RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (10 page)

Bharat turned and with one smooth motion, grasped at the man’s wrist. But both men’s bodies, naked except for grimy once-white langots, were slippery with sweat and dust, and his grip slid inches upwards, to the man’s forearm. Bharat’s intention was to twist the wrist, break it if possible, and cause the sword to fall. Instead, his hand slipped up to the forearm and succeeded only in shifting the angle of the blade by an inch or so.

The man’s sword, instead of penetrating his throat dead centre as intended, slashed it diagonally. Close enough to serve its purpose. The result was instantaneous. An explosion of blood from the abruptly severed artery splattered Bharat and then Shatrugan, who reached them only a moment after, and the man fell to the ground, already shuddering in his death throes. Bharat tried to bunch his arm into a fist and failed, feeling only a sense of helpless agony in the disabled limb. He had wanted the assassin for questioning and that was impossible now. The man would be dead in moments with that wound.

Shatrugan and he watched helplessly as the assassin bled to death, his blood spreading to stain the dust of the fighting field. Shatrugan knelt down to examine the man more closely, in case he bore some clue to his identity or affiliation – unlikely, but still worth giving a once-over. The other kshatriyas who practised routinely with them daily, their closest and most trusted war-comrades, stood around, watching. Several of them spat in disgust. The assassin was well known to them all, had caroused and drunk and fought beside them on a dozen occasions over the last year and a half; this had been a long-planned and meticulously executed infiltration and assassination attempt. Only the new buck-toothed novice to the royal syce came running to gawk. Others on the practice field, after a brief pause to take in what had happened, continued as before. This was, after all, not the first time this had happened. Ever since Rama had gone into exile fourteen years ago, Bharat had experienced his share of assassination attempts. There were always people who blamed Bharat for Rama’s banishment; not entirely incorrect, since it had been for Bharat’s sake that his mother Kaikeyi had demanded that Rama be banished. But once he had settled in at Nandigram, making it clear that he had no intention of seating himself on the throne until Rama’s return from exile, the attempts had reduced in frequency and had finally ceased. If anything, over time, he had come to earn the respect of Rama’s supporters, who held up his example as the story of the ‘perfect brother’, whatever that might mean. And in time, even those supporters had begun to attend him at Nandigram, accepting him grudgingly as Rama’s regent.

But since Rama’s return from exile, the assassination attempts had begun again. This was the third in as many days. And it was certainly not the last.

He bent down, wincing at the sharp knife of pain in his shoulder, picked up the fallen mace, and was about to turn away when Shatrugan called out softly.

He frowned at the expression on his brother’s face. “What?”

Shatrugan glanced around briefly then moved his head closer to Bharat, close enough so that only he could hear him. “He’s an Ayodhyan.”

Bharat stared at him, trying to think through the implications of that simple assertion. He did not ask Shatrugan how he could be so certain of the fact; the how of it was less important than the fact itself. It meant that the people of Ayodhya – or some of them at least – wanted Bharat dead. Which in turn meant…he didn’t even like to speculate on what it meant. It was the legacy of fourteen years of infighting, politicking and a messy mix of resentment, accusation, allegation, commercial rivalries, old tribal feuds and internal dissension.

Shatrugan held out something, an amulet of some sort dangling from a black thread. “This was around his neck.”

Bharat didn’t touch or take the charm, merely glanced at it. Even so, it sent a chill through his body. Despite the warming morning sun, the throbbing heat in his shoulder, the searing rakes where the blade had scored his flesh, he still felt a chill when he looked at the iconography of the little amulet. He had seen its like before, if not this exact same design. It was based on ancient symbols from an earlier age; an age before civilization, cities and sanatan dharma. This particular combination of symbols was easy enough to read if unusual. It merely inverted the usual honorific of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku dynasty, piercing it with a ragged blade. The meaning was crude but clear:
Death to the Dynasty that rules Ayodhya
. Death to Bharat and Rama and all their bloodline.

