TWO
At the first sight of King Sugreeva, Rama was sorely reminded of his father. Not in features or aspect. Sugreeva was a vanar and his furry pelt, long limbs, stooped back, and his tail left no doubt about that. But there was a sense of gravitas about him that was distinctly regal. An aspect that Rama had seen on the faces of many kings, both in person as well as in the larger than life portraits on the walls of Suryavansha Hall. A look about the eyes that suggested that they had witnessed more things than any one person ought to see in a single lifetime. A sombreness in the lines of the face that suggested much deep thinking and difficult decision-making. And overlaying it all, a particular look that developed over time and linked all those disparate kings across the ages—and in this case, across species as well.
What was that line his mother had once quoted to him, written by her favourite poet? ‘I have seen the souls of men grow older than their faces.’ No, it was not his mother who had said that line, he recalled now as he greeted Sugreeva with all the usual formalities, it was Guru Vashishta. Over eight hundred years spent serving dozens of generations of Ayodhyan maharajas, the sage had certainly seen every facet of kingship displayed on that great royal dais. Looking at Sugreeva, Rama felt he might as well be looking at his own father’s visage, aged beyond his years by the weight of his responsibilities and decisions.
The vanars completed the ritual formalities, which were not very different from those of mortals, except for a little business involving raising one’s tail. As fellow princes, Rama and Lakshman would not have been expected to bow or prostrate themselves before a king—unless they desired to do so for some specific reason—and it was not required of them here as well, it seemed. If anything, he got the impression that the vanars deferred to Lakshman and him rather than the other way round.
He glanced around at the assembly that surrounded them, in the shade of a massive peepal tree. There were perhaps twenty-five vanars around them in a rough semicircle, with Sugreeva at the head, his back to the tree trunk, Rama and Lakshman directly before him, and Hanuman standing to one side. There was utter silence on the mountaintop, something Rama would not have believed possible under the circumstances. By his very rough estimate, there were some thousands of vanars watching them from every tree branch and rock in view. Yet such was their respect for their king, that not one of those watching made a single sound. Not so much as a dry leaf accidentally rustled.
Coming up the mountainside, led by Hanuman, who had escorted them with such great pride that Rama suspected had he had the necessary resources at his disposal, Hanuman would have provided a full welcoming parade, complete with trumpeteers and acrobats, Rama and Lakshman had been amazed at the sheer prolificity of the vanars. The very excitement rippling through the hordes of goggle-eyed vanars that had watched them from every treetop the entire way, several leaping from tree to tree to follow their progress up the mountain, had been welcome enough. Their open-hearted inquisitiveness, devoid of any suspicion or hostility, was also unusual. It was, he mused, not unlike entering a realm occupied by only children, wide-eyed, innocent of fear or malice. Even amongst the high-ranking vanars ranged around the king Sugreeva now, he could see that curiosity far outweighed their futile attempts to present the dignified detachment that was becoming under the circumstances. Several of the king’s companions were gazing at him and Lakshman with frank interest. Something about their aspect and the intensity of their faces suggested to Rama that they were all military commanders, generals with a lifetime of training and self-discipline, rather than the ministers and nobles one usually found collected around a liege. Were they having a war council, he wondered. It would seem so.
Only one vanar he could not easily place. He was much too young to be a commander or general, quite clearly the youngest of the whole group. A vanar with striking features and a strong body, he was staring straight at Rama with an aspect that bordered on sullen insolence. Rama met his eyes calmly, allowing himself the smallest nod of greeting. The vanar blinked, as if disarmed by Rama’s eye contact, glanced down briefly, then looked up again, hesitantly, his sullen expression a little less defiant. A prince then, Rama guessed. Not an altogether bad one, just a tad distrustful. Then again, which prince wouldn’t be distrustful after being exiled by his own uncle. Rama felt certain that this was Prince Angad, son of Sugreeva, whom Hanuman had mentioned at their first encounter.
King Sugreeva finished conferring with the three or four older vanars who had been whispering into his ears. He raised a gold-ringed paw, commanding silence. One of the elders tried to add something, but was cut off by another warning gesture.
