PRINCE IN EXILE

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  ‘Come then,’ she hissed at the sage. ‘Let us see how powerful your Brahman shakti truly is when matched against my master’s powers. Let us see if you can save the life of your precious Ajaputra before I turn him into yet another blood-sacrifice to my master, Ravana!’

  ‘Release him at once,’ the sage thundered, his voice echoing and reverberating off the walls of the narrow confined chamber, ringing up and down the corridor-like length of the kosaghar. ‘In the name of almighty Brahma, I command you on pain of death!’

  Manthara sneered, lifting part of her upper lip to reveal a mouthful of ugly yellow-black teeth. ‘Brahma will soon be a forgotten god, seer. By the time the kalyug comes, even his most ardent devotee will have to search the land to find a single shrine. Name some more powerful deva if you will. Or better still, admit defeat and back away.’ She turned her hand then, showing them a glimpse of the maharaja’s neck. A small drop of blood emerged from the spot where the tip of the jagged glass was held to his throat.

  ‘NO!’ Kausalya screamed. Sumitra’s voice clashed with hers as the other queen added her own plea. ‘Don’t hurt him!’

  Manthara leered up at them. ‘You see, sage? How something as worthless as a single mortal life can undo all the efforts of mighty Brahma? That is why your deva will be forgotten in time, while my lord will be worshipped well into the last yuga of the world, until the final turn of the samay chakra itself. As long as the wheel of time turns, Ravana’s name shall be set above all.’

  The guru’s voice was quiet and calm. ‘You delude yourself, witch. Or your master deludes you. What has he promised you in exchange for all this evildoing? A beautiful form, unmarred by your childhood deformities and misshaping? Power and wealth? Adulation and glory?’

  Manthara cackled. ‘More than you will ever have, whitebeard. My master is generous in his gifts, just as he is cruel in his punishments. He is not one of your devas, who demand eternal service and suffering without ever rewarding you for your servitude.’

  ‘That is because we know, as does every good soul that has ever existed, that serving the force of Brahman is reward enough,’ replied the sage calmly. ‘But your master deceives you. Did he ever tell you that it was he who gave you those deformities and inflicted upon you such hideous misshaping? Did he reveal to you that he picks upon mortal souls at random, inflicting such adversities upon them in order to twist and warp their minds and hearts, making them all the more pliable to his vile purpose? Did he reveal this to you as well?’

  For the first time since entering the kosaghar, Kausalya saw the daiimaa’s face lose its snarling expression. The look of shock that replaced the snarl was heart-rending to behold. The daiimaa’s hand, pressing the jagged glassedge to the maharaja’s bleeding neck, faltered and moved away, shaking in a spasm as if it would drop the makeshift dagger. But almost immediately the woman caught herself, and a wry grin replaced the look of abject shock that had been upon it a moment earlier.

  Then a subtle shift took place in the balance of shakti between the two opposing forces. Something flickered in the daiimaa’s eyes, a blurring, as if she were distracted by some inner thought. As if she heard a voice speaking inside her mind, Kausalya thought. And slowly, like an oil fire that had been starved of fuel, the daiimaa’s green aura receded. In a moment, Kausalya could see Manthara’s face and body again. The last vestiges of the sorcerous light flickered at the periphery of the daiimaa’s head, then faded away, leaving a few straggling motes of emerald light that swirled and were lost in the long shadows of the kosaghar.

  ‘Well tried, whitebeard,’ she hissed softly. ‘You almost had me with that lie.’

  ‘It is no lie, Manthara,’ Vashishta said with new gentleness. ‘You know it as well as I do. Use your newfound powers to examine the veracity of my words. Look back upon your own past. See the exact moment when Ravana reached out with his vile sorcery and twisted you within your mother’s very womb. Witness each new blow and misery he inflicted upon you during your tender years, corrupting you further, alienating your from your fellow mortals. Trace the whole history of his workings upon you, as he has worked upon countless other weak souls before you. See it all for yourself and judge whether I speak truly or no. And then decide whether you are truly going to be gifted with all the foolish baubles he dangled before your mesmerised eyes, or cast aside like any of his other minions after they had completed his work. For make no mistake of it, he will cast you down as he would cast a gnat or an ant, not even looking to see if you remain alive or broken. For once you finish his work, you are finished in his eyes. He has no more use of you.’

