PRINCE IN EXILE

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  She clutched the mouth of the sack tighter, holding it with both hands.

  Lakshman rose from his seat, frowning. ‘What’s so special about these ber? Are they intended for someone? Or as an offering?’ Foods offered to deities could not be eaten, although a portion, called prasadam, could be taken by the worshippers after being sanctified by a Brahmin priest. Some tribes offered sacrificial offerings of fruit and vegetables in place of the traditional animal balidaans.

  Shabbri shook her head. ‘Nay, my lord, it is not for that reason.’ She continued shaking her head wordlessly.

  Sita put a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. ‘What is it, then, maa? Do not fear to speak openly. We will not forcibly take your ber from you, nor will we coerce you if you do not wish to share it. You may speak your mind.’

  Tears welled up in the old lady’s eyes. ‘You have addressed me as maa, milady. No one has called Shabbri mother since … since … a long time. I will tell you why I cannot offer you my ber, much as I would wish to, but … I will whisper it.’

  She leaned her head closer, speaking just loud enough for Sita to hear, though not the men.

  Sita smiled, nodding in understanding. So, it was that simple.

  She turned to Rama. ‘She has a habit of checking each ber as she plucks it. To see if it’s sweet enough. She likes them very sweet. The ones that are over-ripe or raw she leaves for the bears, she says, who like them that way. She only keeps the sweetest ones in her sack.’

  Rama smiled. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s it. If anything, she would be honoured if she could offer you nourishment. Among her people, to feed a higher caste, especially a lord of some note, as she believes you are, is a great punya.’

  Rama nodded. Punya, or a redeeming act, was the opposite of paap, or sin. ‘That is well and good, but the caste rules do not interest me as much as those very attractive fruit. Shabbrimaa, I would be honoured if you would allow me to eat a few of your ber.’

  ‘Parantu … jhoota!’ Shabbri gasped, unable to comprehend how a person like Rama would deign to eat a low-caste’s once-bitten food.

  Rama smiled. ‘You are like a mother in age to me. I will imagine that my own mother nibbled at them to choose the sweetest ones for my pleasure. May I, maa?’

  He reached out his hand. Shabbri stared at the outstretched hand in a daze. Then, as with a great effort, she raised the sack and handed it to Rama. Rama took it, smiling his thanks, and dug inside. He pulled out a ber. Sita could see the tiny bite-mark on one side where Shabbri had tasted it. Rama put the ber to his mouth and took a bite of it. Juice spilt down his chin. He chewed, closing his eyes.

  ‘Swarga,’ he said. Heavenly.

  Suddenly, Shabbri laughed. And like wax before a flame, her features melted and transformed.

  THIRTEEN

  Sita lurched back in amazement. Lakshman exclaimed and strung his bow, shouting to Rama to step aside.

  The old woman’s face and body rippled like a reflection in a pond over which a wind was blowing. It shimmered in the hazy light of high afternoon, and sparkled briefly, before stabilising into a shimmering white corona.

  Rama stood transfixed, the half-eaten ber in his hand, staring at the apparition that had replaced the old tribal woman. He knew he ought to be drawing his sword and paying heed to Lakshman’s shouts, but he felt no fear or alarm at the supernatural transformation of the outcast. Instead, he felt a great sense of calm and contentment, the kind of feeling he associated as a young boy with lying with his head in his mother’s lap and falling asleep listening to her sing his favourite lullabies. A sense of being protected and safe. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in the past several days; quite the opposite, in fact. And because of this, it suffused his body with a great lethargy.

  The being that stood in the place of the one called Shabbri was also an old woman. Her features were as lined and weathered as Shabbri’s had been, but they were subtly different. This woman seemed nobler somehow, more majestic; though if pressed to describe how, Rama would not have been able to explain it. It would take a kavya to do justice to the fine nuances. But the overall effect was one of great wisdom and power. She was clad all in white, an ascetic’s ang-vastra that wound about her slender frame from shoulder to ankle. Her deeply scored and lined face, white hair, light, almost grey eyes, and parched withered skin all spoke of great austerities endured, sacrifices made, penance paid.

