PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  And yet, it was these mere mortals who must defeat him. For Vishwamitra knew what he had chosen not to say to the people of Ayodhya, nor to their maharaja. In exchange for quitting the realm of the devas, Ravana had demanded that henceforth none of their number would ever challenge him again. Indra’s eyes had flashed like hot coals at that insolent demand. The king of the gods was not accustomed to defeat, let alone terms and conditions. Yet he had no choice. To refuse Ravana at that moment was to allow the demon lord the run of the upper realm. By swallowing that ego-choking condition, the king of heaven had bound every single deva and devi in the universe. No god or goddess could ever challenge Ravana directly or cause him harm in any fashion. Centuries later, the humiliation of that acquiescence still made Indra gnash his teeth in impotent rage. Yet, as gods, he and his fellows had no choice but to honour their agreement eternally.

  And so it was that the seven seers, governed by their most senior member, Narada the Wise, had perceived that the only opposition to Ravana could come from mortals now. Impossible as it seemed, it was from this middle realm, Martya, and more specifically the planet of earth on this realm, that the only opposition to the demon lord could now arise.

  We must confront him, the brahmarishi thought fiercely, we must stand and repel his asura hordes, must fight to the bitter end for the continued safety of humankind and for the sake of Prithvi herself. If Ravana was allowed to extend his rule over Prithvi too, all existence would be darkened by the shadow of his reign. Like a giant rock hurtling through space could with a single glancing blow plunge an entire planet into years of darkness and death, Ravana’s rising shadow would blacken all of Prithvi for an immeasurable period.

  That must not come to pass.

  Vishwamitra clenched his wildwood staff tighter, the intensity of his grip grinding the knob of holy thread wound around the top of the staff. His face hardened, resembling that of a warrior-king striding into battle rather than a seer leading his Brahmins to a spiritual conference. His step quickened, increasing to a speed that soon had the whole entourage struggling to keep up. Conversation died out, the acolytes ceased chanting, and even the elephants shook their heads in protest as they struggled to maintain the rigorous new pace.

  Even the senior rishis paused in the ritual recitation of their mantras and stuck their bald pates out of the shade of their bullock-carts, wondering what fierce contemplation had overtaken the brahmarishi. After all, this was a man who could endure a bhor tapasya of centuries without needing food or water to sustain himself, taking his nourishment from the very flow of Brahman itself. If he was entering yoganidra, a trance-like state of intense transcendental meditation, they would all fall by the wayside long before he even grew aware of their discomfort.

  Already, the sage was striding at the amazing speed of almost two yojanas an hour, brisk enough to have even the bullocks lowing in complaint. Yet nobody dared invoke the wrath of the brahmarishi by interrupting his deep concentration. In times past, acolytes had been reduced to piles of smouldering ashes for merely speaking when a sage was engaged in such contemplation.

  Yet if they didn’t act quickly, their hearts would burst with the effort of keeping pace with him.

  FOURTEEN

  It was Rama who took the initiative.

  Sizing up the problem, the young prince consulted with his brother silently through an exchange of looks and gestures, then reached a decision. He quickened his pace to bring himself almost level with the brahmarishi. Almost, but not quite: it was not acceptable for a shishya to walk abreast of his guru.

  Joining his hands together and keeping his head lowered, he spoke reverentially.

  ‘Guru-dev, I humbly request permission to address you.’

  Vishwamitra blinked once, his flaring nostrils inhaling his first breath in many minutes. His mastery of yoga enabled him to accomplish physical feats that other humans would find impossible; he had been so absorbed in his contemplation that he had neglected to breathe for close to half an hour. He inclined his head very slightly to address Rama without slowing his pace.

  ‘Permission granted, rajkumar.’

  ‘Guru-dev, my brother and I are fortified by the power of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. We could maintain this pace for a week without tiring. But I fear that our companions will not be able to do so as well. Already the younger shishyas are in danger of falling and being trodden under the hoofs of bullocks and the wheels of carts.’

  Vishwamitra blinked again, only now becoming aware of the speed at which he was walking. He had unwittingly continued to step even faster while Rama spoke. At the rate he was accelerating, he would soon be covering ground at much more than two yojanas an hour!

  The brahmarishi exhaled slowly, wondering at his own folly. It took only a tiny exertion of his will to slow his yard-long strides, reducing his speed gradually lest he cause an accident in the procession behind. The Brahmins of Siddh-ashrama released a unanimous sigh of relief as the brahmarishi slowed to the previous pace of a yojana an hour. They wiped their bald pates, shiny with sweat from the unexpected race to keep up with their guru.

  One of the smaller acolytes issued a great sigh of relief and exclaimed loudly, ‘Om Hari Swaha!’

  It was the typical invocation that was a Brahmin’s instinctive response to almost anything, but the gawky seven-year-old had a strong lisp due to most of his milk teeth having fallen out and tended to run his words together, so it came out sounding more like a meaningless ‘Omharithwaaa!’

  At the head of the procession, Vishwamitra heard the lisped and muddled exclamation and chuckled.

  At the sound, the mood of the entire company lightened at once. Smiles wreathed the faces of the company, old and young alike. Their wariness of the sage’s legendary temper turned into relief. It was the first time their honoured guru had been heard expressing laughter in centuries! The scribes of the ashram were already searching for words to describe the exact quality of his brief emission of amusement.

  Rama exchanged a glance with Lakshman. His brother winked, complimenting him on his tactful handling of the situation. Rama had just started to fall back to his brother’s side when the brahmarishi spoke again.

  ‘Come, rajkumars. Walk abreast of me. I would speak with you both.’

  They looked at each other again, eyebrows raised. It was unheard of for a guru to ask his shishyas to walk abreast. But then again, their relationship with the sage wasn’t exactly a typical guru-shishya one.

  They complied with the sage’s command, still keeping to his right. Vishwamitra acknowledged their presence with a glance that almost bordered on a smile, a striking contrast to the brahmarishi’s usual granite impassivity. Both brothers smiled back as one.

  He’s in a good mood now, Rama thought, but what was on his mind a few moments ago?

  He would give anything to be able to fathom the depths of the seer’s thoughts. What was it like to have lived five thousand years, and to have been chosen by mighty Brahma, Lord of Creation himself, to live eternally as one of the seven seers who mediated between the celestial devas and earth-bound mortals? A fortnight ago, Rama would have believed it impossible to understand the thoughts of such a personage. Now, he felt curiosity and a tingling sense of anticipation. It has something to do with me, I know that. But what?

  ‘Rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, by your great valour in the battle of Bhayanak-van, you have earned the right to a prashan-uttar dialogue. I invite you to pose any queries you may have about the experiences of the past few days. Or any other matter that may be on your mind.’

  Lakshman was the first to speak, hardly able to contain his excitement at the unexpected invitation. Prashan-uttar was an honour reserved only for the most senior of shishyas. By inviting them to ask their queries of him, the seer-mage was acknowledging their knowledge and urging them to proceed to the next level of their education.

  Lakshman asked eagerly, ‘Guru-dev, back in Ayodhya you said that once we killed Tataka and her band of demons, the Southw
oods would be freed of Ravana’s evil influence. But how do we know that Ravana is even aware of what we accomplished?’

  Vishwamitra smiled indulgently. ‘He knows. Nary a cut bleeds on one of his precious wildlings but he feels the ichor ooze.’

  Lakshman wasn’t sure he had understood the sage’s meaning. But you didn’t just ask a seer-mage to explain his statements. Often the phrasing of a guru’s answer was as significant as the answer itself. Like the legendary tale of the guru who had sworn a lifelong vow of silence, and whose disciples were compelled to deduce his likely answers to their philological and practical problems. The result was that every one of his disciples grew every bit as wise as their guru, able to dispense advice as sage as their teacher might have done.

  The moral of the story, which Lakshman and his brothers had learned while at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul, was that a guru was only a mentor who pointed out the right path; it was up to the shishya to decide how best to travel that path, or whether to travel it at all.

  Lakshman was still mulling over the meaning of the cryptic reply when the sound of hoofbeats approached rapidly from behind. It was Bejoo, his face set in a grim expression. Sweat limned the Vajra captain’s swarthy face and stocky torso.

  Bejoo slowed his horse to a clip-clopping trot to avoid overtaking the brahmarishi. Lakshman took the opportunity to reach out and caress the mare, who nodded appreciatively at his touch.

