RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  “You mean they wouldn’t find us for nights.”

  “Yes. That’s what I meant. So they’ll come in the morning, at sunrise.”

  “Long before that,” Luv said scornfully. “They probably expect to have caught us by sunrise.”

  “By dawn then? Even before that?”

  “Just before. When it’s just light enough to see and yet too dim to be seen easily. They’ll probably assemble at the same place around two hours before sunrise, then try to track us…”

  “At which time, we’ll be ready and will lead them on a wild and wonderful merry chase!” Kush said. “All right, let’s go.”

  “Wait, what about Maatr and Nakhudi?”

  Kush thought for a moment. “All right, once we’ve made our arrangements, we’ll go back and check on them.”

  Luv twisted around and looked east. The sun was low on the horizon, only an hour from sunset. “There isn’t much time. It may be too late then.”

  “So you think we should go back and check on them now?”

  “Yes, but we can double back by a wide circuit, leaving confusing tracks at the same time.”

  Kush patted the side of the horse and whispered in his ear. He made a horse sound that sounded remarkably like a girl chuckling. He turned of his own accord and began trotting back the way they had come. In moments, he was cantering then galloping as if he had lived in the deep forest all his life and knew his way about as well as a dray horse knew the city streets.

  “He’s enjoying this, you know, the rapscallion,” Kush said.

  Luv patted the rump of the horse affectionately. “Good for him.”

  “So are you,” Kush said. “I can tell.”

  “That’s because you are too.”

  They galloped through the woods.

  ***

  “What? How could this have happened? What were Yuvraj Lakshman and former pradhan mantri Sumantra doing at the time?”

  Rama’s dark skin seemed to grow more bluish in hue when he got angry. Which had been a rare occurrence in earlier days but had increased in frequency of late. Right now, for instance, he was displaying the first warning signs of a rising temper.

  He rose from the travelling throne on which he had been seated and paced the spacious royal tent that had been set up on the north bank of the Sarayu just beyond Mithila gate to accommodate the royal entourage for the night.

  Bringing up the rear of the great procession, they had barely covered two yojanas distance from the capital. A whole day, to travel less than 18 miles from Ayodhya, Kausalya thought as she watched her son pace the carpetted floor of the tent. A pleasure trip would have been more useful. Devi knew Rama could have used one rather than this uncalled-for campaign.

  The courier explained to Rama that Sumantra was dead and Lakshman feared missing in the deep Southwoods, last seen in pursuit of the stolen sacrificial horse.

  “What other word do you have of the incident?”

  The man shook his head to indicate that he had exceeded the extent of his knowledge. Kausalya knew that royal couriers were not wont to hold back messages or information; they usually blurted out everything they knew the instant they were permitted to open their mouth. That was their job, after all. Rama’s question was pointless. She was more saddened by the news of Sumantra’s death. That old sweet man…what a pity.

  “At least he died fighting like a kshatriya,” whispered Sumantra softly. Kausalya and she were watching from the far side of the tent, where they had been about to partake of some light refreshment together with Rama. But Rama had barely bitten into a piece of apple when the courier had arrived. And he would not simply let the man deliver his news and depart as was the usual practise with couriers.

  He persisted even now: “Come, come, man. You must know something else of what happened. Who were the parties who stopped the horse and issued the challenge?”

  “Unknown, sire.”

  “And where exactly did this occur? On the Mithila border?”

  “No, sire,” the man replied, glad to have a question he could answer, “well away from it. In aranya territory, no man’s land.”

  “I see,” Rama said thoughtfully. He paced another few steps then swung around again. “But that does not make sense! Why would anyone capture it in undeveloped territory? If nobody claims that region then in turn nobody can challenge the authority of the throne there! It’s a completely pointless act of political aggression.”

  “Not for some people,” said Pradhan Mantri Jabali as he ducked his head to enter the royal tent. He turned and dipped his head slightly to indicate respect for the royal Maatrs, then turned his attention back to Rama. “The aranya territories may not belong to any kingdom per se. But precisely for that reason, they provide a lawless haven where unknown numbers of brigands, dacoits, highway robbers, outlaws, outcastes, Magadhans and other such undesirable elements gather and proliferate. As you know, Samrat Rama Chandra, I have repeatedly proposed to you that we clean up those territories once and for all.”

