Ram continued to kneel, but the official acknowledgment was not forthcoming. Vashishta, the raj guru, sat to the right of the emperor, looking at him with silent disapproval.
Dashrath seemed lost in thought as he stared blankly into space. His hands rested on golden armrests shaped like lions. A gold-coloured canopy, embedded with priceless jewels, was suspended over the throne. The magnificent court hall and the throne were symbolic of the power and might of the Ayodhyans; or at least, they had been so, once upon a time. Peeling paint and fraying edges spoke volumes of the decline of this once-great kingdom. Precious stones from the throne had been pulled out, probably to pay the bills. The thousand-pillared hall still appeared grand, but an old eye would know that it had seen better days in years past, when vibrant silk pennants hung from the walls, separating engraved figures of ancient rishis — seers and men of knowledge. The figures could have certainly done with a thorough cleaning.
Palpable embarrassment spread in the hall as Ram waited. A murmur among the courtiers reaffirmed what was well known: Ram was not the favoured son.
The son remained still and unmoved. Truth be told, he was not the least bit surprised. Used to disdain and calumny, he had learnt to ignore it. Every trip back home from the gurukul had been torture. Almost by design, most people found some way to constantly remind him of the misfortune of his birth. The ‘taint of 7,032’, the year of his birth according to the calendar of Manu, would not be forgotten. It had troubled him in his childhood, but he found himself wryly recalling what the man he admired as a father, Guru Vashishta, had said to him once.
Kimapi Nu Janaahaa Vadishyanti. Tadeva Kaaryam Janaanaam.
People will talk nonsense. It is, after all, their job.
Kaikeyi walked up to her husband, went down on her knees and placed Dashrath’s partially paralysed right leg on the foot stand. Carefully displaying the dutiful and submissive gesture for public consumption, she brought her aggression into full play in private, as she hissed her command. ‘Acknowledge Ram. Remember, descendant, not protector.’
A flicker of life flashed across the emperor’s face. He raised his chin imperiously as he spoke. ‘Rise, Ram Chandra, descendant of the Raghu clan.’
Vashishta narrowed his eyes with disapproval and cast a glance at Ram.
Adorned in rich finery and heavy gold ornaments, prominent among the first row of nobility, was a fair-skinned woman with a bent back. Her face was scarred by an old disease, and along with the hunched back, she had a menacing presence. Turning slightly to the man standing beside her, she whispered, ‘Hmm, did you understand, Druhyu? Descendant, not protector.’
Druhyu bowed his head in deference as he addressed the wealthiest and most powerful merchant of the Sapt Sindhu, ‘Yes, Mantharaji.’
That Dashrath had avoided the word ‘protector’ was a clear indication to all who were present that Ram would not be accorded what was the birthright of the first-born. Ram did not show disappointment as he rose to his feet with stoic decorum. Folding his hands together in a namaste, he bowed his head and spoke with crisp solemnity, ‘May all the Gods of our great land continue to protect you, my father.’ He then stepped back to take his position in single file along with his brothers.
Standing beside Ram, Bharat, though shorter, was heavier in build. Years of hard work showed in his musculature, while the scars he bore gave him a fearsome yet attractive look. He’d inherited his mother’s fair complexion and had set it off with a bright blue dhoti and angvastram. The headband that held his long hair in place was embellished with an intricate, embroidered golden peacock feather. His charisma, though, lay in his eyes and face; a sharp nose, strong chin and eyes that danced with mischief. At this moment though, they displayed sadness. He cast a concerned look at his brother Ram before turning to Dashrath, visibly angry.
Bharat marched forward with studied nonchalance and went down on one knee. Shockingly for the assemblage, he refused to bow his head. He stared at his father with open hostility.
Kaikeyi had remained standing next to Dashrath. She glared at her son, willing him into submission. But Bharat was too old for such efforts at intimidation. Imperceptibly, unnoticed by anyone, Kaikeyi bowed her head and whispered to her husband. Dashrath repeated what was told to him.
‘Rise, Bharat, descendant of the Raghu clan.’
