PRINCE IN EXILE

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  In the utter silence that met the end of his speech, Rama bent down and grasped a handful of dry earth. Tendrils of grass were uprooted, snapping off in his hand. Mud trickled from his clenched fist as he raised it high above his head for all to see.

  ‘Bharat-rajya satya-rajya hai, Kosala ke vasiyon, sada sukh raho!’

  Bharat’s rule is the just rule. People of Kosala, stay content for ever!

  With a roar that filled the clearing and the forest for miles around, sending flocks of settling birds fleeing into the sunset sky, the crowd of commonfolk surged forward, touching, holding, embracing, kissing Rama. Before he could shout a word of protest, they had caught him up in their arms and raised him aloft. With one voice they shouted a variation of the chant he had heard ever since he was a child. The original chant had always been ‘Dasaratha-naam satya hai’, literally ‘Dasa’s name is truth.’

  What they shouted now was: ‘Ram-naam satya hai! Ramnaam satya hai!’ over and over and over again, until the rhythm reached a frenzied pitch, rising to a deafening climax.

  Rama’s name is truth.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Rani, make haste. He calls for you now.’

  Kausalya started, almost spilling the thali with which she had been performing the aarti pooja. There were aartis being conducted throughout Suryavansha Palace this evening; the sound of pooja bells and chanting voices filled the entire palace complex. Every one of Dasaratha’s three hundred and fifty untitled wives was assembled in the large aarti hall of the neighbouring concubines’ palace, performing a rigorous ritual, chanting in a final appeal to the devas to spare their husband-liege. The melodious music of their voices raised in ecstatic harmony filtered all the way up here; it almost drowned out the sounds of restless angry crowds on the avenue outside, the shouts of enraged citizens, and the all-too-frequent clash of steel upon steel. Almost, but not quite. As Mantris Jabali and Ashok had said, speaking on behalf of the rest of the council when they came earlier to visit the maharaja and pay their respects, ‘Half of Ayodhya is shrouded in grief today, and the other half is clouded by anger.’

  She turned, expecting to see the guru at the threshold of the pooja room. But only the palace guards that Drishti Kumar had insisted stay close by her side stood there, their hardened faces intently watchful. The pooja room itself was filled with the women of her staff, their soft Banglar voices kept low to avoid disturbing the maharaja. There was no sign of the guru or of anyone else who might have spoken her name. But Kausalya knew better than to question her instincts. She was knowledgeable enough to know that a blind insistence on rationality could cloud one’s mind as easily as superstition. She handed her thali to an associate, indicating to her and the other women to continue with the aarti. It was important to complete the cycle of repetitive chanting without any interruptions.

  As she left the pooja room, making her way quickly down the corridor towards her private chambers, she was glad of that: at least the aartis kept occupied the incessant flow of visitors and well-wishers whom she had to receive all day long. With everyone inside the aarti halls, the corridors and hallways were virtually deserted. She did not have to offend anyone by rushing past without accepting tearful regrets at the events of this morning. If she heard one more such regret voiced, she believed she would scream loud enough to shatter crystal.

  The guru was indeed waiting for her at the door to the innermost chamber. ‘Rani,’ he said, speaking normally now. ‘It is good you came at once. He is conscious, but he will not be for long.’ He paused briefly to make sure she understood his meaning. ‘He has returned to us only to speak his last words. Heed them well and say your farewells. He will come no more to you henceforth.’

  She was silent a moment. Then she nodded briefly, silently: there were no words to express what she felt at this moment. She touched the guru’s feet, taking his ashirwaad, and then passed into the chamber. Her own bedchamber, the very same one where Dasaratha had come to her only a fortnight ago, like a whirlwind. Tonight, that whirlwind was dying down at long last, preparing to leave these shores.

  She adjusted the pallo of her sari, as befitted an Arya wife in her husband’s presence, and made her way to the man lying on the bed. He was breathing raggedly, in slow, hitching gasps, like a pair of smith-bellows unable to fill themselves with sufficient air to keep the fire alive.

  ‘Kausalya,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling yet somehow aware of her presence. ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, my love, I beg of you, forgive me … ‘

  She fell to her knees beside the bed, grasping the hands he held out to her, joined in supplication. ‘There is nothing to forgive, Dasa. You did what dharma demanded.’

