RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (61 page)

She also thought that they were not likely to return. The losses they had suffered had been considerable, almost half of their total number. They could not have expected such heavy casualties on such a mission. It must have come as a great shock to those who survived and got away. They would likely not care to return to their employers, who might well get upset with them for having left any survivors, and might even demand that they return forthwith and complete their given task. Fulfil your dharma, kshatriya, as the phrase went. Which they would not want to do, when faced with such superior opposition. So they would probably just ride out and keep riding and enjoy their ill-gotten gains. She understood their type well enough to be certain that was what they would do. 

Which meant the ashram was safe enough. For now. 

But sooner or later, the people who had sent this attack force here would learn of their survival. And once they learned that some of them still lived, they would send more mercenaries. Again. And again. Until they accomplished their task. 

They must act before that happened. 

Her mind made up, she waited for a suitable break in the pravachan, then stood and waited until Maharishi Valmiki acknowledged her. 

He did so very soon. His drawn face and deeply set eyes reflected his own inner sorrow as he nodded, permitting her to speak. 

“Gurudev,” she said in a voice loud enough to be heard across the courtyard, yet sombrely enough to reflect the grim mood of the occasion, “A terrible thing has happened here today. Someone from Ayodhya has ordered our extermination.”

Valmiki sighed and looked down for a moment, as if she had said the very thing he had been dreading she would say. “It is a terrible thing indeed. Yet we cannot know who caused it or what their reasons were. Let us not make hasty assumptions.”

She shook her head, disagreeing gently but firmly. “Not assumptions, guruji. Conclusions. The evidence we have found points to only one source for this heinous assault. Ayodhya.”

There were murmers of agreement from both sides, as bearkillers and veterans agreed alike with her conclusion. Even the wan and pale ashramites listened with morbid interest. She saw her sons exchange a glance and saw that Nakhudi observed that glance with a peculiar expression and felt her heart ache with a familiar pain. And I even know his name but cannot speak it aloud, for he is the father of our children. 

“Even if we cannot name the ultimate perpetrator responsible, there is no doubt about Ayodhya’s involvement.” She held her hand down to Nakhudi who understood what she meant and passed up one of the purses to her. Sita held it up, removing a coin and holding it up so it caught the evening light and gleamed coldly, viciously. “This is the king’s seal. These coin purses were not given to ordinary men for any ordinary task. These were men personally hired and instructed by the king himself or someone close to him. Former Vajra Captain Bejoo can confirm this. He received similar purses from the late Maharaja Dasaratha during his reign and the present liege, King Rama Chandra.”

She held a hand out in Bejoo’s direction, the same hand that held the purse. The other hand had been reset by Nakhudi but still ached terribly and would be unusuable for a few days. Bejoo stood and looked around, nodding sadly, almost shamefully. 

“It is true. That is a maharaja’s purse, given only to those following his explicit orders on private missions. These men were working for none other than the king of Ayodhya.”

This provoked an outburst of murmers which Sita quelled with another gesture. 

“Given this evidence, I say we act at once and ensure that such an attack does not happen again.”

Many heads bobbed, nodding in agreement. But there was one whose opinion counted more than the others. She turned to look at Maharishi Valmiki, joining her hands together in supplication. It hurt to move the injured hand even by that much but she held the namaskaram out of respect for her guru and protector for all these years. 

“Gurudev,” she said. “We ask your aashirwaad to go forth and attempt to resolve this situation. Pray, grant us your sacred blessings that we may ensure the survival of the inhabitants of this ashram and the continuance of your great work here.”

Maharishi Valmiki looked at her with troubled dark eyes. His once-jet black beard sprouted several curls of white and his face was lined and drawn with the pain of the day’s events. 

“Lady Vedavati,” he said, “You feel this is our only recourse? We cannot simply put this incident behind us and continue with our lives as before?”

She shook her head slowly, using her good arm to point north, towards the northern clearing, where all the bodies lay awaiting their final unction. “Can we? Truly?”

He lowered his head, acknowledging the truth of what she said. Several heads bowed with his as well, sharing his sorrow. Sita felt his pain at seeing this day come to pass and resented the man who had brutalized the peaceful environment of the Maharishi’s ashram and brought things to such a pass. 

