The ground below him shuddered convulsively. A rattling and roaring filled his ears. From the position of the sun, he guessed it was late afternoon. He sat up slowly, wincing in anticipation of pain, and found himself staring at a curved metal plate not unlike the inside of a battle shield.
He realised he was in a chariot. The sandalled feet of the charioteer were behind his head, stippled with dried blood and cuts and bruises. Blood stained the charioteer’s hoary right hand as it held the reins tightly. From the steady rhythmic rocking of the two-horse, Lakshman intuited that they were on a path less smooth than the raj-marg yet not as rough as open countryside.
He tried to sit up and lost his balance, keeling over to the open rear of the chariot, towards the brown earth rushing past at a great speed. A muscled hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him.
He turned and looked into the sunburned battle-scarred face of a grizzled veteran, recognising the man as the same Vajra commander they had encountered on the cliff south of Sarayu just after they left the raj-marg.
‘Bejoo-chacha,’ he said, surprised. ‘What am I doing here in your chariot?’
Bejoo stared at him silently in response. Lakshman frowned, wondering if the man had failed to hear him above the noise of the chariot. Perhaps he was deafened temporarily by some injury; he looked like he had been in a fierce battle.
The grizzled Kshatriya blinked at last and looked away, at the road. ‘The sage told me to take you ahead. He and your brother follow us on foot.’
Lakshman looked around. He saw they were on a rough but passable dirt path running through lightly wooded scrubland.
Another two chariots followed them, both badly battered and one wobbling dangerously. Perhaps two dozen horse followed the chariot, riding in single file, and through the cloud of dust rising in their wake, he thought he could make out the raised trunks of two or three bigfoot.
He turned back to the commander, surprised. ‘Your Vajra? Is this all that remains of it?’
Bejoo’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes.’
‘Why did you carry me in your chariot? Why did Rama and Gurudev not rouse me and let me walk? My place is with them, not riding like this.’
Bejoo glanced at him, his eyes flicking up and down as if examining Lakshman carefully. ‘You were … injured in the battle. Unconscious. Unfit to make the journey on foot. I was ordered to carry you ahead to the sage’s ashram.’ He added belatedly, ‘Rajkumar.’
‘I feel fine,’ Lakshman began, irritated. ‘I could have walked easily. Stop the chariot, let me off here. I will wait by the road for my brother and Guru Vishwamitra and continue on foot with them.’
The commander rode on without slowing. ‘Shama, my prince. I have strict orders. You are to be allowed to disembark only when we reach Siddh-ashrama.’
Lakshman frowned. ‘But we can’t be going on to Siddhashrama yet. We still have to kill the Yaksi Tataka and her rakshas sons Mareech and Subahu.’
A sudden chill gripped him despite the heat of the afternoon sun. ‘What happened to me, Commander? I was wounded, wasn’t I?’ He patted himself all over. ‘But where was I wounded? I feel no injuries on my person. I feel healthy, invigorated, fighting fit … and hungry, very, very hungry.’
Bejoo glanced at him curiously, steering the chariot around a bend in the path beside a clump of cherry trees. ‘I am sure the rishis at the ashram will provide for your needs, rajkumar. We should reach it soon. The sage said it was about eight or nine yojanas ahead. We have already covered half that distance.’
Lakshman thumped his fist on the dashboard of the chariot. ‘I don’t understand. Why was I unconscious for so long? What happened after I lost my senses? Speak to me, Commander. Tell me!’
The Kshatriya evaded his eyes. ‘All I know, rajkumar, is that when my Vajra and I caught up finally with the three of you, you were in the Bhayanak-van and had fought a great battle against Tataka and her minions. We joined forces with you and eventually, by your brother’s great valour, Tataka was killed and the Bhayanak-van set ablaze. If you look back, you will see the fire even now.’
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Lakshman peered in the direction the commander had mentioned, and saw the plume of smoke that rose in the distance, several yojanas away. He had missed it earlier because the dust of their wake had obscured it. ‘Jai Shiv Shankar! Hail Lord Shiva!’ he said, unable to believe it. ‘Then we won! We fought them all and we won! You said you saw Rama kill the Yaksi?’
Bejoo nodded, looking away. ‘I did.’
‘Was she as terrible as the tales say? A towering, blood-thirsty, rapacious demoness with the strength of a thousand elephants?’
Bejoo continued to keep his face averted, looking at the road ahead. ‘She was the largest living being I have ever seen or heard tell of.’
‘And you say my brother downed her? How did he achieve this, commander? Give me the details!’ Lakshman slammed a fist into his open palm. ‘If only I had been awake to see it. Why did I have to be knocked unconscious at such a time! Rama had to do it all on his own.’
He glanced apologetically at the Vajra commander. ‘Although I am sure you and your Vajra must have fought hard alongside him. I can tell that from the extent of your losses.’
‘Yes,’ Bejoo said shortly. ‘Rajkumar, perhaps you would take some rest for a while and allow me to concentrate on steering us safely. I am sure your brother and the sage will answer your questions once we reach the ashram.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Lakshman said. He felt like singing and clapping his hands. But the commander’s obvious depression dampened his enthusiasm. He sympathised with the man’s losses. ‘You must have lost some fine men in the Southwoods.’
