The guru’s voice thundered, echoing through the large chamber. ‘Speak no more to me, Ravana! I have no wish to hear your ill-thought boasts and see your cheap antics. Begone from this place. Begone before I cast you back into that furnace of agony where you truly belong. Back into patal, that lowest level of narak. And this time, even a thousand years of penance will not get you Brahma’s attention. Nor Shiva’s. The devas are wise to your ways now. Begone before I send you fleeing like a pariah dog!’
Watch your tongue, old one. Do not make threats you cannot carry out. Your days of threatening me are done. Now my sun rises in the blood-red sky of the west. You seek to banish me to the lowest level of hell again? Watch as I turn this mortal plane of Prithvi itself into Patal. Watch as I undo in a few mortal years all that you have done these past seven thousand. Watch and weep, Brahmin. For weep is all you will be able to do when I come to take Ayodhya.
‘Your threats do not scare me, rakshas! Already, your assassin has been exposed and dispatched. Your spies have been uprooted. And soon we shall strike a mortal blow at the heart of your forces. Your grandiose dreams are merely that, dreams. Your cloven feet shall never step on the proud avenues of Ayodhya.’
The creature laughed. It began as a low chuckle from the head in the centre, but soon spread to all the other heads as well. All eleven laughed together, each in his own individual way. The sound clashed and echoed through the dungeon, reverberating off the stone walls, booming through the corridors and stairwell of the subterranean prison, wafting all the way up the stairs to where the warden stood sweating and praying for the safe return of the visitors.
Fool! Brahmin, you believe these are victories? They are as flea bites on the rump of a dying mule. Merely nips to get your attention. You believe you rooted out all my spies? I have eyes and ears in the palace itself. My followers include the highest and mightiest in your puny Arya nations. To root out all my spies you will have to cut out the heart and lungs from the diseased body of mortal civilisation itself. And even if you have the courage to do so, it will start a civil war among your mortal nations. My uncle Kala-Nemi is alive and well and here by my side already, unharmed by your charlatan mantras. As for Ayodhya …
The laughter went on longer this time, until Sumantra felt he would go insane at the sound.
I am already in Ayodhya!
The monstrosity reared back, all eleven heads still laughing manically. The red flame overhead grew brighter, dazzling white in its intensity.
Guru Vashishta raised his eyes, shielding them with his hand as he peered up at the light.
‘Sumantra,’ he cried. ‘Leave this place! At once! Flee!’
Sumantra didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and stumbled up the slippery damp stone steps. He reached the second level and resisted the urge to look back.
‘Go, Sumantra!’
The creature’s laughter built in a crescendo, now as multifarious as eleven hundred separate voices, then eleven thousand … It was as if every dead atma roving nearby had been drawn into the dungeon by the charisma of the Lord of Lanka’s demonic presence. The laughter pierced Sumantra’s ears, searing his brain, threatening to immobilise him with its sheer intensity.
He reached the uppermost level, then the door. But the door was locked and bolted! From outside!
From below, the guru’s voice rang out, counterpointing the screeching hordes of laughing atmas, calling a mantra. With a burst of blue light, the dungeon door blew open, right off its hinges, tumbling over and over itself with a crashing and ripping. Sumantra blessed the devas and ran into the passageway, towards the stairwell. Then up, up he climbed, his legs pumping desperately, scraping his shoulders and head and hands innumerable times, shedding skin, breaking a fingernail, drawing blood, as he fought his way up the narrow stairwell. The laughter and the mantras followed him all the way. Finally he burst into the torchlight of the upper prison building, into the waiting arms of the warden.
‘Vishnu be praised!’ the warden said, grasping hold of Sumantra.
The pradhan-mantri turned. ‘Gurudev?’ The seer was not behind him. Then he heard the sounds bubbling up from the bowels of the dungeons below. The guru’s voice was barely audible over the deafening cacophony of demonic laughter. But it was audible nevertheless.
