Rama looked at him, his eyes softer now. ‘When did I say I did not want you? That was never the issue.’
‘Then I can come with you?’
Rama sighed. He was caught now, between brotherly love and dharmic duty. ‘You do not intend to follow your dharma then?’
‘Of course I do.’
Rama blinked. ‘But then … ‘
‘My dharma is to stay beside you, Rama. Always. No matter what happens, this one thing will always be true. Lakshman will stay beside Rama for ever.’
‘But what about our mothers? Ayodhya? Your responsibility to the people?’
Lakshman spread his palms. ‘I serve them all by serving you.’
Rama stared at him.
Lakshman put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘To you, Rama, the people will always come first. Even before our mothers, even before me, or Sita … That is why you are Rama.’ He shrugged. ‘And to me, you always come first. Do you see now? You serve dharma, and in doing so you serve the people of Ayodhya. I serve you, and in doing so I serve my dharma, which is you. Rama is Lakshman’s dharma.’
Rama stared at him. Then, overcome by emotion, he embraced Lakshman tightly, fiercely. Lakshman embraced him back, just as fiercely. Behind them, the dawn broke quietly.
Rama finally ended the embrace. He gestured towards the shrubbery into which he had seen the bird fall. ‘Now, my brother, I think we should go fetch the gifts you captured for Guha before some other predator takes them and has them for breakfast!’
Neither of them noticed the pair of eyes watching them intently from the shadows of the nearby thicket as they walked back to their camp, carrying four fat geese slung over their shoulders, talking and chatting amicably. That was not surprising in itself; even the most cautious of hunters would hardly bother with a mere doe skulking shyly. But when the doe transformed a moment later, changing in the same muscle-wrenching, bone-reshaping manner as the famed shapeshifters of her mother’s race, the yaksas, were wont to do, it was well that neither brother was within sight. For they would have certainly been on their guard against the formidable creature that now stood in the thicket, her half-rakshasi, half-yaksi form terrifying enough to send the squirrels scurrying up the branches of the highest trees to be well away from her.
Supanakha sighed, stretching her limbs, cracking her joints with relief. It was convenient to take the form of a doe for the ease with which it allowed her to follow Rama and observe him from the closest quarters. Even at the moments when she had been seen by him, or merely sensed, she could be bold in her proximity, safe in the knowledge that he would take no offence at her presence or her watchfulness. But it was hell on her body when sustained over long periods of time. This was the longest she had stayed without changing: all the way from Ayodhya, where she had caught Rama’s scent within moments of him leaving the city, up to here. Usually she tried to change back into her natural rakshasi form - or yaksi-rakshasi form, if you preferred - with each phase of the sun. It gave her some respite.
Still, she mused as she teased out the more painful cramps in her powerful muscles and tendons, it had been worth it. She had learned so much just by being close and listening carefully. So cousin Ravana’s plan had been successful, in part at least. Though he had not succeeded in the invasion, his little scheme within Ayodhya had borne poisonous fruit. Rama was exiled. Ravana would have been in a paroxysm of joy had he but known. But alas, Ravana was no longer in a position to feel anything any longer, neither joy nor sorrow. If her understanding of the situation was correct, Vibhisena’s attempt to free his brother, and her cousin, from the Brahman stone cage had not been entirely successful. Which suited her just fine. She had begun stalking Rama on Ravana’s orders. But her pursuit of the mortal had continued purely because of her own growing affection for him. And now fate had turned things to her advantage, with Ravana no longer in a position to order her around, or penalise her for deviating from his elaborate plan. And with Rama exiled and en route to Dandaka-van. Supanakha had wanted to cry out with sheer joy when she had understood that much. Conversely, she had pouted when she realised that Rama’s new wife -wife! - would indeed stay the course with her husband, as would his brother. She could have done without their tagging along, frankly. It was only Rama she had eyes for. Her Rama. Not that mortal hussy’s!
But that little inconvenience could easily be removed. Once within the Dandaka-van proper, so much could happen. Rama and Lakshman had no notion what they were about to face in a short while. Or how easy it would be to dispense with that meddlesome brother and that worthless wife once within the environs of the forest of exile.
