‘Ravana. You’re foolish enough to come to me. Good. You save me the effort of sending my army to fetch you then. You shall not leave this chamber alive.’
The ten heads stopped smirking and stared at him. Perhaps not all of them. At least two or three retained their fixed, mocking grins. But several others tried to glance at each other, rolling their eyes theatrically, and at least two that he could see—the ones at either end—grimaced and scowled menacingly at his threat. What threat? he thought as he fought to hold on to consciousness. What could I possibly do in my condition to hurt this being out of hell? Yet he felt better simply for having said that, for having put up some honourable show of dignified response.
The central head snarled at the one to its immediate right, then looked at Dasaratha and smiled with startling warmth. ‘Very good! That’s more like the Dasaratha I know. What is it your name means in the highspeech? He Who Rides His Chariot In Ten Directions At Once? Meaning that you were able to fight ten enemies at the same time? How quaint of your parents. I remember Aja. He was a good fighter, but much too vain about his looks. He never recovered from that double slash I inflicted on his cheeks. It completely ruined his handsome visage. His self-esteem couldn’t stand the shock.’
The taloned hands shot out, imitating the way he had disfigured Dasaratha’s father’s face, slash-slash. Dasaratha resisted the impulse to wince even when those red-tipped claws came within millimetres of his eyes.
He spoke as coldly as he could, using his hoarseness to make himself sound harsh rather than weak and feeble as he really felt. ‘If you have something to say to me, say it. I have no time to sit here and banter with you, Nagadeva.’
Seven out of the ten heads lit up with a variety of smiles.
‘Nagadeva! It’s been aeons since I was called by that name. Serpent-king. Of course you know that the real king of the nagas is Takshak, he who winds himself around the blue throat of Shiva the Destroyer. But since I gained control of the naga legions, it’s quite accurate to call me their king. Among many other titles, of course. And speaking of nagas, they’ll be visiting you soon. Along with the pisaca legions, and the rakshasas, and uragas, and vetaals and all my other creeping, crawling, lunging, leaping and flying associates. Seething like a plague of locusts across your kingdom, and every other Arya kingdom besides.’
The demonlord droned on sonorously, spelling out in gory, gruesome detail the ravagement of the Arya nations he had in mind. He spoke of warships already at sail, landing soon at ports along the western coastline of the subcontinental peninsula; teeming millions of asura forces starting to make their way towards Ayodhya and its nearest neighbour, the north-western Arya nation of Kaikeya, from which Dasaratha’s Second Queen hailed, the site of the last asura war and the northernmost point the asura armies had reached before being pushed back by the Arya armies led by Dasaratha himself.
He’s telling the truth, thought Dasaratha. There was no doubt that this was the reason the asura king had come to Ayodhya, to asassinate him, and before doing so, lecture him on all the horrors he would visit on his race and his kingdom, gloating over his final triumph. But as the creature with ten heads continued his fiendish monologue, Dasaratha’s mind worked on another matter that had unexpectedly come to his attention.
Even through his mist of pain and disorientation, the maharaja had begun to see something very strange and interesting. Each time the demon king spoke, the ten faces took different sides in the utterance. As if some disagreed violently, others concurred, and yet others were of a wholly different but not disagreeable opinion. It was not unlike some heated political debates Dasaratha had administered; arguments over borders and river-sharing where a dozen clan chiefs took as many different positions, all appealing simultaneously to the maharaja to heed their individual stand. The only difference was that the ten heads in this case were not on ten different bodies but on one.
And just as with the differing heads of state, so also with these differing heads of Ravana, there was a pattern to the apparent chaos. Each time the Lord of Lanka said something, there was always one head that remained silent. While the words came from any or even all of the other mouths, one mouth remained wordless, one pair of eyes watched intently, one face stayed impassive and still, sharply watchful. A glimmer of insight came to Dasaratha then, even as he turned a deaf ear to Ravana’s descriptions of the asura cities that would be built on the ashes of Ayodhya and Kaikeya in the aftermath of the genocide.
