Prince of Dharma (94 page)

Dasa hadn’t fallen. He had ridden that horse around the pole without once lurching or faltering. His father had taken him down proudly at the end of the contest—Dasa was still sitting long after the other children had cried and begged to be taken off—and had kissed his forehead lovingly. 

‘My son rides like a king,’ his father had said aloud. And Dasa had smelled the familiar scent of betelnut and mint on Aja’s breath. His father loved eating paan, and for the rest of his life Dasa would always associate that particular scent with his childhood. 

There was no scent of betelnut and mint from the creature that stood before him. Only the stomach-churning reek of raw new-birthed flesh and the pungent musk of a wild beast of no discernible species, mingled with the unforgettable fetor of the battlefield—blood, urine, faeces, and the gases of organic decay. This was not his father. This was the beast that had haunted his dreams for the past twenty years, the creature that wanted nothing more than to erase him and his dynasty from existence, along with every other living being on earth. 

‘I see you are having some difficulty staying on your throne, Dasa! What is it your Brahmins say? “Easier to sit an elephant in musth than to sit a gilded throne”? Something like that! Would you like some help staying upright? Or perhaps you’d simply like to move aside and let me take your place? I think I’d be able to bring more dignity to that seat than your pathetic choking and reeling!’ 

All the heads were speaking. Even through his agony, Dasaratha could tell that much. One spoke the first part of a sentence, another completed it. A third began the next statement, a fourth continued it, a fifth finished it … They all had distinctly different voices and accents. One or two even spoke in different languages, moving from Sanskrit highspeech to Awadhi commonspeak to Pali to Prakrit … it was a devil’s legion of tongues. All the heads grinned and mocked him as he fought to stay conscious. Only the central head stared coldly, its eyes glinting with a deep inner light that seemed to observe all that was happening without actually involving itself. This central head no longer resembled the Vajra lieutenant Bheriya: he had been only a courier designed to carry this message to Ayodhya, Dasaratha now knew. And the message was Ravana himself. Ravana had always possessed great supernatural powers, but to transmit himself through another body across time and space was a feat Dasaratha had not known the demonlord was capable of. Clearly, Ravana’s powers had grown immeasurably since they had last confronted each other. 

Gradually he managed to gain some semblance of balance. The brutal attack had shocked him more than hurt him physically. But in his ailing, weakened state, even that brief choking had been enough to exhaust his already drained resources. His throat was a rash of pain and wetness where the three-inch-long talons had gouged and pierced his flesh. His mind searched desperately for a means of calling for help while trying to decide what to do next. If this beast attacked him a second time; he would not survive. His only chance was to communicate his distress to Sumantra and the others standing outside. 

But the doors were barred, at his own request, and the hall was large enough that even his loudest cry—should he somehow get a cry out through this crushed larynx—would go unheard. The massive doors were meant to keep in the cacophony of a thousand debating parliamentarians, not transmit the agonised distress cries of a dying maharaja. 

Dying? Am I dying then? Is this how I am to go? Thrashing and retching on my own throne, staining the Suryavansha seat with my involuntary effluents? Despoiling this great chair which mighty Manu himself once sat on and whence he proclaimed the great laws of Arya civilisation? Never! 

With one ferocious, heart-bursting effort he struggled to sit upright, gripping the arms of the throne to steady himself. Forcing himself to ignore the shooting pain in his chest, the pounding in the back of his head, the pain like a dozen splinters of glass in his throat, he spoke hoarsely to the ten-headed beast. 

‘Ravana. You’re foolish enough to come to me. Good. You save me the effort of sending my army to fetch you then. You shall not leave this chamber alive.’ 

The ten heads stopped smirking and stared at him. Perhaps not all of them. At least two or three retained their fixed, mocking grins. But several others tried to glance at each other, rolling their eyes theatrically, and at least two that he could see—the ones at either end—grimaced and scowled menacingly at his threat. What threat? he thought as he fought to hold on to consciousness. What could I possibly do in my condition to hurt this being out of hell? Yet he felt better simply for having said that, for having put up some honourable show of dignified response. 