  Rama shook his head impatiently. “There is nothing to clean up. The Southwoods are deep, savage, inhospitable forests. Those few who venture within out of sheer desperation struggle to stay alive, let alone flourish. Those poor dregs of society pose no threat to the Arya world.”

  “Ah,” Jabali said, glancing at the repast spread out before the Maatrs and examining it with the air of a man who actively disliked food, his lanky skeletal frame testifying to that fact. “I forget that you yourself once lived among these very dregs of society, during your years of exile. You must have come to depend on these sordid elements, for reasons of survival. Every Ayodhyan continues to bear a deep regret for the long suffering you endured during those years. But, sire, it does not change the fact that it is in places where such dregs and filth proliferate that the seeds of rebellion are often sown and flourish.”

  “Rebellion?” Rama looked doubtfully at the prime minister. “Nonsense! The aranya folk are too busy surviving each night without bothering their heads with plans of political opposition!”

  Jabali wagged a long bony finger in disagreement. “Nay, sire, do not underestimate them. Even the lichen and moss growing on the backroom wall seems benign for years until the day it suddenly sprouts poisonous mushrooms. Who knows what dark hatreds ferment and fester in those dark woods? Perhaps you do, of course, having lived among them. Tell me, were they all filled with universal love and affection for our Arya ways and our polished, noble society, ruled by the four precepts of Artha, Kama, Dharma and Karma? Were they not driven by some modicum of resentment and loathing for the society which had cast them out and of which they could never be a part again?”

  Rama picked up the apple from which he had taken a single small bite and looked at it. “I had hoped to be able to rehabilitate those people one day.”

  Jabali made a sound of impatience, clicking his tongue. “Such beings cannot be rehabilitated. They are tainted, beyond the purview of decent, civilized human society.”

  “They are humans too. And many were Arya once. Ayodhyan even.” Rama’s tone was declarative but tinged with sadness, rather than argumentative. As if he knows he is rehashing a debate he has already lost a long time ago, Kausalya thought.

  “Once, perhaps. Not anymore. They are no more than insects now. Venomous, barbed insects beneath our consideration.”

  Rama protested. “They are people. Fellow mortals. With families.”

  “Criminals. Unforgiven. Exiles.”

  At the last word, Rama flinched. It was very slight, not a visible reaction, barely a flicker in his pupils, but for a man so well in control of his senses, that was as much as a grunt of pain from most ordinary men. Kausalya felt her own heart ache with empathy. Exiles. That word had applied to her Rama as well, alongwith his brother Lakshman and wife Sita, not long ago. Almost a third of his entire life had been spent in exile. The very word must sting like the metal tip of a lash.

  He turned and looked at Jabali with the same calm steady expre
ssion with which he greeted everything, but Kausalya knew his heart must ache a great deal more than her own. For while she could empathize with his past suffering, he had endured that suffering himself. Nothing could compare. And what he was saying now with his silent reproachful look was that Jabali should know that and be more considerate of how he spoke. But the prime minister appeared to have deliberately turned his face away from Rama for a moment, under the pretext of looking at something or other.

  Rama turned to the courier, who was still standing and waiting patiently.

  “You may go,” he said.

  The courier left with obvious relief. There were courts in which men who accidentally overheard important matters of state or king’s secrets were often executed in order to preserve state privacy, such executions performed with an air of sorry-but-you-know-we-have-no-choice but which were nevertheless quite final all the same. That had never happened in Rama’s court but that was only because Rama did not approve of what he termed ‘excessive danda’. It was a concept and term that she herself had taught him as a boy, and she was proud to see that he still adhered to the precept. It told her that her Rama still lay within the body of this man, this emperor of dharma who sought to rule the known world. She could still appeal to him then, when the time came. And it was approching soon, she knew.

