Now, he ran like his life depended on it. The crowds of bustling, excited people were too entranced with discussing the events of that morning to pay him any attention. Those that did glance his way saw merely a handsomely constructed young man in a hurry. He was on foot, running like a maniac, and carried no weapons or obvious marks of his princehood, just the simple whites he had worn that morning. Nobody recognised him instantly, and those that had a flutter of a doubt were unable to take a second look to check.
He ran like lives depended on it. In moments, he had crossed that swirling river of humanity that the avenue had become. Reaching the end of the concourse, he slowed, seeing the familiar glint of raised spears up ahead. A roadblock. The ever-watchful PFs had already cordoned off the trouble and contained it at the bottom of the avenue. The people down at this end were largely commoners more interested in moving up-avenue to goggle at the rich architecture of the palace rather than paying attention to the disturbance behind them. Rama made his way through a group of excited young vaisya girls, all clutching hands together and laughing excitedly, led by a trio of hefty daiimaas. Then he was at the cordon. He looked over the interlinked V of two PF spears to see a curious lack of activity at the end of the avenue. The turn-off where he had seen the black-clad figures accumulating was deserted now. But several black turbans lay unfurled on the ground, along with a PF scarf or two. And an entire regiment of PFs was forming under the orders of a lieutenant, preparing to march up Jagganath Marg.
Rama spoke to the PF closest to him, a wizened veteran with a small hole where his left ear had once been and a rash of shiny scars on the left side of his neck.
‘What happened here?’
The PF spoke without turning back. ‘On your way, citizen. The savoury stalls are up ahead and to the right, along Sarayu Marg, on the way to the parade grounds. This is PF business.’
Rama raised his right hand, formed a fist, and rapped his prince’s seal-ring on the blade of the man’s spear. It made a metallic sound that drew the man’s attention. He swung around at once, spear lowering into a defensive stance. His partner, who had heard Rama as well, did likewise.
Rama already had his hands raised, showing them he was unarmed.
‘At ease, veterans. I only wish to know what happened. Do you recognise me?’
Both PFs glanced at each other and swallowed. ‘Aye. You’re Rajkumar Rama. Or a shockingly good imitation.’
Rama smiled. ‘I’m Rama. Captain Drishti Kumar and my brothers are following after me. They’ll confirm it. Now tell me quickly, what happened here?’
The younger man, a hefty fellow with no visible facial scars, looked suspiciously at Rama. But the older man said slowly: ‘Some tantrics went berserk. Said one of the maharaja’s queens had assassinated one of their number. They wanted to take a petition to the maharaja to protest the man’s murder and demand he institute an inquiry at once.’
‘And?’
The veteran shrugged. ‘What’s to say? The city’s on full alert. Our orders are to let nobody through to the palace and to arrest any potential troublemakers. The lieutenant told them to put their protest through official channels. They became surly about it. Turned ugly fast.’ The old man gestured at the platoon marching down Jagganath Marg even as he spoke. ‘That’s the clean-up now. While they were scuffling with our men, some Brahmins came up and began screaming something about the tantrics stealing little boys from some orphanage, for sacrifices and suchlike. I don’t know any more. We were only called in a moment ago to keep rubberneckers away from this end of the avenue.’
Rama nodded. ‘Much appreciate the information, soldier … ?’
The veteran shrugged. ‘Pai. S.T. Pai. I fought with your uncle Janak’s regiment in the Mithila Brigade.’
‘Thank you, Sipahi Pai. You’ll have to let me through now.’
The PFs looked uncertain. Then the old one said, almost as if he was embarrassed, ‘You’d know the names of Maharaja Janak’s daughters then, of course. You being Rajkumar Rama, after all.’
Rama smiled. ‘Of course. We played together as children before my brothers and I left for the gurukul.’ He realised that the younger PF was watching him intently, as if alert to signs of horns sprouting or fangs popping out at any second. He said in a normal tone: ‘Sita, Urmila, Mandavi and Kirti.’ He added, ‘My brother Lakshman has a soft spot for Urmila, most people do. But I’ve always thought Sita was the beauty of the lot.’