The central head snarled at the one to its immediate right, then looked at Dasaratha and smiled with startling warmth. ‘Very good! That’s more like the Dasaratha I know. What is it your name means in the highspeech? He Who Rides His Chariot In Ten Directions At Once? Meaning that you were able to fight ten enemies at the same time? How quaint of your parents. I remember Aja. He was a good fighter, but much too vain about his looks. He never recovered from that double slash I inflicted on his cheeks. It completely ruined his handsome visage. His self-esteem couldn’t stand the shock.’ 

The taloned hands shot out, imitating the way he had disfigured Dasaratha’s father’s face, slash-slash. Dasaratha resisted the impulse to wince even when those red-tipped claws came within millimetres of his eyes. 

He spoke as coldly as he could, using his hoarseness to make himself sound harsh rather than weak and feeble as he really felt. ‘If you have something to say to me, say it. I have no time to sit here and banter with you, Nagadeva.’ 

Seven out of the ten heads lit up with a variety of smiles. 

‘Nagadeva! It’s been aeons since I was called by that name. Serpent-king. Of course you know that the real king of the nagas is Takshak, he who winds himself around the blue throat of Shiva the Destroyer. But since I gained control of the naga legions, it’s quite accurate to call me their king. Among many other titles, of course. And speaking of nagas, they’ll be visiting you soon. Along with the pisaca legions, and the rakshasas, and uragas, and vetaals and all my other creeping, crawling, lunging, leaping and flying associates. Seething like a plague of locusts across your kingdom, and every other Arya kingdom besides.’ 

The demonlord droned on sonorously, spelling out in gory, gruesome detail the ravagement of the Arya nations he had in mind. He spoke of warships already at sail, landing soon at ports along the western coastline of the subcontinental peninsula; teeming millions of asura forces starting to make their way towards Ayodhya and its nearest neighbour, the north-western Arya nation of Kaikeya, from which Dasaratha’s Second Queen hailed, the site of the last asura war and the northernmost point the asura armies had reached before being pushed back by the Arya armies led by Dasaratha himself. 

He’s telling the truth, thought Dasaratha. There was no doubt that this was the reason the asura king had come to Ayodhya, to asassinate him, and before doing so, lecture him on all the horrors he would visit on his race and his kingdom, gloating over his final triumph. But as the creature with ten heads continued his fiendish monologue, Dasaratha’s mind worked on another matter that had unexpectedly come to his attention. 

Even through his mist of pain and disorientation, the maharaja had begun to see something very strange and interesting. Each time the demon king spoke, the ten faces took different sides in the utterance. As if some disagreed violently, others concurred, and yet others were of a wholly different but not disagreeable opinion. It was not unlike some heated political debates Dasaratha had administered; arguments over borders and river-sharing where a dozen clan chiefs took as many different positions, all appealing simultaneously to the maharaja to heed their individual stand. The only difference was that the ten heads in this case were not on ten different bodies but on one. 

And just as with the differing heads of state, so also with these differing heads of Ravana, there was a pattern to the apparent chaos. Each time the Lord of Lanka said something, there was always one head that remained silent. While the words came from any or even all of the other mouths, one mouth remained wordless, one pair of eyes watched intently, one face stayed impassive and still, sharply watchful. A glimmer of insight came to Dasaratha then, even as he turned a deaf ear to Ravana’s descriptions of the asura cities that would be built on the ashes of Ayodhya and Kaikeya in the aftermath of the genocide. 

That’s the head that is in control at that moment. He can use all the heads when thinking or acting, but when he speaks, one head focusses completely on the task and you can see which one it is just from its expression. The face in question always had a look of rapt concentration, as if the effort of speaking aloud took more effort than anything else. 