He realized he had been wrong. The assassination attempt was not directed at him alone: it was directed at his entire family, clan and by extension, the entire nation-state that they governed and protected. It was only one part of a far larger mission of total annihilation.

KAAND 1

ONE

Rama.

Sleeping on his back, left arm crooked, fingers curled on his gently rising and falling abdomen, the other arm flung out by his side, fingers splayed, within reach of his ever-present sword. The sword itself was not within the grasp of those splayed fingers, but it was close enough: below the bed, out of sight yet less than half a yard away. In many ways, that sword was as much his wife as she: his constant companion through countless conflicts, battered and careworn, always by his side, never out of reach, except… She caught her breath, lowered her head to release it with a long sigh. Except when she was taken from him, made a captive of Ravana. Then, he had been left with only the sword. In fact, it was that sword that had been his only solace, his final hope, his sole means of retribution, his only way of recovering her, his other constant companion. Even after they had returned from Lanka by Pushpak, and Sumantra had sought to take the battered, bloodied, scarred weapon away, he had resisted. And she had not failed to notice how restlessly he had bided the time until it was returned to him, considerably restored by the royal armourer, but still nowhere near as fine as any of the countless dozens of new swords that were his for the taking. Nay, it had to be that sword and that sword alone.

Which begged the question: He could survive without her but could he survive without the sword? Without all that the sword symbolized? The way of the warrior, the road of dharma?

He stirred in his sleep, breath quickening, eyeballs rolling behind closed lids. She held her breath and lay very still, not wanting to rouse him. He deserved his rest, needed it. The days since their return to Ayodhya had been tumultuous, a whirlwind of excitement and activity that never seemed to cease. And probably never would. A king’s duties were endless; a kingdom’s, infinite. If Rama and she had regained their home with all the solace and comfort it brought, then Ayodhya too had regained its king and queen after fourteen years. Its claim was undeniable, its demands unceasing. Yet what of her claim, her needs? After fourteen years of exile, after all that had transpired, did not she have a legitimate claim as well? Was he not her Rama too?

She heard the trumpeting of elephants from somewhere in the middle distance. No doubt that was Lakshman, putting the new elephant regiment through its paces. He had slipped so easily, so quickly into his role as prince-in-waiting and commander of the armies, it was unnerving. She had glimpsed him with his wife, her sister, Urmila. They had seemed stiff together, awkward, ill at ease, moving and speaking like strangers at a formal event. Fourteen years … half a lifetime … And they had known each other barely days before that cruel separation. They
were
strangers in all but name. Time had bent and twisted their marriage into a crooked river that lay still and muddy now. Time alone could bring it back onto its natural course—if such a crooked bend could be corrected at all. Perhaps if Urmila’s womb had quickened before they had left, things would be different. Worse? No. Better. Definitely better, she thought. Children brought beauty and permanence to a marriage. Always.

She touched her gently risen abdomen. She still was not showing overly much. She feared that might be due to her months of privation. First in those last few horrific days at Janasthana, before that final battle against the ragged remnants of Supanakha’s brother rakshasas, then in captivity in Lanka where she had been too mistrustful of her captors to eat freely, too harassed to eat at all sometimes. But in between those years of battle and those weeks of captivity, there had been a brief season of rest, a few pleasurable days of idle pasture, when Rama had shown more tenderness toward her than ever before, as if he somehow sensed her condition. She knew he did not actually know of her pregnancy, for he was guileless in that sense, her Rama, a quiet reserved man who held himself too closely at times but could never deceive her or lie openly; he did not know of her pregnancy, then in its early weeks, almost too early to be sure, although
she
was sure, but perhaps some part of his acutely perceptive mind sensed her need for gentleness, for caring, for nourishment both emotional and physical. He had fed her like a honeymooning husband—literally as well as emotionally—and she had relished every morsel, for it was his love she was truly tasting, his enduring affection. For all his formidable skills as a warrior, Rama Chandra could be as formidable a husband, when time and circumstances permitted him to be. Perhaps he was compensating for the years in exile, years of hardship and battle, and constant fear and struggle, blood and disease and slaughter. Perhaps he was simply celebrating the imminent closure of that part of their lives: it had been only weeks before the end of their term of exile after all. Whatever the reason, she had loved that brief season of respite. It was what had sustained her through the weeks of torturous captivity that followed, through the taunting of the rakshasis, the mental torture of Supanakha and Ravana, her constant fear of Ravana’s asura-maya, his dark, terrible sorcery, and later the horror of knowing that tens upon tens of thousands were dying for her sake, in a pointless battle that she would never have permitted Rama to wage had she been by his side. But that was the point, wasn’t it? He waged that war
because
she was not by his side, because she had been taken from him, and because it was the only way to get her back.

