For a moment, he was transfixed. Just before leaving Ayodhya, Rama had caught a deer in the groves on the north bank of the Sarayu. Later that Holi morning, he had saved the same deer from poachers and taken Lakshman back to the spot only to find the wounded deer gone. Now Lakshman felt a curious certainty that this was that very deer. Except that he couldn’t see any sign of an arrow wound. It would be a miracle if it had survived such a wound at all, let alone recovered without a trace of a scar. And it would have been fantastic for it to have then made the long journey south to Siddh-ashrama. No, it couldn’t be the same deer. What was he thinking?
Yet there was something in its eyes, its eager, watchful stance, that made him remember Rama intensely. As if it knew he was searching for his brother and was trying to tell him something.
‘What is it, doe-eyed one?’ he said softly, keeping very still so as not to startle it. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’
It stood rock-still, in that familiar frozen posture prey animals assumed when they sensed a predator. He lowered himself to his haunches slowly, coming down to its height, careful not to show his teeth, humming very softly to calm it.
‘Have you seen my brother Rama?’ he asked, almost singing the name. ‘Rama Rama oh. Oh Rama Rama.’
The deer watched him through wide almond-shaped eyes. Its pupils were dilated, very large in their beds of white. Its ears flickered once, then were still again.
The wind changed. Somewhere in the thicket behind, high above, a langur shrieked and was answered by its simian companions. A family of red-tailed parrots, clustered on a branch until the rain passed, shot up into the air and were silhouetted against the lightening sky, thin red and green chalk streaks on an ash-grey slate.
The deer skittered, twisting round and round as if chasing its own tail, its ears twitching madly. It spun for a moment like a temple devdaasi whirling in a paroxysm of religious ecstasy. Its musky odour increased.
It came to an abrupt halt facing the thicket of dark-enshrouded banyan and peepal trees that marked the start of the forest. Lakshman tried to follow its gaze, to see what had startled it. The langurs resumed their screeching and chittering in the trees above, passing on a primordial panic alarm, and the deer bolted.
It was gone in a flash, a golden shadow rippling through the woods, fleeing back to its fairy realm. Its musky perfume lingered a moment longer, then was lost in the smells of rain and forest.
Lakshman remained crouched on his haunches, peering into the darkness of the trees. The wind changed again abruptly, bringing the scent to him a fraction of an instant before his eyes found the beast.
It was standing in the dense shade of an enormous banyan tree, the high vaulting boughs too thickly interwoven to allow the dull light of dawn to pass through easily. He saw its eyes first, bright as diamonds gleaming against the dark background of the jungle. The rest of it was all but invisible, but the eyes were riveting, yellow orbs of fire smouldering in a bed of coals.
The tiger stepped out of the shadows, becoming visible in stages. Its striped flanks seemed to go on for ever. The lithe, slow steps it took, the deep impressions its pugs made in the soft loamy ground, and the sheer size of the animal took his breath away. It was a beautiful young male, very large for its age.
Lakshman’s throat felt parched despite the water he had just drunk. There were many tiger pelts in his father’s palace in Ayodhya. None were as large as this creature.
The tiger’s eyes watched him intently, its throat issuing a low growling sound that was its way of throwing down a challenge. He understood at once that it was angry at having been deprived of the deer, which it must have been stalking for a while. A nocturnal creature, it had probably not fed this night, and soon the heat of the sun would drive it back to its deep forest lair, to sleep empty-stomached until nightfall. It was on the hunt, and since it had lost its chosen prey, this two-legged one would have to do instead.
It came slowly, one outstretched paw at a time. Ten yards from him, then nine … seven … In moments it was within springing distance. It stopped, crouching down, its powerful shoulder muscles bunching, the golden black-striped fur creasing as it gathered all its strength for the leap.
At the very last instant, a voice spoke out, unexpectedly loud over the stillness of the thicket.
‘Shantam.’
The single word acted as a mantra on the crouched tiger. One moment it was coiled to unleash its ferocious destructive energy upon its two-legged prey; the next it relaxed its powerful muscles and sank to the ground, purring like any house cat.
