Prince of Dharma (81 page)

Lakshman said impishly, ‘And you think we’ll see Rajkumari Sita at Mithila too?’ He glanced mischievously at his brother as he said it. 

‘Isn’t it Rajkumari Urmila you really want to see?’ Rama said, grinning back good-naturedly. 

He and Lakshman had been teasing each other—and their brothers Bharat and Shatrugan—about Sita and her sisters for as long as he could remember. It was inevitable, given that their mothers and daiimaas were always talking about how fitting it would be for the four princes of Ayodhya to wed the four princesses of Mithila when they came of age. 

It didn’t hurt that Rama and Lakshman both had soft spots for Sita and Urmila respectively. 

Lakshman spied a flock of birds flying overhead and shielded his eyes from the rising sun as he tried to identify them. ‘Are those gurung?’ he asked. He failed to notice a hummock and stumbled briefly. 

Rama caught his arm. ‘Don’t fall down and muddy your face, brother. You want to look your best for Urmila, don’t you?’ 

Lakshman shrugged off Rama’s hand, recovering smoothly. ‘And you’re probably looking forward to continuing your game of hide-and-seek in the armoury with Sita again!’ 

He was referring to the time when they were seven, just before they had been sent for the traditional seven years of schooling at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul. That had been their last visit to Mithila, and during a game of hide-and-seek, Rama and Sita had vanished. They were found long after the game was over, in the armoury of all places, strictly out of bounds for children and games–sitting crosslegged at the foot of the great Shiva Bow. Sita had a small cut on her shoulder which Rama was dressing with a swatch torn from his ang-vastra. Both refused to explain what had happened and their brothers and sisters had teased them both mercilessly. 

A week later, after their return to Ayodhya, Rama and his brothers were sent to the gurukul, where they spent the next seven years studying the Vedic sciences and arts. 

‘What did actually happen in the armoury that day?’ Lakshman asked Rama now. It was a question he had asked several times over the years. He had yet to get a satisfactory answer from his brother. 

Once again, Rama failed to answer. Instead, he smiled mysteriously back at his brother. ‘Maybe you should try asking Sita herself when we meet her,’ he suggested, smiling a challenge. 

Lakshman grinned back. ‘Maybe I will at that.’ 

An unspoken message passed between them then. It was a tacit acceptance that they had chosen their path now, and that it would serve no purpose to brood on what might have been and could have been. For better or worse, their feet were set on this road, and they would see it through. 

‘As you choose, thus must you act.’ Lakshman held out a hand. 

Rama took it and gripped it hard, willing the gesture to say all that he could not speak aloud. 

They walked the last few yards in a warm silence bred by years of brotherhood. 

Brahmarishi Vishwamitra was waiting for them at the head of the procession. He stood a good half-yard taller than either of the two rajkumars—or any of the rishis and brahmacharyas— and his hand rested lightly on the knotted grip of his wildwood staff. He looked every inch the powerful warrior-king-turnedseer-mage of whom so many bards had composed songs of praise, his leonine features silhouetted against the early-morning sun, his flowing white hair and beard a proud emblem of his centuries of penance and meditation, while his lean, muscled back and limbs still bore the numerous scars of his former life. 

‘Rajkumars, walk with me,’ he said simply. 

Turning, he raised his staff to catch the attention of his fellow Brahmins. A murmur of excitement rippled down the length of the procession. 

Vishwamitra faced northwards again and struck his staff on the dust of the cart-path, speaking a brief Upanisad mantra aloud. Rama blinked as blue and gold sparks shot out from the ground where the staff landed. Despite all the amazing things they had witnessed over the past several days, the brahmarishi’s easy mastery of the power of Brahman never ceased to impress him. The sage seemed to be a living reservoir of Brahmanic energy. 

Vishwamitra began walking forward with long, powerful strides. Rama and Lakshman matched his pace, walking in perfect step a yard behind and slightly to the right of him. Ahead of them, the Vajra elephants trumpeted as their mahouts urged them forward with gentle verbal requests, and the procession began ambling down the cart-track towards Mithila. 

ELEVEN 

Third Queen Sumitra was in the rear hall of the sickchamber when Kaikeyi came to visit the maharaja. 