She watched him sleeping, hand outstretched in search of that ever-present sword, and could not bring herself to believe that he would ever have resorted to such tactics: raising an army, crossing an ocean, invading another sovereign realm, slaughtering lakhs, destroying a city, a kingdom, almost an entire race… He would never have done it had she been beside him. Her taking had been the tipping point in a life filled with unrelenting conflict, struggle, bloodshed. He had gone all the way because he was already far down the path of violence.

But had it not happened, had she not been taken, had Ravana not usurped the one thing that could drive Rama to war and invasion, she felt certain he would have remained that peaceable, loving husband. That Rama she had known for those glorious few days in the forest, in the hut by the river, in the last days of their exile. That man with the rough chin and soft touch. Strong hands and gentle voice. Dark skin and light humour.

Rama the river dolphin. Rama the vegetable baster. Rama the minder of rabbits and feeder of fledgling parrots. Rama, friend of the forest, brother of the deer, son of Prithvi Maa.

She touched his chest gently, longing for that Rama. That gentle man in that rough place. That warrior, slayer of thousands, survivor of countless deathly bladed conflicts, who could dance the mad dance of battle like no other warrior she had ever seen or heard of, who could face down berserkers and face up to impossible odds and still lead his ragtag bunch of outlaws and exiles to victory—bloody and painful, but victory nonetheless—and yet choose to abjure slaying innocent beasts of the woods for his supper, opting instead to gnaw on roasted yams and roots and plucked leaves rather than take the warrior’s share of nature’s bounty that was his fair due. That Rama of the forest who could stay his blade from striking down a pregnant sow that was charging him in mad fury, turn his hip just in time to avoid disembowelment by her wicked horns, twist, turn and smack her on her hairy behind with the flat of his blade, causing her to squeal in outrage and shame and flee into the dark woods. Other, lesser warriors—lesser
men
—would simply slay the boar and feast on the rich, savoury flesh. But not her Rama. He had perfect control of his senses, his wits, at all times and even when he descended into the maelstrom of battle lust, that heart of darkness that every warrior visited at some time, that dark terrible eye of the storm that even she had inhabited more times than she cared to remember—even then he remained Rama the compassionate, the wise, the infinitely balanced and fair, upholder of dharma.

The way he had acted
after
the war of Lanka was yet another example of his devotion to dharma. Acknowledging that even a just war was a needless war; that it fell to the victor to hold out the helping hand, to offer those things that daunted great kings, that legendary emperors had been too proud to ever accept: Regret, first and foremost. Reparation. Rehabilitation. And after all was done, or well begun at least, for the wages of war took eons to be paid out fully, Disarmament. That last alone had eluded almost every conqueror since the beginning of time. Yet Rama had done it, had disarmed, disbanded, dismissed and sent their separate ways the several formidable factions of the greatest army ever assembled in mortal memory. That was Rama. Her Rama.

In a sense, that sword was symbolic of everything that Rama himself stood for. The sword was Rama and Rama was the sword. Battered, scarred, broken and mended and broken again a hundred times over, yet fighting fit and ready to go
now
, ready to put loyalty before life, duty before self-preservation, dharma before all else. He was dharma’s truest disciple, most devout servant, most loyal brother, prodigal son, unswerving husband, fiercest protector…

What else was Rama but dharma by another name?

