RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (57 page)

She wished Nakhudi and the twins were with her right now, or at the very least, were in some place far away, secure and isolated. The canyon. She must get them to the canyon. That was a defensible position. There, they could hold off even a small army if need be, or at least defend themselves until they ran out of arrows and replenishment. 

But they were not here, and she was. And she was the only person in the ashram capable of fighting back against these intruders, whomever they might be. Those were her daily companions dying out there, and she could not simply run away and leave them to their fate. Moreover, there was Maharishi Valmiki himself. After all he had done for her and the boys, she could hardly abandon him to such a fate. The boys were wherever they were, and until she knew where, it made most sense for her to go out there and fight. If the odds were overwhelming—which seemed likely—then she would extricate herself and escape into the forest. The boys and Nakhudi were smart enough to know something was wrong and would not simply blunder into the ashram. She could count on them joining her eventually at the canyon, their agreed-upon refuge in the event of such a calamity. 

Her mind made up, she took a deep breath, then slipped around the side of the hut and went running down the path to the main ashram grounds, bow-string pulled taut, first arrow notched and ready to loose. The row of sala trees blurred past and then she was out in the open and in the thick of the fray. 

SIX

Somasra found himself unable to control his anger as he raced along, following behind former Vajra Captain Bejoo and the ex-rani-rakshak Nakhudi. He had seen the bodies of the slaughtered villagers and was thoroughly disgusted. How could Ayodhyans have stooped to such a heinous deed? These people might not be Arya any more, if Arya meant one had to be literally pure and noble and superior in behavior, thought and deed, since they had committed crimes at some point and fallen from that status of nobility of character. But they had been punished for their crimes and had additionally chosen to take themselves into exile from Arya society, which was further punishment. From the looks of their humble habitation and their ascetic lifestyles, it was evident they had not prospered through ill-gotten gains nor continued upon the path of crime – which was more than could be said for many people who still remained within the auspices of so-called Arya society. 

And yet they had been slaughtered mercilessly by a heavily armed company of cavalry without warning or cause or even opportunity to arm and defend themselves. There were certain rules for combat among Aryas, and this not only violated that kshatriya code of conduct, it was an affront to any warrior. He had known that the murky politics of Ayodhya had taken a bad turn these past years—he had seen the steady decline himself among the PFs, the common soldiery and the city itself. But this was unacceptable. 

He was aware of the other men, all senior PFs recently retired from active duty, at the edges of his vision. He was proud to see that they were all able to keep pace with the much younger woman, as was the aging Captain Bejoo. Even though none of them had seen active combat for decades, there was enough activity on gatewatch—small skirmishes, sudden violent outbreaks, encounters with brash youngsters, minor riots, communal clashes—to have kept them all fighting fit. Besides, each and everyone of this handpicked band of white-haired retirees spent one full day each week at the training camp. He had even seen Captain Bejoo there, even though as a grama-rakshak now, he didn’t have to adhere to such high standards of fitness. The training camps were no mere formality. Run by veterans like himself and held to the same high standards as they had been since the time of Manu Lawmaker, they were a gruelling day’s routine of drills, exercises, mock combat, wargames and tactical briefings and discussions that kept the mind sharp and the body on the cutting edge of fitness. They might all be over 75 here in this band, in fact several were a decade older and at least two were in their 10th decade of life, but they were nonetheless able to hold their own. 

As he sprinted at a demanding but sustainable pace through the forest, negotiating the overhanging branches, mulch-carpetted and snake-holed ground, and bushes and stones and other flora expertly, he felt as if he was not retired but rejuvenated. This was why these men were so fit and strong even at their age: because they loved the demands and challenges of combat. It was when they were put out to pasture and told to go home and spend the rest of their days staring at sunsets and snowfall that they grew fat around the waist and the brain. Right now, he was confident that he and his band of octagenarians and nonagenarians could take on that company of cavalry and come out on top. They might not survive it—not all of them, for sure—but they would take as good as they got and still triumph. He was sure of it. He had seen the way the younger, new PF troops drilled and trained at the camps in the cantonment north of Ayodhya, and he and his mates would laugh at the absurdity of it. Then again, what could one expect of men and women who had never known first-hand the terrors of a Pisaca ambush or gone hand to hand with a Rakshasa, or faced a swarm of Nagas? Warfare today was only about mortals versus mortals, and after one had faced asuras, mortals just didn’t seem as dangerous. 

But these mortals made him angry. This was murder, nothing less. They had no right to come here to these people’s grama and slaughter them thusly. And if what he had heard Nakhudi say to Bejoo was right, and they were attacking an ashram now, then these mortal soldiers did not deserve to be called Aryas, let alone Ayodhyans. They were no less than rakshasas and deserved to be killed like rakshasas. 

He looked forward to coming face to face with them and showing them how real kshatriyas fought. 

***

Bejoo sensed the anger in Nakhudi. Twenty five years ago, when he had first met Nakhudi, he had been impressed by the young woman’s fierce dedication to her duty and her fearless fighting attitude. At the time, he had been in charge of the vajra force assigned by Maharaja Dasaratha himself to follow and protect Princes Rama Chandra and Lakshman on their journey to Bhayanak-van with Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. They had encountered Nakhudi and Princess Sita Janaki after the Bhayanak-van mission, while on their way to Mithila. Nakhudi and her mistress had disguised themselves as men at the time, to make it easier to move incognito across the land as well as deflect the excessive attention that a princess would naturally have drawn. 