The vanar king rose to his feet, and with him, the twenty-odd seated vanars also assumed their feet. With a visible effort, the king straightened his back slowly, with a stiff, unnatural grimace that betrayed the effort required to achieve the upright posture. The other vanars followed their liege’s example, the older ones going through visible pain to straighten their naturally curved spines. Rama understood at once that this was the vanar way of showing respect to an honoured guest: the equivalent of a human bow.
The straightest of them all, he noted, was Hanuman, standing to Rama’s right. Their vanar friend held his back ramrod straight, with no sign of strain. Even as King Sugreeva relaxed his posture and the other vanars followed suit with visible relief, Hanuman retained his upright posture. Rama caught a glimpse of the young intense-looking vanar shooting a sharp glance at Hanuman, as if resenting the way he was showing off by maintaining his man-like posture for so long. Hanuman seemed not to notice; he remained frozen in his attitude of upright supplication as if lost in the moment.
Into the ensuing silence, the vanar king spoke slowly, in a measured neutral voice that betrayed no emotion.
‘Welcome to Kiskindha, Kausalya-putra Rama Chandra and Sumitra-putra Lakshmana. Your arrival here is unexpected yet not unwelcome. I regret that I cannot offer you the hospitality of my palace in Pampakshetra or even so much as a roof over your heads, but my circumstances are reduced from their former luxury to this present state of privation. Yet, whatever few comforts we possess are yours for the having, for the duration of your stay here. Our only request, humbly made in your own best interests, is that you partake of your refreshment and rest and continue your passage at the earliest. For the time you have chosen to take passage through Kiskindha is not the best suited for travels through our kingdom. As a friend and well-wisher, I would strongly advise you to turn back at once and return beyond the redmist ranges, to the aranya from whence you came. In a few days, this kingdom will be racked by a terrible civil war. I would not wish that you get caught up in this conflict.’
Rama replied politely, more warmly than Sugreeva. ‘Thank you for your kind invitation, my lord. My brother and I are not unfamiliar with matters of war and strife.’ He indicated Hanuman. ‘Perhaps our mutual friend, young Anjaneya here, has given you some account of our experiences in the aranya called Dandaka.’
At this, the young intense vanar beside Sugreeva glanced sharply at Rama, then at Hanuman. He took a step to his right and spoke briefly into the king’s ear. Sugreeva nodded.
‘Indeed, Prince Rama, young Hanuman here has brought us word of your exploits from time to time. He has told us all about your troubles with the rakshasas. He has given us elaborate, stirring accounts of your wars and battles, and your great valour in every one of those encounters. He has also told us something of your personal history, which he gathered, I assume, from eavesdropping on conversations amongst your people. You will, I am sure, forgive him for surreptitiously trespassing upon your privacy thus. He is a scout and as such, it is his duty to keep us informed of all martial activities in this part of the world.’
At the mention of his name, first by the honoured guest then by his king, Hanuman’s posture seemed to grow even straighter, if such a thing was possible. The pinkish twinges of a blush began spreading from his protruding mouth down to his neck and the top of his bare chest.
&
nbsp; ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Rama said. ‘Our spasas do far more to gather intelligence. They mingle with foreign peoples and even impersonate them, thereby gaining their trust and learning far more than they could by simply eavesdropping. It is considered acceptable in the interests of maintaining peace.’
Sugreeva raised an eyebrow. ‘An interesting concept. Spasas, you say? I have not come across the word before.’
‘Spies,’ said the young vanar whom Rama was certain was Prince Angad. He spat out the diminutive as if it wasn’t fit to be held in his mouth an instant longer. ‘Infiltrators who will stoop at nothing to get information.’ He addressed the king but his words were directed at Rama, his tone containing an oblique challenge. ‘I have heard they even commit adultery and murder to conceal their false identities.’
The look of aggrievement on Sugreeva’s face was also achingly familiar. Rama recognised it at once as the face of a royal father confronted by his overly aggressive son. ‘The ways of mortals are not our ways, Angad. It is not meet for either of our species to judge one another based on our individual codes of dharma. Besides,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘the mortals have been pressed into waging long and terrible conflicts with the asura races. Such prolonged hostilities can give rise to actions that may seem immoral to an outsider. War compels people to do strange things, not all good.’