  She felt Sumitra’s hand clasp her own in sisterly commisseration and squeezed back, thanking her sister-queen for her continual support.

  Since their husband’s demise two and a half decades ago, First Queen and Third Queen had been inseparable friends, and during the years that Kausalya governed Ayodhya as a Dowager Queen-Mother, Sumitra had been a valuable asset in court as well as in matters that required careful thought and interpretation of law. She had a particular gift for such matters and Kausalya was glad to have her with her now, for law played an integral part of the plan she had to try and turn Rama back from this empirical course he was set upon.

  Rama turned to Jabali the instant the courier had left. “What further word? Have you heard anything? Has Bhadra returned yet? You did say he had gone to find out why the alarms rang out, when you stayed me from going myself.”

  Jabali dipped his bird-like chin and nose once, acknowledging that he had indeed done so. “It would have pointless for you to inhale the dust of the marg and ride all that way just to learn what we could learn just as well sitting here in the command centre. That is why you have such vast resources deployed. You are an emperor now, Samrat Rama Chandra, not a chieftain who must ride out and check on every emergency yourself.”

  Rama sighed. “Yes, I understand. Now speak, have you any news from the frontline? The courier could tell me nothing beyond what we had already guessed.”

  Nothing? Was that what he called the news of Sumantra’s death? The man who had once sat him upon his knee as a very young boy and answered his every question about kings and courts with infinite patience. Kausalya shook her head, sighing softly despite herself. Rama glanced briefly in her direction but did not say anything further.

  Jabali placed his palms together and rubbed them briskly in that manner he had that Kausalya had always found pretentious. A skeleton rubbing two tinders together to kindle his own funeral pyre, was how her late dear Dasaratha had described it, with his customary wit. She remembered that now and stifled a laugh. It would not do to actually belittle the man in his presence; ridiculous as he was, he was nonetheless a powerful political figure and she could not afford to antagonize him in any way whatsoever.

  “It is as we feared. Your brothers have all gone missing. The excuse given is that they were in pursuit of the sacred stallion. But of course, we know better.”

  Rama frowned. “My brothers? You mean Bharat and Shatrugan too?”

  “Indeed. Is that not peculiar? That they should all three of them go after the horse together and disappear together?”

  Rama shook his head slowly. “Not particularly. They are Suryavanshis. The yagna may be conducted by me, but it is for the future and stability of the Suryavanasha throne. They have a great vested interest in preserving the sanctity of the ritual and ensuring its success.”

  “Exactly! A vested interest. For if the horse were to be captured and a challenge issued in that aranya territory, by whose authority would it be?”

  Rama shrugged. “Nobody’s. Since the Southwoods do not come under any kingdom’s jurisdiction.”

  “Aha. But what if your brothers had secretly formed an alliance with the aranya folk, the poor misguided mortals you expressed such sympathy for just a while ago, and conspired to capture the horse and challenge your authority?”

  Rama looked coldly at Jabali. “These are grave accusations. Do not make them unless you have strong evidence to back them up.”

  “Strong evidence?” The hawkish nose all but sneered at Rama—although that sneer like expression was one Jabali displayed naturally—and he turned and clapped his hands, issuing a command to someone waiting outside the tent.

  At once, several armoured men, dust-covered and bloody from obvious close fighting, entered, pulling a corpse with them which they laid down on the floor. Even Kausalya and Sumitra stood and peered in horror to see whose corpse it was. It was Sumantra, the poor old man’s body and face mutilated by multiple wounds and punctures. Sumitra and she both gasped in horror at the sight of the old and long-beloved prime minister.

  ‘Sumantra!’ Kausalya said. She could scarcely believe her eyes. Yet there was no doubt it was Sumantra. Beside her, Sumitra clutched her arm hard enough to hurt, unable to even voice her own reaction.

  “Is this sufficient to begin with,” Jabali said, pointing a long bony finger at the body of his predecessor. “The corpse of our beloved ex prime minister, brutally murdered and stabbed in the back by none other than your own brothers as the first gambit in their bid to unveil this shocking plot and conspiracy against your throne!”