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. She smiled slowly, brushing away the stray hairs that fell awry—crow-black hairs that were finally washed clean of the dried juice of the bodhi tree-trunk after being matted daily with that milky, gummy fluid for fourteen years—and turned the gesture into a caress.

His face mirrored her smile, his dark eyes not seeming as sunken as they had the day he had taken her out of Lanka, the smile less like a skull’s deathly grimace. A quizzical frown appeared and lingered. Her fingers affectionately cupped his hard heart-shaped jaw, the pad of her thumb stroking the stubbly underside of his chin, rasping against the bristling new growth.

His hand reached up and caught her wrist. The sudden ease with which he did this, the smooth grace with which he slid his hand up the length of her arm to the shoulder, his calloused palm rough upon her arm and then her neck, made her draw a quick breath. It felt so good to be with her man again, her Rama. For apart from all else, he was still that. A man. Her man.

They lay like that, gazing into one another’s eyes for neither knew how long. A sunbeam slipped through a gap in the gently wind-wafted drapes and fell upon the foot of the bed where it turned satiny saffron covers ablaze, catching the weave and warp of the colour and turning it into naked flame. Sita had been embarrassed by the first sight of the saffron bedcovers—the colour used for newlyweds, because it indicated passion and coital energies. She had been clad for so long in the deep red ochre of the spiritual warrior that the satiny saffron had seemed to blaze like a forest fire, searing her senses. She glanced down now, attracted by the warmth of the sunlight on the naked sole of her upraised foot, and saw the saffron spread glow, then turn to fire again. The fire caught and took hold of her and threatened to consume her.

Rama’s grip upon her neck suddenly changed. From a carelessly affectionate caress it became a pressing vice. She saw his eyes narrow, sensed his body tighten. And that familiar look came upon him, like the visor of a war-helm lowered across his features, masking him with the formidable appearance of a warrior, a kshatriya, a yoddha…nay, a mahayoddha.

“Rama.”

The voice was low yet penetrating. It carried as gently as the morning wind wafting slowly from the open verandah. She could not see its owner, but guessed he was perched just above the balcony, on the ledge that served as a rain-ward, perhaps gripping one of the arching apsaras. But even before the voice spoke, the person it addressed had already left her side. Detaching himself from her, Rama had rolled backwards, off the edge of the bed, snatching up the sword deftly as he went, and swept out of the room as lithely as a gust of wind. She lowered her hand, staring briefly at her empty palm—empty too long, much too long—and released a silent shuddering sigh.

There was a brief moment of silence as the caller waited for a response. Then Rama appeared on the verandah, leaned out and tapped his sword on the overhanging ledge. The sound of metal tapping stone reached her. “Come down, my friend. Join us.”

“It’s your favourite vanar,” Rama said as he re-entered the room, the sword lowered.

A furry body lowered itself into view, bare feet thumping onto the floor of the verandah. Hanuman parted the drapes and entered, head bent over and eyes averted sheepishly.

“Apologies for disturbing my lord and lady in their private sanctum,” he said in his gruff vanar voice.

Sita smiled. “You need not apologize, faithful one. Our home is yours to visit anytime you please.”

She rose from the bed and stood, gesturing to a cushioned couch across the chamber. “Please, be seated. I will send for some refreshments.”

She reached for the silken rope that hung beside the bed, intending to tug upon it to ring the brass bell that would summon her serving girls.

“No.” Hanuman’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Please. Do not.”

Rama and she both glanced up at the tone.

The vanar shook his head. “I beg your pardon once again. I would not come here thus unannounced and invade your privacy if it was not urgent. I come only because there is a visitor. Someone comes to Ayodhya. And I thought Rama should know of it before the man arrives within the city. In case…”

He glanced at Rama, whose face was once again shielded, she saw, by that war-mask. His warrior face. He was listening intently as Hanuman completed his message: