PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Rama’s eyebrows shot up at the phrasing of Lakshman’s last comment. But it was the seer-mage’s response that took Lakshman by surprise. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra turned to the young prince and stared at him as if he was seeing him for the very first time.

  ‘A truly beautiful answer, rajkumar. Truly beautiful.’

  Lakshman’s face shone with pleasure. He joined his hands and bowed his head. ‘Maha-dev, it is only by your grace.’

  Vishwamitra nodded sagely. ‘Your mind is as swift as your bow-finger. I have been grappling for centuries with this complex conundrum. While I do not feel you have solved the problem entirely - there are still lapses of logic to be scrutinised - I believe you have opened up a pathway that may eventually lead to the final solution. Well done, young Lakshman. Very well done indeed!’

  Lakshman felt a flush of pride. Rama put his arm around his brother, over the top of Lakshman’s rig, and hugged him briefly, tightly. His hand was slippery on Lakshman’s sweat-drenched shoulders. Lakshman nodded, grinning inanely with joy.

  He felt happier than he had when he solved a particular demanding mathematical problem posed by Guru Vashishta during their last year at the gurukul. That had been a theoretical problem with no urgent practical outcome. This was the problem that plagued the whole world right now! To think that he could have opened up a pathway that had escaped even the great Vishwamitra’s attention for centuries was enough to send a paroxysm of pleasure rippling through his entire being. He was so excited, he barely heard the brahmarishi’s next words.

  ‘Truly inspiring, young Lakshman. Rightly has it been said that each one of us has a place in the great scheme of things. Rama’s seems to be the place of the one who takes up arms against evil and vanquishes it despite impossible odds. If there is one Kshatriya alive who holds great promise, it is your brother, my good Lakshman.’

  The sage went on, ‘And your role seems to be not only to shield him with your sword as he fulfils his dharma, but also to guide him mentally. For he who acts must oftentimes not pause to think too deeply at the moment of action. Your nimble mathematical mind can do the thinking for him at those crucial moments.

  ‘Thus you will be as two hands of one archer, one guiding the bow’s aim after a thorough examination and analysis of the mathematics of distance, wind, atmospheric pressure and other vital factors, while the other provides the great strength and perfect timing required to release the missile at precisely the correct instant. Both hands must act together in unison or the target will be lost.

  ‘And truly, I have rarely seen two warriors as harmoniously fitted to each other as you and Rama. If there is one warrior who can accomplish this seemingly impossible task, it is the both of you.’

  The seer’s voice bore no trace of amusement at his last paradoxical statement. Lakshman blinked, moved. He’s serious. He means that Rama and I together are as great as any of the greatest Kshatriya heroes that ever lived. But he can’t possibly mean what he just said. ‘Guru-dev, which impossible task do you refer to?’

  The sage’s next words were deceptively calm, as if he were merely discussing what they might eat for their evening repast when they broke journey for the night.

  ‘Rajkumar Lakshman, I think you already understand which impossible task I mean. It is the issue we have been debating in this prashan-uttar session all this while.’

  As Lakshman groped for the appropriate words, the brahmarishi went on in a voice as cold and hard as uncut granite: ‘Ravana-vinaashe.’

  Killing Ravana.

  FIFTEEN

  Senapati Dheeraj Kumar watched from his position atop the first gate of Ayodhya city as a tiny cloud of dust appeared in the distance, growing slowly larger. Beside him stood a gatewatch guard with a conch shell, ready to sound the alarm on the general’s order.

  While the soldiers around him were dressed in the traditional white and red of the gatewatch, the senapati - literally ‘lord of the army’ - wore a distinctive saffron-and-black uniform with the Sanskrit letters corresponding to P and F ornately embroidered in gold on the sleeves of his ang-vastra. His distinguished aquiline Arya features were creased with age, yet his power and strength were still unmistakable. A long-undefeated champion of the wrestling square, the general’s passion for physical sports had enabled him to stay fit even two decades after his last military engagement.

  Many of his former colleagues in the PF battalion he commanded, the Purana Wafadars - so named because they were veterans of the last asura war - had either succumbed to old war injuries or retired from active duty. There were more young faces - mostly sons and daughters of their veteran parents - in his ranks now than actual veterans. Like many old soldiers, he had achieved the dubious distinction of outliving those he had once held dear, including almost all his gurukul colleagues, army peers, a wife and two sons, and even many of his much younger subordinates.

  This gradual erosion and eventual isolation had left Dheeraj Kumar more thoughtful and introspective in his later years. Although not so introspective that he would contemplate retiring from active duty: if anything, the senapati was more determined than ever to serve king and country. Graciously, the devas had seen fit to grant him perfect health and good strength even in his septuagenarian years. Dheeraj Kumar wasn’t an overly religious man—like any good Kshatriya he believed that his first duty was to protect and serve, leaving the praying to the Brahmins—but he had come to the conclusion that if Yamaraj, lord of death, had spared him while laying waste so many others around him, there must be a good reason. The great senapatis of the armies of the devas, Kartikeya and his elephant-headed brother Ganesa, must have a battle plan for him, he felt. He was content to attend to routine duties until that great plan was revealed to him. He watched now as the visitor approached down the length of the raj-marg. His bushy white brows knitted together as the dustcloud slowly resolved into the unmistakable silhouette of a two-horse Vajra chariot riding at full-out speed. The chariot was alone.

  The senapati, renowned as much for his brilliant grasp of military strategy as for his physical prowess, liked to play a little game at such times. His presence at the first gate was not exactly the most desirable posting for a general of his age and experience. Yet he himself had volunteered for the task, knowing that if there was the slightest risk of any mass intrusion this was the place it could best be stemmed. Most of the time, he had only to scrutinise the commonfolk visiting or leaving the capital city on trade, leisure or personal work. Not much of a challenge for the most decorated veteran of the worst war in Arya history.

  So he whiled away the long days by postulating different invasion scenarios and theorising how best he would deal with them if they actually happened. The sight of the approaching chariot had sparked off one such scenario in his agile mind.

  Ayodhya was accessible by only two main routes, the south raj-marg and the north raj-marg. The city’s first gate faced the southern approach, flanked by the raging white waters of the Sarayu on the left and an almost sheer rise to the right. Any invading force would either have to come upriver on the Sarayu, which was almost impossible given the furious white-rapid flow of the river at this point, climb down the crumbling sheer bank of the cliff—exposing themselves pitifully during the difficult descent—or simply march, walk and ride up the raj-marg. If any invading commander was actually arrogant enough to dare such an attempt, the senapati mused, he would be sighted long before he reached the city proper, spotted by the ever-alert rakshak Kshatriyas posted at Mithila Bridge or any of the hundred other vantage points which led to the capital of the kingdom of Kosala. The rakshaks would ride with the speed of Vayu the wind god, whom they worshipped as the deity of their order, bringing the news to the first gate precious minutes or even hours before the invaders.

  The city’s response would be immediate. All seven gates would be shut and barred, the enormous drawbridges pulled up in moments by the use of well-oiled winch pulleys, leaving yawning thirty-yard gaps between each of the city’s seven con
centric walls. Moats filled with a profusion of deadly creatures occupied those gaps. The seven Walls were a daunting ten yards high, running in oval circuits around the city, manned at every yard by Ayodhya’s best archers and javelin-throwers.

  To get to the city proper, the invading force would have to breach all seven walls or gates, crossing those twenty-yard-deep moats while contending with the crocodiles, sharks, poisonous water-serpents and piranha that teemed in the dark waters. If they got that far, they would have almost the entire army of Kosala–a staggering three-quarters of a million foot-soldiers, a third of that number armoured and mounted on horseback, and as many archers and bigfoot. Just the elephant division was enough to withstand an army of a million enemies on its own, and had done so in the last asura war on an open battlefield. In these closer quarters, fighting to defend their own home turf, the bigfoot and their valiant mahouts could probably fend off an army twice that size.

