Prince of Dharma (34 page)

Dasaratha looked at the brahmarishi in despair. ‘Mahadev, what is your esteemed opinion on this matter?’ 

Vishwamitra leaned on his staff. ‘Maharaj, I have no opinion in this matter. This is a father’s and a mother’s decision to make, not a guru’s. If Rajkumar Lakshman wishes to accompany his brother, so be it. If he stays, that is acceptable to me as well.’ 

He moved away after saying these words, distancing himself from the family debate. Dasaratha looked around, searching for someone to aid him in his argument against Lakshman. His eyes flicked across Kausalya, who wisely remained silent, and were passing on to Guru Vashishta when Sumitra-maa spoke, struggling through her tears. 

‘Send Lakshman with Rama.’ 

Everyone turned to stare in surprise at the third queen. Sumitra’s delicate small features were smeared with damp kajal and a streak of sindhoor. She stepped forward, wiping her face with the pallo of her sari. ‘He speaks the truth. He and Rama share a bond that is beyond this mortal plane. If he were to stay back, he would pine and waste away. In the woods, at least they will look out for each other.’ 

‘Sumitra?’ Dasaratha replied, astonished. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? You would risk the life of your own son even when not required? Rama is honour-bound to go now. Lakshman does not have to take this great risk. Think before you speak your mind, my gentle queen!’ 

‘I’m saying what’s right,’ she said with surprising determination. ‘Do you think it doesn’t hurt me to say it?’ She held the pallo to the corner of her mouth, her eyes misting over again. ‘It’s like pulling a piece of my heart from my breast. But then I say, if I can endure the pain of sending Rama, then I can endure the pain of sending Lakshman as well. That way, double the pain will halve the risk at least.’ She looked around defiantly, challenging anyone to prove her wrong. ‘I cannot speak for Bharat, but I would send Shatrugan as well. Because—’ 

Both Bharat and Shatrugan stepped forward, speaking hotly. ‘Father, send us too!’ 

Dasaratha waved them to silence, gesturing to Sumitra to go on. 

‘Because,’ she went on, ‘Rama is a son of my heart if not of my body. To lose him would be as unbearable as to lose my own birth-sons. So I say, if Lakshman’s going gives him satisfaction, if the presence of one more bow improves the chances of success, then why should I not send my son as well?’ 

All eyes watched Dasaratha, waiting for his verdict. He looked at Sumitra’s tearful, defiant face, at Lakshman’s desperate pleading eyes, and his tired shoulders slumped. He released a great sigh. 

‘Very well, then. So be it. Lakshman shall go with Rama.’ 

Both Bharat and Shatrugan began to protest. 

Dasaratha waved them wearily into silence again. They quietened instantly. ‘But none other than Lakshman. Leave me at least half my sons in this time of crisis!’ He seemed to address the plea to some invisible deva rather than to anyone present. 

Rama spoke to his brothers. ‘Bharat, Shatrugan. Heed Father’s words. He is ailing. If for any reason imaginable we should fail in our mission, Ayodhya will need your axe and your mace. Stay and defend our mothers and our city.’ 

Bharat and Shatrugan bowed their heads reluctantly, agreeing. Lakshman rose and stood beside Rama. 

Guru Vashishta cleared his throat. ‘You must make haste. The brahmarishi desires to reach Ananga-ashrama before sunfall. You have a great walk ahead.’ 

The rajkumars glanced at each other, then, moving as one, went forward and bowed before their guru together. They touched his feet in the ritual plea for blessings. 

‘Guruji, ashirwaad dijiye.’ The guru laid his hands on both their heads gently. ‘Ayushmaanbhav, Ayodhya ke rajkumaron. Hum tumhari safalta ke liya prarthana karenge.’
Live long, princes of Ayodhya. We shall pray for your success
. 

Next they turned to the maharaja. Dasaratha’s eyes were red and swollen even though he hadn’t shed a tear. His face was blotchy and flushed with strain. Rama’s heart twinged as he raised himself after touching his father’s feet. ‘Father, have faith in us. We shall bring you triumph.’ 