The old PF sighed and lowered his spear, gesturing to his companion to do the same. ‘Aye, that she is. Forgive me, my rajkumar. This is a strange day.’
Rama patted the old man on his shoulder by way of gratitude as well as to show he didn’t have any hard feelings. He passed through the cordon just as the regiment of PFs were given the order to march forward up Jagganath Marg. He reached the turn-off and looked up the side road, barely a third as wide as Harishchandra Avenue but still broad enough to let the regiment march sixteen abreast easily. Further up the road, he could see the black robes of the tantric cultists intermingled with the saffron and green of the PFs. Several black-clad bodies lay sprawled on the marg, PF spears sticking out of them. A few saffron-and-green-clad bodies also lay beside them, trishuls embedded in them. There was also a white-clad tonsured Brahmin body or two in there. Rama guessed the PFs had succeeded in moving the Brahmins away and out of the riot. It seemed to be much harder to persuade the tantrics: after all, their faith was predicated on doom and the surrendering of all life to meet the coming apocalypse.
The regiment marching down the road was preparing to mount a fresh assault on the tantrics.
The cultists looked sullen and white-eyed. Several of them were banging their trishuls, wickedly sharp three-pronged tridents, on tiny breast-shields engraved with the image of Kali, the dark devi who governed vengeance and the tantric cults.
As Rama watched, the officer commanding the regiment gave the order to prepare to charge. A bloodbath was about to take place.
Rama darted forward, sprinting around the PF line—there was room at either end of the marg—and into the no-man’sland between the two opposing groups.
He raised his hands. ‘In the name of Maharaja Dasaratha, your king and ruler, I, Rajkumar Rama Chandra, command you all to lay down your arms at once.’
***
It took Captain Drishti Kumar several precious moments to get the gates reopened. That delay itself helped Lakshman understand Rama’s unexpected action.
‘He saw something happening and didn’t want to get delayed waiting for the gates to open again,’ he told his brothers. ‘That’s why he slipped through before they closed.’
‘But what did he see happening?’ Bharat grumbled. ‘Irresponsible of him to just run off like that.’
Shatrugan clenched his empty fists in frustration. ‘I wish I had time to go get my mace. I feel naked without a weapon.’
‘No bearing weapons on feast days, Shatrugan. You know the law.’
‘Come on, Lakshman. That rakshas didn’t follow the law, did he? Whatever Rama saw happening, it wasn’t any lover’s fall-out, I can bet you that. He saw trouble. That’s why he ran like that. And the best way to face trouble is with sharp steel.’
Lakshman shook his head. ‘You’re the limit, Shatrugan. Not every problem can be solved with violence.’
‘Well, when you meet your first rakshas, you try kissing and cajoling, all right? Me, I’ll settle for a good Gandahari mace any day.’
‘I hear that, bhai,’ Bharat replied, agreeing strongly.
The gates opened and they sprinted out, Captain Drishti Kumar leading the way. He had already given orders to his men outside, and twin lines of soldiers had formed a long clear corridor down the entire length of the avenue. They were all fast runners, and in moments they had reached the turn-off where Harishchandra Avenue met Jagganath Marg. The captain ordered the PFs to open the cordon and they passed through. Lakshman caught a glimpse of an old PF veteran with a scarred neck and a missing ear stari
ng at him curiously, then he was at the turn-off and staring at a frightening sight.
Rama was standing between two opposing groups of armed men. On the far side was a mob of black-clad tantrics who looked as if they had nothing less than civil riot on their minds, while on the near side, backs to the approaching princes, were a force of PFs arranged into an attack phalanx, ready to charge.
‘Rama,’ he began. Then bit back the cry. He was afraid of setting off either group. Both looked hostile and ready to fight to the death. Lakshman couldn’t see the faces of the PFs, but the tantrics looked white-eyed and wild, as if they were all intoxicated on ganja.