  But long before any invasion actually got that far, the foolishly ambitious enemy commander would have to contend with the approach to the first gate. That half-yojana stretch of open dirt road unfolding in an almost perfect straight line, so designed by the great Vishwakarma, architect of the Ikshwaku nation that had first settled these parts, to provide a clear view of any approaching enemy.

  Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, standing atop the battlements on the first wall, now conceived a fiendishly clever plan. What if the enemy, emboldened by the rakshasa Kala-Nemi’s success in infiltrating the city and getting within striking distance of the maharaja, now sent not one soldier in disguise but an entire group of them! After all, the war council would take place in a day or two, and sizeable contingents of Kshatriyas would arrive from the other Arya nations accompanied by their generals, prime ministers, and perhaps even their maharajas. If the asuras managed to slip in disguised as any one of those groups, they would be able to pass through all the city’s defences and gain access to the most powerful group of Arya leaders in the world. They might not be able to kill them all, but they would surely do great damage before succumbing to Ayodhya’s security forces.

  There was only one problem with that plan: it had been anticipated. Along with any number of other possible and even seemingly impossible scenarios. It was part of a military technique the senapati himself had developed. He termed it drishti-shastra, the science of vision. He had liked the word drishti enough to name his first-born with it. Despite his formidable history, the general was a man who believed in looking ahead to the future at all times, and being prepared for it.

  As the fast-riding Vajra chariot closed the distance to the first gate, he shook his head slowly. The chariot was solitary. Which negated his scenario. He was only partly relieved. After almost nine days of inactivity following the shock of that first intrusion, he craved some actual contact with the enemy.

  He used a curt gesture to order the alarm-crier to call down, and shouted to his lieutenant standing ready down below by the first gate machinery. The description of the approaching visitor–’chariot, single, Vajra’–had already been communicated swiftly through pre-set hand signals all the way to the royal palace in the time it took the chariot to approach.

  ‘Send the rajkumars up,’ Dheeraj Kumar said.

  Immediately, two robust young men in full battle armour began to climb the iron stakes set on the inside of the first gate.

  They breasted the top of the wall quickly and easily. The stockier of the two was slightly ahead of his partner. Both saluted the general smartly.

  The senapati nodded approvingly. ‘Rajkumar Bharat,’ he said shortly.

  Bharat grinned, nudging his brother. Shatrugan didn’t seem to mind. ‘Next time,’ he promised.

  The senapati indicated the chariot, now less than half a mile from the gate and approaching rapidly.

  ‘What do you see?’

  Both Bharat and Shatrugan replied together, their responses overlapping, ‘A chariot!’

  Shatrugan added quickly: ‘A Vajra chariot.’ He nudged his brother to underline his one-upmanship.

  ‘What else?’

  They shielded their eyes from the noonday sun, peering intently. The chariot was a hundred yards from the gate now and closing fast. As the driver reined in the pair of horses, both boys offered their observations.

  ‘Driven by a Vajra Kshatriya no more than twenty years of age, a first lieutenant from his colours,’ Bharat said.

  ‘He’s been travelling for a long time, at least two days,’ Shatrugan said.

  Bharat said, ‘The two colours of the mud coating the sides and underbelly of the chariot and the riggings show that he must have passed through the Southwoods. That particular black soil could only come from there.’

  ‘And by the state of the horses,’ Shatrugan said, ‘he hasn’t stopped to rest or nourish them for at least a day. Which means his mission is urgent and important.’

  ‘He’s been attacked sometime during the course of the journey. Those wounds on his person and rips in his vastras are not severe but they are undressed and untended, as they would have been had he suffered them before starting his journey. I say that he was attacked because he would not break a mission of such urgency to pick a fight.’

  Senapati Dheeraj Kumar raised his eyebrows, glancing briefly at the rajkumars. ‘Is that all?’