He glanced around at his council as if sending them a silent message. From the way several of them looked down or away, it was evident that their opinion and their king’s differed on the subject of war. Rama took that as his cue.
‘King Sugreeva speaks wisely,’ Rama said, addressing all at large. He heard a strange rustling sound, not unlike a wind passing through dry trees in summer, even though there was no wind right now. He knew what it meant. Their words were being conveyed across the mountainside by a chain of whispers, as would be done in any Arya sabha hall during a public conference. ‘My father always said that war was the last resort of desperate minds, and the first refuge of foolish ones.’
Prince Angad bristled as if the comment had been directed at him personally. He replied with a snarl in his voice. ‘Yet your father, Maharaja Dasaratha of Ayodhya, fought more wars than any mortal king in recent times, I have heard. Is that not true?’
‘It certainly is,’ Rama replied calmly. ‘That is why he was so well qualified to speak on the subject.’
Angad was about to respond to that with a remark that Rama suspected would be at least as caustic as the look that came over his face, but King Sugreeva stopped him by raising his hand and tail both at once. This time, Rama noted, the raising of the tail was a show of authority rather than respect. Or perhaps it was always a show of authority. He would have to find out by asking Hanuman later.
‘You will excuse Prince Angad,’ Sugreeva said in a voice that seemed sadder than the brief altercation warranted. ‘He has passionate views on the subject of war.’
‘Not war in general, Father,’ Angad said with a look of exasperation. ‘This war. Our war.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sugreeva said, looking dismayed by Angad’s outburst. ‘But let us not trouble our visitors by debating it now, shall we? Hanuman’s friends have come here for a reason, I am sure, and it would only be fair to hear them out first.’
Angad’s tail twitched in a very unique manner, flicking from one side to the other and back, the tip curled tightly into a ball. Rama suspected it was the vanar equivalent of a hand flailing out, or a foot stamping down. ‘But that’s the whole point, Father. Why are we entertaining guests when our whole future is at stake? Is this the time to be wasting our time on mortals and their problems? Have we not problems enough of our own? Let Hanuman take his friends and play with them if he likes, why should we waste our time listening to their problems?’
‘Enough!’
Sugreeva’s voice was a whipcrack on the back of a mule. It lashed out, slicing through the quiet morning. At that instant, the vanar king’s face hardened into an aspect of authority so immutable that even Angad stepped aback, reverting to a half-crouch instinctively. A startled vanar or two in the trees around chittered in fright but subsided almost at once. Sugreeva rose upon his lower limbs, straightening his own back and drawing himself up to his full size. Presented thus, he was an imposing sight, and Rama felt the hackles on the back of his neck and hands rise as he saw the resemblance to his own father. Yes, this was a king first, and a father second. He would tolerate opinion and advice from his own son, but not insolence and questioning of his authority. Rama had been on the receiving end of such a whiplash once in his life, and that once had been enough. As he recalled how he had felt at that moment, his heart went out to Angad.
‘We will hear the visitors first, then resume our council later,’ Sugreeva said in a quiet, iron-hard voice that left no room for response or argument. Angad lowered his head at once, keeping his eyes as well as his tail down. There was no show of rebellion or petulance in the young prince, which was admirable in itself. Only a faint trembling in his right upper limb betrayed his emotions. He was not happy at being admonished but he would not rebuke his father.
Good boy. Whatever your differences, always remember that he is a king before he is a father. It is the lot of all kings everywhere. Their raj-dharma, the royal dharma of a sovereign liege. Someday, you too will bear that heavy burden. Perhaps then you will begin to understand it.
Rama hesitated. ‘King Sugreeva,’ he said. ‘If I may speak?’
Sugreeva made a tail-flicking gesture instinctively, then, when Rama did not respond, added in spoken words: ‘Please.’