‘I expect nothing less, my sons.’ Dasaratha’s voice was hoarse and cracked. Suddenly, as Rama and Lakshman started to turn away, he lurched forward and put his arms around them both, enfolding and crushing them in a massive bear-hug. ‘Oh, my sons, my sons. What have I done? Can I never do right by you? What have I done to deserve this cursed karma?’ 

Rama hugged and kissed his father gently. The maharaja’s greying stubble was rough against his smooth, hairless cheek. ‘You have always done right by us, Father. It’s not your karma but our dharma that leads us where we go.’ 

Dasaratha looked at his son, fat opaque tears spilling from his anguished eyes. ‘So young and yet so wise. If I have ever done anything to deserve a boon from the devas, I pray for your safe return. Both of you.’ He clutched their arms one last time, his meaty fists twice the size of their slender shoulders, and released them, turning away with a choked cry. 

They went next to Kausalya-maa. She had tears in her eyes when they bent to take her ashirwaad, and made no attempt to conceal them, but her voice was steady and clear. ‘Heed the words of your new guru carefully and obediently. Care for one another as well as for yourselves. Guard each other’s backs night and day. Do as your gurus have taught you and as your duty demands. Fulfil your dharma.’ 

The boys took their leave of Sumitra-maa, Bharat and Shatrugan next and turned to Guru Vashishta once more. He nodded, acknowledging the momentary disorientation that was visible on their faces. ‘Be brave, young rajkumars. It is a great thing you go to do today. A noble undertaking. Your names shall be writ large in the chronicles of your dynasty and your line. Go now, with the grace of the devas. I shall use every power at my disposal to pray for your speedy and safe return.’ 

Vishwamitra tapped his staff on the ground, indicating to the captain that they were ready to leave. The brahmarishi looked back once at Maharaja Dasaratha and the rest of the royal family. 

‘I give you my word, Ayodhya-naresh. Either I shall return both your sons safely to you once my mission is accomplished; or I shall not return at all.’ 

Dasaratha felt a chill in his heart at the brahmarishi’s words.
Not return at all
? Was the seer admitting there was some chance of failure? But of course he was, he chided himself. Even the most powerful of seers couldn’t guarantee the future. What he meant was that he had pledged not just his honour but his life on ensuring their safe return. Either they would all return safely, or none would return. 

Dasaratha couldn’t deal with the implications of the latter possibility. 

As the rear gates of the palace swung open, Drishti Kumar and his guards gave the departing trio a royal salute. Then, turning smartly, they began to shut the gates, following their security procedures without lapse. Bharat and Shatrugan ran forward, clutching at the bars of the gates and calling words of farewell and encouragement to their brothers. 

Rama and Lakshman walked behind the seer, following the customary three paces to the rear of their new guru, without looking back once. A way had been cleared specially for their passing right through to the first gate, and the raj-marg was deserted as far as the eye could see, with soldiers standing alert at regular ten-metre intervals along the way. 

The three travellers reached the end of the avenue and turned the bend, passing out of sight. 

KAAND 2

ONE 

From a window in the Second Queen’s Palace, Manthara and Kaikeyi watched the three figures walk down the avenue and disappear round a bend in the road. 

The minute they were out of sight, Kaikeyi turned her tear-streaked eyes on Manthara. 

‘My son was to be crowned maharaja. My son, Bharat. Not Rama! Bharat!’ 

The daiimaa let the drapes fall back into place. She replied calmly: ‘Before he can be crowned maharaja, he must be crowned prince-heir. And then he must wait for his father to resign the throne or die. That is the law of ascension.’ 

‘I don’t care about the law,’ Kaikeyi shrieked. ‘I want my son to be king! You said it would happen! You said his kundalee is that of a king, not a mere lord or thakur. You promised me he would become maharaja!’ 

‘So I did,’ Manthara replied levelly. Kaikeyi’s shriek still echoed in the corridors. The palace was deserted. Everybody was at the parade grounds, celebrating the feast. The rest of the royal family would hardly care to enter these chambers. ‘And so he will.’ 