Bharat smiled delightedly at not being accorded the title of the ‘protector’ either. He stood up and spoke with casual aplomb, ‘May Lord Indra and Lord Varun grant you wisdom, my father.’
He winked at Ram as he quickly walked back to where his brothers stood. Ram was impassive.
It was then Lakshman’s turn. As he stepped forward, those assembled were struck by his gigantic frame and towering height. Though usually dishevelled, his mother Sumitra had ensured that the fair-complexioned Lakshman had turned up dressed neatly for the ceremony. Much like his beloved brother Ram, Lakshman too avoided wearing jewellery, save for the ear studs and the threaded Rudraaksh beads around his neck. His ceremony was completed without fuss, and he was soon followed by Shatrughan. The diminutive youngest prince was meticulously attired as always, his hair precisely tied, his dhoti and angvastram neatly pressed, his jewellery sober and minimal. The completion of his ceremony marked his acknowledgement, too, as a descendant of Raghu.
The court crier brought the proceedings of the court to an end. Kaikeyi stepped up to assist Dashrath, signalling an aide who stood next to the emperor. Dashrath placed his hand on the attendant’s shoulder as his eyes fell on Vashishta, who had also risen from his seat. Dashrath folded his hands together into a namaste. ‘Guruji.’
Vashishta raised his right hand and blessed the king. ‘May Lord Indra bless you with a long life, Your Majesty.’
Dashrath nodded and cast a cursory look towards his sons, standing firmly together. His eyes rested on Ram; he coughed irritably, turned and hobbled away with assistance. Kaikeyi followed Dashrath out of the court.
The crier then announced that the emperor had left the court and the courtiers immediately began filing out of the hall.
Manthara remained rooted to her spot, staring intently at the four princes in the distance.
‘What is it, My Lady?’ whispered Druhyu.
The man’s submissive demeanour was a clear indication of the dread he felt for the lady. It was rumoured that Manthara was even wealthier than the emperor. Added to this, she was believed to be a close confidante of the most powerful person in the empire, Queen Kaikeyi. The mischievous even suggested that the demon-king Raavan of Lanka was an ally; the reasonable, however, dismissed the last as fanciful.
‘The brothers are close to each other,’ whispered Manthara.
‘Yes, they appear to be…’
‘Interesting… Unexpected, but interesting…’
Druhyu cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, and then murmured. ‘What are you thinking, My Lady?’
‘I have been thinking about this for some time. I’m not sure we can write Ram off. If, after all the hatred and vilification that he has been subjected to for eighteen years, he is still standing strong, we must assume that he is made of sterner stuff. And Bharat, very obviously, is spirited and devoted to his brother.’
‘So, what should we do?’
‘They are both worthy. It’s difficult to decide which one to bet on.’
‘But Bharat is Queen Kaikeyi’s—’
‘I think,’ said Manthara, cutting off her aide mid-sentence, ‘I will find some way to make Roshni increase her interaction with them. I need to know more about the character of these princes.’
Druhyu was taken aback. ‘My Lady, please accept my sincere apologies, but your daughter is very innocent, almost like Kanyakumari, the Virgin Goddess. She may not be able to—’
‘Her innocence is exactly what we need, you fool. Nothing disarms strong men like a genuinely innocent and decent woman. It’s the fascination that all strong men have for the Virgin Goddess, who must always be honoured and protected.’
/>
FlyLeaf.ORG
Chapter 10
FlyLeaf.ORG
‘Thank you,’ smiled Bharat, as he held up his right hand and admired the exquisite golden-thread rakhi tied around his wrist. A petite young woman stood by his side; she answered to the name of Roshni.