His brothers exclaimed beside him as they took in the situation. He knew what they were thinking; he was thinking the exact same thing: What’s Rama got himself into now? And how’s he going to get out of it?
Then Rama began to sing.
TWENTY-TWO
As the last stragglers left the sabha hall, Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra hurried to his maharaja’s side. Dasaratha sat bowed on his throne, his face buried in his hands, elbows leaning on the armrests of his throne.
‘Maharaj?’ Sumantra’s voice was soft and concerned. ‘Are you well?’
‘Aye.’ Dasaratha raised his head with an effort that tugged at Sumantra’s heart. ‘I have no choice. I must be well to see our people through this great crisis.’ He struggled to his feet, waving Sumantra away when he tried to offer his hand. ‘What did we do wrong, old friend? I governed wisely and justly, did I not? I built on the works of my ancestors, raising Ayodhya and Kosala to new heights of prosperity and peaceful harmony, did I not? Then why am I plagued by these disasters in the twilight of my reign?’
‘Maharaj, you are the greatest king of your line, the greatest to sit on the sunwood throne. Never before have the Arya peoples enjoyed this long a period of peace and security. Your works shall be remembered for millennia to come. Do not blame yourself for the evil wrought by asuras.’
Dasaratha walked slowly across the empty sabha hall, nodding his head. ‘Perhaps you are right, Sumantra. Yet I cannot stand to leave this legacy to my sons. What else do we fight for in our youth and prime if not the future? And this is not the future I envisioned.’
‘Maharaj,’ Sumantra said, walking beside his king. ‘The future may not be as bleak as you fear. Never before in the history of the Arya nations have we been so strong, so rich, so powerful. At the end of the last asura war, when you led that fateful foray against the Dark Lord of Lanka, all seemed lost. We were outnumbered and outmatched, exhausted and decrepit. Yet we won. And won triumphantly. Today, we are not only far stronger than then, we have the vidya gained from those martial encounters, our military strategists have had decades to study the strengths and weaknesses of the asura races. Our population is almost twice as large as it was then. And you see how auspiciously things have begun for us. Instead of drawing first blood as they hoped, the asuras have lost their chief spy and infiltrator—no ordinary rakshas but the dread Kala-Nemi himself, blood-kin of Ravana! Their spies in the royal court have been outed. Even now, they are being interrogated in the dungeons below the city jail. Soon, we shall root out every traitor and asura sympathiser in the kingdom. Word has been dispatched to the other Arya nations to do the same. After this cleansing, the war council will convene in days here in Ayodhya. Take hope and courage, my beloved raje. We shall not only prevail, we shall triumph. And yours shall be the foot that descends to crush each one of Ravana’s ten skulls.’
It was a long speech, from one who was not accustomed to speaking much, and Dasaratha knew it. He had paused before the sabha hall doors to look at his old gurukul partner, erstwhile charioteer, trusted adviser, then minister, and now prime minister. He laid a weary but still powerful hand on Sumantra’s shoulder. ‘The devas grant that it shall come to pass exactly as you say.’
Sumantra gripped his maharaja’s wrist. ‘It shall. I am willing to give my last breath to see it does. And so is every Arya citizen. Be not fearful, raje. Be proud. You have built a great nation, and now you shall see the fruits of your labour.’
Dasaratha nodded. ‘I shall take a little rest now before speaking with Brahmarishi Vishwamitra on the other reason for his visit. He wishes to do so privately. Are my sons safely back in the palace?’
Sumantra frowned. ‘They ought to be, your highness. Captain Drishti Kumar went to secure their entry into the palace gates several moments ago.’
Dasaratha caught the unsaid message in his tone. ‘But?’ Sumantra shook his head slowly. ‘The captain has not returned yet.’ He managed a reassuring smile. ‘I shall look into it myself, maharaj. As long as the rajkumars reached the palace gates, they will surely be safe. But I shall check personally. Depend on me.’