A deafening impact shook the jail to its very foundations. A roaring red and blue flame—the colours intertwining like battling serpents, Sumantra saw—came racing up the stairwell, billowing out into the hallway.
The warden cried out and was thrown back on to the floor. Sumantra was knocked off his feet by an impact like the hot breath of a furious dragon. Then, as suddenly as it had occurred, the explosion ended. And there was nothing but silence.
FIFTEEN
The light in the eastern sky above the cliff was still soft and pink when the brahmacharyas carried the raft to the river. Rama and Lakshman were to the fore, marching in step with the Shaivites and joining in their cheerful working chant. In honour of the princes, the brahmacharyas substituted their customary ‘Om Namah Shiva’ with the traditional Kosala chant: ‘Dasa naam satya hai.” Literally, Dasaratha’s name is truth, or more liberally, Praise to the true king, Dasaratha.
It was a short distance from the ashram to the riverbank, but the vigour and enthusiasm of the brahmacharyas once again made Rama feel suddenly nostalgic for his gurukul days. There had been a strong bond between his brothers and the other shishyas of the kul, regardless of their caste, varna, gotra, birth-rank or wealth-stature. Even now, he would still be willing to risk his life for any one of those friends; but where were they now? All scattered across the kingdom, some across the seven nations.
As they emerged from the grove on to the gravelly bank of the river, Rama called a halt, eight pairs of bare feet crunching as they stopped as one person, then gave the order to lower the raft to the bank. All eight moved as one, as the raft settled without a whisper on the silt-slippery lip.
Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had followed with Rishi Adhranga and the older rishis, and they said their farewells now, speaking the customary ritual blessings and mantras. Rama and Lakshman had already said their goodbyes to the other brahmacharyas when they had gone down to the river together for their morning ablutions.
As he had recited the Gayatri mantra, standing waist-deep in the icy flowing water, taking his acamana, Rama had been aware of eyes on his back. It was little Dumma, more intent on watching the prince-heir of Ayodhya than on performing his own morning prayer.
‘I am not the sun-God, Dumma,’ Rama had said softly when he had finished his mantras. ‘Just a shishya who enjoys a good joke as much as you do. Always remember that. Respect all men, but worship none. Adoration is for the devas.’
He had heard the little brahmacharya’s sharp intake of breath and hissed whisper: ‘He has eyes in the back of his head! I told you, a prince of Ayodhya has powers!’
It had made him smile and wish yet again that Lakshman and he could linger here a while longer. Better still, if we could fetch Bharat and Shatrugan here too, it would be like old times again. He winced at the irony of how, when they had been at the gurukul, they had dreamed of nothing more than becoming active Kshatriyas, risking their lives, having adventures, fighting enemies and asuras. And now, when he was embarking on the most amazing adventure of his life, here he was, wishing for those gurukul days again.
Guru Vashishta had said it best: To want what you have not, that is the eternal longing of the mortal heart.
Now, as Lakshman and he checked the raft’s riggings one last time—only because the senior brahmacharyas insisted, proud of their craftsmanship—and waited for the brahmarishi to board, he felt someone watching him again. He turned instinctively, a smile ready for Dumma. But there was nobody there, only the empty grove, its perfectly spaced fruit trees casting long shadows in the slanting light of dawn.
He glanced around. Dumma was over there, up in a tree, tossing fruit down to his fellow brahmacharyas.
Rama turn
ed back to the grove. He had distinctly sensed someone watching from this direction.
Even now, he was aware of a consciousness somewhere deep within the grove observing him intently. He shut his eyes, letting his mind travel where his vision could not reach. Behind the trunks of fruit tree; amongst the grapevines, swollen green bunches hanging pendulously, ripe for the picking; up in the leafy branches of a mango tree, its fruit still small and green, a month or two away from ripening— the sour-sweet taste of the kairees palpable on his tongue, filling his mouth with saliva; into a small open field of watermelon, dark green and growing fatter by the day; across a patch of tomatoes left to ripen in the sun; behind a cluster of—
‘Bhai?’