A few weeks had lapsed since the recognition ceremony of the Ayodhya princes. Lakshman and Shatrughan already wore the rakhi thread, signifying a promise of protection made by a brother to his sister. In a break from tradition, Roshni had chosen to tie the rakhi threads first to the youngest and then move on, age-wise, towards the eldest. They sat together in the magnificent royal garden of the main Ayodhya palace. Situated high on a hill, the palace afforded a breathtaking view of the city, its walls and the Grand Canal beyond. The garden had been laid out in the style of a botanical reserve, filled with flowering trees from not only the Sapt Sindhu but other great empires around the world as well. Its splendid diversity was also the source of its beauty, reflecting the composite character of the people of the Sapt Sindhu. Winding paths bordered what should have been a carefully laid out lush carpet of dense grass in geometric symmetry. Alas, the depleting resources of Ayodhya had taken a toll on the maintenance of the garden, and ugly bald patches dotted the expanse.
Roshni applied the ceremonial sandalwood paste on Bharat’s forehead. Manthara’s daughter had inherited her mother’s fair complexion, but in all other ways the dissimilarity could not be more obvious. Dainty and small-boned, she was soft-spoken, gentle and childlike. The simplicity of her attire was a subtle rejection of the opulence afforded by her family’s wealth: a white upper garment coupled with a cream-coloured dhoti. Tiny studs and a bracelet made from Rudraaksh beads gave a hint of festive gaiety to a solemn face framed by long, wavy hair that was tied, as usual, in a neat ponytail. Her most magical attribute, though, was her eyes: overflowing with innocent tenderness and the unconditional, compassionate love of a true yogini; one who had discovered union with God.
Bharat pulled out a pouch full of gold coins from his waistband and held it out to Roshni. ‘Here you go, my sister.’
Roshni gave the slightest of frowns. It had become fashionable of late for brothers to offer money or a gift to sisters during the rakhi ceremony. Women like Roshni did not approve of this trend. They believed that they were capable of doing the work of Brahmins, Vaishyas and Shudras: disseminating knowledge, trading or performing physical labour. The only task that sometimes proved challenging for them was that of a Kshatriya. They simply did not possess the physical strength and proclivity for violence. Nature had blessed them with other attributes. They believed that accepting anything besides the promise of physical protection during the rakhi ceremony was an admission of the inferiority of women. Equally, though, Roshni didn’t want to be rude.
‘Bharat, I’m elder to you,’ smiled Roshni. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to give me money. But I most willingly accept your promise of protection.’
‘Of course,’ said Bharat, quickly tucking the pouch back into his waistband. ‘You are Mantharaji’s daughter. Why would you need any money?’
Roshni immediately fell silent. Ram could see that she was hurt. He knew she was uncomfortable about the fabulous wealth that her mother possessed. It pained her that many in her country were mired in poverty. Roshni was known to avoid, if possible, the legendary parties that her mother frequently threw. Nor did she move around with an escort. She gave money and time to many charitable causes, especially the education and health of children, considered the worthiest of all by the great law book, Maitreyi Smriti. She also frequently used her medical skills as a doctor to help the needy.
‘It’s a wonder Bharat Dada allowed you to tie a rakhi, Roshni Didi,’ Shatrughan broke the awkward silence even as he teased his elder brother.
‘Yes,’ said Lakshman. ‘Our dear dada certainly loves women, but not necessarily as a brother.’
‘And, from what I have heard, women love him in return,’ said Roshni, as she gazed fondly at Bharat. ‘Haven’t you come across any dream lover yet, someone who will sweep you off your feet and make you want to settle down?’
‘I do have a dream lover,’ quipped Bharat. ‘The problem is, she disappears when I wake up.’
Shatrughan, Lakshman and Roshni laughed heartily, but Ram could not bring himself to join in. He knew Bharat was assiduously hiding the pain in his heart with his jest. He had still not gotten over Radhika. Ram hoped his sensitive brother would not pine for her forever.
‘My turn now,’ said Ram, as he stepped forward and held out his right hand.
Lakshman spotted Vashishta walking by in the distance. He immediately scanned the area for possible threats, as he had not completely set aside his suspicions regarding their guru.
‘I promise to protect you forever, my sister,’ said Ram, looking solemnly at the golden rakhi tied to his wrist, and then equally, at Roshni.
