RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (48 page)

FOURTEEN

Old Somasra watched as the young soldier leaned over the top of the first wall, peering down its length. “I see it, Soma, sir, I see it right there!” 

Somasra resisted the urge to knock his lance against the youngun’s backside. Had there not been sharp-toothed things swimming about in that moat down there, he’d have knocked the fellow over without a second thought. He was sick and tired of these greenhorns they sent him these days, blustering young fools who couldn’t throw a spear twenty yards and hit a whole wagon. In his youth, duty at the first gatewatch had been a posting of immeasurable pride. A young soldier could have his pleasure of any number of women over the first several weeks just on the back of that simple statement: “I’m first-gate-watch.” 

He had been the youngest ever to pass the rigorous tests they set back then and his entire akshohini had been damn proud of the fact. “One of our’s!” He sighed and shook his head in disgust as the young soldier continued to lean dangerously over the wall. Sure. I was the youngest then and now I’m the oldest gatewatch still on active duty. So what does it mean? Have I gotten too old for the job? Or has Ayodhya changed from under me? Probably a bit of both. 

Either way, it stank like the moat in the days before refilling time – when the mulch and dead carcasses and other rotting stuff grew too dank and noxious, and the dam-gates connecting the moats to a small diversion of the Sarayu had to be knocked open to let the water be refreshed, the mesh-screens ensuring that while fresh water came in and filthy water went out, the denizens themselves remained in their watery enclosure as their predecessors had for the past centuries since Ayodhya had been built. And later, hauling up those mesh screens when they grew too clogged with gunk, and replacing them with fresh ones? Now that had been a task in itself. He had helped out a few times, because back in those days, everyone did everything, not like it was today with even hairless younguns dodging work saying, “It’s not my varna,” or “Below my varna to do that”. Besides, he had wanted to see what it was like. The way those jaws and slick snouts emerged and snapped and thrashed and rolled madly in the water the moment human hands or feet came remotely within chomping range…it churned his stomach even now to think of it. Especially since he had seen what those gnashing jaws and razor teeth could do to a living creature – on more occasions than he cared to count in fact, Shiva take his blessed soul. 

“I got it, Soma! I got it!” cried the youngun now, leaning so far over the top of the wall, that his lower garment was pulled up high above his thighs, exposing his fuzzy rear end. 

Somasra cursed, reached out with one hairy knuckled fist, grabbed hold of the young soldiers langot by its waist knot, yanked on it hard to get a grip – the youngun yelped once as his crown jewels were squished more than a little – and hauled the fellow back and down, thumping him on the hardwood platform again. He turned around, the errant pennant that had fallen off and got stuck a yard down on a convenient splinter clutched in his hand, face red with effort. “What you do that for?”

Without a word, Somasra snatched the nearest mashaal off its iron sconce, leaned over the wall and pointed down. The youngun’s curiosity made him look over once again, and Somasra held the torch low enough that they could both see the dimpling dark surface of the moat below. Somasra hawked and spat a gob. The instant it splotched into the water, a dozen twisting writhing shapes thrashed and fought and lunged. Finding nothing for their efforts, yet still able to smell human product in the water, they fought one another, gharial versus shark versus crocodile versus piranha versus watersnake versus…well, versus whatever else was down there. He drew back the arm with the mashaal, plunging the moat below into the shadowy darkness again, fitted the torch back into its sconce and turned to see the young fellow standing stupefied, eyes round with shock. 

“Holy Shiva,” the man said slowly. “If I’d fallen over into that…”

Somasra grunted. “…you’d have saved the moat-keepers having to drop tomorrow morning’s load of meat, is all. Mayhaps not even that.” He pinched the young man’s bicep, barely as thick as Somasra’s wrist. “Mayhaps just a treat for our fellows below.”

“Fellows?”

“Ayuh. They’s gatewatchers same as we are. More effective even. Intruders might get past us somehow. But them?” Somasra chuckled and shook his head. “How would anyone even know for sure what was down there and how many and how to fight them in the water? Even old Sankarshan, Captain of Moats, probably doesn’t know for sure anymore—them creatures have been breeding in the moats since before great Raghu was a little babe running around without a dhoti. Who knows what exactly is in there now and how many they might be?”

The young PF shuddered as he realized how close he had come to finding out exactly what and how many were down there in the moat. Hoarsely, he thanked Somasra for yanking him back in time and then went off to a corner where Somasra suspected he would soon hurl the contents of his stomach out. Young fools. Too stupid to avoid danger, too scared to deal with it after the fact. What they all need is a good knock on the head with the end of my lance. 