Yet she knew that they must act, if only to survive. And taking action meant doing whatever was necessary.  

What other choice do we have now? 

What choice has Rama left us? 

TEN

Shatrugan and Bharat rode silently at the head of the long column. Glancing back, it seemed as if the line went on forever, to the horizon and beyond, endlessly. And these are only our own forces. The vanar armies are on a separate route, moving across woodland and hinterland, eastwards. The thought of an army of this size—two armies, to be precise—was mind-numbing. This was no Ashwamedha yagna, it was a campaign of empirical conquest and expansion. And every maharaja, raja, clan chief, tribe chief and grama chief across Aryavarta would see it as such. 

He could not believe that such a day could come to pass when Ayodhya the great emblem of democracy and kingly virtue would send forth an army to conquer its own neighbours, allies and friends in this manner. There was nothing this yagna would achieve that could not be achieved simply by calling a Grand Council, a Maha-Sabha of all the leaders of all the forces that governed the diverse nations and communities of the sub-continent and outlands. 

Such a Maha-Sabha had been called before, by the great Manu Lawmaker, when he proposed an uniform code of kshatriya conduct and recommended a similar code be drawn up by the heads of each varna and adhered to throughout the civilized world. Many other great things had been proposed and ratified at that same Maha-sabha. The shelves in the King’s Library of Ayodhya were heavy with the scroll records of its achievements. Guru Vashishta had made them spend several dusty days studying the original scrolls themselves as young men, to see for themselves what their ancestors had wrought through diplomacy, wisdom and through Arya dharma—the noblest form of dharma possible. 

And today, what good were all the scrolls in that great library, all those annals, all those treaties and writs and declarations and codes and lawbooks? In one fell sweep, the war-hawks had driven Rama to build an army the likes of which had never even been imagined before and which was certainly not required, and his hawkish advisors and ministers had convinced him to send forth the army on this travesty of a ritual. There was no need for an Ashwamedha yagna. Ayodhya was already acknowledged as the supreme power in the Arya world. A king did not need a ceremony to remind people that he was still king. And even if such a ceremony was called for, it certainly did not require the sending forth of an armed force of this strength and magnitude to ensure that nobody disagreed with the king’s authority. Only a tyrant deployed such an iron hand. A great king needed only a firm voice to command obedience. 

Bharat knew Rama was a great king. Ram Rajya, his reign was rightly called. And he had done a great deal of good for the kingdom and the capital city. But at what cost? Dharma, his catchphrase, his unofficial slogan, his motto for all occasions, was all well and good. But this was not dharma, this was beyond dharma or anything akin to it. This was simply war-mongering. And he did not believe Rama was a war-monger. As Dasaratha’s son, as the heir to the sunwood throne, protector of the Arya world and inheritor of the burden of responsibility of caring for the welfare of the civilized world, he knew better. But those year in exile, the things he had undergone, the atrocities and wars and struggles, perhaps they had changed Rama more deeply than even he, Bharat, had suspected at first. 

Or perhaps it was the loss of Sita. 

Yes.

That was what his heart believed. The true cause at the centre of Rama’s change of personality and outlook. 

Banishing Sita had altered Rama forever. From within and without. He was no longer the man who had left for exile as a young married prince in love with his new bride, nor was he the man who had returned from that long and punishing exile, marked by the scars of a thousand violent encounters and a terrible war. This man was someone else. Someone Bharat did not entirely understand. All he knew was that the day Rama had banished Sita, he had begun to change. And today, this travesty that was being passed off as a yagna, this was only the culmination of that long process of change. 

The sound of a conch shell trumpet startled him out of his reverie. He looked up, trying to discern the source of the alarm. 

Shatrugan pointed up ahead, over the hill that obscured their view. “Up ahead from the front of the line. That sounds like…” He broke off, glancing at Bharat with a grim expression. “I hope it isn’t what I think it is.”

Bharat cursed softly under his breath. “Let’s go.”