Immediately after Kausalya had left them, saying she was going to speak to Guru Vashishta, Dasaratha had turned to Sumitra with a familiar glint in his eyes. For a moment, she had experienced a small frisson of excitement and disbelief. 

But he was barely recovered from his mysterious ailment, and she had read him wrong, she realised at once. All he wanted was breakfast. She had been pleased—and secretly relieved— and had risen at once to fetch him some fruits. But Dasaratha had caught her slender wrist, her tiny hand almost invisible in his large fist, and caressed her palm affectionately, trying to seduce her into getting him a thali full of hot fried samosas, jalebis and rabadi. 

She had smiled and pulled her hand away, admonishing him for being naughty. She understood at once why he had said no to Kausalya when the First Queen had offered to peel some fruit before she left to visit the guru. If Dasa had asked Kausalya for a deep-fried, sugar-saturated breakfast, she would have shaken her head firmly, and that would have been that. So he had waited till she left, then tried to talk meek and mild Sumitra into giving him what he wanted. 

His ruse had almost worked. Sumitra had been so tempted to give in to him. After all, here he was feeling well enough to actually demand something to eat. Not simply lying in bed, half delirious with searing fever as he had been for the past week. But she knew she couldn’t do it. The vaids had specifically forbidden fried foods and sweets, and Kausalya, probably anticipating just such a situation, had left her with firm instructions not to give in to the maharaja’s whims. And Sumitra always heeded Kausalya’s words. 

So she had talked the maharaja out of his craving for his favourite breakfast, and had got him to agree that a bowl of her specially blended fruit punch would be a fine alternative. Dasaratha had been grumpy at first, which was understandable. He had turned away and said that in that case, he would do without breakfast. She sympathised with him. After all, it was less than a day since he had been feeling well enough to sit up, walk about the chamber and feel anything akin to a healthy human craving. And he was a man, nay, a king, accustomed to having his way in all things. Naturally he found it difficult to accept that he couldn’t indulge a simple desire for a little breakfast. But he knew as well as she did that Kausalya and the vaids were right: it was his years of excessive self-indulgence that had eroded his body and quickened the course of the canker eating him up within. 

And she knew Dasaratha’s weaknesses. On so many previous occasions she had seen how quickly a little breakfast or between-meal snack could grow into a kingly feast. Dasaratha’s penchant for overeating was matched only by his amorous appetites. So Sumitra had hardened her heart, a difficult task for someone so gentle and caring, and had coaxed him into agreeing to the fruit punch. 

Which was why she was here now, in the rear of the large bedchamber, preparing the punch. Kausalya had made the maids put in a heavy drape to separate this alcove where herbs, medicines, fruits and other assorted items needed for the king’s treatment were kept handy. This way, she and Sumitra could just step back here and fetch some fruit or grind one of the several powders or pastes that the vaids had prescribed for the maharaja’s treatment. It saved sending maids running in the middle of the night, and enabled Kausalya to mix the potions and medications herself; anyone could mix a batch of jhadibuti, Kausalya had said to Sumitra, but only a loving wife could add a prayer for Dasaratha’s quick recovery. 

Sumitra agreed wholeheartedly. That was why she had stepped back here to make the punch herself. She could as easily have asked Susama-daiimaa, the palace’s master chef, to prepare it. She was as distraught at the king’s condition as the other citizens of the city, and as eager to serve him—which was precisely why Sumitra preferred to do it herself. Left to Susamadaiimaa, the fruit punch would turn into a harvest bounty! 

Sumitra finished whipping the mixture of assorted fruit juices, freshly squeezed by her own hands and blended in exact proportions, then added in a treacly mixture of beaten yoghurt and honey before churning the whole concoction in a pot with a wooden ladle. 

When the mixture was creamy smooth, she pulled out the ladle, touching the tip of her little finger daintily to the dripping end, and tasted it. It was perfect. She smiled with satisfaction, poured the mixture into an earthen bowl, and put it on a wooden tray. She considered adding the usual spices. Dasaratha loved his fruit punch heavily spiced. Then again, he also loved it heavily spiked! She recalled the vaids warning her that excessive spices would do him almost as much harm as soma wine. She sighed wistfully and settled for sprinkling a pinchful of black salt over the top of the concoction. There, now it was fit for a king! 