Lakshman rose to his feet as Brahmarishi Vishwamitra strode past him, approaching the tiger with fearless familiarity.
The seer-mage bent and stroked the animal’s head. Its ears twitched appreciatively and it rolled over, offering up the pale fur of its belly. Vishwamitra chuckled in his deep, gravelly voice, his long white beard rippling with his amusement.
‘You want to play, do you? I would love to play with you awhile, my friend. But there is much work to be done. Your workday is ending, while ours has barely begun. The good rajkumar here and I, we have a journey to make today with our companions. A long journey.’
The tiger mewled.
Vishwamitra smiled. ‘Yes, certainly. When I return I shall play with you. Now, run along and give your brothers and sisters my regards. Go on now, it’s almost sunrise, and your mother will worry.’
The tiger snorted twice, issued a last sulky growl, and rose to its feet, padding away quickly. In moments, it had blended with the shadows of the forest and was gone.
Vishwamitra turned to face Lakshman.
‘Rajkumar Lakshmana, the animals of Siddh-ashrama live in harmony with humans. They mean you no harm.’
Lakshman bowed his head, putting his palms together respectfully to offer the first greetings of the day to his new guru.
‘Pranaam, Guru-dev. The tiger was clearly hostile to me. When it sought to assault me, I was left with no choice but to prepare to defend myself.’
The brahmarishi inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Lakshman’s explanation. ‘What you say is true. But remember that in this place we are the outsiders. Perhaps you were a little too quick to invoke the power of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. Certainly the tiger sensed your great strength and saw you as a hostile intruder. Even though it knew your enhanced abilities would result in its destruction, still it sought to defend its habitat and its dignity.’
Lakshman was silent as he pondered the brahmarishi’s words.
He had been very quick to challenge the tiger. It was almost as if … well, as if he wanted the fight. He recalled his earlier restlessness on awakening. Between battles. As if he needed to pit himself against a foe, any foe. If rakshasas and giant demonesses weren’t on hand, then a tiger would do. But if this was so, then he hadn’t been consciously aware of it.
‘Forgive me, Guru-dev,’ he said quietly.
Vishwamitra walked over to Lakshman and squeezed his shoulder. The strength in the seer’s hands surprised Lakshman. ‘Feel not ashamed, Sumitra-putra. You are young yet and it is barely eight days since you received these potent infusions. It takes even great warriors many years to learn the intricacies of their usage. Why, it took a raj-Kshatriya such as myself several hundred years to achieve mastery of my martial abilities. Of course,’ he added, ‘that was before I set down my sword and bow to take up this life of spiritual penance. And yet, those same qualities of yogic self-control stand me in good stead even today. The greatest battle is the one a warrior wages with his own animal impulses.’
Lakshman glanced up at the brahmarishi’s face. It was the first time he had heard the sage speak of his historic past. Every Arya child learned of Raja Vishwamitra’s stirring exploits as a warrior-king, as well as of his transformation into a seer through centuries of tapasya. Like any other Kshatriya graced with the presence of such a great warrior, Lakshman had a hundred questions he wanted to ask the brahmarishi.
But befo
re he could speak another word, a flash of blinding light seared his vision. He flung his hand up to cover his eyes, taking a step back from the source of the effulgence. Still, his warrior’s instinct demanded he try to discern what was going on, to defend himself against any possible assault. He sensed Vishwamitra standing his ground and staring directly at the blinding illumination.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the light faded away, leaving behind only a searing memory burned in Lakshman’s mind’s eye.
He lowered his hands and saw the lone figure of his brother Rama, standing in the midst of the papaya grove.
TWO
Kausalya woke from a light doze to find Dasaratha’s eyes open. The maharaja was lying on his back, hands clasped on his chest, head fallen to the right, eyes fixed on the thin slice of indigo sky visible through the window at the far end of the vaulting bedchamber. She observed him calmly for a moment, marshalling her emotions.