They broke away from their line and rode along the shoulder of the raj-marg. The lines of foot-soldiers, marching six-abreast in full battle kit, blurred past as they broke into a full-out gallop. The conch shell alarm was taken up by their own trumpeteer, followed thereafter by the one at the head of the next column and so on down the line. With the sheer number of columns and regiments in the procession, he thought it would probably take an hour or more for the alarm to finally reach Rama himself, for based on the distance Shatrugan and he had come and their relative position to the royal regiment, Rama was probably only just departing the First Gate now, on the evening of the day the great yagna had begun. 

They crested the hill and saw that it was indeed what they had feared. From the ranks of cavalry riding at a brisk canter a yojana ahead—they could make this out from the shape and movement of the dust cloud raised by the horses—they estimated that the incident had occurred just west of the Videha border. Bharat felt a surge of alarm mixed with uncertain emotions. Surely Videhans were not involved! He couldn’t bear to even think of the possibility of going to war against his own in-laws! What would Mandvi think? And Taksha and Pushkala were in Mithila as well, alongwith their mother, for one of their grandfather’s frequent peace ceremonies. The thought of this mighty force going up against the voluntary reserve militia of Videha made his blood run cold. 

“Come on,” he said grimly, spurring his horse downhill. Shatrugan needed no urging; the same thoughts were surely passing through his mind as well. After all, they had the same in-laws. 

***

Lakshman pointed an accusing finger at the man at the head of the mercenary force. “What do you mean, someone took the horse? The only ones I see here are you fellows!”

The man stared arrogantly back at Lakshman. He and the sixty-odd soldiers behind him were all mounted on handsome horses, fully armoured and well-equipped. While Lakshman didn’t recognize him or any of the men he commanded, he recognized the equipment well enough. It was king’s issue, given out only to those on missions for the maharaja himself.
I mean missions for the
Samrat
,
he thought acidly. That and the fact that the man had known the proper Sanskrit codes that pronounced him as one of their own was scant reassurance to him. His gut told him something was wrong and he trusted his gut over any number of codes or authorizations. 

For one thing, he knew that these men had no business being here. Nobody was supposed to be ahead of the sacred stallion. Sumantra and he were the frontrunners, the only ones permitted to watch the animal from close quarters. Everyone else was expected to follow. 

Yet these men had appeared from nowhere, cutting across his and Sumantra’s path, almost startling the horses drawing the old prime minister’s chariot, and had just made the astonishing claim that the horse had been taken. 

How? When? 

Only moments before, Lakshman had been watching the rear end of the horse with his own eyes. Tail twitching rhythmically, the beast had been cantering leisurely along the wooded path, heading deeper into the woods and farther away from any recognized human settlement, which suited him perfectly. 

Then, suddenly something had startled the beast and he had seen it lurch, whinny in panic, then break into a gallop, racing off the path and into the woods. He had coaxed his horse to speed up and was about to follow the sacred stallion when suddenly, this band of armed horsemen had burst out of the woods, blocking his way effectively and shouting that the royal horse had been captured and a challenge issued. He had ordered them out of the way so he could follow the horse. He was certain that it could not possibly have been taken in the few moments since he had seen it bolt into the woods, and even if it had, how could these men have seen that happen, and ridden out to intercept him, all within a moment or two? It was impossible. Yet this man provided the pre-arranged code which identified him as one of the maharaja’s regiment, and insisted on this absurd claim. 

“We are the emperor’s men,” said the man leading the band. “It is our sworn duty to protect and serve our liege and his interests. We tell you, the horse has been taken and the challenge issued. Sound the alarm, ex-pradhan mantri. You know the protocol.”

Lakshman had glanced back at Sumantra. The old man’s bushy brows were knitted together suspiciously as he stared at the newcomer. 

“Do as you are told, oldun,” said the man harshly. “Or you will be reported to Lord Bhadra and Pradhan Mantri Jabali and dealt with severely!”

Sumantra’s eyes narrowed and he held the man’s gaze for a moment. “I will issue the alarm, not because I fear reprimand, but because you are right, it is the protocol.” To Lakshman he said in a kinder, almost apologetic tone. “If we lose sight of the stallion for even as long as this much time, it is our duty to sound the alarm and inform the king.”

“Emperor,” the horseman corrected harshly. 