  ‘Brahmarishi maha-dev, I ask your leave to speak.’

  Vishwamitra answered without looking back or slowing his pace. ‘Briefly then, Kshatriya. The rajkumars and I are engaged in prashan-uttar at present.’

  Lakshman couldn’t help noticing the way the Vajra commander’s face creased at the brahmarishi’s words. The leader of the maharaja’s own elite fighting squad was not accustomed to being called ‘Kshatriya’ and talked to as if he was merely a brahmacharya in the seer’s ashram.

  With a visible effort, Bejoo swallowed his feelings and said stiffly, ‘Guruji, this road we are on will take us through the hills.’

  ‘Indeed, Kshatriya. Any shishya in my gurukul knows that. What is your point?’

  ‘Swami, the hills are notorious breeding grounds for bandit gangs, wild predatory beasts and all manner of other perils. A procession such as this would look like an easy mark for any aggressor.’

  ‘That is why the devas saw fit to grace us with your presence, Kshatriya. Surely your Vajra can deal with these aggressors should we chance upon any?’

  Lakshman saw Bejoo pass a hand across his face, gathering sweat and flicking it away impatiently.

  ‘Guruji, my Vajra is under orders to protect the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, not—’ The Vajra captain bit back his next words and finished with ‘Not the inhabitants of Siddh-ashrama.’

  ‘Then protect your wards and I will protect mine,’ the brahmarishi said crisply. ‘Now, if that is all, I wish to resume our prashan-uttar session. You may leave us, Captain.’

  Bejoo stared briefly but intensely at the back of the brahmarishi’s head, then turned his horse without another word and rode back the way he had come. The sound of his pounding hoofs faded away.

  Lakshman tried to forget about the interruption and turned his mind back to the brahmarishi’s last cryptic response. He wiped a trickle of sweat with the tip of his ang-vastra. His rig creaked faintly as he raised his hand to his temple, the leather already soaked with the sweat flowing down his back. Beside him, Rama was sweating just as freely.

  An idea occurred to Lakshman. He voiced his thoughts cautiously. ‘Guru-dev, am I correct in discerning your answer as implying that the Lord of Lanka’s well-being is directly linked to that of his minions? Thus, for instance, when we killed Tataka and her hybrids, we inflicted hurt on Ravana himself?’

  The seer’s voice brimmed with pleasure. ‘Well done, young Lakshman! Indeed, it is just as you say. To wound his minions is to wound Ravana himself. For the Lord of Lanka derives all his asura hordes from the depths of Narak, the third and lowest realm. He pays for their deliverance with his own immortal aatma. Thus, with every rakshasa or pisaca or other vile demon he frees and enlists in his barbarous armies he mortgages a part of himself to Yamaraj, Lord of the Underworld.’

  Lakshman said excitedly, ‘But in that case, if we were to destroy his asuras, might we not destroy Ravana himself?’

  He sensed Rama nodding vigorously beside him, liking the logical leap. Lakshman held his breath, awed by the simple elegance of his conclusion. He waited to see if the brahmarishi agreed with his extrapolation.

  The brahmarishi replied warmly.

  ‘Guru Vashishta has schooled you well in the shastras and vedas, Rajkumar Lakshman. Your conclusion is brilliantly realised. However, the problem at hand defies all logical deduction. The Lord of Lanka was granted eternal life by mighty Brahma himself in recognition of Ravana’s millennia-long bhor tapasya. Even the extinction of every last asura in all the three worlds would not destroy the demon king. It would cause him great agony, no doubt, but Ravana is an emperor of pain, both inflicted as well as self-endured. This is his most formidable quality, his infinite capacity to cause and to endure suffering. He could surely endure the agony of a million deaths without succumbing.’

  Sensing Lakshman’s disappointment, the sage went on quickly, ‘Also, like most innovative theories, your stratagem is easier conceived than executed. Even if by some superhuman feat you succeed in decimating Ravana’s vast forces, that would not end his reign. Because for every asura you slay, Ravana would free a dozen more from Narak to take its place, and could continue doing so eternally. Therefore that fight itself is unwinnable.’