Bejoo was silent for a moment. When he replied, his voice was gruff and hoarse. ‘All fine men, some finer than others.’
Lakshman shook his head regretfully. ‘When we return to Ayodhya, I will tell my father you fought bravely. He will raise a stone to the memory of your lost men.’
He sighed, folding his arms across his chest, his body rocking with the rhythm of the chariot. ‘It could as easily have been me lying back there on the floor of the Bhayanak-van, dead.’
He wondered why Bejoo started suddenly, almost losing control of the horses, and stared at him in wide-eyed shock.
Battle-weariness, Lakshman thought. The man needs time to recover, that’s all.
***
They reached the ashram not long after, the sun still high in the western sky. It was not unlike Ananga-ashrama, except that the rishis were devoted to Brahma instead of Shiva, and the ashram seemed more recently built, in relative terms, which meant only that it was a few centuries old to Ananga-ashrama’s millennia.
Lakshman refused to take water or food, and would not accept arghya or set foot within the shaded ashram hut until Rama arrived. He sat on a hummock beside the road, waiting. He wished he could take a chariot and ride back to pick up his brother and the guru. The hours passed with agonising slowness, but despite his earlier pangs of hunger, he felt more than able to bear the heat and the lack of food or water. If anything, he felt refreshed and alert. He attributed it to the time he had spent unconscious.
The Vajra Kshatriyas tended to their horses and elephants but seemed to avoid him nervously for some reason. Lakshman didn’t mind; he was in no mood for talk and he wanted time to try and remember what had happened before he lost consciousness. All he could recall was fighting the hybrid monsters, the blue glow from his own eyes, and Rama’s incredible speed, strength and skill during the battle.
The sun was an hour from the horizon when he finally spied the flowing white locks of the brahmarishi and Rama’s crowblack hair. Both men were approaching at a pace that was equal to a brisk trot. Lakshman’s heart thudded as he saw that Rama was unmarked by scars or wounds.
Even the ichor and blood that must have coated his body after the battle with the hybrids seemed to have been washed away.
As Rama came closer, his body glistening with a rich
sheen of sweat, Lakshman saw something in his brother’s eyes that was visible even from afar, something not like Rama, and a faint uneasiness crept down his spine as he recalled the blood-madness of the battle. But he ran forward excitedly, waving. Rama’s face lost its grim expression as his mouth opened in that familiar teeth-flashing laugh, and he ran to meet him midway. They embraced and Lakshman squeezed his brother’s sweat-slippery body as tightly as he could.
‘Bhai,’ he said, fighting back tears. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
Rama disengaged himself from his grip and looked at him. ‘And you too, little brother. So good to see you again.’ There was a strange expression to his voice, as if he was trying to choke back sudden tears.
Lakshman turned to the brahmarishi as he approached, joining his hands and bowing his head respectfully. ‘Pranaam, gurudev. I apologise for not being in my senses during the battle with the Yaksi and her sons.’
The seer laid a hand on Lakshman’s head. ‘No need to apologise, rajkumar. You fought bravely, doing more than your share. We all play our own part in each conflict, and oftentimes we serve the purpose of Brahman in our own individual ways.’
Lakshman raised his head. ‘I look forward to serving you now during your yagna, mahaguru. When will it begin?’
The sage glanced back at the sun hanging low in the evening sky. ‘This very evening, Lakshman. I am afraid you and your brother will have no sleep for the next seven nights. You must stand guard and ensure that the rakshasas do not violate the ritual or the altar as they have done at earlier poojas. This is no ordinary havan. It is a maha-yagna that must be completed without interruption.’
‘We will not fail you, mahadev,’ Lakshman replied.
The seer turned to look at him. ‘No, you will not,’ he said kindly. ‘I am confident in your ability to fulfil your duty to the fullest extent.’
He glanced over Lakshman’s shoulder, exchanging another look with Rama. ‘I am sure you will be more than a match for Mareech and Subahu when they arrive.
‘And now, I will go and purify myself in preparation for the yagna, and you and your brother must do the same. You may perform your sandhyavandana and take your acamana in the sacred confluence of the Ganges and Sarayu. For this is Siddh-ashrama, built on the sacred site where the great Sage Vamana once resided, who as you well know was the famous dwarf avatar of Lord Vishnu descended to earth to regain Prithvi from the demon Bali.’
He smiled. ‘But that is a katha for another time. Perhaps when we are done with our yagna and are on the road back to Ayodhya, I may tell it to you. Now, time is short, and much work remains.’
The sage strode towards the ashram, the rishis waiting at its boundaries with arghya jugs and phool malas and all the customary honours.
Lakshman turned to Rama. ‘Did he say Mareech and Subahu? But I thought you fought and killed them back in the Bhayanak-van when you killed Tataka?’
Rama’s eyes were distant and distracted. ‘They fled.’
‘Oh,’ Lakshman said, wanting to hear more. ‘About the fight with Tataka, bhai. After I was knocked unconscious … how was I knocked unconscious, by the way? All I remember is—’
Rama put a hand on his shoulder, silencing him. ‘Lakshman, my brother. We have work to do. It will be dusk in minutes, and we still haven’t completed our evening prayers. Come. We’ll talk later.’