She knew what she should be thinking, that her husband had departed the mortal realm for more elevated pastures, that at least he had passed away peacefully in the night without further suffering, but she stoically refused to entertain such thoughts. It was as if a part of her believed firmly that by thinking such thoughts she would give them credence and substance. An Arya wife did not think ill of her husband and children, whatever the circumstances or provocation. Yet it was more than mere tradition and upbringing. It was a deep-rooted, intensely felt inner conviction. If life gave you thorns, you made do with thorns. You didn’t brood on their nature, the colour, the species, the length, the sharpness … instead, you plucked them out, tossed them aside, and kept walking, on bloody feet if you had to.
She had acquired that attitude from her mother. Indeed, those very words—make do with thorns—still echoed in her memory in that familiar soft voice. Her mother had passed away the year before Kausalya was married, a tragic piece of timing. But her voice and its lessons, learned in childhood while those strong, deeply lined hands plaited her oiled locks or massaged turmeric paste into her supple young limbs, had carried her through fifteen years of marital turmoil, neglect and loneliness, seven of those years spent without even her growing son, pride of her loins, jewel of her heart, to bring comfort and joy. So much had been denied her. Yet still, that resilient Kausalya, daughter of pride, mother of fortitude and silent will, refused to yield to the samay chakra’s cruel turns and twists. And so she rose from her seat thinking not that Dasaratha was dead and lying glassy-eyed but that he was simply awake and gazing.
The muted rustle of her sari—she had laid aside the ritual silks of her queenly station the day after Dasaratha had taken to his sickbed, and donned simple homespun saris instead— attracted his attention. He blinked once, and turned his head slightly, adjusting his frame of view to encompass her. Her heart raced as the enormity of the moment dawned on her. Dasa was awake. Alive and awake. It was only then that she realised how close she had come to growing resigned these past eight days. How the muted whispers of acceptance around the palace had begun to seep into her resolve, melting it like a glacier thawed over centuries by the unrelenting heat of the sun. On this occasion, those thorns of life had dug deep enough to draw out more than blood; they had almost drained her of hope. And hope, as her mother had said so often, was the real food of mortal existence; food of the soul.
He turned his head slightly as she approached, eyes startling in their clarity. The rheumy, glassy look of the feverish nights was gone, so was the glazed, slack-jawed looseness. He had lost weight during this latest bout and it showed on his face. It gave him the appearance of weary determination; a warrior who had fought yet another unwinnable battle and had survived. Not won, for neither this new battle nor the war itself was winnable by any mortal, but survived. He had lived to fight another day. And she was blessed to be here to see the miracle with her own eyes.
‘Kausalye.’ He used the affectionate ‘e’ suffix that was the closest to a nickname he had ever permitted himself. That was all he said—simply her name. It was enough.
She dropped to her knees by his bedside, burying her face in his arms, clinging to his shoulder. His skin felt cool and dry to her touch, no longer fiery with fever or clammy from sick-sweat. She kissed his forearm, his hand, his wrist.
‘I will propitiate the devi,’ she said. ‘I will offer a hundred rams as thanks for your recovery.’
He made a small choked sound. She looked up, alarmed, then realised it was an approximation of a laugh, the best he could manage in his weakened condition.
‘Spare the rams, Kausalye. Just get me something to eat and drink.’
She looked up at him. If she needed proof positive, here it was. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure?’ he echoed. ‘Of course I’m sure. If I’m alive, I must eat and drink, mustn’t I? Unless I have died and this is Swarga-lok and you’ve been given the ultimate penalty of nursing me eternally. In which case, I’ll eat one of those rams you were planning to sacrifice. Roasted, preferably, with plenty of stuffing!’
She smiled, warmed by his attempt at humour. It spoke more eloquently than any assurance of well-being. ‘It would be a pleasure, not a penalty.’
He smiled a wan smile. ‘Ever the dutiful and noble Kausalya. Don’t you at least occasionally feel ill towards anybody? Think dark, terrible thoughts? Wish destruction and holocaust on those who have hurt you and caused you misery?’