‘I do, Sumantra. But do check. This is a strange day. And I expect stranger things yet. Make sure my sons are well and safe.’
***
It took Lakshman a moment to realise what he was hearing. At first he thought it was the death chant of the Kali cult. It was usually chanted by conscripts who were sent into a battle from which they would not return alive. To the tantrics, of course, it was an anthem of their dark faith that hinged on the belief that the coming Kali-Yuga would mark the end of human civilisation. He realised that the Kali chant was being sung by some of the cultists in the mob across the road. Then he heard the dholdrum of the PFs, the steady four-beat they marched and fought to, based on the traditional four-by-four beat to which all Arya rituals were conducted by Vedic custom. He had failed to catch these two disparate rhythms, drowned out as they were by the cacophony from the crowded avenue behind.
But when Rama began to sing, Lakshman heard and understood what he was trying to achieve.
Unable to appeal to the two clashing groups with logic and commands, Rama was resorting to patriotic emotion. After all, this was Holi feast-day. A day when all Aryas embraced their fellows and celebrated the completion of yet another year of their proud civilisation, while inaugurating the onset of yet another harvest year. Each Arya nation had its own special day, but Holi and Deepavali were special to all the Arya nations.
Rama was singing the traditional Arya farming song, ‘Dharti Maa’. Literally, ‘Earth Mother’. When he began, the rhythms of the PF martial beat and the tantrics’ Kali chant had mingled to form a toll as deathlike as a funeral march, an ominous duet of doom.
Above this dark symphony, there now rose the melodious anthem of ‘Dharti Maa’. Rama’s voice was a clear tenor with perfect pitch and just enough bass to lend it depth. As he sang the opening sloka, Lakshman instantly felt the change in the atmosphere. The ancient anthem had great power, believed by some to turn desert lands fertile and calm the most ferocious predators of the wild. Even if those were exaggerations, the power of the anthem on Arya ears was undeniable. Lakshman could feel the hackles on his hands and neck rise as Rama sang the beautiful, stirring words that praised the mighty subcontinent that housed the seven nations of the Arya clans, addressing the land that nourished and provided for them, their mother, their devi.
Without stopping to think, Lakshman stepped out into Jagganath Marg, walking around the startled PF regiment and their commanding officer, and stood beside Rama, raising his own voice to join Rama’s song. He didn’t have to look behind to know that Bharat and Shatrugan were following as well. He ignored the prickle of fear that came when he found himself hemmed in by the trishul-wielding tantrics and spear-holding PFs, taking courage from his brother’s lead. If it was Rama’s fate to die here on a side street of his own capital city, killed by the hands of his own people, then Lakshman would die the same death.
As they approached the second verse Lakshman felt something strange and wonderful happen.
It was as if a giant cloud had been pressing down on the whole concourse all this time, making everyone uneasy and restless, and some violent and agitated. With the singing of the anthem, Lakshman felt the cloud begin to lift.
And then he felt an even more wonderful thing. Others
were singing too. Stray soldiers in the PF ranks. Voices rising uncertainly from the tantric mob. And further away, around the corner and up the avenue, past the cordon of PF veterans, the citizens were picking up the song too. Like all anthems, this one had a way of touching your heart no matter who you were, where you were, or what you were doing at the time. For those few moments that the ode to Mother Earth lasted, every Arya, young or old, male or female, high-caste or low, noble or impoverished, was united in a bond as ancient and undeniable as their mutual dependence on the gifts of food and life that the earth deity provided.
The anthem came to an end. Lakshman’s voice died away, as did his brothers’. There was a brief moment of deafening emptiness.
And then, it was all over.
TWENTY-THREE
Manthara cried out with rage and threw the sacrificial trishul into the yagna fire, obliterating the image that had appeared there, an image of the happenings on the turn-off to Jagganath Marg.
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 18