Not long after, he saw a light winking on the opposite side of the gate, went over to the lantern and turned it to face a different side, causing it to wink as well and show a different coloured side. The gatewatchers used that system of coloured faces on their wall-lanterns to indicate the changing of the watch. This change meant that it was the end of Somasra’s shift. The next shift guards were already here and he surrendered charge to them and climbed down the wooden ladder to street-level. A man was standing there, apparently waiting for him, clad in the officious purple, black and green outfit that indicated he was a PF-provost, one of those new-fangled titles that they handed out like roasted treats these days even to kshatriyas untested in combat. Munshis is all they really are, he thought, trying not to let his disgust show. Glorified clerks dressed up in soldier guises. 

“Gate-watch Somasra, father’s name Uchasravas?” asked the man. 

“First-gate-watch Somasra,” he answered. “Ayuh.”

The man blinked, not seeming to see the difference between a simple gate-watch guard and a first-gate-watch, the latter being the best of the best, one of a very select few chosen and entrusted with the vital task of manning the very first gate, the first boundary of defense of the entire city. Another young fool who doesn’t know his itihasa or sanskriti, Somasra thought. They’re growing on trees like rotten fruit these days. 

“Somasra Uchasravas, you are commended for your service. Ayodhya thanks you. You may now enjoy the fruits of your long and honourable service. You are hereby retired from active duty. Congratulations.”

And the man turned to go. Done. Finished. Just like that. 

Somasra’s hand shot out and grasped hold of the man’s shoulder, pinning him. “Hold your rabid horses in check, youngun,” Somasra said, more than a little angry. “What are you saying here?”

The man glanced at him curiously, and a bit nervously, probably feeling the strength of the hand on his shoulder. “You are relieved from your duty. Retired. You don’t need to show up for work here at the gate anymore.”

Somasra stared at him so intently and silently, the man actually writhed, trying to wriggle out from the stone-hard grip. Finally, Somasra relented and released him. The man scuttled away nervously, glancing back once before scurrying up the raj-marg the way he had come—back to the governance quadrant. 

Somasra looked around, at the towering structure of the first gate of Ayodhya, pride of the Arya world, looking quite proud and magnificent in the light of the mashaals at dusk. Ayodhya the Unconquerable. A large part of that legendary reputation was because of the efficiency with which these seven gates were manned and monitored. And he, Somasra, the oldest surviving first-gate-watch still on duty, was now informed that his service to the state was over and done with. Thank you. Congratulations. Commendations. As easily as that, he had been cast off like an old coat. 

So that was it? The end? Of his career? And his career was his life. For he had lost his wife and son in the Last Asura Wars, in a particularly brutal skirmish in a hamlet not far from here, on the North bank of the Sarayu, back when asuras had prowled this land like beetles in a dank dungeon. Pisacas had done it, and had gotten away clean with it too. By the time Somasra had arrived, nothing but their ravaged barely recognizable carcasses remained. He had never remarried again, never took children. The first-gate-watch had been his pride and his life. Doing his bit to ensure that his fellow Ayodhyans never fell prey to the fate that befell his own loved ones. That task had given him succour and strength for forty two years, not counting the twenty four years before that when he had been in active military service, a total of 76 years out of his 91 years upon this earth. What was he to do now? Take up Vanaprasthashrama? Kshatriyas rarely lived long enough to even consider the second ashrama, let alone the third. He was old enough to take up Sanyasashrama directly now, yet he didn’t know the first thing about spirituality and meditation. He had spent his life serving with strength and the use of weapons and force of mind was all he knew. 

Slowly, he began the walk back to his quarters in the military quadrant. Probably he would now have to vacate that tiny room as well, with whatever meagre possessions he owned, to make way for the young and the new. He watched a quad-quad of new recruits in their spiffy new PF uniforms march past in perfect step. None of them were more than a quarter of his age, none had probably seen combat in their lives or known anyone who had seen combat. They spent their days drilling and marching to perfection, but were they good for much more besides that? It bothered him to know that they were now charged with the defense of his homeland. 

What does it matter either way, Somasra? Your time is done now. You are an old bull being put out to pasture. Go gracefully and go with strength. The old must pass to make way for the new. This too is your dharma.