‘Of course,’ Lakshman replied. ‘Later.’
They walked towards the ashram together.
TWENTY-FOUR
The first six days and nights passed without disturbance. The yagna went on round the clock uninterrupted, and by the afternoon of the fifth day, Lakshman could tell from the expressions and manner of the rishis and acolytes that everything was going well. Even he could see that the omens were all auspicious, and began to relax.
On the morning of the sixth and final day, Rama woke him with the quiet warning: ‘Today, be on your guard.’
The day passed uneventfully.
That night, as dusk began to fall, Lakshman sensed a change in the atmosphere. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle, the harsh, plaintive cawing of a crow broke the chirringchirping sounds of sparrows and insects, and as twilight deepened, he knew that things more dangerous than wolves or cats were abroad.
They came from the sky, appearing out of thin air and flying with no clear means of support.
The first was a demon with skin so fair it took him only a moment to recognise it as an albino.
Its colourless white eyes were filled with a hatred that was more frightening than the jagged-edged mace it held.
Why does he hate me so much?
Then he remembered and felt foolish. Because we killed his mother. That one was Mareech, Rama told him quietly, speaking in the wordless voice that they both had begun to use when under the influence of the maha-mantras.
The second one was completely unlike his brother-rakshas: dark and short and thick-waisted. He carried a weapon that Lakshman had never seen before, a peculiar round astra like a hollow metal ball which covered his fist and most of his forearm. This one was Subahu, Rama said.
As Subahu approached, he raised his hand and swung it in an action similar to swinging a sling.
The metal ball unfolded into overlapping layers, each finely honed to razor-sharpness, and from between the layers spikes on thin metal rods emerged, spinning in a synchronous motion that was mesmerising to behold. Lakshman tore his eyes away from the lethal beauty of the astra and concentrated on his own astras.
The brahmarishi had given them their weapons before beginning the yagna. It had been a simple but significant ceremony, attended by the ashramites as well as the Vajra Kshatriyas.
‘To honour your valour in the Bhayanak-van, for cleansing the dread Southwoods and razing it to the ground with purifying fire, for killing the demoness Yaksi Tataka and ridding the world of her menace, I grant you, Rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, the divine astras of the devas. These mantras I communicate directly to your minds will give you the shakti to call upon any one of a hundred great astras. Despite their name, these are not mere weapons. Each of these astras is in fact a celestial being, a shining demi-god from swarga-lok, the highest of the three worlds. The mantras compel them to serve you at your will. Speak any mantra and the corresponding shining one will be at your command instantly. Accept these divine weapons now as reward for your triumph in Bhayanak-van.’
Lakshman had suffered a pang of guilt. He felt he hardly deserved this recognition after being unconscious through most of the fight in the Southwoods. But when he said as much to the brahmarishi, Rama interrupted and insisted that he should not refuse such gifts. He had agreed only to avoid spoiling the ceremony, but now he was glad the guru had armed them with the astras. As the rakshasas swooped down from the sky, riding through the air by some strange shakti, he stepped forward. He knew what to do. He would use the Manava astra to dispel them both in one blow. It would be ironically appropriate to destroy the rakshasas with the shakti of his ancestor Manu Lawmaker himself.
But as he released the astra at the approaching asuras, Rama moved in front of him, shielding him. Lakshman cried out in frustration and diverted the astra at the last minute. It went astray, striking Mareech a glancing blow on his shoulder.
Even so, it was powerful enough to fling the rakshas back with the force of a catapult launching a pebble. The demon was thrown a hundred yojanas distant, landing in the Great Ocean, his shoulder shattered. But he was still alive. Lakshman knew this because the astra returned in a flash to him and showed him the result of its action.
Before Lakshman could cry out to Rama to move from his way, Rama had unleashed one, two, three astras in rapid succession. Lakshman stared in disbelief as the astras of Agni, Vayu and Indra struck the rakshas Subahu simultaneously in a magnificent display of coordinated shakti.
The rakshas was quartered to the four winds, burnt alive, and his remains reduced to charred ashes by the three astras of fire, wind and lightning.<
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As suddenly as it had begun, the assault was over. Lakshman blinked, unable to believe the fight had ended so quickly. Around them, the Vajra Kshatriyas looked around uneasily, their swords and maces still unsullied, their arrows unshot. They muttered nervously, glancing at the two princes.
When the yagna ended at dawn the next morning, Lakshman turned to Rama and broke the ritual silence. ‘Why did you block my way, bhai? I would have destroyed both of them with Manu’s astra. They would both be dead now. Instead, you let Mareech escape.’
Rama looked away. ‘His injury was grave. He fell far out in the ocean. He won’t survive.’
‘But why did you do it?’
Rama looked at him. ‘I didn’t want to lose you again.’
Lakshman felt a surge of anger. ‘Just because I was knocked unconscious once doesn’t mean I’m helpless, bhai! I can fight as well as you can. I don’t need your protection, big brother!’
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 46