  ‘Namaskar, Rama Chandra,’ she said in a voice that was so light he hardly felt she was speaking - she might have been whispering into his mind itself. ‘Welcome to Dandaka-van.’

  Lakshman moved beside Rama, his bow still held at the ready, the arrow aimed directly at the old woman’s breast. Lakshman’s arm was trembling with anger, or perhaps it was simply fear made rage; for once Rama could not tell. ‘Who are you? Show your true form! Are you a rakshasi? A yaksi? Show your real form, demon!’

  The old woman smiled. ‘I am no rakshasi. I am Anasuya, restorer of the Ganga. You may know me as the wife of Sage Atri, whose hermitage is west of Sage Agastya’s ashram, near the domiciles of the sages Sarabhanga and Sutiksna.’

  Sage Agastya had mentioned to them that Atri and Anasuya and the other sages dwelled nearby, but the way to their ashrams had been some way off their path and they had resolved to visit the sages later.

  That is why I chose to come to you, Rama Chandra. My business with you could not wait.

  Rama spoke quietly to Lakshman. ‘Brother, lower your bow.’

  Lakshman glanced at him sharply, a retort on his tongue, but he saw Rama’s face and held back his words. He lowered the bow slowly. Rama didn’t know if he was relieved that the woman was not an asura, or disappointed. The latter seemed more likely.

  Your brother’s heart is brimming with anger like a cup filled to overflowing. You must guide him in channelling this anger into more productive forms of energy.

  ‘Yes,’ Rama said, then stopped. He looked around, realising that nobody else had spoken aloud. Yet he had heard Anasuya’s voice.

  I speak to your mind directly, for you have opened yourself to receive me so graciously. I may speak thus when something is needed to be said that is not for the ears of others. But now I revert to audible speech.

  ‘I apologise for startling you, Rajkumar Lakshman,’ she said. ‘But when I first sensed your presence in this part of the forest, I could not resist testing the already legendary qualities of yourself, your sister-in-law Sita, and your brother Rama.’

  ‘Testing?’ Sita said dubiously. ‘So that was why you disguised yourself as the low-caste tribal woman?’

  Anasuya smiled. Her smile was like a white sun dawning over dark mountain ridges, bearing gifts of warmth and light and inner illumination. Rama felt the very synapses of his brain speed up and flow more smoothly, as if he might be able to solve the mysteries of the universe as long as he was bathed in the light of that glorious smile. It was akin to the feeling of being taken over by the shakti of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala, but without the more aggressive, warrior-like qualities of that state.

  Lakshman still looked suspicious. ‘Why an outcast? Why that whole charade about not wanting to offend us, and not sharing your ber? What kind of test was that?’

  ‘A necessary test, and one that you all passed with flying colours.’ Anasuya seemed undaunted by Lakshman’s barely concealed hostility. She turned the warmth of her gaze back to Rama, who felt his very toes tingle with energy. ‘Especially you, Rama Chandra. You would eat the half-bitten wildberries of a tribal outcast. Amazing.’

  Rama basked in the glow of her approbation, but felt compelled to speak his mind honestly. ‘Maha-prabha,’ he said, addressing her by the title of Great Light, which seemed appropriate. ‘You praise me overmuch. The varnas, castes and gotras were designed to aid people to work together more productively, especially in the larger cities. To divide up the occupations and enable specialisation and better craftsmanship. Not to divide and distinguish negatively, or to pr
ejudice our perception and treatment of some groups because of their occupations. A given task may be unclean, such as sweeping wetrooms or collecting nightsoil, but that does not make the person himself or herself unclean.’

  Anasuya sighed. A soft wind swept through the bower, rustling fallen leaves around their feet. Lakshman’s eyes flicked this way and that, alert to any deception or subterfuge. ‘A mature and enlightened view, more so for one of your tender age. Sadly, there are many less knowledgeable souls who choose to embrace such biased views. Their numbers increase with each passing decade, I note sadly, suggesting a disturbing trend. And as you know, even one prejudiced mind is one too many. It takes only one rotten berry to spoil the whole sack. Which is why I say your act was not just symbolic, but a great event. You did not simply pass my test today, you passed the test of time itself.’

