He turned the head of his horse, nodding to Shatrugan, who was waiting nearby. Together they rode down past the long winding lines of mounted and armoured Ayodhyan soldiers, a host large enough to start a war. He prayed it would be large enough to bring one exiled prince home.
***
They emerged from the trees and came upon the Ganga again. Sita caught her breath at the sight before them. Guha was right. An army had come to Sringaverapura. It was assembled on the far bank of the Ganga, rows upon rows of cavalry, chariot, elephant, and infantry, their burnished armour gleaming in the noonday sun, sending dazzling reflections and refractions through the misty vapours rising from the river. The sigils of Kosala, Ayodhya, the Suryavansha dynasty, and the Ikshwaku clan were clearly visible even at this distance, the banners flapping proudly in the steady breeze that blew downriver. Sita’s heart thudded in her chest. Why was this army here?
Guha answered the question aloud, speaking for them all in a sober tone wholly unlike his earlier boisterous belligerence. ‘It appears your brother Bharat is not content with having the throne to himself, Rama Chandra. See. He comes after you with the might and steel of Kosala. He seeks to remove any potential threat to his ascension, now or in the future.’
‘I would not have believed it if someone had merely told me so, Rama,’ Lakshman said in a choked voice. ‘But I think Chief Guha speaks the truth. Why else would Bharat come here with such an army if not to wage war upon us and wipe us out?’
‘Heed your brother, if not me,’ Guha said. ‘He sees the threat and recognises it for what it is. Your brother knows that some day your exile will end, and you will return to claim the throne you were born to inherit. By stamping you out today, he stamps out all future risk to his kingship.’ The Nisada chief sighed, massaging his belly. ‘I cannot blame him. Even after fourteen years, your people will welcome you home as if you had been gone only fourteen days. Even we Nisadas know how much Ayodhya loves its eldest son.’
***
Across the river, Bharat and Shatrugan had dismounted and were striding forward, approaching the line of boats pulled up along the bank. They were accompanied by quads of soldiers on either side. A captain of PFs shouted some order to the fisherfolk squatting by the boats, and soldiers showed their lances, ready to prod the boatmen into action if needed. It was impossible to hear any words across the two-hundred-yard breadth of the river, or even to see individual features of faces clearly, but Sita sensed that Bharat was staring across at them directly, looking straight at Rama. She glanced at Rama and saw that he too was gazing directly at Bharat.
Lakshman unslung his bow and put an arrow to the cord. The muscles of his jaw were clenching with anger.
‘He means to launch an assault now, Rama,’ Lakshman said. ‘Let us prepare to fight back. We can pick them off more easily while they are in mid-crossing. That way, we negate their superiority in numbers.’
‘Good thinking, rajkumar,’ Guha said. ‘Your best chance would be to kill as many as you can before they cross. Once that great host is on this bank, you stand no chance in hell.’
Rama said quietly, ‘They have bowmen too. Long Mithilan bows. If they wished, they could have done the same to us, firing across the river and picking us off where we stand. As you can see, they are not doing so. Only Bharat and Shatrugan intend to cross, with maybe just a quad or two.’
‘Even better,’ the chief said. ‘Kill Bharat and you eliminate the whole threat. I warrant that every soldier on that bank of the Ganga would fall at your feet and accept your right to the throne once Bharat is gone. Aim your arrows well, princes of Ayodhya. Win back the kingdom you have lost!’ Rama turned to look at the Nisada chief. Guha stood on Rama’s far side, so Sita could not see Rama’s face when he turned to him. But she could see Guha’s face clearly, and from the way the hunter-lord flinched, she could imagine the grim look he had just confronted.
‘Hear me well, Chief Guha. I would rather remain in exile until my dying day than wrest back the throne by shedding a single drop of my brother’s blood.’
Guha looked nonplussed, then an expression of sudden exasperation passed across his fleshy face. ‘I do not understand you, Rama Chandra. You are too great a man of dharma to survive this world! It is one thing to have such lofty ideals when you are a Brahmin, freed of all wordly responsibilities. But you are a Kshatriya. A warrior-prince who was raised to be a king. It is your destiny to be king! Even your father willed it so.’
