PRINCE IN EXILE (41 page)

‘You have my ashirwaad in everything you do, as always. But what is that you wish to do, my son?’ 

Bharat looked at her with an inscrutable expression. ‘Depart the city with as large an entourage as I can collect within the hour. If I can take the whole population of Ayodhya with me, I will. 

Kausalya’s heart clenched in shock. ‘Where will you take all these people?’ 

‘To Tamasa’s banks. To Rama.’ 

When she did not answer immediately, he went on, his words almost stumbling over each other in their eagerness to convey his intentions. ‘I have not had time to speak with you further of the evil that was wrought here by Manthara and … and her accomplice. But I must say to you what is in my heart now.’ 

‘Speak your heart freely then,’ she said quietly. 

‘Then this is what my heart says, and what dharma demands. If there is to be a prince crowned heir in Ayodhya, it will be Rama alone. I will not wear the Suryavansha crown and sit on the sunwood throne as long as my brother Rama still draws breath. This I swear by the ashes of all my Suryavansha and Ikshwaku ancestors back to the beginning of time. Rama is the only true king who will succeed our father.’ 

Kausalya fought to control her own emotions. ‘What can I say to such a pronouncement, Bharat? What would you have me say?’ 

He knelt before her then, with Shatrugan kneeling at the exact same time, as if sharing his every thought and emotion. ‘Say only that you bless me in this undertaking. Give me your ashirwaad to go and bring my brother back home. I intend to undo the evil that Manthara wrought. I will bring Rama home and see him crowned king-heir. If you abjure me from doing this, then I must obey you. But I plead with you to bless me and permit me to do this for the sake of my own honour and for the sake of every Ayodhyan and every Kosalan.’ 

She stared down at his bowed head, then at that of his brother beside him. Tears welled in her eyes yet again -
will this river never cease to flow?
- and she saw herself reach out and touch first Bharat then Shatrugan on the head as custom demanded. 

‘If this is what you wish, my son,’ she said, ‘then go with Devi’s grace and my heartfelt blessings.’ 

As Bharat rose, she stopped him and embraced him. Suddenly, she was no longer a queen, but simply a mother. Just a mother crying out to him, ‘Go, Bharat, and fetch your brother home. Heal the wounds of this terrible night. Make this family whole again. Bring Rama home!’ 

TWELVE 

They were still recovering from the mishap in the river when Sumantra appeared, using the remaining horses to pull the chariot. He cried out when he saw them, heaved to, and rushed to embrace Rama with fresh tears spilling from his eyes. After thanking the devas profusely for sparing Rama’s life, he renewed his pleas for them to return to Ayodhya. The journey was ill begun, he insisted, the omens were very bad. He carried on about birds flying in the wrong direction, and predators heard roaring in daylight, and all the other augurs, until Rama put his hand gently but firmly on his shoulder and said that they would go on by foot if they must, but go they would. 

At that, Sumantra’s face fell and he broke off his litany. With a resigned air, the pradhan-mantri nodded and said he would go as far as Rama took him. They started to yoke the horses to the chariot with every intention of resuming their journey right then, but just as they were harnessing the last horse, Lakshman noticed something odd about the way the animal moved and bent to check its hoofs. 

The horse’s left rear shoe was missing. 

‘It must have come off when they were kicking up a storm on the raft,’ he said in disgust. 

Sumantra looked abjectly downcast again. Rama expected him to renew his talk of ill omens and bad augurs, but the prime minister simply looked to Rama for his decision. Rama looked at Lakshman, soaked from his dip in the river. He looked at the horses, still skittish and nervous from the unfortunate crossing. He looked at Sita, at Sumantra, then at the surrounding grove, and up at the fading sunlight. 

‘It is almost sundown,’ he said, weighing their options. ‘We are across the Tamasa at least. Perhaps we had best rest awhile. We have a long way to go yet, and a little refreshment and a short rest might do us all good before continuing our journey. In the meanwhile, perhaps you can find a new shoe for the horse, good Sumantra.’ 

Sumantra stared at Rama in dismay. ‘The shoe will not be difficult to replace, my prince. But would you truly wish to travel these backroads under darkness?’ He gestured at the sky. ‘It will be an awamas night. Not even a sliver of moon to light our way. And the way to Dandaka-van is a difficult one, fraught with many perils.’ 

