‘Your dharma,’ she agreed.
He was silent for another long moment. Conch shells were sounding all across the city now. After a morning of surprises, Ayodhya had finally officially begun the celebration of the most rambunctious festival of the year. In moments, coloured rang powder would fly from a hundred thousand fists, painting the city in rainbow hues. But the mood in this chamber was still grey, the celebration outside kept at bay by a decision that could change the course of Arya history itself.
For several moments, as Kausalya waited for Rama’s final choice, she thought that he would surely deny his father’s desire. That despite his princely training and upbringing, Rama the son of Kausalya would prevail over Rama the prince and heir of Dasaratha.
Then she realised that she must not even think of such a possibility, that the mere fact of her thinking it might be communicated to Rama.
Yet she knew that Rama understood everything she felt. He always had. Even despite the barrier of protocol that prevented a Hindu mother from speaking to her son about his father’s faults and lapses, Rama understood without being told. And in the end, he would do the right thing; he always did.
The sound of conch shells was everywhere now, an orchestra of celebration as overwhelming as a herd of elephants trumpeting on one’s doorstep. The maids were beside themselves with excitement, running to and fro, fetching their rang and implements in anticipation of their mistress’s permission to start playing.
After another moment of tense anticipation, Kausalya sensed that Rama had reached a decision.
But instead of speaking, he rose directly to his feet, taking Kausalya by surprise.
He bowed and touched her feet, the tips of his fingers brushing her gold-ringed toes.
Straightening up, he joined his palms in a respectful and affectionate pranaam. His face had lost all trace of anger or pique and was composed in its normal expression of peaceful serenity once more. Looking into his eyes, she saw that the wave of resentment had passed. He had somehow come to terms with this difficult and unexpected shock and was coping with it.
He even managed a tiny smile of tenderness as he said to her gently:
‘It will be as you wish, Maa.’
Kausalya was weak with relief.
The female guard who entered the room was one of her oldest and most loyal.
‘Rani, shama.’ Excuse me, my queen. ‘The king wishes to see Prince Rama in the sabha hall at once.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
As the towering doors of the sabha hall were unbarred and opened to admit the four princes, Rama heard the sound of loud booming voices from within. They were a faint counterpoint to the distant sounds of revelry and music that reverberated from the rest of the palace and the city. Celebrations without, solemnity within. Truly, this was a strange festival day. He entered first as protocol demanded, forcing himself to walk not run. The voices faded as soon as he entered, and he was uncertain whether he had heard or imagined them. Behind him, the sound of the doors being shut and bolted was very loud in the empty stillness of the enormous chamber. He began to walk down the long aisle to the royal dais at the far end, the sound of his brothers’ sandalled feet following close behind.
Coming here brought back memories of the few formal occasions when the princes had been permitted to attend court. There had been many voices in those days, raised in incessant conflict. Why do maharajas always have to argue with people? Rama had asked his mother once. Why can’t they just be nice to everyone? She had smiled and hugged him to her breast and told him that when he was king he could be as nice as he liked.
Whatever argument had been raging a moment ago, it seemed to have ended. The four princes walked up the long central aisle to the royal dais in absolute silence now, unusual in a place built for debates. Rama noted that his father looked older and wearier than usual; he looked soul-sick, his thickened jowls drooping, eyes ringed with dark circles of exhaustion, complexion pale from the cancerous attacks of his mystery ailment. He was seated on the throne but leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, like a man exhausted from thinking. The three other men standing before him on the dais formed a triangular tableau of conflict and disagreement: Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra stood by the king’s right hand, facing the two Brahmins, while Guru Vashishta was shoulder to shoulder with the visitor, who had his back to the princes as they approached.
Yet even with his back turned, he was an imposing sight, a picture of radiant strength and virility contrasting sharply with Dasaratha’s sickly exhaustion. It was difficult not to see the irony in the contrast.
He must be all of seven feet tall, if he’s an inch, Rama thought. And look at that musculature, and those scars. He still looks like a king even today.
Rama reached the end of the crimson carpet and bent his knee. ‘Pranaam, Ayodhya-naresh, pranaam pujya pitaaji.’ His brothers mirrored his gesture and salutation. Greetings, lord of Ayodhya; greetings, respected father.
‘My sons.’ Dasaratha sounded strained. ‘Come to me.’
The princes stepped on to the saffron carpeting of the royal dais and joined their father.
As Rama approached, he kept his hands clasped together to greet the others in the correct order that protocol demanded.
First, the honoured visitor.
‘Pranaam, respected guest. You honour us with your visit. I pray, if you find this humble Kshatriya worthy, grant me your ashirwaad. I shall be eternally blessed.’
Vishwamitra took a step sideways and turned slightly to offer more of his fore-side to Rama, while taking care not to turn his back on the king.
‘Greetings, Prince Rama.’
As Rama bent to touch the seer-mage’s feet in the traditional greeting to a respected elder, Vishwamitra simply said, ‘Ayushmaanbhav, rajkumar.’ Live long, prince.