She licked her lips, imagining how she would relish the moment when Lakshman and Sita were killed and removed from her path, and Rama was alone, completely alone. Hers for the taking. How she would finally bare her heart to him, and win his heart in return. Theirs would be a match made by the devas themselves! And what a wedding dowry she had to gift unto Rama. He had no conception of what was in store for him. Soon … very soon.
She finished licking herself, in the manner of the jungle felines with whom she shared more than a few affinities, and debated whether to continue following her beloved for just a little while longer. No, she shook her large head regretfully, slobber dripping from her open jaws. She had to make sure she reached Dandakavan before they did, and they did not seem inclined to tarry much longer now. She would have to cut across the woods, and even then she still had to ferret out her brothers Khara and Dushana. They might be anywhere within Dandaka-van. Their division, and the rakshasas that had followed them, had been delayed in Lanka itself when their ship had been forced to turn back because of a run on an undersea reef; which had resulted in their leaving just after the Brahm-astra had struck and decimated the rest of the invading asura forces. Upon landing on the south-eastern shores of the sub-continent, they had taken refuge in the Dandaka-van, an old bolthole of rakshasas, and waited there even now, leaderless and missionless.
Except that now she had a mission for them. One so simple to fulfil that it was almost laughable. She had no doubt that Khara would laugh when she told him what she wanted him and his rakshasas to do. Dushana might listen more sympathetically; he had always been her favourite brother out of the litter of twenty-four in which she had been born. But she would convince them using whatever argument was needed. And with their help she would gain Rama for herself. And once Rama understood the magnificent genius of her plan … !
She roared her joy and anticipation aloud, forgetting for a moment that she was in enemy territory.
The sound echoed for miles around, making every Nisada within earshot cringe. Then, with a great leap, she bounded away through the thicket, heading southwards, towards Dandaka-van. Each lunging step carried her closer to her ultimate goal. Rama!
SEVEN
They reached the hermitage of the sage Agastya around noon.
The chief had wept when he took his leave of them, at the banks of the Jamuna. He had rowed them across in one of his own boats, eschewing the help of his many aides to perform this last service with his own hands. The crossing was conducted in utter silence, the rising sun only just over the horizon warming their backs. Arriving on the far side, he had grounded the boat then fallen at their feet, weeping. Rama had raised him up and embraced him. There were few words spoken. Everything of consequence had already been discussed before they had broken camp by the Nyagrodha tree. Lakshman had cut a vein in the Nyagrodha’s trunk and collected the sap. As they used the sticky sap to mat their hair into the coiled fashion of forest hermits, Guha had made one last attempt to sway Rama’s mind.
The chief had again extended his invitation to the princes and Sita to stay with him and rule alongside him, and had been rejected, gently but firmly, yet again. This time, Lakshman had not supported him. Then Guha had offered to send a considerable number of his best and bravest warriors, both men and women, into the Dandaka-van with them, for their protection, and that had been refused as well,
just as firmly and gently. Finally, when all overtures were rebuffed and nothing else remained but to take their leave, Guha had shaken his head and taken a feather from his chief’s turban. The feather Rama had accepted, as a token of his brotherhood and as a sign of the alliance between their nations. Then they had left on foot, arriving at the Jamuna very shortly after, for the place where they had camped was almost at the verge of the river. On the far side, they had entered the valley of the Jamuna and proceeded at a brisk pace, following the directions Guha had given them towards the sage Agastya’s hermitage.
The journey was not unpleasant. The countryside was beautiful, the new spring growth decorating everything in sight with colours as bright as the plumage of a peacock. They passed ponds overgrown with lotus creepers, went by groves with swans preening, walked through thickets filled with newly flowering trees, brooks bubbling quietly in their shade.
