RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (46 page)

TEN

They found a shady spot to sit in beside the lotus pool. Kraunchyas stalked the far end of the pool, standing on one leg. Swans swam proudly in the still clear water, and below the calm surface Shatrugan glimpsed golden fish drawing lazy circles, their tails flashing as they caught the beam of sunlight falling on the water. A symphony of birdsong rose incessantly from all around the arbor and the scent of freshly blossoming marigolds came to him on a gentle wisp of wind. He sat between his mothers and wondered what would happen if he remained here all day, just sitting quietly between them, perhaps laying his head on one of their laps, sleeping away the quiet afternoon. The travails of the world seemed distant and remote here. The ascendancy politics of Mathura. The constant bickering and squabbling over river rights. The tribal feuds. The grama clashes. The daily sabha sessions where the complaints and issues raised always seemed too many for any single day, and had to be carried over to the next day, and the next, until people began complaining that they had been here for so many days, and others countered they had waited weeks, and some argued they had camped outside the city for months, and even after the bickering and hearing of both sides, and the endless arguments and counter-arguments, when he finally pronounced the final arbitration, invariably one side stalked off in a barely suppressed rage while even the winning side seemed oddly disgruntled and ingracious. The troubles of his wife with the other wives he had been required to take in order to entrench himself more staunchly into Yadava politics. The dandas that he had meted out in sabha and therefore was required by dharama to witness being executed: nothing like a few whippings, dismemberments and executions to make one’s day. 

How good it would be to simply doze here in this idyllic arbor, where all those problems and burdens of kingship might as well not exist. To regress to the boy he had once been, the son, the brother, the child. 

A kraunchya bird immersed its head with sudden force. Its dripping beak emerged with a thrashing fish scissored neatly. The other kraunchyas raised their wings, put their tucked feet down and raised their own beaks, calling out raucously. The bird with the fish pointed its long beak at the sky, opened the long tongs, jerked its head up once sharply, tossing the fish up, then caught it in mid air and swallowed it neatly. The fish thrashed once in a last act of desperate futility, its silver scales glittering gaudily in the sunlight, then was imbedded in the kraunchya’s long throat. 

He came out of his reverie to find his birth mother looking at him with that sad sure expression that he knew so well. 

“Is it the raiders?” she asked quietly. 

She was referring to the cattle and horse thieves that had been plaguing the border gramas the past season. Sharugan had learned at the very outset that the thieves were renegades and outlaws from the Andhaka tribes who resented the sharing of river rights with the Suras; they took the stolen heads upcountry and sold them to unscrupulous traders who then cleverly sold them in other neighbouring kingdoms, many turning up in Ayodhyan markets, their brands marking their origin quite clearly. Despite his efforts, he had been unable to procure the cooperation of the Ayodhyan authorities in ending the trade and resale of these stolen beasts. All Ayodhya had to do was issue a proclamation prohibiting any trade or sale of beasts marked with Sura brands. With their most lucrative market gone, the thieves would soon find the effort of evading Shatrugan’s diligent marshals and the risk of transporting the animals to other more remote points of sale uneconomical, guaranteeing a natural end to the thievery. But despite three visits, Shatrugan had been unable to get the sabha here to reach a decision. True, the tangled web of Arya politics complicated the matter, especially since Ayodhya could not be seen favouring Mathura merely because it was ruled by a son of Ayodhya and a brother of Rama: that might cause further resentment among the Andhakas who had been spoiling for a war ever since Shatrugan had brokered the recent hard-won truce between the two major Yadava tribes over the long-standing issue of river rights. War always had more supporters and vested interests than peace. There was no profit in peace. The very essence of trade was exploitation, whether fair or excessive, and war ensured the highest exploitative profits possible. It took every ounce of his strength and will to maintain the truce, making kingship a task so onerous that he rarely had time to himself. 

He shook his head. “It’s everything,” he said. “This.” Again the all-encompassing gesture. Except that this time he meant Ayodhya in its current state. Not the idyllic Ayodhya of his childhood but the fortress-city-state of today, perpetually in a state of war-preparedness, every decision governed by military interests and strategy. And military interests were not always human interests; in fact, they rarely were. 

Sumitra sighed and looked down at her open hands resting upon her lap. Her silks rustled, her jewellery tinkled lightly, counterpointing the chirrupping of a pair of songbirds on the tree immediately above the marbled nook on which the three of them were esconced. Like her sister queen Kausalya, she had always chosen to adorn herself as simply and elegantly as possible, ignoring the customary Arya excesses designed to draw envy and admiration from the masses. He admired that in her and in Kausalya-maa. They were women with their own minds, the kind of women who had built Aryavarta into the great civilization it was today. Women such as they had founded the Bharata nation and nursed it through a thousand generations, until it had spread and flourished throughout the known world. The days of the matriarchs had long passed and for one reason or another, men were now as likely to rule and dominate the grama as women – perhaps more likely – but in women such as Kausalya and Sumitra, that ancient strength of character and will could still be seen. Women such as they were the pillars upon which all Arya civilization stood today. And to see Kausalya-maa, First Queen and Queen Mother, and his own maatr, so close in friendship and companionship with his womb-mother Sumitra, was heart-warming to him. Sumitra truly lived upto her name which literally meant ‘good friend’ in highspeech. Aryavarta in general and Ayodhya in particular had far greater need of women such as these two than of warrior-queens like Kaikeyi, he thought not without a trace of bitterness. Even though as a kshatriya, it was his dharma to accept the need for violent action and the consequences of that action, as he grew older there were times he questioned whether violence was the only means a kshatriya should use to achieve his goals and fulfill his dharma. In his experience, violent action often worsened the situation rather than resolved it. And even when it did resolve certain situations, the solution was ephemeral, while the deep wounds and emotional scars of that violence malingered for much, much longer.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Ayodhya is not what it once was. Nor is Rama.” As she spoke the latter statement, she sought out Kausalya. “Excuse me, Kausalya.”