Rama nodded. ‘I am aware of that. But what must be done must be done.’ He hesitated, then added with a wry smile, ‘That which is least palatable is best done quickly, lest by putting it off we lose our drive to do it at all. Was it not you who taught us that procrastination is a vice, old friend, and that for warriors and kings it is a fatal vice?’ 

Sumantra sighed and nodded. ‘That I did, rajkumar.’ He looked around briefly, scanning their surroundings, then indicated the way ahead. ‘There is a grove a little way from here with a dharamshala. Travellers often stop there before crossing the Tamasa to go to Ayodhya. With luck we may find an ironsmith with a horseshoe or two in his bag. You could rest and partake of some refreshment at the dharamshala. It is run by your mother’s order. Every Arya kingdom builds dharamshalas to cater to the needs of travellers, but Rani Kausalya makes it a point to see that each and every one of Kosala’s free-houses are always equipped and manned.’ 

Rama smiled at his wife and his brother. ‘So we shall have the pleasure of partaking of my mother’s hospitality then. Let us proceed there at once.’ 

Neither Sita nor Lakshman offered any comment. They were still shaken from the incident in the river. Rama knew that for them to come so close to losing him on this ill-fated day, in such a meaningless, unexpected fashion, was a greater shock than if he had been cut down in battle against asuras. Both Lakshman and Sita were trying to deal with the implications of that mishap. Was Sumantra right after all? Were the omens and augurs really that ominous? 

It was a sober and silent foursome that walked the half-mile to the dharamshala. They led the horses on foot, to avoid harming the shoeless one’s hoof. It was still an hour or so before sunset, and the sun slanted gently through the trees, casting long shadows. Butterflies and insects whirred and chirred around the path. Birdsong filled the forest to their right. The path twisted through a dense grove of eucalyptus trees interspersed with a few coconut trees and date-palms by the water’s edge, then came out into a large man-made clearing. To the left was the other, larger ferry crossing, its ground tramped by the feet and wheels and hoofs of a steady daily stream of traffic to and from the capital city. 

They had expected a few travellers, perhaps even a few dozen, but the sight that met their eyes stopped them all short. 

The clearing was filled with people of all castes, creeds, ages and occupations. They stood by the water’s edge, helping ashore the new arrivals who were disembarking from the fully loaded ferry boat; sat around the thatched hut, which was a dharamshala providing free food and shelter to travellers; and milled about the clearing. All of them wore the faces of people who had just been ousted from their homes, or suffered a tragedy of like proportions. Rama had seen people like this uprooted by clan-wars, migrants with no definite destination or future, their faces reflecting the bleak despair of their situation. They sat cross-legged, their heads bowed towards the ground, as if mourning some lost cause. Even at a glance, he estimated several hundred people, perhaps even more than a thousand. 

At the sight of Rama and his companions, heads turned at once. A hush fell across the clearing. An awareness spread wordlessly through the groups and pairs and clusters of folk, rippling across them all the way to the ferry and beyond, to the far side of the river. As he brought the horses to a halt, Rama glanced that way, and saw that there were even greater numbers of people on the east side of the river, waiting their turn to cross. If there were hundreds here, there were certainly thousands there. And from the spirals of dust rising from the road on that side, more were arriving. 

The people in the clearing rose to their feet and began surging forward. They did so slowly, blankly, like mourners at a funeral, not quite sure how to show their grief, how to begin to express their pent-up emotions. 

As they crowded closer, Lakshman stepped in front of Rama protectively. He had his hand on the horn of his bow, the other hand darting toward his quiver in readiness. 

Rama laid a hand on his shoulder. Lakshman glanced at him questioningly. Rama shook his head. Lakshman nodded and dropped his hands, but remained standing between Rama and the approaching commonfolk. Sumantra did likewise, with Sita staying by Rama’s side. He felt her warm breath on his bare shoulder and put his arm around her, squeezing her reassuringly. She glanced up at him with a nervous smile. 

