‘Mahadev, Pradhan-Mantriji, forgive the intrusion …’ He broke down, sobbing. ‘Something is happening in the dungeons! Please come. Now!’
TEN
‘Ananga-ashrama is the last peaceful place you will find on your southward journey, rajkumar. Alas, you will find none of these gentle attractions as you proceed south of this point. Beds of darbha grass and sour berry juice will seem like palace comforts after tonight. My heart aches to imagine what trials and tribulations may lie in store for you two young rajkumars in the next few days. Especially—’
He broke off, glancing up at the sage. ‘But it is not my business to speak of those matters. By Shiva’s grace, you are in the hands of the venerable Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. He is your guru now. And you should count yourselves blessed that after being raised on the infinite wisdom of Guru Vashishta, one of the oldest and most venerated of the Seven Seers, you are now being tutored by yet another of the same septet, the youngest and most powerful seer in this age, Vishwamitra himself. May his infinite wisdom guide you well on your perilous journey. For none have gone the way you go and returned this way alive before.’
Rishi Adhranga shuddered briefly, although there was no wind and it was warm by the fire. ‘None who were mortal.’
He was silent after that, staring into the fire for several more moments, stroking his beard. When more time had passed than seemed intended, and the youngest brahmacharya, Dumma, had begun to shift impatiently, one of the older brahmacharyas spoke quietly in his guru’s ear. Rishi Adhranga blinked and looked up at Rama again. ‘Excuse my lack of manners. We of Anangaashrama are unaccustomed to the social niceties befitting such honourable company. You asked me how is it possible that this grove remains so idyllic and tranquil even though it borders on the dread Bhayanak-van, or to use its modern name, the Southwoods. To know this, you must first know the history of Ananga-ashrama and the grove in which it stands. By your grace, I will tell this tale. It is a short one.’
He permitted himself a small smile. ‘Short, that is, by our standards.’ The smile was mirrored all around the fire. ‘And one you might perhaps have heard in brief from your Guru Vashishta. For this grove is more widely known as Kamaashrama and the tale is often told as that of Kama’s Folly.’
Lakshman spoke up, sounding surprised. ‘But Kama’s Folly is the place where Shiva destroyed Lord Kama. That’s a myth.’
‘Indeed, Rajkumar Lakshman. Over time, truth becomes fact, fact is rewritten as history, history fades to legend, and eventually, legend remains as myth. Yet you are blessed. For you live in the Treta-Yuga, the Age of Reason. Not as blessed as the Satya-Yuga or Age of Truth, but close enough that you may still tread the same sites where devas once lived and loved and fought, and those tales you call myths were once living events as real as your own actions. Over time even these tales will fade from memory, and by the coming of the Kali-Yuga or Age of Darkness, they will be mere race-memories, dismissed as mythology or fantasy by those who believe themselves rational and scientific. Yet to us who live here and now, these are scientific and rational tales. For they obey the scientific rules of our world without exception. All you need is a proper knowledge of our science. Or, as we Aryas name it, vidya.’
He smiled sadly, looking into the fire. ‘But I digress once again. Forgive these little wanderings of mine. We rishis of the order of Shiva have vowed our lives to the worship and contemplation of the Destroyer. Katha-vidya, or the science of tale-telling, is an important and precious part of our calling. You might even say it is our only wealth, and if stories are treasure, why, then we are rich men, every one of us here. Are we not, my good rishis?’
‘Rich men!’ they responded with one voice. It was evidently a favourite call and response.
‘To return to my katha, then. As I said, this hermitage which we call Ananga-ashrama is one and the same as the mythic place you know as Kama-ashrama. We call it Ananga-ashrama for a very good reason which you will know by the time I am finished. My katha dates back to the time after the creation, when devas lived on Prithvi, back in the morning of the first day of Brahma, also known as the Satya-Yuga, for all was innocent and uncorrupted then. Brahmacharyas, do you know how long is a day of Brahma?’
Dumma, the youngest, was the first to speak, his lips still glistening with drying berry juice.