The First Queen nodded, her proud aquiline profile hardened by time, the once glossy long hair peppered with streaks of silver, the grooves bracketing her mouth deepened by decades of sharing that beautiful smile. 

“You are as much his mother as I, Sumitra,” she said, her voice throatier than Shatrugan remembered it. He recalled her mentioning a persistent cough. Possibly that had hoarsened her speech. “And what you speak is true. Whether Rama has changed Ayodhya or Ayodhya has changed Rama, even I cannot say. What is indisputable is that they have both changed and,” she sighed softly, lowering her eyes, “all change is not for the better.”

Shatrugan hesitated before speaking. He was unaccustomed to this kind of candid conversation with Kausalya maa. For one thing, the past years had altered his own perception of himself considerably. From a younger prince – the youngest, if only by mere moments – he was now a king in his own right. That demanded an alteration of both self-perception and outward bearing. Yet he felt that if there were two persons he could trust to weigh his words fairly and advise him wisely, he could find no better than his two maatrey. 

“Is the rumour true then?” he asked them, careful to keep his voice low, too low for even the kraunchyas fighting over fish in the pool to hear, not because he thought they might be spied upon – no spasas could find ingress into this innermost sanctum of the Kosala nation’s capital – but because he felt saddened that he had to pose such a query to his mothers rather than to his bhraatr in order to be certain of an honest and direct response. “Is Ayodhya preparing to go to war with its neighbours?”

Both queens were silent for a moment. A strange lull fell over the garden as if even the fauna paused in their singing and squabbling and daily business of living for a moment in order to hear their answer. 

Finally, Sumitra raised her eyes to Kausalya, communicating some wordless request. 

Kausalya drew in a deep breath, let it out, and said matter of factly: 

“Not just its neighbours. Ayodhya is preparing to go to war with the entire world.”

ELEVEN

Bharat slid off his horse, tossing the reins to one of several stable boys who had come running up eagerly. They fought briefly over the right to groom the steed of Ayodhya’s eldest Prince and the winner triumphantly led the tired mount away, snorting and steaming faintly in the cool autumn air. Bharat stood for a moment, enjoying the sensation of being on solid ground and instinctively slapped down his garments to rid himself of some of the dust of the road that had accumulated over the long ride. As he was turning, he spied a trough nearby that looked as if it had just been mucked out and refilled and went over to it. The water felt deliciously cool and refreshing and the faint scent of horse it carried did not bother him in the least. He had drunk from pools that smelt worse than this trough, and he had no patience to go to a private chamber and wait for serving girls to bring him the scented jars of heated Sarayu water to bathe in. Bathing and washing were necessities and not the luxuries some men made them out to be, and Bharat was happy to get them out of the way so he could get on with the real business at hand. And the business at hand today was grave business indeed. 

He had just finished washing the grime from behind his neck when he saw a reflection appear in the water of the trough. Distorted and distended as it was by the lapping water and angle, he could tell at once that it was a man who carried himself in the familiar wide-stepping manner of a kshatriya. He kept his head down and eyes averted, pretending to finish up his toilet as he watched the figure approach, ready for any eventuality. After all, this was Ayodhya and he was a natural target. But rather than make any sudden attempts to attack, the man stopped short, put his hands on his hips, and chuckled softly. 

“Well, well, bhraatr, are the scented baths of the palace too good for you? Or have you decided to give up princehood and take up sarathi work now?”

Bharat smiled grimly as he turned to face the oncomer. “It’s kingship, in case you hadn’t heard, bhraatr mine. Ever since I managed to put down that pesky rebellion among the Gandharas, I’ve had my own kingdom. You may even have heard tell of it. The capital city is named Takshashila.”

Shatrugan pretended to make a face of mock disbelief. “What? That little arid patch in the Ghandara ranges? I thought it was named for your son, little Taksha!”

Bharat chuckled at Shatrugan’s disparagement. “It is, actually. Just as Puskalavati is named for my daughter little Pushkala. They’re just two cities in my kingdom, which comprises the entire Gandhara nation now that I’ve subdued the rebels.”