Their route took them almost parallel to the Jamuna itself, and at one point they heard the lowing of buffaloes and saw a large herd bathing in the rushing waters. One enormous bull stood half immersed in the river, facing upstream. The water struck him and fanned out like glittering plumage in the morning sun. Lakshman pointed the sight out to Rama and Sita, and Sita laughed in amazement. They passed a thickly shaded grove filled with a deafening buzzing. Looking up, they saw at least a dozen visible beehives, each as large as one of the buffaloes they had just passed, suspended from the thick branches of vanash trees. The full cluster of pendulous hives must have housed crores of bees, all told. The air swarmed with their busy activity. Rama shushed his companions to silence, leading them quietly through the grove. Bees buzzed curiously around their faces, some settling on Rama’s bare neck and back, one daring to explore Lakshman’s face. When two settled on Sita’s cheek, she held her breath inadvertently, afraid that they might enter her mouth. She could smell the faint aroma of lotus on the bees - they did love to feed on lotus nectar. When they had passed through the grove and the bees flew away, no longer interested, she gasped in relief, pausing to refill her depleted lungs. She continued rubbing her face where the bees had settled for several minutes afterwards, eliciting amused laughter from both boys.
As the morning wore on, they laughed a little less and talked almost not at all. It was difficult to forget that they were not embarked on a pleasure trip. At the end of their road lay a place that no sane Arya would want to visit, by choice or compulsion. After a while, the path through the woods grew more placid and devoid of natural distractions, and their journey more mechanical and duty-bound.
The sun was directly overhead when the path widened. They could hear the sounds of human habitation from up ahead; more specifically, the typical sounds of a gurukul. The unmistakable rote-chanting of brahmacharya acolytes reciting the day’s slokas over and over dominated all other sounds. A drum was being beaten monotonously, as if by an acolyte who was being trained to master the four-by-four beat to which all Arya rituals were performed - except that the drummer seemed to resent his task, or perhaps it was a punishment, for the count tended to slow down gradually, then suddenly pick up again, as if the acolyte had been corrected sharply, then gradually dwindle to a slower count again … It made Rama smile, remembering similar punishments meted out to fellow pupils in his time.
They reached a fork in the path. One well-trodden way led down to the river, the mud of the path as well as the bushes on either side dampened by water spilled while being carried back to the camp; the other way led right, growing wider as they went. Rama expected the path to widen into the usual large clearing with a cluster of thatched huts, the template for any number of similar gurukuls across the Arya nations.
Instead, the path widened but led to a pair of high bamboo gates, barred shut.
They stopped, Lakshman and Rama exchanging glances. It was hardly customary for forest hermitages to build gated settlements. They examined the shrubbery on either side of the gates - a bamboo wall, each pole sharpened to a point at the top, wound its way in a roughly circular shape. The wall and the gates were noticeably high, at least fifteen feet. The brothers exchanged another knowing glance. The height of the walls told them two things. One, these walls were intended to keep more than human predators out. Two, the brahmacharyas of this kul had gone to great trouble to fortify their habitat. Rama touched the bamboo wall, made up of poles as wide as his fist, tightly lashed together with strong vines. Yes, a great deal of trouble.
Sita voiced what they were both thinking.
‘Why would a sage fortify his ashram?’
It was a good question. One that demanded a satisfactory answer. And there was only one way to learn that answer. Rama nodded once to Lakshman.
Lakshman called out, loud enough for his voice to carry over the bamboo gates - and over the rote-chanting of the acolytes within the compound.
‘Namaskar to you within the ashram Chitrakut! We come in peace to take the blessings of the great sage Agastya. Pray, permit us entry within your ashram!’
The first thing to stop was the drumming. The drummer struck one much louder stroke, then went silent. Rama could almost picture the boy standing there wide-eyed in his dhoti, the weighted stick in his fist, staring. The rote-chanting continued for a half-sloka, then tapered off, one of the reciters stubbornly persisting to the end of the sloka before stopping. Now there was a true rishi in the making.
After a pause, in which Rama could discern much hushed whispering, a voice called back, ‘All who seek the sage’s blessings are twice blessed. We shall open our gates to you in just a moment. Before we do so, strangers, in the name of Brahma the Almighty Creator, we humbly request you to identify yourselves.’
Lakshman replied, ‘We are three travellers from distant Ayodhya. Our names are Rama, Lakshman, and Sita.’