Roshni smiled and applied some sandalwood paste on Ram’s forehead. She turned around and walked towards a bench to put away the aarti thali.
‘DADA!’ screamed Lakshman, as he lunged forward and pushed Ram aside.
Lakshman’s tremendous strength threw Ram back. In the same instant, a heavy branch landed with a loud thud at the very spot that Ram had been standing a moment ago. It had first smashed into Lakshman’s shoulder, cracking his collar bone in two. Shards of bone jut out as blood gushed in a horrifying flow.
‘Lakshman!’ screamed his brothers as they rushed towards him.
‘He’ll be all right,’ said Roshni, as she stepped out of the operation theatre. Vashishta, Ram, Bharat and Shatrughan stood anxiously in the lobby of the ayuralay. Sumitra sat still on a chair against the wall of the hospital, her eyes clouded with tears. She immediately rose and embraced Roshni.
‘There will be no permanent damage, Your Highness,’ assured Roshni. ‘His bone has been set. Your son will recover fully. We are very lucky that the branch missed his head.’
‘We’re also lucky that Lakshman is built like a bull,’ said Vashishta. ‘A lesser man would not have survived that hit.’
Lakshman opened his eyes in a large room, meant for nobility. His bed was big but not too soft, providing the support needed for his injured shoulder. He couldn’t see too well in the dark but he detected a soft sound. Within moments, he found a red-eyed Ram standing by his bedside.
I woke Dada up, thought Lakshman.
Three nurses rushed towards the bed. Lakshman shook his head slowly and they stepped back.
Ram touched Lakshman’s head gently. ‘My brother…’
‘Dada… the tree…’
‘The branch was rotten, Lakshman. That’s why it fell. It was bad luck. You saved my life once again…’
‘Dada… Guruji…’
‘You took the hit for me, my brother… You took the hit that fate had meant for me…’ said Ram, as he bent over and ran his hand over Lakshman’s forehead.
Lakshman felt a tear fall on his face. ‘Dada…’
‘Don’t talk. Try to sleep. Relax,’ said Ram, turning his face away.
Roshni entered the ayuralay room with some medicines for the prince. A week had elapsed since the accident. Lakshman was stronger now, and restless.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘The nurses are still here,’ said Roshni with a smile, mixing the medicines into a paste in a bowl and handing it over to Lakshman. ‘Your brothers have gone to the palace to bathe and change into fresh clothes. They’ll be back soon.’
Lakshman’s face contorted involuntarily as he ingested the medicine. ‘Yuck!’
‘The yuckier it is, the more effective the medicine!’
‘Why do you doctors torture patients like this?’
‘Thank you,’ Roshni smiled as she handed the bowl to a nurse. Turning her attention back to Lakshman, she asked, ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘There is still a lot of numbness in my left shoulder.’
‘That’s because of t
he pain-killers.’
‘I don’t need them.’
‘I know you can tolerate any amount of pain. But, for as long as you are my patient, you won’t.’
Lakshman smiled. ‘Spoken like an older sister.’
‘Spoken like a doctor,’ scolded Roshni, as her kindly gaze fell upon the golden rakhi still tied around Lakshman’s right wrist. She turned to leave and then stopped.
‘What is it?’ asked Lakshman.
Roshni requested the nurses to leave. She then walked back to his bedside. ‘Your brothers were here for most of the time. Your mother too was here; so were your stepmothers. They came to see you every day, remained here for most of the time and only went back to the palace to sleep. I’d expected that. But you must know that Ram refused to leave for one full week. He slept here in this room. He did a lot of the work that our nurses should have rightfully done.’
‘I know. He’s my dada…’
Roshni smiled. ‘I came in late one night to check on you and I heard him talking in his sleep: “Don’t punish my brother for my sins; punish me, punish me”.’
‘He blames himself for everything,’ said Lakshman. ‘Everyone has made his life a living hell.’
Roshni knew what Lakshman was talking about.
‘How can anyone blame Dada for our defeat? Dada was just born on that day. We lost to Lanka because they fought better than us.’
Scion of Ikshvaku Page 10