Rama nodded. Weaponry had always been Lakshman’s strong point; even as a youth, he had been able to point out subtle differences in weapon-crafting and gauge the possible effect those alterations could make to the eventual deployment. And the celestial bow and arrow he spoke of were truly distinctive—their like did not exist anywhere else in the universe. Rama could imagine the shock that Lakshman must have felt on seeing Rama wield those great weapons unexpectedly.
Lakshman turned to look at him, his eyes penetrating, accusing. ‘And I knew at once where I had seen those weapons before. Which raised the question in my mind … nay, not a question, but a conjecture, a theory … Could it be possible, my brother—and correct me if I err—could it be possibe that you have been in possession of this maha-shakti all along? That it was in fact given to you by the sage Anasuya fourteen long years ago, in the wilderness of Chitrakut? At the very beginning of our exile, when we encountered her in the guise of an old low-caste woman and you gladly shared her half-bitten berries with her, unwittingly earning her love and admiration and passing the test she had devised to judge you by? Could it be that the gifts she rendered unto you as a reward for your passing her test, that celestially endowed Bow of Vishnu and the Arrow of Shiva, those weapons which you then claimed to have returned to her, and which you refused to use against the hordes of rakshasas in Chitrakut who were hell-bent on destroying us to avenge the alleged humiliation we inflicted upon their sister Supanakha the seductress … could it be that you never truly returned those weapons at all? That they remained with you all this while, invisible, suspended in the celestial realm beyond the vision or reach of any physical being yet accessible to you at any instant through a mere exertion of your will? That these weapons, which all these assembled armies,’ sweeping his arm to take in the vanars and bears lined up for miles along the shoreline, ‘and I saw you use but a few hours ago, these weapons of divine shakti, were within your reach all these years?’
Rama knew that the more he resisted Lakshman’s anger, the more he would fuel it, just as a strong wind only whips a forest fire into greater ferocity. So he replied quietly, simply, ‘Yes. Everything you say is true.’
Lakshman stared at him a moment longer. Then he turned away and looked up at the sky, then out to sea, then down at the sea. He started to turn away, as if he would walk off down the length of the beach, then stopped and turned back. He shook his head, in bewilderment and in the sorrow of percieved betrayal—for Rama could see that Lakshman took this to be a betrayal of sorts, a betrayal of the close bond that existed between them, of the immutable trust they had for each other. When he spoke, his voice had no anger in it any more, only sorrow and hurt. ‘Why, Rama? Why did you not confide in me back at Chitrakut? Why did you keep this a secret from me for so many years? All those battles and conflicts, all those endless days and nights spent crawling around on our bellies in the dank wilderness, watching our fellows slaughtered by hideous fiends, never knowing a moment’s rest, a night’s sleep, a day’s peace, watching children—mere babes, some—die needlessly, uselessly … Why? We could have annihilated the rakshasas … wiped them out, and passed the years of our exile in lazy indolence.’ A spark of memory flashed in his eyes, causing him to raise his voice slightly, angrily. ‘We could have saved Sita! She would not be in Ravana’s clutches today. Nor would we have had to raise this army and suffer this new set of tortuous challenges, building a bridge, crossing the ocean, waging war with the entire rakshasa race. We would still be in peaceful Panchvati, passing the last of our days in blissful harmony with the creatures of the forest, and in a few weeks, days barely now, we would be on our way home to Ayodhya. None of this needed to have happened. It could all have been prevented. You had the power, Rama. You had it in the palm of your hands. You possessed such great, immense maha-shakti, and yet you concealed it from me. From Sita, even. From everyone. And instead of sparing us all that fighting, those many battles, and now, this war that lies ahead, you chose to keep this a secret. Why, Rama? Why did you let us undergo all this suffering when it could have been prevented?’
Rama’s heart ached to see his brother’s anguish. He wanted to embrace Lakshman, to put his heart against his heart and calm his anger, soothe his pain. He wanted to do as he had done when they were little children, striplings, and he would simply hug Lakshman and hold him until his tears ceased, when words had not been needed to explain things, and their eyes had voiced the feelings that language could never transport. But such was the burden of adulthood, of maturity, that he was compelled to attempt to use that very inconsistent mode of communication to convey his reasons to Lakshman, to put those inexpressible emotions into clumsy words, and try to convey a lifetime of love in a few quick utterances of sounds and pauses. Language was not invented to convey such things, but still, language was the only mode he could use.