  He turned his head from side to side, still staring up wild-eyed at the ceiling. His face was wreathed in sweat, his mouth open in a grin of agony. ‘I owed her two boons … ‘

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, fighting back the tears that threatened to wash her away like the Sarayu in spate. ‘You had no choice.’

  He gripped her hand in an iron fist, crushing it. He turned his face to her, snarling like a wild beast. ‘We always have a choice. Always!’

  She was chilled by the fury in his face and voice. Yet she knew that his anger was directed not at her but at himself. His grief and guilt and rage had awoken this savage beast within the failing body, a ghoulish echo of the young virile Dasaratha she had first met and loved.

  ‘I should have denied her the boons. Should have struck her across the face and thrown her aside like the whore she is and always will be!’

  She cried out, as much on account of the pain of seeing his state, as at the agony in her crushed fist. ‘Dasa!’ she sobbed.

  Almost at once he fell back, releasing her hand, lapsing back into delirious, maudlin self-pity. ‘But I was bound by dharma. And I could not deny its call. I could not … could not … And so I destroyed it all, by the granting of two simple wishes. Denied my true heir, destroyed my legacy, and played into the hands of our enemies, all with two simple boons.’ He laughed the laughter of a maniac who has forgotten everything except pain. ‘The ancient asura gods must be laughing today, high upon their craggy perches, laughing at Dasaratha for doing what no asura army could ever accomplish … laying waste to Ayodhya the Unconquerable!’

  ‘Dasa,’ she said desperately, trying to break through his self-obsession. ‘Don’t torture yourself thus. You did nothing wrong. It was all Manthara’s doing. She was manipulated by Ravana, and with the use of asura sorcery she manipulated Kaikeyi, who in turn manipulated you … ‘

  ‘YES!’ he shouted, almost gleefully. ‘But in the end it was not any of them who banished Rama into exile. It was me! Dasaratha! Your Dasaratha!’ He turned his head to look at her with the pitiful gaze of a loyal dying beast. ‘This man you once loved. This king you once married.’

  ‘And still love. And am still married to.’ She caught his hand, ignoring the pain in her own fist. ‘Listen to me, Dasaratha. Bharat is an honourable man. He has gone to the forest to bring Rama back. To reinstate him as prince-heir.’

  A light of hope flashed in the maharaja’s eyes. ‘Bring him back then. Place me under arrest. Put me in the dungeon on charge of treason!’

  She stared at him, wondering if he had gone completely insane. ‘Treason?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘That will negate my promises to Kaikeyi! Better still, have him declare me insane. That way nobody can fault me for breaking a boon I made when not in my right mind.’ He cackled like a crone suddenly, sending a chill through her chest. ‘And was I not then in my right mind? Am I not now? Do this, Kausalya. Throw me in the deepest dungeon and place Rama on the throne.’

  ‘But … ‘ She did not know how to respond to this, so unexpected was it. Yet a part of her also acknowledged the fiendish brilliance of its simplicity. Declaring either a charge of treason or one of royal insanity would decisively negate any rule of Manu that Kaikeyi might invoke to enforce her boons. Then she remembered. ‘But it won’t be nece
ssary. Kaikeyi has relented. She is out of the witch’s spell now, Dasa. Perhaps … perhaps she was always under her spell to some extent. Now she is free of it, she regrets it all. She herself wants Rama to be crowned heir.’

  ‘Not heir,’ he rasped feverishly. ‘King!’

  ‘There is no need to take such drastic measures as imprisoning you,’ she said. ‘Not that any of us would ever do such a thing, whatever the cause or provocation. Kaikeyi has repeatedly expressed her wish to take back her demands, freeing you of the boons you promised her, and reinstating Rama to his rightful place.’

  Dasaratha chuckled. It was a low, throaty chuckle, like a man who has been taken by surprise, having been told a rich joke by the one person he least expected to tell such an anecdote. ‘You should know better, Kausalya. It does not matter what Kaikeyi says now. The deed is done! In the foul darkness it was committed, and the pact sealed with an act of passion and an exchange of bodily emissions. It was no less than any blood pact! My promise was made to Kaikeyi, but Kaikeyi was under the thrall of Manthara, and Manthara was in the thrall of whom? Tell me?’

  ‘Ra-va-na,’ she whispered, the word sticking in her throat like a handful of thorns.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘The Kaikeyi who wrested the boons from me last night in the kosaghar, that was not the Kaikeyi I once loved and married, nor the daughter of noble Bharadwaj of Kaikeya, nor even the sister-queen who lived beneath the same roof as you all these years. That was the lord of asuras himself, merely acting through a mortal agent. Last night it was Kaikeyi, tomorrow night it will be someone else.’

  ‘What are you saying? That Ravana was the one to whom you made your promise?’

  ‘As good as,’ he said, sombrely now. ‘He was the engineer who built the siege machine that stormed the impregnable walls of Ayodhya last night, and he will not let his work go unfulfilled. That is why I say to you, arrest me, fling me into prison, declare me a traitor to the kingdom, insane, incompetent, anything! But act!’

  ‘I cannot do such a thing,’ she cried out. ‘You know I cannot! Nor will anyone else in this house!’

  He slumped back lifelessly. ‘Then we are doomed.’

  He repeated the word over and over again, like a child’s litany at a forest gurukul. ‘Doomed. Doomed. Doomed.’

  She almost didn’t hear the voice at the door, so shaken was she by his brutally honest and incisive perspective on the whole situation.

  ‘Dasa,’ said the voice again, for the third or fourth time. ‘Please … may I … ‘

  Kausalya turned to see Kaikeyi standing at the door, begging for permission to enter like any common serving maid.

  ***

  ‘Vishnu’s blessings be upon you,’ Rama said, pleasing the farmer who had brought a stack of half-inch-thick maize rotis with a handful of parrot-green chillies. Sumantra took the rotis and mirchis from the farmer and set them on the large cloth spread out upon the knoll, along with the several dozen other items of food given by the other commonfolk. They were all homely preparations, evidence of the rustic simplicity of their givers. There were no elaborate dishes or princely preparations here; it was a far cry from the sumptuous table-crushing spreads that were laid out in the royal bhojanshalya at every meal, a veritable banquet of culinary delights. Yet in Rama’s eyes, these simple items of food were no less sumptuous in their generosity and richness of soul. Already there was enough food here to feed a hundred. And the line of people waiting with offerings in hand stretched to the clump of coconut palms at the far end of the clearing.

  Rama looked at Sita, seated cross-legged beside him. ‘These people are giving me their evening meals,’ he said. ‘The food they would normally eat at the end of a hard day’s work. On what will they and their children sup tonight?’

  ‘I don’t think any one of them will sup tonight, Rama,’ she said. ‘Look at their faces. They look like pilgrims on their way to a shrine to ask the Devi’s forgiveness for past misdeeds.’

  Rama looked. Despite the rousing reception his speech had elicited, the people were still dejected and forlorn. He had succeeded in calming their anger and clearing their confusion; nobody doubted now that he would go into exile and that he was doing so of his own free will, uncoerced. But that still did not mean they were ready to accept the facts of the matter. The crowd, swelled now to well over five thousand, filled the entire clearing and the surrounding palm groves, seated cross-legged in the manner of devotees awaiting a darshan of a beloved deva, their faces still turned hopefully towards Rama, as if praying that somehow, by some miracle, he would relent and change his mind. A dhobi, his wife and their large clutch of children of various ages sat with their knees up, gazing desolately at Rama. They were among those who had given him their meal and now sat fasting like the others. Several yards to the right, a young pubescent girl sat by her father, their rigs and bows indications of their occupation: Mithilan archers, two of several hundred who had joined Ayodhya’s armies after Mithila began laying off its armed forces years ago. The girl stared at him with complete concentration, her heart-shaped face streaked with the tracks of dried tears, as if willing him mentally to take back his words, turn back to Ayodhya and kingship.

  He looked away, unable to see any more. To his left, Lakshman stood on the eastern side of the knoll, staring out at the river. The crowds kept coming, thousands upon thousands seeking their banished prince, seeking answers, hope, salvation, and devas knew what else. They were giving him their day’s food; they would give him their lives if he but asked. What did he have to give them? Nothing but words and promises, ideals and inspiration. A poor substitute for wheat and rice and a king’s grace.