‘I know that what I am about to say is not my concern. But I sense that the matter that troubles the minds of your people is of grave importance and urgency. I agree with Prince Angad in that a king’s dharma compels him to see to the needs of his own kingdom and people even at the cost of hospitality to visitors. Our mutual friend Hanuman has apprised me earlier of your difficulties and the civil war that remains the only viable option left to you. But I also see that, like all good kings, you abhor the notion of waging war against your own people. What king would spill his own people’s blood in the name of ruling them? How can a king rule a kingdom if he himself attacks that kingdom?’
Sugreeva was looking at Rama with an expression that was somehow sharp as well as revealing. ‘Go on, Rama. Your words intrigue me. It has been a long time since anyone spoke so directly to my heart’s concerns. Speak your mind freely.’
Rama drew a deep breath and chose his words carefully. ‘My lord Sugreeva, there may be a way in which you can accomplish your purpose without resorting to war.’
Sugreeva leaned forward, his face inscrutable. ‘How?’
Rama glanced briefly at Lakshman, and at Hanuman. Both of them seemed as intrigued as Sugreeva. The other members of the vanar council were also watching Rama with open curiosity. Only Angad kept his head lowered glumly. But Rama sensed that he was listening intently as well. How could he not? Rama was speaking his heart’s concerns as well.
‘If you will accept my assistance, I will go to Kiskindha, challenge the usurper Vali to single combat and kill him for you.’
THREE
In any mortal court, chaos would have broken out after Rama’s words. Here, there was silence so dense, Rama could hear his own heart pounding in his chest. Somewhere down the mountainside, a young vanar issued a resounding ‘Cheeka’, followed by a chorus of admonishing chitters, then the morning fell silent once more. Overhead the sun grew stronger, shattered shafts of light finding their way in through gaps to warm Rama’s shoulders and the nape of his neck. The heat felt good. He had been too cold these past few days, too cold. The air smelled of oranges and thyme, and the distinctive, not entirely unpleasant, odour of vanar fur. He felt the eyes of a thousand vanars upon him, measuring, gauging, studying, and felt their fascination and shock at his bold proposition. He waited for King Sugreeva’s response.
The vanar king was looking at Rama. He had not taken his eyes off
him nor blinked since Rama’s extraordinary pronouncement. Rama knew better than to match gazes with him; he allowed the vanar king to study him to his heart’s content. He waited patiently, knowing that Sugreeva must wait as long as necessary before speaking. Any wise king would, when confronted with such an announcement by a strange Kshatriya in open sabha. Rama knew full well why the vanar liege delayed his reply. He had had enough time to think this part of the plan through on the long trek here.
Sugreeva remains silent because he knows that when he speaks next he must reply yea or nay, and he is not prepared to give either response.
But there was something more, he sensed. Some trace of understanding in the exiled vanar’s silence that belied the obvious. A light in his golden-red eyes that hinted of deeper knowledge and understanding. What did that look mean?
Rama cast his mind back through the thick repository of his memories of his father. He had seen just such a look often on Dasaratha’s face. A specific memory came to him then. Father seated on his throne, watching … watching …
It came to him like a slow sunburst illuminating the dark crevasses of his mind. Dasaratha watching an engrossing Sanskrit play being performed by the court players. As in most Sanskrit drama, there invariably came a point, usually somewhere in the third act, when the plot turned dark and despairing, when it seemed that the situation was unresolvable and beyond redemption. At that moment, someone, usually either the least expected character or a completely new entrant, came into the play and brought news or made an announcement or otherwise introduced an element that altered the course of the action dramatically. It was so definitive a part of Sanskrit dramatic structure that Rama even recalled the phrase used to describe it: the flaring of the torch. Like a mashaal flaring to life, illuminating the dark recesses of the labyrinthine tunnel of story, showing the way, arduous and risk-fraught and seemingly impossible to navigate though it was, but a way out nevertheless. The flaring of the torch. And Dasaratha had always assumed a certain look at that point. As if, he too, despite the hundreds of plays he must have seen over his lifespan, had been overcome by the dark despair that had befallen the protagonists at that juncture, and when that playwright’s device came into play, like a torchlight blazing out, he was equally overcome by the luminosity that dispelled the darkness. A look of … gratitude. Of thanking the devas that the means of deliverance had been shown.
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