Sumantra glared at him but said nothing. Instead, he picked up a red flag on a pole from the floor of the chariot, hefted it up as high as he could manage and waved it to and fro several times until it was seen by the next contingent behind them. The flagman of that contingent responded by waving a similar flag back at him, then turned and instructed the trumpeteer beside him on that chariot. The man immediately took up his conch shell trumpet and sounded the clear booming tones that carried across the landscape loudly enough to be heart miles behind. The instant his conch shell fell silent, the next one in the procession a mile or so behind them sounded, and in this manner the alarm was taken up and followed down the line, all the way back to Ayodhya where it would be heard finally by the king.
Sorry, emperor. 

Lakshman pushed his horse a yard forward, taking it almost snout to snout with the newcomer’s horse. “What name do you go by, soldier?” he asked roughly. 

“Why?” asked the man with a sly grin. “Do you wish to suggest me for a commendation?” 

Lakshman resisted the urge to draw his sword and slice the insolent grin off the man’s face. Instead, he said, “Your name.”

The man shrugged. “Aarohan.”

Lakshman stared at him a moment longer, then snapped his reins, urging his horse forward. He rode straight at the rest of the gang milling about, blocking his path. He saw their eyes flick to their leader, over his shoulder, as he approached. He also saw several of them reach for the hilts of their swords and other weapons, as if prepared to fight him rather than let him pass. 

He did not turn to look back but from the relaxing of their expressions and the fact that they moved their horses aside with brisk tugs of their reins, he understood that they had asked and received permission visually from their leader to let him pass. 

That galled him no end. What right did they have to decide whether or not he passed! Who were these men anyway and why were they permitted—or ordered, as they claimed—to ride ahead of the horse itself in violation of the ritual’s rules? And what was this game they were playing? Besides, he could see bloodstains, tears and rents, and other indications that this group had been in a fight very recently. What did that mean? The horse had been in his view until only moments ago. There had been nobody to fight. So whom had these men been fighting and where and why? 

He had no answers to these questions, and it was possible they did not matter. His only concern right now was the horse and what had happened to it. That was his sole responsibility. He would never have lost sight of it had these buffoons not come riding out and blocked his path as they had done—quite deliberately, he knew, although he also knew that it would not sound logical were he to explain the same to Rama or to anyone else, because they would in turn claim that they had only been riding to warn him. 

But he knew damn well the horse had not been taken or challenged until they had appeared. 

And he would prove that in another moment or two, once he followed its trail and found it. 

He rode past the last of the men, clearly nursing a broken or badly injured arm in a makeshift sling, and then went past them and into the forest, praying he could pick up the trail of the horse and locate it before it grew too dark to read signs. He didn’t think it would be possible. Already, the sun was low in the western sky and long shadows were drawing across the forest. And while the men might be louts and arrogant asses, he did not think they were lying altogether. Someone must have taken the horse, even if that someone turned out to be one of Arohan’s own men or associates. 

The question was why. 

He intended to find that out. 

***

Shatrugan exclaimed in a low voice. Bharat and he were galloping down the raj-marg, just passing the head of the first column. The officers saluted both of them as they rode past. Bharat didn’t waste time saluting or slowing. He had seen the same thing Shatrugan had and didn’t like the looks of it. 

They were still a good four or five hundred yards from the frontrunner’s chariot. He knew that was manned by the former pradhan mantri Sumantra, with Lakshman riding alongside on point to keep a watch for any challengers or threats to the sacred horse. That was the custom. Strictly speaking, the king or chieftain for whose good fortunes the yagna was being performed usually rode the chariot, with the queen’s foremost champion riding alongside as protection. But since Rama was now an Emperor and presumably too important to be riding a bumpy old single chariot by himself, he had delegated the task to Sumantra. Although why an ex-prime minister should be handling the chore rather than the present incumbent prime minister, Jabali, who at least filled an official capacity in the government of the nation, Bharat could not fathom. Like most of Rama’s operations and decisions, his motives were inscrutable to all but the most intimate of his advisors. For that matter, Bhadra, as the declared champion at the last mela, ought to be the one riding alongside the chariot, but Bhadra being Bhadra, was way back there with Rama.