Kaikeyi bent down and clutched Manthara’s bony shoulders tight enough to hurt the daiimaa. ‘Then why was Rama declared crown prince today? Answer that, you witch!’ 

Manthara hissed. A flash of greenish-yellow flame, like the tongue of some enormous lizard, snaked out from deep within her throat. The sorcerous fire shot out and struck Kaikeyi between the eyes, crackling at the impact. The second queen’s eyes rolled up, astonished, and like a rag doll being tossed aside by a playground bully, she was flung back bodily across the chamber. She struck a chaupat on the way, knocking it over and sending crystal jal-bartans and greasy dishes from her afternoon snack crashing, and landed with a bone-jarring impact on the bolsters and well-padded mattresses of her own baithaksthan. She lay there like a crumpled toy, breathing noisily through her open mouth, nostrils flared in shock, eyes wide and round. 

Manthara crooked one finger and Kaikeyi sat up abruptly, her head lolling forward like a dog’s wagging tail. She gasped, as startled by the involuntary movement as she had been by the flight across the room. 

Manthara took three steps towards her, raising one long, gnarled finger in warning. ‘Never lay a hand on me again, my queen. Next time your fall will not be cushioned.’ 

Kaikeyi rose slowly to her feet, checking her limbs. Her hands shook with fear and conflicting emotions. ‘How … how … did you do that?’ 

Manthara shrugged. ‘What difference does it make? I can do it. That’s all that matters to you. Just remember, you snivelling, spoilt Arya she-whelp, you’ve grown much too old to slap and spank. And I don’t have the patience I used to.’ 

Kaikeyi blinked, puzzled. What did the daiimaa mean? She had never had any patience to begin with. She realised belatedly that Manthara was being ironic. That was somehow even scarier than the sudden display of power. ‘I’m … sorry … I touched you.’ She stammered out the words. 

Manthara ignored the apology. ‘You mentioned Bharat’s kundalee. Yes, his horoscope clearly says he will be maharaja. And he will be. All in good time.’ 

She paced the room thoughtfully. Kaikeyi watched her like a child watching a puppet prance across a kathputhli stage. ‘But there is work to be done to make that come to pass.’ She looked at Kaikeyi. ‘Instead of playing with your over-muscled wrestlers in gloomy inns at night, you will have to do as I say. Time is short and every moment counts in this game.’ 

Game? What kind of game?
Kaikeyi managed to hold her tongue, something that was almost as difficult for her as controlling her diet. She watched the daiimaa pace. 

Finally, the hunchback paused, her eyes gleaming. 

‘Yes. That is exactly what she must do. Your genius knows no bounds, my lord.’ 

Kaikeyi looked around the chamber, wondering whom Manthara was addressing. Had Dasaratha come unexpectedly into her chambers? But there was nobody else here. She shivered suddenly. 

She had frequently called Manthara a witch, in her mind and behind the daiimaa’s back. But that was only in the figurative sense. Now she began to realise that the hunchbacked crone’s abilities did indeed lie in that forbidden realm of dark sorcery. What Manthara had just done to her, merely by crooking a finger, that had been the work of sorcery. And not Brahman sorcery either. What other secrets had Manthara kept from her all these years? What else was the woman capable of? 

Manthara turned her eyes to Kaikeyi. It was as if she knew every thought and emotion racing through Kaikeyi’s confused brain. ‘Don’t pretend that you want Bharat’s ascension for his sake. You haven’t a selfless bone in your body, Kaikeyi. If you ever did have one, then I must have broken it years ago. No, all you care about is your own status as second queen. You fear that if Rama were to ascend the throne, Kausalya would cut you down to size quickly enough, taking revenge on you for warming Dasaratha’s bed these many years. You fear the loss of your unlimited allowance, your river of silks and trinkets that the maharaja’s generosity keeps in spate. You fear that with Dasaratha’s passing, you will be relegated to the status of a widow, banished to some remote corner of the kingdom, there to spend the rest of your days in nameless ignominy. This is your true motivation in wanting Bharat to be crowned prince of Ayodhya.’