The response was delivered without embellishment, and so curtly that Rama almost looked up at the seer’s face before rising. He sensed Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra’s eyes blinking briefly before returning to their contemplation of a spot in the middle distance. The maharaja said nothing. Rama stepped back to allow his brothers to repeat the showing of respect and granting of ashirwaad, taking care not to meet anyone’s gaze directly. The tension on the dais was palpable. Rama guessed that the argument had reached a stalemate, not an end.
As his brothers bent to touch the visitor’s feet, Rama sensed someone staring intently at him. It was the piercing gaze of a large and powerful animal in the deep forest, like a tiger watching him from a mangrove tree. The penetrating study of a fellow predator. But when he glanced cursorily around, both Guru Vashishta and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra were looking elsewhere. Still the sense of being watched persisted.
The visitor’s ashirwaad to the other princes was less curt, and by the time he touched Lakshman’s head, there was almost a trace of warmth in the deep voice.
The four princes stood in a row to the left of the throne. Now the tableau resembled an upturned V, with the maharaja at the conjunction of the two lines.
‘My sons,’ Dasaratha said, sounding tired and on edge. ‘It is a strange and disturbing day in our history. The arrival of our exalted guest on the auspicious day of Holi Purnima would be an occasion to celebrate with twice the customary pomp, yet other events have occurred to cast a shadow over our great city.’
Dasaratha gestured to Sumantra. The prime minister quickly brought the princes up to speed on the events of that morning, from the arrival of the impostor to his exposure and dismissal by the two seers, right up to the discussion in the sabha hall and the unmasking of the spies.
‘They are now in the city jail, being interrogated by Mantri Jabali, who has some expertise in these matters.’ Sumantra gestured at the deserted expanse of the sabha hall. ‘At the maharaja’s order, the sabha was dismissed and a state of emergency declared in the city. It’s believed that an entire network of asura-sponsored spies exists throughout the kingdom, perhaps even throughout the Arya nations, and an emergen
cy plenary session of the war council will be held a week from today to discuss how best to attack and destroy this network.’
Sumantra’s voice and face betrayed his own disbelief at the things he was describing. Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged glances with each other before looking at Rama. This was far worse than any of them had thought.
Rama spoke up. ‘Something strange happened to us a few minutes ago.’ He briefly sketched the near-riot on the streets outside the palace gates. His brothers, clearly dissatisfied with his lack of detail, chipped in several times. Finally, Bharat took over the telling, praising Rama’s swiftness of thought and action, and his ingenuity. ‘If not for Rama,’ he finished, ‘the streets would be washed with innocent blood today.’
Sumantra and Dasaratha exchanged glances. Sumantra looked even more troubled than he had been before. ‘Captain Drishti Kumar told us that something strange had happened but nobody seems to be sure exactly what it was.’
‘There was sorcery at work,’ Lakshman said. ‘It was like a mist had descended to cloud everyone’s mind.’ He added proudly: ‘Only Brother Rama was unaffected.’
Rama shifted uneasily as his father congratulated him with as much energy as he could muster.
He saw the two seer-mages exchange a look, but couldn’t see Vishwamitra’s face clearly as he was being embraced by his father.
Sumantra added uncomfortably: ‘We have been hearing strange rumours from the rakshaks for a while now.’ He was speaking of the sub-caste of Kshatriyas who were entrusted with the task of guarding the bridges and causeways of the kingdom. ‘And last month there was a courier from Mithila who delivered a message from Maharaja Janak and left here safely but never reached Mithila.’
Rama spoke his mind. ‘There is a conspiracy afoot, Father,’ he said. ‘And Ayodhya is the target. We have not seen the last of these unnatural events.’
Before Dasaratha could reply, the visitor spoke.
‘Well said, Prince Rama. It is just as you say. The Lord of Lanka has spread his net far and wide all these years. Now, he begins to pull it in one patch at a time. If we do not act swiftly and decisively, we will live to see a reign of terror such as no Arya nation has ever witnessed.’
‘What can we do to prevent this from happening?’ Rama asked. ‘Can’t we attempt to parley with Lanka?’
Vishwamitra’s craggy face was softened by an unexpected smile. ‘Would that it were possible. Sadly, young prince, asuras do not parley. This war has too long and bloody a history for peace to be an option any longer.’
Rama looked at Dasaratha. ‘My father taught me that peace is always an option.’
Vishwamitra raised his eyebrows, exchanging a look with Dasaratha. ‘And he taught you well. But this is no ordinary adversary. These are asuras, eternal enemies of the devas. And as long as we worship the devas as our gods, we can never be at peace with the asuras.’
Bharat was about to speak up, but Rama went on, persisting: ‘But there was a cessation of hostilities once. Before we mortals were created. The devas and asuras came to an understanding and put down their weapons to negotiate peacefully.’
Vishwamitra nodded at his fellow seer-mage. ‘And Guru Vashishta too has taught you well. You know your history. You speak of the Amrit Manthan. And so you must also know the outcome of those peaceful negotiations?’