‘If it is destined, it will be so,’ Rama said. ‘All things will come to pass in their own time and way.’
Guha gestured at Sita. ‘And what of your wife? And your brother? Will you make them suffer these long years in exile as well? And what of your future offspring as and when they come? Will you condemn them to grow up in that wretched haunt of rakshasas and predators? Do you understand what it means to spend even one night and survive the perils of Dandaka-van, let alone fourteen years? If one of our young boys ventures mistakenly into that place and comes out alive a day later, we offer bull-sacrifices to Agni-deva to thank him for the boy’s safe return. Our greatest warriors dare not venture in there for more than two nights at a stretch. It is a well-known fact that by the third night, every savage creature, animal or asura, in that dread place comes to know of a new arrival, and descends upon it with no pity or mercy. The only people who have ventured in there voluntarily are outcasts and condemned outlaws who are doomed anyway – and even they are never seen or heard of again. Would you raise your children in such a place?’
‘If it is their karma to be raised there, so will it be,’ Rama said, his eyes on the river again.
Guha made a sound of disgust. The Nisada chief hawked and spat on the ground at his own feet, then stamped the place where he had spat. ‘I do not understand such stubbornness,’ he said loudly, his face and neck flushed with frustration. ‘What good is your karma and dharma and artha if they do not serve you and your loved ones?’
When Rama gave no answer to his question, he threw up his hands in despair and turned abruptly on his heel, stalking back towards the forest. His men, confused and alarmed by the escalating events, ran after him. Sita turned to watch. The Nisada chief strode a dozen or two yards towards the forest, then turned as abruptly as before, and walked back to the river’s edge. His men overshot him and then scuttled back after him.
‘I do not know why I even make this offer,’ he said tightly, addressing Rama’s granite profile. ‘But if you have need of it, my clans are yours in this battle. For the sake of your father, who upheld our right to live as free people and never once tried to force us into subjugation as so many other Arya kings would have done. For Dasaratha’s sake, I will give my warriors to fight for his son’s right to the throne.’ He gestured at the army arrayed across the river. ‘We may not win the day. Indeed, I do not know if we will even survive a clash with such a host. But Nisadas are men of honour too and we do not think twice of our own welfare when our friends are in need. If you have need of our swords and our lives, they are yours.’
Rama turned to look at Guha. From the softness of his voice, Sita could guess his expression. ‘I have need of your friendship, good Guha,’ Rama said, clearly enough to be heard by all. ‘Your friendship and the friendship of the Nisada clans. That is all I desire.’
Guha stared at him. ‘Then you will not fight? You will not defend yourself against your brother’s aggression?’
Lakshman spoke heatedly, the muscles of arms, shoulders and back tense with the effort of holding the bow stretched to firing readiness, his eyes fixed on the boat crossing the river. ‘Bhai, his boat approaches. He will be with us in moments if we do not act quickly. Give the word now, and I will put an arrow through his traitorous heart. And then I will put another arrow through his accomplice’s heart as well.’
Rama turned to Lakshman. ‘You would kill our brother Bharat? And your own twin Shatrugan?’
Lakshman replied tightly, ‘If they attack us, we must fight back. It is only n
atural.’
Rama shook his head. ‘What is natural and what is not depends on one’s own nature. Put back your dhanush-baan, Lakshman. Let us go down to the water and greet our brothers.’
And Rama walked down to the bank, waving to the boat that was now only yards from the shore. As he walked, he cut across Lakshman’s line of fire without once glancing back. With a great sigh of frustration, Lakshman released the tension in the cord carefully, stared at Rama’s back for a moment, then swiftly replaced the arrow and the bow on his rig, leapt down from the mound and went to join Rama. As Sita debated whether to follow them, she felt Guha come up to stand beside her. She smelled the ripe, acrid odour of the forest chieftain’s unwashed furs and the powerful reek of his breath.
Guha spoke from beside her, his voice as gruff and gravelly as a rksa-maa guarding her cubs against human aggressors. ‘It is a strange man you have chosen to spend your life with, Rajkumari Sita. I have lived many years by my own reckoning, and seen many strange sights and met many extraordinary personages, friends as well as foes. Yet I have not met such a man as your Rama Chandra in my whole life.’
‘Yes,’ she said gently and sadly. ‘And I do not think you will meet such a man again.’
She went down to the bank to join Rama and his brothers.
Bharat leapt from the boat, not waiting for it to be pulled ashore. He waded through the shallow muddy shoals, spoiling his silk attire, and as soon as he was on dry land he fell at Rama’s feet.
‘Bhai,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. Forgive us all. Forgive my mother and the witch that corrupted her mind. Forgive my father for acceding to my mother’s ill-thought demands. Return home to Ayodhya with me at once. Regain your place on the sunwood throne. I ask this on behalf of not just our family, the council of ministers, the noble houses of Kosala, the army and the Purana Wafadars of Ayodhya, but also the people, every last one of whom clamours for your return and weeps without ceasing.’
Shatrugan came up beside Bharat, prostrated himself before Rama, and then held out an object covered in a satin cloth banner on which the sigil of House Suryavansha had been embroidered with gold thread. Bharat unwrapped the cloth carefully, then held up the object. It caught the afternoon light and glittered like fire. Sita gasped as she recognised the yard-long jewel-studded wooden staff capped with gold at either end. It was the legendary raj-taru. The royal sceptre of Ayodhya, believed to have been cut by the hands of great Manu Ikshwaku himself, later embellished by his descendants. It was the mark of the true king, handed over to a new maharaja upon his crowning. The Sanskrit word, raj-taru, literally meant ‘king’s rod’.
Bharat held out the raj-taru to Rama.
‘Behold,’ he said, making his gestures large and simple so that the army on the far bank could see what he did even if they could not hear his words. ‘I give the sceptre of our ancestors to my brother, the true king of Ayodhya, Rama Chandra.’
A loud cheer rose from the far bank as the assembled forces applauded Bharat’s gesture.
Bharat waited for Rama to take the sceptre, keeping his head bowed and his knee bent. After a long pause, he grew aware that the raj-taru was still in his hands. The cheering from the far bank died out slowly as the watching host saw that Rama had not taken it.
Bharat looked up at Rama, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘Bhai?’ he said.
Rama gazed down at his brother with an expression of infinite sadness.
‘I cannot take it, Bharat. You know that. I must do as my father said. I must honour his last command. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this grand gesture. You have proved beyond doubt that you are indeed fit to rule Ayodhya. For only a king who does not seek power for his own selfish ends can be a good king. I can say now with full conviction that you will be a wise and just king, a great king. Make our ancestors proud, Bharat. Rule wisely and well. I wish you long life and happiness. Even when I return, fourteen years hence, I will be happy to live as your dependant, safe in the comfort of your just kingship. I ask only that you care well for my mother, for all our mothers, and treat our people with grace and justice. I beg of you now, do not follow me further than this point. If you love me, honour these last words of mine. Let me go into exile as our father promised your mother. Honour him just as I honour him with my implicit unquestioning obedience. To honour our elders and ancestors and live our life in accordance with the precepts of dharma, karma and artha – these are the only things that lie within our power. The rest we must leave to the devas. Go in peace, my brother and my king. Go back to Ayodhya and fulfil your destiny, as I go now to fulfil my own.’
And with those terrible, uncompromising, final words, Rama turned, took his wife’s hand and his brother’s hand, and walked into the forest.
***
It was night when Kausalya heard Bharat return. The rumbling of chariots and thumping of elephants was a familiar sound, one she had grown used to hearing in Ayodhya, but never before had those sounds awakened such hope in her breast. She was waiting at the threshold of the palace, unable to eat or sleep or rest since two nights ago. No heralds had returned to bring word of Bharat or Rama, but she knew that Bharat himself would be riding as fast as any herald could hope to travel, and the lack of news had not worried her. What had worried her was the knowledge she had of her own son. Of his uncompromising adherence to dharma. Yet still she had hoped, prayed, wished. These hopes and prayers and wishes had been her only sustenance since the night of Dasaratha’s passing, the night her entire world had tilted from its axis and spun out of control.
When she saw the gleaming armour-clad lines rolling up Suryavansha Avenue, she caught her breath, her eyes searching keenly for Rama’s familiar crow-black hair, his straight aquiline features, his strong jaw. But she found only Shatrugan’s stricken face riding at the head of the column. He dismounted without any appearance of pride or triumph and came walking to her with rounded shoulders.