  He rose to his feet abruptly, walking to where Lakshman stood. To the right, downriver, where the Tamasa veered sharply westwards, the saffron rays of the setting sun slipped through gaps in the trees of the palm groves, igniting the contours of Lakshman’s body and face. They had performed their eveing sandhyavandana a few minutes ago, accompanied by the whole gathering of Kosalans, all squatting by the edge of the riverbank and following Rama’s every action and gesture to perfection. Droplets of water still lay beaded on Lakshman’s arms and back. His fists and jaw were clenched. He flinched when Rama laid his hand on his shoulder gently. His eyes when he turned were filled with shadows cast by the sun at his back.

  ‘Bhai?’ he asked.

  Rama glanced around. Sita had risen to join him and Lakshman. Sumantra was continuing to accept offerings of food from the endless line of commonfolk, trying to find room on the already over-full shawl.

  ‘These people will not let me go alone into exile,’ he said.

  ‘Nor will we,’ Lakshman said.

  Rama smiled. Lakshman smiled back, a dark smile that told Rama of the darker shadows lurking in his brother’s heart.

  ‘There is no way to make them return to their homes and leave us to journey onward to Dandaka-van,’ Rama said.

  ‘If you ask me, I think they would rather die than let you go on alone.’

  Rama looked at him closely.

  Lakshman indicated the crowded clearing. ‘I mean these people, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rama said quietly. ‘Their mission is to try to make me change my mind and turn back to Ayodhya, to restore myself to my former place and inherit the kingdom.’

  Lakshman shrugged. ‘I couldn’t have said it better.’

  Rama nodded. ‘And I will not do that.’

  Lakshman looked at him intently for a long moment, then looked away. ‘You will not.’

  ‘That is why,’ Rama said, turning to look at Sita and include her in the discussion, ‘it would be best if we wait until they are asleep, then slip away quietly in Sumantra’s chariot. If we ride all night, by morning we will be too far ahead for them to catch up with us.’

  Lakshman and Sita were silent.

  Rama went on after a pause, ‘The Dandaka-van is a big place. Once we enter the forest, they will hardly be able to find us. Although I hope that they will not try to
follow us at all.’

  He glanced back at Sumantra. ‘To be sure that they do not follow us into the jungle, we will send Sumantra back to dissuade them and tell them which way we went.’

  ‘Tell them which way … ‘ Lakshman began, then stopped. ‘While we actually take another route into the jungle?’

  Rama nodded. ‘That is all we can do. The rest we must leave to the devas and the common sense of these simple folk. I trust they will not do anything foolish after we are gone.’

  Sita said softly, ‘Whatever they do, it is not your fault. You cannot protect them any more. After all … ‘ She hesitated before adding, ‘They are no longer your people to protect.’

  He looked at her sadly, the dusky light of twilight casting her lovely features into shadow as well. ‘You’re right. They are not my people any more.’

  FOURTEEN

  They made their move late into the night. It had taken several hours for the gathering to subside into something resembling sleep. A large throng of new arrivals had broken down, distraught, at the sight of Rama, and their weeping had set off a chain of wails and chest-beating and hair-pulling throughout the clearing. By then, the crowd on the west bank was easily ten thousand strong. The ferries had stopped plying because the river’s spate had made it dangerous to do so in the dark of night. But from the thickening masses of shadows and the sounds from the far bank, Rama estimated that another ten thousand or more would accumulate by morning. At one point, he thought he caught the distant rumbling of wheels and hoofs, as if a large, heavy contingent was on the move. It carried in the stillness of night even above the ceaseless roaring of the river. He turned uneasily in the dark, reminded for some inexplicable reason of his distant memories of childhood, when his father used to ride out to quell regional disturbances and enforce the peace among the quarrelsome pahadi clans. A part of him longed for the simplicity of that childhood, when the days seemed to last for ever, the nights passed in a wink, and the sky appeared to him to be the blue-tinted palm of a benevolent deva who would protect the world from all threats.