Shatrugan twisted his brows into a mock expression of amazement. “Impressive. Those Gandharas can be really tough to chase down and kill, especially with all those hilly ranges and caves to hide in. Why, they’re even said to be related to the Nagas, the snake-like Asuras, because of how quickly they vanish into the ground and take refuge in the tiniest crevices.”

Bharat nodded, clapping a hand on Shatrugan’s shoulder, and squeezing his brother’s deltoid muscle hard enough to draw an involuntary twitch of the lips. “That’s why I didn’t make the mistake of wasting years and men trying to hunt them down as greater generals before me have done in the past. I simply built the most beautiful city ever known to the region, filled it with the finest artists, musicians, dancers, performers, and personally made sure it flourished and grew more prosperous than any Gandhara nation ever before.”

Shatrugan put his own hand on Bharat’s shoulder, squeezing his deltoid muscle and drawing a similar involuntary grimace from his elder brother. “And as everyone knows, though the Gandharas are the fiercest hill-range warriors in the world, they are also great lovers of fine music, art, dancing, and cannot resist the lure of such things. So sooner or later they could not help but come to Takshashila to see if a firangee had indeed outdone them at their own artistic pursuits. And when they saw how magnificently you had built the city and how prosperous and artistically accomplished its denizens were, why, they all but threw down their weapons at your feet and asked to be allowed to serve you till the end of time!”

Bharat threw his head back and laughed, giving Shatrugan a brief but clear view of his pink uvula, quivering with his mirth. “Not quite so simply, bhraatr! Not quite so simply. There was much fighting, and several dozen battles to boot, some quite nasty and ugly.” He shook his head, sighing. “Those hilly bastards can be tougher and sneakier than snakes, as you rightly said. And with their long beards and deftness with blades, and vajra-like fleetness with unsaddled horse cavalry, they harried my troops to an inch of extinction. But your information is right in one respect. It was through my patronage of their own arts and culture that I eventually won them over. The fact that your own nephew and neice – and your sister in law and cousin Mandavi – undertook to learn their arts from the finest gurus of the Gandhara school of music and dance and grew to become expert practitioners of the same, impressed them no small whit. Yes, I must admit that in the end, they turned out to be as passionate as friends and allies as they can be enemies and rivals.”

Both brothers looked at one another with enduring fondness. It had been a long time since they had met casually thus with no pressing political or military issue to deal with, and it was with brotherly curiosity and interest that each examined the other from head to toe, noting all changes that age and hard living and warring had wrought in the intervening time. And once the initial gruff banter and masculine 

Shatrugan cleared his throat at last. “So thanks to your self-aggrandizing exaggerations and fanciful account, I deduce that my bhraatrjaya Mandavi – who also happens to be my cousin on account of her being my wife’s sister – my niece Pushkala and nephew Taksha are all doing well. And how are you, bhraatr dear? Apart from having put on a little weight and let yourself go to seed, I mean?”

Bharat ignored the patently absurd remarks at the end: while it was true he had filled out a little over the years, coming to resemble their late father Dasaratha in startling manner, he was by no means over-weight, nor could his muscled bulk be said to justify the description ‘gone to seed’. He replied amicably and with evident emotion: “First tell me, how is my bhraatrjaaya and cousin Shruta Kirti and your sons Subahu and Shrutasena?”

Shatrugan inclined his head in a half-nod. “They are well. Mathura has been good to all of us. It is home now, I suppose. Although she never lets a moon-phase pass or a festival go by without berating me for keeping her apart from her precious sisters! As if we men deliberately create wars and political upheaval just to be able to avoid family gatherings!”

Bharat laughed. “Well, I don’t know about you, bhraatr. But I’m not past drumming up a skirmish or two, or even a brief war, just to avoid having to sit through a week of festivities and rituals. The moment those blessed brahmins begin to chant their mantras—”

“—I feel like running miles away, and continuing to run until I reach the ends of the Earth!” Shatrugan finished. It was an oft-repeated refrain among kshatriyas in general and they had repeated it often during their childhood years. It was a good-natured way of grumbling about the intense patience and serious aspect required by temperamentally restless action-oriented kshatriyas during the seemingly endless yagnas and brahmanical rituals. 

They laughed together. And with that laugh, the years apart were gone, snapped off by the wind, as if they had never been apart a day, or an hour, let alone three whole years.  

Later, over drink and refreshment, Shatrugan told Bharat of the long talk he had had with their mothers in the royal garden. Even though they were never sodara, children of the same womb, it was Bharat and Shatrugan who had formed the closest bond during the early years, just as Rama and Shatrugan’s twin Lakshman had formed an equally firm bond in the same period. Just as Rama’s and Lakshman’s bond had deepened during the fourteen long years of exile, and the past ten years since their return to Ayodhya, so also Bharat and Shatrugan’s fourteen years together in Ayodhya, battling the political and emotional consequences of Rama’s exile and Bharat’s mother Kaikeyi’s perceived betrayal, had brought them closer together than ever before. The fact that the past ten years had seen them spend more time apart than together, as well as the burdens of kingship and family responsibilities, made no difference. Their kinship was stronger than time could bend or other relationships alter. They were brothers in soul.