‘Pranaam, guruji. Each day of Brahma consists of 2,160,000,000 of our solar years. When Brahma has created the world, it remains unaltered for this entire period. At the end of a single day of Brahma, the world and all it contains is consumed by fire, only the brahmarishis, devas and elements surviving. Brahma then sleeps for an unknown period of time. When he awakens once more, he again creates the world, and a new day of Brahma begins. When he completes a hundred of his years in this manner, Brahma’s own existence ends, and he, the universe, the devas and sages and all else are resolved into their constituent elements.’
The young brahmacharya’s face broke into a triumphant grin, exulting in his rote-learning and obviously pleased at having shown off his vidya before his older fellows.
‘Well said, young Dumma. But I only asked you for the duration of a single day of Brahma. The rest of your explanation was not called for. It expended breath and energy that could have been better utilised in your invocation of Shiva, rather than in a childish attempt to generate envy in the breasts of your fellow brahmacharyas.’
Dumma’s grin vanished, reminding Rama of Bharat in younger days, when he always tried to compete with his oldest brother in Guru Vashishta’s gurukul. It brought a pleasing twinge of nostalgia to his heart. Those were great years, when the four of us were like one. Even our fights brought us closer together.
‘As I was saying,’ Rishi Adhranga went on in his measured, patient way, ‘these events happened in the first part of the first day of Brahma. The devas lived their lives unburdened by the responsibilities of governing creation. Only a few mortals had been created, and not all asuras had yet declared their hostility against the gods. It was in this period that Rudra, whom we now speak of as Lord Shiva, a simple mendicant who took pleasure in meditating in cremation grounds and in passing his time in the company of spirits, ghouls, goblins and the like, took into his heart a desire to wed the beautiful Sati, daughter of Lord Daksha, Seed Spreader. I use the terms Seed Spreader or Seed Caster in the sense of Prajapati, or He Who Procreates His Own Kind, not in the agricultural sense of one who literally flings seeds into furrowed soil. For Lord Daksha was one of only a few chosen mortals who had evolved from their simian ancestors and had been given the task of multiplying the numbers of their race upon this Prithvi. Like your own ancestor Lord Manu, rajkumars, who composed the laws by which civilised humans would govern themselves, descended from the deva Surya himself, who was likewise a Seed Spreader and one of the founders of the Arya race.’
He paused in his beard-stroking for a moment, then continued. The silence that met his pause was testimony to the attentiveness of his listeners. ‘So young Rudra—for even Lord Shiva was young once—became greatly enamoured with Lord Daksha’s daughter Sati and desired to wed her, and beautiful and virtuous Sati herself desired to become mate to the young mendicant Rudra. At first, she was somewhat put off by Rudra’s supernatural companions and wild antics in the netherworld, but she was confident she would rid him of his bachelor habits once they were conjugally united.’
He allowed himself a wisp of a smile. ‘She would not be the first woman to believe that she could change our Lord Shiva through the use of feminine devices.’
Little Dumma flashed a grin at the rishi’s aside, treating Rama to a glimpse of several missing teeth in his upper line. Rama resisted the urge to grin back.
‘Prajapati Daksha did not share his daughter Sati’s affection for the wild-eyed young wanderer. He had raised his daughter on silks and satins, gold and silver, pearls and diamonds. He was appalled at her desire to wed this unruly, dishevelled, homeless young mendicant who rode the black buffalo of the Lord of Death, Yamaraj, wore
a serpent as a necklace entwined around his neck, drank poison as an intoxicant and went around clad in a chain of human skulls and a barely modest swatch of uncured leopard’s skin. Lord Daksha took his responsibility as a Seed Spreader very seriously and he wanted his daughter to mate with much better stock than this strange mendicant.