  She swept on without giving him a chance to protest mildly against this unbridled praise. ‘Not only did you ignore any kind of caste prejudice in your treatment of Shabbri, you also swept aside all class protocol. You are a prince after all, a king in exile. Yet you behaved with that grime-streaked forest forager as if she were a noble person in your father’s court. Truly, you have deserved your growing reputation. And I say this as one who does not offer praise lightly. But let me not embarrass you any further. You have a journey to complete, a house to raise, and a new life to settle down to; I will not cause you to tarry much longer.’

  She reached behind her and drew out a bow and a quiver. At the sight of the weapon, Rama saw Lakshman tense instantly, his hand flying to the arrow he still held loosely on the cord. Rama’s hand touched his brother’s shoulder, and Lakshman relaxed again, reluctantly.

  Anasuya held out the bow. ‘Take this, Rama. As you can see, it is decorated with gold and jewels and constructed unlike any ordinary bow. It belonged to Vishnu, and was made for him by Vishwakarma, builder, smith and forger of the devas. It is my husband Atri’s wish that I give it to you.’

  Rama joined his hands. ‘Maha-prabha, Anasuya, I cannot accept such a divine gift. This bow is beyond value. I have not done anything to deserve its ownership.’

  She shook her head. ‘Still you deny your achievements? You are much too humble for your own good, Rama. Be honest, if not vain! You have already been given one bow of Vishnu, by the Brahmin Parsurama, which you neglected to carry with you into exile, choosing only ordinary weapons that would befit any Kshatriya in your father’s army.’

  ‘The terms of my exile were clear, Maha-prabha. I was to take no personal possessions. These weapons are indeed the regular issue from the palace armoury. Under Kshatriya law it is permissible for me to bear them as an essential means of self-defence.’

  She chuckled softly. ‘Even now you explain law to me?

  Do not feel it necessary to justify your every act, Rama. You are already the epitome of dharma. The Bow of Vishnu you were given vanished from the palace the instant you exited Ayodhya, for it was meant only for your use. This bow I now hand to you is the very same one, for such celestial weapons exist outside of time and space as mortals understand these concepts. Take it this time, for it is given to you after you have entered exile, and there is no law against that.’

  Still Rama hesitated, not reaching out for the jewelled bow.

  She sighed. ‘You still believe in your heart that you have not earned the right to bear this bow, am I right? Then know this, Rama. You will earn the right very shortly. Do not think I give the bow to you out of the goodness of my heart alone! It will serve you well in the dark days that lie ahead. For you have a mission to fulfil and you require this bow in order to fulfil that mission.’

  ‘Mission?’ Sita stepped forward, her hands joined respectfully but her face troubled. ‘What mission do you speak of, maa?’

  Anasuya smiled at Sita. ‘The fulfilment of his dharma.’

  Sita’s face cleared at once. ‘Maa,’ she said simply, bowing her head. That effulgent smile had worked its magic on her as well. Yet even beneath the beatific expression that wreathed Sita’s face as Anasuya turned her smile upon her, Rama saw the anxiety writhing.

  She is gravely troubled, Rama. There has been too much violence done in too short a time. She fears that you will meet the inevitable consequence of all those who live by violence. You know what it is I speak of.

  Yes, I do. Rama found himself answering as simply as thinking the words. I do not know how to appease her fears.

  Then do not appease them.

  Rama was surprised.

  You do not engage in violence for its own sake, or to meet your own ends. You do so to serve dharma. Either she understands and accepts that, or she does not. That is her choice to make, her briar crown to wear. Not yours. Do you follow my meaning?

  Rama nodded. ‘For dharma then,’ he said, reaching out.

  Anasuya handed him the bow. It felt unbearably heavy at first, as if it would drag him to the ground and lie there immovably, like an elephant’s anchor-weight. But the instant he held it in both hands, it felt just like any ordinary bow. A little lighter, if anything. Not very different from the bow he already wore on his back, except that the angle of the curve was different, and the wood was an unfamiliar grain, one that he had never seen before.

  Indeed, for the tree is not of this plane. That is why it will not bear any ordinary arrow to touch it.