She had picked up the tray and was about to return to the main chamber when she heard the sound of tinkling anklets and heavy gold bangles. She paused, her hand holding the edge of the drapes that hid the alcove, her pretty face creased by a frown. No serving girl would wear jewellery in the maharaja’s sick-chamber. Even Kausalya and Sumitra had removed all but the most basic of their ritual ornaments since Dasaratha had taken ill on Holi night. It wasn’t seemly to parade around in full ‘battle armour’, as Kausalya jokingly called it, and besides, it was impractical taking care of a sick man with bracelets jangling and necklaces flashing gaudily. Sumitra could think of only one woman arrogant enough to continue wearing so much jewellery in her sick king’s presence. She listened for a moment, and when a voice spoke, her suspicion was confirmed. 

Second Queen Kaikeyi’s voice was pitched unusually low, its strident, commanding tone reined in by a veneer of apparent concern. 

‘Dasa, my love,’ Sumitra heard her say. ‘I would have come to you before, but I was engaged in a pentitential fast.’ 

The gruffness in the maharaja’s voice was more eloquent than a glimpse of his face. ‘You look thin. How long have you been fasting?’ 

Sumitra inclined her head to one side, holding her breath. At this angle she could peek through the tiny gap where the drapes almost met the wall. She saw Kaikeyi, dressed in a rich silk-brocaded sari, her hair freshly washed and left to dry, her face almost completely scrubbed clean of powders and creams. Sumitra blinked in disbelief. Kaikeyi did look a lot thinner. And much better overall. She looks ten years younger! Even fasting for a week can’t make that much of a difference! 

Kaikeyi sighed. ‘Ever since you took to your sickbed, my beloved, I haven’t touched a morsel.’ 

Dasaratha sat up. ‘But that’s over eight days, Kaikeyi!’ 

She pressed her palms to her chest, sliding them slowly down the length of her body, over her hips, right down to the middle of her thighs, moulding the silken folds tightly to her body, demonstrating wordlessly that this was what eight days of fasting had resulted in. 

Dasaratha’s eyes followed her hands downwards, then he reached out as if to touch her and feel for himself the dramatic change in his second wife’s contours. At the last moment he hesitated and drew his hand back. 

‘You must have lost ten kilos! You look twenty years younger, my queen! Not that you looked old or overweight before …’ He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘What I mean is, you were always beautiful but now you have a certain glow on your skin that’s almost … ethereal.’ 

Kaikeyi tilted her head, letting her hair fall forward, obscuring the right side of her face, the effect lending her a sensual coyness. Her voice was husky and caressing. ‘Perhaps I should always fast then. That way I would always be beautiful for you.’ 

He chuckled softly. ‘You wouldn’t last long that way, my love. Surely you must have taken some nourishment this past week?’ He added hastily: ‘I don’t mean to distrust your word, but you seem able to move about quite well despite the lack of food. After eight days, even our palace Brahmins start to faint and keel over!’ 

‘I was nourished by my desire to see you well once more. The devas fed me all the spiritual energy I needed. And once I heard that my tapasya had pleased them and my boon had been granted, I came to see with my own eyes.’ 

Unexpectedly, Kaikeyi’s eyes filled with tears. ‘My lord, you don’t know how I have suffered these past eight days! And now, when I see you well again, looking so much stronger and more vigorous, I am convinced that the devas have truly blessed me. I cried to them daily, if you do not spare my Dasa, then no Arya woman will ever respect the vows of marriage again. They will think that the devas do not heed the pleas of a wife for her ailing husband. Grant me this one boon, spare my Dasa. And every Arya wife will bless her marriage and adore the devas eternally. And today, I see with my own eyes that my suffering was not in vain. My prayers were answered! You have been returned to me, my love!’ 

She leaned over him suddenly, her hair falling like a dark shower over his chest and face. Dasaratha jerked back, startled, but there was nowhere to go. His head pressed against the pillows and bolsters on which he had been propped up. Kaikeyi moved her face closer to his, and before Sumitra fully realised what was happening, the Second Queen had grasped the maharaja in her embrace and was showering him with passionate kisses.