That’s the head that is in control at that moment. He can use all the heads when thinking or acting, but when he speaks, one head focusses completely on the task and you can see which one it is just from its expression. The face in question always had a look of rapt concentration, as if the effort of speaking aloud took more effort than anything else.
And indeed, Dasaratha realised with that inspired insight that sometimes comes to minds pushed beyond the limit of exhaustion and rational thought, might it not be that a being with ten heads would find the simple act of speech to be the most difficult of all physical actions? Because while every other action required the head or heads to control the rest of the body’s limbs, speech involved the heads themselves. What if speaking was the action during which the demonlord was most vulnerable?
He held his breath, unable to believe that he had been given such a major insight into the process of Ravana’s inner workings. Not that he knew yet what to do with this information, but he was certain that it would be of some use, somehow, some day.
Rama, he thought for no particular reason, I must tell this to Rama when he comes home. It will be helpful to him at the crucial moment. The moment he thought this, he blinked, wondering why it had come to mind. Then it passed into the turmoil of warring thoughts and sensations battling for space in his consciousness.
Ravana fell silent suddenly, several of his heads peering suspiciously at the maharaja. Dasaratha realised he must have smiled involuntarily, unable to conceal the exultant pleasure of his unexpected inspiration. He knew that in another moment the demonlord would make his move and strike him down, washing the sunwood throne in his blood.
Still, the very fact that he had gained that brilliant insight into the inner workings of his arch-foe gave him renewed strength and hope. It provided the last ounce of extra courage he needed to put into action the plan he had formulated during the past few moments. He sent up a final prayer to his maker, fully aware that he would probably not survive this last foray. May the devas watch over my family and my people.
With a warrior’s cry of rage, Dasaratha threw himself sideways, off the throne. He landed on the royal dais with an impact that felt as if he had broken a rib or three. He lay on the carpeted floor for an instant, then forced himself to rise to his feet again, staggering with all the grace of a drunken dancer to the object placed at the end of the dais.
The creature with ten heads bellowed as Dasaratha approached his goal.
‘Foolish one! I was prepared to show you some mercy yet, for old times’ sake. Now I will show you real pain! Pain such as you have never felt or dreamed of before.’
Dasaratha reached the ceremonial gong that stood beside the First Queen’s throne. It was used to announce the formal start and end of a parliament session, indicating to the assembly that they should be seated or rise respectively. The long wooden ringer was hung on a rack above it. He didn’t bother to try to fumble with the rope from which it was suspended. There wasn’t time. He could feel the rushing wind and foul fetor of the demonlord at his back, flying at him with enough force to crush his organs and shatter his bones.
Dasaratha swung his clenched fist with all the energy he had left in his body and struck the gong with one resounding blow. The sound echoed through the chamber like a victory bell—or a death knell.
KAAND 2
ONE
Sumantra was the first to hear the gong and react.
‘Maharaja!’ he cried. ‘Open the doors! Open them now! Hurry!’
The palace
guards rushed to do his bidding. The rajkumars Shatrugan and Bharat had been standing nearby, conversing with each other intently. The instant the gong sounded, they reacted as well, knowing something had happened in the hall.
Sumantra gestured agitatedly at them. ‘Shatrugan, go fetch Guruji! Run!’
Shatrugan sprinted away. He was the faster runner of the two; Bharat’s muscular bulk made him a formidable mace-fighter but slowed him somewhat. Bharat drew his sword and stood by Sumantra as four guards lifted the heavy teakwood bolt off the door and lurched sideways carrying it out of the way. Sumantra and Bharat threw their shoulders against the massive ten-yardhigh doors, joining their strength to the ten other guards pushing against them. The doors opened as fast as the laws of gravity and motion allowed, seeming like an eternity. Even as he pushed, Sumantra yelled at a sergeant of the guards to fetch reinforcements and Captain Drishti Kumar, the commander of the maharaja’s personal security.
As soon as the doors were ajar, Bharat and Sumantra slipped inside. The prime minister had taken a lance from one of the guards and held it firmly in both hands like a two-handed sword, ready to lunge at the first sign of threat. They entered into pitch blackness: the torches in the hall had all been extinguished. Even the daylight spilling in through the open doorway barely illuminated a third of the long approach to the royal dais. Most of the hall’s fifty-by-seventy-yard dimensions was utterly dark.
An eerie silence hung over the vast chamber. Their footfalls and the clanking of the guards’ armour and weapons echoed and rang out through the empty space. Bharat and Sumantra reached the end of the gritty pool of light coming in from behind, and ventured into the sightless dark ahead, making their way towards the dais, not knowing what lay in wait for them.
‘Maharaja Dasaratha?’ Sumantra’s voice was clear and filled with concern. ‘Are you well?’
‘Pitashree?’ Bharat called, using the formal term of address required by propriety when addressing his father in public. ‘Are you seated on the throne? Where are you?’
There was no answer to their queries. The deafening silence loomed before them like the thick, dense darkness through which they proceeded.
Sumantra gave a guard beside him an order to fetch torches. The man passed the message down the line, but Bharat guessed it might be several minutes before the light arrived. It was still bright afternoon outside and the torch-lighters would not be in use yet. They would have to be fetched, and that would take a moment or two longer.
As he stepped slowly ahead into the wall-thick darkness, Bharat could feel the hairs standing on the back of his neck and hands, and a sensation like ants crawling up his thighs. Behind him, several guards spoke invocations softly, urgently. All Arya Kshatriyas feared sorcery far more than they feared mortal injury. The unmistakable sense of magic was thick in the silent, dark assembly chamber.
Bharat felt his shin bang against an obstacle. He restrained the impulse to slash wildly with his sword, his mind reassuring his warrior instinct that it knew what the object was.
‘The royal dais,’ he said softly, more for his own benefit than for Sumantra’s ears.
The prime minister replied nevertheless, whispering to be heard only by the prince: ‘Bharat, you go to your left, I’ll ascend from the right. We meet at the top in the centre of the dais, by the sunwood throne.’
Bharat whispered a curt ‘Okay’ in response. He moved left, knowing the prime minister would communicate the same message to the guards to ensure that they didn’t tangle with each other in the darkness. Where were those torches? They ought to have arrived by now. He went up the high steps of the dais, lifting each booted foot carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible. The dais, like the rest of the chamber, was carpeted, but the structure itself was wood and would produce a muffled noise if he hit it with his heel. Surprisingly, even the guards behind him and on the other side of the dais made no sound as they ascended the seven foot-high steps to the topmost level.
As he lifted his foot to climb on to the seventh step, light returned to the hall. It blazed forth with such startling suddenness that Bharat was momentarily blinded. His sword hand instinctively flew up to shield his eyes, his Kshatriya responses regarding the assault as being an attack like any physical strike.
If an assault, it was devastatingly effective: for a few precious seconds Bharat could see only stars exploding and bright colours flashing. If the enemy had chosen to strike him down at that very instant, he would have had no chance. As it was, he was loath to lash out with his sword for fear of accidentally hitting his father, whom he still expected to be somewhere about here. Somehow, the torches in the hall had all regained their light at once. It was impossible, he knew, but it had happened and he had no time to waste debating that trivial detail when all his attention was focused on seeing what the sudden infusion of light enabled him to witness.
The sight that met his eyes when they adjusted was the last thing on earth he expected to see.
Maharaja Dasaratha was seated on his throne, in that familiar pose in which Bharat had seen him countless times before. A forward-leaning posture, the maharaja’s right elbow resting on the end of his right thigh, almost at his knee. His chin rested on his curled right fist, as he stared pensively into the distance. His crown was on his brow. Although still showing the wasted appearance caused by his cankerous disease, he sat with the dignity and majesty born of a lifetime of ruling and generations of Suryavansha kings.