She thought of the night she had first known he was in the clutches of Kaikeyi. Not the first night he had spent in her arms, for she had accepted Kaikeyi’s presence by then—not liked it, but accepted it nevertheless—but the first time she had learned of how deeply he was besotted with his voluptuous second queen. She had learned it from Sumitra, who had broken the news to her as gently as possible, confirming what Kausalya had dismissed till then as idle palace gossip and court chatter. She remembered the darkness that had come over her then. The wave of black rage that had risen like an ocean deva bent on destruction, the pounding fury in her heart. She had forgotten all her mother’s lessons at that moment. Forgotten all the wisdom she had acquired through diligent study and practice. She had been at that moment a pure avatar of the devi, lightning-bolt in one hand, trident in the other, lion at her knee, and all she knew was man-hatred and woman-rage.
And then the infant Rama had called out, shattering the tense silence of her bedchamber. He was barely a year old then, only just weaned. She had gone to the bed, thrown herself there by his side, and bared her breast to him, teasing his curled lips with her forefinger, drawing him to her breast. He had found the hot nipple and paused, turning his head to stare up at her, his silent wide eyes asking the question his wordless mouth could not frame, and she had smiled down at him, caressed his downy soft head, and moved it back towards her breast again. He had drunk then, sucking happily, greedily, as he was permitted this rare return to a familiar luxury, and she had felt the ache in her right breast as the veins of milk, still full and bountiful in their gift of life, began to convey their precious nectar.
Sumitra had leaned over her, wiping the tears that flowed down Kausalya’s face, drenching Rama’s swaddle clothes, and said quietly, words that Kausalya would remember for ever, ‘At least we have the loyalty of our sons.’
Kausalya blinked away the moistness that threatened to creep into her eyes now and looked at Dasaratha. She was stroking his hirsute arm gently, the way she had stroked Rama’s infant head that fateful day. He was staring up at her with an inscrutable expression that mirrored the fixed watchfulness of his infant son in her memory, and in that instant she saw how much he regretted, how much he wished he could undo, how time and past errors of judgement had eaten into the heart of his ego and denuded his former arrogance. This was her Dasaratha again; not Kaikeyi’s Dasaratha, that stranger she had stood by during official functions and court rituals over the years; but her Dasaratha, the prince of Ayodhya she had wed long years ago, the prince she had loved, the king she had watched with pride and admiration, the man t
o whom she had given her maidenhood and all else, the father of her child, the keeper of her honour.
‘We choose,’ she said. ‘We choose to walk in light or darkness. I chose my path a long time ago. I have never looked back since.’
He stared at her mutely for a long moment. Then he turned his head away, towards the window again. The first blush of dawn was visible through its carved arches, above the delicate boughs of the flower grove. His voice was soft and young, more like his son’s clear, quiet tones than his own customary gruffness. Her Dasaratha was speaking now.
‘Some of us walk in darkness without knowing we do. We see with black eyes and black hearts. And only when we have gone too deep into the jungle do we realise our mistake. But by then it’s too late to turn back, impossible to find our way home.’
She felt his despair and ached for it. This was her curse, not just to bear her given burden, but to feel profound empathy for the pain of others as well, including the one who had caused her own pain. ‘It’s never too late to come home,’ she said.
He looked at her again. She saw the colours of the dawn reflected in his eyes, the yellowish cast of first light on his wasted features.
‘Do you think so? Can a black heart change its path this late in the day?’
She touched his chest gently, proprietorially. ‘The path was always there. If the heart could but see it.’
‘And the consequences of past actions? Our karma?’
She shrugged. ‘What we have done even the devas can’t undo. But what we have yet to do, even the asuras cannot prevent us from doing. If you wish to walk the path of light, you can do so even now.’
His eyes filled with tears, and his hand gripped her arm with shocking strength. Not the strength of youth and vigour he had once possessed with pride, but the strength of desperation. ‘I’m so afraid, Kausalya.’
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