  Now it was Manthara’s turn to scream, ‘NO!’ The cry was magnified by her sorcery, filling the kosaghar with an earsplitting echo that seemed to go on for ever. When it ended, the daiimaa was on her feet again, the glass shard tossed aside with a clatter. ‘I will not stay and be duped by your Brahman sorcery, whitebeard. I don’t know how you began to weave this spell, or by what mantra you caused it to enter my mind, but I will not stay to be further deluded by its influence. But mark my words, we shall meet again. And the next time, I shall finish with you. Then we shall see whose shakti is greater!’

  With those final words, the daiimaa turned and shuffled towards the wall of the kosaghar, heading directly for it without stopping. Just when it seemed she would strike the wall and be thrown back, a blinding flash of green light seared Kausalya’s vision, causing her to fling her arm up to shield her dazed eyes. When she could see again, her eyes adjusting once more to the dim gloom of the chamber, only a few motes of green light swirled at the far corner. Manthara was gone.

  ‘Her power is great,’ the guru said. Kausalya was shocked at the weariness in his tone. ‘Truly, I was deceived by some great master of asura sorcery all this time. How could I have allowed her to grow into such a sorceress under my very nose?’ He sighed deeply. ‘And yet, this too is part of mighty Brahma-dev’s great plan. In his infinite wisdom he has found a place for her too, as much a pawn in the great game as I myself.’

  Before Kausalya could speak in response to these strange comments, her eyes adjusted sufficiently to the gloom to see the figure that lay beyond the guru. All this while he had been concealed by Manthara, but now Kausalya could see him clearly. Dasaratha lay with his back to a pillar, feet sprawled out before him, head bowed on his chest.

  She flew to him, crouching down beside her husband, feeling his cheek, his face, trying to see his eyes in the dimness. ‘Dasa? Oh, Dasa, say something. Speak, Dasa!’ Sumitra was with her too, saying much the same words, touching Dasa with anxious hands, trying to evoke a response from the maharaja. But Dasaratha only lay there with half-open eyes, barely breathing, his skin as cold and clammy to the touch as a fish freshly drawn from the Sarayu in the last chill of springmelt.

  ‘Guru-dev,’ Kausalya said, turning her face up to the guru now standing beside her. ‘Your ability to see transcends our weak mortal vision. Tell me truly, what ails my beloved husband? Why does he not respond?’

  From behind her, the guru said softly, ‘Good Kausalya, gentle Sumitra, brace yourselves. I fear our beloved Dasaratha has run his course. He is alive yet, but his time with us has been reduced considerably by the trauma of this night’s events. Even our great Aja-putra’s mighty heart will not recover from this final betrayal. I am sorry to say that Maharaja Dasaratha will leave us before the sun sets tonight.’

  FOUR

  Rama and Sita were almost at the rear gate when the shouting broke out. In her anguished state of mind, it took Sita a moment to connect the outbreak with herself. It was taking all her energy simply to keep placing one foot before the other.

  But when Rama paused and glanced around, keeping his head low and covered by the cowl of his shawl, she realised that something was happening in the city. Something that must be connected to their plight, for surely there were no coincidences today.

  She glanced back at the rear wall of the palace complex, where they had just exited a servants’ entra
nce. There was nothing amiss here. The shouting was on the far side, at the front entrance of Suryavansha Mahal. It seemed hard to believe that only hours earlier she had entered through that grand portal as an honoured new bride and future queen of the dynasty. And barely before the night was fully ended and dawn’s first flush on the horizon, here she was skulking out the rear way like a common thief. Her tightly fitting garments chafed at her skin as she turned, though she hardly noticed.

  At Rama’s urging, both had exchanged their rich royal silks for simple roughcloth garments, secured for them by a visibly suspicious Nakhudi. The rani-rakshak had looked even more suspicious when Sita had invented a story about their having to travel incognito to avoid being recognised. When the bodyguard pressed her mistress for details of their destination, Sita had spun an impromptu yarn about Rama and she wishing to visit the shrine of Vishnu-Lakshmi, the Divine Preserver and his consort, without the whole palace and the city entire getting wind of it.