He straightened his shoulders and walked the raj-marg, going the opposite way to the lines of marching recruits. One last march. A solitary figure, gnarled and white-haired and grizzled with the ravages of age and old wounds and shattered bones and long hard living. Yet he cut a no less impressive figure than the dozens of straight young bodies marching the other way. As they passed each other, the old man just walking home and the young men marching to show off their youth and their strength, it was hard to say who walked the more impressive walk. A few of them who knew who he was—a living legend among gate-watchers—muttered to each other and glanced back as he passed by. Somasra neither returned their glances nor looked back. He walked on and passed into the annals of obscurity. 

FIFTEEN

Bharat sprang to his feet. 

His sword was in his hands, and he was ready to fight the instant the intruders entered his chambers. But as they swarmed the night-darkened chamber with silent deadly efficiency, surrounding him on all sides in less time than it took him to alter his position from a front-pointing to a raised hacking posture, he realized he had no desire to fight these warriors. He lowered his sword slowly, reluctantly, and watched as they crouched, perched, squatted, crept and otherwise filled his chamber with such a mass of furry simian force that any attempt to fight would have resulted in the tastefully white chamber being redecorated in lifeblood crimson. Several of them swarmed up the twin pillars that flanked his bed, squatting comfortably, eyes gleaming in that reflective way that animal eyes gleamed in darkness. There was little moonlight from the verandah and open windows but it was enough for him to see that none of the vanars were armed nor seemed to be offering any threat. They merely seemed to be observing him, holding him hostage, and waiting. 

He sheathed the sword, sat on the edge of his own bed, and waited with them. The chamber was rank with their odour. To Bharat, used to travelling on long campaigns with horses and dogs and fellow humans who seldom had opportunity to bathe, it was not an entirely unpleasant odour. He could grow accustomed to it. 

A short while later, a familiar figure entered the chamber, walking taller and straighter than any other vanar, his leonine head shot through with much more grey than Bharat recalled at their last meeting. God, but he cut a proud figure even at his age, which in vanar years Bharat assumed would be the equivalent of over 60 mortal years. Few human kshatriyas could look so fit and strong at 60. The strength of his belief in Rama makes it possible, just as it makes all his extraordinary powers possible. 

Hanuman bowed, joining his palms with his customary sincerity. “Forgive the sudden intrusion, Lord Bharata, but I felt it more becoming your stature than the manner in which Pradhan Mantri Jabali desired to have you apprehended.” He indicated the chamber full of vanars. “As you can see, none of my warriors has made any attempt to threaten or harm you, and that will not change so long as you heed my words and accompany me graciously.”

Without replying, Bharat held up his sheathed sword on both his open palms, showing that he had no intention of using it. Hanuman nodded. Bharat kissed the sword, placed it lovingly on the bed, and rose to his feet. “Lead the way.”

The vanars parted like water before a ship’s prow. 

Shatrugan joined them in the corridor outside the sabha hall, accompanied by his own contingent of vanars, none of whose furry heads came to higher than his chest. He seemed in good spirits as if being rousted out of bed in his private chambers by half a hundred vanars was something that happened every second night. “Bhraatr,” he said by way of greeting, a faint tone of irony in his tone. 

The palace was quiet and still at this late hour. Yet in the distance, Bharat caught the sounds of shouted commands, marching feet, hooves and wheels. Something was afoot in Ayodhya. Something very substantial. Yet he felt a sense of disapproval at any military exercise or campaign being conducted in these hours. The kshatriya code existed for a reason: warriors deserved their rest and leisure hours. To mobilize troops in the middle of the night could only lead to tired soldiers come daylight. What could be so urgent that it required mobilization by night? What national emergency could not wait until dawn at least, which was after all only a few short hours away, less than half a watch.

Their silent progress through the winding corridors led down two flights of marbled stairs and past the Hall of Ancestors. Bharat saw the vanars peep curiously into the great museum-like chamber where gentle lighting remained lit at all hours, to honour the illustrious Suryavanshi Ikshwaku forebears. It was testimony to their discipline that none lagged behind or dropped back to take a quick tour, even though their intense fascination was palpable. These artifacts must be unseen in their cities. He had never had the pleasure of visiting Kiskindha, the capital of the vanar nation deep in the redmist mountain ranges beyond the North-Easternmost boundaries of the Aryavarta empire, but he had heard enough accounts of its wonders to know that stone and canvas were not the usual media used by vanar to commemmorate their famous dead. They believed in honouring their ancestors through their deeds rather than through carved marble busts and painted art. The artistic wonders that greeted them at every turn were unlike anything they had seen or heard of in their rustic vanar lives. 