  Rama stared down at the body, his own face revealing the intensity of his shock. “Did anyone witness this?”

  Jabali gestured. “King’s Guard Captain Aarohan, sent on a mission under your own seal to roam the frontlines to ensure the security of the yagna stallion.”

  A man stepped forward from the group. He was exceptionally tall and well muscled, even among the other well-built warriors. He wore his beard in a very distinctive style.

  He saluted Rama obstreperously. “Samrat Rama Chandra, sire. I saw with my own eyes Yuvrajas Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrugan inflict these wounds upon Sumantra.”

  Rama stepped forward, eyes blazing with sudden fury. Despite the height difference and the superior build of the taller man, Rama seemed to tower over him by dint of sheer force of personality. “You saw them? Where were you when it occurred? If you saw them, why did you not seek to stop them?”

  The man did not answer instantly. He seemed, Kausalya thought with a twinge of suspicion, to be irritated by Rama’s tone and manner. Even though this is his emperor speaking, he still resents it! She had also noted the lack of honorific before Sumantra’s name, not a common lapse among the scrupulously disciplined Arya kshatriyas. Who were these king’s guard anyway? She dimly recalled hearing of them once or twice in some Council session but their precise purpose eluded her. How odd that such a man should be the only one to come forward as a witness to such a significant event. And to blame Rama’s own brothers? She could not even entertain the possibility of such an accusation being true. It was instantly obvious that there was something amiss here.

  “I was riding towards Sumantra’s chariot,” the man said after a pause, “I saw the murder as I approached. I shouted to them to stop, but they saw me coming and rode away into the woods.” He added after a moment, “They had accomplices waiting for them ahead, who had captured the sacred horse. Outlaws of the forest.”

  Rama stood before the man a moment or three longer, breathing upon him. Though the man was stone still, yet he seemed to be restraining himself, while Rama who was on the very precipice of utter rage, appeared p
erfectly in control of his faculties. Kausalya realized that she was looking at a man who was the very inverse of Rama. She did not know what that meant, but she did not like it one bit. That man is dangerous, she thought. And he is lying, I’m as sure of it as I am that I am Kausalya. She felt Sumitra squeeze her hand in as if in silent agreement, and knew that her sister queen-mother also saw exactly what she saw.

  Finally Rama turned away, showing his back to the soldier and to Pradhan Mantri Jabali. In that instant, Kausalya saw something pass between Jabali and the man named Aarohan. She did not like that either. But her misgivings were washed away in a flood of emotion when she heard Rama pronounce his next words with the finality and grim commanding tones of a death sentence.

  “Hunt them down,” Rama said. “Hunt them down and bring them before me, dead or alive. Do whatever you have to, use whatever force is necessary. Send the entire army into the Southwoods. But find the murderers of Sumantra and bring back the yagna stallion. Whatever it takes.”

  KAAND 3

  ONE

  In the gloamy hour before dawn, the Southwoods lay as still as a predator in waiting. The inhabitants that lived within its tree-shaded sanctuary were more numerous than the citizens of the most populous Arya city—and the cities of Aryavarta were more densely populated than any place in the mortal realm, including the rough but developing lands far to the west across the great oceans, whose envoys and traders frequently made the long and arduous journey across land to purchase the precious spices, silks and precious objets d’art of the subcontinent and the civilized nations farther to the east.

  Yet unlike the bustling metropolises of Ayodhya, Gandahar, Sumer, Akkad, Babylon, Assyria, Cathay, Ayutha and other great kingdoms that lay scattered like caches of precious jewels upon the Asian seaboard, the denizens of the great ancient forest went about their daily deeds as discretely as the secret guilds of asassins in the desert kingdoms went about their dark missions. To one another, the bustle and hustle was plain to see: the panther saw the ants who in turn saw the ant eater, who saw the rabbit, who saw the lion, who saw the deer, who heard the cricket who stopped chirrupping when the lizard approached, and so on in an endless circle of infinite inter-dependence.