PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Rama stared blankly at the seer. It was as if the brahmarishi was speaking some foreign language. He could hear the seer, understand his every word, but he could not fathom the meaning behind the literal meaning of what he was saying.

  ‘But, maha-dev, what other choice do I have?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Unless you mean to say that there is no invasion? That I was misinformed?’

  Vishwamitra shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, no. Your visitation this morning was no trick. Nor was your nightmare vision, young Lakshman. Nor the occult encounter our Vajra Captain Bejoo had a little while ago. The forces of Lanka have indeed landed on the shores of this great subcontinent, and even as we speak they are swarming across the desolate deserts of Kutchha. Before this day has ended, they will reach the first true major settlements of the Arya nations and begin wreaking a terrible vengeance.’

  ‘Then what else can I possibly do?’ Rama asked. ‘How can I not return home to protect my home and my loved ones?’

  The sage sighed. He spread his hands. Vishwamitra was a large-boned, handsomely proportioned man, his every limb shaped as perfectly as a well-designed weapon of war. His palms were flat and deeply scored with more lines than Rama had seen on any person before. He raised one hand, then the other, holding them at chest level, like scales of an invisible balance.

  ‘That is one choice, certainly, Rama. The natural choice. The one which the devas expect you to make. That is why you were given the gift of that divine visitation this morning. That privilege is granted to but a few fortunate mortals and almost as few immortals. Do you see my point? You were being subtly influenced in favour of this choice. The nightmare vision of your brother Lakshman ensured that he would not argue against your decision, as indeed he will not. And the further sandesh from your Vajra captain, whose lifelong scepticism of all things supernatural was so miraculously overcome in a single encounter with a disembodied voice, cemented the decision. See for yourself then. Forces around you are pressing you to make this one choice and one choice alone.’

  The brahmarishi let his right hand fall significantly, as if a five-kilo weight had been dropped on that side of the balance.

  ‘On this other side is your second choice. There are no divine visions certifying this one, no Vajra captains trying to underline its importance; indeed, there is no influence bearing upon you to choose this path at all. You may almost ask the question, “Why this?” And you would be perfectly justified in asking it.’

  ‘But maha-dev,’ Lakshman asked, ‘what is the second choice? We already know the first choice is to return home to Ayodhya. What would be our alternative?’

  ‘Well asked, young Lakshman. After all, though I address my words to your brother Rama, you are as much a part of his karma at this moment. The second choice of which I speak is simply the path you were to take originally.’

  And the brahmarishi let his left hand drop, but only slightly, as if a mere kilo weight had been put there, not nearly enough to outweigh the five kilos on the right side.

  ‘To travel to Mithila?’ Rama asked slowly, looking baffled. ‘To attend the swayamvara and marriage you spoke of yesterday? But … what would be the point?’

  The seer-mage smiled. ‘Now, Rama, you ask the real question. Not what the other choice is, but why?’

  The word hung between them like a bee hovering in mid-air, droning. Why?

  The brahmarishi dropped his hands and said simply, ‘Because I have asked you to come.’

  There was complete silence for several instants. Rama could hear the stubborn lowing of a bullock at the far end of the ashram, a good hundred yards away, and the muted grunts and coaxing of the young brahmacharyas struggling to move the difficult animal. From the sound, he could even recognise the bullock; it was a surly beast, given to moods and fits. But the chanting of the Gayatri mantra in its right ear would get it moving again. In the brief silence that followed, he guessed that one of the cleverer acolytes must be doing just that. After an instant, he heard the bullock snorting appreciatively and then the jangling of its bells as it began heaving the laden cart up the path again.

  ‘Maha-dev,’ Rama said softly, ‘you said earlier that we are free to return to Ayodhya. You agree that the defence of our homes and loved ones is of paramount importance. Then what possible purpose could we serve by travelling in another direction altogether, into the heart of the Videha kingdom, to the capital city Mithila, fifty yojanas away from our home and duty?’

  Vishwamitra raised his hands in a shrug. ‘What purpose did you serve by leaving your homes and loved ones in the first place and travelling with me into the heart of the Bhayanak-van? What purpose did you serve by risking your lives by facing Tataka and her bestial brood? What purpose did you serve by fighting Mareech and Subahu and ensuring the sanctity of my yagna?’