  At that, Nakhudi had nodded and relaxed visibly. It was considered highly auspicious for a newly married couple to visit that particular shrine the morning after first consummating their new union. And as a hard-bitten northern tribeswoman, Nakhudi didn’t truly approve of the brouhaha these Ayodhyans made over their liege. Among her folk, a king was merely a clan-chief, to be treated like any other Kshatriya, no better, no less. The display of luxury and sheer glamour the night before had far surpassed the surly Jat’s sense of what constituted decent behaviour.

  She approved of their quiet assignation and fetched the garments from her own quarters in a trice. Back in Mithila, Sita and she had often moved about the common-folk incognito, and these garments were intended for Sita. Fortunately, Rama’s waist was scarcely wider than Sita’s slender dimensions, and the dhotis fitted both of them equally well. To disguise their faces, Nakhudi had fetched them shawls, a mite unseasonal since the weather had begun turning warm early this spring, but not unusual. So here they were now, sneaking out the rear entrance with their faces and heads covered by the thick woollen shawls.

  Rama took a moment to assess the situation before turning to speak quietly to Sita. ‘The palace guards are quarrelling amongst themselves for some reason. We should move quickly before Drishti Kumar gives the order to shut the gates.’

  Sita nodded, and they moved across the enormous concourse, heading for the rear gates, which were still a good three or four hundred yards away. They had to pass the royal stables to get there, and the overwhelming odour of horse, elephant and donkey assailed them as they walked briskly. They were passing a horse stall when the beast within, a beautiful white battlehorse with a deep scar across his forehead, raised his head and whinnied loud and long. Several other horses responded in like voice, and even the elephants joined the fray.

  Beside her, she heard Rama catch his breath. ‘They recognise me. Keep walking.’

  She did, thinking as she went of her own favourite horses and elephants back in Mithila. They were to be brought here in a few days, following the usual three-day route rather than the magical half-day journey that Guru Vashishta’s Brahman shakti had made possible. She wondered what would become of them now that she would no longer be here to receive them. Who would ride them? Or would anyone ride them at all? Would they spend the rest of their lives in stables, emerging only to be exercised occasionally by some ostler? When she returned, how many would still be alive? How many would die of old age before that? And even when she did return, would they still recognise her scent, as these animals did Rama’s, and neigh and stamp their feet and trumpet loudly to show their recognition? Or would she be a stranger to them after such a long absence?

  She stumbled and fell against Rama. He caught her arm. ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  He looked at her closely, trying to see beneath the shawl’s cowl. After a moment he turned and they resumed walking. An ostler emerged from a barn-like structure up ahead, a pitchfork bristling with hay held over his shoulder. He peered down the length of the stalls, then at Rama and Sita with obvious hostility.

  ‘How many times have I told you low-castes not to throw stones at the horses? They may look like dumb animals to you, but they have feelings too, you know. How would you like it if someone came to your window and threw stones inside at you and your family, hey?’

  They reached him and continued walking past. He blinked, offended, and came after them. Beneath his breath, Rama said to Sita, ‘Keep walking.’ She did.

  The ostler caught up with them and took hold of Sita’s shoulder. She guessed that beneath the shawls it was impossible for the man to tell which of them was male and which female. She shrugged off his grip. He swore and caught her shoulder again, this time too hard for her to wrench free. She tried, but nearly wrenched her shoulder socket out of joint. The ostler pulled hard with the brute strength of a man whose livelihood depended on handling strong animals every day of his life. Sita swung around, the shawl falling from her face.

  The ostler stared at her in amazement. ‘What is this? Some kind of joke? Who are you, and what’s your business going through here, dressed like chamars? You’re no chamar, lady. I know you. You’re … ‘

  He squinted, trying to place Sita’s face.

  Rama pushed his shawl back on his head, just enough to show his face to the man. ‘This is Rajkumari Sita Janaki, Sameer. My new bride. We threw no pebbles at your horses. They smelled me and recognised me. Sadly, I have no time to stop and return their greetings.’