‘So he rejected Rudra and refused his daughter’s wish. But Sati’s love for Rudra was too strong by then. Defying her father, she went ahead and married her chosen mate. Once Rudra became his son-in-law, Daksha was compelled by deva tradition to include him in all family rituals and affairs. But Daksha was proud and uncompromising. He knew that despite his wild appearance and peculiar habits, Rudra had a great sense of dignity. Daksha thought that if he insulted his new son-in-law publicly, Rudra would be so offended he would leave Sati alone and return to his wild bachelor ways.
‘So, to slight his new son-in-law, Daksha staged a great yagna and deliberately neglected to invite Rudra, while making sure that Sati herself was present. Sati soon realised what her father had done as all the assembled guests began commenting critically on Rudra’s absence.
‘But Daksha’s scheme flew back in his own face, like an ill-shot arrow returned by a powerful wind. More than Rudra himself, it was Sati who was devastated by her father’s insult. Blaming her father for dishonouring her husband, she threw herself bodily into the very same yagna havan, calling out to the fire god Agni to accept her sacrifice. Before any of her family could stop her, she was consumed by the flames of the sacred fire. Her name became a synonym for self-sacrifice. Even today, any widowed wife who chooses to follow her husband to the afterlife may voluntarily consign herself to his funeral pyre in an act of sati.
‘Lord Daksha was stricken by the outcome of his actions, but it was too late to undo what had been done. News of Sati’s sacrifice reached Rudra. At first, the dark-skinned deva was consumed by anger as fierce as the agni that had consumed his wife, but he grew heartsick when he realised that he could not spill the blood of his beloved Sati’s father. Unable to avenge her death and cleanse his grief through violence, he vowed to retire from life itself. Since he was a deva and immortal, he could not take his own life. Instead, he sat beneath a banyan tree and began the epic meditations which we attempt to emulate even today in humble mortal form as the asanas of yoga.’
Rishi Adhranga raised one hand, indicating the wild webbing of the tree above his head. ‘This same ancient tree beneath which we sit tonight. As you can see, its vines and limbs are matted in empathy with our Lord Shiva’s own matted hair, reminding us of his great grief at the loss of his beloved.’
Rama saw Dumma release a silent sigh. The young brahmacharya was enraptured, lost in the katha. As he glanced away from the boy, something flickered at the very edge of his vision. He glanced sharply at the far side of the clearing, at the place where the light of the flames dimmed and faded into the impenetrable moonless darkness of the grove. There it was again: two tiny red pinpoints briefly glimpsed. Like the reflection of the firelight off a pair of eyes. It was probably just a rabbit. Although those eyes had seemed too high and too large to be a ground-hugging rabbit. A doe then. He concentrated his attention on the rishi’s katha.
‘Now, as you all know, when Shiva meditates, the world could end and he would not be aware of it. So it was that in his grief he lost all consciousness of what took place around him. Aeons passed. The morning of the first day of Brahma grew closer to noon. Civilisations rose and fell. Great empires were raised and collapsed. The eternal battle between the devas and asuras began in earnest and raged on relentlessly. Millennia flowed by like the waters of the sacred Ganges.
‘Our Lord Shiva would have maintained his yogic trance until the sun itself grew red and weak and the planets crumbled away to dust. Even the devas themselves dared not disturb his samabhavimudra, that sacred state where the eyes seem partially open but in fact the being sees nothing of this world with his physical vision. Shiva had accomplished this supreme state of existence, remaining barely alive enough to maintain his body in this world, yet achieving a perfect union with the inner self, or Brahman. He had passed beyond karma or the need for good actions, and had transcended the material realm completely.
‘But one day, an event came to pass in the material world that would result in his return to this physical plane of karma and rebirth. A powerful Yaksi named Tataka had began to torment the inhabitants of a forest near the site where Shiva meditated.’
‘Gurudev, shama. Forgive me for interrupting.’
The rishi paused, and turned his gaze on Lakshman. ‘Aagya, shishya. Speak your mind.’ He addressed Lakshman as he would any student in his ashram. Here, there were no rajkumars or maharajas.