  ‘That was our dharma, Guru-dev,’ Rama said. ‘You came to our father’s palace and demanded as dakshina that we accompany you. All of Ayodhya agreed that it was our dharma to do so.’

  The seer-mage nodded slowly, looking at Rama. The weight of years seemed to press down heavily on his lined features, as if a great burden of sadness had descended upon him all at once. ‘And it is your dharma to accompany me now to Mithila.’

  Rama blinked several times. He felt as though the question that had hung between them like a bee had darted forward and stung him between the eyes. He felt the pain of the answer to that question piercing his brain now, sending a wave of agony through his entire being.

  ‘Maha-dev,’ he said, ‘you know we live to serve you. Until you release us of our oath, we are your shishyas. If you insist we accompany you to Mithila, we have no power to resist you. We will obey without question. But pray, grant me the answer to one why. Why is it so important that we come with you to Mithila?’

  Vishwamitra looked up for a moment. The vivid blue of the sky cancelled out the blueness of his own eyes, just as fragments of ice floating in the clear cold waters of the Sarayu became invisible. Rama was seized by an almost painful conviction that he would never see the Sarayu again, that his beloved river, his beloved home, were all floating away downstream like those fragments of winter ice, far out of his futile mortal reach.

  ‘Rama, that question can only be answered by coming to Mithila.’

  The seer put out a hand, touching Rama’s shoulder gently. ‘And now it is time for us to depart on our long journey. I shall leave you for a few moments as I assemble my acolytes for one final prayer. You may use these moments to arrive at your final decision. Remember that I do not bind you to this choice: dharma binds you. You are free to return to Ayodhya at any moment you desire, just as you were free to refuse to accompany me into the Bhayanak-van eight mornings ago. The choice is now in your hands. Choose which route you will.’

  Bejoo saw the brahmarishi coming around the hut, accompanied by an entourage of white-haired, white-bearded rishis. He pointedly pretended to be looking the other way until the Brahmins had gone by, neither wishing to give offence by ignoring the ritual greeting nor keen to indulge in formalities he had always considered a waste of time and energy.

  They passed by several yards from him, engaged in discussing something amongst themselves. He waited until they had gone, then strode quickly around the periphery of the hut. He saw the rajkumars standing below the banyan tree before the brahmarishi’s hut, looking as if they had both been struck by lightning. Bejoo’s stomach cramped suddenly, only partly because he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, and he had a sinking feeling that his worst fears were about to be realised.

  ‘Rajkumar?’ he said, coming up to Rama. ‘If your leave-taking is finished, we should mount and ride at once. Ayodhya is a long way yet, and the asura hordes will not halt to ask their guru for ashirwaad.’

  Rama’s face was a portrait of inscrutability. He looked like a man who had just seen the future and recognised it for what it truly was: a battlefield across which one had to fight one’s way one precious yard at a time. It took Bejoo a moment to re
alise that whatever the brahmarishi had just said, it had had a profound effect on the prince. Gone was the boy who had left Ayodhya a mere eight days ago; in his place was the man he was destined to become, a man soon to become king, and on whom the heavy weight of kingship appeared to have fallen already.

  ‘Rajkumar?’ Bejoo repeated gruffly, trying to find a balance between his natural rough vulgarity and a more suitable tone. ‘What is it? What did the Brahmin say to make you look thus?’

  Lakshman answered. His own face was as grim and forlorn as Rama’s, but the delicacy of Rani Sumitra’s features lent softness to the younger prince’s expression. Bejoo saw that in his own way, he was as devastated as Rama. But while Rama’s emotions were as inscrutable as craggy, granite-faced Mount Himavat during a winter icestorm, Lakshman’s feelings showed as lucidly as the mirrored surface of a lotus pond.

  ‘Guru-dev says we are free to return to Ayodhya any time, but it is our dharma to go with him to Mithila.’