They reached their destination, the rajya sabha hall, and the contingent came to a halt. 

Hanuman stopped before the closed sabha doors. Rama was evidently inside and some manner of official meeting was clearly in session, as was obvious from the presence of the guards diligently guarding the corridors and doorway. 

Bharat half-expected to see Lakshman there as well, in his usual place. But his brother was conspicuous by his absence from his familiar spot. The sentries opened the doors to Hanuman who went inside the sabha hall and returned moments later, indicating that they should follow him inside. 

The vanars remained outside, the vaulting doors groaning shut behind Bharat and Shatrugan. Bharat glanced around as they followed Hanuman up the long central walkway between the endless rows of pillars. The hall was almost empty, and lay mostly in darkness. The only people present were gathered around the throne dais, where a pair of mashaals crackled quietly, illuminating the dozen odd faces that Bharat recognized easily as the War Council. The only ministers present were Pradhan Mantri Jabali and Mantri Ashok. Another face he recognized unhappily was that of Bhadra, scion of a noble family of Ayodhya and a friend and sporting rival to Rama as a boy. He had himself seen Bhadra’s friendship to Rama grow considerably in the past ten years and had heard growing rumours of just how much power and influence that friendship had earned Bhadra. He was also the Chancellor of the War Council and the Governer of the city now, Bharat had heard. His name had been one among a few that had cropped up several times during his talk with Shatrugan and Bejoo last evening. 

Bhadra must have sensed Bharat’s intense scrutiny because he looked up just then, canny knowing blue eyes flashing straight to Bharat. His handsome fair features betrayed no trace of his feelings as he returned Bharat’s gaze with a  cool appraise of his own. If anything, he looked a capable, upstanding man and an able administrator. Then why do I feel that he has grown too close to Rama too soon? 

Hanuman announced them. “Samrat Rama Chandra, as you instructed, I have chaperoned Mathura-naresh Raja Shatrugan and Gandahar-naresh Raja Bharat to your presence.”

Rama glanced at Bharat and Shatrugan before replying. “Yes, thank you, Anjaneya. That will be all.”

Hanuman remained standing. 

Rama looked at the vanar. “You may leave now, Maruti. Your chore is done.”

Hanuman cleared his throat gruffly in the vanar manner, a cross between a nervous cough and a plaintive sound. “I beg your pardon, sire. But I also wished to inform you that the troops you requested have arrived. I received word when I was on my way to fulfill this errand.”

Rama nodded, looking pleased. “That is excellent. Have they entered the city?”

Hanuman shook his head once. “I scented that would be unadvisable if not difficult, given their numbers, sire. But they await your inspection within sight of the city. If you will trouble yourself to ride out with me just a yojana or two…”

Rama waved a hand dismissively. “Out of the question. We are about to sit in council now. I can’t leave here.”

Hanuman bowed his snout humbly. “As you say, sire.”

Rama frowned, crooking a finger. “However, I can use the Seer’s Eye to look over them from afar. Yes, I believe I shall do just that. Arrange for them to be in view of the tower and I shall be able to look over them briefly. How soon do you think you can arrange them?”

Hanuman scratched the sparse silvering fur on the back of his head, thinking. The ability to tell time, especially in the tiny increments mortals divided it into, was a feat that generally defeated the vanar intellect. But in this, as in so many other things, Hanuman was an exception to his race. “Within the hour, sire. I shall fly out myself and organize them.”

Rama nodded. “Good. Do that then. Go now. Call me only when they are ready to be viewed.”

Hanuman left the chamber—but instead of going back towards the doorway, he went the other way, towards the window. Bharat watched as the vanar moved easily from a brisk walk to a quick sprint to build up momentum, then launched himself out the window into the black of night. One last glimpse of his tail flicking as his powerful legs launched him skywards, then he was gone. 

Bharat turned his attention back to Rama. 

He was a little discomfited by the intensity of Rama’s gaze. Not a gaze, it was more a glare. 

“Gandahar-naresh Bharat,” Rama said with stiff formality, “it appears you have committed a grave transgression against Ayodhya. I have summoned you and Mathura-naresh Shatrugan here in order to give you an opportunity to defend yourselves before I pronounce sentence on you and impose the applicable danda for your violation of our laws.”