  The ostler dropped his pitchfork and fell to his knees, prostrating himself before Rama. ‘My prince! I had no idea! If I had known—’

  Rama caught him by the shoulders before he could kiss his feet, and helped him up. ‘No apologies required, Sameer. It was an honest mistake. You’re right about the janitors throwing pebbles at the horses. I’ve seen them do it. At the elephants too.’

  Sameer wiped tears from his eyes at the thought of having insulted his prince and princess. He bowed before Sita. ‘My princess, forgive me.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ she said, although her shoulder felt as if it had been wrenched by a rope tied to a logging elephant.

  The ostler accepted her reply with an expression of undying gratitude. Sita understood the poor fellow’s plight: in less tolerant kingdoms, he would have been flayed alive or quartered by elephants for speaking thus to his prince and for laying hands on her.

  ‘My prince, why are you dressed like this?’ the ostler asked, taking in their garments. ‘And where do you go at this hour on foot? Would you not like to take a chariot? Or at least two horses? I have a fine mare for Rajkumari Sita. And for you, Rajkumar—’

  The shouting from the far side of the palace had grown louder all this while. Now it was joined by the unmistakable sound of weapons clashing. Sita flinched at the sound of steel striking steel, so cruel and remorseless even at this distance. Rama spoke quickly and urgently to the ostler.

  ‘We have no need of mounts or chariot, thank you for asking. The rajkumari and I must leave the rear gates at once on a most urgent matter. One more thing. It would be best if you do not tell anyone of our passing at least for some hours.’

  ‘Not even me?’

  They all turned in surprise at the voice. Lakshman was approaching from the other side of the palace complex, which explained why they hadn’t seen him. He was barechested, clad only in a gold-embroidered silk dhoti. His rig was slung on his back, and in one hand he had his bow and in the other two swords.

  Lakshman’s face was dark with an emotion Sita couldn’t identify. There was anger there. But there was disbelief as well. And pain, a great deal of it. It was all directed at Rama.

  Lakshman moved one sword to the hand holding the bow and held the other out to Rama as he came abreast of them. ‘You forgot your sword, bhai. I found it in your chambers.’

  Rama made no move to take the weapon. ‘I am not permitted to take it with me, brother.’

  ‘And what abo
ut me? Were you not permitted to tell me as well before you left? You were going to leave without even a word?’

  Rama sighed. ‘Luck, I was ordered not to say any farewells. To leave without speaking to a single person.’

  Lakshman glanced at Sita. ‘Even my bhabhi?’ He used the colloquial word for sister-in-law.

  Rama nodded. ‘I had to go back to change my garb, for those were my given orders. So I had to tell her. She insisted on coming with me. But to come to your chambers and speak with you would have amounted to disobedience of my orders.’

  Lakshman was silent as if weighing this in his mind.

  Rama gestured in the direction from which the sounds of fighting still sounded. It had now progressed to men crying with agony and horses screaming. ‘What’s happening?’

  Lakshman pursed his lips as if reluctant to answer. ‘The Kaikeya guard has been given command of the palace complex. The new First Queen has demanded a complete reshuffling of the command chain. The old guard aren’t taking it very well. Some disagreements broke out. There’s no doubt about who’s going to come out on top. The Kaikeya guard are barely a few thousand strong.’

  The sound of a conch shell sounding rose on the still early-morning air, wafting across the city. It issued a brief burst, followed by two long blows. It was answered by conches farther away, in like style, a succession that receded into the distance. Rama and Lakshman exchanged a worried glance.

  ‘The army is being called out,’ Rama said shortly. ‘That’s the signal for a palace riot.’

  A palace riot? In Ayodhya? Sita glanced at the face of the ostler, who was still standing with them. The man looked flummoxed. ‘Rajkumars, what is happening? Why—’

  Before he could finish the sentence, the sound of pounding hoofs came from the far side of the palace, the direction that Lakshman had come from. A moment later, four quads of armed men clad in the traditional uniform of the palace guard, sixteen in all, rode into sight, heading directly for them.