  Bejoo paused for two beats of his heart, absorbing the words, making certain he had not missed any hidden meaning. These Brahmins were so maddeningly fond of their open and hidden meanings that one never knew for sure whether the words being said were the real message or simply the paan-leaf in which it was concealed. Layers within layers, wrapped in coded symbols to which only they held the mysterious key. But he could find no ambiguity in this sandesh; its meaning seemed to be entirely straightforward.

  He grinned, relieved. ‘Is that all? So go get your rigs and swords and let us ride to Ayodhya!’

  Rama walked away, going to the banyan tree. This tree was the mother-tree of all the others in the environs of the ashram, a massive creation over three hundred and forty years of age. Its roots had long since begun to push their way out of the earth, wrestling with one another for space in the crumbling topsoil. Gnarled clumps of root had broken free in places, like the hirsute toes of a giant rishi who had stood three centuries on one foot in meditation. Rama put a foot on a knot of roots and stared towards the east, where the rising sun had begun to reveal itself through the densely growing firs on the eastern hills. Patterned sunlight lit up his profile. He seemed oblivious to the conversation, buried like the banyan in timeless contemplation.

  Lakshman answered for both of them. ‘Bejoo-chacha, Captain. You don’t understand. We must do as the guru desires. It is our dharma to follow him to the ends of the earth if he so commands.’

  Bejoo stared at Lakshman in disbelief. This was exactly what he had always warned his young recruits about. Prayer and rituals were all very well, but if you came too close to Brahmins, they sucked your very manhood out of you, leaving you a shell good enough only for wearing whitecloth and chanting mantras all day and night long.

  ‘What do you mean, dharma?’ he said now. ‘It’s your dharma to protect your home, isn’t it? What about that dharma then?’

  Lakshman put a hand to his forehead, rubbing the skin between his eyes slowly, as if trying to wipe away some invisible blemish. ‘Bejoo, you don’t understand. We are oathsworn to serve Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. To disobey his desires would be to dishonour the code of the Kshatriyas and disgrace the name of Ayodhya itself.’

  Bejoo snorted. ‘Horseshit and cowdung! An Arya’s duty– Shani mind me–any mortal’s duty is first to protect his family and home. Even Lawmaker Manu never said to put Brahmins before family. They are our conduits to Swargalok, I don’t deny that. But what good is heaven if we can’t defend earth? Dharma cannot demand that you sacrifice your heritage and blood-links to follow a Brahmin. Besides, what Brahmin, what guru, would demand such a sacrifice? You completed your given mission, you rid the Bhayanak-van of the asura scourge. That feat will be retold millennia hence. What more could anyone ask of two young princes, two young sons?’

  Bejoo reached out a hand, clutching Lakshman’s arm. He directed his words to Rama’s profile as well. ‘Argue no more. I am not a man of words, rajkumars. I was raised on simple precepts. To love, to protect, to procreate. If a Kshatriya cannot perform these simple duties, then what else matters? Come with me, young sons of Ayodhya. Come with me and defend your homes before it is too late!’

  Silence met his words. Lakshman continued rubbing the spot between his eyes. When he took his hand away, Bejoo saw that the spot had turned red and raw, like a tilak applied after a pooja. The younger prince’s eyes were misted by pain and confusion. They met Bejoo’s gaze then turned away, unable to answer the plea in his eyes. Lakshman spoke to Rama, his voice rich with emotion.

  ‘Rama, my brother. I leave our fate in your hands. I know that what Brahmarishi says is beyond questioning. It is his right to demand that we serve him until he feels the guru-dakshina is fully paid. Until he releases us from our oaths, we have no independent volition. It is our dharma to follow him where he wills. But listen to what Bejoo-chacha says as well. He speaks simple, honest sense. What good is dharma if we do not defend our homes? What use is a code that demands the sacrifice of all we hold dear? If the Lord of Lanka overruns our city and our kingdom, to what will we return to proclaim the fulfilment of our oaths? Who will praise our dutiful obedience of the brahmarishi’s wishes? Will anyone be left alive to celebrate our triumphs and our deeds?’