He had been very impressed by Nakhudi’s fighting skills as well as her fierce loyalty to Sita, and when he had learned that the rani-rakshak was in fact a woman herself, he had been doubly impressed. Not because he had not expected a woman to fight that well or be that skillful: Arya society was a matriarchial society, and Bejoo had met and seen women kshatriyas who would put most men to shame in battle, and who chose to undertake the challenges of motherhood and family-raising just as efficaciously. No, he had been impressed because Nakhudi was impressive, just for who she was, and how she worked and the lengths she was willing to go to in order to fulfill her duties. He had felt more than a little attracted to her then. But he had been happily married and the question of betraying his wife, even for a brief encounter, had been untenable morally. 

Now, two and a half decades later, she was still impressive, and he found himself still admiring her fierce devotion to her mistress, her fearless decisiveness, and yes, he still desired her. He was not as young as he had been back then, but then again, neither was she now. The age difference of almost two decades between them hardly mattered. All that mattered was that he had finally found a woman he cared about, even though just days earlier he would have thought such a thing to be impossible, and whom he now believed he could come to love as deeply and strongly – if very differently – than he had loved his long-standing companion and belated wife. And he thought that she cared about him too, which mattered most of all.

He followed her through the woods, admiring the ease with which she negotiated the treacherous obstacle course of the deep woods as if it were a city avenue. He admired also the way she displayed anger but kept it banked, using the energy from that anger instead to fuel her forward movement and pace, even after having just found her entire community slaughtered to the last woman, elder and child. He could hardly imagine what fortitude it took to overcome that shock, and the inevitable outrage and fury that must be bubbling up inside her as a result. Yet he could see no wavering of hand or eye, no clumsiness of footing or rashness of action. Her breathing remained even, if short, and her aspect contained and measured. It reminded him of the great commanders and leaders he had followed into battle in his younger days; Nakhudi was no less a leader of warriors than they had been. 

He smiled despite the circumstances, shaking his head once as he ran through the sun-dappled shadows, and thought that even if she did not consider herself ‘Arya’ and mayhap she might not be Arya in the strictest sense of the term, yet she was in fact the very epitome of the epithet. Pure of soul, noble of purpose, elevated in deed and thought. Yes, she was Arya to the core. 

He decided then that if they survived this harebrained adventure, unlikely as it was, he would ask her to marry him, and live the rest of his days with her by his side. If she would have him, of course, which was another question altogether. 

He heard the shouts and screams and metallic sounds of weapons a fraction of a moment before she stopped and raised her hand. Behind and around them the rest of the vajra stopped as well. He realized it was odd to call a band of old retired PFs on foot a ‘vajra’. How could this group of old fogeys possibly strike forays and retreat with the switftness of the mythical lightning bolts of Lord Indra? The very analogy was absurd. Yet, he would call it a vajra. For in their own way, in these circumstances and this environment and under this leadership, they would strike and retreat as swiftly as lightning. He would see to that. He had promised Nakhudi he would. 

And she had tried to smile coquettishly—which only made her expansive dark face look menacing—and said, “I know you will. That’s why I came to you.”

Now, she ducked down to a crouch and crept forward for the last hundred yards. He could see the smoke from the ashram cookfires curling above the rooftops up ahead, but due to the denseness of the woods, he did not see the ashram itself until they were barely twenty yards away. 

He frowned. 

The ravagers could hardly have stumbled across two such cleverly hidden settlements accidentally. They had good directions, or a guide. Which meant this entire sordid operation had been planned down to the last detail. 

That made him angrier. Bad enough that these vermin were slaughtering unarmed and innocent women, children and elders – and now brahmins as well. But it was infinitely worse to know that someone had plotted and planned these massacres and executed them with such ruthless cruelty. 

He put aside the romantic notions that had been filling his senses for the past few moments and focussed on the task at hand. The man in him yielded to the kshatriya in him and he pursed his lips grimly and passed the hilt of his blade across his unshaven stubble, producing a rasping sound that only he could hear and which helped him sink into the mental state required for complete concentration during a battle or fight. The scenes of violence and abuse unfolding before them needed no explanation or argument. It was quite obvious who were the aggressors and who were the victims and what needed to be done. 

“Attack at will,” Nakhudi said from ahead, her voice cold and deadly. 

He raised his hand and gave the signal to his vajra. 

Then he led them into battle, following after Nakhudi. 

***

Luv feared the worst. At the sound of the trumpet call, Kush and he had begun racing back to the ashram, followed closely by Sarama and her pack—and the bearkillers. He knew the bearkillers must have something to do with the alarm being raised but explanations could come later. All he cared about was getting back to the hermitage as fast as possible. Fortunately, they were only a few miles away. Even so, the race through the forest seemed to take forever and the thought of what might lie ahead were unbearable. His greatest anxiety was for Maatr. 

Prithvi-Maa, protect her.

But a part of him knew that his mother was no ordinary sadhini. Ever since his brother and he had been old enough to understand such things, she had explained to them, calmly and without transferring any sense of fear or emotion, that it was imperative that they maintain a certain discipline about some things, such as their daily weapons and physical training, and that they follow certain pre-arranged codes and signals in the event of a calamity. What form the calamity might take was never quite clear, but they had come to understand that it would most likely take the shape of a group of attackers and that Ayodhya had something to do with it. That was more than enough. So they drilled and trained and practised and prepared for the event of an unexpected attack by armed Ayodhyans. Today, that training was about to be tested, it seemed. 

Because Kush had been at the far side of the group, he was a fair ways behind. But the pockmarked-face woman named Ragini kept good pace with Luv as he ran. She even managed to speak though the last thing he wanted to do was talk. “This is what we came to warn you about—they had already slaughtered Nakhudi’s village and we tracked them moving towards Valmiki ashram. We hoped to reach you two and warn you before you blundered into the thick of it.”

Luv kept running, moving his arms and legs efficiently, breathing rhythmically, as he had learned to do. He did not bother to waste breath on a response.