There was a great flurry of consternation within the settlement. Then the sound of distant cries and shouts of excitement, these last issued by very young throats, and the gates flew open, followed by a belated warning: ‘Take care. The gates … ‘
‘ … open outwards!’ Lakshman finished, leaping back nimbly. Rama and Sita were standing far enough back to avoid the swinging gates.
A horde of excited, wide-eyed young brahmacharyas were clustered at the entrance to the settlement, staring out. They looked much the same as young acolytes anywhere else: pates shaven clean except for a single lock of hair which was allowed to grow into a low chotti that was oiled and braided; upper bodies bare on most, except for a few older boys, who wore woven-hemp ang-vastras, lower bodies clothed in either bare functional langots or rough cloth. They were of all ages, from seven upwards to Rama’s and Lakshman’s own age. One older brahmacharya, his chotti almost entirely white with age, stood with a large staff, trying to quieten them down. Rama guessed that he was the person who had spoken to them before ordering the gates opened.
As Lakshman stepped forward, issuing introductions, several of the young brahmacharyas gasped and pointed. Clearly their reputations had preceded them, even in this remote corner.
‘Greetings, namaskar, well met in the light of Brahman,’ Lakshman said with a flourish. ‘I am Sumitra-putra Lakshman. This is my brother Kausalya-putra Rama Chandra. And his wife Sita Janaki, formerly of Mithila.’
‘Rajkumars!’ The word was shouted from somewhere in the back of the cluster of younger brahmacharyas, causing the others to blush and giggle in embarrassment. ‘You are princes of Ayodhya!’
Lakshman cocked his head, playfully pretending to contemplate the statement. ‘Well, yes. My brother and I are princes of Ayodhya. You are well informed in that respect, young sir. However, my sister-in-law would be more accurately referred to as a princess, if you please.’
That brought a great burst of laughter.
The elder brahmacharya stepped forward, shushing the crowd sternly. ‘Shantam! Shantam! Is this how you treat royal visitors? Standing here and giggling like a gaggle of geese? Go and fetch the arghya implements! Quickly! And move aside. Make way for our honoured
guests to enter the ashram!’
He greeted Rama and his companions with a namaskar and a deep bow. ‘Su-swagatam, my lords, my lady. I apologise for the frivolous words. Our young acolytes are unaccustomed to such princely visits. We are a humble kul, isolated and detached from the glamour of city living.’
‘No apologies are needed, rishi-dev,’ Rama said. ‘We are grateful to you for permitting us entry. It is our honour to be able to visit the famous hermitage of Maharishi Agastya.’
Another commotion ensued from within the compound. A larger group of brahmacharyas were approaching the gate. These sadhus were much older than the ones around the gate, several with grey hair matted in the style of ascetics - the same style in which Rama and Lakshman and Sita now wore their own hair, piled in coils atop their heads. Leading them was a gaunt, large-framed man with a complexion almost as dark as Rama’s, striking features, and an aura of great spiritual power. Undoubtedly Sage Agastya. Like all sages, he had shed his true name and family links the day he entered a life of spiritual penance. His name, the title by which he was thenceforth to be known, had been chosen by his gurus, based on his own intrinsic qualities. The name Agastya commanded respect and admiration. In keeping with his name, Agastya was truly august in every sense of the word; he approached with a dignity that transformed his simple walk across the ashram compound into a royal reception.
‘Sadhu, sadhu,’ he said, greeting the visitors with a smile. ‘This is a great honour. Today a great follower of dharma graces Chitrakut ashram with his presence. Join me in greeting the legend-in-his-time Rama Chandra, heir to the throne of Ayodhya. Jai Shri Ram.’
Every single brahmacharya, all twenty score of them, said in perfect unison, ‘Jai Shri Ram!’
‘Om Shanti Shanti Shanti!’ chanted the senior rishis, sprinkling Rama, Lakshman and Sita with sacred Ganga water, as Sage Agastya himself bent to wash their feet in the arghya ritual. More ritual words were said, slokas recited, and the various spiritual obligations fulfilled.
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