He opened his eyes, blinking in the brightening light as his pupils adjusted. It had been dark in the grove. Lakshman was staring at him. ‘At you all right?’
He nodded brusquely. ‘I’m fine, Lakshman. Just saying one last mantra.’
Lakshman grinned. ‘Staying with Shaivites has made you suddenly pious. I hope you won’t try to shoot down the rakshasas with mantras instead of arrows!’
Rama grinned. ‘Actually, I thought I might try tossing tree-trunks at them!’
Lakshman raised his eyebrows. ‘Speaking of that, I’ve been wanting to ask you since last night. Have you felt anything else? Anything different?’
Rama shrugged. ‘Not really. Just better, stronger, healthier. But I thought it was because we had such a good time with the brahmacharyas last night.’
Lakshman grinned. ‘It was fun, wasn’t it? Wish we could stay a week or two! We never did get to celebrate Holi after all.’
‘Well, maybe after we finish off the rakshasas and the brahmarishi completes his yagna, we can make a detour and stop by at Mithila.’
Lakshman frowned. ‘Why Mithila?’
‘So you can smear a little Holi rang on your Urmila’s pretty face.’ Rama looked thoughtful. ‘Or maybe not just on her pretty face.’
Lakshman punched him on the shoulder. Rama punched him back. Lakshman fell off the raft, landing with a loud splash in the shallows. Mud splattered the other brahmacharyas standing around, staining their spotless white dhotis. Shambu got mud on his face. He wiped it off with a finger and put the finger in his mouth, sucking off the mud.
Rama wiped mud and water from his own face, laughing at his brother. ‘You don’t have to be so touchy about her, little brother. I’ll ask the brahmarishi to speak to her father about your match, if you like. Chacha Janak will be glad to have you as his son-in-law, I’m sure!’
‘Shut up,’ Lakshman warned.
‘Okay, okay, peace,’ Rama said. He held out his hand.
Lakshman hesitated, suspecting a prank, then took it. Rama heaved him up a little too fast, and Lakshman shot to his feet and stumbled towards the other side of the raft. Rama caught him with his other hand, balancing him. ‘See? You’ve fallen head over heels for that girl!’
Lakshman grinned back at him. ‘Not as much as you’ve fallen for her sister Sita.’
Rama was about to respond when Vishwamitra’s voice cut through their horseplay. ‘If you have finished you tomfoolery, rajkumars, we might consider departing. We have other things to do besides pushing one another around in muddy riverbanks, if you recall.’
‘Ji guruji,’ they said at once, turning serious.
They picked up the three-yard-long balsa wood poles the brahmacharyas had carved for them.
The brahmacharyas bent together and began shoving. The raft resisted for a moment, then broke free of the bank, floating out on to the water , bobbing from the shove-off. Rama and Lakshman stuck their poles into the river, and easily touched bottom. They needed to push the raft out into the middle, but Rama’s first push was much too hard, swinging them around in a complete west-east circle. Lakshman tottered and started to fall back on the raft, his pole rising out of water with a whoosh of splattered drops. The seer’s powerful hand gripped his shoulder and held him steady.
‘Sorry,’ Rama said, raising his free hand in apology. Lakshman shot him a warning look and stuck his pole back in the river. Rama used his own pole to stop their swinging momentum and slowly the sluggish current caught them and began pulling them downstream.
Rishi Adhranga and the other rishis raised their hands, bidding them goodbye and wishing them Shiva’s protection on their mission. The raft began to drift slowly downriver, the fresh logs still settling in the water with popping and cracking sounds. The brahmacharya acolytes ran alongside them, waving and yelling out words of encouragement. A small figure came sprinting down from the grove, barrelled through the watching rishis, weaved through his fellow acolytes, and ran along the lip of the bank beside them. His feet began to sink into the loam at once, almost tripping him up. His hands clutched something to his bare chest.