  Both boys squinted intently at the man they had just been describing. The Vajra Kshatriya had dismounted from his chariot, patted his horses to calm them, and was now striding to the first gate. He stopped at the edge of the moat, and before the gatewatch guard could challenge him, he raised his hands to indicate that he was unarmed. Looking up, his eyes scanned the alert and watchful faces on the rampart and settled on the senapati with an expression close to relief. His fatigue was unmistakable but he seemed to have no serious injuries.

  Shatrugan added in a mischievous tone: ‘Oh, and he’s recently been married.’

  Bharat turned to stare at his brother. ‘How can you tell that? Sure, he’s wearing a yagna thread around his wrist, but that could be from any yagna ceremony. Not necessarily a marriage! How can you be sure he’s married?’

  Shatrugan grinned back. ‘Because we attended his marriage. The day before Holi. Bejoo-chacha asked us personally to put in an appearance.’

  To the senapati, Shatrugan added, ‘His name is Bheriya, first lieutenant to Vajra Captain Bejoo, commander of the maharaja’s personal Vajra.’

  ‘Damn!’ Bharat slapped his own thigh with a firmly muscled fist. ‘Of course! I should have remembered that!’

  The senapati nodded approvingly, ignoring Bharat’s outburst. ‘Well done, rajkumars. Keen eyes and sharp minds are a Kshatriya’s best weapons. Now, I hand over the task of inspection to both of you equally.’

  The two princes looked at each other, their playful rivalry forgotten at once. Over the past few days they had involved themselves in every aspect of Ayodhya’s security and defence, from joining in army training exercises to saddling elephants, putting in stints as weaponsmiths, attending classes in military strategy and philosophy, interviewing veterans on their personal experiences, and anything else they could find to occupy the time. It was difficult enough being forced to wait here impotently for news of their brothers, not knowing if Rama and Lakshman’s mission to the Southwoods had ended in failure or triumph, and the hectic schedule of activity the senapati had drawn up for them had helped them get through without yielding to frustration or anxiety. This was their third tour of duty on the city walls and they had enjoyed an unexciting morning, forced to wait behind the barred first gate and merely watch and listen as the senapati or his associates challenged visitors and checked their credentials before permitting or denying them access to the city. Now, finally, they were being given a chance to actually do something!

  Shatrugan took the lead by mutual consent.

  Stepping to the rampart, which shielded and protected his torso and lower body while allowing him to speak freely to the Kshatriya standing on the raj-marg below, he ra
ised a hand as he had seen the senapati do a dozen times since sunrise.

  ‘Identify yourself and state your business.’

  The Kshatriya performed an Arya salute. ‘Rajkumar Shatrugan? It is I, Bheriya, second-in-command of the maharaja’s Vajra. I carry a message of great urgency from my commander Captain Bejoo to Maharaja Dasaratha.’

  Bharat spoke next. ‘The city is on high alert. You will have to prove your identity before you are permitted to pass. Is there anyone who will vouch for you?’ The man inclined his head at Dheeraj Kumar. ‘Senapati Dheeraj Kumar knows me well. He was my guru of military strategy during my training. Senapatiji, I request you to acknowledge me.’

  The senapati replied formally: ‘So acknowledged.’

  ‘Very well, Kshatriya,’ Shatrugan said. ‘You may hand over your message to us and be on your way. We shall see that it reaches the maharaja speedily.’

  The Kshatriya shook his head slowly. ‘I beg your pardon, rajkumar, but my message is verbal, not scrolled. And my captain’s orders were to deliver it in person to the maharaja and none other. It is a matter of Kosala’s national security.’

  Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged a glance.

  Bharat said, ‘Be that as it may, nobody is permitted to visit the maharaja.’ He didn’t add that Dasaratha was recovering and unable to receive visitors. It wasn’t relevant to the situation.

  ‘You will have to deliver your message verbally to either Rajkumar Shatrugan or myself and trust us to make certain it reaches the maharaja’s ears. As fellow Kshatriyas and citizens of Kosala, we shall ensure its secure and swift passage.’