  Lakshman paused to wipe a single tear from his right eye. ‘I do not tell you what we must do. I only ask that you consider both sides of the argument. That you choose. Whatever you choose for yourself, I shall follow that path as well. For I am linked to you as closely as breath to air. Where you go, there shall I go as well. If it is our dharma to follow the brahmarishi, it is my brotherly love that makes me follow you. Choose wisely, Rama, for on your choice will hinge the most fateful decision of our lives.’

  NINE

  First Queen Kausalya greeted Guru Vashishta with a sincere namaskar, joining her palms together and bowing her bindidotted forehead dutifully.

  The seer-mage acknowledged her gesture of respect with an upraised palm, the customary response of a venerated Brahmin.

  The guru was alone in his private yoga chamber in the maharaja’s palace. There were chambers such as this one set aside in every apartment in the vast palaces of Ayodhya, to allow each member of the royal family his or her own space to meditate in tranquil solitude, but the guru’s yoga chamber was unique because it wasn’t merely a room in his apartment, it was his apartment. The guru’s real home was a modest hut in his ashram in the forest north of Ayodhya, where he schooled the sons and daughters of Arya in all the science and arts of Vedic knowledge. When in the capital city, he was mostly occupied with the numerous matters of state and policy on which the maharaja and the rajya sabha of the kingdom of Kosala consulted him routinely. His rare private hours were spent in this chamber, engaged in profound meditation.

  He was seated in the lotus position, feet crossed over his thighs, hands outstretched, wrists resting lightly on his knees, right hand clutching a prayer-bead necklace, his fingers continuing to count off the red beads as he mentally recited the sacred mantras even as he addressed the queen. His eyes were half closed in that unmistakable look that signified a deep meditative trance. The sage’s long, bony limbs and leanness of flesh were proud emblems of the gruelling penance that had earned him his stature as a brahmarishi, highest of all Brahmins. The hard lines of his beard-enshrouded face conveyed the immense spiritual power the guru had acquired from his millennia of transcendental devotional meditation.

  Kausalya meditated too, so she knew how hard it was to achieve that level of transcendence. She couldn’t begin to fathom how the sage could maintain it while carrying on a conversation with her. Yet she could see him managing both these disparate tasks with the ease of a Mithila bowman firing arrows while astride a charging stallion. Her admiration almost made her forget the purpose of her visit. Almost, but not quite: her news was much too thrilling to forget.

  ‘Guru-dev,’ she said, ‘I am pleased to bring you good news. Maharaja Dasaratha’s health is improved for the first time since his collapse nine days ag
o. Since last evening, he has begun walking about my chambers and seems to be regaining some of his strength. Perhaps more important than these signs of physical recovery is the fact that he is speaking coherently and intelligently once again. All of us are greatly encouraged by his recovery. I wished to share our joy with you and invite you to visit him in his sick-chamber.’

  She looked around the bare chamber briefly. ‘I apologise for interrupting your trance. I am aware that you have been meditating for the past eight days and left instructions you were not to be disturbed. But I felt certain you would want to hear this happy news. If I have offended you, please forgive me.’

  She pressed her hands together once more. ‘Forgive my lapse, Guru-dev.’

  Guru Vashishta’s face creased in an indulgent smile. His eyes focused on her gradually, taking a moment to return to the world of the here and now. ‘Good Kausalya,’ he said warmly, ‘you owe me no apology. It is for your husband’s recovery that I have undertaken this penitential fast and meditation. How could I possibly be disturbed by news that my spiritual efforts have borne such heartening results? May you be blessed with a long and happy marriage for bringing me this joyous communication.’

  Kausalya bowed her head at once, touching her forehead to the guru’s folded feet. ‘May your words be heard by mighty Brahma himself.’

  Vashishta touched her head and recited a verse from the Upanishads, the great repository of knowledge, wisdom and prayer created and collated by the seven great seermages of whom Vashishta was one; its hallowed contents had taken millennia of tapasya and meditation to create and compile.

  The sloka was one Kausalya had never heard before. As best as she could tell, it was an invocation to warriors fighting in a just and righteous cause. Not quite the kind of verse she would have expected a seer-mage to speak to a queen-mother, but being Kausalya, she accepted the benediction gratefully, keeping her head bowed, eyes closed and palms together.