Rama saw that the people were Kosalans all, but not all were Ayodhyans. These were inhabitants of the villages and hamlets they had passed en route to the Tamasa. People who had heard somehow of the events in Ayodhya this morning, and had come here, probably in expectation that Rama would pass this way. There were elders, their wizened heads shaking with disappointment. Little ones, their wide eyes staring up in perplexity. Mothers with infants on their hips, tears rolling down their cheeks - the mothers’ cheeks as well as their babies’, in maternal empathy. Young women and men, singly or in couples, holding hands and looking lost and forlorn. Carpenters, smiths, washerfolk, woodworkers, tanners, hunters, and a wide assortment of castes and varnas, all carrying some evidence of their trade or occupation stuck in their waistbands or hanging from their shoulders, as if they had left their work and rushed here without a second’s hesitation. All had the same desolate look on their faces. The same air of mourning and grieving. 

Rama held up his hands in greeting, joined together in a namaskar. 

‘Good Kosalans,’ he said quietly, yet loud enough to be heard above the birdsong and rush of the Tamasa fifty yards away. ‘Well met.’ 

They all greeted him with namaskars. But instead of the usual spoken response, they got down on their knees as one person, amid a great rustling of clothes and clanking of tools. ‘Rajkumar Rama Chandra ki jai ho. Siyavar Rama Chandra ki jai.’ 

Praised be Prince Rama Chandra. Praised be Rama Chandra, husband of Sita
. 

Then, instead of rising to their feet again, they remained on their knees, looking up at Rama and his companions with a look of abject misery. Lakshman glanced around nervously, not sure what to make of this odd scene. From the riverbank, more people kept arriving, offloaded by the constantly moving ferry boats, which were working overtime to keep up with the demand for their services. The new arrivals dropped to their knees as well, faces gazing reverentially towards Rama. 

Sumantra had gone to a group of white-haired Brahmins standing by the dharamshala whence they’d emerged. He spoke to them quietly for a moment, then listened carefully to their words before returning to Rama’s side. 

‘They do not believe the news, my prince. They are unable to accept that such a thing could have come to pass.’ 

Rama looked at Sumantra. ‘I understand their feelings, Sumantra. But how will collecting here help anything? What is it they mean to do?’ 

Sumantra glanced back at the growing crowd. A band of sudra hunters had emerged from the forest to join the throng, their sickle-spears still held by their sides. One of them had a deer carcass thrown over his shoulder, while two others carried a live leopard between them on a pole. They were looking at Rama with a fierce light in their eyes. 

‘I do not think even they know why they are here,’ Sumantra said sadly. ‘Most of them have left their work undone and simply come here when they heard the news. The Brahmins say that if you are to go into exile, they will go with you.’ 

Lakshman looked around uneasily. ‘There is an air of impending violence here as well. If their mood turns, this crowd will as easily follow you back into Ayodhya to lead a revolt.’ He glanced meaningfully at Rama. ‘And I warrant that half the kingdom would follow as well.’ 

Rama shot Lakshman an admonishing look. ‘There will be no talk of revolts. These people must be dispersed quickly and peacefully. They cannot follow us into the forest, into exile. The order was for me to go on my own. It is bad enough that I am taking Sita and you with me. I cannot have all these people’s lives on my conscience.’ He passed a hand across his face, as if trying to wipe away unseen grime. ‘Would that this day would end and be done with.’ 

Sita said gently, ‘Perhaps if you will speak to them, a few words to comfort them … ‘ 

Rama looked at Sumantra, then at the large crowd of anxiously waiting people, then at Sita standing beside him. What was he expected to say to all these people that would make them go home and resume their normal lives? What if he said the wrong thing and they misinterpreted his intent or implication? Lakshman had spoken honestly, if roughly: these people could as easily be incited to riot as into exile. He remembered the riot of the tantriks on Jagannath Marg on Holi feast day. How had he dared to step into the midst of that melee, between the angry PFs and the bhaang-enraged tantriks? How had he dispelled that crisis by singing a song? He didn’t know. That Rama seemed like another person now, that time another time. Right now, here in this clearing by the Tamasa, he felt no more a prince than that hunter there with his black panther-pelt coat and the gutted deer over his shoulder, dripping a few last drops of blood on to the ground. He looked again at Sita. She nodded her head very slightly, as if encouraging him to go ahead and speak. He had to say something. It seemed to be expected. But what? He cleared his throat, searching for inspiration. For great thoughts and noble sentiments, the kind that the history scrolls were always filled with, the deathless rhetoric of his Suryavansha ancestors that he had pored over in the palace archives as a boy, dreaming of standing some day on a marble pedestal and speaking such lofty words himself to a crowd that covered the earth for miles, his voice enhanced by Guru Vashishta to carry to the farthest listener.