‘Brother,’ he said softly, ‘you know that I love you more than life itself. You are not merely my half-brother but my soul-brother, half-moon to my own half-moon, without whom I am no more complete than day can be complete without the sun, nor night without the stars. I would sooner hurt myself than hurt you.’
Lakshman looked at him, tears welling up in his eyes, yet none spilling. He exhaled and said, sadly, ‘And yet you did hurt me. You lied to me. You betrayed me.’
‘No! I never lied. I told you something that day in Chitrakut, fourteen years ago, at the river, when we were making our stand together against the hordes who were seeking to cross, led by Khara and Dushana at the time, if you recall.’
Lakshman snorted. ‘Of course I recall. I recall it by the scars on my body, and by the scars on your own self. I recall it because had Ratnakara and the other bandits and outlaws not come when they did, we would have been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the enemy. And now I shall recall it always as the fight we fought even though we did not need to, but were compelled to because you deceived me, by not using your celestial gifts, and by lying to me that you did not have them any more.’
‘Then you must recall that I did not lie to you, Lakshman. I told you then that those weapons were given to me strictly for use in enforcing dharma. Not for personal protection or whim. I told you these things then. Perhaps I did not emphasise that as and when the day came that I was called upon to enforce dharma, those weapons would be made available to me again …
‘In that conflict, we were weaponless—I could no more resort to these weapons for that battle, or any of the battles in the wilderness during our years of exile, than I could summon the armies of the Kosala nation to aid us. Surely you understand that?’
‘I understand that you had access to a means that could have saved untold bloodshed, loss of life and suffering. Yet you chose not to resort to those means.’
‘For the sake of dharma, I could not!’ Rama forced his voice to remain even, difficult though it was. ‘That was a personal fight for personal reasons. You and I attacked Supanakha and mutilated her. For a rakshasi of her breed, it was a greater humiliation than death itself. She called upon her brethren to avenge her humiliation. There was no law of dharma to defend or uphold. It was merely a disagreement between two parties acting for their own selfish reasons.’
‘Selfish? Personal? If that was selfish and personal, then what made today’s display an act of dharma? If you could not use it to defend us against the hordes in Chitrakut and Janasthana, then why did you use it today?’
‘Because it was not to protect myself or my loved ones. It was to protect these hundreds of thousands of innocent vanars and bears, to defend them against a force too great for them to face and survive. Varuna-deva violated dharma by using his immense shakti to attack these innocents. Had he only sunk the bridge, perhaps it would have been acceptable. But by taking innocent lives … Why do you shake your head, Lakshman? Do you not see the point I am trying to make?’
‘How is it dharma to protect these vanars and bears … these innocent vanars and bears who have come knowingly and wilfully to wage war upon th
e rakshasa race … but not dharma to protect those innocent outlaws who stood by us at Janasthana and died fighting the same race of rakshasas?’
Rama sighed. ‘Because the cause these armies are assembled here to fight today is a struggle to uphold dharma, whereas our cause back in Janasthana was merely our personal survival.’
Lakshman shook his head. ‘I do not follow you, Rama. If we are upholders of dharma, if we and our followers were soldiers of dharma, then even our personal survival is righteous under dharma, is it not?’
Rama said slowly, ‘It is our duty to defend dharma. It is not dharma’s task to defend us.’ He added sadly, ‘I agree, it is a hard bargain. But it is the one we swore to uphold from the moment we were born Kshatriyas.’
Lakshman was silent a long moment. He looked out to sea, the wind rippling his matted hair, loosed from its usual knotted pile and set free by his exertions after the striking of the wave. A number of cuts and bruises marked where he had been scored or scraped, some crusted with dried blood. His face was as stony as the statue of Manu the Lawmaker, forebear of the Ikshwaku dynasty, back in the great hall at Ayodhya. Some day, Rama thought, his likeness would be carved into a statue as well, and placed among those effigies of their ancestors. He would ask the stonecarver to attempt to capture this expression, this look, of great strength, and great frustration. For that was Lakshman: a man compelled to leave his wife, his mother, his kingdom, everything he loved and possessed, and to go into exile for fourteen long, hard years in the wilderness, and to fight endless wars against hideous beasts. This was the life he had endured for his brother’s sake. And yet, Rama had had to artfully conceal from him all this while the truth about the celestial weapons, for had Lakshman known that he still possessed them, he would have demanded that Rama use them—nay, beseeched him, even. And it would have torn Rama’s heart to refuse him. As it tore his heart now, to see Lakshman accept even this revelation that his brother had kept this great secret from him for nigh on fourteen years, for Lakshman had accepted it now, he saw, accepted and absorbed it, and was preparing himself to continue being the brother he always was: loyal, and unshakeable as a rock.
Lakshman turned to him at last, his eyes reflecting the cold, glacial depths of the Sarayu in winter, when great spears of ice floated downriver from the Himalayan heights and gnashed and crashed their way past the rolling hills around Ayodhya. He folded his hands and inclined his head to Rama. ‘Rama, you did as you saw fit. You upheld dharma, as you always do. How can I find fault with you when you did nothing wrong? I apologise for questioning your motives. Please forgive my impudence. I shall go and see to the crossing and await your further orders.’
And without another word, he turned and began walking down to the shoreline, to where the ranks of vanars and bears were waiting impatiently.
Rama started to call out to him. He heard the word ‘Lakshman’ escape his lips once, only to be torn away by the wind that had sprung up. But Lakshman kept walking. And Rama held his silence. He waited a moment or two, willing the cry in his heart’s cave to quiet itself. Then he began walking down to the head of the lines, to give the order they were all waiting to hear.
ELEVEN
After so much effort and struggle, after so many lives expended— first in the bridge-building, and then taken by the tsunami—the long-awaited crossing itself began without any further difficulty. Under Rama’s crisply issued instructions, and the watchful gaze of Hanuman above, the vanars and bears went forth upon the line of greybacks, four abreast, and made their way steadily across the ocean.
Both species were uneasy and nervous at first. But they had had many days to grow accustomed to the idea that this crossing would be made, and the toll their fallen comrades had paid made it seem like a victory in itself. The bears were somewhat more confident than the vanars, since they were used to crossing rivers and streams in search of fresh fish, and after a few uneasy moments spent testing their footing upon the very smooth backs of the great sea beasts—a process which involved dropping to all fours and sniffing suspiciously, perhaps even eagerly, at the greybacks, who of course reeked of fish—the first score of bears turned and bellowed encouragement to their comrades. The bellows were passed up the bear lines, all the way up the beach and miles inland, echoing for several minutes. Then the first bears grunted and ambled forward. After a while, they dropped to all fours again and galloped merrily, racing across the ocean as if they had done this all their lives.
The vanars were more skittish. The first ones in the lines spent many moments peering over this side and that at the ocean that lay only a few yards below the surface upon which they stood, then cheekaed in mortification when a wave crashed into the side of the greybacks and a little foam splashed onto them. It took stern orders from their generals to get them to emulate their bear comrades and move across the ocean. Finally, Rama himself came forward to speak. He reminded them that he had offered prayers to Lord Ganesha himself, the elephant-headed deva of auspicious beginnings, remover of obstacles, and pointed to the spot in the ocean where he had floated a mud effigy that Nala had quickly but expertly shaped despite his injured foot and broken arm. The effigy was all but vanished by then, dissolved in the water, but it so chanced that the spot where Rama had immersed it was calm and in the lee of the greyback line. He pointed this out as proof that the Tusked One had blessed their crossing and would grant them safe passage without hindrances. That breathed great courage into the vanars’ hearts, and when Rama spoke quietly to Angad, the prince of Kiskindha took up a familiar vanar travelling chant praising their great ancestors. The nervous vanars in the front line immediately took up the chant and in a few moments, were tramping their way across the sea, still watchful of the licking waves to either side. They soon fell into a rhythm and in only a few more minutes had caught up with their bear comrades.
After that, it was nothing but repetition by rote. Those behind were reassured by the knowledge that their fellows had already gone forth and were crossing safely. And with each tribe that crossed, the ones behind made it a matter of pride to show that they could cross just as bravely. In a few hours, the crossing was proceeding exceedingly well. Varuna-deva lived up to his promise: the ocean remained sedate and calm, with only the natural movement of the tides stirring its immense vastness; the air was cool and refreshing, the sky above remained a clear cerulean blue, with only an occasional cloud to be glimpsed. The chanting of the vanars filled the air for miles, counterpointed by the almost musical grunting and snorting of the bears—at times almost seeming like a song of their own—and the gentle high-pitched lowing of the greybacks was a beautiful exotic accompaniment to the orchestra of sounds that lent an auspicious air to the crossing of the armies.
Rama and Lakshman, once they had made sure the crossing was proceeding efficiently, made their way to the head of the lines, sprinting to easily overtake the bears and vanars, their long-legged strides carrying them ‘with the speed of the wind’, according to the awed vanars and bears. Rama heard this comment and many others and hardly knew whether to smile or to sigh; he was resigned to the knowledge that virtually everything they did would be turned into lore and legend, with all the accompanying flights of imagination and exaggeration that poetic licence allowed.
He glanced briefly at Lakshman as they ran steadily alongside the quadruple lines. A little water that sloshed over the top of the ‘bridge’ splashed underfoot—apparently, the greybacks needed to remain as deeply immersed as possible, which meant that the ‘bridge’ would dip slowly upwards and downwards from time to time, in sections. But it was done so cautiously that even the vanars did not heed it … much.
Lakshman’s face, hardened and intensified to the point where he barely resembled the Lakshman that Rama recalled from Ayodhya—just as Rama himself barely resembled his own earlier self, no doubt—did not display any anger or resentment outwardly; but then again, these past several years, he too had learned to control his emotions well. Rama thought Lakshman had accepted hi
s explanation about his concealing his Brahmanic shakti for so many years, but he still worried that his brother harboured some small unvoiced resentment. Once the war was over, he would try to make amends. Once the war was over … There was so much he wished to do once the war was over. But now was not the time to think of that. Now he must keep his attention focussed on the task at hand. Clear his mind of all extraneous distractions and concentrate his energies only upon the here and now. Most of all, he must allow himself to celebrate this small but significant progress: finally, they were crossing!
Soon, they would set foot on Lankan soil … and then the final conflict would be joined. He bit back the image of Sita, bound and trussed and scored with multiple injuries, the way Hanuman had seen her last, before it threatened to overwhelm his natural resolve.
He and Lakshman reached the head of the line and slowed just enough to set a strong pace for the lines without taxing the vanars and bears. It was a long crossing, and it would be better accomplished if they paced themselves accordingly. After the first yojana or so, the vanars and bears perhaps realised this as well, for the chanting faded out gradually, and in time, the gentle lapping of the waves against the sides of the greybacks and the occasional lowing of the sea beasts themselves were the only sounds audible—that, and the relentless chuffing of the bears’ breathing, of course.
There were few birds visible this far out, and for as far as one could see in every direction there was only ocean, ocean, and more ocean. The sunlight glittered off distant waves, turning them into patches of gold and silver, and occasionally, the watery expanse was broken by the presence of other sea creatures, akin to the greybacks but much smaller and with tapered snouts and finned backs, that appeared and disappeared alongside the bridge, their large black eyes staring curiously at this odd procession traversing the surface of their world. They seemed far too intelligent to be mere fish, Rama thought, and he suspected they were a higher species of ocean dwellers, more akin to the greybacks than to the vast schools of silvery fish that darted under the surface. Neither the vanars nor the bears made any comment on these snouted sea bulls—for that was how Rama thought of them—but on glancing back once, he caught a large brown bear licking his lips hungrily as he gazed at the snouted bulls dipping into and out of the ocean. This, despite the fact that the bears had found enough drowned fish after the tsunami to feed them for a week. He shook his head, smiling to himself. Bears would be bears.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 54