‘Maa,’ he cried, falling at her feet in a boneless heap. ‘Maa, I am sorry. We could not do it. We could not bring Rama back.’
Kausalya felt as if the ground had melted beneath her feet and she would fall through into the bowels of the earth itself. Into the arms of Prithvi-maa.
But she had to be strong yet. For so many others, if not herself. For Rama’s sake, and Kosala’s future.
‘Do not fret, my son,’ she said, raising him up gently. ‘You did the best you could.’
He looked up at her with anguish. ‘But I failed, Mother!’
She shook her head gently, fighting back the tears that threatened to rush to her eyes. ‘Nay. It was not you that failed. It was Rama’s dharma that won.’
He was silent, his head lowered. But he seemed to take strength from her acceptance.
She scanned the avenue. The rows of mounted cavalry, elephant and chariot stood silently, their very silence revealing their bitter disappointment. There was not a single raised helmet in those endless rows. Even the elephants kept their trunks straight and low, sensing the mood of their mahouts.
‘Where is your brother Bharat?’ she asked.
Shatrugan looked up, raising his hands to show her. In his arms, she saw, he was clutching two bundles. One was the silk banner in which the royal sceptre was kept. She could not tell what the other bundle was.
‘He has gone to Nandigram,’ Shatrugan said.
‘Nandigram?’ Kausalya knew only that the town was a small, unexceptional place, squalid and rustic to the point of backwardness, totally unlike the rest of prosperous, advanced Kosala. It was notable only for its extremely northern position, on the very tip of the border between Kosala and the northern kingdoms, a rugged and harsh climate adding to the town’s longtime poverty and abjectness. ‘What business did he have in that wretched place?’
‘He has gone there to live,’ Shatrugan said slowly, as if each word was a weight he could no longer carry. ‘He asked me to tell you that this is his decision. If Rama will not rule in Ayodhya, neither will Bharat. He will live at the border
and await Rama’s return from exile. Only when his brother returns home will Bharat re-enter Ayodhya. He has sworn this vow before the rock of Shanideva at Sringaverapura, in the presence of Guha, lord of Nisadas, Pradhan-mantri Sumantra, and myself.’
Kausalya’s head reeled. Bharat, self-exiled to Nandigram? Was there to be no end to the misfortunes that would befall this house?
‘But my son,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice from turning into a wail of protest. ‘Who will rule Ayodhya now? Who will man the sunwood throne for the fourteen years until Rama’s return? The kingdom must have a king, the people a ruler!’
Shatrugan unwrapped the two parcels he was holding. From one he took the raj-taru, gleaming in the light of the mashaals. From the other he took a pair of wooden slippers, cracked and stained with dried mud and grass. ‘These are Rama’s slippers, left behind at Sringaverapura when he departed for Dandakavan with Sita and Lakshman. Bharat has asked that you place them upon the seat of the sunwood throne. Let them symbolise Rama’s true claim to the throne.’
Kausalya took the slippers, her head reeling. They were rough to the touch, yet the first thought that struck her when she felt them was: Rama walks barefoot over the thorns and sharp stones of the forest paths. My Rama, exiled into Dandaka-van. The touch of those rough, mudcaked wooden slippers almost undid her resolve. It took a new surge of determination to keep her from crumpling right there and then.
Shatrugan handed her the gleaming king’s rod. ‘And here is the raj-taru, which Bharat has asked you to hold for Rama.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Maa. For as Rama’s birth-mother, you alone must carry the burden of his absence. You must rule as regent in his stead, until his return. There is no other way to prove Bharat’s honesty to the world and keep peace in the kingdom. With Rama’s slippers upon the seat of the throne, and the raj-taru in your hand, nobody will dare revolt or attack Ayodhya. The army also will obey your every command, for you shall rule in Rama’s own name. Bharat will be in Nandigram to support your governance and will add his seal to anything you present. But this heavy burden you must bear on your own shoulders. Bharat and I have debated much on the way back from Sringaverapura. It is the only way to maintain peace and keep Kosala united until Rama returns to claim his throne.’
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