‘Rajkumar Rama! Rajkumar Lakshman! I have fruits here for you, to nourish you on your journey!’
Rama and Lakshman exchanged a grin. Rama called out across the few yards of river that separated his side of the raft from the young acolyte: ‘You are a wise brahmacharya, Dumma. Warriors must eat to gain strength. Toss them across one at a time, and mind that you do not fall into the river.’
‘Prepare to catch,’ Dumma called back breathlessly, struggling to keep abreast of the raft. The current was slowly picking up their pace and his first throw went astray, the small ripe papaya rising high above Rama’s head to smash across the cliff-side bank, bursting open on a rock and startling a jal murghi that rose squawking angrily into the air.
Rama laughed, just as the little brahmacharya’s next throw caught him full on the neck, a sitaphal striking him wetly and bursting open to release its milky-white innards across his chest. Lakshman roared with laughter at that, while the young brahmacharya cried out in horror.
‘I’m so sorry, Rajkumar Rama! So sorry!’
Rama smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s okay. Just don’t throw any more sitaphal.’
The boy’s next throw was deadly accurate, the fruit flying straight to Rama’s outstretched hand.
He snatched it out of the air without missing a beat in his steady poling. He caught the rest of the fruit one-handed too, using the other hand to continue poling to keep them in mid-river, away from the rocks on the north side and the silt on the south. Dumma managed to toss him three oranges, two pears, an apple and three small kairees in quick succession before the raft picked up speed.
‘Watch out!’ Rama cried.
Dumma looked ahead just in time to see the fallen tree-trunk barring his way, and with a whoop leaped over the obstacle and landed in a pool of muddy water. His dhoti unwound itself at the impact, leaving him stark naked.
He clutched at his sacred thread as if it could cover his nakedness. The other brahmacharyas running behind him on the firmer earth of the upper bank broke into hysterical laughter at the sight of poor Dumma scrambling for his dhoti while belatedly trying to keep his groin covered with his other hand.
Rama and Lakshman laughed too, and Rama thought he even glimpsed a flicker of a smile pass briefly across Vishwamitra’s face. Dumma cried out in frustration as his dhoti floated out of his reach into the river, and splashed furiously in a futile attempt to grab it. The dhoti dodged his hand and went drifting slowly downstream, racing the raft. He spat out a most unbrahmacharya-like string of curses at the escaping garment, driving his fellow acolytes to another paroxysm of laughter. He realised that the raft was about to turn a bend and waved frantically to Rama, forgetting for a moment to keep his nascent manhood covered.
‘Visit us again on your way back, Lord Rama! I’ll keep more fruit ready for you! Sitaphals!’
Lakshman giggled as the brahmacharya stepped back, lost his footing, and splashed down on his bare bottom in the mud of the bank. The raft went around the bend, and that was their last sight of the little acolyte.
‘That boy,’ Rama said, shaking his head.
He lifted his pole out of the water and looked at the sage. Vishwamitra wa
s standing with his legs apart, at a slight angle to the river, arms crossed across his chest. His eyes were open, yet he seemed to be looking at worlds beyond the one they were in right now. In the growing light of the new day, he made an impressive sight, his statuesque muscled body dappled by the shadows of overhanging boughs. A bird cry distracted him then and he looked across the river again, past Rama.
‘Look,’ Lakshman called. ‘Chini kulang.’
They were passing a marshy pond close by the river. The pond was filled with a number of immaculate white cranes with bright red beaks. They shuffled together, shoulder to shoulder in the water, plucking greedily at tubers and stalks.
‘Burmuch,’ Rama corrected, using the name he had heard his mother call the birds on a journey a long time ago.
‘Same thing,’ Lakshman replied. ‘They’re known as kare kare west of the Indus, tunhi up north, and in Kausalya-maa’s desh, burmuch. But Father and Guru Vashisata always call them chini kulang, because they fly south to our land every year from North Chinn, to escape the harsh winter snows.’
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 38