but they were still based on the time-honoured practise of lines of fire that Arya bowmen had been trained to work with since deva knew how many millennia.

  He was itching to loose and put an arrow through that grotesquely mauled scarred face. Just raise your axe to one of Sarama’s brood, he thought, and it will be the last time you raise that hand!

  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 occu
r 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.