‘Pranaam, guruji,’ Lakshman said, joining his hands together and showing the customary respect accorded to any guru in his ashram. ‘You said a powerful Yaksi was tormenting people. By Yaksi, I take it you mean a female Yaksa, guruji. But the Yaksa race is benign and friendly to mortals as well as to the devas.’ He shrugged self-consciously. ‘Of course, that is what we learned at our guruji Vashishta’s gurukul. I don’t actually know if Yaksas really exist any more. My mother Sumitra-maa says they were only created to scare naughty young boys to sleep.’
There were a few surprised titters at that. Rama smiled too. So Shaivites did have a sense of humour after all.
Rishi Adhranga stroked his beard. ‘What you say is not wholly incorrect, Rajkumar Lakshman. Once the Yaksas, like several other asura races, were benign and even friendly to mortals and devas. It was only a few thousand years ago that they became our bitter enemies. But to tell the story of how that came to pass would take many nights.’
He hesitated, glancing at Vishwamitra. ‘To answer your question briefly, it was the Dark Lord of Lanka himself who turned the Yaksa race against mortals. Just as it was none other than Ravana who was secretly responsible for Tataka becoming the menace of her age. But that is another katha in itself. I am sure the esteemed brahmarishi will impart it to you at some appropriate time.’
Vishwamitra acknowledged the reference with a slight bow of his head.
Rishi Adhranga exhaled, his breath fogging as it escaped his lips, marking how much colder the evening had become. ‘To return to our katha. This Yaksi was a scourge on the face of Prithvi. Her ravages had turned the entire region around her into a haunted and cursed forest. Literally, Bhayanak-van. What we now call the Southwoods.’
Rama felt a chill spread through his chest. It had nothing to do with the gathering cold and the fading fire.
ELEVEN
The palace grounds were dark and silent, but there were quads of guards everywhere, watching every square yard of the property with hawkish scrutiny. Outside the gates, a surprisingly large crowd of citizens waited, several of them seated cross-legged on the street, talking in soft whispers or praying to lit diyas. A flurry of hope swept through them as they saw the familiar faces of the guru and the prime minister approach. Several of them rose and came forward, inquiring eagerly after the maharaja’s condition.
‘He is much the same,’ Sumantra said. ‘He counts on your prayers.’
They subsided at once, disappointed.
Sumantra and the guru left the palace, escorted by a whole platoon of PFs. Captain Drishti Kumar, back on duty after a brief respite, was taking no chances. They walked the two miles to the city jail, situated flush against the seventh wall on the north-east corner of the city. A series of gates, heavily guarded and barred, provided the jail with direct access to the outside world, effectively segregating the prison and dungeons from the city proper.
Even so, the prison was heavily guarded. It had been decades since spies had been apprehended in Ayodhya, and most of the current breed of Kshatriyas had grown up unaware that such treachery could even be possible. Entire platoons had volunteered themselves for guard duty at the city jail. And had the palace permitted it, a crowd would have been gathered here as well, waiting eagerly to hear what treacherous revelations
were forced from the tongues of the conspirators.
The guard acknowledged the three visitors and allowed them to pass unquestioned. They entered the compound, which was as heavily patrolled, and passed through the several gates that made escape an impossibility. Finally they were in the main prison building. They passed rows of empty cells filled with nothing more than bales of hay and chamber pots. Despite his misgivings, Sumantra had given the order to release all lesser prisoners that afternoon. It had felt strange to proclaim such a step in celebration of Rama’s forthcoming ascension when Rama himself was not present to join in. But tradition demanded it, and tradition was everything in Arya society.
The warden of the prison, a man with a massive build that was well suited to his profession, was waiting for them at the portal to the dungeon stairwell. ‘Masters,’ he said. ‘I beseech you. Go no further. Great evil is at work down in those dungeons.’
‘And our job is to root out evil and send it fleeing,’ Guru Vashishta said calmly. ‘Let us pass, good warden.’
He looked at the guru, then at Sumantra.
Sumantra said firmly but without raising his voice, ‘In the name of the maharaja, let us through.’
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 34