And indeed, Dasaratha realised with that inspired insight that sometimes comes to minds pushed beyond the limit of exhaustion and rational thought, might it not be that a being with ten heads would find the simple act of speech to be the most difficult of all physical actions? Because while every other action required the head or heads to control the rest of the body’s limbs, speech involved the heads themselves. What if speaking was the action during which the demonlord was most vulnerable? 

He held his breath, unable to believe that he had been given such a major insight into the process of Ravana’s inner workings. Not that he knew yet what to do with this information, but he was certain that it would be of some use, somehow, some day. 

Rama, he thought for no particular reason, I must tell this to Rama when he comes home. It will be helpful to him at the crucial moment. The moment he thought this, he blinked, wondering why it had come to mind. Then it passed into the turmoil of warring thoughts and sensations battling for space in his consciousness. 

Ravana fell silent suddenly, several of his heads peering suspiciously at the maharaja. Dasaratha realised he must have smiled involuntarily, unable to conceal the exultant pleasure of his unexpected inspiration. He knew that in another moment the demonlord would make his move and strike him down, washing the sunwood throne in his blood. 

Still, the very fact that he had gained that brilliant insight into the inner workings of his arch-foe gave him renewed strength and hope. It provided the last ounce of extra courage he needed to put into action the plan he had formulated during the past few moments. He sent up a final prayer to his maker, fully aware that he would probably not survive this last foray. May the devas watch over my family and my people. 

With a warrior’s cry of rage, Dasaratha threw himself sideways, off the throne. He landed on the royal dais with an impact that felt as if he had broken a rib or three. He lay on the carpeted floor for an instant, then forced himself to rise to his feet again, staggering with all the grace of a drunken dancer to the object placed at the end of the dais. 

The creature with ten heads bellowed as Dasaratha approached his goal. 

‘Foolish one! I was prepared to show you some mercy yet, for old times’ sake. Now I will show you real pain! Pain such as you have never felt or dreamed of before.’ 

Dasaratha reached the ceremonial gong that stood beside the First Queen’s throne. It was used to announce the formal start and end of a parliament session, indicating to the assembly that they should be seated or rise respectively. The long wooden ringer was hung on a rack above it. He didn’t bother to try to fumble with the rope from which it was suspended. There wasn’t time. He could feel the rushing wind and foul fetor of the demonlord at his back, flying at him with enough force to crush his organs and shatter his bones. 

Dasaratha swung his clenched fist with all the energy he had left in his body and struck the gong with one resounding blow. The sound echoed through the chamber like a victory bell—or a death knell. 

KAAND 2

ONE 

Sumantra was the first to hear the gong and react. 

‘Maharaja!’ he cried. ‘Open the doors! Open them now! Hurry!’ 

The palace guards rushed to do his bidding. The rajkumars Shatrugan and Bharat had been standing nearby, conversing with each other intently. The instant the gong sounded, they reacted as well, knowing something had happened in the hall. 

Sumantra gestured agitatedly at them. ‘Shatrugan, go fetch Guruji! Run!’ 

Shatrugan sprinted away. He was the faster runner of the two; Bharat’s muscular bulk made him a formidable mace-fighter but slowed him somewhat. Bharat drew his sword and stood by Sumantra as four guards lifted the heavy teakwood bolt off the door and lurched sideways carrying it out of the way. Sumantra and Bharat threw their shoulders against the massive ten-yardhigh doors, joining their strength to the ten other guards pushing against them. The doors opened as fast as the laws of gravity and motion allowed, seeming like an eternity. Even as he pushed, Sumantra yelled at a sergeant of the guards to fetch reinforcements and Captain Drishti Kumar, the commander of the maharaja’s personal security. 

As soon as the doors were ajar, Bharat and Sumantra slipped inside. The prime minister had taken a lance from one of the guards and held it firmly in both hands like a two-handed sword, ready to lunge at the first sign of threat. They entered into pitch blackness: the torches in the hall had all been extinguished. Even the daylight spilling in through the open doorway barely illuminated a third of the long approach to the royal dais. Most of the hall’s fifty-by-seventy-yard dimensions was utterly dark.