  ‘But then … ‘

  Anasuya held out an arrow. He did not know where she had got it from, but when he looked up after examining the bow it was in her hand, offered to him. He took it without argument. It gleamed like gold, and felt as heavy as if it were made of the metal. Then, like the bow, it seemed to change its quality and felt almost like any ordinary arrow. Almost, but not quite.

  ‘This arrow belonged to Lord Shiva. It is not a magical arrow in the usual sense of the word. But it possesses abilities.’

  ‘Abilities,’ Rama repeated. The arrow was of a different woodgrain from the bow. It felt too thick to be fast enough or effective across long distances.

  ‘Do not be deceived by its appearance. It has the ability to be whatever you wish it to be. You have but to will it. It takes its power from two things: the mind of its wielder and that of its target. An evil man cannot use it against a good man. Nor can a good man use it in a wrong cause. But to a good man who uses it in a just cause, Rama, it will do whatever you will it to do.’

  ‘Whatever I will it?’ Rama looked uncertainly at the arrow. It did not seem all that special, now that he had held it for a few moments. But when he had first touched it, while still in Anasuya’s hands …

  ‘Just so. If you will it to be a dozen arrows flying simultaneously to a dozen different targets, it will do exactly that. Or to fly across a great distance to strike a single minute target - so long as you can spy that target with your naked eye. After it has accomplished its task, it will disappear from the target and reappear within your quiver. You need only wait as long as it takes to reach one target before firing it again at another, and you shall never want for more arrows.’

  Lakshman looked at the arrow with great interest. Anasuya’s gifts had dispelled his last doubts and he was listening and watching the proceedings keenly. Rama hoped that she would have a gift for Lakshman as well. He doubted whether this bow and arrow was usable by anyone beside himself.

  Not for him. For he must learn the lesson of self-control first. He is too eager to embrace violence, to take lives. Your example will keep him from straying off the path of dharma, Rama. But I do have gifts for your wife.

  Anasuya handed Sita a shimmering garment woven from fine shining filament, a necklace, bangles, earrings, and other feminine ornaments, all cast in white gold as pristine as Anasuya herself. Sita accepted the gifts with a beatific expression on her face. Rama sensed the unspoken communication that passed between the two.

  Then Anasuya returned her attention to Rama. She is blessed to have you for a husband, Rama.

  And I am blessed to have her for my wife. Aloud he said, ‘
Blessed are we to receive such great gifts, my lady. Yet tell us if you will, what is this mission you wish us to undertake?’

  ‘Not I. I would wish you only a decade and four years of peaceful exile and blissful harmony. It is not my mission, and I only come here to give you these gifts and a warning.’

  ‘A warning?’ Lakshman asked, frowning.

  ‘Yes. You are on your way to Chitrakut, are you not?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sita said, clutching her gifts to her chest. Her voice sounded less anxious than before, but Rama caught the stress that she was trying hard not to reveal. ‘That is a good place to build our home, is it not? The sage Agastya—’

  ‘Advised you wisely. Chitrakut is a peaceful hill, and you will find much happiness there. But the place to the south of the hill, the plainsland that the ancients named Panchvati … ‘

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You would do well not to venture there. Whatever the temptation.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lakshman’s tone was more curious than concerned. He was challenged by the warning. ‘Are there demons there? We can fight demons, can we not, Rama? We do not fear them.’

  Anasuya’s corona of white light shimmered reddish for a moment. Then she continued in a quiet tone: ‘There are worse things than demons in this world, young Lakshman. You would do well to remember that not all battles can be fought with the skill of arms.’

  ‘But the Bow of Vishnu, the Arrow of Shiva?’ Lakshman asked, his eyes bright, his chin raised defiantly. ‘Why would you give us these if not for a battle?’

  Rama was about to admonish his brother, when Anasuya responded: ‘The weapons are for your defence. They are not meant to be used to start violence, only to defend yourself against any violence that may be directed at you.’

  Lakshman shook his head, irritated. ‘What is the difference? Sometimes one has to strike first in order to defend oneself against a stronger, stealthier foe. Asuras do not ask politely before starting a fight!’