‘Pitashree?’ Bharat approached the sunwood throne cautiously, lowering his sword but still unable to rid his mind of the certainty that something was still amiss here. From the far right of the large dais, the prime minister also approached, lance still in hand but point now lowered, his face reflecting the
same confusion and suspicion that Bharat felt.
‘Maharaj?’ Sumantra said cautiously.
Dasaratha blinked twice, as if pulling his mind out of some vexing contemplation that had involved him for several moments. He looked up at Bharat and his face creased in a weary smile.
‘Arya-putra,’ he said, hoarsely but warmly. ‘Approach me, my son.’
Bharat went to him, sheathing his sword. He felt curiously vulnerable doing so, but had no choice. He couldn’t very well approach the enthroned king of Kosala with naked steel in hand, even if it was his own father—especially if it was his father! On the steps of the dais, caught by the abruptly returned illumination in various poses of stealthy climbing, the palace guards also blinked at one another and sheathed their weapons hastily. They retreated backwards down the steps as Bharat went to his father, bowing their heads and muttering formal apologies for their transgression.
Bharat stood before his father’s throne and bent his knee. He felt Dasaratha’s heavy hand rest on his head a moment. It felt unusually warm. The maharaja was running a fever. That was not unusual in itself; the maharaja was ill, after all.
‘My son, rise now. I have important work for you. I wish you and your brother to take two divisions of the army apiece and ride separately to Kaikeya and to Gandahar at once. There you will warn your respective grandfathers of the imminent asura invasion and stay to help them defend their cities. Only after you have repelled the invaders successfully will you return with whatever forces you can muster to help defend Ayodhya.’
Bharat looked up at his father after this astonishing speech. The maharaja’s words left no room for confusion or question. But he still couldn’t comprehend what he had just been told. More than that, it was the bizarre circumstances in which he had been given the command that disoriented him. One moment ago, he had been advancing through the pitch-black hall, anxious that his father had been attacked by some treacherous means, perhaps even by that very Vajra rider Bheriya—even though the man had been checked and found to be exactly what he claimed to be, a Vajra Kshatriya come to deliver a message. And now here was his father issuing a command to Bharat to undertake the most momentous mission of his entire life. Two divisions apiece? With only
four in total, that meant half the army would go with Bharat to Kaikeya, the other half with Shatrugan to Gandahar! The entire Kosala army, leaving its capital city unprotected.
Pradhan Mantri Sumantra came to his rescue. Bowing formally to his liege, the prime minister asked in his typical unassuming, sincere way, ‘Maharaj, forgive my asking, but what makes you fear an asura invasion of the capital cities of Kaikeya and Gandahar? We have no word of such enemy intrusions from these Arya nations.’
Maharaja Dasaratha raised his hand and gestured to the far right of the dais. All eyes, riveted on him these past few moments, turned to look at that part of the hall.
‘He brought me the news, under instructions from the Brahmarishi Vishwamitra himself. The unfortunate man suffered mortal injuries and was not aware of it. After delivering his message his strength was drained and he dropped dead, accidentally striking that gong as he fell.’
The man named Bheriya lay at the foot of the ceremonial gong. Even from where he stood, Bharat could see the telltale trickles of blood from the man’s ears, nostrils and mouth that could only mean deep internal injuries.
For that one instant, as every pair of eyes in the hall stared in amazement at the fallen courier at the corner of the dais, nobody noticed the maharaja’s face change. For the briefest of moments, Dasaratha’s features flickered like a shadow cast by a torch, seeming to ripple and alter into the visage of his greatest enemy, the Lord of Lanka. His eyes, naturally a clear greyish-blue, glowed and turned ruby-red for that same fraction of an instant, and his lips curled slowly to reveal his teeth in a shadow of a ghostly grin. Then, before anyone could spy this shocking change, his face composed itself once more, and he was Maharaja Dasaratha again.
PRINCE OF DHARMA Page 70