  ‘But there must be some way to defeat him, Guru-dev.’ Lakshman struggled to keep his voice respectful and steady, a difficult task when he felt so close to the answer. ‘After all, by your own admission the yaksi Tataka was virtually impossible to defeat. Yet Rama brought her down with the shakti of the maha-mantras which you so graciously granted to us.’

  The seer-mage glanced briefly at Lakshman, his eyes glinting in the noon sunlight. His heavy brow overhung his features, casting a shadow across his lower face. It lent him a forbidding look that wasn’t much relieved by the lightness of his tone. ‘Even Bala and Atibala are no match for Ravana’s power. Every being, mortal or immortal, makes its own karma. It was Tataka’s time to be banished from existence. And your brother’s hand was the one chosen to string the arrow that took her life.’

  Vishwamitra continued gently, ‘Why, had it been your karma to loose the arrow, that is what would have come to pass. You fought every bit as bravely and fiercely as Rama, but a fateful blow knocked you unconscious at that crucial moment, preventing you from joining in the battle against the giantess. Do you think that was simply a coincidence? Nay, young Lakshman. Even the most casually incidental of events hews to the mystic pattern woven by the cosmic wheel of time. When it is Ravana’s time to die, then die he will. But until that fated day, nothing may pierce his invulnerability.’

  Lakshman’s breath caught in his throat. For every waking hour over the past eight days, he had thought of nothing other than that final battle in the Bhayanak-van. Unable to remember anything beyond the fight with the hybrids, he had struggled guiltily to come to terms with his loss of consciousness. Yet he hadn’t dared broach that topic; it was too sensitive for him to talk about. By discussing it so openly, the seer had given him a great infusion of relief. He understood exactly what the brahmarishi was saying: Don’t feel guilty, Lakshman. You fought well. It was just Rama’s karma to kill Tataka, and yours not to face her. It was the one argument that could enable Lakshman to free himself of the great weight that had been riding on his shoulders.

  He sent up a silent prayer of relief to the devas. This was why the gurus were honoured and respected even by monarchs and emperors: their wisdom extended beyond Vedic science and spiritual knowledge to encompass even the subtle nuances of human psychology as well.

  Rama spoke into the brief silence that f
ollowed. ‘But Gurudev, if Ravana is immortal, how can he die?’

  Vishwamitra smiled, his craggy features barely softened by the grim upturning of his thin lips. ‘Such is the myster of karma and dharma. The deeds we do in this physical existence, our karma, weigh against the duties we ought to fulfil, our dharma, and in the judgement hall of the devas these two accumulations of deeds and duties are measured on the scales of infinite justice. Even those who are immortal may be recalled from one life to be granted another. In this way they live for ever, yet forsake the physical accretions of the former life.’

  Lakshman frowned. He had never heard the concept of karma and dharma described in quite that way before. Again, he had to wrestle a moment to glean the sage’s full meaning. He posed the next query, straining to keep his voice from rising with excitement.

  ‘Guru-dev, in that case, it would not be amiss to say that while the devas may not permit Ravana’s death, they may recall him from his present physical form and transubstantiate him into another another body of similar qualities as the one he now possesses. In this fashion, he would retain his immortality by continuing to live indefinitely, yet this particular body, the one he now inhabits, would be to all intents and purposes destroyed. So the Ravana we speak of would be dead, although the essence of Ravana himself, his immortal aatma and his entire consciousness as well all his knowledge and awareness gleaned in this and previous lifetimes, would continue.’

  Rama frowned. ‘But Lakshman, if he continues to live, even if it’s in a different body, he could still go on with his evil ways. Only his body would change, not his intentions or evil nature.’

  ‘But think about it, brother! If we were to somehow -and I admit it seems impossible - if we were to somehow decimate every last living asura in the world, and at that very moment, before Ravana is able to call up more asuras from the underworld to rebuild his army, we destroy his present physical form, there will be an instant when neither Ravana or his demonaic hordes will exist in the mortal realm. In that instant Yamraj, Lord of the Underworld, could seal shut the passage to Narak through which Ravana derives more asura reinforcements. And if the devas delay the transposition of Ravana to a new physical body, then for a while, at least, the earth will be free of his evil! Don’t you see? It’s the closest we’ll ever come to completely destroying that wart on the hindside of humanity!’