Rama realised his mistake at once. ‘The devas churned the ocean to produce the nectar of immortality. But when the time came to give an equal portion to the asuras, the devas tried to cheat them because they feared that once the asuras became immortal too, they would be unstoppable.’
‘And so the war resumed, fiercer than ever.’ Vishwamitra gave Rama the benefit of a smile. ‘Still, it is good to find a Kshatriya prince who speaks of peace, young Rama Chandra. If only there was a way to end this war without violence.’ He sighed. ‘Sadly, there isn’t.’
Rama noticed that his father was favouring one leg slightly; Dasaratha had an old war injury on his left thigh that troubled him in times of illness and weakness. He looked at Guru Vashishta to see if he had noticed. Vashishta looked sorrowful and compassionate. His father’s condition was worsening but nothing could be done about it.
Vishwamitra went on: ‘Ever since I entered Ayodhya, I have sensed spirals and wisps of kala jaadu in the ether. It saddens me to see the presence of evil in the heart of such a noble city.’
‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra,’ Bharat said respectfully, his taut expression betraying his inability to control his anger any longer, ‘respected father, great Guru Vashishta, we must root out this evil at once. Let me lead the hunt for these treacherous rats. I will wash the gutters of the city with their black blood and cleanse our great capital of this evil intrusion.’
Guru Vashishta raised his palm. ‘Shantam, my prince. Control your emotions. Angry haste is not the way to deal with this problem.’ He gestured fluidly at Vishwamitra. ‘Our illustrious visitor has interrupted his two-hundred-and-forty-year penance for the precise purpose of aiding us in this new war.’
Rama happened to be looking in his father’s direction when the guru said the word ‘war’. He saw Dasaratha blanch visibly. Rama’s heart went out to his father. Maharaja Dasaratha had never recovered wholly from that final campaign. His most fervent prayer had always been that his sons would never have to experience similar horrors.
‘I wish it were not so,’ Rama said, speaking for his father. ‘Better that this conflict had never begun.’
Vishwamitra looked at Rama. Their eyes met for a moment, and Rama could feel that it was the great seer-mage who had been scrutinising him moments ago, using his supernatural power of secret observation.
‘Well spoken once again, young prince. Nevertheless, this conflict was begun, though not by your hand or ours. All that is within our power is the chance to end it.’
‘End it?’ Dasaratha said suddenly. ‘Impossible! Even the gods could not end the asura wars. And not for want of trying. You have just said so yourself, great one. How can we mere mortals do what the gods cannot?’
‘Nevertheless, Dasaratha, we cannot stop trying. Even the impossible must be attempted, if only in the hope of eventual success.’ He chanted a Sanskrit sloka: ‘Karmanye swahikaaraste mahaphaleshua.’ Perform your dharmic duty and do not think of the fruits of your labour.
Bharat spoke up again, his anger still evident.
‘Then as Kshatriyas and defenders of the Arya peoples, we must act. That is our dharmic duty, is it not, mahadev?’ He seemed to regard the question as rhetorical because he went on without waiting for a response. ‘Besides, we have no choice in the matter. The asuras made the first move. They violated the truce and infiltrated our city. We can’t just stand by and wait for them to invade and destroy our kingdom. We must go to war now.’
‘NO!’
Dasaratha’s voice was cracked and hoarse, but there was power in it. Power which surely cost him much vital energy. Rama’s earlier anger at his father’s past mistakes had given way to a deep concern. He worried now about the toll this debate was taking on Dasaratha’s dangerously weakened constitution.
‘There will be no talk of war in my lifetime.’ The maharaja’s hand shook as he raised it to point at Kaikeyi’s son. ‘Bharat, my son, you know the price we paid—nay, are still paying—for the Last War. I swore a vow then that that was the last time we would pitch our war tents and go to battle against the asuras. If you honour me, then respect and uphold that vow.’
‘But Father, these demons—’
‘These demons are demons. They will act as demons. We can still act as humans.’
‘But these intrusions. The rakshas who infiltrated the city—’
Dasaratha rose to his feet, face red with anger. ‘Enough! No more argument from you. There will be no talk of war here today or any day from this day onwards.’
Bharat fell sullenly silent. Shatrugan and Lakshman kept their eyes on the ground, knowing that there was no point in arguing with their father at such times. O
nly Rama kept his eyes on the maharaja, watching his father for any signs of an imminent collapse. Had Vishwamitra not been present, Rama would have asked Dasaratha to call an end to these discussions. But it would be insulting to tell his father to lie down and rest before a venerated guest.
Dasaratha resumed his seat, sinking heavily into the cushioned throne. He spoke hoarsely but passionately. ‘I will not see those dark ages return to this land, not as long as there is still breath in my body.’ He curled his hand into a fist, which he brought down heavily on the arm of his throne. ‘I have said this to you a hundred times already, sage. Why do you not relent?’
Vishwamitra spoke into the uncomfortable silence that followed.
‘Maharaja, you have made your views clear. Yet my dharma is as clearly defined as your own. As much as I dislike war and the horrors that attend its passing, I must repeat my request.’
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